“How many women have lived here, over the years?”
“Three.”
“Three women, in three years?”
“No, it’s not like it sounds, the new one’s moving in as the old one’s moving out. They don’t stay that long, usually. Three or four months is about average. In between, Harold might entertain the odd overnighter, or a woman might stay a week or so. But that’s about it.”
“You said Melanie’s been living here for the past six months?”
“Yeah, about that.” Holbrook shrugged. “It ain’t like I’m keeping a diary.”
“How old would you say she is?”
“Mid-thirties, somewhere in there.”
Parker said, “Did Melanie have any visitors, other than Harold?”
“Not really, no.”
Was Barry lying? Parker couldn’t decide.
“None at all?”
“Just Harold.” Barry shrugged apologetically. “Sorry.”
Willows said, “Ever put your ear up against Melanie’s door, Barry?”
“I’d be out on my ass in a minute, I got caught doing something like that, listened in on private conversations.”
Parker said, “Answer the question.”
“The answer is no, I never put my ear on the door. I’d have to be crazy, risk losing a job like this for a cheap laugh. Forget it!”
Willows said, “You never overheard Melanie discussing Harold’s personal wealth, or anything along those lines?”
“No, never. Like I already told you, I never heard nobody talking about nothing.”
Willows thought Holbrook had probably concussed himself, banging his ear against Melanie Martel’s door. But if he knew anything, he wasn’t going to spit it out until Willows dangled him by one leg from the wrong side of the balcony railing.
And that wasn’t going to happen, because Parker had warned him that the next time he pulled a stunt like that, she’d dump him.
*
The bell rang and Joan went over to the door and opened it without giving a moment’s thought to who or what might be out there. A solemn young man stood in the sunlight next to a solemn young woman who, Joan thought, might easily be his wife.
She wondered if they were going to tell her the end was nigh.
The man offered her something. A pamphlet?
No, a badge.
Looking surprised was the easiest thing in the world. She said, “I don’t know what you’re doing here. They told me last night that ...” She trailed off, her voice fading, the words swept away in a flood of uncertainties. Something terrible had happened to Harold, and they were here to tell her about it. She suddenly felt very weak, as if all the blood had been drained from her body. Oh God. Poor Harold.
Parker said, “Jack!”
But Willows was already there, steadying Joan Wismer, taking her weight and helping her inside the house. He helped her over to an ornate wooden chair by the telephone in the hall. The house was warm and stuffy. Parker left the door open. She glanced around. Money.
Joan Wismer sat up a little straighten She toyed with the telephone’s curly cord, looked beyond Willows to Parker. She said, “What’s happened to Harold?”
“We don’t know,” said Parker.
“I don’t understand.” She glanced at Willows and then back to Parker. “What are you doing here? What do you want?”
Willows said, “Does your husband own a Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud with a vanity plate that says BRK R US?”
“You must know that’s Harold’s car. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here, would you?”
Parker said, “The car was found in the parking lot of a False Creek highrise. Apparently Harold owns an apartment in the building that’s occupied by a woman named Melanie Martel. Do you know Miss Martel?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Did you know your husband owned an apartment in that building?”
“Yes, I did.”
“We’re concerned for your husband’s safety. We have reason to believe he may have been kidnapped.”
Joan Wismer sat quietly by the telephone for the better part of a minute. Finally she said, “Why would you think something like that?”
Willows said, “His car was shot up. He’s missing, and there’s no obvious reason for his absence.”
Joan said, “Was this woman, the woman you say was living in Harold’s apartment, is there any chance she’s involved in his disappearance?”
Parker said. “At the moment, all we can say is that she isn’t in her apartment and we are unable to locate her.”
Willows said, “Have you received a letter ...?”
“Absolutely not.”
Parker said, “Anything at all that would indicate Harold is in trouble ...?”
Joan Wismer pointed a trembling finger at Willows. “I telephoned the police department last night, trying to find out what had happened to my husband! Nobody would help me! They told me Harold had to be missing for seventy-two hours before they’d even open a file! Three days! And now you ...” Joan Wismer’s eyes filled with tears. She struggled to maintain her composure.
