by R. E. Donald
The trucker shrugged slightly, made a face. "I don't know." He tapped the steering wheel lightly with his fingers, frowning in thought. "I don't like coincidences," he continued. "I've known them to go either way, and that makes them hard to read."
"What coincidences?" Russell reached forward and turned down the radio. It wasn't loud, but it was interfering with his concentration.
"The victim and his girlfriend and roommate were strongly against eating meat, and into animal rights, according to the victim's brother. There had been animal rights graffiti at Hanratty, with a tag that matched the signature on some posters at the victim’s home. It might mean nothing, or..." The trucker shrugged again.
"Pretty weak. Kowalski told me that’s already been discounted. That tagger’s been all over town. Doesn't even rate being called a coincidence, in my book," said Russell. "Now, if, for example, the shipper had been seen arguing with the victim the week before..."
Rayne shot him a wry glance. "I get your point," he said, and they lapsed into silence again.
As they approached the border, Rayne explained the normal procedure a trucker would go through at the border. He pointed out two parking areas where the Nillsons' rig may have been left unattended while the drivers visited the customs brokers to get the paperwork in order, one the lot behind a duty free store, and the other designed specifically for big rigs, but with limited capacity. As they waited in the line-up inching toward the booths where passenger vehicles were required to report, he also pointed out the raised booth where a simple freight clearance could be accomplished without the drivers having to get out of their cabs. "Because they were hauling meat, Ray and Sharon would have had no choice but to stop for inspection, so they would've parked and gone inside. Given the circumstances, it's unlikely they would have knowingly arrived at the border with Williams in their trailer."
"With the car being found in Mount Vernon, it makes more sense that he would have been put into the trailer there," agreed Russell.
After a few questions, the customs inspector waved them through, and Rayne pulled the Pontiac into a parking spot to the left of the booths. Russell had called ahead, and he knew the customs inspector he wanted to talk to was on duty and expecting him. He got out of the car before Rayne had even turned off the ignition, and strode toward the building on the commercial vehicle side. He wanted to make it clear to Rayne and anyone else that this was the U.S.A., and it was his turf, not Rayne's. He stepped inside the door and looked around. There were long line-ups of people and luggage in front of the only two customs inspectors behind the counter.
He heard a voice say, "Russell. This way." Russell turned and saw the trucker holding open the door and motioning him back outside. Russell swore under his breath.
The trucker matched strides with him and was there to open the door for him on the other side of the building. Russell approached the counter and cleared his throat, waiting for attention from one of the inspectors. One of them looked up from the paperwork on his desk, then back down again. The others didn't even look up.
"Hey, chief! How's the shiner?" he heard Rayne say from beside him, and one of the customs inspectors looked up.
"Hello again," he said to the trucker, and glanced over at Russell. "You brought the LAPD back with you. Not in the reefer, I trust."
Russell wasn't amused. "Russell Kupka. L.A. County Sheriff's Department, Homicide Division," he said coldly. He couldn't tell for sure if it was the same voice he'd heard over the phone, so he said, "You're Inspector Donohue?"
Donohue nodded, stood up behind his desk. "Let's go outside," he suggested. "I'll show you the layout."
Russell followed Donohue as the customs inspector explained where the Nillsons' rig had been parked, and how the inspection was carried out. "We had him back it up here and open the doors. Stu isn't on duty right now - he was the agricultural inspector that day - but as I told you on the phone, I know for a fact he didn't look at any more than the rearmost skids of that load. There's really no justification for inspecting every skid in every trailer. As a consequence, full inspections are generally made at random, or if we have a reason to be suspicious. In this case, we had no reason to offload the goods."
"What would have made you suspicious?" asked Russell.
"If the shipper had been red flagged because of non-compliance in the past, or if we'd received a tip about irregularities with the load, or in some cases, we decide to take a closer look if the driver seems nervous or in some way makes us suspect he's got something to hide. There's a lot of drugs, marijuana in particular, moving into the U.S. from B.C. Some big hydroponic grow operations north of the border, high-tech stuff."
Russell stole a glance at Rayne. The trucker was standing at a slight distance from the two of them, his posture relaxed, arms folded across his chest. It occurred to Russell that a trucker could boost his income significantly by ferrying drugs in so-called routine loads. "So if these drivers had done anything to arouse suspicion, you'd have examined the load more closely?"
"If we thought it was drugs, we would've brought in the dogs." Donohue motioned Russell to move away from the loading dock, and the three of them stood silently for a moment, watching a fifty-three foot trailer being backed into position for inspection. "Amazing how accurate some of these drivers can be. I have trouble backing up my kid's toy wagon."
"How about your bike?" asked the trucker with a sly smile.
"No problem. At least I've never gone over the handlebars backing up," the customs inspector answered with a grin.
Russell ignored the exchange. He pulled a small notebook out of his jacket pocket and referred to it. "You told me over the phone that you remembered the drivers. You know: the wife's a Canadian and has applied for her green card?"
"Right," said Donohue. "The blond and the big guy. Seemed friendly enough."
"You remember anything else about them since we last spoke?"
