Assassin (25 page)

Ringing, ringing …

Andy woke with a heavy head to the irritating alarm ring of his mobile phone. He reached over to grab it off the hotel bedside table and accidentally knocked it onto the floor, where it continued to chirp and vibrate amongst his scattered clothes until it finally lay still.

Mak.

Andy sat up and observed the covers on the left side of the bed, pulled back and still showing the faint indent of a sleeping body. Had she really been there? No note. No sounds from the bathroom. He rubbed his eyes and glanced at the clock. One minute past six. He swung his legs off the bed, walked to the shower in a daze and started the water, which hit him in a cold spray at first, before warming. He stepped inside and let it pour over his face. It was far too early to ponder all that had happened the night before. That would require a lot of thinking, he knew.

First thing, coffee
, he thought. Second, he had to get to the hospital and speak to someone about Jimmy’s wounds. What
was the trajectory of the bullet? If Mak’s story checked out, and Jimmy was shot from close range or from level height and not above, how would Hunt explain that? Who was the third witness with Hunt? What did the two other officers see?

Showered and dressed in a dark blue suit that needed pressing, tie hanging loosely around his neck, Andy left his room and stalked the corridor towards the elevator.

Andy Flynn got out of his car and squinted against the increasingly intense sun, having forgotten his sunglasses in his race to leave the hotel room. He made his way to the small side entrance for the emergency department of St Vincent’s Public Hospital in Darlinghurst, pretending not to notice the press already camped on the footpath beyond the stretch of green terraced gardens, looking for a scoop. If Jimmy died, he would be the two hundred and fifty-second NSW police officer to be killed in the line of duty. Andy was not state police any more. He would be making no comments.

He passed an overweight woman in a wheelchair and a thin gentleman in a hospital gown clutching a cigarette and his IV drip outside the elevator for the car park — the sad unofficial smokers’ corner. Kelley had texted him to say Jimmy was out of surgery and he could go up to ICU.

Hospitals.

Relatives were scattered around the waiting area, reading the
Daily Telegraph
, the front page facing out to show the face of his dying friend. And on the cover of the
Tribune
was another familiar face. It made him stop in his tracks.

The front page held a picture of Jimmy, but also one of Mak — golden-haired and smiling in a photograph from her modelling days.

SOCIALITE SUSPECTED IN COP SHOOTING
.

Oh fuck.

One of the copies of the
Tribune
had been discarded on a chair. Andy snatched it up. There she was: Mak — Jimmy’s accused shooter, the woman Andy had spent the night with. And though he now knew she was alive, he still had no way to reach her.

There’d been a time, before they’d lived together, when they would regularly leave notes for each other in the morning, after bouts of intense lovemaking. The urge to find her now, with everything going on, was almost overwhelming. Still, she’d made it clear that she was not going to frequent the same places, was not going to make it easy for herself to be found by the police or by Cavanagh’s men or by anyone. He just hadn’t realised that also meant
him
. He had no number for her. No address. Nothing. It had been a shock to have her in his bed and a worse shock to find her gone again, without a trace.

He flashed his badge to the triage nurse behind her bulletproof glass, and was told to head up to the Intensive Care Unit. He knew the way. He walked the hospital corridors in a funk. Nurses passed him, some nodding hello. Carol Richardson, an ex-girlfriend he was on good terms with, worked at Prince of Wales. He wouldn’t run into her here; still, some of the nurses seemed to hold Andy’s gaze, he noticed, as if they knew him.

He approached the frosted-glass goldfish bowl of the ICU waiting room, with its grey carpets and red and blue chairs, beneath a crucifix.

‘Andy …’

He whirled around. It was Angie Cassimatis. She was out of breath.

‘I saw you walk in and I couldn’t catch you. He’s gone into surgery again,’ she said. Her eyes were red-ringed and large, and turned down in the corners like a sad puppy. He almost couldn’t bear to look into them. ‘His heart hasn’t been coping,’ she said.

Jimmy had been on Warfarin to thin his blood. That meant his internal bleeding was worse than it could have been.

‘How are you? How are the boys?’ he asked, putting a hand on her delicate shoulder.

‘They’re with my mother. They’re … coping. I don’t think Jackson understands what’s happening. Edmond doesn’t, of course.’

‘When is he due to come out?’

She shook her head.

‘Is there anything I can do?’

He had been distant in recent months, he knew. Geography had separated them, but worse, Andy’s obsession with Mak’s disappearance had separated them. In a way he’d been a poor friend of late.

She shook her head again. ‘Oh, Andy.’

