Black Fly Season. Giles Blunt
Читать онлайн книгу.
The only unusual thing about the whole place was what was parked in its driveway: a plump, muchchromed motorcycle.
‘Fourteen hundred Harley,’ Cardinal said before they were even out of the car. ‘Serious bike.’
‘You couldn’t pay me to ride one of those things,’ Delorme said. ‘Friend of mine got killed on one at the age of twenty-six. Lost an argument with a cement truck.’
‘Male friend?’
‘Male friend. Thought he was tough, but he wasn’t.’
Cardinal rapped on the side door. It was just after six o’clock; they had waited until Milcher was likely to be home. The door was answered by a thirtyish woman wearing a business suit. As if to balance the boardroom look with something more homey, she was also clutching a saucepan. ‘I’m not interested in religion,’ she said through the screen door. ‘I get tired of telling you people.’
Delorme held up her badge. ‘Is Rod Milcher at home? We need to ask him a few questions.’
The woman turned her head to one side without moving the rest of her body and yelled, ‘Rod! The police are here! Better pack your toothbrush!’
She opened the screen door. ‘Step lively. Don’t want to let the bugs in.’
The side door led through a vestibule to the kitchen. Cardinal and Delorme stood beside a Formica table set for two, while the woman attacked a small cairn of potatoes with a peeler.
‘What seems to be the problem, officers?’
A diminutive man in a check shirt and khakis addressed them from the hall doorway. He didn’t come near to filling it.
‘Mr Milcher, you’re the registered owner of a .32 pistol, is that correct?’ Cardinal said. ‘A Colt Police Positive?’
‘Yes. Why, did you find it?’
‘What can you tell us about the circumstances under which it was stolen?’
‘I told you all that. I put everything in the report.’
‘We’d like to hear it again,’ Delorme said.
‘My wife and I were in Toronto for the weekend. When we came back, the gun was missing. Along with some other items – the stereo and a camera.’
‘And why did you have a licence to carry a gun in the first place?’
‘I manage the back office for Zellers. Lots of times I have to make sizeable deposits at night, after the armoured truck has already gone.’
‘Do you still have that job?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Why don’t you show us where the stereo was,’ Cardinal said.
Milcher looked from Cardinal to Delorme and back again.
‘It was in here.’
They followed him into a living room that was furnished almost entirely in white: white carpet, white curtains, white leatherette sofa and matching recliner. Milcher waved a hand at a glass-fronted set of shelves, a Yamaha stereo and speakers.
Delorme went up and peered at it.
‘You replaced the stereo pretty fast.’
‘This was an old one I had sitting in the basement.’
‘Doesn’t look old.’
‘Looks like a pretty expensive stereo to just be sitting in the basement,’ Cardinal said.
Milcher shrugged. ‘I don’t see what all this has to do with my gun. Did you find it or didn’t you?’
‘Where did you keep the gun?’ Delorme said.
‘In that box right there.’ Milcher pointed to a small oak chest on the shelf. The hasp on the lock was broken.
‘Who else knew you kept it there?’
‘No one. Well, my wife. No one else. Look, you still haven’t told me if the gun has turned up or not. I did my duty in reporting it. I think I have a right to know.’
‘Your gun hasn’t turned up,’ Cardinal said. ‘But we think one of your bullets did.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Did you keep the ammunition with your weapon?’
‘Uh, yeah. The bullets were stolen too. They were really old, though. I wasn’t a hundred per cent sure they’d even work, to tell you the truth.’
‘Do you know this young woman?’ Cardinal said. He handed Milcher the photo of Red that he had taken that morning. The bandage didn’t show, and you couldn’t tell it had been taken in a hospital. She looked as if she had been caught daydreaming.
‘I’ve never seen her,’ Milcher said. ‘Why?’
‘Because it looks like one of your bullets has turned up in her skull,’ Cardinal said.
‘Oh my God. That’s awful. But I didn’t have anything to do with it. Hell, I reported the thing stolen the minute I knew it was gone.’
‘How do we know you didn’t report it stolen, knowing you were going to use it on someone?’
‘Look, I’ve never seen this woman. I had nothing to do with this. I reported the gun stolen, I don’t have a clue who stole it, end of story.’
‘Oh, what is all this bullshit, Rodney?’
All three of them turned to Mrs Milcher, who was in the doorway now with an oven mitt on one hand.
‘Stay out of this, Lorraine.’
Mrs Milcher let out a theatrical sigh. ‘The truth is, officers, my husband has never grown up. If you saw the two-wheeler in the driveway, you know that he fancies himself something out of Easy Rider. He’s never quite gotten over the idea of riding with the big boys.’
‘I did used to ride with them,’ Milcher said. ‘It was over ten years ago, and I didn’t get into any of their other activities. But I rode with them lots of times.’
‘Uh-huh. And I used to sing with the Spice Girls.’
‘Who are we talking about?’ Delorme said. ‘What are the so-called big boys?’
‘The Viking Riders,’ Mrs Milcher said. ‘I mean, doesn’t everybody think they’re heroes?’
‘I don’t think they’re heroes,’ Milcher said. ‘A couple of them are old friends, that’s all.’
‘Grow up, Rod. One of them was over here three weeks ago, just before that stinking gun went missing.’ She turned to Delorme as if only another woman could understand what it was like dealing with an incompetent male. ‘Genius, here, decides to impress his Viking friend by pulling out his little gun.’
‘Lay off, Lorraine.’
‘You know what I’m thinking?’ Delorme said to Milcher. ‘I’m thinking that your stereo never did get stolen. I think you just said that so it would look like you didn’t have a clue who took your gun. Because if it was just the gun that was taken, that would indicate the thief knew exactly what he was looking for, and knew exactly where it was. In other words, the thief would have to be someone you knew.’
‘Hey, look. You don’t know what those guys’ll do to me if they think I ratted on them.’
‘Someone shot this young woman in the head, Mr Milcher. We’re going to need a name.’
Algonquin Bay, although modestly populated, was not so long ago the second-biggest city in Canada (measured by