Memory Lane

by Laurence Gough

  He groped for her, but she was gone.

  He followed her through the open doorway and into the suite’s living room. Ivy clawed at the window. Beyond the panes of glass, the ocean lay flat and listless.

  The room was furnished with a colour television, a writing table and a comfortable-looking chair. To the left of the television stood an overstuffed, plum-coloured chair. A matching sofa had its back to the window.

  Kelly lay prone on the sofa, watching the television. To Ross’s eye, he did not seem surprised in the slightest by their sudden appearance. Kelly pointed the set’s remote control. He tapped a button and the television shifted channels. He hit the button again, returning to the original channel. He hit the button rapidly, tapped it so quickly that the television was unable to keep pace with his demands. Except for the bright blue channel numbers jumping in the top right corner, the screen was black. Kelly hit the off button. The TV made a faint crackling noise, and all the life went out of the screen. He lifted a weary arm. “How was the beach?”

  Shannon rolled her eyes. She said, “How’d you get in — pick the lock?”

  “No, a maid. You two lovebirds case the joint?”

  “Excuse me? Did we what?”

  “Check out Nancy and Tyler’s opulent waterfront home, sniff around, get a feel for the place. You know, case the joint.”

  “Sort of.” Shannon glanced at Ross. “We did what we could, to the best of our abilities.” She smiled enigmatically at her brother.

  What did that smile mean? Ross had no idea. Were Shannon and Kelly, related or not, really stupid enough to believe they could waltz into somebody’s house five years after an armed robbery the occupants were only peripherally involved with, kick some ass and just like that be two hundred thousand dollars’ wiser? Lemon-meringue pie in a cotton-candy sky.

  But let’s say Billy had dropped off a bag of armoured-car cash at the Crown house. Wouldn’t Nancy and Tyler have spent every penny of it, by now? Were they so unimaginative and parsimonious that they couldn’t think of anything to buy? Shannon had told Ross that shortly after Billy had been bear-hugged by fate, the Crowns had flown to Europe, where they had frittered away six long months. Six months in Italy, Germany, France. Paris, France. Expensive restaurants. Fine wines. Five-star hotels. Fat tips. Ross couldn’t even begin to imagine how swiftly the money would disappear. Man, you couldn’t burn it that fast.

  The sofa creaked as Kelly effortlessly unfolded himself, swung his legs around and stood upright, his physical presence taking up an awful lot of room, requiring a disproportionate amount of space. He yawned hugely, and checked his watch — a bulky, gold-coloured machine that nested deep in the fine, curly blond hair that covered his wrist. “Whoa, it’s late!” He winked at Ross. “Gotta run!”

  Shannon said, “Talk to me tomorrow, okay?”

  “At work?”

  “Probably not.” Shannon glanced at Ross, back to Kelly. “I think I’ll take a couple more days off.”

  “You deserve it, sweetheart. Or, at least, you soon will.” He snatched up his jacket and sauntered towards the door. “Have fun.” Shannon waited until the door had closed behind him and then went over and shot the deadbolt. She told Ross she was going to take a shower.

  Ross said, “Okay.”

  She mock-flirtatiously batted her eyes. “Care to join me?”

  What kind of question was that. They hardly knew each other. But then, in a way that somehow mattered, that wasn’t exactly true. They’d corresponded. Exchanged deep thoughts. There had been a meeting of minds. She’d assured him repeatedly that she wanted to see him the minute he was released. She’d even sent him a picture — a shot of her spread out in the sunshine on the lip of somebody’s backyard pool. She’d worn a skimpy black one-piece suit, her hair had been a little shorter…

  Shannon said, “Go ahead, think it over.” She cocked a hip. “Take your time, Ross. We’ve got the room until eleven tomorrow morning, so there’s no big rush.”

  Ross moved slowly towards her. He fumbled with the top button of his shirt. Or, come to think of it, Garret’s shirt.

  In the shower, Shannon was all business. Ross braced himself against the white-tiled wall as she washed him from top to bottom, and all points in between. Her hands moving briskly, she lathered every square inch of him. The pressure she applied was constant, and relentless. She had no favourite nooks, no favourite crannies. The way she treated him, he might have been the family station wagon.

