Memory Lane

by Laurence Gough

  The house had been shut up for several hours. Willows smelled dry rot, burnt food, the sickly sweet smell of congealed blood. He righted an overturned kitchen chair.

  “Where do you want to start?”

  “Upstairs.” The way the people who lived here shared what they owned reminded Willows of his student days. In places like this, privacy was always at a premium. Any clues to the suspects’ private lives would surely be found in the three upstairs bedrooms.

  Willows took the stairs two at a time. Several dozen empty beer bottles were stacked against the wall on the cramped landing. Parker went into one of the bedrooms. Willows took another. A queen-size mattress lay on the bare wooden floor. The only other piece of furniture was a battered, fifties-era maple bureau. A raggedy waterfall of clothing overflowed from the open bureau drawers. This room was Hilda and Alvin’s — their names had been scrawled on the door in black felt pen. Willows emptied and repacked the drawers one by one. The place was a mess, looked as if it had already been tossed. Willows gingerly sifted through the bedclothes and then grabbed the mattress and lifted it high enough to look underneath. Nothing. There was a tiny walk-in closet. He switched on his pocket-size MagLite. A dust ball cowered in a corner. On a small shelf made of an unpainted board he found a back issue of National Geographic. He flipped through the magazine’s glossy pages and there was Hilda, jauntily perched on the aft rail of a big sailboat. She wore a black one-piece bathing suit. Her hair was in short braids. Her smile was as wide as her face.

  Willows studied the text. The picture had been taken on board My Girl, a forty-two-foot gaff-rigged ketch leased by the Trident Corporation. Willows turned the page and discovered that the corporation was based in San Diego. Trident was a non-profit organization. The boat’s volunteer crew were studying the causes of degradation in shallow-water coral reefs in the Bahamas. Willows checked the magazine’s spine. The issue was ten years old, but Hilda looked at least twenty years younger. What had happened to her, in the interval, that had yanked her out of that life and into this?

  He put the magazine back where he’d found it, and went into the front bedroom. This room, the victim’s, was the smallest of the three. A narrow casement window overlooked the street. A black Trans-Am with tinted windows crawled past, radio blaring.

  Parker leaned against the doorway. “How’re you doing?”

  “Not so good. Find anything in the other room?”

  “An extensive collection of dust balls.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  The bed had an iron frame, small iron wheels. Hospital surplus. But the mattress was firm and the plain white sheets had been recently changed. There was a clamp-lamp and a GE clock radio on the orange-crate night table, a full bottle of Smirnoff vodka inside the crate.

  The six-drawer dresser was painted a glossy white. Willows was trying to steal secrets from a life. Like any educated thief, he started at the bottom and worked his way up, so he wouldn’t need to shut one drawer before going on to the next. The first drawer held a pair of heavy, green corduroy pants and a pair of black rubber boots. Stuffed down in the bottom of one of the boots was a metal box secured with a sturdy padlock. Willows gave the box a shake. It sounded empty but weighed full. He turned both boots upside down. No key.

  His splayed fingers swept across the bottom panels of the drawers as he yanked them open one by one.

  Parker searched the night table. She checked the clamp-lamp and then the alarm clock’s battery compartment. She upended the crate, gave the bed a thorough once-over, pushed the mattress back into place and sat down. “I’m getting all hot and sweaty, Jack. There’s got to be a hammer or a screwdriver around here somewhere.”

  “Under the sink.”

  Parker trudged downstairs, returned a few minutes later with a rusty, wooden-handled hammer. She hit the lock three times, before the shackle finally snapped. Parker opened the box. A wad of fifties spilled into her lap. She did a quick count. Altogether, there was about eight hundred dollars.

  Willows said, “Now we know why he didn’t like being called Richie Rich. I wonder where he got the money?”

  “Hilda mentioned that the rent was overdue.”

  Willows nodded. When a murder had been committed, the motive was almost always love, or money. Or the need for love, or the lack of money. He felt depressed, betrayed by the banal predictability of it all.

