Chantal peers over the railing. She screams, and drops the money. Or the dead kid already dropped the money when he took a header over the railing …

  Carlos opened his eyes, curious about the slurpy sound that wouldn’t go away. Hector was busily licking Aunt Jemima from his fingers. He dried his hands on the green towel, looked at Carlos and said, “Maybe we should talk to Pinky.”

  Carlos nodded. Talking to Pinky seemed like a real good idea.

  Chapter 38

  Mabel Mah saw them coming. She turned her work-stooped back on them and got busy rearranging a box of turnips. Turnips had a long shelf life, and were twice as profitable as potatoes, so she always kept some on hand.

  “Mrs. Mah?”

  “Yeah, what you want?” She had no use for the police but didn’t want any trouble because she had a cousin living in her basement who had overstayed his tourist visa. He was a free thinker, a student and writer. He dreaded returning to China because the forces of repression would arrest him the moment he stepped off the plane. If he was lucky he would spend ten years in a camp. If he was unlucky, he would be tried and summarily executed. Mrs. Mah had been born in Guangdong province. She made it a point of honour never to buy anything that had been made in China.

  Mrs. Mah glanced up. How surprised and pleased she was to see two new customers.

  “How may I help you — turnips, yes? Fresh this morning, and you will not find better prices!”

  Parker flipped open her badge case. Mrs. Mah’s delicate oval face was heavily lined. Her eyes were black, but warm. Callused hands fluttered against her small breasts. Her fingernails were cut very short, like a man’s, to make it easier for her to keep them spotlessly clean.

  “Police! Is my vendor’s permit expired? I will renew it immediately, I promise!”

  Parker showed her a four-by-six copy of Pinky Koblansky’s candid photograph of Chantal.

  “Ah, yes. The thief.” Mrs. Mah glared at Willows. “She emptied my cash register, more than one hundred dollars, and she stole every penny! A common thief! I dial 911 and the policeman comes three hours later, during the busy time. He writes down my name and off he goes. I run after him, in my apron. Will he catch this pretty girl who is a thief? He laughs and tells me maybe so, but I can see he has no interest, and no hope. But now this girl is in the newspaper, a big star, and everybody runs around like in a Jackie Chan movie. But still nobody cares about my money. Is it because I am a poor Chinese greengrocer, and not some pretty white girl?”

  “We understand your frustration,” said Parker.

  “Why don’t the police send a Chinese detective to speak to me? Because there are no Chinese detectives, yes?”

  “No,” said Parker firmly. “Our Chinese-language officers are all assigned to the Asian-crimes squad. Detective Willows and I are here because we’re investigating a homicide, a possible murder.” She smiled. “Besides, we don’t need a Chinese constable, because you speak such good English.”

  “How many Chinese constables you got?”

  “I’m not sure, offhand.”

  “Any murder detectives? No!”

  Willows noticed a Chinese boy in his late teens working his way through the crowd towards them. “Is that your son?”

  “Yes, Alvin. He is a good boy, but the pretty girl spoiled his judgement, and made a fool of him.” Mrs. Mah deftly rearranged a stack of radishes. She said, “He knows nothing, he cannot help you.”

  Parker smiled. “Even so, we’d like to talk to him.” As Alvin drew near, she turned towards him and offered her hand. “Alvin, I’m Claire Parker. This is my partner, Detective Jack Willows.”

  Alvin nodded, acutely aware that his mother was watching him closely.

  Parker said, “You know why we’re here, Alvin. What can you tell us about the woman we’re looking for?”

  “Not much. I’ve already talked to the police. I told them everything I could think of.”

  “We’d like you to go over it again,” said Parker. “The other officer was responding to a robbery call. We’re investigating a possible murder.”

  “I understand, but …”

  “We can’t figure out why Chantal came here, of all places.”

  “Maybe you should ask the officer who drove her.”

  “We did,” said Parker. “She told him she had a job here, working for you and your mother.”

  Mrs. Mah said, “If that’s what she said, she lied! My son is a good boy, a student and hard worker!”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” said Parker. She took Alvin by the arm and led him a little farther down the crowded aisle.

