The Dead List (11 page)

In the lobby of his apartment building, he pulled a small stack of mail from his numbered slot and relocked the hatch. He walked up the stairs to the second floor, his uniform on hangers slung over his shoulder and the box of Chinese food in his other hand. Juggling the two, he wedged the box of food under his arm and leafed through his mail as he unlocked the door. There was a utility bill and a flyer for a furniture store. When he reached the third piece of mail, he held it by the corner and quickly turned around and looked down the hallway.

They’d been back.

After deadbolting his apartment door, he sat at his small kitchen table and pulled out the first postcard he’d received four weeks earlier. He placed it beside the new one. “Greetings from Dublin” and “Wish you were here.” Both had street scenes from the old territory – Northern Ireland. His appetite left him. They knew where he was. He stared at the two cards on the table, and wondered why they hadn’t killed him yet.

There was no point trying to sleep. He sat in his chair by the window. From time to time he dozed off, but then he’d shake himself back to consciousness. In between looking down at the dark, empty street, he listened for sounds from the hallway. In the morning, after putting the postcards away in a drawer, he tried to pretend he was John Drake again. With his uniform freshly pressed he tried to mentally erase the message he’d received the night before. They knew he was here; he should be dead already. But it didn’t matter. Irrational as it was, like a foolhardy Clark Kent, he pulled on his uniform and became someone he wasn’t.

Derek Rochfort was one of those eager business people who were already at their desks while the rest of the world was still asleep. They’d agreed to meet him at his office early in the morning instead of bringing him in to the police station. While they drove, Ryberg spoke to Myron on his mobile phone about poisons while Drake shut out the messages from the postcards and tried to focus on the conversations they’d had with the other names on the list: Parker, the sales manager; Wilson, the retired logger; and Monica, the waitress. He reacted too late to a stop sign, and when he slammed on his brakes he was partially into the intersection. A long sedan passed in front of the police car, almost brushing the hood. A young woman thrust her tattooed arm out the window and flipped her finger in the air toward them.

Ryberg ended his call. “Friendly town. Did you go back to Cobalt Street last night when you left the office, John? You look tired this morning.”

“No, I’ll do that later today with Officer Pringle. I just couldn’t sleep, dreaming about old loggers and anxious waitresses all night long.”

Ryberg seemed to accept his explanation as they pulled away from town and drove out toward Derek Rochfort’s workplace.

Rochfort’s business was ten miles along what was referred to as the old highway. They passed the partially completed community college that was being built to help the local high school graduates become something other than loggers. Then past farms and open fields – a trace of frost already resting on patches of the hard ground. Trailco Office Trailers was at the back end of a small industrial estate, surrounded by a number of other businesses. The estate had its own roads with street signs indicating the names of the different companies. Drake slowed down as they drove past a glass company, an aluminum siding business, and then a building that had smoke pouring from a stack on the roof and a sign on the front that read “NOT HIRING” in large block letters. All of the buildings looked the same – a series of boxes joined together with grey-blue or grey-green plastic siding, a large window by the entrance, and an emblem reading
Trailco by Rochfort Industries
toward the bottom of the skirting. Rochfort’s factory had obviously supplied all of the other businesses with their buildings.

Trailco’s building was a more worn version of the same series of joined-together boxes. There was a main office in the center and a unit on either side – all in industrial grey-green. When the officers opened the front door they walked straight into a high counter. A woman perched on a tall seat was typing at a computer. She spoke to them without looking up.

“Welcome to Trailco, Officers. Mr. Rochfort will be with you shortly.”

On the wall behind the woman, there was a framed picture of a distinguished-looking man beaming proudly at the camera. The placard noted that it was taken on the occasion of Percy Rochfort’s company building their ten thousandth portable trailer. Finally the woman eyed the two men. She held her hand in the air before they could speak, and gave a polite smile, then after speaking softly into her phone she led them past the counter and into a large office.

