Valley of the Lost

by Vicki Delany

  “I’ve no one to repeat it to. What’s Bullitt?”

  “An old movie. One of my dad’s favorites. Starring Steve McQueen, the bad boy of his day.”

  George’s was a popular place. They got the only empty table, in the back corner next to the kitchen door. One of their school classmates was waiting tables. He threw menus in front of the two women and took coffee orders, with a muttered “How ya doing?” his eyes sliding away from Christa’s face in embarrassment.

  A red fist closed around her chest. “Jerk,” she said to herself.

  But Molly heard. “Who? Kyle? What’d he do?”

  “He’s still here, isn’t he? He’s been working here since we were all in Grade nine.”

  “His dad owns the place. You know that.”

  “So. He’s a no-account.”

  Molly concentrated on the menu, although she probably knew it by heart. Christa scanned the price list. Crab cakes was the most expensive breakfast item. So that’s what she’d have.

  “How’s things with the baby?” Christa asked. Talking about Lucky seemed to sooth some of the anger always threatening to choke her.

  “The same. It screams instead of sleeping. Mom doesn’t sleep. I don’t sleep. Her friends from yoga class came around the other day, wanting to help. All they did was pace around with the screaming kid, one after another.”

  Christa looked at her friend. The delicate skin under Molly’s tired blue eyes was dark.

  “Dad’s sorta getting into the parent thing a bit. He was feeding the monster this morning so Mom could have a long soak in the bath. It’s just plain weird.”

  Kyle brought plates piled high with crab cakes and huevos rancheros. He smiled at Molly, who was always pretty no matter what sort of night she’d had, and avoided looking at Christa. Idiot.

  “This coffee isn’t very good. Take the cup away, and I’ll have a cappuccino instead.”

  “Sure, Christa.” He picked up the unwanted mug.

  Molly applied salsa liberally to her food. “I have something to tell you, Chris.”

  “I knew it. Charlie’s out, isn’t he. He’s coming back to town. Back to me. To finish the job.” She pushed her plate away.

  “No. It’s good news. Sergeant Winters called me this morning. He asked if I wanted to tell you what’s happening rather than him. And I do.” Molly smiled at her, a mess of tortilla, beans, egg, and cheese speared on her fork. “The prelim was yesterday and Charlie pleaded guilty.”

  “Guilty?”

  “Yup. Guilty as sin.”

  Tears rose behind Christa’s eyes. A great weight lifted off her chest and for the first time in weeks, she felt that she could breathe. “That is so great.”

  “He got six months.”

  She should have known it was be too good to be true. Her burst of enthusiasm shattered as if someone had popped her birthday balloon. The tears dried up. “Six months?”

  “Hey, that’s good, Chris. Good.”

  “He’ll be back in six months?”

  “He’s got no reason to come back—he doesn’t have any family here, and no job to speak of. But listen to me. Sergeant Winters told the judge Charlie’s an ongoing threat to you, and that if he was released on bail, the Trafalgar City Police had reason to believe he’d be back after you. So no bail. I’d guess Charlie’s lawyer told him it would be six months to a year before his case came to trial, so he might as well do the time straight up.”

  Kyle brought the cappuccino. Cinnamon had been sprinkled across the top. “I hate cinnamon,” Christa shouted. “Take it away and bring me another. Fast.”

  The people at the next table looked up.

  “Who anointed you belle of the ball?” Kyle said, picking up the cup.

  “Christa, listen to me, and stop taking all your anger out on Kyle,” Molly hissed across the table.

  Christa pushed her chair back. “I don’t have to listen to you.”

  “Don’t you dare walk away until you’ve heard me. John Winters went to bat for you, Chris.” Molly waved her fork in the air. “He fought, hard, to keep Charlie behind bars. Six months for an assault that did not result in permanent injury or disfigurement is not a bad sentence. You don’t like that, take it up with the Justice department, but don’t take it out on Kyle or on me. Six months isn’t a lark. You used to watch Prison Break on TV, right? Well six months in provincial jail isn’t like that for sure. But it isn’t a Girl Guide picnic either. After six months guarding his ass, or maybe not, Charlie’ll have forgotten all about you.”

