The Mak Collection

by Tara Moss

  “No. I said I hadn’t seen him. That’s why I’m calling. What’s in the paper?”

  “I think you’ve already caused him enough trouble.”

  “What are you talking about? What’s going on?”

  “It isn’t doing him any good to take off like this.”

  “He’s gone away? Where?”

  Jimmy was silent for a moment. “He hasn’t contacted you at all?”

  “No! That’s what I said. What’s going on?”

  “Did he tell you he was going through a divorce?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “I moved. I’m in Bronte.”

  “Don’t go anywhere. I’d like to ask you some questions. What’s the address?”

  Mak gave it to him without hesitation, and he told her he would be there in minutes. She ran outside and scanned the street for a newspaper. Down the block there was one hanging out of the mail box. Sorry, she thought as she snatched it up. There was a photo of Cassandra’s beautiful face and below it, a report:

  DETECTIVE’S WIFE KILLED BY SYDNEY RIPPER

  Last night Sydney police discovered the body of Mrs Cassandra Flynn, wife of Homicide Detective Andrew Flynn, in her Woollahra home. Her murder is believed to be connected to that of four other young women brutally slain in Sydney since June 26 this year. Each victim was found wearing a single stiletto shoe. Detective Flynn’s whereabouts are unknown and the police urge anyone to come forward who may have any relevant information.

  Makedde dropped the paper in disbelief.

  Jimmy Cassimatis was built like a teddy bear; short and round, with a mid-section that in his thirties was already well on its way to resembling a barrel. His arms were covered in the same thick down of black hair that poked up over his collar. He had an informal manner that reminded Makedde of a boy she knew in school who never really grew up.

  Having surveyed her digs he now stood in front of her, attempting to be professional. “Miss Vanderwall, I got some questions for you.” She suspected he could make iambic pentameter sound like slang. She waited for his next sentence, but for a while the detective was silent, slowly pacing the floor. She decided to break the ice.

  “You’re Andy’s partner. Wouldn’t he tell you where he was going?”

  “You’re his chick. Wouldn’t he tell you where he was going?”

  Chick. Very classy.

  “A chick is a farm animal, Detective. The Herald seemed to insinuate that Andy was a suspect. Is he?”

  “Andy told me you were a shrink. I don’t like shrinks,” he barked back.

  “I’m not a shrink. I’m studying to become a shrink—I mean a psychologist. Is he a suspect or not?”

  “Well, as long as he’s missing, he looks guilty as hell. I, for one, ain’t convinced he did it. But it doesn’t look good. That woman was a handful.”

  Mak remembered the rage that had seeped out of Andy’s pores after the argument she’d overheard. “It’s unusual that she was found in her home. The other victims were dumped in parks and secluded areas. Do you think it’s the same killer?”

  “I’m the one who’s supposed to be asking the questions here,” Jimmy snapped.

  “Ask away,” she said.

  “Do you know where Andy is?”

  “Like I told you, no.”

  “Has he contacted you at all since Monday?”

  “No!” This would take forever if he kept asking the same questions. “What happened on Monday?”

  Jimmy stopped his pacing. “He was kicked off the case because he became involved with a witness.”

  “Really?” Mak choked on her guilt. “How did that happen? How did they find out?”

  “They just did.” Jimmy looked upset. “What did Andy tell you about his wife?”

  “He said they were divorcing and he’d just been served the papers. He said there were no kids. He didn’t like to talk about the whole thing, really. When we went out he drove a squad car, so I figured there may have been some sort of dispute over their possessions. His wife has the car?”

  “Two,” Jimmy said. “She has two perfectly good cars.” This thought seemed to anger him. “Did you ever see him irritated about the divorce, or at his wife?”

  “He didn’t sound like he wanted to kill her over it, if that’s what you’re getting at.” She had to ask the big question, the one she hoped she knew the answer to. “Does Andy have an alibi for the previous murders?” She held her breath, waiting for his reply.

