Serious Crimes (A Willows and Parker Mystery)

by Laurence Gough

  “They started at two hundred and fifty, worked their way down.”

  “How far down?”

  “Bottomed out at a hundred grand.”

  Bobby tried to look impressed. It didn’t quite come off.

  The waiter arrived with Bobby’s drink. He tried to sell Willows another pint of beer, and failed.

  “The way I see it,” said Bobby, “when they saw they were going to come up empty, they decided to cut their losses. Dumping him in the pond guaranteed a hell of a lot of publicity. They go after somebody else in the community, the family of whoever gets snatched is going to know they mean business.”

  Willows pulled two twenties and a ten from his wallet. He pushed the money across the table. Bobby Chow snatched it up, stuffed it in his pants pocket.

  “Money for nothing, Bobby. You hear anything, you know how to get in touch.”

  “When the reward goes to fifteen, something might come up.” Willows pushed away from the table, stood up. He put his hand on Bobby’s shoulder, leaned towards him, letting him feel the weight. “I find out you got something and you’re sitting on it, I’ll sit on you, Bobby.”

  “No, I’m clean. Really.”

  Willows leaned a little closer. “Know what I think?”

  Bobby smiled nervously. “No way, never.”

  “I think you figured out a way to mess around with the computer records. I think you bounced some numbers and dates. I think you paid for your new clothes and your fifty-dollar haircut and manicure with the hundred and fifteen grand that was supposed to have gone to Seattle. And you know something else? If I figured it out this fast, your boss isn’t going to be too far behind.”

  Bobby’s shoulders slumped. He put his drink down on the table and covered his face with his hands and began to cry.

  Willows said, “How much you spend?”

  After a moment Bobby wiped his eyes and nose with his red silk tie, got himself under control. “All of it. Close enough, anyway.” He stared into his glass for a moment and then knocked back the rest of the Scotch.

  Willows stood there, waiting for whatever might come next. Bobby pointed at Willows’ beer. He said, “Mind if I finish that, since you’re leaving?”

  Outside, it had begun to snow again. Willows stood by his car, keys in hand, watching the soft white flakes drift slowly down. He thought about how nice it would be if it snowed forever, never stopped, buried the city and everyone in it. Then he unlocked the car and got inside and drove back to whatever was waiting for him at 312 Main.

  Chapter 16

  Billy eased shut the door, turned on the light by the bed. He shrugged out of his black leather jacket and went over to the window and pulled the raggedy curtains. Light from the window illuminated a rectangle of falling snow.

  Billy placed the palm of his hand against the glass, felt the chill.

  He pulled his T-shirt over his head, balled it up and threw it in a corner. No fat on Billy. He unbuckled his belt, played with the zipper of his Levis.

  A gust of wind rattled the window and made the snow jump and swirl.

  He stepped out of the jeans. Now he was naked except for his red bikini shorts. He wondered if she was there, if she was watching.

  Yeah, she was watching, all right.

  He knew she was watching.

  He stepped out of the shorts. They lay at his feet like a crumpled pool of blood.

  He looked down at himself.

  Nothing.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about Nancy Crown.

  It was five minutes past midnight. Probably she’d be in bed by now. Asleep and dreaming. He’d done more than a few B&E’s in his life, and he knew how to case a joint. He was pretty sure he’d figured out where Nancy’s bedroom was — top floor, right. He remembered that the back wall was mirrored.

  He imagined a bed so big it’d take you all morning to climb out of it. Silk sheets, slippery and smooth.

  Five minutes past midnight. Not all that late, really. Was it possible she and her husband were making love? A thunderbolt of rage swept through Billy. His heart pounded in his chest. His body shook. His knees felt weak. He yanked shut the curtains and sat down on the bed and lit a cigarette, sucked the smoke deep into his lungs. He couldn’t stop himself. He kept creating scenarios, situations.

  He pictured Nancy and her fat-ass husband cuddled up on the wall-to-wall in front of the fireplace, maybe having a nightcap, talking about the day and how it went.

  He remembered the way her hair had looked, her eyes and the shape of her mouth.

