Barwell took his hand, warily.
“What do you mean by that?” he asked.
“I think she’s trying to tell you that I’m a member of the Toronto police force,” he said.
“He’s a staff sergeant in the homicide squad,” I said, since he wouldn’t blow his own horn. “As in boss of the team. Like you.”
“And what do you have to do with this investigation?” Barwell asked. Fat Cop was taking it all in, his head swivelling back and forth like someone at a tennis match.
“Nothing at all,” Andy said, quickly. “I’m just visiting my friend Ms. Henry.”
Barwell grunted.
“I would have thought you would understand the importance of getting the statement,” he said.
Even Andy bristled at that.
“We’re here, now,” he pointed out.
“Right,” Barwell said. “You stay right there. Miss Henry’s coming with me.”
He took me by the arm. I pulled away from him.
“What’s the matter, you think I plan to make a break for it?” I asked. “I don’t need to be dragged around.”
“Kate,” Andy said, in a warning tone, then he turned to Barwell. “You could treat her with a little more respect.”
“I don’t know how you conduct your affairs up there on the big city homicide squad in Canada,” Barwell said, “but down here in the sticks, we expect cooperation from our witnesses. You might even say we demand it. She treats me with respect, she gets it back. She treats me like shit . . .”
He let his voice trail off. Andy was getting tight in the jawline, an early warning sign I’d learned to watch for.
“Let’s just cool it,” I said. “I apologize for not having come in sooner, okay? I’ll be pleased to cooperate, so let’s just go and get it over with.”
Barwell held the door for me. I thanked him and went through. He led me into a small office that was obsessive in its tidiness, and sat down behind his empty desk. There was another desk in the room, and a large corkboard. Pinned to it were a series of photographs of Lucy Cartwright’s body, taken from many angles. I chose the straight-backed chair that put me with my back to the view.
“What was your relationship with Lucy?” Barwell asked.
“I knew her, slightly,” I said. “I’ve seen her around the ballpark every spring for the past few years.”
“You like her?”
“Not particularly,” I said. “I thought she was shallow and she didn’t exactly give women sportswriters a good name.”
“Are you one of those women who goes into locker rooms with naked men?” Barwell asked.
“That’s one part of my job,” I said, trying to keep cool.
“You like looking at naked men?”
“Depends on the circumstances,” I replied. “And what has this got to do with the investigation?”
“What kind of family do you come from, anyway?”
“My father was a minister before he retired,” I said.
“And he lets you go around with naked men?”
“First of all, nobody ‘lets’ me do anything. I choose to do what I wish. Secondly, I don’t ‘go around with naked men,’ as you put it. I interview athletes, some of whom are undressed. That’s my job, and I do it very well. And finally, although it is none of your business, my father happens to be very proud of me.”
“No better than a whore, if you ask me,” Barwell said.
“Luckily, I’m not asking you,” I said. “Could we please get on with this statement you are supposed to be taking.”
“Lucy Cartwright was a slut,” he said. “Everyone in town knew that.”
“I think she was just a lonely, insecure person who didn’t know any other way to feel like she was appreciated,” I said, surprising myself.
“I think she got what she deserved,” Barwell said.
I couldn’t think of anything to say. I just stared at him, wanting to get out of the room.
“That doesn’t mean I’m not going to find the guy who did this,” he added.
“Why do you say guy? It could have been a woman, couldn’t it?” I asked. Barwell looked at me strangely.
“Could have been you,” he said. “Told me yourself you didn’t like her.”
“There are a lot of people I wouldn’t invite over to my house for dinner,” I said, “but I usually manage to stop short of blowing them away.”
“Tell me what you saw last night,” Barwell said, pulling his notebook out of his pocket.
“Again?”
He just stared at me. I guessed I didn’t have any choice.
“We were walking down the beach and I saw what I thought was someone asleep on one of those sunbathing chairs by the bar in back of the hotel. When I went to see if the person needed any help, I realized it was Lucy and that she had been shot.”
“Why did you think she had been shot?”
“There was blood all over the place,” I said.
“How did you know she hadn’t been stabbed?”
“I didn’t know,” I said. “It didn’t occur to me.”
“Didn’t occur to you,” he echoed. “But you said you didn’t hear a shot when you were on the beach.”
“Well, I guess maybe I did, without realizing it. Maybe that’s why.”
“The backfire.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t recognize it as a shot.”
“How could I? I don’t know from guns.”
“And it took you forty-five minutes to get from The El Rancho Roadhouse to the Gulf Vistas Hotel.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because we stopped for a while.”
“To rest,” he said, sarcastically.
“Yes.”
“Cut the crap,” he said, slamming his notebook down on the desk. “Your buddy has told me all about it.”
“All about what?” I bluffed.
“You tell me, and I’ll see whether you tell the truth.”
