River of Lies Read online

  B.C. Blues Crime

  Cold Girl

  Undertow

  Creep

  Flights and Falls

  River of Lies

  Copyright © R.M. Greenaway, 2020

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purpose of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

  All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Publisher: Scott Fraser | Editor: Allister Thompson

  Cover designer: Laura Boyle

  Cover image: woman: shutterstock.com/goffkein.pro; river: DannyPSL

  Printer: Marquis Book Printing Inc.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: River of lies / R.M. Greenaway.

  Names: Greenaway, R.M., author.

  Series: Greenaway, R.M. B.C. blues crime novel.

  Description: Series statement: B.C. blues crime

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190144548 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190144556 | ISBN 9781459741539 (softcover) | ISBN 9781459741546 (PDF) | ISBN 9781459741553 (EPUB)

  Classification: LCC PS8613.R4285 R59 2020 | DDC C813/.6—dc23

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Ontario, through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and Ontario Creates, and the Government of Canada.

  Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites or their content unless they are owned by the publisher.

  Printed and bound in Canada.

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  To Joyce, with gratitude

  Contents

  ONE: THE JANITOR

  TWO: VALENTINE

  THREE: SILENCE

  FOUR: LUNA MAE

  FIVE: HE SAID, SHE SAID

  SIX: RIVERSIDE BLUES

  SEVEN: COLD COMFORT

  EIGHT: GAMES

  NINE: HARTSHORNE

  TEN: FLOWN

  ELEVEN: ANIMALS

  TWELVE: WINDFALL

  THIRTEEN: HOPE

  FOURTEEN: DOUBLE STRANGE

  FIFTEEN: P.S. GOODBYE

  SIXTEEN: LONG BLACK SEDAN

  SEVENTEEN: NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH

  EIGHTEEN: DISNEYLAND

  NINETEEN: WALLS

  TWENTY: THE BRINK

  TWENTY-ONE: BATTLE SCARS

  TWENTY-TWO: SEEING RED

  TWENTY-THREE: ROMANTICS

  TWENTY-FOUR: UNROMANTICS

  TWENTY-FIVE: WHEN THE DANCE ENDS

  TWENTY-SIX: ZACCARDI

  TWENTY-SEVEN: YELP

  TWENTY-EIGHT: BLACK AND BLUE

  TWENTY-NINE: RELEASE

  THIRTY: FRACTURES

  THIRTY-ONE: DOUBLE DOSE

  THIRTY-TWO: SASAMAT LANE

  THIRTY-THREE: FAITH

  THIRTY-FOUR: REVERB

  THIRTY-FIVE: GHOSTS

  THIRTY-SIX: KENNY

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ONE

  THE JANITOR

  February 1

  TASHA LOOKED AT the toes of her new boots and worried. Her workday was done. She had pushed open the school’s service door, checked outside, and shut it again with a shiver. Indoors was all brightness and warmth, but outside ’twas definitely a dark and stormy night.

  Shouldn’t have changed from her grubby work shoes into these beauties till she got to Shaun’s apartment. The school’s parking lot would be riddled with puddles, and the boots were special; over-the-knee burnished-gold faux suede. The fabric wouldn’t take mud well.

  She had chosen to wear the new boots for Shaun, along with her favourite slinky dress. She wanted to show up at his doorstep looking like a princess, not an off-duty janitor. Because it was February, the month of romance, and he was going out of his way to make her feel special. Only the first of the month and he’d already dropped off a sparkly, heart-smothered Hallmark card. No, appearing at his doorstep in sloppy work clothes was not an option.

  She blew out a breath. Tonight would be their fourth date, and she expected there would be sex involved. Like last time, what he had called dynamite, and what she called painful. Shaun was a tad too big for her, when it came to sex.

  She thought about the card he’d given her. Her friends said it was charming, and she supposed it was. She wondered if he would carry out his threat of delivering a pre–Valentine’s Day card every day till the fourteenth, a sort of twelve-days-of-Christmas shtick.

  Honestly.

  They were both in their midthirties, hardly kids anymore. She hoped that in the long run she would get used to his charm and that their relationship would build into something solid. Her parents were looking at her with that loud, unspoken question, Why are you still single? Same question from her friends. Same question from herself, really, because she wanted a husband and lots of kids, and none of that would drop out of the blue if she didn’t do her bit.

  She pushed the service door open farther and took another peek at the sky. The rain had stopped, and she decided that instead of changing back to her runners, she would simply avoid the puddles, walk with care. She left the warmth and safety of the school and took her first tentative steps across the asphalt. So far so good — the basketball courtyard was fairly smooth and puddle-free. But ahead stretched the chain-link fence that separated finished ground from unfinished, and that’s where it was going to get gross.

  Under lamplight a new worry sprang on her, more serious than the fear of muddy boots — the sense that she was being followed.

  Tasha wasn’t easily frightened. Always aware, always prepared, that was the key to survival. She glanced over her shoulder, then did an about-face and stopped. Over by the school’s main entrance, had something just moved, sliding behind one of the support posts? She sniffed, wrinkled her nose, caught the faintest whiff of burning marijuana.

