“I noticed. But this isn’t for him; it’s for his cranky brother.”
“Well, that’s why it’s important to him. You know what happened when they were kids, right?”
Blue eyes pierced his. “I don’t listen to gossip.”
Why that pleased him he didn’t know. He suddenly felt like he was about to step off an emotional cliff. “If you agree to help him, I’ll tell you what happened. Not gossip. Just the facts.”
Her eyes widened and she looked thoughtful. She tugged off her sweatshirt—the clingy top beneath revealed lots of curves—and she flung it over the back of a kitchen chair. She picked up a pretty woolen cape thing that she pulled over her shirt. “Do you think Brent Carver killed Gina Swartz?”
Thom pressed his lips together. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “He scares the crap out of me. But the way he stood up for Finn all those years ago? It’s got to count for something, don’t you think?”
She narrowed her eyes and they gleamed like polished sea glass. “I’ll take his case, but I want that story over dinner. In a fancy restaurant. A very fancy restaurant.”
“It’s a date.” A weird feeling entered Thom and he stood a little straighter. “Now how do we get started?”
Laura slipped her feet into suede boots that were sitting by the front door. She balanced herself by holding his arm. “Brent’s house first. First thing the cops will do is get a warrant to search it. I want to be there when they do. Plus, I always wanted to look around that guy’s place.” She grinned. “And you need to call the RCMP in Port Alberni because I want Brent to give his permission for the cops to go in without a warrant.”
How did she know he knew the number by heart? Inwardly he cringed.
“Tell them not to question my client about anything else until I get there.”
He fumbled with his phone. His heart raced as she strode down the lane toward Brent’s house, and he couldn’t help noticing the sway of her hips and curve of her backside. Sweat broke out on his brow as he realized his life had shifted on its axis.
But for better or worse, he had no clue.
Finn was jogging back to the dock when he realized two cops were sitting on Brent’s back porch. He did a quick one-eighty and strode down the driveway.
“What are you doing here?” Finn asked.
The Italian-looking cop lifted his cap and ran his hand through his black hair. “Waiting on a warrant to search the property.”
Rachel Messenger gave him a look he was sure was supposed to be reassuring. “This is the best way to clear your brother’s name.”
He swallowed a snort. The crunch of gravel made him swivel around. Laura walked up the steps to stand next to him. “Any news on the warrant?” she asked.
“They’re still waiting.” Finn turned away from the cops impatiently.
“It’s yours too, isn’t it?” she asked.
“What?” Finn blinked.
Laura gripped his arm. “If we’re going to save your brother you need to get your head in the game.”
He bit back a wince as her fingers dug deeper. “Yeah, on paper the property belongs to me and Brent, but—”
Laura held up her hand. “The but doesn’t matter.” She pushed past him and spoke directly to Chastain. “My client is going to let you take a look around without a warrant.” Finn started to interrupt, but she shot him a stony look. “My client has nothing to hide from the authorities, but I want to ensure you only look in plain sight—no evidence collection at this point. Finn here is the co-owner of the property and has allowed us entry. Correct?” Her eyes said that if he wanted her on the case this was how it was going to be.
He nodded stiffly and complied, putting on latex gloves the cops provided before turning the door handle. Unlocked. He blinked against the glaring white light, so at odds with the dim, grimy shadows of his childhood. The whole place was sparkling clean. Not a speck of dust anywhere.
“Wow, this is not what I was expecting.” Laura looked around with admiration. There wasn’t a dish in the sink. Not a cup on the draining board. She walked up to a massive oil painting that dominated the wall over the fireplace. Finn couldn’t take his eyes off the piece. He walked slowly toward it.
“B.C. Wilkinson.” Laura whistled. “Way out of my price league. You sure your brother isn’t a crook?”
Finn couldn’t stop staring at the picture. He’d grown up with pictures like this pinned to the wall of their falling down shack. Neither he nor Brent had been good with letters, but they’d both spent a lot of time drawing and painting. “That’s not B.C. Wilkinson,” whoever the hell that was, “that’s Brent.”
