by Lou Allin
“Sweetgrass. Not pot, then. Was alcohol involved?” Whitehouse’s slash of an eyebrow rose like an unfurling snail.
He shook his head. “No, ma’am, sir.” For seconds he sat silent. Outside, a heavy transport roared by. They cringed at the shrieking application of jake brakes, illegal in denser areas. Standing at rest in the corner, Chipper shot her a look as if asking whether to deal with it. She shook her head.
“Go on, boy,” Whitehouse said. “And remember, we’re not interested in small-time charges like trespassing on the damn beach or even smoking some dope. We want to know how this girl died.”
Billy put the empty glass on the table and straightened his shoulders, a man under construction. “She came up to us. About moonrise.”
Holly remembered the bike, abandoned on the path. “Walking?”
“Uh-huh.” He squeezed his eyes together. “And I...lied to you about something. I did know her. We’d seen each other at a couple of soccer games. Said hi. But we never hung out.”
“Don’t worry about that now. We’ll cover the fine points later,” Whitehouse said. His voice was speeding up, as if he smelled blood.
A quizzical look came over the boy’s handsome face. “There was something funny about her. She was walking all right, but she wasn’t herself. Maybe she’d been taking something, I don’t know.”
“Taking something? Like drugs?” Whitehouse asked, shooting a glance at Holly.
“I know she was an athlete. I can’t see how she would have done that, but things happened pretty fast.” He swiped a hand over his eyes with an ironic laugh. “Mike’s no dummy. He went off by himself for awhile.”
“By himself?” Billy gave a quick nod and dropped his gaze.
“I see. And then?” Whitehouse asked.
“Yeah, we had sex. She was really hot for it. I hardly had time to...well, you know.” He blinked in embarrassment. “No disrespect meant. I was like...what? She smiled at me last time I saw her at the July 1st fireworks. Gave me some gum. But she was with a big guy, another athlete like her. I didn’t think we’d ever—”
“How long were you intimate?”
He translated the niceties and cleared his throat. “Not long. Maybe ten minutes. Then she said she was going for a swim to...clear her head. I found Mike and we went to bed. We were due back to cut brush for my uncle, and he starts work at sun-up.”
Some enchanted evening, Holly thought. Premature ejaculation was common in young men. “And you didn’t follow her? Make sure she was safe?”
“She wasn’t staggering. She was talking slow, but she made sense. Anyways, wasn’t she a big time swimmer? The water was calm that night, no waves or anything. When she went off in the dark...” With a groan, he spread his hands in a gesture of uselessness. Perhaps he felt that his performance had disappointed her.
“And what about the meth? Did you give it to her?”
“What meth?” His tone rose three notes, and his face paled to a milky coffee. “I don’t do that stuff. Ask anyone.”
Whitehouse stood. “Meth, Billy boy. We have definitive tests. We know she took it. You’re the last person to see her.”
Billy’s face paled, and he was making an effort not to cry. It was as if he had been wading and now found himself over his head. “I don’t care how many times you ask. There...was...no... meth. I wouldn’t touch that shit.”
Whitehouse turned his back. “Stay around Port Renfrew. We’re not finished with you yet.” He gave a curt gesture towards the door.
“But don’t you believe...I mean I wouldn’t hurt...” He got up slowly, brows confused, addressing his comments to Holly. “I’ll take a poly...whatever you call it, a lie detector test. So will Mike. Isn’t that good e—”
“Put him in the car, Chipper, and stay with him,” Whitehouse said. The boys passed each other without speaking. Mike came in next. At first he stuck to the initial story, but his head hung low, and he squeezed his hands together. Any bravado he might have had vanished as Whitehouse slapped a folder on the desk, making the boy jump. “Billy told us everything about your night with Angie. Help yourself out by confirming it. It’s never too late to come clean.”
Suspicions crossed his face as if in betrayal. Mike’s self-control stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Honest.”
Whitehouse’s voice sharpened into a steely edge that sparked words. “He confessed that they had sex. The condom pack had his prints, for Christ’s sake. Don’t waste our time.”
