Seaweed in the Soup (6 page)

I shrugged my shoulders. “So what? Traffic accidents are routine, it's not going to ruin your career. Just file a report . . . ”

“Screw that, this is Lightning Bradley's car,” Cynthia interrupted vehemently. “You remember that Bernie Tapp took Lightning's keys away after he was suspended?”

I nodded.

“It was my job to drive Lightning home. He yapped his head off the whole drive about what a jerk Bernie is. How he's gonna sue the ass off the department. The sleazy bastard never even mentioned the bumper.” Cynthia's pale complexion was becoming darker with resentment. “I only noticed the damage a little while ago, but I swear to God I'm not responsible. What do you think I should do?”

“You don't want to blow the whistle on Lightning Bradley, is that it?”

“Well, no. Esprit de corps and all that. Stick together through thick and thin, right? Only Lightning is a prick. The idle bastard has been getting a free ride for years. It'd be a waste of time telling him to get a value system at his age.”

When the light up at the Government Street intersection changed and vehicle traffic abated, we crossed to my office. Cynthia sat in a visitors' chair while I sorted through the junk mail piled on my desk. PC, had been spying on us. She came in through the cat flap immediately afterwards. PC leapt onto Cynthia's lap, nosed herself beneath Cynthia's hands for attention, then writhed and dug her claws into Cynthia's pant leg until she stroked her. Purring like an engine, PC wedged herself between Cynthia's thighs.

I sat in my swiveller and gazed up at the room's cornice mouldings, endeavouring to concentrate on Lightning Bradley's perfidies, instead of what my lucky cat was doing.

Lightning's wife, Maggie, had been lovely and smart. We couldn't believe it when, twenty years earlier, she took leave of her senses and married him. Some of us began to wonder if maybe Lightning wasn't the useless philandering shit we'd all taken him to be. Maggie was making a man out of a monkey until she was mowed down by a hit-and-run street racer and left a paraplegic. Lightning's drinking got worse, his womanizing got worse, and we all knew that behind the scenes, with Maggie in a wheelchair, things chez Bradley were grim.

I was still trying to come up with something wise to tell Cynthia when the desk phone jangled. It was Bernie Tapp. He said, “We've arrested a suspect. She's Coast Salish, so I want you here. Make it pronto, buddy.”

≈  ≈  ≈

Victoria's modern new police headquarters is located on Caledonia Street. Bernie Tapp's office is on the fourth floor. When I got out of the elevator, Constable Ricketts was pacing restlessly back and forth in Bernie's anteroom.

Mrs. Nairn, a motherly secretary dressed in a green sweater and matching skirt, looked up from her computer, eyed me across her desk, smiled and told me to go straight in.

I found Bernie standing by a window, gazing across the Memorial Arena towards Mount Douglas. He said playfully, “Want to earn a little money?”

“Hell yes.”

“Here's what you do. You fly to southern China, buy an old fishing trawler, the cheapest you can find. It'll set you back maybe fifty grand. Then you fill it with Chinese. Jam a few hundred of 'em into the fish holds at ten thousand dollars a crack. Ship them across the Pacific to our west coast. When in sight of land, you can either row the fuckers ashore in lifeboats or let 'em swim. Some of 'em might drown, but who gives a fuck, you'll have made a couple of million dollars. Hear what I'm saying? A couple of million for a few weeks' work.”

“Ronnie Chew had a wardrobe full of silk suits that were made in Hong Kong, he owned a BMW. Who's to say he was a wetback? Maybe he flew over on China Air,” I was saying, when Bernie's intercom buzzer sounded.

Mrs. Nairn said, “They are ready for you now, sir.”

“Send 'em in,” Bernie told her.

Nice Manners entered, followed by two female police officers and the suspect.

The suspect was dirty and she was angry, wearing a mudstained
Jesus loves you, everybody else thinks you're an asshole
T-shirt and off-the-shelf jeans. Her long black hair was mussed. Daubs of reddish mud streaked the line of her jaw. Her bare ankles were caked with filth. Glittering on her wedding finger was a platinum ring set with an enormous diamond. The diamond looked real to me. The last time I'd seen her, she'd been with another Native woman on Pandora Street, watching ravens.

