“Wouldn’t it mean a bump in pay?”
“Yeah. Nothing great, but every little bit helps. Baz doesn’t need the money. He made a packet when he was playing ball and invested it well. And he likes being a street cop. He says it’s a lot like football, long periods of intense boredom punctuated by short intervals of violent activity. Baz likes the rush, but me, I like the periods of intense boredom. In the meantime, being seconded to major crimes is good experience for when I get my detective shield.”
“When will that be?”
“Soon, I hope. I aced the exams, if I do say so myself.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks. Now it’s just a matter of waiting for an opening.”
I remembered what Greg Matthias had said about retiring to Pemberton to raise horses with his former partner. Someone would have to move up to take his place, perhaps creating an opening for Mabel. I would miss her when she became a “suit.”
Bobbi mumbled and stirred in the bed and the monitors responded with a brief skirl of bleeps. The machines settled down.
“She’ll be okay, Tom,” Mabel said. “She’ll come out of this.”
“I hope so,” I said.
Then Bobbi loudly passed wind.
“Oh, dear,” Mabel said. “Let’s not tell her about that when she wakes up.”
It was after nine when I got back to Granville Island. I hadn’t eaten dinner, so I stopped by Bridges for a pint and a bowl of chowder so hearty you could eat it with a fork. I ate at the bar. I wasn’t in the mood for company and didn’t look up from my food when someone legged onto the stool next to mine.
“That must be damn good soup,” Norman Brooks said.
Phil the barman dropped a coaster in front of him. “What can I get you?”
“I’ll have a pint of whatever he’s drinking,” Brooks said. “Bring him another one, too.”
“Thanks, I’m okay,” I said. Phil nodded and drew Brooks a pint.
“I know you and me haven’t exactly got off on the right foot,” Bobbi’s father said. “But you could at least let me buy you a beer.”
Phil placed Brooks’s beer on the coaster, then moved down the bar to serve another customer.
“At the risk of appearing ungracious,” I said, “why would I want to do that?”
“I dunno. Just to be friendly, maybe?” He downed half his pint in three or four big gulps.
“I’m not interested in being friendly,” I said. “Or having a drink with you, for that matter. Why don’t you find somewhere else to sit and leave me to enjoy my chowder in peace?”
“I want to talk to you.”
“I don’t want to talk to you. The last time we talked, you accused me of being a pornographer and a drug dealer.”
“Jesus,” he said. “You really are as big a prick as everyone around here seems to think you are.”
“Size isn’t everything, but I’m pleased I haven’t disappointed.”
“Goddamn it, McCall. My daughter’s lyin’ in the hospital in a coma and all you can do is make wise-ass remarks. She’s supposed to be your friend.”
“Sorry,” I said, genuinely chastened.
“Yeah, sure you are,” Brooks growled into his beer.
“She’s doing better, by the way,” I said. “She even opened her eyes for a second while I was there. The doctors expect her to come out of the coma any time now.”
“Bastards still won’t let me in to see her,” he grumbled.
“You’re welcome,” I said. Had the police given him the Edward Winston password? I wondered. I didn’t want to ask, in case they hadn’t; I didn’t want to have to explain why a password was necessary to get into see her. As it happened, he knew.
“Tell me about the guy that tried to get into her room earlier today,” he said.
“All I know is that the police think it might be the same person who came to my studio the other day asking questions about the woman who hired us to photograph the boat.”
“This person have a name?”
A couple of wise-ass remarks occurred to me, but it was obvious Brooks wasn’t in the mood. I simply said, “No.”
“Not good enough,” he said. “You lied to me about knowing the Waverley woman. Why should I believe you don’t know the guy that tried to get into Bobbi’s room?”
“I wasn’t lying about Anna Waverley,” I said. “I didn’t know her. I still don’t, not really.”
“I know you went to see her last night,” he said. “What did she tell you?”
“Nothing.”
“Goddamn it, McCall. You gonna tell me what the fuck’s goin’ on or do I have to squeeze it out of you?”
I sighed. “It’s late,” I said. “I’ve had a long day,” I added. “And I’m really not in the mood for this.”
Brooks slid off his stool and loomed over me. “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, McCall. Don’t you get all high and mighty with me, you son of a bitch. You’ll —”
“Sir,” Phil said.
Brooks’s head snapped around. “What?” he barked.
“Please leave the gentleman to enjoy his supper, sir, if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind, sonny. So why don’t you just fuck off and mind your own goddamn business.”
The manager, Kenny Li, came over. “Ev’ning, Tom,” he said. “What seems to be the problem?”
“No problem,” Brooks said. “I just want to have a quiet drink and a chat with my friend here.”
Phil said, “This gentleman” — meaning me — “would like to enjoy his supper in peace.”
Kenny turned to Norman Brooks. “Sir, let Phil top up your pint, on the house, and we’ll find you another place to sit.”
“Put a hand on me, sonny-boy,” Brooks growled menacingly, “I’ll break it off.”
Kenny looked affronted. “Sir, I wouldn’t dream of putting my hands on you. But I will have to ask you to leave if you don’t calm down and show more respect for our other patrons’ privacy.”
Although I had eaten less than half my chowder, and taken only a few sips of my beer, my appetite had abandoned me. Climbing off my stool, I dropped money onto the bar.
“I think I’ll be going,” I said, and headed for the exit.
When I got outside, someone was leaning against the Liberty. It was Loth. He did not move when I pressed the remote and the locks thunked and the lights flashed, diffused by the gathering fog.
Screw it, I thought. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with Loth, either, so I pressed the remote again, locking the car, and kept on walking. I’d go back and get it later, before the three-hour limit was up.
“You, mister man,” Loth called out, heaving himself away from the side of the car, which rocked on its suspension. “What I ever done to you that you gotta go and tell the cops I hurt yer fran?” He lumbered after me, cane tocking on the cobbles. “Hey, you. Stop. I’m talkin’ a you.”
I turned toward him and he stopped in his tracks, radiating anger and righteous