“We’re friends, Dad.” Her eyelids fluttered.
Kevin held his tongue, rubbing at his mouth. His eyes glowered an angry black.
“His mom is mean.” Her eyes darted around the room and landed on the dripping tap. The drops of water fell with a chaotic rhythm.
“Does he own a knife?”
“That’s enough.” Kevin pushed his chair back.
“It was for protection. From the crazies. He wouldn’t hurt anybody,” Virginia screamed in defiance.
“Your mother reported it to the police,” Gibson said, leaning in closer.
“What the hell?” Kevin exclaimed.
Scottie stopped writing and looked up from her notebook. Gibson issued him with another warning to back away and carried on with his questioning.
Virginia fidgeted in her chair and pressed her hands together.
“What’s his name?” Gibson spoke softly, attempting to cajole her into revealing all she knew.
“Ryder Simpson.”
“Does he have a cell phone?”
“No.”
“Where can we find him? At the youth hostel?”
She shrugged helplessly.
“Where do his parents live?”
“On Ardwell. His dad doesn’t live there.”
Virginia plucked her cell phone off the table and scrolled through to Ryder. She gave them an address. Her feet were bouncing up and down on the floor.
“Are you okay?”
“My mom and I had a fight.” She blinked away the tears.
“What about?”
“Nothing.”
Kevin looked as if he was going to lose it. He half-rose out of his seat, his hands on the table.
Gibson didn’t expect he would get an answer, but he asked anyway. “Was it about the knife?”
Kevin blew up. “That’s it. It’s over.” He jumped up, knocking his chair over in the quickness of his movement.
Virginia’s eyes widened, terror slipped in behind them. Her mother had told her there was nothing to fear but fear itself, but her mom was dead. She started crying and ran out of the room.
“Virginia,” Kevin yelled after her.
The front door slammed heavily.
“Well, that was uncalled for. You should leave her out of this business.”
“Sit down, Kevin,” Gibson said with some force. “We’re investigating your wife’s death, and we need some answers.”
He sat, his rage smouldering.
“Your wife was pregnant. Did you know that?”
Kevin gnawed on his lip but didn’t reply.
“How did Dianne get her bruises?” Gibson continued.
“What do you mean?” Kevin snapped. His eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“We saw marks on her body at the autopsy.”
“She bruises easily. I don’t know.”
“Don’t you?”
“No, I don’t.” He spat out the clipped words and shifted in his seat.
“What about the fractures?”
“She’s accident-prone. I had nothing to do with that.”
“Will the hospital records say that?”
“Why are you accusing me? Why don’t you leave us alone?”
Gibson stole a glance at his partner.
“We’ll talk again.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“Thanks.” The detectives got up to leave.
“Good riddance,” Kevin hollered down the hallway.
* * *
Traditionally the suburbs were abuzz with people on the weekend, hanging out in the driveway, washing the car and chatting with the neighbours. Or out back, the kids would be running amuck through the sprinkler and playing lawn darts. But not today. The smoke was severely hindering all outdoor activities. If the wind blew any stronger, things could become worse.
Scottie drove down the desolate streets to the main road.
“I’m going to place a detail at Kevin’s workplace. I want to find out if something funny is going on,” Gibson said.
“What does that mean?”
“I want to see if he stays his whole shift.”
“It’s rather late don’t you think? The deed is done.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s a gut feeling. It could be a habit of his, to just up and leave the workplace for a number of reasons.”
“Like what?” Scottie asked.
“Lunch comes to mind. If it’s easy to leave, it could have given him the idea to carry out his plan to kill his wife and still have an alibi,” Gibson insisted. “Remember, he was the acting supervisor that night. That made it even easier for him to come and go as he pleased.”
He crossed his arms as he fell back into his seat. That was a sign the conversation was over for now. He let his thoughts roam over the possibilities as he stared out the window. Could Kevin have been cheating on his wife and wanted to get rid of her? To move on to another life? Whatever the reason, Kevin was his prime suspect.
Scottie pulled off the highway and headed to Brentwood Bay.
“There you go. See you tomorrow.” She stopped in front of his house.
The Sixties bungalow had a shake roof and weathered wood siding. Large fir trees towered over the backyard, but the westerly view at the front encompassed a tranquil bay with mountains in the background.
“Thanks.” Gibson stood still and listened to the lapping of the water on the shoreline across the street. It was a sound he never tired of. He remembered about the letter again. The guilt felt like ice in his veins. He suffered guilt about everything in his life these days. Perhaps his position in the crime unit was too much for him. It was the first time he had harboured any misgivings about the job. He had a feeling Scottie saw it too.
Chapter 13
The following morning, Gibson sat in his office reading interviews and witness statements. The investigation was going in two directions, even though there were no solid leads. He set down the papers and leaned back in his chair. Although the floor-to-ceiling windows gave awesome views, Gibson stared at the ceiling. The team was meeting at nine for a briefing. The footsteps and chatter in the hallway announced their arrival.
“Have a seat everyone,” Gibson said as they filed into the room.
