Ocean Drive, page 14
I’ve never had a gun pointed at me, and the last fistfight I was in occurred in high school. I didn’t even know what was happening at first, only that I found myself on the floor, tasted blood, and saw the man pointing a chrome plated pistol at my head.
Tequila asked again for the envelope, and I said I didn’t know, but that I’d find it, by tomorrow, please just give me time. I was struck repeatedly with the handle of the gun.
I cried.
I pissed myself.
I believe I passed out.
The next few hours are hazy. I remember someone standing over me, a customer, I think, asking if I was all right. I convinced her it looked worse than it was, and that I’d already phoned an ambulance. She offered to stay till it arrived, but I said my wife was coming by in a minute, and got the lady out of there.
I phoned Roger and told him what happened. I’d never heard him so angry, and I broke down at the words he called me. “You fat fucking moron, if someone took it you better find out before I have to.”
Em arrived, and I confessed. My darling knew before I did what had happened. She insisted on taking me to emergency, where I was treated for a concussion, a broken nose and given a total of fifty-eight stitches.
Alexa met us at the hospital. My daughter bawled at the sight of me. “It’s my fault, Daddy.” She’d opened the envelope, seen that it was full of money, and thought it wouldn’t be missed. It wasn’t theft; as far as she knew it was mine and Emily’s. We were doing so well that it seemed plausible to her that we wouldn’t miss a few thousand.
The story I’d told at the admittance desk was that I hadn’t gotten a look at the person who beat me. A random malicious act. If only it were.
Bob Sutter himself questioned me later that night. He asked if I thought it had been a robbery. I said I didn’t know.
He said he was glad, in any case, that I was okay. “Family and health are most important,” he said. “After that, it’s good everyone holds onto what’s rightfully theirs.”
The remark sounded suspicious, but I didn’t think much of it. As I said, it was a hellacious day, and I think a lot of what followed happened on account of those events.
When I got home I had Alexa bring me the envelope. I made up what she’d spent from our savings. We taped it shut, with all the money inside. The next day I went back to work.
That afternoon, I saw Tequila for the last time. He laughed at my face and said I looked like I’d slipped in the driveway. He feinted a punch and laughed again when I backed up into the battery display behind me.
After that there were no more envelopes.
At the Garricks’ Halloween party, Roger told me our business was finished. Our business, he’d said, as if it would continue with someone else. He cooled toward me after that, though socially we remained friendly, and Emily and Liz continued on as they had.
That is the sum total of what I did on Roger Garrick’s behalf. A few months later the Shaw boy killed him, in front of poor Liz, who had finally managed to get pregnant. I’ll admit that I cried when I heard about Roger’s death. But part of me was also relieved. My tie to that world was severed, as far as I knew.
So why record this testimony, if the principle player is dead? Partly as confession. Partly as insurance, should anyone seek to harm me or my family. If that seems farfetched, I don’t disagree—just as I didn’t when Roger first approached me with that car.
Christ, did Meghan need a cigarette.
She ran off a photocopy of the document, then returned the original to its evidence bag, along with the recovered money. All told there had been one hundred and forty-eight thousand dollars in the safe. The money was more baffling than the note, and the note was plenty baffling.
How much of it did Meghan believe? Most, she decided. A working-class guy like Richie Reed wouldn’t invent scenarios of pissing his pants or breaking down in tears.
Her doubts lay with the women, specifically Richie’s repeated exhortations of their innocence. Calling his wife “my darling.”
Emily didn’t know—except she went along with it.
Alexa didn’t know—Richie described her theft like she’d borrowed bus fare from the drawer, not several thousand from an unmarked envelope.
And Liz—certainly not a wide-eyed innocent who stood meekly by the side of her husband. Why throw in mention of her struggles with pregnancy?
Liz had told Meghan she’d been paying for Alexa’s college. That didn’t square with Richie Reed’s account. Was this whole thing concocted to blackmail Roger’s widow? If so, why did the Reeds withdraw their own life savings? Who the hell pays the person they’re extorting?
If the money came from the Garricks, then what happened to the cash siphoned from the Reeds’ account?
The mention of Tequila was the most troubling. Ten years ago he’d been a member of the Vipers, before his defection to the League of Nations. The document didn’t specify what business he’d done with Roger Garrick. Only that he’d acted as bagman, with Richie Reed’s station as the drop. That connected Richie to the chief suspect in his daughter’s murder, for all the good it did.
Mysteries on top of mysteries. Meghan dialed Liz Garrick’s number.
“This is becoming a weekly session,” Liz said.
“We‘ve got a lot to talk about.”
“We do. Tomorrow at the same time, my place again?”
“How about mine?” Meghan said.
“If you insist.” Liz gave a self-deprecating laugh. “I’m not sure I have your address, Meg. Could you give it to me?”
“No problem at all, Lizzie. It’s 15299 Pacific Avenue. From the beach you head up Johnston, turn right at Five Corners.”
“Perfect, thanks. Wait. That’s—”
“The station,” Meghan said. “My office. See you around eight.”
Hanging up shouldn’t have provided so much satisfaction.
