The Dead List (4 page)

Drake straightened in his seat and asked where they were going.

“I’m starving. There used to be a restaurant in this town – semi-famous, they cooked the best breakfasts.”

“I know it. I can take you there.”

As Drake turned the car around and headed for the Home Restaurant, his stomach rumbled. His hunger was back. It felt like it had been days since he’d eaten.

Ryberg spoke on his phone while they ate breakfast and gave him little information in terms of how the investigation would proceed. He overheard him urging Sergeant Thiessen to encourage the local doctor who was doubling as their medical examiner to continue working through the early hours of the morning on the forensic examination no matter how tired he was. And he heard half of the conversations when he spoke to Myron and Pringle, giving the two of them updates and assigning further duties to each of them. He spoke in code words that had long been established among the group of investigators. It seemed to make their efforts more efficient, but for a listener like Drake, even though he was also a police officer, it made it difficult to determine what was actually being said. At one point, Ryberg covered the phone with his hand and wrote Franco’s name on a piece of paper. In hushed tones he asked Drake to step outside the restaurant, out of earshot of the other diners, and request that all information on the man also known as Frank Morrison, be ready at the station when Ryberg arrived.

When Drake returned to the table, Ryberg looked up from his empty plate. He was swallowing pills from a small package and washing them down with a glass of water. He stared at the younger man for a moment. “The adrenaline has worn off; I can see it in your face – you’re tired. Can you feel it?”

He knew what Ryberg was talking about, and he knew exactly where he’d been the last time he felt the buzz. It had been a long time since the fire had burned inside him.

“No sir, I feel fine.”

“What’s your first name, son?”

“It’s John, sir.”

“I understand you’re new, John. You joined the police force a little later than the rest of us.”

Drake was silently thankful that Ryberg hadn’t called him a rookie.

“I’ve been on the job for a year now. I wanted to be a policeman. Like you said, I just got here a little late.”

“I can’t place your accent either; it seems to come and go. Are you from back east? Were you born on the East Coast?”

“Mostly, sir – my family lived all over.” He told the practiced lie – the one they’d taught him.

During the past year, he’d discovered that people who are different gravitate toward others who are also different. Ryberg with his slight accent, which Drake couldn’t place, was probably looking for some common ground. That was all. The sergeant continued staring at him, and Drake wasn’t sure. Ryberg might know something about him – something nobody was supposed to know. Or, maybe his senses were failing him after standing out in the rain half the night. Maybe the man was just trying to be friendly.

“Your sergeant tells me that you’ve been on duty for almost twenty-four hours. You’re tired, John, and I need you alert. Go home and get some rest – report back in a few hours.”

Before he could argue, Ryberg had left. Moments later Drake saw Myron picking him up in a patrol car outside the restaurant.

He paced up and down the living-room floor of his small apartment for a few minutes, wearing a path in the cheap carpet. In his previous life – the one he wasn’t allowed to talk about – you moved on as fast as you could when you found a dead body. Even if it was one of your own, you didn’t dwell on it. You couldn’t; that would get you killed. This was different. Now they had to examine a body and piece together a man’s life.

Mentally, he relived every detail that had occurred during the past few hours, and wondered whether he’d been right or wrong to declare the incident on Cobalt Street a homicide. If his dispatch had reached the General Investigations Service team that might have been acceptable, but Major Crime Unit was another level up. Somehow they’d managed to alert the elite investigative branch of the RCMP. Sergeant Thiessen could have overruled him; he could have canceled the call, but he didn’t. A part of Thiessen either agreed with Drake or he was hanging him out to dry; he wasn’t sure which. After taxing his brain until he could barely think straight, he dropped onto his bed. For once, the shadows from the past didn’t invade his slumber. Still wearing his uniform, he was asleep in seconds.

He awoke with the same excitement he’d had in Ireland – in the old days. It took him a moment to remember where he was. He felt as though he’d just closed his eyes, but when he looked at the clock he saw it was one in the afternoon. He dialed the number and pushed the message button on his mobile phone.

