Accidental Deaths (A Willows and Parker Mystery)

by Laurence Gough

  Mrs. Minotti smiled up at her. “No, I think I better stay here and keep looking at these handsome men.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Parker said, “We won’t be long. If you see someone you recognize, tell a detective or one of the civilian staff, and they’ll beep us. Okay?”

  “Yes, fine. Thank you.”

  Parker and Willows rode the elevator down to the main floor. The doors slid open and they walked across the lobby past the reception area. Willows nodded to one of the cops behind the desk, a rookie who was the son of a guy who’d graduated in his class.

  Parker said, “What’s on your mind, Jack? You look depressed, all of a sudden.”

  “Old age.”

  “Bradley?”

  “No, me. Where do you want to eat?”

  “How about that Japanese restaurant on Water Street, with the bamboo plants in the window?”

  “Kubiko’s.”

  “Right,” said Parker, “Kubiko’s.”

  Outside, the sky above them was cloudless; a deep, flawless blue. The streets were thick with traffic and the sidewalks were crowded with shoppers. Half a dozen drunks lounged in the shade of the Carnegie Library. The situation had been a lot worse before a nearby liquor store had been shut down. Parker remembered going out to her patrol car and finding a thin smear of vomit across the windshield and a derelict sleeping it off on the hood, soaking up residual warmth from the engine as if he was a stray cat. She’d heard a story several years ago about a cop named Rafferty who’d found a drunk curled up on the hood of his car and started the engine and driven down the alley. He’d hit twenty miles an hour before the drunk woke up and, terrified, bailed out and flattened himself against a brick wall. Final score: one fractured skull and one severely reprimanded cop. But after that, for a little while at least, the drunks had abandoned the alley behind 312 Main.

  Willows said, “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing, really. In fact it isn’t funny at all, but I was thinking about the drunk who fell asleep on a squad car a few years ago.”

  “A cop named Rafferty bounced him off a wall?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one.”

  “Never happened. Cop bullshit, that’s all. Wishful thinking.” Willows looked down Main Street towards the harbour. There was a haze of exhaust fumes in the air. On the far side of the harbour, two or three hundred feet up the slope of the North Shore mountains, a faint line of bluish grey marked the level to which the pollution had ascended.

  There was a short lineup at the restaurant, but Parker had phoned ahead and made reservations. As they were led to their table, Willows said, “Asking me where I wanted to eat was just a formality, wasn’t it?”

  “You’re slow, but you’re learning.”

  They both opted for the daily special; a noodle soup and steamed rice spiked with artistically cut medallions of steam-fried vegetables and tiny chunks of deep-fried chicken. Parker ordered Perrier. Willows settled for a local beer.

  Parker checked her watch. She said, “It’s late. We shouldn’t stay too long.”

  Willows smiled. “What’s the rush? Mrs. Minotti’s in no hurry to get back to work. How’d you like to spend your life weighing vegetables? The way I see it, we ought to give her a break, take the rest of the day off.”

  The soup arrived, and the bottled water and Willows’s beer. Kubiko’s was only a few blocks from 312 Main. The restaurant’s wooden floor was unfinished and splintery, the chairs didn’t match and the napkins were paper — but the prices were still a bit steep for uniformed cops. The restaurant was a favourite of the force’s detectives, though, because of its convenient location and quick service. And of course detectives spent considerably more time in court and consequently earned roughly twice as much money as their uniformed brethren.

  Willows drank some beer. He said, “How long have we been working together?”

  Parker had to think about it. “Four years, pushing five.”

  Willows said, “A long time.”

  Parker said, “Sometimes it’s sure seemed like it.”

  “We’ve had our share of arguments.”

  “No argument there.”

  Willows wasn’t about to be put off. He said, “But it’s never been anything we couldn’t work out, right? I mean, we’ve always found a way around our differences.”

  The chicken dish arrived. Parker stripped the paper wrapper off her chopsticks. The food smelled delicious and she was very hungry.

  Willows said, “How often do you hear about a couple of cops splitting up because they can’t get along on the job?”

  “Almost never.”

  “That’s right — but look at the divorce rate in the department.”

