Authors: Martin Crosbie
Pringle had taken the hit along with Drake. Drake had been running in every direction at once and took down Pringle in the process. They had brought in Brian Stam and even Tony Hempsill. Neither man had been involved. After two hours of apologies and paperwork the two policemen snuck into the observation room.
Everyone in the room looked perplexed other than Dave Parker. He had a lawyer flanking him on either side. Drake recognized the pose. He looked like he was back at the pub with his cohorts all around him, telling a story. Only this time instead of telling a long, protracted barroom tale, he was watching everyone else. Ryberg had just finished speaking and Myron was nodding his head in agreement.
The lawyer on the left answered immediately. “I want to remind you that you’ve held my client for four hours.”
Ryberg began to interrupt but this lawyer knew what he was doing. He continued speaking. “Without any break. He’s given you everything he’s prepared to give you at this point. I suggest we take call it a day and reconvene in the morning.”
Everyone looked tired, but Ryberg pushed on. “He’s given us almost nothing. I appreciate Mr. Parker’s willingness to admit to his guilt, but it would be helpful if we had some idea of the hows and whys.”
When Parker spoke everyone stopped and watched him – the man who took two lives. He wasn’t the bombastic sales manager anymore. He talked slowly, in a low, steady voice. “It was greed. I wanted the money.”
Ryberg jumped in. “Why didn’t you wait? Why kill Derek Rochfort so quickly? Did he know that you had taken Mike Robinson’s life?”
The tiny, thin smile on Parker’s face appeared once again. He knew more than anyone what had happened, but he wasn’t telling. He turned to the lawyer on the left. “I am tired.”
Before Ryberg could continue, the lawyer picked up his briefcase and spoke. “We’re done here.”
It was pointless. The investigators had probably been going over the same information since they commenced the interview. They seemed to have accomplished very little. Drake wished he could be sitting at the table. He wasn’t sure what he’d say, but he wanted to be on the other side of the glass, closer to the action. After a short pause, Ryberg indicated to Myron that he should terminate the interview, and then he quickly left the room.
Dave Parker had killed both men and was showing no remorse. He didn’t seem like a greedy man, but perhaps he had been pressured by his wife and his mistress. Somewhere in the middle he crossed a line, and there was no going back.
By the time they opened the door to the hallway both Myron and Ryberg were gone – obviously sequestered in an office somewhere talking strategy.
Pringle shrugged. “Doesn’t look like we’re needed.”
It didn’t take much convincing to plan their next move. Fifteen minutes later, after jumping into Drake’s old pickup truck, they were back at the same table at the Cardinal pub.
Drake made his amends as soon as he sat down. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you into this. I was going in the wrong direction.”
Pringle called for two glasses of whisky, but Drake corrected the order and asked for a cup of coffee.
“I’ll survive. And recover too. I was running too hard, trying to prove something. I thought if we threw enough crap against the wall something would stick. We were just throwing the wrong crap. Ryberg was right, I went cowboy. It’s unacceptable. The murderer was in front of us the whole time – from the first day.”
The same stocky waitress put a glass of whisky in front of Pringle and a coffee beside Drake. She was friendlier now and gave a strained smile; Pringle’s generous tip was probably still fresh in her memory.
Pringle spoke as soon as she walked away. “You look exhausted, Drake. This has taken its toll on you.”
“I’m not sleeping well.” For a moment he considered telling the man more than he should; two postcards – warnings – still sat in his drawer. He decided against it. “I’m not sleeping at all really. The responsibility that comes when you find a body…I didn’t realize this would happen.”
Pringle nodded and looked down at his drink as he answered. “You’re dreaming about the dead men.”
Drake stared at the man’s forehead. He didn’t know how many bodies he was carrying around. “Yes, I dreamt about Robinson. He spoke to me.”
“It happens.”
“Does it stop?”
The investigator looked around the empty bar, and then shook his head.
They sat in silence for a moment.
“So what now for you? Back to monitoring rowdy prayer meetings and minor break and enters? You know there’s this investigator’s test you can take. You too could be one of the goofs in suits.”
It took major restraint for Drake to not focus on Pringle’s corduroy sports jacket. “Goofs in suits?”
