Unreasonable Doubt (22 page)

She knew that face. She struggled to remember. Then she had it.

Walter Desmond.

She passed out.

Chapter Forty-three

Jack McMillan poured himself a healthy slug of Canadian Club. The bottle was almost empty, the last of his stash. He'd have to drive into town for another, but that he couldn't do. He wouldn't put it past Winters to have cops watching for him. Any excuse to pull him over would do, and he wasn't sure how many drinks he'd already had.

He'd called Jeff Glendenning earlier. Left a message. No reply. He doubted he'd ever get one.

The dogs lay at his feet. Horace was asleep, his body twitching, his legs moving as he dreamed of his glory days, but Lenny was awake, watching him. The sun had dipped behind the mountains and it would be dark soon. He didn't get up to turn on the porch light. He didn't mind the dark. He hadn't had the radio or TV on all day. He didn't mind the quiet, either.

A photograph lay on the table beside him. He picked it up, for about the hundredth time that day, and studied it.

Arlene.

This was the only picture he had of her. He'd taken it in her dress store, when she wasn't looking. At first he'd cherished the picture. Brought it out at night to look at, to remember her when he couldn't be with her. Now, he kept it to remember, all right, but to remember betrayal and abandonment. He'd loved her once. Whatever love was.

He thought about the last time they'd been together. He'd been working, and had popped into her shop on his rounds. She'd been alone, and gave him that big grin that meant she was up for anything. He locked the door, turned the sign to closed, and she led the way into the back room. He'd swept all the papers off her desk and they'd made love there. He hadn't even bothered to take off his utility belt or uniform. She said she loved the feel of his gun against her hip as he moved, and it made things even more exciting if she could hear officers talking over his radio. When it was over, he left her straightening her clothes and tidying her hair and went back to the street.

He never much cared if anyone saw him leaving, although she wanted him to be discreet. He'd been after her for some time to leave that miserable prick of a husband of hers, but for some reason she was reluctant.

He hadn't told dispatch he was leaving the car, and he simply got in and went back on patrol. He was driving down Pine Street a few minutes later, thinking about Arlene and how he might convince her to ask Walt for a divorce, when he saw a man slip out of an alley next to a house with a for sale sign on the snowy front lawn. The man was dressed in a heavy winter coat and thick gloves. It was January, nothing unusual about that, but the man started when he saw Jack's car, pulled his scarf up around his ears and reversed direction, moving at a rapid clip.

Jack turned the car around and pulled up beside him. “Going somewhere, buddy?”

“Just out for a walk.”

“Cold day for a walk.”

“I like the cold.”

“I haven't seen you around before.”

“Just passin' through.” The guy was in his late thirties, early forties maybe, with a many-times broken nose, pockmarked skin, and an old but nasty scar beneath his right eye. That scar, Jack thought, looked like a knife cut. He wasn't wearing a hat. His bullet-shaped head didn't have a single strand of hair on it. A couple of spots of smeared and dried blood were on the top of his lip on the side of his nose. Idiot had been picking his nose, Jack thought.

He was about to ask for ID, and then decided not to bother. This looked like the sort of guy who'd object, citing his right to walk the streets if he wanted. Lucky for him, Jack didn't feel like the hassle. He was in a good mood. He usually was after a tumble with Arlene.

He drove away without another word.

Ten minutes later he was back, answering a 911 call to the house with the for-sale sign.

Lenny barked, and Horace came instantly awake. Their ears stood up, but they soon relaxed. An elk maybe or a car further down the mountain. Not a man. The dogs wouldn't go off guard if a person was approaching.

He hadn't considered for a moment that Walt Desmond had killed Sophia D'Angelo. But he thought he'd have some fun with Desmond, make the guy sweat a little. Kibbens could be lazy sometimes; he was trying to get through the years until retirement with as little effort as possible. If a suspect was handed to him on a silver platter, he wasn't likely to go to a heck of a lot of trouble looking for someone else.

Jack said nothing to Doug Kibbens or anyone else about the bald guy, but he kept his eye out for him. He didn't intend to let a killer get away. Once he had him in custody, it would be easy enough to make the evidence fit. In the meantime, let Walt sweat a little. Let him know the power Jack had over him. It might even turn Arlene on, and make her realize Jack was the man she needed.

