“Red or black, you said.”
“Or orange, burnt orange.” Brian was becoming agitated. He said, “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. But I just don’t know.”
Willows said, “I don’t understand, Brian. You’re into cars. I’d have thought you’d be able to tell us exactly what year and model it was.”
Brian grinned sheepishly. “I couldn’t see that well. I took off my glasses when Beverly and I ... When she left I forgot all about them, that I’d taken them off in the car.”
Parker said, “Brian?”
“Yeah, what?”
“If you think of anything, give us a ring.”
*
The bus driver, Ed Spinello, lived in a ramshackle clapboard house on East Sixty-First. The weedy, unmowed front yard was surrounded by a chain-link fence. Several plywood BEWARE OF DOG signs, wildly spray-painted red letters over crudely drawn canine jaws, hung from the fence by lengths of rusty wire. Mail was delivered no farther than the front gate, to a locked metal box.
Parker slipped her pepper spray out of her purse. Willows swung open the gate. A hinge creaked. Inside the house, several dogs immediately started barking. The detectives made their way up the steps. Willows knuckled the grimy door. A few moments later the safety chain rattled, and the door opened the width of a strawberry-shaped nose. Willows showed his badge. A dog squealed shrilly, there was the scuffling sound of claws on linoleum, and then the chain rattled again, and the door opened wide. A short, potbellied man wearing unbuckled motorcycle boots, wrinkled grey pants and a pale-blue shirt stepped outside. His hair was unkempt. He needed a shave. His complexion was sallow and his eyes were bloodshot.
Parker said, “Mr. Spinello?”
“Yeah, what d’ya want?” Spinello turned and lashed out with his booted foot. A dog shrieked. He slammed the door and locked it with a key that hung from a leather neck-thong. He sat down heavily on the porch’s concrete top step and sighed. Willows put away his badge. He distanced himself from the bus driver as much as the cramped porch allowed. Spinello smelled like death in a hothouse.
Spinello’s rheumy eyes focused on Parker. He said, “You here about my wife, Suzie?”
“What about her?”
Spinello tilted a hip, dug deep in his back pocket and produced a fat, shiny black wallet. He flipped open the wallet on a sheaf of photographs in plastic slipcases. Willows counted three Dobermans and a pair of pit bulls, before Spinello showed him a snapshot of a plump-faced, tangle-haired woman with small dark eyes, a sour downturned mouth. His beloved wife, Suzie. She’d vanished six months ago. He’d filed a report with Missing Persons a few days after she disappeared. Since then, nothing. He had no idea why she’d abandoned him or where she might have gone. He suspected foul play. He asked Willows if he was married, and Willows said no.
Parker’s face showed nothing.
Spinello asked Willows if he could recommend a good private detective. Without pause, he asked Willows if he’d like to make a little extra cash.
Willows said, “Mr. Spinello, all that interests me right now is ...”
“Hey, do I look stupid? I know why you’re here! You don’t give a shit about Suzie!” Spinello’s voice dripped with contempt. He said, “I told the other cops everything I know. Which is nothing!”
In the space of a heartbeat, the bus driver had rotated a full 180 degrees, dropped his pants and given the detectives an unsolicited view of his dark side.
Parker said, “Well try not to take too much of your time, Mr. Spinello. There are just a few questions ...”
Willows said, “Can I see that picture of your wife? Suzie, is it?” He held the photo at an angle, to reduce glare. “A woman like that, I can understand why you’d want to get her back ...”
Spinello glowered at him.
Willows tapped the picture with his thumbnail. He turned to Parker and said, “What about Ralph Kearns?” To Spinello he said, “Ralph quit the force about a year ago, went private. He’s a good man, the best.” He turned back to Parker. “Claire, d’you think Ralph might be able to give Ed a hand?”
“He’d be perfect,” said Parker.
Spinello jumped to his feet. He went over to the door and unlocked it, raising a cacophony of snarls and barking. He glanced from Parker to Willows and back again. “You dimwits think you can bullshit me? I told you already, I didn’t see nothing!”
The door slammed shut behind him. A dog howled.
