Extensions

by Myrna Dey

  Traffic was smooth; I reached the Burnaby detachment in no time. I entered PIN IT and came up with:

  GREG MCGIMPSEY

  3811 WALL STREET

  VANCOUVER

  The name didn’t sound like a Kosovar. But if it turned out to be the Porsche in question, the kid next door had a keen eye, however bloodshot. Wall Street was down by the water, close to the Cannery Restaurant where Ray and I liked to go whenever he won a case.

  Ray who?

  Tomorrow I would pay Mr. McGimpsey a visit.

  The next morning, Tessa was working on the sexual assault case, Sukhi was following up on a stabbing at a club the night before, and Wayne was on his way to receive an award for work he had done on a homicide of a teenage boy two years ago. It was Dex and me again. Follow-up calls could sometimes be made alone, but only if the potential for violence had been ruled out; in the lower mainland that could be narrowed to checking back to see if a stolen fishing rod had been returned. I filled him in on what I’d seen the day before.

  A refreshing break from yesterday’s rain, the sun sparkled on Burrard inlet between wharves and warehouses. Dex drove and I stopped scanning numbers at the sight of a white Porsche parked in a short driveway next to a two-storey house where renovations had started and stopped. The open verandah was painted ivory along with the trim on the downstairs windows, but the upstairs window frames were weath-erbeaten brown against flaking blue siding. Wind chimes made from metal peace signs tinkled on the verandah as I pressed the buzzer. It took two rings before a young man, probably in his late twenties and dressed in sweatpants and a tight T-shirt, opened the door. We gave our names, showed our badges and asked if we could come in. Baffled, he gestured us into the living room. I got straight to the point.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions about the Kubik family, whose baby was murdered recently.”

  His eyes widened and the skin on his forehead stretched into his scalp like a mask being tugged from the back. “Yeah, I heard about that. Terrible thing.”

  “Do you know Jan or Selena Kubik?”

  He took a deep breath. “Yeah, both of them.”

  I needed a deep breath. “How?”

  “Selena and I worked together for a while in a theatre group.” Our silence begged for more. “Community thing, non-profit. She was in charge of costumes. Had a real talent for it. Got the right look for every character. Hit all the vintage shops and flea markets. Never went over budget. Met Jan through her.” What else did we want?

  “Your capacity?” asked Dex, once again adopting the lingo of the interviewee. Or what he thought their lingo was — maybe he should join a theatre group to practise.

  “Bit of everything. But I’ll take dramaturge.”

  Greg McGimpsey was a good-looking guy in a bohemian way, and the opposite of Selena — the real Bohemian — in grooming. Uncombed hair not as dark as I’d thought through the blurry window, but an unshaven, swarthy look with features that suggested a poet who rides a motorcycle. Defined lips, hazel eyes that rolled expressively when he spoke, a fit, muscular body that might have been covered in tattoos, though none were visible. He was shorter than I was, and I had never got past my own defensiveness when dealing with men this size. I foolishly assumed they were resentful about their height, and therefore tried to minimize my own. If this was ego to believe he wished to be my size, my hunched shoulders felt more like a sign of submissiveness.

  “When was this?”

  “Oh, a year ago maybe. She quit when she got pregnant. And we’ve only done one show since. Arts, you know. Funding cuts.”

  “So you have a day job?”

  “More acting whenever I can. TV, movies, commercials. Residuals go a long way. Temp jobs when all else fails.”

  Crane Reese’s face came into my head and I imagined the two of them joking together at the buffet table on a movie set. “When did you last see Selena?”

  He looked down, as if he were counting the months. “Hard to say. She came to our production last fall. And I ran into her once downtown. On the street, or was it a mall?”

  “Was she alone at the play?”

  “Yeah. Left the baby with her husband.”

  “Did you offer your condolences when you heard about the murder?” asked Dex.

  “Yeah, I called as soon as I heard it on the news. Selena wasn’t answering. Spoke to Jan, told him how sorry I was. What’s this all about, anyway?”

  “A white Porsche was seen leaving the street outside the Kubik house on the morning the baby was killed.” I nodded toward the car in his driveway.

  “You’ve got a big job if you’re checking every white Porsche in the city.”

