The Suspect - L R Wright (24 page)

"
Would you want to stay, though?” She made
herself take a sip of wine, slowly. "It's pretty dull around
here. Especially for a policeman.”

"I don't know yet,” he said reflectively.
"Sometimes I think if I stay in a place like this, a little
place, with a lot of ordinary people in it and not a whole lot
of—well, hardcore creeps, let's say . . . maybe in a place like
this, where most people don't feel uneasy around police officers,
some of my cynicism will wear off. Eventually."

"
I hadn't really thought of you as a cynic,”
said Cassandra gently.

"Thank you, ma'am." He smiled. "But
you don't know me very well. Yet." There were hollows beneath
his eyes—but maybe that was the candlelight, she thought. "Also,"
he went on, "I think I'm tired of change. I think I want things
in my life to stay pretty much the same, for a while.”

"You like your job though, don't you.”

"Yeah, I do. I sure as hell wouldn't want to do
anything else.”

"
What do you like about it, exactly?”

"Figuring things out," he said promptly.
"Talking to people, thinking, finding out what happened, who did
it, why they did it—that kind of thing.”

"
What about. . . justice?” said Cassandra
tentatively.
 
He looked at her
quizzically, not quite amused. 'justice isn't up to me. Getting the
answers, that's my job. And making sure the Crown prosecutor has
enough to go ahead with. And that,” he said grimly, "is the
toughest part of it all."

Cassandra got up to clear the table. Alberg helped.
In the kitchen she reached to switch on the light, but he stopped
her.

"
No, look,” he said, taking plates from her.
He put them on the counter and turned her toward the window, his
hands on her shoulders. The moon had broken through the clouds to
shine bright above the water.

"
It's beautiful,” she said. I

"
Is that why you're here? Because it's
beautiful?”

"
I'm here because my mother's got heart
disease,” said Cassandra, looking at the moon, which was being
obscured once more by cloud. "She's lived in Sechelt for more
than twenty years. When my father died, my brother and I decided one
of us ought to live near her. Not with her, I told him I wouldn't do
that, not under any circumstances. But near her was okay. He's
married, has kids, lives in Edmonton. I was in Vancouver. It was
easier for me.”

He turned her around to face him. "What did you
give up to move here, Cassandra?”

"
Quite a lot, actually. But it'll keep."

"
What was it? A man?”

Cassandra laughed. "I said it would keep, didn't
I? No, it wasn't a man. I'd been to Europe for the summer and got all
excited about traveling. I was going to sell everything I owned and
go live someplace strange and foreign for a while."

His lips brushed her cheek. Oh, Jesus, thought
Cassandra. She would tell him anything in bed, she knew it: all her
hopes, all her dreams, all her worries about George Wilcox.

"What about men?" he said. "Tell me
about the men in your life.”

"Like hell I will.” Cassandra pulled slightly
away from him. "Listen, Karl, you're getting too personal too
fast."

He wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly
against his chest. "I like you. I want to know things about
you."

"
I'm happy here,” she told him, her voice
muffled in his shirt. "I like my job and I like this place and I
have lots of friends.”

"
How come you put an ad in the paper?” He was
rubbing a big hand slowly up and down her back. "You're wearing
a bra."

"I always wear a bra. I put an ad in the
paper—it's none of your damn business why I put an ad in the
paper."

"Sure it is. I answered it." He bent his
head and rested his hot cheek, sticky with ointment, against her
temple.

Cassandra pushed herself away. She put her hands on
his chest, to keep him at a distance. "All right," she
said. "I put an ad in the paper in the hope of finding a
pleasant, courteous, not unattractive male person, intelligent and
interesting, with whom I might enjoy adequate conversation and
spectacular sex.”

She dropped her hands. She knew her face must be as
red as his.

"Well?" said Alberg. "So?” He held
out his arms and capered around in a clumsy circle. "What do you
think?”

She made a determined effort not to laugh. "I
don't know yet. I haven't decided."

The phone rang.

He dove at her, growling. She fought him off,
laughing, and they stood in the darkened kitchen smiling at one
another. Then he stepped close and kissed her, and she put her arms
around him.

The phone continued to ring.

"Shit," said Alberg after a while. "It's
probably for me."

It was Sokolowski.

Alberg told Cassandra he had to leave. He told her he
had to interview a suspect in the Burke homicide.

With an odd deliberateness, Cassandra put her hand
delicately to her throat. "Anybody I know?” she said casually.

"Could be," said Alberg. "You seem to
know everyone in town." He smiled, kissed her again, and pulled
on his yellow boots.

She watched him drive away.

She tried to feel relief.

Surely he wouldn't have gone off so cheerfully if it
was George Wilcox, his white hair springing from his head in the
indomitable waves that so touched her heart, who was sitting
patiently in God knew what kind of a rathole of a cell, waiting to be
grilled by the Mounties about murder.

But if it wasn't George, she thought suddenly,
feeling sick, who was sitting there, waiting for Alberg the cop?
 

CHAPTER 25

"Good dinner?" said Sokolowski innocently
from the counter where a constable just beginning night duty was
checking the book.

"
You're working overtime again, Sid," said
Alberg. "Where is this guy?"

Sokolowski pointed. "Right over there.”

On the green-cushioned bench in the reception area
sat a man about forty, dark-haired, with a beard showing some silver.
He was wearing jeans and a denim jacket, and western boots, and
smoking a cigarette.

"How did we find him?" said Alberg. From
its covered cage next to Isabella's desk, not far from the fish
seller, the parrot muttered.

"
We didn't find him. He found us. Saw the story
in the local rag, he says, and drove right over."

The rainbowed van was in the parking lot. Alberg had
stopped to have a close look, on his way in. It was the right van,
all right: orange paint underneath, where the gray had flecked away,
lots of bluebirds.