  Parker drove them back to 312 Main. It was a complete surprise to all four suspects that their pal Rick had eight hundred and fifty dollars squirrelled away in a locked steel box. Willows and Parker discussed the case with Inspector Homer Bradley. Bradley was silver-haired, arthritic, pushing mandatory retirement. But he was one of the sharpest coppers on the force. Bradley green-lighted the quartet’s release. Parker cautioned them not to leave town. Hilda made it clear they weren’t going anywhere at all, unless someone lent them cab fare home. Parker dipped deep into her wallet. She offered Hilda a pair of tens. Alvin Da Silva offhandedly said he appreciated the gesture but that twenty might not quite cut the mustard. Willows added a rumpled five-dollar bill to the pot. He escorted the four of them to the Main Street exit, and then he and Parker took the elevator back to the third floor.

  It was just a few minutes past seven, and the squad room was deserted. Willows checked that his desk was locked. He yawned, and slung his overcoat over his shoulder.

  Parker said, “Want to get something to eat, or go straight home?”

  “Let’s eat. Maybe if we have breakfast, we can trick ourselves into thinking we just got up.” In a little less than two hours, Willows had an appointment with his lawyer, Peter Singer. But he’d neglected to mention the meeting to Parker, and he wasn’t quite ready to tell her about it just yet. There were some things a woman was better off not knowing. No, that was a miserable lie. In truth, he was in no mood to answer the inevitable flurry of questions. Whenever the subject of divorce came up, Parker got kind of skittish. Difficult was another word that came to mind. Willows didn’t blame her. Fate, or luck, had cast her in the role of the other woman.

  Parker drove them to the Fresgo Inn, a twenty-four-hour more-than-burgers joint that was clean and cheap, served good food and plenty of it. She parked within an inch or two of a cream-coloured Harley Sportster, turned off the engine and dropped the keys in her purse. Willows got out of the car. Parker’s dark blue skirt rose up on her thighs as she slid across the bench seat to get out on Willows’ side. He gave her a frankly lecherous look. She tugged at her skirt and said, “You’re the one who didn’t want to drive straight home.”

  Willows smiled. He shut the car door and took her by the arm and led her across the parking lot towards the restaurant. “First the fuel, then the fire.” He swung open the glass door and they went inside. The Fresgo is a self-serve restaurant. You order. You pay. You wait for your number to be called, you walk up to the counter and claim your food, and then you eat it. Willows poured himself a fat white mug of coffee. Parker helped herself to a teapot and hot water. She’d use her own brand of tea bag — she always kept a few in a plastic Baggie in her purse.

  Willows ordered his usual up-all-night breakfast of sausages and hash browns, sunny-side-up eggs and whole-wheat toast. Parker ordered a fruit cup and brown toast, no butter. Willows paid. He collected a handful of cutlery, creamers from a chilled stainless-steel bin. Parker led him to a booth by the window. They sat down. Willows stirred cream into his coffee.

  A bearded man in fringed black leather thumped down in the next booth, behind Willows. He smiled at Parker with those few teeth that were still in his possession. She sipped her tea, and ignored him.

  Willows said, “What d’you want to do about Bobby?”

  “Bobby who?”

  “Dundas. Bobby Dundas.” Willows hunched a little closer. His eyes were bright, his face looked as if it had been stretched a little too tight, and his skin had a faint yellow tinge. Maybe it was the fluorescent lights. Probably it was exhaustion.

  “What d’you mean,
what do I want to do about him? I don’t want to do anything.”

  “He threatened our witness.”

  “You’ve done worse. And I’ve stood there and watched you do it, Jack.”

  Willows sat back. He blinked rapidly, as if his eyes hurt. He drank some more coffee.

  Parker said, “Bobby might’ve been greased lightning when he was in vice, but he isn’t going to cut it in homicide.” She lightly touched the back of Willows’ hand. “Leave him alone. Let him self-destruct.”

  Number fifty-seven was called. Willows glanced at the slip of paper the cashier had given him. Fifty-seven. He stood up.

  “Want some help?”

  “I’ll get it.”

  “You’ll need a tray.”

