The Mak Collection (142 page)

‘Her favourite jacket is right here at the front door,’ he said. ‘Why would she leave it?’ Mak could hear by the slight tremor in his voice that he was genuinely concerned. She found his reaction somehow more emotional than she would have expected. It was almost touching. ‘She’d never leave without her jacket,’ he repeated, distressed.

‘She didn’t leave a note or anything? No messages?’

‘No, but someone delivered a puppy to her and she left.’

‘What? A puppy?’

‘I have security footage.’

The surveillance cameras. Of course.

‘Have you showed the police the tapes?’

‘Yes, but it’s useless. You can’t see anything. No faces, no licence plate numbers in view, nothing identifiable. Just a basket and then her leaving. That’s it.’

That did seem odd, unless Amy was expecting something from another lover—perhaps someone was trying to win her back?

‘I’m glad you called, Larry. There may not be much I can do at this end but I’ll keep my ear to the ground and I’ll let you know if I hear anything, okay? I’m sure she’s fine. She’ll turn up soon.’

But Mak wasn’t so sure she believed that herself. It could be that whatever Amy had been running from had finally caught up with her.

‘One more thing, Larry—I got a message that I think was from Amy.’

‘Yeah? When?’

‘The day after I saw you guys at Leo’s. I need to know something—hang on…’ She scrolled through her mobile phone address book. ‘Is her number zero four zero one…’ She read out the mysterious number that she had got the SMS video from.

There was a pause.

‘Yes,’ Larry said. ‘That’s her number.’

Oh God. It was her.

After a day of researching the Cavanaghs and her client, Robert Groobelaar—who, as it turned out, was in bed with Jack Cavanagh’s real estate ventures—it was time for dinner.

Amy sent me the video, and now she is missing. Someone stole my handbag, possibly to try to get my phone…

She wished she could ask Andy to help out, but she was well and truly on her own.

Mak pulled open the hall cupboard, unbuttoned her jeans and stepped out of them. She stood in her T-shirt and panties, feeling the cool airconditioning on her skin, and folded her jeans neatly over a clothes hanger suspended by a hook inside the closet.

The cops aren’t acting fast enough…or, at least, no one is telling me anything.

Inside the closet, placed with considerably less care, were her motorcycling clothes, crammed into a pile of heavy black leather in a cardboard box beside her helmet and boots. She had soon discovered that her leathers bent hangers out of shape, so she never bothered dragging them all upstairs to her clothes closet. She hauled the bundle out and stepped into the sturdy pants first. She’d bought them over a year before, and the stiffness of the leather was gradually easing; in the first week she had barely been able to throw her leg over her motorbike. Mak zipped the pants up and buttoned the clasp high on her stomach, the cut designed to protect the skin on her torso in a crash. Safety was important—the leathers were also fitted with titanium-plated knees and elbows—but that high cut also made them uncomfortable to bend in. Mak struggled to do
up her boots as she finished dressing, her mind absent.

She had now left two messages for Detective Hunt, and Karen had given him the video. He had not got back to her.

What is he waiting for?

Mak grasped the zipper of her fitted jacket and pulled upwards, feeling the snug leather and protective armour squeeze her frame securely, the jacket’s back protector giving her a slight turtle-backed bulge.

Nothing is making sense.

She pulled her thick, fair hair into an elastic band and tucked it into her jacket collar for the windy journey, snapped the stiff collar closed and grabbed her helmet.

‘Delivery,’ Mak cried in a singsong voice, the words muffled by her bike helmet.

She stood at Detective Karen Mahoney’s door, bearing dinner in takeaway bags.

Her friend Karen opened the door and responded with a quick embrace. ‘Oh my God, you feel like you are made of steel in that suit. It’s like Lara Croft has just arrived at my door.’

Mak handed Karen the bags of takeaway and stepped inside. She took her helmet off and put it on the floor. ‘I have had such a crap week, I can’t even tell you,’ she lamented.

‘Really, what happened?’

‘No seriously, I can’t tell you.’

‘
Shut up!
’ Karen said, in a tone that suggested she meant the opposite.

