“Or some kind of party,” Dion said. “I know Karl from court, from a few years ago, so he said I could come down and talk to him there, if I want. So that’s what I plan to do. I told him it’s about Scott Mills, but that’s all. I’ll tread carefully. As I said, I don’t know the connection, whether Mills is a tenant or a relative or what. Far as I remember, Karl doesn’t have any kids, but I could be wrong. Either way, hopefully I can get an interesting angle on Mills from his perspective.”
Leith was watching him skeptically. There was something inhuman about a man who didn’t mope at having to work on Christmas Eve, and there was nothing mopey about Dion’s expression. He had no Yuletide plans or aspirations, and apparently didn’t regret it. All he wanted for Christmas, it seemed, was permission to follow up a lead.
“Sure, okay.” Following up on Scott Mills wasn’t Leith’s fight tonight, and neither was the problem of Cal Dion. “Have fun.”
* * *
The office was on the seventeenth floor of a building near Georgia and Thurlow. There was a bit of a hoopla in progress, not so much a staff party, as it turned out, as a bigwig get-together of some kind. Glitter dust and party favours were everywhere, and Christmas tunes of the Frank Sinatra variety played — let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. Rain lashed the windows and blurred the view. The guests all looked like lawyers to Dion, from what he could tell, as Karl Gold-Seton beckoned him down the corridor to a smaller office with an equally spectacular view. The furniture was sharp and spanking clean. The city glimmered in wraparound splendour, traffic flowing like red-and-gold beads below, and a partial view of the Lion’s Gate Bridge stretched out into the distance.
Karl Gold-Seton had welcomed him into the office as “Sergeant Dion.” Maybe he was misinformed about the rank, but more likely he was joking, judging by his hearty laugh. He had always been a laugher. Now he asked Dion why the fuck he was working tonight, of all nights, and what had his dear boy, Scott, gotten himself into? “Must be pretty damn serious to bring you over here on a special night like this,” he said. He had poured two tumblers full of Scotch and dropped into an executive chair, waving Dion into another. The lawyer looked no different than he had a few years back, except his thick thatch of hair was no longer salt and pepper, but stark white. He still had big teeth and big gums, and his rosy complexion looked like good health gone overboard, maybe dangerously so.
“Scott Mills is your son?” Dion asked, puzzled. He recalled Karl bragging about being a childless bachelor, not too many years ago.
“It’s a euphemism.” Karl waved at the air as if dispersing smoke. “Guess I didn’t read the small print when I married Maria last year. He came with the package. You know those emails with attachments, you open them up and bang, you got a virus? Well, that’s my Scott.”
“So he’s your stepson?”
“Afraid so. Suck up that Scotch before it evaporates, Sergeant. It’s no mean swill and doesn’t deserve to be exposed to air for long.”
Dion told Karl he was just putting together some background on a case, and Scott’s name had come up. “It’s probably nothing, but if you could keep it to yourself, for now, that inquiries are being made?”
Karl’s glass went up. “Absolutely. Cheers. And let me say I was sorry to hear about your buddy Ferraro, by the way. And about you, for that matter. God, when I heard the news, I thought you’d both bought the farm. Kind of lost track of you after that, so I’m glad to see you’re still alive.” He laughed as if he couldn’t possibly mean it. “Much as I hated you,” he added, and laughed harder.
Dion leaned back in the comfortable leather chair. The liquor in his mouth was good. Karl was right — no mean swill at all.
“Not as much as you hated me, of course,” Karl said, sobering. “Wow. At the end there, you were taking it all a tad too personally. Thought I’d have to take a restraining order out against you. Holy Cow. It was just a job, man. You try and put ’em away, I try and spring ’em, then we all get drunk and have a laugh. You forgot the drill. Good thing Luciano was there to rein you in.”
He was referring to the last trial they’d both participated in, a rough one for Dion on the stand, facing off in court with this unflappable perpetual laughing machine. Though the culprit had been convicted in the end, Dion had still been smarting from a previous trial, one in which the killer had walked, thanks to a legal technicality — or sloppy police prep, depending on who was asked. A different case, different court, different defence lawyer, but Dion had been sore enough after his testimony to lift a fist in the hallway as he and Karl passed each other. A fist drawn back, only symbolically, a snarl, and Looch telling him to chill.
