15
Marius Dupree is finally starting to feel the heat. There’s something about these Canadians that makes him sense danger looming. They appear more incensed, more determined to solve the killing of this exotic dancer than they should be. He keeps hearing references to Willie Pickton and how the VPD is determined not to let another serial killer prey on this most vulnerable segment of society.
Although an admitted egomaniac Dupree tries to remain sensitive to his own mortality and the danger of underestimating the proficiency of his opposition. Up to this point he’s felt omnipotent, way too smart to ever let the cops run him to ground. But now there’s just a smidgeon of doubt that he’ll remain invincible in Vancouver. After all, in L.A. he has a huge edge. Not so here.
Maybe it’s time to cut and run as the Americans are so fond of saying.
* *
“So, what do we know about this guy we can go to work on?” Lillian muses.
Jake is stretched out on a patio recliner in the backyard, sipping an iced lemonade. He’s feeling exhausted even though he’s done little to explain it and his mood is soured as a result. “You’re the profiler,” he responds. “You tell me.”
Lillian takes no offense to Jake’s abrupt retort. “Okay, he’s French. Could be French Canadian, could be Continental, could be Cajun. My guess is he’s no more than thirty-five. He’s able to pass himself off as everything from a young surfer to an old man, but he can’t fake youth to any great degree so I don’t see he could be much older than that. He’s got to be in excellent physical condition obviously. He’s white. Most likely well educated – probably with a university degree. He may have a background in the theatre given his talent for disguise. He hates women. Could mean he was abused by a woman, maybe his mother, as a very young child. And… he has a huge ego.”
“That probably narrows it down to a few hundred thousand possibilities,” Jake mutters with disgust. “Shouldn’t take us more than fifty years or so to run them down.”
Lillian looks over at him from her chair under a patio umbrella. “I’m not so sure about that, Jake. Why don’t we start with the possible theatre connection? We could begin with Louisiana. There’s probably some kind of union for actors. We could start with a list of possible names based on our description and concentrate on character actors with a reputation for disguise, then---”
“Jesus, Lil,” Jake interrupts, “do you have any idea how much work that’s going to entail? Just in the states alone, never mind Canada and France on top of that.”
“Okay, I agree it’s a huge undertaking. What do you suggest?”
There’s a silence of a minute or so. Then: “You said before you had a feeling he might be European based on his letter sounding too sophisticated for the average American. Why don’t we use what we’ve got but limit our search, to begin with at least, to France. And concentrate on the well known. This guy doesn’t seem to have any need to work if he can move around the way he’s doing and maybe the reason he’s got such a huge ego is because he’s used to adoring crowds of fans fawning over him.”
“Shit, why didn’t I think of that,” Lillian responds excitedly. “It’s Brad Pitt. Got to be. Phone Bobby and tell him to get an arrest warrant out right away.”
Lillian’s playful attitude lightens the mood and Jake takes the sarcasm with good grace. “Nah, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t speak French. Can’t be him.”
“I’m going to put some time in on the computer,” Lillian says getting to her feet. “See what kind of websites there might be that can help us.”
“If you don’t have much luck,” Jake says, “I could give Bobby a call and get him to have the task force help out.”
“Okay. But right now I’ve got some things I want to check out on my own. And you look like you could use a nap.”
An extensive number of websites offer a huge amount of information on French actors, past and present. At first, communicating with some of the leads they develop is hindered by their inability to ask questions but they overcome this obstacle by enlisting a friend of Tristan’s to help out with translating.
The list of actors who fit their age profile is onerous enough but, even so, they could be wrong - maybe their guy is much less a celebrity than they hoped. They’re taking a gamble but it is one that makes the whole process somewhat workable.
Depending on their definition of ‘successful’ there are upwards of two hundred actors who could fit the general description of their man. It takes them a week to get the list down to a workable twenty-five.
Most of the grunt work in the afternoons is performed by Lillian. By early afternoon most days Jake is in no condition to do anything but lie down.
Over a tuna casserole Lillian has prepared for dinner she looks at Jake a little nervously. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave you for a while, Jake,” she says.
He’s been distracted, thinking his own thoughts while pushing the food around his plate. Now he looks up with a startled expression. “Why, Lil? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, but I’ve been here for a month. I need to take care of some things at home. And it would be nice to get into some different clothes. I’ve been wearing the same three outfits for way too long.”
“You can buy whatever you need. I’d be happy to---”
“No, Jake, if it was just the clothes I’d grin and bear it. But I’ve got bills to pay and lots of things to look after at home. I wasn’t planning on being away this long when I left.”
There is no missing the disappointment on Jake’s face. “Okay,” he says. “If you must.”
“I could be back in a week, ten days at most.”
Jake nods. He has come to rely on Lillian far too much and he knows it. Without her around to look after him he is not at all sure how he’ll do.
“Will you be okay while I’m gone?” she asks, mirroring his own thoughts.
“Of course, Lil. Don’t worry about me. I’ll miss you, that’s all.”
“We’re narrowing things down with the French actors guild,” Lillian says. “We’re waiting for word back on a couple of names but right now there’s not a lot more we can do with the French leads. It’ll be a good time to take a break – good for you, too.”
