One Careless Moment Read online

  There’s a silence after I finish. Batiste chews his lower lip for a moment.

  “This attack have anything to do with your getting tossed from the bar?”

  They’ve done their homework. “I have no idea.”

  “Why’d they toss you out?” says Noble.

  “A personal disagreement with the bartender.”

  “Ah, yes,” says Batiste, referring to his notes. “A Mr. Draytor. He claims you were harassing the waitress. Karalee Smith. And now she’s dead. An interesting coincidence.”

  “I had nothing to do with her death,” I say, with a twinge of conscience.

  A trickle of sweat crawls like a spider down my back.

  “Why were you harassing Miss Smith?”

  “I wasn’t harassing her,” I say, my tone becoming alarmingly defensive.

  “Mr. Draytor was mistaken?”

  “It was a misunderstanding. I was trying to order a drink.”

  “Really,” says Noble. “You were just ordering a drink.”

  “Yes. Are you accusing me of something?”

  Noble gives me a smug look.

  “No accusations are being made,” says Batiste, calmly, pausing to give me a reassuring glance. They’re using standard interrogation protocol — good cop, bad cop. I’ve been on this see-saw ride before; it never fails to leave me a little disoriented, but that’s the idea. “We’re just trying to understand how your fingerprints came to be in Miss Smith’s motel room.”

  “Well, now you know. Were there anyone else’s prints in her room?”

  Batiste doesn’t reply. Castellino gives me a bitter smile. I get the impression that whoever else was in Karalee’s room cleaned up after themselves — much like the origin at the fire — leaving the police little to go on. There’s an ominous silence. Batiste has a calm, curious expression. The others are all frowning slightly. Like the origin, they have little choice but to rely on my version of events and this clearly makes them uncomfortable. I get the feeling they don’t believe my story, or suspect there’s a lot more to it than I’m letting on. Batiste sits forward, places his elbows on the table, and knits his hands together as though he’s preparing to pray — a little ceremony no doubt designed to give weight to what comes next. He fixes me with a baleful glare, one eyebrow jacked up. “Mr. Cassel, we know you’re running an unofficial investigation here, and we know that, among other things, you’ve searched Miss Smith’s room. Your fingerprints were found on drawer and cupboard handles. That alone places you in a very precarious situation. I’m not going to go into the many concerns I have regarding the way you operate, but I will tell you that you are way out on a limb. There’s no established support network documenting what you’re doing, why, or with whom, which leaves you wide open.”

  Batiste pauses to let this sink in, then leans back and crosses his arms.

  “I’m only going to ask this once. What, exactly, is your interest in Karalee Smith?”

  I have the distinct impression I’m being offered a limited-time deal. Co-operate now, or face the consequences. I think of Erwin, his threats, and consider telling Batiste and Castellino everything, let them deal with the squatters, but I’m not sure the squatters will deal. I’m also more than a little worried about what they might do if I expose their pot growing operation. There’s Telson to worry about, as well as Del and her little girl Melissa. I’ve got to get them out of harm’s way. Until then, I’ll tell Batiste and Castellino as much as I can without breaking my deal with the Sasquatch.

  “I thought Karalee Smith might know something about the arson.”

  Batiste frowns. “Why might that be?”

  “I thought she might be linked to the squatters.”

  “Based on what?”

  “I saw her in a vehicle that I noticed at the squatters’ camp.”

  “You’ve talked with these squatters?”

  “Yes. Shortly after the burnover on the fire.”

  “And what did they tell you?” says Batiste.

  “Nothing. They refused to talk to me.”

  “They haven’t co-operated with us either,” says Noble.

  “So you tried to talk to Miss Smith instead?” says Batiste.

  “Yes. Without success.”

  “That’s when you decided to search her room?”

  I hesitate, knowing I’d be admitting to break and enter. Not that it matters anymore — they’ve got my prints at the scene. I nod reluctantly and Castellino sits up a little straighter. Noble gives me a thoughtful look. Haines has his bony fingers tented together.

