Reluctant Detective (22 page)

44

“Well, Ollie, this is a fine mess you've got me into,” said Ben.
MacLaren was handcuffed in the back seat of Ben's car. Ben and Anne were leaning against the hood.

“Ben, you're talking in riddles,” she said.

“Sorry. A Laurel and Hardy reference.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. What I mean is, what do we do with him now?”

That question had rolled around in her mind already. But it was something she would rather not have to deal with – like a cheating boyfriend rapping on her apartment door for forgiveness.

Nailing MacLaren for armed robbery and possession of counterfeit
money should have been gratifying. It wasn't. Her goal had been to take down the Client, but that failed. Now he remained just as
invisible and just as elusive as before. And just as dangerous.

It was back to a stand-off. She had the money, and he had… nothing
yet… but if he was the man in the straw hat, he was on the trail to getting what he needed to tip the scales in his favour, and to stop
him she had to do something.

“What are the options?” she asked.

“I could take him downtown and book him,” he said. Anne detected ambivalence in his answer.

“Or?”

“We could take him somewhere and have a long chat.” Ben waited for Anne to reply. She didn't. So he explained further. “If I take him in, he'll go to jail for x-number of years. No doubt of that. The down
side is that is you'll lose the only link to your Client. The phoney
money will be confiscated. The Feds on both sides of the border will put their bloodhounds to work. Maybe they'll find the Client. Maybe
not. They may be pissed at you for holding out on them, and they may decide to punish you for hindering a police investigation, or
they may just pick you as a convenient scapegoat.”

Ben idly drew a pattern in the dust of the parking lot with the tip of his shoe and let his words sink in.

“What's the downside if we do the other?” she asked.

“It means that MacLaren walks.”

“On the gun charge, too?”

“Yep. Technically he's under arrest right now. If I read him his rights, then he'll probably clam up and we get nothing. If I start
raking him over the coals without having read him his rights, then everything he says… everything… is useless in court, and it puts the whole arrest process under close scrutiny. That will screw me. My showing the probable cause for arresting him would bring us back to the counterfeit money again, and that'll screw you.”

“I think I like the idea of talking things through privately. Whaddya think?” Ben grimaced and nodded.

“My place or yours?” she asked.

Anne's office was five blocks from the waterfront. The pyrotechnic
show had begun by the time Ben pulled MacLaren from the car. Mortars popped. MacLaren flinched at the sound of them. Sky
rockets whined. A white star burst glowed against the cloud cover and revealed a fright in MacLaren's eyes, but the fright turned to panic when the cell phone on his waistband buzzed.

“I'll get that,” said Anne. “You can take him upstairs, please, Ben.”
She grabbed the cell phone. Ben shoved MacLaren toward the door to the stairwell.

Buzz buzz buzz
.

“Where are you taking me?” asked MacLaren.

“Shut up! You'll know soon enough.”

Buzz buzz buzz
.

“What do you want? Why aren't you taking me to the police station?”

“What makes you think I'm a cop?” laughed Ben. MacLaren tried
to look at the handcuffs binding his hands behind his back. Ben
laughed again. “Those?” he said. “You can buy those at any quality hardware store.”

Buzz buzz buzz
.

After Ben and MacLaren disappeared through the door, Anne looked at the glowing dial of MacLaren's phone and pressed the
answer button. The Client's voice was clear and crisp and impatient. Anne said nothing and, in response to the nothing, the Client's voice
grew sharp and angry and threatening. Anne ended the call in the
middle of the Client's sentence. Then she slipped the phone into her jacket pocket and mounted the stairs.

Ben led MacLaren into Billy's office. A worn leather sofa backed
against one wall. Ben pushed him toward it. “Sit down,” he ordered.
Then he shut the door, leaving MacLaren to the workings of his
imagination in the shadowy, street-lit darkness of the room.

Anne told Ben about the Client's call. Ben mulled it over for a few seconds. Then he nodded approvingly.

Ben let MacLaren stew for half an hour before he returned. It was clear that MacLaren was steeped in fear but, as he questioned him,
Ben became convinced that he wasn't willing to give up any new
information. MacLaren insisted he had never met the Client. He had no knowledge of him whatsoever. The Client was blackmailing him,
over what he wouldn't say, except that it involved smuggling into
Cuba and a few other Central American countries.

