Fetish (13 page)

Makedde felt terrible. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know—”

“That’s all right, we’ve been separated for over a year. The day you saw her she had just come in with more divorce settlement papers. It’s no big deal; no kids or anything. Just some property and a car.”

“A car?”

“Never mind. Bit of a long story.”

The duck wraps arrived and Andy looked relieved that there was something else to talk about aside from Cassandra. Then he looked at the food laid out in front of them—slices of duck fanned out on a large plate, slivers of cucumber and chilli, a dark mushroom-coloured sauce, a mysterious, steaming bamboo basket—and his expression went momentarily blank. Feeling
guilty, Mak leant forward and offered him a hand in assembling the meal.

“Here,” she said, “let me get it for you.”

She gingerly opened the bamboo basket and removed what looked like a flat pancake. She placed the duck, a piece of chilli coated cucumber and a dab of hoi sin sauce inside it, and wrapped it up. She slid the plate over to Andy, accidentally brushing his hand as she did so. Mak felt like she’d been zapped by an electric current. She looked up and found Andy staring with the same intensity straight back at her.

Makedde broke from his gaze, blushing. “You…ah, don’t need to use your chop sticks,” she managed. “It’s better with your hands.”

Your hands.

Oh God
, she thought,
this is trouble
.

Across the street, hidden in the shadows beneath a broken streetlight, a solitary figure, flushed with violent jealousy and uncontrollable rage, intently watched their intimate dinner.

Andy breezed into the office late Saturday morning, coffee in hand, to find Jimmy waiting at his desk with his arms crossed over his protruding belly. With a smirk on his lips he looked like the cat who’d swallowed the canary. He waited until Andy was within close range before he declared, with considerable satisfaction, “So, you’re rootin’ the pin-up.”

Andy spat out a mouthful of coffee. “What?”

“I’m talking to Robertson in the Cross, checking to see if they know this malaka, Rick Filles, and if anything’s goin’ down, and guess what he says to me?” Jimmy paused, raising an eyebrow. “He says there’s not much, except Flynn puttin’ the moves on some babe in Victoria Street. And there you are, right in the bloody window with the Vanderwall chick, starin’ into each other’s eyes like a couple of lovesick teenagers.”

“You saw us?”

“Skata, anyone could have seen you. Did you ever stop to notice that the place is a friggin’ fish bowl?”

“Shit.”

“Was she any good?”

“Hey, I was a perfect gentleman—”

“I bet.” Jimmy grinned.

“I dropped her off at home. It’s none of your business, anyway.”

“You can’t let me down, Andy. As of last night, you’re a legend. Some of the guys want you to get her autograph. They’re bringing in their copies of
Sports Illustrated
.”

“You’re kidding. You didn’t tell anyone, did you?”

“I didn’t have to tell anyone! They were watching you! It’s risky, but hey, I can’t blame you. Hell, I’d jump at the chance. Just don’t fuck up this case, Andy. This is a big one for both of us.”

Andy shook his head. “Enough said. Now, what have you found out?”

“Well, we’re checking through the personals, and there are surprisingly few ads for models. The ones in the employment section are legit, but then there’s this one in the section between ‘Mistress Chantal’, and ‘bold, busty, blonde Barbie’. Great little ad. Subtle but effective. Ya know, some of the shit in there is really quite entertaining. I wonder if it’s even physically possible to do half the things they claim in those ads—”

Andy cut him off before he got too carried away. “What’d the ad say?”

“I’ll show you.” Jimmy handed him a folded piece of newspaper. An ad was circled in the same red felt pen that had so tastefully been used to doodle on Makedde’s photo. The print read:

MODELS—Photographer requires attractive female models, 16—25 yrs. Good rates.

The reader was urged to call “Rick”.

Andy looked up. “You can’t be serious. Are we talking the same Rick here?”

Jimmy nodded as he flipped through his notebook and said, “The bills go to a Post Office box in the Cross for a Mr Rick Filles.”

“Bingo. This is the perfect way in. I’ll run it by Kelley and you get Mahoney to call Filles up and arrange a photo session.”

“Good idea. Though I don’t know if she’d agree.”

“She can handle it.”

Less than two hours later, Constable Karen Mahoney reported to Andy’s desk wearing her well-pressed uniform, hair in a bun and no make-up.

“ We have an assignment for you, Constable.”

“Great!” she said eagerly, standing with her hands clasped in front of her.

