“Bye, daughter.”
“So long, father.”
We giggle away our sarcasm and hug one-armed. Her use of “father” is exclusive to times when she needs me to remember that our life together is largely artifice—a function more of brunches, shopping, summer rentals, and freeway travel than lineage. I use “daughter” when I want to bring her as close as she was when she was an infant, despite our mutual knowledge that such sentiment is folly and has been ever since that day her mom backed a puffing Volkswagen down the driveway of a stifling suburban house and headed away; history, love, family, Lena in her child-seat—all going away.
I nearly choke at how little more time there is and plant a firm peck on her cheek. Then I grab my bag and get out.
She takes the corner like a pro—watching in all directions except mine—and in a second I am alone and walking. The only thing I am thankful for is the perfect timing of the walk-sign, which allows me to leave the scene directly. I am a wreck and glad to be striding along the sidewalk and sighting my objective three blocks farther on.
Walking thankfully increases blood circulation; I feel the opening of interior passageways, the creation of intrinsic warmth into some kind of emotional recovery. I quicken my pace and note immediately the tinctures of pain in my knees when I step too heavily. The twinges slightly deter me from thinking but in the end I must: There were the visits; much like this one. The payments; always made. The times one of us got sick and missed a turn; always forgiven. Long and reasonable conversations with her mother; fun enough, but touchy. The everyday morning of knowing each other; lost.
I ease back and let the scientific shoes pay out the strain through foot and ankle and tibia and femur and all the acute little connections behind the kneecaps. Still, once in a while there is a pang in my step, reminding me of the cost. I know I deserve this. For a second, a gasp closes my throat.
I let the walking do me good, breathing and swinging my arms. And I cannot put aside the fact that Lena has lived in a comfortable city all her life. Driven habitually her smug little car in its calm streams. Tooled about within an invincible familiarity.
When I reach the gym, I do not have dewy eyes. Things have been so amicable.
PART THREE: OUTCOME
Rocks, Ice, and Snow
Nick got home at the usual time. Two large men stood with their backs to him on the veranda; one of them—the biggest—was rapping on the door. Nick made a point of hitting the steps loud enough to make them turn around. This they did, like machines.
The less-big one smiled. “Are you Nick Douglas?”
“Uh-huh …”
“Just the man we need to see.”
At about ten feet out, Nick stopped and noted their haberdashery—suits, good ones but not ostentatious—and sensed by their expressions that they weren’t going to say anything further until he said something. “Can I help you guys?”
“What luck.” The one at the door was smiling while his eyes raked Nick up and down. “We could have missed you.”
“What’s up?”
“We’re the police.”
They watched him, he understood, for a reaction.
“Whew. That’s a relief.”
Both of them frowned. “How’s that?”
“You could have been Jehovah’s Witnesses.”
It took the appropriate moment but Nick was rewarded with polite laughter.
The bigger one gestured. “Can we go up?”
“I don’t know why not.” Nick had meant to sound casual but a thickness in his throat rigidified the words as they took the air. The cops’ expressions immediately gravened.
“Mr Douglas. We’re here to ask you some questions regarding an investigation.” Both had taken their hands out of their pockets. “We also have a warrant to search your residence.”
This pushed some breath out of him. “Uh …”
The bigger one interrupted him. “Unless you’re prepared …”
“Yeah?”
“Unless you’re prepared to talk to us voluntarily.”
“Well … Why wouldn’t I?”
“If you do we might not have to toss your place.”
“This isn’t about that assault thing I witnessed at the bar last spring, is it? My friend Paul. I mean, I saw what happened but I thought all that got resolved …”
“Mr Douglas. We don’t know what you’re referring to.”
“Oh. Well. Never mind.”
“Are you gonna talk to us?”
“What about?”
“That we can tell you inside.”
“Inside my house?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay. Fine.”
“Well good.” The cops looked at each other, then back at him. “You’re gonna co-operate.”
“Would there be any other way?”
This got them smiling again and made it seem right for Nick to stick his briefcase under an arm, whip out keys, open the door, and lead them upstairs. They seemed grateful he’d taken the initiative and the sound of their single-file clomping behind him tended in an odd way to relieve tension. As he scampered to the top landing, though, Nick sensed that his nervous pace up the two flights might have alarmed the cops.
“Hey, hold up, there.” The voice contained no humour.
Nick had a one-bedroom-plus-den at the top of a rickety former mansion on the east side. There was a big living room that he kept sparse, with the only three big chairs he owned in the middle of the floor. The best thing about the place was the kitchen, with its harbour-to-mountain panorama on two sides. The rent was low and occasionally not collected, the landlord being of a cocaine-addled, too-rich-for-his-own-good variety. Under an ice tray in the fridge there was a small amount of marijuana Nick’s brother had left a year ago. Being a booze man, Nick had forgotten all about it. Remembering now, with cops in the house, made him at least slightly more nervous.
Nick unlocked the wide doors at the top of the landing and held them open for the two men. “My name’s Dave.” The least large of them held out a hand as they stood in the centre hallway. “This is Alan. We’re detectives. Major crime section.”
