Death On a No 8 Hook (A Willows and Parker Mystery)

by Gough, Laurence

  “I like a puzzle,” said Goldstein. “Since I had a couple of dollar bills in my wallet, I thought, hey, why not give it a try. In about two minutes I had a five-aspirin headache and in about three minutes I’d stopped caring if you ever found the guy.”

  “Where’s the original?” said Parker.

  Goldstein fished in his pocket for a key, unlocked the top drawer of his desk. He pulled out a plastic evidence bag. Tiny flakes of dried blood had collected in the bottom left corner. Goldstein shook the bag and the flakes drifted upwards, like black snow.

  Willows went over to the desk and held out his hand. Goldstein looked at the hand as if it had six fingers. After a moment he gave the bag to Willows.

  “I signed that money out, Jack. That makes me responsible for it.”

  Willows smiled. “Tough shit, Jerry, because I’m going to take the whole squad over to McDonald’s for lunch.” He slipped the envelope in his breast pocket and started towards the door.

  “I almost forgot,” said Goldstein to Parker. “Next Sunday’s the fourth annual Tatlow Park Invitational Croquet Tournament. Would you like to come?”

  Parker hesitated.

  “Nice crowd,” said Goldstein. “Lots of singles. All you have to do is wear whites and bring along a couple of bottles of decent wine. The food’s taken care of. Cold cuts, stuff like that.”

  “What time Sunday?” said Parker.

  “We kick off at two o’clock sharp.”

  “Are you going to wear a white leather tie?”

  “Probably,” said Goldstein.

  “You actually own one, do you?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Parker pointed. “That one’s naugahyde, right?”

  “What?” Goldstein frowned. “You think I’m the kind of guy who’d wear a naugahyde tie?”

  “Definitely,” said Parker.

  Chapter 23

  The telephone rang.

  Willows blinked, and the hundred-dollar bill lying on his desk suddenly came back into focus. He sat up a little straighter in his chair. Stifling a yawn, he picked up the phone. It was Pat Rossiter, calling him from Squamish.

  “What’s all this about a tattoo, Jack?”

  Willows collected his thoughts. He told Rossiter about the wedge-shaped slice of flesh carved out of the dead boy’s forearm, in the exact same spot where Naomi Lister’s tattoo had been located.

  “And you’re looking for what?” It might have been the connection, but Rossiter didn’t sound particularly interested.

  “I think the boy had an identical tattoo to Naomi Lister’s, and that it was cut out of his arm to eliminate any connection between the two of them.”

  “Wait a minute. What about that picture we found in the girl’s shorts? If you’re right, why didn’t the killer grab the snapshot, instead of leaving it behind?”

  “He made a mistake.”

  “I don’t think so, Jack. The coroner’s report was filed this morning. Death by misadventure. No blame attached.” Rossiter paused, but Willows had nothing to say. “The water in her lungs came from the creek, not Alfred Hitchcock’s bathtub. The various bruises and abrasions on her body were entirely consistent with the kind of beating she’d have taken drifting down that creek. And there’s more. You listening?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Willows was beginning to feel a trifle irritated, but he kept his voice flat and calm.

  “The pathologist’s report noted a blood carbon-monoxide level of fifteen point eight per cent.” A distant match flared. Willows heard Rossiter inhale deeply, the rustling of paper as he turned a page. “You know as well as I do,” the Mountie continued, “that major among the symptoms of carbon-monoxide poisoning is a marked tendency towards impaired judgement. Naomi Lister could easily have put herself at extreme risk without being aware of what she was doing.”

  Willows thought back, recalled in his mind the overgrown logging road, the smears of oil and globules of fresh grease on the grass, the torn earth and tread marks of a four-wheel drive vehicle. It’d be easy to damage an exhaust system going up that mountain. And that would account for the carbon-monoxide poisoning, no doubt about it.

  “What I want to know,” said Willows, “is who drove her up that mountain, and where was he when she decided to go for a swim?”

  Rossiter sighed into the receiver. “Probably off in the woods somewhere. Smoking a joint, drinking a beer. Maybe taking a nap under a tree.”

  “Were there any residual traces of alcohol or other drugs in the body?”

