by H. P. Bayne
“What business is that?” he asked.
Paul’s answering smile was a little more than friendly. Sully had recognized him upon entering the house as a man he had encountered at the Fox a handful of times, and he was fairly convinced the drunken butt grab from a few weeks ago was not quite as accidental as Paul had made out.
“LOBRA’s head office is in one of my family’s buildings,” Paul said. “And my family designed and constructed the research facility for Lowell. He seems like a good guy.”
Sully caught on the words “seems like,” reading between the lines in a way Dez likely wouldn’t. Dez was a smart guy, a people guy, and he was typically good at reading others. But Lowell was a blind-spot for him—for all the Braddocks—and so Sully found his respect for Paul heightening a notch or two.
This time, Sully wasn’t so reluctant at Paul’s insistence they join him in the kitchen for coffee. Tastefully decorated, the kitchen had been outfitted with butcher-block countertops and classic white cupboards; a heavy sliding glass door led out to a covered patio, which the driving rain currently rendered unusable. Beyond that, barely visible due to the storm, the wide expanse of the South Kimotan looked deceptively calm while its banks gradually swelled and its below-the-surface currents raged.
Dez, something of an aficionado for construction, wandered over to pound lightly on the wall keeping them separated from the pounding storm. “This is amazing. You can barely hear the wind out there.”
“Noise-cancelling,” Paul said as he busied himself with the coffeemaker. “My father’s a light sleeper. When he built this place, he made sure to use the best materials available. There’s better on the market now, mind you, but this does well enough for my purposes. When I have a party, you can barely make out noise between floors, and it’s not even bad room to room. My dad’s idea. Besides being a light sleeper, my brother snores like you wouldn’t believe.”
Dez left the wall alone and joined Sully at the kitchen’s sizeable island, sliding onto one of three barstools that lined the side facing the patio.
“I thought your parents had a place further up the island,” Dez said.
“Oh, they do. This is their old place. They wanted something new that was better befitting their lifestyle. They decided this place was too small for them.”
Sully guessed his face said everything Dez’s was because Paul chuckled as he glanced between them. “Don’t worry. I share your views. This house is plenty big for any normal, rational human being. Money does all sorts of things to people’s brains. The weird thing is, it costs money to be rich if it’s important to you that everyone sees you as such. As for me, there are better things to do with my money—not least of all fixing some of the mess my family’s projects helped create.”
“You still do some work for the family business, don’t you?” Dez asked.
“Architectural design. And, yes, I’m well-paid for my efforts, despite the fact I have difficulty keeping my trap shut around there.”
“You’re probably wondering why we’re here.”
“I’d rather hoped it was for my sparkling conversation and other personal charms.”
Dez’s answering laugh suggested a measure of comfort while Sully worked on a grin that would pass muster. He wasn’t big on sparkling conversation at the best of times. Dez was the people guy, possessing a deep, booming voice and a laugh to match; Sully often had to be asked to repeat himself. The best thing about the Black Fox—besides the fact it meant a home and a job for a guy recently out of high school with no real skills besides playing the guitar and communicating with the dead—was the fact few people came there to chat. And those who did were genuine. What you saw, you got, and what you got was a lack of pretence and put-ons, people who just wanted a drink and a think. The sports bars and nightclubs were for socializing. The Fox was where you went when you wanted the world to leave you the hell alone.
The job was the only truly good thing Lowell had ever done for him.
“We’re actually looking for some information, and we thought you might be able to help us out,” Dez said.
Paul left the coffeemaker to its business and joined the brothers at the island, leaning forward against it—the picture of curiosity and openness. “What is it you need?”
“Your discretion, for starters,” Dez said. “I’m a police officer, but I’m not acting in an official capacity here, just making inquiries for a friend. I’m hoping I can count on you to keep this visit between us.”
Paul leaned further forward, settling his upper body onto folded arms. “I’m intrigued.”
“Did you know Breanna Bird?”
Sully saw a subtle change in Paul’s face, the shifting of a few muscles that caused the edges of his smile to droop.
“Yes, I knew her,” he said. “She was wonderful. She did such fantastic work with the Street Worker Exit Strategy that I actually ended up providing a significant donation. I was heartbroken when she died. All those years she spent on the street, all the drugs, all those close shaves with bad johns, and it’s her husband who ends up killing her.”
“That’s actually the problem right there,” Dez said. “We came across some intel that another man might have been involved, one with a distinctive tattoo. Actually, it only comes up on the police system once. We’re following up on the lead, and we’re hoping you might recognize it or could keep your eyes open.”
“What sort of tattoo?”
“It’s a lit black candle on his forearm,” Sully said. “Some dripping wax around it. Sound like anything you’ve seen?”
Paul pinched at his lower lip, his face showing him deep in thought. Finally, he returned his gaze to Sully. “I’m sorry, I can’t think of anyone I know with something like that. And I’ve seen my share of tattoos with the people I know from Rising Son or The Hub. There wasn’t anything else? It seems strange you’d have just a tattoo to go by. Wouldn’t your source have seen a little more than that?”
