When Charlie first began his new assignment, he was thrilled two art schools had settled on Granville Island. As proud of The Emily Carr College of Art and The Three Arts Institute as though he'd built them himself, he spent more hours patrolling past the schools and the studios than perhaps was warranted. He thought, privately, that perhaps Fate had led him to the island. Maybe he was meant to meet an art teacher who would recognize his talent and offer him lessons.
Charlie was well aware that, although he had an innate talent, he needed to learn some techniques. Joan was urging him to sign up for courses once he retired. Charlie figured she didn't want him hanging around the house all day, and he tended to agree with that sentiment.
In the meantime, he decided to take his hobby more seriously by entering a contest, offered annually by The Three Arts. Losing the contest left him more discouraged than ever.
Outwardly Charlie was a calm, cheerful person, whose personality fit his occupation just right. He was empathetic, yet could be dispassionate when necessary. He had a quick wit, an uncomplicated smile and a round cherubic face that fooled many suspects.
Charlie was very good at interrogations, even when he was cast in the bad-cop role. He was broad shouldered and muscular, though a small paunch had appeared when he turned forty. His knees were his only physical downfall, but ever since he'd undergone surgery, he was able to walk and even run quite well once more.
With his very blue eyes, his brown wavy hair dusted with grey and his erect posture, Charlie was an attractive man. The laugh lines around his mouth and eyes only added to his allure. Many women found him irresistible, but Charlie never noticed. He was a one-woman man and Joan never doubted it.
Their daughters, born within the first two years of marriage, adored their father and showered him with attention. Last year, they'd both married wonderful young men. He and Joan were now left with the proverbial empty nest.
Charlie had made a lifelong habit of never bringing his home life to work by banning thoughts of his family while on the job. He didn't even mention his wife and children to his colleagues, for he superstitiously believed he could prevent them from entering the negative world of crime by not speaking their names or thinking about them in its sphere. When he got the call about the missing girl, however, he did have a brief moment of gratitude that he had never experienced the worry these parents were obviously feeling.
On the morning of the murder, he patrolled quickly past the cement factory and Micon Industries. The rest of the island was transforming itself at a rapid rate. Craft and music stores, one-of-a-kind boutiques including custom-built kayaks, a farmer's market and some pubs had moved in over the last few years.
After a dreary cold and wet night, the sun was a welcome change. The air still chilly as Charlie stood outside one of his favourite new establishments. He was enjoying a cup of java with frothy cream when his CB radio squawked.
"Charlie." Stephanie Mills's tone was uncharacteristically cool. She obviously disapproved. "That big shot—I'm sure you've heard of him. His name's Courtnell? He's a friend of Chief Webster and he's throwing a fit over his daughter being AWOL for a few hours. She's only been gone since last night. They think, because she doesn't even live with them. She didn't show up for class this morning. She goes to Three Arts. You know we don't usually do this until the standard twenty-four, but Webster says since you're right there…"
She paused, as though the young clerk realized Charlie would know the politics of the police force better than she did.
"The missing girl is one of the art students and lately she's worked long hours at some studios. Apparently she would never ever skip class." Stephanie's tone dripped with sarcasm.
"The only places the family hasn't checked are these studios. No telephones hooked up yet. Apparently the building isn't officially open. It's that old factory they're converting into a fancy market. There're only a couple of artists who've been allowed in early and they're both professors at the institute. I've got the manager heading over with a master key. He just happens to be going to a meeting on the island."
"Why don't they get in touch directly with the studio owners instead?"
"They're not officially the owners yet and the family doesn't know which professor's studio she might be in. The Courtnell girl has classes with both of them at Three Arts. The roommate wouldn't or couldn't take a guess about where she might be, just told them the girl didn't show up last night or for class this morning. The mom went ballistic and called the husband who, of course, called the chief. Probably Webster just wants to get them an answer fast. I don't know, Charlie. I'm sure it's a tempest in a teacup."
She sounded very impatient.
"OK, Steph, I'll head over there."
He disconnected, hitched the walkie-talkie to his belt and turned toward the long, low building to the east.
While the top of the old factory had been preserved pretty much the way it was designed, the bottom had been scraped and hollowed out. It reminded Charlie of the houses in Florida that stood on stilts in case of flooding. Huge steel girders were exposed and the floor was muddy ground. Awaiting the finishing touches that would transform its bottom storey into stalls for an upscale fruit and vegetable market, it looked as though it might sag, top-heavy, into a Pisa tower position at any time.
The kid was probably off with some guy, Charlie thought, preparing himself to give the daughter a dressing-down when he found her. Or she could be the type of artist who was so obsessed with her work she didn't even realize how much time had gone by. Now that Charlie would have a difficult time criticizing.
The manager was a diminutive, slight man with a shiny bald head, who scurried up to Charlie like a small bird, key in hand. He was obviously far too busy to be bothered with inconsequential matters such as missing art students.
"Frank Jeffries," he introduced himself, his words staccato. "I sincerely hope this won't take very long. I've got an appointment shortly."
Charlie was amused at his use of the word shortly, an adverb he thought Frank should avoid.
