by Alison Bruce
< Static >
“You awake, Garrett? Don’t go to sleep on the job.”
“Hurts like hell.”
“That’ll teach you to only wing the guy.”
“He was using Marten as a shield.”
“What was that shit about putting the next one between his eyes?”
< Laugh >
< Cough >
“Fuck that hurts. Why the hell can’t I pass out until the painkillers arrive?”
“Life sucks—”
< End session >
13
Hand shaking, I set aside the rest of the transcript.
I was at school when this happened. The Chief, though he wasn’t chief at the time, called my mother and took her to the hospital. His wife, Aunt Maggie, came into my classroom. She taught—still teaches—at the high school I attended. Her face told me something was wrong and I expected the worst. As soon as I learned my father was still alive and would probably remain so, I figured everything would be okay.
Of course, I was wrong.
Knowing something of what I might read next, I knew I couldn’t handle it right now. Besides, I had more calls to make. Last thing I needed was Carmedy giving me a hard time about putting off my real work.
I had just finished building two cream cheese and peach preserve sandwiches when Carmedy entered the office. He didn’t look particularly rested, but I wasn’t going to rock the boat by pointing this out.
“It’s not as healthy as the meal you made me,” I said, handing over the paper bag, “but they should help you get through the night. I’ve also made a thermos of cafe au lait and given you the last two energy drinks. I’ll go shopping this evening.”
“Don’t get too much,” he said. “Maggie and Igor will send us home with enough leftovers for a week and the office closes down in a couple of days.”
“Speak for yourself, Carmedy. I’ll be around to eat. Even if there’s no work here, I have a ton of stuff to do upstairs.”
Carmedy slung his pack on his shoulder, patted his pockets for keys and wallet then checked the heavy-duty flashlight on his belt. No gun.
No real need, but it didn’t stop me from carrying my Sig Sauer and a Taser. Strict weapons control only applied to law-abiding civilians, and I was no civilian.
“I’m going home tonight if you want to use the apartment,” I said.
He shook his head.
“I’m okay. I changed the sheets for you, by the way.”
“Thanks. You didn’t have to.”
He shrugged and turned to go. Over his shoulder he said, “Yes, I did.”
What the hell did that mean?
The plan was Carmedy would do a walk through the neighbourhood before it got dark, checking likely places for signs of a body dump or burial plot. Later he’d join the patrol and lend a fresh ear to the local gossip.
About the time he was patrolling, I’d start visiting suspects. That way, in the unlikely event there was trouble, he’d be in the neighbourhood to help out. Meanwhile, I had errands to run.
Although it was before six, I went upstairs to change out of day-wear. What with my closet purge, I now had as many usable clothes at the apartment as in my room at Magnus’s place.
Before heading out, I ran through my checklist. Wallet, cuffs, Maglite and shopping bags were in my large shoulder bag. Keys, personal alarm and eCom went in my pockets. Taser and pistol had their respective holsters, out of sight thanks to my pea coat.
But it wouldn’t be out of sight when I was visiting homes. Come to think of it, my father rarely went around armed as a private detective…unless you counted his walking stick, Maglite and utility knife.
I locked up my pistol and dropped my Taser into my purse.
A couple of hours later, with one bag full of wrapped presents and another with groceries, I hailed a taxi and headed home. Magnus was still working nights. He left directions to a meatloaf and a container of marinated vegetables in the fridge and signed, “Love M. PS: Fresh cookies in the tin.”
I broke up a slice of the meatloaf over the vegetables and ate out of the container while I read police reports.
Blake Collins had three arrests for drunk and disorderly conduct and a sealed juvenile file. Police had been called out on noise complaints multiple times before the spousal abuse file was opened. Most of the time the violation was the result of partying too hard and too late with his cronies. These parties were rowdy enough for the on-scene officer to scan IDs. Paulo Crabbe was one of the recurring names. Another familiar name popped out: Koehne, Ishmael Micah. I knew two men by that name. Unsurprisingly, it was the younger Mr. Koehne who had been a troublemaker.
I loaded my map of the neighbourhood. The report put Crabbe on Orchard Road, same house he lived in now. Koehne junior resided on Side Road 6, which was now called Applegate Drive. I knew from the office leases, this was also the home address of Koehne senior. I added another “o” to my map.
Twenty minutes later, I asked the cabby to wait while I dropped off groceries at the office, bribing her with the promise of a peanut butter and peach jam sandwich. Carmedy almost always made it in before I did, and he’d want his energy drinks and fresh bagels waiting. On the way to East Hills, I called Carmedy.
14
“Hey, partner.”
I smiled. He must be having a good evening if he was being so friendly.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
“Nice night for a walk.”
“I just wanted to give you a heads-up. I’m going to start interviewing the people on my list. I don’t anticipate any trouble, but…”
“Better safe than sorry, right?”
“That’s what I always say,” said Mrs. Parnell.
Carmedy must have put me on speaker.
“You never told me your partner was so good looking, Detective.”
“I didn’t want to make your husband jealous.”
