by Sandy Vaile
He glanced around the car park to make sure it was deserted, and then yanked his blue work shirt over his head and replaced it with the spare black one he carried in the car—for the same reason he drove an old Toyota Corolla instead of a police sedan: obscurity. It was amazing how much more information people were willing to give when he wasn’t dressed like a cop, and the baggy black shirt hid the bulge of his weapon nicely.
There were two youths leaning against the flaking cobalt-blue facade of the building, dragging on rollies. Luca got a whiff of pungent smoke as he passed and frowned. Marijuana for sure, but it wasn’t worth spoiling his dinner for two rollies. He smiled at the thought of the reaction he’d get if he was still in uniform.
A sign above the front door read The Track. A fancy name for a front bar, by the looks of it. The door squeaked as he pushed it and walked into a blast of beer-tainted air-conditioning. He nodded at the inquisitive glances from the regulars lined up on barstools.
“One?” A young waitress with huge tits squashed into a low-cut bodice pointed to a table by a window.
He took the seat and she placed serviette-rolled cutlery on his right side. Her gaze scoured him.
“You wanna drink?”
“A lager, thanks.”
“Sure.”
She disappeared through saloon doors and almost immediately returned carrying three plates to another table. He watched three men with salt-and-pepper hair ogle her as she delivered a curry, thick stew, and battered fish. The aromas made his mouth water, and he had to admit the meals looked more impressive than the pub’s exterior suggested.
The waitress trotted behind the bar to pull beer from a ceramic-handled tap. The table he sat at was dark wood, covered with clear plastic, and glass condiment containers huddled by the window ledge, propping up a laminated menu. Outside, a steady procession of headlights slowed for the railway crossing. A young couple in surf logo gear jogged along the footpath.
Returning his attention to the single-sided menu, he’d decided what he wanted to eat by the time the waitress placed a dripping schooner glass on the table.
“What’ll it be?”
“I’ll have the Croydon Burger, thanks.”
She scribbled on her order pad and tucked the pen behind her ear. He felt her eyes on him again, and it made his skin crawl.
“Hey, can you tell me if someone I know works here? Her name is Mya.”
The waitress narrowed her eyes and looked him up and down. “Yeah, she works here.”
Luca shot her his best smile. “Is she working tonight?”
“Who wants to know?” She blatantly adjusted her bosoms and drummed long pink fingernails with silver stars on the tips, on the order pad.
“I’m her neighbour.”
“Humph. I’ll tell her you’re here.” She watched him from over her shoulder on her way into the kitchen.
“If a bloke ogled like that, he’d be dealt a serve of insults,” Luca mumbled under his breath.
Just as well Mya wasn’t as obvious when she checked him out. In fact, she went to great lengths to hide any interest, but he’d definitely seen hunger in her eyes. It didn’t matter, because the right woman for him would need to be less complicated, and she’d actually have to fancy him, too.
Chapter 7
“Order up.” Jilly slapped a docket on the stainless steel bench.
Mya flipped a plate-sized rump steak on the grill and looked up to read the new order. Jilly stood on the other side of the servery with a playful smile on her lips.
“What?” Mya frowned.
“There’s a hot bloke in the dining room asking for you.” Jilly jiggled her eyebrows suggestively.
“Not that skinny bloke I picked up at the servo last month?” Mya moaned, standing on tiptoes to look over the doors, but she had a limited view of the dining room.
“Not skinny. Buff, blond ponytail. Says he’s your neighbour.”
“Shit!” Her teeth clenched. That was all she needed. A guy following her around.
“Did you get into his pants yet?” Jilly ducked her head to look Mya in the eye between stainless-steel shelves.
She shook her head. “No, and I don’t intend to. He lives two doors up from me,” she said as though it was an explanation. She preferred men she wouldn’t see again. No strings. “Tell him I said hi, but I’m too busy to come out.”
“Whatever.” Jilly looked disappointed as she disappeared back into the dining room.
