“That was a dirty move, sucker punching my boy like that,” hissed Julian.
“I don’t see how it’s any dirtier than jumping a defenseless kid,” I said, nodding toward Billy.
The unnamed thug tapped Julian on the shoulder. “You’re gonna want to see this.” He held up the duo-tang folder that contained Grasby’s background check. Julian flipped pages and quickly got the gist of its contents.
“You got a real hard-on for Mr. Grasby, don’t you Ounstead?”
“You’re mistaking me for Dylan. I’m not really into the whole homoerotic guy-on-guy stretching thing.”
Whack!
Julian backhanded me across the cheek. “Mind your manners.”
He slipped the duo-tang into his jacket and yanked me to my feet, sticking his blade in my face again. “Did you really think you could just strike Mr. Grasby and not face any payback?”
“Actually, I did. And what’s with all the ‘Mr. Grasby’ talk? Did he tutor you guys in math or something before recruiting you into his goon squad?”
Julian flushed with anger, and his red face only made the frosted tips of his spiky hair appear blonder. “I’m really going to enjoy cutting you up, do you know that? I mean, I’m going to fucking savour it. Every single mo — ”
The crackling boom of a gunshot interrupted him. Julian’s hand exploded. Bits of flesh and bone showered down from above as I shielded my face and ducked. The butterfly knife landed at my feet, but I barely heard the sound of it clattering on the sidewalk because my ears were still ringing from the ear-splitting gunshot.
Poised in a shooter’s stance in the middle of the street was Declan, lit cigarette dangling between his lips, Browning Hi-Power 9mm gripped firmly between his hands. The smoke from the gun barrel drifted upward and mixed with the swirling fumes smouldering from the tip of his Benson & Hedges butt. Julian’s face drained of colour. Seeing their no-longer-fearless leader gaping at the bloody stump where his thumb used to be, the other thugs froze. Time seemed to slow as Declan took a long drag of his cigarette and shifted the 9mm’s aim to Julian’s accomplices.
“Which one o’ya fuckin’ bitch bags wants to be next?”
They started scrambling. Julian scooped up his thumb. The unnamed thug picked up Lyle and threw him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Dylan, perhaps unable to see clearly due to his swollen nose, took off in the opposite direction of his cronies. By the time Declan had lowered his gun the street was empty and we were alone.
“The lad looks right banjanxed,” Declan said as he crouched next to Billy.
“Let’s get him inside,” I replied.
Declan put his combat training to good use as he went to work on Billy’s wounds. Aside from a possible broken rib and some nasty scrapes and bruises, the kid wasn’t actually in that bad shape. However, I could tell he was pretty rattled because he hadn’t uttered a word since taking the beating, which for Billy, had to have been some kind of record. Declan set him up at the bar with an ice pack and a pint before joining me upstairs in my pop’s office with two glasses and a bottle of Crown Royal.
“Nice to see you haven’t lost your accuracy with the BAP,” I said.
“Actually, I was aiming for his head.”
“Is that right?”
“Aye, that chutney ferret’s shiny hair made for a great target.” Declan poured the whisky. We clinked our glasses in a silent toast.
“Hey, D?”
“Yeah, mate?”
“What you did back there — ”
“It was nothin’.”
“I mean it, Declan. I, uh, I want you to — ” I sighed, struggling to find the right words. “I just hope you know how much — ”
“Hey!”
“What?”
“No bloody girly moments.”
I smiled. “Fair enough. Just as long as you know what I’m trying to say.”
“Jaysus, what is it with you Canucks and your need to share your feelings all the time? Back home, if you want to say thanks to a bloke, you just buy his arse a pint.”
“Or some very expensive single malt scotch?”
“Aye.”
We enjoyed a quiet moment, exchanging with looks what we couldn’t say with words.
“You think the kid will be okay?” I asked.
“A bit o’action will probably be good for him. Put a bit o’hair on his wee pigeon chest.”
“I’m not so sure. I’ve gotten to know him some from the gym. He’s a sensitive little dude.”
“Then take him to a fuckin’ poetry reading, for shite’s sake. I already patched him up and gave him a pint. What more do you want?” I swirled the whisky in my glass. Declan was right. There wasn’t much more I could do for Billy, despite the guilt I felt over him getting caught up in my investigation.
“Those were Grasby’s boys back there,” I said.
“I figured as much.”
“They got away with that background check.”
“Bollocks!”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be prepared next time.”
“Who said I was worried? I worked me arse off compiling that report. You want another, you can damn well do it yourself.”
“The only thing I want to see is Grasby’s rap sheet. And not because I think he necessarily had anything to do with Johnny’s murder. I’d just like to have an idea of the kind of company he keeps and resources he has access to.” I finished my drink. Declan had the cap unscrewed off of the bottle before I had lowered my glass. “There’s one thing I do know,” I said, as Declan topped me up with more Crown. “And I don’t need any type of records check to be certain of it.”
“What’s that?”
