Seaweed on the Street (33 page)

Service gave a reluctant nod. “I should have waited until I knew more. If I'd known about Fred's accomplices I might have done things differently and allowed the women on Hornby to be revealed then. I've killed, but I'm not insane. I can't keep killing people, can I? But I didn't know about Fred's accomplices, so he had to die.” He frowned and said, “I suppose Patty Nolan told you all this?”

I shook my head. “Patty's in the dark about most of it. She knew that Fred had tried some funny business with you but didn't know exactly what. Not at first. She knew where the phony Marcia was, though. Patty wouldn't tell me everything I needed to know because she was afraid of getting in deeper than she was already. All she wanted was a little money so she could hire a lawyer. Your luck was still holding, Charlie boy.”

“It isn't luck entirely is it? Don't you think that my scheme was well managed, in the main?” Service's voice had a plaintive quality.

I shrugged. “But to proceed, sir. Harry Cunliffe ran into the genuine Alison Harkness in Nevada and guessed who she was. Just how he made the connection I'm not sure. Harry was Calvert's godson, knew a lot about the Hunt family. Presumably the real Alison knew enough about her mother's history and unwittingly divulged enough clues about her true identity. But Harry was discreet. Instead of telling Alison what he suspected, he came back to Victoria and told
you
.”

Service said, “Yes, Cunliffe's running into Alison was a million-to-one shot.”

I studied his face and shook my head. “I'm a poker player, sir, so I know something about odds. Harry's finding and meeting Alison was a long shot, but it wasn't a million to one. Reno is a popular destination for Victorians. Alison met people from B.C. all the time. She knew that her own mother had been born in Victoria and had no reason to keep it a secret. She probably told several people over the years. She finally met somebody who made the right connection. But when Harry came to you with the news, you panicked and killed him like a rat.”

Service's gun hand had drooped, but at my words he raised it and aimed at my head. His hand shook as he said, “I did not panic, you bastard. I'm warning you, don't provoke me.”

The telephone started to ring. I said, “Want me to answer it?”

“Shut up, don't move.”

It pealed five times. The caller listened to my message and left his own. It was Alex Cal, the fake street jiver. We heard Cal say, “We been watching your movements, motherfucker, and we know you are back in this fair city. We got another silver bullet with your number on it waiting for you.” The phone clicked off.

Service laughed out loud. He said, “You have just heard the voice of Providence. Get to your feet now. We're going for a ride. You are going to walk out of this office with me. Don't try anything fancy or my first bullet will put a hole in your spine. The next will kill you. I'm a desperate man. I'm ready to shoot you on the street in broad daylight, taking my chances that I can escape afterward.”

Service's luck was still holding. If the lawyer killed me, Bernie Tapp or Denise Halvorsen would undoubtedly find Alex Cal's recorded message. Jiggs Murphy and Alex Cal would take the rap.

I climbed to my feet. Service said, “Turn around and face the wall. Place your toes four feet from the wall and lean forward until your hands touch. Stay there while I check your pockets.” Service jammed the gun muzzle to my neck and frisked me till he found my Glock.

He pocketed the semi-automatic and stepped back. “All right, Silas, don't do anything rash.”

“I won't, believe me.”

“Good. Take your belt off and unzip your fly. Then put your hands in your pants pockets and keep them there so they don't fall down. If we meet anybody en route who knows you and wants to speak, don't answer. Is that clear?”

It was clear.

We walked outside. The streets were busy and the sight of two men walking close together went unnoticed. Chantal, walking her strut, saw me coming and plunked herself in my path. When I tried to duck around her she grabbed my arm and said, “Hey, Silas, you better watch out. Alex Cal is gunning for you.”

“Thanks, Chantal,” I said, feeling Service's gun prodding my spine. I edged past her.

Mystified by my attitude, Chantal put her hands on her hips and stared after us, shaking her head.

I said, “There's trouble, Mr. Service … ”

Another sharp jab shut my mouth and we walked in silence to Service's Lincoln, parked on Pandora Street. The lawyer fumbled with his car keys for a moment, but, changing his mind, he said, “Where's your car?”

“One block over.”

“We'll take it instead of mine.”