“That’s all we’ve got, other than that we’re looking for a white guy,” Dez said.
“Who’s your source, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Sorry,” Dez said. “We can’t say. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No offence,” Dez said. “Listen, I had one name come up on the system, a Kenton Barwell. You ever hear of him?”
“It sounds vaguely familiar.”
“Could be some folks around there have talked about him. He’s known to trade in drugs and black market firearms.”
“I can’t say that most of the people I see day to day have anything much to do with him. I’m probably safe to assume he’s not a street-level dealer?”
“No, I’d say he’s nearer the middle of the heap, maybe even closer to the top at this point. He’s wholesale, not a street dealer.”
“Then he’d be a little out of my usual range. But I can ask around.”
“Don’t,” Dez said. “Last thing I want is for Barwell to find out you’re throwing his name around. He’s not likely to take it well and I’d rather you don’t get caught in any crossfire on this. We’d appreciate it if you could just see if you can find out if anyone else has a tattoo like the one Sully described. I’ll leave you my number in case you catch wind of anything.”
Dez didn’t seem to be in any rush to get back outside, taking his time with the coffee Paul provided a few minutes later. The wind, already reasonably strong this morning, had picked up, and Sully suspected any existing repairs to power and phone lines would be rendered short-lived.
“The river’s getting pretty high out there,” Dez said to Paul. “You sure you’re still safe to stay here? A few Forks residents are making for higher ground as we speak.”
Paul, seated on a barstool adjacent to Sully, followed their gaze to the river before waving a dismissive hand at it. “Ach, it’ll be fine. People around here get panicky at the first sign of heavy rain. This is home. I’ve got everything here. It would
be a huge pain in the ass to have to leave.”
“Still,” Dez said. “It’s probably a good idea to have an exit strategy.”
Paul grinned. “As my father always says, exit strategies are for the weak. It’s sticking it out that makes the man.”
7
Headed back into the city centre, Dez let Sully take the wheel so he could start making some calls.
The first one had them changing course, a return to Gladstone delayed in favour of a trip downtown.
“There’s no way we can get in to see Breanna’s common-law husband without setting off about a hundred alarm bells,” Dez told Sully. “But Danny’s lawyer’s willing to talk to us.”
The Legal Aid office was located in a brick office tower on the side of New Town that had so far been left more or less untouched. It was there, in the area that bordered Riverview, that some of the city’s most necessary civic structures—city hall, the court building, police headquarters, main fire hall, General Hospital, central library and the train and bus station—were located, making it hard to demolish the older buildings to make way for the new. Thankfully, most structures in that area had the classic facades that made them worth keeping, even to those who preferred the shiny and new.
Dez had spent enough time in the Justice building during the few years he’d been with the KRPD, mainly visiting the prosecutors’ offices that took up a couple floors near the top—just below the uppermost floors that housed the Justice Ministry and its various officials.
Legal Aid was on the first two floors, and it was on the second that they found Olivia Tan, known for her slight build and large courtroom presence.
It was possible that if she gained a few pounds, she might be half Dez’s size, but she still met his handshake with a solid grip that made his own conscious attempt at a light touch seem overly soft and unnecessary.
“Thanks for meeting with us,” he said. “Not sure if you remember me from court, but I’m—”
”Desmond Braddock,” she finished. “And I’m sorry. I kind of tore into you on the witness stand the last time we met.”
“You remember that, huh?”
“Just doing my job for my client. But, for the record, you seem like a decent guy and a good cop.” Her eyes turned to Sully, and Dez made the introductions.
Olivia studied the two of them in turn, eyebrows raised. Dez had grown used to that a long time ago. “You two are brothers?”
“Foster brothers, technically,” Sully said. “The Braddocks took me in when I was seven.”
Dez allowed Sully’s explanation before adding his own. “And he’s been blood ever since. Listen, thanks for meeting us on such short notice.”
“You told me over the phone you were working on something that could benefit Danny Newton. You’re aware, I’m sure, that he’s tried to retract his statement to investigators.”
“We’d heard. Any chance we might be able to have a look at it?”
“Since you’re not acting officially, and I haven’t had a chance to clear the particulars with my client, I’m not at liberty to share it with you, unfortunately. But I don’t see why I can’t speak with you, unofficially—provided, of course, this stays between us for the time being. I can’t discuss my conversations with Danny, but I can provide you with some background. This has pretty much all been said in open court anyway.”
Dez and Sully dropped into the well-used, lightly padded chairs Olivia waved them to, Dez trying to avoid leaning back against the seat where his wet jacket would leave its mark. Not that it would matter all that much. Plenty of other butts and backs had been in these chairs, and it showed.
Olivia lowered herself into a comfortable-looking leather swivel that was wearing at the seams despite the tiny weight it had to bear. “Before I get into what I’ve got, would you mind telling me about this potential evidence?”
