The Mak Collection (6 page)

The instant she disappeared the room erupted in nervous laughter. Detective Flynn emerged with his fists tightly clenched and his face set in a vicious scowl. He looked like he was ready to kill.

A detective playfully called out, “Ya know what Cassandra means in Greek?”

“No, Jimmy, I don’t know,” Detective Flynn shot back angrily.

“It means ‘confuser of men’.”

“Oh, fabulous. Thank you. Where were you four years ago when I needed you? Fuckin’ women.”

A fresh burst of laughter filled the room, and Detective Flynn cracked a grim smile.

“You sure can pick ’em,” said another, younger detective, still laughing.

But Flynn was no longer in the mood for it. “Don’t push it, Hoosier,” he snarled, fixing the detective with a black look. What had the woman done to elicit such a strong reaction? And what was that noise?

Flynn turned to see Makedde waiting and a red flush instantly coloured his cheeks. “Uh, Miss…Miss Vanderwall…” he spluttered awkwardly. Makedde smiled, embarrassed for him.

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” he continued, quickly composing himself. His voice again took on the polite, detached lilt that it had the day before. “Could you wait just another moment?”

She nodded, and he disappeared into the mysterious room again. A minute later Flynn emerged, calmer. “You have some information for me?”

With an extended arm he escorted her to the private room that she knew would be used for
interviews. The stark room had a well-used formica table as its centrepiece. She noted that the table legs were screwed into the floor and wondered how many cops had been assaulted with it before they’d taken the extra measures. Some of the other detectives were still snickering as Flynn shut the door behind them. She decided that she wouldn’t make any reference to his argument. It was none of her business.

Andy motioned for her to sit, but when she pulled a chair out he said, “Sorry, not that one.” She noticed one of the metal legs was badly bent. She tried another, unmangled chair, and he sat opposite.

Makedde recalled the few interviews she had been permitted to watch in secrecy from a two-way mirror not unlike the one she sat opposite now. Her father was an expert interrogator. He built rapport with his suspects, put them at ease, and then trapped them with their own words. A somewhat different approach to throwing chairs. But then, to be fair, that woman was clearly not a suspect.

Mak wondered whether Detective Flynn was a good inquisitor. She hoped he was. She was certain that a few detectives had made their way over to the interview room as soon as the door closed behind them. If they had stared at her in the waiting room, they would certainly be staring at her now. It was Sunday afternoon, and no doubt they were tired and bored. She could feel their eyes. Should she let them
know that she knew they were watching? Nah. Why spoil their fun?

Detective Flynn was settling into his chair, still cooling off from his argument. Alone in this quiet room, devoid of all distractions, Makedde noticed that he was actually quite attractive. His dark hair was thick and cropped short, accentuating a distinctive, squared-off jawline. His lips were even, his teeth straight, and something about the way they were formed was strangely sensual. But handsome wasn’t quite the word for Detective Flynn. His nose was a bit crooked, his ears a bit too big. His green eyes seemed world weary and sceptical under dark brows. Somehow though, when you put the features together, and added his impressive height, the effect was appealing. Especially to Makedde.

Admit it, that’s why you wanted to see him in person; because you think he’s attractive.

His face was still a bit rosy, and she could have sworn she could feel the heat his body was still giving off. Makedde continued to dwell on minute details of Andy Flynn’s appearance—like the little scar on his chin that she felt the urge to touch. She suddenly imagined the police issue handcuffs he would wear on his belt, and felt a naughty tingle of sexual excitement. The sensation made her so uncomfortable that she became suspicious of her hormones, or the moon.

“First off, let me just apologise for not being able to make a positive ID on Friday,” Makedde began. “Obviously I was in no state to be of much use in that regard. But even though she looked…
different
at the morgue yesterday, I—”

Condescendingly, he cut her off, “The autopsy was completed before your ID. Standard procedure when the death is suspicious. Bodies look different after death, Miss Vanderwall, they…” He trailed off, his hands making a gesture to indicate the unpleasantness of posthumous bodily functions.

The tiny hairs on the back of Makedde’s neck bristled. Was he playing up to the watching detectives, trying to assert his manly superiority over a female?

