Undertow

by R. M. Greenaway

  But a group of white-shirts were heading their way, Bosko amongst them, and the three men fell instinctively quiet.

  “Dave,” Bosko said. “Have a moment?”

  The other brass moved on, and Leith joined Bosko. They went along to the Liu/Roth case room, the cases now forged into one monster mystery, partly solved but mostly baffling. Who was Noon/Nguyen? Why had Oscar Roth gone overboard, killing a family? Then there was the corollary mystery of Cleo Irvine’s fatal fall. But what Bosko wished to discuss at the moment, as they took chairs at the long table, was Jamie Paquette’s escape.

  Leith still felt ill about the blunder. He owed it to Zan Liu and to Joey to solve this case, not allow vital witnesses and/or suspects to slip away. He told Bosko what actions he had taken to catch the bail-jumper and where the file now stood. “We’re compiling a list as fast as we can. If she had a huge and supportive family, we might have somewhere to start. But she’s got nobody that seems to care, much. Her parents are divorced. Mother lives abroad, isn’t answering her messages. We’re having her checked out. Nobody showed up for Paquette’s hearing except her dad, and he sounds delusional. He’s been on the news already, talking about his baby girl — his words. But doesn’t appear he’s been in touch with her for years.”

  Bosko had jotted down notes, nodding. He looked across at Leith and said, “And then there’s Cal. Do you have any idea how he got so much background on Paquette? Was he personally investigating her, off the books?”

  “I asked him the same thing. He says they became friends. He was helping her learn to drive, if you can believe it.”

  “It’s just like up north,” Bosko remarked. “He’s getting at the truth from his own particular angle. I’m not sure it’s deliberate, but it certainly is amazing.”

  “He’s got a knack for getting in the middle of things,” Leith agreed. “I meant to tell you, he’s anxious to get his severance docs. He’s wondering why they’re not coming through.”

  Bosko said, “Oh, yes. That’s my fault. I’ll deal with it.” He smiled as they left the case room, saying, “Oh hey, by the way, tomorrow, if you’re not too busy, I’m having a barbecue down at my place.…”

  * * *

  The experienced guys behind the bar who could juggle martini shakers while delivering witty one-liners were gone, and in their place were mute students fresh out of bartending school. But as Jon York told Dion, bartending these days was 99 percent pulling beer, right? “Now and then someone orders a mojito, well, all you need is a recipe book and one of those muddle sticks.”

  The penthouse upstairs remained closed down, barred now from all entry by order of the city. Dion had learned some of the truth about that room; it was a place where couples had gone when they just couldn’t keep their pants zipped or skirts lowered, with permission from Jon and a few bucks passed his way. But those days were over. Jon had reached an agreement with the city and would be re-opening it soon as a legitimate conference room, which should pull in some serious cash. The pier he was also leasing out now to a charter boat company. He was cutting back the strippers from six to two and reducing the hours they’d be up. The Sunday bookings were picking up, and the dance-club numbers were holding steady, at least on Fridays.

  All the same, Dion knew that Diamonds was dying. Looking around, he wondered: if Oscar Roth had stuck around, with his mad but feisty plans, would the place eventually have grown roots? He stopped York on his way by and told him he had finally got it together to leave. He would be in town a while longer, had a few things to take care of, but this would be his last time at the club.

  Jon laughed, not at Dion’s announcement but the glass of water he was still holding. “When’s the last time you had a real drink in your hand? Let me get you something. What’s your favourite, again? G&T?”

  Dion said, “No,” but Jon was already shouting out an order to the server buffing beer steins. The server went to consult his cocktail book, and Dion said, “I’m actually quitting drinking, too.”

  “Sure you are,” Jon said. “Cheers.”

  Dion’s least favourite drink arrived, heavy on the gin. Jon said, “I miss Oz. It’s that stage of grief they failed to mention. I’ve angered, bargained, felt guilty, all of that. Now I just plain miss him. He was funny, smart. Sure, I got tired of him, and he pissed me off, and we fought. But in the big picture, he was the best kind of friend I could wish for. And now he’s gone, and there’s this big yawning … gulch where he once stood.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “I feel so old.”

