“The caller was a woman. She told us the person who killed the man in the Dells was a biker-type riding a Harley-Davidson Sportster, smallish, with long greyblond hair, and that he was probably shacked up with Marty Elias.”
“Did she give you Joey’s name?”
“We already had his name from his prints, but yes. Good call. It indicates she may have been acquainted with Noseworthy, but wasn’t necessarily a witness to the crime itself.”
“It could also mean someone is trying to fit him up or misdirect the investigation.”
“All anonymous tips are suspect,” Lewis reminded him. “Anyway, we put eyes on Elias’s place last night, but she took Noseworthy’s Harley to work this morning and they followed her. It wasn’t until she got off the bike at her work that they realized their mistake.”
Not all luck, Shoe also knew, was the good kind.
“Then a truck delivering beer to the restaurant on the ground floor of Elias’s apartment building backed into the new team’s vehicle. They got into a bit of a ruckus with the driver and Noseworthy must’ve made them. When we executed our warrant and got the building manager to let us into Elias’s apartment, he was gone.”
Sometimes, Shoe thought, the universe unfolded according to Murphy’s Law, rather than Newton’s.
“He didn’t jump out a window in his underwear, but he left without his saddle packs or camping gear. We didn’t find his wallet, or any money, so he’s not without resources. We did find a book about birds, written and autographed by Marvin Cartwright, and a small travelling chess set with Cartwright’s name engraved on the case.”
“Joey’s fingerprints in Cartwright’s car and a book and chess set that apparently belonged to Cartwright aren’t enough to get a conviction,” Shoe said. “All they prove is that Cartwright and Joey were acquainted.”
“Maybe we’ll find traces of blood on his clothing,” Lewis said. “Elias did his laundry, but a normal washing doesn’t necessarily remove all traces of blood. Could screw up DNA, but it’ll take a few days before the crime lab can get back to us with results. In the meantime, he’s in the wind, possibly armed and dangerous.”
The idea that Joey Noseworthy could be considered armed and dangerous seemed ludicrous to Shoe, until he remembered what he’d told his sister about people changing, sometimes in unexpected ways.
chapter twenty-two
Marty’s interview was conducted in a small, windowless room that smelled of powerful disinfectant that did not mask the rank, flat stink of the accumulated human misery to which the room had borne witness. Shoe hadn’t been in a police interview room in almost thirty years, and then they had been the domain of detectives, not wet-behind-the-ears uniformed constables. With the exception of the no smoking signs and the video camera, which evidently had replaced the traditional mirrored observation window, they hadn’t changed appreciably.
Marty and Shoe sat on straight-backed grey steel chairs across a scarred grey steel table from Detective Sergeant Hannah Lewis and Detective Constable Paul Timmons. Timmons chewed vigorously on a stick of nicotine gum that made his breath smell like rotting sawdust. Lewis had removed her contact lenses and donned glasses with rectangular black plastic frames that did little to soften the angularity of her face. She had made it clear to Shoe that he was there strictly as a courtesy. He was to observe only. Interfere and he was out; Marty would be on her own.
Lewis started off easy. “Do you know where Noseworthy was before he got to your place?” she asked.
“A bar?” Marty said, voice full of mockery.
“Which bar?” Lewis said evenly.
“I don’t know.”
“Does he have a regular hangout?”
“I don’t know.”
“When he arrived at your apartment, did he seem particularly agitated or nervous, upset about anything?”
“No,” Marty said. “He was drunk.”
“What kind of drunk is he? Is he a mean drunk?”
“No.”
“He’s got a temper, though.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Is it worse when he’s drunk?”
“Not especially.”
“Would you say he’s a happy drunk then?”
Marty shook her head. “He gets a little sappy sometimes when he drinks, I guess, but mostly he just talks a lot. He’s not very careful about what he says, either. Like, if he thinks someone’s an asshole … ” She shrugged.
Lewis made a note on the pad in front of her. “Tell me about his movements between his arrival at your apartment Friday morning and when you left for work this morning.”