Mike cleared his throat. A red flush came over his broad face. Unlike Billy, he had a blooming case of acne. “I don’t know. I left them alone.”
“All right. That’s better. And how was Angie acting?”
“Okay. Friendly. But I didn’t know her.” He squirmed in his chair. “Just to see around. At the A&W maybe. Who could forget a girl like that? She was a babe.”
“And when you got back?”
“She was walking along the beach like she was going for a swim. She waved, even. We turned in then. Billy didn’t say anything. He’s a quiet guy. Not much for words.”
Whitehouse added, “We know you gave her meth. She had it in her system.”
This time Mike jumped from the chair. “No way, man. We don’t use that shit. Billy never told you that. Never.” He dropped his eyes. “Sorry, sir.”
Whitehouse kept at him for another fifteen minutes, hammering the same questions every which way. Mike remained adamant that drugs had not been involved. Like Billy’s denials, his words rang true to Holly. And naming an exact time for turning in, as if he’d been waiting and checking his watch until Billy returned. It fit. What other scenarios did that leave?
“That’s enough, then. Have Ann transcribe the tapes, and get a statement for them to sign later. Take them back to school.”
After the detachment door closed, Whitehouse turned to her. “Good bluff, and it worked, but only so far. They’re the sole witnesses to what happened on the beach. They’ll both claim she walked off of her own free will. And who knows, maybe she did.”
Holly frowned and looked at her notes from an earlier telephone interview with a counsellor at Edward Milne. “I still don’t get the motivation for any harm. Those boys don’t have a record of violence. Billy is an honour student. It was opportunistic to take advantage of her, but—”
“Who wouldn’t?” He made a rude noise. “Are we living on the same planet? Was ‘Say no to sex’ mother’s best advice?”
Holly tried to keep her face neutral. She didn’t want anyone guessing at her nun-like existence. Three boyfriends in ten years. “At least he used a condom. Score one for sex ed, or health ed, whatever they call it. Both boys agreed that Angie was acting strangely. From what I’ve read, she should have felt the effects of meth a lot sooner. Why was she was able to ride that bike all the way to the beach?”
“Everyone’s different. And maybe she brought it with her.”
“From the profiles, first-time users wouldn’t take the risk of experimenting alone.”
“Anything else to suggest?” Whitehouse began packing up his papers, filing them neatly in an alligator attache case.
Holly folded her hands. Surely they hadn’t considered every possibility. “Of all the ways meth is taken, what would be the slowest to reach the nervous system?”
He pursed his broad lips, a slight cut at the edge from hasty shaving. “Ingestion, I guess. Passing through the digestive system takes longer than shooting up or snorting.”
Holly snapped her fingers. “So she could have taken it at the camp. Or had it given to her.”
“To get the best rush, she should have been smoking it. Does this all matter?”
“Billy strikes me as an honest guy. He offered to take a polygraph test.”
He snapped shut the case. “So do it. Get Victoria to send out the unit. If the boys fail, and I’m thinking they will...everyone believes they can fake it...we’ll have more ammunition.”
Holly left to give Ann the direct
ives. When she returned, Whitehouse was answering his cell phone. “Yes, yes,” he said impatiently, scratching the back of one hand until it bled. “Do what I told you, dammit.” Then he hung up.
“Bad news?”
“A new case out of Royal Roads University. Some professor killed his wife. Tried to make it look like an accident. Pathetic, really.”
Royal Roads, formerly a prestigious military training school, occupied a palatial estate in Langford. She swallowed, felt her blood charge through her veins at the word professor. “What kind of an accident?”
“Fall down the stairs. Trouble is, the blood spatters and prints don’t agree with what he said happened. We’ll nail the bastard to the blackboard, and it’ll be a pleasure. Academics think they’re so smart, but their heads are up their asses.”
She kept quiet, digesting the information. Arrogance was Whitehouse’s middle name. How comical that people despised in others the traits they nurtured. “I’m going to follow up that meth connection...all the way to Victoria if I have to.”
“Try the parking garage off Government Street. At least that was last week.”
Holly watched him leave...again, wishing that the wind would blow from the west to keep him far away from Fossil Bay.
