Split (18 page)

They were led to a booth in a quiet corner. Lucky for him, it wasn’t traditional-style seating, so he could keep his shoes on. He wasn’t sure if his socks were ready to impress.

“So, this is Tojo’s,” she said when they had settled in.

“Nice place.”

“Shall we order first, or shall we get straight into it?” she asked.

Get straight into it?
He definitely did not want to get straight into a conversation about murder.

“My news can wait,” he told her. “Let’s just relax for a while.”

“I didn’t mean to be rude, but you made what you had to say sound so urgent. You’ve really got me curious.”

He could hear the chefs working busily in the kitchen. The aromas enticed him.

“Let’s order first,” he said, changing the subject. “Actually, why don’t you order for both of us? I wouldn’t know where to begin…”

Mak studied him for a moment. She clearly knew he was avoiding the subject, but she decided to refrain from interrogating him—yet. “Okay. I’ll order,” she said, opening the menu and looking it over. “Do you like tofu?”

“Not enormously,” he said.

“Okay,
Agedashi Tofu
is out. You’re a bit of a beef guy, right? How about the
Gyu Sashi
?”

He nodded.
Whatever that is.

“It’s raw.”

He tried not to wince.

“Wakame salad…
Mori Ten Tempura
…that’s with prawns and veggies…Hey, why don’t we try the Pacific Northwest roll? It’s fresh crabmeat and avocado topped with scallops and herring roe.”

He nodded again.
Isn’t that fish eggs?

“And a good bit of teriyaki salmon for the man with the appetite, hey?”

“That is cooked, I presume.”

“Too right.”

Phew. At least I know I can eat that one
.

The waitress came and took their order. Mak ordered them some sake and Andy refrained from asking for a knife and fork.

A petite woman in traditional Japanese dress offered them a tiny hot towel, saying, “
Oshibor i
.” They wiped their hands with it and minutes later, she returned to take the towels away. The sake arrived hot soon after, and Mak poured it into small cups for both of them. Once they were alone, she leaned forward on her elbows and smiled at him. He melted. He used to love that. In fact, he still loved it when she looked at him that way.

“I forget the Japanese saying…so cheers,” he said, lifting his cup.

“
Kanpai
.”

“Campari,” he said in return, and for some reason she laughed. Mmmm, the sake was good. It felt warm in his empty stomach.

Soon their waitress came over with a plate of raw beef with a sauce, and a bowl full of strange little dark sticks…seaweed. Weird. Mak motioned for him to try it. He fumbled with his chopsticks a little, but overall he felt that his technique was acceptable. The dish reminded him a bit of
carpaccio
, which wasn’t too bad. He avoided the seaweed salad but took to the deep-fried prawns and teriyaki salmon with enthusiasm. He decided that the food was quite edible, after all. But then again, Mak could have converted him to eating cockroaches if she really wanted to.

“I’m sorry if I surprised you at the conference,” Andy said.

“Yes, you might have mentioned it on the phone.”

“Minor detail,” he said.

“Yes…minor.” She cocked her head to one side and smiled at him. Her deep-blue eyes were just as he’d remembered them. “You look good, Andy. The academy’s treating you well?”

“Sometimes. How have you been? Studies going okay?”

“Sometimes,” she replied, and took another sip of sake. She smiled and gave him a mischievous look. “When do I get to hear this pressing news?”

Damn.
The moment was too perfect. He didn’t
want to spoil it, and what he had to say would spoil it, there was no doubt about that.

“Mak, what I want to talk about with you is very unpleasant. I’m not sure if—”

“Fine,” she cut in. “I can handle unpleasant. What is it? Is it about the trial?” She crossed her arms.

“I wish.” He took a deep breath. “Dr Harris and I are helping the RCMP out on a murder case.”

“Mmm. I can see why you didn’t deem it suitable dinner conversation. But you know, that never stopped my father.” Her father had made assault, fraud and murder into fine conversation at the Vanderwall dinner table.

