Читать книгу Undertow - R.M. Greenaway - Страница 11

From Afar

The first forty-eight was long gone. In fact, this was day six, which meant they were halfway through their third forty-eight. Not good. Leith sat with the core team in the smaller case room, gathered about the conference table and working over the game plan. Doug Paley was present, Cal Dion, Jimmy Torr, Sean Urbanski, and JD Temple.

Paley and Torr looked hungover — much like Leith felt — from last night at Rainey’s. Only Dion had shown up clean and sharp as a fresh-pressed suit, and brimming with elaborations to his thoughts at last night’s debrief. “So going with our theory that there were two people there,” he was saying, speaking of the Liu murder scene on Mahon Avenue, the death of Cheryl and Rosalie, “I’m saying the same person who hid Joey in the cabinet took the baby’s shoe — for proof if it came to blackmail, or insurance if it came to threats. It’s time to get ’em to do another press release, include the missing shoe this time. And post a reward for any information that leads to an arrest. Because that second person is on the edge of her seat, and that might tip her our way. And it should have an immunity package attached, if we want her talking. Maybe she’ll stick with her blackmail gamble, but probably not. Probably she’ll go for the reward and some guarantee of protection. It’s more reliable, and it’s got the added bonus for her that the guy will be thrown in jail. Because she’s afraid of him, right? Flash that ad and I bet we’ll get a call the same day. She’d be putting herself in trouble with him, but it’s better than what she’s already facing. The money’s going to catch her attention, and the immunity will pull her in. Unless, like I say, she was under duress and she only grabbed the evidence as insurance. But the results could be the same, she’ll come forward to get herself out of a hole.”

A lot of ifs and buts. Leith rested chin on knuckles and tried to look one step ahead of all this instead of two steps behind.

Paley, too, seemed to be lagging, but he wasn’t shy about saying so. “So unlike the rest of us, Mighty Mouse, you’ve got it all worked out.”

“Unless it’s retribution,” Dion said. “In which case it’ll be coming our way, anyhow.”

Leith didn’t understand the last remark at all. He jotted down the word so he could mull it over. Retribution. Torr scowled at Dion across the table. “You’re still saying ‘she’ like it’s a fact. Who says it’s a ‘she’?”

“Nine to one she is,” Dion told him shortly, not so crisp as Leith first thought. Feverish-looking, like he was fuelled by uppers.

“And I said, says who it’s a she?” Torr repeated.

But Dion had run out of words and sat staring across at Torr in blank silence.

Leith used the opportunity to air his own objections to posting a press release or Crime Stoppers spot about the missing bootie. “For one thing, it’s holdback info. For another, if there was a second person, I doubt he or she would put themselves in peril at any price, and I’m sure as hell not willing to offer immunity up front. Rosalie was still alive when those two — if there were two of them — left the scene. I’m damned if whoever could have saved that child but didn’t cuts a deal and walks.”

“It’s lousy holdback,” Dion said. “We’ve got better. And sure it’s iffy, but say it works, it’s better than the alternative.”

“The alternative is …?” Torr said.

“She keeps quiet and stays with the killer, and he gets her next.”

Earlier this morning, Bosko had pulled Leith aside for a mysterious chat. “I’m sure you get the drift that I’ve got a bit of an informal investigation underway,” Bosko had said. He spoke with more gravity than Leith was accustomed to, which made him sit up and listen. “But it’s purely at this level right now.” Bosko pointed at his own temple as he said it, making clear the level he meant. “So not a concern for you right now. A’right?”

“Sure,” Leith said, though he wasn’t sure at all. “Yes, sir.”

But Bosko wasn’t done. “I’m actually glad we’re talking about this. Because everything aside, you know, I’m worried about his welfare, and he doesn’t seem to have much of a support system. In the most general sense, I’d like you to keep an eye on him for me, would you?”

Leith had walked away from the meeting with one eye shut. He was being locked out, and then invited in, no names named. Odd.

“Right?” Dion was saying to Paley, still on the track Leith had somewhat lost. “A lot better than she puts her life on the line in a blackmail plot that’s going to end up getting her killed.”

Torr said something about men with crystal balls. Paley said, “I’ll put it to Bosko, see what he thinks.”

He did, and later that morning Leith learned that Bosko, in consultation with other arms of the law, thought the offer of immunity wasn’t a great plan, but true, time was of the essence, and right now dangling carrots was their best bet at catching the man behind the horrific killings. Go for it.

* * *

Dion made lists till his head ached. So far no evidence collected from the Liu home or Lance Liu’s truck had jumped out as being useful. Sigmund Blatt had been researched hard, interviewed again, and all but disqualified as a person of interest. Blatt had nothing to gain from the deaths. He had no apparent grievance with his partner. They were good friends, in fact. Had met at work in Alberta as novices and remained pals ever since. Blatt had a minor criminal record, but stupidity-related, nothing violent, and nothing to do with Liu or the partnership.

