by Tara Moss
‘Wait…’ Mak said. ‘Before you get him, how is he? Is it looking any better?’
‘We got the results from the X-rays. Dr Olenski wants to do an endoscopy now. There is a fifty–fifty chance that he will need surgery. The doctor says it is possible that he may improve on the medication if he follows through with the right diet and takes it easy.’
‘And is he taking it easy?’
‘Well…’
Mak had taken Dr Olenski aside and asked him if she had given her father an ulcer. He insisted that was impossible, and explained that contrary to popular belief, the vast majority of ulcers were caused by a viral-like infection with a bacterium called Helicobacter pylori, not stress. They were only aggravated by stress. Same difference, Mak figured. Same damn difference.
‘Mak.’ It was her father. ‘Have you heard anything yet?’
The phone beeped as if another call was coming in. Was that on her end, or theirs?
‘Hi Dad,’ she said. ‘I’m meeting with counsel tomorrow to review my testimony. Tonight I have a little welcome dinner with the local brass in charge of this circus. Should be fun,’ she added sarcastically.
‘And have you heard anything from him?’
‘Oh, Andy?’ He could mean no one else. She swallowed hard. ‘Um, no.’
The line was quiet for a while. She really had expected to hear from Andy at some point. Some part of her had even thought he might come to the airport, but no. There had been no note at the hotel either, and Karen, the policewoman who’d picked her up at the airport, hadn’t mentioned him. She supposed it might really be over between them. Perhaps he was seeing more of that nurse he’d dated. He had probably moved on. She really shouldn’t have been surprised. It was time for her to move on herself, officially, and accept that they weren’t right for each other.
‘When are you going in for the endoscopy, Dad?’
‘Uh, soon.’
She knew full well that it would be killing him that he wasn’t in Sydney with her. There was nothing that she could say that would make him happy about not being there, let alone telling him that it was better for his health. But while Mak appreciated that he wanted to be in Sydney for moral support, she didn’t need or want anyone to hold her hand. She was twenty-seven, and more than capable of handling herself, no matter how bizarre things seemed to have become. And besides, her father had a way of getting himself a little too involved in what was going on in her life. It was amazing how far some of his police connections could stretch. She found it embarrassing when he started to meddle.
‘I’ll let you go,’ Mak said. ‘There’s no news yet, but I’ll keep you updated. I was just checking in to let you know I arrived safely. I love you, Dad. Take care, okay?’
‘You call us right away if you have any problems at all.’
‘Okay. Love you…’
Hanging up, Mak spotted a red light flashing on the phone.
‘You have one new message,’ the hotel voicemail declared. ‘Miss Vanderwall, it’s Gerry Hartwell from the prosecution…’
Oh boy. Here we go. She found herself gripped by an irrational fear that his message would bring some horribly bad news about the case. What’s happened?
‘…just confirming that we will be in the hotel bar downstairs at seven o’clock. Let me know if you need anything, or if you have any problems. My number is…’
She pulled the sheets up over her head again.
You’re fine, Mak. You’re fine.
Why do you always expect the worst?
‘I don’t think you realise how beautiful you are…There is a flower inside you just waiting to blossom.’
Suzie Harpin recalled the words with immense excitement. Her true love had spoken them to her that very morning.
Although there was so much more to do, Suzie couldn’t help but take a moment from her grim task to close her eyes and think about the positive turn her life had taken. She let her arms drop to her sides as she thought about love, about the importance of it, and how she had always known that it would find her eventually. She had waited so long and now it was her turn.
Oh my love.
A deep breath. A smile.
Suzie had her wedding dress picked out. It was long and beautiful and adorned with tiny silk bows. She had found a picture of it in one of her wedding magazines and cut it out. It was pure white, as white as snow, and she deserved to wear that flawless white as she had not had sexual relations with any man. Not since she was very young, anyway, but that didn’t count. That was none of anyone’s business. She had since reclaimed her virginity. For over two decades she had saved herself for her beloved husband, and now she had finally found him. Soon they would be together. There were just a few more preparations to make, some of them easy, some more difficult. There were books to study, items to purchase, chores to tackle. She was in the midst of finishing one of those chores now, and with so much more to do she knew she should get on with it.
