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  “What about Anna Waverley? Could she be involved?”

  “She could be, of course. She admits to being at the Broker’s Bay Marina at approximately nine o’clock that evening, although no one seems to have seen her. And how likely is it that the woman who came to your studio pulled Anna Waverley’s name out of a hat? Other than that, though, so far there’s nothing to connect her to Bobbi or you or the boat.”

  “Except that she admitted to being on it once or twice.”

  “Except that.”

  “Maybe the woman who came to the studio was trying to set Mrs. Waverley up for something. She and her husband are pretty well heeled, aren’t they?”

  “Comparatively, I suppose,” Matthias said. “I’m sure Kovacs is considering that angle.”

  We sat in silence for a few minutes, watching Bobbi sleep, listening to the soft whir and murmur of the IV pump and the medical monitors.

  “How are you getting on?” Matthias asked eventually.

  “Trying to keep busy,” I said. I remembered my visitor, and told Matthias about him. “He wouldn’t tell me his name, but he wanted to know who hired us to photograph the boat.”

  “Could he have been the owner’s lawyer, trying to head off a personal injury suit?”

  “That’s what I thought at the time,” I said. “He was too blunt and to-the-point for a lawyer, though, leastways the ones I’ve known. But he could be employed by the boat’s owner in some capacity, I suppose.”

  “Give me his description again,” Matthias said.

  I did, then we sat for a while longer without speaking. A nurse came in, smiled at us, then checked Bobbi’s IV, catheter bag, and the readings on the medical monitors. She smiled at us again as she left. It was nine-thirty, but visiting hours were flexible. It didn’t hurt, either, that Matthias was a cop, and familiar to a number of the nursing staff.

  “I spent some time here last year,” he explained when I commented on it. “My partner was recovering from an injury.”

  I’d met his partner only once the year before, but I remembered her well, a strikingly handsome woman named Isabel Worth. “She was shot?”

  “No,” he said with a dry smile. “She broke her arm when she fell off the Stanley Park seawall while trying to apprehend a suspect.”

  “Are you still partners?”

  “I should’ve said former partner,” he replied. “She retired six months ago on partial pension and moved to Pemberton to raise horses and run a mountain trail guide business with her uncle. I’ve got a couple of years to go before I pull the plug, then I’m going to join her.” He looked at Bobbi for a second or two, then back at me. “What you said about you and Reeny Lindsey, that you liked each other well enough but that there was something missing? Same with me and Bobbi. Well, Isabel and I discovered after she retired and moved to Pemberton that whatever the thing is that’s missing between you and Reeny or me and Bobbi isn’t missing between me and Isabel.”

  As we left Bobbi’s room and walked to the elevator, I said, “Last night, on the local news, there was a story about Bobbi’s attack. It reported that she was still in a coma. Do you think there’s any chance that whoever did this might try to finish the job? I mean, when she wakes up, she’s probably going to be able to identify him.”

  “That kind of thing only happens in the movies,” Matthias said. “Besides, this place has good security. All the staff wear picture IDs and after ten-thirty you can’t get in without clearance from the ward.”

  “Are visitors screened during the day?”

  “No,” he said, “but it’s pretty busy during the day. You’d have to be crazy to expect to get away with harming a patient without getting caught.”

  “Crazy is just what I’m afraid of,” I said.

  “Security is aware of Bobbi’s situation and will be keeping an eye on her. Look, Bobbi isn’t the first assault victim who’s been here for a while. We haven’t lost one yet.”

  I was comforted, but not much.

  chapter seven

  The strangely unseasonable weather had moved in again. Fog haloed the street lamps, the lights of the cars and shops, the bulbs strung along the frame of the freight crane in the parking lot, hanging like a shroud over False Creek and cool on my face as I walked from my car toward the ramp down to Sea Village. It had been only two days since Bobbi’s attack and I told myself it was unreasonable to expect the police to have made much headway in the case, but I was discouraged nonetheless. Nor was I encouraged by the rate of Bobbi’s progress. I blamed it on being raised on television, where the bright young detective catches the bad guys or the brilliant but irascible doctor pulls his patient back from the brink of death just in time for the final commercial break. Real life didn’t work like that, I had to remind myself. In real life, the bad guys often got away. In real life, likely as not the doctor working on your kid’s case had graduated at the bottom of his class, drank too much, and was in the middle of a messy divorce. Who needed real life?

