Fall from Grace (17 page)

A gym bag, a shaving case and a camera bag sat on top of the bureau. The gym bag contained several unopened boxes of color film, with a receipt from a local camera store; a checkbook; and a bankbook. The checkbook indicated a balance of $535.23. There was $2,500 in the savings account. In the shaving case were an electric razor, deodorant, a bottle of aftershave lotion, a pair of nail scissors, tweezers, a tube of hand cream, a small container of Tylenol and a nasal spray. The partitioned camera bag contained accessories, but no camera. Alberg compared the lens cap in his pocket to the one on the lens in the camera bag: they were the same.

A photograph was tucked into a corner of the mirror that hung above the bureau. It was a photograph of Steven Grayson and a young woman. They were leaning against the fender of a car—an old, dilapidated import, maybe a Toyota; it must have come from Central Canada, thought Alberg, to be so badly rusted. Steven had his arm around the girl, one foot braced against the car. She was leaning into his shoulder, laughing; a pretty girl, with short dark hair. The sun was shining but they were wearing jackets, and the trees in the background were bare.

Alberg turned from the photo and looked through the room more thoroughly, inspecting under the mattress, and poking behind drawers, and examining walls and floor, and searching the pockets of Steven Grayson's clothing. Then he closed and locked the window, removed the photograph from the mirror, and picked up the gym bag.

Back in the living room, he said, “I'm going to have to take these things with me. We'll return them to you when we're done.”

Steven's mother nodded.

“He had some film,” said Alberg. The heat was creating thunder behind his eyes. “But I didn't see a camera.”

She looked confused. “He had one, all right. It was an expensive one, too.”

He showed her the photograph. “Do you know this girl?”

She turned the picture over. “ ‘Natalie,' ” she read. She shook her head. “No. I don't know her.” She looked at Alberg wearily. “I haven't been much help, have I?”

Alberg took back the photograph. “Maybe Natalie can help us,” he said.

I
T WAS EARLY Monday morning. The men were crowded into Alberg's office. There were only three of them but they were all big men—especially Sid Sokolowski—and it was another hot day, so it felt stiflingly cramped to Alberg. Someone had suggested that they meet in the interview room. But there was no window in there.

Sokolowski occupied the black leather chair. Carrington had dragged in a straight-backed chair from somewhere. And Alberg sat behind his desk. Each of them had a cold drink that was no longer cold.

“That Ferguson guy,” said Sokolowski, “he's complained again. He says somebody's poking around his damn zoo at night. Wanted to know what's going on with the investigation. I told him the lab report's come back and the only prints on the note were his own. He didn't take kindly to this.”

“Put Sanducci on it, if anything more happens,” said Alberg.

“Right,” said Sokolowski.

“Okay,” said Alberg. “Buccaneer Bay.” He turned to Carrington. “You first.”

Charlie Carrington cleared his throat nervously. He was a thin, anxious young man who had arrived three months earlier from a posting in Saskatchewan. “Uh, I ran down the boat, Staff, like you said.”

Sokolowski shifted in the black leather chair, causing it to make a faint bleating sound.

“It's a fifteen-foot runabout,” said Carrington, fingering his notebook, “belonging to one Keith Nugent, acquaintance of the deceased. We found it beached on the west side of the island, near the bottom of the path that goes up to the top. Nugent says the deceased asked him last Thursday if he could rent it from him for the day, on Saturday. Nugent agreed, and the deceased—”

“Constable,” said Alberg. “Don't keep saying ‘the deceased.' ”

“Okay, Staff. Sorry.”

“Go on.”

“Uh, yeah, right, so anyway, he, uh, stopped by where Nugent was working on Saturday morning and got the key. Nugent works at that Dairy Queen place over by Davis Bay—”

“It's not a Dairy Queen, Charlie,” said Sokolowski.

“Okay. Well, that drive-in place.”

“It's not a drive-in place, either,” said Sokolowski.