Derek Rochfort wasn’t aging as well as his father. A copy of the picture from the lobby was mounted on the wall behind his desk, and it made for an odd contrast. The son was a younger, more haggard version of the man in the picture. His father had steely eyes and a confident smile, but his son, although having the same high cheekbones and slicked back hair, had little of his father’s smugness. He asked the men to sit and tightened the knot in his tie as he settled in his chair.

“This is a terrible thing to happen in our little town, Officers. And to happen to Mike, it just doesn’t make sense.”

“That’s why we wanted to talk to you, Mr. Rochfort,” Ryberg began. “Nothing about this makes sense. We’re hoping you can tell us a bit about your friend.”

For the next hour the heir to the trailer manufacturing business gave the same answers that they’d already received from the sales manager, the retired logger, and the waitress. His responses were short and to the point, and he never dwelled on any of the information. He told them that Robinson was a good man; he had no bad habits and no other known associates. There were no women in his life, and he was never in any trouble. By his description, Robinson had lived a life of limited participation. He made it sound as though his friend had barely ever been alive at all.

After receiving monosyllabic responses with little emotion, Ryberg tried a different tack.

“We understand there may have been a problem with money. Can you expand on that?”

Drake immediately knew they’d stumbled onto something. Rochfort didn’t move in his chair, but his body tensed, and he looked as though he was going to ask who had told them. Drake was sure the words were going to come from the man’s mouth, but then he changed his mind.

“I don’t know anything about that. He paid for his rounds and complained as much as the rest of us. I mean, we all have our problems, the economy isn’t helping right now, but I wouldn’t say he had any more problems than me or you.”

It was the most verbose he’d been since they’d begun. Drake was becoming familiar with Ryberg’s interviewing technique. He had a strange way of questioning people. If he hit a nerve he let the recipient relax while he changed the subject. Then he attacked again. It wasn’t logical, but it seemed to work for him.

As Drake had expected, Ryberg again changed his tactics. “I understand the funeral is later this week, and his mother is not doing well. It must be very difficult for her.”

Rochfort eased back, as though he’d been let off the hook. “Jennifer has helped her with the arrangements.”

Without moving his head, Ryberg’s eyebrows joined together and Rochfort elaborated. “Jennifer Parker, Dave’s wife; she’s an angel. She’s been helping Mrs. Robinson plan the funeral.”

Drake didn’t need to be told. He wrote the name in his notebook.

Ryberg went on the attack again. “Were his money problems related to his home life? Is that where the stress was coming from?”

Rochfort was a businessman. He might have inherited his father’s company, but at some point, just like Dave Parker, the sales manager, he had been involved in negotiations. Although it had taken him a few moments, this time he recognized the bluff.

“I don’t know. I really don’t. Maybe someone else knew him better than I did, and they’ve talked to you about money problems, but you know what, I have my own challenges; I run a business. I didn’t pay any attention to Mike’s problems.”

Before Ryberg could continue, Rochfort interjected. “That’s if he had any problems.”

Ryberg tried his friendly approach again. “You have an unusual nickname.” He picked up his notebook and read from the imaginary writing. “Buttons.”

Rochfort smiled and seemed to settle. “Funny how these things happen. It comes from a children’s rhyme. Frank kept it up and Dave and Mike followed. Somehow I became Buttons.” He beamed with pride as he explained.

“Did Trevor know you as Buttons, or did the nickname come after he was banished?”

No reaction – a knowing smile. He’d been warned.

“Trevor Middleton knew me by that name too. I’ve had it for a while.”

Ryberg’s next question was immediate. “And was it you who asked him to leave?”

Rochfort’s face stayed impassive; there was still no nervousness. “We all did. Listen, we’re old school here. Right or wrong, it’s how we were raised. So he had to find somewhere else to drink.”

“And you were good with that decision?”

Rochfort kept smiling, and his head tilted backward toward the framed picture on the wall. “I am my father’s son, Officer. You know what they say; you inherit what you can’t outrun. It’s how I was brought up.”

