The Mak Collection

by Tara Moss

  CHAPTER 21

  He stayed on the library computer for hours.

  To his delight, he found more than expected. It was exciting. The Internet was a treasure-trove of information on his chosen subject. He clicked to the main page of the Australian news archive, and signed up using a false name. He gave his anonymous AOL account as a contact.

  The search page came up. He typed in his subject.

  Makedde Vanderwall.

  He briefly considered adding more specific details, like “Makedde Vanderwall + murder + Australia”, or something similar, but felt that her name was probably unique enough to provide him with what he wanted. He specified that all available publications were to be searched, over an unlimited time period.

  He pressed “send”, and his request was silently processed.

  He could not have been happier with the results.

  Result of your search: 184 documents matched your query “Makedde Vanderwall”.

  Results 1 to 20 are displayed on this page.

  There were ten pages of articles. He could find out anything that had been printed about this girl, all those juicy details that any Australian press could dig up, but which she was so careful not to allow anyone back home to know about.

  Herald Sun, Daily Telegraph, Courier Mail, Sun Herald, The Australian…the list went on and on. He began at the top, double clicking on the article titled, “Model Survivor Flies Home”.

  He stayed there reading until the library closed. His photocopy card, which he had restocked with extra dollars, was empty by the time he left, his backpack weighed down with the burden of Makedde’s newsworthy secrets.

  Now this is an interesting one…

  CHAPTER 22

  Roy Blake wasn’t happy about getting a call just before his shift ended. There was a disturbance in the Monashee building at the Thunderbird Residence, one of UBC’s on-campus student quarters. Roy was still on duty and he had to go and check it out. It was bad timing—he had a date with Makedde Vanderwall shortly after work. Despite that, he was quick in responding, ever the professional, and within minutes he was pulling up at Thunderbird Crescent. He parked the security vehicle at the entrance and went to have a look.

  Okay, what have we got…?

  Roy didn’t even have to step inside the foyer before he heard the racket. As reported, someone was banging unrelentingly on one of the apartment doors. He could hear shouting as well.

  He frowned.

  Roy rushed up to the second floor and in the hallway found a woman shouting, then sobbing, then shouting again. She looked to be in her late forties, was dressed in sweat pants and a leather jacket, and had brown, unkempt shoulder-length hair. Her eye make-up had run down her cheeks in long, dark streaks.

  She looked set to begin another tirade of yelling and crying when she turned and saw Roy approaching. His appearance in uniform always made an impact. Her fists halted millimetres from the door itself, wavering in the air. Her mouth hung open.

  “Hello there…” he offered, raising one hand as he approached. As he got closer, Roy saw that the woman’s eyes had the red, glittery look of someone who had cried too much. Her lips looked puffy, her nose wet. She needed a tissue. Despite her dishevelled appearance, she looked to be a middle-class citizen—not a junkie or a street person. Her hands were well manicured and she wore a gold wedding band.

  “Excuse me, ma’am. Is there something I can help you with?” Roy asked, now only a couple of metres away. He was careful to use a caring but firm tone, just like he’d been taught.

  For a long while the woman didn’t respond. She went on staring at him, her fists poised at the door. He wondered for a moment if she had not heard or understood him. By now Roy was only a few feet away, and he was ready to take action if the woman caused any trouble. He still held one hand in front of him, palm open in a friendly gesture, while the other hand was at his hip, ready to use the pepper spray if he needed it. Even harmless-looking citizens could act in unpredictable and irrational ways.

  Roy knew that it was when you got too confident that you could get yourself into trouble. Recently, an officer was trying to help an elderly lady on the street in the West End. She had simply fallen on the ground. But when the officer tried to raise her, he almost lost his eye as she swung a feeble fist at his face and scratched his eyeball with the sharp stone of her antique ring. Now that unlucky sod had one eye that permanently looked like the pupil was sitting in a sea of blood.

  “Is there a problem, ma’am?” Roy asked, moving forward very slowly now, still holding his safety position.

