If It Bleeds Page 4

  Man about town Steve Marsh was found dead last night outside the downtown gallery that had just opened an exhibit of the artist’s work. The Vancouver art community is reeling under the loss of one of its bright young stars.

  I’d never been one of Brent Hartigan’s biggest fans. I didn’t know him well, but there were things about him I’d never really liked. Ambition does alienates people sometimes. I could live with that, especially since I didn’t have to live with it.

  But this? This was different. As I read I felt something bend inside me. And then I felt it snap.

  NINE

  Mike Webb had the good grace look sheepish when I barged into the office an hour later. He also had the good grace to look as though wished he could melt through the floor rather than meet my wrath. I was glad, somehow. It would have been worse if just didn’t care.

  “Nicole,” he said. Nothing else. Just my name, as though it were a greeting, perhaps an explanation.

  I didn’t say anything at first. Just stood next to his desk, not even noticing when crossed my arms in front of me as I looked down at him.

  “Nicole,” he said again, filling the silence he might have thought would be filled with my shrieks. When I didn’t shriek, he forced himself to cough up more words. “Look, Nicole, I know what we talked about”—he said it as though I’d filled in words of protest—“but it was a last-minute judgment call. Eleventh hour, really.” He finished with a smile, as though he’d lulled himself into thinking my silence was agreement. His body language told me he knew better.

  “Whose judgment?” They were the first words I’d spoken.

  He coughed, but it was answer enough.

  “I understand, Mike.” I was pleased that my voice didn’t betray much of what I was feeling. I sounded calm. “Maybe I shouldn’t, but I do. I don’t get the photo though. It is my photo, obviously. So I would have expected it to have my byline.”

  “Me too,” Mike said. “I don’t know how that happened.”

  I hesitated a moment before saying what was on my mind. “But my piece? My lede?” I said, using the industry name for an opening paragraph. “You know how that happened?”

  “Look, Nicole, it was a straight-up news decision. Hartigan looked stuff over last night and—”

  “Hartigan did? I sent it to you.”

  “I was busy. I had other stories. I put Hartigan on it.” Mike shrugged. “He made the call, Nic. And I’ll back him on it.” The jovial face was gone now. You don’t get to be a city editor without knowing how to be tough when you need to.

  There were things I could have said to Mike. Points I could have made. But none of it would have helped me get where I wanted to go. I opted instead to go forward. There didn’t seem to be much point in anything else.

  “So what now?” I said calmly.

  “Now?” he repeated.

  “My story,” I said, trying hard to keep my voice from sounding small.

  Mike sighed. Rubbed his head. “It’s not your story anymore. I’m sorry,” he said again. I could tell he was. I could also tell that right then, there was nothing I could do to change his mind. Not stamping my feet, not shouting, not screeching. Not even reminding him what he’d said the night before. So I resisted all those urges. I didn’t trust myself to say anything. I just nodded at him. Even tried for a smile and headed for the elevator, my dignity in tatters.

  Back on the fifth floor, I forced thoughts of Steve Marsh’s death aside. I sorted through the day’s stack of invites and firmed up the schedule for the coming evening.

  There were two must-attend events downtown. A society benefit at a big hotel and a music launch at a club on Granville. Then, closer to home for me, there was a book launch at a restaurant in Kitsilano, after which I planned to head home and drop my car off before going to a gallery opening in my neighborhood on South Granville. It was going to be a busy Thursday night.

  Reading invitations and making notes and even doing online searches on a couple of the celebs expected at that night’s events had taken me completely out of my bad mood about losing the Marsh story.

  And then the phone rang.

  “This is Nicole,” I said absently, still focused on my schedule.

  “Hello, Ms. Charles.” The voice was female and clipped, as though the speaker was in a hurry. It wasn’t a voice I recognized.

  “Nicole, please.” I corrected her automatically.

  “Nicole, this is Sergeant Itani, from the Vancouver City Police. We met last night?”

  “I remember. Of course.”

