by Rick Blechta
How could Maggie be nervous with him?
It took about fifteen minutes to get to the restaurant where Curt worked. The parking lot was packed. Danny had filled up most of these cars during the summer. What was parked here represented some serious money. Inside the restaurant he could hear a band. The old folks were kicking up their heels tonight.
Maggie stopped, looking around.
“Over here!” someone called softly.
In a dark corner of the lot they found the others, standing around a silver Mercedes.
Danny hung back as Maggie spoke with Curt. Then she came to him.
“This is the car. Can you hot-wire it and not leave any trace?”
“I suppose. Are you sure this is okay?”
“It’s Rebecca’s parents’ car. She left her keys at home. They won’t mind.” She took his arm and pressed her body against his side. Her perfume filled his nose. “Would you do it, Danny—for me?”
A light near the building caught her eyes, lighting them up.
He gulped.
“Sure.”
TWENTY-ONE
Pratt had used a driver that day, since Ellis was up north. He spent the three-hour trip back from Collins Bay staring at his notes and scrolling back through what Anthony Whipple had told him. He’d turned out to be an excellent storyteller.
“Those kids and their parents hung Danny Johnson out to dry. Soon as Curt hit the woman, they all bolted into the bush. Danny backed the car off her body and tried to comfort her as she died. He wasn’t even aware they’d cut out on him until the first cop showed up.”
“Do you know what happened afterward?” Pratt had asked.
Whipple rubbed his thumb and first two fingers together, the age-old sign for money.
“Danny told his story to the cops. The kids denied it. Their parents backed up their alibis. All the families were well off. Danny suspects certain cops got paid to not try too hard investigating his side of the story. He was guilty and that was the end of it.
“His family lost everything too, trying to pay for his legal help. The lawyer they got was all but useless. I say it was a lucky day for Danny that Canada doesn’t execute people anymore.”
Pratt thought for a minute. “You said you weren’t surprised Johnson has killed those responsible.”
Whipple shook his head. “He spent his entire time inside working it all out. His life is ruined as he sees it. So they must pay, and he doesn’t care what happens to him. I thought it was just talk,” he added, covering himself, “but now it seems Danny was dead serious.”
“Okay, one last thing. Curt Dewalt has done a bunk. Obviously, he figures Johnson is coming after him, but this sixth person, the last girl, can you tell me anything about her? Did Johnson say where she might be? Time is critical on this.”
“I don’t think he knew where any of them were. That’s probably why it took him some time to start offing them. He needed to have his ducks in a row before he started.”
“But the girl’s name?”
“It was Maggie. Maggie Mc-something. She was the one who talked him into hot-wiring the car. He insisted on going with them so he could bring it right back, stupid fool. He couldn’t decide who he hated most, Curt Dewalt or Maggie. McDonald! That was her last name.”
In many ways, Pratt felt bad for Danny Johnson.
Ellis’s day in Muskoka wasn’t as well spent. Danny Johnson’s dad, now almost a hermit in a bush cabin, would hardly speak to him. That was probably because the dad knew something. They could always haul him in for questioning, but that would take time Ellis didn’t think they had.
Little progress had been made on the motel fire. Trash had been at hand. Gasoline too. Johnson’s dad had an ironclad alibi, and there were no persons of interest on the OPP’s radar.
Ellis suggested they look at Ray Featherstone, but LaGrazie’s expression when Ellis said that made it clear it would be a hard sell.
The only bit of useful information came from Johnson Senior.
“My son didn’t do it. It was those six other kids. They wrecked Danny’s life, God rot them! I hope they all fry in hell for what they did.”
Then he’d slammed the door in Ellis’s face.
The only positive of the day was that Ellis arrived home safe and sound and in time to make dinner for his wife.
Trouble was, late that evening Pratt called Ellis.
“We’ve found Dewalt. Pick me up at home.”
“Where was he? Can we talk to him?”
“Scarborough. And no, he’s not going to be talking to anybody. This is a bad one, David.”
TWENTY-TWO
The murder scene was an abandoned building in the east end. Curt Dewalt had been fastened tightly to the concrete floor by means of bolts and cable ties. He’d died as a result of the front left wheel of a car being lowered onto his abdomen.
Neither Pratt nor Ellis could look at the results for very long. The murder had been slow and cruel as the jack holding up the car was gradually lowered.
Outside the building, both looked at each other, knowing time was running out fast. If Anthony Whipple had told the truth, only one more potential victim remained. So far they’d come up dry on the whereabouts of Maggie McDonald. There were a lot of people with that name across the country—if she even was in Canada anymore.
“If we don’t get to her first, he’s going to complete his revenge and quite likely disappear,” Pratt said.
“He’s got to suspect we’re on to him by now.”
“There’s the fact he tried to barbecue you.”
Ellis shook his head. “I don’t think it was Johnson. My money’s on his father. He’s also an angry man.”
“We’ll have to put that aside for the moment. Finding the sixth person is our priority.”
“How the hell do we accomplish that? If it was Maggie who phoned in the tip, she could have told us then. Obviously, she doesn’t want to step forward.”
