Willows and Parker Box Set

by Laurence Gough

  Paterson nodded.

  “That’s Mrs Norquist. She’ll be able to help you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Mrs Norquist was wearing oversized designer glasses with purple-tinted lenses, green plastic earrings shaped like miniature boomerangs. Apparently his situation wasn’t all that unusual. She walked him over to a table in the middle of the open area. There were two large blue books on the table. One book contained all street addresses in the city; the second held the addresses of all the city’s avenues.

  “Instructions are on the inside cover.”

  Paterson pulled back a chair. “I’m looking for Drummond Drive. Would that be a street or an avenue?”

  “Just follow the directions on the inside cover, you can’t go wrong.” She gave him an encouraging smile and walked away, glasses flashing under the lights, earrings in a holding pattern.

  Paterson found Drummond Drive in the street index. There were thirty-six seven-digit account numbers on the street, each number representing a single address.

  Each address also had an eleven-digit coordinate number.

  Paterson checked his list of nine addresses taken from the City Directory, cross-referenced them against the addresses listed in the blue book. When he had coordinate numbers for all nine addresses he went over to the microfiche machines and sat down. The blue plastic slips of microfiche were arranged according to coordinate number, low to high. Paterson’s lowest number was 101 635 018 16. The highest number was 109 635 030 63. All the numbers were on a single piece of microfiche. He looked up the addresses one by one, in the order that he’d happened to write them down.

  The first property belonged to a man named Jason Williams and was valued for purposes of tax assessment at one million, forty thousand dollars. It seemed Gary Silk lived in a fairly decent neighborhood. Paterson moved to the next number. 4644 Drummond Drive was owned by a woman named Henrietta Porter, and her property was assessed at a little over half a million. He grinned. Maybe it wasn’t such an expensive neighborhood after all.

  He wrote Henrietta Porter’s name next to her address, then moved on to the third eleven-digit account number.

  When he’d finished, he had eight names, none of them Silk.

  The ninth and last property, 1715 Drummond Drive, was owned by a registered company called Moody Investment Corporation, of 4411-1900 West Hastings. The notation BULK MAIL was on the microfiche above the corporation’s address.

  Paterson tracked down Mrs Norquist, who explained that the notation BULK MAIL indicated that the company paid taxes on five or more properties in the city, and that all tax notices for those properties would be routinely mailed to the address on Hastings Street. He returned to the microfiche machine, switched off the light.

  When he was a kid, his parents used to take him over to Vancouver Island for a couple of weeks every summer, to his Aunt Nell’s beachfront cottage up the coast from Parksville. Low tide, they’d take short-handled shovels out to the flats and dig for clams. Aunt Nell used to say that when you’d finished shaking all the sand out of your bucket, what you had left was dinner.

  Process of elimination.

  Gary Silk lived on Drummond Drive but there was no listing for a Gary Silk on Drummond Drive. So it figured that Moody Investment Corporation had to be an alias for Gary Silk.

  In a cul-de-sac off the foyer there were two cubicles containing public telephones. Paterson stepped into one and shut the door behind him. He flipped open the directory.

  There was no listing for Moody Investment.

  He tried the Yellow Pages, searched under ‘Financial Planning Consultants’, ‘Investment Advisory Services’, ‘Dealers’ and ‘Financing’.

  He tried ‘Investment Management’ and ‘Investments Miscellaneous’.

  No luck.

  He dropped a quarter, dialled 411, gave the operator the company’s full name and address and asked her if she had a recent listing. Zilch. The information came as no surprise, because by now he was convinced that Moody was a dummy company, no more substantial than a letterhead on a piece of paper. The Hastings Street address would turn out to be a lawyer’s office. A dead end. Unless you had your own company, and happened to know how the game was played.

  He went back to the Tax Department offices, sought out Mrs Norquist, told her she’d been very helpful and asked if he might have her card for future reference. A public employee, she was happy to oblige. The card was white, with plain black printing:

  P. NORQUIST

  TAX DEPARTMENT, CITY OF VANCOUVER

  P. Norquist. Beautiful.

  He thanked her once again for her help, slipped the card carefully into his wallet.