Kelley had given clearance on surprisingly short notice, mostly because it was a small operation that wouldn’t require a UC. The only conditions were to
keep Mahoney under watch at all times and “not screw it up” as he put it.

Jimmy handed her the newspaper cut-out.

“This Rick Filles character may be luring the women using this article. We want you to check him out and, if necessary, help bring him in.”

Her face lit up with excitement but after reading the ad her expression changed.

“Uh…you want me to pose as a model for this guy?”

“You’ll be wired, and we’ll have people watching you at all times.”

“Watching—”

“ To ensure your safety,” Andy said. “We have to see if this guy is our man, and if he is, you’ll be the one to save all the women out there who are in danger right now.”

This statement seemed to have the desired impact.

“Yes, sir.”

“Jimmy will fill you in. I want you on this right away.”

“I won’t have to get…
nude
or anything, will I?”

“You can’t afford to make this guy suspicious; we don’t want him tipped off. But your safety is our number one priority. Use your own judgment.”

She seemed to ponder it for a while. “What about Tony Thomas?”

“Hunt, Reed and Sampson will take care of that,”
Jimmy said. “This is more important. We need you.” Andy saw him put an arm around her as they disappeared down the hall.

At last, Andy had time to think. For one blissful moment the office was empty. It was a slow Saturday, and even Inspector Kelley had gone home. He pulled his phone over and dialled Makedde’s number. It rang a few times before she answered with a cautious-sounding, “Hello?”

He was alarmed by her tone. “It’s Andy. Everything all right?”

There was a pause. “Yeah. Just some strange calls.”

“What kind of strange calls?” he asked, suppressing a strong urge to jump in the squad car and drive round to the flat.

“Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing. Hang ups. I think so many models have stayed here that people are calling and expecting someone else to answer.”

Andy hoped that was the reason. It sounded plausible, but it still made him uneasy. “Tony been bothering you?”

“No, actually.” She paused. “Thanks for dinner last night, by the way. It was nice to get out.”

“My pleasure. But, maybe next time I’ll choose the restaurant.” He hoped there would be a next time.

“I’m sorry about the food, I know it was a bit tricky—”

“No, I loved the food. It’s just that the place is…”
He stopped himself, deciding it was pointless to let her know the entire police force had watched them dine.

“I understand. It’s not your style. What kind of food do you like?”

He wanted to see her again. He wanted to watch over her, make sure she was all right. She was so different from Cassandra. “I’ll show you tonight…if you’ll let me,” he said.

“Uh…sure,” she replied.

Maybe he had sounded too eager. “Or not,” he added.

“No, I’d love to.”

“Same time?”

“See you then.”

He hung up the phone and realised he was no longer alone.

“Uh huh,” Jimmy said with his eyebrows raised.

“Not a word,” Andy warned him. “Not a word—”

“Anyway, as I was saying, this is a real important case and it would be a
real
shame if one of us fucked it up somehow, like by getting personally involved or—”

He fell silent.

“Thank you,” Andy said emphatically. “Has Kelley spoken to you about the added help?” They needed more research assistants to cover all the similar sex case histories in their records.

“No. He hasn’t said a word to me about anything.”

That didn’t surprise him. It was common knowledge that Andy was Inspector Kelley’s favourite. When Inspector Kelley had arranged to have Andy flown to Quantico to study with the FBI’s Behavioural Science Unit, Jimmy was not given a chance to go along. Nor did the new unit in Canberra invite him down. Andy suspected his partner preferred it that way. It took the pressure off him, so that Andy was the one expected to perform miracles.

The Inspector’s favouritism had allowed Andy a rare opportunity to study investigative profiling with the FBI’s elite serial crime unit. They were recognised as the best in the world. Andy knew this case was his opportunity to prove that the confidence in him was well founded, and it was a burden he felt privileged to bear.

“If we can’t get more manpower, we’ll have to make do with what we’ve got. As usual.”

And that meant longer hours for everyone.

Mak was curled up against the arm of the lounge in a foetal position when the intercom buzzed.

“Hello?”

“It’s me. Andy.”

“Hi. Come on up.”

In a second he was at the door, and when he walked up to her and smiled, she felt some of the tension dissipate.

It’s all in my head.

“Hello,” he said, carefully watching her eyes. “Are you all right? Any more calls?”

Mak looked away. “A couple,” she admitted. It was more than a couple. The furniture was freaking her out, too. Things seemed to be changing position on a daily basis.