  A man was sitting on the bench under the lamppost by the top of the ramp, wreathed in fog and cigarette smoke. He stood as I approached, a little unsteady on his feet, dropped the cigarette, and ground it out under his toe. It was Norman Brooks. Swell, I thought. Reality, as someone once said, bit. After which, I supposed, it sucked.

  “Were you at the hospital?” Brooks asked gruffly, breath stinking of alcohol.

  “Yes.”

  “How is she?”

  “The same. Haven’t you visited her today?”

  He lowered his head. “They kicked me out.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he replied. “I bet.”

  “Maybe you should try visiting her sober,” I said. He stiffened. “Fuck you,” he growled.

  “Good night, Mr. Brooks,” I said, and started down the ramp.

  He grabbed my right arm in a vice-like grip. “Don’t you walk away from me. I want to talk to you.”

  I twisted free. He’d hit a nerve, literally, and my right hand tingled painfully. “Go home,” I said, rubbing my arm. “Get sober. Then maybe we’ll talk.”

  “Jesus, you’re an asshole. I don’t know why my daughter thinks you’re so great to work for. I think you’re a pussy.”

  “You’re mixing your meta-orifices,” I said.

  He growled deep in his throat. “I know my daughter was assaulted on that boat, but I figure it was really you they were after. You pissed somebody off.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” I agreed glibly.

  “Was it this Waverley guy? You fucking his old lady or something? I heard she’s not too fussy. Or maybe you put nude pictures of her on the Internet. I checked you out. You like taking dirty pictures. Like of those lezzy twin sisters who run that porn website downstairs from your studio.”

  “First,” I said, “I don’t know Mr. or Mrs. Waverley, carnally or otherwise, so I’ve no idea when or how I might have pissed either of them off. Second, as for taking nude photographs, it’s a dirty business, but someone has to do it. And third, Bobbi and I both work on Meg and Peg Castle’s annual calendar. They’re nice people, by the way, both married with kids.” I wondered if he knew that when Bobbi was in university she’d earned extra money by posing nude for life study classes. If not, it wasn’t my place to tell him. “And four, even if Mr. Waverley wanted to beat the crap out of me for some reason, why take it out on Bobbi?”

  “So it was one of your drug-smuggling pals looking to settle a score.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said. “I don’t know any drug smugglers.” Well, maybe I did. Sort of …

  “Don’t give me that wide-eyed innocent crap,” Brooks said. “I told you, I checked you out. I’ve still got connections. Christopher Hastings and his girlfriend were smuggling dope to the States in that old boat of his, till someone set fire to it. Hell, for all I know, it was you that did it. Now she’s your girlfriend and she’s graduated from dope smuggling to making cheap porn.”
/>   “Now that you’re retired from the Mounties,” I said, “I hope you aren’t planning to set up shop as a private detective.”

  “Eh? Why?”

  “Because you’re a lousy investigator. Maybe Chris Hastings was smuggling dope in his boat. I wouldn’t know. I didn’t know him that well. I certainly wouldn’t call him a friend. As for Reeny, she doesn’t make cheap porn, she makes science fiction, and while it may be cheesy, it’s far from cheap.”

  He shook himself, a little like a dog shaking off water.

  “Tell me about the broad who hired you.”

  “No, I don’t think I will. Besides, other than a physical description, which likely doesn’t mean much, there’s nothing to tell. Now, if you’ll pardon me, it’s late and I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

  “I’m not done with you yet.”

