The Reluctant Detective

by Finley Martin

  Anne found cross-town traffic heavier than usual, but it was Saturday, the beginning of the Canada Day long weekend, the traditional start of summer on the Island, and the leading edge of tourist season. License plates were more exotic; travel trailers peeked above the lines of cars. Traffic was thickest as she got close to the waterfront. That’s where the fireworks displays would be set off, and that’s where tents were being erected for the musical venues, beer concessions, and patriotic souvenir sales. Tomorrow was the big day.

  Anne parked and walked a block to her office. The sky was blue, but duller than earlier in the week or even earlier today. Wispy cirrus clouds brushed the sky and added a dull white tone to the blue. There was a coolness in the air as well, and Anne wished that she had worn a light sweater instead of a short-sleeved top. By contrast, her office was stuffy.

  Anne cracked open a few windows for fresh air and, while doing so, she noticed that the office was not as she had left it. It was Cutter’s doing. Cutter had broken in the day before, waiting for her, and watching out the window. He had seen her head into the Confederation Centre with the suitcase intended for the Client. The day had ended unhappily for Cutter, taken down by the RCMP, who probably had been following Anne.

  The evidence of Cutter’s visit showed: papers strewn about Billy Darby’s inner sanctum; desk drawers ajar; small things toppled over. No doubt she would find his fingerprints all over the big safe.

  Cutter had made a thorough job of tossing Billy’s office, but he had left the waiting room alone, for the most part. He had rummaged through a large wardrobe cabinet there. Both of its doors were wide open, but Anne’s desk seemed undisturbed.

  Anne sat at her desk and double-checked the drawers and files. Nothing was amiss, and that was very peculiar, she thought, but perhaps Cutter simply dismissed finding anything useful in a receptionist’s desk. Luckily he didn’t know that this was Anne’s work station. Otherwise he would have found the nine, loaded and ready to go, in Anne’s desk drawer. Having to report the loss of that to the police, Anne thought, would have been more than embarrassing. She took it out and returned it to the safe.

  The few minutes Anne spent restoring order to the office helped put her into a businesslike frame of mind. Two jobs topped her things-to-do list: finding Dit, and dealing with the Client.

  Then again, she wasn’t even sure of that. What if Dit and the Client were different sides of the same coin? Dit, most likely, had been taken away. If it were the Client’s doing, what did he have to gain? She had already agreed to deliver the suitcase of money. Using Dit as insurance would be a good hole card, but he didn’t need the extra leverage. And holding Dit was more of a liability than an advantage. Dit would be a witness and, so far, the Client had taken great pains not to be identified or directly connected with the counterfeit money. Anne couldn’t imagine an upside to any connection between Dit and the Client. Besides, the incident at Dit’s house had all the markings of a sloppy job. That didn’t fit the Client’s style.

  Confident that the Client didn’t kidnap Dit, she decided to make her play. She picked up the phone and called the cell phone that the Client had given to Devon MacLaren. It rang twice before MacLaren answered.

  “Yes?” he asked. His voice sounded weary and frightened.

  “You know who this is. Got a pencil and paper?”

  “Yes.”

  1“Tomorrow night. Nine-thirty. Charlottetown waterfront. There’s a large gazebo between Memorial Park and the Peake’s Quay Marina. Tell him to be there alone. No funny stuff. I have what he wants. He knows what I want. Pass the message.”

  Then she hung up.

  That went well, Anne thought. If the Client or MacLaren had Dit, then they would have played that card, but they hadn’t. So the game goes on as usual.

  Afterwards, Anne ran through her voice mail. There were half a dozen messages. The first was from Sister Jeanine: “Anne, dear, how are you today? And happy Canada Day. I finally made contact with my colleagues in Cameroon. They don’t know of any proposed mission like you described, at least nothing associated with the name Robert Somerville, and, if there was, I’m sure it would be popular gossip in the region. The Methodists are opening a satellite to their main mission. Reverend James Hanover from Pittsburgh guides that flock. Then there’s talk of some kind of project in the northeast. It’s headed by a Brit called Bobby Dill. And our own nightingales are opening our third school. You can read about that on our website if you have time. See you soon, I hope.”