The lawyer shoved me. We crossed the street and went down Fan Tan Alley into Chinatown. My Chevrolet was parked outside Don Mee's restaurant. Service got me to open the Chevy's passenger-side door and slide behind the steering wheel. He got into the passenger seat and said, “You're going to chauffeur me along the waterfront, Silas. A nice little scenic drive.”

When I fastened my seat belt, Service laughed but made no comment. Following his instructions I drove along Wharf Street, went slowly past the Empress Hotel, then kept going along Government Street until we reached Dallas Road.

“Which way?” I asked.

“Turn left. Go along the waterfront.”

“Then what?”

“You'll see. Get moving.”

But we were delayed for a minute. A covered horse-drawn sightseeing wagon was lumbering past with a cargo of tourists. The driver was extolling the beauties of historic Victoria. As the two plodding horses pulled slowly by we heard the driver's amplified voice say, “In a minute you'll see the ancient breakwater at Ogden Point, built by British engineers in the year 1862 … ” The sightseers, huddled in thick red blankets, looked bored and cold.

Service fidgeted at the delay. I said, “Where are you going to do it, Service? In Hunt's garage?”

“Shut up!”

The wagon creaked past. I turned left onto Dallas Road. There were fewer cars here. Suddenly Service said, “She was wrong, that girl. Ogden Point breakwater wasn't built in 1862.”

I gave him a quick glance. Perspiration beaded the lawyer's forehead. His gun, pointing at me until then, was aimed at the floor. I accelerated slowly as we passed Beacon Hill Park. To divert Service's attention I said, “I'll tell you how I tumbled to you, if you want.”

“All right, tell me.”

We were doing 70 kilometres an hour now, but the lawyer was staring at me avidly when I said, “It was when I got back from Nevada and we met in your house. I gave you some photographs.”

“I know, I know!”

We were up to 75 and slowly accelerating. I said, “Those pictures, do you remember whose they were?”

“Of course I remember. There were pictures of Marcia and Alison and what's her name? Effie. And one of Harry Cuncliffe … ” The lawyer stopped speaking as realization struck home. “So that's it, that's how you knew?”

“That's right. You acted as if you didn't recognize Harry in his beard, but it was unbelievable. The people who knew Harry well all recognized his picture. But there's more. You told the police that when Harry Cuncliffe was murdered you were working in your office. You heard a shot, went to investigate and found Harry dead, shot, lying in the lounge. Then you looked out the window and saw a florist's van disappearing down the driveway, but it's all bullshit.”

“Is it?”

“You know it is. First of all, your office is at the back of the house. The quickest way from your office to the front door doesn't even go through the lounge.”

I had Service's undivided attention now. He said, “I never told you that I ran through the lounge first. What I said was — ”

“Yes, yes,” I interrupted. “But if you
had
gone through the lounge first, and
if
Harry had been dead, it would have stopped you. Any ordinary person encountering a dead or dying man would stop whatever they were doing and try to render assistance as a first priority. After all, young Harry was supposed to have been a friend of yours. But that doesn't matter. What's important is, there's no way you could identify the driver of any vehicle
leaving
Ribblesdale. The only thing you could see would be the back of the driver's head, if that.”

Service was expressionless.

I said, “Did you tell Alex Cal and Jiggs Murphy that I was going to Seattle?”

“Possibly,” he said. “I might have let it drop.”

We were doing 100. Service was still completely engrossed in my tale when I slammed on the brakes at the road bend near Clover Point. The Chevrolet's faulty passenger seat jerked forward, Service became airborne and his head slammed against the windshield. With my left hand I spun the steering wheel around, trying to negotiate the corner. With my right I reached for Service's gun, but the lawyer's arm was twisted at an unnatural angle. I lost control of the car. The careering vehicle mounted the sidewalk and smashed through steel railings on two wheels. My foot was still jammed on the brake, and I was still fighting for Service's gun when it discharged with a roar. Then the Chevrolet went spinning and rolling down a grassy bank toward the beach. Held by my seat belt I felt the world revolving while, next to me, Service was being alternately hurled to the roof and thrown down across the seats. We spun a few more times until the Chevrolet came to rest on its side.

A couple of joggers rushed forward and dragged open the driver's side door. They did not see the misshapen bundle lying across the back seats. I was hanging in the seat-belt straps but my rescuers quickly undid the buckle and hauled me out. Gasoline fumes seared my nostrils.

