A Bad Case of Loyalty
R.G. Crossley
Published by 53rd Street Publishing at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 R.G. Crossley
Cover image copyright © Philcold | Dreamstime.com
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Table of Contents
Excerpt from the first Trudy and Bruce adventure, Death of A Hairdresser
This novel is a sequel to the first novel about hairdresser, Trudy Wilson and her friend, Bruce Carstairs.
The series had its gestation many years ago at a writing workshop taught by Dean Wesley Smith and Kristine Katherine Rusch.
A few years before my wife and I had been a franchisee for a major hair shop chain so I knew well the troubles of the young women in the hair service industry like those in this story. Sadly, many of these women come from broken homes, and many have failed personal relationships. Some have substance addiction problems, which are their Band-Aid solutions for their personal problems.
The idea of this series is to focus on one woman, Trudy who, like many heroes, quickly discovers she can do more than she thinks she can. As in many classic hero journey stories she accepts the challenge reluctantly, but is soon drawn into an adventure. An adventure where she must overcome seemingly impossible odds to save her friend.
I hope you go back after reading this sequel and pick up the first novel to discover how the Trudy, Bruce friendship became so deep and loyal.
So join Trudy on this adventure, and check out the excerpt at the end.
At some point I will write another Trudy and Bruce adventure so if you enjoy this novel contact me on face book or twitter and let me know what you thought.
I hope you enjoy the ride.
January 2012
Chapter One
“I’ve been arrested – for murder.”
Trudy was startled back to reality when the seagulls that hung around the plaza looking for scraps screamed loudly then shot into the fog enshrouded sky outside the hair shop’s picture window leaving a flurry of white and gray feathers. The mustard yellow banana shaped receiver in her hand was suddenly cold and heavy.
Fear gripped her in a vice. Fear for her friend. Fear she thought she’d put behind her returned to invade her world.
She immediately recognized his voice – Bruce Carstair’s deep voice was edged with sadness, yet his words were clipped and tense, not at all like the last time she’d seen him, six months ago.
He’d been happy then. Happier than he’d been in a long time, having seemingly put the death of his sister behind him. Or at least he’d finally managed to come to grips with her untimely death.
In her minds eye she pictured the tanned, swarthy biker with radiant blue eyes the color of a hazy sky, the long dark hair that draped off his broad shoulders, and the easy smile. Bruce Carstairs who’d helped her to rekindle her life and give it meaning when all seemed lost. Bruce who dragged her from her own despair had become a true friend.
Though he was much younger than her she felt sometimes he understood her better than her own husband of twenty years.
It was a year ago that they first met, here in Fairview, Oregon, when Sharon Carstairs, Bruce’s sister, was murdered. Trudy was accused of the murder, now it would seem she would have to bail Bruce out of trouble. She was more than certain the big guy was incapable of murdering anyone.
“Where are you?”
“Vancouver.”
“Washington?”
“The other one.” She thought for a moment. No, couldn’t be. What could be doing there?
“Canada?”
“Yeah.” At least he didn’t talk your ear off.
“Trudy, please come here. Please help me. You’re the only one I trust.” He sounded desperate.
“But, Bruce I…” Rocky would be pissed. She stopped herself. What did she care if that self-centered son of a bitch husband didn’t like it? He only cared about how much money she brought in. The job he promised he’d get finally came through, but it lasted all of two weeks. Until Mr. James found him with that fifth of whiskey stuffed in his back pocket.
“Trudy, please I know you have that new gal. What was her name —”
“May,” Trudy said finishing his thought for him.
“Yeah. May." He paused. "Trudy. I’m in a real jam.”
“What about the bike shop guys? Ya know, them.”
Bruce worked as a bookkeeper for a motorcycle shop in Seattle owned by Hell’s Angels. Not that he was involved in their life style, though to look at him you might think so. He lived the part sometimes to enjoy some of the parties and the women who liked their men on the dangerous side. Fringe benefits he called them.
“I can’t talk about anything else on this line. Just please come and get me outta here.”
Trudy thought he meant the phone line was bugged. It probably was. The world had become a paranoid place since 911.
“Okay,” she said with a heavy sigh. “I’ll be there some time late tomorrow night. I’ve a few things to take care of here first.”
His voice brightened. “Thanks a million. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”
Trudy set the receiver in the cradle and gazed into the distance across the parking lot. The fog was rising to reveal a sky filled with reds, yellows and oranges, as the sun was about to disappear. The ball of fire hung low on the horizon making the few clouds erupt with color. She sighed.
May was in the back working on a perm for Cecile Aimes. May was a godsend for the business. After the unfortunate mess with the sheriff and the murders, Trudy became something of a minor celebrity on the coast. When she’d placed an ad in the local paper to find a replacement for Sharon, May was the first to apply.
The dyed blonde hairdresser had worked at the most prestigious hair shop in Fairview. The town hierarchy were on her extensive client list. The client, Cecil Aimes was a minor — except in her own mind — celebrity herself.
She had once been the chef on a national syndicated cooking show for twenty years before returning to the Fairview. Nice lady, but a little standoffish when Trudy was around. May said it was because she didn’t want her adoring fans to mob her. Until she’d walked into the shop the first time Trudy had never heard of the TV cook.
May Carpenter was a woman with infinite patience, which made her popular with the local ladies. The business improved to the point where Trudy and May worked six days a week, and there was a part-time apprentice for Fridays and Saturdays. Trudy still closed on Sundays. Not because of a particular religious bent, but because like God she need a day of rest to recharge her batteries.
