Valley of the Lost (17 page)
“Let’s hope,” a woman said. “Then we can all get some sleep.”
Everyone, including Smith, ducked as a bottle flew out the open door and crashed into a walkway so weed-choked it was almost invisible. Inside the house a woman screamed, and glass broke.
“Five-one,” Smith said into the radio at her shoulder. “I’m entering the residence and I need assistance. Fast.” Her heart beat in her chest. She was pleased that her voice held steady; it had an embarrassing tendency to squeak when she was under stress.
“Trafalgar City Police.” She pounded on the open door. “I’m coming in.” In the back of her mind she listened for the sound of a siren, coming her way. Nothing. She fastened her right hand around the solid butt of her Glock, took a deep breath, and stepped through the door. She was in the kitchen. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink, bits of shattered crockery littered the floor. The scent of overripe fruit lingered in the stifling air. A fly threw itself against the window, going mad in a frenzy of buzzing. The air was foul—meat kept out of the fridge for too long on a hot day, most likely. From the back of the house, slightly muffled as if it was behind a door, thank you God, a dog barked.
“Police,” she shouted again. “I’m…”
“Hey, they sent the pretty one. Nice o’ them.” A man walked into the kitchen. He carried a bottle of beer. His black T-shirt was stained with sweat and dust and the remains of meals past. His gray hair hadn’t seen shampoo in a considerable period of time; his beard was thick and long and unkempt. He smiled at Smith—he was missing his bottom plate—and stepped forward. He slipped in something and collapsed against the counter. “Woopsie,” he said, with a high-pitched giggle.
“You’re drunk.”
“He’s always drunk.” A woman stood in the doorway. Her face was heavily made up, and her hair was dyed too black, emphasizing the wrinkles dragging down her face. She wore a short white denim skirt with a blue tank top and four-inch heels. Drying blood ran from her left nostril, mingling with lipstick the same color. Her lip was beginning to swell. She smelled of good perfume, applied with too heavy a hand. Her voice, also, was none too steady, probably due to the glass she held. It was large, half-full of liquid the color of honey. “He’s had a good look at you, so you can leave now, girlie. There’ll be no more trouble. Once the fuzz arrives he crawls into a corner and sleeps it off.”
“Did your husband hit you, ma’am?” Smith asked.
“Nah. I fell into a door. Nothing to worry about, so you can leave now.” She lifted her glass to her mouth and swallowed.
“This is the second call we’ve had this month to this address. What’s your name?” Smith asked the man, although she knew it. Jake LeBlanc. His wife was Felicia and his daughter was named Lorraine. Lorraine who screwed men in the alleyways because she needed affection and she had nowhere to take them.
Instead of answering the officer’s question Jake took a long pull from his bottle.
“Forget about it, will ya,” Felicia said. “Like I said, I fell into a door. No harm done. I’ll put him to bed.” She took a step toward her husband, tripped on the edge of a ratty rug and fell against him. They both tumbled to the floor in a fountain of flying whisky. The brown bottle broke, spraying shards of glass and beer across the room.
Smith danced nimbly out of the way. As if this kitchen didn’t smell bad enough, spilled liquor was now added to the mix. “You’re coming with me, Mr. LeBlanc. Get up.”
Felicia got to her feet, using her husband’s head as a point of leverage. He slid further down, and she reached toward the open whisky bottle on the counter. A fly buzzed around their heads.
“Help him up,” Smith said to her. “And let’s go.”
“Where we goin’ honey?” Jake said. He put his hands flat on the floor and pushed himself to a standing position. His belt buckle was undone and his fly at half-mast. He thrust his crotch toward her. “Your place, I hope.”
She wanted to gag. “My place of work.” Although she couldn’t see behind her, she was conscious of neighbors gathered around the open door. She felt that she was on stage, performing before a particularly difficult audience. Sweat dripped down her back and between her breasts. There wasn’t a window open and the air was close and heavy. Two flies circled around the liquid on the floor, their buzzing audible even over the noise from the kitchen, the street, and the dog, its barking approaching the point of hysteria.
Jake headed toward the fridge. “Great. I’ll get us something to party with. Okay, honey?”
“You’ve had enough. Do up your pants or you’ll be getting a charge of indecency.”
He leered at her, and Smith reached out, grabbed his upper arm, swung him around, and snapped handcuffs on him. “And,” she said to Felicia, who’d picked a dirty glass out of the crowded sink and was about to pour herself another slug of whiskey. “So have you. Put that glass down.”
