Murder in Focus (5 page)

“Dembrowski found his wallet in the ditch on the other side of the road. Money was gone, but his driver's license and so on was still in it,” said Carpenter. His voice was controlled and wooden. “Name of Donald S. Bartholomew. Address in Brockville. His pockets have been turned out, and we figure his arms got like that when his assailant pulled off his jacket. And his boots and socks.”

“Anyone recognize him?” Deschenes said.

Carpenter stopped for a moment. “It's difficult with his face hidden, sir, and we didn't like to move the body. Before someone else got here, I mean.”

“Quite so,” Deschenes murmured. “Beginning to get stiff already, isn't it? Just ease him over a bit so we can get a look at the face and then we'll leave him there for the regional police. Sergeant, you and Dembrowski hoist him up and turn him over. Come on, we haven't got all night.”

Dembrowski was standing closest to the head. He bent down, grasped the body under its arms, and turned, his face reddening with the effort. They stared into the face; it was partially obscured by broken leaves and bits of twigs sticking to it; Deschenes reached down and gently brushed aside a leaf clinging to the cheek.

“Goddamn,” said Carpenter softly. “Jesus, it's Steve Collins. I didn't even—”

“It's Donald S. Bartholomew,” said Deschenes coldly. “Put him down.” The other two gratefully eased their burden back onto the ground.

“And we're supposed to think he was hit on the head by a vagrant who then stole his boots and jacket,” said Deschenes. He shook his head. “Well, maybe he was. Is that possible, Sergeant? Have there been any vagrants around here?”

“No, sir,” said Carpenter. “We've been keeping a careful record of all persons within a mile of the security perimeter. No one like that. Only the people in my reports, sir. And if there was a vagrant and we hadn't seen him, Horace would have,” he added, giving the big dog a pat.

“And where were you and Horace when this happened?”

“I don't know, sir,” said Carpenter unhappily. “Whoever he was, he came with Steve. He had to. What I mean is, Steve must have had some reason to bring the man onto the property with him. Maybe he was trying to figure out what the guy was up to. And if he was with Steve, then Horace wouldn't have raised the alarm. He remembered him too well.”

“I see. Who has the wallet?”

“I do, sir,” said Dembrowski.

“Good. Put it back where you found it.”

“Put it back?”

“That's what I said. Put it back. If you found it, so can the regional police.”

Dembrowski gave Deschenes a sideways look, but his expression did not alter. “Yes, sir. Anything else?”

“Now, is this the way he was lying when you stumbled across him, McInnis?”

“Yes, sir, that's the way he was lying,” said the redhead.

“Good. You have just discovered him now,” said Deschenes, looking at his watch. “At nineteen-oh-seven hours. That will go in your report. He is one of the workmen and he has been robbed and murdered by a vagrant. We will do our utmost to assist the regional police in tracking the man down. You will now inform the proper authorities.”

“But we can't just leave him here like this, can we?” said the redhead. “I mean, he was—”

“You will inform the proper authorities, including, of course, headquarters. His name is Donald S. Bartholomew and he worked on the construction site. Understood? Anything else is going to attract a dangerous amount of notice to this site and destroy its effectiveness as a secure area. Thank you, gentlemen.” And Henri Deschenes turned and walked, erect and unyielding, back to his car.

Sergeant Carpenter pursued him to his car. “Has anything gone wrong?” he asked abruptly, holding the door open. “Back in town?”

“Not at our end. Not yet.” Deschenes shook his head. “But it's getting busy. One of the delegations got here three days early—arrived this afternoon.”

“Who's that?”

“The Austrians. They're throwing a concert and a party and they wanted to be all rested up. I'll have to start bringing in more personnel from somewhere; we're stretched a bit thin right now.” He sounded desperately tired. “And I'm sorry about Steve, Frank, but surely you can see that we've got to leave it this way.”

“I didn't even recognize him, lying there like that. With his hair that colour,” Carpenter said bleakly. “I should have—I knew he was around. I'd seen him lots of times. And so had Horace. It was hard to keep Horace from jumping on him like an old friend. But they never told us what name he was using. You know what this means, don't you, sir?”

“What's that, Carpenter?”

