His suit was a double-breasted model in a shiny material that could have been silk. His shirt was white as Tom Cruise’s teeth, his mile-wide tie and the handkerchief that flopped limply out of his pocket like a miniature parachute were dark red, and had the sickly gloss of dried blood. His handmade banana-yellow shoes were exactly the same shade of yellow as his suit.
Harold stood there by the curb, smirking and smoking, visibly preening. There was nothing unusual about this — it was part of his routine. A trio of middle-aged men came out of the building. One of them spoke briefly to him while the others waited at a discreet distance. Harold broke into the man’s monologue by raising his right hand in a traffic cop’s gesture. He shook his head, no. The man backed away, smiling. He and his companions continued up the street.
Harold strolled towards the harbour. At the doorway to Janice’s, he turned and flicked the remains of the cigar, almost a foot of good Cuban leaf, into the street. The door was opened for him. In he went.
Ozzie counted off a minute before following Harold inside. Where was Harold? A thin, bald man with a steeply sloped skull sidled carefully up to him. Ozzie asked for a table for one. Did he have a reservation? No, said Ozzie unapologetically. The dozen unoccupied tables were reserved. Ozzie was told he’d have to wait at least an hour.
Ozzie said that would be fine. Harold was down there by the fireplace, with the woman. His girlfriend. The babe. Melanie. He plunked himself down on a wooden chair by the door. If he hunched forward, he had a clear view of Melanie and of Harold’s yellow back and his silvery hair that had been tied in a neat ponytail, like a little girl’s.
The thin bald guy was watching him.
Ozzie offered him a twenty. “Maybe if I could have a beer ...”
The man’s sneer was thin as a trip-wire. Ozzie decided to come back at closing time, one of these days. Wear his steel-toed work-boots. Do the guy a favour, kick some sense into him.
Melanie wore a pale-green suit in a lightweight, clingy linen. The skirt was very short, too short for the office. Her cream-coloured blouse had tiny gold buttons and was open at the throat. She leaned forward to say something to Harold. She was wearing a black bra. Ozzie caught a quick glimpse, swell of breast. He wished like hell he was close enough to hear what she was saying.
*
Melanie said, “I hate this place. You call it intimate, I call it cramped.” She sipped at her ice-water.
Harold stared hungrily at the lipstick kiss on the rim of her glass. Harold had learned early on that you had to watch Melanie very carefully at all times. The way she moved, her body language. Everything she said, word and tone. She was a sweet girl, but she had a weakness for irony. And like all women who had any spark, she could be a real ball-buster. Sometimes, sensing that she might be in a spiky mood, he’d listen too hard, keeping a wary eye open for a sucker punch. Their relationship could be a grind, now and then. Jeez, he was a lover, not a fighter. Quarrels, bitter recriminations, he could get all that stuff at home. But Melanie was worth the aggravation. She was more than worth it.
Their drinks arrived, gin and tonic, rocks, for him, a glass of the house white for her. He said, “Here’s to us, Melanie.”
She smiled politely. They touched glasses. Sipped.
Harold would never have admitted to being in love. He wasn’t even sure what love was any more. Was love a permanent state of temporary insanity? Or merely a deep and abiding infatuation? All he knew for sure was that he felt very strongly about Melanie. She was borderline too young for him, but aside from that small and unavoidable flaw, she was perfect. She knew where to shop, how to dress and undress. She appreciated good food, could hold her liquor. She was an experienced traveller, a great conversationalist. Lots of fun in the sack. Most important of all, for reasons he was confident had absolutely nothing to do with his personal wealth or power, she was absolutely and totally crazy about him.
Harold started to tell her about a recent acquisition, a property in Borneo so rich, you walked around for ten minutes, you’d be picking nuggets out of the tread of your boots. No kidding! He was explaining the deal’s fine print when his salad arrived.
Melanie bent to her own plate, knowing from past experience that Harold wouldn’t speak another word until he’d finished eating. She felt a small twinge of desperation as she wondered if he planned to take the afternoon off, invite himself back to her apartment for a nap. Hopefully not. Harold a couple of times a week was really all the Harold she needed. Or could stand.