  “Yes. Catherine and Becky, anyway.”

  She exhaled. “So, the only reason that he could possibly be under suspicion is because of his relationship with the victim and his subsequent disappearance?”

  “Not quite.”

  “What else is there?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “What can you tell me? Is he innocent? Is he a killer? Did he kill his wife in a rage and then stage it to look like the others? If he shows up at my door should I run for my life? What?”

  Jimmy didn’t respond. He wasn’t even looking her in the eye.

  “I know you must hate me for getting your partner in trouble,” she offered, “but believe me, it was never my intention. This situation has caused me a lot of pain, too.”

  His hands were laced tightly behind his back, his face stern. Makedde suspected he was the type to repress his emotions. He would probably have a heart attack by the time he was forty. When he finally spoke, she was surprised by what came out of his mouth. “Were you really in Sports Illustrated?”

  She laughed. “Uh…yes. A couple of years ago. What’s that got to do with anything?”

  He didn’t respond, but she noticed his tough exterior melt just a bit. “Come on, Jimmy. We both like Andy. We’re both confused by what’s happening. Let’s help each other out.” She smiled at him. “Are there any reasons to suspect Andy apart from his relationship with the victim? Fingerprints at the scene?”

  “You don’t want to know—”

  “Like hell I don’t want to know!” It angered her that he still wasn’t taking her seriously. “I practically fell on top of victim number three, who happens to have been my best friend, I’ve been ransacked, sent threatening mail and attacked by some psycho with a sex dungeon, so if you honestly believe I’m going to get squeamish on you—”

  “What was that about a dungeon?”

  “Rick Filles. Andy told me you were investigating him. Well, I’ve got a real juicy tale to tell about his nocturnal activities. That guy is seriously twisted. But first, I need you to tell me what else ties Andy to the murder. Please—”

  “You didn’t happen to go to his place and lock him in his little room, did you?”

  “Well, actually—”

  “So that was you! Andy said you were the meddling type, but I never thought…” The phrase stung a bit. Makedde preferred to think of herself as curious and resourceful, not meddling. “We hauled him in for questioning not long ago,” Jimmy continued, “and he accused us of setting him up with a sexy undercover cop who trapped him in that room of his. There’s no way that was Mahoney.”

  Makedde felt her face go red.

  “He’s still being investigated over some assaults, but he’s been cleared of the Stiletto Murders.” Jimmy became contemplative. “Andy’s in deep, deep skata,” he said, frowning. “You know he’s run into problems with his temper in the past.”

  She remembered the look of rage she’d seen on his face. “Come on, what’s happening?” she pressed. “If he has an alibi for the others, it can’t be that bad. They can’t seriously think—”

  “They think he might’ve done a copycat,” Jimmy said, cutting her off. “Used his knowledge of the crimes to stage it the same. He had motive and, well…his fingerprints and blood were found on the kitchen knife used in the murder.”

  CHAPTER 46

  “Jimmy, you look bloody awful,” Phil said, sliding a beer across to him.

  “Then I look better than I fe
el.” Jimmy sighed and slumped forward on his stool, letting his belly hold him up against the bar. The place seemed empty without his partner around.

  “Wanna talk about it?”

  “Nah.”

  “Go on mate, what’s up?” said another sympathetic voice, but it wasn’t the bartender this time, it was the young man on the next stool.

  “Ed, right?” Jimmy had seen him around. He was a regular who worked at the morgue.

  “Yeah. Geez, yer good with names. So what’s getting you down tonight, mate?”

  Jimmy took a long swig of his beer and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Can’t really talk about it. It’s that fuckin’ case I’m working on.”

  “The Stiletto Murders?”

  Jimmy nodded.

  “Yeah, everyone’s talking. Is it true your partner killed his wife?”

  Bloody papers. Now everyone thinks they’re a friggin’ detective. “No mate. I don’t think he did.”

  “But he disappeared, right? Isn’t he the main suspect?”