“There really were people nosing around the site a couple of weeks ago. Just like I said. And Steve connected with them. Goodbye, sir.” And he turned abruptly back into the woods.

Andrew Cassidy put down the telephone and considered what to say now. The steaks were sitting beside the frying pan, the potatoes were in the microwave, the salad was washed but undressed, and the wine was already being decanted into the girl. He didn't know her well enough to leave her alone in his apartment; he certainly didn't know her well enough to tell her why he wasn't able to stay and cook her a steak. And judging by the slightly glazed look in her eye, she was just tanked up enough to react strangely to being told it was time to go home. Perhaps he shouldn't have given her those Bloody Marys. Meet it head-on, he thought. Decisiveness was the only way.

He jumped to his feet, took two steps into the kitchen alcove, and started wrapping up the steaks in aluminum foil. “Sorry, Samantha,” he said, stashing things efficiently into the refrigerator while he spoke. “That was the office. The main computer crashed and all hell is breaking loose. If I'm not there in ten minutes I'll be out of a job. The whole company'll be out of a job. Here's twenty bucks,” he said briskly. “Order yourself some dinner. I'll drop you off on my way down.” He removed the wineglass from her hand and draped her coat over her shoulders in the same gesture. “I'll call you tomorrow, if I can. This'll probably take all night. Come on, sweetheart, time is money.” And he hustled her out the door.

Now he was sitting at his desk in the central offices of the Canadian Security Intelligence Service staring at the report on the death of Donald Bartholomew, construction worker, and cursing the blank walls around him. What in hell had gone wrong out at the secure site for the conference? According to his last few reports there hadn't been enough action out there to worry about. No recurrence of the phantom strangers the RCMP thought they had seen. One randy bastard had been sneaking off to see his girlfriend once or twice a week, but she had been a waitress at a local restaurant for the past ten years and didn't seem likely to be in the pay of some hostile intelligence service. Of course, Steve hadn't reported in for several days, but on an assignment this dull, that shouldn't have been significant. Unless . . . He paused and tried to get his mind working on something beyond the material on his desk. Was Steve still messing around with the Charbonneau killing after all this time? It was possible. No one else in the department would still be spending time and energy on the death of a lousy little informer like Maurice Charbonneau, but you couldn't tell with Steve. He had that nasty, stubborn streak in him.

A very slight smile creased Andy's lips and he shook his head. No. His death had to be . . .

His death had to be connected with the secure site. Because if you believed that some wino had managed to jump Steve Collins and kill him for the sake of his jacket and boots, and a few bucks in cash, you'd believe anything. Cassidy slammed his fist on the desk. It hurt. “Jesus, Cassidy,” he said to the walls, “can't you think of something more original to do? Like look at his desk and see what he thought he was working on.” He stood up and walked to the door, rubbing his throbbing hand against the rough tweed of his jacket.

A black Lincoln picked its way carefully through the quiet streets of Sandy Hill and pulled up smoothly in front of the entrance of the Austrian embassy. Karl Lang, entrepreneur, patron of the arts, scion (on the maternal side) of ancient and now outlawed nobility, slipped out, murmured a few words to his chauffeur, and headed in to the reception. He was greeted cheerfully enough by the staffers darting tensely back and forth; he was hardworking, conscientious, and affable, the sort of businessman you did a few favors for and then felt you'd helped save the national economy. For months now he had been setting up a network of independent franchise outlets for the sale of Austrian sports equipment and clothing in Canada, and the Austrian embassy staff had all become rather used to seeing him drop in for coffee, news, and gossip. This evening he entered the large reception room and paused unobtrusively to line up his targets. He noted that the ambassador's wife was firmly tied up in conversation with someone from External Affairs and abandoned her until later; instead he wandered over to the cultural attaché, a handsome, brown-haired, not particularly cultured skier with an enviable body. Herr Bleibtreu's twin obsessions were mountains and money, and he had spent many idle hours that spring with the ever-sympathetic Herr Lang, spinning out ingenious schemes that combined life above twenty-five hundred feet and getting rich. As far as he was concerned, Herr Lang could do no wrong.

