Unreasonable Doubt

by Vicki Delany

  Walt’s heart accelerated. He told himself to keep walking. He was in a public place, minding his own business, eating nuts he’d paid for. He even had the receipt in his pocket.

  He dared a glance at the cop. The man stared back at him, his young, handsome face set into tight lines. Then the car accelerated, lights and sirens came on, and roared away.

  Walt kept walking. Time to return to the B&B. Maybe the women would be back from their dinner, enjoying a nightcap in the common room. He realized, with a small degree of surprise, that he hoped they were. He’d like to spend some time with them. With all of them, but particularly with the quiet one named Carolanne.

  He left the busy shops and restaurants and the crowded streets behind him. This part of Front Street was mostly offices. Accountants, lawyers, an addictions help center. The real estate company he’d worked for was still there. He hadn’t bothered to drop in and say hi. The cop car slid up beside him, its lights and sirens off. He kept walking. The car pulled ahead, the front tire climbing onto the sidewalk, and the officer got out.

  He was alone this time. He walked around the car and planted himself on the sidewalk, blocking Walt’s way. Walt tried to go around him. The cop spread his legs and rested his hand on the butt of his gun. “Going somewhere?”

  “To bed.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “I haven’t made my plans yet. You’ll be the first to know when I do.”

  Walt realized he was standing at the entrance to an alley, a dark spot equal distance between two streetlights. A couple walked by on the other side of the street, but no one else was nearby.

  “I brought an old friend of yours,” the cop said. “Wants to have a chat.”

  Walt glanced to his right. The alley was a dark tunnel. Cables and wires stretched overhead forming an urban jungle. The cop moved. He didn’t so much grab Walt as bump him. Walt was fitter and stronger than he’d ever been, but the cop had thirty or more years on him, never mind being armed. Walt stumbled. He felt a hand on his arm and he was jerked into the alley. The cop placed his bulk firmly behind him, blocking any exit. For a moment Walt cursed himself for not bringing his backpack. Then he thought no. He couldn’t chance getting caught with its contents on him.

  As Walt’s eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he saw two figures standing against a building, draped in the deeper shadows. “What the hell’s going on?” To his relief his voice stayed strong.

  The men stepped away from the wall. One was the older cop he’d seen yesterday, not in uniform tonight. At first he thought he didn’t know the third guy. He was older than the others, overweight, with wet red eyes and a nose like a billiard ball. He sported a scraggy goatee and badly cut, greasy hair.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t my old pal, Walter.”

  Despite the heat of the night, a line of ice ran down Walt’s spine. He knew that voice. He still heard it, in his nightmares. “Jack McMillan. I wouldn’t have thought you could get any older or uglier. Guess I was wrong.”

  “I heard Arlene died of shame. Sorry about that.”

  “You keep your problems with me between us. Leave my wife out of it.”

  McMillan took a step forward. He poked Walt in the chest. The two cops stood back, watching. Ready to move. “You don’t like me talking about your wife. Well, you said bad things about me in the press. Things I didn’t want my ex-wife and kids to hear.”

  “I’m not going to engage in a pissing contest with you. Not now, not ever. You and your idiot sergeant set me up, you drove my wife into her grave, you ruined my life, and you let a killer go free. I don’t know why, and these days I don’t care.” Walt cared very much, but this wasn’t the time, nor the place to try to find out what Kibbens and McMillan had been up to. “I want to get on with my life. What little of it you bastards left me with.”

  “You killed that girl. You raped her with a goddamn knife and then you slit her throat. She was a nice girl, never did any harm to anyone. Want to talk about ruined lives? How about her life, her parents’? You did it, and I know you did.”

