Serious Crimes (A Willows and Parker Mystery)

by Laurence Gough

  In the sudden wash of light, he saw Billy standing about twenty feet away, the big canvas bags of money in his left hand, the Python in his right hand aimed at a fat guy in a black raincoat trying to hide behind a case of beer.

  Garret leaned on the horn. Billy turned to stare at him, his face white, blank.

  Garret put the Caddy in gear. It was hard to think straight. There were people screaming, running around all over the place. So much noise. He hit the gas and the car jumped forward. Do the kid now, or do him later? Billy fired at a guy who was down on his knees in front of the liquor store. A bolt of dirty orange lightning stabbed from the Python’s barrel. Garret slammed on the brakes and leaned over and opened the door.

  “Get in the fuckin’ car, Billy!”

  Billy laughed. His mouth was all teeth. He yelled, “It ain’t over until the fat man stops singing!” and popped another cap. Garret leaned out, one hand on the wheel. He grabbed a moneybag and pulled hard. Billy followed the bag into the car. Garret punched it. The Caddy leapt forward.

  The armoured car driver’s face was right up against the heavily-tinted glass. If he left the safety of the car, chances were fairly good that he’d be shot at and excellent that he’d lose his job.

  But his two buddies were down, and the way they’d dropped, he was pretty sure they weren’t going to collect their pensions, body armour or not.

  He swung the passenger-side door open an inch, and waited. The black Caddy sped towards him. He took one last sweeping look at his field of fire. The parking lot was deserted. If there was anyone out there, they were staying low. All the noise and action was behind him, outside the liquor store and Safeway.

  The Caddy was going to pass within ten feet of him, heading towards the Maple Street exit. He checked the shotgun’s safety and then the Caddy was right there and it was time to kick the heavy door open and blast away. One two three. The barrel jumped. He was deafened by the explosions and blinded by the muzzle blast.

  The Caddy shot past, trailing a spoor of glass and chrome trim on the asphalt. The gleaming black car accelerated across Maple and the 7-Eleven’s parking lot and buried itself in the building’s cinder-block wall.

  The driver climbed stiffly out of the armoured car. He ached all over, was exhausted, felt as if he’d just finished a hundred-mile run.

  He forced himself to walk around to the rear of the car. His buddies had both taken head shots. There were still three bags of money piled on the dolly, splattered with blood and fragments of bone and bits of human flesh. You’d have to be fucking Bela Lugosi to make a grab for that kind of loot.

  Even so…

  He picked up the dolly and tossed it inside the armoured car, locked the door.

  Then he reloaded his weapon and began to walk slowly and purposefully towards the smoking wreckage of the Cadillac.

  Chapter 23

  There were five mug shots. Beverly stared at the one in the middle. “No, not that one.”

  Willows said, “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Good, because he’s a cop.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.”

  Beverly said, “You’d never guess. What about this one?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I think he’s the one. In fact, I’m positive.”

  Willows turned the photograph over. He handed her a pen. “Would you mind signing the back, please.”

  “Yeah, sure. How’d I do?”

  “Not bad,” said Parker. “Not bad at all.”

  “When a guy stands you up, it makes it kind of hard to forget him. I mean, it’s such an unusual thing.”

  Willows said, “Yeah, I’m sure it is.”

  “Not that I wanted to go out with him all that much in the first place.” She smiled warmly at Willows. “The fact is, I generally prefer older men.”

  *

  Parker said, “I think she kind of liked you.”

  Willows signalled, turned on to Thirty-third. “What makes you say that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the way she kept pulling at her sweater. Or didn’t you notice?”

  Willows smiled. “Oh, I noticed, all right.” He drove slowly down the block, parked the unmarked Ford in front of the Lee house.

  The street was silent, empty except for a covey of starlings that chopped at the frozen grass further down the boulevard. Chunky granules of rock salt lay on the curving pink sidewalk leading to Lee’s house. They climbed the steps and Willows rang the bell. The rapidly darkening sky was the colour of brushed aluminium; a flawless, silvery gray. Parker watched the starlings swagger back and forth across the distant lawn. After a moment she said, “Maybe nobody’s home.”

