Fetish (16 page)

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.”

“What happened?”

“After shooting one roll of film, he sent her home. She didn’t find anything suspicious in his flat, no bondage gear, nothing. Just stacks of porn, and a bit of lingerie.”

“Well, being a sleazebag doesn’t mean you’re a killer, otherwise you’d have to arrest half the photographers in Milan,” Makedde said.

“That bad?”

She rolled her eyes. “You have
no
idea. That kind of photographer doesn’t load his camera until the
clothes come off. This Filles guy probably didn’t even take any photos of Karen.”

“They do that?”

“Oh, yeah. They wouldn’t want to waste their precious film.” She paused. “Let’s not go there. Any priors or motive?” Andy stared at her. “What now?” she asked impatiently.

“Sometimes you sound just like a cop. Was this the dinner conversation at your house, or what?”

Makedde laughed. Her father had tried to keep his ongoing cases out of the dinner conversation, but, much to the chagrin of her mother, he couldn’t seem to help himself. It was pretty much all he had to talk about, and Makedde supposed that she didn’t help matters by egging him on. Her mother and her younger sister, Theresa, would sit in silent disapproval, leaving the table as soon as possible. But her father’s stories never put Mak off her food.

“Just answer the question, Detective,” she said, pushing Andy back onto the bed and pinning him down.

“Yes, he has priors.” Andy paused. “I really don’t like these crank calls you’re getting.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing.” Mak straddled his naked hips and leant over him.

He tried to maintain his serious tone. “I don’t like the way you keep getting yourself involved in this.”

“Don’t worry about me. Just find the guy.”

“Easier said than done—on both accounts.”

“Any other leads, Mr Detective?” she asked, running a finger down his chest. She wanted to pin him down and keep him there. She wanted to take control. Makedde had forgotten how great it was to feel sexy, and she felt like a girl with a new toy.

“A couple…” He couldn’t keep his eyes from her breasts. “We’re still keeping Tony Thomas under pressure. A lot of dead ends—Oh, will you stop that? That tickles!”

She laughed and rolled off him.

Andy faced her, the humour gone from his eyes. “This guy, whoever he is, is a seriously sadistic bastard.”

“All the more reason to make sure he’s stopped right away,” she said. “What if you tried setting this Rick guy up with another model?”

He got her drift. “No, no. Makedde, get this stuff out of your head! You promised me you’d back off if I told you what we were doing.”

“But I could do a much better job—”

Andy gently covered her mouth with his hand, cutting her off mid-sentence. “Promise me,
promise me
, you won’t get involved. Let me handle this.”

She slowly nodded her head, and he removed his hand.

“Sorry,” he said. “You just can’t put yourself in danger like that. We’ve got an entire task force
working on this. We’ll catch him. I would never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

“Well, as long as you and your police pals take care of things, I won’t need to. But don’t blame me if I have to arrest someone—”

“What?”

Makedde smiled to let him know she was kidding.

“Impossible,” he muttered and tried to roll on top of her, but she flipped him onto his back and straddled him again, pinning his arms back. He grinned at her, visibly aroused by her assertiveness. “You are uncooperative, aren’t you?” he teased. The grin was wiped off his face when she reached under the bed and produced his handcuffs.

“What the—”

In seconds she succeeded in manacling his wrists. She snapped them on hard like a cop, and he winced at the brief pain. “I hope you have the keys,” she said. His eyes were wide. She’d been dying for the right moment, and now she had the big, strong detective naked and at her mercy, her favourite fantasy realised. Well, almost. Sean Connery in
Dr No
was her favourite, but this was a close second.

His mouth hung open in shock, a look she found titillating from such close quarters. She kept his bound arms pinned above his head, stretching his shoulders back. His underarm hair was soft and dark, and she inhaled his scent before devouring his
vulnerable body with kisses and playful bites. His nipples went hard, and she played with them with her tongue while he writhed.

He cleared his throat. “So, ah, you like to—”

“You talk too much, Detective,” she said, cutting him off with a firm hand over his mouth.

He didn’t protest.

Detective Flynn floated into the office on Monday morning, blithely unprepared for what was in store for him. He could taste Makedde on his lips, and his thoughts were still leisurely reclining with her in her bed. She had surprised him; she possessed a fiery sense of adventure but also a hidden vulnerability. Contradictory, that was the word for her. He was also excited about the new lead, thanks to the ring Makedde had found. It seemed that Mr Tiney Jr had lied to them. He
did
know Catherine. Andy looked forward to sitting that rich prick down in the interview room and putting the ring on the table in front of him. There’d be some frantic backtracking then.

