Karaoke Rap

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Karaoke Rap Page 22

by Laurence Gough


  Ozzie wasn’t finished. He said, “She starts saying bad things about me, grab yourself by the balls and give yourself a great big yank. Ask yourself if she’s worth half of five million dollars.”

  “Will do,” said Dean. The video ended. He drank some beer, moved on the couch so his body was angled away from Ozzie and more directly towards the television. Ozzie stood there in the doorway, wondering if he’d made his point. He watched Dean use the remote to flip through the channels, pause as he stumbled across Mary Tyler Moore arriving late to work because of a snowstorm. A fellow employee, Ted, a dead ringer for Harold’s handsome younger brother, said something that triggered the laugh track.

  Ozzie glanced over at Dean and saw that he was chuckling quietly, his face crinkled with mirth.

  Strike two, thought Ozzie, who’d learned the hard way never to trust anybody with a sense of humour.

  29

  Sandy Beveridge was in her late twenties. Willows guessed her height at about five-four, her weight at one hundred and ten pounds. Her light-brown hair was cut short. She wore a sharply pressed pale-blue short-sleeved shirt and grey shorts, white socks, white leather Nikes. Her slim legs and arms were nicely tanned, the hair on her arms a fine, silky gold. The shirt had Canada Post flashers and Willows was confident that Miss Beveridge had at least one more button unfastened than regulations allowed.

  Parker said, “What time did you deliver to the Wismer house, Sandy?”

  “Uh, about one o’clock ...”

  “Did you notice anything odd about the letters you delivered?”

  Sandy glanced at her supervisor, a tall, cadaverously thin man named James Wilkinson.

  Wilkinson nodded encouragingly.

  Sandy said, “Yes, I did notice something unusual. There was a lot more mail than I usually deliver to the Wismers. I thought there might have been a mix-up, so I checked as I went up the porch steps.”

  Parker said, “You wanted to ensure that you delivered the mail to the correct address?”

  “Yes, that’s right.” Sandy toyed with a shirt button. She glanced at Willows and then back to Parker. “But there was something else. The address was printed kind of weirdly. Letters cut out of magazines and glued to a piece of paper, to make words.”

  “Did you happen to notice a return address on the letter?”

  “There was no return address. And there wasn't just one letter. I didn’t count them, but I’d say there were eight or nine, altogether.”

  Parker said, “You’re telling us Mrs. Wismer received up to nine envelopes with oddly printed addresses?”

  Sandy nodded. “Yes, and they were all the same. Same printing, same-size envelopes. It looked as if the letters and numbers had been glued to a sheet of paper, and then photocopied.” She smiled at Willows. “Not that I’m a detective.”

  Willows returned her smile. He said, “You’re doing fine.”

  Parker said, “Did Mrs. Wismer come to the door when you made your delivery?”

  “No, I put the letters through the slot in the door.”

  “You didn’t see her at all, had no opportunity to see her reaction to the letters?”

  “That’s right. I’ve had the same route for about six months. When the weather’s nice, she’s often out in the garden. But I doubt if I’ve seen her in a week, maybe more.” She snuck another peek at Willows. “She’s a very nice person, very friendly.”

  Willows said, “What about her husband, Harold? Have you ever seen him in the garden?”

  “No, never. I don’t even know what he looks like.”

  “We’ll be getting a warrant to intercept the Wismers’ mail,” said Parker. “We should have it by tomorrow. Mr. Wilkinson has said he’ll do whatever he can to help us with our investigation. Can we count on you as well, Miss Beveridge?”

  Sandy gave Parker a nice smile. “Yes, of course. Just tell me how I can help.”

  *

  Bradley listened intently as Willows and Parker brought him up to speed. He toyed with an unlit cigar as he made the easy decision to seek a warrant to establish a wiretap on the Wismer residence. He told Willows he accepted his suggestion to assign Eddy Orwell and Bobby Dundas to the listening post. Willows almost smiled. Bobby would turn into a human pinwheel when Bradley gave him the assignment, but, as Willows had thoughtfully pointed out, Bobby’s slowly healing ankle rendered him more or less immobile, so the back of a van was just the place for him.