  Christa felt as if she’d been stung by a wasp. Molly was genuinely mad. She was keeping her voice low, but the anger was so close to the surface that Christa would have preferred it if she were yelling and screaming and making a scene.

  Molly threw her napkin on the table. The end dipped into a puddle of refried beans and soaked up sauce. Her chair scraped against the floor as she stood up. She pulled two twenties out of her pocket and threw them on the table. Far more than the meal cost. “Finish your breakfast. You’ve made enough of a scene over the coffee, you might as well be here when it comes. A nice thank you note to John Winters would be the polite thing to do. But I won’t hold my breath waiting for that to happen.”

  She walked out. The entire restaurant, staff and diners, watched her go.

  Kyle put a fresh cup of cappuccino, without cinnamon, in front of Christa. He nodded toward Molly’s unfinished plate.

  “Guess I can take that away, eh?”

  ***

  “This interview is being recorded. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we’ll begin. This is Sergeant John Winters of the Trafalgar City Police with Julian Armstrong. It is August the 31st at 11:00 am. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. Can I say something?”

  “Say whatever you like.”

  “This is a farce and a travesty of justice. I’ve done nothing at all to have been brought here.”

  “Which is what this interview will determine, Mr. Armstrong. Tell me about the woman known as Ashley Doe.”

  “You don’t even know her last name, and you’re trying to pin something on me.”

  “I’m not trying to pin anything on anyone. And it’s because I don’t know her last name that I have to resort to bringing you in, Mr. Armstrong. Because I think you know more about Ashley than you’re telling me. Do you know her last name?”

  “I do not.”

  “Tell me what you do know about her.”

  “Ashley is, was, a client of the Trafalgar Women’s Support Center. I volunteer there on a casual basis to provide counseling, particularly but not exclusively addiction counseling, to women who request it.”

  “Did Ashley request counseling?”

  “She did not. And I did not provide counseling to her. But she was a client of the center and so I saw her there sometimes.”

  “Sometimes?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “How many times?”

  “I don’t remember. Once or twice. No more than twice. I’ve only just arrived in town. She had a baby, a young baby, and so she came to the center. They provide formula, diapers, that sort of thing. Plus support and education for new mothers. A most worthwhile endeavor.”

  “I’ve no doubt about that. So that was your only contact with Ashley? When she was a casual visitor to the center?”

  “Yes.”

  “Since Vancouver?”

  “Huh?”

  “That was your only contact with Ashley since you were both in Vancouver?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s no secret that I moved here from Vancouver in July.”

  “Did you have contact with Ashley in Vancouver?”

  “No. I would have told you if I had.”

  “When was the first time you met Ashley?”

  “I can’t remember. I don’t keep a log of every person I meet. Do you?”

  “When was the first time you met Ashley?”

  “Let
me think, will you? I got here, to Trafalgar, on July 21st. I went to the support center almost straight away to volunteer my services. That was maybe the 23rd or 24th. I don’t remember what day it was that I saw Ashley for the first time. A week after that, maybe? Hey, you know who might remember? You can ask Mrs. Smith. Lucky Smith. Ashley and her baby were with Mrs. Smith when I came in one morning. I remember now. Mrs. Smith introduced us. Lucky and I knew each other when I lived in Trafalgar a number of years ago.”

  “I’ll check with Mrs. Smith. That was the first time you met Ashley? I don’t mean the first time in Trafalgar, or the first time since the moon was in the seventh house. The first time, ever?”

  “On my mother’s grave.”

  “I don’t care about the state of your mother’s health. Was that the first time you encountered the woman we know as Ashley?”

  “Yes. Yes. Sometime in late July in the presence of Lucky Smith.”

  “Okay. Can you think of any reason Ashley told a friend she knew you in Vancouver?”

