Negative Image

by Vicki Delany

Lucky freed herself from her daughter, and dug in the pocket of her too-big, not very well made, craft-sale sweater. Andy looked toward the window. Molly handed Lucky the box of tissues from the side table.

  “Let’s give Dad some down time. Come on, Mom, I’ll walk you to your car. The chips,” she said to her father, “Can wait until tomorrow. I’ll bring one of those party-sized bags to celebrate a successful operation.”

  “Sausage rolls would be nice, too. And maybe some of those frozen pizza roll ups.”

  “Done.” She kissed her father’s paper-thin cheek. It was rough with bristles. He smelled slightly sour, of disinfectant and medication and fear.

  He stretched his arm out and Lucky took his hand.

  “You are my life,” he said, and Smith turned away at such a naked sign of intimacy.

  “Try not to worry, eh, Mom?” she said as they crossed the parking lot to Lucky’s car. “Dad’s a tough old buzzard.”

  “That he is. How’s Adam?”

  Smith took a breath. “Great. He’s great. We’re great.”

  “It makes me happy to see you happy.” Lucky stroked her daughter’s arm. “Ask him to come and visit. Your dad likes him, you know.”

  “Dad would like anyone who might make an honest woman of me.”

  “Everything else going okay?”

  “Great, Mom. Life’s just great.” Smith tried to keep her voice light, playful. Her mother could usually read her like a book, but tonight Lucky’s mind was elsewhere.

  “I’m happy for you,” she repeated.

  Smith barely made it home before Adam was knocking at the door. Balancing a large, flat cardboard box, he followed her upstairs to her apartment over the bakery. The odor of fresh pizza mingled with the smell of the day’s baking, and Smith briefly wondered if that’s what heaven smells like.

  “I don’t have long, Adam,” she said, as he placed the box on the coffee table. Underneath the heavy stubble on his jaw, the skin was turning purple from the punch he’d received from Evans. Not wanting to start thinking about that again, she went into the kitchen and ripped sections off a roll of paper towel. As she reached up into the cupboard for two plates, she heard the floorboards creak under his weight. His arms slipped around her waist and his hands moved upwards, feeling for her breasts. Still holding the plates, she wriggled free and turned around. He took the dishes from her and put them on the counter.

  “Let’s have dessert first.” He bent down and aimed a kiss at her.

  She pushed him away. “I thought we were going to talk.”

  “Molly, I’m sorry. I really am. Evans is such a jerk, and what he said about you…”

  “I heard, Adam. Everyone in the goddamned station heard. He made some stupid crack about our sex life, way outa line, but it would have ended there if you’d walked away. You’re the one who made it into a big deal.”

  “It was a lot more than a joke about sex, Molly. I couldn’t stand there and let him insult you like that, and that smirking bastard McMillan taking it all in.”

  She threw up her hands and walked out of the kitchen. “Insult me. That’s what it was about, isn’t it. He insulted me. Are you defending my honor? I don’t have any goddamned honor to be defended.” She turned and faced him, her anger boiling up inside her.

  He looked like a little boy, a six-foot four, two-hundred and twenty pound little boy, trying to explain why he’d been in a fight in the school yard.

  “Do you think I don’t know what Dave Evans thinks of me? Do you think he doesn’t know what I think of him? But we go out on the streets every day, and we do our jobs, and we watch each other’s back. Because we’re cops first and being cops is the only thing that matters. Now you’ve gone and made it personal.”

  “Evans made it personal.”

  They’d met at a riot. Not the most romantic of settings. She’d been scared out of her wits, but she’d done her job, and Constable Adam Tocek had done his job and the incident had ended well. She was afraid of what might happen in the same circumstances now. Would Adam be able to take control of the situation, move the officers into position, talk calmly to the crowd, as he’d done that day? Or would he be distracted, concerned about her, too busy checking she was all right? Thus putting them both, and everyone around them, in danger.

  Plenty of police were married to other officers. They seemed to be able to work together okay. Maybe it needed more time. It was still so new, and…

  Sensing her resistance fading, he took a step toward her. “I love you, Molly.”

