Flights and Falls

by R. M. Greenaway

“No, it stands out nicely, I think.”

  She nodded, but her happiness seemed tarnished by some private thought. “It’s already drumming up business,” she said, as if in defiance of her own doubts. “I got my first call just this morning. The lady said she saw my sign, took down the number, gave me a call.”

  Leith was interested, not so much in Taylor’s business acumen as in the timing of her decaling job, along with her mysterious ambivalence about it. The sign was a recent thing, and something about it bothered her. He wondered if it had to do with the killer’s fatal oversight.

  “A waterproof, colour-coordinated barbecue cover,” Taylor said, as if to herself. She was knitting and unknitting her fingers and staring at the floor. “To match the patio decor. Should be easy enough.”

  “Sounds like the sign was a smart move,” Leith said. “So you stuck the decals on just recently?”

  In an odd response, her face clouded over. “Hmph,” she said. “Yes.”

  Leith waited, but she didn’t explain the hmph. “Was there a problem?”

  “Well, it may be just a symptom of our deteriorating marriage, but instead of being impressed, he was pissed off. Tom, I mean.”

  Leith nodded sympathetically, hoping she wouldn’t zip her mouth again.

  “I applied it on Christmas Day,” she went on, “and it’s not as easy as it looks. You have to space the letters evenly, keep them straight. But I hurried through it, when he was out. I was going to surprise him with it, you know, thinking he’d be pleased. Though nothing pleases him lately. I don’t know where we went wrong.”

  “Marriage can be a tough road,” Leith said.

  The lame platitude seemed to comfort her. “You can say that again.”

  “So what happened with the decaling?” he pressed.

  “What happened is I forgot all about it until two days later, when he comes bursting into the house in a big tizzy asking what the hell I’ve done.”

  “So that’s the twenty-seventh?”

  Immediately Leith regretted the pointedness of his question, as she turned wary eyes on him once more. “Why? Does it matter? What on earth has he done? It’s serious, isn’t it?”

  He nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  She nodded in return, but instead of clamming up, she continued with something like satisfaction. “Yes, that was the twenty-seventh. He was not happy when he saw the sign. I don’t know what the big deal was, but obviously it’s got something to do with your serious case, am I right?” She went on as if she didn’t expect an answer. “He used to be so easygoing about everything. A bit of a neatnik, a bit anal when it comes to houseplants or socks, but otherwise not terribly fussy. So apparently it’s not the decal itself, but how it’s messed up his plans, whatever those are. I’m guessing he borrowed my car, and I’m guessing he didn’t realize he was driving around with an advertisement all over its backside.”

  “Does he often drive your Focus?”

  “No, never. He’s got his own vehicle.”

  She gazed toward the window, maybe looking for a sign of her husband’s return. By now Leith couldn’t tell whether she was gloating or grieving. “What’s taking him so long?” she murmured.

  JD, silent till now, asked, “Corinne, are you sure Tom was home all night on Boxing Day, day and evening?”

  “I was sure, until you two showed up.”

  “Do you share a bedroom?”

  Taylor laughed. “Not anymore, we don’t. He’s got his space and I’ve got mine. Now he can look at his girlie pictures all he wants.”

  “Internet porn?” Leith asked.

  “I don’t know. Go take a look, if you want.”

  “Could he have gone out that night, and you didn’t notice?” JD said.

  Taylor seemed to weigh the possibility. “I was asleep by ten, as usual. He has access to my car keys. So yes, he could have.”

  They continued to wait for Frey’s return. Leith considered taking up Corinne’s offer to check out her husband’s computer, but decided he didn’t want to jump the gun, not without discussing it with the team. Taylor asked if she could get some work done, and Leith said it was no problem. She seized a piece of upholstery, sat down again with a small instrument in hand, and began to viciously rip at stitches. “This seam is all wrong,” she said to herself. “What was I thinking? What a mess.”

  * * *

  Tom Frey wasn’t coming home. His wife had provided a list of possible locations he might have gone to, but the list wasn’t promising. Safeway, some gas stations, the liquor store. Cars had gone out to prowl the areas in question, but Frey had not surfaced.

