by R. E. Donald
"That phone call," said Al. "It was your friend, Russell Kupka. It appears that Ray Nillson has confessed."
On his drive back from LAX, Russell hadn't been sure how he felt. Unsettled might have been the best word. Unsettled and uncertain. He knew now it was over with Jennifer - she would never forgive him for that humiliation - but, as yet, he felt no sense of loss. Pat had jollied him out of his funk, and she ended up staying the night. A sense of her floated like a mist around him: a taste, a touch, a tightening in the groin, and kept drawing his attention away from the here and now. Uppermost on today's agenda was a meeting with the chief, wherein Russell would be expected to produce evidence of enough progress on the Iceman case to justify his trip to Vancouver.
He went over it again in his mind. He'd found out that Sharon Nillson had been an addict and quite possibly a prostitute, a woman on the fringes of criminality in spite of not having a police record. He had seen proof that Greg Williams had been living beyond his visible income, which pointed to some illicit means of financing his studio. He'd seen for himself where Greg Williams' car had been found, a spot easily accessible by an eighteen-wheeler. There were additional details that helped flesh out the case, that supported his theory, and others that made him just a little less certain... Chad Williams had been a little too intense about his brother's belongings, for one thing, while Teresa Jagpal had maybe been a little too quick to clear them out of her house. And Pat had liked Sharon, sympathized with her, painted Ray Nillson as a guy in a white hat, Sharon's knight in shining armor.
Russell shook his head. He couldn't afford to get sentimental about suspects. The scent of Pat's body tickled his memory, became so vivid he could taste it on the back of his tongue. Maybe he could swing another trip to Vancouver after all.
"Well done," said the chief with a mystifying smirk on his face. "I should send you out of town more often."
Russell was just sitting down, hadn't said more than hello. "I don't understand," he said. "I don't know what you've heard..."
"One of your suspects nearly killed her cellmate with her bare hands." The chief leaned back, put his feet up on the desk as if the news were a signal to relax. "She probably has killed her, in fact. The woman just hasn't had the good grace to die yet."
"What? When?" Russell was still on the edge of his chair.
"Just this morning, while you were 25,000 feet above Oregon."
"What happened?"
"Who knows? Something about the cellmate tearing up a picture of her dog. Just goes to show what she's capable of, though." He smiled. "Her and that brute of a husband."
Without thinking, Russell found himself saying, "I don't have any firm proof yet that he was involved. I have some leads to follow up, but..."
"If he wasn't involved," said the chief, smugly tossing what looked like a handwritten statement across the desk, "then why the hell did he confess?"
I should be happy, Russell told himself. I am happy. He re-read the statement as he waited for Ray Nillson to arrive. I was right and the case will be closed. He had phoned the Burnaby RCMP to let them know, then arranged to meet with Ray. He didn't have to. It was all here, in the suspect's own handwriting. But Russell couldn't accept it. He didn't believe it. He wanted to hear it for himself.
Ray was shown into the room, his cuffs removed. He sat down across from Russell without once looking up from the floor.
Russell cleared his throat. "Thanks for talking to me," he said. "You know you don't have to, don't you?"
Ray nodded.
"You got yourself a new lawyer yet?"
Ray shook his head, frowning. It was clear he had no intention of getting a new lawyer, if he could help it.
"You said in your statement that, while your wife was asleep inside your truck, you stopped to talk to Greg Williams. Where was that?" Ray hadn't been told where the victim's car was found. If he could name the spot, it would be strong confirmation that his statement was accurate.
"I don't exactly remember." Ray Nillson sat with his back straight, eyes straight ahead and unfocussed, yet he seemed at ease. He seemed to be a man at peace with himself. His voice was a steady monotone.
"Which side of the border was it on?"
"I don't exactly remember."
"Surely you can..."
"The American side. Yes, it was on the American side.” He chewed on his lower lip, seemed to come to a decision. “Ferndale. I had stopped to go to the bank in Ferndale but I saw Greg Williams there and I changed my mind."
Russell nodded. So far, so good. "Why was Greg Williams there?"
