Negative Image (12 page)

He put his glasses back on and continued typing.

***

That was such a waste of time, she might indulge herself and spend the overtime money on something completely frivolous. A day at the spa maybe, or some new clothes. It wasn’t fun, interrupting people when they were relaxing at home, watching fake police solve cases in an hour including commercials, who then took the opportunity to give her an earful about the state of policing in Trafalgar. If Winters demanded she march around to every house in town, she might make enough to be able to treat Adam to a weekend of spring skiing in Whistler.

Adam. She felt herself smiling at the thought of him. He’d said that he loved her. Sure he was trying to get her to forget she was mad at him and into the sack, but she knew he meant it. She hadn’t said the words back though.

She’d recently come to the difficult decision that it was time to leave Trafalgar; if her career was to go anywhere she needed better policing experience than she would get in this small, generally peaceful town. She’d stayed in touch with a woman she’d met at police college, who was now working in Toronto. Last week her friend phoned, telling Smith it was a good time to apply. She’d started updating her resume, but it remained in her computer, unsent.

Did she want to leave Adam? They’d tell each other she’d visit Trafalgar regularly and they could have a long-distance relationship, but everyone knew those things rarely worked out. She could suggest he move to Toronto too, but the RCMP didn’t have many officers in Ontario, and she knew that Adam loved the Mounties.

It was difficult sometimes to be a police officer in Trafalgar, where her mothers’ friends passed her on the street, dressed in full uniform, body amour, radio, gun, baton, and said, “hello, dear.” Where the newspaper reporter still hated her because of some slight when they were sixteen years old that neither of them remembered. If she were to get ahead in this career Molly Smith knew she needed big-city experience. But she also knew she was falling in love with Adam Tocek, and it would be very difficult to leave him.

It was late and even
Feuilles de Menthe
, the restaurant next door to her apartment, was dark and quiet. There was no traffic on the street and everything was still. Spring was coming, although taking its time, and the night air had a crisp, sharp bite. She yawned, remembering she had to be at the hospital in a few hours. There was no welcoming lamp over the back door that led to the stairs up to her place and the street light across the alley didn’t reach the entrance. It was wrapped in night’s gloom.

Something was on the door, darker than the shadows. Smith froze in her tracks, and her hand rose to her mouth.

A rat. Impaled onto the door by a knife.

She whirled around, pulling out her flashlight and switching it on. She played the beam of light around the alley, probing the shadows. No one was watching her and there was no sign of anyone hiding and her radar wasn’t twitching. Only when she was confident she was alone and unobserved, did she bend over and rest her hands on her trembling knees. Her stomach churned, and she took one deep breath and then another. Finally, she straightened up and pointed the flashlight at her door. The rat’s black eyes were dark pools in an ugly face; the long naked tail didn’t move. It was, thank heavens, dead. Blood glistened in the bright white light. Still wet.

It would be morning soon, and people would cut down the alley to get to work and school. She couldn’t leave the hideous thing here. She knew she should call this in, get the knife fingerprinted. John Winters was still at his desk, she’d seen the light in his office when she left after finishing the report. He was acting so damned prickly, she was reluctant to call him out. The forensics people were so busy they’d not be happy at being woken up to investigate the murder of an alley rat.

Particularly as there wasn’t much of a mystery about the identity of the rodent-killer.

Charlie Bassing. Guaranteed.

Smith slipped her hands into a pair of latex gloves and grabbed the handle of the knife. She braced herself and pulled. It came away from the door so easily she toppled backwards. She stumbled to keep her footing, and the rat dropped to the ground.

She studied the knife under the beam of her flashlight. It was a kitchen knife, the blade about six inches long, the handle showing signs of wear. A knife of the sort anyone could buy anywhere to slice onions and chicken breasts. Blood, deep red, almost black, glistened in the light. A few drops fell to the ground. She shuddered and again felt her stomach move.

She kicked the dead rat into the bushes, then played the beam of the flashlight around the alley, lighting up the dark corners. All was quiet. He could be hiding, just out of the range of her light, watching her, but she didn’t sense him. Just in case, she lifted the knife and held it up, into the light, trying to look tougher than she felt. She spat on the ground.