Bernie was in a high good humour. The constables had patted the suspect down and emptied her pockets. Her name was Maria Alfred. She was Coast Salish, a status Indian. An identity card to that effect was found on her, along with about a hundred dollars in loose cash, a package of condoms, a tube of lipstick and a magnificent string of pearls.

Bernie gave her our usual Charter Rights spiel. Then, his eyebrows lifted, he went on to say lazily, “Listen, Maria, I want to know why you and your girlfriend ran away from the police at Echo Bay.”

“It's none of your business,” Maria retorted, with sullen obstinacy.

“That's where you're wrong,” Bernie came back, his gaze intense. “What's your girlfriend called?”

A fleeting smile appeared on Maria's round face, but she remained silent.

“We need you to tell us your friend's name, Maria. You can save yourself some grief and tell us now, or you can tell us later. Either way, we're going to find out who she is and what the two of you were doing at Echo Bay. So do yourself a favour, and tell us. Who's the other woman?”

“I'm not saying nothing till I talk to a lawyer.”

“You've been watching too much Hollywood TV, Maria. In Canada, you're re not entitled to a lawyer until you've been charged with a crime. We're just having a little exploratory conversation.”

“You heard what I said. Talk to my lawyer or save your breath.”

Bernie waved a finger. “So you've decided to be naughty. We have an expression for such behaviour. We call it suspicious. You're a doubtful character, which is bad enough. We don't want to add uncooperative to the list as well. So listen up: Do you know the penalty for wasting police time?”

After a beat, Maria said, “My tits will fall off?”

Bernie stiffened. “Stop playing the fool. I know you're not as stupid as you look, so tell me the truth. Why did you run away from Ronnie Chew's house, and what is your friend's name?”

Asking serial questions is bad interrogation technique. Bernie always complains when I do it.

Giving Bernie an insolent stare, Maria said, “I don't like your attitude.”

“Many people don't, I'm used to it,” Bernie returned with an indifferent shrug. “How long have you and Ronnie been friends?”

“I told you before, mister. It's none of your business.”

Bernie raised his voice a little. “You're acting like an idiot, better think twice before your smartass cracks make things worse. Now. Let's get the ball rolling with something simple. Tell me where that diamond ring and those pearls came from.”

She mumbled something incomprehensible.

“Hear that? Bernie said jocularly, to nobody in particular. “I'll go to hell, this kid is one smart shopper. The ring is probably two and a half carats, and she bought it at Wal-Mart?”

Maria shrugged.

“Ever been arrested before, Maria? Is this your first time?”

Her expression calm and unaltered, Maria used the Coast Salish word for idiot.

“Did she say something cheeky?” Bernie asked me.

“Not sure,” I lied. “I don't think there's an English equivalent.”

“You don't like to speak English?” Bernie asked her. “Comprenny franglais?

Maria's tongue came out like a third lip.

Things progressed like that for a while because Maria, who had never been arrested before, didn't realize how serious things were.

“Well Maria, you seem to enjoy a little fun occasionally,” said Bernie, watching her with an eagle's eye. “You and your friend certainly enjoyed yourself with Ronnie Chew.”

“I hardly know the guy.”

“There you go again, telling stories.”

“It's true,” Maria said, completely at ease and relaxed. “I just met him the one time, that's all. He was nice, cute. And he wasn't mean, not like some. He had a funny way of talking that made us laugh.”

“Funny? Funny's not the word that normally springs to mind in connection with men like Mr. Chew.”

“He was a lot funnier than you are, I'll say that for him.”

“Let's see how amusing you think this is: we found Mr. Chew's digital camera, and there were pictures of you and your friend in it,” Bernie said.

Bernie reached into a briefcase sitting on the floor beside his feet, and drew out an eight by ten glossy. Tut-tutting in mock distaste, Bernie laid it down on the desk and said, “This is a blowup.”

The picture came as a shock. It showed Maria in Chew's basement room. She was posed naked across Chew's bed with her knees bent, legs wide apart, smiling coquettishly without the least show of shame. One cupped hand supported her head. The other hand lay on her lower belly.