Suzie pulled another clear sheet of Glad Wrap across the kitchen bench. With her nose wrinkled in distaste, she reached into the bucket and took the left arm. It was heavy and stiff, but at least most of the blood had already drained out into the bathtub. She wrapped it once from fingertip to shoulder joint.
Another sheet.
Darn it.
She was running out of Glad Wrap. What if she only got through half? Suzie continued, her eyes averted from what she was doing. She let her fingers do the work, wrapping and tying off. Wrapping and tying. She felt sure she was as efficient as any butcher.
‘I can’t wait until we’re together…I think about it every day in here,’ he’d said.
And I think about you too, my love, she thought as she put the arm aside and reached for her brother’s head.
When Makedde Vanderwall sauntered into the dimly lit hotel bar, Andy Flynn was the first to look up. Her distinctive crown of blonde hair caught his eye as she appeared through the doorway from the main foyer, standing tall in long black pants and a simple toffee-coloured top that matched her fair hair. She had a dark trench coat over one arm and a small handbag slung over her shoulder, and her quick blue-green eyes surveyed the patrons of the bar from one side of the room to the other. Many of them had noted her entrance and surveyed her right back. Andy noticed some poor hubby a couple of tables away get a jab in the ribs for looking at her too long. He hoped Mak hadn’t seen that. She would have hated it.
Makedde stood in the entrance until she spotted their familiar faces, by which time Gerry had eyed her and was walking forward to greet her. A barman had also been moving towards her, presumably to ask if she needed any help, but was robbed of the opportunity at the last minute when she strode past him, his assistance unnecessary. Andy felt his throat tighten as she approached. He took a quick swig of his drink to mask his nerves. The ice cubes clinked in the glass as he put it down, and when he looked up she was there, Makedde, standing by their table. He rose to greet her.
‘Mak-deeVanderwall,’ he heard the young solicitor saying, mispronouncing her name. ‘I’m Gerry Hartwell. I hope you’ve recovered from your flight?’
Mak nodded, politely ignoring his gaffe. She looked unreasonably attractive, that never seemed to change. Andy found it hard to draw his eyes from the lines of her face, her cheekbones, the shape of her lips with that plump pout in the centre.
‘Her name is pronounced Ma-Kay-Dee,’ Andy interjected, all eyes turning to him.
In her high-heeled boots Mak stood level with his six foot four. She was one tall woman who never seemed ashamed of her stature.
‘Andy,’ she said in a low voice, acknowledging him.
He reached out and shook her hand in a formal manner that felt aberrant to him, far from the passionate kiss goodbye they had shared in Vancouver a mere six months earlier. She returned his impersonal handshake with a strong grip, her eyes looking into his with a steady, almost challenging glare.
Gerry appeared to be blushing a little. A couple of his pimples had turned a
brighter shade of pink. ‘Oh, of course. Sorry, yes. Makedde. It’s an unusual name, isn’t it?’
You know all this, Gerry, Andy thought with irritation. Stop falling all over yourself in front of her.
‘Um…This is Senior Constable Mahoney, Detective Senior Constable Cassimatis and Detective Senior Sergeant Flynn—’
At least he remembers all our names. ‘Uh, we’ve met,’ Andy said.
‘Yes, we’ve all met,’ Mak confirmed, saying a quick hello all round.
Obviously we’ve met. Obviously we’ve done more than just meet. Which was why the prosecution was a little unhappy, to put it mildly. There is nothing more likely to cast doubt on a rock-solid criminal case than bringing up the issue of inappropriate relationships during those brutal cross-examinations in the witness box. And it had all been very inappropriate between Andy and her—hence his subtle sidelining in the case. Just another of the many reasons he would have to act very cool in Makedde’s presence now.
