But Caper’s, despite a spate of negative publicity from the Hep A outbreak, did a huge business. The joint had to be rolling in dough. Plus, it was a lot closer than Harvey’s.
Harvey drove three blocks west on Fourth Avenue. He parked in a Safeway lot, tilted the rearview mirror so he could admire himself. Though he didn’t know it, he looked like Truman Capote’s blind younger brother would have looked, if Truman Capote had had a blind younger brother. He was just about to get out of the car when he remembered that he’d forgotten to buy a pair of gloves.
No way was the Caper’s caper going down bare-handed, due to the jailhouse tattoo on the back of his left hand. The tattoo was of a crudely but passionately drawn bug-eyed eagle stomping a rattlesnake to death. The artwork was in his sheet, and was bound to pop up on the screen the instant some brain-dead cop typed it into his computer.
Harvey sighed heavily. He tossed the fedora and glasses on the seat and got out of the car and trudged across the baking-hot parking lot to the Safeway. The only gloves he could find were cotton gardening gloves, white with blue flowers. He tried them on, first the left hand, and then the right. One size fit most. He glanced around, observed that he was not being observed, and deftly shoved the gloves into his pocket.
Back in the Firebird, he put the hat and sunglasses back on, shoved his new gloves into his pocket, and studied what he could see of himself in the rearview mirror. He looked weird. He wasn’t sure if he looked weird and dangerous, but he definitely looked weird. Were the feds called feds because they wore fedoras? He shoved the keys in his pants pocket, and got out of the Firebird, and walked over to the corner and turned and looked back. The Firebird was parked facing away from him. From where he was standing, it was mostly hidden by a silver Mercedes SUV. Head for the Mercedes, he was home free.
Harvey waited for the light to change. The blindingly white pedestrian lit up and a speaker emitted a grating, bird-like cheep. He wondered how come they didn’t have black pedestrian signals, as he walked across the street. He peered in through Caper’s plate-glass windows as he strolled slowly past. The store was crowded. A food bar ran parallel to the sidewalk and then curved gracefully towards the back of the store. There were a few tables at the front, people of all ages eating and drinking, stuffing their healthy little veggie faces. A woman perched on a stool at a high, round table glanced at him and smiled, then ducked her head and said something to her girlfriend that made her turn and look at him. The two of them exchanged a few words and then cracked up, laughing their fool heads off. Harvey pretended not to notice. He was a consummate professional, and as such he made a point of staying calm, cool, and above all collected. He touched his new gun through the yellow suit jacket. When the time was ripe, he’d see who got the last laugh. In the meantime, he’d continue to coolly and calmly case the joint, and play the difficult against-the-grain role of a harmless geek in a loud suit.
The problem was, Caper’s was a lot busier than he’d expected. There were quite a few people in the restaurant area, plus a bunch of Caper’s employees in tight jeans and tie-died T-shirts, broccoli-green aprons, plus a dozen or so happy customers sprinkled throughout the store snapping up plastic basketfuls of organic this and organic that.
But really, so what? All they were was a bunch of urban housewives and health freaks and retirees and time-lapse hippies. He used his Big Voice and waved the gun around, who was gonna argue with him?
*
Sniffer dogs
Colin McDonald had died with his outflung right hand inches from the crumpled top of a pair of shimmering black silk pyjamas with gold piping. His initials were on the collar, monogrammed in gold-coloured thread. The pyjamas had a private label. They’d been made in Hong Kong specially for Colin.
Oikawa jealously fingered the material. He said, “How much you think they cost?”
Willows shrugged.
Oikawa said, “I’m going to look around a little, see if I can find the murder weapon, maybe talk to the girlfriend.”
Willows looked up. “She isn’t your type.”
“I know that.”
“Yeah, but can you remember that you know that?”
