Body Blows (23 page)

“They'd need inside information,” he says. “The combination. Or nitro, or a cordless drill.”

“That drill wouldn't have scratched this thing,” I say. I swing the painting back into place. It looks like Leo's grinning at me. “Inside information,” I repeat. “Very short list, wouldn't you say?”

“I'm still trying to get my head around Mrs. Dineen being Lenny's mother,” he says.

chapter twenty-one

T
he monthly “Scones with Jam” afternoons at Olive's are justly famous. They take place on the “middle Sunday” of every month (the dates are often arbitrary but Vancouver jazz buffs always seem to know whether she meant the 11th or the 18th) and headliners on tour make a point of dropping by. Many a chronicled concert began with the unheralded arrival of someone whose appearance elsewhere the previous night had been sold out for months. A visit to Olive's is a pilgrimage, and being invited to sit in is both an honour and a dare.

The mood is delicate and exploratory as I check in.

Olive and Jimmy are on the stand with Olive's favourite guitarist, Arlen, the kid from Fretsarus music store. The trio is flipping through a medley of old MJQ classics, “Fontessa,” “The Golden Striker,” “Cortege.” The room is half-filled, people drifting in, room at the bar for me to park my troubles two stools down from Norman Weed, who pretends I'm not in the vicinity and faces the stage, nodding, out of rhythm, but with enthusiasm. I let him have his serene moment. It's early.

There's very little chatter on Sunday afternoons. Not while the music's playing. Respectful murmuring, sighs of appreciation, an occasional “Yeah.” They came to listen.

Barney wipes the bar and leans close. “What'll it be, Champ?”

“Coffee, Barney. Thanks.”

“You got it. Want me to shuffle someone so you can sit with your friend?”

“Let's leave him in peace,” I whisper.

Barney nods, disappears. Coffee appears. Olive launches into an impromptu fugue and variations on “No Sun in Venice” and then I see her face light up as she spots someone coming through the door, a man in a black fedora, wearing shades and carrying a trumpet case. Things are starting to get interesting.

“Is that who I think it is?” asks the guy sitting between Weed and me.

“Definitely,” says Weed.

The guy and his drink move to a spot nearer the stage and I take the opportunity to sidle a notch closer to the Sergeant of Detectives.

“I suppose I have to ask,” Weed says in a grumpy whisper, “how's the arm?”

“On the mend,” I say. “How's the prisoner?”

“Better shape than you.”

“You going to charge him with anything?”

“Yeah, sure, what do you like, attempted murder, assault with a deadly, parking on the sidewalk?” He sips his rum and Coke. “Probably be doing him a favour.

They want him south of the border. He's a deserter.”

“He's related to Raquel.”

“How do you know that?”

“I talked to her priest. She'd started using her maiden name, Santiago.”

Weed shakes his head. “I like the simple ones,” he says. “Drug guys bumping each other off, domestics, stuff you can understand.”

“I don't think he was involved.”

“We'll see,” Weed says. “They're processing that knife. Find out if there's blood on it other than yours, like maybe the guy in the hole, or the lady upstairs.”

He puts his drink on the bar and turns a shoulder to the music. “That's a helluva knife,” he says. “Have you seen that thing?”

“Yes,” I say. “May I speak to him?”

“I'll look into it,” he says. He turns back to face the music.

“I need to make funeral arrangements.”

“Maybe middle of the week. Not my department.”

The trumpet player sticks a mute in his horn and leans against the piano for a full chorus of “Nature Boy” before lifting it to his lips to embroider Olive's melody line with gold thread. The room is hushed. If I stick around I'll ruin Weed's afternoon. I leave my coffee untouched.

He follows me, through the back door to the Lower Lobby. “Hang on a sec,” he says. “That's it?”

“Don't want to break the mood,” I say. “I'll track you down tomorrow. Got questions you probably won't answer anyway.”

“Go ahead,” he says. “I might as well not answer them now and get it over with.”

“Don't want you to lose your spot at the bar.”

“Barney'll hold it.” There is an unoccupied banquette just inside the entrance. Can't see the bandstand from here but good sounds are reverberating. He slides into the corner and looks at me expectantly. “Well?”