"Coincidence, I guess." Ray shrugged. "I don't know," he said.
"Did you recognize him?"
"Yes."
"Where did you recognize him from?"
Ray frowned slightly. "I seen him play at the Blackburn a few times."
"In your statement, it says he made you mad. How did he make you mad?"
"He said something bad about... he insulted my wife."
"What did he say?"
"I don't remember."
"Approximately, what did he say?"
For the first time, Ray's eyes narrowed and his voice lost its robotic monotony. "If it was something that made me mad, I wouldn't repeat it. Ask me all you want and I'll never repeat it."
"Then what happened?"
"Just like I wrote..." Ray gestured at the statement which lay on the table in front of Russell, his voice again became expressionless. "I got him in a choke hold and he passed out, so I put him in the back of the trailer. I didn’t want to leave him there in the street."
"You knew it would kill him?"
Ray hesitated, then answered, "I didn't know."
"You didn't intend to kill him?"
"No."
"Well, if you didn't intend to kill him, why didn't you let him out before he froze to death?"
Ray shrugged. "I forgot he was in there, I guess."
Russell stroked his tie. There was no question in his mind that Ray Nillson was lying, but just how much was a lie and how much was the truth? He had to get Ray to drop the script. He had to make him speak from his gut. He trained his eyes on Ray's face, seeking the still averted eyes. "When you and your wife opened the trailer to dump the body..."
"Sharon didn't know. My wife didn't know anything. She was asleep in the truck."
"She was asleep when you put him in, and she was asleep when you took the body out?"
Again Ray gestured toward the statement. "That's what I wrote, and that's exactly how it happened. Sharon didn't know a thing about it. She's completely innocent."
"Innocent women don't assault their cell mates. An innocent woman wouldn't kill a fellow inmate."
Ray's eyes met Russell's. Russell saw a flicker of fear. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Your wife. She beat up the other woman in her cell this morning. The woman is on life support and will probably die."
"No!" Ray leaped to his feet, his big hands gripped the edges of the table as if he were about to heave it over. Russell tensed, ready to move. "No! Sharon's gotta get out of here. You've got to let her go!" The trucker looked around him, wide eyed as if the walls were on fire, then seemed to recollect himself. He took a few deep breaths and sat down.
"You're lying." The eyes were straight again, and calm. The automaton had returned. "You're trying to shake me up, but I know you're lying."
"If you don't believe me," said Russell, getting to his feet, "watch the evening news."
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
When her pager went off, Alora was in court defending a woman who had shot her abusive husband in the knees. The bastard was playing it to the hilt, wheelchair and meek demeanor, and according to the judge, Alora wasn't allowed to introduce a recent videotape of him riding his motorcycle, nor bring up the threatening notes he'd been sending to his wife almost daily since the attack. It was another hour and a half before court recessed for the day and she was finally able to call her secretary to
find out what the message was. When she heard about Sharon's new problem, she rearranged her schedule as best she could and headed straight for the county lock-up, hoping she'd have time to stop somewhere and pick up a sandwich before her afternoon appointments.
Hurrying to the jail from her car, she recognized Detective Russell Kupka standing just outside the front door, a microphone thrust toward his face like a metal detector searching for gold fillings. They were still trying to make news out of the Iceman. There was just one female reporter and one cameraman, but it was one too many of each as far as Alora was concerned. She turned her head away as she got closer. They weren't likely to know who she was, but there was no sense in tempting fate. The last thing she needed was for her ex-husband to see her on the news and be told her new name and where to find her.
Then she heard Russell's voice say, "There she is now. That's her lawyer right there. Alora Magee." Alora's heart did a flip flop as she made a dash for the door.
"Ms. Magee," called the reporter. "Ms. Magee, please wait." Alora had no intention of waiting, but three heavy set African American men approached the door from the opposite side and she was forced to step back as the doors swung outward. "Why did Sharon Nillson attack her cell mate?" asked the reporter, barely pausing to breathe. "Does your client have a history of violence? Will you be having her evaluated by a psychiatric expert?"
