“Sorry. I guess I’m getting hungry.” He blew out a huge breath. “This better be the very last one.”
“No kidding.”
He grew quiet, his eyes focused on a mark on the carpeting. Eckhart turned toward him, but said nothing. She drove to Slessor Boulevard. It was a newer high-rise building. In the lobby they scanned the directory. Gibson pressed the intercom.
“Hello.” A pleasant voice answered.
“Hi, Josephine Black? It’s the police. May we come in and speak to you?”
“What’s it about?”
“Todd Webber?”
“Oh.”
The line made a buzzing sound, and then the door squawked. He grabbed at the handle. They entered a decent hallway and took an elevator to the seventh floor. A woman who looked similar to Sue stood in a doorway half way down. Her hair was braided into two plaits, hanging on either side of her oval face. She wore Bermuda shorts and a short-sleeved blouse. They were led into a living room with plush furniture and a great view of the water to the north. He looked across the lake to the skyscrapers of Toronto silhouetted against the sapphire sky. A cat strolled into the room and wove itself between Eckhart’s calves. He purred softly, and then leaped onto a platform near the window. There was a slight smell of kitty litter wafting in from the kitchen.
“Have a seat.” Josephine sank onto the couch.
Eckhart plunked in an armchair beside a thin, sleek TV screen mounted above the fireplace. Gibson sat with his back to the vista.
“Are you having an affair with Todd?” he asked.
“Ah. Sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“We met at a party a few weeks ago. At JT’s. We hit it off right away, and he stayed the night. I realize he’s married, but he said he would call.”
“You mean leave his wife,” Gibson snorted.
“Yeah, I suppose.” Josephine looked down, unable to face his steel-grey eyes.
“Did he?”
“Did he what?”
“Call you?”
“No.”
“Did you phone him?” Gibson raised his voice.
“Once.”
“Once?” he said, sounding unconvinced.
“Three times.” She hoisted her chin.
“What happened?”
“He said to stop calling him.”
Gibson stood up unexpectedly. The rapid movement alarmed the cat. The animal bolted out of the room, nails scratching the floors trying to get a purchase on the polished wood.
“Someone murdered Todd’s wife. I suggest you don’t call again,” he snapped, a sharp edge to his warning.
“Oh, my God.” She gulped a mouthful of air.
Eckhart stiffened in her chair. Gibson rolled his eyes toward the door. They took off without ceremony, riding the elevator without speaking. He wasn’t positive whom he was more furious with. Todd or Josephine? However, Todd had some explaining to do. Could he have murdered his wife?
“Lunch?” Eckhart asked, cutting off Gibson’s reflections.
“Yeah.”
She parked on Centre Street beneath a massive steel banner that spanned the road. It announced they were in ‘Downtown Grimsby’. The Number Five Pub was a rustic tavern with a cozy atmosphere. They sat by a large window with swags for curtains. The tables were spaced close together to accommodate the weekend crowds, although it was a little slow right now. The bar took up a full wall, with the expected mirror behind. Toward the back, there were several booths with red cushioned seats. A family of four with rambunctious kids scooting under the table and generally fooling around, was a little distracting. In the next booth, a pretty brunette nearing the fifty mark was sitting alone. Her hand fingered the book on the table with deftness. He wouldn’t have recognized her except for the soulful brown eyes that radiated warmth and made you feel at home.
He had his answer and dropped his gaze.
Eckhart turned to look at the lady in the booth. Her eyes flashed a spark of green.
“Do you know her?”
“No.” But he did.
They ate their meal in silence, the first sign of awkwardness between them.
“Are you ready?” Eckhart asked.
“Yeah, let’s get going.”
She cruised down the freeway in the fast lane. Gibson leaned into the bucket seat, glancing at the speedometer with the corner of his eye—the Expedition sneered at the speed limit. He watched the scenery blur past his vision, the pattern of traffic lights mesmerizing. The truck snaked down the side roads and climbed the curb at his motel.
“Pick you up at nine?”
