by Lou Allin
Something pattered on the window, and she looked up. Rain at last, big fat healthy drops. After the long summer drought, September would see the precipitation double in each following month, then fall as precipitously in the new year. What was that verse?
If it’s sunny in Victoria, it’s cloudy in Vancouver.
If it’s cloudy in Victoria, it’s raining in Vancouver.
If it’s raining in Victoria, it’s pouring in Vancouver.
If it’s pouring in Victoria, god help Vancouver.
Four
Where the hell’s Martin?” A short man with an Italian-tailored suit, off-white shirt and striped club tie banged into the detachment, clipboard under his arm and the door squeaking behind him. His pants looked as if they had been pressed en route from the car. Iron grey hair was barbered and slicked. A dark blue raincoat hung over his arm, Burberry by the classic brown-plaid lining. He took a slow assessment of the room, barely suppressing a contemptuous smile but allowing his nostrils to flare at the rustic decor. A practiced expression? Affixing a sheet to the bulletin board, Holly suppressed an instinct to salute, tug a forelock, even kowtow.
Her outstretched hand met a cursory shake, the fingers stiff and unwelcoming. “Welcome, Inspector...sir.”
His cold battleship-grey eyes flicked up and down. “Whitehouse is the name. I’ve been sent out here by an officious boss on a fool’s mission, and I intend to wrap it up as fast as I can. So let’s be clear.” He paused ominously. “What exactly do you have? What have you done? And don’t omit the slightest detail. Some of it may have to be undone. More to the damned point, why the hell did you wait how many days before calling in?”
The building wasn’t shaking, but she felt like an earthquake had struck. Fortunately, Chipper was off supervising down the road, where an accident with a delivery truck and a hikers’ shuttle bus had closed one lane in the Sombrio Beach area. Having the top brass criticize either her actions or inactions undermined what little authority she was nurturing. “Two days, sir. But that’s because—”
“Never mind the excuses. Get to the point, Corporal. And I’m not surprised that this is your first assignment.”
He seemed oblivious to the fact that civilians were in earshot, two older women whose purses had been stolen from their convertible while they had stopped for a picnic lunch and detoured behind bushes for a pee. Holly passed a hand over her forehead, conscious of Ann’s throat-clearing. The older woman sat awkwardly in her duct-taped chair and considered Whitehouse from the corner of her hooded eyes. Her lips were tight and her breathing deep, as if she were trying to relax stubborn back muscles.
“I think we’d better go to my...office and get comfortable. Would you care for coffee?”
He grunted a negative, and they proceeded. She shut the door as two bicycle volunteers came in to talk to Ann. They reported suspicious vehicles parked in out-of-the-way places, and those abandoned or without license plates. Since nearly half of the local cars and trucks sported dented fenders or non-disabling damage too costly to repair, standards were relative. If a muffler was dragging, a fender was loose, or a windshield was cracked, that was another matter.
Holly spent half an hour reviewing the few verifiable facts of the case, her mouth so dry that she stopped twice for water. Whitehouse took the copies she’d prepared but gave no mollifying signs of approval of her cautionary move, merely retrieved a pair of half-moon reading glasses, then ran fingers through his steely hair. The back of each hand was peppered with an angry rash. Eczema? A nervous man, then. That could explain his bluster. The small weakness pleased her.
“Goddamn waste of resources. Pulling me out of Major Crimes just as a sting operation was going down. Prisoner for the day. We need to talk to these students again, not on neutral or home ground. Here. As soon as possible.” He folded his arms in an aggressive posture. “The atmosphere of a police station always loosens the tongue. Hit them fast, and hit them hard. That advantage is gone now, and don’t think they won’t know it.” He glared at her as if she were a bothersome insect.
Did he expect her to play good cop-bad cop games? “I’m not sure Angie was out there alone. There’s the condom wrapper. And I’m wondering about the sweetgrass we found?” Her voice seemed weak and insecure, especially the rising tone at the end of the sentence. Sometimes women made a question out of an assertion. She clutched the chair arm out of his sight and vowed to get back on track. “It’s used for—”
“I know all about that.” He raised a sharp, inquiring eyebrow, as good as a stab. “Very tricky. We don’t want to get accused of racial profiling. When you interviewed the students, were there any Indians? Port Renfrew’s known for that. They get into brawls with twenty people, and by the time we arrive, the streets are deserted, and we look like assholes.”