  Willows nodded, pushed the bell again. He turned as the door swung open without warning. Melinda Lee stared up at him as if she’d never seen him before.

  Parker said, “We’d like to talk to your brother for a moment, if he’s home.”

  “No, he’s out. I don’t know where.”

  Willows said, “It wasn’t important.” He slipped a photograph from his coat pocket. “Have you ever seen this man?” Melinda Lee stared at Garret’s smirking face.

  Parker said, “We believe he may have been involved in your father’s murder. Tell us, Melinda, have you ever seen him before?”

  The child nodded. Her eyes filled with tears.

  Parker said, “When?”

  “During Christmas vacation.”

  “Your brother didn’t come home for Christmas, did he?”

  “No.” She pointed at the mug shot. “That man, did he kill my father?”

  “It’s a possibility. We think…” Parker glanced at Willows. “Tell me, where did you see him? What were the circumstances?”

  “He was in a car, a shiny red car. Mother had sent me to the store. He drove along beside me, very close to the sidewalk. He was wearing a cowboy hat. He took it off and waved it at me, asked me if I wanted a ride…”

  “Was he alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ever see him again?”

  “No, never.”

  Willows showed her a second photograph — a mug shot of Billy. “What about him?”

  Melinda shook her head.

  “This one is Billy. The other one’s name is Garret. A couple of cowboys. The best of friends.”

  “No, I don’t know him.”

  Willows said, “Okay, fine. It doesn’t matter.” He put the photographs back in his pocket.

  Melinda Lee said, “I’ll tell Peter you wanted to talk to him.”

  “It’s okay,” said Willows. “Don’t worry, it wasn’t important.”

  Back in the car, Parker said, “Now what?”

  “We wait.” Willows started the Ford, drove to the far end of the block, made a U-turn, and parked behind a snow-covered van.

  Parker said, “That poor kid.”

  “Nothing we can do about it.”

  Parker said, “Yeah, I know. That’s what bothers me.”

  At ten seventeen, almost six hours after they’d set up the stakeout, Peter Lee strolled down the street and entered the house.

  Parker called in a request for a backup, two cars. Willows stretched, easing out the kinks. They waited another five long minutes for the black and whites. Willows got out of the Ford and talked to the uniforms. He gave them Lee’s description and told them he wanted one car stationed at each end of the block. They checked to make sure the walkie-talkies were working. Willows climbed back into the Ford and drove down the block. He gave the squad cars a few minutes to get into position and then he and Parker got out of the car.

  Mrs Lee answered the door. Her eyes widened in surprise. Parker said, “We’d like to talk to Peter, Mrs Lee.”

  The woman nodded, and stepped aside. Willows and Parker entered the house.

  “He’s in the bathroom. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  “Thank you.” The two detectives followed her down a carpeted hall. She knocked softly on
a cream-painted door. “Peter?”

  Willows unbuttoned his coat.

  Mrs Lee tried the door. It was locked.

  Willows stepped past her and hit the door with his fist. The woman gave him a frightened look.

  Parker said, “Is there a key?”

  “No, the lock is on the inside.”

  Parker took Mrs Lee by the arm and guided her to one side, out of the way.

  Willows kicked hard, the heel of his shoe slamming into the door just below the lock. The door buckled, but held. He braced himself and lashed out again, putting all his weight behind the blow. The door crashed inward, knocked over a chair.

  There was water running in the sink, but the room was empty.

  Willows checked the window. It was shut tight, but wasn’t locked. The backyard was a barren patch of snowy lawn. At the rear, there was a two-car garage.

  “Where’s the door to the backyard?”

  “This way.”

  Mrs Lee led them into the kitchen. Willows said, “Stay in the house. Keep away from the window.” Mrs Lee began to cry. She turned her back on him. Willows pushed open the door. He and Parker hurried down the porch steps. The garage’s side door was shut. A single small window faced the house, but the glass was dark.

