We took a quick look around, in case Janie was passed out on the sofa or bed, and somehow had remembered to turn out the lights first. Then we split up. Jack took Janie's room. I returned to Sammi's.
I meticulously searched the tiny bedroom, right down to unwrapping every gum wrapper in the trash, in hopes of finding a phone number or name scribbled inside. I was pulling Destiny's baby book off the shelf when a flurry of photos and paper scraps rained down. Two of the pictures landed face up. One was of a party for Destiny, with three candles in a cupcake, Sammi grinning as Kira held a homemade Happy 3 Months banner. In the other, Sammi sat in a Muskoka chair, holding a sleeping baby, scowling, clearly warning whoever was taking the photo that they'd better not wake Destiny. I stared at them both for a moment, then picked up the second - the Sammi I knew best - and gingerly pushed it into my pocket.
I scooped up the handful of scraps and flipped through them. Sammi's penmanship was atrocious, her spelling phonetic. On the first, she'd written "First dentist appointment 3-4 years." On another she'd scribbled "Chicken pox vaccine 12 months (safe?)."
I read through several more. Each held a tidbit of child-rearing information, a tip someone had told her or she'd heard on TV. Scraps tracing the path of a young woman's desperate desire to be a good mother.
Then I found what I'd been looking for. On one scrap Sammi had written four words. Jordan Fifer Model Agency.
I put that into my pocket and tidied up the book. As I did, my gaze fell on Sammi's treasure box. I reached for it, the sudden urge to take it, too, to bury it with her body. Ridiculous, of course. Sentimental tripe. Not like she'd be needing it anymore. And if Janie had her daughter killed, I had every intention of tipping off the police and making sure Sammi's body saw a real grave. Finding her treasures buried with her would suggest Janie regretted her decision, and I wasn't giving her that.
The box had to stay. But whatever happened, I'd make sure Tess got it out before the place was bulldozed.
Now -
Jack wheeled into the room. "Clean up. Gotta go. Now."
"Wha -?"
He grabbed my arm before I got the word out, and led me into the hall.
Through the living room door, a stockinged foot protruded from behind the sofa, unseen when we'd been heading into the bedrooms.
I crept forward, gaze fixed on the dingy white sock. Soon a tattered jean hem came into view. Then a second foot. Then Janie herself, passed out drunk.
My gaze traveled up her body, past the stick-thin legs encased in dirty denim. Past the flabby belly protruding from under the shirt shoved up around her rib cage. Past her arms, oddly folded across her chest, fingers bent, as if in a "fuck you." A final "fuck you." I knew that as soon as I saw her head, askew, eyes still open, tongue protruding from swollen lips, bruise on her cheek.
"Beat the crap out of her," Jack said. "Neck's broken." I supposed I should feel some twinge of pity, but the only emotion that rose was a surge of outrage that someone had robbed me of my best shot at finding out what happened to Destiny.
I returned to the bedroom to put everything back in place. When I came out, Jack was crouched beside Janie's body.
"Couple fingers broken. She have rings?" I paused, recollecting. "Costume stuff, but yes. A few." "Bottle's over there." He jerked his thumb at an empty Crown Royal bottle on the carpet. "One missing, looks like."
I walked over, staying away from the window, and found two empty glasses and two bottle caps. "So he swipes her cheap rings and an open bottle of rye, shoves her behind the couch, and takes off... in her truck. Something tells me we aren't dealing with a pro."
A snort that was almost a laugh. "Yeah." He straightened. "I'll watch the front. Get out the back. Stand guard for me. Be there in five."
Chapter Nineteen
The murder of Janie Ernst was so sloppy, you'd almost think it was a pro, setting the scene to frame her boyfriend. No guy could possibly be that stupid, right? Come over for a Saturday night victory drink, leave his DNA all over the empty glasses, kill his girlfriend for her share of their profits, then drive home in her truck.
Sadly, the IQ of the average thug isn't really all that high. Add booze into the mix, and it drops even farther.
The question wasn't "whodunit," but whether we could get to him - and the answers I needed - before the cops found Janie and followed the four-lane highway of bread crumbs he'd left behind.