  Just some kids. They hung out under the shelter there, sneaking smokes, craving danger, as kids will do. Even at this time of night and in this horrible weather.

  She went on her way, thinking she actually wouldn’t mind a bit of danger herself. Not a huge amount, just enough to give her something to tell Shaun, ’cause sex and food, that’s all he seemed to care about, and not necessarily in that order. Spin up a tale, start a conversation, mix it up a bit. She was already framing the narrative as she reached the gate to the gravel parking lot. She saw it was polka-dotted with puddles, worse than she expected. It wasn’t a big school, not a huge parking area, space enough for maybe fifty cars. Of course there weren’t fifty cars here at this time of night. Just two.

  Two?

  Hers and who else’s?

  A long black sedan. Unoccupied. It was parked near the rear entrance that led to the school’s lower level. She had been the only one on the premises, she was quite sure. No office lights burned, no late meetings underway. But a staff member might have left their car, got a ride with somebody. Teachers drank a lot, she’d been told. Maybe someone had decided they’d pick up their wheels in the morning. She gave one more look around bef
ore setting foot on the gravel. At the far end of the lot and all along one side was a smudge of forest. A little scary.

  Careful what you wish for.

  She had her keys in hand, in readiness to beep open the doors, and thought about her best friend’s self-defence tip. Hold your keys like this, pointy ends out, not a bad set of brass knuckles in a pinch. Second line of defence of course was the Toyota’s alarm button, which she sometimes set off by mistake, making herself and everyone around her jump.

  This creepy guy was following me, her exciting story would go. I had to outrun him. Barely made it to my car. Luckily I set my key alarm going and he ran off.

  Silly to spook herself like this. She was now moving forward, stop and go, tippy-toeing around bodies of mud-grey water. Heavy winter rains had flooded the lot and the puddles spread out, broad and gleaming. Behind her the chain-link gave a metallic shiver. She could hear traffic. She could see the lights of houses in the distance. A far cry from solitude, but in a way she might as well be on Mars.

  The school entranceway looked so distant now. Nobody creeping or crawling about. She laughed aloud at her own tall tale of danger, faced her car once more and stopped. She peered through the darkness, not believing her eyes. Only a stone’s throw away now she saw the front right tire was flat. Flat as a pancake.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she cried.

  “Hey, what’s up?” somebody called out.

  She whirled. A twitch of her fingers set off the fob alarm and the car’s horn went mad, onn-onn-onn. She yanked the keys from her pocket and pressed the red button. Silence, except the soft whish of the wind playing around her ears.

  “Sorry,” she said. The pounding of her heart slowed, and she smiled at the man. He hadn’t been inside the black car, so must have come up from behind her. If he’d been a stranger she’d be busy forming her brass knuckles. But she recognized him. He was a nice guy. They had exchanged friendly hellos in the halls.

  She snugged her coat around her tighter, hugged her handbag. The wind was awful, trying to knock her sideways. Her neck felt cold and vulnerable. She beeped open her car to grab a scarf off the passenger seat. Slammed the door shut and said, “Whatcha doing here this time of night?”

  “Had to pick up something. Papers. You know.”

  He must have arrived as she left, dashed in, grabbed the docket he held under his arm.

  He wasn’t as tall as Shaun. Older than Shaun, more serious. Not bad looking. She’d seen him in the halls. What did he teach? Something interesting, like science or social studies, she’d bet. Was he single?

  She focused on the flat tire. He followed the direction of her stare and pulled a clownish face of horror. Just being funny. Kind of corny, but it made her laugh.

  Laughing felt good. She always laughed at Shaun’s jokes, but sometimes it took effort.

  She wondered if this teacher’s life was as humdrum as hers, that a flat tire late at night was the most excitement he’d had in a while. Maybe this chance encounter would lead to a conversation, then to friendship, then to something valuable.

  Unlikely, but things like that did happen, didn’t they?

  “So,” he said, done being funny. “Sabotage, or bad luck?”

  “I’m guessing sabotage. I know who did it, too. And I bet I know why.”

  He raised his brows at that. “No kidding? Tell me all about it. But first let’s get going on this flat of yours. Got a spare?”

  TWO

  VALENTINE

  February 2

  THE DEAD WOMAN was in her thirties, Dion guessed. She had dark skin and black hair and was of Asian or Middle Eastern descent. She lay on her side, supported against chain-link in the rear parking lot of Riverside Secondary, and since that was likely her car over there, the dark grey Toyota with a flat tire, and there were water stains on her boots and up her fawn, toggle-buttoned overcoat, he could play out the events in his mind. At least in theory.

  He turned off his flashlight. Early morning light was now seeping through the clouds and the scene was gently lit. He passed his thoughts on to his superior, Constable David Leith, who stood a few feet away and seemed to be thinking. Or trying to stay awake.

  “She made it to her car …” Dion said. He glanced over his shoulder toward the lone vehicle. Too far across the lot to make out its details from here, but they remained clear in his mind. Against the car’s rear panel leaned a spare tire. The trunk hatch was lowered but not secured. “Saw she had a flat. Was approached by a man. Maybe someone offering help.”

