Assassin (29 page)

‘What? No.’ She shook her head. ‘Like I said, I don’t remember getting to the terrace or leaving. I don’t remember anything like what happened to him.’

‘Do you know what happened to him? Did Mahoney or Kelley take you through the crime scene this morning?’

‘No. Kelley didn’t want me to see. All I know is that he’s dead. They were trying to get me to describe what had happened, but like I said, I couldn’t remember anything, not even getting to the front door. They had me identify my shoes, which were found at the flat, but Kelley didn’t want me to see the body. I saw a bit, though. I saw that he was in the same room where I was found. He was in a chair.’

‘Your shoes were there?’

‘Yes … stilettos,’ she said reluctantly and Andy closed his eyes for a moment.
Jesus. She wore stilettos. She
did
use herself as fucking bait.

Until the blood tests and the crime-scene analysis proved that she could not have done anything to Dayle, she was still to be cleared of any involvement in Dayle’s death, but obviously Kelley didn’t suspect her, and neither did Andy. Still, her actions could reflect very badly on the unit if he wasn’t careful.

‘Now, this is what I’m going to do,’ Andy said. ‘I’m going to say that I gave you authority to have your gun with you in
case you were needed at short notice, okay? I was in Sydney, so were you, and I asked you to be on call.’

Her face lit up. She nodded.

‘But if you’ve lied to me about not drinking, I can’t help you.’

She gave him a hard look. She’d been telling the truth about the booze: that was clear.

‘And what were you doing at the White Cockatoo?’

She watched his face, judging how to respond. ‘Meeting a friend,’ she said.

‘And Dayle got to you before your friend arrived.’

She nodded again.

‘He probably recognised you from the canvass. You were at the wrong place at the wrong time and you were unlucky.’

‘Thank you, Flynn.’

‘Second chances are rare, Harrison. I don’t want the SVCP to lose you. We need you, okay? That’s why I wanted you on board. That’s why I wanted you on the Hempsey case. You are a valuable member of our team. Now they’ll be watching you. You can’t fuck up again. I want them to see that you are the switched-on, serious profiler I believe you to be. The profiler you
are
. You are bloody lucky you didn’t get killed by that sick fucker last night, Harrison. I think you know that.’

Her beautiful mouth was set in a hard line. He could see that she knew.

Andy downed the rest of his lukewarm coffee. ‘Well,’ he said and exhaled, glad at least that there could be a way to resolve Dana’s involvement without her being too harshly disciplined for her rash mistake. ‘Whatever the circumstances — and the scene in there is pretty fucking bizarre by my reckoning — we can all be grateful Dayle is dead,’ he said. ‘We can all be bloody grateful for that.’

A couple of hours later Andy broke from the hospital doors and breathed the air on the sidewalk. A bus moved away from the kerb with a low roar. He felt like a man who’d been held under water by a wave.

The day had started rough and hadn’t got much easier.

Just a decent coffee. A decent coffee and I’ll be okay.

The stench of grief clung to the corridors of St Vincent’s and two hours of it had been almost enough to kill him. The grief of worried loved ones. The pain. The ordered violence of surgeons. Jimmy was still in theatre. Angie wouldn’t leave the ward. She’d spent another night in a cot next to the bed, her mother bringing Edmond in for feeds.

Stop thinking about it. Just get a coffee.

He walked off towards the bustling crowds at the cafés on Victoria Street, feeling lost and somehow unable to decide what to do, where to go, how to approach that simple task of finding sustenance and caffeine. He was missing the company of his former police partner Jimmy perhaps more than he ever had in his life. For all his faults, Jimmy was someone who
would have truly understood what all this meant — Hunt, Mak, Jack Cavanagh. Jimmy, whose life was ebbing away before their eyes.

