Lulu said, “I’ll do better next time.”
Frank had his doubts about that, because as far as he was concerned, there wasn’t going to be a next time. One brush with a first-degree murder rap was more than enough. Lulu was all he’d ever wanted in a woman, the whole ball of wax. But at the same time, certain dark aspects of her personality scared him half to death. That big book of photographs. All those dead fathers. He’d known from the start that she had a problem defining reality. That’s why he hadn’t been all that surprised when she’d tried to blow away the clerk, why he had taken the bullets from her gun in the first place. She was beautiful, but dangerous. If they hoped to survive, they were going to have to be very careful and awfully lucky.
Lulu, studying Frank’s monolithic profile, knew exactly what he was thinking. They were so close. As if they were twins, or something. It was like, anytime she wanted, she could peek inside his brain and see all the stuff that was going on.
And he was absolutely right; she was dangerous, both to him and to herself. And there was nothing she could do about it, he was right about that, as well. It was up to him to watch over her. Left to her own devices, she didn’t have a chance.
But he was wrong about her not doing a better job next time. There was going to be a next time, and soon. And her gun would have bullets in it!
No more of this stupid fainting stuff. The next time somebody messed with her, he was going to die.
Frank remembered a guy he’d known in the joint, a slouchy little black fag lifer worked in the library, who’d told him that the eyes were the windows of the soul. Frank had reacted by slugging the dude in the mouth. Afterwards, lying in his cell thinking about it, he realized he’d tossed the punch because of the guy’s faggy tone of voice rather than what he’d actually said, since Frank hadn’t understood what the words meant.
That had been years and years ago. Only now, right this minute, as the escalator crawled upward and he and Lulu and a couple of pounds of eighteen-carat gold made their slo-mo getaway, did Frank finally pick up on what the fag had meant.
What he saw in the glacial windows of his sweeties soul was lust — a lust for violence, for wealth, and for power. The big three.
Scary.
Frank wanted to take the Sky Train back into the city. He’d found that he liked being up high, sitting in the bright blue seat and looking down at the gnarled traffic and houses and apartments, through brightly lit picture windows and into people’s lives. It was a strange kind of fun, getting that quick peek as the train blew by. He hadn’t said anything to Lulu, because it had all happened so fast and he didn’t quite believe his eyes but, during the trip out, there had been a man and a woman making love in front of a mirror, in the living room of a track-level apartment. Maybe they were still there.
Not that Frank was a voyeur. It was just weird, that’s all, and he’d thought Lulu might be interested or curious. But no, she wasn’t. His violent baby wanted to take a cab back to the hotel. Anything less would be anticlimactic.
Frank waved at the traffic. “It’s gotta be at least a forty-five-minute ride. We’re looking at twenty bucks plus tip, maybe more.”
“We could steal a car.”
“Forget it.”
Lulu pouted, but stopped short of stamping her pretty foot. “I want you to show me how to steal a car, Frank.”
“Well, I’m not gonna.”
“Why not?”
“You’d only get yourself in trouble, is why.”
“Oh, I get it. You can steal ail the cars you want, anytime you feel like it, because you’re a man. But I’m a woman, and women are supposed to stay home and vacuum, right? Stay home in the vacuum and vacuum.”
They were standing on the sidewalk, waiting for the light to change and the illuminated sign to change from an orange palm to a white pedestrian, so they could cross in safety. Six crowded lanes of traffic streamed past at about twenty miles an hour. Thousands of shiny bright cars, polished metal, glass. Radios blasting, engines throbbing. From the presumed safety of their vehicles, women stared at Frank. A kid pointed at him, and laughed soundlessly. Men, busy driving, chose to ignore him. A van squealed its tires. There was a TV inside, Frank could see the screen, and then it was gone. He believed he heard a faint electrical crackling drifting across the air from Metrotown. Kingsway wasn’t a healthy place to be. The air stank of burnt rubber and exhaust fumes and endless frustration. Frank could feel his lungs trying to take it all in, deal with it.
There’d be cops all over the place by now. How much would the clerk remember?