Willows was tempted to explain that exceptions were often made to the seventy-two-hour rule when an officer stumbled across a bullet-riddled car, but let it pass in the interest of a less-spirited conversation. He said, “Mrs. Wismer, we’re here to help you. That’s our job.”
“I don’t care! I don’t know what you’re talking about! Get out of my house!”
Standing on the porch, Willows felt the shock wave as Joan Wismer slammed the door.
Parker said, “Must be nice, living in a neighbourhood like this. So leafy, and quiet, peaceful.”
Willows smiled at her as he started down the front-porch steps. Joan Wismer was wound tighter than a forkful of spaghetti. He said, “Joan’s been warned not to talk to the cops.”
“Think so?”
“Yes.”
“Me too,” said Parker.
It was Willows’ turn to drive. He unlocked the car and got in, reached across to unlock Parker’s door. He started the engine and let it idle. “We need to talk to a friendly magistrate, secure a wiretap.”
“Right,” said Parker.
Willows released the emergency brake. He put the unmarked Ford in gear. “Know who else we need to talk to?”
“Tell me, Jack.”
Willows began to softly whistle a tune Parker vaguely recognized but couldn’t quite place.
And old Beatles tune. There it was, she had it.
Mister postman, look and see ...
28
When they’d finally arrived in Whistler, Ozzie had parked the rented van in the log house’s basement garage. Everybody sat tight while Dean, SnakeLight in hand, found a switch and turned on some lights.
Dean took Melanie’s hand. Ozzie grabbed a handful of second-choice Harold. The four of them made their way upstairs to the main floor of the house.
Dean turned on more lights and then went back downstairs to fetch the groceries they’d bought in Vancouver. Kidnapping was surprisingly thirsty work. He popped the tab on a warm beer as he made his way back upstairs.
Ozzie made a quick tour of the house, reconnoitring.
Harold and Melanie stood mute in the living room. Harold was breathing hard and fast. His brown paper grocery bag collapsed and ballooned outwards with a faint rustling sound.
Ozzie was back in only a few minutes. He was pleased to report that the house was still empty and there was no sign of recent occupation.
Ozzie wanted to take some pictures right away, while Harold was still healthy, able to sit up straight and look like he was worth rescuing, no matter what the cost.
Dean guided Melanie to the couch, sat her down at one end and asked her in cloying tones if she was comfortable. No response. He patted her on the shoulder and told her she was going to be just fine.
Ozzie spun Harold around. He marched him two steps backwards and gave him a firm push that sent him sprawling across the couch,
almost into Melanie’s lap. He said, “Sit up straight.”
Harold’s fall had crushed the paper bag against his face. As Ozzie got the camera ready, Dean leaned over him and straightened the bag out as best he could. He said, “Hold it a minute,” and hurried down to the basement, came back with a black felt pen. He drew a happy face on Harold’s bag, a happy face with curly hair on Melanie’s bag. Then he sat down between them and put his arms around them and pulled them close. Harold squeaked in fear, but Melanie snuggled up to him. Dean wasn’t surprised. He’d checked himself out in the van’s rearview mirror. He was one of those lucky guys who looked good in a black balaclava.
Ozzie backed up a foot or two. He crouched. He squinted through the camera’s lens. The Happy Family, and their idiot son. He said, “Perfect. Hold it right there. Good. Okay now, say cheese ...”
Dean shouted, “Cheese!”
The Polaroid’s flash lit up the room.
Ozzie said, “Hold it a minute, nobody move. Dean, what’s the point of sending Joan a picture of a couple of people wearing brown paper bags? They could be anybody.”
“Right,” said Dean. He drank some warm beer.
Ozzie unsheathed the hunting knife he’d got from Lamonica. He tossed the knife to Dean, fiddled with the camera as Dean turned to Melanie and carefully cut away the heavy brown paper. He leaned back, studied the results.
