“How dare you!” he protested. “I’m a respected member of the medical fraternity and of this community.” He pointed his finger threateningly at the heavy set, woggy looking detective. “My father is very good friends with your police commissioner, and I am quite certain that he would object to such treatment, particularly as it makes me look like I’m involved in this terrible killing. I have a public image to defend. I won’t stand for this!”
“Hold on there, old son. We’ve only brought you in to help us with our inquiries.” The detective placed his meaty palms on the tabletop and leant over, his belly straining over the edge. “Mr Tiney, we questioned you specifically about your booking at the Terrigal Beach Resort, why you cancelled it, and if you knew Miss Gerber. You told us you’d never met
her, and you were planning on staying in that room alone.”
JT wiped his brow with a clean cotton handkerchief. “That’s correct.”
“I think you’ve been telling us porkies.”
JT slammed a fist down on the table. He hoped it made him look adamantine. “That’s it! What’s your name? I’ll have your badge!”
The detective crossed his arms calmly. “My name, for the fourth time, is Detective Senior Constable Jimmy Cassimatis. Frankly, I don’t give a shit if you complain to your daddy, whoever he is. I’m here to solve a murder, and you aren’t leaving this room until you’ve told me the truth.”
JT was speechless.
“How old are you?” Jimmy asked.
“What?”
“How—old—are—you?”
JT patted his forehead with his hanky. “I’m forty-six.”
The detective chuckled quietly, making his belly jiggle beneath his strained white shirt. “I was curious, ’cause you know, I haven’t used that ‘I’ll tell my daddy’ thing since I was ten. But hey, whatever.”
JT was stunned into silence by the detective’s disrespect.
“As I understand it,” Jimmy went on, “you’ve got a wife and two kids. You’ve got a public image. Fine.
I think you also had a mistress. I think you were going to meet her in that hotel and I want to know why you cancelled that booking.”
“I wanted to get away for the weekend and relax by myself,” he said. “That’s not illegal, is it? I cancelled the booking because something else came up. Some business I needed to attend to. Financial stuff. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Uh huh.” Jimmy leant over the table again. “I spoke to your wife. She thought you were going to Melbourne for a weekend business meeting.” The detective turned his chair around backwards and sat opposite, straddling it, his arms folded across the back.
“You…you…” JT stuttered. “You spoke to Pat?” His wife’s name trickled out like unwanted spittle. “What-what-what did you tell her?”
Jimmy softened. “Relax pal. I didn’t tell her you were fucking a luscious nineteen-year-old fashion model. I just wanted to know where she thought you were.” He leant in on his chair and smiled. “Hey, she was hot. She was young. She was asking for it. It’s understandable. So, you were fucking her. Big deal. You didn’t want your wife to know. That’s understandable, too. But you’ve been lying to me and now I want the truth.”
They had him. They knew that he was involved with Catherine. They knew he had lied. What if his wife found out the truth? What if his father found
out? He would lose his position in the company. He would lose his pay cheque. He would lose everything.
“I told you before. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never even met the g-g-g-gir—”
“Before you attempt to finish that sentence…” Jimmy stopped him, and pulled something from his pocket. He placed it on the tabletop.
JT’s jaw dropped open.
My ring.
“Care to revise your statement?”
Friday morning marked the start of a crisp, clear day. The winter sun rose quietly in the sky, casting golden rays across the cool sands of Bondi Beach. The early surf-lifesaving crew rode the morning’s unimpressive waves on long-boards, and a couple of dedicated power-walkers shuffled along from one end of the beach to the other.
Makedde was halfway through her run and felt like taking a breather before heading back along the beautiful coastal path to her place at Bronte. She stopped at a park bench near her old building at South Bondi, and try as she might to exercise away all thoughts of the past few days, she couldn’t help dwelling on her missing portfolio photo and her incommunicado detective.
She wondered whether she should call the police and talk to someone in a different branch. Maybe they would be more open-minded. She needed to tell them about Rick Filles, and the missing portfolio shot, and the mutilated photo that some sicko had left her. She had to find out where the investigation was heading.
