Memory Lane

by Laurence Gough

  “What sandwich?” said Orwell.

  “A take-out meatball sub I bought at Mr. Sub. I eat there a couple of times a week. It’s quick and easy. No muss, no fuss. Usually wherever I have dinner I take something home with me in case I get hungry for a midnight snack. Which I almost always do.”

  “How often do you eat out?” said Orwell.

  “Every night of the week.”

  “The single life,” said Orwell, who had reconciled with his wife. For now. He said, “Man, it’s a whole different world.”

  “So the movie started at twenty-five minutes to one,” said Parker. “And when was it you heard the shot?”

  “That’d be just after the diamond-store robbery. Mister Pink’s on the run, he hauls this woman out of a car, the cops start shooting and he returns fire. There’s about thirty shots fired. The scene takes about eight seconds and ends at the twenty-one-minute mark.”

  “That’d be at four minutes to one.”

  “Yeah, right. But add another minute and a half for the sandwich, because that’s how long it was in the microwave.” Graham frowned. “No, wait. Everything’s running independently. The TV’S on, the tapes unwinding, the microwave’s heating my sub. So the extra time doesn’t matter, doesn’t get added on. Yeah, four minutes to one, give or take a few seconds.”

  Willows said, “Did you see anything, Graham?”

  “No, why should I?”

  “You heard a shot. Or what sounded like a shot. You know what a gunshot sounds like. Weren’t you curious? Most people would get up, go to the window and take a look outside.”

  “Would they? Is that smart? I’m enjoying a movie, my third-favourite movie of all time, and you’re telling me it makes sense to jump up, run over to the window and catch a bullet in the eye? I’m sitting there, my sandwich is nice and hot, I’m working on a beer, comfortable, all settled in… Besides, what’s to look at? All I heard was one shot and it’s already been fired. Or maybe it was a tire blew out. You expect me to pull my curtains, in the dark, see if some guy needs help fixing his car? That’s not me, it just ain’t me.” Graham jerked his thumb at Orwell. “Like I told the detective, I go outside for meals and movies, but that’s about it.”

  “Did you know any of Donald’s friends?”

  “No, none of them. I never even met any of them, except maybe once or twice in the hall, something along those lines. But if that happened, I bumped into somebody, it was just a nod of the head and it’s over. Hello and goodbye. There was never any attempt at introductions or anything along those lines. The guy kept to himself. Well, I guess that isn’t quite true. He had friends. In fact there was a new guy, came around a couple of times during the past week. But Don and his pals valued their privacy, just like me.”

  Parker said, “What did Donald’s new friend look like?”

  “Tall, a little over six feet. Beefy. Muscular. The broad-shouldered type, with a thick neck, like a weightlifter. Short blond hair, spiky. No sideburns, a snub nose.”

  “Was he good-looking?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. He was no movie star.”

  “Did you notice his eyes?”

  “Kind of close-set. A piercing blue. He had a real small nose, almost a cartoon nose. A button nose. It hardly stuck out from his face at all, except right at the bottom, and it was pushed over to one side. Like it’d been broken.”

  “Complexion?”

  “Very pale. Smooth skin.”

  “The shape of his face, was it oval, or…”

  “Brick-shaped. Flat on top, square chin. I remember his ears. They were tiny.” Graham’s hand came up. He touched his ear. “He had a gold earring, in the shape of a pistol.”

  Willows wrote it all down.

  “How much would you say the guy weighed, Graham?”

  “I dunno. Couple of hundred pounds, maybe a little less.”

  “Age?”

  “Late twenties? I’m not too good at ages. People always look older to me than they really are…”

  “Did he ever speak to you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did you ever hear him speaking?”

  “Not that I know of. I mean, sometimes I could hear voices coming from Don’s apartment. Maybe it was Don talking, maybe it wasn’t.”

  Willows said, “Did Don’s new friend have any scars or other identifying marks?”

  “No, definitely not.”

  “Walk with a limp…?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  Willows smiled. “For someone who minds his own business, Graham, you sure noticed an awful lot about Donald’s pals.”