She picked at her salad, caught the bartender’s sparrow-tiny eye and pointed at her glass. He nodded, and she gulped down the rest of her wine and put her empty glass where he could easily reach it. His name was Bob, but Harold always referred to him as the midget. Well, that was Harold. She touched her tongue to her lips, wondering how her lipstick was holding up. The guy crouched on a chair by the cash register was still staring at her. Bob trotted towards her, his abbreviated legs pumping away, the tails of his tuxedo flapping. He looked like a fresh-hatched shrimp. He put her glass down in front of her and removed the empty, all the while peering at her cleavage. She said, “Thank you, Bob.”
Bob asked Harold if he was ready for another drink. Harold nodded, but didn’t look up from his plate. When Melanie had first met him, a little more than a year ago, he’d been on a diet. But lately his appetite had picked up and his self-imposed discipline had fallen by the wayside. He was drinking more, too. Lots more. Not that Melanie blamed him. He had about ten million reasons.
Wine glass in hand, she glanced idly around. The restaurant had filled up. There wasn’t an empty table in the place. She remembered the first time Harold had brought her here. She’d asked him what kind of people frequented the restaurant and he had put down his knife and fork and turned a fraction of a degree towards her, so he faced her squarely. Oozing charm, smiling across the table at her with his capped, fabulously white teeth and famous twinkling blue eyes, he’d reached out and gently enfolded her hands in his and said, “People like me eat here, Melanie. People who appreciate excellent food, the very best service. People who like to be recognized, made to feel valued, and welcome.” In other words, the kind of people who routinely dropped a hundred-dollar tip on a sandwich and a couple of drinks ...
The guy in the chair was still there, staring down at the carpet. Not that it was any of her business, but she wondered if he’d applied for a job and was waiting for an interview. More likely he was meeting someone. A woman? He glanced up, sensing that he was being watched. She looked away, and there was Harold.
Harold said, “You okay?”
She nodded. Her braised chicken and rice pilaf sat there, steaming. When had the dish arrived? Her wine glass was empty.
Harold jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “You know that guy, by any chance?”
“No, of course not.”
Harold raised an eyebrow, let it fall. His plate chimed as the silver-plated tines of his fork penetrated too deeply into a chunk of beef.
Melanie, winging it, said, “I mean, I don’t know him, but I’ve seen him somewhere, on TV, or the stage ...”
Harold nodded. He sucked unmusically at a sliver of meat caught between his teeth. “They’re filming ‘The X-Files’ behind the art gallery.”
Melanie acted surprised.
But Harold was concentrating on his meal. He’d lost interest in the guy the moment he’d pigeonholed him.
She was tempted to take another peek, see if he was still watching her. But what if he was? Then what? She nibbled at her rice.
Was it possible the guy was working for Jake Cappalletti?
Maybe. But she doubted it. He didn’t look the type. Too smooth, too bright. Besides, his clothes were all wrong. Jake had a strict dress code, and expected his gangsters to abide by it. Marty had to wear black, when he was chauffeuring Jake around town. But, otherwise, you worked for Jake, the only time you dressed in black was the day of your mother’s funeral. Jake liked his staff to wear baggy cord
uroy pants in subtle earth tones of rust or moss-green, narrow belts of unbleached canvas or braided leather, plaid shirts from Eddie Bauer, baggy Harris Tweed jackets. Marty was the only thug on Jake’s payroll who was allowed to wear a pinky ring, or stand around with his hands in his pockets and a toothpick hanging out of his mouth. But even he wasn’t allowed to wear a fedora.
When they’d finished eating, Melanie risked another bold look.
Gone.
Harold wiped his plate clean with a chunk of bread. He told her he wished like hell he could take the afternoon off, but it was crazy at the office, this Borneo thing was worth millions ...
Melanie let her disappointment show. She stamped her pretty little foot, and told Harold he better not make a habit of teasing her, or she didn’t know what she’d do. He pecked her on the cheek as they left the restaurant, told her she was sweet as a peach. Outside, he lit one of his stinking cigars, and stood upwind of her, pointing and yelling, until finally he’d got her a cab. Melanie stood still for a fleeting smack on the lips, a furtive grope. He told her he’d call. She told him he’d better. One last smooch and it was over. For now.
