Serious Crimes (A Willows and Parker Mystery) (12 page)

“Yeah, sure.” He didn’t sound very enthusiastic. “That’s probably a good idea.” He shot his cuff, studied his watch. “Tomorrow afternoon, probably. We’ll give you a call.”

Monday night, Tyler came home a little after seven. Nancy had cooked fresh string beans and a baked potato and pork ribs with lemon. He asked her how it had gone with the detectives. Nancy surprised herself by breaking into hysterical laughter, which quickly dissolved into a flood of tears.

Yesterday, Orwell had phoned and invited her down to 312 Main to look over the mug-books. He’d even offered to send a car. Nancy turned him down. The BMW was being repaired at the dealer’s, but she’d driven the Mercedes, with its repulsive HER TOY licence plate.

She’d spent almost three hours looking at the kind of faces you’d never expect to see commemorated on a postage stamp. None of the rapists or murderers or kidnappers or break-and-enter specialists or child-molesters had looked even remotely familiar.

Orwell had walked her back to her car, which was parked almost two blocks away, in an uncovered lot on Pender. He’d looked at the vanity plate and frowned, but hadn’t said anything. As she’d unlocked the door he’d given her his card and said, “Lemme know right away if you get a phone call, okay?”

“Promise,” said Nancy. Orwell was holding the door open, half leaning into the car. His blond hair was cut very short and his scalp was pink from the cold. She had turned the key and the Mercedes’ engine had caught and made a nasty, snarling sound.

Orwell had smiled, and eased shut the door.

Nancy had weaved her way through the crowded lot towards the ticket booth. The tab was four dollars and fifty cents. She’d kept the receipt because she knew Tyler would ask her for it. His accountants seemed to find a way to write off just about every penny she spent.

The detective, Orwell, had asked her if threats had been made or if there had been any sexual… overtures.

No, she’d said. Had there been a hint, just a tiny little itty bitty bit of regret in her voice? Orwell had looked down at his notebook. Maybe he’d thought she was making a move on him. Wrong. It was the kid she’d been thinking about, not him.

Sick. Sick, sick, sick.

Driving home, she’d wondered if she’d have recognized Tyler, her husband, if she’d stumbled across his face in the mug-book.

Down the hall, in the
study
, Tyler’s fax machine twittered briefly.

And she knew damn well what the maintenance man was fishing out of the pool because she’d taken a stroll in the yard after breakfast to replenish the bird feeders.

Cigarette filters. White ones. Like the kind the kid with the green eyes and thick black hair smoked.

And one of the lawn chairs had been moved so it faced the bedroom; she could see the scrape marks in the snow. And there’d been a cigarette butt on the tiles and three more in a tight little knot by the side of the pool, swirling in the current near one of the outlet vents.

Four cigarettes. How long did it take to smoke four cigarettes? How long had he been sprawled out in the cold on the lawn chair, watching the house? Before she went to bed at night, especially if Tyler was working late and she was alone, she often stripped naked and went over to the window and looked out at the lights of the ships in the harbour, and the city. It was almost a ritual. Usually she turned off the bedroom lights, but sometimes she didn’t.

What had he seen?

And why hadn’t she told Tyler about the chair, the cigarettes?

Maybe because she knew he’d call the cops again and she didn’t want Detective Spears back in her living room, cataloguing the silverware. Or maybe it was something else.

She wondered where he was, what he was doing. If he had thought about her, as he had sat in the chair by the pool, the way she was thinking about him now…

Her pubic hair glistened in the light. She trailed the tips of her fingers languidly down her belly, touched herself the way she wished Tyler would learn to touch her, and allowed herself a small cry of pleasure.

Chapter 13

The preliminary report from CLEU as well as Christy Kirkpatrick’s fat autopsy report were waiting for Willows when he got back to 312 Main. There was also a thick pile of pink slips — telephone messages — cluttering his desk. He went through the messages first. He’d had five calls from his real estate agent and three calls from Dr Yang. There were more than a dozen calls from the local radio and television stations, all of which he’d pass on to Constable Fisher, who handled public relations.

Willows dragged the file from CLEU across his desk, flipped it open.

The lab hadn’t been able to find any fingerprints or physical evidence of any kind on the ransom note. But the extortionist had made a mistake when he’d sealed the envelope and licked the stamp.

Willows knew that blood wasn’t the only body fluid that could be typed. About eighty percent of the general population are
secretors
, individuals who have ABO blood grouping substances present in certain body fluids, such as saliva.

Whoever had licked the stamp had been a secretor. His blood type was AB. The frequency of occurrence of AB types in the general population was a relatively small four and a half percent.

Of course, this information was useless until Willows and Parker had a suspect in custody, and obtained a court order enabling them to extract samples of whole blood and saliva from said suspect. And even then it would be impossible to determine absolute guilt, since approximately one person in twenty has type AB blood.

But as corroborative evidence — the kind of evidence that might sway an indecisive jury — the determination of blood type was
potentially
invaluable.