  “Your Porsche was seen yesterday at the Van Dusen Gardens.”

  “Last I heard, there was no law against that.”

  “Is it a coincidence that the Kubiks were inside commemorating the loss of their child?” asked Dex.

  “Must be.”

  “You often take walks through Van Dusen in the rain?”

  “My girlfriend — fiancée, actually — is into plants.” He began pacing around the room dramatically, his face inflamed with a mixture of emotions I couldn’t separate: anger, embarrassment, indignation. Guilt? I could picture him onstage captivating an audience with his dark, explosive energy and wondered how much of this was an act. “Ever heard of a season’s pass? I was buying her one for her birthday.”

  “I see.”

  And I did. What was so incriminating about a car being next to another if it wasn’t what we were looking for? But something didn’t sit right. I surveyed the shabby-chic room: ochre-coloured walls, original unfinished wooden floors topped with two threadbare Persian rugs to mark the living and dining areas. A sagging, worn grey velvet sofa and chair trimmed with carved wood stood in front of a painted red brick fireplace minus a heat source. A bamboo papasan completed the seating arrangement and behind it lay a pile of floor cushions — presumably in case of a cast party.

  At first glance, the room could not have been more dissimilar from the expensive, ultramodern interior of the Kubik home. Or was it? I’d learned from Sara and Retha about authenticity, and these drastically different styles were both authentic: nothing imitation, pretending to be other than it was, like fake wood or brick panelling, framed prints from furniture stores. And then I spotted a link. Among the theatre posters and masks dominating the walls hung an original painting by Keith Holmes, a framed restaurant scene similar to the one in Selena’s living room.

  “You and Selena have the same taste, I see.”

  His eyes flashed. “There’s a gallery close to the theatre. Cast and crew often stop in there to check out exhibitions.”

  “Pricy purchases for struggling actors.”

  “We’re an amateur group. Pharmacists, teachers, mechanics, undertakers, movie ushers, homeless people. We all went to that show together, and a few of us ended up with a Holmes painting. Do I have to explain what I use my money for? I happen to like real art and vintage cars. Which I got for a song from a cousin who was moving to Europe, by the way. Anything else you want to know?”

  “Did Selena Kubik smoke when you knew her?”

  “Heavily. Selena is an intense woman.” Just then his cellphone rang. He answered in a controlled voice. “Not a good time, hon. Call you back.”

  “Your fiancée?”

  When he nodded with a sigh, I realized my interrogation was slipping out of bounds. I felt awkwardly tall again, stooping to snooping.

  “Are you finished with me?”

  “Almost.” Dex took over. “What were you doing at 7:30 AM on January 2?”

  He sighed again and answered. “Sleeping. We had a festive New Year’s. Celebrating our engagement.”

  “Any witnesses? Were you alone?”

  “Yes. Tracy left early for work. She’s a physiotherapist.”

  “One more thing.” I made my way to the door. “Do you have any connection with Kosovo?”

  “Is that a store or a
dog?”

  “Thank you, Mr. McGimpsey. We’ll be in touch.” We stepped out on the verandah and he pulled the door behind me with another sigh. Wind chimes serenaded us to the car.

  “DOES HE SEEM LIKE A KILLER?” Wayne asked when we gave the others an account of the visit with Greg McGimpsey the following morning. We were all standing at our desks drinking coffee.

  “How many do?” asked Sukhi.

  “Not really,” I said at the same time. Police questioning puts people on the defensive, guilty or not, and we had to allow for that.

  “Was there more than he was telling you?” asked Wayne.

  Dex and I both shrugged. “I can’t get past all the coincidences: white Porsche being spotted twice around Selena Kubik and then he knows her. Yet his answers made sense.”

  “We can check his alibi with his fiancée, for what that’s worth. We know what she’ll say. In the meantime, there’s not much we can do with him.” Wayne reached for a book on a ledge.

  “How about Selena?” suggested Tessa. “Asking her about Greg Mc-Gimpsey?”

  “Just what I was thinking,” I said. “Also talking to her sister at the furniture store. And Jan’s brother. Maybe a clue to possible enemies. Are you in?”

  “Sister and brother, sure. Selena, no. She’s threatened by numbers and you now have the inside track. Whenever you’re ready.”

