by A. M. Potter
She regarded him with forbearance. Answering a question with a question. A classic evasion tactic. And a sign of guilt. “Did you travel on Highway Six in July?”
“No.”
She scrutinized his mouth. His lips were straight. She saw no up-curl. That suggested a lie. However, his shoulders and legs were quiet. No facial cloud. No other tells. “What about Owen Sound,” she asked, “were you there?”
“No,” he said. However, his lips said otherwise.
“Mallory Beach?”
“No.”
A tiny hesitation plus straight lips. She’d bet he’d been in both places. Live by the car, die by the car--by soil analysis, by license scanning, or both.
Bayeux smiled, but it was definitely forced. “Why the third degree?”
She said nothing but smiled back, thinking it would be a good time to start a bad cop routine.
As if on cue, Inspector Moore stepped into the room. He nodded curtly at Bayeux and gave his usual greeting. “Detective Inspector Moore, OPP. Homicide,” he added with a knowing sneer.
Naslund enjoyed the greeting. Maybe she was getting used to Moore’s shtick.
He sat next to her and tilted his head back. “Mr. Bayeux,” he began, “you said you weren’t in the Bruce Peninsula in either July or September of this year.”
“That’s right.”
“Would you take a lie detector test?”
“Why would I do that?”
“For your benefit. I repeat, would you take a lie detector test?”
“Yes--yes, of course.”
Naslund noted the evasion and the double yes. As for the polygraph reference, she knew Moore was simply trying to unsettle Bayeux. Polygraph evidence was inadmissible. “All right, Mr. Bayeux, let’s assume you weren’t there. Then perhaps you can tell us why your car was?”
Bayeux didn’t skip a beat. “I lent it to someone.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes.” Bayeux’s eyes hardened. He flexed his shoulders. Apparently, he didn’t like to be challenged.
“So,” Moore said, “you lent it to someone to drive from Montreal to the Bruce Peninsula?”
“No, from Toronto to the Bruce.”
Straight lips, Naslund saw, plus the Bruce. Bayeux had used the local term, which implied familiarity.
“Who?” Moore asked.
“A friend of a friend.”
Moore smiled patiently. “Who?”
“A guy visiting Canada.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t remember.” Bayeux’s eyes flashed. Don’t ride me, they warned.
Moore seemed unperturbed. “I asked you, who?”
Naslund had to hand it to Moore. He was tenacious, more a terrier than a bulldog. Bayeux could break him in half like a twig. And her too. No doubt at the same time.
Bayeux didn’t reply.
Moore pressed on. “Who? I’m going to keep asking. Who?”
Bayeux clenched his jaw. His demeanor shifted. Back off! his eyes shouted.
Moore grinned. “Mr. Bayeux, our conversation is just beginning. For starters, you can tell me who borrowed your car.”
“A friend of a friend.”
“Who?” Moore’s look said he could play a waiting game far longer than Bayeux.
Bayeux glared at him. “I don’t remember.”
Straight lips again, Naslund saw.
“I don’t like liars,” Moore said and turned to her. “Do you, Sergeant?”
“No.” Play the good cop, stay on Bayeux’s side. She shook her head sadly. “We’d like to help, Mr. Bayeux, but lies torpedo your cause.”
Moore faced the suspect. “You may as well tell us. We’ll find out.”
Bayeux shrugged insouciantly, but his face betrayed him. He looked anything but carefree. His cheeks were two shades darker.
A snap’s coming, Naslund thought.
“Tell us,” Moore repeated.
“Tell you?” Bayeux snorted. “I want a lawyer.”
Moore gestured for Naslund to leave, and then stopped at the door. “Bon nuit, Mr. Bayeux.”
“Fuck you.”
“What’s your read?” Moore asked Naslund in the corridor.
“Bayeux’s the killer,” she said with certainty.
“Women’s intuition?”
“Something like that.”
“We’ll wait him out,” Moore said. “He’ll crack eventually.”
For a change, she agreed.
***
Next morning, as Moore and Naslund tucked into pancakes drenched in pure maple syrup, his phone rang. When he put it down, he smiled broadly. “Guess who just turned up at Dorval Airport en route to Moscow?”
“Who?”
“Nikolai Filipov. The man’s fake passport was good, but his fake beard failed him.”
She grinned. “By the hair of his chinny-chin-chin.”
Moore chuckled. “The Surete is bringing him to Laval HQ. He admitted to knowing Bayeux. Said his buddy was in Ontario four days in July. And apparently Saint Nik has more to say.”
“No luck for three months,” she said, “and then the dam breaks.”
“Finally.”
***
Late that evening, Moore and Naslund were sitting in a bar near the Laval Holiday Inn. Naslund had conducted two long interviews with Bayeux, his arms and legs shackled. She’d stroked his ego, playing up his abandonment at the hands of Tyler. He’d said that when he was a boy Tyler had promised him many things, many times, but never delivered. The genius was always too busy. He was scum. By the end of the second interview, Bayeux had rescinded his alibi for September thirtieth and admitted to being in Wiarton during all three murder windows. Then his lawyer advised him to clam up and later tried to make a plea bargain. As for Filipov, he hadn’t clammed up. He’d spilled the beans, trading intel in exchange for leniency.
