The Quiet Man

by James Carol

  Two cops got out and banged their doors shut. The driver walked around the hood of the vehicle and stepped up onto the sidewalk. For a moment he stood there looking both ways along the street. His buddy was doing the same. Clearly they’d been told to be on the lookout for someone. A white male, no doubt. Five-feet nine, mid-thirties, white hair, green eyes. Winter pressed a little deeper into the shadows. They weren’t looking too hard, which was just as well. If they had been, they probably would have spotted him. The driver said something and his buddy responded with a shake of the head. The exchange was perfunctory and easy to interpret. You see him? Nope. Okay, let’s go then. They headed for Kirchner’s apartment block and a second later they’d disappeared from sight.

  A couple of minutes later his cab came along the street. Winter flagged it down, climbed into the back, then gave the driver directions to Nicholas Sobek’s house in Kerrisdale. It was nine-thirty by the time he arrived.

  Unlike the neighbouring houses, Sobek’s was dark and silent. It reminded Winter of a haunted mansion, and to some extent that’s exactly what it was. The house was haunted by Isabella’s ghost. There were no lights on inside, no lights outside. That didn’t mean Sobek wasn’t at home. If he was here he’d be hidden away down in the basement. Down there it didn’t matter whether it was night or day. Down there it didn’t matter what anyone was doing out in the big bad world. The sun had set forty minutes ago. It didn’t take forty minutes to drive here from the cemetery.

  Winter walked up to the big steel gate and pressed the button on the intercom panel. Then he waited. Thirty seconds passed without any response. He stepped forward and pressed it again. This time his thumb stayed there for a good ten seconds. Still no response. There was no point trying a third time. Sobek was paranoid about security. The second the buzzer was pressed, all hell would have broken loose in the basement. Sirens, klaxons, warning lights and God only knew what else. There were two possibilities. Either he wasn’t at home or he’d put a noose around his neck and jumped off of the balcony. Given that Sobek didn’t strike him as suicidal, Winter was veering toward the former.

  He went back over to the intercom and studied it more closely. There was no numeric keypad, so no opportunity to beat the system by punching in potential security codes. There was a button you pressed to speak, a microphone to talk into, and a small sensor for a remote gate key. There were only two ways to get through these gates. Either someone inside the house let you in or you had the remote key. He glanced up. Even if he could climb the wall it wouldn’t have done any good because he would have ended up cut to pieces on the glass.

  Winter crossed the street. Then he waited some more. Five minutes later a vehicle turned into the cul-de-sac. Judging by the low throaty roar, this was a high-spec performance car. Winter turned toward the sound and saw the unmistakeable profile of an Aston Martin Vantage. It was too dark to make out the driver’s face, but it was a safe bet that it was Sobek.

  The Vantage pulled up to the big iron gate. No one got out to use the intercom. No windows buzzed down. The big steel gate started to slide open, the motor straining to move all that metal. Before it had got even a quarter of the way along its track, the exterior lights suddenly slammed on, the bright halogens blasting the darkness away and illuminating the front of the property.

  The car rolled forward onto the driveway and Winter crossed the street, making sure he kept out of the rear-view mirror, heading for the pillar that had the intercom attached to it. He pressed up against the wall to make himself smaller. The stone still retained some of the heat of the day. Every five seconds he would steal a glance to check on Sobek’s progress. It was like watching a time-lapse video. Sobek was three-quarters of the way along the driveway. Now he’d stopped in front of the double garage. Now the doors were halfway up. Now they were fully up. Now the car had disappeared inside.

  Winter waited until the gate had slid almost all the way closed before moving. The gap was down to a couple of feet, just wide enough to admit him, but shrinking with each passing second. He slipped through and started walking up the driveway. Behind him, the gate ground to a halt and the motor died. The sudden silence was eerie and unsettling. There was no point in attempting a stealth approach. That game was over. The exterior lights were so bright it was like the middle of the day. Whatever he did, Sobek would spot him.

