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On Wednesday Mak sat curled by the bedroom window, deep in contemplation. It was too soon after her run-in with the cops to pay another visit to Simon’s house, and Karen swore she had passed on the video to Sergeant Hunt but he had not called. Amy wasn’t calling either.

Waiting, waiting…

Mak wasn’t sure how to move forwards yet, but she wasn’t about to give up. Something was going on, and she was determined to figure out what.

A near-empty jar of crunchy peanut butter sat between her bare feet, the lid tossed aside. Her shoulder rested against the cool glass of the window, her skin soaking up the fading rays of golden light as the sun began to set. Absentmindedly she licked a dollop of peanut butter off the end of a dessertspoon, her blue-green eyes lazily scanning the street, her mind wrestling with her concerns. The embarrassing incident the night before had really made her feel like a fool. What would have happened if she’d
been caught breaking in? They must have known she was there. Was she being watched?

Of course you are being watched.

But by whom exactly?

On top of Mak’s concerns about the case, she had considerable worries about her own life. She was feeling increasingly out of place in this terrace of Andy’s. She had been so put out by his call that she hadn’t called him back. Should she just call it quits and take that Justice Department job back in Canada? Was that what he wanted? And what if she waited for him and they moved to Canberra together when he got back? Would she leave her work for Marian and never be an investigator again? The thought made her sad.

And what about my friends? What about Bogey?

Movement directed Makedde’s attention to the first-storey windowsill directly across the street. It was the neighbour’s tabby cat curling up in the last of the day’s sunlight, much like Mak.

What do you think, kitty?

Impatient, she dialled Marian again.

‘Marian, um, I was wondering if you’ve heard back from the client about the boat expense?’ She didn’t have the money to rent a boat to spy on the Cavanaghs herself. She had to clear it.

‘He said no. He’s not interested in the Cavanaghs, he said. Stick to Simon Aston.’

Mak nodded. ‘I thought so.’

When she hung up, disappointed but not surprised, her mobile phone rang in her hand.

I could rent a kayak and use a long lens…

‘Makedde speaking,’ Mak answered.

‘Um, Mak? This is Larry Moon.’

‘Hi, Larry. How are you?’ she said, sitting upright.

‘Amy’s missing.’

‘What do you mean by “missing”?’ Mak jumped up and scrambled for a piece of paper. She had been afraid something might have happened to Amy. ‘When did you last see her?’

‘It’s been a couple of days.’

She nodded to herself. ‘She’s not at her house?’

‘No. She isn’t answering her door. I tell you, she wouldn’t leave here without saying something to me. She never left my house alone—she was too scared. And now she’s gone—with the front gate wide open and not a word from her. No, it doesn’t seem right to me.’

‘Have you reported this to the police?’

‘I have quite a few cop buddies who come to my club. They knew she was staying with me. I told them what happened. They said they’d do what they can, but she won’t be listed as missing for a while yet.’

‘Of course.’ He wasn’t a spouse; she wasn’t officially living with him. There was little the cops could do if she went walkabout. Perhaps Amy had left him for someone else? It was possible. They certainly didn’t seem like a match to last. But still, in light of the video, Mak thought the worst.

‘She left things here,’ Larry went on. ‘All of her clothes.’

That was odd. Even if she had left him it was unlikely that she would leave without packing her things, unless she was in a big hurry—or unless something altogether different had happened. Perhaps Larry was not being totally honest about the circumstances of her departure? Perhaps they’d had a fight and she had stormed out? Or was it something sinister? Amy had seemed paranoid when they met up at Leo’s. Maybe she had been correct to be afraid?

‘Her favourite jacket is right here at the front door,’ he said. ‘Why would she leave it?’ Mak could hear by the slight tremor in his voice that he was genuinely concerned. She found his reaction somehow more emotional than she would have expected. It was almost touching. ‘She’d never leave without her jacket,’ he repeated, distressed.

‘She didn’t leave a note or anything? No messages?’

‘No, but someone delivered a puppy to her and she left.’

‘What? A puppy?’

‘I have security footage.’

The surveillance cameras. Of course.

‘Have you showed the police the tapes?’

