Death On a No 8 Hook (A Willows and Parker Mystery) (9 page)

“We open at ten in the morning, and don’t close until midnight.” She paused for a moment, thinking, and then said, “I think it would be better if you talked to my grandmother.” She locked the cash-register and dropped the key in her pocket. “I’ll go and see if she’s awake. I’ll be right back, okay.”

“Sure,” said Parker.

“Gum?” said Willows, offering the pack.

Parker shook her head, no.

Willows stripped the wrapper from three pink sticks and popped them into his mouth, chewed fastidiously.

“Does it taste as good as it sounds?” said Parker.

“That’s the traffic you hear, not me chewing.”

The grandmother was wearing a shapeless black cotton dress and black canvas running shoes. Her hair was tied in a bun, and her skin was smooth and tight except in the area of her mouth and eyes, where it had the texture of finely-woven cloth. Willows had no idea how old she was, but he was certain that she was much older than anyone he’d ever met before. He gave her his name and Parker’s, and showed her his badge. She examined it carefully, then nodded and gave him a quick, shy smile, a glimpse of many gold fillings. Cheryl brought out a folding stool, and helped her grandmother sit down, taking her weight, guiding her.

“She speaks very little English,” Cheryl said. “I will translate for you, if you like.”

“Would you ask her if she remembers selling the magazines,” said Willows.

“Yes, I have already done that. She says she remembers very clearly.”

“Can she describe the customer?”

“It was a man,” said Cheryl. “You must understand that she is embarrassed to discuss this, because of the subject-matter of the magazines.” She turned to her grandmother and spoke in rapid-fire Mandarin, a blur of consonants.

The old woman was about to answer when two small children, a boy with his sister in tow, came up to the counter clutching a grape popsicle and a grimy fistful of small coins. The murder investigation ground to a halt while the sale was rung up. Willows volunteered to split the popsicle in half, and was viewed with a mixture of suspicion and alarm.

The children left, and the grandmother resumed speaking. She spoke for several minutes, pausing frequently to catch her breath, and to think. When she finally stopped talking, the girl asked her a number of questions and then turned to Willows and Parker.

“She thinks the man you are looking for came into the store a few minutes after nine o’clock. She says he was not very tall, perhaps five foot eight inches. He was balding. He wore four large gold rings on his right hand, and three more gold rings on his left hand. He had blue eyes. Very pale. Also watery. As if he was just about to begin crying or had just stopped crying. But he did not seem sad. In fact he was very cheerful.”

“Can your grandmother tell us what the man was wearing?”

“A dark green suit. No jacket. A white shirt that was very rumpled, in need of ironing. And a very colourful tie. Red, blue and orange.”

“Did she notice his shoes?”

“He was not wearing shoes. He was barefoot, and he walked with a limp.”

Willows glanced up from his notebook. “A limp? Is she sure about that?”

A quick exchange of Mandarin, short and sharp.

“It was his right foot that was bothering him.”

The grandmother frowned at Willows as Cheryl spoke. Willows repressed a smile. “Good,” he said, and made a note in his book. “You said he was not very tall. What about his body shape? Was he fat, thin…?”

“My grandmother says the man’s shoulders were very narrow. His hips were wide, his legs short and thick. She says he looked like a pear balanced on two sausages.”

Willows smiled. The old lady’s eyes were alight with intelligence. He suspected that her command of the language was a lot better than her granddaughter thought.

“How did he pay for the magazines?”

“With two twenty-dollar bills. They were brand new.”

“Is it possible these bills might still be in the cash-register?”

The girl shook her head. “We do a night deposit as soon as we close. Anything larger than a ten goes to the bank.”

Willows had a few more questions. Did the man have any visible scars? Speak with an accent? Did he have any unusual mannerisms? He didn’t think they’d get much more out of the old woman, but that was all right, because they already had more than he’d hoped for. He asked the girl if they could use the telephone to call for a police artist and an Identikit. While Parker was dialling, Willows said, “Your grandmother surprises me. Does she remember all her customers so well?”

“My grandmother was frightened of this man,” said Cheryl after another short conversation in Mandarin.

“Why?”

“He stole a package of breath mints from the rack by the cash-register. She was afraid that he might try to rob her.”

“Why didn’t she call the police?”

“He didn’t realize she had seen him take the mints. She charged him for them without telling him, so nothing was lost.”