“All the Notre Dame students are Caucasian except for two exchange students from Sierra Leone. Others could have been at the beach. We have First Nations tribes in the area.” With his outmoded terminology, she could guess what he called Chipper’s ethnic background.
“Go on. You have my undivided attention.” His tone was less than sincere. “What did the park staff say?”
With some consternation, she related that Tim Jones had mentioned the possibility of boys camping illegally on Botanical Beach. Why hadn’t she followed up on that? A raucous Steller’s jay scolded as she looked out the window.
Whitehouse’s voice jerked her back from her thoughts. “What’s the matter? For god’s sake, pay attention. Don’t waste my time.”
“Sorry.” She felt herself blush crimson, the heat moving from her neck to the top of her head.
On his clipboard filled with yellow lined paper, Whitehouse made a note with a silver pen, underlining it decisively. “So talking to that Jones fellow, that’s something your people can handle. What else do you do around here in Malibu but give parking tickets?”
Were it possible for a woman to feel unmanned, Holly knew the sensation. “Well, I—”
“Now what about these students? What’s your contact number at the school? Who’s in charge? I’ll do those interviews myself. Let you see how it’s handled. Turn on the speakerphone and make the calls.”
Assigned to her place as a secretary, Holly picked up her notebook, one hand shaking slightly. She’d have to watch everything she said and did. Chipper was right about Jeff Pasquin. If anyone had a grudge against Angie, he did. But what about his alibi? She reached Paul Gable at the school after someone had gone looking for him.
“Cost cuts throughout the diocese mean that I have to teach a class in auto shop to fill in for a man out on sick leave this week. I used to be pretty good with cars, but I’ve forgotten more than I learned.”
His complaining voice made her wonder if teaching, for all its perks, was such a breeze. She was still thinking about those boys on the beach.
“But listen to me droning on. What can I do for you?”
Whitehouse was leaning forward and motioning to her, speeding up his hand like an old-fashioned movie camera. She told Gable that West Shore had sent someone to investigate the case.
“A detective?”
“We call them inspectors. British touch, I guess.”
A hmmmmm came over the line. “I hate to see the students going through this again. They’re just settling down. Still, you know your job. Guess the top brass wants you to be as thorough as possible.” She could see Whitehouse narrowing his eyes. Why didn’t he take the call? Though she sat still, inside she wriggled like a worm on a hot griddle. And this was making her look like a fool to Gable, not that she cared. Why did Chipper think Gable was “creepy”? Some male thing? He wasn’t her type, but some women might find him attractive.
“I doubt that we’ll need to talk to more than a few students.” To save time, she decided to pick his brain while she had him on the phone. “We’ll be sending a car for those we want to interview. Anyone under eighteen needs a parent or guardian.”
“What, today? Thi
s may take time.”
“We don’t have the inspector with us for long. I’m hoping this can be arranged.”
“You’re taking them to the station?” Incredulousness made its way into his mellow voice. “Isn’t that a little harsh? Last time you only—”
Whitehouse snatched up the phone. “This is Inspector Whitehouse. I need to lay a little groundwork here. I’m sure that as a senior administrator, you’ll cooperate fully.” He looked at the names on a sheet Holly had indicated and adjusted his glasses. “What can you tell us about...”
Gable needed to access the records, but in a small school, he soon had what he needed. Jeff Pasquin had been an A student until the last year. Then, except for phys ed, his grades had dropped to B’s and the occasional C. Teachers blamed the extra hours of swimming training. And at home, his parents were in the late stages of a divorce, albeit amicable. Paul added, “Divorce is always a heartbreak, especially for a Catholic family. Used to be you could get an annulment if you had connections.” He paused as if unsure whether to go on. “Ray Pasquin converted for his wife. Guess it didn’t take. Marriage is no picnic. You have to work at it.”
