He sat up. Jamie was not in bed beside him, and upstairs he could hear a woman’s laughter. Then silence. He spotted an item on the floor. It wasn’t a tidy floor, but the item stood out to him as though it was flashing for attention. He left the bed and picked it up. A small black matchbook, partially used, with the Diamonds logo on it.
Jamie used a lighter. Melanie didn’t smoke. He himself had never picked up matches from the club. Which left only Jon. He wasn’t as shocked as he wished he was.
* * *
Inside, the place was looking more gymnasium than dance club, with its fluorescents on full. Dion helped move tables and chairs. Then he strung up decorations, what seemed like a billion foil stars lit with LEDs that were to cascade from the stage frameworks, with bunches of purple helium balloons on the fringes. “The last of the helium reserves,” Jon said. “But my baby’s worth it.”
Up on his ladder, Dion stuck up another streamer of stars, and asked if Melanie was actually going to be surprised.
“Not hugely,” Jon admitted. “She knows I’ve got something planned, just doesn’t know what. It’s not what I’d call mind-blowing, but it’s better than our humdrum old dinner parties. This’ll be a night to remember, promise.”
“You’re lucky to have her,” Dion said, looking down at Jon.
Jon smiled up at him. “I know it.”
The stars were up, and Dion climbed down. Jon dimmed the lights and switched on the psychedelics, and all stood back to admire the effect. To Dion it looked old fashioned, but nice. Jon said, “Party goes till about midnight. Then VIPs will cruise around the bay a bit. Buddy of mine has a yacht. We’re going to end the night with champagne and waltzes. What d’you think?”
“Melanie will be thrilled,” Dion said.
But Jon was looking at him seriously, with something to say. Dion couldn’t imagine what and braced himself. “Now, I know you’ve got a thing about the water,” Jon said. “Mel told me about it after we took you out on the Glastron. I didn’t know. You should have told me, and I’d have taken it slower, or whatever. You could have worn those inflatable armbands, say. We wouldn’t laugh.”
He was laughing now, though, and Dion didn’t care for it. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It is, once you hear what they call it. Thalassophobia. Fear of the sea. Which is just plain cruel, considering where you live.”
“It’s not that. Really.”
“But a yacht’s different,” Jon went on. “Steady as a rock. You’d think you were on terra firma. Just stay indoors and you’ll be okay.”
“Sure. Is Jamie coming tonight?”
“Of course.” Jon slapped him on the shoulder and went back to supervising the surprise party that Melanie was half expecting. Dion stood with a beer bottle in hand, looking up at sparkling tinfoil stars. Convictions, he was thinking about. Looch had once said, Just because you got yourself a conviction, Cal, doesn’t mean it’s right.
* * *
About nine that evening Melanie walked into the darkness, baited in with a lie about signing more adoption papers. A little girl in a blue velvet jumper was at her side. Melanie had on a flowered wrap over a slinky black dress, and looked beautiful, Dion thought. He also thought that for two individuals not expecting to walk into a party, they were superbly decked out. They stood silhouetted a moment before the lights came on, along with the opening strains of “Kiss You All Over.” The guests shouted “Happy Birthday!” Melanie did a good job of looking shocked, and Dallas seemed indifferent.
Soon the disco ball was churning, spitting pink and blue sparkles across the floor, and people were dancing to the mellow playlist the DJ was blasting, loud oldies mixed with the latest hits. Dion had been drinking beer all evening, but Jon told him to grow some class and handed him a mixed drink, gin and tonic. “It’ll grow on you,” he promised, as Dion pulled a face.
Dion tried to open himself to the fairly turpentineish taste. “What’s the gin?”
Jon’s hand signal in response, I’m watching you, was serious but facetious. “Yes, it happens to be Bombay Sapphire, Detective. But you won’t find any baby booties in here.”
“No, I was just wondering,” Dion said. The reference had alarmed him, until he recalled that the message-in-a-bottle clue had been all over the media. Pretty well the only thing that had been suppressed in the Mahon Avenue case was the survivor, Joey Liu.
Dion kept an eye out for Jamie, but he knew she wouldn’t show. People danced around him. He raised a toast, smiling, feeling the buzz.
An echoey and seductive song played, and Melanie was at his side, saying, “‘Face the Sun.’ I love this one.” Dion was far gone enough to grab her hand and pull her into a dance-floor embrace. They hung on to each other and swayed artlessly, more like long-lost lovers than friends. Dion could see Jon York deep in conversation, but looking their way now and then, unconcerned, even grinning. This was the new romance, he realized. This was how it would be from now on. No rules, no convictions.
Melanie noticed the time and said, “Jesus, I forgot.” Dion followed her out to the foyer, where Dallas was being overseen by a staff member. Not that there was much to oversee. The little girl sat in a chair, a toy in her hand, a white plastic horse. The plastic looked almost luminescent, like weathered glass. The girl was murmuring in its ear.
“She loves horses, especially this one,” Melanie told him. She had phoned for someone to come and pick up the child, take her home, put her to bed. “She won’t watch TV unless there’s horses running about the screen. The wilder the better. Keeps her captivated for hours. People say it’s sad. I’m not so sure. I guess I have a lifetime to figure it out.”