Ann came into the office carrying what looked like a school blue book for exams. “I may have some information,” she said, her face alive and almost eager. “About that meth. Sean’s done a hell of a job. I’m proud of that kid.”
Riding around on weekends, Sean had noticed something suspicious at the end of Munson Road. More a muddy rut, Munson abutted an old farm with rocky pastures unfit for crops, hardly prime real estate. Eli Munson, a childless widower, had once run a marginal sheep operation there after the Second World War, but with his death, the land had passed into the public domain for tax arrears. Over the last thirty years, the small farmhouse and leaning barn had fallen into disrepair. Its signal feature for a meth lab was total privacy. Thick cedars woven together with huge firs kept it well hidden from the road. Even the lane curved so that the house couldn’t be seen. Ruts in the drive and the marks of truck tires showed that some recent traffic had passed. Teenagers looking for a private place to party? Ann paused with a proud grin. “Sharp, eh? Noticing those tracks. Not quads either. Too far apart.”
“He’s getting an A so far. Go on.” She watched Ann read from Sean’s notes. “Secret Report” was printed at the top of each page.
Sean had noticed a strange smell when he rode by. An unusual inland breeze was wafting odours from the property. Cat pee. “And my grandma has seventeen, so I know what that’s like,” he had added. When he crept closer, pulling himself on his elbows an inch at a time, keeping the bushes in front of him, he saw that the lower windows had been blacked out with tinfoil.
“Where’s Chipper?” On full alert, Holly planned to visit the scene, even though the boy’s imagination might be on overdrive. Still, his details were compelling.
“He went to Jordan River on a domestic complaint about ten minutes ago. It was pretty serious. Kelly Esterhazy might have a broken arm. Earl’s drunk. She’s drunk. Usually gives as good as she gets, just doesn’t have the size.”
“I’ll wait for him. If it is a meth lab, it isn’t going anywhere in only one day.” This time she’d make no assumptions, but go by the book. With back-up. Given the three-person operation, that was like juggling plates on sticks. She tried to raise Chipper on the radio, but he was away from the vehicle, tending to the Esterhazys. It chilled her that they were so isolated and defenseless at this end of the island.
Ann got a strange gleam in her eye and went to the window. “Andrea’s probably home. She could...” Then she turned too fast and winced. “No, forget it.”
Holly gave Ann points for wanting to contribute in a more active way, but she let the woman set her own limitations instead of saying something patronizing. Meanwhile, she got on the computer and ran the Capital Regional District program, which allowed her to focus on the suspect area. Manipulating the controls, she zeroed in. The end of Munson Road looked like one giant Sherwood Forest. Trees in all directions, except for a few isolated meadows. The land had retreated to nature quickly enough, though much of the periphery was scrubby alder. At the maximum focus, she could make out a small house and several outbuildings. No vehicles were apparent, but that meant nothing. It wasn’t a live feed. The satellite pictures came from a year or two ago. Maybe the house had been occupied then, maybe not. Squatters were rife in Victoria, but this far into the bush made an unhandy address...unless for good reason.
The only way in was the lane, one advantage for the law. Unless there were all-terrain vehicles, no one was escaping out the back. A deep V of a creek sliced the property in half. After jotting a few notes, she made a call to check municipal records for the owners.
An hour later, Chipper returned. “I’ve got Earl in the cruiser. Cross your fingers that he doesn’t barf,” he said. “He’ll be off to the West Shore holding facilities. Sooke’s full up.”
Holly thought for a moment. Here was a safe chance to let Ann shine. “Call in our volunteer to man the phones, Ann. You take him in.”
A small smile grew on Ann’s face along with the nuance of a dimple on one pale cheek. It seemed to ease the strain lines and light up her personality. Holly had seen a yoga pamphlet on her desk with a couple of classes circled.
“Will do.” Ann grabbed the phone and dialed, speaking quickly.
“Chipper, check your belt, then make sure the shotgun’s loaded and the Suburban’s full of gas. We have a house call to make, and the terrain might be rough.”
