Unreasonable Doubt (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-seven

Eliza thought she didn't look too bad. Careful application of makeup hid the remains of the bruises on her face and after a lifetime on the catwalk she knew how to walk without showing pain or discomfort, no matter how bad it might be.

And, compared to some of the clothes and shoes she'd had to wear over the years, this wasn't bad at all.

She'd driven toward the alley at the back of the gallery as she always did, but as she approached her parking space, her heart rate sped up, and a tightness filled her chest. She circled around to Front Street and found a place close to the gallery. If she got a ticket for overstaying the time limit, too bad, she could afford it. Assuming the bylaw officer would even ticket her. No doubt they all knew her car. Ray Lopez had returned the BMW, after doing whatever he needed to do with it to gather evidence.

Evidence. They'd wanted her to go to the hospital. Get checked out. She'd refused. She did not want them touching her, collecting their evidence. Her body was not a crime scene.

It had been once, a long time ago. Never again.

It happened before she met John. She'd been a wide-eyed innocent, fresh from small-town Saskatchewan, plunged almost overnight into the glamorous world of high-fashion and modeling. She'd gone on a date one evening with a man she'd met at a party. A nice meal in an expensive, hugely popular new place, and then a walk in the park after dinner. He was in his fifties, and said he could do great things for her career. Her agent had told her to be “nice” to men with influence. She'd been trying to be nice.

He'd raped her in a quiet patch of woods. He hadn't so much as attempted to seduce her. He'd simply knocked her to the ground, torn at her clothes, and had sex with her. Then he'd gotten to his feet, adjusted his trousers, and said he'd drive her home now.

She called the police. They took her to the hospital where her body had been treated as a crime scene, and nothing else. Embarrassed, humiliated, the only person she called was her agent. The agent arrived, absolutely furious. Furious at Eliza for reporting the incident to the police. The officers themselves hadn't seemed to much care. A detective went around to the man's house. He told them Eliza had led him on, hoping he'd find her modeling gigs. What was he to do? What would any red-blooded man do? They'd had a look at her, hadn't they? Looks a heck of a lot older than eighteen, doesn't she?

She hadn't been there, of course, but she could imagine the chuckling and elbow-nudging and winking that went on. His word against hers, the detective told her. She could insist on pressing charges, but how would that look, her name dragged through the courts?

Her named dragged.
As though she herself were the criminal.

She'd tried, and largely succeeded, in not thinking about it over the years. She saw the man occasionally, at industry parties, business meetings, on photo shoots. He'd tried to talk to her once, and she'd turned and walked away. He'd been killed in a car accident a couple of years later, and she'd surprised herself at how delighted she'd been to hear the news.

Things had been so different the other night. The police treated her with respect. They believed (or pretended to believe) every word she said. They respected her wishes, and asked her what she wanted to do. No one had so much as suggested that she'd wandered out her back door and decided on the spur of the moment to have sex with a passing stranger before changing her mind and crying rape.

Why was that?
she wondered. Why so different from the other time? Was it because this was a small town, and they all knew her. Or knew, more to the point, knew her husband? Was it because she was older and had money and influence? Or was it because times really had changed? And that one of the biggest changes was that one of the officers at the scene had been female?

Eliza sat in her car and studied the street. People passed by, many of them smiling and chatting, no one in a hurry, most dressed in colorful, comfortable summer clothes. A young couple walked hand in hand, the girl in a long flowing skirt made from patches of mismatched fabric, and a tight tank top that showed full breasts, and arms and shoulders covered with colorful tattoos; the boy with a scraggy unkempt beard, baggy pants, and a tee-shirt advertising a motorcycle company. A tall black woman, her head of curly hair dyed pure white, pushed a baby stroller, and chatted with a white woman with multiple piercings and hair too black to be found in nature, holding an excited little boy firmly by the hand.

Two men, one of whom was dressed in a dark business suit, the other in ironed trousers and an open-necked shirt, stepped out of the way of a group of middle-aged women in yoga gear, carrying mats under their arms and coffee cups in their hands.

