by Vicki Delany
He looked at his watch. “The plane had better be on time. I don’t intend to hang around waiting.”
***
It was, and the two Mounties were the first passengers off. They didn’t have any checked bags, and the van was back on the highway less than fifteen minutes after their arrival at the airport. There was one corporal by the name of Kevin Farzaneh, young and friendly. The sergeant was Dick Madison, a slightly built man with olive skin, black hair, shiny white teeth, prominent nose, and a bone crushing handshake.
Madison grunted at Smith, but Farzaneh gave her a big grin, and asked about the skiing conditions. Before she could launch into an enthusiastic description, Madison made a comment about how much he hated snow. The rest of the drive back to Trafalgar, Winters filled them in.
He told Smith to drop them at the hotel, where Gavin, Townshend, and Lopez were working, and sent her back to the station to get on with her shift.
He was still carrying the photograph. He’d considered leaving it in the house, hiding it under his socks, like he’d hidden the dirty magazines he and his friends passed around when they were kids, but found himself stuffing it into his shirt pocket instead.
He’d worked late, and got home after Eliza had gone to bed. That wasn’t unusual, but for the first time in their marriage he slept in the spare room. Up before the sun, he left the house while Eliza was still sleeping. He showered in the locker room at the station and got an egg sandwich for breakfast from Big Eddie’s Coffee Emporium.
He still had no idea what he was going to say to her.
Once again the police settled comfortably into the conference room. Instead of coffee and sandwiches, they were given coffee and bagels with small pots of jam and cream cheese on the side. Winters wondered if he’d be expected to pay for all this. No way in hell would the Chief authorize it.
Gavin and Townshend had nothing new to report. They’d finished fingerprinting the room and were ready to start digging up the bathroom. Farzaneh would give them a hand and Townshend would move into the adjoining room, Mrs. Steiner’s room. An initial look showed nothing out of the ordinary, but she’d see what she could find. It was possible the killer had visited Mrs. Steiner first.
It was also possible that half of Trafalgar had visited Mrs. Steiner’s room.
Winters discussed what he’d discovered so far, which was precious little. When found, the body was in full rigor, and the coroner roughly estimated the time of death to be about ten to thirteen hours before the discovery of the body. He could be fairly precise largely because the temperature of the hotel was consistent and measurable. The time coincided with the report, vague as the witness had been, of the sound of a gunshot around nine in the evening. The autopsy was scheduled for late that afternoon, and Madison said he’d attend.
The meeting began to break up.
Farzaneh and Lopez would carry on interviewing staff and hotel guests while Winters would go back to the phones and computers and dig into Steiner’s past.
“But first,” Madison said, “let’s have a look at the scene.”
Winters’ phone rang. It was the station.
“Great,” he said, scribbling a note. He hung up. “The room service waiter called in. He’s home.”
“Let’s go then,” Madison said, putting down his mug.
Winters was nominally in charge of the investigation, and it was understood that Madison and Farzaneh would defer to his local knowledge. But that was a formality, and they all knew the Mountie’s decisions would carry the day.
***
Ronnie Berkowitz lived just around the corner from Happy Tobaccy, the store that sold legal drug paraphernalia and hemp products and was owned by people very active in the campaign to legalize marijuana. That they also sold, on occasion, marijuana itself, was well known to the police. Every time he drove by, Winters itched to barge in. Someday, maybe, the store owners would cross the invisible line the Chief had drawn.
A group of young people were standing outside the store, but no one appeared to be smoking anything illegal. A girl, holding a dirty faced toddler by the hand, recognized the GIS van and said something to her companions. They watched the police drive by. One man gave them the finger, and then pretended he was lifting his hand to rub his forehead.
“Don’t know why you let them get away with flaunting that place in your face,” Madison grumbled.
Winters made no comment.