  Finally she spoke. “Officer…I…” she began. “My daughter…”

  “Yes?” he said, urging her on. “Your daughter, ma’am? What about your daughter?”

  “My daughter is in there and she won’t open the door.”

  Perhaps there is a reason she won’t open her door, lady, Roy thought. Who knows how long she had been screaming and carrying-on before someone called it in.

  “Ma’am, you’ve been making a lot of noise and I believe that your daughter would have heard you if she was in there. Are you absolutely sure that you have the right residence? Do you have the right number?” He asked the questions gently, trying not to provoke her.

  “Do you think I’m some kind of a fool?” she screamed back at him. “I know where my own daughter lives!”

  Well, that didn’t work.

  Roy thought of Makedde waiting at the bar for him. He wanted to be there on time. He needed to get home to shower and change first. How long would this take?

  “I don’t think you’re a fool at all, ma’am,” he assured her. “I’m sure you know where your daughter lives. May I ask your name, please?”

  “Marian. Marian Melmeth,” she said.

  “Okay, Mrs Melmeth. Let’s just go downstairs and speak to the manager of this building and see if we can’t just give your daughter a call. Simple as that. What is your daughter’s na—”

  “No! I’ve already called her. She is refusing to pick up the phone, just to spite me!”

  “Mrs Melmeth, we aren’t going to be able to settle this here in this hallway. Clearly, anyone in that apartment would have heard you. I think we need to just go downstairs—”

  “Can’t you make her come out?” Tears were flooding down the woman’s cheeks.

  Okay, maybe this will bring her to her senses. “What is your daughter’s name?”

  “Debbie.”

  Roy paused. This name struck a chord with him. Oh, Melmeth. Right…

  He tried not to react.

  “Her name’s Debbie? Okay.” He leaned into the door and knocked politely, knowing full well that there would be no Debbie Melmeth inside. “Debbie, this is Security Officer Roy Blake. Are you in there?”

  No response.

  “Is there anyone in there at all?” Nothing.

  “If anyone is in there, could they please make some sign?” He knew this was ridiculous now. “Okay, Marian, let’s go downstairs and we can sort this all out.”

  Suddenly the woman threw herself at the door again, pounding with her fists and wailing. “Debbie! It’s your mom! Come out, darling! Pleeease!”

  He heard a door down the hall open. He turned to look, and saw that it had only opened a crack. His efforts were being watched.

  “Ma’am, I’m going to have to take you downstairs now.”

  She continued bashing the door.

  He seized Mrs Melmeth’s arms, pulled them behind her back and forced her away from the door, careful to contain his irritation and to temper the strength he used on her.

  “I’m sorry to do this, ma’am. I’m going to take you outside.”

  Once he had her in his grip, she seemed to deflate, her strength leaking out of her as she fell sobbing against his broad chest. He didn’t know how long she had been pent-up like that, shouting and crying, but when he held her she finally let go.

  Gently he led her from the building. A female officer, Larissa Greaves, had turn
ed up and helped to calm the woman down.

  Roy was only forty minutes late leaving his shift. He rushed home to shower and change and get to his beautiful date. Luckily he didn’t live too far from the university. He still stood a chance of being on time to meet her…

  CHAPTER 23

  The Chilli Bar in Vancouver’s hip Kitsilano district is a carefully crafted study in modernity. Adorned with dried peppers hanging from the corners of rough mirrors and steel dividers, two large, deep-red wall lights continue the signature chilli pepper and their shapes creep up the walls on opposite sides of the room. The dim lights give off a faint red glow that splits the room into red and shadow, giving some of the patrons a slightly devilish look.

  An American film crew was in town shooting an action flick, and Mak recognised a couple of actors in the far corner—Michael Ironside and that pock-faced actor from the old Miami Vice series whose name she could never remember.