Laura’s eyes went round. “You’re telling me your brother is B.C. Wilkinson?” She slapped herself on the forehead. “B.C.—Brent Carver.”
“And Wilkinson is the prison where he served his time.”
“No wonder the artist is such an enigma.”
Chastain came to stand at their shoulder. “We want to go upstairs.”
Finn and Laura exchanged a look, and he nodded. He trailed the cops up the stairs. First room they entered was clearly an artist’s studio. Finn stared around at the canvases. Huge landscapes that bled emotion. “I’d forgotten he liked to paint.” A hard knot formed in Finn’s throat. He’d forgotten. And maybe life hadn’t been quite as hellish in prison as he’d feared. Brent had found a release in his art, found a career and a vocation. “So these are worth money?”
Laura gave him a sad smile. “I bid on one in an auction last year. Had to drop out when they got to eighty thousand.”
Emotions swelled inside him. Wonder and grief, both fierce and sharp. “Bianca Edgefield gave him his first set of paints when we were kids.” There was a catch in his throat. “Brent drew a picture of a bunny for her little girl, and she must have recognized his talent.” Surely a boy who drew bunnies for little girls wouldn’t slaughter his ex-girlfriend in cold blood. All the muscles in his chest grew tight, and it was a struggle to breathe.
Laura gently stroked his arm.
These paintings went way beyond the pictures they’d drawn as kids. They were deep and fathomless and full of dark, morbid beauty. Pride filled him. Pride and shame he’d doubted his brother even for a second.
He’d never doubt him again.
There was a cry from down the hall. He and Laura rushed along the hardwood corridor and skidded to a halt in what looked like the master bedroom. The room was monastically simple. A bed with a huge white and black and purple seascape above it. Some sort of radio beside it. Built in wardrobes, no other furniture in the room. The bed was neatly made. The deep charcoal bedspread pulled snug and tight over each corner. And smack bang in the middle of the bed lay a knife with a gleaming edge, encrusted with something dark and ugly.
Mike stood on the sidewalk watching Brent Carver go past in the back of an RCMP cruiser.
Hot damn! He grinned. He pulled out his other cell phone. The burner one he’d got to communicate with Dryzek. He didn’t want to talk to the bastard, but would rather be the bearer of good news while it was still news than call with nothing at all.
Someone picked up, but no one said anything.
“Guess who I just saw go by in the back of a police SUV?”
The silence continued.
“Brent Carver.” Mike let him think he’d gotten Carver arrested. It might keep the bastard off his back for a couple of days.
A rustle of air told him someone was there. “Did you search his place?”
“Yeah.” A shot of panic swept through his veins at the thought the cops had found Dryzek’s stash inside Brent’s house. His palms started to sweat. “There was nothing there, but now he’s out of the picture, I’ll go back and search it again.”
“Thoroughly, Mikey. No mistakes. You know what’ll happen if you make a mistake.”
His mother chose that moment to come out of the supermarket with a cart overflowing with groceries. Her blond hair danced around her face as the wind blustered out of the
west. There was a storm coming, and the first splashes of rain hit the dust on the sidewalk with a solid splat. Her soft, shining eyes reminded him exactly what was at stake, as did his aching jaw. “It isn’t going to be an issue.”
“Good.” The phone went dead, and Mike wished he could dropkick it into the water.
During the drive home his mom chattered about everything from redecorating the living room to getting another dog. He mentally figured out how soon he could slip away and cross the inlet to search Brent’s house. But when they got home, his dad was sitting on the front steps of their house with his head in his hands, looking pallid and ill.
“Grant?” His mom jumped out of the truck so fast she tripped, but didn’t fall.
He ran to his father’s side. “What is it, Pop? You OK?”
His father got shakily to his feet. “There’s been some bad news, son.” He planted his hand on his shoulder and squeezed.