  “You’re asking me why cops can tough it out on the job, but can’t keep it together at home?”

  “I’m not asking you anything. I’m just making an observation.”

  “Small talk.”

  “Right.”

  Parker toyed with her food. “It bothers you that the two of us get along like peaches and cream and your wife left you; is that what this is all about?”

  “No, it isn’t. Christ. I was generalizing, that’s all.”

  Parker said, “The first time I saved your miserable life, we weren’t even on a first-name basis.”

  “Possibly saved my miserable life.”

  “That scumbug Junior Newton would’ve fried your bacon if I hadn’t shot him.”

  “You’d have shot him anyway, the mood you were in.” Parker said, “The point I’m trying to make is that we depend on each other, you and I. Sometimes in situations of extreme stress.”

  Willows reached across to snatch a choice piece of chicken, and Parker batted him on the knuckles with her chopsticks. “Maybe what’s wrong with married life is that it isn’t dangerous enough.”

  “Or there isn’t enough paperwork.”

  Parker adjusted her chopsticks and managed to pluck the chicken Willows had tried to steal out of its bed of rice. “No, I like my theory better.”

  “Which is, if you really care about your marriage, try getting shot at.”

  “Because it’s a wonderfully bonding experience.”

  “Exactly.”

  Willows said, “Has Sheila been in touch with you?”

  “Your wife?” It was a stupid question, but Parker had been caught by surprise.

  “Last time l talked to her, she said she wanted to see you next time she came to Vancouver.” Willows made a show of studying his watch. “Soon, Claire.”

  “Why would she want to talk to me? You didn’t … ”

  “Involve you?”

  Parker blushed and Willows smiled and said, “No, not in any way.”

  “Good,” said Parker firmly.

  Willows said, “I’m only guessing, but I think she hopes you’re going to reassure her that I’m getting along okay without her.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “To put her mind at ease.”

  “No, I mean, why would she be under the impression that I’d have any idea how your personal life was going?”

  “Don’t ask me.”

  “Well then, who in hell should I ask?”

  “Claire, are you angry with me?”

  “Yes!”

  The waiter arrived with their check. He knew Parker and Willows well enough not to enquire about dessert, and didn’t bother to ask them about coffee because at least a thousand cops had smugly told him that they could get all the coffee they wanted back at the office for twenty-five cents a cup. And, they’d usually added, they didn’t even have to pay the quarter unless someone was watching.

  When they got back to the third floor of 312 Main, Mrs. Minotti was nowhere to be seen. Parker asked a clerk where she’d gone and was told she was out in the alley, taking a smoke break.

  Parker turned to Willows. “You want to get her?”

  Willows said, “I got the tip.”

  Parker gave Wi
llows a look that showed him another tip — the tip of the iceberg.

  Behind Parker, the squadroom door swung open and Eddy Orwell, red-eyed and hunch-shouldered, made an entrance that would have rung Lon Chaney’s bell.

  Willows said, “On second thoughts, maybe a little fresh air is exactly what I need.”

  He found his witness in the alley, standing downwind of Inspector Homer Bradley, who seemed to be enjoying her company almost as much as he relished his cigar.

  Bradley smiled and waved. “Jack, there you are. We were just starting to wonder what happened to you.”

  Mrs. Minotti stubbed out her cigarette. She said, “It’s been a pleasure talking to you, Inspector.”

  Bradley’s smile was as wide as the alley. “Elaine, the pleasure has been all mine, I assure you.”

  Judging from the look Mrs. Minotti gave Willows as she turned her back on the Inspector, she was in no mood to disagree.

  Mrs. Minotti had worked her way through all three mug books. Halfway through the third book, she’d stumbled across a photograph of the young man who had stolen a sweet potato from her store that morning.

  Her index finger came down hard, striking the suspect right between the eyes.

  Parker said, “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, him. He’s the one who took the potato. The other one, his friend, I couldn’t find.”

  Willows and Parker exchanged a look. Mrs. Minotti said, “What is it, is something wrong?”

  Parker said, “I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to go with us to the city morgue, to identify a body.”

  “His body?”

