Memory Lane

by Laurence Gough

“Bet your ass. But since you probably irritate just about everybody you meet, I’m not gonna worry about it.”

  “Tough guy, huh?” Kelly went back to picking at his Budweiser label. It seemed like antisocial behaviour, but Ross couldn’t fault him for his obsession. After all, he was so close to finishing, and had already invested so much time.

  Shannon stood up. The force of her personality pulled Ross to his feet. He helped her into her fake-leopard-skin coat. She said, “We happened to be in the neighbourhood and I thought it might be nice if you two had a drink together, got to know each other, a little. But we really have to be going…” She dipped into her purse, dropped a crumpled bill on the table.

  Kelly went back to industriously picking at his Budweiser label. Somehow the task seemed absolutely suited to his talents. Outside, Ross said, “What was that all about?”

  “Nothing. I wanted you to meet him, that’s all.”

  “Sure, but why?” He unlocked the passenger side door, but it seemed that more was required of him. He opened the door for her, waited until she’d made herself comfortable and tucked in her skirt, then shut the door and walked around to the far side of the car and got in. He buckled up, started the engine.

  Shannon said, “I thought he might be able to help you.”

  “Do what?”

  “Recover the money.”

  “Garret’s money?” Ross turned on the heater. He rolled down his window a few inches, shook a cigarette out of his pack and lit up. Shannon didn’t look very happy about it, but didn’t complain. He inhaled, averted his head and blew a stream of smoke out the window.

  “What’s so funny?” said Shannon.

  Ross shrugged. “Ask somebody with a sense of humour.”

  Following her directions, he drove over the Burrard Street Bridge and then south on Burrard, past the eternal — so far — flame set in the middle of the grassy span outside what had been a Coca-Cola factory but was now just another office building. They drove past the barred windows of one of the few retail firearms dealers that remained in the city, the glossy showroom of a Ferrari dealership.

  Shannon told him to make a right on Broadway. Now, at last, finally, he knew where he was going.

  She treated him to a cup of coffee at the 7-Eleven. They sat in the car, drinking coffee and looking at the liquor store and the big grocery store, which was now an IGA. What did the letters IGA stand for? Inferior Goods Available? Or how about Intensely Gluttonous Atmosphere? Or maybe…

  “Cut it out!”

  He jerked his head around, startled.

  She said, “What the hell’s so funny, Ross?”

  “Intensely Gluttonous Atmosphere,” said Ross, deadpan. Shannon looked confused, and it did not suit her. He pointed at the glowing red letters of the grocery chain’s enormous sign.

  Shannon drank some coffee, made a face. She balanced her paper cup on top of the dashboard. The windshield began to fog up. Now it was her turn to point. “That’s where the armoured car was when the shooting started. And right over there — see that black Volvo?” Ross nodded, but he was looking at the wrong car. She got him straightened out, made him follow the line of her finger. “Right there, that’s where the first guard went down. And the other one was just over there. See the woman with the grocery cart? Just to her left is where the fat man stopped singing.”

  “Fat man?” said Ross, bewildered. Who was she talking about? The gamut of human emotions whizzed across the contours of Shannon’s face like time-lapse clouds. Shadow and light, shadow and light. She was going to fly apart, if she didn’t get herself under control. She said, “The fat man. He wasn’t anybody important, just a guy who happened to walk out of the liquor store at the wrong time. Carrying a case of beer. Billy shot him, don’t ask me why. Garret shot the other two, the guards. He killed them both, and then he was shot. In the shoulder. The driver of the armoured car shot him.” She reached up, adjusted the rear-view mirror so it reflected the cinderblock flank of the 7-Eleven. “That’s the wall they drove into. In a stolen Cadillac. In fact, they drove right through the wall, knocked a bunch of display cases flying, made a real mess of things.”

  “A Cadillac,” said Ross. “Excellent choice. Bet you couldn’t pull a stunt like that with a Honda.” But what did he know about cars? Still, it was a good question for the salesman, next time he found himself in a showroom. I love the independent suspension and the side-impact panels, and air bags. But tell me this, Jake. How’s that baby handle a brick wall?

  Shannon said, “I wish you’d quit doing that.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Smiling, and staring vacantly off into space.”

