And On the Surface Die

by Lou Allin

  Jeff ’s bravado was slipping. He began examining his short fingernails, sucking on one. Holly noticed that it was broken to the quick. “That must hurt,” she said.

  Abruptly he folded them on his lap. “Did it diving down to get a rock crab. Stupid thing died later.” Then he smiled at her with straight white teeth, the incisors slightly pointed. “They’re nice and red in the ocean. Get them home, and they fade right out.”

  “I wonder why,” Holly whispered. Whitehouse was checking a thick day-timer with a tooled leather cover. His squint was evident.

  She wondered if Jeff had any idea of the sinister nature of his reflections. Then Whitehouse stood and clapped the book shut. “Constable Knox will take you back now, Jeff. If there’s anything else, we’ll get in touch. And Mrs. Faris, thank you for coming.“

  The older woman rose with a small groan and nodded. “Jeffrey, I hope you told the truth.”

  “’Course I did, Grans. That’s what you taught me.” Jeff lifted himself from the chair with a smirk on his sculpted lips, good-looking in a superficial way. He made a show of offering his grandmother his arm as he asked over his shoulder, “Aren’t you going to tell me not to leave town?”

  “Just leave here for now,” Whitehouse said, and called, “Constable Singh. Come, please.”

  A minute later, Chipper closed the door behind Jeff and gave Holly an inquiring look. She shrugged. Whitehouse smacked a fist into his palm. “Cocky teenaged bastard. Even if I was one once. And by the way, for future interview techniques, stuff those reaction comments like the one about the sea urchin or whatever it was. Never let them know what you’re thinking. Give them room to hang themselves. Capish?”

  Though the cliché added unintentional comedy, Holly felt her face warm. “Right. So now what?”

  “I’m going to give this one more day. It’s a rat’s nest anyway. Someone drowns at the back of beyond. No forensics to speak of, and probably for good reason. It was a bloody simple-minded accident.” Letting a bored sigh communicate his feelings, he turned to Holly. “Did you talk to this Lindsey girl?”

  “No, that was Constable Singh.”

  “Well?” Whitehouse turned to the young constable.

  Chipper’s voice cracked. Clearly he was as nervous as she was.

  “Just for a few minutes. I didn’t think... I mean, at the time—”

  Whitehouse held up a hand like a traffic cop. “You didn’t think. And we’ll need two thousand officers a year for the next five to fill the ranks. If you two are any indication...my god.”

  Neither spoke, but their heavy swallows were nearly audible. Whitehouse moved on. “As my father used to say, I don’t like the cut of this young man. He’s an insect, no matter how big he is. Get that Lindsey girl in here.”

  Chipper leafed through his notebook. “She lives on Henlyn.” Whitehouse shot his cuffs and scowled at the numbers on his heavy metal watch. “This is getting impossible. Tomorrow I’m due in Victoria for a conference with the crown attorney about my testimony at a very important trial. We’re about to bring down a drug ring. You’ll see it in the papers.”

  “Perhaps I should talk to Ms Bass, sir.” Holly jutted her chin towards Chipper. “If nothing else comes up here that the Constable can’t handle.”

  Whitehouse pondered this for awhile, then he threw up his hands. “I hate to open that can of worms, but we can’t leave it now that it’s been raised. A woman might respond better to you. Take a subtle approach. We don’t want any harassment charges from the Lilac Brigade, even if it’s pure bullshit from Pasquin.”

  Holly nodded. If the woman were gay, she was either utterly dedicated to the parochial system or taking the world’s biggest chance. However, Angie’s crush on her, unsubstantiated at this point, wouldn’t be the first time a straight teacher had been targeted by a gay student.

  “We could bring Lindsey Benish in on Friday, if you’re free then,” Holly said. She was learning to follow Whitehouse by leading him.

  In the foyer, he adjusted his French cuffs, silver shell cufflinks winking at the bottom, and reached for his raincoat. “I’m totally tied up next week, too. The province just got financial support for a crime squad to coordinate efforts all along the south island. I’m helping with the initial organization. In a few years, we’ll have seventeen people.”

  “That sounds big-time.”

  “Damn straight. We’re talking nearly a million a year.”