The wind that night was from the north and bitter, so Pratt suggested they sit in Ellis’s car. Perhaps it was also a way to get farther away from the horrific crime scene.
“So how do we find our mystery woman before she becomes a victim?”
Pratt thought for a moment.
“Scare the shit out of her,” he replied. “Do another news conference first thing tomorrow and convince her she’s in grave danger and only we can help. We also name Daniel Johnson as our prime suspect.”
Ellis looked at the car’s clock. It was after eleven.
“What if he makes his move tonight?”
Pratt slowly shook his head. “If luck is on our side, Maggie McDonald is safely asleep.”
“What do we do in the meantime?”
“We write a press release so the media has the word out by the time people get up in the morning. Then we organize our press conference. That means we have a long night ahead of us, David. First of all, we need to share all our information. I learned some interesting things in Collins Bay today, and I believe I have a good handle on exactly what’s been going on.”
“Then what?”
“Well, we’re going to have to convince Mac to drag his sorry butt in to work.” Pratt smiled. “He hasn’t had to pull an all-nighter in years.”
At nine the next morning, Mac stepped to the podium in the packed Toronto Police Service’s media room. He was flanked by the chief and Pratt. His expression was suitably grim.
“Ladies and gentlemen, as you know, we have been investigating the deaths of two people by vehicular homicide over the past several weeks. The number of deaths is now up to five.
“In the past few days the pieces have begun falling together, thanks to the tireless work of the man standing to my left and his partner.
“On the screen to my right is the person we believe responsible for all these killings, Daniel Johnson. He is an ex-convict who was jailed for vehicular homicide when he was nineteen. He was paroled a little over a year ago. We are searching for him now. We consid
er him very dangerous. Anyone who knows his whereabouts should notify the police. Do not approach him.”
Mac stopped and asked Pratt to tell the media some of the details. The detective repeated parts of the story Anthony Whipple had told him. Then he went through the list of victims and how each had died, without stinting on details.
Then it was the chief’s turn.
“So this is a story of revenge,” he told the media, “not the work of a maniac with random victims. It is cold, calculated murder. I’m told Johnson is intelligent and resourceful. You’ve heard about five dead people. But apparently there is a sixth potential victim. We believe this person phoned in the tip that led us to Johnson. Problem is, she did not tell us her whereabouts. At this point, we are assuming that she is still alive. I am speaking directly to her now.
“Maggie or Margaret McDonald, do not hope that you will avoid your fate at Daniel Johnson’s hands by running or trying to hide. He may well know where you are right now. Pick up the phone and call us. We can and will protect you until this very dangerous criminal is captured. Please, do the smart thing. Call.”
It was left to Pratt to take the media’s shouted questions. It took a long time to satisfy them.
Meanwhile, Ellis was waiting for the call. Minutes ticked by and it didn’t come.
TWENTY-THREE
It was after eleven in the morning. Pratt and Ellis looked up as Mac came into his office, actually bringing them coffee. Pratt raised his eyebrows, and his partner grinned. This was different.
Then the chief walked in.
“I’ve been looking at your reports, boys,” he said, “and you’ve done some mighty fine work. I’ve had calls from BC and Ottawa, and they’re pleased too.” He took a sip of the coffee Mac had handed him. “Problem is, what if our potential victim doesn’t get in touch? What if Johnson gets to her first? We’re going to look bad if you don’t pull this one off. Folks are going to say we put a target on her back by telling Johnson how close on his trail we are.”
Ellis knew enough to keep his mouth shut. He’d only been in the chief’s presence twice. Pratt, the legendary homicide detective, was used to this blame shifting.
“There’s not a lot we can do. Johnson is smart. We’ve done the best we can. That’s why we laid it on so thick at the news conference and in the press release last night. There’s coverage on all the networks, on the media websites and even in one of the morning papers. Now it’s a matter of waiting. Who’s going to win? Him or us? I’m not a betting man.”
The chief got up, took one more swig of his coffee and left. Mac frowned, and Pratt started laughing.
“How come the only time he comes down here,” Mac said, “is to piss all over my desk?”
“Relax, Mac,” Pratt said. “Pissing is part of the chief’s job description.”
A shout came from the squad room.
“Hey, Pratt! Your phone’s ringing.”
Ellis was instantly out of his chair. Pratt and Mac followed at a slower pace.
“Pratt! The caller wants you—and you only,” Ellis shouted.
“Male or female?”
“Male. Hurry. He sounds edgy.”
Pratt took the receiver. Ellis pressed the speakerphone key.
“Detective Pratt here. Talk to me, please.”
“It’s my wife,” a voice answered almost in a whisper. “I think she’s the woman, the one that murderer is after.”
“May I speak to her, please? She is in great danger.”
“She’s not here.”
“Where is she?”
“She left for work early, like she always does.”
“Where can we find her?”
“Um…that’s what the problem is.”
“Please tell me where she is. Her life could depend on it.”
“Oh god,” the man said, sounding as if he was talking to himself. “She will be so angry.”
“Angry? Why?”