  A car door slammed shut in the depths of the garage. Five seconds later Sobek stepped out, blinking in the brightness. He was looking straight at Winter, following his progress as he walked toward him. His black hair was tied back into a ponytail and his gaze was as intense as ever. Winter stopped in front of him.

  ‘Good day?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve had better.’

  ‘I take it the killer didn’t turn up at the cemetery?’

  ‘Nor at any of the other graves.’ He nodded toward the laptop. ‘You’ve brought your computer. Is there something you want me to see.’

  ‘It’s not mine. It’s Eric Kirchner’s.’

  Sobek raised a questioning eyebrow. Winter waited for the question to be verbalised, but it didn’t happen.

  ‘Let’s talk inside,’ Sobek said.

  37

  Sobek led the way along the path that bordered the front of the house. The bright halogens made the flowers in the planters look washed out. The grass looked artificial. They stopped at the front door. Sobek pressed his eye against the top scanner, his thumb against the bottom. Ten seconds passed, long enough for the metal detector to do its thing. The door clicked open.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Winter said. ‘I don’t have a gun.’

  ‘Should I be worried if you did?’

  ‘That depends on whether you’re a good guy or a bad guy.’

  ‘I didn’t murder my wife.’

  ‘That doesn’t necessarily make you one of the good guys.’

  Sobek went inside. He hit a switch and the chandelier came on. Winter followed him through the impressive entrance hall, heading for the corridor that went behind the staircase. Sobek stopped at the basement door. He pressed his eye against the top scanner, his thumb against the bottom. The quiet click as the lock released was like a sigh. They descended the stairs in single file and turned right at the bottom. The door Sobek stopped at was made from the same brushed steel as all the other doors down here. It was heavy and unwelcoming. He opened it and they went inside.

  Anderton had mentioned there was an office down here, and Winter figured that that’s what he was looking at. There was a desk, a chair, a telephone and a computer, but that’s where the similarity ended. The things you would usually expect to find were missing, all those little touches that helped to mark your territory. There was no ego wall, no bookcase, no filing cabinet, no sentimental ornaments. There were photographs, only there was nothing sentimental about them. At least, not in the traditional sense. They were displayed on three of the walls, one for each of the first three victims. Pictures from the crime scene and pictures from the autopsy. A morbid gallery of death and desolation.

  The photographs relating to Isabella’s murder had pride of place. These were on the wall directly opposite the desk. Whenever Sobek looked up this would be the first thing he saw. In one of the autopsy photographs Isabella’s ribcage had been cracked open and her organs were exposed, wet and glistening under the bright surgical lights. In another the top of her skull had been removed, exposing her brain. The crime-scene photographs weren’t much better. It made Winter wonder again where Sobek’s head was at. Who the hell would want to see their wife looking like this?

  Some of the crime-scene photographs were familiar because Anderton had sent through the same ones. And some were familiar because they’d been on the evidence boards in the incident room. And some he’d never seen before. It made him wonder how Sobek had got hold of them. At the same time he wasn’t surprised. Motivation and money made a potent combination.

  Alicia Kirchner’s photographs were on the wall to the right, Lian Hammond’s on the wall to the
left. More crime-scene and autopsy pictures. More death and desolation. The fourth wall was blank. Presumably this had now been earmarked for the pictures from Myra Hooper’s murder. Winter held out the laptop and waited for Sobek to take it.

  ‘I’m figuring that either you or one of your private army of PIs knows a computer expert. I need them to take a look at this.’

  ‘What exactly should they be looking for?’

  ‘Evidence that the webcam has been accessed remotely.’

  ‘You think the killer has been using it to watch Kirchner?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  Sobek didn’t say anything for a moment. Winter was wondering how long it would take for him to catch up with what was happening here. In the end it took less than five seconds.

  ‘Do you think he’s been watching me?’

  ‘If it turns out that he’s been watching Kirchner, then he’s probably been watching you, too. David Hammond as well.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘First we need to work out if he has been accessing the webcam, then we can look at answering that.’

