Читать книгу Holly Martin Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Lou Allin - Страница 8

Where the hell’s Martin?” A short man with an Italian-tailored suit, off-white shirt and striped club tie banged into the detachment, clipboard under his arm and the door squeaking behind him. His pants looked as if they had been pressed en route from the car. Iron grey hair was barbered and slicked. A dark blue raincoat hung over his arm, Burberry by the classic brown-plaid lining. He took a slow assessment of the room, barely suppressing a contemptuous smile but allowing his nostrils to flare at the rustic decor. A practiced expression? Affixing a sheet to the bulletin board, Holly suppressed an instinct to salute, tug a forelock, even kowtow.

Her outstretched hand met a cursory shake, the fingers stiff and unwelcoming. “Welcome, Inspector...sir.”

His cold battleship-grey eyes flicked up and down. “Whitehouse is the name. I’ve been sent out here by an officious boss on a fool’s mission, and I intend to wrap it up as fast as I can. So let’s be clear.” He paused ominously. “What exactly do you have? What have you done? And don’t omit the slightest detail. Some of it may have to be undone. More to the damned point, why the hell did you wait how many days before calling in?”

The building wasn’t shaking, but she felt like an earthquake had struck. Fortunately, Chipper was off supervising down the road, where an accident with a delivery truck and a hikers’ shuttle bus had closed one lane in the Sombrio Beach area. Having the top brass criticize either her actions or inactions undermined what little authority she was nurturing. “Two days, sir. But that’s because—”

“Never mind the excuses. Get to the point, Corporal. And I’m not surprised that this is your first assignment.”

He seemed oblivious to the fact that civilians were in earshot, two older women whose purses had been stolen from their convertible while they had stopped for a picnic lunch and detoured behind bushes for a pee. Holly passed a hand over her forehead, conscious of Ann’s throat-clearing. The older woman sat awkwardly in her duct-taped chair and considered Whitehouse from the corner of her hooded eyes. Her lips were tight and her breathing deep, as if she were trying to relax stubborn back muscles.

“I think we’d better go to my...office and get comfortable. Would you care for coffee?”

He grunted a negative, and they proceeded. She shut the door as two bicycle volunteers came in to talk to Ann. They reported suspicious vehicles parked in out-of-the-way places, and those abandoned or without license plates. Since nearly half of the local cars and trucks sported dented fenders or non-disabling damage too costly to repair, standards were relative. If a muffler was dragging, a fender was loose, or a windshield was cracked, that was another matter.

Holly spent half an hour reviewing the few verifiable facts of the case, her mouth so dry that she stopped twice for water. Whitehouse took the copies she’d prepared but gave no mollifying signs of approval of her cautionary move, merely retrieved a pair of half-moon reading glasses, then ran fingers through his steely hair. The back of each hand was peppered with an angry rash. Eczema? A nervous man, then. That could explain his bluster. The small weakness pleased her.

“Goddamn waste of resources. Pulling me out of Major Crimes just as a sting operation was going down. Prisoner for the day. We need to talk to these students again, not on neutral or home ground. Here. As soon as possible.” He folded his arms in an aggressive posture. “The atmosphere of a police station always loosens the tongue. Hit them fast, and hit them hard. That advantage is gone now, and don’t think they won’t know it.” He glared at her as if she were a bothersome insect.

Did he expect her to play good cop-bad cop games? “I’m not sure Angie was out there alone. There’s the condom wrapper. And I’m wondering about the sweetgrass we found?” Her voice seemed weak and insecure, especially the rising tone at the end of the sentence. Sometimes women made a question out of an assertion. She clutched the chair arm out of his sight and vowed to get back on track. “It’s used for—”

“I know all about that.” He raised a sharp, inquiring eyebrow, as good as a stab. “Very tricky. We don’t want to get accused of racial profiling. When you interviewed the students, were there any Indians? Port Renfrew’s known for that. They get into brawls with twenty people, and by the time we arrive, the streets are deserted, and we look like assholes.”

“All the Notre Dame students are Caucasian except for two exchange students from Sierra Leone. Others could have been at the beach. We have First Nations tribes in the area.” With his outmoded terminology, she could guess what he called Chipper’s ethnic background.

