Ear-Witness Page 8

  “You don’t trust me anyhow,” Raffi said. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You think I could have been involved in a murder...” His voice got thick then, like he had a bad cold, but maybe he was crying.

  “Of course I don’t think you were involved,” Mom said. “You’d never do anything like that. I just don’t understand why you needed to lie to me. Sure, I made a big deal about you seeing Freddy, but you know why.”

  “So he smokes a little grass occasionally,” Raffi said. “It’s not catching, Lynda. I’m not into substances, you know that. You think I’m going to turn into a dope fiend if I hang around with him?”

  “You might,” Mom said. “If you hang around with people who do dope, you could get in trouble with the cops.”

  “I’ve got news for you,” Raffi said. “I am in trouble with the cops. I don’t have an alibi for the time of the murder.”

  “I thought you were with Freddy!”

  “I went over to his place that night, but he wasn’t there. So I came home. All I did then was watch TV for a while, and go to bed.”

  I’d heard enough. More than enough. I crept down the hall to my room, and lay on my bed, feeling absolutely horrid, like everything was my fault. I only got up once, to clean my teeth and put on my nightgown. Mom and Raffi were still outside, on the porch. They never even said good night.

  The next morning, Flavia caught up with me on the way to school. She was extremely cheerful.

  “He’s back!” she said. “Your mother’s friend.”

  I tried to smile, but I couldn’t. “Yeah,” I said. “It was a misunderstanding, I guess. He slept in and didn’t make his appointment.”

  “My father and Carlos are very happy this morning also. They told what happened that night, and guess what? No problem!”

  “That’s good,” I said. “What did they hear? The same stuff I did?”

  “Yes, like you. The argument, the fight, the crying. But more also. My father had just come back from work, and he saw someone.”

  “Who?”

  “A man. A very large man, like your mother’s friend.” She looked away from me, then looked back. “Or like Mr. Bird was. That size. It was still dark. My father could not see clearly.”

  “He can’t describe him or anything?”

  “The police asked that also. No. A very big man. He can not say more than that.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Jon’s house is tall and skinny, just like him. A black iron gate leads into a little courtyard where big clay pots of pink geraniums stand on either side of a bright blue door. It was open and Jon was waiting, watching me come towards him.

  The first thing I noticed inside was the smell of apples cooking with cinnamon. The second was the books. Outside a library, I’d never seen so many together in one place. Not just on the shelves, which covered two whole walls of the living room, but all over the place. Piles of them stood on the floor in front of the bookcases, on end tables, leaning into armchairs, even on the couch. There were newspapers too, three or four different ones, and serious-looking magazines.

  The walls that didn’t have book-cases had paintings. I moved closer to look at them. Thanks to Raffi, I’m not a total ignoramus about art. These were abstracts, really nice ones.

  Jon touched one, on the frame. “My mom’s. I guess the room’s sort of a mess.”

  “I love it,” I said. I wasn’t just being polite. It was the best room I’d ever been in.

  I followed him through the dining room, where half the table was covered by a computer work station, and two very untidy piles of paper: one hand-written; the other printed. The printed pages had corrections marked on them in red pen. Behind the table there was a china cabinet. It was full of books too.

  “They must be in the kitchen,” Jon said.

  Mr. Bell looked exactly like I expected he would, only older. Long and thin and cheerful-looking, just like Jon, but with greyish, rather than blond hair. Mrs. Bell was a complete surprise. I expected her to be tall and thin too, and elegant and sophisticated. Instead, she was short, shorter even than me, and sort of roly-poly. When she twisted a wisp of dark hair behind one ear and smiled, she looked like one of Santa’s elves.

  “You’ll have some applesauce,” she said. “Fresh made.” This wasn’t a question, it was almost an order, but nobody was taking offence.

  We sat on benches at a huge polished wooden table that looked really old. It had gouges all over it, even some black circles from cup rings. While I talked to Mrs. Bell about the cookbooks on the openshelved cabinet behind us, Jon and his father got into an argument about politics. It was an OK argument; they were listening to each other, but they disagreed. Nothing mean was going on.

