Serious Crimes (A Willows and Parker Mystery) (23 page)

She towelled herself dry and brushed her hair, used her lipstick and pursed her lips and knelt to kiss away the excess on the end sheet of the fat roll of designer toilet paper. Now why in the world had she done that? Tyler probably wouldn’t even notice, and if he did, he certainly wouldn’t think it was very funny. Instead of laughing, he’d probably insist on trying to make sense of what she’d done,
analyse
her.

Nancy opened the bathroom door and switched off the light. Tyler was sitting up in bed, a glass of wine in his hand. He turned towards her and said, “Where’s the goddamn remote, Nance? I can’t find it anywhere.”

*

Garret found a Volvo with a woman in it, crouched on the floor with her mouth full of purse. It took him a minute to work out that she was biting the purse to stop from screaming. He reached over with his left arm and patted her on the rump, wanting her to know how much he appreciated the peace and quiet.

*

Billy ran two blocks and then collapsed behind a low stone wall, his chest heaving. A black and white zipped past. He waited until he had his wind back and then lit a cigarette and crossed the street. The house was dark but the matching Mercedes were both in the garage, safely tucked away for the night. Billy climbed the fence and went around to the back of the house. He was on familiar ground now. The thought calmed him.

Somebody had folded up the deck chairs and leaned them against the side of the house. Mist rose from the pool, drifted into the black sky. He pressed his face against the sliding glass door and peered inside, then tried the door. It wasn’t locked. He stepped inside. The house was silent. He slid the door shut behind him. There was a fire in the living room. He ambled over to it and warmed his hands.

*

Nancy turned off the bedside lamp and eased into Tyler’s arms. The room was filled with a soft blue light from the freeze-frame FBI warning. Tyler hit the remote and the film started. His skin was still damp from the shower. The actors spoke their lines and the subtitles flashed across the bottom of the screen. Nancy lay with her head on her husband’s chest and stared dreamily out across the black water at the constellation of lights that was West Vancouver.

*

Garret pried the purse out of the woman’s mouth and turned it upside down and dumped the contents on the car seat. There was a lot of stuff in there that was new to him, that he was curious about. But no keys. He said, “Where’s the fucking keys, lady?” and then saw that they were in the ignition.

He crouched low in the seat and reached up to adjust the rear-view mirror so he could watch the action in front of the liquor store. Looked like every cop in the city had come to the party.

He said, “We’re just gonna sit here until the dust settles, and then we’re gonna go for a little ride and I’m gonna let you go. Okay?”

The woman started crying.

“That’s the idea,” said Garret. “Get it out of your system, you’ll feel better.”

It was cold in the car. He could feel the warmth leaking out of his body, a stiffening in his joints. The woman’s sobbing had taken on an oddly soothing rhythm. The sodium-vapour lights that illuminated the parking lot flickered on and off. He wondered how the fire in front of the 7-Eleven had started. The parking lot slipped in and out of focus.

He leaned back and closed his eyes, knowing a little rest would do him good.

*

Someone upstairs was speaking in a foreign language. Billy went over to the landing at the bottom of the stairs, his boots silent on the carpet. He whispered, “Is that you, Nancy?” and reached out to lay a hand on the banister. Much to his surprise, he found he was still carrying the Python.

He didn’t know quite what to do, how to handle the situation. He cocked his head, listening. He heard the soft hiss of the gas fireplace and distant mumble of voices. He started up the stairs, going slowly at first and then losing his patience, suddenly in a hurry, taking the steps two and three at a time.

*

An apparition danced in front of the lights. Nancy blinked. It was still there. A reflection. She rolled over on her side, heedless of Tyler. A kid in jeans and a black leather jacket stood there in the bedroom door, staring at her.

Tyler sat up. He said, “Who the hell are you?” And then he grabbed his bathrobe and said, “Get the hell out of here, or I’ll call the police.”

The kid ignored him. He only had eyes for Nancy.

Tyler shrugged into his bathrobe. He stood up. The kid showed him the gun.

Tyler hesitated.

Nancy said, “He’s the one who…”

Billy said, “I’m in big trouble, Nancy. You have to help me.”

