Unreasonable Doubt (8 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Winters decided not to call ahead. He'd never had much time for Jack McMillan, and the feeling was mutual. He was pretty sure the old cop would tell him not to come if he suggested a meeting. He found McMillan's address in the files, took the department van, and drove out of town. When he left the highway, the road curved up the side of the mountain. Neat homes, well-tended gardens, and sidewalks fell away as he climbed. The paved road ended and became gravel and then dirt, getting progressively rougher as trees gathered closer. But even up here the wilderness was being pushed back. A new house, a huge modern palace of glass and concrete, grew out of a shelf of rock off to the right. The view, Winters thought, must be magnificent. He drove on. The road ended at McMillan's place, the entrance marked by a No Trespassing sign. He turned in. The driveway was as welcoming as the sign: a rough track that would be pretty much impassable in heavy rains. His back teeth rattled along with the van's chassis on the washboard surface.

The trees opened and the driveway ended in a circle of bare dirt in front of a substantial garage. The house itself was made of wood, a good size, with large windows overlooking the forest, a welcoming front porch, and a spacious deck off to one side. But one of those windows was covered in plywood, paint was peeling in long strips from the porch pillars, and a section of the deck railing had broken away. The yard, which might have once been a lawn, was a mess of struggling saplings and triumphant weeds. A garden shed sat beside the house, not touching but titling toward it as though it needed the support. A dog, a big male German shepherd, came around the side of the house. His muzzle was heavily gray, and he moved with an awkward gait as if something was wrong with his right hip. Nothing wrong with the teeth, though, and he displayed them in a hostile snarl.

Winters switched off the engine, and felt heat seep into the van as soon as the air conditioning died. He waited. A truck was parked close to the garage; someone was home.

He didn't have to wait long. Jack McMillan came out of the house, a second dog with him, younger but no less aggressive. McMillan was dressed in an oil-and-food-stained tee-shirt with the Toronto Maple Leaf logo across the front, and jeans that had seen a lot of wear. He didn't look good, Winters thought. McMillan's eyes were watery, his face blotchy, and he needed a shave and a haircut. The skin on the back of his right hand was raw and red. He shuffled across the yard toward the van. McMillan snapped at the old dog, who closed his mouth and went to stand with his partner at the man's side.

Winters opened the van door. The sun beat down on the unshaded yard.

“John,” McMillan said, ”what brings you out here?” He scratched at his right hand with dirty, torn nails.

“I'd like a word,” Winters said.

“Seein' as to how you've never been to my home before, I have to wonder what brings you here. Walter Desmond, I'd guess.”

“You heard he won his appeal. The Crown withdrew all charges.”

“Yeah, I heard. Fuckers.”

McMillan made no move to invite Winters inside, to sit down and crack open a beer and talk about the good old days. Winters had not expected him to. Winters had checked the man's service record before coming out. McMillan started his career in Vancouver, like John Winters himself had. He'd come to Trafalgar with his wife and three children in the late seventies. His wife left him a few years before the D'Angelo killing, taking the children with her. Winters glanced around. This would have been a nice home, a good place to raise kids. Now, it was a dump falling into ruin through neglect and disinterest.

“What you lookin' at?” McMillan snarled. He looked a great deal like his dog had moments earlier.

McMillan had not had a distinguished career. There were a couple of complaints from the public about overly aggressive arrests, searches without reason or warrant, harassment. No charges had ever been laid, no disciplinary action taken.

One complaint, from a woman who stated McMillan pushed his way into her house at night on the pretext of searching for an armed suspect and then asked her for a beer, had caught Winters' attention. The woman left town shortly after. Her complaint left with her. No further action taken. On paper, McMillan came across as somewhat of a bully, a bit too quick to push people around. That came as no surprise to Winters, who'd met the man previously. But otherwise, there were no stains on his record. No highlights or commendations, either.

McMillan had retired several years earlier and retreated to his cabin in the woods. He came into town now and again, to hang around the station lunchroom looking for someone to tell old war stories to, and got together once a month or so at a bar with some of the other retired guys (and they were all guys) or nearly retired ones like Jeff Glendenning.