That unanswered phone call must have hung heavily on MacLaren's mind, thought Ben. MacLaren seemed to have a greater dread
of the Client than he had of Ben and Anne. A half-hour of threats and the odd slap hadn't budged him, and Ben wasn't prepared to go further. So Ben left MacLaren in the dark and returned to the
reception area where Anne was sitting behind her desk.

“I got nothin',” he grumbled. “So what are you grinnin' at?” he said to Anne. He was annoyed at the self-satisfied smirk on her face, and he was equally perturbed at his own failure to squeeze anything out of MacLaren.

“I just got a call,” she said and stopped short of explaining.

“C'mon, c'mon, I don't do twenty questions.”

Ben's no-nonsense attitude deflated Anne.

“For heaven's sake, Ben, you don't have to suck
all
of the fun out of this job,” she said.

Ben just stared back.

“Okay, it was the Client. Again. On my land line.” That admission
restored a gleam of interest in Ben's eyes. Anne continued: “He
accused me of holding out on him. I played dumb. Told him I played
it straight. I delivered. Then I pretended to be angry and accused
him of stiffing me out of the twenty grand he promised. I told him
that, if MacLaren double-crossed him, it served him right. Then I
hung up. He bought it. He bought the whole act,” said Anne, gleefully slamming her hand on the desk.

“Hmmph,” said Ben. The sternness in his countenance melted
away. A soft contented smile replaced it. “Good bluff, girl.”

“I think the hook's baited,” she said. “Now it's time to dangle it over the right fishing hole.”

45

The Client checked out of his west-end motel room and started
his car. He sat there for a few minutes and watched the windshield wipers snap back and forth. A film of road oil streaked the glass, and he waited for it to clear before he pulled away.

The Client didn't know what had happened to MacLaren, but a double-cross was a good bet. A million and a half to a worm like
MacLaren was incentive enough to run, he thought. It would buy a nice little hideaway on the islands, and he could live there happily ever after because he thought the money was legitimate.

The Client could only speculate on what rattled around in MacLaren's mind. He wouldn't know for sure until he found him, and
there were only two places to search: MacLaren's ship, which would leave port in three hours, or his house. Both were in Summerside.

But MacLaren's intentions really were irrelevant, the Client thought. He would have to kill him regardless. The unanswered cell phone call had said it all. If MacLaren was hesitant to answer, then the effect of the blackmail was weakening. MacLaren was teetering on the edge of indecision. And that was unacceptable. Even if he found MacLaren and MacLaren assured him that he still intended
to deliver the money to Cuba, the Client couldn't count on him.
He could still jump ship in Halifax or another port and disappear. Recovering the money and killing him was the only option now. He would make it look like an accident, of course. A broken neck tumbling down a ship's ladder or something like that.

Ben and Anne discussed what to do next. Ben supplied most of the
input, and his strategy was simple: make MacLaren the cheese; his
freighter, the
Arctic Growler
, the trap; and the Client, the hungry
mouse. If everything worked out, the Client would be jammed up
between one of Ben's fists and a steel bulkhead. Case closed.

Anne's role was to set up a watch at MacLaren's house. It was the
least likely spot for the Client to head. Therefore, the safest for Anne. That's how Ben explained it; that's how he wanted it, and she didn't argue. She was becoming sick of the whole thing and wanted it over. No more spinning wheels. No more danger. No more complications.
Done. She had MacLaren's cell phone. If there was a problem, she
was to get out of MacLaren's house and call Ben.

Before they left town, though, Ben and Anne stopped at a drive-
thru window and picked up a tray of coffees, sandwiches, and donuts
to go. It was an hour's drive to Summerside where MacLaren's ship
was preparing to depart. Anne was happy for the coffee. Ben was desperate for some sugar. MacLaren was content to be ignored in
the back seat and to be left sifting his head full of jumbled fears.

