Undertow

by R. M. Greenaway

  “Great place,” he said. “Is this some kind of millionaires’ club?”

  “Not millionaires, but a deep pocket helps.”

  “Where does the elevator go?”

  “Unfinished.”

  “Unfinished what?”

  York took him up to show off what he called the second white elephant. A short elevator ride took them to an upper level, and they stepped out onto raw plywood. The room had a wraparound view of harbour, city, and mountains. The walls were Gyproc’d but not taped or mudded. From the layout, Dion guessed it was set up to be a luxury living space, and York confirmed it. “Our guest suite, for celebs and oil barons. But again, we put the cart before the horse. You want to hear the story?”

  “Sure.”

  “In a word, overextended. The residential permits wouldn’t go through without a lot of expensive structural rejigging. So instead, we’re going to convert it to offices, maybe a rental boardroom. Which was probably a better idea to start with.”

  A fine leather sofa set was arranged in what would have been a living room, incongruous against the raw wood and unfinished walls. Also incongruous were shimmery blue drapes covering windows that still bore factory decals. People had been making themselves comfortable here, Dion realized, with or without a permit. He said, “Wow, I could live in a place like this.”

  York shrugged. “I’ve let friends stay here a time or two. Bending the rules a bit, but hardly a federal offence. Looks like I’ve spoiled your travel plans, so if you end up with nowhere to stay tonight, you’re welcome to camp out on the sofa.”

  The offer was generous, strange, and startling. Dion said, “Well, thanks. I appreciate that. But I’ll figure something out.”

  They returned to the empty club. Dion was still thinking about the highway. He asked what time the doors would be opening.

  “Two,” York said. “Today is Friday, we have the girls till nine, no cover charge. At ten the DJ’s in. We run till about 3:00 a.m. on weekends. Weekdays are slower than we expected, so we’re closed now Monday to Wednesday. But Sunday bookings are making up for it. It’s like any new venture, a learning process, you know. Win some, lose some.”

  For financial wizards, Jon York and Oscar Roth seemed to have done a lot of overshooting and scaling back. But they were just getting started, and like York said, it was a process. The city was growing fast, and true, there weren’t enough choices for late-night entertainment on this side of the bridge.

  York was looking up at one of the two silent stages with what looked like moodiness or maybe regret. “Oscar wanted to get the ladies in,” he said. “Start a tradition. So we’re planning an inaugural ladies night, next month. Seems like a gamble to me, but maybe he’s right. It’ll be a hit.”

  “Probably will be a hit,” Dion agreed, though he wasn’t so sure.

  After an awkward silence, he said again what a great place it was. He hadn’t made a move toward the purple booth seat with low table that York was gesturing at. “Thanks for the tour, but I better shove off now.”

  “No, you’re not shoving off,” York laughed. “You haven’t told me your life story yet. Sit down. No, sit down, that’s an order.”

  A man arrived, said hello to York, and stepped into the DJ booth. A microphone screeched. Bar staff were also arriving. Music began, a suspenseful beat that said sexy flesh pending. Dion looked at his watch. Not quite 2:00 p.m., which meant the girls would be onstage soon. He took a seat in the purple booth York had indicated. A brass plaque on the wall above the upholstery said “VIP.”

  “What’ll you have?” York said.

  Dion asked for anything on tap. His mood was lifting, maybe because he really didn’t want to hit the highway tonight, and York was making it impossible. Or maybe it was a lot baser than that: the girls were on their way.

  York brought over an ice water for himself, and for Dion, a bottle of Sapporo and tall, frosted glass. He relaxed back and said, “So tell me why you quit. It’s just that it really pisses me off, because who’s going to solve my good friend’s murder now?”

  “Everyone who hasn’t quit, that’s who.”

  “I don’t want everyone who’s not quit working on Oscar’s case. I want you. I could tell, the minute I saw you, that you’re a good, serious cop, and you’d get things done.”