  He thought about her lying there in that great big bed, her body smooth as silk. Her husband climbing in next to her, reaching out.

  A woman like that, in a house like that. How did it happen? Guy was probably twice her age. Fat, balding.

  He inhaled the sweet memory of her perfume.

  And he tortured himself, thinking about them lying there together between those slippery sheets, the whole goddamn city laid out in front of them on the other side of the plate-glass windows, lights softened by the snow. He knew what it would be like in that big house. Warm, quiet. Peaceful. The carpet soft and thick. Expensive furniture. White-painted walls. A built-in stereo. Everything brand-new, shiny and clean.

  He wanted her. He wanted to teach her all the things she knew nothing about.

  He thought about the way she’d stared at him as he’d tossed her the keys to her shiny black car. Nobody had ever looked at him like that before. So directly. As if she could see right into the heart of him.

  And he knew in his heart that even though she might not admit it, she wanted him just as badly as he wanted her.

  He lit another cigarette, smoked it down to the filter, checked his watch.

  Twenty-three minutes to one.

  He rolled out of bed, slipped on a pair of black jeans and a black sweater, black sneakers. He retrieved the Python from the closet, grabbed his black leather jacket. Made sure he had the keys to the Pinto.

  All he was going to do was check out the neighbourhood. Cruise by the house. See what he could see. If he was in the mood, maybe sit by the pool for a while.

  Or, if the lights were out, he might crack open the sliding glass door and take a quick look inside.

  Chapter 17

  Parker said, “You hear what happened to Farley yesterday?”

  “No, what?”

  “He collapsed at his desk, just after lunch. Stood up clutching his chest, said something nobody caught and then dropped like a stone. Last I heard he was in the emergency ward at St Paul’s.”

  Willows said, “You here when it happened?”

  Parker shook her head. “No, it was about an hour before I got back from Mrs Lee’s. By then, you’d gone home.”

  Willows nodded. After his date with Bobby Chow, he’d spent the afternoon at his local bar, Cullpepper’s. But he wasn’t about to admit it to Parker. He said, “Anybody at the hospital with him?”

  “Inspector Bradley.”

  “Somebody called Farley’s wife, I hope.”

  “Orwell.”

  “Yeah?” Willows rubbed his jaw. “He gave Farley kind of a rough ride yesterday morning. I wonder if that’s what he’s worried about.” Willows opened a desk drawer, slid it shut. “How’d it go with the Lee family?”

  Parker shrugged. “Nothing new. Mrs Lee’s still under sedation. Peter’s due in about ten tonight. He phoned while I was there. Has to make a connecting flight from Seattle.”

  “You talked to him?”

  “Briefly. Apparently he was out of town for the past few days.”

  “On a ski trip,” said Willows. “Nobody could get in touch with him until late yesterday afternoon.”

  “You phoned Boston?”

  “Talked to his roommate. Skiing is Peter’s favourite thing. He’s often gone for three or four days at a time. He usually goes with friends, but not always.”

  Parker said, “He told me he was with friends the weekend his father died.”

  �
�He volunteer the information, or you have to ask him?”

  “I didn’t ask him anything, Jack. I mean, I’m talking to him with his mother and sister standing there, listening to every word.”

  “He give you any names?”

  “Said he’d be glad to provide them when he arrived. Tell me, how was your afternoon of wild debauchery with Bobby Chow?”

  “You should’ve been there.”

  “I doubt it.”

  The telephone rang. Willows picked up. He listened for a moment and then reached for a pen and said, “What’s the address?”

  The pen moved across a piece of scrap paper. Parker peered over his shoulder. 12-1572 Alexander.

  Willows said, “Yeah, ten minutes.” He slammed down the telephone.

  “What?” said Parker.

  Willows grabbed his leather jacket from the back of his chair. “A guy named Tod Kidner rented some space in a warehouse on Alexander. Month to month. The owner’s name is Chang. When he dropped by to pick up the rent nobody answered the door. So he unlocked it and walked in.”