Andy lowered his voice. “There’s a good reason why I want to talk to you about this case. Can I trust you to keep it between the two of us?”

“Of course you can trust me.”

“We have three victims so far, all young women found buried near the Nahatlatch River. All apparently shot in the back with a high-powered rifle.”

“In the back?” she said.

“In the back.”

“Cowardly. That’s almost execution-style.”

“Almost. One of the RCMP guys mentioned that too, but Dr Harris says it makes him think of a hunter.”

Mak nodded. “You mean, like Robert Hansen?”

“Hansen? Yeah.” He hadn’t thought of that. “You scare me sometimes, you know that?” She knew far too much about serial killers. Far too much.

She smiled prettily in response.

Robert Hansen was Alaska’s most notorious serial killer, a big game hunter who kidnapped, raped and butchered up to thirty women, burying them out in isolated frozen tundra that he accessed with his Super Cub bush plane. The man was a baker by trade, and by all appearances a devoted husband. He continued his depraved secret life for ten years before he was caught.

“Did they come up with anything in ViCLAS?” she asked. The murders had been dutifully recorded on the Canadian ViCLAS, or Violent Crime Linkage Analysis System, with the victimology, offender modus operandi, behavioural and forensic data found at the scene. It had been analysed ad nauseam by the ViCLAS specialists, but all that work had not led to any strong leads, yet. The victimology however had led to some links with missing persons’ cases, which again added fuel to Bob’s theory that these were campus murders.

“Nothing too helpful as of yet, but the victimology did lead us to what I am about to tell you.”

She leaned forward.

“Two of the ‘Nahatlatch women’ have been identified as students at UBC. You may have seen the missing persons’ posters for Susan Walker and Petra Wallace? The third victim hasn’t been identified, so we aren’t sure, but we suspect she may also match one of the university’s missing person’s reports. There have been quite a few reports as of late. Young
women, good students, vanishing without a clue. We’re really worried that it may not be safe at UBC at the moment.”

“God, you and my sister both.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“I’m serious about this, Makedde. There may be a serial killer picking off female students on campus.”

She fell quiet.

“What evidence do you have that there is a serial killer here?” she eventually said. “And who is ‘we’?”

“Some members of the RCMP originally became concerned, and that’s why they asked for Dr Harris’s opinion. And Dr Harris and I both suspect that the problem may go beyond the three victims who have been found.”

“Well, you’ve got my attention now,” she said. “You of all people should know how I’d react, so I hope you’re not screwing with me, that’s all I can say.”

“This isn’t exactly something I would kid about, Mak.”

“I believe you on that score,” she said. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I want to hear more, but not here. I don’t want to ruin this place for myself.”

Several hours and several drinks later, Makedde Vanderwall rose, naked, from the cool linen sheets of a bed on the third floor of the Renaissance Hotel.

She shivered then went out onto the balcony, leaving Andy to his fitful sleep and sticky skin.

Was this what she had come here for? A few too many drinks to drown her sorrows and some late-night encounter with this Australian detective who soon would fly away and be gone? No.

But that’s what had happened.

A serial killer. Here. At UBC.

The cold air slapped her skin, and her nipples tensed to sharp points. Mak walked to the railing and looked over the edge. Wet streets spread out below in a fast-moving grid, the traffic flowing past in quick, illuminated blurs of headlights.

A noise.

The sound of feet, and she turned to see Andy shuffling towards her. He was rubbing his eyes, and squinting against the neon city lights.

“Mak?”

“I’m here,” she responded. “I’m here.”

He stepped outside, and they stood together.

“I love you,” he said.

She didn’t reply.

Andy woke up alone.

Erotic memories flooded his mind—Makedde seeing him to his hotel door, saying goodbye, and then a kiss, soft at first but growing firm and passionate, her fingertips along the back of his neck, her body pressed up against his. Their mouths melting together, tongues eager, the chemistry still there, undeniable, irresistible. The rest was a blur; naked skin, bodies moving together, pleasure and sweat.