Gunner and Na got comfortable in the chairs in front of his desk. As usual, Scottie opted to stand by the window. She stared across the Strait of Juan de Fuca to the Olympic Mountains of western Washington.
“The smoke is gone,” she said and turned back to the room.
“How did the house-to-house canvassing go?” Gibson asked the constables.
“We didn’t find any more witnesses,” Na said.
“What about surveillance cameras? Any luck there?”
“The cameras at the waterfront condos point to the lobby doors, not out to the sidewalk.”
“We do have the wine store on Beacon,” Gunner said.
“Right. They have a camera aimed partly toward the street. But the film was too grainy to be of any help,” Na said.
“Most of them were suits. No kids running down the sidewalk,” Gunner added.
“That’s it? No other cameras?” Gibson shook his head. “Fine, bring me the hospital records for Dianne. Was she admitted for domestic violence or was there a cover-up? Let’s find out.”
“Doctors don’t do that,” Scottie shot back.
“I want to see them,” he said gruffly.
“How far back do you want us to go?” Na asked.
“Get it all.”
Na shot a quick look at his partner. Gunner rolled his eyes.
“I also need surveillance at the ferry terminal.”
“Huh?”
“Kevin works a late shift there. He’ll be back on the job in a few days. I just want you to watch. Find out if he leaves at any stage,” Gibson said.
“All right. Me and Gunner?”
“Yes. I know you have lots to do, but—”
“We’re on it,” Na said and popped out of his chair.
A
fter the constables left, Scottie moved away from the window and sat at the desk. “They’ve got Kevin covered. Let’s have a chat with Mrs. Simpson.”
“Okay. Let’s do it.”
“I hope she’s home.” She flipped through her notebook. “Ardwell Road. It’s not far from the Meadows’ house.”
They headed outside to a fine day. Scottie cruised down the highway, going northward. Gibson sat in the passenger seat with his legs stretched out. The conversation was stilted, so after a while they stopped talking. Scottie turned up the radio and kept her eyes on the road. The street they were searching for was closer to the town centre than she thought. There was a lot of construction going on. Nearly all the houses built after the war had been torn down. They were in varying phases of being supplanted by four-story condominiums.
Scottie pulled to the curb at a bungalow identical to several houses on the street. A small garden behind a white picket fence was well-tended with a riot of colour. A metal heron bird was nestled among a stand of cosmos flowers. They stepped up to the porch that was barely large enough for two people to stand on at the same time. Gibson knocked firmly on the door. A curly-haired woman with big brown eyes answered. She stopped short when she realized it wasn’t her expected visitor.
“Can I help you?”
“Mrs. Paula Simpson?” Gibson held out his badge.
“Yes.”
“May we have a word?”
“Is it about Ryder?”
“Yes.”
“Did you find him?” She clasped her hands into fists. “Is he okay?”
“We’re searching for him. May we come in?” Gibson asked.
“Of course.” She opened the door wider and pointed to the right. “Will the living room do?”
“Thank you.”
There was a dark sofa sprinkled with vibrant cushions like the garden outside. A remote control sat beside an empty mug and plate on the coffee table. Over the fireplace mantle, there was a modest TV with a picture on but no sound. One wall was covered with photographs of a young boy in different stages of his life. There were none of the father.
The detectives sat side by side on the sofa. Gibson bumped his shin on the table when he tried to cross his legs. Paula stood by the hearth.
“Is Ryder your only child?” He gestured to the photographs.
“What do you want with him anyway?” She tilted her head and eyed the detectives with suspicion.
“We’re just asking questions. He may know something that could help us. That’s all. We don’t think that he has done anything wrong at this point, Mrs. Simpson.” Gibson gave her a reassuring smile.
“Okay. I guess.” She sank into an armchair. “I don’t know where he is. I thought it was him at the door.”
“He doesn’t have a key?”
“When he doesn’t lose it. Which is often enough.” Paula blew out an exasperated sigh.
“How old is Ryder?”
“He’s fifteen, and he belongs at home.”
“Has he run away?” Gibson asked.
“That’s one way of putting it. He’ll be back though,” Paula said.
“Would he be at his father’s place or—”
“His father’s dead.”
“Sorry.”
“What did you want to speak to him about? What could he possibly know that would help the police?” she asked, her suspicion aroused once again.
“Has Ryder been in trouble before?” He ignored her question.
“No.” She looked up. “Okay. He has a juvenile record. It’s nothing too serious. He stole something from the corner store. Ryder’s a good kid. Not like his father.” She clamped her hand over her mouth.
Gibson pulled out a card and passed it over. “If he comes home, give us a call.”
“Sure.” She put the card along the mantle. All she cared about was finding her boy, whatever he had done. “You’ll call me if...”
“We’ll stay in touch. Don’t you worry.” Gibson stood up. “Thank you for your time.”
“I think she was lying about something,” Scottie said after they had stepped outside.
“Maybe so. But more importantly, let’s get a look at his juvenile record.”
“Aren’t they sealed records?”
“Sure. They are kept in a separate data bank so that the public can’t access them. But we can.”
