Day Into Night (28 page)

On the way into town I call Curtain River Forest Products, make sure Carmen is working, then follow Carl’s directions to her house. It’s a pink stucco place near the river. I cruise past, note there’s no vehicle in the driveway, but a garage in back. I park a few blocks away near a playground, walk into the treed river valley, work my way to the back of Carmen’s house. The fence around her yard is open to the valley, just runs to the break. I peer into the garage. No second vehicle and I move on to the house. The back patio is edged with ceramic gnomes. The door is unlocked. You gotta love small towns.

I ease the door shut, stand in the entry for a few minutes, listening. Nothing but the tick of a clock, the hum of a refrigerator. I take off my dirty boots, stow them out of sight in a coat closet, pad around in my socks. The kitchen is clean, the counters bare, the fridge covered with magnetic knick-knacks, but no crayon pictures or report cards. There’s beer in the fridge, leftover takeout. The living room is fairly clean. The curtains are pink frill. Fashion magazines cover the coffee table: the latest light summer looks — earth tones are in. So are nipples — anyone could have told her that. Three bedrooms in the back: one a sewing room, one a guest room, the third her bedroom.

A large painting over the headboard distracts me for a moment: two lovers locked together in an interesting upright position. Risqué but hardly incriminating. In fact, nothing I’ve seen so far is going to help me. I look around, wonder where to go next. Nothing but last year’s fashions in the walk-in closet. As for her dresser, I’m not going through her drawers — a guy’s got to draw the line somewhere. On a night table is a lamp and several framed pictures. Two kids, probably relatives. Her and some guy on a beach, ocean in the background. The guy looks sort of familiar, despite too much tan and not enough clothes. I pick up the picture, look closer. It’s Al Brotsky, the harvest supervisor.

Something about her and Brotsky bothers me. I’m not sure exactly what.

I put the picture back, go into the ensuite bathroom, wash Petrovich’s blood off my hand. The lavender air freshner is so strong I get dizzy. I make a pass through the basement, just to be thorough. Boxes and more boxes. A dartboard and old couch. I can picture Brotsky down here, tossing darts, a beer in his hand while Carmen lounges on the couch, doing her best Cleopatra imitation. There’s a workbench in the utility room. Plenty of cobwebs and lint but no tools except a pipewrench and utility knife. I realize what bothers me about Brotsky and Carmen. Back at the bombing scene, Brotsky looked at my knife. Sits in the hand real nice. Then I saw him at the bar with Petrovich, right after I stowed my knife. The next time I see my knife, it’s covered with Petrovich’s blood. And with Carmen’s access to the files at Curtain River Forest Products, it would be easy to switch out Petrovich’s resumé when I arrived, tidy up when I left.

Maybe the Lorax is a team.

I open a few boxes, find books and old clothes. It’s not like she would store dynamite or c4 in her basement anyway. Maybe in the garage. But the garage is locked and deadbolted and I’m not willing to leave evidence that I’ve been here. I doubt Carmen has anything incriminating here anyway — Brotsky would take care of that. And from what I’ve seen in the house I’m willing to bet that Brotsky doesn’t live here. He’s just a Friday night guest.

22

I WANT TO LOOK into Brotsky, but a camper’s fire walks away and Carl sends me to the bush. Forty acres of pine are burning, winds are unpredictable and it would be good for me to act like it’s business as usual for now. For the next few days I battle flames, trudge fireline, lead the crews. Life seems almost normal and I only think about the bloody knife at night, when I’m in my tent, trying to sleep. Like the telltale heart, it’s buried, hidden but waiting, goading me to do something about it. Find the killer, it whispers. Nina’s ghost whispers in the other ear with the same message. I’m exhausted, but don’t sleep much.

Four days later the fire’s not out, but it’s under control. Carl pulls me off, sends me home for a shower. Or least that’s the reason he gives over the radio. When I climb out of the helicopter, he pulls me aside, his long face pensive and weary. There’s a different kind of fire burning here.

“The cops want to talk to you as soon as you get in.”

