Henry watched Khatri’s glare intensify, the silence long and deafening.
Khatri strode to the far corner of the office. Stubbing hurried to follow. The two spoke in hushed tones.
On the bench, Frieda and Tess hugged one another.
Henry kept his eye on the two men conferring angrily with one another as he slid his phone from his pocket and typed.
GO!
From the bench where they sat, Tess and Frieda could see inside the office. The sergeant stood up and walked around the desk toward Henry; the first time either had moved in what seemed like a long time.
The station had all the white noise of an ordinary office: printers, telephones, talking, doors. It filled the periods of silence that might otherwise have seemed long or awkward.
“It’s not as exciting as it seems on TV, eh?” Tess said.
“Why did you mention Sarah?”
“What? Pardon?”
“To the policewoman, we were talking to. You mentioned my aunt Sarah. Everyone thinks I should go stay with Sarah.”
“Well, we don’t know what’s really going on, do we, Fred? Mr. Benham’s in the hospital, and someone broke into my apartment. That’s some scary stuff. Maybe the right thing, the safer thing, would be for you to stay with your aunt.”
Frieda twisted her pursed lips to one side.
“You know that he’s just trying to do what’s best, right?” Tess said.
“You didn’t know the old Hen.” Frieda slouched on the bench, her arms crossed. “He used to love adventure. And fun. Why does he want to move?”
“I don’t know. His work situation sounds . . . complicated.”
Frieda shrugged her shoulders as only a teenager can.
“But maybe I won’t see him again.”
“Henry cares for you a great deal. I can see why. He thinks you’re pretty cool.”
In a small voice, Frieda said, “I want Hen to think you’re cool, too. Then maybe he’ll stay.”
Tess put her arm around Frieda’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze. Frieda squeezed back.
“Henry and I will keep an eye on each other,” Tess said.
“I really don’t want to go to Sarah’s.”
“Fred, don’t you like your aunt?”
“Of course I do. It’s just now all she ever wants to talk about is the baby.”
Tess pulled back and spun in her seat, bringing one knee onto the bench between them. “Say again?”
“The baby she’s having. Plus, Stewart is moving in. He’s okay. No, he’s weird. But everything with Sarah is about the baby.”
“I didn’t know that.” Tess held her hand over her mouth as pieces fell into place. “Does Henry know?”
Frieda looked at her like she was crazy. “Uh, yeah. That’s why he moved out.”
“It’s Stewart’s baby?”
“Who else’s?”
“The same Stewart?”
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She didn’t text many people. It was probably an ad, or a phishing scam.
It wasn’t.
Before she could read it twice, Tess grabbed Frieda’s wrist and yanked her from the couch.
“What?” the young girl objected.
“Henry’s orders,” Tess said, as they headed toward the elevator.
Constable Stubbing withstood the sergeant’s flak for another minute before there was a knock on the window, startling Henry so much that he almost shouted. Khatri broke his glowering conference with a wave of disgust at the castigated Stubbing, and the door opened.
Behind Henry, Constable Tipton’s voice spoke up. “Linda Fullarton is here, sir.”
“Thank you,” Khatri said. “We won’t be too much longer.”
“And,” Tipton added, her voice sounding confused, “Ms. Honma and the girl have left.”
Khatri and Stubbing both snapped their heads to look out the window at the empty couch. Khatri lowered his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. Stubbing seized the opportunity. He whispered something brief to Tipton and slipped out of the room.
“Can I go?” Henry asked after the door had closed.
“Do you know who that is, Henry?” Khatri asked, his voice soft with exhaustion. They were alone together in the room now. Any facade had dissolved.
“No.”
“That’s Julian’s mother.” Khatri hunched as he leaned his elbows onto the desk. “I have to tell her about her son now.”
“That’s awful.”
“It is.”
“Are we in any danger?” Henry asked.
“Surely you see that there is some danger to you.” Khatri took a deep breath before continuing. “Unless you know who did this?”
“I had nothing to do with any of this.”
“I didn’t say that you did.”
“I inferred. I feel as though you don’t trust me, Sergeant Khatri.”
“I don’t know you, Mr. Lysyk. I only know your reputation as someone who enjoys making their own rules. I believe you have more to share than you are letting on.”
“I don’t.”
“I hear you saying that. Are you protecting someone?”
“Look, Sergeant, I appreciate where you’re coming from. But perhaps, it would make the best sense if one of your men were to watch the house…”
Khatri was already shaking his head.
“Seriously,” Henry said. “We have another neighbor to consider. There’s an elderly woman upstairs. Someone has to stay there to keep an eye on her.”
Still shaking.
“Ms. Pruner has already agreed to stay with Mr. Benham’s daughter,” Khatri said.
“Ah.” Henry wasn’t expecting that. When had they spoken?
“Look at the situation here, Henry. There has been an assault, a break-in, and now a murder. If you grasp this, and I think you are intelligent enough to do that, then I have to ask myself why you continue to drag your niece into it all?”
