[C. MacP #4] The Devil's in the Details

by Mary Jane Maffini

  I didn’t wait around to hear if they broke the door in. I careened down the alley beside the restaurant. My bike was back by the front door. No use now.

  Within minutes, the APB would be changed to the fishing hat and dark-rimmed glasses. I tossed them into a dumpster as I lumbered past. I stripped off the dark pants and top. There’s a first time for everything, including standing in an alley in your underwear. I slipped on Elaine’s sundress. I added the sweater and the floppy sun hat.

  I got back on to the nearest street and kept my head up, although it felt like it was about to fall off. The inevitable cruisers shot past me, heading for the restaurant. My goal was to get to Jasmine’s place without passing out. If there was even a small chance she would recognize someone in those photos, it was worth the risk. There was no chance I could accomplish that if I were in police custody.

  I couldn’t imagine any kind of happy ending in sight for me. It was a set of circumstances I used to see with my recidivist clients in my legal aid days. Sometimes, it doesn’t matter what the hell you do, you’re screwed.

  Thirty-Four

  Jasmine was tousled from sleep when she opened the door of her studio apartment. She blinked nearsightedly at the unfamiliar woman with the sun hat paying her an unexpected visit very early on a holiday Monday.

  “Don’t scream.” I leaned on the door frame to keep from falling over. At this point, what harm could an implied threat do?

  She shrank against the wall.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, Jasmine. I need your help.”

  “You killed Chelsea. And she was trying to help you.” The grey eyes were huge without the snazzy glasses.

  “I didn’t kill Chelsea. You have to believe me.”

  “You killed those other women.”

  “No.”

  “And you hurt Bianca. She was one of my customers. She was very kind.”

  “Listen. Someone else killed them. You have to trust me.”

  She made a sudden scoot toward the door. I lurched sideways to block her exit. Inside my throbbing head, my good angel squawked about assault.

  I said. “I need to sit down. I don’t feel well. It’s just a matter of time until I’m in police custody, and I need to know what happened. I won’t harm you. Please just look at those photos I told you about.”

  Her body language said she was still ready to bolt.

  I continued, “Someone in the photos might have killed Chelsea. The sooner you tell me if you recognize someone, the better.”

  The grey eyes flickered toward the door.

  I said. “The questions I was asking may have precipitated some of these attacks. You are probably in danger. But not from me.”

  She swallowed. “I’ll lose my place in law school if I get caught helping you. It’s a criminal offence.”

  I said. “Tell them I forced you. What the hell. My life is in danger, and the police are after me. I would really appreciate a cup of coffee.” My stomach lurched. As much as I wanted it, maybe coffee wasn’t the right thing. “Let’s make that tea.”

  Jasmine’s hands shook.

  I said, “Orange pekoe. If you have it.”

  “I have it.”

  I wasn’t surprised. It looked like she had everything she needed in her compact, immaculate studio apartment. You could tell she was a practical young woman. I spilled the photos onto her small table and sank into one of two director’s chairs.

  The kettle shrieked as it came to a boil. I reached and grabbed the handle. “I think I’ll pour.”

  She stared and turned pale. “You don’t think I’d scald you with boiling water?”

  “Couldn’t take a chance.”

  “That’s a horrible thing.”

  “We agree.” I poured boiling water into a brown teapot. “It has to steep for four minutes. In the meantime, I’ll tell you what I’ve learned.”

  Jasmine slid open a package of cigarettes, took one out and flicked a disposable lighter. Her hands shook. She said, “Look at that. I can’t believe I’ve started this disgusting habit again. After years. It’s all this stress. People I know getting killed. Unbelievable.”

  “There’s more,” I said. I told her about Laura Brown’s false identity. The note about the Settlers, the women who were connected with Laura, the two other deaths and how the women both knew Laura from Carleton days. After I got to the part about finding Bianca, I said, “The whole thing with the Settlers seems so far-fetched.”