“Grasby’s a vindictive son-of-a-bitch. He’s going to take a run at me again, and when he does, he’s going to come at me with everything he’s got.”
“I sure hope so.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry, mate. But I do.”
“Why’s that?”
“Cuz it turns out that shooting off some poofy bastard’s thumb, well, it just ain’t that satisfying.”
FOURTEEN
I spent the rest of the weekend laying low around my townhouse recovering from my scrap with Grasby’s goon squad. The right side of my face had swelled up and my rib cage felt like it had been pounded on more than a slab of frozen meat in a Rocky Balboa training montage.
On Saturday morning I called Russell, the manager of Tonix nightclub, and told him I wouldn’t be able to make my shift that night. I apologized for the short notice and agreed to pick up an extra shift the following Tuesday for ladies night. Declan called on Sunday. When I asked him if he had seen any sign of Grasby’s crew or suspicious faces around the pub he sounded deeply disappointed.
“No bloody luck, mate,” he said dejectedly. Apparently shooting off Julian’s thumb had whetted Declan’s appetite for some good old-fashioned gunplay. He complained that it had been far too long since he had shot someone and was itching to do it again. I assured him that plenty of violence would be coming our way once Grasby made his next move. That seemed to lift his spirits a little.
At halftime during the Ravens-Steelers game I cracked open the file Melvin had given me and went over the photographs of Johnny and the redhead again. Eventually I flipped ahead to the photos of the couple leaving the restaurant and jotted down the licence plate of the redhead’s Acura. Then I grabbed myself a can of Red Racer IPA and made a phone call I really didn’t want to make.
“Hello?” said the familiar perky voice.
“Hi there.”
“Jed?”
“Yeah.”
Click.
I was anticipating a hang up. That’s a standard ex-girlfriend move. The real question was whether or not Connie would answer when I c
alled back. I took a pull of beer and redialed.
“What do you want?” she asked, the perkiness long gone.
“I need some help.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“A friend of mine has been murdered.”
“Oh my God. Who?”
“An old wrestling buddy. You didn’t know him.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” Awkward silence. I struggled to find the appropriate segue.
“I’m looking into the murder, Connie.”
“Wow.”
“Wow?”
“I just can’t believe your Dad finally convinced you to get your PI licence.”
“He didn’t.”
“But you said — ”
“Look, I’d really rather not get into the details. Can you help me?”
She sighed heavily into the phone. “What can I do?”
“I have a plate I need you to run through ICBC.”
The Insurance Corporation of British Columbia’s database contained records of all auto insurance and vehicle registration for the province. Connie worked in the collections department and had a surprising amount of access to all kinds of personal information.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Why can’t you just leave it to the cops?”
“Because I’ve uncovered evidence that they haven’t and I don’t quite feel like sharing just yet.”
“I always said you’d make a good investigator, Jed.”
“Will you run the plate?”
“It’s not the killer’s, is it?”
“Just a potential witness.”
Another sigh. “Give me the number,” she finally said.
“KSM 742.”
“Okay. I’ll run the plate when I get into the office tomorrow and email you.”
“Thanks.”
“Goodbye, Jed.”
“Connie, wait.”
“Yes?”
“Maybe when this is over we could grab a drink or something?”
There was a long silence. “Are you asking because you want to see me again or because you’re just grateful for my help?”
I hesitated before answering.
“I, uh — both.” She heard the indecision in my voice. There wasn’t much to say after that. I tried to thank her again for her help but the line went dead before I had even formed the words.
FIFTEEN
Wendy Steffen’s face drained of colour. She withered into the overstuffed leather chair and clutched her hands close to her chest.
“When?” she asked.
“Thursday night,” I replied.
She valiantly fought the quivering of her bottom lip before the tears began welling in her eyes. Wendy’s red hair was even more vibrant in person than it was in the photos that Melvin had taken. She was dressed similarly, in a flattering pantsuit and blouse combo that was both stylish and professional.
“You’ll have to excuse me for a moment,” she said as she slipped past me toward the washroom.
Wendy had agreed to meet with me at a coffee shop that was near the downtown RE/MAX office she shared with several other realtors. I sipped my green tea and looked out the window next to our table. I could see the Vancouver Art Gallery across the street, and a production assistant with a bullhorn struggled valiantly to wrangle a herd of extras from the front lawn over to the neoclassical building’s concrete steps for whatever film or television show was in the midst of shooting.
Wendy had responded to me promptly after I had contacted her using the phone number that Connie had emailed me earlier that morning. I wanted to share the news of Johnny’s demise with her in person, and witnessing her emotional reaction was all I needed to be certain that she truly had feelings for my old friend.
“Sorry,” Wendy said as she sat back down in the leather chair and stirred her latte.
“How did you come to know Johnny, Ms. Steffen?”
“It’s Wendy, please. I met him at one of my open houses a couple months back.”
“He was looking to buy a house?”
“Condo, actually.”
