The Mak Collection (15 page)

In time, the other fashion models came through the double doors, chatting and laughing, some nibbling like hamsters on tiny snacks. Makedde wasn’t with them. That was good. He wanted her to leave alone.

Another twenty minutes passed before the first inkling of doubt crept into his mind. All of the guests and the other models had left, so where was his prize? He peeked through the doors. The starlet was still talking to a couple of reporters near the stage, but everyone else was gone. Where was Makedde? How could she have slipped away?

Biting disappointment seized him, welling up into a violent rage. More waiting?
No!
He didn’t want to wait any longer. He demanded satisfaction. He moved away from the doors, blending into racks of imported designer clothing, and forced his rage down, storing and safe-keeping it. He kneeled on the carpet where no one could see and held his pounding head.

Minutes later, the soap starlet emerged with two young men tagging along behind her. She flicked her platinum hair as she spoke, “It was a great success!” she cooed. “They’ll love me in L.A. too, I just know it.” She wiggled her way towards the elevators, hips moving seductively, her tanned body tottering on tall stilettos.

He would have satisfaction.

Preoccupied, Becky Ross and her small entourage stepped into the elevator, paying scant attention to the man who slipped in the car with them.

Later that afternoon, Makedde stretched out on the couch and put her aching feet up. Involuntarily she began to brood, and couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to return to Canada. She imagined the whole family would come to see her sister’s new-born after the birth, to hug Theresa and congratulate her. “Oh, she’s done so well,” they would say, and then turn to Makedde and shake their heads. “No children, no husband, no mother, and now not even a best friend. Poor girl.” How depressing. Makedde loathed the thought of the attention it would bring, and the constant reminders.

That’s why she’d told barely a soul about Stanley.

Stanley was the stranger with the threatening switchblade and the penile weapon, the man who’d violated her life and her trust some eighteen months before. It wasn’t so much the shame, but the constant reminders that had led her to keeping it so tightly under wraps. Only her father knew, and the police. And of course Catherine, who’d helped her so much afterwards. She’d held her hand while Mak had been
forced to recall the experience in detail, for the third time, for yet another Vancouver detective. Were the victims of muggings asked so many questions? Such intimate questions? Why had she felt on trial? In the end her case couldn’t be proved on its own. If the laws had been different, and separate charges could have been tried together, she knew the outcome would have been very different.

Mak hadn’t wanted her family to know. It was better to have secrets than to feel their pity. She hated pity.

But Stanley was in jail now, although not for what he’d done to her.

Auntie Sheila would probably try and set her up with some dentist or accountant again when she got back. It seemed like everyone was trying to get her to settle down. “Why are you always running off by yourself? What do you want to be a shrink for? You’re a pretty girl, why don’t you find a nice man to take care of you?” They just couldn’t understand why she ran the other way when her sister’s bridal bouquet was tossed.

The telephone rang, mercifully snapping Makedde out of her melancholia. She hesitated before answering it, prepared for another crank call, but she was relieved to hear Detective Flynn’s voice.

“Sorry to bother you, Makedde. Uh…” A moment of silence followed, and it occurred to Mak that she liked the way he said her name. “I have been a little
concerned,” he continued, “I just don’t like you getting mixed up in this mess.”

It was ridiculously good to hear his voice, and Mak sensed that the impersonal formality that first plagued their communication had vanished. Something about their last meeting had changed things.

“Has Tony been bothering you at all?” he went on.

“Not lately.”

The line was silent again. She could hear phones going off in the background.

“Yeah…” He paused. “Well, I should go. I just wanted to make sure you’re OK.”

She suspected that wasn’t what he was calling about. “I’m fine,” she assured him.

“Good. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Makedde hung up and crossed her arms, slightly puzzled by their odd, plotless conversation. When the phone rang again, she hoped it was Andy. It was.

“I forgot to ask you,” he said. “How’s that cut?”

“Oh, it was nothing. A mere flesh wound, as they say.”

“How’s the flat cleaned up?”

Makedde laughed. “Fine now, thanks. The Lanconide disappeared without a trace and the carbon gradually faded away.”

