by A. M. Potter
“That’s MacTavish.”
“So I arranged to meet him in Toronto tomorrow, before I interview Hennigan.”
“Good.”
“I’d like you to sit in on both interviews. MacTavish is slated for fifteen hundred, Hennigan for eighteen hundred. We’ll stay overnight. I’ll book us rooms at the Sheraton.”
“Okay.” A bit pricey, Naslund thought. The Holiday Inn would do.
“We’ll drive down in my car. When we’re there, we’ll go to Metro HQ. They’ve assigned two Homicide detectives to help us. Did you finish the list of Tyler’s non-artist contacts in the city?”
“Yes. It’s shorter than I expected. Only fourteen names.”
“Okay. How about we each interview seven tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
“One more thing. I feel the case is getting a bit cold.”
She did as well.
“You might think I’m trying to rush things.” Moore glanced at her.
She shrugged. From what she’d seen, the inspector was inherently impatient. That’s who he was. She knew he was frustrated. Two days ago, he’d told her that detection was usually a matter of logic plus a little luck. In most cases, you could build a solid POI list by organizing a set of facts and details, like moving beads on an abacus. Detection as addition. A smashed face plus opportunity plus a viable motive pointed the way to the potential murderers.
“Maybe I am,” he admitted, “but I want access to Tyler’s property. I don’t know when we’ll get a warrant. Besides, we won’t likely get one to search the entire property.”
“True.”
“Even if we do, we can’t afford to wait. We need to examine the lay of the land above Tyler’s boathouse to determine if someone got to it from the road. I want to know that before we question Larmer again.”
She nodded. Although she figured the Mackinaw was tampered with on the bay, she had to keep an open mind. The boathouse was a possibility.
“What if we search the property ourselves?” Moore paused. “Off the record, as it were. Do you see where I’m going?”
She did.
“I don’t like to break the rules,” he said, “but sometimes you have to.”
“Sometimes.” She figured he had friends in high places. His forensic requests were usually completed in a day or two. Her requests routinely took a week or more. In any case, the investigation was bogged down.
“I don’t like asking you,” he continued, “but I don’t think we have any choice. Would you be willing to go in?”
Ah, she thought, I go in. The inspector stays on the sideline.
“I could go, but you’ll do a better job. You’re younger. You know Tyler’s property.” His gray eyes smiled. “Granted, it’s not completely aboveboard. But no one will know. Don’t enter the cottage, just examine the property. If anything happens, I’ll take the heat.” He looked her in the eye. “All of it.”
She appraised him. His look implied that he could get away with most things. “You want us to fly off the radar?”
He shook his head. “No, Sergeant. Below it. There’s a difference.”
Off, she thought, below. A distinction without a difference.
Moore eyed her. “If the heat comes, I’ll take it.” He leaned closer to her. “I’m sure you know this. You can’t always follow the letter of the law, not if you want to apprehend murderers. Follow the spirit of the law. Operate on the leading edge, but not the bleeding edge.”
For the most part, she agreed. Nonetheless, she remained silent.
“Look, you can’t succeed if both hands are tied behind your back. One hand, maybe, but not two. I know I told you to follow the rules, but you have to know when to break them.”
“When’s that?” she asked.
“When a case demands it.” Moore held up a forefinger. “And when you won’t harm anyone. I take my breaches seriously. Know this, Sergeant. I’ve never committed perjury or forced a confession, and I never will.”
She nodded.
“You won’t be collecting courtroom evidence or conducting an illegal search.”
Okay, she reasoned, a little “private” investigation was a minor breach. In truth, she didn’t want to wait either. Beyond that, her work with J.J. and Marty wasn’t exactly aboveboard. She didn’t mind occasionally “forgetting” the rules, temporarily. In fact, she did some of her best work when she forgot them. There were too many. Rules of hierarchy and method, of conduct and evidence. Rules about rules. “I’ll go in,” she said.
“Good.” Moore paused. “How are you going to do it?”