The journey to Summerside was quiet. Darkness swallowed up
details of the countryside, and the din of rain washed away the urge to talk. The outskirts of Summerside traced the shoreline for a couple of miles. A string of motels, restaurants, and small stores
flashed by. Then they entered a compact business district. The lights of a small mall glowed dimly on the seaward side of Water Street. It had closed for the night. So had the Holland College Marine Centre,
the Eptek Centre for the Arts, and the gift shops of Spinnaker's
Landing. Only the blaze of amber lights from Queen's Wharf shone with a forlorn cheer in the steady rain.

Ben made a sharp right, gained a bit of high ground from the
shore, and, in less than two blocks, he entered a residential neighbourhood of century-old homes. MacLaren pointed out his
house. For a bachelor he had kept the place in good repair. It was
a two-and-a-half-storey Victorian with a steep peaked roof and
carved verge board. A full veranda covered the front of the house and wrapped around one side.

The headlights of Ben's car lit up the front door of the house
long enough for Anne to key the lock and open it. The headlights flashed again when Ben backed out of the driveway and made for MacLaren's ship.

The walk from the parking lot to the wharf where the
Arctic Growler
tied up was windy and wet. Amber lights illuminated the wharf. The ship's deck lights blazed away. He uncuffed MacLaren
and walked him aboard the ship. He warned him to stay aboard
and do his job as first mate. If he did, he could leave with his ship in the morning. If he tried to run, he'd be dead before he reached the end of the wharf, and, with that threat, Ben pulled back a flap
of his jacket and revealed his service revolver. Then he let go of MacLaren's arm. MacLaren disappeared down a companionway to
the engine room, and Ben headed for the bridge.

The bridge was empty, damp, and dark. He melted into its
shadows, and from behind its big windows he had a perfect view of
every possible approach to the ship, and a perfect line of fire as well.

46

A peculiar odour struck Anne when she stepped into the vestibule
of MacLaren's house. It was not offensive, but it smelled like a
bachelor's dwelling: a hint of sweat, dead air, and mustiness.

A street lamp cast a ghostly pall through the windows. She stood
there until her eyes adjusted enough to step forward. Then she
checked the house.

Ahead of her an L-shaped staircase led to the second floor. To her right was the front parlour. It probably had not changed in decades:
a formal room, little used, and furnished with good-quality but stiffly comfortable chairs and a sofa. To her left was the library. Half-empty
bookcases rose to the ceiling on two walls. A massive desk set near
them. It was cluttered with stacks of papers, technical manuals, and a computer. Sliding doors allowed entry to both parlour and library. The hallway and staircase separated the two front rooms.

Behind the library was a dining room, and opposite it lay the
pantry and kitchen. The pantry led back down the hallway to the staircase. At the top of the stairs, above the pantry, was the
bathroom. Anne fingered through the drugs in the cabinet. Nothing
out of the ordinary there. What did strike her, though, was that MacLaren's toiletries were gone. No toothbrush, comb, razor,
shaving cream, or shampoo. That suggested that MacLaren had not intended to return to the house before he left on his voyage.

Bedrooms filled the rest of the second floor. One back bedroom
was used for storage. The bedding in the bedroom over the dining
room was rumpled. A pair of socks, a T-shirt, and stained work boots had been tossed into the corners. The two front bedrooms
were neat and long unused. Heavy quilts covered four-poster beds.
Ornate frames hung on the walls. Bucolic scenes and countrified
characters filled them.

The real surprise and delight for Anne was the fifth bedroom, a
small one above the vestibule. Half of it protruded beyond the front of the house and over the veranda. It looked like part of an octagonal tower. Three windows made it the brightest room in the house, and it had a warm feel to it. The little room was
en suite
to the master
bedroom. So it probably had been a nursery. Now it held a large
wicker arm chair which faced the street. Several wicker tables and side pieces surrounded it.

Anne plopped down in the chair, sank back, and propped her legs up on a wicker footrest. The front and the side windows provided a panoramic view up and down the street. It would make a great place
to keep watch until Ben came, she thought. First, though, she had
some work she wanted to do.

