Funny money, p.24
Funny Money, page 24
part #12 of Willows and Parker Mystery Series
Somebody upstairs stamped heavily on the floor. Did Tim’s landlord time his showers? She didn’t want to get Tim in trouble, or attract attention to herself, so she turned off the water. She dried herself with the same threadbare towel she’d used earlier, and then slipped into Tim’s white terrycloth robe.
Someone was knocking furtively on her door.
The landlord, come to bitch about the cost of hot water? She didn’t know what she should do. She moved hesitantly towards the door. The knocking stopped, and in the jolting quiet all she could hear was the ragged sound of her own breath. Then the knocking started again, knuckles beating rapid and soft as a hummingbirds heartbeat, swiftly rising in urgency and volume to what seemed like a thunderous, deafening roar.
Chantal hurried to the door. There was no safety chain. She said, “Who is it?”
“Tim.” His voice was strained. “Let me in, it’s cold and I’m soaked, and freezing …”
Hesitantly, with a strange sense of foreboding, she turned the deadbolt’s butterfly handle, and opened the door just enough so she could see. Tim stood there in the rain, looking cold and wet and very sick. She said, “What are you doing here?” Stupid question. She opened the door, and as she stepped back to let him in, he fell face down across the threshold.
Hector said, “Remember me?” He backed her into the apartment with his knife, and graphically reminded her of the nature of their last encounter.
Chantal said, “I don’t do that any more!”
“Too bad,” said Carlos, “because nobody likes a quitter.”
Chantal retreated from Hector and Carlos until her back was to the wall. Tim lay on the floor, groaning. She glanced down at him and then back to Carlos. “What d’you want?”
Carlos shut and locked the door. He picked Tim up by his hair and belt and threw him a little further into the room, knocking the TV off its stand. Bogart and Hepburn stared up at the ceiling, bemused. Chantal turned and ran. In hot pursuit, Carlos tripped over the lone kitchen chair, lost his balance, and head-butted the refrigerator. Chantal ran into the bathroom, slammed the door and shot the ridiculous little deadbolt. She stepped into the shower and yanked on the plastic curtain. Now she was safe, protected by an army of cheerful yellow ducks cavorting in a rainstorm. She opened her mouth and screamed and screamed.
Carlos gave the door a hard kick. His boot punched a ragged hole in the flimsy fibreboard, and his camouflaged leg vanished all the way to mid-thigh. He experienced a moment of panic, thinking he might be stuck. Jagged pieces of door pattered on the floor as he extracted his leg. His paratrooper boot had come off. Fuck. He kicked the door again, and it crashed open. There was nowhere to hide but the shower stall. He tore away the curtain.
Chantal pointed the hand-held nozzle at him. She’d turned the hot water tap on full. Carlos was hit in the face, at point-blank range, with an impotent drizzle of lukewarm water. He batted the nozzle aside, grabbed a handful of bathrobe and spun Chantal out of the bathroom, slapped her a few times to calm her down, and pushed her down the narrow hallway into the kitchen. Chantal’s wet feet went out from under her. She fell heavily. Carlos clutched at her but she was already up and sprinting towards the door. No problem, since Hector was waiting for her.
Carlos lifted his jacket and let her see his pistol. She turned back towards Hector and he flashed his knife. He said, “Settle down, or I’ll cut you to pieces.”
“Fondue-size,” offered Carlos. He closed in on her, backing her into the corner between the kitchen table and the fridge. He said, “Where’s our money?”
The terrycloth robe fell open. Chantal smiled tremulously. She said, “Isn’t this what you really want?”
Smirking, Carlos grabbed at her with both hands.
The stainless-steel fork struck him in the side of the throat, penetrating his carotid artery to the full depth of the tines.
Bellowing in pain, Carlos yanked the fork out of his neck and flung it clattering into the sink. Blood spouted forcefully from an evenly spaced quartet of puncture wounds. He spat more blood as he roared his dismay. Chantal edged away from him, but there was nowhere to go. He fumbled for his pistol. She reached into the sink and scooped up the bloody fork and stabbed him again, in his cheek and throat, his flailing arms. The pistol skittered across the linoleum. Carlos dropped to his knees. Chantal kept at him, stabbing and stabbing.