“Go on. You have my undivided attention.” His tone was less than sincere. “What did the park staff say?”

With some consternation, she related that Tim Jones had mentioned the possibility of boys camping illegally on Botanical Beach. Why hadn’t she followed up on that? A raucous Steller’s jay scolded as she looked out the window.

Whitehouse’s voice jerked her back from her thoughts. “What’s the matter? For god’s sake, pay attention. Don’t waste my time.”

“Sorry.” She felt herself blush crimson, the heat moving from her neck to the top of her head.

On his clipboard filled with yellow lined paper, Whitehouse made a note with a silver pen, underlining it decisively. “So talking to that Jones fellow, that’s something your people can handle. What else do you do around here in Malibu but give parking tickets?”

Were it possible for a woman to feel unmanned, Holly knew the sensation. “Well, I—”

“Now what about these students? What’s your contact number at the school? Who’s in charge? I’ll do those interviews myself. Let you see how it’s handled. Turn on the speakerphone and make the calls.”

Assigned to her place as a secretary, Holly picked up her notebook, one hand shaking slightly. She’d have to watch everything she said and did. Chipper was right about Jeff Pasquin. If anyone had a grudge against Angie, he did. But what about his alibi? She reached Paul Gable at the school after someone had gone looking for him.

“Cost cuts throughout the diocese mean that I have to teach a class in auto shop to fill in for a man out on sick leave this week. I used to be pretty good with cars, but I’ve forgotten more than I learned.”

His complaining voice made her wonder if teaching, for all its perks, was such a breeze. She was still thinking about those boys on the beach.

“But listen to me droning on. What can I do for you?”

Whitehouse was leaning forward and motioning to her, speeding up his hand like an old-fashioned movie camera. She told Gable that West Shore had sent someone to investigate the case.

“A detective?”

“We call them inspectors. British touch, I guess.”

A hmmmmm came over the line. “I hate to see the students going through this again. They’re just settling down. Still, you know your job. Guess the top brass wants you to be as thorough as possible.” She could see Whitehouse narrowing his eyes. Why didn’t he take the call? Though she sat still, inside she wriggled like a worm on a hot griddle. And this was making her look like a fool to Gable, not that she cared. Why did Chipper think Gable was “creepy”? Some male thing? He wasn’t her type, but some women might find him attractive.

“I doubt that we’ll need to talk to more than a few students.” To save time, she decided to pick his brain while she had him on the phone. “We’ll be sending a car for those we want to interview. Anyone under eighteen needs a parent or guardian.”

“What, today? This may take time.”

“We don’t have the inspector with us for long. I’m hoping this can be arranged.”

“You’re taking them to the station?” Incredulousness made its way into his mellow voice. “Isn’t that a little harsh? Last time you only—”

Whitehouse snatched up the phone. “This is Inspector Whitehouse. I need to lay a little groundwork here. I’m sure that as a senior administrator, you’ll cooperate fully.” He looked at the names on a sheet Holly had indicated and adjusted his glasses. “What can you tell us about...”

Gable needed to access the records, but in a small school, he soon had what he needed. Jeff Pasquin had been an A student until the last year. Then, except for phys ed, his grades had dropped to B’s and the occasional C. Teachers blamed the extra hours of swimming training. And at home, his parents were in the late stages of a divorce, albeit amicable. Paul added, “Divorce is always a heartbreak, especially for a Catholic family. Used to be you could get an annulment if you had connections.” He paused as if unsure whether to go on. “Ray Pasquin converted for his wife. Guess it didn’t take. Marriage is no picnic. You have to work at it.”

Whitehouse started to rub his hands, then stopped as he saw Holly watching him. “Yes, yes, now let’s move on, please.”

When they had finished the call, they heard Chipper returning, talking to Ann. Whitehouse said, “Send the constable for Pasquin. We’ll take it from there.” He folded the glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “He’ll be our focus. We’ll get some answers.”

After her nod, he rose and stretched. His stomach gave a low rumble. “Where’s a decent place to eat? Is there a tapas restaurant? Anything ethnic?”