Jack had never been in Arlene's home before, not until he and Doug came to question Walt. Arlene had given him a long seductive wink and run the tip of her tongue over her lips when Walt and Kibbens' backs were turned.

That single gesture had sealed Walt's fate. Jack realized he had a way to get rid of Arlene's husband, permanently. He said nothing about the man with the bullet-head, and when he got the phone call from some guy in Fort Nelson who said he'd helped Walt with his flat tire, he kept mum about that too. He watched as Kibbens' investigation cut corners, missed clues, didn't identify possible witnesses.

Another realtor had shown the house that morning, and when questioned, she insisted she'd locked the door when she left. But her eyes had darted around the room as she spoke and she chewed at her lip. She wasn't sure if she'd remembered to lock up or not, but wouldn't say so, and Doug had simply written down what she said without noticing the hesitation. Jack hadn't pointed that out to him, either.

It was obvious to Jack what had happened. The girl, Sophia, had arrived at the house for her viewing with Walt. Walt was delayed, so she tried the back door, found it unlocked, and went in by herself. The bullet-headed guy had seen her, and realizing the house was empty, followed. Jack had had a couple of run-ins with Sophia when she'd been in school. Drinking in the street, causing a disturbance, once at a teenage house party that got out of control. He'd been surprised when Kibbens reported that she'd been a polite, well-behaved young lady. You'd expect her parents to say that, but Kibbens hadn't gone to any trouble to interview anyone else. He certainly hadn't asked the hard questions that would get people to open up and spill what they knew.

Regardless of what happened with Walt, Jack had no intention of letting a killer walk free. He kept looking for the bullet-headed man, but there was not a sign of him, and none of his usual contacts had any knowledge of the guy. As the days passed, and then when Walt was arrested, Jack knew he'd played this game for too long, left it too late. He couldn't come forward now and say, “Oh, golly. Guess what I just remembered.”

Walter Desmond was charged, tried, convicted. Jack had thought Arlene was putting up a good act as the faithful wife standing by her man. But it hadn't been an act. After Walt's arrest Jack had never spoken to her again. She refused to let him in when he called at their house. She hung up when she heard his voice on the phone. The shop and her house were sold. Arlene moved away, following Walter to Kingston, Ontario, where he'd been sent to the penitentiary. Jack had been watching when she left town for the last time. He'd been shocked at the change in her appearance. She'd aged ten years over the past few months.

He ran his finger down the side of her cheek in the photograph, the same way he'd liked to do in life. Cancer, some said. He had no doubt that was yet another lie: she'd killed herself out of guilt, just as Winters had said.

And then, one day, a couple of months after Walt had gone down, Jack spotted the bullet-headed man. He'd been visiting a buddy who lived up the valley near Winlaw, missed the turn, had to go a long way on the narrow road with crumbling edges before he could turn around. He found himself in a small clearing at the end of the old logging road. A rusting camping trailer sat alone among the trees, a motorbike parked out front. The bullet-headed man had been heading to the trailer. He glanced up at the sound of Jack's car, but the sun was in his eyes, and Jack knew he wouldn't be able to make out the face of the person in the car. He did a tight three-point turn and drove away.

He had no intention of taking the man on his own. He went to work the next morning, walked into Doug Kibbens' office, and laid it all down. If he'd judged Kibbens wrong, he'd have to bluster his way out of it. But he hadn't. Kibbens made all the right noises about reopening the case, telling the chief he'd missed valuable evidence. Jack pointed out that missing evidence wasn't the same as being too lazy to bother looking for it. Kibbens probably wouldn't go to jail, but his career would be over. And that nice pension he was expecting in a couple of years along with it.

Jack didn't mention Walter Desmond. He reminded Doug that nothing they could do would bring Sophia back. Why bring more pain to the parents by reopening the case if they could get rid of the killer on their own? Kibbens had caved, like Jack hoped he would, and agreed to “see what could be done” about the bullet-headed man.

And so they did.

