Serious Crimes (A Willows and Parker Mystery)

by Laurence Gough

  When she came back upstairs, Tyler was reading the sports section. He had no interest in baseball or hockey or football, but felt it necessary to stay abreast of the sporting news in order to function in casual office conversation.

  Nancy used a gas-powered opener to pop the Napa Brothers cork. She took two glasses from the shelf above the refrigerator and placed the bottle and glasses and two soft-pink cloth napkins on a mahogany tray, carried the tray into the living room on her way to the stairs.

  Tyler neatly folded the sports section and tossed it on the coffee table.

  “What’s going on, Nance?”

  “I rented a movie. I’m going to watch it upstairs.”

  Tyler nodded. “Two glasses, huh. Thirsty?”

  “I thought you might care to join me.”

  “What’s the movie?”

  Nancy told him. He frowned. “Is it… sexy?”

  “It’s a thriller.”

  “A sexy thriller?”

  “Not that I know of, Tyler.”

  “Subtitles, or dubbed?”

  Nancy gave him a look. She hated dubbed films, and Tyler knew it. It was one of the things they’d had in common, before they were married and Tyler got rich and she started feeling middle-aged and neglected.

  Tyler said, “Be up in a minute.” He scratched his stomach. Nancy, climbing the thickly carpeted stairs, wondered why it was that as men got older, their pants got baggier and their shirts got tighter.

  She went into the master bedroom, put the tray down on the nightstand on her side of the bed, walked across the room and slipped the video into the VCR. A tiny red light glowed brightly. The universal remote control was on top of the television. Tyler went into a rage if he had to go searching for it. In his life, there was a place for everything and he strongly believed everything should be kept in its place. Including his wife.

  Nancy picked up the rectangle of black plastic and punched several buttons, careful of her fingernails. The Sony flicked into life and then the VCR made a nasty whining sound. She fast-forwarded to the FBI copyright warning and stabbed delicately at the PAUSE button. The screen held steady.

  She poured herself a third of a glass of wine and drank it down and poured herself another.

  The hall light went out and Tyler walked into the bedroom. He glanced at the screen and then at Nancy and then back at the screen. He said, “I’m going to take a quick shower.”

  Nancy said, “Okay,” in a neutral tone of voice.

  Tyler tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. He gave her a ridiculous, leering wink. “Care to join me?”

  “I’ll have to think about it.”

  Tyler grinned and said, “I’ll soap you in all those special places you like so much but can’t quite reach.”

  Nancy said, “Now I’ve really got some thinking to do.”

  Unbuttoning his shirt, Tyler went into the ensuite and shut the door softly behind him.

  *

  Billy couldn’t stop thinking about Garret, if he was dead, and what that was like. At the time, scrambling to get free of the car, the shoulder wound had been a blur, a red smear. But now, in retrospect, he saw the wound with vivid clarity.

  It was just amazing, how much time the two of them had spent joking and bitching and freezing their asses off in that parking lot, waiting. And then it was just amazing how fast it was all over.

  Billy knew it was impossible, but he wanted a chance to do it over again, and get it right this time. Take charge, and not be manipulated. As he drove his Pinto due west towards the house on Point Grey Road, he replayed the botched holdup over and over again.

  It never took more than a few seconds, and it always came out the same.

  Billy had kept Garret on a short leash since the day they’d met, fucking years ago. But it was Garret who was first out of the Caddy. And it was Garret who goddamn ran at those uniforms, Garret who pulled the Remington’s trigger and blew a man away and then swivelled his hips as he worked the pump and fired again. Explosions that rocked Billy’s world.

  They’d sat around in his living room, drinking beer and practising the techniques of murder, drawing down on talk-show hosts. Talking about firepower. What a gun could do to a man.

  Billy had never had the faintest idea.

  *

  Garret pushed aside the partially deflated airbag. He crawled out of the Caddy and stumbled across Maple Street, back to the liquor store parking lot. The armoured car’s emergency siren was still screaming. He stared blankly down at the two guards with their faces shot off and nothing there but hamburger. He glanced up, looked all around, and yelled, “Billy!”

