Negative Image (31 page)

“The trip’s been cancelled.”

“That’s too bad.” Lopez’s youngest daughter had been looking forward to the club’s first kayaking trip of the season. “Why’d they cancel it?” He glanced at the bank of TVs monitoring the cells. Diane Barton lay on her back on the highly uncomfortable metal bed. “Is she still up? I’ll say something comforting.”

“You can speak to her in the morning.”

“Why’d they cancel it?” He mouthed “good night” to Ingrid and headed for the door.

“Weather. Heavy rains expected to move in tomorrow afternoon. This lovely spring sunshine isn’t going to last for long. It’s going to be as bad as last week.”

Lopez stopped in his tracks.

“Ray? Are you there?”

“Put the stew back in the fridge. Tell Becky I’ll take her out on the river once it clears up.” He punched the red button on his phone to disconnect and immediately called up another number.

***

“Did you sleep well, Ms. Barton?” John Winters asked.

“Perfectly well, thank you,” she replied. “Not that you give a fuck.” She leaned back in her chair. Her clothes were rumpled, looking and smelling as if she’d slept in them, which she had. Her hair was mashed flat on the left side and the fine skin beneath her eyes was as dark as a spring storm.

It was 7:15 on Tuesday morning, and Barton had been roused with coffee and breakfast and the news that Sergeant Winters wanted to speak with her.

“Only two of you this time,” she said, pretending to yawn. “Other fellow still in beddy-bys?”

“A lawyer has been contacted at your request,” Winters said. “She is due to arrive at ten o’clock. If you wish, we can wait until she gets here.”

Barton waved her hand. “Let’s get this farce over with. I don’t know anything about any job of my cousin Amy’s, other than what she told me, or any clients she might have. Can I go back to bed now?”

“Soon,” Winters said.

He could see Madison out of the corner of his eye. The man’s dark face was set in its usual angry expression. Winters didn’t know how long the Mountie would be able to keep his fat mouth shut.

They’d met last night in the Chief Constable’s study. The Chief had hastily pulled on track pants, splattered with paint the color of the study walls, and a Toronto Blue Jays sweat shirt. His wife, yawning with more believability than Diane Barton was now doing, brought in a tray of coffee and packaged cookies.

Against orders, Lopez had called John Winters to report what he’d learned.

“I dropped the ball on this one, Boss,” he said. “Barton told me she got to the restaurant around eight-thirty. When I spoke to Lynne, the hostess at the Thai, I came right out and asked her if Barton had been in around eight. She said yes. She said she was sure of the time because Barton was sitting by the window and it was almost dark out.”

“And…”

“Think back to last Monday. Big storm charged in late in the afternoon. High winds, lots of rain, and very, very thick black clouds.”

Winters remembered Eliza getting home. She’d taken off her rain coat at the front door and it had dripped all over the floor and she said she was looking forward to spring in San Francisco. She’d been very tense, angry at he knew not what, said she had a headache and went upstairs without another word or even wiping rainwater off the floor.

“I’ll check the airport,” Lopez said, “but I’m betting it was dark as night by five, six o’clock.”

“Which means,” Winters said, “Barton could have finished her meal before eight, leaving her plenty of time to stew in her resentment and get to Rudy’s room around nine, just after Eliza left. Good thinking. I’m calling the Chief and asking for a meet right now. You get Madison. I hope he’s sound asleep and we can shake him out of his dreams.”

Sure enough Madison had been in bed when Lopez called. Winters contacted the Chief Constable, who agreed to an unusual impromptu meeting.

Madison hadn’t been at all happy, but Keller convinced him to play along.

Winters smiled at Diane Barton. She did not smile back. He went over yesterday’s conversation, about dinner with Mike and Amy, Amy’s job.

“When Amy babbles,” Barton said, “I don’t pay much attention. Who the hell cares what she’s doing with her miserable life. Like I said, she’s a retard. If she told me something she shouldn’t have about some people I don’t know who are away on vacation, that’s her problem. Unless the law changed while I wasn’t looking, you can’t charge me with the crime of not listening.”

“I expect to receive a search warrant this morning authorizing me to search your belongings, in particular your cameras and computer,” he said.

