by Jon Redfern
“Johnson, did you pick up that sheet on the table in Aileen Moore’s kitchen? The one with Cara Simonds’s address on it?”
Johnson handed it to Billy.
“I’ll go and pay her a visit. Call in Hawkes for the autopsy. Butch and I need it ASAP.”
“Of course. I’ll run these fragments through the lab, too. And do some prints on the shaving kit.”
“When you see Butch, tell him I’ll call from the Simonds place.”
“It was. . . .” Cara Simonds’s voice was harsh from crying, though not loud.
Billy thought: She never expected to be speaking the words she is now painfully sharing with me. Behind her in the quiet kitchen stood her mother, who had a look of frozen astonishment on her face.
“Tell me, Cara,” Billy said. “Try again to tell me.”
“It was. . . .” Again her voice trailed off. It was as if the two words themselves were forming a barrier to her story.
Billy waited patiently. Cara sat up, and her mother broke in: “He was her boyfriend, Inspector. I think they had just started going together on this dig.”
“Is that true, Cara?”
She nodded and wiped her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Cara.”
Cara spoke again. But now her voice had become wooden, disembodied. “It’s all Yianni’s fault. Yianni Pappas. He was after Justin. Justin was so afraid of him. He owed him money. A lot of money. Yianni came to Waterton and threatened Justin. Then Justin said, on the last night we were together, he said he wasn’t sure he could trust anyone anymore. Even Professor Mucklowe. Randy has no cash. And half the time he was drunk or stoned with his Native friend. I didn’t like Sam. He was always pushing Randy around. He once pushed Justin, too, on the last morning of the dig. Justin was unloading the van and dropped a shovel near Sam’s foot, and Sam went ballistic. Swearing and shouting about how Justin showed him no respect. Randy had to come between them. I think . . . I know Justin was hoping Patsy Hanson — she was one of his profs — could lend him the cash. But he was never sure he could trust her either.”
Cara stopped and stared at the floor. Billy jotted down names and details in his notebook. Again Cara began to speak, paused, then resumed her story in her lost distant voice.
“I knew . . . I knew he was desperate. I didn’t think Patsy or anybody else would really help him. I don’t know what happened next. But on Thursday night, we were up late, and I was coming back from the bathroom, and I noticed this black plastic bag sticking out from under a sofa. Justin and I found all these beautiful gold masks inside, all wrapped in plastic. Justin wondered where they’d come from. They were beautiful. Small and gold and made of shell or something, I don’t know. He said to me, ‘I bet these are worth a lot. A lot of money.’ I said, ‘But why has Randy hidden them? Why hasn’t he got them up on the walls?’ Randy’s cabin had a lot of stuff like that. Old Indian beads, antlers hung everywhere. But then Justin said they were probably fakes. Plastic toys that Randy had bought and stored away. Why else would they be stuffed into those bags? Then on Friday, we went to the dig for the last day, and we worked, and I. . . .” Cara’s voice softened. She was looking pale and very tired, despite the rosy tan she had from working in the mountains.
“When was the last time you saw Justin, Cara?”
Cara’s mother stepped forward and placed her hands gently on Cara’s shoulders.
“Friday night, late. About eleven, I think. I drove him and David Home to the city. We all wanted to get back quickly because Sam was getting drunk again, and Randy told us he didn’t need us for cleanup, and we could get our stipends at the university office on Monday morning. I dropped David off first, then Justin asked me to drive him to Patsy’s house on Parkside Drive. He said he’d try one last time. He’d been calling her on his cell but getting no answer. I last saw him walking up to her door, and he waved me off. He said he’d call me after he saw her. He never did, and I remember when I held him before he got out of the car his hands were so cold.”
Cara bent over in the chair. Her mother moved in front of Billy. She helped her daughter stand and led her into the living room. There she lay Cara down on the sofa and pulled a wool blanket up to her chin. Billy stood as Mrs. Simonds re-entered the kitchen. He thanked her and told her that Cara would have to go to the station to make a formal statement. If she needed help, or care, Mrs. Simonds was to call Butch at the number Billy had written on one of his cards.