Now she was gone.

Was she okay?

All that was left was an address and a note.

I’d like to see you before you go.

Mak

See you before you go? That bothered him. Did she think he didn’t care about her? He’d ask her to
come to Australia if he thought there was a chance she would actually say yes.

A newspaper was waiting just outside the door of his room. It looked like it had already been opened. When he read the headline, he knew why.

“NAHATLATCH MURDERS

Female students found dead. UBC panic as RCMP clueless…”

Oh damn. It’s out.

Makedde would have seen it. At least he no longer had to worry about having told her about the case. Now everyone would know.

He looked at Susan Walker’s face staring out from the page. She was a pretty girl. In the photo she was wearing a formal dress, with a gold locket around her neck and a small ring on her finger. She was posing with her fiancé.

Before anything else, Andy decided to go straight to Makedde’s house. Even if she wasn’t there he thought she might like some flowers for a surprise.

He sat outside her house in his rental car, wondering what to write on the card. What would she be feeling? Would she be happy about last night? Would she be embarrassed?

Then he saw the roses.

What the…?

Andy got out of his car and leaped up the porch steps to Makedde’s door. There, on the doorstep, were a dozen long-stemmed red roses wrapped in cellophane.

He bent down and examined them closely, found a small card pinned to the wrap and had to slide the sharp pin out in order to open it.

Mak,

Thinking of you…

Roy

He felt a pang of jealousy.

Roy?

Andy got back in his car and drove off. He tossed his flowers in the nearest dumpster.

Makedde emerged from a long shower, still shaken from the night before, and unaware of Andy’s early morning visit, or the bunch of long-stemmed roses. She had arrived home at five in the morning and hidden her head under the bedsheets until now.

She checked her watch. It was time. She dialled the number.

“Clinic. How may I help you?” came the voice on the other end.

Mak swallowed nervously. “Hello. Is Dr Morgan available, please?”

“Who may I ask is calling?”

“Makedde Vanderwall.”

“Just a moment, please.”

She hoped she had guessed right. Mak had called at nine fifty-five, knowing about the medico’s fifty-minute hour, and hoping that Ann was between appointments.

She answered. “Dr Morgan speaking.”

“Ann. Hi. It’s Makedde.”

“Mak. Hello. Good to hear from you.”

“I’m, ummm. My Dad gave me your number. I feel a little uncomfortable about this, but, I’m going through some stuff and I would like to see if maybe you could…Maybe I could make an appointment?”

God this is embarrassing.

“I was hoping you’d call. An appointment would be fine. I’ll fit you in as soon as I can, unless you think you would be more comfortable if I referred you to someone else?”

No. No strangers.

“No, I don’t think I would feel comfortable just talking to anyone about it. I would rather talk to you. I understand if you are too busy.”

“Not at all, Mak. I have to be in the office late this afternoon, so perhaps you could meet me here? I have an opening from five to six.”

Wow, that was faster than she thought.

“I have a photo shoot in town this afternoon, but it’s supposed to finish at five. I could try to bug out early. Where is your office?”

“Kitsilano, close to you.”

Not long before her first “official” meeting with a psychiatrist, Makedde Vanderwall was walking around a Vancouver photo studio sporting a brief,
two-piece black athletic outfit and a pair of warm Aussie Ug boots.

A large, mirrored make-up table sat in one corner of the studio, illuminated by a row of lights in the style of an old Hollywood vanity. The studio lights were hot, and she thought her face might be getting shiny. It was. The make-up artist was nowhere to be found, so Mak powdered her skin herself, and used a Q-tip to gently remove some sleep from one eye. She snuck a look at the wristwatch she had propped up beside a palette of eye shadows on the tabletop.

Today Mak was modelling for a local department store. Simple money job—in and out and cash in the bank. It was nearing four-thirty now and she was getting nervous about the time.

