Serious Crimes (A Willows and Parker Mystery) (16 page)

The cold jumped at him. He sat down, willed himself not to move. His skin pebbled. He began to shake. How much longer could it go on getting worse? He could feel the cold seeping into his bones. He remembered the icy water of the Sun Yat-Sen Gardens. This was just as bad.

He wondered if it was cold enough to eventually have an effect on his ability to think, reason.

Maybe that’s why the killer had needed the battery; to inflict pain as a stimulant. Hot jolts of electricity to warm the icy brain.

They’d gone over every square inch of the warehouse. There was no telephone and no wall jack. Lee’s call to his family had been made from a different location or had been pre-recorded.

Willows pulled on his shirt. He didn’t take the time to button it up before he wriggled into his sweater. The zipper of the jacket was too much for his stiff fingers. He blew on his hands, then stepped up on the chair and warmed himself with the faint heat of the bulb.

He was looking for somebody who knew how to steal a radio out of a car. Maybe Chang would find the guy in one of the mug-books, make a positive identification. Nail the killer with type AB blood who had a preference for cowboy music and torture. The battery was a solid lead. Maybe the killer had bought it with a credit card. Willows wondered how many Sears outlets existed in the city and surrounding suburbs. Maybe there was a store code somewhere on the battery that would narrow things down.

He started towards the door. He was still aching from the cold, shivering uncontrollably. How long had Kenny Lee lasted, in that chair? There was fingerprint powder on the light switch. Willows stepped outside and shut the door.

Parker was double-parked in front of the building. The Ford’s engine was running; a plume of hot gases from the exhaust soured the air. She took one look at Willows and said, “Get in the car, Jack.”

“Got to seal the door.”

“I’ll do it, okay?”

“Sure,” said Willows, and climbed into the Ford. The heater was going full blast. He held his hands up to the vent.

When Parker got back in the car he said, “Any word on Farley?”

Parker shook her head. “Want to go see him?”

“First things first,” said Willows.

*

William Chang was waiting for them in the squad room, sitting on a chair beneath a bulletin board covered with police-related articles from the local papers. Willows offered him a cup of coffee from the pot the detectives kept on a counter at the end of the room.

Chang wasn’t interested in coffee. Neither was he tempted by the chocolate-frosted donut Parker offered him. He made a show of checking his watch. The cops had kept him waiting almost two hours. All he wanted was to get the hell out of there.

Willows led him over to his desk, offered him a seat. Parker pulled up another chair. Willows said, “You’re aware that a prominent member of the Chinese community, Kenny Lee, was found murdered last weekend.”

Chang nodded his head vigorously. “Yes, of course.”

“What you may not realize is that Mr Lee was missing for a lengthy period of time before his body was found.”

“You think he was in my warehouse?”

“We’re certain of it. For one thing, the clothes left in the warehouse exactly match the clothes Mr Lee was wearing when he disappeared.”

Parker said, “That’s why we’ve kept you waiting all this time, Mr Chang.”

Chang glanced anxiously from Willows to Parker and back again. “You believe I am involved in this crime?”

“Definitely not,” said Parker.

“But you are a witness,” said Willows. “The only one we’ve got. Naturally there are a few questions we’d like to ask you.”

“I think I would like to talk to my lawyer.”

Willows hid his anger behind a smile. “Believe me, there’s no need for that.”

“I have the right to make a call, is this not so? Otherwise, I refuse to cooperate.”

Willows pulled the phone across his desk, cleared a line and handed the receiver to Chang.

Parker said, “The thing is, if you feel you require a lawyer, we have no choice but to report that fact to the press.”

Chang’s finger hovered over the dial.

“Crooks need lawyers,” said Parker. “Honest citizens usually don’t.”

“And most people know that,” Willows said. “When they read in the newspapers that you are involved in Lee’s murder and felt it necessary to…”

Chang slowly lowered the receiver into the cradle.

“On the other hand,” said Parker, “there’s no real need to mention your name at all.”

Chang thought it over. To Willows, he said, “What guarantees can you offer?”

“I don’t see any problems. In fact, keeping your name out of the papers might work to our advantage as well.”

“The killer would not know that you had moved closer to him.”

“Exactly.”

“If he knew I had spoken to you, my life might be in danger.”

“That’s very unlikely.”

“But…” Chang trailed off. He stared down at the telephone, considering possibilities.

Willows and Parker exchanged a quick glance. Willows said, “The man who called himself Tod Kidner. What did he look like?”

“Well, that’s just it. It is difficult to say. We met at the warehouse, in the evening. It was very dark.”

“What time?”

Chang hesitated. “About eight.”

“What kind of car did Kidner have?”

“I don’t know. He was waiting on the sidewalk when I arrived.”

“And when you left?”

“He stayed behind.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“You rented the warehouse to him on the spot?”