  Willows hadn’t been back at his desk more than ten minutes when he took a call from a CSU cop named Larry Campbell.

  “Jack, got a minute?”

  “What’s up, Larry?”

  “On Wismer’s Rolls, we got absolutely nada. Zip, Jack. Lots of prints, but the overlaps were all Wismer’s.”

  Willows silently absorbed the information. Joan Wismer had refused to co-operate with the investigation, and so Campbell had taken it upon himself to gather a set of comparison prints from Wismer’s office.

  Campbell said, “The way we see it, the Rolls was so clean there’s no doubt at all that Wismer was snatched on his way to or from his vehicle, but not while he was in it. Probably the car was shot up so everybody’d know what was going to happen to Wismer, unless the bills got paid.” Campbell hesitated. He said, “You get anything on Melanie Martel?”

  Willows said, “Her name popped up on the screen. She’s got a couple of priors, early eighties. Nothing recent.”

  “High-end hooker, by any chance?”

  “Larry, I’m amazed.”

  “Hey, she’s a nice-looking woman, living large in Harold’s expensive downtown condo, making herself comfortable on Harold’s furniture, drinking fine wines out of his refrigerator. Don’t tell me you didn’t poke around in her closet. My wife’d die for clothes like that. Hell, she’d kill for clothes like that. Melanie’s got no job. How can she afford all that stuff? Harold’s doing the work for both of them. On his elbows.”

  Willows chuckled politely. From behind her desk, Parker gave him an inquiring look. He rolled his eyes.

  Campbell said, “Think Melanie might’ve set him up?”

  “We’re looking into it.”

  “Well, it’s been nice talking to you, Jack. Very pleasant. We going to see you at service, one of these days?”

  “Maybe.”

  “God loves you, Jack. He loves you unconditionally and would welcome you into His arms if you could find it in your heart to take that single step towards Him.”

  “It’s reassuring to know that, Larry.”

  Campbell said, “Don’t be a wiseass, Jack. God has a wonderful sense of humour, but He’d rather be appreciated than poked in the eye with a sharp stick.” Campbell disconnected. Willows cradled his phone.

  Parker said, “Larry trying to recruit you?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Parker pushed aside a wrist-thick file. “Wismer’s got a reputation as a high roller. He’s made millions. Melanie’s bank statements show a balance of slightly less than five thousand dollars. Snatching Wismer makes sense. But why bother to take her with him?”

  “Maybe it was a package deal — two for one.”

  “More likely she was in on it, set him up for somebody else. A boyfriend, maybe. A woman like that, her looks, a geriatric like Harold couldn’t possibly be the only man in her life.”

  “Are you suggesting that love doesn’t conquer all?”

  “I hope not,” said Parker.

  Willows said, “I think it might be a good idea to have another talk with Barry Holbrook, push him a little. It might not be a bad idea to take another look at Melanie’s apartment, while we’re there.” Willows picked up a pencil, put it away in the top drawer of his desk. He wished he’d kept track of the number of pens and pencils that had levitated from his desktop over the years. Three digits, easy. He said, “If Melanie happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time ... Maybe they only took her along for part of the ride.”

  “You think she’s dead?”

  Wil
lows shrugged.

  *

  They found Barry Holbrook on his knees in the open doorway of a third-floor apartment that had, as far as Parker could determine, a floor plan identical to Melanie Martel’s tenth-floor unit. Holbrook dipped a yellow plastic scraper into a white plastic bucket of drywall filler. He forced the filler across a deep depression in the wall, used the scraper to smooth the stuff out.

  “What they tell you, they had an armful of groceries, pushed the door too hard. More likely they’re pissed off about something, boot the door instead of the husband.” Holbrook waved the scraper at a round dent in the wall. “What the doorknob did, when it hit the plaster. Looks like a little bomb went off, don’t it? A hole that deep, I got to fill it about halfway, wait a day or two for the goop to dry, fill in the rest of it, wait another day before I sand it down and paint it. And people bitch about the maintenance fees.”

  Willows said, “We need to get into Harold’s apartment, Barry.”

