“You talked to Lee’s wife?” Bradley corrected himself, “I mean, his widow?”
Willows nodded. “She couldn’t tell us a thing.”
Bradley picked up the file, flipped it open and read briefly. “He disappeared when?”
“January first,” said Parker. “Didn’t come home from work.”
Bradley studied the top photograph in the open folder that lay on his desk. Lee had a narrow, unlined face. He was fifty-seven years old. Bradley would have guessed his age at about forty-five. He glanced out the window. The snow, if that’s what it was, was much thicker now, big fat raggedy flakes drifting straight down out of the sky. It deadened the sounds of traffic. The office was warm, the only sound a faint hissing from the overhead lights.
Willows said, “It would help if we had someone on the case who spoke Cantonese.”
“Andy Wah’s working traffic. I’ve asked for a reassignment.” Bradley swung his feet off the desk. He flipped open the lid of the carved cedar box and selected a cigar. He used a pair of tiny gold-plated clippers to delicately chop the end off of the cigar and said, “You come up with a cause of death yet?”
“Maybe this time tomorrow. Kirkpatrick’s having a little trouble thawing out the body.”
“But it was murder, you’re sure about that?”
Parker said, “We found an eighteen-inch length of copper wire outside the gardens, on the boulevard. The wire had been tied in a figure-eight pattern. The knots were still intact — it had been cut. There was some blood. O positive. Lee’s type. We checked with his doctor.”
“You did, huh.” Bradley fired up a big wooden kitchen match, waited until the flame had settled and then lit his cigar. He dropped the burning match in a used coffee cup, blew a stream of smoke towards the ceiling, sighed contentedly.
Parker continued. “Now that the ice is beginning to melt, it’s obvious that Lee has massive bruises and lacerations on his wrists and ankles that are consistent with his being tightly bound for an extended period of time.”
“It’s almost certain,” said Willows, “that he was kidnapped. It could be the kidnappers communicated with his family. Even ordered Mrs Lee to tell Tommy Wilcox he’d come back home, was okay. The reason we didn’t get much out of her is because she has a heart condition and had been heavily sedated by the family doctor.”
“Wonderful.”
“Kirkpatrick thinks Lee was dead at least twenty-four hours before his body was dumped in the pond. But so far, there’s no way of knowing how soon he died after he was snatched.”
Bradley studied the texture and density of the ash on the end of his cigar. “You interviewed the people Lee worked with?”
“Some of them.”
“Did he have any business partners?”
“He was the paper’s sole owner. His father started the business in nineteen-thirteen.”
“Father still alive?”
Willows shook his head. “He died five years ago. But according to the staff, Lee was running things long before then.”
“Who inherits?”
“The wife, his son and daughter.”
“Figure any of them might’ve bumped him off?”
Parker said, “I doubt it.”
“Why?”
“The daughter’s thirteen years old. The son’s at Harvard. Now that his father’s dead, he’ll probably have to come home.” Bradley said, “And the grieving widow would probably have a heart attack if she tried to waste him, so the whole damn family’s in the clear.” He tipped ash into the coffee cup. “Did Lee have any pressing gambling debts?”
“Not that we know of.”
“The kid in Boston, he might know something.”
Willows nodded. “He’s flying out for the funeral. We’ll talk to him.”
“Be nice to get this one solved, Jack. You touch base with the Asian Crimes Squad?”
“Claire talked to Sergeant Montecino.”
“And?”
Parker said, “Except for that case about five years ago, the gangs have stayed away from kidnapping. Nobody knows why. Extortion, yes. But body-snatching, no.”
Bradley tipped about a dollar’s worth of cigar ash into his ashtray. There were four men of Chinese descent on the Vancouver police force. None of them had worked undercover. The Chinese community was too tightly-knit, and the work too dangerous. The Asian gangs were hitting the front pages at least once a week. Worried parents were sending their kids across town to West Side schools to stop the gangs from recruiting their children. Bradley had several unsolved gang-related murders on his hands, one of them almost two years old. Community relations, never good, were rapidly deteriorating. Another dead-end case and the chief would be after his ass.
