by Sandy Vaile
“We need to talk to her, sooner rather than later. I asked the Fraud Squad to flag anything that came up on her and something has.”
“You’re watching her?” He was appalled, but couldn’t fault Kate’s logic.
“I’m following leads,” she said frostily.
“What have you got,” he mumbled to the window, watching it fog and clear with each breath. Kate had only done what he should have, if his mind weren’t clouded when it came to Mya.
“She put an application into Deed Poll yesterday. An application to change both her own and her mother’s names. I think she might be doing a runner.”
“Shit.”
He could feel Kate’s eyes boring into the back of his head and, when he finally stopped pretending to be interested in the scenery and turned to her, she was chewing her bottom lip.
She glanced at him with a pitying look. “Please tell me you don’t fancy her.”
“Just drive, will you?”
“Bloody hell, Luca.” She shook her mouse-brown bob and huffed.
They undertook the remainder of the journey in silence. He tried to focus on Willy Mason and how this visit was likely to play out. When they parked out front of eleven Railway Terrace, Kate took the lead, as instructed. Luca wore his full police kit today, including the Akubra hat and capsicum spray tucked into his utility belt. Might come in handy with Willy.
He stood aside while Kate knocked on the door, because he didn’t want to be the first thing Willy saw. Heavy footsteps approached the other side and a key turned in the deadbolt. It cracked open and Kate’s stare moved up as she sought Willy Mason’s face.
“Good morning, sir. I’m Constable Derman and I’m looking for Mr. Mason.”
Willy squinted down and then over her shoulder. He ground his teeth and threw the door open. “What’s this fucker doing ’ere?”
He shoved past Kate and towered over Luca, who rested a hand on his gun.
“Excuse me, sir.” Kate bravely moved in front of Willy. “I need you to step away from Detective Patterson. We’re here to ask you a few questions about jewelry you might have pawned at Pete’s Pawn Shop on Blewitt Boulevard.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’d like you to take a look at this picture.” She waved the fax sheet in front of Willy to get his attention. “Pete said you sold these items to him. Items that turned out to be stolen from an elderly lady.”
“I don’t know anything about stolen jewelry. Don’t even know this Pete guy. He’s lying.”
Luca smirked. “Of course he is.”
Willy stepped forward and Kate moved her hand to the butt of her pistol. “You understand that these items will be studied for forensic evidence, and if we find anything that matches you, you’re going to be locked up faster than you can sneeze?”
Willy visibly relaxed. “I understand that you ain’t got shit on me, or you’d be arresting me right now. Get the hell off my property.” He gave Luca one last look. “You’ll keep.”
Then he went back inside and slammed the door shut.
“That went well,” Luca quipped.
“He knows something,” Kate added. “Maybe applying a little extra pressure each day will bring him around.”
“Sounds like you don’t like Mr. Mason.” Luca chuckled. “Can you drop me at the station, so I can pick up my car? I’ll go through my case files and catch you tomorrow.”
She nodded.
• • •
Luca drove past the cafe, laundromat, and Pete’s Pawn Shop along Blewitt Boulevard and turned down Josiah Mitton Parade. With his eyes on the road, he reached his left hand to the passenger seat and flicked the lid off a small cardboard box. He wrapped his fingers around a couple of hot chips and stuffed them into his mouth.
It had been good to spend time looking at all the evidence and theories as a whole that morning, although it hadn’t triggered any revelations. At least it reaffirmed his belief that the deaths of old ladies without families were somehow linked to the jewelry thefts. The same anomaly he noticed nine months ago at Happy Vale. He could feel that he was closer to finding the key and unlocking the mystery. Something had to go his way sooner or later. Tenacious: that’s what his wife had called him.
As he passed Josiah Mitton Reserve, a babe in a tight tank top caught his eye. She threw a fluoro-yellow Frisbee and laughed as a scruffy terrier chased it. A ripped bloke wrapped a protective arm around her waist. A family rode along the footpath on a line of bicycles in reducing sizes, the last one with a plastic basket on the handlebars. A pang of regret clenched his heart that his opportunity for children had passed him by.
