Seaweed Under Water by Stanley Evans Read Free Book Online

invitation I declined. I was wiping soot from my windowsill when I saw Denise Halvorsen come out of Fantan Alley and head my way down Pandora Street.
    Denise was a good-looking constable, about 25 years old. She had been with the VPD less than a year, during which time we’d established a strong platonic friendship. Her Scandinavian beauty was very appealing, and I loved her dry sense of humour. Occasionally, usually at Denise’s instigation, we’d have lunch together.
    I watched as the bums, still swigging what was left in their brown paper bag, offered it to Denise. She chose to ignore them and came inside my building. I heard her pass along a corridor to the washroom.
    I sat back and put my feet on the desk, picked up the phone and called Henry Ferman. He didn’t answer. Henry probably had call display, and a bad conscience.
    Out in the corridor, a woman yelled, boots rattled across linoleum flooring, and Denise raced into my room, both hands folded across her head.
    â€œA bat! A bat attacked me!” she yelled. “It flew into my hair!”
    I gave her a reassuring hug (something she didn’t resist), stroked her hair and murmured vague reassurances. Something soft and moist attached itself to my cheek. It wasn’t a leech; it was Denise’s lovely mouth. But before I knew it, she became her ordinary no-bullshit self. Lately, she’s been acting nervous and strange when I’m around—swearing unnecessarily, for example, and pretending to be more case-hardened than she actually is.
    â€œChrist, it’s hot in here,” she said. “No wonder I went crazy. Why don’t you keep those curtains closed?”
    â€œIt’s against standing orders. I’m supposed to be visible and accessible when I’m working in here.”
    â€œSince when did you start working and obeying orders?”
    I cleared my throat and said, “Feel like a trip to Mowaht Bay?”
    She gave a faintly mocking laugh. “Me? Go to Mowaht Bay? No thanks. I watched Deliverance on TV once. That’s the movie featuring Burt Reynolds, banjos and incest. It put me off places like Mowaht Bay for life.”
    â€œDid you know that Jane Colby used to live there?”
    Denise stopped patting her curls and put her cap back on. Absently adjusting the Glock automatic belted to her shapely waist she added, “No, I didn’t. Poor Janey, she used to have a lot of class, now she’s pathetic. The last time I saw her she was drunk in Pinky’s bar.”
    â€œYou told me you’d gone there to check out an assault.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    I asked, “And when was that, exactly?”
    Looking at me with vague conjecture, Denise said, “About a week ago.”
    â€œCan you narrow it down a bit?”
    â€œI can, as a matter of fact,” she replied, taking a spiral-bound notebook from a pocket. After consulting notes she said, “I was on night patrol with Bob Fyles. But it wasn’t a week ago, it was two weeks ago.”
    â€œTime flies.”
    â€œYes, Silas, it does. That’s a very profound observation.”
    â€œYou were saying?”
    â€œIt was a Friday night. Exactly 14 days ago. Pinky’s barman called 911 to report that somebody had bopped a patron with a beer bottle. A typical boozy TGIF punch up. We called an ambulance at 11:40 pm . Not for Janey, for the guy with a damaged skull. The ambulance carted him away at 12:05 am . Fyles and I left Pinky’s shortly afterwards.”
    â€œWho was the victim?”
    â€œA man named Jack Owens.”
    I remembered Fred Colby telling me that Jane and Jack Owens had been an item, but had broken up. Was this some lovers’ quarrel? “Did you recover the weapon?” I asked.
    â€œYeah. Fortunately the bottle didn’t break. Bob took it to forensics. A nice set of prints.”
    â€œJack Owens isn’t an unusual name, I suppose. The one we’re talking