“Police. Open up!”
The air was cold and damp, clammy.
Willows hit the glass with the flashlight again, but much harder. No response. He went around to the front of the car and put his foot on the bumper, pushed down. The Cutlass rocked on its springs. There was movement inside the car. The window was rolled down a couple of inches. A dark eye stared out at them.
Parker’s badge was in the palm of her hand. She held it in the wash of light from Willows’ car. The window was unrolled another inch.
“Wha you waa?”
The words were slurred, nearly indecipherable.
Parker spoke very slowly. “Three nights ago, did you hear a very loud sound?”
“Dea ...”
“I can’t hear you,” said Parker. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
The window came down a few more inches. The clean night air was filled with the sour stench of an unwashed body, sweat and fear, despair. Despite the many layers of rags that covered her and made her body a shapeless gray mass, Parker saw that the person she’d been talking to was a woman. A very old woman, by the look of her.
Willows, standing just behind Parker, played the beam of his flashlight across the woman’s face. The cataracts leapt out at him. The woman touched her ears, smiled a toothless smile.
“Dea ...” she said again.
Parker nodded. She opened her purse and got out one of her cards and a five-dollar bill.
She slipped the card and money through the crack in the window.
The window was rolled up.
Willows didn’t say anything, but Parker knew exactly what he was thinking.
“Junior’s going to make bail,” she said. “And you’re going to lose that bet.”
They went back to the Oldsmobile. Willows switched off the lights. In the darkness, they walked diagonally across the gravel towards the water.
“What d’you think?” said Parker.
“About what?”
“Should we call an ambulance?”
“I wouldn’t. She was rational. She looked healthy enough.”
“She smelled awful.”
“So would you, if you rooted around in garbage cans for a living, and never took a bath.”
“What about her eyes?”
“Can’t be that bad. She wouldn’t have grabbed your money if she hadn’t been able to see it.” Willows swept the beam of his flashlight across the sailboats moored in front of the restaurant. “We can get the beat cops to keep an eye on her, it’ll make you feel better.”
They passed through the gap in the chain-link fence, walked along a narrow concrete sidewalk. Willows shone his flashlight through the restaurant window. A black cat squatted on the counter by the cash register, eyes glowing bright green.
There was a gate at the top of the gangway, but it wasn’t locked. Parker felt the design of the metal grid beneath the thin soles of her boots. The floating wharf shifted silently in the darkness. On either side of the narrow wooden walkway, moving water gleamed blackly.
Willows led Parker through the darkness towards one of the sailboats. The boat was about thirty feet long, painted white. Parker listened to the tinkle of aluminum rigging; a bright counterpoint to the constant hum of traffic on the bridge.
They made their way down to the stern of the boat. Willows climbed aboard first, held out a hand to Parker. The boat was dark, but when Parker held her hand over a vent, she felt hot gases, escaping heat. Willows found the hatch. It wasn’t locked. He opened the hatch and crouched and peered inside.
A man and woman were lying naked on a narrow bunk, in the flickering yellow light of half a dozen candles. Willows hadn’t seen any light because the portholes were covered with thick black construction paper.
The man was in his fifties, paunchy and gray. His companion was much younger; a blonde in her early twenties.
The man gaped at them. “Get the hell out of here,” he yelled.
Willows stepped down into the little cuddy cabin. There was a small stainless steel stove on gimbals in the galley, both elements burning. Parker came in behind him. The stove hissed malevolently.
The man dragged a sleeping bag over his body, covered the woman even though she didn’t seem concerned about her nakedness.
“Is this your boat?” said Willows.
“Get the hell out of here!” the man shouted again. His feet were sticking out of the bottom of the unzipped sleeping bag. He rubbed them together. His toenails needed clipping. He didn’t sound very sure of himself.
Willows got out his badge.
There was a long silence broken only by the hiss of the stove.
“She belongs to a friend of mine,” the man said at last.
“What’s his name?”
“Rowland. Oliver Rowland.”
“His friends call him Rollie,” said the girl. She sat up. The sleeping bag fell away.
“What’s your name?” Willows said to the man.
“Wayne Clark. I use the boat all the time. It’s a business arrangement. I got a key, you want to see it?”
“What’s your name?” Willows said to the woman.
“Wendy Lewis.”
“How old are you, Miss Lewis?”
“Twenty-three.”
Wayne Clark tried to look surprised. Willows didn’t believe it.
“Can I see some identification, please.”
Wendy Lewis’ clothes were in an untidy heap at the foot of the bed. She found her purse, offered Willows her driver’s licence.
Willows handed the licence back. He turned to Clark, snapped his fingers.
Wayne Clark was fifty-three years old. His marital status wasn’t noted on his licence, but there was a gold band on the third finger of his left hand.
“Were you here on the boat Friday night?” Willows said.
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“He’s lying,” said Wendy Lewis.
Clark glared at her.
A candle wavered as Willows sat down on the end of the bed. “Spend the night?”
The girl shook her head. She ran her fingers through her hair. Were her breasts implants, or real? Willows made an effort to concentrate on the issue at hand.