There was a deep chuckle I assumed was Carmedy.
“Ping my eCom with your location so I can find you if you shout,” he said, then disconnected.
I uploaded the addresses I would be visiting and established a quick link to his eCom in case I needed to “shout” for help. Soon after, the taxi stopped. I filed the electronic receipt to recoverable expenses and wished the cabby a safe evening.
I planned to start with Mr. Crabbe. Since he wasn’t home, my first interview was Irene Cole, formerly Collins.
No Christmas decorations adorned her property, but a tidy mulch covered path lined with solar lights led the way to the porch. Beside the door was a hand-painted sign advertising peach preserves for sale, by appointment only. The logo was very familiar.
I almost laughed when I connected the dots. Irene Koehne/Collins/Cole produced that delicious peach compote that Carmedy I had been enjoying for the last couple of days. Here was a potential answer to Mr. Parnell’s question of how Irene wound up with Blake Collins. He was a friend of her brother’s.
I rang the bell.
No answer.
I rang again then knocked loudly on a panel of one-way glass set that decorated the heavy wood door.
“Who’s there?” The voice came through the speaker by the door.
Knowing I was in full view of the unseen woman, I adopted an open stance and a friendly, but not too friendly, smile.
“I’m Kate Garrett, one of the detectives hired by your community to find the cat-killer.”
“I don’t belong to the neighbourhood watch.”
“Understood, Ms. Collins, but you do like to walk at night. It is possible you’ve seen something without realizing it, and I am sure you would want to help keep your neighbourhood safe. After all, people who hurt animals are just as likely to hurt humans.”
There was a pause long enough to make me wonder if I should knock again.
“That doesn’t follow,” said Irene. “Being a butcher doesn’t make you a suspect for cutting up human bodies. Exterminators don’t become killers just because they destroy
vermin.”
Actually, a butcher might become a suspect if the cadaver was cut up like a side of beef, and an exterminator would be questioned if their poisons matched the cause of death. I didn’t argue the point.
“Your neighbours’ pets are being targeted, not vermin or meat.”
Another long pause.
“I never saw anything,” she said finally. “Now please go.”
I changed tack.
“You make that wonderful peach jam, don’t you?”
“What does that have to do with cats?”
“Nothing, I just noticed your sign. Your brother rents an office suite from me. My partner and I bought some jars from him. It’s delicious!”
“Are you going to evict my brother if I don’t talk to you?”
“Uh, no,” I said, momentarily derailed. “I would appreciate talking to you about your usual route when you walk, Ms. Collins. You might have noticed something without realizing it. While I’m here, I’d also like to pick up some of your peach chutney. However,” now I laid on a tone of shocked affront, “I would never consider letting your lack of cooperation impact on a business relationship.”
“You can’t come in.”
“I understand. We can talk like this.”
She didn’t say anything. I took her silence as consent.
“Graydon Parnell told me that your cat went missing a few years ago.”
“Ten years ago. My husband killed her before he left.” Her tone was flat, almost distant, as if she was speaking from far away and long ago.
“Was your husband often a violent man?”
“No,” was her knee jerk reply. “Not physically,” she said after a brief hesitation. “Not most of the time. He threatened violence to the things I loved, like Susie, my cat.”
“Did he threaten your family?”
“My brother sometimes,” she said, and I could hear anger touch her carefully regulated tone.
“But your brother and he were friends.”
“So? He said he loved me.”
The anger was bubbling up. I waited, letting her fill the silence.
“He never threatened Mike when he was around. I don’t know if he really would have hurt him, but he said he would if I didn’t behave. I couldn’t take the chance.”
On top of physical and emotional abuse, Collins effectively held Irene’s loved ones hostages. No wonder she resisted leaving him.
“Do you know where your husband went after he shot Detective Garrett?”
“Your name is Garrett,” she said, sounding thoughtful. I hoped she wasn’t thinking of telling me to go away.
“Joe Garrett was my father.”
“He was very good to me. I felt safer when he was alive.”
She gave a shaky sigh.
“To answer your question, I hope Blake went to Hell and never comes back.”
I gave her a moment before asking the next question.
“Do you think it’s possible that he might have returned?”
This produced a pause so long, I wondered if she was still there. Then I heard her sigh again.
“I don’t think my husband will return. I hope not. However, sometimes I fear he never left.”
I turned the topic back to the present and what Irene’s nightly routine was before I was hired. Twenty minutes later, I walked away with a little more information, four jars of chutney and a bottle of syrup. The jars were delivered via a delivery door near the side entrance. It revealed a compartment with a closed door to the inside of the house. The jars were set out for me. She wouldn’t take money for them—they were her gift for my father’s sake—but I left my card with a note to call me if she thought of anything new.
Paulo Crabbe still wasn’t home so I went across the street to visit Theo Konstantin.
15
Mr. Konstantin must have been watching for me, because the lights went out when I reached his front walk. Knocking didn’t work so I sat on his porch swing and waited. While I waited, I ran a police check.
