Serious Crimes (A Willows and Parker Mystery)

by Laurence Gough

  “Hold it a minute,” said Garret.

  “What?”

  “I’m feeling lonely. Thought I’d see if Sandy’s in the mood for a little romance.”

  “Who?”

  “Sandy. At the deli.”

  “Delicious Sandy.”

  “Yeah.” Defensively, Garret said, “She gave me a real nice smile.”

  Billy checked the sticker on the sausage container’s plastic lid. Three dollars and fifty cents. Sandy had given Garret a big smile and a spoonful of free potato salad, and maybe fifty-two cents worth of sausages and three bucks worth of sauce.

  Garret said, “Thought I’d ask her if she wants a ride home after work.”

  “In my car.”

  “I’d do it for you.”

  Billy slapped him on the shoulder. “Go for it, big guy.”

  Garret got out of the car and started towards the Safeway, his boots scuffing up the snow. Billy wrapped the shotgun and pistol in a sleeping bag, went around to the back of the car and stuck everything in the trunk.

  Garret was gone five minutes max, came back with his hands in his pockets. He wasn’t smiling. Billy crouched down low. Garret finally noticed that the car was empty, looked around. Billy waited patiently until his back was turned and then stood up and took his shot. Garret’s head exploded in a white froth. He dropped to one knee.

  Billy fired again, missed. Garret swore and scooped a double handful of snow off the roof of a Pontiac. Billy aimed at his crotch and hit him a good one in the knee. Garret cursed again and wound up and threw hard, caught Billy in the chest. They chased each other around the parking lot until Garret’s hands were numb and he held them up in mock surrender. Billy popped him again, from point-blank range. Wet and shivering, the two would-be armoured car robbers climbed back into the idling Pinto.

  “What’d she say, where is she?”

  Garret shrugged. “Said she needed time to think about it. Told me to come back when they close. She’s gotta put away the fish and meat, clean the counters. Be finished about quarter after twelve.”

  “Fuck that.” Billy put the Pinto in gear.

  “We could drive around,” said Garret. “Go find a pool hall and play for a while and come back.”

  Billy shook his head. “I’m gonna go home, take a shower and crawl into bed. You’re so crazy about her, stick around.”

  “And then what, she’s got a headache and I take the fucking bus all the way across town? Forget it.”

  Billy let out the clutch. The Pinto crawled across the lot, tires slithering on the soft, fresh snow.

  “Rob an armoured car,” said Garret. “Get rich and be happy for the rest of your life. You made it sound so easy.”

  “It is,” said Billy. “Wait and see.”

  “Maybe,” said Garret, rattling Billy’s chain, “maybe we oughta try something a little smaller, work up to the big stuff.”

  “Climb that ladder rung by rung?”

  “We didn’t do so good tonight, did we?”

  “You got a free dinner, Garret. What the fuck else you want out of me?”

  “I just think we’re in over our head, that’s all.”

  “Next week,” said Billy. “Tuesday or Wednesday, that’s when they’ll be back.”

  “You said Saturday was best, when they’d have the most money.”

  Billy drove past the 7-Eleven. There were a bunch of kids slouching around by the gas pumps, smoking dope and hoping the place would blow up, probably. He said, “You wanna wait until Saturday? Okay, we’ll wait.”

  “I wanna steal some radios, that’s what I want to do. Fuck, Billy. I’m broke.”

  “Stay broke,” said Billy. “Then you got a motive you can understand.”

  Garret rolled down the window and threw the plastic Safeway bag and the foam containers and coffee cups out on the street.

  “Knock it off,” said Billy.

  Garret rolled the window back up.

  Billy said, “This’s a nice part of town, people just don’t do that kind of shit over here.”

  Garret said, “Lemme get this straight. We’re gonna blow away a couple of guys and steal maybe a quarter of a million bucks, and you’re worried about littering?”

  “We got a job to do. That don’t mean you got a right to turn the neighbourhood into your own personal garbage can.”

  “Good point,” said Garret, working hard to keep his face straight.