Anne was curious about MacLaren's role in the smuggling and counterfeiting and about whether or not he had a more personal
connection with the Client than he had led her to believe. So far she
knew little about him. She figured that he had come from money. The house and its location suggested that. The condition of the house and its furnishings also suggested that those gravy days were over for his family. In fact, the absence of current photos in
the house suggested that no close family members were still living.
Anne also found no hint of a woman about the place. No stray lipstick tubes, cosmetic cases, or hair clasps. No decorative tissue
boxes or scented soap. And a filthy dish rag was wadded up next to the tap.

MacLaren held a job as a ship's officer, but he worked smaller vessels. Maybe he'd started his career late. Maybe he didn't have
the brains to advance further. Maybe he had some character defect or personality quirk which held him back. Or maybe it was just bad luck or desperation which led had him into the Client's clutches.

The library and the kitchen seemed the only rooms to have any
sign of life in them. So Anne returned to the library and made a more thorough search of his things. She started with the desk. She shuffled
through a stack of bills and bank statements to no avail. She found no personal letters. Several stacks of manuals piled up in another corner. Technical mostly. Formulas for ship stability. Advanced
fire-fighting strategies. Deck cargo safety code. Meteorology, Level
2. More manuals in the drawers below. Most of them related to
certification as captain.

He's ambitious
, thought Anne,
I'll give him that much
.

Anne formed a fragmented picture of Devon MacLaren as she rummaged through the bits and pieces of his life. He remained a pathetic character in her eyes, but he also seemed to be more of a
pawn than a player, a victim of circumstance as well as human frailty
perhaps. She stopped short of feeling any sorrow or compassion
f
or him, though. She had made that mistake once already when the Client had pretended to be a victim and conned her into making that
final delivery of phoney money. That wouldn't happen again, she
swore. At least she hoped not.

She tackled the computer next. Fortunately, no password was
needed when she booted it up. She opened the email program and scrolled through the deleted messages. Among the forwarded
jokes and curiosities, advertisements and special offers, were some personal contacts. A few of them caught her attention because they
read so oddly. They were rather short and blunt, almost businesslike, and not written with the phrasing and familiarity that an
acquaintance would employ. Occasionally, the syntax was peculiar,
or an idiom seemed strained. They never addressed MacLaren by
name, and the subject of their interchange was ambiguous.

She searched through his saved computer files. Nothing there of
consequence. His network history showed a sprinkling of hits on internet porn sites. Nothing unusual there either, she thought, but
at the same time she felt embarrassed and squeamish even staring
at the listings.

Just out of curiosity she checked the folders for saved pictures and
videos. Both were empty and, given his viewing history, that did
seem extraordinary.

Anne dug deeper into a desk drawer. Her hand clutched a small
box. She drew it out and opened it. It was half-full of flash drives,
thumb-size devices for portable file storage. Anne had a few at the
office for backing-up sensitive files, but why anyone would have fifty or more was puzzling. Anne took one and plugged it into the USB port. It opened automatically through a photo program and played as a slide show.

Picture after picture flashed in front of her as she sat in front of the console, the glow from the screen illuminating her astonished eyes and gaping mouth. Child after child, babies even, flicked into
pixilated still life and then vanished. One by one they formed a
parade of deadened lives, and together they formed a spectacle of sexual horror designed to feed an insatiable lust.

Anne was dumfounded. The images stunned her. They left her
paralysed. Then for what seemed like an eternity, she could neither
feel, nor think, nor move, and, when the wave of disbelief finally
swept by and the shock slackened, only then did her self-awareness
return. At first she felt a heave of nausea, but she drove it down. Then she felt the quiver in her lips and watched her hands strike
blindly and repeatedly at the keyboard until the pictures went away and the screen went blank.

Anne laid her arms on the desk and then she laid her head on her arms and closed her eyes. She wished the images away, but
they were reluctant to leave. Even when she opened her eyes, they
flashed out of dark corners in the room. Gradually, they faded and, after a great struggle, she managed to drive them away. They left
her alone to reconcile her lingering thought:
So many children. So many victims.

Anne left the library. She couldn't stand being in that room
any longer. Upstairs she settled into the wicker armchair in the
children's bedroom. The wind blew in gusts. Rain beat against
the panes of glass. A lamp lit the street, and the limbs of old trees wagged angrily before the weight of the storm.

