Extensions (47 page)

“How is he?”

“On the outside he is the same — dutiful and protective — but he has a big empty hole inside.”

“I can't imagine your loss.” I knew from experience that Selena's surge of engagement was over and would not come back. Once more, I was coming away with nothing but undercurrents, nothing that could implicate Greg McGimpsey or anyone else in the death of Anton Kubik. I stood up. “We're not much further ahead, are we?”

A trace of wistfulness crossed her face at the thought of my departure, but she collected herself. She walked me to the front door.

“Your sister and brother-in-law care about you and Jan. They want to help.”

“Vlasta and Marek are both very sweet. We know that. Thank you.” She shivered at the chill in the air. “It feels like snow again.”

I paused for a moment on the threshold. The perfect order of the house almost masked the turbulence submerged in this woman's gaunt frame. And as soon as her husband came home, it would be buried beyond detection. “You'll hear from me. Take care of yourself in the meantime.”

She nodded and closed the door.

When I got back to the office, Wayne and Tessa were helping the Sex Crimes unit with the assault case. A teacher, age forty, was charged with sexual exploitation of a fourteen-year-old student. He denied the accusation, claiming the girl had been provocative — asking for help unnecessarily, lingering after volleyball games — and was getting even with him. Didn't he watch
TV
and read the papers? All the high-profile cases of teachers, both male and female, molesting their students should have kept him on his guard, even if he were telling the truth.

Sexual assault charges were often the hardest to untangle. An allegation of molestation against either herself or one of her children was the most damaging act of revenge a woman could commit. But the real thing was so despicable that every accusation had to be investigated thoroughly. No one remains assigned to sex crimes units for long because of the stress involved. Homicide sounds more dramatic, but dead victims can't lie or manipulate.

The teacher, Mr. Naylor, was married with two kids, and had a clean record in that school for six years. Tessa had been doing interviews with other kids, teachers, school board members; even Sukhi had been called in to talk to a shy East Indian boy who was a friend of the victim. Not much evidence supporting the girl's case had turned up, besides her emotional testimony and that of her parents. The newest lead came from Calgary, where he had taught before moving to Burnaby. Seems there was a smudge on his file at the Calgary School Board: allegations of sexual exploitation with no charges pressed. The thirteen-year-old girl and her family had not wanted to come forward. Naylor had also denied it on that occasion and had moved to B.C. shortly after. The girl would be nineteen now and might be willing to talk.

Wayne turned to me. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

I shrugged.

“There's a force plane leaving at 7
AM
if we can schedule an interview with the girl.”

My mind blanked. “Why me? Why not Sex Crimes?”

“They want to send a female and theirs are tied up.”

“I'd go,” said Tessa, “because I have a feel for the guy, but I'm leaving for Guyana with my dad the next day.”

“What's your feel?”

“That he did it. But young girls are hormonal and easily influenced, so we don't have anything firm. The Calgary girl might just tip in our favour.”

My head spun, inventing possible excuses. Having just come up empty at Selena's, I said, “Okay, I'll go.”

Wayne smiled. “The girl does pedicures downtown and we'll set up an interview. I'll brief you on the case.”

I spent the rest of the afternoon going over the file to get an idea of what to ask. It helped to look for patterns. The next time I checked the clock, it was four: time to change for my two dates. I had brought good clothes to work — a short tweed skirt, white blouse, and sweater vest. As I pulled on my brown tights, I thought of Sara insisting a woman's legs were flattered by high heels, but the kitten heels on the copper-coloured Mary Janes I stepped into were as high as I got. At least I wouldn't have to worry about towering over either of my escorts tonight.

Dad was already at Douglas Park when I got there. He was holding a yellow and white rose, sitting on a commemorative bench next to the ball diamond. The plaque read “To A Wonderful Father Who Loved This Park.” I wish I had thought of it first, because Dad spent hours here through the summer watching baseball with the willows in the background. Then I reminded myself its recipient was dead.

“Did you ever think how confusing it's going to be when our time comes?”

“You can divide my ashes,” he said rising from the bench and starting toward the willows with me. Just then the late afternoon sun broke through the heavy clouds as it had at Selena's this morning. What other city opens from a dark, damp oyster shell into such a glistening pearl? The bright sky felt like a sacred dome above us, the smell already in the air of Japanese plum trees about to burst into gaudy pink blossoms. Warmed by the short walk, we stood under the lofty trees where we had recycled my grandmother in her chosen corner eight years ago. Mom, Janetta, Lawrence, Lenny, and Doug were part of the ceremony. I had been surprised at how the ashes — which might have looked like white fertilizer to a passer-by — took more than a week to be absorbed into the soil and moss. Of course, dispersal of human remains in public places is against the law, so we did it in the evening. One of the practices a law enforcement officer can rationalize as being illegal but not immoral.

Dad wedged the yellow rose in a cleft in one of the branches. I'd parked my car on Heather Street and we started back toward it. Last year we might have walked to Queen Elizabeth but Dad had already walked from home and was looking stooped. We drove the few blocks to
RCMP
headquarters, where I decided to leave the car in the parking lot and walk from there. I took Dad's arm to cross Cambie, but as soon as we were on the road starting up Little Mountain, he led the way to the burial site. Ringed by ferns, Mom's sequoia was marked by a brass plaque identifying the species. The lowest branch was out of reach, so Dad set the white rose at its base.

“Your mother would be happy for a bird or bee to make use of the flower.”

