Death On a No 8 Hook (A Willows and Parker Mystery) (4 page)

Frustrated, he snapped shut the hinged lid of the little box on the delicate web of flesh between his thumb and first finger, and gave a little yelp of surprise and pain.

“What’s wrong?” said Parker.

The waiter hurried up, looking concerned. Orwell glared at both of them, and flung his credit card down on the table like a gauntlet.

Outside, the air was fresh and sweet after the warm, humid, cloying atmosphere of the restaurant. There was a cool breeze coming in from the ocean, across the mouth of the harbour, and they could hear the leaves rustling in the trees behind them, a gentle whispering above the wail of a distant siren. High above them, the night sky was crowded with real stars — the genuine article, and not stars of wax. Orwell filled his lungs, exhaled slowly, He and Parker walked slowly across an open expanse of lawn towards her car.

“Lots of ships out there tonight,” said Orwell, taking in the expanse of restless black water and the scattered ovals of light with a negligent wave of his hand.

“Freighters,” said Parker.

After a moment Orwell said, “Let’s count them.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Just for the hell of it.” Orwell was experiencing sudden bouts of double vision, but he was nobody’s fool. Half a bottle of champagne and the better part of two bottles of white wine had not entirely eliminated his ability to think like a fox.

Cunningly, he squeezed shut his left eye. “One,” he said. “Two…three…”

With each step Orwell took across the grass, his perspective seemed to shift and jump, the horizon tilted, and the relative positions of the ships was altered radically. Also, there was a tugboat off to his right somewhere, and the monotonous throbbing of the powerful diesel engines was giving him a killer headache.

They were almost at her car when Parker said, “You finish counting yet?”

“Just about,” said Orwell. Cannily, he said, “How about you, what’d you get?”

“Eleven,” said Parker.

Orwell dived headlong for the opening. “Me too,” he said. “On the nose.”

They were very close to the car now, crossing the parking lot side by side. Parker fumbled in her bag for her keys, dropped them jangling to the asphalt. Orwell knelt and scooped them up, lost his balance and had to brace himself. He gave her the keys. To his left, a sloppily parked Corvette was crowding the Volkswagen. Orwell had trouble opening the car’s door wide enough to get in.

Parker turned the key in the ignition. The black skirt had ridden high up on her thighs. She appeared to be unaware of how much leg she was showing, and Orwell decided not to notice. He wasn’t going to pop the question in the car. Instead, he was going to suggest that they go back to his apartment for a nightcap. Once there, he’d turn down the lights, pour a couple of stiff brandies, mix in some mood music and pick his spot.

Parker revved the engine, put the Volks in reverse and gently let out the clutch. The car started to creep backwards. She spun the wheel with both hands, arcing the nose away from the Corvette.

Orwell couldn’t stop himself. He leaned across the seat and put his hand on her thigh, nuzzled her neck and tried to stick his tongue in her ear.

“Cut it out, Eddy.”

Parker pushed him away. There was the loud crunch of metal impacting on metal, the snap-crackle-pop of safety glass shattering. The Volkswagen lurched to an abrupt stop, rocked on its springs, and was still.

“Nice going,” said Parker. “Really terrific.”

“Hey,” said Orwell, “it wasn’t my fault.
I
wasn’t driving.”

Parker shifted from reverse to first gear, gave the Volkswagen enough gas to disengage. More glass tinkled on the pavement. She turned off the engine and reached across Orwell to flip open the glove compartment. There was a flashlight in there somewhere. It was about the size of her little finger, and the battery was weak, but the thing worked. She got out of the car to assess the damage.

The vehicle she’d hit was parked on her side of the Volkswagen. It was a jet black Econoline van, and the front bumper looked as if someone had hit it with a bowling ball. Parker tried the door. It wasn’t locked. She opened the door and sat down on the edge of the bucket seat, half in and half out of the van, her legs dangling. She aimed the yellow beam of the flashlight at the steering column, looking for the registration papers. Incidental light gleamed on dark plastic, chrome trim. A row of glass disks on the dashboard shone like mirrors.

The beam of the flashlight moved along. And stopped.

Parker’s mind registered the tangle of stripped wires and the alligator clips dangling beneath the steering-wheel. She saw a rumpled suitcoat, and among the folds of dark green cloth a shining length of metal that looked like the barrel of a gun, but on closer inspection proved to be nothing more sinister than an empty aluminium cigar tube.