Melanie stared at him, at the Ruger sticking out of his belt. Dean said, “You got such pretty eyes ...” The balaclava was itchy. He scratched his nose, and turned to Harold, sunk the blade of the knife into the bag and recklessly slashed upward. In moments the bag was in tatters. Harold, too, though the only cut he’d suffered was hardly a cut at all, just a thin red line that ran up the side of his pudgy face, jaw to eyebrow. Dean wiped away the blood with a piece of brown paper. He duct-taped Harold’s mouth shut and then drove the blade of the knife into the coffee table, and leaned back and put his arms around their two victims.
Ozzie said, “Everybody ready?”
Dean squeezed Melanie’s shoulder. “Ready, babe?”
Melanie nodded.
“Cheese!” yelled Dean again, a split-second too late.
Ozzie took a dozen pictures. The last was of Dean perched on Harold’s lap, the knife at Harold’s throat, the barrel of his Ruger screwed into Harold’s ear. Harold’s eyes were watery with fear. He looked like a bona fide victim, all right.
Ozzie slipped a fresh pack of film into the camera. Dean asked Melanie if she’d like to pose on his lap. Not for purposes of extortion, he hastened to assure her, but so she’d have a souvenir of their time together, something to help trigger a flood of sweet memories, when this particular time of her life might otherwise be lost in the distant past.
Melanie said, “Mrrph.”
“Is that a yes?”
Dean groped her a little as she settled onto his lap. Her eyes smiled at him, and he believed her pretty little mouth was smiling too, under the tape.
Ozzie looked at them but didn’t say anything. Dean said, “Cheese,” and the room lit up again, bright as a muzzle flash. Ozzie tossed Dean the picture, a square of paper, black on one side and white on the other, that fluttered across the narrow space between them. Melanie held on to Dean in a casual sort of way as the image developed. Their bodies rose up out of the darkness as from a grave.
Dean gave her rump a friendly pat. He said, “You look great!”
“Mrrph,” replied Melanie.
Dean said, “If I took off the tape, it’d hurt for a minute. But then you’d be able to talk to me, get to know me a little.” He cocked his head. “Am I rushing things, going too fast?”
Melanie said, “Mrrph.”
Dean put his hand to his ear. “ ’Scuse me, but was that a yes or a no?”
“Mrrmmph!”
Dean plucked at the short length of bright green tape that covered Melanie’s mouth.
Ozzie said, “What d’you think you’re doing?”
“Bestowing upon this luscious maiden the power of speech.”
“Forget it.”
“What’s she gonna do, scream?” Dean stroked Melanie’s cheek. “Who’s going to hear her, Ozzie?”
“Me.” Ozzie unzipped a duffel bag, tossed Dean a pair of glittery handcuffs. “Why don’t you show her to her room?”
“Yeah, okay. I could do that.”
Ozzie put the camera down on the coffee table. He snatched his knife out of the wood, slipped it into his belt sheath. He said, “Don’t mess with her.”
“Why the hell not?” Melanie tried to wriggle off Dean’s lap but he held her close, shifted his grip so she could feel the hard bulge of his biceps against the swell of her breasts.
Ozzie’s smile distorted his balaclava. “Because you’re not the kind of guy forces himself on a woman, that’s why.”
“No?” Dean was wide-eyed with disbelief.
“Not yet. Maybe in a few years, when you’ve started to go to seed, lost your charm.”
Dean threw back his head and brayed.
“In the meantime, I see you as a lover, not a fighter.”
“You think I’d force myself on this pretty woman?” Dean had thought it over, decided he was mildly offended. He stood up, Melanie still cradled in his arms. The handcuffs rattled. He said, “C’mon, honey.”
Ozzie told Harold to stand up. Harold was a little unsteady on his feet. Ozzie led him out of the living room and down a hallway to an open staircase. They climbed the stairs to the second floor. Ozzie was a little surprised to see that the door to Melanie’s room was shut. He hesitated for a moment listening, but heard nothing. Harold had wandered on ahead, and Ozzie had to step briskly to catch up. He guided Harold into his room, got him to sit down at the head of the antique queen-size brass bed.