Bleibtreu raised a hand in greeting, although at the moment his mind seemed to be on other things. Standing beside him was an awesomely beautiful woman, small and slightly built, with long blonde hair and enormous blue eyes. Her face was high-cheeked and broad at the temple, coming down to a foxy point at the chin. The cultural attaché was leaning yearningly over her, one hand poised as if to capture her and bear her away. “Karl!” he cried. “Delighted to see you. And even more to introduce you to our guest of honor.” He dropped the arm slightly and insinuated it around her waist in order to draw her slightly forward. “This is Fräulein Anna Maria Strelitsch. She is performing tomorrow night at the Arts Centre. Fräulein Strelitsch, may I present Karl Lang, a representative from Vienna for a confederation of sports equipment manufacturers. It is he who is generously giving the little supper party after your performance on Tuesday,” he added in a lower voice.

“Madame,” murmured Lang with a slight bow. “I have already had the great good fortune to meet Fräulein Strelitsch—and to hear her play many times. It is always a joy to find incomparable artistry matched to such unsurpassed beauty.”

She laughed. “Save your flattery for your business associates, Herr Lang. It's wasted on me.”

“Ah, Fräulein Strelitsch, I deal not in flattery but in truth.” He looked narrowly at the simple white dress she was wearing, reached out a tentative hand, and gently touched the material of one sleeve. “And if I am not mistaken, that is one of our dresses. You inspire me.”

Toni Bleibtreu neatly cut the dialogue short. “But we must let you speak to more of your admirers, Fräulein Strelitsch. Herr Andersson, of the Swedish embassy, has been waiting far too long.” When the business of introductions was over, he turned back to his friend. “Glad to see you, Karl. Isn't she extraordinary? Isn't she amazing? And she can play the violin.”

“Stunning. She makes that dress look superb. Do you think we could get her to a photographer's in it before she leaves? No, I suppose not.” He shook his head and scrutinized her again. She had plunged into animated conversation with Herr Andersson, apparently indicating with her hands the size of some giant structure. Her hair fell across her face as she spoke, and the Swede moved it back with the tips of his fingers. Lang frowned. “When is she leaving?” he asked, turning back to Bleibtreu.

“She's staying until after the conference this week. Seems she has a friend in the Austrian delegation. They're planning to travel around after it's over, see Niagara Falls, I suppose, and all that sort of thing.” He shook his head ruefully.

“Ah, well, Toni, my boy,” said Herr Lang cheerfully, “anyone that lovely is bound to have a friend. It can't be helped.”

“And I have until Thursday afternoon when the delegates arrive to make an impression. Think of what can happen in seventy-two hours. Except that I shall be frantically busy every second of that time, of course.” Gloom settled over Bleibtreu's features. The prospect of hard work never failed to depress him.

“You'll have more time than that,” the man from External Affairs said as he drifted between them. “Because we're keeping them all locked up until it's over and they won't be our responsibility anymore. Did it just for you, Toni.”

“Hal, very kind of you to come,” said the attaché, switching smoothly into English. “Karl Lang, Hal Metcalfe. Mr. Metcalfe is with External Affairs. Herr Lang is a trade representative from Vienna. Have you met our musical beauty yet? And by the way, I didn't realize your grasp of the language was sufficient for eavesdropping. I must remember to be more careful when you're around.”

“You forget that my first posting was in Vienna. And the prettiest girls always seemed to speak the most impenetrable dialect. I was intensely motivated to pick it up.” Metcalfe winked and captured a drink from a passing tray. “Have I met the blonde bombshell of the classical circuit? Indeed I have. And speaking of motivation, I am about to become intensely interested in the violin myself, I think. She's breathtaking, isn't she?”

“Are you tied up in this conference as well?” asked Lang. Hal Metcalfe nodded. “How are the preparations going for it?”

“Well, you know how these things are. Total chaos, nothing ready as planned, and yet it all manages to happen somehow. I hope.” He traded in his empty glass for a full one with the dexterity of long practice.

“The ambassador's wife dreamt last night that the entire German-speaking contingent descended unexpectedly on us for dinner,” said Toni glumly, “and there was nothing in the kitchen but stale bread, Canadian hot dogs, and frozen pizza. We all spent the day shopping, just in case.”