“What time did you arrive?”
“A little past eight.”
“In a car?”
She nodded.
“Whose car was it?”
“Mine,” said Wayne Clark.
“What d’you drive, Wayne?”
“A Caddy.”
“Where’d you park it?”
Clark gestured with his arm. His knuckles banged against the bulkhead. Apparently he was accustomed to making expansive gestures. “There’s a paved lot behind the restaurant. It’s private, but I’ve got a key.” He sucked on his bruised fist.
“Poor baby,” said Wendy Lewis. She smiled at Willows.
Willows studied the black construction paper. “Were the windows covered over on Friday?”
“Yeah.”
“You said you got here at eight. Exactly when did you leave?”
“About ten.”
“More like one o’clock in the morning,” the girl said. “We heard the car drive up, the crash, and then the shots.”
“How many shots?” said Willows.
“Two,” said the girl. “Or maybe it was three.”
“See anything?”
“No,” said Wayne Clark.
“You heard a car crash and gunshots, but didn’t get up and take a look?”
“He stuck his head under the sleeping bag,” said the girl. “Like one of those big birds that can’t fly. A flamingo, no, an ostrich.”
“What about you, what did you do?” Parker said to Wendy Lewis.
“Went outside, took a look around.”
“Stark naked,” said Clark. “She wasn’t even wearing a hat.”
“The engine was racing, really loud. That’s how I figured out where the car
was, by the noise.”
Willows took out his notebook, a pen.
“There were two men standing on the far side of the car. One of them knelt down and then he started walking backwards, away from the car.”
“What did he look like?”
“It was dark, he was too far away, I couldn’t see ...”
“Was he tall, short ...”
“He was big, they were both big.”
“Heavy-set, thin ...”
“Average, I guess. They weren’t skinny.”
“What were they wearing?”
“I don’t know, I can’t remember ... Like I said, it was dark.”
“The one who walked backwards away from the car, which way did he go?”
“Towards the far side of the parking lot, that new apartment block.”
“What about the other man?” said Parker.
“He stayed where he was, beside the car.”
“He’s the one you should’ve had the best look at,” Parker said. “Can you remember the length or color of his hair, anything at all?”
Wendy Lewis shook her head. “No, not really.”
“But you could see that they were both men,” said Willows.
“I think they were men.” The girl shrugged. “But I wouldn’t want to swear to it in court, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Is there any chance either of them saw you?” said Willows.
“No way.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’d bet my life on it,” said the girl. She giggled nervously.
“I’ll need your home and business addresses and phone numbers, Mr Clark.”
“Wait a minute now, if this ...”
Willows gave him a look. “We phone you at home and your wife answers, we’re supposed to hang up, right?”
Wayne Clark repaired typewriters for a living. He worked downtown and lived in an apartment in Kerrisdale. Willows made a mental note to get the licence number of the Caddy, just in case he was lying.
Wendy Lewis was unemployed. Willows got her home address and telephone.
“Do me a favor,” she said as he put away his pen and notebook. “Pass me my panties.”
“Not a chance,” said Willows.
Parker was still smiling as she stood on the deck of the sailboat and watched Willows walk back to the parking lot. He stood where the car had crashed and looked for her in the darkness. Parker was wearing black, but in the incidental light from the security lamp at the top of the gangway, he was able to see the pale oval of her face, her hands.
The advantage he had over the killers was that he knew she was there and was looking for her. On the other hand, Wendy Lewis was a blonde, and her skin was very pale, and she had been naked. He started back towards the boat, to advise Clark and Lewis that they’d better find another love nest.
In the Olds, driving out from beneath the looming bulk of the bridge, Parker asked Willows if he had time for a drink.
“Sure,” said Willows, diffidently.
“Forget it, some other time.”
“Freddy’s?” said Willows.
“That’d make a nice change.”
When Willows and Freddy had first met, Freddy’d been cuffed to a skid-row radiator, his left hand spouting blood. The hand had been stuffed in a blender, the three middle fingers chewed off right down to the knuckle. Years later, he’d told Willows of the horror he’d felt as he’d watched the glass wall of the blender turn bright red and then pink, chunks of raw flesh swirling and spinning. Now, years later, the stumps were white as a glacier, covered in a mass of scar tissue slick as ice.
The lost fingers had a remarkable effect on Freddy, calmed him down. Six months after it happened, he flew the redeye to Reno and married his business partner and barmaid, Sally.
In the chapel there was a moment of panic, and then Sally slipped the wedding ring over Freddy’s thumb.
Freddy had been married almost two years now, but still hadn’t lost his eye for women. Parker was at the top of his wish-list. He spotted her as she walked in the door, and reached for the bottle of Cutty Sark. She wasn’t the kind of woman who liked to drink alone. He was sure Willows would be right behind her.
Freddy was right.
Willows nodded at Freddy as he walked past the bar, held up two fingers and rotated his hand to indicate a pouring motion.
Doubles.