I nodded politely. It made sense that Johnny may have planned to put his inheritance toward a down payment on property. “So you and Johnny just sort of hit it off then?”
“I thought he was cute,” she said, blushing slightly. “Especially how concerned he was over whether or not the den in the one-bedroom unit would be large enough for a deluxe terrarium.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Are you telling me that Johnny managed to parlay owning a snake into a successful pickup technique?”
She smiled softly. “Yes, I guess he did. Of course, it probably didn’t hurt that I shared his passion for exotic pets.”
“Let me guess. Pot-bellied pig?”
“Albino iguana.”
I nodded and mentally ticked off the question of why such an attractive upscale woman might take a chance on a past his prime pro wrestler and snake enthusiast.
“Tell me Mr. Ounstead,” said Wendy, her eyes narrowing. “Have they arrested her?”
“Arrested who?”
“Johnny’s ex-girlfriend. Surely she’s the one responsible for his death.”
“You’re speaking of Stormy Daze?”
“Yes. It has to be her. That woman’s psychotic.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The enormous red wine stains on my crème cashmere sweater, for starters.”
Wendy proceeded to tell me how a few weeks ago Stormy had confronted both her and Johnny at an Italian restaurant. According to Wendy, Stormy was clearly intoxicated and deep in the throes of a jealous rage. After dousing Wendy in vino, Stormy smashed their entrées on the floor and threatened to kill them both. She then grabbed a fork and attempted to stab Johnny, but he was able to disarm her.
“At that point the manager informed the bitch that he was calling the police,” Wendy said. “She fled pretty quickly after that.”
“How long until the cops showed up?”
“They never did. Johnny smoothed things over with the manager before he placed the call.”
It also meant that there was no official record of the incident, which made it unlikely that Rya would have learned of the public fracas during the course of her investigation. My mind was racing. Between the drunken tantrums, hiring of Melvin, and the death threats, Stormy Daze was looking guiltier by the minute.
“Needless to say,” Wendy continued, “I found the entire incident very unnerving. I told Johnny I needed some time. He apologized profusely and promised that he wouldn’t call until he had resolved the situation with his ex.”
“So that night was the last time you spoke with him?”
“Yes. Mr. Ounstead, if that woman hasn’t been arrested yet, then shouldn’t I be contacting the police and informing them of what occurred at the restaurant?”
“You could. But for now it might be best if I pass on your statement myself. The authorities will contact you in time.”
“Are you sure? I mean, believe me, the last thing I want is to get involved in such a mess, but if my story can help put that woman away for what she did . . . ” She trailed off as her emotion got the best of her.
“Let me take care of it for now, Wendy. I happen to be working closely with the lead detective on the case.”
Wendy seemed pleased with that. I was pleased for a different reason. Between Melvin’s pictures and Wendy’s story, I now had something that I didn’t have before. Leverage.
SIXTEEN
I tried calling Rya on her cell phone but the number that I had was no longer in service. A quick call to the VPD Homicide Unit and a little dropping of the Ounstead name later, and I learned that she was on her lunch break. I als
o had a pretty good idea of where.
Since retiring from the force my old man would have brunch with Rya once a week at a gritty diner called The Red Wagon Café. It was located on the edge of Commercial Drive, a funky roadway outside of the downtown core. The Drive was a veritable hodgepodge of ethnic stores and alternative shops, and featured nearly a hundred unique restaurants crammed into just a few city blocks. Not exactly the kind of place you would expect an old-school cop and his protégé to break bread regularly.
However, since The Red Wagon Café offered the most amazing pulled pork pancakes in all of Western Canada, and because my old man would rather dress up as a brawny leprechaun and do the Irish Jig while marching in Vancouver’s annual St. Patrick’s Day Parade than not get his regular fix of maple syrup on non-kosher flapjacks, every Sunday morning Frank Ounstead made his way down to the heart of Vancouver’s raw urban underbelly to dine in the company of oversized Filipino families and glittery stiletto-wearing transsexuals.
I knew from my father that Rya’s particular vice was The Red Wagon’s pulled pork sandwich, so when I found her chomping into a loaded Portuguese bun in a corner booth next to kitschy pale wood panelling and frosted pendant lights I was hardly surprised. I slid across from Rya and her cool expression only conveyed the slightest bit of confusion while she used a napkin to dab barbeque sauce off of the corner of her mouth.
“Do they have anything else besides pork?” I asked, before cracking open a menu.
Rya’s gaze lingered on the puffy shiner beneath my eye. “Makes me look like a badass, doesn’t it?” I said.
“More like a dumb ass.”
I helped myself to one of the French fries next to her sandwich.
“Touch another and I pistol-whip your good eye.”
“Fair enough. Take a look at this.” I placed the envelope containing Melvin’s photos on the table. She started flipping through the pictures in rapid-fire succession.
“Are these supposed to mean something to me?”
“They will if I tell you who commissioned them to be taken three weeks ago.” I saw the light bulb flash above her head.
“Stormy Daze.”
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