When I suggested going after the boyfriend right away, Jack brought up another reason to act fast - one I'd rather not have been reminded of. The killer may have left a trail a blind man could follow, but when the White Rock cops found Janie dead, they'd come knocking on the door of the person seen fighting with her earlier that day. Sure, they'd eventually get back on the right track... but only after they'd done what they could to make my life miserable. And once that happened, there'd be no way of getting to Bancroft to find Janie's boyfriend - not without a police cruiser or a reporter on my tail.
I tried not to picture Don Riley and his crew on my doorstep, the satisfaction on their faces, the rumors they'd spread, the business I'd lose just from those rumors. I tried not to imagine the press getting hold of it. Even if I wasn't a viable suspect, they'd love the excuse to disinter the story of Nadia Stafford, killer cop.
If only I'd resisted the urge to confront Janie.
"Well, that'll teach me" really didn't seem adequate.
We headed for Bancroft. It was a thirty-minute drive straight up Highway 28. We already had our interrogation gear on us, so we were set. The boyfriend's address would have been useful, and it rankled, knowing it was right in Benny Durant's office. But no matter how careful we were, it was an extra risk, especially after I'd been asking Durant about her property that same day.
So we were driving to Bancroft in hopes of finding Janie's truck. It was a small town, just a little bigger than White Rock. Still, even at four thousand people - and shrinking - that was a lot of driveways to search. And hunting for an old pickup in these parts was like searching for a new Mercedes in Toronto.
We started with a tour of the bar parking lots. Now, if you ask me, a guy who just killed his girlfriend shouldn't be heading out for beer, but Jack thought it was a strong possibility, and the more I considered it, the more it made a weird kind of sense.
I knew all the bars in Bancroft, since White Rock didn't have any, and I needed all the alternate venues at hand - addresses, directions, music variety, clientele type - for my guests. In Bancroft there were two, and one was attached to a restaurant.
We found Janie's truck at the other, a hole-in-the-wall called Charlie's. And we found her presumed killer, slumped over the steering wheel, dead drunk.
"Fuck," Jack muttered.
"You can say that again."
"Sure that's her truck?" Jack asked. We were parked at the end of the lane.
"Yep. See that dent in the front bumper? Get close enough and you'll see fur caught in it, from Mrs. O'Malley's late Irish setter, Red. Beautiful dog. Dumb as a post, but beautiful. This winter, Mrs. O'Malley found Janie passed out drunk in a snowdrift, got her inside, warmed her up, and called the doctor. Later, she suggested Janie needed help and tried to find a program for her. So Janie ran over her dog and left the fur in the bumper as a reminder to anyone else who might try to 'interfere' in her life."
"Should've left her in the snowdrift."
"I won't argue. And this is the woman we let raise Sammi. Isn't that what child services is for? Did anyone even call them when she was little?"
"Probably too scared to interfere."
"I've known Sammi since she was twelve. I wasn't afraid of Janie, but I still didn't do anything."
"By that time? Too old. Wouldn't want to leave."
"How do I know that if I never tried?"
"Gave her a job. No one else did."
"Too little, too late. No wonder she hated me - hated all of us." I undid my belt. "Okay, back to work. So how are we going to interrogate a guy who's passed out dead d
runk in a truck in a public place?"
"Could be tricky."
"A master of understatement, as always."
I peeked in the passenger-side window. The man inside was in his fifties, with dyed black hair that he probably wore in a comb-over, but was now sticking straight up. He had his face planted on the steering wheel, every snore making that rooster comb quiver. We wouldn't need to see him wake up. We'd hear it.
The passenger door was locked. The driver's side wasn't, but I couldn't risk that slap of cold night air waking him when I opened it. I slid the slim jim in and jostled the passenger door open. Then a low whistle from Jack stopped me. I glanced over as a drunken couple wobbled my way, arms wrapped around each other. I dropped and rolled under the truck.
The woman's giggles twittered across the quiet lot. "Can you believe that place? It was like something out of a honky-tonk movie."
"Or a meeting spot for Rednecks Anonymous," the man said.
