“Wine all round?” Jackson asked. He held up a bottle of red.
“None for me, thanks,” Katherine stated.
“Would you prefer white?”
“We’re having a baby. I...”
“Congratulations,” Jackson said.
“Yes. Congratulations.” Lori sat back in her chair and crossed her legs at the ankle.
Jackson got Katherine water and poured everyone else a generous portion of wine, draining the last bit out of the first bottle of the evening.
“Is this Chilean?” Gibson asked. He swirled the liquid in his glass.
“No. It’s a BC wine.”
“Very nice.”
“Jackson goes to that wine store on Beacon,” Lori said. “When he works late, he can rush down the street.”
“I’ll have to try that.”
The small talk flowed into an easy conversation. Soon the topic turned to the purpose of their meeting, with Anatoe the centre of attention. He outlined his project and explained how it would go. His enthusiasm was infectious. He realized it was a big challenge, but he had great support from the community already. Jackson leaned forward with keen interest.
“We’re in,” Jackson said.
“Fantastic.” Anatoe beamed.
“We were in before you got here.” Jackson dipped into his pocket and took out an envelope.
Gibson nodded his head in appreciation.
“Should I open it now?”
“Yes. We can give more at a later date.”
“Oh, my God. This is unbelievable.” His eyes had sprung open at the enormous number.
The host served another round of beverages. The chatter was happier, looser. The lampposts in the courtyard switched on as the sunlight disappeared entirely. Lights twinkled in the distance from the islands across the open stretch of water. A warm breeze drifted into the room, bringing the salty aroma of the ocean with it.
“We should go,” Gibson said.
They walked down the wide hallway to the front door. Coloured lights had transformed the fountain into a piece of art. Jackson waved as the two cars made their way up the curved driveway, their taillights disappearing into the shadows of the woods. At the road, Anatoe honked his horn as he swung left. Gibson headed back the direction they had come. As he cruised down the country lane, his mind was spinning with possibilities. He turned back to Katherine. She took his hand and squeezed gently. He almost poured out his thoughts, but something held him still.
* * *
Constable Grant was the desk sergeant at the Sidney RCMP station on Saturday night. He had a radio turned on low on the table behind him. He grabbed a handful of reports from the week before and flipped through them slowly. The jarring sound of the phone interrupted the quiet. He scooped it up and listened to the complaint with the instrument held away from his ear. The lady’s voice shrieked two decimals above annoying. After promising he would send someone out to check out the noisy party, he hung up. He radioed to a patrol car in the area and went back to reading the reports.
Grant went through them rapidly. It had been a slow week thus far. The last report from the night before caught his attention. He yelled for the constable in the back to come up to the reception desk.
“Yeah. Is something going on?”
“Did I wake you up?”
“Ha. Ha.”
“What did they steal?” Grant turned the paper on the counter to the constable and tapped at a section that hadn’t been filled in.
“Nothing.”
“Did you go over and take a look?”
“No, the gate was locked.”
Grant pulled open a drawer and fumbled around its contents. He held up the key. “Guess you didn’t know the construction boss left us this. Do you want to go now and take a look around? Check for damage. Just to be sure?”
“Okay.” The constable grabbed the key and stalked out the door.
Grant could hear him rattling the chains holding the gates shut. A squeaking sound of worn steel on cracked concrete pierced his ears. He moved back indoors to wait.
The constable came back and tossed over a jacket.
“This is all I could find. It was by the bin where the kids were standing. It’s not worth anything.”
“No, but something tells me...”
“What?”
“It’s a bomber jacket. My friend with the major crimes unit was looking for one of these.”
“What the hell for?”
“It could be evidence. Let’s bag it. Perhaps some of that dirt is blood.”
Chapter 28
Gibson sat on a red metal patio chair on the front lawn. The sun had beat on it for a number of years and faded it to a pink colour. He peered through binoculars at the boats sailing down the narrow pass. The weather was perfect for a spin in his kayak. His phone buzzed in his back pocket. He had to slide forward to get it out.
“Gibson.”
“Is this the detective?” The lady’s pitch was high and squeaky.
“Paula.” He hadn’t recognized the number, but he knew the voice.
“You left your card. Said I could—”
“Of course. Anything I can do to help,” Gibson interrupted. His heart flipped a beat. He felt something bad was coming.
“Ryder called. He wants to come home.”
“What did you say?” Gibson hedged for time. He had an obligation as a peace officer. No getting around that simple fact! This could bite him in the ass. Why had he made her a promise?
“I told him he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t involved. Whether or not he did anything wrong.” Paula paused. “No matter what you said earlier. You can’t make any guarantees. He has to face the consequences of fleeing the scene. Right?”
“I’ll do everything I can,” Gibson said. A sense of relief swept over him. “Will he turn himself in?” His phone purred again. A call on the other line. He ignored it completely. This was much too important. “Paula?”
“Would you be able to give us some time? So Ryder could clean up.”
“You’ll need to bring a lawyer,” he answered.
“I don’t have the money.”