He listened to the hushed tones of the daytime stenographer. “Drake, it’s Veronica. Sergeant Thiessen is wondering when you’re going to get the patrol car back to us. He’s not happy. Call me as soon as you’re available please.”

Usually four or five hours sleep was sufficient for him, but something about being up all night, and finding a dead body, had made him more tired than usual. Instead of driving back to the station and switching the police car with his truck, he’d kept the cruiser and parked it outside his apartment building. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs, and after drinking a large glass of water he was back behind the wheel. When he radioed the office to alert them that he was on his way, he was instructed to pick up Ryberg outside the front door of the police station.

“Ten-four Dispatch, can you let Sergeant Thiessen know that I still have a cruiser.”

Immediate response. “He’s aware, Officer. What’s your ETA?”

No addressing by last name or personal greeting. It wasn’t normal. Everyone – the anonymous voice on the radio whose name he couldn’t recognize, and even Veronica, the receptionist who had left the message on his phone – seemed to have stepped up their game. The crime team from the city was having an influence on their little station house. Banman had probably even changed into a clean shirt.

Half an hour later, after picking up Ryberg, the two of them stood in the showroom of the largest car lot in town, waiting to see the manager. Hope was a town of contrasts, and those contrasts were very apparent as the men stood hemmed in between the shiny, new cars. Last night they’d walked the streets where the smell of the poverty was overpowering. But in other areas of town the houses of the affluent stood together, like the neighborhood where Michael Robinson’s driver’s license claimed he lived. Those were the addresses of the logging camp executives and business owners. Menno’s Ford – the car lot where Robinson worked – was unlike the area where the man had taken his last breaths. The dealership’s main building, with its high glass windows, stood in the middle of the town’s small commercial center, and all the other roads spider-legged away from it.

There were two other car lots in Hope, but Menno’s was the only place that sold new cars. Drake was content to drive his fifteen-year-old pickup truck and rarely noticed the business as he passed. The appearance of the dealership was deceiving. It looked far better from the outside than it did inside. The sunlight glared in and shone on three new cars that sat angled away from each other, showing off the stylish pieces of machinery. But from his vantage point, Drake could see that the once impressive glass walls of the building were dulled and scuffed in places. In the customer area at the entrance there was a faded couch and two leather chairs – the material on the furniture cracking, barely covering the foam and springs.

Even though the dealership had long lost its luster, there seemed to be no shortage of inventory. Two rows of new Ford vehicles lined up around the business with signs displaying their sale prices and monthly payments.  

After waiting for five minutes, Ryberg looked at his watch and tapped it impatiently. He held his badge in the air in front of him and addressed the young woman who had greeted them at the entrance. “Can you show me where Michael Robinson’s office is please?”

She was a girl, barely a woman, perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three years old. Her blond hair was swept to one side in a fashion that Drake had only seen on television. Not a hair moved as she stood up from her desk at the reception area and walked toward the two men. She had different colored nail polish on each of her fingernails, and her fresh, modern look was a sharp contrast to the tired, old showroom. A couple of employees wearing the same white shirt with the company’s logo on the pocket had walked through the maze of desks and cars, but neither of theirs was as polar white or as curvy. Stopping a few feet from the men, she straightened her very short skirt with her long, pale, fingers, and pointed toward an empty desk that had portable walls on two sides.

She seemed to have something in her eye and dabbed at it as she spoke to the policemen. “It’s not really an office – more of a desk. That’s where the sales consultants work.”

As soon as she turned and her heels began clicking away from them, Ryberg lifted up the desk blotter, looking below it, and then opened a drawer. Drake joined in the search and jiggled the mouse, bringing the computer to life. The screensaver had a picture of a sleek, red car. Words flashed from the smoke coming out of the exhaust – “Welcome To Mike’s Area.”

“Clever.”

Ryberg nodded. “I’ll have Myron make a formal request for us to pick up the hard drive. If there’s any resistance I’ll warrant it.”