  He flipped through the usual considerations of intention, chance meetings, opportunity versus planning. He raised his brows at a new thought and relayed this to Leith as well. “He deliberately flattened her tire in advance, maybe. To trap her. Let out the air, lay in wait, rushed to her rescue. Right?”

  “Right.” Leith spoke automatically, showing no signs of absorption. He was still gazing at the dead woman with what looked like puzzled pity slanting his brow. He roused himself to make a suggestion of his own, proof that he’d been listening after all. “Or put a hole in it. The tire.”

  “I didn’t see any puncture marks. If he’d put a blade through it, or if she’d driven over a nail, you’d see the gash.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” Leith said. “We’ve all had flats. Have you ever seen an obvious puncture mark when you caught a flat, even if you drove over a nail?” He seemed to grow impatient. “If you’re thinking sabotage, why would the guy bother fiddling with those little cap things to let out the air? He’d just jab it with something. A penknife. That’s what I’d use.”

  Within the framework of the scene as he saw it, Dion didn’t agree with the penknife idea. Probably hadn’t been an ambush. Probably just a ruse gone wrong. The assailant had wanted a chance to bump into the woman, not wreck her car. But none of it mattered now, and he said so with a word. “Anyway …”

  “Sure,” Leith agreed, still impatient. “You have an end to your story?”

  “It turned ugly. She ran. Aimed for the gate …”

  There was an opening in the chain-link only a metre from the soles of the dead woman’s boots. Both men looked at the opening, which allowed access between the well-lit school grounds and the relative darkness of the parking lot. Her head was faced in the opposite direction of the gateway, toward the thick and tangled greenbelt that backed the school. The orientation of her head and feet probably meant nothing.

  “But he caught her,” Dion said. “Maybe was dragging her toward the woods. She fought it.”

  He leaned in for a closer look at the victim. Her upturned face was veiled in black hair, and only a glimmer of her open eyes shone through. He couldn’t see enough of those eyes to check for signs of trauma. There was no blood visible on her clothes or the ground around her. Her clothes looked intact. Cause of death was a mystery. Unable to make an educated guess, he straightened and made an uneducated one. “He strangled her. It didn’t go how he wanted. Maybe he was expecting her to play along. She didn’t. It went too far. He took off and is lying low now. I hope she scratched him good. Or bit him.”

  “That would be a blessing,” Leith agreed. “But you know, Cal, Forensics get paid for a reason. And it’s important to keep an open mind rather than leaping to all kinds of conclusions, which they’ll probably just nix once they get their lights and their … what do you call ’em … Hemastix out. For all we know she had a heart attack. It happens.”

  Dion nodded. He studied the unpaved parking lot. It had been contaminated by early morning staff, but minimally. The first contaminator had been the middle-aged female science teacher, obviously not the killer, who had discovered the body and made the 911 call. She knew the dead woman was one of the janitors, but didn’t know her name. Following her call came the fire service, always the fastest to a scene, then a police unit along with basic life support paramedics, then himself and Leith, with the Serious Crimes Unit.

  The deceased lay as found. First responders had not touched her beyond
checking for breathing and pulse. She was cold. Stiffening. Well beyond help. The area had been cordoned off. Dion’s own sedan, and Leith’s, and the vehicles of any subsequent attendees on scene were on the other side of the grounds, keeping traffic around the body to a minimum and leaving the lot all but empty.

  The lot had drainage problems, Dion saw. It was polka-dotted with pools of every size, now reflecting heavy clouds, dusky blue. He turned his attention back to the dark-haired young woman, thought about natural causes, and dismissed them. “Somebody she knew, trusted.”

  “How d’you figure?”

  Some days Leith was a good detective; other days like molasses.

  “Because she ran,” Dion said.

  Leith’s only response was a narrowing of the eyes.

  “She ran from her car,” Dion clarified. “Across the parking lot, which we know ’cause of the splashes on her coat. See?”

  The side of her light brown coat that had made contact with the ground was soggy, wicking up moisture, saturated almost to blackness, but the uppermost flap was patchily dry, and the dry parts — about knee height — showed clear splash patterns. Much like Dion had noticed on his own overcoat a time or two over the years, when forced to run through puddles. It didn’t take a splash-pattern analyst to get that freebie.

  Leith’s eyes were still narrowed. He said, “Aside from the fact that I don’t know how that says she knew and trusted her attacker, aside from that, she could have run toward the car, trying to escape, and was cut off and ran back to the gate. Or was pulled.”

  “Her spare tire is out. She was by her car when the trouble started.”

  “Hmm, right,” Leith said. “Maybe.”

  Though Dion had made his point, he was already losing faith in the scenario that had snapped in so clearly. It always happened this way; intuition would whisper in his ear till he focused on the message. He got out his notebook to jot down a few key points before they escaped him. Leith took advantage of the silence to continue studying the scene.

  They’d get the janitor’s work schedule, Dion knew. But for now he could assume that the victim had been attacked at night, and would have been the last to leave the school, so hers would have been the only car on the lot — unless her assailant’s vehicle had been there as well. For now, the vital info of whether or not the assailant’s vehicle was there was only clutter.