Scammed (19 page)

Lucy began preparations for the first task. As Greg was about to leave, Shirl re-engaged him with her steady gaze. “You see, I have a wonderful daughter, Greg.”

Lucy made dismissive sounds. Greg said, “I certainly do see that.”

Lucy plumped pillows so energetically that her mother restrained her. With a quiet smile, she said, “Nothing is quite so humbling as having our children do for us what we used to do for them. But I don't know what I would do without Lucy.” She planted a kiss on Lucy's hand and gently pushed her daughter away. “Forget the tea, dear. I'll have it later. And I don't need the insulin yet. Off you go now. I'm sure you two have lots more to talk about.”

They left her there and returned to the kitchen. Their talk certainly wasn't finished, but somehow, without having come to a conscious decision, Greg knew what he had to do.

A
s he approached Victoria Police Headquarters, a study in modern steel and glass that still managed to look like a cop shop, Greg paused, thinking,
What if they never let me back out again
? He grimaced, then shrugged philosophically. Whatever happened as a consequence of this action, it had to be better than the alternative. He'd considered hiring a lawyer to accompany him to the meeting. That might have been prudent—possibly he was crazy not to—but he hadn't, largely because it would make him feel so guilty. If that was his attitude, he knew he'd probably act like it, which could be fatal. Considering all that had happened, his only hope was that the police would believe his story.
Good luck on that, buddy
, he thought wryly. Then, squelching the last-minute jitters, he went in.

Sergeant Tremblay was at his desk, poring over a file and scratching his red buzz cut with a pencil when Greg appeared. Since he had made an appointment, the policeman showed no surprise. Something in Greg's manner must have alerted him, however, because, having waved his visitor to a chair, he rose and closed the door as he had before. He wasted no time with formalities, but put his elbows on his desk, leaned forward and said simply, “Okay, Mr. Lothian, how can I help you?”

Greg knew that there was no quick or easy way to do this. So, much as he had with Lucy, he started at the beginning and told the whole story.

The sergeant didn't comment, question or otherwise interrupt. He just listened, occasionally giving the tiniest of nods. But as the narrative progressed, his expression, though remaining scrupulously neutral, took on a distinctly glazed undertone. This intensified until, when Greg was describing his meeting with Jay at the casino, his face was like a pale mask.

The only detail Greg omitted was his late-night plunge into the Cowichan River. Since this was merely the result of mischance and whisky, and added nothing to the salient facts, he felt he could at least spare himself that humiliation. He also left out the fact that he'd already unburdened himself to his neighbour; indeed, he made no reference to Lucy at all, figuring that she had enough on her plate without being brought into this. He ended by relating Jay's threats and outrageous plans, letting that stand as the reason for his belated decision to come clean.

When he was done, the silence was so complete that Greg could hear the traffic going by on Caledonia Avenue and a burst of laughter from the office next door. Sergeant Tremblay was no longer looking at him directly. Face still mask-like, he seemed to be examining a spot somewhere above Greg's head. He impulsively squeezed his eyes shut and rose, as if propelled by invisible springs. Three strides took him to the window, where he stared studiously down at the street. For several minutes he remained thus, while Greg watched, not daring to move or say a word. At last, like a statue on a slowly revolving plinth, the sergeant turned. His face was still blank, but now, instead of pale, it was nearly as red as his hair.

Then Greg almost fell backward as Tremblay launched himself across the room and in less than a second was towering over his chair. His hand flashed out and Greg winced, expecting a blow. But, rather than striking, the sergeant's strong fingers grabbed Greg's jacket and hauled him to his feet.

Oh, man, this is it!
Greg thought.
He's going to tell me I'm under
arrest for murder. Damn, I should have brought that lawyer, after all.

But that was not how it went. Having glowered at him, eyeball to eyeball, for several long moments, Tremblay released his grip, allowing Greg to sink back into his chair. At last the sergeant spoke, voice barely more than a whisper. “Who else knows about this?”

Greg gawked dazedly. “Come again?”