  “I’d rather not think about it if ya don’t mind.”

  The young man shook his head. “I understand. Must be tough when you think you know someone and it turns out you don’t know them at all. Geez, he looked normal enough to me. How could he do that to his own wife? Bloody sickening.”

  Jimmy didn’t respond. He felt anxious about the case and he couldn’t relax while this idiot rambled on. Maybe he should get home to his wife early for a change.

  “Mind you,” Ed continued uninvited, “I heard that woman was a real greedy bitch. She was taking him for everything, right? And you gotta hand it to the guy, setting it up to look like the Stiletto Murderer was clever. I guess he made too many mistakes though.”

  Jimmy got up to leave. He had no desire to discuss his partner with some guy who had already found Andy guilty based on uninformed bar room gossip.

  “I’d better get going.”

  “I hope it’s nothing I said,” the young man offered feebly.

  “Nah, goodnight.”

  But something Ed said had jogged Jimmy’s memory, only he wouldn’t realise what it was until later that night.

  CHAPTER 47

  Sitting cross-legged on the couch in the Bronte flat, Makedde stared into space, wondering whether a woman could know if she were sleeping with a killer. Plenty of other women had been fooled. History reeked of incredible stories of betrayal and misplaced trust. Bundy’s girlfriends. Kemper’s mother. Makedde’s father had talked about some woman in the twenties…Frau Kirchen? No, Frau Kurten, in Germany. It was one of the worst case studies he had read about. Frau Kurten had been unaware of the seventy-nine assaults, rapes and murders her husband had committed. They had been married for ten years when he was arrested. Peter Sutcliffe also had a wife, as did Jerome Brudos and countless other violent killers. Hell, even Stanley had a pregnant girlfriend. How could Makedde honestly believe that she knew Andy Flynn after a few lusty encounters?

  A dull pain drew her attention to the fact that she was digging her nails into the palms of her hands. Her whole body was tense and hunched over, her breathing shallow, her teeth clenched. She uncurled her fingers and made a concentrated effort to relax.

  Jimmy’s words still echoed in her head. He had explained that Andy was blood type AB, a blood group found in only three per cent of the population while Cassandra was type O, a blood group found in forty-six per cent. Cassandra’s blood was all over everything; the bed, the sheets, walls, floors, and the knife left at the scene. Had the AB type killer been injured in the struggle, or had the killer attacked Andy before killing his wife?

  Andy’s knife was missing from its sharpening scabbard in the kitchen drawer. His fingerprints were on it. His blood. Size ten shoe prints, the same size as Andy’s, were tracked through the blood that had pooled beneath Cassandra’s body and through the house they had once shared.

  Makedde was still wide awake at midnight. Under her pillow lay the paring knife. On the bedside chest of drawers a can of hair spray sat beside a lighter. The telephone speed-dial was set for 000 and she had Jimmy’s mobile number. What more could she do at this hour? Sitting on the bed, surrounded by her little arsenal, Makedde started reading Without Conscience; The Disturbing World of the Psychopaths Among Us. It was a bestseller written by one of the professors at her university in British Columbia. Appropriate, if not comforting reading.

  Luther lumbered towards the Bronte flat, unseen and unheard. A man of his confronting appearance preferred to operate by night. It was better when his prey didn’t see him approaching, when the fear came quickly, his victims caught off guard. He went around the back of the building, his huge feet sinking silently into the damp lawn of the neighbour’s property.

  Your back door man.

  James Tiney Jr would be happy to be rid of this meddling beauty who had caused him so much trouble. He was upset that the cops had found his ring. The police were all over him, and his wife had found out about the affair. It wasn’t Luther’s fault, but still, he was happy to remove one thorn from his client’s side, free of charge. It was a win-win situation; it was something Luther would enjoy, and all the while JT would have an air-tight alibi and this murder would wipe him off the suspect list. He had given JT clear instructions. “Deal with the police tonight. Deal with your family tonight. Don’t spend one minute alone.” He hadn’t told him why, just that it was important. JT would thank him later.