“I have an idea.” She’d overheard an interesting tidbit earlier that day, at the memorial lunch. MacLean and her family were going shopping in Owen Sound that afternoon and then eating supper there. Naslund consulted her watch. She had time. “We have a window now,” she told Moore. “The cottage is empty and will be for a few more hours. I’ll head home, change clothes, and then drive to Colpoys and hike in to the cottage via the Bruce Trail. Approach it through the woods.”
“I’ll get you a rental car. Keep everything off the record.”
Chapter 19
Naslund parked well away from Highway Nine behind an abandoned barn. Behind the barn again, she thought. She wanted to check out the Tyler property, yet she felt apprehensive. As an undercover narc, she’d run a few private investigations that bit her in the butt. Think again, she told herself. You’re not in Narcland. And this one is short and direct.
She grabbed her daypack, slunk along the edge of a field, then melted into the bush and found the Bruce Trail. The air hummed with crickets, the path smelled of baked clay. She was soon surrounded by towering beeches.
Within minutes, her T-shirt started sticking to her back. The air felt heavy in her throat. The sun beat down like a cudgel. She hiked onward, sweat rolling down her face. It felt good to be on a covert op again, no matter how ordinary. At least it was off the record. For once, she didn’t have to feed a report to Bickell or update case notes.
Move it, she told herself. You have a three-hour window--if that. She picked up the pace. It was one of those sun-spiked afternoons when even the sky wanted somewhere to hide.
The tree cover didn’t offer any relief. Nonetheless, she began jogging, heading for a ravine about two kilometers away that led down to Mallory Beach near Thom’s cottage.
From what she knew, Thom’s boathouse was only accessible via a path that began outside the cottage’s front door. The previous owner closed off the double lot on both sides, with fences down to the water. A walk-in intruder could enter the lot from the road. However, in order to get to the boathouse they’d have to use the path. The alternative was to fight through a thick band of cedars and pines and scramble down a cliff. She mopped her face and concentrated on her footwork, avoiding rocks and tree roots, jogging on, shutting out the heat. The swelling humidity cast a haze over the sun, like a cataract coating an eye. Reaching an east-facing lookout, she took a long drink of water and studied the far shore. The Bruce Caves were across the bay. She pulled out her personal phone. Using Google maps, she verified it was almost time to scramble down from the trail and sneak onto Thom’s property.
A hundred meters later she found the ravine. Braking and skidding, she descended to the road, jolting her knees, almost twisting an ankle. At the bottom, she paused to check her position. There was Thom’s driveway, ten meters to the north. The nearest neighbor was about thirty meters farther on.
She scanned in the other direction. No people about, no traffic on the road. She slunk across it and melted into Thom’s lot. Sneaking close to the cottage, she confirmed MacLean’s car wasn’t there.
She crept southward, looking for a route down to the boathouse. Although she’d visited Thom many times, she’d never been more than twenty-five meters from the cottage. A few minutes later, her way was blocked by an extended east-west hedge, high and thick. She dropped to the ground and hauled herself under the hedge commando-style. She felt ten yea
rs younger. Up on her feet again, she picked her way forward to the southern fence, skirting a tangle of blackberry brambles and cedars, passing a band of crumbling shale. She found no access to the bay below.
Scrambling back to the cottage, she crossed the driveway and headed north. Get a move on, she ordered herself.
Five minutes later, having reached the northern fence, she dropped to her haunches. Same story: no bay access. She removed her pack and drank some water, confident an intruder didn’t hack their way down to the water. However, it was possible that MacLean or someone she knew--an insider--could have taken the direct path to the boathouse.
Was that a car?
Yes, it was, and close. The car turned into Thom’s driveway.
Naslund froze.
A moment later, she heard a woman call out, “Carrie, dear, is this your map?”
Naslund glanced at her watch: 1823. The women must have eaten an early dinner. She ducked behind some cedars and lay on her stomach. How could she explain her presence to MacLean? How could she explain it to anyone except Moore?
