Lulu said, “What's so funny?”
“Nothing.”
“Then what’re you smiling at?”
Frank said, “I guessed four ninety-five. I was only out a nickel.”
23
Popeye Rowland removed the pince-nez from his left eye, puffed up his cheeks and clouded the surface of the glass, then polished it against the creamy white sleeve of his shirt and screwed it back in place. He smiled dolefully. “I always wanted to make it to the top of the ladder, Jack, but this isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”
“Life’s full of surprises.”
“If you’re lucky.” The ME reached out and plucked an apple from a nearby branch. Birds had been at it, and worms. He tossed the apple at a garbage can in the alley, missed. “See where the bullet hit the tree?”
Willows nodded. The bullet that had ended Joey Ngo’s life had exited between his shoulder blades and lodged in the tree trunk. He remembered a suicide’s bullet that passed through the victim’s throat and then a neighbour’s kitchen window, killing a man named Barclay as he’d sat at the table reading the paper and eating his cereal.
Popeye said, “Everything looks just right, Jack. Textbook perfect. The positioning of the kid’s prints on the weapon, the position of the weapon itself, location of the ejected cartridge.” Popeye glanced towards the house and covertly helped himself to another apple. It too, was riddled with worm holes. “We won’t know for sure until the autopsy, but the angle of the entrance and exit wounds looks exactly right for a suicide.” Popeye studied the apple, turning it in his hands. “I hear you like to fish for trout. Ever wet a line out of season?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“You ought to give it a try. Take my word for it, trout always taste better when you catch’em illegally. Being up here in this tree reminded me of that fact. I haven’t raided a fruit tree for over thirty years, ever since I was a kid. That’s why there’ll always be cops, Jack. Because some people never forget how much fun it was to jump the neighbour’s fence and steal what doesn’t belong to them.”
“That’s your theory, is it?” Willows kept turning Eddy Orwell’s blood-stained VPD card in his hand. The card had Parker’s home phone number written on the back, and Willows had found it in Joey Ngo’s shirt pocket. Somehow, Cherry had lifted Parker’s number off the Rolodex on Orwell’s desk when he’d made the phone call after the interview. Then he’d passed the number on to his brother — or maybe Joey had found it on Cherry after he’d shot him. Either way, Willows had a hunch Parker wasn’t going to receive any more anonymous phone calls.
“Yeah,” said Popeye, “that’s my theory.”
Joey had unbuttoned his shirt and exposed his chest — another strong indication of suicide. Popeye squinted as he examined the wound in Joey’s left hand. The muzzle of the pistol had been pressed firmly against his body when the trigger was pulled. Trapped gases from the explosion had burst his flesh, producing a typical star-shaped wound.
Popeye’s nail-bitten finger hovered an inch above the bullet hole. The summer breeze moved the leaves of the apple tree just so, and for a moment, a stray shaft of sunlight brightly illuminated the wound, so that it seemed magnified, grossly enlarged. In the blackened area immediately surrounding the wound, a considerable amount of unburned powder residue was clearly present on Joey’s skin.
The gun had been photographed and then pried from Joey’s grasp. There were abrasion marks on his thumb and the soft web of tissue between the thumb and index finger of his right hand. These marks were consistent with the working of the weapon’s slide as the gun automatically pumped another round into the chamber. Fragments of flesh and splashes of blood across the lower wrist and knuckles of his right hand were intermingled with ruined pulp from the sweet potato. There was no blood on the inside of Joey’s hand or corresponding area of the gun’s grips.
The lab would search for lead particles, metallic residue from the percussion cap, copper from the spent cartridge, traces of gun oil from the weapon’s barrel. A series of comparative shots using the gun and identical ammunition would be fired in the police lab at 312 Main Street. Infra-red photography would serve to intensify the zone of powder residue depositing; just one of many factors that together would indicate suicide or murder. Chemical examination of the gunshot wound would reveal barium, lead and antimony, forcefully expelled when the primer detonated.
Popeye said, “I remember one guy, this was a few years ago, before your time maybe, during the autopsy they found two bullets in his head. But there was no doubt at all he’d shot himself. Know what happened?”