Tyler tied a knot in the terrycloth belt of his robe. Nancy watched him, the way his hands moved, with so much purpose. As if he was giving himself time to work things out, make a decision. He had a way of tying the knot so the two ends of the belt hung straight down. He’d worked it out himself. Just one of those little details that made his life so full.

She said, “Tyler, be careful.” The words sounded ridiculous, but she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Tyler moved around to the foot of the bed. Billy pointed the Python at him. Tyler said, “Get the hell out of my house, kid.” Billy smiled as coldly as he knew how. He stuck the pistol in the waistband of his jeans. His hand hovered over the butt.

He said, “Try me.”

Nancy would never forget the savage, unflinching look in Tyler’s eyes as he rushed at Billy, determined to bring him down.

Billy yanked the Python out of his jeans and pulled the trigger three times, just as fast as he could. The hammer fell on the spent casings and made a dull click that was about as ominous as some old geezer clacking his teeth while he waited for a bus.

Tyler snatched the empty, useless gun out of Billy’s hand. He swung wildly and hit Billy flush on the nose and knocked him on his ass.

Billy ran. Tyler chased him down the hall. Billy jumped the banister and landed halfway down the stairs, tumbled head over heels to the bottom and regained his feet and hot-footed it through the living room and shiny kitchen and then, still picking up speed, right through the plate-glass door.

The glass exploded. Billy shrieked, and brought his hands up to his bloody face. His momentum carried him across the frosty yard towards the glass fence and killer drop to the beach. His boots hit the slush-covered slate flagstones surrounding the pool and he cartwheeled through the air as spectacularly as if he’d been thrown from a horse.

Tyler heard the dull thud as Billy’s head smacked the unforgiving tiles, saw his body go limp. Billy slid into the steaming water.

Vanished in the mist.

Tyler put the Colt stainless down on the counter. He had kicked off his shoes when he was reading the paper in front of the fireplace. He slipped the shoes on his bare feet and crunched across the shattered glass towards the pool. Billy was lying face down in the water, a halo of pink around his head. Tyler watched him for what seemed like a very long time but was probably only a few minutes. He went back into the kitchen and dialled 911. The operator answered after nine rings. She made him repeat his name and address and asked him if it was an emergency call.

Tyler said yes. She asked him to please stay on the line until a patrol car arrived. He thanked her for her interest and hung up.

He climbed the stairs and paused just out of sight of the bedroom doorway. The kid seemed to know Nancy very well. He’d spoken as if they were close friends. Or something worse. Tyler wondered if there were any questions he should ask. He decided the answer was no, and went into the bedroom and took his wife in his arms and comforted her as best he could.

It didn’t take the cops long to get there. When Tyler complimented them on the speed with which they’d arrived, one of them said they happened to be in the neighbourhood.

Tyler smiled, not sure whether he was being kidded or not. He wanted to get back upstairs to his wife but hung around out in the yard because he didn’t want to risk appearing disinterested in the body, callous.

Eddy Orwell shone his flashlight into the steaming pool. He ran the beam of light slowly down the length of Billy’s body, across the black leather jacket, tight jeans and silver-studded boots. It was the cowboy from the liquor store shooting, not much doubt about it. The dirty bastard who’d blown away the armoured car guys.

Tyler said, “Is he dead?”

“How long’s he been in there?”

“About ten minutes.”

“Yeah, he’s dead, all right.”

The way the detective was looking at him, it seemed to Tyler that an explanation would be in order. He said, “He broke into my home. And he threatened my wife with a gun.”

“No rush, but have you got a pike pole, something like that, we can use to get him a little closer so I can pull him out?”

Tyler nodded, started to turn away.

Orwell sniffed the air. “Another thing, Mr Crown. It’s none of my business, but have you thought about maybe using a little less chlorine?”

Chapter 25

Willows had lost consciousness by the time the paramedics got to him. He lay on his back on the icy asphalt as they affirmed that he was breathing. His respiration was up — a bad sign. One of the paramedics measured him for the plastic tube that would carry oxygen down his throat and into his lungs. His partner yelled at Willows and shook him hard, applied what should have been a painful amount of pressure to the web of flesh between Willows’ index finger and thumb.

