Fetish

by Tara Moss

  Andy wasn’t due for a few hours, and Makedde couldn’t wait to tell him about her find. But first, she needed to indulge her curiosity. She tore the ad from the paper, and examined it again as she dialled the number. Her call was picked up after three rings.

  “Hello, is this Rick?” she asked in her best breathless Marilyn.

  “What’s your name, doll?”

  “Debbie. I saw your ad.”

  “You American?”

  Sure, why not? “Yes, I’m from L.A.”

  “How old are you?” Rick’s voice had a nicotine growl. He sounded like he was at least forty.

  “Uh, I’m twenty-three.”

  “What’s your bust size, Debbie?”

  “I’m a forty double D. Gosh, I hope I’m not too big.”

  “No such thing, babe. And your waist size?”

  “Well, that’s the funny thing, Rick. I only have a twenty-three-inch waist. I feel a bit self-conscious that I’m so top-heavy, but a photographer in L.A. wanted me to model some lingerie once, and he seemed really happy with the photos.”

  “You a blonde?”

  “Oh, yes,” she breathed.

  “Natural?”

  “Pardon?”

  “A real blonde? All over?”

  Yuck. “Oh, yes. All over.”

  They arranged a Wednesday night photo session and he gave her his studio address in Kings Cross. She giggled girlishly and asked if there was anything special she should bring.

  “Stilettos. Knickers. I have some costumes here, too.”

  I’ll bet you do. “OK, see you then,” she said as seriously as she could manage.

  She hung up and burst into hysterical laughter. Rick must be tickled pink to have a ditzy, top-heavy, blonde Californian coming to his studio. He’ll sure be disappointed when he gets stood up. “A forty double D with a twenty-three-inch waist!” she screamed, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye.

  He had specifically asked her to wear stilettos, but then any glamour photographer probably would ask the same thing. She questioned whether a clever killer would be so direct. In Makedde’s experience, it was the ones who weren’t so obvious that were the real danger.

  CHAPTER 31

  Detective Flynn stood at the front of the room, the anxious faces of his task force watching him intently, ready to take notes. He ached to get back to Makedde, and pictured her lying in bed, covers pulled back to reveal naked curves. He had managed to remove himself from the demands of the investigation for one enchanted evening, but he was back at the sharp end now, and he had a large team of men and women depending on his every word.

  “First of all, I’d like to thank all of you for your dedication to this case, especially on a Sunday afternoon,” Andy began. “As you know, we have a fourth victim, actress Becky Ross. The autopsy just completed indicates that the time of her death was sometime late Thursday night or early Friday morning. Now, I will say it once more just to be sure that I’m making myself crystal clear. It is vitally important that we not allow any leaks about this case. If anything gets out, each of you will be in deep shit, got me? OK, enough of that.

  “I’ve prepared a more in-depth profile of our killer. There are copies for each of you.” He handed out the stapled photocopies and they passed them around. “Now remember, this is a general profile to be used as a tool in the investigation. Our killer is categorised as an ‘anger excitation offender’.” He looked up and caught the eye of some of his team. “That means he’s sadistic. He may not have started out showing such tendencies, but he’s certainly moving in that direction now—the latest murder confirms this. He is keeping his victims alive while he mutilates them.

  “This type of offender will often use a con or a disarming line to lower the victim’s guard and gain confidence. During the attack he may say things like, ‘Call me Master’, or ‘Lord’ or something like that.”

  Hunt barely managed to suppress a chuckle.

  “Shut up and take notes, Hunt,” Andy snapped. “Or you’ll be the one assigned to check every sexual assault file for the past five years.”

  Hunt shut up.

  “He may ask his victim, ‘Does it hurt?’ He may ask her to beg and he may humiliate and call her names to satisfy his needs.” He watched Hunt’s face, daring him to comment. “He may take photographs or videotape during the attack. He may inflict wounds, as we have seen, to the parts of the body which have sexual significance to him; breasts, feet, vagina, anus, and so on. He has an obvious fetish for feet and toes, and in this latest killing he removed the nipples of the victim. In an early stage of his deviancy he may have simply bitten or cut them in some way.

