Ice on the Grapevine

by R. E. Donald

  The woman laughed. "You're such a tiger!"

  When the tape finished, El's head was down, rolling from side to side on her forearms on the desk. "Goddamn it. Goddamn it all to hell. Goddamn it," she said over and over again. She raised her head to look at Hunter. "Sharon. Sharon was in on it, too. That goddamn whore. He did it, didn't he? That poor lovestruck schmuck. Ray did it for her." When Hunter didn't respond, she raised her head, frowning. "Aren't I right? Please tell me I'm wrong."

  Hunter shook his head sadly, wishing he could answer her question. "The only thing I can tell you for sure after listening to these two tapes is that Greg Williams was playing with fire. We've listened to one out of ten tapes, and been introduced to two men who might have wanted him dead. This second man could easily have wanted revenge on them both. What better way than to frame one for the murder of the other?"

  El frowned again. "You're right. Do you think we can find this Mike guy?"

  He smiled, shook the envelope full of tapes. "I think I'd like to find out just how many Mikes and Chesters there are in here before I turn these tapes over to the RCMP"

  El pushed the rewind button. "The dogs' dinner will just have to be late," she said, looking at her watch. "I'll go make us some coffee."

  Russell's last scheduled stop that day was the Blackburn Hotel, where he planned to interview one of the witnesses who had seen Sharon Nillson arguing with the victim. The witness's name was Pat Stevens and she was the assistant manager. When he introduced himself, the woman rolled her eyes, clicked her tongue against her teeth in an exasperated tsk. It wrenched his gut. She reminded him so much of Jennifer.

  "Not again," she said. "I've already been over it - thoroughly - with the RCMP. I must've said the same thing to at least three people - no, four. I signed a statement and everything. Didn't you read it?"

  Russell wanted to reach out and touch her hair. It was streaked with gold, lighter than Jennifer's, but just as long, its fullness caught up behind in a careless band of cloth. She wore lipstick that made her full lips look freshly licked. He found himself licking his own. "I'm sorry, but it's very important I talk to you myself. I have questions that weren't answered in the statement. Is there somewhere we can be alone?"

  At that, she smirked mischievously, raised and lowered dark lashes as she looked him up and down. "Why, Detective!" she said. "That's the best offer I've had all day." Abruptly serious again, she sighed and called out to the bartender. "Send a free round over to table four. If that doesn't make them happy, I'll be back as soon as I can." Then she motioned for Russell to follow her, shaking her head. "Some scumbag's claiming he found a slug in his salad." Her earrings clinked softly. "Well, he probably did, but so what? A little extra protein never hurt anybody. Besides, it's only this big. Just a cute little baby one." She held her thumb and index finger at eye level, a quarter of an inch apart. Her fingernails were the same color as her lips. Then she giggled. "Oh, yeah. You're from southern California and you probably think I'm talking about a bullet or something. You ever seen a slug? Like, a snail without a shell?"

  She let them into a little office, where she sat in a chair behind the desk and motioned Russell to sit on a stack of liquor boxes piled in front of it. "A little pilferage problem," she explained. "When the bartenders need a new bottle, they've got to get it from me or the manager." She shook the key ring she'd used to open the door. "You sometimes wonder if there's an honest person left in this world."

  "Does that include Sharon Nillson?"

  "You mean Sharon MacNeil? That was her name when she worked here, anyway." Pat pouted thoughtfully. "Sharon was as honest as anybody. I liked Sharon a lot. She reminded me of that Shirley MacLaine movie, Sweet Charity. You ever see that? Poor woman gets kicked in the teeth a hundred times but still won't stop chasing rainbows." She smiled up from underneath her lashes. "Sorta like me."

  Russell remembered the movie. He remembered wanting to see the guy that jilted her get his head kicked in. He thought about the suspect, Sharon Nillson, the hard set of her jaw when she refused to speak, the defiance in her eyes. Could he believe she was vulnerable and scared underneath that hard veneer? "Tell me more about Sharon. It doesn't have to be anything you'd swear to in court. Just tell me what you knew of her, so I can get a better picture of her as a person." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "She doesn't talk much, you see."

