“Consent. You touch no one without it. Understand?” Drake clenched his fists by his sides, remembering a night.
A light came on in a backyard next door. Sophie Peterson stood beside Drake, their shoulders touching. The two men looked at her as she addressed them. “You are now officially on the list. If there are any reports of illicit sexual activity within one hundred miles of here, we will be knocking on your doors and pulling you into the station. And next time we won’t be quite as considerate.” She tilted her head toward the houses on the street with their lit-up windows. “If this happens again we’ll wake up your neighbors and let them know that a sexual predator lives here.”
Sophie moved off to the side, and Drake stepped back just in time. He shook his head. “Aww, really, did you have to do that? Get out of my sight.”
Fortunately it missed both of them. Anderson covered his freshly urine-soaked pants with his hands and quickly walked between the two police officers.
Mutchins looked down again. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
Sophie pushed Mutchins toward her partner as Anderson quickly scampered past Pringle upstairs. The deadbolt locked loudly as the door closed behind him.
“We’ll take Mutchins home. At least his pants are dry.” She stopped and looked at Drake. “That got you rattled, Drake. It didn’t sound like you. Even your voice sounded different.”
It’s an art form to go unnoticed – be invisible – and Drake had become very good at it. He disguised his Scottish accent and never volunteered any history. And most people never asked. He’d discovered that the majority of people are too busy dealing with themselves to ask the little questions. When he first got to the station there had been initial inquiries from other staff members. Is he single? Where is he from? Can he do the job? Once the questions were answered, or went unanswered for long enough, people moved back to their more important pursuits – themselves. Sophie Peterson was one of the few who was different. She’d always watched him with an inquisitive eye.
He told a little bit of one of his secrets. “I was involved in a situation.”
She opened her mouth to ask.
“No, not here, not on duty. It was a darker day, much darker. It was personal. This brought it back.”
It had been personal, hadn’t it? If it wasn’t, then it wouldn’t have been worth it. Nobody would have had to die.
“Well, I’m glad you were here.” Sophie Peterson became the senior officer again. “Thanks, that was good work.”
When he was back in the unmarked car sitting beside Pringle, Drake could still feel the heat in his chest. He put his hands on the steering wheel and pushed back, straightening his shoulders. The two drunk men had screwed up, but they were just drunks who went too far. It hadn’t been fair to equate them with what happened in Ireland. That was a different situation, but then you can’t always control the shadows.
Pringle pulled the seatbelt around his big frame. “Okay, now where were we before we were interrupted? Oh yes, you were going to introduce me to a six-foot-five, three-hundred-pound ex-murderer…”
Drake left Ireland and came back to life – back to Hope. “Attempted murderer.”
“Pardon me, attempted murderer, who heard a bang on the road outside his house a few nights ago where a man was killed. No lights and no sound I think, Officer Drake. Don’t you agree?”
Drake pulled the car away from the curb, heading once again to Cobalt Street.
Chapter Fourteen
* * *
Ten p.m., and half of the houses on the street were lit up like Christmas trees. Even before they got out of the car, the policemen could hear the sound of a child crying, and then from somewhere down the road a voice threatening the child’s parents if the noise didn’t stop.
Sinister lights shining from porches and backyards gave the residents hiding places among the shadows. This was how the street would have looked two nights ago. It wasn’t possible that nobody saw what happened. Somebody must have seen something.
There was no need to knock on the door. Tommy was sitting on the front steps, sipping from a bottle of beer. His lady friend danced in front of him, a joint hanging from her mouth, and music, heavy on the bass, thumped at a low volume from inside the house.
Tommy smiled. His long legs stretched down three stairs.
His girlfriend turned suddenly. “Less than, Mr. Policeman, and no intent to sell. This is for recreational usage only. Look it up.”
“Where’s your backup, Drake? Do you need to radio them in? Are you here to lock me up?” His beady little eyes darted back and forth as he sized up the two officers, all the while holding on to the bottle of beer.
Drake stayed impassive. His face showed no surprise when Tommy addressed him by his name. Tommy Davis was a couple of leagues up from the boys who found the body. They were transparent, but Little Tommy was a player. It was in his best interests to remember who Officer John Drake was.
He took off his hat and leaned back against an upturned garbage can that was sitting along the pathway. Pringle folded his arms and stood at the gate.
“We’re not here to arrest anybody, Tommy. I was hoping you’d be able to elaborate on what you heard two nights ago. We’re having a bit of trouble figuring out what happened over there. You said you heard a bang.”
A long stare, and then he tilted the bottle level and sipped from his beer. The woman stopped dancing and giggled while taking a toke from her joint.
“Come in.” He moved fast for such a large man and was at the top of the stairs in seconds, holding the door open. Pringle began to follow them. “Nah, the little guy can stay here. Trina will keep him company. Don’t worry; I just want a friendly visit.”
Drake squinted. Three short, red blinks flashed as he followed the large mass of muscle and hair into the house. Somehow the music had been turned off as soon as Tommy entered. The rooms were surprisingly tidy. Stainless steel appliances gleamed from behind the big man in the kitchen. In the living room, a large sofa sat in front of a coffee table with a glass top, and two expensive-looking leather recliners were nestled in the corners of the room. All of the furniture paled in comparison to the television. It took up most of the wall and was as large as a small movie theater’s screen. Drake couldn’t take his eyes from it.
