CHAPTER FOUR

When I got back to Victoria there was still no word from or about Jimmy Scow. I used my key to let myself into my office, but I suspected Constable Halvorsen had been there before me. I had left the toilet seat up and now it was down. I spent a couple of hours lolling about, ostensibly reading reports and answering e-mails, but what I was actually doing was combatting a vague feeling that I’d let Barb down, behaved badly, taken advantage of somebody decent.

At ten o’clock I grew tired of twisting knives into my vitals and salting the wounds. In a fit of moral fervour I shoved files and forms and other police bumf aside, took up a sheet of lined paper and a Pilot Fineliner pen and had just written “Dear Barbara” when the phone rang. It was Dr. Cuncliffe.

He said, “Morning, Silas. How did you make out in Seattle?”

How did he know I’d been in Seattle?

I said, “Not bad. I’m making some progress.”

“Some progress?”

“Who told you I’d been in Seattle?”

“I’m not exactly sure. I think Charles Service might have mentioned it.”

I scratched my head with the wrong end of the pen.

Dr. Cuncliffe said, “I’d like to get together with you sometime, explore a few ideas. How about coming to my place?”

“Fine, I’d enjoy that. Today?”

“Not today. I have hospital rounds at the Royal Jubilee. Maybe tomorrow. Thanks, Silas. I’ll call you.”

Dr. Cuncliffe hung up.

My most important priority at that point was finding Jimmy Scow. I wanted him to know that I had reopened the Cuncliffe file. I wanted to ask him to forget about trying to exact personal justice and to give the White man’s law one more chance.

I stared at Dear Barbara for a couple of minutes, wrestling with troublesome ideas concerning love and death and effigies. Then I had another brainwave. I went out.

≈ ≈ ≈

Joe McNaught opened the envelope that I had just given him, gazed at the contents and laid it all down on his desk. With a long sigh he swung around in his swivel chair and looked out of his window. McNaught was a burly man, and when he spoke his voice was slow and suspicious.

“A thousand dollars?” he said at last in tones of incredulity. “You’re donating $1,000 to my church?”

“The money isn’t a donation,” I said. “It’s a bribe. You can keep the money if you tell me where I can find Jimmy Scow.”

“Funny thing, Silas. I never knew you were a Christian.”

“I’m not a Christian. I’m Salish.”

“Salish isn’t religion. It’s pagan witch superstition.”

I don’t mind being kidded, but I wasn’t going to be kidded about that. I didn’t answer him. He swivelled around and stared at me. I still didn’t say anything.

McNaught pushed a button on his desk. A young volunteer poked his head in at the door. McNaught said, “Ask Jimmy Scow to come in here.”

The volunteer’s face registered extreme inner confusion. “Jimmy Scow?” he said in a puzzled voice. “I’ve never even heard of him.”

“Thanks,” McNaught said.

The volunteer departed. McNaught put both hands on the arms of his chair and heaved himself upright. He gave me a long sideways look. “See? Nobody here knows anything about Jimmy. If you need him, you’ll have to look elsewhere.”

“I spoke to a man in the kitchen here, couple of days ago. He knew Jimmy Scow.”

McNaught shrugged, and I had counted to 10 before he added slyly, “Can I keep the money anyway?”

“You can’t think of a single thing that’ll help me find Jimmy Scow?”

McNaught looked at the envelope and sighed. “Well, there might be something. Somebody did say they’d seen him fuelling a boat at the Canoe Cove marina.”

“When?”

“It’s a complete blank.”

“See,” I said. “There’s no telling what a Christian can do when he tries hard. So keep the money, Joe. If you hear anything else, give me a call.”

“Go with God,” McNaught said. “A thousand dollars, that’s extremely generous. It’ll keep this mission going for two whole days.”

≈ ≈ ≈

I went to my office and checked my answering machine. A man with a fake street-jiver voice was now calling me a candy-assed chicken-fat motherfucker. Brian Gottlieb wanted to talk to me about Native artifacts. Detective Sergeant Bernie Tapp wanted to talk to me about a robbery in Waddington Alley. Somebody called Fred was interested in the reward that I’d advertised in the Times Colonist.