  …and he was so much in love with her.

  “Please, Adam,” she said, knowing her voice sounded small and weak. “Don’t try to protect me anymore.”

  He kissed her again, a long deep kiss that went all the way down to her toes, and this time she kissed him back.

  ***

  Molly Smith headed out the door of her apartment, grabbing a slice of cold pepperoni pizza from the unopened box to munch on the way to the station.

  Adam was dozing, but he’d be gone soon after her. He couldn’t leave his dog, Norman, at home alone all night.

  She ran down the stairs, feeling warm and happy and loved.

  But nothing, she knew, had been resolved.

  Chapter Eleven

  The IHIT team had taken over interview room two. Every time John Winters had to pass it he felt himself getting angrier. On his way back from the Websters’ house, his kit bulging with fingerprint samples, he’d stopped at the drug store to pick up deodorant, a toothbrush and toothpaste, and an electric razor. He kept telling himself that Eliza had nothing to do with the death of Steiner. But he couldn’t stop wondering, as well as wondering what she’d been doing in the man’s hotel room that night. Whatever it was, she hadn’t said anything to her husband about it, not when she got home nor the next morning when they were getting ready to leave for San Francisco. She’d been edgy and nervous, he remembered, as she’d been for most of the week. He’d put it down to restlessness—she hadn’t had a decent job offer for months—and winter blues.

  He trusted her, he loved her, he believed in her.

  But he just didn’t want to face her tonight.

  He worked alone in the small forensic office, developing the prints and scanning them into the computer for uploading into the national database. If anyone with a record had been in that house, he’d find them.

  Once that was done, he spent some time at his desk, typing up notes about the thefts, reading his old notes, trying to find similarities. No matter where he looked, he was coming up blank. The homes and homeowners appeared to have nothing in common. They didn’t know each other, except in that casual way that everyone in a small town seems to know almost everyone else. They had not advertised in the paper for someone to mind their homes in their absence, and had all used a different neighbor, if they used one at all, to check on the house. Some of them took the Gazette, some did not; some had cancelled delivery for the time they were away, some had not. They weren’t even geographically close, scattered all over town. They took their dogs to different kennels, and their children went to a variety of schools and played on a variety of sports teams. Not all of the homeowners even had children. A few went to church regularly, but to different churches, and most of the victims didn’t have a church at all.

  He looked up to see Molly Smith standing in the doorway. Behind her, all was quiet and the lights were dim. Everyone gone home, IHIT either at the scene or finished for the day.

  He waved toward a chair. “What did you find out?”

  “Nothing.” He suspected she held herself back from adding, “as I could have told you.”

  She shifted her equipment belt and plopped down. “I did hear a lot of variations on what is this town coming to. People have read about the break-ins in the paper and aren’t happy. And, let me tell you, that killing hasn’t helped any. What’s happening with that one anyway?”

  He looked at her. Her hat was in her lap, and she rubbed at the short blond hair on the top
of her head, and her pretty face showed simple curiosity. Apparently she hadn’t heard about Eliza. The police department grapevine wasn’t as efficient as he’d thought. Then again, she was no doubt avoiding listening in on anyone’s conversation, knowing that after that fight in the lunch room, she herself could be the topic du jour. He felt a twist in his gut. News of Eliza being brought in for questioning would have pushed a simple fist fight right off the radar.

  “I want a full report of what you heard, anyway,” he said, ignoring her question. “Have it on my desk before lunch. Tomorrow night, go up to Station Street, do the section where last week’s break-in happened. Same questions.”

  “Tomorrow’s not good, John. I’m off.”

  “I told you, I’ll authorize the overtime. You don’t keep bankers’ hours, Molly.”

  Her blue eyes opened in surprise. “My father is having an operation tomorrow. I’ll take the day off I’ve been given, thanks.” She stood up. “I’ll do the report before I leave.”

  “You do that.” He hesitated before turning back to his computer. “Give your dad my best wishes.” She nodded, and then her footsteps echoed in the quiet hallway.

