Don’t worry about that just yet…
It would be months before the unit was running. She would deal with those decisions when the time came.
‘So how was it last night?’
Detective Andy Flynn looked up quizzically from the table and found his partner Jimmy Cassimatis strolling over to him, having walked into their favourite café twenty minutes late.
‘How was
what
last night?’ Andy asked. They had been working together on Jimmy’s homicide mess until late, so he was not sure what his former partner could have thought he had missed.
‘Come on—you slipped her some sausage, didn’t you?’ Jimmy quipped, slapping Andy’s
shoulder and making a phallic-looking fist in the air that he proceeded to shake. ‘Make-up sex is the best. Did she handcuff you again? I bet she did.’
‘Shut up and sit down,’ Andy said darkly, ignoring the comments. He glanced around, but the other diners seemed unperturbed by Jimmy’s rude gestures. Sophomoric references to sex spewed forth from Jimmy’s lips on a regular basis. Perhaps it was part of his ‘charm’. And this particular topic of conversation was not an unusual one for Jimmy, who, even after all the years had passed, still liked to let it be known that he thought his mate was legendary for ‘bagging an
SI
model’, as he so elegantly put it—a onetime
Sports Illustrated
pin-up with a thing for cops and handcuffs, no less. ‘
Skata!
You are the stuff of legend, mate!’ he’d said on far too many occasions. There was more depth to Jimmy, Andy knew, but he just didn’t seem to like showing it.
‘
Skata!
She snuck up on me like a vampire while I was waiting in the car, and freaked me out something shocking,’ Jimmy persisted, nodding his head as he pulled out the metal chair with a squeak on the linoleum. ‘Yup, she was sure pissed off with you. Pissed!’ He was never one to know when to stop.
‘I picked up on that, thank you,’ Andy replied, wishing Jimmy would just shut up about Mak. She
had
been angry, though she rarely said as much in words. She was so different from his late
ex-wife, Cassandra, who had been the type to scream, cry and throw things.
Andy sometimes felt out of his depth with Mak. She was quiet when she was angry, as she had been last night. Quiet—but intensely so. He didn’t have a reference point for women like that. But surely by now she understood that frequent late nights and absences were part of his job. She
should
understand—she was the daughter of a cop, after all.
Mak’s father was the formidable ex-Detective Inspector Les Vanderwall, and though his career had been in Canada, his influence seemed to reach much further. Andy knew that Les didn’t approve of his daughter’s choice of boyfriend, and that he kept tabs on their life together. By falling for Mak and taking on their living arrangements, Andy had also taken on her strong will, quiet moods and sharp intelligence. He’d also taken on the role that every man involved with a very beautiful woman was used to—every time they went out, other men stared at his girlfriend, and sometimes other women did too. All that, combined with the private prying eyes of her detective father, and Andy had taken on quite a handful with Makedde Vanderwall. And that was
before
she started dabbling in investigation.
‘I have to try to get us a table at somewhere tonight. Something fancy. Maybe Icebergs?’ Andy knew it was booked out weeks in advance.
‘Deller knows the chef. He owes him a favour,’ Jimmy said.
‘And Deller owes
me
a favour.’ That would help Andy to book a table at short notice. Hopefully. ‘How are the little ones?’ he asked, wanting to change the subject from Mak.
‘Yeah, good,’ Jimmy replied. He was a good Greek father of four now, with more on the way soon, Andy felt sure. The waitress arrived. ‘I’ll have a cup of coffee and your full breakfast—two fried eggs, beans, bacon and sausage.’
‘Coffee, and beans on toast,’ Andy ordered.
‘
Skata.
You look like crap.’
‘I know,’ Andy agreed.
‘They working you hard, huh?’
Andy shrugged.
‘So how is all that crap going with Canberra, anyway?’
‘Uh, okay.’ Andy played with a paper napkin. ‘We’re doing all this groundwork, and talks, and talks and more talks. I don’t think I’m cut out for all this political bullshit. It’s like everyone talks and nobody does anything.’
‘You’re a fuck of a lot more political than me,’ Jimmy commented.
That was true. Jimmy would long ago have been promoted to a higher rank if not for his complete and utter lack of social grace and political drive. He was a good cop, and he would give his right arm for Andy, but those on high
did not smile upon him. He didn’t have what it took for leadership, and he knew it too.