“I told you last night. I was feeling a bit dizzy, so I sat on the beach for a while. We talked.”
“What did you talk about?”
“What has that got to do with anything?”
“I’ll decide what’s relevant around here,” Barwell said, loudly.
“I don’t really remember what we talked about,” I said. “We were singing, I remember that. We talked about work stuff, maybe, and about my birthday. It was my birthday last night.”
“And you look like you’re a bit old to be gallivanting around drunk in the moonlight, if you ask me,” Barwell muttered.
I didn’t speak.
“And way too old to be screwing in the sand,” he added.
“You pig,” I said, and stood up. “I don’t have to listen to your stupid insinuations. Just give me the damn statement to sign. This interview is over.”
“Sit down,” he shouted back, then spoke more quietly. “You probably don’t want your boyfriend out there to hear what you do when you are on the road with your friends from work.”
“I have done nothing I’m ashamed of,” I said. That wasn’t absolutely true. I hate ending sentences with a preposition.
“Did you notice anyone else on the beach when you were there?” Barwell asked, going back to his notes.
“Nobody.”
“After you found the body, what did you do?”
“We went into the hotel and called the police.”
“Have you remembered any additional information that you would like to add to your statement of last night?”
“No.”
Barwell opened his top drawer and brought out a piece of paper. He got up and handed it to me.
“Read this and sign it,” he said. “Then you can leave.”
He walk
ed out of the office.
Chapter 12
I didn’t speak to Andy until we were back in the car. Then I exploded.
“How can you work with guys like that?”
“Hey, don’t blame me for some cracker asshole with a badge,” he said.
“He’s a cop. You’re a cop. What’s the difference?”
“You’re a baseball writer. Bill Sanderson’s a baseball writer. What’s the difference?”
“All right. Point taken. But I don’t see how you can stand being in the same business as some of those guys.”
“I can’t,” Andy said. “So I ignore them. I would suggest you do the same.”
“That won’t be hard,” I said. “You’re right. I’m wrong. I’m sorry.”
“You want to put that in writing? I’d frame it and hang it on my wall.”
“You wish,” I laughed. “To commemorate the one and only time in our entire relationship that you’ve been right about anything.”
“Exactly,” he said. “And now that you’ve got your sense of humour back, can we go eat dinner?”
Later, over coffee in a big, noisy, seafood restaurant with a reputation better than its food deserved, we came back, more calmly this time, to the subject of police.
“I don’t like guys like Barwell any more than you do,” Andy said, “but I can understand why he is the way he is. When you spend your life fighting people who don’t play by the rules, you learn that trusting people can get you into trouble fast. There are a lot of cops who think that anyone who isn’t another cop is potentially a crook.”
“Yeah, and half of them are crooks, too. I bet Barwell’s corrupt.”
“Maybe. It happens,” Andy said.
“And he’s a power freak,” I went on. “That’s something else a lot of cops are.”
“But not me,” Andy said. “If I were, I could never be involved with you.”
“And you are also smarter than other cops.”
“Some,” he admitted.
“And better looking.”
“Indubitably.”
“And sexier.”
“Probably.”
“So what are you doing being a cop?”
We were heading into territory we had ploughed often before.
“I like to catch the bad guys,” he said. “I love my work. I’m good at it. And I won’t stop doing it.”
I took his hand.
“And one of these days one of the bad guys is going to win,” I said. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“And I could teach school and get hit by a bus, Kate. I could be a gardener and get struck by lightning, too. My job isn’t that dangerous. And I’m smarter than the bad guys, remember?”
“I know, but you’d be just as dead killed by someone stupid.”
“Enough,” he said, kissing my cheek. “We will grow old together, I promise. As long as you don’t get hit in the head by a foul ball or something.”
Tears came to my eyes. Embarrassed, I looked down at my plate.
“You’re such a wimp,” Andy said, smiling. “I don’t know why I hang around you.”
I laughed and wiped away the tears.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said.
On the way to pay our bill we passed through the bar, where we were hailed by a table full of drunken sportswriters, Jeff among them. I went over to them, and crouched down by Jeff’s chair.
“What the hell did you tell Barwell we were doing on the beach?” I whispered.
“Nothing,” he said. “Talking.”
“That bastard,” I said, then told him what I had gone through.
“It was pretty much the same with me,” Jeff said. “He’s not a very nice man.”
“I think that would be your basic understatement,” I said, getting up. Andy came to the table and joined me.
“Sit down, sit down, have a drink,” said Bill Sanderson. “You can tell us all the gory details.”
“I think I’d rather forget about it,” I said. “But what were the ballplayers saying?”
“They were pretty freaked out,” Jeff said. “The cops were over at the park talking to them.”
“That’s right, she was at their party,” I said.
“Did you tell Barwell about that?” Andy asked.
“No, he didn’t ask about it, and I forgot. Oh great. He probably thinks I was hiding it from him.”