“We don’t have the population year-round for much variety. Try Mom’s. Turn left in Sooke between the post office and the stoplight. You’ll see the sign. Their specials are good, especially the sirloin sandwich au jus. Huge burgers, too. Great pie.” She felt defensive, like a self-appointed ambassador for the tiny village. This was the only human trait he’d exhibited, and she couldn’t accommodate him.

In the bathroom, she wiped moisture from her face and applied an extra layer of deodorant. That man could wring sweat from a dried codfish. And catch that classy suit. Except for undercover officers, inspectors wore the same uniform as she did, except for a white shirt and a tie in the summer.

Rummaging in her bag, Holly unwrapped a bologna sandwich on rye and checked out one fact that had bothered her. She found Tim Jones’s number in Port Renfrew and caught him at home, bringing him up to speed. He mentioned that the night that Angie had disappeared, two boys named Billy Jenkins and Mike Baron had come into the park with their bikes. He’d cautioned them not to take the bikes to the beach and watched them chain their rides to a post. Never having seen them leave later, he suspected that they had camped in the park. “Not too much you can do about it,” the ranger said. “Too big a place. But they could have been way down the beach. Lots of driftwood for campfires around the point.”

“Do you know them well?” she asked.

He gave a hearty roar. “Hell, everyone knows everyone here. I can tell you whose marriage is shot, who’s sleeping with who, who’s broke from online gambling, and who will front at the liquor outlet to buy for minors.” He paused. “They’re decent boys, though. Polite, and big as they grow. Seniors at Edward Milne. Gotta give ’em credit for sticking with it and not dropping out.”

Not much had changed on the south coast. “Farther west you get from Victoria, the tougher the kids,” she added.

“Damn straight. Grow up in Rennie, you take a lot of shit,” he said. “Wonder what kind of education they get, spend half the day on the bus. Can’t do homework with that rough road.”

He gave her Billy’s address east of town. His father did carvings and had a small fish boat that took tourists out for salmon and “hali” in the summer. The rest of the year, they put food on their table by selling wood and shooting the odd deer. “Wouldn’t put it past them to have a bait yard with apples. But we can spare a few Bambis. Better than ending up on the grill of a car.” Leaping deer road signs crisscrossed the area, and everyone knew someone who had had a close encounter.

Not long after, Whitehouse returned with a sleepy expression and a trace of ketchup on his upper lip. He must have ordered the cartload of fries. She told him about the Port Renfrew boys. “You can handle that. I’m not driving out to hell and gone.” He left her office and headed for the restroom. Water ran for several minutes.

“Bringing in Jeff Pasquin,” Chipper said in an unusually formal voice. “And his grandmother, Mrs. Faris. The parents are in Vancouver on some legal matters.” His face was without expression, except for a nuance of a rise in one sleek brow. He caught Holly’s glance and gave a silent click to his heels.

“Come in, please,” Holly said. She and Whitehouse had set up in the interview room.

His prim glasses nowhere in sight, Whitehouse sat at the scabbed wooden table while Holly took a chair to the side, once again prepared to act as secretary. She wasn’t averse to learning interviewing techniques. Whitehouse’s experience gave him the advantage. She also realized that she might discover what not to do, and she smiled to herself.

Mrs. Faris, a nervous woman under five feet and bent from osteoarthritis, took a chair with a padded seat in the corner. She wore an old-fashioned housedress and running shoes, one of the toes cut out for a monster bunion. Her pudding face had bright red lipstick and a heavy coat of powder. The atmosphere was charged with tension underlaid by her laboured breathing.

Jeff strutted in and let himself be seated in a cheap plastic stacking chair by Chipper, who then discreetly closed the door as he left. Even four people made a crowd. An old leak in the ceiling from winter monsoons had left a streak down one cinder-block wall. Quick-fix painting had covered the mark, but it reasserted itself like a persistent evil in a Grade D movie. A single yellowed bulb dangling from the ceiling cast an ugly glare on the table. Both Holly and Whitehouse had oak chairs with cushions, a pecking order impossible to ignore. Desultory air currents carried the telltale earthy smell of black mould from under the suspiciously discoloured linoleum. Holly made a note to herself to arrange for budgeting to address that serious problem, a minefield for those with allergies. The building had originally been bought at auction and moved to the site, a cheap deal but a recipe for structural disaster.