  “What the hell is this? I told you how it happened. I don’t care what some addle-brained, drug-soaked, purple-haired friend said. Maybe Ashley confused me with someone else. You of all people should know what the minds of these druggies are like. Mush. Pure mush.”

  “Ashley was not a druggie. By all accounts she was a sober, clean, responsible mother.”

  “Whatever. Can I go now?”

  “Soon as you’ve told me about your involvement with the Vancouver police. I gather you’ve come to their attention before. Something about inappropriate advances in your professional capacity.”

  Sound of a chair falling to the floor.

  “What the hell? That has nothing to do with anything. The bitches pulled back, soon as court and judge and proof and all that legal stuff were mentioned. Women of a certain age, they get, well, I hate to say delusions, but they’re seeing a counselor for a reason, you know. Risk of the job. Come on, John, you must know how it is.”

  “No, I don’t know how it is. I’ve always trusted middle-aged women more than I do most people. You’re saying these women made up the accusations against you?”

  “Proof is in the pudding. Did it go to court? No. Were charges laid? No. That’s all I need to say.”

  “Tell me once more about your relationship with Ashley.”

  “I’ll tell you once more that I had no relationship with her. She came to the support center for tips on saving money on diapers and how to milk the welfare system. I smiled and said hi ‘cause I’m a friendly sort of guy. Got that through your thick cop brain?”

  “It’s a struggle, I’ll admit. You’re free to go, Mr. Armstrong. But please, if you plan to leave Trafalgar for any reason, let us know where you can be contacted.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  ***

  Winters settled into an uncomfortable chair and reviewed the audio tape. It didn’t show the degree of Armstrong’s nervousness, the twitch of his right eye at certain questions, the way his left knee had of shuddering when he was lying. When he talked about Ashley in Trafalgar he was calm, as calm as anyone can be in a stark police interview room under interrogation. But when it came to Vancouver, Armstrong was as jumpy as the frog in the proverbial pot of water set to boil. Whether or not Armstrong had screwed his female clients was not Winters’ concern. If Vancouver had decided, for whatever reason, not to pursue the allegations, neither would he.

  One phrase stood out from the interview as if it was highlighted in yellow marker: milk the welfare system.

  Milk the system: a good indication that Armstrong, supposedly the caring counselor, didn’t have a whole lot of sympathy for the women who were his clients. Or at least not for Ashley. Was Ashley milking the system? Winters could only wish she had been—any involvement with government agencies would leave a paper trail. She’d never applied for benefits, or even left a full name at the center through which they could contact her.

  Ashley.

  It all came back to Ashley. Of course the victim was the center of any murder investigation, but this one was different. The girl had no past, almost no present. And certainly no future. Except for one tiny, screaming little thing.

  Miller. Miller wasn’t going to open his petite pink mouth and say “my mommy was killed by…” Nevertheless, Winters needed to see him again. And he could talk to Lucky Smith at the same time.

  “What’s up?” Lopez said, walking into the interview room.

  “You ever had reason to come across a girl calls herself Marigold? Waits tables at The Bishop and Nun?”

  “I know her. I suspect she’s a low level dealer. Why?”

  “She’s Ashley Doe’s roommate.”

  “I know. You think she knows something about the killing?”

  “Just fishing. Ashley died a week ago. We’ve had officers circulating her picture all around town, to every community in the area. But no one’s come forward as recognizing her other than as a girl they’d seen hanging around. She doesn’t seem to have had a boyfriend. No friends to speak of. Her roommate barely knew her. No mementos in her room—no pictures of happy days with Mom and Dad. No letters from home or old school friends. No boyfriend, no girl friends either. Just Ashley and Miller. And Miller isn’t talking.”

  “It takes time, John, you know that. To find the right person who, when they see the picture, will recognize her straight off and know everything there is to know about her.”

  “Time isn’t usually on our side. We can’t keep flashing her morgue picture forever.”

  Lopez glanced at the tape recorder on the table. “Interview?”

