“Hey Chris, It’s me.”
“Oh. Hi.” Not the warmest of greetings.
“I’m in town, not working today, and thought it would be fun to have breakfast and catch up,” Molly said into the phone.
“I’ve eaten.”
“Okay, it’s late for breakfast. How about meeting me at Eddie’s for a coffee?”
Christa hesitated. “I don’t know. Today’s the day I planned to get started reading for my courses. Class starts next week.”
“That’s great, Chris, I was… well, after what happened I was afraid you’d drop out of school.”
“You mean after Charlie beat the shit out of me because you wouldn’t help me?”
Smith closed her eyes and saw her friend’s body after John Winters had found Christa lying in the stairwell of her apartment: face like the butcher’s best steak, hair thick with drying blood, broken teeth. Paramedics loading her into the ambulance.
“I’m sorry, Chris. I’m so sorry,” Smith said, so softly that Christa might not have heard. “I tried.”
“Not hard enough.”
Smith hat begun to say goodbye when she heard Christa whisper “wait”. The phone didn’t disconnect and after a long pause Christa said, “Dad’s agreed to pay whatever the dentist charges, so I might end up better looking after this.” She had a minor overbite; lots of guys thought it cute, but Christa figured it made her look like Bugs Bunny. “Have you heard anything about Charlie?”
“Nothing new. He was refused bail because John, Sergeant Winters, said he was a danger to you. You’ll be notified of what happens.”
“Will I have to testify? Will I have to see him?” Her voice sounded small, and very frail.
Smith hesitated. If Bassing decided to fight the charges, Christa would have to go to court. But Christa didn’t need to worry about that now. Wait and see how it turned out. If she did have to testify, Smith would accompany her friend. And sit in the front row, in uniform, all body armor and attitude. “Probably not. It could be six months or more before the trial. And it might not even come to that. You just worry about getting those courses under your belt.”
“Okay.”
“Sure you don’t want a coffee?”
“I have one here. Eddie’s been sending Jolene around every morning with coffee, size
gigantico
, and two bagels with cream cheese.”
“That’s nice of him.”
“Yeah, it is. People are nice, aren’t they Molly?”
People in Trafalgar
were
nice. Winters had told Smith that Eddie was upset because Christa’d been attacked on her way home from his shop. Her breakfast bagel, tossed onto the lawn, had alerted Winters and Smith that something was wrong.
“But I can’t be relying on Eddie and Jolene forever, can I?” Christa said.
“No.” Smith cleared her throat.
“Maybe we could have coffee tomorrow? Or another day this week?”
“Tomorrow would be good. How about I call you in the morning?”
“Okay, Molly. Bye.”
“Bye, Chris.”
Smith hung up the phone as Brad Noseworthy came into the constables’ office, laughing at something that had been said out in the hallway.
Tears were gathering behind her eyes and she blinked rapidly, wishing them away.
“You okay, Molly?”
“Yeah, Brad. Couldn’t be better.” She turned to him with a big smile. “Except that I’m starving.”
***
“Speaking of methadone,” Ray Lopez said. “I heard you talking about Julian Armstrong earlier, before we were interrupted. He’s new to town and is helping Amin out at the clinic. What’s your interest?”
“Just interest. Let me know if you hear anything.”
“Never would have thought of that, Boss. Glad you reminded me.”
“You don’t have work to do, Ray? Keeping trouble from the streets of our town?”
They waited for the light to change, watching as a man, blond-streaked dreadlocks tied into a series of knots at the top of his head, beard half-way down his chest, strolled across the street, against the light. Winters considered giving the guy a warning, but he let it pass. He’d taken his detective out for a coffee, although Lopez was trying to reduce his intake and had instead ordered a carrot juice. His doctor had told him to cut down on caffeine, sugar, and fat. Lopez had managed to get down to one cup of coffee a day, surviving for the rest of the day on what he hoped were healthy enough drinks to compensate for the fact that he had no intention of giving up his daily lunch of Chinese take-out, or a hearty dinner followed by something from Madeline’s repertoire of desserts. Lopez filled Winters in on the state of his investigation into the hard drugs dripping—slowly, but still coming—into town. Not much, was the essence of the Detective’s report. The undercover officer had been shown the morgue photo of Ashley, but didn’t recognize her. Which meant nothing except that they couldn’t prove she’d been hanging around the heroin dealer they were after. It had been a long shot anyway.
