Beulah Brown’s words rise in Mal’s mind.
She’s certainly showing now. I saw Vanessa last Friday. It was the first time I saw that brunette as well. The two of them had a late lunch by the pool. It was very clear they’re both pregnant.
“Yet Beulah Brown claims she saw Vanessa North last Friday, having lunch by the pool with Daisy Rittenberg, and that she definitely was pregnant,” Mal says.
“Well, it couldn’t have been her. I’ve confirmed the Norths’ details,” Lula says. “They have not been on Canadian soil for just over six months.”
Mal thanks Lula and immediately calls Benoit.
“That could explain that cold, staged, and unlived-in feeling in that house,” Benoit says.
“But it sure as hell doesn’t explain anything else.”
“You think Brown was just mistaken?” he asks. “Those opioids can really mess with one’s sense of reality. And we do have Horton Brown on record saying his mother imagines things; plus there’s a history of five false 911 calls.”
“Or . . . Beulah Brown saw someone she thought was Vanessa,” Mal says. “She did mention her prescription glasses had been failing her, and that she only had the new binoculars for two weeks. Plus if the Norths acquired the Glass House eight months ago, and were only there for two months before departing for Singapore, perhaps Brown never really got a close look at the real Vanessa when she was in town. Perhaps Brown just made an assumption it was the same person.”
“Well, we can cross Vanessa North off our possible victim list. It’s not looking good for Darling now.”
JON
October 29, 2019. Tuesday.
Two days before the murder.
When Jon wakes, his head is thick. The last thing he remembers is laughing. He struggles to orient himself. Nothing makes sense. He’s in a bed. Naked. He can see city lights. A pulsing pink neon sign. He feels sick. So sick. Nauseous. He tries to sit up, but his world spins and his arm jerks him back—it’s secured to the bed. His stomach clutches, and he throws up over the side of the bed onto the carpet. The smell makes him gag again. He wipes spittle from his mouth with the back of his free hand. He winces, turns his head. Shock slams through him.
His wrist is cuffed to the bed frame. Handcuffs—padded handcuffs. He yanks his hand. It’s locked. Panic strikes. He can’t breathe. His vision starts narrowing from the sides. He’s sweaty, hot.
Focus. Panic kills. Think. What happened? How did I get here?
Jon tries to control his breathing. He tries to clear his mind. He remembers now. He was with Mia.
Fuck.
Panic whips through him again. He fights it down as he struggles to put the pieces together.
They were in the bar downstairs. He got drunk. Very drunk. They came up in the elevator. Kissing. Backed into her Airbnb.
Another wave of adrenaline slams through Jon. Someone else’s condo—he’s in a stranger’s condo. Naked and cuffed to a bed. He has to get out of here. He flicks his gaze wildly around the interior of the room. It’s dimly lit. Still dark outside. He can see the red glow of a clock on the other side of the bed. It’s 1:29 a.m.
Daisy! Daisy will be going wild with worry. She’ll call the cops.
Jon’s vision swirls again. His groin is sticky. His anus burns. Oh God. His clothes are in a bundle on the floor. There is an empty bottle of tequila. Three shot glasses. A whisky tumbler. Jon’s heart kicks.
There were others? Who in the hell was all here? What happened? Tears sear into his eyes. He’s shaking. He sees a key on the bedside table.
Handcuff key?
With his free hand he gropes for it and uncuffs himself. He sits up, rubs his face, then touches his groin. He’s had sex. His gaze shoots back to the glasses. But who with? What in the fuck has he done?
She did this. She drugged me. She spiked my drink. I should have realized something was happening downstairs. She was asking too many questions.
It strikes Jon like a mallet as he recalls Mia pressing him about his competition, asking for Ahmed Waheed’s name, him telling her that he’d hired a PI for dirt. And suddenly Jon is scared. Really scared. He has no idea what’s going on, what shoe will drop next. All he can think about is Daisy. Triage. He needs to think triage.
Daisy cannot find out about this. Or Jon will be finished. He knows it with every fiber of his being.
A worse thought hits him.
What if Labden and Henry are behind this? Mia was observing him from the bar the night Henry invited him to that pub. Was it a setup? Did they know he’d fall for it?
Or what if Daisy is actually behind this? Testing him?
Jon drops his face into his hands, rocks back and forth, moans.
Think fast. If Daisy hasn’t already called the police, she will soon. He has to get out of here.
Jon scrambles on hands and knees, swaying, trying to avoid his own vomit as he gathers up his socks, tie, shirt, pants, shoes, underwear.
He finds his wallet and opens it. Everything is still in there. Including $250 in cash. This was not about petty theft.
He finds his mobile. At least they left his phone. He glances at the shot and whisky and wineglasses again and feels his stomach roil.
What did I do? What in the hell did they do to me? Why does my butthole burn?
Crying, Jon pulls on his pants, then his shirt. But as he sticks his arm into his sleeve, he sees a small round plaster stuck on the inside crook of his elbow. Jon freezes. Carefully, he peels off the tiny plaster. There is a small hole in his skin. Adrenaline explodes through his blood. He’s been injected with something. Panic snakes through him. This could be why he passed out, why he doesn’t recall anything. Unless . . . it’s something worse. Some poison, some virus that will still take effect maybe years down the road. Like AIDS.
He goes into the bathroom and stills as he sees a line of white powder next to a razor blade and a straw.
Shit.
Cocaine? Did he do drugs? He’s got to get out of here. Fast.
Quickly, he rinses his face, and he tries to squint at his reflection in the mirror. He looks like death. He remembers something. Mia straddling him. He tries to recall who else was in the room, when they might have arrived, but he can’t. He just can’t. He thinks of his sticky penis, his burning anal area. He doesn’t even want to begin to imagine what happened down there. Jon’s eyes fill with hot tears again. With a burning shame. Humiliation. Horror. Raw fear.
He braces his hands flat on the bathroom counter and stares at his face in the mirror.
I don’t know what you did to me, Mia Reiter, but I swear, if I find you, I will kill you. I will fucking kill you.
THE PHOTOGRAPHER
It’s 1:44 a.m. when the photographer sees Jon Rittenberg stumbling out of the Yaletown condo tower. The photographer powers down his driver’s-side window, focuses his lens, shoots several frames as his subject staggers into the road.
The photographer tenses. For a moment he’s confronted with the possibility Jon Rittenberg is going to step in front of a vehicle and get himself killed. This changes everything. He reaches for the door handle, but just as he begins to swing open his door, a yellow cab pulls up, and Jon weaves toward it.
The photographer’s pulse steadies. He watches for a moment, then raises his camera and shoots as Jon Rittenberg climbs into the back of the cab. Rittenberg must have phoned for a ride. The photographer starts his engine and follows the cab as it heads down the city street. There’s not much traffic at this hour, so the photographer is careful to stay back. He imagines the cab will be directed to the parking garage beneath the TerraWest building, where Jon Rittenberg has parked his Audi. However, the man is in no state to drive. This again causes concern. The photographer does not want to be responsible for Rittenberg driving impaired, nor does he want to be forced to engage with his subject.