Ocean Drive, page 16
Once, when Trevor was an infant, Meghan had left her service weapon out. Her son had spotted it on the end table by the door, slipped out of her arms and began to waddle toward it. Meghan had been half-asleep, lulled by the cartoon they’d been watching. Great Mouse Detective.
She’d felt the situation before understanding it. His familiar weight next to her was absent. Was he by her feet, on the edge of the couch? Motoring her arms and legs confirmed that he wasn’t. Opening her eyes, she spotted Trevor, now on all fours, rocking the legs of the little table.
Meghan had fallen off the couch and out-crawled her son, scooping him up before the gun toppled.
It would never happen again—to this day she locked her SIG up every night when she came home. She’d only brought up the incident to Rhonda as an example of a crisis averted, to make a joke about her own reflexes. Rhonda hadn’t found it funny.
That was their first major argument, and had set the tone for the rest of their relationship.
Carelessness, danger, long hours, stress. The job was killing their marriage. Meghan couldn’t see how it was affecting Rhonda and Trevor. That was Ronnie’s point, anyway. Meghan admitted the job had its drawbacks. She agreed with her wife—hadn’t she said she’d lock up the gun from now on, and done so?—but the argument continued.
They’d both had a few drinks by that time.
Rhonda had said, and taken it back immediately, but meant it: “I carried him, Meg. That’s always going to count for something.”
“Meaning I’m less his mom because he came out of you.”
“Let’s just drop it. I’m sorry I brought it up.”
Meghan, on occasions, would throw those words back at Rhonda. “You should decide, since you carried him,” or “I guess that’s another thing you carrying him counts for.” Sometimes playfully, though it always had an edge. She’d come to regret it, much more than Rhonda regretted saying it in the first place.
* * *
The kerosene had soaked into his clothes. Meghan cut her son loose and slung his arms over her shoulders, dragging Trevor down the stairs. When the ambulance arrived, she rode with him to Peace Arch Hospital. Panic churned the alcohol fog in her head.
At the hospital, he came around and smiled at her. The doctors sedated him, and Trevor fell asleep with Meghan holding his hand.
Cuts on his wrist and ankle, a concussion—but safe. Fine.
Not to Rhonda.
“He should come and live here,” Rhonda said on the phone.
“I’m sure Chicago is much safer than White Rock.”
“Meg, you said the attack was a message, right? To you. How fair is that, for Trev to be hurt, on account of your—”
“Don’t, Ronnie,” Meghan said. “I neither wanted nor caused this. I’m tired. I’m with him now. I’m not gonna fight.”
She braced for the hysterics, instead hearing a loud sigh. She imagined Rhonda leaning back in her office chair, a backdrop of the city skyline outside her window.
“You’re right. You’re not at fault, Meg.”
“Thank you.”
“But it happened regardless. He’ll be safer with me.”
“In Chicago.”
“In Oak Park. With my family close by.”
“I guess Trevor should be the one to decide that.” Meghan was glad she’d beat Rhonda to making the point of Trevor having the final say.
“I just—I worry about our son, Meg. His safety means everything. Yours too.”
It was difficult to hear Rhonda break down the way she, Meghan, wanted to. Wanted to and couldn’t, because she was detachment commander, and her co-workers were watching, and because years of old-boy’s-club bullshit had taught her to conceal her emotions. And because Rhonda would eventually cast blame on her, for not protecting Trevor, even though Rhonda was a thousand miles away.
Meghan wished their roles were reversed and Rhonda was comforting her.
“Will you let me know when he’s better?”
“Of course,” Meghan said. Then, before she could stop herself, “Why don’t you fly home?”
“Meg, I can’t.”
“For the holidays? Trevor would love that.”
“I’ll try.”
“I would, too. Like it, I mean.” Grimacing but hopeful.
“I promise I’ll try,” Rhonda said. “Take care of him, Meg. And yourself. Promise.”
She promised.
* * *
She stayed at the hospital, pulling rank to overrule visiting hours. Her phone’s battery ran out. She bought a coffee from the cafeteria and immediately came back and harangued the night nurse to make sure Trevor was comfortable.
Denny Fong stopped by the hospital to take their statements. He’d gone through the house, found no forced entry, nothing amiss. Meghan reminded him to have the techs fingerprint the zip ties.
Denny looked at Trevor, asleep. “Does he remember anything?”
“Just unlocking the door. He never saw his attacker.”
“What was he doing there? I thought he’d moved out.”
“Surprising me,” Meghan said. “His student loans had come in, he wanted to take me to dinner.”
Denny patted Trevor’s foot. “I’m glad he’s okay. You need anything, boss, just holler.”
“Make sure they print those zip ties.”
* * *
At eleven the next morning the door to Trevor’s room opened and Liz Garrick stepped through, carrying a coffee tray. She looked down at Trev and her mouth pursed in a look of sympathy. To Meghan it appeared rehearsed, artificial.
Liz presented her with the tray.
“You missed our meeting,” Liz said, “and your phone is off. When I heard what happened I came here. I hope that’s not indelicate.”