  He rested his hand lightly on her knee. “I was thinking about you.”

  “Well, that’s different.” She patted his hand, and then grabbed his little finger and bent it sharply back. The pain would have brought him to his knees, had the Saab’s cramped architecture allowed it. “Stare vacantly off into space all you want,” she said. “You can even drool a little, if it makes you feel better. But don’t tell me about it. Do us both a favour and leave the manhole cover on the sewer of your mind.”

  They drove down Maple to Tenth Avenue, following the path of Billy’s flight from the botched robbery. He’d run to where he’d parked his number-two getaway vehicle, the Ford Pinto, on Tenth Avenue, west of Arbutus. The Saab straddled a set of railway tracks as they waited for the light to change. On the far side of the street there was a strip of shops; a drugstore, grocery store, a theatre with a tall glass front, lots of lights. Hardware store, restaurant, bowling alley. A fifteen-foot bowling pin stood on the roof. Ross looked in vain for the ball. Maybe it had rolled away.

  The light changed. Shannon showed him exactly — to the inch — where the Pinto had been parked. Following her instructions, Ross circled the block and turned left on Arbutus. They followed the hill down Arbutus to Point Grey Road. Ross made a left. Now they were heading west again, past low-slung apartment blocks, a waterfront mini-park hardly bigger than a blink, expensive houses.

  One of the newspaper articles on the armoured-car robbery had included a map of the getaway route. Ross knew they were getting close. He eased up on the gas. Shannon said, “Park right there. See the garage?”

  Who wouldn’t? The garage had a green-tinted glass roof. A glass-roofed garage — what a great idea! Above the peak of the roof the address, 3682, was written in hot-pink neon. The house itself was set well back from the street, behind a six-foot-tall boxwood hedge growing tight against a wall of textured concrete blocks. But for a gate made of wrought iron, the house wouldn’t have been visible from the street.

  Ross gave it a little gas, and the Saab crept forward a foot or so. Now he had a much better view. The house was low, flat-roofed, modern-looking, the wood siding stained an understated silvery grey. The windows facing the street were a lot smaller than he’d have expected them to be, had he bothered to think about it. But then, although Point Grey Road was only two lanes wide, it offered a scenic route to the beaches and the university, so there was a lot of traffic cruising by. The house fronted on the ocean, and there’d be a view of the city and mountains as well, so that’s where the windows would tend to congregate. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if the far end of the house were nothing but glass.

  He said, “This is Billy’s girlfriend’s place, right?”

  “Nancy Crown,” said Shannon. “She wasn’t exactly his girlfriend. I mean, she was a married woman, she had a husband, all of that. Billy met her before the robbery, hijacked her car, took her for a ride, and then stole her purse and let her go. That’s how he knew where she lived. But they weren’t dating, or anything.”

  “Billy died here, didn’t he?”

  She nodded. “He sure did.”

  Ross lit a cigarette. This time he didn’t roll his window down quite so far. He said, “They’re still living here, the Crowns?”

  “The place was up for sale, it was on the market quite a while, until a few wee
ks ago. Nobody wanted to buy it. Who’d buy a house where someone had died violently?”

  “I would, if the price was right.”

  “Well, I guess they weren’t so anxious to sell that they were ready to give the place away.”

  “It’s Nancy and Tyler, right?”

  She looked at him, mildly surprised. “Yes, that was his name, Tyler. When the house didn’t sell, I guess they decided to hell with it, they’d stay put. Time heals all wounds, isn’t that what they say?” They sure do. But no amount of time healed those who, for example, had been shot dead, or left to drown in a backyard swimming pool. Ross eased the Saab forward a few more feet. A narrow concrete sidewalk ran down the side of the house. There were security lights high up, under the eaves, and that would be the least of it. Somebody like Billy turned up unexpectedly, with a crush on your wife, if you had any sense at all you didn’t stint on security.

  He thought about Shannon’s Budweiser-drinking bro, Kelly. Or whoever he was, whatever his name was. He expected that, any time now, Shannon was going to tell him how helpful Kelly would be, if he decided to break into Tyler and Nancy’s house, in search of the missing two hundred and twenty grand.