“He used two guns.”
“Nope, just the one. The ammunition was about fifty years old, had lost its zip. First time the guy pulled the trigger, the bullet lodged in the barrel. So the poor sap took another shot at it, so to speak. The gun should’ve blown up in his face, but it didn’t. Lucky, I guess. Had that coroner scratching his head, though.” Popeye stared blankly at the laundry blooming on the clothesline. “There was a logger I heard about, bit down on a blasting cap. This was first thing in the morning, way out in the bush, at the breakfast table. Guy’s head snaps back. He drops his fork. Fifty or sixty guys digging into their ham and eggs, yelling logger bullshit at each other, most of them didn’t even realize anything had happened. And I heard you couldn’t tell there was anything wrong by looking at him, he showed no external signs of damage at all, except his eyes were a little bulgy.” Popeye nodded thoughtfully. “The main thing is to get the job done, I guess. Whatever works, works. Want me to sum up?”
“Help yourself.”
“Okay, see his eyes — the corneas are still clear. Rigor mortis is present, but by no means complete. The way he was holding the gun, so tightly, was due to what we professionals call ‘cadaveric spasm’. Run across it before?”
Willows shook his head, no.
“It isn’t all that uncommon. Takes place immediately at the time of death, especially with suicides. Guns or knives. It’s often confused with rigor mortis. The important thing is, you can’t fake it. Somebody blew Joey away, there’s no way he’d have held on to the weapon so tightly.”
Joey’s left arm hung straight down. Blood had pooled in his hand, darkening the flesh. Popeye pressed a finger firmly against the discoloured skin, held it there for a moment. The skin did not blanch, indicating that at least four hours had passed since the time of death.
Popeye said, “In my professional and highly esteemed opinion, it is certainly possible that the deceased could have produced the injury that caused his death — a bullet through the heart. My learned estimate is that the fatal moment occurred seven to nine hours ago. He’s dead as a doornail, in other words, and likely to stay that way for all of eternity, poor soul.”
Popeye backed carefully down the ladder. “I trust that when you go after the bullet, you’ll be careful not to inflict too much damage on this lovely tree, Jack.”
In the hours immediately following the discovery of Joey Ngo’s body, the crowd that gathered behind the police lines of flimsy yellow plastic tape grew fat and prospered on the novelty of scurrying television crews, the arrival of the aggressively anonymous mud-brown Body Removal Services wagon, the aimless wanderings of lantern-jawed cops and unbelievably relaxed homicide detectives, the chatter of on-the-spot reporters with their blow-dried hair and airbrushed complexions. Mel Dutton, watching a particularly glamorous blonde reporter seduce her networks mini-cam, turned to Willows and said, “Know how to make a blonde’s eyes sparkle?”
Claire Parker, as she and Willows strode briskly across the street towards the crowd and their unmarked car, was positively ID’d as the Channel Eleven late-night news anchor. Willows, it was assumed, was her producer, or lover, or both.
A woman thrust a scrap of paper and pen at Parker, and yelled the anchors name and asked her for an autograph.
Parker signed with a flourish as Willows started the car. She allowed the woman to engage her in small talk, returned
the paper as she climbed into the car, but kept the pen.
Willows leaned on the horn, and the crowd scattered. The pen was a ballpoint, bright green with a thick line of black running from top to bottom.
Willows said, “You kept her pen?”
“It’s a souvenir, from Bermuda.” Parker held the pen sideways at eye level, so Willows could easily read the bold block letters, admire the sailboats and sun. She said, “Whenever I use it, people will ask me when I was there, and I’ll tell them I never was, and give them an odd look, like they’re weird, or something.”
“Brilliant.”
“It’s a fair trade. She’s got a story too — how the overpaid TV bitch stole her favourite pen.” Parker gave Willows a quick smile. “Besides, Popeye just walked off with mine, so I needed one.”
“He’s a sneaky guy. I’ve heard he’s got a drawerful of disposable lighters.” Willows checked his watch. Ten past one. “Want to go somewhere, get something to eat, maybe a beer?”