  “Ms.—Nicole, I know you’re working on the Steve Marsh story.” I thought about correcting her, but I did not. “We’ve found something. Something I think you should see. Can you be here within the hour?”

  I told her I’d be there in fifteen.

  TEN

  I was so new to the police beat, I didn’t even know where “here” was. I had to look it up on my phone.

  Vancouver’s police HQ was a new glass tower at the foot of the Cambie Street Bridge. It was bland enough to be almost invisible amid the condos that had sprung up around it. A crisp pale cube in a sea of crisp black cubes. I drove past it on my first approach.

  Sergeant Itani’s office was on the fourth floor. A receptionist buzzed the sergeant when I asked for her. I passed the time in the waiting area pacing mildly.

  In uniform but without her police hat and with her hair loose around her shoulders, Sergeant Itani looked younger and friendlier than she had the night before.

  “Nicole,” she said when she saw me, “thanks for coming so quickly. I appreciate it.” I followed her past modern, functional offices. She stopped at one of these. There were no personal touches—no family photos or funny coffee mugs, no clipboards with cartoons or funny sayings. I gathered this wasn’t Itani’s personal office. Maybe a shared space that field officers used when they had business at HQ.

  She closed the door behind us, then sat at the desk and asked me to sit.

  “Listen, Sergeant Itani—”

  But it was her turn to interrupt. “Rosa, please.”

  I smiled, then went on. “Okay, Rosa. I feel as though I should tell you…that is, I don’t want to tell you, but I should…”

  “You’re off the story, aren’t you?” she said calmly.

  I looked at her and nodded. I couldn’t have been more surprised.

  “Thought as much,” she said. Where I was surprised, she was not, which surprised me even more. “But let me ask you this—did you want to be taken off the story?”

  I shook my head and she smiled, looking pleased with herself. “That’s what I thought. Listen, between you and me…” She shot a look at the door and, satisfied it was shut tight, went on. “Your Brent Hartigan is a pain in the ass.”

  I was surprised at her words, but not so surprised that I didn’t have a reply. “He’s not my Brent Hartigan.”

  She nodded. “That’s what I thought. He’s a hotshot. The last thing I need on this case is a hotshot getting in the way. Now you”—she stretched back in the chair—“you’re controllable.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  She smiled. “Well, it’s true, Nicole. You are. And you’re green and hungry and you need friends.”

  My mind was reeling. I wanted to ask her how she knew I was hungry. Was it something anyone could see? I didn’t ask. I kept my mouth shut. She had more to say.

  She reached into the desk. Drew out a large envelope. Not thick. Slid it across the desk to me, an expectant look in her eyes.

  I opened it. The only thing inside was an eight-by-ten photo. I could tell exactly how big the subject was because it had been photographed next to a ruler. It was a good photograph. The kind they take of products in magazines. The kind they take of corpses.

  The photo was of a tool, six inches long. It had a handle, like a screwdriver, made of wood. It was red, but the paint had faded, through use or age or a combination of both.

  The other end—the business end—was a
spike with a hook so slight, you told yourself at first it was an optical illusion. The spike was sharp. And the tool was thicker than a meat skewer, and too short to do that job, but you knew you’d have no trouble stabbing a roast with it.

  “You recognize it?” Rosa asked when I’d studied the photo for a moment.

  “Of course,” I said. “But I don’t know what it is.”

  “It’s an antique,” she said.

  “What’s it for?”

  “We’re not sure. Some sort of tool. Possibly for fishing.”

  “Why are you showing me?”

  “Well, it’s the murder weapon—you’ll have figured that out already.” I nodded and she went on. “And its use in that context seems…pointed.”

  My eyes widened at the words. It was really a very bad joke, which is what I said. “That’s a bad pun.”

  “Is it?” She looked honestly confused. “Oh. Right. Sorry. That’s not what I meant. What I should have said is…it’s an odd weapon. An antique awl. Why?” She hooked the photo with her index finger, turned it around, studied it briefly and then spun it back to face me. “Why would anyone use such a thing to kill a man unless they were trying to say something. See what I mean? Unless they were trying to make a point.”