  Dion told York that he was changing his career path, and there really wasn’t much more to say about it, sorry.

  He expected things to wrap up fast, now that he wasn’t being a sport, after all York’s hospitality. But York seemed unoffended, and switched the topic back to the girls. He described who was up this week, their particular charms and special features. “Not top-of-the-line,” he admitted. “This batch. But they’re real.” He grinned and winked.

  Waitstaff were setting up the tables nearby with snacks and cocktail napkins. York bantered with them, and they bantered back.

  The waitstaff, Dion could tell, liked their boss. He, too, was beginning to admire York, considering what he was going through, and how he was handling it. York was running what looked like an impossible show, single-handed. He had an easy relationship with trouble, something Dion could use lessons in. And to top it off, the man had dashing good looks.

  A dark-skinned woman approached, a flashy dresser, maybe a dancer. York stood to talk with her on some scheduling level, her hand on his arm in sympathy or affection. York introduced her to Dion, and Dion stood to shake her hand.

  This was Ziba, not a dancer but stage manager. Ziba made a show of checking him out. “Auditioning? Nice hire, Jon.” She gave Dion a smile and walked away. When she looked back, he smiled at her, too. What did it take to get back in the flirting game? It was nothing. It was muscle-memory, like riding a bike.

  He turned his smile to York, minus the suggestion. York had brought another Sapporo, on the house.

  A mostly male audience began to fill the tables and bar stools. York sat next to Dion, closer than any fellow police officer would dream of doing. But that was that culture, and this was this, and body contact was permitted here, even expected. “What I’m going to do,” York said — he had switched from water to hard liquor — “is show you a good time tonight, then you’re going to go out into the world and tell everyone how fantastic my club is. Is that fair?”

  Dion said it was fair.

  York left him to go speak with others, friends or staff or customers, Dion didn’t know. He was fine with that. With a drumroll and DJ intro, Girl Number 1 walked onstage. She was too young, trying to look haughty but failing. He could see her blush behind her makeup, and he could see her fear. York was right, she wasn’t top-of-the-line, but she was real. York kept busy with his crowd of friends or fans, and some of those friends and fans came to keep Dion company. They were entertaining, too, and the drinks kept arriving. Dion began to forget his troubles and spent much of his time enjoying himself. Hard to believe, but that person he could hear laughing out loud was himself. From time to time he sought York out with his eyes, keeping tabs on him, for no particular reason. Last week he had written off York as a suspect. This afternoon he had come to wonder if he had written him off too soon. The question was, did he care?

  Nineteen

  Heat

  Early morning, not quite seven. The sun had climbed the mountain ranges to the south and was flaring its rays across the flatlands of Surrey. Leith was following the course of Dion’s travels those few days ago, out along straight roads through farmers’ fields into serene Cloverdale. He had a doughnut and a cup of dark-roast coffee along for the ride. CBC played on the radio, a talk show about the wolf cull. He stuck to the speed limit of eighty, though these roads that spanned out like runways begged a driver to floor it.

  There were no witnesses to his passage but cows and flocks of starlings. He turned up 168th and pulled over. He sat regretting the doughnut, for his fingers were now sticky. He wiped them on a napkin da
mpened with the remains of his coffee, then stepped out to study the scene. Cars and trucks tore by on 56th, everyone going over the limit. He walked up and down the roadside. This was where the crash had occurred. The fool in him expected blood and car bits, but of course there was nothing here but grit and dust.

  In the car again, he looked at the tracker’s path. The path didn’t end here and didn’t circle around and head back home, either. It led that way. He restarted the car and drove, turned off busy 56th onto a quiet side road, and from there onto an even quieter side road that beelined between fields and train tracks. He drove for a distance until the tracker told him to turn again, up that rough driveway. He parked facing a metal swing gate. A sign told him not to trespass. Another sign said the place was for sale. He walked over and found the gate unlocked. He pushed it open and drove through. Got out, shut the gate. Back in his car, he checked the tracker info and saw that Dion had driven about half a kilometre along this gravel road before the trip had come to its end.