Maria pretended she wasn't interested in looking at the picture at first, till overcome by curiosity. Her reaction surprised us. Instead of embarrassed shame, or horror, she flushed with anger. “Bastards,” she yelled. “That's private, see? I don't want you showing it around, hear me?”

Bernie gazed at her from under his heavy eyebrows. “Why not? You're not exactly a shrinking innocent, are you, Maria? Chew's camera is full of images like that. Quit play-acting and start talking. What have you got to say for yourself now, eh?”

“Them pictures is private. There's no law against taking private pictures of people. It's not like I was . . . You got no right, showing that in public.”

“We're not the public, we're the police.”

“Yeah, a bunch of fucking policemen. And this is the way you get your rocks off I guess, flashing sexy pictures around in your goddamn men's room, sniggering and leering at each other. Pulling your puds and telling jokes. Bastards!”

“This is the way things look so far,” Bernie replied calmly. “You and your pal had fun and games with Chew. Then, when he was asleep, you cut his throat and robbed him.”

Maria's eyes narrowed in stupefaction; her mouth fell open. “Cut his throat? What the hell?”

Bernie rose to his feet. Glaring down at Maria, he shouted,”You killed him, didn't you? Maybe it was a sex game. You may as well come clean, we'll be more lenient if you do.”

Maria flinched backwards; her mouth opened but no words came out.

To everyone's surprise, Bernie terminated the interrogation. “Screw this,” he said, his jovial manner returning. Turning to the two female officers, he said, “Take this woman away. Give her a good wash and some clean clothes, then you can lock her up in Wilkie Road. We'll continue this after she's had a chance to contemplate her sins. See how she rates Wilkie's nice comfy cells and institutional cuisine.”

Maria appeared dazed when she was led out. After frowning at the picture for another few moments, Bernie put it back into the briefcase.

Bernie got up from his chair and crossed to the window. His grin returned when he looked outside. “That picture is just a sample of Chew's art, but just between you and me I'd rather look at chick pics than look at shit on the sidewalk.”

“Are you serious?”

“Certainly,” Bernie answered with a wide grin. “Chew's camera is full of it. Pictures of Maria, and her girlfriend. Twosomes, threesomes, I've never seen anything like it.”

“Really?”

“Well no, not really, it's no worse than
Hustler
, but it makes a difference if you know the girl I suppose. Anyway, Silas, what's the deal here?”

“I dunno, it's too early to tell.”

Restless, Bernie sat down again. “This is open and shut, isn't it? You just don't want to say anything because of the Native angle. That slavekiller club, the two Indian girls. Maria won't talk because she's guilty. Maybe it was a sex game that went wrong. Whatever. I'm betting that Maria and her friend killed Chew for the jewellery.”

“Whoever it was, he or she, the killer was very very angry. Chew was almost decapitated. Is that the MO a couple of petty opportunistic thieves would use to commit an unpremeditated murder?”

“Who says it was unpremeditated?”

“Come off it, Bernie,” I said. Choosing my words with care, I added, “It's time we had a talk. Man to man.”

“About what?”

“You know what. How long have we known each other?”

“Ten, fifteen years?”

“Bernie, it's more than twenty years. If I didn't give a fuck, I'd keep my mouth shut, but I do give a fuck, so here goes. It's time you either took a vacation or retired. You're losing it, pal. That interview just now, for example. You cut it off before it hardly got started. What are you playing at?”

Bernie brought the corncob out again, held it in his hands, pointing it towards me like a gun. I couldn't read the expression on his face. He looked a little pale, otherwise normal. He said, “Okay, keep going.”

“I've said enough. I hope you got the message.”

Bernie put the corncob down on his desk. He smiled at me and shrugged his shoulders. Suddenly overcome by nervous yawns, he reached into a bottom drawer of his desk for a bottle of eau-de-cologne. He poured a little onto his hands and vigorously massaged his scalp. Still yawning, he put the bottle away.

Lately, Bernie had been using glasses for reading. He put a pair on and glanced briefly inside the red three-ring binder lying on his blotter. It was the Chew murder book—already half an inch thick.

“What's a phony Canadian birth certificate worth these days?” Bernie asked me.

Bernie's question was rhetorical. Before I could answer, he went on, “On the street, the going rate for a good fake Canadian birth certificate is a thousand dollars.”