by R. E. Donald
El shook her head, finally pulled the little dog away from her face. "Not much. Ray does all the business, sometimes doesn't even pick her up ‘til after he's through here. She seems okay, though. A bit rough around the edges, maybe."
"Unlike yourself, you mean," said Hunter, deadpan.
"Fuck off," she said.
But she had to laugh.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
At one thirty, Hunter was sitting in Corporal Al Kowalski's unmarked car, heading for the Burnaby home of Greg Williams, whose thawed corpse was still in the L.A. County morgue. He had dropped by the Burnaby detachment on his way home from Watson Transportation, and been shown to Al's office.
"What took you so long?" Al had said with a crooked smile. "Kupka said you'd been in his face like a dirty shirt. Civilian or not, you can't seem to stay clear of homicide investigations, can you?" He put down his pen and leaned back in his chair. His hairline had receded some and he was a little thicker around the waist, but otherwise Al looked just as he did the day Hunter left the force four years earlier.
Hunter grunted. "I don't go looking for them, if that's what you're trying to say."
Al stuck out his jaw, nodded, then said, "I made it clear to Kupka that you could be trusted. Even told him I might call you in as a consultant, given your inside knowledge of the trucking business."
Hunter studied Al's face, trying to understand his meaning and whether he had just said that for Kupka's benefit, or was this some kind of proposition?
"Unpaid, of course," said Al.
"I'm not sure I follow. Are you asking me...?"
"Since you seem to have some kind of stake in this anyway, I'm asking you to donate a few hours of your time to help me out, answer a few questions."
As soon as Hunter had agreed, Al said, "Good. Let's go," and hooked his jacket off the back of his chair. "I'm due to interview the victim's wife in fifteen minutes. I talked to her briefly yesterday, but she was too shook up to answer questions. We can talk on the way."
They drove east, then south, on Canada Way toward New Westminster. It was a summer Friday afternoon, and traffic heading out of the city was already heavy. "He's got no record," said Al.
"What do you know about him?"
"Almost zip. Just what his wife told us when she reported him missing." Kowalski turned right onto Edmonds. "The guy was a musician, played pubs and lounges, him and his band in a box."
"Synthesizer."
"Right. The wife works for the telephone company. She goes off to work at her usual time Friday morning, leaves the guy in bed, as usual. Gets home that night, goes to bed alone, gets up the next morning. No sign of her squeeze. He works nights, sometimes parties a bit afterwards, like all good citizens he doesn't drink and drive, so at that point she still wasn't too worried, she says. So the day goes by and she doesn't hear from him, so she phones the club he was working at. Turns out he never made it to his gig on Friday night. Nobody heard from him. That's when she starts calling around."
"You talk to his employer yet?"
Al grunted. "Some employer. I say, Do you know him? and the bar manager says to me, The fucker never showed up for a Friday night gig. He'll never fuckin' work here again. Right, I say. He's dead. Then get his fuckin' equipment offa my stage, he says."
Hunter shook his head. "Sensitive guy. What bar is this?"
"Place called Fraser's Dock, at the Shores Hotel in Chilliwack."
"Long way from home."
"Buyers' market. As a musician, this Williams guy wasn't exactly beating clients off with a stick."
They'd headed back west on Kingsway, turned off just before the Middlegate Mall, and pulled up outside a three story house that had seen better days. Al led the way to a side door.
The woman who answered the door was in her early thirties, maybe younger. Her hair was short and dark with a harsh red sheen to it, and stuck up in shiny spikes like licked fur. Her nose was sharp and her lips thin and disapproving, painted a deep burgundy, almost brown. She wore torn jeans and a very short tee shirt. Hunter tried not to stare at the ring in her navel.
"Yeah?" she said. Her voice was loud and raw.
"Is Theresa Jagpal at home?" Al pulled his badge out of his pocket, held it ready.
"Are you the cops?"
"RCMP," said Al, offering his badge.
She barely glanced at it. "Jag!" she yelled over her shoulder. "Jag! It's them!" Then she swung the door open, almost grudgingly, and motioned for them to enter. "Sit there," she said, pointing to a futon sofa. She was barefoot.
