Flights and Falls

by R. M. Greenaway

  “Let’s go play it again.”

  As they walked upstairs to view the video recording of Dezi’s interview, JD said, “So, have you thought of a good excuse yet?”

  From her snide tone, Dion knew what she was referring to. Urbanski’s New Year’s party. “I’m going,” he said. “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”

  Thirty-Nine

  WINGOVER

  December 31

  NEW YEAR’S EVE.

  Dion was so sure that he wouldn’t be going to Sean Urbanski’s party this evening — especially since learning of Leith’s espionage — that when he found himself driving across town in his best clothes, including the new maroon shirt with the collar tips he had come to actually like, he was surprised. It was like he had blacked out between noon and now, and had gotten spiffed up on autopilot.

  He parked down the road from Sean’s place. The streets around the area were narrow and parking was awkward. He trudged up the hill, wine bottle under his arm, climbed the steep steps, rang the bell, and was welcomed by Sean’s partner, Kyla, into their comfortable home full of lively music, laughter, sparkling conversation.

  After the first whump of depression following Poole’s warning about Leith, Dion had begun to feel oddly light and reckless. Almost footloose, almost happy. Maybe he was looking forward to resolution more than he even knew.

  Kyla was saying, “I haven’t seen you in ages, Cal! How are you?”

  Her arms being open, he gave her a hug, and said she looked great. She went about pointing out who was here, as if he was a stranger. Aside from friends of hers, there was the usual platoon of cops. JD Temple was a shock to the eyes in a slinky outfit instead of her usual drab slacks and sweater. Lil Hart and her husband, Wayne, were talking to Tara from general duties. Some civilian staff he couldn’t name. There was David Leith and his wife Alison. Dion had never met Alison face to face, and he eyed her with interest. Of course, Doug Paley and Louise were here — Dion waved at Louise — and the guest of honour was young Craig Gilmartin with his arm around a girl in round glasses. “So who’s protecting our city if you’re all here?” Kyla asked him cheerfully. “Right?”

  He didn’t stay long on the main floor. After joining in conversation with Sean, Doug, and Lil for a few minutes, he glared at Leith’s back, smirked at JD — see, I did come — then used the excuse of needing a cigarette to go outside.

  So much for giving up smoking. Immediately after his grim meeting with Poole at the Capilano Mall, learning he was on the radar, he had bought a pack and smoked one on his way home, saying aloud as he drove, “I’m dead anyway.”

  He had the pack with him now. He didn’t go out the front door, but upstairs to the snug covered deck he remembered from Urbanski’s parties in the past.

  Here, with the light switched off and the blasts of music from downstairs muted, he found chilly peace. He stood at the railing and took in the great view down the hillside to the North Shore, the Lion’s Gate Bridge, Vancouver’s gleaming downtown across the Inlet, the island ranges hulking, barely visible, in the dark distance. Soon there would be fireworks shooting and spiralling through the heavens, and maybe other partiers would join him then, but for now the cold kept everyone away. He looked at the cigarette in his hand — his alibi — unlit.

  Quitting had been surprisingly easy, and getting hooked again was surprisingly hard. He stuck the cig back in its carton, put the carton back in his pocket, and sat down on the rattan bench to gaze at the night sky, blanking out, thinking of nothing.

  The glass patio door slid open, and somebody was sharing the night air with him. At first all he could see of her was a long dark coat and the sheen of gold hair, but he knew right away what was happening. Either Kate had just joined him, or he was home in bed, dreaming. He sat straighter. She sat beside him, her face now visible in the ambient light.

  “Well, hi,” she said.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “So, what happened is Patrick wanted to go to this other house party in Kits with old friends. Except his old friends are also his ex’s old friends, so she’ll be there, so I don’t really want to be. She glares at me, Cal. And I think she knows witchcraft. So when Doug called, inviting me over, I thought, perfect, I’ll see my old friends instead. Then I got here, and everybody pointed upstairs, so I came to say hi. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “No,” he said. “No, I don’t mind.”

  She was laughing, maybe at the look on his face. He smiled, too. Then they shared the view in silence.

  His nerves were in knots again, his stomach doing flip-flops. He was no longer blanked out and thinking nothing, but desperately trying to decide what his next move should be. Anything he thought of doing or saying seemed wrong, so he said and did nothing.

