If Looks Could Kill

by Michael Blair

  “Ryan set up the hit on his wife through Petey Deguire,” Thompson said, holding a glass of Scotch in his claw-like hand. “Deguire is Carla’s stepbrother. He was a small-time coke dealer in the resort area north of Montreal until about six years ago. Another dealer tried to move in on his turf and he wanged the fat end of a pool cue off the side of the guy’s head. Actually, Carla and Petey were a little more than just stepbrother and sister; when Carla was sixteen her mother threw them both out of the house when she came home from work and caught them screwing their little brains out.” He sipped his Scotch.

  I wasn’t drinking. My eyes burned with fatigue and my legs twitched from lack of sleep. A drink would have put me right out. “You’re telling me that Carla conspired with Ryan to kill his wife by putting him in touch with her stepbrother?”

  “Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t,” Thompson said. “I don’t care. My client is only interested in Ryan. He’s the one who ordered the hit. But Petey won’t co-operate unless I can guarantee him that Carla won’t be prosecuted and the only way I can do that is to convince her to testify that Ryan ordered the hit.”

  “What if she doesn’t know anything?”

  “And what are the chances of that? This isn’t Miss Goodie Two Shoes we’re talking about here, y’know. What do you know about her past?”

  “Not much,” I replied. Too much, I thought to myself.

  “When her mother threw her and Petey out,” Thomspon said, “they went to Montreal, where Petey’s old man ran an agency that booked strippers and nude dancers into clubs and hotels in Quebec and eastern Ontario. Deguire Sr. also dealt a little, which is how Petey got into the business. Carla worked the exotic dance circuit for a couple of years, then one day she cleaned out Deguire’s office safe and split for Toronto, where she changed her name – her real name is Charlotte Bergeron – and went into business for herself. By the time she was twenty she’d been busted a couple of times for soliciting. For a while she and a two-bit con man and coke addict named Quentin Holmes ran a series of multi-level marketing scams, but she got tired of him snorting everything they made up his nose and ratted him out to the cops.

  “After that she worked at a string of nowhere jobs – waiting table, tending bar, stripping, door-to-door sales, whatever. She even went back to school and studied business administration. But the straight and narrow was not for our Carla. Somewhere along the line she’d learned how to sail and for a couple of years worked the marina circuit all up and down the west coast, during which time – you’re gonna love this, I know I do – she allegedly committed at least one act of piracy on the high seas.”

  Did he not know about her drug smuggling activities or Alvarez’s death? Or was he simply keeping that information to himself. I wasn’t going to ask.

  “She told me she didn’t have anything to do with Ryan’s wife’s death and I believe her,” I said.

  “Have I also mentioned that she’s an exceptionally gifted liar?” Thompson said. “Look, I don’t care one way or another. Sooner or later the cops will get lucky and pick up the psycho Ryan hired to off his wife. When they do the guy will roll over on Ryan faster than you can say electroshock therapy, but my client isn’t willing to wait that long. If I can get Carla to agree to testify, Petey will testify, and we can nail the son of a bitch. All you have to do is take me to her.”

  “I don’t know where she is.”

  “You’re not doing her any favours, y’know. If she doesn’t help bang the lid down on Ryan, she’ll go down with him. I want to at least give her the choice.”

  “It may be too late,” I said. I told him what I’d found when I’d got back to Hastings’s boat. “From the descriptions Hastings and his girlfriend gave me, they sound like the same two men who’d tried to abduct her earlier in the day. She assumed they worked for Ryan.”

  “You say that like you don’t think they do.”

  “Ryan is in business with some old money in Whistler. Before it became a ski resort, it was logging country. There still is considerable logging activity in the area. According to Hastings, though, the men who abducted Carla used some nautical terms the average logger might not be familiar with.”

  “So Ryan hired sailors.”

  “Maybe,” I agreed. “On the other hand, maybe you and Ryan aren’t the only people interested in finding Carla.”

