Flashback

by Ted Wood

  'Is that normal?'

  'I do it all the time,' he said. 'For now we've moved her to a ward. Why don't you go and see her?'

  The hospital gift shop was open and they had a flowers for sale, locally grown roses, bundled by volunteers with more enthusiasm than skill. I bought a bunch anyway and went up to Fred's room.

  She was sitting up in bed, reading a magazine. There was another woman in the bed next to her, sleeping.

  Fred greeted me excitedly and repeated what the doctor had said. I went back to the nurse's station for a vase and put the flowers in water while we discussed what to do.

  'You should go home and give Sam his supper,' Fred said firmly. 'I'm stuck in neutral right now. Nothing's going to happen tonight, they tell me. You can check around town like you do every night and call up at midnight.'

  'I should be here,' I argued feebly.

  'Sam is family too,' Fred said. 'You can't do anything here and he needs you.'

  She was firm about it and relaxed. 'This is the most natural business in the world. And anyway, all I have to do overnight is sleep.'

  'Well, I have to feed Sam, that's certain.'

  'And check your properties,' she said with a smile. 'You know you always do, even on your day off.'

  In the end that's what I did, thankful to be out of the hospital. My own stays have always been painful, both here and in Nam, recovering from wounds. I knew that Fred would be going through something just as hard, even though it was going to be great afterwards.

  The light was fading and the kids had gone from Main Street and the village was settling down for a quiet night. There was music coming from the open windows of the Lakeside Hotel at the Marina and a crowd of cars filled the parking lot of the beer parlour below the bridge, where the blue collar drinking gets done, but there were no people on the street. They were home, eating supper and rubbing lotion on their sunburns.

  Sam was off the verandah when I pulled in and he looked up and barked at me. He isn't excitable and I knew something had happened. I called him over and fussed him and then let him lead me back to where he had been standing. He took me to his find, a package in the red-brown coarse paper they use in butcher shops to wrap meat. This one had obviously hit the gravel of the drive and rolled a couple of times and I could see that it had been opened, the original brown tape torn, then refastened with scotch tape. I picked it up, feeling the squashiness that announced it had ham-burg meat inside. There was barely enough light left to examine it so I clicked my tongue at Sam and went into the house with him, carrying the package with me. I laid it on the countertop and slit it open with my pocket-knife. There was hamburg inside right enough, but it had been laced with a coarse white powder.

  I let it lie there while I bent down to pat Sam's head as he looked up at me. 'Good thing you remembered your training, old buddy. This stuff's been baited.'

  CHAPTER 4

  TV cops can identify poisons at a glance. I can't, I must have been away the day they covered it at the academy. But it figured to be nasty. If Sam had been less well trained it would have killed him. I wondered who had tried it on. The teen gang probably, getting even for their loss of face that morning. I saved the evidence in case I got the chance to prove anything, rewrapping the meat and marking it 'Evidence. Poison.' and drawing a skull and crossbones on the package. Then I bagged it and stuck it in the freezer to send to the forensics centre when I had a chance.

  Sam watched me closely. Hovering over the meat until I came home had sharpened his appetite. But his training had stuck, and saved his life. So, as a special reward I defrosted a chunk of our own hamburger meat to give him with his chow.

  When he'd finished I sat on the back porch and had a beer, trying to find a pattern to the day. So much had happened. A teen-gang had come to town, then the car in the lake, looking like it had been stolen by kids, vandalized. And most important, the dead woman in the trunk.

  Was there a thread to it all? I couldn't see one, except for Marcia Tracy. She had turned up in both the puzzles. There was no reason why she shouldn't know both John Waites and the kid from the gang. It was just the timing of her involvement that intrigued me. I would have to talk to her, especially about the gang leader. He'd looked very different up in Parry Sound, dressed neatly, acting confidently, not like a rebel. How could he be two completely different people in the course of a single day? I needed to talk to him, not the way I would have had to on the street in Parry Sound, he could have brushed me off there, knowing I had no jurisdiction. No, it had to be a formal interrogation.

