Early next morning, it was dark and stormy, quite opposite to the previous evening. The clouds above the Holiday Inn he stayed at looked dark and foreboding. He briefly wondered if these clouds looked anything like the dark clouds that loomed over Devi's trip. If so, why on earth did this woman go on that trip? She mightn't have gotten hurt if she'd stayed home, perhaps. But it was a big 'perhaps' given what he'd heard about all those people on that yacht with her.

I wonder who it was. Hector marched through sleepy Haymarket eager to uncover it. Few people were already out and about, though it was still early for the shops in that area to open. He shivered against the 'cold' wind for the country bumpkin he was. The wide, inclining streets were a welcome distraction. He set a good pace toward the Surry Hills Police station, some fifteen minutes away. Lead Senior Constable Gordon had instructed him to meet him at the station 'early morning', and our eager little detective-in-the-making was hoping this was early enough for the officer. The man hadn't exactly specified the time.

Hector took a peek at his watch. It was seven thirty-five. He hoped he'd left early enough to grab a coffee before the day began. He'd heard many things about Sydney's coffee culture, and this morning, against the chill, he could use a hot cuppa, all before Constable Gordon buried him under piles of paperwork and evidence.

Wanting to grab that cuppa and get to the station promptly by eight o'clock, Hector hurried. He passed homeless folks, sleeping in makeshift beds in nooks under the massive mason stone arches leading to Central Station along Eddy Avenue, but barely glanced at them in his hurry. His focus was entirely on arriving at eight, preferably with his steaming hot coffee. After all, what better way to show these city folks he was diligent and precise? Hard-working. This was his moment to leave a mark, a mark that could secure him a transfer to a similar post, brimming with people, instead of swatting pesky flies at his station, bored, or called out for menial tasks old people needed help with, such as taking them for a grocery run. Not that he minded. The job just wasn't what he'd hoped it would be.

He still recalled the hustle and bustle of the station from the evening before; the din, the noise, the rush of activities. It was novel. Not a minute to be bored. That's what he wanted.

As Central Station entrance came up on his right, he spotted a cafe, and ran to it, hitching his thin jacket's collar higher—thank God he'd packed one warm clothing at least. He was close to wishing he could go buy a thicker jacket if only shops were open and it wasn't summer. But for now, a delicious cup of coffee would do.

Minutes later, Hector didn't share the same exuberant enthusiasm for his coffee, waiting at the traffic lights toward Surry Hills. Bleh! He stared at the large cardboard cup he held in his hand and simply uttered, "What the fuck is this?" after his first sip. True, Sydney was a coffee haven, however, this brew was worse than Pete's, and that was saying something. The milk was barely warm, and the espresso was as weak as his grandma's knees had been once. When the walk signal came on, he rushed across the street, bee-lining straight for the bin he saw.

There goes my $5.40. He eyed his watch again. Almost seven fifty. Then he eyed the steep hills Surry Hills was notorious for. Ten minutes to get to the station in a presentable state, a.k.a not a puddle of sweat. Hector began a determined march toward his destiny. "Hope Constable Gordon is already there."

At three past eight, the poor man arrived at his destination, out of breath and red from exertion. And wasn't he glad for his thin jacket? This early in the morning, the station was fairly quiet, a giant just stirring awake. The lady at the reception was a fresh-faced, younger woman who smiled at him, and asked, "What can I do for you this morning?"

"I'm here to see Senior Constable Gordon." Hector stepped up to the counter. "I'm sorry, he didn't tell me what time he expected me, so I came early. I'm Constable Martinez from Mystery Cove. He knows who I am."

She nodded politely and told him the Gordon didn't start till nine. She could put him in the conference room, if he wanted, or he could just come back in an hour.

Hector bit his cheek. The dilemma. Should he wait, a whole hour, doing what? Or should he leave, go grab breakfast and return when the man was there?

Thank God the woman solved this issue for him. "There's a small cafe two blocks from here. Has great breakfast and coffee."

