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 thinkthis 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.
CHAPTER 7
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. Evenon 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
“Miss Vanderwall, we don’t believe this is an isolated revenge murder. Believe it or not, we thinkthis 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.
CHAPTER 7
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. Evenon 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
Similar Books
