The Mak Collection

by Tara Moss

  “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?

  CHAPTER 23

  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.

  CHAPTER 24

  “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?”
r />   “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.”

  “I can talk to her if you want, tell her it was my fault,” Andy offered, knowing only too well how easily relationships could fall apart in their occupation.

  “Nah. She knows the mate system. She’d never believe you.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Maim. Hit. Kick. Palm strike, eye gouge, knee to the face. Get ready Makedde…

  “Ready and…one!”

  “Nooooo!” the all-girl warriors cried in harmony, reaching into the air with their right hands, palms up, fingers closed.

  “…two,” the instructor continued and they pulled their fingers out like cat’s claws, gouging at the eyes of imaginary attackers.

  “…and three!”

  In unison each student brought up her left hand to join her right and grabbed the assailant’s head, slamming it down, their right knee rising swiftly to smash the face in.

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

  Makedde’s blood was pumping, sweat beading on her upper lip. The Friday afternoon self-defence class was as good a work out as Jaqui had promised, especially when they brought out the punching bags, but, she had to admit, her mind was on Andrew Flynn.

  “Makedde!”

  The sound of her own name startled her. She whirled around to face her instructor, Hanna, a tough, heavy-set blonde with a brush cut. Hanna was a black belt in karate who had taught and lectured on self-defence for over ten years.

  “Where’s your head? You may as well have tried to lick your attacker to death,” Hanna scolded, shaking her head disapprovingly.

  Through the sweat, Makedde felt herself blush. “Sorry. You’re right. I was thinking about something else.” Someone else. “Let me try again.”

  In an instant an unwanted but vivid mental picture of Stanley loomed before her. His face was always festering in the shadows of her mind, waiting for any opportunity to remind her that she was far from invincible. She reminded herself that Stanley was now doing time for a series of violent rapes. Knowing that she was safe from him made it a lot easier to use him as a mental punching bag. Great therapy.

  “And…One!” her instructor began.

  “NOOOO!” Makedde yelled and struck Stanley’s throat with her palm, gouged at his eerie, pale blue eyes with long fingernails, grabbed his thick head in both hands and with all her might rammed it down into her striking knee. She could almost feel his face bounce off and his body fall to the gym floor. She would kick him in the head now, and stomp all over his…

  Makedde noticed that the other girls were staring at her.

  Hanna was smiling. “Much better. Now for the bag.” She handed a large, square punching bag to one of the other students, who looped her arms around the holds on the back and positioned it on the side of her hip.

  “OK, Makedde. I want ten hits in as many seconds, each different. And no pussy stuff. Ready and…One!”

  Makedde could see Stanley grinning as he blocked the exit door, switchblade out, brown hair ruffled, his pants half undone.

  “ONE!” Mak screamed, giving Stanley a snap-kick to the balls. “TWO!” a knee strike, “THREE!” a palm strike to the throat, “FOUR!” gouge his eyes, “FIVE!” grab his head and ram it down to a right knee strike, “SIX!” right elbow strike to the head, “SEVEN!” left elbow strike to the head, “EIGHT!” backwards elbow strike, “NINE!” hammer fist to the groin and “TEN!” SQUEEZE THE TESTICLES!

  When Mak had completed all ten moves, she stopped screaming, and took a step back to catch her breath. Sweat dripped from her chin to her T-shirt. This time even Hanna was staring. There was a moment of silence, then someone said, “Have you taken self-defence classes before?”

  “No,” she said, slightly embarrassed. “I’m just a really angry person.”

  At 5.30 p.m. Makedde arrived back at the flat and threw herself onto the bed, still damp and dressed in her gym sweats. When the phone rang, she let the answering machine pick it up.

  “Hi sweetie, it’s Loulou,” the voice echoed across the room after the beep. “It was great seeing you yesterday. Can you believe this Becky Ross disappearance thing? Rumour has it she eloped with the rugby player, but the police suspect foul play. No kidding! That guy is so foul…Oh, I’m rambling again. Call me.”

