The woman who served them was in her mid-sixties. Her silver hair was piled up on her head like a towering, billowy cloudbank. Tarnished silver moons and stars dangled from her ears. Her pale grey eyes grazed like sheep in a field of lush green eyeshadow. Her long eyelashes were black and spiky as a picket fence. Her lipstick and nail polish were a lustrous flag-red. When she smiled, jagged fault lines bloomed all across her makeup.
Parker ordered a veggie burger with a side salad, Diet Coke. Willows chose a deluxe burger with cheese and bacon, extra onion. Fries. He decided to risk the coffee.
The woman smilingly assured them the food would be ready in a few minutes, and that she’d be right back with their drinks.
Parker waited until the woman was out of earshot and then said, “I meant to tell you, Jack, ballistics have got all the lands and grooves they need to make a comparison.”
“Now all we need’s the gun, and the guy who owns it.”
The waitress arrived with their drinks.
Willows emptied a container of cream into his coffee. He sipped and flinched. Dabbing at his mouth with a napkin, he pushed the cup away.
Parker smiled. “That bad?”
“Toxic.”
Parker popped the tab on her Coke and poured about half the can into her glass. “Spears ran the truck. Red, black, even burnt orange. He went back five years and came up with a big fat zero.”
Willows nodded glumly. The descriptions they had of the men who’d robbed the convenience store were vague to the point of being useless. They had no usable prints, nothing much from Sean. All they had, really, was an unreliable description of the truck. An older model, with a rounded body shape and a split windshield. Willows believed his best hope, based on the shooter’s highly irrational modus operandi, was that the men were drug addicts who would rob again and again until they were caught.
He delved deeper into the jukebox’s table of contents. Little Richard. Chubby Checker.
The burgers arrived. Grandma banged ketchup and vinegar bottles down on the table. “Anything else?”
Willows glanced at Parker. He said, “We’re fine for now.”
The woman nodded. The man in the gold chains snapped his fingers and called for his bill.
Willows took a bite out of his hamburger. He chewed slowly. His face became contemplative. He put the hamburger down on his plate, reached for a napkin.
Parker said, “Something wrong?”
Willows deposited the partially chewed hamburger into the depths of the napkin. Something was wrong, all right. Very wrong. In all his life, he had never tasted anything quite so foul. He washed out his mouth with some of Parker’s Coke.
Parker had cut her veggie burger in half. She put down her knife, pushed away her plate.
Willows examined his hamburger. The slab of meat, or whatever it was, had been thoroughly cooked. But the texture wasn’t quite right and the colour was all wrong. His stomach growled. He sniffed gingerly at a French fry.
The waitress drifted past. She placed the bill on the table midway between her two cop customers. “How’re you folks doing?”
“Fine,” said Parker.
*
As they drove to the hospital, every payphone Willows passed reminded him that he still hadn’t called Sheila. His wife had a right to know what had happened to her son. Why hadn’t he called?
Sean was watching television when they arrived. He turned the sound down but left the set on. His greeting was borderline surly. Willows asked him how he was feeling. Sean waggled his fingers. What did that mean? That the question was so simplistic as to not deserve an answer? Willows took it that Sean had regained his spirit, that he was on the mend. Obviously he still had a long way to go. Willows reflected that when Sean was fully recovered, he’d turn the sound up when his visitors arrived.
Parker said, “Has Dr. Fisher been around lately?”
“The great man. Busy busy busy.” Sean fiddled with the television. “He said I’ll be out of here before I know it. Whatever that means.”
“How’s the arm?” said Willows.
“Numb, except when it hurts.”
Willows nodded.
Parker said, “What’re you watching?”
“A movie.”
“What’s it about?” said Parker.
“It’s about this rich kid, he’s about six years old. His dad’s in Europe, on a business trip. The day he left, the kid’s mom was hit by a car as she crossed the street. She’s in a coma. Her purse was stolen, and nobody knows who she is. The kid’s nanny quit, eloped with some guy. So he’s all alone and this guy and his girlfriend break in, they break into the house. The kid tells them his story, he’s been living out of the freezer for about a week now, and they decide to adopt him ...”