  The manager of the liquor store waited until Garret’s back was turned and then crouched and scooped up a dead man’s .38.

  Garret heard the scrape of metal on asphalt. He turned and fired. The load of buckshot struck the man in the chest. Garret was shooting with one arm and was in a considerable amount of pain. It was a lucky hit and he’d have gladly admitted it, had anyone asked.

  Predictably, no one did.

  Garret lowered the shotgun until the muzzle touched the asphalt, braced the weapon between his knees and shoved two fresh shells into the chamber and worked the slide. People were running in all directions, scattering like rabbits. A wealth of targets, but the sucker he really wanted to puncture was long gone.

  He had a pretty good idea he knew where to find him, though.

  *

  Nancy sipped a little more wine and then began to take off her clothes. She wasn’t at all sure that she was in the mood, just yet.

  But on the other hand, Tyler’s invitations were far too infrequent to ignore.

  *

  Traffic on Point Grey Road slowed and then came to an abrupt stop. Billy wondered if some fool had had an accident. Then he saw the black and white, and the cop with the flashlight. The car behind him was too close for him to back up. Not that he was much inclined to take a detour. He worked the Pinto’s gearshift, making sure the car was in low gear, and cradled the Python in his lap. There was only one cop. As he inched closer, he kept the nose of the Pinto up against the rear bumper of the car in front of him, so the cop couldn’t see the smashed headlights. He lit a cigarette, rolled down his window and cocked the Colt.

  The cop glanced up, and then looked away. He waved his arm. The car in front of Billy moved forward. He hit the gas, and the Pinto bucked and lurched and all of a sudden he had his second rear-ender of the night.

  The cop’s flashlight lanced towards him. Squinting, Billy fired into the blinding white eye of the beam. The light skidded sideways, and down. Billy raised his arm to protect his night vision and pulled the trigger again, shot through the Pinto’s windshield and right through the rear window of the car in front of him.

  The car bolted down the street, tires screeching, and Billy gave chase. He was half a block away when he heard the wail of the siren. The lights of the black and white filled his mirror.

  Billy shifted into second. Better. The car in front of him swerved sharply off the road, and rolled.

  He heard a popping sound behind him, the dull thwack of a police wadcutter hitting metal. His faithful Pinto lurched as a tire blew out. There was an intersection just ahead. Waterloo Street. The name meant nothing to him. He yanked on the wheel. The Pinto drifted across the road and up on the boulevard. He pushed open the door and jumped, mowed snowy wet grass with his face, ended up on his hands and knees.

  The crippled Pinto struggled up the boulevard. Billy scrambled to his feet. He jumped a fence and started running.

  The cops would bring dogs to sniff him down. Pals of that goddamn Collie, probably. He needed something to spoil his scent. A sudden rainstorm, or a creek. Why was it that there was never a creek around when he needed one?

  In the distance, someone shouted. A heartbeat later the night was splintered by a sound Billy had come to know all too well; the percussive thunder of a revolver fired at full speed.

  Garret was dead. Bad enough, but
now they’d got the Pinto, too.

  *

  Nancy waited until Tyler had finished showering and then turned the temperature up a little and let the water beat down on her. Tyler had made a few moves on her and hadn’t done too badly, all in all. But the truth was she had a hard time feeling sexy when he was wearing that goofy plastic shower cap.

  She bent from the waist and ran a palm lightly up the calf of her leg. Her skin was soft and smooth. No need to use the razor. She counted to one hundred, as slowly as she knew how, then turned the water off and stepped out of the shower. She liked to keep Tyler waiting; it honed his appetite. But the timing had to be just right. If she left him too long, she’d come in and find him sound asleep. Dreaming of stocks and bonds, no doubt.

  She towelled herself dry and brushed her hair, used her lipstick and pursed her lips and knelt to kiss away the excess on the end sheet of the fat roll of designer toilet paper. Now why in the world had she done that? Tyler probably wouldn’t even notice, and if he did, he certainly wouldn’t think it was very funny. Instead of laughing, he’d probably insist on trying to make sense of what she’d done, analyse her.

