* * *
Leith’s more formal interview of Dion took place at an Internet café on Lonsdale. Dion wanted to meet offsite, and Leith had considered refusing — the information was sensitive, and the walls have ears, especially at Internet cafés — but he had submitted in the end. The café wasn’t half as popular as the Starbucks just up the block, was nearly empty, and he decided the risk was low enough.
Dion arrived looking like a stranger, in jeans and dark T-shirt, silver chain around his throat, plain black baseball cap straddled with sunglasses. He looked like a man with criminal intent, the type Leith would eyeball if they met on the street and mentally file away for future reference.
Sitting in comfortable armchairs across a low table, jazz playing quietly overhead and Leith’s digital Panasonic set to record, Dion gave much the same story as he’d given roadside, but with times and dates and further explanations attached. He described how exactly he had become friendly with Jamie. He was visiting the Yorks, and she was living there, so they got talking. She needed driving lessons, and he had helped out. That was all. Leith asked if they were dating.
Dion said no.
“It still doesn’t make sense to me, how you got her to tell you.”
“I guessed there was a connection, and told her so, and she knew she was up against a wall.”
“But how did you guess?”
“Just a lucky shot in the dark,” Dion said. “She was afraid of Asian men, so I got her to tell me why. She said Asian men were after Oscar. The Lius are Asian. Somehow Oscar latched on to Lance Liu as a stalker and went after him. It was all just a possibility I put to her. I put it to her that she had been to the Mahon house, and I could tell I hit a nerve. She denied it, but I bluffed. I said I had evidence, and she bit. So I gave her a couple of options, and she was smart enough to know the only good one. I told her if her involvement was nothing more than just being there, she’d probably be let off light, maybe just do probation. Finally she accepted that. She told me about the phone and showed me where it was tossed. That’s it.”
Leith was watching him closely, puzzled by the simmering discontent he saw in the younger man’s face that didn’t quite fit the scenario. “Well, you did good,” he said. “You broke it wide open.”
Dion continued to look discontented.
“And you’re right, she’ll probably get off light,” Leith said. He saw his interviewee frown, as though he’d been slighted by the comment. “Especially considering it sounds like she protected Joey from Oscar.”
Dion heaved a sigh, ducked his face so his eyes were hidden by the bill of his cap, and said, “Yeah.”
Leith said, “Is there a problem?”
“Can you shut off the tape recorder?”
Leith did.
With face still ducked, Dion said, “I’m sorry that I bragged that I’m better than you.”
To buy time and look unamazed, Leith sat back in his armchair and crossed his arms. The apology was long overdue; it went all the way back to the Hazeltons, to one of their several confrontations. “I’ve been told worse,” he said.
He was ignored. “I used to be smart,” Dion said. “But after getting spun 360 degrees and a crack on the head, I’m pretty well useless. I can’t stand it. I can’t stand me.”
A phrase popped into Leith’s head, two words that neatly described Dion: pugnaciously depressed.
“So I can’t draw lines between my thoughts anymore,” the depressed man carried on, still looking down. “Sometimes it all just disappears. And it’s getting worse. Next year at this time I might be a vegetable. Hopefully I’ll be dead before then. But sometimes things are clear, and I know everything, and then I grab the moment. That’s why I called you, before it went up in smoke. That’s why I can’t figure out what I’m supposed to do right now. It’s why I quit.”
Finally he looked up, catching Leith’s eyes, holding them.
I have something more to tell you, he was saying, without saying it.
Leith waited a beat before answering all these startling revelations of disintegration and death. “I didn’t know it was that bad. You were right to leave. You did the right thing.”
Dion’s eyes glinted darkly. This wasn’t what he wanted to hear.
“But it’s not over,” Leith told him. Now for the good news. “You’re smarter than the average Joe, that’s for sure. Maybe some counselling —”
“Fuck no,” Dion said. He was straightening out, rotating his shoulders, already leaving the confessional and changing topics. “Still haven’t got my termination paperwork from admin,” he said more briskly. “What’s the holdup?”
