“Something like that, I guess.”
“How do you know she even has a lover?” Mabel said.
“She told me her marriage was a sham and that she was having affairs she didn’t want with lovers she didn’t like. She’s had five lovers since she got married, she said, so there’s a good chance she has one now.”
“You work fast, don’t you?” Mabel said. “You knock on the woman’s door and the next thing you know she’s telling you all about her marriage and her lovers. Kovacs isn’t going to like this. He isn’t exactly Mr. Charm, but he’s a good interviewer. All he got out of her in an hour was her running schedule. Why did she spill her guts to you?”
“Well, she did drink almost two full bottles of wine in under three hours,” I said.
Mabel groaned. “Please tell me you didn’t sleep with her.”
“I didn’t sleep with her.”
She breathed a sigh. “Sorry,” she said.
“It’s all right. Forget it.”
“You liked her, though.”
“Yes,” I said. “Quite a lot. But I also feel, well, sorry for her. As I said, she’s a very unhappy lady.”
“Kovacs says she’s very attractive. Your track record with attractive women is not great, Tom. Your track record with very attractive women is even worse.”
“Thanks. It’s good to have friends who will tell you exactly like it is. Keeps you humble.”
“You’re welcome.”
“But maybe you’re right,” I said. “Maybe she was playing me. I don’t like to think so, but …” I shrugged. When I’d left her house the night before, I’d been certain that she hadn’t had anything to do with Bobbi’s assault. Likewise, the following morning. However, it was as if she’d cast some kind of spell on me, but it had finally worn off and I could think clearly again. I still didn’t want to believe she’d lied to me, and maybe she hadn’t, strictly speaking, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d played me like the proverbial fiddle.
“I don’t suppose she told you her lover’s name or anything that might help us identify him.”
“No.”
Mabel jotted something in her notebook. “Was she able to shed any light on who may have impersonated her?”
“No.”
“Or why someone would pose as her to hire you to take photographs of the Wonderlust?”
“No …”
“But …?” Mabel said, drawing the word out to indicate her impatience.
“I asked her if she thought it might have had something to do with her husband or his business. She thought the idea was ridiculous, that her husband is a very dull man in a very dull business. Then she asked me if I liked her kitchen.”
“Like she was trying to change the subject?”
“I didn’t think so at the time, but, yeah, I think that’s exactly what she was doing. She’s very good at it.”
“Okay, so you do think she might know more than she’s telling?” Mabel suggested.
“I don’t know,” I said, then added, “Yes, I think she does.”
“You seem disappointed.”
“I guess I am.” I thought about it for a moment, then said, “Look, what if she did meet her lover at the marina? She’s there often enough. Maybe it’s a regular thing.”
“Are you suggesting that faux Anna Waverley hired you to interrupt real Anna’s little tryst?”
“To hear you say it, it does sound farfetched,” I said. “If faux Anna just wanted someone to interrupt real Anna and her lover, why not just have a pizza delivered?”
“Or call the cops and report a domestic disturbance,” Baz said.
“Besides,” I said, “wouldn’t she be more likely to meet her lover on her own boat? Why on the Wonderlust?”
“I might be able to answer that one,” Mabel said. “Many women don’t like to make love with another man in the same bed they share with their husbands — or that their lovers share with their wives.” I wondered if she was speaking from experience.
“Okay,” I said. “But that still doesn’t explain why someone posed as her to hire me to photograph it.” I thought about it for a moment, then said, “What if …?”
“What if what?” Mabel asked.
I thought about it some more, then said, “What if Bobbi’s attack had nothing to do with the real Anna Waverley? What if it we were hired to do a legitimate job, but for, well, ultimately nefarious purposes? What if the faux Anna really wanted photographs of the Wonderlust and someone saw Bobbi go aboard, followed her, and assaulted her? Maybe someone who wanted to steal the photographic gear or hijack the van.”
“Okay,” Mabel said. “But it doesn’t explain faux Anna’s ‘ultimately nefarious purposes,’ as you put it. Why did she want photos of the boat?”
