Law and Disorder (30 page)

Mrs. Parnell had no trouble uploading the images from the camera to her laptop and displaying them on her large screen television. Apparently, it’s easy if you know how and have thousands of dollars worth of the right kind of software.

We were crowded into her small space in the Perley, mostly because the Major and the Colonel had decided to join us. We were more than a little sombre as we had all just watched the surveillance DVD of Annalisa Fillmore’s approach to Bunny’s house and her horrifying fiery exit.

“I got good shots of all the cars in the parking lot. They were all empty, but I’m not certain I actually got an image of the Mustang before it tried to run me over,” I said as Mrs. P. quickly clicked through photo by photo. Sombre or not, she was enjoying the task.

Click click.

There were pictures of a silver Mazda 3 and a black Acura, almost a twin of my own, only with Manitoba plates.

She clicked onto the candy red Yaris, then the black cherry Honda Accord from the late nineties, a ribbon of rust showing around each of the wheel wells. All were empty, all had Ontario plates.

Click.

The glossy Ford F-150 King Ranch truck had no plates in the front, meaning either it was straight off a dealer’s lot with a temporary plate or it was registered in Quebec. I’d stepped behind it to check that. Sure enough, Quebec plates. Click. I’d been approaching the mustard-yellow Mustang, starting to wonder if I had been wasting my time when all hell had broken loose.

Click.

“Did you see anyone in the car that tried to eliminate you, Ms MacPhee?”

I shook my head. “No. It all happened so quickly. I barely saw it coming at me. I guess I heard the engine rev before my brain recognized what was happening and I ran for cover.”

“There’s an image of the license plate, so surely we can trace the owner. I might even be able to hack in and—”

“Won’t do any good, Mrs. P.,” I said hastily. “The vehicle was stolen earlier.”

Alvin said, “You can see the profile of a person on the passenger side.”

“I don’t even remember seeing him. I was just clicking away. These shots are not too well focused.”

Mrs. Parnell swirled her mouse. “I can enhance that shot a bit more. It’s somewhat blurry, but my photo software can produce miracles.”

I squinted. “It’s not quite enough to identify anyone though.”

Alvin said, “Give Violet a chance.”

Mrs. Parnell beamed and swirled her mouse again. All too technical for me. The picture sharpened. I stared. “That’s funny. That person looks a lot like…”

“What?” Alvin said.

“Who?” Mrs. Parnell added.

The Major or possibly the Colonel said, “Don’t hold back. It’s not sporting.”

I said, “Well, that just doesn’t make sense.”

“Who?” Alvin raised his voice. The other three reminded him that we were in a medical facility, and we didn’t want to get turfed out.

“It looks like Jamie Kilpatrick.”

Mrs. Parnell glanced up sharply. “You asked me to research the demise of a pair of Kilpatricks.”

I sat on Mrs. Parnell’s bed and stared at her. “I did indeed. His grandparents. They were killed by a drunk driver. But that doesn’t explain why he would be in the passenger seat of a stolen Mustang that tried to run me down.”

“From my time in Intelligence,” the Major said, “I learned that things are not always what they seem.”

“Very astute, Major,” Mrs. P. said. “Very.”

So if things weren’t as they seemed, what were they? I’d been sleuthing around Kilpatrick’s grandparents’ house, and someone had called the police on me. What if it had been Kilpatrick himself and not the English lady with the dog? But what would that accomplish? Unless he didn’t want me looking too closely at anything to do with him. If people weren’t as they presented themselves, who were they? Annalisa had presented herself as a campaigner against crime, and yet as far as I could tell, she’d had a plan to murder Bunny and his family. The people in this strange game of cat and mouse, victims and villains, were connected somehow. Would I ever figure it out?

“I don’t know why he’d try to kill me, but he was Rollie Thorsten’s assistant, and he is definitely connected to Brugel. I don’t think there’s any link between him and Annalisa, but it’s worth exploring. I think I need to sit back and think of everyone who is even vaguely related to this and then perhaps, if it isn’t too much trouble, Mrs. P., see if we can find photos of them and print them. It’s time to talk to the people who knew the victims.”