“Something wrong?” asked May, walking toward her wiping her hands on a towel. The towel reeked of perm solution. She wore black nylon slacks and a purple short sleeve shirt. She wasn’t fat by any stretch of the imagination, and for a woman nearing forty she still had a good figure. At least her husband of twenty-two years, Jack an independent building contractor, seemed to think so. May joked that his job made him Carpenter the carpenter.
“Yeah. I’m gonna have ta go to Vancouver,” said Trudy. May's brow wrinkled and her eyes were quizzical so Trudy explained. “Sorry, May, but I have ta go to Canada. Bruce is in trouble. He needs my help.”
May and Jack met Bruce when he was visiting the coast six months ago. It was summer then and the week he was in town was very special. They were very fond of the large man and the four of them were now fast friends. May would understand.
“How long you gonna be gone?”
Trudy looked away afraid to look into May’s pale gray eyes. “I don’t know exactly. I guess as long as it takes.”
Trudy glanced up when she heard May smirk. Her eyes danced in the low light from the overhead fluorescent tubes. She had a wry grin across her pale peach-coated lips. “Yeah, I understand. You go. I’ll take care of things here. I know what to do.”
On many a night when Trudy and May sat in Trudy’s kitchen sipping wine and telling war stories. Life stories really. They’d discussed the Fairview murders, and Trudy and Bruce’s involvement in solving them.
The new town Sheriff was a woman named Flo Henderson. She seemed all right having left the crime-ridden streets of New York for the friendlier life afforded small town tourist towns.
When she’d found about the Fairview murders she’d paid Trudy a visit. She'd assured her she had no intentions of letting such a thing happen in future. She was still a client of the shop. May’s, of course, but what the hey a buck was a buck.
Since attending the shop on a regular basis, Flo had become friends with both the hairdressers. She’d been suspicious of Bruce until Trudy let her in on the details about how he’d risked his life to save her.
Trudy was sure the sheriff had checked Bruce out with her new fancy computer systems she’d purchased to update the capabilities of her new police force. The money they’d recovered from the previous sheriffs skimming activities had more than paid for the equipment upgrade. Too bad about his deputy now serving time in the state pen though. He hadn't been all bad.
“Trudy,” May began, her eyes filled with tears, “I know how important that man is to you. So you go and I’ll make sure the home fire stays bright.”
Trudy nodded and headed for the wooden coat tree at the rear of the shop. It was in the small office at the back behind the flat gray painted door. Along the way she passed Cecile who had her nose buried in one of the supermarket tabloids she read while she was here.
Keeping up on her the news of your friends? Trudy thought.
Cecil glanced up as she passed from where she sat in the black cushioned hair-cutting chair, nodded, and offered a thin smile. Trudy offered a closed mouth smile though if you looked in her pale blues eyes they were pretty much free of expression. You might even say bland.
She pushed the door inward until it bumped against the coat tree. She stepped inside. There next to the metal shelving with the shop supplies was the worn wooden coat tree.
On one hook hung her faux leather jacket. She pulled it off and slipped in one arm then the other. She shrugged her shoulders and the jacket fell into place. She left it unzipped. She turned and stopped to glance at the desk.
The bills from yesterday were still there laid out where she’d left them. She’d be trying to balance the receipts when Bruce’s call interrupted her. She couldn’t get the totals to match no matter what she did. She shrugged and walked onto the cutting floor closing the door behind her.
She must’ve looked worried because May stood with her hands folded crossed across her chest a look of concern on her face. Her deep frown revealed her care for her friend and boss.
“What?” said Trudy upon seeing May’s face.
“How you gonna get there?” said May.
“By car, of course. I can’t fly.” Trudy flapped her arms as of they were wings. “I’m not a fuckin’ bird.” She grinned at her own joke.
“Com’on, you know what I mean.” Trudy dropped her arms to her sides and the smile on her face disappeared.
“It’ll make it.”
May shook her head." I don’t think so. That piece of shit barely gets you to work every day as it is.”
Trudy grimaced. “Well then if I don’t take the POS what will I use?”
May uncrossed her arms and moved to stand behind Cecelia who sat staring straight ahead pretending to read her paper. She was of course listening to every word. Small towns live and die by gossip.
Since Trudy was a bigger celebrity than she was since the murders Cecile knew, she’d ride that coattail if she had juicy stuff to share with the gals at her cribbage club at the casino.
Trudy cast her pale eyes toward the floor and caught herself before she shuffled her feet like some child at her mom’s knee. “I know I should but….”
“But nuthin’, lady, you go tell him you’re taking it and he can have the POS while you’re away.” May’s tone sounded firm. Not as firm as Trudy felt. In her eyes Rocky was a far better man than she knew he had a right to be since that day on the beach when he’d saved her life.
Trudy nodded but inside she wasn’t so sure. She knew what Bruce would say. He shared May’s feelings about her alcoholic husband.
“Yeah, I know. “ She kept her eyes on the gray tiled floor as she hurried outside into the parking lot.
Mall employees were to park their cars in the back of the mall in order the spaces closest to the outlet stores were left for the convenience of the visiting shoppers, or sharks, as May jokingly dubbed them.
When the lease was up for renewal, May talked Trudy out of moving to another location away from the outlet mall. She’d been glad for it when the strip mall she’d been looking at burned down along with every shop in it.
Trudy regretted that Mr. Swinson’s butcher shop had burned to the ground, though the smell of perfectly cooked meat seemed to linger in the air for days afterward. She couldn’t help but smile to herself. It was as if the whole town smelled like one big barbecue fest. Poor Mr. Swinson.
The air smelled like rain Then again didn’t it always? She walked past the shoe outlet and the kitchen appliance store without a glance. The covered walkway would protect her from any rain that might develop, at least until she made it to the rear parking lot.
