Invisible Dead

by Sam Wiebe

  Law nodded, miserable.

  “See, Dice loves dice,” she said. “He lost big at pai gow. He lost big at big two. He owed money to some people with Hong Kong connections. Rather than go into hiding, he went to Rhodes to broker a deal. They get paid back, Dice and his family get to keep their heads and feet, and Terry Rhodes owns a controlling interest in the Law Courts. That about right, Dice?”

  Dyson Law nodded again.

  “So you can imagine what he knows,” Dolores continued. “Crown prosecutor would love to get Dice to talk, but he’s afraid. Of Rhodes, of the Hong Kong boys, of the police. But he’s not as afraid of me as he should be.”

  She bent over Law. Law flinched. She picked a piece of white fluff out of his hair.

  “Tell him about Chelsea,” she said.

  His face quivered but Law said nothing. Dolores slapped the side of his head. It wasn’t a womanly slap. It was the kind that could dislodge teeth.

  “Give it up to him or I’ll peel you like an Anjou pear.”

  It occurred to me, perhaps too late, that I’d wandered into the midst of a kidnapping.

  Dolores held her palm out to me without breaking eye contact with Law, the way a surgeon would to a nurse. “Toss me a knife from the second drawer down,” she said. “There’s a big Stanley that keeps a good edge. On second thought, maybe the serrated. Yeah, definitely the serrated.”

  Law talked. He’d given Rhodes the offices and back rooms of the Law Courts, setting up his own office in a storage closet. Law heard some of the deals Rhodes was running—other protection schemes, busting out restaurants, defrauding insurance companies. Rhodes let his dogs have the run of the kitchen area, and soon all the Law Courts offered were nachos and hot nuts. It was Law’s turn to bust out, and he did. The Law Courts were disassembled, the stoves and fixtures auctioned off. Law now worked for his father-in-law.

  Rhodes spoke only in general terms, delegating to others. But one business he handled personally. He’d installed extra phone lines and office equipment for that purpose. That business was women.

  Or it involved women. Law wasn’t sure. One night Rhodes told him to go out to the dance floor and fetch Charity. Law tried to but she refused to come along with him. He relayed that to Rhodes and Rhodes stormed out and dragged her back to the office. Law was sure it was Chelsea Loam because years later he’d see her face on posters and remember that night, and remember that was the last time he saw her in his club.

  Rhodes dragged her back to the office and slapped her. She was pouting like a disobedient child. Law didn’t think she looked scared. Just miserable.

  Law was an amateur photographer. Rhodes told him to bring his Polaroid. He told him to snap pictures of Chelsea, a front and side shot. “And make sure she looks fuckable,” he’d instructed.

  He told Chelsea to lose her top and she’d sassed him but ultimately complied. Her body looked unhealthy, famished. Law had her strike a supermodel pose, suck in her cheeks, look over her shoulder with a side view of one breast.

  Rhodes handed her a twenty and sent her away. He took the three best pictures, arranged them in a triangle, and photocopied them onto one sheet of paper. He dialed a number and said, “I’m gonna send you something you’ll like,” hung up, and faxed the sheet.

  “You have to tell me where he took her,” I said.

  “I only know that much.”

  “Then fucking guess the rest.” I was shouting.

  Law had retreated into the couch. Even Dolores was staring at me. I made an effort to compose myself.

  I rubbed my forehead, thinking out loud. “Okay. Rhodes is too high up to be a pimp, unless the clients themselves were high up. He was sending women to them. Auditioning them. Told me he didn’t kill her. Probably knows who did.”

  They were watching me as I paced.

  “Overman’s the obvious culprit. Liked his sex, knew Rhodes from the parties. Can’t see him killing Chelsea or having it done, but that’s off meeting him as an old man. Can’t rule out his son. Maybe killed the old man’s mistress to keep his family together? That leaves Perez and Palfreyman. Sex I could see them going to Rhodes for, but would they kill to protect their careers? Not like they’re judges. Maybe they thought they had a chance to be. Maybe maybe maybe. Who am I not thinking of? Goddamn it.”

