The Mak Collection

by Tara Moss

  Now he was meeting her for dinner and he had to decide how much he should tell her.

  True to form, he chose to sit and wait at a spot farthest from the front desk, with his back to the wall and a thin veil of plastic ferns surrounding him. It was a good, protected position which afforded him views of the entire lobby. He remembered Makedde calling this spot in any given room the “Clint Chair”—as in Dirty Harry’s Clint Eastwood.

  It was shortly after eight when she walked in.

  His breath caught in his throat.

  Oh, boy.

  He couldn’t have missed her. She was wearing a figure-hugging black dress and heels. She had a black coat slung over one arm and a small glittery purse in her hand. Understated elegance. With her looks she didn’t need to play it up.

  Damn she looks good.

  Andy found himself looking down at his own clothes to check out what he was wearing. Black dress pants and charcoal-coloured dress shirt. No tie. That was still okay. At least he wasn’t wearing a T-shirt. He didn’t know she would be dressed so…well.

  “Hi, Andy,” she said as she approached. She moved like a seasoned catwalker, but somehow didn’t seem conscious of the fact that other people didn’t walk that way. Did she have any idea how devastating she looked?

  “Good evening,” he replied. “You look lovely.”

  “Thanks,” she said, and then all that model composure fell away. She shook her head and put a hand over her face. “That was really embarrassing the other night.”

  “Forget about it. I could drink you under the table any day,” he said.

  She offered a laugh that didn’t seem all that relaxed. “So, shall we?”

  “Where are we going?” he asked. They had agreed on dinner, but she hadn’t told him where.

  “I’m taking you to Tojo’s. It is the sushi joint in Vancouver. I was just thinking the other day that it had been way too long since I’ve been there. You like sushi, don’t you?”

  Damn. Mak and her adventurous taste in food. Andy’s chopstick mastery was not up to scratch, to say the least. He still ordered a knife and fork in his favourite Thai restaurant back home, and he vaguely remembered making an ass of himself in front of Mak while grappling with something called Saang Choi Bao at a restaurant back in Sydney. That was a year ago. His skills had not improved since.

  “I haven’t had sushi for a while…” he said.

  “Good. You’ll enjoy it then. It’s just over on West Broadway. Not too far.”

  Oh, great.

  The restaurant was on the second floor, and they took the stairs. She walked just ahead of him, and Andy did his best not to gawk at the movement of her rounded hips.

  When they walked into Tojo’s a few heads turned. Mostly to admire Makedde, Andy guessed. Some part of his ego puffed up, until he reminded himself of how “over him” she had seemed just the other day. She was probably only being polite by agreeing to go out with him at all. But then again, she had worn that dress…

  They passed a busy sushi bar as they were taken to their seats. Japanese men with nimble fingers worked swiftly to create small delicacies with rice and seaweed. He recognised the raw tuna and salmon, but had a little difficulty identifying some items with tentacles and strange skin. The glass case was topped with the biggest wooden sushi boat he had ever seen, and it contained colourful morsels that hardly looked edible. He wondered if he would be able to tackle the dishes they ordered without making a fool of himself.

  Right on cue, Mak waved to a moustached man working behind the bar. He had a round, friendly face. “Hey, Tojo,” she said, and his face lit up.

  He stopped and clasped his hands in front of him. “Good to see you, Mak. It’s been a while. Enjoy.”

  The lighting was low and the restaurant was bustling with customers. Andy imagined it might be difficult to get a booking. He noticed a number of autographed actors’ portraits and shots of famous bands framed on the walls in amongst the more traditional décor.

  They were led to a booth in a quiet corner. Lucky for him, it wasn’t traditional-style seating, so he could keep his shoes on. He wasn’t sure if his socks were ready to impress.

  “So, this is Tojo’s,” she said when they had settled in.

  “Nice place.”

  “Shall we order first, or shall we get straight into it?” she asked.