Jimmy had been put in this situation by Bradley Hunt, someone he deeply mistrusted. He had always joked about Hunt, what a prick he was, how he thought he was in Jack Cavanagh’s pockets. And Andy had dismissed it as jealousy. Just because Hunt was a bit of an annoying dick didn’t mean he was crooked. He had risen the ranks and Jimmy’s lack of political nous saw his career in a stall. Andy hadn’t really listened to Jimmy’s complaints and now it seemed Jimmy had been right about Hunt, had even underestimated how crooked the man was. What else could be made of the footage Mak had brought to Andy’s room? Hunt was lying. Why? He was wound up in this somehow.

Jimmy was dying, Mak was on the run and there was something in it for Inspector Hunt.

Andy felt something brush his side and his thoughts were suddenly pulled back into the moment.

‘Hey —’

Instinctively, he grabbed the wrist of a pickpocket dipping into his right suit-jacket pocket. The pocket was empty, he realised. His wallet was in his breast pocket. A small note was folded between long, slim fingers, but in a heartbeat the note had disappeared again, behind the person’s back.

He saw motorcycle boots and looked up, his gaze meeting a familiar face. It was a tall woman with brunette hair, cut in a messy style and coloured with streaks that didn’t quite suit the beautiful face it half covered. The woman wore motorcycle pants and a singlet top, a hint of dark lace peeking out. Her eyes were hidden behind mirrored aviators. He retracted his hand.

‘Meet me at the café with the umbrellas, on Oxford Street, just around the corner, in about five minutes. There are no CCTV cameras around there,’ the woman said, barely moving those familiar lips. She walked past him in the opposite direction. Just two strangers bumping into each other.

Andy stayed where he was for a moment and absorbed what had just happened. A couple of metres away was a bank ATM, he noticed. He was indeed on camera. He looked at his watch, not really seeing the time, then scanned the strip for any of the other officers who might be trying to visit Jimmy. No one familiar. Hands in his pockets, Andy entered a newsagent, bought a newspaper and, a few minutes later, wandered up to Oxford Street and entered a small café with dirty white umbrellas, to find Makedde Vanderwall, under a shaggy brown wig, waiting in the corner with a glass of water in her hand.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked quietly as he sat down.

She nodded. He didn’t mention the hair. ‘How is it exactly that you know where I am all the time?’

Mak offered a sly smile from under the long fringe. ‘Is it so awful?’

He shook his head. ‘No, it’s only —’

‘How is he?’ she cut in.

Andy shook his head again. ‘Not good.’

Mak took a breath and it caught in her chest. ‘I’m sorry, Andy.’

He looked at her, looked away, looked back. ‘I’ve been worried about you. I don’t think my mobile phone is secure. I had no way to reach you to tell you. I had to get a new phone, to be safe. The …’ He hesitated, knowing this would be a major blow. ‘The laptop you gave me. The one you said belonged to the man who tried to kill you. It’s been destroyed. I found out
yesterday. There was a fire at the Electronic Evidence Branch. It can’t be a coincidence, and I trust the guy I gave it to.’

Mak was nodding her head as he spoke. She didn’t take her glasses off.

‘I’m so sorry, Mak. I couldn’t have foreseen this.’

‘I posted the Lacie and the footage to Inspector Kelley this morning, just as you suggested,’ she said softly, her gaze averted. ‘Express Post. Should arrive on Monday, I guess.’

‘Good.’ That way Andy could maintain a distance and the police still had the evidence. ‘I just don’t know what to say about the laptop going missing, Mak,’ he added and shook his head. ‘I know how much you risked to get it to me. I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s okay. You did what you could.’ She seemed calm about it. Strangely calm.

‘I’m sure you saw the paper yesterday. What are you going to do?’ Andy asked. ‘Where have you been?’

She didn’t answer his questions.

‘Was that a note you were trying to slip me before?’ he asked.

‘Andy, I have something to tell you. It’s not easy,’ she replied and hesitated, looking around the café and at the passersby on the sidewalk.

He braced himself. ‘I’m not having a great day, to be honest. If it’s bad news, I’m not sure I want to hear it.’