  He wished she wasn’t here, but when she stood to leave, he felt sick with dread that she was about to disappear, this time for good. He was fumbling for his cigarettes when she pointed indoors with her thumb. “Champagne time. The year’s about to turn. Are you coming?”

  * * *

  As the countdown began, he was outside with the other partiers, Kate at his side. Everyone had put on coats. Some, like himself and Kate, remained on the porch, while others meandered to the lawn and street, armed with pots and wooden spoons, or sparklers, or in the case of Sean Urbanski, an arsenal of firecrackers bought in Chinatown, ready to ignite the moment the calendar flipped to the first moment of the first day of January. Dion had done well. He had managed to say a few smart-sounding things to Kate, asking how she was doing, how the art show had gone, apologizing that he hadn’t attended. He had talked to her, probably artlessly, about Patrick and the chance that Patrick might go back to his ex. She doubted it. But even so, he felt good. If nothing else, he felt he had made some amends for how he had treated her after the crash.

  Midnight struck. Kate linked her arm in his, huddling against him in the chill. He cheered loudly with the rest of the neighbourhood, and gave Kate’s cheek a traditional New Year’s kiss, maybe not as platonically as he should have. The flashes and bangs and showers of sparks continued up and down the street. Past Kate at his side, Dion noticed JD on the steps, not cheering but answering her phone. She wore over-the-knee boots and a fluffy coat over her snug velveteen dress. She looked great, and he waited for her to put her phone away, so he could hand-signal an approving “okay” her way. But she didn’t.

  The spin of happy thoughts began to slow, then go in reverse. He let go of Kate to watch JD on her phone, trying to read her lips. She looked serious, and his curiosity pinged.

  He saw JD climb the stairs to go into the house, beckoning Leith to join her. “Excuse me,” Dion told Kate. “Back in a minute. Don’t leave.”

  “I won’t if you won’t.”

  He followed their voices to the quiet backwaters of the kitchen, where JD was saying to Leith, “No, I’m not kidding. Our boss is missing.”

  * * *

  It was hardly a crisis, but it was definitely strange. Under the bright, unromantic detachment lights, Leith listened to Jim Torr’s somewhat jokey explanation of why he had put out the alert of one missing boss. JD and Dion listened at Leith’s side.

  Torr described receiving two reports, neither alarming in itself, but when put together, they added up to at least a what the fuck. “First report this evening was a suspicious-looking character in a car,” Torr said, and cited the address of the person who had called in the report, a quiet street below Keith Road. “She says this character sat in his car, in the dark, for about an hour, kind of hunched down. I asked her to get me a licence plate, but she was too afraid to go outside. She starts telling me how useless us cops are, and tells me to send a patrol to check this weirdo out for her. By the time we got there, the weirdo was gone. What else could we do? Got a statement from the lady and filed it. Now for part two of the mystery. Hour later, I get a call from Sarah Bosko. Husband’s not answering his phone for the last hour. She asks if he’s here at the office. I say no. I ask her where she
believes he is, and she doesn’t know, but thinks he might be out socializing.” Torr paused. “Some cozy relationship. If I didn’t know where Tina was on New Year’s Eve, I’d say it was time to start dialing D for divorce.”

  “So where’s Tina tonight, Jim?” JD said.

  “At home in bed, alone, with champagne and a negligee, waiting for me,” Torr said, and Leith interrupted again, telling them to stick to the point. He was thinking of Alison back at a party full of strangers, alone. Like himself, she wasn’t a mingler. It was how they had met — two wallflowers at somebody else’s wedding, held in a school gymnasium. They’d met, said hello and not much else, danced in the dark under a disco ball that flung out electric stars, and in the end, found comfort in each other’s clumsiness. Tonight he had offered to take her home or call a cab before heading to the detachment, but she had chosen to stay. For his sake, he thought, but she’d gotten it wrong; the knowledge of her waiting was keeping him on edge. In a fit of exasperation he exclaimed to Torr, “Mike Bosko doesn’t answer his phone for an hour on New Year’s Eve, and he’s a missing person?”

