Just before dawn, I awakened. I was lying on my right side, knees bent. Someone lay behind me, one arm around my waist. Her hand clasped mine, and I could feel warm breath on the back of my neck. I groaned, and in the crepuscular gloom, closed my eyes and wept.
Thursday
Chapter Nine
When my alarm went off at eight-thirty, I briefly considered hurling it through the window. Without thinking I rolled over on my left arm, and cursed unimaginatively as it reminded me that I had been shot only yesterday. Then I remembered. Tonia. I sat on the edge of the bed, wondering what had prompted her to do what she did. She had been in my bed when I had awakened early this morning, hadn’t she? That certainly hadn’t been Repo’s arm around me. However, I was definitely alone now.
I got up, and on my way to the bathroom, passed the door of the spare bedroom. It was firmly closed. I raised my hand to knock, then decided against it. I didn’t have time for this right now. Hell, I didn’t even understand the mystery I had been hired to solve—did I want to take on another one, too?
I showered as best I could, combed my hair, and dressed, making enough noise to wake the dead, but Tonia didn’t emerge. I left some food for Repo who was, I supposed, snoozing away with Tonia, took one last look at the closed door, and left the house. Later, I decided. I had business to attend to.
The Oak Bay Police Department is a little Tudor cottage marooned on a macadam beach. Clearly, no Canadian Canute had been able to hold back the asphalt waves lapping its door. For years it handled complaints no more serious than nocturnally yapping dogs and misplaced rose shears. For the inhabitants of Oak Bay, the only indication that the force was with us was the punctilious policing of on-street parking in Oak Bay Village—a high-crime district if there ever was one. Woe betide the driver unable to puzzle out the meaning of the splashes of curbside color that governed parking times: white for one hour, green for half an hour, yellow for fifteen minutes, and red for pickup/dropoff. What’s hard about that? Even today, constables customarily lurk behind lampposts, rubbing their hands in glee, waiting eagerly to slap tickets on Porsches from Pittsburgh or Lincolns from Los Angeles which linger too long in the yellow zone.
Gary Alexander, aka Sandy, was not a constable. He did not write parking tickets. He was a detective in the Major Crimes Division, which, sad to say, no longer included barking dogs or lost property. Like an apple rotting from within, the world was going to hell, and the rot had finally erupted even here in peaceful Oak Bay.
I liked Sandy. He was a direct, no-nonsense Scot, about fifty-five, with a ferociously bristling moustache, and an unshakably sunny outlook on life. I’d had occasion to work with him when I was in the CP’s office, and we always got on well together. He was one of the few men I knew who didn’t feel that my sexual orientation was a lamentable condition to be cured by a night of male attention. Actually, I don’t know what he thought as we’d never discussed the subject. It had come up once, years ago, and he hadn’t turned a hair. I was glad. Sandy was a damned good detective, a very useful contact, and a good friend. Today I had come to call in a marker.
He met me outside the police station. “Let’s not talk here. I’ll buy you coffee,” he suggested.
We drove to The Blethering Place, a tea room in the Village, and found a place to park. In the green zone, I noted. The place was busy, even at ten a.m., but we managed to find a table by the window. I ordered a cheese scone and coffee. Sandy only tea. After the waitress brought our order, he pulled a sheaf of papers from the inside pocket of his tweed jacket and scowled at me.
“What are you meddling around with now, Caitlin?”
“Why? Did those serial numbers I gave you short circuit your computer?”
“Not our computer. Metro Victoria’s. They’ve had a rash of burglaries since last fall and no leads. Mostly electronic gear. But it hasn’t been fenced yet. Or if it has, it’s been taken off the island.”
“Hmmm,” I said thoughtfully. That the case belong to Metro made me feel better, because I would have hated to hold back on Sandy. But I had no intentions of surrendering the boy burglars just yet. No sirree. “May I see the list?”
Sandy’s moustache quivered with anticipation. “Why? What do you know?”
I held out my hand. He sighed and handed over the list. “I’d like to keep this,” I told him.
He shook his head helplessly. “All right. Do you know what you’re doing?”