  “Negative.”

  “Indications that she’d recently had sex?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “So what’s her mystery companion so worried about? Is skinny-dipping with a juvie such a big deal up there in the woods?”

  “Maybe he’s a married man.”

  “Or a multiple murderer.”

  “Let’s hope not,” said Rossiter. But his tone of voice made it clear he wasn’t too worried about the possibility. Belatedly, Willows realized that Rossiter had not phoned to enquire about his request for a tissue sample, but simply to inform him that the Squamish detachment of the RCMP had closed Naomi Lister’s file.

  Willows thanked Rossiter for his help, brusquely cut off his attempt to make small talk, and hung up. Flipping open his notebook, he methodically recorded the gist of their brief conversation. The fact that Naomi Lister’s blood had contained high levels of carbon monoxide nagged at him. He pushed the problem to the back of his mind. Let his subconscious worry about it: he didn’t have the time.

  Claire Parker strolled into the squad room. She went over to the water cooler and pointed at it, gave Willows an enquiring look. He shook his head. When she’d finished drinking, Parker shook the last few drops of water from the conical paper cup and then balanced the cup upside down on her head.

  Willows had needed a lift. He smiled, and Parker curtsied in acknowledgement. Willows locked the hundred-dollar bill away in the bottom drawer of his desk.

  It was time to hit the bricks.

  Chapter 24

  Mannie lived on East 30th, in the shadow of Queen Elizabeth Park. His faded shingle house was only half a block from Nat Bailey Stadium, home of the Canadians, a Triple-A franchise affiliated with the Milwaukee Brewers. When there was a game, Mannie could hear the crowd noises in his kitchen even with the window shut.

  Junior drove past the empty stadium and turned left, cruised down 30th at a steady five miles an hour, the dual exhausts of the black Trans Am burbling softly in his wake. It was Sunday morning, half past ten. Junior was early. With any luck he’d catch Mannie in his Pooh Bear jammies.

  The street in front of the house was empty. No cars, no kids, nothing. Junior tapped the brakes, slowed almost to a stop and turned sharply right. The car shuddered as the front wheels hit the curb. Junior nosed up on the sidewalk and pushed slowly through the flimsy picket fence. Wood snapped and splintered. A board popped loose and cartwheeled into a neighbour’s yard.

  Junior stomped on the gas.

  The big V-8 howled. The fat-track Goodyear Eagle GT’s tore up the grass, spat out clods of earth, sprayed pebbles and small stones across the road. Junior smelled burnt rubber. Then the Positraction kicked in and the car bolted, the acceleration throwing him back against the seat. He stabbed at the brake pedal and the car immediately began to drift sideways, the rear end creeping around on him. Spinning the wheel, using both hands, he just managed to get straightened out before he smacked into the side of the house.

  The Trans Am stopped dead. Junior’s knee hit the underside of the steering-column hard enough to make his eyes water. The engine stalled. Cursing, he went for the Colt Magnum in the glove compartment, thought better of it, slumped over the steering-wheel and closed his eyes.

  Mannie came out on his postage-stamp of a front porch in his red imitation silk dressing-gown, a bowl of Rice Krispies in his left hand. He saw the black Trans Am squatting malevolently in his yard, the gaping hole in his fence, his rui
ned lawn and the dent in the house his father had built and lived in all his life.

  Dropping the bowl of cereal, Mannie stormed down the steps and across the lawn, yanked on Junior’s door and shredded a fingernail.

  Junior opened his eyes one at a time. He squinted lazily out at Mannie through the tinted glass, and then reached out and hit a chrome button. The window powered down.

  Mannie struck his head inside the car and said, “What the fuck are you doing to my house?”

  “Knock, knock,” said Junior.

  “You stupid shit!”

  Junior patted the passenger seat. “Hop in. It’s time for brunch.”

  Mannie sucked at his injured finger. He tasted blood, warm and salty. “How come you’re so early?” he said.

  “Get in,” said Junior. He turned the ignition key. The engine rumbled, and the exhausts made that throaty grumbling noise he liked so much.

  “Gimme a minute to get dressed, okay.”

