“Sheep?” said Willows.
Spears scowled into his crossword. He printed a word and then reversed his pencil and laboriously rubbed it out. The door at the far end of the squadroom banged open and Orwell, his face red as a brand-new wagon, bulled in dragging his chair behind him. He slammed the chair against his desk, chipping the paint. Spears glanced up at him.
“What the hell do you want?” snapped Orwell.
“Seven letters. Preferred vessel of acrobats.”
Orwell said, “The chief was in the elevator. He took a look at my chair and told me if my ass was that tired, I oughta book off sick and go home.”
Willows laughed. Orwell sat down at his desk. He yanked open a drawer and pulled out a tennis ball. He squeezed the ball in his fist. The tendons and muscles of his wrist and arm bulged ominously.
Parker and Farley Spears exchanged a look. Nobody said anything.
Orwell wheezed and grunted. A seam tore and the ball collapsed. He stared at it for a moment and then tossed it on his desk.
Farley said, “Gosh, this is more fun than a day at the beach.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t shoot, Eddy. It was a compliment. You’re supposed to be flattered.”
Orwell said, “I’ll flatten you, wiseguy,” and shut his eyes and began to massage his temples.
Parker said, “Tumbler.”
Spears nodded, bent over his crossword.
Mel Dutton, his jacket slung over his shoulder and the armpits and chest of his pale blue shirt dark with sweat, sauntered into the squadroom. He walked over to Orwell’s desk, tapped him on the shoulder. “You given any thought to what we talked about, Eddy?”
“What’s that?” said Orwell.
“Memories, and how they fade. The baby.”
“Judith and me talked it over,” said Orwell. “We decided we’re gonna get a camcorder. Motion pictures, Mel — it’s the latest thing. And like Judith said, why would we want somebody like you taking pictures of our baby — so he’d look nice and dead?”
Dutton glanced at the crushed remains of the tennis ball lying on Orwell’s desk. “When the great day finally arrives, try to remember not to squeeze the little guy too hard, okay?”
Orwell said, “Thanks for the advice, you’re a pal,” and went back to massaging his temples.
The door to Inspector Bradley’s office swung open. Ralph Kearns was first out. His face was pale, shoulders slumped. Oikawa was right behind him. Both detectives looked exhausted, as if they’d just finished a marathon. Oikawa softly closed the door.
Dutton said, “Never mess with a paperboy. Those kids are nasty.”
Kearns gave him a sour look.
Dutton said, “So you guys still cops, or what?”
Kearns said, “You tell’em about it.” He gave Oikawa a quick look of warning. “I gotta have a cigarette, or I’m gonna die.”
Oikawa said, “It turns out the mother is a lawyer. The way she tells it, the kid’s in terrible shape, crazy with guilt. Shock. Loss of self-esteem. He may never recover. Why, he even had to quit his paper route.”
“Think of the loss of income,” said Dutton. “Could be as much as twenty, thirty bucks a month.”
Oikawa grinned despite himself.
Spears said, “So what happened? What was Bradley yelling about?”
Oikawa picked up Orwell’s tennis ball. “Man, what a life.” He tossed the ball in the air and neatly caught it. “It ain’t as if we didn’t have a reason for picking the kid up — he was crouched down between a couple of houses at the far end of the block, peeking in somebody’s basement window. Ran like hell when he saw us. And he fit Joey’s description, more or less.”
“Mostly less,” said Willows.
“I admit it, we jumped too soon. Ralph was feeling a little touchy about slacking off during the stakeout. He wanted to make the bust. Is he going to do it again? Believe me, I hope not.” Oikawa pried the two halves of the tennis ball apart and looked inside. Empty. “What happened is, the inspector made a couple of calls, found out the kid — he’s fifteen years old — has a record even longer than my … ”
“What?” said Parker.
“Arm,” said Oikawa, blushing. “The kid’s a born thief. If it ain’t nailed down, he’ll steal it. And if it is nailed down, he’ll go steal a hammer. Daddy can hardly wait until his son graduates to adult court where some hard-ass judge puts him away for a couple of years.”