  She shook her head. “Not really. This type of group was in the news a couple of years ago. I took a sociology course, and everyone had to do a presentation on some aspect of those urban terrorists: The Weathermen, The Symbionese Liberation Army. A bunch of European ones. A lot of interesting presentations. One of my classmates did her research on the Settlers. They were similar to the better known groups, a little bit more recent, but the same idea: we’re middle-class white students from stable homes, and now we get to shoot and bomb the oppressors because we know what’s best for society. Somebody gets killed? That’s just the price you have to pay. Too bad, so sad. I did my research on the Kathleen Soliah case. She’s probably the best known, if you don’t count Patty Hearst. I was starting to think about law school, and I found the issues really interesting. She was like everyone’s mom. Nice lady, nice house, nice husband, nice kids, SUV, the whole scene. But she had been living this pleasant life for so many years.”

  I said, “I know the case. It got a lot of press.”

  “She thought the authorities should let her go, after all that time. They should look at her life as such a good citizen, you know, part of community groups for progressive change and not charge her with attempted murder or anything else. Water under the bridge. If that’s not far-fetched, what is?”

  “She stood trial.”

  “Convicted too. She had plenty of support. Lots of people thought she shouldn’t be prosecuted. The same as you get people saying that war crimes are in the past and shouldn’t be pursued.”

  “And what did you think?”

  “I took a hard line. The prof thought my paper lacked balance. B minus.” She flashed one of her smiles. I relaxed a bit. At least we’d found something in common. I needed her sympathy and understanding. “But anyway, most of the people who have either been caught or who have given themselves up were sentenced to lengthy prison terms, so I guess the courts agree with me.”

  I said, “Something to worry about if you’re a former urban terrorist.”

  “I don’t think they found any of the Settlers. Some of them were killed in a big shoot-out, I think they were mostly young girls, sixteen or seventeen. Some people said they’d been kidnapped. I don’t know about that. The leader was a man. Big guy. My classmate showed pictures. Wore a paramilitary uniform.”

  “Would you recognize him?”

  “Hardly. It was one of those grainy shots that some witness took, I think. And it’s been a couple of years since the class. I don’t think he was ever identified. But I’m not a hundred per cent sure. I could try to call my friend and see if she still has her project notes. But she’s probably away for the weekend.” She shivered. “It’s weird. We were studying these movements like history, like they were a hundred years ago. This is so creepy to think some of these people might have been here in Ottawa all along. I bet they figured they’d never be discovered here. Nice place to live, no FBI looking for them here.”

  “Bear with me, Jasmine, I have a theory. I’m thinking if the leader had made a place for himself in society, and someone threatened to expose him, that would be plenty of motive to kill.”

  She stubbed out her cigarette. “It makes sense. All these women who knew each other and spent time together at Maisie’s. And you said, Laura had been using a dead girl’s name.”

  “Classic identity theft. And we don’t know if Frances Foxall and Sylvie Dumais were really who they said they were.”

  “I guess so. I can hardly believe I have a fugitive holed up in my apartment. It’s all
too bizarre for this time of the morning.”

  “Yeah, we agree. How about looking at a few snapshots? The night Chelsea was killed, I was attacked, probably because I had a box of photos, which were stolen. It didn’t make sense at the time, but now I realize, there must be at least one other person who could be identified.”

  Jasmine lit another cigarette. “But who knew you had those photos? Was someone stalking you?”

  “Those are some of the devilish details I’m puzzling over.”

  Jasmine reached for the photos. “I guess it can’t hurt to look.” A moment later, her shoulders started to shake. “What were they thinking?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I get the point about the hair and sweaters.”

  “But what are those shoulder pads about?”

  “See anyone you recognize?”

  “Besides you, of course. I’ve seen her.” She pointed to Elaine.

  “You have? With Laura?”

  She pursed her lips and lit another cigarette. “Pretty sure. I wouldn’t want to swear to it in court.”

  “All right.” My stomach was heaving.