For the duration of the interview, Rochfort reverted back to short, basic answers. Drake looked around the man’s office. Besides the picture on the wall, family pictures were arranged on a shelf behind him. In one photo, he was at the back and a woman was by his side while two husky-looking young men crouched in front of them. The duplicate pose was at the other end of the shelf. In it the man’s and woman’s hairstyles were fuller, and the boys were much younger. Rochfort and the woman were standing closer together in that photograph.

When they rose to leave, he walked the two men back to the main area. This time the receptionist looked up when they reached her. Drake smiled at the woman, and noticed two offices, immaculately tidy, sitting empty on either side of Rochfort’s office.

Drake asked first. “Your staff hasn’t arrived yet, Mr. Rochfort?”

“The offices are unused. In better days I had two salespeople doubling up in each room and two more on the road.”

Ryberg interrupted. “We saw your handiwork as we drove in.”

“Many of those buildings are empty now. This recession in the United States affects business here too. It’s killing everybody. It’s been years since I supplied a new business with a building. Now, we do what we can. We supply some of the logging camps, and I’ve still got a couple of contracts with the oil fields, but the residential housing market is dry and will probably never come back. It’s the economy; it’s just the way it is.”

The receptionist pretended to maneuver her mouse around its pad. Drake leaned over and stared at the blank monitor, then smiled at her. Rochfort put his hand on the back of her neck. His fingers were under her hair, touching her skin. “I’m just happy that some of my people have been as loyal as Brenda here. She makes sure the wheels don’t fall off the bus.”

Her cheeks reddened as she looked up at the men, but she didn’t move away. Rochfort, seeming to realize what he’d done, lowered his hand and placed it gently on her back. The woman’s lips parted, but Rochfort continued before she could speak. “If I can help, gentlemen, please let me know.” He reached out to shake their hands before leading them to the door.

They sat in the squad car in a parking space across the narrow road from the building. Something wasn’t right; even Ryberg seemed perplexed. “I don’t know what to make of these people, these so-called friends. If I could find a motive, I’d arrest every one of them on suspicion of murder, but there is no motive. Nobody gained from this man dying. He had nothing and nobody, yet all of his friends smell guilty to me. They all smell like they’re hiding something.”

Drake thought it was his inexperience, but he had sensed the same thing. “I know. I didn’t know what to expect, but I didn’t think it would be like this. None of them are reacting the way I thought they would. It’s like they’re reading from a script.”

Neither man looked at the other; they continued staring out the windshield at the office across the street. Ryberg screwed up his face. Drake was becoming more impressed with the older investigator the longer he spent with him. His other superior, Sergeant Thiessen, often sounded preachy and relied on bravado when addressing his officers. Ryberg was different. He was more reflective, inquisitive. Even though Drake was, in theory, a new policeman, Ryberg didn’t hesitate to ask him questions. “Maybe I’m getting old, John. Maybe I’ve been doing this for too long, but both of the businessmen – Parker at the car lot and Rochfort here – potentially have questionable relationships with their receptionists. I didn’t really understand what the hand on the neck was all about. Rochfort is a married man, correct?”

“Two teenage boys – twins. They were in the pictures behind his desk. They did seem to be quite familiar with each other, didn’t they?”

“Yes, I noticed the snapshots. And Parker and his secretary, although they didn’t interact, there seemed to be a tension between them. I sensed something.”

Drake thought of the receptionist at the car lot, dabbing her dry eyes. He’d noticed it too. Sometimes ignoring someone can attract more attention than answering them, and the way Parker ignored the secretary when she was trying to get his attention hadn’t seemed right. There might be something between them. He remembered the way Tracy, the waitress, had walked away from him at the restaurant, the way her legs looked below her skirt. He wondered if sexual tension was noticeable between the two of them. Too early to tell, he decided. Hopefully that would change soon.

Ryberg was talking. “You’re thinking something. What is it?”

Drake nodded and quickly covered his tracks. “How do we investigate something like that – whether there’s more to the relationship?”

They still sat in the car, looking at Trailco’s building. Ryberg turned slightly toward him. “It’s very easy. We talk to the employees at both businesses, and search out gossip and innuendo, and then decide if there’s any validity to it, or whether I’m just being an old fool. It just didn’t smell right to me.”