“Kidnap him?”
“Not really. He’s lonely. He thinks he’s been abandoned. He hasn’t got anything else going for him.”
“No friends, or family?”
“He just moved from another city. Everything’s still in boxes ...”
Parker said, “Sounds interesting. Jack, why don’t you see if you can find another chair ...”
They watched the rest of the film, and then a half-hour situation comedy about a stranded alien who looked human but wasn’t. A hospital volunteer, a candy-striper, offered Sean a glass of milk, his choice of cherry or lime Jell-O.
Sean managed to eat the Jell-O one-handed, without taking his eyes off the television’s tiny screen.
Something was nagging at Jack.
Both 911 calls, the one from the Chevron station and the one that had originated at the payphone on the street almost directly in front of the gas station, had come in at virtually the same time. Farley Spears and Dan Oikawa had canvassed the neighbourhood in an attempt to find out who had made the payphone call, and come up empty.
But somebody had made the call.
Had Spears or Oikawa checked with BC TEL to find out if a call had originated from the payphone before or after the Chevron 911 call? Willows reasoned that whoever had called from the payphone might have been in the vicinity because he intended to make another, non-emergency call.
It was worth a shot. Willows sat there, mulling over possibilities, until the sitcom ended in another burst of taped laughter. Standing, he went over to the bed and awkwardly kissed his son on the cheek, and told him he’d try to get back some time in the evening. Sean asked him if he’d mind paying for the full television package, which included SuperChannel.
Parker unhesitatingly told Sean to order whatever he wanted. Right, thought Willows. What else could Sean do but read or watch television? He told himself to relax, take it easy. It was great advice, but not that easily followed. He wondered if he’d ever learn.
*
Oikawa’s chair creaked as he leaned back. He cocked his head, leaned forward and then back again. The chair squeaked shrilly. Metal on metal. He leaned forward and then tilted the chair back. Yeah, right there. He sat upright and then gritted his teeth and tilted the chair slowly back, narrowed the range of motion to a few scant degrees. Squeak, squeak, squeak. He said, “Check with BC TEL, see if any calls other than the nine-eleven originated from the payphone at about the same time the nine-eleven was logged. If so, speak to the recipient or recipients. Is that what you’re suggesting?”
Willows nodded.
Oikawa said, “Great idea, Jack. Why didn’t I think of it?”
“You don’t want to know,” said Orwell from behind his desk.
“Not that you could tell me if I did,” Oikawa shot back. To Willows he said, “We got nothing from the canvass. In fact, as you damn well know, we got nothing from nobody. How’s Sean?”
“Good,” said Willows.
Seeking a second opinion, Oikawa glanced at Parker.
Parker said, “Eating lime Jell-O, watching television ...”
Oikawa smiled. “Don’t tell Eddy, or we’ll lose him to a self-inflicted wound.”
“Tell me what?” said Orwell.
Oikawa leaned back in his chair, and fired off a volley of ear-grating squeaks and squeals.
BC TEL called back within an hour of Willows’ inquiry. A call had originated from the Dunbar Street payphone seconds before the 911 call was made. The telephone company’s records indicated a second call to the same number had been made directly after the 911 call was terminated.
The male operator asked Willows if he wanted the number.
“Please,” said Willows. He repeated the number the call was made to and the subscriber’s name and address to the operator as he wrote it all down, thanked him and disconnected.
Oikawa overheard the address as Willows read it back to the operator. He consulted his notebook. “Hang on a minute ...” He pulled a beige file folder and flipped it open. “Yeah, here it is. Jay and Nora Parsons. The house is less than a block from the store. Jay was at work, but I talked to Nora. She wasn’t even aware that a robbery had been committed. I asked her, don’t you watch TV, read the paper? She told me she watched TV all the time, but not the news. Too depressing.”
Willows checked his watch. He dialled the Parsonses’ number and got an answering machine, hung up without leaving a message.
Parker said, “Nobody home?”
“Just the machine.”