‘Yes, but it’s useless. You can’t see anything. No faces, no licence plate numbers in view, nothing identifiable. Just a basket and then her leaving. That’s it.’

That did seem odd, unless Amy was expecting something from another lover—perhaps someone was trying to win her back?

‘I’m glad you called, Larry. There may not be much I can do at this end but I’ll keep my ear to the ground and I’ll let you know if I hear anything, okay? I’m sure she’s fine. She’ll turn up soon.’

But Mak wasn’t so sure she believed that herself. It could be that whatever Amy had been running from had finally caught up with her.

‘One more thing, Larry—I got a message that I think was from Amy.’

‘Yeah? When?’

‘The day after I saw you guys at Leo’s. I need to know something—hang on…’ She scrolled through her mobile phone address book. ‘Is her number zero four zero one…’ She read out the mysterious number that she had got the SMS video from.

There was a pause.

‘Yes,’ Larry said. ‘That’s her number.’

Oh God. It was her.

After a day of researching the Cavanaghs and her client, Robert Groobelaar—who, as it turned out, was in bed with Jack Cavanagh’s real estate ventures—it was time for dinner.

Amy sent me the video, and now she is missing. Someone stole my handbag, possibly to try to get my phone…

She wished she could ask Andy to help out, but she was well and truly on her own.

Mak pulled open the hall cupboard, unbuttoned her jeans and stepped out of them. She stood in her T-shirt and panties, feeling the cool airconditioning on her skin, and folded her jeans neatly over a clothes hanger suspended by a hook inside the closet.

The cops aren’t acting fast enough…or, at least, no one is telling me anything.

Inside the closet, placed with considerably less care, were her motorcycling clothes, crammed into a pile of heavy black leather in a cardboard box beside her helmet and boots. She had soon discovered that her leathers bent hangers out of shape, so she never bothered dragging them all upstairs to her clothes closet. She hauled the bundle out and stepped into the sturdy pants first. She’d bought them over a year before, and the stiffness of the leather was gradually easing; in the first week she had barely been able to throw her leg over her motorbike. Mak zipped the pants up and buttoned the clasp high on her stomach, the cut designed to protect the skin on her torso in a crash. Safety was important—the leathers were also fitted with titanium-plated knees and elbows—but that high cut also made them uncomfortable to bend in. Mak struggled to do
up her boots as she finished dressing, her mind absent.

She had now left two messages for Detective Hunt, and Karen had given him the video. He had not got back to her.

What is he waiting for?

Mak grasped the zipper of her fitted jacket and pulled upwards, feeling the snug leather and protective armour squeeze her frame securely, the jacket’s back protector giving her a slight turtle-backed bulge.

Nothing is making sense.

She pulled her thick, fair hair into an elastic band and tucked it into her jacket collar for the windy journey, snapped the stiff collar closed and grabbed her helmet.

‘Delivery,’ Mak cried in a singsong voice, the words muffled by her bike helmet.

She stood at Detective Karen Mahoney’s door, bearing dinner in takeaway bags.

Her friend Karen opened the door and responded with a quick embrace. ‘Oh my God, you feel like you are made of steel in that suit. It’s like Lara Croft has just arrived at my door.’

Mak handed Karen the bags of takeaway and stepped inside. She took her helmet off and put it on the floor. ‘I have had such a crap week, I can’t even tell you,’ she lamented.

‘Really, what happened?’

‘No seriously, I can’t tell you.’

‘
Shut up!
’ Karen said, in a tone that suggested she meant the opposite.

Karen’s apartment was cramped but homey. The young detective had adorned her walls with a couple of movie posters, and furnished the space with garage-sale bookshelves, and a table and chairs. Her bed was from Ikea. It made Mak think of Bogey’s comment.

They set up the coffee table in front of the television, where a DVD menu for the movie
Mulholland Drive
was on the screen.

‘I waited for you to get here before I started it,’ Karen said.

‘Thanks.’

‘You know, I’ve seen it before. Maybe this time I will figure out what it is really about.’

‘Just watch for the red lamp,’ Mak told her.

‘What?’

‘It’s a clue,’ she said.

‘Something about the red lamp…’

‘Exactly,’ Mak confirmed. ‘I’ll dish up.’