“I was a little pissed off,” Dion said. “Sorry,” he added, though he wasn’t, much. After all this time, he could still feel the heat of the moment. “You tried to make me look like an asshole.”
“You were an asshole. One of the best, though. I’m still shocked to my foundations you’re not up there in chevrons by now, kicking ass.”
They talked shop for another quarter-hour before Dion turned the conversation back to Scott Mills, whether the young man had any hobbies, whether he had a girlfriend. Karl wasn’t aware of any of the above, but he didn’t have much to do with the kid. “He’s actually staying in the guest cabin out back. Which is great. Out of sight, out of mind, for the most part. He’s just turned twenty, and taking some graphics course at Cap U, so if I keep my fingers crossed hard enough, he’ll fuck off in a year or two. Spread his wings, fly the coop.”
“You must really love the kid.”
Karl made a rude noise. “Why was I so foolish as to tie the knot at my age, you ask? You know Raquel Welch? That’s what his mom looked like. Still does. And she seemed nice, too. How could I not ask her out for dinner? And when she showed up poured into that sparkling neon pink dress — oof — how could I not propose? We laughed, we cried, we splashed through the surf with our trousers rolled to our knees and threw rose petals in our wake. Not quite, but yeah, we got married.”
Dion learned little else about Scott. Karl felt Maria spoiled her son rotten, and if the kid wanted a certain toy, he got it. Yes, he had at least one drone. Flew it around the mansion, dodging furniture. Kid was quite a whiz, in fact, but when he knocked over Karl’s wineglass one day, that was it. Enough. Out.
“Still pretty sure he did it on purpose,” Karl grumbled.
As always, Karl was not only a laugher but a talker, and he seemed in no hurry to end the conversation and get back to his party of lawyers. Neither was Dion in any hurry to finish his Scotch and leave. So he talked and listened — mostly listened — and enjoyed himself more than expected.
Finally Karl saw him out, saying, “But this is sad. Running around asking questions on Christmas Eve. You should be at home with loved ones. Mom, dad, sweetheart — nothing?”
“Not really.”
“An orphan, so young? Unfortunate.” For the first time he sounded grave. “My father keeled over when I was ten, but my mother is threatening to live forever. Eighty-nine and still going strong, except for the stroke. Knocked her down, but she got back up, and pretty soon she’ll be running marathons again. You okay to drive? Hope I didn’t ply you with too much Scotch.”
“I’m fine. Thanks for taking time out to talk, Karl. I appreciate it.”
As he started for home, stray glitter in his hair and clothes, bits of the conversation swirling in his mind, Dion realized he needed to talk to somebody, anybody.
He signalled and pulled over on busy Georgia Street. He stepped out of his car and looked at the night sky for answers. The rain shimmered down, light and cold. He opened his mouth as if coming up for air, as thoughts took shape and then flitted away again, leaving him banging his forehead with a palm. Passing drivers stared. A couple of cars wore antlers, like the hatchback of the RC club president who was afraid of heights. Phone out, he found Leith in his contacts and connected.
“I have some thoughts about Craig Gilmartin,” he said,
when Leith came on the line. “I have to tell you. Now.”
* * *
The houses along Leith’s modest North Van cul-de-sac sparkled with Christmas lights, and music spilled out from several homes. Leith’s place was a nice little bungalow backed by a tangled greenbelt ravine. By the time Dion arrived, it was later than he had imagined, and the home he walked into was dark and silent. But messy in a cheerful way, as if there had been a lively party going not long ago. Leith wore a Mark’s Work Wearhouse–type lounger set, grey T-shirt and plaid flannel pants. The set looked brand new. The lights were down in the living room, no sign of anybody else up and about. The scent of pumpkin pie and blown-out candles lingered in the air.
“We’re all kind of in bed.” Leith said, but with a generous gesture invited Dion to sit at the dining room table. It was covered in a white tablecloth, not so clean, with a few dishes left on it, along with some wineglasses stained with dregs and an uncorked, unfinished bottle.