The customs inspector shook his head regretfully. "Sorry."
"So there were four of you standing around back here, is that right?"
"Right. We only needed the one of them to open the door, but she came with him. That's when we talked about the green card business, while Stu was poking around the back of the load. The big guy was pretty quiet. The wife did most of the talking."
"And when the inspection was finished?"
"The driver closed the doors and we left."
"And they drove away?"
"Not immediately, no. There was some paperwork to clear up, so they had to wait a couple of minutes before they could leave."
"They waited here?"
Donohue shook his head, jerked his thumb in the direction of the office. "At the counter out front."
"And you don't think anyone could have gotten into the trailer during that time?" asked Russell, gesturing at the open loading dock.
"Not with the back doors padlocked shut."
Hunter dropped the California detective off at the Villa Hotel in Burnaby. He was hungry. He'd suggested stopping for a meal at the restaurant in Mount Vernon, but in reply, Russell had wrinkled his nose as if he'd encountered a bad smell and then informed Hunter that he had to rush back for a dinner engagement in Vancouver. They didn't do much in Mount Vernon except examine the site. The local police had canvassed the restaurant and surrounding shops, and hadn't been able to turn up a single person who remembered seeing the car arrive, and only a couple who'd even noticed the police making a fuss over it before it was towed away. On the drive back, the detective seemed distant and preoccupied, and they had exchanged very few words.
Leaving the hotel, Hunter couldn't decide whether to turn left or right. Should he head straight for home, pick up something to eat along the way, or should he drop in at his daughters' place to see if one or both them might be free for a late dinner? He thought of Lance the Lawyer, and decided to pull over and phone instead. He couldn't stomach the thought of seeing his ex-wife's lover again, and hoped that at least the man would never answer the
phone.
"Hello?" It was Christine. "Hello?"
Hunter wasn't sure what to say. He hadn't spoken to his ex-wife since the night of the barbecue, and she'd been none too happy with him then. "Hi, Chris. It's me," he said.
For a moment he was afraid she was going to hang up. Then, in a tight little voice, she said, "The girls aren't home."
"I'm sorry about the other night," he said. "I shouldn't even have come."
"It wasn't your fault," she said with a sigh. "The girls." She paused, sighed again. "We were both kind of set up, if you know what I mean."
"They're too young to know better."
"You don't have to like him." There was a hostile edge to her voice.
"I know that, Chris. I'm sorry." He knew he should drop the subject right there, but he didn't. "I guess I've lost my patience with drunks."
There were a few seconds of taught silence, then, "Fuck you." Hunter winced. She never used to swear. "It was different when the drunk was your buddy Ken, wasn't it? I couldn't say a bad word about him without you calling me uptight. You never once admitted what a lush he was."
"And you pitied Helen for putting up with it."
"That was an entirely different situation."
Hunter gritted his teeth. He wanted to continue to argue with her, he wanted to stand up for Ken the way he'd done a thousand times before, but he knew it would only make things worse. "Tell the girls I called," he said instead.
"Fuck you," she said again, and his phone went dead.
Hunter turned the phone off and tucked it back in its case. He didn't want to think about it. His face expressionless, he put the car in gear and turned its nose toward the highway to the North Shore. On a day like this one, he figured, the best thing was to cut your losses and head for home, drink a few beers and eat take-out food sitting in front of the television with your brain turned off until you fell asleep.
The worst of it was, Hunter knew that she'd been right.
When Russell walked into his room at the Villa Hotel, there was a flashing light on his telephone. He knew it couldn't be Jennifer, because she still didn't know he was in Vancouver. He wanted to talk to her directly, not exchange voice mails, so he hadn't left one. He picked up the receiver and punched the button to retrieve the message.
"Detective Kupka, this is Chad Williams, Greg Williams' brother. I understand from speaking to the RCMP that you're the primary investigator into my brother's murder, and I'd like to discuss it with you. Please call me as soon as possible so we can set up a meeting. You can reach me through the Vancouver Police Department..." He'd left a number for the VPD Vice unit, and another number for his cellular phone.
A second message followed: "Detective Kupka, this is Chad Williams again. I'm off duty now, and you can reach me directly at my cellular number. Please call me immediately when you receive this message."
And a third: "This is Chad Williams. I'm waiting for you in the cocktail lounge of your hotel. Either page me, or join me here as soon as possible. I'm in the booth at the northwest corner, farthest from the bar."
"Shit!" said Russell. He dialed the number of Jennifer's hotel, which he'd already tried twice since his arrival that morning. Again, there was no answer in her room, and he declined to leave a message. "What the hell," he thought, "It saves me tracking him down. I'll go have a drink with Williams and by then it'll be time to try again."
The lounge was dark and quiet, with comfortable armchairs in earth tones and rose, and low round tables with varnished cherrywood surfaces. Chad Williams stood up as Russell approached, and the two men shook hands across the table. "What'll you have?" asked Williams as the waitress approached.
Russell looked at Williams' half empty glass. It looked like ginger ale. "What are you having?"
Williams pushed the glass away. "Now that you're here, I'll switch to beer. I'll have a Kokanee Gold," he said to the waitress.