Oikawa walked out of the bedroom, silent on the thick carpet. Willows turned back to the body. Oikawa wasn’t going to find the weapon. If it was in the apartment, they’d have already found it. He reached across the corpse and picked up the yellow foil wrapper from a roll of 35-millimetre film. The police photographer, Mel Dutton, had come and gone. Dutton was getting sloppy in his old age. Willows hoped it wasn’t contagious. He let his eyes move across the body, hoping to find something he’d missed the first dozen times around. The killer had used a sharp-edged weapon. The cuts weren’t deep, but there were a lot of them. The coroner was of the opinion that the wounds to the back of McDonald’s neck had paralyzed him. Fragments of shattered spinal column glowed white against a background of blood that had dried a hard, glossy black.
Some murder victims shrieked a deafening accusation; others were mute. Colin McDonald was the quiet type. Willows hoped the Crime Scene Investigation Unit would have more luck. The wool carpet was promising, because it was a trap for all manner of evidence. If you were going to kill someone, it was much wiser to do it in a bathroom or kitchen, where there was plenty of running water, and an easily washed linoleum floor.
Willows’ knees creaked as he stood up. He followed his new partner’s drab monotone into the dining room.
Chelsea gave Willows a lingering glance and then turned back to Oikawa. She said, “How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t have one?”
Oikawa frowned. Colin McDonald’s girlfriend was a stunningly gorgeous blonde, the sort of woman you might hope to meet in a secret dream or a magazine, the kind of woman who intimidated the hell out of you just by being herself. At five-ten, Chelsea was three full inches taller than he was. Plus she was wearing spike heels that added another four inches to her already formidable height, and she had her hair tied up in a French twist that made her seem even taller. Oikawa concentrated hard on being a cop, and concentrated even harder on not being a slack-ass lecher. He said, “You’re telling me you don’t have a last name?”
“Yeah.”
“Everybody’s got a last name.”
“Oh, really? What about Prince, or Madonna, or Sting?”
“That’s different. They’re artists, performers.”
“So am I. Didn’t I mention that I model, and that I’m a performance artist? Do you know what that means, performance artist?”
Oikawa shrugged.
Chelsea said, “Break it down, it isn’t that hard. Performance and artist. What do you suppose those two words signify, Danny?”
“Dan,” said Oikawa. He added, “I’d prefer you called me Detective Oikawa.”
“Yes, and I’d prefer to be called Chelsea.”
Oikawa didn’t want to argue with her, because her boyfriend’s corpse was lying on the carpet in the next room, and she was obviously distraught, if not exactly broken-hearted. But on the other hand she was potentially a vitally important witness, or even, who could say, the killer.
He said, “How are you listed in the phone book?”
“Under my name, naturally.”
“What name?”
“i’ve only got one name. Chelsea. What’s the matter with you? Weren’t you listening, or are you fucking deaf?”
Oikawa pursed his lips. He said, “Watch your language, please.” He snapped his fingers. “Let me see your driver’s licence.”
“I don’t have one.”
“You don’t have a driver’s licence?”
“Isn’t that what I just said? What’s wrong with you?”
“How do you get around? I don’t see a woman like you riding a bicycle or taking public transport.”
“You mean, like a bus?”
Oikawa nodded.
Chelsea said, “Well, you got that right. I want to go somewhere, there’s always somebody wants to give me a ri
de. Wouldn’t you like to give me a ride?” She waited a telling moment and then added, “If I’m alone, I take a cab.” She shot a quick sideways look at Willows, who was busy rereading the notes he’d taken while he’d interviewed the housekeeper, Mrs. Julia Rubie. She said, “Can I go now?”
Oikawa said, “Not yet. We have some questions we need to ask you. Maybe you could start by telling us why you happened to drop by the apartment.”
“I already told you.”
“Not me, the uniformed officer. We’d like to hear it from you, to make sure we get it right.”
“Okay, fine. I was at home, I got a call from Mrs. Rubie, Colin’s housekeeper. She couldn’t get into the apartment because her key didn’t fit. She was upset, because Colin’s very particular about scheduling and all that, and if he came home and found she hadn’t tidied up, he’d have fired her.”