Holly noticed that Whitehouse cast a quick disapproval at the dusty light, but kept quiet as if to set the stage. The young man gazed around and gave a theatrical cough at the stuffiness. “So whassup?” He pronounced it like a joke in a slurry, smart-ass fashion. Mrs. Faris cleared her throat in the mildest of reprimands.

Whitehouse shifted his shoulders, sending a masculine message from the lead bull. “No time for showing off. I’ll ask the questions. Corporal Martin may have a few of her own.” Since Jeff was under eighteen, Whitehouse took some time in reading him a number of forms to make sure he understood his rights. Then he asked the boy for feedback on whether he grasped the terminology.

“What’s this all about, anyways?” Jeff asked after he had “passed” the test. He tried to present an open and honest face, but it was a grotesque contortion with duplicity below the pretty surface of a boyish grin.

Whitehouse gave an imperceptible nod to Holly. “Angie’s drowning may have been a tragic accident,” she began with a casual frown. “But Inspector Whitehouse wanted to make sure of the facts. He’s an experienced investigator from West Shore.” And who are we in this third-rate detachment, parking attendants with a more lucrative salary?

Jeff came to with a start, flexing his broad shoulders. He wore dark pants and a white shirt, apparently the school uniform, but the musculature underneath left little to the imagination. His strong young neck had a flashy gold chain.

“Why me, then? This is nuts.”

“Some of your friends say that you weren’t too happy with Angie lately.”

“Hey, I never hit a woman in my life. Only cowards do that.” Whitehouse stuck out his chin, his voice like a cobra hiss.

“Nobody said anything about violence. Seems to me you’re rather defensive.”

Despite her efforts to remain neutral, Holly approved of the inspector’s score.

The boy shot back. “I take psych, and I get your point, but you’re way off. We dated last year. This year we were history. Happens. ’Sides, I was in my tent with Lindsey Benish. Ask her. She’s got the guts to tell you the truth.”

And to lie for you, Holly thought. Small wonder that spouses were not allowed to testify against their mates in court. The whiff of a conspiracy piqued her interest. Holly scanned the list of those they had interviewed at the park. She tried to picture Lindsey and came up with a brash, unlikable girl. “Benish, you said?”

Whitehouse clicked his pen. On. Off. Three times like a mantra. “Say she backs you up, any other suggestions? Who else might have seen Angie after dinner?”

“Try Kim Bass. Angie had a crush on her.” A sharp intake of breath came from the officers, but Mrs. Faris wore a bland expression, perhaps not following the implication. Aware of the repercussions from that depth charge, Jeff gave a contemptuous snort. “Lezbo. What a waste. They all oughta be fat, ugly cows.” It seemed to Holly that he gave her an oblique look.

“Mind your language. Your bigotry is showing. And show some respect for your teachers. We’re not here to discuss idle gossip.” Whitehouse leaned forward and made a note, circled it. “Anything of substance to your charges, or are we talking only about your own self-doubts and shortcomings.”

“Nothing short on me. I was with Lindsey all night. Get my drift? We made a deal with our tentmates and traded off.” He lowered his voice in a conspiratorial fashion that made his grandmother’s face puzzle. At least, he seemed to have some sense of shame in front of her.

Jeff ’s bravado was slipping. He began examining his short fingernails, sucking on one. Holly noticed that it was broken to the quick. “That must hurt,” she said.

Abruptly he folded them on his lap. “Did it diving down to get a rock crab. Stupid thing died later.” Then he smiled at her with straight white teeth, the incisors slightly pointed. “They’re nice and red in the ocean. Get them home, and they fade right out.”

“I wonder why,” Holly whispered. Whitehouse was checking a thick day-timer with a tooled leather cover. His squint was evident.

