by R. E. Donald
"I know Suzanne wants to hang on to Ranverdan, Murph, but after what happened to Randy, it's no wonder she's badly shaken up. You heard about Gary's brakes?" Hunter watched the big man's eyes carefully.
"Pshaw!" Murphy made a face. "That young buck's always lookin' to blame somebody else for his own mistakes. Now, I don't mean he's a bad boy – he's just trying to make his sorry way from the cradle to the grave like the rest of us – but he doesn't take trucking seriously. Takes no pride in it. Thinks ferryin' forty thousand pounds of freight across the continent is something he can do with one hand tied behind his back, and he's wrong. Real wrong. Thinks he's smarter than us old farts who've been on the road since he was a pup. He makes mistakes. Damn right! More mistakes than he knows." A flush spread from Murphy's already ruddy cheeks up to his hairline and down into his collar. He sighed heavily. "I shouldn't let myself get all worked up about it, but if Suzy decides to pull out, he'll be the one to blame. He never liked trucking. If she decides to sell, it'll be his doing, dollars to donuts!"
"So you don't think Gary's brakes were tampered with?"
"Now, who'd do that? What friggin' good would it do anybody?" Murphy sounded exasperated.
"What about Randy? We all agree, you and me and El, that he was too good a driver to have an accident like that. The doctors say that it wasn't a heart attack, it wasn't a stroke. What was it?"
The big Newfie put down his beer with a thud and leaned forward across the table, peering directly into Hunter's eyes. "I heard that you figure he was murdered," he said in a low voice. "They say you've been looking into things. The drivers – we're counting on you, you know, to find his killer and see justice done."
Hunter smiled sadly and nodded silently as he undid his shirt cuffs, rolling up his sleeves and pushing them up to his elbows. Stu Thatcher's grapevine was at work.
"So you know, then, Murphy, that I'm looking for reports from anyone who might've been on the Coquihalla on either Tuesday, May 24th or Wednesday, May 25th. What about yourself? Think back to what you were doing the day after that little fracas here with Carla's ex, the day you last saw Randy. From then until you heard about Randy's death, can you remember where you were and what you were doing? Try to remember as much of it as you can. Maybe something that didn't seem important to you at the time will turn out to be a crucial lead."
Murphy resettled his bulk on the bench and rubbed his meaty jaw thoughtfully. "I had a rush load on for Portland and I had to make up some time that night, so I was out of here after midnight, about one o'clock, I'd say. I could check my log book when I get home, but I'm pretty sure. It was a quick drop, then I parked it and got some sleep. The customer reloaded the trailer with freight for Calgary and I was on my way again before you could shake a stick, which suited me just fine. You see, I wanted to be in Cherry Creek that night, to spend some time with my little lady." Murphy's eyes dropped, and he ran the tip of his index finger back and forth through the ring of condensation left by the beer jug on the acrylic coated tabletop. "I had to run over hours, eh? If I'd've stopped when I was supposed to, she'd already've been at work by the time I come through."
"So you were on the Coquihalla that night?"
Murphy leaned back against the bench and shook his head. "No. I warn't. Cherry Creek's west of Kamloops on Highway 1. I took the Fraser Canyon road."
"I wouldn't have thought that was any quicker."
The big man squared his shoulders. "Six o' one, half a dozen of t'other. Shall we say, it's more discreet."
Hunter assumed Murphy meant that a driver who was on the road illegally, who had already driven over the number of hours allowed by law, wouldn't be as likely to run into authorities on the route less travelled by big rigs. Whether Murphy's theory was correct, he had his doubts. "So you weren't on the Coquihalla. That doesn't mean you didn't see or hear something that could be useful in finding out how Randy died." Hunter stopped short. Murphy had raised an arm, covered his eyes with his hand, inhaled deeply. His square fingernails were outlined by black grease stains. When he pulled his hand away, Hunter noticed the effort it cost Murphy to smile.
"I sure miss the old bugger," he said.
"You and Randy were very close." Hunter paused, filling up Murphy's empty glass and topping up his own, which was still two thirds full. He took a few slow sips of beer. "Was there anything in your conversations with Randy in the days or weeks preceding his death that indicated he was worried about something, or someone? Did you talk about anything unusual? Anything illegal? Or perhaps just something Randy suspected wasn't right?"