  Outside, the air was still and warm and there was a light cloud cover over the city, a pale gray dusting of cirrus.

  He hurried down the broad granite steps towards his Porsche. As he unlocked the car, it was twelve forty-seven by the big orange clock above City Hall. He drove downtown and made a brief stop at a store that specialized in office supplies, used his Visa card to buy a black spiral-bound notebook and a cheap leather briefcase with a built-in combination lock. At five minutes past two he pushed open a scuffed mahogany veneer door and entered the law offices of Morgan, Koestler and Brooks, located opposite the elevators on the fourth floor, 1900 West Hastings.

  The office was a lot smaller than the big mahogany door suggested. There was a reception area containing a secretary’s desk but no secretary, two leather chairs for waiting clients, a coffee table and a stack of outdated magazines, an ashtray that needed cleaning. There was a neat stack of business cards on the desk beside the typewriter. The cards were a glossy white, with plain black text. Acting on impulse, Paterson picked up several of the cards and put them in his shirt pocket.

  Beyond the receptionist’s desk there was a single doorway. Paterson ran his hand across the typewriter’s keyboard. Dust turned to mud. He realized he was sweating.

  “Can I help you?”

  Paterson jumped.

  “You Morgan, Koestler or Brooks?”

  “I’m Anthony Morgan.”

  Paterson flipped open his brand-new notebook. “I’d like to see the Minute Book for a company called Moody Investment Corporation.”

  “Excuse me?” The lawyer was short, about five foot six, and very thin. He was wearing tinted glasses and a dark blue three-piece suit over a pale blue shirt. His hair was blond, short, tightly curled. His tie was in a paisley pattern, green and purple silk.

  Paterson jammed his sweaty hands in his pockets. “My name’s Norquist. I’m with tax collections, City Hall.” He handed the lawyer the card Mrs Norquist had given him.

  “If there’s a problem, Mr Norquist, I’d really prefer you phoned and made an appointment ...”

  Paterson ran his thumb over the IBM’s keyboard, letting Morgan see the accumulated dust. “We’ve already made a number of calls to this office. Your answering machine’s monologue soon wears thin. And yes, there is a problem. The property known as 1715 Drummond Drive, registered owner Moody Investment Corporation, is presently being used as a multiple family dwelling. A flagrant violation of the city’s zoning laws, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

  Morgan used a corner of Norquist’s card to clean the gap between his front teeth. He said, “Have you talked to anyone up at the house?”

  “We haven’t even been able to gain access to the grounds.”

  The lawyer thoughtfully tapped the edge of the card on the desk. He had two problems. The Companies Act gave Norquist or any other citizen the right to examine the corporation’s Minute Book. He might be able to stall Norquist for a day or two, but that was about as far as he could go without risking a formal complaint, which could result in his being called before the bar.

  A second consideration was his desire to spare his client as much grief as possible. Which meant, despite his instincts to the contrary, gracefully cooperating with bureaucrats like Norquist.

  “My secretary’s gone for the rest of the
day. An illness in the family. I’m afraid it’s going to take me a few minutes to locate the file. In the meantime, why don’t you make yourself comfortable?”

  Paterson glanced at his watch. He scowled, sat down stiffly in one of the upholstered chairs and picked up a year-old copy of People magazine.

  Morgan disappeared into the inner office, shutting the door behind him.

  In his mind’s eye, Paterson saw the lawyer walk over to his desk, pick up his telephone and punch in the City Hall number on Norquist’s card. He saw Norquist answer at her end, Morgan make sure he was speaking to the real Norquist and then hang up and sit there for maybe ten seconds, deciding whether or not to call the cops. He saw Morgan dial 911 ...

  The door opened. Morgan came into the room carrying a bound, thick blue folder. Paterson stood up and Morgan handed the folder to him.