I shrugged. “The day before yesterday I hadn’t a clue. Yesterday I began to see a glimmer of hope. Today, the glimmer is a gleam.”
“I should know better than to ask,” he said. He looked at his watch. “Is that all? If you want any more information today I’ll have to go and tickle yon wee electronic beastie some more. But I’ll be in court all afternoon, so I couldn’t do it until tomorrow.”
“I think this will be good enough,” I said. “I appreciate it. Thanks a lot, Sandy.”
He looked at me for a long moment, and sighed. “I shouldn’t let you have that list. And whatever’s going on, it’s probably something you shouldn’t get mixed up in. I suppose there’s no point in asking you to leave it alone?”
I shook my head.
“I thought not, but I owe you.” He smiled and stood up, leaving a handful of change on the table. As if in afterthought, he asked, “You wouldn’t want to drop around and have dinner with Mary and me, would you?” He peered at me closely. “You’re looking a wee bit gaunt.”
I laughed. “I’d love to come for dinner. Does Mary still make haggis?”
He swelled with vicarious pride. “Indeed she does. How does a week from Sunday sound?”
“Sounds fine to me.”
“We’ll see you then, Caitlin. Take care, now. Don’t get up. I’ll run back and get my car.” He kissed me quickly on the cheek, and left.
I sat in the Blethering Place after Sandy had gone, feeling depressed and anxious. I flexed my shoulder. It still hurt, but not nearly as much as yesterday. While I was checking myself over, I swallowed a few times and realized that my sore throat was gone. Must have been the vitamin C. Or all the excitement of getting shot.
The waitress refilled my coffee cup, and I tried my best to avoid thinking about Tonia. Or Val. Or Tonia and Val. Or, ye gods, Tonia and Caitlin. Charity from Tonia was something I did not need.
Outside the window a young couple hugged goodbye. She pecked him on the cheek, but he pulled her back, kissing her with great thoroughness in full view of the entire tea room. Men. I shook my head. They baffled me. They were about as alien as beings from Arcturus. And, from what I could glean from infrequent conversations with heterosexual women on that subject, the inscrutability of men was a truism. Freud and his rhetorical interrogative about women be damned: what do men want? I’ve never been able to figure it out. The more I learn about them, the more truly alien they seem. Men and women who live together astonish me.
Boring even myself with these musings, I paid the bill, and walked to my car. I checked my watch just after ten. Time to pay a visit to my friend Francis, a very useful fellow who bragged, quite justifiably I feared, that he could “get anything on anybody.” I had precious little time to spare on nonessential activities, but the memory of Baxter Buchanan’s eyes, the feeling that I needed to know more about him, just wouldn’t leave me. I was certain he wasn’t mixed up in this blackmail mess—after all, it was his wife who was one of the victims. But he was guilty of something all right—terrorizing his own wife, if nothing else. Maybe Francis could dig out some tasty tidbit that Val could. use to blackmail her way out of Baxter’s clutches. We’d see. I chuckled, thinking of Francis. When he heard who I wanted him to ferret information on, he’d be in electronic heaven.
Francis Poe lived in a barely furnished apartment just off Cook Street in James Bay, not far from the sea. I rang his bell, and a whispery voice asked me to identify myself. Francis is so melodramatic.
“Caitlin Reece,” I told him. “No games, Francis. I don’t have
time.”
“All right, all right,” he said irritably. “You’re sure no fun today.”
He buzzed me up, and I heard the bolts and locks being thrown from halfway down the hall. Francis is a very careful person. He has to be. He’s Victoria’s underground intelligence king.
After he let me in, I had to wait while he reversed the procedure with all the locks. “So go on in to the machines if you’re in such a bloody rush,” he said testily. “I’m tempted to charge you extra for being such a stick-in-the-mud.”
He was going to be difficult, I could see that. I sat down at a table stacked with electronic gear, and Francis came to sit beside me. I thought again how improbably innocent he looked. If you passed him on the street you might think him a kid going to choir practice. About five-five, he was fair-haired, rosy-cheeked, and looked about sixteen. Actually he was my age, and as ruthless as a shark.
“What’s it going to be today, Caitlin?”
