One Careless Moment (22 page)

“When you searched her room,” he says slowly, “did you find any alcohol bottles?”

“No,” I say, a little surprised.

“And you conducted quite a thorough search? You checked her bureau?”

Now I understand why he's willing to deal. They found bottles in Karalee's room and want to establish her character — if she was a closet drinker. On one hand, they're ready to condemn my methods, but on the other, they want to know what I found. It's a thin line, this tacit consent. It makes me wonder just how sure they are this wasn't a suicide.

“If there were bottles in her room,” I say. “I would have found them.”

Castellino nods, seems satisfied.

“What did the autopsy reveal?” I ask cautiously.

Castellino considers, leaning back, watching me. I try my best to look co-operative and after a moment he nods toward Batiste, tells him to relate the autopsy findings. Batiste rummages in his file, pausing to put on half-glasses — the discriminating scholar. “There were bruises on the right upper arm, and some bruising on the right side of the ribcage.” He glances around the table. “This could be the result of blundering into hard objects while in an intoxicated state. Or it could be ligature marks, as a result of restraint.”

“What sort of restraint?” I say, thinking about Karalee. She wasn't a big girl.

“Well, they puzzled us at first,” says Batiste. “There were also bruises on her lips. Taken together, they seem consistent with someone lying across the victim, pinning her down and holding her right arm as they pushed a bottle into her mouth, forcing her to drink.”

“So it looks like one attacker?”

“We're not prepared to speculate on that,” says Batiste, glancing at Castellino as if for a cue when to stop. Castellino waves a hand at him, signalling for him to continue. Batiste scans the report, frowning. “No foreign fibres or hair found on the body. Negative for semen. Nothing under the fingernails.”

“Isn't that a little strange?”

“Yes.” Batiste gives me a knowing look. “Usually, during a struggle, the victim has traces of skin under the fingernails. In this case though, the nails were cut short and recently cleaned.”

“Recently? You mean, after the attack?”

“We think it was post-mortem. There were traces of a solvent in the cuticle area.”

Someone cleaning up once again. “What was the cause of death?”

“The cause of death is attributed to acute alcohol poisoning.”

“What about toxicology?” I say quietly.“Were there pills involved too?”

Batiste lifts a sheet from the pile, examines it carefully. “Yes, there were non-prescription sleeping pills in her system, but not enough to kill her on their own. She had a blood alcohol level of 720 milligrams percent,” he says, giving me a meaningful look.

“That's quite high, I take it.”

“Very high,” he says, glancing again at Castellino. “Which is one of the prime reasons we believe this may have been a homicide. At 250 milligrams percent, most people pass out. Death usually occurs at around 500 milligrams percent. This means it should have been physically impossible for the decedent to have consumed that volume of alcohol on her own.”

“Which explains the bruises,” I mutter.

“Yes.” Batiste sighs wearily. “The evidence thus far suggests Miss Smith, either wittingly or unwittingly, consumed several sleeping pills, after which she was forced to consume a considerable amount of alcohol — the equivalent of about 40 drinks. Her attacker would have had to keep feeding this to her after she passed out, which, if she wasn't a serious drinker, would have occurred fairly quickly.”

“What type of pills did she take?” I ask, but Castellino holds up a hand.

“That's more than enough for now, Mr. Cassel. Is there anything else you have to offer?”

“Yes, one more thing. I spoke with her the night before her death.”

“When?” Batiste says sharply.

“I talked with her shortly before the start of her shift, in her room. I questioned her once again regarding a possible link to the squatters — if they'd received any threats, if someone wanted to chase them off. She was agitated and appeared nervous.”

“Did she tell you anything?” says Noble.

“No, unfortunately she didn't, but we didn't get a chance to complete our conversation. We were interrupted by a phone call. Judging by Karalee's reaction, and by what she said, someone was aware I was in her room, talking to her. After that, I couldn't get through to her.”

“Do you know the substance of their conversations?”

“Based on her response, I think she was being threatened.”

A heavy silence as the investigators exchange glances, take notes.

Batiste peers at me over his half-glasses. “Do you know the identity of this caller?”

“No. I grabbed the phone, but the caller hung up. Can you trace the call?”

Castellino nods. “We're sure going to try.”

“Can you let me know what you find out?”

Castellino smiles. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Cassel. Rest assured, we'll be talking with you again. Until then, consider yourself a resident of Carson Lake. A law-abiding resident. And if you happen to recall anything further, don't hesitate to bring it to our attention.”

I nod — they know they have me.

