Parents tended not to like having to do that.
Tonight, at least, she hoped she’d gotten to them before they could get themselves into any real trouble. “Okay. Kieran and Rob, you can go. Bradley, I want to talk to you.”
Bradley Lindsay glanced around. His friends shrugged.
Smith jerked her head.
“Catch you later,” Kieran said. Then he and Rob ran off, as if Smith would change her mind and arrest them after all.
“You can’t keep me,” Bradley said. “Not after letting them go. I wasn’t doing nothing.”
Molly Smith’s degree was in Social Work. She’d been studying for her MSW but dropped out after the death of Graham. She no longer had any desire to go back to it, all she wanted now was to be as good a police officer as she could. But sometimes, she simply couldn’t help herself.
“Don’t you think your dad needs you at home, Bradley?”
The boy looked into her face, habitual sneer firmly in place. She returned the stare, saying nothing. His eyes were clear, pupils normal sized. He broke away. “My dad doesn’t care what the fuck I do.”
“I doubt that’s true. But, even if you think it is, what about your grandparents? I’m sure they’d like you home.”
He shrugged. “My grandmas are okay. Granddad’s a bossy old fart.”
“They’re all hurting, you know.”
He turned his head to the side and spat on the ground. “I got places to go, people to see. Couple of hot girls, older girls, meeting up with us later, get my drift? You can’t make me stand here talking to you.” He shrugged his thin shoulders in a display of braggadocio, stuck his thumbs into a loop on the waist of his overlarge pants. “Unless you want to go someplace private like. And talk. Yeah, we can talk. How about your car? I’ve heard what goes on in cruisers. Late at night. No one around.”
What a pathetic little jerk. She would have laughed if it hadn’t been so sad. “You want to bug your dad, do you? How about I arrest you, take you in. Give him a call.” This boy needed help. She didn’t know if his dad would be able to give it. Bradley was in trouble before his mom died, minor stuff, teenage rebellion. Now, with all that rage against the world building up inside?
His eyes shifted to one side. “He won’t care. Probably still at work. He’s always at work.”
“We’ll get your grandmothers then. One them will come down to spring you, I’m sure.” She pulled her handcuffs off her belt. Took a step forward.
He leapt back. His eyes dropped and all the aggression melted out of his body. “No. Okay, I’m sorry. I apologize, Constable Smith, if I insulted you.”
“That’s better. I’ll let you off, but I want you to go home. If I see you out tonight, I will arrest you.” She softened her voice. “Your grandparents would like to visit with you, don’t you think?”
“Yeah. They’re not doing so good. Grandma Renee in particular. My mom was her only child. She’s having a hard time.”
“Do you think she needs to be worrying about you?”
“Probably not.”
“How about you, Bradley? You doing okay?”
His shoulders shook and for a moment she feared he was laughing at her concern. Then she realized he was struggling to hold back the tears.
“It’s okay you know, to cry. She was your mother.”
When he looked up again, his eyes were wet, a drop of moisture clinging to the long black lashes. “The last thing she said to me was not to go out. It was the first night of school holidays, and she wanted me to stay in. Watch a movie, play Settlers or something. Like we did when I was little.” He sniffled and rubbed his glove under his nose. Smith dug in her pocket and found an unused tissue amongst all the detritus of a cop’s uniform. She passed it to him. He twisted it in his fingers. “Who the hell wants to sit at home playing board games with their parents and a ten year old? I told her…I told her to stop being such a clingy nag. I told her to fuck off.” The tears were running now, free and fast. Smith didn’t touch him. She stood in front of him, quietly, saying nothing, letting him cry it out.
When Graham died, and later her dad, all she could think about for a long time was the things she should have said to them, before they left her forever. But she didn’t know their time was coming to an end, and people didn’t go around telling those they loved how much they valued them every time they walked out the door.
When was the last time she’d told her mother she loved her? Probably not since she was a kid, younger even than Bradley. But Lucky knew Molly loved her. It didn’t have to be said.
“She wouldn’t have minded, you know. That that was the last thing you said to her. She knew you loved her.”
“But she didn’t. She didn’t,” Bradley sobbed. “How could she have known? All the things I said to her, the names I called her. Now she’s dead and I’ll never see her again. Mom. My mom.”
Smith’s radio crackled. A car accident on the highway. Not her call, but she couldn’t stand here counseling this kid all night.
“Have you had dinner, Bradley? I haven’t and I’m starving. How about we grab something at Crazies? They’re open until nine on Tuesdays.”
He rubbed his eyes. Blew his nose. “Why?”
“Why? Because I’m hungry.”
He hesitated.
“My treat.”
She practically saw his tough kid armor settle back down around his shoulders. “Nah. Word got around I was with a cop, everyone would peg me for a snitch. Can I go now?”
“I’m not keeping you here. Why don’t you drop into the youth center tomorrow? Someone there’ll be happy to talk to you.”
