Читать книгу Last Song Sung - David A. Poulsen - Страница 8

The Belmont Diner is located in Marda Loop, another of the older neighbourhoods in Calgary, and one of the coolest. A movie theatre called the Marda, long since gone, gave the area its name. Cobb and I were in a booth near the back of the Belmont by 8:30 the next morning, both wondering what Kendall Mark wanted to talk about.

Cobb knew Mark much better than I did, having worked with him back when both men were detectives in the Calgary Police Service.

Kendall Mark had been one of the investigators assigned to the 1991 murder of a nine-year-old girl, Faith Unruh, in a neighbourhood not far from where Jill and Kyla now lived. I’d learned of the little girl’s murder a few months before, when one of Kyla’s friends dropped it on us at dinner one evening.

I had become fascinated, perhaps even obsessed, with the case of the young girl, who had been walking home from school with a girlfriend. When the two parted at the friend’s house about a block from the Unruh house, Faith had continued on toward home. She never arrived, and her body was found the next morning in a nearby backyard. It was determined that she had been murdered shortly after leaving her friend, meaning the killing had taken place in broad daylight in a populated residential part of the city.

Cobb had filled in some of the details of what had happened with the investigation. Police initially thought it would be relatively easy to find and apprehend the killer, given the circumstances of the murder. But that was not the case. Though officers worked hard and long for weeks, and then months, and eventually years, they had come up empty in the search for the killer. Cobb told me that the two lead investigators were never the same, the result of an emotionally charged investigation that failed.

Cobb had also told me of a third policeman, Kendall Mark, who, while not directly assigned to the case, had developed an obsession with finding Faith Unruh’s killer. He had left the force and disappeared, the belief being that the stress of the case had gotten to him and he had simply “lost it” and gone away.

My own fixation had taken me to the neighbourhood many times. I’d driven the street and alley where Faith had lived and died; I’d walked and stood near the yard her body had been found in — not in some ghoulish fascination, but simply, as I had hoped for with my visit to the site of The Depression, to get a feeling for the area and a sense of the place where the horror of Faith Unruh’s death had unfolded.

Which was how I met Kendall Mark face to face. Well, not exactly face to face. I had been jumped and taken down in the alley behind my apartment one night. The man I initially thought was a mugger turned out to be a dramatically altered Kendall Mark, who had spent the years since the murder watching the former Unruh home and the spot where her body had been found. He had set up an elaborate surveillance system with cameras and monitors, all in the hope of one day seeing the killer if and when he returned to the scene of the crime.

It was crazy, of course, the sad compulsion, the mania of a man who could not — would not — let go of the idea that he would one day confront the murderer of Faith Unruh.

The cameras were located in the house Mark had purchased not long after the murder. It sat across and just down the street from the murder location. The cameras had filmed my presence at the scene. Kendall, who had changed his name and his appearance, came close to exacting his long-awaited revenge on the person he thought had to be the killer when he mistook me for that person. I had been fortunate to survive that night.

Now Marlon Kennedy, a black man — formerly Kendall Mark, Caucasian — wanted to meet Cobb and me to talk about … something. Cobb and I had spoken with him a couple of times since the night in the alley when he’d been close to dispensing justice on the wrong person. In part, our conversations with him were designed to gain his assurance that the kind of vigilante action that had nearly ended my life wouldn’t happen again. I was fairly certain our entreaties had fallen on deaf ears. Kennedy had grudgingly agreed that he’d at least let us know before he did anything drastic, an assurance I wasn’t convinced would hold up if he once again felt that he had the killer in his grasp.

Neither Cobb nor I said much at first. We drank coffee but decided to wait on ordering breakfast until Kennedy arrived.

“Any ideas?” I said after a few minutes.

“About?”

“What he wants to talk to us about.”

Cobb shook his head. “No clue. Maybe there’s something he wants us to check out that he can’t since he’s gone underground, or maybe he just wants to throw out some ideas, although I doubt that.… Mark isn’t a real team guy. I’m not sure he ever was. Or maybe he just wants to buy us breakfast because he likes our company. So, to repeat: I have not the faintest idea why he called us.”

