A Cloud of Suspects

by Laurence Gough

  The box wasn’t locked. She flipped open the lid. The first thing that caught her eye were the neat bundles of ten-and twenty-dollar bills. Charlene estimated there was about three thousand dollars in cash. The watch was so heavy she thought it might be solid gold. The last item in the metal box was a silver semiautomatic.25-calibre pistol, small enough to fit in the palm of her hand. Charlene put the money and the watch and the pistol back in the metal box and carried the box into the living room.

  What would Anders have done if he’d come home from work and found her body lying on the floor?

  Strip off her jewellery, roll her up in a carpet, watch TV until it got dark, and then sling her over his shoulder and carry her outside, toss her in the trunk of his Olds, drive into Burnaby, find a dumpster.

  She tried and miserably failed to visualize herself slinging Anders across her shoulder.

  If she called the cops …

  They’d question her, take her downtown and ask her a bunch more questions while they ripped the apartment to pieces, found all sorts of stuff they could use to bust Anders, as if he hadn’t already been permanently busted.

  But what could they do to her?

  Nothing, she hoped. Anders was a pimp. He was a drug dealer and he sold guns. From time to time he worked as hired muscle, a bone-buster. And of course he was a thief.

  She was none of those bad things. She was a stripper with a city-wide reputation, and she was, in certain circumstances, a woman who sold herself for money.

  Both professions were equally legal. The only thing she had to worry about was losing her inheritance — the cash and watch, gold coins. She went back into the living room and sat down on the end of the sofa that wasn’t splattered with blood, and lit a cigarette, and worked out her story until she had it straight.

  The last person Anders had done business with was the ex-con with the funny name, like the invisible rabbit in that old black-and-white Jimmy Stewart movie.

  Harold?

  No, that wasn’t it.

  By the time Charlene had finished her second cigarette, she’d figured out where to hide Anders’ fat bankroll, the watch and gun. She’d decided that, for the time being, all those things still belonged to him. To his estate. She would eventually inherit them, but not until things had cooled down.

  It seemed likely that the killer, whoever he was, hadn’t found what he was looking for. Did that mean he’d be back? Charlene had no idea. She warily eyed Anders. Was his cellphone in his pants pocket? She decided she didn’t want to know. Not that bad, anyway.

  She went down into the building’s dimly lit basement and hid the red metal box, and then she went back to the hotel and used a payphone in the cramped lobby to dial 911.

  The phone rang for a long time, and then a woman with a calm voice said, “Police or ambulance or fire.”

  Charlene said, “Police.” Her quarter clanged into the coin return slot. She fished it out, and gripped it tightly in her hand.

  A policeman identified himself, and asked her how he could help. Charlene told him about Anders. He wanted details. She started to tell him what she’d seen, suddenly lost control and burst into tears. She was standing there in the corridor, leaning against the wall, with the telephone in one hand and the quarter in the other, crying her eyes out, when the two uniformed cops showed up. The younger one had his gun out. His buddy reached out and took the phone away from her and said something into it and then hung up. Charlene felt a stillness deep within her, as if she had sunk into the eternal darkness that lay far beneath the surface of the sea.

  *

  One big happy

  Jan was in the shower when she heard the door slam shut and Tyler’s tired but happy voice announce that he was home.

  “Hi, Mommy! I’m baaaack from the jungle! Where are you, Mommy!”

  “In here, Tyler.”

  His footsteps rumbled down the carpeted hall. Her son weighed sixty pounds but sounded like an NFL linebacker.

  He stopped at the bathroom door.

  “Are you going to the bathroom?”

  “I’m in the shower, honey.”

  “Is anybody in there with you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “Okay, Tyler. I’ll be out as quick as I can.”

  “I have to go really, really bad.”

  Jan rinsed the last of the shampoo from her hair. She turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her body.

  “Okay, you can come in now.”

  Tyler pushed the door open and hurried past her to the toilet. His green corduroy shorts had an elasticized waistband. He pulled his pants down and peed noisily.

  Jan said, “I’m going to go and put some clothes on.”

  “I forgot to lift the seat.”

  “That’s okay, i’ll clean it up in a minute.”

