by Marc Strange
“They had a thing, he and Mrs. Newton, I guess, some years back.”
“And then her husband drowned.” Gritch blows smoke out the open window. “I don’t think I could stand that much life,” Gritch says. “Dead wives, sunk boats, long-lost kids cropping up, people shooting at me, no wonder he went into hiding. He needed a vacation.”
“Don’t we all?”
We’re heading for Chinatown. I’m hungry again. I have a craving for some braised beef the way they make it at the Kom Jug. Gritch is all for the plan.
“The Gold-dust Twins’ll be so pooped from shifting furniture they’ll send out for pizza,” he says.
“You don’t like pizza?”
“Not with shrimp and pineapple,” he says. He has a last puff and consigns the cigar butt to the road. “It goes against nature.”
“There’s probably a bylaw against that,” I say.
“Pineapple on pizza?”
“Cigar butts on the street.”
Gritch is unrepentant. “You know, pal,” he starts, “there can’t be a helluva lot of people knew Leo wasn’t going to be home Tuesday night. That Dimi character had to have a floor plan or something, some way of getting in without setting off alarms. Somebody had to send him on the mission. That’s got to narrow the list.”
“The connection to Theo looms larger.”
Braised beef with Szechuan chili oil, Chinese broccoli with black bean sauce, a bottomless pot of tea. I’ve never been particularly adept with chopsticks but I seem to be shovelling substantial heaps into my mouth without too much wastage. I must be on the mend.
Gritch has opted for lemon chicken and fried rice; it’s as adventuresome as he’s likely to get. He’s using a fork. “Say he was acting for Theo. Theo told him how he could get in, and what he wanted. Dimi gets in but he isn’t expecting Raquel to be there.”
“She changed her clothes,” I say. “She knew we wouldn’t be back until after midnight, probably took her time — had a shower, fixed her hair, tried on at least one other dress. Maybe she wasn’t in the penthouse when he got there.”
“And she surprised him.”
“Won’t know until we find him.”
“You’ll never find him.”
“Weed thinks he’s probably dead already.”
“Overly elaborate for a carjacking, don’t you think?” He sounds skeptical.
“We’re assuming they were stealing that limo.” I put down my chopsticks and refill the teacups.
“Natural assumption,” Gritch says. “Done it before, same MO, get Newton behind the wheel and a limo goes missing.”
I shake my head at the preposterousness of the situation. “They drive to the hotel, Dimi does his cat-burglar bit, fights with Raquel, sees his partner go flying, bleeds his way down the stairs …”
“And then leaves the limo behind? How does that make sense?”
My fortune cookie says, “You will find your heart’s desire”. The next thing on my list isn’t exactly my heart’s desire, but it must be attended to. “They should have landed by now,” I say.
“Who? Theo?”
“And Marcia. Need to talk to them.”
“We going to West Van?”
“I thought we could try False Creek first,” I say. “Maybe he won’t go straight home.”
“Nice neighbourhood,” says Gritch. “Waterfront, boats, what d’ya figure a townhouse is worth down here?”
“Haven’t a clue,” I say.
“That’ll be her place over there,” he says. “The one with the Japanese maple.”
“See that car?” I say. “Other side of the street? Canary yellow.”
“What about it?”
“George Starryk was trying to sell one just like it out of his showroom.”
“So?”
“Can’t be too many of those in the city,” I say. I slow down to cruise past the bright yellow Mustang. “And that one has dealer plates and most of a Dysart Motors decal on the rear bumper.”
“This would be a great time to involve the authorities,” says Gritch.
“I suppose. Why don’t you give them a call?” I say. “Explain, if you can, that there’s a possibility, very faint, that either or both of the Starryk brothers is or are in the vicinity. You might also point out that this is based on the flimsiest of evidence but that we wouldn’t want anyone to think we were withholding.”
“What will you be doing while I’m on the phone?” he wants to know.
“I’m here to pay my respects to Theo’s girlfriend.”