I nodded, drank some coffee.

Cobb said, “You?”

I shook my head. “I mean I guess it’s possible he’s got something and your little pep talk about the evils of vigilantism has him wanting to play by the rules and involve us in the apprehension of the killer.”

“Yeah, not likely.”

“I know I’ve asked you before, but do you think he’s … I don’t know …”

“Unhinged?”

I set my coffee cup down. “Well … yeah.”

“I don’t know.” Cobb spoke slowly. “I’m not a psychiatrist or a psychologist, so I can’t answer that. I’d say he’s damaged. This case did that to him, or at least it was the one that put him over the edge. But is being that consumed with finding a killer any stranger than being obsessed with making money and never thinking about anything else … or a guy wanting to reach some magic total on an Xbox game and spending twenty hours a day locked in a room playing the damn thing … or someone spending twelve or fourteen hours a day bodybuilding? Hell, if obsession equals crazy, then there’s a lot of wingnuts out there.”

“Actually there are a lot of wingnuts out there.”

Cobb held up his hands. “Fair enough. I’m just saying a lot of us have obsessive behaviours. I’m not sure that necessarily means we’re nuts.”

“So what’s your obsession?” I asked.

“Right now it’s breakfast. I hope he gets here pretty damn quick.”

“One more thing,” I said. “What the hell do we call him?”

“Tell you what, why don’t we ask him?”

On cue, Kendall Mark, a.k.a. Marlon Kennedy, walked into the restaurant. Without, it seemed to me, ever actually looking at us, he made his way slowly in our direction, his eyes taking in the room like there was actually a chance that Faith Unruh’s killer might be in here.

Habit, I guessed.

He sat down next to Cobb, which I found a bit strange. The two bigger men were sharing a space that clearly hadn’t been designed with people that size in mind. I guessed that, as with a lot of cops, current and former, journalists were not his favourite people, and he preferred a little discomfort to having to share space with a member of the fourth estate.

The waitress returned to our table with a coffee pot. Mark nodded at her, and she poured him a cup and topped up Cobb’s and mine.

“Ready to order, gentlemen?” she said.

“Yeah, I think so,” Cobb answered. “I’ll have the breakfast special, please — eggs over medium with rye toast.”

She looked at me.

“Pancakes, please,” I said. “With sausages, and I’ll have a small orange juice.”

She turned her attention to Mark.

“I’ll have what he said,” he aimed a thumb in Cobb’s direction, “but with whole wheat toast.”

The waitress moved off; no one spoke as we doctored our coffee.

Cobb broke the ice. “I’m guessing you’d prefer that we call you by your new name.”

“Yeah, I’d prefer that.”

I made the mental adjustment and nodded that I was onside. A minute or more passed before Marlon Kennedy spoke again. “Nine thousand days.”

I didn’t have an answer for that, and Cobb lifted an eyebrow as his response.

“In a month or so it’ll be nine thousand days that I’ve been watching Faith’s house and the place where they found her body. Nine thousand days that I’ve either been watching or checking tapes with the cameras working. Not one day off. Some milestone, huh? I’m thinkin’ that a lot of people — people like you — would think that’s some crazy shit.”

I thought it best not to mention that we’d just been having that very conversation. Kennedy took a swallow of coffee, and when neither of us answered, he went on: “A white guy takes oral medication and bombards his body with ultraviolet rays to change his skin to black, changes his name and stakes out a place for twenty-four years — what the hell’s crazy about that?”

It was a funny line, but there was no humour in either Marlon Kennedy’s voice or his face.

“Why’d you call this meeting?” Cobb said.

“Couple of reasons. First one is I need to be away for a few days.”

“And?”

“I need somebody to be there.”

“You’ve got your cameras and tape machines.”

Kennedy shook his head. “They need to be checked — make sure they’re working right. And I need somebody to look at the tapes, see what’s been happening at the two locations. And to be there … a pair of eyes when mine can’t be.”

