Dion knew why Gilmartin hadn’t recognized Poole as the door was punched open. Poole had changed, like Jekyll to Hyde. He had become unrecognizable in his walk, talk, and aura. That was why. “I’m sure the piece is long gone by now,” he added.
“The piece is long gone, you’re right. It was a bad idea and I ditched it a month after I scooped it. I thought I told you all this. Hey!”
That last word was an angry shout, and Poole had stood so abruptly his beer sprayed over the carpet. Dion leapt to his feet, too. Poole shook a finger at him and roared, “I get it. This is a sting, isn’t it? It’s about the fucking gun?”
Dion roared back at him, telling him to stay put, not move, keep his hands out in full view. It wasn’t a fist fight with Poole he was worried about, but a firearm stashed close at hand. Being unarmed himself, there was no doubt who’d win the draw.
But already Poole’s anger had peaked. He put down the empty beer stein and raised his arms in mock surrender. “So you’re taping this, huh? Nice. What a guy. So hey, let’s put it all on the record while we’re at it, my part and yours.” His arms had lowered but were held away from his body, proving he would make no unexpected moves. He enunciated the next bit clearly enough that the tape recorder or receiver he thought Dion was wearing could pick up every word. “We were searching a crack shack, and located a nine-mil Glock that was clearly a ghost —”
“A forty-five,” Dion said.
“It was nine-mil. I took it, thinking it could come in handy down the road. I recall you congratulating me. What did you call it? A cool score.”
Dion decided to run with it. Let Poole think this was a sting, and maybe he’d spill all. “What matters is how you used that gun on Gilmartin,” he said. “That was a ballsy move. How did you figure you’d get away with it?”
Poole stood still for a moment, as if listening to Dion’s breathing, analyzing the space around him, and finally seeing through the lie. With a cheery wink he collapsed back into his groove on the sofa. “You’re a lone gun, aren’t you?”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not a sting.”
“Show me the recorder, then.”
Dion sat, too, debunked. “No recorder, but doesn’t matter. It’s over, and you know it. Tell me what happened.”
“I’ll tell you what happened,” Poole said. “Life happened. I’m safely stuck here in my hell. I’ll be single till I die. I don’t do the bars. I don’t look at guys twice these days, unless they’re in mags or on the screen. You think I’m stupid? I don’t go there. A few of the rookies came over, girls and boys. We had pizza and beer, they wished me happy birthday, I told them some real-life cop stories, and they left. Souza left with them, and I went back to jerking off in the dark. There — you got it, princess.”
His shocking words rang true to Dion. But he wasn’t ready to give up. Cops made great liars, as he well knew. “You stopped off here on your way to driving Gilmartin home.”
“For the gun? I think you mean the camera.” Poole smiled angelically.
Dion, who had crossed his arms to show who was boss, began to feel foolish. He jammed his hands in his pockets instead.
“Lil Hart was off to her sister’s wedding that night,” Poole said. “Her camera had just crapped out, so I told her she could borrow my Canon PowerShot. Great little point-and-shoot. You may want to corroborate that with Lil. But you’re such a smart young dick, I’m sure you already thought of that.”
Dion was beginning to wonder what his theory had actually been hinged on. The fact he resembled Souza, the fact Souza had killed himself, the fact he had privately kept an eye on Poole all these years, expecting something like this to happen? It was beginning to feel badly off.
Poole seemed to have grown tired of smirking. “Anyway, I’m insulted by your lack of faith. If I wanted to kill Gilmartin, he’d be dead, not winged.” He got up and went to his fridge in the adjoining kitchenette. He pulled out not one beer but two, and from the freezer a second stein. “Truth is, I’m really sorry about that night.”
“You fucking better be.”
“Not about that,” Poole said. He gave Dion the mug and a beer. “About having to listen to your righteous lectures for the next month and a half. But bygones. Just for my edification, why don’t you deconstruct your newest allegations for me.”
