Reluctant Detective (14 page)

28

It wasn't until Constable Doiron took the Client's instruction sheet
and drove away that Anne felt the anger inside her begin to build.
She had been suckered by the Client twice. What a fool she had been.
She fell for his sob story, his empathy, his repentance, and now she was jammed up with the RCMP, and, in spite of her release, they
were still in a position to make her life even more miserable than
it already was, though she couldn't imagine how it could become
much worse.

Almost nothing in the bank, over a million bucks of phoney money
in the safe. Two unresolved cases. A daughter in exile. Two pissed-
off outlaw bikers lurking in the wings. Oh yes, and then there's Patty
Pacquet, her new landlady, likely perched like a redheaded vulture
on the stone cornice of the roof over her head. Patty wanted her out of the building. Anne had decided to stay.

Maybe I should see how the ball's rolling down that lane
.

She picked up the phone. Dick Clements, her lawyer, answered.

“Dick. Anne Brown here. Listen, a couple days ago Patty Pacquet told me to vacate my offices by the end of this month. She's my
landlady now, so she tells me.”

“She can't do that!”

“I believe you. She can't. According the merry widow, new tenants are moving in the first of July.”

“Don't worry, I'll take care of it. I'll hand-deliver a cease and desist letter to her lawyer this morning. I'm having lunch with him. In fact, I'll give it to him for dessert.”

“Thanks.”

“By the way, what pastry always leaves a bad taste in a client's
mouth.”

“I give up, what?”

“A cinnamon tort,” Dick said. She heard him giggling to himself.

“Did you just make that up?”

“Yeah, pretty good, huh?”

“Don't bill me for that joke, Dick. Okay?”

Anne hung up the phone.
That's one kick in the ass to be delivered
, she thought.

Then she dug her hand into her pocket and pulled out the sealed envelope that she had picked up on her doorstep when Constable
Timmons had first appeared. She opened it. A short typewritten note fell out. It read: Bring valise to the Confederation Centre of the Arts tomorrow at eleven-thirty. Sit at a booth reserved in your name at Mavor's Bistro. Leave valise under the table. At twelve o'clock go to the washroom. Stay five minutes. Then leave.

One more ass-kick to go
, she thought.

Anne had no intention of delivering counterfeit money. If the
police had her under surveillance, which was probable, then hauling
a valise one block from her office to the Confederation Centre for lunch would look suspicious. If she were busted after she agreed
to cooperate, then it would be prison for sure. On the other hand, if
she didn't make the drop, then she'd worry what the Client might
do. She knew that he was manipulative. She had learned that he was
ruthless. It wouldn't be a stretch to believe that he was dangerous
as well. If she stood between him and his objective, he'd try to break her, and that would be easy. A threat against Jacqui would be plenty
of leverage. If not, he was clever enough to find out where her
daughter was. Perhaps he already knew.

Anne wanted to pick up the phone and call her, but she resisted
the impulse. It was too soon. Both of them would be awash in tears
if she called. Jacqui needed to settle in with Delia McKay. It was generous of Delia to take Jacqui into her home on such little notice. But she was too old to look after a teenager, even one as agreeable
as Jacqui. And what could Delia do to amuse Jacqui in the middle of
Iona? A thousand acres of rolling hills covered with barley and rye, alfalfa and clover. Strawberry fields and grazing cattle. Whiskered
farmers, sun-burnt, squinty eyed. Their women sitting on porches in
shapeless, wind-blown dresses, paring potatoes and husking corn.
Jacqui will feel lost amongst all that. Abandoned.

Anne imagined her daughter retreating to her room and burying
herself in a dusty book retrieved from a trunk of other dusty books. She imagined her staring out the farmhouse window at
empty undulating grain fields and wondering what she had done to
deserve this solitude.

Worrying about Jacqui wasn't solving her problem, though.
Neither was the runaway logic of anger. Dick Clements's bad joke
had helped there. It was so pathetic that it almost seemed funny. Anyway, it broke her mood, and that brought her boiling pot of revenge down to a studied simmer. It was time to snap out of it
and get the job done, even if she earned nothing for her labours. If there's any justice at all, she thought, at least she might sample the sweet taste of retribution.

She had a plan in mind.

29

Anne walked through Dit's display room door. The sign above it read: “Malone Security Systems” and below it in smaller lettering,
“Custom Electronics for Law Enforcement.” A soft bell tone drew
Urban Nolan's eyes from the register behind the counter. The large
frames on his glasses seemed to weigh down his head. He half-
looked up, raised his pudgy hand in a half-wave, and mouthed an inaudible number as he counted transistors in a small tray.

Anne returned his half-wave and added a half-smile. Then she
pushed through the swing door into the workshop. “Hello, Eli,” she
said to an elfish man on a high stool in the corner. His back was to her, and he viewed her through the surveillance camera above his
head. A small soldering iron dangled from his hand. A thin, wavering
line of smoke rose above his head, and a faint smell of flux carried across the room. Eli didn't speak. He rarely spoke to Dit or Urban
and, when he did, it was in hushed tones and mumblings scarcely
audible above the buzz of the neon lights, and he never spoke to
Anne. But she greeted him whenever she came into the shop, and
she felt good about the small embarrassed wrinkle of a smile he
gave her sometimes in return.