Molly Smith walked by on the other side of the road, fair hair standing on end, long, muscular brown legs topped with khaki shorts, feet wrapped in sturdy sports sandals. She caught sight of the detectives and lifted her hand in greeting before continuing on her way.
“Now she,” Winters said, “would be a great plant.”
“If everyone between here and Vancouver didn’t know who she is,” Lopez said with a grin. “Can you imagine Molly trying to work undercover, while her mother and her pals burst into the deal, telling everyone to just get along.”
Winters exhaled. “That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”
The light changed and Winters crossed the street, back to the station.
A welcome blast of frosty air hit him as he opened the door. Dave Evans was leaning on the counter by the dispatch desk, Kevlar vest undone, rolling a can of Coke back and forth across his red cheeks. His underarms and the front of his uniform shirt were so wet, he might have put them on directly out of the washing machine. “Waste of time,” he said to Denton as Winters came in. “Should have known that woman wouldn’t have a chance in hell against Lucky and her bunch.”
“What’s Lucky Smith up to now?” Winters asked.
“Stupid social worker tried to take that baby found at the Ashley Doe scene away from her. She came in here and led the Sarge to believe that Mrs. Smith was in contempt of court so she needed a police escort in case Lucky resisted.”
“She didn’t have an order?”
“She had absolutely nothing. Not even any moral authority. No reason Mrs. Smith can’t take care of a homeless baby as well as a foster family. Made me look like a damned fool.”
“Not that that’s a first, Dave,” Denton said.
“Ha, ha,” the constable replied. He popped the tab on his can of pop. “You try taking on Molly Smith’s mother. I’d rather go up against Tony Soprano. Tell Molly that and you’re a dead man.”
Denton laughed. “I had a few run-ins with Lucky Smith in my early days in Trafalgar. I’d show you my scars but the Sergeant’s watching.”
“Don’t let me interrupt,” Winters said. He walked down the corridor to his office.
After taking off his jacket and hanging it on the back of his chair, he sat down and started up his computer. The phone rang, routed from the central number by Denton.
“John Winters.”
“Yeah, hi.” It was a male, probably young, the voice tending toward the higher end of the register.
“Can I help you?”
“Are you the guy in charge of the investigation I read about in the paper?”
Winters restrained a sigh. “Can you tell me what investigation you’re referring to, sir?”
“The girl, Ashley, found dead behind the women’s support center?”
“Did you know her?”
“Kinda. We weren’t friends, you understand. I mean I’ve seen her around town, her and her baby. In the coffee shops, on the streets. You know.”
Of course Winters knew. A lot of people had seen Ashley walking around town, but no one could tell the police anything worthwhile about her. The girl might as well have been a ghost. But there must be some reason Denton put this call through to Winters, rather than just taking down the caller’s information.
“Do you know something about her?” Sometimes he thought he might as well have made his mother proud and become a dentist. This job could be like pulling teeth.
“About how she died, no. I was sure sorry to hear about it.”
“Then why are you calling?”
“Uh, well. It’s like this. I saw her arguing with a man a day or so before her death. I thought maybe you’d like to know.”
Winters stopped drawing circles on his notepad. “Arguing?”
“Like really intense, you know.”
“Can I ask your name?”
The man hesitated.
“I like to know who I’m talking to, that’s all. I’m John Winters.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m Mike. Mike Jergens.”
“I’d like to hear about this argument you overheard, Mike. But first of all, can you be more specific about the date? Did you notice the time?”
“Tuesday or Wednesday, maybe? It wasn’t Monday, cause I’m closed on Monday. Most days, I go for coffee around five, when Debbie, my assistant, comes in. They were standing outside Big Eddie’s, the coffee place?”
“I know it.”
“I saw Ashley arguing with a man. It was, like I said, real intense. She was shouting. I particularly remember because the baby was crying. That was pretty unusual. Ashley’s baby’s always so good.”
Not
, Winters thought,
according to Molly Smith
. “Do you know what they were arguing about?”
“Only what Ashley told me.”
Winters wanted to reach down the phone line and wrap the other end around Mike Jergen’s neck. “You spoke to her about this?”
