Under Cold Stone A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (19 page)

Smith, the police officer, let that one slide.

“I got home around six to find my place crawling with cops.”

“You haven’t heard from him?”

“No.”

“What can you tell me about Matt? He ever been in any trouble you know of?”

“Nah. Look, Molly, we weren’t friends, we didn’t hang out. Didn’t have much in common, other than where we lived.”

“How about Barry?”

“Barry. Now he was a nasty piece of work.”

“In what way?”

Alistair shrugged. He finished his beer. Eyed it pointedly. Smith got the hint, and lifted her hand to attract the waitress’ attention. She held up two fingers. She needed to keep drinking so this would look more like a chat than an interrogation, but this would be her fourth beer. On top of three glasses of wine.

Better slow down.

“He just was,” Alistair said. “Barry argued all the time. About his share of the rent money, about who ate the last of the three-day-old pizza, or who’d drunk his beer.”

“Not the sort of thing you kill a man over.”

Alistair grinned. “I don’t know. I might kill a man took the last of my beer. But seriously, I did wonder sometimes if he was on the take.”

“What do you mean?”

“He seemed to have more money than he should, wasn’t shy about flashing it around, either. More than he got from the garage, I mean. Yeah, he did some odd jobs, fixed friends’ cars, that sort of thing. But nothing that would bring in big money.”

“And he had big money?”

“Sometimes. I’m not talking tens of thousands, you know. But an extra couple of hundred, maybe a thou, here and there. It seemed to come and go. When he was flush, he liked to spend it.”

“How do you think he got this money? Dealing?”

“Unlikely. If he was selling drugs, he’d have tried to push it on his buddies, wouldn’t he? It’s possible he was smart enough not to want to shit on his own doorstep, but smart isn’t a word I’d use to describe Barry. He was a mechanic at a garage, right? I figure he was gaming the system. Charging for repairs that weren’t needed, or buying used parts and saying they were new.”

“Did you tell the police this?”

Alistair’s lip curled. In another time or place he might have spat on the floor. “What do you take me for? I have as little to do with the cops as I can. That sergeant who spoke to me? I felt like leaping to my feet and shouting
Seig Heil
. Get him out the door as fast as possible, that’s all I wanted. Pigs.”

“Why are you telling me then?”

“You bought me a beer. Two beers. My loyalty comes cheap. And maybe because you’re one gorgeous chick and I want to get to know you better. Stick around, we finish at two. There’s a party at Suzie’s place after. Some good B.C. bud I’ve been told. Not that I indulge, of course.”

She wiggled the fingers of her left hand. The diamond flashed.

“I was hoping that was just for decoration.”

“’Fraid not.”

The tone of conversation around them changed as the band members pushed themselves away from their tables and got to their feet. Alistair finished his drink. “See you around, maybe.”

“Maybe. Thanks for this.”

She listened to the first song of the set, and then phoned for a cab and went outside to wait. The rain had stopped and the cold, moist air hit her like a slap in the face. Her head spun and her stomach rolled over. She waited for her ride under the awning.

A police car pulled up and an officer got out. He studied her, his eyes narrow with suspicion. “What are you doing standing here?”

She suppressed a beery burp. “Waiting for a cab.”

“You by yourself?”

She burped. “Yes.”

He didn’t look impressed. “Where are you staying?”

“Banff Springs.”

One eyebrow rose. He was an older guy, waiting impatiently for retirement. She did not smile. The last thing she wanted was for him to think she was standing alone in front of a bar because she was soliciting.

Lights flashed on the street as her taxi had pulled up. She’d run for it gratefully, knew the Mountie was watching her.

Now, as the shower ran and some life came back to her body, as well as her head, she tried to estimate how much she’d spent last night. Way more than she should have, that was for sure.

She turned off the hot water, and let a blast of icy spray finish waking her up.

While she dressed she admired her room. Such a waste. That huge, lovely, soft bed, and no one to share it with. Wondering if Adam had managed to successfully cook the turkey, she headed out the door.

For breakfast she ordered tomato juice, which she hated; bacon, which she never ate; fried eggs; fried potatoes; and white toast with lots of butter. And tea, gallons of tea. For once, she wished she drank coffee.

Her mother eyed her suspiciously. “Not feeling too good this morning, dear?”

“Give me a break, Mom. I was working. Tracey was pretty much a waste of time. She had nothing new to say. But I did learn some interesting things from Matt’s roommate, Alistair, about Barry.”

“What sort of things?” Paul Keller asked. He looked like hell. He’d missed a couple of spots shaving, his cheeks were hollow shadows, his eyes red and tired, his face grim, and he emitted the faint sour smell of extreme stress along with tobacco from his morning cigarette.

“Alistair figures he was getting money from somewhere. The sort of money that came in suddenly, not as part of a regular paycheck.”

“Drugs?”

“Probably not. Alistair never saw him dealing. Alistair thinks maybe something dodgy at the garage.”

“That would tie in with what we know about Barry Caseman. Can’t keep his nose clean.”

“He runs with the sort of people who might take action, if they think they’ve been cheated or insulted. Or for not much of a reason at all.”

“Exactly.”

His roommate, Matt Keller, might well know those people too. And, if he came home in time to see who’d killed Barry, decide it would be a good time to leave town with no forwarding address. “Are the police looking at anyone in particular?”

“They’re still interviewing Caseman’s acquaintances. Some of whom are known to the police. Most have alibis. No one stands out as having been in the right place for the right reasons. Caseman was out drinking with some buddies Saturday night. Apparently he left early, before the bars closed, which was unusual for him.”

“They say why he left early?”

Keller shook his head.

“Anyone seen to leave with him?”

“No.”

“Anything else new with the investigation?”