  Nancy opened the bathroom door and switched off the light. Tyler was sitting up in bed, a glass of wine in his hand. He turned towards her and said, “Where’s the goddamn remote, Nance? I can’t find it anywhere.”

  *

  Garret found a Volvo with a woman in it, crouched on the floor with her mouth full of purse. It took him a minute to work out that she was biting the purse to stop from screaming. He reached over with his left arm and patted her on the rump, wanting her to know how much he appreciated the peace and quiet.

  *

  Billy ran two blocks and then collapsed behind a low stone wall, his chest heaving. A black and white zipped past. He waited until he had his wind back and then lit a cigarette and crossed the street. The house was dark but the matching Mercedes were both in the garage, safely tucked away for the night. Billy climbed the fence and went around to the back of the house. He was on familiar ground now. The thought calmed him.

  Somebody had folded up the deck chairs and leaned them against the side of the house. Mist rose from the pool, drifted into the black sky. He pressed his face against the sliding glass door and peered inside, then tried the door. It wasn’t locked. He stepped inside. The house was silent. He slid the door shut behind him. There was a fire in the living room. He ambled over to it and warmed his hands.

  *

  Nancy turned off the bedside lamp and eased into Tyler’s arms. The room was filled with a soft blue light from the freeze-frame FBI warning. Tyler hit the remote and the film started. His skin was still damp from the shower. The actors spoke their lines and the subtitles flashed across the bottom of the screen. Nancy lay with her head on her husband’s chest and stared dreamily out across the black water at the constellation of lights that was West Vancouver.

  *

  Garret pried the purse out of the woman’s mouth and turned it upside down and dumped the contents on the car seat. There was a lot of stuff in there that was new to him, that he was curious about. But no keys. He said, “Where’s the fucking keys, lady?” and then saw that they were in the ignition.

  He crouched low in the seat and reached up to adjust the rear-view mirror so he could watch the action in front of the liquor store. Looked like every cop in the city had come to the party.

  He said, “We’re just gonna sit here until the dust settles, and then we’re gonna go for a little ride and I’m gonna let you go. Okay?”

  The woman started crying.

  “That’s the idea,” said Garret. “Get it out of your system, you’ll feel better.”

  It was cold in the car. He could feel the warmth leaking out of his body, a stiffening in his joints. The woman’s sobbing had taken on an oddly soothing rhythm. The sodium-vapour lights that illuminated the parking lot flickered on and off. He wondered how the fire in front of the 7-Eleven had started. The parking lot slipped in and out of focus.

  He leaned back and closed his eyes, knowing a little rest would do him good.

  *

  Someone upstairs was speaking in a foreign language. Billy went over to the landing at the bottom of the stairs, his boots silent on the carpet. He whispered, “Is that you, Nancy?” and reached out to lay a hand on the banister. Much to his surprise, he found he was still carrying the Python.

  He didn’t know quite what to do, how to handle the situation. He cocked his head, listening. He heard the soft hiss of the gas fireplace and distant mumble of voices. He started up the stairs, going slowly at first and then losing his patience, suddenly in a hurry, taking the steps two and three at a time.

  *

  An apparition danced in front of the lights. Nancy blinked. It was still there. A reflection. She rolled over on her side, heedless of Tyler. A kid in jeans and a black leather jacket stood there in the bedroom door, staring at her.

  Tyler sat up. He said, “Who the hell are you?” And then he grabbed his bathrobe and said, “Get the hell out of here, or I’ll call the police.”

  The kid ignored him. He only had eyes for Nancy.

  Tyler shrugged into his bathrobe. He stood up. The kid showed him the gun.

  Tyler hesitated.

  Nancy said, “He’s the one who…”

  Billy said, “I’m in big trouble, Nancy. You have to help me.”

  Tyler tied a knot in the terrycloth belt of his robe. Nancy watched him, the way his hands moved, with so much purpose. As if he was giving himself time to work things out, make a decision. He had a way of tying the knot so the two ends of the belt hung straight down. He’d worked it out himself. Just one of those little details that made his life so full.