“I dunno. Maybe she’s a nautical designer and the Wonderlust has a particularly innovative or unique design she wants to steal.” Mabel made a face and Baz Tucker sniffed. I tried again. “Maybe she was planning to steal the boat, but didn’t want to be seen hanging around the marina casing the job, so she hired us to do it for her with photos.”
Mabel shook her head, but said, “All right, let’s say you’re right, in theory, anyway. Why pose as Anna Waverley?”
“Maybe she called herself Anna Waverley in case we checked in at the marina office for permission to go onto the docks. Normally, the gate is supposed to be locked. Boat owners can get touchy about unauthorized people wandering around on the docks.” I was struggling; it was starting to get too complicated.
Mabel scribbled in her notebook while Baz Tucker looked over her shoulder. She looked at him. He shrugged. She looked at me.
“Not bad,” she said. “I’m not sure Kovacs will buy it, though, even at a discount. He’s convinced you’re holding out on him, that Bobbi was attacked by someone out to get you and/or her and that you probably know who. Your visit to Anna Waverley’s house didn’t help. He’s going to turn over a load of rocks to see if you’ve had any prior contact with her. Have you?”
“No. I never laid eyes on her before last night.”
“What about her husband?”
“Him, either.”
“Okay. I’ll run it past him, see what he thinks. He’s going to want to talk to you about Anna Waverley. Don’t expect him to be happy about you sticking your nose in his case.”
Mabel and Baz left and I went back to work. I tried to ignore the nagging sense of guilt at telling Mabel and Baz about my conversation with Anna Waverley, but as much as I liked her — or thought I liked her — it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that she may have been manipulating me. As Mabel had pointed out, manipulating me wasn’t a terribly difficult task for an even moderately attractive woman, let alone one as lovely and apparently vulnerable as Anna Waverley. I didn’t like the idea that I could be that easily played, and it made me a little angry, although I wasn’t sure who I was angry with, Anna Waverley or myself. Nevertheless, I felt as though I’d betrayed her and I did not feel good about myself for it.
Mary-Alice arrived, and shortly thereafter, D. Wayne Fowler, bearing lunch: fish and chips for himself, a veggie wrap for Mary-Alice, and a bacon cheeseburger for me. After lunch, we set up the portrait studio, the digital studio camera, and started work on the darkroom. At four o’clock the phone rang.
chapter twelve
“Tom,” Greg Matthias said when I answered. “I’m at the hospital. I —”
“Is she awake?”
“No, not yet.” He paused for a couple of beats, then just as I was about to ask him what was up, said, “This afternoon someone posing as a florist delivery man tried to get into her room.”
My guts clenched.
“She’s okay,” he added hastily. “The nurses wouldn’t let him in. They have orders not to let anyone in to see her but attending physicians, nurses, cops, or immediate family, unless they’ve been specifically cleared. From the description, it sounds like it might be the same guy who came to see you at your studio the oth
er day.”
“So much for this sort of thing happening only on television.”
“It usually doesn’t,” he said, an edge on his voice. “Nor is he likely to try again. But just to be on the safe side we’re moving her to another room, under a different name.”
“Not Jane Doe, I hope.”
“Give us some credit,” he said, the edge sharpening. “I’m going to tell you the name, but I’m going to ask you not to reveal it to anyone else. Not even your sister or Wayne Fowler. Okay?”
“Okay.” Wayne wouldn’t like it, but he’d understand.
“The name is Edward Winston. I can’t tell you the room number because I don’t know it yet, but if you ask for Edward Winston at the information desk in the main lobby, that’ll tell them you’re cleared to see her.”
“Got it,” I said.
“And we’ll also have a couple of plainclothes officers in the room with her.”