The pistol bumped against Tim’s wrist. His hand closed on the grip. Hector was inches away, crouched on all fours. Tim lifted the pistol. The blade front sight obscured much of Hector’s sweat-blistered face.
Tim had suffered a concussion, and several fractured ribs. He had a migraine-quality headache, blurred vision, a rising fever. The pistol was very heavy. He held it with both hands but it was still too much for him. The black muzzle drifted down and down until it was pointed directly at Hector’s genitalia.
Due to the nature of Tim’s injuries, and his confused state of mind, not even he could say whether the gun discharged accidently, or was fired with lethal intent.
Chapter 47
Tim Shepherd’s neighbourhood was thick with cops. Every last one of them was bored, frustrated, achingly hungry, and soaked to the bone.
The police dispatcher who took Chantal’s garbled call had lost no time broadcasting a “shots fired” call, and Tim’s address. The response was immediate, and overwhelming. Within minutes, a small army of uniformed officers descended on the house. There was no time or inclination to call in the department’s highly trained emergency response team. Uniformed patrol officers jostled on the home’s front and back porches for the privilege of kicking in the door.
The door to the basement suite was already wide open when the first wave arrived. Soon the tiny apartment was crammed with cops. Willows and Parker shouldered their way through the mob. A circle of cops stood solemnly over Carlos’ sprawled-out corpse. He’d bled out, and his vital fluids had followed the floor’s slight decline, flowing over the linoleum to the kitchen cupboard, and then running along the baseboard as far as the shattered bathroom door.
A sergeant named Morris handed Willows a plastic evidence bag containing Carlos’ silenced pistol. Morris had removed the gun’s magazine, and racked the slide, ejecting the round in the chamber.
He told Willows he’d pried the cocked pistol from Tim Shepherd’s unconscious fingers. He pointed down at Carlos and said, “Charles David Cunningham. I busted him about five years ago, on an assault charge. He’s got a sheet a backyard long. I heard a rumour he’s been working for Jake Cappalletti.”
Willows nodded. Carlos and his partner, Hector, had both been working for Jake for several months. Low-level stuff, the way he heard it.
Somebody had covered Tim Shepherd with a blanket, from his feet to his chin. Parker said, “What happened to him?”
“Cunningham ran him down with his van. He used him to get into the apartment, so he could get at our murder suspect.”
Willows said, “What murder suspect?”
“The kid, Chantal. From that homicide at the Lux.” Morris smiled. “The mysterious girl with but a single name, like Cher.”
Willows crouched down beside Tim Shepherd. He rested two gentle fingers on Shepherd’s carotid artery.
Morris said, “I think he’s got a busted rib. His breathing’s okay.” He glanced at his watch. “The paramedics should’ve been here by now.” He jerked his thumb towards the open bedroom door. “Your suspect’s in there, cooling her heels. She’s okay, but she’s in shock. Said she killed Cunningham. Told me before and after I’d warned her. Cunningham’s partner beat it after Shepherd shot him.”
“Shot him?”
“That’s what the girl said. We found a few drops of blood by the curb. The guy’s driving a white Econoline with a smashed leftside headlight. We’ll find him.” Morris saw the look in Willows’ eye. He said, “Yeah, it’s a mess, but what was I supposed to do? I got here, I found a corpse, a coma, a juvie murder suspect in serious need of a sedative, and ten thousand cops stampeding all over the crime scene.”
Parker said, “Did she say why she stabbed him?”
“He broke into the apartment, assaulted her, threatened her with the gun.”
“Does she know him?”
The cop nodded. “Yeah, but she wouldn’t say how.”
The paramedics arrived. Willows hadn’t heard the siren. He thanked Morris for his help, and told the paramedics there was a second victim in the bedroom, but to attend to Shepherd first. He and Parker went into the bedroom.
Chantal lay on the bed, facing away from them.
Parker said, “Chantal …”
“Leave me alone!”