They pulled up in front of a typical Lower Town house. Old, badly maintained, divided into four apartments, an unkempt front yard. The melting snow had revealed a season’s worth of dog dirt. Berkowitz’s door was down a level from the street, the entrance dark and gloomy. A tall dead stalk, remains of a plant of indeterminate variety, was stuck in a cracked terra cotta pot. They didn’t have to knock, the door was open. Berkowitz was a good six feet four at least and probably didn’t tip the scales at much more than a hundred and fifty pounds. He sported a strange beard, about a half inch long, which covered only the tip of his chin.
“Come on in,” he said in a deep booming voice. “This is cool. I just got home and Harry said the police were looking for me.” He laughed. “So I burned my stash and gave you a call. What’s up?”
Stash or not, Berkowitz didn’t sound like a man who was worried about police attention.
The door opened directly into the kitchen. The appliances were ancient, the floor covered in green linoleum, the countertop stained and chipped. The sink was piled high with dishes and boxes of cereal and pasta were haphazardly stacked inside door-less cupboards. Cartons of empty beer bottles leaned against the far wall. Typical transient lodgings.
“Take a seat,” Berkowitz said, gesturing to the two vinyl-topped chairs pulled up to the Formica table. Winters remembered when he was a child, family meals and homework around a table and chairs exactly the same.
“You’re a waiter at the Hudson House?” he asked, declining to sit. Madison moved a mug so he could lean against the counter.
“Room service waiter. Part time.”
“Worked there for long?”
“Since last May. I finished school, thought I’d get a summer job before going back for my masters. Decided I liked it here, liked the women anyway, and stayed.”
“You delivered a tray to room 214 night before last, is that correct?”
“I figured that’s what you wanted to talk to me about. I heard the guy in that room was killed. Shot, right?”
“Do you remember the time?”
“Eight-thirty, round about. They’ll have a record of when he placed the order on file, and we weren’t busy that night so I would have gone up soon as it was ready.”
“Did you go into the room, or leave the food outside?”
“I went in. He opened the door and asked me to lay the stuff out on the table. He told me to open the bottle of champagne, which I did, then I left. He gave me a pretty pink bill.” Fifty bucks, a generous tip.
“Can you describe the man?”
Berkowitz described Steiner perfectly.
“Was he alone?”
“No.”
Winters took a breath. “Who else was in the room, please?”
“A woman. I figured that was why the big tip. He was trying to impress her. She didn’t look impressed. Don’t think she even noticed.”
“Can you describe her?”
“Sure can. She was well worth describing. Beautiful really. Tall, about five foot nine or ten, and quite slim, although hard to say for sure ‘cause she had her coat on.”
“She was wearing a coat?”
“Yes, and holding a bag over her shoulder. She didn’t look like she was planning to stay. The coat was still wet, so she hadn’t been there long either. It was raining that night, I remember ‘cause I’d been outside for a fag. I got the impression she wasn’t too happy. She wasn’t smiling and didn’t say anything at all when I put out the food and opened the champagne. It was the good stuff, too. In fact, she turned her back on it.”
&nbs
p; “Age?” Madison asked.
“Older chick. Older than me, I mean. Forty maybe. Not young anyway. Brown hair with dark blond highlights, about here,” he waved his hand under his chin. “She had these green eyes, gorgeous big green eyes, strong cheekbones, and a little pointed chin.”
“You really did notice her,” Madison said.
“Like I said, she was worth a second look.”
John Winters was aware of his heart pounding in his chest.
“Can you describe her coat?” Madison asked.
“Looked expensive. Light brown, camel colored, with a dark brown belt. Her bag had a Burberry check.”
“What’s that?”
“Burberry’s a company. They make high-end bags and stuff with a pattern of brown, cream and red. I know that ‘cause my dad gave my mom a scarf for Christmas one year and she was over the moon.”
“This woman was the only person in the room, aside from Steiner?”
“Yes.”
“Did she say anything?”
“Not while I was there. She just looked irritated at the interruption.”
