Tess looked at her phone.
Mission accomplished. Package delivered. On my way!
With the afternoon traffic, they would have at least forty-five minutes before Henry would get downtown. Her stomach cringed at the idea of more coffee. She’d have to switch to tea.
“He’s done,” she said. “It sounds like it worked.”
“I knew Henry could do it. We have no way of checking, though, do we?”
“We don’t if he sent it as a private message from Julian, which is the whole point.”
“Now what?” Frieda returned a Robin comic to the shelf, careful not to crease the spine.
“Now, we meet up with Henry at Blenz Coffee. Then we wait. It’s not even three and the pawnshop set-up isn’t until five.”
“I don’t think I can handle any more coffee, Tess.”
“Me neither. Let’s just kill time down by the water and then what would you say to sushi for dinner?”
Frieda’s cheeks rounded out as she grinned. “I’d say, ‘Hello, sushi.’”
They collected their bags and headed up to the front.
Tess was a little embarrassed to be buying one of her own comics, but she had already signed the Enigma Team 6 hardcover for Frieda.
Frieda made amusing exaggerated expressions of exertion as she struggled to fit the book into her satchel. A well-worn, red, cardboard binder already filled much of the young girl’s bag.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Henry hated answering his phone in a restaurant. But the caller ID read Vancouver PD and, besides, they were just about the only customers in the place.
But this wasn’t the plan.
The plan was for Tess to telephone Constable Tipton later that night, under the guise of looking for an update on her break-in; the expectation was that they would hear how the police had trapped Keller at the pawnshop.
The phone buzzed again.
Henry looked across the plates of half-eaten sushi at Frieda picking stray rice from her soy sauce. An hour ago, he had listened to her talk with her parents. (“Everything’s great!”)
Buzz.
“Hello?”
“It’s Sergeant Khatri, Mr. Lysyk. We met before.”
“I remember.”
“It’s time for us to have a talk.”
“Sure. Fine. Go ahead.”
“It would be better if we could do this face to face.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t see why—”
“There has been a development. If it’s a question of transportation, Mr. Lysyk, I can send someone to pick you up.”
“It’s not that. I’m just unclear why you can’t tell me what this is about over the phone.”
“It’s simply a matter of procedure. We may have something for you to look at or sign. Shall I send a car?”
“No. I told you—”
“Are you afraid to come in for any reason, Mr. Lysyk?”
Afraid? “No.”
“You know where the Cambie Street station is, of course.”
“Sure. I—”
“Excellent. I will expect you within the hour. If you’re not here, we’ll send that car to collect you at your house, alright?”
The Sergeant hung up before Henry could respond either way.
The call had been brief; but long enough, and enigmatic enough, to quash Henry’s confidence in a simple plan carried off smoothly.
“He told me to come into the station,” Henry said to Tess and Frieda.
Tess put down her napkin, flattening it on the table as she pondered this. “You? Or all of us?”
“Just me, I think. He only mentioned me.”
“Why just you?”
Henry shrugged. His phone, face-up on the table, blinked off.
Did Stewart mess up? Had Stewart called the police?
“When?”
“Now.”
“Now?”
“Within the hour.”
“That’s good, right?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
Henry only winced in reply.
“Did he say why?” Tess asked.
Henry shook his head.
Frieda had a grain of rice stuck to the back of one of her small hands. She chewed on the end of a chopstick as she took this all in.
Rachel and Tomas are going to be so upset.
Tess clucked her tongue. “Did he say anything at all about the pawnshop?”
“No. He just said that there’s been a development.”
“What development?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t get to ask.”
Henry searched their faces in vain for encouragement, hope, excitement, anything.
“Maybe it’s a good thing?” Tess offered. “Like they want you to pick Keller out of a lineup.”
“Yeah,” he said. “It could be a good thing.”
It didn’t feel like a good thing.
Both Frieda and Tess looked back at him as though they were saying goodbye.
The police station was as typical a building as one might find in Vancouver’s Mount Pleasant neighborhood, at the southern foot of the Cambie Street Bridge. Two floors of street-facing brick were topped with several more stories of cookie-cutter glass office tower. Only the sign and the dozen cruisers parked outside distinguished it from the other buildings in the area.
The trio had chosen not to split up. Constable Tipton was waiting for them at the station when they arrived. Henry hoped she might flash him a comforting smile but got nothing.
They passed through a gate beside the front counter, and weaved past numbered offices, unlabeled metal filing cabinets, and open workspaces equipped with printers and computer monitors due for upgrades. They rode the elevator to the fifth floor in silence and followed Tipton deeper into the labyrinth. The doors here were nicer, unpainted, wood instead of metal. The corridor opened up into a waiting area the size of Henry’s bedroom. These adjoining offices all bore name plates. Ladner, Reinhardt, Khatri.
Copies of National Geographic and Reader’s Digest adorned a low coffee table, the bare minimum of hospitality. Two small couches lined either side of the space. The thin cushions were the same dark blue as the officers’ uniforms and looked only comfortable enough to forestall complaint.
