The Dead List (9 page)

Ryberg began. “We’re sorry to have brought you in, Miss Brown, but we wanted to see what you could tell us about this group of characters who visits your pub every few days.”

She gave the men a warm smile and interrupted before Ryberg could continue. “Call me Monica, and I know you.” She pointed at Drake and then pulled her T-shirt tighter in front of herself.

Ryberg deferred to Drake. “Perhaps Officer Drake should ask the questions then, Monica, if you don’t mind. And we’re going to record our interview on this very modern piece of equipment,” he motioned to the camera and then to the microphone on the desk, “because my memory isn’t what it used to be.”

“It would be my pleasure.” Unlike Wilson, she ignored the camera. Her eyes twinkled as she assessed Drake, looking him up and down.

Drake knew what to do. Ryberg was right; there was no need for guidance. He had to keep asking questions and looking for holes, or see if the conversation took them in a direction they hadn’t anticipated. He stared into her eyes and smiled. “Monica, how often did the men get together at the pub? Was it a weekly thing or did they meet on certain days?”

She held eye contact, giving Drake a sympathetic look. “It’s hard to keep track of when people come and go. I work six days a week – most weeks, so it sometimes feels like the same people are there all the time. They’re not, but it can feel that way.”

“Your guess would be?”

“I’d say a couple of times a week. It depends on their work schedules. Parker was the busiest. He was always working a deal.”

Drake interrupted. “That’s Dave Parker, the manager at the car dealership?”

“Yes, and Buttons, or Rochfort, gets busy, too. He owns his dad’s business so he’s usually late or just barely makes it there in time.”

Ryberg slid a file in front of Drake, holding up the ends so Monica couldn’t read it.

“That’s Derek Rochfort; you guys call him Buttons. That’s who you’re referring to? He manages a company that manufactures office trailers – is that correct?”

“He doesn’t manage it. He owns it. His dad built up the company and now that the old man is in Parkview, he’s running the show.”

Drake turned to Ryberg. “Parkview is a retirement community in Chilliwack.”

Monica looked over at Investigator Ryberg and spoke in a soft voice, leaning forward in her chair. “Dementia. The family had no choice. They had to let Buttons take over the business. It was a big mistake, but there was nobody else.”

Ryberg cut in and leaned across the table. “Boy, you get to know these guys quite well serving them their drinks.” He smiled and used the same conspiratorial tone he’d used with Parker the day before. At first it appeared to work. She smiled back, but then she seemed to reconsider.

She was still smiling, but her candor changed. “You listen. Sometimes you hear and sometimes you don’t. Like I said, I serve lots of people.”

When Ryberg backed off, Drake took his cue. It was coming to him naturally. This was an unfamiliar playing field, but he knew what he had to do.

“What do you remember about Mike Robinson, Monica? Did he stand out from the group?”

Her demeanor changed again. The smile left and the sparkle in her eyes disappeared.

“I was heartbroken when I heard. It’s so sad. He was so young and had so many years left. Mike was a good guy. He never wanted anything from anybody. Like everybody else, he was short of cash from time to time, but he never hurt nobody.”

Drake kept going. “And he was healthy. He seemed very healthy.”

“He was the healthiest of all of them. Even with the boozing, he was a healthy man.”

“What about women or men? Was he involved with anyone?”

Monica pushed her chest forward and gave Drake her best cocky barroom smile. “If that’s your way of asking me if he was gay – then no, he was not. I never saw him with a woman, but Mike was not gay.”

Ryberg was about to ask when Drake smiled and answered for her. “She knows. This is something Monica would know.”

She gently tilted her head in Drake’s direction and leaned back in her chair, grinning. “Well, Officer Drake, you are an intuitive man, aren’t you?”

Drake flirtatiously let his eyes slip toward her T-shirt for a moment, and then once again he focused on her face. “What happened with Trevor, Monica? Why was he banished?”

A nerve, he hit a definite nerve. There was no quick answer, just a long smile as she seemed to consider how to respond. She was looking for somebody to throw under the bus. Drake knew who it would be even before she answered.

“It was that old fool, Wilson. He didn’t get it. We all knew; we always knew. If Trevor had kept his mouth shut he could have stayed, but he was so excited that he finally had somebody in his life. And that old…” Her voice trailed for a moment, and then she smiled again. “Not everyone in this town is as open to alternative lifestyles as you and I are, Officer Drake.”