“Okay,” he concedes. “When are you leaving?”
“I checked with the airport this afternoon. I can get an early flight tomorrow morning.” She registers the look of dismay on Jake’s face. “You sure you’re going to be okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” he assures her.
Seldom has he felt less sure about anything. Even Crocket picks up on Jake’s distress. Curled at Jake’s feet under the table, he whimpers softly and nudges closer.
16
Bobby Schultz and Keith Abrams are wrapping up the day, having just put the finishing touches on the days paperwork. Abrams stands and stretches. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Bobby,” he says.
“Hold up a minute, Keith,” Schultz says.
Abrams parks his butt on the corner of Schultz’s desk. “What’s up?”
Schultz leans back in his chair and checks to confirm there are no other detectives around to overhear them. “Keith, I’ve been meaning to mention something to you about Tristan.”
“Yeah, what about her?”
Schultz is uncomfortable with this but perseveres. “I was over at Jake’s place the other day and he seems a little concerned that maybe you’re trying to move things along a little too fast. If I was you I’d back off just a little. Give the girl some breathing space.”
Abrams looks mildly shocked. “What---”
“Listen, don’t take this wrong. It’s not like it’s a big deal. Jake didn’t even want me to mention it to you but I figured you should know. Just ease up a bit, that’s all.”
“I didn’t know she felt that way. I mean we seem to be getting along pretty good.”
Schultz is embarrassed for his partner. It’s not cool seeing him belittled about his love life. “Like I said, it’
s not a big deal.”
Abrams stands and heads for the door, distracted and obviously not thrilled with the gist of the conversation he’s just had. “Later,” he mumbles on his way out.
Schultz grabs the jacket from the back of his chair and rushes out after his partner. “Keith,” he calls, “wait up. Let’s grab a drink before we head home.”
Abrams doesn’t slow down. “Not tonight, Bobby.”
The cell phone on Schultz’s hip buzzes, interrupting his attempt at appeasement. “Schultz.”
“Bobby, it’s me,” Jake says.
“Jake. What’s up?”
“Just touching bases. Anything new?”
“Not a lot I’m afraid,” Schultz admits. “Just hammering away at every possibility of a lead we get. What about you? You guys come up with anything on the French angle?”
“We started with a list of over two hundred and we’ve whittled it down to a couple dozen so far. Waiting for word back on a couple of names.”
“Oh, yeah? Good. Sounds like you guys are making progress.”
“I hope so. By the way, Lillian is flying back home to Santa Fe tomorrow to look after some things. She’ll probably be gone for a week or so.”
“Seeing as you’ll be a free man,” Schultz says, “maybe we should grab a bite out somewhere tomorrow night. Have a few drinks. You up for it?”
“I suppose so as long as you don't have anything more in mind. I’m not exactly the same high flyer I once was, Bobby.
Schultz chuckles. “Not to worry, pal. I’ll take good care of you.”
* *
The middle-aged man behind the wheel of the innocuous looking van would not normally raise any red flags in the mind of Constable Ian Mackie, who is directing traffic around a three car collision on Lougheed Highway just east of the Highway 1 overpass in Vancouver. As the driver approaches the constable he nods politely and waits patiently for a tow truck to hook up to a late model Ford Fusion with significant frontend damage. Constable Mackie returns the driver’s nod and turns his attention to the next approaching vehicle.
As traffic resumes the constable glances in the direction of the van, noting the California plates. That morning at roll call the duty sergeant had reminded all officers to be on the lookout for anything suspicious being driven by a man of any description with California plates.
There is nothing particularly suspicious about this individual except that he appears too refined to be driving such an ordinary looking vehicle. Stylish clothes and an expensive wrist watch don’t quite match the choice of transportation. Mackie would have figured him for a Lexus or a Mercedes. Beige windowless van seems too… well, ordinary.
The incident does not, however, register as important enough to pursue beyond his usual habit of memorizing the license plate number, a habit he has honed to a fine art. When the damaged vehicles have all been dealt with Mackie climbs into his police cruiser and takes a notebook from his shirt pocket, noting the time and brief descriptions of the driver and van with the California tags.
* *
About six-thirty Schultz arrives at Jake’s home. Jake invites him in for a drink before they head off for dinner. They’re sitting in the living room sipping neat Scotch, chatting idly, when Jake’s radar picks up something disconcerting.
Bobby is lying to him. In fact he’s been fabricating bullshit since he got here but, mostly, it’s stuff about women. Bobby has always thought of himself as a bit of a lady’s man and likes to overstate his success in the skirt chasing department but what's happening now is different. He’s being deliberately dishonest about something so completely obvious that it grows in importance in Jake’s mind by virtue of its sheer stupidity.