“Who the hell do you think you are?” From out of nowhere, Felicia, who had been all calm excuses and trying to make sense, turned on Smith. She began screaming a stream of obscenities that had Smith blinking in shock. Ugly words, sour breath, cheap whisky, and expensive perfume washed over the young policewoman. Spittle gathered in the corners of Felicia’s mouth; her face contorted, and her eyes flared, bloodshot and mean. “Think you can come into my house and tell me what to do. You bloody well better get your hands off my husband, if you know what’s good for you, you bitch.”
“Calm down, Mrs. LeBlanc. I have no interest in your husband.”
Her radio cackled. “Five-one. MVA with injuries downtown. Car is delayed. Sergeant coming.”
“Ten Four. And tell him to hurry.” Smith wasn’t sure if she said the last sentence loud enough to be heard.
Felicia launched herself at Smith, her fingers aiming for the soft, vulnerable eye sockets. Smith leaped back, pulling Jake with her, and Felicia stumbled across the room. She collapsed like a rag doll into a drunken heap on the floor. Where she sat, legs stuck out in front of her, screaming more abuse.
“Bummer,” Jake said.
A motorcycle engine roared up the hill. It was cut off. Someone yelled, “Hurry, hurry. They’re killing her.”
Smith heard pounding footsteps and Sergeant Caldwell, the shift supervisor, burst into the kitchen. He grabbed Felicia and hauled her to her feet.
“I didn’t touch her.” The woman’s purr was as soft and sweet as a kitten. “Ask anyone.”
Caldwell snapped cuffs on Felicia.
“My husband struck me,” she said to the sergeant, her voice soft and pleasant. A solid, reliable citizen explaining what had happened. “It was an accident, but your lady officer overreacted. I understand, and I won’t lay a complaint, if you let me go. Although Jake could use a night in the drunk tank.”
Smith choked back her indignation.
“Bring the man,” Caldwell ordered Smith, as he led Felicia out the door. “Then call the humane society to send someone around to take the dog.”
Caldwell had come on the motorcycle, so the LeBlanc family was stuffed into the back of Smith’s car.
She walked around to the driver’s door.
“I hope you’ll finally put an end to this.” The neighbor in the red robe stepped in front of her, blocking her way. “We live next door.” He pointed—the big old house had been broken into a duplex. “My wife and I haven’t had a moment’s peace since we moved here.”
Smith looked at the circle of faces watching her. Dressed in an assortment of nightwear, the street lights casting heavy shadows on their faces, the neighbors stood silently behind him.
“If you’ll excuse me, sir.”
He stepped out of the way. Inside the car Felicia was speaking to Jake in soothing tones, telling him that she’d sort everything out. Jake was making choking sounds. Smith prayed that he wouldn’t vomit until they got to the station.
She moved to get into the car, but a spark caught her eye. Lorraine stood under a huge old walnut tree. Her shirt barely touched the bottom of her breasts and her jeans barely covered her pubic bones. The fake gem through her navel threw off light from the street lamp above her. Her eyes were wet. Seeing Smith watching her, Lorraine turned away and melted into the darkness.
Winters avoided long boozy evenings with police officers: he’d struggled too hard to get out of that trap. For the same reason he wasn’t too keen on department social functions, such as Barb was forcing him into. But at affairs to do with Eliza’s business, or her associates from the fashion world, he was never in danger of over-consuming. He was having too much of a miserable time to be able to forget how much he was drinking.
He clutched a glass of beer—some sort of expensive imported European thing that was, he’d admit, pretty good—and watched the party. They were at the M&C Developments’ Mid-Kootenay office. The night was clear and warm. The mountains a black bulk against a pale blue sky. Teak patio furniture had been laid out around the grounds; a bar and tables holding canapés stood in the shelter of the couple of trees that hadn’t been felled in the clearing of the construction site. In place of a view of what had once been heavy forest, posters with the logo of M&C marked the perimeter of the party area. Small groups of guests were escorted by rented staff, all young, pretty, thin, and female, down a chipped wood pathway to view the model suite. Winters followed, because he could think of nothing better to do.
What had once been an old barn had been given a fresh coat of red paint and new window frames and shingles. Inside, the barn had been fitted with dark wood, good carpet, and ceramic tile. Light fixtures sparkled, and wide windows looked over the dark, brooding forest. The kitchen might have served a four star restaurant. The master bedroom, filled with candlelight, coyly hinted at illicit passion in an enormous four poster bed and décor in shades of deep red and silver. Potted plants surrounded the Jacuzzi in the bathroom, and sliding doors led out onto a deck, larger than some people’s houses, where a hot tub sat, dark and cold. It was all for show: he suspected that the plumbing didn’t even work.
Guests made appropriate noises of approval. John Winters headed back to the party. He’d like to have gone for a walk in the woods, but beyond the party, the old barn, and the path leading up to it, there was no lighting. It would be somewhat embarrassing to get lost.
