Fetish (21 page)

“James Tiney Jr please,” Luther snarled into the phone, feeling odd having to hold the receiver to his right ear instead of his left. He stared at his reflection in a small shaving mirror, examining the bandage covering his left ear. A spot of blood was leaking through it.

“Who may I ask is calling?” queried the receptionist.

“Tell him it’s Mr Hand, and it’s important.”

“Oh, I see. One moment please.”

Luther didn’t feel patient. Not at all. JT hadn’t been straight with him. He had some serious explaining to do.

After a few moments, JT’s irritating voice came on the line. “Yes. What’s going on?”

“I’m only going to ask you this once,” Luther stated firmly. “Who else do you have working this assignment?”

“What—”

“Don’t make me ask you again.”

“N-n-no…no one else. Why? What’s happened?”

“I’m dropping the job.”

“You what?!”

“You’re not being straight with me. And here I was about to do you a big favour,” Luther hissed angrily. “You screwed up.”

“What are you talking about? Why did I need an alibi last night? I fought with my wife all night because of you. I’m going through hell here because you didn’t find the ring, and you’re giving
me
grief!”

“You know what I’m talking about. There’s too much heat now. Consider us even.”

“B-b-but…but what about the payments I made?” JT sounded pathetic, stuttering like a spoilt child who wasn’t getting what he wanted. “You didn’t do the job! She’s still in town. The police got the ring and now I’m fucked! You can’t do this to me. What about the money I gave you?”

“Consider it payment for my ear.”

“What? Hey, I want my money back!”

“Have a whinge to Consumer Affairs.”

Luther hung up the phone, ignoring JT’s snivelling protests. Controlling his irritation with deep breathing, he pulled the mirror closer. Blood soaked the new bandage. If the cops found part of his ear at the scene, they could match it. He couldn’t afford to be questioned about anything. Maybe it was a good time to head north again. He could use the sunshine.

There was a surprise waiting for Makedde when she got home. A man was sitting on her stairs, staring at her. One dim light over the front door cast a faint glow across a cheek, the other side of his face was in darkness. He was smiling.

Andy Flynn looked haggard. It was as if he had just stepped out of a tumble-dryer. How long had he been waiting in the cold wind? She wasn’t disarmed by the innocent look of defeat on his face.

“Makedde, I was hoping you’d come home soon. I really need to talk to you,” he said. “I just need you to know that I didn’t do it,” he continued. “I could never do something like that.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea that we meet like this,” she managed to say.
Don’t get him angry.
“Maybe we could—”

“No.” He cut her off aggressively. “Please…I
need
to talk, just for a moment.”

“Why don’t we get a coffee then, and talk about it—there’s a place just around the corner. We can get out of this wind.” He didn’t respond for a moment.
She had to get them out of the empty street. She had to get them in public. “Come on, it’s not far.”

Minutes later they were seated at a table in a Bronte café that she had passed on her walk home. It overlooked the now darkened beach through a huge pane of glass. The waves were crashing angrily on the shore. A storm was brewing, but the rain had temporarily ceased. Makedde rubbed her hands to warm up.

“OK,” she said, “why don’t we start at the beginning. One minute we can’t keep our hands off each other, the next minute you won’t return my calls.”

Andy sat there for a moment, silent and hunched.

But then, like a helium balloon that begins to drop and pucker after too many hours, the aggression seemed to leak out of him. He was slowly collapsing in front of her.

“You have a really terrible habit of turning up unannounced. You do realise that, don’t you?”

He offered her a weak, “Sorry.” Then he seemed to come back from somewhere. He chose his words with care, “I fear I…may have put you in danger.”

It was not the kind of reply she was expecting.

“You’ve put me in danger?” she asked the messed up part in his hair.

“Inadvertently,” he added without looking up.

“Inadvertently? Like your wife, you mean?”

He tilted his head. His eyes were sad and weary. “Yes.”

“Forgive me if I don’t take that well, considering what happened to her.”

The waitress placed their drinks gently on the table and quickly disappeared. Makedde watched as Andy cupped his hands around his black coffee and closed his eyes. Perhaps there was no reason to fear him at all. It was time to find out.

