Oscar Roth’s ex-wife, that’s who. She lived over the bridge, in False Creek, if he recalled right. But the afternoon was slipping away, and he heard music coming from upstairs. He changed into the clothes he had brought for the party, the clothes he had been hoping to impress Jamie with, dark jeans and a button-down shirt, black-on-black vertical stripes with a bit of sheen.
Upstairs, he found a few guests had already arrived. In the dining room, Jon and Melanie were chatting with a heavy man in a flowery Hawaiian shirt. Introductions were made. This was Bob, the first of the guests to arrive, a friend of Jon’s and Oz’s from way back when.
Some low-key music played, and dozens of amazingly realistic fake candles flickered their gentle flame on tables and shelves. Bob and Jon were loudly reminiscing about an Oz who was both lovable and exasperating. Melanie languidly arranged snacks and decorations on a long table brought out for the occasion. Dion assisted, mostly by watching. He could smell marijuana and wondered what he’d say if the joint passed his way. Hey, thanks, probably, now that he was a free agent. Melanie beckoned him over, telling him to help himself to the bar, beer or wine or whatever else he could find.
A photo album on the counter distracted him from the liquor, and he found within its covers assembled memories of Oz. He flipped through some not-so-cute baby pictures, then glum, three-quarter-profile posed school shots. Snapshots of a rowdy-looking teenager. One of more current interest showed Oz not so long ago, with buzz cut and beard and catty shades, maybe in some kind of biker-wannabe phase. He had a good-looking, dark-haired woman at his side, infant in her arms. The couple looked happy. As Melanie was walking by, he called her over and asked if the woman in the photo was Cleo.
“That’s Cleo,” Melanie said. “I can’t believe she’s dead, too. And that’s tiny Dallas before she shocked us all with her silence. Happier days.”
He found a trio of photos of Oz and Jamie, all taken around the same time. There was the bear-hug photo he had seen on the mantelpiece, a shot of Oz and Jamie kissing in a nightclub, and the two of them in a motorboat, looking back at the camera. “The Stingray Oz totalled,” Melanie said.
“When were these taken?”
“Last June, I’d say.”
Which made the photos about one year old, yet the Jamie in the photo looked more than a year younger, to Dion. Maybe it was the size of her grin, big and carefree.
The last photograph was more recent, no bear hug this time. Jamie as a blonde, unsmiling, and Oz looking at the camera with doleful eyes. Maybe doubtful eyes. He shut the album. “What happened to Cleo? All I was told was that she fell out a window and was DOA.”
“I was going to ask you the same question,” Melanie said, teeth crunching on a carrot stick. “I was hoping your friend there would give you the inside scoop.”
Leith, she meant. “Hardly. Far as he’s concerned, I’m a traitor.”
“And are you?” She winked at him as she opened the bar fridge, pulling out orange juice. She set down a bottle of Absolut and a tall, skinny bottle of Galliano and two fat tumblers. “Should we stick with Wallbangers? Our friends and relations will start arriving soon, and I, for one, need a boost.”
Dion took a tall chair and said yes to the drink. He spun a coaster and saw that one of the bottles lined up before the bar’s mirrored shelf was squared off, blue, and he couldn’t help thinking of one small, pink-velvet baby bootie.
Melanie was dispensing vodka like a mixology pro. She smiled at him, but he realized that however close she got, she remained remote. And she drank too much. He spun the coaster again.
“How come you don’t have a date?” she asked, slapping the coaster flat and putting the drink on top. It was properly presented this time, in a highball glass, complete with swizzle stick, maraschino cherry, and orange slice.
There was no point dancing around the issue, and he had the feeling she knew anyway. “I thought I’d have a shot at Jamie. But she doesn’t like cops.”
“But you’re not a cop, are you? I’ll talk to her. She’s in her room, laying low, not looking forward to this party. I’ll take you down there. Break the ice.”
Melanie stood next to him where he sat, stood too close, placed her arm around him. He felt her palm on his lower back, not just resting against him, but feeling his structure. And Jon in plain sight.