“I’m a police officer. My name’s Claire.” Parker sat down on the edge of the bed. She touched Chantal’s shoulder, very lightly. “Are you all right?”
Chantal burst into tears. Always a good sign. Parker stroked her hair and murmured words of encouragement. Chantal wiped away her tears with the corner of a sheet. She said, “The people who live upstairs beat their kids.”
Parker thought about that for a moment. She said, “I’ll look into it, promise.”
A team of paramedics squeezed into the room. Willows and Parker pushed their way into the living room to help Sergeant Morris with crowd control.
A few minutes later one of the paramedics tapped Parker on the shoulder. “The girl’s in shock; we sedated her.” To make it clear, he added, “You’re not going to get anything out of her until the morning.”
“No problem,” said Parker.
*
At two-twenty that morning, Fire & Rescue No. 19 responded to a “fire on the beach” call from a woman who spotted the blaze from her bathroom window.
No. 19 found a fully engulfed Econoline van parked just above the high-tide line. The burning vehicle’s gas tank had exploded a few minutes before they arrived on the scene. A spiralling funnel of greasy black smoke rose out of the shattered driver’s-side window, but by the time hoses were run across the beach, there wasn’t much left of the van but white-hot metal.
Willows stood upwind of the Econoline’s charred remains. Behind him, the city’s glow was reflected in the harbour’s black calm. High up on the hill above the beach, the bright lights of Jake Cappalletti’s Point Grey mini-mansion shone through the rain. The house was about a mile or so away. Much too far for sound to travel. A traffic cop lent him a pair of binoculars. Blue and red and yellow and green lanterns had been strung around the sundeck.
Jake was seriously ill, but there seemed to be a party going on.
Or it might’ve been a wake.
The Econoline was cherry red, as if it had just been tonged out of a gigantic kiln. The firemen ruthlessly hosed it down, until finally the twisted metal body turned black, and the last wisp of steam was pounded by the rain.
A tangled heap of bones lay on the front seat’s coiled steel springs. The skull had rolled onto the floor. Handcuffs dangled from the steering wheel.
*
Parker let Willows sleep until noon, and then woke him with a kiss. She’d made breakfast — scrambled eggs and bacon, whole-wheat toast smeared with homemade blackberry jam, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and coffee. She set the tray down on the night table beside the bed. Willows blinked the sleep out of his eyes. He spread his arms, and yawned widely. He had a cop’s knack for waking up in a hurry. Parker handed him the Sun, keeping the National Post for herself, because the paper had a vastly superior books and arts section.
Willows thanked her for breakfast. “The kids home?” Parker gave him a look. He smiled. “Just asking.”
“Annie and Cindy Palmer went downtown to stroll the malls. Sean took Tripper for a walk around the block; he should be back any minute.”
Carolyn Budd had returned Tripper the previous evening. The dog had destroyed a leather jacket and three pairs of expensive Italian shoes Carolyn had bought during a recent vacation in Rome. Worse, Tripper had intimidated her chartered-accountant fiancé. Willows sipped his coffee. It had been years since he’d slept in this late, and he was enjoying himself immensely. Of course, next time he and Parker slept in, it’d be his turn to cook.
He was reading the sports section when the front door banged open. Sean yelled a cheerful hello, and then Tripper came racing up the stairs and down the hall. The dog jumped up on the bed and gave herself a shake.
Willows defended himself with the raised paper. He looked out the bedroom window. Sure enough, it was raining.
“Bad dog!” said Parker sternly, and fed Tripper a rasher of bacon to prove she meant it.
Willows smiled at her, and she smiled nervously back. What now? Something was on her mind. He realized that she wasn’t having any coffee, just juice.
She’d stopped drinking coffee quite a while ago, come to think of it.
Alcohol, too.
He said, “Is anything wrong?” He put his cup down and stared levelly at her, waiting.
The seconds ticked past. Finally, Parker blurted out the words that were ceaselessly on her mind. “Jack, I’m pregnant.”
“Lucky us,” said Willows, enfolding her in his arms.
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Laurence Gough, Funny Money