  "Sharon? Not talk much? Hah!" She grinned. "You're pulling my leg, right? Sharon's one of the friendliest, most talkative people I know. That's why she and that trucker she married hit it off so well. A shy guy. I hardly ever heard him say a word." She opened a drawer and pulled out an ashtray and a package of cigarettes, then lit one up and inhaled deeply before she spoke again.

  Russell found himself remembering how it tasted, kissing a woman who had just smoked a cigarette. Without thinking, he licked his lips again. She caught him doing it and half smiled.

  "Sharon had the balls - if you know what I mean - to do what she had to do to survive, but she was a kind person, more sensitive than she let on, I think. You know the old movie stereotype of the good hearted hooker? Well, that's Sharon." She tapped the cigarette on the rim of the ashtray. "Is this the kind of stuff you want to hear?"

  Russell had been so distracted, it took him a couple of seconds to react. "Sharon Nillson was a hooker?"

  Pat made a seesaw motion with the hand that held the cigarette. "She worked here as a server. But using a little... uh... deductive reasoning, something you as a detective are probably familiar with..." She winked, and he smiled. "Some guys used to always sit in her section, you know? And go outside with her on her breaks, and she'd come back all lit up, so I gathered she was exchanging favors for a hit of coke, if you know what I mean? Remember, this is nothing I'd swear to in court."

  "An addict?"

  She nodded, setting her earrings swinging. One of them caught briefly in her hair. "Booze, too, sometimes. Occupational hazard. She got suspended here after a couple of bad incidents, then she cleaned up real well, went through a program, and the boss let her come back to work. As far as I know, she was clean from then on."

  "What was her relationship with Greg Williams?"

  "Nothing special, far as I know. They talked, like everybody does. Hell, I talked to him sometimes, too."

  "Do you think he was selling her drugs?"

  She shrugged. "Maybe they went outside together a couple of times, I wouldn't have paid that much attention. Sharon took a lot of her breaks outside. Musicians..." She shrugged. "... they're in and out all the time. I'd never seen them arguing before, if that means anything. They got along fine. Like I said, nothing special." She crushed out her cigarette, looking up at him from under lowered lashes as she did so. "How long are you in town for, Detective?"

  It was almost eleven o'clock when Hunter pulled into the driveway of his landlord's house. His landlord was on his knees at the edge of the driveway, a flashlight in one hand and an old sneaker in the other. There was an earnest look on his face, no sign of distress. Hunter turned off the ignition and set his parking brake before strolling over to ask what was going on.

  "The cat," explained Gord, directing the flashlight under a rhododenron bush. "Puss, puss, puss, puss. I don't like her to stay out at night because of the raccoons and coyotes. Puss, puss, puss, puss." He shook the sneaker.

  "What's with the sneaker?"

  Gord thrust the sneaker under the bush, then pulled it out slowly. "It's the shoelace. I'm trying to lure her out with the shoelace." There was a rustling in the rhododendron, then a pale skinny Siamese leg shot out toward the sneaker and just as quickly disappeared. "Puss, puss, puss, puss."

  "Can I help?" asked Hunter, squatting down beside his landlord.

  "Could you stand back over there..." He motioned toward the dark side of the rhododendron. "... and grab her next time she comes out?"

  Five minutes and two tries later, Hunter had his two hands circling the cat's wriggling body, holding it far out in front of him s
o her claws wouldn't catch on his shirt. Gord got to his feet as fast as his age would allow him and led the way to the front door, letting them all inside just in the nick of time. The cat seemed to turn in its skin, snagging Hunter's sleeve with its teeth, and he threw it to the carpet as if it were made of molten metal.

  "Holy Mackerel!" said Hunter, examining his sleeve for holes. "She's doesn't much like being picked up, does she?" The cat was glaring at him from under a chair.

  "That's why I let you do it," said Gord.

  "Thanks," muttered Hunter. "You wouldn't happen to have a tape recorder, would you? One with a good microphone?"

  Before carrying his own portable radio-cassette player up to Gord's living room where the tape recorder was, Hunter phoned Al Kowalski's home from his downstairs suite. Al's wife, Marta, answered.

