Body Blows

by Marc Strange

  “Wasn’t the jumper,” says the other guy. “He got in a different way.”

  I step through the gate and start down the incline. The ramp is wide enough for massive heavy equipment and I doubt that the police learned much from a chewed up surface that has obviously supported a few thousand trips by haulers, cement mixers, backhoes, and earthmovers. A Harley FatBoy wouldn’t have made much impression, let alone a dirt bike.

  It’s a lot easier finding a path in daylight. The area around the pylon is still ringed with DO NOT CROSS tape but I can get close enough to see the blood smears on the rebar spears.

  I skirt the police zone and make my way around the perimeter. In the far corner of the pit, near a careless pile of plywood forms, I can see grease spots on the concrete pad, and narrow tread marks, a little too wide for a ten-speed, just about right for a dirt bike.

  Back of the pile, plywood sheets have been braced together into a crude A-frame. Inside are a bedroll, a duffel bag, cigarette butts in an empty paint can, fast-food wrappers. Home sweet home, for someone.

  I should probably leave a thorough search to the police, but since they didn’t bother to check this far into the site, and in all probability the homeless person who’s been squatting here doesn’t have any connection to what happened atop the adjacent mountain, and as long as I’m rationalizing, I might as well have a quick look at what’s in the place. The concrete floor is covered with layers of flattened cardboard boxes. A metal toolbox contains a hacksaw, electrician’s tape, pliers, a hammer, and nails. The duffel holds wads of not particularly sweet-smelling laundry which I don’t feel like pawing through. I upend the thing and dump the contents onto the cardboard carpeting. A couple of paperbacks, a web belt, grubby sneakers, and the last item, a torn and twisted length of ribbon threaded through what looks to be a U.S. Army Bronze Star. The ribbon is knotted to a white plastic fob of some sort, possibly a small flashlight. On closer inspection I recognize it as a MedicAlert tag. I pocket both items.

  “Someone’s been squatting down there,” I tell the men as I return the hardhat.

  “Streiner should be collecting rent,” he says.

  The Royal Lotus Ballroom is in the ultra modern (and somewhat garish to my taste) new waterfront palace called The Singapore Garden, one of the baubles in a string of sparklers circling the Pacific Rim under the banner of a Hong Kong-based chain called Peak Haven Hotels. I have to admit that it’s an impressive joint. Bigger than the Lord Douglas by at least three hundred suites, indoor fountains, heliport, charter boats, “Olympic-size” swimming pool, escalators at every rise. One step removed from a trip to Disneyworld.

  The concierge, an immensely pleasant man named Ko, tells me that Mr. Tully can be found in the Events Coordinator’s offices, a mere two escalators up and a few hundred metres along a skylighted walkway with a grand view of the inner harbour. I am pleased to find that Mr. Tully is exactly where he’s supposed to be. He has company.

  Detective Mooney is holding the plaque. He’s holding it by the corners. He looks me over as I come through the door.

  “Look who’s here,” he says. “Mr. Tully tells me you saw this thing last night.”

  Busted. “I figured it was a prank from some disgruntled innkeeper,” I say.

  “Uh hunh.” He sounds unconvinced. “Pretty elaborate prank. Big hole through the eye.”

  Pazzano steps forward. “Heard you were in a hurry.”

  “Leo told me he was ready to leave.”

  “Yeah? Word is you kinda rushed him outta here.”

  “People were crowding around.”

  Pazzano comes closer. “You grabbed a cab.”

  “That’s right.” It occurs to me that since I knew this was all going to come out I should have been better prepared. “The limo driver wasn’t the same one who brought us. I probably overreacted.”

  “Okay,” Mooney begins. “Let me get this straight: You see that your boss’s award’s been trashed and that’s enough to get you hustling him out of here, then you see that your driver’s been switched and that’s enough to make you look for alternate transportation, and then you get home and find out your boss’s girlfriend’s been murdered and somebody did a half-gainer off the balcony.” He smiles. I hate it when cops smile. “And it didn’t occur to you that those things might be connected?”