A taxi cruised towards them. It was in the far lane, but its roof light was on, signalling that it was vacant. Frank whistled shrilly, waved his arm. The drivers head came up. He spun the wheel and shot across two lanes of traffic. A hubcap scraped the curb. Frank yanked open the rear door and they climbed in. The drivers hair was combed straight back and was too thin to hide his rash. His eyes were a flat green, dull and lifeless. His gaunt, sunken cheeks were a network of hundreds of tiny broken scarlet lines of the sort that signal “road under construction” on maps.
Lulu said, “Granville and Georgia,” and they lurched into the flow of traffic.
Lulu put her hand on Frank’s thigh. “Isn’t this fun?”
Frank said, “Fasten your seat belt. It’s the law.”
Click.
“And I wouldn’t mind if you got rid of the rug, now that you don’t need it anymore.”
Lulu tilted her head and removed the hairpiece, tossed it out her open window.
“Better?”
Frank nodded. He watched as Lulu brushed her hair that was the genuine article but looked like a cloud, all soft and shimmery. She said, “I don’t know how Sinatra stands it.” Frank said, “Stands what?”
“Wearing a wig. They’re so hot, and they itch.”
“Cheap ones. I bet he spends a couple of thousand each, easy.” Frank mulled it over. “The quality he’d be used to, we’re talking all natural fibres. So that would take care of the itching problem. And his wigs aren’t nearly as thick and luxurious as yours, so there wouldn’t be as much heat buildup. Plus, the guy’s a star of the first magnitude. So wherever he goes, it’s air-conditioned like crazy.”
“Star of the first magnitude, where’d you read that?” Frank said, “At the barber’s probably.”
Lulu put on her sunglasses, the Vuarnets with the shiny black plastic frames and oversized lenses so dark it was impossible to see her eyes, whether they were open or shut, angry or bored, full of laughter or tears. She said, “You think I look silly in this outfit, don’t you?”
“No, it’s great. Really.”
“If I’d shot that poor clerk, we’d both be in a lot of trouble, wouldn’t we?”
“Not as much trouble as him,” said Frank, smiling. “But yeah, you’re right. Cops don’t forget about murder. Five minutes or fifty years, somebody’d be thinking about that clerk from time to time. Looking to find out who we were, and bring us down.”
Lulu said, “You did the right thing, giving me an empty gun.”
Frank grinned. “Oh, I don’t know. You wouldn’t have missed him, that’s for sure.”
By the time they hit Granville and Georgia the meter read twenty-three dollars and forty cents. Frank folded a fifty in half, slapped it down on the dashboard. As they got out of the car, Lulu said, “If I’d known armed robbery was so darned expensive, I might’ve suggested we try something else.”
Frank smiled. God, thought Lulu, what a hunk. Being in love was even more amazing than she’d dared dream it might be — why, they’d been together almost a whole week already, and she still couldn’t get enough of him. She grabbed him by the arm, pulled him towards the hotel.
Frank glanced down at her, surprised, and she gave him a look that made him think of steam boiling off a damp roof on a day suddenly gone hot and sunny. He was pushing forty. Although he had lived parts of his life at warp speed, he’d somehow managed to avoid dying young
. In his time, he had flirted with death more than once. But no matter how perilous his situation, a crucial part of him had somehow always managed to keep a certain distance, maintain the cool; up until the afternoon Lulu knocked on his door, and the need for her had ripped through him, blinded him and brought him to his knees. And also, come to think of it, robbed him of his limited ambition to do Parker and head back to sunny Calif.
So when Lulu clutched his arm and he looked down at her and saw what was in her eyes, he knew exactly what she needed, wanted, demanded.
Because — and wasn’t it simple — he needed it too.
19
Inspector Homer Bradley rolled the dead cigar stub in his fingers, studied it so intently it might have held the key to the universe.