  “Now, past sexual assault cases may give us more leads. Obviously, those in which the offender is currently serving time need not be included. This guy is very careful, but he may not have always been. He may have learnt some tips from other crims in prison or he may have his own little library on forensic procedure. The offender is likely to enjoy using sexual bondage apparatus and torture devices. He may keep trophies or a diary. He brings an assault kit with him containing weapons, sexual props and bindings. He may stalk his victims or plan the attacks in advance. Such attacks may last from four to as much as twenty-four hours before the victim’s death or release. Forensics agrees with this conclusion in the case of all four of our recovered victims.” “Psycho,” Jimmy muttered under his breath.

  “I was just getting to that part. We are possibly dealing with a violent psychopath with a high IQ, which means he could be very charming and very convincing. All of his victims have been white and we believe he is also white. He is methodical and reasonably mature. I estimate he is in his mid-twenties to late thirties and lives in the Sydney area. He has a private place to commit these crimes and hold his victims captive. This celebrity angle gives us a whole new perspective—he’s reading the papers, reading about himself, and he’s liking it. He reckons he’s famous now. It’s a fluke that the body wasn’t found earlier. He’s still not leaving them in hard to find places. He’s not that concerned about their discovery.

  “OK, that’s it from me for now. Get to work on your assigned duties, and communicate. I want each of you to know what everyone else is up to at all times. For those of you working with Jimmy on this Rick Filles lead, he wants to say a few words.”

  Jimmy stood up, grinning. “You’re a hard act to follow.” He moved to the front of the room, one thumb hooked in his belt loop under his spare tyre. “OK, Mahoney goes in at five o’clock. She’ll have the wire in her, uh…bra.”

  Andy turned his back from his team and rolled his eyes. Jimmy had a way of sounding like he had no authority even when he was helping run a major investigation.

  “Everything goes as we discussed,” Jimmy continued. “We’ll be in the van across the street. Mahoney’s hoping to find incriminating photos, weapons or bondage devices for forensics to test. If anything gets hairy, we haul her out of there pronto. Look you guys…and girls, we got a good lead here, so let’s nail him!”

  Everyone cheered and rose from their seats.

  “You have a way with words, Jimmy,” Andy remarked as they filed past him to leave.

  It was late when Andy arrived at Makedde’s door, straight from work once again. He looked tired and stressed, but was happy to see her. Makedde had a lot she wanted to talk to him about, but she felt she needed to clarify a few things first.

  “Andy—”

  “Yes?” He leant over and kissed her unexpectedly. When they parted lips she felt a little light-headed.

  “I think that last night—”

  “Was wonderful,” he interjected.

  “Well, yes,” she continued, “but I think things moved along a bit fast. I don’t normally—”

  “Me neither.”

  She looked up, sceptical. “Really?”

  Andy stared straight into her eyes and said, “I don’t think either of us were expecting things to turn out this way. But I, for one, am glad that they have, regardles
s of the risks.”

  Everything was too fast, too uncertain. Makedde didn’t know what to say. “Just realise that I don’t jump into things with both feet,”—Yes, I do— “and last night was different for me,” she blurted.

  “Understood. Say no more.”

  She smiled, relieved at having made herself clear. Clear about what? Am I just trying to tell him I’m not that easy…usually?

  Mak led him to the couch and they sat together. She wanted to change the subject. “OK. I’ve got something to share with you. You know the note that Catherine wrote, about JT and Terrigal and all that? Well, I figured out that she was going to meet her lover, who she calls JT, in room sixteen-fourteen at the Terrigal Beach Resort.”

  Andy didn’t say a word.

  “If you check the hotel records, you’ll probably find out who Catherine was having an affair with before she was murdered.” Makedde emphasised the word “murdered”, sensing that Andy was unimpressed with her information, again. “OK, what’s up?” she finally asked when he didn’t respond.

