I know what you wanted to do with me,” snapped Mia. “And don’t deny it!”
Mr. Frank shrugged. “I’m not denying it. I’m human. You dressed provocatively … sending out mixed signals. I thought you wanted me to come on to you.”
Mia frowned. “I was dressed for the Rolstads, not for … well, either way, let’s put it behind us. I don’t want my mom to know because I don’t want her to worry.”
“And there is no reason for you to worry, either. Do not give the matter another thought.”
Mr. Frank stared after her when she walked back up the stairwell. He knew he had a problem. He was not acquainted with any corrupt police officers. Action would have to be taken, but he could not jeopardize his own position. It was time to ask for a favour.
It was two o’clock Wednesday afternoon the following week when RCMP Corporal Connie Crane of the Integrated Homicide Investigation Team arrived at the scene. She flashed her identification at a uniformed officer to allow her access through the security perimeter tape and walked up the street.
She was the second member of I-HIT to arrive. The first member, Constable Stan Boyle, was new to the team and had asked for Connie’s assistance. She saw him talking to another uniformed officer farther down the street. Boyle was a big man whose gut hung over his belt and he forever had bits of sleep in the corners of his eyes. Connie didn’t care about his appearance, providing he was capable of doing his job — something she had yet to determine.
Boyle spotted Connie and broke off his conversation and ambled toward her. As he approached, she glanced at the yellow emergency blanket up ahead on the sidewalk. The body — or bodies, as she soon discovered — were still sprawled on the concrete.
Boyle muttered to himself and shook his head as he looked at Connie, somehow expecting her to know what was troubling him.
“What’s up?” asked Connie. “I thought it was a simple hit and run?”
“It is,” replied Boyle, “but uniform is trying to say otherwise. The guy is being really obstinate. If I hadn’t called you, he said he would.”
“Who have you been talking to?”
“Some jerk. A Corporal Dave Rankin. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
Connie was introduced to Rankin. He was a uniformed policeman assigned to traffic and was the first on the scene when the 911 call came in.
After the initial greeting, Connie asked, “What makes you think this isn’t anything more than a hit and run?”
Rankin shook his head. “Because it’s not.” He pointed down the block. “The broken remains of a cheap bottle of wine are farther down the sidewalk where the car first jumped the curb at the entrance to that apartment building. It then travelled this way at a high rate of speed down the sidewalk, hit the victim, then veered back onto the road at the next apartment entrance.”
“Must have been going fast for the victim not to get out of the way,” noted Connie.
“The car came from behind her, so she wouldn’t have had much time to react … but it was going fast. She was also walking a dog. I think she panicked and got the leash tangled in her legs and fell before the car hit her. Considering the type of vehicle involved, if she had been standing, she would have gone over the car or into the windshield. She didn’t. She was dragged under the car for quite a ways. Her and the dog.”
“Witnesses?”
“One. The offending car was a blue Honda Accord. The witness was two blocks farther down the street, driving in the same direction when the Honda passed him at a high rate of speed. He caught a glimpse of two people in the car, both wearing baseball caps and he thinks dark sunglasses. He also thought they were Asian because of their black hair, but he wouldn’t swear to it. He never got a plate.”
“So what makes you think it wasn’t some punks who were out drinking and lost control?”
“Because the driver didn’t lose control. Anyone else accidentally hitting a curb and bouncing onto a sidewalk would have tried to veer back. There aren’t any signs of that.”
“Maybe going too fast,” offered Connie. “Once committed, the next available escape route past all these parked cars was the next apartment entrance.”
“There is also no sign of braking and they would have had a clear view of the victim prior to hitting her. I don’t think they were drunk. We were supposed to think that. Bet there aren’t any prints on the broken bottle.”
Connie studied the route the car had taken. None of the vehicles parked along the curb appeared to have been hit. There were a few broken branches from a hedge, but other than that, the car had managed to drive down a narrow pathway.
“That’s the other thing,” said Rankin, after Connie looked at the scene. “To take that route and not hit anything significant isn’t the sign of a drunk. It took some skilful driving.”
“Or lucky,” suggested Boyle.
Rankin shook his head. “As I told you before, I’ve been doing this work for twenty years. I’ve been to hundreds of fatalities and thousands of accidents. Believe me, this was no accident.”
“Who’s the victim?” asked Connie.
“A seventy-four-year-old woman who was walking her sister’s dog. The dog was killed too.”
“You run the vic’s name?”
“Yes. It’s Betty Donahue.” Rankin frowned. He knew what he had to say didn’t fit his theory. “There’s nothing on her. Not even a parking ticket. She lives in West Van and is a retired schoolteacher. So is her husband.”
“What’s the sister like?” asked Connie.
“Nancy Brighton. She was one of the first ones on the scene. She’s still bawling her eyes out. I got someone to take her back home and sit with her.” He pointed and said, “She lives in the house halfway down the block between the two apartment buildings. The one with all the flowers.”
“Anything on her?” asked Connie.
“Nope. Also retired. Used to be a Crown prosecutor.”
“No kidding?”
“Yeah, but it was long before our time. I feel sorry for her. Her husband passed away two years ago from cancer. There are only two entries on the system for her address. One four years ago from her husband complaining of a noisy party from one of the apartments. The other was from Nancy last week. She spotted some woman stashing dope under one of the bushes in her front yard.”
“How much dope?” asked Connie, with obvious interest. “Maybe someone got the wrong person?”
“That’s just it. The woman was only charged with possession, so it couldn’t have been much. She had a non-injury MVA and the other driver called the police. She then panicked and tried to hide the dope before the members got there, but Nancy spotted her doing it and tipped them off when they arrived.”
“Straight possession. Hardly worth killing someone over,” noted
