by Ted Wood
Ten minutes later I was back at the table and Freda set bacon and eggs in front of me. She was eating toast, dry. “Dieting?” I asked.
“I guess it's all the stress,” she said, “but it was as much as I could do to cook that bacon, let alone try to eat it.”
I reached out and squeezed her hand. “It's over now, honey. I'm the sergeant and it means I can get closer to the investigation. We should be out of here in a month.”
She put her toast down and sipped her milk. I noticed that as well. She's a coffee drinker by choice and doesn't usually function until about eight-thirty, after she's had a cup. “I'm glad to hear you say that,” she said. “What are you going to do first?”
“Search Ferris's car. That's routine. Then I want to check a few things, find out if he had any women friends in town, any semblance of a private life outside of his rye bottle. It seems to me that Marcie, the office clerk, was friendlier with him than she is with anybody else. Might be nice to see if they had anything going.”
“Leave that to me,” she said. “I'll talk to Mrs. Schuka. She's one of nature's gossips. She'll know.”
“Good.” I got back to my bacon and eggs. “There was another thing. He had a date on his calendar, just an X in red, for tomorrow.”
“Yeah?” she said. “I wonder what that was about.”
“I'll let you know. But you try to relax. I'm in the clear now, so you can hold your head up again at the supermarket.”
She smiled awkwardly. “I'm glad about that, Reid. I didn't want to bother you, but this is a very small town. My reception was pretty chilly yesterday when I went down to the bus terminal to collect my books. When you were suspended everybody assumed you were guilty. They took it out on me.”
I reached out and squeezed her hand. “I'm sorry, love.”
“No problem. You're a big wheel now. They'll probably give me a discount at all the stores.”
“This isn't forever. Another few weeks and we're on our way home, in time for Christmas, probably.”
“Good,” she said, “although I'll miss my class. I've never had star billing before.”
I finished breakfast and she handed Sam over to me. He frisked around me like a puppy until I'd fussed him and told him he was a good boy. Then he slid in behind me as I left and went out to the scout car I'd driven home.
Walker was on the desk at the station. He looked weary, more tired than you normally get after the night shift. “Are you okay for another hour?” I asked him. “I'd like to take a look at the place you found Nunziatta's stash.”
“Sure.” He nodded bleakly. “He's in the cells right now. Whining sonofagun, wanted us to have a bail hearing last night.”
“He'll be out by ten. Have you spoken to him this morning?”
“Took him in a cup of java. He's fine. Mad, but fine.”
I went back to the cells to check for myself. Nunziatta was lying on the bunk. He sprang up and stood at the door, holding on to the bars. “How much longer I gotta stay in this hole?”
“As soon as we get the justice of the peace here you'll be out on bail.” There was a chair in the hallway and I pulled it up in front of his cell and sat down. “First, a couple of questions.”
“I already told you guys everything I know,” he said.
“Tell me, did Ferris have any friends in town? Any girlfriends?”
He slammed one hand against the bars angrily. “Hell, I don't know. I'm not his goddamn keeper.”
“You knew him better than anybody. Did he have any friends, outside of your charming self?”
“I never heard of none.” He shoved himself away from the bars and flopped back on the cot.
“Okay, that's question number one. Question number two is, where's the rest of your stash?”
That brought him off the cot again, banging the cell door in frustration. “Christ, what is it with you? I took the cop to my place, he took everything as was there. Ask him.”
“You're lying to me, Frankie. You have more than that, hidden somewhere.”
He didn't answer, just muttered something and sat down again. I sat and looked at him and at last he spoke again. “How much stuff d'you think I can afford to carry? This isn't T'rannah. There's only so many people want what I'm sellin'. I'm just small time. Look, Mr. Bennett, I ain't stupid. I wouldn't cross you up. Believe me.”
I stood up without speaking. I didn't trust him, but it didn't matter. I'd had all the help from him I was going to get. I went back out just as Levesque walked in. He looked at me in surprise. “Hey, Reid. What you doin’ here?”
“I'm back on the job. Ferris committed suicide last night.”
“Suicide?”
“Yeah,” Walker said. “Shot himself. I found him when I came on at eleven-thirty, layin’ right there on the floor.”
Levesque frowned, thinking. “You know what that says?” He looked at us both questioningly. “It means he strangled that hooker. When she din’ die he couldn't take it. He shot himself.”
“That's what the chief thinks too,” I said. “He's appointed me sergeant.”
He smiled, distorting his big mustache so it looked like a small animal, writhing. “Hey, tha's great. Congratulations.” He reached out and shook my hand and I nodded thanks. “Shoulda been me.” He laughed. “How's your health, sarge?”
We all laughed. I said, “Okay, we'll get you on duty, then I want you to take care of things while Jeff and I tidy up the details.”
I opened the duty book. It's standard, in one form or another in any department, a daily calendar with coming events in it, things that have to be covered. There was nothing for this day, or for the next. I noted that carefully. Whatever the cross was for on Ferris's calendar, it didn't relate to police work.
I handed the whole sheaf of teletype messages to Levesque. “Nobody's had time to go through them. You do it. Anything important, put it on the board. Got everything with you for the shift?”