She sat forwards a touch. ‘I’m pregnant,’ she said quietly and took a sip of water.

The breath went out of him. ‘My God, Mak,’ he said after a moment.

She crossed her arms over herself and watched him. He felt unable to speak. ‘It’s true,’ she said.

‘Are you okay — what can I do — how do you know?’ All these questions poured out in a jumble, without punctuation. He was aware of the public setting, aware that he shouldn’t raise his voice. Why had she chosen to tell him here? Why now? Couldn’t she have waited until they were alone?

‘I’m okay, and I’m not asking for anything from you or anyone else. I just needed you to know.’

His eyes went to her stomach and back to her face. He had a question.
The
question.

She followed his gaze and then looked him in the eye. ‘Are you the father? I don’t know, Andy,’ she replied. ‘That’s the truth. I only found out yesterday. I went to see a doctor and she confirmed it. Until I have an ultrasound I can’t be sure how many weeks I am. I can’t be more than three months, I shouldn’t think. Maybe somewhat less.’

Before he left for Quantico or after? That’s what he wanted to know. ‘So it could be …’ he said cautiously.

‘Yours.’ She paused. ‘Or Bogey could be the father.’

Andy went quiet as his head filled with white noise. He turned away from her as she continued to speak, not hearing. The rage was almost overwhelming. Slowly sound came back, and he heard her words.

‘… shortly after I moved out,’ she was telling him in a neutral voice. ‘A few weeks, maybe five or six weeks after I’d seen you last.’

So, she’d started dating someone else. He’d known that. He’d imagined she screwed him. He’d come to terms with that. She’d had sex with this younger man six weeks after Andy. That’s what she was saying. And now it meant she might be pregnant with that man’s child. A man who, according to Mak, was dead.

Andy wanted to punch the café wall. With some effort he kept himself in check. His temper wouldn’t help anything. His temper had been part of the problem. He wanted to be angry with Makedde, but the truth was he had found solace in Carol’s bed when they’d broken up years before, soon after Mak had left him the first time. He hadn’t been able to really consider being with someone after she went missing in Paris, though. He’d not been seriously tempted by Dana’s attraction to him, though she was beautiful and independent and smart as hell, and she looked at him like he
was
someone. He just couldn’t do it. But still, how could he judge? He couldn’t blame Mak if she’d found someone to help her forget. God knows there would have been a lot of offers.

But it hurt. It really goddamn hurt.

Mak was leaning against the wall, arms and legs folded tightly. He glanced down at her belly beneath the singlet. It looked flat. He hadn’t noticed a baby bump when they’d made love. But she had seemed different — in so many ways that were beyond the physical.

‘You’ve been to a doctor? You’re sure?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she said flatly and pulled away from him a touch.

A thin waiter emerged with two plastic menus. ‘Breakfast?’

‘Just … um, two lattes,’ Andy responded, flicking his eyes to Mak to see if she had something else in mind. She kept her eyes on the tabletop and didn’t open her mouth. The young man disappeared. He didn’t bother to wipe down the sticky table.

‘Why tell me now?’ Andy asked. ‘Here?’

‘You don’t like seeing me?’

‘Of course I do. Jesus, the other night was …’ It had been amazing. ‘I’d hoped you would be there when I woke up. Where’d you go? It drives me nuts not to have a way to reach
you. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. You have no idea …’

How much I love you.

Mak crossed her legs the other way, leather creaking. She pulled one boot-shod foot up under the table. She didn’t take the aviators off and he wished he could see her eyes.

‘Have you ever been to Spain, Andy?’ she said.

‘What?’

‘Have you ever been to Spain?’ she asked again in a neutral voice.

‘No. Why?’

‘There’s a great little village called Peratallada, not too far from the Costa Brava. Tiny population. It’s a medieval town. Everything carved in stone. I stayed there when I was driving down from France. It’s trapped in the twelfth century, Andy. Just beautiful. You’d love it.’

