“Let’s go, bud,” Jon said to Dion. And to the little girl, “Onward ho, cap’n.”
* * *
The morning was perfect, fresh and cool. The water was choppy but not wild. Clouds lay across the horizon with airbrushed perfection, slowly drifting, not a threat but a promise of an ideal day. Light rain in the forecast, but not till evening. Dion sat in the co-pilot seat, keeping both a forward and aft lookout. Forward to the marine traffic floating dreamlike along the strait, and aft toward Dallas in the U-shaped passenger area. He worried about her safety, though Jon had told him she was a competent little sailor, had been out many times without a problem. But there would have been more adults on board then, Dion thought. More supervision.
“She’s okay with speed?” he asked. “Doesn’t get scared when you go too fast?”
Jon laughed. “If this is your way of getting me to go slow —”
“Fuck off,” Dion answered, the kind of fuck off that only true friends could get away with.
Jon didn’t answer the question about Dallas’s fears, so Dion kept an eye on the girl, checking how she responded as the boat throttled up and began to cleave through the waves. But he didn’t need to worry; Dallas sat on the floor in the cozy well formed by the back seating. She appeared comfortable, even in the confines of her life jacket. She sat on the air mattress covered with a plush beach blanket, where Jon had lodged her with all that her little heart might desire close at hand, juice container, bag of snacks, colouring book, crayons, and toys.
She sat upright, sometimes gazing about at the passing scenery, her hat brim flapping and her short hair lashing. Not that she would see much from down there. Blue sky and gulls. What if she got restless when he and Jon weren’t watching? What if she climbed over the seating onto the back deck, where only sober adults should sit?
He said, “Melanie was okay with her coming along today?”
“Right now Melanie’s okay with anything, so long as there’s no light, noise, or sudden movement involved.”
“If she’s that sick, somebody should be with her.”
Jon said, “Cal, believe it or not, we’ve managed so far without your guidance. I think we’ve got life more or less figured. She’s not on her deathbed. She’s got friends nearby and a phone beside her. She’ll be fine. D’you think you can have fun now? Is that even remotely possible? Get yourself a beer and breathe.”
Dion relaxed in the passenger seat and watched the world through the wraparound windscreen. Droplets of seawater spattered across the Plexiglas, caught the sunlight and gleamed like travelling strings of diamonds. Something nagged in the back of his mind, the image of a speedboat smashing into a deadhead at eighty knots. Another collision sat even more heavily in his heart. If he was edgier than the average man, he had every right to be. One high-speed collision in a lifetime is plenty.
He tried making conversation. He asked Jon about the nightclub — not its future, but its past, one of Jon’s favourite topics. But today Jon seemed touchy about it. He wanted to talk about boats instead. Dion asked about Melanie’s teaching career. Why had she left it? Why didn’t she go back to it?
Jon veered the conversation back to sports fishing.
Dion stuck with his topic of choice. “It’s just she seems kind of restless. Maybe that’s why she drinks so much. Far as I can see, she does nothing all day except hang around the house or plan parties.”
“Well, now she’s got Dally to take care of,” Jon said.
The ocean was wide open in front of them. Unlike driving a car on the highway, there were no white lines, or oncoming traffic, or speed limits. A driver could smash through the sound barrier or set the controls to cruise and just lounge. But Jon wasn’t in a cruising mood. He stood like a sailor heading into a gale and upped the speed another notch.
Dion looked back again. Dallas lay on her side now, her body joggling with the boat’s ups and downs. Her hat lay discarded, and her little toy horse was meandering through the peaks and valleys of the blanket. He said, “She doesn’t need a lot of supervision. Won’t she be going to school, special ed? A nanny could take care of her the rest of the time.”
Jon made a choking noise. “Have you considered the economics of that? After paying a nanny, Mel’s take-home pay would be minimum wage, at best.”
“So what? It’s not like she needs the cash. It’s about doing something with her life.”
“You’re projecting. Mel’s lazier than you think. Maybe she likes hanging around the house, getting drunk and planning parties. Ever consider that?”