Parker said, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Willows nodded. Parker was thinking that Spinello looked like hell, his Dobermans and pit bulls were full of beans, and his plump wife, Suzie, was missing.
Missing, or consumed.
*
Beverly Novik shared a two-bedroom apartment located on the corner of Hastings and Templeton, above a U-Frame It shop. A large framed print of van Gogh’s “Sunflowers” stood on a small wooden easel in the shop’s window. Parker pushed open a door to the left of the shop. The door had been painted bright blue with purple polka-dots. They walked up a narrow flight of stairs that would have required a rope and crampons if it had been any steeper.
There were two doors at the top of the landing, one on either side. Both doors were painted bright blue splashed with clumsy purple stars outlined in bright yellow.
Willows bruised his knuckles on a star. He and Parker waited quietly. The door at the bottom of the stairs hadn’t shut properly, which was a lucky thing, because the ceiling light had burnt out. The low growl of traffic carried up the stairwell. Willows tried another star. He thumped the door with the side of his fist, and then tried the knob. It turned freely, but there was a deadbolt.
Parker tried the door on the opposite side of the landing. She was still knocking when the door opened a crack. It was dark in the apartment, and the face wasn’t much more than a pale blur below dark, tightly curled hair. A dark eye glittered.
“What can I do for you?”
Parker showed her badge.
Willows said, “We’re looking for Beverly Novik. Do you know her?”
“Impossible not to. She’s the friendly type.” White teeth flashed. “Hey, just kidding, don’t quote me.” The door clicked shut and then the chain rattled and the door swung wide. The man was in his mid-twenties, muscular, very pale. He was naked but for a towel fastened around his narrow waist. Parker wondered if he was a model. He indicated the murky depths of his apartment. “Beverly’s behind the first door on your left ...” He smiled at Parker as he offered his hand. “I’m Bill Dickie.”
“Detective Parker,” said Parker. She introduced Willows.
“Would either of you care for a glass of Chardonnay? I was just going to open another bottle ...”
“No thanks,” said Willows. He followed Parker down the hall, to the first door on the left. Watery light seeped through a bamboo curtain. An empty wine bottle glittered in the yellow glow of a trio of thick white candles that burned steadily on a table next to the bed. A woman lay on her back beneath the rumpled sheets. Her long blonde hair was dishevelled. She wore no lipstick or any other makeup. Her lips were slightly parted.
“Found her, huh.”
Parker turned to Dickie. “That’s Beverly Novik?”
“In the flesh.” He winked at Willows. “Seductive pose, wouldn’t you agree?”
The woman appeared to be sleeping. Parker said, “Is she all right?”
“Absolutely the best.”
Parker gave Dickie a hard look. Dickie said, “Shall I rouse her from her sweet, sweet dreams?”
“Please.”
Dickie went over to the bed, lifted up the sheets, slipped in next to her. Willows inadvertently caught a quick glimpse, head to toe, of Beverly Novik’s naked body. Dickie kissed his girlfriend on the lips, whispered into her ear. His hands moved beneath the sheets.
Parker said, “Hey ...”
Beverly Novik sighed contentedly, turned towards Dickie and put her arms around him and kissed him on the mouth.
/> Parker said, “Excuse me ...”
She opened her eyes.
She pushed Dickie away, and screamed loudly.
Parker had her badge out. So did Willows.
The sheet fell away from Beverly Novik’s breasts as she let loose with a roundhouse right that landed flush on her boyfriend’s smirk.
Dickie left a trail of blood all the way into the kitchen. He dripped blood into the sink while Beverly used the bathroom. Parker and Willows loitered in the cramped living room.
Beverly came out of the bathroom wearing tight jeans and a tight black cashmere sweater that fell just short of her navel, brown suede sandals, no socks. She’d brushed her hair, put on some lipstick and a brave smile.
“You wanted to talk to me about the robbery?”
“Robbery and shooting,” said Willows.
Beverly said, “Why don’t we go over to my place ...?”
