Killers

by Laurence Gough

  A wraith moved across the window. Parker turned. A bewildered young blonde woman stood in the doorway, her hands in the pockets of an expensive chocolate-coloured full-length suede coat.

  “Susan Carter?”

  The woman nodded. She slipped gracefully out of the coat. Beneath the coat she wore a cream silk blouse and a pleated skirt in grey wool with a windowpane pattern in burgundy. She stood about five foot two in her sensible black shoes. Parker doubted she weighed much more than a hundred pounds. Her skin was very pale. Her full red lips gave her small mouth a look of compression, almost disapproval. Her blue eyes were set a little too far apart.

  Susan’s most striking feature was her long blonde hair. Parker estimated she was in her early twenties. The skin around her eyes was dark and puffy, and there was a tinge of red to her nose. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, but perhaps she’d cried it all away. She was pretty enough, but bland. Somehow, there wasn’t much to Susan Carter. Parker tried to think of the word that best described her. Insubstantial.

  Parker introduced herself, and Willows. She pulled the chair away from the desk and told Susan to go ahead and sit down, relax.

  Susan said, “This is about Dr Roth, isn’t it? He was such a sweet, sweet guy.”

  Parker had to repress a smile.

  “We were told that you and Dr Roth were very close.”

  “Really?” She smiled at Willows. “If we’re going to get into my personal life, would you mind shutting the door?”

  Perhaps there was a little more to Susan than showed on the surface. Willows did as he’d been told.

  Susan said, “Dr Sweeting suggested Dr Roth and I were involved in some way?”

  Parker shook her head. “No, not at all. He did say he’d heard rumours about the two of you. But he insisted he didn’t think they were credible.”

  Susan said, “I don’t know what the hell it is about this place. All those little fish swimming around in all those tanks, maybe. Like sperm, turning everybody on.”

  Parker said, “So you’re saying the atmosphere here results in a lot of tongue-wagging…”

  Susan smiled. “Nope. What I’m saying is, Gerard was doing it to me every chance he got, and I loved every minute of it.”

  And then she burst into tears, and collapsed across her desk. An elbow hit the Mac’s keyboard. The computer bleated like a deeply offended sheep.

  Parker handed Susan a Kleenex from the family-size box on her desk.

  Willows took a moment to study the larger of the two wet-suited figures in the photograph. Maybe it was Roth and maybe it wasn’t.

  Parker offered Susan some more Kleenex. The sobbing segued into intermittent snuffling.

  Willows said, “Tell us about him. What kind of guy was he?”

  Susan’s head came up. She pushed back her hair and tossed a balled-up Kleenex at the wastebasket, missed by a foot.

  “He was wonderful. So caring. Attentive and sexy. He knew all the best restaurants and how to order wines and how to wear clothes. He was smart and he was witty and he had a really nice apartment in False Creek. He loved to cook, too, and he was good at it. Italian food was his specialty. He’d spent a couple of years in Italy when he was younger, and spoke the language fluently.”

  Willows said, “That’s you in the picture, on the left?”

  Susan nodded. She dabbed at her bright blue eyes, loudly blew her cute little nose.

  The beach dropped steeply down to the water, and it looked as if the guy standing beside Susan was a little higher up the slope, which would give him an artificial height advantage. If Susan was five foot two, the guy standing beside her had to be well under six feet.

  Roth was six-two, easy, even without his flippers.

  Willows tapped the picture with the tip of his pen, loudly enough to get everybody’s attention. “Who’s the diver standing next to you?”

  Susan blew her nose again, missed the wastebasket again. “That was taken up in the Queen Charlottes, the summer before last. God, but the water’s cold up there! I think his name was Walt. He was a local, and he was a really good diver.”

  “Was Dr Roth present on that trip?”

  She nodded. “But at the time, we didn’t know each other. Hadn’t met. His wife might’ve been with him, I’m not sure.”

  “You knew he was married?”

  “Yes, of course. We talked about it all the time.” Susan misinterpreted the look on Parker’s face. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but they’d been separated for more than a year.”