But only for a moment. Now she beckoned and took him downstairs.
* * *
A vicious night wind had scattered litter and pine branches all over the North Shore, but the late afternoon had become calm and unnaturally bright. A ship in a bottle sat in front of Mike Bosko, setting sail in the sunshine that flared over the desktop. Bosko told Leith and Doug Paley that he had found the treasure at a garage sale. He told them to go ahead and take a look up close.
Paley had a look, seemed unimpressed, and tried to hand it to Leith.
“I’d rather not,” Leith said. “I’m pretty good with not dropping stuff, unless it’s valuable. This looks pricey, so I’ll just look from here, thanks.”
“Oh, I don’t know about pricey,” Bosko said. “Somebody made it in their workshop. Maybe they followed DIY info on the Internet, or maybe it’s a lifelong passion. Just take a look, though, at all that work. It’s not your typical ship in a bottle. Look at its tilt, like it’s driving into the headwinds. Quite a little masterpiece.”
Leith picked up the bottle, gingerly, and peered. The boat was embedded in green gunk of some kind, to mimic the briny deep. What at first he’d thought was exquisite detailing was quite crude, now that he saw it up close, and the tilt was maybe the creator’s failure to set the thing straight before the gunk dried. He murmured his appreciation, then passed the bottle back and said, “Sir, I found Dion.”
Bosko’s brows went up. “Yes?”
Leith went on to recount his visit to the Yorks’ Deep Cove home yesterday, and what he had learned. How Dion had taken up with the King of Diamonds, was actually living at the club. “So he’s finally resigned, I hear.”
Bosko’s brows either went up again or hadn’t gone down yet. “Hm,” he said. “Really.”
And with that, Leith’s unofficial involvement in the unofficial case was over. It was out of his hands. He was glad. He returned to the matter at hand, reporting on the major cases. He referred to his report and summarized. “No luck getting a production order for Jon’s phone records, but still trying. Ziba Farzan has corroborated Jon York’s evidence; he stepped in for a few minutes between eight thirty and eight forty-five. I found her credible. JD found her theatrical. So there’s that. Ident found shoe scuffs on Oscar’s desktop that weren’t there before, and some grit, along with Cleo Irvine’s fingerprints. But they couldn’t match the scuffs to Cleo’s shoes. The desk had been pushed about three feet out of alignment, for a climbing surface. It’s a heavy desk, but Irvine looked like a strong woman. JD’s following up on Irvine’s last communications. Irvine had finished a call at eight forty-one with someone named Pearl. JD tracked Pearl down. She’s Irvine’s housekeeper, and Irvine had hired her to take care of a few things at the Roth house. She was supposed to have hung a drape. The drape, we suppose. And had forgotten. Pearl says Irvine called to harangue her about it. They were going to discuss the question of if and when Pearl would go and take care of it, but she says she had the feeling Irvine was just going to do it herself. Pearl says Irvine ended the call abruptly, before any decision was made, and said she’d call back in a couple minutes. Irvine didn’t give a reason for the interruption, and never did call back.”
“And that was the last call on record?”
“Yes. Irvine pretty well lived on her phone, by the way, so there’s a lot to check up. Piles of online info on her too, social media, blogs, so on. She’s an art dealer, has a lot of plates spinning. JD’s exploring that side of her life. We’re thinking that because on the day of her death she was dealing with the house as well as an art
work sale, she might have had other calls coming in, is why she ended the call with Pearl. No evidence of it, but it could have been an incoming that wasn’t completed. Anyway, like I say, Irvine’s call with Pearl ended at eight forty-one, and that lets Jon York off the hook. Because he was downtown, talking to Ziba, then picking up Dion. Dion says York came to collect him at eight forty, and he, too, is certain on the time.”
Unless he’s lying, Leith didn’t add. He looked at the ship in the bottle. He thought of the gravel pit, and the cadaver dogs, ground-penetrating radar, soil analysis, all those things he might have had to consider putting into motion, if he had found one bit of corroborating evidence. Thankfully, he had not. He had one final task to check off in that regard, and then he would shelve the matter.
