Willows and Parker Box Set

by Laurence Gough

  “We also have a quantity of blood,” said Parker. “A classic splash pattern, bone fragments and brain tissue. The ME is of the opinion that the bone fragments came from a human skull and that the large quantity of tissue recovered from the crime scene would have resulted in the instantaneous death of the victim.”

  “Whose name is?”

  “Unknown,” said Parker.

  “At the moment,” amended Willows.

  Bradley pulled on his cigar, emitted a billowing noxious cloud, sighed with pleasure. “Fingerprints?”

  “Nothing. The car had been wiped clean.”

  “So you’re telling me somebody was shot to death, but you don’t know who. You have no victim and you have no suspects.”

  “We are the police,” said Willows. “We are trained to suspect everyone.”

  Bradley rolled his eyes. “Gimme a break, Jack. Was there any sign of a struggle? Did the shooting actually take place under the bridge, at the crime scene? Or did the victim get splashed somewhere else?”

  “The car wasn’t driveable. The windshield was smashed all to hell and there were splinters of glass on the ground beside the car. There was a struggle, all right. I’d say the shoot took place where we found the car.”

  “Got a time frame?”

  “We checked the neighborhood, such as it is,” said Parker. “There isn’t much down there. A new condo, a few small businesses and a construction site. The car wasn’t there at ten o’clock Friday night. Nobody we’ve talked to noticed it at all, on Saturday, except for Mrs Weinberg.”

  “Who?”

  “She owns a restaurant down by the dock. The perfect witness. Bright. Articulate. An eye for detail. Only problem is, she didn’t see anything.”

  “Naturally. Anything else?”

  “Two things,” said Willows. “There’s an Aquabus wharf down there in sight of the parking lot, and the kid who was piloting the Sunday morning run quit work at the end of his shift. Didn’t give any notice, just took off. We’ve got an address but no phone number.”

  “You think he saw something?”

  “Could be. We’ll let you know.”

  “Next?”

  “Under the bridge, there was an abandoned car. An Olds-mobile, a Cutlass. No plates, a flat tire, the whole thing covered in bird shit. In the back seat there was an old sleeping bag, newspapers ...”

  “You figure somebody’s using the car to coop?”

  Willows nodded.

  “The missing kid, the Cutlass. Who’s on it?”

  “We are.”

  “You and your rapidly aging partner.”

  Willows nodded.

  “Get somebody else,” said Bradley. He shuffled some papers on his desk. “Take Farley Spears.”

  “He’s got the flu. His wife said he’d probably be gone for the week.”

  Bradley studied his cigar. He’d made a secret pact with himself that in the interest of his continued good health he would no longer smoke his cigars closer than three inches to the butt, and that’s just about what he was down to. He reached for the ashtray and then thought better of it and stuck the cigar in his mouth and sucked in one last puff. “What about Eddy Orwell?”

  “What about him?”

  “Come on, Jack. All he has to do is knock on a few doors, ask a few questions.”

  “And remember the answers.”

  Smoke dribbled out of Bradley’s nostrils. “What’s next?”

  “We’re gonna take another run at the neighborhood, knock on a few doors. See if we can get lucky.”

  “Gonna drag the creek?”

  “At slack tide, three o’clock this afternoon.”

  “You’ve got a full plate, Jack, no two ways about it. Orwell gets a shot at the kid.”

  Willows started towards the door.

  “What did you think of the muffin?” said Bradley.

  Willows paused with his hand on the knob, giving it some thought. “Moist,” he said at last. “Fluffy.”

  “Betty Crocker,” said Bradley. “Just follow the directions, you can’t go wrong.”

  *

  Willows had found a wooden crate and dragged it over to the huge concrete column, had his penknife out and was digging away at something about ten feet above ground level. High above him, the unseen flock of starlings twittered excitedly. “What’ve you got?” said Parker.

  “Lead scrapings. Probably from the bullet that went through the windshield.”