  “But I’m done with you,” I said. “You’re no longer a police officer, Mr. Brooks. Look, I know you’re upset about Bobbi. So am I. But blundering drunkenly about making a nuisance of yourself isn’t going to help her. Go home. Sober up. Then maybe they’ll let you in to see your daughter.”

  “I don’t believe you about the Waverley woman. I think you do know her and that she or her old man is involved in Bobbi getting hurt. I’m gonna find out how. And if I find out it was you they were really after, that she just got in the way, I’ll pound the living shit out of you myself. Don’t think I won’t.”

  He turned, a little too quickly, losing his balance and almost falling. He braced himself on the railing at the top of the ramp, regained his balance, and walked away with exaggerated precision. I hoped he wasn’t driving, but as I watched, he dug keys out of his pocket and fumbled at the door of a big GMC four-by-four parked in one of the spaces reserved for the staff of the Emily Carr Institute.

  “Shit,” I muttered and trotted over to him. “You’re in no condition to drive,” I said. “Why don’t you take a cab home? I’ll put your truck in one of the Sea Village spaces so it won’t get towed.”

  He got the door open and climbed into the truck. “I got here, didn’t I?”

  “Probably blind luck,” I said. “Look, it won’t do anybody any good if you have an accident and end up in jail for killing someone with this monster. Give me the keys.”

  “Piss off,” he growled. He was having trouble getting the key into the ignition.

  He lived in Richmond somewhere, I recalled, out past Vancouver International Airport, a thirty-dollar cab ride at least. Maybe he didn’t have the cash. I had forty or fifty dollars in my wallet. Would his pride allow him to accept the offer of a loan? If it had been anyone else, I might have volunteered to drive him home, or even offered my sofa for the night, but I didn’t want to spend any more time with him than I had to, particularly in a confined space.

  While I dithered, he managed to insert the key into the ignition and start the engine.

  “Mr. Brooks,” I said, over the noisy clatter of the diesel engine. “At least come inside and have a cup of coffee or two before you drive home.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was saying. I was almost thankful when he yanked the shift lever into reverse and backed out of the parking space, forcing me to jump aside or get knocked down by the open door. The door swung shut as he jammed the transmission into drive with a lurch and accelerated out of the parking lot.

  Well, I’d tried, I told myself.

  It was almost 10:30 when I let myself into my house. It was so quiet that I could hear every creak and groan and murmur as the house shifted gently on the tide. The message light on the phone in the kitchen was flashing. Without any great enthusiasm, I pressed the button that speed-dialled my voice mail, entered my password, and was told I had three new messages. They were all hangups. Curious, I pressed the button that displayed the Caller IDs of the most recent calls. All three IDs were blocked, which suggested that they had been placed by the same caller.

  I got a Granville Island Lager out of the fridge and took it up to the roof deck. Tendrils of fog writhed around the lights on the metal skeleton of the freight crane. I slumped into a deck chair, put my feet up on the railing, contemplatively sipped my beer, and thought about Reeny Lindsey. More specifically, I wondered what the future might hold for us, if anything at all.

  For the most part, and for a variety of what I considered very valid reasons, such as not having to pick up my socks, make the bed, or put away my breakfast dishes, except that I usually did, pick up my socks, anyway, I liked living alone. For the most part. Also for the most part, except for slightly more than a handful of years of marriage and the occasional live-in girlfriend or equally temporary boarder, I had lived alone for a good chunk of my adult life. I generally liked my own company. We usually got along. Usually. Every now and again, however, I wondered if I wanted to spend the rest of my life with just myself to talk to. I wasn’t that interesting, after all. Besides which, it was lonely sometimes. Okay, more than just sometimes.

  All things considered, Reeny was perfect. She was smart, funny, and attractive, and we were good together in every important way, and some not so important ones. Her job required her to travel, so she wasn’t always underfoot, although truth be told, I wouldn’t have objected to her being underfoot a little more often. The problem was, when I thought about her and me, I didn’t think forever. Not that I ever had with any other woman, not even my ex-wife. But it seemed to me that if a relationship was to last, both parties had to believe deep in their hearts that it was forever, whether it ultimately proved to be or not.