“Just looking around,” Winters said. “Nice piece of property you have here. That's quite the house next door.”

“Fuckers,” McMillan said. “From Calgary. Oil guy. They spend a couple of weeks a year here, if that. Keep their dammed security lights on all night, though, whether they're here or not.”

“Still,” Winters said, trying to sound friendly, “having that place next door will increase your property value.”

“Increase the taxes, anyway. What do you want?”

So much for being friendly. “To tell you Walter Desmond has arrived in town.”

“Has he now?” McMillan didn't sound at all surprised. Winters suspected the phone lines had been buzzing up here. Some of the calls would have come directly from the police station itself.

“It would be best if you kept your distance for the time being, Jack.”

“Why would I want to do that? Maybe Walt and I can get together, knock back a couple of beers. Talk about the old days.”

“Don't give me that attitude, Jack. I'm asking you to do us all a favor and keep away from trouble.” The old dog sniffed at Winters' pant legs. He shifted a few steps, lifted his leg, and peed against the tires of the van. McMillan laughed.

“Old service guy,” he said. “Put out to pasture when he was shot in the leg.”

For a moment Winters wondered who McMillan was talking about. His record said nothing about being shot. But McMillan was watching the dog. “Nice of you to take him in.”

“Someone has to look after us old guys. Work hard his whole life, give everything to the police. Guard the taxpayers of this town, some of whom deserve it, plenty who don't. And what's your reward? For him?” McMillan nodded at the dog. “The long walk, if I hadn't said I'd take him. For me? Told to stay out of the town you spent the best years of your life protecting.”

A bit of an exaggeration, but Winters let it go. He knew plenty of cops who'd retired. A lot of them loved it. They'd taken consulting jobs, gone into the carpentry business, travelled to all the places they'd dreamed of. Winters knew one former RCMP sergeant who'd become a best-selling romance novelist. But for too many, being a cop was all they'd ever had. It was all they were, and when they weren't any longer, they found themselves with nothing left.

Winters wondered what side he'd fall on when the time came. Unlikely Eliza would let him sit around feeling sorry for himself. She was already trying to get him interested in the business of her art galleries. He suppressed a shudder.

McMillan could start by fixing up this place, rather than letting it fall to rack and ruin around his ears. It wasn't much past noon and the scent of beer was strong on the man's breath.

“A friendly warning, Jack. Just stay away, eh? Desmond's out of prison and there's nothing you can do about it except cause trouble.”

“I was the first officer on the scene. Did you know that, John? I saw that girl. I saw what he did to her. I saw him standing there, drenched in her still-warm blood, holding the knife, smiling at me like he was inviting me to share in the joke. Butcher.”

“As far as the Crown and the law are concerned…”

“The Crown can go fuck itself and take the law with it. Time for you to be leaving. I'm sure you have reports to fill out, good cops to harass. Maybe even pretty little ones to screw. How's Moonlight Smith working out by the way? Imagine, a cop named Moonlight.”

“Talk like that won't help…”

“See,
Sergeant
Winters, the way I see it is, I'm not trying to
help
.” More scratching of his hand.

“Stay away from Walt Desmond, Jack.”

“Or what? You'll arrest me? That'll go down well with the citizens of this town. The decent ones, anyway. The honest ones. Killer runs free while the cop who caught him is locked up.”

Coming here had been a mistake. About all Winters had achieved was to get McMillan riled up. He turned and headed back to his car.

He had to swing the van in a circle to go back the way he'd come. Jack McMillan made no move to get out of the way.

Winters glanced in the rearview mirror before the clearing disappeared from sight. The young dog had lain down in the sun. The old one watched him through one rheumy eye. His expression was identical to that of the old cop.

Chapter Fifteen

It was going to be a very long day. Smith had offered to take a shift for one of the guys so he could get to his daughter's soccer tournament. Seemed like a good idea at the time, as he'd return the favor when she needed one. But right now—approaching six o'clock, and with another twelve hours to put in—not so much.

She stuck her head in the door of Mid-Kootenay Adventure Vacations. “Hi, Flower. Mom still here?”

Dinner time and the store was quiet. Flower glanced up from her magazine. “In the back. I heard about what happened last night, Molly. Everyone's talking about it. The art gallery's just across the street from us. Scary. Did you catch him yet?”

