Unreasonable Doubt (21 page)

Chapter Forty

Blood roared in Walter Desmond's head. He didn't believe it. It couldn't be true. Arlene? He'd been framed and sent to jail so Jack McMillan could continue an affair with Arlene?

He walked around the corner of the house.

“You're lying.”

The two cops whirled around. They had their guns out before Walter even realized he was holding his own in his hand.

McMillan stepped back and pressed himself against the wall of his house, his eyes wide and his hands up.

“Put the gun down,” Smith said.

“Mr. Desmond, nice to see you,” Winters said. “We were just talking about you.”

Walt was surprised that his hand could be so steady. He kept the gun pointed at McMillan. The two cops carried Glocks, more powerful weapons than his. He didn't care. He'd shoot first; all he needed was one shot. McMillan was no more than four feet away.

“I'm sorry you had to hear that, Walt,” Winters said, “But it's true. Jack and your wife were having an affair. I don't know all the details, but I've pretty much figured it out. When Sophia was murdered, Jack got the call and found you at the scene. He realized it was his chance to get rid of you and have Arlene.”

“No.”

“I don't know why Kibbens went along with it, but he lived to regret his part in the whole nasty business. Or rather, I should say he died to regret it. It's all long over, Walt, and nothing can be changed. Put the gun down and let Constable Smith drive you back to town.”

“Good idea,” Smith said.

“You stole my wife. You destroyed my life.”

McMillan laughed. “I hardly had to steal her. She was willing enough. Desperate, actually. Desperate for what you weren't giving her. I've never known a woman to want it so much.”

Walter stared at the man he'd hated all these years. Was it true? Yes, it was, he knew that. He'd probably always known it. When the whole horrible mess started, before he was arrested, before he came to fully realize they weren't going to turn around and apologize, saying they'd made a mistake, he'd almost thought it was a good thing. Arlene had turned loving, caring. The night Sophia died, to his surprise, and his intense shame, he'd been hungry for intimacy, and Arlene had been eager and willing. They'd made love for the first time in almost a year, and it had been powerful and good. He hadn't hated his wife; his emotions weren't strong enough toward her for hate. He'd simply had no time for her, for her bitter tongue, her snide comments at his increasing inability to perform, her open flirting with other men.

Jack McMillan. He probably shouldn't have even been surprised. McMillan was the sort of macho idiot Arlene ridiculed Walt for not being. McMillan strutted his stuff around town; he dangled his power in front of anyone and everyone. And Arlene, poor sad, desperate, lonely, Arlene had fallen for it. But even Arlene had seen through it eventually. Seen McMillan for what he was, and not wanted anything more to do with him. She'd stood by her husband when it mattered. Because of shame, because of regret, in atonement? He'd never know.

He lifted the gun.

Chapter Forty-one

Smith and Winters exchanged glances. He gave her a barely recognizable nod, and she stepped onto the top stair. The rotting wood creaked under her weight. “You don't want to do this, sir. Please put the gun down.” She didn't know if Walt even heard her. His eyes were on McMillan, and his hand was steady, but his gaze seemed very far away. She wondered if he was on drugs. Then she realized he was on something far stronger than any drug. Revenge. A force so powerful it swept away all thought of self-preservation.

“You don't want to go back to prison, do you, Walt?” Winters said. Winters remained on the porch, watching McMillan as much as Desmond. If McMillan moved, if he tried to get behind Smith or Winters, this could turn into a bloodbath.

“Please, Mr. Desmond,” Smith said, “put the gun down.” The moment it looked as though Desmond was about to fire, she'd have no choice but to shoot. Frankly, she'd just as soon go back to the truck and drive away. Let him shoot McMillan. He deserved his revenge, and if McMillan died, well, too bad. No loss to anyone.

Unfortunately, that wasn't what the law would say.

One of the dogs growled. The other joined him. If McMillan made a move for the door, he wouldn't make it.

She took another step. She held her gun in both hands, but lowered it slightly so it wasn't pointed directly at the man. “Has Carolanne gone home, Walt?”

His eyes flicked toward her, but the gun remained steady. “What?”

“I liked her. She was nice. I think I could get into that dragon boat racing stuff, Walt. My mom's keen on it, too.” She was babbling like a fool, but she wanted to remind him that there were good things in life. Lots of good things. Kind women, and warm, sunny days out on the water.

“This isn't a pajama party, you stupid bitch,” McMillan yelled. “Shoot the fucker before he kills us all.”

“He's not going to do that, are you Walt?” Winters said.