“Why don’t we go home, see how Annie’s doing, get something to eat and then drive over? Maybe somebody’ll be home by the time we get there.”
“Sounds good,” said Willows. He felt a sharp twinge of guilt. He loved Annie so much, but a whole day could shoot past, dawn to dusk, without his giving her a moment’s thought.
But when they arrived home, the house was empty. Annie had taped a note to the refrigerator. She’d been invited to dinner at Lewis’. After dinner he was going to drive her to the hospital to visit Sean. Later, they planned to go somewhere for a bite to eat. She’d be back by ten-thirty, and had a key.
Willows said, “I thought she had a ten o’clock deadline.”
“She does,” said Parker.
There was nothing wrong with Annie eating at Lewis’. There was nothing wrong with Lewis driving her to the hospital. There was nothing wrong with the two of them sharing a milkshake at Bino’s, or wherever. So, Willows asked himself, why was he so upset? He was still trying to work it out when he parked in front of the Parsonses’ modest stucco home.
Jay Parsons answered the door. He scrutinized Parker’s badge and then invited the two detectives into the house. Parsons was in his late forties, a tall, heavyset man with close-cropped reddish-brown hair, wet brown eyes. He was casually dressed in jeans and a forest-green shirt with buttoned flap pockets. He led the two detectives into the living room, indicated a sofa upholstered in pale-blue leather. “Sit down, make yourselves comfortable. Can I get you a cup of coffee, tea ...?”
“Thanks anyway,” said Parker.
A television that was too large for the room flickered in a corner. Baseball, but the sound had been turned off. The sofa’s matching loveseat was occupied by a white long-haired cat with glacier-blue eyes.
Jay Parsons rested his hip on the arm of a wine-coloured wing-chair. The table lamp cast the off-side of his face in dark shadow. Parker realized that Parsons was deliberately assuming a pose. Genial host, lord of the manor. The man in charge.
She said, “Is Nora home?”
“Excuse me?”
Parker smiled. “Your wife.”
“Yes, of course.” Parsons was visibly flustered. But why? He said, “It’s her book-club night.”
“What’s she reading?” said Parker.
“I have no idea. Modern American fiction, whatever that means. Look, she spoke to Detective Oikawa yesterday afternoon. She told him that we don’t know anything. She made it quite clear that she was speaking for both of us, do you understand?”
Willows said, “Who phoned you, Jay?”
Parsons gave Willows a sharp look. “What are you talking about?”
“Somebody called you from the payphone directly across the street from the store that was robbed,” said Parker. “Whoever called you hung up, dialled nine-eleven to report the robbery, and called you right back.”
Willows said, “It was late, past eleven. Nora was sleeping, wasn’t she, when you got the call? Who were you talking to, Jay?”
Parsons’ face collapsed. “You’ve got it all wrong.”
“How d’you mean?” said Parker.
“You want to talk to Nora, not me.”
*
The house was dark by the time Nora rolled in. She braked, flashed her high-beams at the unmarked Ford that was blocking her driveway. Willows activated the dashboard-mounted fireball. The light bloomed red, turned Nora Parsons’ white Ford Escort the colour of diluted blood. Willows killed the fireball. He turned on the dome light and checked his watch. Quarter past twelve. Parker got out of the car and walked slowly over to the Escort. Nora Parsons rolled down her window. She appeared to be listening carefully. The Escort’s motor died, and Parker walked through the twin beams of the headlights, around to the far side of the car. She opened the door and slipped into the car.
Willows found himself thinking about Sheila. Time zones. It was far too late to call her tonight, but he couldn’t keep putting it off. He’d try to get through to her first thing in the morning.
He had filed for divorce months ago, citing irreconcilable differences. Sheila would want to talk about that. There were probably a lot of things she’d want to talk about. Discussions that wouldn’t be easy, or pleasant. Not for the first time, he found himself trying to imagine her life in Mexico ...