When Murphy didn't reply, just sat staring at the head of foam subsiding in his glass, Hunter nudged him further. "Anything related to the loads Ranverdan was handling for Waicom, for example. It may not be a coincidence that there was Waicom freight on his trailer when Randy's rig went off the road."
Murphy looked up from his beer, an eager expression on his face. "I knew it! I knew that damn Chinaman was up to no good!"
"You mean Mah? Steve Mah at Waicom?"
"None other! What a crafty bugger that little yellow bastard is!" Murphy said venomously, narrowing his eyes.
"He seemed like an okay guy to me," Hunter lied.
"Oh, ho! Listen up, me bye! Can I tell you a thing or two!"
Hunter frowned quizzically, and topped up Murphy's beer in encouragement. Murphy licked his lips.
"I've known Mah since the days we first started haulin' Waicom's freight from the Seattle docks into the Vancouver warehouse, back when Chuck Wahl was still pulling a combined load to Winnipeg and Edmonton for them once a week." He clicked his tongue against his back teeth. "Never really knew how Chuck could afford to do that, 'cause surely the big carriers with their schedules, needin' eastbound backhaul and all, could do it cheaper and faster than him with his single truck. His old Ford was in better shape then, mind you. But Mah was in charge of the Vancouver warehouse back then, and he pretty much called all the shots at Waicom when it came to choosing carriers. He and Chuck were as thick as thieves." He held up two intertwined fingers as he took a gulp of beer, barely pausing for a breath.
Hunter looked at his watch. Still lots of time.
"Then Waicom got big enough to hire themselves a warehouse manager, and Mah was back to being just a shipper. That must've put Mah's knickers in a knot, by Jesus! He was under the new guy's thumb, and obviously had to cut down on his hanky panky. Pretty soon the new guy gave Chuck the heave ho. Chuck was bitter, let me tell you! But it warn't Randy's fault, anybody could see that.
"Once Chuck was out of the picture, all of a sudden the slippery little Chinaman starts gettin' real friendly with yours truly. You know the sort of thing, eh? Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge. Just between us boys, like. Mah there, he's my best buddy all of a sudden. Murphy, he says, you're a fine figure of a man. I can tell by just lookin' at you that you must have to fight the ladies off with a stick. Me, he says, I'm just a damn shipper stuck here in this warehouse, and I sure would love to hear about the adventures a big guy like you has on the road. Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge. And you know how it is, Hunter, being on the road for days in a row, you got a lot of stories to tell and nobody to tell them to sometimes." He shrugged glumly. "I was married then. Happy as a clam. But that didn't mean I didn't still have a few little darlin's on the road to talk about.
"Of course," Murphy continued, "that's just what Mah was waiting for. So happens he needed some 'favors'. Chuck's not around anymore, so now the Chinaman turns to his good buddy Murph. And he has a little leverage, you might say. What would happen if your good wife found out about the little blonde waitress in Everett? he'd ask, nonchalant like. Then he'd ask me a little favor. Don't count the freight on this load, he'd say, and phone ahead to Scarfo before you deliver it in Edmonton. And I was afraid if I told Randy, Mah would call my dear wife. That scummy ... ." He pursed his lips as though he were about to spit, but thought better of it and swallowed hard, then threw back his head to empty his glass.
"I asked Ra
ndy to take me off Waicom. Rather, I asked him to send me someplace else, so's it wouldn't look like my doin'. I guess Mah didn't see any likely replacement at the time, 'cause he phoned me up and 'advised' me to come back. Not only would he not call my wife, he said, he'd also throw in a little grease for my wheels. Maybe my wife would like a new T.V. to watch while I was on the road? Would you believe it?" He paused, wide-eyed. "Stupid Stanley fell for it. Hooo, bye! Then my goose was really cooked. Randy would've had my balls if he'd found out."
Hunter checked his watch again. Murph was opening up like a dam, but he only had twenty minutes to take advantage of it. "How long did that go on?" he prompted.
"Hah! I was Mah's donkey for almost a year. I wish I could say that I finally had the balls to end it, but I can't take the credit. My little wife run off on me, so I didn't give a damn. It wasn't until then I told the little prick to shove it up his ass." He grunted. The beer jug was empty. Murphy hoisted it up and waved it at the waiter.