The big man smiled. “Uniforms sometimes refer to General Investigation Services as ‘goofs in suits.’ Have you never heard that expression?”
Drake shook his head. He’d prided himself on learning what the acronyms meant. He knew that MCU, or Major Crime Unit was the senior investigative branch of the RCMP but he was unfamiliar with the slang version.
Pringle continued. “Apparently there are changes in the wind. A new investigative team is being formed in Surrey. They’re going to need sharp, young minds like ours. The first step for you would be to apply to GIS.”
He’d had Myron investigating Frank Wilson’s illegal firewood operation, he’d asked Pringle to pick up an elderly man, and he’d caused Brian Stam, an innocent man, to cry when he had him locked up. It didn’t feel like he had a sharp, young mind. His first experience with investigative work had not been a success.
Pringle kept encouraging him. “You’re good at thinking on your feet, and you don’t back down. I think Ryberg would recommend you, even if you don’t get the word from Sergeant Thiessen.”
He couldn’t imagine that Ryberg would endorse him in an attempt to become an investigator. He looked into the dark liquid that was supposed to be coffee, and drank from it. The plan had been to stay a general duty officer; advancement as a member of the crime unit hadn’t entered his mind. But he was a peacekeeper; he always had been, and maybe that was the next step. Maybe next time he’d be better at filling in the gaps. “I don’t know. I need to think about what I’m going to do next.”
In his usual stealth manner, Myron shuffled into the bar. After smiling at the waitress, he saw the two policemen and pulled up a seat at their table. “Nothing. He’s giving us nothing. He won’t tell us where he got the poison. He won’t tell us why he chose to kill Rochfort and not Wilson, or even Middleton. He says he did it, but he’s keeping the details to himself. He’s a very odd man.”
Pringle called to the waitress to bring a pitcher. He nodded at Myron’s explanation, seeming to accept that the guilty man would not elaborate. It was too much for Drake though. That morning they’d seen Derek Rochfort sitting at his desk, poisoned. Then he’d had his killer sitting at the table across from him. He had a sick feeling in his stomach. If this was police work he didn’t like it. There were far too many unanswered questions.
Myron kept going. “He’s just not talking. He’s guilty as sin, but he won’t give any details. I don’t get it. And the poison doesn’t make sense. He could have taken Robinson fishing and thrown him in a lake or come up with any kind of scenario to make it look accidental. Giamatti, the rep from the insurance company, said that accidental death would have paid out too.”
Pringle spoke up. “He had opportunity and motive, so it fits. And it doesn’t matter how he did it. Either way it’s murder. You throw a guy in the lake or you poison him, it still adds up to taking a life.”
Drake thought of Michael Robinson. He felt as though he’d come to know him – a man who was content to live at home with his mother, sell cars, and drink beer in the bar with his friends. He hadn’t ever really lived and now he’d never have the chance to. He stared into his coffee cup.
Myron kept going. “I mean, he used poison that’s utilized during plastic surgery. That doesn’t fit with our walrus.”
Pringle laughed, and Drake joined in. Dave Parker with his large sideburns did resemble a walrus.
Pringle was on good terms with the waitress now. She carried the full pitcher of beer ably in her hand as though it were as light as a feather. In her other hand she held a bottle of whisky. She poured a generous shot into Pringle’s glass and left the pitcher of beer in front of Myron. “I’ll be back with some glasses.”
The men stayed quiet until she returned. She placed an empty glass in front of each of them. Drake was going to decline, but he stayed quiet.
The woman’s attitude from the other night was long gone. “I heard on the radio about Jennifer’s old man. That’s crappy; you just never know.”
The news was out. Even she knew that Dave Parker had been arrested.
Myron concurred. “There’s press all over the detachment. We had no choice – we had to release a statement.”
Pringle nodded, trying to move her along, but Drake looked at her inquiringly. “You know the Parkers?”
“Jen and I work out together.” She flexed her forearms, showing the men her muscular pose. “She’s teaching our next round of classes. You know she can deadweight one hundred and fifty pounds.”
The woman went back to the bar as Pringle complimented her on her physique. Drake’s mind wandered. The first thing he had to deal with was the postcards that were in his drawer. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder. Now that it was over, he had to decide where his future lay. The writer of those postcards had to be his priority.
