by Louise Clark
"Do you remember the fuss that went on when the developers wanted to rezone this building from commercial to residential?" Ellen asked.
Christy laughed. "Of course. Protesters camped on the sidewalk in front of it for weeks."
Ellen nodded. "There were signs too, and demonstrations. It was quite a focused campaign, but in the end the rezoning was approved."
"That happened after the man leading the protests was killed, didn't it?"
Ellen shrugged. "Perhaps. The thing is, the developer of this property, Sawatzky Restoration and Renewal, is owned by Eugene Sawatzky." She nodded at Christy's startled expression. "Yes. Charlotte Sawatzky's son. The father of Chelsea Sawatzky, the girl who died after the concert."
"Oh, my God," Christy said. She glanced around the lovely roof garden, designed to look like the grounds of a great mansion, then beyond to the spectacular view of the North Shore Mountains. "Small world."
Ellen nodded. "Seeing the family yesterday... how broken up they are... It made me think."
Death did that to you, Christy thought. Made you reevaluate, forced you to start again. "Ellen..."
Ellen shook her head. She was staring fixedly at the mountains across Burrard Inlet, their muscular shoulders rising majestically into the deep blue sky. "Their troubles moved me," she said. "The Sawatzkys so desperately want to understand why their daughter was targeted, then taken from them." She drew a deep breath. "They want to know who did this to her. And why. They want closure."
"I can understand that," Christy said in a low voice. The breeze lifted the edges of her long line cardigan and she shivered. She pulled the sides together and held them there with her crossed arms. She had wanted closure too, when Frank disappeared. For her closure had been a beginning. It had brought her Quinn and a new family in his eccentric father and his friends. "Closure is important."
Ellen nodded. The wind picked up tendrils of her short blond hair and blew them across her face. She reached up and smoothed them away, but she didn't shift her gaze from the scenic view before them. "The police won't tell them anything."
"Who is in charge of the case?"
"Patterson." Ellen all but spat out the name.
Christy wasn't surprised by her vehemence. Detective Patterson had been the officer in charge of the murder on Ellen's terrace. She had also arrested Ellen for the murder and that was something Christy knew Ellen would never forgive. "Patterson's a good detective."
"She'll jump to a conclusion. The wrong conclusion."
Ellen's view of Patterson was different than Christy's. In Christy's experience Patterson was thorough, but open-minded. Of course, Patterson had never actually arrested Christy, though she had once suspected her of being involved in Frank's disappearance and the embezzlement from his trust fund.
"She'll find out who killed Chelsea. I'm sure of it."
"I'm not."
"She found out who killed Brittany Day."
"After she'd arrested the wrong person."
"She realized her mistake and—"
"With your help," Ellen said, cutting in. She turned at last to face Christy. "If you and Quinn hadn't been involved, she never would have uncovered Brittany's killer. Or Frank's, for that matter."
"She figured out who killed Brittany all on her own. I didn't have a hand in it."
"Of course you did," Ellen said. She sounded impatient, almost scornful. "You brought her the information about Lorne Cossi and you identified why Brittany was killed. Patterson was so busy maligning me and assuming the poor girl's death was a sexual relationship gone bad that she never thought to look at the other people in her life." Ellen's voice quavered with emotion. She stopped to draw in a deep breath. To regain the cool in-control demeanor that was so important to her. "Without you I would be in jail awaiting trial at this very moment."
"Ellen, I—"
"The Sawatzky family will never have closure unless someone helps them."
Christy stared at Ellen, whose expression was resolute, but also guarded. "Oh no," she whispered.
Ellen tipped her head in just the barest of a regal nod. "I offered them you."
Ms. Kippen chose that moment to rejoin them. "Well, ladies, have you had a chance to discuss your impressions? Ms. Jamieson, would you be interested in putting in an offer?"
"How could you?" Christy said, appalled.
"Is there some kind of problem?" the realtor asked, frowning.
"Charlotte Sawatzky is my friend. I want to help her."
"You need more time," Kippen said. "I understand completely. I'll just wait over by the greenhouse. Come and get me when you're ready."