  She said, “Tyler, be careful.” The words sounded ridiculous, but she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  Tyler moved around to the foot of the bed. Billy pointed the Python at him. Tyler said, “Get the hell out of my house, kid.” Billy smiled as coldly as he knew how. He stuck the pistol in the waistband of his jeans. His hand hovered over the butt.

  He said, “Try me.”

  Nancy would never forget the savage, unflinching look in Tyler’s eyes as he rushed at Billy, determined to bring him down.

  Billy yanked the Python out of his jeans and pulled the trigger three times, just as fast as he could. The hammer fell on the spent casings and made a dull click that was about as ominous as some old geezer clacking his teeth while he waited for a bus.

  Tyler snatched the empty, useless gun out of Billy’s hand. He swung wildly and hit Billy flush on the nose and knocked him on his ass.

  Billy ran. Tyler chased him down the hall. Billy jumped the banister and landed halfway down the stairs, tumbled head over heels to the bottom and regained his feet and hot-footed it through the living room and shiny kitchen and then, still picking up speed, right through the plate-glass door.

  The glass exploded. Billy shrieked, and brought his hands up to his bloody face. His momentum carried him across the frosty yard towards the glass fence and killer drop to the beach. His boots hit the slush-covered slate flagstones surrounding the pool and he cartwheeled through the air as spectacularly as if he’d been thrown from a horse.

  Tyler heard the dull thud as Billy’s head smacked the unforgiving tiles, saw his body go limp. Billy slid into the steaming water.

  Vanished in the mist.

  Tyler put the Colt stainless down on the counter. He had kicked off his shoes when he was reading the paper in front of the fireplace. He slipped the shoes on his bare feet and crunched across the shattered glass towards the pool. Billy was lying face down in the water, a halo of pink around his head. Tyler watched him for what seemed like a very long time but was probably only a few minutes. He went back into the kitchen and dialled 911. The operator answered after nine rings. She made him repeat his name and address and asked him if it was an emergency call.

  Tyler said yes. She asked him to please stay on the line until a p
atrol car arrived. He thanked her for her interest and hung up.

  He climbed the stairs and paused just out of sight of the bedroom doorway. The kid seemed to know Nancy very well. He’d spoken as if they were close friends. Or something worse. Tyler wondered if there were any questions he should ask. He decided the answer was no, and went into the bedroom and took his wife in his arms and comforted her as best he could.

  It didn’t take the cops long to get there. When Tyler complimented them on the speed with which they’d arrived, one of them said they happened to be in the neighbourhood.

  Tyler smiled, not sure whether he was being kidded or not. He wanted to get back upstairs to his wife but hung around out in the yard because he didn’t want to risk appearing disinterested in the body, callous.

  Eddy Orwell shone his flashlight into the steaming pool. He ran the beam of light slowly down the length of Billy’s body, across the black leather jacket, tight jeans and silver-studded boots. It was the cowboy from the liquor store shooting, not much doubt about it. The dirty bastard who’d blown away the armoured car guys.

  Tyler said, “Is he dead?”

  “How long’s he been in there?”

  “About ten minutes.”

  “Yeah, he’s dead, all right.”

  The way the detective was looking at him, it seemed to Tyler that an explanation would be in order. He said, “He broke into my home. And he threatened my wife with a gun.”

  “No rush, but have you got a pike pole, something like that, we can use to get him a little closer so I can pull him out?”

  Tyler nodded, started to turn away.

  Orwell sniffed the air. “Another thing, Mr Crown. It’s none of my business, but have you thought about maybe using a little less chlorine?”

  Chapter 25

  Willows had lost consciousness by the time the paramedics got to him. He lay on his back on the icy asphalt as they affirmed that he was breathing. His respiration was up — a bad sign. One of the paramedics measured him for the plastic tube that would carry oxygen down his throat and into his lungs. His partner yelled at Willows and shook him hard, applied what should have been a painful amount of pressure to the web of flesh between Willows’ index finger and thumb.