  “Where you going?” cried Mrs. Mah.

  Willows said, “It’s okay, Mrs. Mah. Watch your customers, and we’ll be gone before you know it.”

  “I hope so!”

  Fierce Mrs. Mah. Willows made his way through the milling throng of shoppers just in time to hear Parker say, “It’s just between you and me, but I have to know if you and Chantal had a relationship.”

  “No, of course not, don’t be ridiculous!” Alvin had flushed red as a tomato. No, thought Willows, not a tomato, a beet. Or possibly a radish.

  Parker said, “Alvin, we’re not interested in your sex life, and I promise you that anything you say …”

  “Give me a break! What’s wrong with you! I’m nineteen years old, and I’ve never even had a date. I go to school and I work and that’s all I do. I don’t have the time or energy or money to do anything else.” He pointed at his mother. “Look at her, how hard she works. That’s the family business! How could someone like me afford a prostitute? Do you think she pays me to work?”

  Alvin had begun speaking in a barely audible whisper, but now he was shouting at the top of his voice, his cry of longstanding sexual torment ricocheting off the market’s walls and cavernous roof.

  Parker lamely said, “Well, thanks for your help.”

  “You’re welcome!”

  Mrs. Mah hurried towards them, burrowing determinedly through the amazed crowd. Parker stuck her card in Alvin’s apron pocket. “Call me if you think of anything.”

  “I don’t think so!” shouted Alvin bitterly, tearing the card to pieces and flinging them away.

  Outside, it was raining lightly and there was a breeze off the harbour. A disorderly row of gulls perched on a wooden bench. Rats cavorted on the breakwater. A small child toddled shrieking towards the gulls, and made them fly away. If the birds were irritated, they didn’t let on. How calm their faces were, how unhurried the beat of their wings. They wheeled and dipped, returning gracefully to the bench. Cheeky things. The child decided to have another go at them, but was held back by his mother. Parker was barely able to hear her cellphone over the sound of his anguished screams.

  Willows fished in his pocket for his keys. Where had they parked the car? That couldn’t be it, because there was a ticket on the windshield, neatly tucked under the wiper blade. He spun the keyring on his finger. Just what he needed — more paperwork. He crumpled the ticket into a ball and let it drop, unlocked his door and climbed into the car. Tripper was all over him. He pushed the dog away, unlocked Parker’s door, and started the engine as she buckled her seatbelt.

  “Down, Tripper!” Parker put the phone back in her purse. “That was Carolyn Budd.”

  Willows checked the side mirror. There was no traffic except for a kid on a motorized skateboard. The skateboard’s tiny engine sounded like a mosquito on steroids. If he hadn’t thrown away the ticket, he could’ve given it to the kid. Serendipity was fate’s weak sister, and easily frustrated. He waited until the skateboard had buzzed past and then pulled onto the narrow road.

  Parker said, “You remember Carolyn, don’t you?”

  Willows frowned. “I am trying so very hard …”

  “Carolyn’s the lawyer I met a couple of weeks ago in my aerobics class at the community centre.”

  “Right,” said Willows.

  “She’s decided to take Tripper.”

  “As a client?”

  “No, she wants to keep her.”

  “Fine with me.”

  “She and her husband split up a few months ago, and she’s lonely.”

  “Well, of course she is.”

  Parker gave him a look. She said, “Carolyn’s going to take Tripper for the weekend. If they get along, she’ll keep her. But only if she can have her spayed.”

  “No wonder her marriage didn’t last.”

  “Very funny.”

  But it wasn’t, because Parker desperately wanted children, and he kept avoiding her attempts to discuss the subject. Why? He was conflicted. He loved Claire unconditionally, wanted to marry her and grow old with her. But Sean and Annie would soon be adults. They were both living at home, but either or both of them could move out in search of their own lives any day now. Willows wasn’t a young man any more. If he and Claire had children, he’d probably be closing in on his mid-sixties before their children left home.

  Parker said, “Carolyn’s a partner in a small firm. Their offices are on Commercial, between Eleventh and Twelfth. She said we can drop Tripper off right now, if we’ve got the time.”

