Holly Martin Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Lou Allin
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been targeted by a gay student.
“We could bring Lindsey Benish in on Friday, if you’re free then,” Holly said. She was learning to follow Whitehouse by leading him.
In the foyer, he adjusted his French cuffs, silver shell cufflinks winking at the bottom, and reached for his raincoat. “I’m totally tied up next week, too. The province just got financial support for a crime squad to coordinate efforts all along the south island. I’m helping with the initial organization. In a few years, we’ll have seventeen people.”
“That sounds big-time.”
“Damn straight. We’re talking nearly a million a year.”
“Damn straight. We’re talking nearly a million “Don’t integrated units already operate?”
“Sure, in dive teams, safety, organized crime and child exploitation. But not in property crime. A full-time analyst is going to crunch the stats and match career criminals with their targets.”
“I hear you. The same five predatory bastards make the rounds of the parks every summer and steal everything that isn’t nailed down and some that is.” It was important that her territory be safe in appearance and reality for tourists and locals. One bad experience could make a negative impression that circulated like the flu.
He passed her a card and walked away, calling over his shoulder, “You and Singh handle everything. Do it right this time. Call me if anything turns up, which it won’t.”
Major Crimes. No wonder he was ticked at the bush-league assignment. Was it the lack of dedication to this case, or a prioritizing of tasks that took Whitehouse off down the road?
His card had a cell phone number, but it had been crossed out, as if they were second-class citizens. Holly gave him a one-fingered salute as the door shut. As she looked out the window, his unmarked car, a comfy Buick, pulled away, spitting small stones. Ann seemed to be smiling as she shut a file cabinet. Was she laughing at Holly or with her?
Chipper looked at her, his face troubled. “That was rough.”
“You can say that again. I wonder what he’s like when he’s really mad.” That got a grin from Chipper.
An hour later, deep in paperwork, Holly heard Ann answer the phone.
“I’ll transfer your call to Corporal Martin.”
Holly found Vic Daso on the line, and the news made her spill a tsunami of coffee from her “B.C.: The Most Beautiful Place on Earth” mug. “The last tox reports show signs of crystal meth.”
“Why so late? I thought you did blood scans.”
“Meth stays in the blood for only four to six hours, so we didn’t twig, but it can remain in the urine even after forty-eight hours.”
“I don’t believe it.” Suddenly chilled, Holly envisioned the fine young girl lying on that cold metal slab. “She didn’t look like a user. This makes no sense.” A wall poster campaigning against crystal meth flashed a graphic picture of the haunting signs of the addiction. Picking at the face, dangerous weight loss, and the signal feature of rotting teeth that were the stuff of nightmares. Angie had been a star athlete. Could scans lie? Was there room for misinterpretation?
“Are you sure? What about a clerical error?” She didn’t like to insult the man or his methods.
“Positive. I double-checked it myself.” He let the idea sink in before continuing. “Could be it was administered without her knowledge. The drug can be snorted, smoked, injected, eaten, even injected into the vagina.”
“What a horrible thought.” A mental pebble sent widening ripples across a pool. Was this proof that Angie hadn’t been alone? Way too many suspects. And that included the two boys outside of the group. What were their names? She reached for her notes. “Chipper collected an empty condom packet in the vicinity. We haven’t done anything with it yet. You said she was no virgin. Could there be a connection?”
“There wasn’t any sign of rough sex, nor any semen. If anything happened, she was a willing partner.”
“I’m no prude, but her background doesn’t sound like—”
“Don’t discount the effect of meth. It increases sexual drive, leading to high-risk behaviour. People do things they wouldn’t normally dream about. And afterwards, memory is sometimes impaired.”
“Did she get the meth at the beach or at the campsite? How could she have been in any condition to ride that bike to the beach?”
“It’s possible. If she left right away.”
“The drug could explain her disorientation. Maybe she did fall.”
“Or maybe someone knows more than they’re telling. Meth can be a solitary experience, but in the first stages, people like company when they’re experimenting.”
“Chipper, listen,” she said after she hung up.
As she filled him in, his soft brown suede eyes narrowed, a transformation from boy to man. “Very bad stuff. I knew a guy who went to sh—I mean fell apart getting on it. Gave up everything. He lost his job, went three times to a rehab centre. It never stuck. Don’t know where he is, and I don’t want to know.” His sudden passion seemed to indicate that the person might have been close, a relative or friend. She thought of asking, but saw his jaw quiver as he grew silent, looking out the window to where a steroidal seagull was dueling with a crow over a crust of bread.
“Whitehouse is going to have a heart attack. He thought he’d seen the back of us.” She left a message on his voice mail at West Shore. Accident or something worse, the development called for more interviews and certainly a search of Angie’s room. Breaking the news at the Didrickson house, the last thing on Holly’s mind had been an intrusive search. Had her bereaved father already cleaned out the room or left it intact like a family shrine? At one household she’d visited, the mother had showed her the perfectly preserved room of their baby who had died in its cradle ten years before. Angie’s room probably had a computer. What about a diary or other information about her relationships?
She closed her fist as the wind rose and a flurry of rain smashed the window like bullets. Somebody knew where that meth came from. Suddenly she felt as if they weren’t in Kansas any more. With drugs knocking at the door, even Toto wasn’t safe.
Five
She drove down West Coast Road through corridors where massive Douglas firs had fueled life for over a century. Now that the rains and cooler weather had arrived, the smell of wood fires filled the air, despite B.C. Hydro’s fourth cheapest power in North America. Many retired neighbours, who had long careers in the forestry industry and enjoyed access to the scrap lots, appreciated the free heat. Suddenly a clear-cut broke the sylvan dream, a few token trees left standing amid the wreckage.
Long rows of power poles marched by the roadside, fragile nineteenth-century technology. After every storm in which lines were taken by falling trees, calls came for the wires to be buried. In new subdivisions, they were. Otherwise, the cost was prohibitive.
The microcosm of the timber industry on Vancouver Island continued. On one side, like a miniature graveyard with tiny white stakes for monuments, were acres of trial seedlings. On the another, a forest planted in 1948. Trees a foot and a half in diameter for six decades of growth. Her mother had been born that year.
On Otter Point Place at last, she crested the sloping driveway and parked her car behind her father’s toy-sized Smart Car, bright red with a bumptious attitude. A muted bark caught her attention. The hillside overlooking the strait resembled a bandshell, reverberating with sounds from all directions. Next door lived Katie, a black lab. Up the hill on the next parallel street, Randy’s Place, were several dogs and a new litter of puppies. She pushed open the back door and found a furry head in her groin. A border collie, young and agile and ready for play. White paint seemed to have been spilled down its ebony head in perfect symmetry. Strange to see