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There was no news about the murder investigation. Not that she’d heard, anyway. She probably wouldn’t hear until something broke. She didn’t see Madison, and was glad about that.

In an affluent neighborhood, most people were happy to be helpful to the police. Some had nothing to contribute, but wanted to be seen as helpful, nonetheless. There were always a handful who thought giving her a lecture on how the evils of the parole system, or the leniency of judges, even the removal of “the strap” from schools, had caused an increase in crime. She smiled, thanked them for their time, and moved on.

A harried young mother, vaguely familiar, came to the door directly across from the house which had been burgled. Two toddlers, twins by the look of them, well-scrubbed and pajama-clad, tugged at the bottom of her stained and faded T-shirt while a baby fidgeted in her arms. A small brown dog circled her ankles, overcome by excitement at having a visitor, barking his greetings. Its intelligent brown eyes were rimmed in black as if drawn with eyeliner. Women spent hours to get that look.

“What?” the woman at the door said, sounding as irritable as she looked.

“Sorry to bother you ma’am,” Smith said, “I’m investigating a problem that occurred on this street last week—Friday night—and I’m wondering if you noticed anything unusual, say after dark.”

The woman gave her a weak smile. “I don’t have time to notice an earthquake open up a crack in the middle of the street. Anyway, I was on nights last week. Too bad they had to postpone your dad’s op. Waiting is always the worst part.” Now Smith recognized the woman, she was a nurse at the hospital, coming on duty about the time visitors were leaving.

“I understand,” Smith said.

“My husband would have been here. Jason,” she nodded down to the left, to the red headed boy, cheeks full of freckles, making faces at his twin by pulling his lips apart and sticking out his tongue, “had a cold and was up most of the night.”

“Is your husband at home?”

“Yes,” said a voice, “I am. Jeremy, I’d strongly advise you not to hit your brother. Here,” he said to his wife, “give him to me.” He took the baby, and the older boys ran in circles behind their mother.

Jeremy, or maybe it was Jason, reached toward Smith’s gun. “I’m gonna grab this and shoot you,” he said.

She swiveled her hip out of range. “You can’t. It’s got a secret lock on the holster.”

“Oh,” he said, disappointed. “Does it work?”

“No.”

“They work on TV.”

“Don’t believe everything you see on TV.”

“Why not?”

“Why not, indeed,” the woman said, “I’ll take these guys out of your hair. Come on boys, one cookie and then time for bed.” They dashed off, more interested in food than Smith’s equipment. The dog followed, probably in hopes of cookie crumbs falling to the floor.

“Keeps us from getting bored,” the man said, and Smith laughed.

“I’m Frank Spencer, and I’d shake hands but they’re kinda busy.” He shifted the baby and wiped a trickle of drool off his face. “You’re wanting to know something about the previous Friday night?”

“April 7th. I’m wondering if you saw anything unusual, particularly late at night. Your wife said you were up.”

“I haven’t had a proper night’s sleep in three years,” he said. “Can’t remember why I thought having kids would be a good idea.”

In the background, one of the twins began yelling that he wanted another cookie.

“Yes, sir,” said Molly Smith, deciding never to have children.

“I was up with Jason, who was pretty sick, as Marianna told you, most every night that week, but I wasn’t looking out the window. I’m sorry, Constable.”

She handed him her card. “If you think of anything?”

“Sure, I’ll let you know. I’m guessing you’re investigating the robbery across the street, right. My neighbor was telling me about it.”

“Thank you for your time,” she said.

She heard the door close, shutting out the sound of the baby starting to cry, as she walked down the steps, heading for the next house.
What a complete waste of time
. She might have more luck if it were summer, people gathering in backyards having parties, barbeques. A lot of these gentrified old houses had front porches decorated with swings and wicker furniture, and residents sat out on warm nights.

Not in early spring, when the night air still brought snow down from the mountains, and rain fell sharp and cold. People in Trafalgar didn’t sit in their windows at night, binoculars at the ready, spying on the neighbors. About her only hope would be to find a late night dog walker. Someone who’d seen a figure clad all in black, scaling a wall with a black face mask, a long rope and a sack bulging with loot tossed over his shoulder.

