The Dells (20 page)

“Ain't no such thing as a good cop. Not in my experience.”

“She's a friend of Shoe's,” Marty said.

“Bully for her.”

“Where were you when Cartwright was killed?” Shoe asked.

“When was that?”

“Say between eleven Thursday night and one Friday morning.”

“I ain't got any idea, man. I remember bein' thrown out of a bar sometime between eleven and midnight. Next thing I know I'm wakin' up on Marty's couch. Don't remember anything in between. Hate it when that happens,” he added casually.

“Does it happen often?”

“Depends on what you mean by ‘often.'”

“Do you remember the name of the bar?”

“I think it was Hallam's.”

“As in Dougie Hallam?”

“Yeah.”

Shoe was about to ask in what sense Joey meant ‘Hallam's bar,' was he the owner or just a regular, but Joey turned to Marty again and said, “Did you bring the bike or didn't you?”

“It's in the parking lot,” she said. “But it isn't running so good, Joey.”

“It's a good bike. You just don't take care of it like
you should.”

“It needs a valve job, maybe new rings.”

“But it's running?”

“Yeah, but … ”

“Gimme the keys.”

“Joey … ”

“What?”

“Nothin',” she said miserably, and handed him the key to her motorcycle. She shrugged out of the leather jacket and give it to him as well.

Shoe said, “Joey, this is what I meant about carrying more weight than you have to. If you didn't kill Cartwright, all you're going to accomplish by running is convince the police that you're guilty. They'll focus their efforts on apprehending you, not finding the real killer. If you turn yourself in and proclaim your innocence, they'll be more likely to pursue other avenues.”

“You got a lot more faith in them than I do,” Noseworthy said. He shook his head. “I'd rather take my chances on the road. If your lady cop friend is as good as you say she is, maybe she'll ‘pursue other avenues' anyway, find out who really killed Marvin, and take the heat off me.”

“And if she's not … ”

He shrugged. “It's all about karma, man. Things have a way of workin' out.”

“If that's the way you feel, why run?”

“I ain't too keen on the idea of sittin' in jail while they do. What if they don't?” He put Marty's motorcycle jacket on over his jean jacket and shouldered his backpack. “I gotta get going.” He looked at Marty. “I'll send you some money for the bike as soon as I can. Meantime, take care of yourself, kid.”

Tears spilled from her eyes. “Take me with you.”

“You bring another helmet?”

“No.”

“Well, there you go, then.” He started around the bandstand, then paused. “If you don't mind waitin' here while I make my getaway … ”

Shoe and Marty watched Joey walk away, merging with the crowd, then they followed a dozen or so metres behind. They watched him cross the parking lot to where Marty had parked her Triumph. He stood looking at the Harley-Davidson with the sidecar for a moment, shaking his head, then he settled his backpack more comfortably on his shoulders, took the helmet from the saddlebag, and threw his leg over the Triumph. Donning the helmet, he turned on the ignition and the fuel cock, and kicked the starter. It took him three tries before the bike started. He popped the throttle a couple of times. Oily smoke belched from the exhaust. He rocked the bike off the kick stand, walked it backwards out of the parking space, toed it into gear, and drove away.

“Shit,” Marty said quietly.

In the car, on the way out of the park, Marty's voice was thick as she asked, “Are you going to tell the police you talked to him?”

Shoe glanced at her. Sadness was deeply stamped on her face. Her sleeveless T-shirt was grey and sweat-dampened, and she exuded a musty, not unpleasant odour of perspiration and soap, spiced with the residual scent of leather. “I think I should, don't you?”

“I s'pose,” she said miserably. “But, well, maybe you could give him some time to get away?”

“You don't really believe he's going to make it, do you, Marty?”

“No, I guess I don't, not really, but would it hurt to give him a couple of hours' head start?”

Against his better judgement, he said, “I'll wait till tomorrow morning, how's that?”

“Thanks,” she said.

“Joey called the bar he was thrown out of Hallam's.
How did he mean it? Does Dougie own it? Or just drink there?”

“He owns it. Well, him and the bank. Not many people know about it. I do because Tim helped him get his liquor licence and, well, I hung out there for a while when I first came back. Till Dougie bought it.”