She couldn’t be late for Dr Morgan.

Makedde picked up her Starbucks Venti-size latte off the make-up table and shook the container. Half empty. Half full? She brought it to her lips and tilted it back. Cold coffee. Her mouth left a big peachy lipstick stain on the lid.

She thought about Roy. She thought about Andy.

What a complete mess.

The sound of large but graceful feet approaching her pulled her out of her thoughts…
Don’t think about any of that right now
…She spun around to meet the wardrobe stylist, Serge, as he approached with a white Nike sports bra and Lycra pants bearing the
“Swoosh”. The colourful tags hung cheerily, oblivious to her time constraints, or her man troubles.

“Makedde,” Serge said, stopping less than two feet from her and holding out the clothes. “Last outfit, then fini.” His distinctive accent was French-Canadian peppered with the occasional dash of Japanese. An odd mix. Instead of pronouncing her name “Ma-kay-dee” as it was meant to be, he said it like “Maka-dee” as if she were some kind of sushi.

“The last one?” she asked.

Serge was bald, gay and beautiful, and he’d clothed himself in head-to-toe Versus Versace, or a very good knock-off, she wasn’t sure. Simultaneously, they turned their heads to the clothing rack a few feet to their right. She counted six colour-coordinated outfits—grey, dark-blue, light-blue, red, red and grey, and finally black and grey. She was still wearing the seventh and the eighth was now in her hand.

“
Oui.
The last one,” he confirmed.

His eyelashes were long and dyed jet-black, and she found herself momentarily mesmerised by their movement—like watching black butterflies flutter gracefully.

“Just so you know, I really should leave here in thirty minutes, max. I have an important appointment.”

“Audition?”

Mak could only translate his query as far as “Ah, Dijon?” which made little sense in their non-deli environs.

“Pardon?”

“
Audition
?” This time it was clear.

“Uh…yeah,” she said vaguely. Something like that.

Serge assumed she was a fledgling actor. People often did. They credited Makedde with movie-star looks and seemed to assume that it somehow came hand in hand with the desire or ability to act. Model-turned-actors were common in Vancouver, or North Hollywood as it was sometimes called. Mak rarely bothered to correct the assumption any more, mostly because it inevitably brought up the topic of her studies. Her present job and her dreams of the future were seemingly incongruous, and she rarely spoke of one in the presence of the other. Like Kipling’s
Ballad of East and West
, never the twain shall meet.

Besides, correcting Serge would bring up the question of the true nature of her appointment, and she certainly wasn’t about to discuss that.

Just get this shoot over with and get on to making some progress.

Back in model-mode and avoiding conversation, she turned away from Serge and headed for the flimsy change room. In this case the change area wasn’t so much a room, but a small space divided from the rest of the studio by two tall slabs of styrofoam held together with black masking tape. Ah, the glamour. Posing for department store catalogues and changing behind
styrofoam wasn’t what she’d had in mind when she started modelling at fourteen, but here she was, over a decade later, doing just that.

There was a lone metal chair sitting in the tiny change space, and a wire hanger, bent out of shape, balancing from the seat back. A mangy-looking chartreuse scarf had been folded over the hanger, and Mak could read the label from where she stood:
100% Polyester. Made in Hong Kong. Fashion TV’
s Jeanne Becker once described the colour as “fashion designer green”. Today it didn’t look very fashionable.

She stripped off the black athletic top and shorts she had just modelled, and for a moment stood naked, save for a bland, skin-coloured G-string—the uniform model undergarment. She took the change scarf off the hanger and placed it over her head and face, using it to shield the white sports bra from her make-up while she slipped the final outfit over her head.

