The Mak Collection (54 page)

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 can 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.

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.

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.

She couldn’t be late for Dr Morgan.

Makedde picked up her Starbucks Venti-size latte off the make-up table and shook the container. Half empty. Half full? She brought it to her lips and tilted it back. Cold coffee. Her mouth left a big peachy lipstick stain on the lid.

She thought about Roy. She thought about Andy.

What a complete mess.

The sound of large but graceful feet approaching her pulled her out of her thoughts…
Don’t think about any of that right now
…She spun around to meet the wardrobe stylist, Serge, as he approached with a white Nike sports bra and Lycra pants bearing the
“Swoosh”. The colourful tags hung cheerily, oblivious to her time constraints, or her man troubles.

“Makedde,” Serge said, stopping less than two feet from her and holding out the clothes. “Last outfit, then fini.” His distinctive accent was French-Canadian peppered with the occasional dash of Japanese. An odd mix. Instead of pronouncing her name “Ma-kay-dee” as it was meant to be, he said it like “Maka-dee” as if she were some kind of sushi.

“The last one?” she asked.

Serge was bald, gay and beautiful, and he’d clothed himself in head-to-toe Versus Versace, or a very good knock-off, she wasn’t sure. Simultaneously, they turned their heads to the clothing rack a few feet to their right. She counted six colour-coordinated outfits—grey, dark-blue, light-blue, red, red and grey, and finally black and grey. She was still wearing the seventh and the eighth was now in her hand.

“
Oui.
The last one,” he confirmed.

His eyelashes were long and dyed jet-black, and she found herself momentarily mesmerised by their movement—like watching black butterflies flutter gracefully.

“Just so you know, I really should leave here in thirty minutes, max. I have an important appointment.”

“Audition?”

Mak could only translate his query as far as “Ah, Dijon?” which made little sense in their non-deli environs.

“Pardon?”

“
Audition
?” This time it was clear.

“Uh…yeah,” she said vaguely. Something like that.

Serge assumed she was a fledgling actor. People often did. They credited Makedde with movie-star looks and seemed to assume that it somehow came hand in hand with the desire or ability to act. Model-turned-actors were common in Vancouver, or North Hollywood as it was sometimes called. Mak rarely bothered to correct the assumption any more, mostly because it inevitably brought up the topic of her studies. Her present job and her dreams of the future were seemingly incongruous, and she rarely spoke of one in the presence of the other. Like Kipling’s
Ballad of East and West
, never the twain shall meet.

Besides, correcting Serge would bring up the question of the true nature of her appointment, and she certainly wasn’t about to discuss that.

Just get this shoot over with and get on to making some progress.

Back in model-mode and avoiding conversation, she turned away from Serge and headed for the flimsy change room. In this case the change area wasn’t so much a room, but a small space divided from the rest of the studio by two tall slabs of styrofoam held together with black masking tape. Ah, the glamour. Posing for department store catalogues and changing behind
styrofoam wasn’t what she’d had in mind when she started modelling at fourteen, but here she was, over a decade later, doing just that.

There was a lone metal chair sitting in the tiny change space, and a wire hanger, bent out of shape, balancing from the seat back. A mangy-looking chartreuse scarf had been folded over the hanger, and Mak could read the label from where she stood:
100% Polyester. Made in Hong Kong. Fashion TV’
s Jeanne Becker once described the colour as “fashion designer green”. Today it didn’t look very fashionable.

She stripped off the black athletic top and shorts she had just modelled, and for a moment stood naked, save for a bland, skin-coloured G-string—the uniform model undergarment. She took the change scarf off the hanger and placed it over her head and face, using it to shield the white sports bra from her make-up while she slipped the final outfit over her head.