A list? Many people could name an enemy or two, but few needed to write them out. Leith took the note and looked at seven names neatly printed in a column. Two names were crossed off. He asked why.
“I did some checking up,” York said. “They couldn’t have done it. Opportunity.”
Leith knew his team would be looking at the crossed-out names anyway. If he was an actuary he would be counting up the man-hours it would take to thoroughly investigate these seven names — well, six, anyway — and the rate of return, which would no doubt be zero. He asked for a synopsis on each, the six named gentlemen and one lady — the one lady being Cleo Irvine. He didn’t tell York that he had already interviewed Cleo, and she was all but eliminated. Even her hypothetical hitman had been kicked off the case-room board. But he did want to hear York’s take on it.
“It’s more a harmless mud-slinging,” York said. “Cleo’s got everything she needs in life. She has nothing to do with this. You might as well take her off the list.”
The other enemies were a couple of business deals that had gone wrong, and the jealous husband of a woman Oz had dated briefly before meeting Jamie. Then there was that oversensitive dude who got ousted from the club Oz had worked at in Whistler some time ago. The guy still wrote the occasional hate email, but he was probably more bark than bite. Finally, there was a libel suit related to the bidding process of the Diamonds development. Leith found none of it terribly exciting.
He said, “Who was your electrical contractor?”
“Bowen’s.”
“Ever hear of L&S, couple of independents?”
“Nope.”
“Never worked for you?”
“Nope.”
It had been a long shot. Leith flicked the piece of paper. “Was Oscar worried about any of these guys?”
“Hell, no. It’s just you asked, so I racked my brains, and that’s what I came up with.”
“Last few months, did something change? He get worried about something?”
Jon York snapped his fingers. “You’re talking about the stalker.”
“Stalker …”
“Oz has been antsy lately. He had the feeling he was being followed. We figured it’s all in his head. He’s a bit hyper.”
Was, Leith mentally corrected. Because Oz had been permanently calmed down. Leith had studied photographs of the living Oz and seen a meaty guy with bristling dark-blond hair, a mean grin. Oz had a high-blood-pressure complexion. He was a joker, but he could be weepy, too, what might be called a loose cannon. After gathering info on him and looking into that solid face long enough, Leith felt he’d actually met him. It was the same with most murder victims he had to investigate; they would come alive. Too often they would step into his dreams and yell at him. Lance and Cheryl Liu had visited just last night. Lance was giving Joey a shoulder ride, Cheryl crying about a lost bootie.
He said, “Your wife says the same thing, that he was paranoid lately. Was he doing any kind of drugs that might explain it?”
York had dark-blue eyes, like sapphires. When he smiled they seemed to throw sparks. Lucky man, he had the ultimate house, the flashy car, and stunning eyes to boot. “Smoked pot, occasionally. Preferred his microbrews.”
“Nothing harder than beer and dope? You’re sure about that?”
“Far as I know.” York shrugged. “He might have tried some harder stuff a time or two, I guess. I don’t know.” He turned to Dion. “Sure I can’t get you something there?”
“No, thanks, I’m good,” Dion said.
Next came Jamie Paquette, to be interviewed in the same room. She wore the antithesis of mourning attire, easy-fit denim shorts, bleached and frayed, flip-flops, and a filmy blue-green shirt tied above her flat stomach. Leith asked her how she was doing.
“Okay,” she said. “Thanks. Still totally in fucking shock, but hey.”
Now Leith almost got it, what had happened to Dion yesterday in the interview room as he first clapped eyes on her. Something about her gaze said she was not just with you, but inside you. Yesterday she had added tears to her arsenal, and who can resist a beautiful girl with wet eyes? Tougher than the average maiden in distress, though. Yet however rude she came across, it was an honest rude. Leith had the feeling she was as honest as any upstanding citizen he had ever interviewed, if not more so. Maybe too much so.
She said, “Do you know who killed Oz? I hope you find him fast, ’cause I’m scared.”