She pulled herself into his chest and wept while Andy stood helplessly.

‘It’s Nic, from the Electronic Evidence Branch.’

Nic Joseph. ‘I can’t really talk right now.’ Andy was waiting for news of Jimmy with an increasingly shaky Angie. ‘What’s up?’

‘Look, I thought you should know that something happened. With the laptop you gave me.’

He now had Andy’s complete attention.

‘It’s been destroyed.’

‘Destroyed? Since I called you last night?’ After what had happened to Jimmy, Andy had called to make sure that the laptop was still secure.

‘There was a fire overnight. They think it was arson.’

‘But what was on the hard drive?’

‘I didn’t get to find out. We hadn’t begun with it yet.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘There’s a backlog.’

‘Well, you have some sort of copy, don’t you? Of the contents?’

Joseph didn’t answer.

Andy’s mouth went dry. This could not be a coincidence. It seemed to mean that the Cavanaghs and their reach went further than he could have imagined.

‘You must have a copy. Isn’t that what you guys do?’

‘Like I told you, we hadn’t started on it yet. We were going to get to it this morning. I told you last night. It was safe here, I thought. I mean, nothing like this has ever happened before. The place is always locked.’

‘Who else knew what this was about? The case it was attached to?’

‘Only two of us, I swear. Like, me and Garner. You know we are used to dealing with sensitive material. Nothing like this has happened before. I just don’t understand it.’

Andy understood it. Someone had got to Garner. Either that or …

The call.

Andy had called Joseph about it only hours before the fire. That’s how they knew. His phone was being tapped.

‘Christ. This line isn’t secure. I have to go,’ Andy said and hung up.

Makedde Vanderwall looked at the pads of her fingers, wrinkled from a long soak in the cramped bath of her hotel.
Curious
, she thought,
how a little thing could change so much
. She cast a sideways glance at the object on the edge of the bath — a thin and fairly flat object about five inches long, housed in plastic.

Such a tiny little big little thing.

She’d woken in Andy’s hotel bed before sunrise, barely believing where she was. And when the queasiness hit once more, the penny had finally dropped.

A thin line. Such a tiny little big little thing.

Mak swallowed with a mouth that was dry and ran a wet hand over her face, smearing her fingertips with the smudged mascara she’d slept in. Her black-streaked hand came to rest on her stomach, just beneath the surface of the soapy water. She looked down at her slim but still curvaceous body, observed the blackening bruise on her left hip, and her round breasts, which were sore and full — had been for a while now. Having never had a terribly predictable cycle, she’d imagined it was a sign her period was coming.

Not so.

Makedde was pregnant.

The test on the edge of the bath had been there for thirty minutes now. She’d looked at it many times. Within herself she’d already known what it would tell her. Still, when the telltale double lines appeared in the viewing window, she’d found it a shock. She’d been on the pill when she broke up with Andy months earlier — before their unexpected erotic reacquaintance last night — and her time with Bogey had been all too tragically brief. Could she really be pregnant? Apparently she could, and the real question was for how long. Now that the little test on the side of the bath was speaking to her with that one devastating, wonderful, mind-altering extra line, the line that changed everything, it was obvious that she’d had morning sickness for some time. Had the nausea started in Barcelona, or before then? Morning sickness usually happened in the first trimester, didn’t it?

Mak took a breath and submerged herself.

A baby. God.

She blinked under the water and her eyes stung. With slippery hands she gripped the sides of the tub.

A baby?

They could have conceived before Andy left for Quantico. That would put her in the second trimester, wouldn’t it? Or the end of the first trimester? Didn’t they chart the number of weeks from the start of the cycle, before conception? She had no idea about these things. Yes, it could be Andy’s. It couldn’t be the assassin Luther Hand’s, thank God, because she had escaped his clutches before …

And then another answer hit her.

Bogey
, she thought.

My God.
It could be Bogey Mortimer’s child.

Heart pounding, Mak sat up, the water’s surface resisting her. She gasped for air and let out a small cry as bath water hit the tiled floor in small waves.

A terrible thought occurred to her.

The fall at the construction site. Would it have endangered her baby? She stepped out of the bath, shaking now, and stood before the mirror, dripping wet and running both hands over her belly, back and forth, wishing she could see inside herself, wishing she could see her future, see the future of the little creature in her belly, the baby announced by those two tiny lines. Growing up, she’d always wanted to be a mother one day, and had always somehow assumed she would be. But then she’d lost her own mother, and her personal world had sunk lower and lower.
Violence. Abduction. Murder.

Now motherhood was hard to imagine, or at least very different to imagine.

