Dos Equis (12 page)

Mary’s antenna were up.

“No. I live in Regina.”

“Oh,” she said with a bit of a frown. “That’s too bad. How long have you and Russell known one another?”

I waved at my friend. “Yoo hoo. I’m here too, you know. You can talk to me.”

She made a “pshaw” sound, adding, “I can talk to you anytime.” “No way!” JP kept on, his attention now on the menu. “You

have bison stew with bannock.”

“My mother’s recipe,” Mary told him.

“I used to date this guy from Mistawasis. His mom made this killer bison stew. I think I might have to do a taste test, just to see if your dish holds up.”

“Oh, a challenge. I welcome it. Care to add a wager?”

JP’s eyes met Mary’s across the table. “What do you have in mind?”

“If my stew wins, you tell me everything about how you and Russell met, and exactly what’s going on between the two of

you. I can find out anyway, but this will take less time.”

“Hey hey hey.” I wiggled my fingers between the two, to break up the eye kissing. “There’s nothing to tell, so you…”

“It’s a deal,” JP interrupted. “And if your stew loses, our lunch is free.”

Mary smiled. I could tell she liked her opponent. “Of course.”

“By the way,” JP added with a wink. “There is
plenty
to tell.”

Sensing that JP was someone she should get to know better, Mary decided to stay with us throughout our meal. I did my best

to steer the conversation away from personal chit-chat by telling her more about the case we were working on. Jane’s murder, and the suicide of Lynette Kraus, had been big news in the newspapers and on TV and radio, so Mary was enthralled with our

side-investigation. She was particularly attentive when JP told her about the suicide website we were trying to track down.

“My head still aches from looking for that website this morning,” I told her. “But JP didn’t recognize any of the sites I came up with. So I guess it’s back to the drawing board. I’m dreading it. You wouldn’t believe the information that’s out there

related to this kind of stuff.”

Mary looked thoughtful. “You know, guys, I might be able to help you with this.”

I was taken aback. “Really?”

“Not me personally, but one of my staff came close to doing herself in last year.” Mary noticed JP’s surprised face. “Sadly, it comes with the territory. I hire a lot of at-risk people as wait staff; sexual minorities, gender variant, trans, drag queens, we got ‘em all. This is one of the few places they can get a job and not have to pretend to be someone they’re not. But, as you know, although Colourful Mary’s may be a friendly place, the world isn’t always. A lot of them have issues to deal with.

Marushka and I, and the rest of the staff, try to help as much as we can. But it isn’t always enough. Anyway, this particular story ends well. She—or he when she’s out of drag—did a lot of research on how to end her life, and ended up—thank God—

screwing it up. Now she’s very vocal about what happened to her. She speaks at high schools, and to whoever else will listen.

She wants to prevent the same thing happening to anyone else just like her.

“Tell you what. Let me talk to her about this. I wouldn’t doubt if she had a compendium of every website around that deals

with suicide. Maybe one of them is the one you’re looking for.”

“Mary, thanks,” I said, giving her a quick peck on her cheek. “That would be very helpful.”

“You’re welcome. Now, JP, by the looks of the tongue marks at the bottom of your bowl, I’d say you enjoyed my mother’s

stew?”

With no argument to the contrary, JP recited: “We met when we tried to knock each other’s block off at a murder scene in

Regina. As far as what’s going on between us, well, you Mary Quail, have just been present for our very first date.”

Not often have I seen Mary speechless. Her olive cheeks turned bright, her eyes widened, and when she finally found some

words, she began with a stutter. “Oh—oh my…why didn’t one of you say something? Why did you just let me sit here, going on

and on, and interrupting your date? Oh, gawd, I am so embarrassed.” She lurched out of the booth, looking devastated. “Okay, I’m going to leave you now. I’ll send over a bunch of desserts, and you can still have your date. Coffee? Maybe a bottle of

wine? JP, would you like more stew?”

We laughed at her.

“Don’t worry, Mary,” JP soothed her. “This just gives us an excuse to have another first date some other time. After all,

anticipation is sweet, isn’t it?”