“Yes.”

“How did he pay?”

“With cash. One month in advance. If he was to need the warehouse a second month, he was to call me by the middle of the month, January fifteenth.”

Parker said, “What was the rent? How much did Kidner pay?”

Again, Chang hesitated. Then he shrugged and said, “One thousand dollars.”

Willows said, “For an unheated warehouse? Isn’t that a little steep?”

“It was the figure I suggested, and it was accepted without argument.”

“The transaction took place in the warehouse?”

“Yes.”

“He had that much money on him?”

“I don’t take cheques. Never.” Chang blinked like an owl. “Cheques can have a life of their own. They bounce. Cash is different. It does not move until you choose to move it.”

“You’re a philosopher, Mr Chang.”

“A businessman. A realist.”

“What denomination were the bills?”

“Twenties. Fifty of them.”

“Did you give him a receipt?”

“It was not necessary.”

“Why not?”

“Because he didn’t ask.”

“Where is the money now?”

“It… went into general accounts. Petty cash.”

Willows leaned forward in his chair. “Now, I want you to think back, Mr Chang, and tell us everything you can remember about Tod Kidner.”

“He was a young man. Maybe twenty years old. Thin. Tall, about six feet. And there is something else I remember about him. His smile. He smiled often and he had a very nice smile.”

“What colour were his eyes?”

Chang thought about it. Willows and Parker watched him thinking. After a moment he said, “Brown, perhaps. But I’m not sure.”

“Was he wearing glasses?”

“No.”

“What about his hair?”

“It was red, I think. He wore a hat.”

“What kind of hat?”

“A cowboy hat. Black.” Chang brought his hands together, a soft clap of delight. “Yes, and he had on a pair of heavy boots. Cowboy boots. They made a very loud sound as he walked across the floor.”

“Was he wearing a coat or jacket?”

“A jacket. Leather. Black, or dark brown. It was short, it came to his waist. He had the collar turned up.”

“Did you notice any scars on his face or hands?”

“No, none.”

“Can you remember anything else about him?”

“He wore jeans. Blue jeans. They were tucked into the tops of his boots.”

“When he spoke, did he have an accent?”

“No.”

“Was his speech… educated?”

“I would say no. He swore a lot. A habit, I would say. Not because he was angry. His language was very coarse.”

The phone rang. Willows picked up. He listened for a moment and then said, “Yeah, a couple of minutes. You ready for us? Good.” He hung up and turned to Chang. “We need just a little more of your time, Mr Chang. I’d like you to spend a few minutes with a police artist. With your help, I’m sure he’ll be able to come up with a good likeness of the killer.”

Chang glanced at his watch. “I have an appointment. May I use your phone?”

“As long as it isn’t to call your lawyer,” Willows said, and smiled to soften the unspoken threat.

*

Bailey switched the eraser to his left hand, sketched a few quick lines.

Chang said. “A little thicker. Yes. Good.”

Kenny Lee’s killer had an oval face, a prominent jaw, a broad forehead and heavy eyebrows. His nose was small, but straight. Pinched nostrils.

Willows wondered how accurate the composite drawing would turn out to be. Chang hadn’t hesitated when he’d described the clothes the killer had worn, but he’d been unusually vague about his physical description. Was his sudden ability to remember details genuine, or the result of a decision to get the police off his back?

Willows said, “I’ll need about thirty copies. ASAP.”

Bailey tossed his pencil and drawing pad on his desk. “You got it, Jack.”

Parker said, “Okay, Mr Chang. Let’s go take a look at the mug-books.”

Chang nodded, but remained seated in his chair.

“Something wrong?”

“May I use the phone again?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“And one other thing.” Chang cleared his throat. “Perhaps I’ll have that donut after all.”

Chapter 18

Nancy gave the sterling silver pitcher of Smirnov vodka martinis a final shake, poured a couple of doubles and added a twist of lemon to each glass. Turning her back to the living room, she glanced furtively out the window. Beyond the brightly-lit patio and steamy pool and the spidery shadows of shrubbery etched in snow, the unseen harbour was so dark and empty that it was almost as if she was living at the very end of the earth. The cliff-top fence, made of glass panels and designed not to be an encumbrance to the million-dollar view, worked very well in the daytime but at night acted as a mirror, reflecting the lights of the house. The low wall of reflected light served to emphasize the darkness beyond. Staring out the window, it was easy for her to believe that there was nothing out there, nothing there at all.

Fanciful.

She placed the drinks and two pale gray paper napkins on a tray. Pale gray was Tyler’s favourite colour. Bland, unexciting. The lights in the backyard were a security measure. His idea. Tyler didn’t want her
worrying
about things. Clouds of steam rose from the pool and were quickly swallowed by the icy winter air. Nancy wondered, in a vague, unformed sort of way, what her car thief was up to.