Her eyes twitched, but she didn’t react. She must have known he’d be interested in her things.

He was playing a dangerous game. It had been a hard sell, first to the Chief Constable, and then to Madison. If it didn’t go well, if he failed, his career would be on the line. Madison would make sure of that.

“You were seen, you know,” he said.

“Seen where?”

“On Station Street for one. Taking pictures of the street. Of one house in particular.”

“So? It’s not a secret I came to your pleasant town to take pictures. I am a photographer’s assistant, as well as a damn good photographer in my own right. Taking pictures is what I do. Like brow-beating women is what you do.”

Madison shifted in his chair. Burton turned her attention to him. “And as for you, I thought you were here to investigate Rudy’s killing. Did you get demoted or something?”

There it was—out in the open. Winters circled. “The death of your employer must have been upsetting for you.”

“So upsetting, I decided to break into random houses? Try again.” She pointed to the camera. “That was a rhetorical question, I’ll have you note.”

“Noted.”

“No, Rudy’s death did not particularly upset me. He was a jerk, and, other than the fact that I’ll probably never get paid what I’m owed, I don’t much care.”

“Why was he a jerk?” Winters asked, his tone conversational, just wondering.

“He hadn’t produced a piece of work worth mentioning since something like 1902. His hands shook and his eye was bad and all the taste he had left was in his crotch. And damned little of that.” Her mouth pinched with anger and for a moment it looked as if she were going to spit on the floor. She leaned across the table, her shoulders braced, her eyes dark with rage.

It is said that every person is capable, given the right circumstances, fear, hatred, self-defense, of killing another human being. John Winters didn’t know if that was true, but as Diane Barton looked between him and Madison, he had no doubt this was a woman able to kill. And to justify it after.

“I took the job with him ‘cause I admired his earlier work. I thought I could learn something. Then I saw the crap he was producing these days.” She threw up her hands. The overhead light shone off her glasses. “I could learn more from a kindergarten class, or from my fuckin’ cousin Amy.”

“Why did you stay with him then?”

“Job offers aren’t exactly falling all around me, you know. I lost the job I had in Toronto, lugging around equipment for a food photog. She fired me, the creep. Said she didn’t like my attitude, but it was jealousy, pure and simple. She started a whisper campaign against me, saying I was a problem.” Barton snorted. “So I decided to leave Toronto.” Winters made a mental note to locate this previous boss and find out what had really happened. He said nothing, sat back and let Barton vent all her rage.
Give them enough rope
…

“Even when I realized what a washed-up has been Rudy was, I figured he could help me out. Introduce me to the right people, you know, show some of my pictures around.” She laughed, the sound so harsh and brittle it made the hairs on his arms rise up. You could use that laugh to frighten small children into going to bed on time. Winters stole a glance at Madison, willing the man not to make a sound. Barton was talking to herself, justifying everything she did. If she remembered they were there, where she was, it would all be over.

“I should have realized what would happen. Instead of showing my pictures around, letting people know about me, he started saying they were his, that he’d taken them.” Blotches of red rage were breaking out on her face and neck.

Winters heard Madison’s chair squeak. Outside in the hallway a man laughed. Barton picked up her coffee cup. Her fingers picked at the cardboard rim. He thought she’d clammed up, but she began talking again.

“When I finally realized what was going on, I figured I could talk some sense into him. His fifteen minutes were over and there was nothing he could do about it. Stealing my pictures wasn’t going to help him get his career and reputation back.”

She abandoned the cup and rubbed at her face. It had gone quiet in the corridor, and silence filled the room.

Winters waited, scarcely daring to breathe. “Sounds sensible,” he said at last.

“Of course it was. But he wasn’t. The fuckin’ jerk.” She looked up, and stared straight at him. Her eyes were clear and intelligent, and she knew full well what she was saying. “He dared to laugh at me. I made sure he wouldn’t laugh again.”

Madison let out a long breath. “How did you do that, Miss Barton?”