  “It has since occurred to me,” I say. Better to look slow than devious.

  “I bet.” Pazzano isn’t buying it either.

  “I wanted to tell Leo first,” I say, deciding to at least state the obvious. “My first responsibility is to his safety. If these occurrences were somehow connected to what happened to Raquel I would have, and Leo would have insisted that I report it to you.”

  “Oh, that’s okay then,” says Mooney. I hate it when cops are sarcastic. “Sure, because we’re merely involved in a homicide investigation, whereas you are concerned with protecting your boss’s reputation. Am I right?”

  “I take your point,” I say, with as much rue as I can muster for the occasion.

  “You’ve got a good friend down at the shop,” Mooney says. “Otherwise I might consider making your life miserable for a few hours. Maybe even overnight.”

  “I appreciate your restraint,” I say.

  “Don’t be a wiseass,” Pazzano throws in. I get the distinct impression he’d like to go a round with me. I don’t like the odds; he has a badge, a gun, and handcuffs. “Weed says you’re not to be trusted.”

  Mooney moves in. He’s probably had to defuse similar situations involving his partner. He holds the plaque out for my inspection. “You got any idea who did this?”

  “No.”

  “If you get any idea who did this what’ll you be doing with the information?”

  “I’ll be passing it on to you,” I say.

  “You check into the missing limo driver?”

  “With no satisfaction, so far,” I admit.

  “Well then,” he says, patting me on the shoulder. “How be you let us take it from here? Okay?”

  “Certainly,” I say.

  “Good,” he says. “We understand each other.”

  Pazzano glares at me for a long moment before turning for the door.

  “Did Weed really say I wasn’t to be trusted?”

  Pazzano looks back. “What he said was, ‘give him enough rope and he’ll hang himself.’”

  “Doesn’t sound like you guys are giving me much rope.”

  “Hang yourself somewhere else,” Pazzano says.

  Young Mr. Tully shrugs at me. I think he’s grateful that the plaque, the cops, and, shortly, me, are no longer to be his problem. He busies himself with other matters — shuffling message slips, shifting papers, checking the wall-mounted schedule of upcoming events — and looks a bit startled when he finds me still standing in his office.

  “Don’t suppose you found a drill press?” I ask him.

  “A what?”

  “Something to make a hole in that thing.”

  “No, sir, I did not.” A slight note of annoyance in Mr. Tully’s voice. I expect he thinks he’s free to treat me the way Mooney and Pazzano did.

  “It’s solid brass isn’t it?”

  “Bronze, I think.” He gives his full attention to next week’s responsibilities.

  “Hard material.”

  “I expect,” he says. “We didn’t supply the award, you understand.”

  “Was it in your care?”

  “Not technically.” Now he sounds tired of the entire affair, and especially of me. “The police have already asked these questions.”

  “I’m sure they did,” I say. “I’m just wondering if you recall what happened to the award between the time it was presented to Mr. Alexander, and the time it was found in the speaker’s lectern?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Okay,” I say, and sit down, cross my legs, smile.

  “What did Leo do with it after he received it?”

  He sighs the deep sigh of someone who
has much more important things to do. “I believe he put it down on the head table near his plate.”

  “And then shortly after that, the dancing started and most people moved away from the head table.”

  “Yes.” He isn’t going to indulge me much longer.

  “And that’s when the servers would have started clearing away the plates and cutlery.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who was in charge of the cleanup?”

  “The event was catered in-house, but there was extra staff taken on for the night.”

  “All of it coordinated by this office I guess.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re the one who noticed that the plaque had been tampered with because you’re the one who came to tell me about it. Which would mean that you were pretty close to the action in the dining room, where the tables were being cleared. And seeing as how you were the coordinator, you probably took a personal interest in the plaque, wanting to make certain it was wrapped up properly, not lost, given to its rightful owner before he left the building.”

  He’s remembered something. “There was a box.”

  “A box.”