“No,” Smith said. “He's probably long gone by now.”

“I told your mom I'm bringing my bike into the shop from now on,” Flower said. “And I'm going in and out by the front door. I'm not leaving it tied up out back anymore.”

“He's long gone,” Smith repeated, “but to be on the safe side, we're stepping up patrols in the alleys and walkways. I'll be checking them regularly tonight.”

“I suppose that's good,” Flower said. “But I'm still not going out there alone. Particularly not after dark.”

“Is that you, Moonlight?” Lucky called.

“Yes, it's me.”

“Come on through. I'm off the phone.”

Smith had to suck in her stomach and swivel sideways to squeeze past Flower's bike, parked in the hallway, to get to her mother's office.

Like Flower and everyone else Smith met today, Lucky had heard about what happened last night. Eliza's art gallery hadn't opened this morning, fueling rumors. Smith had spent most of the day trying to calm people down and reassure them that Mrs. Winters had not been harmed. Lucky greeted her daughter with, “Have you caught him?”

Smith closed the door behind her. “No. He's probably long gone, but we'll be patrolling the alley regularly for a while.”

“Poor Eliza. I thought I might pop around to her house after work, bring her flowers or something.”

“Better not, Mom. She's an exceptionally private person. She might think you're only wanting the inside scoop.”

Lucky sighed. “I suppose you're right. John called Paul last night. Paul was furious.”

“Fair enough,” Smith said. She still wasn't entirely comfortable with the thought that the Chief Constable—her boss—was regularly spending the night at her mother's place. When she visited the house in which she'd grown up, she tried not to notice signs that Paul Keller wasn't sleeping in the guest room.

“Between you and me,” Lucky said, “Paul wonders if this was a random attack or something more…personal.”

“You mean aimed at Sergeant Winters? That's possible, but not likely.” Still, it did happen, and Winters was checking to see if anyone he'd been responsible for convicting, who might still be carrying a grudge, had recently been released from jail. If it were Doug Kibbens or Jack McMillan's wife who'd been attacked, they'd be asking questions of Walter Desmond. But Winters hadn't been anywhere near Trafalgar at the time of that case.

“Some of the shop owners have asked the town to allow them to park on Front Street all day, for no charge,” Lucky said. “People, women, are worried about parking in the alley.”

“I bet that wasn't well received.”

Lucky shook her head. “Parking's hard enough to come by at this time of year without us blocking the street. I've told everyone I speak to that they'll be okay if they stay alert. Carry their keys in their hand, check the shadows. I'm still parking in the alley.”

Smith had seen her mom's car earlier. Today, it was the only one parked behind the shops in the entire block. “Good advice, Mom. Anyway, I'm not here to talk about that. I was thinking about Walt Desmond earlier.”

“Why? I should tell you that more than one person is pointing out the coincidence of the attack on Eliza coming the very day Walter got to town.”

“They can point as much as they like, Mom, but that doesn't mean anything. Plenty of people arrived yesterday. It is summertime. If it will help squelch rumors, I can tell you Eliza and Merrill both said the attacker was young with long hair.”

“Why are you asking then, dear?”

“I'm curious. The case is interesting. Whether Desmond did it or not. I've been reading some of the old reports. Once he was charged, everyone and their dog rushed to tell the police they'd always figured he was a strange one. But before Sophia was killed, Desmond had no record. So I'd like to hear your take on him.”

Lucky leaned back in her chair. She closed her eyes. Smith let her mom think. Lucky could be impulsive, passionate, sometimes overbearing. But she was unfailingly honest and always thought the best of people. She never failed to be surprised when people let her down.

“It's hard to pick apart what my impressions were before and after the arrest, dear. I knew his wife better than him.”

“Tell me about her.”

Lucky was silent for a long time. “She didn't seem to be a happy woman. Again, I might be mixing up before and after, but I don't think so. They didn't have any children. Now you know I don't believe a woman needs children to lead a fulfilled life.” Lucky tried not to glance at her childless daughter. “But I did suspect Arlene might be lonely. She didn't have many friends. She kept largely to herself.”