“I’ve considered that and I’ve rejected that.”
“Well then….” Jon swigged his alcohol-free beverage and gave Dion a searching, sidelong stare. “Tell me about your family.”
He knew Dion didn’t care to talk about his family, or the accident, or his dead friend Looch, and the question was a blatant attack, an eye for an eye. Dion went back to the cooler and picked out his first beer of the day. He popped the tab, sat again next to Jon, and said, “Okay, you win. Tell me how to catch a salmon.”
Jon fell silent. He steered effortlessly around a floating log that had blipped on his radar. Dion watched it go by.
“We wanted kids,” Jon said, finally. “She did especially. Went to the doctor, doctor says it’s not going to happen. Mel’s always been a trooper, and she decided to accept the situation, move forward. The only logical direction for a human to go in. It still bothers her. She’s lost a bit of, I dunno, life. Gave up teaching. Gave up reading and writing. She’s got Dallas now, but …” He leaned sideways, though there was no danger of Dallas overhearing. “Between you and me, with that kid, I think you’d get more emotional response from a hamster. But Mel knows what she’s getting into. We’ve known Dallas all her life.”
Dion thought of the glow in Melanie’s eyes as she told him of her attempts to communicate with the girl through horse talk. But if the latest drinking binge meant anything, the happiness hadn’t lasted. He thought of her open marriage, and who got the benefit of that openness. He thought she deserved better. “Maybe she hoped she could change Dallas. Maybe she’s finding out she can’t.”
Jon shook his head, dismissing the idea.
“How do you feel about it? You’re going to have Dallas with you for a long time. Most kids grow up and move on. Dallas will never do that, will she?”
“No, she won’t. Yes, it’s scary. And you’re right, too, I wouldn’t have the courage, myself. If it were up to me I’d have said no, I can’t do this. But Melanie never doubted for a moment that we’d take her, after Cleo died. She doesn’t regret it. It makes her happy.”
“But not happy enough to quit drinking.”
“It’ll take time. There’s our island, just in time to shut you up. Hold on to your hat.”
Jon shifted the throttle forward, and Dion did as told, gripped the brim of his cap to keep it from blowing away. He checked his watch and saw that it was just past twelve o’clock.
Noon, he thought. And then it clicked.
Thirty-Six
Oncoming
Jazz played in the sunshine, and the large backyard was festooned with lanterns and crepe streamers from Chinatown. The aromas that drifted to Leith’s nose were gourmet and enticing. With Alison at his side and Izzy in his arms, he introduced his family to a casually dressed Mike Bosko, and Bosko introduced his wife Sarah.
Sarah was nothing like Leith had imagined her. Over the months he’d known Bosko, Bosko had rarely talked about her, which seemed unlike him; he talked about everything, at length. So Leith had created his own composite image of the woman. For whatever reason, he had Sarah as subservient, a beautiful but tragic figure, buxom and sad-eyed, with long, oak-blond hair, her spirit withering in the shadows cast by an overwhelmingly cerebral husband.
The Sarah he met looked a few years older than Bosko, who was forty-two. She wasn’t what Leith
would call beautiful, tragic, or buxom. She was short and skinny and wore her brunette hair in a bob. Like her husband, she stared out at the world from behind wire-rimmed spectacles, which made her look a lot smarter than Leith felt.
“Hi,” he said, grinning down at her, “Nice to meet you.”
“David Leith,” she said, smiling up at him. “Likewise. I’ve heard much about you!”
And now, zing, he was afraid of her too. What had she heard? And why? But already she had moved away, gone to greet new arrivals.
The yard was semi-full of people standing or sitting around on lawn chairs, eating and drinking. It was a bigger crowd than Leith had expected. He had expected to see dozens of familiar faces, but saw none. Bosko took him on a social tour, and he learned that few of these people were local flatfeet like himself. Some were associates of Sarah’s, who he now learned was Dr. Sarah Bosko, a psychiatrist. Some were colleagues from Bosko’s previous CCS posting in Vancouver — Commercial Crimes Section — and seemed a different class of shark than Leith was used to swimming with.
