Unreasonable Doubt (5 page)

Chapter Eight

Molly Smith wiped barbeque sauce off her chin. Her napkin was so saturated it was useless. She reached for another.

“Enjoying those?” Adam Tocek asked.

“Yum, yum, good.” A chicken graveyard lay on the plate in front of her. She scooped up the last wing and ripped at the tender meat with her teeth.

He sipped his beer. He was having nachos. Wednesday night wings and nachos, when schedules permitted, had become one of their routines. Now that they were engaged and living together, Smith thought it important to keep the romance alive. Not easy for anyone these days, particularly not when both partners were police officers, and Adam, the RCMP dog-handler for the district, could be called out just about any time. And often was. More than once Smith had had to find her own way home. Tocek's schedule had its advantages, though: she was rarely asked to be the couple's designated driver, as he always held himself to one beer.

“This a private party or can anyone join?” Dawn Solway stood behind Tocek's chair. She was in uniform and carried a glass of ice water.

“Take a seat,” Smith said. “Doing the rounds?”

“Yeah.” Solway snagged an empty chair and pulled it up to their table. “Dave and Jeff are on the road. Lucky buggers.” She subtly shifted her Kevlar vest. “I think I might melt if it doesn't cool down soon.” She gulped water. Tonight it would be Solway's job to walk the streets and alleys and pop in and out of the bars. On a night like tonight, heat and humidity lingering after a scorching day, the air-conditioned patrol cars were popular spots.

Summer in Trafalgar was a busy time. This was a tourist town, but far off the well-travelled route between Vancouver and the Rocky Mountains used by bus companies. Most of the tourists who came here were young people, looking for mountain air and views, backcountry hiking and kayaking in summer, some of the world's best skiing in winter. The sort that liked to burn off excess energy when they emerged from a week in the wilderness.

At the table next to them, six women stood up all at once. They headed for the door, calling out goodnights. Solway grinned. “Thank heavens for athletic middle-aged women.” She made a great display of checking her watch. “Almost nine o'clock. Time for them to be heading to bed.”

Tocek laughed and dug through his pile of nachos, searching for more salsa.

Solway leaned over. Smith did likewise. “Ellie Carmine called the station. Walt Desmond's staying there.”

“Any trouble?” Tocek asked.

“No. She just wanted us to know.”

“Bad business,” Smith said.

“I can't imagine why the hell he's come back,” Tocek said. “Does he really think people are ready to forgive him?”

“Whyever not?” Smith asked. “He didn't do it.”

Tocek snorted. “Some big-city lawyers on a mission found that the investigating officers had stretched the truth a bit. Things were more…shall we say…flexible, back then. They knew they had their man. They simply helped the proof along.”

“You can't be serious,” Smith said. “They lied in court. They hid a witness from the defense. They denied the guy a fair trial.”

“Shouldn't have even come to trial,” Solway said, “from what I've read.”

“Come on, you two. None of us were around then. They wouldn't have exaggerated the evidence if they weren't positive he'd done it.” Tocek shook his head. “They knew.”

“Travesties of justice happen all the time,” Smith said. “Look at Truscott, look at Moran, at…”

“I don't know the details of those cases. And neither do you, Molly. But I know that Jack McMillan and Doug Kibbens had decent records. They never fudged…”

“You're defending Jack McMillan?” If Smith hadn't been trained in how to behave in a public place (by parents as well as at police college), she would have screamed. “The same Jack McMillan who called me a drag queen?”

“He didn't actually call you that, Molly,” Solway said, trying to lighten the mood. “He was simply making an observation. As I recall, Adam put a stop to his observation.”

McMillan was an old-time cop who hung around the station when retirement got too much for him, trying to interest the current officers in how things had been done in his day. He was sexist, racist, and homophobic and most of the staff, police, and civilian, ignored him. About the only ones who had much time for the old guy were Jeff Glendenning and Dave Evans—probably because they approved of, but could never say, the things McMillan said. Glendenning was an old guy, and he'd be gone soon. But Dave Evans was the same age as Smith herself, and she'd have to work with him for a long time. Until he got the new job on a big-city force which they all knew he was desperate for, and not having much luck finding. A couple of years ago when Smith and Tocek had first started dating, Tocek overheard McMillan goading Evans into making a comment about the sexual habits of female officers in general, and Smith in particular. That incident had ended in a hideously embarrassing brawl in no less a place than the police station in front of all her coworkers.

