Depth of Field

by Michael Blair

  Getz looked at Kittle. “Don’t do it here, for god’s sake. Take them up into the mountains. Use his car. Kill them and bury them in the woods so no one will ever find them. Then dump the car in the sound.”

  “Are you all completely out of your minds?” I said. “You can’t just kill us.”

  “I deeply regret the necessity, believe me,” Getz said. “Make sure no one sees you leaving the house with them,” he added to Kittle. “Go down the back and around.”

  “Wait a goddamned minute. You’d kill two people, just like that, in cold blood?”

  Kittle stared at me, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “My ass is on the line if Slim here talks,” he said, pointing his gun at Bobbi. “His, too,” he added, nodding at Woody Getz.

  I looked at Moffat, slumped in his chair. “Mr. Moffat, you can’t let them do this.”

  Kittle snorted. “I wouldn’t count on any help from him,” he said.

  “You can’t possibly believe you’re going to get away with this,” I said desperately. “Bobbi’s father and boyfriend are both cops. You think they’re aren’t going to figure out what went down here?”

  “Cops don’t worry me,” Kittle said, with a shrug. “Besides, her old man’s a drunk. Isn’t he, Slim?”

  Bobbi glared daggers at him. “Mmmm,” she hummed, struggling against her bonds and wagging her head back and forth. I tightened my grip on her, afraid she was going to go after him.

  Getz began unwinding tape from the makeshift roll.

  “Walter!” I shouted. “Snap out of it! Your wife says you’re a decent guy. You’d trade the lives of three people — four, if you count Sam Waverley — to save your bloody career?” Moffat raised his head and looked at me.

  Kittle snorted. “He’d trade his fucking soul. Already has. Only he’s too fucking dumb to know it.”

  “Hold out your hands,” Getz said. I kept them at my sides. Bobbi huddled against me, mewling softly through her nose.

  “No,” Moffat said, speaking at last. He stood. “No.”

  “Stay out of this, Walter,” Getz said.

  “I can’t let you do this.”

  “It’s too late, Walter,” Getz said. He nodded at Kittle.

  Kittle picked up a cushion from the sofa, held it over the muzzle of his pistol, a makeshift silencer, pointed at me. “Hold out your hands or I’ll shoot you right now.”

  “No,” Moffat snapped, some of the strength returning to his voice. “Mr. Kittle, put that gun away. Woody. Remove the young lady’s bindings.”

  “I can’t do that, Walter.”

  Kittle aimed his cushion-silenced gun at Bobbi. “Put out your hands or I’ll blow one big fucking hole in her.”

  “Mr. Kittle,” Moffat said. “Woody. You both seem to forget that you are my employees.”

  “Fuck it,” Kittle said. “Consider this my resignation.” He swung the pillow toward Moffat.

  “No!” Woody Getz shouted.

  There was a muffled whump and the cushion burst, spewing smoke and fragments of scorched foam rubber. Moffat said, “Oof,” as if someone had punched him in the stomach. He staggered backwards and fell, blood pumping from a hole in his chest. Then it stopped.

  “Oh, fuck,” Woody Getz said. Kittle swung the cushion toward him. Getz bolted for the sitting room. The sound of the gun was louder through the ruined cushion, but Kittle missed, blowing a chunk out of the door frame instead of Woody Getz.

  Kittle stood in the door to the sitting room, taking aim at Getz’s back. I dove at him as Getz yanked open the front door and ran out of the apartment. Kittle ducked aside, stepping into the sitting room and swinging his gun toward me. No longer muffled by the cushion, the gun went off with a sharp bang. Something exploded behind me as I tried to grab his arm. He slipped out of my grasp. Bobbi had ripped the tape from her mouth and, with a startling shriek, threw herself at Kittle, diving, pivoting on her bound hands, slamming her hip into his knees. Again, he danced aside and she ploughed into me. She rolled, kicked, and the gun flipped out of Kittle’s hand. It spun across the sitting room carpet.