Spears said, “So what was Bradley yelling about?”
“Well, I guess he felt obliged to point out that we didn’t know the kid was a thief when we busted him.”
“Cop instinct,” said Spears. “That’s why you nailed the punk. Cop instinct.”
Oikawa smiled. “That’s what Ralph said just before the inspector blew his top.”
“Anyway,” said Spears, “what’s important is that the kid’s mommy backed water.”
Oikawa nodded. “There was some movement on both sides. We had to go over to the house, promise the kid we wouldn’t bother him anymore.”
“Cease and desist your harassment of the child,” said Spears. “Fair enough.”
Oikawa lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Ralph was terrified. The kid’s mother scared the hell out of him. We drive over there to tug the forelocks and he’s wriggling around in his seat, can’t stay still for a minute. I ask him what’s the problem and he tells me he can’t get comfortable — it’s the cork.”
“The cork?” said Spears, grinning broadly.
“Yeah, sure. Enjoy yourself. In all the years Ralph and I’ve been partners, I’ve never heard him tell a joke or even laugh at one. He wasn’t trying to be funny — the only thing holding him together was his suit.”
The laughter abruptly died as the door to Inspector Bradley’s office swung open. Bradley crooked a finger at Willows and Parker.
Spears said, “It's the Japantown triple. They got Sandy Wilkinson and Bob Kaplan on it, and now they want you.”
Willows, pushing away from his desk, had a hunch that Spears was right.
26
The town was full of Jeep Cherokees, boxy little four-wheel-drive vehicles that maybe weren’t as quick as a Corvette, but were inconspicuous simply because there were so many of them. Rikki took a taxi across the Lions Gate Bridge and stole a charcoal-grey model from a dealer’s overflow lot off Marine Drive. As he broke into the vehicle, strings of blue and red and white plastic flags that marked the perimeter of the car lot snapped in the breeze, applauding his efforts.
Rikki had never bought a new car, or even a used one, come to think of it. He’d stolen plenty, but probably it was a different kind of thrill. The pride of temporary ownership — whoever heard of that?
The Cherokee’s engine turned over, caught. Rikki gingerly pumped the gas pedal. Six cylinders. He tried the lights and turn signals, radio. Everything worked. He put the Cherokee in first gear and floored it out of the lot, turned west on Marine, towards the bridge. A few years ago, a distillery had spent several hundred thousand dollars stringing lights along the top of the bridge. The lights followed the shape of a slightly flattened-out “M,” and looked like a limp advertisement for McDonald’s. The illuminated bridge was beautiful at night, but from Rikki’s point of view its attraction was also a bit tainted, in the sense that it had the same kind of tawdry superficial appeal as the car lot’s gaudy plastic flags. But then, there were miles of car lots on Marine Drive — so maybe the bridge was an appropriate gateway.
Rikki cruised past a Denny’s restaurant, a motel, and then another restaurant — this one with a flock of giant fibreglass parrots perched on the roof. He swung on to the approach to the bridge, was swallowed by the flow of Mercedeses and BMWS from West Vancouver. Far below him and to his right were rows of permanently immobilized mobile homes, the floodgate-controlled waters of the Capilano River, lights of a major shopping centre. Most of this was reservation land, though you could look for days and never se
e an Indian.
The bridge was three lanes wide. Above each lane were twin rows of green and red lights which controlled the flow of traffic. Cars and trucks and buses in the middle lane zipped past Rikki at a combined speed of one hundred miles an hour and more, and the blur of onrushing steel at times seemed only inches away. The drivers were paying more attention to the bridge’s spectacular view of the ocean and park than the road. Rikki gripped the Cherokee’s steering wheel so hard he had a feeling he’d never be able to wipe his fingerprints away. He reached the apex of the bridge. A seagull raced screaming past the windshield. On the horizon, a massive island seemed to rise up out of the sea, and almost directly below him, a huge freighter churned the dark green water creamy white.