‘I think Kelley wants to see you off…your last day and all.’
Detective Inspector Roderick Kelley.
‘You’re his golden boy.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
It was partially true, though. Kelley had protected Andy as best he could when things had got bad. When Andy solved the major Stiletto Murder case, it had vindicated Kelley’s position; but Andy had let him down on occasion too. If he was a golden boy, it was tarnished gold.
The coffees arrived and Jimmy dumped three packets of sugar into his cup. ‘Sometimes I wish I was going with you. Things are starting to suck around here,’ he complained. ‘It won’t be the same. I can already tell.’
‘Good morning,’ Detective Inspector Roderick Kelley said, interrupting their banter before Jimmy could continue. They were both caught by surprise, and Andy wondered if Inspector Kelley had overheard Jimmy’s comments.
Jimmy stopped his babbling and wiped coffee from the corner of his mouth. ‘Hey, sir,’ he said clumsily.
‘Good morning, Inspector.’ Andy stood and shook Kelley’s hand.
‘Getting my morning coffee,’ Kelley said. ‘Say, can you drop in to my office this morning?’ he asked Andy. ‘There’re a few things I would like to discuss.’
Andy nodded.
The Detective Inspector was someone Andy admired enormously. He wasn’t one of the political paper-pushers who were so often in jobs like his these days. He was old school, the kind of cop who had actually spent his time learning on the street and not in a classroom. There was not one whiff of bullshit or political aspiration about him. And what about Andy? With all Andy’s talk about the unit, he was beginning to feel like the men he had always abhorred. He wished he could get back to doing his job instead of talking about it. But he wouldn’t have to wait much longer, which was good, because he doubted he had much more patience.
Kelley took his coffee and a muesli bar to go, and returned to headquarters across the street.
‘Golden boy,’ Jimmy griped.
Andy rolled his eyes.
Jimmy persisted. ‘You have been the golden boy since the Stiletto Murder case and you know it.’
The case had been the most high-profile of Andy’s career, and a major turning point for him both professionally and personally. The killer had cut a swathe of violence through Sydney, and had become obsessed with Andy, the profiler leading the investigation. Andy’s ex-wife had been murdered, and he’d met Makedde, a witness. Everything in his world had changed. And when he had cracked the case and found the killer, a successful career had been assured. Jimmy was
right: in some ways he was Kelley’s protégé. But Andy had paid a heavy price for his success in that case.
Fifteen minutes later, Andy and Jimmy entered HQ together. Kelley approached Andy, and several of the other detectives looked up to watch the interaction, probably wishing their careers were also on Kelley’s radar.
‘My office,’ Kelley said. His invitation did not extend to Jimmy.
‘Yes, sir.’
Jimmy took a seat at his measly desk, and pretended to look through some paperwork. He was used to being excluded. Kelley and Andy walked across the floor, passing constables at their desks, many of whom looked up as they went by. Andy could feel their eyes on him.
They reached Kelley’s office.
‘Shut the door. Take a seat.’
Andy did.
Inspector Kelley remained standing, looking out through his well-earned window to a view of Hyde Park, where fairy lights decorated the trees. After dark, bats would fly out of those trees by the thousands, just some of the creatures that ventured out into the city at night.
‘I’m putting Deller on leave for a couple of weeks.’
Andy flexed his jaw. Deller would be disappointed, but he understood Kelley’s logic. ‘Will there be an investigation?’
‘Yes. Routine.’
Andy nodded. Deller would have to take trauma counselling after the incident. Andy had been there himself from time to time; he knew the concept was a good one. Police officers dealt with death and violence all the time and they needed help to relieve the stress of their jobs. But Andy was not always convinced that a psychologist was the best person to assist. Not that he would ever admit this to Mak, of course.
Inspector Kelley kept his back to Andy, his hands folded neatly in the small of his back; Andy waited until he was addressed. The inspector was always economical in both word and action. When he spoke his words had great weight, especially to Andy. Kelley wasn’t the type who wanted the air filled with nonsense talk. He wasn’t the type for any kind of nonsense at all.
