Читать книгу Granville Island Mysteries 2-Book Bundle - Michael Blair - Страница 15

“Tom,” Greg Matthias said when I answered. “I’m at the hospital. I —”

“Is she awake?”

“No, not yet.” He paused for a couple of beats, then just as I was about to ask him what was up, said, “This afternoon someone posing as a florist delivery man tried to get into her room.”

My guts clenched.

“She’s okay,” he added hastily. “The nurses wouldn’t let him in. They have orders not to let anyone in to see her but attending physicians, nurses, cops, or immediate family, unless they’ve been specifically cleared. From the description, it sounds like it might be the same guy who came to see you at your studio the other day.”

“So much for this sort of thing happening only on television.”

“It usually doesn’t,” he said, an edge on his voice. “Nor is he likely to try again. But just to be on the safe side we’re moving her to another room, under a different name.”

“Not Jane Doe, I hope.”

“Give us some credit,” he said, the edge sharpening. “I’m going to tell you the name, but I’m going to ask you not to reveal it to anyone else. Not even your sister or Wayne Fowler. Okay?”

“Okay.” Wayne wouldn’t like it, but he’d understand.

“The name is Edward Winston. I can’t tell you the room number because I don’t know it yet, but if you ask for Edward Winston at the information desk in the main lobby, that’ll tell them you’re cleared to see her.”

“Got it,” I said.

“And we’ll also have a couple of plainclothes officers in the room with her.”

After Matthias hung up, we called it a day. I went home, showered, then drove to the hospital. At the information desk in the main lobby, I asked the woman behind the counter for Edward Winston’s room number. She consulted her computer screen, asked me to repeat the name, which I did, then gave me the floor and the ward number, but not the room number, telling me that I would have to ask for the room number at the nursing station. As I thanked her and turned toward the elevators, she picked up her phone and dialled, no doubt calling ahead to warn them that someone was on his way up. If anyone was expecting me when I got off the elevator, it didn’t show, but when I asked for Edward Winston’s room number at the nursing station, the nurse behind the desk asked me for my name and consulted a screen before telling me the room number.

As Matthias had said, there were two plainclothes cops in the room, Mabel Firth and Baz Tucker. They were sitting on the empty bed, playing cards on the rolling table.

“We’ll wait outside if you like,” Mabel said, standing up.

“No,” I said. “Sit. Stay.”

“Woof,” Mabel said, as she sat down again.

Bobbi was on her side, still connected to the monitors, oxygen, IV, and catheter, a clear bag of vivid yellow liquid hanging on the side of the bed. She appeared to be sleeping and I’d unconsciously lowered my voice so as not to wake her, but she muttered and moaned, twitching and rolling onto her back.

“She’s been very restless,” Mabel said. “The docs say that’s a good sign.”

I put my hand on Bobbi’s shoulder, shook her gently. “Bobbi. Wake up. It’s time to go to school.” Bobbi muttered querulously, rolling her head from side to side.

Mabel chuckled. “That’s exactly what one of the doctors did.”

Then Bobbi’s eyes opened.

“Hey,” I said. “She’s awake.” I leaned over her. “Bobbi. Hi.”

But she didn’t answer, just stared at me for a second, no recognition in her eyes. Then her eyes closed.

“She’s been doing that, too,” Mabel said. “The doctor says it’s nothing to worry about.”

Easy for them to say, I thought.

Baz Tucker put away the cards and stood up. “I’m for coffee. Either of you want any?”

“No, thanks,” I said. Mabel shook her head. He left the room.

“He’s mad at me,” Mabel said. “He doesn’t like hospitals.”

“Who does?”

“I’m okay with them. I worked as an orderly for a while before joining the cops. But they give Baz the jitters.”

“But why’s he mad at you?”

“He blames me for landing us here. He’s not interested in becoming a detective.”

“Wouldn’t it mean a bump in pay?”

“Yeah. Nothing great, but every little bit helps. Baz doesn’t need the money. He made a packet when he was playing ball and invested it well. And he likes being a street cop. He says it’s a lot like football, long periods of intense boredom punctuated by short intervals of violent activity. Baz likes the rush, but me, I like the periods of intense boredom. In the meantime, being seconded to major crimes is good experience for when I get my detective shield.”

“When will that be?”

“Soon, I hope. I aced the exams, if I do say so myself.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks. Now it’s just a matter of waiting for an opening.”

I remembered what Greg Matthias had said about retiring to Pemberton to raise horses with his former partner. Someone would have to move up to take his place, perhaps creating an opening for Mabel. I would miss her when she became a “suit.”

Bobbi mumbled and stirred in the bed and the monitors responded with a brief skirl of bleeps. The machines settled down.

“She’ll be okay, Tom,” Mabel said. “She’ll come out of this.”

“I hope so,” I said.

Then Bobbi loudly passed wind.