Willows leaned against the wall next to the door, his hands in his pockets, a picture of studied indifference. It wasn’t just Willows’ posture that gave the game away — if he’d requested the meeting, had something he wanted to tell Bradley or needed from him, Willows always walked right up to the Inspector’s cherrywood desk, got as close to his boss as courtesy allowed and then spoke his piece. But when the situation was reversed, when it was Bradley who wanted something from Willows, the detective always hovered by the door, poised for a quick exit.
The two men, Parker thought, were a generation apart but so much alike. The way they preferred to approach a problem was exactly the same — peripherally, from an acute angle, rather than head on.
Then, when they were sure of their adversary, both cops liked to attack with everything they had, kick down doors, smash whatever happened to be in their way.
Bradley, using his index finger and thumb, squeezed his cigar so hard it made a tiny squeaking sound, like a panicked mouse. A few nut-brown flakes of tobacco drifted down on the cover of a file folder. Bradley picked up the folder and tilted it towards the wastebasket, shook it gently. “So at this point you’ve narrowed your list of suspects down to the max — you’re pretty sure Joey’s been a real bad boy, right?” Willows nodded.
Bradley turned to Parker. “You concur?”
“I can’t think of anybody I’d rather arrest. Where was Joey when Emily was shot? Cherry assumed he was down in the basement of the house, and so did we. But the way we see it now, he had the black Honda or whatever he was driving that night parked nearby. All he had to do was slip out the basement door, jump in the car, drive around to the front of the house and pull the trigger, lose the car and sneak back into the basement. He could’ve made the round trip in five minutes or less, depending where he had the car parked.”
“The car was never found, is that correct?”
Parker nodded.
Willows said, “The night of the shooting, Cherry was completely out of it. Joey didn’t have much to say, either, and who can blame him. He’d tried to bump off his brother and shot his sweetheart instead.”
“You think. Could be that when Joey found out she was pregnant he decided to knock her off before she got around to telling Cherry.”
Willows said, “No, I don’t think so. It was dark, the range was about fifty yards. He was pissed at Cherry for beating on Emily. He wanted to terrify him, punish him by making him feel what Emily had felt — fear, and plenty of it.”
“Does Mrs. Chan know Emily was pregnant?”
“Not yet.”
“It’ll come out at the inquest.” Bradley turned to Parker. “You’ll have to tell her before then.”
“Why me?” said Parker belligerently. “Why not Jack? Is it just because I’m a woman?”
“You misunderstand me, Claire. I meant you and Jack, not you personally.” Willows started to say something but Bradley cut him off. “What’s the word on Joey. Got any leads?”
“Our best bet’s to stake out the house. He’s just a kid. He’ll come home sooner or later, if only because he’s got nowhere else to go.” Willows grinned. “We’re closing in on the end of the month. Alan Carroll isn’t the kind of guy who’s going to wait around for his rent money. With the vacancy rate we’ve got in this city, I can’t see Joey risking an eviction.”
Bradley said, “Faulty logic, Jack. Joey’s got a cell reserved in his name for the next twenty-five years, and he knows it.”
Parker said, “It’s possible he’s been calling me. There’ve been messages on my machine.”
“What kind of messages?” said Bradley.
“Heavy breathing.”
“First Cherry phoned you — or at least you think he did. Now it’s his brother. But neither one of them has anything to say.”
Willows said, “If Cherry had her number, Joey could have got it off him.”
“You better change your number,” said Bradley. “If Joey really wants to get in touch, he can phone you here at work.”
From her desk, Parker phoned Emily Chan’s parents. Mrs. Chan picked up, and Parker told her that there was an outstanding warrant on Joey Ngo, and that Joey was to be considered armed and dangerous.
“What shall I do if he comes here?” Mrs. Chan sounded on the verge of panic. Parker had intended to warn, not terrify her.
“Don’t open the door, or try to talk to him. Go to the phone and dial nine-one-one. Can you remember that?”
“Yes, yes.”
Parker said, “We’re going to try to keep a patrol car in the neighbourhood at all times. But really, Mrs. Chan, I just called to keep you informed. I don’t think you need to worry about Joey. You have no reason to fear him and we don’t expect he’ll come anywhere near you.”