“Map?” Carrie asked.
“Yes, dear, I think it’s for the trail above here. You know, the one you and Thom hike--hiked. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, Gran.”
“Really, dear, I’m not thinking.”
“Come inside,” a younger voice called, “Lord, this heat. It’s enough to bake a ham.”
“All right, Mother,” Carrie said.
“Look,” Gran exclaimed, “there’s an X, like on a treasure map, and some letters and numbers.”
“Hmm,” Carrie said. “Strange: four-one-four. That’s our place.”
“I suppose Thom did it,” Gran said.
“Thom didn’t use maps.”
“He should have,” Carrie’s mother said. “He got lost finding your wedding ring.”
“Mother,” Carrie warned.
“Completely lost.”
“Mother.”
“Lost.”
“All right. Come, I’ll make tea.”
“Tea?” the mother huffed.
“Okay, a snort.”
Naslund heard a scuffle of shoes. A moment later, she registered a door opening and then closing. She inhaled deeply and slowly exhaled. Almost immediately, she thought of the numbers. Who’d written Thom’s street number on a map? Why? Leave that for later, she told herself. Get out of here.
After assuring herself the three women were settled, she headed off, keeping low, hugging the border fence. Skulking across the road, she melted into the bush and found the ravine. Tightening her pack straps, she started her ascent. It seemed steeper going up.
There, back on top of the world. She hiked toward Colpoys, cruising along, head in the clouds, thinking of calling Hal. Maybe she’d see him later this evening.
As she imagined his lips, her left foot caught on a root. Before she could stop herself, she stumbled over it and fell sideways. She heard a horrific wrench then felt it. The pain shot simultaneously down her foot and up her shin. She tried to stand and let out a loud gasp. Quiet, she ordered herself. She sank to the ground. Nearby, she spotted a dead branch on the ground and crawled toward it on her right side, protecting her injured ankle.
At last she reached the branch and picked it up. Using it as a staff, she tentatively stood, leaning on it for support. Good. The ankle didn’t seem to be broken. She started to propel herself forward by numbers: first lift the right thigh, extend the shin, place the foot. Now the left thigh. Not so bad. Shin. Foot. Damn! Easy now. She gritted her teeth and kept moving. Thigh, shin, foot.
Five steps later, her ankle gave out.
Lying helplessly, she debated what to do. Should she call Moore? No. No way. She didn’t want the inspector trying to rescue her. He could injure himself too. All the other officers on the case were bigger No’s.
What about Hal? A further No. She didn’t know him that well. In any case, she’d vowed never to mix work and pleasure. Another lesson learned in Toronto.
J.J.? Better. Of course, she’d have to lie. As Moore had suggested, sometimes you had to. You also had to pick your spots. This was one of them. She’d tell J.J. she took a hike to see how easy it was to get to Thom’s place from the Bruce Trail. She wouldn’t mention she’d gone onto Thom’s property. In the scheme of things, a white lie.
She wriggled over to a tree, leaned against it, and shrugged off her pack. Reaching inside, she felt for her phone, pulled it out, and punched J.J.’s number.
No reply.
She tried again.
Nothing.
She called again and left a message. “It’s Sergeant Naslund. I need your help. I’m on the Bruce Trail near Colpoys. I sprained my ankle.”
She stretched out on the ground.
In what seemed another world, a crow cawed. A second answered. The breeze rustled a fir tree, ferrying a faintly medicinal elixir to her nostrils. She pulled her water bottle from her pack and took a short drink. Mouth refreshed, she closed her eyes and shut out the pain in her ankle.
***
“Watching the--”
What’s that? Naslund opened her eyes. It was almost dark.
“Watching the detectives...”
Oh, her ring-tone. Her ring-tone!
She lifted the phone to her mouth and licked her lips. “Eva here.”
“Is that you, Sarge?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“I tripped.”
“Over what?”
“A tree root.”
“Huh.”