The waitress arrived with the food, so the next couple of minutes were given over to distributing, passing, salting, and peppering. All three of us took a couple of bites before Kennedy set his fork down and looked first at Cobb, then at me.

“My ex-wife’s dying,” he said. “We split about a year and a half after Faith was killed. She just couldn’t take me anymore. She said I’d changed, and she was right. But it was never a hate thing between us. I never blamed her for leaving. In fact, she’s the only person, other than you two guys, who knows about … what I do.”

The eyes that were normally as intense as any I’d ever seen were softer as he spoke of his ex-wife.

“She moved to Nanaimo maybe ten years ago. Her sister called a couple of days ago. Meg hasn’t got long,” he said. “She kept it from me until now. But they told her it’s only days now until …” The voice trailed off, and the eyes looked down.

“I’m sorry, Marlon, I really am,” I said. “I know what you must be feeling.”

He raised his head, and the look he gave me was cold enough to force me to look away. “What the fuck do you know about —” A couple of heads turned our way.

That was as far as he got. Cobb leaned his elbow on Kennedy’s arm and pressed down. Kennedy tried to pull it free, but Cobb pressed harder and spoke in a low voice: “I don’t want you making a scene in here, Marlon, do you understand? And just for the record, Adam knows exactly what it’s like. Except that they were still together when he lost his wife.”

I could see Kennedy’s face beginning to contort from the pain in his arm, and I thought he might try to hit Cobb with his free hand. But he didn’t. Instead, he held up that hand.

“I didn’t know,” he said, looking at me. “That was way out of line. Sorry.”

I nodded, and Cobb moved off his arm. Kennedy flexed it a couple of times and smiled. “I forgot how tough cops are — even former cops.”

“When are you leaving?” I asked him.

“As soon as I can get packed and gone. Later tonight. There’s a twelve-thirty flight.”

I looked at Cobb. “I know you want to stay on the Foster case. I can do some work on the research side from Marlon’s place while I’m tending video cameras and checking film.”

“I don’t know how long I’ll be gone,” Kennedy said. “Might be a week; might be longer. I’ll check in with you once I’m out there and I know more.”

I nodded.

“I know I’m asking a lot here and —”

I held up my hand. “We’ll make it work.”

“I appreciate it.”

For a few minutes we turned our attention back to our breakfast. After a few minutes, Kennedy laid down his fork and looked again at me.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but your wife … what —”

“She died in a fire,” I said. “The fire was deliberately set.”

He looked at me for a time, then nodded slowly. “You’re that guy. I remember now. You finally got the bitch who did it. I read about it.”

“Yeah.” I looked down at the breakfast I was losing interest in. “Yeah, I’m that guy.”

“Jesus, man. I’m sorry I was such an asshole before.” He held out his hand across the table.

I shook it. “No apology needed.”

“Yeah, there is.” He turned to Cobb. “To you, too.”

Cobb nodded as the waitress came by and topped up coffee cups one more time.

We ate in silence for a while. Kennedy looked up again and spoke in an even more hushed tone than before. “Something I want to say … or maybe ask is a better way of putting it.”

Cobb finished spreading jam on a slice of toast, set it down and turned to face Kennedy. “Yeah?”

“Does this thing seem, I don’t know … off to you? I’ve read the homicide file probably a hundred times. We should have nailed this bastard in no time. It should never have been this hard. Don’t you think that’s weird?”

“I don’t know if weird is the word I’d use,” Cobb said. “Frustrating, for damn sure.”

“Yeah, well, here’s the thing I’ve been wondering — and maybe it’s that frustration you mentioned, or maybe it’s the obsession I have with this case that cost me my family — but lately I’ve been thinking, what if it was a cop? I mean, I get that it’s out of left field, but sometimes I think, why didn’t this piece of evidence happen? Or, why didn’t that turn out to be a match? Stuff like that. An investigation that should have been a twenty-four-hour slam dunk is a twenty-four-year-old cold case. And I’ve been asking myself if it was maybe possible that somebody was on the inside making things a lot more difficult than they should have been.”