“I don’t know if he had any.”
Lewis’s expression didn’t change. Timmons grunted. It was an old joke. They’d both seen it coming. So had Shoe.
Marty shrugged. “I work half days on Fridays,” she said. “When my boss lets me. Joey was still asleep on my couch when I got home.”
“What time was that?”
“About one. He got up about two, I guess. We hung out at my place till five, got something to eat, then went to the show.”
“A movie?” Lewis asked. It had been years since Shoe had heard going to a movie theatre referred to as “going to the show.”
“Yeah,” Marty said. “At Yorkdale. After the show, we had a few drinks before going back to my place. Joey had some more to drink and fell asleep around midnight. He was still asleep when I left for work this morning.”
“Where did you have these drinks?”
“At a bar on Bathurst, near Lawrence. I don’t remember the name, but they have live country music.”
“Could it have been where he was drinking on Thursday night?”
“I don’t think he’d been there before.”
Lewis took off her glasses, put them down on the table, then massaged her temples. Shoe had the feeling the questions were going to get a little more difficult. Lewis put her glasses back on.
“You lied to us about the time Joey got to your place Friday morning. Why?”
“I dunno,” Marty replied with a shrug. “You’re cops?”
“Or perhaps you lied because you knew Noseworthy needed an alibi.”
“Yeah, well, he does, doesn’t he?”
Lewis’s expression conceded the point. “Why did you take his Harley to work this morning?”
“My bike isn’t running too good,” Marty said. “Joey was supposed to look at it while he was here.”
“Whose idea was it that you take the Harley? His or yours?”
“Like I said, he was still asleep when I left. I took it because he lets me use it when he’s in town.”
“You and Noseworthy are close to the same size, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yeah, I guess. He’s not big and I’m not small. So?”
“In leathers and a helmet, you could easily pass for him from a distance. Are you sure you didn’t take the Harley because you knew the police would follow you, giving him a chance to escape?”
“Why would I do that?” Marty said. “I didn’t know you were watching him. Anyway, they’d’ve probably followed my bike, too, if they didn’t know I owned one.”
“As it happens, you’re probably right,” Lewis said. “We didn’t know you owned a motorcycle.”
Score another one for Marty, Shoe thought. At least she had the good grace not to smirk.
“Where’s Noseworthy’s bike now?” Lewis asked.
“At the store where I work, in the loading bay. My boss made me park it there so no one could see it. He doesn’t like motorcycles.”
“We’ll need to impound it.”
Marty dug into the pocket of her jeans and took out a set of keys on a rabbit’s foot keychain. She removed one key from the ring and put it on the table. Neither Lewis nor Timmons made any move to touch it.
“What are the other keys for?” Lewis asked.
“These are my keys,” Marty said. She held them up, one at a time. “This one’s for my bike, this one’s for the garage
in my apartment building, this one’s for my mailbox, this one’s for my apartment, these are for work.”
“Okay,” Lewis said.
Marty returned her keys to her pocket.
“Where were you on Thursday evening?” Lewis asked.
Marty nodded, as though she’d been waiting for the question. “I worked till nine-thirty, locked up, then went home. I watched TV till eleven-thirty, then went to bed. And, yeah, I was alone, till Joey got there.”
“Can anyone verify you were home between ten o’clock Thursday evening and one o’clock Friday morning? A friend or neighbour?”
“No, I guess not.”
“When was the last time you saw Marvin Cartwright?”
“I haven’t seen him in, like, thirty-five years, since he moved away.”
“The last time you saw him, was that when he molested you in the woods?”
“No,” Marty said, spots of colour rising on her cheeks. “It wasn’t him.”
“Who was it?”
“I don’t know. I never saw his face. Someone just tried to grab me and I ran. I know it wasn’t Mr. Cartwright. He — he wasn’t like that.” She stood, chair scraping across the floor. “I’m not going to answer any more questions.”
“I’m sorry, Marty,” Lewis said. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Please, sit down. Would you like some water? Paul, get Miss Elias some water.”
