“No, that wasn’t what I was thinking at all.”
Kearns glanced at Parker, back to Willows. “Lemme tell you what really happened.”
All that sugar was giving Oikawa a powerful thirst. He popped the lid off the second cup of coffee. It was still hot. He added cream and went through his ritual of putting the lid back on and shaking the cup. There were three donuts left; two plain and a chocolate. He stole a quick, furtive look at Kearns. The guy had been up all night, probably he was exhausted, and a blast of sugar was exactly what he needed. But Kearns seemed a lot more interested in explaining the situation to Willows and Parker than grabbing breakfast. Oikawa snatched the last chocolate donut out of the bag. Kearns said, “There’s one of those plastic milk jugs on the floor in the back of the car, full to the brim with four litres of cop piss. A little while ago, just before you showed up, I had to go again, couldn't hold it another minute. Stakeout or not, my bladder was killing me, know what I mean?”
Willows said, “Yeah, I think I get the picture.” He glanced at Parker. “Claire, are you managing to follow along?”
Parker nodded, continued to watch the street.
Kearns said, “So I take a hike up the alley, and I’m waddling like a duck. Another minute and I’m gonna wet my pants. And guess what — there’s no place private to take a leak! All the garages are locked, there’s no bushes to hide behind … Then I see Mrs. Hinton, she’s in the back yard, filling her bird feeder. And naturally she’s a little worried about this strange guy prowling around at five o’clock in the morning … So I flash my badge, explain the situation. And because she’s a good citizen, ready and willing to do her civic duty, she lets me use the can.”
Willows said, “Don’t you think you should’ve tucked in your shirt before you left the house?”
“Jack, I see your point, but I was in a hurry to get back to the stakeout. Danny was all alone in the car. I was worried about him. This kid we’re after, Joey Ngo, he’s killed a couple of people, right? So naturally the only thing on my mind is my partner’s safety. Come on, Jack. Everybody has to use the toilet, it’s a natural human function. I’ve heard of guys who’ve died because they tried to hold it too long … ”
On the far side of the street, high up in the apple tree, the crow guffawed loudly.
Parker, her back to Ralph Kearns, smiled widely.
Oikawa finished his second cup of coffee. He caught Parker’s smile and misinterpreted it. Wiping a few last granules of sugar from his mouth, he said, “A four-donut breakfast. Maybe I’m pushing forty, but I still got a few good moves.” Parker said, “I never doubted it.”
Oikawa adjusted his belt, letting it out a notch.
The sun was low on the horizon, smearing the flawless blue sky with streaks of yellow and orange. The door to the blue rancher opened and the red-haired woman came out. She was wearing lime-green shorts and a matching tank top. She made her way to the far side of the house, turned on a tap and filled a green plastic can with water. Oikawa fumbled in his shirt pocket for his glasses.
Willows walked around to the far side of Oikawa’s unmarked car, reached through the open window and tapped the detective on the shoulder. Oikawa jerked upright, clutched at the steering wheel, gave Willows a sheepish look.
Willows said, “All that coffee, your bladder must be pretty full too, by now.”
“Well … ”
Willows said, “Why don’t you take a stroll over there and ask the nice lady if you can use her facilities?”
“C’mon, Jack. Be reasonable. I ask to use the can, she’s gonna slap my face. Or worse.”
“How long was he in there?”
Oikawa shrugged, stared out the windshield. “You’re gonna have to squeeze that out of him. But why bother? Nothing happened, nobody got hurt.”
Willows said, “If we’re right about Joey Ngo, he’s already killed two people. You better straighten Kearns out or get yourself a new partner. Nobody’s luck lasts forever. When he goes down, chances are good he’ll take you with him.”
“Yeah, well … ”
The car rocked as Kearns opened the far side door and settled himself in the passenger seat. He fastened his safety belt. “Let’s roll, partner.”
Oikawa started the car. Willows stepped back. It was just past six and the sun was still low in the sky, but the city was starting to come alive, the dull throb of traffic drifting down to them from 41st Avenue, the closest main artery.
