Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island (39 page)

Buy, buy, the best dope you can buy. Buy, buy—

• • •

Albert let the phone ring three times before he picked it up. “Matthew.”

“Corporal Yardley here.”

“Yes, Jim?”

“The pot perp, Gerald Arnold Bannister—”

Yardley the stickler. Oh well, good to have some of that on the Force.

“—he located the usual four videocams again, deactivated them, 19 to 2300 hours—”

Albert hated the international clock. Getting old, guy.

“—but again he didn't find the fifth. We got some first-rate shots.”

Yardley sounded chuffed, and well he should. “Good work, Corporal. Got his record?”

“Four priors, sir. One conviction, assault. Suspended sentence, 1997. Delivery boy, low level enforcer. He'll go in this time.”

“I want him, and I want his contact. But mainly I want to lean on him for the Dempster murder.”

“You got real evidence?”

“Yep.” He shut his eyes. “First for trafficking. And some new links.”

“Yes, sir.”

Albert recalled a beautiful barred owl that had decided to investigate camera one a few days ago, activating the cam. A shame to end the stakeout. “What are the shots on video five?”

“Great, sir! Bannister lugging reams of heavy bulgy plastic bags out of the blackberries.” Yardley was in full chuff. A little chuff was fine but keep it in control, man. “Go on.”

“Hot work lugging them out all the way.”

“Hot the first of October? At night?”

“Well—”

“Surveillance?”

“Sir. All bases covered.” A pause, a breath, still excitement. “You want to arrest him soon as he tries to leave?”

“No, Corporal. I've got things organized this end. Don't lose him, but don't spook him either. Once we've got him, go back to the blackberry patch and secure it.”

“Sir.”

Albert hung up. He sort of liked the sirs.

• • •

Jerry Bannister exhaled. He lay, alone, on his bed. All done, all of it out of the ground, all safe and hidden. And four days ahead of schedule. Tomorrow he'd drive it over to Nanaimo, deliver it to the man four days early. Well, not all, a quarter for himself, he'd dry that here. The rest they'd dry in the man's shed. Then Jerry would take his half. Or let the man sell some of it for him, nobody could smoke all that not even giving it away. Surprise time tomorrow. Jerry hadn't talked to the man more than a couple of times since the night he'd called him, saying Roy was lying up there by the clearcut dead and all. The man was pissed, shit was he pissed. Ditch the body the man had screamed, get it away from the clearcut! Where? Anywhere, just away from there! Suddenly Jerry knew exactly where. Down where Roy worked! That was funny. He figured the man would find it funny too. Tomorrow he'd ask him if he'd thought it was funny. “Hey Lyle, was that funny or what, Roy down there dead at your favorite gallery?” Except he wouldn't call him anything except Partner: “Hey Partner, was that ever funny.” The last thing the man had asked Jerry was, How long till you harvest? And Jerry had told him. Except now the harvest was four days early. Gonna be a big surprise.

NOEL, AT 6:50 in the morning, heard Kyra making noises. He dressed and headed for the kitchen. Awake at last, was she? He had to talk. Out loud, not in his head. The parade had gone on for hours: Lyle and Jerry, Jerry and Roy. Lyle and Roy? All three together? Sleep had brought little clarity.

Ah, Kyra was busy with eggs, milk, bowl, bread in the frying pan—French toast, her specialty. A bowl of fruit salad on the counter next to butter, sugar-cinnamon mix, plates, cutlery.

She gave him a brilliant smile. “Good morning. Coffee?” Without waiting, she poured.

“Thanks. Feel okay?”

“Yep. And ready to eat.”

“Right.” He looked out the window at a thin grey sky and back to Kyra flipping toast over, checking the underside. “Nice and golden.”

“Of course. I had three husbands.”

“Look. We have to talk.”

“About my three husbands?”

“About this whole case.”

“Yep.” She plopped a slice of toast on his plate. “Here, eat.”

He took a forkful. “Great.” Another. “This is about Jerry, Lyle, Roy. I'm betting they're all three connected.” As he ate he tried to clarify a hypothesis: Lyle contracts Jerry to set up a grow operation. Jerry plants on some land at the edge of the clearcut, Roy finds out about it, something goes wrong, Roy gets killed. A yardman who's born again, a slob of a doper, a high-style painter. The first, dead. One or both of the others, murderers?

“Maybe,” said Kyra.

