If It Bleeds (5 page)

Since I have the society beat, I end up working most nights. No one expects me to show up at the office until late in the day. Sometimes I wondered if anyone would notice if I didn't show up at all. If I just filed my stories via email. I wondered, but I'd never tested the theory.

Since no one was expecting me—perhaps
ever
—even though it was nine in the morning on a weekday, I pulled on my running gear and charged out the door.

I ran down Fir Street toward the seawall, then pounded past Granville Island Market and around the island, slowing only for the last half kilometer before I got to Starbucks for my mocha. I grabbed a paper while I waited for my coffee, but I didn't even look at it until I'd sat down and had my coffee and a pastry in hand. I knew this was a moment I wanted to remember. I took a sip of my coffee and forced a bite of my pastry before I spread the paper in front of me.

The story was there, of course. Right on the front page, just as I'd known it would be. One of my photos was there too. But it wasn't my story. Not even a bit of it. And under my photo, it said
Vancouver
Post staff
where my name should have been.

Brent's name was there. Of course. And as I read the words under his byline, my disappointment grew into something more dark.

Man about town Steve Marsh was found
dead last night outside the downtown gallery
that had just opened an exhibit of the artist's
work. The Vancouver art community is reeling
under the loss of one of its bright young stars.

I'd never been one of Brent Hartigan's biggest fans. I didn't know him well, but there were things about him I'd never really liked. Ambition does alienates people sometimes. I could live with that, especially since I didn't have to live with it.

But this? This was different. As I read I felt something bend inside me. And then I felt it snap.

NINE

M
ike Webb had the good grace look sheepish when I barged into the office an hour later. He also had the good grace to look as though wished he could melt through the floor rather than meet my wrath. I was glad, somehow. It would have been worse if just didn't care.

“Nicole,” he said. Nothing else. Just my name, as though it were a greeting, perhaps an explanation.

I didn't say anything at first. Just stood next to his desk, not even noticing when crossed my arms in front of me as I looked down at him.

“Nicole,” he said again, filling the silence he might have thought would be filled with my shrieks. When I didn't shriek, he forced himself to cough up more words. “Look, Nicole, I know what we talked about”—he said it as though I'd filled in words of protest—“but it was a last-minute judgment call. Eleventh hour, really.” He finished with a smile, as though he'd lulled himself into thinking my silence was agreement. His body language told me he knew better.

“Whose judgment?” They were the first words I'd spoken.

He coughed, but it was answer enough.

“I understand, Mike.” I was pleased that my voice didn't betray much of what I was feeling. I sounded calm. “Maybe I shouldn't, but I do. I don't get the photo though. It
is
my photo, obviously. So I would have expected it to have my byline.”

“Me too,” Mike said. “I don't know how that happened.”

I hesitated a moment before saying what was on my mind. “But my piece? My lede?” I said, using the industry name for an opening paragraph. “You know how
that
happened?”

“Look, Nicole, it was a straight-up news decision. Hartigan looked stuff over last night and—”

“Hartigan did? I sent it to you.”

“I was busy. I had other stories. I put Hartigan on it.” Mike shrugged. “He made the call, Nic. And I'll back him on it.” The jovial face was gone now. You don't get to be a city editor without knowing how to be tough when you need to.

There were things I could have said to Mike. Points I could have made. But none of it would have helped me get where I wanted to go. I opted instead to go forward. There didn't seem to be much point in anything else.

“So what now?” I said calmly.

“Now?” he repeated.

“My story,” I said, trying hard to keep my voice from sounding small.

Mike sighed. Rubbed his head. “It's not your story anymore. I'm sorry,” he said again. I could tell he was. I could also tell that right then, there was nothing I could do to change his mind. Not stamping my feet, not shouting, not screeching. Not even reminding him what he'd said the night before. So I resisted all those urges. I didn't trust myself to say anything. I just nodded at him. Even tried for a smile and headed for the elevator, my dignity in tatters.