Whitehouse started to rub his hands, then stopped as he saw Holly watching him. “Yes, yes, now let’s move on, please.”
When they had finished the call, they heard Chipper returning, talking to Ann. Whitehouse said, “Send the constable for Pasquin. We’ll take it from there.” He folded the glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “He’ll be our focus. We’ll get some answers.”
After her nod, he rose and stretched. His stomach gave a low rumble. “Where’s a decent place to eat? Is there a tapas restaurant? Anything ethnic?”
“We don’t have the population year-round for much variety. Try Mom’s. Turn left in Sooke between the post office and the stoplight. You’ll see the sign. Their specials are good, especially the sirloin sandwich au jus. Huge burgers, too. Great pie.” She felt defensive, like a self-appointed ambassador for the tiny village. This was the only human trait he’d exhibited, and she couldn’t accommodate him.
In the bathroom, she wiped moisture from her face and applied an extra layer of deodorant. That man could wring sweat from a dried codfish. And catch that classy suit. Except for undercover officers, inspectors wore the same uniform as she did, except for a white shirt and a tie in the summer.
Rummaging in her bag, Holly unwrapped a bologna sandwich on rye and checked out one fact that had bothered her. She found Tim Jones’s number in Port Renfrew and caught him at home, bringing him up to speed. He mentioned that the night that Angie had disappeared, two boys named Billy Jenkins and Mike Baron had come into the park with their bikes. He’d cautioned them not to take the bikes to the beach and watched them chain their rides to a post. Never having seen them leave later, he suspected that they had camped in the park. “Not too much you can do about it,” the ranger said. “Too big a place. But they could have been way down the beach. Lots of driftwood for campfires around the point.”
“Do you know them well?” she asked.
He gave a hearty roar. “Hell, everyone knows everyone here. I can tell you whose marriage is shot, who’s sleeping with who, who’s broke from online gambling, and who will front at the liquor outlet to buy for minors.” He paused. “They’re decent boys, though. Polite, and big as they grow. Seniors at Edward Milne. Gotta give ’em credit for sticking with it and not dropping out.”
Not much had changed on the south coast. “Farther west you get from Victoria, the tougher the kids,” she added.
“Damn straight. Grow up in Rennie, you take a lot of shit,” he said. “Wonder what kind of education they get, spend half the day on the bus. Can’t do homework with that rough road.”
He gave her Billy’s address east of town. His father did carvings and had a small fish boat that took tourists out for salmon and “hali” in the summer. The rest of the year, they put food on their table by selling wood and shooting the odd deer. “Wouldn’t put it past them to have a bait yard with apples. But we can spare a few Bambis. Better than ending up on the grill of a car.” Leaping deer road signs crisscrossed the area, and everyone knew someone who had had a close encounter.
Not long after, Whitehouse returned with a sleepy expression and a trace of ketchup on his upper lip. He must have ordered the cartload of fries. She told him about the Port Renfrew boys. “You can handle that. I’m not driving out to hell and gone.” He left her office and headed for the restroom. Water ran for several minutes.
“Bringing in Jeff Pasquin,” Chipper said in an unusually formal voice. “And his grandmother, Mrs. Faris. The parents are in Vancouver on some legal matters.” His face was without expression, except for a nuance of a rise in one sleek brow. He caught Holly’s glance and gave a silent click to his heels.
“Come in, please,” Holly said. She and Whitehouse had set up in the interview room.
His prim glasses nowhere in sight, Whitehouse sat at the scabbed wooden table while Holly took a chair to the side, once again prepared to act as secretary. She wasn’t averse to learning interviewing techniques. Whitehouse’s experience gave him the advantage. She also realized that she might discover what not to do, and she smiled to herself.
Mrs. Faris, a nervous woman under five feet and bent from osteoarthritis, took a chair with a padded seat in the corner. She wore an old-fashioned housedress and running shoes, one of the toes cut out for a monster bunion. Her pudding face had bright red lipstick and a heavy coat of powder. The atmosphere was charged with tension underlaid by her laboured breathing.