His phone rang. He picked up. A mistake. It was Celia Cambridge, his real estate agent. He could hear traffic in the background. She told him she was phoning from her car, the white Mercedes.

Eddy Orwell jogged into the squad room. He’d been down in the weight room and was still wearing his baggy gray sweats.

Celia Cambridge said, “Jack, I’ve really been pushing it, and I’m getting nowhere. I’ve shown your house to five different families since I last talked to you, and I haven’t even got a nibble. In today’s market, that can only mean one thing.”

Willows glanced over his shoulder, hoping to spot Bradley. If the Inspector caught Eddy wearing sweats in the squad room, he’d shout his ears off.

Celia Cambridge said, “What it means is that your price is too high.”

Farley Spears sat hunched over his desk writing a report. Willows and several other detectives watched, fascinated, as Orwell snuck behind Spears and put his massive sweaty arms around him and lifted him, chair and all, high over his head. Most of the detectives were in shirtsleeves and they were all wearing red suspenders — the latest fad to hit the squad room. “Lemme go!” yelled Spears. That got a laugh. Spears rolled up the report he’d been writing and started hitting Orwell on the head.

“Are you there, Jack?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Celia Cambridge said, “I think we should drop at least ten thousand.”

When Willows originally listed the house, Cambridge suggested he use the Multiple Listing service, which meant guaranteed advertising in catalogues shared by all the local real estate agencies. It also meant that when she sold the house her commission would be a fat seven and a half percent. Willows had vetoed that particular idea.

He punched a few buttons on his calculator. A ten thousand reduction in price would cost Celia Cambridge exactly two hundred and fifty dollars in lost commission. He’d eat the balance.

He said, “I’ll think about it.”

“Sure, but remember, the longer your house is on the market, the harder it gets to sell.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

“Why don’t I give you a call this evening, say about eight?”

Orwell had had all the laughs he was going to get. He lowered the chair until Farley Spears was once again back on firm ground.

Spears threw a pencil at him, and missed.

“Tell you what,” said Willows, “I’ll call you.” He hung up. The telephone started ringing before he could take his hand off the receiver. He picked up, identified himself. It was a detective named Warner, from the Asian Crimes Squad. He wanted to know if Willows thought any of the Chinese or Vietnamese or Latin youth gangs might be mixed up in Kenny Lee’s murder.

Willows told Warner he didn’t have the slightest idea.

Warner said he had a case load that was breaking his back, and he’d be happy as a clam if Willows were to go so far as to state categorically that he had no reason to believe any of the youth gangs were in any way involved in the Kenny Lee case.

Willows said, “I wish I could do that for you, but I can’t. Not right now. Anything new comes in, you’ll be the first to hear about it.”

Warner thanked him, and hung up.

Willows went back to the CLEU file. The words and phrases used in the ransom note had been cut out of local newspapers and a month-old issue of a glossy magazine called
Western
Living
. The magazine cost two dollars if you bought it at the store, but he never did, because it was delivered free in the city’s better neighbourhoods, and every month without fail a copy appeared on his front porch.

The envelope was a cheap, common brand that could be bought at almost any stationery outlet.

Ditto for the single sheet of paper the cut-out words and phrases had been glued on.

The stamp, of course, could have been bought at any post office in the land.

Willows leaned back in his chair, scrubbed at his face with the palms of his hands.

He smelled stale sweat, glanced behind him.

“Hi,” said Orwell.

“You try and pick me up, Eddy, I’ll tell everybody about the time you made a grab for me in the locker room.”

Orwell held up both hands palm outwards in a gesture of mock surrender. His hair was still damp from his workout. He said, “Anything happening on the Kenny Lee case?”

“Not that I know about. How about you, Eddy? You can’t find something to do? Maybe I should let Bradley know you’re free, he can find a spot for you. Traffic, probably.”

Orwell chuckled. He rested a slim hip on Willows’ desk. “You decide what to get me and Judith for a wedding present?”

“That still on?”

“We can hardly wait.”

The wedding was set for mid-April, three months down the road. But Orwell had been soliciting presents since he’d first popped the question, way back in November. He reminded Willows that he had him down for a Moulinex food processor, reminded him what model he wanted.

Willows closed his eyes.

Orwell said, “I checked around. The Bay downtown has the best price.”

Willows looked up at him, smiled. “I’ve been thinking about it, Eddy, and I’ve decided the best I can do is a toaster.”

“We already got one, works real good.”

“Not the kind of toaster I have in mind.”

“Oh yeah, what kind of toaster is that?”

“An absolute bottom of the line, generic el cheapo two slicer. The kind that automatically turns bread into charcoal.”

Orwell frowned. “What’re you talking about?”

“I remember the toaster we had when I was a kid. It was heavy chrome, fancy as hell. With a thick, black and white cord.”

“You wanna buy me and Judith an antique toaster? I don’t think she’d like that, Jack.”