“We’ve got a mountain of paperwork ahead of us, Jack. Why don’t we order take-out from the office?”
“Because I want something fresh and hot.”
“And a beer.”
“And a couple of beers, to wash the smell of Joey Ngo out of my throat.”
There was a Pizza House half a block up, on the left. Parker spotted it a split second after Willows. “Forget it, Jack.”
“Mushrooms, green pepper … ”
“And anchovies and draft beer.”
“I haven’t had anything to eat since five o’clock this morning. I get cranky when I’m hungry. You ought to know that by now.”
“You’ll never know how much it hurts to have to turn you down, Jack.”
“Fine. But if I start growling, try not to take it personally.”
Two blocks later, Willows made a sudden left turn across two lanes of traffic, parked in front of a bright red, freshly painted fire hydrant.
“Need to take a leak?” said Parker, grinning at her own dumb joke.
Willows flipped down the sun visor, displaying his “Police Vehicle” sticker. “There’s a restaurant right around the corner. Tommy’s. I had lunch there a couple of months ago, it was terrific.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, there’s three tables and a fifty-foot bar?”
Willows slammed shut his door, checked to make sure it was locked. He glared at Parker across the hot metal surface of the roof. “If Joey’s gun matches up with the bullets that killed Emily and Cherry — and I bet you a tossed green salad with Caloriewise dressing it will — we’ve cleared two murders and a suicide. Not a bad day’s work, Claire. Reason enough to hoist a cold one.”
A dozen arguments sprang to mind. Parker filed them away for future reference, and matched Willows stride for stride as he marched up the sidewalk and around the corner towards the restaurant.
A fat, almost-larger-than-life papier-mâché Holstein hung suspended over the restaurant’s double glass doors. The cow was impaled on a sturdy iron rod, but the intent was apparently to fix the poor beast in space rather than viciously slaughter it. To Parker, the bulky corpse hinted darkly of relatives that had met a similar fate, and now waited patiently inside, disguised as hamburger patties and steaks.
Willows pushed open the door, held it for her. The restaurant was more empty than not, and they were given a table by the window.
Parker ordered a spinach salad, glass of icewater.
Willows said, “I’ll have a pint of whatever you’ve got on tap, and a hamburger with Swiss cheese, bacon and mushrooms. But could you hold the green pepper and substitute lettuce for the bean sprouts?”
“That’s a number fifteen, the blimpburger.”
“It is?”
The waitress smiled. Pier lipstick was a dark, glossy red — the colour of an overripe apple. Willows glanced away, and Parker knew exactly what he was thinking. The worst thing about the job was how the foulness of it sometimes caught you by surprise, filled your mouth to overflowing. Parker reached across the table, gently squeezed Willows’ hand.
It was a moment of unexpected intimacy, unsettling and powerful. Parker smiled at Willows, and he smiled back. They might have been lovers, and perhaps they were.
The waitress went away. There was a moment of absolute silence, and then Parker said, “So, how goes the battle?”
“What battle is that?”
“For custody.”
Willows shrugged. “Her lawyer calls my lawyer. My lawyer calls her lawyer. They whisper to each other, the long distance charges pile up, but who knows what they say?”
Parker’s water arrived, and Willows’ beer. He drank half the glass and sighed.
Parker said, “You aren’t contesting the divorce, are you?”
“I want a chance to be a father to my children, that’s all.” Willows drank some more beer. “Why did you bring this up?”
“Because you’ve been telling me you’ve got them for the month of August, but you don’t seem to have made any plans. What d’you expect them to do for entertainment? You should get yourself organized, make sure that when they’re with you they really enjoy themselves.”
The food arrived. Parker waited until the waitress was out of earshot and said, “Your wife phoned me this morning, at the office. Farley took the call. She left a message, said she wanted to talk to me.”
“I told you she was going to call. She’s worried about me, remember? Not that worried — just enough to want to be reassured that I’m doing okay, getting by.”
Parker used her fork to stab at her salad. She said, “So what the hell am I supposed to tell her, Jack? That it’s a wonderful life, or you miss her like crazy and would do anything to get her back?”
