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“There isn’t a business program at Royal Roads College. Never has been,” Gibson said. “Robbie found out. He threatened to expose you. Didn’t he?”
“When Robbie got back from the conference last year, he was zealous to upgrade,” Scottie interjected, to keep the dialogue going. “We have documents that show us that.”
“That’s right. Robbie looked at your diplomas and thought he should follow suit,” Gibson said. “Why not? You had done well for yourself. Maybe he could do the same.”
“Imagine the shock when Robbie recognized what he had stumbled upon. Your deceit,” Scottie added.
Gibson stared over the desk. There was a mad glimmer in his usually kind eyes.
Jason dropped his chin on his chest. The once rosy, controlled features had changed steadily to haggard and drawn. He stared at the other certificates hanging staunchly, ones he had earned rightfully but held no meaning. Just a few day-seminars. A light sparked in his flat eyes, and a shade of self-importance crept into his expression. With a moment to connive, he had regained his cool as cheats and liars do.
“So what? I don’t know anything about Robbie and his school thing. Even if my diploma is fake, it doesn’t mean I killed anybody.” He challenged them with his logic.
Although Gibson had hoped for an admission, he knew this was Jason’s pawn takes bishop move. It had been a long shot at best. Jason had a large ego and could not be cowed that easily. He needed to misdirect until they turned up the evidence that would convict. All he had was a paper trail to subterfuge not murder. He pressed on with his bluff.
“A witness saw you in your work truck on the boulevard minutes before Robbie was killed,” Gibson said effortlessly. He hunched forward and added, “You don’t have an alibi.”
“I do. I was at the coffee shop.”
“You left there with plenty of time to kill Robbie.”
His charcoal eyes steeled against Jason’s unsteady glare.
“Intent and opportunity,” Gibson said. A sharpness in his voice could cut.
“You tried to silence witnesses that saw you,” Scottie said. That wasn’t true, but it sounded good. The beating of the homeless guy was a different matter. Probably not the dog walker either. That was an errant driver. Just a twist of the knife.
“And AJ getting whacked,” Gibson said. He shook with fury convinced that was indubitably on Jason.
“Is that all you have?” Jason chuckled heartily and kicked out his legs. “Where is this evidence?”
Gibson’s anger burned deep. He flung open the door and motioned Gunner into the already jammed space.
“Take him downtown for questioning,” he barked. He stomped out of the stuffy room like an enraged wildcat, a hiss that started deep in his throat. He would beat this guy somehow.
“You can’t do this to me.”
The cuffs were cold and heavy. Gunner slapped them on Jason’s slender wrists and gave a little rattle. He touched the foreman’s elbow to steer him away. Jason yanked from his grip, ran down the stairs and jumped into the police vehicle on his own. He slumped into the lumpy seat and was lost behind blackened glass and a metal barrier. The siren jolted him out of his skin into a kind of panicky reality.
The commotion had brought the workers outside, loosely huddled together on the same spot as before—when this had all started. David frantically stabbed at the buttons on his cell. Tim bounced on his feet, stretching his neck toward the conflict. Nick had his eyes closed, head inclined on the cold steel wall. AJ blew rings in the air. The smoke floated up in perfect circles then dissipated into nothingness. Tony remained in the shop doorway, wide-legged stance, bared teeth and fear in his thoughts.
Raymond began his search of Jason’s office.
“Grab the laptop,” Scottie called over her shoulder as an afterthought, racing down the stairs.
A loss of status and reputation were powerful motives. Not money, but it translated into money. They had forty-eight hours to unearth the proof. Scottie would be working overtime.
* * *
Numerous vehicles lined the verge of the remote lane by the time Gibson peeled round the corner to his house—a convincing sign that a party was in full swing. He dragged his weary body out of the truck and listened to the wails of laughter spilling out of the residence. In the few flashes of tranquillity between the vivacity, he could pick up the lapping of waves coaxing him toward the bay. The moon hovered directly above the ocean, mimicking its likeness in the still black water. The onshore breeze pushed its path through the trees bordering the seashore, striking his unprotected face with gentle frosty puffs. Gibson sucked in the vigor. His breath whistled out as steam. Although the wind had diminished to an eerie hush, the turmoil in his mind was tumbling with gale force. On the trip home, he had second-guessed his choice to hold Jason before they had concrete evidence. He needed to set aside his qualms, to trust himself and his squad.
Gibson stood motionless for one further moment, drawing in his strength. He had foreseen an evening of wine, dinner and sex. Not to be. So instead, he planted a huge smile on his face and opened the door to the gaiety within. It was Katherine’s stage.
“Gibson’s here,” shrieked a rather tipsy Heather as a rush of chilly air flowed into the opening.