I called Fred first. A woman with a tentative voice answered the phone and said, “Hello?”

I identified myself. She made me wait and put her hand over the mouthpiece. Twenty seconds later she came back on and said, “This reward. How much money we talking about?”

I said, “It’s negotiable.”

She said, “You better not be jerking people around.”

I said, “Look, I’m busy. If somebody has news and wants to sell it, let’s talk directly.”

She grunted deep in her throat. I overheard a muffled conversation between her and somebody else. Then she said, “Can you meet Fred in the coffee shop at Fisherman’s Wharf in an hour?”

“Yes. What does Fred look like?”

“Like a biker,” she said, slamming the phone down.

Boots clattered and Denise Halvorsen came in. The edges of her mouth were down. I looked up from my desk and said, “Hi, Denise, good to see you. How are you enjoying the foot-leather patrols?”

“We need to talk, Sergeant.”

“Okay. I’ve got a few minutes to spare. Let’s go to Lou’s for coffee. I’ll tell you a few things you need to know about these streets.”

“No thanks,” she said. “No offence, but I think your MO needs an overhaul, frankly.”

Taken aback I said, “I may be out of date, but nobody can say I’m not results oriented. If I wanted routine I’d still be on the detective squad.”

She let out her breath, making an impatient, angry noise. “Results oriented?” She planted her feet wide and put both hands on her hips. “If you think that punching guys out in back alleys, intimidating taxpayers, and socializing with known prostitutes is the way to get meaningful results in this neighbourhood, you’re wrong.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes, Sergeant, that’s right!” She was leaning forward, her pretty head poised above me like a hammer over a nail.

I tried to ignore the contours of her body and said, “Where did you learn about policing? Cop college?”

“No!” she barked. “Police college, where scientific research shows … ”

“Forget other people’s research and do your own,” I said. “First thing you need to do, Halvorsen, is put your old ideas away and get to know real people.” I pointed through the window. “In this neighbourhood, a traditional cop affects some people the way a red flag affects a bull.”

“Bull?” she snorted. “Bull, Sergeant, with all due respect, is what you’re talking.”

“Another thing,” I said. “Your face is dirty.”

She stamped out of the office and locked herself in the bathroom.

I opened the office safe, retrieved the Ruger Blackhawk I had taken off Jiggs Murphy and put it in my pocket.

≈ ≈ ≈

Detective Sergeant Bernie Tapp was waiting for me at Lou’s. Tapp is a tough-looking guy with hair a quarter of an inch long, an 18-inch neck and eyes the colour of coal. He has the same hard leanness as men who chop down trees for a living. He was wearing a white shirt with the top button undone, a maroon necktie that had been slackened off and a pair of green twill pants. His red golf jacket had burn marks on both pockets. The first thing he did was repeat some of the bad things Constable Halvorsen had been saying about me.

“All this discipline,” I said. “What happened to esprit de corps? It beats me.”

Tapp gave me a gloomy look and began to fish around in his coat pockets. Dragging out a stubby pipe, he pressed the ash down with a calloused thumb and rammed fresh tobacco into the bowl. “So you don’t know a thing about a recent mugging in Waddington Alley, Silas?”

“Would I lie to you?”

“You’d lie to your grandmother.” Tapp struck a kitchen match with his thumbnail, lit his pipe and puffed smoke in my eyes.

I batted the smoke with my hand and said, “I don’t know why you’re worried. A pair of pimp-traffickers get hijacked and one of them is roughed up. What do you care?”

“I don’t care if they get roughed up, pal. I don’t even care if they get rubbed out. It’s just that I don’t like unsolved mysteries.”

“Speaking of unsolved mysteries, Bernie, what’s the latest on the Cuncliffe murder? You making any progress there?”

“Brazening it out, eh?” said Tapp, showing his teeth in a wolfish grin. “Think you’ll change the subject, take my mind off Jiggs Murphy.”

“Jiggs Murphy?” I said, putting on a blank look.

“Yeah, Jiggs Murphy, Alex Cal’s driver. The guy you mugged and robbed in Waddington Alley.”

He drank some coffee and stared at me. “You heard something about the Cuncliffe case I should know about?”

“I was just taking a polite interest in your career.”