  Makedde smiled. Loulou was an incorrigible gossip queen. Becky Ross’ disappearance? She must have taken off right after the fashion launch. Sounded like another publicity stunt. Perhaps Mak should have checked the papers, there might have been an article on the launch, with humorous reviews about Becky’s take on fashion. Mak would call Loulou in the morning. No doubt she’d be itching to find out about her secret date.

  He’ll be here at seven o’clock, Mak reminded herself for the hundredth time. The thought of his arrival propelled her back onto her tired feet and into the cramped bath. It was shallow and short, and she didn’t fit, but she bathed anyway, pouring hot water over herself from an oversized measuring cup, and adding a few drops of fragrant vanilla oil. With her long legs sticking straight up in the air, she shaved from ankle to thigh, careful not to cut herself as she had before. She ran a hand over her legs, and, satisfied they were smooth, began a careful pedicure. She painted her toenails “French Nude” as the shade was called, and kept her toes pointed in the air to dry until her feet started to tingle from lack of circulation. She would be wearing boots so her toes wouldn’t be on display, but it made her feel good to pamper herself.

  She emerged from the steamy bathroom feeling better than she had in days. It seemed at least some of her worries were swirling down the drain with the bath water. A date! She would get over the recent turn of events, and get on. She was sure of it.

  As she went to sit down two scrapes on the wooden floor caught her attention. The sofa. Was it out of place? It seemed further from the wall. Had she pushed it across the floor without thinking? She pushed it back and was amazed at how heavy it was. Strange. Perhaps her mind was playing tricks on her. She was, after all, somewhat preoccupied—the cloyed and compelling Detective Andrew Flynn was taking her out. And soon! She did her best to choose an outfit that was both casual and attractive, without appearing as if she was trying to look attractive. This was a science unto itself, and it took a while to get it right. Finally she made up her mind, deciding upon her favourite straight black
pants and a deep blue fitted jumper that brought out the colour of her eyes.

  It was only 6.30 p.m. She forced herself to settle into the chair and read the last few chapters from the dog-eared copy of her true-crime favourite, Mindhunter.

  At 6.59 p.m. the buzzer announced Andy’s arrival.

  Makedde leapt out of her chair, sending the book flying. Reading about Robert Hansen, the “game” hunting Alaskan, set her on edge, jumpy at the slightest noise.

  She checked herself in the mirror, tugged her sweater down a bit and smoothed her black pants. Her hair didn’t look too perfect. Just a bit messy, so she didn’t appear to be trying too hard. She grabbed her long coat and a pair of chunky-heeled leather boots, and sat on the floor while she pulled them on. She was sitting by the wardrobe, and, just as she had noticed scratches on the floor beside the sofa, so too were there marks beside the wardrobe. She examined the deep impression of the wardrobe’s short wooden legs. The wardrobe legs were at least two inches away from the indents. Perhaps the police had moved things during the search and she hadn’t noticed until now.

  She stood up, relishing every extra inch her boots afforded her, turned off the lights and locked the door, and forced herself to relax as she descended the stairs. Andy was leaning against a railing outside the front door, wearing Levi’s with a white cotton shirt and a well-worn leather jacket. He was also wearing a gorgeous smile.

  “Hi.”

  She did her best to appear cool and unaffected, suppressing a burgeoning thrill deep within her.

  He gestured to her outfit, saying, “You look beautiful.” The comment threatened to shatter her veneer of detachment. This was sounding like a real date already. “I am allowed to say that aren’t I?” he went on, possibly expecting she would bite his head off again.

  “Of course. Who doesn’t like to be told that? Thank you. You too. Look good, I mean. You look good without your suit on.”

  What? Stop rambling!

  “Don’t tell my colleagues that or they’ll get the wrong impression.” Mak laughed. “Actually,” he added, “don’t tell them anything. I wouldn’t hear the end of it if they knew I was here. OK?”