Al and Hunter exchanged glances. There were no other chairs in the room, just cushions on the carpet. Hunter walked across the room and stood there, staring out the window, which looked out on an overgrown lawn with a weathered picnic table under a moldering plum tree. A slender, almost anorexic, young woman entered the room. She was brown skinned and fine featured with huge dark eyes, and her black hair was swept up into a knot high on her head, ringed by a yellow cloth band. She looked uncertainly from Al to Hunter, and Al motioned her to the sofa. Al perched himself on the edge of the futon, at the opposite end so he could face her, his knees higher than his hips. Teresa Jagpal seemed to cower into her corner of the sofa, her limbs curled into her body, narrow bare feet swallowed by the cushion. Her thin fingers played with the folds of her tunic. The woman with the ring in her navel leaned against the wall, her arms crossed, one bare foot pressed flat against the wall. Hunter remained standing by the window.
Al glanced at the friend.
"You want me to leave? Is that it?" she said. When Al shrugged, she turned to Teresa Jagpal. "You want me to stay, Jag, I'll stay."
Teresa shot her a weak smile. "Yes, Hellen. Stay."
The name hit Hunter like a fist in the solar plexus. This coarse, abrasive young woman, she didn't look or sound or act like a Helen. He took a deep breath, quietly, and folded his arms, trying to keep the image of his dead friend's wife from occupying his attention.
"Your name?" asked Al. "For my notes."
"Hellen Brooker. Double el in Hellen, make sure you get it right."
Hunter nodded, although no one was watching him.
"Are you a relative?"
"No. I'm a good friend."
Teresa looked at her sharply. Al looked to Teresa for confirmation and after a moment's hesitation, she nodded, eyes downcast. "Yes," she said. "Hellen's a friend." Her voice was softly vibrato, like the low notes on a flute.
"First of all," said Al, "let me once again express my condolences on the loss of your husband. I know this isn't pleasant, having to answer police questions at a time like this, but under the circumstances, we need to know more about your husband and the days preceding his death."
"We weren't married." Teresa looked down at her hands. There was a filigreed silver band around the ring finger of her right hand.
Al pursed his lips. Hunter could tell he found this difficult. Almost anyone would.
"Can you tell me, when was the last time you saw your... you saw Greg?"
"Friday morning, just before I left for work. I came in - to the bedroom - and kissed him good-bye."
"Did he say anything about his plans for the day?"
"He didn't say anything. Just smiled. Or maybe he said, Bye. I'm not sure." Her eyes were so big and dark, they looked like an organ that shouldn't be exposed to air, like a heart, slippery and pulsing and vulnerable. "How did he die? Can you tell me how he died?"
Hunter looked at the floor, but only briefly. He wanted to see her reaction. He wanted to see the reactions of both of the women.
"Uh...," said Al. "The results of the autopsy should be available today. I don't know how much of the information will be released. It's quite possible, though, that your... that Greg froze to death..."
Hunter didn't believe the dark eyes could get any larger, but they did.
"... in a refrigerated trailer."
"Refrigerated trailer? What was he doing there?" she asked.
&n
bsp; "The investigating officer believes that somehow he was locked inside a trailer full of frozen meat."
Teresa drew her breath in sharply, glanced quickly over at her friend. Hellen Brooker's mouth was a hard, thin line. Her head swiveled almost imperceptibly from side to side.
"Meat? A meat trailer? But why?" Teresa's voice had risen, lost its melodious quality. "The why is still under investigation, Ms. Jagpal. Perhaps you can help us out." Al's voice was patient, gentle. "Did Greg have any reason to be visiting a company called Hanratty Meats in Lake City?"
Again the dark eyes met those of Hellen Brooker, then shifted to her hands. She was twisting the filigreed ring around her finger. "I... I don't know. Greg wasn’t part of..." Hunter followed her gaze to the wall behind Hellen. There were three identical posters that screamed, “End the slaughter!” above pictures of baby animals: a sad eyed calf, a yellow chick, a smiling piglet.
“That’s our thing,” volunteered Hellen. “Greg wasn’t into it.”
