B.C. Blues Crime 3-Book Bundle. R.M. Greenaway
stood on the grass, car keys in hand, his mind already elsewhere. What time did the Copperside jeweller open, for one. The repair was hardly an urgent matter, but he needed to know, as soon as possible, if the thing could be saved. He tuned in and realized Rourke was still bellyaching at him, asking questions he couldn’t answer. He cut in sharply, saying, “I’m just a temp, and you’re going to have to direct your inquiries to the office. You need that number again?”
“No, I got the number,” Rourke snapped.
Dion squinted into the sky, which had stopped pelting snow but was a solid chalky white, maybe just holding back. He looked again at the pissed-off man in the bathrobe and said, “I’ve heard there’s a jeweller at Copperside. Is he any good, d’you think? With watches?”
“He’s a charlatan,” Rourke said. “And a thief. You want a watch fixed around here, you gotta come to Scottie.”
“Right, and I did, but you’re not taking on work right now, which I perfectly —”
“Did I say I wasn’t taking on work? Death and taxes. What d’you have there, a fucking Rolex?”
“It’s a Smiths,” Dion said. “I’ll pay extra. This watch means a lot to me.”
Rourke walked back into his aluminum palace but left the screen door locked open. Dion stepped in, shutting both doors behind him. He had been in a lot of trailers over the course of his career, all shapes and sizes. They were like condensed houses, with plenty of plastic and tin stripping, but kind of appealing, some of them. “Everything you need and not a bolt more,” he said as he followed his host down a narrow, dingy corridor, giving a wall panel a thump with his fist.
“You got that right.” Rourke led the way to the end of the trailer, the living room fuzzy with morning light, where his in-house workbench was set up. “I’m happy here. It’s home, anyway. Home is where the heart is, they say. Have a seat while I look at this watch of yours.”
Dion gave him the watch and sat on a kitchen chair near the workbench. Looking around at the clutter, he saw that Rourke was a packrat but kept the place in fairly good order. A glut of old snapshots was tacked to one wall, and he looked away in case there were images he really didn’t care to see. Next to him on the bench stood a trio of bright toys. A little tin black man pushing a wheelbarrow, a duck driving a red car, and a yellow school bus.
Rourke followed his gaze. “Job for the second-hand guy. Clean and tune. Puts bread on the table, okay?”
“Are these worth something?”
“Not a heck of a lot. Except the duck. It’s well preserved, and it’s got historical significance of some kind. Don’t ask me what.”
The collar of Rourke’s bathrobe sagged as he leaned forward, showing a bony chest. He studied the Smiths draped over his hand and gave a low whistle of admiration. “This is a fantastic watch. The last of the great British military line. Nice. But it’s in shitty shape. Where’d you steal it?”
“A friend gave it to me. Long time ago.”
“You shoulda boxed it up and kept it in your attic. Might be worth something now.”
“It’s worth more on my wrist.”
Rourke looked at the back of the watch, hunting for access. “Don’t expect miracles. You put it through a few wars, have you? Rain, snow, gunfights, and the odd dunk in the bathtub. It’s old, older than I’m used to dealing with. I’m not saying old is bad, necessarily. But in this case you might be better to just —”
“I’d rather have it fixed.”
“I mean, for the cost of repair you could get yourself a real nice —”
“Oh Jesus, open it up and do what you have to do.”
Rourke grinned at him, the grin bent out of shape by his horrific scar. “This friend of yours, was she good-looking?”
This friend of his was Looch, in fact, a big loudmouth cop going prematurely bald. Lucky Luc, Luciano Ferraro, hilarious guy, sorely missed. Dion crossed his arms and said, “His name’s Luciano. We go way back, and I can’t read time unless it’s off this watch. Are you going to fix it or not?”
“I tell you what. Leave it with me, and I’ll see what I can do. Though to tell the truth I’m kind of up to my arse in projects right now as it is.”
“What, wind-up toys?”
“And three lawnmowers due for overhauls. Yes, lawnmowers. In a couple months they’ll be all the rage.”
Dion was having second thoughts. What he should have done was pick up a cheap substitute, get the Smiths fixed when he was back in the city, however many years down the road that might be. There in the land of plenty he could take it to a professional, get it done right. He said, “I’m just here for the short term. I could be gone tomorrow. We’d better just forget it.”
“No, you leave it with me tonight. I’ll see what I can do. You picked the worst day of the year, you know, what with Kiera.”
“I realize that. Thank you. I appreciate it.” Dion checked his wrist, already forgetting it was bare, and his heart skipped a beat. He stood to go. “Better get to work.”
They walked back down the shipshape corridor to the exit, and in passing what must be a bedroom door Dion heard a woman’s sigh as she tossed on squealing bedsprings. He glanced back at Rourke, who said, “You can mind your own damn business.”
Outside, the sky had grown lighter, no longer snowing. Dion stood on the deck, found his keys, and started down the steps. Rourke remained out in the fresh air by his screen door, saying, “So now I’ve done you this big favour, you gonna do me one back and keep me in the loop with Kiera?”
Dion turned to give him a businesslike smile, in no position to start throwing out promises. “I’ll do my best.”
“Bah,” Rourke said.
At the side of his car, Dion remembered the one question he had to ask in order to tie off the loose end on an overdue report he should have submitted yesterday. Or at least try to confirm if it had any basis in the real world. He turned back to Rourke in the doorway. “Your friend Rob Law, is he married?”
“No. Why?”
“I heard he’s married to a native woman.”
“You’re talking about Charlie?” Rourke glared northward. “They weren’t married, but it was in the plans. She took off in the fall, back home to Dease. Rob’s like me. Can’t keep his women.”
Took off in the fall. The words jolted Dion six months back, to that blowsy afternoon with Penny at the Smithers fairgrounds. He had waited in the following days for reports of young women gone missing from that particular time and place. None had, and his fears had faded. Rourke’s words now brought back an illogical drift of anxiety.
“Charlie…?”
“West.”
Inside the trailer a phone rang, and Dion, one leg in the car, looked up in time to see the screen door swing shut and through its mesh the shadowy figure of a woman with long, wild hair approaching Rourke, her hand outstretched. He hesitated, considering this could be the missing singer, but screen and main door were both closed now.
Scott Rourke had mentioned someone he lived with, a Ms. Doyle. That’s who it was, no mystery. He sat behind the wheel and wrote in his duty notebook, Charlie West. Then he realized by the clock on the dash that in about two minutes he would be late for work, and the drive back was at least twenty. He fired up the engine. One step sideways and two steps back.
* * *
Leith had two main roads to pursue, as well as a few minor alleys. One main road was the Pickup Killer, and another was Fling. This morning he would be focusing on Fling because of a tip that had arrived at the crack of dawn. The tip came