  Kittle went after the gun and I went after Kittle, throwing myself onto him and dragging him to the floor. He writhed like an alligator in a neck snare, rolling, lashing out with his elbows and knees. I grabbed a handful of his oily black hair. His elbow slammed into the side of my head as he slid out from under me. Bobbi somehow managed to get her arms over his head and around his neck. The tape binding her wrists stretched across his throat, but he rotated in her embrace until he faced her, then ducked his head, slipping free. She clamped her legs around his hips while I clung to his arms, but he wriggled away and slithered across the floor toward the gun. I pounced onto his back, but he rolled under me, flipping me aside. He kicked at me, the heel of his shoe clipping my cheek. I fell back as he threw his arm out to grab the gun. I struck out with both feet, striking his elbow. The gun slid away from him, skittering under the big sofa.

  Then he was on his feet, crouched, hands cocked, fingers crooked like claws. “I don’t need a gun to take care of you two,” he snarled. I believed him.

  Bobbi spun and kicked, but he flitted aside and she fell, off balance. I grabbed a table lamp, threw it at him. He dodged and it crashed against the wall. I threw a piece of heavy marble statuary, but that missed too, bouncing and rolling across the carpet and through the office door until it came to rest against Moffat’s body. I flung a tall blue vase with Chinese figures on it. Kittle caught it and threw it back at me. I ducked and it smashed against the old console TV. Bobbi was on her feet by then and charged him, but he side-stepped and kicked her feet out from under her. It was not going well.

  I grabbed her, hauled her to her feet, and together we ran out the door and into the hall. Kittle didn’t waste any time trying to find the gun, came after us instead. He hit me in the middle of the back. I staggered and pitched forward onto my face. Bobbi skidded to a stop, tried to help me up, but Kittle was on her like a panther. She fell, tried to scrabble away from him. He leaped at her, kicking. She rolled into a ball, trying to protect her head with her arms. I ran at him, but he flicked aside, grabbed me, sent me spinning toward the top of the stairs. If I hadn’t fallen, I would have plunged down the stairs. He came at me.

  There was a flash and an explosion. A section of dark wall panel splintered, exposing the lighter wood beneath the varnish. Kittle froze. Elise Moffat stood in the hall not ten feet from him. She held Kittle’s revolver in both hands, her left hand cupped under her right hand, like a cop on television. Smoke drifted lazily from the muzzle.

  “I missed deliberately,” she said. “I didn’t want to shoot you in the back, Mr. Kittle. I wanted you to see who it was that killed you.”

  “Mrs. Moffat,” Kittle said.

  “You killed my husband,” she said. She took a step toward him. The muzzle of the pistol did not waver. “And you killed Anna.”

  “No, no,” Kittle said, holding his hands out, as if they could stop a bullet. “It was Getz’s idea, not mine.”

  “You are about to die, Mr. Kittle,” Mrs. Moffat said. The pistol flashed and roared. Kittle flinched as the bullet plucked at the sleeve of his jacket. It seemed even I could hear the slug whiz by. I scrambled out of the line of fire, pulling Bobbi with me.

  “Please, Mrs. Moffat,” Kittle pleaded, backing away from her. He glanced quickly over his shoulder toward the stairs. It was his only avenue of escape.

  “Don’t run, Mr. Kittle,” Elise Moffat said. “It’s so unbecoming.”

  Kittle whimpered and sank to his knees.

  “Please,” he sobbed. “Please. Don’t kill me.”

  She stepped closer to him.

  “Don’t get too close to him,” I warned her.

  She stopped five feet from him, pointing the pistol at his face.

  “You won’t shoot me,” Kittle said. “You’d go to jail. Think about it. Who would save all those little kids?”

  “I am thinking about them, Mr. Kittle
. Without Walter the foundation may not survive. You haven’t just killed my husband, you may have sentenced thousands of little children to a life of endless suffering and poverty.” She took a step toward him, the muzzle of the pistol less than a foot from his face.

  “I’m sorry,” Kittle blubbered, trembling, tears streaming down his face, mucous running from his nose. “I’m sorry.”

  Her knuckle whitened on the trigger.

  “Don’t kill him, Mrs. Moffat,” I said.

  “Why not?” she asked, not looking at me, not taking her eyes off Kittle.

  “Because it’s a much more fitting punishment that a man like him will have to live with the memory that he cried like a baby and begged you for his life in front of people he terrorized.”

  “Listen to him,” Kittle cried. “He’s right. I’m begging you. Oh, please, I don’t want to die.” Then he laughed and slowly straightened until he was poised in a half crouch. “Screw this,” he said, grinning. “You’re out of bullets.”