“My pride and joy, Drake. Isn’t it a beaut? Every time they come out with a new model I trade in. I have a deal with the wholesaler.” His laughter was high and shrill like a schoolboy on helium.
“It’s huge. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
The drapes were drawn across the front window, but the front door was still open. Pringle laughed at something Trina had said to him.
Tommy stood in the hallway between the kitchen and living room. After watching Drake for a moment he began to speak in his high, whiny voice. “Do you know what I am, Drake? I’m a businessman. I run a business that sometimes ventures into grey areas. And I’ll tell you something for nothing. Like any businessman I value information. And that’s what you’re looking for, isn’t it.” He was trying to be something that he wasn’t. He waited for a reaction that didn’t come. Then he kept going. “So I may have some information that you can use, but if I give you this information I’d like to know that you’ll do something for me.” He paused again, keeping his eyes on Drake. He’d practiced his speech. “Am I making myself clear?”
Drake scanned the rest of the room while Tommy spoke. There were paintings on the walls of nude men and women in various suggestive poses, and electronic equipment stacked on top of each other on a shelf below the television. Tommy kept standing in the hall, partially blocking his view of the kitchen. He snapped his fingers at the empty air between them. “Over here, Drake. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
From behind one of the pieces of equipment mounted under the TV, a wire ran up the wall. It was almost invisible. Someone had taken great care to paint the wire the same color as its background. Drake’s eyes followed it up the side of the ro
om, then along the ceiling. The almost-invisible wire ended at a smoke detector that was mounted on the ceiling just above Tommy’s head. The little red light on the smoke detector was constant, but when he first stepped in it had blinked three times. Drake met Tommy’s gaze and smiled at him. Cupped into Tommy’s hand was a small, thin device.
“Push it, Tommy. Let’s see what it looks like.”
Tommy raised his closed hand and pointed it toward Drake, holding it steady. Pringle bounced up the stairs and stood in the doorway.
Slowly, Tommy opened his fingers and pushed the remote control. The TV came to life. Drake was projected onto the screen; a small counter in the bottom corner showed the time of day and amount of minutes the device had been recording.
“For the record, no, I am not interested in any type of information exchange. I am here to ask, once again, if you saw or heard anything that relates to the incident on the street outside your house the other evening.”
Tommy scratched his beard with the end of the remote control, not answering – staring at the screen now instead of looking at Drake.
“I’ll take that as a negative.”
Suddenly the big man turned off the set. “Visit’s over, smart guy. Go play cops and robbers somewhere else.”
When they reached the gate Tommy’s squeaky voice yelled into the yard. “Inside.” Trina was up the stairs and behind the closed door in less than three seconds.
Pringle spoke first as they sat in the vehicle. “Good catch. He was gunning for you. It’s lucky you spotted the camera. I’m not sure I would have seen it. What made you look?”
“I had an uncle who taught me a bit about wiring when I was younger. A smoke detector doesn’t have a wire running back to an electronic box, but a camera does.” Another lie. Nobody had to know that he had a little experience with explosive detection. Bombs had wires too.
It seemed to be enough to satisfy him. “Okay, so we got nothing from him. I think he does have intel though or he wouldn’t have tried to barter. I’m just not sure what he knows. So off to geriatric-land now?”
“I think it’s too late. We don’t want to attract too much attention to the old guy. Things like that get noticed on this street.”
“Good call again, Officer. You’re a natural at this. So I need to settle for dual attempted wannabe rapists and a man-mountain who tried to make a movie of us. That’s all I’m getting from Hope this evening?”
The big man had a charm about him, and when Drake needed him he was right at the door, ready to back him up. He wondered if Banman would have been there or whether he’d still be standing at the gate.
“That’s all I’ve got for you.”
He pulled the car out onto the road and drove through town. As they passed the Legacy pub Pringle turned toward him. “Man, there are a lot of pubs in this town.”
“Pubs and churches – it’s a town with a personality disorder.” Drake laughed at his own joke. He was still tired from his night spent staring out his apartment window, and it had been a very long day.
“Is there anywhere a guy can get a drink in this town without running into potential witnesses that are involved in an ongoing murder investigation? We’ve logged enough overtime tonight. Why don’t we ditch the company car?”
One drink couldn’t hurt; surely he could stay awake for just one. Besides, who knew what might be waiting for him in his mailbox tonight. “There’s Twisted Dick’s cabaret. They sometimes have live entertainment, but I think it’s bingo night tonight.”
Pringle shook his head. “No bingo. Keep trying – there must be somewhere else.”
“Well, there is the Cardinal out by the Best Western Hotel. Sometimes, they even restock the toilet paper in the men’s room.”
“I know that one. It was on my list. And it’s right beside my hotel. Lead the way, Officer Drake.”