“Of course.” Meghan took a cup off the tray, smelled cinnamon and vanilla. “Thank you.”
“Who would do such a thing,” Liz wondered, after Meghan had explained roughly what happened.
“I’ll figure it out,” she said.
“I hope so.” Liz indicated the seat next to her and Meghan nodded. “I know we left things a little rough,” Liz said, “but if you need anything, I’m glad to be of help.”
“Thank you.”
“Was the business you mentioned yesterday terribly important?”
Meghan had almost forgotten about the money and Richie Reed’s letter.
“Liz, do you know a lot about your husband’s business dealings?”
“Everything.” She smiled. “It’s my business now, after all.”
“Was there a side of it that was less than legal?”
“Of course not.”
“I don’t want to dig up ancient history,” Meghan said. “But if Roger was involved in something illicit with the Reeds, it might bear on Alexa’s murder.”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing about envelopes, members of the Vipers making pickups from the Reeds’ service stations?”
“Meghan, that’s asinine.” Liz looked over and patted her hand. “You’re stressed out, aren’t you?”
“Badly,” Meghan admitted.
“And maybe you’re predisposed to believe cynical rumours over friends. Bob told me that’s an occupational hazard.”
“Have a lot of talks with Bob, don’t you?”
“Meg—”
“Liz, I don’t give a shit what corners Roger was cutting. He’s gone and there’s no sense covering it up—unless it’s still going on.”
“Think what you want,” Liz said, placing her coffee down on the bed stand, beginning to gather her purse and coat.
Meghan watched as the woman slung the coat over her shoulder and walked out, leaving a residue of lavender in the air. Ever fashionable. Meghan followed her out to the elevator bank.
“You have a chance to get in front of this,” Meghan said. “Explain it now. All of it. That way when it comes to light—and it will, Liz, every damn thing—there’ll be no surprises.”
“There are always surprises,” Liz said. “I’d’ve thought a cop would know that.”
The elevator doors opened and Liz joined the people and the food trolley inside. Turning to look at Meghan, she said, “Do what you feel is best for you and yours.”
* * *
She spent Christmas Eve at Trevor’s bedside. They talked and ate a turkey dinner just short of abysmal, watched the stop-motion Rudolph on the small, cube-shaped portable television.
No internal bleeding, no signs of brain damage. Another night and he could go home.
* * *
Rhonda didn’t fly back. Work issues. Their Christmas was a quiet one.
* * *
Back at work on Boxing Day, fielding her co-workers’ notes of concern, catching up on what she’d missed.
The two murder victims found in Sunnyside Acres had been ID’d as Gurvinder Atwal and Joe Bains, both members of the Vipers, both with records for minor thefts, impaired driving and drug possession. The .45 ACP slugs matched those from Michael May.
The stadium’s easternmost parking lot had held a Dodge Charger registered to Atwal. The only other car in the lot was an empty, bullet-ridden Civic registered to Cameron Shaw.
Well fuck me, Meghan thought.
She phoned Surrey PD and asked for details on Cam’s involvement. Learned he’d declared the car stolen two days after the shooting.
“Bullshit,” she’d told the detective from Major Crimes.
“Probably is,” the detective said.
“You know he’s got a record? Has killed before?”
“Yes we do, matter of fact. Anything else you think we’re overlooking?”
“Sorry,” Meghan said, wanting the conversation to continue. “Have you found Tequila Narwal? He’s our main suspect in the May killing.”
“I understand you had a run-in with him.”
“At the victim’s home, yes.”
“We’ll let you know if he turns up,” the detective said. “Happy Holidays.”
“You too,” Meghan said. And thanks for nothing.
* * *
Sukhi Kaur pulled the same tantrum when Meghan showed up at her parents’ door and asked about her brother. She didn’t know anything. Tequila barely spoke to the rest of the family. She never saw him do drugs, let alone sell them. Why you got to harass me all the time?
Meghan was having none of it.
“Let’s see how you like a night in the cells,” Meghan said.
“Okay, okay. I don’t know where he is.”
“Fine. Want to leave your parents a note?”
“C’mon.”
“You’ll get a phone call once you’re processed.”
“For what? What’d I do?”
“Impeding an investigation to start with,” Meghan said.
She nearly dragged Sukhi to the car before telling her she could come and talk nicely or in cuffs.
Meghan put her in a hard interview room, white-painted brick walls, a wobbly chair in the far corner. She watched the young woman on the monitor from her office. Sukhi picked at her shoelace.
Meghan entered the room, shoving a Dr. Pepper across the table.
“I’m going to ask you what your brother was up to, and if you lie to me or give me any more shit, I’m arresting you. I am fucking through playing around, Sukhi. Your brother attacked my son.”
“He wouldn’t do anything like that—”
“You have the right to remain silent—”
“Okay,” Sukhi said. “I don’t know what he did but he hasn’t been around. I been kinda worried about him.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
“I don’t know, a few nights ago?”
