Thicker Than Water. Lindy Cameron

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      BLURB

      Third in the PI series, Thicker than Water finds Kit O'Malley trying not to become too embroiled in the feud between three Melbourne crime families, while dealing with ghosts from her past, and a strange missing persons case.

      The women's bar known as Angie's is the last place anyone expected to find the dead body of known-criminal Gerry Anders, and O'Malley soon discovers that helping her family of friends out of trouble can be just as dangerous as facing a deranged killer - only more complicated.

      She has to deal with an old nemesis from her days of the force; the matriarch of the notorious Riley clan, who takes a liking to her; a troublemaking journalist; and a Romeo and Juliet scenario.

      Kit's ex-partner, Detective Inspector Jon Marek, is not coping with the ugly reality of his on-going hunt for a serial killer; and, as the Feds are still spying on everyone, Kit's courtship of the gorgeous Alex Cazenove remains under wraps.

      To cap it all off a good friend and his strange Russian-American client go missing, and suddenly everything points to old grudges and unresolved family tension.

      Everything, that is, except the very strange connection to Melbourne's Bubble-Wrap Killer.

      CHAPTER ONE

      One of the odd things about a human body that's been drained of blood is how ordinary it looks. The skin is not so much vampiric as just pale and inanimate; more grey flannel than white cotton pyjamas. If the deceased is face up with the eyes open, then the whites still look like boiled-albumen surrounding a black-centred disc of now dull-hued marble. The eyelids are greyish, the cheeks pale-greyish, and the lips slack and wan.

      In some cases, like this naked one, the chest hairs look like they've been badly transplanted by Hair-A-Go-Go; the concave nipples look like paté and the penis like a limp anaemic slug. The groin and neck of this particular corpse was blue-black and bloody, but overall its outer dermal layer was just plain pallid. The only highlights were the pinkish-red puddles caught in the skin on the underside where the dregs had settled in the lowest points, for even gravity loses interest in claiming what the heart can no longer push around.

      "Five litres. It's not very much when you think about it."

      "Pardon?"

      "Five litres - or eight pints - that's how much blood the average human adult contains."

      Jon Marek looked at his colleague and raised an eyebrow. "Not this one."

      "Well, not any more. It's probably all there though, that's a pretty big thing he's in...on."

      "Looks like a man-sized cake rack and baking tray to me," Marek noted, "but I trust you'll find out exactly what it is before you write your report, Detective Senior Constable. Now, have you seen O'Malley?"

      "Who?"

      "Katherine O'Malley, Melbourne's single-greatest finder of suspiciously-dead persons."

      "Really? What is she, a psychic or something?"

      "No, Martin," Marek snorted. "She's more psycho than-"

      "I heard that."

      "Ah," Marek noted, turning to acknowledge his once upon a long-time-ago partner, who was sitting at the bar. "There is nothing spooky about Kit O'Malley," he continued, "except her tendency to stumble over things like this." His sweeping gesture had started with Kit and ended with the deceased who was posed, dramatically, in the centre of the dance floor.

      "Oh," Martin nodded, "then I guess Katherine O'Malley is the friend of the owner-chick who called us re the 'bloodless bloke in the bar'. As you can see, she's over there trying not to throw up in her drink."

      "I doubt it," Marek said. "And I wouldn't call either of them chicks," he advised, seeking a verifying gesture from Kit before clarifying his statement. "Well, I certainly wouldn't."

      Kit smiled and swivelled on her stool as she listened to the two cops quietly debate political correctness versus language trends, over the body of a man who may never have given the subject much consideration while alive but, given his druthers, would no doubt love to be able to chip in his two cents worth now.

      Chick or bird, Mr Dead Guy? Kit pondered, knowing that pc-bullshit had nothing to do with her preference not to be called anything that conjured the image of a huge-breasted, half-dressed, pouting girl straddling a Harley to advertise that great culinary-excuse for a phallic icon - the chico roll. Or is that a phallic excuse for... No matter!

      And druthers? Where the hell did that come from, O'Malley? she wondered, noticing that her ex was now strolling in her direction.

      As the rest of this homicide crew weren't his, Kit knew that Jon Marek was not in charge of investigating the presence of a drained and denuded man in the Terpsichore's dance room. She also knew he wouldn't be in charge of the inquiry into the naked man's murder; partly because of his recent promotion but mostly because of his role in the ongoing Barleycorn Task Force.

      The latter meant that he shouldn't have a spare minute to scratch himself. Yet here he was with time enough to satisfy curiosity or, perhaps, check up on her. And by the looks of things, Kit tallied, he'd also had time for a hair cut and was obviously still working his buff body at the gym - unless of course his exercise regime was now totally lust-filled and Erin-centred.

      Marek took a seat at the main bar next to Kit, and opposite Angie Nichols who was owner of the piano bar-restaurant-disco in which they were all loitering: he, because there was a homicide victim in a big metal dish in the other room; they, because they'd found said victim. Ordinarily, Marek wouldn't even be allowed in the place.

      "Hi Angie," he smiled. "You okay?"

      "All things considered, Jonno - no," Angie said. "And I'd like to state, for the record, that I had nothing to do with that thing over there or whatever the hell it's supposed to represent."

      "I'd be surprised if you did. You know him?"

      "Nope. Never seen him before this - dead or alive."

      Marek shrugged. "Don't spose you'd make some coffee?"

      "Yeah, sure." Angie busied herself with the cappuccino machine but kept glancing over at the unwelcome activity in her Red Room.

      "I didn't think the sight of blood bothered you," Marek said to Kit, who was whacking the bottom of an up-ended tabasco sauce bottle.

      "It doesn't," she said. Half the slurp went in her drink, the rest flicked over the bar and onto the clean glasses in the rack on the sink. Kit gave an unsurprised frown, stirred the tomato juice with her finger, drank the lot in one go, and then smiled at Marek. "I've just seen way more than my share lately. Besides, unlike you lot, I don't need to hover over the dead guy to make sure he really is. It's bloody obvious he's not going to get up again."

      "Do you know who he is?"

      "Nope." Kit emptied the rest of the juice from the bottle into her glass and waved at Angie.

      "Is that all you're going to tell me, Kitty?"

      "That's all I know, Jonno. How come you're here anyway? I would have thought Bubble-Wrap Man would be keeping you off on-call for the duration."

      "I'm not on call. But I was in the office when I heard who'd rung in with this mess."

      "Busy body," Kit sniffed, and then nodded at Martin. "Who's your new floozie?"

      "She's not mine. Well, she's on the squad, but..." Marek shook his head. "Detective Senior Constable Cathy Martin is on Parker's crew."

      "You are kidding!" Kit was horrified. "Please tell me that prick is not in charge of this investigation," Kit begged. "It will be embarrassing for all concerned - you know it will. I'm warning you right now Marek, you can't do this, it's..."

      "A done deal, mate. His crew caught the job, you know how it works. You will just have to