by Warren Court
“Now that’s all up in the air, the company merger will still go through?”
“Yes, I suppose. But I suspect there will be a shakeup. The relationship I had with Mrs. Lent…”
“Died with Mrs. Lent, is what you’re saying?”
“I suppose I am saying that. Sounds callous, though.”
“Did she say anything to you? Anything that stayed with you? Did she appear frightened? Were there any phone calls while you were there? Did anyone drop by?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“How did she seem?”
This is great. He thinks I’m a witness, not a suspect. Maybe it’s those two days’ separation between my first contact and the murder. Don’t kid yourself, kiddo. Everyone in the city is a suspect until they find the killer. And Marco is sitting right across from him.
The scratches that Lent left on me have all but faded. Thankfully Laura hasn’t seen them or commented on them. Just to be safe, though, I should cool things with her until they’re gone. Right now, even though they look like faded red pen lines I drew on myself, they’re burning hot under my three-day-old shirt. Then I remember I called out Gillian’s name in her bed. Told her it was my mother’s name – that’s an easy lie for Marco to catch if he speaks with her.
“What did you do after your appointment with her?”
“The next day those two moves from her company came in. I called her but got her voice mail. I talked to a guy called Christopher Waltz. He works with Gillian. He said that she told him to send the moves my way and that there would potentially be more. I went out to see him.”
“When?”
“Friday. Met with him at Midi’s office in Brantford, where Gillian worked. I have to go back today and check out the two moves I booked. Look over the people’s houses and make sure everything is kosher.”
“So there’s nothing you can tell me about the day you met with Mrs. Lent, nothing out of the ordinary?”
I’m tempted to mention Waltz’s shirt. Keep it cool Stan, don’t blow it. Let Marco put that connection together.
“Nope.”
“How long were you there?”
“I’d say forty-five minutes, no more than an hour. I left that sheet with her; that’s the estimate for her move to Brantford. I came back here and booked it.”
“There’s a record of that? I would like to see that.”
“Sure. Ask Rick to show you the book in Mike’s office. It’s a little old-fashioned, but the system works.”
Marco nods that I can go. He watches me leave. I can feel his eyes on the back of my head. I head up to my office and grab two cards. Damn. They’re both mornings. I’ll have to bump them if I’m going to head to Brantford. If they’re going to haul Waltz out in cuffs, I want to see it. This not knowing is driving me crazy.
Marco’s car is still in the parking lot when I leave. I know exactly where I’m going. Even with GPS he won’t beat me there. I get on the 403 to Brantford and call my morning moves with my cell in one hand, other hand on the wheel. I’m successful at getting them both bumped to later in the day.
Still, I don’t want to get pulled over so I do ten over the speed limit the whole way. Across the street from Midi is a strip mall with a restaurant, a coffee shop and a dental practice. It’s a large street; there’s quite a bit of traffic. I can see dozens of cars in the Midi parking lot and occasionally people coming and going. Delivery trucks pull around to the rear; couriers park up front.
I park in the mall and wait. And wait. My stomach starts to groan. I go into the restaurant and get a burger and fries to go. There’s a counter so I sit and continue waiting while my food is being prepared. It’s lunchtime now; people are coming in.
In the mirror behind the counter I see Waltz and another man come in. He stands next to me and orders a meal to go, as does his colleague. I sit there with my back slightly to him and eat and listen to their small talk. When there’s a lull in their conversation I spin around on my stool. He does a double take and looks at me, puzzled, trying to remember my name.
“Christopher,” I say and extend my hand. “Stan Rogers, Henderson Moving. I came out to see you last week.”
“Right, of course, Stan. Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. I bet you talk to a lot of people.”
“You work out here? Thought you were based in Burlington.”
“Seems like I’m out here more and more. A lot of businesses are setting up shop here.” I look at his companion.
“Hey, Bill,” says Waltz, taking the cue. “This is Stan Rogers. He’s taking care of the first moves down to California.”
