The Dead List (20 page)

“She woke up this morning to an unlocked back door, her television and electronic equipment missing, and assorted items from her living room gone. Most of the rooms were a mess; she hasn’t been able to figure out exactly what they got away with.”

Drake clenched his fists tight. They’d screwed up. This should not have happened.

“Oh, there’s more. She thought she might have heard a noise in the middle of the night – someone laughing, but she never got up. Well, she was right; there was a noise. A jewelry box from her bedroom is missing. They were in her bedroom, Drake, right in her room while she slept.”

Drake opened the door of his patrol car. “I’ll pick them up.”

“No need. I knew immediately who it would be. I’ve got it covered.” A car drove up the street toward them. Thiessen waved at the driver and pointed toward the driveway. “Did none of the geniuses from the MCU ask where his house keys were?” The sergeant was angry, but he seemed to be holding back – carefully restraining himself. Maybe it was in case the woman was watching them from the window, or maybe he wanted to maintain his composure in front of whoever was driving the car. Drake couldn’t tell.

The sergeant began to walk away and then turned to face him again. “Too many meetings, Drake, and not enough action. While you were chasing down names on a list…a list that means nothing, I told you who was responsible. I told all of you who it was. Those animals…”

The man pulled his car into the driveway. Thiessen stumbled as he walked away from Drake. He righted himself and met the man as he got out of the car. He shook his hand while nodding in consolation. He called back to Drake without making introductions. “I’m going to get the pastor settled with Mrs. Robinson, and then I’ll be back at the station. Do not interview Anton Van Dyke and his boyfriend. I want to handle them personally. I want you standing guard over them, Drake. Nobody touches either of them, and you can forward that order to the rest of the MCU including Investigator Ryberg.”

He didn’t want to watch the men as they walked toward the front door, but he couldn’t help himself. He looked up at the house. Michael Robinson’s mother was younger then he’d imagined. She stood tall and erect at the door, but when she saw the men’s faces she began to buckle over. The pastor and Sergeant Thiessen reached to catch her, but she straightened herself up just in time. As they walked past her she stared out at Drake. Even from the distance as she stood at the door to her house on the little hill he could see the despair on her face. She stayed there for a moment – the woman who lost her son watching the policeman who stood over his dead body. He thought back to his dream and to the man’s head with the halo of blood.

When he pulled up to the station he saw him right away. The old man was sitting on the ground out front, staring straight ahead. Drake had never seen him there before; it wasn’t his usual place. He parked the patrol car in the back and walked the long way around to the front entrance.

He didn’t get up, but he moved slightly when Drake stepped in front of him. The old Indian nodded as though the two of them were old friends. After a moment of watching each other, Drake sat down beside him. “You can’t stay here. They’ll lock you up.”

With a majestic gesture, as though it hurt to turn, he pivoted his body around as he spoke. “Scottish. I knew a Scottish once. He was a good man.”

“I’m from here, J.J., from back east.”

The old Indian looked at him, and the slightest trace of a smile quickly passed over his face. “Scottish.” He turned back toward the traffic, satisfied.

Drake barked out a short laugh. It didn’t matter. Then, he laughed again as he thought about Sergeant Thiessen pulling into the parking lot and seeing him sitting on the ground beside the man.

After a few moments of silence the old Indian spoke, still gazing at the road in front of them. “It happened fast. Car pulled up, body came out. Strong arms pushed the man out. He was dead. Life was over.”

Drake began to interrupt, but J.J. wasn’t finished. His speech was clear; his use of words efficient. “One little squeal, death squeal. Nothing left of him.”

J.J.’s monosyllabic tone continued. “Car didn’t wait. I knew the man was dead.”

There was no point in asking him to give a statement. Those rules didn’t apply to men like J.J. Drake knew that. “Did you see the driver?”

He answered like someone who had nothing left to lose; he had no fear of repercussion. If he’d known, he would have told him. “Just the car.”

Bracing the fist of his hand on the ground beside him, he pushed up and then straightened the blankets draped over each shoulder. He didn’t nod or indicate he was leaving. He just began walking away.

