“Then I look better than I feel.” Jimmy sighed and slumped forward on his stool, letting his belly hold him up against the bar. The place seemed empty without his partner around.
“Wanna talk about it?”
“Nah.”
“Go on mate, what’s up?” said another sympathetic voice, but it wasn’t the bartender this time, it was the young man on the next stool.
“Ed, right?” Jimmy had seen him around. He was a regular who worked at the morgue.
“Yeah. Geez, yer good with names. So what’s getting you down tonight, mate?”
Jimmy took a long swig of his beer and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Can’t really talk about it. It’s that fuckin’ case I’m working on.”
“The Stiletto Murders?”
Jimmy nodded.
“Yeah, everyone’s talking. Is it true your partner killed his wife?”
Bloody papers. Now everyone thinks they’re a friggin’ detective.
“No mate. I don’t think he did.”
“But he disappeared, right? Isn’t he the main suspect?”
“I’d rather not think about it if ya don’t mind.”
The young man shook his head. “I understand. Must be tough when you think you know someone and it turns out you don’t know them at all. Geez, he looked normal enough to me. How could he do that to his own wife? Bloody sickening.”
Jimmy didn’t respond. He felt anxious about the case and he couldn’t relax while this idiot rambled on. Maybe he should get home to his wife early for a change.
“Mind you,” Ed continued uninvited, “I heard that woman was a real greedy bitch. She was taking him for everything, right? And you gotta hand it to the guy, setting it up to look like the Stiletto Murderer was clever. I guess he made too many mistakes though.”
Jimmy got up to leave. He had no desire to discuss his partner with some guy who had already found Andy guilty based on uninformed bar room gossip.
“I’d better get going.”
“I hope it’s nothing I said,” the young man offered feebly.
“Nah, goodnight.”
But something Ed said
had
jogged Jimmy’s memory, only he wouldn’t realise what it was until later that night.
Sitting cross-legged on the couch in the Bronte flat, Makedde stared into space, wondering whether a woman could know if she were sleeping with a killer. Plenty of other women had been fooled. History reeked of incredible stories of betrayal and misplaced trust. Bundy’s girlfriends. Kemper’s mother. Makedde’s father had talked about some woman in the twenties…Frau Kirchen? No, Frau
Kurten
, in Germany. It was one of the worst case studies he had read about. Frau Kurten had been unaware of the seventy-nine assaults, rapes and murders her husband had committed. They had been married for ten years when he was arrested. Peter Sutcliffe also had a wife, as did Jerome Brudos and countless other violent killers. Hell, even Stanley had a pregnant girlfriend. How could Makedde honestly believe that she knew Andy Flynn after a few lusty encounters?
A dull pain drew her attention to the fact that she was digging her nails into the palms of her hands. Her whole body was tense and hunched over, her breathing shallow, her teeth clenched.
She uncurled her fingers and made a concentrated effort to relax.
Jimmy’s words still echoed in her head. He had explained that Andy was blood type AB, a blood group found in only three per cent of the population while Cassandra was type O, a blood group found in forty-six per cent. Cassandra’s blood was all over everything; the bed, the sheets, walls, floors, and the knife left at the scene. Had the AB type killer been injured in the struggle, or had the killer attacked Andy before killing his wife?
Andy’s knife was missing from its sharpening scabbard in the kitchen drawer. His fingerprints were on it. His blood. Size ten shoe prints, the same size as Andy’s, were tracked through the blood that had pooled beneath Cassandra’s body and through the house they had once shared.
Makedde was still wide awake at midnight. Under her pillow lay the paring knife. On the bedside chest of drawers a can of hair spray sat beside a lighter. The telephone speed-dial was set for 000 and she had Jimmy’s mobile number. What more could she do at this hour? Sitting on the bed, surrounded by her little arsenal, Makedde started reading
Without Conscience; The Disturbing World of the Psychopaths Among Us
. It was a bestseller written by one of the professors at her
university in British Columbia. Appropriate, if not comforting reading.