During the investigation, Blatt left the province. Following his second interview he had called in and talked to Torr, letting him know he was shutting down the L&S business, now that the L was gone, and moving back to Alberta. Torr had asked him why. Blatt admitted that he was spooked. Maybe whoever had killed Lance would be after him, too. Torr asked him how he figured that might happen. Blatt said he didn’t know and didn’t want to stick around to find out. So he went, with strict orders to remain reachable.

Dion was paired up with Jimmy Torr on this case, and it was hardly the ideal working relationship, but together they chipped away at the personal lives of Lance and Cheryl. They talked at some length to Lance’s extended family members, often by teleconference with the States. They contacted the couple’s friends and relations in B.C. and Alberta, and previous employers, and even talked to Joey’s preschool teachers, in case there was some bizarre connection with the surviving child. No connection was made. They went through computers, bank records, phone data. They used documents found in the truck to backtrack through Lance Liu’s last living day, from invoices written to receipts for a Tim Hortons lunch, speaking to the two clients he’d dealt with, and looking at video footage from the gas station where he’d filled up for the last time in his life. By the end they had a patchy timeline and a better sense of who he was, but not much else.

They dug deep into the business itself, L&S Electric. Traced it back to its inception, checking for conflict along the way: displaced competitors, disgruntled clients. Finally they googled any keywords they could think of, hoping it would spit out some snippet of news or a blog bit or whatever else might be floating out there that might give some insight into what had happened.

Nothing emerged. The Liu marriage seemed solid enough, with no jealous lovers in the wings. L&S seemed ethically run. Both electricians, Lance and Sig, had their tickets, and had sunk their savings into the enterprise, coming at it debt-free. Cheryl Liu did the books, and if Lance was busy, she answered the phone for the company. She booked appointments and even offered advice to callers. The electricians hadn’t been making money hand over fist, but they had just gotten started and seemed like sensible, ordinary men running a sensible, ordinary business.

Altogether it felt like three wasted days. Dion was about to start wasting Day Four on this line of inquiry, which was the seventh day following the murders, when he heard the breaking news: they had a suspect, and it had nothing to do with his hard work. It was a hot tip fresh in from Calgary. He dropped what he was doing and followed Torr down the hall to where the case room was set up like a shrine to the murdered Liu family.

Paley was at the computer, setting it up for his presentation. The news was big enough that Mike Bosko had come to listen in, standing next to Leith. Dion and others gathered around.

“It came in at just before five this morning,” Paley said. “Which is just before six Mountain Time. A CPS officer named Brinkley got a recorded message on his work cell number. He passed the message to Calgary Serious Crimes, who forwarded it on to us. Dave and I just spent the last half hour listening to the call. It’s a blocked number, but Calgary sourced it by the background PA noises to Rockyview General. Oh, and it’s anonymous,” he said, putting air quotes around the word. “But, hey, let’s not spoil it for you. Have a listen. Enjoy.”

He dragged the mouse to start an audio file. There was a sound shift as the recording service kicked in, then a breathy huffing sound. Finally a hoarse female voice said, “Hiya. I’m calling about that murder of, uh, Lance Loo and his wifey and kid over in B.C. there.”

The speaker paused, maybe to puff on a cigarette, then spent a while coughing. She sounded to Dion like a skinny woman in her thirties, if anything could be drawn from a voice twice removed. She said, “I’m calling from a blocked phone so you can’t track me, ’cause I don’t want to get in no trouble. I got two kids to look after, eh? So yeah, I know who did it, and his name’s Philly Prince, and he lives at the brown duplex on 11th Ave. He took off on his hog two days before the murders happened, which I saw in the news, and I ain’t seen ’im since, though I hear he’s around. And he has a thing against that guy, and always said he was going to kill ’im. And Philly doesn’t kid around, I should know ’cause I was married to the creep for one too many — aw shhhhit.”

More noisy breathing as the caller considered what to do now that she’d blown her cover. Without another word, she disconnected. Some of the team laughed. Doug Paley twirled his hands like an MC following a great act. Dion jotted the information into his notebook, the name Philly Prince, and address. None of it rang any bells from his three days of talking to Liu contacts.

JD said, “Why’d she call this CPS Brinkley personally?”

Paley shrugged. “He does community patrols. Maybe she had some contact with him in the past, had his card for whatever reason. But we’ll know soon enough. They’re pulling her in as we speak.”