“Oh, dear,” Mabel said. “Let’s not tell her about that when she wakes up.”

It was after nine when I got back to Granville Island. I hadn’t eaten dinner, so I stopped by Bridges for a pint and a bowl of chowder so hearty you could eat it with a fork. I ate at the bar. I wasn’t in the mood for company and didn’t look up from my food when someone legged onto the stool next to mine.

“That must be damn good soup,” Norman Brooks said.

Phil the barman dropped a coaster in front of him. “What can I get you?”

“I’ll have a pint of whatever he’s drinking,” Brooks said. “Bring him another one, too.”

“Thanks, I’m okay,” I said. Phil nodded and drew Brooks a pint.

“I know you and me haven’t exactly got off on the right foot,” Bobbi’s father said. “But you could at least let me buy you a beer.”

Phil placed Brooks’s beer on the coaster, then moved down the bar to serve another customer.

“At the risk of appearing ungracious,” I said, “why would I want to do that?”

“I dunno. Just to be friendly, maybe?” He downed half his pint in three or four big gulps.

“I’m not interested in being friendly,” I said. “Or having a drink with you, for that matter. Why don’t you find somewhere else to sit and leave me to enjoy my chowder in peace?”

“I want to talk to you.”

“I don’t want to talk to you. The last time we talked, you accused me of being a pornographer and a drug dealer.”

“Jesus,” he said. “You really are as big a prick as everyone around here seems to think you are.”

“Size isn’t everything, but I’m pleased I haven’t disappointed.”

“Goddamn it, McCall. My daughter’s lyin’ in the hospital in a coma and all you can do is make wise-ass remarks. She’s supposed to be your friend.”

“Sorry,” I said, genuinely chastened.

“Yeah, sure you are,” Brooks growled into his beer.

“She’s doing better, by the way,” I said. “She even opened her eyes for a second while I was there. The doctors expect her to come out of the coma any time now.”

“Bastards still won’t let me in to see her,” he grumbled.

“You’re welcome,” I said. Had the police given him the Edward Winston password? I wondered. I didn’t want to ask, in case they hadn’t; I didn’t want to have to explain why a password was necessary to get into see her. As it happened, he knew.

“Tell me about the guy that tried to get into her room earlier today,” he said.

“All I know is that the police think it might be the same person who came to my studio the other day asking questions about the woman who hired us to photograph the boat.”

“This person have a name?”

A couple of wise-ass remarks occurred to me, but it was obvious Brooks wasn’t in the mood. I simply said, “No.”

“Not good enough,” he said. “You lied to me about knowing the Waverley woman. Why should I believe you don’t know the guy that tried to get into Bobbi’s room?”

“I wasn’t lying about Anna Waverley,” I said. “I didn’t know her. I still don’t, not really.”

“I know you went to see her last night,” he said. “What did she tell you?”

“Nothing.”

“Goddamn it, McCall. You gonna tell me what the fuck’s goin’ on or do I have to squeeze it out of you?”

I sighed. “It’s late,” I said. “I’ve had a long day,” I added. “And I’m really not in the mood for this.”

Brooks slid off his stool and loomed over me. “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, McCall. Don’t you get all high and mighty with me, you son of a bitch. You’ll —”

“Sir,” Phil said.

Brooks’s head snapped around. “What?” he barked.

“Please leave the gentleman to enjoy his supper, sir, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind, sonny. So why don’t you just fuck off and mind your own goddamn business.”

The manager, Kenny Li, came over. “Ev’ning, Tom,” he said. “What seems to be the problem?”

“No problem,” Brooks said. “I just want to have a quiet drink and a chat with my friend here.”

Phil said, “This gentleman” — meaning me — “would like to enjoy his supper in peace.”

Kenny turned to Norman Brooks. “Sir, let Phil top up your pint, on the house, and we’ll find you another place to sit.”

“Put a hand on me, sonny-boy,” Brooks growled menacingly, “I’ll break it off.”

Kenny looked affronted. “Sir, I wouldn’t dream of putting my hands on you. But I will have to ask you to leave if you don’t calm down and show more respect for our other patrons’ privacy.”

Although I had eaten less than half my chowder, and taken only a few sips of my beer, my appetite had abandoned me. Climbing off my stool, I dropped money onto the bar.

“I think I’ll be going,” I said, and headed for the exit.

When I got outside, someone was leaning against the Liberty. It was Loth. He did not move when I pressed the remote and the locks thunked and the lights flashed, diffused by the gathering fog.

Screw it, I thought. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with Loth, either, so I pressed the remote again, locking the car, and kept on walking. I’d go back and get it later, before the three-hour limit was up.

“You, mister man,” Loth called out, heaving himself away from the side of the car, which rocked on its suspension. “What I ever done to you that you gotta go and tell the cops I hurt yer fran?” He lumbered after me, cane tocking on the cobbles. “Hey, you. Stop. I’m talkin’ a you.”