“Lanconide,” he said. “You’re the first person I’ve ever known to say Lanconide instead of ‘that white
powder’. Half the cops don’t even know the name for it.”

“One of the perks of being my father’s daughter.”

He laughed. “Um…I wanted to ask you…” he trailed off, sounding unsure.

She blurted it out before she could stop herself. “Want to get together Friday night?”

“Sure!” he answered, sounding surprised. “Well, actually…No. Well. No, that’s fine. Yes, that’d be nice.”

“You don’t sound so sure. It’s not a big deal.”
Whoops.

“No, I’d like to. Friday night?”

“OK. Fu Manchu?” she suggested.

“Pardon?”

“Fu Manchu. It’s a restaurant. Victoria Street, Darlinghurst. Casual. Good food. Around seven?”

“Great. Shall I pick you up?”

“Yes, I’d like that. See you then.” Makedde’s heart was pounding by the time she placed the receiver back into its cradle. She felt nervous, silly and excited.

Oh God. What have I done?

Becky Ross lived alone in a posh, two-level flat overlooking North Bondi Beach, the opposite end from Makedde Vanderwall’s humble lodgings. He watched as Becky wandered around her bedroom, gathering clothes and folding them into a series of large suitcases that were opened on her bed.

She’s not going anywhere.

He hid in the darkness of the street, out of sight of prying eyes. Neighbours were tucked inside their homes. Balconies that in the summer brimmed with parties and barbecues now lay barren like abandoned look-out posts.

Becky had not bothered to draw her curtains and was in full view of anyone who cared to look.

He was reaching a new level.

A celebrity.

Fame.

He watched her for a while, enjoying their special style of foreplay. He would try new methods. He could experiment. All the more practice for Makedde.

I’ll treat you so right.

The engine purred quietly as he drove right up Becky’s driveway. He parked the van as close to her door as he could, turned off the lights, and opened the side door. Clutching a bouquet of cheap, blood-red roses, he rang Becky’s doorbell. He stepped back to observe her reaction through the brightly lit windows. She didn’t seem surprised, but immediately went to a mirror to check her hair and make-up. “Just a minute!” she called out and applied another coat of his favourite glossy red lipstick.

She finally opened the front door and looked at the roses with distaste. She smelled of an expensive, flowery perfume, and she was barefoot, her toenails painted a tacky puce-pink. He would fix them.

Becky didn’t notice his leather gloves, or his generic cap. She didn’t even look at his face. “Who are these from?”

“MDM Publicity Department. Do you have a pen? I need you to sign this.”

“Hang on,” she mumbled.

Becky wandered away, disappearing into a room down the hall. He closed the door behind him, holding the knob firmly until it shut with a barely audible
click
. He placed the stack of papers on the sideboard and glanced around the foyer.

Becky Ross had left a pair of stilettos at the door for him.

For him
.

The soap star came back with a pen and bent over the papers. “Hey,” she said with confusion, “these are blank—”

Swiftly, he slid the hammer from the back of his pants and raised it over her head. It came down on her skull with a fleshy thud, and buried itself in her luminous blonde hair. With a crunch her face collided with the wooden sideboard and as she moaned and tumbled backwards to the floor, her eyes rolled back in their sockets.

As Becky lay dazed, he slipped the stilettos on her feet, covering her ugly toenails. He picked her up in a fireman’s lift and carried her with ease to the back of his open van, dumping her on the floor. With cold precision he shackled her wrists, pulled the blanket over her head, and shut and locked the sliding door. He then returned to the flat, removed the roses and blank papers, and locked the front door. He deposited his props on the passenger seat and took off his gloves before starting the engine. He was pleased with himself. From the time he rang her doorbell, the whole exercise had taken less than two minutes.

“Oi! Make that two!” Andy Flynn called across the smoky room.

Jimmy turned on his bar stool, cracking a wide smile at the sight of his partner. “Ah, ya malaka!” Jimmy shouted affectionately and swivelled back to the bartender. “Another Boags Strongarm for my mate, Phil.”

In the blink of an eye a second beer was waiting on the dark mahogany bar. Andy settled into his favourite spot, throwing his suit jacket over the neighbouring stool.