Alora wished she hadn't brought her heavy briefcase. At least with a file folder or a small portfolio she could have held something up to obscure her face. Maybe if she said nothing, they wouldn't use the footage on the news. Make it dull. "Please," she said, pushing the microphone away. "I have nothing to tell you. I haven't even talked to my client about this yet."
She should have known that the reporter would interpret her reluctance to talk to mean that she had something to hide. The questions began again, "Ms. Magee, how does your client feel about her husband's confession in the Iceman murder case? Will your client be pleading guilty as well?"
Confession? Alora let down her guard, turned to seek out Russell Kupka and was caught full face by the TV camera. "I have nothing to tell you at this time," she repeated to the reporter. Kupka was still standing on the walkway, smirking as if he found her discomfort amusing. "Detective Kupka," she said coldly, striding over to him. "Can I speak to you for a moment." The camera and microphone were still in her face. "Inside," she said, and motioned for the detective to precede her.
Before stepping toward the door, Kupka turned to the reporter and made a throat slashing gesture. "Cut," he said. "Now go away."
"What is this?" Alora dropped her briefcase and stood with her hands on her hips, like an angry mother. "What did she mean, Ray Nillson has confessed? Why wasn't I told?"
Kupka put his hands up in front of him in mock surrender. "Hey. I just found out about it this morning myself. You'll get the documents through channels eventually."
"Come on, Detective. I have to know what he said. Did he implicate my client?" She frowned. "I guess I should call Jeff Feldman."
"Won't do you any good."
"What?"
"Nillson fired Feldman yesterday. My guess is Feldman wouldn't let him confess - wouldn't have made very good press for our rising young attorney now, would it? - so Nillson fired him. As far as implicating your client goes, according to her husband she slept through everything."
"Did he say why he did it?"
"Nothing that makes sense. In fact, I think he made the whole thing up."
"You mean you don't think he killed Williams?"
"I didn't say that. It just seems to me that he's lying about what happened, and how it happened." Kupka ran two fingers along his tie, pulling it out in front of him. Alora found the gesture oddly sensuous, as if he were stroking a cat. "The body was in their trailer. That's irrefutable."
"You're beginning to sound as if you're not so sure about the rest of it," said Alora, cocking her head to one side. "You having doubts?"
"Don't ask me to help you do your job, Magee. I think I answered that question once and for all when I arrested the two of them."
El parked her truck in the loading zone in front of Fur 'N Feathers Pet Shop. She tucked Wally's dog book in her armpit, then scooped up Peterbilt with one hand and Peaches with the other. She yanked the door open and Peterbilt yelped as the glass bumped his nose. The rumpled pet shop owner looked up from sprinkling dried bugs, dropped the bug box into the turtles' pool, and snatched it back out with a gasp.
"Can I help you?" he asked, holding the bug box up in front of his chest, like some protective talisman.
El grunted. "Remember him?" she asked, thrusting Peterbilt toward him. Peterbilt wriggled, and she had to swing her arm to keep him balanced. "Stop it, Pete!" she snarled.
"Uh... did you purchase him here?" the pet shop owner asked, bumping into the turtle tank behind him.
"You're goddamn right I purchased him here. For three hundred and fifty bucks, remember?"
"I... uh... I... is there a problem?" He had backed clear of the turtle tank, and was inching gradually toward the counter. When he was within five feet of it, he turned and bumbled hurriedly in behind it.
"You're goddamn right there's a problem. You told me he was a Pomeranian, remember?"
The pet shop owner looked from Peterbilt to Peaches and back again, then looked wide-eyed at El. "He's not?"
"This..." El thrust Peaches under his nose and shook her. The book dropped from El's armpit, bounced off the edge of the counter to the floor, and Peaches squirmed off of her forearm with a little squeal. Peaches and Peterbilt skittered across the countertop, knocking over cat toy displays and flyers. "That..." continued El, pointing at Peaches, "is a Pomeranian. This..." She grabbed Peterbilt, who was sniffing at the Visa machine, by the scruff on his back, "is a... a... who knows what?"