‘
What are you talking about?
’

‘Keep your voice down.’ She pulled those aviators down a touch and he could see that her gorgeous blue-green eyes were bloodshot. They slid over the crowd around them and then settled on his, seeming brighter than usual. ‘Are you happy, Andy?’

He was blind-sided. ‘Happy? Happy about you being wanted for shooting my partner? That you were on the front page of the paper and everyone’s looking for you?’ He felt the anger rise in him. He was supposed to arrest her. His job was to arrest her. And she was asking him if he was happy?

‘No, I mean, are you happy? Because I’m not,’ she continued. ‘I don’t want any more of this. If I never see another dead body in my life, if I don’t see any more blood, if I’m never chased or stalked again, I’ll be happy.’

He reached out instinctively for her hand and took it in his. It felt cold. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been through all this, Mak.’ With his other hand he ran his fingers over his hair. ‘Fucking hell. How did everything get so crazy? What are you going to do? What are
we
going to do?’

Mak smiled, though her eyes were strange. Not cold, exactly, but distant. She pushed the glasses up her nose again and pulled back. ‘The assassin who tried to kill me in Paris had money. A lot of money. Yes, blood money, but I’m no martyr, as it turns out. I’ve had enough of doing the right thing. I have a chance at freedom, Andy. One chance. I’m going to enjoy what I can of life now.’ She nodded to herself as if she still needed convincing. ‘What about you?’ she asked him.

‘What
about
me?’ Andy replied, flummoxed.

‘Why don’t you come with me?’

His chest tightened.

‘No promises, no vows, just a chance. But only if we leave all this. We can change our lives, change our names, be anyone we want to be.’ She looked around furtively. ‘I don’t want to be Mak any more.’

Andy thought of how much he’d always wanted her. He thought of all the things that had got in their way. He thought of her on the beach at La Perouse when they’d first met — her devastated by the murder of her friend, him the detective in charge. And he thought of her now. Wanted. And he couldn’t help her. Couldn’t arrest her.
Couldn’t.
What did that make him?

‘If you want me —
us
— come find us,’ Mak said and smiled gently. Her hand strayed to her small belly. Fugitive and lover. And mother? He didn’t know what to make of the woman he was looking at, a woman who now kept a gun on her at
all times, who set up clandestine meetings and secret cameras, and disguised herself to walk the streets.

Mak leaned in, pressed herself against him, and he felt the crush of her swelling breasts — the one sign of her pregnancy he might have noticed — and he felt her strong, thin arms around him, and he wanted her again. God, he wanted her. He wanted
both
of them. He didn’t care if it wasn’t his child. For a moment that hurt no longer seemed to matter. She ran her hands over his back and the rough stubble of his face, and gave him a brief, devastating kiss with a mouth as sweet as strawberries, then she just stood, turned and walked out of the café. Andy resisted reaching out to her as she went. He didn’t follow. He didn’t call out. He just sat and watched with a feeling of terrible conflict and helplessness as she walked off into the shifting crowd of Oxford Street pedestrians. In seconds he’d lost sight of her.

A minute later the thin waiter returned to the table with two lattes.

Andy, shell-shocked, said nothing.

He leaned heavily on his elbows and sipped his coffee. It tasted tart. He fished in his pocket idly, wondering what to do, checked his phone and sat up. There was an SMS from Angie. He hadn’t heard it come in. It was an hour old. Where had that hour gone?

COME TO HOSPITAL
was all it said.

His heart constricted.

Andy threw a ten-dollar bill on the table and rushed out.

Andy only needed to see their faces to know.

Jimmy’s family stood in the hospital corridor. His wife, Angie, was flanked by her mother and three of her sons who stood, as
it happened, in order of height, ages diminishing. The youngest, Edmond, was cradled in his grandmother’s arms, limbs dangling, evidently asleep. Andy walked towards them and Angie opened her arms. He shut his eyes tightly as she gripped him and convulsed with tears, body warm, the grief clinging, infectious.