  ‘If you’ve got some ideas, I want to hear them.’

  ‘And you will. As soon as there’s anything worth sharing I’ll share it with Anderton, and then she’ll share it with you.’

  ‘I’m not the enemy here.’

  ‘No you’re not, but you do have a vested interest. Let’s face it, you’re not exactly an impartial observer.’

  ‘All I want is for the bastard who killed my wife to be brought to justice.’

  ‘And when you shut your eyes at night how exactly does that particular dream play out?’

  ‘I just want to see him behind bars.’

  ‘Do you? So you don’t dream about putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger? Or driving a knife into his gut and keeping going until it pierces his heart?’

  ‘I’m not going to lie, those thoughts have crossed my mind. But if you spoke to Eric Kirchner or David Hammond they’d tell you the exact same thing. Unfortunately, the reality of the situation is that I’d never get close enough to do anything like that. Right now, the best I can hope for is that the killer gets caught and the arrest goes bad.’ He stopped talking and stared Winter in the eye. ‘You know, if that was to happen, I’d be happy to pay a bonus.’

  Winter said nothing.

  ‘You were working a case in Detroit recently,’ Sobek went on. ‘That arrest went bad. And it’s not as if this is the first time that something like this has happened on a case you were involved in. Statistically speaking, your strike rate seems to be above average.’

  ‘There’s no great conspiracy. The people I’m hunting know they’ve reached the end of the line. All they’ve got to look forward to is life imprisonment or a cell on death row. Faced with that prospect they go looking for a way out. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I’m betting that you don’t lose much sleep, though. In fact, I doubt you lose any.’

  ‘No, I don’t. All that matters is that they’ve been stopped. Whether they’re dead or in prison, it makes no difference.’

  ‘So you don’t even get a little bit of pleasure out of seeing them die?’

  They locked eyes. Nobody spoke. It was Winter who eventually broke the silence.

  ‘How big a bonus are we talking about here?’

  ‘Name your price.’

  ‘You couldn’t afford me.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Two million bucks. And just so we’re clear here, this is non-negotiable. If anything goes wrong, it’s my ass that ends up in prison.’

  For a moment Sobek just stood there with a calculated look on his face, like he was giving the proposal some serious thought. Then he grinned. ‘If only it was that easy.’

  ‘If only. Look, the last thing I need right now is you going vigilante. Even if you’re going vigilante by proxy. Do you understand?’

  The grin turned into a smile.

  ‘I’m figuring that you’re a bottom-line sort of guy,’ Winter went on. ‘So I’m going to lay out the bottom line for you. I can catch this guy, but if you get in my way that’s going to make a tough job that much harder. And just so there’s no misunderstanding, once he has been caught, he’s going to go to trial, and then he’s going to prison for the rest of his life. Do you understand?’

  ‘I can live with that. Prisons are dangerous places. They’re filled with thieves and murderers. You’ve got to wonder how long he’d survive in an environment like that.’

  ‘And if he did end up stabbed in the shower, I wouldn’t have a problem with that. Just so long as you had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘It’s good to know that we’re on the same page.’

  ‘Sobek, we’re not even close to being on the same page.’ Winter nodded to the desk, where Kirchner’s laptop was lying. ‘So, do you know anyone who could take a look at that?’

  ‘Yes, I know someone.’

  Sobek walked around the desk and sat down in the chair. He pulled the telephone toward him. While he made the call, Winter walked over to the wall that contained Isabella’s pictures. Hidden away amongst all the devastation was a seven-by-five photograph that stood out because it had nothing to do with death and everything to do with life. It had been taken someplace hot. Isabella was standing next to a palm tree wearing a bikini with a loose wrap over the top. She looked happy and beautiful and full of life. Winter took it down and carried it over to the desk. Sobek was winding up his call. He dropped the receiver back into the cradle and rocked back on his chair.

  ‘Someone will be around to look at the computer.’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘They’re not in the city so it might take them a couple of hours to get here.’

