Rundown

by Rick Blechta

  Pratt nodded to Darren as he passed and stopped in front of the couple.

  “I would like to extend my sincerest condolences for your loss.”

  Rebecca’s dad looked at him closely. “Darren told me when you came in that you’re the detective in charge of the case. Have you made any progress? Are you going to catch the animal who ended our daughter’s life?”

  Pratt sighed. “I’d like to be able to tell you we’ve caught the person who did it. It’s still pretty early.”

  “Will you ever be able to tell us that?”

  “We are making progress, I believe.” Pratt turned to Darren. “Is there a place I could speak to them alone?”

  “There’s a small room for the family—in case it gets to be too much. It’s just through that door.”

  Pratt led the older couple out of the room.

  According to Ellis, Rebecca’s father had owned a marina near Port Carling. His wife had probably been able to stay at home.

  “There is no gentle way to start into this,” Pratt told them. “We’re pretty sure your daughter was murdered by someone from her past. We believe there have been three victims and—”

  “Three?” Mr. Collins asked. “The papers said two.”

  Pratt nodded. “Two in Toronto. But there was also a death in Ottawa six weeks ago. We think it ties in with our case. The similarities are striking.”

  “And? I assume there’s more to your story?”

  “The only connection between all three is Muskoka. Do the names Bruce Moore, Curt Dewalt or Saara Lahti ring any bells?”

  Collins shook his head immediately. His wife looked up, considering.

  “I vaguely remember a Saara Lahti,” she finally said. “But no Curt Dewalt. I certainly remember that poor Bruce Moore though. Rebecca saw a lot of him for two summers. He took her sailing on Lake Joseph. She didn’t say much, but I think she was sweet on him.”

  “Mavis, please,” her husband said. “You’re always saying things like that.” He looked at Pratt. “Rebecca was going through her teenage rebellion, thankfully short. She hardly said two words to us if she could help it.”

  “You don’t remember anything else?” Pratt asked. “It could be very important.”

  The wife looked inclined to talk but was pulled to her feet by her impatient husband.

  “We have to get back,” he said. “I don’t want Darren shouldering this burden on his own.”

  Pratt remained in the room for minute or two, considering all he’d just heard and seen.

  There might well be more information to be gathered about this.

  FOURTEEN

  “So I’m thinking it’s smarter for me to stay up here overnight,” Ellis was saying to his wife. “I’m hoping the guy I need to speak to will turn up in the morning. I checked with Mac, and he’s given me the thumbs-up about staying.”

  “Well, I haven’t,” Jennifer responded in a grumpy voice. “You knew my uncle Marty was only going to be in town one night. Mom was expecting us for dinner.”

  “You can still go. Anyway, nobody will miss me.”

  “I’ll miss you. Damn it, Davy, you’re letting me down again! And don’t start in with your standard ‘it’s part of the job’ crap. You know you take devotion to duty way beyond what’s necessary.”

  Ellis didn’t know what to say. They’d been down this road too many times lately. He’d talked to Pratt about it a little, this friction with Jen. That’s when he’d found out his partner’s wife had walked out on him for pretty much the same thing.

  It was all so depressing. He loved Jen truly, madly, deeply, as they always joked. Now it felt as if she was slipping away. He’d thought she understood what his job involved. He was only trying to get ahead so they’d have a better life—a better life for their eventual family.

  Jen was still just as angry when the call ended. Well, he had the long trip back in the morning to think of some way to make it up to her.

  His afternoon had been frustrating. Unable to find Featherstone, he’d visited various businesses in Port Carling and the surrounding area. Luckily, he’d brought along photos of Dewalt and the three rundown victims.

  The photos hadn’t been of much help. People’s looks change a lot between their teens and their midthirties. For two of the victims, some people remembered the names, a few the faces, but no one remembered Curt Dewalt at all. And nobody gave Ellis anything usable.

  Everyone remembered Becky Collins, of course. She seemed to have been well liked. As the afternoon went on, word was traveling ahead of him that she’d been murdered. He’d hoped that wouldn’t happen.