  “You’re forty-six.”

  “Which is at least fifteen years older than you. Trust me, you get to a certain age, and you lose all flexibility of spirit. Hard to make friendships as solid as the ones you made when you were growing up. You’ll find out.”

  Another gin landed in front of Dion, this one on the light side. To avoid a third, he told Jon that he really didn’t care for G&Ts. Jon sent the drink back and ordered him a beer instead. Dion wrapped his palm around the cold bottle. He was beginning to realize just how bad his timing was, leaving Jon just when Jon was feeling abandoned. He didn’t want to end it like this.

  “Hey,” he said, pleased with himself as an idea popped to mind. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer your last text. You asked if I wanted to play another game of racquetball. I’m up for it. Totally. One more game, name the time, I’ll be there.”

  “You know what I think?” Jon said, and he sounded angry. “I think another racquetball lesson is the last thing in the world you want. I think you’re just trying to make me feel better.”

  “Sure I am. It’s that or going out on your fucking boat, and I figure racquetball’s easier.”

  Jon was not just angry but cold. “Sorry, pal. I have to get this off my chest. You’re a good person. But a coward.”

  Dion blinked.

  Jon said, “A rank, chicken-shit coward, and I don’t run with chicken-shit cowards.”

  Dion had set down his glass and was opening his mouth to defend himself, but Jon interrupted, wrapping a palm around his neck to pull him closer, and he should have known it was all just a lead-in to another invitation. Jon said, “So we’re going to cure all that. I’m not taking no for an answer this time. Tomorrow’s Victoria Day, and we’re going to celebrate. First thing, out on the waves.”

  Dion pulled away. In fact, a boat ride was preferable to the racquetball court. It was actually not a bad idea at all. A good way to leave this friendship on a positive note. “Is Melanie going? I’m only going if Melanie’s going.”

  “Mel, Dallas, anyone who wants to come along. We’ll throw in the line, catch something for dinner. Remember that island we circled last time?”

  Dion did, very well. He remembered the rush, the embrace. Jon said, “This time we’ll pull in. Spend the day on the beach. It’s the only way to confront your phobia, my friend. You want to hear the prescription?”

  Dion laughed. “No, I sure don’t.”

  “You go at it in stages. Up to the ankles, reward yourself with a shooter. Up to the knees, have another shooter. Up to the waist, wow, that calls for a double. Plus, by then it’s probably time for lunch, fresh salmon on the grill.”

  “I could get used to that,” Dion said.

  He sorely wished he hadn’t told Melanie about his hang-up with water. She had passed it on to Jon, and Jon had made it a pet project, curing the thalassawhatever. But it didn’t matter. Tomorrow he would talk to them both. He would explain to Jon it wasn’t a phobia, wasn’t even a fear. The ocean was just some kind of ego-crusher that he was working at getting over, but at his own speed. Maybe in the bigger picture, talking to Jon and Melanie would put his own topsy-turvy life in some kind of perspective.

  Maybe everything would be all right.

  Thirty-Five

  Deadhead

  To celebrate Queen Victoria, or at least the na
tional holiday in her name, Leith was up early with pancakes on his mind. He turned on some bluesy rock and roll — volume down low — and began preparing breakfast from scratch.

  There was a sadness to this day, for Alison and Izzy would be on the plane tonight, back to Prince Rupert. Much had been accomplished over their too-short visit. A home had been found. Not a genuine kiss-the-ground freehold with a backyard and a spot to plant sweet peas, because there was no such place here within their means, but the bottom floor of a largish house which they could rent until they figured out where to go next. They had put in their application and been approved. Alison would return to Prince Rupert and arrange for a moving van, and next month, on the move-in date to the new place, she would be back here in his arms, permanently.

  A message pinged on his BlackBerry.

  JD: Big news. Call me.

  He called her. “Two things. Isn’t this your day off, and how big?”

  “Big-big,” she said. “The lab messaged me. You know the bottle, the bootie bottle?”

  Of course he knew the bootie bottle. “What about it?”

