And On the Surface Die (22 page)

He snapped shut the case. “So do it. Get Victoria to send out the unit. If the boys fail, and I’m thinking they will...everyone believes they can fake it...we’ll have more ammunition.”

Holly left to give Ann the directives. When she returned, Whitehouse was answering his cell phone. “Yes, yes,” he said impatiently, scratching the back of one hand until it bled. “Do what I told you, dammit.” Then he hung up.

“Bad news?”

“A new case out of Royal Roads University. Some professor killed his wife. Tried to make it look like an accident. Pathetic, really.”

Royal Roads, formerly a prestigious military training school, occupied a palatial estate in Langford. She swallowed, felt her blood charge through her veins at the word
professor.
“What kind of an accident?”

“Fall down the stairs. Trouble is, the blood spatters and prints don’t agree with what he said happened. We’ll nail the bastard to the blackboard, and it’ll be a pleasure. Academics think they’re so smart, but their heads are up their asses.”

She kept quiet, digesting the information. Arrogance was Whitehouse’s middle name. How comical that people despised in others the traits they nurtured. “I’m going to follow up that meth connection...all the way to Victoria if I have to.”

“Try the parking garage off Government Street. At least that was last week.”

Holly watched him leave...again, wishing that the wind would blow from the west to keep him far away from Fossil Bay.

Ann came into the office carrying what looked like a school blue book for exams. “I may have some information,” she said, her face alive and almost eager. “About that meth. Sean’s done a hell of a job. I’m proud of that kid.”

Riding around on weekends, Sean had noticed something suspicious at the end of Munson Road. More a muddy rut, Munson abutted an old farm with rocky pastures unfit for crops, hardly prime real estate. Eli Munson, a childless widower, had once run a marginal sheep operation there after the Second World War, but with his death, the land had passed into the public domain for tax arrears. Over the last thirty years, the small farmhouse and leaning barn had fallen into disrepair. Its signal feature for a meth lab was total privacy. Thick cedars woven together with huge firs kept it well hidden from the road. Even the lane curved so that the house couldn’t be seen. Ruts in the drive and the marks of truck tires showed that some recent traffic had passed. Teenagers looking for a private place to party? Ann paused with a proud grin. “Sharp, eh? Noticing those tracks. Not quads either. Too far apart.”

“He’s getting an A so far. Go on.” She watched Ann read from Sean’s notes. “Secret Report” was printed at the top of each page.

Sean had noticed a strange smell when he rode by. An unusual inland breeze was wafting odours from the property. Cat pee. “And my grandma has seventeen, so I know what that’s like,” he had added. When he crept closer, pulling himself on his elbows an inch at a time, keeping the bushes in front of him, he saw that the lower windows had been blacked out with tinfoil.

“Where’s Chipper?” On full alert, Holly planned to visit the scene, even though the boy’s imagination might be on overdrive. Still, his details were compelling.

“He went to Jordan River on a domestic complaint about ten minutes ago. It was pretty serious. Kelly Esterhazy might have a broken arm. Earl’s drunk. She’s drunk. Usually gives as good as she gets, just doesn’t have the size.”

“I’ll wait for him. If it is a meth lab, it isn’t going anywhere in only one day.” This time she’d make no assumptions, but go by the book. With back-up. Given the three-person operation, that was like juggling plates on sticks. She tried to raise Chipper on the radio, but he was away from the vehicle, tending to the Esterhazys. It chilled her that they were so isolated and defenseless at this end of the island.

Ann got a strange gleam in her eye and went to the window. “Andrea’s probably home. She could...” Then she turned too fast and winced. “No, forget it.”

Holly gave Ann points for wanting to contribute in a more active way, but she let the woman set her own limitations instead of saying something patronizing. Meanwhile, she got on the computer and ran the Capital Regional District program, which allowed her to focus on the suspect area. Manipulating the controls, she zeroed in. The end of Munson Road looked like one giant Sherwood Forest. Trees in all directions, except for a few isolated meadows. The land had retreated to nature quickly enough, though much of the periphery was scrubby alder. At the maximum focus, she could make out a small house and several outbuildings. No vehicles were apparent, but that meant nothing. It wasn’t a live feed. The satellite pictures came from a year or two ago. Maybe the house had been occupied then, maybe not. Squatters were rife in Victoria, but this far into the bush made an unhandy address...unless for good reason.