When they’d eaten and the movie was over, they settled into the inevitable raging debate about the plot of
Mulholland Drive.

‘I saw the lamp. That was confusing, but what about the blue box? What’s the blue box?’

Mak cocked her head to one side. ‘I think it’s about the colour…think of the key. But it isn’t so much about the box but what it reveals, right?
It’s the box of truth, and once he pans inside it, we see things as they really are.’

‘I’m totally confused,’ Karen admitted.

Mak sat back on the couch, smiling. She had been struck by how much the director character, Adam Kesher, had looked like Bogey. Maybe it was his hair. Or maybe it was that Mak was thinking about Bogey too much. She had more important issues to ponder for the moment.

‘Well, real life is a bit confusing at the moment, too,’ Mak declared. ‘You saw the video? You know, Hunt hasn’t called me back.’

Karen sat up and looked at her. ‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘I gave it to him on Monday.’

‘Two days ago, and he’s not returning my messages.’

Karen frowned. ‘That’s weird.’

‘And what did you think of the video when you saw it? It looks like a murder, right?’

She sighed, and twisted one long red curl in her fingertips while Mak sat next to her on the arm of the sofa, tense.

‘I think the girl in the video could be a Jane Doe from another case.’

Mak nodded. ‘The Dumpster Girl.’

‘Yes.’

Andy had referred to the victim that way. It was convenience not disrespect that made cops use nicknames for cases.

‘And what about the other people in the video?’ Mak continued.

‘Well, the Caucasian one bears some resemblance to Damien Cavanagh.’

Mak sat up. ‘
Some
resemblance? You don’t think it’s him?’

‘I’m not sure, honestly.’ Karen seemed conflicted. ‘It could be. I wouldn’t be surprised either way.’

‘And what does Hunt think?’

‘Hunt is a knob.’

Makedde laughed, letting off tension.

‘He became a knob the day he became sergeant,’ Karen snarled. ‘There was a real beauty the other day—this guy’s prints were found in Meaghan Wallace’s apartment, and he came up as having a record. Interesting lead, I would have thought. Who is this guy to the victim? What are his prints doing there? Well, Hunt practically ignored it, like it was nothing.’

That
was
interesting. Hunt seemed to be ignoring a lot of things.

‘Are you even allowed to tell me this stuff?’ Makedde asked.

Karen rolled onto her side and looked at her friend. ‘What? I don’t know what you are talking about, ma’am.’

Mak laughed again. ‘Right.’

‘This is all off the record, of course, but let’s face it—you’re working for the same aims, basically. I don’t see any conflict of interest.’

That was true.

‘But if Hunt found out I was talking about him, my head would be on a platter.’

‘My lips are sealed.’

‘You think the kid’s innocent, don’t you?’ Karen said.

‘Tobias? I don’t know. He was a junkie looking for his next hit, right?’
Maybe.
‘Look, I haven’t even met him, so what would I know? Let me just say that I haven’t had so much bad luck on a case before…there are purse snatchers and uncooperative cops everywhere I turn, not including you obviously. And that article in the paper. It could all be coincidence, but I doubt it. Someone doesn’t want me snooping around. It could be that Tobias didn’t act alone, or it could be that he was framed. If he went to her apartment every fortnight for money, like clockwork, someone could have known he was coming and set him up.’

‘She was giving him money?’ Karen said, surprised.

‘Yes. Each fortnight out of her pay cheque from the real estate job. Every second Thursday. She was helping him out.’

Karen frowned. Mak could see that she had given the constable food for thought. ‘Well, someone murdered that poor woman. To see Meaghan Wallace there on her floor all cut up and bled out made me feel sick.’

‘Yes, it was a terrible crime.’

And all the worse if the wrong person is locked away for it.

Mak found herself procrastinating over her arrival home. Whether it was nerves or the thought of spending another lonely night in the terrace—one of many to come—Mak had put off coming home until she was tired enough to go straight to sleep. She chose a circuitous route along the clear back roads, tucked into her solid K1200R, enjoying the feeling of the ride.

She pulled up in front of the terrace, revving the engine lower as she drove up onto the kerb and found a spot on the sidewalk alongside where she’d parked Andy’s car. Mak popped the motorbike into neutral, the little green ‘N’ light momentarily illuminating the dark before she switched off the ignition and gently let the heavy bike settle on its kickstand. She swung her leg over and hopped off, removing her helmet and shaking her hair out of her ponytail.