They roared with laughter, pleased by their incredible wit. More giggles. More jabs about the "rubes," who'd probably treated them with respect, served them full-strength drinks at reasonable prices, fed them an unlimited supply of peanuts and pretzels, and peppered them with suggestions for the best hidden fishing spots and scenic lookouts. I could rail against the stereotype, but the truth is that more than a few residents are just like me, with a high school education, driving a fifteen-year-old pickup, and only wearing makeup on special occasions. Doesn't make us worse; we just have a different set of values.
Apparently, though, all that crisp fresh air and undiluted booze was bringing out Mother Nature in this citified couple. Or maybe it was just all the drunken stumbling, grabbing each other for support. Before they were halfway across the lot, their giggles gave way to moans, their jibes to whispers of "oh, baby," proving they weren't any more articulate than our local high school dropouts.
The wet sound of sloppy kisses tempted me to do a little moaning of my own. Move along, people. I'm sure you have a perfectly good bed in your fancy inn. Undress out here, and you re going to freeze.
"Hmm, is that an open pickup bed over there?"
I had a mental flash of Janie's truck... and missing tailgate.
No. Please, no.
Two pairs of feet stumbled my way.
"Wait," the woman said. "There's a guy in there. Sleeping, I think."
"Then let's give him a thrill. Show these country bumpkins how it's done."
No. Please...
The truck jolted as they banged into the back. Rust rained down. The woman's feet disappeared as her partner lifted her onto the bed. A pair of panties landed in a puddle. He stayed standing, presumably just hiking up her skirt.
The bed rocked once. Twice. I wrapped my arms around my head and squeezed my eyes shut against the rust shower.
Three. Four.
It stopped. Shit, they'd woken him up. I braced for a shout or, worse, the engine starting.
"Good?" the woman panted.
"Yeah, babe."
That was it? I hadn't even had time to regret what I was missing.
They staggered off, leaving her panties still floating in the mud puddle. Once the couple had driven away, Jack gave an all-clear whistle. I crawled out and glanced in the truck cab. Our target was still snoring.
I prepped my materials, then took a deep breath. That brief rocking might not have woken him, but it could have started the process. I counted to five, then threw open the door and lunged across the seat, gag going around his mouth, turning his face away from mine before his eyes opened.
I didn't need to bother. I had the gag tied, the blindfold on, and the guy pulled flat on the seat and he kept sleeping. If it wasn't for the now-muffled snores, I'd have thought he was dead. It was only when I tried to bind him that he woke, flailing and elbowing me in the gut, knocking my wind out. Tight quarters for a takedown. Even tighter when Jack got in the passenger side to drive us out of there before someone noticed the struggle.
There were a few moments of chaos as I got the guy's hands and feet bound while trying to keep him off Jack's lap. Jack got kicked and elbowed a few times, including one in a place that probably smarted, but he didn't say a word, just drove from the lot.
By the time we reached the road, I had our guy fully restrained and on the floor at my feet. Then I sat up, face toward Jack, as if talking to him. The streets were empty, but if anyone did notice us, they'd see only a couple heading home. I didn't say a word, though. I wasn't giving our guy any sign that he was dealing with a woman. If he took that story back to White Rock, I'd have Don Riley on my doorstep in a flash.
When we neared the town limits, which didn't take long, I pulled out the man's wallet. Peter Weston. I showed it to Jack, so he'd have the name, then stuffed it back in the wallet and tossed it behind the seat.
Jack pointed to a sign announcing Eagle's Nest lookout.
I shook my head. It was a great location - a thickly wooded hill with a winding road going up - but on Saturday night, even this late, we couldn't be sure local teens wouldn't be using it for more than sightseeing.
It didn't take long to leave the town lights behind. Out here, civilization is just a hole carved from the wilderness, the thick woods always at the outskirts, waiting patiently to reclaim their territory. In more than a few places up here, that's exactly what's happened. Our ghost towns are nothing like the empty buildings and dusty streets of the old West, but just village ruins overtaken by Mother Nature, the footprint of man growing fainter with each year.