“You’ll love it, Francis,” I said enthusiastically, hoping to distract him from thoughts of his fee. “Baxter Buchanan.”
He smiled sweetly. “I don’t have a file on him.”
Oh hell. This was going to be expensive. I thought briefly of trying to find the information myself, but abandoned the idea. There just wasn’t time. I wanted to wrap this case up by the weekend, and get Val, the letters, the blackmailer, the burglars, and yes, even Tonia, out of my life. And Francis was the expert. Using information available out there in the data jungle, information being amassed by credit bureaus, newspapers, civil servants, city hall recordkeepers, insurance companies, hospitals, schools, the military—Francis could ferret out the best hidden secrets. He claimed he could prepare a dossier on anyone by simply understanding the system and knowing where to dig. He was probably right—his finished products were so complete they scared me. He maintained there was no such thing as a closed source, and he used whatever tools were necessary to get information—flattery, bribes, lies, and, most effective of all, purloined computer database passwords. Much as I hated to admit it, Francis was worth the heart-stopping fees he charged. “How much, Francis?” I asked wearily.
He smiled again, and I noticed how sharp his incisors were. “For you, because we’re friends, a thousand. Half in advance.”
I exploded. “Jesus, Francis! Is this because I didn’t humor you at the door? Damn it, I told you I’m short of time!”
He sulked. “You’re so emotional, Caitlin. Do you let your clients see you like this? I hardly think so. No,” he said, smiling angelically, “developing a file on the Honorable Baxter Buchanan will be a little more difficult than developing one on,” he looked me up and down appraisingly, “Caitlin Reece, say.”
“Okay, okay.” I pulled out my wallet and counted out five one-hundred dollar bills. Francis always insists on being paid in cash. “When?” I demanded, waving the bills under his nose.
“Monday.”
I hooted. “Out of the question. It has to be sooner.”
He pouted. “Sunday night.”
“No way. Earlier.”
“Caitlin, I just can’t do it any sooner. You’re not my only client, you know.”
“Then no deal.”
He pretended to think. “Well...maybe a little earlier. Saturday, say?”
“Saturday before noon.”
“After noon,” he said, firmly.
I scowled. I didn’t like it, but it would have to do.
He unbent a little. “Tell me what sort of thing you’re looking for, and maybe I can phone you earlier with a partial report.”
Now that was more like it. “I’m not sure,” I told him truthfully, “but I have a feeling it’ll be something...odd. Something disturbing. And probably something pretty well buried in Buchanan’s background. He is a public figure now, after all.”
Francis’ eyes sparkled. “Caitlin, you want some dirt!”
“That’s it, Francis. Dirt. And the sooner the better.”
He bounced to his feet and showed me to the door. The lock ritual was repeated, and he ushered me out. “Dirt,” he repeated enthusiastically. “You know, Caitlin, that’s my favorite kind of job. I’d have only charged you five hundred if you’d told me that up front. And been nicer. I’m going to get on this right away, you silly girl.”
I bared my teeth at him, but he slammed the door. “Saturday!” I yelled. “Before noon, you little blood sucker!” There was no reply. Francis the ferret was already at work.
After a quick coffee at a fast food drive-through, I decided to pay a visit to Malcolm and Yvonne’s store. I checked my watch. Just about two. Perhaps I might happen upon that maven of monetary acumen Oliver Renbo, expounding the ethical purity of the Rainbow Fund. Or maybe he had a bridge to sell today. I found a spot for my MG in a green zone, and went inside.
At the back, the little café was empty, save for a wispily bearded young man who was examining the dregs of his soup as if for clues. I sighed. I could have used a few clues myself.
“Hi, Caitlin,” Yvonne said as I slid onto a stool at the counter.
“I’ll have the soup,” I told her. The chalkboard said it was cream of broccoli. I figured it would probably do no damage that a visit to McDonald’s wouldn’t undo. “Where’s the financier?” I asked.
“Funny you should ask,” she said, putting a large bowl of steaming soup in front of me. “Today was the first time in ages he hasn’t been in.”