Shit, the cops had found out he’d told Milbank about that shipwreck. Or someone had found the damn drugs or cash Dryzek had lost and pointed the finger at him, and now the cops had come calling. He braced himself, donning his most innocent expression. “What?”
“Gina Swartz.” His dad sucked in a gasp of breath.
He frowned. “Gina?” Damn. “What about Gina?”
His dad gripped him by both shoulders now. “She’s dead, son. That bastard Brent Carver killed her.”
He shook his head, confused. Then his knees buckled, and just like that he was on the ground. He’d seen Gina last night. She’d been fine. Better than fine. She couldn’t be dead.
His hands shook with palsy. “Oh, god. I have to go talk to the cops, tell them what I know.” Who’d hurt someone like Gina?
“Don’t you dare!” His mother slapped his cheek.
His jaw dropped as he stared at her.
“No one knows about the two of you. No one!” Her eyes filled with tears. “If you go telling the police you were lovers, you become a suspect. Don’t get involved with this, Mike. I don’t want to risk losing you.” Her lips wobbled. Mike registered her lipstick was smudged. They might live in the boonies, but his mother’s makeup was always immaculate. It disconcerted him to see her so visibly shaken.
“When did it happen?”
“Sometime last night. After midnight, I think.” His dad’s moustache splayed wide over his lips as he grimaced. “You got an alibi, son?”
Before or after he set that fire and searched Brent’s house? He shook his head. “I couldn’t sleep. I went for a drive.” He felt hollow. Numb. Gina couldn’t be dead. He’d never lost anyone close to him before, and he wasn’t even able to mourn her publicly or show her the respect she deserved.
He looked up at his dad. “Why would I need an alibi? I thought you said Brent killed her.” His heart kicked. “Did the bastard kill her because he was jealous?” Grief ripped through him, gouging his insides until he felt like he was going to puke.
“They haven’t charged him yet. Those Carvers are no good. They’ll figure out some sort of way to wriggle out of this and pin the blame on someone else if they can. Anyone see you last night?” his dad asked with a sideways glance at his wife.
He shook his head. His mother’s fingernails dug into his neck like talons and dragged him back to reality. “You were home with us, understand?” Her grip loosened and stroked. She dropped to her knees beside him, wrapping him in her arms. “I’m never going to let anything happen to you, you know that, don’t you?” She held him tight, just as she had when he’d been a little kid.
Mike sniffed and wiped his eyes. From now on he had to remember what was important to him. “I was home all night. I never went out.” Slowly he climbed to his feet, hugged his mother back, trying to comfort her. He wasn’t going to jail; he wasn’t leaving them vulnerable.
There was no way he’d be able to get close to Carver’s property now, and Dryzek was going to come after him regardless. Another thought struck him. Dryzek. Had he killed Gina? Was he laughing at Mike behind his back while quietly setting him or Brent up for murder? The guy was cunning enough.
No more doing favors for Remy Dryzek—not even to save his own skin. His dad had been right about him. His dad was always right. He thought of the gun he hid in his glove box. If Remy or Ferdinand came near him or his family, he was going to blow matching holes in the rat bastards.
CHAPTER 15
Thom paced the waiting room of the police station in Port Alberni. The sound of a door opening had him whirling to face Laura, who looked tired and frayed. She headed outside without a word, stood and inhaled a massive lungful of fresh, clean air. The sky was overcast, clouds burdened with the threat of rain.
“Are you OK?” he asked quietly.
She looked at him over her shoulder. Mouth pinched, eyes etched by horrific detail. “I gave this up for a reason.”
Her words cut through him. She’d walked away from death and violence, and he’d forced her back into that world. He inched closer. For the first time in decades, he wanted to put his arms around a woman and offer comfort, and his body didn’t know how to do it.
“But there’s no way Brent Carver would be dumb enough to leave that knife on his bed in a double dog dare.” Her eyes hardened as she shook her head. “He didn’t even flinch when they told him about the knife.” Lines gathered between her brows. “I don’t know if he even heard them.” She started walking to his SUV with a brisk, purposeful stride.