The grandmother had watched Parker make her call. Willows was willing to bet she’d memorized the number. She was a real sharpie, one in a million.

So far, all the luck in the case seemed to be running his way.

Chapter 16

Early the next morning, the skinny kid Junior had seen in the kitchen staggered in carrying a big breakfast tray with folding legs. Misha hopped out of bed long enough to help him get the tray set up, then climbed back in between Junior and Felix.

Misha’s plate was covered in small, overlapping, glistening pink horseshoes of raw fish, and the torn leaves of a dark green vegetable Junior had never seen before. He decided that if he offered him a forkful, he’d make the girl from Ignacio choke it down.

The skinny kid went from one side of the bed to the other, his eyes on the ladies as he poured coffee from an ornate sterling pot into bone china cups so thin you could almost see through them.

Junior drank some coffee and nibbled at a piece of whole-wheat toast. He’d been served hash-browns and bacon, and a heap of scrambled eggs made with white wine and a touch of cayenne pepper, but the raw fish and the sound of Felix at the trough had stripped him of his appetite.

“If you aren’t going to eat your bacon, can I have it?” said the cute little moppet from Ignacio.

“Sure,” said Junior. The girl’s shoulder touched his as she leaned towards him to stab at his plate with her fork. Junior slid his hands under the sheet and stroked her hip. “What would your daddy say if he could see you now?”

“My dad’s in Germany.”

“Yeah, I know.” Junior’s fingers pushed into the triangular thicket of her pubic hair. “But what would he say, huh?”

The girl smiled. “He’s got an awful temper. Just awful.”

“Explains why he’s riding a Pershing Two. You got to have somebody there who’s willing to push that button, right? Otherwise, what’s the point?”

“I don’t know much about politics,” said the girl.

“I love you just the way you are,” said Junior. He picked up the sterling silver coffee pot and poured himself a second cup.

“Enjoying your breakfast?” said Felix.

Junior, his mouth full of hot coffee, could only nod.

“That’s wonderful. But whatever you do, don’t miss your flight.”

“What flight?”

“CP 412 out of LAX,” said Felix. “You’re skedded to lift off in a couple of hours.”

“Where am I going, for Chrissake?”

“I want my place in the Properties tuned up.” Felix smiled. “I’m thinking of making a run across the border.”

“What for?”

“Take the shrouds off the furniture. Open a few windows and let in some fresh air. Fill the pool. Lay in a good supply of food and drink, put a couple buckets of ice-cream in the freezer.” He smiled. “You know what to do. You’ve done it before.”

“Two hours,” said Junior. “No way I’m gonna make it.”

“When you’ve finished tidying up the house, give Mannie Katz a call. Meet him somewhere and make sure he gets the envelope.”

“What envelope?”

“The one under your plate, Junior.” Felix shook his head sadly. “What’s the matter with you anyway, you got an astigmatism at your age?”

“Nothing wrong with my eyes,” said Junior. He almost added there was nothing wrong with his teeth, either. Bleakly, he stared down at his plate full of congealing food.

Misha could see Junior’s feelings were hurt. She waggled her finger at Felix, and rolled her eyes. To cheer Junior up, she gave his arm a squeeze and offered him a piece of raw fish.

“Rude little bastard,” said Felix when Junior had left the room.

The flight out wasn’t much better. Junior had been given a window seat, the only seat available. Usually the first-class section was almost empty, but now it was full of smiling young men in three-piece suits and smiling young women wearing white blouses and pale blue pleated skirts. Junior snagged a passing stew and asked her what was going on. His fellow passengers were a famous TV evangelist and a mob of singers and writers and dancers and special effects people. “As soon as the bar opens,” said Junior, “could I have a double Chivas on the rocks?”

“Quick as I can,” said the stew. “I only wish I could join you.”

Junior tried on a look of concern. “Something gone wrong, sweetie?”

“A clearance problem. Nothing serious.”

“How long we gonna be here?”

“Not long,” said the stewardess. She gave him a tired smile. “Would you like a pillow or a magazine?”

“No,” said Junior, “I want a drink.”