  She slapped him on the rump. “All done. Rinse.”

  He turned and turned beneath the shower. Water drummed off his ribs, the top of his skull. Frothy clouds of soap raced down the drain. His skin was red from the heat. His genitals seemed to weigh a ton. Finally, when he was as clean as he would ever get, he said, “Your turn.”

  “That’s okay, I’ll do myself.” She jerked a thumb. “Out, handsome.”

  Ross pushed aside the blank white shower curtain, and stepped carefully out of the tub. Standing on the hotel’s plump white bathmat, he towelled himself dry. Management had provided disposable toothbrushes, a small tube of Crest toothpaste. He brushed his teeth and spat, rinsed and spat again. On the other side of the shower curtain, Shannon hummed a tune he did not recognize.

  The bedroom window was open an inch or two; gauzy curtains fluttered in the tarnished light. The queen-size bed looked huge. He turned aside the duvet and slipped beneath the sheets. It had been more than five years since he’d made love to anybody but himself. More than five years was a long time. He reached behind him and plumped up the pillow.

  The breeze from the open window was chilly, and damp. He climbed out of bed and went over to the window and slid it shut. Way over there on the far side of the harbour, lights vanished into the late-afternoon haze. He counted the freighters in the harbour. Thirteen. He turned back to the bed.

  Shannon lay on her side, facing him, her body from her shoulder down covered by the sheets. She’d arrived so recently that the duvet was still settling around her, adapting to the shape of her body.

  He stared at her, all those delectable hills and valleys. Shannon’s attention was no less intense but considerably more focused. Just at that moment, there was no chance of eye contact.

  Chapter 20

  A crumpled red cotton handkerchief lay on the carpet by the sofa, next to a pair of stereo headphones. The headphones leaked a shrill whining sound. A Chieftains CD jewel box stood upright on a Pioneer player.

  Parker said, “Pat, its Claire Parker…”

  Timmins appeared in the open doorway, wild-eyed, his service pistol clenched in his fist. He wore faded jeans and a white shirt. His hair was tousled and his feet were bare. Parker stood absolutely motionless in the middle of the room, as the tinny music raged, and her heart thumped percussively.

  Willows said, “I knocked, and you didn’t answer. I looked in through the window and saw you lying on the floor.” He pointed. “The handkerchief was on your chest. Through the window it looked like a pool of blood. I thought you’d been killed.”

  Timmins hesitantly lowered his pistol.

  Parker said, “Sorry about the door, Pat.”

  Timmins braced himself against the doorframe and leaned backwards, so he had a clear view down the hallway to the door. He absorbed the fact of the broken chain, ran his fingers through his close-cropped hair. “You scared the hell out of me. I was half-asleep, believe it or not.” He ejected the magazine and tossed the gun on the sofa, tucked in his shirt. “There’s coffee, if you’re interested.”

  Willows accepted the offer. Parker declined. The detectives followed Timmins into the kitchen. Timmins poured from a Mr. Coffee into two floral-patterned mugs. “Milk or sugar?”

  “Milk,” said Willows. “I’ll get it.” He opened the refrigerator door on a glass jug of cranberry juice, a few individual-size bottles of Perrier and a one-litre waxed-cardboard container of homogenized milk. The milk’s expiry date had long since passed. He stepped back. The refrigerator
door swung shut of its own accord. He said, “I’ve changed my mind — I’ll take it black.”

  Timmins handed him a white mug decorated with taxi-yellow trim and a splash of pale blue forget-me-nots. Willows had been hoping for the mauve mug with orange trim and mock-daisies, but let it pass. Timmins fished in his shirt pocket for cigarettes. He lit up, averted his head and exhaled a roiling cloud of carcinogens towards the ceiling.

  “Interesting house,” said Parker. “What is it, two bedrooms?”

  “Two and a den, but all the rooms are pretty small.”

  “You own the place?”

  “Rent. It belongs to my parents. They bought it as an investment, about ten years ago. I’ve been here since Don and I split up.” Timmins drank some coffee. He flicked ash in the sink. Outside, the cat meowed plaintively.

  A lightweight pine table and two pine chairs stood in the corner by the window. Parker sat down, making herself at home. Timmins’ eyes flickered, but he said nothing.

