So Julian Armstrong was, as they said, known to the Vancouver police.
John Winters read the file on the counselor. Inappropriate relations with clients, reports of sexual advances. There had been two complaints made, but no charges laid. The alleged victims failed to back up their complaints.
Armstrong had had a busy practice in fashionable West Vancouver, working with wealthy women. He gave it up to volunteer at a woman’s center and a methadone clinic in the Mid-Kootenays and live in a shabby basement apartment.
Ashley Doe had said he was the key to her life.
It would be tricky to interrogate Armstrong with no evidence other than John Winters’ own gut feelings.
Last night he’d been called out to a heroin overdose. Jeff Matthews, the novelist, hugely famous for the only piece of work he’d ever produced, would have died had not his wife taken ill at dinner with friends and come home early. The call should have gone to Ray Lopez. But, as Ashley Doe had died of an ‘accidental’ heroin overdose, Winters had ordered that he be kept informed of any similar incidents.
As he’d been leaving the hospital, he’d seen Julian Armstrong crossing the parking lot.
He picked up the phone and punched in numbers. It was answered on the first ring.
“Hope I haven’t disturbed you, Ms. Matthews. It’s John Winters here,” he said into the phone. The wife, a far better woman than Winters thought the novelist deserved, had told him she’d do everything in her power to see her husband’s dealer behind bars.
“Not at all, Sergeant. I’m sitting at my kitchen table watching the herbs in the garden grow.”
“Sounds exciting.”
A sigh came down the phone line. “I’m done with excitement for this week. I’m trying to work up the courage to go to the hospital and visit my husband who almost died last night. Does that sound uncaring of me?”
“It sounds like a woman pushed to the edge.”
“You’re a sensitive man, Sergeant Winters, if I may say so. To my surprise I find that I’m getting more empathy from the police officer than the supposed drug counselor.”
This was an opening he hadn’t expected. “Ms. Matthews.”
“Please, call me Susan. I’ve told you things I can’t tell my own mother.”
“Susan. Can I buy you a coffee, if you have time before going to the hospital? How about Eddie’s?”
“The plants may die without my constant supervision, but I’ll risk it. Give me half an hour.”
***
Winters paid for the drinks—a plain coffee for him, a chai latte for her. The breakfast and heading-to-work rush was over and they found a private table in the back corner.
He got straight to the point. “I’d like to talk to you about Mr. Armstrong, if you don’t mind.”
“Julian?” Susan Matthews raised one eyebrow. “I thought you asked me out to demand that I leave my husband and run away with you. Or failing that wanted to know more about Jeff.”
He grinned at her. She was dressed in beige capris and a blue T-shirt. Thin gold earrings looped through her earlobes, but otherwise she wore no jewelry. Smudges of strain lay under her eyes and lines that hadn’t been there last night stretched between her manicured eyebrows.
“Julian Armstrong. Had you met him before yesterday?”
“No. He showed up after you left. Why are you asking? Is there something wrong?”
“Not at all. It’s only that I need to know all I can about every person involved in this business. Mr. Armstrong’s new to town, and I don’t have a feel for him yet.”
She looked into the depths of her mug. Winters let the silence stretch between them. Jolene came out from the back with a watering jug. She poured water into plant pots and snipped at dead leaves, her body moving all the while to whatever sound was coming out of the iPod in her ears.
“I got the feeling,” Susan said at last, concentrating on the depths of the mug in front of her, “that he was more interested in impressing me with his credentials than discussing how we might work together to help my husband.”
“Did he have anything to offer, being from the methadone clinic, I mean?”
“John, I don’t want to venture too much into conjecture. Do you understand?”
“Of course.” Although he was trying very hard to nudge her into the realm of conjecture. “Impressions matter, I’ve learned. Impressions can be wrong, 180 degrees wrong, but they can be right as well. It’s my job to gather up all the impressions, and sort them out as best I can. And sometimes I make a mighty mess of it all.”
She smiled. “Okay, John. Just between you and me, if I didn’t know better, I’d say that Julian had come on to me. I might sound like a hysterical female, suspecting evil male intentions behind every innocent gesture, but I have been around the block a few times.” She stuck her index finger into her cup, scooping up milk foam. “And I’d say that Julian Armstrong is a predator.”