They drove up the valley one pleasant afternoon in early fall when the leaves were beginning to turn and it was elk hunting season. They stopped for gas outside Winlaw. Jack waited in the car while Doug went inside to pay. Then they drove up the rutted and pitted road. When they got near the trailer, Doug stopped a few hundred meters short. Jack jumped out and jogged through the trees the rest of the way. Doug let several minutes pass before he continued to the clearing and stopped outside the trailer. He leaned on the horn and yelled out the window. The trailer door opened, the bullet-headed man stepped outside to see what was going on, and Jack brought him down with a single shot to the chest. He walked up to the man, and made sure the job was finished with a bullet to the head. He and Doug stuffed the body into a bag and threw it into the trunk of Doug's car. While Doug sat outside, with his head in his hands, Jack went through the trailer. He found Sophia's bracelet in a drawer, along with a few other mismatched pieces of jewelry.

“Looks like she might not have been the first.” Jack showed the items to Doug. “Seems like we've done a public service here. If you'd done things by the book, he'd have gone to jail, said he was real sorry, and some bleeding-heart parole board would have let him out in a couple of years. Better this way.” He slapped Doug on the back. Doug gave him a weak grin. “Right.”

They headed back to the highway. They only drove as far as another old logging road Jack knew led to nowhere. They'd brought shovels and dug a good, deep grave. Only one time had Jack turned his back. He'd faced into the woods to have a whiz. It must have been then Doug took the picture. They finished burying the man and left.

He studied the picture of Arlene.

He slipped the photo carefully back into the case it had been in all these years, finished his drink, called the dogs and went inside. Time for bed.

Chapter Forty-four

“I'm surprised your mom's going ahead with the barbeque,” Adam Tocek said.

“She insists she's okay,” Smith said. “You know Mom. Doesn't like to make a fuss.”

Following the attack on Wednesday evening, Lucky had been rushed to the hospital where the doctor had pronounced her injuries as superficial. Walt Desmond had given her attacker such a punch to the jaw the man had been knocked unconscious, but he revived as the police burst through the door of Mid-Kootenay Adventure Vacations. The man had been identified as Richard James Anderson, wanted for previous assaults on Eliza Winters and Darlene Michaels.

It had been nine o'clock on a pleasant summer's evening when police cars and ambulances poured down Front Street under full lights and sirens. A crowd gathered rapidly and word spread even more rapidly. Meredith Morgenstern had been having dinner in a restaurant when her phone rang with the news, and she'd immediately abandoned her friends and her bowl of half-eaten pasta. She arrived at the store in time to get a photograph of Walter Desmond getting into a police car. Into the
front
seat. The next day's
Gazette
had featured the picture under a banner headline, “Hero of the Day!” A smaller headline read, “Arrest Made In Brutal Assaults.” There was no shortage of headlines in that day's paper. Another shouted “Desmond INNOCENT!: Keller.”

The next day, Meredith attempted to interview Walt, but the police refused to tell her where she could find him. He'd missed his bus, and had asked to be dropped back at the Mountain View, but Paul Keller insisted on putting him up for the night at the Hudson House Hotel and paying his fare for a flight to Vancouver in the morning.

Tocek turned off the winding forest road onto the long driveway that led to Lucky's house. The driveway was lined with cars. “There seem to be a lot of people around,” Smith said. “I thought Mom said just a few friends. Hey.” She spotted an SUV with Alberta plates. “I think that's Sam's car. I didn't know they were coming. I hope he brought the kids. That looks like Rosemary's catering truck. Mom must really be feeling the results of Wednesday, if she's got someone else making the food.”

“Natural enough,” Tocek said. Norman woofed in agreement. Adam squeezed his truck between a gleaming white Lexus and an ancient van that seemed to be held together only by rust and prayer. Sylvester, Lucky's golden retriever, ran around the corner of the house to welcome them. He and Norman exchanged greetings in true dog fashion and then he allowed Smith to give him a pat.

More cars were pulling into the driveway. Smith glanced at the single bottle of wine in her hand. “I'm thinking I should have brought more.”

“Sounds like the party's already started,” Tocek said. “You go ahead. I'm going to put Norman back in the truck until I see who's here.”

She joined the stream of people heading around the house, toward the chatter of conversation in the backyard. Everyone wore shorts and tee-shirts or light summer dresses, and most of them carried bottles of wine or six-packs of beer.

When she rounded the house Smith stopped dead in her tracks. “Oh. My. God.” Tocek came up behind her and laughed.

