Body Blows (24 page)

“He's feeling some now,” I say.

“Good. Maybe not for the reasons I'd prefer, but it's a start.”

“You blame him for your mother's death.”

“I'm being very careful not to point any fingers. Yet. Maybe a raised eyebrow, metaphorically speaking, give it a
Black Dahlia
atmosphere. And if they charge him with this latest one, well, so much the better, don't you think?” Kyra sets a fresh drink in front of her. Picks up the empty glass. I nod that it's still my party. “Frames the story beautifully, doesn't it?” Roselyn appears to be asking the opinion of an unseen literary critic. “Two murders and a conviction. Perfect.”

“What's in the middle?” I ask.

“Plenty. Drowning sailors on the high seas, stealing a hotel, boinking the head housekeeper, half her staff, too.”

“Did your research take you to the Alexander Library?”

She laughs. “The little red hen didn't recognize me. No reason she should. Last time she saw me I was nine years old, huddled under a table, covered in my mother's blood.” She finishes her drink. I can sense her resisting the urge to order a third.

“Didn't see your name in the visitor's book.”

“I was undercover.” She looks at her empty glass. “Little fussbudget never really looked at me back then anyway. Always bustling after Leo, whispering in his ear. Persuading him to lock my mother up, for a ‘rest,' or a series of ‘treatments.' Dumpy little Madge, Keeper-of-the-Flame.” She succumbs to the impulse and signals Kyra again. “I hated her guts.”

“Why?”

“He always had time for her. Not me, Lord no. And my poor ditsy mother, hell, the two of them had her on a leash — don't let her have two drinks or she'll be bouncing off the walls, keep her away from the other guests, you know what she's like, maybe she should fly to New York for a few days, do some shopping. And take Rose with her.”

“This book is payback.”

“Sure. I can admit that. I've had enough therapy in my life. I'll concede my baser motives. I wouldn't mind a little retribution, especially if it makes the best-seller list.”

“I've never seen you take a note, Ms. Hiscox.”

“I have no need. Photographic memory.”

“Really?”

“Try me.”

“Oh, I have no cause to doubt you,” I say. “My own memory is sketchy at times, or at least slow to cough up information.”

“In the privacy of my room I do make notes, go back over old ground.”

“Trouble is, people tend to refine memories, put the best, or worst spin on something.”

“It's a challenge,” she admits. “But I can handle it.”

“Even those childhood ones?”

“Those memories, painful as they are, remain clear as a bell.”

“Including the night of your mother's murder.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Your father and Madge were in Calgary that weekend, weren't they? Some business deal?”

“So he maintained.”

“How far away was the ranch?”

“Four hours, by car.”

“They rushed right back?”

“Next morning.”

“Where were you?”

“By then, at a neighbour's place. The police were there.”

There is an almost audible click somewhere inside my head. “And yet you have a photographic memory.”

“So?”

“I'm just wondering how it is that the last time Madge Killian saw you, you were huddled under a table, covered in your mother's blood.”

I leave her to ponder the question over her fresh drink. Nod at Kyra and take my leave. The music is building behind me. Impressive sounds but far too demanding for a brain that could use some peace and quiet.

The afternoon shift is being handled by Todd and Roland. Roland is in the lobby when I come up from Olive's. Roland placed second runner-up (third) in the Mr. Coastal championships last year and he thinks he might have won except that he has trouble building his calves. He does much of his patrolling with his toes curled inside his shoes, claims it works the calves all day. Sometimes he walks funny. I look around the lobby. “All quiet?”

“A nice civilized Sunday afternoon,” he says. “Ms. Traynor says we're about thirty percent light. How's your arm?”

“Much better, thanks, Roland.”

“What did he get?”

“This one,” I say, pointing at my sleeve. “The pronator.”

“Here?” He shows me his own forearm. His jacket sleeve swells tight when he makes a fist. “Along here?”

“That's the spot,” I say.

“Not pronator,” he says. “That's the
brachioradialis
. Very important muscle. Can't turn a doorknob without it.”