Freddy poured the drinks freehand, carried them down the length of the bar to the end booth. Dropped napkins on the table and put down the drinks.
“Thanks, Freddy.”
“We got a special on chicken wings. Interested?”
“I’ll pass.”
Freddy shook his head, stared gloomily down at the floor. “Brother, what a week.”
Willows sipped his drink.
Freddy turned to Parker. “Brother,” he said, “what a week.”
“Problem?” said Parker.
Willows glanced up at her across the rim of his glass, gave her a look.
“Sally’s always liked to read in bed. Usually it’s only a magazine, or maybe the newspaper. But since last Sunday, she’s been dragging the Encyclopaedia Britannica into the sack with her. And I’m not talking about one volume, either. I mean the whole goddamn ...”
“Stop,” said Willows.
“You heard it?”
Willows nodded.
“Pretty good, eh?”
“A real side-splitter, Freddy.”
“Laughed until I cried, swear to God.”
“I haven’t heard it,” said Parker.
“Ask him to tell it to you,” said Freddy, indicating Willows with a disdainful jerk of his thumb.
Parker said, “The boys in fraud tell me you water your drinks.”
“With my tears,” said Freddy. He gave the table a brisk wipe and walked away.
“You get the forensics on the Pontiac?” said Willows.
“Jerry Goldstein called in sick. We got shoved to the bottom of the pile.”
Willows opened his mouth but, whatever he was about to say, thought better of it.
“Hey,” said Parker, “don’t blame me.”
Willows drank some Cutty.
“It’ll be on your desk first thing in the morning. They promised.”
“I’ll bet they did.”
“I phoned Jerry at home, told him to call his staff and get them off their asses.”
“That must have cheered him up.”
Parker tasted her Scotch, put the glass back down on the table. “Orwell talked to the kid who worked on the Aquabus. Kid’s name is Steve Bromley. He didn’t see or hear a thing, didn’t even know there’d been a murder until Orwell told him about it.”
“Why’d he quit work?”
“Had an argument with his boss.”
“Eddy believed him?”
“Every last word.” Parker swirled the ice in her drink. “Tell me something, Jack.”
Willows waited.
Parker took a mouthful of Scotch, gulped it down. “How’re you getting along with your wife?”
Willows leaned back in his seat. “Okay, I guess.”
“Okay?” said Parker.
“Not too bad.”
“She still in Toronto?”
“Yeah.”
Parker reached across the table. Lightly traced her fingers across the back of Willows’ hand.
Willows drained his glass. Not looking at her, he said, “You want another drink?”
“But not here, okay.”
Willows reached for his jacket.
“My place,” said Parker. “It’s closer.”
“Tidier too, I bet.”
“For the time being,” Parker said.
11
The door rattled against the frame. Paterson went for the Ruger, held the gun down low against his hip. He sat up. The bedsprings creaked. He felt ridiculous — a character in a melodrama, an old black and white movie. He stuck the Ruger back in the pocket of his jacket and said, “Who
is it?”
“Room service, pal.”
The nightclerk, rumpled and ironic. Paterson imagined him leaning against the wall, thumb hooked in the waistband of his jeans. He said, “Come on in.”
The door swung open and a man slipped into the room like a shadow, silent and fluid. His skin was the color of smoked glass, smooth and gleaming. He was about six feet tall, and very thin. He had on a dark blue poplin trenchcoat, black leather gloves, tight black pants and shiny black patent leather shoes. The shoes were small, about a size eight. The collar of the trenchcoat was turned up, the belt cinched tight. He was shaved bald; there was a razor cut above his left ear, another nick at the base of the skull. The guy looked theatrical and dumb — but very scary.
Paterson stood up. He tried not to think about how stupid he’d been, wished that the Ruger was still in his hand. A woman stepped into the room. He began to relax. The woman stayed just inside the door, her back to the wall. She was white, wearing a sequined jean jacket, tight yellow skirt, mesh nylons. Her hair was a bright, garish orange, shot through with streaks of green. She glanced at Paterson and then looked away, disinterested.
The man danced lightly across the room, stopped near the foot of the bed.
“Shut the door, Moira.”
The woman shut the door.
Paterson stood there by the bed, waiting, not quite sure how to handle the situation. He decided to let the pimp make the first move, follow his lead.
As if reading his mind, the man pointed a gloved finger at him and said, “Relax, baby. I’m Moira’s talent agent, her manager. The name’s Randall.”
Randall stared at the bulge in Paterson’s pocket. “Carrying some weight, baby?”
“I told the nightclerk I wanted three women.”
“Pete don’t count too good. You a cop?”
Paterson shook his head.
“Humor me, baby. Say it out loud. Then I don’t gotta worry about entrapment, any of that shit.”
“I’m not a cop.”
“Well, that makes two of us.” Randall stuck a finger in his ear, poked and prodded, studied what he’d caught beneath the nail. “Three girls at once, huh.” He moved a little closer. “Tell me something, does it matter how old they are?”
Hot Shots (A Willows and Parker Mystery) Page 8