“The sides dropped down,” said Willows. “They were on hinges. You put the bread in and toasted one side and then had to turn the toast around and do the other side. It was so simple. Be perfect for you. The only problem I had with it, if you got started reading the comics or something and forgot what you were doing, that toaster was very unforgiving. It’d send up a column of smoke so foul you had to run for your life. Raisin bread was the worst. There was no room for error. If you didn’t hit it just right, you went to school with an empty stomach.”

“School?” said Orwell, frowning.

“I don’t know if you can still buy a toaster like that,” Willows said. “But it’s exactly what I want to get for you. And you know something else, Eddy?”

“What?”

Willows smiled. “It’s exactly what you deserve.”

“April fifteenth,” said Orwell. “Bring the Moulinex or don’t even bother to show up.” He shifted so he had a little more hip on the desk. “I hear you’re selling your house, right?”

“Who told you that?”

“Ask me who didn’t,” said Orwell. “It’s a shorter list. How much you asking?”

“More than you can afford.”

“Yeah?”

“Go take a shower, Eddy.”

“I just took a shower. Hey, I’m serious about the house. Judith’s parents are gonna loan us fifty grand for a down-payment. Last couple of weekends, we’ve been looking in the Coquitlam area.”

“Nice,” said Willows. Coquitlam was about thirty miles out of town, easily an hour’s commute. Very few policemen with a family owned a home in the city, or even close in. On a cop’s salary, it simply couldn’t be done.

“So tell me, what’re you asking?”

Willows slipped his wallet out of the breast pocket of his jacket. He opened it and withdrew Celia Cambridge’s card. “You’re interested, give her a call.”

“An agent? Get rid of her, we can both save a couple of bucks.”

“Beat it, Eddy.”

“You got an open house scheduled? Sunday afternoon be okay?”

“What’s the plan, Eddy? You and Judith going to case the joint, steal all my household appliances?”

Willows turned to the coroner’s report. The file was full of surprises. Kenny Lee had died of asphyxia — he’d suffocated on his own vomit.

An examination of Lee’s eyes and eyelids determined the presence of petechiae in the conjunctivae — tiny haemorrhages in the form of dark specks seen on the mucous membrane lining the inner surface of the eyelids; a clear indication of asphyxia.

“Jack.”

Willows glanced up. Bradley was standing in the open doorway to his office, the stub of an unlit cigar jutting from the corner of his mouth. He said, “Come and see me when Parker checks in, will you?”

Willows nodded. Bradley disappeared back inside his office and shut the door.

Kenny Lee was fifty-seven years old when he died. His height was five feet eight inches. His weight was one hundred and fifty-six pounds. He was in excellent physical condition. Muscular development was average for a man of his age and occupation. He had no scars or tattoos. His teeth were in good shape. There were no abnormalities or deformities of the body. Neither was there any evidence of fractures.

Willows studied the photographs of the body. He noted the deep abrasions and bruising the pathologist had found in the area of Lee’s wrists and ankles. Those on the wrists were deeper. During his dying convulsions, Lee had apparently struggled against his copper wire bonds. Microscopic wood fibres had been found in the area of his shoulders. This suggested he’d been tied up, possibly to a chair. There was, however, no evidence of bruising around his stomach or ribcage.

Willows wondered if he had been naked during the entire period of his incarceration — the two and a half weeks that had passed between the time he disappeared and the discovery of his body.

The internal investigation had determined that prior to his death, Lee had suffered a subarachnoid haemorrhage due to a spontaneous rupture of a small aneurysm in the brain. In layman’s terms, a minor artery had ruptured. The resulting haemorrhage had been slow. It was possible that Lee had remained conscious up until the very moment of his death, but that the haemorrhage had caused him to suddenly become disturbed or assaultive.

If the haemorrhage had resulted in assaultive conduct — and it was a typical result — it would explain the laceration and bruising around Lee’s wrists.

Marks on his left hand and left wrist indicated he wore a watch and wedding ring. This had been confirmed by his widow.

Willows checked his notes. Lee had not been wearing any jewellery when he’d been pulled from the pond. The missing person report originally filed by his wife said he wore a wedding band with a single small diamond, and a gold-coloured Lorus watch on a gold expansion band. The watch had been presented to him a year earlier, by his employees, on the anniversary of the seventeenth year of publication of the
Chinese
Times
.

Neither the watch nor the ring had been found when they’d drained the pond.

Willows made a note to check the city’s pawn shops.

The pathologist was of the opinion that the damage to Kenny Lee’s wrists had occurred just prior to death. Marks on the ankles were less recent.

He was also of the opinion that Lee had died three days before his body had been dumped in the gardens and that — based on body temperature and the amount of water sprayed on the body — he had been there approximately six to ten hours before he was discovered by Dr Yang.

It was impossible to determine if the aneurysm had occurred as a consequence of fear, unrelieved stress or a frantic attempt Lee might have made to free himself of his bonds.