Shannon said, “I felt like I was in a trance. I forgot all about Kathy, and where I was and everything. I walked right over and sat down next to you, like this, so close that we were touching.”
Ross held himself very still.
“You were wearing white shorts,” said Shannon. “I sat so close that our bare legs were touching. My leg was smooth, and your leg was hairy. I like to flirt, but I don’t usually think of myself as pushy… But I pressed my leg against your leg as if…” Her eyes cleared, sudden as a gust of wind blowing a cloud from the face of the sun. She said, “It’s cold.”
Ross nodded. He took one last pull on his smoke, dropped the butt on the asphalt and kicked it away. He said, “I’m freezing my ass off.”
“Me too.” She laughed. “And you know something else?”
Yeah, thought Ross, fascinated. You’re hungry, and you’re about to suggest that we go get something to eat.
“I’m hungry,” said Shannon. “Tell you what, let’s go get something to eat.” She surprised him by tossing him the keys.
Ross followed her back to the car. He unlocked, climbed in behind the wheel, reached across and unlocked her door. He started the engine. Shannon buckled up, gave him an expectant and mildly disappointed look. Telling him silently that he’d know what to do next, if only he could be bothered to think about it. And the strange thing was, she was right. He did know what came next, because Garret had told him.
But, though he knew where he was supposed to go, he had no idea how to get there. In many ways this was not an unusual situation. Even so, he felt a little uncomfortable as he followed Shannon’s terse directions to turn left or right, or not at all, until finally he turned the Saab’s down-sloping nose into the parking lot of a chain restaurant.
“Not there!” she said. “Over there!” He parked next to a silver Honda. Was this the exact same slot Garret had chosen when it was his turn to drive? Doubtless. Ross got out of the car. He locked the door and slipped the keys into his pocket. It had been a long time since he’d driven a car. Things had changed in the meantime. Evolved, you might say. Most noticeably, life in the fast lane was considerably faster, though the speed limit had remained constant.
Shannon took his hand, led him around to the front of the restaurant. He held the door open for her when it finally became obvious that she expected him to do so. He followed her inside. The wild lunch bunch had come and gone, and the restaurant was fairly quiet. He guessed that the place was a little pricier than the modest exterior suggested. The tablecloths were crisp and white. A long-stemmed red rose stood in a slim green glass vase on each table. The cherubic fellow who smilingly approached them wore a shiny black three-piece suit, no tie. Smoking, or non-smoking? Shannon, pointing, told him she wanted the end booth, by the window. The cherub accepted their coats, guided them to the desired table, assured them a waitress would materialize promptly.
Ross wondered what the hell that was supposed to mean.
Shannon said, “Isn’t this nice?”
“Very nice,” said Ross agreeably.
She reached across the table and playfully slapped his hand. “Would you rather go somewhere else?”
“No, this is fine. Really nice.”
She hit him with one of her extra-nice smiles, warm and friendly, good-natured, cheerful, with just a hint of the bedroom. He leaned back, remembered Garret going on and on about what a great smile she had, so spontaneous, such nice white teeth.
Their waitress arrived with a jug of ice-water, menus and a smile of her own, warm but efficient. She wore tight black pants and a low-cut blouse in a semi-translucent, tangerine-coloured fabric that clung to her with no sense of decency. Her long, fiery-red hair was coiled into a painfully tight bun. A twisting curl of hair graced each of her shell-like ears. She had big brown eyes, mauve eyeliner, a plump mouth painted spontaneous-combustion red. As she leaned over the table, explaining the daily specials, Ross could not stop himself from discreetly studying her plunging neckline, the sweetly rising swell of her totally swell breasts.
Shannon decided on the chicken and pasta salad, said she was starving and could they please have a basket of French bread in the meantime? She was about to order on Ross’s behalf — grilled chicken breast and French fries — when he broke in and said, “I’d like the grilled chicken breast and French fries.”
Shannon smiled a little purse-lipped smile.