“He was a real weirdo, had an incredible phobia about germs. When I got to his room he was holding a glass of water. There was champagne in a bucket and some food on the table, but he didn’t offer me anything, stuck-up bastard. I told him I knew he was stealing my pictures, and he said I didn’t have enough talent for him to want to use anything I’d done. He was lying. I said I’d take him to court, and he laughed. He put the glass down and went to the bathroom. When he got back he started snapping out orders for the next day, as if nothing had happened. He drank out of the glass of water and it was my turn to laugh. I told him I spat in it when he was out of the room. That freaked him all right. He ran into the bathroom with his fingers stuck down his throat like a model at a dessert party. It was absolutely pathetic. I didn’t really plan to, I was just wanting to give him a scare. But when I saw how easy it would be I decided it was time to put an end to his misery.” She lifted her hand so suddenly, Winters started. “And bang. It was done.”

“Where did you get the gun?” Madison asked.

“Picked it up in Toronto. For protection.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-NINE

He found Eliza in bed with a magazine. Her eyes were red and a snowstorm of crumpled tissues were scattered across the duvet. It was her habit to get up early during the week, to be at her computer shortly after the markets opened in the East. That she was still in bed at ten o’clock was not good.

He sat on the edge of the bed and lifted her hand. He kissed it and stroked the palm. Tears ran down her face.

They said nothing for a long time. Then she spoke, her voice very soft. “I didn’t kill Rudy, John.”

“I never thought, not for a minute, that you did. I was angry and jealous and scared, and yes, worried that people would laugh at me because of a thirty year old photograph. You were right, Eliza, I did think it was all about me, and I left you alone to fight this. All I should have been thinking about was how to support you. Can you ever forgive me?”

She used her free hand to stroke his cheek. “As long as you believe in me I can face anything. That man, that Madison, he’s making threats. He said it would go easier on me in court if I turn myself in.”

Winters felt a knot in his gut. “And what did you say to that?”

“That I am certainly not going to confess to something I didn’t do.”

He wiped a tear off her cheek. “You won’t be hearing from him again. We arrested the one who did it less than an hour ago. Madison is doing the paperwork and telling everyone what a hot-shot detective he is.”

“Then it’s over?”

“It’s over.” Before coming home, he’d gone for a walk along the shores of the Upper Kootenay River. He tore the old photograph into shreds and threw the pieces into the water.

“Since the day we met, John, you’ve always been the only one.” Eliza gave him a small smile and wiggled under the covers. She was wearing a turquoise satin nightgown with thin straps and white lace trimming the deep neckline. The tears had stopped. “I hope you know that. You’ve been out of this bed for too long. Get in.”

She gave him a wink, broad and bawdy, yet tinged with sadness.

He didn’t need to be asked a second time.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY

“Five-one?”

“Five-one here.” Molly Smith answered the radio. It was ten days after her father’s death. The funeral was over, the home-made casseroles and plates of squares had stopped coming, Andy’s mother and sisters had been and gone, Sam had taken his family back to Calgary, and Lucky had reopened the store. Smith didn’t think her mother was coping all that well, but she had the support of her vast circle of friends and work was better than hanging around the house with only Sylvester for company.

Smith had gone back to her apartment and back to work. Today was her first shift since the funeral. She felt guilty at how nice it felt to be at work and away from the drama of her family.

“911 hang up. 34 Redwood Street,” Jim Denton said over the radio.

“Five-one. Ten-Four.” She stuck her arm out of the window, to warn the car behind her she was turning, and did a U turn in the middle of Front Street. Someone had called 911 and put down the phone without speaking. The police always answered those calls—it could be a child in trouble, a battered woman afraid of being overheard, a hand reaching across and taking the phone.

Smith unfastened her seat belt as she rounded the corner. A boy was doing wheelies in the middle of the street. He dropped the front wheel of his bike when he saw her and turned sharply to head in the opposite direction.

It was early afternoon and school had just let out. Parents were walking small children home. Weighted down by backpacks almost as large as them, the kids looked like turtles carrying their houses on their backs. A cluster of teenage girls dressed in tight jeans and short skirts and colorful tops giggled and preened as they strutted their stuff. Across the street from number thirty-four an elderly lady raked up winter’s debris from her small patch of garden.