  Parker nodded. Elaine Minotti had fingered Cherry Ngo, the boy they’d found murdered that morning at the Pale Green Shoots restaurant.

  14

  There was no way Newt was going to leave his Porsche or the Jag or even the BMW at LAX. Unless you drove a ten-year-old Ford Pinto, airport security was a bad joke. The only way you could protect your car against thieves was by letting all the air out of the tires and leaving a ripe corpse in the trunk.

  And even that was no guarantee.

  So Newt had Rikki phone one of the limo services and order a black stretch.

  Newt wanted the car at the house at one o’clock sharp, and it arrived right on time. The driver was a skinny black guy, wearing a cheap tuxedo with lumpy padded shoulders, a glossy yellow bow tie. The guy’d shaved fairly recently, and his fingernails were clean, but his shoes were badly scuffed, the toes scraped down to raw leather.

  Newt said, “You like to hang around the schoolyard, shoot baskets in your spare time, right?”

  The guy stared at him, finally nodded. He had a military haircut, no beads or razor-cut advertising his neighbourhood gang or favourite brand of beer or the name of his girlfriend. Amazing. He introduced himself but Newt didn’t catch his name.

  Rikki, standing in the shade of the house with his macho black leather suitcases wedged between his stumpy legs and his passport clenched firmly between his teeth, stared at the limo guy as if he expected him to suddenly double in size and grow fangs, or maybe metamorph into a giant insect — somehow change in such a way as to require Rikki to fetch his gun and riddle him with bullets. The killer look didn’t mean anything, however. It was just Rikki being abrasive, Rikki being Rikki.

  The chauffeur opened the trunk and started to stuff it full of Newt’s Louis Vuitton suitcases. The work caused beads of sweat to bubble up on his face. Was it that he was unaccustomed to physical labour or terrified of Rikki?

  Idle minds, thought Newt. He lit a bootleg Cuban cigar and watched the shiny-faced black man load gleaming black luggage into the polished black car.

  The limo guy noticed he was being watched. Smiling, he said wasn’t it just a wonderful day and was Mr. Newton aware that there were upwards of fifty thousand stretch limos prowling the mean streets of the city. Wasn’t that incredible?

  Newt tilted his head at the washed-out sky and let Cuban smoke leak out of his mouth and nostrils.

  The limo guy wouldn’t stop, told Newt probably it was the music biz and film industry combined, but there were more limos in L.A. than any other city in the whole darn world, including London and Paris and Marrakesh. Newt gave him a sideways look. The guy continued to ramble on. His point was that with all them sets of wheels to choose from, he felt real privileged that Newt picked his. Slam went the trunk. If there was anything at all he could do to make the ride more pleasant, all Newt had to do was let him know.

  Newt jabbed at him with the hot end of the cigar and said, “Cut the minstrel hall shtick, bud. Just shut the fuck up and get behind the wheel and drive.”

  The guy’s mouth opened wide in surprise. Newt said, “Rikki does whatever I tell him to do. Anything. It’s his job, unnerstand what I’m saying to you?”

  “Yessuh.”

  Newt slid into the back of the car. Soft leather. Chrome. Polished wood. It was like being inside a high-tech cave. He said, “Rikki, we got a long drive ahead of us. Maybe you should take a leak before we get going.”

  Rikki said, “Where?”

  The black turned from Newt to Rikki and back again. Was this a joke? If he didn’t figure it out pretty soon, he was going to pop a disc.

  Newt said, “Front tire.”

  “Right side, or left?”

  “Whatever’s closest.”

  So Rikki walked up to the nose of the car and lifted a leg and pissed on the limo’s Goodyear tire, splattered the hubcap pretty good and then gave himself a shake and zipped up.

  The limo guy said, “Hey now … ”

  Rikki climbed into the back of the car. He was so short he hardly had to bend over to get in. Newt said, “He’d of pissed all over you, if I told him.”

  The black guy said, “Well, I’m grateful, naturally.”

  Newt said, “Hold on to that attitude — it’s a good one. Now shut the door and hit the gas, we got a plane to catch and stews to goose.”