“Yeah, that’s the thing about you, Silas, always the gentleman. Did you apologize to Jiggs Murphy before or after you hit him?”

“Give me a break, Bernie.”

“I’ll give you a break, but I dunno about Jiggs Murphy and Alex Cal. You mess with those animals, you’d better get yourself a bullwhip and a steel chair or they’ll claw you to death.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

“What is this, a personal vendetta?”

“I hate those fuckers, Bernie. I hate traffickers and I hate pimps. Every time I see a wasted young life I hate ’em more.”

“Who doesn’t? You think you’re the only cop in town with a social conscience, for Chrissake?”

Tapp thought for a while and said, “The Cuncliffe case, eh?” He tipped his head sideways like a bird and stared across the table without blinking. “That was DCI Bulloch’s case and he got zapped on it. You know as much as I do. The murderers drove off in a florist’s van with some stolen paintings. Aboriginal driver. Nobody saw them except that lawyer … ” Tapp fumbled for the name. “Service, Charles Service. Then they vanished.”

“And no leads since?”

“I told you, nothing. Those paintings never showed up again either. Every once in a while I pull the Cuncliffe file out, take a look at it.”

“Even though it’s DCI Bulloch’s case?”

Bernie’s face was about as expressive as an Easter Island statue.

I said, very carefully, “There are people, I’ve met some, who think that somebody, I won’t say who, put pressure on the department. What happened was, Jimmy Scow might have ended up in a frame.”

That went nowhere. Bernie had gone wooden on me.

I continued doggedly, “If you have a detective with some free time, this would be a good time to take another look for those missing paintings.”

Bernie gave me a blank look.

I said, “The paintings stolen from Calvert Hunt’s house.”

Bernie nodded. “So that’s what you want. Even though this is Chief Detective Inspector Bulloch’s case? Even though Bulloch hates Nosy Parkers almost as much as he hates you?”

“Even so.”

“Okay, we’ll take another look. But what will you do for me?”

I brought Jiggs Murphy’s pistol out and slid it across the table. Tapp stared at it for a moment, then slipped it into his pocket. “There you go,” I said. “A nice little Ruger for you. I found it in an alley near my office.”

“Waddington Alley?”

“I think that’s what it’s called.”

Bernie stood up. He paused to relight his pipe, and as he was leaving I asked, “What’s the deal on Halvorsen?”

“She’s beautiful, smart and has a master’s degree in criminology.”

“Maybe,” I said, “but what kind of cop is she?”

“The best kind.”

“All she’s done so far is use my office as a comfort station and spread malicious gossip.”

“So what? You’re a bad person and your office is a disgrace.”

“Street people feel very much at home in there.”

“Yeah, no doubt. It reminds them of a back alley.” Bernie nibbled his bottom lip with nicotine-stained teeth, trying to maintain his artificial bad humour, but we had been friends for too long. He said, “I know you hammered Jiggs Murphy, and you need a new brain if you think you can rob him and get away with it.” It appeared that he wanted to add something. After hesitating, Bernie changed his mind and left the café.

≈ ≈ ≈

At Fisherman’s Wharf, sunlight glinted off the water. Seagulls screamed. Fishermen mended nets, scraped paint or idled in the sun. One rusty old ship of a type that I did not recognize rode at an outside berth. It looked like a big ocean-going tug, but stood higher out of the water and lacked the usual towing equipment at the stern. Three men were using a gasoline-powered winch to load it with stores.

Every few minutes noisy float planes took off from the Inner Harbour, bound for the Gulf Islands or Vancouver or Seattle. The departing planes thrashed along slowly at first, throwing big rooster tails and rocking in the choppy waves. Then the rooster tails diminished and disappeared as the aircraft accelerated and became airborne. Freed from the water, the planes banked to the west and disappeared into the sun. The tang of salt, tarred ropes and creosoted pilings filled the air.