  The Chilli Bar was hopping on this weekday night, the watering hole overflowing with hip urban dwellers polishing off a few martinis with their friends at the end of a hard workday. Makedde was alone, sipping a decidedly non-alcoholic mineral water at the end of the central black lacquered bar, which curved and tapered like a giant stylised chilli pepper. If the mammoth chilli were an exclamation mark, she would have been the point.

  This date with Roy was her first foray back into the scene since the fiasco with Henry, after which she had decided never to let her friends set her up again. They meant well, but it invariably was a recipe for disaster.

  The Chilli Bar had been Makedde’s suggestion. Roy knew where it was but had never been inside before, so Mak had a certain home advantage. It was also the only really cool bar that was in walking distance from her flat and also busy on a weeknight in autumn.

  Mak pushed a lock of hair behind her ear and stared through the patent leather of her small Bally purse sitting on the counter top. So what is this Roy Blake really like? she wondered. He was cute, she couldn’t have missed that, and he seemed like a nice enough guy, but she really didn’t know much about him. Barely anything at all, in fact. He had been very attentive when they’d chatted at lunch, and she found that flattering. Some guys were too busy stroking their own egos to actually listen. They had sat together on a bench at UBC for about half an hour during her break, talking about the university, and his job, and the weather and the upcoming ski season, and by the time Mak grabbed herself some sushi, it was time for her to get back to the conference.

  Makedde hadn’t let herself enjoy any male attention for a while, thereby earning herself the title of “Ice Princess” from her friends. She had forgotten how nice it could be. With just this little bit of encouragement, she felt as if her femininity had been turned up a notch. Perhaps it was little more than the biological mating instinct, but there was still a thrill in meeting someone. In a sense she was a recovering romantic.

  Makedde, who was naturally fashion-conscious in the best and worst of times, had found herself wasting too much time and thought on the way she dressed for this particular evening. But the “I’m not trying too hard” principle was an important one to stick with in times like these. Her strategy had meant that she simply switched her rubber-soled boots for a pair of sexy heeled shoes, and changed into an elegant black scoop-necked top. That, along with a slick of lip-gloss and a quick brush through her hair, and she was ready.

  She should have been set for a pleasant little diversion from her worries with the help of a handsome young man whom she barely knew—except there were two problems. Number one, it was past their meeting time and she was still alone, which was irritating. And problem number two basically stemmed from problem number one, because the longer she waited restlessly for her date, the more she rehashed her surprise run-in with Andy.

  What the hell is that man doing in Vancouver?

  Mak shook her head and leaned forward on her elbows, gazing down at the counter to see her own reflection, distorted in the black lacquer finish. Her face appeared freakishly elongated, half of it red, half of it pale. To her eyes, she looked like a monster. Monsters reminded her of psychopaths—the modern Nosferatu who stalk the earth—and psychopaths reminded her of Australia and her experience there, and the man who saved her life, which brought her right back to where she started—Andy Flynn.

  Andy bloody Flynn. Here. In Vancouver.

  She had his sudden appearance to blame for her added stress. It had been bad enough since his call, but now she couldn’t get him out of her mind. Only a couple of months ago she thought she’d got over that problem, and now he had ruined all that progress.

  What am I going to do about him?

  Do I have to do anything about him?

  Mak sipped on her water, hoping the cool drink would calm her flushed cheeks. But the more she thought about Andy, the more agitated she became. She couldn’t have been more shocked when he had walked up to her at the conference. It was like he had stepped right out of one of her dreams, or rather, one of her nightmares. The problem was, of course, that he was all too real. Okay, he wasn’t chasing her through a field with a scalpel like he had in her nightmare, but she wasn’t about to be saved by her alarm clock either.

  Damn you, Andy, why did you have to walk back into my life? Why? Why now?

  She had fallen for Detective Andy Flynn, unwillingly at first, but she really had fallen for him. She should never have let that happen. He was the detective in charge of her friend’s murder case. He was going through a nasty divorce and an early midlife crisis or something as well, like so many of the men who suddenly decided that Makedde was the answer to their problems. In fact, Andy Flynn was many things that a wise woman would know to stay away from, but somehow that hadn’t made any difference. She was drawn to him like a moth to a flame. It had become very complicated very fast, and she sure regretted it.

