Unreasonable Doubt (10 page)

Chapter Eighteen

It was going to be a long, boring night. The bouncer at the Potato Famine had called to say a fight had broken out, but by the time Molly Smith jogged over, the miscreants had taken off. Dave Evans was in the car tonight, but she hadn't seen him in hours. She shifted the weight of her utility belt. She accepted a glass of water from the bartender and sipped it, watching the crowd, letting everyone know she was there. The Potato Famine wasn't one of Trafalgar's tourist highlights. Except among those tourists who arrived in a convoy of motorcycles, with leather jackets bristling with colors and badges, and the occasional vacationing university jerks who wanted to try their hand at slumming it.

A band was playing heavy metal. Smith enjoyed listening to a good, live heavy metal band in a bar as much as the next person, but this bunch wasn't good, and they were scarcely even live. Not that anyone was paying attention anyway.

She put her empty glass on the counter. “I'll be around,” she said.

“Catch you later.”

“God, I hope not,” she muttered. He didn't hear her over the racket.

She went through the main room, down a dark passageway past the kitchen, all noise and steam and hot grease, and out the back door that opened into the alley. More than once she'd caught a couple out here too impatient to find themselves a hotel room. Or even the backseat of a car. Tonight, the alley was quiet. An orange cat slipped between garbage bags at the back of the shop next door.

It was early, barely past eight o'clock, the sun dipping toward the mountains. Give it time, and the action at the PF would be heating up, inside and out.

She walked to the corner and turned into Front Street. Busy tonight, a nice evening and the height of the summer tourist season. She and Adam had vacation time scheduled in a couple of weeks. They were going to Ontario to spend a few days with his parents (gulp!) in Toronto and then taking his nephew and two nieces for a week's canoe trip in Killarney Park. She was looking forward to it very much. The camping and canoeing part, that is, not the staying with the parents part. She hadn't met them yet, although they seemed okay the couple of times they'd Skyped. She'd never been to Ontario, and figured it couldn't hold a candle to B.C. when it came to the wilderness, but the pictures she'd seen of Killarney on the Internet when Adam made the bookings did look nice. Unspoiled and remote, exactly the way she and Adam liked it.

She strolled down Front Street, showing the flag so to speak. Most people she passed nodded and smiled, a few turned their heads away, and one guy, well-known to the police, bolted down a side street. She checked her watch. Time for a rest stop and something to eat. She touched her radio. “Four-two, this is Five-one.”

“Go ahead.” Evans said.

“I'm popping into the office for half an hour. The PF is quiet now, but looking like a big crowd tonight.”

“I'm on a call. Stay on the street until I'm clear.”

“Ten-Four.” She hadn't heard any call come over the radio recently, other than the one sending her to the Potato Famine. No matter. She could wait. She debated what to get for supper. Shanghai noodles from Trafalgar Thai would hit the spot. She pulled out her phone and called to place the order. She kept her favorite restaurant on speed dial.

“Can you wait about an hour, Molly?” the hostess said. “I'm really sorry, but we're short in the kitchen tonight with one cook off sick and the lineup's out the door.”

“I can see the line from here. Sure, an hour's fine.”

She breathed in deeply as she passed the restaurant. Fragrant spices and the scent of warm cooking oil drifted out. She waved to her friend Christa, standing in the line with a man Smith vaguely recognized. He had his arm around her shoulders. Smith and Christa had been close once. As close as sisters. But they'd drifted so far apart Smith hadn't even known Christa was dating someone.

At Fleures des Menthe
,
tables and chairs were set out on the patio. The eating area protruded across the sidewalk into the street, marked off by a neat, white wooden fence, adorned with pots overflowing with purple and yellow petunias. The patio was full; people laughed and glasses clinked. Smith ran her eyes over the crowd, not that there was ever much trouble at this upscale restaurant. Her heart sunk into her stomach. The last person she wanted to see was here, having dinner with an older couple.

“Hey, Molly!” Meredith Morgenstern spotted Smith. She jumped to her feet and carried her wineglass over to the fence. “Nice to see you.”

“What brings you to town?”

