Anya had seen the forensic photos. The injury had required stitches, not something usually associated with consensual intercourse of any form.
‘I got held down and I think the two other men I hadn’t seen before raped me too. I turned my head and saw a black man inside the door and thought he would help me. But then he moved so I couldn’t see him and I got raped from behind again.’
Her eyes were now glassy, as if she were detached from her own story. ‘It’s weird, but to shut out the pain I sort of went outside myself, like I was looking down on what was happening to me.’
Anya had heard this from victims a number of times, as if separating from the experience was necessary for survival.
‘I thought they were going to kill me because I’d seen all their faces. Pretty sad that I was grateful when they didn’t. After everything they did to me.’
‘How did you get away?’
‘Someone said there was a party in another room, and by then Pete Janson had gone. When the last one got off me I got dressed as fast as I could and ran out the door.’
The muffled ringing of a phone interrupted. Kirsten dug beneath some clothes to locate it. ‘That could be my dad – he
said he’d call. Hello?’ Suddenly, the blood seemed to drain from her face and she dropped the phone.
Anya moved to catch her in case she fainted. ‘Who was it?’
‘I don’t know, but it was a man.’ She was shaking. ‘He said he would make sure I never got to lie in court about being raped. He said I wouldn’t live long enough to testify.’
I
t was no surprise to Anya that Ethan had discovered Kirsten’s identity by the time she had left the apartment and met up with him again. With all the media out the front and people Tweeting the location, it would not have taken the private investigator long to find out.
She just had to be careful she did not disclose confidential information to him as they made some enquiries together on behalf of the Bombers’ management.
The guard at the desk glanced at them and took a bite of an oversized sandwich.
Ethan placed an elbow on the desk and leant over. ‘Don’t mean to interrupt, but we have an appointment to see Cheree Jordan.’
The guard chewed with his mouth open and referred to a printout on his desk. ‘Names?’
‘Ethan Rye and Doctor Anya Crichton.’
The man looked up at Anya. ‘You don’t look like a doctor.’
Anya thought that he didn’t look like much of a guard, but refrained from commenting.
‘Sign here.’ They were each given a sheet to sign, and issued with a security pass. ‘Through those glass doors and it’s the twenty-sixth floor.’ The sandwich quickly consumed his attention again.
On the twenty-sixth floor, a middle-aged receptionist seemed equally unimpressed by the visitors.
‘Take a seat. I’ll tell her you’re here. Where are you from again?’
‘We’re here about the alleged attack on one of her employees.’
The woman didn’t bat an eyelid, but picked up her phone, informed Ms Jordan, then collected her bag from the desk. Ignoring a ringing phone, she headed off down another corridor. It seemed nothing stopped lunch in this building.
Twenty minutes later, a heavily made-up Cheree Jordan floated into the foyer in a silk kaftan top, black leggings and chunky high heels.
‘So sorry to have kept you, but I don’t know what I can say about that nasty business with Kirsten Byrne.’
‘I suspect you’ll be more help than you might imagine.’ Ethan smiled.
She showed them into a conference room, with a glass table, whiteboard and a rack of clothes along one wall. Opposite, a wall-mounted TV played a DVD of the latest Cheree Jordan Collection.
‘We don’t have a lot of office space, so this doubles up as product storage.’ She looked at Anya. ‘A size eight, slightly pear-shaped, high-waisted. We could do a lot with those legs of yours.’ As her arms moved, a horde of bracelets jingled. ‘Skirts are up this year, dowdy is very last decade.’
Anya thought Ethan suppressed a laugh. She dressed for comfort and practicality and didn’t appreciate the designer’s rudeness. Not that her obvious annoyance stopped the pitch.
‘Our latest range would be perfect for you. Silky feminine fabrics especially for working women …’ She peeled off a black jacket from its hanger and turned it inside out, revealing a mauve jacket with black lining. ‘These reversible jackets are so versatile. Absolute genius.’
Ethan interrupted. ‘We’re investigating the alleged assault on Kirsten Byrne.’
‘Terrible business. I should have known that girl was too ambitious for her own good.’ She gestured for them both to take
a seat and pulled out a BlackBerry, which she placed in front of herself on the table.