Like anyone who has spent time as a police officer, Jake is aware of the fact that everybody lies. It’s part of the human condition. But why, he wonders, would Bobby lie by telling him he was disappointed when he and Abrams were chosen to be lead detectives on the Goddess Slayer case after Jake and Tank Bleeker were taken out of the picture? Bobby had been clearly disappointed when he and Abrams were not named as lead detectives from the very beginning. The truth is, high profile cases like this very often result in a lot of publicity for detectives which can in turn lead to promotion. There is nothing unusual about detectives being disappointed when not chosen for such honors. Why then make a point of saying you didn’t want the lead when the opportunity finally presented itself? All Bobby has accomplished with this foolishness is to lose all credibility in Jake’s mind.
Jake is also keenly aware that Bobby has been drinking even more than usual lately. His penchant for the sauce played a significant role in the demise of his marriage a decade earlier and Jake had hoped his friend would have learned from that. Is Bobby’s behavior now the result of too many years of boozing and nothing more?
Jake isn’t sure but, either way, the prospect bothers him.
17
“How are you doing, Jake?” Lillian asks, phoning from her home in Santa Fe.
“Not as well as when you’re with me, kid,” Jake responds. “But I’m okay.”
“So you still want me to come back?”
“Lil, I’m amazed you’d even ask the question. Of course I do. I can’t wait for you to get here.”
“Mmm. No matter how old I may get I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearing that.”
“Good. So, how much longer are you going to be?”
“A couple more days should do it. Then I’ll be good for a month or so if necessary. Has there been anything new since I left?”
Jake is tempted to tell her about his odd readings on Bobby Schultz but decides it can wait until she’s back in L.A. “No, nothing. Haven’t heard anything back from France yet.”
“Okay, don’t sweat it. We’ll stir things up when I get back to you. Meanwhile, get lots of rest. I’ll see you soon.”
* *
In Vancouver Inspector Fortier conducts his regular morning pep talk. He’s just about to wrap things up when Detective Shaw raises his hand. “Yes, Detective?”
“It’s probably nothing significant, Inspector, but a constable stopped in to see me at the end of his shift last night. He’d been called out to an accident scene on the Lougheed Highway, near the Burnaby boundary, around 10 a.m. While directing traffic at the scene he noticed a beige minivan with California plates being driven by a middle-aged man. The only reason he mentioned it was he said the driver’s clothes and wristwatch, which appeared expensive, seemed out of context with his vehicle. The driver did nothing suspicious but the constable made note of his plate number anyway.”
“What’s the constable’s name?” Fortier asks.
Shaw refers to his notes. “Uh, Mackie. Ian Mackie.”
“Thank you, Detective. I’ll have a word with the constable myself. If there’s nothing else, let’s hit the streets.”
In his office Fortier checks the name and determines that Constable Ian Mackie works out of the Hastings Street station. A call to the duty sergeant results in a call back from Mackie within ten minutes.
“I’d like to talk to you about the van you reported seeing yesterday,” Fortier tells Mackie. “Stop in to see me as soon as you can.”
“Yes, sir,” Mackie responds, hoping his attempt to be thorough doesn’t end up biting him in the ass.
“So tell me what you remember about the man driving the van,” Fortier says an hour later.
Mackie takes his time, bringing the driver’s face to mind. “I’d say he was a pleasant looking guy, maybe forty-five or so. I only saw him from the side but he was dark-haired with a bit of grey at his temple. Well dressed in a light colored suit, open necked blue shirt. He was wearing designer glasses and either a Rolex or a good knockoff, and what looked like a very expensive diamond ring on his left hand.”
“What about the van itself?”
“California plates, light beige in color. Windowless. Very uh… unremarkable. Kind of cheap looking. That’s what seemed a little odd to me. It didn’t ma
tch the rest of him.”
“It struck you as unusual enough to note the plate number but not to report it as suspicious?”
Mackie looks slightly embarrassed. “That’s about it, Inspector.”
“Okay, Constable. Good work. You can get back to your duties.”
Mackie leaves quickly, not entirely sure whether he’s been congratulated or chastised.
Fortier sits quietly after the constable’s departure, mulling things over in his mind. Although it seems almost too minor to warrant any kind of action the inspector can’t quite abandon the feeling that Constable Mackie’s sighting might have been the real thing. Despite some strong misgivings, Fortier decides to put out a person of interest alert to all police agencies in the province, as well as border crossings. He’s aware that the action he’s taking could tarnish his reputation but he’s seen more than one major crime solved on nothing more substantial than a gut feeling.
* *
After spending the previous day and night at the famous resort at Harrison Hot Springs Dupree rises early. His decision to cross the border back into the United States this morning is nothing short of a miracle of providential timing. Five minutes before the Canadian border crossing at Osoyoos receives the 'be on the lookout for' from the VPD Dupree slides into obscurity.
He breathes easier now that he’s back on American soil. The Canadians seem too organized for his liking. Despite their reputation as laid back and friendly Dupree has come to believe that, insofar as the law is concerned, it masks a professionalism that would not work in his favor.
Cruising idly down an empty stretch of highway Dupree is completely at odds about where he should go from here. The further south he travels the more tempted he is to return to Los Angeles. Although he has only been away for a short time, he misses the hustle bustle of the big city with all it’s diversity and lack of charm. He revels in the noise, traffic, and congestion that L.A. offers. Even the smog doesn’t bother him.
THE FOURTH BULLET: A Novel of Suspense Page 10
