Negative Image Read online

  “Probably not,” John Winters said. They were in the hotel manager’s office. Splotches of bright red covered Peter Wagner’s normally ruddy face, his ample jowls shook, and he tugged at the wedding ring, buried in fat, on his left hand. Upstairs, Ron Gavin was hard at work, itemizing everything in the dead man’s hotel room while his partner crawled around the bathroom floor. The coroner had declared the death, and the medics had been allowed to remove the body. It would be taken to Kootenay Boundary Regional Hospital in Trail for autopsy. The cause of death couldn’t be much clearer, single gunshot to the back of the head, but the formalities had to be followed. You never knew what stories that gunshot might hide unless you looked. Winters had immediately ruled out suicide. Not only was the wound at a bad angle, there was no sign of the gun.

  “What can you tell me about the dead man? Is he staying here alone?”

  “Name’s Rudolph Steiner. He’s with his wife and assistant. I don’t know where they are. I went to their rooms but no one answered, and I checked the restaurant and gym.” Wagner was hugely overweight and breathing much too heavily. Rivers of sweat poured down his cheeks and forehead. Winters hoped he wouldn’t have to call the ambulance back. Wagner held his hand to his mouth. “Oh, no. Do you think…?”

  Winters pulled out his cell phone. “What room numbers? Send someone with a set of keys to meet Detective Lopez there. Steiner’s wife doesn’t share a room with him?”

  “Mrs. Steiner has the adjoining room, and his assistant is at the end of the hall.” He reached for his phone and gave the order before dabbing at the sweat on his face with a cheerful yellow polka-dot handkerchief.

  Winters asked Ray Lopez to check that the rooms were indeed empty and put his own phone away.

  “Fortunately, it’s the end of the season,” Wagner said. “I’ve been able to get all the guests off that floor. The ones who want to stay, that is. We’ve had several premature check-outs. You’ll let us know when people can go to their rooms and get their things?”

  “Yes. I’ll need a list of the premature checkouts.” Winters checked his notes. “The maid who found the body. Rachel Lewis. She been with you long?”

  “Came at the beginning of the season. She’s a ski bum, working to make money to stay in Trafalgar and ski on her days off. I’m expecting that she, along with several others, will be quitting soon. Moving on.”

  “You have any reason to think she knew this Steiner guy?”

  “No. Although…”

  “Although?”

  “I’ll check with the head of housekeeping, but I seem to think she was assigned to the top floors. Not the second.”

  “Find that out, will you? Anything else you can tell me about Steiner?”

  “He was a photographer, a big name apparently, although I’ve never heard of him. Not that I would. Good clothes, expensive watch. In the company of a wife who probably needs fake ID to drink in the bar and a personal assistant, female. That’s about all I know.”

  “Where’s he from?”

  “I checked the register. Address in Vancouver.”

  “You ever see him with anyone other than the wife and assistant?”

  “I don’t live here, John, I just work here.” Wagner cracked a weak smile. His breathing was starting to settle down, and his color was already looking better. “I’ll ask the staff, if you like.”

  “Please.”

  “He used room service a lot, and all the restaurant charges to his account were for one person at a time.”

  “When did they check in?”

  Deep in his pocket, Winters’ cell phone rang. He checked the display: Ron Gavin, the forensic investigator. “Excuse me a moment,” he said. “Yes?”

  “John, I’m taking a break. Need to stretch my legs, get a coffee. Come with me.”

  What? “I’m sort of tied up, Ron. You can’t be finished already?”

  “Still plenty to check out.” Gavin’s voice was low and tight. “I need a break, John. And I’d like you to come with me.”

  “Okay. Give me half an hour.”

  “Now would be good. There’s a back door next to the kitchen leading out to the service area. Take it.” Gavin hung up.

  Winters stared at the phone in his hand.

  “Problem?” Wagner asked.

  “Something I have to check out. I’d like to speak to anyone on your staff who was on the second floor last night or this morning. I’m guessing your night manager is home in bed. If you can get me his address, I’ll go around later.”

