Unreasonable Doubt (14 page)

“Not everyone wants to see Desmond run out of town,” Solway said.

“No,” Smith said, “but those who do are not going to be happy as long as he's here.”

Walt and Carolanne ordered rice bowls and carried them back to the boat dock.

“Gotta run,” Solway said, wiping mustard off her hands onto a napkin. “Afternoon shift.” She tossed the napkin into a trash container. “Will you look at that? There's something I never thought I'd live long enough to see.”

“What?”

“Over at your mom's booth.”

Smith choked on the last mouthful of bun.

Trafalgar's Chief Constable Paul Keller, dressed in jeans and a tee-shirt, stood in front of the table under the Trafalgar Women's Center banner. He handed out brochures to women and men pushing strollers, smiled at babies, and discussed the benefits of early-years nutrition.

“I wondered how much longer he could resist getting involved in Mom's activities,” Smith said.

“Think he'll be campaigning for marijuana legalization soon, or for an end to fracking?”

“If Mom has anything to say about it, he will,” Smith said with a laugh.

Chapter Twenty-six

John Winters threw the newspaper onto his boss' desk.

“I saw it,” Keller said. “I danced the jig when that woman left town. She's back, is she?”

“Meredith's parents live here,” Winters said. “Natural enough for her to visit. Just our bad luck the Desmond story broke at the same time.”

The front page of Monday's
Gazette
contained a color picture of a pretty young woman. It was a university graduation photo, the woman smiling shyly from beneath the flat-topped hat, a blue robe draped across her shoulders, proudly clutching a diploma tied in red ribbon. Winters had seen the original of that photo a couple of days ago. In the D'Angelo living room. Sophia.

The story consisted mostly of Tony D'Angelo's memories of his sister, accompanied by a sidebar that was nothing more than a rehash of the old case updated with the news of Walter Desmond's appeal and pardon.

“Could have been worse,” Keller said. “Although we don't need people seeing this picture and then looking out their window to see Walt Desmond stroll by.”

“It is worse,” Winters said. “Meredith works for a tabloid in Montreal. They ran the same story yesterday, only that one was heavy on police incompetency.”

Keller groaned. “We can pick our poison. Everyone who believes the police did their job will want to string Desmond up. His defenders will be baying for
our
blood. You getting anywhere?”

“Friday afternoon, I came across an interesting tidbit.” Winters explained about the circumstances around Doug Kibbens' death and the significance of the date. “I have his case notes, sparse as they are. I want a look at any personal items he might have left behind. I've got someone down in the dungeons of the city hall basement searching this morning. His ex-wife didn't want any of his things, so Barb tossed the contents of his drawers into a box and had them put into storage.”

“What do you hope to find, John?”

Winters shrugged. “I'd like to know what he was thinking. Maybe get some clue into why he killed himself. If he did. This morning, I'm going out to talk to Jack McMillan again. He won't like it, but I have questions about Kibbens.”

“It's got to be done,” Keller said. “We knew they were close. At work and as friends.”

“I debated all weekend about the best way of approaching the D'Angelo family again. Sophia's father Gino is nothing but hostile and, to be honest, I'm afraid of him having a heart attack and us being blamed for haranguing them.

“Did you see Molly's report on an altercation between Tony D'Angelo, Gina's brother, and Desmond on Friday?”

Keller's face was grim. “I did.”

“I want to talk to him. A brother's more likely to know what was happing in his sister's life than the parents were. I don't want to go to the house. I'm going to call Tony and ask him to come in later today.”

Keller nodded. “I saw Desmond at the park on Saturday.”

“What was he doing there?”

“Nothing but what everyone else was. Having a good time. No one bothered him, and I saw a couple of guys around his age talking to him, without trying to take a swing. He spent most of his time with a woman in a dragon boat team uniform. Mid- to late fifties, tall and slim, brown hair. You know anything about her?”

“Molly's report on the altercation with Tony mentioned Desmond was with a woman at that time. Might be the same one.”

“I just wish he'd leave. If the rest of the media pack picks up Meredith's story, they'll be descending on us like the plague of locusts they are. We can handle questions about the case. I want to get to the bottom of it myself, but having Desmond here raises everyone's emotions.” Keller rubbed his eyes. “At times like this, retirement is looking mighty good. How's Eliza?”