There was almost too much to look at. Rikki had a nice view of the Stanley Park seawall, people strolling along singly and in groups, riding bikes, jogging. He caught a glimpse of Siwash Rock — a pillar of dark stone local legend said had once been a man. The shrill whine of the Cherokee’s all-, terrain tires changed pitch as he reached the south end of the bridge, roared past the thirteen-ton pair of concrete lions and hit the cement surface of the causeway. The blare of traffic doubled in volume as the Cherokee shot beneath an underpass. He tried to imagine what the causeway must be like when it was raining or snowing. A nightmare — far worse than anything L.A. had to offer.
The road climbed slightly. There was a solid wall of green on both sides, then a turnoff into the park. He was tempted to dip into the greenery, take it easy, start breathing again. He’d like to catch one of them fat-ass Canada geese, watch the light go out of its beady little black eyes as he wrung its neck. Light a driftwood fire on the beach, cook that bird and tear it apart with his fingers, lick the grease and watch the sun go down. But he had a really heavy date with the cute lady detective, and it was important he didn’t stand her up.
Newt had inherited most of his wealth but spent every penny as if he’d been the one who’d died to earn it. The hotel mini-fridge wanted eighty-five dollars and fifty cents for a bottle of Charles Heidsieck. He was thirsty, but he wasn’t crazy. At a government liquor store — and there was one on Alberni, hardly more than a block away — the champagne would be half that price or less.
“Frank.”
“Yeah, what?”
“We need something to lubricate our celebration. Why don’t you go get a breath of fresh air and a couple bottles Dom?”
Frank glanced at Lulu, who was busy following along with an exercise program on television.
Newt said, “She can stay here, keep me company.”
“Won’t be cold.”
Newt frowned. He said, “I wouldn’t expect her to be.”
Frank said, “I’m talking about the champagne, not Lulu. You order from room service, it’ll be ice cold. I buy it off the shelf, it’ll be room temperature. You like warm champagne, Newt?”
“I’ll order some ice. Ice is cheap. By the time Rikki gets back, it’ll be cold enough. Now get outta here, Frank.” Newt smiled, but there was nothing in it. “Stop arguin’ with me, will ya?”
Frank glanced at Lulu, hoping she’d have something to say, help him out. She was lying on her side on the carpet, wearing orange Day-Glo Lycra so tight you could see the little dimples on either side of the base of her spine. She caught his eye and scissored her leg, pointing her polished red toenails at the ceiling. A wisp of platinum hair drifted into her glacial eye. The sound the Lycra made when she brought her legs together was whispery and wet. Frank headed for the door. Lulu’s leg came up again. She pursed her lips and airmailed him a kiss goodbye.
Newt sprawled out on the bed. The elevation provided by two pillows allowed him to watch Lulu’s reflection in the mirror. She had a better body than any of the TV sports chicks, for sure.
The screen flickered. Commercial time. Newt said, “You and Frank getting along okay? I mean, I noticed you don’t seem to do a lot of talking.”
Lulu rolled over on her stomach. Newt’s heart went bumpety-bump. She said, “Frank’s no black belt at idle chatter, if that’s what you mean.”
Newt wasn’t sure what he meant, exactly. Or what she meant, either. He probed again.
“A woman your age — Frank’s old enough to be your father.”
“Yeah, that’s one of the things I liked about him when I first met him, his maturity.”
Newt mulled that one over, focusing on the fact that she’d used the past tense. Was the bloom already off the rose?
The string of commercials ended. Lulu shifted onto her hands and knees. She gave Newt a smile that lingered just a fraction of a second longer than he expected, then turned her attention back to the television. Newt stared greedily at her as she extended her right leg straight out behind her, held the pose for the count of five. Now the left leg. Lycra, the miracle fabric. Newts lungs ached. He suddenly realized he’d been holding his breath.
Lulu turned so her back was to him. She rocked on her haunches. There was a thin sheen of sweat on the back of her neck, her shoulders. She said, “Is my back straight?” Newt nodded stupidly, and then said yes. His voice was dry, cracked. She glanced over her shoulder at him, smiled. Newt licked his lips.