Eliza sat in her car, her hands on the wheel. On one side of her art gallery the patio at the Front Street Diner was full, on the other side patrons streamed in and out of Crazies Coffee. From where she was parked, she could see down the hill to the river. The water wasn't blue but green, reflecting the steep mountainside filling half the sky. She lived on that side of the river, partway up that mountain. She could go home, just drive away. Go home and bury herself in her duvet and pillows.

An elderly couple, their clothes speaking of money to spend, stopped at the Mountain in Winter Gallery. They studied the Heringa painting in the window. The woman said something, and the man nodded. They went inside. Eliza could see Margo crossing the floor to greet them.

She'd told Margo she'd be at the gallery in time to relieve her for the afternoon. No doubt Margo had made plans for her time off. She'd be expecting Eliza. If Eliza didn't come, she'd phone John.

Eliza took a deep breath. She peeled her hands off the steering wheel, one at a time. John had offered to drive her to work today. She'd told him not to be silly. She wished he were here now.

She opened the door of her car. She put one foot on the pavement, and then the other. She got out. She closed the car door. She breathed. No one was paying her any attention at all. She told herself she was in Milan, about to go on the catwalk for Versace's spring show. Two weeks ago, she'd been in Paris, enjoying a few days off. She'd gone bike riding along the Seine with a couple of friends. She'd swerved to miss an elderly man who'd stepped into her path and she'd fallen, tumbling over the handlebars of her bike. She'd broken two ribs. The pain had been excruciating. It still hurt like heck, but she had a job to do. She was a professional.

Eliza Winters smiled and sailed into her art gallery, head up, back straight, steps firm and sure.

Chapter Twenty-eight

To his considerable surprise, Walt had had a lot of fun on the weekend. On Saturday, he'd gone with Carolanne to the dragon boat fair because it was important to her. It had been nice to stand in the sun, to watch families chattering and children playing. He would have loved a hot dog from the barbeque cart, but Carolanne went straight to the food truck and he'd been happy to follow. People looked at him, some openly staring, some glancing quickly away, but he was getting used to that. A few people came up to him to say hi, and a couple of guys even shook his hand and said they were glad he was back. He hadn't recognized them, but he'd pretended to. When he saw the police tent, he'd been about to turn away, walk in the other direction. But then he realized the dog was paying him not the slightest bit of attention, and neither had the big cop. Probably because he'd been far more interested in observing the progress of the pretty young policewoman who'd come to Walt's aid the other night.

Walt watched Carolanne in her boat with her teammates. She glowed on the water. Her bronzed skin, her brown hair streaked with gold, her long legs and strong arms. She'd enjoyed taking people out on the water, showing them how to get in and out of the low boat, how to paddle, to listen to the beat of the drum telling them what to do.

That night, she'd gone out with her friends for dinner, but he declined to join them. He'd had enough of being outside for one day. Walking the streets, standing on the soft green grass of the park, eating what and when he wanted, going where he wanted. It was all a new experience for him, and he found it exhausting.

The team had relaxed on Sunday. What they called relaxing, anyway. Several of the women shopped for a picnic and then went hiking in the mountains. Walt and Carolanne stayed behind and spent a quiet day, reading in the shade of the garden, going for a walk into town. He'd kept an eye out for Tony D'Angelo and anyone else who might be up to causing trouble, but the day passed without incident. From what Walt could tell, the mood in town was shifting in his favor, probably as people were reading up on the case and the results of the appeal. Still, he knew never, never to let his guard down.

Monday was the final day of the dragon boat training. Carolanne and her team had their last race this afternoon, and they'd be leaving in the morning, heading back to their regular lives.

Time for him to be going, too. But he had no regular life to go back to.

Would he ever?

Louise was confident the government would settle. The payout was likely to be substantial, maybe as much as the five million she'd asked for.

He'd come to Trafalgar determined to find out
why
. But now, he wasn't so sure it mattered anymore. Knowing why Kibbens and McMillan had worked so hard to convict him wouldn't turn back the clock. It wouldn't bring Sophia D'Angelo to life, or put Walt back in his chair in the real estate office, or give Arlene the will to keep on living. Spending time with Carolanne and her friends had reminded him that life could be about simple pleasures. Maybe he could have a life after all.