  Get straight into it? He definitely did not want to get straight into a conversation about murder.

  “My news can wait,” he told her. “Let’s just relax for a while.”

  “I didn’t mean to be rude, but you made what you had to say sound so urgent. You’ve really got me curious.”

  He could hear the chefs working busily in the kitchen. The aromas enticed him.

  “Let’s order first,” he said, changing the subject. “Actually, why don’t you order for both of us? I wouldn’t know where to begin…”

  Mak studied him for a moment. She clearly knew he was avoiding the subject, but she decided to refrain from interrogating him—yet. “Okay. I’ll order,” she said, opening the menu and looking it over. “Do you like tofu?”

  “Not enormously,” he said.

  “Okay, Agedashi Tofu is out. You’re a bit of a beef guy, right? How about the Gyu Sashi?”

  He nodded. Whatever that is.

  “It’s raw.”

  He tried not to wince.

  “Wakame salad…Mori Ten Tempura…that’s with prawns and veggies…Hey, why don’t we try the Pacific Northwest roll? It’s fresh crabmeat and avocado topped with scallops and herring roe.”

  He nodded again. Isn’t that fish eggs?

  “And a good bit of teriyaki salmon for the man with the appetite, hey?”

  “That is cooked, I presume.”

  “Too right.”

  Phew. At least I know I can eat that one.

  The waitress came and took their order. Mak ordered them some sake and Andy refrained from asking for a knife and fork.

  A petite woman in traditional Japanese dress offered them a tiny hot towel, saying, “Oshibor i.” They wiped their hands with it and minutes later, she returned to take the towels away. The sake arrived hot soon after, and Mak poured it into small cups for both of them. Once they were alone, she leaned forward on her elbows and smiled at him. He melted. He used to love that. In fact, he still loved it when she looked at him that way.

  “I forget the Japanese saying…so cheers,” he said, lifting his cup.

  “Kanpai.”

  “Campari,” he said in return, and for some reason she laughed. Mmmm, the sake was good. It felt warm in his empty stomach.

  Soon their waitress came over with a plate of raw beef with a sauce, and a bowl full of strange little dark sticks…seaweed. Weird. Mak motioned for him to try it. He fumbled with his chopsticks a little, but overall he felt that his technique was acceptable. The dish reminded him a bit of carpaccio, which wasn’t too bad. He avoided the seaweed salad but took to the deep-fried prawns and teriyaki salmon with enthusiasm. He decided that the food was quite edible, after all. But then again, Mak could have converted him to eating cockroaches if she really wanted to.

  “I’m sorry if I surprised you at the conference,” Andy said.

  “Yes, you might have mentioned it on the phone.”

  “Minor detail,” he said.

  “Yes…minor.” She cocked her head to one side and smiled at him. Her deep-blue eyes were just as he’d remembered them. “You look good, Andy. The academy’s treating you well?”

  “Sometimes. How have you been? Studies going okay?”

  “Sometimes,” she replied, and took another sip of sake. She smiled and gave him a mischievous look. “When do I get to hear this pressing news?”

  Damn. The moment was too perfect. He didn’t want to spoil it, and what he had to say would spoil it, there was no doubt about that.

  “Mak, what I want to talk about with you is very unpleasant. I’m not sure if—”

  “Fine,” she cut in. “I ca
n handle unpleasant. What is it? Is it about the trial?” She crossed her arms.

  “I wish.” He took a deep breath. “Dr Harris and I are helping the RCMP out on a murder case.”

  “Mmm. I can see why you didn’t deem it suitable dinner conversation. But you know, that never stopped my father.” Her father had made assault, fraud and murder into fine conversation at the Vanderwall dinner table.

  Andy lowered his voice. “There’s a good reason why I want to talk to you about this case. Can I trust you to keep it between the two of us?”

  “Of course you can trust me.”

  “We have three victims so far, all young women found buried near the Nahatlatch River. All apparently shot in the back with a high-powered rifle.”

