Hot Shots (A Willows and Parker Mystery)

by Laurence Gough

  Willows drove through the downtown core and along Beach, past the stone Inuit sculpture that was no doubt authentic but to his way of thinking cluttered up the shoreline. They sped over the Burrard Street Bridge, along Point Grey Road and South West Marine Drive past the beaches and then up a winding road through a scrim of hardwoods to the sprawling campus of the University of British Columbia.

  “Still know your way around?” said Parker.

  “Not so much anymore.” It had been almost twenty years since Willows had graduated. In the interim he’d taken a few criminology courses, but always at the city’s other major university, Simon Fraser. He braked to let a clutch of blue-jeaned students cross the road, wondered if he’d ever looked that young, that aimless.

  “Ever come out to Freddy Wood?” said Parker.

  “The theatre?”

  “Right.”

  “Haven’t seen a play in years.”

  Willows made a sharp right and found himself driving the wrong way down a dead-end street. He made a hasty U-turn. At the intersection an RCMP cruiser drifted past — the campus and Endowment Lands were patrolled by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

  “Why don’t you ask him for directions?” said Parker, glancing over her shoulder at the cruiser.

  “We’re doing fine.”

  “You ever see that Mountie you met up in Squamish, Pat Rossiter?”

  “He quit the force. Moved to town and went to work for a private detective agency.”

  “But you don’t stay in touch?”

  “He called a couple of times, trying to chase up some business. It’s been a while since I’ve heard from him. Couple of months, at least.”

  They drove past the university bookstore. Willows remembered it as being much smaller, and in a different location. He came to another intersection, made a left turn on the yellow. A girl in a short black dress and cowboy boots stared at him. Her boyfriend said something and laughed. Willows glanced in his rearview mirror.

  The RCMP cruiser was right behind them, headlights flashing.

  Willows pulled over to the curb, got out of the car and walked swiftly back to the cruiser. The RCMP officer was in his early twenties. He glanced up, startled, as Willows reached the cruiser. The Mountie pushed open the car door and Willows stepped back, giving him room.

  “Can you tell me how to get to the squash courts?” Willows said.

  The Mountie flipped open his ticket book. “May I see your driver’s licence, please.”

  “Sure,” said Willows.

  “Would you please take your licence out of ...” The Mountie saw the gold detective’s shield, leaned forward to take a closer look.

  “The squash courts ...” prompted Willows.

  “There’s a T-shaped intersection about a mile down the road, maybe a little more. The sports complex is off to the left. You’ll see it.” He removed his peaked cap, yanked open the cruiser’s door and tossed the cap on the seat. “Next time you think about making a turn without signalling, do yourself a favor and take a look in your rearview mirror, okay?”

  “Thanks for your help,” said Willows.

  There are four squash and two racquetball courts in the UBC complex. The kid with the lisp was back at the desk. He told Willows that Rich Woodward was in the end court, number six. Willows asked for directions.

  The kid gave Parker a big, uncomplicated smile. He locked his cash register and led them down a narrow concrete hallway and up a flight of stairs, past a white-painted door. Willows found himself standing at the top of the spectator’s gallery — several rows of wooden bench seats that were separated from the courts by strong netting. He said, “We wanted to talk to him, not watch him play.”

  “He doesn’t like interruptions. Won’t talk to you until his court time’s over. Anyhow, there’s no way to get at him. The door’s locked from the inside.”

  “Which one is Woodward?”

  “The guy with the wristbands.”

  The ball caromed off the end wall, hit the leftside wall and began to drop. Woodward attacked, delivered a backhand smash. The ball smacked against the end wall an inch above the foul line, rolled slowly across the polished wooden floor.

  Willows crooked two fingers in his mouth and uttered a long, piercing whistle.

  Woodward glanced up at him. Willows showed him his badge. Woodward used his racket to point at the big electric clock on the wall. He jammed his racket under his arm and made a fist with both hands and opened and closed both fists three times in rapid succession.

  “He’s got another thirty minutes on the court,” the kid translated.