“Know what this cigar cost?”
“No idea,” said Parker.
“Jack?”
“A nickel?”
Bradley snorted, spewing smoke. “Seven dollars. Can you believe it! I first started smoking the things five, maybe six years ago. At the time, you could buy ’em in that cigar store down in Gastown for two bucks apiece, six for ten dollars. I was a staff sergeant, married and supporting a family. In the course of a day, I’d smoke three of the suckers, never even think about it. And I’d enjoy them, because I could afford them. Now the cigars are three times as expensive, but I can still afford them because I got promoted and I make more money.” He waved the cigar in the air, making thin donuts of smoke. “But I’m not enjoying this particular cigar one little bit. Know why?”
“Why?” said Parker.
“Because there’s a killer out there, some wise-ass with a garden hose who thinks he’s real cute. And I’m not going to enjoy anything very much until we nail his ass to the courthouse wall.” Bradley gave them a hard look. “Got it?”
“We’re motivated as hell, Inspector.”
“Good.”
*
“What’d you think of Bradley’s pep talk?” Parker said as she and Willows hurried across the alley behind 312 Main, picked their way through rutted, grease-streaked slush and into the reverberating depths of the police parking lot.
“I’ve heard better.”
Willows had pulled an unmarked Ford Fairlane from the motor pool. The car was parked two floors beneath ground level. They walked side by side down the concrete ramp. A patrol car squealed around the corner behind them. The car swung wide, and the uniformed cop behind the wheel leaned on the horn. Willows grabbed Parker by the elbow and pulled her out of the way. The cop winked at them as the car shot past. It was a game, like it or not, that everybody played.
The Fairlane was parked at the far end of the third level. Willows unlocked Parker’s door and then walked around to the far side of the car, climbed in. Parker fastened her safety belt as Willows turned the key. The engine kicked over and the exhaust vented blue smoke.
Vice busted drug dealers and confiscated their shiny new Porsches, BMWs and Corvettes, but the city in its wisdom auctioned the cars off, instead of letting the department keep the vehicles for its own use. Sometimes Willows contemplated a move to Miami Beach, where it never snowed and hardly ever rained, and homicide dicks wore thousand-dollar silk suits and rode in style.
He put the Ford in gear and started up the concrete incline towards ground level.
“Where we headed, Jack?”
“Starlite Films.” Willows braked at the alley. He checked to make sure there was no oncoming traffic and made a left turn. “With your looks, haven’t you ever thought about being a movie star?”
Parker rolled down her window. A blast of cold wet air rushed through the car.
“Hey, what’re you doing!”
“Getting a breath of fresh air, Jack.”
Starlite Films was located in a squat brick building directly across the street from the Sun Yat-Sen Gardens. There was metered parking on the street, a parking lot next to the building. There were seven spaces but only three of them were occupied. Willows parked the Ford next to a shiny black Jeep Wagon
eer, flipped down the sun visor so the plasticized white and black card reading POLICE VEHICLE was clearly visible. He and Parker got out of the car, locked it, and walked across the lot and into the building. There was no elevator. Stairs led to a receptionist’s desk on the second floor.
The receptionist was in her early twenties, a slim redhead with bright green eyes, maybe just a bit too much makeup. She was wearing a pleated black skirt, white blouse. Her lipstick was dark red, and matched her nail polish. Her nails were very long.
There was a matt-black Olivetti on her desk. Parker had a hard time imagining her risking those nails on the typewriter keys.
Willows introduced himself and Parker, gave her a quick look at his shield.
She said, “I’m Cynthia Woodward. I take it you’re here to enquire about the body that was found in the pond yesterday morning?”
Willows nodded.
“Well, what can I do for you?” The woman spoke to Willows, ignored Parker.