Karen’s apartment was cramped but homey. The young detective had adorned her walls with a couple of movie posters, and furnished the space with garage-sale bookshelves, and a table and chairs. Her bed was from Ikea. It made Mak think of Bogey’s comment.

They set up the coffee table in front of the television, where a DVD menu for the movie
Mulholland Drive
was on the screen.

‘I waited for you to get here before I started it,’ Karen said.

‘Thanks.’

‘You know, I’ve seen it before. Maybe this time I will figure out what it is really about.’

‘Just watch for the red lamp,’ Mak told her.

‘What?’

‘It’s a clue,’ she said.

‘Something about the red lamp…’

‘Exactly,’ Mak confirmed. ‘I’ll dish up.’

When they’d eaten and the movie was over, they settled into the inevitable raging debate about the plot of
Mulholland Drive.

‘I saw the lamp. That was confusing, but what about the blue box? What’s the blue box?’

Mak cocked her head to one side. ‘I think it’s about the colour…think of the key. But it isn’t so much about the box but what it reveals, right?
It’s the box of truth, and once he pans inside it, we see things as they really are.’

‘I’m totally confused,’ Karen admitted.

Mak sat back on the couch, smiling. She had been struck by how much the director character, Adam Kesher, had looked like Bogey. Maybe it was his hair. Or maybe it was that Mak was thinking about Bogey too much. She had more important issues to ponder for the moment.

‘Well, real life is a bit confusing at the moment, too,’ Mak declared. ‘You saw the video? You know, Hunt hasn’t called me back.’

Karen sat up and looked at her. ‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘I gave it to him on Monday.’

‘Two days ago, and he’s not returning my messages.’

Karen frowned. ‘That’s weird.’

‘And what did you think of the video when you saw it? It looks like a murder, right?’

She sighed, and twisted one long red curl in her fingertips while Mak sat next to her on the arm of the sofa, tense.

‘I think the girl in the video could be a Jane Doe from another case.’

Mak nodded. ‘The Dumpster Girl.’

‘Yes.’

Andy had referred to the victim that way. It was convenience not disrespect that made cops use nicknames for cases.

‘And what about the other people in the video?’ Mak continued.

‘Well, the Caucasian one bears some resemblance to Damien Cavanagh.’

Mak sat up. ‘
Some
resemblance? You don’t think it’s him?’

‘I’m not sure, honestly.’ Karen seemed conflicted. ‘It could be. I wouldn’t be surprised either way.’

‘And what does Hunt think?’

‘Hunt is a knob.’

Makedde laughed, letting off tension.

‘He became a knob the day he became sergeant,’ Karen snarled. ‘There was a real beauty the other day—this guy’s prints were found in Meaghan Wallace’s apartment, and he came up as having a record. Interesting lead, I would have thought. Who is this guy to the victim? What are his prints doing there? Well, Hunt practically ignored it, like it was nothing.’

That
was
interesting. Hunt seemed to be ignoring a lot of things.

‘Are you even allowed to tell me this stuff?’ Makedde asked.

Karen rolled onto her side and looked at her friend. ‘What? I don’t know what you are talking about, ma’am.’

Mak laughed again. ‘Right.’

‘This is all off the record, of course, but let’s face it—you’re working for the same aims, basically. I don’t see any conflict of interest.’

That was true.

‘But if Hunt found out I was talking about him, my head would be on a platter.’

‘My lips are sealed.’

‘You think the kid’s innocent, don’t you?’ Karen said.

‘Tobias? I don’t know. He was a junkie looking for his next hit, right?’
Maybe.
‘Look, I haven’t even met him, so what would I know? Let me just say that I haven’t had so much bad luck on a case before…there are purse snatchers and uncooperative cops everywhere I turn, not including you obviously. And that article in the paper. It could all be coincidence, but I doubt it. Someone doesn’t want me snooping around. It could be that Tobias didn’t act alone, or it could be that he was framed. If he went to her apartment every fortnight for money, like clockwork, someone could have known he was coming and set him up.’

‘She was giving him money?’ Karen said, surprised.

