The Mak Collection

by Tara Moss

  Outside the glass doors, Larry Moon sat bolt upright as Amy took him by the arm. She dragged him off, pulling him up the street away from Mak.

  Fuck!

  For thirty minutes Mak sat bewildered and not much better informed, looking at the crinkled newspaper article Amy had left behind and hoping that she would come back.

  She didn’t.

  Shit, Mak thought. I was so close. I blew it.

  CHAPTER 37

  ‘We got a match on the print that doesn’t fit,’ Detective Karen Mahoney declared triumphantly to Detective Cassimatis, her red Irish curls springing. The young detective had rushed up the elevator after hearing the news.

  ‘On ya, girl,’ Jimmy said tenderly. He seemed a little down, and more unhealthy than ever.

  Mahoney knew that Detective Jimmy Cassimatis had a soft spot for her, mostly because she was good at cursing. She also knew that like her friend Mak, Jimmy would be missing Andy already. Nor did he particularly like working with her boss, Sergeant Hunt.

  ‘The Wallace case?’ he asked.

  She nodded enthusiastically. A print that had been found at Meaghan Wallace’s apartment matched that of a convicted criminal. This was a breakthrough.

  Wasting no time, Mahoney strode through the office and made her way to Hunt’s desk, declaring the news, but Hunt looked up from his paperwork with mere impatience. ‘I was told.’ He looked down again, ignoring her.

  ‘Well…’ she said excitedly, waiting for her superior to spring into action, but he didn’t move a muscle.

  ‘Well, it’s Sunday, and I have more important things to deal with right now. We’ll get to it.’

  She frowned. More important than murder?

  Like what, Karen wanted to say, but she had only just made detective not so long ago. She had worked so hard for it, and she feared it could be taken away from her.

  ‘He has a record. I think it’s worth checking out. Can I…?’

  ‘Can you what?’

  ‘Can Matt and I go and ask him some questions?’

  Hunt frowned. Karen couldn’t imagine why he would be frowning. ‘Now?’ he asked, as if she was a nuisance. ‘You do realise that we’ve already made an arrest?’

  She nodded again. ‘Yup.’

  ‘And he was caught red-handed with his prints on the murder weapon?’

  She nodded once more. ‘Sir, I think we should just rule out all other possibilities.’

  Hunt raised his eyebrows and looked at her sternly, clearly unhappy about the prospect of any of his team giving him more work.

  ‘I didn’t mean…it’s just that it will maybe make the case more solid…’ she stuttered.

  ‘Okay, go.’ He said it flippantly. ‘But no bringing anyone in for questioning, and no arrests.’

  A least that was better than a no.

  ‘Questions only,’ she assured him.

  Mahoney was used to being treated as second-rate by her superior; it was something that she just assumed came with the role of being the rookie detective. But she was surprised at the new level of disdain he was showing her. She wasn’t sure what she was doing so wrong.

  ‘I don’t need you making things complicated when we have a perfectly good arrest.’

  Complicating things?

  Puzzled, she left him and in minutes she had rounded up Detective Matt Parker and headed back to the elevator.

  ‘See ya, Jimmy,’ she called out. ‘Have fun at those tattoo parlours.’ He’d spent much of his day quizzing tattoo artists on a particular design found on the dumpster victim’s back.

  ‘Yeah,’ he fake-sneered. ‘Go get ’em.’

  Mahoney wanted to ask Warwick O’Connor how he knew Meaghan Wallace, and exactly why his fingerprint was found in her apartment.

  ‘Just shut up, woman!’ Warwick O’Connor cried. ‘I’m trying to think.’

  Warwick was on edge. He was at a crossroads: either about to get the biggest windfall of his life, or about to find his way back into the slammer…for a long time this time around.

  His wife, Madeline, paced around the kitchen in her well-worn pink bathrobe, cigarette dangling from her lip. She was a chain-smoker, and the kitchen table was adorned with a heart-shaped tin ashtray with VEGAS written on it, a souvenir from their one and only trip overseas, their honeymoon. The ashtray was overflowing with butts.

  Madeline paced, face puckered and grim, her eyes wild. She was used to such verbal abuse from her husband, and she was deft at handing it out as well.