It wasn’t a deep search. It just looked for local interaction with City Police. Konstantin had never been arrested. He had no outstanding traffic or bylaw violations. What he did have was a three-page list of complaints against his neighbours. The Johanssons were too noisy. The Georges let their dog run loose on his lawn. Mrs. Bailey, Mr. Bennett, Ms. McKenzie and Mrs. Gowda were all accused of verbal harassment. The investigating constable noted on each report that harassment for Mr. Konstantin meant that someone stopped him on the street to talk.
The front door opened.
“If you don’t leave, I’ll call the police,” said Konstantin, poking his head out.
“I am the police. I’m Detective Kate Garrett.”
“Well in that case…”
Konstantin beckoned me into his living room and invited me to sit. I expected dark and dreary. Instead I found blinding white. Every paintable surface was white. The upholstery was white. My soft-soled shoes squeaked on white laminate floors.
“You keep a clean and bright house,” I said.
“Easy to see when people break in.”
“This happens often?”
Konstantin smirked.
“Not since I redecorated.”
I took out my eCom to take notes and put Carmedy on standby. Mr. Konstantin was a loon.
“You’re Joe Garrett's daughter.”
I was only a little surprised. My father got around.
“How did you know my father?”
“I was his first client when he became a private investigator. I hired him to look for my wife. The police said she deserted me. I was sure that she had run off with that Collins guy when he disappeared.”
“Blake Collins?”
Konstantin made a face and spat on the floor. Then he carefully cleaned up after himself.
“That snake was always flirting with my wife…patting her on the back and letting his hand linger…telling me I should watch out if I wanted to keep her.”
He started to spit again, paused and swallowed.
“What did my father find out?”
His righteous anger deflated. “He found her in Toronto, living with one of her college friends. She said she left me because I was paranoid. Then she said she would never have run off with Blake Collins. He was an evil man and she might have put up with my paranoia if I’d stopped him from harassing her.” Then his anger erupted. “I ask you, is it paranoid when I’m right about people?”
By letting him catalogue all the people who he felt he was right about, I gave Konstantin a chance to calm down. There were a few I hadn’t read about. For instance, Paolo Crabbe was a walking odor violation besides being a noisy neighbour and inclined to walk the neighbourhood and pee on people’s lawns. Almost all his neighbours poked their noses in where they didn’t belong and someone was stealing his bandwidth.
As it turned out, Konstantin had been a frequent client of my Garrett Investigations, and I soon identified him as the one my father called “Special K.”
“Your father was the one who suggested the white décor as a deterrent.”
Clever.
When Konstantin started winding down, I let him know I had other interviews to conduct.
On the porch, I messaged Carmedy, checked the power level on my Taser and the batteries in my Maglite. Mr. Konstantin watched me from behind his transoms, giving me an approving nod every time I looked his way. When I looked back a last time, he added a salute.
I’d almost made it to Crabbe’s door when Carmedy called.
“Leave your eCom open,” he said.
“Why?”
“Mrs. Gowda is concerned for your safety.”
Mrs. Gowda watched crime shows in her spare time. She especially liked True Crime and Cop Shop. This made her conversant with police technobabble and a bit of an armchair detective.
“She wanted to know if Mr. Crabbe was a suspect or a witness. I told her he was a person of interest.”
“Let’s hope he’s
a person of great interest,” said Mr. Gowda over the speaker. “My Sandy is suffering extreme cabin fever, but I’m not letting him out at night until this case is solved.”
“Sandy’s your cat?” asked Carmedy
Mrs. Gowda and I replied in unison: “Husband.”
“I’ll leave the line open,” I said. But I was going to mute the speaker. Otherwise I’d hear Mrs. Gowda’s running commentary on the interview.
Crabbe answered the door in an orange kimono, worn open over pink satin boxers with a cherry-red lip-print design. Both looked like they might fall off his skeletally thin body. I had a near overwhelming desire to tie his kimono shut with a granny knot.
“Good evening, Mr. Crabbe. I’m Detective Kate Garrett. I’m investigating the cat killing for the Neighbourhood Committee. Do you have time answer a few questions?”
He blinked at me a few times then snorted.
“You think I’m a suspect, don’t you?”
“Right now I’m just gathering information, sir.”
“Come on in, honey. Meet my friends.”
16
He ushered me through the vestibule, into his cluttered living room. I counted six cats. Three were lounging on chairs, two stretched out under the glass-top coffee table and a kitten peeked out of a toque on the floor.
“They’re all rescues,” he explained. “I’d have more but City Bylaw restricts me to six.”
“You must love cats.”
“Better than most people. For one thing, cats don’t get bent out of shape when I make a joke. I’m betting you’re here because I told Sandy Gowda that I was looking for a little pussy when he caught me on his property.”
He pointed to the cat in the hat.
“That one got loose. There’s always one in the bunch that wants to be an outdoor kitty, but I don’t allow it.”
He paused for effect.
“It’s irresponsible.”
He waved at the couch, which was the only cat-free seat in the room.
“Want a beer? Something stronger?”
“Neither. Thank you.”