Half an hour later, Butch and Billy met on Parkside Drive, in front of Patsy Hanson’s house. Butch had brought Billy a coffee from the police canteen. He was wearing a white shirt and blue tie and looking like he’d not slept for days.
“She taking it badly, the girl?”
“Deep shock. As far as I can tell, she’s lucid. That often happens right after bad news. The memory is razor sharp.”
The sun was heating the grass and the flagstones of Patsy’s front walk as Billy and Butch made their way to the oak door and pressed the chime. Billy had called Butch from the Simondses’ house to get the address and phone number and then called to see if the woman was at home. A neighbour had answered the call.
Now that neighbour, a well-groomed woman with lacquered brown hair and expensive makeup, stood in Patsy Hanson’s open doorway.
“I’m Dodie. Come in, please, gentlemen.”
Dodie explained that Patsy was ill but that she would see them shortly. In the living room, Dodie sat down, and Billy began asking her a few questions about the last twenty-four hours, what she had seen and done, why she was now tending to Patsy. Dodie told Billy about seeing a young man pounding on the door of Patsy’s house late Friday, that there had been shouting. “I almost called the police. But, you know, to be frank, Patsy often has young men drop by late. I let it go. He didn’t stay long. He left and went around the back, and then he came out front again and began walking west past my front door. I couldn’t really recognize him. It was dark. But he looked like he was wearing hiking shorts and a T-shirt and was carrying a backpack. Young, he was, by the way he walked. Patsy likes her men young.” Dodie wiped the edges of her perfectly red lips with the tips of her right thumb and forefinger.
Butch then asked what time she had come over to Hanson’s this morning. Dodie said she’d had a call, around 1:00 or so in the morning. Patsy had been raving drunk and sounded like she could hardly walk and talk at the same time. Then, this morning, early, Patsy had called again. She’d sounded upset and said she needed to talk to someone right away. When Dodie did come over, it was around 8:30, maybe 8:45. The front door was unlocked, and Patsy was in bed, fully dressed in a pair of tight jeans and a sports bra. Surrounding her on her pillow, her sheets, and her bedspread was a huge number of crumpled hundred-dollar bills.
“It was about an hour or so later that you called, Chief. I made coffee and tried to get Patsy to have some, but she was not well.”
A voice was heard from one of the inner rooms of the house. It sounded like a moan or a faint call for help. Dodie stood up and smoothed down the front of her navy jogging shorts. “Patsy will see you now.” Dodie led Butch and Billy through a series of spacious rooms covered with white broadloom into a large bedroom. The curtains were drawn. Patsy Hanson lay in a silk housecoat on the top of her bed. She was holding a glass full of a brown liquid. Pulled close to the bed were two pink-cushioned chairs. Patsy gestured with her free hand for Butch and Billy to come and sit.
Billy began the questioning. Patsy told the story of her arrangement with Justin Moore, the bills she had brought home from the bank, the champagne she had chilled for their Friday-night get-together. “But then I got cold feet,” she said. “I felt he wouldn’t come at all, even though I figured he was desperate for the cash.” So, she told them, she started drinking and passed out. The last thing she remembered was waking up early, the bed mussed, her hair in her eyes, and thousands of dollars scattered everywhere. “That’s it; that’s what happened. So why are you here? Has something happened to Justin?”
Billy told her of the body in Satan House.
Patsy Hanson dropped her glass onto the carpet and raised her hands over her eyes.
“Yianni Pappas!” she cried. Then she lowered her hands. Her eyes held steady on Billy’s face, her mouth contorted into a thin, angry grin. “I hope you castrate that filthy shit.”
Dodie cleared her throat and bent down to clean up the spilled drink with a cloth she had hurriedly brought in from the bathroom.
“Leave it, for Christ’s sake, Dodie.”
Dodie blushed.
Billy crossed his legs.
“What was the arrangement between Justin and Pappas?” he asked.
Patsy straightened. “Justin borrowed cash. Yianni collects huge interest. Justin hadn’t paid. Yianni was calling in the loan. Payment in kind, even. Which can mean sex, or worse, in Yianni’s case.”