Oikawa was taking notes. He nodded, and looked up. “Okay, then what?”
“I wasn’t busy, so I said I’d come right over.”
“To help the housekeeper with her key?”
“Mrs. Rubie is a very nice woman. She’s conscientious and hard-working and has a wonderful reputation. Colin pays a little above market value for her services. That’s very important to her.”
Oikawa nodded.
Chelsea said, “The extra money means a lot to her because she’s trying to put three children through university.”
“She isn’t married?”
“Her husband died ten or fifteen years ago. He was a gardener. There was an accident … I don’t know the details.”
Willows drifted over. He said, “How long did it take you to get here, from the time Mrs. Rubie called?”
“About twenty minutes.”
“Was there something wrong with Mrs. Rubie’s key?”
“No, my key didn’t work either. There was tinfoil jammed in the keyhole.”
“Who discovered that?”
“I did. We got the tinfoil out with a pair of tweezers. I unlocked the door and Mrs. Rubie and I went inside together.”
“Who found the body?”
“She did.”
“Mrs. Rubie.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Willows said, “How did she happen to have your phone number?”
“I’d given it to her a few weeks ago. I was interested in having her work for me.”
“As a housekeeper.”
Chelsea coloured. She said, “Yes, of course.”
“Why did you go inside the apartment? Were you worried that something might be wrong?”
“No, of course not. I went inside to use Colin’s phone. I knew he wouldn’t mind. I had to make a call, and my cellphone battery was low.”
“I imagine it must have been quite a shock, seeing him lying there … ”
“It was terrible. It’s so strange, I didn’t really look at him, the first thing I saw was his hand, and all that blood … The way he was lying there, so still, I knew he must be dead. Then Mrs. Rubie screamed … Is she going to be all right?”
“She’s doing fine,” said Oikawa.
Chelsea took a moment to collect herself. She said, “Colin had a lot of enemies. I mean, I never met anybody who liked him. He was a very successful businessman but he had an abrasive personality, and he really enjoyed abusing his power. He was a very odd person, in the sense that he didn’t seem to care what people thought of him. He once said that his own mother thought he was a jerk. He thought it was funny.”
“Did he ever mention any death threats?”
“No, never.”
Willows said, “Can you think why anyone might want to disable his lock?”
Chelsea gave Willows a startled look. She said, “I assumed whoever killed him did it, to give himself more time before the body was discovered.”
Willows nodded. He said, “You could be right. Just between you and me, do you have any idea who the killer might be?”
“No idea whatsoever.”
“Okay, you can go now. We’re probably going to want to talk to you again.” He gave her his card. “If you leave town, give me a call first. Would you like a ride home?”
“In a police car? No thanks.” She gave Willows a quirky, under-the-eyelashes look. “Unless you’re driving.”
Willows said, “There’s a herd of reporters down on the street. TV and radio. I don’t want you to say anything to them until we’ve had time to notify Colin’s family that he’s been killed.”
“Because I might screw up your investigation?”
“No, because you would screw up my investigation.”
Chelsea looked deep into Willows’ eyes. She said, “i’ll bet you can be a real prick, when you’re in the mood.” She smiled and added, “Though that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
Willows didn’t respond. Chelsea turned and walked out of the room. Oikawa watched Willows watching Chelsea. He wondered what it was about Willows that women found attractive. He also wondered what it was about him that women found unattractive. Sometimes he blamed his height, or his Japanese ancestry. But David Suzuki wasn’t exactly the tallest guy in the world, and he never seemed to lack for babes …
*
When the Thai salad hits the fan
Harvey hitched up his canary-yellow pants and pushed through Caper’s glass door. The smell hit him like a sledgehammer. His mouth watered. He made a beeline for the deli bar. Everything was for sale by the gram, whatever that was.
A kid in a green apron leaned over the glass-topped counter and said, “Can I help you with anything?”
“What’ve you got with meat in it?”
“There’s chicken, beef samosas … ”
“What’s a samosa?”