  “Damn straight. We’re talking nearly a million “Don’t integrated units already operate?”

  “Sure, in dive teams, safety, organized crime and child exploitation. But not in property crime. A full-time analyst is going to crunch the stats and match career criminals with their targets.”

  “I hear you. The same five predatory bastards make the rounds of the parks every summer and steal everything that isn’t nailed down and some that is.” It was important that her territory be safe in appearance and reality for tourists and locals. One bad experience could make a negative impression that circulated like the flu.

  He passed her a card and walked away, calling over his shoulder, “You and Singh handle everything. Do it right this time. Call me if anything turns up, which it won’t.”

  Major Crimes. No wonder he was ticked at the bush-league assignment. Was it the lack of dedication to this case, or a prioritizing of tasks that took Whitehouse off down the road?

  His card had a cell phone number, but it had been crossed out, as if they were second-class citizens. Holly gave him a one-fingered salute as the door shut. As she looked out the window, his unmarked car, a comfy Buick, pulled away, spitting small stones. Ann seemed to be smiling as she shut a file cabinet. Was she laughing at Holly or with her?

  Chipper looked at her, his face troubled. “That was rough.”

  “You can say that again. I wonder what he’s like when he’s really mad.” That got a grin from Chipper.

  An hour later, deep in paperwork, Holly heard Ann answer the phone.

  “I’ll transfer your call to Corporal Martin.”

  Holly found Vic Daso on the line, and the news made her spill a tsunami of coffee from her “B.C.: The Most Beautiful Place on Earth” mug. “The last tox reports show signs of crystal meth.”

  “Why so late? I thought you did blood scans.”

  “Meth stays in the blood for only four to six hours, so we didn’t twig, but it can remain in the urine even after forty-eight hours.”

  “I don’t believe it.” Suddenly chilled, Holly envisioned the fine young girl lying on that cold metal slab. “She didn’t look like a user. This makes no sense.” A wall poster campaigning against crystal meth flashed a graphic picture of the haunting signs of the addiction. Picking at the face, dangerous weight loss, and the signal feature of rotting teeth that were the stuff of nightmares. Angie had been a star athlete. Could scans lie? Was there room for misinterpretation?

  “Are you sure? What about a clerical error?” She didn’t like to insult the man or his methods.

  “Positive. I double-checked it myself.” He let the idea sink in before continuing. “Could be it was administered without her knowledge. The drug can be snorted, smoked, injected, eaten, even injected into the vagina.”

  “What a horrible thought.” A mental pebble sent widening ripples across a pool. Was this proof that Angie hadn’t been alone? Way too many suspects. And that included the two boys outside of the group. What were their names? She reached for her notes. “Chipper collected an empty condom packet in the vicinity. We haven’t done anything with it yet. You said she was no virgin. Could there be a connection?”

  “There wasn’t any sign of rough sex, nor any semen. If anything happened, she was a willing partner.”

  “I’m no prude, but her background doesn’t sound like—”

  “Don’t discount the effect of meth. It increases sexual drive, leading to high-risk behaviour. People do things they wouldn’t normally dream about. And afterwards, memory is sometimes impaired.”
>
  “Did she get the meth at the beach or at the campsite? How could she have been in any condition to ride that bike to the beach?”

  “It’s possible. If she left right away.”

  “The drug could explain her disorientation. Maybe she did fall.”

  “Or maybe someone knows more than they’re telling. Meth can be a solitary experience, but in the first stages, people like company when they’re experimenting.”

  “Chipper, listen,” she said after she hung up.

  As she filled him in, his soft brown suede eyes narrowed, a transformation from boy to man. “Very bad stuff. I knew a guy who went to sh—I mean fell apart getting on it. Gave up everything. He lost his job, went three times to a rehab centre. It never stuck. Don’t know where he is, and I don’t want to know.” His sudden passion seemed to indicate that the person might have been close, a relative or friend. She thought of asking, but saw his jaw quiver as he grew silent, looking out the window to where a steroidal seagull was dueling with a crow over a crust of bread.