“I’ll get on that and do a thorough scrutiny,” Scottie said. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Chapter 14
Gibson sat in the study and pulled out the letter. There were deep creases where he had folded and opened it a thousand times. He smoothed out the paper as flat as he could with his hands. The words were warm and touched on the emotional. A heaviness in his chest pressed against his ribs. He felt a sadness that made him feel alone. His eyes skimmed down to the signature again.
‘Your son, Anatoe Sinclair.’
It took all his strength to pick up the phone. He stood on the brink of the swamp, willing it to swallow him whole. Gibson had no illusions about that. His past had caught up with him. He dialled the number.
“Hello.”
“Anatoe?”
“Dad.”
“I’m so sorry.” Gibson placed the cell phone on the desk for a moment and wept. The darkness passed, and he picked it up again. The breathing down the line was even. “Are you here? In Victoria?” He choked.
“Yes. I would like to see you. Are you free now?”
“Meet me at the Brentwood Grill in an hour.” Gibson hung up without waiting for a reply. His hands shook slightly.
* * *
Anatoe waited by the glass doors. His beefy square shoulders were pulled backwards, making him seem even taller than he was. He gave a crooked smile to the detective crossing the street. His earthy brown eyes sparkled in anticipation. Gibson made eye contact and picked up his tempo. His heart began to thump wildly in his chest. He halted in front of the stranger and bit down on his lip. Anatoe opened his arms. The warm hug felt right, like coming home.
They walked into the restaurant, father and son.
The patio was full, so they sat by the unlit fireplace inside. With drinks ordered, Gibson sat back in his chair and tried to act casual. They stared at each other, both uncertain where this was going.
“I found out about you this summer, when I was in Ontario. I wanted to tell you that I was your father, but…” Gibson ran his palm across his face. “How did you find out?”
“I got curious when you told me to say hi to my mom. So I asked her who you were.” Anatoe toyed with the coaster on the table. His eyelids flickered. “She told me, but she wouldn’t say why she kept it a secret from me. From everybody.”
“Yeah, she kept it from me, too. We were both so young.” Gibson blew out a long sigh. “I was stupid.”
“I’m here now.” Anatoe shrugged.
“How long are you staying in Victoria?”
“I’ve moved here.” Anatoe held up his hand. “No need to worry, I won’t—”
“That’s wonderful,” Gibson interrupted.
“Really?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“I have plans.”
“A garage like the one you had back east?”
“Kind of. You know about the Youth Justice Initiative Fund. Right?”
Gibson nodded. He knew they gave grants for the rehabilitation and reintegration of youth into the community.
“I applied for a grant and got funding for a three-year pilot project. I’m setting up a workshop and garage to teach mechanics to young offenders.” Anatoe smiled. “I started out as a social worker, so I had a good chance to get the funding.” Then Anatoe turned serious and said, “It will be a place for kids to hang out and learn at the same time. It’s important to feel a part of something.”
“That sounds great.” Gibson grinned. His son had grown into a man of integrity.
Anatoe hesitated for a second before he said, “Don’t take this wrong, but I know how it feels.
I understand what these youngsters go through. They’ll realize there’s no bullshit with me.”
“All those years.” Gibson sighed again and hung his head. The scars were invisible, but the pain seeped out with his jagged voice.
Anatoe touched his hand. “Honestly. Focus on the here and now. That’s all that matters.”
Gibson nodded his head slightly. “What about your mom?”
“She thinks it’s the right thing to do.”
“Yes, she would.”
“The funds are limited, and some expenses are ineligible. So I will have to contribute some capital, too. I’ll probably do some fundraising through friends,” Anatoe said.
“That alone will keep you busy.”
“It will be crazy,” Anatoe said and laughed.
The charged atmosphere settled into a cozy familiarity. They were comfortable together and talked the way best friends do—about everything, about nothing. The afternoon breezed by, a newly formed bond growing. The courage to trust others.
The light ebbed as the sun disappeared behind the crest of the hills. Gibson peered down at his watch and frowned. “Katherine should be home.”
“Time to go.” Anatoe downed the last of his drink.
They parted ways at the front entrance. Gibson walked toward the waterfront and without a backward glance skipped home.
Chapter 15
With a grin on his face, Gibson strolled along the street and around the corner to the narrow lane. Halfway down, he stopped at the bungalow. The fir trees that loomed over the house grabbed the final golden beams of daylight in its uppermost tips. The grounds were lost in the shadows that lengthened with the coming of twilight. A light at the end of the driveway flickered, and then flashed on. He stepped onto the porch and opened the door. Soft music and enticing smells drifted from the back.
“Katherine. It’s me.”
“In here.” His wife shouted from the kitchen.
Gibson walked down the hallway and leaned against the door frame. Katherine’s dark hair was pulled into a high ponytail. She was dressed casually in jeans and a green shirt with an apron tied around her waistline. Her chocolate brown eyes locked onto his smoky greys and ensnared his soul.
STORM ROLL: a Canadian murder mystery series Page 39