They all sat down, settling into place and trying to look relaxed, leaning on elbows, crossing and uncrossing legs. He noticed Gerry pat his hair a few times in what he guessed was an unsuccessful attempt to smooth its wayward wiriness. He was perhaps five-six, overweight and still plagued by acne in his late twenties. Andy saw his eyes move over Makedde occasionally when she wasn’t looking. He guessed that Gerry had never been in the same room as a former Sports Illustrated model before, let alone one with an intimidating IQ and a PhD in forensic psychology within her grasp. If the guy started drooling or convulsing he would have to take him outside.
Andy knew what most of them were thinking as they awkwardly sipped their drinks. How is she holding up? How will she fare in the witness stand? How will Granger present his defence? He guessed that Gerry might be thinking of something else altogether.
Mak was speaking to Mahoney. ‘Thanks so much for coming to get me at the airport.’
‘My pleasure, Mak. No probs at all.’
Senior Constable Karen Mahoney, a young detective in training, had been one of the first at the crime scene after Mak had found her friend Catherine sliced up in the grass at La Perouse. She was a good cop with a bright future in the police force, and she and Mak seemed to be getting along very well. Perhaps too well. What has Mahoney been telling her about me? Andy wondered.
‘I’m glad we won’t be seeing ourselves on the news tonight.’ Mahoney let out a good-natured laugh and pretended to fluff her red curls. ‘I wasn’t looking my best.’
Now Jimmy laughed, and Makedde too. Mahoney was a good icebreaker.
‘That could have been awkward,’ Mak said.
Andy had not told anyone he had been at the airport, and he wasn’t planning to spill the beans now.
‘Skata! Those dickheads shouldn’t have known when you were coming in,’ Andy’s long-time police partner, Jimmy, added with his usual candour. He was built like a teddy bear, fur included, and he had a certain unrefined charm that endeared him to Andy, though not always to everyone else. ‘Oh, sorry,’ he said, looking at the ladies at the table. ‘Pardon my colourful language.’
‘Scheisse, merde, mierda, skata, crap. It’s the same substance, no matter where you come from,’ Mak responded, not missing a beat.
Jimmy smiled broadly, clearly impressed that the girl could curse in German, French, Spanish and his native Greek. Gerry, on the other hand, seemed horrified, his fantasy probably shattered. ‘Yes, we should try to keep you as inaccessible to the media as possible,’ he said, at least seeming in control of his English. ‘There is a lot of public interest in the trial.’
When the waiter came over, Mak ordered a bourbon and coke, which made Andy smile and left the rest of the table speechless for a moment. The next twenty minutes consisted of mostly small talk, the alcohol providing the necessary social lubrication. They continued at the hotel restaurant—no one had wanted the responsibility of recommending a place—and surprisingly little was said about the trial. After all, Mak would have a full formal briefing with the prosecutor, William Bartel, QC, the following morning, and there had been no major changes in the way the case would be presented. ‘The prosecution has watertight forensic evidence and a cogent argument that Ed Brown is indeed the “Stiletto Murderer”—the man responsible for the death of all nine victims, and the same man who attacked you, Makedde,’ Gerry had said with his usual formality. He was a smart kid when all his blood wasn’t feeding the wrong part of his anatomy, though he was definitely a little awkward with personal relations. He’d even reeled off the names of the victims in correct chronological order—including Cassandra Flynn.
Luckily, Andy had been dulled enough by the bourbon and cokes that he had been ordering, one after another on par with Makedde, that he didn’t even wince when Gerry mentioned his late ex-wife. His partner, Jimmy, had given Andy a sideways glance to see if he was alright, and then wisely changed the subject.
Yes, there were many aspects to this case that Andy would rather just finish with and forget about. Many aspects of his life, actually.
Come to think of it, this case had practically become his life.
It was past eleven when Andy found himself face to face with Makedde in the hotel lobby, the rest of the group preparing to disperse after dinner.
‘I think Gerry’s in love with you,’ he said, smiling at her and wishing she would smile back.
Makedde didn’t laugh. Her arms were folded and her mouth was held tight. It devastated Andy to see just how unresponsive she was. If he didn’t know better he would think that he was a complete stranger to her.
‘Really,’ she finally replied, incredulous and seeming somewhat less tipsy than he was. ‘I see AA did you a lot of good.’