  Willows trotted across the grass to a fence made of vertical cedar boards with a lattice top. The fence was six feet high — the maximum height allowed in the city. Willows swung open the gate. The wide metal door that provided access to the garage from the lane was shut tight. Willows went back into the yard, around to the window. He pressed his face against the dusty glass and saw the dim shapes of two cars; a BMW and a Buick station wagon. The wagon was parked at an odd angle, the front end of the car tight against the side wall of the garage.

  Parker said, “The car there?”

  Willows nodded. He scrubbed at the glass with the palm of his hand.

  “Think he’s inside?”

  Willows put his ear to the window and heard a faint rumbling; the sound of a car motor. He drew his revolver — a snubnose Smith & Wesson. “He’s in there, all right.”

  They hurried back through the gate. Parker snapped open her purse and drew her .38, moved twenty feet down the alley to the far side of the garage. There was no way of knowing which car Peter was in, or which way he’d turn when he came out of the garage. Willows pounded on the metal garage door. He holstered his gun and grabbed a handle in the door and yanked hard. It didn’t move an inch.

  Parker looked at him. “He isn’t coming out, is he? Christ!”

  They ran back into the yard. Willows’ foot slammed repeatedly into the door. Wood splintered but the door held.

  Willows remembered the station wagon, the way it was parked at an odd angle. He turned to Parker. “We’re going to need an ambulance, Claire.”

  Parker pressed the transmit button on the walkie-talkie. The red battery light flickered and died. She dropped her gun in her purse and sprinted across the melting snow towards the house.

  Willows stripped off his coat and wrapped it around his fist. The window was a single pane of glass in an aluminium frame. He shielded his eyes with his left arm and punched at the glass. It cracked and he punched it again. This time it shattered. The sharp stench of carbon monoxide filled his nostrils. His coat was in shreds.

  It seemed to take forever to clear the jagged shards of glass away from the frame. He gripped the windowsill, got a leg up. His shoe scraped against stucco. A sliver of glass stabbed into his shoulder. He lost his balance and fell, rolled off the hood of the wagon and landed on his hands and knees on oil-stained cement. The foul and poisonous air burned in his lungs, brought tears to his eyes. The engines of both cars were racing, spewing out carbon monoxide. The boy must have used something to hold down the gas pedals. The station wagon was empty. He yanked at the door but it was locked. The BMW’s windows were tinted, and in the fog of exhaust fumes he couldn’t see inside. He tried the door. Locked. He leaned back against the flank of the wagon, kicked out. The side window exploded. He unlocked the door. Peter Lee was slumped behind the wheel. Willows grabbed his arm and pulled.

  Lee had fastened his seatbelt. Willows fumbled with the buckle, got it free and dragged Lee’s body across the seat, out of the car. He pulled the boy’s limp body towards the rear of the garage, tripped and fell, crawled forward until his head banged into a wall.

  Yelling. Somebody was yelling at him.

  Claire.

  Her voice seemed very far away.

  He struggled to regain his feet. His groping hands found a smooth surface. The wall. He shuffled sideways. His fingers hit a switch and slid away. He couldn’t stop coughing. His throat was tight, his eyes streaming with tears. His lungs were burning and he’d lost all sense of direction. His hands fluttered across the wall. The tips of his wide-spread fingers bumped into the switch. He pushed up. The switch didn’t move. He felt the last of his strength draining out of him. The sensation was incredibly physical. It was as if his will to live was a crystal clear liquid, and his body had been breached and it was all pouring out of him, his life was draining out of him… fading.

  The switch must have been installed incorrectly. The wiring… He pushed down instead of up.

  There was a dull grinding as the electric motor began to reel in chain. After a moment, the door began to lift slowly from the ground.

  A flock of starlings swirled like a ragged black cloud through Willows’ oxygen-starved brain. He managed a single ponderous step towards the light, and then collapsed.

  Parker caught him, held him upright. The garage door continued to inch upward. Willows had a death grip on Peter Lee’s body. They fell into the lane.