“She has a secret. She doesn’t know I know about it. You see, I read her diary from when she was young. It was forgotten in a box of books.”
Mac and Ellis had crowded in along with two other detectives who were in the squad room. Pratt had to jolly this man along until he got what he needed. He kept his voice smooth and level, no hint of the excitement he was feeling.
“What did the diary entry say?”
The man didn’t answer immediately. Pratt was afraid he’d hung up.
“There was a car accident. The one you talked about this morning. My wife was in that car. She was sworn to secrecy. It must have been horrible.”
“Sir, you need to tell me where she is. There is no other way to help her.”
“Oh god…”
“Please tell me.”
“It will ruin her. It will ruin us.”
“You’ve gone this far. I know you want to save her life. Just tell me.”
The man on the line sighed heavily. “Okay.”
TWENTY-FOUR
It all made sense. The sixth person couldn’t just come out of the shadows. She was a high-flying provincial Crown attorney right there in Toronto. Both Pratt and Mac had worked with her.
Gwen Trudell was a brilliant prosecutor and rumored to be in the running to become a judge very shortly.
And no wonder they’d been unable to find her. Maggie McDonald had left her old name and life far behind.
She didn’t have a scheduled court appearance that day, but she was meeting with someone at the provincial courthouse north of Queen Street West on University Avenue.
Unfortunately, that’s all her husband knew.
“Gwen doesn’t talk about work. I know enough not to bother her. She can be very formidable.”
Plans were quickly made. Pratt and Ellis would hightail it to the courthouse, and Mac would call in a SWAT team and get in touch with court security. The sooner Trudell was secured, the better. Then a search could begin for Johnson.
An unmarked car was waiting at the curb with two constables inside when Pratt and Ellis got down to the street.
“You up to speed?” Pratt asked them.
In answer the car took off with a squeal of tires along College, screaming south at University.
“Still no answer on her cell, Pratt,” Ellis said as they drove. “It sounds as if it’s turned off.”
The car’s radio crackled.
“Pratt!” Mac said. “Trudell’s not in the building. She just left via the back doors. Someone was with her.”
“Male or female?”
“Male.”
“Shit! Did anyone see where they went?”
“South along the side of Nathan Phillips Square—you know, where the peace garden is.”
“Get all cars to hold back. No sirens either. We don’t want to spook him. He’s got nothing to lose.”
“Corner of Queen and University,” Pratt told the driver.
“You think he’s got a gun?” Ellis asked.
“Either that or a knife. Why else would she leave with him so meekly? I know that woman. She doesn’t take any crap.”
Ellis had been madly using his thumbs on his cell phone. He passed it forward to the constable not driving.
“That’s our perp. Consider him armed and extremely dangerous.”
Pratt asked, “And can you get that photo out to every car? I have no idea what is going to go down, but from Nathan Phillips Square, there are dozens of places Johnson could go.”
The car screeched to the curb.
“Stay here and watch for them,” Pratt told the two constables.
Ellis sprinted to the southwest corner of Nathan Phillips Square. Pratt pulled up just behind him, breathing hard.
“I don’t see them,” Ellis said. “If they’ve gotten into the PATH system…that underground warren with all those stores. Christ! There are dozens of exits all over downtown. We’re going to need hundreds to search it.”
“And evacuate all the people.”
“If he hasn’t taken her there, then
where else?”
“Commandeered a car or taxi?” Pratt offered his phone. “Call it in. And tell them to watch the subway stations connected to the PATH. He could just as easily use a subway train as a car for what he has in mind.”
Pratt thought while Ellis spoke to Mac. Johnson was methodical, and this was not just about who died, but how they died. He was making them suffer the way the woman they’d killed had suffered.
They weren’t in the square or on the street. Where else might they have gone?
Pratt looked around. Where? Where?
“Ellis!” he shouted, running forward.
TWENTY-FIVE
Underneath Nathan Phillips Square, the large open area fronting Toronto’s iconic city hall, lies a huge four-story parking garage. Pratt knew it had a lot of dark corners and, at this time of day, not that much traffic, especially on the lowest level.
Ellis trotted up.
“Where are we going?”
Pratt told him. “And there are stairway entrances all over the square.” He pointed. “See? There—and there—and there. I’ll bet he had this all planned.”
“You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m not sure!” Pratt snapped. “But if I’m right, it won’t take him long to do what he needs to do.”
“There’s the Chestnut Street ramp. That would have been closer.”
“Too busy. No, he would have used the stairs.”
They ran to the nearest stairway. Pratt turned to Ellis.
“Call it in. We need this whole area secured and men to help search. Follow me when you’ve done that.”
“Where will you be?”
“Lowest level. Fewer people. Who wants to park down there with all these stairs to climb?”
It took Ellis two minutes to get through his call. He started down the narrow concrete staircase. It was gloomy and smelled of urine. At the bottom he pulled his gun and opened the door to the parking level.
Pratt was nowhere in sight.
After a moment’s thought Ellis decided to go right down the middle of the level. It would give him his best chance of spotting something. The parked cars would provide decent cover.