A Cloud of Suspects

by Laurence Gough

  “Yes, they are. Try not to worry about Sean. When you think about him, think positive thoughts.”

  “Is that what you do?”

  “Always.”

  “Does it help?”

  “It helps me,” said Parker.

  Annie managed a tight little smile. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

  *

  Towing the line

  Bob Goldman had been out of work for eight long months, and he was pissed. When he went out on his balcony to smoke his eleventh cigarette of the morning, and saw the Firebird parked in the loading zone in front of his building, he experienced a tsunami of rage. It was downright scary, how easily people got confused. They put a few hundred down on a hot car, and figured they were pretty hot themselves. There was probably a technical name for it — possession transference or something like that. Bob lit up, and carefully deposited the paper match in the tuna can that now served as an ashtray. He had learned the hard way that possession was a two-way street. You lost your job through no fault of your own but due entirely to an economic slowdown manipulated by those Heartless Big Business Bastards, and then you lost your Camry that you’d religiously made payments on for three long years, you woke up and rolled out of bed and the Camry was gone, repossessed in the dead of night by some prick who lacked the imagination or wits to earn an honest living.

  Bob had been telling the building’s brain-dead manager all summer long that branches from the Japanese plum on the boulevard hid the loading-zone sign from view. He’d bitterly complained that morons parked in the zone at all hours of the day and night. Slammed their doors, swore like troopers, laughed their stupid heads off. Woke Bob and his wife, Edith, in the dead of the night. Was that fair? Well then, why didn’t he get off his fat ass and trim the goddamn tree?

  Bob took another long pull on his cigarette. Behind him, Edith pulled the glass slider open, and angrily banged it shut. Fucking Edith, always on his back. If he could kick the habit, wouldn’t he have done it by now? Okay, so cigarettes cost money. Was that his fault? Last week she’d threatened to cancel the cable, swore on her parakeet’s grave that they couldn’t afford tobacco and TV. Bullshit. She hated seeing him enjoy himself, was all. Every minute he spent in front of the TV watching football or hockey hurt her like a hot needle stuck up her nose. He flicked ash at the tin can. He could feel her eyes crawling all over him, knew that if he spun around real quick, he’d catch her shooting him the evil eye.

  Edith worked the four-to-twelve shift at a Texaco halfway across town. She took the bus. Never left the apartment a minute sooner or later than three-fifteen. Every day, Bob found it a little harder to wait for her departure time to arrive. Her two days off a week were pure hell. She’d been angling to get him a part-time job at the station, but so far, her boss had resisted all her efforts. Thank any deity you cared to name.

  Bob tried to remember if the Firebird had been parked in the loading zone when he’d stepped outside for his tenth cigarette. His mind was a blank. Ninth? Eighth? His brain trampled a field of butts. Fucking car could have been there since breakfast, for all he knew. Man, he was slipping. Losing his edge. Stuff was getting past him that he’d have fielded with his eyes shut, not so long ago. He flicked ash at the tin can, and decided he’d finish his smoke and then go inside and drop a dime on the moron. Call Buster’s Towing, brew himself a cup of instant and go back outside and plunk himself down in his front-row seat. Have a few yuks watching that smart-ass Firebird get towed straight to hell.

  *

  Food for thought

  Oikawa and Willows spent most of the morning chasing phantom witnesses. At eleven, they drove back to 312 Main to bring Homer Bradley up to speed.

  Bradley had a piece of news of his own. He said, “The Crime Scene Unit vacuumed quite a few dog hairs out of Colin McDonald’s rug. Anybody at the scene mention a dog?”

  Willows and Oikawa exchanged a glance. Willows said, “Not to me.”

  “Me, either,” said Oikawa. “Nobody in the building said anything about a dog to either one of us.”

  “Are dogs allowed in the building?”

  “Small dogs,” said Willows. “But McDonald wasn’t a pet-lover.”

  Bradley shrugged. “Well, keep on it.”

