Ocean Drive, page 11
Meghan dialed Chung Realty’s office, and when it went to voice mail, she looked up Winnie Chung’s home number.
“Better be a ‘mergency,” a slurred voice said.
“Meghan Quick here.
Immediate sobriety and polite solicitation. “Sorry, ma’am. What can I do for you?”
“Emily Reed told you to put the house on the market?”
“Hunh? Oh. Yes. We talked about it a few weeks before her death.”
“And drew up a contract?”
“Of course.”
“Can I see it?”
“Pardon me, ma’am, but what’s this about?”
“It’s about your story sounding like bullshit, Winnie.”
A pause on the line. “Ma’am, no disrespect intended, but are you drunk?”
“No.”
“You sound like you’ve been drinking.”
“That’s not the same as drunk, is it?”
Another pause. “Why don’t we talk about this in the morning.”
“You told me Mrs. Reed paid your commission up front.”
“That’s right.”
“What’s the going commission on a house—three or four percent? On a house worth mid-seven figures?”
“I wouldn’t take money from someone in Emily’s condition.”
“I’ve seen her bank statements, Winnie. The Reeds didn’t have the money to give you.”
Meghan counted the seconds. She thought Winnie might hang up. A long sigh whooshed over the line, and the realtor said, “I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“’Cept lie to the police.”
“She had power of attorney. She paid. She told me it was Emily’s wish, and why would she lie?”
“Why would who lie, Winnie?”
“Elizabeth Garrick,” the realtor said.
* * *
Home, and sleep, and a breakfast of toast and peanut butter. Meghan felt hungry again as soon as she left the house. She stopped for a Sausage McMuffin before approaching Liz.
Not bothering with the front entrance, she went around the side of the property and knocked on the glass door of the pool room, startling the occupants. Liz was seated on the edge of the pool, her pale back to the door. She turned and frowned at the intrusion, then smiled when she saw who it was.
Below her, in the pool, a head bobbed in the water, ducking down immediately. She saw a face, tanned skin with a dark mustache, an orange blur springing out of the water, dashing toward the steam room.
Liz had left her robe atop the diving board. Wrapping it around herself, taking her time tucking the ends. Finally Liz opened the side door, timing it so that Meghan could only enter once the blurred figure was in the next room.
“If this is a bad time,” Meghan began.
“No such thing.” Liz smiled warmly. “Bob and I were just taking a break from our discussions.”
* * *
Less than a year after his retirement as detachment commander, Bob Sutter had started showing up at city council meetings. He’d told Meghan it was to stave off boredom.
“Cop’s hours don’t exactly lend themselves to cultivating hobbies, Meg, and there’s only so much golf a red-blooded man can put up with.”
He’d run for council the next year, won handily. He was a personable, thoughtful, well-spoken man, with a wife who’d worked thirty years as a nurse. Community pillars with enough clout to impress upon long-term residents that Bob Sutter had their interests at heart.
Bob re-entered Liz Garrick’s pool room in his typical slacks and polo shirt, strapping on his wristwatch. A bashful smile to Meghan and an unsolicited explanation: “Looks worse than it is,” he said. “I’m afraid I let Lizzie talk me into a dip, even though I didn’t bring a suit. A man of my age shouldn’t try new things, should he?”
Meghan didn’t have a response for him, but smiled and said it was none of her business.
“Actually we were just talking about you,” Liz said. “We heard about the boy on the beach yesterday. Bob was saying he was glad you were on it.”
“What I actually said was, I’m glad that I’m not.” Bob Sutter flashed his grin. “My bad shit gallery is full up, and the May kid deserves someone with better brains.”
“Before that we were discussing the casino,” Liz said.
“I won’t take up more time than necessary.”
Meghan wondered if she should ask Bob to step outside, then thought she couldn’t do that without permanently spoiling their friendship. Assuming it lasted beyond this. She didn’t buy the “we were working and just needed a nude swim to blow off steam” story. You’re a cop for fuck’s sake, Bob, she thought. If you’re going to cheat on your wife, at least come up with a better alibi.
