A FEW HOURS LATER, RICHARD calls. “Jilly, can I come by? News on Trussardi.”
It’s 8:00 p.m., mid-July, and hot. Martha’s just texted me with a long list of things to bring to the lake, and I’m packing. Cradling my phone, I look out my window to the waters of False Creek, where the boats rock gently in the evening breeze. “Sure, Richard, come on by.”
Ten minutes and he’s on my threshold, wearing jeans and a beige shirt. Tonight it’s his fade into the woodwork look.
“You’re working late, Richard.” I go to the fridge, open a beer for him, pour myself a cold glass of Riesling. “So what’s new on Trussardi?”
He takes a deep breath. “I know where Trevor Shore is.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere in Brazil, it seems. He copped a flight to Rio the other day.”
“If you could find out, so could the police.”
“Not necessarily.”
I let it lie. It’s an understanding we have, Richard and I—he gives me the info, I don’t touch the sources. Still, checking on airline records isn’t rocket science. Unless—my mind races—Trevor Shore scored a fake passport and used a false name.
“If we know what they know—fine. If we know what they don’t know—even better. We can present the court with the flight records, make them look like they trained their sights on Trussardi and overlooked the real killer. Or, if they tried and failed, we make them look incompetent. Win-win.”
Richard nods, takes a drink.
“Keep digging into what he did in Vancouver before he left, Richard. Anything you can find that shows Trevor Shore was right under their nose and they let him get away. We need to beef up our cops had tunnel vision defense.”
“Gotcha.”
“Let me tell you my news,” I say, setting down my glass. “The paternity test results came back just as I was leaving the office. Our man’s the dad.”
“More good tidings. Could it be he’s telling the truth about the murder?”
“As I keep saying, Richard, all we need is a reasonable doubt.”
I stretch out on my orange chair and survey the sneakers at the end of my jeans. The world is looking slightly brighter.
“I appreciate this, Richard. You’ve done an amazing job. But I should let you go. Your family awaits.”
“I know.” He puts down his half-finished beer and moves toward the door. “By the way, Keltey, the girl with the locket?”
I look up. “I’d forgotten.”
“Bad news. Turns out her friend died on Pickton’s pig farm. I checked out the victim’s background. She lived in a bed-sit on Main, cheap but respectable. Did some desperate things from time to time to feed her addiction. But it seems she got Keltey off the street and straightened her out.”
Yet another victim, I think. What’s the tally now, forty-three? Forty-four? He bragged in jail he was shooting for fifty. Almost made it.
“Did you contact Keltey?”
“Yes, she’ll be okay. One more thing, Jilly.” He shunts his shoulder against the doorframe. “You know what you mentioned—about your parents?”
“Forget it, Richard. I wasn’t serious.”
“Sure. Still, I did a search. Girls born in the Vancouver General Hospital, October 3, 1983. Just to be sure, I looked a month ahead and a month back.”
“What are you telling me?”
“There’s no record. It’s like you were never born, like you don’t exist.”
“Richard, I have a SIN. I have a passport. I exist.”
“I can see that. And at some point the records must have been there. It’s just that now, they’re gone.”
My stomach clutches.
“Probably just a clerical error,” Richard says. “But clearly the parent thing has been bothering you, Jilly. Enough that you asked me to look into it.”
“I wasn’t serious,” I repeat.
“But you shouldn’t. I’m okay. I should never have mentioned it. We have enough mystery on our hands with Trussardi.”
Richard gives me a fierce one-armed hug, and I feel the stubble on his cheek against my hair. “Take care, Jilly.”