  “Armstrong. Right now, Julian Armstrong is my number one suspect. Listen to this when you have the time. Let me know what you think. The guy’s lying, no doubt about it. He knew Ashley in Vancouver. That doesn’t mean he killed her, of course. But it makes me wonder why he’s so determined to lie to me.”

  “Some people lie to the police soon as breathe.”

  “Let the Yellow Stripes sort it all out. Chief’s put in a call to the IHIT.”

  “I don’t imagine they’ll be in a rush to get here.”

  “Huh?”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “Shooting at a playground. All over the news. Two children dead, three critical. Between the ages of four and six.” Brown freckles stood out on a face white with anger. “A mother died shielding her daughter with her body.”

  “Jesus.”

  “You got that right. Not one of the shooters apprehended. Every cop in the province’ll be on it like white on rice. That plus the suspected gang-connected lawyer knifed in the washroom of his office building yesterday, and the IHIT has enough on the go. A week-old death of a heroin junkie will be a minor pea on their plate.”

  “Ashley wasn’t a junkie.”

  “Prove it,” Lopez said. “I’ll listen to that tape later.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  John Winters wiped steam off the bathroom mirror so he could have a good look at his face. He held his index finger up to cover his mustache, wondering what he’d look like without it. He’d had a mustache since the ‘70s. Then it was trendy, not to mention black. Now it was old-fashioned and mostly gray.

  But Eliza liked it.

  The mustache would stay.

  It was past time for Armstrong and Marigold to account for themselves.

  He often thought he did his best thinking in the bathroom in the morning.

  Time to bring Armstrong in again, and lean on him hard. Winters didn’t see the counselor as a killer, but he’d been wrong before. And even if Armstrong hadn’t been involved in Ashley’s death, he knew things about the girl he wasn’t telling. And as he’d claimed he’d never been her counselor he couldn’t hide behind client privilege. Winters couldn’t charge Armstrong with withholding evidence based on his gut feelings. But Armstrong needn’t know that.

  And then he’d deal with Marigold.

  He call
ed the station and asked to have a uniform and marked car pick him up at home.

  Eliza sat on the chair at her dressing table applying pink polish to her toenails. She had amazingly unattractive feet, all bumpy joints and long skinny toes. As far as he was concerned her feet were her only physical flaw. He had never told her so. She raised one well-shaped eyebrow as he hung up the phone, and pointed the bottle of polish at him.

  “No breakfast?”

  “I’ll get something in town. I want to see someone before his day starts.”

  “And thus before your day starts, too.” She turned back to her feet. “Grab yourself a coffee, anyway. It’s ready.”

  Dave Evans pulled into the driveway in less than ten minutes. Winters ran out carrying a full travel mug.

  He opened the car door and was about to jump in when something caught his eye. He walked over to the edge of the garden. Most of the pale blue berries on the elderberry bushes were gone; the smaller plants around its base trampled. A pile of fresh bear scat.

  “Big one,” Evans said, coming up behind him. “And probably a mom. Look over there.” He pointed and Winters looked. It had rained in the night, just enough to wet the ground. Small prints wandered over themselves and underneath a larger set. They disappeared into the bush.

  “Wish I’d seen her,” Winters said.

  “Me too.”

  They went back to the car.

  “I want to pay a visit to Julian Armstrong,” Winters said, as Evans put the car into gear. “We’ll try his home first.”

  “Christ, not you again,” was Armstrong’s greeting.

  “Your lucky day. I’d like to ask you a few more questions, Mr. Armstrong, if you don’t mind.”

  “And if I do mind?”

  “Then I’ll leave. And I’ll mention that to the judge at your trial.”

  Armstrong stood back and let the police into his apartment.

  “As a matter of fact, Sergeant Winters, I was about to call you.”

  “Were you indeed?”

  “I don’t care whether you believe me or not, but it’s true.” Armstrong was dressed in a white T-shirt and baggy track pants, elastic loose, hem ragged, pocket torn. Probably what he slept in. The door to the bathroom was closed.