Then it clicked. It felt like someone whispered in his ear. It all made sense. The red car outside Tony’s didn’t belong to Brian Stam or Dave Parker. And there was one person who might have had some plastic surgery performed. His chair fell to the floor as he stood up.
“Up. Up.” Pringle didn’t have to be told; he was on his feet immediately.
“He didn’t do it. He’s covering up. Get to the dealership, and I’ll go to their home.”
Pringle hesitated a moment, then grabbed Myron and pulled him toward the door, almost dragging him along. As the three of them ran to the cruiser and Drake’s truck, he filled them in on the details. Dave Parker was not the killer.
Veronica wanted to ask questions when he called in and requested their home address, but he shut her down. He didn’t have time. In less than ten minutes he was at the far end of the street. The house was surprisingly modest, but had an elaborately landscaped yard. He kept his foot hard on the accelerator and then slammed on the brakes, sliding his truck into the driveway.The front door was locked.
Pringle’s voice on the radio. “She’s not at the dealership. They don’t know where she is. What have you got, Drake?”
“No car in the driveway. Hold on, I’m at the door.”
It didn’t take much. Someone had been watching from the window. Three hard hammers with his fist, and the door opened. A small woman held a portable phone in her hand.
“I’m calling the police.”
He fumbled and took his badge from his pocket. “I am the police. Where’s Mrs. Parker.”
“She’s gone. She took the brownies and left.”
He opened his mouth to ask, but the woman anticipated. “I don’t know where. She just left.”
He was back in the truck pulling into the street when Pringle’s voice came over the radio again. “Speak to me, Drake. What’s happening?”
“Cleaning lady I think. Mrs. Parker left with a tray of brownies. She doesn’t know where she’s gone.”
“Drake, I don’t know. How sure are you?”
He let it hang, thinking. Maybe he was wrong.
Pringle again. “I’ve got a pint getting warm, buddy. Maybe you’re just overtired.”
He radioed Veronica and asked if Mrs. Parker had contacted the station or had requested a visit with her husband.
“That’s a negative, Drake. I haven’t heard from her at all.”
Where would she go? What was she up to?
Then he radioed in and asked for another address.
He was there within minutes. The shiny, red car was sitting in front of the house. Of course. She’d picked another name from the list – where else would she be.
He slammed the brakes on the truck and parked on the sidewalk. He spoke to Pringle while he quickly walked to the entrance. “She’s here. She’s at Monica’s house.”
The front door was ajar. “I’m going in.”
“On our way.”
Monica’s son sat hypnotized, watching the television. He didn’t look up when Drake came in.
“Police, its John Drake. Monica, where are you?”
The child still did not move.
Stairs or kitchen? He took the door to the kitchen. Both of them were sitting at the table – Monica’s head leaning forward, a smile on her face. Jennifer Parker barely moved as he came in, her perfectly manicured nails tapping on the table.
Pringle’s voice came over the radio asking for an update, telling him that Myron was breaking speed records getting to the house.
Mrs. Parker gave a prize-winning, insincere smile. “She’s not well. We were having a nice visit and then she slumped over.”
A tray of brownies lay in the middle of the table. There were leftover crumbs on a small plate in front of Monica.
Drake yelled into his radio. “Dispatch, I need EHS, ambulance requested stat.” He listed Monica’s address. “You’ll need to pump her stomach.”
Mrs. Parker rose and put her hands on her hips. “I think those may be hash brownies. I came over to see how she was coping, and I found her like this. I think she has a drug problem. She was pretty high when I got here.”
Helpless, he was helpless. He grabbed Monica, squeezed her from behind, pushing into her stomach. Her eyes flickered and she smiled. “Stay awake. Stay with us.”
Mrs. Parker moved around the kitchen.
Drake turned and raised his hand as though he was going to slap her. “What did you give her? Is it the same stuff?”
Guilty. Absolutely guilty. He’d seen it before. The guilt flashed right across her face.
She spoke quickly, trying to cover it up. “What are you talking about?”
It all made sense. Her perfectly tanned face, the skin pulled back to hide the years.