“Which night?”
“How do I know—”
“Anything you say will be—”
“Okay, okay,” Sukhi said. “Like a week before Christmas. He asked me to pick him up. I forget from where.” Seeing Meghan’s expression: “Okay, from 20th and maybe 148th, near the forest.”
“Near Softball City.”
“I guess.”
“How’d he get there?”
“Just said to pick him up.”
“And you didn’t ask?”
“No,” Sukhi said. “I don’t ask him shit because he won’t say shit. And that’s the truth, okay?”
“This was the night of the shootings.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Get up,” Meghan said. “You’re going to the cells.”
“Yeah, okay, it was the same fuckin’ night. But he didn’t say anything about it.”
“You abetted him.”
“No way.”
“What do you do, Sukhi?” Meghan asked. “You have a job? You in college?”
“I help my parents. Look after their place.”
“I think you’re as dialed into the League of Nations as your brother,” Meghan said. “And this act? The dumb spoiled bitch who doesn’t know anything? It’s about played out.”
“Whatever.” Sukhi slumped in her chair, arms crossed.
Meghan rolled her chair closer, cutting off the room.
“Young lady,” she whispered, “if you don’t tell me something, you’re going to prison. Your brother made choices. Those don’t have to affect you.”
“I don’t know where he is, okay?”
“But if you hear from him, Sukhi, if I find out you’ve seen him and didn’t tell me? Jail.”
The girl wiped her nose and nodded.
“Last thing,” Meghan said, “then we’ll get you out of here. You know a guy named Cameron Shaw?”
She’d thrown the name out, thinking the girl would deny it. And she did—but not before her face bugged out. As if Meghan had thrown a live grenade in her lap.
* * *
According to his PO, Cam was a model parolee. Pissed clean and reported regularly, other than once when he was down with the flu. Cam’s employer vouched for his work ethic, said he’d been on nights for weeks now, driving a forklift and emptying shipping containers.
The picture of Cameron Shaw they were selling was too glossy and airbrushed to fool her. But Meghan was in a bind. The double homicide wasn’t her case, and if she questioned Shaw again without informing IHIT, she’d risk an interagency feud. Right now she needed all the cooperation she could get.
* * *
Meghan slept on the couch, letting Trevor take her bed. She woke to find a plate of cinnamon toast in front of her. Her son entered, carrying a Bodum press full of coffee.
“You shouldn’t keep your butter in the fridge,” he said. “It clumps when you spread it.”
Meghan ate some of the toast and told him it was perfect.
“Feeling better?” she asked.
“My wrist itches a little. And my head has like this ringing, like a dial tone.”
“The days before the break-in,” Meghan said, “did you notice anything weird? Maybe someone at school gave you a funny look?”
“No, nothing.”
“You sure?”
Trevor groaned. “Do you really have to go full Cop Mom on me right now?”
“You’re right, honey, I’m sorry.”
They talked about school, about plans for New Year’s. Christmas had been a wash, but maybe a small party here? A bottle of Laphroiag 15, beer for Trevor, some sausage and Ritz crackers and that cheese spread that comes in the red tub?
“Ronnie’s coming for New Year’s,” Trevor said. “We should get her something.”
It was news to Meghan. They’d talked yesterday, Trevor and Rhonda. She’d booked her flight home for the 30th.
“If it doesn’t work out,” Meghan said.
“Yeah, I know, I won’t get my hopes up too high.”
“A little high is fine.” Meghan smiled. “It would be nice to have her home.”
“I don’t get why you didn’t stay together,” Trevor said. “And believe me, I know that’s what every child of divorce says, but—oh shit.”
Meghan looked at him, thinking it was something internal, reaching for her phone to dial emergency.
“I just realized,” Trevor said, “like you were asking. There was something at school.”
He’d been at Newton Exchange, waiting for the express that took him across 72nd to the college. There’d been another passenger who was kicked off by the driver. Some kind of altercation. Trevor saw the guy flip off the driver and stomp away. But not before he’d looked through the back windows and made eye contact with Trevor.
“He just looked pissed,” her son said. “Someone on the bus said he was a gangster and the driver hadn’t wanted to drive him.”
“What did he look like?”
“Just a guy. Kinda short. Purple bandanna on his head.”
“And you thought the look he gave you was important. Was meant for you specifically.”
“Looking back, maybe, but not at the time. I had my headphones on and wasn’t really paying attention. But that night on the ride home I saw somebody I thought was him, but it turned out not to be.”
“You’re sure they weren’t the same,” Meghan said.
“Positive. The second guy was taller and had a Khalsa tattoo on his neck. I was staring at the back of his head for most of the ride home. Different guys, just dressed the same. Guess there’s no law against wearing purple, is there?”
* * *
The safest place for Trevor was at work with her. Meghan drove to the office and parked him at her desk with a laptop. She told him not to leave and informed the staff to keep an eye on him.
She dug up the Gang Task Force number and asked to be put through to Inspector Nora Epstein. Explained about the attack and the men tailing Trevor.