“Or check my watch,” I say.

Margo doesn't get Sundays off. Wednesday is her usual free day, but lately, with Lloyd pretending to have a heart attack and things what they are, she's been on call seven days a week.

“Joe, come in here a minute, I need to speak to you.”

“What's up?”

She looks up from the ream of paperwork spread on her desk, removes her glasses, puts on her stern expression. “Lenny Alexander's staying here?”

“Came in with me last night.”

“You comped him the Beachcomber Suite?”

“He's here to visit his dad. I figured it was important. For both of them.”

“So you don't recall the memo from Leo last year that neither one would be allowed to use this place as his personal hideout?”

“Check your records, Margo, I think you'll find it was Theodore abusing the privilege.”

“The memo flagged both of them.”

“Tell you what,” I say, “put it on my tab and I'll take it up with the old man personally. So far Lenny's the only family member gives a damn.”

She gives me a long, careful look. “Doctor Dickerson was in. There's a form that needs filling out.”

“I'm sure it doesn't need filling out right this minute.”

“The sooner the better.”

“I needed my dressing changed.”

“Right,” she says. “And a prescription.”

“Why are you fussing with this stuff, Margo? You have a staff.”

She looks exasperated. “Because,” she says ominously, “if I'm leaving here, I'm leaving things in good order.”

“Goes without saying.”

“You don't think I'll do it,” she says. “Do you?”

“I think it's highly unlikely,” I say. “Anyhow, it's Sunday. You can't quit until tomorrow at the earliest.” I stick out my good hand. “Five bucks says you don't quit.”

“You'd have to cash a paycheque.”

“I can't lose,” I say. “I've got twenty-four hours.”

chapter twenty-two

T
he Beachcomber Suite is on the ninth floor, northwest corner, far from any beach.

“Oh, hey, it's you, Joe. Come on in. I just ordered some food. You hungry?”

“No, thanks. Wanted to let you know, things are straightened out with Margo.”

“Not a bad-looking woman, if she wasn't wired so tight.”

“She's been under the gun this week.”

“I wasn't worried. Had a good talk with the old man. We're cool.”

“How's he doing?”

“He's all right. Got a list of stuff he needs for court tomorrow. He wants to look sharp.”

“He wants me to bring it over?”

“I'll take care of it,” he says.

“When will you be heading back?”

“I don't know. I'll show up for the court appearance in the morning. See if he wants me to do anything, take care of anything.”

“Happy to see you?”

“Ha! Yeah. Surprised the shit outta me. Swear to God, Joe, I think the old bastard shed a tear. I can't be sure but he looked like he was about to.”

“It's good you went to see him.”

“Yeah, I think so. We're never going to be best buds, but he's all right, I learned a lot butting heads with him. I sometimes got the feeling he was doing it on purpose, to see if I was tough enough, if I was really his son. He sure as shit doesn't think a lot of his first-born.”

“What about his third born, he ever mention her?”

“Lorraine's kid? Never talks about her. I think she's in the loony bin.”

“Actually, she's in 1214.”

“Here?”

“Your sister now goes by the name Roselyn Hiscox.

She's a writer, doing a biography of your father.”

“No shit? Is she okay? I mean, is she crazy?”

“Seems quite sane to me.”

“She killed her mother you know.”

“She did?”

“That's the story we heard through the family grapevine.

That's why she was sent to the cookie factory. Leo pulled some strings, got her committed. She was a basket case after it happened. At least that's the way I heard it. Police didn't have any real evidence. She was like eight or nine, just a kid, very unstable. They let it slide. Family tragedy.”

“Found some other things upstairs. Your birth certificate, change of name, adoption papers.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Have you spoken to your mother since you've been here?”

“All the secrets coming out, are they? Yeah, we had breakfast. It's not something she likes to broadcast.”

“She calls herself
Mrs.
Dineen. Was she married to someone else when you were born?”

“Nah, she's never been married. That's just a little fiction. She wears a ring. Keeps the staff in line.”