  “The toilets in the woods have seats that are nailed down. You couldn’t lift them even if you remembered to. It’s so the bears can’t fall down the holes.”

  “Wow, what a good idea.”

  “We heard a bear last night. It crashed around and made a whole lot of noise, but I wasn’t scared.”

  “That’s my boy.”

  “A kid named Jerry was so scared he pooped in his sleeping bag. He had to throw it away, because it was so disgusting and stinky.”

  Jan said, “Sounds like you had a wonderful time.”

  “It does?”

  Tyler had dropped his backpack in the hall. Jan stepped over it on the way to her bedroom. She dressed in white shorts and a pink tank top, and towel-dried her hair. On her way to the bathroom she yelled at Tyler to turn the TV down. He yelled back that he wasn’t watching it, so why should he? Jan cleaned the toilet and followed the roar of the television into the living room.

  Harvey was sprawled out on the couch, working on a beer. He was one of those guys who had minimal body hair but such a heavy beard that, if he wanted to look clean-shaven, he had to use his razor at least twice a day. Jan would have bet a six-pack that he’d shaved in the past half hour. His charcoal pants and pale blue short-sleeved shirt looked as if they’d just come off the rack. She could smell his drugstore cologne from the far side of the room. She went over to the TV and turned it off.

  Harvey gave her a big smile. He spread his arms wide. Did he expect her to give him a hug? She hoped so, because rejection was good for the soul — if you had one. He said, “Do I look great, or what?”

  “Didn’t they teach you any manners in prison? Get your shoes off my sofa.”

  Harvey sat up. He swung his legs around, making a big deal of it, like he was doing her a huge favour.

  Jan said, “How did you get in?”

  “The door was open.”

  “You mean, unlocked.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “You have no right to walk in here, make yourself at home.”

  Harvey raised his eyebrows and dropped his jaw, miming shock and surprise. He said, “I don’t?”

  “This isn’t our apartment, Harve. It’s my apartment. As far as I’m concerned, you’re just some guy who walked in off the street. Now get out, or i’ll call the police.”

  Harvey pulled a small black object out of his pants pocket. The Sony’s remote. He turned the TV on. Jan strode across the room. Pulled the plug.

  Harvey said, “Nice shorts.”

  “Fuck off!”

  Tyler said, “You swore!” He stood in the doorway. Twigs in his hair and mud on his shoes. Her little mountain man. Jan said, “Go to your room, honey.”

  Tyler pointed at Harvey. He said, “Who are you?”

  Harvey said, “Hi, son. Don’t you recognize your old man?”

  Tyler shook his head. “I don’t know you.”

  “Yeah, you do so. I’m your dad.”

  Jan said, “Harvey … ”

  “Yeah, what?”

  Tyler said, “My dad was killed in a train
wreck.”

  Harvey stopped laughing when he saw the look on Jan’s face. He drank some beer, picked thoughtfully at the label on the bottle.

  Tyler said, “He was a hero. He was really strong and he saved a whole bunch of people’s lives, and they’ll never forget him.”

  “You must be proud of him.”

  “I am. Sometimes I pray for him when I go to bed at night.” Harvey nodded. He slid a quick look at Jan. What he saw in her face imbued him with strength, and purpose.

  He stood up and drained his beer. “I have to go now, but i’ll be back. What time do you go to bed, Tyler?”

  “At eight o’clock, or else.”

  Harvey waggled his fingers at Jan. “See you then, sweetie.”

  “Don’t kid yourself.”

  Tyler waited until Harvey had left the apartment and shut the door behind him, then said, “Who was that, Mom?”

  “Nobody,” said Jan, and bitterly wished it was true.

  Chapter 13

  Sail away

  Jennifer Orchid lived in a beige stucco fourplex on Point Grey Road, just off Balsam. Locally, especially among realtors, Point Grey Road was known as “The Golden Mile” because it was the only residential waterfront real estate on the city’s West Side. The people who lived here had clout — at their request and for no other apparent reason, the city had reduced the speed limit on the street from fifty to thirty kilometres per hour. Jennifer Orchid’s fourplex was located at the eastern end of a long, curving block that butted up against Kitsilano Park. Curbside parking was reserved for residents. Willows parked in front of the building. He flipped down his sun visor so the cardboard “Police Vehicle” sign was visible to even the dimmest-sighted tow-truck driver.