Urban Nolan and Eli Seares were electronic savants whom Dit had discovered in most unlikely places and encouraged to come to work
with him. Collectively, Anne thought of them as the Geek Squad,
though she never would have said so. She was never sure whether it would hurt their feelings or be carried as a badge of pride. With Dit, however, she had no such reservations, referring to him privately as Der Geekmeister von Stratford Stadt or the Geek Whisperer.

“Whaddya need?” Dit asked. He was bent over a worktable, a
magnifying loupe in one eye, a tiny screwdriver between two
fingers. He was examining an integrated circuit. The screwdriver traced its path. He grunted as if to affirm some hypothesis. Then he looked up at Anne. “So what can I do for ya?” he asked brightly.

“You're in a good mood,” she said with surprise.

“Why shouldn't I be? It's a beautiful day on Prince Edward Island.
I'm the very picture of health. The boys here are working at a
blistering pace. My surveillance gizmos are leaving the shipping dock quicker than industrial secrets can make it to Beijing. And Wondergirl lives to fight another good fight.”

“Whaddya mean by that?” she asked, a heavy coat of suspicion dripping from her words.

“You know what I mean by that.”

“Remind me. The memory of it all escapes me,” said Anne.

“It begins with you getting beaten by a mutt named Sean McGee. It ends with a gunfight at the OK corral.” The humour in his voice
evaporated when he began to speak. His lips tightened, and his jaw had clenched by the time he finished.

“Oh,” she said. “I didn't think that Tim Perkins had such a big mouth.”

“That's why I recommended him. He's a good friend. He tells me everything.”

“How'd he find out about the Hole in the Wall?”

“He didn't. I have friends in low places, too.”

“A girl just can't keep any secrets around here, can she?”

“This really isn't funny, Anne. You could have been killed.”

“Okay. I know, I know,” she replied, suddenly becoming staid and
almost apologetic. “But I didn't. Things got complicated and I've
worked my way through them.”

“What happened to your hostage?”

Anne looked puzzled. Then she said: “He wasn't a hostage. He was a dumb kid who stepped deeper into it than he could wade.
I liberated him, so to speak, and put him on a bus to Tignish. He's
gonna spend some time visiting a cousin there until his parents
grow up and his old friends die of unnatural causes. Look, can we go somewhere and talk? I might as well fill you in on the whole story. You're going to nickel and dime it out of me anyway.”

“Did you drive over or jog?”

“I walked.”

“Then we'll take my rig. Hop in.”

Dit's rig was a late-model autumn blue Chrysler parked in front of
his store. He wheeled himself outside and pushed a button on his key chain. The sliding door of the van rolled open, the suspension lowered, and a ramp extended itself down to the pavement. Dit rolled his chair up the ramp and into the empty spot behind the
driver's wheel. Another button locked the wheelchair to a plate on
the floor, the ramp receded, the suspension rose, and the sliding
door closed behind him.

The coffee shop was across town at the Island Mall. The noon
diners had returned to their offices and shops. That left three old
women sipping tea and nibbling scones, and a young couple at a corner table staring helplessly at their sobbing two-year-old. Dit
and Anne had the rest of the place to themselves.

Anne poked at her food and finished two cups of black coffee. By
then she had gotten through most of her account of the last few
days. Dit had already learned most of it from piecing together gossip
he'd heard with facts he'd gathered. His eyebrows raised, however,
when Anne told him that the money was counterfeit, that the police
had hauled her in for questioning, and that she had to make a
delivery which could land her in prison.

“… but I have a plan,” she concluded proudly, “and that's where you
come in… that is, if you want to… of course, there's no pressure… you've got a business to look after… it really isn't your concern… I
could handle it with no problem… by myself… in fact, I…”

“For god's sake, of course I'll help. So stop jabbering, and tell me what you have in mind.”

Anne took a deep breath before she began.

“I'm going to stash the counterfeit money in my safe and fill the empty valise with stacks of magazines instead. I'll make the drop
as planned. He probably won't check the contents in public. This is
where you come in… hopefully. You could put a satellite tracking
device in the valise and we could follow it to its destination. Eventually the trail will lead to the Client. I'll inform the police. They'll pick
him up. I'll give them the counterfeit, and then I'm free and clear.”
Looking rather pleased with her plan, Anne leaned back in her chair.
Her eyes brightened and fixed on Dit to gauge his reaction. His
eyes stared thoughtfully down at the arms folded across his chest. The muscles of his jaw twitched as if he were chewing through the
details of her plan. Anne had expected a quick positive response,
but Dit didn't provide one. Anne grew impatient. Then annoyed.

“Hello.” Her knuckles rapped the table. “Hello. Anyone home in Malone-land?”

Dit looked up unabashed. “What about that outlaw biker pack? Satan's Chosen.”

“About that I can't say. Right now, though, I'm more worried about the devil I
don't
know.”

“Can I make suggestions?”

“Shoot.”