It took a few moments for Andy to register the tense silence that pervaded the office. He wandered through, his usual steaming brew in one hand, and his pace slowed as he picked up on the foreboding atmosphere. His colleagues were looking up from their desks as he passed, their faces communicating unspoken pity. Something was very wrong. By the
time Andy reached his desk, his mood had started to sour.

Jimmy rushed over. “Kelley wants to see you right away. I don’t know who told him…”

Andy walked towards Inspector Kelley’s office in a surreal daze, Jimmy’s words fading like a distant echo in his head. He knocked lightly on his mentor’s door, and a dispassionate, “Come in,” was the only response. The Detective Inspector was looking out the window, and he didn’t turn to greet him. Even by Kelley’s reserved standards, this reception was unusually cool. The hot seat was pulled back from the desk, waiting.

Andy started to speak but Inspector Kelley cut him off. “Sit down, Flynn.” The chair creaked loudly as Andy sat. “You have something you want to talk to me about?”

“No sir,” Andy replied, momentarily puzzled. “Well yes, I have some new information about James Tiney Jr, but Jimmy told me you had something you—”

“I
really
think you have something you want to explain to me. And it better be damn good, Flynn.”

“Well, sir…if it’s about the headline on the soap star, it couldn’t be helped. We all knew it wouldn’t take the press long to pick up on it—”

He was cut off again. “You’ve become involved with a witness. You’ve compromised this investigation,”
Kelley said to the window with chilling detachment. “I can’t tell you how disappointed I am.”

Andy looked at the back of Kelley’s head, wishing he could somehow reverse his mistake. How could he be so stupid to risk everything over a girl? “I’m sorry, sir. It was bad judgment on my part…”

“I’m taking you off the case.”

Andy was stunned. “But sir—” he began feebly.

“The decision has been made. I’ve saved your arse before, but that was different. I can’t sweep this under the carpet. We, and by that I mean you, are under a lot of scrutiny in this investigation.”

A year earlier, Andy had beat a suspected paedophile to a pulp in a blind rage. He had since found better ways to deal with his temper, at least some of the time. Kelley covered up the incident, probably because he secretly agreed with the justice of it, but sleeping with a witness was just plain sloppy. Andy knew that nothing he could say would change a thing, not once Kelley made up his mind. He had officially screwed up the biggest investigation of his career.

Andy stared hard at Inspector Kelley’s beautiful old, carved oak desk. It was part of a distant world he would never reach, a future pulled out from under his feet.

Kelley turned his eyes to his fallen protégé for one last moment. That look lasted no more than two
seconds, but its imprint lingered. “You have some vacation time coming, Flynn. Take it. I’ll put you on something else when I think you’re ready.”

Andy felt a sour lump in his throat. “But sir, if I can just explain—”

“Your gun.”

They were two words Andy never thought he would hear. He rose from his seat and pulled back his suit jacket to remove his Glock nine millimetre. He slowly placed it on the desktop. He knew he should have been grateful that he hadn’t been directly suspended, or had his badge taken away, but being taken off the case seemed like punishment enough.

With a disappointed wave of his hand Kelley gestured for him to leave, and continued to stare at the passing cars outside the building.

Andy left without another word.

JT sat behind his immaculate desk and unwrapped his lunch—smoked salmon with capers, horseradish and iceberg lettuce on rye. They’d got it right this time. Perhaps his complaints had convinced them to fire the incompetent staff.

It was shaping up to be a good day. It had been over a week since Catherine’s murder and the police still had no idea. That note she’d scrawled was a close call, though. How could he have been so stupid as to use the company account to book the room? Sure, it was a tax write-off, but it was also lazy on his part. He would have to be more careful in the future. But even with all that, the police didn’t have any damning evidence. He was confident they had believed his story. Perhaps the ring would never be found. That thought made him smile as he bit into his sandwich.

Invading his quiet moment, his secretary’s voice crackled over the intercom. “There’s a call for you on line two, Mr Tiney—”

“Rose, for God’s sake, I’m eating my lunch!” Little
bits of bread and horseradish flew from his mouth. “Take a message!”

“Sorry, sir. The man says it’s important. It’s a Mr Hand.”

JT sat up straight, put the sandwich down and nervously wiped the corners of his mouth. “Yes, Rose. Thanks, I’ll take the call.”

“Hello?”

“This is Mr Hand,” Luther’s gruff voice came through the line. “I have good news. The lover-cop is taking a vacation.”

“A vacation?”

“Yeah, and a gift has been delivered to the lady, which should have the desired result.”

