False Witness

by Scott Cook

  Fucking cops, he thought glumly as he snatched the ticket. He climbed into the truck, fired the engine and nosed his way into afternoon traffic.

  #

  By the time Sam got back to the Chronicle thirty minutes later, the labyrinth of cubicles that made up the newsroom was all but deserted. Not surprising – it was a postcard-perfect Friday afternoon, and there was nothing worth hanging around for. Tomorrow’s front page would be about the oil billionaire who had decided to run for mayor in the fall, and the stories were already written; front page was probably laid out already, just waiting for deadline and the slim possibility of breaking news before it got sent to the press. He wouldn’t be telling Craig Doyle, the night editor, to hold a spot for shocking revelations about the death of Chuck Palliser or Richie Duff. In hindsight, he wondered why he had bothered to meet with Flowers in the first place. Desperation? He should have known there wasn’t going to be some magic piece of evidence drop in his lap and give him an exclusive. Real life didn’t work like that.

  He’d spent the drive back to the office kicking himself for burning Flowers, a guy who had done more to further Sam’s career than anyone outside of himself. And why did Sam even care? He was being honest when he said he didn’t give two shits about Hodge’s life. The man had cold-bloodedly murdered Tom Ferbey and ordered the brutal executions of two other men, including a guy who had dedicated his life to keeping the public safe from people like Hodge. Why did Sam care?

  Because that’s not how cops are supposed to act, dammit. They’re supposed to be better than that.

  He sighed as he emptied the oily dregs of the coffee pot into a paper cup and dropped in three crumbling sugar cubes to battle the bitter, burnt taste. The real cream had been gone since before lunch, so he tapped a package of off-white powder in and stirred.

  “So you’re the asshole who always leaves the pot empty,” said a voice behind him. Sam turned to see Tess Gallagher, still looking morning fresh even at the end of a long, hot workday – not a wrinkle in her silk blouse or a single strand of auburn hair out of place. She had a hip cocked against the pony wall that separated the mess of the coffee area from the controlled chaos of the newsroom. Tess worked the provincial political beat, which meant she had probably spent most of her day following the five people currently vying for the mayor’s chair against the newly announced billionaire.

  “Always?” he asked as he took a wincing sip of sludge. “Careful, smarty pants. That’s what’s known in intellectual circles as a logical fallacy. You know what happens when you make assumptions.”

  “Yeah, you make an ass out of ‘u’ and ‘mptions.’”

  Sam snorted a laugh, sending a mist of coffee into the air in front of him. Tess quickly sidestepped the mess and favored him with her patented go-to-hell smile. That and her jade eyes always had an uncanny knack for keeping him off balance.

  He wiped the coffee from his lips with a napkin. “Good one,” he said. “I’m surprised to see a dayshift diva like you here this late. Figured you’d be down at Cowboy’s with everyone else, getting margaritas bought for you by horny old politicians.”

  “Don’t worry about me, I’m heading down there as soon as I do something.” She remained motionless, arms still crossed, staring at him with that maddening smile.

  Sam waited several moments. Finally he raised his eyebrows and cocked his head. “Is that something busting my balls? Use your words, Tess.”

  “It has something to do with you.”

  “Is that right?”

  Her smile widened, if that was possible, and her eyes gleamed. “Uh-huh,” she whispered. “Now close your eyes and hold out your hand.”

  Sam did as he was told. He tried to keep a straight face and sound cool, despite the fluttering thrill in the pit of his stomach. “All right. What have you got for me?”

  Tess leaned close. Her breath smelled like sunshine and tickled his ear. “This,” she purred as she grabbed his hand. Sam could feel a slim trickle of sweat run down his spine and pool in the cleft of his buttocks. Then he felt paper curl against his palm, and he opened his eyes. He looked down and blinked stupidly at the post-it note in his hand. He looked up at Tess again, disappointment fighting with bafflement for control of his face.

  Tess tried to look serious and failed miserably. Sam blushed for a moment when she first started laughing, then joined in himself, though not quite as heartily as Tess. Real life doesn’t work like that, he reminded himself.

  Tess finally got control of herself. Sam thought he could even see a tiny bit of remorse in her grin.