Smith had told Tocek never to defend her honor again.

He'd been pretty good about it. As far as she knew.

“That's all irrelevant,” he said now. “Walt Desmond was a straight white man, so no one can accuse McMillan of railroading him because of prejudices.”

“I didn't say that was what happened.”

“If they'd deliberately created evidence against an innocent guy, then they had to know they were letting the guilty one off. They wouldn't have done that.”

“I didn't say that either. I said that in some cases, we know—because it's been proved—that innocent people are convicted of crimes they did not commit, and sometimes it's because the police were either shoddy and careless or deliberately vindictive. If you want to give McMillan some credit, I'd put my money on shoddy.”

“You're saying the entire TCP covered up a crime?” Tocek asked.

“No! I'm not saying that at all, Adam. Plant some false evidence, hide some exonerating stuff, then step back and watch everyone around you believe it. Easy enough.”

“As fun as this is,” Solway said, getting to her feet, “I have to get back out there. It's my job tonight to stop any potential fights from breaking out. I won't be getting a call here, I hope.”

Tocek laughed but Smith glared at her friend. “Soon as Adam admits he's wrong, this is over.”

“Not gonna happen, Mol.”

“As Adam pointed out,” Solway said, “neither of you were around then. I'm sure the case files are easily available. They would have had to have been brought out of storage for the appeal, right? Read up on it. Then you can argue with some idea of what you're talking about.” Her radio crackled. She lifted a hand, asking her friends to be quiet, and bent her head to listen. “Two-two here. Do you need backup? I'm in the Bishop, can be there in a sec. Okay.” She pushed herself to her feet. “911 call. Dave's got it, but I'd better go and see what's up. A woman's been attacked in the alley just down the way. Sounds like the attack was interrupted by a passerby and the perp took off. Catch you later.” She weaved her way through the crowded room, heading for the back door at a rapid clip. She threw a wave to Mike behind the bar as she passed.

Smith glared at the man she loved. He finished his beer and returned her look with the sexy grin that always made her heart melt.

Right now, it didn't exactly melt, but perhaps it softened, if only a little.

“We can argue about this 'til the cows come home,” he said. “But I'd rather not. Let's get Norman and have a walk. I'm in the mood for ice cream.”

“Okay,” she said.

He waved at the waitress to bring the bill. Smith glanced around the room. People were eating and drinking, laughing and talking. If she and Adam were divided about the Walt Desmond case, what must the mood be like in the rest of town?

Adam's phone rang. He rolled his eyes as he answered. “I'm in town now. On my way.” He hung up and threw Smith a grimace. “They want me at Dawn's call. The guy got away on foot. It happened only minutes ago so they're hoping Norman can find the trail.”

“I'll go with you. No need to call someone out to watch your back.”

Chapter Nine

“I've called for help,” the woman said. “Oh, my God, I can't believe it. Are you okay? Eliza, help's coming.”

Eliza looked up. She was sitting on the pavement, her back against the front tire of the BMW. A woman crouched over her. She'd gotten out of her car but left the engine running, and the headlights on. Brilliant white light flooded the alley. The car radio was playing classical music. Mozart, Eliza thought. Suitable music to walk into heaven by. “Merrill?”

“Yes. It's me.”

“What are you doing here?” Eliza said.

“I was baking granola bars for tomorrow.” Merrill Young worked at Rosemary's Campfire Kitchen, a shop further down Front Street. “While Rosemary's away, I've been running the place, and I got it into my head that I forgot to turn the oven off. I've been known to have a touch of OCD on occasion.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” Eliza said. She laughed. Merrill laughed.

By the time they heard sirens, and red and blue lights were sweeping the alley, both women were laughing so hard tears ran down their faces.

“Is everyone okay? What's happened here?” A male voice said. “Mrs. Winters, is that you?”

Constable Dave Evans stood over her, his handsome face full of concern. She stopped laughing, and began to cry.

“Let's get her inside,” Merrill said.

Eliza flinched when Evans touched her arm.

“It's okay,” Merrill said, her voice as calm and soothing as though she were speaking to a frightened toddler. “Let us help.”

Eliza's legs felt like they were made of rubber. She pushed Evans away and leaned against Merrill.