  He followed and found himself at a large plateau of busted asphalt overshadowed by heaps of sand and gravel. The heaps were old enough to host several generations of dandelions and shrubs. An old shed stood over there amongst the saplings. He stepped out. Underfoot, the weeds were discovering cracks in the blacktop and taking back the land. Above, a hawk circled. He listened to the silence. Great place for a nefarious meeting. Or for disposal of a body. Plenty of loose grit. Ideal. He trudged about, kicking at the earth and drifts of gravel.

  Maybe it wasn’t a body at all, but loot of some kind, or damning evidence. Maybe the thing was already scooped and taken away.

  None of Leith’s searches had turned up any unsolved crime that he could remotely tie to the timeline that began last July, to Dion, to Luciano Ferraro, nobody and nothing had gone missing around the day of the crash, no big heists, drug busts. But that didn’t mean it didn’t happen.

  He returned to his car. As he drove the desolate road back to Highway 99, his phone rang. Alison. That name flashing on his phone always made his heart race. Had there been an accident? Was Izzy hurt? Or stolen? Or dead?

  He pulled over too abruptly, tires skittering against the shoulder grit, and slapped the phone to his ear. “Ali?”

  “Good morning to you, too,” Alison said.

  Her tone was normal, and the blips of his heartbeat slowed. “What’s up?” Already he was moving on, impatient, fingers drumming at the steering wheel as the engine idled.

  “You left an urgent message for me to call, is what’s up,” she said.

  “Did I? Sorry, yes, I did. It’s just last night I got to thinking, we should hold off on the sale till I decide what to do here. Maybe we’ll rent the house out for a year or so. Maybe we’ll end up back there. You know?”

  She gave it a moment and said, “Walking backward is harder than it looks.”

  Leith’s window was down, and somewhere a red-winged blackbird shrilled its distinctive cry, urgent and forlorn. Another answered from across the field. From where he sat, the city seemed galaxies away. He said, “You’re probably right, babe. I’m glad you’ll be in my arms again soon. Even if it’s just for a few days. Really glad.”

  Another pause. She said, “Something’s bothering you.”

  “Well, yes, something’s bothering me.” He gestured so wide his fingers cracked against the steering wheel. He sucked the knuckles. “This whole housing fiasco,” he said. “Why didn’t someone warn me? Why didn’t I warn myself? Do a little research? Maybe put an iota of thought into this move beforehand?”

  “No. It’s something deeper I’m hearing. Like you’re really, really troubled.”

  What was troubling was Alison knew him better than he knew himself. Joey Liu bothered him, and Oscar Roth bothered him, but right now the gravel pit bothered him most of all. He said, “I missed breakfast.”

  She was unconvinced. “Go get something to eat, then. I’ve booked the flight. Call me tonight?”

  “I sure will.”

  He left Surrey behind and joined the heavy traffic pounding toward Vancouver. Alison was right, he was troubled, more than he even realized. Frankly, there was only one way to unload that trouble and get back to normal. It was high time to talk to Mike Bosko, give him the lowdown. Dust his hands and walk away.

  * * *

  Dion woke to brightness, not sure at first where he was. The air smelled like drywall dust. He was stretched out on a leather sofa, fully clothed but no shoes, with a Mexican-style throw blanket over his lower half. The sofa wasn’t quite long enough to accept his length, but it was comfortable. One window was partially uncovered, and he watched a lone gull cross the sky. Thick glass didn’t quite mute the shunting crashes of trains down by the wheat silos; otherwise the room was silent.

  He recalled what had put him here. Too many drinks and Jon York’s generosity. It hadn’t seemed weird last night, but now that he was sober he had to wonder. He tilted his head to test for the mind-splitting headache that usually came with heavy drinking. Not too bad. He ran a palm over the flatness of his stomach and realized he had missed dinner. What a night, though. Hanging out with Jon York in the purple VIP booth for hours, watching the action.