Five million bucks was more than enough to give a man a new life.

Would that life include Carolanne?

Walt shook his head. No. The cloud of all that had been done to him, of the years he'd lost, of the years Arlene had lost because of him, would hang over him always. He couldn't…he wouldn't…ask Carolanne to share that burden with him.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Waves of rage radiated out from John Winters. Smith maneuvered the truck around the potholes in Jack McMillan's yard and down the steep, crumbling mountain track. She hit a particularly big depression and felt the jolt run up her spine.

“Do you think…?” she said, summoning her courage.

“No, I don't think McMillan had anything to do with the attack on Eliza. He wouldn't dare, for one thing. He was only trying to get my back up. He certainly succeeded in that.” Winters took a deep breath. “I've been told conscious breathing helps control anger.”

“It does,” Smith said.

“Another sign of how soft police officers are these days,” Winters said, taking another breath. “Okay, anger over.”

“Waste of time,” Smith said.

“Anger or that visit?”

“Both, I guess.”

“I'm not so sure. He made one extremely interesting comment. McMillan remembers the exact date Kibbens died. He remembers it so well, he mentioned it. Which means that he thinks about it, and he thinks about it a lot. All these years later he's still thinking about it. The date's so important to him he had to make a point of telling us that it wasn't important. Let's make a stop at Big Eddies, Molly. I think we deserve a drink after that.”

They got their drinks, coffee for him, tea for her, and Winters walked the one block back to the office, while Smith took the truck out on patrol. The only call she got all morning was an out-of-control bicycle careening down the steep mountainside streets. A parked car ended the bike's journey before it could go over a cliff. The woman riding the bike broke her arm and left for hospital in the back of an ambulance.

Smith headed back to the station for lunch. She parked the truck and was coming in the back when Dave Evans walked out. She hadn't seen him since that incident in the alley on Thursday, and had been glad of it. They eyed each other. She waited for him to speak.

“I was expecting to be called into the chief's office,” Evans said at last.

She shrugged.

“You didn't report it?”

“Do you think I'm a rat?”

“Maybe I did,” he said. “Thanks.”

“Jeff will be retiring soon. He doesn't have much to lose if he has a black mark on his record. But you? Why would you do something like that?”

“I said thanks, Molly. Doesn't mean I have to explain myself to you.”

“You interfere with Walter Desmond again, and I will report it.”

“That's always assuming you find out about it.” He pushed his way past her. “I'm on the street today. Call me if you need backup.”

She watched him go. Another swaggering macho jerk.

***

“Joanne found what she thinks you're looking for,” Jim Denton said from the dispatch desk as Winters walked in with his coffee. “She put it on your desk. You might want to wear a mask, all the dust that trailed in behind it. Probably full of spiders and dead bugs, too.”

“I'd ask if you're always so cheerful,” Winters said, “but I know the answer to that one.”

Denton chuckled.

“Are you getting any calls about Walter Desmond?” Winters asked.

“You mean other than the CBC wanting to interview the chief?”

“TV or radio?”

“Both. The cameras will be here at three.”

“Too bad I have an appointment at the hairdresser at that time,” Winters said, rubbing his short salt and pepper hair.

“A couple of calls, yeah. One or two asking why we haven't run him out of town, and a couple assuming that I'm interested in their opinion of a miscarriage of justice and the incompetence of the TCP. Why's he here, John? Do you think he's trying to make some sort of statement?”

“I haven't even met the guy, so I have no idea. Eventually, I'm going to have to talk to him about what happened that day and I'm taking bets he's not going to be happy about that. I'm trying to get all my facts organized before I meet with him.”

The desk phone rang, and Denton reached for it.

Winters stuck his head into Barb's office. “I have an appointment with Tony D'Angelo in ten minutes. Once that's finished, do you have time to go through Kibbens' effects with me? You might see something I'll miss.”

“Sure. Give me a buzz when you're ready. The boss has a TV interview this afternoon. I don't know why they're bothering to send someone all this way to hear him say he cannot comment on an active investigation.”