  “Fine.”

  “You bounce that thing off my house again, I’m gonna slash your fucking tyres.”

  “Don’t forget to check the stove and unplug your iron,” said Junior sweetly. He hit the button and the fast-rising wall of tinted glass pushed Mannie’s head back out of the car. Mannie’s lips started moving but Junior couldn’t hear what he was saying because of the soft, whispering drone of the air-conditioner. Ignoring Mannie, he leaned sideways in his seat and picked up a sheet of pink construction paper from the storage shelf beneath the glove compartment.

  Junior’s large blunt fingers were not nearly so agile as Misha’s, and the origami raccoon was fairly complex by his standards of accomplishment. He had to think carefully about what he was doing, concentrate hard as he folded the stiff square of paper over and over again.

  Gradually, the little animal took shape: became a creature of sharp folds and many overlapping angles; planes of shadow and light that shifted constantly as Junior turned the pink paper this way and that, trying, as Misha had taught him, never to stop moving, never to be still.

  Mannie’s knuckles cracked against the glass. Junior didn’t react. He worked at the paper, teasing it out, giving bulk to the raccoon’s body. Finally he tossed the finished animal on the dashboard and unlocked the door. Mannie slid into the car. He was wearing a wheat-coloured jacket over a dark green shirt. His pale green slacks were held up by a white leather belt with a big brass buckle that exactly matched the buckles on his pointy white leather shoes. The polished brass accentuated the seven chunky gold rings Mannie was wearing — three on his left hand and four on his right.

  “Nice outfit,” said Junior.

  Mannie nodded, accepting his due. He shut the car door and adjusted his slacks to minimize wrinkling, reached behind him to fasten his seat-belt.

  “You buy the shoes and belt at the same time?” said Junior.

  “Yeah.”

  “What’re those little red things on your shirt, triangles?”

  “Arrowheads.”

  Mannie flicked a speck of lint from the cuff of his jacket. He stared straight out the windscreen as Junior backed the Trans Am across the lawn, punched another jagged hole in his picket fence. Junior glanced at him, grinning, but Mannie didn’t say anything. He marked it down in the big ledger of his mind, though. Junior’s time would come. And when it did, Mannie would happily slash his tyres and then slash his fucking throat.

  Junior drove down Main and then along Hastings, mile upon mile of depressing architecture and bright red lights. They crept past the south flank of the PNE. It was the second day of the combined exhibition and fair, and there were auxiliary cops everywhere, tied by electric umbilical cords to the metal boxes that controlled the traffic lights. The sidewalks and intersections were thick with people. Junior stared at the women, at the bits and pieces of them that interested him the most. “You ever been to the PNE?” he asked Mannie.

  “When I was a kid.” Mannie shifted in his seat. He remembered riding the Ferris wheel to the top and then throwing pea gravel down at the crowd far below him. People looking up, bewildered.

  They crawled past the rotting hulk of Empire Stadium, the heroic Jack Harman bronze of Bannister and Landy breaking the four-minute mile. Junior made a left on Cassiar. The traffic began to clear as they approached the Second Narrows Bridge. Far below them a stiff breeze turned the inlet into a broad field of shattered glass that reflected a million brilliant shards of light. Off to the left were the dull bulk of the grain elevators, acres of neatly stacked lumber, a huge cone of bright yellow sulphur. Dozens of piers thrust the blunt, grasping fingers of commerce into the harbour. And the mountains loomed over everything, bluish-green in the gathering haze.

  As they crested the span of the bridge, Junior hit a button and powered open the sunroof. The sudden wind buffeted Mannie, made a ruin of his carefully arranged hair. He lifted his hands to his head, crouched a little lower in his seat.

  Junior laughed. “Don’t worry about it. It’s the natural look.”

  “I should’ve worn a suit,” said Mannie.

  “What for? You’re going to brunch, not a fucking funeral.”

  “I notice you’re wearing one.”

  “That’s because I’m working, stupid.” Junior took a quick look in his rearview mirror and abruptly changed lanes. The Trans Am fishtailed crazily. The bridge railings whizzed by. Junior seemed unconcerned. “In fact,” he said, “if I were you, I’d lose the tie.”