Would she raise a child in this world?

A woman on the run?

Could she?

Mak found the address of a clinic without difficulty. It was walking distance from the hotel and the receptionist said they could squeeze her in between appointments if she came straight over. Mak thanked her, put the hotel receiver down and ran an unsteady hand over her bare, clean-scrubbed face.

Pregnant?

She sat naked on the bed for another minute, wondering.

Makedde dressed in a T-shirt and dark jeans, marvelling at the fit of the waist, the way her lean stomach had begun to bow forwards with the slightest curve, just above the button. And
again she noticed that her breasts had grown heavier week by week, pushing out from the confines of her bra. For the first time she saw that her changing physique pushed her T-shirt higher at the front, so that it did not quite cover her when she moved. She gripped the bottom of the fabric and pulled it down; as she stood before the mirror, brushing her damp hair into a knot on her head, she saw the edge rise again, exposing that thin strip of pale flesh across her belly. A skilfully applied slick of red lipstick made Mak feel less vulnerable and dishevelled somehow, and then she was ready. She pulled her shirt down one final time, slipped on her boots and a pair of mirrored glasses to shield herself from the world, and she left her small room.

Outside the cool air-conditioning of the hotel, the streets of Sydney seemed suddenly different. Smaller. More confined. More confronting. The city traffic hurt her ears, honking and screeching. How could there be so many people? The streets were chaotic.
It’s only rush hour
, she thought, trying to remain calm as she struggled against streams of bodies on the packed sidewalks. Most people were shorter than her, some were taller, but all were seemingly keen to be somewhere else, fast. A tall man in a suit and tie brushed past her shoulder, turned his head and caught her eye. He was clean-shaven and handsome, and as she watched he looked her up and down. The lasciviousness of his gaze made Mak hunch her shoulders forwards, frowning. After a beat she realised she was holding her stomach, walking faster. A second man bumped straight into her — or her into him — and the impact shocked her so deeply that she fell sideways on the pedestrian crossing before catching herself and rushing on, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes.

A sign for the medical and dental centre on Pitt Street came into view just as her head began to ache. Her heart was beating too quickly, she realised. Beneath the shield of her sunglasses she’d started to cry again for no reason.
Calm yourself. Calm.
She followed the signs past a busy coffee shop and up a flight of stairs and down a corridor through a small waiting area to a reception desk, walking with deliberate movements, trying to be slow and composed. The waiting area was quiet. Only one person was waiting: an older man.

Two women were manning the desk, one busy with a call. The other woman looked up and offered a formal smile. ‘May I help you?’

‘Yes, I called earlier for an appointment. I was told there might be time between other patients?’

‘Petra?’

Mak nodded.

‘We spoke on the phone. You said you hadn’t been here before? Please fill out this form and get it back to me.’ She handed Mak a pen and a stack of forms attached to a stiff clipboard. ‘Shouldn’t be too long before we can get you in.’

Mak thanked her, clutched the clipboard to her chest and took a seat. The man in the chair opposite looked up at her, did a quick scan, tapped his foot and went back to reading the
Tribune
. Mak wondered about the journalist Richard Staples and whether she should call him to get some kind of explanation. What had happened exactly? Had he called the cops on her? To what end? Had his hand been forced?
You have other things to think about now, Mak. Choices to make.
She turned her attention to the form. She used Petra Blackman’s name, and wondered fleetingly if the woman would be shocked to discover she was pregnant and that she owned a used car and a new motorcycle.

Mak filled out as little information as she thought she could get away with and handed the clipboard to the receptionist. She looked it over, then handed it back across the desk. ‘You didn’t fill in your Medicare number.’ The woman pointed at the blank space with one unmanicured finger.

‘Oh, that’s right.’ Mak felt her cheeks flush. She dug through her purse and handed over Petra’s driver’s licence.

‘Medicare card?’

She made a show of checking her purse again. ‘Oh, I’ve forgotten it. I can just pay and claim it later, can’t I?’

‘Of course. No problem.’

‘Sorry, I’m a little flustered.’

‘Take a seat and the doctor will see you shortly,’ the receptionist told her, something pitying in her expression. Mak had taken her glasses off when she’d walked in, and now she wondered if it was obvious she’d been crying.

