Serious Crimes (A Willows and Parker Mystery) (2 page)

“How’d it go with the real estate agent?”

“She seems to know what she’s doing.”

“I figured as much, the car she drives.”

“Been snooping, have we?”

“I drove past about eleven. Couldn’t help seeing the Mercedes. What’s she look like?”

“The fold-out pages of
Playboy
. But sexier.”

“That’s a great description, Jack. You oughta be a cop.”

“Sometimes I wonder.”

“Or a lecher.”

Willows moved a little further away from the fire. Too much heat.

“What’re you going to do when she sells the house?”

“Move out.”

“Sure, but where?”

“I don’t know. With my half of the money, I could buy a condo in False Creek.”

“Very trendy.”

“Or try for a mortgage, buy a house on the East Side. Something with a couple of extra bedrooms, in case the kids drop by.”

“In the summer, is that what you’re thinking?”

“Yeah, I guess so. They get a week off at Easter. Maybe they could fly out then.”

Parker reached out and squeezed Willows’ hand. He didn’t respond.

Next time, she’d bring at least two bottles of wine. And a
box
of fire-logs. And maybe she should dye her hair blonde, too, while she was at it.

“What’s so goddamn funny?” said Willows.

“Me,” said Parker.

Chapter 3

A cab rounded the corner at the far end of the block, accelerated up the street. Billy straight-armed Garret off the sidewalk and into the gutter. Garret windmilled his arms to keep his balance. The cabby jumped on the brakes, swerved towards them, took a quick look and hit the gas.

“What the fuck’s wrong with
him
?” complained Garret.

“Figured we were muggers.”

“Asshole.”

“Yeah, but he could’ve been right.”

“These boots are killing me.”

“Everybody loves a whiner.”

They’d met at midnight, both of them on time for once, a couple of blocks from the spoon with the lonely waitress. There was supposed to be a party, but neither one of them was too sure exactly where it was. They’d chased some music down a couple of streets, slipped into a Japan-town warehouse converted into expensive condos and crashed a cocktail party full of weird people; fat guys with beards, anorexic women dressed all in black. A guy with no chin wanted to know was he a model? Billy asked him if there was some place they could talk quietly. The guy led him into a bedroom. Billy kicked him in his beach-ball belly, the stainless-steel capped toe of his cowboy boot sinking deep. He said, “How’s that for model behaviour, limp-wrist?” On their way out, Garret grabbed a full bottle of Johnny Walker red from the bar. Nobody seemed to notice anything, or maybe they were into more sophisticated drugs and just didn’t care.

Back on the street, they wandered around drinking the Scotch until they found a controlled intersection that was busy, but not too busy. They kept out of the wind in the doorway of a building on the corner, passed the time smoking Billy’s menthol cigarettes and watching the traffic, nipping at the bottle. The lights blinked red and green and yellow and red. Pretty soon a third of the bottle was gone. Billy was seventeen and Garret a year older. They knew their beer but neither of them had had a great deal of experience with hard liquor. The lights went red and green and yellow again, the colours blurred, bleeding into the night.

Garret said, “I think I’m pissed.”

“Ghost parties,” said Billy. “I hate ’em.”

On the eleventh red, a cream-colored station wagon with an old man behind the wheel screeched to a stop half into the crosswalk.

“Okay,” said Billy.

They bolted from the doorway, boots thudding on the concrete and then the shiny black asphalt. Garret yanked at the passenger side door. It was locked. The old man turned towards them, his face blank. Garret switched to the rear door. Locked. Billy ran around behind the car, reached for the driver’s door handle.

The old guy finally woke up. He gunned it and the wagon shot across the intersection, leaving them standing there in a cloud of exhaust fumes.

“Asshole!” shouted Garret.

Billy sucked his thumb as he trotted back to the shelter of the doorway, shoulders hunched against the cold. He’d torn the nail. Got off easy. Another split second, he’d of had a better grip on the door handle and maybe broken his wrist.

Ten minutes later, while Billy and Garret were busy arguing about whether the old guy might call the cops and was it a good idea to go lurk somewhere else, a black BMW ragtop the size of a stealth bomber glided up to the red. Music in there. Loud. Some kind of jazzy sound.

The driver was a woman.

“If it’s locked,” said Billy, “use your boots. Kick the fuckin’ door right off.”