The cab pulled away. Ozzie, standing by the curb, used his mental powers to force Melanie to look at him as she drove by, but she must’ve been tuned in to a different channel. He jogged across the street. Harold’s jutting ponytail made his beefy head look a little like a weathervane as he turned to stare at a young woman jogging past in shorts and a snug white T-shirt that said, “JUST DID IT.” Ozzie shook a big cigar out of its aluminum tube. He walked right up to Harold, close enough to count his nose-hairs. He said, “Hey, buddy. Got a light?”
Harold made a snap decision that it would be less trouble to say yes than no. He dipped his hand into his pants pocket for his gold lighter, thought better of it and offered up the hot end of his cigar.
Ozzie put his hand on Harold’s, helping him hold the big cigar steady. Harold didn’t like that at all. He tried to pull his hand away and discovered he was no match for a muscular kid forty years younger than him. Ozzie said, “I see we smoke the same brand.”
Harold looked startled, and then suspicious. Ozzie let go of his hand. He looked deep into Harold’s eyes and then turned and strode rapidly up Howe Street towards the art gallery and film crew. Harold shouted after him, asked him if he was an actor. Ozzie stopped dead in his tracks. He spun around and jogged back to Harold, didn’t stop until he’d bumped into him. Give Harold his due, he held his ground. Ozzie said, “Yeah, I’m an actor. A baaad actor.”
Harold smiled uncertainly.
Ozzie waited until the smiled had died before he walked away.
15
Willows arrived in time for breakfast and stayed past lunch. He’d have stayed all afternoon and into the evening if Sean hadn’t told him he was tired and wanted to sleep. All morning long, Willows had struggled against the urge to resume grilling his son about the robbery. Now the chance was lost.
There was a pay telephone in a little nook by the elevators. He dialled Parker’s number at 312 Main, but she wasn’t at her desk.
He tried Farley Spears.
Orwell picked up.
Willows asked him if he had any idea where Parker was and Orwell said he understood she was out working, but he didn’t know exactly where. Or have any idea at all, actually. Willows asked Orwell to check his desk for the lab report on the bullets. Orwell told him to hang on. Spears’ phone thumped on Spears’ desk. Orwell was only gone a minute. He reported that ten bullets had been recovered from the insurance company’s office — Black Talons. No one from the lab had left a message, yet.
Willows thanked him and hung up. He still had his hand on the receiver when his beeper vibrated against his hip. He dropped his last quarter into the phone and dialled the displayed number.
Parker picked up on the first ring. “Jack, where are you?”
Willows said he was at the hospital but just about to leave. Parker asked him how Sean was doing and he told her the doctors were satisfied with his progress, that he was healing rapidly.
“Get anything else out of him?”
“We talked about everything but the robbery. If he isn’t ready to discuss it, I’m not going to push him.”
Parker was pleased, and let him know it. She told him that she was at the Chevron station across the street from the convenience store, that she’d just been given a copy of the Chevron receipts from the night of the robbery. Brian LaFrance, the Chevron employee who’d been on duty when Sean had been shot, worked a split shift. He was there now. Willows told Parker he was on his way and would be there in twenty minutes, max. Parker mentioned that she’d also confirmed an informal at-home interview later that afternoon with the BC Transit employee whose bus had passed the station at the approximate time of the robbery.
Willows had said twenty minutes, but was slowed by a tangle of traffic on West Broadway. By the time he arrived, LaFrance’s shift had ended and he was eager to go home.
LaFrance was twenty-seven years old, of average height, a little on the plump side. His sandy-blond hair was cut short. The eyes behind his oversize metal-frame glasses were standard-issue brown. He was clean-shaven, had a pleasant smile. When Willows offered him a ride home he gestured proudly towards an older-model Chevrolet parked at the far end of the lot. Parker admired the car, and suggested they sit in it while they conducted the interview. LaFrance mentioned that he’d already told the other detectives everything he knew. He had Farley Spears’ card, Oikawa’s card. He dug deep in his wallet and showed Parker Bobby Dundas’ card.
