The Mak Collection (21 page)

Andy felt a sour lump in his throat. “But sir, if I can just explain—”

“Your gun.”

They were two words Andy never thought he would hear. He rose from his seat and pulled back his suit jacket to remove his Glock nine millimetre. He slowly placed it on the desktop. He knew he should have been grateful that he hadn’t been directly suspended, or had his badge taken away, but being taken off the case seemed like punishment enough.

With a disappointed wave of his hand Kelley gestured for him to leave, and continued to stare at the passing cars outside the building.

Andy left without another word.

JT sat behind his immaculate desk and unwrapped his lunch—smoked salmon with capers, horseradish and iceberg lettuce on rye. They’d got it right this time. Perhaps his complaints had convinced them to fire the incompetent staff.

It was shaping up to be a good day. It had been over a week since Catherine’s murder and the police still had no idea. That note she’d scrawled was a close call, though. How could he have been so stupid as to use the company account to book the room? Sure, it was a tax write-off, but it was also lazy on his part. He would have to be more careful in the future. But even with all that, the police didn’t have any damning evidence. He was confident they had believed his story. Perhaps the ring would never be found. That thought made him smile as he bit into his sandwich.

Invading his quiet moment, his secretary’s voice crackled over the intercom. “There’s a call for you on line two, Mr Tiney—”

“Rose, for God’s sake, I’m eating my lunch!” Little
bits of bread and horseradish flew from his mouth. “Take a message!”

“Sorry, sir. The man says it’s important. It’s a Mr Hand.”

JT sat up straight, put the sandwich down and nervously wiped the corners of his mouth. “Yes, Rose. Thanks, I’ll take the call.”

“Hello?”

“This is Mr Hand,” Luther’s gruff voice came through the line. “I have good news. The lover-cop is taking a vacation.”

“A vacation?”

“Yeah, and a gift has been delivered to the lady, which should have the desired result.”

A tingle ran down JT’s spine. Perhaps Luther was worth the expense after all. “Good. Good work. Do I need to know more?”

“It’s all taken care of.”

JT didn’t want to know the details. He didn’t want to be sullied any further with the whole sordid affair, he just wanted results, and it seemed that he was finally getting them.

“Thank you,” he said.

The phone went dead.

Makedde held the envelope cautiously between two fingers, sensing something malicious before even opening it—the way only her first name was typed in block letters on the front, the way it had been hand delivered, waiting menacingly for her under the door. She could see that it contained a photo…no, a laser copy of a photo. She pulled the piece of paper out slowly, holding the corner in pinched fingers. It looked familiar. It was a slightly grainy copy of a photo from her modelling composite card, but it was somehow different…

Her eyes widened.

It was a photo of Makedde,
dead.

She was wearing a bikini, or at least she should have been. It was hard to tell if there were any clothes at all in this version of the photograph. Her flesh was torn with streaks of blood and gore. Her pupils had been scratched out, rendered as little more than grey, lifeless globes.

Makedde dropped the photo and it fluttered to and fro in the air as it fell to the floor. She gripped
her churning stomach and held her throat tightly as dry heaves of revulsion overwhelmed her. The typed message burned into her eyes. She turned and tried to blink it away, but it remained. Black, bold ink on red flesh:

Makedde called Andy’s mobile number, her hands sweating. The phone rang at least ten times before an eerily robotic voice told her, “This call is being transferred to another line. Please hold.”
Where the hell is he?
His message kicked in, “This is Detective Flynn. I’m not available at the moment. Please leave a message and I’ll return your call.”

“Ah, it’s me,” she said vaguely. “It’s Monday, um…” she looked at her watch, “four o’clock. Call me. It’s urgent.” She hoped she wouldn’t get him in trouble by leaving the message. He had told her not to, because it was a work pager, but surely he’d understand when he found out what had happened.

With the photo staring up at her, the threat to her safety seemed suddenly undeniably concrete. She was no longer convinced that the break-in had been unrelated and she began to wonder again about the furniture.
Had it really moved?