  “Not really. But this guy, he kind of stood out. A few days ago, I happened to run into him twice during the same day. The first time was in the lobby, and then outside the building, on the sidewalk. Both times, he averted his head, turned away as if he didn’t want me to recognize him. Suspicious behaviour, right? Oh yeah, something else. He was wearing a uniform.”

  “He was a cop?” said Parker.

  “No way. Security guard.”

  “Who did he work for? Did you notice his flashers?”

  “Excuse me, his what?”

  “Shoulder patches.”

  “No, I never noticed. But he had one of those wide leather belts, goes around your waist, over your shoulder and across your chest. And heavy black boots, and a hat with a shiny brim.”

  “Did he wear a badge?”

  “Yeah, a big one, about the size of the palm of my hand. Silver-coloured, in the shape of a shield. It had a number on it, but I can’t remember what it was. I mean, it’s not like he tried to arrest me.”

  “Mooney never mentioned him to you, referred to him by name…”

  “No, never.” Graham spread his arms in a gesture intended to encompass the high rise. “A big building like this, you don’t watch yourself, pretty soon everybody’s your friend, you got no privacy at all. Guys want to go out for a beer. Women start hitting on you…” Graham ducked his head. From under his brows, he gave Parker a weirdly coquettish look.

  Parker said, “How long have you been unemployed, Graham?”

  “Since I quit school. Five, going on six years.”

  “How do you support yourself?”

  “My parents help me. Or I should say, my dad. He pays the rent, deposits six hundred a month into my bank account for food and clothing, what he calls discretionary purchases. Don’t misunderstand me, I don’t mean to make him sound like he doles it out, is a nickel-and-dimer. For my birthday last year he gave me a real expensive mountain bike. If I’d asked for a car, no problem. Not that he’d run out and buy me a Porsche. More like a Hyundai. But anything I need, all I have to do is ask.”

  “Nice life,” said Orwell, apparently sincere.

  “There’s only one condition,” said Graham. “I have to stay away from my mother. I call her on the phone, go anywhere near her, the deal’s off. One false move and I’m on my own.”

  Nobody knew quite what to say about that. Parker made a small sound that might have been sympathetic. Willows managed to nod sagely.

  Graham said, “I’d probably starve to death in about two weeks.” Willows said, “I’d like you to come downtown, Graham…”

  “What for?”

  “We’re going to arrange for a police artist, with your help, to make a sketch of the security guard.”

  “He’s a suspect?”

  “At this point,” said Willows, “everybody’s a suspect.”

  “Even me?”

  Willows smiled. “Yeah, even you. Will you help us with the sketch?”

  “What, now?”

  “No, but soon. Probably later this afternoon. We’ll send a car around to pick you up, okay?”

  “Yeah, sure. I guess so.”

  Parker asked Aubert a few more questions regarding Mooney’s lifestyle, but got no satisfactory answers. Orwell patted him on the back and thanked him for his help.

  “Can I go back to my apartment now?”

  Orwell
nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

  “I’m gonna relax with a beer, watch a movie.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Speed, with Keanu Reeves.” Graham squinted at Parker from the open doorway. “Seen it?”

  “Yeah, I saw it,” said Orwell. “Starring the bus, right?” He led Aubert to the door, let him out and shut it behind him.

  Willows said, “Mooney had a throwaway piece, but it hadn’t been fired in years. His service weapon was locked away in a drawer. There’s no evidence of a shooting in the apartment. So who fired the shot?”

  “Maybe whoever killed him had a gun,” said Parker. “Maybe there was a struggle. The killer was wounded but cleaned up after himself.”

  “Sounds pretty unlikely to me,” said Orwell.

  Bobby Dundas had been outside, prowling the alley with a four-battery MagLite. He held the flashlight loosely in his hand as he entered the apartment. He gave Parker a long up-and-down look. “You’re having a real good hair day, Claire.”

  Parker gave Bobby a glacier-cold look.

  Orwell said, “What’s with the flashlight, Bobby? You schedule an eclipse?”

  “Nooks and crannies.” Dundas unbuttoned his raincoat. He held up a bulky envelope, gave it a shake.

  Orwell said, “What’ve you got?”

