Parker said, “Did you get the impression Mrs. Wismer was expecting a delivery?”
“I dunno. Not that I noticed.”
Parker returned the clipboard.
“That’s it? Can I go now?”
“Fasten your seatbelt,” said Parker.
*
Joan carried the package into the dining room. She put it down on the polished table next to a tall vase of pink roses. The package emitted a soft warbling sound.
She went into the kitchen, got a knife from the wooden rack, returned to the dining room and carefully sliced the package open. Inside, packed in plastic bubblewrap, was a small black cellular telephone. A Motorola. The phone had not stopped ringing. She flipped it open. She raised it to her mouth. She listened carefully, but heard nothing.
She said, “Hello?”
“Dat you, Joanie?”
“Who is this? Have you got Harry?” Her voice cracked. Tears blurred her vision. She struggled to control herself.
“Ya alone in da house, Joan?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Dere’s no cops in ya house, hangin’ on ya every woid?”
“I’m not co-operating with the police.”
“Dat’s good. No offence, but d’ya want him back?”
“Of course I want Harold back!”
“How bad, Joan? Tell me somepin’. Is Harold wort’ eight million to ya?”
“Eight million?”
A short pause. Laboured breathing. “Harry eva’ mention a business associate a his, name a Jake?”
“No, he didn’t.” Joan gathered her courage. She said, “Have you got Harry? Because if you do, I want to talk to him. Right this minute. If I can’t talk to him, then I’m not interested in talking to you.”
Jake sighed wearily into the phone. He said, “No, I ain’t got him. Did I hint udderwise? Lissen, what I got is resources. You ’n’ me, we both want Harold, but fo’ entirely different but not conflictin’ reasons. Unnerstan’ what I’m sayin’? We can help each udder.”
Joan decided not to hang up just yet.
Jake said, “Tell me, ya ever hoid of a woman name a Melanie Martel?” He waited for a response, but Joan was playing her cards close to her vest. He said, “Da t’ing is, Harry and Melanie’s gone missin’ simultaneous, an’ I got dis awful feeling maybe Harry’s reluctant to gimme back my funds ...”
Joan sat down heavily on a reproduction Hepplewhite with spade-foot legs and a heart-shaped back.
“Now, I hope ya can unnerstand why I’m dancin’ around wit’ dis t’ing, Joan. The precarious kinda situation in which all of us find ourselfs, for various different reasons ...”
Jake sat there in his Italian chair, watching Marty thumb nine-millimetre rounds out of his Browning’s magazine and into the palm of his hand.
He waited until Marty’s hand was full of shiny bullets, and Marty had started to reload, then said, “No offence wit’ regard ta ya matrimonial skills, but it ain’t no secret to neither of us dat Harry and Melanie got demselves involved in one a dem crazy roman’ic interludes. Probably dat’s why Harry decided not ta return da funds dat he owes me, ’cause he had investment plans dat weren’t too fuckin’ logical. ’Scuse me a minute? Whaddya say, Marty? Yeah, yer right. Sorry about da coarse language, Joan. I apologize. So anyway, whad I wanna know, ya really want him back? Or, bein’ trut’ful, ya’d prefer him dead?”
Joan disconnected.
Jake redialled.
Joan counted thirteen rings, and then the instrument fell silent. But only for a moment. She shut her eyes, and tried to think clearly. Now, at least, she knew where all that money had come from.
Eight million dollars!
The phone started ringing again.
Joan picked up. She said, “Are you telling me that you’ll help me find Harry, that you’ll get him back for me, if I agree to return your money?”
Jake said, “I got a junior business associate, name a Steve, was keepin’ a eye on Harry for me. Da t’ing is, Steve’s supposed ta call in every couple a hours, and he’s way overdue. Which ain’t like him, as he’s normally a punctual sort a person.”
Joan said, “I’m listening.”
“Last time I talked to Steve, he was tailin’ Harry and da guys what snatched him up to da Whistler area. Dat big mountain where ya ski? But like I said, he ain’t called in lately, an’ it’s got me frettin’. So I’m wonderin’, does Harry have a place up dere, where he might’ve stashed my money?”
Joan said, “No, he doesn’t.”
“Ya sure about dat, Joanie?”