  He did find one person who remembered Bruce Moore. Surprising, since the Moores were cottagers, and those people tended to hang around only with their own kind.

  The person who’d known Moore looked to be in his late sixties and worked in Port Carling’s supermarket. He’d called Moore a city punk, spitting it out like a curse.

  “Why do you say that?” Ellis had asked.

  “Didn’t like the company he kept.”

  Ellis had pressed, but the man refused to say more.

  Other than that, Ellis couldn’t dig up anything new.

  He drove back to Ray Featherstone’s house but found it dark and deserted. In a bit of luck, a neighbor drove up.

  “Can I help you?”

  Ellis showed the man his ID and said he wanted to talk to Featherstone about an old case. “The OPP detachment in Bracebridge said Ray was the person to talk to.”

  The man in the car looked suspicious. “Ray ain’t around.”

  Ellis carefully kept his face blank. “I know that.”

  “He’s visiting his daughter in Kingston. Might be back next week though.”

  “I need to talk to him ASAP. Know the daughter’s name?”

  “It’s Mary.”

  “Last name?”

  “Don’t know. She’s married now.”

  “Thanks for the information.”

  As Ellis walked back to his car, the man stuck his head out the window and shouted.

  “I’m going to have my eye on Ray’s place. Don’t try anything!”

  Ellis had gotten a room in a Bracebridge motel for the night. He went back there, turned on the TV and stewed.

  He’d pissed off his wife for absolutely no reason. It had been a complete waste of time to stay overnight.

  Ellis never slept well when Jen wasn’t cuddled beside him. That night was no exception. He tossed and turned and watched the hours creep by on the cheap motel-room clock.

  The smell was what woke him, made him instantly aware. Stabbing at the switch for the bedside light, his eyes shot around the room. Small wisps of smoke were curling in under the door, and they were gathering strength.

  Jumping from the bed, he moved to the door and felt it with his hand. Hot. Very hot. He knew better than to open it.

  The window in the bathroom was high up and too small. Ellis checked it just to make sure. He might be able to manage it, but he might also get stuck. Heaven only knew what was beneath the window on the outside.

  Back in the main room, the only option was obvious—the window next to the front door. He looked around the edge of the curtain. Flames were beneath that too.

  Wearing only boxers, Ellis sat on the bed and took the time to slip on his boots. No way would he go out that window in bare feet, with glass all over the place.

  “This is not going to be fun,” he mumbled to himself.

  The paint on the door was beginning to blister at the bottom. There was no sound of help arriving outside.

  His eyes were smarting as he picked up a wooden chair next the room’s dresser, hefting it for weight. He’d only have one shot at this.

  Grabbing the curtain in both hands, he yanked everything right off the wall. The rod clipped his head as it flew by. Flames were halfway up the window. Whoever had lit him up had done the job well.

  The window had a thick metal frame with small panes that could be slid open at t
he bottom and two large panes above. He’d have to go out the upper part, since he doubted he could smash out the center strip. Best to smash out the glass, then use the chair to clear the shards.

  Ellis took a deep breath and picked up the chair again.

  “Now or never, Davy boy.”

  Backing up a few steps, he charged the window with the chair legs out. Even though he didn’t hit the frame, it jarred him. But the glass shattered, and he quickly cleared the frame of shards. The flames roared up, underneath the door as well as outside the window.

  Then he found himself outside on the asphalt, not sure how he got there. By that time people had appeared, and he was aware of distant sirens.

  FIFTEEN

  “Ellis, you look like death warmed over,” Mac observed. “Go home and rest. We can deal with this later.”

  “I’d prefer to do it now.”

  Mac did appreciate that Ellis had driven immediately to police headquarters from Bracebridge after the OPP told him he could leave. His left hand was bandaged where it had been cut. His eyebrows were singed off, and he had first-degree burns on his arm—and elsewhere. Still, it could have been a lot worse.

  “I’m sure you’re going to be hearing from Jack LaGrazie, if you haven’t already,” Ellis told Pratt.

  “You met him? Where is that old so-and-so now? Bracebridge?”

  “He’s in charge of the detachment.”

