by Vicki Delany
“Later? When later? When you fall asleep before your feet are off the floor? When you stay awake long enough to come to bed? When our daughter’s in the house, not sleeping because of her dreams?”
“What dreams?” Lucky tucked Miller to her chest and bounced on her toes.
“Ever since that goddamned mess, Moonlight cries out in the night, Lucky. And it’s getting worse, not better, since that baby’s been here. She thinks we don’t hear her, yelling in her dreams, crying when she wakes up. Prowling around the house instead of sleeping.”
Lucky thought of the hot milk, the circles under her daughter’s eyes. Moonlight wasn’t sleeping. And her mother hadn’t noticed. “Moonlight’s an adult. She wouldn’t be pleased if her mother came into her room and asked what was wrong.”
“She’s your daughter, no matter what her age. Or her occupation.”
“Pass me that bottle, will you, dear.”
Andy grabbed the baby’s bottle off the counter without looking at it. It slipped out of his hand and fell to the floor. It rolled under the table.
“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Lucky yelled, frustration boiling over. “I can’t use that one. Get another out of the fridge.”
Andy held out his arms. “Give him to me.”
“What?”
“Give him to me. I’ll hold him while you get a bottle ready. Don’t look at me like that. I’m not going to bake him into a gingerbread house.”
Lucky passed Miller over. Andy took the screaming bundle awkwardly. The baby looked into the man’s face and stopped crying.
“Isn’t that nice,” Lucky said. “He likes you.”
“I doubt that very much. He’s been struck dumb, that’s all. Get the bottle. You can’t keep him, sweetheart. If nothing else, I’m too bloody old. I don’t get a hard on like that much any more.”
Lucky rummaged in the fridge and pretended not to hear him. Tears pricked the back of her eyes.
***
Barb was heading out the door as Smith and Winters walked into the police station. “You still haven’t told me what you’re bringing on Sunday, John,” she said.
“Sunday?”
“The pot luck. My house. You haven’t forgotten have you?”
“Of course not. I’ll check with my wife tonight and get back to you tomorrow morning.”
“You’re bringing lasagna, right, Molly? Your mother’s lasagna is to die for.”
“For sure,” Smith said.
“See you guys later.” Barb skipped down the steps.
“What?” Winters said to the expression on Smith’s face.
“You know this is a command performance, don’t you? Barb hasn’t forgiven you for not coming to Ralph’s retirement party.”
“I’d been working here two weeks. I didn’t know Ralph from the occupant of Cell Number One.”
“Irrelevant. Barb is big on department socializing. She believes it builds teams and helps morale. The CC believes what Barb tells him to believe.”
“I almost forgot about poor little Miller,” Winters said, changing the subject and punching the buttons to let them in the door. “Your mom still has him?”
“And it’s killing us. Mom most of all. She’s so ridiculously stubborn. Won’t admit that she can’t manage. It doesn’t help that that horrid woman from family services is bouncing around trying to make Mom give the baby up. All that’s done is get her back up.”
Winters kept his smile to himself: Like mother, like daughter.
“Is anything happening about finding out who Ashley is? And thus getting Miller to his own family?”
“We’re working on it,” he said, automatically.
Ray Lopez was at his desk, typing away. “Chief wants to see you,” he said, without looking up from the keyboard. “Said soon as you get in.”
Winters went in search of Paul Keller, the Chief Constable. The office door to the corridor was closed, but the side one that joined Barb’s office stood open. Keller looked up at the sound of footsteps.
“John, come on in. Have a seat.”
Winters sat. “Ray said you wanted to see me.”
“The Ashley Doe murder. Fill me in.” Keller reached behind and opened the bar fridge where he stored his daily supply of diet coke. He drank about ten to twenty cans a day; judging by the contents of his wastepaper basket it had been a heavy drinking day. The staff assumed the boss needed the pop to keep his mouth occupied because he couldn’t smoke in the building any more. “Want one?”
“No, thanks.”
“What about the girl herself? Any leads on who she is, where she’s from?”