  After we finished our applesauce, Jon and I went back to the living room to talk about the murder. The only new thing I had to tell him was about Raffi.

  “The cops took him away, but ...” I explained how they only did that because Raffi hadn’t gone to his appointment. “Then they let him go.”

  Jon frowned. “He can’t be a serious suspect if they let him go,” he said.

  “He seemed pretty worried to me, I guess because he doesn’t have an alibi.”

  “That doesn’t mean he did it,” Jon said. “I don’t have an alibi either.”

  “You aren’t a suspect. Raffi is.”

  “Do you believe he actually ...?”

  “No, of course not,” I said. “But I have a bad feeling about the whole thing.”

  Jon put his hand on mine. “Why?” he said.

  “I wish I knew.”

  “I met Jon’s parents,” I said.

  “And?” Mom’s mouth was full of cornbread, but she asked anyway.

  “They’re nice. They read a lot. Mrs. Bell paints.”

  “Speaking of reading,” Mom said, “there was an article on vegetarianism I wanted to save but I can’t find the magazine. Have either of you seen it?”

  I shrugged.

  “I think I read it,” Raffi said. “But I don’t know where. Is Jon’s mother Abby Bell, Jess?”

  I shrugged again.

  “You saw paintings?”

  I nodded.

  “Abstracts? Lots of colour? Geometric shapes flowing into each other?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “How did you know?”

  “She’s a real artist,” he said. “I knew she lived around here somewhere. So when do we get to meet Jon?”

  “I dunno,” I said. “What’s going on here?”

  “Sheena called,” Mom said. “She wants to see you tomorrow, after school. She’ll pick you up out front unless she hears from you.”

  “Maybe Jon will come too,” I said.

  Mom cut herself a second piece of cornbread. “You aren’t spending much time with Kelly these days. Is anything wrong?”

  “Is that a way of saying I shouldn’t spend so much time with Jon?”

  “No. Not at all. Don’t be so quick to criticize, Jess. I just don’t want you to lose Kelly because of some guy.”

  “He isn’t just some guy! And it’s Kelly who hasn’t got time for me, not the other way around.”

  Mom’s eyes and mine met, and held.

  “She’s very involved with Joey,” I said. “And she hasn’t been making it to school that much.” Kelly would be really upset if she knew I’d said that. Too bad.

  CHAPTER 16

  The cruiser was waiting in front of the school. Sheena popped the lock on the passenger door as Jon and I crossed the sidewalk.

  “OK if I bring a friend?” I said.

  She shook her head. “Sorry. This is an official interview.” This was the bullet-word Sheena, not the friendly one. I turned to Jon and raised one corner of my mouth. “See you tomorrow,” I said.

  Sheena pulled a U-turn on Jameson, and headed back towards King Street. “I thought we’d just cruise around a bit.” she said. “Rather than go to the station.”

  “Sure. Is something wrong?”

  “It�
�ll keep,” she said.

  We followed the Lakeshore to the Exhibition grounds, which were almost deserted. The lake was grey, and the sky was covered by a dirty-looking blanket of clouds.

  “It’s about Raffi,” she said.

  I kept looking at the lake. “What about him?”

  “How long has he been hanging around with your mom?”

  “I was eleven,” I said. “Four years. A little more.”

  “I was reading over your statement this morning...”

  I sighed. It was almost a relief to know what was coming.

  “And you were a little, uh, cute, weren’t you?” she said.

  “Cute?” Sitting in the front seat of the cruiser meant I didn’t have to look at her, which was fine with me. She was looking at me though, I could see her out of the corner of my left eye.

  “It’s just Mom and me. That’s what you said.”

  “That Bud guy asked me who lived with us. I told the truth.”

  “You implied that your mom was alone. That she didn’t have anybody.”

  I turned to her then. “He didn’t need to be so insulting! Even you saw that. Remember how you pretended to shoot him?”