Ross recalled that she and Garret had washed down their meal with a bottle of red wine. Italian. Or was it Chilean? No, that was about a week later, at that place downtown, with the waiter who liked to sing. He struggled to remember the name of the wine. Something with a lot of vowels. What was it?
The waitress said, “Will you be having something to drink…”
Shannon hit him between the eyes with another smile.
He said, “Uh, I think I’d like a beer.”
“No, we had wine,” said Shannon in a no-nonsense voice. A don’t-mess-with-me-or-I’ll-mess-you-up voice. Her vehemence startled the waitress. Ross, too.
He said, “Right, a bottle of red wine. Italian.” He studied the menu. Where was it. Valpolicella Classico Superiore. Whew. The waitress headed for the kitchen.
Ross said, “The first time around…” He tailed off. What was he trying to say, exactly? Or even approximately. Shannon was staring at him, big-eyed and apparently adoring. He said, “Garret liked to get into the chicken, huh? Did he eat his fries with his fingers, or use a knife and fork?” And something else was bothering him. Ketchup, or vinegar? Shannon’s eyes were cold. He could see she was plenty pissed off at him, but holding herself in.
She said, “I never think of him that way. In the past tense. As someone that’s gone from my life. So please don’t talk about him like that.”
“Okay,” said Ross.
The redhead was back, with the bread and the wine. She did a little face-acting as she uncorked the bottle. Her nail polish was a dead-perfect match for her lipstick. She offered Ross the cork.
He glanced at Shannon. Was that a tear in her eye? She nodded faintly. He accepted the cork. Now what? She made a rolling motion with her fingers. He turned the cork slowly between his thumb and index finger. Shannon mimed returning the cork to the redhead, and that’s what he did. A splash of wine was poured into his glass. He tasted, and approved. Shannon’s glass and then his own was filled. The redhead went away.
He said, “Do I like bread?”
“Help yourself.”
He separated a slice from the mass, smeared on a generous helping of butter and took a great big bite. The bread was soft and chewy; the crust nice and crisp. In prison, he’d worked at the in-house bakery for a couple of years. Guys did all sorts of disgusting things to the bread. Spat in it, and worse. Much worse. He drank some wine, chewed on his bread. The rose’s scent perfumed the air. He could learn to live like this, given a chance. He drank some more wine and then convulsively drained the glass and helped himself to the bottle.
Shannon told him to slow down. It was unwelcome but solid advice, and so he took it. He helped himself to another slice of bread, more butter. She was watching him. Scrutinizing him. He looked out the window. Her reflection didn’t blink. He reached for his wine glass and then thought better of it and drank some ice-water instead. The waitress arrived with more bread, assurances that their meals would be along shortly.
By accident or design, she did not lie.
Garret tore into his chicken. He added ketchup to half his fries and sprinkled vinegar on the rest, ate some with his fork, others with his fingers. Shannon didn’t seem to object to his foolishness. Her demeanour was demure, as she nibbled her way into a mound of pasta. Only rarely did her fork clang against her knife. She patted her mouth frequently with her napkin. Her eyes were downcast. When she’d eaten her fill, she laid her cutlery neatly down. The waitress pounced, swept away the dirty dishes. Ross felt marginally safer, now that his date had been disarmed.
He poured the last of the wi
ne into his glass. The waitress wondered aloud as to whether they might care for dessert. Shannon already knew what she wanted — fresh local strawberries with whipped cream. The waitress was visibly stricken. California strawberries were available, but it was months too early for the local variety. Shannon flinched, but was quick to recover. Imported would do nicely. Much to Ross’s surprise, she ordered another bottle of wine.
But then, thinking about it, he remembered Garret telling him that’s what she’d been like. Careful, at first. Cautious. But then, getting a little buzz on, snatching at the controls. Riding him like a bumper car, before he knew it.
Ross sat up a little straighten How could he have forgotten? Shannon had hardly touched her dessert. She’d paid for the lunch with cash, hadn’t let Garret anywhere near the cheque.
Afterwards, she’d driven at high speed to a cheap downtown motor-hotel, paid for a room with her Visa card, grabbed the key and…
Room 317.