  "Sorry, Hunter. Al's not home," Marta said. "Either he's still working or unwinding somewhere with a couple of other cops. Weekdays, weekends, it doesn't matter. Seems like I never see him anymore." Her voice was cheerful, but Hunter sensed the hurt behind her words. He imagined Christine saying the exact same words about him five or six years ago. It made him sad. He asked her to have Al call him as early in the morning as he could.

  There were only three of the twenty tapes that Hunter wanted to make copies of. He wasn't sure what he'd need them for, but he didn't want to chance the originals being somehow misplaced. The first tape was one of several with Ruby's voice on it. He couldn't help but think she might hold the answers to Greg Williams’ murder, and a copy of the tape might be necessary to help track her down, and ultimately to persuade her to cooperate once he'd managed to find her.

  There were three male voices on the second tape, one of them Greg Williams. There was the sound of two car doors slamming, then Williams introduced one of the men to the other, sneaking in a name for the sake of the tape. "Mr. Brantford, this is the gentleman who can give you what you're looking for."

  "We don't need last names," said one of the other voices irritably.

  "Sorry. Colin, then. This is..."

  "Shut up. No names at all." The voice of the third man sounded familiar to Hunter, but he couldn't place it. "You know this guy? How do I know he's not a cop?"

  "Trust me. He's not a cop." It was Williams' voice. "He's having a party, invited a friend of mine, who suggested he come here to buy... uh... refreshments."

  "What friend?"

  "A girl. You wouldn't know her, but she's okay. Trust me. She's okay, he's okay, you're okay, I'm okay." A weak laugh.

  "You've got cash?" A brief silence. "Did he tell you how much?"

  Williams again. "He's good for it."

  "Listen, bud. My cash isn't the problem. With this big an investment, I want to be sure of what I'm buying, you know what I mean?"

  "Peruvian. Pure. Very clean."

  "You think I'm an idiot? You let me do a line first, before I commit to buy."

  "It's good coke," said Greg Williams.

  The other male voice said, "Show me the cash. I don't give you a free sample until I know you came prepared to do more than just kick tires."

  "You think I'm not good for it?" said Brantford, sounding disgusted.

  "He doesn't know who you are," said Williams.

  Brantford swore, there were a few seconds of silence, then, "See? Yankee dollars. You happy now?"

  A sigh. "Yeah. Sure. Here, do a line."

  Williams' voice sang softly, "Cocaine, cocaine, goin' 'round my brain."

  Hunter's landlord wandered in from his kitchen carrying a glass of milk and a peanut butter sandwich. "Thought you might need a midnight snack," whispered Gord, putting the milk and the sandwich on the coffee table in front of Hunter. "I'm heading off to bed. Just turn out the lights when you're done." He paused as if he recognized something, listening intently for a few seconds with a quizzical frown on his face.

  The buyer was saying, "Seems pretty good. Where'd you get this stuff?"

  "Peruvian. That's all you need to know. You want it or not?"

  "Yeah. I'll take it. And it had better be good right to the bottom of the bag. You don't ever want to make me mad, dude. Trust me."

  "Turn on the light." The sound of a car door opening. "I want to read the numbers on these bills."

  Hunter stopped the recording tape. "You recognize that voice? It's driving me crazy. I've heard that voice before. I'd swear I've met this man, but I can't for the life of me place the voice." He scratched the back of his neck. El had found one of the male voices familiar, too, but not the same one. Put in their own context, they'd probably be easier to identify.

  "That's Colin Brantford, isn't it?"

  "You know Brantford?"

  "Doesn't everybody in Vancouver? At least, everybody who watches the TV news."

  "I guess you'd have to watch it more than once every couple of weeks," Hunter said. "I must miss at least eighty percent of the news in this town. My dispatcher does, too, evidently. Who's this Brantford?"

  "Department store scion, invests in all kinds of high profile things. Lately, though, he's been denying - rather lamely, I might add - rumors that he'll be running for mayor of Vancouver this fall."

  Hunter nodded his head thoughtfully. "I see. Is he the buyer or the seller?"

  "He's the one that said, You don't ever want to make me mad."

  "How about the other voice? That's the one that sounds familiar to me."

  Gord shrugged. "Haven't a clue," he said. "Good night."