She scuttled off. Neither of the Jamieson women noticed.
"I'm not a private detective, Ellen. Finding murderers isn't my occupation."
"You're good at discovering clues the professionals miss," Ellen said. She raised an eyebrow. "Quinn can help."
"Quinn and I are going to Disneyland!" In the face of the emotional pain the Sawatzky family must be feeling, that sounded shallow, but it was true. Christy was looking forward to the vacation. There was no way she was going to cancel, not when it was so close.
"Not for another week. There should be plenty of time for you to make a difference."
"That week is part of Spring Break. Noelle will be home. We're going to do things together. I don't have time to solve a murder."
Ellen lifted her chin. "It's important."
Christy glared at her for a moment before she turned away to try to regain control of the temper that was seething through her. When she turned back, she was still angry, but she'd pulled her Jamieson princess persona around her, the mask she'd used for so many years when dealing with Ellen. She said coolly, "I understand your pain, Ellen, and your motivation for what you did, but you were out of line. I'm afraid I can't help your friend or her family." She was rewarded with a glare. She smiled thinly and said, "Shall we put poor Ms. Kippen out of her misery and let her know you aren't interested?"
Chapter 5
Quinn circled the block searching for a spot to park. Fairview Slopes, on the edge of False Creek, was a high-density area, redeveloped in the 1970s from land given to the Canadian Pacific Railway the century before. Vehicle parking had not been a priority for the city planners who redesigned the area. They disapproved of cars and wanted people to shift to public transit. As a grudging acknowledgement to modern living, parking was available, but was largely used by those who lived and worked in the area. Visitors, like Quinn, had to struggle to find a space.
By the time he did, he knew he was going to be late for the appointment he'd made with Rob 'Sledge' McCullagh and SledgeHammer's manager, Vince Nunez. As he walked down the steeply sloping street toward West 6th Avenue, he wondered why Sledge wanted this meeting. He'd sounded worried when he called, but he wouldn't say why.
Quinn reached 6th Avenue and turned west. Sledge was an old friend, otherwise Quinn wouldn't have come all this way to meet with him. He had edits on the Jamieson book to turn into his editor and he had to get them completed before he and Christy took off for California. He smiled to himself as he thought of their upcoming vacation. He was as excited about the idea of visiting Disneyland as Noelle was, and not just because of the rides. He'd booked a suite in one of the on-site hotels. Christy and Noelle would share one bedroom, while he had the second one all on his own, but they would have a sitting room where they could mingle, and he was pretty sure Noelle would be tired at night.
Who knew what would happen then?
On that cheering thought he reached the building that housed Vince Nunez Music. It was one of those erected when the area was redeveloped and the architecture was very much in the style of the time. Low rise, like most of the structures around it, the exterior included a lot of glass, framed by wood and concrete. At the time of construction, it was a stylish design, but it hadn't aged well. Now the building looked tired, as if it had come to the end of its lifetime and looked forward to being the victim of a new redevelopment.
He pulled open the glass door and went inside.
The lobby was small, carpeted with a hardwearing industrial gray flooring that probably had been installed midway through the building's life. The reception desk was simple and rectangular, and the visitors' chairs off to one side were minimalist style, with hard edges and thinly padded seats. They were rectangular too, possibly as part of a reluctant effort to match the reception desk.
The girl stationed at the desk was, unlike the décor around her, spectacular. Her features were perfect, her smile blinded and she seemed delighted to have the opportunity to speak to him, even though she clearly hadn't a clue who Quinn Armstrong was.
Vince himself came out from an inner office to greet Quinn as soon as the lovely receptionist announced him. He was wearing gray chinos and a black cotton dress shirt adorned with a shadowy spiral design woven into the fabric. His garb was more formal than Quinn's jeans and dark gray sweater, but then he was the owner and had an image to maintain. For this meeting, Quinn did not.
"Sorry I'm late," Quinn said, as they shook hands.
"Not a problem, not at all," Vince said. He ushered Quinn past the reception desk, saying to the girl as they went, "Hold my calls. If there's something urgent pass it through to my secretary."