“She's planning to go into the gallery this afternoon. Her spirits seem good and no lasting physical damage was done.”

“You don't sound entirely sure of yourself, John.”

“I'm not. I suggested we do something yesterday, get out of the house, maybe go for a hike or drive to Nelson for lunch, but she said she'd rather stay home and read, which is unusual on a nice summer's day. I offered to drive her into work this afternoon, and she laughed me off. I wonder if she's dealing with it as easily as she thinks she is, or mentally shoving it under the carpet. I've tried to talk it over, and she gives me a little laugh and says all's well that ends well and finds some excuse to leave the room.”

“Do you think Victim Services might be able to help?”

“I suggested it. She refused outright.”

“She hasn't led a sheltered life, as you well know, John. Maybe she can handle it in her way. If you need any time…”

“Thanks, Paul.”

Barb's head popped around the door. “I just got a call. Rose D'Angelo's been rushed to hospital. They suspect it's a stroke.”

“That can't be good. She's had one before,” Keller said.

“She went to the mailbox and got the day's newspaper. Opened it to see Sophia's picture on the front page. Her son says she cried out and dropped on the spot.”

Keller shook his head. “It never ends. Not for them. Keep me posted, Barb. John, ask Ray to come in, will you? I want an update.”

“He's got his eye on a known offender by the name of Anderson. But Anderson seems to have gone to ground.”

“He'll pop back up soon enough. They always do. You'd better take a uniform with you to call on McMillan. He won't be happy to see you.”

***

“What a dump,” Molly Smith said. The truck jerked and buckled as it bounced over potholes in the yard. “McMillan can't be short of money; he must be on full pension. You'd think he could fix the place up.”

“Takes more than money,” Winters said. “Takes interest too.”

“Nice piece of property, though,” Smith said. At the end of a little-traveled road, nestled into the slope of the mountain, surrounded by thick forest, this could be a dream home for an escapee from the city. Too bad about the crumbling house, the bare dusty yard, the weed-choked driveway, and the piles of junk everyone. “Can't imagine the people in that nice big house we just passed are happy being next to this eyesore.”

“I can't imagine McMillan cares whether they're happy or not.”

The door of the house opened, and two dogs ran out, barking and snarling. “Wait,” Winters said. “I don't think he'd be stupid enough to set those dogs on us, but accidents do happen, don't they?” He rolled down the window. Smith left the engine running.

Jack McMillan sauntered onto the porch. He stood watching, while his dogs leapt against the sides of the truck, barking and showing their teeth.

“I'm not playing this game,” Winters said. “I'm getting out.” He unzipped his jacket. “Shoot if you have to.”

“Careful,” Smith said.

“I mean shoot the dogs, not McMillan.”

“I got that, Sarge, thanks.”

Winters opened the passenger door. The dogs stepped back, but they continued barking. “Call them off, Jack,” Winters shouted. He put a foot on the ground.

McMillan whistled. These were two well-trained animals. They ran straight to their master, the older one limping slightly. McMillan gestured for them to go into the house, and he closed the door behind them. Smith got out of the truck. Together she and Winters walked across the yard to meet McMillan halfway. Dust rose at their feet and the sun was hot on their heads.

“Can't be too careful these days,” the old cop said. “You never know what sort of lowlife will come snooping around.” He dug in his shirt pocket and pulled out matches and a pack of cigarettes. He lit up. He looked at Smith, stared too long to be polite. She forced herself to not look away.

“Cops need girls these days to protect them?” he said at last.

“I want to talk to you about Sergeant Doug Kibbens,” Winters said.

McMillan took a long drag. The eczema on his right hand was bad. “Good officer. Good man. Steady. Loyal.” Another look at Smith. “Tough as nails. Not like the ones you get these days. You've mussed your lipstick, sweetie.”

She said nothing. She didn't wear lipstick on duty or off. McMillan was trying to bait her, plain and simple. She wouldn't give in. His world was fading fast, and they were all better for it.

“Hot out,” Winters said.

“Suck it up,” McMillan replied. “You step one foot in my house and my dogs'll rip it off.”

“Sergeant Doug Kibbens died in a car accident a year after the D'Angelo killing.”