Walt gave Smith a slow sad smile. “Thanks for reminding me, Constable. He's not worth dying for and sure not worth making a good cop do something she'll always regret.” He grabbed the barrel of the revolver with his free hand, turned it, and passed it toward her, butt-first.

She took the remaining steps quickly, accepted the gun, and whispered, “Thanks.” Only then did she dare to breathe. She put her Glock away and cracked Desmond's gun open. Three cartridges fell into her hand. She looked at him. “Two empty places?”

“I thought the bastard might need two bullets,” Desmond said.

She nodded, understanding the purpose of the third bullet. She dropped them into one pocket and the Smith & Wesson into another.

“Don't take another step,” Winters said. His gun remained out and it was pointed at McMillan.

“I'm getting my dogs. That man's a dangerous lunatic. I have the right to protect myself.”

“Fortunately for you, Constable Smith and I have a sworn duty to perform that task. Mr. Desmond threatened you, and you have a right to have him charged. Do you want to do that? Constable Smith and I will, of course, have to testify to the entire conversation preceding the threat, if the case comes to court.”

McMillan spat.

“I thought so.” Winters put his Glock away. “Constable, we'll give Mr. Desmond a ride back to town.”

“Yes, sir. Will you come with me please, Mr. Desmond?”

“Don't let those dogs out until we're gone,” Winters said. “Unless you want me to lay a complaint.”

“Fuck off, Winters.”

“Happy to.”

***

“That's it?” Smith said, once they were in the truck and she was maneuvering it down the slippery mountain road. Walt sat in the back, but Winters had told him he was not under arrest, and they'd drop him wherever he liked.

“That's it?” Walt echoed Smith. “McMillan goes on with his life, never mind what he did to me? To Arlene?”

“I'm taking what I have to my boss, Walt, but you have to understand that we have no real proof. The things I found in Kibbens' envelope don't relate to McMillian in any way. I'm sorry, but I have not a single scrap of usable evidence. I didn't know for sure McMillan was having an affair with your wife. No one told me, but several people said McMillan was often seen going into your wife's store, and everyone agreed he was a good-looking man, who liked to play the big shot around town. I had nothing but a handful of pieces, and I threw them on the table and let McMillan put it all together for me.”

Pieces, like how men could be
oblivious
to what their wives were up to.

“Poor Arlene. We didn't have a good marriage. We didn't like each other much, we had less and less to do with each other as the years passed. Sergeant Winters, I don't know why McMillan would go to all that trouble to get rid of me. If she'd asked me for a divorce I would have given it to her.”

“She probably told McMillan some sort of story,” Smith said. “That you'd fight her in court, spend every penny on lawyers, maybe that you had some sort of hold over her. If McMillan was pressuring her to leave your marriage, and she didn't want to, she would have come up with an excuse as to why it wasn't possible.”

Walt took off his hat and rubbed at his head. “The best months of our marriage were after I was arrested. How's that for irony?”

Guilt
, Smith thought, but didn't say. Guilt had made Arlene loving.

“It wasn't my intention,” Winters said, “to tell you or your lawyers what I surmised, and it is nothing more than guesses and speculation, about what happened after the murder of Sophia. I don't know what you heard, perhaps most of it. It's up to you to decide if you want to share with your lawyer what you overheard.”

“What I want to know,” Smith said, “is who the heck was the guy found in the woods.”

“Sophia's killer. Kibbens and McMillan knew he'd done it, and they tracked him down and killed him themselves. Why Kibbens went along with all this, is something we'll never know. Like I don't know why he saved a few pieces of evidence, the gas station receipt, the photo of the dead guy and the bracelet.”

“Maybe Kibbens didn't kill himself after all,” Smith said. “Have you thought of that?”

“I have, yes, but the evidence, what's left of it, shows that he was in that car alone, and the autopsy found no drugs or alcohol on the body.”

Smith drove into Trafalgar. The rain had stopped and the clouds were rapidly retreating. Tendrils of mist drifted around the nearest mountains, but the distant snows of Koola glacier sparkled in the sun.

“Where to, Mr. Desmond?” Smith asked.

“Where to? That's the question, isn't it?”

“Jack McMillan has friends in Trafalgar,” Winters said. “He's got to be worrying about what you'll do now.”

“Drop me at the motel. There's an overnight bus to Vancouver. I'll take it. I'm supposed to be meeting with the lawyer this morning to talk about suing the Trafalgar police for harassment. I'm going to phone him and let him know that's no longer an option.”

“Your choice,” Winters said.

“It is, isn't it? And with choice come decisions and responsibilities.”

