by Tara Moss
‘Agent Andrew Flynn, Federal Police,’ he declared.
He was buzzed through the security door with little hesitation.
Andy had frequently come here in his capacity as an investigating officer, required to view autopsies for major homicide cases, and now he stood in the small, familiar police area where the beige Eaglenet phone and two desktop police computers sat waiting below a bulletin board decorated with notices about SIDS procedures, drownings in private pools and instructions for P79A forms. The mortuary office was just beyond a waist-high divide, cluttered with papers and visitor logs.
‘How’s it going?’ the woman at reception asked him. Behind her, a round, white clock ticked loudly. She had a black fringe and a nose ring and he realised that he recognised her.
He leaned over the divide. ‘Good. I need to see Jimmy Cassimatis. Detective Jimmy Cassimatis. He just came in here.’
There was a short hesitation and then a flicker of recognition as she noted he was talking about a deceased detective, not one wandering through the morgue. ‘Well, he’s just being checked in, I think.’ She sat at her computer to look at the database nicknamed ‘The Deadbase’. She pushed a few keys.
‘Thanks, that’ll do,’ Andy said and pushed on the swinging doors to the morgue.
‘Hey, wait. You’ve gotta sign in!’ she insisted and he sloppily signed the blue visitors book and headed for the doors again before she could stop him.
The peculiar smell of the morgue hit him like a slap. Andy never quite got used to it. The wet tiled floors, like a fish market, only with human bodies gutted on the rows of stainless-steel trays. Organs weighed and bodies disassembled. The low, nervous jokes of staff and the long, heavy silences — coping mechanisms in the dominion of the dead. There was no denying death here, where the dead so outnumbered the living. Andy stood next to the collection of wellie boots shelved after a day of use, some plain, some hot pink or decorated with skulls. A small wicker baby basket fitted with pretty blankets sat atop a neat stack of clean white gowns, a reminder that death cared little for age and nothing for promises.
All was quiet. Jimmy had obviously already passed through. He could see the loading dock was empty.
The swinging doors of the fridge opened and the mortuary clerk walked through in her black pants and a white collared shirt, security tag swinging. She’d been working there for years. Her first name was something like Phyllis, he thought. Yes, that was it. Phyllis. Behind her, Andy caught a brief glimpse of the rows of blue plastic body bags on their trolleys, stored two shelves deep.
And a trolley that hadn’t been put away yet. One arm hung out of the side of the body bag. Curly black hair. Hospital wristband.
Jimmy.
She recognised Andy and he managed a smile. ‘How are you, Phyllis?’ he said.
‘Good. You?’ She waited.
‘I need to take a look at Detective Cassimatis. I can see him right there.’
She turned around and looked where he was indicating. ‘You want to … go to the viewing room?’ she asked after a pause.
If Andy was here as a friend of Jimmy’s, Phyllis would have to get him an appointment with an on-call counsellor and he’d have to wait in that grim room out front, breathing the air of a thousand weeping relatives and that stifling plug-in aromatherapy perfume which tried unsuccessfully to mask the odour of death. And when the allotted time came he’d witness Jimmy, dead, in that same horrible viewing room they’d both stood in a thousand times together for homicide cases, with the bouquet of plastic flowers and the boxes of tissues, only this time some social worker would be outside the door, keeping watch, waiting for Andy, waiting to offer him the same words, designed for comfort, that he’d offered a hundred times before, the silent orange lights spinning round and round throughout the mortuary, telling everyone not to be too loud, not to shout, not to laugh amongst themselves because a loved one was in the viewing room in the throes of their grief.
Fuck that.
‘No need. I can do it here. I need to ID him,’ Andy lied.
Phyllis looked uncertain. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘Let’s find out,’ he said, pulling a white gown on over his jacket and blue disposable shoe covers over his leather shoes. He pushed his way inside, striding across the wet tiles as she trailed behind. He wondered if she would call someone, the general manager perhaps, or if she’d let Andy do what he had to. The fridge was damned cold inside and he walked along the sets of trays inhabited by silent blue plastic body bags, some sagging where they ought not, others suspiciously bloated, each telling a different, dark story. A few bags were yellow. The infectious bodies. He walked up to that stray arm hanging out of the blue bag and he stopped. It was the same hand that had made rude gestures behind Inspector Hunt, the same hand that had offered him another drink after dinner.