  Moving away from her, Willows waggled his fingers in acknowledgement. In lieu of a crash course in juggling, he would indeed require a tray. But it wasn’t like Parker to point out the stunningly obvious. He was upset. She was upset. But they were upset about completely different issues, and only he knew it. It wasn’t Bobby Dundas that was bothering him, it was his upcoming appointment with his lawyer. He plucked a dark green plastic tray from a stack of clean trays, picked up their meals and returned to the table, distributed the food. He sprinkled pepper on his hash browns and eggs, picked up his fork and began to eat.

  Parker attacked her fruit cup with uncharacteristic fervour. She was a nibbler by habit, but it had been a long night, and she was ravenous. She ate a half-slice of toast, patted her mouth with a napkin. “You’re tense because you’ve got an appointment with your lawyer in a couple of hours, aren’t you? It doesn’t have anything to do with Bobby. It’s all about your divorce.”

  The biker’s spoon clattered on the table. Staring hard at Parker, he scoured the bottom of his chili bowl with his tongue.

  Willows said, “When did I tell you I had an appointment with my lawyer?”

  “You didn’t. Annie mentioned it.”

  Willows put down his fork. He leaned into Parker and kissed her gently. She smiled. “That was nice. What was it for?”

  “Your patience, and understanding.”

  Parker kissed him back. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

  Willows stood up. He took Parker’s arm as she slid out of the booth. The biker stared at them as they left the restaurant. He was still staring at them as Parker started the car and backed cautiously into traffic. “You know that guy, Jack?”

  “The biker? Yeah, I know him. Terry Sanow. Norm and I put him away.” Norm Burroughs had been Willows’ first partner. A good man, right to the end. He said, “Terry killed his wife. They were playing pool at some bar downtown, he lost his temper and bounced a cue-ball off her head. He caught twelve and did eight.” Parker turned on the wipers. He fastened his seatbelt.

  Parker said, “What’d she do, miss an easy shot?”

  “Told him she wanted a divorce,” said Willows. An ambulance shot over the crest of the bridge, on its way to St. Paul’s. Willows saw the lights and then he heard the siren. If he were a dog, he’d bark. His window was down a crack. He rolled it up.

  By the time they got home, Annie had left for school. Sean was flopped out on the sofa in the living room. A partially smoked filter-tip cigarette was wedged behind his ear. He wore a black leather jacket, black jeans and a white T-shirt, ankle-high Doc Martens. His hair was in an abbreviated ponytail. He waggled his fingers. “Hi, Dad.”

  Willows said, “I thought you were working.”

  “I’m back on night shifts.” Sean worked at a 7-Eleven over on Dunbar, a ten-minute bus ride from home. He grinned crookedly. “Yeah, I know. If some guy sticks a gun in my face, hand over the money.”

  Parker said, “I’m going to take a shower. You coming?”

  A tread squeaked as Willows followed Parker up the stairs. Or maybe it was his heart.

  *

  Peter Singer was a little under six feet tall, twenty pounds overweight. Most of his hair had migrated into his neatly trimmed beard. His nose was almost as small as Michael Jackson’s. He had tired eyes, but his shirt was almost preternaturally white, and his dark blue pinstripe suit looked brand-new. His handshake was perfunctory. He waved his new client into a chair. “What can I do for you, Jack?”

  “I want a divorce.”

  Singer snatched up a Bic pen that had been chewed to a nub. He flipped open a lined notepad. “What’s your wife’s name?”

  “Sheila McKenzie Willows.”

  “She at home?”

  Willows shook his head, no.

  “How long she been gone?”

  “A couple of years. Two years and three months. She was back about a year ago, to drop off the kids. I haven’t seen her since.”

  “She in town?”

  “Toronto.” Willows hesitated. He said, “I haven’t heard from her for close to three months.”

  Singer chewed another small fragment of plastic off his pen. “Is that unusual?”

  Willows nodded. “She usually phones every five or six weeks.”

  “How many children are there, and how old are they?”

  “Annie’s fifteen. My son, Sean, is eighteen. They were living with Sheila in Toronto until a little over a year ago.”

  “She paying child support?”

  “No.”

  “When she had the kids, were you paying child support?”