“Not a thing. I have to tell you, Paul, outside of the witness protection program I’ve never seen anyone disappear so cleanly.”
Keller’s eyes lit up. “You think that’s it?”
“No. If she was in the program she’d have been given ID. A background. Ashley Doe appears to have been plopped down in Trafalgar B.C. by a spaceship. We’ve checked all the local banks—she doesn’t have an account. Every restaurant or store she’s been in says she always paid cash. Who does that any more? My wife doesn’t believe in paying with debit, she says it’s too easy to lose track of how much you’re spending, but even she runs out of cash and uses her card now and again. Ashley gave her roommate cash to contribute to the rent. We’ve talked to the women at the support center; they all say she was friendly, but quiet. Kept to herself and never shared confidences. Not one of them could remember her mentioning a thing about her past. And when the women talked about the fathers of their babies—Ashley stayed mum.”
“Strange.”
“Very strange. We’ve circulated her fingerprints, of course, but come up with nothing so far. And the baby’s a real complication. Miller isn’t Ashley’s child, but we can’t find a stolen or missing baby that matches. Although it’s early days for a continent-wide search.” Winters blew out his cheeks. “Two people at least know more than they’re telling—Marigold, the roommate, and Armstrong, the supposed counselor. You read my report on him?”
“Yes.” Keller crunched the pop can in his right hand. “Shady character.”
“Shady past to be sure. You think it’s time to haul him in for a turn under the bright lights?”
“It might be.”
“We’ve been told that Ashley seems to have had some contact in the past with Armstrong, which he isn’t admitting to. And that she seems to have been opposed to the Grizzly Resort: enough to have an angry public confrontation with Steve Blacklock, the new partner, about it. A lot of people in town are, opposed that is, and it’s hardly unknown in Trafalgar for citizens to express their political opinions passionately.”
“Never noticed that myself,” Keller said, tossing the pop can into the garbage. It rattled as it fell in amongst its predecessors.
“But that doesn’t fit with Ashley’s persona, as I see it. Why did she care about the resort, but only that? One of the times I dropped into the center, the young mothers told me they’re trying to get a protest going against the use of pesticides at the golf course. They said it’s bad for their kids, but Ashley wasn’t interested.”
“Who knows why people care about one thing and not another. My wife won’t eat veal—says it’s barbaric—but she digs into lamb readily enough.”
Winters grinned. “You trying to play devil’s advocate, Paul?”
“Just speculating. Maybe because we were out for dinner last night with friends, and when Jay considered ordering veal, Karen gave him a stern talking to.
“We need to lean on Armstrong. Hard. If he’s spinning us a line, reel him in on it.” The Chief made fishing gestures with his hands. He was an avid fisherman. Pictures of himself, proudly displaying salmon of various size, covered his desk, crowding out the single family photo. Winters had been fishing a few times, trying to be one of the boys with his sisters’ husbands or the guys from work. He’d been bored to tears, and hadn’t gone fishing since he stopped pretending to be one of the boys.
“Murder’s a rare crime in this town, John, very rare. We hadn’t had a murder in years until that business last month. I don’t want an unsolved on our sheet.”
“Nor do I,” Winters said, but he doubted that he’d been heard.
“I’ve called the IHIT.”
“I could use them.” Although it bothered him to admit that he needed help, he did. The Integrated Homicide Investigation Team was an RCMP unit out of Surrey that could be called upon to help local forces with murder cases. Winters was floundering, and with Lopez tied up in the drug case, he wasn’t getting the help he needed. “When will they be here?”
“Tomorrow,” Keller said, turning his chair back so he faced his lead detective. “Sometime in the afternoon.”
“Good.” And he meant it. His ego wasn’t so big, at least he hoped not, that he’d wish failure on IHIT where he’d failed.
They talked for a while longer, about other cases, before Winters was dismissed and headed back to his own office. The red message light on his phone blinked.