About fifty chairs, covered in white fabric tied with long yellow ribbons blowing in the soft breeze, were laid out on the lawn in neat rows. A small arbor, decorated in masses of yellow and white roses intertwined with fresh greenery, was set up on the banks of the river. Long tables, covered in white cloths, rimmed the lawn. One of the tables was full of sparking crystal flutes and the others had stacks of plates, cutlery, and napkins. Rosemary and Merrill, assisted by several young people in black shirts and trousers under white aprons were placing bottles of champagne into wine coolers.

Paul Keller spotted them and waved. Unlike all the guests here today he was dressed more formally than Molly had ever seen him in a dark gray suit, white shirt, and gray-and-yellow-striped tie. A perfect yellow rose pierced his lapel. His smile was enormous.

“If I didn't know better,” Tocek put out his hand, “I'd think we've accidently stumbled on a wedding.” If anything, Keller's smile only grew as the two men shook hands.

Smith said nothing. She was too stunned.

Keller handed Tocek a rose. “You're a groomsman. Pin this to your shirt.” John and Eliza Winters came over. Eliza's bruises were almost gone, and she was fresh and summery in white capris, a loosely flowing teal blue shirt with turquoise jewelry, and delicate blue sandals. Her husband had a rose pinned to his golf shirt and looked about as confused as Smith and Tocek.

“Your mom's inside,” Keller said to Smith. “She told me to send you in.”

“What? I mean…”

“She'll explain. Adam, John, I think the bar's ready to open. No shop talk allowed today, except I thought you'd want to know that Jeff Glendenning's put in for early retirement. I approved it last night.”

“Just as well,” Winters said.

Smith picked her way across the lawn. It took a long time to get to the house as everyone she passed wanted to say how surprised and delighted they were. She saw a number of people from the office, including Barb Kowalski and Dawn Solway. She waved to Keller's son Matt and Matt's girlfriend, Tracey, and recognized Keller's daughter, Cheryl, from the photo on his desk. She climbed onto the deck, where her childhood friend Christa chatted to a frail, elderly woman in a wheelchair. Hugs were exchanged all around. “Jane, you look wonderful.”

“I do not,” Jane Reynolds, one of Lucky's closest friends, said. “But you do, dear.” Jane's eyes flicked to where Adam chatted with Keller and Winters. “Perhaps I'll be invited to another wedding soon?”

Smith just smiled.

“And how is dear Dave Evans?”

“He's good.” Years ago, when Evans and Smith had been probationary constables, Dave had saved Jane from a fire-bomb. Perhaps for that reason alone, Smith hadn't reported his harassment of Walt Desmond.

“Did you know about this, Christa?” she asked.

The other woman laughed. “Not a clue. I can't believe your mom was able to arrange all this without anyone getting wind of it.”

“Aunt Molly's here. Aunt Molly's here.” Roberta just about knocked her down the minute she walked into the mud room. Smith bent down and gave the girl a hug. “Nice to see you too, kiddo. Where's your grandma?”

“Living room,” Lucky called.

It was the third day after the attack. Lucky's bruises were at their finest. Her face was a mass of yellow, black, and purple and her left eye was swollen, but her smile was huge and radiant. She held out her arms when her daughter came into the room. Lucky wore a knee-length cream dress trimmed with yellow lace under a matching jacket with three-quarter-length sleeves. Yellow roses and baby's breath were twisted into her hair. She looked absolutely spectacular.

Smith stepped into her mom's arms. They held each other for a long time. When they separated, both women's eyes were wet.

“I'm a flower girl, Aunt Molly,” Roberta said. “And you're a bridesmaid. You have flowers, too.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

Lucky grinned. “It all sort of got away from us. The plan was for a simple ceremony followed by a barbeque for the family and a few friends. But I realized that I don't have a few friends. I have a lot of good, close friends. And then there's the people from Paul's work and his children. We wanted a nice, lovely celebration with all our friends around us, but we didn't want gifts we don't need or people making a fuss with showers and stag nights and all the rest. Are you okay with this, dear?”

“Mom, I am beyond happy for you. Truly, I am. Although,” she studied her mother's face, “your wedding pictures are going to look a mite odd.”

Lucky laughed. “And that will be something for my great-grandchildren to talk about, won't it?”