Oh, right to the bone every time.
‘The odd social drink, nothing more,’ he snapped. ‘You’re no teetotaller yourself.’
‘Not exactly. That’s true.’
Makedde looked past him to the others leaving the hotel. Jimmy was on his way home to his wife, Angie, and the kids. He waved goodbye, glaring in Andy’s direction before walking out the glass door. Don’t you do anything stupid, Andy, the look said. Gerry was headed for his car in the hotel parking lot, which he would no doubt drive home to a lonely apartment somewhere in the city, or wherever single solicitors went to lay their heads. Karen Mahoney had gone to use the ladies room, or the ‘sand box’ as she called it, and would probably be back any minute.
‘So, are you okay, Andy?’ Makedde asked. Her tone was flat and there was still no trace of a smile on her soft lips. ‘Is everything going well for you? Life good?’
My ex-wife was murdered, I almost lost my job over you and now you are finally here and you couldn’t be farther from me. What do you think? ‘Been better,’ he replied. ‘But yeah, I’m fine.’
‘Good. Me too,’ she said, and looked at the floor. He couldn’t read her. Damn, he couldn’t read her at all.
Mahoney appeared behind them. ‘Hey? How is everyone?’ Her red Irish curls quivered like springs. She was well aware of the past relationship between Mak and Andy. She had been there when the two first met at the La Perouse crime scene, before Andy’s whole life was turned upside down, and Makedde’s too, he supposed. Mahoney was probably trying her best to keep everything civil in case some emotional battle broke out between them, but Andy wished she’d go away and leave them alone. He wished Mak would invite him for another drink and a chance to talk, maybe invite him to her room the way she would have only a few months ago.
‘We’re fine, Karen,’ Mak said. ‘I should be going.’
‘Yup, getting late for a Tuesday night. Give me a call if you need anything, okay? Even just to chat or get together for a coffee.’
‘Okay, Karen. Thanks.’
Mak said goodnight and strolled off in the direction of the elevators, and Andy watched her walk away, his heart sinking like a stone in his chest. Before he had a chance to chase after her, Mahoney grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him towards the hotel exit, sen
sing his mood, and perhaps his blood–alcohol level.
‘I’m driving you home. Come on,’ she said. Andy was too befuddled to protest, and he allowed himself to be dragged away. He found he didn’t have much fight in him now that Makedde had looked through him as if he were an apparition.
Mak…
He had gone and broken the golden rule, he had mixed business with pleasure and he was still paying for it. It had been an accident at first, but quickly became more than that. Much more. In Andy’s defence, when they first found themselves in each other’s arms he was being dragged through an ugly divorce and Mak was a beautiful unattached young woman peripheral to the Stiletto Murders investigation. But then, of course, she had become much more important to the case—and to him. It had become a Class A fuck-up in every sense. If his superiors had not been so happy that the high-profile case had been resolved, he might have lost his job over the affair. As it was, he’d been kicked off the investigation, temporarily suspended, reinstated and then promoted in a way, thanks to successfully solving the murders and putting Ed Brown into custody.
What if they’d met under different circumstances? Would things have worked out more smoothly? Was Makedde yet another sacrifice for his career? Like Cassandra?
‘You’re never home any more, honey. I feel like I’m widowed.’
He had already sacrificed so much.
Why’d he have to care about Makedde so goddamn much when she clearly had finished with him?
And Ed’s defence team would just be getting started.
CHAPTER 6
Eleven o’clock on Tuesday night, past lights out, and the dark corridors of Long Bay Correctional Centre were peaceful in the wing where those in solitary confinement lay their heads. As peaceful as could be, at least. Robbie Thompson, the convicted paedophile, flinched in his sleep, and ‘Dirty’ Victor Malmstrom mumbled incoherently, conversing in his dreams with someone safe from his violence—for now at least. Luigi Valleto, an underworld price on his head, tossed and turned, racked with insomnia. Half-a-dozen other men dozed quietly in the darkness of their cells, snuggled into the canvas sheets that prevented suicide.