  Willows finished getting his scrapings and then said something Parker didn’t catch, and wandered over to the construction site. Parker waited until he was out of sight and then stood on the packing crate and studied the fresh scar in the cement. After a moment she climbed down from the crate and went over to the Cutlass, got a Kleenex out of her purse and opened the door. Several oddly-shaped pieces of blue foam-board — insulation stolen from the nearby job site — had been wedged up against the windows and placed under a raggedy sleeping bag. So Willows was right, someone was sleeping in the car.

  Parker wondered what kind of hours he kept, if he’d been home on Friday night, had heard or seen anything that might further the investigation.

  She heard footsteps on the gravel, turned and saw Willows walking towards her. She slammed shut the Cutlass’ door, indicated the construction site. “Any luck?”

  Willows shook his head. “I thought the foreman or someone from one of the sub-trades might have decided to work through the weekend. Not a chance.”

  Parker indicated the lead smear. “I should’ve seen that yesterday.”

  Willows shrugged. “The light was different.” He put his foot up on the bumper of the Cutlass. “Anybody home?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  Willows wasn’t surprised. The vagrant would be gone at first light, back after dark. Careful because he knew that if anybody from the condo or one of the businesses happened to see him, they’d have the car towed away. He glanced at his watch. “Might as well get to work on the condo.”

  “Okay,” said Parker.

  The condominium was nine storeys high, built of prefab concrete slabs, with a sloped roof of corrugated sheet steel painted aquamarine. At the front of the building, glass-enclosed balconies looked out over the water. Willows had gauged the angle and decided the balconies would have an unobstructed view of the lower half of the parking lot.

  There were eighteen apartments in the condo; two per floor. Willows buzzed the super, and they were let into the lobby.

  The super was tall, balding. He had a heavy frame and thick, sloping shoulders, an Eastern European accent.

  “Who you want to see this time?” He spoke to Willows, ignored Parker.

  Willows turned to Parker.

  “The people we didn’t see yesterday,” she said.

  “Mrs Livingston not home. She saw nothing. She is sorry, but cannot help you.”

  “We’ll try her again tomorrow,” Parker said. “Or in the evening, if that’s more convenient.”

  “She saw nothing,” the super said to Willows. “She watch TV, go to bed early.”

  “That’s what she told you,” said Parker. “But is it what she’d tell us?”

  The ground floor of the condo contained the super’s apartment, storage areas, a spacious and well-furnished lobby. Willows and Parker had already questioned the occupants of the second and third floors. He went over to the elevator and pushed the UP button. The doors immediately slid open. They stepped inside. The super made as if to follow them.

  “Wait there,” said Parker.

  The super opened his mouth. The doors slid shut.

  The owner of apartment 437 was Miss Susan Tyler. Miss Tyler was waiting for them at the door when they came out of the elevator. She was wearing a mauve pleated skirt and a white blouse, fleecy wool slippers. Her hair was cut short, and was silvery gray except for a feathering of mauve at her temple on the left side. She wore a heavy gold necklace and wedding and engagement rings, large gold hoops that pulled at her earlobes, a go
ld chain around her ankle.

  “How old would you say I am?” was her opening remark.

  Willows turned to Parker, raised an eyebrow.

  “I’m speaking to you, young man.”

  “Detective Willows. And this is Detective Parker. We’re investigating a shooting and possible homicide that took place Friday night in the parking lot under the Granville Street bridge.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that. Terrible, simply terrible. George told me all about it. You don’t look surprised. Well, neither would I. The man’s a bit of a gossip, I wouldn’t share any of my secrets with him.”

  Willows nodded politely. George was the super.

  Susan Tyler opened her door a little wider. The gold jangled. “Why don’t you come inside, so we can sit down and be comfortable.”

  There was a spacious entrance hall, mirrored closet doors on the left and to the right a wide hallway that Willows guessed led to the bedrooms. The apartment was fairly large — George had told Willows and Parker that except for the penthouse, each unit had two bedrooms and a den, and occupied a little over three thousand square feet.