On the television, the top chick and her team of synchronized identical triplets were slowing up, cooling off. Lulu came gracefully to her feet, uncoiled smoothly and effortlessly as an astronaut — as if gravity had nothing to do with her. She turned off the TV and, much to Newt’s amazement, was suddenly lying beside him on the bed.
She stared at him for a moment, from a distance of no more than six inches, and then sighed, and closed her eyes. Newt tried not to look at too many places at once. Despite the ferocity of her workout, she smelled fresh and clean, the healthy fragrances of her toothpaste and shampoo and soap mingling with the subtle carnality of her thousand-bucks-an-ounce perfume.
Newt slipped an arm around her tiny waist. The Lycra whispered as she moved a little closer towards him. Her eyelashes fluttered — Newt was wound so tight he actually heard them.
Lulu grabbed a pillow and bunched it up, making herself comfy. The Smith lay there on the sheets, shiny and big as the front bumper off a pre-war Cadillac.
“Big gun,” said Lulu softly.
“Rikki picked up a pair of ’em,” said Newt, “one for him and one for me.”
“There was something on television, a man was shot and then hit over the head … ”
Newt made his face go slack with dismay. He said, “Rikki’s such a jerk. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to teach him to pull his punches. There oughtta be some kind of obedience school for guys like him, know what I mean? ’Cause if you can’t train’em, sooner or later, you gotta put’em down.”
Lulu shut her eyes and concentrated on her breathing, keeping it under control. A man had been murdered, a guy with a wife and three kids. God help her, she couldn’t remember his name.
Newt said, “Wanna hold it for a minute?”
The phone rang. Lulu’s eyes popped open. She looked frightened, terrified.
Newt had to lean over her to get at the phone. His lips brushed the nape of her neck. He tasted salt — or maybe it was just a trick of his feverish imagination. He picked up.
Frank said, “I’m at the liquor store. They got a pretty good selection of champagnes, but they all sound the same and I can’t remember which kind to get.”
Newt told him.
Frank said, “Hold on a minute, lemme borrow a pen from the clerk and write it down.”
Newt waited.
Frank said, “Okay, but go slow.”
Newt rolled his eyes at Lulu. He wondered why he’d ever been afraid of Frank, the Killer Snail.
Lulu was sitting on the edge of the bed, a dazed look in her eyes.
Newt gave Frank the information he needed. Frank asked if it was okay if he went somewhere and had a bite to eat. No problem, said Newt, take as much time as you want. Frank said he wasn’t positive he wouldn’t come straight back from the liquor
store. Maybe he’d grab a bite and maybe he wouldn’t. He just wanted to clear it first, was all.
Newt hung up and said, “That was Frank.” He studied his watch. “He’ll be back any minute, I guess.”
“Are you afraid of him?”
“No way,” said Newt quickly, before he had time to think about it.
“I am.”
“Yeah?”
“He yells at me. Sometimes he hits me.”
Newt’s eyes crawled across her body with the random determination of a thousand ants.
Lulu said, “Here and here … ”
“Where it doesn’t show?”
She nodded. Her pale hands twisted in her lap.
Newt said, “You want me to get Rikki to take care of him?”
“Then he’d think I belonged to him, wouldn’t he?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Newt hadn’t bitten his nails in years, but he was biting them now.
“Couldn’t you just send him away somewhere. On a job. Do you have any friends in Colombia, for example?”
“Nobody I’d trust. Besides, would he leave without you?”
“If there was enough money in it.”
Newt said, “Buying people never works. Want to know why?”
“Tell me,” said Lulu. She glanced up at him and then quickly lowered her eyes. Her voice was as sweet as honey and soft as a feather pillow. She sat there on the edge of the bed, waiting to be instructed.
“Because the money always runs out, and then they want more, and in the end there’s never enough. So you gotta find a more permanent way to take care of them — what you shoulda done in the first place.”
“People are greedy.”
“Right, exactly. And you can count on’em to always take the easy way out. Know why L.A. is so violent?”
Accidental Deaths (A Willows and Parker Mystery) Page 23