The blue plastic bag was open on the stainless-steel trolley. She hadn’t locked it with the plastic ID tag yet.
Andy pulled back the flap.
‘… thought you were with the feds now?’ Phyllis was saying as Andy’s head swam dangerously, filled with a shouting that only he could hear. ‘… was sure he had been identified already,’ he heard her continue after a moment, when the shouting became lower.
He nodded absently, staring.
‘The autopsy won’t be performed until tomorrow,’ Phyllis said.
He nodded again.
‘And you want to …?’
Phyllis trailed off and Andy stared at his dead friend, not knowing what to say, what to feel, what to do. He’d wanted to see the trajectory of the bullet for himself, to see if Mak’s story was right. He’d wanted to see where the exit wound was in Jimmy’s back — if it was below the level of the entry wound because he’d been shot from a mezzanine, or if it was dead straight like she’d said it would be, because she didn’t shoot him at all. That’s what he’d told himself when he’d rushed here, but now he realised how absurd that was, how futile. He was no pathologist and in truth he did not doubt Makedde in the slightest. This was not the place for Andy to be. This was not the way. His friend Detective Jimmy Cassimatis lay naked on a cold, stainless-steel tray before him, filled with stitches and tubes and stents, his back already discolouring with the deep purplish bruises of post-mortem lividity. The hospital had patched up the original bullet wound as best they could, but the internal injuries had been catastrophic. They’d left everything in place as it was in theatre when his heart had given up. His eyelids were closed with the sleep of anaesthesia and his face was slack, tubes hanging out of his nose and from between his lips. His chest was open in a terrible red yawn, arteries clamped, organs visible.
‘Andy?’
Death cares nothing for promises.
‘Are you okay?’
He nodded.
‘Is this the man? Detective Jimmy Cassimatis?’
He nodded again. ‘It is.’ Andy snapped himself out of his trancelike stare. ‘When is the autopsy scheduled?’
‘He’s only just come in. The duty pathologist will assign him a senior specialist in the morning. He’ll get the best possible care,’ Phyllis added, obviously by now sensing this was more than a professional visit. She quietly pulled the plastic flap of the body bag shut and led Andy towards the arrival bay, her fingers at his elbow.
He pulled off his shoe covers and gown and threw them in the bins. He washed his hands. Once. Twice. Three times.
‘Andy …’ Phyllis said, but he was gone.
Andy Flynn sat in his car at the kerb, numb with grief and impotence. Now that his tears had finally started he worried they wouldn’t stop. The steering wheel was wet. His hands were wet. Goddammit, Jimmy. Goddammit. Goddammit … With all his physical strength he slammed his open palms hard against the wheel for the second time, and he shouted a madman’s cry — the angry wail of the bereaved, one he’d heard before from others — as his palms stung from the force. It was a brief and terrible sound and when it stopped so did the shouting in his head. So did t
he tears.
He fell silent, slumped in the driver’s seat.
‘Fuck!’ he yelled as another spasm of grief hit him, and he struck the wheel with a closed fist, opening his knuckles in a red line.
Hunt.
If Inspector Hunt was responsible for this, he would pay. Andy would make him pay.
He swiped his bloodstained hand on his dark pants and felt something in the suit pocket, the edge of something in there. He shifted in his seat and pulled it out.
A folded piece of paper.
Andy stared at it and blinked. He wiped his eyes and then turned the piece of paper over in his hands, mystified. He unfolded it to find handwriting. Mak’s handwriting.
Dear Andy, the note began …
CHAPTER 42
Makedde Vanderwall leaned in to the intercom. ‘Sanctum Mobile Massage.’
