On a hunch I turned her ankle to check the brand of her boot. It took a lot of money to look that disheveled. As I suspected it was expensive. I could see where Murray’s mistake had been made; the diaper bag could have been a backpack.
“She isn’t a street kid.” I indicated the embossed mark on the heel. “Not with these boots.”
He swore and stepped out of earshot before pulling out his phone.
“I banked on her being a heroin hippie or a fentanyl elf,” he said when he returned. “Figured she was Native.” As if that was an explanation in and of itself.
“Chinese. And you’re a racist asshole.”
Murray had the good grace not to argue. It was an unspoken rule that if a victim were an addict, runaway, prostitute, or combination of the three, no one blinked an eye if you phoned in the investigation. Murray had a full caseload, and with no ID he’d been hopeful — 999 times out of 1,000 when a girl was found like this, it was one of the three.
I glanced up at the tall lamps that overhung the docks. Most were still on, even with the morning light. “Those two are out.” I nodded at two dead lights overhead. “She probably didn’t even notice. Who sounded the alarm?”
“Night guard heard shouting. Stepped out of the shed and swears he saw someone crouched over her. Took off before he got a closer look.”
I frowned as something metallic glinted just underneath her jacket, where metal shouldn’t have been.
I motioned for Murray to hand me a pair of gloves. “Search the area yet?”
“Mike’s bringing the dogs. If she’s like you said, chances are there’ll already be a report.” He added something else about searching social media. I half-listened, gingerly pushing open the lapel of her jacket.
A few feet away on the dock stood an Asian woman, black hair done at the nape of her neck and wearing a calico-print dress that would have been more appropriate on a woman in the twenties or thirties. She was staring straight at me. An exhibitor from the museum here early? I opened my mouth to interrupt Murray but the sunlight flickered with a passing cloud. The woman flickered as well.
Not again.
I shut my eyes tight, willing the woman to disappear. I was lucky to catch it so quickly, especially since cutting my meds in half. They made me so damn sluggish.
“Ricky?” Murray had crouched down beside me. “You having one of your — episodes?” It was impossible not to miss the hidden distaste and suspicion. “I thought the doctors said you were better now.”
“They did. I mean I’m—” I stopped my defense. The ghostly woman was back, this time hovering over the tidal flats, the edges of her old-fashioned dress tinged dark with water. She stared sadly, not at the strangled dead girl, but at me.
Best to ignore these slips. They couldn’t be helped, and worrying only made them worse. At best they were rabbit holes. At worst?
The woman vanished. I covered the momentary lapse with another drag from my cigarette, feigning concentration directed back on the body. If Murray suspected, he pretended not to. He’d always done that better than the other detectives. It was why I’d taken his call. That and my own curiosity.
I nodded at the strap and refocused the conversation. “Thing is, Murray, you aren’t asking the most important question.” I pulled the jacket the woman had been wearing aside, exposing the source of the metal glint. A strap, innocuous at first, unless you knew what it was. I glanced up at him. “If she was wearing a baby carrier, where’s the baby?”
Murray swore something foul but it was lost in the phone as he retreated to his car. I stole another glance at the tidal flats. The ghostly woman was gone.
I gave the dead girl’s possessions one last glance, but I already knew what was there — a mix of baby supplies: wipes, diapers, formula — all strewn across the dock and into the mud below. They held no more clues.
I paid attention to the docks instead, well lit for tourist season. Warm night, the watchman would have been looking for kids sneaking into the park. If it was premeditated, it hadn’t been well planned...
Opportunity? A chance encounter? Not impossible, but odd considering the remote location and the groceries. As if she was meeting someone.
Back to premeditated. But then why not dump the body in the water? Unless they intended for her to be found? An argument gone wrong? An accident? Or just inexperience.
Not something I was used to seeing. Not for the runaways, drug dealers, and trafficked prostitutes I consulted on. Without knowing who she was and why she was here, I had no motivation. A field full of rabbit holes.
“Ricky, I need you to do your thing,” Murray said, back from his call.
I swallowed and resisted the urge to take another drag. “I find teens and women. Missing babies are outside my social circle.” Verbalizing what it was I was good at always brought up a familiar ball of guilt.
“I’ll pay you the same rate as last time. Off the books.”
I bit back a hiss, taking in a mouthful of smoke. Of course off the books. There were some things you just couldn’t be forgiven for in the court of public opinion.
“No one finds people like you do, Ricky.”
Because I knew where they went.
“Get your forensics to canvas the docks,” I told him, avoiding a solid answer. “Then we’ll see.” I kept my eyes on the mud as I retreated to my car, an antique VW Bug that needed a key to open its dulled yellow doors, the necessity of it ruining whatever ironic fashionable veneer it had once held. I didn’t bother searching the lot for the ghostly woman and whatever it was my mind imagined she wanted. Instead, I stared at my hands until the engine in my car turned.
No rabbit holes this time, Ricky.
Cigarette still lit and without saying goodbye to Murray, I peeled out of the parking lot before anyone else arrived to find me at the scene.
An hour and another cigarette later, I arrived home at my condo in a refurbished heritage building on the edge of China and Gastown. My living space clashed with my income and what I alone could afford — or deserved. A peace offering from my father when he’d paid the deposit on an exorbitant North Van home, a wedding gift for my brother. Not wanting to break a streak in fairness, he’d purchased this place for me. The fact that it was now worth well over four times what he’d paid in the nineties just dug the knife in deeper.
I dropped my coat on the wooden stand by the front door and headed straight for my desk. I didn’t smoke inside — it was the one concession I’d made to my ex and the only lifestyle improvement I hadn’t been able to renege on. The ashtray was still out on the porch with a view into the gated alley — turned-garden two stories below.
I put the coffee pot on, then headed into the shower, something I hadn’t had a chance to do before Murray had called. It wasn’t until I was dry and had a warm mug in my hands that I checked my phone.
I was relieved not to see a text from Murray. Trafficked babies weren’t the same as trafficked girls. I had half a mind to go visit my brother for the weekend in North Van, just to avoid being useless.
The scrape of the metal gate outside distracted me.
Sliding my phone in my pocket, I took my coffee out to the porch, knowing who would be below.
Sitting on the rim of one of the large flowerpots was a woman in her fifties, face framed in a brown bob, with high cheekbones, tanned skin, and a slimness that hid or flattered her age well. I guessed First Nations, but had never gotten up the courage to ask, and she’d never brought it up.
This morning she had the same stroller I’d noticed last night squeaking down the sidewalk. Her other grandchildren had grown well beyond it, so this one must be new. I smiled as I leaned over the rail. “Marnie.” She was the only neighbor I knew by name.