"
Bring him into my office," said Alberg.

When he got there, Alberg motioned the man to the
black chair. Sokolowski leaned in the doorway.

"
What's your name?" said Alberg, who was
standing by the window.

"Derek Farley. I'm sorry I didn't get here
sooner. " His voice was deep and melodious. He spoke slowly and
deliberately and seemed perfectly relaxed. "I only come into
town once a week. Saw in the paper while I was having a meal that
you've been looking for me and my van."

"We had a homicide here last Tuesday. I guess
you read about that, too."

"Yes. A Mr. Burke, it said. He was one of the
people who bought a salmon from me." He pulled out his
cigarettes and a folder of matches. "Mind if I smoke?"

"
Go ahead," said Alberg. "Where do you
live, Mr. Farley?”

The man shook out the match and put it in the ashtray
on Alberg's coffee table. "Up near Garden Bay. I've got a little
cabin there, out in the bush."

"
What do you do for a living?"

Farley grinned at him. "I sell things. Fish,
vegetables. It depends on the season. My wife's got a big garden.
She's also a weaver. There's a couple of stores—one in Garden Bay,
another in Gibsons; we're working on one in Sechelt, here—they take
her things on consignment. Ponchos, things like that.” He dragged
on his cigarette. "I'm a carpenter, too. I do work for people
all up and down the coast." He grinned again. "Word of
mouth. I'm good at it. Slow, but good."

"Tell us about last Tuesday. That was your day
in town, was it?”

"
I came down to Sechelt, yes. Let's see.” He
stubbed out his cigarette. "I've been trying to get it straight.
A week ago, that's a long time."

"
What time did you leave home?” said
Sokolowski. "Let's start with that.” '

"I left about eight. Had a dozen salmon in the
van, packed in ice in washbuckets. Sold about four-five fish in
Madeira Park, Secret Cove. Had some coffee and a doughnut at a little
place near Halfmoon Bay. It must have been . . . sometime after
eleven, I guess, when I got here. I remember I drove right through
Sechelt and turned around, figuring to try to get rid of the rest of
the fish along the road outside of town, then stop for a bite to eat
and head on home.”

"
And is that what happened?" said Alberg.

"
Pretty well. I still had—I had five left when
I stopped for lunch. That's right. Forgot I sold one to the guy who
runs the cafe at Halfmoon Bay. I remember thinking I should keep on
going down toward Gibsons, try to get rid of the rest of them there,
but I was pointing in the wrong direction by then.” He grinned up
at them. "But it turned our okay. When I got back to Garden Bay
I went down to the wharf and sold all five to some tourists up from
Seattle in two big yachts."

"
I'm happy for you, Mr. Farley," said
Alberg. "But could we get back to the ones you sold here?"

"
Yes, sure, sorry. Well, let's see. I sold two.
Now I know you'll want to know what time this was. Let me think ....
"

Alberg and Sokolowski waited. Alberg picked up a pen
that was lying on his desk. Sokolowski shifted in the doorway,
turning a page in his notebook. Alberg leaned against the filing
cabinet and discovered that Isabella had put a plant on top of it;
long leafy tendrils wafted down the side of the cabinet nearest the
window.

"
It was after eleven when I got here," said
Farley, confident. "And it was about twelve-thirty when I went
into that little place down from the library, to have some lunch. And
it must have taken me—oh, say twenty minutes to drive through town
and get turned around. So I'd say I was trying to sell my fish from
about eleven forty-five until about twelve fifteen." He smiled,
contented. "That'd be about right.”

"
About half an hour, then," said Alberg.
"Tell us what you did and what you saw." He moved to the
window and peered out at the van from between the slats in the blind.
In the light from the building he could see rain spattering the roofs
of the van, the patrol cars, and his Oldsmobile.

Farley sighed. "This is tough. Let's see.” He
looked up at Sokolowski. "You know, I can't possibly remember
everything. It was a week ago. just an ordinary day. I know I didn't
see anything particularly unusual. I know for sure I didn't see
anything suspicious."

"
Try, though, will you?" said Alberg,
turning from the window.

"
That Burke fellow, I do remember he was the
second one to buy. And the last. I pulled over, crossed the street,
went through a hedge and down a path. The door was open. I looked
around but there wasn't any bell, so I just banged on the door. I
remember thinking I ought to holler something, since the door was
open, but I couldn't think of anything. So I just waited, and in a
minute a voice says, 'Coming.' So I just stood there on the step,
holding the salmon, and eventually this tall old man came down the
hall toward me.”

"
What happened then?” said Alberg, after a
minute during which Farley frowned at his knees.

"
Well, he said, 'Ah, a peddler of fish.' It was
obvious; I was standing there holding it. 'I used to catch my own,'
he said, 'but not any more,' or something like that. Then he told me
he'd buy it because a friend was coming over for lunch and it would
be a nice treat." He looked at them and shrugged.

"
That's it. He gave me a couple of bucks and I
gave him the fish, and then I went back to the van. I was getting
hungry by this time, so I headed straight for the cafe." He
shook his head resignedly. "A lot of people around here catch
their own fish. The tourists are your best bet. My wife keeps telling
me that, and she's right."

"
Can you tell us anything about the inside of
Mr. Burke's house?" said Alberg. "Did you notice anything
special about it? Anything valuable? Anything worth stealing?"

Farley smiled, slowly. "What are you trying to
suggest? That I spotted something interesting and came back and
killed the old guy for it?" He looked at Alberg reproachfully.
"I never got past his front step. Besides, I am not a thief.
Also, I am a pacifist."

“
Just one more thing," said Alberg. "This
friend he was expecting. Did he say anything more about him? Like,
was it a man or a woman, or what time he or she was supposed to
arrive?"