Stanton- The Trilogy

by Alex MacLean

  Audra found herself staring at the colorful sleeve tattoos on the woman’s arms, impressed at the artistic detail—a koi fish with blue waves on either side and black kanji written above; a beautiful geisha in a floral kimono surrounded by pink cherry blossoms.

  “I’m sorry this happened,” Audra said. “Are you all right?”

  “Better now.”

  “Feel up to talking?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you like something to drink? We have water, pop, or coffee.”

  Wendy gave a quick, weak smile and shook her head. “No. I just want to get this over with.”

  “Sure.” Audra picked up her pen, poised it over a page in her notebook. “How do you know Todd Dory?”

  “Through work. I did most of his tattoos.”

  “And where do you work?”

  “Skull ’N’ Bones Tattoo Studio.”

  “On Agricola?”

  “Yeah. You familiar with us?”

  Audra nodded. “I had some work done there about six years ago.”

  Wendy tilted her head down a bit, cocked her right eyebrow. “Get out. You have tats?”

  “Just one.”

  “Where?”

  Audra pushed back in her chair and removed her right shoe. Then she propped her leg on the table to reveal a blue rosary tattoo circling her ankle and a cross dangling on top of her foot.

  Wendy leaned in. “Swweeet. Who did that?”

  Audra appraised her. She seemed to be breaking the ice, developing a good rapport, and easing Wendy’s tensions.

  “Eldrick?” Audra said, and frowned. “I think that was his name. Bald head. Lip rings. Lots of tattoos.”

  “Oh, yeah. He left ’bout two years ago.”

  “Where to?”

  “New Minas. Opened his own studio.”

  “Cool.” Audra slipped her shoe on again. “Ever hear from him?”

  “No. Our owner does. I guess Eldrick’s doing well for himself.”

  “Tattoos are becoming quite popular.”

  “Yeah, they are.” Wendy sat back, perched an ankle atop her other knee, and began bobbing her raised foot up and down. “A lot of people are getting inked. We’re seeing all walks of life coming through our door now. Funny how fads are.”

  “What made you want to get into that profession?”

  “My passion for art.”

  “Are there many female tattoo artists?”

  “A few. It’s really dominated by the males though.”

  “I know what you mean there, sister.” Audra picked up her pen again. “Okay, back to business. When’s the last time you saw Todd?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “What time and where?”

  “’Bout three or so. He stopped by the studio.”

  “To get some work done?”

  “No. To look at some stencils I did up for him. We were making plans to finish the sleeve on his left arm. Right now he has a half-sleeve and plate.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long did he stay?”

  “Half an hour. He really liked one of the stencils I did but wanted some minor stuff changed.”

  “Did you make the changes?”

  “Yeah, last night. I told him I would do them when I had some down time. I work afternoons and evenings.”

  “Is that the reason you went to his place this morning?”

  Wendy paused. “Well, not exactly.”

  “Please continue.”

  “We were supposed to meet for coffee at ten. He was going to look over the changes I made.”

  “Where at?”

  “Tim Hortons.”

  “Which one?”

  “On Spring Garden Road.”

  “That’s pretty close to his home.”

  Wendy nodded. “Yeah. When he didn’t show up, I went over to his place.”

  “So you obviously knew where he lived?”

  Wendy hesitated. “Yeah.”

  “Been there before?”

  “A couple times.”

  Audra paused, considering that. “Did you call him first?”

  “’Bout three times.”

  “Leave any messages?”

  “Two.”

  Audra touched her chin with the pen, narrowed her eyes. “How long have you known him?”

  “’Bout three years.”

  “Where did you first meet?”

  “At the studio. He started having work done ’round that time.”

  “And you became friends through your work?”

  Wendy’s throat worked. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and her bangs fell over her forehead. Audra noticed she’d gone back to fidgeting with her wedding ring.

  “Yeah.” Wendy spoke to the floor. “We became friends.”

  Audra regarded her a moment. Friends. Sure.

  “Have you ever slept with him?” she asked.

  Wendy’s head shot up and gave her a hardened look. “What?”

  Audra repeated the question, holding Wendy with her eyes.

  “How’s that your business?”

  Audra spread her hands. “Hey, I’m just crossing the Ts and dotting the Is. If you had a personal relationship with him, I really need to know.”

  “Am I a suspect now?”

  Audra stared at her. Before the interview, she had listened to the 9-1-1 call by Wendy upon finding the body of Todd Dory, a woman so hysterical her words were barely discernible. The call ended with the sound of sirens in the background.

  Audra had run a background on Wendy and found out the woman was clean, not so much as a parking ticket.

  “No, you’re not a suspect,” Audra said in a reassuring tone.

  Wendy’s gaze bounced off her face and settled on the tabletop. Then she opened her mouth to say something, but closed it up again. She leaned her head back, inhaled a deep breath, and blew it out toward the ceiling.

  “All right.” Her voice took on a weary patience. “I slept with him a few times.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “Year or so.”

  “Think your husband knows?”