  “But there’s someone else. Are you all right, Camilla? You look like you’re going to . . .”

  “I’ll be okay. You said you saw someone else?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know her name. She had lunch with Laura too. I’m pretty sure I saw her with Bianca. And she seemed to know Norine.”

  I sat. “Show me which person.”

  “This woman.” Jasmine pointed with a long, elegant finger.

  “My god.”

  “You know her?”

  I nodded. The elegant finger was pointed at Kate Westerlund. Small puzzle pieces clicked in my brain.

  Jasmine frowned, “She’s older than the others. What’s her connection?”

  “She is the wife of a prof we all really loved and respected.”

  “You’re kidding. Is she by any chance from the USA?”

  I hesitated. “Yes.”

  “And her husband?”

  “Holy crap,” I said.

  Jasmine said, “Do you think he could be involved?”

  “No,” I said. “Not Joe.”

  “But did this guy know all the dead women?”

  “Probably, but it couldn’t be Joe.”

  Jasmine shrugged. “Whatever you say. But I saw that woman, Kate, with every one of them. Do you think that’s a coincidence?”

  “Even Frances Foxall and Sylvie Dumais?”

  “Pretty sure. My god, Chelsea would have served her.”

  It made sense. I just didn’t want it to.

  Jasmine shook my arm. “You said you loved and respected him. That sounds like a charismatic leader to me. And a prof on top of that. Remember I told you they never found the leader of the Settlers? Is the age right? He’d have to be older than the women.”

  The age was right. Everything was right. And everything was wrong.

  Jasmine leaned back, eyes shining. She inhaled deeply, keen on solving the mystery. Of course, she hadn’t cared about Joe Westerlund. She said, “I bet this dude wouldn’t be too thrilled to have old murder charges surfacing.”

  I reeled into the bathroom and was very sick for a long time. When I teetered out, ten minutes later, Jasmine had a glass of water waiting. She said, “You look awful. You can’t keep running. You should really give yourself up.”

  “Not yet. I have something important left to do. Thanks for your help. I’m sorry I frightened you. If something happens to me, tell the police what you told me.”

  Someone pounded on the door. Jasmine and I jumped.

  “Open up, police.”

  I said. “Stall.”

  “Coming! I’m getting dressed,” Jasmine yelled. She lowered her voice. “You need to scram, Camilla.”

  “How would they know I was here?”

  “Someone must be following you. Shit. I guess that’s it for law school.”

  “Why? I forced my way in. Not your fault. Now how do I get out?”

  She pulled open the window and whispered, “Fire escape.”

  I hate fire escapes more than windows. I hate being arrested more than either. I figured the police would be watching the fire escape unless they were totally incompetent. That was too much to hope for.

  At ground level, a nice police officer was checking behind the dumpster. She was not looking up. I edged along the fire escape, and tried the window of the next apartment. It held firm. I couldn’t afford to make noise. I went up instead of down, pressing myself against the building, tiptoeing on the rusty metal steps, hoping by the time the cop looked up again, I’d be gone.

  Two floors up, my luck returned. A single window was propped open with a can of Blue. Despite my disintegrating state, I was able to lift the window. I slipped in and lowered the window, gently, carefully and hopefully. I found myself in a tiny, one-room apartment. From the door, I heard thundering steps on stairs. I crawled toward the unmade bed, squeezed under it and positioned myself behind a pile of smelly clothing. I curled into a ball, trying not to gag. I worked to get my breathing under control as the cops banged on the door. I heard the door splinter. In a way, that was good. They couldn’t have a warrant for this place, and illegal search and entry can get the best case tossed out of court. Splinter away, boys, I thought. I heard a male and female searching the tiny apartment, pulling on the closet door, scouting out the bathroom. From behind my clothing barrier, I was aware of someone checking under the bed.

  “No one there,” a male voice said.

  “What a pig sty,” a female voice said. “You think this guy ever heard of laundry?”

  “Maybe she made it to the roof,” the male said.