They followed her out of the apartment, waited on the landing while she fumbled with her keys. She unlocked the door and led them into an apartment that was a mirror image of Dickie’s, but neater.
Beverly said, “I’m thirsty. Too much wine. Can I get you something to drink? Diet Pepsi ...?”
“A glass of water,” said Parker, “would be nice.”
Beverly led them into the kitchen. She poured glasses of bottled water for Willows and Parker, and leaned against the kitchen counter. Her profile was reflected in a chrome-plated toaster. Outside, traffic hummed like monstrous bees. After a moment she said, “What’d you think of Bill?”
“Handsome,” said Parker.
“He’s an artist. A sculptor. He’s really talented, and so good-looking. But d’you know what I really like about him?”
“What’s that?” said Parker cautiously.
“Unlike Brian, he doesn’t smell like an oil refinery.”
Parker smiled. “That must be nice.” She handed Beverly her VPD card. “Tell us what you saw, last night.”
“Not much. I was standing by the pumps when they drove up. The radio was blaring. Country and western. That Garth Brooks song with all the thunder sounds. That’s what made me look up, the noise.”
“You saw the truck?”
“It was old, but in really nice condition. There were two guys in it. The driver stayed behind when the other guy went into the store.”
“Can you tell me what he looked like?”
“The passenger?”
“Both of them,” said Parker.
“I didn’t get much of a look at either of them, really. All I saw was silhouettes, because the store was all lit up. The guy who went inside was about average height, slim ...”
“White?”
Beverly wrinkled her brow. She ran her fingers through her hair, then turned and opened the refrigerator door. She bent from the waist, and reached inside. She cast a sidelong glance at Willows, asked him if he’d mind opening her Pepsi.
He popped the tab.
She smiled and thanked him. “Sure you don’t want one?”
He nodded.
“You can split this one with me, if you want.”
“No thanks.”
Parker said, “Let’s get back to the guys in the truck. Can you tell us anything about them? Were they white?”
Beverly shrugged. “I think so, but I couldn’t really say for sure. Like I said, all I saw was silhouettes. So they were black in a way, weren’t they?”
Willows said, “D’you remember anything about the way the man who went into the store was dressed?”
Beverly sipped at her Pepsi, delicately licked her lips. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t actually be sure that he was even wearing clothes. Because, like I keep telling you, all I saw was silhouettes. But I do remember that the driver was smoking, because there were sparks when he flipped his cigarette into the street, and then a car went by and there were a bunch more sparks.”
“The smoker. Did you see his face?”
“No, not at all.”
“When the other guy got out of the truck, didn’t a light go on inside the cab?’
Beverly thought about it for a long time. Or maybe she was thinking about Bill. Or Brian. Finally she said, “There wasn’t any light.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Or if there was, I don’t remember.”
Parker said, “Let me ask you again about the truck. Brian thought it might be red or black or even dark brown ...”
“It was definitely red. And it had a kind of a thing that stuck out over the windshield, like an extension of the roof, a visor.”
“Red, with a visor,” said Parker, taking notes.
“Really bright, like Chinese Red lipstick.” Beverly smiled at Willows.
Willows smiled right back at her, tooth for tooth. He said, “Would you mind coming downtown with us, look through a few catalogues, see if we can pin down that truck ...”
Beverly said, “Anything you say ...” She rolled the Pepsi can across her forehead. “It’s hot in here, isn’t it, or is it just me? Or is it this sweater?” She gave Willows a coolly appraising look. “D’you mind waiting a minute, while I change into something a little more comfortable?”
Parker said, “Go ahead, take your time.”
Beverly put her can of Pepsi down on the counter. She hadn’t stopped looking at Willows. Speaking directly to him, she said, “Back in a flash.” As she strolled towards her bedroom, she lifted the sweater up over her head and tossed it on a chair, gave her long blonde hair a shake.
Parker locked eyes with Willows, silently dared him to look anywhere but at her. Willows wondered if Beverly Novik would take a moment to get dressed before she came back out of her bedroom.
Somehow he doubted it.
He concentrated hard on a mental image of Suzie Spinello.