Jeff strutted in and let himself be seated in a cheap plastic stacking chair by Chipper, who then discreetly closed the door as he left. Even four people made a crowd. An old leak in the ceiling from winter monsoons had left a streak down one cinder-block wall. Quick-fix painting had covered the mark, but it reasserted itself like a persistent evil in a Grade D movie. A single yellowed bulb dangling from the ceiling cast an ugly glare on the table. Both Holly and Whitehouse had oak chairs with cushions, a pecking order impossible to ignore. Desultory air currents carried the telltale earthy smell of black mould from under the suspiciously discoloured linoleum. Holly made a note to herself to arrange for budgeting to address that serious problem, a minefield for those with allergies. The building had originally been bought at auction and moved to the site, a cheap deal but a recipe for structural disaster.
Holly noticed that Whitehouse cast a quick disapproval at the dusty light, but kept quiet as if to set the stage. The young man gazed around and gave a theatrical cough at the stuffiness. “So whassup?” He pronounced it like a joke in a slurry, smart-ass fashion. Mrs. Faris cleared her throat in the mildest of reprimands.
Whitehouse shifted his shoulders, sending a masculine message from the lead bull. “No time for showing off. I’ll ask the questions. Corporal Martin may have a few of her own.” Since Jeff was under eighteen, Whitehouse took some time in reading him a number of forms to make sure he understood his rights. Then he asked the boy for feedback on whether he grasped the terminology.
“What’s this all about, anyways?” Jeff asked after he had “passed” the test. He tried to present an open and honest face, but it was a grotesque contortion with duplicity below the pretty surface of a boyish grin.
Whitehouse gave an imperceptible nod to Holly. “Angie’s drowning may have been a tragic accident,” she began with a casual frown. “But Inspector Whitehouse wanted to make sure of the facts. He’s an experienced investigator from West Shore.” And who are we in this third-rate detachment, parking attendants with a more lucrative salary?
Jeff came to with a start, flexing his broad shoulders. He wore dark pants and a white shirt, apparently the school uniform, but the musculature underneath left little to the imagination. His strong young neck had a flashy gold chain.
“Why me, then? This is nuts.”
“Some of your friends say that you weren’t too happy with Angie lately.”
“Hey, I n
ever hit a woman in my life. Only cowards do that.” Whitehouse stuck out his chin, his voice like a cobra hiss.
“Nobody said anything about violence. Seems to me you’re rather defensive.”
Despite her efforts to remain neutral, Holly approved of the inspector’s score.
The boy shot back. “I take psych, and I get your point, but you’re way off. We dated last year. This year we were history. Happens. ’Sides, I was in my tent with Lindsey Benish. Ask her. She’s got the guts to tell you the truth.”
And to lie for you, Holly thought. Small wonder that spouses were not allowed to testify against their mates in court. The whiff of a conspiracy piqued her interest. Holly scanned the list of those they had interviewed at the park. She tried to picture Lindsey and came up with a brash, unlikable girl. “Benish, you said?”
Whitehouse clicked his pen. On. Off. Three times like a mantra. “Say she backs you up, any other suggestions? Who else might have seen Angie after dinner?”
“Try Kim Bass. Angie had a crush on her.” A sharp intake of breath came from the officers, but Mrs. Faris wore a bland expression, perhaps not following the implication. Aware of the repercussions from that depth charge, Jeff gave a contemptuous snort. “Lezbo. What a waste. They all oughta be fat, ugly cows.” It seemed to Holly that he gave her an oblique look.
“Mind your language. Your bigotry is showing. And show some respect for your teachers. We’re not here to discuss idle gossip.” Whitehouse leaned forward and made a note, circled it. “Anything of substance to your charges, or are we talking only about your own self-doubts and shortcomings.”
“Nothing short on me. I was with Lindsey all night. Get my drift? We made a deal with our tentmates and traded off.” He lowered his voice in a conspiratorial fashion that made his grandmother’s face puzzle. At least, he seemed to have some sense of shame in front of her.