“You think it could have been Hansel or Gretel?”

Cobb had told me earlier that one of the lead investigators was a guy named Hansel, which meant that his partners tended to get saddled with Gretel. This Gretel was actually Tony Gaspari.

Kennedy shook his head. “Not them. At least, I don’t think so.… I knew those guys. So did you. Looked to me like they busted their asses on this. Look, I know this sounds like I’m even crazier than you already think I am, but Christ, just think about it, Mike.”

Cobb waited a long moment before answering. “All right, I’ll think about it. I doubt like hell that there’s anything there, but I’ll take a look. And I want you to write down anything you think might be a little off with the investigation.”

“Fair enough. I’ve already jotted down a few notes. When I get back from the island, I’ll put some thoughts together and send them along.”

“Sure. I’ll look at them, but it might not be for a while. We’re working on something right now that’s going to keep us busy.”

“I’m okay with that. It’s not like this thing is going to get any colder if we don’t get right at it. But listen, if you guys are tied up with something, maybe you don’t have time to take over the surveillance at my place right now. I’ll totally understand if —”

I held up a hand to stop him. “The things I’m doing on this other case I can work around helping you out. It’s fine.”

He looked at Cobb, then back at me. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. When do I start?”

“When can you start?”

I shrugged. “Right away, I guess.”

“Why don’t you come by around ten tonight? I can show you the setup before I have to leave to catch my flight.”

“I’ll be there.”

He stood up as if to leave, then put his hands on the table and bent down.

“I’m not expecting you to do this for nothing.”

I held up a hand and shook my head. “Why don’t we talk about that later? For now, let’s just get it done.”

He straightened, looked like he wanted to argue, then changed his mind.

“See you later tonight,” I said.

“I got breakfast,” Kennedy said.

“Not necessary,” Cobb said.

“Actually, it is.” Kennedy turned and headed for the counter.

Our server came by and collected plates and cutlery from our table, giving Cobb and me time to think a little about the points Kennedy had raised during breakfast.

When she’d gone, I sipped coffee and said, “Well?”

“Interesting,” Cobb said.

“The thing that I come away with from that meeting is that the guy is not a crazy person.”

Cobb took some time before answering. “I think you’re right. He was pretty lucid today. But let’s not forget this is the same guy who’s been living in a house staring out at a crime scene for twenty-four years, and when he’s not staring at it he’s videoing the area. And this is also the same guy who took you down, and we don’t know how close he was to taking you out.”

“Yeah, you’re right. So do you think I was stupid to offer to watch over things while he’s away?”

“No, I can’t say that. But one thing I want to make really clear: You see something or you spot something on a tape that seems a little off, you don’t go jumping in your car and racing off after somebody. You call me.”

“I’m totally onside with that. The life of the swashbuckling crime fighter is not for me.”

“Swashbuckling?”

“Think Errol Flynn.”

“Right.”

“What did you think about his idea that we should be looking at the cops for this?”

“Like I told him, I have to think about that.”

“Interesting premise, though. Might explain why the investigation went sideways.”

“That would be one possible explanation.” Cobb nodded slowly. “I’m not sure it’s the most logical one. Anyway, let’s talk about things more current — the Ellie Foster case.” Cobb tapped the Brill file folder.

“Right.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the story I’d written, handed it across the table.

He unfolded the paper and read for a few minutes while I checked my phone. I remembered how much I hated seeing people do that in restaurants and put the phone away, signalled the waitress for more coffee. She came over and topped up my cup. Cobb looked up just long enough to shake his head.

“Your friend is a generous tipper,” said the waitress, whose name tag indicated her name was Betty.

Cobb looked up again. “Really?”

“That surprise you?” Betty asked.

“No, I guess not,” Cobb said.

I shrugged to show I didn’t have an opinion, and Betty headed off in the direction of a table of elderly women who, judging from their loud and never-ending laughter, were having a quite wonderful time.

Cobb read for another minute or two, folded the paper, and handed it back to me. “I like it. I’m not sure it will net us any results, but I can’t see a downside.”

