Cold City Streets

by L.H. Thomson

  “Yeah. I think that was just his city place or something, because they own one big-ass house out in the country.”

  Edmonton is a sprawling metropolis, some forty miles across geographically and with over a million people in the city and suburbs; so it takes a while to get somewhere from city center, and Cobi had lived there long enough to expect it. From the glass-and-steel towers of downtown, over the Dawson Bridge, the lowest of several wrought-iron-and-rivet spans to cross the North Saskatchewan River, pieces of a more pragmatic history. Through and between the evergreen-covered parks of the enormous River Valley, which dwarfed the comparatively tiny Central Park in New York. Up the steep hill to the south side, past new condos, around one of the city’s many traffic circles installed by an enthusiastic British-born planner many decades earlier, fronted by upper-middle class homes so picturesque they’ve made it into Hollywood movies. Along a busy avenue of homes and businesses to industry-heavy Fiftieth Street, near the east-side oil refineries, chimneys aflame, then south on Fiftieth, past franchises and filling stations, directly to the two-lane highway that led to Beaumont.

  New housing developments flanked the highway for the first few miles to his right; then there were empty fields that would doubtless suffer the same fate. Private property fronted by trees passed to the left, with just the occasional gap for a homestead or hobby farm. Once out of the city proper, the smaller town was a ten-minute drive through snow-covered countryside, past desolate, wind-swept fields, an escape from the noise and urban hustle. The odd copse of pine and spruce trees broke up the landscape, along with maples stripped naked in the winter months. The afternoon was in full force, and the sky became overcast and grey, the sun barely a white smudge through the haze.

  The Featherstone mansion was on a side road, just a couple of minutes before the town proper but set ten acres back from the main highway, for privacy. A wide asphalt driveway, plowed down to the surface, continued for perhaps a mile, past rows of towering aspens that, even without foliage, obscured the house from view.

  A tall wrought-iron gate had been left wide open.

  If that’s not an invitation, I don’t know what is, Cobi figured.

  He turned the car onto the driveway, following it until the building came into view, fronted by a large parking lot. The lot’s surface was lightly dusted with snow, and much more was pushed off to the right side in a neat row of banks.

  It was a gargantuan home, perhaps five thousand square feet of three-story stone-and-wood splendor. The roof consisted of a huge gradual curve of wood timber beams, towering thirty feet above the ground. Balconies surrounded each level, backed by tall tinted glass.

  Part of Cobi told him it was excessive, ridiculous. The Featherstones didn’t even have kids; no one needed or used that much space. Another part was just a little jealous, the part that knew he could have had all of it and more, or at least the money it would take, enough to let him make his own decisions.

  All four cars in the lot were high-end: a BMW, a Lexus, another BMW but in SUV form, an older Jaguar in good shape. Cobi guessed there were more in the six-car garage located off to the left, away from the main house. He pulled his old sedan across the lot, the snow and gravel blend crunching under its tires as he found a space. As he climbed out, a woman came out of the home’s front door, down its short flight of front steps and walked towards the SUV. She was middle-aged, strawberry blonde, and tall, wearing a white wool coat over a grey skirt and boots.

  “Mrs. Featherstone?” Steam drifted from his mouth as he called out.

  She stopped in mid-stride and looked around quickly, as if worried it was just the two of them. The sun was beginning to go down, the twilight accentuating the sense of isolation, as if there was no one else for miles. “Yes?” She looked around nervously for support. The wind gusted, blowing the top layer of fine snow off the surface of the parking lot. “Sir, this is private property.”

  Get her curious; float something out there. “My apologies, ma’am. Your gate was open, and I needed to speak with you about the upcoming trial.”

  “Are you a reporter? I can’t speak with the press…”

  “No, ma’am, my name is Cobi Tate, and I work for Jessica Harper. She’s defending Paul Sidney.”