“You’ll have to ask Bosko. What’re your plans for the rest of the day?”
“Got an apartment. Just moving in, actually.”
“Oh?” Leith was curious, if only for selfish reasons. “Whereabouts? How’s the rent?”
“On 13th. Rent’s okay, pretty standard for this area.”
“One-bedroom? Two? I need a two-bed. Any vacancies?”
“I don’t think so. We’re done?”
“Yeah, we’re done,” Leith said. “Unless you want to know how Joey Liu’s doing. He’s the little boy on Mahon who survived the blitz.”
“I know who Joey Liu is. How’s he doing?”
“Not bad. Does the name Noon mean anything to you? Noo-win? Nguyen?”
“Nguyen? No. Why?”
“Joey heard the killer asking Cheryl Liu about somebody named Noon, is how he said it.”
“What’s the context?”
Leith wasn’t sure about the wisdom of sharing insider information with an outsider. But in this case, it was definitely worth a try. He quoted the hearsay as he recalled it. “Noon. You bits. Which is you bitch, we’re thinking. And what have you done, or what have I done? That’s pretty well it.”
Dion stared at him, maybe thoughtfully or maybe blankly, hard to say. He shook his head. “No clue.”
“Okay, then. Is there anything else you want to tell me, Cal? I get the feeling there’s unfinished business between us. Tape recorder is off. Something you wanted to say?”
“Yes,” Dion said. He took a breath and plunged on. “It’s just that I might be totally wrong, except I know I’m not. I’m thinking Oscar Roth didn’t kill Cheryl or Rosalie Liu. I think Jamie did it.”
The team had considered the idea and all but dropped it, because Oscar was the aggressor, and the muscle, and the paranoid madman, not Jamie Paquette. “Why? Why do you think that?”
Dion’s mouth was crimped in frustration. “I don’t know. That’s just it. I don’t know why, but I think I’m right.”
“Okay, then, let’s backtrack —”
“I have tried backtracking,” Dion shouted, making the barista look over her counter with raised brows. Leith signalled to the woman that all was good. Dion stood, digging in his pocket for change. He dropped a couple of quarters on the table for a tip and said, “I’m going.”
Which he then did, and that was that.
* * *
The apartment came partially furnished. It had a queen-sized bed, three-piece sofa suite, tables and chairs, all looking like a 50 percent sale at The Brick. The place was small but not insanely so, a one-bedroom with a decent, modern kitchenette with marble-like counters, pale-blue walls. It had a narrow balcony damply shaded by evergreens that grew like a wall around the adjacent complex. The only view was branches.
Dion washed down the counters, thinking of Jamie in custody. She was safer inside than out, for sure — and the world was safer from her. He wouldn’t visit her. He couldn’t trust anything she said or did, and he couldn’t trust his own impulses. She would get to him, if he gave her half a chance. She would own him.
He thought about how he had barked at Leith, who only wanted to work together to get at something important. But something what? Even that was h
azy now. Whenever he thought of Jamie, he saw her naked, lying back on the bed, nearing climax. Which was hardly productive. A sheet of foolscap sat before him on the coffee table, proving how far downhill he’d gone. They were notes he’d written in pencil and pen, words crossed over, lines radiating from one thought to another. Reading it now, it disgusted him. Jon York drank G&Ts, and the club stocked Bombay Sapphire. That was nothing.
The dirt under Melanie York’s fingernails that first time he’d seen her, that was probably nothing, too. Before the crash, Dion hadn’t cared much about dirt under his own fingernails. Now he did. Now he noticed and scrubbed them clean every morning. Melanie was the nail-scrubbing type, too, so something could have been on her mind the night of Oscar’s murder, but she could just as easily have been on a bender.
Now there was Noon. Nguyen. A common Vietnamese name, but did it ring a distant bell? He thought maybe it did, until he tried to pin the thought down.