  She took a step back, arm and eyes steady.

  “I counted the shots,” he said. “I fired four times and you fired twice.”

  “Let’s find out, shall we,” Elise Moffat said. Her finger tightened on the trigger.

  Kittle leaped …

  … and died as the gun roared and the sixth bullet tore out his throat.

  “Stupid prick,” Bobbi said flatly, looking at Kittle’s body, sprawled in a bloody heap halfway down the main staircase. “If you’re gonna play Dirty Harry, at least count the fucking shots right.”

  “I think he knew he’d only fired three times,” I said. “He was just trying to rattle her.”

  Bobbi looked at Elise Moffat, sitting on the straight-backed chair Maria had brought from another room and placed for her on the worn spot on the Oriental carpet. Maria stood beside the chair, her hand resting protectively on Mrs. Moffat’s shoulder. “I don’t think she rattles that easily.”

  “She’s tough stuff,” I agreed.

  “I remember what happened on the boat,” Bobbi said.

  “What? Poof, suddenly it’s all there?”

  She shook her head slowly. “No. It’s weird. It’s like it’s always been there, which it has, I guess. But it’s like I don’t remember not remembering.” She shook her head again. “It’s a very strange feeling.”

  “So what happened? If you feel like talking about it, that is.”

  She’d got to the boat a few minutes after eight, she told me. Using the key Chrissy Conrad had given me, she let herself into the main salon and began setting up the remote flash units. She heard a sound from below and assumed it was Ms. Waverley, but as she test-fired the strobes, a man appeared in the hatch leading to the forward staterooms. It was Woody Getz, although Bobbi didn’t know it at the time.

  “Who the bloody hell are you?” Getz demanded.

  Bobbi’s first thought was, Aw, Christ, I’m on the wrong fucking boat. The key had worked, though. Getz came toward her.

  “Look,” Bobbi said. “I don’t know what’s going on. I —”

  A woman’s face appeared in the hatch, behind Getz, but Bobbi didn’t recognize her, either.

  “Give me that camera,” Getz said, reaching for the camera Bobbi had slung around her neck. He grabbed the strap and pulled.

  “Hey,” Bobbi said, pulling back. “I didn’t take any pictures.”

  “Bullshit. I saw the flash.”

  “Mr. Getz,” the woman said. “Leave her alone.”

  Getz pulled harder. So did Bobbi. Then the strap broke and Bobbi fell.

  “I must’ve hit my head,” Bobbi said. “I don’t remember. The next thing I knew, I was in a Zodiac. It was dark. I was wrapped in a blanket or a sleeping bag and something was pressing into my back. My head hurt like hell. I tried to roll over and sit up, but whatever was pressing into my back just pressed harder. I started to yell. Something hit me in the head, banging my face onto the deck. I managed to get free of the blanket. I saw a man. Him, I guess,” she said, indicating Kittle’s body, “but I couldn’t really say for sure. He kicked me in the face. I fell into the bow of the boat and he came after me, hitting me and kicking me, stamping on my hands as I tried to crawl away from him. I remember falling, or jumping, and then being in the water. I don’t remember passing out, but I must have. Then I woke up in the hospital with you and Greg sitting beside the bed.” She reached over, placed a hand on mine. It was cool. She squeezed, then let go. “Thanks for being there, by the way.”

  “No problem,” I said. “The woman on the boat. It was Anna Waverley?”

  Bobbi shook her head. “No. It was her.” She nodded toward Elise Moffat.

  I looked at Elise Moffat in her chair at the foot of the staircase. Her eyes followed me as I went down to her. She hadn’t been lying after all.

  “What were you doing on the Wonderlust with Getz?” I asked her.

  “I went to get proof that he was blackmailing people into contributing to Walter’s campaign by video-taping them consorting with prostitutes,” she said calmly. “He used similar tactics to get them to invest in his films. He must have followed me.”

  “The police impounded the boat,” I said. “As far as I know, they didn’t find any recording equipment.”

  “Mr. Getz removed it after Miss Brooks was — he told me you were dead,” she added to Bobbi. “He called Mr. Kittle to dispose of your body. Mr. Getz and I left when Mr. Kittle arrived. I’m so sorry.”