“I don’t want any water. I want to leave.”
“Soon. Just a couple more questions. Sit down. Please.”
Lewis looked at Shoe and nodded almost imperceptibly. Shoe stood. He put his hand on her arm.
“Sit down, Marty,” he said. “Just answer the questions.”
“I didn’t kill Mr. Cartwright, if that’s what they’re thinking. And neither did Joey.” She slumped into the chair.
“Do you know where Joey might go?” Lewis asked, as Shoe sat down beside Marty again.
“No,” Marty said.
“Besides yourself and Mr. Schumacher, does he have any friends he might go to for help?”
“Well, there’s Rachel,” Marty said. “But she told me she hasn’t seen him in a long time. And Janey Hallam maybe.”
“Janey Hallam,” Lewis said, flipping back the pages of her notebook. “She was acquainted with Mr. Cartwright, wasn’t she?”
“If you mean, did she know him, sure, everyone in the neighbourhood knew him. She wasn’t friends with him, though, not like me and Rachel.”
“I see. Anyone else?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Does he hang with any other bikers?”
“I don’t know what he does when he’s here. He never stays long. Usually just a couple of days.”
Lewis thrust her fingers under her glasses and rubbed her eyes. She settled her glasses, then said, “Does he own a gun?”
Shoe wasn’t surprised by the question, but Marty was. “A gun? No, of course not. Why would he have a gun?”
“For protection, perhaps. He lives pretty rough, doesn’t he?”
“He travels around a lot, but what would he need a gun for? He works straight jobs. He’s not a criminal.”
“So you’ve never seen him with a gun?”
“No,” Marty said firmly.
Lewis made a note, then said, “All right, that should do it for now. If you think of anything, give us a call. Okay?” She handed Marty a business card.
“Sure,” Marty said. She didn’t seem very sure, Shoe thought.
“If we have any more questions, we’ll be in touch.”
Timmons was the first to stand, perhaps desperate for a cigarette, Shoe thought, but he held the interview room door for Marty, Lewis, and him. Lewis escorted Marty and Shoe to the reception area, where she turned to Marty.
“I appreciate your help, Marty. And if Joey should happen to contact you, tell him the best thing for him would be to turn himself in.”
“Yeah,” Marty said. “Sure.”
“I’d like a word with Mr. Schumacher,” Lewis said. “Would you mind waiting? It won’t take a minute.”
“I’ll be outside,” Marty said to Shoe.
“She’s hiding something,” Lewis said, when Marty had left the building.
Shoe thought Lewis was probably right. Whatever Marty was hiding, though, it was obvious she didn’t wholeheartedly believe Joey hadn’t killed Marvin Cartwright, but despite her doubts, she would do the absolute minimum to help the police. But that wasn’t what Lewis wanted to talk to him about.
She took off her glasses and massaged her eyes with the tips of her fingers. “Bloody contacts,” she said. “I’m never going to get used to the damned things.”
Shoe waited. She’d get to it sooner or later.
“About what we were talking about in the car,” she began tentatively.
“Yes?”
“I spoke to Ron yesterday,” she said. “I told him I’d seen you. He said to say hello. Do you ever think about getting back in touch with him?”
“I’ve thought about it,” Shoe said.
“You should,” she said. “He … wonders how things turned out for you.”
“Maybe I will.”
She handed him a card. “Those are his particulars, home and work.”
He looked at the card, then slipped it into his shirt pocket. “Is there something else?”
She looked up at him, violet eyes steady. “I appreciate your help with Marty,” she said.
“But …?”
“You won’t forget you’re still a civilian, will you?”
“Certainly not,” he said.
chapter twenty-three
“Is there something going on between you and Sergeant Lewis?” Marty asked as Shoe drove out of the 31 Division parking lot and turned south toward Finch. “You act like you know each other.”
“I knew her a long time ago,” Shoe replied. “When I was a cop, she was my partner’s kid sister. But, no, there’s nothing going on between us.” Marty looked skeptical. “Where would you like me to take you?” Shoe asked.
