Long Gone Man (5 page)

Twelve

Chris dropped the flashlight on
the counter and ran his hand from his forehead to the back of his head. “You need me here if the Mounties are coming. You don't want to face them on your own.”

“I won't be alone. Singer's here.”

He looked at Singer, took in the wild mane of graying hair, parted in the middle and hanging down past her shoulders, rather like a small bush from which her face peeked, took in the stained T-shirt that advertised a festival from some long-ago summer, and then he ignored her. His attention went back to Lauren. “You need a lawyer.”

“Fine, tomorrow I'll get one but I don't want you here.”

He started to argue.

“Go or you'll regret it,” Lauren warned.

His body stiffened and he got as far as saying, “I think . . . ,” saw her face, and stopped. “Fine. I'm out of this.” He picked up his flashlight.

“By the way,” Lauren said, “there's no need to tell the police that you saw me earlier. I'm not mentioning it. I'm just telling them I spent the last couple of hours with Singer. There's no need to complicate things.”

Chris raised his hand, but Lauren quickly added, “No need for anyone to know about our little indiscretion.”

He pivoted on his heel and went out, slamming the sliding door shut hard enough to make it bounce in its track and open again behind him.

Singer dug a cigarette out of the pack. “Well, that was fun—and enlightening.”

“I bet.” Lauren went to the door and slid it shut against the night.

“So he's the guy you went out to meet.”

“Yup. Pitiful, isn't it? He told me tonight that he was afraid John would find out about us, said he didn't want to see me anymore. He said if John dumped him as a lawyer he'd lose his business and have to leave the island. See how important I was to him?”

“And you thought he was at the door when you let me in.”

Lauren nodded.

“And you believed he killed Johnny. Do you still think so?”

“I don't know. It was my first thought when I found John, but I honestly don't know.” Lauren's forehead wrinkled and she cocked her head to one side. “He thought I did it, didn't he? So that says he couldn't have done it.”

“Maybe he was pretending to think it was you. People have been known to lie.”

Lauren's laugh was bitter. “Especially men, especially that man.”

“Will he tell the Mounties he was with you?”

“No, not when we've given him an out.”

“Does he live here?”

“No. He's staying at Steven's. He brought some contracts up for John to sign this afternoon and then went to play chess and have dinner at Steven's. They're friends. When the fog got thick, he called to say he was staying the night and he'd pick up the contracts in the morning if John had them signed.”

“And you snuck out to see him.”

“He's been really cool towards me.” She sucked in her lips and then took a deep breath before going on. “He hasn't wanted to see me. I walked over to Steven's with Missy, waited until he was alone in the room, and then knocked on the window and motioned him out. He yelled to Steven that he was going out for a cigarette and would be right back. Then he came outside and told me it was over.”

Lauren smiled. “And now you're wondering if you're standing here with a murderer. Maybe I came back from my touching moment with Chris and shot John. Perhaps I thought with John gone Chris would take me back. Is that what you're thinking?”

“Among other things, but don't get me wrong, I won't hold it against you if you did shoot Johnny. I just wish you would have waited 'til after I'd talked to him.”

“Just so you know, I didn't shoot John.”

“Good to know,” Singer said and jerked her thumb in the direction that Chris Ruston had taken. “He can alibi you.”

Lauren considered it and then shook her head. “If Chris believes I shot John, the Mounties will too. I'd have to tell the cops why I went to see him. It gives me another reason to have killed John. With John dead I get a hundred thousand dollars and my freedom. Let's stick to the story of being together. It's safest.”

A long, mournful whine of sirens grew and filled the room before being abruptly shut off.

“Showtime,” said Singer. “Remember to be sad and say as little as possible. You're in shock.” Singer's grin lit her face. “Mounties, eh? Maybe I'll get my man at last.”

Thirteen

The cruiser was driven by
Corporal Duncan, the only female on the island detachment of six, which comprised four constables, one corporal, and one sergeant, Sgt. Wilmot, who was in the passenger seat. The six Mounties on the island were really only a skeleton force for the population of ten thousand and in tourist season, when the number doubled, they were stretched.

It was only
luck that found Sgt. Wilmot at detachment headquarters when the call came in. He tended to drift by the office whenever he couldn't sleep and there was nothing on the eighteen-inch portable television in his battered studio apartment to hold his attention.

Duncan, the Mountie officially on duty when the dispatcher called from Vancouver Island to say a suspicious death had been reported, took down the details and then phoned
RCMP
headquarters for a file number for the case, making it her case on the record.