She wondered if Jeff had any idea of the sinister nature of his reflections. Then Whitehouse stood and clapped the book shut. “Constable Knox will take you back now, Jeff. If there’s anything else, we’ll get in touch. And Mrs. Faris, thank you for coming.“

The older woman rose with a small groan and nodded. “Jeffrey, I hope you told the truth.”

“’Course I did, Grans. That’s what you taught me.” Jeff lifted himself from the chair with a smirk on his sculpted lips, good-looking in a superficial way. He made a show of offering his grandmother his arm as he asked over his shoulder, “Aren’t you going to tell me not to leave town?”

“Just leave here for now,” Whitehouse said, and called, “Constable Singh. Come, please.”

A minute later, Chipper closed the door behind Jeff and gave Holly an inquiring look. She shrugged. Whitehouse smacked a fist into his palm. “Cocky teenaged bastard. Even if I was one once. And by the way, for future interview techniques, stuff those reaction comments like the one about the sea urchin or whatever it was. Never let them know what you’re thinking. Give them room to hang themselves. Capish?”

Though the cliché added unintentional comedy, Holly felt her face warm. “Right. So now what?”

“I’m going to give this one more day. It’s a rat’s nest anyway. Someone drowns at the back of beyond. No forensics to speak of, and probably for good reason. It was a bloody simple-minded accident.” Letting a bored sigh communicate his feelings, he turned to Holly. “Did you talk to this Lindsey girl?”

“No, that was Constable Singh.”

“Well?” Whitehouse turned to the young constable.

Chipper’s voice cracked. Clearly he was as nervous as she was.

“Just for a few minutes. I didn’t think... I mean, at the time—”

Whitehouse held up a hand like a traffic cop. “You didn’t think. And we’ll need two thousand officers a year for the next five to fill the ranks. If you two are any indication...my god.”

Neither spoke, but their heavy swallows were nearly audible. Whitehouse moved on. “As my father used to say, I don’t like the cut of this young man. He’s an insect, no matter how big he is. Get that Lindsey girl in here.”

Chipper leafed through his notebook. “She lives on Henlyn.” Whitehouse shot his cuffs and scowled at the numbers on his heavy metal watch. “This is getting impossible. Tomorrow I’m due in Victoria for a conference with the crown attorney about my testimony at a very important trial. We’re about to bring down a drug ring. You’ll see it in the papers.”

“Perhaps I should talk to Ms Bass, sir.” Holly jutted her chin towards Chipper. “If nothing else comes up here that the Constable can’t handle.”

Whitehouse pondered this for awhile, then he threw up his hands. “I hate to open that can of worms, but we can’t leave it now that it’s been raised. A woman might respond better to you. Take a subtle approach. We don’t want any harassment charges from the Lilac Brigade, even if it’s pure bullshit from Pasquin.”

Holly nodded. If the woman were gay, she was either utterly dedicated to the parochial system or taking the world’s biggest chance. However, Angie’s crush on her, unsubstantiated at this point, wouldn’t be the first time a straight teacher had been targeted by a gay student.

“We could bring Lindsey Benish in on Friday, if you’re free then,” Holly said. She was learning to follow Whitehouse by leading him.

In the foyer, he adjusted his French cuffs, silver shell cufflinks winking at the bottom, and reached for his raincoat. “I’m totally tied up next week, too. The province just got financial support for a crime squad to coordinate efforts all along the south island. I’m helping with the initial organization. In a few years, we’ll have seventeen people.”

“That sounds big-time.”

“Damn straight. We’re talking nearly a million a year.”

“Damn straight. We’re talking nearly a million “Don’t integrated units already operate?”

“Sure, in dive teams, safety, organized crime and child exploitation. But not in property crime. A full-time analyst is going to crunch the stats and match career criminals with their targets.”

“I hear you. The same five predatory bastards make the rounds of the parks every summer and steal everything that isn’t nailed down and some that is.” It was important that her territory be safe in appearance and reality for tourists and locals. One bad experience could make a negative impression that circulated like the flu.

He passed her a card and walked away, calling over his shoulder, “You and Singh handle everything. Do it right this time. Call me if anything turns up, which it won’t.”

