A Cold White Sun: A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (Constable Molly Smith Series) (24 page)

The crowd shifted and he spotted an attractive Asian woman at the other end of the bar. Something familiar about her. She looked up, caught his eye, smiled and waved. He recognized the shape of her strong, tiny hand first. Shirley Lee. He’d never before seen her out of a lab coat or with her hair unbound.

“Someone I should say hi to,” he told Eliza. They carried their drinks over.

The pathologist wore loose, black trousers and a black blouse under a red jacket embroidered with gold. Her hair was pinned back by gold combs and fell in a waterfall almost to her waist. They introduced their partners. Shirley’s husband was around her age, dressed in a good suit and silk tie. The couples chatted for a moment, and then Eliza asked Eugene Lee what he did for a living.

When their respective spouses were talking, Shirley leaned over and dropped her voice. “Have you made any progress on that shooting, John?”

He’d been thinking of Doctor Lee only this afternoon, remembering the effect Cathy’s autopsy had on her. The only time he’d known the pathologist to show any interest in a case other than strict medical matters.

He lowered his voice to match hers. “Nothing concrete yet. A couple of people in mind.”

“Time’s passing. The longer it takes…”

“I know. Why are you so interested in this one, Shirley?” She was a blunt, plain-speaking woman. He saw no reason to beat about the bush no matter that they were in a fine restaurant, sipping drinks, rather than gowned and in the autopsy room.

She studied his face. Winters heard Mr. Lee ask Eliza for the address of her gallery in Kitsilano. Ever prepared, she slipped a business card out of her tiny silver bag.

“It happened to my mother,” Doctor Lee said. Her voice drifted away, traveling through time and memory, back to the past. “My birth mother. It’s almost the only memory I have of her. Cambodia. I was five years old. We lived in Phnom Penh. My father, a doctor, educated therefore an enemy of the people, had been taken away some months before. We were ethnic Chinese, and that was almost a crime in itself. I never found out what became of him. I have dim memories of a large comfortable house, with wide verandas, and gardens in which I would play. The memories are so faint, I am not sure if they are real or something I once read in a book and took to be mine. So few of my memories are good ones. Along with everyone else, my mother and I were forced out of the city. I remember being hungry. I remember walking until my shoes were torn and then my feet. I remember wanting my favorite doll that I’d had to leave behind. I remember calling for my father, asking my mother why he’d left us.”

Eliza and Eugene had stopped chatting. Eugene put his hand on his wife’s shoulder. Eliza took a step closer to her own husband.

“Amongst all the noise and chaos, I heard a single shot. My mother fell into the road. Face first, the back of her dress turning red. Target practice probably, for a Khmer soldier. We were Chinese, our lives of no consequence. I remember nothing more until I was in a refugee camp. I suspect a Chinese family found me weeping beside my mother’s body and took me with them.” Shirley Lee’s gaze was unfocused as she stared into her past. Eugene watched her with sad, loving eyes.

“No one was ever held responsible for shooting my mother. She died at the side of the road. I doubt anyone had time, or dared to expose themselves, to bury her. They left her for the dogs and the scavengers. I’d like to think…I hope…you can find the person who did the same thing to Cathy Lindsay.”

“I will,” John Winters said.

“You will try,” she said, with a soft smile, “and although you may not succeed, I trust you do to the very best you can.”

“Your table is ready, sir, madam.” The Maitred’ broke into their tight circle.

Doctor Shirley Lee physically pulled herself back to the present. Her shoulders stiffened, her head straightened, and the overwhelming emotion was wiped from her face. She had not cried, her eyes had not even been moist. John Winters wondered when she had last allowed herself to weep.

“Nice to meet you, Eliza. I hope you enjoy your dinner.”

“Thank you.”

John and Eliza watched them walk away, escorted across the room by a waiter. Eliza slipped her arm around her husband’s waist and pulled him close.

Chapter Twenty-eight

As expected, the police had a busy night. To make matters worse, an icy rain began to fall.

Molly Smith was helping clear up an accident scene at Front and George when she got a text from Adam. A single word: “Love.”

No injuries, fortunately, but the rusty old van was too damaged to move under its own power so the town’s main intersection was blocked until a tow truck could arrive and haul it away.

She wrote back, “Love you,” and pressed send as her radio called her to Trafalgar Thai where an overly-inebriated man was accusing a waiter of stealing his wallet. Before Smith arrived, the item was found under his chair.

At midnight she was in the Bishop and Nun leaning against the bar, sipping a glass of water. Her radio squawked, and she heard Ingrid asking Dave to go to the Potato Famine.

Then, “Five-One?”

“Five-One here.”

“Four-Two on route to the Potato Famine. Asking for backup.”

“Got it.”

She left through the back door and cut through the alley, moving fast yet conscious of patches of ice on the surface. Wouldn’t help anyone if she fell and broke a leg.

Dispatch said an ambulance was on route, as Smith rounded the corner and saw the pub up ahead. A cheap, rundown place, The Potato Famine was frequented by those whose idea of a fun night out was as much about getting into a brawl as having a couple of drinks with friends. Signs advertising various brands of beer flashed on mounds of dirty snow piled on the sidewalk in front of the pub.

She entered the bar, her hand on her belt, her eyes on everything. The sour scent of unwashed clothes, sweat, spilled beer, overcooked grease, and far too much testosterone filled the gloomy room.

The band stood on the small raised platform that served as a stage, but they were not playing. People lined the walls, clutching glasses and beer bottles.