“Okay, I’ll talk to a couple of editors I know, see what we can get going on it.”

“You adding a tip line?”

“What?”

“A number people can call. You going to put contact information in there?”

“Oh, right. Yeah, I thought I’d put in our cell numbers.”

Cobb shook his head. “Correction. Your cell number. This stuff usually nets a couple hundred crackpot calls for every legitimate tip. I’d get yourself a disposable phone just for this. That way, you can throw the damn thing away if you’re overwhelmed with idiots.”

“Disposable phone it is.”

“And I think we should maybe divide up the chase a little bit,” Cobb said. “You’re the music guy. How about you tackle that side? Former agents, club owners, other musicians, anybody you think might be useful — realizing, of course, that a lot of those people may have passed on or could be damn hard to find.”

“That’s stuff I can do while I’m tending Kennedy’s surveillance stuff. I mean, he has a job, so obviously he isn’t sitting at the monitors twenty-four seven. I’m sure if I need to leave to talk to people face to face, I can do that and then check the tapes later to make sure I didn’t miss anything.”

Cobb nodded. “He works in a couple of parks or something, isn’t that what he told us?”

“Grounds maintenance. Works a few hours a day to bring in some money.”

Cobb nodded, then rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. “Okay, you concentrate on the music; I’ll work the other side — family, friends, cops who might have been part of the investigation — anyone I can find. Let’s talk again in a couple of days.”

“Here’s something else.” I pulled out a second piece of paper, this one with the lyrics of the song Monica Brill had received in the mail, and passed them to Cobb. “In your spare time maybe you can take a look, see if there’s anything there that might point us in the right direction … or any direction at all.”

“Thanks.” He glanced down at the lyrics, and then looked back up at me. “You see anything in them?”

I shook my head. “I read them so many times, I’ve pretty well got the thing memorized. But I’m not seeing anything that jumps off the page and says ‘Yeah, better check this out.’”

“I’ll look them over tonight. Maybe have the family take a peek too. They’re probably smarter than me on this kind of stuff.”

“Not a bad idea.” I nodded. “I’m having Jill and Kyla do the same thing.”

“When will the story hit the paper?”

I shrugged. “Newsrooms have been gutted in recent years. A lot of my former contacts are gone. But there are still a few people around that I can talk to. I should be able to get something happening in the next few days.”

Cobb started making moves like he was leaving, then stopped and looked at me. “You sure you’re okay with going to Kennedy’s place tonight?”

“You think I shouldn’t be?”

“Hard to say. Like I said, he seemed pretty with it this morning, but I keep reminding myself that this is a guy who jumped you in a back alley and threatened to kill you.”

“I think if he wanted me dead, I’d already be dead.”

“Probably right. I think the story about his wife is legit. But once he leaves the house for the airport tonight, you call me.” He stood up.

“Will do. And thanks for the concern.”

I expected a joking reply but got a slight nod as I stood and joined him in the walk to the door of the restaurant. On the street, Cobb said again, “I’ll be waiting for your call tonight.”

“Got it,” I said, watching as he headed off in the direction of his Jeep Cherokee.

Before I climbed into the Accord, I pulled out my phone and keyed in Jill’s number.

“Hey, handsome,” came her throaty voice seconds later.

“How’s the woman I love?”

“Better now. How’s your day?”

“Interesting. What have you guys got on later? I’d kind of like to get together, fill you in on some stuff.”

“Well, my daughter attends school, as do a lot of nine-year-olds, and I’m hunched over books and calculators like Ebenezer Scrooge in the counting house.”

“I doubt Scrooge had a calculator.”

“Good point. So much for my literary allusions. Anyway, why don’t you come for dinner? Or do we need to talk sooner?”

“Dinner’s great. How about I pick up Chinese?”

“Sounds good. Just make sure it’s not all deep fried.”

“Check. How is Kyla?”

“Pretty good. Scale of one to ten, I’d say seven.”

“I’d prefer a nine.”

“Me too, but compared to what we went through in the summer, we’re doing pretty well.”

