Valley of the Lost (9 page)

“Of course, I can’t take sides.” He glanced at his watch. “Tomorrow’s Monday and it’s possible that child services will be back. I wanted you to be aware of what’s going on, that’s all.”

She stood up. “Thanks, sir. But my mom isn’t likely to listen to me, you know.”

Keller again rubbed his hand across his bald dome. “And she isn’t going to listen to me either, Molly. But we can try. Take care.”

“Sure,” she said, not knowing if he was asking her to take care of herself on the streets, or her mother if things didn’t go Lucky’s way.

She went to the parking lot at the side of the building. It was three-forty-three and Evans was behind the wheel of a patrol car.

“What was that about?”

She fastened her seat belt. “Everything and nothing. Everyone in this town knows everyone and everything there is to know about them.”

“Which is why,” Evans said, “I can’t wait to get the hell out of here.”

Small towns had their disadvantages, Smith was about to agree. But if you wanted a life outside of work, someplace to relax, to calm down, there weren’t many places better than Trafalgar.

“Two-five. Where are you?” The radio cracked. It was Sergeant Winters. Smith glanced at the clock. Three-forty-six.

“Office,” Evans said.

“Go to Vancouver Street, park between Redwood and Cedar. Remain in the vehicle until notified. No noise.”

“On our way.” They pulled out of the parking bay onto George Street. Sunday traffic was light and no cars were coming their way.

“What do you think, Mol?” Evans said, his foot hard on the gas.

“Grow-op raid, for sure. Either that or an Al-Qaeda cell.”

“I’ll put my money on the grow-op,” Evans said. “Although it’d be nice to tackle those Al-Qaeda guys. It’s pretty nasty the way they treat women.”

They took a corner and Smith’s head shook, as much with the centrifugal force as with Evans’ remark. Hard to know, sometimes, if men wanted to help women in distant places, or if they wanted to be seen as powerful and macho as they offered their help to women in distant places. There was a profound difference, Lucky had taught her. One approach cared about the result of their interference. One did not.

Evans slid the car up against the crumbling curb on Vancouver Street. An elderly lady was grooming her lush perennial garden.

She approached the car, scissors in liver-spotted hand.

“Oh, goodie,” Evans said. “We have backup.”

Smith rolled down the window. “Afternoon, ma’am.”

“If you’re here about them.” The gardener waved her shears, which were, Smith noticed, well sharpened. “You’re too late. They’re gone. For good I hope, but I don’t expect my prayers to be answered.”

“I’m afraid not, ma’am.”

“It’s those cats. I’ve complained and complained about what they’re doing to my plants, but does anyone listen. No. I’m just an old lady. Who cares what I think? An old lady, I’ll remind you, who’s lived in this town since 1938. How about that?”

“Wow,” Smith said. For lack of anything else to say. “That’s a long time.”

The woman peered into the window of the car. Her eyes were clear and sharply focused. “I know you. You’re the Smith girl. Moonbeam. What a ridiculous name. And now you’re with the police. What could your father have been thinking, allowing you to take a man’s job?”

Evans almost busted a gut trying not to laugh. Smith refrained from slapping him.

“Pardon me, Ma’am. Police business.” John Winters was beside the car, and the gardener bustled away after giving him a simpering smile.

“You’re with me Smith. Evans, pull the car up in front of that alley. This is the only way out. Anyone comes down it, stop them.”

Chapter Nine

Meredith Morgenstern was sitting in her living room, painting her toenails and wondering if she should spend the afternoon at the beach or just sit here on her miniscule balcony. The phone rang, but she was in no hurry to answer it. Nothing of importance would be happening in Trafalgar on a Sunday afternoon.

“Too bad you’re not there,” a voice said into the answering machine. “Interesting stuff happenin’ on Redwood Street.” It was a man, probably, the sound muffled, the words indistinct.

Meredith tossed the bottle of polish onto the low coffee table and grabbed the receiver. “I’m here, I’m here. Who are you? Why are you calling me?”

“Just bein’ friendly. It’s no concern of mine if you go. Do what you like. But you might see an old school chum of yours there.” He hung up.

