Frances Housden - The Man For Maggie

“Any leads on the Khyber Pass Killer, Sergeant?”

Startled, Max spun around and spilled froth over the side of the cup, saucer and his fingers. Damn! Couldn’t he get a minute’s peace? A sinking feeling gripped him as he recognized Babcox, crime reporter with the Tribune. A man with the fierce animalistic tenacity of the weasel he resembled, all ginger hair, sharp features and canines. Young and eager, Babcox made up in effrontery for what he lacked in years and inches. Like the way he’d slapped the name the Khyber Pass Killer on the man they were after. A name that stuck once the other papers ran with it, though only the first victim, a young prostitute, had lived in Khyber Pass Road.

Apart from the killer, all three had only one thing in common. The police team’s latest clue, unearthed after the last murder. Certain aspects of the case needed to be kept secret, and if Max had his way Babcox would be the last to know.

And that was only one of his problems.

What he needed was a reasonable explanation of why Maggie Kovacs knew details that had Detective Inspector Henare threatening a stint in the Chathams for anyone who spilled his guts to the media.

Max turned his back on him. “No comment.”

“Come on, Strachan. Things must be progressing well if you can afford to take a coffee break in the middle of the morning.”

One glance at the waitress told Max she was agog with speculation. “Here,” he said, pushing the cup and its saucer full of milk toward her, “can you fix this for me?” Then he softened his demand with, “Thanks,” when she took it away. That done, he told Babcox, “You know all statements have to come through Detective Inspector Henare’s office. Call him.”

Max felt the reporter back off mentally if not physically. It took a brave man to approach Mike Henare. He wasn’t any taller than Max’s six-five, yet the inspector could make two of him, and the Maori half of his ancestry lent a fearsome cast to his features that intimidated felons and scared the crap out of journos. It was a skill Max hadn’t mastered, one that needed cultivating, seeing that Babcox still took up space beside him.

“Why bother with the ringmaster when I can get it from the horse’s mouth? Doesn’t it worry you that women can’t sleep at night without wondering who’s going to be next?”

Max glowered at him and swallowed a curse as he heard the waitress set the coffee down on the counter behind him. The nerve of this guy! Hell, it was his embroidering of the facts that kept women awake at night. “Take it up with Henare.”

“Who’s the babe? Any connection with the case?”

Damn! Max didn’t want this jerk sniffing around Maggie. “Give me a break, mate, I do have a private life.” Maggie’d be sure to clam up if she caught on to Babcox’s line of work.

“Can’t say as I blame you. Wouldn’t mind a piece of that myself.”

Max stiffened and his hands fisted as he fought back the urge to plant them in Babcox’s filthy mouth. His nostrils flared with loathing as he sucked in a breath and held it.

With a nod of his head he drew Babcox’s attention to a poster advertising MacBeth. “If it’s more bloody murder you’re after, try backstage. You’ll learn more there than you’ll get out of me.”

“Yeah, real funny, Sergeant. But at least they know who did it.” The reporter put a couple of paces between himself and Max, then added, “Never let it be said I couldn’t take a hint. I’ll be seeing you, Strachan.”

“Not if I can help it. Listen good, Babcox, keep out of my face or I’ll get you banned from media releases.”

Max set Maggie’s coffee down in front of her. “Here you are. I hope it’s not cold. I got held up. Did you want something to eat with it? I didn’t think to ask if you were hungry.”

“No problem, coffee’s fine. Who was your friend?”

“Friend’s the wrong word for a lowlife you wouldn’t wanna be caught dead near,” answered Max, and realized his mistake as he saw Maggie’s expression tighten. He took the tub chair beside her, keeping his back to the window so he could see the whole room. He didn’t trust that guy one inch. “Anyway, he’s gone and the air’s fresher for it.”

“I suppose in your line of work you meet more people you dislike than not.”

“That just about sums it up.”

Maggie didn’t reply; instead she tore open three of the small packs of sugar and tipped them one after the other into her coffee. Caffeine was what she needed but a little sweetness wouldn’t go amiss.

“Maggie Kovacs! It is you.”

Suddenly Maggie found herself smothered in a soft, pillowy chest and a designer fragrance.

“I could hardly believe my eyes, it’s been so long.”

Once she’d been released and could breathe again, Maggie recognized Carla Dunsmuir. “Carla, how are—?”

“Oh, my dear! I’m so pleased to see that at last you’ve come out to play. And is this the man who’s rescued you? Your father would be so pleased.” Ever flamboyant, Carla gushed over both of them in warm, scented waves, eyes flashing and hands keeping time with her mouth.

The direction of Carla’s thoughts was all too obvious. She rushed on, not waiting for introductions. All Maggie could do was let her run her course. Nothing and no one ever stopped Carla once she’d hit her stride.

“I haven’t seen you since Frank’s funeral. So sad, so sad, but it’s thanks to him that I’m here today.” She smiled gently. “You know what they say about ill winds.”

“I do?” What was the woman talking about? Here because of Frank? Maggie needed help keeping up with her. She needed coffee.

Max stood with his hand on the chair next to him. “Care to join us?” he asked, hoping like hell the woman would say no, yet interested in spite of himself in what she had to say on the subject of Maggie’s father.

“No, thanks. I’m just passing through. That’s what I meant, Maggie. I needed something to do. I was lonely without Frank—you know what I mean. You must miss him more than me. Such a beautiful man.”

For a moment Carla’s face crumpled and Maggie braced herself, but thankfully she carried on with her explanation.

“So I ended up getting involved with the opera company and now I’m on the board. We’re doing a short season of Turandot,” she said, as if she personally would appear on-stage. “It starts tonight with a gala opening,” Carla chiruped, her hands fluttering and chest quivering in excitement. “So much to do, so little time.”

“I’m happy for you. Very happy.” Maggie felt positive Max must have realized by now that Carla had been her father’s lover.

“Such a tragedy.” Carla looked over at Max, sighing gustily. “I’m sure Maggie’s told you all about it.” Max nodded, but still she carried on. “So unexpected, too. I mean, these things always are, but it’s just that Frank was always so careful, checking everything before we took off. I often went with him, you know, but not that day. He refused to take me….” Carla trailed off, then looked at Maggie apologetically. “You mustn’t think he didn’t believe in you—I’m certain he did. It was just that being the sort of man he was, he wouldn’t let it rule his life.”

Max reached under the table and took the hand he knew Maggie had clenched in her lap. He undid her fingers and wrapped his own around them, rubbing the back of her hand against his thigh. Blasted woman! Why wouldn’t she leave? Would nothing go his way this morning?

“Anyway, Frank saved my life, but I never understood how it happened. I mean the plane was only six hours past its last fifty-hour check.” Carla looked at the jeweled watch circling her plump wrist. “Heavens, I must run!” She leaned forward and planted a kiss in the air near Maggie’s cheek. “Look after yourself, dear, and remember,” she said with a wink, “don’t let life grind you down!”