  When too much time had gone by, Leith looked at his watch. “Corinne, where is he? You must have some idea.”

  She repeated that she didn’t have a clue. She was watching a sitcom on TV now, not laughing at the jokes but was dabbing at her eyes with a Kleenex. Leith fully believed that whatever Tom had done, she wasn’t a part of it.

  At 6:15, JD arranged for a shift of cars to watch the house, and she and Leith departed, with nothing to do now but wait.

  Thirty-Seven

  SPOOKED

  December 30

  BY MORNING, THOMAS FREY was officially a missing man, the contents of his computer had been searched, and it was found that one folder contained over a hundred shots of Dezi Novak. They were surveillance-type shots only, no close-ups, no together shots, which told Leith the girl was unaware she was being stalked.

  Yes indeed, Grey Man had surfaced.

  Leith stood admiring the diagram on the case room’s whiteboard. JD had drawn it out in her neat and precise dry-erase calligraphy. The diagram sported five names in boxes, and the boxes were connected by lines into a circle, with other lines radiating out to other connections and complications. The five names were Novak, Foster, Mills, Frey, and Grey Man. JD had creatively drawn an infinity symbol around two of the names, Frey and Grey Man, to show that they had merged. The connecting lines showed that Dezi knew Scott Mills, and Mills had — quite probably — been killed by Frey. Did Dezi know Tom Frey, and did she realize he was Grey Man? She would need to be brought in once more for questioning, and this time she would be leaned on until she told what really happened.

  But where was Thomas Frey? He and his white hatchback, reindeer antlers no doubt discarded, had vanished into the blue.

  * * *

  The skies were turquoise, the air sharp and clean, and Ken Poole was working up a sweat. He had driven to Ambleside Park for his usual jog. He ran not out of zest for living, but out of fear. Heart trouble and all its consequences had wreaked havoc in his family tree on both sides for as far back as the branches could be traced. Paralysis, incontinence, brain damage, early death. He had seen the effects and dreaded them, and so he jogged every day, early morning or late at night, whenever his schedule permitted. Usually it was around his neighbourhood, thudding up and down the avenues like a tired horse with blinders on.

  But this was his day off, and so he had driven across town to the popular park in West Van, with its long walkways abreast sandy beaches and its holiday atmosphere. Lovers in winter jackets strolled arm in arm, dogs romped off leash in their designated romp zones, and some, like Poole, went forth in solitude.

  He jogged and puffed, ignoring the other joggers and walkers. When his Fitbit told him he had done enough, he slowed to an easy lope, and finally stopped to rest on a bench.

  He looked at the sea, at the Squamish Nation Welcome Figure standing at the end of the spit, its arms out to the brilliant blue sky. The winter air cooled the sweat on his temples, and he shivered.

  The call he had to make had been weighing on him for the past few days, ever since that off-the-wall Christmas visit — Dion barging in with his wacky accusations, followed by his obvious embarrassment, then a night of talking. That rambling, coded conversation loosened by liquor. Even laughing, Dion was afraid, and what was that all about? There was something he wanted to confess that night, but in the end, instead of unburdening, he ha
d come to his senses and called a cab.

  Poole dialed and waited.

  Dion came on the line, sounding guarded. Poole’s number wouldn’t be in his contacts list; it would show up as unknown, and he would be expecting a telemarketer. Some kind of machine thrummed in the background, a rhythmic whup-whup-whup. Possibly he was in a laundry room. “I’ve got something important to tell you,” Poole said. “What are you up to? Have a few minutes to meet?”

  As expected, there was hesitation. Then, “What for?”

  “I’m not going to get into it over the phone. Cap Mall, the Starbucks, half an hour. Up to you, man. But you might as well jump in your car, or it’ll drive you crazy, wondering what I have to say. Right?”

  Dion was smart enough to agree.

  * * *

  Capilano Mall was down-to-earth and on the small side, with big-box stores all around — nothing like the Pod, where Dion had bought his shirt. The Starbucks had quasi-alfresco seating set up outside its front doors, except the fresh air was mall air. Half an hour after the call from Poole, Dion was sitting across from the man at one of these tables. Each had a coffee in front of him. Other than hi there had been no chit-chat about weather or work. Now Poole beelined to the point of the meeting. “I know you’re in shit. I just don’t know how deep. What’s going on?”

