Six Seconds

Fear crept across Carmen Navales’s face as she studied the pictures Graham had set before her on the table in the Tree Top Restaurant.

Ray Tarver stared back at the waitress from his passport, his driver’s license and the tourist photo Graham had received that morning from Tokyo.

“Think hard,” he said. “Do you remember serving this man?”

Carmen caught her bottom lip between her teeth.

Earlier, Graham had noticed her watching him in the booth of the closed section of the restaurant where he’d been interviewing other staff. They weren’t much help, practically indifferent, so why was Carmen nervous?

The RCMP knew all about places like the Tree Top.

Young people from around the world worked at the motels, resorts and restaurants in the Rockies, lured by the mountains, the tips and the party life. Sure, at times, things got out of hand with drinking, drugs, thefts, a few assaults. Last month, a chef from Paris stabbed a climber from Italy over a girl from Montreal. The Italian needed twenty stitches.

But Carmen hadn’t gotten into trouble out here. She was from Madrid and her visa was about to expire. Nothing to be nervous about.

Carmen was the last staff member Graham needed to interview. None of the others had remembered seeing Ray Tarver. I was, like, so hung over. Or, those tourbuses just kept coming. It was all a blur, sorry, man,such a shame with those little kids.

Their responses eroded Graham’s hope that his Tokyo tip would lead somewhere because they still hadn’t recovered Ray’s body.

Carmen’s reticence frustrated him.

He tapped the photos.

“Ms. Navales, this is Raymond Tarver, the father of the family that drowned not too far from here. It was in the news. You must’ve heard.”

“Yes, I know, but I was in British Columbia at that time.”

“According to your time cards, you worked a double shift here the day before the children were found in the river.” Graham tapped the photo from Tokyo. “Ray Tarver was here the day before the tragedy. In this restaurant. In your section. On the day you were working. Now, please think hard.”

Carmen steepled her fingers and touched them to her lips.

“What’s the problem?” Graham asked.

“I need to extend my visa.”

“What’s that got to do with this?”

“I need to keep sending money home to help my sister in Barcelona. Her house burned down. I’m afraid that if my records show I’ve been involved with police—”

“Hold on. Look, I can’t do anything about your visa. But things might go better for you if you cooperate, understand?”

She nodded.

“You served him?”

“Yes.”

“And his family?”

“No family, he was sitting with another man.”

“Another man?”

Carmen traced her finger on the photo, along a fuzzy shadow behind the head of one of the laughing Japanese women. It bordered the edge and was easy to miss.

“That’s his shoulder.”

Graham inspected the detail, scolding himself for not seeing it.

“Do you know this other man? Have you ever seen him before?”

Carmen shook her head.

“Describe him.”

“He was a white guy, but with a dark tan. Slim build. In his thirties.”

“Any facial hair, jewelry, tattoos, that sort of thing?”

“I don’t remember. I’m sorry.”

“What about clothes. How was he dressed?”

Carmen looked at Graham.

“I think like you. Jeans, polo or golf shirt, a windbreaker jacket, I think.”

“Did he pay with a credit card?”

“Cash. And he paid for both. In American cash.”

“Do you remember their demeanor? Were they arguing, laughing?”

“They were serious, like it was business.”

“Any idea what they talked about?”

“We were crowded, it was loud, I couldn’t hear them.”

“How long did they stay?”

“About an hour.”

“Do you know if they left in separate vehicles?”

Carmen shook her head.

For the next half hour, Graham continued pressing her for details. When he was satisfied he had exhausted her memory, he stood to leave.