  Hunter was tired when he was finished recording the third tape, thanks in part to the milk and sandwich, which he found unexpectedly pleasing, making him think for the hundredth time how lucky he was to have Gord Young for his landlord. After turning out the lights upstairs, he returned to his own suite and stowed the duplicate tapes in his desk, put the originals on his kitchen counter. As he stripped off his clothes, he wondered how Al and Russell would react to the tapes. He visualized picking up a rock on the beach and watching a dozen tiny crabs scurry to find new cover. Instead of making their job easier, the tapes had suddenly turned up a collection of men with motives at least as compelling as Ray and Sharon Nillson's might have been, some with the money or connections to arrange a frame up.

  At least as good a suspect as the high profile man with family money, running for political office, was the man on the third tape Hunter had just made a recording of, a man who not only risked losing his reputation and livelihood, but also his freedom, and with that, possibly his life. A man who, in Hunter's estimation, was the lowest of the low, a man who not only broke the law, but who was a betrayer of everything Hunter had held sacred for the best part of his life.

  The man on the third tape was a dirty cop.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  "I could call room service."

  "No, don't bother. That'll be just fine. It's the company that's important." She said it with a delicious little grin.

  Russell studied her face for a few seconds, smiled slowly back at her. Pat's resemblance to Jennifer was only superficial. Jennifer would have bitched unless he'd had a decent bottle of Chardonnay sent up, with an iced wine bucket and stem glasses. Generic mini bar wine would never do. Russell unscrewed the cap off the miniature bottle of white wine, poured half the bottle into the tumbler and handed it to her. Then he unscrewed the top off the bottle of red, and poured some for himself.

  "Here's to the hospitality industry," Pat said with a wink. She took a sip, then put down the glass and began to remove her earrings. "I like hotel rooms. There's no beating around the bush. You invite a girl in and, voila!, she's not only in your bedroom, she's sitting on your bed and putting her jewellery on your nightstand." She paused before adding, "And stuff." Beside the earrings was a condom.

  Russell laughed. "There's something to be said for not beating around the bush. You're pretty good at it yourself." He was leaning against the TV cabinet, in no hurry to get close to her, and he wondered why. He wanted her. There was no doubt about that. But he
found watching and listening to her refreshing and delightful, a soothing balm to the cuts that had stung him since his last conversation with Jennifer. His eyes strayed to the room's phone. No flashing light. No call to even acknowledge the gift basket he'd asked the hotel to send to her room that afternoon. No reason not to spend the night with Pat.

  Pat picked up her glass and began to play her tongue along the rim, glancing up at him with a sly smile.

  In the past three years, since he and Jennifer had started seeing each other, Russell had had sex with only one other woman, and that was near the very beginning of their relationship. He had never again even been tempted. Jennifer, by dint of her strong personality and high self-esteem, demanded and was willingly accorded sole rights to his emotional and physical allegiance. Until today. Last night she'd kicked him away like a flea-bitten mutt. She'd called him disgusting. "Dismissed," he mouthed into his wine glass, as if it were a revelation.

  He put down his glass and started to take off his jacket, but before he could shrug his way out of it, Pat was in front of him with her hands gripping his lapels and her warm belly pressing against his. He felt the wet heat of her breath against his neck as she whispered, "Let me do that, Detective," then began to explore his chest and shoulders with her hands under his jacket. He felt the heat and rush of his blood in his ears, and as her tongue began to caress the corners of his lips, he shuddered and pulled her into an urgent kiss, overwhelmed by a sudden hunger.

  She slipped his jacket off, pulled him gently by his tie toward the bed. Then she dropped her hands and, shoulders back, seemed to offer herself to him. "Undress me first," she said, her voice already husky with arousal. As soon as he'd dropped her blouse to the floor, she turned her back to him and lifted her arms to encircle his neck, arching her back. His hands felt weightless as he began to stroke her naked breasts, tentatively at first, gently tweaking her nipples until they grew and hardened. She sighed and pressed against him, moving her buttocks rhythmically against his groin until he thought he would go mad with his hunger for her and had to pull away to undo his belt. They both removed their remaining clothes, frantic to be naked and touching. "Hurry, hurry," she whispered, with a pained intake of breath as she waited for him to fumble with the condom. Arms snaking around her, Russell boosted her hips up against his and was inside her before he lowered their locked bodies to the bed.