  “A presentation box, lined with I don’t know, velvet probably. After Mr. Alexander and his date left the room I put the plaque in the box …”

  “And?”

  “And …” Finally, something that will end this annoyance. “I gave it to Mr. Westerby.”

  “And he is?”

  His look suggests that I should know this. “Mr. Westerby is president of the Vancouver Hoteliers Association.”

  “Thank you very much,” I say, getting to my feet, an action which brings noticeable relief. “And where might I locate Mr. Westerby?”

  “I would imagine you will find him at his hotel, Mr. Grundy. The Orchard Inn.”

  I head for the door. “That’s in …?”

  “Park Royal, of course.”

  “Of course it is. Thank you for your help,” I say.

  The Orchard Inn was built in the 1950s but if the fire codes allowed it I’m sure the Orchard would have thatched roofs to go with what looks to be a rambling, half-timber, wattle and daub structure dating from the days of Oliver Cromwell. It nestles with a proprietary air beside the Capilano River, which this time of year runs high and wide.

  Adrian Westerby wears red suspenders and rolls his sleeves up just below his elbows, the better to show his meaty forearms and reinforce the image of a homespun publican. The gold Rolex on his left wrist suggests otherwise. When I saw him last night he was wearing a tux almost as fine as mine.

  “Didn’t look anything like him,” he says to me. “I told the missus it looked like the profile of Uriah Heep.” He pronounces the word profeel.

  “I’m sure he was touched by the gesture,” I say.

  “Well,” he says, “we independents have to show the flag from time to time. Mine doesn’t look much like me either.”

  He points to a similar plaque behind the check-in counter. His profeel is flattering.

  “I just wanted to know what you did with it after Mr. Tully gave it to you.”

  “It hasn’t gone missing, has it?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “I believe I … yes, I gave it to his chauffeur. At least he said he was Leo’s chauffeur.”

  “Oh. Do you remember if the man had a ponytail?”

  “Yes, that’s right, swarthy fellow, black moustache, silly little switch down his back. Don’t know why men wear their hair inappropriately. Probably a cultural thing, don’t you think.”

  “Possibly,” I say. “Thanks for your time.”

  “My pleasure,” he says. He’s following me out to the parking lot, looking around to make sure we’re alone. “There’s a rumour going around that one of the Lord Douglas’s maids was killed last night. Is that true?”

  No point denying it. “Yes.”

  “Is the ponytailed man a suspect?”

  “I couldn’t say, Mr. Westerby. The police are in charge of that investigation. I’m looking into another matter entirely.”

  “Another matter which involves the driver.”

  “Not necessarily. It’s about the plaque. Someone defaced it between the time the dancing started and we were ready to leave. Not much more than an hour. I’m trying to find out how many people might have handled it.”

  “Defaced it how?”

  “Drilled a hole in it.”

  “Oh, dear,” he says. “So silly. Leo wouldn’t have hung it anyway. I’ve known him a long time. He might have tossed it into a closet, if he didn’t throw it out with the trash.”

  “You do know him,” I say.

  The man behind the counter isn’t old enough to be either Mr. Austin or Mr. Davies. I suppose he might be the great-grandson of one of them. Austin-Davies Tobacconists has been in business for quite a while.

  “Hi,” I say. “Raquel asked me to pick up a package for her. I have the receipt. It’s a birthday present.”

  “It certainly is,” he says. “Twenty-five of each.” The cigars have handsome gold bands on them. “The bands are specially made of course. The cigars themselves are Mr. Alexander’s personal selection.”

  Gold and blue bands on one side, gold and pink on the other side. The gold lettering on the blue bands says IT’S A BOY! and on the pink bands, IT’S A GIRL!

  “Would you be kind enough to convey our heartfelt congratulations to Mr. Alexander?”

  “Certainly.”

  Young Mr. Austin (or Davies) is so proud of the presentation, I haven’t the heart to tell him that it’s no longer appropriate. I smile as best I can.

