Extensions (41 page)

“You mean, why was I over there? I work for an international engineering firm and they send us wherever infrastructure is a problem, often through war or poverty.”

“So there is no one from Kosovo in your firm?”

He looked confused. “The only Kosovars of my acquaintance have never left their native land. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering,” I said, reaching the entrance to the building where sludge-grey clouds were threatening to spill their contents. Selena waited for us under a palm frond with her eyes downcast. Again I asked myself how a woman as desolate as Selena could come across as more natural than her husband, whose sense of duty and correctness took the place of spontaneity.

Inside, we took a booth in the airy garden-style restaurant with its floral tapestry. Because I was more or less on duty, I ordered cranberry juice and tonic water. Selena ordered a glass of ice wine — the most expensive item on the list — and Jan, Riesling. Glasses in hand, I waited for a toast. Little Anton had hardly been mentioned this afternoon and I was about to say something when his father clinked his glass against mine. “To Anton's short life and all the joy it brought us. May his beautiful spirit rest in peace.”

“To Anton,” I said, “I wish I had known him.”

Selena raised her glass to be touched by her husband's and mine, but said nothing. Her dark eyes were restless and alert, like a cat when its ears go down. Then she pulled a pack of cigarettes from her purse. “Would anyone notice if I sneaked a puff or two?”

Jan's face grew red with embarrassment and anger. “You know it is not allowed. You are putting Constable Dryvynsydes in an awkward position by breaking the law in front of her.”

I felt more awkward over this obvious power play than the smoking bylaw; the restaurant manager would tend to that.

“Since when did you start again?” Jan demanded, as if she were a small child.

“You don't think I have reason to smoke now?”

“Reasons don't make abominable habits right.” A spray of spittle misfired and Jan excused himself politely, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.

Just then a waiter arrived with appetizers and Jan's curt but polite thank-you brought the skirmish to an end. Selena had clearly provoked her husband to demonstrate his condescending manner and toyed with her cigarette package a little longer, smiling at me as I scrambled for a neutral topic. Grateful for the Olympics, I threw out questions about favourite events, budgets, changes to the city. We were able to finish our drinks without incident, Jan taking the lead again as the most informed. It didn't occur to me until later that none of us mentioned the capture of the perpetrator, the reason after all that I had become part of our strange threesome. Nor did I ask what they had done with the cremated remains, a more deliberate omission on my part to respect their privacy.

Shortly before five, Jan stood up in his usual formal manner, as if a heel click and salute might follow. Selena dawdled putting on her coat, intentionally causing him annoyance he had to hide. I thanked them for including me in this tragic occasion, and promised to notify them of any progress in the case.

Outside it was pouring. The Kubiks jumped into their Mercedes close to the entrance, and I ran the full length of the parking lot to my Mazda. Two cars had hemmed me in and I swore a bit standing there in the rain — it wasn't as if my vehicle took up much space. Just as I started to wedge myself through the wider opening to the passenger door, the brake lights of the car on the driver's side went on. I stepped back and allowed it to pull out. That split-second decision to wait rather than seek immediate shelter in the car would make up for all the other delayed reactions I had been guilty of in my career.

How, through the steamy downpour, did my eyes happen to fall on the licence plate of the white car backing out, noting the small Porsche crest above it? Or would a plate with
PIN IT
stand out anywhere? By the time this data registered, the blip of a dark-haired male driver through a foggy window turning out of the parking lot was all that was left.

I jumped into my own car and let the possibilities blossom. Was it coincidence that a white Porsche with a dark-haired man was parked metres away from the Kubiks at a memorial service for their murdered baby? If I didn't want to check for myself at the office, I would have phoned the licence in; as it was, I had less than half an hour before meeting Warren. To calm my impatience, I decided to make a pit stop at Dad's on the way to the restaurant.

He had just finished a plate of sardines on toast and listened eagerly to all the details of Nanaimo, Ladysmith, and Extension. Family resemblance was a strange thing; Dad did not look at all like his sister, but his expression of shock and sorrow upon hearing of Lizzie's intentional separation of the twins was the same as Janetta's. At the end he said, “Shouldn't we tell Wendell?”

This time I wasn't going to be the “we” who got roped into calling the Mingus family. “Good idea. I'm sure he'd like a chat with you. I've got to get going — I'm meeting someone for supper.”

“Anyone I know?”

“The same someone you might someday.”

Five minutes to Broadway and Cambie doubled in the rain, and by the time I parked on Yukon Street, Warren and I reached the door of the Mongolian Grill at the same time. Again he had run from his place in False Creek, and his hair and Gore-Tex jacket were dripping like a wet dog. He pushed the door open for me.

“Never heard of cars?”

“Heavier than I expected. I can usually do it in eight minutes but underestimated the resistance.” His scrubbed, fresh skin, ready grin, and heaving breaths contributed to my own quickening pulse as we hung our jackets over chairs and ordered a beer. We both knew the routine of the Mongolian Grill and loaded our plates from the many trays with an eye to guessing the exact weight of each and getting it free. It was strictly a game, as I rarely came close and embarrassed myself that night by being two hundred grams over my estimate, and even worse, over his. Who knew seafood, kebabs, and sautéed vegetables could weigh that much?

Conversation was easy — so easy I thought he must be putting me on. I couldn't get that old joke out of my head: Who would want to join a club that would have me as a member? In other words, I figured it was a set-up for future humiliation. No suggestive remarks or allusions to more dates, just a relaxed exchange with a lot of laughs. He'd gained a slew of new contracts through the Olympics and was stretched but not complaining about business. He seemed to realize I couldn't discuss my work and didn't probe.