“You would be within your rights to sue Jack McMillan, you know.”

“I am aware of that. He has nothing I want, except to say he's sorry. And that's not going to happen, is it? No, I don't want to have anything to do with him, not ever again. Let him wallow in his bitterness up there on his mountain.”

“Constable Smith, drop me at the station,” Winters said. “Then take Mr. Desmond back to his motel. Better you don't walk through the streets of town by yourself tonight, Walt. I'll send a car to take you to the bus.”

Smith cleared her throat. “You might want to not send just any officer, sir.”

“Point taken,” Winters said. “But I think a quiet word or two should fix any misunderstanding that might arise. After you've dropped Walt, come back to the office. The chief might want to talk to you.”

“Okay.” Smith pulled up to the sidewalk outside the police station. “I…uh…just happened to have the voice recorder on my phone switched on. Do you want to see if it picked up anything?” She handed the phone to him. “The password's 4628.”

Winters lifted one eyebrow, as he took the offered object. Then he got out of the truck and opened the back door. “Good luck to you,” he said. He put out his hand. Walt took it and the men shook. Winters stepped back and slammed the door.

“Home, James,” Walt said.

Smith grinned at him in the rearview mirror. “At your service. Look, I know it's none of my business and you can tell me to butt out, but are you going to see Carolanne again?”

Walt sighed. “No, I don't think so. She's a nice person, and she doesn't need complications in her life.”

“Your decision,” she said. She let him out in front of the motel room. They shook hands on the pavement, steaming as it dried in the sun. “Thanks,” Walt said.

“Any time,” she said.

“He was right, you know.”

“Who, about what?”

“Your sergeant. About bad cops like McMillan ruining people's trust in the police. I'm glad there are good officers like him. And like you. People who can help restore that trust.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Say bye to your mom for me.”

“I will.”

Chapter Forty-two

“Chief wants you in his office,” Denton said when Smith walked into the station.

Barb got up from her desk. “John's with him now. He said I'm to come with you when you get here.”

They went into Keller's office. Barb shut the door behind them. Smith's phone lay on the desk.

“Molly, Barb. Take a seat.” Keller took a slug of diet Coke. “Barb, I'm calling a press conference for three o'clock this afternoon. Alert the media.”

“I've always wanted to say that,” Smith said, immediately regretting sounding flip. The confrontation was over, the tension she'd felt up on the mountain was dying. Keller grinned. “Make sure the big boys know that they'll
want
to be at it. Then call the mayor and tell him to drop everything and get over here.”

“You're going to tell them what happened?” Smith said.

“What happened?” Barb asked.

Keller nodded to Winters who quickly filled her in on the basics of his conclusions. Her eyes widened steadily as he spoke, and she leaned back in her chair with a muffled, “wow.”

“My only aim now,” Keller said, “and John agrees with me, is to see Walter Desmond emphatically and publicly cleared of the murder of Sophia D'Angelo. We have no proof of any of this. That the dead man in the woods was Sophia's killer. That Doug Kibbens killed himself out of guilt, and dare I say a healthy dose of cowardice.”

Barb gasped.

“I've listened to your recording, Molly, and I'm afraid it's pretty much indecipherable.”

“The rain falling on the roof and that creaky porch didn't help,” Winters said.

“And, as you know,” Keller said, “it was taken without McMillan's knowledge, therefore not usable as evidence. But at one point the interference dies just enough so we can hear McMillian saying he was having an affair with Mrs. Desmond.”

“Which isn't proof that he set the man up,” Winters said, “but it's clearly a huge conflict of interest and he should have declared it at the time her husband was under investigation.”

“I can't believe it,” Barb said. “Jack and Doug…”

“Which,” Keller said, without a trace of warmth or sympathy in his voice, “is why we must never let personal feelings interfere with an investigation.”

“That was the evidence in that box, wasn't it, John?” Barb said. “Proof that Doug helped Jack kill Sophia's killer and bury him in the woods? He left it to be found. And I just shoved it all away. If I'd only…”

“What's done is done,” Keller said. “And it was all a long time ago. I hope we've learned a few things since then. All of us.” He got to his feet. “I'm going to pay a call on Gino and Rose. They deserve to hear this from me first. While I'm doing that, Barb, I want to speak to everyone in our office who's available. Let's say one hour. Pull in anyone who's not on a call. Is Jeff working today?”

“No.”

“Call him, tell him he's to come in. My orders, no excuses. Molly. Stay a minute, will you?”

Winters and Barb filed out. Winters gave Smith a small smile as he passed. Barb looked as though she was in shock.