We won’t stay long, he promised himself, somehow cowed. Still, he did his best to mingle and hobnob. He had never been a great social butterfly, more a social moth, but he could cope, so long as he could source out talk on a level he could fathom. He was glad to see that Alison was engaged, sitting with Izzy on her lap and surrounded by admirers.
The food was good, too. Vegetarian was an option, but not mandatory. Leith had loaded his plate and was seated at a patio table, munching on an onion-smothered smokie in a bun when Paley and Torr arrived. They were soon followed by JD. Leith was happy to share his table with people he knew. They sat with drinks in hand like the nerd-pack in high school.
Paley swigged beer and peered sideways at Bosko across the lawn. “You know, I’ve never seen him in anything but a frickin’ black suit and white shirt. I was starting to wonder if we’re all part of the matrix, and he’s the evil Agent Smith. Just the shabbier version. But lo and behold, flip-flops, and what are those red things all over his shirt?”
Torr surprised everyone by knowing what they were. “Hibiscus blooms.”
JD gazed across the lawn at their boss having a deep but amiable conversation with strangers. “How d’you know the motherboard didn’t reprogram him into those cargo shorts, just to fool dumbshits like you?” She bared her teeth and hissed, “I for one don’t believe. I am the glitch.”
Leith stared at her unladylike profile, and then at Torr as Torr burst out with, “This is the best fucking burger I’ve ever eaten. You’re telling me this is fucking soy?”
“Who says it’s soy?” JD leaned to check out his plate. “That’s not soy. That’s genuine dead cow.”
“I told him it’s soy,” Paley said proudly, his fat cheeks bulging with food. “That’s the joy of Jim. You can tell him anything and watch him make an ass of himself. Endless fun.”
“You’re a twat, Paley,” Torr said.
Leith sat wondering what Bosko had told Sarah about him, if anything. Had she just made it up, as the polite thing to say? Would a qualified psychiatrist lie without cause? He didn’t think so.
JD said, “You look like you’re thinking, David. Or is it indigestion?”
He told her that Sarah was a psychiatrist, and what she had told him. “‘I’ve heard much about you.’ What on earth would he tell her about me?”
JD answered promptly. “That as dudes go, you’re a good one. Happy?”
The sunlight sparkled through her brown crewcut, and her eyes had almost smiled. He decided yes, he was happy. For the moment, he was feeling pretty good.
Which was never a good sign.
He watched JD answering her phone, and he could see it in her eyes: the party was about to end. She put away the phone and told them, “Guess what? Ziba Farzan has recanted.”
* * *
“I have been covering for Jon a lot,” Ziba said at the station, the tension in her face marring her elegance. “Little innocent things. So when he dropped by that morning and asked me to lie about the time, I thought it was just another of those. Of course, when you police came by, I had my doubts. Yet I was taken off guard, and on the spot made a bad decision and lied as he asked me to. But then I found out about Ms. Cleo Irvine, Oscar’s ex-wife, and I put two and two together. I mean, I feel terrible about this, because I’m not certain. But I couldn’t in good conscience not tell you. Not if there’s a crime involved.”
Leith wondered what “little innocent things” she had covered him for previously, but could guess.
“So he wasn’t at your place at eight thirty,” JD said, keeping it nonconfrontational, even friendly. Even grateful. “What time was it?”
“Nearer to nine. Five to, probably.”
Ziba was arrested, if only to keep her from contacting Jon York, and Leith rushed to the case room to study JD’s carefully constructed timeline again. She stood beside him, looking troubled.
“That makes no sense,” she said. “Cal swears he was with York at quarter to nine. An airtight alibi.”
“Maybe his alarm clock was running slow.”
JD checked the file notes. “Except he confirmed the time from Jon York’s car dash,” she said. “And also Melanie’s SUV.”