“Do you need to go to the hospital, Mrs. Winters?” Evans asked.

“No. I'm okay.” She breathed. It hurt.

“You look like you took a couple of punches,” Evans said. “You're going to be darn sore tomorrow. Let the medics check you out.”

“No,” Eliza said. “I want to go home.”

“She needs to sit down,” Merrill said. “Let's get her inside.”

“I'm going to call the Sarge,” Evans said.

Eliza shook her head. That hurt too. “I will. Where's my bag?”

“I see it,” Merrill said. She scooped up Eliza's purse as well as the key ring she'd dropped.

“Everything okay here?” a woman called. Constable Dawn Solway stepped out of the darkness into the circle of light.

“Eliza's been attacked, but I chased him off,” Merrill said. “Help me, please. Dave, you get the door.” She passed him the ring of keys. He opened the door to the gallery and switched on lights, as Solway and Merrill half-carried Eliza inside. Two brown leather chairs were arranged around a chrome and glass table displaying a collection of art and architecture magazines. Eliza had envisaged the comfortable space as somewhere for the spouse to rest while the art lover browsed, and thus was able to make an unhurried decision.

Eliza dropped into the soft, warm, buttery leather. Merrill placed her phone in her hand. Eliza's hands shook as she struggled to find the right buttons. Merrill took the phone back. “What's your password? Is John in your contact list?”

Eliza nodded and recited the numbers. Merrill made the call and handed the phone back to Eliza.

Evans gave Merrill a jerk of his head, telling her to come with him. “While Mrs. Winters is on the phone, why don't you tell me what happened?”

***

John Winters liked to cook, but he wasn't very good at it. His wife, on the other hand, neither liked to cook nor was she any good at it. She'd spent too many years as a model, when her meals consisted of a handful of lettuce leaves without dressing and an ounce or two of broiled fish, to take any pleasure in the preparation of food. He'd been raised in the sort of home where cooking was considered women's work. His father hadn't known how to so much as make himself a piece of toast and a boiled egg.

Winters' work schedule didn't leave a lot of time for meal planning or complicated prep, but over the years he'd learned how to make a few nice dishes, and he had some tricks for getting a good meal on the table quickly. Tonight, he was making pizza. Homemade crust was far beyond his skill-set, so he'd bought the dough ready-made from the supermarket. He'd sliced mushrooms, onions, and green peppers, laid out pepperoni, grated a mountain of cheese, and opened a can of pizza sauce. While Eliza was getting out of her work clothes and hopping into the shower, he'd assemble the ingredients and put the pizza in the oven. He smiled at the thought of Eliza eating pizza. She continued to get modeling work into her middle age and had to pay even more attention to what she ate as she got older. But, eventually, she decided it was all getting too difficult and announced her intention to retire. He'd been delighted, secretly imagining the little wife at home instead of traveling the world, ironing his shirts and having a hot, hearty meal on the table when he came through the door at the end of the day.

He should have known better. Before she'd so much as finished her last modeling gig, Eliza had bought two art galleries, one of which she planned to manage and staff herself.

Now that she wasn't modeling, she'd relaxed fractionally and started eating slightly better. He hated to think what her bone density must be after a lifetime of Melba toast and carrot sticks. In her early days, before they'd met and married, she'd supplemented her lack of food with substantial quantities of cigarettes and illegal drugs. Most models had to, she'd told him, to keep the hunger pangs at bay, particularly when they were young and still growing. She'd been able to give up that part of the life, and although her diet had always, to his eyes, been sparse, she'd eaten with an eye for adequate nutrition.

She'd enjoy a small piece of pizza tonight, although he made one quarter of it without pepperoni and only half the amount of cheese. He glanced at the clock on the wall. She was running late.

His phone rang. He checked the display. Eliza. Delayed by a last-minute customer perhaps, or a friend wanting to talk. “Winters' Pizza Parlor. Head chef speaking.”

All he heard was sobs.

“Eliza? What's the matter? I can't hear you. Where are you?” A car accident, he thought. That she was well enough to make the call had to mean she wasn't trapped or injured.

“Sarge?”

“What the…? Dawn is that you?”

“Yeah. I'm at your wife's art gallery. Got a 911 call. She's okay, but really shook up. You'd better come down.”

He was out the door before he'd even hung up the phone.