“Vacation. A duty visit to the old folks.” Meredith nodded to her dinner companions. They smiled back. Vacation was okay, Smith thought, as long as Meredith wasn't moving back to Trafalgar. She had to reluctantly admit the other woman was looking darned good. Her hair was brushed to a brilliant shine, cascading in black waves down her back. Her makeup was light and perfectly applied, and her eyebrows formed a flawless arch. She wore a navy-blue linen jacket over a blindingly white tee-shirt and blue capris. She was taller than Smith remembered. She glanced down to see blue and gold sandals with three-inch heels on Meredith's feet.

Smith felt like an ungainly lump in her black boots, heavy uniform, Kevlar vest, and fully laden equipment belt. She was melting under all that, while Meredith looked as light as a breeze and sipped white wine with beautifully manicured hands.

Something about Meredith Morgenstern still made Molly Smith feel as though she were back in high school, desperate for the approval of Meredith and her gaggle of in-girls.

“I heard you and Adam got engaged. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“When's the big day?” Meredith checked Smith's left hand for a ring.

“We haven't decided yet.” She never wore the gorgeous square-cut diamond when in uniform.

“I was going to give you a call,” Meredith said. “How about lunch? If you're working tonight, you'll be free tomorrow, right?”

“Lunch?” Smith said.

“My treat. Come on, say yes, we can talk over old times and laugh about all the fun we've had over the years.”

Smith couldn't remember having ever had any fun in Meredith's company. “Sorry. I've pulled a double shift today, and I have to be back at three tomorrow. Another time, maybe.”

“Saturday, then?”

Smith heard herself saying, “I was planning on going to the dragon boat thing down at the river. I suppose I can do lunch after.”

“Perfect. One o'clock? Right here?”

“Okay. See you then.” Smith walked on. Why on earth had she agreed to that? Shouldn't be a problem. After all, Meredith was here to visit her parents. Not in search of a story.

She heard low voices coming from the next alley, and ducked into it. A group of teenagers stood in the shadows. She checked for cans of beer or the scent of pot. Nothing. They eyed her warily, as teenagers do. She recognized most of them. Middle-class kids from good homes who went to school and had part-time jobs. Not the sort to be looking for trouble, just bored and restless.

Smith remembered what that felt like. “Everything okay, guys?”

“Yeah.”

She carried on down the alley, then turned right and headed west. She had no particular route to walk, just went where the mood took her. Downtown Trafalgar was only a couple of blocks. She'd spend the night popping into bars, checking dark corners, peering into the windows of closed stores. Her stomach rumbled and she checked her watch. Only fifteen minutes had passed since she'd ordered her supper. She was starving.

As she approached the intersection of two alleys, she heard a soft grunt, and a man saying, “You don't seem to able to take a hint. So maybe it's time to do more than hint.”

She rounded the corner, her hand on the radio at her shoulder. Four men were wrapped in shadow. One had his back against the wall, while another stood in his space, too close to mean anything good. Two other men held back, watching, but braced as though they were ready to move. She recognized Dave Evans first, as the weak light from the street reflected off the word “Police” printed on the back of his Kevlar vest. Then Sergeant Jeff Glendenning, not in uniform.

She dropped her hand. “What's up, guys?”

The men jumped. The entire body of the man against the wall sagged in relief. The fellow threatening him stepped back and turned to face her.

Walt Desmond and Jack McMillan.

Definitely not good.

“Get lost, little girl,” McMillan said.

“I don't think so.” She looked at Evans. “What's going on here, Dave?”

He shifted from one foot to another, eyes on the ground.

“He's protecting the peace,” MacMillan said. “Keeping our streets safe for law-abiding folks, right, Sergeant?”

“Let's go,” Glendenning said.

“What are you doing here, Jeff?” Smith said. “You're not working tonight.”

“Good cops are always working,” McMillan said.

“Stay out of what doesn't concern you, Molly,” Evans said.

Her head spun. Clearly Evans and Glendenning were helping McMillan to harass Desmond. Glendenning wasn't a direct boss of hers, but he was a superior. And Evans, she had to work with Evans. She had to be able to rely on him to protect her life if need be.

“Mr. Desmond,” she said, “how about I walk you back to the B&B?”

“I'm sure that won't be necessary,” he said. “We've finished our little talk. Right boys?”

“Nevertheless,” she said, “I happen to be going that way.”

Walter Desmond stared at Jack McMillan for a long time. Then the edges of his mouth turned up. “Glad we all understand each other. Gentlemen.” He made a crook out of his arm and held it out to Smith. She ignored it.