  Chapter 20

  Inspector Homer Bradley went over to the window and got up on his tippy-toes and looked across the roof of the neighbouring building, at the harbour and mountains. It was still snowing. The water was a dull, murky gray and the mountains had lost their definition, reduced by distance and the falling snow to vague, hulking shapes.

  Bradley rocked on his heels, went over to his desk. He tossed the remains of his lunch — a takeout ham on rye from a nearby restaurant called the Meat Market — into his wastebasket.

  His office door was wide open. A cop, Dan Oikawa, sauntered down the length of the squad room carrying a handful of files. Oikawa was one of several homicide detectives working on the unsolved murders of fourteen of the city’s female prostitutes. He’d recently grown a Fu Manchu moustache, and was wearing dark gray slacks and a white shirt with thick, dark blue stripes, a pair of bright red suspenders. The red suspender fad had been going strong for a couple of weeks now. What was next, Bradley wondered — pork pie hats? Orwell, also wearing red suspenders, limped past Bradley’s door. Now what in hell was wrong with him? Bradley said, “Hey, Eddy.”

  Orwell stopped dead in his tracks, turned to face the open door. He had a full mug of coffee in his hand. A trickle of coffee splashed over the rim and across his wrist, but he pretended not to notice.

  Bradley said, “Seen Jack, or Claire?”

  Orwell shook his head.

  Bradley said, “You limping?”

  Orwell adjusted his suspenders. “I just bought a new pair of shoes.”

  Bradley glanced down at Orwell’s feet. The shoes looked new, all right. Maybe not brand-new, but close. Orwell had a thing about clothes; whatever he happened to be wearing always looked as if it had been made to measure. How he did it on a cop’s salary, Bradley had no idea. But he knew one thing for sure, and that was if the rumour about Judith’s pregnancy was true, Orwell was going to have to cut back on his wardrobe.

  “Get the door, will you, Eddy?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Orwell spilled a little more coffee as he lurched forward.

  Bradley leaned back in his chair, shut his eyes. The fluorescents hissed and crackled. He stared at the stack of paperwork waiting for him. Tonight, he was going to have to go shopping, find something for Orwell’s wedding. Eddy wanted a Moulinex food processor, whatever the hell that was. He’d even given Bradley a list of stores that carried the model he wanted.

  Bradley flipped open the lid of the carved cedar humidor his wife had given him as a parting gift the day their divorce had come through. He chose a cigar, stuck it in his mouth but didn’t light it, glowered at his Timex. Willows was due in less than five minutes.

  Bradley was worried about Willows. During the past few years he’d been involved in three fatal shootings. A little over a year ago, he and Parker and Dan Oikawa had shot and killed a young woman named Tracy Peel. It was a clear case of self-defence; Peel had been armed with a .45 and had killed a man during the brief course of the shoot-out. But she’d also been a single parent with an infant child, a girl named Rebecca. Willows had turned Rebecca into an orphan.

  Bradley had insisted on psychological counselling, despite Willows’ objections. Bradley understood and sympathized with his position. Cops were a macho bunch of guys. Willows’ sessions with the shrink would be noted on his permanent record.

  And now his wife had left him, gone to Toronto, two thousand five hundred miles away. Walked off and taken the children with her. Bradley had heard a rumour Willows was selling his house. He had also heard that he and Parker had a relati
onship that was more than strictly professional. For the past couple of months, Bradley had weighed the pros and cons of breaking up the partnership.

  Then the Lee case had hit the papers, putting all his plans on hold.

  The case was going downhill fast. A local paper had somehow managed to get a picture of Lee’s corpse and printed it on the front page, right next to the police composite of the man who’d rented Chang’s warehouse. The Chinese community was outraged.

  The last thing Jack needed was more pressure. But in a few more minutes, pressure was what Bradley was going to have to apply.