From the bottom of a deep well, Winters was aware he was being addressed. “Sorry, what?”
Madison gave him a look. “I said, could this woman be the wife?”
“The wife? Oh, Steiner’s wife. No. Nor the assistant. They’re both in their twenties.”
“Mr. Berkowitz, I’m going to ask you to work with a police artist and come up with a sketch of this woman. I’ll let you know when.”
“Happy to help.”
The police took their leave.
“I’ll drop you back at the hotel,” Winters said, once they were standing on the sidewalk. “I have something I have to do.”
“What?”
“I’ll fill you in later. I have to go.”
His mind was racing, but he couldn’t think straight. He needed to dump Madison, who was looking at him as if he’d lost his mind, and think.
He didn’t need a police artist to draw a sketch of the mysterious woman with the Burberry bag. He could see her face every time he closed his eyes.
Eliza.
Chapter Seven
Molly Smith’s phone rang approximately every fifteen minutes. Always Adam. She wanted to switch it off, but was afraid to in case her mom needed her.
She’d been about to ask Adam to come for a coffee and tell him about Charlie Bassing’s vaguely threatening behavior toward her, but she’d changed her mind. If Adam would punch out Dave Evans, in the station, in front of everyone, over a few words, what might he do to Bassing? Bad enough if Adam went around and slugged him, but if he was in uniform, armed? It didn’t bear thinking about.
She couldn’t stop thinking about it. She’d wanted to say something to Winters on the way to the airport, but he was bothered about this murder and fighting with his wife, so Smith didn’t think it was a good time.
“Five-one?”
“Five-one here.”
“911 call at 285 Elm Street. Report of a B&E.”
She took the next corner and forgot about Adam Tocek and Charles Bassing.
The house was a nice one, warm wood and glass, with a view of the river and the mountains beyond. A man walked over to the car when she pulled up. “That was quick,” he said as she got out.
She smiled. “What seems to be the problem, sir?”
“We just got home from vacation. Two weeks in Mexico. Someone’s been in the house. Stolen things. Looks like they came in the basement window. It’s broken.”
“Was much taken?”
“Computer stuff for sure. I called you right away. My wife’s checking upstairs.”
The home was as beautiful inside as out, modern and minimalist in shades of white accented by touches of striking Chinese red. The wood floor was the color of the petals of daisies at dusk and shone with a rich gloss, and Smith wanted to drop to her knees and run her hands over it. Instead she allowed the man to lead the way through the living room to a small study which overlooked the gardens and what on a sunny day would be the view to the glacier. A large wooden desk was against the windows. Cords and wires crisscrossed the desk, leading to nothing. A thick twisted rope, a dog toy, well chewed, lay on the carpet beside the office chair.
“I had a laptop, modem, printer, video monitor. Also my iPod and electronic book reader.” A thin sheen of dust outlined where the items had been.
“You didn’t take your book reader with you on holiday?” she asked, before realizing that was none of her business.
“I use it on short flights and taxi rides,” he said. “On the beach I prefer a nice thick paperback.”
“Do you take a lot of short flights?”
“I go back and forth to Vancouver several times a month.”
They turned at the whisper of stocking feet on smooth wood. A woman came in, holding a wooden box inlaid with small drawers. She shook it. The rattling of the drawers was the only sound. “Empty.”
“Your jewelry box?” Smith asked, redundantly.
“Yes.”
“If you could start making a list of what’s missing, please.” She spoke into her radio. “I need a detective here.”
“Ten-Four,” Denton said.
Where on earth he was going to get someone, with the town’s entire complement of two detectives working flat out on a murder, was not Smith’s concern.
“Did you have anyone looking after the house while you were away?”
“Judy, next door.” The man sighed. “At least the plants got watered.”