I back the sedan into a space recently vacated by a blue BMW, snug my Tensor bandage an extra half inch, and step out of the car, heading for Marcia Duhamel’s front door. Behind me I can hear Gritch trying to locate an interested party.
No one answers the knock, or the ring. Maybe her plane hasn’t landed. I cross the street to where the Mustang is notched into a tight row of vehicles. Not much is visible through the rear window, or the side window. I ill-advisedly touch the driver’s side door, which sets off the world’s most annoying car alarm, a relentless series of ear-jabbing beeps. There’s no way for me to shut it off. I retreat to the sedan and adopt a nonchalant air while watching the buildings across the way. One by one doors open and annoyed faces peer out. A man who looks like he’s been awakened from a Sunday nap yells, “Shut that damn thing off or I’m calling the police!”
I can hear Gritch muttering, “Whaddaya think I’m doing?”
Marcia’s front door opens a foot and Dimi’s Starr’s moustache twitches in the shadows. I see his arm stick out and his thumb punch what looks to be a remote device of some kind. It isn’t working; the honking goes on. He’s caught between two unhappy choices — show himself, or wait for the police.
“That him?” Gritch asks.
“That’s our boy,” I say.
Dimi waves his keys in the air as he leaves his hideout and bolts for the car. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he calls out to one and all. He has to squeeze between the next car, fumble with keys, all the while apologizing for the constant honking. Finally he manages to open the door, cram his upper body inside and locate the switch. Blissful silence descends upon the genteel neighbourhood. Doors are slammed, people grumble and return to their Sunday lives, and Dimi shoehorns himself into the Mustang and fires up the big motor.
Great planning, Mr. Moto, I tell myself as I clamber back behind the wheel. You might have anticipated that option. It’s good of the engine to fire up without the usual complaint.
“You’ll never catch him in this thing,” Gritch says.
He’s right about that. I’m not an intrepid driver, even with two good arms.
“No, we’re not confronting,” Gritch says into the phone, “we’re merely tracking and observing.”
“Who’re you talking to?” I ask.
“I have no idea,” says Gritch. “Maintai — That’s right, maintaining our distance.”
I don’t think maintaining distance is the best plan. If he puts any distance between us it’ll be game over. I decide on a more direct approach. As Dimi is backing carefully out of his parking space, I hit the gas, slide the old boat around in a tight one-eighty, and rear-end him with enough force to crumple bumpers and bodywork. I hope Dimi has insurance. I know the hotel has.
“Hello again, Detective,” Gritch says into his cell, “I have an update.”
There’s no room for him to get out on the driver’s side. He slides across to the other seat but I manage to wedge myself against a handy Forester and lean on the passenger door as he’s sticking his head out.
“Hi, Dimi,” I say. “Might as well sit tight, the police are on their way.”
“We don’t need cops,” he says. “Move your car so I can back out.”
“No, they need to talk to you about that other thing. Remember? Monday night?”
Dimi does the only logical thing, at least from his perspective. He slides back behind the wheel, throws the Mustang into reverse, and smashes into the l
ong-suffering hotel sedan a few times, driving it no more than a few inches backward. It’s as good as a roadblock.
Dimi smokes his tires a couple more times and then decides to have an emotional breakdown. He starts screaming and pounding the steering wheel and cursing in Macedonian or Bulgarian, I can’t tell, but whatever language, I doubt the words are polite. When I squeeze in beside him he takes a couple of backhanded swings at my head.
“Take it easy now, Mr. Starr,” I say. “It’s all over. Might as well relax. We’re not going anywhere.”
He emits a groan of rage and frustration and tries to swat me again. I have a strong desire to club him on the jaw, right where the nerve endings bundle, but then he wouldn’t be able to talk, and I need answers even more than payback. “Stop that!” I say, with my serious voice. I reach for the key and shut down the engine.
He slumps over the steering wheel. “What do you want?” he asks.
“Did you kill her?”
“She was dead when I got there.”
“What were you doing there?”
“Lawyer up.”