“Bet your ass,” agreed Garret. The whisky had warmed him but now it was letting him down. He was so cold he’d gladly have taken cover in a refrigerator. He felt as if the marrow had been sucked from his bones and the icy wind was whistling through the holes. They scurried across the intersection. Garret yanked on the door. It swung open so easily he almost fell on his ass. Billy slid across the bench seat. Garret bundled in next to him, slammed the door. He reached across and turned the heater up full blast. The woman shouted something at them. Billy couldn’t understand a word she said. He ignored her, studied the dashboard, all those lights and knobs and dials. It was a compact disc player making all the noise. He turned it off. Now the bitch was
really
wailing.

“Get out of my car! What the hell d’you want? Get out of my car!”

Billy showed her his knife. She stopped yelling. He said, “That’s better. Do I
look
deaf? Times like this, I sometimes wish I was, tell you the truth.”

“Gimme a drink,” said Garret.

Billy handed him the bottle. The light turned green. Garret, the wimp, fastened his safety belt. Billy said, “Drive, lady.”

The BMW crawled through the intersection.

“Faster,” said Billy.

The woman’s purse was on the seat between them. Soft black leather. He grabbed it. The clasp looked a bit tricky. Rather than risk making a fool of himself trying to figure it out, he slit it open with his knife.

“She rich?” said Garret from behind the bottle.

The purse held eighteen dollars in crumpled bills, a couple pounds of dimes and quarters.

Billy said, “How come you carry so much change, honey?”

“What?” Hardly a whisper. Garret grinned into the bottle. He’d bragged once he could smell fear on a woman the way a dog can smell piss on a fire hydrant.

“I said, how come you got so much change? Wired on the video games?”

“Parking meters.”

Billy shifted in his seat so they were hip to hip. He leaned over and smelled her perfume. “Turn right at the corner.” He stuffed the money in the pocket of his leather jacket, jabbed at the dashboard with the point of his knife.

She had all the credit cards in the world — VISA, MasterCard, a platinum American Express. Three different gas stations, all the major department stores. Holt Renfrew. Abercrombie & Fitch. Plastic in every colour you could think of. Places and names that meant nothing to him, he’d never even heard of. No wonder she didn’t have any fucking cash, she had enough cards on her to make a full deck.

Billy hunted around in the purse until he found her chequebook. The cheques had a picture of the city skyline on them, and they were personalized. Her name was Nancy Crown. She lived at 3682 Point Grey Road, wherever the hell that was. Somewhere in the city. Her phone number was 734-8217. Billy ripped off a cheque and stuck it in his shirt pocket. He was no paper-hanger, but you never knew. A better idea, maybe he’d give her a call some time and if she wasn’t home, get a truck and steal every goddamn thing she owned.

He studied her driver’s licence. The light was bad and the print was small. Good picture. Better than his, which made him look like he was about ten years old. He handed the licence to Garret, who rolled down his window and threw it away without a glance.

Following Billy’s directions, Nancy Crown drove down one of the winding roads that serviced the big dome that had been built to house a major league baseball team that never arrived, then over the Cambie Street bridge and up Cambie past City Hall to Twelfth Avenue, east on Twelfth to Kingsway. Billy openly admired her legs in the lights of the dashboard. He rested his arm on the back of the soft leather seat, his fingers barely touching her long blonde hair. She was tense, sitting bolt upright, her jaw tight, eyes staring straight ahead. But she was a pretty good driver, he had to give her that. Kept to the speed limit, stayed in her lane.

At Kingsway, Billy told her to make a right. The street was wide, a main artery feeding commuter traffic into the city; three lanes going each way, separated by a low concrete divider. Not too many parks, in this part of the city. There were lots of dingy shops, though, and used car lots, burger joints. No surprises for Billy and Garret — they’d travelled this route a thousand times before.

Billy pointed at the white and blue neon of a BC Tel booth at the far corner of the next block. “Pull over by the phone.”

“Why, what do you want?”

“Pull over, Nancy.”

The car rolled to a stop. Garret got out of the car and went over to the phone. He knew how Billy’s mind worked. If there was a pay phone right where they were, there wouldn’t be another one for miles. Billy used the BMW’s dashboard lighter to fire up a cigarette, offered the pack to Nancy. “Smoke?”

“No, thank you.”

“Hey,” said Billy, “you’re welcome.”