  Among other things, a Minute Book contains records of the company: memoranda of Incorporation; number and types of outstanding shares and share structures. It includes the company’s Incorporation number, date of Incorporation and the company articles — the usually complex rules by which the company may be governed.

  The Minute Book is also required by law to contain a register of members, officers and directors. The one hundred thousand shares of Moody Investment Corporation stock were all owned by a single individual — Gary Silk.

  Paterson was closing the file when he noticed a telephone number scrawled on the inside cover. The first three digits were 224. Point Grey was one of the areas serviced by that exchange. He memorized the number, stood up, shut the book with a thump and tossed it on the coffee table, started towards the door. Anthony Morgan had been leaning against his absent secretary’s desk, legs crossed as he casually lit a big Cuban cigar. He gave Paterson a startled look, managed to hide his confusion by puffing out his cheeks and vigorously extinguishing the match. “That’s it? You’re finished?”

  “That’ll do until next time,” said Paterson.

  “Get what you wanted?”

  “Just about. Can you give me Mr Silk’s home phone number?”

  The lawyer hesitated. “I’m not at all sure he’s in town. Why don’t I have him give you a call ...” He fumbled in the breast pocket of his dark blue suit for Norquist’s card. “You can be reached at this number?”

  “Not really,” said Paterson, and reached out and snatched the card away.

  20

  The address Mel Dutton had given Willows was 3207 Brock, which turned out to be a small bottle-glass stucco bungalow with wood trim that needed painting, a roof that had been patched with several different colors of duroid shingles.

  The front lawn was mostly moss, the sidewalk leading up to the house cracked and uneven.

  Willows pulled back the screen door. Parker made a fist, knocked three times.

  The woman who answered the door was in her late sixties or early seventies. She was wearing green slacks and a white blouse, fluffy pink mules. Her silvery hair was swept back in a bun. Her eyes were bright blue, lively and intelligent. She was wearing lipstick, but no makeup. “If this is a religious matter, I’m afraid I’m really not interested.”

  Parker wondered if she was Oscar Peel’s mother. She showed the woman her badge.

  “Police?” The woman put a hand to her heart and involuntarily took a step backwards, into the safety of her home.

  “We’d like to talk to Mrs Peel,” said Parker.

  “Why, what’s this all about?”

  Parker glanced at Willows. “A personal matter,” she said.

  The woman nodded, relief flooding her face. “That poor child. It’s about her husband, isn’t it? She told me he’d run off.”

  “Is she home?” said Willows.

  “I believe so.”

  “We’d like to talk to her, if you don’t mind.”

  “Just follow the pathway around to the back. You’ll see the door. If she doesn’t answer, keep knocking. She likes to watch the soaps, and the TV’s in her bedroom.” She smiled at Parker. “You gave me a terrible fright. Mayor Campbell and city council have been cracking down on basement suites, and it’s such a worry. Property taxes are so high, and all I’ve got is my pension. If I didn’t have the rent from downstairs, I’d lose my house.”

  Willows let go of the screen door and started down the steps.

  “I don’t know what harm it’s doing. My husband built those rooms. They’re warm and clean, and I don’t charge very much. Not like what an apartment would cost. Mrs Peel has no idea where she and the baby would go if she had to leave ...” She frowned. “You aren’t going to tell them about me, are you?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Parker. “We won’t say a word, I promise you.”

  The door to the basement suite had been painted an aggressively cheerful yellow. There was a door knocker in the shape of a woodpecker. The bird had a glossy red body and red tail feathers, a sharp black beak and eyes the same shade of blue as the landlady’s. Jack Willows was reminded of a distant mountain glade, a white corpse gliding silently through black water. Inside, they could hear the blare of a television.

  “The Dating Game,” said Parker. “Ever watch it?”

  “Not yet.”

  “It’s fascinating,” said Parker. “You wonder, what are these people doing? Did they play a variation of the same game back in the Middle Ages, during the plague?” She reached out and gripped the woodpecker’s tail, used it to lever the beak into a varnished stump that had been cut from a short length of alder. The beak hitting the stump made a sound about as loud as a pencil tapped on the surface of a distant desk. The bird, it seemed, was more decorative than functional.