If you hadn’t slept with him you’d be able to call him right now and find out what’s going on.
She rotated her shoulders and stretched her hamstrings, shaking off her rhetorical questions. Her body had complained at her early rise, but now with her blood pumping, she felt invigorated. She sat down on the bench and turned to look at the Bondi flat window. She thought about the candle-lit evenings she and Andy had spent just a week ago. Her hands gripped the back of the wooden bench, and she winced as a tiny splinter dug into her palm.
Makedde examined the small, painful sliver embedded in her hand and with long fingernails, carefully pulled it out. She noticed the prickly edges of freshly scratched graffiti on the bench. Someone had carved something into the wood with a knife.
Her eyes widened as she read the three short letters:
MAK
“No,” she insisted, “you don’t understand. I
have
to talk to him right now.”
“I’m sorry, Detective Flynn is not available at the moment. What is this in regards to?”
Mak tried to remain calm. “The Stiletto Murders.”
“I’ll transfer you to Detective Cassimatis. Please hold.”
Oh no. Not him again.
“Cassimatis.”
“It’s Makedde. I’m still trying to locate Detective Flynn. Can you tell me where he is?”
“Oh.” He sounded surprised. “Makedde. I’ve been trying to reach you. Where are you? I guess you’ve seen the paper.”
“What paper?”
The line was silent for a moment. “Have you been with Andy for the last few days?”
“No. I said I hadn’t seen him. That’s why I’m calling. What’s in the paper?”
“I think you’ve already caused him enough trouble.”
“What are you talking about? What’s going on?”
“It isn’t doing him any good to take off like this.”
“He’s gone away? Where?”
Jimmy was silent for a moment. “He hasn’t contacted you at all?”
“No! That’s what I said. What’s going on?”
“Did he tell you he was going through a divorce?”
“Yeah.”
“Where are you?” he asked.
“I moved. I’m in Bronte.”
“Don’t go anywhere. I’d like to ask you some questions. What’s the address?”
Mak gave it to him without hesitation, and he told her he would be there in minutes. She ran outside
and scanned the street for a newspaper. Down the block there was one hanging out of the mail box.
Sorry
, she thought as she snatched it up. There was a photo of Cassandra’s beautiful face and below it, a report:
DETECTIVE’S WIFE KILLED BY SYDNEY RIPPER
Last night Sydney police discovered the body of Mrs Cassandra Flynn, wife of Homicide Detective Andrew Flynn, in her Woollahra home. Her murder is believed to be connected to that of four other young women brutally slain in Sydney since June 26 this year. Each victim was found wearing a single stiletto shoe. Detective Flynn’s whereabouts are unknown and the police urge anyone to come forward who may have any relevant information.
Makedde dropped the paper in disbelief.
Jimmy Cassimatis was built like a teddy bear; short and round, with a mid-section that in his thirties was already well on its way to resembling a barrel. His arms were covered in the same thick down of black hair that poked up over his collar. He had an informal
manner that reminded Makedde of a boy she knew in school who never really grew up.
Having surveyed her digs he now stood in front of her, attempting to be professional. “Miss Vanderwall, I got some questions for you.” She suspected he could make iambic pentameter sound like slang. She waited for his next sentence, but for a while the detective was silent, slowly pacing the floor. She decided to break the ice.
“You’re Andy’s partner. Wouldn’t he tell you where he was going?”
“You’re his chick. Wouldn’t he tell
you
where he was going?”
Chick. Very classy.
“A chick is a farm animal, Detective. The
Herald
seemed to insinuate that Andy was a suspect. Is he?”
“Andy told me you were a shrink. I don’t like shrinks,” he barked back.
“I’m not a shrink. I’m
studying
to become a shrink—I mean a psychologist. Is he a suspect or not?”
“Well, as long as he’s missing, he looks guilty as hell. I, for one, ain’t convinced he did it. But it doesn’t look good. That woman was a handful.”
Mak remembered the rage that had seeped out of Andy’s pores after the argument she’d overheard. “It’s unusual that she was found in her home. The other victims were dumped in parks and secluded areas. Do you think it’s the same killer?”