Redwood was a residential street in the lower east end of town, an area of crumbling older homes and weed-choked gardens. If anything would be happening in Trafalgar on a Sunday afternoon it would be likely to happen on Redwood Street. Meredith ran into her bedroom, not noticing the blood-red polish dripping into the carpet.

***

Smith scrambled out of the car. She plopped her hat on her head and settled the gun belt around her waist.

Winters was dressed in jeans and his raid jacket. “You’re to do nothing but follow me,” he told her. “Understand?”

“Yes.”

They walked up Vancouver Street and turned into Redwood. A casually dressed man tossed a cigarette butt onto the sidewalk and ground it under his heel. Smith had seen him around—RCMP.

429 Redwood Street was a dilapidated shack. Weeds choked the life out of a yard that once-upon-a-time had boasted a pleasant garden. The brick walkway was buried in more weeds and recently laid piles of dog dirt. Paint peeled from gingerbread edging. Particle board covered basement windows.

Meredith Morgenstern watched from across the street. She was dressed in black shorts, red T-shirt, and sandals with heels, a camera bag tossed over her right shoulder.

Meredith saw Smith and Winters arrive. She held up her right hand, index finger pointed out, thumb folding back the other three fingers. She threw them a bright smile, along with the implied threat.

“That woman’s with the paper,” the Mountie said. “If they’ve spotted her, we might as well be home playing tiddlywinks.”

“Someone’s informed on us,” Winters said, his voice low. “Can’t worry about that now.”

The three police officers walked up the weed-choked pathway. Winters and the Mountie looked like they were heading for their mothers’ homes to escort the ladies to church. Smith’s heart pounded so hard in her chest, she wouldn’t have been surprised if the residents of the house heard them coming and ran out the back into Dave Evans’ waiting arms.

Winters knocked on the door.

Nothing.

He knocked again.

The door opened, just a crack. A head, all uncombed hair and unkempt beard peered up. He looked at the men first. “Yeah?” Then he saw Smith, in uniform. “Jesus,” he said.

The Mountie stuck a heavily booted foot into the door before it could be slammed shut.

“Police search warrant,” Winters yelled. “We’re coming in.” He flipped the flaps on his jacket and the word ‘Police’ was displayed. “Smith, secure the street.” He disappeared into the house.

Other cars were arriving. Trafalgar City Police’s non-descript blue van. Mounties in a truck painted with the logo of a horseman carrying a lance. A uniformed officer leapt out. It was Adam Tocek, who’d saved their asses in the riot last month. He opened the back for a gorgeous German Shepherd.

Orders cracked over the radio.

Evans ran around the corner. No one had come out the back door into the alley, to his apparent disappointment. He checked out the street and went back to his post.

It would be great to be in on the action, but from now on Smith was only here to keep the curious back. Onlookers, mostly, neighbors going about their Sunday afternoon business of firing up the barbeque or cracking open a two-four. And the occasional pot customer wandering down the street and, gratefully, escaping the raid.

“Go home. Keep this road clear.” Smith said as she stretched yellow tape between the bushes on either side of the sidewalk.

“What’s happening?” the elderly lady who’d been caring for her hosta asked.

“Go home, ma’am. There’s nothing to see here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, young lady. There’s obviously a great deal to see. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here, now would you?”

Can’t argue with logic like that
.

The man with the filthy hair and beard was hustled out and stuffed into a car.

Nothing more appeared to be happening, and Meredith Morgenstern and the rest of the onlookers were getting restless, when John Winters and his Mountie pal came out of the house. They went to the blue van, climbed into the back, and soon came out carrying suits that looked as if the men were preparing for an exploration of the moon.

That got the crowd whispering to each other.

Meredith ran up to Sergeant Winters, notebook and pen in hand. He walked past her as if she wasn’t there. Meredith’s face settled into dark, angry lines. She looked up and saw Smith watching her. “Screw you,” the reporter’s lips said.

She went back to interviewing the good citizens of Trafalgar.

***

Constable Tocek waved at Smith as he walked down the front steps. She lifted her hand with a smile. Tocek led his dog toward her. By now the onlookers had either gone home or knew there was no point in asking if they could get closer to have a look. The big German Shepherd sniffed at Smith’s boots.

“Nice dog,” she said.

“This is Norman. The best nose in B.C.”