  She began walking again, towards one of the other cars, the Lexus, her gait deliberate and defensive, poised. “I don’t have to talk to you, Mr. Tate. In fact, I really don’t think I have anything I would like to say to you that would be polite. Can you please contact my lawyer for anything you require? Thank you.”

  She reached the door and fumbled with her key remote to unlock it. She looked agitated. Need something to keep her engaged and talking. “You listed your official residence for the police as an apartment downtown? I just needed clarification.”

  Deidre stopped fumbling and turned. “You drove out to Beaumont for that?” She looked surprised. “Why…?” She sighed. “It doesn’t matter, I suppose. The apartment was my father’s, from his time in the Legislature. We lived in Calgary so he needed a place to stay. We use it… Brian used it when he was in town working late, or when we’d had a few too many with dinner downtown. Is that all, Mr. Tate? Because I genuinely do find this bothersome. The police have caught my husband’s killer, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Did the police mention to you that it appeared your husband’s body had been moved to where he was found?”

  The question caught her off-guard. Her eyes flitted from side to side. Is she looking for an answer? “I’m not trying to get anyone in trouble, Mrs. Featherstone…”

  “They may have mentioned it, I don’t recall,” she wavered. “The days after Brian’s death were very traumatic and I’m still trying deeply to cope with it, Mr. Tate. Now, this is causing me quite some anxiety, and I would much rather not make a scene on my own property. Are we quite finished?”

  “Did you love your husband, Deidre?” He asked it to provoke, to gauge the authenticity of her reaction and whether she could be honest about her husband.

  Her mouth dropped open for the merest of moments, and she looked slightly taken aback, not answering right away, the pause seeming like a self-indictment. “That’s a terrible question to ask someone, and I would ask that you leave immediately.” Even angered, she remained formal, prim. But she looked just a little like she might begin to cry.

  Before he could answer, the home’s front door swung open and a burly man in a blue blazer and tie scurried outside, quickly closing the distance to the parking lot. He strode over across the gravel and stood between them, getting close to Cobi, protecting his boss. His silver-grey buzz cut made him look ex-army. “You’re on private property, sir. Mrs. Featherstone, would you like me to call the police?”

  “That won’t be necessary, Bobby, but if you could help Mr. Tate find his way back to the road, that would be appreciated.”

  Cobi raised both palms. “No intent to offend, ma’am; just doing my job.” He backed up to his car. There was no percentage in starting anything with the security guard.

  The guard walked over while Cobi started the car. The guard leaned on the door. Cobi lowered the window. The guard spoke softly. “The next time we catch you on the property, the police will be called,” he said. “But before that happens, I’ll deal with you personally. You get my drift?”

  Cobi gave him a winning smile. “Looking forward to it, chief. Watch your toes.” He put the car in reverse and backed up quickly, the security man jumping out of the way to avoid it.

  16

  It was nearly six o’clock in the evening by the time Cobi got back into the city; he phoned Jessica Harper to fill her in.

  “Are you on the road?” she asked before he could give her any details.

  “Yeah, I’m on Fiftieth.” Traffic was heavy. Everyone moved at ten below the speed limit, the last stragglers heading home from work.

  “Then hang up and meet me at the Starbucks at One-oh-nine Street. I need caffeine, and you shouldn’t be talking while driving.
”

  Jessie was halfway through a gigantic cup of black coffee when Cobi arrived twenty minutes later. The cafe was small, busy, lots of bright white and black tables, a few booths with slate-grey cushions, a counter backed by two busy baristas and fronted by new pots of various blends and strengths. Cobi had never been a coffee drinker and he’d never understood why so many people wanted to hang out in places that didn’t serve food.

  She offered to buy him a cup, but he turned it down. “I avoid caffeine or spirits,” he said. “Just a thing.”

  He was still disciplined, a good sign. I’m jealous, but it’s a good sign. “So what did you learn from Mrs. Featherstone?”

  He took a seat across from her. The café was busy, a dozen people hanging around small tables and sitting in armchairs. “First off, she doesn’t want to talk to us, period. But I managed to throw a couple of questions at her before she had me kicked off the property.”

