“What’d you say?”
“Tell’em I buy the passport off a guy onna street, I never seen him no more. That’s it.”
“They let you go?”
“No fokin’ way. Turn me back. Mexicops hold me in a stinkin’ pisspot jail for six months. I lost my pimp job, all my hopes and dreams. But the Rican guy never show up so they gotta lemme go. But first they beat me up, hurt me real bad. So I decide what I gotta do. Emigrate to America.”
“And here you are, safe and sound. Prosperous and healthy.”
“Took me a while, but I done it.”
“You oughtta be proud of yourself. Know something, Rikki?”
“What?”
“This country was founded by men like you.”
“Guys onna run?”
Newt got a chuckle out of that one. He laughed so hard he almost — but not quite — spilled his drink. “No,” he said, “I’m talking about men of vision. Courageous, daring men who were willing to take desperate chances in order to make a new and better life for themselves.”
“No shi’.”
“Want some champagne?”
“Yeah, okay. All this chat-chat makes me dry inna throat.”
“We’re gonna have fun in Vancouver, you and me.”
“Yeah, okay.” But Rikki had already forgotten about the champagne, was immersed in his new passport, the tiny book
of wonders that gave him the freedom to create havoc and commit murder all over the world, almost.
Newt squinted through his champagne glass at the back of the limo driver’s head, which looked remarkably like a smaller-than-average bowling ball covered with a coarse, fuzzy black mould.
He flicked the intercom and said, “Limo guy, who cuts your hair?”
“My wife.”
“You’re married; a dude like you?”
“Three years, almost.”
“Got any kids?”
“Not yet.”
“Smart woman,” said Newt, and settled back to enjoy the ride.
Kim Basinger turned out not to be Kim Basinger after all — she was one of the flight attendants working the Delta 727 to Vancouver. Newt made a special trip all the way from the first class cabin to the rear of the plane, to introduce himself and hit on her to the very best of his ability. She turned him down flat.
“What is it,” he said to Rikki as he slid back into his seat, “I got a wart on my nose, or something?”
Rikki said, “Probably she already got somethin’ lined up.”
“Yeah?” said Newt, eyeing his pint-sized companion suspiciously.
They touched down at Vancouver International at ten minutes past five. Rikki wanted to adjust his watch but Newt explained there was no time-zone difference. Rikki didn’t believe him, had to ask Kim Basinger about it, except he called her Jessica.
Newt got the last laugh, though, as he watched Rikki yank a pair of thick woollen mittens, a down parka, wool toque and insulated gumboots almost big enough to qualify as hip waders out of his carry-on.
Newt said, “Where’d you get this stuff?” He tried on the toque. One size fits most. He pulled the weird itchy thing down over his head, all the way past his nose. “Planning to rob a bank?”
“Rodeo Drive,” said Rikki. “Cost me fifty bucks. It was the last one they had.”
“It was the only one they had, dummy.” The toque was decorated with a winter motif of evergreen trees and snowflakes. Rikki shrugged awkwardly into the down parka and was immediately bathed in sweat. Newt handed him the toque and Rikki put that on, too. The guy was a bear for punishment.
Somebody in the jostling crowd behind them giggled through his nose. Rikki kicked off a shoe and reached for a gumboot.
Newt said, “It’s almost a miracle, but if you take a peek out the window, you’ll see it ain’t raining. You’ll also see a lot of people walking around in shirtsleeves. Must be a high-pressure front or something, Rikki. Looks like we really lucked out.”
Rikki bent and peered out the window, squinted into bright sunlight. The sweat pouring into his eyes made it hard to see anything. He wiped his face with a Delta pillow the size of a roll of toilet paper. It didn’t happen all that often, but this time Newt was right.
Weatherwise, it didn’t seem as if he was going to need his snowshoes after all.
15
Arthur and Betty Chan lived in a False Creek co-op with a view of Coal Harbour, two bridges, the downtown core, bits and pieces of the mountains.