Bill looks puzzled. “Burlington?” he says as we shake hands. “Isn’t that where…?”
“Yes, Gillian was from Burlington,” Stan says. “Did you hear about that?” he asks me, his voice hesitant.
“No. What, exactly?”
“Gillian Lent, woman I worked with. She was found dead on the weekend.”
Murdered, I almost interject. “Oh my god,” I say, and put my hand to my mouth. “I just met her recently. She was so nice.”
“Yes, she was very nice.” I try and read Waltz’s face. Is he heartbroken that his little shack-up has been killed? I can’t tell. He’s one cold fish. He and Ricky Boy would get along.
“Listen, I got to run. It was good meeting you,” I say to Bill. “About the relocations, Christopher – we should talk about anything that’s up and coming.”
“Yeah, for sure. I’m filling in for Gillian until a replacement can be found, but yes, we might have something for you. Call me next week.”
“I will. Thank you.”
I head to my car and sit in it, finishing off my soft drink. I can see Christopher and Bill through the glass. They emerge from the dinner with brown paper bags and head to a brown Honda Civic. Waltz’s car. I take note of the licence plate number. They don’t see me. I track them as they cross the busy intersection and head back over to Midi. I don’t blame them for not just walking over from their office; the weather is kind of crappy and looks like rain.
I’m about to leave when I see Detective Marco’s car pull into Midi’s parking lot. While my car idles, fat drops of rain come down and I see Marco walk, unhurried, into Midi.
Thank god he wasn’t on lunch break and didn’t pull into this diner. That might be too much of a coincidence for him, even though I did tell him I was heading out here. Still, the guy’s a detective. He’d be able to detect that I was bullshitting. Maybe he has already. I turn on the Hamilton/Burlington radio channel, but it doesn’t reach this far and the Brantford station carries no update on the Lent murder. They had their own murder last night and that’s their top story.
While I’m waiting for Marco to come out with Waltz in cuffs, I call my two bookings that I’ve already put off once. I put them off for good, at least for today. I tell them I’m feeling well, don’t want to get them sick. They’re both for moves happening in the new year, so I’ve got plenty of time to get them sorted out. I push one out to the following week, and when I drop the price per hour on the second one they tell me they’re going to get two other quotes first and will give me a call.
“That’s just fine,” I say. Man, if I was in the office making those calls and Ida heard me, I bet she’d set the carpet on fire running down to tell Rick.
Marco’s in with Waltz for over an hour. I eat the remaining fries that escaped the cardboard container and are lying cold and limp in the bottom of the bag. I suck the pop dry and then wait for the ice to melt and drink that. Then, naturally, I have to take a piss.
I turn my car off to save gas and squirm in my seat while I contemplate filling that wax soft drink cup with my urine like some long-haul trucker. Finally, Marco emerges. Just him, no Waltz in tow. I see his jacket flare from the wind and his tie go behind his head and he pulls it down. As he drives to the exit on to Wayne Gretzky Boulevard, he is pointed right at me and I slouch down. I count to ten, then peer above the dash. He’s gone.
>
I walk quickly, holding my groin, back into the diner.
“Hey, man, that’s only for paying customers,” the pimply-faced guy behind the counter says to me as I emerge from the john and head towards the door.
“I was in here a half hour ago I bought lunch.”
“Half hour, huh?” He wasn’t behind the counter then.
“Fine.” I grab another Coke off him and go back and sit in the car.
At four in the afternoon, people start leaving Midi for the day. I see Waltz’s bronze Civic pull up to the light and turn in the opposite direction Marco turned. I’ve got my car started and I put a good two hundred yards in between us, letting a blue RAV4 get in front of me. I still have my eyes on Waltz’s car.
He leads me off the WGB and into suburban bliss. Nice two-story houses and manicured lawns and foreign cars in every other driveway. I close the distance now as I don’t want a light or a stop sign or a crossing guard to make me lose my target. I don’t think he knows he has a tail. He knows he didn’t kill his lover Gillian; I doubt Marco played all his cards during their talk. When I saw Waltz in the diner, he had his raincoat buttoned up over a sport coat. I couldn’t see if he was wearing one of his monogramed shirts.