“You bet.” Gibson slipped off the soft leather and into the warm night. Fireflies flicked off and on as they darted through the air. The black and white checkerboard tile in the lobby seemed out of place today. He trod wearily down the corridor to his room and collapsed onto the bed. His unmoving gaze looked inward. Should he call Katherine? It was invariably a crapshoot guessing what mood she would be in. That was part of the problem. He shut his eyes and released his breath. He sensed the stress drain from his body as he drifted into the limbo of dreams.
Chapter 12
Gibson was at the coffee shop at eight. The blues twisted his heart, plagued by the past and troubled by the future. He sipped his drink with intent, thinking of an adage he had heard long ago. ‘If you don’t know what to do. Do nothing’. Something like that. Kind of made sense. The status quo was safer than stepping off the cliff. Then Eckhart moved into his field of view, the light dancing on her bronzed skin. He moaned and grazed his forehead with his fingertips.
Eckhart appeared relaxed when he hopped into the truck. She turned and faced his way. There was laughter on her mind. A sweet smile with just a hint of shyness curved her lips.
“What?” Gibson asked.
“I have a sense about today.”
“About Gregory?”
“Yes. It’s Sunday. I think he’ll show up at home. Should we—”
“Stick to the plan. See what Brandon has to disclose,” Gibson interrupted. At this point, he realized she was very keen to pin this on Gregory before the facts.
“You’re right. Our appointment first.”
They cruised downtown to Church Street. Vehicles were plodding slowly down the road, lots of hesitation and testing out possible parking spots. Some trying to manoeuvre into a tiny space, others vacillating and moving on. Six churches within two blocks on a Sunday morning.
“There’s a parking lot at the back of the station,” she said.
She pulled around the corner. A substantial metal barrier closed the entrance. “Oh, shit.” She drove another block before encountering a space.
They strolled down the sidewalk enjoying the cooler day. Gibson scrutinized the distinctive architectural styles of the buildings. A dedicated flock emptied from a creamy white church, streaming down massive stone steps in groups of three and four. The copper spires on its roof gleamed in the sunlight. He stopped to admire rose-coloured gargoyles on lofty perches on an ancient brick structure set back from the road. It was almost ten by the time they arrived at the parole service.
The Government of Canada Building was a two-storey edifice of Federal Heritage designation near City Hall. Its exterior veneer of yellow limestone and black granite was intriguing. The central entrance had an arched facade with a metal Canadian coat of arms mounted on the wall: ‘A Mari Usque Ad Mare’—From Sea to Sea.
Gibson seized the magnificent brass handle and hauled on the weighty glass door. They entered a vast main vestibule, light ricocheting off the white, polished marble surfaces. Eckhart’s shoes clicked on the terrazzo tile. As they walked up the granite steps, he passed his palm along the sleek chrome railing. A broad arrow pointed them in the appropriate direction. They advanced the length of a wide corridor to room 206. An older black man hunched over a tiny pressed wood desk appeared busy with his elbows leaned on top and jaw in hand. He looked attentively at the pages as he flipped through the folder. At the sha
rp rap on the doorframe, he raised his head. Brown eyes sparkled in a wizened face. A genuine smile made him look approachable. He vaulted out of his chair and moved round to receive the detectives.
“I’m always glad to meet up with the police.” An upper-class voice rang out. His grip was cool and firm. A self-assured man who had been around the block more than once. He maintained a well-timed eye lock with Gibson, and threw him a modest nod.
“Have a seat.” He gestured to the chairs in front of his desk. “Just leafing through Gregory’s file. The clerk informed me you have issues with my newest parolee.”
“More a worry,” Gibson replied.
“He was an ideal inmate at the detention centre. I like the guy. Tell me what’s going on.”
“We’re investigating a homicide on Lawsons Lane.”
“Okay. That’s the street I have for Gregory,” Brandon said, tracing his finger along the sheet.
“The incident took place on the beach adjacent to the Cunningham home. Felton and Margaret’s house.”
“I understand.” He furrowed his eyebrows. “So how does that connect to my guy exactly?”