  The netting was thick nylon cord. Willows supposed he could probably find a knife somewhere, or a pair of scissors ...

  Parker said, “The last thing we want is a hostile witness, Jack.” She turned to their guide. “Is there a restaurant in the building?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  The sports complex housed a hockey rink as well as the squash courts. High above one end of the rink, separated from the ice by a wall of glass, was a spacious lounge with a fast-food restaurant and well-stocked bar, scatter of tables on a thin, beige carpet. A girl in jeans and a bulky sweatshirt brought them menus. Parker ordered a tossed salad and tea, Willows a cheeseburger and a beer.

  The rink was occupied by twenty or thirty young children and their mothers. Several of the children were skating with the aid of folding metal chairs. Willows tried to recall his childhood. He remembered the first time he’d fallen; how hard and unyielding the ice had been, the sudden shock of pain that had been much worse than the accompanying humiliation.

  “You skate?” said Parker.

  “I was a player. When I was about ten years old. Peewee league.”

  “When did you decide you wanted to be a cop, instead of a highly-paid professional athlete?”

  “About the same time my father decided he was tired of getting up at dawn to drive me to the rink.”

  Willows smiled. Parker thought he had a nice smile, for a cop. She watched a girl in white tights and pink mittens and a matching pink toque describe a figure-eight and then raise her arms high above her head and spin in a tight circle, glide gracefully across the ice.

  The girl in jeans arrived with their food.

  Willows bit into his hamburger. He drank some beer. The beer was cold. The beer was good. Eating was often a disappointment but drinking was always a pleasure. In future, he’d have to remember to drink more and eat less.

  “What’s so funny?” said Parker.

  “Life. How’s the salad?”

  “I’ve had worse. It’s just that I can’t remember when.”

  Willows drank some more beer, listened with pleasure to the shrill cries of the children, scrape of skate blades on ice. He checked his watch. Woodward’s time was up. He wondered, how was it that no matter where he was or what he was doing, just as he was beginning to enjoy himself, it was inevitably time to do something else?

  Willows and Parker walked into the locker room and found Rich Woodward with a T-shirt bunched up in his hand and a towel draped around his neck. Woodward was muscular, sweaty. He had short brown hair, no sideburns. Intense, dark brown eyes. A warrior of the courts, a jock. He gave Parker a quick second look, and Willows watched the residual combativeness and intensity from the game slowly leak out of him. Willows decided it would be best if Parker asked the questions.

  Parker introduced herself, got straight to the point.

  “Who placed third in the Men’s Singles competition of the 1988 Inter-City Squash Championships, Rich?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Very serious. We’re investigating a murder. We were told you might be able to help us.”

  Woodward used the towel to wipe sweat from his face, combed his hair with his fingers. “If you’d asked me who won ...”

  “Who won?” said Parker.

  “Me,” said Woodward, and grinned. “A pro from over on the island was second. Charlie Rankin. The guy who cam
e in third ...”

  Parker had her notebook out, pen ready.

  “His name was Gary something. Gary Silk. Feisty little bastard. Real nasty temper. Looks sort of like a scaled-down John McEnroe. Bad winner, terrible loser. I mean, I can be as intense as the next guy, but he was an asshole all the time, on and off the court.”

  “Gary Silk,” said Parker. She spelled Silk’s name as she wrote it down.

  Woodward nodded. “That’s it. What’d he do?”

  “Can you describe him?” said Parker.

  Woodward frowned. “I just did.”

  “Let me put it this way,” said Parker. “Can you describe John McEnroe?”

  Woodward snapped the sweatbands on his wrists to hide his confusion.

  Willows said, “I think we’ve got what we came for, Claire.” He shook Woodward’s hand. “Thanks, Rich.”

  “Hey, any time.”

  Outside, walking across the parking lot towards the car, Parker said, “So now I know why you stopped playing hockey. You were afraid you’d turn into a dumb jock.”

  “No stereotyping,” said Willows. “It’s departmental policy, if I recall.”

  23

  “Get your warrant, Jack?”