“What?”
“That’s what I do. Lawyer up. I’ve got nothing to say.”
“I’m not a policeman,” I say. “Anything you say to me wouldn’t be admissible.”
“Yeah, right,” he says. “I didn’t kill anybody, I didn’t steal anything, I was doing a favour for somebody, that’s all.”
“For Theo Alexander?”
“Screw him.”
“Who then? Marcia?”
He shakes his head with the dead acceptance of a trapped animal. “Drive her around places, Theo says. She gets bored, he says. Take her to the shops, take her where she wants to go, keep an eye on her, report to him who she’s meeting. She doesn’t like it. She’s a prisoner. I tell her, break free, belong to yourself, answer to nobody. She’s a kept woman, but she’s unsatisfied, you know? He can afford her, but he can’t keep her happy, you know?”
“And you could?”
“What are you gonna do? She’s bored, spends most of her time alone. ‘Help me with these packages, Dimi, what do you think of this dress, Dimi, zip me up please, Dimi.’ I’m human.”
“I understand,” I say. “You had an affair.”
“Not an affair. It’s serious. We were going to take off.”
“But you needed money.”
“She knows where the safe is. She stole the combination from Theo. The old man doesn’t know he has it. There’s like a million cash and Theo’s bragging all he has to do is reach in and grab it. One of these days he’s going to do it, he says.”
“You and Marcia were going to beat him to the punch.”
“It was supposed to be simple.”
“What happened?”
“I get there, it’s quiet, I start looking around, lights on in the kitchen, I slip on a plate of something, on the floor. Land on top of a dead woman. That’s too much for me, I’m out of there. I didn’t steal anything, I didn’t kill anybody.”
“What about Farrel?”
“That dumbass stupid dumbshit! He’s supposed to bring the other car, that’s all. I tell him to go home! He starts acting crazy. He sees that thing with the old guy’s face? Grabbed it out of my hand. Payback time, he says. He’s got a drill in the trunk. Puts a hole right through the eye. I say, what the fuck you do that for? Payback time, he says. I had to sneak it back inside. I’m not responsible. So I tell stupidshit to go home. He’s screwing the whole thing. He says he’s not a slave, he doesn’t take orders, nobody’s ripping him off this time. Asshole thinks we’re stealing the car.”
“How did he wind up dead?”
“Lawyer up.”
I hear sirens approaching, but it isn’t a police car honking at Gritch to move our beat up sedan. It’s a black Lincoln Town Car and we’re blocking his way. After a few imperious honks, the door opens and out steps Theo Alexander, fresh off the plane and looking somewhat wearied by his business trip. The passenger door opens and an attractive brunette wearing large sunglasses and a very tight T-shirt gets out and surveys the traffic snarl. Theo marches over to the sedan, recognizes Gritch, does a double take when he sees me climbing out of the Mustang. He looks back toward Marcia but she’s already at her front door. I can hear Dimi pounding the steering wheel and cursing.
“Grundy! What the hell are you doing here?”
“Mr. Alexander,” I say, “nice flight?”
“Get this piece of crap off the road!”
“Sorry,” I say, “there’s been an accident. We’re waiting for certain officials to take charge of the situation.”
“What situation?”
“You might want to check with your girlfriend.”
“She is not my girlfriend. She’s an employee. I gave her a lift from — I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
“No, sir, not to me,” I say. “On the other hand —” police cars are arriving, two cruisers and an unmarked car —“… they will definitely need some clarification.” Uniforms get out, Mooney gets out. Pazzano isn’t with him. Suits me.
chapter twenty-four
“Now that we’ve caught the bad guys and solved their case for them you’d think it’d be clear sailing, wouldn’t you?” says Gritch.
“Always a few last-minute details,” I say.
“They’ll smash the windows if they have to,” he says. “I’ve seen them do it.”
“They’re waiting on the tow truck.”
“Can we at least get out of here?”
“Not yet. We’re what’s keeping him boxed in.”