"Of course, Mr. Nunez." The entry door rattled and the girl's gaze refocused on whoever was had come in. Her voice deepened, became softer. "Hi Braiden. The rest of your band are already in the studio. Just go on through."
Quinn glanced over his shoulder to see a young man wearing dirty jeans, a sweatshirt with holes in it and sporting hair that hadn't been trimmed in years. Braiden shot a broad toothy smile at the receptionist, said, "Thanks, babe." Then, as he passed the desk, he leaned in. His voice lowered and his tone could only be called suggestive as he added, "On for later?"
The receptionist's megawatt smile turned into a blaze and she nodded. The musician nodded back and continued on his way, without so much as a pause. He did cast a wary glance at Vince, however, as he passed.
Vince pointed his index finger at him and said, "She's my next-door neighbor's kid. You mind your manners or I'll never hear the end of it." The musician hunched his shoulders, then nodded. Vince said briskly, "Good. This way, Quinn. We're in here."
Quinn was left with the impression that Vince's word was law in this building, which didn't surprise him. Vince Nunez managed a string of successful bands. If you were a musician serious about your career, working with Vince was the ultimate goal. The girl would have to be pretty special for someone to want to screw up his big break for a one-night stand.
Vince's office was like his reception area. All of the furniture did what it was supposed to, but wasn't luxurious. His window looked out over 6th Avenue, and gave him a great view of the busy road, the railroad tracks beside it, and the housing development beyond. The densely clustered buildings obscured False Creek, and the North Shore mountains only managed to peek through the downtown high rises on the other side of the water.
Sledge was slouched on an angular sofa that matched the ugly chairs in the reception area. Unlike the night of the concert, his sand brown hair was carefully combed. In fact, Quinn thought he'd had it cut between then and now. The two-day scruff of beard that was a Sledge trademark was gone, somehow making his stubborn chin more noticeable. He was wearing a ratty black T-shirt that was a relic of SlegeHammer's first international concert tour to Australia, New Zealand, and other destinations in the south Pacific. The worn cotton clung to his body, showing off his muscular biceps and chest. He straightened, then stood when Quinn and Vince entered. "Hey, man," he said, his gray gaze sharp and assessing. "Thanks for coming."
Quinn nodded. "What's up?"
Sledge looked at Vince, who shrugged. "Why don't we all sit down," he suggested, gesturing to chairs. Sledge slouched down on the couch again, Vince took his desk chair and Quinn sat on a hard, box-shaped chair that was the cousin of one of the thinner, rectangular ones in reception.
Vince and Sledge exchanged looks. Quinn raised his eyebrows. Clearly Vince was letting Sledge take the lead, but he couldn't figure out what Sledge might have to say to him that would be so difficult that the two men would have rehearsed who should start the conversation.
"I need your help," Sledge said suddenly, on a rush. A tinge of red crept into his angular features and emphasized his high cheekbones.
"Okay," Quinn said. He waited. Nothing was forthcoming. "I can't help if I don't know what the problem is."
Sledge and Vince exchanged looks again.
Quinn had better things to do with his time than to sit in an office with two guys who were having trouble committing. He resisted the urge to snap out a demand. Instead he lifted his arm and checked his watch, sending a signal he hoped they would understand.
Vince did. "Tell him!"
Sledge drew in a deep breath then blurted, "I need you to find out who killed that girl."
There was silence after Sledge finished. So he had become the murder reporter, Quinn thought, rather than the foreign correspondent he'd been through most of his career. Served him right for helping Christy find Frank's murderer and then working with her to discover who had killed Brittany Day. "I'm not a detective or a PI."
Sledge and Vince exchanged looks again. Vince said, "No, but you're good at getting behind the scenes and figuring out motives. That's what we need."
"Hammer thinks the cops are going to arrest his brother Kyle for the girl's murder. He's freaking out," Sledge said, hardly waiting for Vince to finish before he blurted out his problem. "If Hammer's brother gets arrested, SledgeHammer is done."
