Valley of the Lost

by Vicki Delany

  “Miller’s being cared for, Amy. Don’t have to worry about that.”

  Winters leaned across the table and gave the girl what he hoped was his best non-threatening smile. “Is there something you can tell me, Amy? About Ashley?”

  Amy rubbed at her head. Deep scratch marks, old scars, ran down the inside of her arm.

  “Ash didn’t have many friends. She could of had friends. She was friendly, pretty. And real smart. She hung around town, most of the time, with the baby. She went to the support center sometimes. She liked your mom, Moonlight, she told me so.”

  Smith smiled. “Everyone, well almost everyone, likes my mom.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Was she your friend, Amy?” Winter asked, trying to get the conversation back on track.

  “We talked, like a couple times. Down at the center.”

  Smith picked up the brown paper bag, and held it out to Amy. The girl took another muffin, dark, streaked with orange of shredded carrot, and broke off a section. She popped it into her mouth.

  Winters was beginning to think he’d be here all day.

  Amy chewed and Winters thought he’d lost her.

  “Clark told me not to come,” she said at last, wiping crumbs off her fingers onto her thighs. “But they said at the center that someone killed her. That’s not right, is it?”

  The town’s grapevine was working hard. No one had said anything officially about Ashley being killed. Yesterday’s paper ran an editorial on the danger of bad drugs. “It’s not right to kill someone, no,” Winters said.

  “This person who killed Ashley, you need to find him, right?”

  Winters chose his words carefully. “If Ashley was killed, then yes, I would very much like to find the person who did it.”

  “I thought so. Clark said I’d be stirring up trouble. I don’t wanna do that, but I wanna help. Okay, Moon?”

  “That’s great, Amy,” Smith said, sounding positive, and enthusiastic, and cheerful.

  “Ash was real interested in that new social worker.”

  “Interested, how do you mean?” Winters said. “Had she met this woman before?”

  “Not a woman. A guy. She told me she knew him, back in Victoria. Or maybe it was Vancouver. Might have been Vancouver.”

  “What’s this social worker’s name?”

  “I don’t remember exactly, but it’s something like my friend Julie’s, but a guy’s name. Old fellow. Thinks he’s all cool. Tries to look like a hippie.”

  Smith glanced at Winters and raised one discreet eyebrow. He nodded telling her to ask the question. “Might it have been Julian, Amy?”

  Amy smiled. “That’s it. You’re so clever, Moon.”

  Julian Armstrong who he’d met at the site of the overdose and again at the women’s center. Not that Winters thought of the social worker as an old guy. “What did Ashley have to say about him?”

  The girl looked directly at Winters for the first time. “I’m sorry, Mr. Winters. But I get confused sometimes, and don’t remember things.”

  “That’s okay, Amy,” Smith said. “I couldn’t find my car keys today. I was late for work and everything. I got in so much trouble.”

  Winters doubted that any such thing had happened, but Amy appreciated the words and smiled in her slow, gentle way. “Not just me then. Ashley was all excited seeing him.”

  “Excited? How do you mean?” Smith asked. “Excited happy or excited mad?”

  “Not mad, I don’t think. She said he was the key to her future. I don’t know what that meant. I figured you’d wanna know. That’s all.”

  They got nothing more out of the girl. Winters asked if she knew Ashley’s last name: Amy shook her lifeless hair. Smith told her to take the remaining muffins with her, and she clutched the bag to her skinny chest as she walked out of the police station.

  Winters let out a long breath as he watched her pick her way across the street. “God, but that was sad. How do you know her, Molly?”

  “Amy? Believe it or not, she’s only a few years younger than me, though she looks like a kid. When I was in high school, she was in a special program, and I helped out for extra credit.” She shrugged, and the right corner of her mouth turned up. “And because my mom made me. Amy’s moderately functioning, able to get along on her own, with assistance. Some asshole knocked her up, and skipped out on her. By the time Clark knew she was pregnant it was too late to do anything about it.”

  “Who’s Clark?”