All the sordid details came flooding back. The toilet dripped. The shower curtain was mildewed. The towels were so thin they might’ve been cut from worn-out sheets. So were the walls. The air-conditioner sounded as if its throat had just been cut. The queen-size bed worked just fine, though. No problems there. Ross remembered that the carpet was a solid dark blue, and that it had recently been shampooed. You could still smell the soap, if you got down on your knees for a sniff.
The second bottle of wine arrived, and Ross filled their glasses to the brim. Sometime later, the strawberries were served. Shannon stuck a finger deep into her whipped cream.
Garret had told him about these next few moments over and over again. Ross could hardly bear to look. But he had to. And he did. Because it was part of the deal.
Chapter 16
Willows was up at seven. He pushed aside the curtain and looked out the bedroom window. Rain. By seven-thirty he’d showered and shaved and was down in the kitchen, making breakfast. The coffee pot had finished dripping by quarter to eight and the toaster popped about thirty seconds later. He buttered the toast, sprinkled on a mix of cinnamon and sugar, filled the Starbucks mug Sean had given him and sat down at the dining room table with a copy of the Sun. It was his habit to start with the sports section, work his way backwards through the paper until he was finally ready for the doom and gloom of the front pages. The Canucks continued to flirt with the possibility of missing the playoffs. The Grizzlies were doing about as well as could be expected. He was reading a lengthy piece about a golfer who’d earned just under half a million dollars for playing fifty-four holes, in the sunshine, in Hawaii, when Annie came into the kitchen.
“Morning, Dad.”
“Good morning, honey.” He tilted his cheek for a kiss. The hug was an unexpected bonus.
She said, “You’re up kind of early, for someone who was up so late.”
“Time and tide…” Willows went back to the article on the golfer. His dad had played the game with considerable skill. In his mid-twenties he’d turned down an offer to work as assistant club pro. Willows had swung the driver pretty well when he was in his late teens. What had turned him away from the sport? He couldn’t remember. A healthy disdain for money? He hoped not.
Annie carried the kettle over to the sink, poured in some water and put the kettle on a back burner. She turned on the gas and then came over and sat down at the table. She poured cereal into a bowl, milk over the cereal. She began to eat.
Willows ate a piece of toast, drank some coffee. “How’s school?”
“Okay.”
“How’d the math exam go?”
She shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”
Willows went back to the article on the golfer. He tried to imagine himself being paid five hundred grand in bloated U.S. currency simply because he was skilled at pounding a dimpled white ball. No matter how great the stress, it was still easy money, if you had the talent to earn it. He heard Claire’s footsteps on the stairs. Annie glanced up as Parker entered the kitchen. Her smile was as wide as her face.
“Hi, Claire.”
“Morning, everybody.” Parker bent and kissed Annie fleetingly on the cheek.
Willows thought Parker looked almost as tired as he felt. Small wonder. They’d worked until a little past three in the morning, toured the most popular of the city’s gay clubs with photographs of Donald E. Mooney and the high-ranking cop Pat Timmins had fingered — a senior inspector named Mark Rimmer. It was thirsty work but Willows hadn’t touched so much as a beer. The cigarette smoke and strobe lights had given him a headache. As far as he knew, they’d learned nothing of value.
The kettle was boiling. Parker said, “Is this for me?” Annie nodded. Parker said, “Thank you, honey.” She turned off the gas, poured a little water into the teapot, swirled it around. “How was your math exam?”
“Pretty easy. I got ninety-four percent, forty-seven out of fifty.”
“Not bad.”
“I tied with Greg Foster for best mark in the class.”
“Greg Foster…” Parker frowned. “You’ve mentioned his name before, haven’t you?”
“We’re working on a science project.”
“How’s that going?”
“Really well. We’re trying to make an artificial crystal. There’s a prize for the biggest one. I’m going over to his house after school.”
“Have we got his address and phone number?” said Willows from behind his paper.
“I gave it to Claire a few days ago, Daddy.”
Parker rinsed the teapot, tossed in a teabag and poured the pot full of water. She said, “Do you need some lunch money, Annie?”