"No more for me, Murph," Hunter said, and immediately regretted it. Murphy looked annoyed. He must have assumed that Hunter would be his drinking buddy for the evening. "I'll have one more glass," Hunter countered quickly, taking a ten dollar bill out of his shirt pocket and slapping it on the table. "Go on, Murph. Please."
Murphy made a show of watching the waiter fill a new jug and bring it to the table. The waiter refilled both their glasses, and Murphy raised his to Hunter's in a toast. "To Randy," he proposed, "a man you could trust with your life." His eyes glittered with melancholy.
"To Randy," Hunter repeated. He had to somehow resuscitate Murphy's good will towards him. After a respectable pause, he said, "So you walked out on Mah? That took a lot of guts, no matter what you say."
Murphy responded with a preoccupied nod.
"Did Mah do anything? Did he tell Randy?"
"Use your brains, bye." Murphy shot him a look of disgust. "You think Mah would shoot himself in the foot just to get back at me? Of course not!"
"Did he recruit someone else?"
"The bugger was transferred to Seattle not long after that, when the brass at Waicom decided they needed their own warehouse down there. He was King Shit again, once he landed in Seattle. Maybe his boss was suspicious, I don't know. He might've moved him across the border to cramp his style. Goin' through customs, you've got to watch your p's and q's. You can't just short loads willy nilly, or ship half a dozen cartons to the wrong place every month." Murphy took a big sloppy slug of beer, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "Who knows what the slimy bugger got up to after he moved." He shrugged loosely. "But his kind never go straight. You can take that to the bank." He shut up, scowling into his beer.
Hunter debated whether to ask the same question again and decided to go at it from a different direction. "Did Randy suspect something?"
The big driver stared at him dumbly, and Hunter was about to repeat the question when Murphy finally spoke. "Randy was a prince among men. He trusted me." The Newfie leaned across the table and waved his finger in Hunter's face for emphasis. "Randy trusted me. He always gave me the benefit of the doubt." He pulled back, his big shoulders sagged and his whole body seemed to shrink towards the floor. His voice faded almost to a whisper. "Now, shouldn't I have trusted him? How could I ever have suspected that man of doing something behind my back?" Murphy abruptly revived and straightened, raising his glass to Hunter's again, insistently this time. "Here's to an honorable man. Randy was a prince among men."
Hunter's next question to Murphy, about whether Randy had made a last minute switch with him the night before the accident, met with a hostile, "What if he did?" followed by a sullen silence. The dam had shut, and Hunter had no time left to try to pry it open again.
It was after seven o'clock by the time Hunter pulled out of the parking lot of the Riverside Inn. He edged the Pontiac a few miles an hour over his usual cautious speed on the way to Burnaby. Replaying parts of Murphy's conversation in his mind, he visualized the big man's moments of discomfort. The drivers – we're counting on you, you know, to find his killer and see justice done. He seemed sincere, but Hunter was convinced that he wasn't telling everything he knew. His warning to Sorry about Mah had been explained, but whether or not he had again been recruited by Mah was left unsaid. Would Murphy have been so open about his previous involvement if he were still doing something illegal? Would he have said anything about it at all if he himself were somehow involved in Randy's death? Shouldn't I have trusted him? he'd said. Trusted him in what way? He obviously had serious regrets about something, but was it related to Waicom? Was it related to Randy's death?
Hunter felt like he'd blown a good opportunity. Too bad he couldn't go back and start his conversation with Murphy all over again.
CHAPTER 26
– – – – TWENTY-SIX
Lesley directed Hunter to a little restaurant called the Neighbourhood Hideaway just a few minutes away. They were shown to a table for two in a raised section of the restaurant divided from the main floor by a wooden railing. It was relatively dark, and their table was screened by plants. This is what they mean by intimate, thought Hunter. While Lesley arranged her jacket and purse, a big denim bag, on the back of her chair, he rolled down his shirt sleeves and buttoned his cuffs.
The waitress came and lit the candle that sat inside a globe of nubbled amber glass on the table. Lesley asked for an appetizer of tzatziki and pita bread. "I'm absolutely starving," she said, catching the swatches of her hair that hung down in front of each shoulder and flipping them behind her neck. Hunter marvelled at how unlined her skin was, and how fragile her chin and nostrils looked, lit from below by the candle's steady flame. She still looks brand new, he thought, glancing from her smoothly sculpted fingers to his own knobby fingers and corded hands.