Jack drove a couple of kilometers from town, then he headed down side roads until we found a lot with a For Sale sign so weather-beaten it was almost illegible. There are plenty of good building lots up here. This just wasn't one of them. Maybe the forest was too dense to clear, the ground too rocky, the lakes too far, or - the kiss of death - it was too near a potential native land claim.
Jack drove up a rutted lane and parked behind a curtain of brush. I hauled Weston out and dragged him deeper into the woods as Jack cleared a path with his crutch, the harsh thwacks betraying his frustration at leaving the heavy work to me.
Once I got Weston in place, facedown in the undergrowth, I retreated, staying close enough to hear but too far to be tempted to jump in with "extra persuasion."
Jack reached down, grabbed Weston's hair, yanked his head back, and ripped off the gag. Weston only moaned and mumbled something about his head.
"Out celebrating tonight, Peter?" Jack said. "Feeling a little extra flush?"
"Ow, my head. My head hurts."
"Answer the question, Peter."
"I don't know what you're talking about. My head - "
"Janie Ernst."
Weston went rigid and, after that, it didn't matter what he said. We knew we had Janie's killer.
"I don't know no - "
"You were involved with her. You were seen coming out of her house tonight, right before one of my associates went in and found her with a broken neck, shoved behind the sofa."
It took Weston at least ten long seconds to muster up an appropriate exclamation of shock and dismay. Then he stopped short.
"Are you guys cops?"
Jack gave an ugly laugh. "You wish. Have you ever heard of the Rock Machine?"
"S-sure. A biker - um, I mean motorcycle club. Janie used to run with them back in the day. But they were swallowed up by the Banditos and the Angels." Again he stopped. "Are you guys from - "
"Let's just say Janie's relationship with our organization isn't as far in the past as she led you to believe."
"That bitch! That cold, sneaky bitch. She was holding out on me. Said she didn't have any money coming in, but she did, didn't she? She was working for you guys."
"If she was, you can see how her untimely death might cause us some concern."
"I didn't have nothing to do with - "
This time it was the swish of a switchblade that cut Weston short. His head jerked up, turning wildly, as if he could see through the blin
dfold.
"What's - " he began.
Jack bent and pressed the knife tip into the back of his neck.
"Hey!"
Jack dug it in farther. "Feel that?"
"Y-yes."
"Know what happens if I go another half inch?"
"N-no."
"You'll be paralyzed."
"P-par - "
"Not permanently. Just for a day or so. Full paralysis, though. Won't be able to move a muscle." A pause. "Do you know what lives in these woods? Black bears, wild dogs, coyotes, maybe even a wolf or two, wandered on down from Algonquin. Plus you've got your smaller predators like martens, weasels, rats, and the birds - the hawks and the vultures. Normally, humans are too big a challenge, but if you've got a few nice cuts leaking blood, and you're just lying there, not moving, they'll take a nibble. They won't bother killing you first. They'll just feed, while you lie there, unable to move, blink, scream..."
"I killed Janie, but it was an accident. I just got so mad at her, holding back, that I went a little nuts. I started whaling on her, and next thing I know, she's dead."
"Holding back. You mean she wouldn't give you her share from a job?"
He squirmed. "Well, no, it wasn't a job, so it wasn't really my share, but it'd been my idea. So I was entitled to a little advance, right?"
"So where'd the money come from if it wasn't a job?"
"From the house."
"Selling the house?"
"Right."
"That was your idea?"
"Right. With that kid of hers gone, Janie kept moaning about how she wouldn't have any money coming in. She didn't have a job... or so she said, though I guess she forgot about working for you. The bitch."
"The house...?"
"I said she should sell the place to that real estate guy who keeps bugging her, then move in with me. It was my idea, so I thought she should give me a little cash, you know, as a thank-you."
Jack glanced back at me. For a moment, I couldn't respond, seeing my theory - my only theory - shatter around me. Then I motioned for Jack to push, but didn't need to - he'd already returned to Weston.
"What do you know about Sammi Ernst's disappearance?"
"The girl pissed off. Left her mom in the lurch. Un grate ful brat."
Jack pressed harder, but it was clear Weston knew nothing of Sammi's fate and, apparently, neither had Janie, who'd been scrambling to make up for the lack of rent money.