  “Whitehouse is going to have a heart attack. He thought he’d seen the back of us.” She left a message on his voice mail at West Shore. Accident or something worse, the development called for more interviews and certainly a search of Angie’s room. Breaking the news at the Didrickson house, the last thing on Holly’s mind had been an intrusive search. Had her bereaved father already cleaned out the room or left it intact like a family shrine? At one household she’d visited, the mother had showed her the perfectly preserved room of their baby who had died in its cradle ten years before. Angie’s room probably had a computer. What about a diary or other information about her relationships?

  She closed her fist as the wind rose and a flurry of rain smashed the window like bullets. Somebody knew where that meth came from. Suddenly she felt as if they weren’t in Kansas any more. With drugs knocking at the door, even Toto wasn’t safe.

  Five

  She drove down West Coast Road through corridors where massive Douglas firs had fueled life for over a century. Now that the rains and cooler weather had arrived, the smell of wood fires filled the air, despite B.C. Hydro’s fourth cheapest power in North America. Many retired neighbours, who had long careers in the forestry industry and enjoyed access to the scrap lots, appreciated the free heat. Suddenly a clear-cut broke the sylvan dream, a few token trees left standing amid the wreckage.

  Long rows of power poles marched by the roadside, fragile nineteenth-century technology. After every storm in which lines were taken by falling trees, calls came for the wires to be buried. In new subdivisions, they were. Otherwise, the cost was prohibitive.

  The microcosm of the timber industry on Vancouver Island continued. On one side, like a miniature graveyard with tiny white stakes for monuments, were acres of trial seedlings. On the another, a forest planted in 1948. Trees a foot and a half in diameter for six decades of growth. Her mother had been born that year.

  On Otter Point Place at last, she crested the sloping driveway and parked her car behind her father’s toy-sized Smart Car, bright red with a bumptious attitude. A muted bark caught her attention. The hillside overlooking the strait resembled a bandshell, reverberating with sounds from all directions. Next door lived Katie, a black lab. Up the hill on the next parallel street, Randy’s Place, were several dogs and a new litter of puppies. She pushed open the back door and found a furry head in her groin. A border collie, young and agile and ready for play. White paint seemed to have been spilled down its ebony head in perfect symmetry. Strange to see a dog in the house after all this time. Bruna had been part of her childhood, followed by Nikon. He’d gone to Rainbow Bridge a month after her mother had vanished. After that, closing himself off to all comforting connections with the excuse that any dog was too much expense and trouble, her father had lived a solitary life.

  “What’s going on?” she called as she ruffled its silken fir and traced its ribs ever so slightly, a sign of fitness. “Where did this guy come from? Is it a stray? It looks too healthy to have been on its own for long.”

  Her father came through the TV room with a dishcloth in his hand. The smell of liver and onions made her stomach lurch. Doing the shopping for him, she had stocked Chef Boy-ar-dee ravioli in the cupboard, her default meal.

  “He’s a rescue. Got him today,” he said. “And he’s been neutered already. A bonus.”

  “Why have you been keeping this a secret?” she asked with a nervous laugh. It was his house, and he could do what he wished. His occasional sadness worried her, though he always seemed to pull himself together. Company might smooth things out. As for the comical but shallow breed, there was no accounting for tastes. On the island, border collies could do no wrong. They had free passes for any mischief.

  His lean and serious face seemed to relax as he petted the animal. His eyebrows were growing fuzzy and unruly, another sign of an old man. “Suppose I have. Just wanted to think it over. I’ve seen him over by Wink’s at the soccer field. There’s a rescue place on Sooke River Road. Run by a lady called Shannon.”

  “Why a border collie?” She didn’t like to discourage her father, but everyone knew that breed was high energy. This wasn’t a farm. It wasn’t even fully fenced, with the front open and one side a hedge of cedars.

  “Thanks to the wise breeding of working dogs, their health is excellent and their disposition generally good. I know you loved our sheps, but their health problems cost a fortune. And this man doesn’t eat more than two cups of kibble a day. A few quality treats like bison sticks are allowed. Very economical.”

  “But what about exercise? Aren’t they pretty demanding?” Watching her watch him, the dog wheeled, grabbed a rope tugger and presented it to her.

