You’ll know you’re insane when the world starts to make sense. When the blood and chaos coheres into a logical, sensible framework. It could be coincidence that Qiu’s thug happened to favor a knife. That Qiu demanded his bribe back the same moment I should’ve been meeting Dana Essex.
I drove wildly through the rain back down Granville. Instead of taking the bridge I went under, passing the motorcycle shop with its row of glimmering Kawasakis, and headed through the cluster of boutiques that surrounded the Granville Island market.
It was eleven past nine and the market itself was closed. The buildings were lit only by security bulbs. I parked near the wharf and scanned for Essex. The waterfront was empty save for seagulls withstanding the downpour to peck at waterlogged trash and food scraps.
I waited forty minutes. Across the water lights blinked on in the high-rises. No boats on the water in the dark, other than the moored, canvas-covered rentals bobbing along the jetty.
At ten fifteen I risked a phone call to Essex. No answer. I circled the market, checking for movement. Nothing, no signs of life beyond the odd scavenging gull.
I left the market and drove over the Burrard Bridge into the West End, to the address Essex had provided. No one seemed to be following—or rather, every car seemed a potential threat.
She lived on Haro, a second-floor apartment in a mid-rise called the Threadgill Arms. I parked and left the lights on. Her name wasn’t on the buzzer but I hit the number and waited. When no one answered, I stood near the entrance, hoping a resident would come in or out, allowing me to catch the front door. No one did. I watched the rain pour off the canvas awning above the apartment door, spilling into a muddy flower bed.
I tried the landlord’s buzzer. I tried the side door. I tried phoning Essex again. I thought of taking my chances and climbing onto one of the second-floor balconies, hoping it was hers. I phoned the school and importuned a groggy-sounding registration clerk to check her office. He reported back that everyone had left.
Finally I dialed Sonia’s number.
On the eleventh ring she picked up. “Dave. Didn’t we agree not to—”
“I need a favor,” I said, half-shouting over the rain. “I’m at this woman’s apartment and I need to get inside. Come down here and pull come cop shit so I can break in legally.”
“There’s an easier way,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“Sure. Stand in front of her balcony with a boombox and play Peter Gabriel.”
“Other circumstances that’d be hilarious,” I said. “I’m worried something’s happened to her.”
“She’s a friend of yours? Or a client?”
“Friend,” I said.
“I’ll come down.”
Twenty minutes passed. A small, frail-looking woman entered the apartment with her keys, but quickly pulled the door shut behind her.
Sonia’s car passed and slowed. I stepped out into the street and waved. She pulled over and walked back to me. She was wearing a dark blue slicker and carrying her collapsible baton.
“Some police shit,” she said. “What did you have in mind?”
“Break the door down, shoot somebody with a Taser. What do you normally do?”
“Call the landlord,” she said. I watched her try the buzzer and get no response. She rapped on the glass door. When that didn’t bring anyone she moved to the side of the building, shot the baton out to its full length, and began tapping on windows. That brought lights. Someone on the third floor opened their window to complain.
“Who the hell is doing that?”
“I’m an off-duty police officer,” Sonia said. “We’re getting no response from a tenant in the building and we’re concerned for her well-being. Could you tell the landlord we’re here?”
“Landlord’s in Hong Kong.”
“Maintenance person.”
“Who?”
“Main-ten-ance. The janitor.”
Pause. The voice said, “Why don’t I just let you in?”
After a moment a lumpy man in a bathrobe, boxers, and slippers opened the door. He had whispy white hair predominantly in and around the ears, and the ruddy bulbous nose of someone who drinks sherry by the quart.
“You’re police?” he said. “May I see your badges?”
Sonia held up her ID card. I showed him my security license. He nodded and let us pass.
“Who is it you’re worried about?” he said.
“Dana Essex.”
“Who?”
“Two Oh Four,” I said.
“The teacher. She’s a bit frigid, huh?”
We took the stairs. The resident puffed behind us. “Me, I try to know everyone. That’s what we did where I grew up, got to know the people we lived with. Vancouver’s a bit different from Medicine Hat. Not enough community anymore. Too many immigrants. No offense, ma’am.”
“I was born here,” Sonia said.
“Then you know what I mean, right?”
“We could always tell the coroner he slipped,” I said to her.
We banged on 204 to no avail. Mr. Good Neighbor trudged to the elevator and found the maintenance person, a thin man who’d put his shirt on inside out. He jingled the keys. Whether he’d use them for us was another matter.
“Mr. Tsao—the owner—he told me not to let anyone in—less it was an emergency, like a fire, or if the tenant told me it was okay. You don’t have her permission to do this, right? See, that’s a problem.”
Sonia said, “As a police officer I’d appreciate if you’d open it. We’ll do a quick search and leave. We won’t disturb anything.”
“But Mr. Tsao said. And this is my job.”
“The tenant could be injured,” Sonia said.
“How ’bout this? Tomorrow I’ll call Mr. Tsao and see what he says.”
“Do you have any cash?” I asked Sonia. To the maintenance man I said, “Does fifty bucks get us in?”
“I can’t, it’s my job.”
“You’d open up, the place was on fire, right?”
He thought about it and nodded.
“So tell Mr. Tsao you saw smoke. Then you can take this lady’s money and sleep the sleep of the righteous.”
A moment later we were standing in Dana Essex’s apartment.