Smith pushed her way forward. In the center of the room a space had been cleared as if for dancing, but rather than happy couples, a man lay on the floor, shrieking in pain and anger. A knife protruded from the top of his thigh and his pants were drenched in blood. The bouncer knelt beside him, trying to hold him down, telling him to stay calm, bellowing for someone to call an ambulance. Dave Evans had a man pushed up against the bar, bent over so his face was flat on the surface, hands cuffed behind him, legs kicking, yelling something about, “let me at him.” The second bouncer was helping Evans hold the man down.

“What do you need?” Smith called.

Evans didn’t turn to look at her. “Take care of the guy on the floor. I’m okay until a car gets here.”

There must have been two hundred people in the place, a drunken college crowd mostly, a few construction workers, celebrating the end of the work week. Every one of them stood watching, brown bottles clenched in hands, faces expressionless. This was not the sort of establishment where the police could expect citizens to step forward and offer help.

Smith went to the injured man, still bellowing in rage. She heard a fresh shout of anger, and spun around. A man pushed his way between two plump, heavily-made-up young women in short skirts and tight shirts with plunging necklines. He was short and square with a shaved head and a tattoo of a snake curling around his neck. His eyes were narrow and the muscles in his neck bulged. He held an empty beer bottle upside down by the neck. Letters were tattooed on his knuckles. His eyes were on Dave Evans, back turned, focus on the squirming prisoner. The tattooed man brought the bottle down on the surface of the bar, and it shattered in a spray of brown glass.

“Dave, watch out,” Smith yelled. She was a good ten feet away.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. She’d followed Evans’ instructions, rather than checking out the crowd first.

“Drop the bottle. Drop it, now.” She pulled out her Glock. Women screamed. People rushed for the door. Chairs flew and tables crashed. Men shouted, some in fear, some in excitement.

The bouncer yelped and leapt back, taking himself out of the way. Evans whirled around, pushing the handcuffed man to the floor, reaching for his own weapon. His eyes meet hers.

“Police. Drop the bottle,” Smith yelled, throwing all of her fear into her voice, trying to sound commanding, authoritative. Make him know she meant business. “Do it now.” The man turned to face her. His eyes were clear, focused. Thank god he didn’t look as if he was on something that would steal the fear from him.
He knew
she was there, knew she’d shoot if she had to. She fought to keep her voice steady. “Drop it.”

He stared at her, not relaxing his grip. Dave hauled his prisoner upright and dragged him further down the bar. The bartender had a phone in his hand, and the first bouncer had left the injured man and stood at Smith’s side.

The tattooed man held the bottle neck, the broken end pointing toward her, jagged glass glistening. He took a step forward. The bouncer retreated. Smith stood her ground, both hands firm on the gun.

She felt time slowing; she was aware of every breath she took, and every sound in the place. She held the Glock out in front of her, her hold on it solid but not gripping. “Put,” she said, “it down.”

“Pig bitch.”

No one said a word. The band members were on the stage, holding their instruments. Watching. The only sounds were the man’s deep breathing, the squeak of floorboards, and a woman weeping. Even the guy with a knife stuck in his leg had gone quiet.

Smith sucked in a breath.
Would she shoot?
Yes, she would. One more step would bring him in rushing range. She’d shoot all right.

A siren broke the silence. Blue-and-red lights washed the room. The tattooed man blinked.

“I said, put the bottle down. Now!”

The weapon clattered to the floor as Brad Noseworthy and Dawn Solway burst through the doors.

“Take three steps back,” Smith said. “Up against the bar.”

He did, his black eyes fixed on hers.

“Get down, get down, get down,” Noseworthy screamed.

The man spat once on the floor. And then he dropped.

People were coming back into the room, everyone wanting to see what was going on now danger had passed.

Smith waited until Noseworthy had one knee in the tattooed man’s back and his hands cuffed before holstering her weapon. Only then did she let out a long breath. She took two steps, grabbed the broken bottle off the floor, and straightened. She pulled a plastic bag out of her pocket and dropped the bottle neck in.

Noseworthy hauled the cuffed man to his feet. “Let’s get these two the hell out of here,” he said to Solway.

The watching drinkers parted to let them through.

Two paramedics arrived. They tended to the injured man, now swearing a blue streak. Smith stood where she was. Trying not to shake.

“Good job,” the bouncer said to her.

“Thanks.”

A guy broke out of the crowd of onlookers. He stood in front of Smith. “A cop. You’re a goddamned cop.” Tony. He was not smiling.

“Yup.”

“You told me you’re a clerk in an office.” Tony was dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved T-shirt. His arms had always been hidden by his winter clothes; now she could see the tattoo of a string of barbed wire around his right bicep. A sword, decorated with runes, dripping red blood, covered his left arm, wrist to elbow.

“I said I worked for the city. Which I do.”

His face was dark, his lips set in a tight line. “A lie of omission.”

“I didn’t intend it that way.”

“Would you have shot that guy?”

“If I had to. A broken bottle’s a formidable weapon. I’ll do what I have to do to protect myself. To protect everyone in this place. Including you.”

She studied his face, and didn’t like what she saw. His eyes were narrow with anger, a vein pulsed in his forehead. His legs were spread, feet planted firmly on the floor. How on earth could she have thought this man attractive? “I have to go. It’s a busy night, and I’m working. Whether you like it or not. About dinner tomorrow? Forget it.”

“Damned cop.” Tony walked away. He pulled a stool up to a table in front of the small stage, and shouted to a waitress, who was picking a chair off the floor, to bring him a beer. He yelled at the band to start playing.

Smith left.