Bloody John Winters. Why was she the one trudging around the streets because his wife had found herself in a compromising position?

She rang the next doorbell.

***

Smith had left the patrol car at the end of Station Street. It was after nine o’clock when she walked toward it. A piece of paper had been slipped under the windshield wiper. Without much interest, she pulled it out. It was dark and the streetlight was weak. She shone her flashlight onto the paper.

Someone had sketched a happy face in yellow crayon. The thing you saw everywhere: round circle with two dots for eyes and a wide smile. The artist had added something extra.

A red dot was drawn in the center of the forehead and smaller red dots dripped down the face to run off the edge of the page.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

Ray Lopez kissed the most beautiful woman in the world. Overcome by emotion he kissed her again.

She laughed. “That’s enough, Dad. I’m going to Ontario, not the ends of the earth.”

All of his daughters were beautiful, in Lopez’s opinion. The most beautiful was the one standing in front of him at any given moment.

Alone of their four daughters, Amanda resembled her father. But on her, he thought, it was beautiful, not geeky. Vibrant red hair, scattering of freckles across pale cheeks, eyes the color of the open ocean on a sun-drenched summer’s day.

“Ontario or the moon, take care, eh?”

His wife, Madeleine, smiled. “When have you ever known a nineteen-year-old to take care?”

“There’s always a first time.” He slammed the trunk of the car shut while Amanda climbed into the passenger seat. Madeleine gave him a light kiss and joined her daughter.

As the family car waited at the top of the driveway to turn into the street, Amanda twisted around and gave her father a smile and a thumbs up.

He grinned and went to work feeling good.

Dennis Jones hadn’t been at home last night when Lopez called. He’d checked with the hotel and was told the maintenance man would be at work today, even though it was a Saturday. Like crime, stopped toilets didn’t pause for the weekend.

The assistant manager was a young woman, small and pseudo-cheerful in the way you knew she was being friendly only because it was her job to be so. Her name badge said Maria Fernanda Sanchez—Spain. Presumably Spain because that was where she was from. She greeted him with the lightest of accents. When he introduced himself, Detective Lopez, she gave him a genuine smile and switched to rapid-fire Spanish. Sorry to disappoint her, he had to confess he couldn’t speak a single word of that language. It was embarrassing sometimes. Particularly on the phone, people assumed he spoke Spanish. He knew nothing about his natural family, except that they had to have come from Ireland somewhere along the line with that coloring, and didn’t particularly care to. The Lopezes were Mom and Dad, Grandma and Grandpa. Even they, dark-eyed, dark-haired, dark-skinned, had been in Canada long enough that Mexico was nothing other than a place to go for a holiday.

“Sorry,” he said to Ms. Sanchez with a shrug, “We’ll have to speak English.”

“That’s okay,” she said, fake smile returning. He wondered if she was lonely in this foreign country, missing the liquid flow of her own language. “How may I help you?”

“I’m looking for your maintenance man, Mr. Jones. He’s at work today, I understand.”

“That’s correct.”

“Will you take me to him, please.”

She carried a radio on her belt. She pulled it out and asked Mr. Jones to reply.

They took the back stairs down to the basement. The corridor was long and gloomy, lit by forty-watt bulbs. No need to waste electricity. Lopez was always interested in what public places looked like behind the scenes. As with people, they often dropped their façade of respectability the moment appearances no longer mattered.

They found Jones in a storage room, standing on a ladder, attaching a screw to a shelf. The shelf had presumably fallen, bottles of ketchup were stacked haphazardly on the floor and a couple had rolled against the wall. The room was lined with shelves, piled high with kitchen supplies: bags of sugar and flour, tins of coconut milk, bottles of oil and vinegar. It smelled of dust and stale spices. One wall was taken up by a white freezer large enough to walk in.

“Yeah?” was Jones’ greeting. The bib of his overalls was heavily stained, the knees frayed. Thick deposits of dirt were trapped under his ragged fingernails and torn cuticles.

“Couple of minutes of your time, Mr. Jones,” Lopez said.

“I’m busy.” He looked down and nodded at Ms. Sanchez. “She runs a tight ship.”