  ‘Oh, you’re trying to think, heh? Well, I won’t hold my breath for anything to happen!’ she retorted.

  ‘I’ll give you one, woman, I will!’ Warwick said, standing up from the kitchen table and raising his hand.

  ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ she replied coolly, and puffed on her cigarette.

  Warwick and Madeline had been married for seven years. As he saw it, she was a pain in the arse, but she was still a good egg. She’d stuck by him when he’d had to do two at Long Bay Correctional Centre for assault, and that couldn’t be overlooked.

  ‘Mads, I’m tellin’ ya, I’m tryin’ to think here,’ he said more gently.

  ‘What did he say when you called him?’ she persisted, and dragged on her cigarette again.

  She meant Jack Cavanagh.

  Warwick had given Jack twenty-four hours to think about the deal, and when he’d called back, Jack had hung up. He’d actually hung up. Since Saturday afternoon Warwick had been thinking hard about what to do. What threat could he make? Could he still get a few quid off Simon Aston and then call it at that?

  ‘Well…’ she said, giving him that hard gaze he despised.

  ‘He…hung up,’ Warwick admitted.

  ‘Well, he’s not taking you seriously, hon. Nail ’em. Just—’

  ‘I told you, I’M TRYING TO THINK.’

  ‘Well why don’t you take—’

  ‘Shut up!’

  She ignored him and went on. ‘Why don’t you take the video and—’

  ‘I don’t have it,’ he said in a low voice, staring at the checked tablecloth.

  ‘What? You said—’

  ‘I DON’T HAVE IT,’ he said, exasperated. ‘I was bluffing.’

  Mads stopped. ‘Oh.’

  Warwick took a deep breath. He’d thought he could fool Jack Cavanagh. But things weren’t going as planned. And now he didn’t know what to do next.

  There was a noise—a car pulling up.

  Madeline and Warwick both sensed it at the same time. They froze for only a moment. Madeline nodded, having looked out the window. Cops. Warwick leaped to his feet and, without saying a word, scrambled to the staircase and ran upstairs.

  A few seconds later the doorbell rang. Madeline O’Connor answered the door in her robe, cool as ever.

  ‘Detective Mahoney,’ the young redhead said, flashing her badge. ‘This is Detective Parker. We have a few questions for your husband, Warwick.’

  ‘Is something wrong?’ Madeline asked innocently and took a puff.

  ‘Just routine. We have a few routine questions.’

  ‘He ain’t here,’ she told them.

  There was a noise overhead.

  ‘What was that?’ the young detective with the red curls asked.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck!

  That was close.

  I knew I was getting myself in too deep.

  Warwick crawled out the bedroom window on the top floor, banging his knee on the windowsill as he made his clumsy exit. He crept across the rooftops, keeping down to avoid being seen. The sun was low in the sky but there was enough light for him to be spotted. He had an escape route planned and a stash of $30 000 in cash hidden away in a large toolbox in his friend’s shed. He could live on that for a while. And he’d have to. He might have to lie low for longer than usual. Now that he’d been dobbed into the cops there would be heat for a while. Who knew how long? He would have to be careful. He didn’t want to end up back inside. He would have to be cautious about contacting Madeline.
>
  Fuck, fuck, fuck…

  Simon Aston had called the damned cops on him. That bastard! Warwick never thought he’d do it. Simon had as much to hide as anyone, so why had he squealed? Jack Cavanagh must have leaned him on. Maybe that was it?

  Dammit!

  Warwick shinned down the drainpipe of his neighbour’s, as he had done many times before. He moved quickly, heart racing. His car was parked in the alley behind the row of houses. He kept a spare key under the wheel rim for emergencies.

  There it is.

  His car was waiting for him just as he’d left it. He ran to it, felt around for the key, unlocked it and jumped in. He detected the faint smell of petrol. A leak? He put the key in the ignition and started the engine.

  Warwick O’Connor was already a block away before he realised he wasn’t alone.

  There was a man in the back seat.

  Someone had been waiting for him.

  CHAPTER 38

  ‘It’s good to have you with us again.’

  Drayson opened the door with a sleepy grin.