  Oikawa unbuckled his seatbelt. “Nice neighbourhood.”

  Willows nodded. Jennifer’s block dipped down from the rest of the long stretch that was Point Grey Road. Consequently, it was the only piece of waterfront that didn’t back onto a main thoroughfare, and was priced accordingly. To his left, across the tree-dappled street, there was a mix of unsightly modern structures and elegant shingled and turreted homes that dated from the turn of the century. Most of the older homes were large enough to qualify as mansions, and had long ago been split into strata-title condominiums. Willows had no idea what the individual apartments were worth, but he guessed they started at a couple of hundred thousand for a ground-level suite and shot rapidly upwards to half a million or more. A lot of money, for what boiled down to a small part of a large house.

  It was another world on the other side of the street. Jennifer Orchid’s building was the only structure that wasn’t a single-family home. A small sailing club with a modest one-storey clubhouse had been built on the rapidly narrowing wedge of land that lay between the fourplex and the ocean. The ground rose up so swiftly that Jennifer and the other occupants had an unobstructed view of the water, despite the clubhouse. They had all the advantages of waterfront without the onerous taxes that went with it.

  The building had four two-storey units. Each apartment had an identical varnished wooden door set in an enclosed porch beneath a gently curved archway. The effect was charming rather than regimented. A wild profusion of flowers grew in the small window-boxes beneath the mullioned windows. Jennifer’s address was the second door from the right. There was just enough room on the porch for Oikawa to crowd in beside Willows.

  Willows pressed the doorbell with his thumb. Deep inside the apartment, a bell chimed musically.

  Oikawa said, “I know that tune.” He snapped his fingers, exasperated. “It’s the theme from a movie that was on TV a couple weeks ago. What the hell is it, anyway … ”

  He reached past Willows and pressed the doorbell and listened intently. Inside the apartment, the bell chimed a few notes. When Oikawa tried to press the button again, Willows slapped his hand away.

  Oikawa gave him a hard look. “What the hell, Jack.”

  “We’re not playing Name That Tune, Danny.”

  Oikawa rubbed his wrist. “Nobody’s home anyway, so what difference does it make?”

  Willows held his tongue. A dark shape moved behind the doors glass panels. He moved back half a pace, forcing Oikawa to step off the porch.

  Oikawa said, “We leaving?”

  The door swung open as far as the safety chain allowed. Metal rasped on metal. A woman wearing oversized sunglasses peered up at Willows.

  Willows badged her. He said, “Jennifer Orchid?”

  She nodded, and removed the glasses. Willows pegged her at somewhere between twenty-eight and thirty, maybe five-six. She wore her blond hair in a buzz cut so short it looked like fog. She had a small, delicately boned face, a sensuous mouth, and wide-set, luminous green eyes. She gave Willows a nice smile and said, “If it’s about that parking ticket I got a few months back … ”

  Willows introduced himself. “Detective Jack Willows.” He jerked a thumb at Oikawa. “This is Detective Dan Oikawa. We’d like to ask you a few questions about Colin McDonald.”

  Jennifer Orchid unhooked the safety chain and opened the door. Willows got a sniff of her perfume, and wanted more. She said, “Would you mind taking off your shoes? I just had the damn rugs cleaned, and it cost a fortune.”

  Willows and Oikawa stepped inside. The entrance hall was just big enough for the three of them. Willows knelt and unlaced his black brogues. Oikawa kicked out of his tan loafers. Jennifer led them into the living room. The gleaming hardwood floor was maple. The area rugs were close to an inch thick. The rugs had subdued colours, complicated geometric patterns, and hand-tied, knotted fringes. Willows didn’t know much about rugs, but he suspected that the carpets were very old, likely from Persia or Afghanistan, or some obscure Middle Eastern country that no longer existed and that he’d never even heard of. All he knew for sure was that you didn’t find this kind of quality in a discount store …

  Oikawa stared out the open windows at the harbour and beyond, to the soft green bulk of the North Shore mountains. Out in the harbour, the wind was strong and the water was choppy, scooting flecks of foam across the dark blue water. He followed the course charted by a trio of wind-surfers as they raced around a massive deep-sea freighter. He watched the surfers until they had disappeared one after another behind the freighter’s blunt stern, and then he became aware that Jennifer Orchid and Willows were both watching him. He said, “Nice view.”