“How well do you know Yianni Pappas, Patsy?”
“What kind of question is that, Inspector?”
“Just answer him,” Butch said in a low voice.
“I borrowed from him once. And, yes, I gave him a blowjob as part of the interest.”
“Patsy!” exclaimed Dodie.
“Shut up, Dodie.”
Dodie fell into a stunned silence.
“Dodie,” asked Butch, “you are sure of the time of Patsy’s first call to you earlier this morning? You said it was around. . . .”
“I was watching a video. It finished about 1:00, or maybe a bit earlier, because I remember turning on the romance channel from Seattle, the American late-night sex channel, really, and it wasn’t on yet. They start their soft-porn program at 1:00.”
“God, Dodie,” Patsy snarled. “Get a life.”
“Where can we find Yianni, Patsy?”
“Do you mean to tell me, Chief, you don’t know about this jerk?” Butch managed a light blush, which surprised Billy. “I’m afraid not,” Butch said.
“I give him credit for staying clean on the surface at least. He owns the sports store down on Dowell. He’s been dealing dope out of there for twenty years — private-stock marijuana, mostly — and bankrolling loans for quite a few desperate people about town. Including Justin Moore. I am surprised you boys have never run into him before.”
“Sadly, Patsy. I am unaware of the man.”
“Well, now, you’re in for a delight. I saw Yianni on the street two days ago, so he’s probably still around. If I were you, I’d head downtown for a chat as soon as you can. He’s not known for being a nice guy. He burned a man once, so the rumour goes, with a blowtorch. The guy owed him something like five hundred dollars. So be careful.”
Billy and Butch stood at the same time. They moved away from the bed, and Billy thanked Patsy. She watched as they walked from the room. Through the house, all was silent.
In the front hall, Dodie came running after them. “Thank you for coming,” she said in a fumbling manner. “Patsy’s taking the Justin thing a little hard right now.”
“How do you mean?” asked Billy, who had been perplexed at Patsy’s initial callous reaction.
“Oh, I think she was crazy about him. And afraid he’d reject her. She’s in her bathroom right now crying her eyes out. I was amazed to see how long she held it in before you two decided to leave. . . .”
Billy fished a card from his pocket and handed it to Dodie. “If you can think of anything else that happened here in the last twenty-four hours, please don’t hesitate to call me at this number.” Billy and Butch walked out the front door and across the lawn to the cruiser.
“I need to call Dodd, Butch.”
Billy pulled out the com and dialled dispatch, who immediately connected him to Dodd.
“What did you find out at Mucklowe’s, Dodd?”
“He’s still up in the mountains according to Sheree. She doesn’t expect him back until later today. He has cleanup and some logs to write, she said.”
“Get an APB out on him — local and RCMP. Explain we need him for preliminary questioning as a potential witness. What else did you find out from her?”
“I told her about the body. She looked like she was going to croak. I asked her about her whereabouts and if she had received any call during the night or morning, as she had with the Riegert boy. She said she’d been alone and that no one had phoned. She didn’t really feel like talking much, Billy. Two of Mucklowe’s neighbours verified they saw lights on in the place and heard music, and one saw her take garbage to the communal chute around midnight. He said Sheree Lynn was in her housecoat.”
“And the other alibi checks?”
“I located the girlfriend, Karen Kreutz. She and her mother had been at the hospital. Karen’s dad, Henry Kreutz, had a stroke early Friday morning and has been in intensive care. Karen said she hadn’t seen Justin for a week. She and her mom were real upset to hear about Justin’s death. Karen said she didn’t have a clue about who would want to kill him, although she said Justin was afraid of a man called Pappas. He’d lent Justin money.”
“You know Yianni Pappas?”
“He runs a sports store downtown. Why?”
“Run a check on him in the city files. See if there’ve been any traffic violations, speeding tickets, anything. Butch and I are heading over to his place now, so I’ll call in later.”
“You suspect him of being connected to this Justin Moore incident?”