  He took off his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes. His hand reached for the phone, hesitated, and returned to the keyboard. He couldn’t face talking to Eliza. Not yet.

  He put his glasses back on and continued typing.

  ***

  That was such a waste of time, she might indulge herself and spend the overtime money on something completely frivolous. A day at the spa maybe, or some new clothes. It wasn’t fun, interrupting people when they were relaxing at home, watching fake police solve cases in an hour including commercials, who then took the opportunity to give her an earful about the state of policing in Trafalgar. If Winters demanded she march around to every house in town, she might make enough to be able to treat Adam to a weekend of spring skiing in Whistler.

  Adam. She felt herself smiling at the thought of him. He’d said that he loved her. Sure he was trying to get her to forget she was mad at him and into the sack, but she knew he meant it. She hadn’t said the words back though.

  She’d recently come to the difficult decision that it was time to leave Trafalgar; if her career was to go anywhere she needed better policing experience than she would get in this small, generally peaceful town. She’d stayed in touch with a woman she’d met at police college, who was now working in Toronto. Last week her friend phoned, telling Smith it was a good time to apply. She’d started updating her resume, but it remained in her computer, unsent.

  Did she want to leave Adam? They’d tell each other she’d visit Trafalgar regularly and they could have a long-distance relationship, but everyone knew those things rarely worked out. She could suggest he move to Toronto too, but the RCMP didn’t have many officers in Ontario, and she knew that Adam loved the Mounties.

  It was difficult sometimes to be a police officer in Trafalgar, where her mothers’ friends passed her on the street, dressed in full uniform, body amour, radio, gun, baton, and said, “hello, dear.” Where the newspaper reporter still hated her because of some slight when they were sixteen years old that neither of them remembered. If she were to get ahead in this career Molly Smith knew she needed big-city experience. But she also knew she was falling in love with Adam Tocek, and it would be very difficult to leave him.

  It was late and even Feuilles de Menthe, the restaurant next door to her apartment, was dark and quiet. There was no traffic on the street and everything was still. Spring was coming, although taking its time, and the night air had a crisp, sharp bite. She yawned, remembering she had to be at the hospital in a few hours. There was no welcoming lamp over the back door that led to the stairs up to her place and the street light across the alley didn’t reach the entrance. It was wrapped in night’s gloom.

  Something was on the door, darker than the shadows. Smith froze in her tracks, and her hand rose to her mouth.

  A rat. Impaled onto the door by a knife.

  She whirled around, pulling out her flashlight and switching it on. She played the beam of light around the alley, probing the shadows. No one was watching her and there was no sign of anyone hiding and her radar wasn’t twitching. Only when she was confident she was alone and unobserved, did she bend over and rest her hands on her trembling knees. Her stomach churned, and she took one deep breath and then another. Finally, she straightened up and pointed the flashlight at her door. The rat’s black eyes were dark pools in an ugly face; the long naked tail didn’t move. It was, thank heavens, dead. Blood glistened in the bright white light. Still wet.

  It would be morning soon, and people would cut down the alley to get to work and school. She couldn’t leave the hideous thing here. She knew she should call this in, get the knife fingerprinted. John Winters was still at his desk, she’d seen the light in his office when she left after finishing the report. He was acting so damned prickly, she was reluctant to call him out. The forensics people were so busy they’d not be happy at being woken up to investigate the murder of an alley rat.

  Particularly as there wasn’t much of a mystery about the identity of the rodent-killer.

  Charlie Bassing. Guaranteed.

  Smith slipped her hands into a pair of latex gloves and grabbed the handle of the knife. She braced herself and pulled. It came away from the door so easily she toppled backwards. She stumbled to keep her footing, and the rat dropped to the ground.

  She studied the knife under the beam of her flashlight. It was a kitchen knife, the blade about six inches long, the handle showing signs of wear. A knife of the sort anyone could buy anywhere to slice onions and chicken breasts. Blood, deep red, almost black, glistened in the light. A few drops fell to the ground. She shuddered and again felt her stomach move.