  Parker followed Willows as he walked briskly down the beige-carpeted hall towards the elevator. A couple of uniformed patrolmen strolled past. One of them winked at Parker. She ignored him. Willows hit the button with his thumb. The elevator droned towards them. The doors slid open and they stepped inside. In the harsh glare of the fluorescents, Willows’ skin was taut and pale.

  “This guy Kidner said he needed the warehouse for some short-term storage space for a shipment of mountain bikes he was importing from Taiwan. The end of the month rolled around. Kidner hadn’t been in touch and the rent was due. When Chang went in, the first thing he saw was a wooden chair, some rope, and a pile of clothes.”

  The elevator stopped and the doors slid open. They hurried across the slush-filled lane, chunks of rock salt grating under their feet.

  “Then he took a closer look,” Willows continued, “and saw a car battery stuck under the chair, electrical wires and alligator clips, a pool of dried blood.”

  “And dialled nine-eleven.”

  “That’s right,” said Willows, “and by now I’ll bet he wishes he hadn’t.”

  *

  William Chang’s silver Mercedes was parked in a tow-away zone at the far end of the block from the warehouse. Willows tapped the unmarked Ford’s horn as he pulled in behind him. Chang’s head came up. He stared into his rear-view mirror as Willows and Parker got out of the car.

  Chang was clearly a very nervous man. He’d rolled up the Mercedes’ windows and locked all four doors. The cellular phone he’d used to dial 911 was in his lap.

  Willows flashed his tin. Chang hit a button and his window slid down.

  Willows introduced himself and Parker. He said, “Has anybody approached the warehouse since you called, Mr Chang?”

  “No one.” Chang glanced nervously up and down the street. “You are alone?”

  “We have units stationed at both ends of the block. You can’t see them, but they’re there.”

  “May I go now?”

  “Did you lock the warehouse when you left?”

  “No, the door is open.”

  “And you’re sure no one was hiding inside?”

  “Impossible. It’s a large room, but empty. Only four walls, nothing more.”

  “One moment, please.”

  Willows used the Ford’s radio to call in the squad cars. He told a cop named Frank Wainwright to accompany Chang back to 312 Main and keep him happy until he and Parker got back. Wainwright said, “Jeez, how long is that gonna take?”

  “It’s going to take as long as it takes, Frank.”

  “What if he decides to take a walk?”

  “Remind him that he’s a material witness in a murder case, and tell him, politely, all about the penalty for obstruction of justice.”

  The warehouse was big, three stories high. Peeling gray paint on clapboard. Plastic sheeting stapled over the windows. The low wooden steps had the consistency of cheese beneath their feet. Chang had left the door open, but there was no need for him to worry about the utility bill because the building was unheated.

  Directly above the plain wooden chair in which Kenny Lee had died, a naked bulb hung from a beam, casting the chair in a pool of jaundiced yellow light.

  Willows squatted down on his haunches. The battery had a Sears label. The punch-out adhesive guarantee strip indicated the battery had been bought during the previous month — December. The electrical wires were ordinary jumper cables. A car radio and a pair of cheap speakers stood on a small wooden box a few feet behind the chair. Small-gauge wires led from the radio to the battery, but weren’t connected.

  In the yellow light, the pools and scattered drops of dried blood looked like shiny blobs of black wax.

  There was more blood on the sprung copper clamps of the jumper cables, and what looked on first examination like bits of flesh.

  Willows said, “We’re going to need a photographer. Dutton, if he’s available. Lights. Forensics. Enough men to canvass and search the area.”

  Parker started towards the door. Willows said, “And get me a flashlight, will you?”

  Kenny Lee’s clothes were in a pile in the far corner of the warehouse. On the day he was snatched he’d been wearing a dark blue London Fog raincoat, a pair of black dress shoes, a gray off-the-rack suit with a Woodward’s label, a white short-sleeved shirt, dark blue socks and pale blue boxer shorts. Everything was there. A uniform held the flashlight steady while Willows methodically tagged and marked and wrapped each article of clothing in a separate paper bag for shipment to the lab. Everything was carefully examined for visible trace evidence. He found several long black hairs on the shoulders of Lee’s coat. These were placed in an evidence envelope to avoid the possibility of loss during transit. He heard footsteps and looked up to see Bradley hurrying towards him.

