Serious Crimes (A Willows and Parker Mystery) Read Online Free

hunched against the cold. He’d torn the nail. Got off easy. Another split second, he’d of had a better grip on the door handle and maybe broken his wrist.
    Ten minutes later, while Billy and Garret were busy arguing about whether the old guy might call the cops and was it a good idea to go lurk somewhere else, a black BMW ragtop the size of a stealth bomber glided up to the red. Music in there. Loud. Some kind of jazzy sound.
    The driver was a woman.
    “If it’s locked,” said Billy, “use your boots. Kick the fuckin’ door right off.”
    “Bet your ass,” agreed Garret. The whisky had warmed him but now it was letting him down. He was so cold he’d gladly have taken cover in a refrigerator. He felt as if the marrow had been sucked from his bones and the icy wind was whistling through the holes. They scurried across the intersection. Garret yanked on the door. It swung open so easily he almost fell on his ass. Billy slid across the bench seat. Garret bundled in next to him, slammed the door. He reached across and turned the heater up full blast. The woman shouted something at them. Billy couldn’t understand a word she said. He ignored her, studied the dashboard, all those lights and knobs and dials. It was a compact disc player making all the noise. He turned it off. Now the bitch was really wailing.
    “Get out of my car! What the hell d’you want? Get out of my car!”
    Billy showed her his knife. She stopped yelling. He said, “That’s better. Do I look deaf? Times like this, I sometimes wish I was, tell you the truth.”
    “Gimme a drink,” said Garret.
    Billy handed him the bottle. The light turned green. Garret, the wimp, fastened his safety belt. Billy said, “Drive, lady.”
    The BMW crawled through the intersection.
    “Faster,” said Billy.
    The woman’s purse was on the seat between them. Soft black leather. He grabbed it. The clasp looked a bit tricky. Rather than risk making a fool of himself trying to figure it out, he slit it open with his knife.
    “She rich?” said Garret from behind the bottle.
    The purse held eighteen dollars in crumpled bills, a couple pounds of dimes and quarters.
    Billy said, “How come you carry so much change, honey?”
    “What?” Hardly a whisper. Garret grinned into the bottle. He’d bragged once he could smell fear on a woman the way a dog can smell piss on a fire hydrant.
    “I said, how come you got so much change? Wired on the video games?”
    “Parking meters.”
    Billy shifted in his seat so they were hip to hip. He leaned over and smelled her perfume. “Turn right at the corner.” He stuffed the money in the pocket of his leather jacket, jabbed at the dashboard with the point of his knife.
    She had all the credit cards in the world — VISA, MasterCard, a platinum American Express. Three different gas stations, all the major department stores. Holt Renfrew. Abercrombie & Fitch. Plastic in every colour you could think of. Places and names that meant nothing to him, he’d never even heard of. No wonder she didn’t have any fucking cash, she had enough cards on her to make a full deck.
    Billy hunted around in the purse until he found her chequebook. The cheques had a picture of the city skyline on them, and they were personalized. Her name was Nancy Crown. She lived at 3682 Point Grey Road, wherever the hell that was. Somewhere in the city. Her phone number was 734-8217. Billy ripped off a cheque and stuck it in his shirt pocket. He was no paper-hanger, but you never knew. A better idea, maybe he’d give her a call some time and if she wasn’t home, get a truck and steal every goddamn thing she owned.
    He studied her driver’s licence. The light was bad and the print was small. Good picture. Better than his, which made him look like he was about ten years old. He handed the licence to Garret, who rolled down his window and threw it away without a glance.
    Following Billy’s directions, Nancy Crown drove down one of the winding roads that