“This is a private matter, Molly,” Evans said. “Don't be reporting it.”

“Let's go,” she said to Desmond.

He preceded her into the street. She followed, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling, conscious of the three men watching her. She didn't think for a minute that they'd jump her. No, even McMillan would be more subtle than that.

They passed under a streetlamp, the yellow light bright and welcoming. Desmond let out all the tension he was holding in one long sigh. His shoulders slumped and his hands uncurled. “Thanks.”

“If,” she said, “you want to report them for harassment, I'll back you up. I'll say what I saw.” Behind them, she heard the police car start. It sped past. Only Evans was in it, and he didn't turn his head as he drove away.

“Let it go,” Desmond said.

“It's unlikely McMillan will. Let it go, I mean. Suppose I'm not around next time?”

He laughed. It was a good laugh, deep and heartfelt. He turned to look at her, and once again she thought he was a good-looking man, despite the deathly pale skin and the eyes that had seen too much. “I mean absolutely no offense and I appreciate your intervention, but I can imagine telling the guys on my cell block that a pretty little thing, young enough to be my daughter, was worried about not being around to protect me.”

She felt herself smiling back. Any other time, she would have taken great offense at being called a pretty little thing. Desmond, she felt, deserved a break. She patted the patch on her uniform shoulder. “Goes a long way.”

His face fell, and the laughter died in his eyes. “Yeah. So it does. I'm not worried about McMillan. He was never anything but a bully, and he's sure as hell gone to seed. I could take him blindfolded with both hands tied behind my back. Probably even with the old cop on his side. The young guy, the one you called Dave? He'd be a threat, if he wanted to be, but I think you've smartened him up a bit. He'll be worried you're going to report him. Are you?”

She didn't answer. She didn't know what she was going to do. “Look, Mr. Desmond. Why are you here? Why have you come back? You must know feelings are running high. Not everyone agrees with the appeal court.”

“Have you read up on my case?”

“Some of it.”

“What do you think?”

She hesitated.
That he was framed, railroaded, and a guilty man allowed to walk free
. “I'm not going to comment, sir.”

“I saw your mother today.”

“You did?”

“She's looking good. I noticed signs in the store window. Political action posters. Against the Grizzly Resort, whatever that is. For marijuana decriminalization. I guess your mom hasn't changed much.”

“She hasn't changed one little bit.”
Despite being the partner of the chief of police
.

The welcoming lights of the Glacier Chalet sparkled in the distance. It looked, Smith thought, like a picture on a post-card or the box of a jigsaw puzzle. They walked on in silence.

“Why have I come back?” he said as they reached the B&B's front gate. “I don't truly know. Maybe because this place, this town, surrounded by these mountains, was the last place on Earth where I was happy.”

Chapter Nineteen

John Winters eyed the mountain of paper on his desk. Walter Desmond had been determined, by a court of law, not to have murdered Sophia D'Angelo. As her death was, beyond a doubt, not an accident or a suicide, that meant that someone else—person or persons unknown—had murdered her.

And that meant the case was now active and on his desk.

Twenty-five years had passed. Witnesses had died or moved away. The investigating detective was dead, his closest colleague uncooperative. Chances were good that the perp had left town a long time ago—probably thanking his lucky stars that some other poor guy had been stuck with the guilt.

Winters would start his investigation by searching for similar crimes. Begin with the year in question and then branch out, moving forward and backward through time. The sort of thing that had been done to Sophia, a frenzy of savagery, was never a one-off. If Winters was lucky, he could find some guy doing hard time for a similar killing.

Go back to the D'Angelos, ask questions, dredge it up again. All the memories, all the pain. The same with her friends and her coworkers.

He wouldn't be a popular man around town, that was for sure.

He logged onto his computer to begin filling out a ViClas report. Start the wheels turning in an attempt to locate similar situations.

Having to reopen the case wasn't entirely bad: he needed something to do to keep his mind off what had happened to Eliza. His gut churned simply thinking about it. The art gallery had opened this morning. Margo had stopped by the house last night and, trying to smother her cough, said she was well enough to come back to work. Eliza was feeling better, but her face wasn't looking good. Winters knew from personal experience the third day was the worst. That's when the swelling started to go down but the colors came out in all their glory.