“For a couple of minutes. She was upset, so I bought her a coffee.”
Winters looked at the ceiling. There was nothing of interest there so he looked at his computer. The logo of the Trafalgar City Police skipped around the screen. He took a breath. “I’d like to talk to you in person, Mike. Where can I find you?”
“Well, uh, I’d rather not. I’m kinda busy.”
“It sounds like you have information I need.”
“Well, I guess. I’m at Mike’s Movie Mansion. I’m Mike.”
“I’ll be there in ten. Don’t go anywhere, Mike.”
***
Before going to George’s for breakfast, Molly Smith put five quarters into a sidewalk box and took out a copy of the
Trafalgar Daily Gazette
. The popular restaurant was almost empty, breakfast rush finished, lunch crowd still to come. She took a table at the back, away from the windows, ordered coffee and scrambled egg hash, and flipped the paper to the back section. The classifieds.
‘Shared accommodation. Female, N/S, N/P, Private bath. Riverside.’ And a phone number. Smith dug in her bag for a pen and came up empty. On the job, she kept herself well organized: her personal life was another matter.
“Sorry,” she said to the vaguely-familiar waitress who brought her coffee. “Do you have a pen I can borrow?”
“Sure, Moonlight. How’s things?”
“Good.” Smith struggled for the girl’s name. Inconveniently she wasn’t wearing a name tag above her right breast. “How are things with you?”
The waitress pulled the stub of a pencil out of her shirt pocket, handed it to Smith, and shifted one hip to take a rest. “Jimmy’ll be seven next month, and Rachel’s five. Time flies doesn’t it? I read about you in the paper sometimes, Moonlight. Sounds exciting, what you do.”
“Naw. Deadly boring most of the time.” Helena, that was the woman’s name. Helena. She’d run with Meredith Morgenstern’s crowd in high school. “Thanks for this.” Smith indicated the pencil, and turned her attention to her open newspaper.
Helena leaned close, holding the coffee pot. “What really happened with that Ashley girl? Some of the customers are saying she was murdered, but the paper’s saying nothing.”
“Did you know her?”
“No. I don’t remember her ever coming in here. Just wondering.” She lowered her voice. “I won’t tell anyone. Honest”
“I’m just a constable, Helena, still on probation. I don’t know anything more than the paper does. Sometimes less.”
Helena lifted the coffee pot and walked away.
Smith began circling ads. Sharing a flat with someone might not be too bad. She leaned back to allow Helena, no longer interested in engaging in chitchat, to place her breakfast on the table and top up the coffee.
Or she could look for a room in a house, like Julian Armstrong had. She stirred cream into her coffee. Armstrong. He had to have something to do with this. He arrived in town only a few weeks ago. He’d set himself up in practice as a drug counselor, and worked at the Mid-Kootenay Methadone Clinic. Ashley Doe had died by heroin overdose. Methadone was used as a substitute drug—it supposedly helped junkies get off heroin. Armstrong would meet plenty of hard-core users at the clinic. What better place for a dealer to find his customers? Conveniently, Julian also helped out at the Women’s Support Center. Where Ashley sometimes showed up.
Smith poured ketchup onto her hash and stirred eggs around the plate with her fork.
Ashley had told Amy that Armstrong was the key to her future. Or some such garbage that at the time Smith assumed had dreamy romantic implications. But was she saying instead that Armstrong and she would make a financial partnership?
Smith swallowed most of the hash, not noticing how it tasted. She left the newspaper on the table for Helena to clear away with the dirty dishes.
***
The site of the proposed Grizzly Resort was situated about ten kilometers outside of Trafalgar, off Number 3 highway, heading north on the way to the town of Nelson.
John Winters took the department’s unmarked van, and had barely left the town limits when his cell phone rang. He pulled over, mainly because cell phone reception would die in another kilometer or two.
“Winters.”
“Hi.” Eliza. “It’s me. Time to talk?”
“Sure. What’s up?” He pushed his sunglasses onto the top of his head. He switched off the car, hating to kill the air conditioning, but simply talking on the phone to Eliza would make him feel guilty if he left the engine idling.
“I’ve just hung up from Barney. She said they want me, very much, and have upped the offer. Considerably.”
“That’s good,” he said.