It shouldn’t have surprised Mya that Luca was eating at the Croydon, seeing as it was his local pub too now, but she had a sneaking suspicion it wasn’t just a coincidence. After prodding the rump steak with an index finger, she determined it was medium and served it with golden chips. She turned on the heat lights above the plate and hit the bell to get Jilly’s attention. Then she grabbed the empty chip bucket and headed for the freezer.
There was a milk crate outside—Mya’s crate, the other staff called it—to prop the door open with. She flicked the light on and stepped inside. A shudder ran the length of her spine, but it wasn’t from the cold. Her heart rate increased and she wrapped her arms around her torso in a protective gesture. It was a stupid reaction, but the big metal room reminded her too much of the box Cockroach used to lock her in when she was a kid. His was a tool chest, so it was a tight squeeze and didn’t have a light, but she’d spent enough hours in it to never want to be trapped in anything like it again.
She refilled the chip bucket and rushed back to the kitchen.
“Here’s another order,” Jilly called. “Hey, your neighbour’s asking questions about how long you’ve worked here and what days.”
“Tell him to piss off.” Mya slapped a tea towel against the bench, nearly upending a jar of parsley. “What I do is none of his business.”
Jilly shook her head and adjusted her boobs so they were pushed half out of her top. “You’ve got some serious issues, Mya. More for me.”
It was a quiet night in the dining room, so at seven thirty she wiped down the benches and turned off half the char grill. At eight o’clock on the dot she turned off the other side of the grill and the deep fryers, wrapped containers of garnish, packed everything into the cool room, and turned off the massive exhaust fan. Blissful silence.
The dish pig was scraping plates and feeding trays of dirty crockery into the commercial dishwasher. Mya felt sorry for him. He probably didn’t dream of dishwashing at the Croydon fresh out of high school. They all had to their fair share of hard yards at the sink, though.
“You good to finish the floors?” she asked.
He grunted in her general direction, which she took as a yes. She signed her timebook and stepped through the back door into the humid night, mouth shut until she was through the cloud of flying things jostling around the light.
“Can I walk you home?”
Her arm flew up to protect her face and her legs tensed for an attack. Then she squinted at the man who stepped from the shadows.
“Luca? Jesus, you scared me.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to. So, can I walk you home?”
In the warm, still air with him only a metre away, she could smell a sweet, woody-cinnamon cologne—and beer. He wore a loose black shirt, exposing sinewy forearms. A dusting of blond hair gleamed in the fluorescent light. He was strong, but confident enough not to have to build himself up to rock-ape proportions.
She met his steady gaze and held her breath under the force of candour in those powder-blue eyes. After a few moments she had to turn away. The car park was too dark to see what was in it, but she wondered aloud, “Don’t you have a car?”
“It's a nice night for a walk.” He shifted from foot to foot.
“Look, you seem like a nice guy, but I want to get something straight. I don’t need a bloke stalking me. I can walk myself home.”
Luca frowned and his lips thinned a little. “I stopped here for dinner because it was handy, and I thought, seeing as we’re neighbours, we may as well walk h
ome together. Safety in numbers. But you go right ahead.” He waved his arm to the side and took a step back.
Great, now she felt like a heel. Still, the message had been received. She shook her head and stomped into the night.
It wasn’t until she had crossed the railway line and was away from the noise of the pub that she heard quiet footsteps behind. She sighed. Well, he did live two doors from her, so she would have to get used to seeing him around the place. Just so long as he didn’t get any ideas about taking a neighbourly friendship to any other level. Cuteness didn’t equate to trustworthiness in her book.
She turned around.
Luca looked up and stopped too. “I’m not stalking you. I’m walking home.”
He moved past her, eyes ahead. Mya fell into step beside him. A train squealed as it pulled into Croydon station and half a dozen passengers spilled from the sliding doors and down the cement ramp. A lady pushed a sleeping toddler in a stroller; the child’s head bobbed on one side, pacifier adhered between soft lips. A couple of suits in a hurry strode past and a group of teenagers laughed at a private joke.