She put the cup down and in one fluid motion, got to her feet. “Past time I was at the hospital.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “I’ve decided to give Jeff one more chance, although he doesn’t deserve it. But for some strange reason, I love him very, very much.”
She walked out of the coffee shop. Her head high, her back straight.
“Pretty lady,” Eddie said. He picked up the empty cup.
“A strong one, too,” Winters said.
***
The hot milk had helped, and for the rest of the night Smith’s dreams were so sweet she couldn’t remember them, but only knew that she got out of bed feeling warm and happy.
When they met outside of Big Eddie’s, Christa had, at first, been reserved, very much a different person than her former bouncy self, but she’d been through a great deal of trauma. Mental as well as physical. Her face was slightly misshapen, and she spoke with a lisp, largely a result of the smashed-in mouth. Anger against Charlie Fucking Bassing boiled up in Smith’s chest, but she pushed it down and hugged her friend with genuine enthusiasm.
They ate bagels and drank coffee, fussed over by Eddie and Jolene, and talked about family.
“I’ve an appointment at the dentist tomorrow,” Christa said. He’s going to make me beautiful.”
Smith laughed. “More beautiful than you are now? The sun will be hiding its face in shame. Who are you seeing?”
“Tyler.”
Smith stuffed her face into her mug.
“Okay. Something’s wrong with Doctor Tyler. What?”
“As a dentist, there’s nothing wrong at all. He’ll do a good job.”
“But?”
“But, nothing.” Hard to explain that after questioning Doctor Tyler last month regarding the killing of his lover’s husband, Smith wouldn’t allow her long-time family dentist to approach her with a ten foot dental pick.
She changed the subject and told Christa about Miller. Christa laughed. It was a good long deep laugh and it made Molly smile to hear it. “Sounds like what she did with me,” Christa said, “Lucky wants every child to be happy.”
“Yeah, but you were ten years old when Mom took you under her wing. And she was a lot younger then. This baby’s taking her to the edge and she’s too proud, and too stubborn, to admit it. The kid doesn’t know the meaning of the word sleep. Dad’s not being supportive of her at all, and he’s always in a bad mood.”
As usual, Smith had taken the chair that put her back against the wall; over Christa’s shoulder she could see the woman at the table across from theirs not even trying to conceal her interest in their conversation. “Can I help you?”
Christa turned to see who Molly was talking to.
The eavesdropper was thin, her heavy make-up tinged with orange. An untouched slice of cheesecake and a coffee sat in front of her. Silver bangles jangled as she lifted her hand. “I apologize if I appear to have been listening. I couldn’t help but overhear.” She dug in her pocket and pulled out a card. “You must be talking about Mrs. Lucy Smith.”
“What of it?” Molly Smith said.
The woman pushed the card forward. Jody Burke. The logo of the Province of British Columbia. Something to do with children and family.
“I’ve been attempting to persuade Mrs. Smith to give up the child. Perhaps we have a common goal.”
“Perhaps not. If my mother wants to care for the baby, as much as I might not be happy about that, I support her.”
Jody Burke smiled. “That’s good of you, dear. But considering your mother’s age, I’m sure we can find a more suitable foster family for the child, until his parents’ families can be located.”
“I’m sure of no such thing. Foster families are not lying on the ground, you know, waiting to be picked up like lost coins.”
“I assume you’re Moonlight Smith, otherwise known as Constable Molly Smith.”
“That’s hardly a secret.” Christa burst into the conversation. “And Lucky’s a wonderful mother. There’s no one kinder, more generous. I resent you implying that she isn’t.”
“My dear girl.” Burke smiled at her. “I’m only saying that considering Mrs. Smith’s age, and her other responsibilities, the care of an abandoned infant might be too much for her. In which case it obviously isn’t in the child’s interest to be left with her. You yourself, Constable Smith, said it was causing problems in your parents’ marriage.”
Christa leapt to her feet. “How dare you,” she shouted. Jolene and the woman she was serving turned and stared. Eddie’s head popped out of the back room. “You can’t eavesdrop on a private conversation and throw it back at us.
“I’ve finished my coffee, Molly, and I need to get to work. Let’s go.”
Smith stood up. She gave the card back to Jody Burke.
“Keep it,” Burke said, “you may need it.”