The weakening beam moved over and down, across a blizzard of Kleenex, the tissue stained dark red.

There was a noise behind her. She turned and saw Orwell getting out of the Volks.

“Stay right there, Eddy. Don’t move an inch.”

“Why,” said Orwell. “What’s the problem?”

Crouching, Parker directed the faltering cone of light into the back of the van. The glossy pages of a pornographic magazine splashed light back at her. The stiff, clawed fingers of a blood-streaked hand seemed to scuttle sideways as the shadow of the hand moved beneath the moving beam of light. She saw the slashed bed, tufts of foam rubber mattress. A smooth white face. Lacquered eyes. A mouth that hung wide open and might still have been screaming. A shirt of red and black, with more holes in it than a cribbage board.

In shock, Parker started to count the wounds.

A black car sped past, tape-deck blaring, tyres whining on the asphalt. The sudden intrusion startled Parker, got her thinking again. She switched off the flashlight and yanked her Smith & Wesson out of her purse.

Backing out of the van, taking care not to touch anything, she called out, “Okay Eddy, let’s go.”

“What?” said Orwell. His voice was smudged. He was sobering rapidly, but he was still a long way from legal. Parker grabbed him by the arm and led him away from the scene of the crime, towards the bright lights of the restaurant. Parker was with the city of Vancouver’s serious crimes squad. Solving homicides was part of her job. As she hustled a confused Eddy Orwell back across the lawn, she was thinking that probably the first person she should phone was her partner, Jack Willows.

Then she remembered that Willows had gone fishing, and that he wasn’t due back in the city for another two days…

Chapter 7

Mannie adjusted the temperature of the water until it was so hot it hurt. He stepped under the spray and slid shut the pebbled glass door. Water drummed on his skull and poured down his face, into his eyes. His shoulders reddened. He tasted salt — a legacy of his recent ocean voyage.

There was a narrow green belt between the beach and the parking lot where he had dumped the van. Once he had reached this cover, Mannie stripped down to his bathing suit. He rolled his sticky bundle of cheap clothes into a ball and flung the ball high into the fork of a tree. Then he strolled down to the sea wall, across the sand, and into the ocean.

When he was about fifty feet out, he paused to tread water and orient himself. The sky was crowded with stars. Tinker Bell had been putting in overtime. Whispered conversations and soft laughter floated across the waves. Mannie smelled beach smoke, and hot dogs. He started swimming again, taking a course that would bring him to shore about two hundred yards away from the point where he had entered the water.

It took him a quarter of an hour to walk the mile of winding seawall to English Bay. The sight of a man in a bathing suit was not unusual; no one paid any attention to him.

His towel, cords, leather sandals and Lacoste polo shirt lay exactly as he had left them, in a tidy pile at the end of a log. His wallet and car keys were also as he’d left them, buried under six inches of sand. He picked everything up, went into the big concrete changing room and dressed. His bathing suit was still damp. He squeezed a few drops of water out of the material, rolled the suit up in the towel, and went back outside.

Hum of soft rubber wheels on asphalt. Blur of music. Mannie looked up as a black girl wearing a red and white diagonal striped bathing suit shot by on roller-skates. A portable radio was strapped to her narrow waist. Her hair was twisted into two stiff braids that stuck out over her head like antennae. She looked like a mobile barber’s pole. Mannie watched her undulate into the darkness. Murder always made him horny, why was that? He started up the concrete steps to street level, the slap of his sandals seeming to applaud his every step.

The water was cooling. Mannie stooped to adjust the mix of hot and cold. He massaged a pale green worm of shampoo into his scalp, rinsed, shampooed, and rinsed again. Turning to face the spray, he used a nail-brush to get rid of the black crescents of dried blood beneath his fingernails.

When he was satisfied that he’d washed the last of the evidence down the drain, Mannie turned off the shower. He pushed back the pebbled glass door, slipped on the Chinese silk robe with the gold dragons crawling all over it. He wiped his face with a towel and then blow-dried his sparse hair. When his hair was dry he used the stream of hot air to clear a patch of condensation from the mirror. No sign of guilt in those pale blue eyes. The smile as friendly and spontaneous as it had ever been. Satisfied with his appearance, he went into the kitchen and pulled a Molson’s Light out of the fridge.

He drank the beer straight from the can, standing in front of the open refrigerator with his feet spread for balance and his head tilted well back.