“Pos pas?” Jimmy asked.

“I’m all right.”

“I thought ya might show.”

“This thing’s fuckin’ killing me,” he said.

“I hear ya, mate.” They raised their bottles and clinked them together. “Cheers.”

A few cops from the Witness Protection Division were playing pool in one corner, and regulars from the Major Crime Squad were downing a few at the other end of the bar. As usual, there wasn’t a female in
sight, and at that moment, that was exactly how Andy liked it.

He watched Jimmy take long gulps of beer and remarked, “Ya know, I tried telling Cassandra that beer was designed to be drunk straight from the bottle. But would she listen? Nah.”

“So right. Designed that way.”

“Exactly. It’s the shape of the neck, the pressure as it comes out. Drinking from glasses is sacrilege.”

“Sacrilege.”

They contemplated that simple, scientific fact for a moment. How was it that women didn’t understand?

Then Jimmy asked the wrong question. “You seen her? Cassandra?”

“Not since Tuesday. And I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Sure, mate. Birds, eh?” He shook his head. “That Makedde’s a babe though. Did I tell you she was in
Sports Illustrated
?”

“No kidding?” Andy was determined to find a copy.

“Yeah. Boy, I’d like a piece of that, ya know what I mean? Pretty fine.”

Andy nodded silently. He was almost tempted to confide that he was having dinner with her the following night, but letting that secret out would be a disaster. Dating a key witness was a definite no-no.

Jimmy was still talking. “By the way, got the report on the prints. A few came up nil; probably models. But we came up with one real interesting name.”

“Well, you’re not going to leave me hangin’ are you?” Andy said impatiently.

“No,” Jimmy replied, but kept him hanging anyway. He took his time, swigging leisurely on his beer, then licked his lips and went on, “OK, one set comes up with a record. Rick Filles. Photographer. Arrested for sexual assault two years ago.”

“What’d he do?”

“Some bird went up to his pad to have her pictures taken and claimed—now get this—that he tied her up wearing nothing but her knickers, took photos of her and touched her up. He swore it was consensual and his lawyer got him a suspended sentence. He got off easy, no pun intended, but now his prints show up in some dead chick’s pad. I’d say he’s running out of luck.”

“I’d like to see those reports.”

“Thought ya might.”

“ We gotta jump on this,” Andy said. “I want to know everything this guy has been up to. Every dollar he’s made, every parking ticket. If he scratches his arse, I want to know why.”

“We’ll get on it in the morning.”

Andy stared at him.

“Well,” Jimmy said again with emphasis, “
we’ll get on it in the morning
.”

“Where are those reports?”

“Skata. Can I say no to this?”

“Where?” Andy said bluntly.

“In the office.”

With Jimmy shaking his head, they grabbed their coats in unison. “Ya know, Kelley paired me with you to mellow you out.”

Andy laughed. “Lies. He told me himself that he paired you with me in a last ditch effort to teach you how to get your shit together.”

They gulped down the last of their beer, and wished Phil a good night.

The next morning, Andy was sipping his second scalding black coffee when Jimmy dragged himself into the office. “Good afternoon,” Andy said without looking up.

Jimmy came over and leant on his desk as if it were a crutch. “You sprightly fuckin’ malaka. Some of us need sleep, ya know.”

Andy held up his coffee. “The lives of innocent women in this city depend on this brew.”

“Caffeine has its limits.”

“No wonder you never went for the SPG.”

“Too sharp for them poustis, mate,” Jimmy said, openly disdainful of the ultra-fit, finely-tuned members of the State Protection Group, formerly known as the Tactical Response Team.

“I’ve got Mahoney quietly doing some checks on this Filles guy. We’re gonna set him up,” Andy said.

“Good on ya,” Jimmy replied sleepily. “Angie stayed up, ya know. She was sitting in that big green chair by the window in the fuckin’ dark. Nearly gave me a heart attack. I had my gun out of the holster before I realised who it was. She figured I was rootin’ around on her till 4 a.m. Wanted to sniff my collar.”

“You should have called her.”

“I shoulda gone home. She almost took a frying pan to my head.”