Dion couldn’t imagine having to care for any child, let alone one with special needs, but he could see no fear in Melanie’s eyes. She said, “I tiptoed into her world the other day. I brought another horse and lay on the floor, and my horse grazed in a nearby field. Her horse eventually came over to check mine out. It was the closest we ever got to a conversation.”
“She never talks?”
“She tried it out for a while, but seems to have abandoned the effort. She’s been to specialists, had tutors, all sorts of tests. They’ve given up. But I haven’t, and won’t. I love her as is.”
The music filtered through the walls, a thump-thump heartbeat. Dion and Melanie picked up the slow dance where they had left off. Dallas wandered, running the little horse along mouldings and coffee tables. Sometimes the animal cantered and sometimes it flew.
The care aide arrived and took Dallas away, and moments later, Jon came striding out from the double doors of the club, calling them over. “Is Dallas gone?” he cried out happily to Melanie, taking her hand. “Good, ’cause we’ve got some grown-up-girl entertainment ’specially for you.”
Tony, Dion thought, following along. Walking wasn’t easy, either because the ground was slanted or because he was laughing too hard. Everything was funny now, and a male stripper just about topped it.
Inside, the MC was wrapping up her intro, and an electric tom-tomming of suspense began. The partiers hooted and whistled, and Tony the male stripper power-posed onto the stage. Women shrieked with laughter. Dion used his hands for a megaphone and added to the noise with a wolf howl. He turned to seek Jon out in the crowd. Jon gave a wave and thumbs-up. He had said this would be a night to remember, and it was turning out to be just that.
* * *
Afterward, there was the yacht. A bigger boat than Dion expected, and the VIPs numbered only about fifty, so there was plenty of room on board. He stood in what somebody called the stateroom, a curved lounge with a window viewing the waters chugging past, a dreamy parade of lights from anchored cruise ships. There was no waltz music, as Jon had promised, but meandering jazz. Conversation was lively. Dion was glad to see Jon and Melanie leaning against each other like young lovers, kissing often.
Definitely, though, someon
e should cut off Melanie’s drinks. She was getting loud, and he knew how easily loud could slide into obnoxious. Himself, he had switched from liquor to sparkling water with a twist of lemon. He joined the group on the foredeck to watch the fireworks. The boat was now in the middle of the great corridor called the Georgia Strait, idling as the ignited rockets whistled. Whistled and torpedoed and exploded into curtains of gold. VIPs gasped and cheered. Melanie’s eyes reflected the sparks, and she leaned so far back as if to embrace the sky that Dion stepped behind her to break her fall.
“This is so perfect,” she told him, not falling but leaning, and she raised her glass to the atmosphere. “Isn’t this perfect, Cal? Aren’t you glad you came along?”
He gripped her arm as she went to the railing and leaned on it, out over the cold, black water. “Look at that, it’s so deep and powerful and wise. How can you not love the water? How can you be afraid of the water, Cal? What happened? Did you nearly drown? Let me cure you. Let’s go swimming.”
“Let’s just watch the fireworks,” he said.
“My glass is empty.”
“Time to do like me and stick with water,” he told her. “Or you’ll regret it tomorrow.”
She stared at him, then laughed aloud, and he noticed that however drunk she became, she never quite lost touch. “You’re right,” she said, and turned and flung out her arm. He watched her champagne glass sail out over the waves and fall in a glittering arc. It swirled for a moment then was sucked into the deeps.
She said, “I drink too much. Pay attention. I’m going to blurt out something I shouldn’t.”
“Like what?”
She laughed. She hit at him but missed. “Nice try, Detective.” She leaned into him, and he had his arms around her again, if only to keep her from slumping to the ground, and he had to correct his earlier assessment: she did lose touch. Another round of fireworks popped off, quite a blitz. He watched with the rest of the crowd as Melanie seemed to doze against his chest. The last bang was the biggest; the show had orgasmed, and was now winding down. The guests drifted back inside. Jon stood alone, watching the last of the blue sparks spiral out of the sky. Getting his money’s worth.
Dion helped him get his money’s worth for a minute, then roused Melanie and took her inside to get some tea or coffee into her. People were leaving, going out to bid Jon goodnight. They gathered their jackets and wished Melanie a final happy birthday, and she blew a few kisses. Dion watched the stateroom empty and grow quiet. The jazz still playing now seemed sad. Melanie lay on the cushions with her head on his lap, and outside Jon York stared out at the water, watching his night to remember coming to an end.
Thirty-One
Jibe
Jamie prowled the Honda down the avenue. Dion was in the passenger seat, praying his car would get through this lesson without a fender-bender. The windows were down, and the warmth and fragrance of a warm spring night after a rainfall filled the car’s interior. He had instructed her for an hour in an empty elementary school lot, working on the fine art of parallel parking, using a couple of plastic milk crates to mark out the driver’s allotted space. Now, past midnight, they were looking for real-life obstacles to practice on, parked vehicles on a quiet residential street.
Jamie knew just about everything. Windshield wipers, high beams and low beams, emergency flashers, tire pressure, and the alerts on the dashboard that should never be ignored.