‘Yes. Each fortnight out of her pay cheque from the real estate job. Every second Thursday. She was helping him out.’

Karen frowned. Mak could see that she had given the constable food for thought. ‘Well, someone murdered that poor woman. To see Meaghan Wallace there on her floor all cut up and bled out made me feel sick.’

‘Yes, it was a terrible crime.’

And all the worse if the wrong person is locked away for it.

Mak found herself procrastinating over her arrival home. Whether it was nerves or the thought of spending another lonely night in the terrace—one of many to come—Mak had put off coming home until she was tired enough to go straight to sleep. She chose a circuitous route along the clear back roads, tucked into her solid K1200R, enjoying the feeling of the ride.

She pulled up in front of the terrace, revving the engine lower as she drove up onto the kerb and found a spot on the sidewalk alongside where she’d parked Andy’s car. Mak popped the motorbike into neutral, the little green ‘N’ light momentarily illuminating the dark before she switched off the ignition and gently let the heavy bike settle on its kickstand. She swung her leg over and hopped off, removing her helmet and shaking her hair out of her ponytail.

The street was dark, and the humid air brought wafts of barbecue smell. A block or two away she heard a house party, probably with open windows or a balcony, with guests chatting away,
their voices carried along in the warm gusts of wind. Someone was making the best of the balmy night. The city was still enjoying the hot days and nights of the Australian summer. Twenty-eight degrees. Thirty. Warm for a Canadian, especially one in leather.

Makedde squinted to find the keyhole, and turned the lock. She was barely two steps inside the front door when she sensed that something was wrong.

The front door was locked. The lights are off. It’s fine, Mak.

But it wasn’t, and she knew it.

Mak switched the lights on and looked around the hallway, her senses on edge.

Nothing was noticeably out of place. The doormat was slightly askew, but then she might have done that walking out.

This whole convoluted investigation is making you paranoid.

Makedde took her heavy backpack off, popped it down and removed her mobile phone from her top pocket, placing it on the hall table.

Wait.

What was that noise? A creak?

The house is just settling.

She felt hot in her leathers now that she was standing still. Mak would have liked to unzip her jacket, but for now she didn’t make a sound. She just stood at the entry hall, listening.

You are imagining things.

Luther Hand had seen Makedde pull up. He’d been waiting, and had watched through the first-floor window as the woman dismounted and shook her blonde hair out like a lion shakes off water.

It was the new mark.

Makedde Vanderwall.

So here she was, so many years later. It was funny how things in life came full circle. Five years ago he’d lost the tip of his ear in this woman’s backyard. His attacker—a small, swift man, probably staked out to protect her—had taught Luther the value of skill with knives. In a roundabout way, this woman, Makedde, had not only caused him to lose part of his ear but had also helped lead to him regrouping, relearning and emerging with a new international career. If he hadn’t been injured like that, he might not have fled to Queensland, and he might not have come to the attention of Madame Q.

Yes. Full circle.

So this familiar mark was arriving home. He’d been expecting her.

Luther had to make it look like Miss Vanderwall had happened across a burglary in progress. He would knife her, check that the house was staged right, take the few jewels he’d found, and maybe the television set and laptop, and go. The last time he’d seen her, he’d had
thoughts…unprofessional thoughts. These thoughts occurred to him again as he set eyes on her once more, but he squashed them as soon as they came up. There had been a lot of lessons learned since he’d last seen this woman. Luther was a professional now. A total professional.

Follow the instructions.

Now he was flush against the wall of the kitchen on the ground floor, Makedde in the hallway. She had put something down on the floor. He’d heard the tinkle of keys. But now she was quiet.

He could just hear her breathe.

Makedde stood perfectly still in the hallway of the terrace, helmet in hand, her ears straining for a breath, a sigh, the creak of floorboards, anything.

Something…

She squinted into the dark spaces of the rooms beyond the lit hallway. She hesitated.

A glint of light caught her eye. She turned just as there was a whirl of movement close by, a large figure in dark clothes that she registered a second too late, its body weight hitting her dully on her head and shoulder, pushing down on her and nearly sending her sprawling backwards.

Oh God!