  “Yes, Mr Kelly mentioned that.”

  “Gerard spent so much time in the field that eventually he and Iris lost touch with one another.”

  Parker said, “I can see how that might happen.”

  “He was never home. Even when he was in town, he worked incredibly long hours. Iris was very lonely. She resented Gerard’s work habits but never said anything. Then she found out somehow that he was having an affair. When she confronted him he admitted he’d had a whole lot of affairs, and that was that. She kicked him out and hired a lawyer. About six months later he invited me out. To the opera. He has season tickets. We’ve been inseparable ever since.”

  Or at least until recently, thought Parker. It was odd, the way Susan kept referring to Roth in the present tense, and didn’t think to correct herself.

  Willows said, “Did Dr Roth ever talk about the women he’d had affairs with before he met you?”

  “I questioned him about his past in detail, after we’d started sleeping together. I wanted to know what kind of woman he was attracted to, and I was looking for a pattern, trying to see how I fit into the scheme of things. And also, I admit it, I was desperately curious to find out what turned his crank. Well, Gerard loved to talk about himself. And I was careful not to appear judgmental. He’d gone out with just about anything in a skirt, before he started up with me. Married or single or anywhere in between — it didn’t make the slightest bit of difference.”

  “But you felt he changed, when you started going out together?”

  “Definitely. We were very serious about each other, right from the start. Gerard was remarkably intelligent and he was brutally honest with himself. Believe me, he was quick to see the error of his ways.”

  Parker waited a moment and then said, “Do you have any idea what Dr Roth was up to, last night?”

  “You mean the fact that he was naked?”

  Parker nodded.

  “He liked to swim inside, in the big tank with the black-tailed sharks.”

  “Did he ever swim with the whales?”

  “No, never. It was too dangerous.”

  “If he did, would you know about it?”

  “There were no secrets between us. That’s part of the reason the relationship worked so well.”

  Parker said, “Do you have any idea why else he might go outside on such a chilly night?”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t. I’ve thought about it and thought about it, but I just don’t know.”

  “Did any of his research involve killer whales?”

  “No, absolutely not.”

  “How did he feel about the aquarium’s policy of capturing and displaying whales?”

  “The aquarium doesn’t capture whales. Bjossa and Finna aren’t local — they’re Icelandic.”

  Willows saw the logic of the aquarium’s policy — if the whales weren’t local it made it that much harder for animal rights groups to fight their capture. But that wasn’t the point, and he said so. “Regardless of where the whales originated, how did Dr Roth feel about their capture and display?”

  “He strongly disapproved. I mean, he didn’t make a fuss about it — the aquarium was instrumental in funding a great deal of his research. But everyone, even Tony, knew how he felt.”

  “Did you ever go for a midnight swim with Dr Roth?”

  “Almost every week, usually on Thursday nights. We swam with the belugas, too, a couple of times. But it’s kind of boring, so we gave it
up.”

  Parker said, “Why is it boring?”

  “Because you can’t have sex in the pool. They take too much of an interest. They want to get involved, if you know what I mean.”

  “Were you at the aquarium last night?”

  “No, I left at five o’clock and went straight home.”

  “Then what?”

  “I showered, made dinner. Watched television and went to bed.”

  “You weren’t expecting a visit from Dr Roth?”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “What did you have for dinner?”

  “Leftover tuna salad and a glass of dry white wine. Okay, I confess. Two glasses of wine.”

  “What was on television?”

  “A movie. A really old one called The Birds.” She smiled at Parker. “Have you seen it?”

  “Years ago.”

  “It starred…” Susan frowned, bit her lower lip in frustration, then turned and stared at Willows. “Am I a suspect, Detective?”

  “No, of course not.” He smiled. “How could you be? As far as we’re aware, no crime has been committed.”

  Parker asked Susan Carter a few more questions about the killer whales, and then Willows interrupted to say he was pretty sure it was Ray Milland who’d had the male lead in the Hitchcock film. Parker said no, it’d been Darren McGavin. They stared down at Susan sitting there at her desk in her tiny office, waiting patiently for her to tell them who was right and who was wrong.