“Sid, for Christ's sake,” said Alberg. “We know the place he means, right?”

“Right. But he's got a notebook there. He's making notes and they're not accurate,” said the sergeant. “That notebook's got to be right on the money, Charlie,” he said to the constable. “And if the staff sergeant here wasn't so irritable with the heat he'd be the one telling you this.”

Alberg stared at the ceiling. Sweat crept down along his temples. “You're right, Sid,” he said finally. “It's a takeout place, Charlie. Called The Bluebird.”

“Okay, Staff,” said Carrington. “Thanks.” He made a correction in his notebook.

“Go on, Constable.” Alberg plucked a handful of tissues from the box on his desk, and wiped his face. Charlie Carrington's arms looked exceedingly skinny, he thought, sticking out from the short sleeves of his uniform shirt.

“This was about noon, he says. When the guy picked up the key. He got to Pender Harbor about twelve-thirty. That's where Nugent keeps his boat. Left his car, a Honda Civic, in the parking lot there. Got in the boat and took off.” He looked up. “That's it, Staff.”

“Anything in the car?”

Carrington referred again to his notebook. “Just the usual stuff. Registration, maps, an empty fruit juice bottle.”

“Wastebasket?”

Carrington nodded. “I went through it. Gum wrappers, mostly. Kleenex. Nothing else.”

“Were Nugent and Grayson friends, or what?”

“It doesn't look like it. The deceased—sorry, uh, Steven Grayson, he ran into Nugent in the bank on Thursday. Nugent said he hadn't seen the guy for years. But they'd been to school together, and they got to talking, and Grayson asked if Nugent knew anybody who had a boat. Said he needed one for Saturday. So Nugent said he could use his.”

“Didn't he ask what the guy wanted it for?” said Alberg.

“Yeah,” said Carrington. “Grayson said he just wanted to cruise around. Said he'd be going back to town soon and he wanted a day on the water.”

“And Nugent was at The Bluebird, at work, all day Saturday? You checked it out?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” Alberg sat up and turned to the sergeant. “What did you find out, Sid, talking to the locals?”

“We didn't get anything,” said the sergeant. “Which didn't surprise me, seeing as how we didn't know what we were looking for.”

“It's always harder,” said Alberg agreeably, “when we don't know what we're looking for.”

Sokolowski leaned forward, his beefy forearms on his thighs. “See, there's always boats coming and going—and this is on both sides, I mean. The Buccaneer Bay side, and the other side. People beach their boats, or else they drop anchor, and then they wander all over the place, having picnics, hiking, not knowing they're on private land. Or they don't care. They come looking for blackberries. Whatever. So nobody's gonna notice a kid hiking off into the woods, you know? At least, nobody did.”

“It's worth going back, doing more interviews,” said Alberg. “Somebody must have seen something.” He pulled his notebook toward him and flipped it open. “I talked to the bank manager. Grayson tried to make a twenty-three-thousand-dollar withdrawal last Thursday. The local guy told him he'd have to get it from his own branch, in Vancouver. His mother says he went to town that day; that's probably what he was up to.”

“Okay,” said Sokolowski, “that establishes that if we're talking about blackmail here, he wasn't the blackmailer, he was the blackmailee.” He smiled. “Blackmailee,” he repeated.

“But it's a very funny business,” said Alberg. “The blackmailer apparently sets up a meet—but on top of a cliff? And then what—does the kid get dizzy and fall off? Does the blackmailer shove him off? Without collecting the dough?”

They sat in silence for a couple of minutes. Then Sokolowski said, “We got nothing from the campers, too. And the boaters. Couple of people saw the fall. But that's it.” He consulted his notebook. “There's quite a few cabins. Houses, too. People living there year-round.” He looked at Alberg. “Some places nobody was home. Or maybe the wife was there but not the husband. You're right. It'd be worth while, going back.”