  Just then my phone rang. “Constable Dryvynsydes?” A frantic woman’s voice. “It’s Wanda Dean, Terry’s mother. You was at our place six months ago when he was threatening me with a knife.”

  Wanda and Terry. The house where I had my epiphany about victimhood. “Yes, Wanda, what can I do for you?”

  “It’s Terry again. He stab hisself.”

  “Did you call 911? Is he conscious?’

  “He’s awake but he’s talking nonsense. You know him. You got through to him.”

  “Where’s the wound?”

  “In his shoulder.”

  “I’ll call the ambulance and will meet you both at Burnaby General right away.” As I was going out the door, ringing phones took the rest of my team down to their desks like volunteers at a telethon.

  Terry Dean. Last fall while I was convalescing, Sukhi phoned to say they’d been called in to the same weird household with Terry going wild smashing things through the screams of his mother and two neighbours. Sukhi had to take him in because they couldn’t get him to stop. He’d be fourteen now, I reckoned, pulling into the same space I had used a week ago for Anton Kubik’s final hours. Life was a beeyotch.

  I found Wanda Dean in Emergency howling behind a gurney. Six months had left their mark on her. Puffiness still enclosed her eyes but had deflated into creases on her cheeks. Signs of youth had become harder to find. Her wailing increased upon seeing me.

  “He can’t die!” she cried, pounding on my chest which was level with her chin. I took her two hands in mine and led her to a bench outside the door where Terry was taken. “My son, my son, my son,” she chanted until her sobs quit, leaving only boozy breath in the air.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “Terry, he come home this morning about eight after being out all night. I knew he been into drugs soon as he walked in. His sisters were getting ready for school and he scared them with his language and threats and all. They’re good girls.”

  I remembered Terry’s whimper: She loves them to death. She wants to see me in jail. “What did you say to him?”

  “I told him maybe he should lie down and rest hisself. I would fix him some breakfast, get some eggs into him. You’re probably hungry, son, I said to him, trying to calm him down.” Wanda used an overly sweet tone to quote herself, her small dark eyes sincere. She could probably have passed a polygraph test because she believed her own story. She heard herself talking gently instead of in the hysterical, accusatory voice she always used with Terry.

  “What did he do?”

  “He went crazy, like. Least the girls were gone to school by then. He went running through the house with a knife, saying he was going to kill hisself.”

  From homicidal to suicidal since our last visit. “Did he say why?”

  “Some rubbish about our family. Like he living in a sewer and walking around covered with slime.” She shook her head in disbelief, then looked at me pleadingly. “I’ve been a loving mother, Officer, only Terry keeps going wrong. He don’t appreciate what I’m trying to do for him.”

  “Did you ever contact the counsellor on the card I gave you?”

  “Not as yet.” She lowered her face, sheepish about this. “I meant to, but then I was sick, and Terry wouldn’t listen anyways.” Wanda grabbed my hands again and cried, “Please, please don’t let my only son die. I couldn’t live without him.”

  A gowned doctor pushed through the doors. “Mrs. Dean?”

  “My baby boy, is he going to be all right, Doctor?”

  Assessing her condition, he told us both, “He’s resting now. And he’s going to pull through. The knife missed his heart, but he severed a ligament in his shoulder. Maybe if you go home and have some coffee and come back later in the afternoon, he’ll be awake.”

  Wanda understood doctor-speak for “Sober up.” She had heard it before. “Can the officer go in?”

  He nodded hesitantly, not wanting to be too obvious in his favouritism. “Just for a minute. He needs his rest.”

  I walked in quietly and saw an angelic face asleep on the pillow. The nurses had missed a tear-stained smudge on the same spot of his cheek as when I negotiated with him in his messy bedroom. His unwashed hair had been pushed off his forehead, smoothed now of its angry scowl. A dreamy expression on his mouth claimed he was oblivious to the thick bandage around his shoulder. And to his dismal world. Terry was surely a candidate for foster care despite the ruckus Wanda would put up about wanting to keep her son — if only he would change. And his forlornness would go with him to whatever bedroom he found himself. He could be made to pick up his socks, but the disorder would still be inside. I left the room, letting the image of him there overrule thoughts of his future prospects.