  I wasn’t ready to give up on Reeny. Maybe our relationship just needed a little tweaking. On the other hand, I thought, perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have an alternate strategy, a contingency plan for my old age. Finding another person with whom one would want to grow old — and, more important, who felt the same way — isn’t quite as easy as opening a registered retirement savings plan or buying mutual funds. It requires much more careful planning, as well as considerable research, market analysis, and expensive albeit not entirely unpleasant consumer testing. The risk of losing one’s investment is significantly greater, too; there’s no such thing as a guaranteed investment certificate for relationships. Unfortunately, it’s an arena in which professional help is sorely lacking — I don’t believe in astrology, singles’ bars, or online dating services, although …

  I awakened with a start, almost spilling what was left of my beer. The phone was ringing. I hurried downstairs — or below, if you insist — to my home office to answer it. It was after eleven, but I thought it might be Reeny calling from Germany, where it was only five or six in the morning. I almost crippled myself in the process, but I made it to the phone before the call was transferred to voice mail.

  “H’lo?”

  Nothing.

  “Hello?”

  Still nothing. Not even heavy breathing.

  “Hello!”

  Finally, a hollow click and the dial tone. I swore and put down the handset, none too gently.

  The phone in my home office didn’t have a call display screen, but I was certain that if I went downstairs and checked the Caller ID on the phone in the kitchen, it would show that the ID had been blocked. I did it, anyway, and my suspicion was confirmed. I thought about calling Greg Matthias and getting him to have the VPD technical support division “dump my LUDs,” as they say on TV — my telephone local usage details — and trace the call’s origin. It seemed a bit extreme, though. Anyway, it was probably just an overzealous telemarketer, or the world’s most annoying real estate broker, Blake Darling.

  I nearly jumped out of my shoes when the phone rang again. I peered at the LCD screen. No name, just a local cellphone number. I picked up the handset.

  “Hello?” I said warily.

  “Tom?” a woman said.

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “It’s Jeanie.”

  “Jeanie?”

  “Jeanie Stone. Is something wrong?”

  “No. Nothing’s wrong, Jeanie. S
orry, I’m a bit jumpy, I guess.”

  “Tom, I just heard about Bobbi,” Jeanie said. “Is she going to be all right?”

  “I dunno, Jeanie. She’s still unconscious.”

  “I know it’s late, and a school night ’n’ all, but if you feel like grabbing a beer or two, I’m just five minutes away from Granville Island.”

  I was waiting for her under the portico of the Granville Island Hotel when she emerged from the fog.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Took me longer than I thought. Geez, what’s with this weather? It’s like driving through marshmallow topping.”

  “You’re not on your way back to Squamish, are you?” I asked, as we went into the hotel. She lived in Squamish, at the head of Howe Sound, about halfway to Whistler. Although Squamish billed itself as the Outdoor Recreation Capital of Canada, the forest industry was still the town’s largest employer.

  “I just drove down,” she said.

  We went into the Dockside Restaurant, where we were given a seat by the window, overlooking the fog-shrouded Pelican Bay Marina. The high-rises and office towers on the far side of False Creek were pearly ghosts, the heart of the city just a diffused glow through an ephemeral mist, like an incredibly fine pointillist painting.

  “Pretty,” Jeanie said.

  “It is,” I agreed. “But I wish the CIA would stop messing about with the weather control machines they stole from the Russians.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of the scalar potential interferometer electromagnetic weather machines the Russians built back in the fifties.”

  “Uh, no, I haven’t,” she said. “And here I thought global warming was to blame for the weird weather.”

  I shook my head. “That’s what they want us to believe, but global warming doesn’t explain the popularity of reality TV or Jim Carrey movies. At this very moment we are very likely being scanned by the U.S. government’s scalar beams and our unique personal frequencies recorded in their supercomputers for later programming. Can’t you feel it?”