Extensions (33 page)

Wayne walked with me to the kitchen. “Welcome to Serious Crimes. I learn something new in every case. We've booked a suite at the Holiday Inn Express at Metrotown for you. It's an odd request, but you might be able to get some forgotten details from her. They come out when people are relaxed or vulnerable.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

Wayne shook his head. “Bloody bizarre is all I can say. Isn't her husband due home tonight? He'll arrive to a houseful of strangers and learn of a dead son. I wouldn't want it.”

“She wouldn't give us anything on him.”

“We've got our internal airport officer working on it — lots of flights to scan.”

Wayne walked back to the foyer with me and promised Selena we would do everything possible to find the perpetrator of this horrible crime. She opened her umbrella on the landing and in what seemed to be her first human gesture of the day, tried to share it with me on the way to the car through the pounding rain. She underestimated my height and I nearly got a rib in my eye, but the thought counted.

Once in the car, she stared straight ahead again. At the hotel, she hung back while I registered, then followed me into the elevator and into the suite. I offered her the bedroom where she set her suitcase on the bed and hung up her rubber raincoat. I would take the pullout couch in the sitting room.

“Would you like anything to eat?”

“I am not hungry.”

“I'm sure you're not, but you have to eat something. You need your strength.” I sounded like Dad talking to me.

“I could not keep anything in my stomach.” Her accent made her short sentences seem more formal than they were probably intended. Something about this woman appealed to me despite her reserve. I sensed a deflated spirit that had once been capable of wit and charm: like the cool girl at school whose shyness only adds to her allure on the rare occasions she breaks loose.

“How about a Jugo Juice smoothie? There's one nearby in the mall if I get there before they close. What flavour do you like?”

“It does not matter,” she said, surprising me with a direct look. “You must be tired.”

“It's okay,” I said, then told her to put the chain on the lock while I was away.

Passing through the colourful lobby to the mall, I was seized by the wave of sleepiness Selena had just permitted me, but managed to blink it away. I found Jugo Juice and bought us each a tropical Proteinzone Super Smoothie. At a nearby Mediterranean takeout place, I got two orders of Greek salad and garlic toast. Anyone as worldly as Selena Kubik was sure to like black olives. If not, I'd eat both; I was that hungry.

Balancing two bags became tricky as I ransacked my purse for the key card, until I reminded myself I would have to knock because the chain was on. It turned out Selena had not locked the door and I warned her again as I slid it on. She had changed into light grey fleece pyjamas that passed nicely as a lounging suit. When I set the food on the coffee table, she immediately sat down and began drinking the smoothie and eating the salad.

“By the way,” I asked, trying to make conversation. “Who reads
Harry
Potter
in your house?”

“I do,” she said without looking up. “I like to know what is sweeping the world. And I like fantasy.” Then she looked at her watch. “Let us turn on the news.”

It opened with a shot of her house, followed by Tony in the backyard announcing that a four-month-old baby had died in hospital after being thrown in a pond — close-up of pond — by an abductor. Burnaby Serious Crimes unit was working on clues to the identity of the man, as described by the baby's mother.

“They do not give my name,” Selena commented in a neutral tone. I could not interpret whether it was relief or dismay.

“That's because your husband has not been notified.” I persisted through her silence like a broken record on the topic. “It's his right as next of kin to be informed before the public is. Don't you think he should know before he drives up and finds his home filled with cops? Are you two having problems?”

“No.”

“Then maybe you will help us contact him.”

“Constable, I have already stated that he phoned yesterday and is due back late tonight — it could be midnight. I do not keep track of his flights because he is away frequently. He flies all over the world building bridges. I did not want to worry him before it was necessary.”

“How long has he been gone?”

“Two weeks this time.”

“Does he often work over Christmas?”

“They had problems in Kosovo and called him back. He did not want to be away from us for the holiday, but it was an emergency that required his expertise.” She pushed her smoothie and salad across the table, half-finished. I still wasn't full after eating all of mine and asked for her untouched garlic bread in its paper envelope. I didn't expect to be in breathing distance of her, or anyone else, for a few hours.

We sat for a while watching the rest of the news. Just before the weather forecast she asked abruptly, “Have you ever been betrayed?”

“Yes,” I said quickly, thinking of Ray, and then irrationally of Retha.

“Have you?”

“Yes.”

“Your husband?”

“No.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“No.”

A flash of the white Porsche came into my head, unbidden. “The dark man in the white Porsche — do you think of him as your betrayer?”

She looked up and held my gaze without speaking. Was she accusing me for asking such a silly question? I tried to explain myself: “That's the only clue we have to this whole tragedy and what happened to you today must seem like the ultimate betrayal — of fate, of life, of God, whatever you want to call it.”

She lowered her eyes. “I am not a superstitious person.”

Something had just slipped from my grasp and I wasn't sure if it was Selena Kubik or the case itself. The hollow in my stomach signalled negligence on my part — but whether it was a sin of commission or omission, I couldn't be sure. Sara claimed regrets of omission were much worse, but this was the same feeling I had when I'd turned on the siren by accident during surveillance, and that was definitely commission. I didn't believe Selena was taunting me with clues, but I did sense I had missed an opportunity for a deeper glimmer into her mysterious character. I should have listened silently instead of jumping the gun with something out of context. What did she plan to tell me? Had I blown my chance as her hand-picked confidante? I tried again, feebly — and of course, unimaginatively for a sophisticated customer like her. “Sometimes it helps to talk.”