“I’m not dragging her—”
“You’re not exactly putting her safety first, though, are you?”
“Her parents are away.”
“Does she have to stay with you? What about her aunt?”
The silence in the room was almost perfect. Just the slightest sound of voices from the other side of the door.
“Sure,” Henry said. “But none of this has anything to do with me. I can still look after her. It’s complicated. That’s why we need you to catch this guy.”
“Listen to yourself, Henry.”
“No. You listen to me.” He raised his voice. “Looking after Frieda is my responsibility and you can keep your nose out of it. Stay in your own lane and do your bloody job. The online chat, it’s from an amateur detective forum. But do you know what it’s about?”
“Henry—”
“The man who was communicating with Julian is named Keller. And this guy is looking for DB Cooper and the money, isn’t he? He’s not looking for me, or Frieda, or Tess, or Bernadette or even Benham. Maybe Julian knew something, and that’s what got him killed?”
Khatri’s face darkened into a scowl. “Mr. Lysyk, please do not presume that the Vancouver PD and the RCMP haven’t already looked into these things. I’m told that colleagues who have been working on the assault on Ron Benham also considered the connection to the infamous DB Cooper.”
He walked to the far side of the desk and rested against it with his hip. Henry craned his neck to look up at the man.
“You have problems enough already, Henry. If it turns out you had anything to do with any of these crimes, or if I learn that you interfered with our investigations, your niece may be visiting you in jail.”
It was Khatri who broke eye contact first.
“It may help you, Henry, to know that the FBI is not interested. We’ve already shared with them what we know about Keller. They agree that Ron Benham isn’t DB Cooper. And the RCMP is only interested where these messages suggest that it was someone from the United States who came up to meet with our victim.
“We’ve been able to contact Keller’s ex-wife and, other than her, he appears to have no other family members. It seems his last living relative was his father, Ryan Keller, who passed away in 2017.”
Henry blinked, unsure whether he had heard correctly. “You’re sure of that? That his father died in 2017?”
“Yes. According to his ex, his father died about a year after she and Keller were divorced. Keller had pulled him out of a nursing home, and the two of them were living together. We are keeping in touch with her, in the hope she can provide us with more insight.”
“Thank you for that.” Where did that leave them?
“That means we still don’t really know what this villain is after.” Khatri paused to look out the window where Tess and Frieda once sat. “Do you see where I’m going with this?”
Henry merely listened.
“What I’m saying is we don’t know why this man has taken such a keen interest in your neighbors and your house on Richardson. We don’t know why Julian Corbeau was killed. And, until we know these things, I cannot say that you and your niece are not also in danger.”
“I will not embarrass myself and my department by chasing down a fifty-year-old ghost. We will patrol your neighborhood, and I trust that you and Tess will look after one another. But, as for the girl, this is no place for her.”
“Am I being detained or arrested?” Henry asked.
Henry could feel the heavy, dark gaze of the sergeant on him, as the man gave his last warning.
“Frieda has an aunt in town. I recommend you take her there until this is over. Only a person guilty of these crimes, or a selfish fool, would do otherwise.”
Chapter Forty-One
Jack Keller studied each car parked on Richardson Street as he cruised past the coffee shop and house.
None of these look like stakeouts.
It seemed that the police hadn’t left anyone behind to watch the house. He’d seen the girl and her daughter from upstairs leaving together, carrying bags, ten minutes ago.
Keller parked in a quiet-looking side street nearby. Nice and close, and not too visible. Yesterday, the police had gone into the café across the street; they would have his description.
But had they seen the car?
If the police knew about the car, he’d be cooked. The Washington plates, for sure, would give him up.
I just want what’s mine, and then I want to go home.
Keller walked down the laneway that ran parallel to Richardson Street. The narrow, gravel road was wide enough for a car, and the fences on either side were taller than he was. It was a poor place from which to watch the old house, but perfect for approaching it unseen.
The fence in the back of 1584 Richardson had an uneven shape, forming a notch in the yard for a parking pad that might accommodate a single car. He hadn’t seen this before and was a bit put off that his surveillance had missed that one of the tenants might have a car. It had to be the woman upstairs. The Henry guy downstairs biked everywhere.
The gate was unlocked. A flagstone path wound its way around a vegetable garden with two weather-worn chairs at the far side. Keller oriented himself to the house in front of him.
The guy’s place is on the right. The company’s office is on the left, the east side.
There was no movement that he could see in any of the windows. His heart pounded as he headed toward the left side of the house. He was already breathing heavily, and, rather than running to avoid being seen, Keller only raised his shoulders and ducked his head a little as he walked.
The windows that would open into the company’s unit started nearly seven feet up. Keller could reach the sills but was unable to see inside. Even then, the goal wasn’t simply to peer in, but to get inside.
He tested the strength of the frames around the windows, but they were old and wooden.
Too weak to hold my weight.
He looked around for something to stand on.
Seeing nothing on the side of the house, he returned to the back.