  When I finished my beer I walked Sam around the property, telling him to Seek, his order to check for people hiding. He ran everywhere in the darkness, under the willows along the edge of the lake, out along the dock and into my boat, and into the woods on the far side of the road from the house. I was concerned about Kershaw on top of my other worries, but when Sam found nothing we drove back to the police station.

  It was as I'd left it, except for a long roll of messages peeling off the teletype. I tore them off and skimmed them to see if Kershaw had been re-arrested. He hadn't been, but there had been a break-in overnight at a cottage in Orillia, about half the distance from Toronto to Murphy's Harbour. Not a startling event, but the perp had stolen some clothing, something a fugitive might have done, and the place was on the way to the Harbour.

  The only other message that stopped me was a report of another gang swarming up at Pointe au Baril. It lies north of us, the other side of Parry Sound. A nondescript bunch of teens had hit the grocery, taking stuff but not really stealing it, tossing it away contemptuously as they drove out of town. Routine teen-gang behaviour but the report made me frown. Why would a gang, possible the same gang, hit two little resorts, fifty miles apart, and leave the big town in between untouched? Where did they come from? Gang problems are usually local. It's your own doctor's and lawyer's sons who band together and raise hell. It's their way of letting the neighbours know how little they care for their parents. Hitting on total strangers in two widely separated places was not normal gang practice and that was puzzling.

  Nothing on the list called for action, so I locked up and drove up to Carl Simmonds' place. He was out on the lawn, on a swing seat, nursing a drink, but he got up and came to the gate to greet me. 'I hear you took Freda to the hospital. Is everything OK?'

  'Fine, thanks, no action yet. I'm heading back at midnight.'

  'Don't worry, Reid. I know she's going to be fine,' he said. 'How about a beer while I get you the pictures?'

  We went inside and he cracked a beer for both of us and pulled out an envelope of eight by tens. Like all his work, they were excellent, crisp and clear. They didn't reveal anything I'd missed, but I thanked him.

  He kibitzed a little bow. 'I hope the Andersons are as happy with their wedding shots. It was very difficult to hide the bride's big tummy.'

  We went back outside and sat, with Sam lying beside me on the grass while we drank our beer. My mind was still running around the events of the day and I needed to talk. For a year now I've had Fred to discuss things with, getting the benefit of a non-police point of view. It prompted me to open up a little to Carl. I knew he wasn't a gossip, my information was safe.

  'Do you know anything about a woman called Tracy? She has a place on the other side of the lake, where that car went into the water last night?'

  'That would be Marcia Tracy, the movie producer from Toronto,' he said at once. 'A friend of mine in Toronto works as a hairdresser in her studio. Tough lady, he says.'

  'She seems to have a strange mixture of friends.'

  'Maybe not friends, according to Claude, But she'd have lots of courtiers. She's important in the film business in Toronto.'

  I thought about it a moment and then said, 'Well, I saw her today with the owner of that Honda. She drove him to Kinski's.'

  'The poor man whose wife was in the trunk?'

  'It turned out it wasn't his wife, but that's a different story.'

&n
bsp; Another man might have cut in, pressing for details but Carl didn't. He asked, 'And?'

  'And I saw her up in Parry Sound with the kid who was running that gang this morning.'

  'On the street? It might just have been a casual contact of some kind?'

  'No, they were having dinner at Pietro's.'

  'You're sure it was the same kid?'

  'Positive.'

  Carl was excited now. 'Dinner at Pietro's. Very fancy. Was he trying to sweet-talk her, maybe?'

  'A seduction? Could be, I guess. Fred says she's got a string of young guys behind her.'

  'Actors, of course,' Carl said and suddenly I could see the connection.

  'If this guy's an actor, maybe this gang thing is his way of auditioning.'

  'With actors, anything's possible,' Carl said. 'If she was remaking The Wild Bunch he would have turned up on a big Harley. Perhaps she's doing something about youth gangs.'

  'That makes sense.' I drained my beer and stood up, picking up the envelope of photographs. 'Thanks for the beer and the wisdom, Carl. You'll send your bill for these to the station, will you?'