Small pockets of friends stood or sat chattering. Laughter rang throughout the house. A crush of bodies was clustered around the dining table, loaded with trays of finger food and bottles of wine. Gibson observed they had already consumed a substantial measure, so he treated himself to a Pinot Noir. He moved cautiously so as not to spill the generous glass he had poured.
Katherine remained in the centre of the living room—a singular figure—surrounded by her friends. She looked fabulous with soft sable locks tumbling over her naked shoulders and down the open back of her dress. She had whirled around at his return. Her impassioned eyes crackled with a naughty gleam. Gibson drifted closer, took both her hands and kissed inside one palm and then the other. He drew her to him. His lips nibbled her ear, titillating the lobe with his tongue, causing the delicate downy hair on her neck to rise.
The sudden upsurge of cheering permeated the room and shattered the spell. Katherine unravelled herself from the embrace and granted a princess-like curtsey.
Gibson fumbled in his pocket for the gift and placed it in her hand. Katherine squealed. She released the bow with a tug and peeked inside. A gold vintage locket, diamond and emerald encrusted, was nestled in a glass box. The strings of her soul played a tender melody. Her friends pushed forward to catch a glimpse of the treasure.
Gibson moved away to quell the ravenous hunger that had struck him. He filled a china plate and found a spot on the couch. The warmth of the fire washed over him in soothing waves, but his mind was in battle with the day’s events. He urged his worries aside with effort and sought to enjoy the amiable company. Soon the evening wound down. The cheerful crowd filtered out to a shroud of icy twilight.
The empty house seemed full—of affection, of contentment. They cuddled on the couch. Katherine leaned in tighter, set a finger to his mouth and said goodnight. He puckered his lips and blew a smooch. She surrendered him to his contemplations.
Gibson slouched further into the cushions and chewed over his actions. His heart softened to a steady pulse. His eyes fluttered closed. He yanked himself up and headed off to bed. Although he was exhausted, sleep did not materialize. He rested on his back and stared at the ceiling. Silvery beams streamed through the crack in the shutters and drifted in erratic patterns across the bedspread. Beside him, the soft and rhythmic breathing of his spouse was tranquil. He counted sheep to impede the internal conversation and to dodge his uncertainties. Soon he was fast asleep.
Chapter 32
“Jason lawyered up,” Scottie repeated, sensing that Gibson wasn’t listening. She searched for some response, even a twitch, but got nothing. She continued anyway and reported, “He won’t talk.”
She sat in front of the desk and stretched out her long l
egs. After several tries to gain feedback from her partner, she became reticent and closed her eyes. Her long flowing lashes brushed her cheekbones.
Gibson stared at the cruise ship docking, giving the appearance of paying no attention. But he was. They had an abundance of material, but they lacked one crucial piece. He struggled to sort it out, to establish the order of events. Storm clouds amassed in the distance. He changed from his position at the window and fled to his desk. He sagged back into his chair and tapped a pen on his thigh.
A smart rap at the door startled both detectives from their contemplation. Gunner stood with a handful of sheets clenched in his hand.
“These might help.”
“What have you learned?” Gibson pointed to the vacant chair.
Gunner perched on the edge of the seat and leaned forward. It thrilled him to be part of the investigation. His body vibrated with an energy he had never felt before. He placed the documents in two piles on the desk so they could be viewed easily.
“I’ve been studying the bank statements since I received them yesterday,” Gunner said. He drew gasps of air almost to the point of hyperventilating.
Gibson looked at him in alarm.
His breathing steadied and returned to normal. The episode had blanched his complexion, but he ignored his discomfort and carried on.
“This is Jason’s account.” He pointed to the highlighted figures on the document in the right stack. “This is a withdrawal of two hundred dollars cash.” He underscored the relevance by tapping it with his pencil. “Each month for the previous year.”
Gibson remained quiet and waited for him to go on. Gunner touched the second pile with his index finger. A flush snaked up his neck and reached the tip of his ears as he struggled to keep his emotions in check—to stop the rush of words.
“This is Robbie’s account. The same. Month, day and amount.”
“What happened last December?” Gibson asked. “Assuming Jason was giving Robbie money…maybe these figures are a coincidence.” He looked at the date on the bottom of the sheet. He felt gun shy and was extra vigilant about drawing inferences from alternate facts these days. Originally, he had decided it was a hate scandal. And it wasn’t. Then he had considered it could be a crime of passion. Another error. There would be no further conjectures.
“Blackmail?” Scottie said with less caution.
“Maybe. Or paying back a loan. We know that Robbie was impulsive.”
“We could ask Ellen,” Gunner said.
“Good idea.”