Alberg nodded. “Good. Do it.” He took his feet off the desk and sat up. He finished his drink and tossed the can in the wastebasket. “Get me a list of the property owners, Charlie, will you? Both islands.”

“Right, Staff,” said the constable. He hesitated. “If somebody killed him—”

“Yeah? Go on,” said Alberg.

“Well, it surely wasn't premeditated, right?”

“I'd say that's right, yeah.”

“Because he wouldn't have wanted him falling onto the beach, making a big commotion down there like he did.”

“He also wouldn't have wanted him to take all that money down with him.”

“So is that better for us? Or worse?” said Carrington.

“Usually it's worse,” said Alberg. “If a guy plans it out, he leaves a trail. But on the other hand, when it's spontaneous—”

“A crime of passion, like,” said Sokolowski, helpfully.

“—maybe he panics, does something stupid trying to cover it up.” Alberg shrugged. “Could go either way.”

Isabella stuck her head around the door. “Dr. Gillingham's here.”

“In a minute,” said Alberg.

“He flies off the edge of a cliff,” Sokolowski muttered, “lands in the middle of a bunch of women and children—” He shook his head in disgust, as if Steven Grayson had plummeted from the cliff top by choice.

The boy had said, “Help me,” thought Alberg. Help me die. That's what was in Steven Grayson's mind in the last seconds of his life. Not how he had died, or why. Just the act of dying, and fear of it, and needing help. Alberg was glad Joseph Dunn had been there for him.

He stood up and shuffled through the papers on his desk, searching. “I'll do the victim,” he said. “Sid, you and Charlie do the islands again. And keep checking the marinas, in case the perp rented a boat.” He looked up at them. “That's it.”

Carrington left the office, taking his chair with him, but Sokolowski stayed behind.

“Staff,” said the sergeant, “we can handle it all, you know. You got a lot to do here,” he said, looking pointedly at the stack of forms on Alberg's desk.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” said Alberg. “It's okay. I appreciate it, but—” He found the lens cap and held it up. “See this? I think the kid had a camera with him.”

Sokolowski sighed. “You're kinda behind with this shit, Karl,” he said, staring at Alberg's desk. “Vancouver's gonna be on your tail about it soon.”

“They're already on my tail,” said Alberg. “I'll get it done. Don't worry about it.” He slapped Sokolowski on the shoulder and steered him to the door. “Send Gillingham in, will you, Sid?”

“His dad was killed,” said Alex Gillingham, “right after the kid graduated from high school. I remember because it happened about the same time Marjorie and I split up.” He gave Alberg a rueful look. “Marjorie's moved away, Karl, did I tell you?”

“Yeah, you told me, Alex.”

“To Kelowna. She moved to Kelowna.”

“Go on. Talk to me about Steven.”

Gillingham lifted his right leg and rested the ankle on his left knee. He did this with some effort, since he had recently strained his back while helping a pregnant patient off the examining table. “I was their doctor. I mean the family's, the three of them. Didn't see much of Harry. A Workers' Compensation Board injury once; I sent him to a physiotherapist. With Velma”—he waved his hand vaguely—“nothing serious, just the usual stuff. Steven—” He plucked at the crease in his trouser leg. “He was a healthy kid. A nice kid. I liked him.” He looked at Alberg, to make sure he was listening. Alberg nodded. “That summer,” Gillingham went on, “after Harry was killed, Velma came to me for sleeping pills. She was hurting real bad. And she was scared, too. She'd never been on her own before.”

“Were there financial problems?”

Gillingham shook his head. “Plenty of insurance. No financial problems. But Velma wanted to go back to work anyway. Steven would be gone, she had nobody to look after, and she wanted to keep busy. She hadn't worked for twenty years. But I asked around, and eventually she got on at the bank.” He put his foot back on the floor, and Alberg saw him wince. The doctor looked exhausted.

“There's something going on between you and Velma Grayson, isn't there, Alex.”

Gillingham shifted in his chair, probably to ease the discomfort in his back. “Not any more.”