The woman was back at her desk. Peering over the reception counter, she watched them go through the dead salesman’s things. Her mouth was slightly open as though she was about to say something.

Before she could speak, one of the office doors at the rear of the building flew open, and another employee, wearing the same white company-issue shirt, walked quickly toward them. He was a sturdy-looking, balding man. Thick, black sideburns crested around his cheeks. Drake recognized him from his walk-throughs at one of the local pubs. He couldn’t recall having had any trouble with him, but mentally made a note to run a check. The man’s tie was loose at his collar and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up as though he’d been working hard on a project. He was sweating and shaking his head as he approached them. Drake tried to remember more about him. He had a mental image of him sitting at a table in the bar, with other men, holding court.

“Dave Parker, sales manager. Tell me it isn’t true, Officers. My customer introduction specialist says that our Mikey is dead. I saw him yesterday; he was standing right here, right where you’re standing.”

Drake detected a slight change in Ryberg’s expression as he introduced himself. “Who gave you that information, Mr. Parker? Who’s your customer introduction specialist?”

“Elizabeth.” He motioned to the woman at the front desk, who was dabbing her eyes with a tissue even more ferociously now, as though she was fighting back tears. He lowered his voice and ushered them toward an office at the rear of the building. “She listens to her police scanner at night sometimes. Very sad situation, she’s a widow. It keeps her busy.”

Once they were seated, Ryberg pushed aside two dog-eared brochures and a pad of paper, making the table his own. He leaned back in his chair and began by giving basic details about the discovery of the body to Robinson’s employer. Then he went through a series of questions with him. He began with the day before and worked his way backward, asking about the man’s work habits, his relationship with his coworkers, his friends, and whether any of his customers came by the dealership to visit him.

“He was down, he’d been having trouble putting deals together, but he’s, I mean, he
was
here for a long time. At Menno’s Ford we don’t kick our guys to the curb. We retrain them, and try to help them find that magic touch again.”

The manager’s eyes twinkled, and he moved his big hands over the surface of the table as he spoke to the officers.

Ryberg kept going. “So he was having trouble financially? He had money problems?”

Drake noticed Parker moving slightly in his seat before he answered. He was sure Ryberg saw it too even though he didn’t react.

“The guys are paid commissions – no salaries here. This isn’t a nine-to-five job. As a salesperson you eat what you kill.”

He paused for effect, and when neither officer reacted he continued. “Sometimes they have good months, and sometimes they have bad months. Mikey had a security blanket. His family has old money. His dad is long gone, but he still lived with his mother. She wasn’t too quick to dole out the cash to him, but he never had to worry about paying the mortgage. From what I understand he lived rent-free.”

Ryberg asked his questions in a casual manner, giving Parker time to think out the answers. He told them that he remembered the dead man talking about a woman he’d almost married, but he couldn’t recall her name or whether she lived locally. Other than that there had been no partner in his life. He had no interests that Parker was aware of, and he usually showed up to work on time. He’d never been their top salesperson, but in the past, he’d sold enough cars for the dealership to justify continuing to employ him.

“Mr. Robinson has had his share of speeding tickets over the years, but he does not have a car registered in his name. Did you supply him with a company car?”

“Yes, all of the salespeople have demos. We pay the insurance premiums, and put a D plate – a dealer plate – on it for them. It helps us get eyeballs on the product, and yes, Mike liked to drive fast. I’d warned him about the tickets. He didn’t take his car home last night. It’s still parked in the staff parking area; I saw it there this morning.”

“Is that unusual?”

“No, it happens. I don’t keep track of the lives of each of the guys. Sometimes the cars stay here and they make other arrangements.”

Ryberg’s face crinkled inquisitively, and his eyebrows met in the middle of his forehead, asking for more information.

“I don’t know. He may have gone out with someone else or been picked up, or he might have intended to walk home. His mom’s place on Coquihalla isn’t that far from here.”