When she was changed, Mak walked up to the make-up mirror and bent over to move the Lycra into place. She liked the style of the Nike work-out gear, and thanks to her running regime and recent hours spent in the gym, she was looking suitably fit to wear it. Makedde had also slapped on a careful coat of Clarins self-tanner the night before to combat the impending moon tan that marked the approach of every Canadian winter. Now her skin had a subtle golden glow that contrasted well with the stark white
top. Hours spent sitting in libraries and at computer terminals could be hazardous to one’s modelling career. Preventative measures were necessary.

She pushed a lock of long golden hair behind her ear and looked at herself in the mirror for a moment. She was worried that her lack of sleep and other troubles would get back to her agency, but the only visible clue that Miss Makedde Vanderwall wasn’t the picture of health was her slightly bloodshot eyes, which no longer responded well to Visine, and the barely noticeable under-eye circles. Mak was relieved that she didn’t look much worse. She had donned a layer of concealer before arriving at the studio, and more again while she was being made up for the shoot. She was exhausted, but she and Elizabeth Arden were conspiring to hide that fact. Starbucks were in on it too. She was up to five Venti lattes on some days; fully five times her normal, pre-insomnia dose.

She doubted that concealer and caffeine would fool someone like Dr Ann Morgan though.

Therapist. The-rapist.

Damn, Mak. Stop it. Think about clothes. Think about modelling. Or rather…stop thinking.

Just when Makedde finally managed to steer her mind back to the job at hand, the door blew open beside her, and a waft of smoke and cold air blasted in. It was Monica, the make-up artist.

“Have a seat and I’ll give you a touch-up,” she
squeaked in her candy-floss voice. She made Melanie Griffith sound butch.

Mak looked at her watch again—four-thirty on the dot. Hopefully there’d be no traffic.

As if in slow motion, Monica popped a wad of Dentine gum in her painted mouth, put one hand on her hip and contemplated her palate. Purple ringlets hung over her eyes, and she flipped her head to one side in an attempt to move them. They promptly flopped back to blur her vision. Eventually she turned her hands to Makedde’s face, pointing her fingers outwards and running her thumbs along Mak’s high cheekbones. After some pointless pawing and fussing about, every movement executed with irritating deliberation, something deep inside Monica evidently concluded that the best course of action was to reach for the powder puff…slowly.

All this seemed to confirm Mak’s suspicions—Monica was straight out of make-up school. She had disappeared without a trace hours before, and Mak could only hope she would disappear again, very soon.

“I’m in a hurry,” Mak said firmly. She could feel a headache coming on.

Monica seemed not to hear. She pummelled Makedde’s face with a soft powdery puffball and said, “I think they want hair up for this one.”

Oh, good Lord.

Mak tried not to roll her eyes. “I have to leave in—” she looked at her watch again “—twenty-six minutes.”

Without warning, her hair was hitched upright into a tight ponytail. Her eyes watered, and the impending headache made a grand arrival.

“God, it’s so thick!” Monica exclaimed, pulling and yanking.

Makedde had big hair. It wasn’t flat and bone-straight like her sister’s. She knew that. She woke up looking like Linda Evans in
Dynasty
every morning. It might have been great if she were born a decade earlier, but she had spent most of her career trying to flatten her blonde mane. Now it was the new millennium and she finally had it under control—which of course didn’t mean that others did. Especially this girl.

“That’s okay, I’ll do it.”

The make-up artist continued her fruitless pulling and combing.

Deaf as well as inept.
Fabulous.

“Honestly, I’ll do it myself,” Mak repeated.

The hands continued to struggle.

That’s it!

Mak turned her head sharply, hair follicles just barely holding rank, and gave Monica a long, hard look. The hands let go. She thought she actually saw a glimpse of fear in her eyes.

I’ve been doing this for twelve bloody years. I think I can manage a simple ponytail, thank you very much!

In no time at all Mak had brushed her own hair, thrown it into a high ponytail and secured it in place.
She took one last look in the mirror, touched up her lips with a fresh coat of gloss and strode off towards the backdrop. Monica was speechless and looked on the verge of tears. Out of the corner of her eye, Mak saw her rush out the door.