Ryberg cut in. “Where was Mike Robinson with all of this, Monica? Which side of the fence was he sitting on?”

“Mike’s boss ran the show. Parker and Wilson had the loudest voices. The squeaky wheel gets the grease, doesn’t it? When Wilson told Trevor where to go, Parker agreed and Mike had no choice. So Trevor left, and he didn’t come back.”

Ryberg continued. “And Rochfort? He didn’t want Trevor around either?”

“He agreed too. They all thought his homosexuality was a weakness, or maybe they thought it was contagious. They told him he was out.”

Drake sensed something. He wasn’t sure what, but he asked the question. “Out of what, Monica?”

Becoming a little exasperated, she slapped her hands on the desk. “Out of nothing. They were just a few guys at the bar, and they didn’t want him there.”

Ryberg jumped back in. “Do you think Mike kept in touch with Trevor? Like you say, it’s just a few guys at the bar; they could have kept in touch away from the pub.”

She answered immediately. “I don’t think that would have happened.”

She leaned back in her chair and looked around the small interview room. “I’m very thirsty. Can I have something to drink please?”

Ryberg straightened up. “I can arrange that. I can get you a cup of coffee or water if you like.”

“One cream and three sugars,” she chirped as though making her order at a drive-through restaurant.

“I’ll go and make that happen.” Ryberg surprised Drake by leaving them alone.

Her cockiness faded as the door closed. “I think it was an accident. Nobody would have killed Mikey. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. He fell.”

“You might be right. That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

This time she did look at the camera that was recording them. Her voice was an earnest whisper. “Your Mr. Big-time Investigator,” she gestured toward the door, “thinks there’s more to this. There isn’t. He fell – end of story.”

Ryberg returned with some coffee in a plastic cup. He took his turn questioning the waitress as she sipped from the cup. “When was the last time you saw Mike Robinson? He had dinner in your pub the night he died, did he not?”

“No, I would have seen him.” She was definite. “He was in last week with the rest of the guys. That was the last time I saw him.”

“And their get-together last week was normal? Nothing unusual happened?”

She placed the cup in front of her. “Same old, same old. Nothing special.”

“And when was the last time you saw Trevor?”

She put her hands in the air. “I don’t see Trevor; he doesn’t come in anymore. I don’t see what Mike falling down and dying has to do with Trevor.”

Ryberg didn’t flinch. “He didn’t fall down. He was killed. Who do you think did this, Monica?” He pulled a picture of Robinson lying on the sidewalk from a file folder and put it on the table in front of her.

She did not look down. After a moment, she let out a little groan, and one of her eyes watered. She kept staring straight ahead, her lips tight and unflinching.

Ryberg’s words purred to the woman, his strange accent prodding her to tell more. “This was a good man, Monica, we can see that. Who would hurt him like this?” He placed another picture in front of her. Taken from a different angle, the photo focused on the dead man’s head. It was crushed and misshapen at the back, resting on the sidewalk with the blood circled around.

Her lips locked even tighter together. She shook her head over and over again, not answering.

Still not looking down, her head darted toward Ryberg and then to Drake. “Is that it? Can I go now? Have you accomplished what you wanted to do?”

Ryberg didn’t move. “Why did you say that Mike would not have associated with Trevor away from the bar? Did the other men have that much influence over him that they could make sure he kept away from Trevor?”

She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped at her eyes, her mascara smearing on her cheek. “Mike was a sheep. He followed whatever the rest of them told him to do. He was the softest of all of them.”

She stared purposely at Drake. “I asked if I could go.”

Ryberg sat up straight. “Yes, you can go. Thank you for your assistance, and if you think of anything else…”

She opened the door and was halfway down the hallway before the investigator could finish his sentence.

Something that she had said bothered Drake, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Wilson’s interview had given him the same sensation. Something they both said didn’t make sense, but he wasn’t sure what it was.

Ryberg put his hands in his pockets as the door closed at the end of the hallway. “What’s your take, John?”

“There’s something not right with both of them – Monica and Wilson. Neither of them is reacting the way I expected them to. There’s very little remorse with her too. They’re not suspects, but they’re sure acting like they are.”