I take a shower, put on clean clothes. I’ll find Telson, treat her to a veggie pizza. Maybe we’ll spend the night in her box on wheels. The Mounties can wait. But as I drive downtown, a cruiser flashes its red and blues, pulls me over. Bergren’s wearing his serious cop face when he comes to my door. He raps a knuckle on

my window when I don’t roll it down fast enough.

“Good evening officer. Nice night out, isn’t it.”

“Didn’t you hear that we wanted to talk to you as soon as you got in?”

“Last I looked, I wasn’t working for you guys.”

Bergren points a thick finger. “Follow me to the detachment.”

“Am I under arrest again?”

“One thing at a time.”

“Then I’m going for supper.”

“You can drive yours or sit in the back of mine.”

Bergren’s eyes are bloodshot and baggy. He looks tired and pissed off, his hand resting on his holster. Since it’s probably not a good idea to antagonize someone who can legally shoot you, I decide to follow. Bergren returns to his cruiser, waits for me. I pull out, do an illegal U-turn across mainstreet. Bergren’s face is stony in my rearview mirror.

There are a lot of new uniforms at the detachment. Some are wearing flak jackets. All are wearing guns and have handcuffs on their belts. The new faces stop what they’re doing and turn to watch when Bergren leads me in. I get the uncomfortable feeling this may be a one-way trip.

Rachet is at a desk piled high with papers. He gets up, leads us to The Room.

I’m shown my usual spot on the far side of the table. I’m becoming such a regular, I have the urge to decorate, hang a few familiar pictures, get a houseplant. There’s no tape recorder this time, no file. It’s just the three of us.

“What were you doing the day your truck broke down?”

No small talk either.

“I was out for a drive. And it didn’t break down. It ran out of gas.”

“Were you alone?”

“Did you see anyone else when you stopped to provide assistance?”

Bergren shakes his head. “Sadly, it looked like you were alone. Which is kind of the shits for you. It’s a bitch to be stuck in a jam like this with no alibi. You should have thought that one through a bit better.”

“Bad planning,” says Rachet.

“Yes,” says Bergren. “Sometimes they don’t think when they do things like that.”

“True enough,” Rachet says. “Crimes of passion.”

“Rage,” Bergren says, raising a fist. “Revenge.”

“What are you guys talking about?”

“Games and more games.” Rachet makes a deprecating gesture with his hands, as if to express his lack of interest in my question. “That’s okay, Mr. Cassel, we’ve got plenty of time to play. We’ve gone through this sort of thing before. Many times. In fact, you could sort of say we’re experts at this game.”

“Do you guys practise together at home?”

Rachet leans forward, places his elbows on the table, looks at me like a concerned newscaster. Mansbridge with a moustache and uniform. “The way it works is we ask you some questions and you lie to us for a while, then you get tired of lying and tell us the truth. Why not save us all a lot of time — just tell us the truth right away. Call it a professional courtesy between investigators.”

My first thought is they found the knife. It’s sitting in an evidence locker or on its way to forensics. But I doubt it. If they had anything, they would have arrested me.

“So let’s try again,” Rachet says, leaning back, settling in for a long haul.

“Where were you coming from the day your truck ran out of gas?” asks Bergren.

“Look, I was just out for a drive. I’d had a bad night and wanted to clear my head.”

“Why the bad night?” Rachet askss, looking concerned.

“Trouble sleeping,” I say. “Ever since some nutcase killed my fiancée.”

“Who was the last person to see you?” asks Bergren.

“No one. I just got out of bed, went for a drive.”

“No breakfast?” asks Bergren. “You gotta have breakfast. Most important meal of the day.”

“You didn’t talk to anyone that morning?” asks Rachet.

Carl wouldn’t have told them anything. But they might have traced Petrovich’s call.

“No. I was alone.”

Bergren sighs, looks dismayed. “That’s rough. Bad morning to be alone.”

Rachet raises an eyebrow. “Do you know Zeke Petrovich?”

“Of course. You asked me —”

He waves a hand, cuts me off. “Right, right — sorry. I forgot we talked about him the last time we were together. You told me you thought he was the Lorax. You’d been investigating him and making considerable progress from what I recall.”

