Adler inhales. “You don’t know that we saw anything.”
“Like I said”—Mal’s tone is cool, crisp—“cooperation is going to make things a lot less difficult for you and MLA Frank Horvath. And for both of your families.”
Adler surges to her feet. She walks on her expensive pumps to the floor-to-ceiling windows. She folds her arms across her stomach and stares out into the mist and low clouds.
“We saw the two cars,” she says quietly with her back to Mal. “A larger sedan and a smaller hatchback. The sedan was dark in color. The hatchback light. I believe it was a Subaru Crosstrek. We gave one to our son for his birthday, so I am very familiar with the model.” She pauses, then turns to face Mal. “Two people in rain gear got out and took a rolled-up rug or something similar out of the back seat of the sedan. They dragged it to the edge of the dock and rolled it into the water. Then we witnessed them sending the hatchback off the edge of the dock.” She regards Mal for a long beat. “It appeared as though they jammed down the Subaru accelerator. Frank and I—we were having an affair. It’s over now. We were both afraid that if we came forward, our liaison would be exposed. The consequences will be catastrophic to both of us, and our spouses, children, my clients, and his constituents.”
“What is it that you thought they had in the rolled-up rug?” Mal asks.
“I don’t know what was in the rug.”
“You didn’t think that two people sending a Subaru Crosstrek into the Burrard Inlet in the dark of night might be doing some serious crime, trying to cover up something, hide evidence?”
Her jaw tightens. Her arms press more firmly across her stomach. Her eyes water. “It could have been anything,” she says quietly. “Illegal dumping. Anything.”
“Right. And what did you and the Honorable Horvath do next?”
“We left. I dropped Frank off at his vehicle parked in the city. We went to our respective homes.” She takes a seat opposite Mal, leans forward. Her gaze is intense. “I—we—will come in and make official witness statements. But that is all we saw, all we know.”
“Would you be able to identify the two drivers?”
“No. They were a distance away. It was dark, rainy, very foggy, and they were fully covered in dark rain gear. One seemed to have a hood over his head, and—”
“His head?”
“I . . . assumed he was male. He was the taller one. The other seemed rounder, shorter.”
“Could the shorter one have been a female?”
“Possibly.”
“Could she have been pregnant?”
“What?”
“Could the shorter person have been pregnant?”
“I-I never thought. I . . . suppose it’s possible.”
“Can you come in and make a formal statement today?”
“Yes. I will bring Frank. It would be better if you did not go to his office.”
In silence, Mal gathers up the photos and inserts them into the file folder.
“Frank’s kids are younger than mine,” Adler says. “It would be very hard on them if his marriage collapsed. And as a member of the Legislative Assembly—what he does for the homeless, the opioid crisis, social housing—if this is exposed, all that good work will be for nothing. His opponents will crucify him. We never dreamed anyone would see us having a fling in my car, or that anything like this could happen. We are careful. It’s why we go to places like that.”
Mal looks up and meets the lawyer’s gaze. “Our missing victim also has people who care about her, Mrs. Adler. She never dreamed she might be attacked and rolled into a rug and dumped into the sea. If that is what happened.” Mal comes to her feet. “For your and Frank Horvath’s sakes, I hope your decision to not call 911 did not result in a delay that cost her life.”
JON
October 31, 2019. Thursday.
The day of the murder.
Jon winces as morning light slices in through the shades and points an accusing finger at his face. He squints, taking a moment to adjust. As he comes more fully awake, fear and anxiety crawl back into his consciousness. He’s in his bed. He’s safe. But the nightmare with Mia Reiter still roils through his mind and body.
He sits up and gingerly hangs his feet over the side of the bed. He stayed home from work both Tuesday and Wednesday. He slept most of the time but still feels spacey. He still cannot recall exactly what transpired. He believes Mia drugged him. He doesn’t know why. Yet. He has absolutely no memory of who else was in the room. Perhaps that’s the most terrifying thing of all. And that he was tied up. Most likely sexually assaulted, given the pain around his anus.
He hears Daisy downstairs in the kitchen. She has music playing. He can smell bacon, coffee. His stomach recoils. How can she play music at a time like this? But she doesn’t know what happened. The fear that she will soon find out is raw. It’s a ticking time bomb in his brain. Just tick tick tick ticking away, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Will he be blackmailed? Is this extortion? What did Mia Reiter want from him? Why does he have a needle mark in the crook of his arm?
The music downstairs increases in volume as Daisy turns the stove hood fan on. He catches snippets of lyrics about a betrayed heart and a love gone sour. His mood worsens.
He reaches for his phone. No messages. No missed calls. Jon hesitates, gets up, and closes the bedroom door. He calls Mia’s number.
Instantly he gets a recorded message.
The number you are calling is no longer in service.
His pulse rate spikes.
He tries again.
The number you are calling is no longer in service.
He sits for a moment in the weak autumn-morning sun pouring through his window, paralyzed by the idea that this is far from over. He’s been terrorized, gaslighted. He’s been forced to wait in trepidation for a bomb to drop, and he has no idea when it will come whistling through the air above him. Or what it will look like.
He called in sick to work yesterday and the day before. He was sick. Felt like crap. Still does. He lied to Daisy about the doctor needing a follow-up, so he had to follow through with a fake appointment yesterday. Daisy insisted on coming with, which made things complicated. She drove him and waited in the car while Jon walked in through the main hospital doors. Once inside the massive complex, he went to find the chapel. He sat there in the quiet in front of candles and waited his alleged appointment out. When Jon returned to the car, he told Daisy his doc said the blackout was likely stress induced. It happens sometimes. But to be safe he was being recommended to a specialist. The specialist would call to set an appointment. In the meanwhile, Jon was supposed to take things easy. Rest. Eat well. Hydrate. Get exercise. Keep stress low. Jon told Daisy he’d let all these things slide. Daisy held his hand and said she’d do what it took to help him. She reminded him they were a team. Jon felt the old love he’d once had for his wife. In that instant he believed it could still all come right. But now, in this bleak light of dawn, he feels the pressure of the unknown hanging above his head, and he regrets he might already have blown it all.
He checks the time. He has a big meeting at work today. He needs to pull himself together. Jon showers, dresses, and goes downstairs.