The matter of the licence plate still niggling at me, I was first to stand up. When we stepped outside, the rain had stopped and he refused my offer of a ride home for a second time. “Who's the mysterious one now?” I asked when he mumbled something about fulfilling a running quota.

“I'll talk to you soon.” He waved and broke into a jog across Cambie. Or did he say “again”? There was a difference. Whatever he was doing, I had to concede this guy was good. To keep me balanced on the edge of hope and fear without toppling into either wasn't easy.

Traffic was smooth; I reached the Burnaby detachment in no time. I entered
PIN IT
and came up with:

GREG MCGIMPSEY
3811 WALL STREET
VANCOUVER

The name didn't sound like a Kosovar. But if it turned out to be the Porsche in question, the kid next door had a keen eye, however bloodshot. Wall Street was down by the water, close to the Cannery Restaurant where Ray and I liked to go whenever he won a case.

Ray who?

Tomorrow I would pay Mr. McGimpsey a visit.

The next morning, Tessa was working on the sexual assault case, Sukhi was following up on a stabbing at a club the night before, and Wayne was on his way to receive an award for work he had done on a homicide of a teenage boy two years ago. It was Dex and me again. Follow-up calls could sometimes be made alone, but only if the potential for violence had been ruled out; in the lower mainland that could be narrowed to checking back to see if a stolen fishing rod had been returned. I filled him in on what I'd seen the day before.

A refreshing break from yesterday's rain, the sun sparkled on Burrard inlet between wharves and warehouses. Dex drove and I stopped scanning numbers at the sight of a white Porsche parked in a short driveway next to a two-storey house where renovations had started and stopped. The open verandah was painted ivory along with the trim on the downstairs windows, but the upstairs window frames were weath-erbeaten brown against flaking blue siding. Wind chimes made from metal peace signs tinkled on the verandah as I pressed the buzzer. It took two rings before a young man, probably in his late twenties and dressed in sweatpants and a tight
T
-shirt, opened the door. We gave our names, showed our badges and asked if we could come in. Baffled, he gestured us into the living room. I got straight to the point.

“I'd like to ask you a few questions about the Kubik family, whose baby was murdered recently.”

His eyes widened and the skin on his forehead stretched into his scalp like a mask being tugged from the back. “Yeah, I heard about that. Terrible thing.”

“Do you know Jan or Selena Kubik?”

He took a deep breath. “Yeah, both of them.”

I needed a deep breath. “How?”

“Selena and I worked together for a while in a theatre group.” Our silence begged for more. “Community thing, non-profit. She was in charge of costumes. Had a real talent for it. Got the right look for every character. Hit all the vintage shops and flea markets. Never went over budget. Met Jan through her.” What else did we want?

“Your capacity?” asked Dex, once again adopting the lingo of the interviewee. Or what he thought their lingo was — maybe he should join a theatre group to practise.

“Bit of everything. But I'll take dramaturge.”

Greg McGimpsey was a good-looking guy in a bohemian way, and the opposite of Selena — the
real
Bohemian — in grooming. Uncombed hair not as dark as I'd thought through the blurry window, but an unshaven, swarthy look with features that suggested a poet who rides a motorcycle. Defined lips, hazel eyes that rolled expressively when he spoke, a fit, muscular body that might have been covered in tattoos, though none were visible. He was shorter than I was, and I had never got past my own defensiveness when dealing with men this size. I foolishly assumed they were resentful about their height, and therefore tried to minimize my own. If this was ego to believe he wished to be my size, my hunched shoulders felt more like a sign of submissiveness.

“When was this?”

“Oh, a year ago maybe. She quit when she got pregnant. And we've only done one show since. Arts, you know. Funding cuts.”

“So you have a day job?”

“More acting whenever I can.
TV
, movies, commercials. Residuals go a long way. Temp jobs when all else fails.”

Crane Reese's face came into my head and I imagined the two of them joking together at the buffet table on a movie set. “When did you last see Selena?”

He looked down, as if he were counting the months. “Hard to say. She came to our production last fall. And I ran into her once downtown. On the street, or was it a mall?”

“Was she alone at the play?”

“Yeah. Left the baby with her husband.”

“Did you offer your condolences when you heard about the murder?” asked Dex.

“Yeah, I called as soon as I heard it on the news. Selena wasn't answering. Spoke to Jan, told him how sorry I was. What's this all about, anyway?”

“A white Porsche was seen leaving the street outside the Kubik house on the morning the baby was killed.” I nodded toward the car in his driveway.

“You've got a big job if you're checking every white Porsche in the city.”

“Your Porsche was seen yesterday at the Van Dusen Gardens.”

“Last I heard, there was no law against that.”

“Is it a coincidence that the Kubiks were inside commemorating the loss of their child?” asked Dex.

“Must be.”

“You often take walks through Van Dusen in the rain?”

“My girlfriend — fiancée, actually — is into plants.” He began pacing around the room dramatically, his face inflamed with a mixture of emotions I couldn't separate: anger, embarrassment, indignation. Guilt? I could picture him onstage captivating an audience with his dark, explosive energy and wondered how much of this was an act. “Ever heard of a season's pass? I was buying her one for her birthday.”

“I see.”

And I did. What was so incriminating about a car being next to another if it wasn't what we were looking for? But something didn't sit right. I surveyed the shabby-chic room: ochre-coloured walls, original unfinished wooden floors topped with two threadbare Persian rugs to mark the living and dining areas. A sagging, worn grey velvet sofa and chair trimmed with carved wood stood in front of a painted red brick fireplace minus a heat source. A bamboo papasan completed the seating arrangement and behind it lay a pile of floor cushions — presumably in case of a cast party.