  “An hour ago.”

  Inspector Bradley nodded. It had been a bright and sunny day. The natural light so strong he hadn’t needed to turn on the goddamn overhead fluorescents that usually buzzed and hissed and crackled all day long, like a great big bowl of cereal, distracting him and with increasing frequency making it next to impossible to concentrate on his work.

  Now it was past seven; the sky had begun to darken and the walls of his office were magically turning the color of cherry blossoms. He wriggled a little lower in his chair, puffed on his cigar.

  His belly growled. He was very hungry, but somehow had no appetite. Recently his dining habits had changed dramatically. Cooking had suddenly become a chore, and nothing depressed him like a sinkful of his own dirty dishes. He’d fallen into the habit of eating out, rather than at home. He often sat at the counter instead of a booth, because the counter offered more opportunity for casual conversation. Pathetic. He hunched forward in his chair, flicked ash into the wastebasket. The chair creaked dismally. He said, “When you going to hit the place, Jack?”

  “Eleven o’clock.”

  Bradley nodded thoughtfully. Smoke dribbled out of his nostrils.

  “Who’s involved?”

  “Eddy Orwell. Dan Oikawa. We’ve got ten squad cars, fifteen uniforms, two units from the dog squad.”

  “That ought to do it, I guess.”

  “There’s almost three-quarters of an acre of grounds,” said Willows, a hint defensively.

  The light was a little darker now, purplish in the corners of the office — turning the color of varicose veins. He was almost twice as old as Claire Parker — in three days he’d be sixty.

  “Maybe I’ll come along,” Bradley said. “Just for the ride.”

  Willows gaped at him.

  “You don’t mind, I hope.”

  “Of course not,” said Parker.

  24

  At Blanca and Chancellor Boulevard there was a loop, a turnaround for the buses that travelled up Tenth Avenue and serviced the University of British Columbia. The loop was in the shape of a half-circle, and except for the Blanca Street side, was surrounded by a windbreak of thirty-foot high cedar trees.

  Ten patrol cars and an enclosed van — a paddy wagon that would be used to transport the smaller fish to the city jail at 312 Main — stood idling on the asphalt. A copse of alder and wild cherries stood at the curve of the loop that was farthest from the street, and the squad stood in darkness beneath the trees as Willows went over his plan of attack for the last time, making doubly sure everyone knew exactly what to do and when to do it.

  There was nothing complex about the plan.

  Gary Silk’s ten-thousand square foot home had one front and one rear entrance.

  A ground-level door on the east side of the house gave access to the basement.

  The only way in or out of the squash courts was via the glass-enclosed walkway that connected with the house.

  Willows wanted four men at the front door, three at the rear and two more at the basement entrance. Teams of two men plus a dog and handler in the front yard and behind the house, at the garden gate. Willows and Parker would take four more men into the house with them. One of the detectives, Oikawa, was armed with a riot gun.

  There was another riot gun in the backyard, by the gate leading to the lane. There was tear gas if they needed it.

  The last thing Willows did was run a quick equipment check, make sure the walkie-talkies were functioning and everyone had the right frequency.

  “Okay,” he said at last, “let’s get it over with.”

  The procession swung out of the bus loop. Gary Silk’s multi-million-dollar oceanview home on Drummond Drive was exactly half a mile away. They’d be there in minutes.

  The house was on the south side of the street, hidden behind a neatly trimmed ten-foot high boxwood hedge and an ornate, electronically controlled wrought-iron gate.

  The aluminum grid of an intercom was set into one of the granite posts that flanked the gate. A fat yellow button glowed in the darkness, but there was no need to push it — the gate was wide open.

  “Think they’re expecting us?” said Parker.

  “Let’s hope not.” Willows rolled down his window. The sound of crushed limestone beneath the tires seemed very loud as he drove slowly towards the house. The driveway was on the left side of the property, snaked through thin stands of deciduous trees. The trees were small and misshapen, the branches gnarled and oddly twisted, as if writhing in pain. Mushroom-shaped security lights, apparently placed at random, illuminated the trunks and lower branches, brilliant emerald patches of close-cropped lawn.

