Who Killed Jimbo Jameson? Read Free

Constable First Class-192cm-tallbuilt-like-a-Greek-god Jack Reynolds.
    Cursing the fence of electronics separating us, I popped the lump of furry chocolate into my mouth and wallowed in my chocolate fantasy.
    â€œHow can you even think of doing that? That’s filthy!”
    Oh, you have no idea, Constable Jack. You have no idea. I licked the last of the chocolate from my fingers and turned to look at him. Physical perfection gift-wrapped in a plain-clothes suit and tie, with the exception of the little flakes of sunburnt skin dusting his ear which lent a teensy edge of vulnerability that could possibly require some extra attention with massage oil. Oh, what could I do with that massage oil.
    So far, I knew that he grew up in Byron Bay and he looked like he was a surfer. Ambitious. Politically connected. So where did his tan line begin and end? Speedos or boardshorts? Waxed or furry? Salty gold fuzz glinting on a hard, tanned body was almost too much to hope for. Or what about sweat beading over smooth, oiled pecs? Definitely too much to hope for. I leant back with a sigh and indulged my daydream until the car pulled up in Darlinghurst Road.
    â€œYou grab some seats and I’ll get your fix. Double shot macchiato, wasn’t it? Anything else?” he asked. I shook my head carefully and staked a claim to two stools in the sun. The regulars acknowledged me and went back to their gossip, then I closed my eyes and tried to break down the investigative process into manageable parts. Homicide had grabbed the case and I wasn’t the lead detective, but my inner control freak couldn’t help trying to take charge.
    The sun was blocked out by something huge and my meditation was shattered.
    â€œYou look like shit, girlfriend.” Just what I needed to hear.
    â€œIs that a diagnosis, doctor?” I opened my eyes and there he was. Dr Christian Barker. My very favourite cardio-thoracic surgeon, complete with stethoscope, blue scrubs and matching eyes. My favourite gay cardio-thoracic surgeon and emergency handbag. I’ve known Chris since high school and love him dearly. He’s smart, funny, drop-dead gorgeous and cooks a mean tagine. God knows that I’ve tried to convert him to the joys of women, but he’s a popular sperm donor for clucky lesbians so those clearly superior genes aren’t being lost to the world.
    â€œBig day, Chris. Big day. And it’s not over yet.” I shifted to accommodate an extra stool next to me. “We’re on our way to Watsons Bay and the morgue and there’s going to be a mountain of paperwork and I really don’t want to start. So if you don’t tell me something wild and wonderful right now I will just have to shoot you.”
    â€œOh girl, you don’t know? Jimbo carked it. The full disaster. Blow, booze, bullets and blood. My friend Brett says the police are all over the place and the press is going wild. Oh my god, it’s a fucking blockbuster. Someone shot him. He was gay, you know.”
    I groaned. News certainly moves fast in this bloody town. Who needs 2GB when you’ve got 2GAY-FM? We’d left the hotel ten minutes ago and already the gory details were out there and the gays had claimed him as one of theirs. It always happens.
    â€œChris, I don’t know how you do it. How did you know?”
    â€œWell, my friend Brett is the assistant manager at the hotel and he said that a housemaid found the body. There were bullet holes in the bed and the police…Oh my god, was that you there? You’re the detective? I should have realised when Brett said that there was a megabitch…Oops. Sorry.” He had the good manners to stop there. “I never know when to shut up, do I?” Laughing, he slapped the back of his hand. “So where’s Marco today?”
    â€œMarco is probably getting off the plane in Rome as we speak. Lucky bastard.”
    We chatted easily about the delights of Roman coffee and