The only way in was the lane, one advantage for the law. Unless there were all-terrain vehicles, no one was escaping out the back. A deep V of a creek sliced the property in half. After jotting a few notes, she made a call to check municipal records for the owners.

An hour later, Chipper returned. “I’ve got Earl in the cruiser. Cross your fingers that he doesn’t barf,” he said. “He’ll be off to the West Shore holding facilities. Sooke’s full up.”

Holly thought for a moment. Here was a safe chance to let Ann shine. “Call in our volunteer to man the phones, Ann. You take him in.”

A small smile grew on Ann’s face along with the nuance of a dimple on one pale cheek. It seemed to ease the strain lines and light up her personality. Holly had seen a yoga pamphlet on her desk with a couple of classes circled.

“Will do.” Ann grabbed the phone and dialed, speaking quickly.

“Chipper, check your belt, then make sure the shotgun’s loaded and the Suburban’s full of gas. We have a house call to make, and the terrain might be rough.”

His face lit up like a kid’s as he looked at her computer screen. “Where are we going?”

By the time they were ready, Andrea was power walking down the lane as Ann was pulling out. With Chipper at the wheel of the muscular vehicle, Holly brushed aside chip packs, candy wrappers, and root beer cans from Reg’s time. “Sorry, Boss,” Chipper said, scooping muffin crumbs from the seat. “Haven’t used the old bus since I got here. Tomorrow I’ll take her into the car wash and clean her up.”

In the late afternoon torpor, Holly’s vest was punishingly hot. She filled Chipper in on Sean’s information and the way they would handle the approach of the property.

En route through the rural backroads, they blocked an escaped peacock whose owner was pursuing it with a net, then took the final turn to Munson. “The island,” Chipper said. “Gotta love it. Llamas, alpacas, therapy horses and exotic birds.”

They had climbed a serious of long grades to amazing views of the strait to one side and the San Juan Ridge on the other. Despite the sun, mist rose like smoke from the dark hills. Holly agonized trying to understand why some of the island’s premium coastal land had been tagged for logging or gravel pits. But twenty-five years ago, anything even a mile from town was “rural”. The population huddled along the lifelines of the ferries to the mainland.

After parking out of sight before the last turn, she removed the shotgun from the clip. On a second thought, she put it back, then took it again and handed it to Chipper, who watched her with some confusion. Going in like gangbusters might be a mistake, but being unprepared for one time in his life had killed Roy. How many people were on the property? Perhaps if they saw more than one vehicle, they’d call for backup from Sooke. If the damn radio cooperated.

Chipper looked down the lane. “Can’t see a thing. Just like you said.”

She grabbed a pair of binoculars. “Let’s approach from the side. There’s a break in the hedging fifty feet down.” Emerging through the tormenting Himalayan blackberries, both their uniforms torn, they crept toward the house, passing the outbuildings first. The open barn door revealed piles of rotting hay and rusty implements hung on nails. Chipper pointed to a small storage shed with a new padlock that gleamed in the sun peeking through the clouds. Otherwise the place looked deserted. They needed to get closer.

He followed her to a thick arbutus bush full of plump, pink berries with hard, raspy shells, where they hunkered down to inspect the house. Constructed over a century ago, when the area had fledgling farms, the building was thirty by thirty feet with a crumbling chimney. The mossy shake roof sagged over a dilapidated porch with boards missing like yanked teeth. The unpainted cedar siding had weathered to grey. Underneath was a stone foundation, merely a crawl space which might have served as a root cellar. Instead of storing beets, carrots and potatoes, now it might house supplies. A brisk wind blew in as the weather pattern shifted. A rocker missing one arm started to move back and forth in eerie silence as if entertaining a ghost. Someone had sat there, watching the sun go down.

“Smell anything?” Holly asked.

Chipper obligingly tweaked his nose, small for his face, giving him a boyish appearance. “I was a scout. Wind’s blowing from behind us.”