“Six o’clock,” Eliza purred. Her voice always made him think of sex, even if she were calling from Wal-Mart to report on the price of pencils. “And all is not well. This is a reminder that we’re due at M&C at seven for drinks to kick off the advertising campaign. If you’ve stubbed your toe and can’t make it, let me know, eh? Love you.”
It was only six fifteen. Time to get home, shower and change into suitable cocktail party attire and be smiling, clean, and presentable by seven. No one arrived at fashion parties on time anyway.
He wrote Armstrong on the note pad he kept beside the computer and headed out the door.
***
“Five-one, five-one?”
That was her. “Five-one. Smith here.” Molly Smith spoke into the radio. Tonight she was in the car. Blessed relief. Air conditioning, bottles of cold water in the cup holders. Dave Evans was on the streets. Lately Evans had been getting the car and Smith sent to pound the pavement. Maybe Sarge noticed, at last, and decided to balance the load. Whatever. Smith had simply been grateful to be out of the heat. It was after midnight, the cool night air should be sliding down the mountains, but there was no sign of it yet.
“484 Aspen Street. Neighbors report a disturbance. Not the first time.”
“On my way.” She flicked on lights and sirens and punched the address into the car’s computer.
The house had a string of complaints. Noise violations, dangerous dogs, blocking the street, him threatening to kill her, her threatening to kill him. Even a complaint of peeing in the neighbor’s foxgloves. And that was her, not him.
A small crowd was gathered on the sidewalk when Smith pulled up. She switched off the engine and climbed out of the car. A man approached her, dressed in a red velour robe, with Tevas on his feet. “I think this is it, Constable,” he said, “He’s going to kill her this time.”
“Let’s hope,” a woman said. “Then we can all get some sleep.”
Everyone, including Smith, ducked as a bottle flew out the open door and crashed into a walkway so weed-choked it was almost invisible. Inside the house a woman screamed, and glass broke.
“Five-one,” Smith said into the radio at her shoulder. “I’m entering the residence and I need assistance. Fast.” Her heart beat in her chest. She was pleased that her voice held steady; it had an embarrassing tendency to squeak when she was under stress.
“Trafalgar City Police.” She pounded on the open door. “I’m coming in.” In the back of her mind she listened for the sound of a siren, coming her way. Nothing. She fastened her right hand around the solid butt of her Glock, took a deep breath, and stepped through the door. She was in the kitchen. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink, bits of shattered crockery littered the floor. The scent of overripe fruit lingered in the stifling air. A fly threw itself against the window, going mad in a frenzy of buzzing. The air was foul—meat kept out of the fridge for too long on a hot day, most likely. From the back of the house, slightly muffled as if it was behind a door, thank you God, a dog barked.
“Police,” she shouted again. “I’m…”
“Hey, they sent the pretty one. Nice o’ them.” A man walked into the kitchen. He carried a bottle of beer. His black T-shirt was stained with sweat and dust and the remains of meals past. His gray hair hadn’t seen shampoo in a considerable period of time; his beard was thick and long and unkempt. He smiled at Smith—he was missing his bottom plate—and stepped forward. He slipped in something and collapsed against the counter. “Woopsie,” he said, with a high-pitched giggle.
“You’re drunk.”
“He’s always drunk.” A woman stood in the doorway. Her face was heavily made up, and her hair was dyed too black, emphasizing the wrinkles dragging down her face. She wore a short white denim skirt with a blue tank top and four-inch heels. Drying blood ran from her left nostril, mingling with lipstick the same color. Her lip was beginning to swell. She smelled of good perfume, applied with too heavy a hand. Her voice, also, was none too steady, probably due to the glass she held. It was large, half-full of liquid the color of honey. “He’s had a good look at you, so you can leave now, girlie. There’ll be no more trouble. Once the fuzz arrives he crawls into a corner and sleeps it off.”
“Did your husband hit you, ma’am?” Smith asked.
“Nah. I fell into a door. Nothing to worry about, so you can leave now.” She lifted her glass to her mouth and swallowed.