  “No problem.” Holbrook took a last swipe at the wall with the scraper, dropped the scraper into the plastic bucket of drywall filler and carefully placed the lid on the bucket. He said, “The lid ain’t on good and tight, the stuff dries out, you got to throw it away.” All wisdom expended, he picked up the bucket. “Okay, let’s get out of here.”

  The elevator took them to the tenth floor. Holbrook unlocked Melanie Martel’s door and stepped aside. The living-room curtains had been drawn; the apartment was dark. He said, “You okay by yourselves, or you want me to hang around?”

  “We’re fine — but don’t leave the building.”

  Holbrook jangled his keyring. “Or what, you’ll put out an all-points bulletin?”

  Willows thought an all -pints bulletin might be more appropriate, but let it slide.

  Parker shut the door in Holbrook’s face. Willows pulled the drapes, flooding the room with light. Parker said, “I’ll be in the bedroom, if you need me.” Was she toying with him? Willows glanced up, half smiling. But Parker was already moving down the hallway.

  He stacked the sofa’s cushions on the coffee table and then plunged his hands deep into all the sofa’s nooks and crannies. His search yielded a few coins, a ballpoint pen and a crumpled paper napkin.

  Poking around behind the twenty-seven-inch television and stereo components, all he managed to do was tangle his fingers in the wires and cables.

  He frisked a pair of wing-chairs upholstered in a shiny dark-blue fabric shot through with threads of gold, and came up with a handful of lint.

  Parker came out of the kitchen drinking a glass of water. She crooked a finger. He followed her back into the bedroom. She sat down on the queen-size bed, hit the rewind button on the telephone answering machine. Willows took his spiralbound notebook from his jacket pocket. He searched for and found his Paper Mate pen. The tape hissed quietly as it ran from spool to spool. The machine clicked as the tape was fully rewound. Parker hit the playback button.

  A male voice, ironic and grating, said, “Melanie, it’s Marty. You there? Pick up the phone, sweetheart.” There was a short pause. The voice said, “It’s just past two. I gotta run some errands for the boss, drive down to that health-food joint you told me about, get the organic this, organic that. Gotta buy a couple free-range chickens, olive oil, garlic. Somethin’ else, what is it ...? Oh yeah, I gotta bump a couple guys off.” Ironic chuckle. “Tell you what — I’ll call back in two, three hours. You gonna be home for dinner, sweetheart? Think about it.”

  The machine beeped. Same guy, essentially the same message. But partway into this one Melanie picked up.

  “Sorry I took so long to answer. I was in the shower.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Stark naked and defenceless in the shower,” said Melanie. Bored, or pretending to be bored.

  Willows kept listening. He and Parker sat there on the bed, close enough to touch but not touching, as the thirty-minute microcassette played one message after another. Harold Wismer called three times. He sounded as if he’d been drinking. Melanie’s hairdresser reminded her of an upcoming appointment.

  There was another call from the unidentified male. The free-range chicken guy. Marty, Willows assumed. He told Melanie he had the rest of the afternoon off, no plans. Melanie told him to come on over, make it fast.

  Willows said, “Harold thought his plate was full, but all he was getting was leftovers.”

  “How crude,” said Parker.

  “Melanie’s boyfriend, Marty. Listening to his voice, how old would you say he is?”

  “Early thirties, somewhere in there.”

  “Younger than Harold, isn’t he?”

  The machine beeped for the last time. Joan Wismer’s voice was angry, and then plaintive. Where was her husband? She wanted to speak to Harold. She became abusive. She started to cry. There was a long silence before she finally hung up.

  “Much younger.” Parker popped the tape out of the machine, slipped it into a clear plastic evidence bag.

  Willows and Parker searched the kitchen and bathroom. Neither yielded anything of value. Willows checked his watch. The day was slipping past. He discussed the situation with Parker, and she agreed that it was time to take another shot at Barry Holbrook.

  The super was in his apartment, watching television. Holbrook let them in, pointed his remote at the set and hit the mute button. He flopped down on a shabby brown corduroy sofa.

  Willows said, “You lied to us, Barry.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You told us Melanie never had any visitors. Specifically, that she never had any male visitors. You lied to us. You obstructed a murder investigation. Barry, do you want to go to jail?”