“I’m not totally ignorant, Detective,” she replied calmly, for she was accustomed to being underestimated. “I’m quite familiar with autopsy procedure, and rigor mortis and that most unpleasant swelling you so enjoyed illustrating for me just then. My father was a Detective Inspector, and—”

“Really?” She caught a flicker of interest in his eyes. “He’s retired now?”

“Yes, but that is not the point here. I’m not asking you for a lesson on post-mortem methodology. I am simply clarifying that the ID was positive. Now, to get to the point, I think I may have some information that could prove central to the investigation.” Andy leant forward. She seemed to finally have his
attention. What should she say? Perhaps there was nothing more sinister about the relationship than a common cheating spouse?

“Catherine Gerber was involved in an affair,” she began. “One which she was sworn to secrecy about.”

Andy leant forward even further. There was an intensity about him that frightened her a little, particularly when she pictured him smashing that chair against the wall. Makedde pushed back her chair casually, separating them another inch.

She swallowed hard. “Catherine had been telling me about this affair for approximately the past twelve months. She wouldn’t divulge any specifics, however she did allude to the fact that the man was powerful, wealthy, and older than she was. With her being nineteen, I would assume he was considerably older. I also had the impression that he was married, and the whole affair was certainly considered top secret.”

Flynn had moved back a touch, his body language subtly expressing a disappointment in the information.

“Well, we’ll look into that.” He gave her a patronising, fixed smile, and said, “Is there anything else?”

Makedde couldn’t quite believe that he’d just brushed her off. She sat and studied him for a moment, analysing his position.

I should have waited until I had more to come in with; a name, dates, places.

She felt the need to fill the uncomfortable silence. “I don’t know why I thought you’d care, but you
did
say that I should come to you if—”

“I do care. I care in so much that every bit of information is important, and even the most seemingly insignificant detail can take on important meaning in the big picture.”

“Insignificant?” Makedde said, incredulous. She knew she should just walk away, that she wasn’t going to get anywhere with him, but she couldn’t contain herself. “Let me just give you a possible scenario, so you can get some idea of the
insignificance
of this. Say this guy is married. Say he has even more at stake…he’s a politician, someone with a high profile, whatever. I’m getting these letters,” she pushed the neatly folded correspondence in front of him, “where Catherine is saying, ‘It won’t be a secret much longer.’ What if she’s telling
him
that? What if she’s threatening to expose him? Motive for murder, perhaps.”

Detective Flynn was poker-faced as he stood up, and Makedde was further enraged that he didn’t even respond to her. She watched him move towards the large mirror with his back to her. With a mixture of fury and humiliation she suspected that he was rolling his eyes for the benefit of his colleagues. Obviously she had wasted her time coming in.

“Miss Vanderwall, we don’t believe this is an isolated revenge murder. Believe it or not, we think
this guy does this stuff for kicks. Thanks again for the information, now let the professionals take care of it.”

“You
have
a suspect. Is that it?” she said with surprising calm. “Someone you’ve really got it in for?”
To the exclusion of all others? Gosh, I’m just so sorry for threatening to complicate your investigation with a new lead, Mister Hot Head Detective.
She held her tongue.

“Can we keep these letters?”

“I would like copies, please. And I’d like the originals returned to me at the earliest possible time,” she said firmly.

“ We can arrange that.”

He escorted her with exaggerated politeness out of the office to the elevator. “Thank you for your help Miss Vanderwall.”

She left the building seething. She felt foolish, and underestimated. More than anything else in the world, she
hated
being underestimated. One look at her blonde hair and model-appearance, and people just stopped listening. She could be talking quantum-mechanics and they’d be staring at her breasts, nothing but air passing between their ears. Did the detectives laugh when she left too? Sure they did. “Fuckin’ women,” he’d said.
I guess I was just another one to him.
It wasn’t a reassuring introduction to the man in charge of Catherine’s case.

The taxi snaked slowly through the city. At odd moments Makedde saw vaguely familiar buildings silhouetted by a sun already low in the sky. Directly ahead of her, an enormous full moon hovered silently. The driver snuck glances at her in the rear-view mirror. Irritated, she urged him to step on the gas, and soon they reached the open water of Bondi Beach.