“Can you show me that basement window? I’ve got a camera in the car and I’d like to take some pictures, if you don’t mind. Then I’ll go over and speak to Judy, if she’s home. They’ll be sending a detective around, but I can’t say when he’ll get here. It would be helpful if you could have that list ready for him. Try not to touch door handles, window frames that sort of thing until he’s been.”
The man showed her to the door with an attempt at a smile. The woman didn’t move, just stared into the depths of her jewelry box.
Smith got the camera, took pictures of empty spaces, in both the computer room and the master bedroom. She finished as the doorbell rang. It was Judy from next door who’d seen the police car and hoped everything was all right. She was appropriately shocked to hear of the robbery, but claimed she hadn’t noticed anything amiss when she’d been in the house two days ago.
As Judy had nothing more to add, Smith said her good-byes and went to her car, where she sat, typing her report into the computer. She was mildly disappointed at not hearing any more from Winters about coming to the interview with Mrs. Steiner. But, as she hadn’t, she’d drop into the hospital, say hi to her dad.
Chapter Eight
John Winters stood in the doorway to Eliza’s office for a few moments, watching her. She was not a vain woman, and didn’t display pictures of herself taken in her glory days. The room was painted in a neutral color, chosen to show off her small, but very good, collection of West Coast Native art. A shallow pottery bowl, decorated with a stylistic view of Stanley Park and Lions Gate Bridge in Vancouver, holding paper clips and scraps of note paper, was on her desk, beside a small photo of him in a simple wooden frame. She’d taken it last year when they’d been house hunting in the mountains. He thought the picture made him look old and grumpy, but for some unknown reason Eliza liked it. The CD player was on, playing a Bruce Springsteen track. She loved Springsteen. He could hear the click of computer keys, and smell the vanilla scent of the hand cream she always used. Her hair, her chin length brown hair with dark blond highlights, was stuffed into an elastic band, and she was dressed in the pink and black yoga wear she wore to pad around the house.
He didn’t make a sound, just watched her, but her radar sensed him and she turned.
“Goodness, John, what are you doing standing there?”
“Have you heard the news today?”
“Only the business news. I’m worried about the tar sands controversy
and am considering getting rid of some oil company stocks. What is it? What’s happened?”
“Read the paper?”
She stood up. The chair slid sideways. “I glanced at the Globe headlines, but didn’t see anything significant. Please, John, you’re scaring me. What’s happened?”
“Murder in Trafalgar might not make the big papers. Unless it’s a high-profile kinda guy.”
She extended one well manicured hand. He stepped back.
“Or a high profile suspect.”
“What are you saying? You’re talking gibberish.”
He looked at his wife of twenty-five years. The woman he’d adored every minute since the first time he set eyes on her. Her face was worried, concerned at his behavior, her green eyes bewildered. She didn’t look guilty, or if she were hiding something.
But she was hiding something.
Strands of hair hung lose from the ponytail, making her look about sixteen. Like the girl in the picture.
He pulled it out of his pocket and handed it to her.
She didn’t touch the picture, she didn’t need to. All the blood drained from her face.
She looked at him. “John, I…”
“Would you like to know how I happen to have this in my possession?”
“No.”
“Tough. I’m going to tell you anyway. I came across it in the performance of my duties.”
She stumbled backwards, and dropped into the chair. His cell phone rang. He ignored it. He pushed the button on the CD player and Bruce shut up mid-note.
“That picture was taken a long, long time ago, John. It isn’t me. It isn’t the me I am now.”
“It’s enough of you that if it got handed around the station, I’d be a laughing stock.”
“I’m sorry, John. So sorry.” She started to cry. “I didn’t know what to do. I wanted it back, but I wasn’t going to get into a brawl over it.”
“Do you want to know why I have it?” Just holding the photograph made his fingers feel dirty. He stuffed it back into his pocket.
“I assume he gave it to you.” The sound of her sobs and ragged breathing grated on his nerves like shards of glass. “He can be very spiteful when he doesn’t get what he wants.”