  “Why, what’s wrong with it?”

  “Felix and Misha are Californians, Mannie. Very relaxed people. You’re gonna be eating out on the patio by the pool. In the backyard, you see what I mean? They’re gonna be wearing old cut-offs and those Japanese sweatshirts with messages on ’em nobody can read.”

  Mannie waited just long enough to let Junior know he wasn’t being pushed into anything, and then removed his tie.

  “And another thing,” said Junior. “Take my advice and never wear green again.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it ain’t your colour, Mannie. Green tints your skin and makes you look dead.”

  Mannie twisted in his seat. “You trying to tell me something?”

  “If I was, you’d be riding in the boot, leaking blood all over my spare tyre.”

  The Trans Am quivered as the bridge ended and the surface of the road changed from concrete to asphalt. They were on the highway now, in the outside lane, moving west at a steady eighty miles an hour. Mannie stared thoughtfully at the multi-coloured paper zoo crowding the dashboard, pressing up against the windscreen. The mob of miniature beasts was dancing on tiny pointed feet, whipped into a frenzy by the wind from the sunroof. Junior and his origami, mumbo-jumbo about penetrating the Jap psyche. Mannie couldn’t even tell what most of the animals were. He liked the alligators, though. And the storks. But most of it was crap. Reaching out, he plucked what might have been an elephant from the frantic, vibrating throng. There was something different about the animal. Unlike its companions, it was a two-tone. Yellow and green.

  Mannie saw that it had been fashioned out of a parking ticket.

  “Good, huh?” said Junior.

  “Terrific,” said Mannie. Junior was wearing a vested black suit, white shirt, floppy black bow-tie and a pair of gleaming white Converse Hi-Toppers. He looked like a pallbearer at a funeral for Woody Allen.

  But Woody hadn’t done anything to annoy Felix Newton, and Mannie had.

  By the time the gleaming black nose of the Trans Am turned into Felix’s driveway, Mannie’s pear-shaped body was wet with fear.

  How had he gotten himself into this mess? How was he going to get himself out?

  Chapter 25

  Mannie stood on the front porch with the posture of an apprentice vacuum-cleaner salesman while Junior unlocked the big front door with a shiny brass key that must have weighed half a pound. In they went, Junior leading Mannie past a wide spiral staircase and down a long hallway with a glossy parquet floor. Junior’s Hi-Toppers chirping a
nd squeaking, making little Trans Am sounds on the polished wood.

  Mannie paused to pluck a rose from a slim vase resting in the centre of a graceful inlaid table with bow legs. Junior watched Mannie slip the rose into his jacket lapel. He shook his head, grinning. They went through an open doorway and down three steps into a sunken living-room about twenty feet wide by forty feet long. There was a very large and very valuable Persian rug on the floor, a nice mix of antique furniture. The room was dominated by a huge Sylvania television that squatted on an oval coffee table by the red brick fireplace, in front of a flimsy-looking Queen Anne chair.

  The dining-room was off to Mannie’s left, and three steps up. On either side of the stairs there were low brick dividers with a profusion of plants growing out of them. The table was laid for twelve, and was awash in glittering silverware, crystal bowls of fresh-cut flowers. The wall behind the table was plate glass; a series of sliding glass doors. Outside, Felix Newton and Misha were sitting at a round metal table in the shade of a big pink-and-white-striped umbrella. They were drinking white wine on the rocks out of oversized glasses. Misha was holding her glass in both hands. Neither she nor Felix noticed Mannie.

  “Sit,” said Junior.

  Mannie looked at him, not quite sure he’d heard him right. Junior pointed at the Queen Anne chair in front of the Sylvania. There was something in Junior’s hand. A small, black, rectangular object. Slowly, Mannie lowered himself into the chair.

  “Don’t move,” said Junior. “Stay right where you are.”

  “Fine with me,” said Mannie. He had decided that the black object in Junior’s hand was a purse gun, maybe a .25 calibre automatic. Something that would only make little holes in the Persian carpet. He crossed his legs. Now the throwing knife in the ankle sheath was only inches from his hand, a fraction of a second away from Junior’s heart.