“I’m not a murderer,” he declared. “I didn’t kill any of those poor women, and I certainly didn’t kill my own wife. But I believe that whoever did knows how far I am willing to go to catch him, and he’s trying to get me out of the way.”

“You mean the killer tried to frame you?”

“Yes. Cassandra was just a tool for him, a way of getting to me. That’s why you may be in danger…If he knows about us he may try to use you next.”

Was it that simple? A set-up?

“Do you have any reason to believe that he’s after me?”

“Only what you told Jimmy. We can’t know for sure, but it got me thinking.”

“They aren’t going to do anything to protect me though, are they?”

“No. They can’t. Even if they wanted to, there isn’t enough evidence to justify the manpower.”

No surprise there.
Why didn’t I save the mutilated
photo?
“So let me just clarify something here. You had nothing to do with the death of your wife? You were framed?”

“I swear.”

“And where were you when she was killed?”

“I was alone, drunk and miserable in a house at Lane Cove where I went the moment I was suspended Monday morning.” His eyes pleaded for trust.

“But you can’t prove it.”

“No.”

Uh huh.
“What were you doing at Lane Cove?”

“I had to get away. It’s a little investment property. We had a tenant in it at one point.”

Mak was still sceptical. “So, if it was your place then why didn’t the police just contact you there? They were searching for you, you know.”

“It was Cassandra’s place actually, and it’s still in her name. She was going to transfer the title to me as part of the divorce settlement. She got the Woollahra house, which is worth more. I couldn’t stand the thought of living in it, so Lane Cove was fine.”

“And the kitchen knife?” she asked, continuing her interrogation.

“Stolen.”

“The blood?”

He offered her his right hand, and flexed the thumb out as if he were asking for a lift. “See that
cut?” Her eyes rested on a thin gash. “It’s thanks to your lecture on the benefits of fresh fruit and veggies.”

She remembered their first date and her silly comment. She doubted it would have had any effect on his eating habits. “When?”

“Saturday. It’s the only explanation I can think of.”

The only excuse you can think of?

“And that was the last time you used the knife?”

“Yes. I left it in the sink. I was with you after that. When I left for Lane Cove on Monday I didn’t take a lot of stuff with me. I had no idea how long I’d stay. I just needed to cool off. Escape. I don’t know if the knife was gone by then. All I know is it wasn’t there yesterday. It was lying beside Cassandra’s body.”

“Something I still don’t get; if you don’t live at the Woollahra house with Cassandra, and you had to pack some stuff to go to the Lane Cove house, where are you living?”

“I’ve been staying at the Holt Hotel. It’s a crappy little place in the Cross. That’s why I never wanted to take you there. With this case, I haven’t had the time to properly move.”

“Is Jimmy still heading the investigation?” she asked.

“The Stiletto Murders, yes, but they’ve got someone else handling Cassandra’s death. Jimmy thinks I’m innocent, to my face at least, but there are a lot of people who think I used my knowledge of
the crimes to do a copycat. For all I know, some jumped-up little prick is dedicating every spare moment of his time to finding a hole in my alibis for the other deaths, too.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t really know, to be honest. I don’t know how, but I’ve got to catch this guy. It’s the only way I can prove my innocence. They have a new lead on Catherine’s case but they won’t tell me anything about it. I have officially been off the case since Monday. Even Jimmy won’t let on.” He sighed. “I don’t know what they think I’d do. Even if I could find this guy right now and beat a confession out of him, it wouldn’t mean diddly-squat.”

It sounded like something he’d tried before. “Did Jimmy give you the impression it was a good lead?”

“Not necessarily. Just something new. If it was solid enough they would be all over it, and they aren’t.”

“They’re all over you.”

“Exactly.”

They smiled together for the first time in what seemed like an eternity.

“You look tired. You must have had a hell of a week,” she offered.

“You could say that. I’m really sorry I didn’t call you. I have no excuse, but the longer I stayed out there, the more I didn’t want to talk to anyone.”

“Least of all, a woman,” she added, pointedly.

“I guess so,” he admitted.