  So that was it. As feared, Dion had said too much on that Christmas visit, lulled by strong beer, and Poole had sussed him out. He shrugged. “Not deep.”

  “What is it?” Poole said. “You wanted to tell me, so tell me. I’m here to help. You know it.”

  Dion shook his head. He hadn’t confessed while drunk, and he sure as hell wouldn’t now, sober.

  Poole shrugged. “Fine, then. But I thought you should know, whatever it is you’re up to your neck in, you’re being watched. Within the force. By your own people.”

  Dion’s heart began to thud. He stilled his body — no raised brow to give himself away, no twist of the mouth — and waited in silence for whatever Poole was going to tell him next.

  “Back in the summer,” Poole said, “I was in the detachment, in the underground parking. I was sitting in my car, but I wasn’t going anywhere. No reason. Just one of those moments when I needed a minute to decompress.”

  “Sure.”

  Poole hunched forward and lowered his voice, not enough to look fishy to the other Starbucks patrons, but enough that nobody could overhear. “Car pulls in,” he said. “Right? Dave Leith and JD get out. They walk to the exit, disappear. Door clangs shut. Couple seconds later, Leith comes back, goes to his car. Gets something out of the glovebox. Heads for the stairs again, but stops by your car, seems to check his pockets for something, looking around.”

  Along with his thudding heart, a knot now tightened in Dion’s stomach.

  Poole had paused to chortle from the side of his mouth. “Not a natural-born spook, this Leith guy.”

  “No,” Dion agreed.

  “So I see him hunker down, and he removes something from the wheel well of your car. Or attaches something — I dunno. Removes or attaches, one or the other. Take a wild guess what that thing was.”

  “Why are you telling me now? Why not then?”

  “Because for one thing, I didn’t know it was your car at the time. I’ve seen you driving it since. For another, I didn’t know till you came over the other night that you’re in trouble. For a third, from where I was sitting, I couldn’t see exactly what Leith was doing over there. It meant nothing to me then. But adding up all the parts, I think it’s safe to say you’re being tracked. Or you were in the summer. Who knows if he still is, but I wanted to warn you — no strings attached. That’s all.”

  “I appreciate it. But why do you feel you have to warn me? Why don’t you just stay out of it like you should?”

  “Because,” Poole said. He looked irritated. “Just because, is why.”

  Dion stood, feeling sick, afraid he’d throw up all over the table, which would really blow his cover. He had hardly touched his coffee. “Thanks for telling me,” he said. “Don’t worry about it, though. It’s nothing. See you later.”

  “Hope so,” Poole said. But he didn’t sound hopeful at all.

  Thirty-Eight

  THE DEVIL IN THE DETAILS

  DEZI HAD JUST LOST her friend Scott Mills in the most horrible way, so it was no wonder her face was puffy and her eyes were red and swollen. She sat across from JD in the interview room and talked about her confusion, her grief, and her self-doubt in a voice so hoarse she might have been shouting for hours. All of it looked and sounded like the real McCoy of shock.

  By now JD knew for sure that Dezi wasn’t the shooter. Her alibi was solid. She hadn’t been anywhere near Lions Bay at the time of the murders, was in fact visiting her grandparents in Abbotsford with her mother, Maddie.

  But maybe she knew who was responsible, in one guise or another.

  It was guises they were talking about this morning.

  No, Dezi didn’t know the name Thomas Frey. Neither did she recognize his picture. JD saw the lack of recognition in Dezi’s eyes as she looked at the photograph obtained from Corinne. She asked Dezi to describe Grey Man again for her.

  “I only saw him those few times,” Dezi said. “At the park, and then when we went for a ride, and then at Porteau Beach. I mean, I could guess, if that’s all right.”

  “Guess away.”

  “I think he was older, like fifty or something. Average size, average weight, I’d say. He wore that long grey coat, and a hat. It was shaped like an outback hat, I think. And he kept his collar up and wouldn’t look at me straight. I saw his eyes, though, once. He had nice eyes.”

