Memory Lane

by Laurence Gough

  “You violate him?”

  “I sure did. He’s on the hot sheet. You see him, you go right ahead and bust him, give him a special kick in the ass just for me.”

  Parker said, “Got any leads for us, George?”

  “Like what?”

  Parker smiled. “How should I know? So far, all we’ve established is that he isn’t at his mother’s. But he has to be somewhere, doesn’t he?”

  “Alternate destinations, that what we’re talking about?”

  “Could be,” said Parker.

  Hoffman snatched a chunk of fried chicken from the bucket and attacked it voraciously. His cheeks bulged. He chewed and swallowed, rinsed away the debris with a mouthful of Coke, wiped himself clean with a paper napkin. “Okay, let’s say I came up with something. I hand it over, you promise to go away and not bother me anymore?”

  “Promise,” said Willows.

  Hoffman pointed a drumstick at Parker. “What about you?”

  “Cross my heart,” said Parker.

  Hoffman spent the better part of a long minute perusing the contents of the file folder, and then, seemingly with great reluctance, told them Ross had a pal in the slammer, a guy named Garret Mosby…

  Willows’ head came up. He was assaulted by a sudden vivid flashback of the crime scenes on Broadway, spiralling flames outside the gas station and blood on the snow, the red pulse of the armoured car’s alarm light, the screams of the wounded. He remembered the dull, faraway look in Garret’s eyes as he’d taken the shotgun away from him…

  He remembered that two hundred and twenty thousand dollars had gone astray, never been recovered.

  It was all coming back now, a blur of details rushing towards him at high speed down that narrow, twisty piece of blacktop called memory lane.

  A constable named Donald E. Mooney had been on patrol that night, alone in a blue-and-white. He’d engaged in a hot pursuit of Garret’s partner, Billy.

  Willows remembered the Pinto smoking on the snowy boulevard, tires blown, the car shot to pieces. Billy gone…

  Hoffman said, “Garret had a girlfriend, Shannon Brown. Way I hear it, she stuck with him right through to the end. When he died, she got into a pen-pal thing with Larson. A few months before he was paroled, she gave the office a call, said she had a regular job, an income, that if Larson needed someone to sponsor him, she’d do what she could.” Hoffman bent over his notes. “Said she had a basement suite, and that there was a room in the garage. He could stay with her if he had nowhere else to go.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “Well, I got confidentiality problems. You know that. But anyway, off the record… I asked her if she knew him at all, other than the letters. Surprised me by admitting she knew all about the broker and the biker.”

  “You give Ross her number?”

  “Hell no, of course not! He never asked for it and I wouldn’t have given it to him if he did. But there’d be no need — they were writing each other nearly every week. He’s got her address, or he wouldn’t have known where to mail his letters.”

  Willows said, “Write it down, George.”

  Hoffman tore another sheet of paper from his pad, scribbled energetically.

  Parker said, “If he calls, call us.”

  “He won’t.”

  “But if he does, call.”

  Hoffman said, “I will. But he won’t.” He dipped into the bucket, fished out another chunk of chicken. A back, this time. Hadn’t he told the counter boy he didn’t want any damn backs? How could anyone call this a piece of meat, and look him in the eye as they took his hard-earned money? Man, this was nothing but little bitty bones and deep-fried fat. It had nothing to do with food.

  Sure was tasty, though.

  *

  Willows started the Ford, turned the heater up full. He switched on the wipers. Parker said, “Forget it, Jack.”

  “Forget what?”

  “Driving over to Shannon Brown’s house, kicking in a few doors just to see what’s on the other side.”

  Willows smiled.

  Parker said, “We can’t place Ross at the Mooney crime scene, and what little evidence we have tying him to the scene is tenuous and circumstantial.”

  “True, but he’s all we’ve got, and it seems reasonable to assume he’s involved in Mooney’s murder. Ross and the guy Graham Aubert described, the blond with the buzz-cut, obviously know each other. We can get a warrant based on Ross’s parole violation.”

  The windshield was starting to fog up. Willows adjusted the flow of air from the heater.

  Parker said, “We get our hands on the right magistrate, we should be able to convince him that we have sufficient reason to believe that Ross is hiding out at his girlfriend’s.”