When I return to the Cornbinder, Erwin is gone. It's a relief, until it occurs to me he's probably in town, interviewing Roy the bartender. I'm not particularly fond of Roy, but I'd like to talk with him while he's still in one piece. A few frustrating moments of cruising back alleys before I find the house. It isn't much to look at — an ancient two-storey, stucco faded and stained. Crudely built veranda with a sagging roof. Aluminum foil in the windows. The backyard is a patch of dandelions, going to seed, decorated with an obstacle course of rimless tires and rotting couches. Several inmates lounge outside, also going to seed. I lean out the window.

“Does Roy Draytor live here?”

No reply — doesn't matter where you are, tough guys all lounge the same way, be it Hell's Kitchen or Carson Lake; but on closer inspection, these tough guys have been tenderized. They're a bit flushed, sprawling on the couches as though their insides hurt. Several have fresh scrapes on their faces. I may already be too late. I get out of the Cornbinder.

“Is Roy here?”

A kid of about eighteen with a scraggly goatee blinks at me. “Yeah, he's here.”

“Top or bottom?”

The kid points, without looking. I start toward the stairs leading to the second floor.

“You don't want to go up there, man,” says a guy with a bad mohawk.

“Why not?”

“There's a fuckin' psycho up there.”

“Anybody dead yet?”

He shrugs, which evidently causes some pain, watches suspiciously as I pick my way through the obstacle course. The stairs creak, rotten like everything else around here. Sheets of stained plywood surround a tiny landing. A door hangs open from a peeling frame. I hear scuffling sounds. A whiny, desperate voice, like something you'd hear in a mob movie when the enforcer finally catches the rat.

“Look, man, I told you ...”

A short hall is crowded with empty beer cases. The carpet is multicoloured, from use not design, covered with cigarette burns and spilled food. Another door hangs open. Roy is face down on a messy bed. Erwin has a knee in Roy's back, a hand in his hair. A black revolver is pressed against Roy's temple.

“I'm running out of patience,” Erwin snarls at Roy.

The floor creaks. Erwin turns, without releasing Roy, swings the revolver around at me. His lips are pulled back and he has a wild, excited look in his eyes. I raise my arms and freeze, and for a moment we remain like this. Then Erwin presses the muzzle of the revolver into Roy's cheek, continues as if I wasn't there.

“One last time, asshole. What the fuck happened to my sister?”

Roy squirms, breathing heavy. “I don't knowww ...”

“Look, Waldo,” I say carefully. “Let's just take a breather here.”

Erwin looks at me like I've lost my mind, then down at Roy, who may be suffocating, Erwin has his face pushed so deep into the stained pillows. He slaps the back of Roy's head, then releases him, stepping away from the bed, the revolver held casually against his side. “I'm just asking him a few questions.”

“I see that,” I say, trying not to stare at the revolver.

“He's not very co-operative,” Erwin says, matter-of-fact.

“Maybe it's your technique. Let me try.”

Erwin looks disgusted. “Yeah, whatever.”

Roy is cowering on the bed, eyes wide. A small circle is temporarily tattooed on his temple, from the muzzle of Erwin's gun. “Look, Roy,” I say, as friendly as I can. “I think maybe we got off on the wrong foot. Let's try again.”

Roy nods slightly, staring at Erwin, who's flopped onto a crooked recliner, the gun hanging over an armrest. Erwin sneers at him and Roy decides it's better to look at me. I give him a reassuring nod, try to dissipate some of the tension.

“Karalee Smith worked for you, right?”

“Well, sorta,” he says, breathless. “I was the shift supervisor.”

“Did she drink a lot?”

“What?”

“Did she drink a lot?”

“Karalee? No, man. Little goody two-shoes.”

“Did any customers give her a hard time?”

He shrugs. “Not really.”

“Think hard, Roy,” says Erwin.

Roy's gaze flickers toward Erwin, then back to me. “Guys sometimes paid her a lot of attention, you know, especially when they were drunk. A lot of guys tried to pick her up. I mean — it's a bar, right? Everyone's trying to get lucky. And she was pretty hot.”

Erwin growls.

“Sorry.” Roy raises a hand defensively toward Erwin.“I didn't mean that.”

“You mean she was ugly?” says Erwin.

Roy looks stricken. “No, man —”

“Relax,” I tell Roy. “He's just playing with you.”

“Fuck you both,” says Erwin, toying with the revolver. Spinning the drum. This doesn't help Roy's state of mind. He watches, transfixed. For a moment the smooth, metallic clicking is the only sound. Erwin looks up, realizes no one is talking, points the gun at Roy. “You were saying?”

“No one gave her a hard time that I know of,” he says quickly.

“Good,” I tell Roy. “Now we're getting somewhere. What about boyfriends?”

Erwin gives me a dark look. Roy shakes his head. “Not that I know of.”

“Phone calls?”

“You mean, like — did she make some?”

“No, dipshit,” says Erwin. “Did she ever get any? Like, at work?”