She waited outside the large wooden door of the Palm Beach home of Jack and Beverley Cavanagh, clutching a mobile massage bed and folded towels, purse tucked over her shoulder. Behind her, the Mazda hatchback was neatly parked, the words SANCTUM MASSAGE printed in big letters along the side.
It’s now or never.
There was an audible buzz as the door released and Mak pushed it open, smiling sweetly. A bodyguard dressed in dark denim and a black polo shirt was waiting on the other side, iPod earphones dangling down his neck. His bulging biceps were tanned and his face was pockmarked and brown. Above his collar was the barest suggestion of a neck. Ropey, oversized thighs were visible beneath the slightly strained edges of his khaki shorts, which were similar in style to her own, but looked entirely different. He appeared younger than she was — perhaps in his early to mid-twenties. He wore his gun in a bare holster — a semi-automatic handgun Mak guessed was a Czech CZ 75 or one of its many copies. She’d seen him during her recon. He was bigger up close.
‘Sanctum Mobile Massage for Mr Cavanagh. Beverley sent me,’ Mak said, with just the faintest hint of flirtation in her voice. She tilted her head to one side and looked up into his broad face, smiling.
He took a step towards her and looked her over.
Behind Mak’s cheerful demeanour, panic went through her like an electric shock. At over six feet tall, she was no wraith, but this creature dwarfed her, thanks to some scary genetics and an obvious dedication to steroids. Frankly, he was intimidating. She’d seen this guy come and go and she’d eventually accepted that he would be there. If she’d paid better attention to Pete Don’s lessons in her private investigator course, if she hadn’t been in such a hurry, perhaps she’d have been able to find a window when he was not there, but she hadn’t. She would be murdered in a matter of days if she didn’t do something now: she was certain of it. She could not rely on the police. She could not rely on a public outcry to bring the Cavanaghs to heel. The time to wait was over, she’d decided. This was the time for extreme measures. She had no choice.
And there was certainly no turning back now.
The guard looked her up and down. Mak had scrubbed her face free of makeup, except for some pencil to darken her naturally blonde brows. She wore her freshly shorn hair under a white baseball cap emblazoned with the Sanctum logo, and she was clothed in her new shorts and white sneakers, along with an unzipped black fleece vest and white, short-sleeved polo shirt, both stolen from the spa and bearing the same logo. The top showed off her newly muscled arms, which seemed insubstantial next to his. As a final touch she’d worn Bogey’s black-rimmed glasses — a part of her physical transformation, but also a talisman of sorts. It seemed fitting to wear something of Bogey’s as she faced the man responsible for his murder.
For a moment Mak wondered what the guard might say, but he only nodded and closed the door behind her. He didn’t offer to help carry her towels or the folded massage bed, and she felt small next to him as she followed him through the stunning, open-plan beach house. It had dark polished timber floors and was decorated with stylishly minimalistic modern furniture and abstract oil paintings in muted tones. When they reached the base of a timber staircase the guard asked her to wait. He climbed the stairs and disappeared.
She was in.
Jack Cavanagh’s beach house was soundless and tranquil. Sliding floor-to-ceiling glass doors at the back were pulled open to the beautiful outdoors, giving the effect of a living area that extended all the way to the water’s edge. There were no fences or walls to obstruct the idyllic, panoramic view. There wasn’t even a garden, she had noted in her earlier reconnaissance. The house opened onto a lush green lawn and stretch of white beach with a small jetty. A boat was moored there, bobbing up and down with the placid tide — the Cavanaghs’ house was on the western beach, facing into Broken Bay, not on the ocean coast. The vessel was sleek and wood-panelled and it shone on the glittering water. Mak knew nothing about boats, but she didn’t need to know about such things to see that this was a very expensive one indeed. She could hear the water lapping gently at Jack Cavanagh’s beautiful boat, and a bubble of rage surfaced at the sound of it, the sight of that white, pristine shore.
Mak suppressed her rage. She had to remain emotionless to do what she had to do.
So this is a view worth killing for, she thought calmly.