  “Well…” Andy looked sheepish. “We know that a man was staying there, but he denies any relationship with Miss Gerber, and we’re inclined to believe him.”

  Mak felt her face flush with anger.

  “You needn’t have gone to all that trouble. Please let us handle the investigation.”

  How could he have not told her? She took a deep breath. “This man, does he have a first name of JT?”

  “No.”

  “OK, does he have the initials of JT?”

  “Yes, actually he does, but that’s all I can tell you, OK? I shouldn’t be discussing this with you. Can we not talk about work, please?”

  She shook her head, rage building. He wasn’t getting off that easy. “How long have you known about this guy?”

  “Not long. Just calm down.”

  “Calm down? Jesus! You think I’m obsessed with this affair she was having, don’t you?”

  Andy put his hands on hers and she shook them off angrily. “I think you lack objectivity here,” he told her gently. “We don’t have any right to intrude on this man’s life just because a girl scrawled some note that might point to a room he was going to stay in.”

  “Wait,” she said with sudden insight. “Was going to? He cancelled the reservation?”

  Andy looked slightly puzzled.

  “You do realise what that means, don’t you? Catherine was killed on a Wednesday and discovered on Friday. If the room booking was cancelled before my ID on Saturday morning, then whoever reserved the room must have already known that she was dead, and wouldn’t be showing up. That means they had something to do with her death.”

  “Whoa! Slow down there Miss Marple.” He flashed her another one of those irritating looks of underestimation. “If this man cancelled his hotel reservation, it could be for any reason at all. And he says he’s never even met Catherine Gerber. There’s nothing to tie her to him.”

  “Yes there is.” Makedde proudly slipped the ring off her thumb. “Check the inscription.”

  Andy took the thick diamond ring in his hand, frowning, and turned it over and read the inscription. His eyes widened. “Where did you get this?”

  “It was in Catherine’s jewellery box. I found it when I packed up her stuff.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? This is evidence!”

  “I didn’t tell you because you were being an arsehole. Sort of like you’re being now.”

  Andy stood up from the couch. She could see him change when his temper rose. The sensitive man had vanished, and one big walking ego had taken his place. “I can’t tell you about the case. You know that. I’m not supposed to tell you anything, and I’m not even supposed to be here. So if you’re pissed off that I didn’t tell you about where the note led to, tough.”

  Makedde crossed her arms and legs. Her muscles tensed. She watched him pace back and forth.

  “This could be considered tampering with evidence. This is a fucking murder investigation for Christ’s sake, and you’re withholding potential evidence!”

  “You guys had your chance,” Makedde declared, her tone steady. “I told you everything I knew about the affair. You searched her flat top to bottom. You must have found the ring and didn’t think anything of it. That’s not my fault. And after the way you reacted the last time I came to you with information, you can bet I wasn’t eager to come to you about this.”

  Andy continued to pace the room. He slipped the ring in his pocket and anxiously ran a hand through his hair.

  “OK, maybe I should have told you about this guy, but I couldn’t, you know?” he said. “We didn’t have anything on him but her scrawl, and even that was vague.”

  “Well, the ring’s not vague.”

  “The ring may change things. Look, there are things I can’t tell you,” he said.

  “I know.”

  Andy stopped pacing and came over to her on the couch. He squatted down, and gently rested his hands on her knees. Makedde was closed off, her arms tightly crossed, eyes deceptively dry.

  “This is my job on the line. The more I tell you the deeper I get.” He reached over, and with a single fingertip, gently traced an imaginary line down her cheek. “I’m in deep enough already,” he said.

  “Andy, what about…”

  In an instant his mouth was upon hers. They embraced one another eagerly, kissing long and hard. He pushed her back onto the couch, and she slid her hand over his shirt, down the small of his back to feel the firm strength of his buttocks.

  “God, you’re frustrating,” she murmured.

  Andy gently trailed his tongue down her neck.

  “Do a Sean Connery for me,” she whispered.