"Oh, I'm sure it won't take long," he replied. "I'm Constable Haynes."
They shook hands briefly. Frank's palm was sweaty. Nervous or agitated?
The stairs were steep and narrow, so Charlie followed Jeffries, their footsteps clanging in the empty space below. At the top was a landing with an unlocked closed door through which the two men entered into a long, silent hallway.
Frank wanted to explain. "The building isn't really finished yet. I've allowed occupancy in two studios on the second floor to a couple of eager beavers because they're teachers at Three Arts. It's actually completely safe, but the painting, the flooring—well, you know. It's the finishing touches that aren't complete, but these artsy types didn't seem to care about that. They haven't officially signed the contracts and such, but that doesn't seem to bother them either."
Charlie could see for himself the building was not finished. A chalky cement floor was surrounded by bare drywall. All of the spaces had closed doors, but nothing was painted. Everything smelled incomplete and damp.
"Which studio is the girl supposed to be in, Constable? Professor Thompson has the studio at the end, on the right. Professor Hughes has the one directly across."
Jeffries pointed to the end of the corridor.
"Professor Thompson wanted to take the studio now because he was determined to get the one that looks out onto the creek."
"Thompson and Hughes?"
Charlie worked hard at keeping the surprise out of his voice, ensuring his tone was inquisitive only.
"Yes. They both teach at the art college. Professor Thompson gives extra classes. Tutoring them, I guess. He has a whole bunch of students already. I don't know why you just didn't go and ask the professors. "
Charlie didn't bother giving the man any information.
"And Hughes?" he asked as though he didn't know the answer.
"As far as I know, Professor Hughes just moved in a bunch of stuff. I have
n't seen any students there."
"Well, Mr. Jeffries, we don't really know which studio the girl might be at, or even if she's here. So we'll just take a quick look in both of them, since you still technically have the right to enter. That way, we'll find her quickly and not bother her teachers."
Jeffries stopped at a door at the far end of the corridor. Charlie tried the knob, but it was locked. He directed Jeffries to insert the key and the door swung open silently.
Charlie entered first. The studio had huge windows gracing one wall with a magnificent view of False Creek, where boats glittered in the sunlight. Piles of untouched and unfinished canvasses, a few scattered easels, and several tables strewn with paints and brushes made the room look small and cluttered.
But it was the display to their immediate right that sucked the air from the studio. Suddenly it felt claustrophobic, walls close and uncomfortable. The huge windows were closed tight, making the room a vacuum of odour as the sun boosted the temperature to an uncomfortable level. The sickly sweet scent of paint combined with a musty smell that signified death and the beginning of decay.
Behind him, the policeman could hear Frank Jeffries gag and whimper. Under the spell of the grotesque, the mix of beauty with death, Charlie's universe shifted. All the sadness he'd experienced, the deaths of some friends, his brother, his parents, the stillborn baby they even now mourned, rushed up to choke him, forcing tears from his eyes. He could not imagine the mind that had wrought this horror, this grief, on such loveliness.
Her small, slight body was splayed in an X across the wall. Crucified, her arms and legs were attached with huge spikes through her wrists and ankles. Her lustrous blond hair hung over her shoulders, hiding one side of her bent head.
Charlie could still see the straight, youthful contours of her chin, her mouth, her pert nose, the carefully applied make-up and lipstick. She looked like a distorted female Christ, with her head curved in sacrifice, her lips turned down in disappointment. A single tear had been painted on her cheek, freezing the anguish on her lovely skin.
From her neck to her breasts, down her flat childless belly, surrounding her pubic hairs, across her legs and arms, an obviously professional hand had created a stunning landscape. The painter had followed the contours of her body, creating hills and valleys, water and grass. A shimmering pinkish sky was infused with blues and yellows.
The pale skin canvas gave the oils a striking texture. Little imperfections brought a reality to the unreal scene. Tiny pore holes had soaked up the paint, imbuing each of the colours with a deeper resonance, an almost burnished quality.
The artist had used each of her bumps and freckles and hairs as props for the scenery, incorporating them into the picture. Streams and ponds had been carved into her body and painted blue. The mix of brownish red from her clotted blood gave them a polluted appearance. Her pale vaginal mound had been transformed into an aqua pool from which carved rivulets flowed down her legs. Only her face was untouched, youthful and beautiful, except for the tear.
Instinctively, Charlie stepped forward and put his finger at her neck, but, as expected, he felt no pulse. Then he unclipped his short wave radio from his belt, surprised his fingers were steady as he held the device to his lips. He managed to tell Stephanie in short, clipped sentences that they had a homicide on the premises. She obviously heard the horror in his tone, for she asked no questions. He could hear her relay the message along the line.
"Emergency services and backup on the way," she told him, her voice reassuring. "Hold on, Charlie."
The Constable turned to his companion then. Frank had doubled over in a crouch position, his eyes cast downward, away from the body on the wall. Something in his posture led Charlie to believe the man's shock was part recognition.
"Do you know this girl?" Charlie asked, leaning next to Jeffries.
"Yes, yes, her name is Linda Courtnell."