There was a small greenhouse on the far side of the yard. Even though the walls were misty with dew on the inside, they were clear enough that he knew there was nothing there he could use. His eyes finally settled on the two Adirondack chairs in the garden and, one at a time, he carried the large wooden seats to the east side of the house, his head and shoulders still scrunched together.
Stacking the chairs, with the legs of one on the arms of the other gained him four feet.
High enough.
Horizontal blinds still prevented Keller from looking in. He tried lifting the window, but it was locked. Standing on the arms of the top chair, he went into his bag and took out a hunting knife. The four-inch blade was fixed open to the equally long plastic handle.
He turned his head away from the house and, with the butt of the handle he smashed a hole in the glass. Using the serrated spine of the knife, he pushed jagged, broken pieces into the house, making the hole large enough to put his arm through. He reached in and unlocked the window. It stuck, and he wondered if he was going to have to shatter the pane entirely to climb through. Shattering more glass would risk attracting more attention, so he tried lifting the window again. It came free with a loud crunch of wood on wood.
Keller stopped and listened for sounds coming from inside the apartment. Nothing.
His hands shook with adrenaline. He took a deep breath and wiped his moist palms on his chest.
All those fakers online, pretending to be detectives, pretending to solve mysteries. They’re all just playing.
This is my life.
This is real.
It was amazing to have come this far. Still, his heart was racing too fast.
He rooted around the bottom of his bag until he found two of the small, familiar pellets, which he popped into his mouth and swallowed.
Keller straightened out the blinds of the window and turned to face the room. His eyes adjusted to the dim lighting and he blinked several times.
Empty.
There was a fireplace on the far side of the room, with a mirror built into the mantle, and a closet with narrow gaps into the walls. But the room was devoid of contents.
He rubbed his eyes and took it all in again. Nothing was different. Keller walked quietly to the door to the rest of the apartment. He listened. Hearing nothing, he opened it.
No one lives here.
No one does anything here.
What might have been a living room was bare, as was the kitchen. There were appliances in the kitchen, but the fridge and freezer doors were open and not cold.
A small pile of mail lay at the foot of the front door. He picked it up and sorted the flyers from the single envelope addressed to Resident of 2-1584 Richardson Street. He tore open the envelope. It was a form letter from a realtor. Sell your home while the market is hot!
Keller turned his back to the door, surveying the room. Confusion became frustration, which swelled into anger.
They cleared out?
Did they know he was coming?
He tore the flyers and the form letter to pieces and threw them into the air. They fluttered to the ground, disturbing the light dust.
Something nagged at him. He didn’t know what he was seeing, but he felt certain that there was something there.
There isn’t a week’s worth of mail, but there is dust in front of the door. It’s not been opened.
It was as though he had a key but didn’t know what it opened.
Keller scanned the room for answers. He walked back into the first room, the closet, the fireplace and the broken glass. He returned to the living room. Paper littered the floor. Someone had tacked up a long black cloth over the mail slot to prevent people from peering inside.
Keller unlocked the door and leaned out into the hallway. Directly across was the door marked Unit 1.
I’m close and someone doesn’t want me to find it.
In the kitchen he looked at the wide horizontal blinds that covered th
e windows to the front of the house. The fridge was off, the pilot light on the stove was unlit, and the pantry door was closed.
He’d not looked in the pantry. The door was as tall as an ordinary door, but only three quarters wide. He looked at the floor by the pantry; dust had been swept aside, in a perfect semi-circle.
His hand trembled as he opened the pantry door, and he heard his own gasp as he saw inside. There were no shelves, no preserves, and no stores. There was nothing to suggest it had been a pantry in a very long time.
There was only a narrow, spiral staircase that led upstairs. Upstairs to the old lady’s suite.
Chapter Forty-Two
Henry waited until he was several blocks from the police station before checking his texts. It was only ten blocks down and ten blocks over to get home, assuming that’s where Frieda and Tess had gone. Maybe they should go to a hotel instead?
There were two unread messages. Both were from Tess.
Safe.
The second was more cryptic.
OV Skytrain.
He had been walking away from the Olympic Village Skytrain station. As a measure of caution, he looped around a block rather than retrace his steps north.
The damp in the air becomes apparent in Vancouver as soon as the sun sets below the horizon. This evening was no exception. Henry pinched the top of his peacoat closed as he approached the station.
Past the ticket machines, the escalators disappeared below ground in the direction of the water. Henry stood with his back to the wall and looked about. Was he supposed to get on? Was he supposed to wait here?
A tall, thin woman leaned up against the wall next to him, in his space. She wore a long coat past her knees, a knit wool cap, and sported the acute-angled eyeglasses of an architect. He left his post. And, from the corner of his eye, he could see the woman following.
Cop?
He felt sure she wasn’t a Skytrain Officer, but he made to leave the station anyhow. It wouldn’t do to get a fine for loitering right now.
“Buy a ticket, Henry,” she said as she strode to one of the turnstiles and swiped herself through with a pass.
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