Chapter Two
She stepped off the curb at the place where there was an access lane that led to the staff parking area and walked into the lot through the gap between the low-rise buildings.
The sun was trying in viand to break through the gray clouds as they roiled across the sky overhead, scattered rays of sunlight stream across the horizon like rays of gold.
Trudy wasn’t able to see the beach from here with the low rising hills between her and the ocean, but the stiff breeze that hit her in the back as she walked toward the dark red Chevette meant the ocean would be angry today. The waves would be beauties. She shuddered at the casual thought.
Too many people died due to that ocean, far too many. The image of Sharon’s blonde, fresh washed face, and sparkling blue eyes flashed across her mind and she felt infinite sadness fall over her. She shook the feeling, and after pulling out her key ring, the one with the Chevy logo, she unlocked the car door.
She sat behind the steering wheel and started the engine. It started immediately and she breathed a sigh of relief.
She knew where to find her wayward husband at this time of day.
Chapter Three
She turned off the 101 onto the black pavement of the parking lot outside the Whaler Bar and Grill. She glanced at her thin-banded Seiko. It was cheap Korean knock off, but it kept decent track of time.
The heavy twin wooden doors that made up the entrance to the locals booze shack stood before her. Over the doors was a carved wooden sign. On the sign was a rough facsimile of a blue whale with a smile on its face and a spout of water shooting from what the artist, if you could call him that, thought a whales blowhole might look like. Trudy smirked then thought, what am I? An art critic...
With her small black faux leather purse slipped over one thin shoulder she walked up to the double doors. She reached for one of the handles to pull it and it suddenly flew open toward her. She stepped back and a man wearing a baseball cap with the logo of a local fishing supply store barged through the doors with his head down.
He must’ve noticed her because he stopped to study her. His face was covered in gray stubble and a shock of gray curls stuck out from the sides of his cap. He wore a blue and red striped lumberjack shirt, black rubber boots and heavy dark green work pants. He had a lit cigarette dangling from dry lips. He was swaying badly and reeked of stale booze and cigarettes.
“Huh... sorry...” he muttered as he passed her.
Yuck.
She held the door open with one hand and stuck her head into the smoky bar. The place was dark with dim lights.
It took her eyes a few seconds to adjust to the snow light. Finally she made out the chairs and tables strewn randomly through out the place and the polished wood bar with a large mirror behind it at the far end of the room. She stepped inside and immediately felt the need for a shower. The place stunk something awful, a pungent mix of mold and piss, mingled with stale liquor and cigarettes.
Must be poor air circulation, she thought. She wrapped her arms round her body and slowly walked toward the bar. As she got closer, she could see the red haired bartender smiling at her. His white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, no tie and he was clean-shaven. An older man sat at open the stools facing the mirror. Trudy could see the man's grizzled features in the mirror's reflection as she approached them.
“Why hello there, missus. What can I be doin’ for ya?” he smiled warmly his green eyes sparkled in the low light.
Ever since she had lost, the weight men showed considerably more interest in hearing what she had to say. The increased attention made her feel ‘funny’.
“Huh…hi…I’m looking for my husband.”
“Oh,” said the bartender his eyes dropped the bar and the smile disappeared from his face. He picked up a white cloth and he began to idly concentrate on polishing the shiny wood service of the already highly polished bar. It looked to Trudy like the finest teak. “And who might your hubby be?” he said.
“Rocky Wilson,” she said amused at his reaction to her being here to find a wayward husband. No doubt when the wives showed up sparks tended to fly. Well, she certainly wasn’t here for that. She needed his truck.
The red headed bartender pointed toward a particularly dark corner of the room. “He’s in the corner.”
The old man didn’t look up from his glass of beer.
Trudy turned to look into the corner where the bartender pointed and saw the light that hung over the half moon table in front of the dark black leather horseshoe shaped booth was out.
She shielded her eyes with her right hand, her purse slipping a little so she adjusted it then against with her hand covering her eyes she walked toward the booth. She made out the outline of a man-like shape crouched in the booth hunched over a glass of flat beer.
When she stood in front of the table, a pair of blood shot eyes stared up at her. She sat down across from him.
“Rocky. I need your truck.”
Her husband stared at her saying nothing. He fumbled in his right pocket beneath the table out of her view and pulled out a set of GM car keys. He threw then across the table. They clattered to a stop in front of her. She smiled thinly. That had been easy. Maybe too easy.
“Is something wrong?” she said attempting to keep her tone light.
Rocky said, “Everything." His speech was slurred from the drinks he had consumed so far today. No doubt quite a few, as usual.
He was coming home very late most nights having consumed copious quantities of alcohol. He had begun to smell of the stuff all day, every day. She wanted desperately to help what was bothering him but he didn’t want to talk. He just said, everything every time she asked him what was wrong. She didn’t know how much longer she could put up with his silence.
Without her though she didn’t know what would happen to him. He wasn’t mean to her or beat her or anything like that he just drank too much. She sighed and without saying anything more, she dropped the keys for the POS on the table in front of him.
“I’m gonna be outta town for a few days. May’s looking after the shop. Do you want me ta call you, later?”
He nodded his head and then cast his gaze back into the depths of his glass. He took a sip of the warm beer as she stood looking down at the pathetic figure he’d become.
She walked away without looking back.
Once outside she let the tears flow down her reddened cheeks. What the hell am I gonna do?
The truck was parked at the far end of the little lot. She walked over to it and opened the door. She sat behind the black steering wheel for a long time wiping away the tears with her fingers until at last they stopped.