“Do you have a specific interest in Gregory?” Gibson studied the officer. He needed to learn how much Brandon would defend.
“Yes. I always read my clients’ files. His case seems flimsy on details. I would hate to see it happen again.”
“We have nothing definitive at this time. But Gregory discovered the body.” Gibson paused when he noticed Brandon incline his head. “Which doesn’t mean a thing, but he ran off and hasn’t been seen since. That was a week ago.”
“That’s a headache for you.”
“We figured he may have breached his conditions of discharge. Well, not all. But...”
“What condition?” Brandon asked.
“The crime took place during a fireworks gathering at his dad’s house.”
“Oh. Alcohol, drugs and maybe teenagers.”
“I haven’t confirmed he was drinking or doing drugs. It was an adult party; no kids were there.”
“So, the real problem is he’s missing,” Brandon said.
“Yes. I suppose that’s it in a nutshell.” Gibson frowned at his lack of direction.
“If Gregory has left the district, I can have him picked up. But you don’t know that for a fact if you can’t find him.” He grinned and looked back at his journal. “I’m not expecting to see him until...” Brandon flipped forward two pages. “Tuesday.”
“He might show up at home today. It’s Sunday dinner day,” Eckhart said.
“I have no reason to issue a warrant. But we have a legal right to go through his living quarters without cause. I could offer you approval for that.”
“That would be excellent,” Gibson said. “But if we turn up anything that ties him to our case, we’ll have to apprehend him.”
Brandon leaned back into his chair and set his palms behind his head, staring at the ceiling and said, “Do me a favour. Call me if that happens. I won’t retract his parole unless it is something incriminating. He gets a fourteen-day grace. Let’s see what you discover first.”
“Fair enough.” Gibson reached over the desk and shook his hand. “We’ll be in contact.”
The detectives scampered down the steps, reverberations of their footfalls bouncing off the marble as they launched out the exit. Eckhart’s eyes were alight with expectation. She wanted to waltz down the pavement.
“This is it.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Gibson suspected he was marching into a tempest. His eyebrows were compressed together in trepidation.
“It’s Gregory. I know it. Don’t be absurd.” Eckhart jabbed his shoulder and sprinted to the truck.
Gibson raced behind her. Eckhart fired up the motor and ripped away from the curb before he had his seatbelt fastened. He seized the dashboard and held on for the ride. There wasn’t much traffic, so she tore down the street. Before she could flip a switch on the panel, he gave her a look.
“We don’t need the siren and lights.”
“Okay. If you say so.” Her mouth lifted upward, crinkling her dimples. The smile reached her eyes, the deep pools of blue. She giggled.
Gibson pushed into the leather and closed his eyes. The growl of the tires on a metal grate alerted him to his whereabouts. He glanced to the side to catch the stern of the biggest ship he had seen so far. It sunk low. The wash left behind mushroomed out in a vast fan, striking the canal sides, and boomed back. The water bubbled in every direction.
Eckhart turned down Lawsons Lane and deliberately inched down the roadway. She pulled into the entrance and shut off the engine. Her hands fluttered on the steering wheel. She drew in a sharp gasp.
“Gregory’s here. I’m ready.”
Gibson looked past the motorbike parked next to Felton’s vehicle to a figure in the dahlia bed. Margaret glanced up and bestowed a wave, secateurs in her grip. The straw hat perched on her frizzy hair was secured with a bow under her double chin. Someone had propped a bucket packed with dead flowers against a dirt pile. A slight grin screwed her lip. She ambled toward them, her clogs slapping on her feet.
“What brings you out here?”
“To see Gregory,” Eckhart said.
“They’re inside.” Margaret trudged up the stairs, the two detectives right behind. She yanked off her hat and tossed it on the ottoman. Muffled voices and a wisp of smoke slipped through the screen. Margaret snatched the handle and swung the door open forcefully.
“What did I tell you about smoking in the house?”
“My leg aches.”
“Put it out,” she growled.
“There. Happy now?” Felton ground his cigarette in an ashtray and scowled.