  The two detectives followed Miss Tyler across an expanse of white plush carpet and into the living room. Willows had expected antiques, but the furniture was modern and comfortable, expensive but understated. Parker went over to the sliding glass doors that led to the balcony, paused with her hand on the latch.

  “Go ahead, dear. Make yourself at home.”

  Parker slid open the door and stepped out on the balcony.

  Miss Tyler waved Willows towards the couch, sat down beside him. “Now then,” she said, “where were we?”

  “We were about to discuss the shooting in the parking lot,” said Willows.

  “No we weren’t, not quite yet.” She moved closer to Willows and patted him on the arm. Her nails, long and sharp and painted jet black, hissed across the fabric of his jacket. “Since you’re a detective, you must be very good at guessing people’s ages. In fact I imagine it’s part of your training. So tell me, please, how old would you say I am?”

  “Sixty-seven,” said Willows.

  “That’s a very clever guess, young man. Close enough to seem sincere, but far enough off to be flattering. As a matter of fact I’m seventy-two.”

  “Amazing,” said Willows. He smiled. “Did you hear the shots?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Did you see anything? The lights of a car, people down by the water ...”

  “No, I’m sorry. Not a thing. As soon as it gets dark I pull the curtains. The windows are double-glazed, and the curtains are very thick and help contain the noise from the bridge. The sound of traffic can be very loud, you know. And of course I don’t like the idea of people looking in on me, invading my privacy.”

  The balcony door slid open and Parker came back into the room. She closed the door and briskly rubbed her hands together.

  “Cold, isn’t it?” said Miss Tyler. “It’s the wind off the water that does it. My husband bought this place about six months before he died, and I really wish he hadn’t, bless his soul. It’s lovely in the summer, but during the rest of the year it’s cold and damp, not much fun at all. And the balcony’s useless, because of the traffic noise from the bridge.”

  Willows stood up. He took a card from his wallet.

  “Won’t you stay and have a cup of tea?” said Miss Tyler. “Or I have coffee, if you prefer.”

  “We’d love to,” said Parker, “but we’re really very busy.”

  “I was out this morning and bought some muffins. Bran muffins, with raisins. They’re nice and fresh, I could pop them in the microwave and they’d be ready in less than a minute.”

  “Coffee and a muffin would be perfect,” said Willows, avoiding Parker’s eye.

  “Well then, you two just make yourselves comfortable and I’ll put the kettle on.”

  Parker sat in a wing-back chair on the far side of the room, over by the television.

  “What’re you looking at me like that for?” Willows whispered across the room. He grinned. “It’s twenty to two. Just because you’ve had your lunch doesn’t mean I can’t have mine.”

  In the kitchen a coffee grinder whined shrilly, drowning Parker’s earthy response.

  They left the condo at ten minutes past three. The owners had been home at five of the sixteen apartments they’d visited. They’d interviewed seven of the owners on the previous day, Sunday afternoon. Twelve down and four to go, but Willows was confident they weren’t going to come up with anything, because why would anybody in his right mind spend a perfectly nice Saturday evening staring out the window at an unlit parking lot?

  Maybe Eddy Orwell would get lucky. Or maybe the bum who was living in the Cutlass had seen something.

  Anything was possible, wasn’t it?

  *

  The first diver hit the water at twenty minutes past three. The last diver came out of the water at five minutes past six. He had something on the end of a yellow nylon rope. Willows and Parker, huddled on shore, watched as the stiff coils of rope piled up on the deck of the Coast Guard cruiser.

  The water bulged, frothed white. It took Willows a moment to realize that the shiny black object on the end of the rope was an old tire. It was a few more moments before he identified the manic sound floating across the water towards him as laughter.

  Willows saluted the diver with a stiff middle finger. Then turned to glance behind him, and was relieved to see Miss Tyler wasn’t at her window, to observe his childish and petulant behavior.

  8

  The client was a sushi freak. Paterson had arranged to meet him for lunch at one o’clock sharp at a trendy Japanese restaurant on Burrard. He’d reserved a private room. The room was about ten feet square, with authentic paper walls, a hardwood floor, and a low table with a pit beneath it so stiff-legged Westerners could hunker down and dine in comfort.