“This is the second call we’ve had this month to this address. What’s your name?” Smith asked the man, although she knew it. Jake LeBlanc. His wife was Felicia and his daughter was named Lorraine. Lorraine who screwed men in the alleyways because she needed affection and she had nowhere to take them.
Instead of answering the officer’s question Jake took a long pull from his bottle.
“Forget about it, will ya,” Felicia said. “Like I said, I fell into a door. No harm done. I’ll put him to bed.” She took a step toward her husband, tripped on the edge of a ratty rug and fell against him. They both tumbled to the floor in a fountain of flying whisky. The brown bottle broke, spraying shards of glass and beer across the room.
Smith danced nimbly out of the way. As if this kitchen didn’t smell bad enough, spilled liquor was now added to the mix. “You’re coming with me, Mr. LeBlanc. Get up.”
Felicia got to her feet, using her husband’s head as a point of leverage. He slid further down, and she reached toward the open whisky bottle on the counter. A fly buzzed around their heads.
“Help him up,” Smith said to her. “And let’s go.”
“Where we goin’ honey?” Jake said. He put his hands flat on the floor and pushed himself to a standing position. His belt buckle was undone and his fly at half-mast. He thrust his crotch toward her. “Your place, I hope.”
She wanted to gag. “My place of work.” Although she couldn’t see behind her, she was conscious of neighbors gathered around the open door. She felt that she was on stage, performing before a particularly difficult audience. Sweat dripped down her back and between her breasts. There wasn’t a window open and the air was close and heavy. Two flies circled around the liquid on the floor, their buzzing audible even over the noise from the kitchen, the street, and the dog, its barking approaching the point of hysteria.
Jake headed toward the fridge. “Great. I’ll get us something to party with. Okay, honey?”
“You’ve had enough. Do up your pants or you’ll be getting a charge of indecency.”
He leered at her, and Smith reached out, grabbed his upper arm, swung him around, and snapped handcuffs on him. “And,” she said to Felicia, who’d picked a dirty glass out of the crowded sink and was about to pour herself another slug of whis
key. “So have you. Put that glass down.”
“Who the hell do you think you are?” From out of nowhere, Felicia, who had been all calm excuses and trying to make sense, turned on Smith. She began screaming a stream of obscenities that had Smith blinking in shock. Ugly words, sour breath, cheap whisky, and expensive perfume washed over the young policewoman. Spittle gathered in the corners of Felicia’s mouth; her face contorted, and her eyes flared, bloodshot and mean. “Think you can come into my house and tell me what to do. You bloody well better get your hands off my husband, if you know what’s good for you, you bitch.”
“Calm down, Mrs. LeBlanc. I have no interest in your husband.”
Her radio cackled. “Five-one. MVA with injuries downtown. Car is delayed. Sergeant coming.”
“Ten Four. And tell him to hurry.” Smith wasn’t sure if she said the last sentence loud enough to be heard.
Felicia launched herself at Smith, her fingers aiming for the soft, vulnerable eye sockets. Smith leaped back, pulling Jake with her, and Felicia stumbled across the room. She collapsed like a rag doll into a drunken heap on the floor. Where she sat, legs stuck out in front of her, screaming more abuse.
“Bummer,” Jake said.
A motorcycle engine roared up the hill. It was cut off. Someone yelled, “Hurry, hurry. They’re killing her.”
Smith heard pounding footsteps and Sergeant Caldwell, the shift supervisor, burst into the kitchen. He grabbed Felicia and hauled her to her feet.
“I didn’t touch her.” The woman’s purr was as soft and sweet as a kitten. “Ask anyone.”
Caldwell snapped cuffs on Felicia.
“My husband struck me,” she said to the sergeant, her voice soft and pleasant. A solid, reliable citizen explaining what had happened. “It was an accident, but your lady officer overreacted. I understand, and I won’t lay a complaint, if you let me go. Although Jake could use a night in the drunk tank.”
Smith choked back her indignation.
“Bring the man,” Caldwell ordered Smith, as he led Felicia out the door. “Then call the humane society to send someone around to take the dog.”