  'Plus sales tax,' he said happily. 'Glad to have helped. Give my love to Fred when you see her.'

  'I will. But I've got a call to make first.'

  Sam whisked into the car ahead of me and curled up on the passenger seat, then I drove off, around the lake to Ms Tracy's house. There were lights on and her car was in the driveway. I got out and went to the door. The radio was playing soft rock, a song that had been big the year I joined the Marines.

  Marcia Tracy came out of the living-room looking surprised. She was wearing a cotton housecoat, practical enough that I scratched the idea that she was entertaining a young lover. She was wearing half-glasses on her nose and carrying on of the typescripts I'd seen in her bedroom.

  When she recognized me she took off her glasses and opened the door. 'Well, this is a surprise. Am I to congratulate you, Chief?'

  'Nothing's happened yet, Ms Tracy. I wondered if I might ask you a couple of questions, if you don't mind.'

  Her tone didn't change. 'Just like Peter Falk,' she said. 'Come in.'

  She opened the door and I came in and stood on the porch, keeping my hat on.

  'I was having a scotch. Could I get you something?'

  'No, thank you. I won't keep you long.'

  'Too bad,' she teased. She smelt of some light fragrance, outdoorsy but provocative. When I didn't speak she said, 'Well?'

  'What's the name of your new picture? The one you're planning right now?'

  'What an odd question from an officer of the law. Are you trying to get your wife a part? I understand she's very good.'

  'She's hung up her skates,' I said, smiling to ease the tension I could fell building up in me. 'No, I wondered if you were doing a picture about teen-gangs?'

  She was just as light but her eyes narrowed a fraction. 'Why do you ask that?'

  'Well, I had a run-in with a gang this morning, in town. I was off duty at the time and the only way I could resolve it was to neutralize the leader, boy about twenty maybe, six-foot, dark hair, useful-looking build.'

  'Sounds yummy.'

  'I wondered if you'd tell me his name, please?'

  'Me?' She must have done some acting herself, she was almost convincing.

  'Yes. You had dinner with him in Parry Sound. I'd like to talk to him.'

  'That boy's an actor. He drove up from Toronto to see me.'

  'In an old Ford Fairlane with four other kids.'

  'I don't know how he travelled.' She shrugged and I could see she was enjoying herself, playing the tycoon, keeping me at bay.

  'I'd really like to talk to him. Could I ask you for his name, please?'

  'Is he in some kind of trouble?'

  'Not at all.' I shook my head, all hearty and friendly. 'But he might be able to help me, that's all.'

  'Sit down,' she said. 'This is very interesting.'

  There was no reason not to, so I did, taking off my hat. She sat opposite, letting a flash of leg show, then adjusting her housecoat. 'You really think it's the same boy?'

  She was playing games with me so I took another track.

  'You have a lot of friends, Ms Tracy.'

  'One does tend to, in my circle.' She reached out to the coffee table and set down her script. 'I don't see how it can interest a policeman.'

  'At around one o'clock today you drove John Waites down to the gas station on the highway where his car had been recovered. Have you spoken to him since?'

  'No, why?' She had hazel eyes and there were tiny flecks of gold in the pupils, she was almost beautiful, I realized, but too square in the face, too strong to be appealing to most men.

  'Because there was a woman's body in the trunk.' I watched her and she gasped and almost dropped her glass. It looked genuine. She stared at me for a long moment, then took a quick gulp of her drink.

  'She drowned when his car went into the lake. Waites thought it was his wife at first.'

  'It wasn't?'

  'No. It was another woman, similar in appearance. He identified her later as a friend of his wife's, a Carolyn Jeffries.'

  Now her composure had gone. She set down her drink and stood up, hugging her arms around her. I sat and said nothing until she turned to speak to me. 'What are you trying to tell me?'

  'Nothing that isn't public knowledge,' I said. 'It's just that I lead a quiet life here. Then, in one day there are two teen-gang incidents and a homicide. The car with the body in it had been roughed up the way kids might have done it. That's all I have, but I see you in touch with all the players and I wondered if there was anything you wanted to tell me.'