  “Eek.”

  “Nah, it’s all good. A few tense words, is all. Hey… I’m still on the clock, right?”

  Jessica wasn’t sure what to say. She hadn’t thought about overtime in the budget. But she wasn’t going to take advantage of him, to set a lousy precedent as his boss. “Sure. We’ll figure that out from now on, and maybe we talk about it before you put in after-hours time. But today’s no problem.”

  “You sure?”

  “Absolutely. So, Mrs. Featherstone…”

  “Yeah. I asked her about the apartment and why her address was listed in town; she said her father bought it for when he was a politician and had to live in two different places. She figured her husband mostly used it on the nights that he worked late and didn’t want a long drive.”

  “Okay, that’s something anyway.”

  “I also asked her about her husband’s body being moved to where it was found and that surprised her.”

  “She hadn’t heard that?”

  “No, I mean the question surprised her. From her reaction, I think she’d already heard about it; but she was surprised that I knew.”

  “Anything else?”

  “That was pretty much it. I asked her if she loved him and she paused awkwardly and then things sort of came to a head after that, and I got on out of there.”

  “So maybe she can confirm the police mishandled things. If she doesn’t lie on the stand.” She sipped her coffee. “Well, you got a lot done today. How did you feel about it? Did you enjoy it?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. I mean, it’s like a puzzle, defending someone, right? So we’ve got all these pieces and I get to try and make them fit.”

  She studied him. He always seemed slightly on edge, like something was eating at him. “Are you happy here? I mean, in Edmonton. It’s a long way from home, right?”

  Cobi thought on it. “I guess. I mean, if I’m honest, I don’t have much here. But my ex-wife and son are here, and she works here, and he’s everything―which means I’m staying if I want to see them.”

  “You must have some other former players who are friends?”

  “For true? I was a real pain in the rear end when I was playing; I was so sure my brilliance wasn’t being seen, that I was getting a raw deal. Most of my teammates didn’t want nothing to do with me.”

  “And?”

  “Mostly, it was just ego. When you’re the king of the castle at your school, then at your college, you never expect to go pro afterwards and find out everyone’s just as good as you. Or better.”

  “So who do you hang out with? You must have some other friends in the city…”

  “Yeah… sort of, I guess. I mean, I know a few people and I’ve got some friends I used to spend more time with. Like I said, it’s complicated. I was in a serious relationship for a while; when that happens, you sort of stop hanging with the party guys, playing the fool.”

  “Then it’s like you’re starting over.”

  “Again and again, yeah. I mean… it ain’t been easy, but I’m still probably better off than I’d be back home.”

  “In Detroit?”

  “Yeah.” He waited for the inevitable onslaught of criticism. People never seemed to get tired of reminding Detroiters how tough life was.

  “I think a lot of Canadians wonder how an American city that is right across the river from Windsor, Ontario, can have so many problems and so much crime. Up here, it’s all poverty-based as well, but it’s nothing like Detroit.”

  “Folks there have gotten a few raw deals, you know. You ain’t all perfect. It’s sort of like the situation for Indians here.”

  “First Nations,” Jess corrected, feeling slightly self-conscious for making the point. “Or native. Or aboriginal. “The ‘I’ word is like the ‘N’ word; we’d prefer it if other people didn’t use it. Some of us, anyway.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yeah. I mean, maybe it’s stupid because most people don’t mean much by it But in this town, it wasn’t that many years ago that the word ‘Indian’ was always prefaced with the word ‘dirty.’ It’s getting better. Do you think Americans ever look at our country and wonder why things are so different in our cities, why there’s so much less gun violence?”

  He smiled at that. “I’ll tell you one thing I have learned: Canadians spend a lot of time wondering what Americans think.”

  “We spend a lot of time wondering if Americans think,” she joked. “And then once we’re done insulting an entire nation, we debate our inferiority complex.”