Oikawa put the Chevy in gear. He took his foot off the brake and the car began to creep forward.
Willows said, “Think about it, Dan.”
Oikawa punched it. The Chevy bolted down the street. The redhead went back into her house and shut the door. Willows and Parker climbed back into their unmarked Ford. Willows backed the car fifty feet up the street, into the shade of a chestnut tree. The sightlines were still pretty good. He turned off the engine, reached behind him and rolled down the rear side window. It was starting to get hot — by the end of the day the temperature would hit the mid-eighties. Parker said, “He’d been drinking, hadn’t he?”
“He might’ve had one or two.”
“Dan won’t turn him in?”
“Would you?”
Parker said, “No, I guess not. But I’d get rid of him, find myself a new partner, and do it fast.”
Willows adjusted the rear-view mirror so he had a better view of the street behind them. The crow had been silent but now it started up again.
Parker said, “I got another one of those phone calls last night. The heavy breather.”
“Get your number changed.”
“There’s a new system — call alert — it’s about twelve bucks a month. Every time you get a call, the number’s displayed on a small screen. No more anonymity.”
“But lots of crowded phone booths,” said Willows. He heard the sound of tires on pavement, twisted in his seat.
Oikawa’s beige Chevy pulled up alongside the unmarked Ford. Kearns, grinning, jerked his thumb over his shoulder. A skinny Chinese kid about fifteen years old was slumped in the back seat. Kearns said, “We caught him in the alley, coming out of a garage” He flicked the stub of his cigarette out the window, across the hood of Willows’ car. “It’s all over, Jack. Except for the congratulations.”
“Congratulations, Ralph.” Willows raised his voice a little. “Hey, Dan.”
Oikawa leaned forward so he could see past Kearns. “What?”
“On your way downtown, do yourself a favour and stop off at a lumberyard.”
“Why?”
“So you can buy a stick to hit yourself over the head with.” Oikawa’s face tightened. He slammed his foot down on the gas and the car shot down the street.
Parker said, “Who the hell was that?”
“Beats me.”
“Kearns thinks he’s nabbed Joey Ngo, doesn’t he?” Willows smiled.
Parker said, “Think Dan got the message?”
“We’ll hear about it soon enough, if he didn’t.”
A trio of crows warily circled the apple tree. The birds drifted slowly down, their wings flaring as they sideslipped into the topmost branches and settled cautiously into the foliage like so many elderly, overweight, black-clad Victorian dowagers easing into a particularly uncomfortable chair. “Breakfast time,” said Parker.
“Maybe.” He’d caught a crow once, when he was a teenager, with a simple trap made of a baited box with one end resting on the ground and the other held up with a stick tied to a length of twine. Captured, the bird made a horrible squalling sound that tricked him into thinking he’d mortally wounded it. He would never forget the swarm of crows that had descended upon the scene from every point of the compass, and screamed at him until he freed their comrade. It was like the Hitchcock film, The Birds, but much more terrifying.
The crows in the tree were making a similar sound now, an urgent, high-pitched squawking. Another larger flight of crows flew in from the east, out of the rising sun, and vanished into
the tree. The air, suddenly, was heavy with the rustle of wings as a flock passed directly overhead.
Willows grabbed his walkie-talkie.
Parker said, “You going to take a look?”
“It was a lot darker when Dan was over there. He couldn’t have seen much, even with a flashlight.”
Parker checked the battery light on her walkie. “Stay in touch, Jack.”
Willows got out of the car and walked across the road, disappeared in the narrow gap between Joey Ngo’s house and his next-door neighbours’. Parker checked her watch. She’d learned long ago that in situations like this minutes often stretched into hours, and that under certain circumstances a few seconds could last forever.
As he crossed the street, Willows clipped his shield to his jacket pocket. The grass between the houses was still heavy with dew, the moisture darkening the leather of his brogues. He saw that the houses were separated at the back by a low, sagging, picket fence. Climbing over the fence was impossible; the boards looked rotten and he was sure they’d collapse under his weight. He pulled at one of the pickets. Wood crumbled under his fingers. The picket came away in his hands. He yanked two more pickets from the fence, crouched low and crawled through the gap.