  Kelly had the look of a helpful person, all right. The kind of helpful person who would cheerfully tip you into an early grave.

  Chapter 18

  Parker felt a twinge in her shoulder as she extended her arm. Her gunshot wound acting up again. Willows ignored her offer of help. He crawled awkwardly up the sloping wall of shattered concrete. It was slippery going, and he had already taken a bad fall. His pants were ripped. There was blood on his knee, and she saw he’d lost a shoe. Well, if he didn’t want any help, there was no point in loitering. She made her way back to the car, radioed in a request for a patch through to the coast guard. The department was on a tight budget; probably couldn’t have afforded to get a helicopter aloft even if they’d owned one. The marine patrol rarely strayed beyond the confines of False Creek, English Bay and the perimeter of Stanley Park. Parker got through to the coast guard. No chopper was available. The nearest vessel was twenty minutes away. Bad news, but predictable. She cradled the mike.

  Willows sloshed towards her through the weeds. He was limping, had the look of a man who’d seriously overestimated his ability, and knew it all too well. Parker reached across to unlock the door. She started the engine. Willows opened the door but made no move to get into the car. He drew his Smith & Wesson, ejected the magazine, tilted the pistol at an angle and racked the slide. Muddy water dribbled out of the mechanism, collected in the palm of his hand. He thumbed copper-jacketed 180-grain hollow-points out of the magazine until it was empty, then gave it a shake. The Smith was still leaking unhealthy-looking fluids.

  Parker said, “You shoot anybody with that, they’re likely to die of rust.”

  Willows didn’t see any point in soaking the front seat. He reached in and unlocked the back door and got into the car, shut the door. He was shivering violently, and he couldn’t stop.

  Parker turned on the heater. “Where to, Aquaman? Home for a shower and a change of clothes?” She found him in the rear-view mirror. “Or maybe you’d prefer to hop straight into the old Maytag?”

  Willows said, “I almost had him.” His teeth were chattering, and it wasn’t just the cold. He’d come that close to nabbing their informant. But he’d come equally close to getting caught by the boat’s propeller. Looking on the bright side, there were no fish flopping around in his pockets. He said, “I’ve got spare clothes in my locker, but no shoes. We’d better go home.”

  Parker nodded. She alerted the dispatcher that they were out of service, backed the car away from the river, made a U-turn and stomped on it.

  A little more than an hour later, Willows shut Bradley’s pebbled-glass door behind him, and he and Parker took turns bringing the inspector up to speed on the latest nasty twist in the Donald E. Mooney investigation.

  After they’d briefed him, Bradley took a moment to gather himself. With the tips of his fingers, he delicately prodded the Haida-carved cedar cigar box his wife had given him as a farewell gift, following the divorce. When he had the cigar box squared away to his satisfaction, he focused his bloodhound eyes on Willows and said, “Let me make sure I’ve got this straight, Jack. You’re telling me Mark Rimmer is a suspect?”

  Willows nodded.

  Bradley turned to Parker, seeking confirmation.

  Parker said, “We’ve had two independent witnesses corroborate the fact that Inspector Rimmer was a frequent patron of a downtown club that’s a known hangout for gays. One of those witnesses claims the inspector has attended exclusive gay parties, sexual free-for-alls, somewhere in the Fraser Valley.”

  “How reliable are your witnesses?”

  Willows said, “One of them is a patron of L’affair, a downtown club. He claims he was a casual acquaintance of Mooney’s.”

  Bradley snorted derisively. “Not nearly good enough, Jack.”

  “Our other witness is a cop,” said Willows bluntly. “He and Mooney lived together for a while. They’d had a relationship for the past five years, until Mooney bumped him for Rimmer.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Bradley opened the lid of the box, and let it drop. He slumped low in his chair. “What’ve you got on Rimmer?”

  “Not a thing. So far.”

  “You haven’t queried records, or arranged surveillance on him?”

  Willows shook his head.

  Bradley glanced at Parker. “Mooney’s ex. Who is he?”

  “Constable Pat Timmins.”

  “What d’you know about him?”

  “Not much, yet,” said Parker. “He’s got a motive.”

  “What about an alibi, has he got one of those, too?”