There had been a few weeks that summer that had been damned stressful until the doctors determined what was causing the intense intestinal issues that had knocked a tough kid flat on her back. We were eventually informed about Kyla’s Crohn’s disease and that lifestyle changes would be necessary to help her cope with the illness. Kyla was the strongest of the three of us and had made it clear that she would tolerate no feeling-sorry-for-Kyla behaviours from anyone. And with that as our mission statement, we were all doing okay.

“Okay, lots of veggies it is. See you around six. Love you, babe.”

“I love you too. I’ve got wine, so we’re good on that score.”

“Perfect. See you then.”

I rang off and decided to grab my computer out of the car and get a little work done. I needed some kind of a gateway into the life and times of Ellie Foster. Cobb had mentioned agents, club owners, musicians. That was a good starting place.

I spent the next few hours drinking coffee in the Phil & Sebastian Coffee Roasters on 4th Street and googling everything I could think of that might open a door to the coffee house music scene of the sixties. And finally, at around 3:30, I had my first positive result.

There was a book about Le Hibou, the folk club in Ottawa Ellie Foster had played a few weeks before her Depression gig. I found excerpts of the book online and they were interesting, but the part I thought might be helpful was the list of people — performers, owners, staff, and volunteers — who were part of the history of the club at that time. I googled several of the names and found what appeared to be something fairly current relating to a guy who’d been the assistant manager at the time of Ellie’s disappearance, a guy named Armand Beauclaire.

I googled the name and tracked a phone number for an Armand Beauclaire who lived just across the river from Ottawa, in what was Hull and is now Gatineau. I punched in the number and was greeted three rings later by a cough, a clearing of a throat, and a rumbled “Hello.”

“Mr. Beauclaire?”

“Yes.”

“My name’s Adam Cullen. I’m a freelance journalist, and I’m researching a piece I hope to write on the life of Ellie Foster. She was a folksinger in the sixties who disappeared while performing out here in Calgary. That’s where I’m calling fr—”

“The Depression.”

I paused before replying. “Yes, that’s where she was performing at the time of her abduction. I was wondering if you knew her at all.”

“Of course I knew her. In fact, I booked her. She’d performed twice at Le Hibou, and she was scheduled to come back a few months after her last appearance. But then she … she … ” There was a hint of a French-Canadian accent, but the guy was clearly bilingual. I wouldn’t need Cobb and his fluency in French — at least not yet.

“Mr. Beauclaire, I —”

“Armand, just make it Armand.”

“Okay, Armand. Listen, I’m sure you’ve probably thought about it a lot, especially at the time of her disappearance, but do you have any ideas at all as to what might have happened, who might have had a reason to want to kidnap Ellie Foster?”

There was silence on the other end of the line for a time. “You’re damn right I’ve thought about it. We all did. Denis Faulkner was the co-owner and ran the place. It hit him really hard. Ellie was a sweetheart. I can’t say I knew her that well, but audiences loved her. Everybody loved her. There was absolutely no reason in the world for that to happen. Unless the kidnappers got the wrong person — one of those mistaken identity things, you know?”

“When you hired Ellie for Le Hibou, did you deal directly with her or did she have an agent?”

Another pause. “There was a guy. Not a booking agent, nothing like that. He called himself her business manager, I remember that much. It was him I talked to.”

“You remember his name?”

“Hmm, let me think about that. The guy was a loser, so he wasn’t somebody I wanted to remember all that bad. Last name was Bush — that’s all I got. And I remember that only because we all made jokes about him being ‘bush-league.’ The guy wasn’t well-liked, if you catch my drift.”

“Any reason for that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not. People form opinions about other people. Smoke a little weed, have a coupla beers, and make a determination about someone. I did that a lot. All of us did. Maybe the guy was an asshole; maybe he wasn’t. Half a century later … I can’t honestly say.”

“Did you see him after Ellie disappeared? He come around at all?”

“No, never.”

“So he didn’t represent any other artists?”

“None that we hired.”

“So you can’t tell me if the guy’s still alive, or where he might live if he is alive?”