“I won’t know until I meet him.”
At 1:30, Butch and Billy entered the sports store of Yianni Pappas. The cold brush of the air conditioning brought Billy a memory from earlier that day, an image of the body of Justin Moore, his head slumped forward and his genitals coated in black paint. His hiking boots had looked oddly heavy and out of place in that dark room of sordid death.
“He’s out of town,” answered the young clerk when Butch asked for Pappas. The clerk walked the two men to Yianni’s office at the back of the store and flipped on the overhead light. “Yianni said he’d be at his brother Pete’s. He stays with him when he’s up in Calgary doing business. You can try him there if you want.”
“What kind of business does he do in Calgary?” Billy asked.
“What kind?” The clerk seemed lost for a second. “I think he buys sports clothes, equipment, that kind of thing.”
“You known Yianni for long?”
“Me?” He hesitated for a moment and looked out towards the front of the store. “Not long, I guess. Listen, I can’t talk to you guys right now. I’m the only one here on sales on the weekend.” The clerk was eighteen, had short spiky hair, two rings piercing his left nostril, and a thin flat boyish body.
“Get the number of his brother.” The clerk hesitated. Billy moved to Yianni’s desk and began rummaging through the papers, tossing pencils and ledgers onto the floor.
“It’s in the top-right drawer,” said the clerk.
The clerk left the office, and Billy lifted a leather-bound notebook from the drawer. He flipped through the pages to P, found a Peter Pappas and a Calgary phone number. He handed the book to Butch, who sat at the desk and dialled. He waited, then hung up. “Answering machine,” he growled, snatching a piece of paper and jotting down the number.
Billy searched Yianni’s piles of invoices and open shelves. He picked up a brass letter opener, and when he turned it around, he saw it was actually in the shape of a penis. A green ledger book sat open on the filing cabinet. Billy drew his eyes over the page. There were a few names, a few telephone numbers. One listing was for J. Moore. Beside the name was a word scrawled in pencil. “Butch, can you make this out?” Butch was holding the receiver in his hand again and dialling information for the city of Calgary. “See, J. Moore, here in the ledger book. Coincidence?”
“Maybe. Maybe it’s a note to himself, buddy. I can’t make out the pencil scrawl.” Butch raised his hand. “You got a listing for a Peter Pappas? Yes, okay.” Butch waited, and then he grabbed the pen, started to write, but stopped. “Thanks.” He hung up. “Same number.” Butch pushed himself up
from the chair, hiked his pants, and walked to a door leading into a large back storeroom. Billy followed him, and they toured the area, the workbench with the tools, the boxes piled to the ceiling. “Seems legit,” said Butch. By the door, a calendar hung on a tack. The picture above the month showed a naked young man staring provocatively at the camera. Butch stopped and looked at the calendar and sniffed.
“Must be a favourite,” said Billy. The month under the picture was December of 1991.
Back in the office, Billy found the white pages and looked up Yianni Pappas’s residence, Lakeside Estates. “Let’s go for a drive, Butch. See if anyone is at home at number 15.”
The superintendent of the five-storey building on Lakeside Estates was a short man who wore black-rimmed glasses.
“He pays on time. Leaves me a cheque first of the month. I don’t reckon I’ve seen him more than twice in my life. He in trouble?”
“Routine check,” mumbled Butch. “Mr. Pappas have a parking stall in the building?”
“Number six, first floor down.”
The stairwell was dusty and brightly lit by sconces of wire mesh surrounding hundred-watt bulbs. In the parking garage, Butch’s and Billy’s footsteps echoed off the concrete walls and the low grime-covered concrete ceiling. Number six was empty.
“If you were Pappas,” Butch said, “and were angry with Justin Moore and wanted to hurt him, would you go to the immense trouble of snuffing him out and then taking him all the way to Satan House to hang him in the basement and paint his dick? I can’t see it.”
“You’re not a psychopath. Passion leads men down strange paths, believe me. Sounds like the work of a vicious person. Could be a statement of some kind. It’s possible Yianni has nothing to do with this, but there’s got to be a link.”