“They found her car parked over by their condos,” Jeff said. “That’s how he found out.”
“Maybe that’s one reason he was so hostile tonight,” I said, to Andy.
“Probably,” he agreed. “That wasn’t very smart of you.”
“How did I know? I saw her there in the afternoon.”
“It seems that nobody admits to seeing her after about midnight,” Jeff said. “She might have been with one of the players, or maybe she just wandered off. Anyway, no one’s saying.”
I glanced at Andy. He looked bored.
“We’ve got to go,” I said. “I’ll see you Tuesday.”
Andy and I drove home in silence. The restaurant was several towns up the coast from Sunland, and I was tired. I had dozed off by the time Andy parked in front of the hotel, right next to the Sunland police cruiser. The dreaded Barwell was sitting in the driver’s seat, drinking coffee from a cardboard cup.
“Oh, no,” I said. “Not again.”
“Maybe he’s not here for you,” Andy said.
“Maybe if we ignore him he’ll go away.”
“Fat chance of that,” Andy said, opening the door.
Barwell looked at us and rolled down his window.
“You lied to me,” he said.
“And good evening to you, too, Detective Sergeant,” I replied.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the Cartwright girl being at the ballplayers’ condo?”
“Because you didn’t ask,” I said. “I’d forgotten about seeing her there, as a matter of fact. It was in the afternoon. I didn’t know there was any connection between that and her death. Do you think there is?”
“Seeing as how that was the last place she was seen alive, it’s a mighty tempting conclusion to draw,” Barwell said, turning off his car and opening the door.
“And since her car was still parked there, it’s a pretty good bet,” he continued. “So maybe you and me should have a little talk about some of those players you’re protecting.”
“Right now?”
“This is a murder investigation, Miss Henry. Murder investigations aren’t a nine-to-five job.”
“All right, you might as well come inside, then,” I said.
When we got to the lobby, I glanced into the bar. It was nearly empty.
“Let’s talk in here,” I said. I wanted to avoid having Barwell contaminate my suite with his foul presence.
“Fine with me,” he said.
“I think I’ll come along,” Andy said. “If I won’t be in your way.”
“Suit yourself,” Barwell said, and walked into the bar. I shrugged at Andy and followed him.
“Bring me a beer, Marge,” he called to the bartender, and led us to a corner table.
“You want anything?” he asked as we sat down. I declined. Andy went for a beer.
“Let’s name names here,” he said. “Which players was Lucy going around with?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m the baseball writer, not the gossip columnist. I don’t concern myself with their private lives. But from what I’ve heard, she’s been involved with a lot of them. And not just the Titans, either.”
“She was a slut, like I said before,” Barwell grunted. “Everybody in town knew that. But only you know which players are the real bad ones. Plus I hear you helped catch the guy who killed a couple of players up there in Toronto a while back.
”
“That was Andy’s case,” I said. “I just got caught in the middle. I don’t think I can help you. I can’t imagine that one of the players could be involved.”
“What have you got?” Andy asked.
“Fuck all,” Barwell said. “No weapon, no motive. She was shot at close range, twice, with a .38 revolver. No signs of struggle. Miss Henry and her friend are the closest witnesses we’ve got and they say they didn’t hear or see anything. We figure she was killed at about one-thirty in the morning.”
“And no one saw her after midnight,” I said.
“Where did you hear that?”
“I was talking to some of the sportswriters,” I said.
“What about Ms. Cartwright herself?” Andy asked. “Is there any drug involvement, or any old grudges around?”
“She smoked grass is all,” Barwell said, “There are a lot of old lovers, but none of them stand out as a suspect. People didn’t necessarily approve of Lucy, but they mostly liked her.”
“So you’ve got a lot of hard slogging ahead of you,” Andy said. “I don’t envy you. It’s the worst kind of case. I had one like it a few years ago. Turned out to be some kind of religious nut, one of those anti-abortion demonstrators. He said that God had told him to destroy the harlot.”
“We’ve got plenty of those around here,” Barwell said.
I had to put up with an hour of shop talk before we finally left. Cops have bonds that go deeper than personalities, and the two of them had a good old time sucking back the beers and reminiscing about all the criminals they had outsmarted.
Later, when we were going to sleep, I questioned Andy about his ability to cozy up to such a creep.
“He’s not so bad,” he said. “Besides, look on the bright side. I don’t think he’s going to give you a hard time anymore, now that he realizes what a fine fellow I am.”
Chapter 13
Andy was right. Barwell apparently forgot about me, and we were able to enjoy the last two days of the long weekend without any interruptions. We drove down the coast to a bird sanctuary on Sunday, which was a page out of the tourism brochures, so warm and sunny that just breathing in the soft air can make you giddy. The whole body opens up and relaxes, as if a winter’s worth of chill has finally been driven from the marrow of your bones.
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