Seaweed Under Water (20 page)

“Did they find any blue movies in his luggage?”

“No, but they found an ounce of cocaine.”

Gzowski came in. He was a small, swarthy man with thinning black hair, a droopy moustache that added to his mournful air, and a mid-European accent. He was wearing the grubbiest black suit I've seen since Christmas, and brown shoes. Perched on his head was a chauffeur's cap with a brass number on it that had probably emigrated from Zagreb with its owner. Gzowski sat down on the visitors' chair and gazed hungrily at the coffee and doughnuts. “Go ahead,” I told him. “Help yourself.”

Gzowski seized a chocolate-cream doughnut and vacuumed it straight into his stomach. He ate the second one in two bites; cream dribbled out of his mouth and down his necktie.

Bernie said, “I understand, Mr. Gzowski, that you picked up a fare outside Pinky's a while back.

Burping, Gzowski reached for another doughnut.

I said, “To refresh your memory, sir. You picked up a woman, Jane Colby, outside Pinky's just over two weeks ago. It was a Friday night. There'd been a fight inside the bar.”

Recollection dawned on Gzowski's face. “That her name, Colby? She was drunk, which isn't all that unusual for a Friday night. The reason I remember
her
is, when I got to Pinky's, there were cop cars and an ambulance blocking the street.”

“Now that we've cleared that up,” Bernie said, “Do you remember where you took the lady?”

“I took her to the Rainbow Motel. When we arrived, the place was dark and it looked like it was closed. No lights on at all. When the lady got out of the cab, I was a bit worried. I didn't want to leave her on her own like that. What happened was I helped her. Held her arm, made sure she got to the front door. As it turned out, she had her own key. She let herself in, and that was that.”

Bernie exchanged glances with me then said, “And what did you do next, Mr. Gzowski?”

“I went back to my cab and listened to the Canucks–Oilers replay.”

“Who won?”

“Oilers, who do you think?” Gzowski replied. “Hernandez scored at the end of the third period. The game ended five–four.”

Bernie smiled scornfully. “Approximately how long do you think you were parked outside the motel?”

“Quite a while, as it happened. I'd been busy all night, but there was a bit of a lull about then. I just stayed put, listening to the game.”

“By ‘quite a while,' do you mean half an hour? Maybe an hour?”

Gzowski put his head to one side and said uncertainly, “Maybe half an hour.”

“Apart from listening to the game, did you notice anything unusual?”

“In the motel, you mean?”

“Inside, or outside,” Bernie said patiently.

Gzowski laughed self-consciously. “I'd been drinking coffee all night. When the hockey game ended, I needed a piss. Generally, if there's a hotel or a restaurant handy, I just pop in and use their restrooms. I carry a plastic bottle around with me, just in case. But that night the street was quiet, there'd been a shower of rain, it was dark, there was nobody around. So I got out of the cab and was relieving myself against a tree when one of your constables saw me. Came round the corner from Superior Street and found me with my dick in my hand. He just completely lost it,” Gzowski's indignation grew as he went on, “The officious little jerk threatened to charge me with gross indecency, for Christ's sake.”

“Which constable are you talking about?”

“I don't know his name. Some blue-eyed rookie fresh out of the crib,” Gzowski said angrily. “If he lives to be my age he'll know a bit more about aging prostates and be more considerate.”

Bernie rubbed his chin with his fist and said, “Mr. Gzowski. You're probably the last person to have seen Jane Colby alive before she was murdered.”

Gzowski had been lifting a coffee cup to his mouth. He started visibly and dumped hot coffee into his lap. “Jesus,” he said. “You don't think I . . . ”

“No, not at all. You're not a suspect,” Bernie said. “I mean to say that you were probably the last person to see her alive except for the killer.”

Gzowski, mopping his lap with a tissue, said, “I don't think I can tell you any more than I have already. After that episode with the constable, I went back to my cab. Then things got busy for a while, like they always do when all the clubs and cabarets close.”

I said, “You mentioned that a
couple
of things happened?”