"You're positive?"
"Yes, I can tell by her hair. She wears a beautiful shade of blonde and it's cut really stylishly. And her face, of course. She's…she's beautiful, really. She's…her parents are the Courtnells. You know? The big real estate magnate."
Jeffries choked out each of the words, gasping as though he had run out of breath at the end of every sentence. "I know her father and I've seen Linda lots of times."
Charlie knew who the Courtnells were. Everyone in Vancouver knew who the Courtnells were. This case was going to be complicated, in more ways than one.
"OK, Frank, we're going to back out of here. Just exactly the way we came in. We haven't far to go. Then we'll lock the door again until the emergency teams come. You can wait in the hall, OK?"
The two men had been joined together by their shock, the smaller one accepting the authority of the bigger man without question. They retraced their footsteps carefully.
"Are the unoccupied suites locked, Frank?" Charlie asked. "Have you got all the keys? I have to make sure there's no one else in the building."
Jeffries nodded, holding up the keys, which he continued to clutch in his hands. "These are the masters."
"Good, excellent. So it's just this one other studio rented out, right?"
Charlie gestured across the hall.
"Yes, just these two. They wanted the end units because you can see the creek, especially from…"
He seemed to realize he was automatically degenerating into another sales pitch, so he stopped and simply handed over the keys with trembling fingers.
"The others should be locked too. Don't want vagrants, you know…"
"OK. Listen, you stay right here. I'll go look. I'll make it as quick as possible. You yell very loudly if you see anyone at all, OK, pal?"
Jeffries nodded silently, his face pale and shiny with sweat, his eyes still huge with shock. Charlie didn't want him to fall over in a faint, so he eased the man down onto the cement floor. He'd be covered in dust, but that was better than bursting his head open if he swooned.
Quickly, Charlie went into Professor Hughes's studio. Boxes, easels and tables were strewn about, but the place had an uninhabited air. The other second-floor rooms were completely empty, in various stages of readiness. Ascertaining they were devoid of human presence was relatively easy. When Charlie returned to the hallway for the last time, Frank Jeffries was still slumped on the floor, but he continued to be alert and wide-eyed as he searched the hallway for movement.
Charlie helped him to his feet and made a vague attempt at dusting him off.
"How about the third floor, Frank?"
"It's completely empty. The hall doors leading to the stairs should be locked because it's all steel girders and boards. No windows or doors even. A big art store is going in there, taking up the whole floor. We're awaiting the specs from…"
Once more, he caught himself in a rant. His lips clamped shut. He pointed to the end of the hallway, where the door to the stairwell was secured with a lock and chain.
"OK, we're gonna let the others search that floor if they think it's necessary. Is that the only other way in or out besides the one we used?"
Frank nodded his head. "Yes. The door at the back also has a big lock and chain on it, just like this one, so I don't think…"
"Great. Wonderful. Let's go outside and wait for the troops then."
When they reached the open underbelly of the factory, both men gulped in the fresh air that wafted from the salt water in the distance. They stood motionless and silent for a moment before Charlie sprinted quickly around to the back and checked that the lock was still fastened on the entry door.
When he returned, he became aware of the sounds from the city, the island activity, the waterway beyond. Charlie saw the indifference of the world as a personal insult. By the time the police cars and emergency vehicles squealed up, he was engulfed with rage.
All his dissatisfaction and jealousy became focused on the artist who had misused an obvious talent. Someone with the kind of skill to paint stunning scenery, yet with the pathology to do so on
a young, defenceless victim. Charles, as surely as he loved his wife and daughters, would catch the animal who had committed this twisted crime.
Chapter 3
December 2008
Reading through the report was making my heart pound. I looked up from my desk for relief. Perhaps it was the movement of my head that made Cate look up too, or more likely, I suspected, she was so in tune with me that she felt my change in attention. We gazed into one another's eyes, mine a deep blue, hers a startling greenish blue, both sets infused with love and understanding.
It was amazing how entwined we had all become in the months since we began to foster parent Cate and her younger sister Carly. They were both doing their homework, while I tackled this long overdue duty of my own.
Our little dog, Angel, slept contentedly at Cate's feet. They were the best of friends, spending any free time together, romping in the yard, running along the beach or curled up in bed. When Cate sat quietly doing one task or another, Angel was there too. Langford and I might have felt somewhat jealous of the little dog's switch in loyalty, except for the look on Cate's face as she caught sight of our pet bounding toward her at the end of a school day.
Carly's curly reddish hair had lightened, tinged with white, a result of the ordeals she had endured. Her head was bent over her assignment, back hunched in the wheelchair, mind engrossed in the figures on the page. She continued to have difficulty focusing, but she was a determined soul, a fighter. She argued incessantly over every little thing, but I understood that need. She was exerting control. Her body, her injuries and especially her past were all events and occurrences she was not able to influence and with which she still struggled. So she dominated where she could.
I not only understood that need, I had been there, and in many ways I was still there. We clashed fairly often, both of us in our desire to assert our will, but we had a deep unshakable love and respect that always won out.
The Emily Taylor Mystery Bundle Page 67