Seaweed on the Street (19 page)

I rattled the
Ocean Reaper
's pilothouse door again. It was locked. I walked the decks, looking for a way inside, stepping over piles of carelessly coiled rope, rusty buckets, bits of used construction lumber full of projecting nails. I found an unlocked deckhouse and went inside. It was dark, airless. Curtains covered all the portholes; the smell of rotten fish was strong. There was a rusty old drill press mounted on a workbench, rusting tools scattered everywhere. A ladder poked up through an open hatch. I peered below, into blackness, and called Eade's name. Nobody answered. I swung my legs over the hatch coaming and started down the ladder.

At the bottom I waited until my eyes became accustomed to the dark. Vague shapes materialized. Iron stanchions supported the deck. Between the stanchions the hold was partitioned into cargo spaces with lengths of two-by-eight timbers. Forward, a deeper blackness marked the presence of a watertight door set in a bulkhead. The floor was wet and slippery, oily water slapped beneath deck plates. Cautiously, groping like a blind man, I went through the door and moved forward. When I paused to listen and heard faint scraping noises, my nape hairs stiffened. Something or somebody had moved down there. I said, “Fred! Fred Eade?”

My words sounded unnaturally loud in that confined space. Nobody answered. I moved forward gingerly and felt one foot losing purchase as it reached a hole in the floor. I withdrew my foot and stooped down, feeling with my fingers. I had located the cavity where the engine had once been housed.

The place stank. It was hot and humid. Sweat ran down my cheeks. I heard that scraping sound again. This time I had no doubt —
somebody
was in the dark there with me. I froze. Less than 10 feet away, something was alive, breathing. I groped on the floor until my hand encountered a short piece of two-by-four. I advanced again, feeling with my feet to skirt that hole. I was flailing with the lumber, swinging it in an arc. Whoosh. Whoosh.

The timber struck a solid object and sent a bone-jarring shock up my arms. The lumber fell with a clatter. The darkness was broken when another door opened. A grey-brown shape passed through it. The door banged shut and left me in total darkness again. From beyond the door, above the muffled sound of footsteps, came another sound — somebody was muttering indistinctly. I heard an animal noise. My heart skipped. Something was moaning, pleading. It was a high whining, like a dog in pain. Or a wolf. Hairs stiffened on the back of my neck. I crawled now, fearing the unknown horrors that pressed all around and half afraid of plunging down a hole in that dark menacing space. The floorboards were wet, greasy. Oily water splashed my hands and soaked my pants, but at last I reached the next bulkhead and dragged its door open.

Filtered light streamed down a stairwell. A shadowy figure stood 10 feet away. Something heavy smashed into my shoulder. The shock drove me backward and the thing that had struck me clattered to the floor. There came that same moaning cry and the sounds of heavy feet, running. As I floundered through a cabin between a pair of bunk beds, my hand brushed against something soft and warm and wet. Feet raced across the deck above as I climbed stairs to reach the pilothouse. The pilothouse door was now wide open. Fifty yards away, a fat man was fleeing across the floats, so I reached toward the ship's rail unthinkingly, intending to vault ashore. Pain radiated from my injured shoulder.

I clambered over the rail and ran in pursuit, but my quarry had disappeared. Ashore, in the parking lot outside Mom's Café, a car engine started. Then a green Toyota Corolla sped out of the lot and raced away.

I was watching the Toyota disappear along Superior Street when a woman came around the corner of the float, leading a small child by the hand. When she saw me she stiffened and swept the child into her arms. I looked down at myself. My left hand and the sleeve of my jacket were red with blood; my pants were soaked with oily water.

I remembered the thing I had touched inside the
Ocean Reaper
's cabin. The thing that had been wet and warm and soft.

The old wharf rat was sitting in the doorway of his floating Airstream, reading a newspaper. I said, “Did you happen to recognize the man who ran away from Fred's boat just now?”

“I didn't hear nothing and I didn't see nothing!” the old fellow shouted angrily. “Ain't I gonna get no peace today?” He spat into the water and went inside. I went back aboard Fred's boat.