“Perhaps they're hoping for a shot of you in the background, Barb.”

“Aren't you the charmer,” she said, trying not to look pleased.

The box squatted in the center of Winters' desk. It was covered in a layer of dust and sealed with tape.
Sgt. D. Kibbens. Jan. 1992
had been written on the top and sides in thick black marker.

Winters studied it. It wasn't much larger than a shoe box and looked as though it hadn't been disturbed since it was packed away all those years ago. He was tempted to open it and have a quick peek, but held himself back. Better to have the first look with Barb beside him to answer any questions he might have.

A few minutes later his desk phone rang. Denton informed him that Tony D'Angelo had arrived, and Winters went to the lobby to meet him and take him to the witness interview room.

The meeting did not go well. Tony was hostile, and almost openly rude from the very beginning. “This has to stop. It's killing my parents. My mother's in the hospital, again.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. I…”

“A stroke. A bad one this time. The doctors won't say how bad. I don't know how my father's going to manage if Mom isn't able to take care of him and the house. I can't drop everything and…”

“Mr. D'Angelo, you have my sympathies. Truly. You must be aware that I can't stop investigating your sister's murder…”

“Investigating! The police got the man who killed Sophia, and all you're doing is opening old wounds, digging it all up again, like some sort of ghoul. This is literally going to be the death of my parents.”

“I am sorry for what your family is going through, Tony. But justice has to be done, doesn't it?”

“Justice was done. This is just a travesty.”

“Indications are strong that Walt Desmond did not kill your sister.”

“So you say.” Tony was considerably overweight and peered at Winters through thick glasses. Beads of sweat were forming on his brow although the air conditioning in the station was turned higher than Winters liked it.

“So the court says. If Walt didn't kill her, then someone else did. Do you want him to get away with it? Even all these years later we still have a chance of finding him.” Winters did not add,
an extremely poor chance
.

“I was seventeen years old. I was at basketball practice after school when Soph was murdered. I scarcely remember anything about it.” His eyes slid away, and Tony studied the painting on the wall. It was a nice picture, of a child in a sun-kissed, flower-filled meadow. It had been deliberately chosen to be calming and pleasant in this room where things discussed were rarely pleasant and never calming.

“Were you and your sister close?”

“We were five years apart. A lifetime at that age. She was a great girl. I really looked up to her.” Tony's eyes were dry, but he plucked a tissue out of the box on the coffee table. He twisted it between his fingers.

“At the time she died, she had a boyfriend, an Australian by the name of Leonard Fitzpatrick, right?”

“So they said.”

“Said? You didn't meet him?”

Tony shrugged. “Like I told you, big age difference.”

Winters knew the D'Angelos had claimed their daughter didn't have a boyfriend, whereas she did. He'd wondered why she'd kept him a secret from her family. It seemed as though it was even more of a secret than he'd assumed. “Fitzpatrick was never considered a person of interest in the original police investigation. I'd like to talk to him, but a lot of years have passed and it's going to be difficult to track him down. You can't tell me anything about him?”

“Never even heard of the guy until Soph died…was murdered.” The tissue was in shreds now.

“Was she seeing anyone else at the same time?”

“Why would I know? I mean, I was just a kid, right? She was a grown woman. Worlds apart. Not that we weren't close, though,” he added quickly. The sweat was running freely down his face. He grabbed another tissue.

“What aren't you telling me, Tony?”

“Next you'll be saying Soph had it coming.”

“I won't ever be saying anything of the sort.”

“She was a nice girl. She was a good sister. She was!”

“Tony, I am…”

“I've had enough of this. I'm leaving.”

He struggled to get out of the comfortable chair and then headed for the door. Winters could do nothing but follow.

He stood at the window, watching Tony D'Angelo hurry down the hill toward town. Despite the heat and his weight, he was almost running.

Running,
Winters thought
, from what?