The apartment occupied all three floors of the building. Access was via the north-facing sundeck on the second floor. A glass slider led directly to the living room. Mrs. Chan was sitting on the couch reading a copy of TV Guide. Pastels splashed across the screen of a 28-inch colour television against the far wall.
“Santa Barbara,” said Parker.
“I don’t believe it.”
“Believe what?” Parker continued to peer through the plate glass.
“That you watch the soaps,” said Willows. He sounded a little surprised, maybe even a bit dismayed.
“Why not?”
“Because I didn’t think you were that kind of
Parker held up a warning hand, cutting him off before he went too far. “Careful, Jack.”
Willows said, “What do you do, tape them on your VCR so you can watch them when you come home from work?”
“What d’you mean, them? I watch Santa Barbara and Guiding Light. Two programs, and they both happen to be on at the same time so, unless I’ve got a day off in the middle of the week, I have to decide between them. It isn’t easy, believe me.”
Willows said, “You think you know somebody, and then you find out she’s an addict.”
“Well,” Parker said, “for someone who feels right at home wasting a gorgeous summer afternoon on three or four hours of tape-delayed baseball, it seems to me you’re pretty quick to pass judgement.”
“Guilty as charged,” said Willows, and tapped on the glass with his badge.
Betty Chan’s hand flew to her breast. The TV Guide fluttered to the carpet.
Willows smiled reassuringly, held his shield up high where she could easily see it. He tried the door. It was locked. Mrs. Chan stared at the detectives for a long moment and then stood up and went slowly over to the television and turned it off.
“Lost the remote,” said Willows.
“And her daughter.”
“Yeah, that too.”
Mrs. Chan turned towards them, crossed the room and unlocked the door and slid it open.
Willows and Parker entered the apartment. Parker made the introductions as Willows pushed shut the door. Builders and architects with an eye on the bottom line love sliders because they are cheap, easily installed, maintenance-free, and require less floor space than a normal door. Cops, on the other hand, hate them because they’re a thief’s dream; usually you can simply lift the door straight up an inch or two and ease it off its track. The locks that come as standard equipment are invariably at the leading edge of flimsy.
Willows wondered if he should advise Mrs. Chan to buy a new lock. He decided against it. Advice was cheap but following up cost money. In his experience, people refused to spend so much as a dime on security until the morning they rolled out of bed and discovered the silver was missing, along with everything else they owned that was worth fencing and small enough to fit in the trunk of a car.
There was a clock on the wall — a black cartoon cat wearing white gloves, the fingers pointing towards the hours and minutes. Mrs. Chan checked the clock against the watch on her wrist. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was so late.”
Willows said, “We’re a little early. Traffic wasn’t as bad as we thought it would be.”
“We appreciate you taking the time to talk with us,” said Parker. “I know it can’t be easy.”
The room was furnished with a couch and matching chair upholstered in deep blue velour. A carved rocking chair stood alone in a corner. “Would you like to sit down?”
Parker and Mrs. Chan made themselves comfortable at opposite ends of the couch. Willows moved towards the chair but didn’t sit down. A family portrait in a silver frame hung crookedly on the wall behind the chair. Emily Chan was flanked by her parents. They had dressed for the occasion. Mrs. Chan was smiling. Her husband looked very serious.
Behind Willows, Mrs. Chan said, “Emily was a wonderful little girl.”
Parker said, “Yes, I’m sure she was.”
“I told her not to get mixed up with that boy. He wouldn’t get a job, refused to work.”
“Cherry Ngo?”
Mrs. Chan nodded. “He always had lots of money. A roll of bills. He liked to take it out and count it out loud. Show off. I asked him once where all that money came from. He laughed at me, as if it was a stupid question and I was a stupid woman to ask him.”
“Did Cherry and Emily come to visit with you very often?”