  Both the second and third calls were from Frances Murphy. She wanted a progress report if one could be made. Her voice was even and tranquil as always, but sad, almost mournful.

  She would have to get back to her, but she didn’t want to do it just yet. Anne was sure that Somerville was a con man, and she had some evidence that undermined his story of being a British lord, but nothing conclusive, and nothing that a smooth-talking con man couldn’t wiggle through or lie his way out of. Anne preferred to wait and club the rat while he was climbing out of his hole. So she phoned Mrs. Murphy and left a message summarizing her activities. She withheld specific details, but stated that her results were inconclusive and that she would have a more accurate report in two more days. She also warned that it would be imprudent to make any monetary decisions regarding Somerville before that report was concluded.

  “Happy holiday, bitch.”

  The voice came from the doorway. The head that poked through belonged to Sean McGee. His one hand gripped the half-open door; the other hand held the frame. Most of his torso was concealed by the wall. His grin was malicious.

  Anne’s right hand opened the side drawer of her desk, slipped in, and sought out the cold metal of the Berretta, but the only cold steel she grasped inside was an old stapler. The gun had been put away.

  “Did you miss the door to The Blue Peter or do you want me to fry you up some breakfast? I’m sure I can find a sturdy cook pan around here someplace.”

  Anne’s hand in the drawer of her desk hadn’t escaped Sean’s notice. He stayed where he was. Anne’s hand remained where it was.

  “We’ve got something for you. It comes in brown curly hair. It’s in need of repair.”

  “Where is he?”

  “We’ll box him up and send him over when you deliver my suitcase.”

  “Is he hurt?”

  “Cuts and scrapes… oh, and he doesn’t walk so good.” Sean laughed noiselessly. One eye squinted; the other was discoloured. Anne grinned back.

  “Dit gave you that shiner, didn’t he?” Sean’s self-important glare turned sour. “Beat up by a girl and a cripple in two days,” she continued. “You must not have any balls left.”

  Sean twitched suddenly as if he were going to jump her, but Anne jerked her gun hand, and the stapler clanked solidly against the inside of the drawer. Anne wished she had kept her mouth shut, but her bravado and the threat of a gun kept Sean at bay, and he eased back into his protected position just outside the door.

  “I have no problem with an exchange,” she said, “but it’s not going to be in some dark alley with a bunch of creeps around. It’ll be out in the open. In public.”

  “You aren’t calling the shots this time.”

  “Neither are you. I’m not an idiot. How does this sound? I bring the valise tomorrow evening to the waterfront. Lots of people around for the fireworks. I’ll have to see that he’s alive. Then I give you the money.”

  “Tomorrow,” he repeated as if it were a threat.

  “Quarter to nine? You and your crew can work out the details. A girl’s gotta take care of herself, ya know.”

  “Nine o’clock.”

  Anne nodded. “Okay, where?”

  Sean thought for a moment. “There’s a circle on the north end of the park. Along the walkway. It’s got bricks with people’s names on them. That’s a good spot.”

  “Not a
chance. Too many bushes and trees.”

  “The end of the first dock at the marina then. Just inside the breakwater.”

  Anne nodded compliantly. Sean vanished out the door.

  Anne’s hands didn’t start trembling until she left the office and had gone downstairs and entered The Blue Peter restaurant. That’s when the jolt of adrenaline hit her. She could scarcely turn the doorknob.

  Mary Anne was inside, standing in front of a Please Wait to be Seated sign. Mary Anne stared at her for a second and said, “Which do you need worse – a comfy seat or a stiff drink?”

  “I’ll take the combo,” she said with a strained smile.

  “The round table’s free. White wine?”

  “Something with a bit more punch.”

  “Brandy?”

  “And a bit of ice.”

  Anne slid into the seat. It was cushioned and leathery and comfortable. Mary Anne plopped a large snifter of brandy on top of a coaster and sat down in front of her.

  “I have some news for you,” said Mary Anne. “I’m not really sure whether it’s good or bad, though.”