  “Depends on the individual. But Hogan/Logan can settle down quickly, and he’s already house-trained, so that’s another plus. I’d never take on a new pup. Bonnie always kept each shepherd in bed with us and trained them in two weeks flat. She’d get up at all hours of the night to take them out.” He reached over and pulled out a bag with tennis balls and Chuck-it wand. “Shannon suggested running him off his feet with this device. Modern version of the atlatl.” He mimed a toss, and she ducked as she laughed.

  “Hogan/Logan? Did a poet wannabe name him? Or does he have a split personality?” She succumbed and gave the rope a tug up and down and from side to side. The dog fixed her gaze with the same insane focus that genes had given him for sheep. Was he one hundred per cent nature, or would nurture play a role?

  Her father sighed. “He’s had a sad history. His first owner wanted a rescue dog to help her train for marathons, but was refused because she worked long hours. She got a pup from a breeder.”

  “Marathons. It’s a dog’s dream. Plenty of exercise.”

  “Shannon said that pups shouldn’t run those distances.

  And the rest of the time she left him alone in a yard in Esquimalt fourteen hours a day. He barked his brains out.”

  “Who wouldn’t?” Though not warming to the animal, she felt sorry for his bad luck.

  “So she gave him up. Points for one good decision. For the last six months, he’s been in foster homes. They changed his name to Logan.”

  “Enough already.” Holly snapped her fingers at Hogan/ Logan and pointed away. To his credit, the dog stopped pestering her, picked up a ball and turned to the other human. “Logan’s even worse. Any ideas?”

  Jackie and Bryan’s diesel truck chugged up the drive next door. The dog dropped the ball and gave a roaring bark. Thirty pounds of attack dog. “Small guy, big voice. Doesn’t he sound like a warrior, like...a Shogun?”

  But when she tried to pet him, the dog growled and veered away. “What’s that about?” she asked.

  Her father waved his hand. “He’s talking. Mumbling. Typical. Means nothing. I’ve been on-line at a rescue site.” True enough, Shogun picked up the tug again and presented it to her.

  “Who’s going to walk him?” She passed her father a questioning look. He
had far more free time than she did. Ivory tower perks.

  “I am, of course.” He gave her an impish smile. “Unless you want to take a turn. Now and then. Be some company for you. Take him to work.”

  “I don’t think so. He’s not a service animal, and he’s too small to be a protector. On a good day, I could tuck him under my arm.”

  Excusing herself, she went upstairs. On the bedroom wall were pictures of Bruna at sunset on the beach, her noble head posed in profile like Nefertiti’s. Then Nikon, a puppy gazing up from the green leaves of a salal bush, his floppy ears a comical beret. In his handsome youthful vigor, leaping over a log with a determined look in his eyes. She’d always remember those shepherd eyes, deep and sober, penetrating and wise, retaining that connection even when old bones creaked and flaccid muscles flagged. Not foxy like this young man’s but full of purpose, asking, “What serious matter will we attend to today, mistress?” Not what can I pull, tug or chase to please myself? It’s all about ME. No wonder border collies didn’t appear in the ranks of guide dogs and other selfless creatures. They were too frivolous to be soulmates. Though she admired the sleek coat, white shirt and ruff with matching paws, handsome is as handsome does. Shogun reminded her of Jeff Pasquin, a shallow pretty boy in youthful plumage. She didn’t trust either one.

  Six

  At ten the next rainy morning, Lindsey Benish appeared at the station with her mother in tow. The girl wore hip-hugger jeans exposing a flat belly with a red jewel in the navel. Her skin was clear and luminous, but her eyes were heavy with mascara and glittery eyeshadow. The liner-defined lipstick was charcoal. She wore blue plastic clogs, an island touch. Ann had provided them with coffee and a soda, and they perched like two hawks, their noses a genetic road map. Mrs. B had seventy pounds on her daughter and wore a bright, floral-print dress. Holly was sure she’d seen her at the Village Market, loaded up like a pack mule with chips, popcorn, soda and a bale of frozen chimichangas.

  “You’re early. Thanks for coming,” Holly said, offering a stand for their umbrellas, ushering them into her office and hustling another chair from the lunchroom. She felt like a stage manager operating under an absent but demanding director. Whitehouse was overdue, perhaps due to the rain. He’d burned her ears over the phone when he’d called her back to discuss the new meth development. Obviously he preferred the case dead and buried, flawed or not.