“Sorry, can’t help you there.”

“Anyone else who was around Ellie — roadies, band members, boyfriends — anybody you think I should maybe talk to?”

“Jesus, it was fifty years ago.”

“Yeah, I know, Armand. I know it was fifty years ago. Just thought I’d ask.”

He cleared his throat. “No, no, you’re right. And I do remember Ellie like she was standing across the room, her guitar around her neck, singing some sad song I didn’t totally understand but would have listened to all damn night, you know?”

“I’ve heard that about her.”

“I’ll tell you something.” Armand Beauclaire’s voice was quieter now. “Ellie Foster was going to be big, and I’m talking about as big as Joni. That’s the gospel truth right there. And whoever pulled her into that car in a goddamned back alley in Calgary, they took that away from us.”

“Look, Armand, I understand that the prevailing sentiment is that she was loved by all. I’ve heard that from everybody I’ve talked to. And I hope this doesn’t sound callous, but somebody didn’t love her. Somebody abducted her, shot two people, and drove off. Can you think of anything or anyone I should be asking about … looking into? However remote … anyone at all?”

Long pause. “Jesus, it’s tough, you know? And like I said before, I loved her to death, everybody did, even that last time.”

I waited a few seconds for more. None came.

“What did you mean by ‘even that last time’?”

Beauclaire cleared his throat. “Like I said, she’d played Le Hibou two previous times. This time, she wasn’t the same. It wasn’t big, like she was a raving, weird-ass bitch or anything, but she was just different. Quieter, maybe. Introspective. Almost like there was something on her mind, something she wanted to talk about, but never did. But hell, maybe it was a lover or something. I mean, that shit happened all the time. But it was like after she played the other place, she was a little different.”

“The other place?”

“Yeah. There was another club. Up in Little Italy. Wasn’t around long. Maybe a year, two at the most. Ellie was one of the first acts they hired. I think they wanted to kick our asses. Didn’t happen. Ellie said she’d never play there again. And she didn’t. Nobody did. At least nobody who mattered. And then it was gone.”

“Remember the name?”

“Sure. The Tumbling Mustard. Cool name. But that was the only cool thing about it.”

“You ever go there?”

“Once. Cold coffee. Bad talent. I didn’t go back.”

“You know the club operator?”

“Nope, not really, except there were two of them, I remember that. Blew into town from the States somewhere, Arizona maybe, or California. Gone in a year or so. Maybe back to the States. I didn’t pay a lot of attention once I figured out they weren’t real competition.”

“Remember either of their names?”

Another pause. “Christ, I can’t remember where I left my glasses, but I’ve got one guy’s name. Fayed. Middle Eastern dude. Ahmad or Abdul or something. Anyway, I think he was the main guy. I can’t remember the other guy’s name. Listen, what kind of story you writing about Ellie? You’re asking some questions that seem a little strange to me.”

I thought about it.

“I am writing a story about Ellie, but that isn’t the whole truth.” I told him about Monica Brill and our investigation, figuring he’d be pissed off about my lying to him. He wasn’t.

“Do me a favour,” he said. “You find out what happened to Ellie, I’d like to know. I don’t think you will after all this time. But like I said, I’d appreciate hearing what you find out.”

“You’re officially on the list. We find anything, I’ll call. That’s a promise.”

“I appreciate that. And I wish you luck.”

“Thanks, Armand. And thanks for your time. If you think of anything else, I’d appreciate a call. Does your phone have call display?”

“Yeah, and I even have a computer. I may be old, but I’m not prehistoric.” He chuckled, but I wasn’t sure if he was laughing at me or at himself. “I can see your number. I’ll write it down, and I’ll call you if I come up with anything.”

I ended the call and banged together a summary of the conversation. I attached it to an email to Cobb and received a reply within ten minutes. It said only, “Good job. Let’s talk later.”

The Chinese food was good, and the hot topic of conversation was volleyball, Kyla’s latest passion.

“So you’ve made the team, then?” I said, after she gave a detailed account of the first few practices of the season.