  “He’s asleep,” I said to Wanda, who had nodded off herself in my short absence. “I’ll take you home.”

  “Thank you, Officer.”

  Hangover and exhaustion reduced her to silence in the car. I gave her a phone number in front of her house. “Call the hospital in a few hours. You need a rest yourself. Do you have a way of getting back there?”

  “My neighbour has a car.”

  I knew it would be Freddy’s mother, since Wanda probably didn’t have many friends. “Take it easy on Terry. He needs understanding.”

  She was too tired to protest about all she did for him, almost losing her footing getting out of the car. How soon would she pour her next drink — or would it be straight out of a bottle?

  Heading back to the detachment, I decided I should not be so judgmental about Wanda’s lack of friends. My social calendar was filled with my father, my aunt, regulated sessions with Warren, and the Kubiks. Who was I to talk? Maybe I’d suggest a drink with Tessa after work. Even Megan came to mind, which would mean Lonnie as well. Being a tight twosome was fine, provided you didn’t split up, as Ray and I had. Friends fall away and are established in new orbits when you’re single again. I had school friends all over the city, but after Mom died, everything seemed too much of an effort. And having Gail as a best friend, no matter where she lived, had made me lazy because she was usually as far as I needed to reach.

  Tessa was the only one in the office when I got back. We decided it was a good time to visit Selena’s sister Vlasta O’Brien at the Sofa Shop on United Boulevard. She had the same gypsy colouring as her sister, but she was taller and had a lushness about her that stood in marked contrast to Selena’s angular bone structure. Large, half-lidded eyes gave the impression she would not be hurried or distracted. Only a guess, but I saw the bricklayer father in Vlasta and an unfulfilled mother in Selena.

  “What can I do for you
?” she asked warily at the sight of Tessa’s badge. Being in sales, her intonation was more Canadian than Selena’s.

  “Routine questions,” Tessa assured her. “We’d like to know if you have any ideas about a possible motive in the Kubik case. Maybe something your sister has blocked out or doesn’t think is relevant. She’s understandably traumatized.”

  “Selena and Jan had no enemies.” Vlasta gestured us to one of the hundred sofas in her domain, a lime green brocade. From the flair with which she crossed her legs and flung her silk scarf over her shoulder, I got a picture of two young elegant Bohemian sisters in smoky basement bistros having their pick of political poets.

  “Do you see much of your sister?”

  “Not as much as I’d like. Or as we once did. When I was married, we did things together as couples, but when that split up I found myself with single friends. Both Jan and Selena made the effort to include me, but I felt like a spare tire — ?” She faltered.

  “Fifth wheel?” Tessa filled in.

  “Yes, that is the term.” She laughed too long, but I’m sure this interview was making her uneasy.

  “Did you know any of Selena’s theatre friends?” I asked.

  “A few. She was happy in that world. She did not like that Jan made her give it up.”

  “But she joined another.”

  “Yes, a smaller group. It wasn’t the same. My sister is a perfectionist in all her projects. She has always needed more stimulation than the organization of a household, which she does quickly and naturally. Bigger challenges bring more satisfaction.”

  “Do you know Greg McGimpsey?” I watched in vain for telltale signs.

  “Greg? Sure. I met him at the shows. They were good friends. But you don’t think…? Nononono,” she trilled, as only a European can.

  “Have they seen each other recently?”

  “I wouldn’t know. My sister is not one to confide in anyone. Even as children, I told her my secrets but she kept hers. In flare-ups I spoke my mind, but she never did. I envied her for not speaking hurtful words she would later regret, because I always did. She would never deliberately offend anyone, she would retreat. I know her longer than anyone and still do not always know what she is thinking, but I do know she is compassionate. She keeps her kindness hidden; it is — what should I say — organic? because she does not give it in exchange for any thanks. When I went through my nasty divorce, she was my rock. She called me every day, not saying much, just letting me know her arms were open.” She bit her lower lip. “And now she has refused all my attempts at comfort in this tragedy, and that hurts me deeply. The last time I saw her was for Christmas dinner at my place with some friends. Jan was overseas. She had Anton with her, such a beautiful, happy child.” She wiped her eye with a knuckle.