  “Well, what is it?” Anne asked impatiently after Mary Anne had just sat there staring somewhat pitifully at her.

  “Delia McKay called me. She tried your cell, but she…”

  “Is Jacqui okay? What’s happened?” Anne’s forearm flinched and jostled the snifter, nearly overturning it. Her face turned a shade paler than she already was.

  Mary Anne held up her hand in a signal to calm down. Then she began again.

  “Nothing’s wrong with Jacqui. She’s having a good time. Fishing and cooking and touring the graveyard – though I couldn’t see the fun in that – but she’s all right. That was her point.”

  “So… what?…”

  Mary Anne leaned forward as to divulge something in confidence.

  “Some stranger was asking personal questions, she said. She mentioned a man with a straw hat. Looked like a tourist and didn’t at the same time.

  “Did she say anything about a blue pick-up truck?”

  “A grey sedan. Later it was parked near the farmhouse for a bit too long. Made her uncomfortable. Anyway, Jacqui and her packed up and went on a little side trip to visit some relative.”

  “Where to?”

  “The Magdalen Islands. She called me from there.”

  “The Magdalens? Quebec? That’s a five-hour ferry ride! What about the man with the straw hat?”

  “She said that he got tied up in local traffic. He couldn’t catch up. So, is that good news or bad news?”

  “It’s worrying news, but it’s not bad. Thanks, Mary Anne. You’re the best.”

  “And all this time I thought I could do even better,” Mary Anne laughed and slipped out of her seat. “Maybe he can do ya some good, too.” She motioned to Ben Solomon, who had just come through the door. “Table for three?” she asked, poking him in the belly as they passed each other.

  “A real smart-ass. There’ll be no tip for you, kiddo. From any of us.”

  40

  By the time Ben sat down at the round table in The Blue Peter, Anne had nearly finished her brandy and had waved to Mary Anne for a refill. Her nerves had steadied with the first one, and she knew that the second one would lead her toward giddiness if she didn’t get something substantial into her stomach. She was not used to drinking.

  Ben knew that. He watched in silence as Mary Anne plunked another brandy snifter in front of her and swept the empty one away.

  “Are you gonna tell me what the hell is goin’ on here?”

  “Whoa, all this time I thought I was gonna meet my old friend Ben here. And who shows up? Detective Sergeant Solomon of the Charlottetown Police Department. Today has been full of surprises.”

  “I’m still your friend, but that other guy follows me everywhere. So, once again, what the hell is goin’ on?”

  “Why don’t you order a drink and mellow out a bit? God, but you’re uptight.”

  “Evading the question. Classic defensive ploy. You’re hiding something. So tell me.”

  “You first,” she insisted. “What’s happening?”

  “All right, all right. The investigators on the case believe that Dit is definitely in trouble. He never showed for work this morning. Several people inquired about him. You made that list, too, by the way. Popular theory is that he’s being held somewhere. Could be for ransom. Could be to extract information out of him. He has a lot of valuable information in his head: security systems of local banks and jewellers. Some high-end stores. He has a head full of classified technical stuff, too. Work he’s done for the RCMP, the National Firearms Registry, and, not many know this, but he’s developed specialized spook gadgets for a couple of foreign countries as well. So there’s any number of potential suspects to shake out of the trees, and narrowing the field will take time.”

  Ben still wore that mask of officiousness she noticed at Dit’s house. It put Anne on edge, and she wondered if she could trust him enough to separate the cop from the friend and give her the help she needed.

  “What did you mean this afternoon when you said that I had raised eyebrows downtown?”

  “The RCMP doesn’t confide in us, but I heard on my grapevine that they picked someone up for questioning in a counterfeiting case. One of my grapes described you.”

  Mary Anne brought the usual draft beer for Ben and two dinner menus. A broad smile spread across her face. She was about to crack a joke when, noticing the sombre look on Ben’s face and the uncomfortable expression on Anne’s, she thought better of it. She said nothing. Her smile vanished, and so did she.