  I heard the window open and the clatter of their boots on the fire escape. I felt a whoosh of relief just as everything went pale grey, then black.

  Thirty-Five

  Goddam concussions, you never know when they’ll give you grief. I was dizzy and nauseated as I struggled to my feet. I wasn’t sure how long I’d slept. But if the Labatt’s wall clock could be believed, I had been out cold for six hours. That was more sleep than I’d had in two nights. I felt a bit better, until I inhaled. There was something important I was trying to remember, but it kept eluding me. What?

  I slunk to the window and squinted down. The fire escape obscured my view. I looked around the apartment, which seemed to consist of one attic room, furnished in two-fours of Blue and Ottawa Senators flags. The window must have been propped open to minimize the essence of unwashed socks, sweat pants, overflowing ashtrays and a large selection of running shoes that had seen a lot of running. Nothing like Jasmine’s cosy little home. I sniffed something else in the air, a distinctive odour. Was it what I suspected? The question was answered when I located a healthy pot plant thriving under a gro-light in the storage space under the sink. The cops had missed that. Amazing. Probably they didn’t think I could fit under the sink.

  I peered through the dusty front window. No sign of police. They wouldn’t likely hang around for six hours.

  So far, so good.

  Seemed like the right time to make a couple of important calls.

  Alvin sounded breathless when he answered his cellphone. “Lord thundering Jesus, Camilla. What are you trying to do?”

  “Thank you, Alvin. That helps to calm me.”

  “It’s not a good time to be calm. Every cop across the country is hunting for you.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Hang on. Violet wants to talk to you.”

  “Ms. MacPhee. Don’t mind Young Ferguson. He’s terribly worried. We’re been frantic. Why haven’t you been in communication?”

  “Your cellphone ran out of juice. And I can’t recharge it.”

  “Ah. Equipment failure. Still, it takes more than that to slow down this band of warriors. We have good news on the legal front.”

  “What?”

  “Sergeant Mombourquette asked us to inform you that he was successful in contacti
ng your preferred legal counsel.”

  “You mean Sheldon Romanek?”

  “Indeed. I spoke to him myself. Mr. Romanek would be honoured to represent you. He is waiting to hear from you.”

  “Did Romanek give you a private number I can use?”

  “Yes. He says you can speak freely on that line.”

  “Okay, I need the number.”

  Of course, when someone gives you a number that is not listed anywhere, you want to write it down. That would require a writing implement and a piece of paper. I had neither. I glanced around the apartment. This guy didn’t spend a lot of time recording deep thoughts. I did find a chewed-up pencil and a pizza flyer and managed to write down Romanek’s number.

  “What can we do to assist, Ms. MacPhee?”

  “It’s risky for anyone caught helping me. I just put this nice girl, Jasmine, in a tough spot.”

  “We do not abandon our comrades.”

  “If the police learn you’ve helped me in any way, you’ll be charged, remember?”

  “Of course, I remember. I am in full possession of all my faculties, Ms. MacPhee.”

  “I wish I could say the same about me. The main thing is, you have to keep your distance. Jail is a bad place, Mrs. P. Even for a short time. I guarantee you will not like it. So thanks but no thanks.”

  “Don’t underestimate what we can tolerate.”

  “You’ll just add to my troubles. If they arrest you, that gives them something to manipulate me with.”

  “You may be pinned down by enemy fire, but your platoon will be there for you. Do not give up the good fight.”

  I wasn’t sure that being stuck in a World War II time warp was consistent with having full use of your faculties. “You may not be afraid of jail, but Alvin hates being arrested.”

  “We don’t plan on being arrested. I am eighty years old. Consider the optics.”

  “That reminds me, speaking of optics. Keep on top of the media reports. I’ll try and find a phone and check in every now and then.”

  “Roger.”

  “I’d like you to talk to my brother-in-law, Conn. He’ll know what’s going on. To ensure his personal survival at the hands of my sisters, he won’t want his colleagues to shoot me.”