“Do you mean did they confess any nefarious intent to this complete stranger of a paint clerk? As I recollect, they proffered no such information.”
Nefarious? Three more syllables than “bad.”
“And can you tell me on what day they bought the paint?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. I recall recently selling paint to those two kids. On what day the transaction transpired I could not say.”
His politeness was clearly — at least to me — starting to rankle Andrea. It was amusing to see her starting to frazzle the more polite and articulate MacMillan became. Rather than risk further confrontation, she opted to terminate the interview. “Thank you. We’ll be in touch.” With that she turned and headed for the door. I smiled as warmly as I could at MacMillan then hurried after my friend.
“So what now?” I asked when I met her pace. “Do you go roust the perps?”
“Tomorrow. I’m tired of crime busting for the night.”
“All right. It’s been a long week. You can drop me off at home and I’ll begin my reward-less ritual of trying to sleep.” Andy shot me a sideways glance. “What?” I asked, stepping out into the environmentally friendly, SUV-filled parking lot.
“I’m not going home.”
“Ooh,” I groaned. “Do we have a hot date I’m just now being made aware of?” As a rule we were both so hopelessly inept at affairs of the heart, we tended to pre-brief one another about prospective and upcoming romantic engagements, followed by an in-depth de-brief, usually the same night. If the de-brief couldn’t take place until the next morning, it was considered unnecessary.
“Hardly,” Andy replied coolly. “I’ll be staying with a sick friend, remember?”
“Who’s that?” She shot me another sideways glance. “I’m not sick.”
“That’s debatable.”
“Is this because you feel a need to protect my front door from further anti-homosexual vitriol?”
“And/or you from the same type of anti-gay beating delivered to your little law protégé.”
“I’m pretty sure I’ll be all right.”
“Because you’re so tough? Masculine? Straight?”
“Because I’ll be in my apartment, locked from the hallway and the outside.”
“That doesn’t fill me with a great deal of confidence, given how effective security has been at your place in the past.”
“We’re not dealing with the same caliber of skels.”
She shot me another look across the roof of her unmarked police cruiser as she unlocked the door. “You must stop watching NYPD Blue re-runs. You need a life.” No argument there, though I’ll give up Sipowicz around the same time I give up red wine.
“Still. I don’t need a bodyguard. I’m sure the people who beat up Tim have no desire to beat me.”
“Your door was their first target. And few people need much of a reason to want to beat you. I think of it almost daily. Besides, I’m not doing this for your sake. If someone gets their hands on you again, your mother will never leave me alone.” She had a point. A few days of living with me until she made an arrest would be much less torturous than a guilt-riddled conversation with my mother. We rode a few blocks in silence, thinking about Tim and the two students who had been identified by MacMillan. Finally I couldn’t resist commenting on Andy’s interviewing technique.
“Have you ever heard the expression you catch more bees with honey?”
“Shut the hell up.”
“Indeed.”
Chapter Nine
Saturday dawned with no attempt having been made on my life and no attempt by me to get Andy to sleep in my bed while I slept on the couch. I just wasn’t that much of a gentleman, especially when it came to Andrea. Furthermore, I remained convinced her presence was completely unnecessary.
I opted to do a second long run on Saturday morning rather than on my traditional Sunday afternoon, though I had already undertaken such an extended venture earlier in the week. I thought it might shake her willingness to babysit me around the clock, but unlike me, she’s never one to shake off a challenge. In theory, my chronic insomnia gave Andrea a competitive advantage, but I’d grown so accustomed to running on so little sleep, it was all she could do to keep pace. The presence of a slight sheen of sweat on her forehead, not a common sight no matter how vigorously she exercised, was an indication I’d made her work hard.
After nearly a two-hour run, showers, and a luxurious breakfast at Denny’s — I order the Moons over My Hammy sandwich every time because it always makes me chuckle — we parked outside the East Vancouver home of Paul Charters slightly before nine. In case his hobbies extended beyond vandalism to weekend organized sports, Andy thought it best we hit his home earlier rather than later. If we woke him up, even better: a groggy teenager was less likely to have his guard up. “You gonna take it easy on him?” I asked.
“Why would I do that?”
“You saw how well your Dirty Harriet routine worked yesterday.”
“It got us here, didn’t it?”
“I’m just saying he’s just a kid.”
Andy shot me a serious look. “Are you going into public defender mode with this kid? Are you gonna make him hire you first? Give you a retainer?”
“Look, I just … I’m a teacher now, not a lawyer. But that doesn’t mean I’m indifferent to the treatment of my students.”
“Your little cabal of criminals.”
“He spray-painted a door.”
“He almost put Tim in a coma.”
“You don’t know that.”
“But I intend to find out. If you’re going to get in my way, just wait in the car.” Andrea rang the doorbell, and by the time the door locks were turning on the typical East Vancouver forties-era stucco house — the kind of stucco that doesn’t leak — I had joined her by the front door. As it opened, I flashed my friendliest smile at the woman I assumed to be Paul’s mother.
“Good morning,” I began, “I’m Winston Patrick, Paul’s law teacher from school.” I was about to continue when Paul himself rounded the corner, fully bedecked in his soccer gear.
“See ya, Mom. That’ll be Steve coming …” Paul stopped himself in mid-sentence when he saw me. Dropping his bag, he turned and ran back into the house.
“Paul, wait!” I called after him.
“What’s going on?” his mother