  “Sorry,” she said. “But I had to do that. I’m fucking mad at you.”

  Sam’s eyes widened. “You’re mad at me? How do you figure that?”

  Tess pointed a carefully manicured finger at the post-it in his hand. “I’m mad about that.”

  Sam finally looked at the note. It was a Calgary phone number. “You’re mad about a phone number?”

  “I picked up your line while you were out doing whatever you were doing this afternoon. I don’t know why Shippy puts up with you just taking off for hours at a time, I really don’t. Anyway, a woman called asking specifically for you; she wouldn’t talk to anyone else. Not even yours truly. That’s her number.”

  Sam gave her an exasperated look. This was getting annoying. “Whose number?”

  Tess’s go-to-hell smile was back, this time with a tinge of triumph behind it. She had made him squirm. Mission accomplished.

  “That, my friend, is Kathy Ferbey’s phone number.”

  Sam’s jaw dropped slightly. “Tom Ferbey’s wife?” he finally managed. “That Kathy Ferbey?”

  “The one and only,” said Tess. “Though technically she’s his widow now. And you’re the one and only reporter she’ll talk to, you lucky bastard.”

  Sam stared at the note in his palm, the number already etching itself in his memory. Maybe real life does work like that sometimes.

  CHAPTER 11

  Eddie Spanbauer was just this side of drunk as he talked money with the kid in the corner booth. Eddie had brought cash – always cash, always, always – but the cab ride had eaten up forty dollars of his wad, and he had to keep another forty for the ride home. At least the drinks were cheap.

  Eddie always made sure to take a taxi on the one night a month he went to the Golden Cage. His wife believed it was because he was spending the night drinking with his karate buddies until the wee small hours. Wouldn’t want to be driving after one of their epic piss-ups; that wasn’t something a decent, law-abiding prison guard would do. And it was a great way for him to blow off some of the steam that built up in his high-pressure job. His wife always said she noticed how much better his mood was the next day.

  In truth, he always left his mint-condition, right-hand drive Toyota Soarer in the garage of their house in the northwest, and cabbed it to the ugly side of downtown, for two reasons: first, he didn’t want the car left unattended in the neighborhood surrounding the Golden Cage, and second, it was too recognizable. He’d grown up in Calgary and never seen another one around town in metallic hunter green like his. It was one of the reasons he’d bought it in the first place. And even if there was another the same color, his vanity plate was unmistakable: GUARDIAN.

  His wife knew none of this, of course. As far as she knew, he and his friends – she didn’t know any of them personally, and when she offered to have them over for dinner, Eddie always had an excuse ready – were at one of those southwest strip mall sports bars that popped up like weeds on the fringes of the new neighborhoods that barged their way into the surrounding ranchland. The kind with names like Blue 32 or The Front Row, where sixty-inch televisions lined the walls, and waitresses in push-up bras hoisted team pitchers and potato skins to tables full of drunk men in hockey jerseys for outrageous tips.

  Such patrons rarely engaged in the kind of behavior that the Golden Cage was famous for. There were no televisions in here, not even an old analog job above the bar tuned to the l
ocal news. The room was dark to the point of being dank; all light from the setting summer sun was blocked out by heavy brocade curtains on the windows, and the walls were painted a deep burgundy. The kid in the corner booth with him looked to be about twenty, thin, with cheap tattoos on his arms, and the twitchy demeanor of someone acquainted with crystal meth. He was Eddie’s favorite type, and Eddie was willing to agree to whatever the kid wanted. It was unlikely that Eddie would be paying for it anyway, so why not? All was right with the world tonight, and he was in the mood for a good old-fashioned party. Money was no object on a night like this.

  A sulky underage girl in goth make-up and a mesh tee-shirt dropped a couple of Kokanees on the table and walked away wordlessly with Eddie’s ten-spot. That’s fine, keep the change, bitch, he thought absently. The kid took a long pull on his beer. He was nervous. Good. Eddie liked them nervous. It was no fun if they were into it.