Mom’s Café was an old clapboard and corrugated-iron building overlooking the marina. A telephone-repair vehicle and several pickup trucks stood in the café’s gravelled parking lot. I parked my Chevy alongside the telephone truck and went inside. Two men wearing orange hard hats were at the lunch counter having coffee. Other customers occupied vinyl-upholstered booths. An old-fashioned Wurlitzer was belting out Elton John’s “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.” Inside the kitchen somebody rattled pots and pans. The hum of conversation in the room subsided when I entered, then picked up again as I sat at the counter. A chalkboard advertised Mom’s world-famous homemade pies. A girl came out of the kitchen and, without being asked, put a plain white mug in front of me and splashed coffee into it.

“I’d better have one of those world-famous pies. What kinds you got?”

“Cherry, banana cream, blueberry and apple,” the girl recited mech-anically, wiping dishwasher-red hands on her apron.

“Make mine apple. À la mode.”

The two men in hard hats went outside. Moments later the telephone truck’s engine started with a roar and the heavy vehicle lumbered away, spinning its wheels on loose gravel until the tires bit.

A rough, wheezy voice said, “So I took the stuff, jammed it in a paper bag and fired it through the window.” Laughter greeted this remark.

Across the room, two men and a woman occupied a window booth. The person who had just spoken was a stocky, middle-aged man with long dark hair, streaked with grey, receding from a high forehead. He wore a black woollen shirt with Harley Davidson patches. The shirt had an attached hood that, resting on his shoulders, gave him a slightly humpbacked appearance. The woman sharing his booth crossed to the Wurlitzer and began feeding it coins. She was about 25 and had a mane of yellow hair, noticeably darker at the roots. Heavy breasts and nipples were prominent beneath her white T-shirt. Blue stretch pants strained across her buttocks. She had a cheerful face and exuded a raffish sexuality. After making her selections at the Wurlitzer she returned to the booth. As she sat down, the Beach Boys started on “Surfer Girl.”

The second man at the booth was also about 25, very overweight, with a bushy moustache. He seemed intimidated by his companions and grinned shyly when anyone spoke. When he opened his mouth, I saw that all the teeth were missing from one side of his upper jaw. Eavesdropping on their conversation, I learned that the woman’s name was Patty Nolan; the fat man was called Sidney Banks.

The waitress arrived with my pie and slid it in front of me. I watched as she crossed her arms and leaned behind the counter, gazing into space with a rapt expression. I tasted the pie and said, “This is good.”

The waitress stared at me dully. “What?”

“Great pie.”

She raised her shoulders an inch. In a second I was forgotten as she listened to the Wurlitzer. She was 1,000 miles away, on a California beach with golden-haired boys.

The biker’s two companions went out. I finished the pie and carried my coffee cup across to the old biker’s booth. “Hi, Fred,” I said, and slid into the seat opposite.

Fred’s lips tightened and his eyes were suspicious. “Do I know you?”

“Silas Seaweed.”

“Man sits at my table, I don’t know him, he’d better have a good reason.”

“Somebody left a message for me. That’s a reason.”

“That’s a reason, mister, but I said you’d better have a good reason.”

I made myself comfortable, moving slightly on the seat, taking my time about it. “I’ve known people,” I said, “sweet young boys, never missed choir practice. I’ve seen these boys led astray, their heads turned by shiny motorcycles. Threw a leg over a hog and thought they were shitkickers and tough guys. I heard about one who walked into a bank, packing a loaded revolver. Ten years later he was still packing a broom in William Head penitentiary, along with a bunch of other losers.”

“Yeah,” said Fred, smiling without parting his lips. “That’s me. Fred Eade, bank robber.”

He dragged out some tobacco and rolled a cigarette. Instead of lighting it, he stuck it behind his ear. “Hey, Pearl, bring that coffee pot over here, will ya?”

He waited until Pearl came over and filled our cups. He was working something out in his mind. At last he said, “So, you done some checking on me already. That’s quite an act. How’d you do it?”

“I recognized you as soon as I walked in.”

“You a cop?”

“I’m here to ask questions.”

Fred bared his teeth. “You look like an ex-cop. What happened? They kick you off the force for stealing apples?”

“No, Fred, they didn’t kick me off the force. Not yet, although that day may come. See, I get special consideration. I’m the token Indian. Long as I don’t show up for work in war paint and feathers, I’m safe. But I’m tired of punks. I’m tired of wasting my time with guys who don’t know their ass from their elbows.”

Fred nodded, sipping his coffee. “So, you want to lay some cash on me?”