  The food was attractively presented and very tasty, but Paterson was so distracted by his thoughts that he hardly knew what he was eating. The client, his mouth full of Kirin beer and raw fish and bright ideas, spoke with such great energy and enthusiasm that he failed to notice Paterson hardly heard a word he said.

  That morning, Paterson had looked up his pal Jerry Ribiero, the programmer with the thirsty nose. He showed Ribiero a baggie containing a soupspoon of the white powder, asked him to confirm that the powder was cocaine.

  Ribiero had picked the bag up off his desk, hefted the weight of it and held it up against the blue-tinted light flooding in from the plate-glass windows of his office. “You wired, Al?”

  “What?”

  “Wearing a wire. Electronic listening device, know what I mean?”

  “Jesus, Jerry!”

  “Look me in the eye, Al. Narcs gotcha by the balls? You workin’ for the narcs?”

  “Do I look like a narc, Jerry?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact, you do. But so does everybody else, ain’t life a bitch.” Ribiero tore open a pack of cigarettes, flicked a green plastic disposable lighter. “Where’d you get it, Al?”

  “I found it.”

  “Lucky you.” Ribiero nervously flicked the lighter, cupped his hand around the flame.

  “One of my kid’s school pals had it on him. Kid slung his jacket over the banister and the bag fell out of his pocket. Simple as that.”

  Ribiero grinned, kept flicking his Bic. “So you told him you were gonna have to confiscate the stuff, right?”

  “I didn’t say anything. When they went upstairs to Jamie’s room, I put the bag in my pocket.”

  “At today’s prices, who could blame you?”

  “I’m not going to snort it, Jerry. I just want to confirm that it’s coke.”

  The programmer fiddled with the bag, unfastening the tie-tab. “You’re saying you don’t want it? That once you have my professional opinion, it’s all mine?”

  “Why not?”

  “You should be wearing a fluffy white beard, Al, and big
black boots and a red velvet suit.” The knot came loose. “You got at least fifteen or twenty grams here, the kid must be a dealer. If I were you, I’d make your boy piss in a bottle, run a urinalysis on him.”

  “He’s okay.”

  “Hey, sure. Whatever you say.” Ribiero licked his finger, dipped it in the white powder. Frowned.

  “Something wrong?”

  “It’s too fine, not gritty enough. Like somebody’s already chopped it.” Ribiero lifted his finger to his nose, sniffed. Licked. Gave Al a look.

  “What?” said Paterson.

  “This isn’t coke, it’s fucking heroin.”

  “Heroin?”

  “Smack. H. White lady. Junk. Call it whatever you want, it still bottoms out at about five years’ worth of hard time.”

  Paterson couldn’t think of anything to say. “Are you sure, Jerry?”

  “I tried it once. Back in the sixties. Remember the sixties, Al? Jesus, in those days I was doing every damn thing there was. Had a big glass milk bottle full of pills in the refrigerator. Peyote ... A friend of mine was a dealer. Ross Venturino. He was mostly into weed, but he did special orders. His wholesaler gave him a couple of hits, a freebie. We passed the stuff around. I had a taste. Ross was a little crazier. He shot up, mainlined. Drilled himself right in that big vein runs through the crook of your elbow. Said it was the best experience of his life. Better than sex. When he came down, he took the second hit and flushed it right down the toilet.”

  Ribiero sealed the plastic bag and pushed it across the table. “The drug itself can’t hurt you, if it’s pure. Unless you get unlucky and overdose. But once you’re wired, odds are you’re gonna die one way or the other, sooner or later. Starve yourself to death because you’d rather feed your veins than eat. Fall out of a window trying to break into somebody’s apartment. Get cut up by another junkie. Share a needle and cop hepatitis, or maybe AIDS. Pop a hot shot. Nod off smoking and burn to death.”

  “What’s a hot shot?” said Paterson.

  “Shooting up with smack that hasn’t been stepped on, diluted. When you’re wired, Al, there’s a million ways to go.”