“Nice to meet you, Norman.” Smith leaned forward to let the dog sniff her hand. He did so, and then lifted his enormous head and looked at her. His ears were not much smaller than satellite dishes; his brown eyes warm and intelligent.

“Can I have a minute, Constable Smith?” Tocek said in a low voice. He twitched his head toward the onlookers, brimming with curiosity. The lady who’d lived in Trafalgar since 1938 dared to edge closer.

“Sure.”

She followed man and dog a few yards down the road. “Norman’s a strange name for a dog.”

A bio-suited figure carried out a large paper bag full of… something. Smith wondered if she should be offering protection, but as the citizens only whispered amongst themselves, she decided not to.

Tocek dug the toe of his boot into the ground. “That was the name he had when we got him. Someone’s dad, maybe. Or ex-husband.”

Smith laughed. Norman peed against a bush.

“I’m glad to see you looking okay,” Tocek said, following a long pause. “After that business last month.”

“I’m sorry, Adam. I never thanked you for the flowers. That was nice of you guys. Thank everyone at the detachment for me will you?”

“Uh, sure. I was wondering… well, I’ve got a couple of days off starting Tuesday, and I’m going hiking in Kokanee Glacier Park.”

“That’ll be fun,” she said. “Weather’s supposed to stay good.”

“So I was wondering… uh… if you’d like to come with me. Just a day trip. No more than you’d like to do.”

She hadn’t been into the wilderness since that last break with Graham. Before he moved to Vancouver to take up the new job. And after Graham’s death, she’d simply not wanted to go alone, with nothing accompanying her but her memories. A day hike would be nice. When she and Sam were in high school they worked for the family business guiding kayaking and backcountry hiking trips in the summer, skiing expeditions in the winter. She missed the wilderness. She usually worked four days on/four days off. She’d be free starting tomorrow. She smiled at Tocek, all ready to say yes.

But the color was high in his cheeks and he was staring at the ground. He’d dug a neat circle in the dirt with the toe of his boot. His own business finished, Norman sat politely at his master’s side.

And Molly Smith knew why Adam Tocek had suddenly come over all awkward and embarrassed.

He wasn’t asking her to be his hiking companion. He was asking her on a date.

She swallowed, trying to throw back rising panic. “Sorry, Adam. I can’t. My mom’s sick and I said I’d stick around to help out if she needs a ride to go to the doctor or something.”

What an awful excuse. As if everyone in the Kootenays didn’t know Lucky Smith and know that she’d slit her throat before asking for help.

He gave her a weak grin. “Sure, Molly. I understand. Maybe some other time.”

“Yeah, some other time.”

“Call me, if you can get away. Come on Norman, time to go.”

She watched them walk toward their car. Tocek held the back door open and the dog jumped in. As they drove past, Norman looked at her. Adam Tocek did not.

Molly Smith felt like dirt.

“Wouldn’t mind being clapped in handcuffs by that one.”

Smith whirled around. “You’re on the wrong side of the street, Meredith,” she barked, her voice loud in her own ears. Get back over there.”

“Just wondering if you’ve got a word for the press.”

Smith opened her mouth.

“Not that word.”

“You know the rules. Get behind the line or I’ll arrest you for interfering in a police investigation.”

“And I’ll bet you’d do it too. Time to get over yourself, Moonlight. You’re not as tough as you think you are.” With that Meredith picked her way back across the street.

The sun had dipped behind the western mountains and the onlookers had decided they had better things to do and Smith was tired of standing in the road. Evans had been called RTO—return to office—but Smith was left guarding the door. She carefully noted in her log book the time and name of anyone who entered or left the premises.

At last Sergeant John Winters et al left the house. They unwrapped themselves from the bio suits—it was only pot they were after so the suits weren’t good ones—and stuffed whatever evidence they’d gathered into the back of the marked truck.

The only person still standing on the far side of the street was Meredith Morgenstern. She approached Winters.

“Do you have a statement for the press, Sergeant Winters?”

“Not at this time.” He climbed into the truck, almost slamming the door in her face.

Smith’s radio cracked. “RTO, Smith.” It was Winters. “Show’s over.”

Chapter Ten

Miller had had a bad night. Awake every two hours, screaming to be fed, needing to be changed, hard to put back down once he’d had his bottle. Andy rolled out of bed and took his pillow to Sam’s old room at the end of the hall. At six, Moonlight had come banging on their door saying that if she didn’t get some sleep she’d throttle someone.