  “One of the bright new lab girls had a second look. She checked the bottle neck, inside, something the wise old guys before her failed to do. And she got a print. And the print’s got a name.”

  “Holy,” Leith said. “Who is it?”

  “His name’s Alex Caine, and I’ve actually seen him around. He’s sixty-eight, lives in a home-share kind of set-up. He’s got a history, a record, some violence, but he’s been good since his last release. Struggling alcoholic, perennial AA attendee. Perpetual walker, too. I talked to him.”

  “You talked to him?”

  “I didn’t want to bother you last night, and didn’t want to wait, either. To make a long story short, he found the bottle. He’d sat down to rest on the steps of the North Shore News, up on 15th, and saw a little cardboard box tucked in a corner there. Inside the box was the gin bottle, with something inside. He tried to fish the thing out but couldn’t, of course. Left that precious print, though. He says there was something else in the box. A note. He doesn’t recall what it said.”

  “But fortunately he kept it,” Leith said, gloomy in advance.

  He heard JD sigh. She said, “He took the bottle, thinking it was kind of nice, and went walkabout. Crossed the bridge. Got tired of carrying it and for fun dropped it off the apex, into the water below. But not before whittling a makeshift cork out of a piece of wood he also happened to be carrying along with him. Because who doesn’t walk around with pieces of wood in their pockets?”

  Leith thought of Winnie-the-Pooh, which he had been reading to Izzy just last night. The little poet bear dropping things off bridges. Poohsticks.

  JD said, “Which was damned reckless. What if he’d hit a boater? I gave him a lecture. But as for the note, he’s not sure what he did with it. Maybe left it in the box, or maybe stuck it in his pocket. The newspaper hasn’t got it. He promised he’ll search his room thoroughly. He’s a bit of a collector, I hear. That’s all. I’ll follow up with him, of course.”

  “Of course,” Leith said. He thanked her and disconnected. He thought about the note, but not for long. The pancakes needed his full focus.

  The pancake was his one culinary specialty, and he wondered as he measured out flour how long he would be allowed even this minor act of devil worship. Refined carbs, syrup, and fat, that’s what pancakes were. Composite evil.

  He could guess what the note said. Here’s your evidence. My boyfriend killed those people. Jamie Paquette trying to assuage her guilt.

  Or was it something else altogether?

  Pancakes. He knew Alison would eat only one, and only to be polite, and would suggest he limit himself as well. Izzy could only have a small one on the side, along with a healthier breakfast of fruit and yogurt. Reasonably enough, Alison didn’t want Izzy getting hooked on empty calories.

  Leith enjoyed empty calories. Back in his lanky days, he ate whatever the hell, whenever the hell. But Alison was right; if he wanted to keep fit into his older years and avoid becoming pear-shaped like his dad, he would have to beware. Two pancakes, max. But big ones.

  While he mixed the batter (he was starting to resent the batter, for what the batter had done to him, making him crave it, only to reject him), he thought through a certain irony that had occurred to him lately. Possibly Bosko knew who Dion had killed — if it really was murder — but not where the body lay, while Leith possibly knew just the opposite. He knew the where, but not the who. They each held one half of a broken key, and only needed to put those halves together, like in the best adventure films, to unlock the possible crime.

  He turned to prepare the coffee maker. So far, his own research hadn’t turned up any possible victim. There were persons reported missing in the Lower Mainland around the time of the Cloverdale crash, and he had checked all leads. Nothing. So if not murder, what then? Maybe contraband of some kind. Drugs, weapons, the fast proceeds of a heist or the slow sapping of embezzlement?

  The problem with those theories was they all pointed to premeditated criminality, and maybe he was wrong, but he didn’t believe Dion had it in him. Dion was more the series-of-unfortunate-events type.

  He still didn’t know who or what the man called Parker was.

  He heard the bedroom door squeak and Alison pad out. She was barefoot, mussed, wearing an old dressing gown over a Walmart nightie, and Leith looked almost as ravishing in his favourite faded T-shirt over pyjama pants. She hugged him, and he was back to his frying pan while she set the table. “Pancakes on Victoria Day,” she said. “Better make a heap.”

