Extensions (23 page)

The only case I hadn't thought of. Now I remembered the scene well, except that the Warren Wright I arrested bore no resemblance to the one in the hospital other than height. He had shoulder-length wavy hair, a beard, and he wasn't wearing a dressing gown. Maybe I blotted the file out because I had not felt right about it at the time and still didn't.

A call had come in from a female patron about disorderly conduct at the bar. I had a new recruit with me, a strong young farm boy from Saskatchewan fresh out of Depot. I was in teaching mode, which meant I had to pretend to know what I was doing. Tim Lewchuk was drunk, and at the sight of us, he became more rowdy. He began shouting across the room at his ex-girlfriend, realizing she was the one who had made the call. He picked up a chair and proceeded to bash the wall with it, at which point my recruit and I attempted to restrain him. At the same time, Warren Wright stepped forward and tried to stop us. He'd also had too much to drink and said sloppily, “I'll take him home. He's upset, please give him a chance.”

In playing the human shield, he ended up pushing me down to the floor. I knew it was an accident because his was the first hand to help me up. But by then, other patrons had surrounded us, some gasping, one laughing, one calling, “Officer down.”

The queasy feeling came back to me when I thought of it now. We had to take the wall-banger in, but I had not considered arresting his friend until I looked in the face of my recruit. Second night on the job: keen, dutiful, trusting my judgment. And it
was
embarrassing to be knocked down. Technically, the friend was obstructing justice by intervening, so I made the call. Alone, I might have let it go, knowing how much else was really worth an arrest. We led them out to the car and I let the recruit handcuff Lewchuk and put him in the back seat. I wrote out a promise to appear for Warren Wright and explained his friend would be let go tomorrow with the same thing after he sobered up.

I remembered his shaggy head pausing to read my nametag in the glare of the neon lights from Squires. “You're only doing your job, Constable Dryvynsydes.” He pronounced it easily in a tone that was flirty, mocking, and respectful all at once. The same tone he had used in the hospital lounge with the crooked smile. He walked away that time too — down the street, not back into the bar.

Later I explained the circumstances to Crown Counsel and had the charges stayed.

It might have been flattering that Warren Wright remembered me, unless he was a psychopathic cop stalker. Such types did exist, vowing revenge at any cost. I checked the Davie Street address against all the W Wrights, and of course, he wasn't still there. He had probably graduated, and I guessed it wasn't from cab driving school.

My session at the computer ended when Emile, Jake, and Dave appeared with coffee and congratulations
,
both on my transfer and being back on my foot. Jake had just received confirmation about Special O and was cockier than usual.

“Good thing it's not you in surveillance,” he said to me, provoking a collective roar among the three of them over an incident I would give anything to forget. And be forgotten.

It was an impromptu plainclothes exercise on one of our night shifts. The four of us were watching an apartment house in two unmarked vehicles, waiting for the brother of a suspected dope-dealer to emerge so we could follow him. I was in a caravan down the street with Dave; Jake and Emile were in a car on the other side closer to the entrance of the building. After a few wasted hours, we decided to pack it in. I reached into the back of the caravan to get my wallet, accidentally flipping on the siren switch between the seats. When Dave turned on the ignition, the siren screamed through the neighbourhood, one already nervous about cops. I jumped on the switch as soon as it sounded, hoping anyone listening would think it was a fancy car alarm. Had our target been home, it might have been serious, but no real damage was done except to my pride. I would never be able to live down the look of horror mixed with glee on the faces of Emile and Jake as we pulled out past them.

“Have your fun while you can.” As they doubled over in laughter, I wondered if I would feel as much rapport with the guys in Serious Crimes.

But I felt strangely hopeful. Strange, because so many of my professional blunders were rising to the surface on the brink of work that would require even more alertness. Sara might have said I was purging myself of psychic toxins. Next week — dreary mid-November — would mark a year since I broke up with Ray. I figured if bad things came in threes, Mom's death and the shooting should have set me free.

On the way out of the detachment, Megan gave me a hug. I promised myself to think more kindly about her from now on, at the same time wondering how long it would take her to apply to Serious Crimes herself.

My next stop was the doctor's office for what I hoped would be my second last appointment. He was pleased with my progress when he took off the air cast and examined my leg. The fractured bones were mending well. He said he was going to make me and my x-rays famous in a lecture he was preparing for a conference in the U.S. In three weeks I was to return and he would refer me to a physiotherapist, the cast from then on being at my discretion.

Back home, I felt restless but once on my favourite couch, I fell asleep. I must have been having one of my frequent coal mining dreams, because Dad's portable phone ringing under my pillow became the bell for the mine cage going up the shaft. I suddenly had a new purpose for my belt: phone, remote control, pens, replacing gun, baton, flashlight for easy reach.

Unknown number.

“Hello.”

No answer.

“Hello?'

Low laugh of surprise. “Constable Dryvynsydes?”

“Yes.” Was I hearing right? Hearing Wright?

“You might not remember me again, since you didn't the first time. We were in the hospital together with broken legs.”

“I remember you.”

“As a concerned citizen, I just wanted to know how one of Canada's finest is doing now. You were having a tough time with those crutches the last time I saw you.”