  Mute, Wendy squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you think he’d do if he found out?”

  “I don’t know. Kick me out. Divorce me. But nothing like I saw this morning.” Wendy dramatized a shudder. “Never.”

  Audra sat back. She put two fingers over her mouth and drummed them against her upper lip. She knew jealousy and feelings of betrayal drove some people to do terrible things—murder their spouses or their lovers or even their own children. Could this case be as clear-cut as that?

  “Was your husband home last night?” she asked.

  Wendy raised her hands, palms up and out, her face red and angry. “Here we go. You think he did this?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you’re insinuating it.”

  “I’m not insinuating anything.”

  Wendy bent forward in the chair, arms crossed as if to hold herself in. Audra wondered if she was going to hurl all over the floor.

  “My husband was home all night,” Wendy said. “He got up this morning at five thirty, went through his morning ritual, and went off to work at six forty.”

  “Where does he work?”

  “Saint Mary’s University. Custodial services.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Justin.”

  Audra wrote it down. “Drummond?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have kids?”

  “Not between us. He has a son through a previous marriage.”

  “Does the son live with you two?”

  “No. His mother.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Christopher is six.” Wendy sank back in the chair, kept her arms crossed. “Do you want his address and phone number?”

  Audra smirked at the sarcasm. “No,
but I would like to get back to Todd. Have you ever met any of his friends?”

  “A couple. They had work done at the studio too.”

  “Do you remember their names?”

  Wendy frowned. “Lee...and Blake. I think.”

  Audra flipped back a couple of pages in her notebook, looked at an entry she had made earlier. “Lee Higgins and Blake Kaufman?”

  “Yeah, that’s them.”

  Audra nodded. She knew of both men. They were the other remaining members of the Black Scorpions. Two scary-looking dudes who were bad, bad, bad.

  “How well do you know them?” she asked.

  “Know them to see them. I did a couple of their tattoos. Whitey did the rest.”

  “Whitey?”

  “Dennis Richardson. He’s an artist at our studio. Everyone calls him Whitey because of his white hair. I mean it’s pure white. Like Leslie Nielsen. Only Whitey’s thirty-eight.”

  “Okay,” Audra said, “I gotcha. Did Todd ever talk about Lee or Blake? Ever mention having any problems with either of them?”

  “No. He referred to them as his brothers.”

  “Brothers, huh?”

  Audra thought about the three Rs in the gang culture: reputation, respect, and retaliation. How long before more blood was spilled in Halifax? Lee Higgins and Blake Kaufman would obviously be out looking for whoever had murdered Todd Dory. There would have to be consequences.

  Audra’s cell phone suddenly went off. She recognized the number on the display as the medical examiner’s.

  “Excuse me for a sec,” she said, getting up from her chair and stepping outside the room to the hallway. “Hello, Doctor.”

  “Are you busy?” Coulter asked.

  “I’m doing an interview. What’s up?”

  “There’s something I need to show you. Might be important.”

  “Okay. Are you at the morgue?”

  “Yes. I just finished the post. I’ll be here for at least another ninety minutes.”

  “I’ll be down as soon as I can.”

  “Thank you,” Coulter said and hung up.

  Audra put her phone away and leaned against the wall, feeling the day settling into her muscles and bones. She’d spent all afternoon working the neighborhood around the crime scene, coming away with nothing more than innuendo, someone else’s theory of what had happened. Drugs, always the drugs. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps it was the most logical explanation.

  Half of the doors Audra had knocked on were never answered. Those would be part of tomorrow’s to-do list.

  A uniformed officer walked by, carrying a report and a cup of black coffee with a stir stick inside. As Audra watched the gray steam lifting from the cup, she realized she hadn’t eaten anything all day.

  She stepped back inside the interview room to find Wendy in the same position she’d left her.

  “Sorry about that,” she said, and sat down at the table.

  “How much longer?” Wendy asked in a voice stripped of patience.

  “Just a few more questions.” Audra picked up her pen. “You last saw Todd yesterday, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he seem different in any way? Bothered? Scared?”

  Wendy pushed out her lower lip. “Nope. Same as always.”

  “Did he say where he was going when he left the studio?”

  “No.”

  Audra held her eyes. “Fast forward to this morning. What time did you arrive at his place?”

  “’Bout ten forty or so. I left Tim Hortons at ten thirty.”

  Audra cleared her throat and took a brief moment to double-check the times written in the first officer’s report she had with her. Dispatched at 10:48. Arrived at the scene at 10:53.

  “Was the door locked when you got there?”

  “No.”

  “So you opened it?”

  “Yeah. I knocked a few times first.”

  “Then what happened?”

  Wendy blew out a breath. “The smell hit me.” She twisted her face up as if she had just sunk her teeth into a lemon. “God, it was bad. I thought I was going to puke right there.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Blood. No, wait.” Wendy stared straight ahead. “I turned on the light first. Then I saw the blood.”

  “The place was dark?”

  “Kinda. I think the blinds were down.”

  “Did you touch anything besides the light switch?”