His manner was so strange. It was like someone had knocked the wind out of his sails. She wanted to say that she understood, but she would be lying. Things could never be the same again. She looked down and saw that her cup was empty. She needed to get home and think about what he had said, without him around to influence her.

“It’s late. I should get to bed.”

“I’ll walk you to your door—if that’s all right.”

“Sure.”

The night was stormy and electric as they walked back, dark clouds moving over them, heavy with rain.

“Thanks for hearing me out,” he said, when they reached her door.

She stepped away from him and wished him a goodnight. He seemed to sense her caution, and respect it. It was good to have talked with him, to have heard his side.

But on which side lay the truth?

Cold rain fell heavily upon him; branches bent and strained in the wind, bowing as he passed silently through the streets. Black-clad, he moved with well-practised feline stealth. His mother’s cat, Spade, who he had studied for so many years, moved with a similar agile grace.

Makedde’s car was easy to find—the words “Lowe-Rent” were printed in tacky blue lettering on a sticker on the rear windscreen. It was parallel parked tightly between two older looking cars a block away from her Bronte flat.

He considered himself a careful planner and there was no doubt that this new scheme would work. All he needed to do was be patient, and he could be very patient when he wanted to be. This time there would be no meddling oaf to surprise him and ruin his moment. Whoever the competition had been, he was sure the man wouldn’t return.

He stopped a few feet from the car and glanced up and down the quiet street, listening, assessing. Nothing. Only wind, rain, and rustling trees. Everything had to be perfect, just like last time. No mistakes.

He was truly proud of the creativity he had expressed with his last girls. They had been so weak in the end, whimpering, begging. Soft skin stained with tears and blood. Beautiful. Makedde would be the ultimate. Fate brought them together, fate that was written in the features of her face. She would be an important possession; the tenth shoe, a symbolic number.

The police made him laugh. Five? They were so inept, so deluded.

Number ten.

She can’t be rushed.

Satisfied he was alone, he removed a small flashlight and a pair of pliers from his bag. Holding both in one hand, he laid himself flat on the wet asphalt and shuffled under the front of the car, ignoring the steady rain soaking his legs. He switched the flashlight on. He was under the engine block. With a trained eye, he quickly found the starter motor wires and disconnected them. He then neatly tucked them up out of sight.

Flashlight switched off, he wriggled out from under the car. It had taken less than sixty seconds.
Very good
. His clothes were gritty and soaked. The street was still empty. He felt buoyant as he walked back to his van. He would wait for his prize in the wee hours of the morning, right through the day if necessary. Wait in the shadows until the moment was perfect.

And it
would
be perfect…soon.

At 8 a.m. the next morning Makedde dialled Jimmy’s number. She wanted to find out about the new lead Andy had mentioned, but she also wanted to discuss a hunch she had about the car she kept seeing. A clue had come to her in her dreams. She was sure of it. Andy was following her. But why? Why didn’t he mention it? He had complained about Cassandra having the Honda, and now he had it back. How far had he gone to get it? Had he followed her all day, and then waited at her front door? And there was something else. He claimed the cut on his right thumb had been caused by chopping fruit with the knife that was later used to kill his wife.

But Andy was right-handed.

She walked out onto the porch and watched the Bronte waves. Makedde planned on leaving in two weeks, at the very latest. Her family would never forgive her if she wasn’t home for the birth of her sister’s first baby. She had promised herself that she wouldn’t leave until Catherine’s killer had been found. She would hate to go home with her tail
between her legs, a failure. No, she would stay just two weeks longer, then she would be satisfied that she had done all she could.

The phone rang. Automatically, she ripped it out of its cradle, “Jimmy—”

“Hi Makedde, this is Suzy from Book.”

Suzy?
“Sorry, I was expecting someone else.”

“How soon can you get into the city?”

“Uh…Twenty minutes if I cab it. Why?”

“A girl has phoned in sick. They’re waiting for someone right now for an
ELLE
fashion shoot. Four hours. Half-day editorial rate.”