Roy thinks about this real hard for a moment, then brightens. “Yeah, there was this one time, she got a call, just after her shift started, and she looked real upset, broke three glasses right away. And she spilled a drink on herself too, a Bloody Mary, had to go change.”

“Do you know who called her?” I ask.

“Naw, she never said. Look, man, I told all this crap to the cops.”

“We're not the cops,” says Erwin. “You should wish we're the cops.”

Roy looks at me, then Erwin, then back at me, terrified.

“Roy, that night you had me tossed out —”

Roy winces at the memory, looks like he might cry.

“Do you remember who was in the bar?”

“Lots of people, man.”

“Could you be a little more specific?”

“Firefighters, locals — I can't remember all of them.”

“It would be good if you could,” I say. “We'd appreciate that.”

As if on cue, Erwin starts to spin the drum of his revolver again. It's the auditory equivalent of his knuckle-cracking. I decide it would be a good idea to wrap up the interview. “You just give it some thought, Roy. Make up a list. Ask around. Go back to the receipts, for the people that used plastic. We'll be by later to pick it up. Say, tonight, at the bar.”

Roy is staring at Erwin, who's giving him an evil grin as he spins the revolver drum.

“Just nod your head,” I prompt Roy.

He nods.

“Okay — Waldo, let's hit the road.”

For a moment, Erwin remains seated, staring at Roy cowered on his messy bed, and I think I've lost what little control I may have over the situation. Then Erwin stands, snaps his fingers, and points at Roy, grinning. “See you later, Roy.”

The backyard couches are empty — no one wants to be a witness. We climb into the Cornbinder, Erwin casually tucking the revolver into his pants, covering the butt of the weapon with his coat. I slam my door, sit gripping the oversized steering wheel for a moment.

“What's the matter?” says Erwin. I'm breathing a little harder than him.

“Nothing,” I say tightly.

“Good. Let's get some lunch.”

I ease the old wreck into traffic, glancing at Erwin as I shoulder check to change lanes. The rear windows are dirty and I cut off a small car, which swerves, honking. The car roars past, a teenager in the passenger side giving me the finger, and I swear.

“You okay?” says Erwin. “You seem a little tense.”

“I'm fine,” I say through clenched teeth.

“What'd you tell the cops,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of a sleeve.

“Nothing.”

“Don't bullshit me.”

There's a lengthy silence as I weave through back alleys. Erwin watches me, quickly losing what little patience he has. “They're treating your sister's death as suspicious.”

“Damn right it's suspicious,” says Erwin. “What do they know?”

“Not a lot. The autopsy says booze and pills, but it was the booze that killed her.”

“She died of alcohol poisoning?” The disbelief in his voice is clear.

“Did she drink much?”

Erwin shakes his head. “Just a beer, now and then. Nothing hard.”

“Well, she drank a lot that night. You sure she didn't have a boyfriend?”

Erwin gives me a speculative look. “Why?”

“Well, it's hard to imagine a girl who doesn't drink much taking in that much booze on her own. Someone might have gotten her started on the hard stuff, or slipped the pills in to get her defences down. It could be anyone, but it makes more sense if she knew the person.”

Erwin gives this some thought. “What kind of pills?”

“Sleeping pills. Non-prescription.”

“She didn't use sleeping pills,” he says, then falls silent.

“How well did you know your sister?” I say. “Could she have had a friend that knew about your growing and wanted in on the action?”

“Maybe, but I doubt it. What about this call my sister got?”

“The cops are going to check the phone records.”

Erwin nods. I'm hoping he doesn't realize I would have had to tell the cops how I knew Karalee received the call. Which would naturally lead them to wonder why I was interested in Karalee.

We're on Main Street, headed out of town. A flock of bored teenagers roost in a patch of shade next to an ice cream stand, slouched and sipping sugar water, waiting for something to happen. They're not the only ones waiting; I'm stalled for clues, unsure what to do next. We pass the last few buildings and Erwin sits up.

“Where are we going?” Erwin's expression is not encouraging and I explain that, although we had a little fun, we're no further ahead. What the hell am I doing, he says, wasting time, driving around town? I have two days left — don't I realize the clock is ticking.

“Oh, I hear it,” I tell him. “Every time you open your mouth.”

“Fuck you,” he says, pointing a stubby finger at me. “You better start thinking.”

“Look —” I say, trying to find words to convey the impossibility of solving this puzzle in two more days. “I'm doing my best here, Erwin, but I'm just one guy, out of the loop. There isn't a hell of a lot I can do without access to the official investigation. I don't hear you coming up with any brilliant ideas, either. Give me something I can use, or get off my back.”

For a minute, Erwin just stares at me.“Fuck it. Turn around.” he says, pulling out his revolver, examining it. “You want access?” says Erwin. “I'll get you access.”