  McMillan’s face was up against Walt’s now, almost touching. He could feel the spittle landing on him like a light rain. He kept his arms to his side, slightly bent. Ready. He’d had his share of beatings in prison. He could take it, if it came to that. Which it probably would: three against one. One of the three a young cop with heavy boots and a baton. He sensed the older cop shifting from one foot to another. Getting ready to move in.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was going to be a long, boring night. The bouncer at the Potato Famine had called to say a fight had broken out, but by the time Molly Smith jogged over, the miscreants had taken off. Dave Evans was in the car tonight, but she hadn’t seen him in hours. She shifted the weight of her utility belt. She accepted a glass of water from the bartender and sipped it, watching the crowd, letting everyone know she was there. The Potato Famine wasn’t one of Trafalgar’s tourist highlights. Except among those tourists who arrived in a convoy of motorcycles, with leather jackets bristling with colors and badges, and the occasional vacationing university jerks who wanted to try their hand at slumming it.

  A band was playing heavy metal. Smith enjoyed listening to a good, live heavy metal band in a bar as much as the next person, but this bunch wasn’t good, and they were scarcely even live. Not that anyone was paying attention anyway.

  She put her empty glass on the counter. “I’ll be around,” she said.

  “Catch you later.”

  “God, I hope not,” she muttered. He didn’t hear her over the racket.

  She went through the main room, down a dark passageway past the kitchen, all noise and steam and hot grease, and out the back door that opened into the alley. More than once she’d caught a couple out here too impatient to find themselves a hotel room. Or even the backseat of a car. Tonight, the alley was quiet. An orange cat slipped between garbage bags at the back of the shop next door.

  It was early, barely past eight o’clock, the sun dipping toward the mountains. Give it time, and the action at the PF would be heating up, inside and out.

  She walked to the corner and turned into Front Street. Busy tonight, a nice evening and the height of the summer tourist season. She and Adam had vacation time scheduled in a couple of weeks. They were going to Ontario to spend a few days with his parents (gulp!) in Toronto and then taking his nephew and two nieces for a week’s canoe trip in Killarney Park. She was looking forward to it very much. The camping and canoeing part, that is, not the staying with the parents part. She hadn’t met them yet, although they seemed okay the couple of times they’d Skyped. She’d never been to Ontario, and figured it couldn’t hold a candle to B.C. when it came to the wilderness, but the pictures she’d seen of Killarney on the Internet when Adam made the bookings did look nice. Unspoiled and remote, exactly the way she and Adam liked it.

  She strolled down Front Street, showing the flag so to speak. Most people she passed nodded and smiled, a few turned their heads away, and one guy, well-known to the police, bolted down a side street. She checked her watch. Time for a rest stop and something to eat. She touched her radio. “Four-two, this is Five-one.”

  “Go ahead.” Evans said.

  “I’m popping into the office for half an hour. The PF is quiet now, but looking like a big crowd tonight.”

  “I’m on a call. Stay on the street until I’m clear.”

  “Ten-Four.” She hadn’t heard any call come over the radio recently, other than the one sending her to the Potato Famine. No matter. She could wait. She debated what to get for supper. Shanghai noodles from Trafalgar Thai would hit the spot. She pulled out her phone and called to place the order. She kept her favorite restaurant on speed dial.

  “Can you wait about an hour, Molly?” the hostess said. “I’m really sorry, but we’re short in the kitchen tonight with one cook off sick and the lineup’s out
the door.”

  “I can see the line from here. Sure, an hour’s fine.”

  She breathed in deeply as she passed the restaurant. Fragrant spices and the scent of warm cooking oil drifted out. She waved to her friend Christa, standing in the line with a man Smith vaguely recognized. He had his arm around her shoulders. Smith and Christa had been close once. As close as sisters. But they’d drifted so far apart Smith hadn’t even known Christa was dating someone.

  At Fleures des Menthe, tables and chairs were set out on the patio. The eating area protruded across the sidewalk into the street, marked off by a neat, white wooden fence, adorned with pots overflowing with purple and yellow petunias. The patio was full; people laughed and glasses clinked. Smith ran her eyes over the crowd, not that there was ever much trouble at this upscale restaurant. Her heart sunk into her stomach. The last person she wanted to see was here, having dinner with an older couple.