Margaret seized a tea towel and flung it around in the air, driving smoke out the door. Felton rubbed his thighs, muttering. “Can’t do what I want in my own house.”
Gibson held back a smirk.
Gregory remained frozen in his chair. His posture was rigid, his expression dull as he gazed at the worn linoleum. His breathing was virtually undetectable.
“We’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Eckhart stood over him, fists on her hips.
“I didn’t do anything.” Gregory squirmed, eyes everywhere except on the detective.
Gibson pointed his chin at Eckhart indicating for her to take a seat. Felton plucked out his filthy handkerchief and coughed up phlegm. Margaret plopped herself down, arranging her secateurs on the table. The inspector sat next to Gregory, swung toward him and leaned in.
“Where have you been?” Gibson asked.
“At a friend’s house.”
“In town?”
“Yeah.” The lie slipped out, smooth and easy like an orange cello shot.
“You found Elsie on the beach,” Gibson said.
Gregory blinked.
“Did you see what happened?”
“No.” He shifted in his seat.
“Was she dead when you found her?”
“Yeah.” He wavered. “I...”
Margaret bristled. Gibson held up a hand.
“Did you touch her?”
“No.”
“Okay. What did you do after that?”
“I ran up the stairs. Jackie was there. I told her Elsie was dead. Then I got the hell out of there.” He paused. “I don’t know why. Jackie yelled, but I couldn’t go back.”
“Why is that Gregory?”
“Because I knew you would blame me.” His voice went shrill.
Margaret worked her mouth, gnawing on the inside of her cheek. Gibson shot her a warning.
“Because you’re on parole?”
Gregory formed fists, his lips clamped together.
Gibson plucked the photograph out of his upper pocket and passed it to Gregory. “Is this your ring?”
A weak squeak from across the table.
“I don’t think so.” He flinched, jerking backward. Two crimson spots grew on his cheeks, a sharp contrast to his c
halk-white complexion.
“You’re not wearing one.”
“I put it aside when I…” A thickness in his throat stopped him.
“Should we go find it?” Gibson asked.
“Are you allowed to look at my stuff?” His eyes popped with panic.
“Yes, as part of your release conditions—”
The detective didn’t finish the sentence before Gregory propelled his chair from the table and jumped up. His face was pale and blank. His motions perfunctory. The detectives accompanied him down the corridor. Gibson expected clothes to be scattered about and a locker-room funk to linger in the air. Instead, the quilt on the bed lay smoothed, folded down from the pillow. In a corner, a guitar was cradled in a stand. Nothing was pitched on the floor.
“It should be here somewhere. I can’t remember.” Gregory rummaged through the drawers of a Tallboy dresser. He shrugged his shoulders and gave a slow shake of his head.
“Could it be in here?” Gibson asked as he opened the closet door. A whiff of copper escaped. He glanced over to alert Eckhart that something was up. Gregory’s body slumped. Margaret forced herself forward, aggression building on her mouth. Eckhart barred the entrance and stood fast against the elbow jabbed into her rib cage.
“What’s going on?” Margaret asked.
Gibson snapped on gloves. He poked through a laundry basket and plucked up a shirt concealed at the bottom. It was discolored with a sticky substance. He dropped it back.
“Eckhart.”
“We’re taking you in for questioning.” She sailed across the room in one large stride, cuffs at the ready, twirled Gregory around and clamped on the restraints.
“What the hell!” Margaret shouted.
“Margaret, go sit down.” The explosive bark stunned everyone into silence. It was the first manifestation of Gibson’s pit-bull demeanour since his arrival east.
“Gregory you have violated your conditions of release—”
“No. I was trying to help Elsie.”
“Shut up, Gregory,” Margaret snarled. She hovered in the background. Her clodhoppers clunking as she paced in front of the doorway.
“As I was saying, a suspicion of being implicated in a crime is all I need to hold you. Your parole isn’t revoked yet, and you aren’t under arrest. However, you’ll be in lockup downtown until further notice. Do you understand?”
STORM ROLL: a Canadian murder mystery series Page 26