Al nodded. "Had Greg been acting different lately? Did he seem worried or excited about anything?"
Teresa shook her head. A muscle in her jaw pulsed raggedly.
"Do you know of any reason why anyone would wish to hurt him?"
She bit her lower lip, hesitated. Al had just opened his mouth to speak again when she said, "No. Of course not. Why would anyone want to hurt Greg? He lived for his music. He was totally non-violent, a very gentle man. Very gentle." The dark eyes began to overflow. She pulled a stuffed tiger from under her elbow and hugged it against her chest, letting her chin fall between its tufted ears.
Hunter looked away, looked instead at Hellen Brooker. She was watching Teresa, but there was no compassion in her face. Al continued his questioning, covering the usual areas: did Greg have a car, who were his friends, where did he work, how did he spend his time The car, a 1986 Hyundai, was missing. Then came the awkward part.
"You said you last saw him on Friday morning, isn't that right?" said Al.
"Yes."
Al cleared his throat. "Your first contact with our office was yesterday morning, six full days after he disappeared. Can you tell me, Ms. Jagpal, why you waited so long to report him missing?" His voice was low, but had an edge that left no doubt about the implications of the question.
Teresa first dropped her eyes, as if she were ashamed. "I guess... I guess I was scared," she said.
"Scared of what?"
"Scared that maybe he didn't want me looking for him, that he didn't want the police looking for him."
"Why wouldn't he want the police looking for him?"
She glanced up at her friend, whose eyes were riveted on Teresa's face. She paused and her mouth moved in silence, as if she were rehearsing what to say. Finally she answered, "Hellen said he might be on a binge," her voice so soft Hunter had to strain to hear it.
"Why? Has he done that before?" asked Al, looking from one woman to the other.
Hellen shrugged. Teresa just shook her head, her chin stroking the tiger's ears.
"Then why did you think that might be the case?"
"I thought, maybe..." She looked at the corner of the ceiling, then closed her eyes. "I thought maybe Hellen knew something that I didn't."
Hellen frowned, shrugged her shoulders. "It was just an idea, Teresa. I didn't want you to worry so much." Still frowning, she addressed Al. "Can't you see she's getting upset? Why don't you respect her grief and leave her alone?"
Al ignored her. "Were there problems with your relationship, Ms. Jagpal?" he asked Teresa. "Was there any reason why your husband might have been despondent, might have considered running away?"
Teresa's mouth twisted into an agonized grimace. Her shoulders began to shake, and she covered her face with one slender hand as the other arm clutched the stuffed tiger. It was clear that she was crying, but her sobs were almost inaudible, as if she were afraid to make a sound.
"Ms. Jagpal?" prompted Al.
"Can't you leave her alone?" Hellen moved quickly to the sofa and put her arm around Teresa's shoulders. "Fuckin' pigs!" she snarled. "Leave her the fuck alone."
Al paused for a minute, and Hunter suspected he was debating whether to remove Hellen from the room. Instead he just repeated his question.
Teresa Jagpal shook her head.
On the way out, Hunter took a closer look at the posters on the wall. Below the cuddly pictures, there were some lines – poetry? Hunter couldn’t tell – that read:
I have feelings.
I love, I play, I hurt, just like you do.
I am a creature of peace.
I will not hurt you.
Please respect my right to live, as I do yours.
Please don’t let me die in pain.
Each poster had an insignia of some sort in the lower right had corner, something that looked like an anchor on its side.
Back in the car, Hunter suggested Al might want to interview the wife again, but alone next time.
"I think I'll just do that," said Al. "Or maybe you'd like to take a crack at it. You're single, free of professional... uh... constraints." He raised his eyebrows suggestively.
Hunter looked at him sharply. "What?"
"That young woman is damned attractive, maybe in need of a strong shoulder to cry on, you know what I mean?" He raised his eyebrows again, the corner of his lip curled. "Hey? Why not?"
Hunter decided he wasn't going to dignify the comment with a reply. "I don't know why you married guys think being single is some kind of party. It's not, by a long shot. It's you married guys who've got it made. By the way, how's Marta? Seems like years since I've seen her."