A tingle ran down JT’s spine. Perhaps Luther was worth the expense after all. “Good. Good work. Do I need to know more?”

“It’s all taken care of.”

JT didn’t want to know the details. He didn’t want to be sullied any further with the whole sordid affair, he just wanted results, and it seemed that he was finally getting them.

“Thank you,” he said.

The phone went dead.

Makedde held the envelope cautiously between two fingers, sensing something malicious before even opening it—the way only her first name was typed in block letters on the front, the way it had been hand delivered, waiting menacingly for her under the door. She could see that it contained a photo…no, a laser copy of a photo. She pulled the piece of paper out slowly, holding the corner in pinched fingers. It looked familiar. It was a slightly grainy copy of a photo from her modelling composite card, but it was somehow different…

Her eyes widened.

It was a photo of Makedde,
dead.

She was wearing a bikini, or at least she should have been. It was hard to tell if there were any clothes at all in this version of the photograph. Her flesh was torn with streaks of blood and gore. Her pupils had been scratched out, rendered as little more than grey, lifeless globes.

Makedde dropped the photo and it fluttered to and fro in the air as it fell to the floor. She gripped
her churning stomach and held her throat tightly as dry heaves of revulsion overwhelmed her. The typed message burned into her eyes. She turned and tried to blink it away, but it remained. Black, bold ink on red flesh:

Makedde called Andy’s mobile number, her hands sweating. The phone rang at least ten times before an eerily robotic voice told her, “This call is being transferred to another line. Please hold.”
Where the hell is he?
His message kicked in, “This is Detective Flynn. I’m not available at the moment. Please leave a message and I’ll return your call.”

“Ah, it’s me,” she said vaguely. “It’s Monday, um…” she looked at her watch, “four o’clock. Call me. It’s urgent.” She hoped she wouldn’t get him in trouble by leaving the message. He had told her not to, because it was a work pager, but surely he’d understand when he found out what had happened.

With the photo staring up at her, the threat to her safety seemed suddenly undeniably concrete. She was no longer convinced that the break-in had been unrelated and she began to wonder again about the furniture.
Had it really moved?

She called her agency in a panic, but Charles clearly didn’t understand the urgency. “You want to move
now
?” he asked distractedly.

“Yes, it has to be right away. Do you have any other flats available?” She knew how hard it was to find furnished accommodations, but she had to try.

“Hmm. It depends on how many girls you want to share with. I think there’ll be a vacancy in the Potts Point one next week.” They frequently had up to six travelling models staying in one agency-owned flat at a time.

“Next week? I really need to move now.”

“What’s the problem?”

She couldn’t tell him. She didn’t want to tell him. She didn’t want to tell anyone except Andy. “Never mind, I just…Could you get me a place to stay as soon as possible?”

“It’s not that easy, but I’ll see what I can do.”

She couldn’t afford a hotel. Once she got hold of Andy, perhaps he could help her find a new place. Maybe she could even stay with him for a while. That wasn’t such an unpleasant thought.

She paced the room, waiting for the phone to ring.

I’ll be fine. I can protect myself.

Grab the coconut off the tree, crack it open on your knee…

Impatient, she called Andy, but got his pager again.
He’ll call back soon
, she told herself. Just kick back and relax. Read the paper, watch television. He’ll call any minute and then you can get out of here. She pulled the protective plastic off her neighbour’s rolled newspaper.
They never collected their mail, so she assumed they were on vacation
. Wise idea.
She unrolled the paper and laid it across the bed. The front-page headline was chilling.

SOAP STAR MURDERED

Television star Becky Ross, who went missing after the launch of her own fashion label on Thursday, was found murdered in Centennial Park yesterday. Sources believe she is the fourth victim of the “Stiletto Killer”…

Horrified, she dropped the paper, then kicked it off the bed, as if the truth would disappear if only she didn’t read about it.

…
fourth victim of the “Stiletto Killer”…

…went missing after the launch of her own fashion label…

How could that be? Dead? Just days ago, Mak was modelling her clothes, sharing the catwalk with her. And now she was dead. So that’s what Andy was called away for. Why didn’t he tell her?

The phone rang, and she snapped it up. “Andy—”

“Makedde, it’s Charles. I may have something for you, but you can only stay there for three weeks—”

“Oh my God! Thank you!”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Oh, that’s great news. When can I move in?”

“There’s one available in Bronte, it belongs to one of our models, Deni. She’s in Europe. She could use the rent money.”

Fantastic.

Within fifteen minutes she was out the door and out of breath, dragging her bulging suitcases into a taxi and leaving the horrible newspaper behind.