“But what if he does?”
“Then use the telephone, and a policeman will be there in minutes. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Fine,” said Parker. “If anything develops, we’ll be sure to let you know. In the meantime, promise me you won’t worry, all right?”
“Promise,” said Mrs. Chan faintly.
Parker added a few more words of reassurance, and hung up.
Willows checked his watch. Orwell and Spears had taken the first shift in the round-the-clock stakeout of Joey’s house. Oikawa and Kearns were up next and he and Parker had the dawn patrol. The smart thing to do would be to drive home, throw something in the microwave, wash it down with a beer and hit the sack. He said, “Been a long time since we paid Freddy a visit.”
“Think he’s managed to stay in business without us?”
“We’ll never know unless we take the time to go and find out.”
“I’ll meet you there,” said Parker. “I don’t want to have to come all the way back for my car. And I’m only staying for one drink, okay?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“One drink,” said Parker, “and one drink only. I mean it, Jack.”
Willows said, “Look, if that’s the way you feel about it — that you’re being pushed — why don’t we just forget the whole thing?”
Freddy sidled up to the booth wearing a pair of Nikes with bright orange laces and a fluorescent orange swoosh, baggy pink cotton pants patterned with baby-blue arrows, and a short-sleeved neon-green silk shirt garnished with hula girls whose voluptuous and apparently naked bodies were strategically located behind clumps of lurid yellow and mauve flowers. Just in case there was any doubt, the word “Hawaii” was scripted across the shirt’s pocket in fiery red letters.
“Nice ensemble,” said Willows, shading his eyes with his hand.
Freddy said, “It’s the kind of outfit appeals to the ladies, Jack. Twenty years in a blue suit — what would you know about high fashion?” Smiling broadly, he turned to Parker. “Clothes make the man, right. So go ahead and admit it; I turn your crank, don’t I?”
Parker made a production of edging across the seat to the far side of the booth, putting as much distance between herself and Freddy as possible.
The bartender sadly shook his head. “This is such a goddamn conservative town. Every minute’s another punch in the face.”
Parker said, “I’ll tell you one thing, Freddy, If you’re walki
ng across the street and somebody hits you with a truck, at least you’ll know why they did it.”
“Hey, if you think I look good now, you shoulda seen me when I got off the plane. It’s the tan that brings out the colours, makes ’em glow.”
“What plane?” said Willows.
“The plane from Hawaii.”
“You were in Hawaii?”
“How’d you guess? No, don't tell me. From the way you’re dressed, you gotta be a highly trained detective.”
“And you’re a highly trained bartender, Freddy, if memory serves.”
“Cutty Sark, right, on the rocks for the gentleman and the lady’s straight up, water on the side. Doubles?”
Willows nodded. Simultaneously, Parker shook her head, no.
“Gotcha” said Freddy, and gave Parker an exaggerated wink.
Willows said, “Bring us a menu when you come back, Freddy.”
“One menu,” said Parker firmly.
“You don’t like the food, izzat what you’re telling me?”
Parker smiled. “The food is wonderful, it’s the preparation that turns my stomach.”
“Comical cops.” Freddy sighed heavily, and started towards the bar. “I gotta tell you, there’s nobody I’d rather pass time with, except my therapist.”
There was a big colour television suspended over the bar, an identical set halfway down the row of booths and a third facing the cluster of tables down by the rear of the building. All three sets were on the same channel; TSN, The Sports Network.
Parker said, “You ever bowl?”
“A few times. Once or twice.”
“Ten pin?”
“Yeah, I think so.” The last time had been several years ago, during Annie’s birthday party — at Annie’s request he and his wife, Sheila, had taken their daughter and several of her friends to a local alley. Willows had bowled a few frames, knocked over a few pins. It wasn’t nearly as much fun as fishing for trout.
But then, at the time, he’d had no way of knowing that he, Annie and Sheila only had a few birthdays left together, that his wife would soon leave him, and take Annie and Sean with her.
Accidental Deaths (A Willows and Parker Mystery) Page 16