Back at the party, Winters stood off to one side, watching Eliza. She wore a simple skirt of pale blue cotton shot with silver threads that swirled around her shapely calves, blue sandals with flat heels and thin straps, and a white blouse with turquoise and silver jewelry he’d bought her on a vacation in Arizona. She was laughing and smiling at everyone, nibbling on a smoked salmon canapé, sipping at her
Veuve Clicquot
. ‘Work the room’ was the phrase. Eliza had made a success of the highly competitive world of modeling as much because she could play the game as for her looks. She would rather have spent the evening at home, on the deck with a good book, watching the sun set. But to watch her, which all the men were, anyone would have thought the M&C party was the most fun she’d had all year.
“Impressed?” Steve Blacklock appeared at Winters’ side.
For a moment, Winters thought the man was talking about Eliza. “The suite was very nice.”
“Frank needs help, now that Reg has left the building.” Winters thought that was rather a harsh description of a man’s death. But, to be charitable, perhaps Blacklock had never met the late Reginald Montgomery. “I’d been thinking about investing in this place for some time. Property in the lower mainland’s gone through the ceiling. Nice for those of us who own some of it, but the smart money needs to find property still undervalued. Right?”
“I guess so.”
“Your wife has some money behind her, I’ve heard.”
Winters said nothing.
Blacklock’s voice dropped. “If you’re looking for a wise investment, this place has it all. I’m talking about partners in the business, understand, not property owners.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You do that. And don’t be put off by a scattered bunch of protesters. Can’t put up a chicken coop these days without them wanting to put their two cents in. We’ve got all the required permits and authorizations, so there’s nothing they can do to stop us. Soon as we start building they’ll find some other poor schmuck to torment. Until then, I’ve got security guards around this property day and, especially, night. Think about it, John, think about it.”
“I will.” He would do nothing of the sort.
Blacklock walked away, tossing greetings to guests left and right.
Winters watched the guests. Meredith Morgenstern was there, lovely in black and gold, fluttering from one guest to another. Her long black hair was secured at the sides by gold pins. She carried a notebook, and didn’t try to hide the microphone in her hand or the tape recorder stuck in the belt of her wide-legged black satin pants. She started to head toward John Winters, recognized him, and spun on her heels. He’d last seen her at the grow-op bust the other day. She’d arrived at the scene mighty fast. Someone had called her as soon as the police began to move in. Which meant that someone had been watching the house. Someone who was keeping an eye on the competition’s operations, probably, and decided to gloat in their downfall over the morning paper. Falling out amongst thieves always made John Winters’ heart happy. He’d suggest that Ray pay close attention to some of the other houses in that block.
A beautiful, exceptionally skinny redhead who didn’t look old enough to drive had attached herself to José. As he chatted to his hosts and their guests, his hand occasionally wandered to plant itself on her bony butt. Winters was pleased to see it—if that was José’s type, the sophisticated,
older
, Eliza, wouldn’t be.
He’d thought the party was going to be for the partners, the ad agency, and the models, but there must have been two hundred people crowded around the open air buffet. He recognized the deputy mayor of Trafalgar and several prominent citizens from other towns in the area. The MLA was deep in conversation with Frank Clemmins. The only person looking less comfortable than John Winters was Pete, husband of the secretary Bernice. Pete’s collar was too tight, his white shirt marked by sweat stains, and his tie was too colorful and too short. Winters headed toward Pete. But Nancy Blacklock intercepted him, and he settled his smile into something appropriate for mindless social chitchat. She was dressed in a colorful outfit of long green blouse over billowing blue pants. A paisley scarf in purple and yellow draped her shoulders. It was not a pleasant combination. “Enjoying yourself, Mr. Winters?” she asked.
“I am.”
She drank deeply from her glass of champagne. No plastic glasses here. Nothing but flutes of lead crystal. “I always organize my parties down to the last detail, even the weather. Steve wanted to rent a room at a hotel, but I knew it would be perfect outside. I love my husband with a mad passion.” She fluttered her eyelashes and Winters wondered if she was trying to send a message in code. “But he’s a bit of a stick-in-the-mud sometimes. It doesn’t bother me, of course.” In more than twenty-five years as a police officer, John Winters knew that ‘of course’ usually meant the opposite. “His sister thought an outdoor party was taking too much of a risk. For once I stood my ground. She’s not supposed to have anything to do with the business but never stops interfering. With my ideas mostly. And whatever Jamie says is pure gospel to Steve.” She tossed her head back and the last half glass of the Champagne disappeared.
Her arm flew up, and a waiter appeared at her elbow. She held her glass to one side; he filled it and slipped back into the crowd. Not a word had been exchanged.