* * *
Before she left for home, Meghan checked her emails. Surrey PD wanted the slugs and casing from Michael May’s murder, for comparison with their double homicide. Both involved a .45 ACP.
Denny Fong was on night duty. He smiled at her as she came out of her office. Denny’s confidence was up since the forensic conference. She told him to transport the slugs from the evidence locker to the lab in Surrey and to make sure he got the proper signatures.
“Chain of custody,” he said. “I’m on it, boss.”
She remained a step away from him, to keep him from smelling the whisky. No need to get rumours started. Her shift had ended, she was on her own time and Meghan Quick could handle her liquor.
“Going home,” she said. “Have a safe night, Denny.”
“Night, boss. Sleep well.”
She treated herself to a cab ride home, thinking she’d ask Amanpreet or Katy to swing by in the morning and pick her up.
“You’re the police?” the taxi driver said, as they rolled through quiet intersections. The trees around the Semiahmoo Mall were garlanded with white Christmas lights, a Seasons Greetings banner across the entrance. Meghan remembered taking Trevor there, eons ago, for his first visit with Santa.
“Yeah,” Meghan said, “I am the police.”
* * *
At the curb in front of her house she paid the driver too much. He returned the fifty to her wallet and helped her select a twenty instead. He thanked her for the tip and they wished each other a merry December.
The season of stress was upon them. The season of breaking up pointless fights, struggling to find shelter for the homeless when the snows hit. The season of endless booze- and drug- and stress-related issues, any of which could spark off into horror. The season of depression and loneliness, of pills taken and razors dragged across wrists. Suicide by Christmas, she thought.
But it would also mean time to spend with her son. Maybe Rhonda would fly back. They’d left things at a reasonably good point their last conversation. Not that it would ever be entirely repaired, but they could be civil, could give Trevor the best Christmas he could expect.
And in truth, she missed Rhonda. And always would. And accepted that.
Give her a call right now, she thought. See if Ronnie can spare the time. Or maybe wait till you’ve sobered up a little.
Meghan had the phone in her hand, was dialing, when she noticed a sound like drowning coming from upstairs.
In an instant she was sober, mounting the steps with her gun drawn. “Who’s there—Trevor?” Thinking of the man she’d fought the other day, Tequila, who’d left the bruises on her cheek and shoulder.
Would he lay in wait for her—here?
I’m in fucking charge of the police force here, Meghan thought.
As if that meant anything.
The hallway split in two at the top of the stairs. Meghan saw a light on from the left, and peered around the corner. Then heard the sound behind her, turned, nearly fired.
Her son was on his side, unconscious. Arms and legs secured behind him with plastic zip ties. Trevor had been doused with something. Meghan recognized the smell.
Kerosene.
Eleven
Sports memorabilia decorated the walls and shelves of Scott Doppler’s private office. Framed and signed jerseys, balls and pucks in shadow boxes. Photos, Scott with his arms around retired defencemen and designated hitters taken at auto mall meet-and-greets. He’d been trying to get his father to sponsor a Doppler & Doppler hockey team for years; as Scott told Cam, the old man was coming around.
Cam was seated on a commemorative chair, green laminated wood, taken from some long-gone stadium. He leaned forward, sending a creak through the chair, which caused Scott Doppler to grit his teeth.
“About the job,” Cam said.
“Like I told you in the hospital, we’re happy to have you back when you’re feeling up to it.” He pointed at the faded scar on Cam’s cheek. “Looks like you healed up nicely.”
“Nights might be a problem for me.”
Scott rubbed his hands together. “Yeah, that’s a toughie. A lot of container work has to be done by morning. We could put you on swing shift, how’d that be? Four to midnight? What about three to eleven?”
“Days might be a problem, too.”
Cam stretched his legs out leisurely, keeping eye contact with the vice president. Part of him was enjoying this. Watching Scott’s brow furrow, the man sputter and act confused.
“Let me remind you what we do here, Cam—”
“You get a piece of the containers Tyson and Sheedy empty,” Cam said. “That will continue.”
Scott’s eyes bugged out, his jaw motored soundlessly. “I’m not exactly clear—”
“My schedule changes up,” Cam said. “Sometimes at the last minute. What I’ll do is, end of the week, I’ll call and tell you which shifts I worked. You make sure I get paid for them. You personally.”
“I’m not—”
“Then if anyone asks, you can show them your records.”
“Hold on a sec, buddy, let’s you and me—”
“Also,” Cam said, “I want my forklift ticket. I’ll arrange for it and get them to invoice you.”
“We don’t, our policy is not to—”
“Then I’ll be getting the ticketed rate, same as my friends.”
“Cam—”
“Like I said, what you’ve worked out with Sheedy and Tyson for the cans, that’ll continue.”
Scott sighed. Clasped and unclasped his hands. Stared at Cam as if the younger man had pointed a gun at him.
“What happened to you?” Scott said. “You started here, you had a great attitude, great work ethic.”
“I still do,” Cam said. “My price went up is all.”
* * *
The Surrey police told him his car had been found. Would he mind stopping by and talking to them about the circumstances of its disappearance?