“Yes, I am.” Joan was thinking clearly now, in a crooked kind of way. She said, “Harold doesn’t have your money. At least, it isn’t in Whistler.”
“No?” Jake unwittingly packed a whole lifetime’s worth of avarice into that single word, the one brief syllable. The old man’s heart clenched up like a fist. His few remaining teeth grated together, and rumbled like stones. Hot juices dripped from his sagging jowls. His nostrils flared. What diminutive tinkling noises does a rheumy eye make, when it sparkles madly?
Joan heard it all, a cacophony of tiny unidentifiable squeaks and tremors that might have signalled the imminent collapse of a warehouse the size of a matchbox.
When Jake had collected himself he said, “So where’s my money at?”
“My bank.”
Jake said, “Da whole eight?”
“I didn’t count it. But I can tell you that there are fifteen large safety-deposit boxes full of banded fifties.”
“How much the kidnappers asking?”
“Five million.”
Jake subtracted five from eight. He pictured himself lying face up on a cold concrete floor, rubber mallets pounding him into pink jelly. Ouch. Was Melanie a victim or an accomplice? Was she with Harold or was she with Steve? Could it be possible that she had somehow aligned herself with both men? Nah.
Who in his right mind would expect anybody in his right mind to cough up five million bucks for a dried-up turd like Harold Wismer?
Nobody, that’s who. Unless ...
Unless they knew Joan was sitting on eight extra-large.
Jake abruptly hung up. He slurped at his glass of Amarone Recioto Della Valpolicella-Massi. He peered myopically out the picture window. His trembling finger probed at the redial button.
Joan answered on the first ring.
Jake said, “Ya gotta gimme da eight. I know what yer maybe Linkin’, but dat ain’t the way it’s gonna be. It ain’t a him or ya situashun. Unnerstan’ whad I’m sayin’ to ya, Joan? It ain’t a him or ya situashun.”
Joan said, “I don’t ...”
“Take da money outta da bank. Put it inna suitcases, garbage cans or whadever. Jus’ get it. I’ll call ya in a hour. One single hour. Be ready ta do whad I tell ya. An’ don’ forget, ya fuck wit’ me, inform da cops or whatever, Harry gets took for a drive inna forest, he gets cuffed to a fuckin’ tree and shot inna fuckin’ elbows an da fuckin’ kneecaps. Den no doubt he gets chewed ta death by wild animals.”
“But ...” Joan pictured bears ripping Harry to shreds. Disembowelling him, chewing off his ears. Eating him alive. She blinked away the horror. She said, “You don’t even know where he is!”
“Yet,” growled Jake. “But anyways, it ain’t Harry what you should be worryin’ about! ’Cause whad I’m gonna do, ya fuck wit’ me, I’m gonna dispatch a couple a my fuckin’ associates over dere wit’ fuckin’ rusty machetes!”
Joan gasped.
Jake was just getting started.
“Ya t’ink da cops can help ya? Not fo ’eva! Ya t’ink ya can run ta da Bahamas or Paris or fuckin’ Moscow? I’ll find ya! I’ll hunt ya down! And den my associate’s gonna cut off ya fingers and ya toes! Cut off da rest a ya hands and ya ugly no-toes feet an ya arms at da elbows and den da shoulders! An’ dat’s just ta start! He’s gonna cut off ya fuckin’ legs! Ya nose! Ya ears an’ eyelids, Joan! Ya eyelids! And den, but only if it’s ya lucky day, he’ll put ya outta
ya fuckin’ misery by choppin’ off ya stoopid greedy head! Ya unnerstan’ what I’m sayin’ to ya? Ya gonna die a horrible fuckin’ death!”
Joan mumbled something, she wasn’t sure what. Groans of terrified acquiescence, rather than mere words.
“Have my money ready in one fuckin’ hour!” screamed Jake. His spittle short-circuited the Motorola’s innards. Bright sparks leapt from the instrument’s mouthpiece to his saggy lips. The phone buzzed and hissed and rattled like an apoplectic snake.
Joan cried like a rainstorm.
Sensing that he’d made his point, Jake fuckin’ hung up.