  Ben had not broken eye contact. He waited for a reply or comment with no indication that he would let it go. Finally, Anne’s eyes dropped to the tabletop. She nodded ever so slightly. Then she began her account of the Client, her accidental mixing of the counterfeit with the real money, her bank deposit and subsequent arrest and questioning. As she recounted those details, she felt like some schoolgirl admitting her truancy in the principal’s office. She didn’t know why. She’d done nothing wrong. She hadn’t knowingly broken any law or violated any ethical standard. But that didn’t stop her from feeling guilty. Perhaps being marked with the appearance of guilt is just as potent as having earned it.

  The eyes that lifted from the tabletop and into Ben’s were seeking some peace and maybe a teaspoonful of sympathy, but Ben pushed on.

  “Is that it… or is there more?” he asked bluntly.

  “There’s more,” she said.

  “Is this where the incident at the Hole in the Wall comes in?”

  “How did you find out about that?”

  “You asked me about Sean McGee a while back. It’s not a giant step from one to the other. The jungle drums claim some girl was at the centre of that, too.”

  “Am I going to get arrested for that?”

  “I’m off duty, and the witnesses were either drunk, stoned, or covering their asses.”

  “Thanks,” she said meekly.

  “You could have been a bit more up front. I can be trusted, ya know.”

  “Sorry, Ben, but you didn’t seem too happy about me taking over Billy’s agency.”

  “Still don’t, but that’s no reason for shuttin’ the door. Advice you get from me, even if you don’t agree with it, is still advice from a friend.”

  “As it just so happens, I’m finding myself in the market for advice… and maybe some help, too.”

  “Ask away.”

  “It’s not that simple, Ben. You being a cop and all complicates things. I’ve got some serious problems, sure. But I also have two plans in place. If I pull them off, and I’m sure I can, everything else will fall into place. I don’t want to be sidelined because some of the players are dangerous. If I let you into this, then you have to let me run with the ball
.”

  “One question, and it’s off the record. Is what you’re doing illegal?” asked Ben.

  “No. You have my word on it.”

  “If that’s the case, then I might be able to conduct an unofficial police investigation for a day or so.”

  “Then we have a deal?”

  “First, give me all the details leading up to today. Then we’ll talk.”

  A waitress brought their supper platters, and they dug into them. Between mouthfuls, Anne unravelled the entire story. She moved ahead from Sean and Carson’s theft of the suitcase to her tracking it down and snatching it from Cutter in his lair. Anne became quite animated as she described the Hole in the Wall incident. Ben grew a shade paler. He picked at his meal. She recounted Dit’s help producing and stocking a duplicate suitcase and his aid in identifying MacLaren as the Client’s accomplice.

  Then Anne told Ben that his investigators had got it wrong. Dit wasn’t a pawn in the intrigue of some sophisticated crime gang or industrial espionage agents. He was a hostage of Sean McGee, a local hustler working for Cutter Underhay. They wanted the phoney money just as much as the Client did, and she was sure that Cutter had orchestrated Dit’s kidnapping from his lock-up in county jail. Finally, she described her plan for two money drops, both of them tomorrow evening during the Canada Day festivities. And she vowed that neither the Client nor Cutter would get the money if she had any say in the matter. Then she leaned back, a sign that she could recall nothing more.

  “Whaddya think?” she asked. “Deal?”

  For the last ten minutes of her tale, Ben had sat in stony silence, punctuated by small, almost inaudible snorts of disapproval and his head wagging back and forth like a man with palsy. In the end, “Geeeez,” was all he could say. Then he raised his palms to his face and let them cover his eyes and massage his temples. It appeared that he had grown suddenly quite weary.

  41

  Finally, Ben munched through the rest of his large plate of spaghetti and spicy, home-made meatballs. At the end of it he seemed more relaxed, Anne thought, and after a large slice of cherry cheesecake, a silly grin played about his mouth and he closed his eyes for so long that Anne thought he was falling asleep. But it was a short rest and, when he opened them, he said, “There’s something else you should know.” Then he took his time to sip his coffee, unbutton his suit jacket, loosen his tie, and lean back in the booth. “That counterfeit money you came across? It isn’t regular.”