<><><>
The smell of stale cigarette smoke and old beer hit them as soon as they walked through the door. To one side of the bar, hanging lights were suspended low over the surface of several pool tables. Lights glowed over two of the tattered, green tablecloths – two men stood around each table. “Five oh,” was whispered somewhere, the universal code that a police officer was close by. One of the pool players smirked to the others as the officers stood at the door. Even in their civilian clothes the whole bar knew who had just walked in.
The corner booth at the Cardinal Lounge faced the bar, and from their vantage point they could see the whole place. In one direction, the smirking man and his friends were playing pool. Off to the other, there were mismatched tables with stained blue coverings, elasticized edges holding them below the surface. A woman sat at one of the tables, tenderly stroking her pint glass while at another a middle-aged man spoke on his phone while watching the waitress behind the bar. The waitress was ignoring him as she traced along the outline of a tattoo on the barman’s forearm with her finger.
Since moving to the little town, Drake had resisted his mother’s milk – The Balvenie, the Scotch whisky he’d drunk since he was a young man. He’d been told to give nothing away – and turn his back on old habits. Bottles of the whisky had called to him from every bar or liquor store he’d entered since his relocation. Once, he’d seen a bottle on sale for a ridiculously low price. He broke one of the rules and purchased it, hiding it in the back of a cupboard in the kitchen of his apartment. It still remained there – untouched.
There had been four mandatory nights out with the other officers since he arrived. The good, churchgoing officers of Hope detachment enjoyed their alcohol. Once there was a retirement party for one of the older officers, once for a celebration when Brandon Van Dyke became engaged, and twice Drake had been dragged along with some of the other policemen when they were intent on airing grievances without their supervisors present. Each time, the bottle of Balvenie winked at him from the shelf behind the bar, seductively covered with a light layer of dust. And each time he ordered either a beer or a glass of Canadian rye whisky.
The waitress was a husky, strong-looking woman. Standing a few feet from their table, she raised her palms at her sides and had an expectant look on her face. “Yes…”
Service with attitude included. No extra charge.
Pringle took control. “Two pints of whatever draft you have on tap, and two shots of CC?” He looked inquiringly at Drake.
The waitress moved her weight from one leg to the other as though she couldn’t wait to get back to touching the barman’s tattoo.
“Canadian Club, Drake, CC. Where’ve you been?”
“Yes, that works. Sorry, just tired, I guess.”
Without answering, the waitress rolled her eyes, twirled around, and headed back to the bar. Even with the lack of service, Pringle called after her and said thank you. If there was one thing Drake had discovered in the past year, it was that the Scots from home, and Canadians from his new home, had at least one thing in common – both groups of people were unfailingly polite.
The big man leaned forward. “Hopefully that’ll stop her from spitting in my pint.”
Pringle’s history was not what Drake had expected. He was married and had a three-year-old daughter. After discussing the futility they were experiencing with the investigation, Colin Pringle, as Drake learned he was called, spoke frequently of his little girl and his wife. It was a second marriage for him, and he was positive he could make this one work. The poor track record of policemen’s marriages and divorces was infamous, and he was determined that he would not become another statistic. He loved being a father and a husband and wanted to get the investigation completed so he could return home to them in Vancouver. Hotel life was not for him.
After two pints of draft beer, and two accompanying shots of Canadian rye whisky, Drake asked about Ryberg.
“I’ve worked with him on and off for the past ten years. He’s wired differently, but I like him. You’ve sat in on his interviews, what do you think?”
“At first I couldn’t follow what
he was doing, but now I think I have him figured out.”
Pringle didn’t seem to want to talk about their superior, and abruptly changed the subject. “What about you. How did you end up out here in paradise?”
“Tried everything else, and then ended up here. It’s where they posted me after training. It’s not as quiet as I thought it would be.” It was the same vague answer he always gave.
Pringle drained the remaining half from his pint glass and signaled to the waitress to bring another. “Is quiet what you want? I don’t see that. When I watch you in our meetings, you look like you’re thriving on this. You should be out in the field with the rest of us.”
Drake considered what the man had said. He was right. He’d come here because he had to, but he was discovering that it wasn’t what he wanted. He didn’t want to be an observer on the periphery of life. He didn’t want to be like Michael Robinson, a man who had never really lived. He sipped from his whisky, getting used to the taste, trying with some difficulty to tell himself he preferred it to scotch.
“Something bugs me about the interviews we had with all of Robinson’s friends. I don’t know how to verbalize it. I just had this feeling at different times during the interviews, but I can’t put my finger on what it is.”
The waitress, a smile on her face after Pringle had given her a five-dollar tip, cleared away their empties and placed fresh drinks in front of them. Her bulging biceps stretched the sleeves of her T-shirt. She reminded Drake of the two women fighters he’d broken up earlier in the year during the pilgrimage of the movie fans.
Pringle waited until she left before speaking. “That’s those instincts our esteemed Sergeant Ryberg talks about. It might be nothing. I get them too, but…” He raised one of his big fingers in the air between them. “If it continues it might mean something. Remember, you can always check the recordings.”
He was right. All of the interviews they’d conducted at the station had been recorded and stored in audio and visual files. He could access them from any of the computers in the office. And he had his notes and the reports he’d made.
The Dead List Page 13