“I might, if you give me something I want.”

“How do I know you won’t cheat me?”

“I won’t cheat you, but I won’t take any crap either. If you’ve got something, talk.”

Cunning made his face furtive and ratty. “Buddy, I got what you need. You’re looking for a woman, went missing a long time ago. I know where she is.”

“Where is she?”

Fred Eade shook his head. “First, I got to know how much money we’re looking at.”

“Information like that, it could be worth something if nobody else knows about it. But I figure an asshole like you knows something, other people must know it as well.”

“That’s right. Lots of people know this lady, but there’s a snag. The woman we’re talking about, she’s a basket case. She’s what you call confused. She doesn’t even know her own name half the time.”

Things were beginning to add up. I said, “Tell me something. Prove you’re not conning me. If it sounds good, I’ll talk to the Man, get money for you.”

“Maybe I can talk to the Man myself, make my own deal.”

“That’s what I’d expect, from a two-bit grifter. Go ahead and try.”

Fred scowled, dragged a commando dagger from its sheath and began to rake dirt from beneath his fingernails. “This woman we’re talking about. In the newspaper you said you was looking for Marcia Harkness, right?”

“That’s right.”

Fred had a copy of the Times Colonist with him. He passed it across the table. One of the personal ads had been circled with black ink.

reward offered for information

present whereabouts marcia harkness

married wellington 1980s.

Fred took the page back and said, “Here’s something for you. The ad says the woman’s name was Harkness, but the guy she married, his name was Turko.”

“Wait a minute. What are you saying? That her name was Harkness before her marriage?”

“Don’t go jumping too fast, give me a chance to explain.” Fred had a confident smile now.

“It’s like this,” he said. “In the late ’70s, sometime around there, this American guy, name of Frank Harkness, comes up to B.C. from California. He was running away from something, I never found out what. Trouble. Anyway, he come up and got tied in with us bikers, in Wellington. We was disorganized then, stealing bike parts, hubcaps, dealing a little grass. Pretty soon Frank took over, changed a few things. He was tougher than hell, man, and a good organizer. Been with the Angels in Oakland, suppose to be a friend of Sonny Barger’s. Suppose to be. Leastways, he was a tough monkey. He kicked ass around the club and soon made president. He was king a’ the fuckin’ hill, nobody messed with him.”

Fred scratched his whiskers with the dagger handle and took another drink of coffee. He was enjoying my attention. “But this tough guy, he had, what you call it? A blind spot, or maybe a better word, weakness, for classy broads. There was good-looking chicks around the club all the time. Mamas with big tits and tattooed asses. Frank wasn’t interested. He liked class. Used to vanish for a week at a time, hang out in a suite at the Empress Hotel, get his rocks off with college girls and all like that. Then he meets this one, Marcia. He met her in a fuckin’ tea room!” Fred shook his head as if he still couldn’t believe it.

I said, “You were a member of the same club?”

“Sure. I was a punk. I got my patches under Frank, he was my fuckin’ hero, man. I seen that guy duff it out with two soldiers from the Burnaby club who come over to show us how things ought to be done. They was using iron bars. Frank took ’em on with his bare hands. When they carted those two bastards out of the clubhouse, the place looked like a slaughterhouse.” Fred shook his head, remembering. “Frank was something, all right. Like a maniac when he got mad. Maybe it was his Russian blood. But that Marcia, she had Frank wrapped around her little finger.”

I said, “What was she like?”

“I don’t know what she was like then. He kept Marcia under wraps.”

“You never met her?”

Fred shook his head reluctantly. “Not then. He didn’t introduce her. She never come into the clubhouse.”

“So you didn’t know who she was, anything about her?”

“I knew she was called Marcia, that she come out of Victoria, and she married Frank Harkness in Wellington.” He cocked his head. “You think that more than one broad called Marcia married guys called Frank Harkness in Wellington?”

“No. It sounds like you’ve identified her.”

“So how’s about it? You satisfied I know what I’m saying?”

One thing still puzzled me. I said, “Tell me about this Harkness-Turko connection. How does that tie in?”

“Frank Harkness’s name was really Frank Turko. I told you, he was on the lam from stateside, changed his name when he crossed the border, lots of guys done that.”