“How's the massive manhunt going?”

“All effort has been made,” he says. “Won't be surprised if he turns up dead like his pal.”

“But you are actually looking for him, right? Questioning the brother? Goodier over at Ultra Limos? Cooperating with the Fraud Squad?”

“There's been communication.”

“That's encouraging,” I say.

“And we're coordinating our efforts,” he says.

“Along what lines?”

“Along the lines that a murder trumps a stolen car. So we get first crack at the evidence, first crack at persons of interest.”

“Tracked down any of them yet?” I ask. “Theo Alexander?”

“Away on business. Due back this very day.”

“What about Newton? He have a family? Wife?”

“Mother. Lived with his mother. She thinks Dimi led him astray.”

“Good to see you're making progress.”

“And, of course, we've got Jesus.”

“Praise the Lord,” I say.

The ever-on-the-ball Kyra has noticed that Weed and I are settled in for a while and delivers Weed's drink and a fresh coffee for me.

“Thanks, Kyra,” Weed says. “My mouth was getting dry.”

“Two saxophones just showed up,” she says.

“They're settling in for a long one.”

Weed shakes his head sadly.

“Don't fret,” she says. “Barney's holding your spot.”

Weed blows her a kiss. He turns back to me, sighs deeply, has a pull at his drink, sighs again. “Honest to God's truth, Joe,” he says, “I can't connect the dots.

What those Ultra idiots were up to, what Jesus was doing there. The fraud guys say Dimi and his brother could have been stealing the car. They'd done it at least once before, maybe twice, but I don't buy it. It feels like a burglary that went wrong.”

“But?”

“Things aren't sitting right. Or they're sitting too right.” He leans across the table and puts a hand beside his mouth. “Your friend was killed with one very nasty stab wound and most likely died where she fell. So where does all the wreckage come from? Are they trying to make it look like something else?”

“What about George?”

“We couldn't hold him for anything. Searched the dealership, invoices, phone records, emails. We're keeping a close watch but so far he's clean.”

“Or smart.”

“Smart enough not to wind up dead,” he says.

“So why are you still holding Leo?”

“He might have staged the whole thing. He's got some history with this Newton character.”

“Newton works for Theo.”

“Word from Goodier is, keeping Newton on was part of the deal Theo signed with his old man.”

“Oh, come on, Norman,” I say with some vehemence, “you think Leo'd be stupid enough to hire a pair of idiots like that? If Leo wanted a hit man it wouldn't be Laurel and Hardy.”

“Best I can say for certain is that Newton's prints are on the cordless drill, and there's bronze fragments on the drill bit, and it's a safe bet that he's the one trashed Leo's plaque thing. Don't know why he did it, but he's the one.”

“And you can put Dimi in the penthouse?”

“That I can do. He must've lost his gloves somewhere. His prints are all over the joint. Maybe his blood, too. There was blood going down those fire stairs. Have to find him to make sure but she might have cut him.”

“The blood on the fire stairs, does it go all the way down?”

“Yeah, smear on the street door. Why?”

“Don't tell me, just shake your head if I'm wrong,” I start. “Raquel was killed sometime between 11:00 p.m. and 1:00 a.m., I'm not trying to be accurate here, just approximate. Leo and party came up from Olive's at about two-fifteen. At very least she had already been dead for an hour and fifteen minutes, maybe two hours.” He's still not shaking his head. “So whoever I was chasing down the fire stairs wasn't Dimi Starr.”

“Why not?”

“He wasn't on the street when I got there. I had a man covering the south side, nobody went that way, I could see left and right for ten blocks, nobody running, the cameras in the parking garage don't pick him up going in. The only one nearby was my friend Jesus. And he wasn't there when it happened.”

“You know this because …”

“Because he was following us back to the hotel from the dinner. He passed us two blocks from here. Doesn't give him much time to stash his bike, get up to the penthouse.”

“It's a small window of opportunity, I'll grant you.”

“Was he bleeding?”

“Split lip.”

“That was from me. Was he cut and bleeding his way down the fire stairs?”

“No.”