  * * * * *

  I was awakened at quarter to eight by the smell of coffee. “You look like death,” Bobbi said when I joined her and Hilly in the kitchen.

  “Thanks,” I said, pouring coffee. It was nice having someone around to make the coffee.

  Hilly was eating toaster waffles floating in syrup. “You’re up early,” I said.

  “I’m going to see the Lynn Canyon suspension bridge with Courtney and her mom and dad,” she said. She stuffed half a waffle into her mouth and stood up. “An ah ate,” she added, dribbling syrup. “Ould ou ook atter Eetrish?”

  “Yes,” Bobbi said. “Finish your milk.” She did, wiped her mouth with a serviette and left.

  “Who were you talking to last night?” Bobbi asked as she poured us more coffee.

  “Our friend in the white Buick,” I said. She sat facing me across the table. I gave her a brief rundown, leaving out any mention of Carla’s cashier’s cheque, which was now safely locked in the little safe Howie had had installed under the floor of the pantry and for which it had taken me half an hour to find the combination.

  “I don’t wish Carla any harm, of course,” Bobbi said, “but you should be grateful you’re out of it now.”

  But was I? I wondered, trying to drink coffee and yawn at the same time, not easy.

  “I can handle things this morning,” Bobbi said. “Why don’t you go back to bed?”

  So I did, and slept until awakened at ten-thirty by Bernard Simpson and his crew as they began to remove the flotation bags from under the house. The job was done, now all I had to do was figure out how to pay for it. By eleven-fifteen I was waiting on the ferry dock by the Public Market, eyes hot and grainy behind dark glasses and feeling as though I were standing at an odd angle. I must have looked pretty bad too; an elderly tourist couple with his and her video cameras – his was standard black, hers was a bright yellow – didn’t seem to want to stand too close to me.

  Francine pulled up to the dock in a battered orange Zodiac. She was wearing ragged cut-offs and a faded string bikini top and sitting on the backrest of the driver’s seat. The big outboard burbled and stank.

  “Hiya, guy,” she said. “Can I offer you a ride?” She smiled brightly as the old man aimed his video camera at her.

  “Uh, sure,” I said. I stepped aboard, lost my balance and sat down heavily in the passenger seat.

  The old lady slapped her husband on the arm and he lowered his camera.

  “Where to?” Francine asked, squinting at me from under the brim of a threadbare and water-stained cap. The tops of her broad, muscular shoulders were sunburned and peeling.

  “The Hornby Street ferry dock will be fine,” I said.

  “You okay?” she asked pushing the throttle forward and moving slowly away from the dock, keeping well below the 5 knot speed limit. “You look like you’ve had a rough night.”

  “You could say that,” I said.

  She was silent for half a minute, which took us most of the way across False Creek.

  “Chuck said you came by the shop,” she said without looking at me, watching the boat traffic in the narrow inlet. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around much lately.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I’ve been pretty busy.”

  She manoeuvred the Zodiac up to the Hornby Street ferry dock. “I’m taking a dive group up Indian Arm inlet tomorrow,” she said, “but I’m free on Sunday. How would you and Hilly like to go on a picnic or something?”

  “That sounds terrific,” I said. “Would you like to come for dinner tonight? We can work out the details then.”

  “Sure,” she said. “I’d like th
at.”

  “Say around six?”

  “All right,” she said as I clambered onto the dock. “See you later.”

  Chapter 37

  By the time I got to the studio Bobbi had finished the product shoot and was taking the films out of the processor. When they were dry we sent them to Nigel. Bobbi said that there were a couple of places she wanted to check out, but so far the hunt for an apartment she could afford was not going well. I kept my thoughts to myself, but ever since she’d raised the subject I’d been wondering what it would be like to have Bobbi as a full-time roommate. She was quiet and clean and it wouldn’t hurt for me to try to cut back on my expenses. But I also wondered what having a female roommate would do to my social life. Haw. What social life?

  I spent the afternoon puttering around the studio and the lab, cleaning up, trying not to think about Carla and what might have happened to her. At four I went home. There was no one there except Beatrix, and she was asleep in her cage.