  “Why didn’t you call the police?” I asked.

  “Mr. Getz also had recordings of me,” she said softly. “He threatened to post them on the Internet. It would have destroyed any chance Walter had of winning the election.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first politician’s wife to have an affair with another man,” I said.

  “Walter’s supporters are quite conservative,” she said. “Traditional family values are very important to them.”

  “Still …”

  “Must I spell it out for you, Mr. McCall? It wasn’t a man Mr. Getz recorded me with.”

  “Oh,” I said, as it hit me. “You were Anna Waverley’s lover.”

  She nodded. “Yes,” she said softly, sadly, tears filling her eyes. “We were lovers. It was a new experience for both of us …” Maria’s hand tightened gently on her shoulder. Elise reached up and placed her hand on Maria’s. “Like me, Anna also still loved her husband, but it was not an emotionally satisfying relationship,” she said, tears spilling over.

  “Still,” I said again, “if you were to have come out, if you’ll pardon the expression, how much damage would it really have done to your husband’s campaign? I mean, given that he had almost no chance of winning, anyway.”

  Her back stiffened. “I told you earlier, Mr. McCall, that I would do nothing that might jeopardize his chances, as slim as they might have been. However, I also had the foundation to consider. Its principal supporters are even more conservative than Walter’s.” She smiled weakly. “Walter said they made his supporters look like liberals.”

  “Did your husband know about you and Anna?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Our relationship did not have a sexual component. Despite the nature of his art collection, Walter wasn’t interested in the messier aspects of sex. It was — convenient.”

  I heard distant sirens. “One more thing before the police arrive,” I said. “Do you know a woman named Christine Conrad? Goes by Chrissy. Early thirties. Brunette. Clear blue eyes. Not quite as tall as Bobbi. It’s possible you know her by a different name.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t believe I know anyone answering that description, by any name.” I didn’t need the look on the lovely Maria’s face to tell me that Elise Moffat was lying; she was as bad a liar as her husband had been.

  chapter twenty-eight

  “Let’s go through it one more time, all right?” Sergeant Jim Kovacs said for the fourth or fifth time in the two hours since the police had arrived. “Just to make sure I�
��ve got it straight.”

  “If you haven’t got it by now,” I grumbled, half under my breath, “you’re never going to get it.”

  “That kind of attitude isn’t going to help,” he growled.

  “Sergeant Kovacs,” said the burly RCMP staff sergeant from the Squamish detachment. “We called you as a courtesy, and at Mr. McCall’s suggestion, I might add. It’s been a long night. We’re all tired. We’ve got everything we need from Mr. McCall and Miss Brooks for now. I think we can let them go.”

  “Just one more question,” Kovacs insisted.

  “Whatever it is,” the staff sergeant said sternly, “it will keep. Do you need a ride home?” he asked me as Kovacs glowered.

  “No, I have my car,” I replied.

  He signalled to a constable. “We’ll be in touch if we need any additional information.”

  The constable escorted Bobbi and me out of the house, which was crawling with police and crime-scene investigators, even though most of the action had taken place in the upstairs apartments and in the hallway. Moffat’s and Kittle’s bodies had been removed. The paramedics had checked out Bobbi and me, repairing some of Bobbi’s stitches, re-splinting her fingers, and pronouncing my bullet wound superficial — a diagnosis with which I had to concur, since I hadn’t even been aware I’d been grazed just above my right hip until Bobbi noticed the blood on my shirt. The paramedics had also treated Elise Moffat for shock, although she’d remained very calm and in control until the police had arrived. An alert had been issued for Woody Getz.

  “Do you think they’ll charge Mrs. Moffat with anything?” Bobbi asked me as we climbed into the Liberty. If she noticed the duct-taped side mirror and the other damage, she didn’t say anything.

  “No, I don’t think they will.”

  “She saved our lives, you know.”

  “I know.”

  The fog had lifted and less than forty minutes later I pulled into the lot in front of Sea Village. Bobbi woke up when I turned off the engine.

  “Sorry,” she said, yawning and rubbing her eyes. “Did I sleep all the way?”

  “I dunno,” I said, catching her yawn. “I was asleep most of the way myself.” With a shiver of horror I realized I had no memory at all of driving across the Lions Gate Bridge.