Just after noon, in a Laval HQ interview room, Filipov had confessed to aiding and abetting Bayeux in the murders of Tyler and MacKenzie, but not MacLean. He’d been hiding in Northern Quebec when MacLean was killed. When Naslund asked him why he helped Bayeux, he said he owed money. Bayeux had paid him thirty grand. After his arrest at Dorval, he figured it wasn’t enough, so he sold out Bayeux.
Filipov’s confession filled in a lot of blanks. While he handled the Albin 35, unscrewed the Mackinaw centerboard, and wiped blood on the boat’s boom, Bayeux killed Tyler. During the MacKenzie murder, Filipov wiped the saliva on the beer cans and helped Bayeux throw MacKenzie off the wharf. Both men shaved their heads a week before Tyler’s murder, and then let their hair grow back. There was another person involved, someone Filipov had never met. A woman named Louise, who’d once been Tyler’s art agent, had pre-scouted the Wiarton area. She’d let Bayeux know Tyler’s routine. She’d also carried out the July eleventh theft of the two mooring lines. She’d worn a bald-man’s disguise.
Moore issued an all-ports international APB for Louise Hennigan. Five hours later she was apprehended in a cottage near Kingston, Ontario. She admitted to aiding Johan Bayeux in the Tyler murder, but claimed she had nothing to do with the others. Naslund and Moore would interview her themselves. They figured Bayeux had been close to her as a teenager. Maybe more than close.
Now, sipping a scotch, Moore glanced at Naslund. “I get Filipov’s game: money. What about Hennigan’s?”
“Probably money and revenge.”
Moore nodded. “Sounds right. Just like Bayeux. Assuming DNA proved he was Tyler’s son, with MacLean and her son dead, he’d get a big piece of Tyler’s estate. If he played his cards right, he’d be the main heir.”
“Exactly,” Naslund said. “The front of the blood line.”
Chapter 35
Colpoys Bay. July 8th:
Thom Tyler closed in on his favorite fishing shoal. The closer he got to the shoal, the stronger he felt it Something was waiting for him. “Show yourself,” he said under his breath, “make yourself known.”
He scanned the bay. No vessels in s
ight.
A few minutes later, he looked up from uncoiling his first fishing line and saw a boat at the southern end of White Cloud. It looked like the Griffith Island Albin. The boat started steaming north.
***
“Hello,” a big man called. “You are named Tie-lar?”
Thom nodded. The man was younger than him, bald, with wide shoulders. He didn’t look like a local. He had ice-blue eyes. His skin was as pale as a peeled potato. Another young man appeared, bigger than the first. The new youngster looked familiar. Was it Johan Bayeux? Young Johan? Thom hadn’t seen him for years. He was tall and heavily muscled. He had the same nose and lips as Johan but his eyes looked decades older.
The youngster waved his associate to the wheel, leaped out of the Albin cockpit, surged forward using the handrail and hung two fenders off the bow. “Grab the rope,” he said and tossed Thom a line.
For some reason, Thom didn’t question him.
“Tie the boats together,” the youngster said.
Again Thom complied. Was it Johan? “Johan, how are you?”
The youngster didn’t reply. He stepped aboard the Mackinaw. “You’re going down.” He pulled out a hammer. “What’s yours will be mine.”
What’s this? Thom thought. “Who are you?”
The youngster lunged forward with the hammer. “Your son. Johan.”
Thom screamed and pawed at his right eye.
“You’re dead!” Johan grunted. “Dead! You did nothing for me. Not a fucking thing.” He raised the hammer.
Thom dodged to the left and held up his arms. The hammer glanced off them. Then it hit his head, again and again. In his good eye he saw a screwdriver.
He blacked out. He came to his senses underwater. He felt a weight around his ankle. He kicked up, fighting the weight, cresting the surface. Then the weight dragged him under.
Even in July, the deep water was shockingly cold. He struggled to keep his legs and arms moving. He couldn’t see anything. His hearing seemed magnified. The bay was alive with whooshes and whirrs.
The cold drove spikes into his body. His heartbeat faded. The bay took over.
Whoosh.
Whirr.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My deepest thanks to the staff of Black Opal Books for their enthusiasm and support, especially to Lauri Wellington, Faith C., and Jack Jackson. Over the years, many writers, Arts Councils, friends, and family members have helped me on the writing road, among them Lesley Choyce, Guy Vanderhaeghe, Jane Nicholls, Ken Haigh, Ontario Arts Council, Canada Council, J.R. Harrison, Bill Gries, Fraser Mann, Mike Potter, John Potter, and, of course, Ninety-Nine.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A.M. Potter grew up in Nova Scotia and Boston. He’s traveled the world, working dozens of jobs, from sommelier to art salesman to IT analyst. Like any good detective, he knows both sides of the thin blue line. He’s used numerous aliases (for non-nefarious purposes, of course). You’ll have to take his word on that. Bay of Blood is the first book in the Detective Eva Naslund series. Potter writes North Noir, aka Canuck Noir.
GENRE: MYSTERY-DETECTIVE/WOMEN SLEUTHS
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, businesses, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only. The publisher does not have any control over or assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their contents.
BAY OF BLOOD
Copyright © 2019 by A. M. Potter
Cover Design by A. M. Potter
All cover art copyright © 2019
All Rights Reserved
EBOOK ISBN: 9781644370964
FIRST PUBLICATION: MARCH 23, 2019
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