  'Like what?' There was a cigarette box on the coffee table and she opened it and took one out. She looked around for matches but couldn't see any. I stood up and took out a pack of Lakeside Tavern matches and lit for her. She cupped my hand as she took the light and I could feel that she was trembling.

  'Like, is there some connection that I'm not seeing? Between Waites and this actor whose name you haven't told me yet.'

  'I know them both,' she said softly. 'John Waites is my lawyer. Eric Hanson is an actor. I know both of them, professionally.'

  'I'd like to talk to Hanson. Do you know where he is?'

  'No.' She said it quickly, then took a quick drag on her cigarette and said, 'No, I'm sorry, I don't know. If you call my office in the morning they'll put you in touch with his agent. He'll tell you.'

  'That would be helpful, Ms Tracy, and I'd appreciate it, but it would be even better if I could talk to him tonight. If you could tell me, for instance, whether he's here now. Then I could talk to him and get out of your life.'

  'He's not. And I don't like your tone.' She was suddenly all angles, lean and rigid as she stubbed the cigarette and tugged her housecoat closer at the throat. 'Please leave.'

  I stood up. 'Thank you for the help, Ms Tracy.' I was going by the book now, lots of formality, no rudeness, leaving right away. She would have no cause to complain about me to the village council or the Police Commission.

  She said nothing and I put on my cap and left, clicking my tongue for Sam who had been waiting outside.

  I drove slowly down the road around the lake, past Pickerel Point Lodge. It isn't big, by city standards, a couple of dozen rooms, two tennis courts and a beach and private dock with a row of good-sized cruisers tied up. By night it looks its best, the floodlights and the light at the end of the dock magnifying the importance of everything. I could see a fisherman on the dock, using a surface lure by the look of it, retrieving in slow stages, hoping to prod a pickerel into action.

  I debated going in to see if Waites had gone back to Toronto but decided against it. I had nothing specific to ask him and he was a lawyer, he'd brush me off like a fly and it might screw up Holland's investigation, whenever that happened. So I took one last spin through town, checking the locks on all the properties that were closed for the night, then headed up the highway. Bu
t I was still restless and I slowed as I passed each motel, checking the parking lot for the Ford that Eric Hanson had been driving. I wanted to know more about him, specifically if stealing the Accord had been part of the game he was playing with Marcia Tracy.

  I recognized Hanson's Fairlane, ten miles north of the Harbour parked at the Northont Motel. It's a cheap place, individual cabins about fifteen feet square, white paint peeling off them. A new guy took it over last spring but he's going quietly broke. Now, in peak season, there were cars outside only three of the places.

  I went to the office and stepped into a museum of despair. Everything needed paint and there was dust on the furniture and drapes and tired old folders and the few tatty souvenirs of the area. The owner, a sour man in a T-shirt, came through a bead curtain behind the office and nodded. 'Need a room, Officer?'

  'Not tonight, thanks. But I'm interested in the people whose car is outside unit three. Could I see who it's registered to?'

  'You gotta warrant?'

  'I don't need one. Haven't you read the Inn-keepers' Act?' I wasn't sure myself what it said but it figured he hadn't read it.

  'I'm too goddamn busy to read everything I'm s'posed to,' he said and pulled out a box of cards. 'What unit was that?'

  'Three. The car's a Ford.'

  'Three. Yeah, Sidney Greenstreet, Niagara Falls.'

  I didn't laugh but it looked like I'd found my actor. 'Thanks.'

  He mumbled something but slapped the box shut and went back through the curtain. I paused outside to whistle Sam to my side, then walked over the unit. The light was on inside and rap music was jabbering away, loud, with lots of bass to it. Teen-gang opera.

  I knocked but nobody answered so I used the heel of my hand, thumping even louder than the bass on the ghetto-blaster. Nobody came and I tried the door handle. The door swung open away from me and then a man hurled himself at me, screaming something.