“I don’t think so. That place’s for wusses.” He sneered and started to walk away. A decent kid trapped in a teenage boy’s body. He hitched up his drooping jeans.
“Go home, Bradley,” Smith called after him. “Your dad needs you. You’re sorry you didn’t say goodbye to your mom. You can make it up by being there for your dad.”
He turned around. “My dad. What do I care? My dad’s never been there for me. I doubt he much cares Mom’s gone. See you around, Smith.”
“Do it for your grandparents then. Or your sister. She’s a nice girl. She doesn’t have a mom any more. She needs someone who cares for her. What’s her name again?”
“Jocelyn.” His face softened. The sneer faded. He sniffled. “Her name’s Jocelyn.” He turned the corner and disappeared into the shadows.
Chapter Twenty-one
Wonder of wonders, Wednesday dawned bright and cheerful. As John Winters ate breakfast and lingered over coffee and the paper he was delighted to see the weak rays of the early spring sun poking out from between the mountains. Soon the snow would start to melt and before you knew it, crocuses and daffodils would be pushing their heads out of the ground.
“Victoria,” Eliza said, glancing up from her iPad. “I haven’t been to Victoria in ages. It’s such a delightful city. Will you be taking afternoon tea at the Empress?”
“Think the city’ll pay for it? I am going to interview a man’s mistress. The setting would be appropriate.”
“If they won’t, they should.” She nibbled on a slice of unbuttered whole-wheat toast.
His phone rang. Ray Lopez calling from the office. “Good morning, boss. I’ve got something that might make it an even better morning.”
“Go ahead.”
“Mark Hamilton. The math teacher? He served in the military for twelve years. 1994 until 2006.”
“What’d he do there?”
“Infantry. A grunt. Entered as a private, left as a sergeant.”
“Infantry means weapons.”
“Firearms of many types. Training on how to use them. He did a couple of tours in Afghanistan. Left the military immediately after his last tour and went to UBC where he earned a four-year degree in mathematics. He then enrolled in the UBC teachers’ program. Started working at Trafalgar District High in September of last year, his first teaching job.”
“What’s hi
s police record like?”
“Before signing up he did a variety of odd jobs. Lumber camps, fishing boats, short-order cook. Seasonal unskilled stuff. He was in some trouble before he joined the army. Couple of arrests for punch-ups in bars, one drunk driving offense. He’s been clean as a whistle since 1993.”
“As far as the record shows.”
“Precisely. You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“We know our guy had to be good with firearms, and this has moved Hamilton to the top of my list. Whether he had reason enough to want Cathy Lindsay dead, whether he was in the vicinity at the time, is another matter entirely. Ray, get his plate number and vehicle description. Send it out. RCMP and border guards. I want to talk to him, and I don’t want to sit around any longer twiddling my thumbs waiting for him to come home.”
“You got it.”
“Get into his military records. Find out if he was in any trouble with the MPs. I want a peek at his medical records as well. Plenty of opportunity for trauma and psychological problems in Afghanistan. Look for a diagnosis or treatment of PTSD. Explosive temper, paranoia, that sort of thing.”
“Will do. What time’s your flight?”
“Eleven. I hate giving up a whole day, possibly two days, just to speak to this woman. Probably a waste of time, but it’s necessary. She’s not only close to Gord Lindsay, but she might have her own reasons for wanting his wife dead.” Winters snapped his phone shut. Across the breakfast table Eliza’s head was down as she read the screen of her iPad. The tip of her tongue was trapped between her teeth, and she drummed her pink fingernails against the table top.
“You heard nothing,” he said.
“Really, John, after all these years you don’t have to tell me.” She lowered her reading glasses and fixed him with her amazing green eyes, sparkling with love. Or maybe only the reflection off the snow as the rising sun hit the untouched expanse of white and threw diamonds through the kitchen window.
***
Winters read reports all the way to Vancouver. He’d taken an aisle seat, not wanting to be distracted by the breathtaking view as the small plane flew low over the snow-covered mountains. He trotted through the terminal to catch the next leg of his trip. The even smaller plane had scarcely taken off before it began the descent into Victoria. This plane was so small everyone had a window seat, and he put his papers aside to admire the view. A sprinkling of verdant green islands were scattered across the blue sea like a giant child’s handful of discarded marbles. No snow here, and when he got off the plane at the Victoria airport he shrugged off his winter jacket. It was a good fifteen degrees warmer than in Trafalgar.
“Sergeant Winters?” A woman approached him. Thirties, casually dressed in brown wool pants and matching jacket over a beige blouse. Her black hair was cropped very short, and although she could stand to lose a few pounds they carried well on her approaching six-foot frame.
“Yes?”
“Constable Louise Swanson. I’m your ride.” She held out her hand, and he accepted the shake. Her grip was firm, her hand cool.