Now he was in the back yard of the home next to Joey Ngo’s house, the yard with the apple tree. A narrow sidewalk ran down the middle of the yard, from the lane to the house. There was an open carport on the right. A sagging clothesline led from the house’s enclosed back porch to a tall wooden pole. Oikawa hadn’t exaggerated when he’d described the size of the undergarments hanging from the line. You could, Willows thought, sail a boat.
The apple tree was near the back of the yard, its wide, heavily leaved branches overhanging the roof of the carport and spreading out over the lane. The tree was more than thirty feet high. Its gnarled trunk was thick and rough, drifted with amber sap. Willows could hear the crows muttering, the scrabble of their claws as they shifted restlessly in the topmost branches.
He had expected that they would abandon the tree by now. But it was the tallest tree on the block. Maybe it was a habitual gathering place and that was why the birds were so reluctant to leave. Or perhaps there was another reason. Most of the crop seemed to have been picked. He peered upwards, squinting against the glint of the rising sun into the dark green foliage.
He turned and looked behind him, at the house. He was unobserved. He turned back to the tree. The branch which looked most promising was about five feet up and was thick enough to carry his weight easily. He slipped out of his jacket and hung it on the fence. His brogues hadn’t been designed for tree climbing. He would have to go carefully, or risk a nasty fall.
He grasped the branch with both hands, bent his knees to give himself a little more spring, and then pulled himself up, hooked a leg over the branch and desperately clutched at another, higher branch. High above him there was a shriek of alarm. Unseen wings beat at the air and made it tremble. A few leaves and bits of twig drifted down. Willows caught a glimpse of the flock racing away from him, flying due south, and then they were gone, and he was alone in the tree.
Almost alone.
Willows worked his way up the tree until he was about twenty feet above the ground. He could see the glint of his badge — he’d forgotten to remove it from his jacket.
Joey Ngo had climbed a little higher, but not much, before straddling a fork in the main trunk. The rope went around and around his waist and there was a lot of it to spare. It looked as though he’d intended to hang himself, and thought better of it.
Joey was wearing black jeans, a white shirt, Adidas running shoes. No socks, no belt. He’d shot himself in the chest. The wound had bled hardly at all, indicating that he had died very quickly. Judging from the angle of the exit wound, there was a good chance the bullet had passed through his heart.
He’d been a handsome boy, and had wanted to spare his face. The crows, of course, had their own ambitions.
Joey’s left hand hung straight down by his side. His right hand was in his lap, and still held the pistol — a .45-calibre Colt semi-auto. The hammer was cocked.
Chunks of dark brown pulp stained the white shirt in the immediate vicinity of the wound. Willows shifted his position, carefully circled the body. He was fairly sure the bullet had passed through Joey's left hand. Chunks of dried pulp clung to the palm of the hand.
Sweet potato.
Willows had seen enough — more than enough. He climbed back down the tree, braced himself, and dropped the last five feet. He retrieved his jacket, put the badge back in his wallet. A spent .45 casing lay among a patch of bluebells hard up against the carport.
He made his way back through the gap in the fence. Parker watched him from the car as he strolled across the street.
She said, “He was up in the tree, wasn’t he?”
Willows nodded. She reached for the radio to call it in. Evidence technicians, a photographer and medical examiner, uniformed cops and assorted brass as well as the Body Removal Services people would soon be swarming around the apple tree. The neighbourhood was peaceful now, but it wouldn’t last.
“How did he do it?”
“Shot himself,” said Willows. His cop’s training warned against taking anything for granted, making even the most insignificant assumption. But cop instinct told him it was all over. Joey Ngo had fallen in love with his brother’s girlfriend, Emily, tried to frighten or maybe even kill Cherry because he beat her, and muffed the job in the worst possible way. Then he’d bought a sweet potato to use as a silencer and shot his brother to death. And now he’d killed himself. Fair enough.