"Make that two," said Russell, and sat down.
"And a shot of Johnnie Walker Black," added Williams.
Russell shrugged. "Why not?" he said, taking off his jacket and loosening his tie. "It's been a long day." He leaned back, relaxing into the chair, and studied Williams. He was squarely built and only slightly gone to flab, quasi-military haircut, unmistakably a street cop. "What can I do for you?" Russell asked him.
Williams' eyes widened, and his nostrils flared. "My brother is dead and you ask me what you can do for me? You can tell me what the fuck is going on with your investigation, for starters."
Russell held his hands up. "Sorry, pal. Bad choice of words on my part. Like I said, it's been a long day." He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "How about I start over? First off, my sincere condolences on the loss of your brother. I know you're a fellow cop, and I guess that made me lose sight of the fact that you're a victim here, too. I'm sorry if I sounded insensitive."
"Okay, just don't jerk me around. Tell me where you're at now. I want to know what happened to Greg."
"How much have the RCMP told you so far?"
It turned out that Chad Williams knew the basics about the crime scene, the cause of death, and the suspects. Russell filled in some of the details, and while they discussed it, the waitress arrived with their drinks.
"That's where we're at so far," said Russell. "I'm here looking for more evidence to support what we've already got, which is pretty strong, even though circumstantial. I know we're on the right track, but I'd really like to uncover the motive." He pulled photos of Ray and Sharon Nillson out of his coat pocket. "You ever seen either of these two people?"
Williams studied the photos, then shook his head. "They the drivers?"
Russell nodded. "We know for a fact your brother's body was in their trailer. Now I want to find out how and why he got there."
"Sorry. I don't know many of my brother's friends." He paused to watch the waitress set down their drinks. "What about Greg's car? I heard they found the car. Was there anything in it?"
"Nothing to link him to the suspects, as far as we can tell. Fingerprints belonged mostly to your brother, his wife..."
Williams grunted. "Don't call her that," he said.
"Hey! Whether or not I call her that, legally...”
"Legally shit!" said Williams, and slammed back his shot of scotch whiskey. "If Greg had wanted her to be his wife, he would've married the bitch!"
Russell shrugged. "Outa my hands, pal." He found Williams' volatility irritating. He didn't owe this asshole anything.
"I'm sorry," said Williams. "It's a sore point with me. I warned Greg about her, about getting mixed up with a broad he wouldn't want to bring home to mother. You stick with her for too long, I said, and she'll own half of you. Not worth it for a piece of tail, I told him. Get out before it's too late. But he wouldn't fuckin' listen. She'd turn those big cow eyes in his direction and his brains turned to mush."
Russell downed his own shot of Johnnie Walker. He felt its trail of fire from the back of his throat right down to his belly, and the relaxing warmth spread down to his fingertips and toes within seconds. He sighed. "You want to hear about the car or not?" he said.
Williams nodded.
"There was a guitar. An acoustic guitar in a case...”
"Don't let her have any of that stuff. Anybody gets his stuff, it should be me, not her."
Russell glared at him.
"Sorry I interrupted. Go on." Williams raised his beer to his lips, as if to prevent himself from speaking.
"And a tape recorder with a tape in it."
Williams' beer glass hit the table with a thud. "A tape? What kind of a tape? What was on it?"
Russell frowned, and put his head back to take a few long swallows of his own beer. He was extending a courtesy here. He wasn't obligated to tell this man anything, and he certainly didn't intend to jeopardize the investigation by revealing things that could become important evidence. He put his beer down, then shrugged. "A song your brother was working on, I guess. Nothing of great importance, a
s far as I could tell."
"A song? No conversations? Were there any other tapes?"
Russell's mouth twitched in irritation. "I said, a tape - a single tape - and I think the RCMP homicide detectives and myself are pretty good judges of whether or not it contained anything relevant to the case." Williams looked chastened, and in a moment of uncomfortable silence, they both turned their attention to their drinks.
The waitress arrived with a second round. Russell began to protest, but Williams said, "It's on me, Detective. I appreciate you being so forthcoming with me." He pushed the second shot of Johnnie Walker toward Russell's right hand, and raised his own glass. "To my little brother," he said.
Russell had no choice but to drink.
Eighty minutes and two more rounds later, Russell was sick of hearing Chad Williams rant about his brother's choice of women and careers. He had to agree that being a bar musician wasn't the most practical choice of vocations, but he would have to meet this poor woman for himself, and after tonight, he was feeling inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt. It was the American way, wasn't it? to root for the underdog.
Chad Williams' confided what he called "valuable tips", including some general information about Greg's band, their rumored drug involvement, a suggestion that there was valuable recording equipment in the band's studio. "All the stuff that belonged to Greg should come to me. Don't let that little bitch get her hands on it, or those slack-ass musicians he hung out with."
Here we go again, thought Russell, then looked at his watch and groaned. "Look," he said, getting abruptly to his feet. "I gotta go. If you think of anything else, call Al Kowalski, will you? He'll make sure I get the message." Then he hustled himself out of there before Williams had a chance to protest.