“Let’s get this straight. You know where Marcia is now, and you can take me to her?”

“Correct. She’s living in a place, you can be there in about four hours.” His sly look returned. “How much is this reward, anyway?”

“A few hundred bucks,” I said, snatching a figure out of the blue.

Fred rolled his eyes. “You shitting me?” he mocked. “This is some kind of inheritance deal, got to be. Either Frank’s money is looking for her, or her family’s.”

“How do you know her family has money?”

“I don’t. But it’s a fair guess. I told you. Frank was interested in class acts. Girls who wore fancy clothes, dressed nice, went to college and all like that.”

“Frank had money too?”

Fred laughed. “He had a licence to print money. Bought it off a guy that lived in Ladysmith. It was a recipe for brewing speed.”

“Speed?”

“That’s right. Speed. And mda. Frank learned how to make it. That’s how the club earned its money. We was dealing acid, grass, heroin, meth. You name it. We had it all.”

“What happened to Frank Harkness?”

Fred slid the commando dagger back into its sheath and said impatiently, “I said enough already. I ain’t saying no more until I get cash laid on me. You check with the guy who’s pulling your wires, then report back with some serious coin.”

“Fair enough.”

“I want 5,000 bucks,” Fred said, standing up and leaning his weight on the table as he shuffled sideways out of the booth.

I said, “Don’t aim too high. Five thousand is a lot of money.”

“Let me talk to the Man myself, maybe I’ll cut you in out of my piece.”

“That’s not the way I work.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m flexible, maybe you should be. Think about it.” He nodded toward the marina. “I live on a boat with my old lady. You want me, come find me.”

I said, “Wait a minute, I need to ask you one more thing. The woman I’m interested in had an identifying mark on one arm.”

“I know she did,” Fred said. “A rose tattoo, up on her right shoulder. Frank told us about it. The rose was put on by a guy in Nanaimo.”

I watched Fred walk away. The old biker had a limp and was much shorter than he’d appeared when sitting down. He was probably about 50 — perhaps younger. But with his seamed face, greying hair and limping stride he looked a lot older. He’d lived fast but hadn’t died young. The hard life had caught up with Fred Eade.

≈ ≈ ≈

The Wharfinger’s office was a small wooden building at the end of a pier. Inside, ship models stood on window sills, pictures of sailing vessels covered the walls. A telescope in a corner was aimed at Spinnakers pub. The wharfinger sat in a captain’s chair, watching the scene outside his window. When I entered, he spun around and grinned at me. A plastic sign on his desk told me that this was Captain Thomas Bloggs.

“Nice day, ain’t it?” Captain Bloggs said cheerfully. “What can I do for you?”

He was an elderly, bearded man with skin like old leather. He wore a uniform cap and, in spite of the warm weather, a thick pea jacket with brass buttons. He would have looked right at home on the deck of a three-master.

I produced a photograph of Harry Cuncliffe Jr. and showed it to him. “Ever see this man around the marina, Captain?”

The wharfinger studied the photograph and nodded. “Who are you, mister, and what’s your business?”

“Silas Seaweed. I’m a city cop,” I said, giving him my card.

Captain Bloggs settled back on his chair. “Sure. I knew Harry, he was a favourite of mine. Dr. Cuncliffe’s house is on Dallas Road, only a few blocks away from here. The boy was crazy about boats, used to hang around my wharf all the time. Goddam shame, him being murdered.” The captain raised his bushy eyebrows. “What’s your interest, Sergeant?”

“It’s a confidential matter, Captain. I can’t say much. Be obliged if you’d keep this under your hat.”

Irritation reddened the old man’s face, but before he could speak I added, “No offence, but we don’t want this stirred up, out of respect for the boy’s father.”

Mollified, the wharfinger said, “I saw Fred Eade just now. You were talking with him in the café. You ask him about Harry?”

Evidently, not much went on around the marina that escaped the old man’s eye. I said, “Did Harry know Fred Eade?”

A nerve twitched in the captain’s face and his eyes flicked toward the south end of the marina. “Everybody knows Fred Eade.” He spoke with disgust. “Fred’s been living on my marina for years. Always behind paying his mooring fees. Complains he’s broke, but he can find money for booze easy enough. I ought to run him off, but if I did, where would he go?” He sighed and added, “But you were asking about Harry.”