“Have you lived on Railway Terrace long?” Luca looked sideways at her.
As they passed under a streetlight, the shadow of stubble along his jaw was highlighted, and his pale eyes looked as cold as the steel benches at work. The yeasty scent of beer on his breath made her turn her face away.
“Nine years.”
“Wow.”
She wasn’t sure if he was impressed or appalled.
“Most of the neighbours seem nice,” he commented, “except number eleven. They’re a bit rough.”
“Ha!” Didn’t take him long to peg the Masons. “Yeah, they’re a real pain in the arse.”
They walked in silence for a few minutes. Mya led the way along the dirt track to the street and, although it looked quiet, paused, her gaze on number eleven for a few seconds. She kind of expected Paula to pay a visit after what she did to her face today. She could feel Luca watching her, and his eyes followed her line of sight.
When they reached her front gate he said, “Goodnight, Mya. Hey, I enjoyed my burger tonight. You’re a good cook.”
“Thanks.” She shrugged.
“I … er … wanted to ask you something.”
Her breath caught as she stood halfway through the garden gate.
“Whose blood did you have on you earlier today? You don’t look hurt.”
Heat flushed through her body. “You really are a nosy bastard, aren’t you?”
She stepped quickly toward him, intending to intimidate, but he didn’t flinch. Only the definition of a tendon down the side of his neck hinted that he’d tensed his body, and now their faces were a ruler-length apart.
A vaguely cinnamon-infused scent emanated from him, and brown curls peeked from the V of his shirt front. His chest had a nice shape, from what she remembered seeing of him in a tight T-shirt, and she wondered how warm and solid it would feel under her hand.
Luca’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down and their gazes met. He stared with a strangely hungry look in his eyes, and it took all of her willpower to remind herself that she didn’t need this complication in her life.
She tried to blow him off with venom in her voice, but it came out a whisper. “When I’m looking for a new BFF, I’ll let you know.”
Chapter 8
Later that evening, Luca sat in a black leather armchair by the window of his second-story bedroom in silk boxer shorts, with a laptop balanced on his knees. The glow from the screen was enough to work by. The dark was soothing. Somehow, being crowded by shadows made his home feel less empty. The whir of the laptop motor and creaks from the cooling corrugated iron roof were his only company in the three-bedroom house. A house that was meant for a family: noise, laughter, and clutter.
Somewhere deep inside of him there must still be hope.
With eyes accustomed to the dark, he easily spotted three members of the Mason family as they strolled along Railway Terrace, peeking inside letterboxes and swiping the tops off flowers as they went. He might have to do something about them soon.
As he typed “Mya Jensen” into the police database and hit search, he ran his tongue over his teeth to appreciate the lingering flavours from his Croydon Burger. Mya could certainly cook. The homemade patty, piles of fresh salad, slightly runny egg, bacon, chips that were crisp on the outside and soft inside—they were all delicious—but it was the Moroccan chutney that really gave it zing.
Her cooking wasn’t the only reason he was interested in her, though. She was stunning, with long legs and curves in all the right places. He felt a little guilty using his police clearance to access this information, but he had a gut feeling about his hot-bodied neighbour and it wasn’t good. Something about her just didn’t sit right. She had a low-paying job, lived in a low-income neighbourhood, but rode an expensive motorcycle, came home with blood on her T-shirt in the middle of the day, and was hostile when asked personal questions. Her defense reflexes were way faster than a regular person’s—he thought she was going to take his head off when he surprised her at the back of the hotel.
Returning his attention to the results of his search, he jotted in his notebook and underlined keywords as he read.
Mya Jensen
Father: Jack Roach 1958-2000.
Mother: born Jean Donaldson 1962, married Jack Roach 1987, traumatic brain injury 1999, resident of Rich Haven Aged Care Facility.