“The Lius,” Paley said. “This one’s eating me alive, sir. Every tip that’s come in so far has hit a wall. And we’re still looking for this Sigmund Blatt individual. I’m starting to think Jim’s right, he’s dead, and what got Lance, Cheryl, and Rosalie is a vendetta hit of some kind. I’m even taking another look at Phillip Prince.”
Leith swung the talk back to the Oz Roth case. “Jamie Paquette and Melanie York are still in the frame, but I can’t imagine how they pulled it off. It was a messy scene, and both of them were processed soon as we brought them in. Paquette was clean, no injuries, not a hair out of place. Melanie York had a bruise on her arm and seemed more dishevelled, which she couldn’t or wouldn’t explain. She does seem to be a bit of a drinker, so maybe it’s just clumsiness. I don’t see how she could overwhelm Oscar without major help, in any case. So some external muscle would have to be involved, and that’s a link we haven’t been able to make.”
Bosko thanked Leith and Paley, and they stood. Paley walked out, but Leith hesitated in the doorway. “Whatever his faults,” he said, “I thought Cal loved the job.”
The BlackBerry near Bosko’s elbow on the desktop lit up. Leith had noticed it flickering throughout the discussion, like a silent Fourth of July, with messages, alerts, and prompts. Bosko had ignored some and glanced at others. “Oh, for sure he does,” he said. He picked up the phone and brought it to his ear. “That’s why he left! Sorry, I have to take this.”
Leith took a last look at the little ship in the bottle, leaning against the gale, and followed Paley back to the grind.
* * *
Melanie leaned in the doorway to a large bedroom. It was a half basement set-up with high windows that allowed little daylight through. The walls were painted mauve. The decor was cluttered and feminine, the air rose-scented. Jamie Paquette sat centrally on the bed, her legs drawn up. She was half naked, wearing a filmy black shirt and nothing else, by the looks of it. She had been painting her toenails, and her kohl-lined eyes gazed past Melanie, straight at Dion.
“This guy really wants to meet you,” Melanie told her. “He’s okay, promise. I’ve totally vetted him for you. No wires.”
Jamie unfolded her slim body, sat on the edge of her bed, and tilted her head at Dion, taking his breath away, much like before, only better. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s talk.”
Twenty-Six
Wall Banger
The boy now had a dog of his own, Zan told Leith and JD. The dog’s name was Louie, a sweet little Jack Russell rescued from the pound.
“It’s so good to see Joey smiling again,” she said.
“Wonderful,” Leith said. “Where is he now?
“In the kitchen, having lunch. Thank you for coming so fast. I’m not asking him any questions, like you said not to. He’s been busy with Louie. In fact, I think it’s because of Louie. He talks to the puppy, tells him things he won’t tell me.”
“What did you hear him saying, as close as you remember?” JD asked.
“Something about the noisy man, and about Cheryl — mom — having a fight. That’s all I caught. Noisy man, mom, fight. That’s when I called you. I’ll bring him over now.”
Once again Leith sat quietly off to one side in the living room, while JD sat on the other with the little boy, asking carefully framed questions. “You were telling Louie about what happened to your mom, Joey?” she said. “You remember some things that happened that day?”
Joey nodded.
“That must have been tough to talk about.”
He nodded.
“But it felt good, too, to tell somebody, didn’t it?”
Joey shook his head.
JD said, “Yeah, I guess nothing really makes it any better, does it? Can you tell me what you told Louie?” Her digital recorder was on, and Leith’s notebook lay open on his knee, ready to take down what would probably be another patchwork of unhelpful semi-false memories. He hoped this would be more than just ogas this time around.
Joey spoke softly, barely audible. “The man came up the stairs.”
“Up the front way?” JD asked.
“The back.”
The back door, as Leith recalled it, at the Liu home on Mahon, led out to a deck, entered via the dining room. There had been a clothesline hitched to a post on the deck, a pile of damp laundry, and the door had been unlocked. Unfortunately people weren’t as vigilant about locking back doors as front, even in the big bad city.