He added the name to the notes, and the brief quote Leith had given him. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He read the text: Time to man up and try rqtball. Court’s bkd and my usual foe stood me up. Get yr ass down here!!!
Dion texted back to Jon York that he was quite busy.
Jon wrote, Sure? B fun!! With a happy face wearing shades attached.
Dion smiled at the happy face and texted back, Ok WTF.
Which made him wonder again, what did it all matter who did what? He was no longer much of a crime solver, but that left a whole new world open to him. What did Melanie call it? Hedonism. That was something he’d been fairly good at once, something he might try to regain.
As he changed into sportswear for the one o’clock racquetball lesson he saw the dingy little apartment around him had picked up character. Not so much like the fire-sale section of The Brick now. Blue, sun-dappled walls, a pleasant layout. With a little love and attention — and a coat of paint — it might just start to feel like home.
Thirty-Three
Flier
Maybe it was because she was under the gun, but Jamie Paquette had got herself a job. The day before her arrest she had secured herself a position serving drinks at the Royal Arms. Leith had to wonder about the timing. He also wondered how she managed to get assigned a Legal Aid lawyer who happened to be a human terrier fresh out of law school. The terrier lawyer had it in his mind that Jamie, an oppressed woman without a criminal record, guilty of nothing more than subservience, should be released on a recognizance pending trial, in spite of the serious charges of aiding and abetting, conspiracy after the fact, obstruction. The lawyer made application and pushed up the hearing date. Another surprise: Jon York stepped up as surety, agreeing to the bail amount, set at twenty thousand dollars. Jamie walked.
She didn’t walk far, of course. She needed to remain at her address on record — which was the York residence — to report in to a bail supervisor daily, and was subject to a strict curfew and a dozen lesser conditions. But still, she walked. It helped to have that job; courts don’t like disrupting income streams.
Leith had shared with the team Dion’s disturbing but baseless belief that Jamie, not Oscar, had killed Cheryl and Rosalie Liu. The idea had been thrown around once or twice, but dropped. They examined it once more in consultation with the Crown, and again agreed there was nothing to it. Crown counsel seconded the doubt, and the allegation sank.
Submerged, but not forgotten. Leith decided it was time to agitate some of his persons of interest. He picked up the phone once more.
York showed up an hour later. He wasn’t looking quite as handsome as usual. Tired, with shadows under his sparkly blue eyes, and his skin seemed paler so that his freckles stood out like a rash. Leith asked him about his relationship with Jamie Paquette, about which he had to wonder, considering that risky bailout, was it more than convivial?
York said, “Jamie is a bit of a number. But then so was Oscar, wasn’t he? Why am I looking after her like this? She’s part of Oz, and that means she’s part of my family. I’m not afraid of losing that money. She won’t run. How can she, without a car?”
Leith could think of a lot nastier things to call Oscar and Jamie than numbers, at the moment. But York had only just learned of the charges levied against Jamie, which he considered some kind of ridiculous mistake. Oz killed that family? Are you nuts?
“It’s a lot of money to risk,” Leith said.
York shrugged. “Not really. Anyway, I had a good talk with her. She promises to be good. And she’s living with us, so she’s under my eye. She’s got zero resources, so she can’t bribe anyone. A bus wouldn’t get her far. She’s pretty well grounded.”
He seemed to believe himself wholeheartedly. Leith wasn’t so sure. “Do you know Cal Dion is giving Jamie driving lessons? What d’you know about their relationship?”
York seemed mildly surprised, not by the driving lessons, but the question itself. “They’re friends. Maybe there’s benefits attached, but nothing serious. He’s got enough brains to know she’s trouble.”
“She is? How so?”
“She’s the tin man,” York said, with a hand held gravely over his heart. “Nothing there.”
What a strange pile of souls these were, Leith thought. He still believed that whatever else she had done, Jamie had at least protected Joey, which meant she wasn’t any kind of tin man. And what about Dion, sucked into their midst? Would he have regrets about turning her in? Would he now pack up his car with his belongings and hers, and together they’d take to the hills?