He remembered the first time he'd taken a punch to the face. He'd been a new cop, young, naïve, keen, still wet behind the ears. They'd been called to a bar where a big-time brawl had broken out. When he tried to separate two of the combatants, a third guy had come out of nowhere and delivered a solid punch to Winters' jaw. He'd been frozen in place for a moment, stunned and not quite understanding why someone would want to hit him. Fortunately, his partner had been a grizzled old guy who'd learned long ago that the uniform didn't give him immunity.

Winters had gone to his parents' house for Easter dinner two days later. His poor mom had almost fainted at the sight of his face. She hadn't been happy at him going into police work in the first place, and over the ham, scalloped potatoes, and green beans her conversation was all about the successful careers her friends' children were enjoying.

He'd learned over the years to avoid a punch when he could, and to roll with it when he couldn't. His blood boiled simply thinking of someone hitting Eliza.

Chief Paul Keller had walked into his office yesterday morning and told him Ray Lopez would be investigating the attack on Eliza, what was almost certainly an attempted rape. Winters was to stay out of it, to work on anything else that came up, and on the D'Angelo killing when he had the time.

No arguments. Keller had turned and walked out.

Winters went back to his computer. It didn't take long before he found a similar case to the D'Angelo murder. It happened in Revelstoke, about three and half hours' drive from Trafalgar. In mid-November of 1990, two months before the death of Sophia, a twenty-five-year-old white woman with long dark hair left her job at a lawyer's office to walk the few blocks home. Her body had been found in a park not far from her house the following morning. Like Sophia D'Angelo, she had been penetrated with a sharp instrument and her throat had been cut. No one was ever arrested for that crime, and the case remained open to this day.

Winters searched for any mention of the Revelstoke killing in the files of Sophia's case, but found nothing. He leaned back in his chair. That was odd. Even twenty-five years ago, when they didn't have the computer systems they had now and police forces weren't as good at cooperating and exchanging information, someone should have noticed the similarities.

“How's Eliza?” Barb said from the doorway.

Winters blinked and rubbed his eyes. Barb's purse was tossed over her shoulder. “What time is it?” he asked.

“After two. I'm going out for a late lunch because the chief had some last-minute work to do on his speech for Rotary this afternoon. Do you want me to pick anything up for you?”

“A sandwich would be nice, thanks. Whatever looks good.” The day had passed without him even noticing. He leaned back and stretched. With a twinge of guilt, he realized that he'd been so engrossed, he hadn't given Eliza another thought. Eliza. Now that he was thinking about what had happened to her, at the same time as reading the D'Angelo file, he was getting angry all over again. There had been no sign of a knife threatening Eliza. He had to remember that. He couldn't afford to get the cases mixed up, even in his head.

“Barb, I've been going through the D'Angelo case files. I know the situation's upsetting to you, but if you wouldn't mind, I've got questions for someone who was there.”

She gave him a tight smile. “Why don't I get those sandwiches and then we can talk? I'm happy to help, if I can.”

“Good idea. And in answer to your original question, Eliza's okay. Nothing's permanently damaged, but her face looks worse than it is. She won't be leaving the house for a few days. Here.” He dug in his wallet and handed her a green bill. “My treat.”

“Be right back.”

She brought him a baguette heavy with roast beef and a generous slather of mustard, and a ham and Swiss for herself. They unwrapped their sandwiches in silence. “You must know,” Barb said at last, “people are saying Walter Desmond attacked Eliza.”

“About the only thing Eliza and Merrill agree upon is that he was a young man with long dark hair. Never mind the hair, Desmond is not young, and certainly doesn't look it. Prison takes its toll.”

“Ray went around to the B&B,” Barb said. “To warn Walt about the gossip.”

“How'd he react?”

“He said people have been saying worse things about him for a long time. I'd just wish he'd leave, John. He has to know he's not welcome here. Innocent or not.”

“Tell me about Doug Kibbens. And be honest, please, Barb. Loyalty is a good thing, but our first loyalty has to be to the truth. Wouldn't you agree?”

She nodded slowly, chewed thoughtfully. “I started working here straight out of high school. Right from day one, I loved every minute. I loved being part of it. The excitement, the belief that we were doing good. My friends thought it was so thrilling, and although I never divulged any confidential information, I might have been guilty occasionally of letting them think I was more important than I was.