His face lit up like a kid’s as he looked at her computer screen. “Where are we going?”
By the time they were ready, Andrea was power walking down the lane as Ann was pulling out. With Chipper at the wheel of the muscular vehicle, Holly brushed aside chip packs, candy wrappers, and root beer cans from Reg’s time. “Sorry, Boss,” Chipper said, scooping muffin crumbs from the seat. “Haven’t used the old bus since I got here. Tomorrow I’ll take her into the car wash and clean her up.”
In the late afternoon torpor, Holly’s vest was punishingly hot. She filled Chipper in on Sean’s information and the way they would handle the approach of the property.
En route through the rural backroads, they blocked an escaped peacock whose owner was pursuing it with a net, then took the final turn to Munson. “The island,” Chipper said. “Gotta love it. Llamas, alpacas, therapy horses and exotic birds.”
They had climbed a serious of long grades to amazing views of the strait to one side and the San Juan Ridge on the other. Despite the sun, mist rose like smoke from the dark hills. Holly agonized trying to understand why some of the island’s premium coastal land had been tagged for logging or gravel pits. But twenty-five years ago, anything even a mile from town was “rural”. The population huddled along the lifelines of the ferries to the mainland.
After parking out of sight before the last turn, she removed the shotgun from the clip. On a second thought, she put it back, then took it again and handed it to Chipper, who watched her with some confusion. Going in like gangbusters might be a mistake, but being unprepared for one time in his life had killed Roy. How many people were on the property? Perhaps if they saw more than one vehicle, they’d call for backup from Sooke. If the damn radio cooperated.
Chipper looked down the lane. “Can’t see a thing. Just like you said.”
She grabbed a pair of binoculars. “Let’s approach from the side. There’s a break in the hedging fifty feet down.” Emerging through the tormenting Himalayan blackberries, both their uniforms torn, they crept toward the house, passing the outbuildings first. The open barn door revealed piles of rotting hay and rusty implements hung on nails. Chipper pointed to a small storage shed with a new padlock that gleamed in the sun peeking through the clouds. Otherwise the place looked deserted. They needed to get closer.
He followed her to a thick arbutus bush full of p
lump, pink berries with hard, raspy shells, where they hunkered down to inspect the house. Constructed over a century ago, when the area had fledgling farms, the building was thirty by thirty feet with a crumbling chimney. The mossy shake roof sagged over a dilapidated porch with boards missing like yanked teeth. The unpainted cedar siding had weathered to grey. Underneath was a stone foundation, merely a crawl space which might have served as a root cellar. Instead of storing beets, carrots and potatoes, now it might house supplies. A brisk wind blew in as the weather pattern shifted. A rocker missing one arm started to move back and forth in eerie silence as if entertaining a ghost. Someone had sat there, watching the sun go down.
“Smell anything?” Holly asked.
Chipper obligingly tweaked his nose, small for his face, giving him a boyish appearance. “I was a scout. Wind’s blowing from behind us.”
She pointed to the windows plastered with foil, as if some night shift worker lived there. “That’s very suspicious. Sean was onto something.” Records at the town hall had revealed that the owner lived in Vancouver and rented out the property. But he was in Europe on business, and his personal secretary at the appliance store could reveal no more information about the tenant other than that he had been there only a few months. “It’s been vacant since the owner died,” she had said. “Mr. Mitchell bought it for back taxes on spec. As a hobby farm, it’s just a drain. He’s been renting it out this year to people not particular about luxury, he says. When the rezoning comes through, those lots will be worth a fortune.” Holly recognized the strata concept, allowing four properties on every ten hectares. The CRD had been able to sustain a moratorium on that kind of growth, but with development pressure, how long would it last?
Mere suspicions and foiled windows aside, they had no search warrant and no probable cause. The reactions of the “tenant” would tell her how far to proceed. She couldn’t see the debris Sean had mentioned, but perhaps it had been cleaned up. After a mute signal to Chipper, she knocked on the door. No response. Knocked again. Women’s tones would be less alarming. “Hey, are you guys there?” she called casually. Certainly better than announcing themselves. Chipper gave her an approving nod.