I turned toward him and he stopped in his tracks, radiating anger and righteous indignation. His body odour was breathtaking. It was a wonder it didn’t rot the clothes off his back. Maybe it did; his shirt looked new.

“I didn’t tell the police you hurt her,” I said. “I just told them about your little altercation at the market last month.”

He glared at me. “Alter what? Fuck’s that?”

“Altercation. Confrontation. Argument. Difference of opinion. Look it up in your thesaurus.”

He took a couple of steps toward me, an ambulatory mountain of noisome flesh.

The street was dark and quiet, the haloed street lights casting indistinct shadows in the fog. The few people about scrupulously ignored us, hurried on their way. I thought seriously about running away, too.

“You t’ink I’m stupid, eh? Maybe I dunno fancy words like you, but I ain’t stupid. Why the cops talk to me, eh? ’Cause you told ’em I’s the one that hurt her.”

“Okay, fine. You didn’t hurt her.”

He took a couple more steps toward me and I backed away. “I ain’t never hurt no one,” he said menacingly, brandishing his stout cane.

A figure emerged from the shadows. It was Norman Brooks. I was almost relieved to see him.

“Jesus, McCall,” he said. “This guy a friend of yours? You really gotta start hanging out with a better class of people.” He waved his hand in front of his face. “Christ, you smell like a three-week-old corpse. When was the last time you took a bath? The day they let you out of the joint?”

Loth waved his cane at Brooks, repeating his familiar refrain. “I ain’t never hurt no one. I’m just a poor, sick ol’ man. My lawyer, he says I was imprisoned falsely. He exonerated me.”

“I’ll be sure to pass that on to the families of the women you raped and murdered in Coquitlam.”

“I ain’t never raped no womens,” Loth roared like an indignant lion.

With surprising speed, Brooks reached out and yanked the cane out of Loth’s hands.

“Was it this stinking piece of filth that hurt my daughter?”

“No,” I said, no idea if it was true or not, just hoping to defuse the situation before it got out of hand.

“Gimme my stick,” Loth said.

“You don’t need this thing any more than I do.” He held it in both hands, as if he were going to snap it across his knee.

“I need my stick. I got art’ritis real bad in my hip.”

“Mr. Brooks,” I said. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Fuck you,” he said, but he tossed the cane at Loth. It rebounded off Loth’s broad gut and clattered onto the cobbles. Loth got stiffly down onto one knee and picked it up. He used it to help himself stand.

“I ain’t hurt yer fran,” he said to me.

“Do you know who did hurt her?” I asked him.

He shook his great head.

“Bullshit,” Brooks said. “You know who did it, don’t you, you sac of shit?”

“I ain’t know nothing,” Loth said, still shaking his head.

“Goddamn it,” Brooks shouted, and for a second I thought he was going to attack Loth.

“You ain’t listen, anyway,” Loth said. “You t’ink I done it.”

“All right, you didn’t do it,” Brooks said. “But you know who did. Tell me.”

“Or you do what?” Loth challenged. He waved his cane. “You ain’t gonna hurt no poor, cripple ol’ man.” He turned toward me. “Tell him, mister man. I don’ know who hurt yer fran. Them mens maybe.”

“What men?” I asked.

“The mens that go with the whores,” he said. “All them womens is whores, suck on men’s dicks for money, spread their ass cheeks. Tell him. Tell him.”

“Jesus,” Brooks said. “What’s he talking about? What whores? Is he crazy?”

“Whores,” Loth said again, and lumbered away, cane tocking on the cobbles, muttering and swearing to himself.

Brooks looked at me. “A fat lot of help you were. He knows who attacked my daughter.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe he does know something and maybe he doesn’t. I’m not sure what you expected me to do, though.”

“More than you did, that’s for sure,” he groused.

I looked at him. “Screw you and the horse you rode in on,” I said, then left him there and walked back to my car.

Just another quiet Sunday evening on Granville Island.

When I got home, the message light on the phone was blinking. I accessed my voice mail. Reeny’s voice was tinny and distant as the message played back.

“Tom? Damn, I’d really hoped to talk to you in person, not do it like this. Shit. Look, I guess there’s no easy way to tell you, except straight out, before you see it in some tabloid. I know you don’t read them, but — I met someone, Tom. He’s a really great guy. You’ll like him. Anyway, we got engaged last night. And, well, I don’t suppose there’s anything much left to say except I’m sorry things didn’t work out. You’re a great guy, too. Take care. I’ll call you when we get back to Canada. Maybe we can get together for a drink or something. Bye.”

As I erased the message and hung up the phone, I remembered what Bobbi had told me about not being sure that she and Greg had broken up. I had no doubt whatsoever that Reeny and I just had. I wondered why it didn’t hurt more.