  “In the back?” she said.

  “In the back.”

  “Cowardly. That’s almost execution-style.”

  “Almost. One of the RCMP guys mentioned that too, but Dr Harris says it makes him think of a hunter.”

  Mak nodded. “You mean, like Robert Hansen?”

  “Hansen? Yeah.” He hadn’t thought of that. “You scare me sometimes, you know that?” She knew far too much about serial killers. Far too much.

  She smiled prettily in response.

  Robert Hansen was Alaska’s most notorious serial killer, a big game hunter who kidnapped, raped and butchered up to thirty women, burying them out in isolated frozen tundra that he accessed with his Super Cub bush plane. The man was a baker by trade, and by all appearances a devoted husband. He continued his depraved secret life for ten years before he was caught.

  “Did they come up with anything in ViCLAS?” she asked. The murders had been dutifully recorded on the Canadian ViCLAS, or Violent Crime Linkage Analysis System, with the victimology, offender modus operandi, behavioural and forensic data found at the scene. It had been analysed ad nauseam by the ViCLAS specialists, but all that work had not led to any strong leads, yet. The victimology however had led to some links with missing persons’ cases, which again added fuel to Bob’s theory that these were campus murders.

  “Nothing too helpful as of yet, but the victimology did lead us to what I am about to tell you.”

  She leaned forward.

  “Two of the ‘Nahatlatch women’ have been identified as students at UBC. You may have seen the missing persons’ posters for Susan Walker and Petra Wallace? The third victim hasn’t been identified, so we aren’t sure, but we suspect she may also match one of the university’s missing person’s reports. There have been quite a few reports as of late. Young women, good students, vanishing without a clue. We’re really worried that it may not be safe at UBC at the moment.”

  “God, you and my sister both.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  “I’m serious about this, Makedde. There may be a serial killer picking off female students on campus.”

  She fell quiet.

  “What evidence do you have that there is a serial killer here?” she eventually said. “And who is ‘we’?”

  “Some members of the RCMP originally became concerned, and that’s why they asked for Dr Harris’s opinion. And Dr Harris and I both suspect that the problem may go beyond the three victims who have been found.”

  “Well, you’ve got my attention now,” she said. “You of all people should know how I’d react, so I hope you’re not screwing with me, that’s all I can say.”

  “This isn’t exactly something I would kid about, Mak.”

  “I believe you on that score,” she said. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I want to hear more, but not here. I don’t want to ruin this place for myself.”

  Several hours and several drinks later, Makedde Vanderwall rose, naked, from the cool linen sheets of a bed on the third floor of the Renaissance Hotel.

  She shivered then went out onto the balcony, leaving Andy to his fitful sleep and sticky skin.

  Was this what she had come here for? A few too many drinks to drown her sorrows and some late-night encounter with this Australian detective who soon would fly away and be gone? No.

  But that’s what had happened.

  A serial killer. Here. At UBC.

  The cold air slapped her skin, and her nipples tensed to sharp points. Mak walked to the railing and looked over the edge. Wet streets spread out below in a fast-moving grid, the traffic flowing past in quick, illuminated blurs of headlights.

  A noise.

  The sound of feet, and she turned to see Andy shuffling towards her. He was rubbing his eyes, and squinting against the neon city lights.

  “Mak?”

  “I’m here,” she responded. “I’m here.”

  He stepped outside, and they stood together.

  “I love you,” he said.

  She didn’t reply.

  CHAPTER 31

  Andy woke up alone.

  Erotic memories flooded his mind—Makedde seeing him to his hotel door, saying goodbye, and then a kiss, soft at first but growing firm and passionate, her fingertips along the back of his neck, her body pressed up against his. Their mouths melting together, tongues eager, the chemistry still there, undeniable, irresistible. The rest was a blur; naked skin, bodies moving together, pleasure and sweat.

  Now she was gone.

  Was she okay?

  All that was left was an address and a note.