Henry’s favorite cop, Constable Stubbing, got up from one of the couches. He and Tipton conferred quietly with each other to the side, while the trio watched in silence. Henry felt the weight of Frieda’s arm as she held onto his sleeve. He patted it to reassure her, and himself, that everything was fine.
Stubbing directed Henry into Sergeant Khatri’s office. Henry gave one last look over his shoulder at Frieda taking a seat between Tess and Constable Tipton, before Stubbing closed the door behind him.
Keller tossed his room key over the counter as he walked out of the Lampert Hotel. The manager failed to catch it, constrained by the buttons of his shirt, which might have fit him twenty pounds ago. As he bent over to retrieve the key, the manager squeezed out, “Doors lock at eleven.”
Even though the couch in the pawnshop was softer than the bed here, he’d passed out right after arriving. The Lampert Hotel was somewhere to hide, somewhere to collect his thoughts. It was the kind of place where you chose to stay only because they were used to people paying in cash and not carrying ID.
He couldn’t see them, but he knew that, far to the west, were the familiar pawnshop and drugstore.
His hand reached into his backpack and felt around for the plastic square bottle of pills. He shook one into his mouth. A brief taste of mint crossed his mossy tongue. There was no waiting until his old bottle turned up. Already, the stories were creeping into his thoughts.
The girl had followed him to the pawnshop. And, earlier today, he had imagined a message from a dead man. This had to end. Forces conspired to lead him astray, but he knew better. Everything required caution now. It would be as unforgivable to lead them to the end as it would be to fail.
> He wandered along several blocks of East Vancouver until he came across a coffee shop advertising free WiFi.
Inside, no one turned to look at him as he entered. Even the girl at the counter couldn’t be bothered to look him in the eye as she took his money and filled a huge paper cup with a burned smelling brew. He was running out of money. But, at his stomach’s insistence, he took a day-old muffin.
He settled down in a corner, facing the door, and booted up his laptop. The coffee was too hot to drink. Crumbs and seeds spilled onto his shirt.
On the Net-Tectives site, there were no new messages. He clicked on the last message, to read it again.
To: @treasurehunter1971
From: @juliancaesar
I have what you lost. Meet me at my shop at 5. Come in the back.
He looked around the coffee shop. No one was looking his way. His eyes bounced to the corners of the rooms but saw no cameras.
The words floated off the screen.
Had he imagined this? Had he imagined the rest of it? Spies in the store?
It wasn’t possible. He had slept at the pawnshop for most of a week. Julian was . . . unfortunate.
He was trying to keep me from you, Dad. They all are.
So, it had to be a trap. There was another mystery hunter in this now. But what did they want? To capture his father? The money?
He was too close. Now he knew he wasn’t the only one. How close were they?
Find you, find the money. Get back over the border, get home.
Keller shook half of the pills from the bottle into his mouth. The coffee burned as it washed them down. It was just lucky that he’d been able to find them at the pharmacy, and he’d bought all that they had.
Had they found his car? It was hidden in an alley, but he had no idea whether police checked these sorts of things.
There were too many unknowns. There was no time.
Julian told the police.
No. Julian is dead. Isn’t he?
Keller knew he could figure this out. What stones were still unturned?
He closed his eyes and tried to tune out his thoughts, but a small tinny voice kept getting through. Was that Julian? No. He looked at the source of the noise.
A young woman at a nearby table was picking up messages on her phone with her speaker turned up.
She was just like that woman, Tess. With the thief of a daughter.
That bloody house. That bloody company. The one with the door that never opened. Where no one went in or out. There might be police there, after last night. Maybe. But they wouldn’t stop him either.
Keller knocked the rest of the coffee onto another seat as he jammed his laptop into his bag. He stuffed the remainder of muffin into his mouth, breathing from his nose as he tried to walk calmly to the door.
This is it.
He couldn’t wait for the right time.
There is only now.
He felt his heart hammering in his chest as he walked to the alley where he’d left the car.
Those liars are going to show me the truth. If I’m too late to save Dad, I’ll see them pay.
I’m getting what I came for.
Chapter Forty
Sergeant Khatri was out of uniform but no less intimidating, even seated. His tan turban matched the blazer hanging on the coat rack in the corner as well as the occasional stripe of his tie. He watched Henry, undistracted as Stubbing pulled two chairs away from the wall and dragged them over to the desk.
“Have a seat, Mr. Lysyk,” Khatri said, his voice deeper than Henry remembered.
Henry sunk low into the chair so that he was looking slightly upwards at the sergeant on the far side of the desk. He resisted turning to see whether Stubbing, seated just over his right shoulder, looked as awkward in his chair as Henry felt.
“Thank you for coming in.”
Henry nodded. “Anything to help. You needed my fingerprints?”
“As your niece has been left in your care while her parents are away, we will need you to sign something so we can get her fingerprints, too.”