“About what?” she asked curtly, as if nothing had been said.

“About such things as — oh — treachery, grief, outrage, love.” I collected the remains of our meal and set them in the wastebasket as I spoke. “My grandmother used to say that if thoughts were burning up your mind, the only way to extinguish them was to expose them to the air.”

I could feel her unspoken words through my back,
Who said anything
about burning thoughts?
Aloud, she said, “I think I will go to bed now.”

“Will you be able to sleep? Did they give you anything at the hospital?”

“I have my own prescription.” She got up and went into the bathroom.

In her absence, I put my feet up on the coffee table. My ankle was swelling and as soon as she turned in for the night, I would take off my socks. Some professional formalities seemed in order. As I leaned back into the couch, an urgent knock startled both me and Selena, who was just coming out of the bathroom. I jumped up and opened the door the width of the chain.

“My wife,” said a tall man I knew from the photo was Jan Kubik. “I want to see my wife.”

Selena nodded and I opened the door.

“Jan,” she exclaimed softly at the sight of his stricken face, allowing him to take her in his arms. They spoke to each other quietly and desperately in Czech. Then they both began to sob. The unflappable Selena vibrated like a windup doll while Jan groaned, each locked in the other's embrace.

My presence at this display of intimacy felt indecent. I grabbed my shoes and purse and made my exit. After all, I was here at Selena's request for company; she was not under surveillance. I took the elevator down to the lounge and ordered a Coke. I deserved something stronger, but we weren't allowed to drink on duty. Collecting myself was a small feat compared to what the two upstairs were facing. First, I would call my team and give them hell for not preparing us for Jan Kubik's arrival. When I reached into my purse I discovered I had turned off my phone by mistake looking for the key card. A message from Wayne awaited me: “Where the hell are you? Jan Kubik is here at the house in a wild state. We're sending him to the hotel. We think Mrs. Kubik should know.”

Two missed opportunities in half an hour. Was Serious Crimes going to expose me for what I was? Maybe I should ask for a transfer to Traffic.

I called Wayne back to explain. In my defence, I told him the surprise was good for Selena because she didn't have a chance to steel herself and she needed those tears. “What's going on over there?”

“We're wrapping up here. Haven't found anything. Dex is working on the white Porsche but there are a lot more than you'd think in the lower mainland. The Kubiks are free to come home whenever they feel like it.”

“Waste of federal dollars on a hotel room if they do. But I doubt it.”

“Stay there yourself then.”

“See you in the morning.”

I wanted to give the Kubiks more time to themselves and toyed with the idea of a Labatt's Lite now that I was relieved of my assignment. But I ordered another Coke instead. The lounge was not full. A few couples sat at tables and three single guys at the bar. Next to me, two young women were engaged in lively conversation. Or at least one of them was; the other was letting her friend talk and occasionally dab her eyes with a tissue. Speaking of tissues, I needed one for my dripping nose and made use of the cocktail napkin.

My great-grandmother came to mind again. Wiping her nose was one characteristic I could actually visualize, along with the strong chin, hands, and feet Sara said she had. Why did I inherit her more ungainly tendencies when our go-between female gene carrier ended up so fine-featured and petite? Sara's delicacy ended there, however, and the more we discovered, the more admiration I had for the toughness she and her mother and sister had needed to endure what they did.

My eyes kept straying to the next table, accidentally meeting those of the woman who was listening. Her friend was becoming more emotional and I decided to focus my attention on my own situation. I dialled Warren Wright's number.

“It's Arabella. My dad gave me your message.”

“Well, well, well.”

“We got called in this morning on a case.”

“The one in the news — the baby in the pond?”

“That's the one.”

“How do you handle brutality like that up close?”

“Not easy. And I'm still at work. But I didn't want you to think my dad doesn't pass on messages.”

“That's all? You didn't want to speak to me.”

I laughed. “That too. How was Hawaii?”

“Too long, to be honest. I got homesick.” He spoke in a provocative tone.

“How's work?”

“Enough of it, but I've got time to get together, if you do.”

“A good idea. But I'll have to see where the case goes the next couple of days. Can you call me on the weekend?”

“You can call me again, you know. It was nice picking up to your voice.”

“Whoever gets there first.”

“Take it easy.”

I'd always had an aversion to phoning men. On a personal level, that is. I had no problem calling the guys at work for any crazy reason. Maybe it was Sara who planted the idea that men should be the ones in pursuit, because Mom and Dad were pretty progressive. Sara said there was an old Persian (Indian? Chinese?) proverb that claimed the best marriages were those in which the men were more vulnerable or, roughly translated, loved a little bit more. Her own fifty years of Grandpa's devotion proved her point, and after all the domestics I'd seen, I had to agree. A less-than-doting husband usually had physical superiority, if he felt like using it. Not that women couldn't be equally formidable — think Aunt Lizzie — but they didn't usually break jaws or smash noses.

Sara's insistence that “a man chases a woman until she catches him” was basic to all species. Males are usually more colourful or show off more to attract females in the courting ritual. And although women now wore the plumage, it was still up to the man to instigate the mating ritual, she claimed — unless you were a praying mantis. I thought of her recently while watching a
TV
interview with the oldest woman in the world. The woman, a 116-year-old from some South American country, said the biggest change she had seen in her lifetime was not air travel or computers, but women pursuing men. In the end, it all came down to who was setting themselves up for rejection. And I'd had enough of that, thanks. I still hadn't settled the skittish feeling that came from actual contact, voice or otherwise, with Warren. He could call back.