Fall Down Easy

by Laurence Gough

  “A Tupperware party?” Willows patted Orwell on the back. “That’s different, Eddy. Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

  Orwell started to nod his head in relief, saw the look in Parker’s eyes.

  Willows said, “If Bradley finds out how badly you’ve screwed up, you’ll spend the rest of your career cleaning out the stables for the mounted patrol. If you’re lucky.”

  Outside, Parker cleared the mouth of the alley, made a left on to Hastings and then a quick right on Main. The sky was thick with cloud and it was so cold that the broad granite steps of the Carnegie Library were deserted except for a native volunteer doing a little work with a broom. She said, “How could Eddy be so incredibly dumb?”

  “Genetics,” suggested Willows.

  She smiled. Traffic was light as they drove south on Main towards the Sky Train overpass. On the left was the old CNR station. Parker thought about how nice it would be to take a ride to somewhere far, far away, curl up in a sleeper and look out the window as miles and miles of empty Canadian landscape clicked past. Instead, if she craned her neck to look past Willows, she had a view of the filthy black waters of False Creek lapping up against the contaminated, heavy-metal wasteland of the old Expo grounds. Parker spun the wheel and hit the gas, pulled into the outside lane and signalled a left turn.

  Willows said, “Why not go straight through to Great Northern Way? Make a left on Clark, and you’re there.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “Saving time.”

  “You want to drive?”

  Willows said, “I’d love to drive.”

  “Tough, because Great Northern Way’s the most boring street in the city. But Terminal Avenue’s kind of neat.”

  Willows gave her a quizzical look.

  She said, “Do I have to explain myself? The brick warehouses. Driving beside the ALERT line, the trains going by overhead. Trying to outrace that big shadow that keeps gaining on you. Neat.”

  A silver BMW with a middle-aged woman behind the wheel shot past them in the curb lane.

  Willows said, “There goes one.”

  “What?”

  “Mother, on the run from her kids.”

  Parker drove the unmarked Chevrolet down Terminal Avenue to Clark, made a left and followed Clark to King Edward, made a right, drove two blocks and pulled into the Bank of Montreal parking lot. She and Willows got out of the car, locked up, crossed the asphalt parking lot and entered the bank.

  Parker walked up to the counter, gave her name to a woman in a black leather jumpsuit and said she was there to speak to Julia Vail.

  The woman glanced at Willows, smiled. “I’ll tell her you’re here.”

  Julia Vail had been a teller when the perp robbed her, but now, eighteen months later, she’d worked her way up to chief loans officer, drove a newish Volvo, cross-border shopped at Nordstrom’s in Seattle and had her own office with a parquet floor and room for a small potted plant. If the file was accurate, she was thirty-four years old. Tall, slim, and very self-possessed, she wore a dark blue skirt and a grey cardigan over a plain white blouse. A fashionably cut dark blue jacket hung on a wooden rack behind her office door. Her auburn hair was cut short in a style that was somehow both youthful and conservative.

  Parker introduced herself, and Willows. She said, “We appreciate your taking the time to see us. We have a number of questions, but we’ll be as quick as we can.”

  Willows said, “You were married at the time you were robbed, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “But not now?”

  “The divorce came through last month. It seemed to take forever, although my lawyer said if it hadn’t been uncontested, I might’ve died wearing a ball and chain.”

  “You must be wondering why we want to talk to you after all this time,” said Parker.

  Julia Vail nodded. “Yes, I certainly do.”

  Parker said, “When a series of similar crimes — such as bank robberies — is committed by one person, one of the first things we do is look for a pattern. Naturally, the longer the string of crimes, the more chance there is of a pattern developing. In this case, the only pattern we’ve found is that twelve of the thirteen victims were single when they were robbed.”

  “All of them but me.”

  “That’s right.”

  Julia Vail studied her desk calendar for a moment and then smiled and said, “You must know detectives Windfelt and O’Neill.”

  Parker nodded.

  “Then surely you understand why I found it rather difficult to discuss certain aspects of my personal life with them … ”

  “I understand perfectly.” Parker glanced quickly over at Willows, motioned towards the door.