  ‘Get them to look at your computers as well.’

  Winter placed the seven-by-five photograph on the desk and slid it over. Sobek picked it up and studied it. Even though he must have seen this photograph a thousand times, he was looking at it like this was the first. There was a wistful expression on his face, as though he was back in the moment. Chances were he’d taken the picture. That’s where he was now. He was standing there with a camera in his hand, hoping to capture the perfect moment. Because that was the hope you harboured whenever you took a photograph. For every hundred taken, only one would have that extra something. Maybe the light was just right, or you somehow managed to catch the subject in a way that was interesting, a way that made you want to look at that picture again and again. It didn’t happen very often but when it did it was like capturing a piece of magic. That’s what had happened here. Sobek had captured a little piece of magic.

  ‘Tell me about this photograph.’

  ‘Why?’

  Winter pointed to the wall that contained Isabella’s pictures and Sobek followed his finger. The wistful expression had gone, replaced by something harder. The only photographs left there were the death ones. There was no cohesion to the narrative. Pictures of Isabella lying in the kitchen fought for space with pictures of her body after it had been brutalised by the ME’s tools.

  ‘That is not your wife.’ Winter tapped the desk, bringing his attention back to the photograph in his hand. ‘This is your wife.’

  Sobek took another look at the photo. ‘This was from our honeymoon in Antigua. Isabella had always wanted to go there. We were on our way back from the beach and it was just before sunset. I asked her to hold up for a second and took a quick picture on my cell. Just before I took it, she whispered that she loved me. It’s my favourite picture of her.’

  ‘Thank you for sharing that. Call me when your guy’s had a look at the laptop.’

  Winter headed for the door. He glanced back over his shoulder before opening it. Sobek was staring at the photograph, deep in thought. In that moment, he was just another victim, someone who’d lost someone dear to him. In a lot of respects he wasn’t any different from Eric Kirchner or Scott Hooper. Sobek had said that he’d managed to escape from the hurricane. Looking at him sitting th
ere, Winter wasn’t so sure. There were some things that were impossible to move on from.

  38

  It was after eleven before Winter got back to the Shangri La. Even though he was exhausted, he wasn’t ready to sleep. He poured a glass of Springbank, found the remote and settled down on the sofa. For a while he killed time surfing the channels. He was looking for a distraction, but kept coming back to the news. Myra Hooper’s murder was still the only story in town. In another forty-seven minutes August 5 would become August 6. The countdown clock inside his head was ticking louder than ever.

  The screen changed from a reality show where everyone was trying to out-humiliate each other to a film where all the actors had bad eighties haircuts and bad eighties clothes and really bad dialogue. Winter punched in the number for the news and the screen flickered and changed. To start with he thought he’d got the wrong channel. The picture was grainy and low-resolution, like it had been shot on a cheap cell phone. It had the feel of a film that would feature on America’s Funniest Home Videos. But this wasn’t the wrong channel. The Global logo was in the corner of the screen and the newsfeed was running along the bottom.

  Winter turned up the volume then leant forward on the sofa. There was a bunch of kids on the screen. College students, by the looks of things. It was dark and they were drunk and overexcited, their attention fixed on something that was happening in the near distance. At this range, in this light, it was difficult to work out what they were staring at. He willed the camera operator to zoom in closer, and a second later that’s exactly what happened.

  The object everyone was focussed on was a stuffed toy bear. It was as large as a small baby, with brown fur and a happy smile. Three fireworks were attached to its body. For added authenticity they were held in place with duct tape. The fuses had been twisted together to create one single fuse. Someone moved in from stage left. The face was pixelated and the clothes were gender neutral, making it difficult to tell if they were male or female. A prank like this, male seemed more likely. They were holding a lit taper, which inferred a minimal amount of common sense and a passing acquaintance with firework safety. They touched the taper to the fuse then ran like hell, which suggested that self-preservation had been considered, albeit fleetingly.