Waltz pulls into the driveway of a Ward and June Cleaver–type house and I speed by. I go another hundred feet and pull over just in time to watch him get out of his Honda and enter the house. I move farther down the street, do a three-point turn and park on the opposite side of the road.
I know I can’t confront him again, go knock on his door and say, “Hey, I was just in your neighbourhood and thought we could chat about your little tête-à-tête with Detective Marco.” I’m not really sure what I’m doing here, actually; I just want to get a clearer picture of Waltz’s life. And I get it.
Another car pulls in beside Waltz’s Honda and a nice-looking woman with long dark hair gets out. She opens the rear door and takes a baby out of a car seat. Nice going, Christopher. Little bit on the side with your boss while your wife is at home with the baby?
I figure Waltz is in for the night. I start my car and am about to leave when I see him come out carrying a hockey bag. His wife is barely in five minutes and he’s leaving? He’s got something in his hand; it’s a sandwich. He puts the hockey bag in the trunk of his car and goes back inside. Twenty minutes later he’s back, this time dressed in street clothes with a spring jacket on and ball cap. He gets into his car and leaves the way he came in, back out to the WGB.
FIFTEEN
Waltz heads across Brantford, hockey town. I suspect he’s got some early ice time with the boys. Couple of beers and chicken wings at the Kelsey’s afterwards. Used to be in a league like that myself. Got tired of feeling like crap after it. Plus, I bruise easy and break even easier. Two broken wrists and a badly twisted ankle and I was done with adult hockey league. Some guys carry on into their forties. Not me. Guys on my team used to call me the Glass Man because I broke so easy.
We pull into a double rink on the other side of town. I take up position in the farthest corner of the parking lot and watch Waltz walk in with his bag. I give it thirty minutes, then I get out and follow him in. I know that ice time is usually doled out by the hour; plus, you need a half hour on either end to get changed.
I enter the arena and that smell hits me – sweat and mildew. I pull my coat close around me against the chill coming off the ice and two teenagers chuckle at me. The Zamboni comes off the ice dripping wet and smelling of exhaust and gasoline. The driver looks bored, a broken man.
There’s one of those old-style coffee machines and I put in a loonie. Used to be a quarter when I was a kid, getting hot chocolate at Mountain Arena on a Saturday morning.
This arena is nice; some real money has been spent on it. Maybe by the Gretzky family themselves. I grab my cup of coffee and head into the first rink. Kids are playing. By the size of them I’d say they’re in their mid-teens. Looks like a practice. I scan the crowd, the adults behind the bench, but I don’t see Waltz. My coffee warms me and wakes me up. This has been one hell of a long day. Two nights without great REM sleep. Too much booze and too much Laura. I should call her. So much for cooling things off with her.
I head over to the second rink and immediately see Waltz. He’s on the ice dressed in a referee’s outfit. I climb up to the top of the stands under the rafters and watch. My coffee done, I crinkle the cup and drop it under my bench.
I watch Waltz ref his game. It’s younger kids, probably twelve years old. Some of them are good. Waltz is good too, at least from what I can tell. He makes the tough calls. The game is competitive. Several parents below me shout at him.
“What the hell, Ref? You blind?”
“Come on, Ref! You suck.”
Some kids near me get in on it, releasing a tirade of abuse against Waltz, until one of the same parents turns to them. “Knock it off, guys.”
This brings back memories for me, good and bad.
Finally, after an hour, the game is done. The teams line up and shake hands and depart the ice. Waltz speaks to some adult players coming on next and then leaves.
I climb down out of the stands and go back into the hallway outside the dressing rooms. Another coffee seems in order.