Luther lumbered towards the Bronte flat, unseen and unheard. A man of his confronting appearance preferred to operate by night. It was better when his prey didn’t see him approaching, when the fear came quickly, his victims caught off guard. He went around the back of the building, his huge feet sinking silently into the damp lawn of the neighbour’s property.
Your back door man.
James Tiney Jr would be happy to be rid of this meddling beauty who had caused him so much trouble. He was upset that the cops had found his ring. The police were all over him, and his wife had found out about the affair. It wasn’t Luther’s fault, but still, he was happy to remove one thorn from his client’s side, free of charge. It was a win-win situation; it was something Luther would enjoy, and all the while JT would have an air-tight alibi and this murder would wipe him off the suspect list. He had given JT clear instructions. “Deal with the police tonight. Deal with your family tonight. Don’t spend one minute alone.” He hadn’t told him why, just that it was important. JT would thank him later.
The street was quiet at this hour. There were some vehicles parked up the street that he hadn’t noticed
before, but none were anywhere near her place. If they had been her visitors they would most probably have parked closer. No, he was sure she was alone. Having Makedde all to himself would be such a pleasure. Luther could almost taste the sweet conquest.
He would do it as the Stiletto Killer.
Struck.
Tied up.
Cut.
Thoroughly enjoyed and possessed. Just like the cop’s wife. Flynn would be extra guilty over that little detail. The thought made Luther smile. He stopped at the edge of Mak’s backyard and listened before pulling a knitted ski mask over his head. He would be quite a sight, well over six-feet tall, sporting a black commando style jumpsuit, gloves and a ski mask. He carried a tyre iron, gag, handcuffs and a very sharp six-inch skinning knife. He would use them in the correct order. With memories of Makedde’s naked body enticing him, he started from his spot. He would come closer, until he could see her alone through the window, then he would make his move.
He heard a noise.
Something rustled in the bushes behind him.
He crouched down and tried to pin-point the source, pulling the skinning knife from its sheath in
one swift, precise movement. But save for the soft patter of falling leaves, the bushes were still again.
Quiet.
It was probably a bird, a possum maybe.
He started again towards the porch steps.
There was another noise.
Luther whirled at the sound and caught a blur of movement as something flew towards him. Although nowhere near his size, a creature struck him off balance, sending him sprawling across the wet ground. Luther’s knife fell from his grasp. He shoved the attacker away with great force, and as it flew back he saw that it was a man, fair haired and small, with his teeth bared in silent aggression. His eyes were wild, limbs flailing as he sailed backwards.
Luther groped across the damp grass, searching futilely for his knife. The man was coming again, with the reflection of a sharp blade catching the light as it swung in his hand. Luther roared with fury, kicking out and connecting with his attacker’s groin. The thin blade sliced through the air, nicking Luther’s ear, then the tip tore through his jumpsuit and into his muscular shoulder. He cried out, more in anger than pain and leapt to his feet.
There was movement within the house and the porch light flicked on to partially illuminate the backyard. He saw his foe scurrying away. The man’s size certainly didn’t match his strength. Luther had to
get out of there. With all the noise, the cops would be on their way any moment. It wasn’t worth the risk. Something warm oozed from his left ear, and when he raised a hand to wipe it he saw a slick of blood across his glove.
Fuck!
JT had some explaining to do.
What was that noise?
Something had woken her again. Sounds by her front door…footsteps? She had heard yelling near her back door, but when she had gone to the porch there was no one there. What time was that? What time was it now? She reached under her pillow, grabbed the paring knife and held it upright in one hand like an impatient dinner guest. A fist pounded on her front door. Someone was speaking in an urgent whisper.
“Makedde? Are you up?” a familiar voice said.
Makedde sprung from her bed, knife in hand, and her book slid off the bed and landed on the floor with a thud. She was wide awake now.
He spoke again. “I saw your light on. I know it’s late…”
Her clock read 1.30 a.m. “Damn right it’s late, Andy,” she replied, trying to sound tough as she moved towards the door.
Late in more ways than one
. She checked that it was deadlocked and the security chain was pulled across.
“I really need to talk to you,” he said meekly.