  “Hey, Molly!” Meredith Morgenstern spotted Smith. She jumped to her feet and carried her wineglass over to the fence. “Nice to see you.”

  “What brings you to town?”

  “Vacation. A duty visit to the old folks.” Meredith nodded to her dinner companions. They smiled back. Vacation was okay, Smith thought, as long as Meredith wasn’t moving back to Trafalgar. She had to reluctantly admit the other woman was looking darned good. Her hair was brushed to a brilliant shine, cascading in black waves down her back. Her makeup was light and perfectly applied, and her eyebrows formed a flawless arch. She wore a navy-blue linen jacket over a blindingly white tee-shirt and blue capris. She was taller than Smith remembered. She glanced down to see blue and gold sandals with three-inch heels on Meredith’s feet.

  Smith felt like an ungainly lump in her black boots, heavy uniform, Kevlar vest, and fully laden equipment belt. She was melting under all that, while Meredith looked as light as a breeze and sipped white wine with beautifully manicured hands.

  Something about Meredith Morgenstern still made Molly Smith feel as though she were back in high school, desperate for the approval of Meredith and her gaggle of in-girls.

  “I heard you and Adam got engaged. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.”

  “When’s the big day?” Meredith checked Smith’s left hand for a ring.

  “We haven’t decided yet.” She never wore the gorgeous square-cut diamond when in uniform.

  “I was going to give you a call,” Meredith said. “How about lunch? If you’re working tonight, you’ll be free tomorrow, right?”

  “Lunch?” Smith said.

  “My treat. Come on, say yes, we can talk over old times and laugh about all the fun we’ve had over the years.”

  Smith couldn’t remember having ever had any fun in Meredith’s company. “Sorry. I’ve pulled a double shift today, and I have to be back at three tomorrow. Another time, maybe.”

  “Saturday, then?”

  Smith heard herself saying, “I was planning on going to the dragon boat thing down at the river. I suppose I can do lunch after.”

  “Perfect. One o’clock? Right here?”

  “Okay. See you then.” Smith walked on. Why on earth had she agreed to that? Shouldn’t be a problem. After all, Meredith was here to visit her parents. Not in search of a story.

  She heard low voices coming from the next alley, and ducked into it. A group of teenagers stood in the shadows. She checked for cans of beer or the scent of pot. Nothing. They eyed her warily, as teenagers do. She recognized most of them. Middle-class kids from good homes who went to school and had part-time jobs. Not the sort to be looking for trouble, just bored and restless.

  Smith remembered what that felt like. “Everything okay, guys?”

  “Yeah.”

  She carried on down the alley, then turned right and headed west. She had no particular route to walk, just went where the mood took her. Downtown Trafalgar was only a couple of blocks. She’d spend the night popping into bars, checking dark corners, peering into the windows of closed stores. Her stomach rumbled and she checked her watch. Only fifteen minutes had passed since she’d ordered her supper. She was starving.

  As she approached the intersection of two alleys, she heard a soft grunt, and a man saying, “You don’t seem to able to take a hint. So maybe it’s time to do more than hint.”

  She rounded the corner, her hand on the radio at her shoulder. Four men were wrapped in shadow. One had his back against the wall, while another stood in his space, too close to mean anything good. Two other men held back, watching, but braced as though they were ready to move. She recognized Dave Evans first, as the weak light from the street reflected off the word “Police” printed on the back of his Kevlar vest. Then Sergeant Jeff Glendenning, not in uniform.

  She dropped her hand. “What’s up, guys?”

  The men jumped. The entire body of the man against the wall sagged in relief. The fellow threatening him stepped back and turned to face her.

  Walt Desmond and Jack McMillan.

  Definitely not good.

  “Get lost, little girl,” McMillan said.

  “I don’t think so.” She looked at Evans. “What’s going on here, Dave?”

  He shifted from one foot to another, eyes on the ground.

  “He’s protecting the peace,” MacMillan said. “Keeping our streets safe for law-abiding folks, right, Sergeant?”

