He stopped a few feet from the car and glanced up and down the quiet street, listening, assessing. Nothing. Only wind, rain, and rustling trees. Everything had to be perfect, just like last time. No mistakes.
He was truly proud of the creativity he had expressed with his last girls. They had been so weak in the end, whimpering, begging. Soft skin stained with tears and blood. Beautiful. Makedde would be the ultimate. Fate brought them together, fate that was written in the features of her face. She would be an important possession; the tenth shoe, a symbolic number.
The police made him laugh. Five? They were so inept, so deluded.
Number ten.
She can’t be rushed.
Satisfied he was alone, he removed a small flashlight and a pair of pliers from his bag. Holding both in one hand, he laid himself flat on the wet asphalt and shuffled under the front of the car, ignoring the steady rain soaking his legs. He switched the flashlight on. He was under the engine block. With a trained eye, he quickly found the starter motor wires and disconnected them. He then neatly tucked them up out of sight.
Flashlight switched off, he wriggled out from under the car. It had taken less than sixty seconds.
Very good
. His clothes were gritty and soaked. The street was still empty. He felt buoyant as he walked back to his van. He would wait for his prize in the wee hours of the morning, right through the day if necessary. Wait in the shadows until the moment was perfect.
And it
would
be perfect…soon.
At 8 a.m. the next morning Makedde dialled Jimmy’s number. She wanted to find out about the new lead Andy had mentioned, but she also wanted to discuss a hunch she had about the car she kept seeing. A clue had come to her in her dreams. She was sure of it. Andy was following her. But why? Why didn’t he mention it? He had complained about Cassandra having the Honda, and now he had it back. How far had he gone to get it? Had he followed her all day, and then waited at her front door? And there was something else. He claimed the cut on his right thumb had been caused by chopping fruit with the knife that was later used to kill his wife.
But Andy was right-handed.
She walked out onto the porch and watched the Bronte waves. Makedde planned on leaving in two weeks, at the very latest. Her family would never forgive her if she wasn’t home for the birth of her sister’s first baby. She had promised herself that she wouldn’t leave until Catherine’s killer had been found. She would hate to go home with her tail
between her legs, a failure. No, she would stay just two weeks longer, then she would be satisfied that she had done all she could.
The phone rang. Automatically, she ripped it out of its cradle, “Jimmy—”
“Hi Makedde, this is Suzy from Book.”
Suzy?
“Sorry, I was expecting someone else.”
“How soon can you get into the city?”
“Uh…Twenty minutes if I cab it. Why?”
“A girl has phoned in sick. They’re waiting for someone right now for an
ELLE
fashion shoot. Four hours. Half-day editorial rate.”
“Great.”
ELLE
would make excellent tear-sheets to add to her portfolio. Suzy gave her the address and Makedde called a taxi as soon as she hung up. Suzy? There were so many bookers, and she didn’t remember half of their names. Suzy was probably the one with the red, curly hair. Within minutes, the taxi had arrived and with her portfolio and make-up shoved in a bag slung over one shoulder, Makedde barrelled down the stairs and headed for what would be her last job in Sydney.
Andy Flynn could have sworn his colleagues moved away from him when he stepped into the elevator. The two constables to his left turned their backs when he got in, and the Chinese-Australian girl
from forensics who was stuck on the other side of him looked very uncomfortable being caught in the same car. She averted her eyes and practically jumped when Andy made a tiny movement.
Welcome to reality. The men and women who made up the force that he was part of, or
had
been part of, were now treating him like a leper. Guilty until proven innocent. Didn’t they know he had an alibi for the murders of those women? But his alibi for the other crimes wasn’t enough. They probably thought he killed his wife and staged it to look like the others. None of them seemed to have much trouble swallowing the idea, either. Those who didn’t know better tended to treat cops who specialised in serial killings with suspicion. Studying with the FBI had raised him in the ranks, but it had alienated him too.
The old elevator rattled its way up to his floor at an interminable pace. When he finally stepped out he thought he heard the other passengers exhale with relief. Andy didn’t want trouble. He only came because he needed to know the test results. No one had returned his calls, not even Jimmy, and he was tired of being dicked around.