“Lonely sometimes means a lot of things in a marriage,” Smith said. “Was Walt rumored to have affairs?”

Lucky shook her head. “Not that I ever heard.”

Smith hid a smile. If Lucky and her friends hadn't heard rumors, then Walter Desmond had either been one careful guy or totally on the straight and narrow.

“I remember…” Lucky said.

“Remember what?”

“It's starting to come back to me now. I remember being surprised after he was arrested, at how vehement Arlene was in her defense of him. I hadn't thought they had a very good marriage. Nothing I can put my finger on, you understand, dear, but sometimes you can tell. Couples who bicker over nothing, never smile at each other or casually touch. No, I'm wrong. It wasn't
them
, it was her. She'd make jokes at his expense, jokes that weren't at all funny, complain about the small inconsequential things he did or his irritating habits. But when he was arrested, Arlene supported him completely. She sold everything they had to raise funds for his defense. She was…
destroyed
isn't too harsh a word, when he was convicted. I heard she died of cancer, but some people whispered she'd killed herself. Just goes to show, you never know what goes on in someone else's marriage. Or how deep people can truly be.”

And that, Smith knew, was the problem with legal cases. Secrets, always secrets.

“Did you know the dead girl, Mom?”

“I can't say that I ever met Sophia. I didn't know her parents at all. You were just starting primary school when she died. Although…” Lucky's voice trailed off and Smith's ears perked up.

“Although…?”

“I had never met Sophia, no. But I was aware of her. The youth center was just getting going in those days, and with you and Samwise still young and the store to manage, I didn't spend as much time there as I do now. We got a grant to buy computers for kids to use after school. Twenty-five years ago, most people didn't have a computer in their home, and certainly not one in every room as well as in their pocket. It was after the killing, during the trial, I believe, when I overheard some of the girls talking about Sophia.” Lucky's voice trailed off.

“What did they say, Mom?”

“The papers were full of what a lovely young woman she was. It seemed as though everyone had fond memories of her.”

“But…” Smith nudged. This was like interrogating a hostile witness.

“One of the girls at the youth center said her sister, who'd been in Sophia's classes in high school, said it was good riddance to bad rubbish. Everyone has enemies, of course, and no one more than high school girls.”

“And, boy, do I remember that.” Smith suppressed a mental shudder.

“The thing is, dear, the other girls said they knew what she meant. It seems her peers didn't have quite the fond memories of her that other people did.”

“Did you tell anyone?”

“Heavens, no. What difference did it make? It was a horrible, brutal murder. That was all that mattered.”

Smith wasn't so sure. The problem with secrets is that no one knows which secrets are important and which aren't. When the rush is on to sanitize the memory of the dearly departed, the truth can get buried as deeply as the dirty laundry. “I've gotta go. Thanks, Mom. Catch you later.”

“Are you off work next Saturday, dear?”

“As it happens, I am. Why?”

“Paul and I are planning a barbeque in the afternoon. Nothing big, just a few friends coming over. I'd like you and Adam to come.”

“Okay. What time?”

“Three. Bring Norman. Sylvester misses him.” Sylvester was Lucky's aging golden retriever. Sylvester adored the police dog, and in moments of whimsy Smith wondered if dogs could experience hero worship.

She went back to the street. And the heat. As she walked, watching faces, peering into shops, checking out the traffic, she thought about her mother. So, Lucky and the chief were going to start entertaining family and friends as a couple.

It wasn't that she wanted, or expected, her mom to spend the rest of her life in widow's weeds. Lucky and Andy Smith had had a good marriage; they'd loved each other until the day he died. All the more reason for her mom to want, and deserve, to find happiness with a new man. The chief was divorced, so no problems there. But he was the chief; he was her boss. Oh, well, she'd have to get used to it
.

Now there's an accident looking for a place to happen.
A giant black Escalade, all clean and shiny, swung into the oncoming lane to pass a Toyota Yaris waiting patiently for the car in front of it to maneuver into a parking place. The driver of the Escalade leaned on his horn, whether at the Yaris or at the Escape heading toward it in its proper lane, Smith didn't know. She made a mental note of the license plate, suspecting she'd be seeing the Escalade again.