  ‘I really appreciate you letting me stay,’ Mak said, still catching her breath after the five flights of stairs. ‘Especially at such short notice.’

  Mak evidently wasn’t the only one who appreciated it: Loulou gave Drayson a huge kiss on his cheek and hugged his neck with manic enthusiasm, clearly delighted about her new boyfriend’s hospitality. He was definitely scoring some points by letting Mak stay there.

  ‘Come on in,’ Drayson managed, Loulou hanging from his neck. He still had the same sleepy bedroom look.

  Mak looked around. ‘Oh, I see the whole gang is here.’

  Bogey was over by the couch in the living room. He stood politely to bid her welcome, the sight of him giving Mak a guilty jolt of excitement. Donkey drifted past with a grunted ‘hey’. Only the purple-haired painter was missing.

  ‘Maroon’s not here?’ Mak said casually, averting her eyes from Bogey.

  ‘Nope. Some people have their own lives,’ Drayson said with sarcasm, making a deliberate dig at Bogey and Donkey. ‘She’ll be home late, I think. How long are you in town?’ he asked.

  ‘Until tomorrow. I have work back in Sydney.’

  ‘Cool,’ he responded.

  ‘Mak is trying to find someone named Amy Camilleri,’ Loulou blurted.

  Mak shot a look at Loulou—she didn’t need anyone else knowing her business arrangements.

  ‘They might be able to help!’ Loulou responded defensively. ‘Between Drayson and Bogey, I think they know everyone this side of Melbourne.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Donkey said. ‘I know everyone.’

  Mak laughed. ‘Ah. That’s okay. I think I have it sorted now. But thanks.’

  I found her, I just wasn’t good enough at my job to get her to open up.

  She’d replayed the meeting in her mind hundreds of times since that afternoon. She wasn’t sure what else she could have done to get Amy to relax and tell all.

  Drayson and Loulou disappeared into the kitchen and Mak took a seat on the opposite end of the lounge from Bogey, at an awkward distance. Mak wondered why it seemed so strange. It was the kind of distance people put between each other when they felt funny about getting along so well—or because they had shared a buck-naked lap dance…

  ‘Thanks again for your help last night,’ she said to him softly.

  ‘It was my pleasure.’ Behind his black-rimmed glasses, he smiled at her with his eyes.

  ‘I guess you have been missing your friend,’ he ventured. ‘It must be nice to be able to spend time together.’

  Mak was relieved that he wasn’t intent on recounting their adventures of the night before.

  ‘Yeah,’ Mak admitted. ‘I am so glad to see Loulou happy. But, to tell you the truth, I am a little concerned that I might lose her to Melbourne.’

  ‘Melbourne isn’t so far. And it’s getting closer all the time.’

  ‘The flight is pretty quick,’ she agreed.

  ‘And soon it looks like there will be that bullet train, too. It will be nothing to get here and visit her.’

  Mak must have lost the colour in her face at the mention of the train, because Loulou walked in from the kitchen with two beers and rushed straight over to her. ‘What happened?’ She played it overdramatically as always. ‘What did you say to her, Bogey Man?’

  ‘Nothing!’ he protested.

  ‘He didn’t say anything. I am pretty stressed with work, that’s all,’ Mak said.

  Bogey gave her a look of concern, perhaps afraid he had inadvertently done something wrong.

  ‘You know, Bogey gives the most amazing massages,’ Loulou offered. ‘They are really relaxing. It’s the best thing for stress.’

  ‘Oh, I’m dying for a massage,’ Mak said under her breath. She’d wrenched her back in the economy seat on the short flight south, and dragging her overnight bag around had not helped either.

  Loulou jumped straight in. ‘You heard the lady—she’s dying for a massage, Bogey. Come on, give her one.’

  Mak bit her lip. Oh no, this is ridiculous.

  ‘It’s no problem…if you want a massage. I would be happy to,’ Bogey said—as always, not pressuring her.

  ‘Are you serious? I thought Loulou was just kidding. I don’t need a massage, really,’ she back-pedalled.

  But you want one.