  I sat down. Dyson Law inched away from me on the couch.

  “The problem,” I said, “is that if you have money and position and a friend like Rhodes, you can do anything you can think of with no consequences. How could you trace that back if it’s only Rhodes that knows? He wouldn’t share that kind of juice even with his cronies.”

  “So let’s go ask Rhodes,” Dolores said.

  “I guess I have to if I want to know.”

  She snapped her fingers in front of my face. “I was just joshing,” she said. “I’d sooner take a shot at killing him than getting him to talk. Least if you killed him you’d only have to worry about Gains and all the others. ’Less you killed them, too.”

  “I don’t want to kill anyone,” I said.

  “What about whoever did for Chelsea? You wouldn’t take a gun to him?”

  “I just want to understand,” I said.

  I stood up. Dolores grabbed my arm, spun me so I was square with her. As she spoke her hand dug into my shoulder.

  “You’re telling me after you find out who did for her, proved you’re a big-shot private eye, you’re gonna say ‘That’s it,’ let that man get away with it?”

  “He already got away with it,” I said. “Nothing’s bringing her back.”

  “He’s got to pay and he’s got to pay hard and he’s got to know ’zactly what he’s paying for.”

  “You’re talking murder.”

  “Which goes on every day and doesn’t seem to bother folks when it’s poor coloured girls. But some rich white man—and you and I both know that’s who it’s gonna be—he gets a free pass? Where’s your sense of justice?”

  The hall door was open. Dyson Law was gone.

  31

  RHODES, TERRY. The fucker was in the phone book.

  I thought about what to do with that information. I thought about it as I lay next to Shay in bed, listening to her quick, regular breaths. I thought about it the next day as I drove out to Richmond for a word with Tim Kwan.

  He and his cohort were attending the opening night of a legal professionals conference, held in the ballroom of one of the swank hotels out by the airport.

  I had my lawyer wrangle me an invite. Shauna Kensington, mother of twins, had as much interest in a conference titled “Negotiating the Fields of Justice” as watching ants cart away a dead mole. We walked in with the kids between us, she identified me as her plus one, and the three of them ran back to the world of cartoons and juice boxes.

  I had one question to ask Kwan. Seeing his company at the event, I didn’t even need to ask that. I nodded to him and turned my attention to G. Calvin Palfreyman and his resplendently dressed wife.

  “Word with you, C.P.,” I said.

  He introduced me to Mrs. Palfreyman, told her he’d be back in two secs. He asked Kwan to make sure she didn’t associate with the wrong people.

  “This is going too far,” Palfreyman said. We left the ballroom and walked out into the courtyard, away from the awnings where clusters of people traded cigars and lawyer jokes.

  “I know what you did,” I said. “Tell me about the case against Rhodes.”

  “It fell apart,” he said. “Hearsay and a lack of substantial physical evidence. Not to mention the procedural errors of those overeager cops. My boss wanted to charge him anyway, considering how much money the government pumped into surveillance and such. But it’s a loser case, not even worth the political points he’d make laying charges.”

  “You know Rhodes was selling women?”

  “Selling them? You mean pimping them?”

  “He had photos of Chelsea Loam faxed to an unknown number. She disappeared soon after.”

  �
�I knew they should’ve been up on the fucking fax machine,” he said.

  “So you’ve read the case file?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Everyone in the office wanted a piece of the Rhodes case. There are guys who’d come out of retirement to get that accolade. But it’s a loser case, as I told you.”

  “How often did you see Chelsea?”

  “Never. I told you that, too.”

  “But what’s the real answer?”

  He turned his head to make sure no one else was in earshot.

  “Look,” he whispered, “I met her at some stupid art show. I saw her a few times. I was lonely and I was on the outs with my wife.”

  “Poor you.”