“You’re right, but remember what I said; we’re all guilty of something. All of us.” His eyes lingered on Drake for a moment before he continued. “Parker, the car salesman, was the same way. It’s up to us to figure out what they’re guilty of.”

Drake held the files in his hands. “I’ll type up a report on each of the interviews?”

“Yes, and liaise with Myron. I’d like more of a background search on Wilson, and an address for Trevor Middleton. Tomorrow, we have the man with the worst nickname I’ve ever heard in my life – Derek “Buttons” Rochfort.” Ryberg’s left eyebrow twitched and he rolled his eyes. “We need to pay him a visit. And if you can locate Middleton we’ll go see him too.”

John Drake’s favorite meal was cheese and cheese only pizza. He occasionally had it delivered to his apartment when he worked late. Other times, he cooked; he wasn’t without some skill in the kitchen. There were three recipes in his culinary repertoire. He could heat up a can of soup, concoct a passable resemblance to scrambled eggs, and his favorite – he could create the simple delicacy of roasted cheese. This was not the Canadian, or even American, version of toasted cheese. This was roasted cheese and was cooked using the Scottish method that he’d grown up enjoying. After moving to Hope, he quickly tired of scrambled eggs and cans of soup, and he could only endure his cheese on bread recipe so often. So in addition to having his beloved cheese pizza delivered, he also became a regular customer at three local restaurants. He rotated his attendance at each one so he didn’t look like every other bachelor who ate out because he couldn’t cook for himself. Switching to his civilian clothes at the end of his shift, or on his days off, he’d alternate eating at each establishment, and try to blend in. It wasn’t until he began to see the same waitress working at all three restaurants that he realized it didn’t matter. She would smile knowingly at him when he took his seat at each of the different eateries, so he gave up trying to pretend.

When he wanted a hearty breakfast, or when his sweet tooth craved a slice of homemade pie, he ate at the Home Restaurant. Ryberg had been correct. It was famous among passing truckers looking for generous servings and home-cooked meals. He frequented the only franchised restaurant in town – the Dairy Queen – when he felt like eating a hamburger. And by accident he found a Chinese restaurant that had the best Asian food he’d ever eaten. Chang’s Western Canadian Chinese was not set up like a typical Chinese restaurant. The music – old Bachman Turner Overdrive songs or some other progressive rock anthem from the 1970s  – sounded tinny on Chang's boom box, also circa 1970s, that sat on the counter. The restaurant floor plan resembled an old-fashioned diner, and the menu offered everything from pork-fried rice to lasagna to baron of beef sandwiches. There was a row of swivel stools along the serving area at the front, and booths around the perimeter. George, the very un-Chinese owner and cook, could be heard calling from the kitchen from time to time imploring one of the waitresses to either turn the radio up or down, depending on his preference for the song that was playing.

Almost every time he visited Chang’s, the same elderly, native man was seated on the sidewalk to the side of the entrance door. There were very few homeless people in town, and most of those were younger men or sometimes even women. They’d hold out their hands to passersby, asking for money or cigarettes. This man never asked. He just sat by the doorway, staring at the street in front of him.

Hope had a large First Nations population. Still resentful that they had unwanted visitors on their land two hundred years later, the majority of the native Indians lived on reserve land tax free. Drake had been called out to the reserve on occasion to intercede during occasional disputes. Some of those visits had turned physical. During one of his first calls he earned the respect of the residents when he let two men continue fighting until they dropped instead of trying to break them up and solve their problem. The native people reminded Drake of the Northern Ireland residents he’d patrolled among during his old life. They had an intensity in them that wasn’t visible at first, but when you looked in their eyes you could see it. The fight was always there; it didn’t go away. The man on the sidewalk at the front of the restaurant had that same fight.

On one of his first trips to Chang’s, he nodded to the man and waited for his hand to be extended. The request never came. Once inside, from his seat in a booth he watched him rise after a few minutes. The man’s body shivered, but he never acknowledged the cold. He straightened himself up and threw a threadbare blanket over one of his shoulders, then sauntered down the street. He walked almost rhythmically, his hips bopping forward in time to a silent tune. Drake remembered, and recognized what the man was, or what he had once been. He had the same, familiar gait that all boxers old and young develop and never seem to be able to shake.