  God, she’d damn near memorized every line of the film; but all those birds swirling around in her brain had her completely confused.

  Which was not a good thing, because the detectives seemed so suspicious.

  She told herself to calm down. They were trained to be inquisitive. It was bred into them. They simply couldn’t help themselves.

  Willows said, “We may want to talk with you again, Miss Carter.”

  “Anytime.”

  Parker said, “You do have our sympathies. We want you to know that.”

  “Thank you.”

  Willows said, “If you think of anything…”

  She nodded, turned to the computer and worked the keyboard for a few moments, then turned the machine off. By now the detectives would be almost to the reception area. She called out.

  A moment later, Willows appeared in the open door.

  She smiled at him, putting a little extra into it, and said, “I just thought of something.”

  He cocked an eyebrow.

  She said, “You’re right — it was Ray Milland.”

  Chapter 10

  The single parent with the dentist’s appointment was, according to the script director’s scribbled notes, an automobile mechanic. Speaking with his agent on the phone, Chris said, “Oh yeah? Cool. What kind of cars does he work on?”

  Actors. Sherry bit down hard on the plastic tip of her cigarillo, inhaled deeply. “What kind of cars would you prefer to work on, Chris? I mean, if you really were a mechanic, instead of a chronically unemployed actor.”

  “Jaguars?”

  “That sounds just fine.”

  “Or maybe, on second thought, that’s too elitist. BMWs? How about a BMW — everybody’s got one of them suckers.”

  “BMWs would be perfect.”

  Chris said, “What’s the director’s name again?”

  “Rusty Arnold.”

  “Yeah, right. I could pop the hood of the Subaru, poke around in there. Get a little grease under my nails…”

  Ten per cent was ten per cent. Sherry told herself to hold on to that thought. She forced a laugh. “Whatever works, Chris.”

  Chris said, “How old’s my little boy?”

  “Young. Very young.”

  “He’s my only son?”

  “Daughter.”

  “Uh, okay. I can live with that, I guess. What’s her name — or has she got one?”

  “Read the script, Chris.”

  “If I get the part, can I keep her?”

  “Only if you can afford her.”

  Chris said, “Maybe I should work for Mercedes Benz. I can do a great German accent…”

  Very calmly, Sherry said, “Oops!”

  Predictably, Chris kept on about the accent. Sherry had to cut in. She said, “I lit a cigarillo a minute ago, tossed the match in the wastebasket and now I got a three-alarm fire, the office is full of smoke. Catch you later, okay?”

  Click. Buzz.

  Chris was downtown, the Subaru double-parked. He waited thirty seconds and dropped a quarter, called back. Sherry’s secretary, Bobbi, picked up on the first ring. Chris asked her if the fire was under control.

  “What fire?”

  Chris said he had a message for Sherry. Tell her not to worry, he said, he’d decided on the Jaguar after all. Bobbi said, “Wait a minute, what fire?”

  Chris hung up, got in the car and started driving. He’d never in his life made it to an audition on time. He was always early. Always.

  Or didn’t bother to show up at all.

  The auditions were being held in a drab three-storey brick structure on Hastings, a couple of blocks from Gastown. Inside, an area roughly the size and shape of a boxing ring had been separated from twenty thousand square feet of unused space by the simple expedient of laying down strips of white tape. A couple of overworked space heaters glowed red in a futile attempt to dispel the chill.

  Rusty Arnold was sitting in a director’s chair that had the word ‘Rusty’ printed on the back in clumsy block letters. Arnold was wearing a six hundred dollar brown leather bomber jacket with a sheepskin lining, silvery-grey wide wale cords and a pair of scuffed work boots, a cheap straw cowboy hat.

  He looked at Chris, did a stylized double-take and then put a finger to his lips, cleverly miming silence.

  Or maybe he was about to throw up.