“Most of all, I loved the guys. They were all guys, men, back then. In the bigger cities women were starting to get ahead as officers, but not out here. I heard the occasional crack about women not being able to take it, and I agreed with them. Being a police officer was all about being tough, about bringing down the bad guys.” She smiled. “Now, I look at Molly and Dawn and see what great officers they are. Gentle and empathetic one minute and as tough as any of the old guys the next. The difference is, I think, that they know when to be kind and when to be hard. It's not all about bashing heads all the time. Rhetorically speaking, of course.”

“I understand.”

“Doug Kibbens was an old-time cop. This town was different back then, John. It was still a working-man's town, not the tourist place it is now. Not as affluent. The occasional hippie or band of New Age travelers wandered into town, and Kibbens and his men would take them aside and tell them they wouldn't like it here. So they left.” She chuckled. “A lot of them went up the valley, and there they remain to this day. By the time of the D'Angelo murder, things were changing. And changing fast. More tourists, a greater variety of people moving here. A lot more money. The new chief came from Toronto and brought a much more cosmopolitan outlook on the world.”

“How did Kibbens handle the changing times?”

“I thought he did okay, John. He did his job, got promoted to sergeant. He was a good cop. And I'm saying that because I believe it. I do.”

“I checked his file. He died the year after the D'Angelo case. Car accident.”

Barb's eyes slid to one side.

“What?” Winters said.

She let out a heavy sigh and put down her sandwich. “The accident report was doctored somewhat.”

“What do you mean?”

“The line about going off the road in icy conditions? Not true. The road was dry and there'd been no rain or snow that day. It was a single-car accident. He went off the side of the mountain at the top of the pass.”

“Suicide?” Winters knew that a substantial number of single-car accidents, heck even some multi-vehicle ones, were believed to be suicides. Hard to prove.

“Probably,” Barb said. “No skid marks. No hazardous road conditions. Just a straight line through the guardrail and over the edge. One of the guys altered the Mounties' report to mention ice on the road, and the chief let it stand. Out of respect, really. It might not have been suicide. He might have swerved to avoid a moose or elk. The car burned, so there wasn't much evidence left, of the car or of Doug himself. Maybe he had a heart attack.”

“Kibbens was alone in the car?”

“Yes, thank heavens. He was divorced by then, and his wife had moved away. I forget her name. They didn't have any children.”

“He was still working here when he died,” Winters said. “Someone would have cleared out his desk. I don't suppose you remember what happened to his stuff?”

“As it happens, I do. I was the one who had to pack up the residue of his entire career. It wasn't a nice job. His ex-wife came back for the funeral, but she didn't want anything of his. It was boxed and labeled and sent to the city hall basement where I guess it remains to this day.”

***

“What would you do, Adam?” Smith asked. “If you knew a cop had done something wrong, but no one else did?”

“Why are you asking, babe?”

“Hypothetical case.”

“Geeze, Molly, don't try out for the movies, will you? You can't act your way out of a paper bag. Spill.”

“I can't, Adam. If I tell you, then you'll be compromised. One of my colleagues did something. I should tell, but I don't want to rat him out. Or her. Him or her.”

“No clues in that phrasing, Mol. Did he do something illegal or unethical?”

“Not illegal. I'd say unethical. Some might not agree.”

“Harassment of another cop? Did someone say something to you? I'd break his freakin' neck, except you told me not to do that.”

“It didn't involve me. I happened to see him, or her, in the act of disobeying a direct order.”

“That's a hard one, but if it was me, I'd let it go. But it's not me, so you have to do what you think right. My advice, for what it's worth, is if he put anyone's life in danger, or interfered with evidence or something, you can't let that pass, but otherwise let Dave trip himself up.”

“I didn't say any names.”

“You don't have to, Molly. Even over at our office there's talk about Dave Evans. He cuts corners, takes shortcuts, throws his weight around. He'll hang himself, soon enough.”

She let out a laugh that contained not a trace of humor. “Nice to know it's not just me who thinks he's a jerk.”

Adam put his arms around her and held her close. He ran his hands up her back and his breath was hot on her neck. He whispered in her ear, “You'll do the right thing, because you're you. If you need me, you know I'm here. I'll always be here.”

Norman barked his agreement.