“Winnie Chung told me you authorized the sale of Emily’s house. Paid her commission in advance.”
“That’s right,” Liz said.
“Before she admitted that, she was claiming Emily asked her to handle it.”
“The fact is,” Liz said, “near the end, Emily’s finances were shambolic. I begged Winnie not to say anything about my involvement. Plus I wanted Alexa to receive the total of the sale, rather than have to pay the fees out of her inheritance.”
“Nice of you,” Meghan said.
“Em was my cousin. And I have enough.”
“So the fight you had with Alexa the day after her mother’s funeral, it was about the house?”
Liz nodded, pursing her lips in regret. “There was no other option but to put it on the market. Alexa didn’t see that, or willfully wouldn’t see it. She felt I should in effect buy it for her and allow her to stay there indefinitely, covering all taxes and fees.”
“And you shot that down.”
“Of course,” Liz said sharply. “What kind of solution would that be—to subsidize Alexa dropping out of school and lying around the house alone in grief?”
“Like you said, you could afford it.”
“Then it was a choice, and one I’d happily make again.” Liz smoothed her hair with both hands, treating Meghan to a glimpse of armpit stubble. “Meg, there are a million things Alexa could’ve asked for which I would have gladly done. Who do you think paid her tuition these last years?”
“Wouldn’t she be happy, that place selling and her coming into that money? Real estate what it is, the place must be worth a million. More.”
“A rational person would be satisfied with that,” Liz agreed. “But once Alexa saw the appraisal, then it became her evil relative’s plan to cheat her out of the fortune she felt entitled to.”
“Fortune?”
“I’m just saying what seemed to be in her head.” Liz’s eyes swam. “I don’t know why she took such a dislike to me. She could have lived here, for heaven’s sake.”
“Not your fault,” Bob said, comforting her.
Liz tucked her head onto his shoulder, drew her mouth into a taut fearless line. Meghan had seen him do the same for his wife, and, to be fair, to grieving women and men after delivering bad news. Standing there in his bare feet, though, with his arm around her robe, the gesture took on another meaning.
“Did Alexa know your plans for the casino?” Meghan asked.
“I didn’t hide them from her, though she didn’t seem all that interested. Why?”
“Nothing,” Meghan said. But thought: If my aunt was planning to grow the city, and insisted on selling my parents’ home immediately, I might think I was being cheated. Alexa would lose both the house and the much higher price it would fetch in Liz Garrick’s new White Rock. It was a thought, anyway.
Before Meghan could escape the awkward scene, Liz brought up the casino once again.
“I know how very much you have going on right now, Meg, so I understand it’s not a priority. But if you could find time to evaluate our proposal, I’d be grateful.”
“Couldn’t hurt to take a look, Meg,” Bob said, as if he was neutral and making the only fair suggestion. Meghan couldn’t help but feel disappointed.
“Sure, I’ll look,” she said. “But I want you both to think of something. This case, Alexa’s death, Michael May’s—these are kids in their twenties.”
“Late twenties, and hardly children,” Liz said.
“My point is, whatever’s going on, it’s harming young people like them. None of us even knew there was something wrong with Alexa. Or with Michael May. That this is going on under our noses, and no one seems to have seen it—”
“Well, that’s your department,” Bob said. “Literally.” He smirked, dampening it when he realized she wasn’t reciprocating. “You’ll catch them, Meg. I have total confidence.”
“If these kids are in trouble, should our priorities be on gambling, is what I’m saying.”
“Understood,” Liz said. “Of course that’s reasonable, and it’s commendable that you bring it up. Please look at the information, and take everything into account. I think you’ll see the benefits vastly outweigh the negatives.” Smiling, letting Bob’s arm slip off her shoulder, she said, “I’d truly hate for us to be on opposite sides of this, Meg.”