Within fifteen minutes, we had several decent photos printed out: a shot of Brugel, thuglike, one of Annalisa Fillmore, giving a speech, another of Judge Cardarelle gazing frostily into the camera at a formal event. Madame Cardarelle, elegant as usual, stood beside him with a pro forma smile on her beautiful face. Roxanne Terrio standing by her bicycle, shielding her eyes from the sun. Bev Leclair was waving in the background. Rollie Thorsten striding out of the Courthouse, and Constable Steve Anstruther at his swearing in ceremony. We came up empty on Jamie Kilpatrick. Eventually, even Mrs. Parnell gave up.

I didn’t though. I pulled out my cellphone.

“P. J.,” I said merrily. “Glad to catch you. I think I have a few scraps of very newsy stuff for you.”

“You’re always saying that, Tiger, and yet, to date? Big fat zero.”

“Take heart. I was almost run over today, and it looks like the passenger in the car was the junior lawyer in the Brugel case. I think he’s involved in this whole joke set-up and these deaths. I don’t know why, but his grandparents were killed a year and a half ago. There has to be some connection. His name is Jamie Kilpatrick. Do you have a shot of him? Maybe leaving the court? I know you take lots. I noticed one you took of Rollie Thorsten made the paper after his death.”

P. J. sighed.

I said, “By the way, the cops aren’t saying anything, but that body outside Bunny Mayhew’s house? That was Annalisa Fillmore.”

I enjoyed P. J.’s gasp more than the preceding sigh. “You can ask if they’ll confirm or deny it. I suggest starting with the lovely and talented Sgt. Leonard Mombourquette.” I added, “That might get you something before the paper goes to bed tonight. Make sure you send me that photo soon. The best address is Mrs. Parnell’s, but send it to me too. Just in case.”

P. J. said, “I’ll see what I can find, and I’ll email you. Just give me a bit of time. This is smokin’.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, smugly.

The group was watching me as I finished making sure he had the right email addresses. When I hung up, Mrs, Parnell said, “I wonder why it is that you would be receiving these jokes, and why your former client Mr. Mayhew would have been at risk?”

I said. “The questions are the easy part. What I need is answers.”

“Perhaps it’s not the only question,” the Colonel said. “It’s important to ask the right questions in order to produce the best answers.”

Frankly, while I thought he was just trying to keep up with the Major in Mrs. P.’s estimation, he went way up in mine.

“You’re right,” I said. “We should all be trying to find relationships between and among each of these people. Let’s work on that on our own. Use your imaginations. Let them run wild.”

“Oh, that reminds me, Ms MacPhee. In all the excitement, I quite forgot to tell you that I have learned that Annalisa Fillmore and Judge Cardarelle owned adjacent rental properties in Lowertown. Condos in that new development on George Street. Not sure if that’s a fit, but it’s a fact.”

It was after nine when we got home, a bit later than I’d hoped because Mrs. Parnell, the Colonel and the Major had been keen to offer opinions and suggestions and because I was waiting to see if P. J. actually could send the photo. If the staff hadn’t given us the boot we might have been there until midnight.

The girls, big surprise, were out.

Alvin said, “They invited me to go with them and their team, but I couldn’t leave you here high and dry.”

“Why don’t you go now? There’s nothing I’d like better than to be high and dry,” I said, checking my phone. “Oh look, P. J. sent me a photo of Kilpatrick. Can you take a minute to print a couple of copies? Don’t whine about the quality of our printer or the paper, just do it.”

I walked Gussie quickly while Alvin managed to print the photo on our crappy printer. That boy can move fast enough when he puts his mind to it. I waved goodbye to him and plunked myself down on the sofa to try to connect the dots. I was really pleased to be home alone. The photo had turned out fine. There was a clear shot of Kilpatrick, slightly dwarfed by Constable Wentzell outside the courthouse. I figured that P. J.’s real goal had been to get a shot of the amazon-like Wentzell, the girl of his dreams.