  “So when do I get the money?” the kid asked, glancing around the room. Men of all sizes, shapes and ages milled about. Balding middle-aged businessmen in suits mingled with young men in brilliant pink ball gowns and feather boas. Bette Midler’s Divine Madness blared out of unseen speakers as a group of rotund, leather-clad gentlemen sang along and gyrated on the checkerboard dance floor.

  “After,” Eddie said quietly. He knew no one in the place cared about the two of them, but he liked to keep his voice down just the same. “That’s tradition.”

  The kid looked around the room again. His twitchiness was beginning to piss Eddie off. “Three hundred, right?” the kid asked. “That’s the deal?”

  “That’s the deal.”

  “All right, so where are we gonna do this?”

  Eddie finished his beer (the kid had drained his own in two pulls) and slid out of the booth. “Leave that to me.” He stood up, the kid close behind, still looking around as if trying to find something.

  “Somebody after you?” Eddie said testily.

  The kid jumped a bit at that. “No,” he said, eyes wide. “No, man. Just, you know, getting the lay of the land. You know?”

  Eddie shook his head. Tweakers. Jesus, what a life.

  Heat wrapped around them as they walked out the heavy wooden doors into the night. The sun had finally gone below the buildings, leaving a red glow that turned to indigo as it stretched its way toward the rising moon. This part of town was not the kind of place where decent folks wanted to find themselves after dark, but Eddie wasn’t an ordinary guy. He was a hard man. He was a wolf among the sheep, and this neighborhood held no terrors for him, no matter what time of day.

  Sirens wailed in the distance as Eddie and the kid walked around to the alley behind the Golden Cage. The kid glanced sideways at him. “Hey man, anybody ever tell you you look like that singer guy? The old guy, sang American Woman? With the moustache.”

  Eddie smiled. He heard that one all the time.

  Gravel crunched under their shoes, kicking up little clouds of dust in the still, humid air. They reached an overgrown parking lot directly behind the bar. A couple of burned-out abandoned cars lurked in the dark. Eddie pointed to a shadowy alcove where two buildings met at an angle. “There,” he said.

  The kid squinted. “I can’t even see in there, man.”

  “You don’t need to see to do what you’re going to do.”

  He pushed the kid toward the alcove. The kid stumbled forward a bit before righting himself. “Fuck, I’m going. Take it easy, man.”

  Eddie stopped and frowned at the back of the kid’s head. “The fuck you say?”

  The kid turned to face him. In the dark, the younger man’s face seemed rat-like and strange. “Nothin, man. Just, you know, don’t push.”

  Eddie’s fist connected squarely with the kid’s nose, knocking him on his ass in the gravel. “You don’t tell me, I tell you,” Eddie growled.

  The kid rose shakily to his knees. “GUYS NOW – ”

  Air whuffed out of the kid as Eddie drove a foot into his narrow chest. “Quiet, you fucking queerboy, or I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”

  Eddie couldn’t make out the kid’s features in the dark, but he saw his head bob up and down in a desperate nod. “Good.” He looked around – they were alone in the parking lot, sheltered from view on three sides. He unbuttoned the fly of his favorite pair of blue jeans, the ones he wore only on nights at the Golden Cage. Zippers held too much potential for injury.

  The kid moaned softly beneath him. Eddie slapped him, but the only sound the kid made was a quick intake of breath.

  “Get started, queerboy,” Eddie said roughly. “If I like it, maybe you’ll get your money. Or maybe not. I haven’t decided yet.” In truth, he had decided. He’d decided the moment he laid eyes on the kid in the bar. He doubted the kid would like his decision.

  Pain exploded like a thunderclap in Eddie’s right kidney, and white light blossomed behind his eyeballs, as something hard slammed into his lower back. He staggered backward toward the burned-out cars, his thoughts racing. Cover your back, face your opponent. It had been drilled into him over two decades of karate training. When he felt the gritty hardness of a fender against his ass, he raised his fists and peered into the night.

  “Come on!” he hollered, still dazed. The pain in his back was enormous, burning like a miniature sun. The kid must have had another crankhead lying in wait. Roll the customer, easy money – who’s going to tell the cops what they were doing in the alley behind a fag bar? Well, they’re in for a fucking surprise.