  Chapter 24

  Garret hadn’t bothered to fasten his seatbelt, and neither had Billy. There was no time to react. Like synchronized would-be suicides, their helpless bodies tried to take a header through the fractured windshield and into the wreck of the store. But the Cadillac was equipped with all the options, including the latest in protective devices, the airbag. The windshield rushed at Billy and then the bag blossomed in front of him like a great big pillow, swallowed him up and saved his life. The bag was charged by a pressure cartridge. It had been designed to expand in only a few thousandths of a second, and then begin to collapse almost immediately, allowing the occupants of the car to escape.

  The airbags functioned perfectly, but something was wrong with Garret; he wasn’t moving. Billy yelled at him again, and then saw that a shotgun blast had ripped a chunk out of the top of the bench seat, messed up Garret’s left shoulder pretty bad.

  Billy wriggled and squirmed, struggled to escape the soft, pillow-like clutches of the bag. He managed to get his door open, fell out of the car. The Colt lay on the asphalt. He snatched at it. His ears were ringing. Somebody in a uniform ran towards him. He snapped off three or four shots — under such trying circumstances, it was impossible to keep an accurate count.

  The uniform went down, cut a groove through the slush and lay still.

  Billy got his feet under him. The Caddy had knocked a pretty fair-sized hole in the wall of the 7-Eleven. There was room enough to walk inside. The interior of the store was a shambles. The big floor-to-ceiling glass display cases of milk and fruit juices and soft drinks had tumbled. Must be a million cans of Coke in there, and he was as thirsty as he’d ever been. He squeezed off another shot, not aiming at anything in particular. The bullet hit a gas pump. An old man who’d been tanking up his car was startled into dropping the hose. Premium gasoline splattered across the car’s exhaust pipe, burst into flames. Billy stepped gingerly over a concrete building block, reached past the crumpled fender of the Caddy and grabbed an ice-cold can of Diet Coke.

  The burning car’s gas tank exploded. A jagged piece of shrapnel whizzed through the air and buried itself in the shaggy flank of a Collie tethered to a bike rack next to the front door of the 7-Eleven. The dog bared its fangs and started screaming. Billy had never heard such a nerve-racking sound. So
human.

  Enough was enough.

  He started running.

  Billy ran in a straight line, following his nose. He hurdled the sprawled-out body lying belly-up in a pool of blood in the middle of Maple Street, stumbled on the curb and bounced off the wall of the liquor store. The impact jolted him hard enough to start him thinking again. He glanced over his shoulder. The car and pumps in front of the 7-Eleven were on fire, bright flames shooting fifty feet into the air. The Caddy’s brake lights glowed red and the horn blared endlessly, like a warning that had come far too late. Garret’s slumped form was backlit in orange and red. He seemed to have lost interest in the situation, but Billy supposed that was fair enough, given his condition.

  Billy sprinted up Maple to Tenth Avenue, turned right. He jogged past an armoury, neatly parked rows of military vehicles. Across the railway tracks. Traffic on Arbutus was thick, and moving fast. Billy kept going. He heard the shriek of brakes, another horn. He didn’t slow down.

  The Pinto was right where he’d left it. He tossed the Python on the front seat and fumbled in his pockets for the keys, then remembered he’d hidden them under the seat.

  He found the keys and started the car. The exhaust belched black smoke. Behind him, there was a lurid orange glow in the sky, a flickering light that jaundiced the low-hanging cloud. He could still hear the screaming of the wounded dog. No, sirens. A screaming that filled his head and made it impossible to think clearly. He put the Pinto in gear and floored it and drove straight into the rear end of a Ford pickup. The Pinto’s headlights shattered and died.

  Driving blind, Billy headed for the big house on Point Grey Road.

  *

  Nancy wanted to go to a movie, but Tyler wasn’t in the mood. She cleaned up the kitchen and dining room while he read the evening paper, then shrugged into her coat and drove the BMW up to Broadway and rented a video — a French detective film called Chou Pantin. She hung her coat in the hall closet and paid a quick visit to the wine cellar in the basement, chose a dusty bottle of Napa Brothers Beaujolais. Maybe a little red wine would start the blood moving through her husband’s veins.