  “I still don’t understand why you’re telling me,” I said, not commenting on the second bad pun. From the look on her face, she didn’t even know she’d made it. “And if I can be perfectly honest? This seems like the sort of detail police would avoid giving to reporters.”

  She smiled. “You watch too much TV.”

  “Still,” I insisted, “you’re making a point of telling me this. You brought me all the way down here to see the photo. Next you’re going to tell me you want me to let people know about it.” Maybe I was new to the world of crime reporting, but I could see where this was leading.

  She nodded. “Well, you’re half right. I’m going to give you this photo when you leave today, but before you go, I’ll have your word that you won’t use it for three days.”

  “Three days? Why? And in that case, why give it to me now?”

  “We’re working the case now. Trying to figure out who did this. Between you and me, doors are slamming shut as soon as we think we’re opening them. So you now have this info no one outside this building is aware of. I figure you’re going to take this photo with you and not publish it, but keep it in your mind. If none of us have anything solid after three days, the photo of the murder weapon in the paper might grab someone’s attention.”

  “And Hartigan?”

  “Ah, Hartigan. He’s grandstanded on me on a couple of cases in the past. I wouldn’t mind seeing him taken down a bit. I figure you might be the one to do it.”

  I let all this sink in. It was hard, because I knew there was more going on than I was seeing. On the one hand, Rosa Itani had given me inside information. Stuff I knew Brent wouldn’t have access to. It would mean I’d be back on the story in three days at the most. Less if I managed to discover something on my own.

  Whatever was going on, I’d gotten all the information out of the homicide detective I was going to get. She was pleasant, but I could tell she wasn’t going to say anything more. Either she was using me or I was being given some sort of test. Or both.

  I agreed to what she’d asked. I promised I wouldn’t publish the photo for three days.

  Then I picked up the envelope and left.

  ELEVEN

  In the police parking lot, I got back into my car and headed out with no clear idea where I was going. I had a lot on my mind.

  Three days. And since I wasn’t even officially on the Marsh story, I’d have to be creative and stealthy.

  By now the west side was well behind me. I’d picked the twisty road that followed the river out of Vancouver and into Burnaby. I couldn’t deny where I was going any longer. I was on my way to see my mom.

  My family home is on Capitol Hill, which is a lot less posh than it sounds. It might once have been a posh neighborhood, but by the time my parents bought the house in the mid-1970s, it was filling up with immigrant families, like ours.

  Our house has a gorgeous view toward South Burnaby and downtown Vancouver. Sit on the front porch on a summer’s evening and you can see the dome of BC Place and watch the city light up behind it.

  Growing up in that neighborhood had been like a kind of perpetual international summit. On our block alone, there were three Italian families, two Chinese, one Japanese, two German and another Scots family, like ours. Or not like ours. The McGoogans were the type of Scots people like to make fun of. “Hey, Jimmy!” you’d hear Iris call into the evening. “Stop that putterin’ and gae in the house,” though it would come out sounding a lot like hoose. “Supper’s on the table and I dinna wanna miss me shows.”

  When they talked to my parents, they’d pine for the old country or they’d complain about the price of things. Once out of earshot, my father would say, “If they miss it so much, they should go back! Look at us—we’ve jobs and homes and good schools for the wee ones. Scotland’s a nice place to visit, but Canada’s my home.”

  And it was too. My mother and father and my older brother all applied for citizenship as soon as they were able. I was Canadian by birth. My parents and my brother were Canadian by choice. So we were all Canadians together, in our house on the Hill. But I grew up with the lilt of Scotland all around me.

  “Nicole,” my mother said as I let myself in the front door, “what a nice surprise.” She’s a petite redhead with flashing blue-green eyes, and today she was fully turned out. She didn’t look like she should be in the kitchen at all.

  “What’s with the getup?” I asked.

  “Some friends coming in for a bite,” she said.