“Just shake your head if I stop making sense. I think it's possible whoever I chased down the fire stairs didn't go all the way down. They most likely exited onto another floor. Not sure how far below me they were but say seven or eight levels. When the noise stopped I figured they'd gone out the street door, but they could've got into the hotel at the sixth floor, fifth floor, mezzanine.”

“They'd need a key for that, wouldn't they?”

“I think they knew their way around the hotel. Dimi didn't have a key. He came in across the roof, and exited out the fire door after he was wounded. You've got his fingerprints, blood, all the way down. All he had was the security code for the fire door on that business card of Leo's.” Norman doesn't shake his head. “I think there were three people besides Raquel that night. Jesus wasn't up there or you'd be holding him for murder. Dimi and Farrel broke in, trouble ensued, Farrel went over the edge, Dimi ran down the fire stairs leaving a blood trail, and I chased someone else entirely.”

“Someone such as?”

“Time to start looking at security tapes again. You've got a time frame. Someone coming in from an emergency fire door on the east side between two and two-thirty a.m. Say from the mezzanine up to ten, to be on the safe side.”

“Any idea who I'd be looking for?”

“Find the tapes. I'll probably recognize someone.”

“Care to be more specific?”

“Was Raquel wearing a diamond ring?”

“You think somebody stole her ring?”

“It was a big ring, Over two carats, not cheap. Something worth stealing.”

“I'll look into it,” he says.

“Start looking at the tapes,” I say.

“Tomorrow,” he says. “Right now I'm going to listen to some music.” He collects his drink and slides out of the banquette.

I stay where I am. “Went to visit Madge Killian yesterday,” I say.

“Who?” he asks. He's not a very good actor.

“Nice woman. Lives on the island, Victoria, near UVic.”

“Oh, yeah, I seem to recall …”

“She says you've been nosing around there for years.”

“I've been over a few times, okay.”

“Still trying to find out what happened eight years ago?”

“I don't like to leave things dangling.”

“This can't be the only case you have dangling after twenty years on the job.”

“Try thirty-two.”

“Dangling cases?”

“Years on the job, smartass.”

“So?”

“Wasn't exactly the Brinks Job, pal. Somebody took a few shots and missed. Mostly. Then they bugger off. Nobody dead, Leo wasn't pounding on my door asking for answers.”

“So why is it still open?”

“Call it a hobby.” He smiles. “Besides, what makes you so sure that's what I was doing over there? He stands up. “Maybe I like model boats.”

Weed returns to the bar. I can hear brushes on cymbals and snare; someone's brought a drum kit. Kyra notices that I haven't left and brings over the coffeepot.

“And a Martini,” says Roselyn Hiscox. “Cold gin, one olive.” She takes the seat across from me. She has her blonde hair pulled back tight to her skull. I can see the resemblance now, the firm jawline, the sharp blue eyes.

“Ms. Hiscox,” I say. “You were on my list for today.”

“I insist that you call me Roselyn,” she says.

“Do you like that better than Rose?”

She smiles slowly. “Not exactly the FBI around here, are you? How long did it take you to figure it out? A week?”

“Pretty much.”

“I needed a new name.” She settles herself, folds her manicured fingers. She's wearing nice rings, not diamonds. “I had to reinvent myself,” she says. “Get away from that shell-shocked little kid, Rose Alexander. You know, the skinny one with the murdered mother? The kid on probation from the Bogner Institute for Traumatized Toddlers? The one with the hired parents cashing monthly cheques from Alexander and Co.”

Kyra delivers one of Barney's classics. I signal that it's on my tab. She gives Roselyn a closer look as she leaves.

Roselyn tries her drink. Twice. Studies the olive for a moment. “I built a new me,” she says. “Not bad, huh?”

“Impressive,” I say.

“Self preservation. My formative years were toxic. I got clear.”

“But you came back.”

“My terms, Joe. Strictly my terms. Confessionals are big sellers. Throw in psychic trauma, a high-profile villain, sex, skullduggery, high crimes and misdemeanors. Hell, I got a high six-figure advance.” She nods at Kyra to set her up again. “This is all about money, Joe. Strictly a cash deal. Leo Alexander can rot in jail, or in hell, as long as he feels pain.”