"Surely not," Quinn said. "It's Hammer's brother, not Hammer, who would be under scrutiny."
Vince was shaking his head. "Mitch Crosier has already made it clear that his label will drop SledgeHammer if anything comes of the suspicion. He says any mud in Hammer's family will stick to Hammer. A lot of fans are women. He's afraid they'll abandon the group in droves if Hammer is seen to be a related to the murderer of a young girl."
"And they'll never come back," Sledge added. He sounded gloomy. "Even if Kyle is exonerated."
Possibly. "Is it true?" Quinn asked. "Did Kyle Gowdy do it?"
"No!"
Sledge's answer was so quick and so heartfelt that Quinn believed him.
"Kyle Gowdy is a decent guy. Even a gentle guy when he's with women. And he's married to a great lady. But he's black and he had a couple of run-ins with the cops when he was a teenager."
Quinn leaned forward in the big boxy chair. It wasn't all that easy. The chair was low and confining. He felt as if he might be stuck in it forever. "What kind of run-ins?"
"One was a situation with a girl he knew. She accused him of assaulting her."
Quinn raised his brow. Sledge held up his hand. "Wait! It wasn't true. She was harassing him. One day she went too far and he pushed her. That was it."
"And the other?"
"He was drunk," Vince said. He had his hands flat on his desktop and the expression on his face was grim. "He came on to a woman at a bar and when her date took exception he threw a punch. There were no charges."
"Who's the cop investigating Chelsea Sawatzky's murder?"
"A female detective called Patterson," Vince said.
Sledge added, "Hammer figures she was assigned the case because she was a woman and she'd be relentless."
"She won't give up," Quinn said. He rubbed his jaw, thinking. "Look, I know Patterson. She's—"
"We know you know her," Sledge said. "That's why we thought you could help." He sounded desperate, even though outwardly he retained his rock star cool as he slouched lazily on the couch.
Quinn shook his head. "In a few days I'm going away for a week. Patterson won't wait around for me to be available again. If you feel it's necessary to investigate the girl's murder on your own, hire a PI." Sledge opened his mouth to say something, but Quinn put up his hand and shook his head. "I'm sorry. I can't help you." He stood up. "Talk to your dad, Rob
. He probably has a computer file full of names of people who could help you."
Vince stood and after a minute Sledge followed suit. Vince held out his hand. Polite. No hard feelings. "Thanks for coming, Quinn."
Quinn took his hand and shook. He raised his brows at the distinct chill in Vince's voice. "I'll see myself out."
As he walked away from the office, he felt like the raw recruit who had fumbled the ball and let the team down.
Chapter 6
When Christy walked out her front door on her way to pick up Noelle from her last day of school before the Spring Break holiday, she found Quinn sitting on her porch steps. Beside him sat the cat.
Quinn's upset. Something's wrong, babe.
"Hi," she said, not acknowledging Frank's comment. Quinn turned. Though he smiled at her, Christy could see the shadow of concern in his eyes. Glad that she was still wearing the fashionable outfit she'd put on for the apartment visit with Ellen, she smiled at him. Quinn would tell her what the problem was when he was ready. "I'm on my way to pick up Noelle. Want to walk with me?"
He nodded and stood up. Stormy didn't move. Christy stepped around the cat and started down the stairs. Quinn shot him a look that was somehow defiant, then deliberately took Christy's hand. Stormy arched, hissed, then leapt off the stair in one lithe bound.
Quinn looked so smug that Christy had to laugh. "Vanquished your foe with nothing more than a gesture!"
Quinn's mouth quirked up into a half smile. "I take my victories where I can, no matter how small they might be."
Christy laughed again. The cat disappeared into the bushes across the street from Christy's townhouse. Christy and Quinn went down the steps with a good deal more decorum than the cat had shown.
"Be prepared," Christy said as they headed up the street toward the path through the greenbelt that led to the school and beyond. "The kids are going to be wired."
Quinn's expression lightened. "Last day of school before Spring Break. Not surprising." He looked down at her. "How was your house hunting expedition this morning?"