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Chapter 17
After getting dropped off by Scottie, Gibson remained in the driveway for a moment to admire his home. It was a sixties bungalow with a shake roof and weathered wood siding. The trim around the doors and windows was painted a blue-grey. There was just enough colour to give a clean line but also allow the house to fade into the background of greenery. The fir trees towered over the yard, blocking the morning sun. But the westerly view from the front, encompassing the entire bay, made up for the absence of light at the back.
He opened the door to the sound of subdued music floating from the study. After shrugging off his boots, he shuffled along the hallway in his thick woolen socks. He paused momentarily to peek in the room, not wishing to disturb Katherine and her notebooks. She was leaning forward in the chair, left elbow braced on the mahogany desk. The wood had a lovely patina that enriched its warm complexion, the same lustre as the hair spilling over Katherine’s arm and brushing the wispy grain. She stared intently at a page packed with columns of numbers. With a coloured pencil in her right hand, she slowly scrolled down the sheet, occasionally making a heavy red check mark on the border. He went through to the kitchen and debated his next move. An easy decision. Off to the café. Then a spin around the bay. He changed into his boating attire and made his getaway through the back door.
The Seaside Cafe was gearing down for the day, but he spotted his good buddy sitting beside the window that hung over the water—Gibson’s favourite spot. Jesse Players was looking beyond the boats, kayaks and canoes lying on the wooden dock. His gaze sought the ocean sparkling in the sunlight. Ripples formed on the surface by a gentle breeze. A mug of coffee cupped in his hands was almost empty.
“Hey.”
“Have you got time for a drink before you go out in your kayak?” Jesse asked with a grin.
“You bet.” Gibson snorted. Jesse had him pegged. He pulled out a chair at the end of the table and sat down.
The waitress came hurrying over with a pot of coffee. She leaned against the table top with her hip and ventured a guess.
“Coffee?”
“Please.”
Gibson sat back and smiled at his buddy. The men had been friends back east. Jesse had moved here years before, and they had lost touch. Gibson had been on a solitary stroll when they bumped into each other on the waterfront path. It was a nice surprise for both men. As they became reacquainted it was clear they had lots in common. Hardly a week passed by and they could be seen in serious discussion at this same table, chatting for hours. It was developing into a strong friendship.
Jesse had worked in investment banking on the Niagara Peninsula before retiring to the west coast. He no longer dressed in tailored suits or sported short business-style hair. Now he wore jeans and chunky sweaters. His cropped hair had grown into a brown wavy mane that touched the top of his rumpled shirt collar. And the polished Italian shoes were exchanged for well-worn sneakers. Despite an acrimonious divorce, a playful smile was still planted on his face. His soft hands had turned hard and calloused from outdoor play. His days were occupied with kayaking, hikes and to slow it down a bit, some reading. He volunteered at the university in the business department as a mentor. Occasionally he helped Katherine with her studies by coaching her in his area of expertise.
Gibson captivated his buddy with some of his more compelling cases—with discretion. He figured this was one of them and was curious about Jesse’s perception of the murder. He summarized a skimpier version of the facts so far, of which there were few.
Jesse directed his gaze back to the sea watching the blues and greens of the incessantly flowing water dance with the light.
“Someone who commits a hate crime is prejudiced toward another individual for lots of reasons. Race and religion come to mind. This crime does appear to be against a person’s sexual orientation.”
“Okay.”
“Or the killer’s belief that this person was gay,” Jesse said. His gaze was concentrated at a spot halfway to the window, making his eyes appear crossed. His eyebrows gathered together in contemplation. “If it is a hate crime, that is. You’re the detective.”
Gibson’s ears picked up this last remark, paying no heed to the dig. Jesse’s divergent interpretations always entertained. He pondered the prospect that the killer just assumed his victim was gay. An alternative take on the issue. That’s why he liked meeting with him. He mulled over his friend’s opinion about this being a hate crime or not. He was convinced it still was.
“See you later.” Jesse stood up, rapped his knuckles on the table and took off for home.