“What about Joey's bike?” Shoe said. “If he was as drunk as you say, surely he didn't ride it to your place from the bar?”

“I've seen him ride his bike when he was too drunk to walk,” she said. “He says he doesn't drink and drive because you need both hands to drive a motorcycle, so he drinks before he drives. He might've dumped it in my garage while I was at work on Thursday, before going to the bar. But … ” She lifted her shoulders slightly as she scrunched up her face.

“Where is the bar?” Shoe asked.

“Jane, north of Finch. Not far from the cop shop. It's called the Jane Street Bar and Grill. Imaginative, eh?”

For the second time that day, Shoe dropped Marty off in front of the bank on the ground floor of her apartment building. It was nine-thirty when he got back to his parents' place. Hal's Lexus was in the driveway, so he parked on the street. Steeling himself, he joined his family in the backyard. The evening was still and warm and muggy. Moths fluttered and swooped around the flickering flames of the smoky citronella mosquito torches planted at the top of the slope, many of them perishing in their mindless attraction to the light. An electric bug zapper in the yard next door hissed and popped. Rachel, Harvey Wiseman, and Maureen were playing cards at the picnic table, by the light of a portable fluorescent lantern that was attracting its share of bugs. Hal was slumped in an aluminum lawn chair that looked on the verge of collapse under his weight, three empty beer bottles on the ground beside him. He cradled a fourth in his ample lap.
Shoe's parents' lawn chairs stood at the top of the yard, unoccupied; they retired early.

Maureen stood when she saw Shoe. She glanced at her husband, who appeared to be asleep, then said to Shoe, “Is everything all right? Can I get you something to eat? We managed to save you a couple of burgers.”

“Thanks,” Shoe said. “One will do fine.”

“What did Marty want?” Rachel asked.

“Company,” Shoe said.

Hal, who wasn't asleep after all, snorted and saluted Shoe with his beer bottle. “Here's to those who boldly go where many men have gone before.” He lifted the bottle to his mouth, only to find that it was empty. Dropping it onto the grass with the others, he said, “While you're up, hon.”

Maureen's face was like stone as she went into the house.

“Where did you go?” Rachel asked.

“Downsview Park,” Shoe said. Rachel raised her eyebrows. “To meet Joey,” Shoe added. Rachel's eyebrows went up even more as her eyes widened in astonishment. “She wanted me to try to talk him into turning himself in.”

“Were you successful?” Wiseman asked.

“No.”

“God, he didn't kill Marvin Cartwright, did he?” Rachel said.

“I don't think so,” Shoe said. “But I could be wrong. He doesn't remember anything between being thrown out of a bar around midnight and waking up on Marty's couch the following morning. He may be prone to alcoholic blackouts. Marty asked me to look into his alibi, even tried to hire me, but … ”

Maureen came out of the house, carrying a plate and three bottles of beer. She passed Shoe the plate, on which there was a thick hamburger and a small pile of salad.
“The hamburger may be a little dry, I'm afraid,” she said. “And there wasn't much salad left.”

“It's fine,” Shoe said.

She handed him a bottle of beer, then held another out toward Wiseman. “Doc?”

“No, thank you, Maureen.”

“All the more for me,” Hal said as he took the two remaining bottles from Maureen.

“Are you going to help her?” Rachel asked.

“I don't know,” Shoe replied. He bit into the hamburger. The meat was dry and rubbery, reheated by microwaves. He washed it down with a swallow of beer.

“Where would you start?” Rachel asked.

“Did you know that Dougie Hallam owns a bar?” Shoe said.

“You're kidding,” Rachel said. “No.”

Shoe looked at his brother. He was studiously picking at the label of the beer bottle with his fingernails. “Hal?”

Hal looked up. “What?”

“Do you know about Dougie Hallam's bar?”

“Sure,” Hal replied. “It's a dive, just the kind of place Marty would frequent.”

“Goddamnit, Hal,” Rachel snapped. “If you don't have anything useful to contribute, keep your fucking mouth
shut!
” She looked at Maureen. “Sorry.”

“Don't be. I was thinking exactly the same thing.”

“Humph,” Hal grunted, raising the bottle to his mouth and drinking.