She shook her head to clear her thoughts then turned the key in the ignition. The truck engine roared to life. It was far more powerful than her POS and she liked to drive it. It really gripped the road.
She backed the truck up and after making a left turn headed north along the coast highway toward the house she and Rocky occasionally shared.
She needed to pack and make an important call before she left town.
Chapter Four
The blue and white split-level house where they made their home when they moved to Oregon from Seattle came into view between the stands of tall fir trees that lined the road. From the front window like many homes in this area, you could see the ocean.
Yup, it was a high surf day. No doubt the tidal warnings would be in full swing today.
She walked up the natural stone pathway she built herself to the red cement staircase leading to the front door. Her keys were still in her hand so she unlocked the door. It swung open noiselessly.
She would have liked being greeted by a favorite dog or cat, like when she was a child growing up, but with Rocky away a lot, and her crazy hours at the shop she didn’t want an animal to suffer from neglect.
She closed the door and flipped on the light switch. The little decorative window next to the door didn’t throw a lot of light on the foyer. She had taken off the old worn forest green wallpaper and painted the walls a light peach color but while that helped, a little the area was still the darkest in the house. The brown short shag carpet that Rocky insisted on keeping didn’t help.
She stopped to pick up the mail. There was an eclectic bill and tow advertising flyers. It’s never good news, she thought, glancing at the white envelope with the plastic window. Her name was there not Rocky’s. She’d have to put in check in the mail tonight so it would be paid while she was away. Couldn’t have the poor guy without lights while she was away. Not that he’d notice anyway.
She slipped off her navy blue windbreaker and put it away in the hall closet then went up the stairs to the upper part of the house. The front floor length drapes were closed so she walked over and with the drawstring on the right. She pulled them open to reveal the view of the ocean in the distance. She stood for a few seconds and gazed at the waves attacking the shoreline. It was filled with dangerous beauty.
Like Sharon had been, she thought. She immediately regretted the thought. Why couldn’t she get that woman out of her head?
She walked into the kitchen, pulled the banana shaped yellow phone from its wall-mounted cradle, and used the clear plastic buttons to dial the Sheriffs office.
After two rings, the new receptionist Ella Simpson answered. “Fairview Sheriffs office.” Ella always sounded so cheerful. Just a happy person.
“Ella, it's Trudy Wilson calling. I’d like to speak with Flo.”
“Trudy, how nice,” she sounded genuinely pleased. “Sorry, Sheriffs outta the office right now. You want me ta raise her on the radio?”
Trudy laughed. The woman’s sunny disposition was truly infectious. “Naw, Ella don’t bother her. I would though like to speak with her, as soon as she gets in, it’s kinda important.”
“You bet.”
“Thanks a bunch, bye."
Trudy hung up confident that Ella would be immediately on the radio relaying her message. Ella was not one to sit around and wait. The woman’s energy and enthusiasm were attributes that made her a valuable commodity to the community.
Trudy leaned back and glanced at her thin Timex. The black arms moved two minutes when the phone rang. She smiled to herself and picked up the receiver after the second ring.
“Thanks for calling me back so quickly, Flo,” she said.
She heard the husky chuckle at the other end. “Ella said you wanted something important?” Right to business. That’s what made her a pro. No chit chat.
“Bruce’s been arrested in Vancouver.”
“Which one?” said Flo. Trudy grinned. Only true west coasters would think to ask this question. Though she didn’t ask what he’d been arrested for.
“Canada.”
“Do you know which department has him? They have a few there.”
“Huh…I don’t know. He didn’t tell me.”
“Huh, huh…well once you know call me back and I’ll make a few calls for you.”
“Thanks, Flo.” Trudy sighed.
“Oh and by the way what’s he charged with?”
Now came the tough part. Trudy hesitated. Friend or not Flo was still a sworn officer of the law and murder was a serious crime. “Murder.”
“No fuckin’ way,” came the quick reply. She sounded pissed. Trudy pictured the sheriff sitting in her cruiser her pure white face reddening and her blond curls waving side to side as she shook her head in disgust.
Boy, she thought, I really gotta get the hairdresser shit outta my system. I’m always thinking about everybody’s hair.
“I know. It’s total bullshit.”
“Okay, once you find out what’s happening call me right away. I’ll give a buddy of mine from the RCMP a quick call and let him know you’re on your way. His name’s Rod Baker. Good guy. Good cop.” She paused. “How’re you gettin’ there?”
Trudy laughed. “Thanks, Flo. I’m taking Rocky’s truck. My ‘ol POS would never have made it that far. I’m lucky if it gets me cross town.”
It was Flo‘s turn to laugh. “Okay. I’ll call you back as soon as I hear anything more And, Trudy…”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t worry. I’m sure Bruce’ll be cleared.”
“Yeah.” Trudy hung up the phone and stared at it sitting in the cradle for a long time without moving. The battery operated clock that hung off the wallpapered kitchen wall over her head ticked loudly in her ears. She heard the motor in the refrigerator come on. She noticed the room smelled of onions.
A trail of tears began to flow down her pale cheeks from her swollen red rimmed eyes.
Chapter Five
Flo pulled the white cruiser with the gold and black Sheriff’s logo on both doors away from the curb after finishing her call with Trudy. In bold black lettering on the trunk lid at the rear of the car was the word SHERIFF.
She wasn’t surprised that Bruce was in trouble with the law. She’d done some background checking on him and discovered the connections he held in that motorcycle business outside Seattle. He wasn’t directly connected with any of the owners activities, but he wasn’t squeaky clean either.
A few disorderly conduct arrests at local bars, and one assault case in the past four years. No convictions, but it meant he wasn’t an angel.