She tried to stand. Her left ankle screamed with pain. “Jesus!”
“Are you okay?”
“Sort of. I better not move.”
“Do you have a GPS on that phone of yours?”
“Yep.”
“Tell me your co-ords.”
“Aren’t you going to track me down?”
“Who do you think you’re talking to? Davy Crockett?”
She chuckled then read out her position.
“Hold tight, Sarge.”
***
Naslund sat on Marty’s couch, sipping a brandy, feeling no pain. The sprain was nothing. She chided herself for letting it happen. Her left ankle was wrapped, her leg propped up on a foot stool. J.J. had given her two tiny pills on the trail. Whatever they were, they’d worked like a charm. She felt light-bodied, as if she were flying. “You know,” she said, “I should injure myself more often.”
“Think again. Next time we send in the wolves.” J.J. chuckled.
“Another brandy?” Marty asked.
“Thank you.”
“Better hold off,” J.J. advised Marty. “You’ll knock the young lady out.”
“What,” she complained, “a lady can’t have a drink?”
“Later.”
“And I suppose you’re abstaining.”
“Yep. For now.”
She shook her head. “For a man who’s a drunk, you don’t drink much.”
“It’s a talent.” J.J. said.
“Truth be told,” she admitted, “I do feel sleepy.”
“No surprise, I gave you two of the best. I run the local volunteer ambulance. You’re this close--” He held his thumb and forefinger a quarter-inch apart. “--from dozing off. I reckon you’ll wake up around midnight. We’ll talk then. I have some news for you.”
“Good. Listen, I want to make a call. How about some privacy?”
J.J. winked at Marty. “I think she’s calling Hal Bell.”
Naslund tilted her head. So, J.J. knew about Hal already. Certain news traveled fast in Wiarton. She grinned. “I am. Now let us talk in peace.”
“Marty has a bed ready for you in the guestroom. Lean on me, I’ll take you there.”
As J.J. closed the guestroom door, she pulled out her phone and connected to Hal. “Good evening, Mr. Bell.”
“Eva?”
“I was hoping to see you this evening, but I’m a little...umm...a little indispo
sed.”
“Ooh.” He sounded disappointed.
Go on, tell him what happened.
“I sprained my ankle a few hours ago. Can’t walk, as it happens. Well, shouldn’t walk.”
“Are you okay?” he worriedly asked.
“I’ll be fine in a bit. I took a few pain killers. Just wanted to say hello.”
“That’s nice.”
She smiled. “Listen, Inspector Moore has plans for me this weekend. Maybe we can get together Monday.”
“Sure.”
“Wonderful. See you soon.”
“Sweet dreams, Eva.”
She lay down on the bed and then remembered she hadn’t called the inspector yet. She and Moore had set up a code. She punched his number. “Hi, sir,” she said when he answered. “Just checking in. My day’s finished.” That was their code. My day’s finished for no path hacked down to the water; Got a new lead if she’d found a path. No need to mention her injury. He’d see it tomorrow.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s leave for Toronto at oh-nine-thirty.”
“See you then.”
“There’s a meeting at oh-eight-thirty.”
“Oh. Right. Oh-eight-thirty then.”
***
Wiarton. July 13th:
“Sarge,” J.J. called and opened the guestroom door. “Feeling better?”
“A bit,” Naslund said. In truth, she felt lethargic. “You said we’d talk at midnight.”
“I tried to wake you, but you were dead to the world.”
“Huh.”
“Shake a leg.” J.J. chuckled. “Not your left one. Here’s a cane. Use it for a few days.”
“Okay.” Her ankle wasn’t throbbing. She dropped her left foot to the floor and tested it. Better, but not solid.
“Can you drive?”
She shook her head. She could--the rental was an automatic--but she didn’t want him to see it. One lie always led to another, another reason why she rarely lied.
“No prob. After we talk, I’ll drop you in town behind the marina shed. You can get a taxi from the main dock, if you want.”