Wilmot said, “A shooting death?”

Duncan didn't look up from the form she was filling out. “Yes.”

“I'd better go along.” He came to the desk and opened a drawer, taking out a blue notepad. “After all, it might be murder, and I was on the Major Crime detail in Vancouver.” He shoved the book in his jacket pocket. “How many murders have you worked?”

Duncan laid down her pen and stood. She drew herself up to her full five foot eight and looked Wilmot in the eye. “I've never worked a murder case but I know the procedure.”

“All right. No need to get bent out of shape. Besides, it's likely a suicide.”

“No need for you to come along then. You don't want to lose sleep for a suicide.”

Wilmot walked ahead of her to the door. “We'll treat it as a crime until the coroner can say positively that it isn't.”

“I should call the coroner's office right now.”

“Let's make sure he's dead first.”

Duncan grimaced but followed him to the door without argument. She shrugged on her jacket and patted the pocket, checking for her own notebook, before going back to the desk to add an audio recorder and then following him out into the fog.

On the way to the car, he said, “We should go over the steps for dealing with a crime scene and decide what each of us should do: photograph the scene, collect any physical evidence, and take statements.”

“I know how to work a crime scene.”

Wilmot continued as if she hadn't spoken. “You've already called headquarters and gotten a file number for evidence such as blood. The blood samples you collect will be sent to Victoria for analysis.”

Duncan stopped and took a deep breath. “I'm the one on duty.”

Wilmot kept walking. “Everything you'll need to collect evidence is in the trunk of the car.”

When they reached the car, Wilmot looked at Duncan over the roof and said, “Let's hurry.” He opened the passenger door. “And let's just hope it's really a murder. This might be the case that gets me off this bloody island and back into the real world.”

“Well good luck to you with that.” Duncan opened the driver's side door. “We won't even get to work the case if it is murder. I'll have to call in the Major Crime Unit from Victoria. They'll take over.”

“No need to bring Victoria into it too soon.” Wilmot stared out at the fog. He could barely see the building they'd just left. “The weather is on our side. Nothing can move, so Major Crime won't be able to get here before noon tomorrow, longer if they have anything big happening. This is our baby.” He didn't even try to keep the excitement out of his voice. He reached for the safety belt. “Pray for fog and murder, fog to keep outsiders from the investigation and murder to get me off this bloody island.”

Wilmot rubbed his
hands together in anticipation. “This is the first real crime I've had since coming to this bucolic hell. Homeless people intruding on private property, pot growing, and the mentally ill acting out, that's all the transgression I've seen.” Being demoted to the Gulf Islands from Vancouver hadn't predisposed him to like anything about his new posting. “You could die of boredom out here.”

Duncan leaned forward, searching the fog for oncoming lights before she made a left turn. “Don't forget the sheep.”

Wilmot looked over at her to see if she was joking. With anyone else there would be no question but not with Duncan. He never could figure out what was going on in her mind and he didn't like being reminded of that less than glorious investigation. A dog running loose and killing a sheep had made him the laughing stock of the unit. The dog had driven a ewe down a walking path to a rocky beach and had harassed the animal to her death. His job had been to identify the owner of the dog.

It had turned into a fiasco, ending with the whole detachment congratulating him on his brilliant detective work, saying it had taken someone who'd been on the force for twenty years, someone who'd been on the Major Crime Unit, to crack the case. The teasing had been merciless. Duncan had been the only one not to join in.

He glanced at her again. “I know you've heard the gossip, but it's just that, talk. The harassment case was dropped.” He watched Duncan for a reaction but she seemed to be totally fixed on finding her way through the swirling mist. “We want this investigation to be perfect, no mistakes, ironclad.”

“Of course,” Duncan said. “My name is on the file. It will be perfect.”

The fog lights gave the mist the yellowed look of a gray beard on a heavy smoker. Duncan braked gently, searching for some indication of where they were. “We shouldn't even be out in this.” The headlights flashed on the warning sign at a T-intersection.

Wilmot said, “Brewer's farm.” If Duncan missed it they would end up in a sheepfold and Wilmot would face another irate farmer telling anyone who would listen what a great fool the newcomer was. The thought of his ruined suit still made him cringe.

“Ah,” she said in recognition. Duncan negotiated the bend almost blindly.