I’m at the machine getting one when Waltz comes out of the dressing room marked Referees. He’s still in his ref uniform but his skates are off. He goes into the convener’s office right next to the machine but doesn’t see me. I move over to the candy bar machine, put in another loonie and pull down a Snickers. I eat it and drink my coffee, pretending to read the notices on the bulletin board across from the convener’s office. I hear Waltz behind me pausing in the doorway, talking about a game scheduled next week and whether he can do it or not. I turn around and wait for him. I smile when he sees me. He is dumbfounded.
“What again?” I say. “This is getting creepy.”
He comes over to me. “Why are you here?”
“My son is playing next.”
“What, the midget games?”
“Yeah. Well, not my son. Stepson. I’m dating his mother. She lives here in town. Didn’t I mention that?”
“Whereabouts?”
“Over on Kinsella.”
“That’s on my way home.”
“Hey, small world, isn’t it? You ref here? Dumb question – of course you do.”
He says nothing, just stares at me funny, trying to figure out what I’m up to. Whether or not he should call bullshit on me watching some kid play hockey.
“It was good seeing you again,” I say, and give him a smile.
He nods queerly and walks back into the change room. I sip my coffee and then drop it, half full, into a bin on the way out of the arena. Those two Cokes and a second coffee will make me light-headed from the caffeine. I eat the candy bar, though.
I wait in the darkness near his car, shielded by a plumber’s van. A half hour later, as I predicted, he comes out, bag over his shoulder. I realize now that his hockey bag isn’t full; he’s probably just got a change of clothes in it, his skates and a towel or two. It’s not big and bulky with the usual hockey equipment.
He sees me when he’s twenty feet from his car and stops. Now he’s angry. Puzzled and angry.
“What?” he says. “You don’t live here in Brantford. I didn’t see you in the stands for your stepson’s game.”
“What did Detective Marco want to talk to you about?”
Waltz has already clicked his car open, did that before he saw me. He approaches slowly. The bag slips off his shoulder but he doesn’t drop it.
He looks surprised by the question. “That’s none of your business. How did you know?” Then he starts to work it out. “That’s why you were across the street.”
“He came to see me too. Just want to know if he asked you about me.”
“I don’t have to tell you anything.”
“We’re in this together.”
“What are you talking about? Yes, he wanted to know about
you. Asked me some questions. I told him you knew her. My god, were you involved?”
“No, of course not. But this Marco guy, he’s like a shark. He has it in his head that I was. I don’t want you giving him any ideas.”
Waltz cocks his head and looks at me funny, squinting.
“He asked me about you,” I say.
“About what?” He pops the trunk and it rises automatically. He moves around the far side of his car, keeping it between me and him. He’s done with this conversation and me.
“He wanted to know why your shirt was in Mrs. Lent’s closet.”
That works. The blood drains out of his face. You always read about that happening and you wonder what it would look like. It isn’t as dramatic as that guy in the Indiana Jones movie whose face melts off at the end of the film, but it’s close. I see the change in him – murderous rage. But wait: I’m the murderer.
He comes around the car towards me, his fists balled at his side. “What are you talking about?”
“Let’s not dick around. You were screwing Lent. I saw your shirt, your monogramed shirt, in her closet when I did my walk-through.”
Waltz swings at me and hits me good. I’m not used to being hit. It’s not hard but my knees give out and I go down.
“You listen to me, you little shit. You mention one word of this to anyone and you’re dead. Understand me, you little turd? I’m going to tell Marco you’re following me all over town. That you’re spying on me.”
I lunge upwards and catch him at his waist, lift him back and slam him against the car. We go down hard on the pavement. He smacks his head but he’s not out. I see his eyes water. I start to flail away. He protects his face and then grabs me by the hair and pulls me down so my punches are ineffective. We roll around. He is trying to get on top. I can’t let that happen.
I kick out wildly and try and get away from him. He hangs on. I get up to my feet. He’s getting up too. We’re at the back of the car. There’s a club sitting there in the trunk, the kind you use to lock a steering wheel. I grab it and bring it down on Waltz’s head. Again and again, until he goes down. I continue to smack him until I feel a warm dab of blood land on my cheek.