Dion popped his beer can and poured, feeling miserable. Gilmartin was partly to blame, he decided, for looking like he was harbouring secrets. But Gilmartin had every right to be confused. It was Dion’s own fault, for going at the rookie like a rabid evangelist, demanding answers with questions that had not surprisingly been misinterpreted. Look before you leap. He should get the warning tattooed on his hands. For some reason the bright star atop the Christmas tree in Leith’s home came to mind, and he wished he could start life over again. Backspace the last two years, to the hour before he’d spotted Stouffer walking along the road in Surrey. Backspace, and drive on by.
But here he was, and of all the places in the world, Poole’s stuffy little apartment was the right place to be. Fitting. He and Poole deserved each other on this drizzly night when everybody else was making merry. “Nothing to deconstruct,” he said. “I ran it by Gilmartin, and he went pale and started stuttering, so I knew he was hiding something. I guessed what that was, and maybe …” The corners of his mouth pulled down, the closest he would come to an apology. “Maybe I guessed wrong.”
Poole startled him again by slamming a fist on the sofa’s armrest. “I know what happened,” he said. “Damn!” He went on to explain that Souza had cut his hand that night, trying to unscrew a beer cap that wasn’t designed to be unscrewed. He’d then gone rummaging in the bathroom for a Band-Aid, and must have found something he wasn’t supposed to.
“My bathtub mag,” Poole said. “The one I’d forgotten about under the cabinet. And then he went and told everyone else. Fuck!”
It was coming together to Dion, what had happened. Souza had shared the news with Gilmartin, and Gilmartin was too virtuous to pass it on. Maybe Gilmartin had told Souza a thing or two about the perils of rumour-spreading. “I don’t think Tony told everybody,” he said. “I’d have heard about it, if he had. And whatever Craig knows, he’s going to keep it to himself. He didn’t tell me, even when I leaned on him. I think you’re safe.”
“Safe,” Poole echoed. He chugged beer as if he couldn’t get drunk fast enough.
“Anyway, who cares what you read in your tub after hours?”
“My employer, my relatives, my entire social circle,” Poole said. “The guy at the corner store who knows me by name. The old ladies in the park. God. That’s who.”
“You’re really that deep in the closet? I’m the only one who knows?”
“You and Craig fucking Gilmartin.” Poole grimaced. “Could be worse. I could have actually shot the little bastard.”
They sat and commiserated in silence, until Poole said, “Funny how you got at least some of it right. Just not the important bits.”
It was funny enough that Dion gave a disgusted guffaw. Poole asked how counselling was going, and Dion told him. He accepted another beer as he talked, and it turned out to be the most fun he’d had in weeks, describing how Samantha Kerr had tried to get to his soul, and how he’d foiled her. As one bad cop to another, he could say things to Poole he couldn’t tell anyone else. It was purgatory. It was dark and depressing, but in a hilarious way. Poole had turned the TV to the music channel, a screenshot of mistletoe with classic Yuletide tunes playing, and this, too, was funny.
In the middle of “Jingle Bells” Poole ran out of beer. But no matter, as he had a direct line to a bootlegger. Within the hour a weedy-looking woman delivered a top-up to his door: a case of foul high-octane with a steep bootlegger markup.
Stocked up, they talked about old times well into the dawn of Christmas Day, two outsiders with nowhere better to go. It was such a blast in the end that Dion had to leave his car on the street and cab it home. The regret didn’t seep in right away
. Not until he was back in his own apartment, looking in the mirror. His face seemed out of alignment, and he knew purgatory came with its own set of problems. He had shared with Poole the joke of his own existence, but some fears had surfaced as well. His fears were tied to secrets, and with Poole being a cop trained to weed secrets from fears, he had to wonder: what had he given away?
Thirty
THE CONTROLS
December 25
EARLY IN THE MORNING on Christmas Day, Leith was on the ferry, heading to Parksville and trying not to think about work. For the most part he did a good job of it, but when Alison took Isabelle off to the washrooms, he had nothing but the back of another passenger’s head to look at — and the ocean, which was much of a muchness in the middle of the Georgia Strait. So he made a call.