  He struck one of his big wooden kitchen matches, lit the cigar. He’d long ago given up on the idea that he had a will of iron. Things got better and things got worse, and he, like everyone else, reacted to stress in essentially predictable ways. But a couple of months ago he’d managed to cut his ration of tobacco down to two cigars a day, and he was holding steady and a little bit proud of himself. Bad time to light up, though, with Willows and Parker just around the corner. Jack was a born-again non-smoker and his bad attitude had rubbed off on Parker. But an Inspector was an Inspector was an Inspector, whereas a Detective was just another cop who happened by the grace of God and his superiors to be temporarily out of uniform. So nothing was ever said out loud about Bradley’s smoking. But Willows had a knack for speaking his mind without bothering to open his mouth that Bradley found immensely irritating.

  The pebbled glass panel in his door rattled, and the door swung open. Willows and Parker. Bradley waved them inside. He flicked ash at his wastebasket. Missed. He said, “What’ve you got for me, kids?”

  Willows said, “Forensics is still working on the stuff we vacuumed out of the warehouse. It doesn’t look promising. The outdoor search yielded absolutely zilch. No trace evidence at all.”

  “The snow didn’t help,” said Parker.

  Bradley tried a smoke ring. No dice.

  “The owner of the warehouse, William Chang, wants the scene released,” said Willows. “Says he’s losing a ton of money, threatened to sue.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  Parker said, “That we’d do what we could.”

  “Let’s leave it at that, for the time being. What about the canvass?”

  Willows flipped open his notebook. “There are three skid-row hotels on the block, all of them on the far side of the street. Two more hotels and a couple of small businesses and several restaurants on the other side of the alley. We’ve written up fifty-seven questionnaires, so far. No witnesses. There are a couple of dozen area residents we haven’t been able to get in touch with yet.”

  “How long’s the re-canvass going to take?”

  “With four teams working on it, at least a full day.”

  Bradley said, “This goddamn investigation’s taking too much time. CKVU did a half-hour special on the case last night. You see it?”

  Willows nodded. Somebody had videotaped the program and he and Parker watched it on the colour television in the detectives’ lounge.

  “That show didn’t do a hell of a lot for our image,” Bradley said. “The Chief’d like to see this one wrapped up, and so would I.” He leaned back in his chair. “The key, the one you found when you drained the pond. It fits the padlock on the warehouse door but it’s a dead-end, right? I mean, as far as you know, you can’t do anything with it.”

  Parker said, “That’s right, Inspector.”

  “Good. We can feed it to the press. Maybe they’ll choke to death on the damn thing.” He flicked another quarter-inch of cigar ash at the wastebasket. A direct hit. Maybe even an omen. “I’m going to assign Oikawa and Jeff Norton to the case. Either of you got any problems with that?”

  Parker glanced at Willows, who said, “Sounds like a good idea to me.” Oikawa had been a detective less than three years. Norton had only been wearing a suit for a couple of months. Willows was still the supervising detective. And he had to admit that Bradley was right; he needed all the manpower he could get.

  “Keep in touch.” Distorted ringlets of smoke hung in the air as Bradley waved his cigar — a magician’s gesture of dismissal.

  Willows’ phone started ringing as he walked towards his desk, almost as if it had been waiting for him and seen him coming. He picked up. “Willows.”

  “It’s Bobby.” A pause. “Bobby Chow.”

  “What’s up, Bobby?”

  “I quit my job.”

  “Smart move.”

  “Couple of days too late,” Bobby said. “They smashed my Benz all to shit, Jack.”

  “Come on down and lay a charge.”

  Willows held the phone away from his ear, letting the harsh, sardonic cackle of Bobby’s laughter leak out of the receiver.

  Bobby, whispering, said, “Jack, I got something for you. I’m in a brown Ford in the A&W lot at Twenty-sixth and Fraser. Think you can find it?”

  “You straight, Bobby?”

  “Kinda ripped, Jack. How long it gonna take you to get here?”

  “Depends on the traffic. Twenty minutes, maybe half an hour.”

  “Brown Ford,” said Bobby. “A four-door. Hertz sticker on the back bumper. I mention they beat the shit out of my Benz?”

  “Yeah, Bobby. I think you did.”

  “With sledge-hammers.” Another burst of that scary, twisted laughter. “Ever been inside a car while a couple of animals pound on it with ten-pound hammers? Lemme tell you, I squeezed the steering wheel so fuckin’ hard that after they left I had to pry myself loose with my teeth.”