  “Okay, sure.”

  “And the guests. Prepare me a list, please, particularly of those on the second floor. And then, if I can give you some advice, you’d better go home and have a rest. You don’t look too well.”

  Wagner shook his head, and the bags of fat under his chin wobbled. “Too much to do.”

  The lobby was quiet when Winters crossed it. The desk clerk watched him with wide, curious eyes. Dave Evans was at the front door, and almost snapped to attention when he saw the sergeant approaching. Winters ignored him, and headed out the back.

  If someone didn’t stand up and confess soon, this would take a lot of time and effort. A hotel full of staff and guests. It would be a nightmare to interview them all.

  Nestled deep in the mountains of the southern interior of British Columbia, Trafalgar was a small, low crime town. There was no security, not even a doorman, at the hotel entrance; the upper floors were open to anyone who wandered in off the street. As soon as he saw the body, Winters had called his boss, the Chief Constable, to suggest he contact the RCMP Integrated Homicide Investigative Team, which helped with major crime cases in the small towns and rural areas of British Columbia.

  That reminded him, he’d forgotten to phone Eliza. Something was bothering her lately, and he’d thought a few days in San Francisco, one of her favorite cities, would cheer her up. He’d been working a lot, with a rash of break and enters around town, and she’d been left at home, moping and restless, waiting for a spring that was taking a long time to arrive.

  Gavin stood by the service door, waiting, and Winters decided to call Eliza after he’d discovered what the Mountie was in such a knot about.

  Gavin didn’t say a word, just held the door open and let Winters through. The alley was dark and narrow and thick with mud after days of melting snow and last night’s rainstorm. Gavin walked away from the door, his hands in his pockets and his head down. The yellow stripe on his uniform pants shone faintly in the gloom. Winters followed, puzzled at his friend’s strange behavior.

  “We go back a long way, John,” the Mountie said, coming to a halt about halfway between the back door and the street corner.

  “Yeah, I know. What are you on about?”

  “First time in all my years I’ve ever done this.”

  “Done what? Spit it out, man. Are you in some sort of trouble?”

  “No. But I might be.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Found this upstairs. Figured you’d want to see it. You can decide what you want to do with it.”

  “What the hell?” Winters snatched the paper. “You removed evidence from a crime scene. Are you nuts?”

  “Look at it, John.”

  It was a photograph, about four by six inches, the color faded, the paper worn, one corner torn. It showed a woman, a young woman, naked, sitting on the floor with her knees bent and her legs parted, holding her small breasts toward the camera like an offering.

  “So the guy was a pervert.”

  “That picture was taken with film, not digital. I’d say it’s about thirty years old. They haven’t made a carpet like that since the 70s, and her hair’s cut in that shaggy mess you don’t see any more.”

  “So he’s been a pervert for a long time. I don’t see…”

  “Look at it, John. Look again. Look at the woman.”

  He looked. Her lips were moist, her mouth partially open, the tip of her pink tongue trapped between her small white teet
h. The pupils of her eyes were large, the gaze unfocused. Cocaine probably.

  She was young and beautiful, with thick dark hair, long slim legs, and a narrow waist. Her eyes were the color of olives in a very dry martini.

  Those green eyes. The first thing he saw every morning.

  His whole body shuddered.

  The woman in the picture was Eliza, his wife.

  Chapter Three

  At the small office in the back of Mid-Kootenay Adventure Vacations, Lucky Smith whacked at the letter ‘e’. Miserable computer. Something was stuck in the keyboard and the ‘e’, the most used letter of them all, wasn’t responding properly.

  “Eeeeeee”, the screen screamed, and Lucky swore with gusto. She’d been told many times not to eat at her desk, or at least to put a plastic screen over the laptop’s keyboard. She was normally too busy to take a meal break, and she didn’t have a plastic screen, or know where to get one. She eyed the keyboard, wondering how hard it would be to lift up the keys and clean underneath.