A shadow passed behind McMillan's eyes. “Yeah, he did. Musta slipped on a patch of ice, went through the barrier and over the side of the mountain. Not much left of the poor guy once he hit bottom.”

“That's not true,” Winters said. “And you know it. It was middle of winter but the road was bone dry. No skid marks. I'm wondering why the department covered it up.”

“What the hell does it matter to you? He had a heart attack. Maybe he tried to avoid a moose. Maybe he dropped a lit cigarette into his lap and lost control. You ever lose control, Sergeant? Must be easy to lose control working around chicks all day. You always obey orders, Constable?”

“Fuck you,” Smith said, immediately wishing she could take back the words. No need to play straight into his misogynistic, mean-spirited hands.

McMillan laughed. “I like ones with spirit, too.”

“I get the point,” Winters said. “You don't want women on the job. I'm guessing you don't want anyone who doesn't have the same color skin as you either, but that's not why we're here. Tell me about Sergeant Kibbens. You said he was a good cop. I've read his service record. It's a good one. He had a good career.”

Smith said nothing. She'd also looked up Kibbens' record. Undistinguished, was the word that came to mind. Nothing detrimental, either.

“You got that right at least,” McMillan said. “Doug knew how to get things done. He got results.”

“Was he the sort to worry about how he got those results?” Winters asked.

“By the time Doug died, things were changing. More rules, what they call more ‘civilian oversight.' What I call a bunch of busybodies interfering in what's none of their business.” Another glance at Smith. “Standards slipping. I was in Vancouver couple of months ago. Saw a cop out on the street. Guy musta been about five four. I thought he was a kid playing dress-up at first.”

Jack McMillan was nothing but a seething mass of resentment. What on earth, Smith thought, did it matter to him, or to anyone, if a police officer was short? She'd known short guys with black belts and tall husky ones who tripped over cracks in the sidewalk. McMillan wasn't any older than her mom or dad, were Andy still alive. There were lots of things Lucky and Andy liked about the modern world—human rights, for one thing—and lots they didn't. Even Lucky had been heard to say kids these days were rude and self-absorbed. But she took the good with the bad and got on with her life.

Smith glanced around the yard. The dark forest closed in around them. No potted plants, no flowers. Just dust and weeds, rusting machine parts, and collapsing outbuildings. McMillan sat up here on his mountain at the end of the road, alone with dogs he'd trained to be as mean as he was, and seethed.

What a waste of a life.

“Look, Jack,” Winters said, “level with me. You must have wondered about Doug's death. Was he having problems, money problems, maybe? Anything happen to upset him or anything to be depressed over?”

“You don't get it, do you, Winters? Men like Doug didn't get depressed. They had a problem, they took care of it. End of story.”

And that, Smith thought, was the problem in a nutshell. When they couldn't take care of it, or talk to anyone about it, they fell apart. And they ended up swallowing their gun or sailing over the edge of a mountain.

“Did he take care of it?” Winters said. “Was Sophia D'Angelo a problem for him?”

Smith might have expected McMillan to lash out at Winters. But he didn't. He just looked away, into the woods, and scratched at the rash on his hand. Inside the house the dogs had stopped barking. Birds sang in the trees at the edge of the forest, otherwise all was quiet. “You got nothin' Winters. Nothin'. The case was over. The man arrested, found guilty, put in prison where he belonged. All you're going to do is blacken the name of a good cop. Attack a man who can't answer for himself. Forget about it.”

“You know I can't do that. If Walt Desmond didn't kill Sophia,” he put up his hand, “and I'm not saying that's what I believe, I'm saying that's what the courts say. If Desmond didn't do it, someone did. The case is open, and it's on my desk. If you can help me, I'd appreciate it. That's all.”

“I can't help you. I said it all at the time. Doug's death has nothing to do with that case. There are three hundred, sixty-five days in the year. That he had his accident on that particular day means nothing. Now, get off my property.”

“If you remember anything…” Winters said.

“You'll be the first I call. Yeah, right.”

Winters gave Smith a nod. They turned and headed back to the truck.

“Sorry to hear about the wife,” McMillan called after them. “They say she wasn't badly hurt. That's what you get when the police can't run troublemakers out of town because they're afraid of hurting someone's feelings.”