  “Has sought refuge,” said Willows.

  “Even better,” said Parker, getting to the nub. She glanced around. “Where are we going?”

  “Main Street. The vortex. While you’re getting the warrant, I’ll sit tight on Napier, covertly observing the premises.”

  Parker said, “Why don’t you apply for the warrant, and I’ll drive over to Shannon’s.”

  “You type faster.” Willows glanced at Parker.

  “Don’t do anything precipitous, Jack.”

  “Who, me?”

  *

  It was a quick run up Terminal and over the viaduct and along First Avenue, down Victoria Drive to Napier. Willows waited for a break in the traffic, made a left and drove slowly down the narrow, steeply cambered road. He slowed to negotiate the concrete roundabout squatting malevolently in the intersection. Shannon Brown lived in a two-storey clapboard a little more than halfway down the block. The house was easy to identify because of the large, polished brass numbers prominently displayed over the front door.

  There were two cars parked in front of the house: a black Saab and a decaying orange Datsun.

  The windows were opaque. Willows noted the Datsun and the Saab’s plates as he drove past the house. At the end of the block he made a left. He drove as far as the lane and turned left again. The rear third of the backyard was flooded with rainwater. The house’s back door opened on a small sundeck. He’d caught a quick glimpse of a basement door at the side of the house, before the neighbour’s fence had obscured his view. The garage seemed to have been converted into an illegal self-contained apartment.

  He navigated the roundabout again, parked where he had a clear view of the Saab and Datsun. He called in the tags and requested a search.

  This was for the most part a blue-collar, working-class neighbourhood. There weren’t many cars parked on the street, and none of the cars were new. The majority of the houses were on the small side, mostly drab, pre-war single-storey stucco dwellings. Willows had rolled his window down a crack to keep the glass from fogging up. Now and then the sound of hammering or the raucous whine of a power saw drifted downwind from a church in the next block that was undergoing repairs.

  Several hours crawled past. Dusk was settling upon the land when a prototypically nondescript brown Econoline van pulled over to the curb at the far end of the block. Willows sat up a little straighter. He reached for the binoculars. The vans side door slid open, and a man climbed out. He reached inside the van, slung a canvas bag across his shoulder and slid the door shut. The van pulled away. The man walked rapidly up the street to the first house, reached into the bag and pulled out a newspaper or flyer. He tossed the paper onto the front porch.

  Willows watched the man work his way up the street, cutting across the unfenced front yards, flinging the papers onto the porches.

  The radio crackled. The Saab was registered to Shannon Lucy Brown, of 2229 Napier. The Datsun was registered to Kelly James McConnell, also of 2229 Napier. Willows wondered what Kelly looked like, up close and personal. Did he have close-set, piercing blue eyes, spiky blond hair, and a button nose? Was he by any chance the beefy, broad-shouldered type?

  The man reached the white clapboard house. But this time, instead of tossing the
newspaper onto the porch, he slowly climbed the steps. When he reached the porch, he lingered near the front window, took his time lighting a cigarette. When he finally made his way down the steps, he seemed to tread lightly, as if to avoid alerting the occupants of his presence.

  Willows glanced in his rear-view mirror. The brown van squatted twenty feet behind him. The windshield was pebbled with rain, and it was impossible to see inside. The driver side door swung open. In the mirror, Bobby Dundas looked as if he were about three inches tall.

  Willows let Bobby claw at the door for a moment, then reached over and unlocked. Bobby climbed inside, carefully arranged his rust-coloured cashmere topcoat beneath him so as to minimize wrinkling.

  “Glad to see me, Jack?”

  “I always like to know where you are,” admitted Willows.

  Eddy Orwell had tired, was starting to lose his stuff. His last pitch bounced off a porch railing and vanished in a cluster of decorative shrubbery. Taking himself out of the game, he skipped the next house, trotted across the street. Willows reached back to unlock the rear door. Orwell’s cheeks were bright red. His breath smelled of mint. He shook rainwater from his hat and rubbed his hands briskly together. “Man, it’s wet out there.”

  Bobby didn’t try to hide his impatience. “Talk, Eddy.”