Willows had lost his appetite and regretted the beer. He should have ordered something stronger — a quarter gram of arsenic on the rocks, or maybe a couple of pints of 86-proof ethanol, with a twist of lemon.
Parker pushed her spinach salad aside. “I can’t take any more of this. I feel like a damn bunny rabbit.” She indicated Willows’ congealing hamburger. “You want that, or not?”
“Every last pound.” Willows cut his burger in two, held the plate out to Parker. “Help yourself.”
“Cowburgers. What a concept.” Parker took a bite, made a face. She chewed and swallowed and said, “Joey fell in love with Emily, didn't like the way Cherry treated her. He decided to kill Cherry, but, his first time out, made a rookie’s mistake and shot Emily. Then died of remorse, so to speak. Tell me something, Jack.”
Willows cocked an eyebrow.
Parker said, “Is that how it happened, did I miss anything?”
“Cherry might’ve figured out that Joey shot Emily, and decided to kill him. I doubt that’s what happened, though.”
“Why is that?”
“Partly because they were brothers, but mostly because Cherry didn’t seem to care what happened to Emily.”
Parker nodded, remembering the interrogation room, Cherry’s attitude.
Willows pointed to the cowburger. “You finished with that?”
“Definitely.”
Willows flipped open his wallet, dropped some money on the table.
Out on the sidewalk, Willows found that he and Parker were standing very close to each other and that she was looking right at him, directly into his eyes. She said, “Tell me something — how can things be so complicated and so simple, all at once?”
Willows realized, with a sudden vertiginous lurch of the heart, that Parker wasn’t talking about Joey and Emily. He stared down at her. The heavy summer air was adrift with chunks of grit, stained pale blue with exhaust fumes and gridlock malice. Parker’s huge dark eyes were vulnerable as any first offender’s. Willows stared at her for a long moment, then turned without a word and strode briskly towards the waiting unmarked car.
24
While they were waiting for the limo to show up for the ride out to LAX, Newt and Rikki had passed the time arguing about the wisdom of
taking a gun into Canada. Newt agreed with Rikki that there was no real difference between the two countries except taxes were criminally high in Canada. But he pointed out that even so, LAX-VCR was an international flight. Consequently, they were likely to encounter pesky customs officers with dogs that liked to snort luggage.
Rikki’d said, “What about the Clock? Can I at least take the Clock?”
He was talking about an Israeli-designed and produced semi-automatic handgun that was built mostly of hi-tech plastics. Rikki believed that if you disassembled the weapon and were reasonably creative about how you stowed the pieces, it was virtually impossible to pick up on an X-ray machine.
At the time, Newt hadn’t seen any point in taking what he considered an unnecessary risk; he could always arrange to get hold of a gun in Canada. But now that he was in Vancouver, the situation was different. Frank had a gun. At least, Newt presumed he did. Rikki, on the other hand, didn’t, thanks to Slick’s double-cross. It wasn’t a situation Newt felt comfortable with. Weird, the way Frank had turned out. Newt didn’t believe any of that stuff about falling in love. There was something else going on. Maybe, after all the rounds he’d absorbed, Frank had become gun-shy.
Newt had been shot only once, and that was years ago, but he remembered it as clearly as if it was happening to him right this minute. Remembered being knocked flat on his ass by Parker’s .38 wadcutter, a lucky shot that struck him in the chest, punctured a lung and deflected across his ribcage, the collapsing flesh and shattering bones playing a wheezy bagpipe dirge that brought tears to his eyes and almost killed him, it sounded so painful.
And he remembered the surgeon, Epstein, paying him a visit a few days after he hit the emergency ward, the guy all piercing blue eyes and aftershave and hairy forearms, wearing a thousand-dollar silk suit. The doc seemed to picture himself as some kind of hero. Laying each word of eternal wisdom down firm and heavy as a paving stone, he informed Newt that he’d come that close to being in a situation where the only date left in his appointment book was the autopsy.
Accidental Deaths (A Willows and Parker Mystery) Page 21