  Not content with one death, the murderous bastard, whoever it might be, has compounded the horror. I don’t know if Leo can handle it. If I deliver the gift he’s going to be devastated. If I don’t, he’s not going to know. Sticking the box in a drawer and pretending it doesn’t exist seems like the kinder choice. Unless he already knows. I don’t really have a wide range of options. Besides, Raquel deserves to have her last request honoured.

  I’m sitting in a parked car with the engine off, a box of cigars on the passenger seat, watching people walk by; couples, window shopping, holding hands. Most of them look content, perhaps even happy. I don’t often procrastinate. My usual approach to a situation is to take care of things as soon as I can so they don’t nag at me. Get it over with. Move on. But I’m dragging my feet on this one. Admit it. I don’t want to face Leo.

  Maurice is a busy man these days, arranging theatre tickets, group tours, special orders. He didn’t have a lot of time to devote to my problem.

  “I got the runaround from Ultra Limousine Service,” Maurice says. “They said any complaints would have to be made to Mr. Goodier who wasn’t available. They don’t give out information over the phone.”

  “Even to their best customers?”

  “I told them who was calling. They said they’d need some authorization. I told them their attitude was unacceptable. They said I should take it up with Mr. Alexander.”

  “And you said the complaint was being lodged by Mr. Alexander?”

  “Wrong Alexander,” says Maurice. “Theodore Alexander. His company.”

  “Sorry, Maurice. I didn’t know,” I say.

  “Theo swung an exclusive contract with the old man a few years back. His name isn’t on it. Somebody named Goodier’s the manager, but Theo owns it, fleet, licence, garage, the works.” He holds his palms up and open, out of options, waiting for orders.

  “I’ll take it up with Theo, personally,” I say. “Thanks, Maurice.”

  “How’s the boss man doing?”

  “He’ll be okay.”

  “Yeah, he’s a tough old bird,” says Maurice.

  “I can’t talk to you now, Ms. Hiscox,” I say. “I’ve got a job.”

  I can see Gritch behind his fern giving me an elaborate shrug. Not his fault. She was waiting in the lobby.

  “So have I,” she says.

  “At cross-purpos
es.” I start walking, just to be going somewhere. “Talk to the police.”

  The mezzanine looks like a possible escape route — displays, boutiques, espresso bar. I seem to recall a Staff Only back door. I head up the wide staircase. The new carpet is striped. Admit it, I’m running for cover.

  “I’m not interested in the investigation,” she says, matching my stride. She can probably run, too. “I want to know how he’s dealing with it.”

  “I can’t help you,” I say.

  “The last time it happened, he was a suspect, did you know that?”

  Halfway up the staircase and nowhere to go. I can feel my shoulders slump. The first words through my brain are, oh Lord, now what?

  “The last time what happened?” I manage to keep the gloom out of my voice. I think.

  “The last time one of his women was killed.” She is standing in front of me. She has my complete attention.

  Her smile is frosty, almost as cold as her eyes. “You didn’t know? Well, not surprising, I suppose. It’s not something he advertises.”

  A party of seven happy travellers descends without a care in the world. I lower my voice. “If you have something to say, why don’t you just say it?”

  “Why don’t you buy me an expensive coffee?” she suggests. This time she leads the way.

  Hers is a tall latté. Mine is dark Colombian, double-double. I need the caffeine, and the sugar. We sit in a far corner by the window. Nobody really cares about us anyway. Still, she leans across the table, her voice conspiratorial. She’s enjoying this.

  “He ever mention his second wife? Lorraine?”

  “I heard she passed away,” I say.

  “He was almost arrested in connection with her ‘passing away,’” she says. “Did he tell you that?”

  “What was the charge?”

  “Oh, he was never charged. He had a good lawyer; the Calgary cops didn’t have a case. But he was a suspect. Still is, far as I know. Case was never solved.”

  “How did she die?”

  “Yes, well that’s the eerie part, isn’t it? She was stabbed. In the back.” She has a sip. “And the front.” She has a dapper foam moustache. She’ll probably twirl it in a minute.