She turned and unlocked her door and went up stairs to get a wet rag to clean the door and a plastic bag for the knife.

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

The hill was steep and Barb Kowalski was overweight and approaching retirement age, but she ran all the way. She arrived at the police station boiling hot, dripping sweat, gasping for breath. Her fingers shook as she punched in the access code to open the door. “Paul in yet?” she shouted to Jim Denton, settling himself down with coffee in a mug that said “World’s Greatest Granddad”.

“Yes. You’re early. What’s the matter now?”

Barb didn’t answer. As Jim said, she was early and the office staff hadn’t arrived yet. The Chief’s door was open; he was snapping the tab off the day’s first can of pop.

He stared at her. “What on earth?”

She waved the newspaper. “Have you seen this?”

“No.”

She handed it to him. It was today’s
Gazette,
delivered to Barb’s house in time for breakfast as every morning. She’d taken one look at the headline, abandoned her bowl of home-made granola, and her startled husband, and ran all the way to the office, trying to read while she went.

Keller turned pale. He looked up at Barb. “I do not want to read this,” he said, in a low flat voice. But he read.

Most of the front page was taken up by a picture of Eliza Winters, snapped last summer at a party at the site of the proposed Grizzly Resort outside of town. A small picture was inset next to the bigger one, taken at the height of her modeling career. In that one she was young, and so incredibly glamorous as to be almost unworldly. Barb dropped into the visitor’s chair while the Chief read. The former supermodel, now semi-retired and living in Trafalgar, the article said, was being questioned by police in regards to the brutal murder of her former lover, the internationally renowned photographer Rudolph Steiner. The article described Steiner as a many-times-married playboy, and failed to mention that he and Mrs. Winters had been lovers more than twenty-five years ago.

It was sparse on details of the killing and the police investigation and heavy on innuendo and gossip. As the Chief read, exclaiming in anger every couple of sentences, Barb knew he was hoping to get to the end without finding a mention of Eliza’s husband. But it was there, sure enough, in the last paragraph. Sergeant John Winters, of the Trafalgar City Police, had been relieved of his duties due to the potential conflict of interest.

Keller threw the can of pop into the trash. It wasn’t empty, and he missed, and brown liquid splashed up the walls. “Is John in yet?”

“I don’t know.”

“Find out. If he’s here, bring him to see me. Someone,” he said, pronouncing each word with careful deliberation, “in this department has spoken to that bloody Morgenstern woman. When I find out who it is, and I will find out, his, or her, career is finished. Soon as they’re open, call our lawyer. I want a meet ASAP.”

Barb scurried out of her boss’ office.

She found John Winters at his desk. He was wearing the same clothes he had on yesterday, and his eyes were red and his face drawn. “Haven’t you gone home?” she said.

He grinned, without much mirth, and rubbed the face of his watch with the pad of his thumb. “Home’s a bit awkward right now. I slept on the couch in the interview room. Very comfortable, I might move in permanently. What’s up?”

“Have you read the
Gazette
today?”

“No. I was about go out and get something for breakfast.”

“Chief would like to see you first.”

***

Ray Lopez was scraping up the last bit of oatmeal when his cell phone rang. Madeleine leaned across the table and plucked the sports section of yesterday’s
Globe and Mail
out from under his elbow. “You won’t be needing this any more,” she said.

It was the station, telling him that Mrs. Steiner would be available at eight-thirty for an interview.

The small clock over the kitchen door said “Kootenay Time” and all the numbers were jumbled. But the hands were true and it was not quite seven-thirty. He made a grab for the newspaper. “Plenty of time.”

Madeline grinned and placed her elbow firmly on the paper. “Not a chance, buddy. I’ve got it now.”

He arrived at the hotel a few minutes before eight-thirty and took the elevator to the third floor. A man answered his knock. He was well dressed, too well dressed, and put Lopez in mind of a courtroom.

“Detective Lopez, I assume,” he said. “I am Larry Iverson, Mrs. Steiner’s attorney. Can I see some identification, please?”