“Not to worry. I’ll get you one,” Gibson said. “Meet you in three hours at the Sidney RCMP. I’ll be waiting in the lobby for you. I won’t let you down.”
“I know that. Thanks,” Paula said.
When Gibson hung up, Katherine was standing in the doorway and asked, “Is it the boy?”
He turned toward her and nodded.
“If you believe in him, do your best.”
“I will,” he said and punched a number into his phone.
“Anatoe. I need your help.”
“Anything.”
They talked for several minutes. After Gibson ended the call, he dialled the number of the missed call.
“Grant.”
“It’s Gibson. I see you called. What’s up?”
“We may have found your jacket.”
“What? Oh. The bomber jacket?”
“Yeah. At the construction site next door. I’m just puzzled why Ryder would toss it there. But it’s marked the same way the knife was. With the ‘x’s.”
“Oh, shit. Ryder is turning himself in.”
“When?”
“Today at noon. Anatoe will be there, too. He’s bringing a lawyer.”
“Oh, boy. What should I do with the jacket?”
“Send it to the lab,” Gibson said. “Ask them to test it right away.”
“Will do.”
“Tell Jocko it’s important.”
“See you soon, Gibson.”
“Thanks.”
Gibson wondered why he wanted to help this boy so badly. Was it because he hadn’t been there for Anatoe? He tried to rationalize it by telling himself he hadn’t known about his son until this year. Although there had been clues he had brushed aside. But Anatoe had turned out all right. So why did he feel so wretched? Everything he thought and did was a back and forth struggle.
&
nbsp; Gibson was sure Ryder wasn’t involved. Now the jacket had put another kink in his reasoning. He only wished he could get some concrete evidence against Kevin. It was imperative to break his alibi. If not, would Ryder survive the allegations against him?
Gibson was too restless to wait around the house for the appointed hour, so he headed to Sidney. The streets were quiet, even for a Sunday morning, except down at the port. Boaters were setting out for a cruise through the Gulf Islands or over to Roche Harbor in the States. Lots of places to go to and enjoy. The water was like glass, not a ripple distorting the smooth surface. He parked in the RCMP lot and remained in his truck for a moment, jotting down a few notes in his book. He made a brief call to Constable Na.
* * *
Grant was sitting on a stool browsing through a magazine when Gibson entered the lobby. He put it aside at the sound of the door opening. “You’re early.” He glanced at the wall clock.
“Yeah.”
“There’s a room at the back. Last door on the right.” Grant said.
“Thanks.” Gibson headed down the hallway to the interview room. He dropped into a chair at the end of the table.
For the more serious part of an hour, Gibson drank in the quiet of the space, aware of the chaos that would fall upon them presently. He heard hurried footsteps and loud voices in the hall. There was a rap on the metal frame followed by the squeak of the door. Two men entered.
“This is Peter Tull,” Anatoe said. “I’ll be out front if you need me.”
The attorney was a thin man with close-cropped hair and a very young clean-shaven face. He had on a short-sleeved shirt and khaki pants. Gibson extended a hand toward him. “Good of you to come on such short notice.”
Peter nodded and plunked down his briefcase on the table. He scanned the room and picked a seat opposite Gibson to get comfortable. They chatted amiably for a few minutes. Then the room fell into an eerie stillness, leaving unspoken words to hang in the air. An occasional rustling of paper or cough went unnoticed. As the quietness grew deeper, Gibson shifted in his chair and peeped at his watch more than once. His heart grew heavier with every sweep of the minute hand. Would they show up? Now, he wasn’t sure.
They arrived at around noon. Grant walked them down the corridor.
Ryder was dressed in spotless jeans and a tee shirt. There was a woven band on his slender wrist that he twirled in an endless circle. He was small, more childlike than a teenager. But his creased brows and tense face made him appear ten years older. His dark hair was neat and smelt fresh and fruity. He had earthy brown eyes that were cast down in a mournful gaze.
Paula had tamed her curly hair. Her shoulders were pulled down in frustration. She bit her lower lip to stop the quivering. A glassy layer of tears threatened to break the semblance of calm she portrayed.
“Have a seat,” Peter said, indicating the two empty chairs beside him. “My name is Peter Tull. I will be representing you in the matter before us. This is Detective Gibson.”
“I’ll just step outside for a moment, so you can confer with your client.”
“Thanks.”
Gibson left the room and leaned on the wall in the hallway while he waited. Ten minutes went by before he was called back into the room. He took his seat again and looked around the room before speaking.
“Let’s go through the events of that day,” Gibson said. “Just tell me the truth, and we’ll get through this.”
“Okay,” Ryder squeaked.
“Let’s start with the knife you had in your possession.”
Paula could hardly breath. This could have been a big mistake, coming here.
Chapter 29
“The knife?” Ryder asked. “What about it?” A smidgen of defiance seeped into his voice.
Peter’s dark eyes shot up.
Ryder looked at him with wild-eyed desperation. All vestige of colour from his face had fled. He was like a trapped animal, brazen and fearful at the same time. The emotional pain reached out and stung them to the quick.