She called her agency in a panic, but Charles clearly didn’t understand the urgency. “You want to move
now
?” he asked distractedly.

“Yes, it has to be right away. Do you have any other flats available?” She knew how hard it was to find furnished accommodations, but she had to try.

“Hmm. It depends on how many girls you want to share with. I think there’ll be a vacancy in the Potts Point one next week.” They frequently had up to six travelling models staying in one agency-owned flat at a time.

“Next week? I really need to move now.”

“What’s the problem?”

She couldn’t tell him. She didn’t want to tell him. She didn’t want to tell anyone except Andy. “Never mind, I just…Could you get me a place to stay as soon as possible?”

“It’s not that easy, but I’ll see what I can do.”

She couldn’t afford a hotel. Once she got hold of Andy, perhaps he could help her find a new place. Maybe she could even stay with him for a while. That wasn’t such an unpleasant thought.

She paced the room, waiting for the phone to ring.

I’ll be fine. I can protect myself.

Grab the coconut off the tree, crack it open on your knee…

Impatient, she called Andy, but got his pager again.
He’ll call back soon
, she told herself. Just kick back and relax. Read the paper, watch television. He’ll call any minute and then you can get out of here. She pulled the protective plastic off her neighbour’s rolled newspaper.
They never collected their mail, so she assumed they were on vacation
. Wise idea.
She unrolled the paper and laid it across the bed. The front-page headline was chilling.

SOAP STAR MURDERED

Television star Becky Ross, who went missing after the launch of her own fashion label on Thursday, was found murdered in Centennial Park yesterday. Sources believe she is the fourth victim of the “Stiletto Killer”…

Horrified, she dropped the paper, then kicked it off the bed, as if the truth would disappear if only she didn’t read about it.

…
fourth victim of the “Stiletto Killer”…

…went missing after the launch of her own fashion label…

How could that be? Dead? Just days ago, Mak was modelling her clothes, sharing the catwalk with her. And now she was dead. So that’s what Andy was called away for. Why didn’t he tell her?

The phone rang, and she snapped it up. “Andy—”

“Makedde, it’s Charles. I may have something for you, but you can only stay there for three weeks—”

“Oh my God! Thank you!”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Oh, that’s great news. When can I move in?”

“There’s one available in Bronte, it belongs to one of our models, Deni. She’s in Europe. She could use the rent money.”

Fantastic.

Within fifteen minutes she was out the door and out of breath, dragging her bulging suitcases into a taxi and leaving the horrible newspaper behind.

He listened at her door.

Silence.

Luther knew she wasn’t there. Nor was she likely to return soon. A girl wouldn’t return to the flat after a shock like that. Not even a brave girl like Makedde.

Luther had watched her hurried departure with mixed emotions. Suitcases in tow, wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, she had left in a taxi. He had thought she was headed for the airport, which would no doubt make his client very happy. But Luther had felt disappointed seeing her slipping away. She intrigued him. Never before had he so enjoyed watching someone’s every move. She brought out his homicidal side, but the whole city was searching for a murderer. It wasn’t a good time to kill.

She would have been a recreational hit, an indulgence. It had been several years since his last one. Unpaid. Spontaneous. A pleasure. The last one had been pretty, but not a model like Makedde. But he’d lost his chance to take her. Or so he’d thought. As it turned out, she wasn’t heading for the airport at all.
Just some little place near Bronte. She was still within his grasp.

He smiled.

Even though he knew it was pointless, Luther decided he should make his client happy by searching the flat one last time. If he hadn’t found the ring before, it almost certainly wasn’t there. But he had his own reasons for wanting to go inside. He would have to make it quick—Makedde might have called the police, despite her affair with the suspended detective.

With callused hands he jemmied the door, as he had done on numerous occasions previously. It was a clean and simple process—the lock had no T bolt, it was just the standard type that should really only be used on internal doors. Safety obviously wasn’t much of a priority for Makedde’s modelling agency.