“Great.”
ELLE
would make excellent tear-sheets to add to her portfolio. Suzy gave her the address and Makedde called a taxi as soon as she hung up. Suzy? There were so many bookers, and she didn’t remember half of their names. Suzy was probably the one with the red, curly hair. Within minutes, the taxi had arrived and with her portfolio and make-up shoved in a bag slung over one shoulder, Makedde barrelled down the stairs and headed for what would be her last job in Sydney.

Andy Flynn could have sworn his colleagues moved away from him when he stepped into the elevator. The two constables to his left turned their backs when he got in, and the Chinese-Australian girl
from forensics who was stuck on the other side of him looked very uncomfortable being caught in the same car. She averted her eyes and practically jumped when Andy made a tiny movement.

Welcome to reality. The men and women who made up the force that he was part of, or
had
been part of, were now treating him like a leper. Guilty until proven innocent. Didn’t they know he had an alibi for the murders of those women? But his alibi for the other crimes wasn’t enough. They probably thought he killed his wife and staged it to look like the others. None of them seemed to have much trouble swallowing the idea, either. Those who didn’t know better tended to treat cops who specialised in serial killings with suspicion. Studying with the FBI had raised him in the ranks, but it had alienated him too.

The old elevator rattled its way up to his floor at an interminable pace. When he finally stepped out he thought he heard the other passengers exhale with relief. Andy didn’t want trouble. He only came because he needed to know the test results. No one had returned his calls, not even Jimmy, and he was tired of being dicked around.

Examining his footwear was ridiculous, and Andy had told them as much. He maintained he was framed, and if that were true, the tests would prove nothing. He had old boots he hadn’t worn in years, anyone could have taken a pair along with a knife.
They could have tracked them through his wife’s blood and returned them to the pile. It would have been easy.

Andy walked into the Homicide office and saw that Jimmy wasn’t around and most of the detectives were out. Inspector Kelley was there though, and looked surprised to see him.

“Uh, Flynn. What are you doing here? You know the footwear tests have been delayed.” “Oh, great,” Andy said with an irritated frown.

“Something’s come up,” Kelley said, sounding a little more sympathetic. “We’re no longer focusing our investigation on the weapon and shoe prints in your wife’s murder.”

“Are you trying to say that I’m no longer a suspect?”

Kelley’s face hardened. “I’m not saying anything at this point. What are you doing here?”

“I just wanted to find out about the tests. Don’t worry, I’m not planning on sticking around.”

“I hope this situation is sorted out soon,” Kelley said, then disappeared down the hallway. It seemed Kelley didn’t quite know how to treat a persona non grata. No one did.

Andy started to leave, but stopped when he spotted Jimmy coming out of the elevator. His long-time partner did a double take, then signalled a distracted hello to Andy and walked right past him to answer a
ringing phone on his desk. Andy watched as Jimmy mumbled into his phone. The secrecy was driving him crazy.

“Skata! What do you mean you lost him!” Jimmy suddenly screamed into the earpiece. His olive skin turned beet and veins started popping out on his neck. “How’s that possible?” The sentence was punctuated by his fist hitting the desk. Jimmy slammed the receiver down. Someone’s ears would be ringing.

“Oi, Jimmy. What was that about? Lost who?”

“Oh, skata! This is a mess!” he whispered. “I never believed you could do it, mate. So, I kept my eye out for someone who might have it in for you. Someone who would want to frame you, like you’d said. There was this guy at the bar,” he went on, “Ed Brown. We just put him under surveillance and he’s pulled a fast one.” Jimmy rubbed his face with shaking hands. “Oh fuck, we lost him…”

Andy was barely able to take in the rest of what Jimmy was saying. He felt ill. They had found the Stiletto Killer and then they had lost him.

It got worse. “He made a call before he took off,” Jimmy said. “We had the tracer on. It was to Makedde.”

Andy didn’t have to say a word—his expression said it all. He was back on the case, whether their Inspector liked it or not.

“Kelley’ll have my head for this. Oh, fuck it.” Jimmy reached down to a steel security drawer and pulled out a gun. He handed it to Andy without hesitation. “We’re looking for a ’76 VW van. Blue. I’ll fill you in while we drive.”