Keller walk around his desk and thrust out his hand. “Good work, Molly. John told me you kept your head out there.”

“That's what I'm paid to do, isn't it, sir?” She tried not to grin as she shook her boss' hand.

“I'll be having a private word with Dave Evans and Jeff Glendenning. Your name will not come up, nor should it, because you didn't say anything about anything that transpired with those two. John's been speculating. He is a detective, after all.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I understand you were in a difficult situation, and I won't advise you what to do if something similar arises again, except to remember that we are a team here. And a team means everyone.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Dismissed,” he said. His voice was stern, but he wasn't able to suppress the twinkle in his eye.

***

Walt pulled back the grimy curtain over the door to check who it was. He wasn't all that surprised to see the young male officer standing there, with an expression that indicated he might be sucking on a lemon. Walt opened the door.

“I'm here to take you to the bus station. Sir.”

“Kind of you,” Walt said. “Dave, isn't it?”

“Yes, sir. Dave Evans.”

“I'll get my pack.”

“Let me, sir.” Evans pushed past him. Walt's things were packed and ready, his backpack zipped closed and lying on the bed. Dave picked it up and carried it outside. Walt followed, closing the motel room door behind him.

Evans tossed the pack in the trunk and opened the back door of the cruiser. Walt gave him a look. “Why don't I sit in the front?”

More lemon sucking. “I guess that would be okay.”

Walt got into the car and fastened his seat belt. He was about to make a joke, as he had with Molly Smith, but decided that might be taking things too far. Good cops. Bad cops. Good people. Bad people. Good people made good cops, and bad people made bad cops. But sometimes you could try to stop good people from becoming bad cops before it was too late.

He'd had a brief call from the chief of police earlier, telling him to turn on the radio; the local station would be carrying a press conference live.

Walt had sat on his bed in the overheated, stuffy, dingy motel room and listened in amazement bordering on disbelief as Chief Constable Keller told the assembled members of the press that new evidence had been uncovered which indicated that the killer of Sophia D'Angelo was not Walter Desmond, but a nameless drifter who had died very shortly after Sophia. He went on to say that members of the Trafalgar City Police had colluded in corrupting the investigation. At that the audience could be heard to let out a collective gasp. Keller, clearly uncomfortable, then told them that of those members, one was now deceased and the other no longer worked for the police service. No names were mentioned. None had to be. Everyone who mattered would know exactly who he was talking about.

Keller concluded by saying the Trafalgar City Police would be working with all interested parties to ensure Walter Desmond was given a fair and just settlement for his wrongful imprisonment.

The radio exploded with reporters' questions, but Keller merely said he had nothing further to add, and thanked them for coming. He then called on Sergeant John Winters to bring them up-to-date on a current investigation.

Winters didn't say anything about Walt; like his boss, he didn't have to. He simply stated that because of DNA evidence and witness statements in the recent attacks on two women in Trafalgar, he wanted to interview one Richard James Anderson, thirty-four, known to the police.

“Startling new developments,” said the radio announcer, “in a case that has transfixed the people of Trafalgar for many years…”

Walt switched off the radio. And then he burst into tears. The first tears he'd shed in more than twenty-five years.

The bus left at eight-thirty. Walt had phoned ahead to buy his ticket. He'd also phoned Louise and told her to call off the attack dogs. They'd still try to get what was owned him—five million dollars was meager payment for the loss of a lifetime—out of the province of British Columbia, but he didn't want anyone suing the modern-day Trafalgar police department. Louise had objected, but he held his ground, without explaining why, and she had finally relented. He was, after all, the boss.

The long summer twilight lingered and the streets of Trafalgar were busy with pedestrians and cars. The restaurant patios were full and the brightly lit shops still open.

Time to be on his way. Nothing remained in Trafalgar for him.

When they arrived at the bus station, Evans got out of the cruiser and collected Walt's bag. He carried the bag into the small waiting room. Walt followed. He considered jokingly offering Evans a tip, but decided not to. No point in humiliating the guy. “Thanks,” he said instead.

“Bus'll be here soon, and I'll…uh…be around if you need anything, sir.”

“Do you think I might need assistance?”

“No, sir. You won't.”

“Glad to hear it.”

A scattering of people were in the waiting room, the type who travelled by bus at night. Young people, mostly, some with high-quality backpacks and hiking boots, others in torn jeans and scuffed running shoes. No children or old folks. They glanced up, curious, when Evans came in, but once he left they quickly returned to their own business, most of which seemed to be poking at their little phones. Walt took a seat next to a young woman with long dreadlocks, multiple piercings, and a single tattoo of a red rose on her neck. He opened a side-pocket of his pack and took out his book. Twenty-five after eight. The bus was due at eight-thirty.