“I doubt it.”
“A pleasure meeting you, Constable,” Burke said.
Smith didn’t reply as she followed her friend out the door, tossing the card onto the table. They walked toward Christa’s apartment. The sun was hot on her face and bare arms and shoulders. “That was strange.”
“What a busybody.” Christa was virtually dancing under the force of her indignation. “Imagine. Someone trying to imply that your mom can’t look after a child. I don’t know what would have happened to me, Mol, if your family hadn’t taken me in when my mom died. Dad was hardly up to the task, now was he? Not that my life’s this huge success story, but it would be a lot worse without your mom.”
“Have you told her that?”
“Of course not. Have you told her you owe everything you are to her?”
“Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.”
They laughed, and wrapped arms around each other. It felt like old times. B.C. Before Charlie.
They arrived at Christa’s building. A heritage house whose glory years were long past, now divided into upstairs and downstairs apartments.
“Thanks for the coffee, Mol. I needed to get out.”
“It was fun. Well, it was fun until that woman popped up.”
“Catch you later.”
Smith headed back toward town with the feeling that a great weight had been lifted off her chest.
She was walking back to her car—her mother’s car—when her cell phone rang.
Constable Dawn Solway was in a state of high excitement. She needed a big, big favor. Fast. Smith knew that Solway was having an Internet-based relationship with a sailor in the U.S. Navy. They’d met a few months ago at a rock concert in Spokane and spent, what was by Dawn’s account, the most fabulous weekend in the history of instant relationships. The sailor had shipped off to some exotic locale, and Solway returned to Trafalgar. They’d kept in touch by e-mail and hot and heavy phone sex. All of which had been much, much more than Molly Smith wanted to know. But now, as Dawn said over the phone, the sailor had gotten leave unexpectedly and wanted to come to British Columbia TODAY for a couple of days of not-much sightseeing. Unfortunately Solway had one more afternoon to do before getting four days off.
“Please, pretty please, Molly. If you take my shift I promise you my first born daughter.”
It wasn’t as if Smith had anything better to do. “I don’t want your daughter, Dawn. There are enough infants in my life right now. But you can be sure I’ll think of something.”
“You’re the best, Molly. I knew I could count on you. Bye.”
The sailor was, in fact, a lawyer doing whatever job lawyers in the U.S. Navy did. That she was also a female was not generally known in the department. Smith wondered how some of the old guard would react if Solway ever introduced her lover around.
***
It was time, Winters had decided, to put pressure on Marigold, Ashley’s roommate. None of his other lines of enquiry were going far. Marigold knew something. Something she was keeping secret.
At three o’clock Molly Smith came into the station as Winters was heading out.
“Thought you were off today,” he said.
“I switched with Dawn.”
“Check in and join me in fifteen minutes. I’ll square it with Al.”
She smiled, clearly pleased at being taken off the beat, if only for a while. Peterson grumbled, as expected, but when Winters promised to have Smith back before the evening started to heat up, he reluctantly agreed.
“I’m going to see our pal, Marigold,” Winters said when Smith joined him. “And as you were with me the last time, I thought I’d take you along.”
“Any particular reason?” she asked, as they walked down the steps.
At the bottom of the stairs, she turned right and he turned left.
“She lives this way,” Smith said.
“I had Dave drop into The Bishop earlier and check. She’s working. Marigold’s real name is Joan Jones.”
“I’m not surprised she changed it,” said Moonlight Legolas Smith, who probably knew a thing or two about undesirable names.
“Under the name of Joan Jones, she’s got a record in Vancouver for possession and dealing.”
“Pot?”
“Good old B.C. Bud. No matter what name she’s using, Marigold’s been less, much less, than forthcoming with us, and I’ve decided it’s time to come on like a tough guy. You know how well I play the bad cop, Molly.”
At three o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon, the bar was empty of customers. The Bishop and Nun had been decorated by someone who had probably never been in a traditional English pub. Heavy red paper, tearing in places, covered the walls, dotted with cheap replicas of paintings of foxhunts, pre-industrial farm life, and gently rolling landscapes. A gas fireplace was set into the back wall, turned off in the heat of a Kootenay summer. A portrait of Queen Victoria hung over the fireplace. The blinds were down and the room was dark and gloomy.