Flo steered the cruiser onto the highway and headed south back to her office. As soon as she arrived she planned to make a few calls to people she knew from the law enforcement community in Vancouver. She was certain they’d be able to shed some light on this mess.
As she pulled the car into the parking stall, she saw that her deputy Jason Miller was out on patrol since his cruiser was missing from its parking slot. Good. He wasn’t the best deputy she’d ever hired, but he seemed to be getting the message.
She’d hesitated in hiring him with his low scores at the state police academy, but on a small town budget, she needed to stretch every dollar. Especially with the recent equipment upgrades.
She stepped from the car and walked into the office with her report folder under one arm. She’d instituted patrol reports much to Jason’s chagrin.
“Sheriff,” said Ella upon seeing her enter the office. The coffee colored woman’s row of brilliant white teeth seemed to brighten the dingy room.
The station house was old and run down. The many layers of ancient paint were all that seemed to hold the place together. Her petition to the town council to provide the sheriff departments with better quarters had thus far fell on deaf ears. She was being ignored and it bothered her.
“Hi, Ella,” said Flo a thin smile across her lips. She knew she was frowning. Ella would understand. She always did.
Ella spun back in her black office chair to face forward as the phone on her desk rang. Flo hurried past her to her private office. The glass wood framed door rattled loudly as she slammed it behind her. She normally kept the door open as part of her open door policy. Something she’d promised in her election campaign.
She moved behind her large oak desk and sat in the high backed gray tweed office chair. With her feet, she pushed the chair backward on its steel rollers in order to reach her two-drawer credenza.
She pulled her keys from her pants pocket and quickly located the key, which opened the gray steel cabinet. She slipped the shiny silver key into the lock and turned it. Leaving key in she pulled the top drawer open and the on top of her closed files as her old business card holder.
Inside she hoped they remembered her. She had met the number of RCMP and Vancouver City cops at the Organized Crime Conference in Portland two years ago. One of them might be able to help her.
She flipped through the cards until she found the one she was looking for. Corporal Rod Baker, RCMP, Vancouver Drug Section.
She swiveled her chair to face the desk and placed the white card on her desk blotter. She reached for the receiver sitting in its black Meridian style phone. She touched the gray numbered buttons and dialed Rod’s direct line. His line rang three times until it kicked to a voice mail recording.
Damn, she thought, he isn’t there and I hate these fucking things. Why can’t they have secretaries or something like good ‘ol days. She smirked. What the hell am I thinking? Then again having a cute male butt running around out there instead of Ella might be fun.
His message finished indicating that he wasn’t in the office today but would be tomorrow.
She left her name and phone number saying it was important she speak with him then hung up.
She rested her arms on the desk and thought she might try Phil Singh. He was a Vancouver PD homicide guy she knew. If Bruce were in the VPD lockup then Phil would definitely know about it.
She flipped through the cards again until she found Phil’s. This time the line rang once, and before a second ring, he answered.
“Detective Singh,” said a soft voice that reminded her of silk bed sheets. He sounded kinda bored. The again with his droopy dark eyes he looked bored no matter how riveting the conversation. With the dark bags under his eyes, he looked much older than his forty-two years.
“Hi, Phil, it's Flo Henderson from Fairview Oregon.”
There was a pause then a snort of laughter. “Flo. How nice to hear your voice. You’ve made this broken down old flat foots day. How the hell are ya, eh?”
Flo smiled. “Phil, you son of a gun. I’m great. Made Sheriff here in Fairview. Nice job. Ya know, after what happened and all.”
Phil’s voice turned grim. “Yeah, I heard about that mess. That guy was a real son of a bitch, eh?”
“Yup. But listen, that’s not why I called. Do you remember how a local guy and woman worked together to solve that case?”
“Yeah, sure they helped a state cop named Sanchez didn’t they?” Flo nodded. “Yup. Well, it seems the guy, a Bruce Carstairs, seems to have gotten himself in a little trouble with you up there north of the 49th.”
“Okay. Give me a minute and I’ll check in the computer.”
Flo heard the click of keys being pushed as Phil keyed in Bruce’s name. “You gotta a DOB?”
Flo had no idea what Bruce’s date of birth was. “Nope, sorry. I’d say he was about thirty two or thirty three.”
“Okay. Here it is…” Phil paused. He must’ve been reading the file information on PIRS.
The Police Information Retrieval System linked all Canadian police forces files in one central data depository. Great idea, which police departments in the states envied.
“Oh, shit. Yup, looks like your boys in a heap of trouble. In fact he’s up to his arm pits in shit,” said Phil. For a veteran cop who’d seen just about every vice human beings were capable of even he sounded amazed.
“What is it?” said Flo. She tried and failed to keep the anxiety from her voice.
“He’s been arrested for murder — he's accused of killing the daughter-in-law of the Prime Minster of Canada.”
Chapter Six
Bruce sat in the steel gray painted cell staring at the polished aluminum toilet and sink resting against one wall. The bed bolted to the wall was comfortable against his expansive butt. His long dark hair hung about his broad shoulders like a waterfall of pure night. His pale skin glowed from the light cast by the boxed fluorescent lights overhead. Even those were encased in heavy wire mesh.
He glanced at the magazine lying next to him on the bunk. Movies stars. Assholes, he thought. Now he’d be the celebrity of the moment. He thought back to what might have gone wrong.
Cherie was some pretty chick. He pictured her in her tight blue jeans and red cotton tank top. Her heavy breasts stood perfectly erect even without a bra. Her long blond hair, neatly permed in long flowing curls, ran down her back like a train of shimmering gold. Her tanned skin also reminded him of that gold painted broad in that spy flick from the sixties.