He had learned far more from what was unsaid than anything Tony had to tell him. Tony was consumed by guilt about something. That something might not have anything to do with the murder of his sister, but he'd been carrying it around all these years. Secrets, always secrets. And in a twenty-five-year-old case, secrets had a lot of time to fester. Kibbens had interviewed Tony's basketball coach. The coach said Tony had been at practice between four and five that day, and the boy couldn't have left for so much as a bathroom break without him noticing.

Winters suck his head in Barb's office. “Ready?”

She pushed back her chair. “Ready.”

They studied the grimy, dust-covered box on Winters' desk. “Looks like it hasn't been disturbed,” Barb said.

“Let's see what was important to him.” Winters touched the yellowing tape and it came away with little more than a gentle tug. He opened the box and began taking out the contents. Three framed photographs of groups of men displaying their catch were on the top. Two had been taken on the lakes or rivers around Trafalgar and one in what was probably a charter boat in the Caribbean. Only one man appeared in all three pictures.

“He was a keen fisherman,” Barb said. “I'd forgotten that. He would have gotten on well with Paul.”

Kibbens had been a carrying more weight than he probably liked. He was average height with thinning hair. He wore sunglasses in all the pictures, and he was not smiling. Winters looked down through the years and studied the man's face. He could read no secrets hidden there. “You recognize any of the guys with him?”

Barb tapped one of the shots with mountains in the background. “Pete Hill. A really nice guy. He died of cancer before the D'Angelo case, very sad. Here's Jack McMillan.”

Winters picked up the picture. Hard to believe this was the same man now living up on the mountain, drinking and smoking his days away, with nothing to do and no one but two dogs for company. “He was a good-looking guy, back in the day.”

“Oh, yes. Jack was popular with the ladies. Until they got to know him better. I probably shouldn't have said that.”

“That's why we're here, Barb, sorting through a man's effects.”

“Doesn't seem right, somehow.”

“It's got to be done. Sophia D'Angelo deserves as much.”

He put the photos to one side. Next was a small desk calendar, a month per page, illustrated with photographs of fish. A few of the white squares had notes jotted in them. January 16, the day after Doug died, said, 1:00 Dentist.

“This is all personal stuff, looks like. I don't see any court dates.”

“He might have kept a separate calendar. If so, it would have gone to the law clerk so she could sort out what was supposed to have been his schedule.”

Winters quickly read three months' bank statements. Normal amounts of money going in and coming out, leaving a small but consistent balance at the end of every month. He flicked through the cancelled checks. Nothing made out to anyone more interesting than the electric or phone companies or a menswear store with an address in Trafalgar but a name he didn't recognize.

“Funny to think how things have changed,” Barb said. “I haven't had a letter from my bank in years. I do everything online now.”

There wasn't much else in the box. An old copy of a fishing magazine. Some notices from the union and memos about the day-to-day running of the police department. An invitation to a retirement party.

Before long the box was empty except for a plain white envelope with nothing written on the outside. Winters picked it up. It had no bulk, so anything inside wouldn't be more than a piece of paper or two. It was sealed, but the glue had weakened. He slipped the envelope open and took out the contents. One photograph and a small white slip of paper. He studied the slip first. A gas station receipt. The ink was faded, and he handed it to Barb while he searched for his reading glasses.

“I remember this place,” she said. “Near Winlaw. We used to stop for gas there sometimes when we went to visit my sister in New Denver. It closed down a long time ago.”

“What's the date on it?”

“September 12, 1991.”

Eight months after the murder of Sophia D'Angelo and four months before the death of Doug Kibbens. One single gas station receipt kept in an envelope in the bottom of a desk drawer. Winters turned over the photograph. He put on his glasses and Barb leaned closer to see better.

“What do you suppose that is?” Barb said. “Looks like a bracelet.”

It was a bracelet. A slim gold bracelet inset with fake diamonds. He sucked in a breath. This could only be a picture of Sophia's missing bracelet. The one that had never been found. Not on Walt Desmond, not in the house where the woman had died or in the Desmond car or home. The one her work colleague admired the day Sophia died; the one the police insisted Desmond had taken off her body and thrown away in a panic before his arrest. The bracelet in the picture was lying on a forest floor among a mound of decaying leaves, small broken twigs, a scattering of pine cones.