Dimi is refusing to leave the Mustang. He has the doors locked, and the CD player cranking out a particularly annoying collection of rock anthems with which he is harmonizing at the top of his lungs. Every few bars he throws the car into reverse, squeals the tires and gives the uncomplaining hotel vehicle another thump. There are six police units on the scene and at least a dozen of Vancouver’s finest trying to figure out a way of extricating the suspect without damaging either the Subaru Forester or the Saab 9000 on the other side.
Our street theatre has attracted a sizeable crowd of spectators who enthusiastically offer advice along the lines of, “Shoot the tires!” and “Bring out the Jaws of Life!” as well as warnings such as, “Scratch my paint and I’ll sue the ass off you!”
Theo is stranded on the sidewalk, huffing and puffing and refusing to answer any questions without the presence of legal counsel. Marcia Duhamel is spurning requests to open her front door despite numerous warnings from the constabulary that they are prepared to kick it in. Some wag in the crowd once again calls for the Jaws of Life.
By this time we have also attracted a few quick-footed media people. I can spot Dee, the videographer, climbing onto the roof of a Channel 20 van some distance away. I doubt she’ll be able to spot me from there. Larry Gormé, unhampered by heavy electronic equipment, is manoeuvring through the crowd in our general direction.
“Stick behind the wheel,” I tell Gritch, “in case they want this thing moved. I’ll be back.”
Gritch pulls the cellophane off a celebratory smoke. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “This is better than women’s beach volleyball.”
“Thanks for the heads-up,” Larry says when I reach him. “Let me guess, argument over a parking spot.”
“It isn’t entirely resolved,” I say.
“That’s the famous fugitive, Dimi Starr, AKA Dimitar Starryk, object of a massive six-day manhunt?”
“The same.”
“How’d you track him down?”
“Dumb luck.”
“I doubt that.”
“I was trying to talk to Theo’s girlfriend, excuse me, employee, one Marcia Duhamel, currently locked inside her townhouse. Turns out she had a houseguest.”
“My, my,” Larry says, while quickly scratching notes. “How do you spell that? Duhamel? And what’s the big fat eldest son doing here?”
“Driving her home from the airport. They�
�d been on a business trip.”
“He doesn’t look happy about the situation.”
“He’s going to be late for supper.”
“If he’s not careful he’ll miss breakfast, too.” Larry grabs a few shots of the tableau with his cellphone. “Get a chance to speak to the fugitive?”
“We had a chat.”
“What’s his story?”
“He says Raquel was dead when he got there.”
“Well, what else is he going to say?” Larry grabs a picture of Theo blustering at Mooney not far away. “Fatboy’s going to love this one,” he says. He turns back to me. “Dimi say if his li’l buddy Farrel was also a goner when he showed up?”
“On that subject he demanded a lawyer.”
“No doubt,” Larry says. “That one would be harder to explain.”
Mooney looks like he’s had enough of Theo’s guff for the moment and walks our way. Larry takes the opportunity to drift in another direction.
“Tow truck’s here,” Mooney says. “Your car still operational?”
“We’ll soon find out,” I say. “You going to arrest Theo?”
“I’d like to, but I know where to find him if his story doesn’t hold up. Right now he’s only guilty of taking a businessman’s holiday with his secretary.”
“Design consultant.”
“Besides, his wife will probably give him a harder time than we can.”
“I assume you’ll be letting my boss go now.”
“Possibly. No one’s being particularly cooperative.”
“No, but you can add two and two,” I say. “Dimi and Marcia, Marcia and Theo. Leo won’t figure into any scenario with those people.”
“He still has a connection to the dead one, Farrel Newton.”
“Who hated his guts.”
“Well, it won’t kill your boss to spend one more night at our convenience.” He takes note of the cruisers making room for the arrival of the police tow truck. “See if you can detach yourself from that rear bumper without running anybody down.”
“Where’s your partner?”
“This is Sunday. I expect he’s eating his mama’s lasagna.”
“How come you were available?”