  Afterwards, Oikawa fast-talked Willows into eating at Susie’s Won-Ton Surprise, a hole-in-the wall joint tucked into a dent on the east side of Chinatown. Willows had followed Oikawa through a narrow doorway hung with a glass bead curtain. Susie’s was a single room about twenty feet long and six feet wide. Five small tables for two were close-set against each of the long walls. The cash register was at the back. Another glass bead curtain separated the dining area from the kitchen. There were no windows and the light level was nightclub-low. Music came from speakers mounted high on the walls. A Chinese woman in a tight black dress led Oikawa and Willows to a table, and handed them menus.

  Oikawa said, “Want a beer?”

  Willows shrugged.

  “Tsing Tao,” said the woman.

  Oikawa nodded. He said, “Nice and cold, eh?”

  The woman nodded tersely, and turned and strode briskly towards the kitchen. Willows glanced casually around the restaurant. The only other customers were two rail-thin Chinese men in their early twenties. Both men wore loose-fitting matte-black suits, white dress shirts, no ties, and identical pairs of black dress shoes, and both had shoulder-length hair shot through with streaks of white. The man facing Willows sensed that he was being watched. He glanced up, met Willows’ eye, and continued to solemnly shovel noodles into his mouth. Still staring at Willows, he chewed noisily, allowing his mouth to hang open.

  Oikawa said, “Red Triangle. They own the place.”

  “No kidding.” Willows was interested. The Red Triangle was the largest and most violent of the city’s numerous Chinese mobs. Most of their money came from marijuana “grow-ops” in rented houses. The gang had suffered serious losses a few years earlier, during a deadly turf war. Since then, it had kept a low, but profitable, profile.

  Oikawa said, “For a while, they used the joint to launder cash. That stopped about a year ago. I don’t know why the place is still open.”

  “How’s the food?”

  Oikawa shrugged. He said, “I have no idea.”

  A girl of about twelve brought their beers and a bottle opener to the table. She wiped the tops of the bottles with a clean white towel, and then expertly uncapped the beers. Willows briefly considered asking her for a glass, but decided not to bother. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because she was so young she shouldn’t have been working at all. Oikawa drained half his beer. He sighed happily, and leaned back in his chair.

  Willows drank some of his beer. Not much, because he wanted it to last. The beer was ice-cold, and very good. The artwork on the label was a cut above average, too. He took another sip. The glass bottle was slippery with condensation. He was enjoying himself. There was no drinking on duty when he was with Parker. Maybe Oikawa wasn’t so bad after all.

  The ambient light level soared as the restaurant’s door was pushed open. Three more Chinese men, all of them in their early twenties, entered the restaurant. Like the other men, they wore black suits and had long hair shot through with streaks of white. The one in the lead stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Oikawa and Willows. His companions bumped into him, and each other. It should have been funny, but wasn’t. One of the men yelled something at the two men at the table. Then all three newcomers turned and hurriedly left the restaurant.

  Oikawa said, “Kind of hard on business, aren’t we?”

  “Maybe we’re sitting at their favourite table.”

  Oikawa drained his beer. Willows knew that, if he tried to drink his beer that fast, he’d suffer from terminal brain freeze. Oikawa said, “We aren’t going to find out who murdered Colin McDonald, are we?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Oikawa said, “Until I was assigned this case, I wouldn’t have believed it was statistical
ly possible for anyone to be hated by every single person he ever met in his whole life. Jeez, Jack, it’s like he was some kind of deadly virus. Nobody’s going to do the right thing and confess that they murdered him, but everybody in the world happily admits they wanted to do it.”

  The girl who’d served them brought two more bottles of Tsing Tao to the table. She wiped the bottles clean, and uncapped them.

  Oikawa said, “Try to be a little quicker next time. Pay attention, ’kay? It’s not like you’re swamped with customers.”

  The girl picked up Oikawa’s empty. She saw that Willows hadn’t finished his beer, gave him a mildly disapproving look, and turned and walked slowly back to the kitchen.

  Willows said, “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  Oikawa tapped his forehead. He glumly said, “Whoever killed McDonald’s going to get away with it. I can feel it in my bones.” Willows tried to think of a snappy rejoinder. His brain failed him. Oikawa stared glumly down at the restaurant’s linoleum floor. His eyes were red from lack of sleep, and his skin had an unhealthy yellowish tinge. Willows, uncharacteristically, wondered how he looked. The way he felt, tired and hungry and borderline cranky, he probably didn’t look a whole hell of a lot better than Oikawa, and might even look a hell of a lot worse.