She went through the kitchen and into the living room. Tyler had taken off his suit jacket and loosened his tie. He was sprawled out on the cream-coloured Italian leather sofa, reading. The
Wall
Street
Journal
, what else. She put his napkin and drink down in front of him on the marble coffee table. He grunted his thanks and turned the page.

Nancy sat down on the other sofa, tucked her legs under her and drank about an inch of martini. The flames in the gas fireplace were pale blue at the bottom, light orange on top.

Anaemic. She remembered fires from her childhood; walking hand in hand to the garage with her father to watch him split kindling — a silvery blur and then the meaty thump of the hatchet. The lovely, solid weight of the birch logs in her arms as she carried them into the house. Curling white strips of bark. The soft rustle of balled-up newspaper and the harsh scratch of the match across the tiles. The pungent smell of burning forests. Small explosions and sparks that jumped out at her and hit the brass screen and fell back. And for a moment Nancy was lost in childhood dreams of birch-bark canoes gliding through dark waters, roaring fires among the shadows, bright-painted, wildly dancing men. Tongues of orange flame, the heat warming her body.

Tyler turned another page. He picked up his glass, sipped. Nancy looked at him. He was oblivious.

What did he think? Was it good? Was it terrific? Or was it the worst damn vodka martini he’d ever had in his life? She’d never know. But she was sure of one thing — her glass was empty and she was going to go get herself a refill.

She swung her legs off the sofa and headed for the kitchen. Tyler, immersed in his newspaper, didn’t say a word.

It had started snowing again, the kind of fat and excessively fluffy flakes that didn’t last. Everything was covered in a thin layer of snow. Everything except the swimming pool. The pool looked kind of slushy around the edges, but that was about it, the hot water heater was doing its job. She poured herself another double and wandered over to the sliding glass doors. Off to her right, the city was a haze of lights, all blurred into one another. She pressed her nose against the glass and could feel the cold even through the double-glazing.

She blew on the glass, used the tips of her fingers to draw a heart in the gray fog of condensation. The lines of the deck chairs were softened by the snow. All the colour had been drained out of the world. Nancy reached out and flicked off the row of light switches, plunging the backyard into darkness. She counted to ten and turned the lights back on. No doubt about it, he definitely wasn’t out there.

She drained her glass, went over to the counter and filled the glass up again and went back into the living room, dropped heavily on to the sofa. Tyler glanced up from his paper, gave her an enquiring look. She balanced the martini glass on her stomach. She felt lazy, half-asleep, sexy.

Tyler turned another page. Any minute now, he was going to light his goddamn stinking pipe and hold out his glass and ask her for a refill. And she knew he wouldn’t even look at her, trouble to take his eyes off the page. She picked a bit of lint off her sweater. Why was it that black cashmere and lint had such an attraction for one another? And why did she keep thinking about that handsome, dangerous boy?

Tyler held out his glass. “Could I have a refill, honey?”

Nancy uncoiled her legs, padded across the carpet and took the glass out of his hand. Their fingers touched. But it was an accident, rather than by design.

Tyler said, “Hold the lemon.”

Everything in the kitchen — everything in the whole damn house — was brand new, gleaming. And at the same time, dull.
Boring
.

Drift of steam from the pool, and parallel to the lip of the pool, thin dark lines of shadow.

She poured Tyler the world’s biggest martini ever and put it down on the coffee table in easy reach and went back into the kitchen and unlocked the sliding glass door and pushed it open and stepped outside in her cotton slacks and thin black cashmere and bare feet. It was cold, a lot colder than she’d expected and much colder than the city they called Lotusland had any right to be, even if it was the end of January.

She walked across the balcony and down the steps and into the yard, over to the pool. Her feet stung from the cold, but she wasn’t bored, not any longer.

Somebody had recently jumped the fence and walked all around the pool. Falling snow had blurred the definition of the footsteps.
His
footsteps. She knew it. She knelt and blew the fresh snow away. What a clever trick. Where in the world had she learned to do that? She blew a little harder. He must have rocked back and forth — she could see the imprint of his shoe from heel to toe. No, not shoe. Boot. The outline was crisp and clear, the depression in shadow, defined by the lights. He’d stayed long enough to smoke a cigarette right down to the filter. She picked up the butt and sniffed. The scent was faint and took her a moment to identify.

Menthol.

She walked down the length of the yard to the waist-high wall of safety glass, flicked the cigarette butt out into the falling snow. It was a fifty-foot drop to the beach. Fifty feet, straight down. Death. You couldn’t see it, but it was there.

Nancy started back towards the house. Her feet were numb. So was the rest of her, come to think of it. She slid open the glass door and stepped inside and slid the door shut and turned off the outside lights.

Tyler had finally lost interest in his goddamn paper.

Tyler was sound asleep.