Deadly Accusations (19 page)

Casey rubbed her freezing hands. The temperature had dropped since the rain began and Wesley again refused to switch on the heater. It didn't help that she was sitting right behind the center door where cold air wafted in every time it opened, but if she needed a quick exit, this was the place to be.

The M6 approached the Columbia Street and Blackwood intersection, which was the beginning of the rockhound's turf. Casey sat up straight and took a deep breath. Two young women ate McDonald's fries, offering a welcome change from the usual rotten banana smell.

Behind Casey, a group of teens burst out laughing, presumably at some joke. After the rockhound's last strike, management had tried eliminating passenger pickups along this stretch of Columbia until further notice, but dozens of complaints had forced David Eisler to change his mind. He had insisted, however, that notices be posted throughout the M6, stating that the company wouldn't be liable for personal injuries.

Unfortunately, riding the M6 had become some sort of sport for thrill-seeking teens who—despite Wesley's warnings—chose seats next to the sidewalk. Tonight, six annoying boys and three girls joked and laughed behind her.

Casey studied pedestrians' clothing, height, weight, bags, purses, and umbrellas. She looked for hands in pockets. Wesley slowed for a man waiting at the stop just beyond the Fourth Street intersection as four males sauntered down Columbia. Two wore tuques, another wore a wide-brimmed hat, and the fourth man was hatless.

Casey slid to the edge of her seat, and her muscles tensed up. No one in the group lagged behind. As Wesley eased the bus to the stop, a dozen people exited the SkyTrain station a few strides away. Some headed for the M6 while others walked down Columbia Street.

Through the stream of people, Casey noticed a man with a long beard standing in front of a closed shop. The dark hoodie was pulled low over his forehead. Witnesses had never mentioned a bearded rockhound, but descriptions were varied enough to make her think the perp wore disguises.

As the doors opened, the bearded man headed back toward the Blackwood intersection. Casey watched his retreating back and studied his loping gait. The guy was tall, his shoulders slightly stooped. He removed his hands from his pockets. The doors closed. A half second later, the sound of tinkling glass made her duck.

“Shit!” a passenger shouted.

More voices erupted with “What the hell?” Nearly everyone jumped to their feet.

“Damn!” Casey raised her head enough to see if the perp was running up Fourth like he had last time.

No one was running or even turning up Fourth, but the group of four guys was now three. The man with the wide-brimmed hat had disappeared, and where had the bearded guy gone?

She straightened up. “Anyone see anything?”

People shook their heads. There was no time for more than a quick glance at the window. Casey rushed down the steps, crunching glass fragments under her feet. This was new. No rock had done this much damage before.

“Hold it, Casey!” Wesley shouted. “That sounded like a gunshot.”

She hesitated. The noise had sounded different from the last strike, but a gun? She looked up and down the street. No one seemed in a hurry. She rushed up to the group of three who'd stopped and were now staring at the small hole in the window. God, it looked like Wesley was right. She turned to the guys.

“
MPT
security.” She flashed her
ID
. “Where's your friend?” The men, all twenty-something, gave her blank stares. “There were four of you together, and he had a wide-brimmed hat.”

“He wasn't with us, but I saw him,” one of them replied. “I thought he was going to pass us, but I guess he dropped back.”

Casey wished she hadn't focused on the bearded guy. Another bloody mistake.

“He ran into the station,” another replied.

Casey looked at the SkyTrain entrance. The perp could have cut through the station and left through the Fourth Street exit. If he'd done so, it would be nearly impossible to find him.

“Did any of you see his face?”

They shook their heads.

“His hat was brown,” one of them said, “and the coat was either dark blue or black.”

“Casey?” Wesley called out. “We've found the bullet.”

“The suspect went into the SkyTrain station, so I'm going to check it out.”

“Don't. He could still be there.”

“The transit police or security will be around.” She turned to the guys. “Could I grab your names and phone numbers in case we need a written statement?”

It took only a few seconds to scribble down the info and then enter the SkyTrain station. Several steps beyond, a narrow escalator led up to second floor offices. Ground floor shops were closed for the night. She rushed past the stores, farther into the station. Two men in suits were using the ticket machines, but there was no sign of any transit police. Casey ignored a sign prohibiting entrance without a ticket. As she jogged to the escalator, her phone rang.

“Hello?”

“That was your last warning,” a male voice whispered. “Stop investigating Jasmine's murder.”

The blood rushed to her face. “I'm not!”

Was the freak stalking her? She heard traffic noise at his end of the line, and then nothing. She looked up and down the escalator. No one was on a cell phone. Sweat trickled down her sides and she shivered. Desperate to make sure Summer was okay, she speed-dialed Barb's number, but Barb was on another call.

Casey stepped onto the platform. Two lines ran through this station. The shooter might have already hopped onto a train, but in which direction? It was after ten, and at least a dozen passengers were waiting for the automated rail cars. Two women chatted near the steps.

“Excuse me, ladies. I'm with
MPT
security.” She showed them her
ID
. “Did either of you see a man in a dark coat and brown, wide-brimmed hat come up here?”

The women looked at each other. “We followed someone like that up the escalator,” one of them said. “He stayed on the platform about two seconds, and then headed back down.”

“Did you get a look at his face?”

Both shook their heads.

A SkyTrain security attendant approached Casey and she again displayed her
ID
. “Did you see a man who might have come up here less than five minutes ago? He was wearing a dark coat and brown, wide-brimmed hat.” She spotted an elderly couple edging closer to her. Both were short, their wrinkled faces curious and apprehensive.

“I saw him come up here then leave right away,” the attendant replied. “I didn't get a good look at him. What's he done?”