“Are you two close?”

“I'll be honest with you, Joe. My mother's not the warmest person in the world, but to give her her due, she made sure I didn't get screwed. I was going to get my share, even if we had to fight for it.”

Gritch is sitting in my personal space in the company of a chunky man wearing a Guinness windbreaker and a Blue Jays baseball cap. He looks like a cop. They're both smoking budget cigars. Gritch stands up. “Somebody I want you to meet,” he says. “Ben Kaufman, Joe Grundy.”

The man stands up and sticks out a meaty paw. “How do?”

“Hello, Ben,” I say.

“I was going to bring him downstairs, but he hates jazz,” says Gritch. He sits back down. “Ben here's an investigator for Texada Underwriters,”

“We handle the insurance for Ultra Limousine's fleet,” Ben says.

“Hold on a sec,” I say. I return to the outer office and crank up the smoke extractor full blast. Then I roll Rachel's new chair across the floor. “I'm definitely getting one of these,” I say.

“Something the matter with one of the castors on this one,” Ben says.

“Texada's on the hook for the two stolen limos,” says Gritch.

“Just one, so far,” Ben says. “The cheque for the second one's still in my boss's desk. Further investigation was deemed prudent.”

“What can you tell me about it?”

“A bit more'n a year ago, year and a half, say, they had a car stolen. Big limo, special attachments, whatever, it's like a hundred and fifty thousand or something. It was being driven by one of the mechanics. Your dead guy, Farrel Newton. He's supposed to be taking the thing over to a specialty place to get a camera put in or something. He takes it for a ride, stops someplace to get a coffee or take a piss, and when he comes out the limo's gone. He comes back to the office, they call the cops, file a report, thing's supposed to have some kind of locator gizmo but it's not working, so yada yada, one of my pals looks into it, can't find anything fishy, my boss shuffles papers for a few weeks then coughs up the money.”

“What's different about the second one?”

“Law of averages. Insurance companies live off them. Two limos, both driven by the same mechanic? Doesn't compute.”

“That's when the Fraud Squad stepped in?”

“They find out the owner, Theodore Alexander, didn't replace the first limo. He pocketed the hundred and fifty. Now he's looking to collect on a second one …?”

“Already sounds wonky,” Gritch says.

“Not my department,” Ben says. “His company, his accountants, as long as he's square with the taxman, no harm no foul.”

“Then Farrel Newton lost another one.”

“Yeah. Now this Newton mug is loopy, goes haywire from time to time, pounding walls with his head, that kind of stuff, plus he's got the IQ of a Hallmark card. Losing the
Queen Mary
in a parking lot isn't outside the realm of possibility, but it smells anyway. After the first one, who's gonna trust this jerk with another big asset? The second limo's worth even more than the first one. Armoured vehicle, drug lords and Russian Mafia guys just love that shit. So I start poking around, along with a Fraud guy I knew back on the Job.

“Grand Theft Auto's all over it too but they can't find it. Car like that's probably on its way to Shanghai or Moscow. They aren't much interested in individual cars anyway; they want the outfit that's moving them. Has to be professionals. They figure the limo is long gone, but they want the gang.”

“Any luck?”

“Oh, yeah, they busted this big outfit a few months back. Very slick. Won't touch anything but expensive shit. Theft Auto rolled them up. No sign of the first limo, of course, but here's the thing — these guys are caught dead to rights so they've got no reason to bullshit about one vehicle. They say they had nothing to do with boosting the second one.”

“Inside job.”

“What it looks like.”

“Dimi Starr.”

“Me and my pal find out this Dimi has a brother who's a used-car dealer. Already it sounds promising. But his lot and showroom are clean, can't find another property in his name. Nobody's making any moves. Whole thing is dead quiet.”

“Getting nervous with all the cops and dicks around,” Gritch says.

“Then this Newton dude shows up seriously dead right next door to the
third
missing limo, so all bets are off. My boss says ‘fuck 'em,' cheque stays in the drawer until the cops figure out what's going on.”