“Frieda’s?”
“Please. It’s a formality. We’ll also be asking Ms. Honma for hers. To eliminate them from others we’ve found. It’s common. You’ve seen this sort of thing on TV, I’m sure.”
He had. The words were well rehearsed, along with the sergeant’s patient, compassionate expression. Henry had also seen that it didn’t always work out well for the guy on TV.
“And you said there’s been a development. Does this mean you caught our guy?”
“No. Not yet.”
“But you know who it is?”
“We might.”
“You might? So why did you want to speak with me?” Police hierarchies were surely like those in any bureaucracy, bank, or business. You can only ever speak with the lowest level person who can handle your situation. Even in Henry’s lack of police-specific knowledge, it was unfathomable that a sergeant would be necessary to take fingerprints.
“I appreciate that you cut to the chase, Henry.” Khatri stroked his thick beard as he spoke. Flecks of gray hair rose to the surface and disappeared again. “I wanted to ask you about someone else.”
Please don’t let it be Stewart.
“What do you know about Julian Corbeau?”
Henry turned to look back through the office window at Tess. Stubbing stood stiffly in the way of the window, never having sat down.
Why didn’t we discuss what we would say?
He shouldn’t have to lie. They hadn’t done anything wrong. Except the breaking in. And the email. And not calling the police.
Shit.
“I think… I don’t know, but I think he’s one of the people in the online conversation that Frieda found on the lawn.”
“What else?” Khatri scratched quick, staccato notes without looking directly at the pen and paper, which Henry had not noticed before now.
“Not much. I googled him, so I know he works at a pawnshop.”
“Have you ever spoken with Julian Corbeau, Henry?”
“No.”
“Have you ever communicated with him?”
“No. Never.” Not a lie.
“Have you ever impersonated Julian Corbeau?”
Henry hoped that his pause could just as easily be interpreted as confusion over such an unusual and specific question.
“No,” he said with surprising steadiness. Technically, not a lie. Stewart had done all the typing and hit send.
“Have you ever been to Julian Corbeau’s pawnshop?”
“Look,” Henry said, knowing that couldn’t keep this up indefinitely. “I want to do whatever I can to help catch whoever attacked Mr. Benham and broke into Tess’s apartment. But I think it’s only fair if I know why you’ve asked me here.”
Khatri’s eyes looked over Henry’s shoulder for a moment. Stubbing shuffled audibly. Khatri set down the pen and leaned back into his chair. His hands rested on the desk, ready to pick up where they’d left off.
“Julian Corbeau’s mother reported him missing a couple of days ago.” Sergeant Khatri paused to let this sink in. “So, we’ve been monitoring his email and various social media. Do you know what we found?”
“What?”
“A message.”
“Okay. That’s good for you, right?”
“No.”
“No?”
“It’s a mystery, Henry. You see, this evening we found Julian Corbeau dead.”
“What? You think this is related to what’s happened on Richardson Street?”
“We are looking at that possibility, yes.”
Henry pulled at his hair as he thought.
“Suffice to say,” Khatri continued, “we’ve been trying to get a hold of Julian since your niece gave us that same paper, the private messages. Until now, no one, not even his family and friends, knew where he was.”
“Where was he?”
Khatri’s dark eyes registered Henry’s confusion. He picked the pen back up a
nd scratched out more notes before answering.
“At his store.”
“The pawnshop?”
Khatri nodded. “We thought we’d had a bit of luck when we read that he was arranging to meet someone there. After he didn’t show, we looked in on our own. Imagine our surprise when we found his body.”
He went to the meeting? Did we walk him into his own death?
Henry’s stomach turned. The perspiration forming on his brow distracted him from being able to piece together quickly what he was hearing. He fought against the urge to dab at the beads of moisture.
“Was it the person he was supposed to meet?”
“We don’t think so. You see, his body was found in a large deep freezer. He was killed days ago. Days before the meeting was even arranged. Could you imagine such a thing?”
Henry’s mind raced.
Already dead? How did we miss this? Deep freezer? I touched it. Did Fred touch it? I think she only touched the keys. Tess touched the freezer for sure.
“Are you alright, Henry?” Khatri asked. He got up from his seat and walked around the desk.
Henry blinked to clear his head. Why is he calling me Henry now?
“I’m fine,” he said. “Where’s Frieda?”
“She’s right outside with your friend and one of our other officers. Do you need a glass of water?”
Henry followed Khatri’s gaze through the window. Frieda and Tess were still sitting on the bench, carrying on what appeared to be an intense discussion.
“No,” Henry said. “Do I need a lawyer?”
“I don’t know, Henry,” Khatri said. “Do you?”
“I think I’ll speak with my lawyer before volunteering my fingerprints.”
Khatri froze, a look of shock on his face. His eyes wide, he spoke to Constable Stubbing. “Haven’t we—”
“The machine was busy.” Stubbing’s voice had shrunk, buoying Henry’s spirits. “I was going to take them down right after this.”
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