  “Uh huh. Weird. Tell you true, I don’t know too many Americans who think much about what’s going on anywhere but their own backyard. It’s big, and we’ve got our own problems, so it’s easier to ignore everything else, I guess. A lot of us just figure Canada is like another world, most of the time.”

  He stopped abruptly. “The hearing on Friday…”

  “The preliminary inquiry? Sure… what…?”

  “I just thought of something. When I went by the house, Sidney’s car was in their car port.”

  “Okay.”

  “It was obviously being driven, free of snow and ice. But in the evidence shot you showed me earlier…”

  Jessie retrieved her phone quickly from her purse and scrolled frantically through the series of pictures she’d sent him. “It’s in the driveway, covered in snow.”

  “But if the police’s initial thought was correct and the body was moved, it makes you wonder how he managed to do that without clearing his car off. It hadn’t gone anywhere in at least a day, judging by that picture.”

  He had a point. “If I can get the Crown to consider the possibility that the cops ignored evidence he was moved, maybe I can get them to drop this whole thing early.”

  “You think that could really happen?”

  “It’s possible, or at least knock it down to drug charges alone,” she said. “I’m not going to say it’s likely, because getting the Crown to stand down on anything is difficult, and we have all of the notes from the scene. The forensics guys, the beat constables, the detectives. There’s no mention of him being moved.” Jessie took a long sip off her hot coffee. A few tables away, a college student wore a red wool coat that looked amazing, she thought, and it kept distracting her. It was turning into a long day.

  “Let me ask you something,” he said. “Why all this ‘the Crown’ stuff? What’s that all about?”

  “Well, Canada’s still a constitutional monarchy; technically our head of state is the Queen.”

  “The Queen of England?”

  “And of Canada. A few other places, too. So when the government does something, like prosecute a person, it’s done in the name of ‘the Crown.’ ”

  “Huh. That’s sort of messed up,” Cobi said.

  “Yeah… well, political traditions are strong here. Some, anyway.” Jessie broke off from the conversation, concerned.

  “What’s the matter?”

  She looked out the café’s front windows. “I’m just going to be a second,” she said. She rose to leave the table, but before she cou
ld, a man walked through the front doors. He was tall, maybe six-feet-five, fit and muscular, with neatly combed short brown hair. He made his way over.

  “Jessie.”

  “David.”

  She seemed tense.

  “Everything okay?” Cobi asked. Then he offered the man his hand to shake. “Cobi Tate.”

  The man ignored it. “You on a date or something?”

  “David, this isn’t appropriate,” Jessie warned. “I’ve told you enough times now that I don’t want to see you anymore…”

  “Yeah… I was just passing by and saw you through the window, that’s all.”

  “I have coffee here all the time. You know that,” she tried to keep her voice diplomatically low. “Look, David… you’re a police officer. You have to be better than this. I know this has been hard for you but it’s done; we’re over. I don’t love you.”

  The off-duty policeman frowned at that then stared at his shoes. His face betrayed hurt. “If you were to just give me a chance…”

  “No,” Jessie asserted. “We’re done. Don’t make me…”

  “What? Don’t make you what?” His tone changed, aggression seeping out. “You going to call my staff sergeant, file a complaint? Just because I’m being nice to you?”

  Cobi had heard enough. He stood up. “The lady said she wants you to leave…”

  “Sit down, Mr. Tate,” Jessica said sternly.

  The tone did its job.

  She turned back to David. “If you don’t leave, right now, and stop harassing me, I will not only call your boss, I’ll also call the Police Complaints Commission, the newspapers, and everyone else I can find a number for.”

  He looked almost angry, producing a stubborn scowl. “You don’t have the right to treat me like this.”

  “You need professional help,” Jessie stated. Then her face softened. It hadn’t been that long, after all, since they’d been serious. “Please leave, David,” she said more quietly, “before this gets out of hand.”

  She took out her phone but paused before dialing. Cobi kept both eyes on their frustrated guest, expecting something desperate, something that might require him to jump in.