Back on the fifth floor, I forced thoughts of Steve Marsh's death aside. I sorted through the day's stack of invites and firmed up the schedule for the coming evening.

There were two must-attend events downtown. A society benefit at a big hotel and a music launch at a club on Granville. Then, closer to home for me, there was a book launch at a restaurant in Kitsilano, after which I planned to head home and drop my car off before going to a gallery opening in my neighborhood on South Granville. It was going to be a busy Thursday night.

Reading invitations and making notes and even doing online searches on a couple of the celebs expected at that night's events had taken me completely out of my bad mood about losing the Marsh story.

And then the phone rang.

“This is Nicole,” I said absently, still focused on my schedule.

“Hello, Ms. Charles.” The voice was female and clipped, as though the speaker was in a hurry. It wasn't a voice I recognized.

“Nicole, please.” I corrected her automatically.

“Nicole, this is Sergeant Itani, from the Vancouver City Police. We met last night?”

“I remember. Of course.”

“Ms.—Nicole, I know you're working on the Steve Marsh story.” I thought about correcting her, but I did not. “We've found something. Something I think you should see. Can you be here within the hour?”

I told her I'd be there in fifteen.

TEN

I
was so new to the police beat, I didn't even know where “here” was. I had to look it up on my phone.

Vancouver's police
HQ
was a new glass tower at the foot of the Cambie Street Bridge. It was bland enough to be almost invisible amid the condos that had sprung up around it. A crisp pale cube in a sea of crisp black cubes. I drove past it on my first approach.

Sergeant Itani's office was on the fourth floor. A receptionist buzzed the sergeant when I asked for her. I passed the time in the waiting area pacing mildly.

In uniform but without her police hat and with her hair loose around her shoulders, Sergeant Itani looked younger and friendlier than she had the night before.

“Nicole,” she said when she saw me, “thanks for coming so quickly. I appreciate it.” I followed her past modern, functional offices. She stopped at one of these. There were no personal touches—no family photos or funny coffee mugs, no clipboards with cartoons or funny sayings. I gathered this wasn't Itani's personal office. Maybe a shared space that field officers used when they had business at
HQ
.

She closed the door behind us, then sat at the desk and asked me to sit.

“Listen, Sergeant Itani—”

But it was her turn to interrupt. “Rosa, please.”

I smiled, then went on. “Okay, Rosa. I feel as though I should tell you…that is, I don't
want
to tell you, but I should…”

“You're off the story, aren't you?” she said calmly.

I looked at her and nodded. I couldn't have been more surprised.

“Thought as much,” she said. Where I was surprised, she was not, which surprised me even more. “But let me ask you this—did you
want
to be taken off the story?”

I shook my head and she smiled, looking pleased with herself. “That's what I thought. Listen, between you and me…” She shot a look at the door and, satisfied it was shut tight, went on. “Your Brent Hartigan is a pain in the ass.”

I was surprised at her words, but not so surprised that I didn't have a reply. “He's not
my
Brent Hartigan.”

She nodded. “That's what I thought. He's a hotshot. The last thing I need on this case is a hotshot getting in the way. Now you”—she stretched back in the chair—“you're controllable.”

“Thanks,” I said.

She smiled. “Well, it's true, Nicole. You are. And you're green and hungry and you need friends.”

My mind was reeling. I wanted to ask her how she knew I was hungry. Was it something anyone could see? I didn't ask. I kept my mouth shut. She had more to say.

She reached into the desk. Drew out a large envelope. Not thick. Slid it across the desk to me, an expectant look in her eyes.

I opened it. The only thing inside was an eight-by-ten photo. I could tell exactly how big the subject was because it had been photographed next to a ruler. It was a good photograph. The kind they take of products in magazines. The kind they take of corpses.

The photo was of a tool, six inches long. It had a handle, like a screwdriver, made of wood. It was red, but the paint had faded, through use or age or a combination of both.