  “Whatcha got?”

  “Too soon to say, Inspector.”

  Bradley glanced at the cop, who needed a haircut. The cop cleared his throat. “I should get back to my unit. Want me to leave the flash?”

  “Yeah, thanks.” Willows took the flashlight, stood up. The cop marched briskly towards the door and then stepped aside to let Parker and Dutton and the forensics team enter the building.

  Bradley said, “The parties I hate the most is where everybody shows up at once.” He stuck a cigar in his mouth, fished a match out of his pocket. Willows gave him a look. Don't mess up my crime scene. Bradley scowled and put the match away.

  Willows said, “How’s Farley?”

  “If he was a horse, I wouldn’t bet on him.” Bradley rubbed his leather-gloved hands together. “Why couldn’t the perp have tied Lee up in a suite at the Hilton? God, but it’s cold in here.”

  Parker helped set up the lights. Mel Dutton shot three rolls of film. A scene-of-crime cop named Julian Walsh fingerprinted every available surface. The whine of a vacuum cleaner echoed off the bare wooden walls and high, shadowy ceiling. The dried blood was scraped off the floor and emptied into glassine evidence envelopes. A wooden tongue depressor was used to clean the bits of flesh off the clamp and into another evidence bag.

  Willows found the plastic bucket that had served Kenny Lee as a toilet in a corner beneath a scrap of rotting canvas tarpaulin. It would explain why Lee’s ankles had been untied, how he’d been able to assume the lotus position before he died.

  Walsh said, “You want me to bother dusting this? I mean, would you touch it if you weren’t wearing gloves?”

  “I wouldn’t touch it even if I was wearing gloves,” said his partner.

  Parker said, “Just be glad it isn’t the middle of August, Julian.”

  “Twenty pounds of frozen shit. Who do I know that’s having a birthday?”

  Willows touched the jumper cables together. There was a loud crack and a shower of sparks.

  Julian, hunched over the bucket with his brush and powder, got a laugh when he yelled, “Knock it off, Jack! Christ, I a
lmost dived in!”

  Willows attached the wires from the car radio to the battery terminals. Cops moved in and out of the lights, black distorted shadows dancing across the walls. An old Hank Snow tune flowed from the speakers and a voice from the darkness said, “Mood music for horses. Ain’t that sweet.” Willows didn’t bother to look up. The radio was tuned to 1420FM, a local country and western station.

  The radio had a shiny black facing. The casing was sheet metal. There were traces of white fingerprint powder on the dials, black on the metal, but no visible prints. Willows picked the radio up and turned it over. A tiny jagged chunk of brown plastic clung to a mounting screw.

  Parker knelt beside Willows. “What’ve you got?”

  Willows pointed at the piece of plastic. “This look to you like it might’ve been ripped out of a car?”

  “Theft from auto,” said Parker. “What brand is it?”

  Willows turned the radio right side up. “Kenwood.”

  Parker considered the stats. On average, there were about fifty reported cases of theft from auto per day. Not all of the calls involved stolen tape decks. Call it thirty a day. That worked out to roughly nine hundred a month. What percentage would be Kenwood products? How far back would they have to go to find the owner of this particular radio, and where was the information likely to lead?

  Willows wrapped the trailing wires around the radio and put it in a large brown paper bag.

  Julian Walsh snapped shut his aluminium briefcase. He glanced at Willows and shrugged. “Nothing. Take your choice — either the perp wore gloves or he didn’t have any fingers.”

  “Thanks, Julian.”

  “For nothing. What’s the word on Spears?”

  “All I know is he might’ve had a heart attack and that they took him to emergency.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Early fifties, somewhere in there.”

  Walsh nodded. He’d celebrated his forty-ninth three weeks ago. The vacuum bag was sealed in a larger plastic bag. Forensics would pore over the contents with a magnifying glass. There were gaps between the floorboards. Maybe they’d come up with something.