I said, “A boy of Cuncliffe’s background, I’d expect him to spend his time around the Royal Victoria Yacht Club.”

“Harry was interested in sailboats, sure, and he did a bit of racing out of the yacht club, but he loved commercial boats. Worked summers on fish packers and suchlike, sailing up the coast to Alaska. Lots of workboat skippers gave Harry work.”

Our conversation was interrupted by a loud crash outside. A winch cable had broken and a pallet-load of stores had dropped onto the wharf alongside the rusty-looking ship that I had noticed earlier. Three men were surveying the damage.

The old seaman narrowed his eyes. “Greenhorns playing at sailors!” he snapped. “That ship’s falling apart. They think they’re gonna take that wreck to Guatemala. Some hopes! It’ll either founder in the first gale or they’ll pile her up on a lee shore.”

“What’s going on?”

He pointed at the ship. “That’s an Atlantic trawler, an old rustbucket. Been laid up in St. John’s for years. Engine’s worn out and you’ve just seen how good the rigging is. Some guy bought it, thought he’d use it as a crab boat here. Anyway, he went broke. Now she’s been bought by a bunch of dreamers. They’re aiming to ship out on some get-rich-quick scheme.” The wharfinger turned away from the window. “You got any new leads on this Cuncliffe case?”

“What do you mean?”

“Everybody in town knows that Indian kid wasn’t acting on his own. He was just the driver. The guy that pulled the trigger is still running loose.”

“The case is still open,” I said.

“I’ve got a theory on it.” The old man crinkled his forehead.

I waited.

“I figure Harry was murdered by somebody who knew him.” The old man leaned forward. “Makes sense, don’t it? Harry’s out there at Calvert Hunt’s mansion. He hears or sees something suspicious and goes to investigate. Finds a burglar lifting the paintings off the walls and recognizes him.” The old man stopped speaking to gauge my reaction.

I nodded encouragement.

“It’s the only thing that adds up,” he said. “The paintings, what are they worth, a few hundred? Not worth a killing. Not unless the robber is recognized and panics. He knows he’s not going to get away with it so he shoots first and thinks second.” His glance drifted toward the live-aboard boats and he added slyly, “Perhaps you don’t need to look too far for a suspect, eh?”

I stifled a grin and said, “That’s a possibility. Thanks for sharing your ideas.”

“Glad to help,” said the captain. Then he was seized by another idea. “One thing I don’t understand. What was young Harry doing at Calvert Hunt’s place in the first place?”

“Calvert Hunt and Dr. Cuncliffe are close friends. Family friends. Harry spent a lot of time there, swimming in their pool, playing tennis.”

The captain nodded wisely.

I said, “The summer that Harry was murdered. Did he work on boats as usual?”

The old man pushed his cheek out with his tongue and wrinkled his nose, thinking. “I believe he did. I wouldn’t swear to it, but he probably crewed with Taffy Jones.”

“Where can I find Jones?”

“Taffy’s fishing up at Adams River, won’t be back for a few weeks.” The captain sighed. “Goddam shame, ain’t it, the way things turn out. The world’s full of deadbeats like Fred Eade who just go on and on, creating misery. A nice feller like Harry dies young. It don’t make no sense to me.”

The wharfinger rose ponderously and fastened the buttons of his jacket. “I better get down there, see if those dreamers damaged my dock.”

≈ ≈ ≈

A stiff onshore breeze was blowing when I parked my Chevy outside Dr. Cuncliffe’s house on Dallas Road. It was a ’50s cedar-and-brick bungalow with a steeply pitched roof, built around three sides of a cement patio. I rang the doorbell, turned my back on the house and watched a couple of sailboats, heeled over to their gunnels, as they raced upwind along Juan de Fuca Strait. Across Dallas Road, a broad expanse of parkland extended to steep cliffs. Dense thickets of low bushes and trees dotted the park; mallard ducks floated on a pond. Hikers strode along the trail at the edge of sandstone cliffs. A big freighter, inward bound from Asia, was picking up a pilot. The ferry from Port Angeles was rounding Ogden Point.