“Better since then, but I'm getting sick of it. Walking cast should be off in three weeks. How about you?”

“Mine's been gone for a while. A simpler break, no doubt.”

“So you're back at work?”

“I never left.”

Mysterious as ever. Making me dig for it. “What do you do?”

“Web design. Graphics. Some book cover design. Whatever comes my way. From home.”

I paused to let him talk more. How could I be sure he wasn't still stalking me? Was it a coincidence he phoned just after I had come in from my first outing? Was he calling from his cellphone across the street?

Who was I kidding?

“So you'll be back doing pirouettes by Christmas?”

“I hope so.”

“Maybe we could meet for coffee when you're on your feet again.”

“Maybe we could.”

“From the listing, you're in the Cambie area, not too far from me.

I'm in False Creek.”

I was about to tell him I was at my father's, but my professional instincts kicked in for once and prevented me from giving out my unlisted number. Besides, I knew I would be here for a while. “Why don't you give me a call?”

“I will. My name is Warren Wright, by the way. Just so you'll know who's calling next time. And you can check me on your computer to make sure I'm not a dangerous offender.”

“I might just do that.” Was my laugh too forceful?

“What am I to call you?”

“Arabella.”

“Interesting. Not a name you hear a lot.”

I thanked him for his concern and when I hung up, realized the only thing
not
tingling was my leg. How could this have happened on the very day I identified him? Any earlier and I would have been much more suspicious. I probably owed him a cup of coffee to make up for his wrongful arrest. Uh huh, that was the reason.

Dad was just coming up from downstairs. “Was that the phone?”

“Someone I met in the hospital wondering how I was.”

“That's nice of her.”

“Him.”

“Him then. I searched Louis Strong on the computer and there are a few entries. Thought you might be interested, so I left them on.”

I got to my feet in what felt like a spring. “What would I do without you?”

The basement stairs still required caution, but the events of today had me feeling I was back in the game. The references to Louis Strong repeated a lot of what I had learned from my history books. Conflicting reports about his age — ranging from late seventies to eighty-five at the time of his death — didn't surprise me. I had dealt with enough witnesses to know everybody has his own story. Some accounts came from family members, some from diaries kept by other settlers, some from newspapers. One report claimed he didn't know his own age, born to a slave woman and her white master when such things were not always recorded. Despite the hardships of his early life, he grew into a strong, hardworking man who succeeded better than most in the challenges facing him both as a slave and as a pioneer in a new colony. The more I read about him — robust, hardworking, fearless toward human and wild life, with looks like a Spaniard — the more I thought of someone else I had just studied: Sir James Douglas. Did people of mixed race possess special powers? Like Barack Obama? And Tiger Woods once? I thought about Crane Reese in my history class, who said his people came from Salt Spring Island. Physically, he seemed a fine young specimen. I hoped he wasn't still taking notes for me.

I tried the last relevant website: the 1891 census of Vancouver Island. Louis Strong was registered in the Cedar, Cranberry, Oyster district which encompassed Chase River. Age seventy-five, head of household, self-employed farmer, born in the
USA
. That would make him seventy-nine in 1895. Did he give a younger age to the census taker? A few clicks later, I found Thomas Owens, also of the Cedar, Cranberry, Oyster district, age thirty-four, same enumeration numbers, head of household, miner, born in Wales.

How much more proof did I need?

Somehow I had to organize all this captivating information into an essay on the Mackies' influence. The connection between Mackie and Henry Hargraves was vague, despite Hargraves' claim that he had been paid for some technical advantage he had shown the owner. But Mackie was never accused, so Hargraves might well have been a free agent rather than a hitman. Assuming it was all true, that is. How Mackie got the land for the Extension mine was not the focus of the paper, and how much the Owens family knew was also not relevant, but I couldn't help wondering about it. Maybe a member of Serious Crimes would have a better chance of getting to the bottom of it.

IF SARA WAS RIGHT about birthdays being a harbinger of what the rest of the year will bring, I was in for an interesting twelve months. She also believed we should sit quietly and meditate on our goals and dreams with a candle, but so far this day wasn't giving me a quiet moment.

At 7
AM
, I was surprised with a birthday cake at the office. A boost after a week on my new job and my new mended leg, still shaky on both scores. I knew Sukhi was the instigator, but when the other three members sang “Happy Birthday,” it felt like an initiation into the team. I liked Tessa from the moment I met her. Big relief, since it's expected that females will get along and that isn't always the case. She was born in Guyana, was raised in Saskatchewan, and had a smile as big as the prairies and tropics combined. Another entry for my new theory of mixed race people possessing strength and beauty. She had come to Serious Crimes only a month before me and made sure I quickly learned anything that had confused her. Our sergeant Wayne was a cool guy; he did more watching than telling, and you knew you were in good hands with him. The fifth member, Dex, originally from New Brunswick, was a character. Okay in small doses.

When I checked my e-mail, I found a few Happy Birthdays. The first read:

You've had a tough year and I hope the next one will be better. Maybe we could
meet for coffee sometime and discuss the case against the boys. Cheers, Ray.

Well, well, well.