Mal sidesteps the yoga instructor’s question. “Do you have Vanessa North’s credit card details in your system?”
The woman checks, frowns, then says, “Oh, it looks like Vanessa always paid cash.”
“What about her contact details? Did she fill out any fitness or health forms?”
The woman checks her system again. “Yes, she completed the required forms. And we do have an address on file. But I really can’t give you anything, Sergeant. I’m so sorry. Not without a warrant.”
“I can return with a warrant, ma’am, but this is highly time sensitive. A woman’s life might be in jeopardy. How about you either confirm or deny that the address you have on file is 5244 Sea Lane, West Vancouver?”
The instructor looks nervous now. “Yes. I can confirm that. I-I suppose there is no harm in giving you her mobile number.” The yoga teacher reads the number out for Mal.
Mal enters it into her phone.
“One more question,” Mal says as she pulls up the image of Vanessa North provided by Singapore law enforcement. She shows it to the instructor. “Is this the woman who attended your yoga classes?”
“No. Vanessa has longer hair. More auburn highlights. Big hazel eyes. Different nose and cheekbones. And she’s a bit younger.” The yoga instructor’s brow furrows. “Who is this?”
“This is Vanessa North.”
“Then . . . who’s the woman who comes to yoga?”
“That’s a good question. Thank you for your time.” Mal slides her card across the counter. “If you think of anything else, or if your client shows up again, please call me directly.”
As Mal walks back to her unmarked vehicle, she calls the number the yoga instructor gave her. It goes straight to a recorded message.
The number you are calling is no longer in service.
As Mal drives to the Pi Bistro to talk to Ty Binty, Benoit calls.
“Hey,” Mal says. “They find anything?”
She can hear the noise of a truck in the background, beeping. Benoit answers someone else’s question, then comes back on the line. “Divers have located the Subaru. It’s where we anticipated, right off the side of the dock. It’s deep down there. Went straight down. Crews are strategizing how best to bring it up. We’ve called for a tow truck with a crane and a flatbed so we can transport the vehicle to the ident lab,” Benoit says.
Mal inhales slowly, trying to tamp down her rush of adrenaline. Her mind goes to the pretty maid with her messy space buns and her tiny apartment with its boho decor and postcards and travel dreams and Morbid the crow, and Mal feels a sudden and profound sadness. Her eyes prick a little, and then she clears it all away.
“Any sign of the rug?” she asks.
“Not yet. There’s a strong tidal current that moves both ways, so it could have flowed a distance. A lot of urban debris down there, too. Very poor visibility. It’s slow going. Dangerous work.”
“Okay, thanks. I’ll head over as soon as I’m done talking to Ty Binty. Warrants?”
“In hand. Lula’s got the guys combing through Darling’s financials and phone records. And our surveillance detail outside Rose Cottage reports that Jon Rittenberg has not left his residence since we paid him a visit. They’re on standby to bring him in—just waiting for the tow truck to arrive so they can impound his Audi and transport it to the lab. We’re working with West Van police to bring Daisy Wentworth in for fingerprinting, a DNA sample, and additional questioning.”
“I want the Rittenberg samples and digital prints sent to the private lab for expediting as well,” Mal says. “If we can link the Rittenbergs directly to the crime scene, we can bring them in front of a judge and charge and hold them.”
Mal signs off, exits her car, and enters the bistro doors. The scent of freshly baked bread triggers her hunger instantly. She eyes the pastries while she waits for Ty Binty to come out of his office at the rear of the bakery.
“Hey, Sergeant. Good to see you again. What can I get for you?”
Mal smiles. “This is business. But I’m not going to say no to one of those danishes and a large cappuccino, dry, with an extra shot.”
He grins broadly. “Better than doughnuts, eh?”
“Infinitely.”
While he puts her order through, Mal brings up her photo of Vanessa North. She shows Binty.
“Do you know this woman?” she asks. “Has she been in here?”
Ty Binty leans forward and carefully studies the photo. He purses his lips. “No. I can’t say that I do. She might well have been in here, but she’s not someone I immediately recognize.”
“But you would recognize Daisy Rittenberg’s friend, Vanessa North?”
“Oh yeah. For sure. Attractive woman. Big hazel eyes.”
“Did Vanessa North pay for her meals here? Or did her friend Daisy Rittenberg usually pay?”
“Vanessa paid often. They seemed to switch it up on a regular basis.”
“Credit card?”
“Cash. Vanessa always paid cash. She seemed to like to pay with cash.”
JON
October 31, 2019. Thursday.
Thirteen and a half hours to the murder.
Briefcase in hand, Jon strides past his colleagues watching him from behind their desks in their glass cubicles. Darrian Walton’s door at the end of the corridor is slightly ajar. Jon knocks once and enters the big boss’s expansive corner office.
Darrian, tall and tanned with a gray buzz cut, stands stony faced behind his monstrous black desk. Jon’s pulse kicks up another notch when he sees a manila envelope on the desk in front of Darrian. As Jon stares at the envelope, he becomes aware of a presence in his peripheral vision. He turns to see Henry sitting like a silent toad in a wingback near a bookshelf.
“Darrian,” Jon says. “You wanted to see me.”
Jon expects to be asked to take a seat. But he is not. Darrian remains standing. He tents the fingertips of his right hand atop the manila envelope on the desk.
“This was hand-delivered to the office today,” Darrian says in a monotone. His ice-blue eyes laser Jon’s.
Jon moistens his lips.
“Do you know what’s in here, Jon?”
Broken shards of memory cut through his brain. Mia’s red mouth. Handcuffs. Several shot glasses. The burn around his asshole. The puncture mark in the crook of his arm. His sticky penis. Dread rises from the pit of his stomach.
“No,” he says.
Darrian lifts the envelope and spills the contents onto the desk. Glossy photos slide over the surface.
Shock rams through Jon. His breath snares in his throat. He steps forward involuntarily. The images show Mia kissing him outside the Hunter and Hound on the first night he met her. They show him and Mia in the booth after Henry left. Him with his hands in his pockets as he watches Mia walk down the street. Him and Mia kissing as they back into her Airbnb suite. Him and Mia touching hands in the piano lounge downstairs. Him stumbling out of the condo tower into the dark street, right before the cab arrived to take him to VGH.
Darrian spreads the photos out, exposing others that lie beneath. Horror swamps Jon as he sees himself naked on the bed. Mia, half-dressed, straddling him. The other photos show two different men. On top of him. Next to him. Their naked bodies entwined with his. Bile rises in Jon’s throat. He can’t breathe. He’s going into anaphylactic shock. Henry remains dead silent in his corner. Air seems to suck right out of the room.