He shook himself, a little like a dog shaking off water.
“Tell me about the broad who hired you.”
“No, I don’t think I will. Besides, other than a physical description, which likely doesn’t mean much, there’s nothing to tell. Now, if you’ll pardon me, it’s late and I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”
“I’m not done with you yet.”
“But I’m done with you,” I said. “You’re no longer a police officer, Mr. Brooks. Look, I know you’re upset about Bobbi. So am I. But blundering drunkenly about making a nuisance of yourself isn’t going to help her. Go home. Sober up. Then maybe they’ll let you in to see your daughter.”
“I don’t believe you about the Waverley woman. I think you do know her and that she or her old man is involved in Bobbi getting hurt. I’m gonna find out how. And if I find out it was you they were really after, that she just got in the way, I’ll pound the living shit out of you myself. Don’t think I won’t.”
He turned, a little too quickly, losing his balance and almost falling. He braced himself on the railing at the top of the ramp, regained his balance, and walked away with exaggerated precision. I hoped he wasn’t driving, but as I watched, he dug keys out of his pocket and fumbled at the door of a big GMC four-by-four parked in one of the spaces reserved for the staff of the Emily Carr Institute.
“Shit,” I muttered and trotted over to him. “You’re in no condition to drive,” I said. “Why don’t you take a cab home? I’ll put your truck in one of the Sea Village spaces so it won’t get towed.”
He got the door open and climbed into the truck. “I got here, didn’t I?”
“Probably blind luck,” I said. “Look, it won’t do anybody any good if you have an accident and end up in jail for killing someone with this monster. Give me the keys.”
“Piss off,” he growled. He was having trouble getting the key into the ignition.
He lived in Richmond somewhere, I recalled, out past Vancouver International Airport, a thirty-dollar cab ride at least. Maybe he didn’t have the cash. I had forty or fifty dollars in my wallet. Would his pride allow him to accept the offer of a loan? If it had been anyone else, I might have volunteered to drive him home, or even offered my sofa for the night, but I didn’t want to spend any more time with him than I had to, particularly in a confined space.
While I dithered, he managed to insert the key into the ignition and start the engine.
“Mr. Brooks,” I said, over the noisy clatter of the diesel engine. “At least come inside and have a cup of coffee or two before you drive home.”
I couldn’t believe what I was saying. I was almost thankful when he yanked the shift lever into reverse and backed out of the parking space, forcing me to jump aside or get knocked down by the open door. The door swung shut as he jammed the transmission into drive with a lurch and accelerated out of the parking lot.
Well, I’d tried, I told myself.
It was almost 10:30 when I let myself into my house. It was so quiet that I could hear every creak and groan and murmur as the house shifted gently on the tide. The message light on the phone in the kitchen was flashing. Without any great enthusiasm, I pressed the button that speed-dialled my voice mail, entered my password, and was told I had three new messages. They were all hangups. Curious, I pressed the button that displayed the Caller IDs of the most recent calls. All three IDs were blocked, which suggested that they had been placed by the same caller.
I got a Granville Island Lager out of the fridge and took it up to the roof deck. Tendrils of fog writhed around the lights on the metal skeleton of the freight crane. I slumped into a deck chair, put my feet up on the railing, contemplatively sipped my beer, and thought about Reeny Lindsey. More specifically, I wondered what the future might hold for us, if anything at all.
For the most part, and for a variety of what I considered very valid reasons, such as not having to pick up my socks, make the bed, or put away my breakfast dishes, except that I usually did, pick up my socks, anyway, I liked living alone. For the most part. Also for the most part, except for slightly more than a handful of years of marriage and the occasional live-in girlfriend or equally temporary boarder, I had lived alone for a good chunk of my adult life. I generally liked my own company. We usually got along. Usually. Every now and again, however, I wondered if I wanted to spend the rest of my life with just myself to talk to. I wasn’t that interesting, after all. Besides which, it was lonely sometimes. Okay, more than just sometimes.
All things considered, Reeny was perfect. She was smart, funny, and attractive, and we were good together in every important way, and some not so important ones. Her job required her to travel, so she wasn’t always underfoot, although truth be told, I wouldn’t have objected to her being underfoot a little more often. The problem was, when I thought about her and me, I didn’t think forever. Not that I ever had with any other woman, not even my ex-wife. But it seemed to me that if a relationship was to last, both parties had to believe deep in their hearts that it was forever, whether it ultimately proved to be or not.
I wasn’t ready to give up on Reeny. Maybe our relationship just needed a little tweaking. On the other hand, I thought, perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have an alternate strategy, a contingency plan for my old age. Finding another person with whom one would want to grow old — and, more important, who felt the same way — isn’t quite as easy as opening a registered retirement savings plan or buying mutual funds. It requires much more careful planning, as well as considerable research, market analysis, and expensive albeit not entirely unpleasant consumer testing. The risk of losing one’s investment is significantly greater, too; there’s no such thing as a guaranteed investment certificate for relationships. Unfortunately, it’s an arena in which professional help is sorely lacking — I don’t believe in astrology, singles’ bars, or online dating services, although …
I awakened with a start, almost spilling what was left of my beer. The phone was ringing. I hurried downstairs — or below, if you insist — to my home office to answer it. It was after eleven, but I thought it might be Reeny calling from Germany, where it was only five or six in the morning. I almost crippled myself in the process, but I made it to the phone before the call was transferred to voice mail.
“H’lo?”
Nothing.
“Hello?”
Still nothing. Not even heavy breathing.
“Hello!”
Finally, a hollow click and the dial tone. I swore and put down the handset, none too gently.
The phone in my home office didn’t have a call display screen, but I was certain that if I went downstairs and checked the Caller ID on the phone in the kitchen, it would show that the ID had been blocked. I did it, anyway, and my suspicion was confirmed. I thought about calling Greg Matthias and getting him to have the VPD technical support division “dump my LUDs,” as they say on TV — my telephone local usage details — and trace the call’s origin. It seemed a bit extreme, though. Anyway, it was probably just an overzealous telemarketer, or the world’s most annoying real estate broker, Blake Darling.
I nearly jumped out of my shoes when the phone rang again. I peered at the LCD screen. No name, just a local cellphone number. I picked up the handset.
“Hello?” I said warily.
“Tom?” a woman said.
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“It’s Jeanie.”
“Jeanie?”
“Jeanie Stone. Is something wrong?”
“No. Nothing’s wrong, Jeanie. Sorry, I’m a bit jumpy, I guess.”
“Tom, I just heard about Bobbi,” Jeanie said. “Is she going to be all right?”
“I