She entered the lonely flat. Tossing her keys on the tabletop, she mimicked her own voice, “I think I may have some information…blah, blah, blah.
Idiot
.”

The empty room replied with silence.

On Monday morning the alarm clock buzzed with military authority—4.45 a.m. glowed in angry red neon on the digital face. An inhumane time to be conscious, but a cheap time to make international calls, and Makedde could catch her father before he left for the weekly Sunday lunch he enjoyed with his fellow retired cops.

She settled in by the bedroom phone and dialled the seemingly endless digits that would put her in touch with Canada. After several clicks and pauses, she could hear the phone ringing. There was a slight delay, and the line had a bit of static. “…Makedde?”

“Hey, Dad.”

“You sound like you’re a million miles away. How was your flight?”

“OK. Great service. I loved the green tea, but it was all a bit long.”

“You couldn’t pay me enough to get on one of those flights,” he said.

That was probably true. Her father preferred the familiarity of the city he had lived in all his life. Even
on holiday he didn’t like to stray too far anymore. She called him every second Sunday, without fail, no matter where her travels took her. She’d been especially careful to do that since her mother had died.

“How’s my daughter?”

“I’m fine. Well…sort of. We’ll get to that. I arrived safely, anyhow. How are you?” she asked. She was aware that she was stalling. Mak hated giving him bad news.

“I’m good,” he said. “Going out with the guys in a few minutes—”

“I guessed as much.”

He went on, “Theresa is getting huge. She’s almost seven months pregnant now.”

“I know. I only saw her last week.” Makedde often had a vague sense of guilt and inferiority when anyone mentioned her sister. There was something about Theresa’s settled, married life that seemed so laudable. It was proper, predictable and good, and Makedde’s life was so, well…not. A bouncing, gurgling, grinning bub would only make things worse.

“You really should give your sister a call once in a while.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Dad. I’ll call her. I promise.”

“They’ve decided not to find out if it’s a boy or a girl.” He paused. “Such a shame Jane never got to see her daughters have children.”

Makedde had become engaged to a local boy shortly after her mother was diagnosed with cancer, when Mak was twenty. However she soon realised that she’d only wanted to be Mrs Purdy in a desperate effort to make her family happy. It didn’t last long. She dumped George in a supermarket at the checkout counter, flipping his ring into a shopping bag full of milk cartons and cans of baked beans.

Mak didn’t find Mr Right in time for her mother to meet him, and she certainly didn’t have children in time for her mother to be a grandparent. It was her sister who’d thrilled them with the white wedding and the pregnancy news. Her perfect sister.

“Dad, I have some tragic news…” She told him about Catherine. As expected, he was horrified and saddened. He had watched her grow up, too.

“I hope you’re getting on the next plane home. You don’t want to be around when some sicko like that decides he has a thing for models.”

“Dad, I’ll be fine. I can protect myself. You know as well as I do that Catherine doesn’t have anyone else. I can’t leave until this is sorted out.”

“You have to look out for yourself now, Makedde. God, that’s so horrible. Have her foster parents been contacted?”

“Yes.” The thought of the Unwins made Mak angry. They had been neglectful guardians, and Catherine had spent most of her time trying to get
away from them. “I’m sure they’re secretly relieved they don’t have to look after her anymore. I wouldn’t expect much of a service.”

“That’s an awful thing to say!”

“You know it’s true.”

“I’d like you to come home, Makedde.” He paused. “You can take some other classes, or maybe do some modelling here for a month or two. You can’t still be stubborn about your tuition after this has happened? I’ll pay for it.”

“I don’t mean to hurt your pride, but I know you can’t afford it, Dad.” Her mother’s death had been protracted and painful, and the medical bills wouldn’t go away for a long time yet. Multiple Myloma was rare, and mostly found in fragile old men, so it wasn’t often treated. But Jane was still young, so they tried every imaginable form of alternative therapy and chemotherapy over the years, and when those methods had been exhausted, a bone marrow transplant was the only option. Jane died of pneumonia in the end, when living in a bubble wasn’t enough to protect her weakened immune system.