There was a troupe of women by the fountain, gaily dressed in pastel leggings, bright tank tops and headbands. In the shade of a knotted gum tree, the aggressive stance of two women made him pay closer attention. One suddenly attacked the other with a lightning-fast kick. The victim barely managed to block it.
Luca’s foot came off the accelerator and the car engine faltered. He knocked it into neutral and parked on the roadside. The attacker was fast and there was something familiar about the way she moved. Caramel-coloured hair tied in a ponytail. Mya.
He grabbed the door handle as Mya came at her target again. With one foot on the tarmac and the car door ajar, he watched the victim overbalance and fall onto her bottom. Mya laughed. Hell, she really was nuts, and she was going to beat the shit out of this woman if he didn’t stop her.
Then Mya offered a hand and pulled the woman to her feet. What the—?
The woman stepped to the side and waved another female into position. Luca studied the group more closely. They were practicing kickboxing maneuvers. Mya appeared to be moving from one pair to the next, as though giving instruction.
He backed into his car again and pulled the door shut, but couldn’t bring himself to leave. After several minutes of watching, he turned the engine off and wound down the window. He wasn’t sure why, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Mya. She looked different—carefree—and it was mesmerizing. The women in the group seemed to really pay attention to her.
She was fast and strong but graceful at the same time. Her moves were precise and controlled. She wasn’t a kickboxing street thug. It was clear she’d been trained.
So it was possible Mya might be the brawn in the scam group. A hired thug? No, that didn’t feel right. They—meaning Kevin, Melanie, and Ev—wouldn’t need a kickboxer when they had Willy Mason. They certainly weren’t keeping that man around for his brains.
So maybe Mya was the brains of the operation. The woman wasn’t stupid, considering what she’d achieved after such a brutal childhood. He’d seen the outcome of abusive homes before. Teenagers often didn’t have the strength or resources to climb out of the cesspool and into a new life. Mya had.
But how did she fit with Melanie and Kevin?
Luca’s temple started to ache as he tried to puzzle it out. He shoved a couple of cool chips into his mouth. The kickboxers smiled and waved to Mya as they dispersed. A lanky woman jogged across the park, over the footpath, and crossed the road in a direct route to Luca. He fumbled with the key in the ignition, conscious of what Mya would say if she caught him spying on her, but the jogger was too fast.
“If you’re looking for your wife or girlfriend, you’re not welcome here, mate. I suggest you move along before someone calls the cops.” The bony brunette’s lips were pursed.
He checked out her grey leggings and cropped pink T-shirt and smiled politely. “I am the cops, actually.” He flashed his badge at the still scowling woman. “I only stopped because I think I know the instructor. Is this some kind of class?”
The woman glanced over her shoulder at Mya, who was talking to a couple of students and then back at the badge. “Nothing you’d be interested in, sweetheart. It’s self-defense for women.”
“Oh?”
She hesitated and then rested her elbows on the edge of the open window. Luca had to avert his eyes from the fr
ont of her top.
“You’ll have to excuse my suspicious nature,” she said, “but we sometimes get husbands hanging around, looking for their wives. Now and then they cause trouble.”
“How so?”
“Most of Mya’s students are from the battered women’s shelter in Woodville.”
“Huh. I’m sure she sets them straight,” he said cynically.
“Yeah, she’s brilliant. Makes us feel like we have some control.”
“Thanks for your help. Enjoy your run.” He placed both hands on the steering wheel as an indication that the conversation was over.
“Sure.” The brunette straightened and took off at a brisk pace.
Luca arrived at his home without remembering going over the railway track, past the Croydon Hotel, or turning into Railway Terrace. His mind was spinning like a fast-bowled cricket ball. Mya helping battered women. Go figure. She was like a club sandwich; every time he thought he had the flavour figured out, another bite revealed one more unexpected taste.