  At first he seemed surprised by her request, then he smiled. “The name is Bond, James Bond,” he said in a perfect, mellow Scotch accent.

  Meow.

  “More,” she said, wrapping her legs around him.

  “You’re a sight for sore eyes, Miss Money Penny—”

  “More!”

  “Um…One Vodka Martini, shaken, not stirred.”

  She kissed him again. “Oh James…” she said, giggling.

  Hours later they lay naked and exhausted on crumpled sheets. The room was dark, save for the tiny flicker of a candle near the bed.

  “Hummaganna,” Andy mumbled unexpectedly.

  Makedde opened her eyes. “What?”

  “Hmmff.” He shifted and flinched. “Go away. Hmmff.” His eyes were still closed.

  “Go away. Hmmff. Cassandra,” he continued to mumble. “I want the car, dammit,” he suddenly blurted more clearly. “Bitch—”

  Makedde jabbed him hard in the ribs and he stopped. She didn’t have the heart to let him sleeptalk himself into saying something he’d regret. “Mmm,” he murmured, barely opening his tired eyes. He rolled the other way and they stayed quiet for a while, but she wasn’t quite ready to drift. As her mind wandered, curiosity drew her irresistibly to seek answers.

  “I hope you don’t mind my asking,” she queried softly, rolling over to spoon his body. “But you told me about Rick Filles and his photo studio in the Cross. What was it like?” Andy rolled onto his back and tilted his face to her, his eyes still closed. “I’m sure you can at least tell me about that. Can’t you?” she prodded.

  “Sure,” he mumbled, half awake. “Wait.” His eyes snapped open. “How did you know his studio was in the Cross? I didn’t tell you that.”

  “Didn’t you?” She let out a little laugh, thinking of the ridiculous measurements she’d quoted. “Let me tell you, that man sounded like a real sleaze.”

  “Sounded like? You didn’t talk to him, did you?” He was suddenly very awake.

  “Just for a moment. I wanted to hear his ploy. It was harmless.”

  “Fucking hell!” He sat up and slammed his fist down violently, shaking the bed. While Makedde lay stunned, Andy closed his eyes and shook his head, making an effort to calm himself. He took several deep, deliberate
breaths, and she imagined him counting to ten. Anger management.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Andy asked her, sounding a little more controlled. “You’re impossible. You can’t do stuff like that!”

  “I didn’t leave my number or anything,” she protested, deciding to sit up in bed as well. “I said I was Debbie; a six-foot, blonde, double D cup lingerie model.”

  His gaze made a detour to her breasts as she sat up. “Well, I think Debbie would’ve had a more enthusiastic response than the lady we sent in,” he said dryly.

  “What happened?”

  Andy took her hands in his, peering at her sternly under furrowed brows. “You have to promise me you’ll stop this. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, so long as you promise to stop chatting to suspects and putting yourself in danger.”

  She batted her mascara-smudged eyelashes. “I promise. So, why do you suspect this guy?”

  “Well, we have to pursue all possibilities, and Rick is just one of them. The first two known victims were in the sex trade and may have answered the sort of ad that he placed.”

  “You can’t possibly be suggesting that Catherine would answer an advertisement like that?”

  “No. I doubt that,” Andy agreed. “But despite popular fiction, serial killers aren’t robots. Sometimes they change tactics. Your friend may have been a victim of opportunity that doesn’t fit with the other crimes.”

  “So you sent an officer to pose as a model for this guy?”

  “Well, we tried. Constable Mahoney, the one who drove you home the first night. She was a bit nervous I think—”

  “Wait a second…you sent Karen in?”

  “Well, yes…”

  Makedde tried to imagine the look on Karen’s face when the photographer asked her to stick out her chest and suck on a Chupa-Chup. “Isn’t that like sending a nun to Hugh Hefner?”

  In the dim light, Makedde could see that Andy’s cheeks had gone red. “As it turns out…yes. She’s the right age, and a good cop, but she just couldn’t pull it off. She was too embarrassed to be believable.”