"If it's been years since you've seen her, then you don't know what you're talking about, saying us married guys have got it made." Al snorted softly.
"Why?"
"Two hundred and eighty pounds is why. Ever been to bed with a sumo wrestler?"
Hunter tried to think of something encouraging to say, but couldn't. "How does Marta feel about it?" he asked instead. He'd never been overweight himself, but knew a lot of heavy people who were comfortable with their size.
Al waved his hand in disgust. "She's always talking about diets, but that doesn't stop her from eating lunch at McDonalds and having ice cream before bed every night. And get this. She orders diet sodas. What's the good of a fuckin' diet soda when you're pigging out on a Big Mac with double fries? I say anything about it, and she looks at me like I've just murdered her pet cat. Christ!"
"Do you think Teresa Jagpal is hiding something?" Hunter said, sorry that he'd led the conversation off track.
"Maybe." Al sighed. "Look," he said. "I shouldn't have said anything about Marta. I feel like such an asshole. She's a good wife. She's just not the little pixie I married, you know what I mean?" He paused, sighed again. "I guess I feel cheated, you know what I mean?"
"Sure," said Hunter. He felt sorry for them both.
Teresa closed the door of the bedroom, pressing softly so the latch slid home with a click as soft as the tick of a clock. She didn't want Hellen to hear that she had left the bathroom. She didn't want Hellen's sympathy. Not that Hellen would come pounding on the door, insisting to be allowed inside. Teresa didn't think so anyway. She turned and leaned her back against the door, her hands pinned behind her buttocks. This had been their room, and now it was hers.
Greg's waterbed, his only contribution to the household furniture. She'd hated it at first, but he'd been so proud of it. She pictured the room with her old bed, its sheets neatly tucked under the mattress. She could have all five drawers now, if she cleared away Greg's underwear and socks from the chest of drawers. Its top was cluttered with guitar picks and bits of notepaper he emptied from his pockets, each making small dark islands in the sea of dust. It would take less than a minute to sweep them into a Safeway bag and tuck them in the back of the closet, wouldn't it? Why would she want to save them? In case Greg came back?
Teresa took a deep breath. Greg was dead. Dead. She mouthed the word, tr
ying to understand it. Get your head around it, was what Greg would have said. Greg was dead and his death felt as foreign to her as much of his life had been, just another secret he kept from her. Instead of missing him, she was already itching to clear away his things. She knew she should be ashamed of how she felt. She pulled her hands from behind her back and covered her eyes, willing herself to cry, but no tears came.
She felt a tug at the carpet beneath her heels, and heard a soft sound, like the popping of tiny bubbles. She opened the door, and Grey Tiger slipped around the corner like liquid mercury, rubbed up against her bare shin. "Tiger," she said. "You can sleep with me again tonight." And she picked him up and nuzzled his neck, soft as a breeze and smelling of rain. "I love you, Tiger," she said, and started to cry.
Sitting next to Al and discussing the next step in the investigation felt good to Hunter, like sliding his feet into an old pair of slippers. It had always felt right, being a homicide detective.
In addition to a calendar Greg had kept that showed the clubs he was scheduled to play at, Teresa Jagpal had given Al a few names. Three of them were friends, fellow members of a sometime band called Carrot Rampant, and one was Greg Williams' brother, a Vancouver city cop. Al was on the phone to the VPD before they'd reached Kingsway, and by four o'clock the three of them were sitting in a quiet booth inside the Knight and Day restaurant at Lougheed and Boundary. Chad Williams had sandy hair buzzed at the temples, and his biceps strained against the short blue sleeves of his uniform.
"That little bitch." Chad Williams' voice barely rose above a whisper, but it erupted with the thrust of a greased piston.
"I'm sorry," said Al. "I should've..."
"No. No, it's not your fault. How could you know she hates my guts?" He looked away, covered his mouth with his hand as he took a deep breath through his nose. He wore a heavy ring with an oval jade stone. "Fuck!" he said, and shook his head. "He was fucked up, sure, but he was still my brother."
Al and Hunter exchanged glances.