  JD asked her to describe his eyes, beyond nice, but Dezi couldn’t. He seemed to work hard to avoid even that kind of contact. “I’m thinking he was burned or something, and that’s why he didn’t want to show his face. But that’s just totally speculating.”

  JD remembered Thomas Frey’s face being pitted with acne scars along one cheekbone; otherwise he was unremarkable. Remarkably nondescript, if anything. “Did you ask him why he was so shy?”

  Again Dezi shook her head. “I didn’t want to be snoopy.”

  “And he didn’t volunteer anything about it?”

  “No. Like I said, we barely talked. Mostly he just said one or two words to Scott.”

  JD asked Dezi if she had ever noticed Grey Man, or anyone for that matter, following her, watching her, maybe aiming a camera at her.

  “There was one time,” Dezi said. “Maybe early December, a guy way down the block had this big camera, and he might have been aiming it at me.”

  Big camera probably meant a DSLR with a telephoto lens. Like the Canon Rebel JD knew Frey owned. “Could that have been Grey Man?”

  Dezi shook her head. She didn’t know, hadn’t been worried about it at the time. “I’m careful. My mom’s been warning me about strangers ever since I was little. I would have noticed if I was being stalked.”

  “A guy with a big camera aimed your way didn’t alarm you?”

  “I couldn’t even say if he was aiming it at me. He could have been aiming it at anything. A tourist, you know.” Dezi didn’t look convinced by her own assurances. She looked miserable and guilt-ridden. “I should have been more observant. I’d have made a lousy cop anyway, I guess.”

  “Now, come on,” JD said. “Nobody’s blaming you for any of this.”

  “I know. But I feel like shit.”

  It was the first time JD had heard the girl swear. It jarred the ears. She asked Dezi to cast her mind back to the night of the Amelia Foster crash. Had there been another vehicle in the area where the accident happened, perhaps pulled over?

  Dezi didn’t think there was, but maybe. Yes, quite possibly, in fact, there were a couple of vehicles in the pullout as she drove past. Or maybe just one. But again, she couldn’t be sure. She gave JD a gloomy stare. “You’re thinking Grey Man killed Scott? Why? Something to do with that girl in the crash? Or was it bec
ause of me?”

  “All I can say right now is that you’ll be watched around the clock,” JD said, “you and your mom and your home, till we know better. But you be extra careful, right? Eyes open.”

  Dezi nodded.

  “Did Scott ever seem to be afraid of Grey Man?” JD asked.

  “Not that I could see. Scott always dissed everybody except him, so I guess he liked him.”

  “They seemed close?”

  “Not like friends. I actually thought it was just about cars. But was that just a lie? Scott said Grey Man liked me, that first time, but it never occurred to me that was the whole point of us hanging around with him, going for drives with him. But is that what it was?”

  Probably, JD thought. “It’s possible,” she said.

  Dezi pulled a worried face, as if assembling in her mind the clues she had missed. “Taking pictures? That’s really creepy. I hope you catch him soon. I won’t be able to sleep till you do.”

  The girl had worked out the stalker-kills-boyfriend theory neatly enough, JD thought. But so she should. After all, she was going to be a detective one day, if everything went right.

  Though her faith in that day actually arriving had faded. Even if Dezi was only peripherally involved in this maelstrom of violent crime, it could impact her chances.

  But just how peripheral was Dezi? That was the question.

  * * *

  In the lunchroom they sat at a table, JD with her cup of strong coffee, Dion with his decaf.

  “How did I do?” JD asked.

  “You did great.”

  “I don’t think Dezi has a clue who Grey Man is.”

  Dion had come to the same conclusion while monitoring the interview.

  “She’s telling the truth about that part,” JD said. “The other part bugs me, though. I was wondering if you got the same vibe. Toward the end.”

  “The part where she’s creeped out to learn the guy is stalking her,” Dion said. “It all sank in too fast, and the follow-through was all wrong. Right?”

  “The sinking in and follow-through are where people always screw up,” JD said.