all of a sudden we’re not just high school rockers; now we got a future. Which is kind of funny.” His smile faded, and he finished on a quieter note. “So that’s about it. It’s so unreal, I can’t stop cryin’. I forget she’s missing, and every time I remember I just start cryin’ all over again.”
There were no tears in his eyes, but Dion got the gist, and Leith seemed to as well. “What’s kind of funny?” he asked.
“Nothing. What d’you think happened to her?”
“We’re working hard to find her,” Leith said. “What’s kind of funny?”
“Nothing, hey. I’m just so freaked out here, just can’t think straight.”
Oman was a fast talker, and Dion flexed his wrist. He wondered how many interviews he’d be on today. How long before his scribbles turned to garbage? Just get the key points, he told himself. Oman was describing for Leith the Saturday when Kiera walked out of rehearsal without explanation, and Dion’s key points fractured into point form, then finally random hieroglyphics. It didn’t matter, though, because the tape was getting it all down. Notes were just for backup and quick reference, memoranda for the continuation reports that he would be typing later. He rubbed his temple and flipped a page.
Oman talked about the new demo they were working on after the big disappointment in December when that Vancouver record label backed out of a deal. “Mercy says don’t worry about it, just carry on, write some new material, work harder, which is what we’re doing now, working on the new, improved demo that’s going to make us a big name.”
“And how’s that going?”
Oman shrugged, which said it all.
Leith said, “I was in the sound studio at Frank’s house. It’s an impressive setup. You’re saying Blackwood funded all that?”
“I’m not sure how that’s all worked out. They have a contract, I think. Frank could tell you. Are we done soon, because I want to go home and shoot my brains out.”
“Why?”
“Because I have a feeling Kiera’s not coming back, which means so much for making it big, which is super depressing, if you have to know.”
Leith told him gravely not to go shooting his brains out. He asked for more details, specifically if Oman recalled anything Kiera had eaten or drank or smoked, and what she was wearing as she left, and how her hair was done up, and her mood at the time. Oman didn’t know if Kiera drank any beer or smoked any dope. He didn’t recall what she was wearing, in particular. Jeans and a baggy sweater, probably, and those battered Blundstones of hers. He didn’t recall her leaving with her coat on. She left alone. He agreed that Frank was in a bad mood, but not angry or anything. They were all glum. Soon after Kiera left, Oman left with Stella, and later that night Frank buzzed in a big panic, and Oman had put on his winter gear and gone up the mountain with him to look for Kiera. They hadn’t found her, and that was that.
The interview wound down and Dion was breathing hard, as if he’d just jogged up a steep hill. The witness was having a few last words with Leith and seeing himself out. Dion reviewed his notes and felt the familiar sliding chill of defeat. The witness was gone, and Leith was by the door, studying him. “There a problem?”
“Couldn’t keep up so well at the end there,” Dion told him.
“It’s just for reference,” Leith said irritably, coming around, taking his seat, prepping for the next interview. “You got it recorded, right?”
Dion rewound the recorder to check with a brief playback. Nothing issued forth but a faint hiss. His pulse went into overdrive. He must have pressed play but not record. He looked at Leith and saw the kind of restrained anger that was worse than a blowup. Leith took Dion’s notebook, looked it over, and tossed it back at him. “I’ll dictate what I recall of the conversation. You write.”
They spent half an hour getting down what had been said, and Dion discovered that Leith had an excellent memory. When it was done, his nerves were still jangling, but the stifling fear had lifted. He said, “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“Not a big deal,” Leith said curtly. “Just be happy it wasn’t our prime suspect.”
Dion nodded, and Leith devoted himself to his file documents.
“He was lying, there. I think,” Dion said.
Leith stared up from his papers. “What?”
The stare was direct and unsettling, and whatever lightbulb had been burning in Dion’s brain blew a fuse and went black. He said, “It just seemed … no, probably not. I thought … but … sorry.”
The detective’s unfriendly blue eyes stayed on him. “Thought but what?”
“Nothing. Sorry.”
“You just said you think he’s lying. Lying about what? What makes you say that?”
Dion was starting to sweat. He searched his mind for something, anything, but all he found was more dead air. He said, “Actually I forget.”
“You forget what?”
They were staring at each other now, the inevitable answer to the question lying heavy and silent between them.
With a slap on the tabletop, Leith said, “Just get Stella Marshall in here, please.”
Stella was a tall, solidly built woman in her early twenties with white-blond hair. Her eyes were pale and bulgy. Her pink skin was blotched, and a fine white down picked out by the fluorescent lights ran down her cheeks like vague sideburns. She spoke much slower than the drummer, to Dion’s relief, glancing his way from time to time as if to be sure his pen was keeping up. Sometimes she smiled at him. “I’ve known Frank forever,” she told Leith. “I joined his band in grade ten. I played bass guitar then, but I’ve gravitated toward fiddle, and I think that worked better in the long run. It branded us country and western, but that’s okay. We’re very popular around here. Produced our own CD. Didn’t exactly go viral, but we get some good paying gigs. And as you’ve heard by now, we’ve hit the big time with Mercy Blackwood coming along to back us. She’s got connections. She’s going to put us out there. Have you heard us play?” she asked Dion.
Leith brought her attention back his way, saying, “Let’s go over Saturday again. Give me a play-by-play of what happened that day, start to finish.”
Her narrative paralleled that of Chad Oman. Kiera had left rehearsal prematurely. She was in a bad mood, but her nastiness didn’t seem directed at anybody in particular. She hadn’t eaten anything or drunk any beer or smoked any pot. She might have been wearing a coat when she left, but Stella couldn’t be sure. Her hair was definitely tied back, and maybe pinned back too, on one side. Stella and Chad had left soon after lunch because there was no point hanging around. Frank had called her later that night, about eight, asking if she’d seen Kiera, and saying something about the Rodeo up on the Bell 3. Stella had taken part in the search deep into the night.
She tilted her head, and her long blond bangs swung. “They’re saying it’s the Pickup Killer. But I don’t believe it. Way up there, in the middle of nowhere? Do you want to hear my theory?”
“Sure,” Leith said.
“I