We moved away from the wreck. Somebody was saying, “Anybody else in there?” when there was a loud explosion. A giant black-and-yellow fireball rose into the air. Intense heat drove us back. Soon the fireball had gone but a black cloud lingered over the wreck, and oily flames licked through smashed windows.

Somebody said, “You're hurt.”

I brushed my cheek. “It's nothing. I bit my lip, that's all.”

I pulled my head back and closed my eyes and felt cold rain washing down my face. Feeling slightly dizzy I pushed my through the crowd that had gathered and walked up the slope to Dallas Road. My ears rang from the explosion, but I could hear seagulls screaming as they hung in the air above the beach. Waves crashed against the seawall below Ross Bay cemetery, where soon Charles Service's remains would undoubtedly lie.

Before I reached the road, police and ambulance sirens were wailing. But I wasn't ready to speak to my colleagues. There were things I had to take care of first. After that, I'd call Bernie Tapp.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Jiggs Murphy was doing his rounds. He went to the Purple Pony, where he spoke to a few women and allowed them to buy his drinks. Later he drove downtown in his Buick.

I was waiting for him under the marquee outside the Monterey Inn, killing time with Chantal and three teenaged hookers who were sheltering from the rain. The hookers were telling me about strippers — how much
they'd
enjoy being paid to roll around in the nude on bearskin rugs under hot spotlights instead of hustling their sore little asses on Victoria's chilly streets.

Chantal — who at 25 was the senior woman — said she'd heard that strippers made $1,000 a week. Another girl agreed, saying, “Sure they do, if they put out as well.”

Their discussion ended when a dirty Buick nosed up to the Monterey's curb. All four women vanished.

I was pretty sure that Jiggs and Cal had tried to kill me, but I needed to be certain. After all, I'd been pretty sure that George W. Bush would never be elected to a second term.

Jiggs Murphy parked in a three-minute zone, locked the Buick and, grinning after the fleeing girls, stepped onto the sidewalk. He was buttoning a tweed sports coat over his fat drinker's gut when I said, “Hold it, Jiggs.”

His mouth dropped open in surprise and he grabbed for an inside pocket, but I was too quick. I smashed Jiggs's nose with my right fist, then buried my left in his belly. Jiggs, sucking air through his bloody nose, folded at the waist like a carpenter's ruler. My knee came up and hit Jiggs in the face. I grabbed the tail of his sports coat and ripped it up until Jiggs's head was covered. His arms were trapped. My knee came up again. Jiggs quit struggling. When I stepped back he collapsed.

A young couple came out of the Monterey Inn arm in arm. They stopped to watch me as I rolled Jiggs onto his back and frisked him. I pocketed Jiggs's automatic, turned my head and barked, “I'm a police officer. If you're smart you'll clear off before the paddy wagon gets here.”

The woman tugged her partner's arm and they scuttled off into the wet night. I found Jiggs's car keys, bundled the comatose pimp into the Buick's trunk and drove off in it. The whole incident had lasted less than two minutes.

When Jiggs Murphy woke up in a lonely section of Beacon Hill Park, he was handcuVed inside the Buick's trunk. I shone a flashlight in his eyes and said, “Somebody put a bullet in me a few weeks ago. Was it you?”

I waited 10 seconds. When Jiggs still hadn't acknowledged my question I reached down, grabbed his broken nose between my finger and thumb and gave it a sharp twist. Jiggs screamed.

I said, “Am I getting through to you now, pal?”

He mumbled something. I leaned forward and said, “You got something to say?”

“It was Alex, not me,” Jiggs moaned. “It was his money you stole.”

“Now tell me, exactly and sincerely. Where can I find Alex Cal?”

The reply was slow in coming. When I reached for his nose again, Jiggs muttered an address. I slammed the trunk shut on him.

≈ ≈ ≈

Alex Cal lived at one of Victoria's ritziest addresses — a penthouse suite in the Viceroy Hotel on Victoria's Inner Harbour. It was late when I entered the hotel, looked around the deserted lobby and crossed to the elevators. My windbreaker was soaked, the knees of my Levis were stained with blood. The desk clerk, busy with his accounts behind the reception desk, didn't even look up. The elevator door opened and I got in.