38
What had the UPS package contained? Another ransom letter? Graphic videotape of Harold on his knees, whining piteously? The ring finger of Harold’s left hand, complete with wedding band? The possibilities seemed endless.
The two detectives strolled up the brick driveway and along the artfully winding sidewalk to the front steps. On the porch, Parker loitered while Willows leaned far out over the black wrought-iron railing and pressed his face against a window. The glass was clean but the view was limited. He leaned out a little farther, until he could see the oval dining-room table. On the table next to a vase of flowers squatted a small white box that lay like a misshapen egg in a nest of heavy brown wrapping paper and butcher’s twine. A sheet of plastic bubblewrap reflected dozens of identical half-moons of soft white light.
Willows hooked the toes of his shiny black brogues under the bottom rail and leaned out another inch or two.
Behind him and to his left, the garage door rattled. The tail-lights of Joan Wismer’s Cadillac flashed red. The car backed out of the garage, swung wide to face down the driveway.
Willows locked eyes with Joan Wismer. Had he not been so absolutely sure of himself and his place in the world, the look she gave him would have made him feel childish and ashamed. She gunned the Caddy and accelerated down the driveway. Shafts of sunlight glinted off the windshield as she made a hard left and rocketed down the street.
Parker started running.
Willows’ left foot was caught in the railing. He tried to twist free. A jagged bolt of pain encircled his ankle. He said things he would not have wanted his mother to hear. Parker was yelling at him from the street. He knelt and untied the brogue’s laces, yanked his foot out of the shoe and then pulled his shoe free of the railing. Parker was still yelling, but her voice had faded. He shoved his foot into the shoe, hurriedly tied the laces and ran towards her, ankle throbbing.
Parker unlocked the Ford and climbed in. Joan ran the stop sign at the end of the block, made a left. Parker started the Ford’s engine. She fastened her seatbelt, glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Willows hobbling down the street towards her. She put the Ford in reverse and gunned it, laid down two fat black stripes on the asphalt. The neighbours were going to like that. Bradley too. Thou shalt not burn rubber. The Ford began to fishtail. Willows broke stride. He had the look of a man who wanted to jump in a minimum of three directions at once.
Parker eased up on the gas, got the car straightened out. She hit the brakes but was still rolling as Willows yanked open the passenger-side door and dove into the Ford. The door slammed shut. Willows buckled his seatbelt as Parker shifted gears, hit the gas. Willows reached behind him and adjusted his handcuffs so they didn’t press against his spine.
Parker said, “What happened on the porch?”
“I got my foot stuck in the railing.”
Parker smiled.
The Caddy had a two-block lead, but Parker was gaining fast. A large truck — a moving van — and a tight cluster of vehicles in front of the Caddy made it impossible for Joan to pass. She made a left on Granville. Willows said, “She’s going back to the bank, to pick up the cash.”
Parker nodded, agreeing.
The moving van signalled a left turn. Traffic came to a complete stop. Parker took her foot off the gas. Joan’s lead had been cut to less than a block. She almost certainly realized she was being followed, but there was an off chance she didn’t. Parker pulled the Ford in behind a red Volkswagen Jetta. The moving van started its turn. Parker was a little less than half a block away, but even at that distance she could see the “Two Small Guys with Big Hearts” logo painted on the side. The van completed its turn and the Cadillac surged after it, as if in hot pursuit.
Willows said, “Know what was in the package?”
“A telephone.” Parker signalled a left turn.
He smiled. “When did you figure that out?”
“A split second before you did.” Parker braked, waited for traffic to clear and then made her turn. A block away, the moving van signalled another left. The Caddy’s brake lights glowed. She said, “D’you think the kidnappers have already set up a meet?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Willows picked up the radio, got the dispatcher to patch him through to Orwell. “Eddy, Jack.”
“Who?” said Orwell. He chuckled. “Just kidding. Aren’t I, Bobby? Hey, Bobby!” Willows heard unidentifiable background noises, a radio softly playing. Orwell coughed. He said, “You requesting backup, Jack? Or would you prefer ketchup?”
Orwell’s lazy but somehow manic laughter floated out of the Motorola’s speaker.
Willows said, “Eddy?”
“What?”
“You okay?”
“Sure thing,” said Orwell. But not quickly.