He drew himself up and opened his holster and pulled his stick. “Jus’ need my notebook.”
I nodded and opened the top drawer. It held his notebook and those of the other men who were off duty. I opened it and saw Ferris's initials. The sergeant had been through it. I read the report of the previous day's work, all routine.
“Good. Here you go. You're in charge until the chief gets here. We've got a prisoner in the cells, Frank Nunziatta, charged with trafficking. Look in on him and take care of the phone. If anyone wants to know about Sgt. Ferris, refer them to the chief.”
Walker and I searched Ferris's car. It was clean except for a bottle of Canadian Club in the trunk. I even took up the rubber splash mats to check for a safety deposit box key, but there was nothing under them but rust stains coming through the carpet. The only thing that didn't make sense was the fact that he had a couple of pieces of old lead pipe in his trunk, scrap from some old plumbing job. There was about fifty pounds of it, in a sack, and I checked it and left it there. Probably he'd been using it to give his rear wheels more grip on the road in winter.
I put Sam in the back of the police car and then Walker drove me over to the old town and we checked the mill. I brought Sam with me as we tracked into the place, our feet squeaking on the snow as we walked, a sign that the temperature was well down. There was a clear trail in the snow leading to the side of the main building. It looked as if it had been used a number of times, which jibed with Nunziatta's story of having picked his stuff up here before he came out to shoot me. Inside it was dreary and neglected looking, the big presses and cutting machinery had been taken out. There were holes in the floor where they'd been, as unsightly as missing teeth. In a few places windows had blown in and snow had drifted across the floor so that whole areas of the echoing old space were like blank sheets of paper waiting for somebody to draw me a clue on them, only nobody had obliged.
I checked inside the boiler room where Walker told me. The door was four feet square. The owners had economized on costs by using the bark and sawdust and wast
e from the mill to fire it, and you could get right inside if you chose to. Walker still had his night-duty flashlight with him and I flashed it over the interior. It was dirty but empty, not even a trace of ashes. The last man on duty had done his job well, cleaning the firebox out to the last cinder.
“Well, that's it. Drop me back at the station and head on home,” I said.
“Good,” he said shortly and led the way. He turned in the narrow part of the roadway that had been cleared of snow and headed back up the hill. As we drove I saw Wilcox out walking his dog.
“Stop the car, please,” I said. I got out and walked up to Wilcox. He was smoking one of his thin little cigarettes, watching his dog romping in the snow.
“Morning,” he said. “How's it going?”
“I want you to know your rifle came in useful. Nunziatta tried to shoot me last night, and I was able to outgun him.”
“No kidding.” He crushed out his cigarette on the sole of his overshoe and tossed it aside. “What happened?”
I filled him in briefly, and he shook his head. “I figured there was something shaky about him.”
He looked at me out of his keen blue eyes and I knew the question that was burning in him. “I asked him about Randy. He didn't say anything different, but I haven't finished with him yet. I've locked him up for drug trafficking. He kept his stash in the mill.”
“Yeah?” He shook his head. “I wondered who it was usin’ that place. Been someone going in there lots of nights. I figured it was a guy and a girl maybe.”
The question came to me without thought. He had lived here most of his life, perhaps he would have heard something. “Tell me, does tomorrow have any special significance to the town?”
He thought about it and shook his head. “No. Don't think so.”
“Thanks anyway.” I nodded, then realized I owed him more than a dismissal. “Sgt. Ferris shot himself last night. Keep it to yourself, but there was a mark on his calendar for tomorrow. I can't see anything in the duty book to account for it.”
“Killed himself?” It was the obvious reaction. I took the necessary minute to fill him in.
He shook his head again. His dog had noticed Sam sitting up in the back of the police car and had started yapping at him, small and bossy and safe, with the window up.
“By the way, I'm reinstated, with Ferris's old job,” I said and he laughed out loud.
“Well maybe that chief knows a good cop when he sees one,” he said. “Congratulations.”
We shook hands and I left him having to pick his dog up so it didn't try to chase Sam out of town.
We went back to the station and Walker booked off. Then I took Levesque out with me to retrieve my car from the clearing and turn it over to the garage in town to have the side window replaced. Fortunately they had a replacement in stock and promised to turn it around by afternoon.
The chief had arrived by the time I got back to the station, and the JP was there for the bail hearing. I didn't take part in it. While they were in the guardroom I spent a quick few seconds checking whether Ferris would have been off the next day. He wasn't due for a day off, and he was working the four-to-midnight shift, so the cross probably didn't mean a date with some secret girlfriend.
The others came out of the guardroom. Nunziatta was angry but under control. Harding smiled. He still looked drawn even in the bright morning sunshine, but he was lean and handsome in his uniform and white shirt. He was wearing his amiability like a badge of office. “Ah, Bennett. I was telling His Worship about your reinstatement,” he said.
The JP smiled and stuck out his hand. Yesterday I had thought him a sour old man. Today he was a pleasure to talk to. “I'm delighted to hear the news,” he said. “I really hated to think one of the men was corrupt.”