  “Nine hundred a month. We made an arrangement with my bank so the money was automatically deducted from my account.”

  “The kids got any complaints about her?”

  Willows shrugged. “Nothing serious. I don’t want them dragged through court.”

  “The stick’s for leverage, Jack. We won’t hit her with it unless we absolutely have to. Tell me, do you love your children?”

  Willows was taken by surprise. He said, “Yes, I do.” He sat up a little straighter in his chair.

  “Would you categorize yourself as a good father?”

  Willows spent a little time thinking about that one. Finally he said, “When Sheila left me, I wasn’t spending much time at home.” He scratched his jaw. “I was a loving father, but I wasn’t around as much as I should’ve been. Sheila and I weren’t getting along. At the time, I wasn’t aware of how unhappy she was. Maybe I should’ve been, but I wasn’t.”

  “What’s your current situation? Got a girlfriend?”

  Willows nodded.

  “She living with you, by any chance?”

  “For the past few months.”

  “And before that?”

  “We went back and forth.”

  “How do the kids feel about her?”

  “They like her.”

  “They do, huh?” Singer smiled. Willows had never seen such crooked teeth.

  “About your wife — if you haven’t heard from her, how do you know she’s still in Toronto?”

  “Well, I don’t. I just assumed she was still there, since she hadn’t told me otherwise.”

  “You haven’t tried to get in touch with her?”

  “The last few times she phoned, she wanted money. I was relieved when she stopped calling.”

  Singer nodded. He bent over his notepad. Willows noticed that a gap in the surrounding high rises afforded Singer a partial view of the harbour, all the way to the grain elevators by the Ironworkers’ Bridge. Singer pushed the pad across his desk, offered Willows the remains of his pen.

  “I’ll need Sheila’s last known address, and her parents’ address as well. Phone numbers, too.”

  Willows wrote it all down.

  “She seeing anybody, that you know of?”

  “Yes, she was. A man named Robert King.”

  “He a cop?”

  Willows smiled. “No, something to do with the stock market. A promoter.”

  The lawyer stood up, came around from behind his desk and offered his hand. “That’ll do for now, Jack. There’s no point in setting up another appointment until we locate your wife. If you don’t hear from me by the end of the week, give
me a call, okay?”

  Willows nodded. Singer had given him an odd look when he’d admitted that he hadn’t heard from Sheila in three months. What had the lawyer been thinking?

  Three months, and he’d hardly given Sheila a passing thought. Out of sight, out of mind. The job, the kids. Parker. He had a thousand excuses, but none of them were worth much.

  He rode the elevator down to the main floor, made his way across the crowded foyer and pushed through the building’s revolving glass door. The moment he stepped outside he was slapped in the face by a cold, damp wind.

  Only then did he realize how heavily he was sweating.

  Chapter 5

  Ross loitered for fifteen or twenty minutes, until finally a bus came rumbling up the street. He queried a fellow would-be passenger about the fare. A dollar-thirty-five and he had no change. He ripped a two-dollar bill in half, folded one of the pieces into a tight square. The bus pulled up to the stop with a disappointed hiss of brakes. Ross climbed aboard, slipped his bogus money into the glass box, asked for and received a transfer from the pudgy, randomly scowling driver.

  He got off at Fraser, directly across the street from Mountain View Cemetery. The rain had stopped, for now. He bought a couple of 6/49 lottery tickets at a corner store with sturdy metal bars on the windows and door. The city was changing fast, and not for the better.

  He walked a couple of blocks down the street and entered what appeared to be an ordinary restaurant, but was something else entirely, though he wasn’t sure what. There were pool tables in the back, people of all ages and sexes sitting around drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes, reading the paper. Ross covertly observed the scene. Not that there was anything wrong with sitting around drinking a cup of coffee. But there was a strange perfume in the smoky air, an overpowering scent of passive resignation. He was acutely aware of the seconds ticking past. As he stood there by the door, their lives and his life dribbled away continuously, in fragments of time that were tiny, yet easily measured by the cheapest clock. He felt as if he were looking at a waiting room full of people who had absolutely nowhere to go, and were beyond caring.