“Excuse me, but we couldn't help overhearing,” the elderly woman said. “We saw the man with the hat, too. He seemed rather flustered, didn't he, Fred?” She glanced at her companion who nodded his bald head.

“Could you be a bit more specific?” Casey asked.

“Well, he was turning every which way, and his hands were in his pockets,” she replied, reaching for Fred's hand. “He left almost as soon as he got here.”

“Did you see his face?”

“Just a bit, really.” When she turned to her companion, her loose plastic bonnet hat didn't quite move with her. “He could have been young, couldn't he, Fred?”

“Young.” Fred nodded.

“Was he light skinned, dark skinned?” Casey asked.

“He was a tall, white fellow,” she replied. “Clean shaven.”

“Tall,” Fred agreed. “Clean shaven.”

“He was shorter than me,” the attendant said.

“Did any of you notice other markings like a mole, tattoo, or piercings?”

Everyone shook their heads.

Casey turned to the attendant. “The station has a few closed-circuit
TV
s, right?”

“Yeah, but you can't see footage without authorization.”

Casey removed a notebook and pencil from her jacket pocket, and then smiled at the elderly woman. “May I have your names and phone numbers, please?”

“I'm Elsie Watson. This is my husband, Fred.”

After she and the attendant provided the information, Casey handed the attendant her business card. “If you see him again, call me. Are any transit constables around?”

“He's around somewhere.” The man reached for his two-way radio. Seconds later, he said, “There's a lady here from
MPT
security who's looking for a guy in a dark coat and wide-brimmed hat. See anyone like that?”

Casey heard him say that he had. “I'll be right down.”

She hurried off the platform and onto the escalator. At the bottom, a transit officer stepped through an open entryway at the back of the station. The man barely glanced at her
ID
.

“Your guy took off out there.” He nodded toward the way he had just come. “He seemed kind of nervous, so I asked if he was all right. He said he was fine and rushed outside, but I had a bad vibe about him, so I followed him as far as Church Street.”

Church Street was on the other side of the SkyTrain entrance. A road only one block long that ran from Columbia up to private property. “Was he heading toward Columbia?”

“Yeah.”

Casey stepped up to the entrance: a wide, rectangular gap in the thick cement wall. No doors or gate. She peeked outside and saw a set of steps leading up to the lane.

“What's up with the guy?” the officer asked.

“He shot a bus window.”

“No shit.”

“How old would you say the man was?”

“Don't know, he wore his hat low; but he was clean-shaven and about five foot ten.”

Casey stepped outside and looked around. A light rain spritzed her face.

“There are plenty of hiding places,” the officer added.

A New Westminster police officer appeared from the Columbia Street entrance. The officer glanced at Casey before turning her attention to the transit constable.

“We received a report about an armed man entering the station,” the officer said.

“My driver reported it,” Casey replied.

The transit cop described his encounter with the suspect. The tall, bulky officer turned to Casey. “You need an escort back to the bus, ma'am?”

“No, it's right out front.” The implication that her presence wasn't needed irritated Casey. “I gathered information from witnesses on the platform.”

“Did you get their names and numbers?”

“Yes.”

“Go back to your bus and wait for me there.”

Casey marched outside. By the time she returned to the M6, more New Westminster police had entered the bus. Wesley and an officer were on the sidewalk.

“Did you see him?” Wesley asked her.

“No, but he called to tell me that this was my last warning.”

“How did the freak know you were here?”

“Good question.” Casey wiped her perspiring forehead. Had someone at Mainland told him her schedule, or was the caller a coworker? “It's possible that the bullet came from a gun that was used on a colleague's house. The Vancouver police have a file on the incident.”

The officer peered at her. “You're the security guard?”

“Casey Holland, yes.”

“So, Miss Holland, what makes you think the incidents are related?”

She didn't want to waste time discussing this. “It's a long story.”

“The station's only a short walk away.” His voice adopted a hard edge. “Want to tell me there?”

Sighing, Casey sat down. “It began when a colleague was murdered in Coquitlam on September twenty-eighth.”

“The one whose house was shot at?”

“No, another one.”

“Really?” He opened his notebook.

She kept her story brief. When she told him that two Glocks were stolen from Wesley's place, the officer raised his hand. “Stop.”

He looked at Wesley. “Didn't you say your name was Wesley?”

Wesley gave him a curt nod. The hostile glance was reserved for Casey.

“So,” the officer said to Wesley, “one of your weapons killed a colleague?”

He let out a puff of air. “Uh-huh.”

The female cop joined them as Casey finished highlighting events since Jasmine's death. When she finished, both officers were staring at her.

“Let me get this straight,” the male officer said. “Your coworker was shot at and warned to stop investigating the Birch woman's death, and you've also been warned twice, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then why haven't you stopped?”

“I just told you I have.” Casey struggled to keep her anger in check. “I was doing my regular job tonight and, like I said, we've already told everyone at work that I'm done asking questions.”

The cop tried not to smile. “It looks like someone didn't get the memo.”

Casey glared at his snickering partner. “If I'm getting warnings to stop investigating, then isn't it possible that I'm on the right track?”

The smirks vanished. “Let the professionals handle it, ma'am,” the female cop said. “There's probably lots going on that you know nothing about.”

Casey was fed up with the woman's condescension. As the officers started to leave, Casey said, “Maybe you should put a rush on that ballistics test. If it did come from the same weapon that shot holes in Marie's house, the Vancouver cops and
IHIT
will want to know.”

Neither officer acknowledged her as they left the M6.

“They think we work in a freakin' nut factory,” Wesley muttered.

Casey sighed. “They could be right.”

The problem was, one of the nuts might be a killer, and the danger to Summer might have just escalated. Casey retrieved her cell phone and tried Barb's number again.