Thom followed, fascinated by the contradictory nature of the woman. Softness and steel.
“What I don’t understand is why he dumps a woman he clearly loved?” She was blinking rapidly. “Why would he push away the woman he cared about?”
“To protect her,” Thom said with surety.
“Women don’t need protecting if it means their hearts are going to get obliterated.” Her words were sharp and bitter.
“Someone hurt you.” Anger stirred inside him. Some men had no clue what a privilege it was to love a woman. Absolutely no clue.
He pulled her against him. She felt supple and warm in his arms, and for the first time in this lifetime he felt strong enough to give comfort. After a moment, she pulled away and swiped at the moisture that threatened to spill from her eyes. He reached out and touched a tendril of hair that had escaped her haphazard bun.
She stilled. Stared at him. Said nothing.
There was a lot going on inside that brain of hers, and Thom suddenly wanted to figure her out. And instead of the expected guilt, all he felt was a colossal weight lifting off his shoulders.
“Where are we going now?” he asked.
A smile curved her lips, and she was back to being bossy Laura again. “We are going to go to the store and buy a few essential items, then we’re going to grab a fast dinner—not our date dinner, just something to eat—and I’ll head back for further questioning while you find us a hotel. I’m not sure how long this is going to take.”
Thom nodded nervously. She didn’t tell him how many rooms to get and he daren’t ask. He was going to have to get his head together and figure this out. “Man up,” was what Finn called it. He stood a little straighter.
She paused beside the car door. He opened it for her to get in, but she just stood there. “I don’t know why I care more about him now that I know he’s a famous painter than when he was just a grumpy, ex-con neighbor. It certainly isn’t his sunny personality.” Lines creased her brow. “Maybe I’m shallow? It’s not because he’s rich. I think,” she said slowly, “it’s because I relate so viscerally to his art that I find it hard to believe someone who can move me that profoundly, on such a fundamental level, would be a killer, let alone a dumbass killer.”
“He didn’t do it,” Thom said.
Her eyes picked at his soul. “He could have killed your wife and children. He was old enough back then.”
Thom shook his head, suddenly certain. “The only time that boy killed was to protect his little brother. And he got the world’s worst a
ttorney and ended up doing more time than anyone deserved. He’s got a good heart.” But it was buried deep and it was doubtful it would help his cause.
Laura nodded. “I’m counting on it.” Then she grinned. “And believe me, I’m not the world’s worst attorney.” And he found his gaze glued to her lips. “I rock, in every way. If you’re lucky you might just find that out for yourself.”
Holly rumbled down the lane toward Mike Toben’s house. They were re-interviewing everyone regarding Gina Swartz’s murder, and she wanted to personally talk to this guy. They didn’t have enough probable cause to get a warrant for his financial or phone records, but she was convinced from the night she’d seen him in the bar that he had some connection to Remy Dryzek. It was a pitifully thin lead, one of those cop hunches that were often a waste of time, but impossible to ignore.
The wind swirled the upper branches of the trees and made them sway wildly. The Tobens lived down a track just outside Bamfield proper. She drove out of the forest and saw a narrow inlet, house up on the hill to one side, dock at the water’s edge, several boats tied up, along with an old float plane that caused a curious prickle inside her chest. Mike’s truck was pulled to one side, next to a small silver sedan. A small motorbike sat in the lee of the porch.
A dog barked. A chocolate lab that made himself hoarse even as he wagged his tail so hard in welcome he almost fell over.
Mike’s mother—the nurse from the local hospital—came out of the house, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “Hush, Topper. Hi there, Holly. You don’t mind if I call you Holly, do you?”
Holly shook her head. “Nurses, doctors, paramedics can pretty much call me anything they want.” A smile curved her mouth. Creating unity with people was what she did best—unity and trust as she mined for information.
“You can call me Anita.” She blinked and looked away. “Well, you certainly look a lot better than you did the other day, thank heavens.” A fine shudder ran over the woman’s frame. “You catch that maniac yet?”
Dangerous Waters Page 22