“It’s okay, I’m brown-bagging it.” She smiled. “I made myself a sandwich last night. Greg and I are going to spend the lunch hour in the library.”
“Have I met Greg?” said Willows, frowning.
“The blond with the crewcut,” said Parker. She lifted the teapot’s lid, filled her cup and walked over to the table and sat down. She leaned against Willows and kissed him lightly on the mouth.
Willows glanced at his daughter over the top of his newspaper. Parker had been living in his house and sharing his bed for almost six months. He’d talked the situation over with Annie and Sean before Claire had moved in, but even so, he was still a little self-conscious when she was openly affectionate. But was it better for them to try to conceal the way they felt about each other? Not really. He returned Parker’s kiss with enough enthusiasm to raise a smile.
He was bent over the dishwasher when Sean rattled his knuckles on the shatterproof glass panel in the back door. Willows went over to the door and unlocked it. “Just getting in?”
“Yeah.” Sean’s tone didn’t invite further questions. He brushed past Willows, got a Coke from the fridge and walked out of the kitchen.
“Hey, where’re you going?”
“To bed.” Sean strolled down the hall and turned into his bedroom. The door slammed shut.
Willows shot the back-door deadbolt. One of these days, hopefully in a decade or less, Sean would find a job that paid him enough to become self-sufficient, and abandon the family nest in search of a life of his own. It was something to look forward to, but at the moment it seemed about as remote as a golfing weekend in Hawaii. Willows turned on the dishwasher. The nice thing about machines was that, within their limits, they could usually be relied upon to do what they were told.
A few minutes later, Annie’s new friend arrived. Greg knocked on the front door, pushed his nose against a bevelled-glass panel. Annie yelled that she’d be with him in a minute. She collected her lunch from the fridge, hugged Parker, gave Willows a peck on the cheek, ran down the hall, grabbed her coat and schoolbooks.
“Watch the traffic!” yelled Willows.
The door slammed shut. For a moment or two the house was strangely silent, and then the thud of Sean’s stereo asserted itself.
Parker rinsed out the teapot.
Willows said, “How can he sleep with that racket?”
Parker shrugged. She took him by the arm and led him down the hall. “Let’s get out of here, Jack. We’ve got work to do.”
*
The night janitor had switched Willows’ desk photos with Eddy Orwell’s shots of his beaming, dysfunctional family. Willows put Eddy’s pictures back on his desk where they belonged, and retrieved his own small collection of snapshots. Annie beamed up at him. Sean was smiling too — the photo had been taken several years earlier, before he’d had time to fine-tune his attitude.
Willows phoned Christy Kirkpatrick. The coroner was overloaded, but promised Willows he’d fit Mooney in if he had a cancellation.
“A cancellation? What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I won’t get around to him today unless I put in some overtime.”
“So put in some overtime. The guy’s a cop.”
“Was a cop.”
“Is a cop,” said Willows.
Kirkpatrick sighed heavily into his ear, then disconnected. Willows cradled the phone. The late Donald E. Mooney was a high-priority item for two solid and irrefutable reasons: he’d been murdered, and he’d been a fellow officer. But on the other hand, in this particular case, it seemed unlikely that the autopsy results would help further the investigation. Mooney had almost certainly been drowned in his bathtub. There was no bullet to be retrieved, no knife wound that could be matched to a suspect’s weapon.
Willows sat there, steaming. The first twenty-four hours were crucial; he was running out of time and could think of only one line of investigation he might reasonably pursue.
Parker’s phone rang. She picked up. “Parker. Homicide.” She tensed, reached for a pencil and scratchpad. “We’re still interested. Yes, I remember you. Could I have your name, sir?” Her pencil moved slowly across the paper. Willows walked around to stand behind her. She’d drawn a question mark. She said, “Sure, I can be there. But I can’t make it in half an hour. I’ll need more time than that.” Another pause. “Perfect.” She drew another question mark. “I’ll bring him if you want me to. You sure you want me to?” Smiling, she cradled her phone.
Memory Lane Page 15