  “Her brother. The knocker-upper was singing falsetto for a while, I heard. Clark looks after Amy and Robbie. Their parents were bad druggies when the kids were growing up, the sort who had no concerns about letting the kiddies enjoy the stuff too. Family values, you know. No loss to anyone; they died in a car accident a few years ago. Clark works as a bouncer at The Bishop and Nun. He’s a good guy. He makes sure Amy takes the baby to the support center.”

  “She was hungry, Molly.”

  “Clark does what he can. I’ll talk to my mom later. Ask her what can be done to help out.” A cloud moved behind the constable’s blue eyes. “Sometimes, try as you want, you just can’t make things right.”

  Winters blew out a lungful of air. “You should be on the street.”

  “You’d better tell the Sarge why I’m not.”

  “This Armstrong. What Amy told us? What do you think, Molly?” Smith was only a probationary constable. As wet behind the ears as one of the ducklings swimming down the Upper Kootenay River. But she knew these people, and he didn’t. He wanted to hear what she thought.

  She looked around. Officers were coming and going. Jim Denton was sitting at the console, watching them. Barb came out of her office carrying a gigantic handbag, and bid everyone a good night.

  “My office,” Winters said.

  He pulled up his desk chair, and Smith stood by the door, arms crossed over her chest,.

  “I don’t know Julian very well. I meet him a few times before he left for Vancouver, about, oh six or seven years ago, when I worked at the homeless shelter, the summer before I went away to University. My mom was involved with him on some project or other. And that’s all I know. I don’t know why he left town, and I don’t know why he’s come back.”

  “I need to talk to this guy. You know where we can find him?”

  “No. But if he’s helping out at the support center, even unofficially, they’ll have him on file.”

  “Call them. Hopefully they’ll have his number. Then phone Mr. Armstrong and tell him we’d like a few minutes of his time. ASAP.”

  Someone from her past. That was the second time that phrase had been mentioned regarding Ashley. Hadn’t she told Lucky the same thing—she’d run into someone from her past and he’d take care of her.

  Winters swung his chair back to face the computer.

  Smith shifted her feet and her equipment rattled.

  “Is there a problem, Molly?” He wiggled the mouse to get rid of the official Trafalgar City Police screen saver and bring up his unfinished report on the grow-op bust.

  “I am supposed to be on the street, John.”

  “Sorry. I’ll clear it with Al.” He reached for the phone, and heard Smith’s boots tramping down the hall.

  Peterson was not pleased at having one of his constables reassigned at the last minute. Smith was needed on the beat, he told Winters. Winters reminded him that it was a Monday night.

  Peterson reminded Winters that convoys of RVers from all across the Western United States were arriving for their annual gathering this weekend.

  Winters rolled his eyes at Lopez’s African violets. Hell’s Angles, the RV bunch were not. “Any trouble, I’ll send her back right away.”

  Peterson grumbled something and hung up.

  Peterson was right, of course. Smith should be out on the beat. Patrolling the streets of Trafalgar. She was a probationary constable, not a detective. But he was lost in this small town. Only ten thousand people, everyone of them connected to everyone else by a m
yriad of invisible threads.

  He should be using Ray Lopez for this sort of thing. But Lopez was working all out on another file, and anyway, today he was off. Winters had no compunction at all about asking his people to work on their days off. They weren’t bankers.

  But in this case, he figured that Molly Smith’s local contacts would be of more use to him than Ray Lopez’s. Ray had been in Trafalgar for more than ten years, but he didn’t have the family roots that threw out even more of those invisible threads.

  Chapter Eleven

  Julian Armstrong rented a studio apartment in the basement of a house high above town. The views from the road and the driveway were spectacular, but from Armstrong’s windows all that could be seen was bush and the bottoms of trees. A sofa bed, unmade, sheets and pillows tossed half onto the floor, filled most of the room. A desk and a computer were pushed up against a wall. The computer was switched off although the cup of coffee beside it let off a gentle plume of steam. Smith had obtained his number easily enough from the support center. She’d called, and found him at home. He’d sounded helpful, a concerned citizen, unfortunately not able to see the police at this time due to pressures of work. His tone changed when she insisted. He tried not to let his annoyance show, but it had. Not that she particularly cared.

