Free Good Money by J. M. Green Page A

hear anything?’
    â€˜No. Look, I know it’s too soon for an APB or whatever you do. But — and I only just found this out — she’s been using a different name.’
    She dug in her bag and pulled out an iPad. ‘Give me all the details. Is she a client?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜An unofficial one, one of your rescue jobs?’
    â€˜Jesus, why does everyone keep saying that?’
    â€˜Who’s “everyone”?’
    â€˜No one.’
    â€˜Ninety per cent of the time they turn up.’
    â€˜It’s out of character.’
    â€˜Character is an illusion; at the centre of all beings is shunyata , the void. There is no abiding self.’
    â€˜I don’t know when you became so supercilious, but that’s twice now that you’ve dismissed my concerns. While you’re making Zen jokes, Tania is God-knows-where.’
    Phuong raised her eyebrows. ‘Stella, I’m trying to take you seriously but you do have a tendency to overreact sometimes.’
    â€˜What? Is it too soon? How long does a person have to be missing, for fuck’s sake?’
    â€˜There’s no waiting period. You can report a missing person as soon as you think there’s cause for concern.’
    â€˜There is.’
    Phuong frowned. ‘Was she in danger?’
    â€˜How would I know? Maybe.’
    â€˜Where’s she from again?’
    â€˜Perth. And what about the name change? Her real name is Nina Brodtmann.’
    Phuong pecked this information into the screen.
    A waitress came from the kitchen with a plate held high. We eyed it reverently until it was in front of us, a pile of crispy, golden chicken pieces on a bed of lettuce and fried noodles, smothered in salt, oil, chilli — in short, the heroin of food. More plates arrived: broken rice with shredded pork, a platter of seafood, and assorted tasty morsels. We’d never eat it all — but we’d die trying. We transferred portions to our little bowls. I abandoned the chopsticks and used a fork, for improved face-stuffing results. Eventually, I came up for air and patted my lips with a napkin. I cleared my throat. ‘This is confidential, okay?’
    A crease appeared on the Phuong forehead. ‘What?’
    â€˜I went into her apartment. Ben helped me break in.’
    â€˜Of course he did. When was this?’
    â€˜Before I spoke to you. Her handbag is in there.’ I looked her in the eye, held her gaze.
    â€˜I agree,’ she said. ‘It’s not good.’
    â€˜Her bag with her wallet, phone, everything; and her car is in the carport.’
    Phuong expelled air with a small exasperated groan that told me I was taxing her loyalty, her patience, her Zen-ishness. ‘How involved are you in this woman’s life?’
    I shrugged. ‘Not much. I thought she was Tania the blonde beauty therapist until this morning.’
    â€˜Could she have gone back home? Did you ring her parents?’
    â€˜Not yet. Her dad is Clayton Brodtmann.’
    â€˜You say that like he’s someone.’
    â€˜He’s a director of a mining company that made a two-billion-dollar profit last year and didn’t pay tax.’
    Phuong stared at me, all seriousness, her chopsticks paused in mid-air. ‘The parents are wealthy?’
    â€˜Top one per cent of oligarchs.’
    â€˜Shit, Stella. Fucking shitballs.’ She whipped out her phone and started texting. ‘Who are they?’
    â€˜Crystal Watt and Clayton Brodtmann. They have a mining company — more than one, actually. One is CC Prospecting, they’re directors. Watt is her step-mother.’ I took the newspaper article out of my bag and read: … Prominent Perth socialite Clayton Brodtmann and his wife Crystal …
    Phuong took the article, barely glanced at it, and handed it back. Before I put it away, I studied the photo, carefully this time. Clayton Brodtmann was a handsome man in his fifties, work