“We think the body was put in the pond late Sunday night, or maybe early Monday morning…”
“Why?”
The question caught Willows by surprise. He hesitated, and then said, “There are indications the body had been on the ice about six to eight hours before it was discovered.”
“We were open Saturday until four o’clock. Four in the afternoon. I was the last one out of the building, I locked up.”
“So, from four o’clock on, there was no one here?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“You don’t employ a night watchman?”
“No, we never have.”
“What about the janitorial service?”
“They do a weekly clean-up. On Sundays. I believe they start at ten in the morning.”
Willows went over to the window and looked out. Even from the second floor, he could see over the wall of the gardens. The pond, or at least most of it, was clearly visible.
“The top two floors. What’s up there?”
“Mr McGuinn and Mr Sandlack have offices directly above us. The fourth floor is used as a storage area.”
“I’d like to talk to them. Would you mind letting them know we’re here, please.”
“Mr McGuinn is in Los Angeles.”
“How long has he been gone?”
“Since Wednesday.”
“And Mr Sandlack?”
Cynthia Woodward picked up a telephone, delicately tapped a button. The diamond on the third finger of her left hand flashed in the light. She said, “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr Sandlack, but there’s a policeman here who’d like to talk to you.” A pause. “About the body that was found in the gardens.” She listened for a moment, nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll send them right up.”
Willows started towards the stairs. The secretary frowned after him.
Parker said, “That’s a lovely perfume you’re wearing. Would you mind telling me what it is?”
“Fabergé.” The woman smiled. “Mr Sandlack’s office is the first door on your left.”
All five foot six inches and one hundred and twenty pounds of Eugene Sandlack was waiting for them in the corridor. He was wearing a gray silk suit, an off-white shirt and a dark gray silk tie, shiny black slip-ons. Sandlack expertly shot his cuff as he offered his hand, flashing a gold Rolex and half a pound of eighteen-karat gold chain. No wonder Cynthia Woodward hadn’t seemed too impressed when Willows showed her his tin. Sandlack’s teeth were very white. His short, curly hair was gelled and glistening, with a sprinkling of silvery-gray at the temples. He had a Palm Springs tan and there were pouches under his dark brown eyes. He shook hands with Willows first, and then Parker.
“What can I do for you, Officers?”
“We’re enquiring about the body that was found in the pond across the street on Monday morning.”
“Kenny Lee, wasn’t it?”
“You knew him?”
“Never met the guy. Heard about it on the radio as I was driving to work. And, of course, when I arrived at the office, I couldn’t help noticing that there were cops all over the place. Lucky thing I heard the report on the news. Otherwise, I’d have figured some bastard was shooting a movie in my backyard, and I already got enough problems with my ulcer.” Sandlack indicated the open door leading to his office. “Come on in, make yourself at home.”
The office was airy and spacious. A computer rested on a large mahogany desk by the window. There were oak filing cabinets ranged along the far wall. A small bar occupied the opposite wall. Sandlack leaned a slim hip on the edge of an oak desk that was big enough to land a small airplane.
“Can I get you a drink? Coffee…”
“Nothing, thanks.”
“I presume you’re here because our building overlooks the gardens.”
“We were hoping you, or one of your employees, might have seen something unusual.”
“Sorry, can’t help you. Cynthia and I talked about it. She probably already told you, the two of us were the only ones here on Saturday, and we were both gone by four. So the place was empty from then until eight o’clock Monday morning — and by then you guys were already on the job.”
“Does Miss Woodward usually work on weekends?”
“Mrs Woodward,” said Sandlack.
Willows nodded. “Right. Does she usually work on weekends?” Sandlack’s tan turned a shade darker. “No, certainly not. I’ve been working on a pilot for a new series, and I had a deadline.”
Willows said, “I understand there’s a janitorial service?”
“Sundays, from about ten. You want their number?”
“Please.”