She pointed to the windows plastered with foil, as if some night shift worker lived there. “That’s very suspicious. Sean was onto something.” Records at the town hall had revealed that the owner lived in Vancouver and rented out the property. But he was in Europe on business, and his personal secretary at the appliance store could reveal no more information about the tenant other than that he had been there only a few months. “It’s been vacant since the owner died,” she had said. “Mr. Mitchell bought it for back taxes on spec. As a hobby farm, it’s just a drain. He’s been renting it out this year to people not particular about luxury, he says. When the rezoning comes through, those lots will be worth a fortune.” Holly recognized the strata concept, allowing four properties on every ten hectares. The CRD had been able to sustain a moratorium on that kind of growth, but with development pressure, how long would it last?

Mere suspicions and foiled windows aside, they had no search warrant and no probable cause. The reactions of the “tenant” would tell her how far to proceed. She couldn’t see the debris Sean had mentioned, but perhaps it had been cleaned up. After a mute signal to Chipper, she knocked on the door. No response. Knocked again. Women’s tones would be less alarming. “Hey, are you guys there?” she called casually. Certainly better than announcing themselves. Chipper gave her an approving nod.

Then they heard an annoyed answer. “You fuckwit. I said not to come before...” And the door opened. “What the...”

A skinny white man who hadn’t seen a razor in days stood before them. His jeans were torn, his T-shirt filthy with stains.

He stepped back and made as if to shut the door, but Holly found a use for her tough boot. “Not so fast.”

He opened the door slowly. “What is it, officer?”

She introduced herself and Chipper. The man’s name was Neil Forrester. He had come to the island with a buddy who promised him a job on a fishing charter. The season was over for that gig, she thought. “And you’re renting this house?” she asked.

“My buddy’s sort of subletting to me. Not much of a place, but the price is right.” He waved his hand and snickered.

“Ever try to rent on the island? It’s a brutal market.”

“There have been reports that an illegal substance is being made on the premises.”

He slapped the wall with the butt of his hand. “What?

Wine? That’s not illegal last time I heard.”

Holly bit her lip. “May we have permission to search the building?” She added, “Please.”

His lizard lids narrowed his reddened eyes to slits. “Oh, I don’t think so. We have rights in this country.” He gave the blue turban a once-over and made a contemptuous sound in his throat. “Too many, maybe.”

Chipper tensed, shifting his glance to Holly. They’d lost the timing in this play, moved too fast with too little and no backup to keep an eye on the place. This crew could move on in a half a day, given a truck. Meth cooking was a drive-by-night operation.

“Excuuuuse me then.” Neil prepared to shut the door, the smile broadening on his weasel face.

Then a booming voice called, “We’re gonna need more red phosphorus...”

Before Neil could speak, Chipper moved in, pushed him against the door jamb, and put a warning hand over his mouth. “Beg your pardon, sir. I tripped,” he whispered.

The voice went on. “Check out that source in Langford, Jason someone. And count on making the rounds at the drug stores, one pack per. That Methwatch program is bullshit.”

Holly pulled out her handcuffs. “Hello, probable cause. Either that or a really bad cookie recipe.”

Neil’s brow began to sweat, and his eyes shifted in their sockets as they glanced down the hall. Then he freed his head and yelled, “Take off! Cops!” Chipper gripped his spindly arms, and Neil sank down on the stairs.

Holly secured him to a sturdy bannister while Chipper added leg cuffs. Then she ran toward a back room, where thumps were sounding, slipping on the scarred boards of the hardwood floor. A strong ammonia smell nearly stopped her breath as she entered. She had time only to register the lab equipment and to step carefully. Empty packaging dotted the floor, along with beer cans and chip bags. She was in a minefield of danger. With lethal chemicals, even a spark from a light switch could ignite the gas. Many meth labs were self-destructing, blowing up their cookers or maiming them for life. Following the sounds, she slipped through another door, her gun drawn, body to the side like an old-fashioned gunfighter presenting the narrowest target. “Stop now. Police. You’re surrounded.” A wish and a prayer.

Down a dark hall, a window opened with a shriek, and a grunt outside told her that someone had escaped. She followed, dropping to the ground and scanning the area. No one in sight, but the shed was open. A roar erupted and a small motorcycle emerged at full throttle. It raced past her a hundred feet away, slewing in the gravel. She had time only to record the B.C. license plate. MNR 657. It was gone in seconds, throwing dust clouds in its wake.