Hector smiled. "Can I leave my number with you? Would you mind calling me when he's in?"

She slipped him a piece of paper and a pen. "You should try their cronuts!"

"Cronuts?" Hector scribbled his number on the paper before passing it back to her.

"They are what you'd get if a croissant and a donut had a baby. Try the caramel one. It's my favourite."

Hector thanked her for her suggestion and turned to leave. "And what about the coffee?" he halted, recalling that dreadful brew he'd wasted his money on.

"Anything from them is good."

"And your favourite?" He couldn't believe he was flirting, at eight fucking o'clock in the morning.

She licked her lip suggestively. "I like their dirty chai latte."

"Dirty chai latte?" Hector nodded. He had no clue what that was, but damn if he was going to embarrass himself and ask this bright young woman what it was. Not today. With thanks, he slipped out into the streets again, in the hunt for this cafe with cronuts and dirty chai latte, whatever in the world they were. But hey, he was here to get a new experience, wasn't he? Test out the big city. Imagine what his life could be like soon.

"Dirty chai latte." He chuckled, heading further up them damn hills at a leisurely pace. And thank god he did, for the rest of his day was going to be anything but leisurely.

#

In the hour he waited for Senior Constable Gordon, Hector had tried to read up on many news, snippets, social media rumblings, videos, and fan theories regarding 'the mysterious disappearance of Devi Dhungel' following an idyllic holiday. Headlines like 'Devi Dhungel Lost at Sea', 'Famous Crime Writer, Embroiled in a Mystery', 'Devi Dhungel, Dead. Fact or Fiction', etc. seemed to have been a thing. The more he familiarised himself with what the masses and investigators were thinking, the more he'd look prepared. And the lead theory floating out there in the world was that Devi—painted as a lush—was probably too drunk and too out of her mind that night, and possibly jumped in the water herself. Or as one who wanted to 'remain anonymous' speculated, some swells may have been large enough to sweep Devi off the deck. A possibility even the Captain couldn't deny. In one interview, they quoted him having said, "Despite my advice, Devi wouldn't let me cancel the trip short and take us back to shore. She kept insisting we'll be fine in the shallows. I should have insisted harder."

Poor Captain Parry. He sounded genuinely sad that such tragedy had befallen his friend. He was one man, who, even in Devi's recollection of events had stayed off Hector's suspect list.

Yet, another anonymous source on board the yacht, quoted as saying, "Since her late husband passed away, tragically, she's been in a dark mood, often commenting how joyless her life is and she wished it would end. She wasn't in the best spirits that day either, despite it being her birthday or maybe because of it. She didn't enjoy aging. She wasn't in her right mind that day for sure; seeking attention in crazy stunts and spouting nonsense. So I wouldn't put it past her if she thought the water looked enticing. Not after what happened at dinner."

Hector had bristled at that quote. This person quoted sounded like a twat. A clueless twat. Or a shrewd manipulator. And he was pretty sure this 'anonymous source' could only be one of two people. Vinay. Or Marvin. He'd made little scribbles in his notebook, the only thing he'd kept to himself during the handover. It was his theory, and thus, his property.

By the time his phone rang, he was deep in the never-ending jungle of articles and glad to be pulled out of them.

Once at the station, he knocked on the conference room door where a man was laying out files in a neat line. "Constable Gordon."

Gordon, seemingly not a morning person grunted, jutting his chin towards the files. "Everything we have on the case. Character interviews, witness statements, evidence catalogue, forensic reports, CCTV footage." He twitched his head towards the only box on the table. "Just note. While you're allowed to peruse the case details and take notes, you are not permitted to leave the station with any of them. If you discover something we haven't yet, let us know. Though, the chances of that are slim to none. We're pretty thorough here. In fact, I don't know what you're doing here still, nor why the Sergeant allows you access to these. When you're done, let Chantelle know at the front desk, and I'll come by to collect everything. Enjoy."

Not the welcome or collaboration Hector had been hoping for.