After paying the bill, and leaving the restaurant with a bag of cookies Mary insisted on sending with us as a final apology gift, JP and I parted ways. I decided I needed some time on my own to play Lone Wolf detective. He took a cab back to the house,

to continue his online obituary search.

Constable Darren Kirsch does not have to look up a licence plate number for me. He also does not have to meet me for

drinks on a Friday afternoon. But he did both. The reasons are complex. Especially given the fact that, outwardly at least,

Kirsch is not a particularly complex individual.

At first we tolerated one another out of pure greed. We needed each other. I needed a contact in the police service. Kirsch

needed a contact on the streets. Over the years, through twists and turns aplenty, we have wound our way into a relationship bordering on friendship. Although I can’t quite identify what it is exactly, we seem to provide each other with that certain something unavailable from our closest friends or family. When I’m with Darren, I find myself telling raunchy jokes, laughing raucously, and—gulp—drinking beer. Sometimes, even draft. And Darren gets the opportunity to loosen the stick in his ass, let down his hair, and—gulp—drink wine that doesn’t sparkle or have “Duck” in its name. I also know that, given the correct

circumstances, Darren is not opposed to knocking off work around four on Fridays and having a drink. So when I called to

suggest meeting, his arm needed little twisting.

Flint is a long, narrow, sleek, big-city type place with cool cocktails and hip servers. Not at all Darren’s kind of place.

Budding friendship or no, I still like to make the big dude uncomfortable for the fun of it. So I was rather surprised when he walked in looking like he’d just modelled for a Gap ad. Even his hair looked as if he’d spent more than two seconds on it with a pick axe.

He shoved his big frame into the chair across from mine, fitting in like GI Joe at a Polly Pocket tea party. I already had a dry, dirty, gin martini going. He ordered the same by wordlessly pointing at it when the chic waiter looked his way.

“Okay, you are definitely giving me an aneurism,” I said. “What’s with the Joe Cool outfit and smart cocktail?”

“I was glad you called, Quant.”

Never—I mean never—have I heard those words come from his mouth.

He nattered on. “I was getting all antsy at work waiting for tonight.”

I nearly choked on an olive. “Y-y-you mean coming here to meet me?”

He raised a dark eyebrow high enough to pitch a tent. “Yeah, I really wanted to know what you think of my new outfit.” His

tone was derisive. “Oh for frig sake, Quant, get a hold of yourself. Tonight Treena is making me…I mean, Treena has
arranged
for me to join her for a date night. Our first since…man, I can’t remember when. Probably since Kylie was born.”

“Kylie is your ninth or tenth kid?” I might have been exaggerating, but the Kirschs had
a lot
of children.

“Shut up, man.” He took a slurp of his newly delivered drink, then: “So she sets up this whole ‘date night’ thing without me knowing a thing about it. I couldn’t even go home after work. She said if I did, I’d probably land on the couch and talk her out of it.”

“Smart woman.”

“I had to shower and get dressed at work. She got me these new clothes and…”

“Wait! She buys your clothes?”

“Yeah. So?”

“Does she pack your lunch and make sure you wash behind your ears too?”

“Again. Shut up, man. I had to go to this Salon Pure place and get my hair cut. Even though I just got it cut last month. Then we’re meeting at The Ivy for drinks,
then
going to someplace called The Victorian for dinner, and
then
to Calories for dessert.

And after all that food and drink, she’s going to expect hot sex.”

I laughed. “And probably make another baby.”

Kirsch downed another third of his martini. “Nooooooo way. We’re done with that. As it is, I’ll be working to eighty-five

just to send all the kids we have to school.”

“Well, you can always hope that at least two or three of them are just plain dumb.”

“That’s an inappropriate comment,” he said. But he was smiling. “As usual, I only offered to buy you a drink—and I said

one, so slow down on that martini—to get information out of you. The licence plate. Any luck?”

“Yes, but you’re not going to like it. The car belonged to a local rental company. Dennie’s.”

Crap. “You’re right. Not good news. Maybe you can make it up to me by telling me if the investigative team has found

anything unusual in Lynette Kraus’s possession?” I thought if I stuck the question in real quick like, he might answer it before thinking too hard about whether or not he should.