  I’d like to see you before you go.

  Mak

  See you before you go? That bothered him. Did she think he didn’t care about her? He’d ask her to come to Australia if he thought there was a chance she would actually say yes.

  A newspaper was waiting just outside the door of his room. It looked like it had already been opened. When he read the headline, he knew why.

  “NAHATLATCH MURDERS

  Female students found dead. UBC panic as RCMP clueless…”

  Oh damn. It’s out.

  Makedde would have seen it. At least he no longer had to worry about having told her about the case. Now everyone would know.

  He looked at Susan Walker’s face staring out from the page. She was a pretty girl. In the photo she was wearing a formal dress, with a gold locket around her neck and a small ring on her finger. She was posing with her fiancé.

  Before anything else, Andy decided to go straight to Makedde’s house. Even if she wasn’t there he thought she might like some flowers for a surprise.

  He sat outside her house in his rental car, wondering what to write on the card. What would she be feeling? Would she be happy about last night? Would she be embarrassed?

  Then he saw the roses.

  What the…?

  Andy got out of his car and leaped up the porch steps to Makedde’s door. There, on the doorstep, were a dozen long-stemmed red roses wrapped in cellophane.

  He bent down and examined them closely, found a small card pinned to the wrap and had to slide the sharp pin out in order to open it.

  Mak,

  Thinking of you…

  Roy

  He felt a pang of jealousy.

  Roy?

  Andy got back in his car and drove off. He tossed his flowers in the nearest dumpster.

  CHAPTER 32

  Makedde emerged from a long shower, still shaken from the night before, and unaware of Andy’s early morning visit, or the bunch of long-stemmed roses. She had arrived home at five in the morning and hidden her head under the bedsheets until now.

  She checked her watch. It was time. She dialled the number.

  “Clinic. How may I help you?” came the voice on the other end.

  Mak swallowed nervously. “Hello. Is Dr Morgan available, please?”

  “Who may I ask is calling?”

  “Makedde Vanderwall.”

  “Just a moment, please.”

  She hoped she had guessed right. Mak had called at nine fifty-five, knowing about the medico’s fifty-minute hour, and hoping that Ann was between appointments.

  She answered. “Dr Morgan speaking.”

 
; “Ann. Hi. It’s Makedde.”

  “Mak. Hello. Good to hear from you.”

  “I’m, ummm. My Dad gave me your number. I feel a little uncomfortable about this, but, I’m going through some stuff and I would like to see if maybe you could…Maybe I could make an appointment?”

  God this is embarrassing.

  “I was hoping you’d call. An appointment would be fine. I’ll fit you in as soon as I can, unless you think you would be more comfortable if I referred you to someone else?”

  No. No strangers.

  “No, I don’t think I would feel comfortable just talking to anyone about it. I would rather talk to you. I understand if you are too busy.”

  “Not at all, Mak. I have to be in the office late this afternoon, so perhaps you could meet me here? I have an opening from five to six.”

  Wow, that was faster than she thought.

  “I have a photo shoot in town this afternoon, but it’s supposed to finish at five. I could try to bug out early. Where is your office?”

  “Kitsilano, close to you.”

  Not long before her first “official” meeting with a psychiatrist, Makedde Vanderwall was walking around a Vancouver photo studio sporting a brief, two-piece black athletic outfit and a pair of warm Aussie Ug boots.

  A large, mirrored make-up table sat in one corner of the studio, illuminated by a row of lights in the style of an old Hollywood vanity. The studio lights were hot, and she thought her face might be getting shiny. It was. The make-up artist was nowhere to be found, so Mak powdered her skin herself, and used a Q-tip to gently remove some sleep from one eye. She snuck a look at the wristwatch she had propped up beside a palette of eye shadows on the tabletop.

  Today Mak was modelling for a local department store. Simple money job—in and out and cash in the bank. It was nearing four-thirty now and she was getting nervous about the time.