“Bobby there?”
“Yes and no. He’s taking a ... uh ... nap.”
Willows heard the whine of a starter motor, the surveillance van’s engine catch. Orwell said, “Pedal to the metal.” He coughed again, a long, drawn-out, series of racking spasms.
Willows said, “Eddy?”
“Over and outside,” said Orwell.
Willows and Parker heard the shrill squeal of burnt rubber.
Orwell said, “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
He coughed again.
A horn blared.
Orwell said, “Uh-oh.” He coughed. He said, “Oh my gosh.”
His voice was distorted. It sounded as if he was broadcasting from inside a metal garbage can, as it was compacted.
The radio link fizzled and died.
Willows listened in as the dispatcher repeatedly called Orwell’s number. A patrol car broke in. Orwell, slumped over the wheel of the cube van, had run a light without the benefit of his fireball or siren. He’d broadsided a large truck.
A moving van.
The driver, attempting to avoid the inevitable, had veered sharply away from the speeding surveillance van. The moving van overturned, spewing a houseful of miscellaneous furniture all across the intersection and nearby sidewalks. A blind passerby had the stuffing knocked out of him by queen-size mattress. His dog howled endlessly. A red corduroy beanbag chair burst on impact with a telephone pole, and sprayed its guts into the startled faces of a class of third-graders on a field trip. The thoroughly traumatized children wanted the whole world to know how terrified they were. The last victim was a corpulent off-duty BC Transit driver who’d suffered minor head injuries when he’d failed to outrun a camelback sofa.
Willows suggested that the moving van was now owned by two small guys with broken hearts.
Parker didn’t think that was very funny, under the circumstances.
But she laughed anyway.
*
Joan Wismer parked her Cadillac in the lot behind the bank. Willows waited out a burst of cross-talk and then told the dispatcher he needed a backup car, another unmarked unit.
Joan popped the trunk and got out of the car, hauled a large softshell tartan suitcase out of the trunk and walked hurriedly around to the front of the bank and entered the building.
Parker drove forward about fifty feet, into a loading zone. She dropped the sun visor on the POLICE VEHICLE placard and killed the Ford’s motor. They got out of the car, locked up, waited for a break in the traffic and hurried across the street towards the bank. Willows peered through the double glass doors. A woma
n in a teller lineup stared at him. Not Joan, though. He and Parker entered the bank. The woman continued to stare suspiciously at him.
Joan Wismer stood at the customer-services counter. She was facing away from them, speaking animatedly to a thin man with a receding hairline, pale eyes, coat-hanger shoulders. The man placed a file card down on the counter and offered her a pen. Joan signed the card with an angry flourish. Parker drifted away from Willows, who buried his head in a glossy brochure on mutual funds. The bank employee lifted a hinged section of the counter and held it for Joan Wismer as she passed through. His offer to carry her suitcase was summarily rejected. He trailed along behind, hurrying to keep pace, as Joan marched briskly towards the door leading to the basement vault.
The woman who’d been eyeing Willows was being dealt with by a teller. The teller was covertly studying Willows, as if memorizing his features.
Bill Sheridan’s office door was open. The manager was working at his desk. Parker knocked softly on the door’s pebbled-glass panel. Sheridan glanced up.
Parker said, “Got a moment?”
“Yes, of course.” Sheridan half rose from his chair, settled back as Parker and then Willows slipped into his office. Willows stayed close to the door. He said, “One of your customers thinks I might be a bank robber. She’s talking to the teller in the pink blouse.”
Sheridan looked alarmed, then mildly amused. He got up and went over to the door, made eye contact with the teller and gave her the thumbs-up sign. As he returned to his desk, Willows eased the door shut until it was open only a crack.
Sheridan said, “What’s going on?”
Parker said, “Did Mrs. Wismer call, in the past half-hour or so?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“But she wouldn’t need to call ahead, would she, if all she wanted was to examine the contents of her safety-deposit boxes.”
“That’s absolutely correct.”
Parker said, “Would you mind if we just sat here for a few moments, while Mrs. Wismer goes about her business?”
Sheridan hesitated.
Willows said, “You mentioned last time we talked that Harold’s money is in your safety-deposit boxes.”
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