  “There’s glass panels in the door, but you can’t see much. I took a quick peek in the living room window. You can see right through to the back of the house. The living room’s at the front, then the dining room. There was a guy sitting at the table, working on a beer.”

  “In the dining room?” said Bobby.

  “Yeah, the dining room.”

  “What’d the guy look like, Eddy?”

  “I couldn’t tell you. There was a light on inside, but all I saw, really, was his silhouette.”

  “Young guy, old guy…”

  Orwell shrugged.

  “He was just sitting there?”

  “Yeah, just sitting there. In a chair. I didn’t see him at first, because the light was so bad, and because he was just sitting there, not moving. Soon’s I saw him, I pulled back.”

  Willows said, “Could he have been Ross Larson?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. But like I said, it’s dark in there. Sorry, Jack, but it could’ve been anybody.”

  The car smelled of damp clothes, cinnamon-flavoured breath mints, cheap aftershave. Willows rolled down his window a few more inches.

  Bobby said, “You’re telling us you saw him?”

  “Who?”

  “Larson. Ross Larson.”

  Orwell said, “What I’m telling you, I didn’t see him.”

  “Wait a minute, Eddy. Back up. You’re told us the guy you saw could’ve been anybody, right?”

  Orwell had to think about it. He said, “Yeah, right.”

  “If the guy you saw could’ve been anybody, obviously that includes Ross Larson. So what you’re saying is, it might’ve been him.”

  Orwell said, “Or maybe he was in the kitchen with Shannon. How should I know?”

  Bobby rolled his eyes. He shot his cuff and made a show of checking his solid-gold, diamond-studded Rolex.

  Willows said, “Nice watch, Bobby. Must’ve cost you, what, about thirty grand?”

  Bobby chuckled. “More like thirty bucks. It’s a knockoff, Jack. Made in China. I bought it off a guy was selling them outside my hotel, when I was in Honolulu last Christmas. He had two whole arms full of ’em, every brand you can think of, and more.”

  Bobby gave his arm a shake. The cashmere slid down over his wrist. He said, “Where in hell is Claire?”

  A woman came out of the white clapboard house. She was young, in her early twenties, and wore black jeans and a fake-leopard-skin jacket. She shut the door and locked it, then crossed the porch to the top step, paused and looked up and down the block. Willows rotated the binoculars’ focus knob. The woman swam sharply into focus, well-lit by a nearby streetlight. Her shoulder-length hair was thick, auburn, waffle-iron wavy. Her skin was very pale, her features delicate, feminine. Her mouth was a small, bright fire. She turned and looked directly at him.

  Orwell said, “Looking for me, sweetheart? Here I am. Mr. Wrong, who’s totally right for you.” He leaned over the seat and reached for the horn. Willows batted his hand away.

  The woman hurried down the steps and across the boulevard, unlocked the Saab and got in. Willows heard the door slam shut.

  Bobby said, “You call in the plates?”

  “Both cars are registered to Shannon Lucy Brown, of 2229 Napier,” said Willows. The lie went down smooth as an oyster.

  Orwell said, “That’s gotta be Ross’s girlfriend. Shannon Brown. Where’s she going?”

  “Maybe you ought to tag along behind,” said Willows.

  “She’s all yours, Jack. No way me ’n’ Eddy are wasting our talents on the dame.” Bobby winked at Orwell. “Not on company time, anyway.” He drew his semiauto from his Bianchi shoulder rig, ejected the slide into the palm of his hand. He pressed the ball of his thumb down hard on the topmost cartridge. Satisfied that the magazine was fully loaded, he slid it back into the pistol.

  The Saab’s engine caught. A dense cloud of black smoke exploded from the exhaust.

  “Diesel,” said Bobby. The gun lay in his lap.

  Orwell said, “Nah, the engine’s falling apart. What you deserve, you buy anything French.”

  “What’re you talking about? Saabs are made in Sweden.”

  “France,” said Orwell. “Nuclear tests. Man, the way those people behave, they’re worse than the Iraqis.”

  The Saab started towards them. Willows ducked low, found himself nose to nose with Bobby. The Saab drove slowly past. They sat up.