Examining his footwear was ridiculous, and Andy had told them as much. He maintained he was framed, and if that were true, the tests would prove nothing. He had old boots he hadn’t worn in years, anyone could have taken a pair along with a knife.
They could have tracked them through his wife’s blood and returned them to the pile. It would have been easy.
Andy walked into the Homicide office and saw that Jimmy wasn’t around and most of the detectives were out. Inspector Kelley was there though, and looked surprised to see him.
“Uh, Flynn. What are you doing here? You know the footwear tests have been delayed.” “Oh, great,” Andy said with an irritated frown.
“Something’s come up,” Kelley said, sounding a little more sympathetic. “We’re no longer focusing our investigation on the weapon and shoe prints in your wife’s murder.”
“Are you trying to say that I’m no longer a suspect?”
Kelley’s face hardened. “I’m not saying anything at this point. What are you doing here?”
“I just wanted to find out about the tests. Don’t worry, I’m not planning on sticking around.”
“I hope this situation is sorted out soon,” Kelley said, then disappeared down the hallway. It seemed Kelley didn’t quite know how to treat a persona non grata. No one did.
Andy started to leave, but stopped when he spotted Jimmy coming out of the elevator. His long-time partner did a double take, then signalled a distracted hello to Andy and walked right past him to answer a
ringing phone on his desk. Andy watched as Jimmy mumbled into his phone. The secrecy was driving him crazy.
“Skata! What do you mean you lost him!” Jimmy suddenly screamed into the earpiece. His olive skin turned beet and veins started popping out on his neck. “How’s that possible?” The sentence was punctuated by his fist hitting the desk. Jimmy slammed the receiver down. Someone’s ears would be ringing.
“Oi, Jimmy. What was that about? Lost who?”
“Oh, skata! This is a mess!” he whispered. “I never believed you could do it, mate. So, I kept my eye out for someone who might have it in for you. Someone who would want to frame you, like you’d said. There was this guy at the bar,” he went on, “Ed Brown. We just put him under surveillance and he’s pulled a fast one.” Jimmy rubbed his face with shaking hands. “Oh fuck, we lost him…”
Andy was barely able to take in the rest of what Jimmy was saying. He felt ill. They had found the Stiletto Killer and then they had lost him.
It got worse. “He made a call before he took off,” Jimmy said. “We had the tracer on. It was to Makedde.”
Andy didn’t have to say a word—his expression said it all. He was back on the case, whether their Inspector liked it or not.
“Kelley’ll have my head for this. Oh, fuck it.” Jimmy reached down to a steel security drawer and pulled out a gun. He handed it to Andy without hesitation. “We’re looking for a ’76 VW van. Blue. I’ll fill you in while we drive.”
The phone call came only half an hour after Makedde had flopped on the bed, exhausted from her four-hour modelling job that had lasted well over seven. She’d spent the day in wispy little asymmetrical dresses and smudged eyeliner, hanging off gritty window ledges in a disused Surry Hills warehouse. All in the name of
ELLE’s
new fashion outlook. It had been a relief to close her eye-shadow-greased lids when she got home, but soon the phone beside the bed had rung, robbing her of that moment of peace.
“Hello?”
“Makedde?” a man’s voice politely inquired. “This is Book Model Agency.”
Yet another one whose voice she didn’t recognise.
“Makedde, I’m sorry it’s such short notice but we need you at a casting in the city in thirty minutes.”
Thirty minutes!
“It’s very important that you get there on time. It’s for a pantyhose commercial, so show your legs. Heels would be best. Make sure your feet look good.”
She didn’t bother to complain. She was used to
last minute appointments, which often meant cancelling other plans.
“When is it shooting?”
“Uh, next week.”
“What does it pay?”
“Thirty thousand.”
Wow. That was exceptional. An average commercial would generally pay ten or fifteen thousand to a noname model like her. That sort of money would cover text books and tuition, and then some.