  “Sorry, Mom. I should have called.”

  “Don’t be silly, dear,” she said, leading me back into the kitchen to continue her work while we chatted. “I always brag about you. You know that. It would be lovely to have you here in person so I can show you off.”

  I settled easily into old kitchen rhythms. I loaded things into the dishwasher, wiped the counters and generally made myself useful.

  “Not a chance,” I replied. “I’m outta here before anyone comes. Sorry. You remember what happened the last time?”

  “That was nothing. It’s just because you’re so pretty.”

  Though she clearly remembered, I felt inclined to remind her. Just in case. “That Vivienne McPhee tried to set me up with her nephew. What’s his name?”

  “Hamish,” my mom supplied.

  “Yes, that’s it. Hamish. As if.”

  “Now, now, dear. You don’t know a thing about him.”

  “But I do. Ask Dad.”

  And now she laughed full out. “Oh, your dad! He’s a fine one. Saying things like that. Hamish McPhee is…”

  “A dork?”

  She laughed. “No, Nicole. I was going to say he’s a very nice young man. Let me see, what’s he studying again…?”

  “Podiatry. He’s studying to be a foot doctor. Which, I assure you, is nothing like a brain surgeon, though you wouldn’t know it to talk to him.”

  We laughed together.

  “So, okay then. You’re not here to meet up with Hamish. I understand. What are you doing here then? Mind, I love to see you, but we don’t usually see you like this on a weekday. Is everything all right?”

  Like I said, I’m lucky. And here’s another one of the ways. My family is terrific. The older I get, the tighter my friendship with my mom seems to grow. My dad is strong and sweet and supportive. My brother and I travel in different circles, but he’s human and decent and has grown to be a good man.

  So I could have dumped all my troubles onto my mom. She would not only have listened, but helped me sort them out. But she was preparing a nice lunch, looking forward to an afternoon chatting with her girlfriends. And there would probably be lots of wine. For my mom, this was party time, and I didn’t want to mess it up with my problems. And I reall
y, really didn’t want to bump into Vivienne McPhee.

  “Sure, sure, Mom,” I said. “Everything’s just fine. I had to leave the office on a story and since I was in my car anyway…”

  “You thought you’d look in on me and your dad. How nice! Sorry I don’t have more time to spend, dear. Stir that pot. That’s right, the one at the back. Stir it just a bit.”

  “Where’s Dad?” I asked as I stirred. But I knew already.

  Mom just looked at me, her eyebrows raised.

  “Golf,” I said.

  My mom nodded.

  “Where today?” I asked.

  “Who knows? Oh, he tells me, but I don’t always listen anymore. They’re one like another to me, you know.”

  I laughed. I knew. My father had always been a bit of a golfer, but since he’d retired, he’d gone at it like a job. Most days he was out of the house by five or six o’clock in the morning, doing whatever golfing things required early-morning attention.

  He’d generally be back by early to midafternoon and then he and mom would potter about together. They liked to shop. They liked to eat out. They liked to drive to the ocean and walk together. And they traveled a bit, but never without Dad’s clubs.

  “Right then,” I said, giving the contents of the pot a final twirl. “I suppose I should get back to the office at some point.”

  My mom cleaned her hands, then crossed the kitchen to give me a hug. “Well, nice to see you, my girl. Are you sure you won’t stay and have a wee chinwag with Viv?”

  I stood back and looked down into her eyes and could see she was teasing me.

  “Ummm…you know I’d love to, Mom…”

  “Of course you would.” There was a glint in her eye, laughter on her face. “You’re just busy, is all. I’ll tell her as much.” Then I saw the laughter fade away. My mother looked suddenly serious and taller than her five foot one.

  “Listen, my girl, I’ve a feeling you didn’t come here today to talk about my hen party or your dad’s golf.” I started to protest, but she stopped me. “No, no, it’s fine. I’m not going to press. I’ve just, as I said, a feeling. When you want, you come back and talk. Meanwhile, my darling, be careful.”