Hilda must have heard him, or noticed the kitchen light come on. She meowed as she came in from the back yard. Mannie took another sip of his beer and then went over to the sink and cracked open a tin of ersatz tuna. He forked the stuff into the cat’s bowl and stood back. Hilda purred as she ate; a trick of the vocal cords Mannie very much admired. He drank his beer and watched his cat eat her dinner. It was ridiculous, but the smell of the viscous pink food had triggered his appetite. He was salivating.

There was a dark brown loaf of Winnipeg Rye on the counter, fresh that morning. In the fridge Mannie found a wedge of cheddar, mayonnaise, iceberg lettuce, a brick of unsalted butter, sweet pickles drifting in a jar of cloudy liquid. Working fast, Mannie made himself a double-decker four inches thick. He opened his mouth wide and was about to take his first bite when the telephone rang.

He knew who it was. He’d been expecting and dreading the call. Reflexively, he moved to pick up the telephone.

But then, because he liked to think he was his own man, he hesitated; took a big bite out of the sandwich, chewed deliberately, rinsed out his mouth with the last of the beer and got a second can out of the fridge.

Finally, on the ninth ring, he picked the instrument up and said: “Talk to me.”

“You’re up kind of late tonight, big fella. Got something to celebrate?”

The voice was deep and abrasive, a slow, southern Californian drawl. Mannie could almost see the waves as they came crashing in on the beach, hear the rocks grinding together in the surf. He pressed the receiver tightly to his ear, and said nothing. He and Felix Newton had a very concise relationship: when Felix spoke, everybody listened. No exceptions, even for wild and crazy guys like Mannie. Either you learned to catch the short side of the monologue, or you kind of faded from view without anybody noticing.

“You hear me?” said Felix.

“It’s the weekend, that’s all. Party time.”

“Somebody there with you?”

“Just Hilda.”

“What happens, you buy her a mouse and the three of you dance until dawn?”

“Hey,” said Mannie. “That’s a good one.”

“Or maybe the two of you crack open a six-pack and watch a little TV.”

“Not since Barney Miller retired.”

“You telling me you missed tonight’s news?”

“What news is that?”

“Somebody chopped up a kid and dropped his body in the park.”

“What park is that?”

“Stanley Park.”

“A nice park,” said Mannie. “If I was a body, it’s where I’d like to get dumped.”

There was a long silence. Finally Felix said, “I’ll try to remember that, Mannie.”

“Don’t go out of your way, Felix.”

Felix Newton laughed, making a sound deep in his throat like coal rumbling down a long, dirty black chute. “You’re a fun guy, Mannie. We ought to see a little more of each other, don’t you think?”

“Sounds good.”

“Maybe you could give me a few hours of your time later this week?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Squeeze me into your busy schedule, somehow?”

“You in town?”

“We could have brunch, okay?”

“Fine.”

“I’ll send Junior around in his new car, would you like that?”

“If it isn’t too much trouble.”

“Dress for white wine, you know what I mean?”

“What?” said Mannie, frowning.

Felix Newton hung up.

Some men ate raw oysters, others consumed powdered elk horns, or sought renewed vigour in the flesh of children. But the only aphrodisiac that had ever worked for Mannie was danger. Every time he yanked open a door, he hoped it was the one with the tiger crouched behind it. Or so he told himself. But Felix Newton gave him the creeps. The long, ominous, thoughtful silence that had followed his remark about being dumped in the park had not been a pleasant thing to listen to. And there was a persistent rumour that the last guy who’d annoyed Felix had been ground up like hamburger and fed to Felix’s guppies.

Mannie finished his second beer, and most of a third. He got his Visa card out of his wallet and dialled a downtown number. A woman with a fake French accent answered on the first ring. Mannie gave her his card number and expiry date. As he spoke he could hear the quiet chattering of a computer keyboard in the background. The woman asked him if he was still living at the same address. He said, Why not, he got along okay with the neighbours and finally had the crabgrass on the run. Faint murmurs of repressed amusement. Did he have anything particular in mind?

You bet.

Tonight, he wanted a Japanese woman. Preferably a lady in her late twenties. Someone who’d just arrived in the country and didn’t speak a single word of English. She had to be submissive, naturally, but also passionate and eager to learn Western ways. Was there a problem?

There was no problem. Mannie’s personal file had blossomed on the amber screen of the computer’s monitor seconds after he had finished reading out the number of his credit card. He had a reputation for tipping generously. Even more important, he was a pussycat in the sack, unimaginative and easily pleased.

All the girls liked him.