The caller was a Maggie Boland, no doubt about it, known to the CPS (Calgary Police Service), ex-wife of Phillip Prince. The fact that Ms. Boland had two kids and worked in housekeeping at Rockyview Hospital, with a shift starting at 6:00 a.m. Mountain Time, fairly clinched it. Philly was Phillip H. Prince, member of the Calgarian chapter of the Outlaws, a biker gang based out of Edmonton. He had served time for assaults, and been charged with murder a few years back, along with a bunch of confederates, but was acquitted when the Crown’s star witness turned. Calgary police were working along with the “K” division RCMP to track Prince down, but wouldn’t collar him till they got instructions from the coast.

Paley said, “Which is what we have to decide right now. Pretty simple, right? We’ll get him pulled in, and somebody here’s got to fly out and talk to the little shit. And I’ve got the unlucky candidate already picked out. Right, Dave?”

Leith seemed to have been forewarned, Dion noticed. Glum, but not surprised. “I’d love to go to Calgary and tell a biker I think he killed someone, sure,” Leith said, arms crossed.

“Let’s have a big hand for Dave,” Paley said, still the MC, and clapped. Others clapped, too. Dion clapped, though he was halfway out the door. Curiosity about the Philly Prince angle might have kept him on board a while longer, but he already had it figured Prince wasn’t the killer they wanted. And for good reason. He saw Bosko slipping out. He followed, stopped him in the corridor, asked if they could have a word.

In Bosko’s office he took the visitor’s chair, just like a week earlier, but today it was with a twist. The last time he sat here he had been convinced he could get back to where he’d left off. He was fast discovering it wasn’t working out. Losing Kate was not the worst of it; he could accept the downgrade. What he couldn’t take was the feeling of being a bad fit. He could chime in and smile and join the gang at Rainey’s, but he knew they saw through him. He was odd, and they knew it.

He had also killed a man. Criminally. Any moment now, somebody would find out. He didn’t want to be around when it happened.

Putting physical distance between himself and the crime wasn’t the only option open to him, and last night he had contemplated a more radical resolution: he could get it over with and confess. But that took nerve he didn’t have. This morning he had made up his mind to go with Plan A. “I’m leaving the area. I know you need people up north, and I’d be happy to take any posting in the region. I’d waive the financial assistance, if that’s any help. Barring that, I’ll have to resign.”

Bosko’s brows were up. Then they screwed into a wince. He leaned forward, resting on his forearms, and spoke calmly. “I’m shocked. The last time we talked you seemed happy to be back. And confident. What’s changed? Something I can help you through?”

“No, sir. I’m just not ready for the city. Prefer an outpost. That’s all.”

Dion looked at a wall of filing cabinets, more or less northward, and could almost feel it, cold wind raking his face, ruffling his hair. Canyons and rivers and rubbly roads jetting off into the wilds.

“It’s barely been a week,” Bosko pointed out.

Dion nodded. “A week is enough. I’m done. One way or another, I have to leave.”

“Sure,” Bosko said, after a moment’s thought. “Okay.” He clasped his hands on the desktop and twiddled his thumbs. “But let’s think about this. Could it be you’re being too self-critical? In my experience …”

He went on, rolling out his advice. He told a story of his own inner conflicts. Then spoke about the inherent pressures of the job, and Dion’s excellent service record, the tests he had passed, the need to give himself some slack. Dion didn’t listen much until Bosko seemed to be wrapping up. “… and I’d very much like to keep you on. Of course there are things we need to work out —”

“There are also things that I can’t work out, and that’s the problem.”

“But minor things.” Bosko ploughed on. “Your last report on Liu, for instance. You’ve got good thoughts, Cal, but you do need to lay them out on paper better, so the reader knows what you’re driving at. Obscure reports aren’t fatal, but they don’t help you, either. So let’s deal with it. Let’s coordinate with SRR and think about getting you some help. With writing and composition, for instance. In fact, what I’d suggest …”

Dion sat straighter. He had thought that his writing and composition were excellent. Obscure?

“… in the end if you’re still unsure, I can see what we can do about relocation or reassignment. But I wholeheartedly encourage you to give it some time.” Bosko patted the air as though soothing a dog. “So lower your expectations a notch, give it a month, then we’ll talk again. A’right?”

Dion felt more committed than ever to departure and shook his head. “Even if you look into transferring me, it’ll take too long to happen. I’m going to have to quit.”

Bosko sat back in his chair and gently swivelled. Finally he sat forward again with a new idea. “Dave’s heading over to Calgary tomorrow morning, and he could probably use some company. How about you go with him? Use the time away to think it through. And talk to him. He’s got a good ear and a good heart. I’m saying think twice, Cal. I’d really hate to lose you. Is that a deal?”

It wasn’t a deal, but it wasn’t a choice, either. Dion could refuse to go, but that would be cowardly. He could quit on the spot, but he wasn’t ready for such a precipitous drop. Or he could get on the plane and delay ripping his heart out, at least for a day or two. He chose the plane.