Things hadn’t started out well, but they soon got worse. A woman in a plain white blouse and pale blue pleated skirt sat down in the seat next to Junior. Even though the red light wasn’t on, she put her seat in the upright position and fastened her safety-belt. Junior looked out of the window. He could see the woman reflected in the glass. She was smiling broadly at the back of his head. There was a JAL 747 parked in the next slip. Junior counted the jet’s windows with the same sense of boredom and terror he’d experienced once while counting the holes in an acoustic ceiling tile in his dentist’s office.

When he finished counting the windows he counted them again, to make sure he’d got it right the first time. The woman was still watching him, still smiling. He could smell her perfume, feel the heat escaping from her body.

“I’ve never flown before,” she said. “This is my first time.”

“Oh yeah?” said Junior. “How interesting.”

“A little nervous,” said the woman. “But then, who wouldn’t be?”

Junior gave her a look he’d learned studying the boa-constrictor at the San Diego zoo.

“Do you believe in God?” said the woman.

“I’ll show you what I believe in,” said Junior. He flipped open his alligator billfold and waved his Amex platinum in her face. “Easy credit, that’s what.”

“Money is the root of all evil,” said the woman. She spoke in a flat monotone, as if reading from a giant celestial cuecard that nobody else could see.

“That’s pure bullshit,” said Junior. “It’s the lack of money that causes all the problems.” He paused for a moment, thinking, and then grinned slyly and said, “How’d you pay for your plane ticket, with a truckload of fucking beets?”

Half an hour later, they were airborne. By the time they’d reached cruising altitude, Junior had put away three quick doubles and had a blood alcohol level of point zero eight and climbing. Better yet, the credits for a Charles Bronson movie were crawling up the little screen tacked to the wall of the head. Junior paged a stew with green eyes and bright red fingernails. He held her hand tightly while he ordered a couple more ounces of Scotch and a pair of headphones. The stew nodded energetically, in a hurry to retrieve her hand.

Junior settled happily back in his seat. Beside him, the thumper was silently reading her bible, rippling heat waves of resentment coming at him every time she turned a page. Not that Junior gave a fuck. Race, creed and colour meant nothing to him. Freedom for all! Let the cream rise to the top! He drank some Scotch, wiped his chin with the back of his hand. Bronson’s eyes narrowed. He started blasting away, a big chromed automatic in each hand.

Junior blinked rapidly, trying to focus on the screen.

The sound of the shots reverberated in his head. A girl in the movie screamed prettily. If only the quiche-slinger from Ignacio had been sitting in his lap, everything would have been perfect.

Chapter 7

Constable Christopher Lambert slipped a button and scratched his chest. The dry cleaner had put too much starch in his shirts again. Peevishly, he adjusted his utility belt to shift the weight of his revolver off his hipbone.

It was two o’clock in the afternoon and eighty-four in the shade. There was no wind. The traffic in both directions was oozing along Georgia Street at a barely perceptible crawl. Lambert yawned. The exhaust fumes were getting to him. He was dying of carbon-monoxide poisoning, heat, and boredom. When a woman in a thin, translucent white summer dress came out of a building and started walking down the sidewalk towards him with the sun backlighting her, he hardly noticed.

“Doesn’t she look cool and sweet!” said Constable Paul Furth.

Lambert shrugged. The heat had drained everything out of him. He was exhausted.

“Heat getting to you?” said Furth.

“Was I complaining?”

“You got a rash?”

“Too much starch in my shirt.”

They were approaching the intersection of Georgia and Denman. The light turned yellow. Furth tapped the brakes of their Dodge Aspen. A battered Volkswagen van pulled up next to them, in the outside lane. The van needed a new silencer.

Furth concentrated on blocking out the sound. He stared at the traffic light until it turned green, took his foot off the brake pedal and hit the gas. The squad car leapt forward.

The Volkswagen’s horn squawked a warning. At the same instant, a low-slung blur of yellow shot in front of the Aspen. Furth stabbed at the brakes with both feet. The nose of the car dipped and Lambert slid across the naugahyde and banged his knee on the metal edge of the computer terminal. The sound of his swearing was drowned out by the screech of rubber on asphalt.

“Fucker ran the light!” said Furth by way of an apology.

Lambert rubbed his knee. He watched the rear end of the yellow Corvette fishtail crazily as the driver struggled to bring the little car under control. Then the Corvette was rocketing down Georgia towards Stanley Park, sprinting for a small gap in the wall of congested traffic that shimmered and glittered in the sunlight half a block away.