The line connected, and a deep, rough-edged voice said, “Dion.”
In that one word Leith heard the effects of hangover, and he hoped it was a sign the man had found some festivities to take part in after all. “Last I heard,” he said, “you were going off to single-handedly solve the Gilmartin case. So, what have you got?”
“I succeeded in proving myself wrong, that’s all,” Dion said bitterly. “But no harm done.” He didn’t sound as if he believed himself. He sounded like a bag of gravel.
Leith was relieved. Dion’s investigations could be minefields of trouble, so if he came out with all limbs intact, that was something to celebrate. “At least you tried. I hear you’re on shift today.”
“A lot of us are,” Dion said more cheerfully. “JD contacted Desiree Novak’s mother yesterday to let her know we need to set up an interview. JD told the mom it could wait till after the holidays, but Ms. Novak wants to know what’s going on, and she insisted on coming in this morning, soon as possible. She’s bringing a lawyer, too. I’ll be sitting in.”
“Holy,” Leith said, looking at the flat grey-green water, the strips of clouds not yet touched by dawn. “Well, keep me posted. But only if it gets hot.”
“I will.”
“Even if it doesn’t get hot. Keep me posted.”
Dion said goodbye, and added, with surprising conviction, “Merry Christmas!”
* * *
JD had to cancel plans to drive out and visit her sister and her sister’s hubby and kid in PoCo this rosy Christmas Day. She wasn’t heartbroken. Though she was fond of her niece, she was not fond of her brother-in-law, and there was an iceberg between her and her sister from way back when. The gift-giving would have been awkward, as always. Breakfast would be pancakes, coffee would be weak, and the laughter would be false. No, her regrets weren’t huge, and an unplanned day at work was her Christmas present.
She wasn’t alone. Dion was here in his civvies, busy at his computer. Even busy at his computer, he was clearly a changed man from when they had been friends before, JD thought, looking at the slope of his back. The ding to the head had shut him up, calmed him down. Tamed him.
“Hi,” she said. “Dezi’s here. Ready?”
“I am.”
Dezi looked small and frightened as she accompanied JD and Dion to the interview room, followed by Dezi’s mother, Maddie Novak, and the lawyer Maddie had brought along. Maddie was slim and blonde, and didn’t look a lot older than her daughter. JD suspected mother and daughter probably got You two could pass for sisters often enough. Maddie looked almost as frightened as Dezi. Her lawyer did, too, in a way. It turned out he was a civil litigator who happened to be a friend of Maddie’s, just coming along for moral support.
The interview was recorded, and JD did the talking, with Dion sitting in as observer and scribe. There had been some debate as to whether someone less personally involved should interview the girl, but in the end JD had drawn the short straw. “Your name’s come up in an investigation, Dezi,” she opened. “And it’s got to do with the boy you told me about — what was his name again?”
Dezi tilted slightly away from her mother and answered meekly. “Scott.”
“Scott Mills,” JD said. “Tell me about him.”
“I don’t want to get him in trouble.”
“Why d’you figure he’d get in trouble if you told me about him?”
“Well, that’s why I’m here, right? Because of him?”
“You’re here for a few reasons.”
“Am I in trouble, too?”
The simple question carried extra weight, considering the recent conversation Dezi had had with JD. This was not about stolen chocolate bars or skipping classes, and there was a lot at stake, JD realized. The girl was afraid her dream job was about to disappear, and maybe she was right. JD held her gaze and spoke softly. “All you can do is be upfront with me. However you’re involved, if you’ve done something you shouldn’t have, we’ll find out. It will be a lot better if it comes from you.”
The lawyer asked to speak to Dezi and Maddie alone.
“Of course,” JD said.
This wasn’t an arrest, and Dezi could chat with whomever she wanted for as long as she wanted. Or exit stage left, for that matter. Off Dezi went with her support team to a private room to talk, and JD waited with Dion, both of them looking at the witness’s empty chair as if the answer was about to materialize. “What d’you think?” JD said.