Lopez spoke to the assistant manager. “Thank you. I’ll find my way out.”

She hesitated and, with a glare at Jones, left.

Jones returned his attention to the shelf.

“If you can leave that for a couple of minutes, Mr. Jones.”

The man hesitated long enough to make his point and slowly descended the ladder. His face was dark and hostile, and he held the screwdriver clenched in his hand, like a weapon.

“I’m only wanting a chat,” Lopez said. “It’ll take a lot longer if we go down to the station, but if that’s what you’d prefer.”

Jones dropped the screwdriver and it rang against the bare concrete floor. The shelf teetered against the unattached screw, but stayed in place.

“Tell me about your brother,” Lopez said.

“He’s dead.”

“I know. I was at the autopsy.”

Jones shrugged. The straps of his overalls moved. He was wearing a short-sleeved black T-shirt. Multi-hued tattoos covered his arms.

Lopez sighed inwardly. He’d get the answers to his questions, eventually, but it was going to take a lot of teeth pulling.

“You didn’t tell me Mr. Steiner was your brother.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“I’m asking now.”

“He was my brother in that we had the same parents and were kids together, but that was it. The last time I saw him was at our mother’s funeral, twenty some years ago. Flashing his money around, big car, high-maintenance wife—not the same woman he brought here. He’d changed his name, too fancy for a proper working man’s name like Jones, I guess. Rudolph,” the man snorted. “I always expected him to show his true colors one day and show up with a pretty boy on his arm. What kind of a man calls himself Rudolph? He went to the church, said hi to Dad and me. Could hardly bear to shake our hands. He carried around a bottle of that stuff you spray your hands with. You see it more these days, like at hospitals, but that was a first for me. It was a real insult, I can tell you. Man shakes your hand and then has to wash himself.” Jones’ face was set into dark lines and storm clouds moved behind his eyes. He clenched and unclenched his fists and his shoulders looked as if he were getting ready to punch someone. No need to be a detective to see that there was a powerful animosity between these brothers, probably dating from long before their mother’s funeral. “Mom was active in her church and the ladies put on a nice spread after the service. Al, damned if I’ll call him
Rudolph
, came to the reception. Stood there for a few minutes, with his hands behind his back, saying hi to folks who’d known him when he was a kid. He left when I wasn’t looking. Didn’t say good-bye. The sexy wife, never did get her name, stood in a corner with her nose stuck in the air the whole time. Dad said he was surprised Al’d even bothered to show up. He didn’t come five years later when it was Dad’s funeral. I thought he might, though, if only to spit on the grave. I kept looking around the church wondering if he was going pop up with his bottle of hand washer.”

“Your mother’s funeral wasn’t the last time you saw him,” Lopez asked, “was it?”

“Last time until the other day.”

“Did you know he was coming here?”

“He didn’t even send a card to Dad’s funeral. We didn’t exactly keep in touch, is what I’m trying to tell you, Detective. So no, I didn’t get a nice letter saying he’d be in town and why didn’t we get together with the wives and down a few beers and toss steaks on the Q after work.”

A long, complicated answer, Lopez thought, to a simple question.

“When did you first see him?”

“When they were checking in. I was heading for the bathrooms in the restaurant, plugged toilet, water all over the floor. The ladies who come here for a nice lunch don’t like to get their feet wet when they’re having a shit. He was with two women, two young women, and I thought, lucky guy, wonder if he needs some company. Then he turned around, and I knew it was him right away. He looked like hell, but it was Al.”

“How do you mean, he looked like hell?”

“He’s my younger brother.” Jones shivered and some of the lifelong anger faded from the set of his shoulders. “But I hope I’ve aged better than that. He looked like he was a hundred and ten. Tell you the truth, Detective, he looked like our father the day he died. Fuckin’ scary.” If suddenly aware he was being sentimental, Jones cracked a joke. “Guess doing two women at once’ll do that to a guy. Not that I’d know.”

“You think Mr. Steiner was having a sexual relationship with his assistant?”

“Nah. Just imagining.” He winked. “I don’t know who Al was screwing. None of my business.”

“You recognized Mr. Steiner as your brother when he was checking in. Then what happened?”