Nancy Blacklock took another swallow and then reached out—her fingernails were chewed almost to the quick—and touched Winters’ arm. “If it had rained, they’d be all ‘I told you so’. But as I said, I plan everything perfectly, so screw them, eh?” She cackled. Her laughter did not invite onlookers to join in. “You’re not eating.”
He held up his half-finished glass of beer. “I’m fine with this.”
“Nonsense.” She pulled at his arm and he could only follow. She handed him a plate and began piling it high with jumbo shrimp, smoked salmon, smelly cheese, and assorted things he didn’t recognize.
“There,” she said at last. “A growing boy needs his sustenance.” She touched his chest with a chewed fingernail, giggled, and left him as she spotted the far more important person of the deputy mayor, momentarily standing by herself.
As the guests of honor, Eliza and José had to stay until the bitter end. While Blacklock and Clemmins waved goodbye to the last of their guests, Winters pulled himself out of the uncomfortable chair he’d managed to snag half an hour ago. Eliza’s smile hadn’t faded in the slightest, but his back was about to give out on him.
“That was a great party,” he lied to his hosts, as Eliza slipped off to the bathroom. “Thanks.”
“Don’t be in such a rush, John,” Nancy Blacklock said. She waved a hand over the party detritus all around them. “The caterers will clean up. I’ve made reservations at Flavours. Off we go.” For lack of anything better to do, Winters had watched Nancy’s champagne consumption. She’d had a prodigious amount, and other than a slight slur to the edges of her words, didn’t seem too much affected by it. The sign of a serious drinker.
As if following Winters’ line of thought, Steve Blacklock said, “If you’ve had too much to drink,
Sergeant
, I’ll consider it my public duty to call the police if you try to drive.” He laughed heartily at his joke. Winters forced out a smile. He’d nursed the one beer all night, and hadn’t even finished it.
“He’s a cop?” José’s date said, to no one in particular.
Winters considered asking to see her ID. But then Eliza was slipping her arm through his. “Did someone mention Flavours? What a delightful suggestion. John and I’ll join you for a quick drink and maybe an appetizer, but then I have to be getting home. I can’t do with too many late nights any more, I’m afraid.” She smiled up at her husband, all warm eyes and white teeth. “You don’t mind, do you dear, if we don’t stay long?”
“If you’d rather not,” replied the caring husband. If he had to sit through another dinner with these people, he’d go into the kitchen, find the sharpest chef’s knife they had and slit his throat.
Eliza settled into the car and slipped her shoes off. “God, what a bore.”
“Present company?”
“Don’t be silly. Nancy Blacklock can out-drink the U.S. Army, but she has to have some real organizational skills behind her to pull that party off so quickly. And where she got all those people with so little notice, I can’t imagine. She and Steve have a rather unorthodox marriage, I’d suggest. Have you seen the way she talks to him? Somewhat like Momma and Baby.”
“That’s rather harsh.”
“He’s a wimp. A moneyed wimp, but a wimp none the less. I do not like it when there’s a power concealed behind the curtain. I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Is dinner going to be Dutch?”
“The company’ll pick it all up. Your tax dollars at work. Although…”
“What?”
“What what?”
“What are you thinking? That was a meaningful
although
.”
“To get a catering company that good in the height of summer on a week or two’s notice, and all that fabulous food and drink, must have cost a bomb.”
Winters smiled to himself. Trust Eliza to calculate the cost of the whole thing.
“And now dinner for, what, fifteen counting the ad company people, Bernice and her husband, José and his girlfriend, and is she a ditz—tell me I wasn’t that vacant when I was starting out—and not counting us. Dinner at Flavours, the most expensive restaurant in town, with the best wine, and you can be sure everyone’ll order the most costly things on the menu. Two and a half, three thousand bucks, maybe.”
“You make it sound as if that’s a lot to pay for a dinner.”
“I’ll say it’s more than the company can afford. I told Barney I suspect they’re on shaky financial ground, and she’s to make sure I get a good chunk of my fee up front. They’re spending money they don’t have.”
“Come on, it was just a fancy party and now dinner.” The forest crowded the road. The mountains all around them had disappeared in the darkness. The red backlights of José’s BMW convertible were ahead of them, the sturdy while headlights of Bernice and Pete’s Ford Focus station wagon behind.
“It’s not just tonight, John. Didn’t you tell me that the late Mr. Montgomery was in charge of the books?”
“Reg ran the business side. Frank scoured the world for investors. Maybe he’s come up with a big investor.”
“Maybe.” She exhaled softly. “But big investors want to see their money producing product. Not fancy parties and over-the-top ad campaigns.”