Dion counted off the key points. “Novak and Mills are friends, and Mills flies planes and drones for fun. Somebody might have used an RC plane to drive Amelia Foster off the road, and might then have gone after the witnesses, one of whom was probably Rory Keefer, which we’re quite sure of because his wife recognized his voice on the 911 call.”
“Even though he tried to disguise it,” JD said. “And Dezi just happens to be at that crash that was possibly caused by an RC plane.”
“It’s still thin.”
“But compelling,” JD said. “Right? What have we got on Scott Mills?”
“Address, crime sheet, vehicle — he drives a ’96 GMC pickup. And if you get anything useful out of Dezi here, an arrest warrant.”
“I will,” JD told him. “Just watch.”
* * *
She did. Dezi opted to talk without her mother and the lawyer present this time, and JD thought maybe Dion should lay off, too, stay in the monitor room and give Dezi at least the illusion of privacy.
Alone, Dezi looked smaller and more frightened than ever, JD thought. She was also ready to talk, and opened up about Scott Mills. She had met him over a year ago, and wasn’t truly interested in him, much, but they would hang out at the PNE, at the beach, at the movies. Her mom didn’t know about him. Scott was a bit older and a little rough edged, and she was sure her mom would have put a stop to the friendship.
“I thought you said your mom doesn’t really care what you do, so long as you stay out of her hair.”
Dezi shrugged. “She can be like that sometimes. But she does care about me.”
“What did Scott do for fun, besides the PNE, the beach, the movies?”
“Mostly he likes his expensive toys. He’s super good at flying, too. We go over to Deer Lake sometimes and he’ll fly those things for hours. Kind of cool, but it gets boring.”
“Not your thing?”
“No. That quadcopter drone thing he’s got is neat, though. He showed me how to use it, but took the controls away after I crashed it into a tree. Those things cost a lot.”
“Do you guys hang around with anyone else?”
Dezi seemed to hesitate. “No, not really.”
“Nobody at all?”
“Perry, for a while. But I don’t think they’re friends anymore.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Scott’s pretty much a loner,” Dezi said with a shrug. “Except he likes me.”
“He’s serious about you, is he?”
“In a way.”
JD suspected Dezi was withholding something. “How close are you with Scott? Are you two having sex?”
Dezi looked startled. “Are you even allowed to ask that?”
“Afraid so. Doesn’t mean y
ou have to answer. But it’s not a crime if you are.”
Dezi lowered her voice. “He’s never actually tried. I don’t think he’s interested in that, but he does like showing me off like I’m his girlfriend whenever we’re out.” She shrugged. “But we’re actually just friends without benefits. Literally.”
“And you feel he’s a good friend? Doesn’t try to control you? You’re free to come and go, date other guys if you want? He makes you laugh?”
“All of the above. Most of the time he’s a really great guy, except when he’s being a jerk.”
JD decided it was time to let Dezi in on the theory, if only to get a reaction. She asked if Scott ever talked about using his skills with his flying toys to startle drivers, say, on a highway?
Dezi frowned. “Well, he talked about it, but he was kidding.”
“You think he was kidding?”
“I know he was kidding. He had to be.”
“Did he use his plane to scare that girl into the ditch that night? And don’t tell me you don’t know anything about it, because you were there, Dezi. You were there.”
Dezi stared across the table, maybe waiting for the question to turn into a joke. When it didn’t, a look of horror crept over her. “You’re saying he really did that, what he said? I don’t believe you!”
“What did he say he did?”
“After those kids went off the road in a van, he said he did it. We were in the park and he was playing with his plane, the jet, and he made it dive at me. He said he drove that van off the road just like this. But he lies all the time, just to get a rise out of me. I said, ‘That’s sick,’ and he laughed, and I thought he was just joking. You’re saying he really did that? And did it to that girl too, Amelia?”
JD was too focused on Dezi’s face to take notes, not wanting to miss a beat. Scott Mills had told Dezi he was responsible for the van accident. It was really all she needed for now, enough to make an arrest. But more was always better. “Did he tell you he’d done anything else?”
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