  For want of anything better to do, I got the Porsche out and drove to Coal Harbour. Reeny Lindsey was sitting in the pilothouse out of the sun, drinking tea and looking drawn, her skin dry, dark shadows under her eyes. Chris was somewhere around, she said dully. When I asked her how things were going she said that Chris was talking about selling the Pendragon and moving to Arizona or New Mexico. I told her that I knew how he felt and she said that running away wasn’t the answer.

  “What’s he running away from?” I asked.

  “Himself,” she said, tears leaking from the corners of her beautiful deep set eyes. “Me.”

  “You? Why you?”

  “He’s ashamed of himself for not being able to protect me. I told him he was being silly and asked him if he thought he was supposed to be able protect me from the Big One when it hits. He said, ‘Yes.’” She shook her head.

  I’d come to see if there was anything else she or Hastings could tell me about the men who’d come aboard last night, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask. I just sat with her, listening to the creak and rattle of the boats as the tide came in.

  Hastings ducked into the pilot house. His hair was tangled and his face was bristly with grey stubble. He looked as though he’d aged ten years in a few hours.

  “Wanna buy a boat?” he said to me, his breath sour.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I have enough trouble keeping my house afloat.”

  He cocked an eyebrow, but then shrugged and said, “Want a beer?”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  He went below and returned with a couple of cans of Kokanee. Reeny stood up abruptly and went below.

  “Wha’d I say?” Hastings said.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Maybe that’s the problem.” He flinched as though I’d hit him. “Look,” I said. “What happened last night wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have done anything to prevent it.”

  “I know,” he said, pulling the tab on his beer. “But knowing it doesn’t seem to make any difference.”

  “Maybe if you’d talk to her about it.”

  “I just can’t seem to bring myself to do that.”

  He tipped his head back and downed most of the can, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. I put my unopened can on the deck. Suddenly I didn’t want it.

  “If you don’t talk to her,” I said, “you’ll lose her.”

  “Yeah, well, if that happens, it happens.” He drank the rest of his beer.

  “You’d be a bloody fool to let it,” I said.

  “Hey, get off my case, McCall.”

  I stood up. “See you around,” I said.

  * * * * *

  It was six o’clock when I got back to Granville Island. Someone had parked in my private space again. It happens a lot — there must be a high rate of illiteracy amongst tourists — but it’s usually more trouble than it’s worth to have them towed. I cruised through the free parking lot and got lucky, finding a spot by the old freight crane. I thought I’d take Hilly and Bobbi and Francine out for dinner. Someplace nice, like Alaska. Running away from your problems works if you leave them behind and don’t come back.

  Bobbi was in the kitchen, chopping celery into tiny bits.

  “Hi, honey, I’m home.”

  “Well, it’s about time,” she said. “You could have at least called and warned me that you’d invited someone to dinner.” She scraped the chopped celery into a bowl containing equally finely chopped onions and green pepper.

  “Oops. Sorry, forgot.”

  “Hilly and Francine are upstairs,” she said. “She’s nice,” she added. “God knows what she sees in you.”

  There was a package of long grain rice and a plastic tub of chicken livers on the counter, next to an unlabelled jar of evil-looking dark brown paste and a collection of little plastic zipper bags of herbs and spices: thyme, oregano, garlic powder, onion powder, cayenne, and cracked black pepper.

  “I went shopping,” she said.

  “So I see. What are you making?”

  “Cajun dirty rice.”

  “Yum. Where’s the ground pork?”

  “I leave that out,” she said. “Too much fat.”

  Francine and Hilly came downstairs. Beatrix flowed down the steps behind them, a living Slinky, the bell on her collar tinkling. Francine came into the kitchen. Her short sun-bleached hair was slicked back and lacquered into place. The style accentuated the strong angles of her face. She was wearing jeans and an over-sized raw cotton shirt with the top two buttons open, de-emphasizing the breadth of her shoulders. I was about to tell her how nice she looked when the phone rang.