  “A pair of elbow-length, heavy-duty rubber gloves.”

  “Yeah? Where’d you get ’em?”

  “Out of a dumpster. Interestingly enough, the tip of the little finger’s missing, left-hand glove.”

  Willows said, “Why is that significant, Bobby?”

  Bobby dipped into his pants pocket, came up with a bright yellow rubber fingertip.

  Parker said, “Where’d you find that?”

  “In Mooney’s bathroom, on the floor beside the toilet. Mel took some pictures. I marked it on my sketch.” Bobby gave the bag another shake. “We get a print off these babies, we’re off to a pretty good start.”

  Willows said, “Bobby, can I talk to you a minute?” His face was set as he brushed past Orwell, pushed open the glass slider and stepped outside, onto the scalloped concrete patio. Bobby hesitated, and then came after him. Willows shut the door.

  “What’s up, Jack?”

  “I’m the primary detective on this case. Next time you stumble across a piece of evidence, the first and last thing you do is tell me about it. Don’t go sticking it in your pocket and wandering off on your own.”

  “All for one and one for all, right? Hey, I got an idea — maybe we should get joined at the hip. Or is that a move you reserve strictly for Claire?”

  Willows gave him a hard look. “Keep mouthing off, Bobby, I’m going to beat you to your knees.”

  “Yeah?”

  Willows dropped his right shoulder, pivoted, and delivered a short left hook that caught Dundas just beneath the ribs. The blow wiped the smile off Bobby’s face. Sucking air, his eyes watering, he slumped sideways against the high rise’s concrete wall. Willows went back inside the apartment. He shut the door and locked it.

  Orwell peered myopically through the glass, as if he couldn’t quite trust his eyes. “Something wrong with Bobby?”

  “I don’t think so, Eddy.”

  Orwell thought it over for a moment, but not for long. “If you say so, Jack, then I guess he looks just fine to me.”

  Willows nodded. He appreciated Eddy coming down on his side of the fence, but it was Parker he was worried about. As soon as they were alone, she was going to give him absolute hell for decking Bobby. He knew exactly what she was going to tell him. Cops didn’t hit cops. But if the situation did require brute force, she could take care of herself.

  And he’d better not forget it.

  Chapter 11

  Shannon finished her shift, exchanged her ugly Zellers smock and no-style dark blue pants for a bright red mid-thigh skirt and her hip-length fake-leopard-skin jacket. In the parking lot, everything was as it should be, except Ross was missing. A pickup truck cruised past. She checked her watch in the glare of the headlights. Eight minutes past seven. Where was he? She rested a hip against the Saab. Kelly rolled down the backseat window, gave her a look. His famous raised-eyebrow look. He said, “Where’s Loverboy?”

  “Somewhere else,” said Shannon. She held up her watch to the red glare of the Zellers sign. Still eight minutes past seven.

  Kelly got out of the car, lit a cigarette. The Zellers sign turned his hair candy-floss pink. He hitched up his jeans, scratched his button nose.

  Shannon watched people going in and out of Zellers. You couldn’t make out anyone’s features. All you saw, staring into the wash of light, were black cut-outs. Stick figures on the move. She willed herself not to look at her watch again.

  Kelly said, “Maybe he was hanging around, saw me get into the car. What’s he gonna think, he’s supposed to meet some babe, sees a guy crawl into the backseat of her car?”

  “He’d think something was up.”

  “Damn right, unless he’s the world’s biggest idiot. Could Lover-boy be the world’s biggest idiot, Shan?”

  “Let’s hope so. Do us both a favour, okay? If he does show up, keep a low profile.”

  Kelly made a sound like cloth ripping. He was laughing, but you wouldn’t know it by the look on his face. The tip of his cigarette glowed as he sucked smoke deep into his lungs. He sighed with pleasure, hummed softly to himself and began to sing. “When I dream, I dream and dream of nicotine, sweet nicotine…”

  Ten minutes later, Shannon said, “There he is. I think that’s him…”

  *

  Ross considered himself to be in fairly good shape for a guy his age, but he was exhausted by the time he finally arrived at the mall. Welcome to the real world. It was the exact opposite of the slammer. Here, on the outside, people were in a hurry, and actually had somewhere to go. Had she given up on him?