  “Got a watch, Bobby?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Uh… quarter past twelve?”

  “Close enough. Stay put, okay? Half an hour.”

  “Shit,” said Bobby, and disconnected.

  This time out, the car pool gave Willows and Parker a baby-blue Chevrolet Celebrity. Willows started the car and turned on the heater and put the gearshift in reverse and backed out of the slot, spun the wheel and headed up the ramp towards the exit. Parker said, “It’s the house, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “Selling the house, that’s what’s bothering you, got you down. The real estate agent still after you to drop your price?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t do it,” said Parker. “You wait long enough, you’ll get every dime you’re asking.”

  Willows nodded, not wanting to talk about it. His wife, Sheila, had telephoned twice during the week. Her parents had loaned her thirty thousand dollars to make a down payment on a condo. She wanted Willows to sell the house and she wanted it done as quickly as possible.

  He braked at the mouth of the alley. A bright orange city dump truck loaded with salt raced down Hastings, ran a yellow light. He waited for an elderly Chinese with a cane to clear the alley and then turned right, worked his way over to the far lane and signalled a left turn.

  “I’ve lived in this city since I was a kid,” Parker said. “This is the coldest winter I can remember. What happened to the greenhouse effect, now that we need it?”

  “Repressed,” said Willows. “It’s a plot to keep the price of cucumbers high.” The light changed. He made his turn and they accelerated up Hastings.

  Bobby’s rented Ford was parked in the A&W lot at the far end of a row of ten slots. Willows pulled in next to him, tapped the horn. Bobby’s head came up. He glanced vaguely around, and then his head fell back and he shut his eyes.

  Parker said, “Who is this guy?”

  “Rip van Winkle. Hungry?”

  “You bet.”

  “Order something for me.” Willows opened his door. “I’ll see if I can wake him up.”

  Willows got out of the car. A girl in a mud-brown A&W uniform hurried towards him. He paused, waiting. The girl said, “We think he’s a drug addict. The police are on their way.”

  Willows flashed his badge. He turned his back on the girl and yanked open the passenger-side door of Bobby’s Ford. Bobby struggled
upright, yawned hugely. His eyes popped open. He glanced wildly around.

  Willows said, “You on the nod, Bobby?”

  Bobby Chow’s eyes settled down. He blinked three times, slowly as an owl. “Nah… Got a little wired, is all. Tight. Felt like I had handcuffs on my brain… Ate a couple too many downers.” He smiled. A trickle of saliva worked its way down his chin. He said, “I called you, right?” He took a furtive look over his shoulder. “There’s a payphone on the corner… Yeah, there it is, see it?” He wiped his chin, smiled. “Appreciate you dropping by on such short notice, Jack.”

  Willows said, “Where’d you get the car?”

  “Hertz?”

  “Let’s see the rental slip, Bobby.”

  “Got it here somewhere…” Bobby Chow patted himself down, opened the glove box, shrugged.

  There was a big T-shaped plastic console next to the parking slot. Parker studied the menu, rolled down her window and pressed a button. The voice that came through the intercom was more incomprehensible than anything she’d ever heard at an airport. She ordered two “Teenburgers” with fries, a cup of coffee and a pot of tea.

  There was another burst of static. Hoping for the best, she asked for ketchup.

  A black and white pulled into the lot. Parker tapped the horn. She caught the driver’s eye, waved him away.

  In the Ford, Bobby Chow was talking a mile a minute, while Willows listened patiently.

  The food arrived on a plastic tray that hooked on to the window. The tab was eight dollars and fifty cents.

  Parker paid with a ten. She opened her door and got out of the car, opened the back door of Bobby’s Ford and unhooked the tray, got into the Ford with it balanced in her hands. She put the tray down on the seat beside her and shut the door. Bobby said, “If somebody complained about the service, it sure as hell wasn’t me.

  Parker handed Willows his food and a white porcelain mug of coffee.

  Bobby Chow said, “How’d you know what I wanted?”

  Willows put the food on the dashboard.

  “A Teenburger,” said Bobby. “Every time I knock back one of these babies I feel ten years younger.”