“Yeah, that's right,” Gzowski said. “I picked my last fare up in Cadboro Bay. It was a routine call from the dispatcher to any driver in the vicinity of Cadboro Bay village. I was near the Uplands Golf Club, so I answered.”

“Keep talking,” I said.

“There's this guy waiting to be picked up on Cadboro Bay Road, that's all. So that's what I did, I picked him up. He was standing near Pepper's grocery store.”

Gzowski stopped talking, took his cap off and scratched his head. He gave me a sidelong look and said, hesitantly, “This fare. I think he was a Native guy.”

“You
think
?”

“That's right, I don't know, because here's the funny thing. I never saw his face. It was dark. He sat in the back seat of the cab.”

I said innocently, “If it was dark, what made you think he was a Native?”

Gzowski moved uncomfortably. “Because of the way he talked, I guess. It was just an impression. It's like, you see a woman walking ahead of you on the sidewalk. You haven't seen her face, but you have an idea she's an Asian. Then when you catch up with her, it turns out she
is
an Asian.”

I asked Gzowski where he'd taken his fare.

Gzowski was still uneasy. He looked at me directly, though, and said, “No offence, I didn't
want
to take him anywhere, to be honest. Some of your Native brethren have been known to throw up in the back of the cab or run off without paying. I'll be perfectly honest with you, sir. If I'd known he was a Native in the first place, I wouldn't have answered the call.”

Bernie looked up at me. Neither of us spoke.

Across the street, a tow-truck driver was connecting a hook to Gzowski's cab.

Gzowski drank what was left in his coffee cup and remarked jovially, “It turned out okay though. Matter of fact, it turned out to be my best fare all night. I took him all the way to Mowaht Bay, dropped him off outside the Legion. There was $55 on the meter. He gave me two 50s and told me to keep the change.”

Bernie said gloomily. “So he didn't throw up in your cab after all?”

“No, he did something nearly as bad though. He must have been soaked to the knees when he got in the cab, his shoes must have been sloshing water. He left a great soaking puddle on the carpets. Next day, when I found it, I thought he'd pissed himself. He hadn't though, the seat was dry. It was just the floor carpet was wet. I had to use a shop vac and a heater to dry it out.”

Bernie beat a little tattoo on the table with his fingers and said, “This fare. You
think
he was a Native. Can you describe the way he was dressed?”

“Better dressed than usual, I would say, for a Native.” Gzowski was blushing as soon as the words were out of his mouth. He gave me a conciliatory smile and said, “Excuse me, officer; sometimes I put my mouth in gear before the brain is engaged.”

“Forget it,” I said. “The main thing is, you wouldn't recognize this man again if you saw him?”

Gzowski shook his head. “No, I wouldn't. Apart from him getting in and out of the cab, when the dome light came on, I never got a look at him. A guy with long, dark hair. He was wearing a nice linen jacket, though. I did notice the jacket.”

“What colour was the jacket?”

“Light coloured, maybe beige?”

I said, “Wait a minute.”

I went outside, showed the tow-truck driver my badge and asked him to forget it. He refused.

I went back inside my office. With Gzowski's cab in tow, the truck started moving.

“Sorry about the interruption,” I said.

“All right, to continue, Mr. Gzowski,” Bernie prompted, “did you have any sense of how old your fare was? Old? Young?”

“Not quite middle-aged. Somewhere between 30 and 40.”

Bernie told Gzowski to stay tuned, let him go, then sat for a minute fiddling with his pipe. When he had it going nicely, he blew smoke out the side of his mouth and said, “You think Gzowski is always that clumsy? Spilling coffee, squeezing doughnut cream over himself?”

I shrugged my shoulders and said, “The long arm of coincidence just stretched out and pointed a finger. It's funny that Gzowski picked up those two fares wouldn't you say?”

Bernie said, “It's time I paid Henry Ferman a visit.”

“What about Karl Berger?”

“He can wait for now. I'll let him stew in the lockup for an hour or two.”

“When you see him, ask him about that stolen speedboat, the one found on the beach at Cadboro Bay.”

Bernie raised his eyebrows.

“Let me refresh your memory. Somebody stole a boat from the Rainbow Motel . . . ”

“My memory doesn't need refreshing, pal. I may even be ahead of you.”