No response.

They intubated him. The oxygen began to flow. A quick head-to-toe check confirmed that Willows had no other visible injuries.

Parker hovered anxiously in the background while they gently laid her partner on a gurney and lifted him inside the ambulance. He was hooked up to a cardiac monitor. Parker climbed inside. The doors slammed shut and they got underway, the siren clawed its way up the scale.

“No signs of arrhythmia.”

Willows’ vital signs — blood pressure and pulse — were optimistic. A small flashlight was used to check his pupil reflexes. A few minutes later, he began to gag.

“Valium?”

“Don’t think we need it. His oxygen level’s climbing fast. Let’s pull the tube.”

Willows opened his eyes. He focused on Parker and then the intravenous line running into his wrist. “What the hell’s that for?”

“In case we needed to administer drugs.”

“Get rid of it.” Willows’ voice was thick, sluggish. He struggled to sit up.

“Take it easy, now. How’re you feeling?”

“I could use an aspirin.” Willows’ centre of gravity shifted as the ambulance turned a corner. “Where we going?”

“Grace. Be there in a couple of minutes.”

Willows glared at Parker. “What about Peter Lee?”

“He didn’t make it, Jack.”

“We gotta go back.”

“First things first, fella.” The paramedic smiled down at him. “We have to X-ray you, make sure we didn’t do any damage to your lungs when we stuck that tube down your throat.”

“Turn this thing around.” Willows yanked at the tape holding the intravenous in place.

The paramedic laid a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, I’ll do it.”

Up front, the radio crackled and the driver said, “Holy Christ.” Parker heard the phrase “shots fired”. She said, “What’s going on?”

“Couple of guys robbed an armoured car at Maple and Broadway. There’s four or maybe five people been shot, a gas station on fire, cars exploding all over the damn place.”

The radio crackled again.

“Fuckin’ Wild West shootout,” shouted the paramedic. “They’re wearing cowboy hats, high-heeled boots. Drove off in a black Cadillac.”

“Hit it,” said Willows. “Let’s move.”

It took them eighteen minutes to make the three-mile run through heavy traffic. The parking lot in front of the Safeway and liquor store was thick with police cars and fire trucks and ambulances. A temporary command post had been set up. The Emergency Response Team was in full war-paint and the dog squad was all bright-eyed and snarly. Reporters and photographers and mini-cam units from the local papers and radio and TV stations fought to interview or photograph anything that moved.

The gas pumps had been shut off and the fire at the 7-Eleven was under control, but still burning. The shrill screams of the wounded echoed across the street. Willows and Parker jumped out of the ambulance. Willows saw Bradley and a vice cop named Kearns standing by the armoured car. He and Parker hurried across the lot.

“What’s the situation, Inspector?”

“We’ve got five fatalities. Three Loomis people, a guy who worked at the liquor store, and an old guy who was in the wrong place when the pumps went up.” Bradley had an unlit cigar in his mouth. He spat a shred of tobacco in the general direction of a mini-cam crew. “The perps both got away. No wonder, a mess like this.”

A cop ran up with a message slip. Bradley read it and said, “Scratch one. They got him in a house on Point Grey Road.” Parker said, “How’d his partner get away?”

“On foot.” Bradley scratched his nose. “In all this slush, the dogs couldn’t track a can of Alpo.”

Willows surveyed the parking lot. It was almost a block long. There was a gardening shop at the far end, surrounded by a high wooden fence. At a guess, there were probably a hundred and fifty or more cars in the lot.

“The Tenth Avenue exit secured?”

Bradley nodded. “We’re waiting for the ERT guys to get their act together. In the meantime, we’ve got all these people want to go home and make dinner, watch themselves on the news.”

Willows turned to Parker. “Let’s take a walk.”

Bradley said, “What’s on your mind, Jack?”

“Nothing in particular. Just thought we’d take a look around.”

“I don’t think that’s such a hot idea. A couple more minutes, we’ll get organized.”

Willows said, “We lost the Lee kid.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“If we’d been a bit quicker, he’d still be alive and kicking.”

“In a cell,” Bradley pointed out, but Willows was already walking away.

