knocking on doors and asking questions. He was paired with Banman to perform a job he was very familiar with.
Ryberg had given the officers their assignments as soon as the meeting ended. Myron was instructed to learn about botulinum, the poison found in Robinson’s body. His job was to ascertain where the deadly toxin that the dead man had ingested was available and how it might have ended up in his system. Pringle was given the task of visiting the local pubs and restaurants to determine where Robinson might have eaten on the night he was killed. An Ident officer had come in from Vancouver and was tasked with the forensic aspect of the investigation. He and his team were to conduct thorough investigations of the man’s room, his workspace at the car dealership, and the car that he’d left at work. And Drake was doing door-to-door interviews along the street where the body had been found. The question he’d asked Parker, which unearthed the list of names, seemed to have earned Ryberg’s respect, and the investigator promised Drake would be involved in questioning the men once they rounded them up. But he stressed that their first priority was to check the neighboring houses in case anyone had witnessed what had happened the night before.
Whether it was searching for a stolen bicycle or trying to apprehend a con man who was bilking little old ladies out of their pensions, door-to-door inquiries were standard fair for a patrolman, and Drake had done his share. Banman and he were working one side of the street, while Brandon Van Dyke worked the other side with Sophie Peterson, one of the two female officers in the Hope detachment. The routine was the same as they went from house to house. They knocked until someone finally answered, and then they received a series of “nos” and “I don’t knows” as the residents evaded their questions.
The area had been attractive once. Each home had its own personality, and in earlier years, during more prosperous times, pride had obviously been taken maintaining their appearance. The beauty was still evident in the beveled posts that held the roofs over the front porches, and the large picture windows framed with old-fashioned, louvered shutters. Unfortunately, the upkeep on the houses had long been neglected. Now instead of marveling at the architecture, all a passerby could see was peeling paint, sagging roofs, and shutters hanging off the sides of windows.
Among the houses that looked as though they should have been torn down long ago, there were three or four homes that were holdouts. These were relics – houses that were cared for, even in the midst of the neglect. Older couples lived in the homes, and they refused to move no matter how much their neighborhood changed. They put up with the noises from fights, beer cans and needles thrown onto their lawns, and their cars being broken into. Sometimes they called the police, and other times they closed their curtains and hid away from it all. In his other life, Drake had been brought up among people like these. Back when he was a boy, men settled disputes with their fists, or sometimes in rare instances – a knife. Those times were gone. The new century had brought in a new age, and things were changing. Drake had seen the crimes listed on the incident reports that came in from larger cities. It wasn’t about fighting with fists or knives any longer – it was whoever was carrying a gun. Ryberg had been right the night before. The participants remained the same; just the names of the streets changed. In the forgotten little town of Hope, less than one hundred miles from the American border, it had taken a while, but the stakes were increasing here too. And it was happening in places like Cobalt Street.
The third house they approached was well known to both officers. Banman stood at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the porch. He clasped his hand over the baton that was hooked to his belt.
Drake stood beside him,
Ryberg had given the officers their assignments as soon as the meeting ended. Myron was instructed to learn about botulinum, the poison found in Robinson’s body. His job was to ascertain where the deadly toxin that the dead man had ingested was available and how it might have ended up in his system. Pringle was given the task of visiting the local pubs and restaurants to determine where Robinson might have eaten on the night he was killed. An Ident officer had come in from Vancouver and was tasked with the forensic aspect of the investigation. He and his team were to conduct thorough investigations of the man’s room, his workspace at the car dealership, and the car that he’d left at work. And Drake was doing door-to-door interviews along the street where the body had been found. The question he’d asked Parker, which unearthed the list of names, seemed to have earned Ryberg’s respect, and the investigator promised Drake would be involved in questioning the men once they rounded them up. But he stressed that their first priority was to check the neighboring houses in case anyone had witnessed what had happened the night before.
Whether it was searching for a stolen bicycle or trying to apprehend a con man who was bilking little old ladies out of their pensions, door-to-door inquiries were standard fair for a patrolman, and Drake had done his share. Banman and he were working one side of the street, while Brandon Van Dyke worked the other side with Sophie Peterson, one of the two female officers in the Hope detachment. The routine was the same as they went from house to house. They knocked until someone finally answered, and then they received a series of “nos” and “I don’t knows” as the residents evaded their questions.
The area had been attractive once. Each home had its own personality, and in earlier years, during more prosperous times, pride had obviously been taken maintaining their appearance. The beauty was still evident in the beveled posts that held the roofs over the front porches, and the large picture windows framed with old-fashioned, louvered shutters. Unfortunately, the upkeep on the houses had long been neglected. Now instead of marveling at the architecture, all a passerby could see was peeling paint, sagging roofs, and shutters hanging off the sides of windows.
Among the houses that looked as though they should have been torn down long ago, there were three or four homes that were holdouts. These were relics – houses that were cared for, even in the midst of the neglect. Older couples lived in the homes, and they refused to move no matter how much their neighborhood changed. They put up with the noises from fights, beer cans and needles thrown onto their lawns, and their cars being broken into. Sometimes they called the police, and other times they closed their curtains and hid away from it all. In his other life, Drake had been brought up among people like these. Back when he was a boy, men settled disputes with their fists, or sometimes in rare instances – a knife. Those times were gone. The new century had brought in a new age, and things were changing. Drake had seen the crimes listed on the incident reports that came in from larger cities. It wasn’t about fighting with fists or knives any longer – it was whoever was carrying a gun. Ryberg had been right the night before. The participants remained the same; just the names of the streets changed. In the forgotten little town of Hope, less than one hundred miles from the American border, it had taken a while, but the stakes were increasing here too. And it was happening in places like Cobalt Street.
The third house they approached was well known to both officers. Banman stood at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the porch. He clasped his hand over the baton that was hooked to his belt.
Drake stood beside him,
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