Then came Corneil.
After Corneil came many rough cases, too many drunken nights, then ultimately a call where Lozza had snapped. A call where a brute had beaten his wife to death in spite of a restraining order she’d had on him. And it had happened while their little girl, just a toddler, had been hiding terrified under their bed.
A little girl who’d seen it all.
A little girl named Maya who’d been effectively orphaned by the incident.
A child who had forced Lozza to look hard into the mirror, to clean up. To question everything about life. And once she’d cleaned up, once she’d requested a transfer, once she’d been offered a position in Jarrawarra with the help of some compassionate superiors—in spite of Corneil’s campaign against her—she’d applied to adopt Maya.
Corneil’s battle against Lozza had been pure personal vendetta. Ugliness. He’d needed to kick back at her—at anyone—because his wife, on learning about their affair, had walked out on him. Corneil’s wife had gotten custody of their three kids. He’d gotten nothing. He’d coped by blaming Lozza, and it had become like a sickness in him. And then he’d used the “incident” of her violence like a weapon with which to beat her down.
He hadn’t succeeded.
She was here.
She had Maya.
She had her new normal.
Now he was fucking standing in it, in her face.
She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders.
“Are we going to be good?” he said quietly.
“Water under the bridge. Sir.” She emphasized the last word.
“Since you’re being seconded to this case, and since you’ll be resuming criminal investigative duties, your detective designation will be reinstated. Temporarily,” Corneil said.
It wasn’t a rank. Lozza had never lost her detective designation while performing general duties. She just wasn’t referred to as Detective.
“Right,” she said. Corneil clearly hadn’t let all the water flow under the bridge. He’d dammed up a little toxic reservoir of it.
Gregg approached.
“Gregg,” she said, “this is Detective Senior Constable Corneil Tremayne from homicide.”
“Detective Sergeant Tremayne,” he corrected, proffering his hand to Gregg.
Resentment bit into Lozza. While she’d been pushed down the cop ladder into general duties and a remote backwater, Corneil had climbed up on the coveted city-based squad and become a sergeant. And now he was Lozza’s boss on this case. On her turf.
I took this demotion for Maya. This is about me and Maya now, our new normals. Do not get sucked back into his aura and head games. I do not want what he has . . . or do I?
Gregg glanced at Lozza—he could clearly sense the tension. “Constable Abbott,” he said, shaking Corneil’s hand.
“Where’s the body?” Corneil asked.
“This way, sir,” said Gregg, leading the way, whereas last time it was Lozza who’d had to bushwhack in for Gregg before he’d gone and fallen in, then puked all over the place.
She held back a moment and watched the two men ahead of her. Already Gregg was sucking up to the new man on scene.
THEN
LOZZA
Over one year ago, November 19. Jarrawarra Bay police station, New South Wales.
Lozza entered the briefing room clutching an armful of files and a triple-shot mug of coffee. It was midmorning and she’d gotten maybe an hour’s sleep, if that. She and Gregg and Corneil had stayed at the Agnes crime scene until almost dawn.
The mood in the room was somber yet crackling with electric anticipation.
Corneil had taken up position in front of a board on the wall. A monitor had been wheeled in. On a table in front of him was a laptop. Gregg had gone and seated himself right in front of Corneil—like an eager teacher’s pet. Jon Ratcliffe sat at a desk in the corner. He was here mostly to observe. This was happening on his watch, his turf, with the assistance of his officers, but the investigation itself was being run out of State Crime Command.
“Thank you for joining us, Senior Constable,” Corneil said as Lozza entered.
She nodded and kept her mouth shut. She found a seat at a desk beneath the window, set down her files, and took a giant swig of caffeine.
Also present in the room was a female officer in plain clothes whom Lozza did not recognize, plus Constable “Henge” Markham, who was tall and skinny and a whip-fit hydrofoil surfer and Constable “Jimmo” Duff, who had a Kevin Costner face and a way with the ladies that made up for his squat stature. The Jarrawarra-based team was small, but it was supported by the full resources of State Crime Command, including the state forensics services unit, additional murder squad detectives out of HQ, and technical support from the fraud and cybercrime units. Corneil could ramp up or down at any given point plus call on additional specialized units for assistance.
Corneil scrawled along the top of the crime scene board: STRIKE FORCE ABRA, the name he was giving to this homicide investigation.
He tapped his black marker pen against the palm of his hand and faced the group.
“Okay, good morning. I’d like you all to welcome Detective Constable Sybil Grant from Crime Command.”
Sybil—the cop in plain clothes—nodded unsmilingly. She had a tan face. Clean look. Dark-blonde hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. She carried an aura of experience.
“This will be brief. Things are still evolving, and right now, time is of the essence. Ellie Cresswell-Smith has identified the ring we found on the deceased as being her husband’s. Mrs. Cresswell-Smith has also positively identified the body from one of the kinder photographs that DC Grant showed