Except, if you thought about it for a minute, it didn’t work. Cherry stole the sweet potato, not Joey — Mrs. Minotti had ID’d him. Probably Cherry had intended to use the potato as a silencer when he found out who’d killed Emily; not that he cared about her — he’d be worried that the shots were meant for him. He showed his gun to Joey, planned to give him a demonstration. Maybe he’d even suspected Joey of Emily’s murder, put the question to him. There’d been a struggle … Willows gave up. He’d never know what happened. It was as simple as that.
Parker radioed in the call. She climbed out of the car and locked it, went around to the back and unlocked the trunk. The first thing that had to be done was isolate the crime scene.
Willows said, “I’ll get that,” and reached past her and grabbed a spool of bright yellow plastic “police line — do not cross” ribbon. How long it would last depended on the boldness of the neighbourhood’s children. Not that you could always blame the kids. Willows had seen adults walk off with the stuff. What they did with it, he had no idea.
Parker slammed shut the trunk.
Willows said, “Would you mind waking whoever lives in the house. I don’t want them looking out the kitchen window without knowing what to expect.”
“You going to string the ribbon?”
Willows nodded.
Parker said, “Why don’t I string the ribbon, and you can have the pleasure of breaking the good news — there’s a corpse in your apple tree, but don’t worry. We’ll take it away as soon as we finish trampling your garden.”
Willows started across the street, leaving Parker no option but to tag along. Over his shoulder, he said, “My great big feet have already stomped all over the crime scene. Yours haven’t.”
“Since you put it so nicely.” Parker split away, towards the house.
Willows had just finished stringing the ribbon when the back door of the house swung open and Parker stepped outside, steaming cup in hand. Coffee. He could smell it.
Parker lifted the mug in ironic salute. An elderly woman wearing a blue and green floral-pattern blouse and faded denim overalls appeared in the narrow space between Parker and the doorframe. The woman was huge, with a wild mass of white hair and bright blue eyes. She said something to Parker and then waved at Willows. He waved back. Parker started down the stairs, the woman close behind.
“Jack, this is Miss El
oise Simpson.”
Willows said hello, switching the roll of tape to his left hand so he could shake. Eloise Simpson’s hand was callused, her grip firm. She smiled at Willows with the finest teeth that money can buy, and said, “Claire tells me you have a lovely garden but it’s being neglected. I think that’s terribly sad. Nature can’t be trusted. You must keep a watch on her, or she’ll go completely out of control, like an unattended child.” Parker said, “Miss Simpson saw Joey climb into the tree.”
“Call me Eloise, please.”
Willows said, “When did you see him, Eloise?”
“About nine o’clock, just as it was starting to get dark.”
“Nine last night?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Did you say anything to him?”
“I didn’t see the point. Why make a fuss? If the birds don’t get them, the children will. That’s been my philosophy all along, and I intend to stick with it.”
Willows caught Parker’s eye. She gave him a look he’d never decipher in a million years, and hid behind her coffee cup.
Willows said, “You thought Joey was climbing into the tree to steal some apples?”
“What other reason could he have had?”
“My partner didn’t tell you?”
“I thought I’d leave it up to you, Jack.”
Willows felt a flash of anger, resentment. He and Parker had been together a long time now, but every time he thought he was beginning to understand how her mind worked … The spasm of anger passed. Yeah, they’d been together a long time. Too long for Parker, maybe. The job had a way of wearing people out; it exhausted them physically and emotionally. Some cops dealt with the problem by growing a shell so thick that nothing could get through it. Willows believed that to some extent it was an inevitable reaction. There was nothing you could do about it. The job gnawed away at your soul, and you grew scar tissue. Every cop knew it, and every cop — or at least every good cop — secretly wondered how much the job had changed him, what he’d lost. Up there in the apple tree, with childhood memories of other trees drifting towards him on the sweet morning breeze, Willows had protected himself by focusing on the bits and pieces instead of the whole ball of wax — the human being that had been Joey Ngo. It was a reflex action. He always fought it. But it was tough, sometimes.
Accidental Deaths (A Willows and Parker Mystery) Page 19