After Matthias hung up, we called it a day. I went home, showered, then drove to the hospital. At the information desk in the main lobby, I asked the woman behind the counter for Edward Winston’s room number. She consulted her computer screen, asked me to repeat the name, which I did, then gave me the floor and the ward number, but not the room number, telling me that I would have to ask for the room number at the nursing station. As I thanked her and turned toward the elevators, she picked up her phone and dialled, no doubt calling ahead to warn them that someone was on his way up. If anyone was expecting me when I got off the elevator, it didn’t show, but when I asked for Edward Winston’s room number at the nursing station, the nurse behind the desk asked me for my name and consulted a screen before telling me the room number.
As Matthias had said, there were two plainclothes cops in the room, Mabel Firth and Baz Tucker. They were sitting on the empty bed, playing cards on the rolling table.
“We’ll wait outside if you like,” Mabel said, standing up.
“No,” I said. “Sit. Stay.”
“Woof,” Mabel said, as she sat down again.
Bobbi was on her side, still connected to the monitors, oxygen, IV, and catheter, a clear bag of vivid yellow liquid hanging on the side of the bed. She appeared to be sleeping and I’d unconsciously lowered my voice so as not to wake her, but she muttered and moaned, twitching and rolling onto her back.
“She’s been very restless,” Mabel said. “The docs say that’s a good sign.”
I put my hand on Bobbi’s shoulder, shook her gently. “Bobbi. Wake up. It’s time to go to school.” Bobbi muttered querulously, rolling her head from side to side.
Mabel chuckled. “That’s exactly what one of the doctors did.”
Then Bobbi’s eyes opened.
“Hey,” I said. “She’s awake.” I leaned over her. “Bobbi. Hi.”
But she didn’t answer, just stared at me for a second, no recognition in her eyes. Then her eyes closed.
“She’s been doing that, too,” Mabel said. “The doctor says it’s nothing to worry about.”
Easy for them to say, I thought.
Baz Tucker put away the cards and stood up. “I’m for coffee. Either of you want any?”
“No, thanks,” I said. Mabel shook her head. He left the room.
“He’s mad at me,” Mabel said. “He doesn’t like hospitals.”
“Who does?”
“I’m okay with them. I worked as an orderly for a while before joining the cops. But they give Baz the jitters.”
“But why’s he mad at you?”
“He blames me for landing us here. He’s not interested in becoming a detective.”
“Wouldn’t it mean a bump in pay?”
“Yeah. Nothing great, but every little bit helps. Baz doesn’t need the money. He made a packet when he was playing ball and invested it well. And he likes being a street cop. He says it’s a lot like football, long periods of intense boredom punctuated by short intervals of violent activity. Baz likes the rush, but me, I like the periods of intense boredom. In the meantime, being seconded to major crimes is good experience for when I get my detective shield.”
“When will that be?”
“Soon, I hope. I aced the exams, if I do say so myself.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks. Now it’s just a matter of waiting for an opening.”
I remembered what Greg Matthias had said about retiring to Pemberton to raise horses with his former partner. Someone would have to move up to take his place, perhaps creating an opening for Mabel. I would miss her when she became a “suit.”
Bobbi mumbled and stirred in the bed and the monitors responded with a brief skirl of bleeps. The machines settled down.
“She’ll be okay, Tom,” Mabel said. “She’ll come out of this.”
“I hope so,” I said.
Then Bobbi loudly passed wind.
“Oh, dear,” Mabel said. “Let’s not tell her about that when she wakes up.”
It was after nine when I got back to Granville Island. I hadn’t eaten dinner, so I stopped by Bridges for a pint and a bowl of chowder so hearty you could eat it with a fork. I ate at the bar. I wasn’t in the mood for company and didn’t look up from my food when someone legged onto the stool next to mine.
“That must be damn good soup,” Norman Brooks said.
Phil the barman dropped a coaster in front of him. “What can I get you?”
“I’ll have a pint of whatever he’s drinking,” Brooks said. “Bring him another one, too.”
“Thanks, I’m okay,” I said. Phil nodded and drew Brooks a pint.