“Just trying to make sense of things. Don't dismiss it out of hand.”

“Okay.”

“You sure you're feeling okay?” He stared at her face.

“Yep. Mostly.” She thought for a moment. “Rabinovich is scary. His power. But that's kind of abstract. It's Tam who's really got to me.”

Noel set his hand on hers.

“Feeling way better today than last night.” She squeezed his hand. “Maybe Lyle really did contract Jerry for some clearing.”

Noel told her about Lyle's place. Nothing to be cleared. Just a large shed. No windows.

“Yeah. Like Tam's basement.”

“So what's the shed for? A studio? Something more covert?” Noel took his plate and cutlery to the sink. “Maybe I should just ask him.”

“Ask what? Lyle, did you and Jerry set up a grow-op? Lyle, did you and Jerry kill Roy?”

Silence for a moment. “Yeah.”

Kyra rinsed dishes and set them in the washer. Noel made fresh coffee. Cup at his side, at his laptop, he typed: Wednesday, October 3. “Back to Eaglenest.”

“Tam says we remain silent about everything at Eaglenest, what we know about them and The Hermitage. Or some accident happens to someone we love, you, my father, whoever.”

Noel typed.

“Tam voiced the threat but they're all in it. Rabinovich works at a level I've never run into.” She squeezed her eyes closed then opened them.

“How about a walk? I need to be outside.”

She's better, Noel thought, but nowhere near a 100 percent. “Let's go.”

The phone rang. Noel answered. “Okay, thanks.” He disconnected. “The locksmith. He'll be here in fifteen minutes.”

Shit. Kyra didn't know if she wanted to be by herself or not, but she wanted to be outside. But a locksmith— She put on her shoes and jacket and walked up and down the sidewalk in front of Noel's condo until a van pulled up. A man got out with a tool case. Kyra scurried upstairs after him.

• • •

RCMP Constable Charlotte Fredricks, posted at Silva Bay Marina, reported no large shipment loaded, no bales or crates, not on the boat wharf nor at the seaplane dock. Corporal Jim Yardley received similar negative responses from both the water taxi and Page's Marina. Inspector Albert Matthew fully expected the suspect to leave the island on the ferry, but he covered all the bases.

• • •

They waited till the locksmith left, and went for late lunch at the seaplane pub. Then they strolled for more than an hour along the harbor walkway to the Departure Bay ferry and back. They didn't talk much, which was fine. Many large boats in the marinas. Noel kept the Lyle-Jerry-Roy relationship hidden from conscious thought, Kyra felt the Gill-Marchand-Rabinovich quandary go quiet. After four when they got back. “Meet you upstairs,” Kyra said. “I'll go get the photos.”

Climbing the stairs Noel was hit by a moment of concern. He checked his new lock. All fine. He unlocked. The rug lay at its correct slant. In the bedroom Brendan's photo stood as before. He turned on his computer. No problems. Okay, Sultan Suppliers. An old firm, recently bought by an art supplies conglomerate, Artifacts International. They mass-produce copies of ethnic art, special prices for museum gift shops. And ornate frames. Two more minutes of probing, and there it was: Artifacts International, owned by Latuis Interest Corp.

Kyra came in, back with her pictures of Tam's basement: the partial forgery, the old frames with slot-out backs. In triplicate.

“First rate.” Noel told her about Sultan.

“So neat.” She sat on the couch. “Think we should contact the Marchand-Gills, reassure them that we're keeping our side of the bargain?”

“Or let them sweat.”

They sat in silence, weighing the options, till Kyra spoke up. “I say we call.”

Noel gave a long sigh, and nodded. “You talk.”

She went to the phone. “Hey, you've got a couple of messages.”

“Play them, okay?”

Kyra pressed play. “Noel, it's Lucille. I'm royally pissed off at you.

What's going on with the Dempster murder? Is Rose Gill involved? I need information. Crime makes a better story than this piece on alternative justice I would have to fall back on. My bones are down to their last ounce of patience. Get on the horn and call me back!”

“Oh damn! I completely forgot.”

The next message played. A few seconds of silence, then a distorted whisper: “ . . . remember the Buckland fiasco, be cool . . .” Another second, then the disconnect.

They stared at each other. Noel said, “Shit.”

Kyra took him by the elbow and edged him down on the couch. “Tell me.”

“Not Gill's style of intimidation. Two different people making threats.”

“Has to be.”