  On the ride out to the airport, Rikki was no fun at all. He kept staring at his bootleg passport, flipping through the stiff new pages and then working his way back to the photograph, mumbling something about the pic not doing him justice, what a bad-ass handsome dude he really was, if he was professionally lit.

  Man, he was absorbed.

  Newt whacked him on the side of the head to get his attention, told him to open a bottle of champagne. Rikki did what he was told, poured Newt a tulip glass. Newt politely asked did he care to join in? Rikki shook his head, continued studying his passport. The official statistics — the stats regarding his height and weight and hair colour and so on, seemed to mesmerize him. Newt was on his second glass of champagne when Rikki noticed that his height had been listed at five foot four.

  “Looka dat!”

  “What?” said Newt, who’d been watching a blonde in a silver Mercedes cruising along in the next lane, who could’ve been Kim Basinger, maybe.

  Rikki showed him the passport. “Wha they fok with me? Got me at five foot four inch when I’m at least five-seven.”

  “Jeez, is that right?” Newt grabbed a large hit of bubbly to give himself time to work out a translation. He’d never seen Rikki so worked up. The guy was usually more cucumber than human being. It was amazing, the way all those ESL classes went straight to hell the minute he got stressed out. He was harder to understand than Sly Stallone in Rocky V. Unbelievable.

  Height, height. Yeah, he was bitching about how tall he was. Newt said, “'When you got measured, did they make you take your boots off?”

  “Yeah, but so what?” Rikki reminded Newt that he never took his Frye boots off except to take a bath or hit the sack. And sometimes not even then. He’d told as much to the fake passport guy. What da fok was the matter with him?

  Newt said, “You tiptoe around the yard in your bare feet every night, what about that?”

  “That’s a different thing altogether.” A sly grin, all teeth and saliva. “I worry about you. Bad guy’s sneakin’ up. Is part of m
y fokin’ job to save your ass. How’m I gonna do any serious creepin’ around wearin’ big old thumpy boots, huh?”

  Newt said, “Good point, Rikki.”

  “Fokin’ right.” Rikki turned the passport upside down. He sniffed the glue that held his picture in place.

  “Nice?” said Newt, grinning.

  “Man, always I want this. But I never dreamed I’d get one looked so right.”

  “Feels pretty good, l bet.” Rikki was starting to calm down, and Newt had an idea. He remembered the time Rikki had sliced off the ear. Afterwards, his English had been so good it was almost like listening to Winston Churchill. Newt said, “Remember the guy couldn’t wait his turn for the toilet?”

  “Nah … ”

  “Fat guy. You cut off his ear to teach him some manners.”

  “Yeah?” Rikki was interested. “When was that?” But even as he spoke, Newt could see the pages of Rikki’s calendar turning over in his brain.

  After a moment, Rikki’s eyes cleared. His pupils expanded. The artery in his neck stopped trying to jump out of his skin. “Yeah, I remember the guy. Why’d you ask?”

  “Nothing, forget it. Check the babe in the Merc.”

  “Muy picante,” said Rikki automatically. He frowned. “What’re we talkin’ about?”

  “Passports.”

  Rikki nodded. “I took one offa Puerto Rican once, when I was livin’ in Tijuana. Bein’ a lowlife pimp and lookin’ for a way out. This Rican guy, just like me he looks. So I take his passport.”

  “That easy, huh. What, the guy liked you so much he wanted to give you a present?”

  “Was a trade. I had a real nice switchblade knife, was stainless steel ’cause I keep it hid under my armpit and don’ want it gettin’ rusty. Guy don’ wanna gimme his passport so I do him a trade for the knife. Know what I’m sayin’ to you, Mr. Newton?”

  “A pimp with a rusty knife looks like a fool, that it?”

  “Close, but not close enough.”

  “You stabbed him.”

  “I guess so. An’ then I mesmerize my new name and how old I am and where I was born and all the details of my new life.”

  Newt said, “Hard work, huh?”

  “Waste of time, too. At the border they grab me and gonna charge me with murder. Said I look more like Santa Claus than this Puerto dude. Wanna know where he gone, what I done with him.”