"What about the artefact I gave over last night?" Hector stood, bewildered, to say the least. He saw nothing he'd brought with him from Mystery Cove. And it shocked him to realise they were virtually placing him in a glass room with everything, to monitor him, and were giving him one day to comb through it all.

Gordon stopped at the door and gave him a once-over. A look that made poor Hector feel he was an ant facing an elephant. "They are being logged into evidence and sent over to our forensic team. Make sure they are legit and not tampered with." When Hector gave him a perplexed look, the man added, "You didn't think we'd simply take the word of some random off the streets? We have to verify everything handed in; her articles, voice analyse the recording, etc. Do you know how many hoaxes and calls of I-know-what-happened we get?"

"But I'm not a random off the streets." Hector tried not to let hurt seep into his voice, but there he was. All that bravado and zeal he'd packed into his little being before leaving home started uncoiling as the senior officer sneered at him.

"Son of some disgraced author caught dead with his pants down and a retired Philosophy professor. You only made Constable a few months ago. I checked. And you're stationed in some shithole I've never even heard of, whose biggest case so far on record seems to be the mysterious fishing boat turning up on the shore, missing all its crew, back in 1880. Well before your time, I'm sure." Senior Constable Gordon let go of the door, perhaps to ensure no one hears him, thought Hector. "So forgive me, Constable Martinez, if I see you a rookie catching a lucky break. This is a big city. We have more than misdemeanours here. If I were you, I'd just let the big boys handle this, and I'd go back home to make sure no further harm comes to the witness. Maybe even hire that nice little nurse you seemed keen on last night to take with me." He turned to go, and then held off a moment. "She checks out, as far as records go."

With such a fiery start to the day, one couldn't possibly blame poor Hector for being a little disturbed as he sat down, his notebook at the ready, and pulled the first file towards him, mumbling, "I'm not a fucking rookie." Though he could hardly convince himself, sounding like a wet cat clawing at the door—let me in.

So much for coming to Sydney to chase his dream.

At lunch, he walked his miserable ass back to that cafe, found a neglected corner, and ordered whatever was the first item his eyes landed on: a Caesar salad. Then he sat there tossing the stupid salad—he wasn't a salad kind of guy—and tried to drown out depressing thoughts that started with, 'You're a rookie!', 'We don't want your kind here', 'Go home and tend to sheep, you'll never make a city cop' and oh so much worse things his mind was having a blast throwing his way.

It was then, to escape those damn thoughts that Hector fetched his phone again and searched just 'Devi Dhungel updates' into the search engine of his phone, probably too old for the damned city as well. His head literally hung like a low-hanging branch of a tree as he half skimmed the words on the first article he clicked on: A Will Without a Body, Devi Dhungel's Estate in Turmoil.

Then a passage caught his attention and wouldn't let go: ' ... Devi Dhungel's Estate, willed to be sold in its entirety in the event of her death, and divided equally among her sister, Bhawani Dhungel-Garcia, and her long-time lawyer and dear friend Don Nguyen, is said to be stalled, given that no death certificate has been issued yet without a body. The estate has reached out to the authorities to declare Devi Dhungel lost at sea...'

Hector knew then what these Sydney cops didn't know yet, nor would they know for quite some time, given how Constable Gordon thought it more prudent to send the recording for voice analysis before transcribing it and going through its content.

"Don Nguyen! He's got something to do with this ..." He reached for his notebook from his jacket, only to realise he'd left it back at the station. "Shit!" He hoped no one would find his notebook and deem it evidence, especially not Gordon. It was the only thing he had left of the evidence he'd painstakingly collected, only to throw it away, and now, he couldn't lose that either. He'd promised Devi he'd solved her case, and with this latest news, released no earlier than this morning, perhaps while he was being made to feel like an ant, he could be closer to solving the mystery than the stupid 'big boys'.