Major Crimes. No wonder he was ticked at the bush-league assignment. Was it the lack of dedication to this case, or a prioritizing of tasks that took Whitehouse off down the road?

His card had a cell phone number, but it had been crossed out, as if they were second-class citizens. Holly gave him a one-fingered salute as the door shut. As she looked out the window, his unmarked car, a comfy Buick, pulled away, spitting small stones. Ann seemed to be smiling as she shut a file cabinet. Was she laughing at Holly or with her?

Chipper looked at her, his face troubled. “That was rough.”

“You can say that again. I wonder what he’s like when he’s really mad.” That got a grin from Chipper.

An hour later, deep in paperwork, Holly heard Ann answer the phone.

“I’ll transfer your call to Corporal Martin.”

Holly found Vic Daso on the line, and the news made her spill a tsunami of coffee from her “B.C.: The Most Beautiful Place on Earth” mug. “The last tox reports show signs of crystal meth.”

“Why so late? I thought you did blood scans.”

“Meth stays in the blood for only four to six hours, so we didn’t twig, but it can remain in the urine even after forty-eight hours.”

“I don’t believe it.” Suddenly chilled, Holly envisioned the fine young girl lying on that cold metal slab. “She didn’t look like a user. This makes no sense.” A wall poster campaigning against crystal meth flashed a graphic picture of the haunting signs of the addiction. Picking at the face, dangerous weight loss, and the signal feature of rotting teeth that were the stuff of nightmares. Angie had been a star athlete. Could scans lie? Was there room for misinterpretation?

“Are you sure? What about a clerical error?” She didn’t like to insult the man or his methods.

“Positive. I double-checked it myself.” He let the idea sink in before continuing. “Could be it was administered without her knowledge. The drug can be snorted, smoked, injected, eaten, even injected into the vagina.”

“What a horrible thought.” A mental pebble sent widening ripples across a pool. Was this proof that Angie hadn’t been alone? Way too many suspects. And that included the two boys outside of the group. What were their names? She reached for her notes. “Chipper collected an empty condom packet in the vicinity. We haven’t done anything with it yet. You said she was no virgin. Could there be a connection?”

“There wasn’t any sign of rough sex, nor any semen. If anything happened, she was a willing partner.”

“I’m no prude, but her background doesn’t sound like—”

“Don’t discount the effect of meth. It increases sexual drive, leading to high-risk behaviour. People do things they wouldn’t normally dream about. And afterwards, memory is sometimes impaired.”

“Did she get the meth at the beach or at the campsite? How could she have been in any condition to ride that bike to the beach?”

“It’s possible. If she left right away.”

“The drug could explain her disorientation. Maybe she did fall.”

“Or maybe someone knows more than they’re telling. Meth can be a solitary experience, but in the first stages, people like company when they’re experimenting.”

“Chipper, listen,” she said after she hung up.

As she filled him in, his soft brown suede eyes narrowed, a transformation from boy to man. “Very bad stuff. I knew a guy who went to sh—I mean fell apart getting on it. Gave up everything. He lost his job, went three times to a rehab centre. It never stuck. Don’t know where he is, and I don’t want to know.” His sudden passion seemed to indicate that the person might have been close, a relative or friend. She thought of asking, but saw his jaw quiver as he grew silent, looking out the window to where a steroidal seagull was dueling with a crow over a crust of bread.

“Whitehouse is going to have a heart attack. He thought he’d seen the back of us.” She left a message on his voice mail at West Shore. Accident or something worse, the development called for more interviews and certainly a search of Angie’s room. Breaking the news at the Didrickson house, the last thing on Holly’s mind had been an intrusive search. Had her bereaved father already cleaned out the room or left it intact like a family shrine? At one household she’d visited, the mother had showed her the perfectly preserved room of their baby who had died in its cradle ten years before. Angie’s room probably had a computer. What about a diary or other information about her relationships?

She closed her fist as the wind rose and a flurry of rain smashed the window like bullets. Somebody knew where that meth came from. Suddenly she felt as if they weren’t in Kansas any more. With drugs knocking at the door, even Toto wasn’t safe.