  Willows said, “Pat, we’d like you to tell us what you know about Inspector Mark Rimmer.”

  “Not a damn thing. Why would I?”

  “Those parties out in the valley — you’ve heard of them, haven’t you?”

  Timmins nodded warily.

  “Ever go to one?”

  “No, never.”

  “Turn down an invitation?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  Timmins pulled on his cigarette. He looked Willows straight in the eye, as he said, “I’ll answer your questions, Detective. But don’t try to interrogate me, because I’m not going to put up with that kind of bullshit.”

  Willows smiled. He said, “Pat, did you ever meet Don’s neighbour, a kid named Graham Aubert?”

  “Yeah, once or twice, in passing.”

  “What’d you think of him?”

  “Not much.” Timmins reached behind him and turned on the tap. He held the butt of his cigarette under the water and then opened the cupboard door beneath the sink and tossed the cigarette into a plastic garbage can with a throwaway plastic liner. He turned off the tap, dried his hands on a paper towel. “Graham’s kind of weird. A weird kid. I’d drop by Don’s apartment, knock on the door and bingo, there was Graham. Always shovelling the same load of bullshit — he’d heard a noise and thought it was somebody knocking on his door. Fat fucking chance. The guy hasn’t got any friends. You’re asking me what I thought of him? Not a fucking thing.” Timmins lit another cigarette. His hands were trembling. He glared into the sink.

  Willows said, “Did Don attend any of the valley parties?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Think he might’ve?”

  “No, I don’t. Don wasn’t a promiscuous person. He wasn’t like that, not at all.”

  Willows let that pass. He said, “What about Rimmer?”

  “Ask him.”

  “I will, when I get around to it. In the meantime, I’m asking you. Rimmer’s a lot older than Don. Old enough to be his dear old dad. Did Don ever speak to you about the nature of his relationship with Inspector Rimmer?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “You were still friends, though. Weren’t you?”

  Timmins shrugged. “I don’t know what I meant to him. All I know is what I wanted. How he felt…” Timmins looked as if he might burst into tears.

  Willows said, “We got in touch with Don’s parents, by the way. They’re doing what they can to get back as quickly as possible.” He put his mug down on the kitchen counter.

  Timmins glanced at the untouched coffee. It was all the reason he needed to give Willows a sardonic look. But Willows liked his coffee with milk, and no other way. And that’s just the way it was.

  *

  It was Parker’s turn to drive. She started the engine, put the car in gear. “Where to, Jack?”

  Willows reached for the Motorola. He got the dispatcher to patch him through to the third floor. There were no messages from Christy Kirkpatrick, but Peter Singer had called twice. Had the lawyer located Sheila? Willows realized with a shock of guilt that he’d hardly given his wife a thought since he’d last spoken with Singer. Had his feelings for Sheila deteriorated to the point where he no longer cared about where she was or what had happened to her?

  No, he refused to believe that of himself. He had blocked her out because he was overloaded, stressed out, worried.

  *

  The city morgue, with its pale orange brick facade and mullioned windows with white-painted trim, was located on Cordova Street, just around the corner from 312 Main. The cutting was done on the top floor. There was an elevator, but it was unheated, the walls and floor and even the ceiling were sheathed with panels of stainless steel. Willows had taken to using the stairs, and Parker fully approved. A trip in the elevator never failed to leave her feeling like a newly minted member of the undead.

  They reached the top-floor landing. A fan rattled overhead. They walked side by side, close enough to touch, down the long, unusually wide corridor. Willows pushed through double swinging doors that led directly to the operating theatre. He held the door for Parker. She followed him inside.

  The room was about twenty by twenty, perfectly square. The overhead fluorescents were bright enough to light a stadium. The floor and two walls were clad in bright blue tiles. The other walls were lined with lockable, refrigerated stainless-steel drawers that at first glance resembled enormous filing cabinets. A matched pair of zinc tables dominated the room. The tables stood directly beneath a massive cast-iron and frosted-glass skylight. Many years ago, Parker had come into the room when the lights were out and the moon was full. The moonlight had fallen upon the tables and made them gleam unnaturally, as if they had a cold and eerie life of their own. It was a moment she recalled vividly each time she entered the room, a moment she doubted she would ever forget.