  “I’m going for lunch, Lucky, want me to bring something back?” Flower stood in the door to the cramped office that was little more than a closet in the back of the store. She’d done half her brown hair in cornrows, tight braids with colorful beads at the ends, and left the rest hanging straight. She looked like an interrupted vacation, which Andy complained wasn’t exactly the impression they wanted to give at Mid-Kootenay Adventure Vacations. Lucky reminded her husband that this was Trafalgar, where individual expression was the rule rather than the exception. He still muttered under his breath whenever Flower’s beads swung. Lucky suspected that the hairstyle would be gone by now, if not for Andy’s obvious disapproval.

  Now that Lucky and Andy no longer had children living at home, they still had petulant young employees to deal with.

  “If you’re passing Eddie’s, I’d like a slice of carrot cake.”

  “Back soon.”

  Flower told Andy she was off, and he said, “See you.” The bell tinkled over the door to the street.

  Lucky made a tentative stab at the ‘e’. Only one letter appeared on the white page of the screen. The computer beeped to tell her she had an email. She pulled it up, grateful for the chance to delay writing her letter to a wayward supplier. The message was from the young man Andy had hired to work as a kayaking guide over the summer. She read quickly. The letter mumbled something about “opportunities” and “career goals”, and Lucky suspected he’d got a better offer. Andy would not be pleased.

  She heard a loud noise from the storefront as something heavy fell over. One of the advantages of owning an outdoor adventure store: very little they stocked was breakable. Then crashing and banging as a pile of what were probably skis and poles clattered to the floor.

  “If you’ve got a minute, can you come in here, dear,” Lucky called. “I have to show you something.”

  No answer.

  Lucky listened. All was quiet. If the shop was empty perhaps Andy had followed Flower onto the street and was exchanging the time of day with passersby. It was early April, a slow time for business as the ski season had ended and the summer tourists were yet to arrive.

  A moan, full of pain, had Lucky jumping to her feet and running.

  Andy lay face down in the middle of the floor, in the midst of a jumble of reduced-rate skiing equipment. He moaned again as Lucky fell to her knees beside him. “Andy, are you all right?” She shoved the skis aside and rolled him over. It wasn’t easy with all the weight he’d put on over the years. His face was horribly white and drenched in sweat. Round frightened eyes looked into hers.

  She jumped to her feet. She ran to the counter. Couldn’t find the phone. It had to be here somewhere. She tossed papers and tourist info pamphlets and Flower’s mountain bike magazine into the air. She knocked a stack of B&B brochures to the floor.

  “What’s happened? Can I help?”

  Lucky whirled around to see a man standing in the shop doorway. He had a cell phone in his hand.

  “My husband. 911. He’s fallen. Please.” She ran back to Andy. She felt the man cross the floor, heard his voice. He put a hand lightly on her arm. “They’re on their way,” he said. “Try to stay calm.”

  It was only later that Lucky found her own cell phone in her sweater pocket.

  ***

  Molly Smith shifted her feet. It was quiet in the hotel corridor. The coroner had been and gone, the body following; the RCMP forensic team was busy inside. Detective Lopez had left the room in a heck of a hurry, but was soon back, and gave her a shake of his head, although she didn’t know what that meant.

  Occasionally she heard people on the stairs, but no one tried to come through the door. Meredith had retreated, ready to pounce at the next opportunity. Smith knew Sergeant Winters was questioning the hotel staff, and phone and computer lines were no doubt burning up as they tried to get background on the dead man and everyone who knew him.

  She studied the painting on the wall opposite. It was an old painting, of some old guy, all whiskers and starched shirt and arrogance. She stuck her tongue out at him, wondering if anyone would notice if she lay down on the nice thick carpet for a nap. That made her think of Adam and she grinned. The old guy in the painting did not return her smile. They’d been together since New Year’s Day. They’d spent the winter skiing Blue Sky, although she was a far better skier than he, and snowshowing on the old railroad trail in the woods behind his property, while Norman, Adam’s police dog, ran on ahead. They watched the Space channel on TV, ate bowls of stew and crusty, rustic bread in front of the big fireplace in his house, or Thai take-out in the small kitchen of her apartment. And they made love. A lot. She grinned again.