  The street was quiet at this hour. There were some vehicles parked up the street that he hadn’t noticed before, but none were anywhere near her place. If they had been her visitors they would most probably have parked closer. No, he was sure she was alone. Having Makedde all to himself would be such a pleasure. Luther could almost taste the sweet conquest.

  He would do it as the Stiletto Killer.

  Struck.

  Tied up.

  Cut.

  Thoroughly enjoyed and possessed. Just like the cop’s wife. Flynn would be extra guilty over that little detail. The thought made Luther smile. He stopped at the edge of Mak’s backyard and listened before pulling a knitted ski mask over his head. He would be quite a sight, well over six-feet tall, sporting a black commando style jumpsuit, gloves and a ski mask. He carried a tyre iron, gag, handcuffs and a very sharp six-inch skinning knife. He would use them in the correct order. With memories of Makedde’s naked body enticing him, he started from his spot. He would come closer, until he could see her alone through the window, then he would make his move.

  He heard a noise.

  Something rustled in the bushes behind him.

  He crouched down and tried to pin-point the source, pulling the skinning knife from its sheath in one swift, precise movement. But save for the soft patter of falling leaves, the bushes were still again.

  Quiet.

  It was probably a bird, a possum maybe.

  He started again towards the porch steps.

  There was another noise.

  Luther whirled at the sound and caught a blur of movement as something flew towards him. Although nowhere near his size, a creature struck him off balance, sending him sprawling across the wet ground. Luther’s knife fell from his grasp. He shoved the attacker away with great force, and as it flew back he saw that it was a man, fair haired and small, with his teeth bared in silent aggression. His eyes were wild, limbs flailing as he sailed backwards.

  Luther groped across the damp grass, searching futilely for his knife. The man was coming again, with the reflection of a sharp blade catching the light as it swung in his hand. Luther roared with fury, kicking out and connecting with his attacker’s groin. The thin blade sliced through the air, nicking Luther’s ear, then the tip tore through his jumpsuit and into his muscular shoulder. He cried out, more in anger than pain and leapt to his feet.

  There was movement within the house and the porch light flicked on to partially illuminate the backyard. He saw his foe scurrying away. The man’s size certainly didn’t match his strength. Luther h
ad to get out of there. With all the noise, the cops would be on their way any moment. It wasn’t worth the risk. Something warm oozed from his left ear, and when he raised a hand to wipe it he saw a slick of blood across his glove.

  Fuck!

  JT had some explaining to do.

  CHAPTER 48

  What was that noise?

  Something had woken her again. Sounds by her front door…footsteps? She had heard yelling near her back door, but when she had gone to the porch there was no one there. What time was that? What time was it now? She reached under her pillow, grabbed the paring knife and held it upright in one hand like an impatient dinner guest. A fist pounded on her front door. Someone was speaking in an urgent whisper.

  “Makedde? Are you up?” a familiar voice said.

  Makedde sprung from her bed, knife in hand, and her book slid off the bed and landed on the floor with a thud. She was wide awake now.

  He spoke again. “I saw your light on. I know it’s late…”

  Her clock read 1.30 a.m. “Damn right it’s late, Andy,” she replied, trying to sound tough as she moved towards the door. Late in more ways than one. She checked that it was deadlocked and the security chain was pulled across.

  “I really need to talk to you,” he said meekly.

  Her fingers tightened around the knife. “What do you want to talk to me about? Hey…How did you know I lived here?” she challenged, her mouth inches from the door.

  “Makedde, I didn’t do it. I read about it in the paper this morning—”

  “Great. Then why don’t you walk yourself down to the nearest police station and call me in the morning.”

  “I’ve already been to the police…Can we do this without the door in the way, please?”

  “You’ve been to the police, have you?” she said sceptically. “Have you talked to Jimmy?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “This evening. I know he came to talk to you today. That’s how I knew you were here.”