  There was no place for the police to sit in the main room, other than on the unmade bed. Armstrong had had plenty of time to tidy up for visitors. That he hadn’t spoke volumes about the attitude he was going to take.

  He dropped into the office chair in front of his computer, and swiveled around to face Smith and Winters. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you coffee, Moonlight, Sergeant Winters. But I have an appointment in half an hour so let’s get right down to it, shall we? I’ll help any way I can, without breaking client confidentiality, of course.”

  His words were friendly, but his attitude was not. Smith hadn’t told him on the phone why they were coming over. Did he have some reason to be concerned about their visit?

  “You worked in Vancouver?” Winters had taken the only other chair in the apartment, a ripped vinyl thing pulled up to the scratched Formica table in what tried to pass as a kitchen.

  “Yes.”

  “What did you do there?”

  “Substance abuse counseling, mostly. Relationship abuse as well. Women in trouble, you know the scene.”

  “Work the Downtown Eastside?”

  “Some of the time.”

  “I didn’t know you. And I would have, if you’d been in the area when you say you were. I was on the Vancouver force until recently. Working mostly the Eastside.”

  Armstrong flushed. He glanced at Smith, seeking support, and then looked away. “Okay, you got me. A little white lie. Not the Eastside. My practice was in West Vancouver. Spoiled rich bitches with too much money and a hubby who was enjoying something tasty on the side.”

  “You were quick enough to lie to me about your work experience? Did you lie to the people in Trafalgar as well?”

  Armstrong wiped beads of sweat off his forehead. The room was warm, but not hot. He kept glancing at Smith out of the corner of his eyes, although she was doing nothing but leaning up against the wall, holding her hat in her hands.

  “Help me out here, Moonlight,” he said at last. “You studied to be a social worker. You know what it’s like in this business.”

  She blinked. Surprised he’d known what she’d been up to a few years ago, and not knowing if she should answer him or not. She was only here to lean against the wall and remind Armstrong that this was an official matter. “I…”

  “Are you addressing Constable Smith?” Winters asked. “If so, I’d suggest that you talk to me instead.”

  Armstrong rubbed his forehead, keeping his eyes hidden. Seconds passed in silence before his hands moved down to massage his cheeks. “Sorry if I stepped out of line, but I was only looking for confirmation that there are some things you have to have on your resume to be taken seriously. It’s nothing to do with the police,”

  “I’ll decide what’s police business and what isn’t,” Winters snapped.

  Unusual for Winters to break his cool. Armstrong was getting under the Sergeant’s crocodile-tough hide.

  “This won’t get back to your mother, will it?” Armstrong asked Smith.

  “Goddamn small towns,” Winters said. “Constable Smith does not gossip about police business around the breakfast table. Spit it out, man.” Smith hoped she wasn’t blushing. At least once she had, completely against rules and ethics, gossiped to her mother around the breakfast table about police business.

  Armstrong swiveled his chair a quarter turn so he was looking out the window at the expanse of green. A starling looked back at him. And then, not interested, it flew away.

  “It sounds better, in some circles, certainly in Trafalgar circles, to say you’ve tried to help women who’re in desperate conditions, rather than idle rich women with anxieties as big as their husbands’ bank accounts. That’s all.”

  Smith was amazed that he’d try to get away with fudging his credentials. Surely anyone could find out soon enough where he’d been practicing. But maybe no one here bothered to follow up. A lot of people in Trafalgar, people like her own mother, took things on face value. Honest, well meaning to a fault, they assumed that everyone else was as sincere as they.

  “What brought you back to the Kootenays?” Winters asked.

  Armstrong mumbled something to the window about love of the area, the fresh air, hiking in the mountains, nice people.