  * * *

  Victoria Day. Dion felt like a beach bum in board shorts, T-shirt, and flip sandals, with his favourite ball cap to keep the sun out of his eyes. With wine in one hand, beer under his arm, he climbed the driveway and stairs to ring the bell at the Yorks’ Deep Cove home. Jon welcomed him in with a smile. He, too, was dressed for the outdoors, but the house behind him was silent, not the hustle and bustle Dion expected of a family getting ready for a day out on the water. Jon explained, as they walked to a living room fragrant with fresh-brewed coffee, that Melanie wasn’t well.

  “How not well?” Dion asked.

  “Headache,” Jon said. And then admitted, “Well, she’s got the spins.”

  “She drank too much.”

  “You could say that.”

  “Why? What’s the occasion?” Dion could guess what the occasion was; it was called stress. Jamie Paquette was still evading capture, and a lot of money was swirling down the drain.

  “Melanie doesn’t need an occasion to drink too much,” Jon replied, with a wry smile.

  Dion didn’t smile back. “It’s a problem, isn’t it? The drinking. She should get help.”

  “You should mind your own business. Have a seat and I’ll get your cup of joe.”

  Dion sat on the sofa on one side of the fireplace. There was no fire in the grill, just a bouquet of dried wildflowers. The hard morning light reflected off the water of the outdoor Jacuzzi and danced on the ceiling. It was the most beautiful home he had ever set foot in, and he realized he coveted it, in a hopeless way, as he coveted most things these days. A time or two he had mentioned his envy to Jon, who answered that this house was nothing special. Just wait till you visit Sea Lane.

  Dion wondered if Sea Lane was slowly but surely slipping out of reach, too.

  The promised coffee arrived. Jon said, “Suck it up fast. Then let’s go.”

  “Go where?” Dion asked. The trip cancellation had disappointed him more than he expected. He didn’t want some alternative walk on the beach.

  “You’re not getting out of it that easy. We’re going anyway.”

  The disappointment lingered. Dion wanted Melanie to be there. He wanted a replay of their last ride. He called out to Jon in the kitchen, “We can postpone till she’s f
eeling better. How about tomorrow?”

  “I have meetings lined up from here to the blue yonder,” Jon called back. “Today’s my only window, and I plan to take it, Cal.”

  The little girl Dallas appeared, tousle-headed and in pyjamas. She stared plaintively toward the kitchen and made a noise that wasn’t quite a word.

  Jon came to greet her with obvious delight. Dion could see him almost scooping her up in his arms. But she wasn’t that kind of human being. She was the kind who turned away from touch. Jon knew better than to try, and instead, crouched down and held out his arms, if only symbolically, saying, “Hey, good morning, teddy bear. Hungry?”

  She looked at him with faraway eyes. She nodded, and then, to Dion’s surprise, she stepped toward her foster father where he crouched and tapped one of his open hands with an outstretched finger. Just a touch, and she then drew back, and for some reason he thought of Jamie, the way she begged for attention, only to then repel it. Jon glanced up at Dion and winked. “Progress,” he said. And to the girl, “C’mon, then, kiddo. Let’s find your favourite cereal.”

  Dion watched the girl follow her surrogate dad off to the bright little breakfast nook next to the kitchen. If Melanie had the spins, he wondered, who would look after Dallas while he and Jon were out motorboating? Maybe the care aide was scheduled to show up soon.

  Jon reappeared hauling a cooler, which he set on the floor. “Just in case we don’t catch anything, I’ve prepared for the worst,” he said. “That’s what separates men from bears. We make hoagies!”

  He placed the six-pack Dion had brought into the cooler and went off whistling to gather the rest of the gear for the trip. Minutes later he showed up with Dallas at his side. She was dressed for a day in the sun, in shorts, a tank top decorated with blue flowers, and a floppy hat. She was clutching her little plastic horse. Jon carried a netted sack of beach gear, and spilling out the top, Dion could see the answer to his question of who would be looking after the kid today: a tiny orange life jacket.