The flat was barren. The week before, Makedde had packed Catherine’s things into bags and cardboard boxes and had addressed them to Canada. Luther had searched them all. Now with the boxes gone and her own belongings removed as well, the space looked very empty. She had left in a hurry. The bed was dishevelled, there were unwashed dishes in the sink, a newspaper lay crumpled on the floor. It wasn’t the way a well mannered girl like Makedde would normally leave her accommodations. She must have been very scared.

He opened the wardrobe doors and found a few metal hangers and a lone sock. He noticed that she
had shifted the wardrobe back to its original position. On Friday he had been searching underneath it when he heard her coming up the stairs. He’d hidden in the kitchen alcove, behind the dividing counter, sitting cross-legged on the floor. He had remained quiet and still, his patience serving him well, ready to silence her if need be. She was lucky, and instead she lay on her bed for a while, then showered. He had even caught a tantalising glimpse of her naked body when she emerged from the bathroom.

She was too beautiful.

Flawless.

That’s when the urge hit him.

Makedde had dressed and made herself up. She’d even read a book for a while, only a few feet away from him, and all the while he imagined the way she’d look with his hands around her pretty throat. Then her date arrived downstairs, just when he was ready to make his move. Perhaps it was for the best.

He checked through the rubbish bin and found nothing of interest, only food scraps and meaningless crumpled pamphlets and papers. In the bathroom he found that she’d forgotten her toothbrush and in the medicine cabinet there was a lone Tylenol pill and a packet of tampons. She’d left the bath towels, some of them used. Finally, he sifted through the newspaper and magazines left scattered on the floor near the bed. Under the paper he found what he was looking for.
His gift was right there. A smart girl like Makedde would have taken it with her, he thought, as proof that she was in danger. But it seemed she was in too much of a hurry to leave.

Silly girl. Now no one will believe you.

Having served its purpose, he pocketed his tasty little happy snap, and left the place as he found it.

On Tuesday morning, Makedde woke disoriented and distressed. From the moment she opened her eyes she was plagued with a deep, gnawing dread that she couldn’t quite put a name to. She blinked and rubbed her eyes before leaning over to check her watch beside the bed. It was 8 a.m.

Another one. Another murder.

Had it been a dream?

She’d left more messages for Andy which he hadn’t returned. It was hard for her to be angry at him, though. If Becky Ross had just been murdered, that would naturally take top priority. The police would be scrambling. She thought she might call the police station about the photo, if she felt desperate.

Makedde didn’t want to admit to herself that she might have overreacted. Any weirdo who read the papers and happened to know where Catherine had lived could have slipped her that note. Was it really a doctored photo of
her
? Was that really what she’d thought she’d seen? Maybe it was a joke. Maybe she was imagining things, the way she had imagined that
the furniture had moved by itself. A paranoid, overactive imagination was a sure sign of stress.

It was good to move anyway. Hopefully she’d be back in Canada before Deni got home, and compared to the Bondi flat Deni’s place was pure luxury. The view was superb, overlooking Bronte Beach, and there was a quaint porch and a small backyard. It had one large bedroom and a guest room, a separate kitchen, and an adult-sized bathroom; one where she didn’t have to sit on the toilet seat to wash her hands. The walls were soothing apricot, the floors polished wood. The furniture was a bit thin on the ground, but what was there was expensive and tasteful. There were two telephones and an answering machine she was welcome to use. There was even a laundry.
Heaven
.

The one drawback was the distance from public transport. She would need a car. On her many travels Makedde had generally relied on taxis, buses and occasionally trains, and even though she had an international licence, she’d had minimal experience driving on the “wrong side of the road”, as she thought of it. She thumbed through the Yellow Pages and found a local outfit—aptly titled Lowe-Rent—and booked a date with a five-year-old Daihatsu Charade.

After one bus ride, half an hour of walking, countless directions from strangers and one advance from a wino, she eventually found the William Street rental offices, paid her deposit and was shown to her
car. She slid into the driver’s seat nervous but excited. Like a pianist about to perform a recital, she cracked her knuckles, flexed her hands, and curled her fingers around the wheel.