“A small pastry, like a miniature pie.” The clerk pointed out the samosas. Harvey pointed at a bowl of noodles. “What’s that stuff?”
“This?”
“No, over to the left.” Beat. “Your left.”
“That’s the Thai salad. It’s really good.”
“Yeah?”
“Want to try some?” The kid grabbed a small Styrofoam bowl and shoved a few spoonfuls of noodles into it. He handed the bowl and a white plastic spoon to Harvey.
“Go ahead. Tell me what you think.”
Harvey spooned noodles into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully.
The kid said, “You’re an actor, right? I seen you on … uh … ” The Thai noodles were pretty good, for noodles, but Harvey was a big meat-eater, and he was in the mood for meat. Maybe the samosas weren’t as awful as they looked. What he really wanted was a burger. A big, fat, greasy cheeseburger slathered with onions, and a side of fries, and a chocolate shake so thick you could flip the glass upside down and it would take forever to pour out.
The kid snapped his fingers, smiling. “You were in that movie, the one about the armoured-car robbery. You were Walter, the guy drove the getaway car. The guy with the shotgun called you Wally, and you were so pissed you pulled your gun and blew him away. Man, you were great!”
“No, that wasn’t me.”
The kid laughed. “Who you think you’re kidding! I’d recognize you anywhere.”
“Better not,” said Harvey. He put the Styrofoam bowl down on the counter. “Lemme try a beef samosa.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.”
“What’re you tryin’ to pull, you miserable little punk?”
“Excuse me?”
“You give my taste buds a yank and then you fuck me around like I just walked in off the farm … ”
The kid gave Harvey a brisk round of applause. “That’s so great! How can you slip in and out of character like that? Can I have your autograph?”
“Gimme a pen.”
The kid handed him a robin’s-egg-blue Papermate ballpoint with a chrome button and clip. Harvey stuck the pen in the breast pocket of his suit jacket, and strolled away.
He got a bottle of organic orange juice out of a glass-front cooler, and gave the bottle a shake and
unscrewed the cap and drained half the contents. Behind him, there was discontented muttering. In front of him, there was a lineup at the cash register. The two women who’d laughed at him were still at their table. Harvey guzzled some more orange juice, then slowly turned his head until he was looking directly at the two women. The one who was facing him looked quickly down at her empty plate. Harvey discreetly eyed the cash register. The clerk rang up a sale. The cash drawer popped open. It was time to do the crime.
*
Kiss my ass
Jan lit a cigarette. She pursed her lips and blew out the match, making a big deal of it, flirting with him. She averted her head and exhaled a cloud of smoke and turned back to him and said, “What’re you looking at, big boy?”
“Nothing in particular.”
Sandy lay on his back on the sofa. Jan lay sprawled half on top of him. All she wore was her gold Seiko. He was naked except for one white sports sock. The sun beat down on them through the big aluminum-frame living-room window, and they were glued together by sweat. Jan wriggled her butt. She said, “Don’t lie to me — you were looking at my ass.”
Sandy said, “Yeah, I guess I was.”
“You can kiss it if you want to.”
“Maybe later.”
Jan flicked her cigarette at an ashtray made of dark blue glass. She said, “I’m starting to worry about you.”
That got Sandy’s attention. Jan gave him a meaningless smile. He said, “How d’you mean?”
“As if you didn’t know.”
“No, really, I don’t.”
“You got your pager, your cell. Sometimes I call and don’t hear back for hours. Other times you’re right there, first ring, like you were waiting for me to call, ready to pounce.”
“What are you getting at?”
Jan took another long pull on her cigarette. He felt the weight of her body shift as she turned her head away from him, exhaled. “There’s no pattern. Most people, even if it’s shift work, they aren’t available for eight or ten hours a day, because they’re too busy earning a living.”
Sandy said, “Well, what can I say? I’m willing to feel sorry for them, if you think that’ll make me a better person.”
A Cloud of Suspects Page 10