It stung Paula most of all. It felt as if she was treading cautiously on thin ice. At any minute, it could break and send her free-falling into a frosty demise. She refused to give up the struggle and reached out to her son.
“Where did you get the knife, Ryder?” Gibson asked.
“I bought the knife at a hardware store,” Ryder said. “I was living on the street. I was scared.”
“So it was brand-new.”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever have to use it?”
“No. I don’t think I could have. It was just for show,” Ryder said.
“Did you ever cut yourself with it?”
“No.” He tilted his head at the weird question.
“We know it landed up at the Meadows’ house,” the detective said. He took another look at his notes. “Did you know that?”
“I suppose that’s where I lost it. Only, I didn’t know for sure.” He broke off. “I meant to ask Virginia if she had it.”
“It fell under the couch when the two of you were making out,” Gibson said. He tried a little smile to quell Ryder’s unease.
“But, how did it get, you know...” His eyes glazed over.
“We don’t know exactly how your knife became the murder weapon.” Gibson glanced over to Peter before he continued.
“Virginia told us that Dianne found the knife and put it in the shed. Someone stole it from there.”
“Who?”
“If we knew that, we would know who the killer was.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“Tell us what happened at the pier,” Gibson continued.
Ryder exhaled and began his story. “I was headed to the hostel where I was staying a lot of the time. They’re decent people there, and I felt safe enough. That night I took the path at the end of Beacon to cut through the skate park and across the lawn. Someone knocked into me like he was in a hurry.”
“Did you get a look at the guy?”
“He was a big guy. He nearly bumped me off the sidewalk.”
Gibson didn’t think that sounded like Kevin. A big puff of wind would blow him over. He tried not to let his disappointment show.
“Would you recognize him again?” Gibson asked.
“I think so. Maybe.”
“What happened next?”
“I kept on walking and decided to go down to the shore. For a toke.” Ryder lowered his head and shrugged.
“Okay.”
Paula stirred in her seat.
“Go on.”
“That’s when I saw someone lying on the ground. I could hardly believe my eyes. It was Virginia’s mom. Then I saw the knife.” Ryder stopped.
“Go on,” Gibson prodded him.
“I picked it up. I knew it was mine.” He stared at the wall.
Gibson knew he was reliving the nightmare.
“I tossed it away. I thought it went into the bay. Guess not.”
“Why didn’t you ring the police?”
“Are you kidding me? I was a goner.” It was a vehement outcry in the quiet room.
It was moments before Ryder continued.
“Maybe I still am. But, I tell you, it wasn’t me.” He pressed his lips together to stop the tears that had welled up in his eyes. “What are you going to do to me?” He couldn’t hold back his emotions in any longer and sobbed.
Paula squeezed her eyes shut.
Peter sat back in his chair.
“After we get a blood sample from you, we can compare it with the blood on the knife and on a bomber jacket we found,” Gibson said.
“A jacket? How do you know it’s mine?” Ryder whispered.
“You marked it the same as the knife.”
“Oh.”
“Why did you toss it in a bin next to the police station?” Gibson asked more out of curiosity than anything.
“I guess I wasn’t thinking straight at the time. I was just in kind of a daze.” Ryder blew out a deep sigh.
“We should g
et the blood results quickly. In the meantime, you’ll have to remain here,” Gibson said.
“In a cell?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“But I thought...” Paula stammered.
“It’s a process. I’ve spoken to Crown counsel. They know the circumstances.”
“What does that mean actually?” Paula asked.
“They prefer to treat young offenders outside the prison system. We have the full support of the Youth Criminal Justice Act.”
“Will they let Ryder go?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Gibson said. “Ryder will be comfortable here. No harm will come his way. Everything depends on the blood results.” He slapped the table with his hand and stood up.
Everybody followed his lead except for Ryder. “I shouldn’t have run away.” The loud, heaving sobs punched Gibson in the gut.
* * *
After the desk sergeant took Ryder away, Paula left the interview room. The detective tried to reassure her, but she wasn’t having it. She walked past the reception desk and out the door to her car without saying a word. The ride home was a blur. Her eyes had welled up with tears several times, but no tears came out. She sat on the porch well into the night thinking about her son, and how she had failed him. What was going to happen? The only thing she had left was hope. She had never prayed in her whole life, but as she sat in the dark, she pleaded to a higher power to save him.
* * *
It was a short hallway to a long night. Ryder sat on the lower bunk bed and closed his eyes. The fluorescent light in the hallway flickered through his eyelids. He lifted his head up and looked around. The walls were white, no graffiti or scribbles on the clean surface. He leaned back and laid down. The blanket was softer than he imagined it would be. He thought prison would be small, stinky cells with bars that rattled. It was pretty quiet here. No screaming voices, only the occasional ringing of a phone from far out. Even the bathroom had a division that gave some privacy. But it didn’t matter. He knew he had screwed up royally this time. There were no more tears left in him, so he turned away from the light. All he had to do was let go of the darkness and drift off.
STORM ROLL: a Canadian murder mystery series Page 45