Traffic was swelling behind us and I was thankful not to be joining the stream heading up to the restaurant, and then being forced to park halfway back down on the road.

We found a bench near the pond and sat watching the sun make its exit over the city Mom and Sara loved so much. Sunsets were bittersweet at the best of times, and sometimes I wondered if I should simply allow Dad's mind to idle in melancholy rather than try to rev it up, as I was now, babbling about work. But he was interested to hear of my trip tomorrow — even giving speeding tickets was enough to impress him.

“Calgary? That's quite a jaunt to see a witness.” He never asked for details. “Will you get a chance to see our cousin?”

“I hadn't thought of Mona Mingus. Thanks, Dad. I'll call her. Don't you wonder about Jane Hughes coming back to fill the gap left by Mom and Sara?”

“A full circle.” He looked at his watch and stood up. “We had better get going if you're to meet your young man. You can drop me at Wendy's. I'll walk home from there.”

Wendy's was not far from south Granville, but for the second time today I was later than my date. I waved as I passed Warren standing outside the restaurant on Granville. The closest parking spot was at the end of a side street; I ran back as fast and gracefully as I could in my kitten heels.

Couples were milling on both sides of the entrance. “Relax,” he said, “I made reservations. A week ago. Easier to cancel than book late for Valentine's Day. Call me an optimist.”

“Or a Boy Scout. Always prepared.”

We were ushered to a table against the wall. During the Ray years, I had sampled a few of Vancouver's fashionable restaurants but had never been to this one. Slim leather chairs, bronze-coloured plates that looked like pottery. I thought of Dad, eating his senior's chicken burger, as I studied the appetizers: ravioli of quail, black winter truffle, seared foie gras with candied grapes.

Warren ordered a beetroot salad and I decided to go straight to the main course. I passed over the fennel and pepper-crusted yellowfin tuna, not wanting to be guilty of depleting overfished species. I couldn't remember if Arctic char was also in dwindling supply, but Warren ordered it anyway. It came with smoked salmon caviar, honey mussels, neon squid, and littleneck clams; he said I was welcome to sample them all. The neon squid convinced me to settle on something safe like Virginia's organic redbro chicken with twice-cooked leeks.

From the restaurant's wall of wines he ordered a bottle of Okanagan white. As the waiter poured it, the old queasiness started up. Every time I saw him, Warren Wright got better-looking. From scruffy barfly clothes to hospital gown to running gear, he now sat across from me in a sports jacket and checked shirt undone at the neck. His thick hair was trimmed but not short. I wondered why some model type wasn't with him in this expensive restaurant, and when he would discover his mistake.

“Happy Valentine's Day.” He raised his glass. “Stranger.”

He said it fondly, but he was right. We
were
strangers. I still really knew nothing about him. Had he been — or was he now — married? Did he have kids? Had he just broken up with someone?

He had obviously been thinking the same thing. “I've been giving you your space, but I feel as if I'm in a cat and mouse game. Or is it cops and robbers?”

I smiled and sipped my wine. “My schedule's been crazy lately.”

“It's more than that. Will you ever trust me enough to tell me where you live? I wanted to pick you up tonight, like a real date.”

“I was already in the area,” I said feebly.

“And next time? You'll be in that area too.”

“It's my work. We have to take precautions.”

“It's three months, Arabella. Have I given you cause for suspicion — beyond that arrest?”

“None.”

“Then do I have to sign over three cows to your father? What's expected of me?” He was becoming more attractive by the minute as his face flushed with frustration.

My shoulders crumpled. I heard myself almost whimpering at yet another romantic disaster. (
The trouble with you, Bella, is that you're too
independent.)
“I don't know much about you, I guess.”

“That's why people go on dates. To get to know each other. For the record, I've never been married, though I was close once, if that helps. She was an artist and moved to the States after six years together. I didn't try hard enough to follow or keep her here.” His beetroot salad arrived at that moment and he pointed his head and fork to my bread plate, as if it were common for him to share with a dinner partner. “And you? I don't know anything about you, much as I keep trying.”

“Same. My relationship broke up after three years.” I didn't offer that he found someone else. “And my mother died not long after.”

“Yes, it must be hard for you today.”

His expression of sympathy made me realize that I had been using mourning as an excuse for too long. It had been a whole year, for God's sake. Here was a normal, red-blooded male, whom I fantasized about alone, only to freeze up when he was actually around. “I'm sorry to be so difficult.”

He sat back with an exasperated sigh. “Let's drop it for now and enjoy the evening. I don't want to pressure you into anything.”

Just then, our meals arrived and were intriguing enough to keep our jaws moving in one way or another. My appetite had deserted me, and I forced myself to finish my expensive food. He clearly did care about me, and I had no explanation for my yo-yoing emotions. Or control over them. Seeing I had knocked the wind out of him was now knocking it out of me.

After an hour of strained small talk, we got up and left. Outside, we stood awkwardly together. I turned toward the side street where my car was parked; it was usually at this point that he would say goodbye and jog off home. He stood close to me without moving and looked directly in my eyes.

“Would you care for a nightcap somewhere? My place, maybe. It's close.”

I caught my breath at his nearness, but the faltering creature I had become spoke without warning. “I'd love to, but I have to catch a plane tomorrow morning at seven. For work.”

His eyes lingered on mine before he stepped back. Then he shook my hand and said, “Thanks for a pleasant evening, Arabella. Give me a call sometime.” He turned quickly and walked down Granville.