“Thank you, sir.” I smiled and the chief saw him to the door. Nunziatta stayed for a moment while he signed for his property, then snorted and left without speaking.
The chief paused briefly at the front desk. “Anything new?” he asked.
“No sir.” I told him what Walker and I had found in the house and the car, essentially nothing. I also asked him if he knew anything about Ferris's private life.
He shook his head. “No. He was a very private man.”
“Thank you, sir. I'm going to wait for the photographer to bring in my shots, then go and talk to the doctor.”
“Right,” he said. “Oh, by the way, Marcie won't be in. I stopped by and told her about Ferris and it upset her. She'd worked with him for seven years, longer than any of the other people. She took it hard.”
The news didn't surprise me. It reinforced what I'd been thinking: that she and Ferris had been more than workmates.
The photographer came in half an hour later, and I opened the countertop and led him through to the guardroom.
“They all came out well,” he said nervously, tipping the photos into my hand.
“Great. Thank you.” I stood and studied them. Sometimes the photograph will make some detail you've missed jump out at you. I guess I'd been hoping for that kind of miracle, but it didn't happen. I went through them all twice, trying to think if there was anything else I could have done. There wasn't.
“Thank you, Mr. Roberts. I really appreciate your trouble. I hope it hasn't caused you any problems at work.”
“Oh, no.” He beamed, a little proudly. “No, I run the department. There's a whole staff to take care of the routine stuff. I just concentrate on the major projects and supervise the rest of the work.”
“You're the head accountant at the mine, aren't you?”
“Yes.” He was a small man with a gleaming bald head that flashed under the lights as he nodded to me. Under his topcoat he was wearing a suit and tie, one of the few people in town who bothered to dress with any formality.
“Tell me,” I said, thinking hard about how to phrase my question, “is tomorrow a special day for any reason? At the mine, or in town?”
He looked startled. “What makes you ask?”
“I have a suspicion that tomorrow is important in this investigation,” I said. “I can't tell you any more than that.”
He worked his lips nervously. “Well, this is strictly confidential,” he said. “We don't normally tell anybody but the chief himself.”
I felt my excitement rising but stayed calm, nodding to him. “Believe me, Mr. Roberts, your confidence is safe with me, and I really need to know.”
He looked around, checking the closed door behind him, then lowered his voice.
“Tomorrow is the day we move out our refined product.”
“Your gold?” It was hard not to take him by the shoulders and shake the details out of his mouth.
“Yes, not five nines pure, but about ninety percent. It goes to the mint in Ottawa.”
“And how big is the shipment?”
He licked his lips now, as nervous as an old-line Catholic about to eat steak on Friday. “This won't go any further?”
“You have my word, Mr. Roberts.” I resisted the temptation to raise my right hand. “One thousand pounds,” he said. “Depending on market price, and bearing in mind that it's not fully pure, only about ninety percent, that's about six million dollars’ worth.”
The news jolted me, as if I'd touched a live wire. Six million dollars! Ferris must have been involved. I knew he was corrupt. Perhaps he had seen this as his big score, the caper that would have set him free.
My face must have stayed calm because Roberts went on explaining. “That's approximate, as I say. Gold closed at four-twenty-four U.S. last night, that's five hundred and change Canadian, times fourteen ounces per troy pound, times a thousand. Seven million, less the ten percent for impurities that they take out at the refinery in Ottawa, say six million plus.”
“And it's all conducted in secrecy, the move?”
“Yes.” He glanced around again and nodded. “It's moved in an unmarked bullion van they send up from Toronto. It's armored, and the crew carry weapons but they're
not in uniform.”
“Do they take it all the way to Ottawa?”
He shook his head. “No, only to Olympia, to the airfield. There's a second security team there with the aircraft. They fly it the rest of the way.”
“What's the department's responsibility?”
“We always notify the chief and there's an escort out of town as far as the township line. The provincial police take over there.”
“I see.” I nodded. Probably all the men who had ever taken the escort duty would have guessed what was going on, but none of them would have needed to be told the contents of the van. It was just another duty on the day shift.
“How often does this happen?”
“It varies. About every two months, usually.”
I was thinking. This detail wouldn't crop up on the station calendar. The request would be on some private document the chief kept to himself in his own office.
“This won't go any further?” Roberts asked. He was frowning, almost sweating with tension. He would have made a lousy witness.
“No. Thank you, Mr. Roberts. The information stays within these walls. One other question. Who's in charge of security at the mine?”
“Jack Sheridan.” Roberts half turned and pointed towards the door behind him. “He's the husband of Marcie, your secretary.”
SEVENTEEN
Roberts stood looking at me, fiddling with his big fur hat. “You're quite sure you won't let this go any further.”
“I won't tell a soul. And please forget we ever had this conversation.”
“Good.” He nodded nervously. “And now I really should be getting to the office.”
I thanked him again for the photographs and let him out. Things were beginning to make sense. Marcie and Ferris were close; maybe they were lovers, or maybe close friends, good enough that she had talked to him about the bullion van, passing on confidences her husband had let slip at home. Six million dollars would have tempted people a lot more honest than Ferris.