No such luck. “Quant, if you think I’m going to reveal confidential information from an ongoing, province-wide

investigation, you probably have too much dirty in your martini. Is this about you still thinking that there might be someone else involved in this whole thing?”

I shrugged noncommittally. I didn’t want to share information if there was nothing in it for me. “I dunno. Maybe.”

“What sort of unusual thing are you talking about?”

“Maybe a file.” If the Saskatoon or Regina police found the MOM file—which JP stole from Lynette and believed she stole

back—certainly it would induce them to look into the possibility that someone else had actually murdered Hilda Kraus.

Darren wordlessly shook his head back and forth, very slowly. “So far there’s nothing in the facts to support that another

killer was involved. Or that Hilda Kraus’s death was even suspicious.” He waited a beat. “Unofficially…?”

I nodded.

“Assuming—and this is a big assumption, Quant—but assuming Kraus’s death was unnatural, the methods used in the two

murders—gunshot and poisoning—are
so
different, I have to admit, I don’t find your theory completely idiotic.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“And Quant, if you’re still thinking about the fellow who attacked you in Jane’s office, don’t worry.”

I hadn’t told him about meeting JP. I didn’t see a reason to. And I certainly didn’t want to tell him about JP’s ill-conceived evidence collection (aka stealing). I was in a bind. It was the contents of the MOM file—according to JP’s memory of it—that would prove Lynette did not act alone. Without it, I had
bubkes
.

“We haven’t forgotten about that guy,” he continued. “We’re making some headway.”

Uh oh.

“Headway? What do you mean?”

“Aside from yours and Jane’s, we found a third set of fresh prints in her office. We believe they belong to your assailant.”

Phew. Okay, not much you can do with that, other than prove there was someone else in there with me.

“And we got a match.”

Shit.

“This is one interesting character. If I were you, Quant, I’d keep an eye on my back for a guy named JP Taine. Without a

doubt, this guy is up to no good.”

Chapter 9

After Kirsch left for his date with his wife, I sat nursing water, mulling over what I’d learned. Then I hit the cellphone. First I called in a favour from a pal who works with Dennie’s Car Rental service. I gave him the licence number and dates in

question, and asked if he could come up with a name for me. I’m sure it was against the rules and all that stuff, but what are friends who owe your favours for? He said he’d get back to me.

The next call I wanted to make was to JP. Had I unwittingly allowed a criminal into my home? Jeez, Quant, what was your

first clue? The fact that he nearly knocked your block off in Regina? Or that he hog-tied you while you were sleeping? I’m

generally not that much of a patsy. I couldn’t be that wrong. I’d only known JP for a very short period of time, but something inside of me was telling me this was a good man.

But police records don’t lie. The Canadian Police Information Centre had JP’s fingerprints on file. Although Darren was

stingy with the exact details, it appeared that JP had done some time when he was younger. More interestingly, after JP’s last stint as a guest of Correctional Service of Canada, he seemed to disappear off the face of the earth. No driver’s licence, no job history, nothing. Until two years ago, when he showed up back in Regina.

I dialled my home number. No answer. When I reached my answering machine for the third time, I started getting worried. I

didn’t think he’d hurt Barbra and Brutus, but would he make off with my good cologne and gatt sweaters?

Annabelle proved herself worthy against a buffeting wind, harbinger of a nasty winter storm set to arrive in the city by

nightfall. By the time I pulled into the garage at the back of my lot, darkness had fallen on the City of Bridges. Snow had started to swirl around her like a crazy cyclone. When I opened the door into the yard that separates garage from house, it was clear that JP wasn’t in the house. Every window was dark, giving the place a lonely, deserted look on a turbulent night. Shit. He’d lied to me. He was supposed to be here, trolling the Internet. Where else would he go? He had no car. No place to stay.

Trudging toward the back door, I bowed my head against gusts of arctic air, pinpricks of icy snow fighting each other for the chance to bite my skin. When I finally reached it and aimed my key at the lock, I noticed something attached to the door handle.

Tied to it by a delicate pink ribbon, was a sterling silver stir stick. This was a Sereena Orion Smith calling card, if there ever was one.