“Why are you scared?” Leith asked.
“’Cause maybe they’re after me now, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know. You have a reason to think they’re after you?”
“I have no reason to think anything. I’m just scared. Wouldn’t you be?”
“We’re looking hard, Jamie. What are your plans now?”
“Stay with Mel and Jon a while. Then, I don’t know.”
In the end the interview was unprofitable, not much better than Dion’s attempts. Yes, she agreed that Oz was a little paranoid lately, but he never gave her any specifics. She outlined for Leith her movements on the day of the killing. Shopping at Metrotown, cabbing back and forth. Tried Oscar’s phone a couple times, then headed to Mel’s place in the evening, after dinnertime. Showed Mel what she’d bought. They had a few drinks and crashed. In the morning, still couldn’t get a hold of her doorknob of a boyfriend, so she and Mel drove up there.
“Must have been quite a scare,” Leith said.
“Completely, totally, freaky scary,” Jamie agreed. She was studying Dion now, and he was studying her back. “I ran the hell out of there. Melanie’s way cooler, though, and she did whatever she did. I guess she shut off the car and opened the garage door. Then she came outside and called 911.”
Leith tried to draw her attention back to him, without luck. “Neither of you had any idea what happened to Oscar?”
Jamie shook her head. “Not a clue. Sorry. Not a clue.”
Leith thanked her, and she thanked him back. When she left the room, he and Dion discussed what they had, and agreed it was probably all they could get. They returned to the living room, and while Dion sat on the white leather sofa to complete his notes, Leith had a conversation with Melanie York on a more informal level, asking about Oscar’s daughter, Dallas. They stood just out of earshot of the child, watching her. She was sprawled on her back now, playing with a plastic horse figurine, galloping it through the heavens of her imagination.
“She’s sweet, mostly,” Melanie said. “But she can have her tantrums. Vocabulary got to about a three-year-old’s level. But she’s stopped talking altogether lately, like she knows it’s pointless. Goes to school half days, a special class. She’ll always be in care.”
“Does she know her father’s gone?”
“Probably doesn’t register.”
“Were they close?”
“As close as he could be. Oz loved her, would do anything for her. But you can’t get close to Dallas. We all hover over her, but she’s in her bubble. In a way she’s just become …” Melanie hesitated and dropped her voice to murmur, “… just part of the furniture. She’s just there.” Where had Leith heard those exact words, “just there,” so recently? Jamie on the video screen, talking to Dion. Melanie was saying, “You go, hi, of course, call her sweetie, but you can’t hug her — she doesn’t like it. She doesn’t look at you.”
“Did she have caregivers, besides Oscar and Jamie?”
“Few hours a day hired help would usually go in. Jamie isn’t what you’d call mother material.”
Leith nodded. He had the complete inventory of the hired help. None of them were full time. Aside from the child’s caregiver, there were weekly gardeners and house cleaners, the occasional pool man, and a housekeeper slash cook who put in about four hours a day, four days a week. There was no butler. After scrutiny by himself and the team, all the hired help had been
cleared.
“What happens to Dallas now?”
“Cleo gets her,” Melanie said coldly. “Though she never wanted her. Cleo’s an art dealer, always off globetrotting. I don’t imagine she’ll change course. She’ll probably sell Oscar’s house, buy herself a bigger condo, and stick the kid in a home. Which is probably for the best. Jon and I will keep tabs on it all, of course. Visit Dally, make sure it’s a good place.”
“Have you considered adopting her?”
Melanie’s eyes seemed to drift. “I’ve suggested it. Jon’s mulling it over. It’s a lot to ask of him. Not financially. Oscar’s estate will cover all expenses. But emotionally …”
Leith said he understood. He saw that Dion was no longer working at his notebook but standing with Jon York by a liquor bar. The bar was more low-key than Oscar Roth’s miniature reproduction of an English pub, merely a length of black marble in a corner, behind which could be found no doubt the usual sink and mini-fridge and spritzers. York and Dion were inspecting a small bottle. York was talking and Dion was listening, but they looked like buddies shooting the breeze.