The street was dark, and the humid air brought wafts of barbecue smell. A block or two away she heard a house party, probably with open windows or a balcony, with guests chatting away,
their voices carried along in the warm gusts of wind. Someone was making the best of the balmy night. The city was still enjoying the hot days and nights of the Australian summer. Twenty-eight degrees. Thirty. Warm for a Canadian, especially one in leather.

Makedde squinted to find the keyhole, and turned the lock. She was barely two steps inside the front door when she sensed that something was wrong.

The front door was locked. The lights are off. It’s fine, Mak.

But it wasn’t, and she knew it.

Mak switched the lights on and looked around the hallway, her senses on edge.

Nothing was noticeably out of place. The doormat was slightly askew, but then she might have done that walking out.

This whole convoluted investigation is making you paranoid.

Makedde took her heavy backpack off, popped it down and removed her mobile phone from her top pocket, placing it on the hall table.

Wait.

What was that noise? A creak?

The house is just settling.

She felt hot in her leathers now that she was standing still. Mak would have liked to unzip her jacket, but for now she didn’t make a sound. She just stood at the entry hall, listening.

You are imagining things.

Luther Hand had seen Makedde pull up. He’d been waiting, and had watched through the first-floor window as the woman dismounted and shook her blonde hair out like a lion shakes off water.

It was the new mark.

Makedde Vanderwall.

So here she was, so many years later. It was funny how things in life came full circle. Five years ago he’d lost the tip of his ear in this woman’s backyard. His attacker—a small, swift man, probably staked out to protect her—had taught Luther the value of skill with knives. In a roundabout way, this woman, Makedde, had not only caused him to lose part of his ear but had also helped lead to him regrouping, relearning and emerging with a new international career. If he hadn’t been injured like that, he might not have fled to Queensland, and he might not have come to the attention of Madame Q.

Yes. Full circle.

So this familiar mark was arriving home. He’d been expecting her.

Luther had to make it look like Miss Vanderwall had happened across a burglary in progress. He would knife her, check that the house was staged right, take the few jewels he’d found, and maybe the television set and laptop, and go. The last time he’d seen her, he’d had
thoughts…unprofessional thoughts. These thoughts occurred to him again as he set eyes on her once more, but he squashed them as soon as they came up. There had been a lot of lessons learned since he’d last seen this woman. Luther was a professional now. A total professional.

Follow the instructions.

Now he was flush against the wall of the kitchen on the ground floor, Makedde in the hallway. She had put something down on the floor. He’d heard the tinkle of keys. But now she was quiet.

He could just hear her breathe.

Makedde stood perfectly still in the hallway of the terrace, helmet in hand, her ears straining for a breath, a sigh, the creak of floorboards, anything.

Something…

She squinted into the dark spaces of the rooms beyond the lit hallway. She hesitated.

A glint of light caught her eye. She turned just as there was a whirl of movement close by, a large figure in dark clothes that she registered a second too late, its body weight hitting her dully on her head and shoulder, pushing down on her and nearly sending her sprawling backwards.

Oh God!

There was an intruder! She’d known. She’d sensed it.

Mak’s motorcycle helmet was her only weapon, and she reacted quickly with it. Crouching, and taking the weight on her heels, she swung upwards, the straps curled into her tight fist. The helmet made contact with something. She’d been aiming for her attacker’s head, but he moved and she slammed the hard helmet in his shoulder.

Her attacker was a man. A big man. When he stood upright he was easily half a foot taller than her.

Jesus, he’s huge…

Mak couldn’t see his face because he was wearing a black balaclava. He was all in black: black gloves, black long-sleeved top and pants. A burglar. Standing in the shadows, she might not have seen him. He’d been there watching her, she knew. There was another glint of light reflecting off metal—it was a blade, a sharp blade like the one in her nightmare…

The man stabbed at her, and Makedde screamed. But to her relief the knife did not penetrate her. Her leather jacket was still on, still zipped up. The knife merely glanced off the leather, too tough to penetrate. For a beat the man seemed confused by this. But she wasn’t. It gave Mak time to react, and she kicked out with her heavy boots as hard as she could, striking his right kneecap to break it. He winced but did not fall, and she swung her helmet again with all her might, yelling angrily and as aggressively as she
could, ‘Get the fuck out of my house, motherfucker!’