  Willows said, “I think I’ll get a cup of coffee. Is there a restaurant nearby, Miss Vail?”

  “At the end of the next block. Wally’s.” She gave Willows a nice smile. “Turn left as you go out the door — you’ll see the sign.”

  Julia Vail waited until the door shut behind Willows and then said, “He’s been through it himself, hasn’t he?”

  “Been through what?” said Parker.

  “Divorce.”

  “You’re very observant.”

  “He seemed nice enough, but Windfelt and O’Neill put me off cops forever. Male cops, I mean.”

  Parker said, “I know exactly what you mean.”

  “I’ll bet you do. Are you married?

  “No.”

  “The right guy never came along?”

  “Came along and kept on going,” said Parker.

  “My husband’s name was Dennis. He was a terrific, an absolutely wonderful guy. Easy to look at. Intelligent. Sensitive. Warm and loving. He dressed well, enjoyed the theatre, liked to read. He had a terrific sense of humour. He was an accomplished skier and sailor. How could any woman resist him?” She smiled. “Believe me, almost none of them did.”

  “He was a … womanizer?”

  “Everyone knew it but me. I finally found out what was going on when the husband of a friend of mine told me. Dennis was in the middle of an affair with his wife. He knew all about Dennis; what a busy little prick he’d been. He asked me whether I thought Dennis should have all the fun.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I had a long talk with Dennis. I made it perfectly clear that if he ever slept with another woman, we were through. Then I hired a private investigator. Dennis didn’t even slow down. I walked out on him, and then I slept with my ex-girlfriend’s husband. And a whole lot of other guys. Lots and lots of them.”

  “But you didn’t mention any of this to Windfelt or O’Neill.”

  “Would you?”

  “Absolutely not. Never.”

  Julia Vail said, “It didn’t last forever. Thank God. I started thinking about what I was doing and why I was doing it. Being so self-destructive … ”

  Very softly, Parker said, “I appreciate your talking to me about this. I know how difficult it must be.”

  “For a while there, I never wanted to see another man in my whole life. Then I met Christopher. He was really wonderful. Handsome, charming. Attentive.”

  Julia Vail touched her ring finger, unconsciously seeking a missing band of gold. “After the robbery, I was absolutely devastated. I was off work for almost a month, had all the classic symptoms — nausea, dizziness, constant migraines. I had trouble sleeping and when I was able to get some sleep I had nightmares. At first, Christopher was so gentle, so understanding. But after a little while his attitude changed, he started hinting that it was my fault, said I must have done something to invite the robbery. He kept asking me why the robber had picked on me. Accused me of making eye contact, flirting with the guy. I started to feel guilty, actually believe what had happened to me was my fault. Christopher turned against me. Even worse, he made me turn against myself. The bastard abused me, but I was too insecure, frightened and confused to tell him to go to hell.”

  Julia Vail dabbed at her eyes wit
h a tissue, balled it up and threw it angrily into her wastebasket.

  “Eventually he told me he couldn’t stand being with me, that I was so weak it disgusted him. The bank has a counselling program, but I didn’t mention Christopher until he left me. The counsellor told me to take some time off and go and visit my parents.” She smiled. “I mean, he told me what to do, and I did it. My parents live in Calgary. I went straight back to my apartment, packed a suitcase and left town.”

  “How long were you gone?”

  “Two weeks. I kept seeing a counsellor. The bank arranged that, too.”

  “Did you talk about Christopher?”

  “Once or twice — not at length.”

  “After you came back to Vancouver, did you ever see him again?”

  “No, never.”

  “Did you try to get in touch with him?”

  “Once. I wanted to tell him what I thought of him. He’d disconnected his phone. I wasn’t surprised. He was a troubleshooter for IBM. Mainframe computers. He’d be here in Vancouver for a month or so and then he’d be oft to Toronto or Halifax, wherever.” Julia Vail smiled, but there was something in her eyes, a need and a longing, that Parker didn’t want to acknowledge.

  Parker said, “I want you to tell me everything you know about Christopher.”