  “I used to drive down Hastings as part of my commute. Sometimes I’d see her on my way back late at night. One day I stopped to talk to her, she offered and I was weak and said yes. A few months later I broke it off. I told my wife, I cut a cheque to a marriage counsellor, and I’ve been working on making amends. I did not harm her or do anything wrong except pay her for sex. I don’t know what happened to her.”

  “When you saw her photo with Rhodes in his case file—”

  “I was worried she’d be called as a witness,” Palfreyman said. “Of course I was. I imagined some scene where I’d be called in to handle her testimony. She’d pretend not to know me, and then say it in the middle of the courtroom and ruin me. So I was relieved, yes, when I found out she was missing.”

  “You had Kwan show me the photo. You wrote the note telling Gail Kirby to talk to Ed Leary Nichulls.”

  “Yes and yes.”

  “You felt guilty.”

  “I’m Catholic,” he said. “The day I don’t feel guilty for something, my mother will disown me. When I heard Gail Kirby was looking for Chelsea, I wanted her to get some closure. I’ve talked to Nichulls. I know a true psychopath when I see one. I thought the Kirbys would ask, and he’d deny it, and his very denial would be the proof she’d need.”

  “She would infer her daughter was dead,” I said.

  “Yes, with no need for further proof. When I learned she’d hired a private investigator, I knew you wouldn’t quit. Anyone who gets paid by the day stretches things out.”

  “So you had Kwan run the same ruse, with the picture of Chelsea and Rhodes.”

  “A piece of real evidence. A picture that tells you everything about a woman and the danger she’d put herself in. I thought you’d see that picture and your fear of Rhodes would curtail your investigation.”

  “Kwan owes you.”

  “He’s a bright young mind. When I start my own practice next year he’ll be invaluable.”

  “I believe some of that,” I said. “This had nothing to do with easing Gail’s mind and everything to do with keeping your own ass out of the fire.”

  “They’re not mutually exclusive. One action could have brought about both results. You, of course, were more diligent than planned. Or suicidal.”

  “I like flattery,” I said. “What I’d like more is a copy of the Rhodes case file.”

  “Too fantastic to consider, even facetiously.”

  “I need something.”

  “Make it something else.”

  “The night that photo was taken. I want a list of all calls made, from all the Law Courts’ numbers. Transcripts of those calls if you have them.”

  “The wiretap evidence was inadmissible. It’s not part of the official case.”

  “That poses a very interesting dilemma that I don’t give four-fifths of fuck-all about.”

  He shook his head. “Can’t do the wiretaps. Maybe I could do the phone numbers.”

  “Of all the lines, especially the backroom ones.”

  “It’ll take some time,” he said.

  “Then you’d better get on it.”

  We rejoined the soiree. I watched Palfreyman head to Kwan and Mrs. Palfreyman, kiss her cheek, laugh as someone hit the punchline of an anecdote he hadn’t listened to. I left through the back.

  —

  There was business to be done, a conference call with Utrillo to take, two forensic artists to hire for Mr. Ghosh. The next day at the office I dispatched all that and was having lunch when Shuzhen ushered in Shay.

  “She’s a bit snooty,” Shay said as I closed the door.

  “She’s just jealous.”

  “That’s right,” she said, kissing me. She pointed down at my take-away. “Curry? Can I have some?”

  “Just in the neighbourhood?” I asked as we sat down.

  “Pretty much,” she said between mouthfuls of rogan josh. “Actually I wanted to ask you something. You remember Marius?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, he’s leaving town soon, going to Halifax, and he’s having this sort of going away party at the Backpacker’s Lodge, and my girlfriend and I are going, and he asked me could I drop that money off for him, seeing as how he’s leaving.”

  “What money?”

  “The money you got from Joe.”

  “He asked you for that?”

  “He did, yeah, since he’s leaving.” She laughed as if sensing what I was thinking. “You don’t have to worry. That was only because Joe paid us for the movie. His dick is gross. I mean it’s big, really big, but he doesn’t get fully hard. It’s like having a mushy cucumber inside you.”

  “I trust you,” I said.

  “You should, sweetie.”

  “It’s just that I gave him his money already.”