  Conversations came back to him in muddled bytes. York went on and on about a project he had going in West Van. The house of his dreams, under construction, almost to lock-up stage. Had photos on his phone, endless photos. Even brought over a laptop to Google-Earth it, show everyone how his new property sat like a barnacle over the inlet waters.

  But even with York going on about his dream house, it had been a great night, great music, nonstop fun. The VIP booth never slowed. People crushed up next to Dion with drinks, and wild stories that didn’t always climax. Somebody kissed him. Melanie York had shown up at some point. In retrospect, he understood why. She had come to chauffeur Jon home, because he wasn’t fit to drive.

  He recalled her waving at him, and couldn’t remember waving back.

  He returned with an effort to the scary question of what next. On his phone he found two text messages from Mike Bosko, separated by several hours, asking him to call ASAP. He switched off the phone and stuck it in his pocket. He would deal with it later.

  Twenty

  A Turning Tide

  Leith called Zan Liu to let her know they were making progress in the murder investigation of her son, daughter-in-law, and granddaughter. He didn’t tell her the progress was pathetic and the leads were probably false, and that, in fact, Lance’s partner and friend, Sigmund Blatt, was now missing, which only complicated the file. She didn’t need to know all this. She thanked him for keeping her informed. He thanked her for her patience.

  Immediately after disconnecting from Zan Liu, he turned back to the Roth case, reviewing the witness statements, Cleo Irvine’s in particular, the dead man’s ex-wife. On his first talk with her, she had not struck him as moved by Oscar’s death. In fact, what had she said? He looked up the verbatim quote. Oz was a “walking waft of bad karma.” Too touchy for his own good, and he rarely thought twice. About anything.

  Besides that bit of spiritual slander, she had little to offer. By the end of the interview Leith had her summed up as cool but not complicit, and JD agreed.

  That was several days ago. Now he collected JD to go and speak to the ex-widow — if that was the correct term — once more. Now that she had possession of the luxury home and the disturbed little girl, Dallas, what were her plans? Would she trench in and try to control Diamonds, or sell the shares? If she sold, who would buy? Jon York? Would he then become the King of Diamonds?

  And was that his motive? Had he killed his partner and good friend to gain full control?

  “What do you know about corporate structure?” Leith asked JD as she drove up to the gates of the Roth home and rolled through.

  “Nothing.”

  Neither did he. The plateau at the end of the driveway was bus
y with vehicles. There was a bright red Kia that probably belonged to Cleo Irvine, and a couple of vans with contractor logos on their sides. A man on a ride-on lawn mower burred along the green. Window washers were setting up a scaffold. JD said, “Already fixing to sell, I guess.”

  Up by the front door, Leith rang the bell. Cleo greeted them, looking not like the lady of the manor but part of the cleaning staff, with her fine brown hair in an untidy bun, no makeup, and clothes fit for scrubbing floors. But instead of a mop and rubber gloves she had a businesslike camera around her neck. She didn’t seem to recognize Leith from their first meeting, but he wasn’t surprised. She had been digesting some big news then, and no doubt in her eyes he had been nothing but a large blur asking questions.

  “How long is this going to take?” she asked now, as she led them inside. In the spanking-clean foyer, every article picked up light and bounced it back in starbursts. “Not to be rude, but I’m in the middle of documenting this place for the ad. The agent took some snaps, but low-res. Figure I’ll get better offers if people can actually see what they’re getting for their buck.” She reviewed her last shot, and grimaced. “I’ve never been here before, you know, until today. Knowing Oscar, I expected ostentatious with a capital O, but this is ridiculous. Have you ever seen such an overgrown fungus?”

  She paused to peer through her viewfinder at the broad staircase, her body welded into a living tripod. “D’you think using wide angle is false advertising?” she said. But she didn’t expect an answer. Snick, snick, and they moved on, past the dining room and into what was probably called a breakfast nook next to the showroom kitchen.