A minute later Dr. Cuncliffe appeared from the backyard. He gave me a cheery smile and said, “I’ve been messing about in my greenhouse, don’t always hear the bell. Been waiting long?”

“Just got here.”

Dr. Cuncliffe looked out to sea. “I hope those sailors are wearing survival suits. That westerly must be blowing over an icefield,” he said with an exaggerated shiver.

He opened the front door and invited me in. Passing him in the hallway I caught a whiff of his breath, pungent with alcohol. We went into the front living room. He grinned at me and said, “I’ve already started. What’s your poison?”

“Scotch.”

He congratulated me on my taste, waved his hand toward a chair and busied himself with the bottles and glasses set out on a side table. Through the French windows that opened onto the front patio I heard a murmur of voices as two men walked past the house with their heads together.

Dr. Cuncliffe came up behind me, his footfalls soft on the carpet, and gave me my drink. We clinked glasses. After tasting it I tilted my head appreciatively. It was Glenlivet.

Dr. Cuncliffe gazed out across the strait toward the distant Olympic snowcaps and said, “It’s a big country out there. Plenty of room to hide in.”

Moving slowly and somewhat erratically, Dr. Cuncliffe crossed the room again and sat in a leather club chair. I knew what he wanted to say, and I also knew that he wasn’t quite ready to say it yet, so I took a chance and said quietly, “You’re Calvert Hunt’s doctor. Is Charles Service your patient as well?”

“Not really, although Charlie consults me from time to time. Why do you ask?”

“I’m curious to know how long Charles Service has been addicted to cocaine is all.”

Dr. Cuncliffe’s face closed up in thought. He shrugged and said, “Coke? Charles has been on the stuff for a few years now. Off and on, that is. Sometimes he gets into a 12-step program and stays clear of it for a while, but he always goes back. A smart fellow like that, I’m damned if I can understand it.”

So my guess was right, but I didn’t feel good about it. How many times have I sat with people, smiling and lying, tricking them into telling me the truth?

Dr. Cuncliffe screwed up his eyes and mouth in concentration and went on. “Damn shame. Charles is a decent sort. God only knows what possessed him to dabble with the stuff in the first place. Bloody foolishness. When I think what it must have cost him, over the years … ”

Dr. Cuncliffe looked at his glass and discovered that it was empty. Moving with difficulty, he got up and went unsteadily to the side table for a refill. Speaking over his shoulder, his voice half muffled, he said, “The reason I called you. It’s about my boy, Harry.”

He turned toward me and said awkwardly, “I don’t know how to put this, but the thing is, I’ve never been satisfied. About Harry’s killing, I mean. The real reason for it. What I wanted to ask you, Silas, as a favour … Since you’re working on that Marcia Hunt thing, maybe you could keep your eyes and ears open … ”

His voice trailed off. He was quite drunk. He went to a sideboard, pulled open a drawer and took out an unframed four-by-six photograph. “Here,” he said. “You can keep this.”

It was a photograph of Harry. I turned it over. A pencilled caption read: “Harry Cuncliffe. 1978–2000.”

Sudden drops of moisture glistened in Dr. Cuncliffe’s eyes. He brushed his face with the back of a hand and said, “Sorry. Unforgivable. I’m getting maudlin in my old age, but he was my only son. There’s just me now.”

I felt like I was mainlining on wretchedness.

He said, “I asked you a few days ago if you thought Jimmy Scow had killed my boy. Remember?”

“Yes, and I remember the answer I gave you. It was no.”

“Were you just guessing, or do you have evidence?”

“Let me put it this way. The evidence against Scow was tainted.”

“I know it was, because I attended every day of Scow’s trial. I was hoping that the prospect of a jail sentence would soften Scow up. Encourage him to rat on his accomplices.”

I didn’t say anything.

Dr. Cuncliffe sat down and said gamely, “How’s your tipple? Help yourself, old boy. I’m a bit legless, myself.”

“We’ll find him, Doctor. Find the guy who killed your son, and that’s a promise,” I said. I meant every word, but by then I was thinking with my heart instead of my head.

I had another Glenlivet and then left him to his desolation.