  As Andy’s effect on her had gradually worn off, Makedde had cursed herself for letting him get under her skin, and now that he was here, she cursed herself doubly. This was exactly the kind of distraction that would further interrupt her studies. And it certainly wasn’t going to help her to get a good night’s sleep.

  She had missed him for a while when she first returned from Australia. But not now. Not now that she was trying to get her life together.

  Makedde’s blood was pumping fast—too fast. Her eyes were sore and she didn’t like the way she felt. If she thought about the wrong thing—if she let her thoughts get away from her, she’d end up a pathetic idiot crying alone on a bar stool. What a sight that would be! She held the unexpected rush of emotion back, but was already caught in the grip of a nauseating vertigo. She closed her eyes and held her breath for a moment.

  Relax.

  Breathe. Breathe slowly.

  Mak took another sip of her drink and wondered if what she really needed was something with a little more bite.

  “Excuse me? Roddy?” she said to the bartender.

  He turned. Roddy was in his early twenties, well muscled, eternally bronzed and a few inches shorter than Mak. During the day he worked as a personal trainer at one of the smaller exclusive health clubs nearby. Tonight he wore a tight lycra shirt that showed off his well-defined biceps. Despite his job and his outfit, she always thought Roddy seemed kind of shy.

  “Um…Roddy, what’s your favourite drink? A real good one.” She hoped that a drink would help calm her nerves.

  “You mean, alcoholic?”

  “Yes, I sure do,” she said.

  He looked a little surprised. “Well, what do you like? We’ve got our Martini Special. What about Chi Chis? Daiquiris? Do you like shots, perhaps? Sex on the Beach? How about a Slippery Nipple?”

  So much for the shy theory, she thought as he rattled off the provocative drink names.

  Mak blinked once, reflecting on the name of the beverage, then said, “Sure. Um, give me one Slippery Nipple, please.”

  Maybe later she would have Sex on the Beach.

  The shot would
take the edge off. It had to. Makedde wasn’t much of a drinker, but it was supposed to relax people, and that was the kind of thing you did at bars, right?

  She thought Roddy may have given her a sideways glance before he turned his back to prepare her drink. Mak realised that she had never really ordered a serious drink from him. After busying himself behind the bar, he presented her with a milk-chocolate coloured concoction in a shot glass.

  Oh, boy. Is this a good idea?

  “Here you go, Mak. This one’s on me. Tell me if you like it.”

  “Thanks, Roddy. You don’t have to do that.”

  “It’s my pleasure. Enjoy.” And with that, he left her to her drink.

  Mak lifted the glass to her nose. It smelled creamy and sweet. Baileys. Yum. She wasn’t sure about the mammary reference, but she imagined the little mixture would taste good. She stared at the lifted glass for a moment, overcame her hesitation, then downed it in a single gulp.

  Whoa.

  Very strong.

  Mak might have choked on the heady drink were it not so delightfully smooth. It sent a charge through her nerves, followed by a deep, mellow sensation. Very yum.

  She licked her lips and scanned the bar.

  Where is that boy, dammit?

  And then, inevitably, Makedde found that she was not on her own any more.

  “Hiya. Would you like another drink?” American accent. Definitely not the security guard.

  Mak looked beside her to find a slick-looking man with greying hair, a deep and crispy foreign tan and the whitest teeth she had ever seen.

  She obviously didn’t respond fast enough to keep up with his routine, so the dental-poster boy continued without encouragement. “Hi. I’m Richard. What’s your name?”

  “Hi, Richard. I am waiting for someone, so thanks for the offer, but I’m just fine.” She gave him a closed smile.

  “I was just watchin’ you sittin’ over here all by yourself, and I wondered, ‘What is that pretty lady doin’ alone?’ I’m up here from Hollywood shooting a film with—”