Chapter 20
It was Friday, so Mya didn’t have long before her next shift at the Croydon Hotel. There was a lot of prep to do for a busy night, but she’d make time for a quick workout at her second home: Railway Fitness Centre.
Mike waved as she passed All Car Motors. “Hey, Mya,” he called.
“Hey, Mike. Business good?”
“’s okay. You had an accident?”
“What?” She stopped in the middle of the car park.
“The Triumph’s got a few scratches.” He jerked his head in the direction of the parked motorbike.
“Minor damage. It’s a jungle out there, Mike.”
He laughed and disappeared into the cave of his garage.
The scratches on the tank reminded Mya that she had to make a few phone calls tomorrow. She needed to put her mum’s name—well, the one she’d have as soon as their Deed Poll change went through—on the waiting list at a few nursing homes. If she was prepared and kept their options open, they could move as soon as it became necessary.
An electronic beeper sounded as she pushed the grimy door open, distracting the few hardcore gym junkies who had nothing better to do mid-afternoon. The place smelled of stale sweat, machine oil, and dust. It was familiar and comforting. Her shoulders relaxed as she crossed the threadbare carpet to the boxing ring.
“Hey, MJ.” Tommy stepped away from the sagging ropes and high-fived her.
He looked too upmarket for the dingy sweat room with his bright green shorts, muscle top, and gel-spiked hair, but he was fast, and as close to a brother as Mya would get.
“How’d the class go?” he asked her.
“Good. The girls are getting more confident, slowly.”
“Chick came in this morning, asking about your classes, so I gave her a flier. You oughta start charging. We could make a killing.”
“You know I don’t do it for people who can afford to pay.”
“Yeah, you’re a bloody saint.”
“How’s Ned?” Mya hated that her mentor was too sick to run the gym now.
“Dad’s fine. He’s a tough old bastard. The doc says he can come back to work so long as he doesn’t put on the gloves.”
“Yeah, like that’ll happen.”
They both grinned.
“Up for a few rounds?” Tommy pointed to the boxing ring.
Mya had been sparring with him for a decade, since his old man found her peering through the window—in those days you could see through the glass—and took her under his wing. Turned her life around, in fact. Taught her that she didn’t need to always be on the attack, if she knew how to handle herself. It was Ned’s ideals that she taught during her self-defense classes.
“You know there’s nothing I like better that hitting something, Tommy. You up for it?”
“Not me.”
“Who’d you talk into it?” Most of the regulars wouldn’t get into the ring with her anymore, because she never gave up. That wasn’t all Ned’s doing. Life had taught her to keep facing her fears until she beat them down.
Tommy waved a thick arm in the direction of the boxing ring, making a bicep bulge under his sleeve of Maori tattoos. He smiled slyly and called to the couple of young guys already in the ring. “Hey, tough guy. I’ve got a new sparring partner for you.”
Mya hadn’t seen one of them before, and from the look on his face, he wasn’t impressed about being paired with a girl. She pulled the headgear on and wrapped strips of fabric around her wrists and hands to protect them. Tommy pulled gloves over the top and strapped her shin pads on.
The regulars gathered ringside as Mya climbed between the ropes, because they knew exactly what was going down: new guy initiation. The guy looked to be in his early twenties, with a silver stud in his left ear and a skull tattoo on his shoulder. She knocked gloves with her opponent and headed for her corner, but not before she caught him rolling his eyes at his mate. He’d pay for that.
Tommy stood at the side, one tree-trunk leg hooked through the ropes for support. “Fight,” he called.
She danced out of her corner, circling the newbie and giving him time to size her up, as she did him. Lazy footwork. Probably figured he didn’t need to expend too much energy to beat a girl.
He led with a right hook and knee strike, which she blocked. She moved away from his favoured hand. With fists up and chin down, she felt him out with a kidney kick. It landed solidly, and the newbie wavered. Her own ribs still hurt like hell from Willy Mason’s beating.