  “I didn’t lie. It just skipped my mind. I forgot.”

  Parker said, “Forgot about who?”

  “There was this guy. Marty. He comes around once or twice a week. Want me to describe him?”

  Willows nodded.

  “Okay, I’d say he’s in his mid-thirties, about six feet tall, maybe two hundred pounds. Short blond hair. You watch NFL football?” Willows nodded.

  “That guy on Fox, Howie Long? He looks a lot like him. The hair, the big jaw, wide shoulders. The clean-cut type, except for the eyes. The way he looked at me, I might’ve been a bug.”

  “What colour were his eyes?”

  “Brown.”

  “He have any tattoos, or scars ...?”

  “Not that I noticed. Once he wore a gold earring in his left ear, a little motorcycle. I asked him about it, he said it was a Harley.”

  “How did he dress?”

  “Casual. Slacks, sports jackets. Pointy-toe shoes ... Something that might interest you — he carried a knife.”

  Willows said, “A knife?”

  “Switchblade with a red handle. He was using it to clean his nails one time when he was waiting for the elevator.”

  Parker said, “What kind of car did he drive, Barry?”

  “I dunno, I never saw a car.”

  Willows stared at him.

  Holbrook said, “No car. Really.”

  Parker said, “Did Marty visit Melanie at any particular time?”

  “Mid-afternoon, usually.”

  “What’s his last name?”

  “I got absolutely no idea. None.”

  Willows said, “Marty doesn’t live here, but he comes and goes as he pleases. He helps himself to Harold Wismer’s apartment, his girlfriend. He carries a knife. And now Harold’s been kidnapped.”

  “You sayin’ it’s my fault?”

  “Maybe if you’d done your job, nothing would’ve happened to Harold.”

  Holbrook turned the remote control over and over in his hands. “Miss Martel never caused me any trouble. Okay, so Wismer’s paying the freight. Is that so bad? He’s old enough to be her father, right? Maybe he is her father. I got to ask myself, is it really any of my business?”

  Parker shrugged. “I don’t know. Is it?”

  “Wismer comes around regular, but not too often. Wh
at’s Miss Martel supposed to do in the meantime? Be lonely?”

  “When did you last see Marty?”

  “Uh, it was yesterday. Somewhere around two in the afternoon.”

  Parker said, “Did you talk to him?”

  “No, I didn’t. Not a word.”

  Willows said, “He paid you to look the other way when he dropped by, didn’t he?”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “What did it cost him, to keep your mouth shut? Not to say anything to Harold. To be discreet. A hundred a month, somewhere in there?”

  Barry Holbrook’s face and neck to his shirt collar turned red. He looked like he’d swallowed a sunset.

  Willows pressed for details.

  Marty was broad in the shoulder and narrow in the hip. He wore casual clothes. He had a lot of chest hair. He was clean-shaven. He was light on his feet. He smoked cigars. He had big, squared-off teeth that looked as if they’d been capped. When he smiled or laughed, you could see gold way back there at the back of his mouth. Lots of gold.

  Willows asked Barry if he still had the card he’d given him. Barry said yeah, but Willows gave him another one anyway, pointed out his office number in the bottom right corner. He told Barry to phone him immediately, if Marty showed up.

  Barry promised he’d make the call. But the look on his face, he was clearly worried about the ready-for-anything look that lurked in Marty’s cool, uncaring eyes, the knife he carried in his pocket.

  Willows decided to ask Bradley to put a uniform in Melanie Martel’s apartment. He was certain that if Marty happened to drop by, he could count on Barry to look the other way for free.

  30

  Harold had adopted a glazed-eye look that was barely one small step above a coma. In other words, he’d made the adjustments necessary to cope with his reduced situation.

  Poor Melanie was suffering badly, pining away.

  In Dean’s opinion most girls didn’t mind being handcuffed to a bed and some girls absolutely loved it. Melanie was none of the above. Though she wasn’t a whiner, she’d readily admitted that she wasn’t exactly fascinated by the year-old issues of Cottage Life and Country Living that he’d scavenged from various downstairs coffee tables.

 

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