Serious Crimes (A Willows and Parker Mystery)

by Laurence Gough

  Mrs Lee had already indicated she didn’t want any professional assistance, but Parker didn’t think she was in any shape to make that kind of decision.

  She’d give her time to calm down. Drive her home and then mention the trauma unit again.

  It wouldn’t be the first time she’d played chauffeur to a grieving husband, wife, or lover.

  And, she knew, it wouldn’t be the last.

  Chapter 12

  Nancy came dripping out of the shower, grabbed a fluffy pink towel from the heated rack and wound it around her hair and walked naked into the bedroom. Through the plate glass she could see the harbour, the water dull as lead, a lone sailboat tacking into the wind.

  Down the hall, in her husband’s study, she heard the soft twittering of the goddamn fax machine. Tyler had three pushbutton telephones lined up in there on his desk; all of them red. He also had an IBM computer and a couple of printers, something called a modem. A Canon colour copier. Plus the Sony TV and video recorder he used to tape business-related programs from the Knowledge Network, but never had time to watch.

  Tyler’s study. His business machines. Well, maybe he fooled the income-tax people, but Nancy knew better. The machines were toys for adults who’d grown up too fast and couldn’t make the adjustment, that’s all. She hated the den. Tyler never remembered to shut the door and it seemed to her that something in there was always clicking or buzzing or clanging, making some kind of irritating noise.

  Nancy scrubbed at her hair with the towel, tossed the towel on the bed. She stood in front of the mirrored doors of the walk-in closet and tried to be objective about her body.

  Not bad. Not bad at all, even if she was the only one in the family who noticed. She ran her fingers through her pubic hair, fuzzing it up, and then clasped her hands behind her head, striking a centrefold pose.

  Not bad at all, really.

  The telephone on the chrome and glass night table next to the big king-size bed rang twice and then the answering machine kicked in and a woman named Sheila that Nancy sometimes worked out with at Ron Zalko’s wanted to know if she was free for lunch — maybe a wildflower salad and glass of white wine and one of those trendy vegetarian designer pizzas and if so call back by eleven.

  Fat chance, thought Nancy.

  She crossed the silvery carpet to the sliding glass door, opened the door and stepped out on to the balcony. The cold hit her, and she almost cried out; it was like being slapped all over at once. Her skin felt tight as a drum. Down at the far end of the pool, the elderly maintenance man in his crisp white coveralls and blue baseball cap with a dolphin on it had his back to her as he scooped at the water with a long aluminium pole with a net on the end.

  God, but it was cold! Lotusland, they called the city, because of its temperate climate. Well, it wasn’t lotus weather today. The maintenance man extended the aluminium pole. The calm, mist-shrouded surface of the water rippled briefly and was calm.

  The pool was fifty feet long and twenty feet wide, and in the winter it cost almost six hundred dollars a month to keep the water at a steady seventy degrees. It wasn’t like Tyler to invest that kind of money unless there was a guaranteed payback. It had taken her a long time to realize that in this particular case the payback was ostentatious consumption — a chance for Tyler to impress his business colleagues and friends.

  Nancy folded her arms across her chest, covering her breasts. The odd way the maintenance man was holding his pole, it was as if he was fishing. But for what? There were no leaves in the water and she doubted there’d be any drowned bugs in there, not at this time of year. She watched him bring the pole in, hand over hand, reach into the mesh and pull something out and stick it in a green plastic garbage bag.

  Up here. Nancy giggled softly, like a schoolgirl. C’mon, big boy. Take a look. God, what was the matter with her?

  The maintenance man swished the net into the water again, resuming his hunt. He walked around to the far side of the pool. He was thirty feet below her and less than a hundred feet away; close enough so she could see he needed a shave, and that he was concentrating so hard on his simple task that he was biting his lower lip.

  Nancy hugged herself a little tighter. Her body was covered with goose-bumps. She was shivering so hard she thought she might vibrate right off the balcony. She tilted her head to one side, shook a few drops of water from her hair and went back into the house and shut the door hard enough to make the glass rattle in the frame.