  The Saab’s engine was running, the exhaust spewing a snaky coil of pollutants. The car’s emergency flashers pulsed red.

  She was sitting behind the wheel, waiting. She saw him and pointed at the passenger’s-side door, then leaned across and pushed the door open for him. He climbed in, apologized for being late and thanked her for waiting. She told him to shut the door, killed the flashers and put the car in reverse gear. The tires chirped as she aggressively reversed out of the parking slot. Ross leaned back in his seat. The Saab’s instrument panel glowed orange. The thump of the radio was borderline subliminal. The wipers flapped back and forth across the rain-pocked windshield. He lit a cigarette.

  “Put that out, please! This is a non-smoking vehicle.” Shannon punched a button, and Ross’s window powered down. They were still in the mall parking lot, but moving along at a pretty good clip. The wind snatched at his jacket. His lapels battered his face. A barrage of fat raindrops stung his face. He filled his lungs with smoke, flicked the cigarette out the window. “How’s that?”

  “Fasten your seatbelt.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “How long have you been smoking, Ross?”

  “Ever since I started.”

  “Well, it’s time you quit. Only stupid people smoke.”

  They were on Forty-first, accelerating towards a red light. Shannon braked hard. Nose down, the car slid into the crosswalk, scattering a troupe of Chinese pedestrians. Shannon was clearly undismayed by the near-miss. The Saab’s engine throbbed softly. Ross said, “One thing I noticed is that I often feel the urge to act stupidly after sex.”

  Had she smiled? Fleetingly. She said, “There can’t have been too many opportunities for a post-coital smoke in the slammer, Ross. At least, I hope not.” Now she was definitely smiling, teeth gleaming in the light. “How long were you in jail? Five years? A cigarette every five years probably won’t kill you. That level of abstinence might…”

  He said, “I’m not going back to jail.”

  “No?”

  “Never.”

  “You’ll never take me alive, Copper?” Her voice was low, throaty, openly t
aunting.

  The light changed. The Saab fishtailed as she hit the gas. Maybe she wasn’t as much in control of herself as she wanted him to think. She eased off the gas, and the car straightened out and she punched it again. Leader of the pack. Ross stared out the rain-streaked window at the passing houses. A dog lay on a porch, sleeping. Four lanes of traffic. Who in his right mind would live on such a busy street?

  A red light was coming up fast. The Saab’s speedometer needle hovered at eighty. Ross told himself she made the trip five times a week and had her timing down to the last second. His right foot pressed against the floorboards. They zipped past a cluster of three or four cars that were travelling in the same direction, but at the legal limit.

  The light turned green as they entered the intersection. Ross had a death grip on his seatbelt. He gritted his teeth. A horn blared. Oncoming headlights lit up the Saab’s interior. But no damage had been done, other than he’d suffered an overdose of adrenalin. He looked around, his vision blurred by the streaks of rain on the glass. To his left the city’s glittery downtown core lifted itself up and pierced the cowering sky. Beams of light leaked from the high rises, expensive hotels, the lightbulb-studded sphere of the Science Centre, a million neon signs, countless office towers, Ford Centre and GM Place — the new sports palace that was home to the NHL Canucks and NBA Grizzles. The dome, AKA B.C. Place Stadium, squatted on the face of the city like a monstrous, low-wattage tumour. The lights of tens of thousands of cars and the hissing lanterns of a handful of street vendors added minutely to the glare. Vancouver was on the march, growing fast. Trapped between the mountains and the sea, the city had no choice but to claw its way into the sky.

  Shannon hit another green, made a sharp left past an elevated SkyTrain station. The Chinese restaurant on the corner reminded Ross how hungry he was. They sped down a busy street, weaving in and out of traffic, a blur of two-and three-storey buildings on either side, pressing right up against the sidewalk. There was every kind of store you could think of, lots of East Indian businesses and then, as they kept moving, Italian. The sidewalks were crowded despite the rain. A neighbourhood of restaurants. Ross’s mouth watered. His stomach growled.