Cam was relieved that he wouldn’t be dealing with the White Rock cop, Meghan Quick. She’d sense something off about his story. Since Softball City was technically over the dividing line in Surrey, he was dealing with a larger but less personal force. Cam was greeted at the station by two officers in suits who were probably from IHIT, the Integrated Homicide task force, and sure as shit weren’t talking to him about a car theft.
His story was brainless and simple. He’d been sick for a week, barely able to leave the house. The only place he’d gone was the local pharmacy. He’d even rescheduled meeting his PO—call him if you don’t believe me.
The car could have been stolen at any time that week. Sorry I can’t be more specific.
He knew with his record they’d look hard at him. But there was nothing to see. When they brought up the two dead men in Sunnyside Acres, he pleaded ignorance. Had never seen their faces, which was the truth. Had no idea about the Vipers. He’d been away a long time, and his work schedule at the warehouse was gruelling.
Even knowing that his movements from then on would be scrutinized, that he was possibly a suspect, didn’t alarm him. For one thing he hadn’t shot them—Tequila did. Except for the small puncture wound in his forearm and a slight numbness when he rotated his wrist, there was no evidence he’d been involved at all.
More than that, though. Cam had been through the machinery of the justice system before. He knew the hoops that would have to be jumped through to get a warrant for his place, let alone an indictment. An arrest on suspicion alone was out of the question.
The fact was, even if it went to trial, there was no way twelve jurors would convict someone based on their car sharing a parking lot with that of two dead men. A crown prosecutor would know that. If not, a lawyer like Zoe Prentice would make them see it.
He was off the hook. Legally, at least.
* * *
Cam took precautions when he next met with Sukhi, changing taxis at the bus loop at Newton Exchange. He arrived fifteen minutes late, and when she opened the door of her parents’ place, he moved in for a kiss and a grope. Sukhi pulled away.
“Harv’s here,” she whispered.
He was inside at the kitchen table, nursing a beer. Dressed in a polo shirt and slacks, a black workout headband. He nodded at Cam and told him to have a seat.
“You haven’t been around,” Harv said, his tone friendly, conversational.
“Sick. And then had to catch up on work.”
“Glad you got that sorted. Sukhi said you figured out what we’re doing and want on board.”
Cam nodded, deliberately not looking across at her, but wondering what her game was.
“Shit’s delicate,” Harv said. “You heard about the two dead Vipes in the forest?”
Cam shrugged.
“I knew those guys. An act of aggression like that, their people’re gonna want who did it. Makes keeping the peace a fucking challenge.”
Harv pointed at Sukhi, who was studying her phone.
“Her brother’s off the fucking grid right now, and the Vipes want his head. Know anything about that?”
Not sure what the play was, Cam said nothing. He could only guess that Tequila had been the one Harv sent to work out a peace, and that Tequila’s actions had royally fucked things up.
Harv stared at him, emptied his beer. Pressed a fist to his mouth to stifle a belch.
“I’ve got a lot riding on this,” he said. “You’re smart, you get shit done, and you don’t got the baggage a lot of us do. Only thing is, can I trust you?”
“Course,” Cam said.
“Makes it hard when I find your car’s left at the fucking scene. Got an explanation for that?”
Sukhi’s eyes told him to say nothing. He repeated his story about being sick, about the stolen car. Harv nodded thoughtfully.
“You think it’s possible that Tequila jacked your ride?” he said.
Too emphatic an agreement would be a bad sign. “Possible,” Cam said. “I don’t know him.”
“But if your car was there and you weren’t, that’s what must’ve happened. Like logically. He finds out where you live, heads there and boosts your ride.”
“I guess.”
“Lying fuck.” Cam turned, hearing the voice from the hallway.
He saw the gun first, that same chrome automatic from the parking lot. Tequila Narwal entered the room and placed the barrel against Cam’s temple. Hard enough to push him a step back, cornering him against the wall.
“You lying fuck. You were there. You shot them. You fucked up me and Harv’s work.”
“No.”
“Face the fucking wall.”
Harv began patting down his legs, then bound his arms behind him. Zip ties, he thought.
“Fucked my sister, too, didn’t you?” Tequila prodded him in the spine with the barrel suggestively. “She gets around. Fucking initiation rite. Didn’t I tell you, Harv?”
“You told me.” Harv ratcheted the ties tighter till Cam’s wrists were bleeding and his arm sockets ached.
Sukhi had backed toward the kitchen, tears on her cheeks. She wasn’t meeting Cam’s gaze.
A kick to the back of his knee knocked him to the tile floor. Cam sprawled, felt himself pulled upright, felt the pistol grip connect with his ear. The pain broke loose a shiver of fear, and he realized what was in store.
Harv paced in front of him, talking low. “Tito? Yeah. We got him. Where’s Cody want to meet?”
Tequila crouched in front of him, smirking. He pressed the barrel into the centre of his forehead.
“You on your way to court, son.”
* * *
A grey membrane had fallen over him, like being submerged in freezing water, till even the sensation of cold began to fade. He imagined Death sitting next to him in the back of Tequila’s Navigator. A pale-skinned, clerical-looking woman, not unlike Zoe Prentice. Maybe he could get a message to Zoe. She could extract him—