  Willows said, “Sure I’ve got the time. Have you got the time?”

  “I do if you do,” said Parker.

  Willows made a hard left, his eye on an idling taxi that was partially blocking the road. Parker was watching him closely. Who did she see? It was entirely the wrong question. He should have asked himself how she knew exactly what he was thinking.

  Chapter 39

  Hector made a fresh pot of coffee. While the coffee brewed he toasted and ate six more Pop Tarts. The little suckers were so addictive it was a wonder they weren’t illegal. While he ate, Carlos wore out his vocabulary reading the mini-articles relating to Nicholas Partridge’s sudden, unexplained death. All available info absorbed to the max, he rolled up the newspaper and poked Hector in the Pop Tarts.

  “Get dressed. We got places to go and people to beat.”

  Hector slurped his coffee. “You’re talkin’ about the night clerk?”

  Carlos nodded. “Our man Pinky.”

  “But he’s a night clerk. He ain’t gonna be on duty until, uh … tonight.”

  “No, you’re wrong. I called the hotel, said I was a reporter. He works twelve on and twelve off. By the time we get down there, he should be ready for us.”

  Carlos was dressed in army-surplus cammies, which had been Hector’s first choice for the day, but since he didn’t want people thinking they were the Bobbsey Twins’ older and more lethal brothers, he dressed head to toe in black, like a bad guy in a martial-arts movie. From the living room, Carlos yelled at him to get cracking. Fuck Carlos. Hector honed his switchblade and took a moment to make sure the mechanism was well oiled. Carlos was fiddling with his pistol, repeatedly racking the slide.

  Hector considered suggesting that they formulate a plan of attack, take a minute to figure out what they were going to do before they rushed off to do it. But that would be asking for trouble.

  Even so …

  Carlos didn’t look up from his pistol. “Make a plan? You’re turning into a little old lady, Hector.”

  “Just don’t try to take advantage.”

  Carlos sniggered, his mood improving. He eased a last bullet into his pistol’s magazine, slammed the magazine into the butt of the gun and pointed the weapon at Hector’s genitals. As he pulled the trigger, he yelled, “Ka-pow!”

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

  “Yeah? What’ve you got against a little harmless fun?”

  “Nothing, until you forget there’s a round in the chamber and blow away my privates.”

  “Maybe that’d be even more fun,” said Carlos recklessly. He wiggled his eyebrows. “How will I know until I try it?” Lifting the barrel to his semi-literate lips, he blew away a wreath of imaginary smoke.

  Hector decided it would be a good idea to vacate the apartment without further delay. They’d been babysitting Jake’s millions for almost forty-eight hours now. Carlos had a volcanic look about him. He was obviously feeling the pressure, ready to erupt at any moment.

  *

  Twenty minutes later, Carlos parallel-parked the van in the alley behind the hotel, close to a dark-blue dumpster. He activated the van’s sophisticated alarm system. He and Hector walked around the corner and up a flight of narrow stairs, past a battered wooden door, and into the lobby. They could see where Partridge had died, because somebody had scrubbed the tiles clean, and some of the grout had been replaced.

  Carlos rattled his keys against the chicken-wire cage. The desk clerk opened his eyes one at a time. He spread out his pale, hairy arms and yawned widely. Hector wondered how he could be so fat when he had so few teeth to eat with. The paperback that had put him to sleep dropped heavily to the floor. He bent to pick it up, overbalanced, and fell out of his chair. Reappearing, he said, “What can I do for ya, gents?”

  Hector said, “We want to talk to Pinky Koblansky.”

  “About what?”

  “Is that you?” said Carlos.

  “No, I’m Myron.” Who were these guys? It made Pinky’s heart pucker up just looking at them. His glance skittered off the walls and ceiling. He looked everywhere but at Carlos. “Pinky’s off till eight.”

  Hector said, “Since we gotta wait, we might as well take a room.”

  “Two beds?”

  “Don’t be a smartass!” Carlos’ glare easily penetrated the chicken-wire barrier.

  The clerk offered a weak smile. His clothes were supplied by the Salvation Army, but his teeth were by Gap. He said, “Oops, my mistake, we’re booked solid.”