  “Let’s go,” Glendenning said.

  “What are you doing here, Jeff?” Smith said. “You’re not working tonight.”

  “Good cops are always working,” McMillan said.

  “Stay out of what doesn’t concern you, Molly,” Evans said.

  Her head spun. Clearly Evans and Glendenning were helping McMillan to harass Desmond. Glendenning wasn’t a direct boss of hers, but he was a superior. And Evans, she had to work with Evans. She had to be able to rely on him to protect her life if need be.

  “Mr. Desmond,” she said, “how about I walk you back to the B&B?”

  “I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” he said. “We’ve finished our little talk. Right boys?”

  “Nevertheless,” she said, “I happen to be going that way.”

  Walter Desmond stared at Jack McMillan for a long time. Then the edges of his mouth turned up. “Glad we all understand each other. Gentlemen.” He made a crook out of his arm and held it out to Smith. She ignored it.

  “This is a private matter, Molly,” Evans said. “Don’t be reporting it.”

  “Let’s go,” she said to Desmond.

  He preceded her into the street. She followed, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling, conscious of the three men watching her. She didn’t think for a minute that they’d jump her. No, even McMillan would be more subtle than that.

  They passed under a streetlamp, the yellow light bright and welcoming. Desmond let out all the tension he was holding in one long sigh. His shoulders slumped and his hands uncurled. “Thanks.”

  “If,” she said, “you want to report them for harassment, I’ll back you up. I’ll say what I saw.” Behind them, she heard the police car start. It sped past. Only Evans was in it, and he didn’t turn his head as he drove away.

  “Let it go,” Desmond said.

  “It’s unlikely McMillan will. Let it go, I mean. Suppose I’m not around next time?”

  He laughed. It was a good laugh, deep and heartfelt. He turned to look at her, and once again she thought he was a good-looking man, despite the deathly pale skin and the eyes that had seen too much. “I mean absolutely no offense and I appreciate your intervention, but I can imagine telling the guys on my cell block that a pretty little thing, young enough to be my daughter, was worried about not being around to protect me.”

  She felt herself smiling back. Any other time, she would have taken great offense at being called a pretty little thing. Desmond, she felt, deserved a break. S
he patted the patch on her uniform shoulder. “Goes a long way.”

  His face fell, and the laughter died in his eyes. “Yeah. So it does. I’m not worried about McMillan. He was never anything but a bully, and he’s sure as hell gone to seed. I could take him blindfolded with both hands tied behind my back. Probably even with the old cop on his side. The young guy, the one you called Dave? He’d be a threat, if he wanted to be, but I think you’ve smartened him up a bit. He’ll be worried you’re going to report him. Are you?”

  She didn’t answer. She didn’t know what she was going to do. “Look, Mr. Desmond. Why are you here? Why have you come back? You must know feelings are running high. Not everyone agrees with the appeal court.”

  “Have you read up on my case?”

  “Some of it.”

  “What do you think?”

  She hesitated. That he was framed, railroaded, and a guilty man allowed to walk free. “I’m not going to comment, sir.”

  “I saw your mother today.”

  “You did?”

  “She’s looking good. I noticed signs in the store window. Political action posters. Against the Grizzly Resort, whatever that is. For marijuana decriminalization. I guess your mom hasn’t changed much.”

  “She hasn’t changed one little bit.” Despite being the partner of the chief of police.

  The welcoming lights of the Glacier Chalet sparkled in the distance. It looked, Smith thought, like a picture on a post-card or the box of a jigsaw puzzle. They walked on in silence.

  “Why have I come back?” he said as they reached the B&B’s front gate. “I don’t truly know. Maybe because this place, this town, surrounded by these mountains, was the last place on Earth where I was happy.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  John Winters eyed the mountain of paper on his desk. Walter Desmond had been determined, by a court of law, not to have murdered Sophia D’Angelo. As her death was, beyond a doubt, not an accident or a suicide, that meant that someone else—person or persons unknown—had murdered her.