  “Hang tight,” Torr said. “There’s more. Know where Bosko lives? Right across the street from our chickenshit caller who could have gotten a licence plate for us. Plus the weirdo’s vehicle sounds a lot like Thomas Frey’s, a white hatchback station wagon. Plus Sarah Bosko says Mike always answers his phone. Always. I tried Bosko’s numbers myself, both of ’em. Both went to voicemail.”

  Leith was starting to see Torr’s point. He was feeling as chagrined as Dion was looking right now, Dion who had been standing starry-eyed next to a lovely woman as the fireworks went off. His plans were trashed, too, apparently. Seemed there would be no more partying for either of them tonight.

  Forty

  BLUE MURDER

  January 1

  DION FOUND IT STRANGE to be out at this time of night, driving around town with JD, both of them looking like a million dollars in their New Year’s Eve best. JD had wanted to change, but Dion had convinced her not to. They were out on a wild goose chase, sparked by a series of misunderstandings, and the night was going to end up as a big joke, he said. They might as well do it in style. She had agreed they might as well look picturesque as they chased geese, so now, in her soft purple-black jacket and tall boots with fancy buckles, she steered her ratty Subaru station wagon through the streets of the city, heading toward Bosko’s home.

  Dion sat in the passenger seat, scanning cars and pedestrians. He was looking for either Bosko’s silver Toyota Corolla, or for his familiar bear-like figure on foot. What would happen if Bosko turned up dead, he wondered. That could be the end to his troubles, that’s what.

  He scowled and switched off the thought. JD was pulling over without hesitation, as if she knew where she was going. She shut off the engine, stepped out of the car, and headed toward a plain little house.

  Dion followed. “You’ve been here before?” he asked as she rapped her knuckles on the front door.

  “Bosko threw a garden party in the summer,” she told him. “I went. A lot of us went. You weren’t around. You were in one of your I’m quitting snits.”

  The bungalow was small and rundown, not the kind of place Dion expected a man like Bosko to live. Maybe it was a rental situation. Maybe Bosko wasn’t putting down roots, was planning on transferring out. Again, that could be an end to his troubles, and a far better one all around.

  A slight woman in her forties opened the door, and JD greeted her as Sarah. Sarah invited them in to talk. In the living room, which felt to Dion like a safe-house set-up — practical and efficient, but uninspired — Sarah could offer no clues to her husband’s whereabouts other than those she had already provided. Mike might have intended to drop in on his parents in West Point Grey, she said, but it was a loose arrangement. She had already called his parents. She had learned that he had phoned them around noon, as was typical, to wish them the best, but he had not planned on an actual visit till tomorrow.

  Yes, she was a little worried.

  “There’s probably a good explanation,” JD said. “The problem with cellphones is everyone expects immediate connection, and if it doesn’t happen, it’s scary. Right?”

  “Yes, I know,” Sarah said. “And the problem with Mike is he’s not the type to forget his phone is on silent mode or low on juice. We have a tacit understanding not to call each other when we’re out at events unless it’s important, so it’s not unusual that he didn’t call me. What’s unusual is he didn’t answer. Or call back.”

  “There wasn’t a plan to call each other during the big countdown?” JD asked.

  “No. Maybe it’s strange to you, that Mike and I aren’t doing New Year’s together. It’s just we have different friends, different interests. We live together, but sometimes our phones are our only way of holding hands.”

  Not just a safe house, but a sham wife, Dion thought.

  “I get that,” JD said. “And I’m sure Mike’s okay, but we are taking this seriously.” She warned Sarah about the unknown lurker spotted in a car out front earlier that night. “I don’t mean to upset you, but do keep an eye out. And don’t hesitate to give us a call, for any reason. Do you have a friend you can go stay with?”

  “Well, now I’m really worried,” Sarah said. “Go.” She ushered them to the door. “I’ll take care of myself. Just go find him, please.”

  * * *

  It was nearly 2:00 a.m. by now, and with no better lead, Dion agreed with JD that visiting Bosko’s parents on the other side of the bridge would be as good a starting point as any. The first day of the year remained cloaked in darkness, and patrol cars cruised the near-empty streets like sleepy sharks.

  It wasn’t until they were crossing the Lion’s Gate Bridge that Dion realized he had known all along how Bosko had spent at least part of this day. It had been niggling at him from the start. “Dim sum!” he cried.