“I can get you a tracking device. Not a satellite one, though. It would take too long to set it up. An RF one will do.”

“Can I operate it?”

“It would be better if I did.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“Your plan hinges on the pick-up man not checking the contents of the valise. If he does check, even a bit later, your plan falls apart.”

“What then?” she asked.

After lunch Dit took Anne back to her Victoria Row office and drove
around the block while Anne dumped the contents of the valise into
her safe. Then she ducked out the back door of the building into an
alley where Dit was waiting.

“Is that the valise the money came in?”

“This is it.”

“It has a bullet hole in it.”

“Yeah, I saw that upstairs. Cutter got a few rounds off before I
got away. I was too pumped with adrenaline at the time to notice.
A million-plus makes a pretty good backstop, doesn't it?” Anne
grinned, but it was strained, and she felt her stomach tighten into a cramp.

“I think maybe it would be a good idea if you didn't go back to the office today… and you didn't go back to your apartment for a while.”
Anne nodded. “I've got plenty of room at my place,” he suggested
and looked over at Anne. She nodded again.

Dit turned onto the Hillsborough Bridge and crossed into the
community of Stratford. He followed a winding country road which traced the outline of the shore. Between clusters of elm and maple
and single-family residences that whizzed by, Anne watched the Charlottetown skyline shimmer under a strong afternoon light. Across the bay, sailboats from the yacht club practised racing
manoeuvres. A tanker lay warped to several mooring piers below
the bridge while its oil was pumped into storage bunkers ashore. Copper-clad spires of the Basilica towered above the convention centre and hotels and squat condominiums. Then, as a stand of trees interrupted Anne's view, Dit swung off onto a private dirt
road that wound through the wood for fifty yards or so before it led
into several acres of neat, lush lawn. In the centre of the open area was a house, a large, brick, two-storey place. A thick hedge of trees on either side lent the property a feeling of isolation and privacy. The same woody hedge framed Hillsborough Bay, the mouth of the
harbour, and the City of Charlottetown into a pretty picture in front
of the west windows of Dit's house.

Dit dropped Anne at the front door and handed her the house keys.

“Make yourself at home. There's food and refreshments in the fridge. The pool's at the back. Sauna's next to it. Make yourself at
home,” he said again. “I mean it. Relax. Kick back. Tomorrow you'll have your work cut out for you. I've got odds and ends to take care of in town. I'll probably be back around seven, no later than eight.”

“Thanks.”

As the sound of Dit's van faded, Anne turned and looked at the
house closely for the first time. In spite of having been invited
on several occasions, she had never been there before. A kind of
social prejudice had taught her to shy away from most societal functions. Such a bias had begun to take root in Ottawa, not long after her husband Jack had died. It had been subtle at first. Then it had become a pattern which was unmistakable. Wives regarded
widows like her as a potential threat to their marriage. Philanderers
pursued single moms as easy conquests, and bachelors dreaded
the baggage of a ready-made family. From those experiences, she'd learned that hopes are fragile and dreams are ephemeral things, not
to be eschewed, but not to be trusted either. So, the easier choice had been to slip under the radar. The easier choice had been to
gracefully adapt to a pleasant anonymity. Eventually, she'd learned polite ways to avoid the awkwardness, the snubs, and the loneliness
of social affairs. Excuses, such as trouble finding a babysitter, a
promise to be elsewhere, or any number of small obligations which one must attend to, had become second nature.

Her subsequent move to Prince Edward Island had been a positive step. She felt more loved and secure in the company of Uncle
Billy and among friends like Ben and Sarah, Mary Anne, and, more recently, Dit. But old habits died slowly.

Dit's home had a stateliness that set it apart from the frilly
Victorian and busy Gothic architecture of vintage Island homes. It reminded her of a French country home. Simple in shape. Strong
lines. Antique brick. And its formidable hip roof with several
dormers added not only imposing height, but strength of character as well.

Anne strode through the main entrance. Several guest bedrooms opened to her left, a wide staircase to the second floor ahead, and kitchen and dining areas on her right. Passages on each side of the
stairs led into the living room, bright with sunlight. Anne opened the
patio doors on the west end of the room and walked into a covered
plaza. The plaza ended at a large swimming pool. Beyond it spread a panoramic view of Charlottetown half a mile across the bay.

Anne circled the pool and settled in a cabana chair for half an
hour. A subtle fragrance of pine and salt water played about the air. She watched crinkles of sunlight form and reform in the ripples of
a falling tide like the childhood magic of a kaleidoscope. Then the
sun became hot, and she returned to the living room, kicked off her sandals, and flopped onto a sofa.

She lay there half-awake, half-dazed, drifting in a kind of euphoria,
as the touch of sun warmed her like a blanket. The apprehension she'd felt when she arrived, even the memory of it, had vanished
now. Music played softly in the background. Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, Benny Goodman. The music had begun when she'd walked
through the front door. She didn't know how. Songs of hope. They
felt good. She felt comfortable.

A swirl of those feelings, like warm brandy, coursed through to the extremities of her body and propelled her deeper toward sleep, and
at the end of that corridor floated a final intimation of a frivolous
thought: …
it needs flowers
…