“I would hardly call it progress. Did you ever question anyone about that resumé?”

“The resumé.” Bergren chuckles. “Right.”

“Someone put it there. Someone also took it away.”

“Maybe it was invisible ink,” says Bergren. “Maybe it self-destructed.”

“Perhaps you misread it,” Rachet says generously.

“Perhaps you guys should do a little more investigating,” I say, beginning to lose what little patience I had. “First you don’t bother going after the guy with the rifle who was scoping you in that cutblock — I’m willing to bet you didn’t even bother to check the area for parked vehicles — then you ignore blatant evidence tampering and misdirection. I’m not convinced you even want to catch this guy.”

“Evidence tampering,” Rachet says. “Funny you should mention that.”

Sucker punch — I didn’t see it coming. “What?”

“Never mind,” Rachet says casually. “Just another one of our imaginary investigations.”

They’ve knocked me off balance and go for a quick combination.

“You still think Mr. Petrovich is the Lorax?”

“When did you last speak with Petrovich?”

I may be on the ropes but I’m not going down.

“Who knows,” I say, reeling. “Maybe you’re the Lorax.”

I missed the bell but it seems the opening round is over. There’s a momentary lull as Bergren rubs his eyes, Rachet smoothes his moustache. I shift in my chair, sit up a bit straighter. I’m tired and hungry, sweating a little more than usual. I get the feeling I’m in the wrong weight class. Time for round two.

“So you were out for a little drive,” says Bergren. “How pleasant.”

“You make any stops?” asks Rachet.

“Like where?”

“Like Mr. Petrovich’s residence.”

“We’re not really on speaking terms.”

“Right.” Rachet touches his cheek. “He assaulted you. That make you angry?”

“A lot of people try to hit me. Why is he special?”

“Because he’s dead,” Bergren says, pulling a hand across his throat, lolling his tongue. Karloff would be impressed. “Someone cut him all the way through to his spine. Just a couple of days ago. Right about when you were out joy riding.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. He was an asshole, but it’s a crappy way to go.”

“We just want to know if you were in the area,” says Rachet. “If you saw anything.”

“I wasn’t in the area. I didn’t see anything.”

“Do you know where Petrovich lives?”

“Lived,” says Bergren.

“I’ve never had the urge to visit.”

“So you don’t know where he lives?”

“What are you getting at?”

“Someone saw a Land Rover in the vicinity, right about the time Petrovich got whacked.”

“It was speeding,” says Rachet. “So they reported it.”

Bergren tugs at his shirt collar.“Not many Land Rovers in these parts.”

“There’s a guy by the river,” I say. “Got about 20 of them.”

“Yeah, but they don’t run. Yours does.”

They’re just dancing around, trying to tire me out.

“I see you’re not wearing your knife,” Rachet says.

I give them a blank stare.

“That big toad-stabber you were wearing at the crime scene. The one in that nice custom-made sheath. You wouldn’t be able to tell us where that is would you?”

I’m thinking this is going to take more than a blank stare. This is going to take lawyers: Johnny Cochrane maybe. “You guys are unbelievable. You haven’t arrested me. You haven’t cautioned me. But you’re questioning me. Seems to me that might be a bit unethical. And it’s just plain bad manners —”

“You can talk to us now,” says Bergren. “Or you can talk to us later.”

Rachet’s hands are up like a cop in an intersection. “Just calm down, Mr. Cassel.”

My chair scrapes the floor as I stand. “The next time you want to talk with me, either caution me or do it like civilized people. Don’t pull me away from my supper. Buy me a pizza and do it somewhere amicable. If I’m a suspect, tell me straight out. If you want to know what I know, then ask me. And don’t dismiss my suggestions. That resumé was there and now it’s gone.”

Rachet lowers his hands. “You are a suspect Mr. Cassel.”

“I didn’t kill Zeke Petrovich.”

“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“I feel so much better. Now if you’ll excuse me —”

“We’ll be in touch,” Rachet says as I squeeze past them toward the door.

“Definitely,” says Bergren. “But don’t hold your breath for pizza.”