and even offered advice to callers. The electricians hadn’t been making money hand over fist, but they had just gotten started and seemed like sensible, ordinary men running a sensible, ordinary business.
Altogether it felt like three wasted days. Dion was about to start wasting Day Four on this line of inquiry, which was the seventh day following the murders, when he heard the breaking news: they had a suspect, and it had nothing to do with his hard work. It was a hot tip fresh in from Calgary. He dropped what he was doing and followed Torr down the hall to where the case room was set up like a shrine to the murdered Liu family.
Paley was at the computer, setting it up for his presentation. The news was big enough that Mike Bosko had come to listen in, standing next to Leith. Dion and others gathered around.
“It came in at just before five this morning,” Paley said. “Which is just before six Mountain Time. A CPS officer named Brinkley got a recorded message on his work cell number. He passed the message to Calgary Serious Crimes, who forwarded it on to us. Dave and I just spent the last half hour listening to the call. It’s a blocked number, but Calgary sourced it by the background PA noises to Rockyview General. Oh, and it’s anonymous,” he said, putting air quotes around the word. “But, hey, let’s not spoil it for you. Have a listen. Enjoy.”
He dragged the mouse to start an audio file. There was a sound shift as the recording service kicked in, then a breathy huffing sound. Finally a hoarse female voice said, “Hiya. I’m calling about that murder of, uh, Lance Loo and his wifey and kid over in B.C. there.”
The speaker paused, maybe to puff on a cigarette, then spent a while coughing. She sounded to Dion like a skinny woman in her thirties, if anything could be drawn from a voice twice removed. She said, “I’m calling from a blocked phone so you can’t track me, ’cause I don’t want to get in no trouble. I got two kids to look after, eh? So yeah, I know who did it, and his name’s Philly Prince, and he lives at the brown duplex on 11th Ave. He took off on his hog two days before the murders happened, which I saw in the news, and I ain’t seen ’im since, though I hear he’s around. And he has a thing against that guy, and always said he was going to kill ’im. And Philly doesn’t kid around, I should know ’cause I was married to the creep for one too many — aw shhhhit.”
More noisy breathing as the caller considered what to do now that she’d blown her cover. Without another word, she disconnected. Some of the team laughed. Doug Paley twirled his hands like an MC following a great act. Dion jotted the information into his notebook, the name Philly Prince, and address. None of it rang any bells from his three days of talking to Liu contacts.
JD said, “Why’d she call this CPS Brinkley personally?”
Paley shrugged. “He does community patrols. Maybe she had some contact with him in the past, had his card for whatever reason. But we’ll know soon enough. They’re pulling her in as we speak.”
The caller was a Maggie Boland, no doubt about it, known to the CPS (Calgary Police Service), ex-wife of Phillip Prince. The fact that Ms. Boland had two kids and worked in housekeeping at Rockyview Hospital, with a shift starting at 6:00 a.m. Mountain Time, fairly clinched it. Philly was Phillip H. Prince, member of the Calgarian chapter of the Outlaws, a biker gang based out of Edmonton. He had served time for assaults, and been charged with murder a few years back, along with a bunch of confederates, but was acquitted when the Crown’s star witness turned. Calgary police were working along with the “K” division RCMP to track Prince down, but wouldn’t collar him till they got instructions from the coast.
Paley said, “Which is what we have to decide right now. Pretty simple, right? We’ll get him pulled in, and somebody here’s got to fly out and talk to the little shit. And I’ve got the unlucky candidate already picked out. Right, Dave?”
Leith seemed to have been forewarned, Dion noticed. Glum, but not surprised. “I’d love to go to Calgary and tell a biker I think he killed someone, sure,” Leith said, arms crossed.
“Let’s have a big hand for Dave,” Paley said, still the MC, and clapped. Others clapped, too. Dion clapped, though he was halfway out the door. Curiosity about the Philly Prince angle might have kept him on board a while longer, but he already had it figured Prince wasn’t the killer they wanted. And for good reason. He saw Bosko slipping out. He followed, stopped him in the corridor, asked if they could have a word.
In Bosko’s office he took the visitor’s chair, just like a week earlier, but today it was with a twist. The last time he sat here he had been convinced he could get back to where he’d left off. He was fast discovering it wasn’t working out. Losing Kate was not the worst of it; he could accept the downgrade. What he couldn’t take was the feeling of being a bad fit. He could chime in and smile and join the gang at Rainey’s, but he knew they saw through him. He was odd, and they knew it.
He had also killed a man. Criminally. Any moment now, somebody would find out. He didn’t want to be around when it happened.
Putting physical distance between himself and the crime wasn’t the only option open to him, and last night he had contemplated a more radical resolution: he could get it over with and confess. But that took nerve he didn’t have. This morning he had made up his mind to go with Plan A. “I’m leaving the area. I know you need people up north, and I’d be happy to take any posting in the region. I’d waive the financial assistance, if that’s any help. Barring that, I’ll have to resign.”
Bosko’s brows were up. Then they screwed into a wince. He leaned forward, resting on his forearms, and spoke calmly. “I’m shocked. The last time we talked you seemed happy to be back. And confident. What’s changed? Something I can help you through?”
“No, sir. I’m just not ready for the city. Prefer an outpost. That’s all.”
Dion looked at a wall of filing cabinets, more or less northward, and could almost feel it, cold wind raking his face, ruffling his hair. Canyons and rivers and rubbly roads jetting off into the wilds.
“It’s barely been a week,” Bosko pointed out.
Dion nodded. “A week is enough. I’m done. One way or another, I have to leave.”
“Sure,” Bosko said, after a moment’s thought. “Okay.” He clasped his hands on the desktop and twiddled his thumbs. “But let’s think about this. Could it be you’re being too self-critical? In my experience …”
He went on, rolling out his advice. He told a story of his own inner conflicts. Then spoke about the inherent pressures of the job, and Dion’s excellent service record, the tests he had passed, the need to give himself some slack. Dion didn’t listen much until Bosko seemed to be wrapping up. “… and I’d very much like to keep you on. Of course there are things we need to work out —”
“There are also things that I can’t work out, and that’s the problem.”
“But minor things.” Bosko ploughed on. “Your last report on Liu, for instance. You’ve got good thoughts, Cal, but you do need to lay them out on paper better, so the reader knows what you’re driving at. Obscure reports aren’t fatal, but they don’t help you, either. So let’s deal with it. Let’s coordinate with SRR and think about getting you some help. With writing and composition, for instance. In fact, what I’d suggest …”
Dion sat straighter. He had thought that his writing and composition were excellent. Obscure?
“… in the end if you’re still unsure, I can see what we can do about relocation or reassignment. But I wholeheartedly encourage you to give it some time.”