Her fingers tightened around the knife. “What do you want to talk to me about? Hey…How did you know I lived here?” she challenged, her mouth inches from the door.
“Makedde, I didn’t do it. I read about it in the paper this morning—”
“Great. Then why don’t you walk yourself down to the nearest police station and call me in the morning.”
“I’ve already been to the police…Can we do this without the door in the way, please?”
“You’ve been to the police, have you?” she said sceptically. “Have you talked to Jimmy?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“This evening. I know he came to talk to you today. That’s how I knew you were here.”
Oh, thanks Jimmy.
“Did he tell you you’re a suspect?”
There was a long pause. For a moment she wondered if he was still there. Then he said, “I knew I was a suspect before I walked in there—”
“And how did you know that?”
“Maybe I should go—”
“No, wait.” She hesitated. “Where have you been?”
“Lane Cove. It’s a long story. Can I come in now?
I’m feeling a bit ridiculous talking to you through your door.”
“Hang on.” She cautiously opened the door a couple of inches, the chain pulled tight.
Their eyes met. It was Andy; the same man she had made love to, the man she had thought she could trust. His hair was lank, uncombed, his face unshaven. She thought she smelled the faint odour of alcohol.
“Andy,” she said, “please understand my position. You took off without so much as a goodbye, and now that you’re a murder suspect, you show up unannounced at my door at 1.30 in the morning.”
“I should have called, but I need to talk to you now. I didn’t do it. You have to believe me.”
“Why don’t you ever call before you show up? Do you promise you talked to the police? They know you’re back?”
“I promise.”
“And you spoke with Jimmy tonight?”
“Yes,” he insisted, leaning into the gap in the door and looking into her eyes.
“So if I call him right now, he’ll back up your story?”
He pulled back. “It’s 1.30 a.m.”
“He’s a cop, isn’t he? Aren’t you guys on call twenty-four hours a day? I’d say this is pretty important,” she said, watching his eyes, studying him
for a sign that he was nervous about having his location known. He didn’t flinch.
“I shouldn’t even be here, but if it will make you feel better, call him.” He cast his eyes downward. “I’d better leave. I shouldn’t have come tonight.”
With that, he turned and walked away. Makedde just watched him through the door, her knife flush against the frame. He walked to the street, then turned and said, “I’m sorry you became involved in this.”
“I’m sorry about your wife,” she replied, and she was. She wanted to believe he was innocent; that was the problem. Her emotional involvement might impair her judgment.
Perhaps it already had.
The telephone rang at 8 a.m. wrenching Makedde out of a deep sleep. Her body felt heavy, as if it had sunk halfway into the mattress, and she was experiencing what felt uncannily like a hangover. But she hadn’t touched a drop.
“Hello?” she said weakly.
The voice sounded distant. “Mak, it’s your father.”
“Dad! How are you? I’m sorry I haven’t called.”
“How are
you
?”
“Uh, I’m fine…”
“Uh huh.” Something in his voice seemed to indicate that he knew all was not well. The line was
silent for a moment. “Theresa is doing well,” he said. “It won’t be long now. Sure wish your mother could have seen it.” She heard him take a deep breath. Sometimes she forgot how strong he was, how well he had coped with Jane’s death.
“Do you know a Detective Flynn down at Central Branch?”
Oh no. Here it comes
.
It didn’t really surprise her that her father knew about Andy. Obviously he was keeping tabs on her, again. Predictable. He probably had contacts in every city in Australia, and anywhere else she might plan on travelling to.
Leslie Vanderwall went on when she didn’t respond. “I’m pretty sure you two have been introduced. He’s a tall guy. Dark hair. Works in Homicide.”
“Yes, I think I know the one. Hmmm. Really cute? Nice arse?”
Looks great handcuffed to a bed…
“Makedde!”
“Dad, you know I hate it when you snoop. When did you start checking up on me?”
“When? I think you were eleven years old and sleeping over at a friend’s house. Or so you said.” He paused. “This guy you’ve become involved with is a suspect in the murder of his wife, Mak. This is serious.”
“Dad—”
“He has a bad reputation, too. A temper.”