  Sheena shook her head. “I didn’t tell you to lie! A cop can ask you anything he darn well wants, so long as it’s relevant to what he’s investigating. What interests me is why you were covering up for this guy”

  “Covering up?”

  “Pretending he didn’t exist.”

  I sighed again. “One of his friends, another black guy, who hadn’t done anything bad at all, got shot by a cop just two days before! Raffi worries about things like that. The police scare him.”

  “I noticed. People can be scared of cops for lots of different reasons, I guess, but the most common one is that they’ve done something against the law.”

  “I didn’t lie,” I said.

  “You misled the police,” she said.

  “What does it matter whether my mother has a boyfriend or not? What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Don’t play smart games, Jess.”

  Another car pulled into the lot, circled around, then left. Sheena tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, like she was really irritated. She probably was. I swallowed hard.

  “If you were me,” she said, “dealing with you, a witness to a crime, a witness who covered up for someone, what would you think?”

  When I didn’t answer, she did.

  “You’d be suspicious about why,” she said.

  “I told you why.”

  “And you’d wonder about the other stuff this witness told you. Whether it’s reliable. Whether the witness is covering up something else.”

  “I’m not covering up anything! The Orellanas heard the same stuff I did!”

  “That’s true, they did. But they weren’t able to identify either male voice. You said one was Mr. Bird, but you didn’t know the other.”

  “That’s true!”

  “So now I’m wondering if you were covering up again. When you said you couldn’t identify that second voice.”

  I shook my head. “I never heard the other guy before in my life.”

  “We have a report that someone who could have been Raffi was there that night. That he came around from the back of your building. At about 3:00 A.M.”

  “Who? Who said that?”

  “A neighbour.”

  “That person’s lying!”

  “What makes you so sure? Raffi left work at twelve, and he usually stays till two.”

  I swallowed again. “Raffi isn’t a murderer! I know him. He’s kind, and gentle. I’ve never even heard him raise his voice!”

  “Is he a druggie?”

  “Raffi? No! He hardly even drinks!”

  “The guy this witness saw was big. The guy you saw when he broke in that night you were babysitting was big. Raffi’s big.”

  I groaned. “So is half the world! And the man I saw wasn’t Raffi.”

  “I thought you couldn’t identify him? Couldn’t see enough.”

  “I couldn’t, but if he was someone I knew, I’m sure I’d have...”

  “He made some kind of noise, in the baby’s room. So you heard his voice ...”

  “It wasn’t Raffi! And I think it was sort of a laugh,” I said. “But it didn’t have any voice sound to it. It was like he let out his breath.”

  “A laugh? The murderer comes back to the scene of the crime, scares the living daylights out of you, and then laughs? And you think he wasn’t someone you know?”

  I had nothing to say to that, so that’s what I said. Nothing.

  When my mother gets mad she paces and waves her hands around. Fortunately, she was mad at Sheena, not me, but I felt guilty anyhow.

  “Can she do that?” she said. “Question Jess like that, without an adult present?”

  Raffi shrugged.

  So did I. “She did it,” I said.

  “Cooped up in a cop car!” Mom said. “Confined! Like you were in jail!”

  “It wasn’t that bad. I mean she didn’t lock me in or anything,” I said. “At least I don’t think she did.”

  Raffi wasn’t too happy either, but for a different reason. “I don’t like the way this is developing,” he said. “Do you think I’m a suspect?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Raffi,” Mom said “I should complain, that’s what I should do. She’s not going to get away with treating Jess like that.” She opened the fridge, poked around for a while, then shut it. “Who is it you report things like that to? The Police Complaints Commission, isn’t it?”

  “Mom...”

  Raffi held up his hand, warning me off. “You’ll only make things worse, Lynda,” he said. “Just draw more attention to me. Make that cop even madder.”

  “But you haven’t done anything!” Mom wailed.

  “It’s my fault,” I said. When nobody disagreed with me, I got up and started setting the table for supper. Raffi had cooked: soup from a can and grilled cheese sandwiches.