Willows said, “Can I take a look at that ...?”
Bobby’d had his own cards printed. The paper was high-quality stock, glossy and smooth. The card superficially resembled a police-issue card, blue ink on a white background, the city crest in the top left corner and VANCOUVER POLICE DEPARTMENT in block letters in the top right corner, lined spaces at the bottom for the Officer’s name and badge number, Incident number, the officer’s 665 phone number and the Victim Services number. On the reverse of the card an uncredited quote had been printed in block letters:
“COMMUNITY POLICING IS THE POLICE
AND OTHER SERVICE PROVIDERS IN THE CITY
WORKING IN PARTNERSHIP WITH THE COMMUNITY
TO ADDRESS COMMUNITY PROBLEMS.”
This was identical to the quote on Willows’ or any other cop’s card, but Bobby had replaced the city crest with his portrait — a colour head-shot. Willows wondered if the look on his face was intended to convey an impression of honesty and dependability. Was Bobby moonlighting in real estate? Willows offered the card to Parker, who glanced briefly at it, smiled, and returned it to LaFrance.
Willows told LaFrance that the boy who’d been shot was his son. LaFrance offered his sympathies. He led them to his car, unlocked, and slid behind the wheel. Parker got into the backseat. Willows sat up front. In response to Parker’s question, LaFrance said that he had been employed by Chevron for eighteen months. He volunteered that he’d spent the previous five years travelling and working in Eastern Europe. Before that, university. He’d majored in history. Big mistake. Now he was taking computer and business-management courses, three nights a week.
Willows said, “Last night, at the time of the shooting, were you alone?”
“No, I wasn’t.” LaFrance’s eyes skittered sideways to the pumps. He stared blankly at a picture of a man in a Chevron uniform who had a bluebird perched on his shoulder. The message, presumably, was that wildlife preferred Chevron exhaust fumes.
From the spacious backseat Parker said, “Brian, according to last night’s sales slips, a cash customer, the only customer you had during a sixteen-minute span, pumped ten dollars’ worth of gas at twenty past midnight. But you didn’t ring up the sale until twelve-thirty-six. So what were you and your customer up to, during that time?”
“Sixteen minutes? You kidding me?”
Parker said, “Brian, listen to me. We’ve got a shooting on our hands, an
attempted murder. Your girlfriend drops by, it’s quiet, she talks you into spending a few minutes in the Chevy ...”
“Look, I need this job. I mean, I really, really need this job.”
A white Saab had pulled up to the pumps. A man in baggy, knee-length tartan shorts and a lilac sleeveless T-shirt got out of the car. LaFrance put his hand on the Chevy’s door handle, but there was no need for his services. The Saab driver had inserted his credit card into a slot in the pump. It was a self-serve sale.
LaFrance turned back to Willows. He removed his glasses and wiped the lenses on the sleeve of his shirt. He put his glasses back on and said, “Her name’s Beverly.”
“She see anything?”
“No. At least, not that I know of. Not that she told me.”
Parker said, “What’s Beverly’s last name?”
“Novik.”
“Could you spell that for me?” Parker wrote the woman’s name in her notebook, winkled her address and phone number from LaFrance. She said, “Is Beverly working?”
“She’s a student. Are you going to phone her?”
“We’ll probably just drop by,” said Parker. She leaned forward, rested her hand on LaFrance’s shoulder. “We’d like to surprise her, okay?”
LaFrance shrugged. He glanced at Willows, looked away.
Parker said, “Okay, you’re out of the car, back at the cash register. You hear an explosion, what you mistakenly think is a tire blowing. You’re curious, go outside, take a look around. You see the truck. Is that how it went, Brian?”
“Pretty much.”
“Tell us about the truck. It was a pickup?”
“Yeah, a pickup. An older model, mid-fifties, maybe. With a rounded hood, split windshield. That’s about all I can tell you, really. Like I told the other officers, I’m not even sure what colour it was ...”
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