Leith stared at Dion’s name on the board. One alarm clock and two dashboard displays. Add to that Dion’s lost cellphone, and what did you get? A dupe. A sense of cold disbelief washed over him as he looked at JD. He could see the same thought crossing her mind.
“Jon York changed the clocks,” she said. Her voice took a fast hike from amazement to outrage. “The fucker changed the clocks. Jon York pushed Cleo Irvine out that window.”
And smiled through his teeth as he denied it, Leith thought.
JD was out the door, on her phone, gathering the team for an emergency meeting. Leith followed, wondering where in the world was Cal Dion.
* * *
Nguyen. It came to Dion with a bang. He had interviewed a witness, an informant, who kept talking about a “Mr. Noon.” That Mr. Noon had turned out to be the mispronunciation of a Nguyen. It was a loose link in the last case he had worked on before the crash. In his rounds he had heard rumours that an individual nicknamed T.T. Nguyen, a shadowy figure in the contraband trade, was out for revenge for something lost. Not money, not drugs, but a sister.
Dion had been only just starting to tie the rumour to the girl washed up on the rocks by the Neptune shipyards — which was troublesome because the girl had been determined to be Caucasian — when he had been smashed out of orbit, and Looch was killed, and everything else went on the back burner. Now, nearly a year later, was it possible to put the theory back together? He considered getting in touch with Leith again. But there was nothing to present, not even a full name. Leith would just brush him off.
To hell with Leith then. To hell with Jane Doe, even. And to hell with the phone in his pocket, which had buzzed a couple times at length before giving up. He was free of caseloads and complicated lines of inquiry, now exploring a small, uninhabited island and enjoying life.
The day was pleasant. No other visitors to the island except a bunch of gulls and some kayakers stopping by to shake out their legs. Dion had followed Jon in a tromp through the woods. Easy exercise, because they had the slowest hiker in the world in between them, Dallas.
No fish had been caught, so in the afternoon Dion sat on the rubbly beach next to Jon, and they unwrapped the hoagies Jon had packed. “God, I love it out here,” Jon said. “I think I missed my calling. I should have been a hermit.”
Before them Dallas plodded barefoot along the flat, wet sand, in and out of the rolling surf. Not a wild, rolling surf, just playful wavelets. She held a mini sandwich in one hand, a flying horse in the other.
Dion couldn’t put Nguyen out of his mind. And the dead girl with the short blond hair and wide-spaced eyes. He didn’t know the colour of
her eyes, because they were gone, but the reconstructionist suggested brown or hazel, to match the natural light brown of her hair. He had checked for boating misadventures after she washed ashore. None reported. Had never gotten Nguyen’s full name, had never been able to put a face to him. He asked York, “Did the police talk to you about the men who were stalking Oscar? Because they’re real. It wasn’t all in his head.”
“They did ask me about it, and I didn’t have a clue what they were talking about, and still don’t.”
“Was Oscar a good swimmer? That time he hit a deadhead and had to race back to shore before the boat sank. If he’d sunk, way out there, would he have drowned?”
Jon looked at him. His face didn’t seem to fit him right, all those fine laugh-lines sagging. “Oscar could swim okay, and he could float great, especially with a life jacket on. Where is this going?”
“He never reported the accident, right?” Dion asked, between bites of sandwich. “What happened to the boat?”
“He scrapped it.”
“Wasn’t fixable?”
“I guess not.”
“No insurance claim?”
“Christ,” Jon said.
Dion gave it a bit of a rest, but he had one more question. He stood, dusted sand off his rear, and looked out to sea. “Who was with him that day?”
Jon wrapped half his meal and stuck it back in the cooler. He unscrewed a flask and swigged, then offered the flask up. “Nobody.”
“Jamie?”
“Nobody.”
Dion took the flask and drank from it, and handed it back. “There was a case I was working on last summer, before I got transferred north. I’m wondering if it’s connected. Is that around the time he started getting paranoid, after he totalled his boat?”
Jon didn’t answer. His eyes were tired and his mouth was a thin line.
“Sorry,” Dion said. “Old cases. They can haunt you.”
“I see that.”
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