  To Orwell, Bobby said, “Worse than the Iraqis? What d’you know about French people?”

  “What I read in the headlines,” said Orwell. He leaned forward, rested a meaty hand on his partner’s shoulder. “There’s something else, Bobby.”

  “Yeah? What?”

  Orwell was about to answer when the front door swung open again, and two men came out of the house. Bobby snatched up the binoculars. Willows turned the windshield wipers to max speed. Bobby said, “How d’you adjust the focus on these damn things?…” The men trotted down the steps and climbed into the orange Datsun. Bobby said, “Damn!” He tossed the binoculars down on the seat.

  Willows took a look. Glare from the Datsun’s windshield made it impossible to see inside the car.

  Orwell said, “Why’d the woman lock up, if those guys were still inside the house?”

  “Maybe she didn’t want them getting out,” said Bobby.

  Orwell grunted softly, a small sound of disbelief. He said, “Good thinking, Bobby.”

  “Hey, I’ve known plenty of women like that, women who like their men to stay put, want to be able to go shopping or whatever, know that when she gets home the guy’s gonna be right where he was when she left him.”

  “Out in the garden,” said Willows. “Or buried under a slab of concrete in the basement.”

  Laughing, Orwell said, “I bet Bobby’s known plenty of women just like that.”

  The Datsun pulled away from the curb, tires slithering on the wet asphalt as the driver made a tight U-turn. Willows glimpsed a bulky shape behind the wheel, a bright shock of improbably yellow hair.

  Bobby said, “You going after them?”

  The Datsun rounded the corner at the far end of the block. Give them five minutes, they’d have caught up with the Saab.

  Willows said, “I told Parker I’d wait here until she showed up with a search warrant.”

  “Like hell!” Bobby holstered his pistol, pushed open his door and ran back towards the Econoline. Orwell hesitated, cursed, and went after him. Bobby hadn’t bothered to shut his door. Willows left it open.

  A patrol car hovered at the corner, caught in Willows’ side mirror but out of sight of the house. The Econoline’s engine roared into life and then the van raced past, Bob
by at the wheel. Willows rolled down his window, stuck his arm into the falling rain. The patrol car surged forward, braked to a stop alongside Willows’ car. Parker said something to the uniformed cop behind the wheel that made him smile happily. She got out of the patrol car, hurried around to the passenger side door of Willows’ car and got in, shut the door behind her. The uniform put the patrol car in reverse, and gunned it.

  Parker said, “Where’d Bobby go?”

  “He has no idea,” said Willows, as he rolled his window back up. “He’s engaged in the pursuit of a suspect vehicle. The fact that he hasn’t got a hope in hell of catching up doesn’t really matter. Get the warrant?”

  “No,” said Parker, “I didn’t.”

  “I don’t think that matters either,” said Willows. “Buckle up.” He powered into a U-turn, hit the lights and siren.

  “Where are we going, Jack?”

  “Nowhere we haven’t been before.”

  “Don’t mess with me, Jack”

  “Hoffman told us Ross Larson and Garret Mosby were best buddies at William Head. Mosby’s dead. Ross had a standing invitation to come and stay with Shannon, Garret’s ex-girlfriend. She left the house not ten minutes ago. I’d bet my pension that Ross and our suspect in the Mooney killing — the behemoth with the dyed-blond buzz-cut — left a few minutes later.”

  “You saw them?”

  “Yeah. At least, I think I did. It was just a quick look, but one of them answered to Ross’s general description, and the other guy was big, really big, with short blond hair.”

  A portly, middle-aged man wearing a black suit and reversed white collar clapped his hands to his ears as they rocketed past the church. Hear no evil, thought Parker.

  She said, “Mooney was on duty the night of the armoured-car robbery on Broadway, wasn’t he?”

  Willows nodded, kept his eyes on the road.

  Parker thought about it, but not for long. Garret’s pal Ross gets out of prison, Mooney dies. Ross shows up at Garret’s ex’s house.

  A mutual friend fits the description of the suspect in the Mooney murder. What tied the whole thing together was the two hundred thousand dollars that had never been recovered from the armoured-car robbery. This was all about cash — the second-best motive. If they’d killed Mooney and come up dry, where would they go next?