“Home, I guess,” she said.
“Where do you live?”
She told him, and gave him directions, which he didn’t need. There was much about the city he’d forgotten, but much he remembered.
“Rae invited me to a barbecue at your folks’ place tonight,” Marty said.
“You’re coming, I hope. I’m sure you and Rachel have a lot of catching up to do.”
“Yeah, it’d be great,” she said. “But, well, there’s something else I gotta do.” She fluffed her raggedly cut hair with her fingers. “It sure is hot. Does this car have air conditioning?”
“It might,” Shoe said. He took his eyes off the road for a moment and looked at the dashboard controls. “Maybe you can figure it out.”
She played with the controls, then said, “Guess not.”
She shrugged out of her shirt. Under it, she was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt. She had a blue spiderweb tattoo on the back of her left shoulder and a band of barbed wire encircling her right upper arm. They looked like jailhouse tattoos. Had Marty, like Joey, done time? Shoe wondered.
“That other detective,” she said. “The fat one? He told me they searched my place and took all of Joey’s clothes and stuff. Mr. Cartwright was beaten to death with a tree branch or something, right? On television, when someone beats someone else to death like that, they have blood on them. Joey didn’t have any blood on him when he got to my place. His clothes stank, so I threw them into the washer before I left for work the next morning. I’d’ve noticed blood.”
“He might watch television, too. He could have changed before he got to your place, ditched his clothes somewhere.”
“Yeah, I guess he could’ve done that, but when he got to my place he was so drunk he could barely get undressed by himself. Besides, he didn’t act like he’d killed someone. We spent most of Friday afternoon together. Friday night too. I’d’ve known if he’d killed someone. He likes to think he’s tough, but he
isn’t. Not that kind of tough. Not the kind of tough it takes to kill someone and not show it.”
What kind of tough was that? Shoe wondered. “People can fool you sometimes, Marty.”
She sighed. “Yeah, I guess.”
“When Sergeant Lewis asked you if Joey had any other friends he might go to for help, you mentioned Janey Hallam.”
“He used to stay with her sometimes, he told me, before she had to move into in her folks’ old house. Dougie and Joey don’t get along, which isn’t news to you, I suppose. You seem surprised that Joey and Janey are friends. The three of you were pretty tight, weren’t you, back when we were all kids?”
“Joey and I were friends, and Janey and I were friends, but Joey and Janey fought like cats and dogs from the day they met.”
“Maybe they fought because they liked each other. Kids do that, you know?”
Shoe laughed. Marty looked hurt. Shoe said, “I’m not laughing at you, Marty. I’m laughing at myself for not seeing it.”
“You’re smarter than me,” Marty said. “Sometimes smart people see things as more complicated than they really are.”
“Maybe I’m not as smart as you think I am,” Shoe said. “You’ve heard of Confucius, haven’t you?”
“Chinese guy, lived a long time ago. Philosopher or something, right? Wrote a lot of sayings, anyway.”
“One of Confucius’s sayings goes something like, ‘Common men marvel at uncommon things, while wise men marvel at the commonplace.’”
She thought about it for a moment, then chuckled. “If you’re saying you think I’m smart, thanks. Now tell me why I ain’t rich. Anyway, Joey told me Janey and him were friends; I didn’t figure it out on my own. She was the first girl he ever had sex with, he said.” A flush highlighted her cheekbones. “I guess that was after you and her broke up.”
“Perhaps,” Shoe said. “But I wouldn’t bet on it.”
Marty was silent as they continued east along Wilson Avenue, past small, shabby strip malls crowded close on both sides of the street. All seemed to feature the same types of establishments: restaurants or coffee shops, small grocery or convenient stores, video rental stores, beauty salons, discount clothing or shoe stores, cheque-cashing services, plus the occasional bar or pool hall. How did they all stay in business? he wondered. The signs over the storefronts were in Chinese, Korean, Vietnamese, with a sprinkling of English, Italian, and Arabic. Many of the signs seemed to have been painted over more than once.
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