  “No. Once I saw Todd...” Wendy’s voice cracked. “Everything went fuzzy.”

  Audra watched tears form in her eyes. Wendy wiped at them with the back of her hand before they could fall.

  “I think we’ll wrap this up, Mrs. Drummond,” Audra said. “You’ve been through enough today. Is there anything else I should’ve asked you?”

  Wendy gave her a bewildered look. “I don’t think so.”

  “If you think of anything,” Audra slid her business card across the table, “please call me at once. I might be in touch with you again.”

  Wendy looked at the card for a second then put it in her purse.

  “You take care, Mrs. Drummond.”

  They shook hands.

  “You too,” Wendy said.

  As she heard the door brush closed behind her, Audra wondered how or if Wendy would explain her day to her husband.

  She gathered up her folders, stacked them together against the table, and walked out of the room. She grabbed a coffee from the lunchroom and then headed off for the morgue to see what Coulter wanted.

  9

  Toronto, June 8

  5:22 p.m.

  The cabby had been right about the Mini Mart on the corner of Anthony Road, a small store with white burglar bars over the windows and an icebox out front. Atop its roof, a huge sign advertised messages for the RBC, some morning show on Global, and a warning against curbsiders.

  Allan glanced at his watch: 5:22. The walk had taken only ten minutes from the hotel. With the sun warm on his back, he turned down Anthony, looking around at the wartime homes filling the neighborhood. Small and inexpensive to build for returning veterans of World War II, they harkened back to socioeconomic hardships, of empty pockets and penny pinching. Most were built from red brick. Some were similar; many others differed in style and character. Each one had a square patch of lawn in front and a paved driveway on the side.

  Allan checked the civic numbers beside doorways, on the fronts of porch columns. Behind him, the rush-hour hustle and bustle of Dufferin Street dwindled to faint traffic noises. A breath brought him the pleasant smell of fresh-mowed grass, and two houses up, clippings covered the sidewalk.

  Allan continued past a wooden privacy fence edging someone’s yard. Then he saw it—a quaint, one-and-a-half-story brick home with white shutters and a tiny vestibule. He felt a knot squeeze his stomach tight as his gaze settled on Melissa’s red hatchback in the driveway.

  He thought of her in their bedroom that crisp fall evening, tear streaked, with a tissue crumpled in her hands, telling him she was leaving. Like a desperate litany, his mind recited the painful words in the note she’d left for him two nights later. Gone to Mom and Dad’s. Brian can continue school from there. For his sake I tried to make this all work.

  Allan drew a breath, let it out slowly. He cut across the lawn to the front door. His finger hesitated a moment before poking the bell. He heard a chime ring inside then footsteps approaching. In the door window, someone drew aside a curtain, fingernails scraping glass.

  Melissa opened the door in a blouse and jeans. She’d cut her hair, Allan saw. A bob style now, trimmed around her jawline. It made her look elegant, professional, still beautiful.

  She seemed to blink a little, perhaps from surprise, perhaps because she was uncomfortable. An awkward smile played on her lips.

  “Al,” she said in a tight voice.

  Allan continued to stare at her, finding it hard to speak. It struck him that he hadn’t overcome the anger and grief associated with their lost marriag
e, the uprooting of his son to another province. How many times had he wished to relive those final days before she left him, to make things right?

  “When’d your flight get in?” she asked.

  “This morning,” he said softly.

  Melissa tossed a glance out to the street, to the driveway. “Did you take a cab here?”

  “No, I walked.” He tipped his head to the left. “I’m just over at the Holiday Inn.”

  “On Dufferin?”

  “Yup.”

  “Wow, you’re close.”

  “Thought it would be convenient. I don’t know the area here.”

  “Good idea.” She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder. “Brian’s getting cleaned up. We just had supper. Are you hungry?”

  A small headshake. “No, no. I ate at the hotel.”

  With a tentative air, Melissa crossed her arms, speechless for a moment. Allan could sense her discomfort, her fighting for something to say. Just like him.

  “Do you have any plans with Brian this weekend?” he asked.

  “Why? What do you have in mind?”

  “I’d like to take him to the Toronto Zoo on Saturday.”

  Melissa gave him a big smile. “He’ll really enjoy it. I heard it’s a great place.”

  “I was told it’s about a twenty-, thirty-minute drive.”

  “At least thirty. It’s over in Scarborough.”

  Allan paused. Cab fare there and back would probably be on the expensive side, and it lessened the freedom to look around different places. A rental seemed to be the best option.

  He asked, “Can I borrow Brian’s booster seat?”

  “You can borrow my car, Al. The booster’s already there for him.”

  “Thanks, but no. I...I don’t want to impose.”

  “You wouldn’t be.” Melissa twitched her shoulders. “But I understand.”

  “What are your plans for Brian’s birthday?”

  “The usual. Cake and presents.”

  “I bought him a remote-control monster truck.”

  “Oh, cool. He’ll love that. Is it gas powered?”

  “Electric. A little quieter and easier to take on the plane.”