“Yeah,” said Gregg.
“Thanks, Lozz,” said Willow.
“Hey, no worries.” She headed to her car while Gregg and Willow walked toward the Puggo.
“Way to go, Mom!” Maya said as Lozza handed her the takeout boxes. Maya sneaked a handful of fries from the bag, and Lozza allowed her kid to stuff a few into her mouth as she reached down to start the ignition. The bartender’s words resurfaced in her mind.
“Some bikie with a bald head and ink down the side of his neck . . . This dude came in asking for ‘Ellie.’”
She stopped short of starting the car, swallowed her mouthful, and said, “Can you wait here a sec, Maya? I forgot something at the Puggo. I’ll be right back—you can start eating if you want.”
Before Maya could reply, Lozza was jogging back down the sidewalk toward the Puggo. She dusted french fry crumbs and salt off her chin and entered the pub. She noticed Gregg and Willow in a booth, talking with heads bent close. She went straight to the bartender.
“That package for Ellie Cresswell-Smith, I’ll take it—I’ll deliver it to her house.”
The barkeep looked uncertain.
“Hey, I’m a cop. How wrong can it go?”
The barkeep laughed. “You’d be surprised.” He took Lozza into the back office and handed her a small package. It was wrapped in brown paper. Across the top was scrawled, ELLIE CRESSWELL-SMITH. Lozza shook it. It rattled. Like pills in containers.
“You got CCTV in here?” she asked.
“You mean inside this office?”
“No. Out front.”
“Yeah. CCTV of the exterior of the premises and doorways.”
“Do you still have the footage from the day this package was brought in?”
“You think it’s drugs or something?”
“What makes you say that?”
A shrug. “I dunno. Like I said, the guy looked like a bikie. Plus, there was that news of that bikie drug bust the other day. But yeah, the footage wouldn’t have been overwritten yet. I could pull it for you, but maybe later?” He jerked his head toward the door. “I got a heap of customers waiting. And, I dunno . . . maybe I should check with Rabz that it’s okay?”
Lozza studied the package. Ellie’s name. “Yeah, you do that. I can return in uniform and make it official.”
The barkeep wavered. “I’m sure Rabz will be fine—I’m sure it’ll be okay.”
“Okay, locate the footage later, save it for me. I’ll come by and pick it up tomorrow.”
Lozza jogged back to her car. It would be easy enough to find the address for the Cresswell-Smith developer couple. She tucked the package behind her seat on the floor. Maya watched her.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Just something I forgot.”
THEN
LOZZA
Over one year ago, November 17. Jarrawarra Bay, New South Wales.
Lozza’s entire day had been swallowed by an ex-con who’d attempted to blow up his wife’s lover’s car with a homemade pipe bomb. It was now dark, and she was still in uniform and exhausted by the time she parked her marked Holden Commodore in a space outside the Puggo.
Lozza went inside to collect the CCTV footage. Rabz was apparently still in Sydney, so the bartender handed over a drive containing the clip captured by the CCTV camera outside the Puggo.
“The bikie is on there,” the bartender said. “You can see his tat pretty clearly when he turns his head. It’s a hummingbird on the side of his neck.”
She thanked the barman, got back into her police vehicle, and drove to the Cresswell-Smith house on the Bonny River. The house was in darkness save for a lone light in a window upstairs. No boat or trailer in the driveway. The big garage door was open. No vehicle inside, either.
She switched off the ignition and watched the house for a while. The wind blew even harder than it had this morning. She reached for the package she’d picked up from the Puggo last night. As she got out of her vehicle, she saw a shadow move across a lighted window next door. A curtain twitched. Someone was watching.
In her uniform she walked up to the front door of the Cresswell-Smith home. The door was made of thick wood and carved with an aboriginal-looking design. A thick pane of glass ran down the side. A motion-sensor light flared on as Lozza reached for the doorbell.
The bell echoed inside. No one came. The place felt empty. She rang the bell again. It ding-donged inside. No answer. She tried once more. Nothing. The upstairs light must have been left on accidentally when the couple went out.
But as Lozza turned to leave, in her peripheral vision, she caught a fast movement inside the house. Her pulse quickened. She cupped her hand against the glass pane and peered in. Dark. She couldn’t see. She considered using the flashlight on her duty belt but refrained. This wasn’t a crime scene. Apart from her gut instincts, she’d been given no reason to intrude. Yet she felt a whispering sense of unease as she peered into the shadows inside. She was certain she’d seen something move.
She waited a few moments, rang the bell again. No answer.
There was nothing more she could do here. She’d return with the package tomorrow because she really wanted to see what was inside now. She planned on hanging around and watching while Ellie opened it.
Lozza had started back up the driveway when the silhouette of a woman appeared in the lighted window next door again. Lozza stopped and looked up. Wind gusted and dry gum leaves crackled over the paving. An owl hooted softly. The curtain was pulled back and the window opened. A woman leaned out.
“You looking for the Cresswell-Smiths?” she called out to Lozza. She sounded old, but Lozza couldn’t make out her features. Must be a new tenant in that house, she thought. As far as she knew, the property was used by the owners only during the height of the summer holidays.
“Do you know where they are?” she called up to the woman.
“They went fishing with the boat early this morning. The wife came back on her
