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“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Not a damned thing. He looked right through me and went to the elevator, his harem trailing along behind. He recognized me though. I could see it in his eyes, the prick, too high-and-mighty to acknowledge his brother ‘cause he wears working man’s clothes.”

“Did you see him again?”

“Next thing I knew the cops were all over the place, and the boss was having a fit. He’s a heart attack waiting to happen, I can tell you. Someone told me a man had been murdered on the second floor. Didn’t even know it was my own beloved brother until I overheard his name mentioned. His fake name that is. He couldn’t even die under the name Jones. No loss to me. Look that’s all I know, okay. I have to get back to work. That ball-breaking wop’ll be on my case fast enough.” He realized what he’d said and panic flashed across his ugly face. “No offense eh, Mr. uh…Lopez.”

“Why didn’t you come forward with this information? Tell us Mr. Steiner was your brother.”

“Didn’t think it mattered.”

“This is a murder investigation, Mr. Jones, we’ll decide what matters.”

“I’m guessing you’ve seen my record. I’ve got a good job here, trying to stay out of trouble, but I don’t go out of my way to come to the notice of the cops.”

Lopez refrained from mentioning that by not telling the police of his relationship with the dead man, he’d brought a lot more attention onto himself.

“The day your brother was killed, where were you around eight, nine o’clock?”

“I’ve told you all this.”

“Tell me again.”

“I was on afternoons. There’s always some shit to be done around this place. You’ve no idea how fuckin’ fussy some people can be. Expect someone to drop everything and come up to their room in the middle of the night because the window is squeaking.”

“You were fixing a window?”

“No, that’s just an example. I don’t know what I was doing at that time, but I was here because I work here, get it? I’ve got a steady job, an apartment, and you’re giving me grief because I was actually at work and not in a bar, knockin’ some heads together.” He punched his right fist into his left hand, as if illustrating what he’d like to do to Lopez’s head. “Fuckin’ cops, you’re never happy.”

“I’m hardly giving you grief, Mr. Jones. I’m asking a simple question.”

Jones took a deep breath, visibly making the effort to get himself under control. Probably learned some anger-management techniques in jail. “And I gave you a simple answer. I was working, so I was in the hotel. I don’t remember doing exactly what, but I keep a log and hand it in at the end of every shift. They’ll have it in the office. I told you I had a lamp to fix on the second floor, but that was earlier.”

“Did you go into your brother’s room at any time?”

Another breath. “I’ve been in most every room in this place at one time or another.”

“Were you in Mr. Steiner’s room while he was staying there? It’s only been a week, surely you can remember that.”

“No.” He looked Lopez in the eye.

Liar
.

“If you leave town, let us know where you can be contacted.” Lopez handed the man his card. “Thank you for your time.”

Jones’ right eye twitched as he dropped the card in the pocket of his overalls.

Lopez took the stairs to the main floor. He’d have to go back to everyone he’d questioned earlier and ask a new question. Did anyone see the maintenance man on the second floor around the time Steiner died?

Jones said he didn’t care about his brother one way or the other, but his body language and expressions and weak attempts at jokes told Lopez a different story. Hard not to be jealous of a younger brother who’d done okay in the world, money, prestige, glamour, trophy wife, when you were a washed up ex-con plunging out toilets and hanging shelves.

Whether it was instinct or the ability to tell a lie when he heard one, Lopez knew Jones had been in his brother’s hotel room. Maybe nothing more serious than having a peek around, see what his long-lost brother had been up to for all these years.

But maybe more, much more, than that. Did Jones ask Steiner for money? Did he ask only for acknowledgement? Or did he let loose with the resentment of a lifetime and settle the score once and for all?

If the forensic tests came up with a match to Jones in Steiner’s bathroom it would be worthless. As the guy said, he had good reason to go into every room, every nook and cranny, in this hotel as and when he needed.

***

Meredith Morgenstern sipped her white wine. It was crisp and clear and reminded her of summer, sitting out on a sun-filled deck overlooking the blue waters of Kootenay Lake. It was perhaps the best wine she’d ever tasted. Her budget didn’t normally run to this sort of thing.