  She kicked the dead rat into the bushes, then played the beam of the flashlight around the alley, lighting up the dark corners. All was quiet. He could be hiding, just out of the range of her light, watching her, but she didn’t sense him. Just in case, she lifted the knife and held it up, into the light, trying to look tougher than she felt. She spat on the ground.

  She turned and unlocked her door and went up stairs to get a wet rag to clean the door and a plastic bag for the knife.

  Chapter Twelve

  The hill was steep and Barb Kowalski was overweight and approaching retirement age, but she ran all the way. She arrived at the police station boiling hot, dripping sweat, gasping for breath. Her fingers shook as she punched in the access code to open the door. “Paul in yet?” she shouted to Jim Denton, settling himself down with coffee in a mug that said “World’s Greatest Granddad”.

  “Yes. You’re early. What’s the matter now?”

  Barb didn’t answer. As Jim said, she was early and the office staff hadn’t arrived yet. The Chief’s door was open; he was snapping the tab off the day’s first can of pop.

  He stared at her. “What on earth?”

  She waved the newspaper. “Have you seen this?”

  “No.”

  She handed it to him. It was today’s Gazette, delivered to Barb’s house in time for breakfast as every morning. She’d taken one look at the headline, abandoned her bowl of home-made granola, and her startled husband, and ran all the way to the office, trying to read while she went.

  Keller turned pale. He looked up at Barb. “I do not want to read this,” he said, in a low flat voice. But he read.

  Most of the front page was taken up by a picture of Eliza Winters, snapped last summer at a party at the site of the proposed Grizzly Resort outside of town. A small picture was inset next to the bigger one, taken at the height of her modeling career. In that one she was young, and so incredibly glamorous as to be almost unworldly. Barb dropped into the visitor’s chair while the Chief read. The former supermodel, now semi-retired and living in Trafalgar, the article said, was being questioned by police in regards to the brutal murder of her former lover, the internationally renowned photographer Rudolph Steiner. The
article described Steiner as a many-times-married playboy, and failed to mention that he and Mrs. Winters had been lovers more than twenty-five years ago.

  It was sparse on details of the killing and the police investigation and heavy on innuendo and gossip. As the Chief read, exclaiming in anger every couple of sentences, Barb knew he was hoping to get to the end without finding a mention of Eliza’s husband. But it was there, sure enough, in the last paragraph. Sergeant John Winters, of the Trafalgar City Police, had been relieved of his duties due to the potential conflict of interest.

  Keller threw the can of pop into the trash. It wasn’t empty, and he missed, and brown liquid splashed up the walls. “Is John in yet?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Find out. If he’s here, bring him to see me. Someone,” he said, pronouncing each word with careful deliberation, “in this department has spoken to that bloody Morgenstern woman. When I find out who it is, and I will find out, his, or her, career is finished. Soon as they’re open, call our lawyer. I want a meet ASAP.”

  Barb scurried out of her boss’ office.

  She found John Winters at his desk. He was wearing the same clothes he had on yesterday, and his eyes were red and his face drawn. “Haven’t you gone home?” she said.

  He grinned, without much mirth, and rubbed the face of his watch with the pad of his thumb. “Home’s a bit awkward right now. I slept on the couch in the interview room. Very comfortable, I might move in permanently. What’s up?”

  “Have you read the Gazette today?”

  “No. I was about go out and get something for breakfast.”

  “Chief would like to see you first.”

  ***

  Ray Lopez was scraping up the last bit of oatmeal when his cell phone rang. Madeleine leaned across the table and plucked the sports section of yesterday’s Globe and Mail out from under his elbow. “You won’t be needing this any more,” she said.

  It was the station, telling him that Mrs. Steiner would be available at eight-thirty for an interview.

  The small clock over the kitchen door said “Kootenay Time” and all the numbers were jumbled. But the hands were true and it was not quite seven-thirty. He made a grab for the newspaper. “Plenty of time.”