  “Thank you.” Jennifer indicated a cream-coloured leather sofa. “Sit down, make yourself comfortable.”

  Willows and Oikawa sat at opposite ends of the sofa, like two strangers that had just been introduced and instinctively knew they had nothing in common and had nothing to say to each other. Jennifer sat opposite them, on a matching leather loveseat. She was casually dressed, in faded jeans, white sneakers, and an unbuttoned white shirt that hung loose over a dark green tank top. No makeup, no jewellery. No glam at all, really. Willows didn’t know what he’d expected. Something other than an après-gardening outfit. He supposed that if you were a high-end hooker, it probably wasn’t a good idea to dress appropriately, if you didn’t want to irritate the neighbours.

  Oikawa sneezed.

  Jennifer Orchard said, “Bless you.”

  “Excuse me,” said Oikawa, and sneezed again. Jennifer handed him a box of Kleenex. Oikawa said, “Thank you.”

  Willows said, “How long have you known Colin McDonald?”

  “How do you mean?”

  Willows was silent for a moment, and then said, “We’re aware of the nature of your relationship with Mr. McDonald, Jennifer. We don’t care about that. All we care about is solving his murder.”

  “I wish I could help you, but … ”

  Willows smiled. He said, “You can help us, even though you might not know it. The question is, where do you want to help us.”

  “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

  Willows said, “Do you want to help us here, in the comfort and privacy of your own home, or would you prefer to g
o downtown?”

  The coffee table had been made out of a bearpaw snowshoe covered with a half-inch-thick sheet of glass cut to fit. The coffee table held a stack of glossy fashion magazines, a pink glass heart-shaped ashtray, a sterling-silver lighter as big as Willows’ fist, and a pack of filter-tipped Gitanne cigarettes. Jennifer shook a cigarette from the pack. Oikawa made a move for the lighter, but Willows was too fast for him. Jennifer inhaled deeply, held the smoke for a moment, and exhaled towards the open window. A gust of wind tore the smoke to shreds.

  She said, “i’ve known Colin about six months.” She paused to delicately remove a speck of tobacco from her tongue. “Our relationship was purely professional. Colin could be charming, when he wanted to be. There were times when I enjoyed his company. But the meter was always running.” She took a long pull on her cigarette. “He liked to tell people we were friends, but he was wrong. But then, Colin was wrong about most things, when it came to relationships. He had a knack for it. A talent. Don’t ask me to explain, but you’d be surprised how many guys like him, wildly successful, hard-nosed businessmen, are romantic fools.” She crossed and uncrossed her long legs. “Are you a romantic fool, Jack?”

  Willows smiled. “I hope so.”

  Oikawa sneezed three times in quick succession.

  Jennifer said, “It’s probably the smoke from my cigarette. I’d put it out, but I’m an addict.” She turned back to Willows. “Would you care for a glass of white wine?”

  “No, thanks. Water would be nice.”

  “Dan?”

  Oikawa perked up. He said, “Water’s fine with me, too, thanks.” He sneezed again, and stuffed a wad of saturated Kleenex into his jacket pocket.

  “Be right back.”

  Both detectives discreetly watched Jennifer as she walked past them to the open kitchen. She was a beautiful woman, and her every move was charged with a natural, overpowering sexuality. Willows had never seen anything like it. He glanced around. The apartment was neat, and well-organized, and relentlessly impersonal. There was no art or photographs on the walls, not a stick of superfluous furniture, nothing at all that could be described as revealing. The apartment had a ton of natural charm and warmth, due to its site and architecture, but it had the aura of a dentist’s waiting room. He wondered if Jennifer owned or sublet the apartment. He supposed it could belong to a client. The nature of her business might encourage her to lead a nomadic life. He felt a sudden, sharp surge of alarm. Why he was thinking about her personal life like this? He told himself it was only because of her relationship with Colin McDonald. Willows was a pro, too. He was trying to understand her, so he could more clearly understand the case, and that was all there was to it.