  The old guy in the painting didn’t look as if he ever got any.

  They were happy, she was happy, but one small cloud lingered on the horizon: Adam simply didn’t seem to understand how much it mattered to Molly that their relationship be kept out of her professional life. He was always dropping around where she was working and trying to grab a quick kiss or whisper lewd suggestions into her ear.

  Her little toe throbbed, and she shifted her feet again. God, but this was boring.

  Her cell phone vibrated, and she checked the display, glad for something to do. “Hi, Mom, what’s up?”

  The voice at the other end was so full of tears, it was difficult to understand.

  “I’ll get there soon as I can. Try and stay calm, Mom, you know Dad’s a tough old bugger.”

  “Problem?” Ray Lopez stood in the doorway. Despite his surname, the detective was red-haired and freckled, and very fond of a pint of Guinness.

  “That was my mom. Dad’s had a serious fall; they’re at the hospital. She said it’s really bad, but I’m hoping that’s just her being scared.”

  “Go,” he said. “I’m in the way in there anyway. Call the office and tell them I’ll watch the door until someone can get here to take over.”

  “Thanks, Ray.”

  ***

  John Winters stared at the photograph. The empty-eyed woman looked back.

  Eliza. This couldn’t be Eliza.

  But if it weren’t she had a twin.

  The picture looked to have been taken twenty-five, thirty years ago, when Eliza would have been in her late teens. The woman in the picture was around that age, certainly not much over twenty.

  They’d met when she had a break-in at her home. The young uniformed Constable John Winters had taken the call. She had been beautiful, extraordinarily beautiful, confident and poised beyond her twenty-two years. She lived in an apartment that he first assumed belonged to her parents. But it was hers, as were the expensive, although not ostentatious, furnishings, the original watercolors on the walls, the Haida yellow cedar carving on the coffee table, the designer clothes in her closet.

  She was a model, had been since she’d been discovered as a sixteen-year-old in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. She’d had some big contracts, major magazine covers and European runways, and made a lot of m
oney. Any randy young cop would have wanted her, but what made John Winters love her, and had kept him in love with her for over twenty-five years, was her strong, down-to-earth streak of Prairie common sense. Even back then, she was rational and pragmatic and managed her money with great care. She took courses in finance, invested well, and resisted the urge to spend-spend-spend. To friends and family on both sides, theirs seemed a strange relationship, but they each went about their professional lives knowing they had love and support behind them. They’d always spent a lot of time apart, as Eliza continued to travel for work, but the marriage had worked out well. Perhaps because neither of them felt obliged to make sacrifices in their careers.

  Eliza, their marriage, was the foundation of his life.

  These days she worked when it suited her, although as she approached fifty good jobs were getting increasingly hard to find. They’d moved to remote Trafalgar less than a year ago, his career choice, not hers. She bought a small condo in Vancouver to use when she needed the bright lights and the big city, to meet with her agent, to go to stockholder meetings, to work.

  He thought he knew her.

  Stunned into silence by the photograph in his hand, he looked at Ron Gavin.

  “You don’t want that thing being passed around the station, John.”

  “Were there any…other pictures?”

  “The guy was apparently a professional photographer. Lots of shots of mountain ranges and the river. Pretty girls in town going about their business. Nothing else like that one.” Ron gestured in disgust. “No more porn, and nothing that old either. It’s one of a kind, unless there’s a drawer I haven’t found yet. Do what you want with it, but I never saw it.” He eyed Winters. “I’ll be ready for a meet around five. We getting any help?”

  “What?”

  “Is anyone coming to give us a hand with this?”

  “Chief called IHIT. They’re sending a couple of guys tomorrow.”

  Gavin went back to the hotel, leaving Winters alone in the alley.

  His first instinct was to rip the picture up, toss the pieces into the wind and the hotel refuse. Instead he put it in his pocket, and went to get his car.