“J.J., what color was the car?” He knew the answer.

The old man stopped and wearily turned his body around. Then he looked up at the sky, pointing toward it. His open-mouthed smile showed the gaps between his teeth. “Red, like the sky, Scottish.”

The watch commander told him that Anton Van Dyke was in interview room three, and the other man in room four. He also confirmed that the entire detachment was aware that Sergeant Thiessen intended to interview the two of them personally. For once the man was sitting up straight at his counter. Drake picked up the pen to sign the patrol car back in, and then put it back down. J.J. had been on Cobalt Street on the night of the murder; he’d seen someone in a car dumping the body on the sidewalk – a red car. They’d been focusing on the list that Parker had given them during the first interview. Had they been going in the wrong direction? There were so many things he’d missed. The crime team had given him enough leeway to follow his own instincts; treated him like an equal. Even Thiessen had allowed him to account for his own time and temporarily neglect his patrolman duties. And he’d still failed. He tried to remember exactly what Ryberg had said when he gave his speech that first night as they stood around Mike Robinson’s body. He said you could rely on instinct as long as it led you to the facts. His instincts hadn’t helped him. They hadn’t asked about the house keys. Was Thiessen right? Had they been chasing the wrong man? Was the list of names worthless?

He tapped the pen on the counter as the watch commander continued staring at him. His visit to the dead man’s workplace had been productive. He’d met the sales manager’s wife, and she had shed more light on the relationship she and her husband had with Mike Robinson. That was progress, but he should have done more. He should have visited Robinson’s home too. Maybe he’d have remembered to ask Mrs. Robinson whether her son carried house keys. He’d taken the initiative of listening to the recordings. That had been a positive move. The word they had missed was “money” and the fact that they all seemed to be part of some sort of group or organization. The men might be connected in a moneymaking scheme. It seemed unlikely that it would be related to Frank Wilson’s illegal business. No matter how much money he was generating with his firewood operation, there wasn’t enough motive to kill a man. Was there?

The watch commander looked at him expectantly, his mouth half-open and his head tilted to one side.

“I know. I’m on my way. I’ll restrict all entry to the prisoners.”

Sophie Peterson walked past. She had her cap off and was running her hand through her terminally unkempt, curly hair. She raised her hand in a wave. “Too bad about the old lady.”

Everybody knew.

He was still tired and hungover from the alcohol and another short night with little sleep, but he was alert enough to know he’d made another mistake. He should have asked the cab driver to record the plate number when he saw the red car outside Tony Hempsill’s place on Cobalt Street last night.

“Constable Peterson, can I ask a favor?”

“Possibly, Officer Drake.” She stopped touching her hair and put her cap back on.

“I wonder if you might make a call to Menno’s Ford and play customer. Ask about the red car, a sporty sedan; it looks new. It’s parked along the row of cars at the south end of the building.”

“That’s at the back of the place? To the side of the showroom?”

“Correct. See if you can find out who drives the car. Tell them you’re interested and think it might be a fit for you. I’m sure they’ll turn you over to the salesman who’s been driving it. I want to know who that is.”

She paused before answering but didn’t ask why. She was smart enough to know that if he was asking, it was important. “Okay. I can live vicariously and pretend I’m actually going to buy a car.”

He knew who would be driving the car. He mentally made a note to ask Myron to do a complete search on Brian Stam, the cocky salesman from the dealership. He knew J.J. would never give a statement, but maybe he could identify the vehicle. And if he could find a trail from Brian Stam to Mike Robinson’s dead body, then he just needed proof – the facts that Ryberg kept talking about.

The officers from the crime team were sitting around the conference table. Ryberg wasn’t present. Adam the Ident officer was on the phone, and Myron was explaining something to Pringle. Drake walked along the short corridor to the interview rooms, avoiding the officers. The door to room three was closed and Van Dyke’s name was written on the whiteboard indicating that it was occupied. He stepped into the adjoining room – the observation room where the interview could be viewed through one-way glass and listened to via audio monitor. The door closed behind him. Through the glass he saw Brandon Van Dyke leaning over his brother, Anton. He was behind Anton, his hands on the younger man’s shoulders, pushing down hard, applying pressure. Anton was holding firm on the table, clenching his teeth together.