Anne fell asleep there, and she dreamed. It was a troubled dream. A branch of a tree rubbed against the siding of MacLaren's house.
In Anne's dream the squeak of it became the sound of a child
whimpering in the wilderness of her nightmare. Jacqui heard it, too.
It upset her as well, but Anne couldn't find her. Anne ran. She ran
through woods that had no end, and everything in her dream world
was couched in dreary greys or muddy greens, and the longer she ran through that dismal palette, the darker and eerier and more
roily it became. Then the voice of the Client echoed out of nowhere.
She heard Uncle Billy's laugh, but it was far away and sounded off-key.

The Client pulled into the parking lot of a motel on Water Street in Summerside and opened a laptop computer. He picked up the Wi-Fi signal and sailed through several screens. He typed a password to a secure site, entered the serial number for MacLaren's cell phone, and waited confirmation of its GPS location. In seconds MacLarens's home address appeared on the screen. The Client smiled grimly, pulled back onto the highway, and sped away.

There was a car in front of MacLaren's house when he drove past. He noticed a rental sticker on it. It was similar to the one on his grey sedan. He drove a few houses farther up the street and stopped. The
wind had grown blustery, and the rain snapped nastily at his face
when he opened his car door. His hat blew off and drifted onto the
back seat of his car. He left it there, hauled the collar of his raincoat around his throat, and held it tightly.

MacLaren's house was dark except for the glow of a computer
screen. The Client slowed, mounted the steps to the porch, and walked cautiously toward the door. In the shadows he reached
inside his coat and pulled out an automatic. He screwed a silencer into the grooved barrel and pushed against the door. It was ajar.

He moved to his left in slow increments toward the soft noises
coming from the library. At the doorway he peeked around the
corner. A man's outline appeared. He levelled the gun. His finger grazed the trigger.

“Where's the money, MacLaren?” he shouted.

The Client wasn't prepared for the shadow ducking so quickly behind the desk.

“Where's the money? Don't make me kill you, MacLaren.”

“Agent Franklin Pierce, US Treasury Department. Drop your weapon.”

“Treasury Department?” said the Client with astonishment. “I'm a federal agent as well,” he added.

“Show yourself first. Step forward. There's a light switch just inside the door. Turn it on.”

The Client did as he was instructed. The room brightened. He saw
Pierce crouched behind the cover of the desk, and Pierce watched
him carefully over the barrel of his gun, still pointed at the Client.

The Client smiled and lowered his weapon.

“Now, place your weapon on that end table, and show me some ID.”

The Client did so and reached into his inside pocket for his wallet. He pulled it out and tossed it to Agent Pierce. Pierce caught it with
one free hand and examined it in several, quick, furtive looks. The photo ID was a match and it was legitimate. The badge that came
with it was bonafide, too.

“Border Patrol?! What the hell are you doing up here? And what business do you have with MacLaren?”

“Let's just say that the ID is legit, as you already know, but that's for local consumption. My principal employer is a bit higher up the food chain,” said the Client.

By this time, Agent Pierce was standing. A bewildered expression played across his face. His nine mill dangled by his side.

The Client gave a hearty laugh and extended his right hand to
Pierce.

“Welcome to the Twilight Zone, Pierce.” Pierce shook his hand.

“I'll be damned. Why didn't the embassy give me a head's-up that you were operating on this case?”

“They didn't know. Washington bypassed them… for security
reasons, I suppose.”

“So what's going on here? What can you tell me?”

“May I…?” asked the Client indicating his automatic on the end table.

Pierce nodded.

“Well, first of all, forget about everything you think you know about the case. The truth of the matter is that…”

The Client turned, faced Pierce, and put two bullets into Pierce's
chest. His eyes bulged. His mouth twisted like he'd sucked a lemon. Then he dropped to the floor. A red stain of blood welled out of the holes in his shirt and pooled under his right arm.

“The truth of the matter is that… none of it is true.”

When the Client was quite sure that Pierce was dead, he flipped open his cell phone and rang MacLaren's cell phone number.