  Carlos clawed at the wire. “You’re lyin’!” His fiery gaze took in the chipped walls and scabrous paint. “Who’d want to stay in a dump like this?”

  “Well, it seems that you would.”

  Hector’s mom had taught him that vinegar wasn’t nearly as sweet as money. He banged his wallet against the wire. “We’d be glad to pay a little extra …”

  “I told you, we got no rooms!” Well, that wasn’t entirely true. The dead kid’s room was vacant, but the cops had sealed it with crime-scene tape, and told him he couldn’t rent it until they’d finished their investigation. Sometime before the next millennium, hopefully.

  Carlos finally spotted the Province photograph push-pinned to the wall behind the desk.

  Pointing at the photograph and Pinky in rapid succession, he said, “That’s him!”

  Hector drew his knife. The razor-sharp blade was so lengthy it turned Australian film stars crocodile-green with envy. “Come outta there!” He hacked at the chicken wire.

  “Beat it, or I’ll call the cops!” Pinky grabbed the desk phone, a heavy black rotary model dating from Elvis’ happier days. He dialled 911, but neglected to pick up the handset first.

  Hector thrust his scrawny arm through the ragged hole he’d made in the wire. He swung the knife in a shining arc. Pinky clutched his throat and fell back against the wall, wide-eyed and trembling.

  “Leave me alone! What d’you want from me?”

  Carlos smiled through the wire. He said, “So many questions, so little time.”

  Pinky peered down at the puddle of blood in the palm of his cupped hand. He gingerly dabbed his fingers at his throat, tracing the long, curving, extraordinarily shallow trench the knife had cut in his flesh.

  Until now, Carlos hadn’t realized how little chance chickens had against chicken wire. The stuff was incredibly strong. He guessed they must use it to keep out foxes. But then why didn’t they call it fox wire?

  He snapped his fingers. “All we want is our money. Give us back our money, and we’re outta here.”

  “What money?” Pinky eyed the phone. It was tantalizingly close but within easy reach of the madman with the undersized machete. Pinky could easily escape through the door behind him, but the key was in the top drawer of the desk. He was trapped. Trapped! But not helpless.

  Pinky’s cry for help easily drowned the muted whisper of Carlos’ silenced pistol, and the dull thud of bullets swarming into his body. He peered down at his chest and belly. Cripes, he had more holes in him than Bonnie and Clyde, and look what happened to them. His strength left him like rats fleeing a doomed ship. He sagged against the bloody wall. The last bit of wind sailed out of him, and he died in the precise moment he wondered if he was dying.

  His knees buckled.

  He fell face up on the grimy floor, bounced once, and was exceptionally still.

  Hector said, “Now look what you’ve gone and done.”

  Carlos nodded. He had gone and done shot the dumb-ass night clerk in the chest, drilled him with all ten shots, as far as he could see. Pinky lay on the floor like a pile of dirty laundry. Amazingly, he was still alive. Or was he? Nope.

  Carlos reloaded while Hector hacked at the chicken wire. He soon had a hole large enough to crawl through. Carlos averted his eyes as Hector’s ungainly behind followed the rest of him through the hole.

  Hector’s busy hands danced over Pinky’s rapidly cooling body. Everybody had a wallet — where was Pinky’s? Hector rolled him over. The back pockets of Pinky’s cheap pants contained a large quantity of lint, but no cash. Hector flipped him over again, and gave him a shake. “Where’s the money!”

  Pinky gurgled like beer racing out of a bottle.

  Hector yanked open the hotel desk’s three drawers. He pawed through Pinky’s collection of top-shelf magazines, a deconstructed cellphone, more sex mags. Frustrated, he hurled the drawers away, then ducked as they hit the chicken wire and came ricocheting back.

  Carlos said, “Hector …”

  “What?”

  “We got company.”

  Carlos tilted his head, in an instinctive bid to enhance the stereophonic qualities of his ears. He heard the dull rumble of approaching boots. Big men, and plenty of them, were coming down the stairs towards the main floor. They were making good time.

 

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