* * *
When people let you down, thank Christ there was always work to focus on. Meghan arrived at Peace Arch Hospital and quickly dressed in a gown and mask. The morgue was in the basement.
She watched Dr. Varma weigh out the organs of Michael May’s body. It was an atrocious sight, even more than autopsies usually were. The mottled purple-red skin, the features melted. Clothing fused to flesh so that the doctor had to cut around or simply leave it. To make matters worse, Varma had a cold, and frequently paused in her work to cough or wipe her forehead.
“Cause of death is catastrophic injury to the heart caused by GSW,” Varma said. “Which I’m sure you knew. He was killed, doused with accelerant and set on fire.”
Meghan looked at the objects that had been removed from May’s pockets. A key chain, some sort of Seahawks fob now blackened and bent. An old iPhone, screen burst, fused into its protective case. Coins, Zippo, an empty wallet collected from the beach. The nametag was already in evidence.
She looked at the bullet fragments that the doctor had removed from May’s heart. Turned over the Zippo to see if it bore an inscription. Lifted the key chain—
Part of it snapped, two keys spilling into the metal tray with a cymbal crash. Meghan examined them. May had almost two dozen keys, on two concentric rings. Small snippets of masking tape had been applied over the shoulder and bow of various keys, each with a shorthand name written in smudged blue marker. Apt. Fr Dr. M&D’s Gar. Str Rm.
Apartment, front door, Mom and Dad’s garage and… store room? Of course, he’d have keys for the Price-Low. May would be used to early mornings, opening the store for deliveries, dealing with large amounts of cash.
Meghan looked at the two keys that had fallen off, and some crumbling substance between and around them. “What’s this look like, doc?” she said.
Varma walked over and adjusted her glasses. Squinted and sniffled. Nudged the keys. Picked up a small amount of it and crumbled it between her hands.
“Rubber,” she said. “It’s an elastic.”
“Makes a shitty keychain,” Meghan said.
The separated keys hadn’t been taped or markered. Meghan turned them over and saw on one, written in faint pencil, the numbers 3457. The other was smaller, for a cupboard or mailbox, with a black plastic grip that had melted slightly.
“Doc,” she said, “say you live in an apartment and you ask me to grab something from there for you.”
“Tell you what I could use,” Varma said. “Nyquil dissolved in a shot of brandy.”
“Gross.”
“You laugh, but it’s doing a bang-up job with this cold.”
“Say I’m grabbing whatever from your place, but you don’t want to give me your car keys. You’d slide the house key off the ring, right? But if it’s two or three keys, like an apartment with a separate front door lock, you might elastic-band them so they stay together.”
“Sure,” the doctor said. “Makes it easy. Why?”
“3457 Sunset Lane is Alexa Reed’s house. May told me he only talked to her once, but he has her keys.”
* * *
The Reeds’ house was still cordoned off. In the middle of the day, with rain falling heavily, it looked ominous. The houses on either side were lit up for Christmas.
Meghan ripped the barricade tape from the front door and tried the key. The bolt swung back and she entered. Denny Fong stamped his feet on the porch and followed.
Water streaked the walls, ballooning and creasing the paint, giving the place a moldy smell to accompany the faded smoke.
“A little spooky,” Denny said.
“Stay here if you like.”
“I was just saying, Sarge.”
Meghan went upstairs to Alexa’s bedroom and stood where she had on the morning after the fire. The area around the bed was still blackened, a silhouette of unburned floor where the body had been found. Water damage and stains around the bed. Not much furniture.
She began going through closets, shifting the bed and looking beneath. There was a dresser, burned so that opening the doors took effort and revealed only ruined clothing, a few necklaces and other keepsakes. Nothing of value, nothing requiring the second key.
She tapped the floor, examined the baseboards. Would it have been secreted somewhere? Burned up in a fire? Or was she looking for something that didn’t exist?