  A gopher in black jeans and a tight black sweater eased up on Chris from his left flank. She put an arm around him and got up on her tiptoes, let him take the weight of her breasts as she leaned into him, whispered could she get him a cup of coffee? Chris was about to tell her she could get him any way she liked, remembered the silence edict and nodded his head, miming ‘yes’.

  An actress was reading from a script laced through with blue and pink rewrite pages. Chris watched her drop to her knees. He listened as she patiently told an invisible little girl Mr Dentist was waiting for her and he was so looking forward to her visit. And besides, if she didn’t do what she was told all her teeth would drop out the minute she fell asleep tonight.

  Rusty said, “Can you just run through those last few lines one more time for me, honey?”

  The actress nodded, smiled.

  Rusty said, “Be really threatening, okay? Think of a recent situation when you’ve felt intimidated, and then turn it around and use it. Can you think of a situation recently when you’ve felt intimidated, honey?”

  The actress nodded enthusiastically.

  “Good girl. Now grab the surly little bitch — I’m talking about your daughter here — and shake her so hard her teeth damn near fall out. Remember, this is comedy! Broad strokes, sweetheart.”

  Chris mulled the situation over, tried to drum up the motivation a typical Jaguar mechanic would need to grab his tiny little darling girl and shake the living bejeezus out of her while screaming threats into her face in front of several horrified day care workers who would surely call the cops the minute he walked out the door.

  He sighed wearily, glanced around. The cheesecake who’d offered him coffee was off in a corner necking with a guy he vaguely knew, Stan, a failed actor who was now a lighting technician and probably could afford a Jaguar, if he wanted one.

  Chris stood there in the shadows, memorizing his terminally stupid lines as his blood congealed and the actress screamed at her daughter until her voice failed her.

  Chris got set. Rusty ignored him. Another would-be child abuser came out of nowhere and did her level best to emotionally scar her child for life.

  Fin
ally, about quarter past eleven, the director shot out of his chair and turned and pointed at him in shocked disbelief, “Are you Chris?”

  Chris reluctantly admitted it.

  Rusty asked him who his agent was. Chris mentioned Sherry’s name. Rusty told him he was terribly sorry for wasting his time, even though it sure as hell wasn’t his damn fault.

  Chris said, “Excuse me?”

  Rusty explained he was a hundred per cent sure he’d told Sherry he was looking for a woman. He made a crack about Chris’s name being kind of ambidextrous. Then asked Chris how old he was, and how in hell he thought for one moment he could play the father of a five-year-old child.

  On his way out, Chris fingered his buck knife and enjoyed a lull-colour fantasy about cutting Mr Director into even thinner slices of baloney.

  He walked three blocks to his car, paid the parking lot attendant three dollars and asked for a receipt. Either the guy smoked a lot, or he’d neglected his teeth ever since they arrived. Chris thought about grabbing him by the throat and delivering his lines, but reasoned that any parking lot guy who valued his life probably kept a sawed-off baseball bat clamped between his knees.

  So he just drove anticlimactically away.

  Earlier, he’d toyed with the idea of downing a latte at Starbucks. But the disastrous audition had left him in no mood for world-watching. What a much better idea it was to head over to the zoo for a little stroll, some fresh air.

  He could ogle the otters. Bait the bears. Menace the monkeys. Maybe go inside the aquarium, admire the anchovies.

  He drove straight out of Hastings, past the boarded-up picture windows of what used to be the downtown branch of the Woodward’s department store chain. When he was a kid his mother used to take him downtown on the bus during the Christmas holidays to admire the animated display in the store’s big plate-glass windows. Every year it was the same. The whole gang turned out. Elves and gnomes, reindeer. Santa and Mrs Claus.

  When Chris had finally had enough of the spun-floss snow and the elves’ inhumanely repetitious chores, his mom would take his hand and lead him inside, along a maze of aisles and then downstairs to the basement cafeteria. He and his mom would get up on stools at the horseshoe-shaped counter. She’d order a coffee for herself and a grilled cheese sandwich — hold the pickles — and a coke for him.