  Julia Vail nodded, took a deep, shuddery breath. She still had that look in her eyes, of betrayal and loss, a hopeless yearning.

  Parker felt ill. She wondered how long, if ever, it would take Julia Vail to recover.

  Eighteen

  On the way home from Barbara’s, Greg dropped in at a place he knew and spent fifty bucks on a tiny anthill of Peruvian flake. He taxi’d back to his apartment on his last twenty, snorted the coke as he sat on the toilet, then prowled around all night trying to work out how to get his hands on the Mendez estate.

  He woke up the next day at about the same time Parker was finishing her interview with Julia Vail. The sun hung low in a cloudy sky; thin strips of pale grey light leaked through the blinds. The sheets and pillow were smeared with makeup, hair dye, gluey bits of latex. He was hungry and thirsty, and his head felt as if it was being used for a toxic waste storage site. He headed for the fridge. The milk had curdled. Worse, it turned out the shelf life of pizza was considerably briefer than he’d anticipated. He noticed that the pizza’s brown cardboard container was decorated with the universal symbol for recycled material — three arrows arranged in a circle. He wondered who’d come up with the brilliant idea of using second-hand cardboard in food containers. Probably descendants of the geniuses who’d invented the lead water pipe. He got a pot of coffee going, checked his peephole to make sure the hallway was clear, unlocked the door and walked down the hallway to the garbage chute, dumped the milk and pizza.

  Back in the apartment, he locked the door, took a long, slow, very hot shower and then slipped into a pair of old Levis, suede Docksiders, a pale blue cotton shirt with button-down pockets and a suede sports jacket almost the same shade of beige as the shoes.

  Coffee in hand, he dialled Samantha Ross’s number. She picked up on the third ring. He said, “Hi, it’s the cops. Lunch was five aspirins and a glass of water. Maybe that’s why I can’t wait for dinner. Or maybe it’s you? Interested?”

  “I’ll call you back in a minute.”

  Click.

  Greg lit a cigarette. He smoked it all the way down to the filter and then the phone rang. Marilyn tried her best to sing along. Greg threw his empty mug at the cage, scored a direct hit. The canary dropped off her perch as if she’d been shot, got busy pretending to read the newspaper that lined the bottom of her world.

  Greg picked up, said hello.

  Samantha said, “Daddy came home early, I had to go upstairs so I could use the phone in my room.”

  Greg thought that one over, decided to skip the cross-examination. He asked her again if she’d like to join him for dinner.

  “What a lovely idea!”

  “Yeah?”

  Samantha suggested a restaurant on 41st near Dunbar that Greg didn’t know about. He asked her if she wanted to be picked up or would prefer to meet him there.

  She told him she needed some time, a few hours, maybe a little less, was that okay? Greg said that’d be fine, he’d be there at nine-thirty sharp. She told him she’d meet him inside, said goodbye and hung up.

  He had three hours, more or less. He went into his bedroom and turned on the Mac, pulled the file. Tod Erickstad smirked at him from the computer’s screen. Tod’s hair was combed straight back. His eyes were green, thanks to tinted contact lenses.

  Greg poked at the Mac’s keyboard. Tod’s history floated up to the surface of the screen. Greg remembered telling Samantha about Tod’s wife, how she was knocked down and flattened — turned into a tragic human pizza — by a drunk driver. Or had he added a bit of spin to the tragic tale, turned her into the boozer?

  Greg had wiped out a lot of wives, during his career. He’d discovered that the meaningless death of a spouse was an unfailingly effective way to trigger a sympathetic reaction — that wonderful nurturing reflex that all women seemed to be cursed with. One of his several wives had been chomped by a great white shark while learning to surf during a Hawaiian vacation. A couple more had succumbed — after a long and agonizing struggle — to cancer. Another expired during a routine surgical procedure to remove a breast implant, and yet another committed suicide when a major real estate deal fell through, and she lost her job. And so on.