She placed her supplies on the floor and scanned her surroundings, spotting interior motion sensors for an alarm system, and taking in the potential escape points at her disposal. No surprises. The configurations were as she had imagined. Yes, she’d been a little rushed in the end, but truthfully, she felt she was as prepared as she could be considering the pressing time constraint of knowing that every hour she waited could bring the moment an assassin found her and ended her. Why wait for death, when she could bring it, could control some small part of the violence that was inevitable?
Mak heard footsteps approach. She straightened, standing with her feet shoulder-width apart, her fingers laced behind her back. With this stance came new stillness. She felt strangely compact and dense on her feet, ferocity waiting inside her like a coiled snake. Luther’s nine-millimetre Glock semi-automatic itched at her lower back. It felt hot, as if she might have already discharged it. She couldn’t take the loose-fitting black zip-up fleece off, or the shape of it would show. The weapon was just there, fitted with its silencer. Within seconds she could have it in her hands.
The guard appeared. He was alone. His gun was still holstered.
‘You can set up here,’ the huge man said simply, pointing to the living area. ‘Stereo’s there,’ he added, gesturing to a high-end entertainment system in a glass cabinet along the wall.
Stereo?
Ah, yes, for relaxation music.
She hadn’t thought to bring any. Perhaps there’d been a CD case full of Enya in the boot of the car, along with the massage bed. If so she hadn’t noticed it. But noise could be a good idea, she supposed, all things considered.
Mak smiled. ‘Thanks.’ She batted her naked lashes from beneath the glasses Bogey wore when he was murdered.
The guard turned and wandered back to the front half of the house, leaving her alone again. Nothing in his face had betrayed an awareness of who she was. Nothing in his demeanour had given her any sense of there being a problem. So, Jack Cavanagh was not all that paranoid about his personal safety, it seemed. Not like Mak herself was. Perhaps Jack felt invincible, she reflected. Privilege could do that. Or perhaps the sheer madness of her plan also held the key to its success? Why would she come to him? Why, except to die?
Mak kneeled by the stereo and flicked the dial until she found a station playing jazz. A new track started and a smooth announcer’s voice came on briefly over the sound of piano. ‘And now a little Miles Davis.’ The announcer went on to say she would play the full track, running for nine minutes and twenty-two seconds. ‘“So What”, from the 1959 album Kind of Blue …’
Mak placed her handbag on a waist-level shelf of the entertainment unit and turned the keyhole camera in the direction of the room. It was already recording. With some awkwardness she unfolded
the massage bed and clicked the legs into place. She carefully laid a towel across the top and rolled one into a neat ball, placing it near the end. That’s how they did it, wasn’t it? She wished she had Bogey to guide her, to make it look more convincing. He’d worked as a masseur briefly, he’d told her. He’d worked as a coffin maker, too, and he’d played in a band, all before being needlessly slaughtered before the age of thirty. Because of Mak. Because of Jack Cavanagh.
For Bogey. For my baby, she thought as the sound of Miles Davis’s trumpet filled the room.
She listened and waited.
Finally, a single set of footsteps could be heard on the wooden staircase. She turned in the direction of the staircase, saw at a glance that it was Jack Cavanagh, and she gave a little nod of acknowledgement to him. He was instantly recognisable from the many photographs she’d seen of him in the press, though she thought he seemed smaller. He was shorter than Mak, and he wore a Ralph Lauren T-shirt and neatly pressed denim jeans.
Her heart did not speed up. She did not flinch. She was steady.
Without meeting Jack Cavanagh’s eyes, Mak said, ‘Please disrobe down to your underwear and make yourself comfortable on the table, face down.’ She turned away from him, hands laced behind her, and stepped up to the edge of the folding glass doors. They were open, the panels folded up, and she could see his reflection in the angles of glass, illuminated by a beam of sunlight. He wasn’t disrobing, she noticed. He wasn’t even moving.
Fuck.
‘You say my wife sent you?’
She turned but kept her head down as she spoke. ‘Beverley — Mrs Cavanagh sent me. Is now not a good time?’