  “McCall?” a man’s voice said when I answered.

  “Yes.”

  “I got a friend of yours here. She wants to say hello.”

  “Tommy – ”

  “That’s enough. You still there, McCall?”

  “I’m here.” I recognized the voice. It was Frank Poole. “What do you want?”

  “Don’t be a jerk. You know what I want.”

  “The money?”

  “Yeah, the money. What the fuck d’you think? Just bring it and everything’ll be hunky dorey. Fuck around, you’ll just piss me off and I’ll have to take it out on your girlfriend here. You don’t want me to have to do that, do you? She won’t like it, I can guarantee that.”

  “I’ll bring it,” I said. “Where?”

  “Bridgepoint marina, slip twenty-three, a blue and white Bayliner called Moon Spinner.” I wrote the address on the pad by the phone. “And don’t waste time,” he added, and hung up.

  I took out my wallet and unfolded the slip of paper on which I’d written the combination to the safe in the floor of the pantry.

  “What’s going on?” Bobbi asked as I went into the pantry and lifted the little hatch that covered the safe. “What money?”

  I took the envelope containing the cashier’s cheque out of the safe, folded it, put it in my shirt pocket and buttoned the flap.

  “I don’t have time to explain,” I said to Bobbi as I closed the safe. “I’ve got to go out. Would you mind looking after Hilly?”

  “No, of course not. Does this have something to do with Carla? Wouldn’t it be simpler just to throw yourself under the wheels of a truck.”

  “Probably,” I said. “I’m sorry,” I said to Francine. “I hope I won’t be too long.”

  “I’ll go with you,” she said.

  I was tempted to let her, but I said, “Thanks, but this is something I should do on my own. Will you be here when I get back?”

  “Sure. If that’s what you want.”

  I kissed her quickly, grabbed a jacket from the hall closet, and opened the front door. Vince Ryan was standing on the dock, finger poised to ring the bell.

  “Ding-dong,” he said.

  Chapter 38

  Standing behind Ryan was a huge, fierce-faced man, with curly black hair and terminal five o’clock shadow. He was so dark-skinned he was almost black, but his features were Semitic. He had tiny coal-black eyes and a single
thick black eyebrow that merged with the wiry black hair on either side of his broad head. He wore a snowy shirt and a dark shiny suit that looked two sizes too small for him. The jacket buttons were done up. So was the top button of the shirt, although he wasn’t wearing a tie. Despite his western garb I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d been carrying one of those wide-bladed swords out of the Arabian Nights.

  “What happened to Sam?” I asked.

  “I fired him,” Ryan said. “He was a pussy. This is Abdul. That’s not his real name, but I call him Abdul the Assassin. He does what I tell him, no questions.”

  “He doesn’t look very bright,” I said, watching Abdul’s eyes for a reaction. I saw none.

  “He doesn’t need to be.”

  “I suppose not.” I stepped out onto the dock and closed the door behind me. “I’d love to stay and chat,” I said. “But I have an business appointment.”

  “This late in the day?”

  “You know how it is,” I said.

  “How about Abdul and I just tag along?” he said. “It’ll be an education. Abdul will drive us, how’s that? We can have a drink and chat on the way.”

  I wondered about my chances of getting past Abdul. Not very good, probably, but I tried anyway. Abdul grabbed me by the upper arm and squeezed so hard my hand went numb. I struggled, but I might as well have been Fay Wray to Abdul’s King Kong.

  “No more fucking around,” Ryan said. “Where is she?”

  “You’re too late,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know about the video tape.”

  “Fuck the video tape. I don’t care about that. I love her. I want her back.”

  Who was he kidding? “She doesn’t want you back,” I said.

  “We’ll see. Take us to her?”

  “And if I refuse.”

  “Abdul will start tearing off pieces of you. Starting with an ear, maybe. I’ll bet that smarts. Abdul, tear off his ear.” Abdul looked confused. Ryan said, “Ear. Y’know, ear?” He pulled his own ear.