  He played with the computer for a couple of hours, then took a bath, shaved, attacked his hair with water, gel, a thousand-watt hair dryer. He balanced the green contact lenses on the tip of his finger, slipped them into place one by one. Would a cop wear faded Levis and a beige suede sports jacket to a date with a potential informant? He slipped into a dark green silk shirt, checked himself out in a mirror and decided he looked perfect, exactly what she’d expect.

  He found Samantha Ross sitting behind the wheel of a four-wheel drive white Suzuki Samurai with dark blue racing stripes. Greg was on foot, had ditched his Pontiac around the corner. The Samurai was idling in a loading zone in front of the restaurant, Lou Reed on the tape deck. In the glare of light from the restaurant he could see that she wore a fur coat, black leather gloves. The little vehicle seemed to be vibrating in time to the music — then he noticed that Samantha was bouncing up and down on the seat like a little kid. Excited to see him, apparently.

  He tried to open the passenger-side door and found it locked. Samantha was smiling at him, laughing. It finally dawned on him that she might’ve set him up. He stood there on the sidewalk with his hands stuffed in his pockets and an idiot grin pasted on his idiot face. He was carrying Mendez’s badge and a bluesteel 38 calibre Colt revolver slung in a shoulder rig just like the cops wore on TV. More than enough incriminating evidence to put him in the slammer forever and a day.

  Samantha reached across, unlocked the door and pushed it open.

  Greg didn’t move.

  “Get in, you idiot!”

  She revved the engine. The Samurai lurched along the curb. Greg got a foot up on the running board, grabbed at the door post, swung inside. He slammed the door shut and reached for the safety belt.

  “Worried about my driving?”

  “Buckle up,” said Greg, “it’s the law.”

  “You’re working night shift? What a shame. I’d kind of hoped you were off duty.”

  Greg said, “Cops are always working, it’s the nature of the beast.” He turned the tape deck off.

  “You don’t like Lou’s music?” Beneath her fur coat, which he was pretty sure was mink, Samantha wore faded jeans tucked into cowboy boots that looked like they’d seen a lot of miles.

  “No, Lou’s great.”

  Samantha turned the tape back on again, but lowered the volume to a whisper. She said, “ ‘The nature of the beast’. It sounds like a quote from a training manual. I like it, though. Very masculine.”

  Greg said, �
��We going anywhere in particular?”

  “Definitely.”

  They drove straight down Dunbar, across Southwest Marine Drive and into the Southlands, a flat, sparsely populated area of older homes and acre-plus properties that was favoured by the horsy set. Greg decided it was probably best to settle back and go along for the ride, let Samantha think she was in charge. He stared out the windshield. The road was bumpy and narrow. There were ditches on both sides. Most of the houses were set well back from the road. There were hardly any streetlights. Not a lot of trees.

  Samantha geared down, turned abruptly into an unpaved driveway. The Samurai bucked and lurched as they drove parallel to a white-painted rail fence, past a large, dark house. The headlights picked out a long, low-slung wooden building. The Samurai slowed, stopped when the front bumper nudged up against the side of the building. Samantha turned off the engine but not the lights.

  A horse whinnied softly. Samantha climbed out of the car and started walking towards the building, which Greg finally realized was a stable. Her boots squished in the mud. She turned and waved to him. He got out of the car and knew with the first step he took that his suede shoes would never be the same.

  Samantha was waiting for him under a covered walkway that cut through the middle of the building. She was lit by a naked low-wattage bulb. Her face was in darkness. The mink glistened silver and black. When she moved, the coat rippled as if all those expensive animals were still alive and kicking.

  Greg trudged through the mud. His shoes had thin rubber soles that had been designed for use on boat decks and wall-to-wall carpet, and he had to concentrate hard to avoid falling on his ass. The air was dank, smelled of manure. Samantha opened a wide wooden door, swinging it up against a wall and killing most of the light. She disappeared into the stables. The door creaked as it started to swing shut behind her.

  Greg made it under the shelter of the roof, on to higher and drier ground. He reached out and caught the door, yanked it open and stepped inside.

  This wing of the stables was split down the middle with stalls on both sides. The wide concrete walkway was dimly illuminated by a row of bulbs protected by wire cages, that ran along the sloped roof above the central aisle.