“Did he say anything as he came in?” JD asked.
“No, he just came in. He was loud. Mama said we’ll play hide-and-seek. She said to go hide and not come out or make a noise till she says so, and she went to go get Rosie.”
“Where was Rosie?”
“She was on the floor, by the television.”
Leith could see it all playing out before him. Cheryl was maybe in the kitchen with Joey. The man barged in, placing himself between Cheryl and Rosalie. Cheryl wanted to run to pick up the daughter while protecting the son, so she did the only thing she could think of, told Joey to hide, then made a dash across the room. She scooped up her daughter, but now here was this terrifying stranger, asking questions she couldn’t or wouldn’t answer. She was backed into a corner. And Joey was in the cabinet, staring out at the man, the oga with the big eyes and big mouth, until somebody saved his life by shutting the cabinet door.
“I was hiding,” Joey went on. “I was scared. I heard Mama …” He ground to a stop, huddled into himself, sucked his thumb, and his eyes filled.
The silence continued. Leith could see JD thinking. Should she make more small talk, press him to go on, or sit and wait? She did none of the above, but got up, beckoning to Zan, and they left the room together. Moments later, they returned with a small dog trotting behind them, lured by the dog biscuit JD held. She gave the biscuit to Joey. He smiled down at the dog, and the dog smiled up at him.
“Louie,” the boy said. “Sit,” and gave the dog the biscuit without waiting for it to obey.
The dog sat munching biscuits at its new master’s feet, and JD took her chair again. “I thought it might be easier to tell us both what happened. D’you think so, too?”
It went marvellously from then on, and Leith’s notebook began to fill up.
“Mama told him to go away,” Joey said. “She shouted at him. She went aaaaaah nooo. He said …” Joey pitched his voice high, doing his imitation of someone yelling, “Noon, noon, noon….”
Noon?
Joey went suddenly silent and then began to talk, quoting the big, noisy man who was shouting at his mom. He no longer shrieked the words but carefully pulled them from memory, one by one, like a string of awful beads, each bead logged into Leith’s notebook.
“You bits.”
You bits, Leith wrote.
Joey said, “Rosie was crying. Shut up shut up shut up.” He had pitched his voice into a scream again. And again to imitate his mother. “Mama went noooooo, pleeease. I went like this.” Joey demonstrated how he went, head ducked down, clapping palms over eyes, then ears. “Then it was dark, and lots of noise, and then I didn’t hear anything.”
&nbs
p; JD said, “Could you try to think of him again, Joey, the man, and tell me what he looked like, please?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“No? He had something on his head, you said before. Do you remember what that was? Did it look like one of these? Which one, d’you think?”
She had drawn several styles of hats in her notebook and was showing him, like a four-year-old’s version of a photo lineup.
Joey shook his head. He was looking at JD with something like brewing resentment. Why was she pulling him back to that dark place? Could any adult be trusted, ever?
She closed her notebook. She said, “Did you hear any more voices after it went dark, any more words?”
Joey suddenly shouted, making Leith jump, and out came a flood of weirdness. “Wuvvadun, wuvvadun? Bang bang bang, bang bang bang, walking and walking and walking. He walked close, and I was scared. Bang.” Again Joey demonstrated something he couldn’t have witnessed but must have visualized, lashing out a fist at an imaginary wall. He fell silent, frowning down at Louie the dog. “Baby,” he added. “Wuvvadun baby.”
* * *
She was perfect. Dion had thought Kate was perfect, but Jamie was up on another level. She was from another world. She was magic, and she had cured him, in one night of talking, and sex, and more talking. As far as conversation, they had spent most of the night together, up at the party and then down in this room. She had been careful in the beginning, answering no questions he put to her. So he learned to ask no more, and only tell her things, whatever came to mind. In time she met him halfway. Which was approximately when they’d had sex. After that, once she decided she could trust him, she opened up and talked. Which was exhilarating. Not deep talk, but deep wasn’t what he wanted — not yet. Finally at 4:00 a.m. she fell asleep beside him. They were now what he would call a couple.
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