Lucky put the kettle on the stove.
Surely it hadn’t been this hard when Samwise and Moonlight were babies?
Of course she’d been thirty years younger, and Andy had been an eager, willing partner in the great task of child-raising.

One of Lucky’s friends had brought Miller a beautiful white wicker bassinet, and she’d set it on the top of the bedroom dresser. After shoving all their odds and ends into a drawer.

By nine o’clock, she’d finally gotten the baby settled into the pram by the stove, which he seemed to much prefer to the bassinet. Sylvester was asleep beside him and Miller lay still, his round fat bottom pointed toward the ceiling.

Lucky took a container of blueberry yoghurt out of the fridge. Andy had marched through the kitchen, remnants of blond hair sticking up all over, unshaven, shirt tail untucked. Face like a thundercloud. He said not a word as he grabbed his keys off the hook by the back door.

Fortunately Moonlight appeared to have gone back to sleep.

Lucky got a spoon out of the drawer, placed it and the container of yogurt on the table and sat down. She rested her head in her hands and her eyes drifted shut.

A car pulled up. Lucky’s eyes did not want to open. She hoped it was Andy coming back to give her the farewell kiss he’d given her every morning for more than thirty years. Every morning except when they were arguing, that is.

A door slammed. Lucky forced herself to stand up. She looked out the window.

Jody Burke got out of the car and marched up to the front door, a woman on a mission. Lucky greeted her visitor with a smile and arms baring the entrance way.

“Ms. Burke.”

“May I come in?”

“No. The baby’s sleeping, very peacefully, I might add, and I’d rather he wasn’t disturbed.”

Burke was dressed in a long skirt, all possible shades of blue swirling through the fabric, a sleeveless red T-shirt, long silver earnings, and a pendant featuring a heavy red stone. She studied Lucky, and Lucky could imagine what she saw. The lined face, dark with lack of sleep, hair like a crow’s nest, summer pajamas consisting of shorts and a bra-fitted tank top. A thin streak of baby vomit running across her left breast.

“There’s no need for this to escalate into a legal argument, Mrs. Smith.” Burke smiled.

“I agree. So, as I’m caring for the child, we have no reason for an argument, do we?”

“Please, Mrs. Smith. Why don’t you put on the kettle and we can discuss this. You must know that I have obligations, legal obligations, if I’m to do my job properly. My boss wants to know what’s happening here. I’m new, only arrived last week. I can’t afford to look totally incompetent.” She gave Lucky a lopsided grin, and shrugged her shoulders, seeking empathy.

Lucky didn’t have any. Burke’s armor hadn’t been up the first time they’d met, and Lucky had seen her character for what it was.

Sylvester came to the door. He walked past Burke without a glance and trotted across the yard to sniff at her tires. He lifted his leg.

“I don’t have time for a social visit. And it wouldn’t accomplish anything in any event,” Lucky said. “It’s not in Miller’s interest to be shuffled from one foster home to another. I’ve agreed to care for the baby until his family can be contacted. I would have thought that’d be the best possible situation at this time.”

“I was hoping you’d see reason. Although from what I hear about you, Mrs. Smith, reason seems to be…”

“When you have a court order, you may return.”

Burke stepped forward. Her forefinger touched Lucky’s chest, and Lucky took a step back. “How dare you.” Burke’s voice was low and threatening. The voice she used, Lucky suspected, to intimidate poor, frightened young mothers. “I demand you hand the child over to me. This instant.”

Lucky took a breath. She settled her feet into the ground and steadied her legs. “You take one more step, and I’ll have you arrested for trespassing. And assault. As it happens, my daughter, who is in the house, is a police officer. And that’s no lie—ask anyone in town.”

Burke blinked, and her eyes shifted to one side.

Lucky took a step backward and slammed the door in the woman’s face.

“I’ll be back,” Burke shouted. “With an officer who isn’t a member of your family.”

Footsteps crunched against gravel, and the car’s engine came to life.

A low howl sounded from the kitchen. Lucky leaned against the wall, trying to take deep breaths, as it turned into a full throated cry.