Although Gibson would pass this new concept by Scottie, he wasn’t sure it made a real difference. Being gay or not could be irrelevant. People often detest things they perceive are truths even when they are lies. He tapped a finger against his lips thinking everything through. Other motives needed to be explored too. He decided not to get fixated in one direction and push away his preconceived theory about this crime. That path could muddy the waters. But it was hard to maintain an impartial mind when he thought of that little shit, Tim. He rattled his brain to knock out the internal conversation. His coffee had become cold. He glanced up at the clock, paid his tab and trekked down the dock to drop his boat in the water. He paddled in and out of different nooks enjoying his freedom. An hour had gone by and the light had faded. A sudden shadow was cast over him and his kayak. He looked over to the western horizon and realized the sun had dropped below the ridge of mountains. Time to get back.
* * *
Katherine was still hunkered over the scattered books on the desktop, pencil in hand. Her elbow was in the same position as before, but now it sagged a little lower. Gibson crept by and stepped into the kitchen. Crushed green peppercorn emanated from the oven. He opened the door to investigate. The aroma of shepherd’s pie assailed him along with a blast of heat. His mouth watered, and he felt pangs of hunger rumble in his belly. He slipped into the study, approached his wife, leaning over to lay an affectionate kiss on her already puckered lips. He received a warm welcome.
Gibson came up for air.
“I’m ravenous.”
Katherine’s face lit up with pleasure.
“The pie.”
She jabbed him in the arm with her pencil, and they headed to the kitchen. Gibson got out the wine glasses while she filled their plates to overflowing and a salad on the side. They sat at the oval table and dug in. Andrew, Heather and Scottie’s current girlfriend were the subjects of their gossip.
“Heather has a thing for Andrew, but…” She stalled, fumbling for words.
“That’s women’s business,” Gibson said and held up a palm to ward off love talk.
Katherine propped her chin up with a hand and chuckled. It was a comfortable meal with scrumptious food, a red wine from the Okanagan and a wife who seemed relaxed. After dinner, Gibson whistled while he loaded the dirty dishes in the sink. Katherine retreated to her study. She closed the door behind her, blocking out anymore distractions.
Depleted from the day, Gibson went to bed. The warm quilt was comforting as he nestled into its folds, shielding him like a silken cocoon. His head dropped to the pillow, and he dreamed of mountains and water. And his kayak.
* * *
Unbeknownst to Gibson during the wee hours of the morning, two patrolmen were dispatched to investigate a commotion at the university near the unsanctioned camp. A homeless man had been severely beaten, the caller said. By the time the officers arrived, most of the campers had dispersed. They took what witness statements they could, then left to write up their report.
Chapter 18
Gibson’s lean figure was silhouetted against the rays streaming through the tinted window. The intensity of the November sun all but obliterated the hint of grey in his sandy hair. There was a power in his tall posture. A suggestion of resolve played across his smooth-shaven face. His stare was set on the opposite wall, not discerning his surroundings. A wandering cloud blocked the light momentarily. He
shifted his gaze toward the intrusion on his reverie. The billowy mass scurried off, returning brilliance to the room. Instantly he closed his eyes against the onslaught and turned away.
The office had been quiet all morning. Most of the detectives were on assignment or active with separate cases. He could hear someone across the hallway shouting down a phone. Probably Gunner. After a short time, he gradually opened his eyes again, adjusting to the elevated level of brightness. He saw Scottie standing at the entrance, reluctant to break his meditation. She had a paper clutched securely in one fist and a bag in the other. Abruptly he moved from the window and sat behind the desk. With an elbow resting on the surface, he unconsciously rubbed at his crooked nose. His partner moved into the room.
“What’s that?” Gibson pointed to the scraps of paper. With a wave of his palm, he gestured for Scottie to sit.
“The name and address of Robbie’s friend from the conference.” She raised her hand. “And coffee.” She grinned and dropped heavily in the leather-clad chair. She took two lattes and two cinnamon buns from the sack, placing them on the desk. He raised his eyebrows but didn’t make a move forward. Instead, he pulled out the lower drawer and propped his feet on the corner. Then he slumped further into his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. He ran his fingers through his hair and fiddled with his collar. Scottie pushed a coffee and bun within Gibson’s reach.
“How’s that for service?” She chuckled.
They were content to sit in silence and enjoy their snack. Scottie leaned back. She watched the patterns of light ricocheting off the bird prints mounted in thick silver frames and figured it was Heather’s artwork. The pinpricks of brightness flickered rapidly around the office like a strobe in a darkened nightclub.