Their apparent coziness surprised Leith and, in some way, hurt. He had tried to be nice to Dion, probably not so well, but for all his efforts, the distance between them only seemed to widen. Soon they would need megaphones to communicate. Yet there he was, chatting and laughing with a perfect stranger.
He thanked Melanie for her time and signalled to Dion. Jon York walked them out to the driveway. By the car, York asked Leith about Oscar’s body, funeral arrangements. Leith did his best to answer; sorry, the body wouldn’t be released right away. He added that he hoped he wouldn’t have to pester Jon and Melanie much further, but might need to come back.
“Of course,” York said. “We all just want you to find whoever did this.”
Because York was still a suspect, even with an alibi and tears, Leith looked him straight in the face and answered with a shade of challenge, “Oh, we will.”
Fifteen
Ebb
Next on the list was a visit to the Roth mansion. Since they were en route, they charted the course. As Melanie had suggested, it was a fifteen-minute drive, not so far in the scale of things, and Leith thought about Jamie Paquette leaving the house after everyone was in bed, making the significant hike, at least an hour, probably more, taking shortcut hiking trails, perhaps, killing her boyfriend, and walking back to the York house. Possible.
But even if it was conceivable that she could overpower a man like Roth, the timing was a really bad fit. Roth had died no later than 1:30 a.m., maybe as much as two hours earlier. Melanie York in her written statement said Jamie had gone to bed at half past midnight, and she herself had retired about 1:00 a.m. So for Jamie to squeeze a murder trip in there, Melanie would either have to be lying or mistaken. Or else Jamie was a swift-footed ninja. Or had access to a vehicle, or an accomplice. Or it just hadn’t happened.
For now Leith bet on the latter.
Inside the Roth mansion, he and Dion walked from room to room. JD Temple had done her research, and Leith knew the home’s background. Oscar had only bought the place two years ago, an estate sale through family connections, heavily discounted. Even with the discount he had leaned on a sizeable mortgage to get it, again with family assistance. The interior design was professional and cohesive. The house had come furnished, from draperies to kitchen utensils, and only in odd corners some garish thing or another had worked its way into the decor, revealing Oscar’s boyish aesthetics. Maybe in time it would have devolved into a giant, messy, man-sized playpen, something Oz would now never accomplish.
As for who stood to gain from his death, that would be Cleo Irvine. She got the house and all its encumbrances. Oscar had defaulted somewhat, so when the dust settled she would walk away with possibly no more than the million he had put down. Not bad pocket change, but nothing to risk life in jail for either, especially for a woman with her own great career powering her along.
As they walked the halls, looking into rooms, trying to get a better sense of the dead man, Leith asked Dion what he and Jon York had been talking about over at the bar in York’s Deep Cove home.
“Scorpions,” Dion said. “Mostly.”
“Scorpions?”
They were upstairs now, in Oscar Roth’s office. A big bay window looked out over hill and dale, city and bridges, the straits. The closest hump of land that Leith could see would be some offshoot of Vancouver, probably. Maybe Burnaby.
He looked down at Oscar’s desk. It was free of clutter, but only because the clutter had been collected as evidence. There was a stale smell of cigarettes and beer in the air, but the ashtray had been taken as well, along with its butts and contraband roaches. So the smell was probably soaked into the carpets and drapes.
Candy wrappers lay on the floor. For some reason one panel of plush gold curtain was missing, and Leith looked at the bare rod overhead, wondering if it was related to the murder but doubting it. There was nothing in the file about it being gathered as evidence. Probably a mishap. Oz had accidentally set fire to the curtain, or spilled wine all over it, and nobody had gotten around to replacing it.
Along with the ashtray and boxes of documents, Oscar Roth’s computer had been seized. Nothing thrilling had been found on the hard drive. He had played a lot of games and looked at some porn, and there was a folder with the death-threat emails from that enemy of his — more bark than bite — but that was all.