“Not much. Blechta’s going through the motions, interviewing friends, people Caseman came into contact with. His family’s been notified. They’re coming from Nova Scotia, arriving this afternoon. Blechta’s circulated a photo of Matt. Asking anyone who saw him to come forward.”

“Nothing yet?”

“No. He seems to have dropped off the face of the Earth.” Keller wiped his hand over his eyes. Lucky reached out and touched his arm. “When they find him,” the chief swallowed, “they’re going to charge him. I have to say, I’d do the same. They have no other suspects. There’s no doubt he was at the scene at the time, and now he’s run.

“Matt left the place where he works around two-thirty, according to all witnesses, give or take five minutes. It’s a ten-minute or so walk from there to his apartment.” Keller had ordered eggs Benedict. He pushed the food around on his plate, scarcely touching it, making a mess of yellow yolk and hollandaise sauce.

“He called me at two forty-five. The autopsy estimates the time of death as very shortly before the police arrived.” Keller rubbed his face. “Matt is definitely in the frame, timewise, and right now he’s the only one who is. It’s considered unlikely Caseman was entertaining visitors prior to being killed. Only one joint in the ashtray, no evidence of anyone else having a drink, although Caseman himself drank three beers shortly before he died.”

“Anyone see Matt—leaving, I mean?”

“They’ve interviewed the neighbors. No one saw anything. It was late, and dark that night.”

“Not too late,” Smith said. “The bars close at two. Partyers would still be around.”

“True, but once you get off Banff Avenue and away from the hotels, people have to get up in the morning for work. A woman who lives in an apartment down the hall was awake at the time in question with her baby. She thinks she heard knocking on a door. But she can’t be positive where it was coming from. She didn’t have anything favorable to say about the residents of that unit. Coming and going at all hours, parties, loud music. The police have had noise complaints there.”

“Did she know them at all? Barry and Matt, in particular?”

“She says she’s never so much as exchanged a word with them. The residents of that apartment come and go, one day one of them’s gone and a new one’s moved in.”

“Barry worked at a car repair shop. Alistair thinks he was doing fake repairs or charging new prices for used parts. Maybe the other mechanics or the shop owner figured he was getting greedy or they had a falling out.”

“We’re not here to investigate the murder,” Lucky said, stirring her yogurt. “We’re here to find Matt. If we can.”

“The police might not know about Barry’s other income. Alistair didn’t have nice things to say about Blechta. I suspect he wouldn’t have told me if he knew I’m an officer. He was, if I may say, trying to make nice ’cause he wanted to get into my pants.”

Lucky snorted, and a smile appeared on Keller’s face. It wasn’t much of a smile, but it went a long way toward lightening the mood around the table.

“I’ve an idea. Do you need your car today, Chief?”

“I can take a cab into town, get a ride with the horsemen if I need one. Why?”

“Because mine’s being used as a kennel at the moment. And yours is newer and in better shape.”

“Have you been out to check on Sylvester?” Lucky asked.

“Yes. He’s fine. I’m thinking the chief’s car is having mechanical problems. It needs to be checked out.”

“Good thinking,” Keller said. “Doesn’t hurt to follow up on what small lead we have.”

“You’re a pleasant, middle-aged lady, Mom, with no idea whatsoever of how a car works.”

“That’s certainly true,” Lucky said. “You want me to take the car to the garage where Barry worked?”

“Yup. Tell them you heard a noise. It’s stopped now, but it keeps starting up again. They’ll check it out. If they’re honest, they’ll find nothing wrong.”

“If not, I’ll need a very expensive brake job.”

“Right. Even if Barry was on the take, it doesn’t mean the other guys there are, but it’s difficult to run a scam in a place like that on your own. Inventory control, billing, all that stuff isn’t done by one mechanic. I took the liberty of checking out the garage on the Internet before coming down. It’s independently owned, but looks like a good-sized place. You might be able to get a feel for things there, Mom.”

“Did you notice when they open?”

“Eight.”

“I’ll call them then. If this wasn’t so serious, and we weren’t all so worried, I’d be rather excited at going undercover.”

“Spare us,” Smith said.

Chapter Thirty-four

TRACEY’S APARTMENT. BANFF, ALBERTA. MONDAY MORNING.

“Hey, wake up. What the hell’s the matter with you? Wake up.”

Tracey swam toward the surface. She’d been dreaming about Matt, dreaming they were in the desert, searching for water. Water, she needed water. Her stomach lurched, and she tried to roll over, tried to bury her face into her pillow. But the pillow was snatched away from underneath her.

“She’s drunk,” a voice said.

“Stupid bitch. Wake up,” said another.

Tracey rolled over, shielding her eyes from the sun streaming through the windows. “What time is it?”

“Eight.”

“Shit.” She was supposed to be at work at seven. She’d forgotten to set her alarm when she went to bed last night. Went to bed. Did she even go to bed? She was on the couch, and it hadn’t been opened up to make her bed. Instead of sheets and her quilt and a proper pillow, she’d pulled the red throw over her and dropped her head on Crystal’s fancy pillow with the embroidered kittens and tassels.

“Ugh,” Crystal said. “Look at this. You’ve drooled all over it.”

They were standing over her, Amanda and Crystal. Crystal shook the pillow in reproach. Amanda’s mouth was a tight line of disapproval. “You’re drunk.”

“Am not.” Tracey struggled to get up. She was fully dressed, still had her shoes on. What the hell had happened? Traces of memory drifted through her head. She’d been to Reds. Matt? No, not with Matt. With a woman. The night began to come into focus. They’d drunk wine and talked. The woman was nice, friendly, had plenty of money to spend. Andre had tried flirting with her, but she’d brushed him off. Good for her. She’d asked questions, lots of questions. Tracey’s stomach rolled over, she was going to be…