  “Look at me when you’re talking to me,” Winters said.

  Armstrong turned, slowly. He made an attempt to hold Winters’ eyes, but broke off to study the worn carpet at his feet.

  Winters looked around the room. “Not terribly nice accommodation for a professional such as yourself,” he said.

  “It’s temporary, okay. And I don’t give a flying fig if it doesn’t meet with your approval.”

  “Merely making an observation. Tell me about Ashley. You knew her?”

  “I saw her a few times at the support center. I didn’t have much to do with her.”

  “I’ve been told she liked you.”

  Armstrong shrugged. He’d stopped trying to catch Smith’s eye. “I’m glad to hear that, but I have to say I probably wouldn’t even remember her if she hadn’t died. Just another sad, lonely young girl, forced to grow up too fast.”

  Winters said nothing. Armstrong moved some papers on the floor with his feet. Smith shifted from one foot to another and looked out the window.

  Somewhere on the property above them an electric lawn mower started up.

  Armstrong was a social worker—a counselor. He should be comfortable with long meaningful pauses. But he broke first. “If there’s nothing more, Sergeant?” He checked his watch as if the audience in the upper balcony needed to see him doing so.

  Winters wasn’t interested in the play. “She told people you were important in her life. Why do you think she’d say that?”

  Armstrong flushed. “I don’t have the slightest idea. I told you I barely knew her. She was just one of the young women who came to the center. I haven’t been back in town for long, but I’m trying to get my practice up and running. It helps if I do volunteer work. Make contacts. I thought I could offer some of these girls substance abuse counseling, if that’s what they need. I also have experience with homeless issues. But Ashley didn’t want my assistance. We don’t make them take help, you know.” He pointed at Smith. “Her mother knew the girl better than me. Ask Lucky these questions.”

  Winters stood up, so suddenly he caught Smith by surprise. “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Armstrong.”

  ***

  “Call Rose Benoit in Vancouver,” Winters said as Smith maneuvered the van down the steep residential street toward town. Benoit and Winters had been partners for a long time; she was now the inspector in charge of commercial crime. “Tell her I need to talk to someone who can fill me in on this Julian Armstrong.”<
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  “You think he has a police record?”

  “Won’t know until I ask, will I? I can check, easily enough from my own desk, but there seems to be more here than a record search will tell. He left Vancouver in a hurry, something to do with ‘rich bitches’, I’ll venture to guess. You may have noticed that he doesn’t have a respectful attitude toward his clients.”

  “Still, I don’t see what you’re looking for, John. So Ashley told her friend she liked him. It’s his job to be friends with these kids. He likes to think he’s a local, but he’s not. Not any more. He doesn’t know what’s wrong and so he’s trying too hard.” She coughed. “Well, that’s my take anyway.”

  “Ashley told Amy that he was quote, the key to her future, unquote.”

  “Perhaps to her he was. Even though she might not have gone to him for help yet, in her mind he might be the one who’d help her unlock the solution to her problems.”

  “I asked you to contact Rose for me. I didn’t ask you to analyze my reasons. But you may remember that, according to Amy, Ashley knew Armstrong in Vancouver. Note that he didn’t mention that.”

  Chapter Twelve

  When Winters got back to his desk the coroner’s report on Ashley Doe was ready.

  Killed, he already knew, by an overdose of heroin. Restraint marks on wrists and ankles, but no other signs of recent trauma. Then, with as much emotion as a butcher’s order, came a lengthy list of previously broken bones. Left arm twice, collarbone once, cracked cheekbone. Old wounds on a pre-pubescent body.

  “Shit,” Winters said to the empty room. He rubbed his hands over his eyes. Hard to interpret this report as anything other than sustained abuse when the girl was only a child.

  In light of that evidence, it was a good possibility Ashley’d been on the run. He’d met plenty of girls in Vancouver for whom life on the streets was preferable to what they got at home. For many of them life on the streets soon turned into a death sentence. One way or another.

  Ashley might have been on the run from a bad family life.

  Understandable.