"A what?"
"You're the goddamn expert. You tell me!" She scowled at him.
His mouth worked, but no sound came out. Peaches tried to climb his chest.
"Look. Look at this." El retrieved the book from the floor, opened it to a page about Pomeranians, and jabbed at it with her finger. "Up to ten pounds. Ten pounds! What is he? The Shaquille O’Neal of Poms? Rarely black, it says. Look at him! You told me he was a Pomeranian. I should sue you for false advertising. You charged me three hundred and fifty bucks for a Pomeranian, and you didn't deliver. That's downright fraud."
The man held Peaches away from his face as her paws scrambled against the arborite, nails ticking like a tiny tap dancer. "You want to return the dog?"
"No!" El looked at Peterbilt's twinkling eyes and her jaw dropped. "No," she said, her voice dropping. "I don't want to return the dog."
"I can't give your money back unless you return the dog."
"I don't want to return the dog."
"What then?"
"I want you to explain yourself. I want you to stop cheating people like that!" Her voice rose to a shout again, and a customer just coming through the front door changed her mind and backed out again, setting a bell tinkling near the ceiling. "I want you to fuckin' apologize." Peaches cringed, and Peterbilt eased his nose past the edge of the counter, priming his haunches, poising to dive. El scooped him up against her chest. "Apologize!" She lunged across the counter, grabbing at the man's collar, but he drew back in time, drew his hands up toward his chin.
"I'm sorry," he stammered. "I didn't know. The breeder sends them, and they're just little puppies, and you can't always tell. There are no real papers for most of these dogs, you know. Not official ones. I must have told you that. There never were."
El snorted, gathered up Peaches and the book.
"It wasn't my fault," he said, bolder now that El's hands were full. "I have to go by what the breeder tells me, you know."
"Fuck off," said El. It was all she could think of to say.
Three blocks away from the store, she pulled the truck over to the side of the road and jerked on the parking brake. Then she scooped Pete into her a
rms and buried her face in his ruff. "Oh, Petie, I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I don't care if you're a Pomeranian or a Heinz 57 or a goddamn turtle. You're my little guy, aren't you?" She kissed the top of his head and rocked him a little, scratching behind his ears. "You were worth every penny," she said, then spat air, once, twice, three times, to blow a hair from between her lips.
"Every fuckin' penny."
Alora had to wait ten minutes before her client was shown into the room. Sharon Nillson looked worse than ever, her hair dangling in dull, twisted strings, skin pallid, and her eyes circled by grim shadows. She managed a tight smile. A resigned smile. She picked up one of the cigarettes that Alora had placed on the table for her, lit it, and took a deep drag.
"Tell me what happened, Sharon."
"I lost it," she said. "Why the hell didn't they move me, like I asked? She wouldn't leave me alone, and I finally lost it. I didn't want to hurt her, I just had to make her shut up."
Alora nodded. "I documented your requests to be moved. If you're charged, we'll throw the blame back where it belongs. Don't worry." She hoped it would be as easy as she was trying to make it sound, but knew it wouldn't.
Sharon sighed. She scratched at her scalp with the fingers that held the cigarette. "I hope Ray doesn't have to know. That's the worst thing. I don't want him to feel bad about me, you know?" She smiled wanly. "I'm not saying that I don't want him to think badly of me, because he won't. He's always so understanding. It's just that he'll feel bad for my sake, you know what I mean? He'll worry. I don't want him to know."
They sat silent for a few minutes. Alora hesitated to tell Sharon about Ray's confession because she didn't have enough information yet, but she was afraid not to. She was afraid of what hiding it from her would do to the fragile trust they seemed to be building between each other. "I've just been informed that Ray confessed."
"No." Sharon closed her eyes, then lowered her head. Her body went so still she seemed to have stopped breathing, but after half a minute her chest heaved with two shuddering breaths. "He's lying for me," she said. She paused to light a second cigarette off the stump of the first. "You know that, don't you, Alora? Ray's lying for me."