The mattress sagged under Harold’s considerable weight. Hell, Harold was sagging under Harold’s weight. What did Melanie see in the guy?
Now, there was an easy question. Melanie saw the exact same thing in Harold that he’d seen in Harold — a fat wad of dollars.
Ozzie said, “Harold?”
Harold gave him a basset-hound look.
“Stay still,” said Ozzie. He freed Harold’s hands, tossed a pair of handcuffs in his lap. “One cuff goes around your right wrist, the other around the headboard. Make sure they’re nice and tight.”
Harold fumbled with the cuffs, managed to lock himself to the heavy brass headboard.
Ozzie said, “You got to go to the bathroom, there’s a bell right there on the night table. Ring it. We don’t get up here quick enough, there’s toilet paper and a Rubbermaid bucket under the bed. You make a mess, you’re stuck with it. Understand?”
Harold nodded.
Ozzie stood there, looking down at this man in the weird yellow suit who was entirely in his power. He crouched down so he could look directly into Harold’s red-rimmed eyes.
“One more point, Harry.”
Harold blinked. A tear rolled down his cheek.
“You co-operate, before you know it you’ll be back at the office, gutting little fish. But if you fuck with me, you die.” Ozzie pulled the Ruger, cocked the hammer and pressed the barrel against Harold’s temple. A vein throbbed. He said, “I’ll fire a bullet into your ear and stuff you in a culvert, and that’ll be the end of you, Harold.”
Harold was crying, making horrible sounds. Tears splashed out of his bloodshot eyes, down his purpled cheeks.
Ozzie stepped back. “You probably don’t give a shit, but I’m gonna tell you anyway. I kill you, I’m gonna kill Melanie. You’ll both end up in the same goddamn ditch.”
He gently tapped Harold on the top of his balding skull with the pistol’s barrel. “Do I make myself clear?”
Harold nodded. He gagged, choking on his grief. Well, who could blame him. He was dead no matter what, and probably knew it.
Ozzie walked out of the room, leaving the door wide open behind him. He strolled down the hallway. Melanie’s door was still shut.
He put his hand on the knob, hesitated, and then pushed open the door. The light was dim but he could make out a shape on the bed. He turned on his flashlight. Melanie lay on her side, facing him, her right hand cuffed to her left ankle. She blinked in the light. He shone the flashlight’s narrow beam around the room. Wherever Dean was, he was somewhere else.
He said, “You okay?”
She nodded.
“Mrrmmph,” said Ozzie good naturedly. He said, “Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bugs bite.”
Melanie stared up at him. What was she thinking? He had no idea. He blew her a kiss and walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
Dean was downstairs, sprawled out on the leather couch with a can of beer balanced on his chest, watching country-and-western videos. He’d stripped off his balaclava. Ozzie pulled off his, shoved the sweaty, itchy thing in his back pocket. Dean said, “I sure like that Reba. She sings like a hard-luck angel.” He drank some beer, belched. “We got the movie channel, too. Demolition Man. It’s pretty good, but I already seen it about six times.” Leather creaked as he twisted his body to look more squarely at Ozzie. Flickering light from the television turned his face various shades of grey. “You were up there with Melanie for quite some time. Make a move on her, did you?”
“She’s too old for me. You want her, she’s all yours.”
“That’s real generous of you, pops.”
“But only if she’s in the mood. Otherwise, leave her alone.”
Dean drank some more beer. His brow was furrowed.
Ozzie said, “She’s only a woman, Dean. The world’s full of them, and they’re all pretty much the same, aren’t they?”
“You got that right.”
“A guy like you, young and handsome, smart. You had a little cash in your pocket, you’d have to beat them off with a stick.”
Dean grinned into his beer. He said, “And I got just the right-size stick to beat ’em with!”
Ozzie kept at him. “Melanie starts talking about how you and her could be a lot happier than you and me, you better shut her mouth real quick.”
Dean waved away Ozzie’s concerns. His eye was on a blonde songstress wearing a skintight sleeveless T, a white cowboy hat tilted at a rakish angle, jeans so tight it was like she was wearing nothing at all.
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