She led the way to her car. He didn’t have luggage, just a backpack into which he’d stuffed a change of underwear and clean shirt along with his toiletry bag.
He told her it was nice to see some grass for a change.
“Got lots of snow where you’re from?” she asked, in a tone that was almost wistful.
“Don’t tell me,” he said. “You’re a skier.”
“Every chance I get. That’s the great thing about living in Victoria. I can take my kids up island in winter for skiing. In summer, we get out on the sail boat.”
Pleasantries over, as soon as they were in the car, a non-descript blue van, pulling into traffic, Winters said, “Did you call Ms. Moorehouse yourself?”
“Yup.”
“How’d she sound?”
“Not too concerned, I have to say. She said she wasn’t surprised at my call. She’d heard about the killing in Trafalgar. The wife of my good friend, is how she put it.”
“Tell me what you know about her.”
“Not much to tell. She has no police record. She went to school in Smithers. Never attended university or college. Works at a local hardware store. Pretty dull life. On the surface.”
“You never know what simmers beneath.”
“And that,” Swanson said, “is why you and I have jobs. Only one small item of interest. She was the victim of a serious knife attack a couple of years ago. Sounds like wrong time, wrong place sort of thing. The attacker was arrested on the spot, convicted, did some time. That happened before Moorehouse moved to her current address, and I could find nothing at all in that case to do with anyone name of Lindsay.”
Elizabeth Moorehouse lived on a street of comfortable middle-class homes not far from the center of the city. Compact houses with huge trees on spacious lots indicated the age of the neighborhood. Swanson drove slowly, checking the house numbers. Spring was well underway here, and the neat gardens were lush with flowers and blossoms.
She pulled to a gentle stop in front of a small brick home, the front door and shutters painted a deep cheerful red. The street ended a few houses further down and Winters could see a flash of water. A canal or small river.
The police got out of the car and walked up the path. Winters knocked on the red door, and it opened almost immediately.
The woman was more attractive than he’d expected. Tall and slim with good skin and thick brown hair pulled back into a high ponytail. Her makeup was heavy but not untasteful. She wore jeans tucked into leather boots, a black T-shirt sprinkled with glitter, and a red leather jacket, nipped in at her small waist. A red silk scarf was wrapped tightly around her neck. At first glance she appeared to be in her early thirties. He looked closer, saw the fine lines at the edges of her eyes and around her mouth, the skin on her neck beginning to fold, and upped his estimate by a decade.
She smoked, a lot by the smell of it, and the tobacco struggled to compete with an expensive perfume, applied with a heavy hand.
“Right on time.” Her husky voice was reminiscent of smoke-filled bars and whisky-soaked nights. “Come on in to my humble abode.”
She turned and they followed. Swanson closed the door. A small dark hallway led into the living room. The furnishings were mass-produced from The Brick or Ikea. A vase of tall red roses, wilting slightly and browning around the edges, sat on the coffee table. Everything was neat and tidy. The room overlooked a large garden, shaded by old trees. A single lounge chair and a small table occupied the stamped-concrete patio.
“Have a seat.” Moorehouse tossed herself onto a chair. A packet of cigarettes and an overflowing ash tray lay on the table beside her. She shook a cigarette out of the pack and lit it. Her hands contrasted with the rest of her. The nails were short and broken, the skin rough with a few nicks and cuts. She took a deep breath before saying, “I know you’re here about Gord’s wife. I read about it in the paper. Terrible thing.” Her voice broke and she coughed.
Winters sat on the couch. As well as tobacco and perfume, the place smelled of an excess of air freshener. Overlaying the distinctive scent of pot. Not his concern; he wasn’t here on a drug bust. Swanson’s nose twitched.
“You’re friends with Gord Lindsay?”
“Yes.”
“Good friends?”
“Very good friends, if you catch my meaning.” She dragged on her cigarette. The end glowed red.
“Gord lives here, with you, when he’s in Victoria?”
“That’s right. I’m sure you’re too polite to ask, so I’ll come out and say it. He sleeps with me. In my bed.”
“How long have you known Mr. Lindsay?”
“Three years.”
“This is a nice house. Do you own it?”
“If you’ve done your homework, you’ll know I do. I bought it in 2002. Got a good deal, the price of homes in this neighborhood, big yards, close to the water, near downtown, have skyrocketed since. The house was pretty much a
wreck, the yard a jungle. I worked hard, did most of the gardening and renovations myself.” She looked around the living room, proud.
“Does Gord Lindsay contribute to the mortgage?” Winters asked.
“He chips in to help with my expenses. Why not? He lives here a quarter of his time. You’re wondering how I can afford this place. Well I’ll tell you. First of all, I work at the hardware store. That means I get tools and lumber and everything else I need at a hefty discount. It also means I make only slightly more than fuck all in salary. Fortunately, I have other sources to maintain my lavish lifestyle.”
A Cold White Sun: A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (Constable Molly Smith Series) Page 16