Lambert leaned forward and flipped a row of toggle switches, activating the siren and lights. The Corvette bolted, cutting sharply across three lanes to take a right on the one-way road that encircled the thousand acres of the park.

“You know what the difference is between a Corvette and a cactus?” said Lambert.

Furth didn’t answer. He was concentrating on his driving.

“The cactus has the prick on the outside,” said Lambert.

Furth turned into the park. They sped past the faded brown bulk and sloping roofs of the Royal Vancouver Yacht Club, hundreds of moored sailboats and a gently swaying forest of masts.

A hundred yards in front of them, the Corvette took the zoo turnoff, and pulled into an angled parking slot at the foot of the complex. The driver was still in the car when they caught up with him, the Aspen’s siren moaning and shrieking, all the lights spinning and flashing crazily.

Lambert reached over and turned off the siren. He and Furth got out of the squad car and walked over to the Corvette. The driver was leaning back in the seat with his hands behind his head. His face was hidden by big mirrored sunglasses. He had on a pair of mini headphones; a thin wire ran from a tape deck, split into two thinner wires that terminated in small black foam pads stuck in his ears.

Furth pulled the plug. The man’s head jerked up, and sunlight flashed off the silver lenses of his glasses.

“Would you please get out of the car, sir,” said Lambert.

“Yeah, sure.” The man climbed awkwardly out of the Corvette. He smiled and said, “Hi, I’m Larry Snap. Is there a problem?”

“Can I see your driver’s licence, please?”

Snap handed Furth his licence. “Black Belt Revolving Records,” he said. “The name ring any bells?”

“You ran a red light back there at Denman and Georgia,” said Lambert.

“I did?”

“Why do you think we were chasing you?”

“Chasing me?” Larry Snap was amazed. He looked from Furth to Lambert and then back to Furth, as if he suspected a joke and was waiting for the punch line.

“You didn’t hear the siren?”

“I had my headphones on. The Sennheiser’s. I was listening to a tape.”

Furth pulled his ticket book out of his hip pocket.

Larry Snap grimaced anxiously. “I already got a lot of points,” he said. “Another bad rap could put me over the edge, cost me my licence.”

Furth pushed the button on the end of his ballpoint pen.

“You like a deal on some Springsteen tickets?”

There were five tickets left in Furth’s book. It was just enough. He started writing.

Larry Snap waved his arms in the air. “If I can’t drive, how in hell am I gonna motivate myself to keep up the payments on my little yellow bird?” he said.

“Have a nice day,” said Furth when he had emptied his book.

“And you guys have two nice days each,” said Larry Snap. But it was an automatic reaction. They could tell that his heart wasn’t in it.

Now that they were in the park, Furth and Lambert had no option but to drive all the way around it. They cruised slowly past Lumberman’s Arch and a neglected Parks Board swimming-pool full of sand and debris. From the road there was a sweeping view of the North Shore mountains and much of the inner harbour. Lambert saw a Seabus scoot like a bright orange waterbug out of its berth on the far side of the harbour, and pointed it out to Furth. They drove across the viaduct with its scenic elevated view of Lion’s Gate Bridge. It was cool under the canopy of trees, and there was a breeze coming in off the ocean. Lambert looked at his watch. At the rate they were moving along, they’d just make it back to 312 Main in time for end of shift.

They drove slowly past the turn-off to Second Beach, and then left past the fancy restaurant with the glass dome at Ferguson Point.

“You ever eat there?” said Furth.

“Never.”

“I hear the food’s good but the service is lousy.” He paused, thinking. “Or maybe it’s the other way around, I forget.”

A girl in a yellow bikini ran out of the thin strip of woods that separated the road from the sea wall and the ocean. Lambert was thinking that yellow seemed to be the colour of the day when the girl waved at him. Surprised, he sat up in his seat and waved back. The girl called out, and started running after the car.

Furth pulled over to the side of the road. “Anybody you know?” he said, staring into the rearview mirror.

Lambert twisted in his seat. “Not yet,” he said, “but I think I’m already in love.”

The girl was breathing heavily by the time she caught up with the car. She was maybe nineteen years old. Her skin was golden brown and she had a light sprinkling of freckles across her nose. Lambert looked deeply into her dark green eyes. What he saw made him immediately realize that whatever she had on her mind, it wasn’t romance.

He pushed open his door and started to get out of the Aspen.