The waitress brought the appetizer almost immediately, along with two glasses of water and two Cokes. For their meals, Lesley ordered souvlakia and Hunter ordered prawns. Lesley dunked torn pieces of pita in the garlicky dip, chatting away furiously about her job and her friends and her sister and her mother. She talked about little things, like what happened today and yesterday, things that she had found funny, and things that had exasperated her. Hunter leaned on his elbows and stared at his youngest daughter with a broad, irrepressible grin. It made him happy just to sit and watch her and listen to her talk. God! He missed them! He'd forgotten just how much.
She suddenly stopped, a chunk of pita bread in each hand. "Jeez, Dad! I've been doing all the talking, haven't I? Feel free to tell me to shut up, you know?"
He shook his head, his grin still fixed in place. "I like listening to you, Lesley." He motioned her to go ahead, keep talking.
"No, Dad. You talk for a while." Tiny frown lines appeared above the bridge of her nose. "How's your job?" she asked.
"It's fine. My truck's running well. The weather's been good. I've been getting some good trips, mostly short." He gestured with open hands that he had nothing much to say. "I'd rather listen to you. What are your plans for school in the fall?"
She thought for a moment, her frown deepening. "How about if I ask you some questions first?" she said.
He shrugged agreeably.
"Why did you resign from the R.C.M.P.?"
Hunter caught his breath, then slowly and deliberately picked up his Coke and took a sip. She'd gone right for the jugular. A jumble of reasons ran through his mind: feeling burned out by years of trying to be strong and unflinching because that's what a Mountie's supposed to be, feeling heartsick at the sight of yet another senseless death, yet another hostile juvenile, and ... seeing his friend, Ken, like seeing a reflection of himself, dead with a bullet in his head. Had Ken's death been the beginning, or had it been the final straw? Either way, he couldn't talk to Lesley about it.
He felt assaulted by the blur of confused emotions and images that still haunted him and that he didn't want to remember, tried hard not to remember. He thought about what Chris had said, about her and Jan and Lesley forever
worrying that he was lying dead somewhere when he was late coming home. Surely they'd talked about how his job was such a big part of the reason for the separation. The girls must have known or sensed the toll being a cop took on a man's personal life.
"Well ..." he said slowly. He suddenly remembered what Suzanne said, that she'd always told her college friends that her father was ‘in transportation’, and it occurred to him that Lesley's real question might be, Why is my father just a lousy truck driver? He took a deep breath.
"I needed a break, I guess. Police work is pretty intense, pretty demanding sometimes." He dropped his eyes from her face (why did she look so cute and funny when she was trying to look serious?) to the burning candle. "Police see so much of the negative side of human life – highway accidents, murders, crime, domestic violence. It was like ... thinking about the ugly things I saw at work sometimes took up so much of my ... time that I didn't pay enough attention to ... to other things in my own life that should have mattered more."
She said nothing. He glanced back at her face. She expected more.
"Even though I didn't quit until a couple of years after your mother and I split up, there were still a lot of things to do with the divorce that I hadn't ... dealt with, sort of, .... uh, emotional type things, and I guess finding a less demanding job seemed like a good idea at the time." He hated the idea of his daughter thinking about him having ‘emotional things’ to deal with. He was not a nineties kind of guy, and he didn't want to be. This was becoming an uncomfortable topic for dinner conversation.
"I have to tell you, though, that driving a tractor-trailer unit isn't the mindless job some people think it is. Drivers aren't all like the cowboys they show in the movies, you know." He grinned at her, and she wrinkled her nose at him, obviously confused. Confused, or sceptical.
"If you could do it again, would you still join the R.C.M.P.?" she asked, leaning forward, closer to the candle.
"That's a hard question to answer, Les. The R.C.M.P. is all I ever knew, really. I think I had my sights set on being a Mountie before I was even ten years old. It was hard for me to imagine being anything else, right up until I quit. And by then I couldn't face taking a job at a desk, or behind a counter, or even just being in one place all the time. There's a lot of good people in the trucking business. Restless, maybe, but good." He grinned at her again and this time she managed a quick, preoccupied smile under her frown.