Dion didn’t sit. He was taking in the scene and regretting his intrusion. “I’m sorry,” he said, nearly whispering. “I forgot it’s Christmas.”
“Christmas Eve.”
“We can talk about this tomorrow instead, then.”
“I’m in Parksville tomorrow. Don’t worry about waking anybody. Frankly, you could run the Holiday Train through here and they wouldn’t wake up. No need to whisper. So, you’re going to tell me who shot Craig?”
Dion sat down and stared at the artificial Christmas tree in the living room, lit up with gold lights and colourful baubles. He fixed his gaze on the glowing star on top. There was a child in the house, he recalled with a start. That’s where Leith’s mind would be — on the things that really mattered. His plan to tell Leith about Kenny Poole was already picking up its skirts and fleeing. Because what if I’m wrong?
Leith said, “Well?”
“I’ve thought it over,” Dion said, embarrassed. “On my way here. I’m actually not … not a hundred percent sure now.”
“Doesn’t matter. Tell me anyway.”
Dion shook his head, his mind made up. “Sorry. I have to check a few things first.”
“All right, then,” Leith said, elbow on table, chin resting in palm, any exasperation he was feeling hidden behind splayed fingers. “What about Scott Mills, then? Get anything?”
“No. But I’m starting to think we’re off base with the RC plane theory, at least in part. I’ll summarize for you, if you want, and go.”
“Sure thing.”
“Look,” Dion said. “Why have we come to this plane theory? A delirious dying girl says something about a screaming bird, Craig hears an engine whine. So Bosko comes up with the plane idea. Then we went and proved it’s possible, and finally Dezi Novak has a boyfriend who flies planes for fun. This is how witches get burned, right?”
“Circumstantial, sure,” Leith said. “But we’re far from burning anybody at the stake.”
“Still, what if there are no planes or drones? What’s more likely? Sex and intrigue, that’s what.”
Leith said nothing.
Dion continued. “Rory Keefer and Amelia Foster were both up to something fishy. Maybe they were in a relationship and neither of them wanted their spouse to know. Something went wrong that night — an argument, a breakup. Keefer ran Foster off the road, maybe not deliberately. From there we don’t know what happened to Keefer, but there are endless possibilities.” He paused, seeing that Leith’s face still rested in his palm and his eyelids remained droopy. “It’s still guesswork, but it’s a lot saner guesswork than planes knocking cars off the road and kids hunting down the witnesses. Isn’t it?”
“It’s worth considering,” Leith agreed without enthusiasm.
“It’s just too unlikely.”
“Kids setting fire to homeless folk for kicks is unlikely, too,” Leith said.
Dion got the point.
“But I take it you’ve got some reason for stepping the theory back?” Leith asked.
“I’m close to finding out what really happened to Craig Gilmartin. And it’s got nothing to do with Amelia Foster’s crash. That’s the part I wanted to tell you about.”
“Which you’re not willing to tell me about yet.”
“That’s right,” Dion said. “Also, the potshot was just a potshot, but the man who tried to kill Craig later that night used the potshot as a smokescreen, knowing we’d tie the events together, to make us think there was some kind of hit out on Craig. That’s why I think the airplane is a red herring. Gilmartin and Keefer are not a bundle at all.”
He was done.
Leith sat back. He looked more interested now, but maybe for the wrong reasons. “You don’t look so well, Cal. Are you okay?”
The delicious-looking leftovers on the table before Dion were beginning to distract him. “I’m actually kind of hungry.”
“Ha. I can fix that, at least!”
Leith brought out a plate of leftover roast turkey covered in Saran wrap, along with reheated gravy, cranberry sauce, and a clean wineglass for whatever was left in the uncorked bottle.
Dion ate and drank hungrily.
Leith helped himself to a small plate as well. Chewing, he said, “You have backup for any of these ideas of yours?”
“That’s what I’m going to be looking into.” Dion speared a slice of turkey and stuffed it in his mouth. “But I thought I should let you know before the team wastes too much time on Dezi and flying planes. It’s just so much smoke and mirrors.” He pushed aside his plate and stood, still chewing, swallowing, feeling better. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Leith said. “This is not how teamwork works, you realize that?”