  “What did your search reveal?” says Castellino.

  “Nothing of substance, unfortunately.”

  I can feel the frustration around the table. Noble sighs heavily, cranes his neck as he loosens his tie. His forehead glistens with sweat when he turns to look at me. “You still haven’t told us why you think there might be a connection between the arson and these squatters.”

  “Just a hunch,” I say. “Based on their proximity.”

  “You conduct illegal searches on the basis of a hunch?”

  There’s an awkward silence.

  Batiste gives me a patient look. “Let’s remain focused on the issue at hand.”

  “Good idea,” I say. “Why do you think Karalee Smith was murdered?”

  Noble looks disgusted, as if he can’t believe my audacity. Castellino has a wry smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I think we can share that with Mr. Cassel,” he says. “In the spirit of co-operation.”

  “You can’t be serious,” says Noble. “He hasn’t told us anything —”

  Castellino cuts him off.“This is the sheriff ’s investigation, Mr. Noble, and as such I will determine what information is released, and when. I’m sure Mr. Cassel will treat anything we tell him with the greatest confidentiality,” he says, cocking an eyebrow significantly in my direction. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Cassel?”

  I nod. Noble gives me a poisonous look, stares furiously at the table.

  “First things first,” says Castellino. “Did Miss Smith strike you as a drinker?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “And you base that on what?”

  “On her appearance. On talking with her. She had plans for the future.”

  “Plans — yes,” says Castellino. “You found her correspondence course.”

  I hesitate again, uncomfortable discussing my search, but nod. If they’re planning on charging me, they’ll do it anyway. And Castellino seems ready to offer information I can’t get anywhere else.

  “When you searched her room,” he says slowly, “did you find any alcohol bottles?”

  “No,” I say, a little surprised.

  “And you conducted quite a thorough search? You checked her bureau?”

  Now I understand why he’s willing to deal. They found bottles in Karalee’s room and want to establish her character — if she was a closet drinker. On one hand, they’re ready to condemn my methods, but on the other, they want to know what I found. It’s a thin line, this tacit consent. It makes me wonder just how sure they are this wasn’t a suicide.

  “If there were bottles in her room,” I say. “I would have found them.”

  Castellino nods, seems satisfied.

  “What did the autopsy reveal?” I ask cautiously.

  Castellino considers, leaning back, watching me. I try my best to look co-operative and after a moment he nods toward Batiste, tells him to relate the autopsy findings. Batiste rummages in his file, pausing to put on half-glasses — the discriminating scholar. “There were bruises on the right upper arm, and some bruising on the right side of the ribcage.” He glances around the table. “This could be the result of blundering into hard objects while in an intoxicated state. Or it could be ligature marks, as a result of restraint.”

  “What sort of restraint?” I say, thinking about Karalee. She wasn’t a big girl.

  “Well, they puzzled us at first,” says Batiste. “There were also bruises on he
r lips. Taken together, they seem consistent with someone lying across the victim, pinning her down and holding her right arm as they pushed a bottle into her mouth, forcing her to drink.”

  “So it looks like one attacker?”

  “We’re not prepared to speculate on that,” says Batiste, glancing at Castellino as if for a cue when to stop. Castellino waves a hand at him, signalling for him to continue. Batiste scans the report, frowning. “No foreign fibres or hair found on the body. Negative for semen. Nothing under the fingernails.”

  “Isn’t that a little strange?”

  “Yes.” Batiste gives me a knowing look. “Usually, during a struggle, the victim has traces of skin under the fingernails. In this case though, the nails were cut short and recently cleaned.”

  “Recently? You mean, after the attack?”

  “We think it was post-mortem. There were traces of a solvent in the cuticle area.”

  Someone cleaning up once again. “What was the cause of death?”

  “The cause of death is attributed to acute alcohol poisoning.”

  “What about toxicology?” I say quietly.“Were there pills involved too?”