  JD stared at him. “What?”

  “That’s where he was tonight, JD. Dim sum. With a friend.”

  * * *

  When, though — who knew? And the identity of the friend was another question mark. Dion told JD about overhearing Bosko telling Sean Urbanski of his New Year’s plans. “And the friend he was talking about, I think it’s the same one who loaned Bosko the plane. An old friend and colleague, is what he called him. I just can’t remember the name. Head for downtown, and I’ll see if I can track this down.”

  “Arlo?” JD said. “At the pub he was talking about his friend Arlo.”

  Dion reached the E Division headquarters in Surrey, where Bosko had worked before North Van, and after some runaround and explanations, he was rerouted to the cell number of an officer who had worked with Bosko. The woman he spoke to said, “Mike’s not answering his phone? Yeah, that’s Code 3, for sure.”

  Dion asked if she knew a friend of Bosko’s named Arlo. Did she have any idea who that might be, and how that person could be reached?

  The woman told him that would be Arlo Kirk, now retired from the force. She said she shouldn’t be giving out Kirk’s number, but she would. “Got a pen?”

  A minute later Dion had not only the phone number, but also the address of Arlo Kirk jotted down. It was on 6th Avenue, near Rupert and Broadway. He stuck the note on JD’s sun visor, and she headed for the Georgia Viaduct. Dion tried Kirk’s number, meanwhile. It, too, went to voicemail.

  * * *

  “This should be it,” Dion said, looking at house addresses — never easy in the dark. The home he was looking at was one of the smaller, older models, dwarfed by monster houses on either side. Dwarfed but not intimidated, its archway, shrubs, and every inch of fence blazing with Christmas lights.

  “Bosko said Arlo’s a little obsessed,” JD said. “He wasn’t kidding.”

  Dion stared at what was probably the living room window, shrouded by drapes. Lamplight shone within, and there was evidence of a flame-like flickering. “They’ve got a fire going, so they must be home.”

&
nbsp; JD had pulled in behind a silver sedan on the quiet avenue, and she was looking at the vehicle’s rear. “That’s Mike’s car,” she said, having double-checked her notes for the plate number. “So, yup, he’s here. Drank too much and crashed at his buddy’s place. He didn’t answer his phone because the music was too loud or his pal had convinced him to turn it off. It was New Year’s Eve, the one time of year he decided somebody else could deal with trouble. Let’s get lost before they spot us lurking and we have to explain how stupid we are.”

  Dion shook his head. “You heard what his wife said. He’d be ready to answer, if only in case she called. She called, and he didn’t answer, and something’s wrong.”

  JD sighed. “So now we’re going to go knock on their damn door, wake them up, and have a lot of explaining to do. Fine. Serves him right.”

  Nobody answered the door when she rang the bell. Nor when she knocked, nor when Dion knocked louder. Nobody peeked out the windows of the monster houses on either side. Music emanated from the house across the street, another New Year’s party still going strong, but again, nobody looked out to see what the fuss was.

  JD clipped down the steps in her fancy boots. She found a crooked concrete path leading around the side of the house to the shadowy backyard, and vanished. Dion followed. In the rear of the house was a carport, and in the carport was an older white Chev Impala that he guessed belonged to Arlo Kirk.

  “I’ll try the back door,” he said. He climbed wooden stairs onto a landing of sorts, opened a screen door, and pounded on the wooden inner door with the side of his fist. He looked down at JD and past her at the front of the Impala. Even from here the car looked dewy and cold. He thought about Bosko’s silver Corolla lodged against the curb out front as if it had been there for days.

  He checked his watch: 2:20 a.m. Ordinarily, most people would be asleep by now, but this was the early morning hours following New Year’s Eve, and if two buddies were bothering to get together to celebrate the event, wouldn’t they stay up till at least midnight, probably more like 1:00 a.m.? Bosko struck Dion as long-winded and tireless. Around one or one-thirty the friends might have started to think about sleep, but even so there would be a sense of life lingering now, a light still on, somebody in a bathroom brushing their teeth. And even if they had both retired to sleep, somebody would have rolled out of bed by now to respond to the hammering on the door.