  “A high flyer? Who would have guessed? I can’t wait to hear from him.”

  Ellis had already told Mac and Pratt his story and now wanted to discuss next steps. Then he’d go home to get some sleep—and try to explain to Jen what had happened.

  “Obviously, I stirred up something,” Ellis began.

  “Did you run into anybody up there you suspect?” Mac asked.

  Ellis thought for a moment. “Not really.”

  “It shows we’ve touched a nerve,” Pratt said, “but it also tells us something else really important.”

  Mac raised his eyebrows. “What’s that?”

  “Our boy isn’t through yet.”

  “So now you think our suspect is male? Based on what?”

  “Using a car to snuff out people’s lives could be a female thing as well as male, but I can’t see a female setting a fire like this. That’s a male thing to do.”

  “And as for our boy not being through yet?”

  “If this was over, why try to kill a cop? That’s really asking for it. If he were done, why not just disappear?”

  Ellis sat up and said, “So what do we do about it?”

  “Two things. Keep digging in Muskoka. Something had to set all this in motion. Since our victims left the area around the time they went to university—and, interestingly, never really went back—then it must have happened at the end of high school. We have them all in this common location at that point in time. That’s where we’ll find our answer.

  “Second, we need to find Curt Dewalt. Obviously, he’s been spooked by this and has gone into hiding. He can also give us our answers—as long as he’s alive.”

  “Another news conference?” Mac suggested.

  Pratt nodded. “Let’s call Dewalt a person of interest and ask again for anyone with information to step forward.”

  Mac thought for a moment. “We have to go national on this. Who’s to say the next victim is anywhere near Toronto?”

  Ellis added, “Who’s to say Dewalt is anywhere near Toronto?”

  “He’s still in the country,” Pratt said. “I checked with Border Services yesterday. He’s still in the country as far as they know. And now they’ll be watching for him.”

  “I’ll arrange the news conference, Pratt,” Mac said as he stood. “I want you to take the lead on this. The chief might want in, but I think you need to do the talking.” He looked at Ellis. “And you, get your ass home. I don’t want to see you here before tomorrow at the earliest. Got that?”

  Meeting over, Ellis went to his desk to pick up his belongings, which were piled into a plastic garbage bag LaGrazie had given him. He hadn’t lost much, because the fire had been put out quickly, but everything was wet and smelled of smoke. A flannel shirt and jeans had been loaned to him by a constable who was his size.

  He was bone-tired when he stuck his key in his apartment door. He wanted to do some work to move the case forward. How do you do that when you can barely think?

  Jen rushed forward when he stepped in. She buried her face in his chest.

  “Why are you here?” he asked. “I thought you were working.”

  “Pratt called me. At least someone communicates. Why didn’t you tell me what happened, you big oaf? I’m only your damned wife!”

  Ellis kissed the top of her head. “I didn’t want you to worry, Jen. I’m all right. I got out, no problem.”

  She stepped back and looked him over.

  “Hands bandaged, limping and no frigging eyebrows left. You call that no problem?” But her expression was softer than her words. “And that garbage bag stinks of smoke.” Finally she smiled. “Come to think of it, you do too. Give me the bag and get in the shower. Now, mister!”

  “Let me get my cell phone and laptop out first. I don’t need those washed.”

  “If you think you’re doing any more work today, forget it.”

  “I’m sorry to be calling so late, but—”

  “David, why are you whispering?” Pratt asked.

  “I don’t want Jen to know I got out of bed to call you.”

  Pratt laughed. “I won’t tell. Promise. What can I do for you?”

  “While Jen was making dinner, I spent a bit of time on the computer. I was looking for anything that might have happened around Port Carling in the summer after those kids finished high school. It took a bit of digging and one phone call, but I may have something.”

  “The death of Marni Cunningham?”

  Ellis took the phone away from his ear, staring at it in shock.

  “How did you know?” he asked.

  “Our press conference this afternoon shook something loose. The tip line got a call from a pay phone at Union Station. Now get back to bed. I want you to be of some use tomorrow.”

  “How do you expect me to go to sleep after that?”