Harvey Wiseman broke the uncomfortable silence. “Don't murder investigations usually start with the victim?” he asked. “Who he was, who are his friends, what he did for a living, did he have enemies, that sort of thing?”

Hal scoffed. “You read too many detective stories, Doc.”

“Knowing the victim is the first step in understanding why someone would want to kill him,” Shoe said. “Also, where he was and who he spoke to in the hours immediately preceding his death. But I'm not investigating Cartwright's murder. The police are doing that. I'm just going to try to establish whether Joey has an alibi.”

“And if he doesn't?” Rachel said.

“You don't have much of an alibi for the time of Cartwright's death, either,” Shoe said. “That doesn't mean you killed him.”

“No, of course not, but if you can't establish Joey's alibi, you'll have to find Mr. Cartwright's real killer in order to prove Joey's innocence.”

“I'll leave that to the police,” Shoe said.

“Sure you will,” Rachel replied.

“What's your alibi, Doc?” Hal said. “We know everyone else's. What's yours?”

“Hmm,” Wiseman said, looking under the picnic table, the bench, searching through his pockets. “I know I had one a minute ago. Where could it have gone? Oh, dear, I'm always misplacing things when I need them most.”

“Very funny,” Hal grumbled.

“If you must know,” Wiseman said. “I don't really have one. I was at home all evening. And, no, I can't prove I didn't go out.”

“You spend a lot of time in the woods, don't you?” Hal said. “I've seen you with binoculars, too, haven't I?”

“I enjoy walking in the woods,” Wiseman said. “I find it relaxing. But not usually at night. I do not own a pair of binoculars, but I do occasionally carry a camera.”

“Oh, shut up, Hal,” Rachel said tiredly.

Hal shrugged. “Just trying to be helpful.”

“What about Marty?” Maureen asked. “If she was
molested by Mr. Cartwright as a child, she'd have a reason to kill him, wouldn't she?”

“Both Marty and Claudia Hahn insist that Cartwright was not the man who attacked them,” Shoe said. “The suspicion that Cartwright was the Black Creek Rapist was largely based on the opinion of one misguided cop.”

“I remember when Marty was attacked,” Rachel said. “Mr. Cartwright was quite upset about it. Angry. Maybe even a little scared.”

“Of what?” Shoe asked.

Rachel's brows knit. “I'm not sure. I think Marty's father may have come to his house and threatened him.”

“Marty's old man was drunk most of the time,” Hal said.

“I spent as much time at her house as she did ours,” Rachel said. “I never saw him drunk.”

“You were just a kid,” Hal countered. “How would you know? Tim Dutton's screwing her, you know.”

“Oh, for god's sake, Hal,” Maureen said.

“Well, he is.”

“Who's Tim screwing?” Patty Dutton asked as she came around the corner of the garage into the backyard. “Or maybe I should ask, who isn't he screwing?”

“Don't pay any attention to him, Patty,” Rachel said, getting up to greet her friend. Shoe and Harvey Wiseman also stood. Hal remained slumped in the lawn chair.

“Okay, I won't,” Patty said. She was carrying a bakery box, which she thrust into Rachel's hands. “Cheesecake,” she said.

“Yum,” Rachel said. “I'll get plates and stuff.” She went into the house.

“Shoe, be a sport and pour me a glass of that wine, would you, please?” Patty fell into the lawn chair Shoe had vacated. “What a day,” she sighed. “And more of the same tomorrow. I don't know how I let Rae talk me into organizing this thing.” Shoe handed her a glass of white
wine. “Thank you, good sir,” she said, favouring him with a come-hither smile that almost made him laugh, it was so theatrical.

“Patty,” Rachel chided, returning from the house with plates and cutlery for the cheesecake. “Behave yourself.”

“Spoilsport. Why should Tim have all the fun? How 'bout it, Shoe? How'd you like to have Tim's cake and eat it too?”

“Best offer I've had all day.”

“Hey, you two,” Rachel said.

Maureen giggled.

Hal heaved himself to his feet, the lawn chair falling over behind him. “Let's go,” he said to Maureen, taking her arm and pulling her up from her chair.

“Hal,” she said, removing her arm from his grasp. “We've both had too much to drink. We should stay here tonight.” She looked at Rachel. “Assuming there's room.”