  Her brow knit. “That’s strange. Are you sure he got it?”

  I called my email up on the computer screen and turned the monitor so she could see.

  “Dear Sir,” she read. He’d managed to misspell both words. “Thank you for all you done for me. I never will forget it. I will use the money smart. Thank you.”

  I said, “He goes on to offer me a discount if I want to watch him jerk off.”

  Shay read through it again.

  “Hunh,” she said. “That’s so weird. Maybe he forgot.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Do you think that’s what it was?”

  “Do I think he forgot two thousand dollars?”

  “So what do you think?” she asked.

  “Are you trying to get me to say I think you’re lying?”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “Who wants you to say anything?”

  “You know that if you need money you can ask for it, right?”

  “For two thousand dollars?”

  “Is that how much you need?”

  “Either I can ask or I can’t, so which is it?”

  “Why don’t you tell me what it’s for?”

  “Why are you doing this to me? Do you want to hear me beg?”

  I leaned back in my chair, thought it over, brought my chequebook out of the drawer. “Fine,” I said. “How ’bout four hundred?”

  “How ’bout two thousand?”

  “Six hundred.”

  “Nine.”

  I wrote it out and tossed the book and pen across the desk to her. “Why don’t you fill in the memo part and explain what it’s for?”

  She lobbed the book at me. “You fucking asshole.”

  “Right. I’m a fucking asshole because I don’t want to see you kill yourself.”

  “You knew who I was when you fucked me.”

  “Think about where you’re at. You’re thirty.”

  “Twenty-nine, same as you. Don’t talk to me like you’re my dad.”

  “I’m sorry you had a shitty childhood but they’re all like that. It’s not permission to drop off the side of the world.”

  “You don’t know anything,” she said. “Big fucking deal who thinks he knows what’s best for people.”

  “Maybe you should consider I do know what’s best for you. All the decisions you’ve made in your grown-up life, how have those worked out so far? You feel good about yourself?”

  “I feel like shit and you’r
e making me feel that way.”

  “But a lid of coke will solve everything.”

  “It makes me feel good,” she said.

  “Who the fuck told you you should feel good? You shouldn’t feel good. Life is about eighty percent shit. You should accept that and quit charging your good times to the people who love you.”

  “Do you think I love you?” she said.

  I sat back and spread my arms. “Who knows? Maybe it changes day to day.”

  “You gave me money and were nice to me. And I fucked you for that.”

  “You’re saying you see me as a john? I don’t think you sleep over or make breakfast for too many johns.”

  “Not a john,” she said. “In our business we call people like you marks. We get a place to stay and money, and in return we fuck you. It’s better than being on the street, safer, but same deal. It lasts until the money runs out. Or the mark falls in love.”

  She was laughing, hysterical, triumphant. “You’re a mark. That’s all you are to me.”

  “Get the fuck out of here,” I said quietly.

  “Mark. I fucking played you.”

  “Out.”

  She slammed the door hard enough that it rebounded instead of closing. I heard her laughter out to the hall and down the stairs.

  The chequebook lay on the carpet like a lapsed curse or a slain desire.

  —

  I spent the night drinking in Veritas, the lawyer’s bar. I didn’t want to be around anybody. When that closed I cabbed to the Narrow, an underground bar on Main that took cash for bottles of Kronenbourg. I listened to the playlists the bartenders came up with, their MacBook hooked into the speakers, heavy on Mudhoney and LCD Soundsystem.

  After I closed out the Narrow I walked home along Broadway, singing to myself about neon lights and glitter and magic.

  32

  THE DRINK WORE OFF AROUND NINE. I got up and pissed and popped three of Shay’s acetaminophen and crawled back to bed. I woke up with slices of August sun baking my chest through the barred window of my bedroom. I got dressed because there was nothing else to do.

  A mess of scrambled eggs and plastic cheese, a quart of pulpy orange juice. I was choking down my second pot of tea when my phone went off, vibrating across the top of the fridge like some mutated science experiment. I answered it with a whispered “Yeah?”