“I know. Special circumstances.”
“You’re not going to risk life and limb again, are you?”
“’Course not.”
“And you’ll update me soon as you firm up these ideas of yours?”
“I’ll let you know. Good night.”
At the door Leith warned him again. “Don’t get into hot water.”
“I won’t.”
“Merry Christmas, Cal.”
“For sure.”
Dion left for the other side of town, part two of plan B next on his list.
Twenty-Nine
STAR BRIGHT
MIDNIGHT WAS LONG PAST when Dion pushed the buzzer. A voice rumbled through the metal mesh of the intercom speaker, asking who was there. Dion said he was here to talk, and was buzzed in. On the seventh floor, Ken Poole waited in his doorway, wearing a shabby terry robe over pajamas. “Well, merry Christmas,” he said. He didn’t look thrilled. “Come in.”
The apartment Dion walked into was much as he remembered it from eight or nine years ago: a bachelor pad with signs of an attempt to be classy on a budget, though any contemporary classiness it might once have boasted was now tired retro; the lines of the furniture clunky, the veneer wearing thin. Poole was around fifty, “married once and never again”, as he’d said a few times over the years.
In the cramped living room, a crime flick was paused on TV, mid-scream. The only signs of Christmas spirit were a lot of empties and a beer parlour stink. “Well, sit yourself down,” Poole said.
Dion took the armchair. Poole dropped into what looked like his habitual place at the end of the sofa, judging by the cushion fatigue, and picked up the stein of beer he’d been working on. He didn’t offer a brew to his guest. “What’s up?”
“I think I know what happened,” Dion said. “I’m going to run it by you, see if you agree.”
“Okay.”
Poole showed no sign of fear, though his expression was guarded. Ready for it, expecting the worst. Dion got to the point without preamble. “You tried it on with Tony Souza. Maybe you actually got your way. He was so messed up by it that he killed himself. But Gilmartin was his close friend, and he knew what you’d done, and you knew he’d say something sooner or later, probably sooner, so you had to take steps. A window came open, and you shot him. How a
m I doing so far?”
Poole was thinking it over, his half-empty beer stein dangling between his knees. “How are you doing so far? Hmm, good question, Cal. Not sure what to say. You’re already in counselling, so that’s been covered. There’s a helpline number I can give you, but this is obviously more of a crisis situation here, so best to go straight to emerg. I’m sure they’ll give you something for it. I’ll drive you over, if you want.”
Dion didn’t blink. This was a classic Poole manoeuvre, responding to threats with obnoxious wit. “Who did you invite over for your birthday, Ken? Tony, and who else?”
“I didn’t make any passes at Tony. You think I’d make that mistake twice? Jesus Christ.”
“You invited him to your apartment. That right there screams at me.”
“You know,” Poole said, the heat rising to his face, “nothing actually happened that night. I shouldn’t have said what I said. I was testing the waters, but nothing else. You said no, I said fine, and I didn’t touch you. I wouldn’t touch you. Then you fell over my coffee table like the stinking drunk you were, misinterpreted a helping hand, and decided I tried to molest you.” He snorted.
“Don’t rewrite history. Lucky for me I was stronger than you.”
“Believe what you want.”
“Just like you tested the waters with Tony, once the others had left. Maybe he was a little drunker than I was, or maybe he actually went along with it — I don’t know, but whatever happened, he came away traumatized enough to end his life. You’re in a position of trust. You knew that if it came out, you’d be finished. You couldn’t let that happen.”
Poole made a rude noise. “So, in your fantasy, I molested Tony, he killed himself, and then I tried to kill Gilmartin on the off chance that he knew.”
“I’m sure you figured out that Gilmartin knew. Maybe not in so many words, but you talked to him, just like I did. You figured it out. He’s a shitty liar, and you caught that Tony had confided in him. You thought you had no choice. So that night, after he’d been targeted in the drive-by, you decided it was too perfect an opportunity to pass up. You stopped at your apartment, grabbed the gun, drove him to his place, and left. Except you didn’t leave. You walked back up those stairs, shoved the door open, and as he ran, you used the gun on him. He turned, but didn’t have time to register who you were.”
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