  The house was about a hundred feet in from Drummond Drive. All the windows were brightly lit. The front door was wide open and a shaft of yellow light spilled across the steps and threw the risers in black shadow.

  Three cars were parked in the circular driveway in front of the house — a dark green Morgan, a black Lincoln Continental and a white Cadillac. Willows pulled up behind the Caddy, turned off the Olds’ engine. Car doors slammed shut behind him. A dog whined. Someone, Oikawa probably, worked the pump action of his riot gun. There were muttered voices, the soft clatter of equipment.

  Willows waited by the car as the team dispersed to their positions. The men fanned across the yard, dark blue jumpsuits quickly swallowed by the darkness.

  Parker had her gun in her hand. Willows started up the sidewalk. He reached the wide front porch. There were two big clay pots full of some kind of ivy, a pair of white-painted wooden garden chairs and a matching bench that was suspended from the porch ceiling by chains and was swaying gently. A girl lay on the bench, curled up on her side, apparently asleep.

  Parker went over and looked down at her. The girl’s eyes were open, the pupils dilated. She was wearing an Orange Julius uniform; dark brown slacks and a matching blouse with orange trim.

  “What’s your name?” said Parker.

  “Samantha.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I dunno. Ask Gary.” The girl’s voice was thick, slurred. Her breath smelled of gin. She rolled over on her back, closed her eyes and began to snore.

  “I think I took her out once,” said Oikawa. “Or maybe it was somebody just like her.”

  Willows pointed at one of the uniformed policemen stationed at the bottom of the steps. “Put her in a squad car and make sure somebody keeps an eye on her.”

  Oikawa and Parker and three uniformed cops followed Willows through the big front door, into an entrance hall as large as Parker’s apartment. There were closed doors to left and right, a central hallway that led towards the rear of the house. A huge, pale green cactus stood in a ceramic pot. There was a desk with a telephone on it, and four black and white studio photograph
s of Gary Silk clutching a squash racket and a handful of trophies. Ahead of them, a curving stairway led to the second floor of the house. A burst of laughter floated down to them.

  Willows told the three uniforms to check the ground floor of the house. He and Parker and Oikawa started up the stairs. At the landing, the spiky arms of another cactus reached out to greet them.

  Gary, Frank, Pat Nash, Randall and his girlfriend Ginger were all in the den, drinking beer and smoking Kelowna Gold as they watched taped highlights of the previous year’s Superbowl game on Gary’s big fifty-two inch color TV. The leaded glass windows overlooking the backyard were wide open, but even so, the air was thick with the sweet, cloying scent of marijuana.

  The ball was snapped.

  There was a spectacular midfield collision.

  “Wow,” said Randall.

  “It’s a contact sport,” said Gary. He slapped Ginger on the thigh, gave her a friendly squeeze that lasted far too long. Ginger glared at Randall, but Randall was smart enough to concentrate on the game. Frank winked at Pat Nash and Nash glanced away. The throwaway .38 Frank had given him pressed against his belly. His bladder felt as if it was about to burst. He crossed his legs, squeezed them together. He’d already left the room once, said he needed to use the toilet but had made a quick trip to Gary’s bedroom.

  It was Frank who finally noticed Willows and Parker standing in the doorway. He looked into the muzzle of Parker’s .38 Special, then at the gold detective’s shield clipped to her lapel. Willows smiled at him. He put his beer down on an inlaid rosewood coffee table, dropped the joint hissing into the glass.

  “What the fuck y’do that for?” said Gary.

  Frank stood up very slowly, keeping his hands away from his sides. He turned off the TV.

  Gary said, “What the hell you think you’re up to, Frank?”

  Frank jerked his thumb at Willows and Parker. Gary’s eyes widened comically. He started to get up, had second thoughts. The flight bag stuffed with five hundred thousand dollars in small bills, no consecutive serial numbers, was sitting on the sofa beside him. He put his arm around the bag. The Japanese cop pointed the riot gun at him.