  Oikawa said, “What’re you thinking, Jack?”

  “That I’m starting to get old.” Willows smiled. “I remember when I first got my gold badge, I could work right around the clock, no problem. Now, the only thing I do in a hurry is get tired.”

  Oikawa mimed playing the world’s smallest violin.

  Willows said, “I’m not asking for sympathy, just stating a fact. We’ve interviewed so many suspects, I can’t keep track of their names. That retired guy, had the butcher shop, Walter … ” Willows mimed snapping his fingers.

  “Krawnkite,” said Oikawa. “Walter Krawnkite. Like the famous TV personality, but spelled wrong. How could you forget a name like that?”

  “It keeps getting easier.”

  Oikawa said, “You saw the look on Walt’s face when he talked about McDonald. He hated the guy. When he told us he wished he’d had a chance to kill him, eviscerate him, he meant every word.”

  Willows took another sip of his beer.

  Oikawa finished his second bottle. He glanced vaguely around. “By the way, how’s Sean coming along?”

  “Good, as far as I know.”

  “What’s that mean? When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Months ago. Early June.” Willows looked over at the two men. Neither was paying any attention to him. He said, “Sean’s keeping his distance. He wants to make it on his own. Who am I to argue?”

  “Nobody,” said Oikawa.

  “You got that right.”

  Oikawa said, “I was scared witless, every single minute I worked undercover. Always watching your ass, piling one lie on top of another, trying to keep track of it all. Man, I hated it.” Oikawa suddenly rapped his knuckles on the table, startling Willows. The two gangsters glanced up uninterestedly, then went back to their meal. A few moments later the young girl hurried towards them with two more bottles of beer. She cleaned and carefully uncapped each bottle, and walked away without a word.

  Oikawa drank some beer. Not much, just a little.

  Willows’ son, Sean, had surprised everyone who knew him by deciding to join the VPD. Like his father before him, he had accepted an undercover assignment as soon as he’d graduated from the Academy. Willows was proud of his son. That didn’t stop him from worrying.

  Most rookies did some undercover work. If they were good at it, their talents were fully exploited. Oikawa’s assignment had lasted two months, and then he’d gone back to patrol division. Willows had worked undercover for eighteen long months. His ambition had been to bust Jake Cappalletti, the city’s notorious drugs and prostitution kingpin. He hadn’t succeeded, but his evidence had put a serious dent in Jake’s chain-of-command, and cost him millions in seized cocaine and heroin shipments.

  Willows remembered the undercover work as life on the edge, his glory days. The risk had multiplied as he’d insinuated his way more and more deeply into Jake’s distribution system. It was one thing to bust street-level dealers; another thing entirely to gather evidence on the wholesalers, guys who moved large quantities of drugs and even larger amounts of cash. Heavyweight guys who had to cut a deal with the prosecutor’s office, or resign themselves to spending the far side of forever in a maximum-security institution. Willows had worked on that level, salting away evidence that would have got him killed, if anybody had even suspected he was a cop. Knowing that his first mistake could be his last had exhilarated him. He’d never felt so full of the sweet juices of life.

  Willows believed his early experience as an undercover cop explained his enduring love for the job, and all those countless hours and days and months he’d spent on the street when he should have been with his growing family. Maybe it even explained why his first wife, Sheila, finally packed her bags and walked out on him.

  Explained, yes. Excused, no.

  Oikawa finished his third beer. Willows was halfway through his second. He felt bloated, and sleepy. Oikawa pointed at Willows’ untouched bottle. “You going to drink that?”

  “No, i’ve had enough.”

  Oikawa stood up. “Might as well get moving, eh?”

  “What about the food?”

  “You order anything?”

  “No, but … ”

  “You don’t want to eat here,” said Oikawa. “I mean, think about it. We’re cops, Jack. Who knows what kind of crap they’d put in our food. Rat poison, probably.”

  Willows reached for his wallet.