  I looked over at Mom. “You can’t complain,” I said. “Sheena phoned you. You knew she was going to talk to me.”

  Mom looked like she didn’t want to agree, but eventually she nodded. “I suppose,” she said. “I could have said I wanted to be there. I could have protected you better.”

  “Let it drop, Lynda,” Raffi said. Then he turned to me. “Run what that cop said by me again, Jess. The stuff about the witness.”

  “Somebody, probably Mr. Orellana, says he saw a big guy leave here at about three o’clock that night, a big guy who came from behind the building. The other thing is, Sheena thinks I’m lying about the night of the murder. She thinks I did recognize that second man’s voice.”

  “Supposed to be me, I guess.” Raffi looked at the floor for a while. “I don’t feel too good,” he said.

  Mom moved to the arm of his chair, and started patting his head. I picked up my backpack and headed down the hall. I can’t stand mush.

  “Sheena has a witness,” I said. “And she says this witness saw some big guy leave here the night of the murder. So she’s decided it was Raffi, because he’s big.” I was on the phone, the extension in my room, talking to Jon.

  “Are you sure it wasn’t?” he said.

  “Jon! There are other big men!”

  “Look, don’t get me wrong here,” he said. “I’m just throwing out ideas. But I have this theory. Are you going to bite my head off if you don’t like it?”

  “I don’t know. It depends on what you say.”

  “What if... What if Raffi is Tammi’s boyfriend? I mean, that wouldn’t necessarily mean he’s the murderer, but ...”

  I closed my eyes. “I don’t need this!” I said. “Raffi is my mother’s boyfriend. He loves her! There is no way he’s involved with Tammi!”

  “And if you’re wrong, Jess? What then? You could be in danger.”

  “I’m not wrong. I can’t be wrong,” I added.

  CHAPTER 17

  I had som
e stuff to work out in my head, so I was glad when Mom and Raffi left for work. Mom doesn’t like it when I just sit around and think. Staring into space, she calls it.

  She’s also not too keen on the fact that I like to be alone, or I did, before the murder. Since then, I haven’t been quite so enthusiastic. Old buildings creak and groan a lot, especially at night. The sounds they make remind me of things I’d rather forget, like strangers creeping around the halls, and footsteps on the back stairs.

  As soon as Mom was out the door, I headed for my room. When I told Sheena it wasn’t Raffi in Tammi’s apartment, I meant it. Later, after I talked to Jon, I began to wonder. What if I was wrong?

  I clicked open my binder, took out a piece of lined paper, and put it on the desk in front of me. Then I wrote WHO WAS THE MAN IN TAMMI’S APARTMENT? across the top.

  My window looks out on the brick wall of the house beside us, so I lowered the blind. It’s a nice cranberry colour, one of those fabric things with cords that move it up and down in big folds. I sat looking at it for a while. Then I went out to the kitchen, got an apple, washed it, and came back.

  The only time I really saw the man was at the window in Tammi’s back door. He was just a shadow, a profile, wearing a peaked cap, the kind a ball-player wears. Raffi didn’t even own a hat like that, or if he did, I never saw it. He had a black knit thing he wore in the winter, pulled down over his ears, but I never saw him in a ball cap.

  I took a big bite from the apple. Raffi’s hair was short. After he shaved it off a couple of months ago, he let it grow back, but just a little, just enough to satisfy Mom. I closed my eyes, trying to picture the guy at the door that night. Did his hair show? I didn’t remember any, but that didn’t mean anything. Lots of guys shave their heads.

  What else? A hand on the window. Fingers tapping like a drum; one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, one after the other. A man’s hand; it could have been black or it could have been white. In the shadows, it was impossible to tell.

  When the hand poked through the glass, it was wrapped in something. A jacket? It was something heavy, maybe wool, or fleece. Raffi didn’t have jackets like that. He had a leather one, and a windbreaker. It was some light waterproof material; green, with a purple-and-white band across the middle.