His old roomie, Howard, loved those cheesy movies. He had watched them endlessly after they came out on video. She was definitely a hottie. Too bad she hadn’t mentioned her husband before he’d slept with her.
And too bad she was dead. He really liked her. She’d been fun. He felt grief overcome him, but he knew the cops were watching him on their closed circuit monitors so he held back the tears.
It was like reliving the horror that happened to his sister. It was a fuckin’ nightmare. He hoped Trudy would be here soon. He needed a friend right now any friend.
He was tired. The party had taken a lot out of him. The night that began at the Ranch Hand Bar and Grill and then moved to Spike’s place near the beach had been a long one. He sighed heavily.
Spike Logan was a local wannabe of the Angels who’d never made it to the stage of getting his patch. Sure, being an associate had its rewards. Booze, dope, and broads may be fun but they also made life complicated.
He knew that for sure, now.
He had never really wanted to be a full-fledged member of the Angels anyway. It wasn’t his thing. Looking like one and being one were very different things. He was a damn good bookkeeper and he needed to live life on his terms.
The extended party last night had been a doozy. Booze flowing and more than willing women plentiful. Music blaring. All the mix for a-good-time-was-had-by-all ending. Not this time though.
When he woke up the morning he couldn’t remember much. His head throbbed due to a seriously wicked hang over. Next to him lay Cherie, he never knew her last name until after he was arrested. He shook her but she didn’t move. He realized when he touched her she was abnormally cold.
He checked her wrist for a pulse and found nothing. She looked like she was asleep, but he knew she was dead.
He stumbled into the living room wearing only his boxers. Spike lay on the couch face down naked. He shook him and the bleary-eyed tough guy with his blood shot eyes stared up at him an angry expression on his face.
“What the fuck?” he said, his word slurring.
“Cherie’s dead,” said Bruce. He grasped one side his head and used his free arm to steady himself by gripping the arm of the brown tweed couch. Glancing to the picture window he saw the sun was beginning to climb into the eastern sky. The glowing ball of orange fire was becoming brighter by the second. In another half an hour, this room would be filled with the rays of the new day.
“Who?” said Spike his face changing to one of concern. From his expression it was plain he didn’t need this shit in his house. Rental or not it spelled trouble for a guy in his position.
“Cherie,” said Bruce more forcefully. “Ya know, the broad I picked up at the bar last night.”
Spike looked puzzled for a moment then his memory cells must’ve kicked in because he became pale and suddenly sat up as if the alcohol in his system had dissipated. “I remember now,” he said his voice solemn. “I think you’d better leave.”
“What? There’s a dead girl in my bed….”
“Right the fuck now!” Spike's eyes were narrow and his voice made the room develop a sudden chill. Bruce shivered involuntarily.
Clearly he had to leave. He turned and made a beeline for the bedroom. He stole a final glance at Cheri’s still, naked figure lying spread eagled on the bed. Her ample breasts stood like twin peaks from her chest. Her long blonde hair fanned out from her head. Her eyes were closed and she looked peaceful as he quickly dressed in his white sport socks, blue jeans, and black tee shirt.
He slipped on his Dayton’s then stomped each foot down until the boots were securely in place. Lastly, he skipped on his black leather jacket and hurried from the room.
Spike sat on the couch watching him walk across the room toward the front door. He had slipped on a pair of black jeans and sat with bare feet and a bare upper body. He was smoking a cigarette.
“Sorry,” said Bruce, casting an eye at Spike who nodded. His inky eyes were focused on the worn forest green oval shaped throw rug that lay on the scuffed and marred hardwood in front of the couch.
Bruce pulled the front door open just as the sun began to peak over the eastern horizon. The sky was orange, red and shot through with yellow jets.
He hurried down the cracked cement walkway that led to the two stone steps to the driveway where his bike sat leaning on its steel stand. The gas tank was painted royal purple and the yellow lettering painted across it read, Sharon’s Ride in honor of his late sister. His late sis loved the feeling of her long hair trailing in the wind as she rode on the back of his motorcycle.
He straddled the bike and kicked the stand in place with his right foot. He turned the key in the ignition and stepped hard on the starter pedal. The engine roared to life. He revved it a couple of times then gave it some gas and eased out the clutch. The bike leapt forward and he steered onto the black paved road. The road was too small to have painted lines.
The dilapidated bungalow sat at the end of a dead-end cul-de-sac near the edge of a park.
He smirked. Not much of a park more like a wild forest. Perfect for wild parties. No neighbors no complaints.
He heard the waves at the beach and smelled the mix of salt water and green forest around him as he sped down the quiet street. The house wasn’t far from the beach.
He rounded a corner shielded by a stand of maple trees there leaves pale green. The leaves moved about as if in some fall dance as a light wind had sprung up. The warmth of the sun felt good on his face.
As he neared the corner, he could make out the shapes of two cars parked across the road their noses creating a V shape. The two cars also each had a roller bar on the roof, which was flashing. Cops.
He slowed the bike as he neared the roadblock until he saw there were cops with guns drawn crouching behind open car doors aiming straight at him. He stopped in front of the cars.
“Get off the bike with your hands above your head.” The sound was amplified by a speaker on the roof of one of the police cars.
He knew if he didn’t comply with the order they would shoot him, no doubt at all.
He stopped the bike, turned off the engine and kicked the stand in place. Carefully with his hands visible, he stepped off the bike and stood beside it with his hands over his head. I feel kinda stupid, he thought.
“Lock your fingers behind your head then lay face down on the ground,” came the next order.