“Try these two,” Dion said.
She parked perfectly in the space he had pointed out, and told him she was tired of this exercise. “I want to go back to the highway,” she said. “Let’s go bully another asshole into a coronary.”
“No,” he said. “Let’s just talk.”
“What?”
“Shut it off.”
Reluctantly, she killed the engine. He said, “With an ‘L’ you’re going to need a passenger with you for a whole year. Someone with a licence. You realize that? Who’s going to supply the car when I’m not available? Who’s going to ride with you?”
Her stare was not quite blank. There was the creeping stain of anger in her eyes. “You’re planning not to be available?”
“I’ll help for a while, but I’ve got a life. You’ll have to find someone else.”
She stared at him, and stared harder, as if he might be intimidated into changing his mind.
“What about Jon?” he suggested, with some edge. “Or Melanie?”
“Too busy. They’ve got Dallas now. I was going to tell you today, I’m leaving town, and I want you to come with me. But you’ve changed. I can tell. So if you’re going to fuck off, then maybe I’ll just pack up and go on my own.”
He and she were similar in a way; they both kept threatening to fuck off and leave, and then never took that important first step. He crossed his arms. “Getting someone else to teach you to drive won’t be easy. You have a bunch of friends I don’t know about?”
“I have friends.”
He didn’t believe her. “If you’re thinking any guy on the street will take one look at you and offer to help, you better remember he’ll want something in exchange. And that guy won’t be as nice as me, that’s for sure.”
Her face was tilted up slightly, facing him directly, but she seemed distant.
He said, “You told me you’re in trouble, but you’re not telling me what matters. If you told me, if I knew, then maybe we could do something about it, and you could stop running.”
“Like do what?”
“Find these Asian guys. Put ’em away.”
He expected her to step even further back now, one way or another. He could see her mind ticking. She was thinking hard, of what she had to gain, what she had to lose, and in a way, he was doing the same. With sudden clarity he realized who they each were: she was an incubating menace, and he was still a cop, manoeuvring around a suspicion.
She occupied herself tying her hair back, checking her face in the visor mirror before answering, a simple but icy admission. “I know who they are, and I know why they did it, because I’m part of it all.”
She checked his face, but he was giving nothing away. She said, “They want to kill me for what they think I did. They were going to, once. She had her guys put a gun to my head and pull the trigger. I fuckin’ wet my pants. But it was just a warning. They weren’t sure it was me. They let me go. I dyed my hair and figured no way I’m going outside again. Next time they won’t let me go. They’re going to make it hurt. I’m not going to the cops, because I can’t, so I’m going to do the next best thing, leave town. That’s all I’m going to tell you. I thought you and me could go together. I think we’re made for each other. I still think we should do it. Well? Will you come with me?”
With all of that, she had supplied him with several answers, and a whole bunch of questions, too. The biggest was her use of the word she.
No perceivable connection existed between Oscar Roth and the Liu killings, but the possibility had planted itself in Dion’s mind from the day he had walked into the Roth residence and stood behind Jimmy Torr doing his investigator’s squat. He had looked at the body and the scene. The nexus was right there for anyone to see: time and space. Two violent deaths in one week, in one relatively safe city, was enough to draw a line between them. The madness of both crime scenes was another. They felt the same to him. Then along came Jamie, with her fear of Asians. And now she was telling him there was a she in the mix. An Asian she, he supposed. Which all but finalized it for him.
The best plan of action, he decided, was to ask her outright, ask it fast, and word it ambiguously. He said, “Did you go to a house on Mahon with Oscar last month?”
He saw a flicker in her steady gaze. She wanted to come across as confused by the question, maybe bewildered, but she overdid it slightly. Ever so slightly, but enough for him to know. He had her. She said, “Mahon? What’s that?”
“I think
you know what I’m talking about.”
“Oh good, ’cause I sure don’t.”
“You don’t have a criminal record, that’s why they couldn’t ID you. You’re not in the DNA databanks. But you know what? Everyone leaves something at a crime scene, no matter how clean you try to be. One long blond hair is all FIS needs. Or an eyelash, for that matter. They had nothing to compare it to before, but when I give them your name, they will. Your sample matches up, they’ve got you.”
She was busily tamping down her outrage, lighting a cigarette, looking out the side window as though she couldn’t bear the sight of him. Her hand trembled.
He said, “Why did you do it? Were they the stalkers?”
She said, “You told me to trust you, so I did. Everyone’s a fucking liar.”
“I never lied to you.”
She shrugged, letting him know she was writing him off forever. “For all I know, you’re lying about finding a hair, too.”
There had been no long blond hair at the scene, nor an eyelash, but even so, he had told her no lies. “No, I’m not.”
“So you’ve been after me all along.”
“I didn’t think so,” he said bitterly. “But I guess I was. I started to wonder.”
She pulled on her cigarette and kept her focus out the windshield. “The Asian guy was following us. Oz took him on. He went nuts, went overboard, because he was just that mad. He was protecting me. It’s what men do when their girlfriends are in danger, protect them. Or most men.”
Undertow Page 23