  “Bachelor number two,” blared the television.

  Willows made a fist, thumped his knuckles repeatedly against the wood.

  Inside the apartment, a telephone began to ring. A moment later the television abruptly died.

  “Now,” said Parker.

  Willows pounded on the door. No response. The door was locked. He stepped back and kicked it, leaving black scuff marks on the yellow paint.

  “Who is it?”

  “Police,” said Willows.

  “Beat it!”

  “It’s about Oscar,” said Parker. Willows admired the effortless way she was able to raise her voice without seeming to shout.

  They heard the thud of a withdrawn deadbolt. The door swung open three inches and was stopped by a chain thick enough to anchor a freighter.

  “Lemme see your shields.”

  Willows opened his wallet; Parker dug in her purse. They held up their gold detective’s shields and the chain rattled and the door swung wide.

  “C’mon in. The place is a mess, but that’s the way I like it.”

  The ceiling was low, about seven feet high. Heating ducts from the furnace further reduced the height between the living-room and kitchen. Closed doors led to what Willows guessed was the bedroom and bathroom. It was hot in the apartment, the air dry and stuffy. He could still hear the television. The phone was off the hook. There were dirty pots on the stove and the smell of burnt meat permeated the air.

  “So what’s the problem?” Oscar Peel’s wife was a bleached blonde. Her hair was cut short at the sides and long at the back, combed into a froth over her forehead. She was about five feet tall and weighed maybe a hundred pounds. She was wearing a bulky burgundy cardigan and faded jeans cinched tight around her narrow waist with a silver-buckled cowboy belt, knee-length black leather boots. Willows guessed her age at eighteen or nineteen.

  Parker pointed at the telephone dangling at the end of its cord. “Did you want to take care of that?”

  “Oh yeah, sure.” Mrs Peel picked up the phone. “I got somebody here, they just dropped in. Call you back in a few minutes.” She hung up as she finished speaking, without waiting for a response.

  “It’s about your husband,” said Parker. “Would you like to sit down for a minute?”

  “Oscar’s dead, is that it?”

  Parker
nodded. The widow Peel stared at her for a moment and then glanced towards Willows, as if seeking a second opinion, confirmation. A vent gushed hot air into Willows’ face. He blinked, moved to one side, took off his jacket.

  “We’d like you to come down to the morgue with us and identify him,” said Willows. He added, “But it’s Oscar, no question.”

  Behind the door that Willows had guessed led to the bedroom, there was a dull thud and then the sudden wail of a baby.

  “Oh, Christ. Just wait a minute, will you.”

  The widow Peel pushed the door open and went into the bedroom and slammed the door shut behind her. The crying doubled in intensity and volume. The door opened and she came out carrying a baby wrapped in a pale blue blanket. She sat on a sagging tartan sofa, lifted her sweater and gave the infant her breast, lit a cigarette, scratched at a sticky brown substance that had spilled across the arm of the sofa. “You gonna tell me what happened to him, or do I have to guess?”

  “He was shot through the back of the head,” said Willows. “Somebody executed him. We thought you might be able to help us find out who did it.”

  “I got no idea, believe me. Oscar was the kind of guy everybody liked, real easy to get along with.” She blew a stream of smoke at the ceiling. “I doubt if he had any enemies, tell you the truth. If he was shot, it was probably a case of mistaken identity.”

  “You think so, huh?”

  “I wouldn’t be at all surprised, really.”

  Parker sat down on the sofa. Mother and child ignored her. “She’s a lovely baby,” said Parker. “What’s her name?”

  “Rebecca.”

  The baby was switched from the left breast to the right. Willows had been caught looking. The grieving widow gave him a winsome smile.

  “Since your husband was shot four times at close range,” said Parker, “I seriously doubt it was a mistake.” She raised her voice, and this time it did seem as if she was shouting, even though she wasn’t. “Are you listening to me, young lady!”