Wilmot wanted to tell the corporal to drive faster. Pure madness. The road was very narrow, with trees right to the edge of the pavement, and they couldn't see ten feet in front of the car. He tapped his restless fingers on the armrest.

A few minutes later, Wilmot leaned closer to the windshield, hands on the dash, trying to see another landmark. “Can't see a damn thing.” He sat back. “I've never been up there, have you?”

“Not to the house.”

“What do you know about them, John Vibald and his wife?”

“Nothing . . . well not much.”

“You're the local, tell me the tittle-tattle.”

She took her time. “The word about town is there was trouble up in paradise between the older man and his young wife. And John Vibald and his neighbors weren't getting along either. Some wanted him to sell his land and some didn't. Add to that the fact that everyone on the island is pissed off at the idea of this mountain wilderness being developed, and there're more than enough rumors to go around.”

“Lovely.” He rubbed his hands together again.

“The dispatcher didn't mention murder, only a death,” she warned. “It may well be a suicide or even an accident. He drank heavily, so maybe he shot himself accidentally.”

“Well, that would be a great shame,” Wilmot said.

Duncan turned on her blinker, although there was no one else in the fog to see.

Fourteen

Sgt. Louis Wilmot more than
lived up to Singer's dreams of a movie-style Mountie. In his late forties, he was slim and elegantly dressed in pressed slacks, a gray turtleneck sweater, and a black leather jacket. With hair graying at the temples and clear, blue eyes, his pleasant face and slight smile said, “Trust me, I'm really a nice man.”

Singer and Lauren softened their stances and relaxed. His smile widened.

Standing behind him, Corporal Duncan also had blue eyes but hers looked as if they had broken off a glacier. Nothing about her gave off the friendly air of her superior officer.

Duncan removed her peaked cap. Her blond hair had been cut short to control the curls.
Her hair looks exactly like a cap made from the remains of Grandma's Persian lamb
,
Singer thought. Her grandmother had worn that old-fashioned coat to church every Sunday.

Duncan put on plastic gloves and took the gun from Singer without offering any comment, while Wilmot pointed to the room across the hall from the foyer. “Please wait in there while we check on your husband.”

“Can't we go back to the kitchen?” Lauren asked. “It's warmer there.”

“Of course.” He smiled and waited until the door closed softly behind them.

Wilmot's fingers felt
for a pulse at the neck, although he knew it had ceased long ago. Worms of blood that had seeped from the head were already dried on the floor. “Shot in the forehead.”

Duncan moved in closer, checking the black residue on the skin, and said, “So suicide is possible.”

Wilmot didn't keep his irritation out of his voice. “We'll need the coroner's report to know if it's suicide.”

Duncan said, “I'll call Victoria now, but the coroner may not be able to get out until the fog lifts.”

“Yes,” Wilmot agreed. “And that presents another problem. In this fog we can't very well ask those two women to leave the house and drive down that mountain.”

Duncan said, “Since I'm the officer on duty, perhaps you could drive them down.”

He glanced sharply up at her. “They've already been all over the crime scene. They might as well stay in the house, but we'll restrict them to their bedrooms until we get the evidence collected.”
Wilmot wiped his fingers delicately on the leg of his trousers. “After you make that call, take those women to their rooms and get their statements. I'll get the kit from the car and start collecting forensic evidence.”

“But—” She looked into his granite face and bit back her objection. “Yes, Sgt. Wilmot.” She got to her feet and left the room without closing the door.

Wilmot went to the door and gently closed it behind her. He wanted time alone in the room to get a sense of the man. He had an almost superstitious belief that the belongings of the dead could speak.

Lauren was filling
a coffee carafe with water when Corporal Duncan entered the kitchen. Duncan, still wearing disposable gloves, carried an evidence bag. “Have either of you tampered with this weapon?” Her eyes went from Lauren to Singer, while they looked at each other in confusion.

“Tampered with it?” Singer asked. “What do you mean?”

“For instance,” Duncan said, “did you reload it?”

They both shook their heads.

With a brief
knock at the door, Corporal Duncan entered the office again. Silently she held out the evidence bag to Wilmot.

He frowned when he saw what it contained. Then Duncan held out her right hand. Six bullets lay in her palm.

“What?” he asked, although he already knew. He reached for the gun.

Duncan said, “The gun was fully loaded.”

