Hollywood North

by Sam Wiebe

Genres: Private Investigators; Noir

Synopsis

In this original short story by the award-winning author of Cut You Down and Invisible Dead, private investigator Dave Wakeland finds himself behind the scenes of a lowbrow sitcom called Filthy Stinking Poor in gritty Vancouver, BC. When successful screenwriter (and unsuccessful poet) Paul Ling goes missing, his teenage daughter hires Wakeland to track him down. To the shock of his family and colleagues, Ling's body is found within days in the home of a stranger, killed by a drug overdose--and Wakeland suspects foul play. Did Ling have a secret life that finally caught up with him, or did his search for realistic creative material for his writing take him down a dangerous path? In the world of bad television and cutthroat competition, Wakeland will need his wits about him to sort friend from foe.

Release date: February 13, 2018

Publisher: Quercus

Print pages: 41

Sample

There is no limit to how much I love you.

There is a limit to how much I can take.

Zoey Ling held the phone out so I could read the message off its screen. Her arm trembled slightly.

“Just those two sentences,” she said. “My dad left that note for us on Friday. We haven’t seen him since.”

Zoey looked to be in her late teens, dressed fashionably and accessorized at great expense. Her eyeshadow had run, giving her cheeks a bruised look. She’d asked at the front desk for my partner Jeff Chen, but it was a long weekend, the first of the summer, and she’d have to make do with me.

“My mom thinks it’s nothing, Mr. Wakeland,” Zoey said. “She told me he’s under stress, and that writers are just like that. All I know is he’s gone, and he’s never left a message like this before.”

“Where did he leave it?” I asked.

“On our dining table. At my mom’s spot.”

“He take anything when he left?”

“I didn’t check,” Zoey said. “Nothing seemed missing.”

On the drive from the Wakeland & Chen office to the Lings’ apartment in English Bay, I told Zoey that her mother was probably right. Kidnappings were rare, and most missing people came back on their own. I’d handled enough cases to know.

“So you don’t think he’s in trouble?”

I didn’t answer immediately. Comfort is an odd commodity in this business. It’s always tempting to ply potential clients with what they want to hear. My guiding principle is to tell them the truth, absolute and unvarnished, unless doing so would cause them harm.

I told Zoey it was too early to say, and asked her about her father.

Paul Ling was a poet by trade, a screenwriter by necessity. He’d earned a Masters of Fine Arts from the University of British Columbia, published several acclaimed collections, and taught creative writing as a sideline to his television work. His main gig for the past three years had been a CBC comedy, Filthy Stinking Poor.

“It’s total crap,” Zoey said. “This rich family from Toronto moves to a trailer park in Halifax. Dad couldn’t believe when it was picked up for a second season. But the show-runner, Bob Rimgale, is a friend of his from UBC and the ratings are good. Dad hates it, but he needs the work.”

The Lings resided in a three-bedroom suite a stone’s throw from Stanley Park, with a view of the beach and the water. From their living room window I could see the usual weekend cyclists and strollers making use of the Sea Wall, despite the beads of rain that clung to the glass. Vancouver in early June: overcast with showers, hotter than you’d expect.

The kitchen and living room were separated by a cutting board island. Together the rooms were twice the size of my flat. Bookshelves, choice artwork, and framed degrees decorated the walls. The original of the note still lay on the oak dining table. Cursive writing, much more precise than my own wobbling script. Zoey verified the handwriting was her dad’s.

Paul Ling’s toiletries and luggage were still where they were supposed to be. I asked about his passport. Zoey took a cash box from a cupboard abo. . .