Oho, I thought. Maybe the inquiries I’d asked Virginia Silver to make were shaking his tree a little. Perhaps he’d decided to pack up his scheme and go elsewhere. I hoped so. “Well,” I told Yvonne, “I’ll have some information for you soon. Sit tight.” I looked around. “Where’s Malcolm?”
“Just popped out the University ticket office for a minute.”
“Oh, who’s coming?”
She gave me an eager smile. “Tonia Konig. You know, the nonviolence lady you brought here the other day. Malcolm was thrilled to meet her.”
I almost choked on my soup.
“Sunday afternoon she’s speaking at the McPherson Auditorium. Malcolm and I want to make sure we get tickets. It’s going to be televised.” She sighed. “I really admire that woman.”
Well, Tonia did say that she had a talk to deliver on Sunday. I wondered if I should tell Yvonne that the admirable Dr. Konig was even now ensconced in my spare room, thinking nonviolent thoughts. I decided against it. “Mmm,” I said noncommittally. “Should be interesting.”
“Malcolm’s getting a few extra tickets,” she said tentatively. “Would you like to come?”
I furrowed my brow and pretended to think. “Sunday, Sunday, hmm. Nope, I don’t think I can make it. Thanks for asking, though.” Ye gods. Tonia would probably sniff out my heretical presence in the audience and order me out of the auditorium. Thug, begone! And on TV, too. I felt sure of this, despite the fact that we had shared a bed last night. Sort of. No thanks. If there ever was oil and water, it was us. Besides, I figured by Sunday I’d be ready for about twenty-four consecutive hours of sleep which I intended to precede with a few hours spent abusing alcohol, reading Shakespeare’s sonnets, and listening to Bach. Simultaneously. How Tonia expected to be ready for Sunday I had no idea. Fortunately, that wasn’t my problem. Saturday was.
I made a quick trip to the Oak Bay photo shop, and, on my way back to the car, a stop at the Back Alley Deli for muffins. I bought another half pound of shaved ham just in case Tonia had eaten the last lot, added a container of potato salad to the order, and dashed back across Oak Bay Avenue to my car. Taking a quick look at the photos, I shrugged. They were simply pictures of people. Well, I had hopes that Tonia could help me identify them. I had a pretty good theory worked out to explain them. And if I was wrong? I sighed. Well then, I’d simply have to formulate a different hypothesis.
Tonia’s door was still closed when I came back, busy sounds of typing emanating from inside the room. I knocked quietly.
“Yes?” Her voice was flat, noncomm
ittal.
“Sorry to bother you, but I need your help for a few minutes.”
Silence. “All right.”
I must admit to more than a small degree of nervousness as I waited for her door to open. Now was certainly the time to talk about last night, but what in God’s name could I say? Thanks but no thanks?
She opened the door and gave me one of her long looks. Despite my best intentions, I began to have difficulty breathing. Good grief. Perhaps I should reconsider my hasty decision to decline the good doctor’s advances. As St. Augustine said, “Lord, make me pure, but not yet.” With difficulty, I reined in my lascivious thoughts. Business first. “Why don’t we go on into the living room?” I suggested. “I’m going to make a sandwich and get a beer. In the meantime, you could take a look a the photos in the brown envelope. On the coffee table. Want a snack?”
“No thanks,” she said, turning away from me finally.
Repo put in an appearance as I was piling ham on rye bread for my sandwich. He sat politely on the counter, salivating, looking eloquently at the meat. My reluctance to share with Repo was not due to the fact that I wanted to keep the ham for myself. Well, not entirely. Ham isn’t good for cats, Yvonne says. Pork fat molecules are larger than average, and though they’re degraded during digestion, they’re still big. When I learned this, I had a vivid picture of humongous molecules of ham fat making log jams in Repo’s tiny arteries, and I realized I hadn’t been doing him any favors feeding him tidbits of ham and bacon. Most of the time I can harden my heart and think of his arteries. Today, I felt weak. Also, he was drooling on the counter. So, I gave in.
Tonia looked up in perplexity from the pile of photos as I sat on the couch beside her, depositing sandwich and beer on the coffee table. “Why do you have pictures of these people?” she asked.
“Beats me,” I said, licking mustard off my finger. “Why, do you know them?”
The Always Anonymous Beast Page 9