Hector ran the two blocks back to the station, not caring if his pressed shirt sported sweat patches. He rushed into the conference room in time to see Gordon leaning over the table flipping through his notebook. "That's mine," he said, moving closer to the senior constable, holding out his hand for what was rightfully his, police-issued and all. "That's mine!" he said again, more forcefully as Gordon stood there glaring at him.

Hector glared back, still holding out his hand.

Gordon slowly held the black notebook out to him where he stood. Power games. Hector understood. He wasn't a country bumpkin as the man seemed to think. He knew when he was being played. Even so, it was his book, so he took the few steps that separated them and snatched his property out of the man's grubby little hand.

Constable Gordon glanced at the files open around the table and without a word, left the room.

"Fuck," Hector mumbled, dropping into the chair, suddenly wishing he'd grabbed the damn salad to go. He was hungry. But there was no way he was going to leave the room again, not until he finished going through everything. 'Cause who knows when that asshole will let me access these again...

Thus, miserable, hungry, but determined to be the one that broke the case, or at least broke it before the stupid-face Gordon did, Hector hunkered down harder. He combed through every piece of evidence at his disposal, every word. He drank more black coffee than he cared to in a day. He scribbled countless notes to fill his little black book that he had to ask Chantelle for some blank papers. He fought off yawns and cramped legs, and bleary eyes, and he did what he had to, leisure be damned. The only breaks he took were to go to the loo to relieve himself and each time he did, he took his notebook and pages with him. No more sticky-beaking Gordon. No more stealing his ideas. How much of it had Gordon read? That thought ate away at him all day, but he had no time to dwell on it. He, Constable Hector Juan Martinez, had a job to do, and he'd be damned if he didn't do it. For Devi ... that one thought, at ten o'clock at night halted him, but only for a minute. Even when Chantelle asked, "You won't be going home?" his reply had been, "Not till I'm done."

So, it was no surprise that around three in the morning, Hector, having read the last of the words on that table, yawned and stretched. He was done. The surrounding office was quiet, with only a handful of officers on duty. No Gordon hovering over his notes, nor eyeing him every time he walked past the glass outside. Hector stood and stretched his cramped legs then. Stretched his arms, and stared at the sea of papers before him, then at the empty, quiet corridor outside. The first time he'd been entirely alone all day.

Hector blinked at the table, at the sea of evidence and interviews and statements, at the forensic reports, and he slowly got his phone out. Sure. The evidence couldn't leave the station, but this was his chance to take photos of the ones he thought were crucial, for who knew when he'd ever see them again. And what if he needed them? There was no way he'd ask Gordon. So Hector did what he had to do again. While people left in the office paid no attention, he quickly snapped up photos of some of the evidence for later use, until he drained his battery that is. But what he'd managed was enough. But what of the CCTV footage? That stumped him. There was no way he could make a copy, not without being discovered.

"Fuck it!" He placed the lid on the box. He had most of what he needed. Perhaps, if he asked Sergeant Winter nicely, he'd give him a copy. If not, I'll ask the Chief to get me a copy once I'm home.

Hector quickly packed up the files and put them in a neat pile for Gordon in the morning, and then he shoved his notebook, spare pages, and phone into his jacket pocket and left the station. But only briefly.

It was pouring cats and dogs outside and he had no umbrella, nor any battery left on his phone to call a cab.

"Um ... excuse me!" he called at the front counter until a sleepy officer came to the desk. "Would you have an umbrella I could borrow? It's bucketing out there."

"Nah." The man in his forties scratched his beard. "But we have a lost and found box out the back no one's claimed. You can take whatever you find there."

Ten minutes later, Hector had found a couple of items he liked the most, items that restored a fraction of his bruised ego from the day.

At three twenty-five in the morning, dressed in a long trench-coat resembling raincoat and a deerstalker cap, the famously dubbed 'Inspector'—by one and only Devi Dhungel—a.k.a. Constable Hector Martinez trotted downhill towards Haymarket, channelling his inner Sherlock Holmes, eager to hope into the warm bed at the inn, all the while plotting his next move, for what a move it was going to be.