Why don’t I simply hand Miller over to Burke and get myself a good night’s sleep?

Because she hadn’t liked the woman from the moment they’d met. Jody Burke did not have Miller’s best interests at heart. There were lots of good people working in the social services. And a few who weren’t so good.

Jody Burke, Lucky knew, was a bully.

And at last the bully had come up against someone stronger than she.

***

Big Eddie’s Coffee Emporium pretty much kept John Winters going. The coffee was high-octane, the muffins loaded with fat as well as a sprinkling of berries so he could convince himself he’d had a nutritious snack. Monday afternoon the place was almost empty. As soon as he walked in, Eddie poured a coffee. After Winters’ first visit, the day he’d joined the Trafalgar City Police, Eddie had never again asked what he wanted:

“I was visiting friends on Redwood Street yesterday afternoon,” Jolene, stunningly beautiful with midnight black skin, heavy hair gathered into colorful beads, and a Princess Diana accent, smiled as she handed him a blueberry muffin. “Find what you wanted?”

“Sure did.” Yesterday’s raid had been a big success. A house full of marijuana plants. Much of the crop only days away from being harvested. Two people charged. The house was rented, as most of them were. The owners had been contacted, and were heading back from Mexico.

They’d have an unpleasant surprise when they saw the condition of their house.

British Columbia in general, and the Kootenays in particular, had the reputation of being soft on pot.

Which was, John Winters knew, not always the case. He hoped this time it wouldn’t be.

He carried his coffee and muffin back to the office.

He was settling down, ready to type up his report on the grow-op bust when Denton called him. “Lady here to see you, Sergeant,” the dispatcher/front desk officer said.

A young woman stood in the waiting area between the front door and the security door. Winters watched her for a moment. She ripped at the nail on her right thumb while looking at the posters of wanted and missing people from jurisdictions across Canada displayed on the bulletin board.

He opened the door. “I’m Sergeant Winters. You wanted to talk to me?”

She was skinny to the point of emaciation; her clothes much too big for her. Her face was dotted with spots and her brown hair hung in lifeless strands. Dull brown eyes skittered in a pale face. “I heard you’re asking about Ash.”

“Ashley,” Winters held the door open. “Please, come in.”

Like a mouse offered access to the cat’s cage, the girl almost bolted.

“Miss,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Amy.”

“Would you like a drink, Amy? Coffee, tea, hot chocolate?”

“Coffee’d be nice.”

He kept his smile in place as he held the door open. With great hesitation, she stepped through. No cats leapt out to devour her, and so she relaxed, just a fraction.

“Two coffees please, Jim. How do you take your coffee, Amy?”

“Uh, cream. Sugar?”

“Get muffins as well. We’ll be in the guest room.” Denton had probably never served coffee in his life, and he was unlikely to know what the guest room was, but he should be able to guess that it was the witness interview room.

Molly Smith came out of the constables’ office, carrying a file folder. “Hey, Amy,” she said. “How you doing?”

“Okay, Moon, okay.”

“Constable Smith,” Winters said, making a decision out of no where. “You’re with me. Interview room one.”

“Huh?” she said.

“One. Follow up with Jim on our coffee and then join us.”

“Sure.”

Winters settled Amy into a comfortable couch in the witness interview room. Unlike the suspect interrogation room, not intended to be a pleasant place to pass the time of day, this space was decorated in gentle pastel colors and furniture that didn’t look like it was mass produced with the intent of being as ugly and uncomfortable as possible. A large box of tissues sat on the coffee table in the center of the room. He told Amy he’d be recording their conversation and left the door open for Smith, who soon arrived with two cups of coffee and a bag of muffins.

She held the bag out to Amy. The girl took one and dug in. The food was followed by a deep slug of coffee. “Nice,” she said.

Winters lifted one eyebrow toward Smith. The constable knew the girl. Let her start the questioning.

“It’s been a while, Amy.” Smith’s voice was hesitant at first, but it soon found its strength. “Whatca been doing?”

“This and that. Hanging around. You know.”

“Yeah, I know. How’s that baby doing? Robbie, right?”

Amy smiled, and settled against the back of her chair. “He’s such a character, Moon. He makes me laugh, all the time.”

“Where’s Robbie now?”