  Oikawa was a notorious tightwad. He surprised Willows when he said, “Your money’s no good here, Jack.”

  “Well, thanks.”

  Oikawa took out his own wallet, and shuffled through a thin wad of bills.

  Willows said, “Why don’t you let me take care of the tip.”

  “No way.”

  Willows put his wallet back in his pocket. He turned towards the door, as Oikawa plucked bills from his wallet.

  The girl who’d served the beer watched Oikawa from behind the cash register. Her dark eyes were unreadable. She ducked her head when he blew her a sardonic kiss. One of the Red Triangle gangsters said something in a sharp voice. Oikawa had no idea what he’d said but recognized an uncomplimentary tone when he heard it. He turned towards the men and cupped his balls, and sneered.

  Willows loitered by the open door. Oikawa walked slowly towards him, as if he were reluctant to leave. He staggered and spread his arms wide for balance. Willows realized that his partner was drunk.

  The gangsters shouted something at him, or Oikawa. Both men were on their feet, faces twisted in anger. Willows wondered if they were armed. He let the door swing shut and took a few steps towards them. “What’s the problem.”

  “You no pay! Crooked cops!”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “You friend never pay! Now you don’t pay! Crooked cops!” Willows detoured towards their table. He saw the bills. A fistful of money. The two men drifted towards him. Where was Oikawa? The cash was bogus — blue and red Canadian Tire “money” in five-and ten-cent denominations. Fifty cents’ worth, at most. Willows picked up a menu. The Tsing Tao was three ninety-five a bottle. He dropped a ten and a twenty on the table, and walked out.

  *

  Star baby

  Sandy showed up at two o’clock, just like he’d promised he would. He was the most punctual person Jan had ever known. She and Tyler were waiting for him, Tyler bouncing up and down with excitement, because Sandy had promised he could sit behind the wheel, turn the key and start the truck.

  As they walked across the street, Jan said, “I’m not sure we should be doing this.”

  Sandy said, “Have you ever started a truck before, Tyler?”

  “Nope.”

  “It’s easy. You’re going to do just fi
ne.”

  Sandy opened the passenger-side door for Jan, and then he and Tyler walked around to the driver’s-side door. Sandy opened the door and Tyler climbed up behind the wheel. Sandy handed him the keys.

  Jan said, “Shouldn’t he be sitting on your lap? What if … ”

  “Which key is it?” Said Tyler.

  “That one.”

  Tyler slid the key into the ignition. He tried to turn the key the wrong way, but figured out his mistake before Sandy or Jan could say anything. The starter motor coughed and then the engine caught. There was a shrill whine.

  In a calm voice Sandy said, “You can let go of the key now.” Tyler let go of the key. The whining stopped. He said, “How do I make it go fast?”

  “Put it in gear.”

  “Move this thing?”

  “Yeah, but there’s a safety feature that stops you from changing gears without pressing your foot down on the brake pedal.”

  “Which is the brake pedal?”

  “That one.”

  Tyler stretched his legs as far as he could. He said, “I can’t reach.” Sandy laughed. He tousled Tyler’s hair and said, “That’s probably a good thing, because I wouldn’t want you to drive off and leave me standing here in a cloud of dust.”

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Not on purpose, maybe. Shove over.”

  “You said I could honk the horn.”

  “That’s for later,” said Sandy. “After we stop for ice cream.” Tyler moved over. Jan fastened his seatbelt. Sandy got into the truck and put it in gear and off they went.

  Sandy’s cautious driving was starting to get to her. He was definitely and absolutely the most careful driver Jan had ever known. He never drove a single kilometre over the speed limit, and didn’t seem to get the least bit irritated when other drivers cut him off or yelled at him or gave him the finger. A ride with Sandy was like a private driving lesson. He anticipated the traffic lights, signalled well in advance of a turn, and never seemed to get caught by surprise when another driver did something stupid or just plain suicidal. Which happened a lot, in Vancouver. He knew about all sorts of traffic laws Jan had never even heard of, like that the city’s speed limit in lanes and alleys was 20 kilometres an hour. Jeez, garbage trucks went faster than that. But not Sandy. It was kind of weird, given the overall careless go-to-hell personality he cultivated.