  Another pain explosion, this time in the inside of his upper right thigh, dangerously close to his balls. Boot heel, had to be. Chickenshit motherfucker! Eddie dropped to the gravel, his right leg suddenly useless. Get up! he screamed to himself. Get up, get up!

  “Don’t get up, Eddie,” a voice said from above him, as if reading his mind. Blue light flooded his vision. Eddie’s eyes adjusted quickly to the soft glare of an LED flashlight, one of the big steel jobs. Above him he could see two men with dark hair and darker looks. One was gripping an aluminum baseball bat, the other held a chain in front of him. Both looked as bored as if they were waiting on a bus.

  “Meet Kenny and Dougie Flo,” said the voice behind the flashlight. “Boys, meet Eddie Spanbauer.”

  A pair of silhouettes each raised a hand in salute.

  “Better wave back, Eddie,” said the voice. “You don’t want the Florence brothers mad at you. Believe me.”

  Eddie blinked stupidly and waved. He thought back to the karate matches he’d fought over the years, the tests he’d taken, the hundreds of pine boards he’d broken. The men he’d put down in lock-up. He’d always believed that he was ready for anything, that he was a hardass. Now here he was on his knees in a black alley, helpless, waving like an idiot. Hot blood filled his cheeks as he realized his fly was open.

  “What’s the matter, Eddie?” said the flashlight man. “Not so tough against people who can actually fight back?”

  Eddie took a deep breath. This couldn’t be happening. He hurt people, people didn’t hurt him. Clarity suddenly came, accompanied by the horror that came with realizing where he was, what he was doing. Jesus, what if his wife found out? What if the inmates found out?

  “Oh Christ,” he moaned, not even aware he was doing it. “Oh Christ, oh Christ.”

  “I don’t know where Christ is, Eddie, but he’s not here. Just you, me and the Brothers Florence.” Jason Crowe turned the flashlight on his own grinning face. “And we have a lot to talk about.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Tom and Kathy Ferbey’s house was a wartime bungalow in the kind of neighborhood that real estate agents liked to call “transitional.” It had a lot of newer upgrades: roof and windows, vinyl siding the color of pea soup, and fake stone on the foundation to hide sixty-some years worth of cracks. Unlike the majority of other houses on the block, the Ferbeys’ lawn had been watered and mowed at least a few times over the blazing summer, and the driveway was free of dead vehicles slowly bleeding their vital fluids
onto the concrete.

  It had taken three phone calls and four frustrating days to set up the interview with Kathy, but Sam was finally here in her living room, drumming his fingers on an end table while she fussed over coffee in the kitchen. He felt like a kid who was forced to go to church with the family before opening his presents on Christmas morning. Not that he had anything to worry about, he was just impatient – no one was going to scoop him this time. Kathy said she hadn’t talked to anyone else in the media, but Sam had sworn Tess to secrecy after the initial call, just in case. She’d been sweet enough to oblige. She was a real sport. Flowers said my bad blood with Dunn was over a woman; was he right?

  He scanned the living room as he waited. It looked like a display room at IKEA, inviting and yet somehow lifeless at the same time. Sam had seen plenty of homes like it during his time in Calgary, where money and class didn’t necessarily go hand in hand. The nouveau riche had no problem plunking a million dollars down for a huge house that they proceeded to fill with Costco furniture and art prints from Walmart.

  A small, silver-framed photo on the shelf of the TV stand caught Sam’s eye. Most of the pictures in the room were of Josh Ferbey at various stages in his young life, large and with pride of placement on the walls and shelves. But this one was of Kathy and Tom on their wedding day. They looked impossibly young. Tom sported a mullet and the type of sparse moustache favored by young men to whom shaving is still a novelty. Kathy’s hair was piled to the point where it almost doubled the height of her head. Their bodies faced each other, but their smiling faces were turned toward the unknown photographer. Whoever it was, Sam thought, they had been overpaid for their work, even if all they got for it was a piece of the caterer’s prime rib.

  There were a couple more shots of Tom on the fireplace mantle. One showed him in long robes, standing with a choir in the nave of a church with bright red carpet. The other was a group shot of a beer league hockey team.