“How many calls?”

She tried to think. “Eight, maybe ten today.”

He frowned. Two deep creases formed between his eyebrows and his lower lip stuck out a little. “I don’t like the sound of that. That’s not just wrong numbers.”

She sat down on the couch, and he followed her
lead, sitting at the opposite end, just far enough away to avoid invading her space. She thought him polite, but wished he would hold her instead.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “We don’t have to go out if you don’t want to—”

“No, I want to. But can we just sit for a moment first?”

“Of course. Anything you want. Have you been able to talk to anyone about this? A counsellor? A person in your position might need—”

“I don’t need to see a psychologist,” she said, cutting him off. “I’ve got nothing against seeing one, obviously. After all, I want to be one eventually. But really, I don’t need to. Not now.” She knew she wasn’t being logical. All the warning signs were there.

“I wasn’t inferring that you
needed
one, only that it might be—”

“No,” she insisted, a little too loudly.

Andy was looking at her, his deep green eyes revealing his concern. She hadn’t seen anyone look at her with such caring for a long time.

“Tell me about Catherine. Were you very close?”

“She was a good friend…” She trailed off, uncertain that she could handle that particular conversation.

“It’s OK if you need to talk about it,” he prompted her.

She knew that if she started, she wouldn’t be able to stop. Finally she decided that she didn’t care.
“She’d lived near my family since she was little. Both her parents died when she was very young, and these awful foster parents took her in. She used to come over to our house a lot. I guess I kind of mothered her because she was a lot younger. Or maybe I was more like a big sister. Over time we grew apart, but when she started modelling a few years ago we became best buddies again. We both started quite young; fourteen, fifteen years old. I knew what it was like to be thrown into it like that, so I showed her the ropes. But it wasn’t always me helping her out. She was there for me when I needed her.”

Makedde recalled the attack by Stanley, and remembered the gruelling police investigation, and how Catherine had turned down an overseas assignment to stay with her and support her. But Stanley was in jail now and it was pointless to dwell on the past. It was none of anyone’s business, and she certainly wasn’t about to burden this kind man with it, who was nearly a stranger after all, and who was politely allowing her to ramble on. “Anyway, Catherine was really supportive,” she said vaguely, “and I really miss her.”

“And now you feel you have to help her because she helped you. That’s understandable, but there’s nothing any of us can do for Catherine now. We can only catch her killer and live our lives.”

Andy was right, and Makedde was determined to do just that—catch Catherine’s killer.

He seemed to read her thoughts. “I know you want to help, but I’m not going to let you get involved in this case any further than you already have. We’ve got it under control—”

“Really? Then where is this psycho? Sit him in front of me so I can watch him suffer the way she did! Show me—”

“Makedde. Sometimes there can be no
true
justice,” he said, putting a warm, comforting arm around her. “Some things can never be made right.”

It’s true; Catherine’s murder. Mum’s death. Nothing can make it right.

Tears rolled down Makedde’s cheeks as Andy held her. She moved towards him and their lips brushed. At this, he pulled her tightly to him, his arms firm and muscular against her trembling body. Those soft lips came close to hers again. She watched them through teary eyes; watched them until they were upon her, softly kissing, lips parting, sweet tasting, so gentle. She felt the weight of him, pressing her into the couch, his mouth more firmly now against hers. They moved together with passionate eagerness; fingers, lips, bodies, melting into one.

She couldn’t help herself, and clearly, neither could he.

He watched her window from a park bench across the street, barely aware of the rain slowly soaking him to the skin. Beyond those closed blinds her warm, sensuous, candle-lit world lay seemingly untouchable. He could never be part of her life. Not in that way.

But everything was prepared. His patience would be rewarded. She would be his finest possession yet.

I’ll wait until the candles go out.

At 3 a.m. the door of her building opened. A tall man paused, looking back up the stairs. Though it was dark, he could tell it was the man she had dined with. The detective. He wanted to slice his throat from ear to ear. Show Makedde how much she meant to him. Show her how he wouldn’t tolerate competition.

He watched as the detective stood at the door, then turned and started back up the stairs, letting the door close behind him.

Furious, he leapt from the bench, clenching his fists tightly. He spotted a sickly pigeon resting quietly
on the grass. In one quick movement, he snatched it up, twisting its small neck until the bird convulsed in fatal paroxysms. He dropped it to the ground, his latex gloves smeared with blood.

His patience was running out.