Finally he turned. ‘Pleased with your new post?’ he asked, those sharp slate-grey eyes unreadable. Was
he
happy about Andy’s post? Unhappy? Surely his recommendation had helped Andy get it. Was there something he knew about the project that Andy didn’t? The set-up for the unit was experimental in some ways, but Kelley was one of those who had strongly supported the idea.
I’ll be more excited about it when I finally get to do something, instead of talk about it.
‘Yes,’ Andy admitted. ‘It’s been a long time coming.’ He’d spent frustrating years pushing it along with politicians who seemed to change position for or against on the whims of popular opinion.
Kelley took the comment in with a slight smile, as if he knew from experience just how slowly the wheels of progress moved with such projects. He then took a seat in his leather chair, and it creaked under his weight. He was a tall man, and fit for his age—or, indeed, any age. He was less than five years from retirement, but he was still in more formidable shape than half of the department.
‘I’ll miss it here, though, I think.’
‘Well, don’t you go missing us just yet. You don’t leave till tomorrow. You can still make yourself useful.’ Andy opened his mouth to say that he would be delighted to be made useful, but Kelley was already busy explaining what needed doing. ‘A girl was found behind a dumpster this morning in Surry Hills. She’d been there a few days. It looks like a sexual homicide. Maybe a serial. I’ll have you take a look. Talk the boys through it if you can. They could learn from you while we still have you.’
Consulting on cases was what Andy’s future held. He would no longer be part of the same team.
‘Thank you, sir. Who found her?’
If the body was a few days old—the smell would be very bad, especially in the high February summer temperatures.
‘Go with Cassimatis to check it out. Peterson’s there—he’ll have the details.’
Kelley slid a piece of paper across to him with an address on it.
‘Oh, and try to get some sleep on that plane tomorrow. You look tired.’
Andy nodded. He’d been burning the candle at both ends, and that was hardly about to stop. ‘Um, sir, will Deller be all right?’ he asked before he left. Deller was not a friend, but he was a colleague, and Andy wanted to see that Deller would not be demoted for a situation that had been beyond his control.
‘Don’t worry about him,’ Kelley said. ‘You have your own problems.’
Andy and Jimmy pulled up on a side road near the mouth of a lane blocked off with crime-scene tape. Andy killed the engine, and opened the glove box.
Damn bloody headaches.
He popped two tablets of aspirin into his hand and swallowed them dry.
‘Okay, let’s check this out,’ he said and stepped out of their unmarked car.
The filthy back lane where all the activity was smelled terribly, not only of foul garbage, but also
of death. Andy was glad he wasn’t planning on eating a big lunch. He ducked under blue-and-white chequered crime-scene tape, Jimmy at his heels. Though they’d just eaten breakfast, Jimmy was already chewing on a Mars Bar. He grumbled something about the stench.
Jimmy had worked with Andy for many years, and the two had become nearly inseparable, despite some of Jimmy’s less popular qualities. It wasn’t Jimmy’s colourful way with words—his speech peppered with Greek and the expletives he sometimes called ‘French’—that Andy disliked, and it wasn’t his sometimes destructive lack of ambition. It was his way with food. Surrounded by filth and the stench of decay, Jimmy continued to eat his Mars Bar unfazed, the chocolate all over his fingers. Andy gave him a look and Jimmy pocketed the bar. He licked his fingers clean.
The centre of activity was a garbage dumpster in the lane. The crime-scene team was already there in Hazmat suits, collecting evidence. Just behind the dumpster, the body of a young woman lay decomposing. A photographer’s flash illuminated the victim. Her bare legs were splayed out, dappled with rot and filth. She appeared to be naked except for a hot-pink garter belt around her hips. It looked to Andy like a sexual homicide.
‘No ID as yet,’ Detective Peterson said. ‘I’ve checked on the garbage runs. Last pick-up was Sunday. She must have been dumped after that.’
‘Has anyone touched her?’ Andy asked. It didn’t matter how many times they were briefed on crime-scene procedure, there was always a risk of someone—usually a rookie—contaminating something. This victim looked tampered with.
‘No one touched her until the team arrived. They’ve lifted garbage off her, that’s it.’
Dammit.
Perhaps no one had known he was on his way. Andy would examine the crime-scene photographs; hopefully there was adequate coverage of her original position, as found.