Josie Steiner had ordered and the bottle sat in an ice-filled bucket at the side of the table. She’d almost finished her first glass.

“I’m not entirely sure why you’ve invited me to lunch, Mrs. Steiner. The paper is, of course, interested in the story of Mr. Steiner’s brutal murder. The citizens of Trafalgar are shocked that this could happen in our town. We covered your husband’s death quite extensively and will continue to do so when the murderer is caught and brought to trial.” Meredith had decided that, for the time being, she wouldn’t mention she was no longer employed by the
Trafalgar Gazette
. If Gessling didn’t want this story, she would try to do something with it on her own, sell it freelance perhaps.

She didn’t have much time. She had nothing in the way of savings, her credit card was at the max, and she wasn’t eligible for employment insurance because she’d been fired. She had to make some money fast, or she’d be forced to go to her parents for a handout just to pay the rent.

Josie yanked the bottle out of the cooler and poured herself a healthy shot. She was looking rather nice today, Meredith thought. Her dress was dark blue, hemline cut to the knee and all but the top button done up. Her shoes were flat pumps, her make-up had been applied with a light hand, the overwhelming perfume was gone, and simple silver hoops in her ears were her only jewelry. Meredith suspected the outfit was new; Iverson had probably sent Mrs. Steiner to the store to buy something appropriate for the new widow to wear in public.

“If you’re worried about that,” Meredith coughed, “other business,
The Gazette
isn’t interested.” She stopped talking to allow the waitress to put her Asian chicken salad on the table. Mrs. Steiner had ordered a bowl of clear vegetable soup.

“Rudy was famous,” Josie said, “I would have expected there would be more coverage of his death in the national news.” By which Meredith assumed she meant she’d rather deal with a bigger paper, but had to settle for Meredith Morgenstern and the
Trafalgar Daily Gazette
. She wasn’t offended—she’d rather deal with the major media too.

“He deserves a nice, big splash,” Josie said. “A feature story. Perhaps you could print some of the pictures he took of famous people. He photographed Naomi Campbell for Vogue. Of course that was before I met him. It would be nice if some of those people could say how much they liked working with him, don’t you think?”

Meredith chewed chicken and thought. “The
Gazette
editor isn’t likely to be interested in something like that. Rudy wasn’t local.”

“He died here, isn’t that local enough?”

“Unfortunately not. I could put something together, though. Those magazines you mentioned, they might want to run a piece, sort of a memorial.”

Josie Steiner grinned. “A tribute to Rudy. They’d like that. Then once it gets out, no doubt the TV stations would consider doing a documentary. I called, well, I called a couple of places, but they weren’t interested in talking to me. They don’t know me, so I thought of you. You’re a journalist, you’d do a good job. Do you have a photographer you work with?”

“Yes, I do.” Meredith didn’t mention her photographer was a kid working part time while he went to college. She also didn’t mention that one didn’t normally take pictures for a memorial article. The person Mrs. Steiner had in mind was clearly intended to photograph the widow. Meredith had no interest in generating publicity for Josie Steiner, but at the moment she didn’t have anything better to do.

The waitress returned. “Can I freshen your drinks?” she said.

Meredith shook her head, but Josie held hers up for more. She hadn’t touched her soup. “Where’s Mr. Iverson, your lawyer?”

“At the police station, wasting time on that other nonsense.” Meaning her arrest on the charge of assaulting a police officer. “He…uh…he isn’t too keen on my idea for this story,” Josie said. “So I’d prefer you don’t mention it if you’re talking to him.”

“Why?”

“He thinks we should downplay Rudy’s death, because…well, because he was murdered. Larry works for my father, you see, not for Rudy and me. My father doesn’t like publicity. I’d appreciate it if you keep this between us.” The look she gave Meredith was almost pleading.