  Willows said, “He worked the four to twelve, traffic.”

  “Alone?”

  Willows nodded.

  “Kirkpatrick fine-tune the time of death yet?”

  “As far as we know, it’s still somewhere between eleven and two. I doubt Christy’ll do much better than that.”

  “Jack, you’re telling me Mooney hasn’t been autopsied yet, aren’t you?”

  “This afternoon, Inspector.”

  Bradley rubbed his jaw. “Mooney’s ex-boyfriend, Timmins. What was he up to between end of shift and two in the morning? That’s a pretty big window. Was he able to account for his time?”

  Parker said, “His story is, he took a cab to the Bino’s on Denman, had dinner and then walked to the Blue Horizon where he drank ‘three or four’ beers. He then took another cab back to his apartment. He’d rented a movie — Bad Boys — from Blockbuster. He watched the movie, rewound, went to bed.”

  “Bad Boys. What is that, a porno film?”

  Parker suppressed a smile. “Strictly mainstream. Cops-and-robbers stuff, Inspector. Los Angeles, drugs and guns.”

  “An action film.” Bradley looked out the window. Rain fell steadily, the way it does in Vancouver when it’s going to rain for days or even weeks on end. He rubbed a smidgen of dust from the sill. “Doesn’t sound like much of an alibi to me.” Turning away from the window, he said, “Lean on him. Lean hard. Let’s see which way he tilts.”

  “What about Rimmer?” said Willows.

  “You planning to question him?”

  “Not unless I have to.”

  Bradley nodded. “Very wise, Jack. Pull Timmins’ file. Let’s see what he’s been up to. Meanwhile, I’ll do a little discreet snooping, see what I can dig up on Inspector Rimmer. Wouldn’t it be nice if somebody in vice had a nice fat file on him? But I’d never know, would I?” Bradley checked his watch. The Timex his son had given him almost eight years ago had finally died, and he’d treated himself to an entry-level Rolex. His jeweller had sold him the watch at 20 per cent off list, and suggested he pay it off over a period of twelve months, interest-free. Would he have gotten such a great deal if he wasn’t a cop, and didn’t happen to live right around the corner from the guy’s store? He said, �
��What time have you got?”

  “Quarter after,” replied Parker.

  “No, I mean exactly.”

  “Exactly quarter after.”

  “You’re two minutes slow. Jack?”

  “Quarter after,” said Willows without bothering to consult his watch.

  Bradley sat up a little straighter in his chair. The Rolex glittered in the light as he waved a casual goodbye. “Keep in touch, kids.”

  Willows dialled Kirkpatrick from his desk. The pathologist was out. He called records. He named half a dozen uniforms he disliked, and then Timmins, and politely asked the clerk to send up the files. The other names would provide a smoke screen, if Timmins turned out to be innocent. And if he wasn’t, no harm done. Willows thanked the records clerk for her help, and gently disconnected. If the files beat the union rep to his desk, he’d be a lucky man indeed. He tried Kirkpatrick again. The phone rang three times, and then the pathologist picked up. “He’s right here in front of me, Jack. If he was alive, you’d have called in the nick of time, so to speak. Try me again in an hour, okay?”

  Willows disconnected. Parker’s head was bent over her desk. She was reading, again, the rambling witness statement Graham Aubert had made to Orwell. He glanced up as Eddy Orwell pushed open the squad room door so hard that it banged against the little rubber-tipped stopper that was designed to prevent the door from banging into the wall. Orwell looked smug as a thug who’s stolen a rug.

  From his desk, Dan Oikawa said, “What’s up, Eddy?”

  “Plenty,” said Orwell. “Where’s Bobby?”

  “Who?” said Farley Spears from his desk.

  “My partner, dipstick.”

  “Oh, that Bobby,” said Oikawa. “Beats me, Eddy. But if I were looking for him, first thing I’d do is check the biggest mirror in the building.”

  When the laughter had subsided, Willows said, “What’ve you got, Eddy?”

  “Bobby and me agreed that if I came up with something, I’d tell him before I talked to anybody else. Especially you, Jack. No offence.”

  “Eddy, I’m the primary on this case. Not Bobby. So whatever you’ve got, spit it out.”