“I hope you are, Bernie, because if this were my case, instead of yours, the guy I'd be talking to next is Harley Rollins. Find out if he stole his own boat, rammed a fishboat with it, then high tailed it to Cadboro Bay, where he ditched the boat, then called for a taxi.”

“It's a good suggestion, but I've got a better one.
You're
the guy should interview Rollins next. The guy's already pissed at you. If you show up asking more questions, maybe he'll get mad, give something away that he shouldn't. Try not to get shot at this time.”

≈  ≈  ≈

The sun was high and its heat penetrated my shirt until I reached Fort Street and walked along the shady side. Looking east toward Rockland, I saw distant thunderheads. A rainbow sprouted up from Craigdarroch Castle and arched into the unseen. I turned right on Quadra Street, looped back downtown to the Inner Harbour and went into Jack Owens' office.

Owens' secretary, a nicely buffed professional woman who looked like an executive, remembered me from my previous visit. Her greeting was friendly, till I asked to see her boss. Her manner became vague, and she began to tell me that Owens was tied up indefinitely and was inviting me to make an appointment when Owens appeared in his doorway. He had a zombie-like blank stare and an untidy sleepless look, as if he'd been up all night. He was unshaven and his fingernails were bitten to the quick.

“Oh, it's you . . . I suppose you'd better come in. Sooner you're in, the sooner you're out, right?” he remarked, with an almost hysterical laugh then stepped clumsily aside to let me in. Going past, I got a whiff of his chemical halitosis.

He closed the door behind us and then spent several seconds adjusting the placement of a chair, before inviting me to sit in it. Had I done so, I would have ended up with my face in sunlight while he, in a chair behind the desk, had his own face in shadow. Perhaps he was hoping I wouldn't notice the glowing haunted look in his eyes. I put the chair back where it had been before and sat down.

He announced, “I've been expecting this call ever since I heard about Janey's murder.”

I knew my grin was as tight as I responded, “I'm sorry. It must have been a shock.”

“Sorry?” he retorted. “You're a cop and never knew her. To you, she's just another number on another file.”

“I'm a cop, which makes me some kind of a ghoul?”

Owens' lower jaw moved up and down, although no words came out of his mouth.

Love can be a hoax of the cruellest variety. At that moment,
I presumed, Owens' suffering was intense, but his suffering would gradually diminish. In a year, two years, if he managed to extract his head from his ass, Jack Owens might be bestowing his affections upon somebody else. Janey Colby's situation was permanent. My interest in her wouldn't diminish till we found out who'd murdered her, and got a conviction.

The chair I was sitting in was uncomfortable. Its back-cushion sloped too much and it wasn't high enough for proper support. I moved my weight forward and rubbed my neck. Owens' eyes were soft and dull, his movements slow. To ensure his full attention I said sharply, “You were Jane Colby's financial adviser, were you not?”

He pulled himself up straight and sawed teeth across his lower lip until I thought he'd draw blood. For a brief flicker, his eyes weren't soft: they were hard and brilliant. He controlled his agitation and snapped, “Her financial adviser? That's one way of putting it.”

“And as such, you had insight into her actual financial situation at the time of her death?”

“I suppose so,” he retorted, fumbling into a drawer and bringing out a box of cigarettes.

“So tell me, because I want to know,
now
. What
was
her financial situation?”

The last time Owens had lit a cigarette in my presence, he'd apologized. This time, he didn't bother. He filled his lungs with smoke, blew an asymmetrical smoke ring and said, “Toward the end, Janey's finances took a turn for the better. She came into some money.”

“Suddenly? An unexpected windfall perhaps?”

“Yes and no. It was something she'd been working on.”

“Are we talking about the equity in Mr. Colby's house?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Presumably,” I explained, “if Mr. Colby borrowed on his equity, he might use some of it to help his daughter out. Fathers sometimes do such things.”

Owens said sleepily, “I have nothing more to say. The relationship between me and my clients is privileged.”

“This is a murder investigation,” I snarled. “Nothing's privileged.”