Bradley searched his pockets until he found a match, fired up and lit the cigar. A kid in a black snowsuit tried to pet a police dog, and was snatched away by his mother. Better count your fingers, kid. Bradley blew out the match, pinched it between his fingers and dropped it in his pocket.

The parking slots were in a herringbone pattern; two double rows and one single. The yellow lines had been obliterated by the snow and slush, but for the most part the drivers had stuck to the pattern. Willows and Parker had each taken one double row, and were moving slowly towards the far end of the lot. Bradley saw a flash of light on Parker’s badge as she bent to look in a window. Most of the cars were empty, but exhaust fumes trailed from half a dozen vehicles. Probably the people inside were listening to the radio and wondering when the hell they were going to get out of there.

Not until we’ve got your name, address and telephone number, thought Bradley, grinning malevolently.

At the far end of the lot, a pale blue Volvo station wagon was parked up against a fence. There was something about the car that was wrong; a jarring note. Willows moved a little closer. His head throbbed. Parker saw that something had caught his attention and ran towards him.

Willows said, “The Volvo. There’s nobody inside, but the windows are fogged up.”

Parker said, “Could be the family dog, Jack.” She drew her revolver.

“Check the rear-view mirror,” said Willows.

The Volvo’s interior was dark, but Parker saw that the rear-view mirror had been turned at right-angles to the windshield, providing a view of the parking lot to anyone crouched down inside the car. She glanced over her shoulder. A hundred yards behind them, the ERT team and dog handlers were fanning out for a sweep of the parking lot. She waved, but no one looked up.

“Let’s just hold our position, Jack. They’ll be here soon enough.”

“Maybe not.”

Parker hurried to keep up as Willows walked briskly towards the Tenth Avenue exit. He said, “He can see out the side and he can see behind him, in the side mirror. But he’s blind at the front.”

“You hope.”

They circled around to the front of the Volvo and then crouched and moved towards the car. Parker knelt by the front bumper, her left hand pressing up against the chrome grill with its distinctive diagonal bar.

Willows continued along the side of the car, staying low. He made it as far as the driver’s door, reached up and got a firm grasp on the door handle. He glanced behind him. Parker nodded. He yanked open the door.

The woman was down on her knees in the cramped space between the gas and brake pedals and the seat. Her upper body lay across the seat. Her head was turned towards Willows but her eyes were closed.

Garret was on the floor on the passenger side of the car. The sawed-off barrel of the shotgun was pointed straight at Willows’ face. Garret’s eyes were wide open. He looked dead, but he wasn’t, not quite. Rivulets of dried blood, dark brown and glossy, trailed from his nostrils and open mouth, down his chin and chest and across the barrel and polished wooden stock of the gun.

Willows leaned into the car. He said, “Hi, Garret. We’ve been looking for you.” He pressed the barrel of his .38 lightly against Garret’s upper lip. The shotgun’s safety catch was mounted in the trigger guard. Willows reached past the woman and flicked the safety on. He said, “Kenny Lee. You remember him?”

Garret blinked.

Willows pushed his revolver a little harder into Garret’s face. “You tortured that poor old man to death, didn’t you? Decided you liked killing people and making easy money, is that what happened? Five corpses back there, Garret. I hope you got enough of it to last a lifetime, because that’s how long you’ll be gone.”

Willows helped the woman out of the car. She began to cry. Parker made soothing noises, but was careful not to touch her.

Willows said, “We need an ambulance, Claire.”

But first he had to take care of that sharp thorn in every cop’s side, section 10(b) of the Canadian Charter of Rights. He turned to Garret. “You’re under arrest. You have the right to retain and instruct counsel without delay. If you can’t afford a lawyer, legal aid will be made available.”

The woman Garret had held hostage began screaming, a terrible, keening wail.

Willows said, “I’ll tell you something. I wish to God that when I opened that car door, you’d tried to pull the trigger one more time. And I’ll tell you something else. Six months from now, you’re going to wish it too. Know why? Because you’re going to be real popular in the joint. Those cons are going to love you to death, kid.”

Garret blinked again.

Except for that single tiny movement, he was so still he might’ve been frozen solid.

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Serious Crimes
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