  Batiste lifts a sheet from the pile, examines it carefully. “Yes, there were non-prescription sleeping pills in her system, but not enough to kill her on their own. She had a blood alcohol level of 720 milligrams percent,” he says, giving me a meaningful look.

  “That’s quite high, I take it.”

  “Very high,” he says, glancing again at Castellino. “Which is one of the prime reasons we believe this may have been a homicide. At 250 milligrams percent, most people pass out. Death usually occurs at around 500 milligrams percent. This means it should have been physically impossible for the decedent to have consumed that volume of alcohol on her own.”

  “Which explains the bruises,” I mutter.

  “Yes.” Batiste sighs wearily. “The evidence thus far suggests Miss Smith, either wittingly or unwittingly, consumed several sleeping pills, after which she was forced to consume a considerable amount of alcohol — the equivalent of about 40 drinks. Her attacker would have had to keep feeding this to her after she passed out, which, if she wasn’t a serious drinker, would have occurred fairly quickly.”

  “What type of pills did she take?” I ask, but Castellino holds up a hand.

  “That’s more than enough for now, Mr. Cassel. Is there anything else you have to offer?”

  “Yes, one more thing. I spoke with her the night before her death.”

  “When?” Batiste says sharply.

  “I talked with her shortly before the start of her shift, in her room. I questioned her once again regarding a possible link to the squatters — if they’d received any threats, if someone wanted to chase them off. She was agitated and appeared nervous.”

  “Did she tell you anything?” says Noble.

  “No, unfortunately she didn’t, but we didn’t get a chance to complete our conversation. We were interrupted by a phone call. Judging by Karalee’s reaction, and by what she said, someone was aware I was in her room, talking to her. After that, I couldn’t get through to her.”

  “Do you know the substance of their conversations?”

  “Based on her response, I think she was being threatened.”

  A heavy silence as the investigators exchange glances, take notes.

  Batiste peers at me over his half-glasses. “Do you know the identity of this caller?”

  “No. I grabbed the phone, but the caller hung up. Can you trace the call?”

  Castellino nods. “We’re sure going to try.”

  “Can you let me know what you find out?”

  Castellino smiles. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Cassel. Rest assured, we’ll be talking with you again. Until then, consider yourself a resident of Carson Lake. A law-abiding resident. And if you happen to recall anything further, don’t hesitate to bring it to our attention.”

  I nod — they know they have me.

  When I return to the Cornbinder, Erwin is gone. It’s a relief, until it occurs to me he’s probably in town, interviewing Roy the bartender. I’m not particularly fond of Roy, but I’d like to talk with him while he’s still in one piece. A few frustrating moments of cruising back alleys before I find the house. It isn’t much to look at — an ancient two-storey, stucco faded and stained. Crudely built veranda with a sagging roof. Aluminum foil in the windows. The backyard is a patch of dandelions, going to seed, decorated with an obstacle course of rimless tires and rotting couches. Several inmates lounge outside, also going to seed. I lean out the window.

  “Does Roy Draytor live here?”

  No reply — doesn’t matter where you are, tough guys all lounge the same way, be it Hell’s Kitchen or Carson Lake; but on closer inspection, these tough guys have been tenderized. They’re a bit flushed, sprawling on the couches as though their insides hurt. Several have fresh scrapes on their faces. I may already be too late. I get out of the Cornbinder.

  “Is Roy here?”

  A kid of about eighteen with a scraggly goatee blinks at me. “Yeah, he’s here.”

  “Top or bottom?”

  The kid points, without looking. I start toward the stairs leading to the second floor.

  “You don’t want to go up there, man,” says a guy with a bad mohawk.

  “Why not?”

  “There’s a fuckin’ psycho up there.”

  “Anybody dead yet?”

  He shrugs, which evidently causes some pain, watches suspiciously as I pick my way through the obstacle course. The stairs creak, rotten like everything else around here. Sheets of stained plywood surround a tiny landing. A door hangs open from a peeling frame. I hear scuffling sounds. A whiny, desperate voice, like something you’d hear in a mob movie when the enforcer finally catches the rat.