“Cynthia’ll give it to you, she’s got it on the Rolodex.” Sandlack waggled a manicured finger at Parker. “I been trying to work out where I saw you before. You had a bit part in a Wise Guy episode a few years ago, am I right?”
“Not me,” said Parker, smiling back.
“Something else?” Sandlack frowned. “Help me out, refresh my memory.”
“I used to work traffic. Maybe I handed you a ticket.”
“Jesus, that’s sure as hell a possibility. A silver Rolls, you remember the car?”
“Not really.”
“So you’ve never done any acting, huh. Interested?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Tom Cruise, the name ring a bell?” Sandlack’s Rolex had slipped sideways on his wrist, but in his excitement he didn’t notice. “Tom’s ninety percent signed to do a flick called Ultimatum. Ten million budget. He plays an oceanographer. But Tom’s also, and the twist is that the greedy bastards who pay his salary don’t know this, a very committed ecologist. What happens, there’s an oil spill, see, and…” Sandlack grinned. “We could run a screen test, fit you in somewhere…”
“Thanks, anyway.”
“Think about it, okay?” Sandlack went around behind his desk, opened a drawer, scribbled a number on the back of a rectangle of stiff cardboard. “My private number. You change your mind, just give me a call. In a six-week shoot, you’d make more money than a cop earns in a year.” He smiled. “And if anybody shoots at you, it’s blanks.”
Parker slipped the card into her purse.
“If you think of anything…” said Willows. He gave Sandlack one of his cards. It wasn’t made of expensive white bond, but it did have nice gold and blue lettering on it.
Sandlack slipped the card in the breast pocket of his shiny gray silk suit without bothering to look at it. He made a complicated, expansive gesture with his manicured hands. As if he had something else to say but didn’t know how to put it. Or maybe he just wanted to show off the Rolex and the thick gold chain on his left wrist. He said, “If I think of anything, I’ll have Cynthia call you right away. We can schmooze, take a lunch.” He grinned. “In the meantime, am I free to leave town?”
“Of course,” said Willows. Thinking, just do me a favour and don’t come back.
On the way out, they stopped at Cynthia Woodward’s desk and were given the number of the janitor
ial service that had the contract to clean the building.
Willows said, “We’re going across the street for a few minutes. Okay if we leave our car in your lot?”
“No problem,” said Cynthia. “I mean, why spend money on the meter when you can stay with us for free?”
On the way across the street, Parker said, “I liked his jewellery.”
“You did, huh?”
“His chains,” said Parker. “I’ve always had a thing about men in chains.”
“Put him in a pair of cuffs, he’d be perfect.”
“Solid gold, of course.”
The fire department had put several pumps to work, and the water level had fallen drastically, resulting in the collapse of large areas of ice. Willows estimated it would be another couple of hours before the pond was pumped dry.
He and Parker visited Dr Yang in his office. The doctor was not in a good mood.
“The closure of the gardens for a day or two is tolerable,” he said from behind his desk. “But all this negative publicity. My telephone never stops ringing! The world is full of ghouls!” Yang removed his glasses and angrily polished them with a paisley-patterned handkerchief. “This world is unique — the only classical Chinese gardens outside mainland China. I have a sacred trust! And do you know, I suspect Mr Lee’s body was put in the pond because racist elements wish to damage our reputation!”
“I’d advise you not to share those thoughts with the media,” said Willows.
“It won’t last,” said Parker. “Reporters have a short attention span. Give it a day or two, they’ll be gnawing on some other bone.”
“Yes, well. I certainly hope so.”
There was a bonsai — an artfully clipped miniature pine tree — in a carved stone pot on Yang’s desk. Yang reached out and touched a branch with the tips of his fingers. It was a strange gesture, delicate and somehow vaguely erotic.
“You have finished questioning my staff?”
Willows nodded.
“Were they of any assistance?”
Serious Crimes (A Willows and Parker Mystery) Page 7