16
Drifting along like a huge bottom-feeder, the corpse snagged on a coiled length of rust-bitten steel cable. The body pirouetted like a drunken dancer as the tide rose and fell. Finally it broke free.
It continued its solitary journey until it bumped against the underbelly of one of the many splayed fingers of the Coal Harbour Yacht Club. The cadaver lay there, belly up, blank white eyes staring up through a narrow crack in the cedar planks.
In time a school of perch happened upon the corpse. They hardly knew what to make of it.
The fish nibbled, and moved on.
17
Harold hung his banana-yellow suit jacket over the back of his black leather wing-chair with the gold-plated studs. He thumped down into the chair and wheeled it a little closer to his justly famous desk, a star-shaped slab of gold-plated stainless steel that was two inches thick and ten feet across. Even though the desk was hollow, it weighed close to a ton. Harold had a habit of rapidly pounding the desk with a rubber mallet whenever he felt the need to forcefully make a point. The sound the desk gave off was apocalyptic, reeked of doom. Intimidated by the hammer, and Harold’s rage, and all that noise, the unfortunate objects of his little tantrums rarely failed to buckle under.
Harold buzzed Tiffany and told her he desperately wanted a double-shot latte double-desperate quick. The mountain of urgent messages that had piled up on his desk during the lunch hour was not much smaller than Vesuvius. He snapped his suspenders and got down to work.
Work, work, work.
At three minutes past five he speed-dialled his wife, Joan, and told her in syrupy, apologetic tones that the Borneo deal was driving him crazy, he’d be stuck at the office until at least eleven, eleven-thirty. Joan was sympathetic. Harold explained that a vital piece of machinery had failed, he was working with the team to get parts to the site, but the situation was complicated by a glitch
with the telephone lines, or the satellite had malfunctioned, some kind of foul-up. He had no choice but to stick tight to his desk, keep trying to get through.
Poor Harold, said Joan.
He told her not to keep dinner, that Tiff had made him a pot of coffee and he planned to orde
r takeout from Tim Hortons, so he’d be just fine, don’t worry about him, but he had to get that Borneo beast under some semblance of control.
Joan asked him what time it was in Borneo. She asked him, wasn’t it late, or the wee small hours of the morning? Wouldn’t everybody have gone home to bed by now?
The time-zone query. God bless predictability. Harold told Joan she was absolutely right about the time, but that the unholy hour meant nothing to men who were looking at the kind of bonuses he’d promised, if deadlines were met. If Harold’s delivery was a little stilted, it was because he was reading from notes he’d written in large, easy-to-read block letters on legal-size bond stationery.
Joan said she might give him a ring about ten, if he wasn’t home by then. Harold said that would be fine, he looked forward to her call. He warned her that his stomach was bothering him. If he didn’t pick up, don’t fret, he was sequestered in the can.
Sequestered? Joan chuckled at his choice of words. Harold frowned. Better she’d been amused by his deliberate little joke about ordering out from Tim Hortons.
He abruptly told her he had a call, had to run. Joan blew him a kiss down the wire. She told him she loved him.
Me too, said Harold.
He left the office at six sharp, called Melanie from the car phone, as he exited the parking lot. Melanie picked up on the first ring, a habit he found endearing. He told her he was en route. Did she get the flowers?
*
Melanie lived at a condo Harold had bought as an investment, a top-floor corner unit in one of the new towers on the north side of False Creek. She’d left her door off the latch, even though he had a key. Harold shut the door behind him, and locked it, and there she was, offering him her mouth and a drink. Harold kissed her and drank half his rye and ginger and kissed her again, emptied the glass. As usual, she looked enchanting, even spectacular.
Melanie wore open-toed shoes with spike heels that elevated her to a point where she was only an inch or two shorter than Harold. Her dress was sultry, low-cut, vampire-red. Fashioned of a soft, clingy material that looked like crushed velvet, it clung to every delicious curve on her delicious body, and threw off dully glowing sparks of light whenever she moved, which was more or less constantly. Harold summoned up his creative energies. He told her she looked great. He told her he’d like to be sequestered with her.
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