No Good Deed (river city crime) Read online

  The checking picked up after that and the game was intense. Three minutes later, Wayne Langer, a skater I recognized from last season, wristed one past the Trail goaltender and the crowd went nuts. The River City goal song blasted out of the sound system and eight thousand voices cried, “Whoa-oh-oh-oh” in unison.

  I smiled and sipped my drink.

  When the five minute penalties ended, Richard and McHugh were allowed out of the penalty boxes. Each man skated along his own blue line, still jawing at the other all the way to the bench. Before the puck was dropped, the Trail coach made a line change, sending McHugh out on the right wing. The River City coach responded by putting Richard on the left wing.

  The puck dropped.

  So did the gloves.

  The second tilt was more of an even affair, with both men trading punches to a stalemate. After a dozen or so, the linesmen stepped between and broke it up. McHugh and Richard spent another five minutes in the penalty box jawing at each other.

  The crowd was electric. I heard fans around me asking each other who number twenty-three was and consulting the program flyer.

  As soon as their five minutes were up, the two heavyweights squared off again. This time, Richard fought with an intense fury, pummeling McHugh with his right hand until the Trail player collapsed to his knees. The linesmen separated them and Richard skated straight for the bench and down the tunnel toward the locker room.

  “Where’s he going?” the girl next to me asked her boyfriend, who shrugged.

  “Three fights is a game misconduct,” the old man behind us advised.

  Two of McHugh’s teammates helped him off the ice and down the tunnel to his own locker room. River City fans jeered him.

  Even the public announcer’s voice seemed excited when he announced the penalties. “Trail penalty to number seven, Kevin McHugh. River City penalty to number twenty-three, Phillipe Richard. Both receive five for fighting and a game misconduct.”

  At Richard’s name, a cheer started. It built up over the announcement and washed down onto the ice.

  It was official. The crowd loved him.

  I spoke with Richard after practice the next morning. The coach put them through a light skate, since they played the night before and had another game that night. He saw me in the stands with Matt and waved me down into the tunnel.

  “What news?” he asked.

  “None,” I told him. “She’s not at that motel anymore.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive. Maybe she left town and went home.”

  His brow furrowed. “No. She called just yesterday afternoon.”

  “She called you?”

  He shook his head. “No, my agent. She bother him all the time.”

  Patrick Bourdon was exactly like I expected a French lawyer to look. His suit was cut to fit his slender frame and his hair was gelled perfectly into place. The only thing that spoiled the image was the fact that I met him in his hotel room and not some swanky office in Montreal.

  He offered me coffee and I accepted. Instead of the complimentary packets in most hotels, he had his own coffee-maker, complete with gourmet beans and grinder.

  “There are some luxuries one cannot do without,” he told me. “Besides, I am very pleased at the selection of beans here in your city, Mr. Kopriva.”

  I shrugged. I preferred black coffee and though I wouldn’t turn up my nose at a more exotic roast, I wasn’t particularly fond of the foo-foo gourmet stuff.

  While the coffee brewed, Bourdon and I sat across a small table from each other. His laptop lay to his left, running but with the top closed.

  “You do much of your work out of hotels?”

  He shrugged. “I have a small office in my home. But when I have a strong client on the verge of a signing, I like to be where he is. Besides, a telephone and an Internet connection is all I really need.”

  “Is Richard on the verge?”

  He spread his arms with a flourish. “Well, I am here, after all.”

  “Signing with who?”

  “Several teams are interested. My duty is to ensure that he goes to the right team at the right price.”

  The aroma of the brewing coffee floated over us. I had to admit it smelled pretty good. “He said he might sign for a half million dollars.”

  “Oh, surely,” Bourdon said. “But it will likely be two or three times that. It just depends.”

  “On what?”

  Bourdon smiled. “On how well he plays. And who gets hurt or traded up in the show.”

  “So he’ll go to the NHL?”

  “Oh, certainly,” Bourdon said. “But he will have to toil for a bit in the American Hockey League, to prove he is no fluke.”

  “Like he’s doing now, in this league?”

  “Precisely. Now, Mr. Kopriva, Phillipe told me you were trying to help him with this Stoll situation.”

  I nodded. “That’s right.”

  “What are you intending to do?”

  “Just what he asked me to do. Find the woman and make an offer.”

  “Which Phillipe has no intention of paying.”

  “No,” I said. “But he seems to think that I’ll be able to tell whether she’s lying or not.”

  “Yes, he said you used to be a constable of some kind?”

  I didn’t answer, only nodded.

  Bourdon didn’t push the matter. “Well, if it will put Phillipe’s mind to rest so that he can focus on what is most important right now, then I am all for it. What can I do to help?”

  “He said that Anne Marie Stoll called you recently?”

  “The woman calls me at least once a week.”

  “When was the most recent call?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “What was the call about?”

  “Same as always. When is Phillipe going to sign his big contract? How much will I get for him? And so on.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “Nothing,” Bourdon said, indignant. “She is not my client.”

  “Did she say where she was staying?”