“Are you suddenly deaf?” Tremblay snarled. “I said, who else
knows?
”

“Nobody! I've told no one.”

Other than Lucy, of course.

“Okay, okay!” the sergeant breathed. “All right, then.” He rubbed his hands together briskly, as if warming them, stared at his fingertips and then at his visitor, while Greg thought,
What's happening? If he's
going to arrest me, why doesn't he get on with it?

“Do you know the Starlight Café?” Tremblay said.

“What?” Then, as the cop seemed about to explode again, Greg continued hurriedly, “Sorry, it's just . . . yes, of course I do.”

“Good. Now listen.” Sergeant Tremblay backed off and hovered, hands on hips, still getting himself under control. “Pull yourself together, pay attention, and don't make me repeat myself again. In one minute you're going to leave this office. You will look perfectly relaxed and normal, as if nothing important has been happening. You will not—
repeat, not
—speak to a soul, and you will leave as quickly and quietly as you can. From here you'll go straight to the Starlight Café, where you'll get a table in the quietest damn corner you can find and wait for me. I may get there in minutes, or it could be a whole lot longer. Whatever it takes, you will wait, and again—apart from your server—speak to no one. If there's any part of this you don't understand, tell me now. Otherwise, just nod.”

Numbly, Greg nodded.

“Oh, yeah,” Tremblay continued, in a different tone. “There
is
one alternative I should mention. If you've got problems with any of this, you can always come with me down to the cells right now. Is that by any chance what you'd prefer?”

Silently, Greg shook his head.

“Okay, Mr. Lothian. So what say you get the hell out of here?”

T
he Starlight Café was a Victoria institution. As venerable, if not exactly as old, as the Empress Hotel, it had the advantage of being off the obvious tourist routes. Instead of being a tarted-up parody of itself, like so many venues in pursuit of the tourist dollar, the Starlight had remained true to its genteel past. Serving fine tea, passable coffee and splendid, creamy treats, the café had been able to maintain its perch in the fast-food world due to an influential and fiercely loyal clientele, plus long-established proprietors not totally obsessed with the bottom line. The Starlight was an eatery out of yesteryear, well-mannered and quiet, its only eccentricity being the name; ironically, the place had never been open after the time respectable folk head home for supper—5:00
PM
in the afternoon.

Greg entered and, as instructed, found himself a secluded table. It took several minutes for service to find him there, but he was familiar enough with the place to be unsurprised. When help did arrive, in the form of a kind-eyed waitress with white hair and a broad Yorkshire accent who called him “love,” he ordered coffee, then sat back in his dim corner, trying vainly to relax.

He had no notion about the reason for this assignation. Curiosity fought with apprehension, but eventually he gave up trying to figure it out, thankful simply to be sitting in a marginally comfortable chair rather than a cell. He waited an hour, had two coffee refills, went once to the toilet, decided he'd better ask for the lunch menu, was just checking his watch for the umpteenth time when—almost like an illusionist's trick—there was Tremblay approaching the table. Greg had noticed the sergeant's powerful build earlier, not realizing that he was capable of moving with such stealth. With barely a pause, the officer dropped into the opposite chair and leaned across the table. His face was neither flushed nor wax-pale now, but the look he fixed on Greg was so intense that he fancied he could almost feel heat.

“We are not here!” Tremblay said.

Knowing better than to say anything, Greg made a vaguely quizzical head movement and waited.

“Neither cops nor perps hang out in this place,” the sergeant continued, “so there's not likely to be anyone to know different. You
are
clear on that, eh?”

Greg nodded vigorously. The waitress appeared and Tremblay ordered a pot of tea. Since it was approaching noon, the café was starting to fill, but their isolated corner remained quiet. Not until the tea appeared, Greg's coffee had been refilled yet again, and they were alone, did the one-way conversation resume.

“All right,” the sergeant said, “first things first.
Yes
, I believe you're a gibbering idiot.
No
, I don't believe you're a murderer.”

Greg felt the knot in his stomach begin to relax. “Thank you.”