The red light on the overhead camera was not on; it had been disabled, but the observation room speaker and recording device were active. Drake reached for the knob and adjusted it in time to hear the last word from Brandon as he turned and left the room. “Remember…”

Drake had never seen Brandon angry. His face was flushed red, and he’d been spitting the words at his brother. By the time Drake opened the door the hallway was empty. Nobody was there; Brandon was gone.

It was difficult, but he restrained himself. After relieving the officer who had been guarding the doors to interview rooms three and four, he did not pay a personal visit to Anton Van Dyke and his partner. He stared down the empty hallway. It was as though the police station was standing still, waiting for Sergeant Thiessen to return. Anton and his partner probably were the thieves who broke into Mrs. Robinson’s house, but there was always the possibility that they had sold the house key to Franco, the fence they had interviewed. That theory dissipated after a few minutes. The smiling officer who had assisted Sophie Peterson at the attempted rape scene the night before marched toward him. He was grinning again, and carrying a cardboard box.

He spoke quietly as he passed Drake. “They’re pooched, one hundred percent. The stuff was in the middle of their living room floor. They’d been trying to hook up the TV they lifted from the woman’s house.”

The grin never left the officer’s face as he continued carrying the stolen items down the hallway to the evidence room.

Amateurs
. They had the boys on the break and enter. Thiessen could bask in that glory. But they weren’t murderers. Who would poison someone and then call it in to the police? J.J. had been on Cobalt the night of the murder. He’d seen the body being dropped off by someone in a red car. Why had no one else in the street seen it happen? And was it the same car that was parked outside Tony Hempsill’s house last night?

The advantage to working at a five-year-old police detachment was that everything was new and up to date. The facilities had been overbuilt. The two main rooms were huge, and the interview rooms were very modern. Each room had its own adjacent observation room with a viewing screen the full width of one wall and speakers connected to a first-rate listening device.

Tired of standing, he took turns sneaking into each of the observation rooms. Neither prisoner was holding up well. They had probably been told they were going to be charged with murder as well as theft. Anton looked less defiant than he had during the short interview at his house. He shook his head from time to time, sputtering something unintelligible while spit flew out of his mouth. He was alone; his brother Brandon did not try to visit him again. The other man had his arms folded in front of himself, and squeezed hard and shook as though he were freezing cold. Neither of the prisoners was laughing now. They were both scared, showing it in different ways. After standing guard like a common sentry for thirty minutes, he finally heard Sergeant Thiessen’s shouts from one of the station’s main rooms. At the same time an officer approached and told him he’d been ordered to take the two boys to the holding cells.

“They’re not to be touched. Thiessen wants to interview them personally.” Drake shifted his weight and blocked the door to the interview room where Anton Van Dyke was being held.

The officer shook his head and cautiously reached for the door handle. “Change of plans, Drake. General meeting in the main area, something’s up.”

Drake eased away from the interview room door. The officer called Anton into the hallway and grabbed him by his arm. At first Anton seemed cocky, but when he saw the expression on Drake’s face, he had a sudden need to stare at his shoes. The officer was forced to drag Anton right in front of Drake’s chest. Drake kept his arms at his sides, holding himself back.
Another time, and another place, you’d be going through a window, and your friend would be right on your tail.

Sergeant Thiessen’s yells got clearer as Drake walked down the hall past the situation room. He was beckoning every officer in the detachment to assemble in front of him. Something wasn’t right. There were no signs of any members of the crime unit. It looked as though they had left their positions at the conference table in a hurry. There was spilled coffee and an overturned bowl of sunflower seeds where Pringle had been sitting. Still the shouts came from the adjoining room. Why would Thiessen be reprimanding the regular officers? The error that led to the break-in at Mrs. Robinson’s house was his and the rest of the crime team’s. He knew they’d have to wear it.