‘Why do you say that?’
The wrists jingled again. ‘Small-town girl with big dreams. That’s why I hired her. The fire in the belly, desire to achieve. Only I never imagined she’d be prepared to go to any lengths to further her career.’
Anya glanced at Ethan. ‘Do you think she is lying about the assault?’
Cheree pursed her cerise-coloured lips, but her forehead didn’t move in response. Botox, Anya guessed. ‘Put it this way, I wouldn’t put it past her to sleep with someone to further her career.’
The comment surprised Anya. ‘She was at the function representing you and your company. Is that correct?’
A message or email seemed to hold Cheree’s attention for a moment. ‘Yes, I wanted to organise a meeting with Pete Janson about a range of clothing exclusive to our label. We can move over 10,000 units of just about anything we make during an hour of television advertising.’ She clicked her fingers. ‘People underestimate the power of a home-shopping network.’
And vulnerable people’s desperation for quick-fix weight-loss products, exercise machines and useless home products, Anya thought. The pressure to buy instantly was almost unethical.
‘So why was Kirsten,’ Ethan asked, ‘one of your junior staff, trying to set up a business meeting that night?’
A young woman arrived at the door with a tray of mugs and a plunger of coffee. Cheree waved her in. She placed mugs in front of each of them and poured the coffee.
‘Do you have any idea how many people block access to football stars? They have managers, agents, minders, coaches, bodyguards and heaven only knows how many other hangers-on trying to prevent anyone talking to them. This is a lucrative business offer, and Pete Janson should have had the opportunity to hear about it first-hand.’ She instructed her assistant to stay. The woman adjusted her rimless glasses and joined them.
‘So Kirsten went to the party specifically to meet Janson in person and pitch the deal?’
‘Yes, but she wasn’t supposed to sleep with him, or anyone else. That was never part of her job description.’
The comment took Anya by surprise. It implied that Jordan assumed the sex had been consensual.
Ethan sat back. Anya could not read his expression. ‘We have reason to believe she was raped by a number of men that night.’
The assistant’s eyes widened. She obviously hadn’t heard about the alleged assault.
Ethan continued. ‘Was she a football fan?’
The designer scoffed. ‘She couldn’t tell a football from a snooker ball.’
‘Then why send her?’
Cheree checked her phone again. ‘This business is about appearance and market research. Janson is known to favour long-haired blondes, so we decided to maximise the chances that he would notice Kirsten in a crowd.’
Anya began to feel uncomfortable. The woman admired ambition and thought nothing of playing on appearances to secure a business deal, yet she seemed shocked that it could lead to sex, consensual or otherwise. She was being disingenuous.
‘And the little vixen stole my dress. It’s a one-off worth over two thousand dollars.’
A man with a beard stood in the doorway. ‘Boss, we need you for a moment on the photo shoot.’
‘Excuse me,’ Cheree stood. ‘I have a business to run. Deborah here can show you out. If that girl doesn’t return my dress, I’ll sue. Perhaps that’s a language she does understand.’
She grabbed her BlackBerry and wafted away, before Anya could explain that the police were examining the dress for forensic evidence. That the woman would be so unsympathetic towards an employee she had sent into the very situation that had resulted in her assault defied belief. Cheree had pimped her own staff member.
On the screen, a tall thin woman walked fiercely down a catwalk.
The assistant removed her glasses, her hands shaking slightly. ‘Is that true about Kirsten?’
Anya nodded. ‘Do you know her well?’
‘She was always polite and kept to herself. She worked hard, didn’t go out much. I think she wanted to make her mother and father proud, and she said she had a boyfriend back home.’
‘Cheree said Janson likes blondes, but I thought Kirsten had dark hair.’ Ethan looked confused.
Deborah stood and led them through the door to the elevators. ‘I know Cheree can sound … harsh … but she really has a great eye for fashion and makeup. Kirsten had one of her makeovers. Everyone here would die to get that much attention from Cheree. Kirsten has nice bone structure and if she lost a few pounds she could be really pretty. Anyway, because she loved her job, Kirsten went along with it.’
Ethan asked her if she had a picture of how Kirsten looked after the makeover.
‘There’s one on my phone I took before she left that night.’ She pulled it from a pinafore pocket and scrolled through the images on the screen to show them.