She shrugged. “I don’t know yet. We have a game tomorrow night. After that, Mr. Napier’s going to tell us who’s on the team.”

“And what do you think your chances are?”

“Pretty good, but it’s not like when your mom’s the manager of the baseball team. Then you’d really have to suck to not make the team. This isn’t like that.”

“I’ll remember that during next season’s tryouts.” Jill laughed. Then she turned to me. “Now, there was something you wanted to talk about. Is this an adults-only topic, or can all of us be part of the discussion?”

“Actually, this is something I’d like to share with both of you.”

It was Kyla and one of her school and baseball buddies who had first sprung the shocking news about Faith Unruh’s murder on us a few months before. Josie, it turned out, lived on the same street Faith Unruh had lived on — and died on — many years before. And Josie had heard snippets of conversation about the murder. She’d shared those snippets with Kyla; then, the two of them filled Jill and me in on what they knew over dinner one night.

I figured Kyla deserved to know that Cobb and I were aware of the case, and while we weren’t exactly conducting a full-blown investigation, we did have our antennae up and at the ready should any new information present itself.

I told them about the meeting Cobb and I had had with Marlon Kennedy. I didn’t mention my earlier meeting with Kennedy in the laneway. Jill already knew about it; Kyla did not, and my desire to keep no secrets from her did not extend to sharing stuff that might scare her.

“And so tonight you’re going to his house for an orientation into the surveillance he’s been conducting on his own all these years,” Jill stated.

“Yeah, and then I’ll be sort of looking after the stuff and filling in for him during the time he’s gone to be with his ex-wife.”

“That is so totally sad,” Kyla said softly. “He sits there every day watching those two houses and videoing everyone who comes around?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“It is sad, honey,” Jill agreed. “It’s really sad.”

We sat silently for a while, watching the evening shadows forming on the street outside.

“I hope whoever did that to Faith — I hope he comes by there one day and Mr. Kennedy gets him.”

I put my hand over hers. “I hope so too, sweetheart, but one thing that’s really important — Mr. Kennedy has to do things in a lawful way. He has to report what he finds out to the police and let them handle it. It wouldn’t be right for him to take the law into his own hands and try to get some kind of revenge on the person — even if he was 100 percent sure he actually had the killer. You can see that, right?”

She thought about it for a minute, then stood up and said, “Yes, I can see it, but it’s still really sad. I’m going to bed to read for a while. Is that okay, Mom?”

“Of course that’s okay.”

Kyla kissed me on the cheek, gave her mom a long hug, and headed off to her bedroom. After a minute or so, I turned to Jill. “Was I too preachy?”

Jill smiled. “I don’t think so. It was a useful message to share with her. Kyla likes to think about things before she makes decisions. She’ll think about this, and in a day or two she’ll come back to it.”

“Are you okay with me doing this?” A couple of times the projects I’d worked on with Mike Cobb had turned ugly. Ugly as in dangerous. I didn’t see any danger in what I was about to do, but there were no guarantees.

“Actually, this is fine,” Jill said. “I’ve been feeling really guilty that I haven’t been volunteering at the Inn lately, and I’ve wanted to get back to it. This is the perfect opportunity.”

The Let the Sunshine Inn homeless shelter and food bank was where I had first met Jill during a search Mike and I had conducted for a young runaway addict.

“Damn boyfriends get in the way of the good stuff,” I said.

Jill smiled and shook her head. “Uh-uh, this boyfriend is the good stuff. No, a lot of it has been due to Kyla’s being sick. And even though she’s a lot better, I’ve been reluctant to get very far away from her. But I think I’m ready to let things return to normal now.”

Normal. Ordinary. Surprising how words like that felt really good after a difficult summer filled with worry over the health of someone we cared so much about.

I looked in the direction of Kyla’s bedroom, then back at Jill.

“God, I love you two people.”

“Us two people are pretty darn crazy about you, too. Or is that we two people?”

“Doesn’t matter … as long as the two people’s names are Jill and Kyla.”

“Turns out you’re in luck.”