“Right.” An empty part in him was filling with anger. “So do I wait for his next call? Or another obit? Or worse?”

She got up and poured him a Scotch. And one for herself. “To hell with him.”

He topped his off with water. “Do I have a choice?” He glanced at Kyra's photos of Tam's cellar. “Couldn't be someone from Eaglenest. How would they know about Buckland?”

“Anybody could check you out. Lots of publicity when you wrote that series. Didn't Marchand know you'd been a reporter?”

Noel shrugged, sipped the Scotch. “Could it have been Marchand, disguising his voice?”

“Didn't sound like Marchand. Or Tam.”

Noel flipped through the photos. “What do they have to protect?” He stared at a picture of Tam's easel. “They're pretty much like any entrepreneurs. Artemus buys for less and sells for more, Tam works for him and paints on the side, Rose develops a product to market. They have a Foundation that supports small sustainable projects. It gives them tax breaks.”

“You make it sound like a mom and pop shop.” She laughed without humor. “What about the poppies. Rose develops small quantities, opium-wise. Really strong stuff?”

He got up. “Let's go back to their threat.” He paced. “Try it differently. One,” ticking off his index finger, “we have no proof for anything. Small amounts of opium maybe in frames for The Hermitage. Two,” middle finger, “Tam paints in many styles, including Old Masters, but if he doesn't sign them are they technically forgeries? Three,” ring finger, “maybe Artemus has actually bought some art from Europe that has been authenticated. Four, they've somehow figured a way to get Gill's paintings through the authentication process. Five,” the thumb, “the stuff Marchand sells to The Hermitage might or might not include a Gill.” He turned, pacing hard. “Six,” the other index, “Peter Rabinovich, a friend of the family, is their best customer and owns a luxury casino-hotel in Vegas. Six and a half,” Noel stuck up his left thumb knuckle, “likely, and we can only guess, he has control of more things than we've ever thought of.” He came to rest by the window. “Such as picture frame companies.”

“And seven.” Kyra took over, “We've fulfilled our obligation to our client and the rest is none of our business.”

Noel whirled about. “Oh yes it is. Seven, eight, nine and ten, those are big threats. Threatening us is bad, threatening people we love is diabolical. They control us with threats.”

“Go on.”

“We have two options.” He nodded, agreeing with himself. “We let them know we'll abide by their demands, hope Tam and Co. honor the bargain, report to Lucas that we couldn't learn anything more, get on with our lives. Or—we defuse the threat.”

“Let's take a step back. What if Rose isn't selling drugs. What it she gives them away. Where's the criminal offense?”

“Producing opium. Even in tiny amounts. It's like a pot plant on the window ledge. They're both illegal.”

“It's a law you broke, too. For Brendan.”

“Yeah but come on, the police are looking for heroin from Thailand, Colombian coke. Terrorists making bombs. Half a dozen vials of opium from Gabriola? Technically illegal, but get serious. Hey. Did you return the rental car?”

“Oh shit!” She leapt up, looked at her watch. “Too late. I'm into a full third day.”

• • •

Rose wheeled her way up the ramp to Tam's deck. Tam opened a beer for her, and one for himself. “More than twenty-four hours.”

Rose said, “You should make sure she's agreed to be silent.”

“Let's not provoke them. Easier to talk in a couple of days.”

Rose said nothing.

“What's with Artemus?”

“His usual self.”

Tam raised his beer. “To the silence of detectives.”

“Two days.” She sipped.

• • •

Okay, Noel thought, how do we break the control of Tam's threat? Superior force wouldn't do it, not from say the Mounties, bring them in and the threat becomes reality. Force from us? Go in with pistols blazing? Not likely.

And the other thing, Lyle and Jerry. Either or both as murderers? A circumstance that grew out of control? Noel couldn't see Lyle losing control. Could Lyle hurt someone with cold-blooded intent? Unlikely. Jerry could lose control. Sue had reported the argument between Jerry and Roy. If, say, Jerry and Lyle were in the grow-op together, and Jerry had accidentally killed Roy, and gone to Lyle for help, then Lyle was involved. After the fact. So, talk to Jerry? Put it to him, see how he responds? Except if I've guessed right, Jerry's lack of control could make me suddenly as dead as Roy. Bad idea. Lay it out to Lyle? Make a deal with Albert, get Lyle to turn Jerry in, give evidence against Jerry. A suspended sentence for Lyle? Do I care enough for Lyle, to help him like this?