  “Then go in and cuddle against that wife of yours—before she discovers you snuck out of bed to call me.”

  Had his wife been awake, Jen would have seen the surprised expression on Ellis’s face when he did as he’d been told.

  Pratt had never made such a personal remark before.

  SIXTEEN

  “Your press conference,” the female voice began, sounding shaky. “This is about an accident eighteen years ago near Port Carling. Someone was struck and killed. A boy went to jail. He didn’t do it.”

  Pratt pressed the spacebar on his laptop to stop the recording.

  “That’s all we got before she hung up,” he told Ellis.

  “I got up early this morning and printed out the few newspaper reports I found online.” Ellis handed Pratt several pieces of paper. “I also got in touch with the OPP in Bracebridge. We need to request the trial transcripts and any records of the investigation.”

  Pratt slid a sheet of paper covered with notes over to his partner.

  “Electronic records aren’t complete yet for this far back, but I’ve made some notes. If what this woman tipped us to is legit, we’re looking at an old-fashioned case of revenge.”

  Ellis nodded. “As for our perp, he’s Daniel Johnson. Here’s what the OPP could give me. No prior record before being charged with vehicular homicide eighteen years ago. The trial was quick. He was in prison sixteen months later. That’s all I’ve got so far.”

  “I got a bit more. Johnson was paroled a year ago and promptly disappeared from a halfway-house program.”

  “Definitely sounds like he could be our man.”

  “Finding him will be difficult. I wonder if he was in Muskoka and set the fire that singed off your eyebrows so nicely.”

&
nbsp; “Don’t you think that would have been too dangerous for him? I mean, he’s known around the area, isn’t he?”

  “I called LaGrazie when the tip came in, and he’s looking into that. He mentioned some old cop named Featherstone. Isn’t that the guy you were hoping to talk to?”

  Ellis nodded and answered, “Yeah, the one who’s never at home.”

  “LaGrazie said he’d try to get in touch with Featherstone for us and have him call.” Pratt leaned back and raised his eyebrows. “And Featherstone was the arresting officer in the Cunningham death.”

  “You think that’s why someone tried to light me up at the motel?”

  It was Pratt’s turn to nod. “Makes sense, doesn’t it? You’d been all around Port Carling asking questions that day. Word gets around quickly in small towns. Did you ask about Featherstone?”

  “I may have. My memory is a little fuzzy. I’ll check my notes.”

  “Do that.”

  The two detectives worked their new leads separately for the rest of the morning, sharing information as it came in. The trial of the Johnson boy had been big news in Muskoka, but hardly registered in the Toronto or national media. Ellis had to really dig for information and photos. No mention was made of anyone else being involved, although he did find one article that reported Johnson claimed he was not alone in the car at the time of the accident.

  Shortly after noon, two things happened. Records about Johnson’s time in jail arrived, and Mac stuck his head out the door of his office, shouting for Pratt and Ellis.

  Both men got up from their desks, eyebrows raised.

  “Good news or bad?” Ellis asked.

  “Hard to tell. He didn’t sound angry.”

  “Sit down, boys,” Mac said with a smile when they arrived at his door. “Tell me where you’re at.”

  Fifteen minutes later their boss had heard the condensed version of where Pratt and Ellis had gotten to.

  His smile only broadened.

  “Now, I’ve got a little present for you two,” Mac said, leaning back in his chair. “I just got off the phone with my RCMP counterpart in BC. He heard about our murders. Guess what? Based on the details, he’s dealing with one of his own. A male victim, one Thomas Lamport, same age as our victims, hit while jogging near his cabin on Vancouver Island. No suspects, few clues, stolen car found later in Victoria. They’re literally begging for our help. The dead man was a major real-estate developer, and they’ve made almost no progress on the case. They were working the angle that it might have something to do with a deal gone bad. He’d had a few of those in the past few years.” Mac scribbled a name and number on a sticky note, handing it to Pratt. “I told him you’d be in touch ASAP.” As the two detectives got up to leave, he added, “And by the way, great work, you two. Isn’t that worth losing your eyebrows over, Ellis?”