The day seemed to have been about forty-eight hours long, but by ten o’clock I was frustrated. I knew I’d never be able to sleep. I hadn’t connected a single dot. Annalisa hated Rollie with good reason but couldn’t possibly have killed him. Jamie Kilpatrick had tried to run me down, but had been in the cop shop at the time of Rollie’s death. He was definitely involved somehow, but until I’d seen the photo of his face on the passenger side of the Mustang, I never would have thought he was capable of anything. But who was on the driver’s side? Yet another player with no clear relationship?

I paced around a bit and drew arrows and question marks between people, then scratched them out. I would have liked to get Ray’s take on the situation, but you can’t have everything. Sometimes you can’t have anything.

Of course, I needed to talk to people who might identify relationships between any of the individuals whose photos I’d collected. That would make sense. I glanced at the clock.

Was it really too late to call? My sisters would have said yes, but they were out of town, weren’t they? Anyway, I was a big girl, even if I couldn’t connect the dots, and all the people I cared about were unavailable, as were most of the people I didn’t care about.

What to do?

I picked up that proud low-tech device, the telephone book, and took a look to see if I could locate Bev Leclair, the office manager at Terrio and Fox. Sure enough, I found a couple of listings for B. Leclairs, none too far away. Was it best to call first or try surprise? I opted for surprise. It wasn’t like I had anything else to do.

There was no luck at the houses of the first couple of B. Leclairs, and half an hour later I was checking out the third, cruising through the leafy neighbourhood of Sandy Hill, not far from Mombourquette’s own tiny mouse house. I took a slight detour and drove past it. The lights were out, his car gone. I popped a set of the photos into his mailbox. I imagined he was at Elaine’s place for the evening, surrounded by clutter and non-stop chatter. Clean carpets too.

Oh, well. As Mrs. P. would say, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

I called Mombourquette and imagined him sitting on Elaine’s new orange leather sofa, surrounded by stacks of political books and staring at my number on his call display as he didn’t pick up. I tried twice more and left a helpful message telling him about the set of photos in his mailbox and suggesting that he find a way to show them to Constable Steve Anstruther if he regained consciousness, taking special note of Anstruther’s reaction to Annalisa Fillmore and James Kilpatrick. I felt a bit better after that.

Bev Leclair lived in a well-maintained building with a small lawn that someone must have cut with nail scissors, it was so precise. The lobby smelled of citrus cleaner, and I could practically see my reflection in the polished marble floor. It was exactly the type of place I would have expected for Bev. The leather sofa and pair of matching club chairs also looked well-cared for. Maybe this was the kind of building I’d like for myself once the house sold.

B Leclair appeared on the list of residents. I pressed that button and waited. A disembodied voice said hello, a hint of surprise in the tone. Or was it apprehension?

“Camilla MacPhee,” I said. “I have information that might shed light on Roxanne’s death, and I would like to know if you could help me by looking at some photos. You could meet me in the foyer if you’re more comfortable.”

“Come on up,” she said. “Apartment 843.”

The door was open when I arrived. Based on my years as a victims’ advocate, I wanted to suggest that a woman at home alone might show more caution, but of course, this wasn’t the right moment for that. Moxi, the bouncing chihuahua, greeted me with a blizzard of barking.

The apartment was like Bev herself, bright, colourful and neat. Her dark red hair was in a French twist, and her black jersey cotton dress and glittery flipflops showed a sexy side I hadn’t noticed in the crisp office manager. She wore her curiosity like a piece of jewellery. The man who stood behind her sported baggy plaid shorts, a T-shirt and an expression that indicated he’d be happier if I was vaporized on the spot.

“Won’t take long,” I said.

He nodded grimly, took his shaved head and his Celtic tattoos and swaggered out to the balcony, along with a package of cigarettes and a glower. Moxi scampered after him. The boyfriend tried and failed to keep Moxi inside.

I plunked myself down next to Bev on the striped IKEA sofa and spread out the photos.