Dez provided the explanation, wanting to leave Sully out of it as much as possible. Olivia had a brain that ran about a hundred miles a minute and she was known to sense a liar even before one took the oath on the witness stand. Dez was used to the courtroom and, while he was a lousy liar, he had developed the skill of providing only what information was necessary. Now he stuck to the line about source information and avoided the questionable parts—specifically details about how they’d come by information about the tattoo.
“Source information, you say,” she said once he’d finished. “How reliable is the source?”
“Reliable,” Dez said. There was no question. He’d seen Sully in action over the years, had heard him come up with descriptions that defied logic. He’d once described a stabbing victim right down to the colour and style of his clothes and the number and location of wounds—and that was before anyone had located the body. Thankfully, that guy had left Sully alone once police found his remains and arrested his killer.
“And are the police looking into it?”
“In a way,” Dez said. “I’m looking into it.”
“No offence, Constable, but you’re in patrol. I would think this would require some work by someone in Major Crimes.”
“The information’s a little sensitive at this point,” Dez said. “The source is reluctant to come forward.”
Olivia’s hawklike eyes next turned to Sully. “I’m guessing you’re the source.”
Damn. “Sully knows the source,” Dez said before his brother could answer. As of now, Dez could count on one hand the number of people who knew what Sully could do, and he was keen to keep it that way for his brother’s sake. God only knew the kind of fruitcakes that would creep out of the woodwork if Sully was publicly outed. Then there was the fact investigators were unlikely to look favourably on the intrusion of a psychic in the midst of a case they’d put to bed. With the likes of Sgt. Forbes Raynor in the lead investigator role, Sully would be raked over the coals before anyone deemed his information worthy—if they ever deemed it worthy.
For his part, Dez planned on ensuring they had some concrete evidence to present to investigators before they took it forward.
Olivia smiled and nodded knowingly, despite Dez’s best attempts at fibbing. But Dez held his tongue, and Sully was doing likewise next to him—an easier feat for Sully at the best of times.
Whether she’d been expecting further information or had decided it was all the answer she needed was anyone’s guess. Whatever the case, Olivia didn’t press further on that count.
“The two of you will go forward with your findings once you get something concrete?” she asked.
“We will,” Dez said.
“All right. That’s good enough for me, I suppose. I’ve approached the Crown’s office, asking them to have Major Crimes look into my client’s claims; so far, I’m unconvinced anything of note has happened. No one has gone to reinterview Danny yet, which I find disturbing. I think the powers that be think Danny’s just back-pedalling now that he sees a life sentence looming, and they don’t want to waste resources given other investigations.”
“What is it they have on Danny exactly?”
“Not much. According to the disclosure I’ve received, all they really have is his confession and her blood at their house. Granted, that’s a lot typically, but it also fits with his new explanation.”
“Which is?”
Olivia leaned forward, knitting her fingers atop her desk as she launched into the story. “Danny and Breanna met about a decade ago when they were both in their early-to-mid-twenties. They lived hard back then, but they decided to work together to get themselves cleaned up. And they worked their asses off at it. There were a few slips. A look at either of their criminal records will tell you that. But overall, they held the course, and both have been sober for close to five years now. As you may be aware, Breanna has been heavily involved in helping people on the street, particularly young street workers trying to change their lives. Danny got his high-school equivalency and started working in the construction trade. He’d been very busy and had been pulling in some decent money for
them.
“But then Danny fell off the wagon. He swears to me, as he told police, it was just the one time. It was a co-worker’s birthday and they all went out for the night. You can guess how things went. Danny bowed to peer pressure. He told me he thought he’d be okay if he just nursed one for the night. But one of the guys started buying rounds, and then shots. And the next thing he knew, he was under the table.
“Danny remembers heading home and the inevitable fight with Breanna. She was a kind woman, but tough, he said, and that was one of the biggest reasons he stayed on the wagon all that time. But all you have to do is look at Danny’s record to see he’s a different person when he’s drinking. He’s soft-spoken and thoughtful sober, but drunk, he’s got a history of assault against anyone within reach—domestic partners, friends, strangers, police, it didn’t matter. I’m afraid that’s why the police and the Crown don’t believe him now.
“Anyway, everything gets a little fuzzy for Danny around the time he left the bar. He isn’t sure how he got home, and he doesn’t remember when he got there. He’s got a recollection of the argument, but not all of it. The last thing he remembers is punching Breanna in the face. He thinks she must have fallen and hit her head, because there was a bloodstain there the next morning. But no Breanna. She was just gone.”
“I don’t remember there being a missing person report,” Dez said.
Olivia shook her head. “He didn’t file one. He just thought she left him. He says he called a few of her family members but everyone told him they hadn’t seen her. He thought it was very possible they were lying to him to protect Breanna, so he went to see a few of them. The investigation confirmed all that. It also confirmed he went to The Hub to see if she had been there, and he was told no. He says he considered filing a missing person report at that point, but ultimately didn’t. She knew a lot of people he didn’t through her work, and he believed she had gone to stay with a friend he didn’t know. He figured she’d turn up again soon.”