She returned to her seat and ran fingertips under her eyes, taking a breath. She’d left her makeup at the hotel and she didn’t have eye drops. Did she look a mess? Suddenly she realised that the man in the chair across from her was staring. He looked down when she caught him, and then looked up again, his puffy face animated with intense interest. After a moment he went back to his paper, but a creeping feeling of unease took hold of Mak. Instinctively, she put her sunglasses back on and crossed her arms. Was she becoming paranoid, or had he really been staring at her? Why? She got up and fetched herself a cup of water from a cold-water dispenser. There was another copy of the
Tribune
on the coffee table in the centre of the waiting room, and she picked it up and placed it in her lap when she returned to her seat. Urging herself to breathe slowly, she took a sip of cold water from the little paper cup and turned over the paper to the front page.

What she saw made her stomach flip.

I AM ON THE FRONT PAGE OF THE PAPER. JESUS CHRIST.

A journalist named Robin Harcourt had penned a sensational piece on the shooting of Detective Jimmy Cassimatis — a shooting for which one Makedde Vanderwall was the primary suspect. Mak had known that she was a suspect after her talk with Andy, but seeing it in print was an altogether different thing. And on the front page? Of the
Tribune
? The same paper Richard Staples worked for? Mak read the story like a woman reading her own obituary. It was incredible stuff. Her eyes raced over the words, head spinning. It continued on page seven, with a large photo of her infamous exit from the Cavanagh mansion at Damien’s thirtieth-birthday party, a shot not dissimilar to the one she’d seen along with the price for her head, back in Luther Hand’s Barcelona apartment. Mak was labelled a ‘model and socialite’, who had done ‘some work as a private investigator’. She was ‘considered armed and dangerous’ and was alleged to have shot Jimmy Cassimatis, ‘well-loved, long-serving police officer’ and ‘loving husband and doting father of four young children’.

Model and socialite? I’m a goddamn
socialite
now?

Somehow, irrationally perhaps, her eyes drifted back to that word. Being labelled a socialite, with that photo of her at the Cavanagh mansion as unspoken proof, meant Mak was instantly associated with precisely the people she despised — the champagne-sipping Cavanagh set. It seemed the final insult. One glance at the article told Mak the tale of a greedy bimbo gone mad on too many parties and too much coke. Unethical, unlawful and perhaps even psychotic, probably motivated by money and drugs. It did not seem coincidental that her PI work was mentioned as an afterthought, and her work and schooling
as a forensic psychologist was not mentioned at all. The word ‘alleged’ was used in all the right places, but the message was clear — Mak was an unhinged party girl, worthless and highly dangerous. Every negative model stereotype was in play, and there was no other side to the story. Staples could have won a Walkley for breaking the case against Jack Cavanagh, and instead the paper he worked for was playing right into Cavanagh’s hands. She’d thought they were better than that.

How naïve you were to come all this way for Richard Staples, believing he could help
, she thought. And what could Andy do, now that the entire police force was gunning for her?

With great willpower Mak placed the paper back on the table, upside down. Rage gathered in her like a violent storm. She was not safe. Not here, and not anywhere. Would someone at the clinic recognise her? If the old man hadn’t already. Now she was wanted by both sides of the law. Could she even leave the country without being stopped? How long could she survive like this?

‘Petra Blackman? Dr Green will see you now.’

Mak snapped a look in the receptionist’s direction.
Oh. The appointment.
She stood up, unsure what to do, and after a beat decided to follow the receptionist’s directions. Without a word she walked down the narrow, well-lit hallway to a small office, skittish and paranoid. It was quite possible that Mak looked sufficiently different from the photos in the paper that she had not been recognised. She had not used her real name. It might still be okay for now.

Maybe.

The doctor was waiting. She welcomed Mak and closed the door, giving her an added jolt of claustrophobia. Dr Green was an attractive woman in her late fifties, fashionably dressed and
groomed. No spectacles or doctor’s scrubs. Mak wasn’t sure why she should be surprised by the woman’s chic appearance, but she found that she was. Perhaps she harboured some stereotypes of her own.

‘Ms Blackman,’ the doctor said, looking at her form. She indicated a metal-backed chair next to her desk. ‘Take a seat. How may I help you?’

‘You can call me Petra.’ Mak smiled nervously and sat down. Nothing about the doctor’s manner was suspicious.

‘What brings you in today, Petra?’ the older woman asked.

‘I think I’m pregnant.’ Mak’s voice wavered a little. Saying the words out loud felt entirely unreal. ‘But … I don’t know.’

‘Have you taken a home pregnancy test?’

‘Yes,’ Mak admitted.

‘Most of the store-bought tests are quite accurate these days,’ the doctor advised. Mak absorbed that bit of info with a slightly increased internal panic.
So it’s for real then.
‘Let’s take another look, shall we?’ Dr Green handed Mak a cup. ‘Urinate into this and bring it back. The toilets are just down the hall.’