She gave her opponent a moment to gather himself. Fighting for the sake of it wasn’t her style. He glanced at the spectators and straightened. His retaliation was a front kick and a couple of punches, which she dodged, her feet constantly dancing.
There were whistles and whoops as he landed a blow to the side of her head and the room blurred. His skin glistened and the scent of deodorant kicked in. Time to attack. Forward, forward. He led with his right hand, so she moved right. He looked down for a fraction of a second and she hit high. Once she had him against the ropes, he tried to neutralize her with a grab, but she pushed him away.
With her back to him, as though she was going to walk away, she lashed out with her leg. A foot connected with his gut and she spun to deliver a powerful left hook. The newbie stumbled, lost his balance, and sat on the mat.
Tommy slapped his thigh and sported a thousand-watt smile. “And that’s how it’s done, boys.”
She offered the stunned guy a bent arm and he begrudgingly allowed her to pull him to his feet.
It was nice to know she could still put a guy on his arse. Since someone had tried to run her off the road, personal safety had become a priority. Keeping her combat skills in top shape was her best strategy. The woman may or may not be Rhonda. Either way, there was no telling if she had a male accomplice, and Mya wasn’t taking any chances.
Chapter 21
Mya tipped whisked eggs over sizzling mushrooms, home-grown tomatoes, red capsicum, and onion. Chester Bennington from Linkin Park screamed at low volume from the stereo. Ten thirty was too late for most people to eat dinner, but after a decade in the hospitality industry, her hours were out of whack. The sink was full of vegetables picked from the garden only minutes ago. She tossed the colourful salad and finished it with a drizzle of lemon-infused olive oil.
Once the omelette was set, she sprinkled cheese across the surface, folded it in half, and slid the lot onto a plate. It was a balancing act to arrange the plate, bowl, and a jam jar filled with tap water in her hands, and then carry it all to the dining table.
What a relief to sit after a long day on her feet. Comfy Ugg boots were under the table and she slid her aching feet into them. Steam from the omelette wafted to her nose and made her salivate. Her stomach grumbled urgently. Teaching a self-defense class, doing a round of kickboxing, and working could work up a serious appetite.
It would be nice to have dinner conversation, but then she remembered where that got her mum. There was a lot
to be said for peace and quiet.
Opening the mail caused knots in her stomach lately, but there was nothing from Rhonda today. She couldn’t know for sure that Rhonda was the one who tried to run her off the road last night, but if it was, then Mya needed a plan to find out where the woman lived, but there was nothing to go on. Sitting there, waiting for the bitch to strike went against everything Mya had fought for during the past twelve years.
Pity she didn’t have a cop friend who could massage an ID out of the Big Brother database.
After dinner, she turned off the stereo and reclined in her favourite armchair. She flicked on the reading lamp and picked up The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson. She was halfway through it and dying to find out what happened next.
• • •
Mya jerked awake, her eyes struggling to focus, heart thundering. The wall clock showed ten past twelve. With a hand on her heart, she realized she had nodded off. She tucked a strip of leather between the pages of her book and levered herself out of the armchair, stifling a yawn. Like always, she flicked the lace curtain aside and looked up and down the street.
Hers was the only light still on, but there was a shadow moving down the road. It leapt from the footpath to the road and back, as though it couldn’t decide where it was going.
With her face pressed to the glass, Mya still couldn’t recognize the gangly, pale-limbed person, but they were running fast. Another couple of seconds and she saw long hair. A girl, who stopped beneath the streetlight in front of Mya’s house.
The blond hair had multi-coloured streaks in it. It was Paula Mason’s friend, the one from the park. The same one who’d literally bumped into Mya on the bike track. The girl searched left and right in quick, jerky movements, her hands tensed by her side.
An almighty roar sounded from further down the road and Blondie startled like a deer. She scaled Mya’s picket fence and ran up the alyssum-covered path.
Bang! Bang! Bang! The front door vibrated.