  Of course a massage would be great. Who could turn down a decent massage? But it was Bogey and she hardly knew him, except as the shy, charming face seated next to her while a young lady with a stage name of Charlotte displayed her flexibility, unhindered by clothing. It wasn’t like a massage would mean she was cheating on Andy or anything. But…

  ‘No, no, I didn’t mean it, really,’ Mak continued. ‘I just haven’t had one in ages. That’s all I meant. I didn’t mean to sound like—’

  ‘Like you are a woman who will die if she doesn’t have a massage. That’s what you said,’ Loulou pressed.

  ‘I am not going to die. Stop it. I just meant that…well, everyone likes massages, don’t they? Why is everyone staring at me?’

  Drayson and Loulou were both watching her. Bogey was looking determinedly at the coffee table.

  ‘Oh, now you have to!’ Loulou urged Bogey, who appeared to be blushing slightly, as he had when Mak had squeezed his knee at the strip club. To make it worse, Loulou elbowed him hard.

  If he had been embarrassed at all though, Bogey seemed to recover quickly. ‘I could give you a little relaxation massage after dinner if you would like, Mak. It would be no trouble,’ he said.

  ‘He’s a trained masseur. He’s really good.’

  Really? A coffin maker rock-’n’-roll-poet masseur?

  Mak smiled and finally stopped protesting. It’s not that she didn’t want to say yes—she just wished she could say no.

  So she said nothing.

  CHAPTER 39

  ‘Now stop the car,’ the deep, monotonous voice said.

  Warwick O’Connor put the brakes on slowly, and his car came to rest in a massive parking lot, deserted on a Sunday evening. It was near a construction site, from what Warwick could tell. And it was dark. He and his mysterious companion were alone. Warwick had not yet seen him—he had been waiting in the back seat.

  ‘Look, I know who sent you,’ he said, his voice tremulous.

  At least I think I do…Warwick had a lot of disgruntled clients and colleagues. He’d imagined that something like this might happen one day. Someone might be sent to fix him up. He’d been sent on such jobs himself.

  ‘I have a lot of money,’ he pleaded, trying to placate his unseen foe. ‘In cash. Unmarked bills just waiting for you, yeah? They’re hidden in a shed. I can give it all to you. I can pay you well.’

  Warwick knew he could scream as loudly as he wanted to and no one would hear him, not here. No one would come to his rescue. He had to talk his way out of this.

  The man in the back seat of his car said nothing.

  Warwick strained
his neck to look behind him and turned his cheek right into the cold barrel of a pistol. It had a long, cylindrical silencer on the end of it. This man meant business. You didn’t come with a silencer if you didn’t plan on firing.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck!

  ‘No, man, no! I—I can pay you! I’ll do whatever you want!’ he pleaded.

  ‘Yes, you will.’

  Warwick got a chill. Fuck! This guy was serious, and he had a pistol with a goddamned silencer at his face. Fuck!

  ‘Anything! I’ve got money. I’ll give it all to you and I can leave town, man. I’ll leave! You won’t ever see me again!’ Warwick rambled, tears forming in his eyes. He was not ashamed to beg for his life. If he were this man, he would take the money. If it were enough money, he might even let himself live. ‘I don’t know what they’re paying you, man, but I got lots in that shed. Thousands. Tens of thousands in cash!’

  ‘Get out. Slowly,’ was the only reply.

  That voice. It was so deep and unfeeling. He thought he might have heard it somewhere before.

  Warwick did as he was told. He slid out of the car with his hands up, still trying to placate the man. ‘I’ll do whatever you say, man, it’s cool. Whatever you want…’

  The man now got out, gun still pointed at him. When he stood, his torso just kept rising and rising until he was head and shoulders above Warwick. He was a huge man. Tall and broad.

  Oh Christ…

  But there was something familiar about him—it wasn’t just the voice now. Even in the low light, he thought he recognised the man. ‘Hey…hey, is that you?’

  There was a smile in the dark—white teeth, but a strange smile. Something was wrong with it. Warwick’s eyes were still adjusting, and when he looked at the man he saw that his skin looked funny.

  Luther?

  ‘Is that you, Luther, mate?’

  There was a slow nod.

  ‘Geez, man, you had me scared there for a sec! How the hell are you?’ He hadn’t seen Luther in, what—ten years maybe?