“Many times. Once a week, sometimes twice. They never stayed very long. Ten or fifteen minutes.”
“Did Cherry ever bring any of his friends with him when he came here?”
“His brother, once. No one else.”
“Joey Ngo.”
“Yes, Joey. He seemed like a nice boy. Polite, and respectful. Different from his brother. I think he was very fond of Emily.”
“How did Cherry and your husband get along?”
Mrs. Chan glanced at Willows. “My husband was afraid of Cherry Ngo. He believed Cherry Ngo was a gangster.”
Willows' beeper sounded. He said, “Do you mind if I use your telephone?”
“Just down the stairs. It’s in the kitchen, I’ll show you.”
“Don’t get up, I’ll find it.”
The apartment was narrow, no more than fourteen feet wide. It had been constructed so there was room for an access hallway or stairs plus a room on each floor. The kitchen was about three feet below ground level. A large window provided a view of a light-well. The back door was glass, and wouldn’t be visible from the street. A red telephone hung on the wall next to the fridge. Willows called home.
Willy Talbot had left a message confirming that two blood types had been obtained from the Pale Green Shoots washroom. One of the blood types was a match for the specimen that had been collected from Cherry Ngo’s heart. The second had come from an unknown donor.
Willows hung up. A long hallway with several doors led to the far end of the apartment. A soft churning sound came from behind the first door. The laundry. He tried the next door and found himself in the bathroom, hit the light switch, shut and locked the door. Dozens of small plastic vials crowded the glass shelves of the medicine cabinet. Almost all the prescriptions were made out to Mrs. Chan.
Willows wrote her doctor’s name and telephone number in his notebook, along with the names of several drugs that were present in quantity.
He crouched and opened the cabinet doors beneath the sink and counter. Towels. Spare soap and toothpaste, a container of cleansing agent. A crumpled brown paper bag containing a box of sanitary napkins.
On impulse, Willows checked the toilets water tank.
Nothing.
He opened the bathroom door, flushed the toilet and switched off the light.
Mrs. Chan was in the kitchen, making tea. Willows asked her if she minded if he and Parker took a quick look in Emily’s room.
Mrs. Chan hesitated. “No, I suppose not. Are you looking for anything in particular?”
Willows said no, he just wanted to take a look.
Emily’s bedroom was on the top floor, separated from her parents’ room by an ensuite bathroom. It was a girl’s room, a child’s room. The walls were decorated with a Laura Ashley print. The wall-to-wall carpet was soft and white and the bedspread was pink with a lacy white fringe. The bedside lamp was in the shape of a polar bear. A tattered copy of Sixteen magazine lay on the night table. Parker checked the date — the magazine was almost two years old.
Parker said, “When did Emily leave home, Mrs. Chan?”
“A year and a half ago. It was in late December, during the Christmas holidays.”
Willows went over to the window, looked out. There was a view of a play area, slides and swings and a tire on a chain, a sandbox. There was covered parking for the co-op residents. An orange City of Vancouver dumpster had been shoved up against a wall overgrown with ivy on the far side of the access road.
Were the Chans planning to continue living in the apartment, or did they intend to move? Willows wondered how heavily the unit was subsidized. It must be tough, walking past that bedroom door.
He said, “Mrs. Chan, I’d like to talk to my partner for a moment. Would you mind … ”
“I’ll be downstairs.”
“Fine, thank you.”
Louvred doors opened on a walk-in closet that ran the width of the room.
Willows said, “Looks like she didn’t bother to pack.”
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Rousting the joint. Don’t just stand there, give me a hand. Look at all this, she couldn’t have left with much more than the clothes on her back.”
Parker began to work her way through the rack of blouses and skirts. The wire hangers chimed musically. She said, “What are we looking for, Jack, any idea?”
“Mrs. Chan said she and Cherry didn’t get along. But he visited her regularly, sometimes twice a week.”
“But only for ten or fifteen minutes.”
“Right.”