Again he complied, albeit a bit awkwardly given his size. He lay still as he heard booted footsteps approach.
“One hand behind your back,” said a deep male voice. He did so and felt the cold steel of handcuff being slipped over his wrist and then secured with a ratcheting sound.
“Now the other.”
Again, he did so and again he felt the handcuff being locked in place. Now he wouldn’t be able to move. He felt two sets of strong hands grab his arms and lift him up.
He saw there was a shit load of cops. Had to be at least twenty. They holstered their automatic pistols. All were young, both the men and the women and all had grim expressions on their faces.
“Hey, guys,” he said, trying his best to sound as innocent as possible. “What’s up?”
They didn’t say a word as they pushed him toward an open door of one of the cars and while holding his head so it wouldn’t bump against the doorframe placed him inside. The door slammed behind him. He sat in the car staring at the cops milling about. A man and a woman cop climbed in to the front seat of the cruiser. The man spoke into a microphone apparently to dispatch. A tow truck would take his bike away.
The woman turned and looked at him. “Do you know why you’re being arrested?” she said. He shook his head. He felt a sinking feeling deep in his stomach. He knew why but he just couldn’t believe it. Spike had fingered him.
“Is your name Bruce Carstairs?” she said her eyes were hard and free of emotion. He nodded.
“Well, Mr. Carstairs, you are under arrest for suspicion of the murder of Cherie Lavois…” she proceeded to read him his rights, which he barely heard as his mind raced trying to remember what happened the previous evening after he arrived at the house. He couldn’t remember anything past coming through the front door, after Spike handed him the bottle of beer…
“Do you understand your rights as I have read them to you? Mister Carstairs?”
He blinked. “Yeah, sure,” he said dully. The car had begun to move. The rollers were off and they quickly left the roadblock behind.
They weaved their way through the wind blow trees until the came to the junction with the two-lane highway. The traffic was light, the car quickly made it into the traffic, and they headed north.
Bruce eased back in the seat the cool hard steel of the cuffs digging into the soft flesh of his wrists.
What the hell was he gonna do? “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.
He saw the two cops in the front seat cast sideways glances at each other and smirk at his predicament.
“Yeah,” muttered Bruce his voice echoing off the cement brick walls surrounding him. “Fuck.”
He dropped his head into his hands and felt despair run through his being. He didn’t remember anything else. It was like there was a void in his mind. A hole where his memories disappeared. Something like this had never happened to him before no matter how much booze he drank or how much grass he smoked.
Trudy. He needed Trudy. There was no clock on the wall or window and they’d taken his watch. Pretty hard to kill yourself with a Seiko but he’d heard of stranger things.
He still didn’t know who Cherie was but the cops seemed to be worked up about something. His legal aid lawyer would be in tomorrow morning. Maybe he’d find out then.
Chapter Seven
Trudy nearly dropped the telephone receiver. She felt it slipping from her grasp but managed to retain control of herself enough.
“What the hell….?” she said under her breath. “That can’t be right.” Her mind reeled with crazy thoughts. How would Bruce know anyone like that?
“Flo, something has to be wrong. Bruce would never fucking kill anyone much less the daughter in-law of the Prime Minister of Canada. That’s bullshit…”
Flo Henderson, her voice cool and calm interrupted her friend’s tirade. “Listen to me, Trudy. All I know is what my contact tells me. I haven’t been able to reach my guy at the RCMP yet and until I do I won’t have anymore information.”
“Sorry. It’s just that I know this guy. He wouldn’t kill anyone especially after what happened…” her voice trailed off.
She thought she couldn’t almost hear the gentle nod of Flo’s head as she attempted to comfort her. “Yeah, I know.” There was a pause.
“So, you gonna go up there or what?”
“You bet your ass I am.” Trudy surprised herself with the determination in her voice. “I’ve already packed my stuff and put it in the truck. I was waiting for your call.”
“Okay, but be careful. I’ll be waiting for your call when you get there.”
Trudy felt her eyes fill with tears. They tasted salty as the flowed from her ducts down her face to her lips. “Thanks, Flo for your help. It means a lot to me.”
“You’re welcome,” Flo said cheerfully.
Trudy hung the receiver back in the cradle. She wiped away the tears with back of her right hand then glanced toward the three carpeted steps that led to the three bedrooms on the upper level. Rocky was no doubt still sleeping off yesterday’s libations before starting on today’s round. She never knew how he made it home every day but then again she also didn’t want to know either.
Sunlight streamed into the living room as she crossed the room to the top of the staircase, which led to the foyer and the front door. She hurried down the stairs with out looking back.
Her white Nike’s made no noise on the carpeted staircase as she rushed down to the bottom.
Upon reaching the landing at the bottom, she pulled the one of the natural wood stained wood slatted cupboard doors open and extracted her faux leather jacket. She bought it last spring at the discount outlet store in the mall. Eighty percent savings was a good deal in her book.
It’s dull black simulated leather shone in the light streaming through the fogged glass of the narrow window next to the solid pine front door.
She closed the cupboard and opened the door. The freshness of the sea air and the blooming roses and daisies that lined the sides of the driveway filled the air.
She smiled and immediately a flash of guilt crossed her mind, she had no right to feel good but she couldn’t help herself. It was beautiful day for a drive. The sun was warm and air fresh, though the wind, which as light this time of day took some edge off the warm rays of ‘ol sol. She loved late fall days like this on the coast it reminded her of home. She closed the door behind her and made sure it was locked, she tried to turn the brass brushed doorknob, twice.
She dismissed her thoughts of him. Regrets. Who needed them?