Wilmot pulled disposable gloves from his pocket and put them on before taking the gun from Duncan. He removed the revolver from the evidence bag and turned it over in his hands, then opened the cylinder. He looked down the barrel, trying to see any residue. He sniffed at the barrel. “All I can smell is oil. It will take an examination in a lab to tell if it's been fired recently, but I'm betting it hasn't.” He looked up at Duncan, “Did the women reload it?”

“They say they didn't.”

“It's not the weapon that killed him then.”

“Doesn't look like it.”

“So it's murder.” Wilmot smiled. “Call in the others. We need to find the murder weapon. Put Eagon in charge of the search. We have to go over the whole house.”

“I called the coroner. There's no way she can get here from Victoria until the fog lifts. Nothing's moving, not even a police launch. She said to go ahead and photograph the scene and start gathering evidence. She'll get here as soon as the weather clears.”

“Right, let's get started.”

But Duncan didn't move. “We now have a huge crime scene. Perhaps we should call Victoria . . . get some help.”

“They won't be able to move in this weather either. For now we're on our own.” He handed the weapon back to her. “Wake up Eagon. And while we're waiting for him and the others to arrive, get statements from those women.”

“Got anything stronger
than coffee, Lauren?”

“No.” The answer was quick and final.

Singer raised her eyes from the small flame of the match.
She thinks I'm a drunk.
She lit the cigarette, noticing the slight tremor in her hand.
Wouldn't be far wrong, but I could still use a jolt.

Lauren added, “We've got a long night. Coffee will see us through better.”

Singer waved out the match and said, “Well, a drink would make this enchilada a whole lot easier to take.”

Lauren opened the fridge door, stared inside, and then closed the door without removing anything.

“But coffee would be great,” Singer said.

Lauren spun around and quickly opened the cupboard to get mugs, setting them down on the counter beside the ones she'd already put there. She frowned.

“It's the waiting,” Singer said. “It does your head in.”

Lauren poured the coffee, letting the drops from the still-brewing liquid turn to steam on the heating element. She set a mug in front of Singer.

Singer said, “If I'm awake until dawn I expect you to keep me company.” The truth was Singer could sleep right where she sat.

“Thought you had plans for another type of company,” Lauren said, pushing a bowl of sugar closer. “Can't say I'd blame you.”

A brief madness set them giggling before Singer's laughter turned into a fit of coughing.

“Those cigarettes are going to kill you.”

“Well,” Singer said, “I'm certain something will.” Thoughts of Johnny Vibes lying on the floor with a bullet hole in his head stole the last threads of lightness from the moment.

Lauren took a long, deep breath in and let it out slowly. “How long will this take?”

“It'll take as long as it does. Don't go getting antsy.”

Lauren looked at her. “That sounds an awful lot like the voice of experience, but just what kind of experience is the question.”

“Girl, I didn't get this face singing in the choir.”

Giddy laughter overtook them again.

Long after their
statements had been taken, Wilmot came to the kitchen and told Lauren and Singer they could go to bed.

“We'll stay here,” Lauren said.

Wilmot smiled. “We have some work to do in here. You'll be more comfortable in the bedroom.”

Lauren picked up Missy, but before she could leave Wilmot said, “Just a question or two before you go, Mrs. Vibald, if you don't mind. Ms. Brown, you are free to go.”

Singer said, “Of course.” Then she stood, giving Lauren a long look.

Wilmot was aware of the exchange and saw the little nod Lauren gave in response. Two women who had only met a few hours before and already they shared a secret.

He sat at the long, pine table with Lauren Vibald, taking her around and around the basic statement Corporal Duncan had gotten. Lauren's answers didn't vary from her first account.

Wary but assured when talking about finding her husband's body, only when the question turned to Singer Brown did Lauren Vibald show any unease. Wilmot wanted to know why Lauren was worried about Singer Brown but quickly decided that unless he had some way of shaking her from her story, he was wasting his time. “This is very helpful, Mrs. Vibald, thank you. You may go, but would you send Ms. Brown back in?”

She bit down on her bottom lip and moved uneasily on her chair. She planted her palms flat on the table and opened her mouth to say something but closed it without speaking and started to rise from the table.

“Is there something you wish to add?”

She shook her head in denial. “No, no, it's fine.”

“There is one other thing,” he said and watched her freeze, half turned away from him.

She turned warily back to him. “What is it?”

“Just this.” Her face relaxed when she saw that he was holding a credit card towards her. “Best you take care of this. It was in your husband's desk drawer.”

Relief flooded her face and she reached out for the card. “I'll send Singer in.”