The
Ocean Reaper
's pilothouse was an untidy clutter of unwashed coffee cups, old newspapers, decaying paperbacks and rumpled wet-weather clothing. An empty beer bottle was balanced atop the ship's compass. A soiled brassiere dangled from a steering-wheel spoke. A steep stairwell led down to the accommodations. I put a hand on the railing. Looking down I saw part of a red-sleeved arm protruding from a bunk. As I descended, the whole of a bloodstained T-shirt appeared. Then I was looking at a familiar bearded face. His eyes stared sightlessly into space. It was Fred Eade. He had been shot.

My cellphone didn't work properly down below. I went up on deck and called Ribblesdale. A woman with a voice I didn't recognize answered the phone by saying, “Calvert Hunt residence, Georgiana speaking.”

I said, “This is Sergeant Seaweed, Victoria PD. May I speak to Sarah Williams?”

“I'm sorry, Miss Williams is not at home.”

“Mr. Service then.”

“Excuse me, I'll check to see if he's in.”

A minute dragged by. Georgiana came back on and said, “Mr. Service doesn't appear to be at home either. Is there any way I can help?”

“Yes,” I said. “Georgiana, would you mind having a look to see if the white Jaguar is on the property?”

“I beg your pardon. What did you say?”

“The white Jaguar. I want to know if it's on the grounds or in the garage.”

Another minute passed before Georgiana said, “I've just had a quick look. The Jaguar is parked in the garage.”

I said, “Sorry, Georgiana, but this is very important. Are you quite sure that neither Mr. Service nor Miss Williams are on the property at this moment?”

“Quite sure. I've just said so, haven't I?” she said testily. “I'm far too busy for this. If you don't believe the things I say, come and see for yourself.”

Georgiana slammed the phone down.

≈ ≈ ≈

Bernie Tapp arrived promptly. Men in blue uniforms roped the whole area off and the serious crimes squad began its investigation. Bernie waited on the float with me, delaying his questions while a first-aid man examined my bruised shoulder and recommended ice packs.

Bernie had a newish corncob. He reamed it out and filled it from a leather pouch while I described how I'd found Fred Eade's body. I told him about the green Toyota Corolla and gave him its licence number.

I said, “I'm pretty sure the driver is a guy called Sidney Banks.”

Bernie took out a spiral-bound notepad and started writing. I told him about meeting Eade in Mom's Café.

“One more thing,” I said. “Remember Frank Harkness?”

Bernie thought for a moment. “The drug kingpin who went down in a plane crash? Sure, I remember him.”

“Frank Harkness was married to Marcia Hunt.”

Bernie's eyes widened.

I said, “I have proof that Frank Harkness was alive years after his plane went down. He was arrested by Washington State police in 1983.”

“Arrested for what?”

“Homicide.”

Bernie nodded. “That figures.”

A technician appeared on the
Ocean Reaper
's deck and beckoned Bernie aboard.

I said, “Right now, my guess is Harkness is doing a lifer somewhere in California. I'll be checking into it.”

Bernie's pipe had gone out. He sucked a few times and then pulled out his matches. Instead of striking the match he put everything back into his pockets, shook his head and went aboard the
Ocean Reaper
without a word.

I went home.

≈ ≈ ≈

I was in my cottage, holding an ice pack to my bruises, when my house phone rang. A woman said, “This is me.”

Her voice was nervous, low-pitched. I heard background voices and music. I guessed she was calling from a bar. I said, “Hello.”

The woman said, “You don't know who I am, do you?”

“Should I?”

“I'm Fred Eade's woman. You've seen me once at least.”

A picture of the cheerful, raffish blonde that I had seen with Fred Eade in Mom's Café came into my mind. I said, “You're Patty Nolan. Where are you calling from?”

“Never mind that.” She was nervous and irritable. “I got a message for you. Information.”

“I'm listening.”

“It ain't that easy. I got all the trouble I need and don't need no more. How do I know I can trust you?”

“Does this have to do with Fred's murder?”

“Yes and no,” she wailed hysterically. “Maybe it has, I dunno. It must have.” She wept softly for a moment. “I need money,” she sobbed. “I've got nothing to live on, not a cent. I know you and Fred were working on a money deal. You were gonna pay Fred for information about Marcia?”

“That's right. What do you know about it?”