“I’m the one who’s supposed to be asking the questions here,” Jimmy snapped.
“Ask away,” she said.
“Do you know where Andy is?”
“Like I told you, no.”
“Has he contacted you at all since Monday?”
“No!” This would take forever if he kept asking the same questions. “What happened on Monday?”
Jimmy stopped his pacing. “He was kicked off the case because he became involved with a witness.”
“Really?” Mak choked on her guilt. “How did that happen? How did they find out?”
“They just did.” Jimmy looked upset. “What did Andy tell you about his wife?”
“He said they were divorcing and he’d just been served the papers. He said there were no kids. He didn’t like to talk about the whole thing, really. When we went out he drove a squad car, so I figured there may have been some sort of dispute over their possessions. His wife has the car?”
“Two,” Jimmy said. “She has two perfectly good cars.” This thought seemed to anger him. “Did you ever see him irritated about the divorce, or at his wife?”
“He didn’t sound like he wanted to kill her over it, if that’s what you’re getting at.” She had to ask the big question, the one she hoped she knew the answer to. “Does Andy have an alibi for the previous murders?” She held her breath, waiting for his reply.
“Yes. Catherine and Becky, anyway.”
She exhaled. “So, the only reason that he could possibly be under suspicion is because of his relationship with the victim and his subsequent disappearance?”
“Not quite.”
“What else is there?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“What
can
you tell me? Is he innocent? Is he a killer? Did he kill his wife in a rage and then stage it to look like the others? If he shows up at my door should I run for my life? What?”
Jimmy didn’t respond. He wasn’t even looking her in the eye.
“I know you must hate me for getting your partner in trouble,” she offered, “but believe me, it was never my intention. This situation has caused me a lot of pain, too.”
His hands were laced tightly behind his back, his face stern. Makedde suspected he was the type to repress his emotions. He would probably have a heart attack by the time he was forty. When he finally spoke, she was surprised by what came out of his mouth. “Were you really in
Sports Illustrated
?”
She laughed. “Uh…yes. A couple of years ago. What’s that got to do with anything?”
He didn’t respond, but she noticed his tough exterior melt just a bit. “Come on, Jimmy. We both
like Andy. We’re both confused by what’s happening. Let’s help each other out.” She smiled at him. “Are there any reasons to suspect Andy apart from his relationship with the victim? Fingerprints at the scene?”
“You don’t want to know—”
“Like hell I don’t want to know!” It angered her that he still wasn’t taking her seriously. “I practically fell on top of victim number three, who happens to have been my best friend, I’ve been ransacked, sent threatening mail and attacked by some psycho with a sex dungeon, so if you honestly believe I’m going to get squeamish on you—”
“What was that about a dungeon?”
“Rick Filles. Andy told me you were investigating him. Well, I’ve got a real juicy tale to tell about his nocturnal activities. That guy is seriously twisted. But first, I need you to tell me what else ties Andy to the murder. Please—”
“You didn’t happen to go to his place and lock him in his little room, did you?”
“Well, actually—”
“So that
was
you! Andy said you were the meddling type, but I never thought…” The phrase stung a bit. Makedde preferred to think of herself as curious and resourceful, not meddling. “We hauled him in for questioning not long ago,” Jimmy continued, “and he accused us of setting him up with
a sexy undercover cop who trapped him in that room of his. There’s no way that was Mahoney.”
Makedde felt her face go red.
“He’s still being investigated over some assaults, but he’s been cleared of the Stiletto Murders.” Jimmy became contemplative. “Andy’s in deep, deep skata,” he said, frowning. “You know he’s run into problems with his temper in the past.”
She remembered the look of rage she’d seen on his face. “Come on, what’s happening?” she pressed. “If he has an alibi for the others, it can’t be that bad. They can’t seriously think—”
“They think he might’ve done a copycat,” Jimmy said, cutting her off. “Used his knowledge of the crimes to stage it the same. He had motive and, well…his fingerprints and blood were found on the kitchen knife used in the murder.”
“Jimmy, you look bloody awful,” Phil said, sliding a beer across to him.