  Bourdon’s look of indignation faded to amusement. “No.”

  “What’s so funny?”

  “She said she was hiding to avoid trouble from Phillipe.”

  I watched his eyes. They were a stony gray and the amusement in them was genuine. “Why would she hide from him?”

  “I don’t know. But she wasn’t any good at it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because her telephone number appeared on my caller ID.” He brought out his cell phone from his jacket pocket and pushed a few buttons. His smile grew and he turned the phone around toward me. “Can you do anything with that?”

  I scrawled the number down. “Thanks.”

  He replaced the cell phone and rose. “The coffee is finished,” he said.

  That afternoon, I met Adam at the Rocket Bakery. He showed up five minutes late, ordered his latte and sat down across from me.

  “What’s happening, Cochise?” he asked me.

  “I have a job,” I said.

  He took a drink and licked the foam from his lips. “Doing what?”

  “It’s more of a favor,” I said, and explained it to him.

  When I was finished, he shook his head and held up his latte. “I knew I should have let you pay for this.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re going to ask me for something.”

  I didn’t answer right away. When I worked Matt Sinderling’s case, Adam gave me some important help. He put his career on the line for me, even though I was an ex-cop that most of the agency held in contempt. I rewarded his help by getting myself arrested. On the plus side, I found Matt’s daughter and I kept my mouth shut about Adam’s help. Our friendship had been a little dicey for a while, but it endured.

  “What if I buy the next one?” I asked.

  “What if you buy the next three?”

  An hour later, he called me at my apartment.

  “You’re only
on the hook for one,” he said. “I didn’t even have to work on it. The number was in the printed reverse directory.”

  “Where is it?”

  “The Celtic Spirit, up on Division.”

  I thanked him and hung up.

  I drove to the Celtic Spirit Motel. It was right on Division Street, the main thoroughfare through the city. The motel was really a series of small cabins butted up to one another in a giant, square U-shape. The parking lot was only half full and I found a spot easily. I wandered around for a minute, getting my bearings and then located room twelve.

  Light music came from the other side of the door. I listened for a moment, identified it as Enya or some rip-off of her, then knocked.

  The music stopped. The door opened four inches and a pair of suspicious eyes appraised me.

  “Who are you?” There was no trace of an accent.

  “My name’s Stefan Kopriva.”

  “I don’t know you. What do you want?”

  “Phillipe Richard sent me to discuss something with you.”

  Her eyes widened at Richard’s name, then narrowed as they swept over me again. I waited, trying to look casual and not at all dangerous. My small frame probably helped. I was maybe five-ten. In boots.

  She made her decision and let me in. As the door swung open, I did what every man does. I looked at her breasts. They were nicely shaped and some cleavage was showing. My gaze swept downward to her belly, looking for tell-tale signs of pregnancy. She looked healthy, not too thin, but I saw no real signs of impending motherhood.

  Anne Marie either didn’t notice my own appraisal or she was used to men doing it and ignored it. She closed the door behind me and pointed to one of the chairs at a small kitchen table.

  I sat down. The room was neat, but in the sterile way many motels were. I didn’t get the sense that it was anything she did that kept the place tidy.

  She sat down opposite me. She had auburn hair, probably well past her shoulders, but it was done up in a braided bun. Her nose and lips were thin in a way that suggested elegance, but her eyes were tired and wary.

  “How did you find me?” she demanded.

  “Were you trying not to be found?”

  She scowled.“What does Phillipe want?”

  “To solve this situation,” I said.

  She crossed her arms and examined me some more. “Solve it how?”

  I smiled at her. “The same way most situations get solved. With money.”

  She laughed then, a sharp bark that disintegrated into a rueful chuckle. “You are not from British Columbia, Mister…Kopriva, was it?”

  I nodded.

  “Fine. Well, Mr. Kopriva, in the Western Provinces of Canada, we solve many of our situations with blood.”

  “You don’t want money?”

  She shook her head. “No, money is fine. Money will do. It will solve this situation.”

  “Good.”

  She cocked her head at me. “That’s why you are here? To dicker with me? Are you Phillipe’s negotiator?”

  “Something like that.”

  She laughed again, a mirthless bark. “Oh, Phillipe is such a coward. Big, strong hockey player, eh? But he can’t even come settle with me himself. He has to send some messenger.”

  “Miss Stoll, I-”

  “It’s Mrs. Stoll,” she snapped. “Or didn’t Phillipe tell you that?”

  “He did. I’m sorry.”

  She stood suddenly. “I don’t think we have anything else to talk about. You tell Phillipe that he was with me when this situation started. He can be with me to finish it, no? And it will be finished when I know the terms of his NHL contract. Not before.”

  I frowned. “Mrs. Stoll-”

  “I realize that it doesn’t look it, but this motel does have security. Do I need to call them?”

  I shook my head and left. She slammed the door behind me.

  Richard started the game that night against the Creston Otters and when the opening puck dropped, he and an Otter player dropped the gloves and removed their helmets and waded into each other.

  “Why do they do that?” I wondered aloud.