  She lay down on the bed’s rumpled silk sheets. It was Wednesday, just past noon. Just over two days since she’d seen him.

  The telephone rang again. The answering machine picked up. She watched the spool of tape turn around and around and listened to herself tell whoever was on the other end that she couldn’t come to the phone right now but if they’d leave a message she’d…

  The sound of the caller slamming down the phone made her jump.

  Some people! Could it have been Tyler? No, he never lost his temper. He’d simply have left a message, told her to phone back, whatever. And anyway, he’d have had his secretary place the call.

  It could have been anyone. She’d been thinking about him…

  Sunday night. When she finally got home, Tyler was sound asleep and, judging by the amount of noise he was making, sawing down whole forests of trees. She was in a strange mood, terrified and sexy. She’d taken a quick shower and slipped into bed, whispered his name.

  Another tree dropped. She pinched shut his nostrils and the snoring stopped. She kissed him and he grunted and rolled over on his side. She told herself he worked his butt off so she could have a million-dollar house on the water and a kitchen full of top-of-the-line brand name appliances, and he had every right to be tired.

  So what if the honeymoon had lasted about as long as a barrel ride over Niagara Falls? Nobody was perfect.

  She eased out of bed and slipped into a terrycloth bathrobe and left Tyler to his clear-cutting.

  Downstairs, she went into the living room and poured herself a double Ne Plus Ultra, turned on the fireplace and curled up on the sofa.

  She shouldn’t have let that good-looking kid walk off with her chequebook. But what was she supposed to do, get him in an arm-lock and take his knife away from him?

  The clatter of metal against concrete brought Nancy back to the present. It was impossible, to be kidnapped and robbed and then a few days later casually accept an invitation to lunch on flowers and pizza. It had been what the Argentinian bartender at her golf club liked to call a seminal experience. A very sexy word, seminal. She wasn’t exactly sure what it meant. She kept meaning to look it up, forgetting.

  What she did know was that her joyride with the two kids had changed her, somehow.

  But she wasn’t exactly sure how. Not yet, anyway.

  At three in the morning Tyler had come downstairs and awakened her and told her about the semi-obscene phone call he’d just received, and what in hell did it mean?

  Nancy had told him.

  Tyler said, “I thought you were at the Arts Club with Madeleine.”

  “After the play, we went back to her apartment for a drink. On the way home, I stopped for a red light and a couple of kids jumped in the car and made me give them a ride up Kingsway.” Tyler blinked twice.

  Nancy said, “God, that’s an ugly street. I tried to tell you all about it when I got home, but you refused to wake up.”

  Tyler flushed. “It wasn’t a conscious decision, for Christ’s sake. I took a sleeping pill.”

  “One of them threatened me with a knife.”

  “Did…”

  “No. In fact they didn’t even try.”

  Her loving husband nodded, as if that was perfectly understandable. He said, “Did they rob you?”

  “Of course they robbed me! It’d be pretty unusual, wouldn’t it, if they weren’t interested in sex or money.”

  Tyler said, “Sorry, honey. I’m a little distraught. Did they take your credit cards?”

 
“Yes, and my chequebook.”

  “With your phone number and address on it.”

  “Our address, Tyler.”

  “Right, right. Our address.”

  Nancy said, “I’m tired. I’m going to go to bed.”

  “You can’t do that. We have to phone the police.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ve been kidnapped.”

  “Nothing happened, Tyler. And I’m too upset to be interrogated by the police.”

  Tyler opened his mouth to argue.

  Nancy said, “And I’ve had a lot to drink. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if I were drunk.”

  Tyler studied the level of whisky in the bottle, and sighed.

  In the morning, they ate breakfast in silence. Tyler finished his second cup of coffee and went over to the cordless phone on the wall mount by the kitchen counter and punched a three-digit number.

  Nancy said, “I wish you wouldn’t do that. I really do.”