Lopez produced it, it was examined and Iverson stepped back to allow the detective into the room.

Josie Steiner sat at a table by the window, with a glass of clear liquid at her elbow. She was ready to head for the exercise room in black workout clothes and running shoes. Her hair was tied back in a simple ponytail and her face was scrubbed clean. She looked, he thought, her age and a lot better for it.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mrs. Steiner,” he said.

“Mrs. Steiner is of course most anxious to see the killer of her husband brought to justice,” Iverson said, indicating that Lopez could sit. The room was part of a suite, no beds but sofa and chairs arranged around a TV and coffee table. A desk stood by the window, and from the third floor they had an uninterrupted view looking out over town and across the river.

“We apologize for the delay,” Iverson continued as Lopez sat down. “But Mrs. Steiner has not felt well enough to be interrogated.”

Hardly an interrogation, Lopez thought, but he let it go. “Thank you.”

“Now,” Iverson said, taking his own seat beside the woman, “What would you like to know?”

“You mentioned you last saw your husband at around six-thirty on Monday night. Is that correct?”

“Yes.” Josie spoke for the first time. Her voice was very low.

“The habits of Mr. and Mrs. Steiner may seem unusual to you, Detective,” Iverson said, “but Mr. Steiner was unwell in recent months, as well as being a man of strict routine. He was a very private person, and Mrs. Steiner respected that. It was one of the reasons their marriage was so strong.” Even the lawyer looked like he couldn’t quite swallow that one.

“That’s correct,” Josie said.

“You didn’t go back to your husband’s room after six-thirty?”

“I did not.”

“What did you do for the rest of the evening?”

“I rested in my room.”

“Was anyone with you?”

“Certainly not.”

“Ms. Barton, perhaps.”

“I had little to do with Diane at any time. She was Rudy’s assistant, not mine.” Her tone was so huffy, Lopez guessed Josie had tried to get Barton running errands for her and had been strongly rebuffed.

“That didn’t answer the question.”

“She answered it perfectly, Detective. Mrs. Steiner was in her room for the rest of the evening. Alone. Can we continue?”

“What did you do for dinner?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I rarely eat dinner,” she said. “And never alone.”

Lopez remembered her telling Winters she didn’t eat breakfast. What on earth did the woman live on? He studied her face. Her eyes were a bit red and puffy, natural considering her husband had just died, but her nose wasn’t running and her pupils were a normal size. No obvious evidence of drugs.

“What did you do?”

She nodded toward a pile of magazines tossed on the floor. “I read, I watched T.V. I turned out the light and went to sleep about ten.”

“Did you go for a walk?”

“No.”

“Your husband’s room was right next door,” Lopez said. “Did you hear anything…unusual?”

“No.” She grabbed a tissue out of a box on the table and held it to her eyes. When it came away, he could see that she was crying. “I like the TV to be on loud,” she said. “Perhaps Rudy called out to me when…when it happened. And I did not hear.”

Iverson got to his feet. “Mrs. Steiner would like to go to the gym now, Detective. She finds that the exercise offers her some small degree of comfort.”

Lopez knew when he was dismissed.

His next stop was the hotel office. He asked Peter Wagner to check room service records.

In the eight days the Steiners had been in residence, fourteen bottles of wine, some of them costing as much as two hundred dollars each, had been delivered to Mrs. Steiner’s room. Instructions were always to leave the order outside the door, and in the morning the empties were picked up by the chambermaid.

By the looks of it, Josie Steiner lived on alcohol. By nine o’clock on any given night she could be counted on not to notice much.

***

The Smith family was shown into the waiting room beside the OR. They’d been allowed to have a few minutes with Andy before he was taken away. His color was better this morning, Molly thought. Lucky, on the other hand, looked simply dreadful. It was unlikely she’d had much sleep. Sam had arrived with their mother. He gave his baby sister a deep hug, and she was glad he’d come.

Lucky dug into her purse for her reading glasses and a thick paperback. She sat in the chair, turning the pages, staring into space. Smith had also brought something to read, but the words couldn’t keep her attention.