A woman with a long, slicked-back blonde ponytail posed in a halterneck mini-dress and high heels. She didn’t look anything like the woman Anya had seen earlier.
‘With lighter hair colour, clip-on extensions and a killer dress, she looked like a whole new person. I barely recognised her. It was like Cinderella, only Cheree was her fairy godmother.’
The question defence lawyers would ask had to be broached. ‘Do you think Kirsten went that night to try to seduce Pete Janson?’
Deborah adjusted the frames of her glasses again and led them inside the elevator. She waited until the doors closed.
‘She practised her pitch all afternoon and memorised a kind of script Cheree had written in case she got close enough to get his attention. She wanted to get into the party, give him her spiel
and get out. I’ve never seen anyone so nervous. When Cheree told us she had resigned, I couldn’t believe it.’
The last comment was news. Kirsten said Cheree had sacked her. ‘When did this happen?’
‘Cheree told us all this morning. I assumed Kirsten got the deal done and got offered something better. I swear to you, I had no idea about any assault.’ As the doors opened, her phone buzzed and she checked the text. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go.’ She held the doors open for them. ‘If you see Kirsten, please send her my love, and if there’s anything I can do to help …’
Ethan nodded.
In the lobby they placed their passes on the guard’s desk. He was nowhere in sight but the crumbs from his lunch were scattered across his computer keyboard. A trolley of boxes stood nearby.
Ethan whistled. ‘Expensive taste in champagne. Those boxes are going to Cheree’s office. Either she’s a big drinker or there’s something to celebrate.’
They took the revolving door out to the street.
‘She is ruthless,’ Anya said. ‘She basically prostituted an employee to get to Janson. It’s impossible to believe that she dressed Kirsten the way Janson likes and then is shocked that he made it sexual. It’s so hypocritical, accuse Kirsten of being ambitious, then sack her and lie to the staff.’
Anya could feel her pulse quicken. Cheree Jordan had no sympathy for Kirsten, no remorse about her involvement, and was now about to have a party.
Ethan hailed a taxi. ‘I agree. I think Kirsten was the naïve one, and my gut tells me she went into that party like a lamb to the slaughter. But a defence lawyer will tear her apart. It’ll look like entrapment once they’re finished with her. And to be honest, a jury might not be too sympathetic to her cause.’
What niggled Anya was Deborah’s suggestion that Kirsten had closed the deal with Janson. If that’s what they were celebrating upstairs, Kirsten’s case just got a lot less credible.
F
rom the subway, Anya wandered along 34th Street, glancing in the shop windows, the evening breeze brushing her face. She wanted to see Macy’s famed window displays.
Miracle on 34th Street
had been a favourite since she was a child.
She wasn’t disappointed. One window contained a stunning black dress on a mannequin, highlighted by a simple silver necklace. Anya held her wrap more firmly and admired the classic style of the outfit. She could picture Audrey Hepburn in it.
She wished there was someone to share this with. With one hand, she touched the cool glass, feeling like the child she wished she could have been – innocent, happy and wrapped in the warmth and safety of family. Her childhood Christmas memories were of an empty place setting, where Miriam would have sat. The stifling heat frayed her mother’s nerves after she had sweltered to cook turkey and ham, then she’d receive a call to attend to some sick patient. Anya would be left babysitting Danny, under strict instruction not to unlock the front door to anyone.
One day, she hoped to bring Ben to New York for a wintry Christmas. She could imagine them marvelling at the Christmas tree outside the Rockefeller Center with its lights and decorations, ice-skating in Central Park and dancing on the keyboard
in FAO Schwartz together. She wanted him to have happy memories of his childhood, even more so now his parents were divorced.
A gust of wind stirred a discarded piece of paper on the footpath in the direction of Madison Square Garden. No need to check her map: the noise and the sea of people decked out in variations of orange and blue signalled the way.
Ethan had asked her to meet him outside the garden. Despite knowing they were seeing a basketball game at one of the world’s most famous venues, she was still taken aback by the chants from an open-top bus filled with supporters parked right out the front. Uniformed police stopped traffic for revellers to cross the road in streams. A brass band added to the festivities.