Nick shook hands.
Alan glanced around. “Can we sit ourselves down somewhere?”
“Well sure, but … Shouldn’t I ask you guys for identification?”
“Of course you can, but …” Alan shrugged. “Don’t we look like cops?”
“Well I guess you do but, ah … for all I know you could still be JW’s.”
“Hah.” Dave smiled widely and pulled a leather case from an inside pocket. “You have no idea why we would be talking to you today?” He flashed an official-looking disk of silver and gold.
“Other than that crazy bar fight thing, nope.”
Alan huffed and moved toward the living room.
Nick took a careful look at Dave’s credentials. “Thanks.”
“Welcome. Shall we go keep my partner company?”
“Okay.”
“Whoa!” Alan’s voice carried easily. “You got a goddamn art gallery in here.”
“Yes.” Nick laid his briefcase on the coffee table. “An art gallery. That’s the idea.”
Dave replaced his badge and pulled out a notebook. “We hear you’re a budding artist yourself.”
“Hardly budding. I’ve been at it for twenty years.” Nick gestured to the eight canvasses around the room. “These are mostly mine. I …” He nearly missed the traded glances between the cops. “I didn’t know the police department was so interested in local culture. You guys want to buy something?”
“Hah.” Alan sauntered from the window and sat down.
Dave glanced to his notebook. “Mr Douglas, we have to ask you a few questions.”
“You said that, yeah.”
“Why don’t we sit down?”
Nick and Dave took seats.
Dave turned to a page in his book and spoke without looking up. “Do you know a Mrs Madeline Beaumont?”
“
Sure I do. She owns a gallery.”
“Right. Is that all she does?”
“Well, she’s pretty much the biggest adjudicator and sponsor and patron of everything that gets painted and shown and marketed in the whole city.”
“Heh heh.” Alan winked at his partner.
Nick shifted, uncomfortable. “What’s going on here?”
“Mrs Beaumont filed a harassment complaint this morning. Know anything about that?”
“Harassment?”
“A death threat, actually. Took it pretty hard.”
“I can imagine.”
“Put her in the hospital.”
“No way!”
“When did you see her last?” This from Alan, who had straightened his posture.
“I don’t know, ah … last week. There was an opening.”
“The Cosmopolis Gallery.”
“I guess that was the one.”
“You guess?” Alan’s tone rose a note.
“No no, I’m sure. It was Cosmopolis. I remember.”
“Why did you say you guess?”
“It’s just a figure of speech.”
“Yeah, well …” Alan leaned back and glanced askance. “That’s the kind of business we’re in.”
“Huh?”
The two cops just looked at him.
Nick shook his head and threw up his hands. “Did my hearing just cut out?” He tried not to sound too incredulous but knew he was losing the struggle. “‘The kind of business you’re in’? ‘Figures of speech’? If you don’t mind my saying, that’s some kind of wild non sequitur …” His last sentence trailed off.
The cops stayed mute.
In the glare of their blank faces Nick soon found the pause unbearable. “This is too weird …” He rolled his eyes. “Madeline being hassled? By whom? Why? And why come to me?”
“Look, ah … Mr Douglas.” Dave paused and appeared to be choosing his words deliberately. “Nicholas. Maybe we’ve given you a bit of a start here …”
“A start! Hah.”
“We can sometimes come on a little strong.”
“Oh hell, don’t hold back on my account.”
“So let’s throttle back here, shall we? Can we call you Nick?”
Nick shrugged. “You can call me Nick.”
“Good.” Dave wrote something in his notebook.
Alan tossed a nod toward the window he’d been standing at. “Issat your Karmann Ghia out there?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Nice shape.”
“Thanks.”
“What year might it be?”
“Nineteen sixty-six.”
“Damn near a collector’s item.”
“I suppose. I use it everyday, though. Its beauty is only skin deep, believe me. From the body down it’s just an old beetle. Motor clicks like a sewing machine. Rust all over the place. They forgot to build in a defroster. In the rain you have to steer with one hand and squeegee with the other.”
“Dependable, though.”
“As only our German friends can ensure in a forty-year-old car that wasn’t expensive in the first place.”
“You mind telling us how you came by it?”
“Let’s see. I bought it a hell of a long time ago from a guy named Gus who drinks at the bar. He’s a pal of Bill who’s a pal of mine. I know Paul owned it at one point but didn’t keep it because he’s into British and American. European’s more my style. I got it cheap, too. The bunch of them were living together and needed money for booze as I recall …”
“Whoa whoa. We don’t need a whole genealogy. We’re just trying to place your movements, okay?”
“My movements?”
“A car like yours is part of this thing we’re investigating.” Alan turned to Dave. “I think it was a much newer model, though.”
Dave said nothing but sat jotting in his notebook.
Nick squirmed in his chair. “Would you guys please let me know what you need from me?”
“You do know Mrs Beaumont.”
“Of course I know her, like I said. Every artist in town knows her.”