“Just thank your lucky stars that I'm not a by-the-book guy, like some cops I know,” the sergeant snapped. “And if
that–
observation—let alone the rest of what I'm going to tell you—ever gets beyond these walls, I'll not only see you're charged with murder, I'll even cook up the evidence to make it stick. That clear?”

Greg's knot began to return. “Very.”

“Okay!” With surprising delicacy, which blended oddly with his still-simmering anger, Tremblay poured milk into his cup and added tea. Having taken a sip, his eyes once more bored into Greg's. “Were you ever in the service?”

Presuming, after a moment of uncertainty, that the sergeant meant the military, Greg shook his head.

“Well, I was—before I became a cop. In the army. Even saw some fighting, in Bosnia and West Africa. Military operations have commanders and planning guys who look like they know what they're doing. But mostly they don't. Have you any idea what actual warfare is, when it comes down to it? Shambles! Chaos! Once the lead starts to fly, no one has time to think about damn all, except how to stay in one piece. Even when battles are won, it's often as not by accident. And you want some news? Police work isn't much different. Oh, we've got lots of good guys who do their best and sometimes they get it right. But it's a goddamn war out there: a
world
war, that's bust its way even into our little one-horse town. And, what with drugs and guns and kiddy porn and terrorist mania, it's getting tougher by the minute. Like the military, we cops like to pretend we've got it covered, but really it's a mess. We don't have enough of anything—men, money, resources—and every day's a running battle just to keep up. Add to that the time we waste trying to cope with idiots like you, and it falls apart.”

Greg flushed. Whatever he'd expected, it was not to be accused of being the last straw in the breakdown of society. His expression must have shown this to comical effect, for Tremblay unexpectedly gave a snort of laughter.

“Oh, hell,” he snapped. “It's a hobby horse, okay? You made me mad and set me mouthing off. Now listen. I've been checking, and there's nothing I could find that would make me disbelieve your story. That doesn't mean that you haven't been bloody stupid. It also doesn't mean that some sort of charges may not be laid eventually. It all depends on how it turns out.”

“Turns
out
?”

“Well, you don't imagine this is over, do you?”

“I don't know.”

“Whatever your motives, as a civilian you've been acting inexcusably. Let's take that as read. And now, as a cop, I'm doing the same thing. If anyone knew we were talking like this, I'd not only be out of a job, but probably up on charges myself. Obstruction of justice, for a start.”

“But surely you don't intend to . . .”

“Obstruct justice? No. My plan is to help the warty bitch all I can—though that's not how my bosses would see it. But never mind about that now. Let's talk about that perp you wasted.”

“Molinara? But I told you, I didn't . . .”

“Just kidding. The important thing right now is that the guy's dead. This wouldn't be considered evidence, but do you know the thing that convinces
me
you didn't do it? The guy was such a smart and evil fucker, he'd never have given you the chance to off him: he
had
to have somehow done it himself. And that's one hell of an irony.”

“How come?”

“Because there are at least three killings—two the Mounties have been working on and another one here in Victoria—that we've been trying to pin on
him.
Molinara was a real bad dude. Mob connections, a whole string of felonies going way back, kidnapping, arson and attempted murder. We wouldn't expect him to be doing smalltime stuff like B and E, except you made the bait so tempting. A safe full of cash? Very smart.”

“I only wanted to . . .”

“Yeah, yeah, no need to explain. You were just too damn clever for your own good.” He chuckled. “Though screwing up by dropping your phone in a coffee cup has got to be classic: I must put out a warning memo to my guys about that. Seriously, the fellow you dumped in the chuck was a very bad man and you've done the world a service, but don't expect me to ever admit I said that. But I've gotta tell you right now—the other one is just as bad.”

“Jay?”

“Yeah. Just to make sure we're talking about the same guy . . .” Tremblay produced a photo, which he slid across the table. “Is that your friend from the casino?”

Greg examined the picture. It had apparently been taken from a distance, but the bland, oddly smiling face of the fellow was clear enough. “That's him. But look, he's no friend . . .”