  “Look, man, I told you ...”

  A short hall is crowded with empty beer cases. The carpet is multicoloured, from use not design, covered with cigarette burns and spilled food. Another door hangs open. Roy is face down on a messy bed. Erwin has a knee in Roy’s back, a hand in his hair. A black revolver is pressed against Roy’s temple.

  “I’m running out of patience,” Erwin snarls at Roy.

  The floor creaks. Erwin turns, without releasing Roy, swings the revolver around at me. His lips are pulled back and he has a wild, excited look in his eyes. I raise my arms and freeze, and for a moment we remain like this. Then Erwin presses the muzzle of the revolver into Roy’s cheek, continues as if I wasn’t there.

  “One last time, asshole. What the fuck happened to my sister?”

  Roy squirms, breathing heavy. “I don’t knowww ...”

  “Look, Waldo,” I say carefully. “Let’s just take a breather here.”

  Erwin looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, then down at Roy, who may be suffocating, Erwin has his face pushed so deep into the stained pillows. He slaps the back of Roy’s head, then releases him, stepping away from the bed, the revolver held casually against his side. “I’m just asking him a few questions.”

  “I see that,” I say, trying not to stare at the revolver.

  “He’s not very co-operative,” Erwin says, matter-of-fact.

  “Maybe it’s your technique. Let me try.”

  Erwin looks disgusted. “Yeah, whatever.”

  Roy is cowering on the bed, eyes wide. A small circle is temporarily tattooed on his temple, from the muzzle of Erwin’s gun. “Look, Roy,” I say, as friendly as I can. “I think maybe we got off on the wrong foot. Let’s try again.”

  Roy nods slightly, staring at Erwin, who’s flopped onto a crooked recliner, the gun hanging over an armrest. Erwin sneers at him and Roy decides it’s better to look at me. I give him a reassuring nod, try to dissipate some of the tension.

  “Karalee Smith worked for you, right?”

  “Well, sorta,” he says, breathless. “I was the shift supervisor.”

  “Did she drink a lot?”

  “What?”

  “D
id she drink a lot?”

  “Karalee? No, man. Little goody two-shoes.”

  “Did any customers give her a hard time?”

  He shrugs. “Not really.”

  “Think hard, Roy,” says Erwin.

  Roy’s gaze flickers toward Erwin, then back to me. “Guys sometimes paid her a lot of attention, you know, especially when they were drunk. A lot of guys tried to pick her up. I mean — it’s a bar, right? Everyone’s trying to get lucky. And she was pretty hot.”

  Erwin growls.

  “Sorry.” Roy raises a hand defensively toward Erwin.“I didn’t mean that.”

  “You mean she was ugly?” says Erwin.

  Roy looks stricken. “No, man —”

  “Relax,” I tell Roy. “He’s just playing with you.”

  “Fuck you both,” says Erwin, toying with the revolver. Spinning the drum. This doesn’t help Roy’s state of mind. He watches, transfixed. For a moment the smooth, metallic clicking is the only sound. Erwin looks up, realizes no one is talking, points the gun at Roy. “You were saying?”

  “No one gave her a hard time that I know of,” he says quickly.

  “Good,” I tell Roy. “Now we’re getting somewhere. What about boyfriends?”

  Erwin gives me a dark look. Roy shakes his head. “Not that I know of.”

  “Phone calls?”

  “You mean, like — did she make some?”

  “No, dipshit,” says Erwin. “Did she ever get any? Like, at work?”

  Roy thinks about this real hard for a moment, then brightens. “Yeah, there was this one time, she got a call, just after her shift started, and she looked real upset, broke three glasses right away. And she spilled a drink on herself too, a Bloody Mary, had to go change.”

  “Do you know who called her?” I ask.

  “Naw, she never said. Look, man, I told all this crap to the cops.”

  “We’re not the cops,” says Erwin. “You should wish we’re the cops.”