The Escort’s interior lit up as Parker pushed open her door and the dome light came on. She got out, shut the door, walked briskly towards the Ford. The Escort’s starter motor whined and then the engine caught. Willows leaned across the bench seat and opened the passenger-side door. Parker got in, shut the door and fastened her seatbelt. Willows yawned wearily. He put the Ford in reverse. He slammed on the brakes as the Escort shot past, no lights.
Willows said, “Learn anything?”
“Jay’s been fooling around for years. Younger women, mostly. She was going to find a shabby little apartment somewhere, move out of the house and try to start all over again. Then she met Charles.”
Willows pulled away from the curb. They drove slowly towards the end of the block. He made a right, hit the gas.
Parker said, “Charles has domestic problems of his own, apparently. He had an argument with his wife, drove across town, made the call, asked her to meet him. He saw the truck pull up in front of the store, a man get out and go inside. He heard the shot. Nora told him to dial nine-eleven, hung up on him ...”
“We need to talk to Charles.”
“That’s right,” agreed Parker. “But Nora won’t give him up.”
Willows smiled. Feisty Nora.
Parker said, “She’s going to call him first thing in the morning, as soon as he gets to work. If he refuses to talk to us, she’ll roll him over.”
“Or go to jail,” said Willows.
“That’s what I told her.”
*
Willows pushed Annie’s door wide open, so the hall light would fall on her. Annie lay on her side, her lightly clasped hands by her face, as if she’d fallen asleep in the middle of a prayer. Willows eased shut the door and tiptoed back downstairs. Parker was in the den, curled up on the sofa. She’d switched on the gas fireplace. Willows asked her if she’d like a drink and she said no. He went into the kitchen and poured half an inch of Cutty Sark into a lowball glass, got ice from the refrigerator and went back into the den.
Parker said, “Annie okay?”
“Sleeping like a baby.”
The gas fire burned silently. No snap, no crackle, no pop. Willows missed it all. What he didn’t miss was the need to buy and store wood, split kindling, eat smoke.
Parker said, “Don’t worry about her, Jack.”
Willows toyed with his glass, made the ice cubes rattle.
“Or Jay, either.”
Parker smiled. She took the lowball glass out of Willows’ hand, sipped delicately at the Scotch.
He said, “I’m going to call the hospital, make sure Sean’s okay.”
“You do that,” said Parker. She handed his glass back to him. “Then what?”
“Straight to bed.”
“Right,” said Parker.
19
The cable guy had just completed a service call, happened to see Ozzie and Dean drive by, and stopped as a courtesy. His name tag said RICHARD. He was tall, about six-foot-two, a trim two-hundred-pounder. Blond hair combed straight back, hazel eyes with tints of gold. He knew for a fact that the cable had been cancelled about a year ago, but, if Ozzie was interested, he could offer him a reinstallation special, a very attractive package deal on SuperChannel, Disney, a trio of U.S. superstations. This limited-time offer was ending that very same day.
Ozzie waffled. He was just moving in, hadn’t really had time to think about his entertainment priorities ... The company must’ve had some kind of incentive plan, because Richard pushed hard, told Ozzie and Dean all about the wonders of cable, what a great deal he was offering. Was he legit? Ozzie checked out the leather belt loaded down with screwdrivers and crimpers, other equipment he couldn’t identify, but looked specialized. He asked Richard how long it would take to get the system up and running. Fifteen minutes, tops.
Really? That swift? Ozzie asked him if he’d ever met Jim Carrey.
Who?
The comedian, starred in a movie called The Cable Guy.
The real cable guy, the genuine article, told him he’d never heard of Jim Carrey or the movie. He volunteered that he didn’t get out of Whistler a whole lot. So, did Ozzie want his line hooked up, or what?
Ozzie figured, what the hell. All he’d have to do was sign a piece of paper. By the time the bill arrived he’d be long gone. In the meantime, free TV. Something to entertain Dean, when his brain was disengaged. He told Richard to go ahead, followed him outside and around the side of the house to a grey plastic box with wires running in and out of it. Richard popped the box’s lid, fiddled around in there, muttering. He finished with the box, told Ozzie he had to do some work on the power pole out in front of the house. Climbed into his truck and drove away, was back in ten minutes.
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