If whatever it was belonged to Alexa’s parents, it would be in their bedroom. Meghan opened doors until she found it—a room at the far right of the house. Hardly the size of a proper master bedroom, but with aging owners they probably wanted something on the ground floor.
A queen-sized bed with a canopy stood in the centre of the room, dust shimmering as Meghan trained her flashlight on the double closet doors. She opened the dresser inside and pulled out racks of clothing, blouses and skirts in dry cleaners’ bags, the faded whiff of perfume mixing with old smoke. Shoes, maybe a dozen pairs. Before her stroke, Emily Reed had enjoyed accessorizing as much as anyone.
Beneath the shoe rack was a square of carpet that had been cut out and skillfully fitted back so that the outline was only just noticeable. Removing that revealed a hole carved in the floor, filled with a safe. The second key opened it.
Meghan told Denny to aim the flashlight up and to the right so as not to blind her. She knelt down and swung open the door of the safe. Found herself peering at neat stacks of hundred-dollar bills. She pulled out a stack and flipped through it.
So this was where the Reeds’ savings had gone.
Wedged along the side of the safe, next to the stack of money was a manila folder. Meghan took it out and stood up. Denny adjusted the light so they both could read.
It was a legal document, signed and notarized, prepared on behalf of Richard Vernon Reed and Emily Alexandra Reed.
“A will?” Denny said.
Meghan read:
This document will set out in detail the activities I, Richard Reed, participated in, and in some cases instigated, on behalf of Roger Wilson Garrick. I write this freely, with a clear mind, in the hope of clearing my conscience. It is to be read only in the event of my sudden or unnatural demise.
Denny peered over her shoulder and scanned the first paragraph.
“Holy mackerel,” he said.
Nine
For a guy with his nickname, Tequila’s chosen haunts were fairly dull. Top of the list was the Wendy’s on Buena Vista. Cam ate something called a Baconator, paired with a peppermint Frosty, and watched cars slink along the drive-through. Sukhi had told him Tequila drove a champagne-coloured Navigator. Cam saw dozens of SUVs, a couple of Navs, but none driven by a thin South Asian with a goatee.
Next up was the Mumbai Sweets on 24th, a chain restaurant with a sports bar interior. Cam wasn’t hungry, but he bought a samosa and a bottle of Kingfisher and nursed it for an hour. The clientele was mostly middle aged and white. The TVs around his booth showed football, soccer, pro wrestling.
Third stop: The Sandpiper Bowling Alley. Cam parked with a view of the door and waited, listening to the irritating banter of radio DJs to keep awake. Someone had shot a cop last night in Abbotsford, the shooter a disturbed man who’d tried to return a loaded pistol to an Outdoor Outfitters. The funeral was tomorrow and would be broadcast on local TV. Traffic jams on King George, construction along 152nd.
His list was ten stops long. After cycling through it twice, and still no champagne Nav, he phoned Sukhi to tell her he was giving up.
“Keep looking,” she said, sounding more worried than the last time they’d talked.
“What’s your brother done that he’s run off for?” he asked.
“Not on the phone.”
“You want him found, I need more to go on.”
Sukhi told him she’d call back in ten minutes.
He waited, surveying the door of the Taco Del Mar from the strip of parking slots next to a second-run theatre. There was a Starbucks across the street. Other than locals driving by for coffee, this strip of 152nd didn’t get much foot traffic.
Why these places? Cam thought. Chain restaurants with lots of parking. A dealer would want privacy, wouldn’t he?
But Tequila wasn’t a dial-a-doper, carrying merchandise or interacting with buyers. He was higher up and probably never handled anything himself. What he was afraid of was an ambush. Choosing public spaces with multiple escape routes showed Tequila was cagey, but didn’t help Cam pin down the man’s location.
His phone rang, the pre-set jingle it had come with. Sukhi said, “This has to stay between us. I’m serious, Cam. You can’t breathe a fucking word.”