  The zinc tables were each three feet wide and seven feet long. Now that the city had an NBA franchise and an in-season population of basketball players, was seven feet long enough?

  The tables stood exactly forty-two inches above the tiled floor at the head, with a one-inch decline to the foot. A never-ending stream of cold water flowed the length of the table, gathered itself into a shallow trough and then swirled down a three-quarter-inch copper pipe that vanished into the floor.

  Both tables held a body. The corpse on the closest table was covered in a lime-green sheet. Christy Kirkpatrick was at work on the second table. He wore a pale green smock, a green cap, disposable surgical mask and safety glasses. The small rotary saw he held in his rubber-gloved hands emitted a shrill whine that dribbled away into silence as he switched it off. He put the saw down on the table between the corpse’s legs, and used a small pry-bar to pop off the top of the skull. Willows caught a glimpse of long, dirty-blond hair. Wrong body.

  He lifted the sheet on the other table. Donald E. Mooney stared dully up at the ceiling. A tiny fragment of silver — a speck of duct tape — gleamed in the curve of his nostril.

  Willows said, “Christy!”

  Kirkpatrick twitched. He glanced over his shoulder. The mask shifted slightly as he smiled. He raised a hand.

  Willows pointed. “How much longer are you going to keep Mr. Mooney waiting?”

  “As long as it takes, Jack. An hour, maybe. Why? Are his appointments starting to back up?” Kirkpatrick’s voice was muffled by his mask. He waved Willows over. “C’mere, take a look at this.”

  But Willows had seen a human brain before, and firmly believed that if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ’em all. He said, “I’ll be at my desk, Christy. Call me when you’re ready to go.”

  Kirkpatrick nodded, his back to Willows. The sweet perfume of bone dust drifted across the room.

  *

  Except for the two civilian staff, the squad room was empty. Willows checked his message slips. Peter Singer had called again. The word urgent was underlined just beneath his phone number.

  Parker said, “W
ant a coffee?”

  Willows nodded, picked up his phone, dialled the lawyer’s number. Singer’s secretary put him through without delay.

  “Jack, thanks for calling back.”

  “What’s up, Peter?”

  Singer said, “It’s about the guy your wife’s been going out with, Jack. Robert King.”

  “What about him?”

  “When you mentioned his name, it rang a very small bell. I made a few calls, checked the guy out. He was back here a few years ago, got involved in a stock scam, was fined and lost his trading privileges. That’s not an easy thing to do in Vancouver, Jack. Anyway, he bounced right back. Talked an elderly widow out of her life savings, and left town. Moved to Toronto, where he pulled the same stunt. The victim pressed charges, but dropped them after her dog was killed, her Volvo torched. The police couldn’t prove a thing. Did Sheila have any money, other than the cheques you sent her?”

  Willows took a deep breath. The squad room shimmered. He clenched the telephone and was only vaguely aware of Parker hovering at his side. He said, “Not that I know of. Her parents have some money. She may have asked them for a loan.” Willows’ mind raced. What the hell was going on?

  Parker said, “Jack…”

  “I’ve got a name for you, Jack. Detective Jeff Culver.”

  “He’s with Missing Persons?”

  “Fraud,” said Singer. He gave Willows Culver’s number, tried to reassure him that it was too early to assume the worst. Willows cut him short, thanked him for his help, and gently cradled the phone. He couldn’t believe how quickly Singer had turned up evidence that Sheila might be in trouble. He felt guilty, depressed, incompetent.

  “What was that all about?” said Parker. She’d put Willows’ coffee mug down on his desk by his elbow, and was sipping from a bottle of iced tea. He told her about Singer’s phone call. He picked up the phone, dialled the Toronto number Singer had given him. The phone at the other end rang eight times before it was picked up. Willows identified himself, and asked to speak to Detective Culver. He was told that Culver was out of the building, and invited to leave a message. He gave the disembodied female voice at the other end of the line his office and home numbers, briefly explained the nature of his call. He was about to hang up when Eddy Orwell and Bobby Dundas led Graham Aubert into the squad room.