“I know you and me haven’t exactly got off on the right foot,” Bobbi’s father said. “But you could at least let me buy you a beer.”
Phil placed Brooks’s beer on the coaster, then moved down the bar to serve another customer.
“At the risk of appearing ungracious,” I said, “why would I want to do that?”
“I dunno. Just to be friendly, maybe?” He downed half his pint in three or four big gulps.
“I’m not interested in being friendly,” I said. “Or having a drink with you, for that matter. Why don’t you find somewhere else to sit and leave me to enjoy my chowder in peace?”
“I want to talk to you.”
“I don’t want to talk to you. The last time we talked, you accused me of being a pornographer and a drug dealer.”
“Jesus,” he said. “You really are as big a prick as everyone around here seems to think you are.”
“Size isn’t everything, but I’m pleased I haven’t disappointed.”
“Goddamn it, McCall. My daughter’s lyin’ in the hospital in a coma and all you can do is make wise-ass remarks. She’s supposed to be your friend.”
“Sorry,” I said, genuinely chastened.
“Yeah, sure you are,” Brooks growled into his beer.
“She’s doing better, by the way,” I said. “She even opened her eyes for a second while I was there. The doctors expect her to come out of the coma any time now.”
“Bastards still won’t let me in to see her,” he grumbled.
“You’re welcome,” I said. Had the police given him the Edward Winston password? I wondered. I didn’t want to ask, in case they hadn’t; I didn’t want to have to explain why a password was necessary to get into see her. As it happened, he knew.
“Tell me about the guy that tried to get into her room earlier today,” he said.
“All I know is that the police think it might be the same person who came to my studio the other day asking questions about the woman who hired us to photograph the boat.”
“This person have a name?”
A couple of wise-ass remarks occurred to me, but it was obvious Brooks wasn’t in the mood. I simply said, “No.”
“Not good enough,” he said. “You lied to me about knowing the Waverley woman. Why should I believe you don’t know the guy that tried to get into Bobbi’s room?”
“I wasn’t lying about Anna Waverley,” I said. “I didn’t
know her. I still don’t, not really.”
“I know you went to see her last night,” he said. “What did she tell you?”
“Nothing.”
“Goddamn it, McCall. You gonna tell me what the fuck’s goin’ on or do I have to squeeze it out of you?”
I sighed. “It’s late,” I said. “I’ve had a long day,” I added. “And I’m really not in the mood for this.”
Brooks slid off his stool and loomed over me. “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, McCall. Don’t you get all high and mighty with me, you son of a bitch. You’ll —”
“Sir,” Phil said.
Brooks’s head snapped around. “What?” he barked.
“Please leave the gentleman to enjoy his supper, sir, if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind, sonny. So why don’t you just fuck off and mind your own goddamn business.”
The manager, Kenny Li, came over. “Ev’ning, Tom,” he said. “What seems to be the problem?”
“No problem,” Brooks said. “I just want to have a quiet drink and a chat with my friend here.”
Phil said, “This gentleman” — meaning me — “would like to enjoy his supper in peace.”
Kenny turned to Norman Brooks. “Sir, let Phil top up your pint, on the house, and we’ll find you another place to sit.”
“Put a hand on me, sonny-boy,” Brooks growled menacingly, “I’ll break it off.”
Kenny looked affronted. “Sir, I wouldn’t dream of putting my hands on you. But I will have to ask you to leave if you don’t calm down and show more respect for our other patrons’ privacy.”
Although I had eaten less than half my chowder, and taken only a few sips of my beer, my appetite had abandoned me. Climbing off my stool, I dropped money onto the bar.
“I think I’ll be going,” I said, and headed for the exit.
When I got outside, someone was leaning against the Liberty. It was Loth. He did not move when I pressed the remote and the locks thunked and the lights flashed, diffused by the gathering fog.
Screw it, I thought. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with Loth, either, so I pressed the remote again, locking the car, and kept on walking. I’d go back and get it later, before the three-hour limit was up.
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