  Tyler, studying his watch, said, “Yes, this is an emergency.” There was a pause and then he gave his name and Nancy’s name, their address. After another pause, he gave a brief description of the previous night’s events. He was remarkably concise. When he hung up, he turned to Nancy and said, “They’ll be here sometime this morning.” He smiled. “Got a very dicey meeting with the Mitsubishi people, or I’d stay and help out. You know how it is. I miss this one, I’m dead meat.”

  Nancy said she understood. She was an understanding woman, right? What else was new?

  The cops arrived in an unmarked car. There were two of them. They were both wearing dark blue trench coats and they were very polite, soft-spoken. They explained right away that they were homicide cops and that they’d taken the call because there’d been a murder in Chinatown over the weekend, not far from where Nancy had run into trouble, and they were following up all possible leads. They didn’t seem very pleased about it. One of them, he said his name was Eddy Orwell, reminded Nancy of the famous actor Arnold Schwarzenegger. Tyler was no film buff but when he was working late she often rented a video and made popcorn in the microwave, had a fun time.

  Orwell wasn’t as tall as the actor but he was built the same way, like an upside down pyramid, and he had Arnold’s excruciatingly slow way of talking — as if every word he uttered cost him a little bit of pain. The first question he asked Nancy was where her husband was. She told him Tyler could be reached at the office, but that he had a meeting scheduled with some very serious people from Tokyo, and would prefer not to be interrupted.

  Orwell’s partner’s name was Farley Spears. Nancy didn’t think much of him. He hadn’t bothered to wipe his feet when he came into the house, and he wore a mud-brown fedora which he clearly had no intention of removing. As if this wasn’t more than enough, he kept glancing around the living room as if he was trying to decide what Nancy owned that would fit into his pockets.

  Neither detective seemed to think very much of her little adventure. Orwell did most of the talking. He asked her what time of night she’d been accosted, where she’d been earlier that evening, who she’d been with. Nancy had given him Madeleine’s full name and address and telephone number. Then Orwell had asked for a detailed description of the men and she’d answered about a million questions, told the cop what they’d looked like and what they’d said… She was surprised at how clearly she remembered things.

  Orwell occasionally made soft grunting sounds as he laboured to get it all down in his notebook.

  When Nancy told him about the stolen chequebook, he suggested she notify the bank.

  “Yes, I’ve already done that. My husband suggested it would be a good idea.”

  “Oh. Well then…” Orwell looked faintly annoyed, as if he thought everything had already been taken care of and she was wasting his time.

  Nancy said, “I’m worried about them coming to the house.”

  “Yeah?” Frowning, Orwell tugged at his ear. Almost as if trying to fine-tune it because what he was hearing didn’t make a great deal of sense to him.

  Nancy blushed.

  “Have there been any obscene phone calls?” Spears asked.

  “No, none.” A semi-obscene phone call, Tyler had said. Close enough. Why was she keeping it a secret?

  Spears said, “Does the fireplace work?”

  “Yes, certainly.”

  “It’s a little chilly in here. You mind turning it on?”

  Nancy switched on the gas.

  “Is that as high as it goes?”

  “Yes.”

  Spears nodded doubtfully. He stepped closer to the flames and pulled off his black leather gloves with the rabbit fur lining, held his hands out to the warmth. His eyes were bright and his skin had a glossy sheen. Was he ill? If so, Nancy hoped he wasn’t contagious.

  Orwell had several more questions, but it seemed to Nancy that none of them were very much to the point. One of the last things he asked her about was what kind of footwear the men had worn. She didn’t remember. Cowboy boots? Nancy shrugged. She really had no idea.

  She asked him if he wanted her to go downtown and look through the mug-books, or whatever they were called.

  “Yeah, sure.” He didn’t sound very enthusiastic. “That’s probably a good idea.” He shot his cuff, studied his watch. “Tomorrow afternoon, probably. We’ll give you a call.”

  Monday night, Tyler came home a little after seven. Nancy had cooked fresh string beans and a baked potato and pork ribs with lemon. He asked her how it had gone with the detectives. Nancy surprised herself by breaking into hysterical laughter, which quickly dissolved into a flood of tears.