“Fred was my guy, I know everything he knew, we worked together.” She choked back more tears. “I need that reward money bad, mister. Are you talking cash?”

“Yes. We can make a deal immediately, in my office.”

“Where's your office?”

“It's the neighbourhood cop shop, across from Swans pub. You know where that is?”

“Sure,” said the woman.

“Will you come?”

“This ain't a set-up? I had nothing to do with Fred's killing.”

“It's not a set-up.”

“All right, I'll be there in a few minutes. If I smell a rat, I'll be outta there, understand?”

She hung up. It was nearly seven o'clock.

Fifteen minutes later I was in my office, listening to footsteps approaching along the corridor. The door opened and Constable Halvorsen walked in. She had on a strapless green dress that fitted her like a second skin, alligator shoes and a matching leather handbag.

“On your way to dinner?” I said.

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

I said, “I listened to your telephone message. Your boyfriend Norbert wants to take you out and I thought … ”

“Norbert's not my boyfriend!” she snapped. “I don't have a
boy
friend.”

I was pleased to hear it. I didn't say anything. I'd been screwing up all of my male-female relationships lately and I didn't want to screw up with her.

She sat on the edge of my desk, swinging one shapely leg and looking like something out of
Vogue
. “I didn't expect to find you in here, but since you are, I have something to tell you.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Well,” she said, getting up from the desk and crossing to the door, “I complained about your methods, but that's before I knew you properly. I've been finding out that you have a lot of friends on the street, that's all.”

“Thanks, Halvorsen,” I said to her retreating back. She went out, closed the door, opened it again, poked her head through the opening and said, “
Denise
. Call me Denise. And by the way, I don't have a
man
friend, either. If Norbert calls again, tell him I'm busy.”

≈ ≈ ≈

Patty Nolan was late. Over an hour had passed since our telephone conversation.

Chantal was outside on the street, walking her strut, signalling johns. From her hips downward, all she had on were black net stockings and high heels. The johns were middle-aged men driving family sedans, young men driving old Volkswagens. They drove around and around — down Pandora, left at Wharf Street, up Fort to Government Street, then another left until they reached Pandora again — driving the hooker circuit, checking talent. Prostitution has been going on here for a century and a half. Hookers arrived in Victoria right after the gold miners, in 1858. Back then, johns walked or rode in horse-drawn carriages. Prostitutes stood under street lamps lit with whale oil. Every few years, Victoria's chief magistrate goes on a morality crusade. Under pressure from the top, futile police activity ensues. Hookers go underground and bide their time. When the pressure eases — as it always does — johns come out to play again and hookers go back to work again.

Chantal noticed me standing at my window and waved. I was watching something on the roof of the building across the street.

When Chantal heard the gun go off, she thought it was a firecracker. Then she saw that my office window had smashed into a thousand pieces. She saw me fall.

Chantal began to scream, but I didn't hear her.

CHAPTER NINE

I had been hit by a burst from an ak-47 assault rifle. One bullet grazed my temple. Another passed through the flesh of my right shoulder and clipped the collarbone. Technicians from the Serious Crimes Unit found empty shell cases on the roof of the building across the street, and they dug 17 rounds of 5.45 mm ammunition out of my office's drywall. I was lucky; Kalashnikov's pretty little gun is lethal at 1,350 metres.

After a screaming ambulance ride to the Royal Jubilee Hospital and a session in Emergency, I was removed to Intensive Care and guarded round the clock by uniform-branch constables.

Alex Cal and Jiggs Murphy had alibis. Bernie Tapp arrested them anyway and gave them a tough grilling until their lawyer showed up.

A manhunt failed to turn up Fred Eade's former companions — Patty Nolan and Sidney Banks. Sidney Banks was a petty crook with a rap sheet a mile long who had done a couple of stretches in Wilkinson Road. Once for B and E, another for a convenience-store robbery.

This all bypassed me. When I regained consciousness a pair of white-coated interns were beside my bed, speculating about possible retrograde amnesias, concussions, potentially disastrous post-traumatic neuroses and a lot of other things that I didn't understand. One thing I knew. My injuries couldn't be serious because I felt no pain. I opened my eyes and raised a hand to touch the bandages around my scalp. A series of explosions occurred between my ears. I passed out again.