Josie appeared to be upset more because the media wasn’t taking calls from the Widow Steiner than her husband’s death. That didn’t bother Meredith; lots of people didn’t care for their spouses. Had Josie realized that her husband, instead of being her introduction to the glamorous world of fashion and photography, was an anchor around her ambitions? Easy enough to leave the guy, but then she would have been back where, presumably, she’d started, namely nowhere. Had Josie decided she needed a nice burst of publicity to get the limelight focused on her?

And if so, how far had she gone to get that limelight?

Meredith sipped at her own wine. That might be a story worth pursuing.

***

Lucky Smith splashed water onto her face. Mustn’t let Andy or the kids know she’d been crying. She straightened up, slapped on a smile, and studied herself in the mirror. She looked exactly like a woman who’d been crying and was trying to hide it. She splashed more water.

Two more days until Andy’s operation. She didn’t know how she was going to survive.
If something went wrong.
More water as she reminded herself that this was the twenty-first century and a modern hospital. People had operations all the time, and lived for many years after.

She cracked a smile.

Not good, but it would have to do.

When Lucky came out of the washroom, Samwise and Moonlight were coming down the hall. She carried a cardboard tray with four coffee cups and he swung a paper bag bulging with treats. Sam said something and they laughed together, and Lucky was pleased to see her children being friends. From this distance, Samwise looked so much like Andy when they’d first met. Lean with long arms that swung at his side as he walked and long, long legs, which gave him a loping gait. His cheekbones were prominent in a thin face, and the nose turned slightly to the left. The young Andy had worn his blond hair down to his shoulders and a Fu Manchu mustache; Samwise’s hair was black and cut very short and his face cleanly shaven. His eyes were brown, like those of Andy’s mother.

It was Moonlight who had inherited her father’s blue eyes and blond hair the consistency of cornsilk.

Moonlight saw their mother watching and grinned. She lifted the coffee tray in greeting and said something to her brother. Samwise winked at Lucky. The years fell away and it was Andy Smith tossing her a wicked wink from across a crowded lecture hall.

Lucky burst into tears and ran back into the washroom.

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN

When Molly Smith arrived on Saturday afternoon for her regular shift, she found a message waiting for her. Frank Spencer had called. She couldn’t remember who he was at first, and then it came to her: the homeowner on Station Street, up at night with a sick toddler. She called him back, but got an answering machine. She left a brief message before heading onto the streets. She was on the beat tonight, and it would be her job to walk up and down Front Street and into side streets and alleys, keeping the peace. Later, when the bars started filling up, she’d pop in regularly, show the flag.

The early part of this shift could be darn boring. She knew the contents of every shop window in town, and could set her watch by the time the retired guys from the electrical union gathered on the bench in front of city hall. April was quiet in Trafalgar. The resort at Blue Sky closed the first week of April, and skiers and snowboarders headed out of town in a stampede. The summer tourists were yet to arrive, and nights were still too cold for locals to spend much time outside.

Two young people were sitting outside Crazies, a coffee shop at the east end of Front Street near the tourist center. The girl was dressed all in black, her hair shaven to the scalp, except for a patch, dyed brilliant purple, running across the left side of her head. A row of rings ran up both of her ears. She was thin, dressed in faded black tights and a black T-shirt. Her fingernails were painted with black polish, badly chipped. His clothes were ill-fitting, patched many times, and his hair hung in lank strands around his face. The boy had multiple piercings through his lips. Smith shuddered.
How utterly repulsive
.

No crime in looking repulsive, but they were sitting on the curb, holding coffee cups, their feet sticking out into the street. If a car came by hugging the curb they’d know it.

Smith stopped beside the boy. “You’d better move or you’ll get run over.”

He turned his head and looked at her boots. His eyes moved up, following the blue stripe at the side of her pant leg. When he eventually reached her face she could see that his eyes were clear, the pupils normal sized. “Fuck off, cop,” he said in place of a greeting. “It’s still a free country, and I’ll sit where I want.”

“Not my feet going be mashed into pulp when a truck pulls up, but no one wants to clean up the mess. Please, get out of the road.”

He sipped his coffee and turned his attention back to the opposite sidewalk. The girl hadn’t reacted at all.

“Miss,” Smith said. “Will you move your feet off the roadway, please.”