She moved the driver’s door of the blue pickup and swung the door open. It was oiled recently so it made little noise just a small swishing sound. I wish he took as good care of me as he did this hunk of metal, she though bitterly.
The engine started as soon as she turned the key the V8 rumbling at a low purr. She put it in gear and backed out.
She had to make one stop then would hit the road. It was an eight-hour drive to Vancouver and she felt tired already. She rolled down the driver’s side window so she could take in the smells of the sea and rain forest. She reveled in the coast. It permeated her being and made her feel alive. The atmosphere of the place was the one thing that held her here.
She wound through the forest that lined the road to the highway well below the posted speed limit. She loved the green of trees and the smell, the flowers in spring, the rain in winter, the salt air.
She almost closed her eyes but resisted the urge preferring to keep her eyes on the road ahead.
A sudden honk from behind made her cast her eyes in the rearview mirror. A brown station wagon had pulled up close behind her. She glanced at the speedometer set in the dashboard and realized she was only going twenty miles per hour. She shrugged her shoulder then cast an apologetic gesture at the driver behind her. Not that he would see it but it didn’t hurt to at least feign an apology.
She stepped on the gas and was soon at the highway. She turned north and easily found a space large enough to get on the road. This highway was designed for this traffic, never had been probably since it was built.
She followed the road to the outlet center where she entered the visitor parking area. She’d only a few minutes so she’d park in front of the shop and say her good-byes to May.
She pulled up in front and turned off the engine. The shop lights were dark, it was still early. She could make out that the office door at the rear was partially open and the light was on meaning May was in the back preparing for the day ahead.
She stepped out of the truck and slammed the door. Ads the parking lot was mostly empty it echoed off the brick walls of the shops that lined the giant ugly strip mall.
Trudy saw a blonde head appear from behind the closed door, with a frown on her face, it was May. Her frown turned to a slight smile as she saw who it was.
She rushed to the door and unlocked it. She was wearing those wooden sandals that had become so popular. Trudy could hear them slapping the tiled floor even through the doors heavy glass.
She had on a pink and white flowered short-sleeved dress shirt and a pair of brand new blue jeans that looked like they’d been painted on. The male customers would really like this outfit, May, she thought to herself.
May stepped back as Trudy entered then, once she was inside with the door closed, she reset the deadbolt.
Together they walked in silence to the back room.
“I need you to sign something,” said May once they were seated at the two chairs, one in front of the office desk the other to the side.
Laying flat on the brown laminated surface of the heavily cigarette scarred desk were tow white cards with the logo from her bank in the upper left corner. She gazed at them and immediately recognized them they were account signature cards.
“What are these for?" said Trudy already actually knowing what they were.
“While you’re away I’ll need access to the accounts to pay bills and such,” said May her tone all business.
“Yeah, I guess so…” she paused to open the desk drawer and pull out a blue ballpoint pen. “Can’t Rocky look after this shit?”
May gave her a withering look.
Trudy nodded. “Yeah, I know. Don’t say any more.”
She reached for the cards and pulled them toward her. She read them over carefully. She certainly didn’t understand all the legalize when she’d signed them the first time and this was no different but all the same she liked to make the pretense she knew what they meant.
She held the pen over where the x’s were on the two cards and signed her name, in full, the legal way.
When she was done, May smiled warmly, took the cards, and placed them in her purse. Really a cloth bag that hung off one hook of the wooden coat tree.
“Com’on let’s get a coffee at the Snack Shack before you have to go,” said May.
Trudy suddenly felt the oddest sense of déjà vu come over her. This seemed too familiar. She shook immediately it off and smiled at her friend.
“Yes, lets. And I tell you what I’ll pay.”
***
Thirty minutes later Trudy was back on the highway headed north. She quickly arrived at the junction, which led to Portland, and all points north.
She began to think about Bruce sitting in his cell in Vancouver. She couldn’t believe he’d ever be involved in a cold, blooded murder though Flo told her that the cops seemed pretty sure he’d done it. She needed more information. She decided to call Flo once she got to Portland and stopped for gas.
She stepped harder on the gas pedal and felt the surge of power as the extra horsepower that she definitely had never experienced in her POS came to bear and the truck quickly got up with the massive house on wheels in front of her. She moved her foot to the brake and slowed down before she mated with the massive vehicle.
Oops, she thought, this is going to take some getting used to.
Chapter Eight
Flo picked up her phone on the first ring after Ella mouthed to her it was the call she’d been waiting for.
“Rod?”
“Yeah. Hi, Flo.” Rod Baker’s voice sounded world-weary. Flo knew from bitter experience the war on drugs was unwinnable. The weekly law enforcement bulletins always seemed to be the bearer of bad news for cops on the drug beat.
“How’re you?” she said. Even though she tried to control it, she knew her voice sounded clipped even to her ears. Damn, she thought. This guys a friend and I need friends right now.
“Trouble?” said Baker, obviously picking up the inflection in her voice.
He’d understand she knew he would. Good cops helped good cops that were the unwritten rules and they were both good cops whop cared about what they did for a living.
“I need your help,” she stated flatly. They small talk could wait She stole a glance at her watch. Trudy would be near Portland and would no doubt be calling to see if she’d found anything more about Bruce’s situation.
When Rod didn’t say anything she took it as her cue that he was waiting for her to continue so she did. “A friend of mine is in deep trouble up there and I need to find out what’s happened. I spoke with Phil Singh — do you know him — VDP homicide —anyway he said I better check with the Mounties because my friend is in the lockup in someplace called…” she paused to look at her note pad. “White Rock.”
“Well, that certainly sounds like trouble,” said Rod slowly.
“Yeah — right. Could you check it out and let me know what’s goin’ on?”