“At the support center. They said they’d look after him so I could come here and talk to you, like without interruptions. Your mom wasn’t there. I wanted to leave Robbie with your mom.”

“Mom’s like so busy right now.” Smith said. Winters looked at her, amazed. Her voice had shifted. It was naturally high pitched, too high, Winters sometimes thought, to make her an effective voice of authority. But now it moved even higher up the scale, and casual slang slipped into her conversation. The way she spoke, she might not have been wearing the blue uniform with the Kevlar vest, the heavy, deadly, black Glock at her hip, handcuffs and baton around her waist.

“What brings you here, Amy? It must be important if you’ve left Robbie, eh?”

“It might be nothing, Moon. It’s about Ashley. Like I heard she’d died. They said at the center that the cops want to talk to anyone who knew her.”

Smith gave Winters a glance. He nodded.

“Tough, eh?”

Amy sipped her coffee. “Yeah. She had a kid, just a baby. I don’t know where he went.”

“Miller’s being cared for, Amy. Don’t have to worry about that.”

Winters leaned across the table and gave the girl what he hoped was his best non-threatening smile. “Is there something you can tell me, Amy? About Ashley?”

Amy rubbed at her head. Deep scratch marks, old scars, ran down the inside of her arm.

“Ash didn’t have many friends. She could of had friends. She was friendly, pretty. And real smart. She hung around town, most of the time, with the baby. She went to the support center sometimes. She liked your mom, Moonlight, she told me so.”

Smith smiled. “Everyone, well almost everyone, likes my mom.”

“Yeah.”

“Was she your friend, Amy?” Winter asked, trying to get the conversation back on track.

“We talked, like a couple times. Down at the center.”

Smith picked up the brown paper bag, and held it out to Amy. The girl took another muffin, dark, streaked with orange of shredded carrot, and broke off a section. She popped it into her mouth.

Winters was beginning to think he’d be here all day.

Amy chewed and Winters thought he’d lost her.

“Clark told me not to come,” she said at last, wiping crumbs off her fingers onto her thighs. “But they said at the center that someone killed her. That’s not right, is it?”

The town’s grapevine was working hard. No one had said anything officially about Ashley being killed. Yesterday’s paper ran an editorial on the danger of bad drugs. “It’s not right to kill someone, no,” Winters said.

“This person who killed Ashley, you need to find him, right?”

Winters chose his words carefully. “If Ashley was killed, then yes, I would very much like to find the person who did it.”

“I thought so. Clark said I’d be stirring up trouble. I don’t wanna do that, but I wanna help. Okay, Moon?”

“That’s great, Amy,” Smith said, sounding positive, and enthusiastic, and cheerful.

“Ash was real interested in that new social worker.”

“Interested, how do you mean?” Winters said. “Had she met this woman before?”

“Not a woman. A guy. She told me she knew him, back in Victoria. Or maybe it was Vancouver. Might have been Vancouver.”

“What’s this social worker’s name?”

“I don’t remember exactly, but it’s something like my friend Julie’s, but a guy’s name. Old fellow. Thinks he’s all cool. Tries to look like a hippie.”

Smith glanced at Winters and raised one discreet eyebrow. He nodded telling her to ask the question. “Might it have been Julian, Amy?”

Amy smiled. “That’s it. You’re so clever, Moon.”

Julian Armstrong who he’d met at the site of the overdose and again at the women’s center. Not that Winters thought of the social worker as an old guy. “What did Ashley have to say about him?”

The girl looked directly at Winters for the first time. “I’m sorry, Mr. Winters. But I get confused sometimes, and don’t remember things.”

“That’s okay, Amy,” Smith said. “I couldn’t find my car keys today. I was late for work and everything. I got in so much trouble.”

Winters doubted that any such thing had happened, but Amy appreciated the words and smiled in her slow, gentle way. “Not just me then. Ashley was all excited seeing him.”

“Excited? How do you mean?” Smith asked. “Excited happy or excited mad?”

“Not mad, I don’t think. She said he was the key to her future. I don’t know what that meant. I figured you’d wanna know. That’s all.”

They got nothing more out of the girl. Winters asked if she knew Ashley’s last name: Amy shook her lifeless hair. Smith told her to take the remaining muffins with her, and she clutched the bag to her skinny chest as she walked out of the police station.