  “Do what?” a voice behind me asked.

  The fight ended with Richard sending a brutal uppercut to the Otter player’s chin. The crowd went wild.

  I glanced over my shoulder at the old man behind me. He wore a battered Flyers ball cap. “Take off their helmets before a fight,” I said.

  “It’s the Code,” he told me. “The code of honor.”

  I gave him a quizzical look.

  He smiled back at me. “Just the rules between enforcers,” he said. “Let’s see. It’s goes something like this.” He began ticking off fingers. “Don’t challenge a guy near the end of his shift. Or when he has an injury that prevents him from fighting. Take all comers. No punching on the ice or once the linesmen step in…”

  “And take off your helmet?”

  He pointed his finger at me. “Right. But only when it’s a planned thing, like that last one. If it just starts up, well…” he shrugged. “That’s different.”

  I thought about what he said. “Code of honor, huh?”

  “Yes,” he said, “just like the knights of old.”

  I met Patrick Bourdon the next morning and told him where I’d located Anne Marie Stoll.

  “And you spoke with Madame Stoll?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She wasn’t interested in settling just yet,” I said. “She wants to wait until he signs his NHL contract.”

  Bourdon pressed his lips together and sighed. “Shrewd.”

  “She didn’t look pregnant, either.”

  Bourdon gave me a surprised look. “No?”

  I nodded. “She wasn’t showing at all.”

  Bourdon swallowed and took a sip of coffee. “Of course not. She is probably only three months along.”

  “So the affair occurred over the off-season?”

  “It ended over the off-season,” Bourdon said. “I’m not certain when it began. Anyway, the important part is that we now know where we stand.”

  He removed his check book and wrote out a check. When held it out to me, I shook my head.

  “Richard already paid me.”

  “That was a retainer, no doubt,” Bourdon said. “This should complete the transaction.”

  I took the check. It was written for another two hundred dollars and drawn on Bourdon’s own account.

  “Thank you for your help, Monsieur Kopriva. If you ever need tickets to a game, you have my cell number…as long as Phillipe is on the team, of course.”

  I had my own connection for tickets, but I didn’t bother telling him. Instead, I slipped his check into my pocket and left his hotel room.

  “Something’s not right,” I told Clell.

  We sat in the lobby of one of the buildings he guarded at night. He was a conscientious security guard and made his rounds regularly, but that still left plenty of down time. I brought him coffee and company a couple of nights a week.

  He scratched his chin and drank from the thermos cup. The coffee was Maxwell House, nothing fancy. I think Clell would spit out anything Patrick Bourdon brewed.

  “They paid you four hundred dollars?”

  I nodded.

  “To do what?”

  “I told you already.”

  “I know. Tell me again.”

  I sighed. “To find the woman and feel her out about a settlement. To offer my professional opinion on her honesty.”

  “And how hard was that?”

  “Not too hard.” I told him about the number on Bourdon’s cell phone and Adam’s help.

  “Those reverse directory thingies,” Clell said. “Are those restricted to law enforcement only?”

  I shook my head. “No. They’re public documents. But they’re expensive.”

  “A lot less than four hundred dollars, though. Access to ‘em, anyways.”

  I saw his point. “Any top
-flight private detective firm would probably have the reverses. Bourdon could have used that phone number on his caller ID to find out where she was staying for less than fifty bucks.”

  “That’s if he wanted to see her in person,” Clell said. “It sounds like she was making herself pretty available on the phone.”

  “Yet she didn’t want Richard to know where she was.”

  Clell grunted. “Afraid of him, but wants his money.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Fear and greed, two pretty powerful competing emotions.”

  “She didn’t look too scared when I talked to her. She looked pretty confident.”

  “Putting on a strong front, maybe.”

  I shrugged. “Could be. She didn’t want any part of a deal, that was for sure.”

  “That was one part of what they were paying you for, right? Just to see what her reaction was?”

  “Yeah. Richard said he wanted my opinion about whether she was lying or not about the kid being his.”

  “That makes you a consultant,” Clell joked.

  I smiled. “I should get little business cards printed up.”

  He waved his hand around the lobby. “You could get an office here, huh?”

  We chuckled together and drank some more coffee.

  After the laughs faded, we sat and thought for a bit. Finally, I said, “Here’s the thing. Bourdon didn’t ask me for my opinion. He just paid me and that was it.”

  “Easy money,” Clell said, a hint of disapproval in his tone.

  “Easy money is never easy,” I said. “Something’s not right.”

  “You know who you should call?” Clell asked me.

  I nodded. “Mr. Stoll.”

  I didn’t have long distance service on my telephone in my apartment, so I had to get a roll of quarters from the MI-T-Mart and use a payphone. The first few quarters got me through to a woman with a lovely voice, but she spoke only French. When I asked for an English speaking operator, she put me on hold. That cost another seventy-five cents. Then a gruff-voiced male came on the line and took my request. Only twenty-five cents later, he came back with the number. He offered to connect me for a dollar more, but I was afraid I’d run out of change while talking to Mr. Stoll, so I direct-dialed.