  Yesterday, Orwell had phoned and invited her down to 312 Main to look over the mug-books. He’d even offered to send a car. Nancy turned him down. The BMW was being repaired at the dealer’s, but she’d driven the Mercedes, with its repulsive HER TOY licence plate.

  She’d spent almost three hours looking at the kind of faces you’d never expect to see commemorated on a postage stamp. None of the rapists or murderers or kidnappers or break-and-enter specialists or child-molesters had looked even remotely familiar.

  Orwell had walked her back to her car, which was parked almost two blocks away, in an uncovered lot on Pender. He’d looked at the vanity plate and frowned, but hadn’t said anything. As she’d unlocked the door he’d given her his card and said, “Lemme know right away if you get a phone call, okay?”

  “Promise,” said Nancy. Orwell was holding the door open, half leaning into the car. His blond hair was cut very short and his scalp was pink from the cold. She had turned the key and the Mercedes’ engine had caught and made a nasty, snarling sound.

  Orwell had smiled, and eased shut the door.

  Nancy had weaved her way through the crowded lot towards the ticket booth. The tab was four dollars and fifty cents. She’d kept the receipt because she knew Tyler would ask her for it. His accountants seemed to find a way to write off just about every penny she spent.

  The detective, Orwell, had asked her if threats had been made or if there had been any sexual… overtures.

  No, she’d said. Had there been a hint, just a tiny little itty bitty bit of regret in her voice? Orwell had looked down at his notebook. Maybe he’d thought she was making a move on him. Wrong. It was the kid she’d been thinking about, not him.

  Sick. Sick, sick, sick.

  Driving home, she’d wondered if she’d have recognized Tyler, her husband, if she’d stumbled across his face in the mug-book.

  Down the hall, in the study, Tyler’s fax machine twittered briefly.

  And she knew damn well what the maintenance man was fishing out of the pool because she’d taken a stroll in the yard after breakfast to replenish the bird feeders.

  Cigarette filters. White ones. Like the kind the kid with the green eyes and thick black hair smoked.

  And one of the lawn chairs had been moved so it faced the bedroom; she could see the scrape marks in the snow. And there’d been a cigarette butt on th
e tiles and three more in a tight little knot by the side of the pool, swirling in the current near one of the outlet vents.

  Four cigarettes. How long did it take to smoke four cigarettes? How long had he been sprawled out in the cold on the lawn chair, watching the house? Before she went to bed at night, especially if Tyler was working late and she was alone, she often stripped naked and went over to the window and looked out at the lights of the ships in the harbour, and the city. It was almost a ritual. Usually she turned off the bedroom lights, but sometimes she didn’t.

  What had he seen?

  And why hadn’t she told Tyler about the chair, the cigarettes?

  Maybe because she knew he’d call the cops again and she didn’t want Detective Spears back in her living room, cataloguing the silverware. Or maybe it was something else.

  She wondered where he was, what he was doing. If he had thought about her, as he had sat in the chair by the pool, the way she was thinking about him now…

  Her pubic hair glistened in the light. She trailed the tips of her fingers languidly down her belly, touched herself the way she wished Tyler would learn to touch her, and allowed herself a small cry of pleasure.

  Chapter 13

  The preliminary report from CLEU as well as Christy Kirkpatrick’s fat autopsy report were waiting for Willows when he got back to 312 Main. There was also a thick pile of pink slips — telephone messages — cluttering his desk. He went through the messages first. He’d had five calls from his real estate agent and three calls from Dr Yang. There were more than a dozen calls from the local radio and television stations, all of which he’d pass on to Constable Fisher, who handled public relations.

  Willows dragged the file from CLEU across his desk, flipped it open.

  The lab hadn’t been able to find any fingerprints or physical evidence of any kind on the ransom note. But the extortionist had made a mistake when he’d sealed the envelope and licked the stamp.

  Willows knew that blood wasn’t the only body fluid that could be typed. About eighty percent of the general population are secretors, individuals who have ABO blood grouping substances present in certain body fluids, such as saliva.