“You think he stashed his drugs here.”
“No,” said Willows, “it isn’t that at all.”
Parker looked at him. “Then what is it?” she said sweetly.
Willows cleared his throat. “You said you watched the soaps. A confession, and I could see it did you a lot of good to clear the air. Well, you’ve got your dirty secrets and I’ve got mine.” Willows held a blue and white gingham dress up against his chest. “What d’you think, is it me?”
“You’re a cross-dresser, is that it?”
“Admit it, you knew it all along.”
“You’re a sick person, Jack.”
Willows lifted the mattress. Nothing.
Parker said, “God, sometimes I feel so sleazy.”
Willows went over to the bureau. It was painted white, with pink trim. The top drawer was full of underwear. He said, “Claire, you mind?”
“If you’re sure you don’t want to do it.”
“Give me a break. There’s stuff in there decorated with giraffes.”
“Take it easy, Jack. Don’t panic.” Parker held up a pair of panties. “Here, pull this over your head and take a couple of slow, deep breaths.”
Parker found the baggie of white powder and the pale blue envelope taped to the underside of the drawer. The envelope held a card featuring a fluffy white cartoon kitten whose pink, heart-shaped footprints spelled the words “Happy Birthday.” There was a picture, too, a Polaroid.
Parker showed the card and photograph to Willows. “What d’you think, Jack. Is that who I think it is?”
“Sure looks like it to me.”
“Got a nice body, hasn’t he?”
Willows said, “Kind of skinny.”
“But muscular.”
“Especially between the ears, I bet.”
Parker said, “Think he killed his brother for her?”
“It’s possible. But then, who shot her?”
“Maybe we should go ask him.”
“If we can find him.”
“I wonder if he’s been in touch with the Chans since Emily was shot.”
“Let’s go downstairs and find out.”
Mrs. Chan had turned the television back on. Her eyes were rimmed with red, and her cheeks were puffy. Parker found herself wondering what had made her cry — the death of her daughter, or some tragedy that had occurred in the latest episode of General Hospital.
Willows sat down on the couch next to Mrs. Chan. He said, “Do you know what this is?” and showed her the bag of
white powder.
“Cocaine. Or maybe heroin.”
“How do you know?”
“From watching television.”
“Did you know this was in your daughter’s room?”
“Emily never took drugs.”
Willows had read the autopsy report. Emily had been three months pregnant, and she was definitely into the coke, He let it ride. “Mrs. Chan, I’m not suggesting she used drugs. Not for a moment. I’m only asking if you were aware that this was in her room?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, of course. If I found drugs, I would flush them down the toilet!”
“Did you ever do that — find drugs and throw them away?”
“No. But I told Emily that if she ever brought drugs into my house, I would destroy them. And I warned her I would inform the police, as well.”
You, maybe, but not me, thought Willows. He’d seen what a couple of months out at Willingdon could do to a kid. Willows said, “Emily wasn’t working, was she?”
“Not for the past few months, no.”
“In the days before she died, did she seem different in any way? Worried or concerned, tense?”
Mrs. Chan turned to look at Willows. She said, “No more than usual. She was a very unhappy girl.”
“She didn’t mention anything … ”
“It made her very angry if I asked her about her personal life. The simplest little question … When she came to visit, I didn’t want to argue with her.”
“What sort of things did you talk about?”
“Television. We talked about what we’d seen on television.” Parker said, “If Joey calls, or drops by, we’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention our interest in him.”
“Joey wouldn’t hurt my child. Is that what you think, that Joey did it?”
Parker said, “Emily had been beaten. Repeatedly. Do you know anything about that, Mrs. Chan?”
“No, nothing.”
“We want to talk to Joey, that’s all, and we don’t want to risk scaring him away.”
“He won’t call. Now that Emily’s gone, there is nothing here that he cares about.”
Accidental Deaths (A Willows and Parker Mystery) Page 13