What the hell? Her mother was at Rich Haven? The same week he moved onto her street, he got new information on a cold case that led him to Rich Haven. No way could this be a mere coincidence.
So, she had a deceased father and hospitalised mother. More interestingly, who was paying to keep the mother at a retirement home? Places like that cost a fortune just to get into, let alone the ongoing fees. He doubted Mya could afford it on a pub chef’s wage.
He read on.
Mya Jensen: Certificate IV in Hospitality (Commercial Cookery) 2003, 1 property at 21 Railway Terrace, Croydon, South Australia.
Where was her date of birth? His fingers stabbed at the keyboard as he dug a little deeper and found a Deed Poll application. Could be in the witness protection scheme. Not many people changed their names legally, and even fewer who weren’t hiding from something. The data took a while to load, but when it did he had to read it twice.
She was born Lara Roach on November 25, 1984. There was confirmation that she was awarded guardianship of her mother, Jean Roach, and then changed both of their names so they were now Rosalie and Mya Jensen.
Who are you, Lara? There had to be something significant to make her change names and drag her mother along for the ride.
The database referenced a police report. Out of curiosity, he dialed the original case manager.
“Kaufman,” the abrupt greeting came.
“Detective Patterson from the Adelaide Police Station. Sorry to trouble you so late, but I was wondering if you could give me some information about an old case. Jack Roach—”
“Scumbag. What’s your interest? He’s deceased.”
Okay, this could be like getting blood from a stone. “Yes, well, I’m interested in his daughter, Lara Roach.”
“Nasty incident all around. Pull the file and you’ll see what I mean.”
“Would you mind giving me an overview?”
There was silence. Was Kaufman considering telling him to go to hell?
“Jean Roach sustained a serious head injury, and I suspected Jack Roach inflicted it. I accompanied her to the hospital, and by the time I had enough evidence to come back and arrest the bastard, he’d fled. Just got in his car and drove away. Left the teenage girl alone in the house.
“He was on the run for a year, so I suspect he had help. A patrol eventually caught up with him when he ran a red light. They engaged in a high-speed chase, during which Roach wrapped his car around a tree. Died on the scene.”
“I’m especially interested in what happened to Lara.�
� Luca sat with pen poised.
“The girl was only sixteen, no living relatives, so she became a ward of the state. She got into a bit of trouble at first but seemed to settle down. Her mother was put into a government-run nursing home. The ironic part was that Jack left everything to his wife in his will, so the estate was held in trust.”
“Anyone else make a claim for the estate?”
“Not that I’m aware.”
“Was it large?”
“Not especially. The house was sold, but he had life insurance.”
“Interesting.” So, Mya had been a troubled teenager with a mother who couldn’t provide for her and no other family.
“Well, that’s the sum of it. Why’re you dragging this up now? I’d hate to see the girl in trouble.”
He hadn’t planned for that question and couldn’t tell Kaufman he was just being nosy. “Nothing specific. She’s just a person of interest at this stage.”
“Sure. Let me know if I can help. I always felt bad about the cards the girl was dealt.”
“She’s doing all right. Thanks for the chat.”
Why had Mya changed her name? It wasn’t like she had any other relatives who were after the estate, and if it was purely a matter of starting over, she could have just moved. What else had Lara Roach been running from? He was digging himself in deeper. Still, there was nothing he liked more than a puzzle to solve.
Chapter 9
Luca leaned against the sink and spooned soggy Corn Flakes into his mouth. He needed to walk to the Croydon Hotel to retrieve his car. If it was still there. When he went to the hotel for dinner, he hadn’t planned on leaving his car in the parking lot. Hadn’t planned on walking Mya home either, but the opportunity presented and there was something about the woman that drew him in, like an arithmetician to a sudoku.
What he’d find under his neighbour’s brash exterior was anyone’s guess. Maybe a feminine softness. Maybe something he didn’t want to find.