The neon washed all the colour out of Garret’s face, cast his eyes in dark shadow. He stuck his finger in the coin return slot, poking around for a stray quarter. Nancy Crown gave Billy a sideways glance, caught his eye and quickly looked away. He felt himself flush with embarrassment. Garret yanked at the receiver, grabbed it with both hands and ripped it right out of the box.

Billy said, “A bad thing has happened to you, but it’s your lucky night, Nance.”

She stared at him, her eyes dark. He ran his fingers through her hair, stroked the back of her long slim neck.

Billy said, “Know why?” His voice was soft. Nancy Crown watched the point of his switchblade punch raggedy little holes in the black leather dashboard. Tyler was going to have a fit.

She took a deep breath, and said, “Why?”

“Because you got to meet me, of course. For probably the first time in years something
interesting
happened to you.” Billy grinned. “Now will you
please
get the fuck outta my new car.”

Nancy Crown’s eyes were wide with shock. Billy gave her a push, shoved her away from him. She fumbled with the door handle. He reached across and gave her a hand. Chivalry. But she didn’t bother saying thank you this time, had forgotten all about being polite. He watched her run down the sidewalk, not looking back, those long, slim legs jack-rabbiting her along. Garret climbed back into the car. He slammed shut the door and Billy burned rubber away from the curb. Nancy had already made half a block when they shot past. She heard the car coming but didn’t look back. Billy leaned on the horn and flashed his lights. They drove a few more blocks down Kingsway and turned right on Miller.

“Miller time!” shouted Garret, and thumped his heels on the dashboard.

Billy ignored him. He was already thinking that he was a fool, that he should’ve kept her for a while, made her do things to him. The fact was, she was probably in her late twenties. He could’ve shut his eyes, pretended she was Kim Bassinger or maybe Farah Fawcett.

“How much you get?” said Garret.

“Just enough to cover all my cigarettes you smoked, dummy.”

“You got a fuckin’ fistful of charge cards. Gimme the VISA and keep the rest.”

“Eaton’s. You can have the Eaton’s. Buy yourself a Polaroid camera and take dirty pictures of your mother.”

Garret stared out the window, his jaw working. “One of these days, Billy, you’re gonna go too far.”

“Fuck you, Garret.”

They glared at each other for a long moment, and then Garret turned away. Billy thought he was such a tough dude. Well, fine. Let him keep on believing it.

Garret said, “What’re we gonna do now, call it a night?”

“Wanna steal some radios?”

“Not really.”

“Me neither.” Billy lit a cigarette. “What kinda radio we got in our new car?”

“I dunno, can’t see a brand name.”

“Turn it on. Punch some buttons.”

The Stones. Some violin shit. Billy Joel. That weird black kid carved himself up or whatever. Slept in bed with a human skeleton, he’d heard. Barbara fucking Streisand. Yuck. Paul McCartney sounding like he was about a thousand years old. “Rip it out,” said Billy.

“Now, while we’re drivin’? Shit, I could get myself electrocuted!”

“The way we’re headed, it’s probably gonna happen sooner or later anyway.”

“What’re you talking about, man?”

“Kidnapping. Unlawful confinement. Grand theft auto or whatever they call it. You rip off some dude’s Chevy, nobody gives a shit. But hey, try stealing some bitch’s BMW, that’s another thing.
Especially
if she’s in it at the time.” Billy punched Garret on the shoulder. “They get us now, it’s the chair for sure.”

Garret thought it over for a while, frowning, and then said, “This is Canada, man. You could slaughter a whole fuckin’ kindergarten, all they can give you is life.”

“Bust that radio out of there,” said Billy. “Be a good boy and do what you’re told.”

Garret didn’t usually carry a knife but he always had a big screwdriver on him. The way he figured it, if the cops ever busted them, they’d pat Billy down, find his blade and charge him with carrying a concealed weapon. Then frisk Garret, find the screwdriver and figure he was an electrician or something, let him go. He chopped at the console, slashing at the leather, trying to gouge the radio free. Whack whack whack. McCartney made a sound like he’d swallowed a five-cell flashlight. Bits of leather and chunks of high-impact plastic sprayed across the seat. Whack whack. Garret grabbed and twisted, using his arms and the strength in his wrists. The radio came free, trailing half a dozen red and blue umbilical cords. Garret tossed it in the backseat. “Do I fuckin’ pass, teach?”

“Wanna rob a store?”

“What’s open, this time of night?”