At eight forty-five, the clerk behind the counter called for their attention. Several of the waiting people muttered unhappily. This was not going to be good news. “Sorry, folks, but I just got word there's been an accident on the highway outside of town. The bus can't get through.”

Everyone groaned. “Bummer,” said the young woman next to Walt. “Did they say how long?” a man asked.

“Police and ambulance are there now. Sounds like it's a mess. Might be a while. Sorry.”

“I'm not sitting here all night,” the dreadlocked woman said. “All right if I go for a walk?”

“Sure,” the clerk said. “Check back with me in an hour. Won't be less than that.”

Some people got up and stretched and others stayed where they were to continue typing. Walt had no desire to be confined to this small room with the peeling paint and stained carpet if he didn't have to.

There was still one thing he wanted to do before leaving Trafalgar, and now he had the time to do it. He got to his feet and hefted his backpack.

***

Lucky Smith spent the evening alone in the store. It was Tyler's day off, and Flower had been feeling sick and gone home early. Lucky hadn't been happy about that; she had preparations to do to get ready for Saturday, but after thirty years of running her own store, she'd learned to take things as they came.

Almost closing time. No customers had come in over the last half hour or so.

She glanced at the giant photograph filling the red brick wall behind the sales counter. Andy, Samwise, and Moonlight heading out onto the river in kayaks on a perfect summer morning. Good times, she thought with a smile.

Now, Andy was gone and she was with Paul. More good times coming, she was sure. She lifted first her right leg, and then her left, holding them in her hands behind her, one after the other, to give them a good stretch. She'd been sadly remiss in attending her yoga classes lately, and her muscles were starting to feel it.

She checked her watch. Coming up to nine. Closing time. She was about to flick the lock when the door flew open. She stepped back, letting her professional smile cross her face.

The smile died the moment she saw his expression. This was no customer.

“We're closed.” Her voice broke.

“So you are.” Greasy black hair spilled from under a ball cap pulled low over his forehead. His eyes were small and dark, his skin sallow, his cheekbones shrunken.

“My husband will be here any minute to pick me up,” she said.

“No, Mrs. Smith, he won't.” Without taking his eyes off her, he reached behind him and turned the lock, but he didn't check that it had engaged. It hadn't. The lock was old and sticky and you needed to pull the door hard toward you with one hand, while turning the latch with the other at the exact right moment. The man stood between her and the door. He wasn't all that big, but menace radiated out from him and he seemed to fill the room. She glanced toward the window behind him. At that moment, the street outside was empty. She turned and bolted toward the back, hoping to get to her office, slam the door on him, and reach the phone. But he was fast and he was on her before she had taken more than a few steps. He grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled, wrenching her off balance. She crashed into the book rack and grabbed at it, knowing she had to remain on her feet or she was lost. The shelf wobbled, books and magazines scattered. His hand was still in her hair, and a searing pain tore through her left side.

The inside of the store was lit, outside night was falling, the windows were uncovered. Surely someone would look in, see what was happening. As if he'd read her mind, he half dragged, half pushed her behind the counter. Lucky screamed as she fell to the floor face-first, and all she could see were scores and notches in the old wooden floorboards. His weight landed on her; he lifted her head by the hair and pounded her face into the floor. Pain and blood filled her nose and mouth. He grabbed the back of her skirt and pulled it up, jamming his knee between her sprawled legs. She tried to throw him off, but she could barely move.

The door opened, and the air changed as the sounds of the street rushed in. “I'm glad you're still open, Lucky,” said a voice. “I'm leaving and I wanted…what the…?”

Lucky spat blood and screamed. At least, she tried to scream, it came out more like a low moan. But it was enough. She heard running footsteps cross the floor. Her attacker's weight came off her as he jumped to his feet. She heard a grunt, a cry of pain, the sound of a body falling. Hands reached for her and she cried out.

“It's okay, Lucky. I'm here. I'm calling for help. Don't move.”

All she wanted was to curl up into a ball and cry. But who was speaking to her? Was it
him
? Trying to confuse her into giving up the fight? She struggled to roll over. Everything she had, everything she was, hurt. The room swayed, the white ceiling tiles overhead danced, the bright shop lights hurt her eyes.

“Mid-Kootenay Adventure Vacations on Front Street. Please. As fast as you can.” A face loomed over her. A man held the desk phone to his ear. He looked down at her and smiled. “Help's coming, Lucky.”