Makedde took down the address and thanked the booker. She was grateful that her legs and feet were already smooth, moisturised and unmarked, and she had her portfolio again, too, although it was still incomplete. All she had to do was change into something appropriate and get there on time.
Nineteen minutes later Makedde was in a panic.
Not now!
She turned the ignition of her rental car again, but there was nothing. She gripped the key hard, inserting it with deliberation, turning it…
Nothing. Dead.
I don’t have time for this!
She hopped out of the driver’s seat and popped the bonnet. Mak squinted at the greasy tangle of wires and steel, eyes running over the hoses and metal curves,
but she couldn’t see the problem. She was inexperienced with a car’s inner workings, and the low light certainly wasn’t helping. She ran around to the boot to check for a flashlight, but there wasn’t one.
She had gotten ready as quickly as physically possible, choosing a brief dress and high shoes to show her long legs to full effect. She had barely taken the time to fix the make-up from her morning photo shoot, and yet still, here she was, no closer to arriving at the appointment on time. Damn agency. Disorganised. Or maybe the client was the one to blame? It wouldn’t be the first time. Either way, it seemed that Charles was too busy to deal with her these days. She was being fobbed off to any old booker. Maybe she should have changed agencies after all.
A pale blue van passed by, then backed up alongside Makedde, and a young ginger-haired man leant out of the driver’s-side window. There was something vaguely familiar about him.
“You need any help?” he asked casually in a soft, friendly voice.
“Oh, I’m fine, really, thanks,” she said.
He looked down at the open bonnet. “Are you
sure
you don’t need some help?”
What do I do?
Ed Brown waited patiently as Makedde made up her mind.
The unmarked police Commodore tore down William Street, its siren wailing with an urgency largely ignored by the rush hour traffic. They were quickly stalled by a mass of waiting vehicles; men and women returning from work with no idea that blocking the road could result in another violent murder. Andy leant out the passenger window and screamed, “Move it! Get out of the fucking way!” His outburst had little effect apart from frightening a young mother whose car was jammed up beside them. The sleeping infant in the back seat didn’t stir.
“Hang on,” Jimmy said, turning the wheel hard to the right and sending them over the median strip. They accelerated up the right-hand side of William Street, the siren screaming out its loud, flashing warning to the cars speeding up from the opposite direction. Once they passed a set of traffic lights Jimmy took them across the divider again with a thud and a squeal of tyres.
Andy sat with both feet hard up against the footwell and one hand clenched tightly around the
grab handle above the door. “Tell me about this Ed Brown guy. Who the hell is he?” he asked is partner.
“A morgue attendant. A regular at our bar. You’d recognise him if you saw him, Andy. He was the attendant the day Makedde came in to identify Catherine Gerber.” Jimmy’s eyes never once left the road. “I think the malaka must have seen you two together after that, and he got jealous. Cassandra was his way of getting you out of the picture. He chatted me up at the bar a few days ago, real casual-like.” He stopped talking for a moment to honk and curse at some drivers who weren’t getting out of the way. “He asked me about you. He knew about Cassandra and he knew you’d disappeared. He said he thought you’d killed your wife. I didn’t agree, but there was something unsettling about the guy. He was just so insistent to talk about you and the case. Were you suspended? Were you the main suspect? All that.”
“What did you do?”
“I didn’t think much of it till I was heading home. But it got me thinking about the morgue, and that the sharp instrument the killer used might have been a scalpel. I didn’t have a lot of other leads, so I checked his background. He lit a few fires in his teens, minor offences, but it got me thinking about the ‘homicidal triad’—you know, all that stuff you were crowing about when you came back from the States—extended bedwetting, cruelty to animals,
arson. I got Colin to ask around at the morgue, see if anyone noticed anything suspicious. Colin gets back to me yesterday, says some autopsy tools had gone missing. Turns out Ed Brown was fired on Thursday.”
“Same day Cassandra was killed.”
“Exactly. I reckon the guy’s using these tools on the victims. So we put him under surveillance, and now this. He’s a slippery bastard. I don’t know how he knew we were on to him, but he figured it out pretty quick.”
The traffic wouldn’t move out of their way fast enough.