“Artists.” Alan sniffed.
“Yeah. Among other people, of course.” Nick looked from one detective to the other and back. “You say somebody’s bothering her?”
“Why else would we be here?” Alan now came on severe, it occurred to Nick, in a calculated way.
“Heh …” Nick managed a slackening of expression and the faintest chuckle. “Guess you guys have doubtless heard of the good-cop/bad-cop protocol …”
“Yeah, what of it?”
“Isn’t that kind of stuff kind of trite by now?”
Alan stood up, plunged hands in pockets, and stared down at Nick. “Don’t get smarmy with us.”
Nick had a genuine moment of incredulity. “Smarmy! Heh heh …”
“What’s your problem?”
“Smarmy!” Nick found that the giggles would not go away and regretted it.
“What’s with you, fella?”
It was a moment before Nick could talk without chortling. “Don’t you mean smart or wise-ass or impertinent or something? Or is ‘smarmy’ your special word for the day?”
“Think you’re clever, huh?”
“Well …” Nick still could not speak without a slight mirth. “I’ll just have to leave that alone for now.”
“For your information …” Alan pointed violently at Dave, who had his pen poised above paper, observing. “My partner here, before he joined the cop-ranks, went to art school, you know.”
“Uh-huh …” Nick had conquered his giggles. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Maybe Alan’s getting off the track here.” Dave gazed at his partner with a noticeable pall. “We should get on with this.”
“I’d sure like it if you guys did.”
“We have to know where you were today. And yesterday evening.”
“When did this all happen?”
“That’s not a question we can answer.”
“Can answer, or will answer?”
“Smarmy.” Alan’s face darkened from where he leaned by the window. “Smarmy.”
“Okay, okay.” Nick decided to try to relax and mentally preserve this event for future inspiration or diversion or at least good cocktail party conversation. “I was where I am all the time. Last night I was at my studio and today I was at my job. After work I stopped at the bar for two beers and here I am.”
“Your job is?”
“I’m an IT nerd at CheckOff Solutions Incorporated.”
“What kind of place is that?”
“An employee accounts and general payroll subcontracting firm.”
“You work with computers, etcetera?”
“All the time, ad nausea.”
“One of those guys.” Alan smirked, sitting back down.
“And last night? You were at your studio?”
“Down on Pender Street. Near Granville.”
“Anybody see you there?”
“Only about six dozen people. It’s a co-op. We have a bunch of spaces on the second floor of an old warehouse. I say hi and bye to tons of people on the way in and the way out. I had coffee in the common room with a couple of friends, went with a crowd for drinks later on. Lots of people saw me.”
Alan had waited for him to finish talking. “Why don’t you paint in here?”
“It’s a messy business.” Nick waved a hand at the softwood floor. “I only hang my paintings here, I don’t paint them here.”
“These are yours?” Alan looked around anew.
“That’s what I said, yeah.”
Dave looked up from his scribbling. “They told us you were good.”
“Who did?”
“The girls who work for Mrs Beaumont. They said it’s a shame you never got a show in their gallery.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Why would we?”
“Man! That’s amazing. I’ve been trying to get into the Bonsai Room
s for years.” For some reason he couldn’t stop himself grinning. “This is news to me.”
“Funny news, it seems.” Dave was watching him.
“Oh?”
“You’re kind of yukking it up, there.”
“I tend to chuckle a bit when I’m nervous.”
“Well don’t be nervous.”
“I don’t think I am. I’m more like … hysterical, for want of a better term. I mean, what you’re saying is unbelievable stuff to me.”
“How so?”
“Oh man … Where do I begin?”
“Just pick a place.” Alan pitched in. “We’re here to get a statement.”
“Yeah?” Nick snapped to. “Should I get a lawyer?”
“Not necessarily.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means …” Dave clicked his pen and shifted in the chair, arms across knees. “It means we’re just gathering background at this point.”
Nick waited for more. Both cops were looking at him with some kind of expectation in their faces. Nick was getting used to this game and kept his mouth shut. Several uneasy seconds passed.
“Well … you see, Mr Douglas.” Dave finally spoke up. “Nick. We’re at a preliminary stage.”
He left the statement to hang, as—Nick now saw—was the custom.
“Well it can’t be that preliminary. You don’t go getting a search warrant for a guy’s place unless there’s something serious going on. And besides, I’ve always heard it’s a good idea to get a lawyer when the cops talk to you.”
“Look. Nick …” Alan sounded genuinely concerned. “Now we’ve sat and talked awhile we see that you’re a reasonable guy. Things are a little different. We wouldn’t want to see you go to the expense of a lawyer just for nothing.”
“Well. I appreciate that.”
“Good.” Dave smiled. “That’s where we’d like to work from. Because maybe we can cover enough ground here so we won’t have to come around and bother you again.”
“I’d like that.”
“We don’t blame you.” Dave went back to his notes. “But there is something we need to discuss. The fact of it is, and I hope you don’t take this wrong, not everybody thinks you’re a great artist.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I’m sorry to put it to you that way.”
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