There wasn’t much left here to see. A dartboard and unframed posters of bikini babes on the wall, stuck up with pushpins. Both dartboard and babes had darts stuck in them.
Leith had all but forgotten the conversation about scorpions by the time Dion answered, leaning against the wall. “There’s one called the deathstalker,” he said. “But it’s weird, because they think its venom can treat brain cancer. In Asia they drink scorpion wine to treat all kinds of things. It’s also an aphrodisiac. York had a small bottle, this big, with a scorpion in it, but I don’t think it’s for anything more than showing off. I asked if he’d tried it. He said he had. He asked if I wanted a taste. I said no.”
Leith sat in Oscar’s office chair and looked at the open, polished surface of the desk, marred with a couple sticky rings where glasses of something had sat. The man didn’t believe in coasters, and he also didn’t let the house cleaners into this office much. Why? He said, “No hard drugs in this place, no paraphernalia either, and Jonathan York tells us Oscar was into nothing stronger than pot. Think that’s true?”
“He also said maybe he had tried other stuff.”
Leith looked at him. “Don’t you think York, as his best pal, would know exactly what drugs Oscar tried? And that makes him a liar, right?”
Dion was looking at the poster of a popular South American actress/bombshell, at the dart stuck in her eye. He said, “I thought you don’t like assumptions.”
“Just something to look into.”
Down the hall Leith observed that the spilled fabrics from the linen closet were gone now, and most of the bedding was back where it belonged, so neat that a housekeeper must have dealt with it. There was no sign of any dark-green bedding.
“Ident took it all?” Dion asked.
“I imagine so.”
When they were in the car and on their way back to the detachment, Dion struck up a conversation from the passenger seat, but off topic. “I need to look at my file. Doug says to ask you about it.”
“What file?”
“My MVA, in Cloverdale. I can’t figure out where it happened. I need the coordinates. Why do I have to go through you?”
“Not sure,” Leith said. “You don’t know where it happened?”
“No, and the roads out there all look the same. So can I see it, the file?”
“We’ll take a look, find out what you need. Why?”
Dion said nothing for a moment, maybe consi
dering his choice of answers. None of your business was probably one of them. “Go pay my respects to Luciano Ferraro, is all. Why else?”
On that uninviting note, both men fell silent.
* * *
Leith’s resolution to spend an hour on the phone with Alison that night didn’t quite pan out. He had the bottle of beer and was stretched out on his bed with his head propped on a pillow. He missed her, and they did talk at more length than usual. But both had been born with reserved personalities, and they couldn’t seem to get into the whole steamy phone sex thing. Instead they talked about the sale of the home in Prince Rupert.
“No bites at all?” Leith asked.
“We’ll just have to lower the price, Dave. People drive by and keep going.”
“It hasn’t been long, babe. Let’s hang in for another month. Anyway, I have a great idea. Lock up the house and get your ass down here. Just for a break. I’ll go crazy if I have to go another week without you.”
“What’s wrong? You sound blue.”
“Wish I’d never left,” he confessed. He had told her this before, but never with such conviction. “Don’t like it here. Today was not so good.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Oh, just the planets out of whack,” he lied. “Anyway, I’ve got a plan. We’ll keep the proceeds and just rent till we sort things out. I’ll put up with this place till a transfer op comes up.”
He didn’t tell her what he had in mind: a move to the prairies, to golden lands, a dome of sky choked with stars, and about half the stress. The trick was selling the idea to a girl from the coast. Alison had been born on the Island. She loved her ocean.
He and she said goodnight and disconnected. He lay thinking over Dion’s words from earlier today, speaking of his Cloverdale disaster. “All the roads out there look the same.”
The statement made no sense. Dion maintained he remembered nothing of the day of the crash. Total, localized amnesia was credible enough, not uncommon in victims of head trauma. But then why didn’t he just say so: I have no clue where it happened, because the day’s a complete blank.
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