In fewer words, he put the question to York, if only to see how he’d react.
“Cal wouldn’t do that,” York said, smiling warmly. “He may like Jamie, but he likes me more.”
“And you like him?”
“I love him,” York said. “Like the brother I never had.”
* * *
That night, when Dion learned through Jon York that Jamie had been released, he had to blink back his surprise. He excused himself from Jon’s presence in the VIP booth, walked to the quietest spot he could find in the foyer, a set of sofas between coat check and the Keno machine, and called Dave Leith’s cell number. It was past midnight, and Leith’s voice was thick. “What’s up?”
“You let her go?” Dion said, not so much a question as an expression of disbelief.
“I didn’t let her go,” Leith snapped quietly back at him. “The courts did. Why?”
“Why? This isn’t a shoplifter we’re talking about. Amongst other things, she maybe killed a woman, in cold blood. And a baby. I told you that. She’s disturbed. Why didn’t you ask me before springing her?”
Leith had gone silent. Except for the sound of breathing, heavy, as if building up steam. Or maybe he was walking. A door squealed and thumped shut, and now he was back on the line, speaking at volume. “Like I said, I didn’t spring her. If it was my choice, I’d hold her. But in the circumstances, the judge deemed her not a flight risk or danger to the public.”
“She’s both,” Dion exclaimed at his phone. “Did you even testify? Did you look for witnesses? Someone who knew her character? Me, for instance?”
“No,” Leith said, coldly. “Anyway, she’s got no history of violence. She looks to me like a not-so-smart woman who just got into a bad situation with a bad man. Also, by the way, she just landed a job, and the judge didn’t want to jeopardize her chances of becoming self-sufficient.”
“Job?” Dion said. “What job?”
Leith told him, and Dion checked his watch, and saw that it wasn’t quite twelve thirty, and the Royal Arms pub would probably still be up and running. Too angry to thank Leith, he disconnected without a word, digging into his jacket for his car keys.
* * *
At the Royal Arms he learned that Jamie’s shifts were noon to 8:00 p.m., but she hadn’t been scheduled to work today. He had already called Melanie, and Melanie said Jamie wasn’t there, either. He now stood a
t the Royal Arms bar, wondering what to do next. A game was on the TV monitor, loud, though nobody was watching. Dion leaned across the counter to get the bartender’s attention.
The bartender explained how Jamie got the job: she asked to see the manager, and she’d smiled at him. That’s how. Whatever, she was a pretty girl, knew the ropes, could look after herself, and she snagged the job easy.
Right now the bar sat almost empty, just a few doped-looking older guys slouched in corners. “Has she hooked up with anyone that you know of?” Dion asked. And because he didn’t like shouting, added, “How about turning down the scores?”
The bartender turned to lower the TV volume, answering the question with something that sounded like Polly Tompkins.
“Who’s she?” Dion asked. In the quiet now, he didn’t have to lean. He took a barstool.
“He,” the bartender said. “I’ve seen you around. You a cop?”
“No.”
“So you want a beer?”
“No, thanks.”
“Paul,” the bartender said. He yelled out, “Last call.”
“Paul …?” Dion said. “Paul Tompkins?”
“Yeah. Paulie Tompkins.”
“Are they romantic, him and Jamie?”
The bartender pulled a beer and shrugged. “Guy’s old enough to be her gramps, but decent-looking. Like whatshisname, Han Solo. Except more in his Airforce One days. Retired, widower. Nice guy, though. Nicest you’ll ever meet. He’s got a way with people. Got her talking.”
“Was Paul giving her driving lessons?”
“You know I hate beer? Hate the taste of it, the smell of it.”
“Was Paul giving her driving lessons?”
“The sound of it, even. Weird, eh?”
Dion squeezed his eyes shut.
“What were you saying?” the bartender asked.
“You have his contact info by any chance — Paul Johnson?”
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