The other end—the business end—was a spike with a hook so slight, you told yourself at first it was an optical illusion. The spike was sharp. And the tool was thicker than a meat skewer, and too short to do that job, but you knew you'd have no trouble stabbing a roast with it.

“You recognize it?” Rosa asked when I'd studied the photo for a moment.

“Of course,” I said. “But I don't know what it is.”

“It's an antique,” she said.

“What's it for?”

“We're not sure. Some sort of tool. Possibly for fishing.”

“Why are you showing me?”

“Well, it's the murder weapon—you'll have figured that out already.” I nodded and she went on. “And its use in that context seems…pointed.”

My eyes widened at the words. It was really a very bad joke, which is what I said. “That's a bad pun.”

“Is it?” She looked honestly confused. “Oh. Right. Sorry. That's not what I meant. What I should have said is…it's an odd weapon. An antique awl. Why?” She hooked the photo with her index finger, turned it around, studied it briefly and then spun it back to face me. “Why would anyone use such a thing to kill a man unless they were trying to say something. See what I mean? Unless they were trying to make a point.”

“I still don't understand why you're telling me,” I said, not commenting on the second bad pun. From the look on her face, she didn't even know she'd made it. “And if I can be perfectly honest? This seems like the sort of detail police would
avoid
giving to reporters.”

She smiled. “You watch too much
TV
.”

“Still,” I insisted, “
you're
making a point of telling me this. You brought me all the way down here to see the photo. Next you're going to tell me you want me to let people know about it.” Maybe I was new to the world of crime reporting, but I could see where this was leading.

She nodded. “Well, you're half right. I'm going to give you this photo when you leave today, but before you go, I'll have your word that you won't use it for three days.”

“Three days? Why? And in that case, why give it to me now?”

“We're working the case now. Trying to figure out who did this. Between you and me, doors are slamming shut as soon as we think we're opening them. So you now have this info no one outside this building is aware of. I figure you're going to take this photo with you and not publish it, but keep it in your mind. If none of us have anything solid after three days, the photo of the murder weapon in the paper might grab someone's attention.”

“And Hartigan?”

“Ah, Hartigan. He's grandstanded on me on a couple of cases in the past. I wouldn't mind seeing him taken down a bit. I figure you might be the one to do it.”

I let all this sink in. It was hard, because I knew there was more going on than I was seeing. On the one hand, Rosa Itani had given me inside information. Stuff I knew Brent wouldn't have access to. It would mean I'd be back on the story in three days at the most. Less if I managed to discover something on my own.

Whatever was going on, I'd gotten all the information out of the homicide detective I was going to get. She was pleasant, but I could tell she wasn't going to say anything more. Either she was using me or I was being given some sort of test. Or both.

I agreed to what she'd asked. I promised I wouldn't publish the photo for three days.

Then I picked up the envelope and left.

ELEVEN

I
n the police parking lot, I got back into my car and headed out with no clear idea where I was going. I had a lot on my mind.

Three days. And since I wasn't even officially
on
the Marsh story, I'd have to be creative and stealthy.

By now the west side was well behind me. I'd picked the twisty road that followed the river out of Vancouver and into Burnaby. I couldn't deny where I was going any longer. I was on my way to see my mom.

My family home is on Capitol Hill, which is a lot less posh than it sounds. It might once have been a posh neighborhood, but by the time my parents bought the house in the mid-1970s, it was filling up with immigrant families, like ours.

Our house has a gorgeous view toward South Burnaby and downtown Vancouver. Sit on the front porch on a summer's evening and you can see the dome of BC Place and watch the city light up behind it.

Growing up in that neighborhood had been like a kind of perpetual international summit. On our block alone, there were three Italian families, two Chinese, one Japanese, two German and another Scots family, like ours. Or not like ours. The McGoogans were the type of Scots people like to make fun of. “Hey, Jimmy!” you'd hear Iris call into the evening. “Stop that putterin' and gae in the house,” though it would come out sounding a lot like
hoose
. “Supper's on the table and I dinna wanna miss me shows.”