This time her helmet made contact with the man’s head with a loud
crack
, and she heard an exhalation of breath from under that mask. Blood poured out from the breathing hole. She had broken his nose.

That won’t hold him for long…

Mak spun around and made for the front door, flinging it open, grabbing the keys in her hand as she ran past. She sprinted for her motorbike, shoving the helmet on her head as she crossed the grass, strands of hair falling across her eyes and the leathers cumbersome for her sprint. She reached the bike and practically threw herself on it, stealing a glance at the open front door, which so far stood empty.

The engine will still be warm. Please start! Please!

Mak turned the key and revved the engine. The bike started, and it sounded right, the engine strong. She flicked up the kickstand and pulled back on the accelerator. When she let out the clutch the bike peeled onto the pavement and flew off the kerb, nearly throwing her off.

Oh fuck! Steady!

The burglar was making chase, running after her, and falling only metres short as she sped off down the road. She would ride straight to the police station, where she would be safe. It was her best option.

Her adrenaline soaring, it took Mak a few
blocks to realise that her pursuer had not let her be. He was still after her.

By car.

Mak heard him before she even saw him. A car sped quickly around the corner after her, tyres squealing, and Mak watched with horror in her side mirrors as a jet-black sedan rocketed along the road behind her, gaining ground. Mak felt sick at the sight.

Oh my God, he’s not letting up!

Mak pulled on the throttle and watched as the speedometer topped eighty, riding dangerously fast for the dark and winding residential streets, hoping that no one pulled out of a driveway or opened a door of a parked car as she sped past at lightning speed.

Steady…steady…

The car kept in hot pursuit. She could see him behind the wheel, still wearing his mask.

Who are you?

She knew he was no burglar. A burglar did not pursue their victims like this.

Makedde knew the roads well, and she raced down them, taking tight corners and laying her knee right to the ground, her wheels gripping the tarmac. She hoped to lose him but, confident on his four wheels, he cornered hard and stayed right with her, tyres squealing, the bonnet of the car coming up dangerously close to her back wheel.

If that car bumped her wheel, she would be lost.

I need traffic. I can lose him in traffic.

Mak made for the main streets of Bondi Junction, where the trains and buses connected, and hordes of people would be driving to and from the city.

Come on…come on…

She emerged from the rows of houses onto a straight stretch of main road and pulled the throttle back. She geared up to third, to fourth, to fifth. She was doing 140 kilometres an hour, the wind pounding against her. The vibration of the bike was frightening at that speed, the heat of it. If she hit anything, any stone or bump, she would lose control and die on impact. But still she had the steadiness to go faster. And she had to. In the side mirrors she could see that he was right behind her. She sped up to 150. She’d never clocked 150 before on her bike. Never. She’d never wanted to get booked for speeding, but now she hoped for it. She wanted sirens. She wanted help. Anyone. Anything.
Please.

The lights of Bondi Junction were rapidly approaching, the tall buildings and shopping centre coming into view. She was nearly there. Traffic is backed up at any time of day there, and he would get stuck. He had to get stuck, and she could weave through where he couldn’t and speed past to safety. Surely this man wouldn’t try anything too rash. She had to get him in public. Then he would have to back off.

He was wearing a goddamned mask for goodness’ sake. He has to back off. Someone would surely see him and call the cops.

Please won’t someone call the cops?

Mak raced through the intersection and into Bondi Junction, past the giant complex of department stores and into the traffic.

And then she saw it.

The truck.

The sick taste of metal rose in her throat as a giant eighteen-wheeler pulled out right in front of her. She braked hard, tyres slipping, losing speed—but not fast enough. She felt her back wheel wobble, wobble again, and she was skidding—still fast, far too fast—and she saw herself sailing straight towards her death as if in slow motion. She was going to die on impact.

Oh God, help me…

Mak lay the bike sideways and felt her body hit the pavement. There was terrible vibration, heat and noise…

And then nothing.