“If you’re a lunatic, or a drunken kid on a rampage…then, yeah…”
“That would be chaos then,” said Anne thoughtfully.
“You’re losin’ me now. This is only my second cup of the day.”
“Madmen or drunks are chaotic.”
“We’re still on different floors, girl.”
“There’s no order in chaos. It’s random.”
Mary Anne looked blank.
“Let me explain. When I straightened the reception area, everything was everywhere. It was a job to sort. It was the same in my office except for the contents of my desk. Sure, the files, papers, invoices were dumped. So were the drawers. But when I began to put things back, I noticed that they were, for the most part, all together.”
“The caffeine still hasn’t kicked in, girl.”
“Don’t you see? The only place where I found a pattern in either room was at my desk. If I reconstructed how the intruder would have created that same exact pattern, only one scenario makes sense: they opened the top drawer, removed the contents, and tossed them on the floor. They did the same with the middle drawer and dropped those papers on top of the others. The bottom drawer was next. Its contents were on top.”
“I get it, but it seems like a stretch.”
“The last thing they did was pull out the drawers. The drawers were tossed on top of the papers that had been inside them. To remove the desk drawer, however, means releasing a catch. That would have had to have been a deliberate decision and an extra step…unnecessary…unless somebody was doing a detailed search of my desk for something…and that’s what I think happened…and I think the rest of the place was trashed afterward…for window dressing…to cover up their real purpose.”
“So, who would do something like that?”
“I have an idea. I just don’t know why.”
25.
Jamie MacFarlane wore sneakers, blue gym pants, and a zipped-up matching jacket when he left his Stratford home. He drove across the Hillsborough Bridge toward Charlottetown. Early-morning traffic had thinned. The day had brightened. His mood was sour.
He turned up Riverside Drive, exited at the first roundabout, and turned into a long, little-used, dirt lane that led some distance behind an old warehouse.
MacFarlane pulled over and stopped. An empty road stretched a few hundred yards ahead and behind. The warehouse on his left threw a great shadow. A berm, topped with brush and stunted trees, extended along his right.
Beyond the berm and out of sight lay the oval track of the Charlottetown Driving Park. A dozen stables stood at one end. Horses whinnied and hooves beat rhythmically on the turf. Sounds carried in the autumn air. So did the smell of manure. MacFarlane rolled up the window, lit a cigarette, and checked his watch. It was nine-thirty.
MacFarlane’s eyes fixed expectantly on the road ahead. As he did, a memory of last night flashed across his mind. The rear of Anne Brown’s car loomed in his windshield. He flinched involuntarily, and he felt a rush of panic just as he did when he had been tailing her.
The devil was in the details, he thought. He speculated on what Bernadette may have told Anne. And what small confidences Simone may have told her mother so many years ago. At the very least, Anne would come away with an impression of Bernadette quite different from the one he had painted in her office.
MacFarlane’s contemplation fell apart when his eyes registered the movement of a car turning onto the dirt road ahead. It was a shiny blue Camaro. It fishtailed on the damp clay, steadied up, roared ahead, and stopped abruptly, window to window, alongside his.
Windows rolled down.
The driver of the Camaro was Michael Underhay. Most people called him “Cutter.”
Cutter operated a bar and headed a local biker gang. Thefts and drugs had been his special criminal interest, but recently he had ventured into racketeering with regional gangs. MacFarlane had arrested Cutter in the past. In recent years, though, the two had developed a convenient arrangement. MacFarlane turned a blind eye to many of Cutter’s under-the-radar Stratford activities in return for Cutter dropping information on competitors and others, especially those who became high-profile and newsworthy in his jurisdiction. As a result, the arrest record of Stratford Police Department looked good, crime was down, and local voters and town councillors remained content.
“You got the letter?” MacFarlane asked.
“No,” said Cutter.
“No?” MacFarlane’s face was reddening.
“You need a hearing aid, old man?” Cutter grinned. His smile flashed a broken tooth and revealed drooping facial muscles, damaged in a severe prison beating.
“You stupid sonofabitch, I even told you where it was.”
“It wasn’t there. They couldn’t find it.” The grin faded. His tone chilled.
“They? Who’s they? Weren’t you there? I told you it was important. That’s why I wanted you to handle it personally, not some stoned flunky.”
“You think I’m going to stick my neck out for you? Or anybody? My lawyer advises against it. Says it’s likely to cut into my leisure time.”
“Don’t get wise with me. It had to be there. I saw it there.”
“It wasn’t there,” Cutter snarled. “They knew what they had to do, and they did it. Like I said…there was nothing there.”
“Why should I believe you?!”
Cutter’s rage finally burst through.
“I’ve got nothing to gain by holding out. If I could screw that Darby bitch, I’d do it in a heartbeat. She cost me thousands after that run-in last year…thousands! And a couple of my boys are still doing time. Nothin’ would make me happier than dancin’ on her grave and pissin’ on her tombstone.”
Cutter fell into a silence. When his rancour abated, he continued: “I did what you wanted. And I don’t work for nothin’. So, we still got a deal?”
MacFarlane’s first urge was to reach out, grab Cutter’s windpipe in his hands, and crush it, but he had seen too many first urges land people in penitentiary cells. He relished his violent image for a moment more. Then he nodded slowly.
“That evidence will disappear?”
“It won’t disappear. I can’t make that happen, but it will be compromised. It won’t be admissible at trial. The case will fall apart. The problem will go away…and as for your problem with Anne Brown… I may have a way to solve that, too. I’ll let you know.”
26.
Anne stood by the elevator at the Jones building, a cup of coffee in her hand. She pressed the button for Ben’s office on the fourth floor.
The unexpected start to the morning had thrown her off—breakfast skipped, morning run cancelled, and office trashed. The coffee at Mary Anne’s had worn off, and she had needed another, one with more bite. She gripped the second coffee lightly. It was large, still hot. Double sugar, double cream.
She took a guarded sip and stared at the lit elevator button. Then she stared at the coffee and felt a twinge of guilt. So she turned and headed toward the door to the fire stairs.
Just as Anne reached for the handle, the door burst open. It struck Anne hard. The momentum drove her back. She staggered, lost her footing, and tumbled across the floor.
When Anne recovered, she found herself slouched against the corridor wall, still gripping the coffee cup, but most of the contents had spilled, some dripping down the wall, much of it pooling beneath her. She felt the sticky, warm liquid soak through her slacks and sensed the sting from a burn on her hand.
The man who had flown through the door halted abruptly. He looked stunned and then embarrassed.
“You clumsy idiot! What the hell are you doing?” said Anne.
“I’m terribly sorry.”
The voice belonged to a well-dressed man in his forties. He wore a grey tailored Italian suit and carried a black leather briefcase.
> “It was my fault,” he said.
“Ya think?” said Anne. “I’m a mess!” she said looking at herself.
She shook her arm. Her sodden sweater sprayed a line of coffee toward his dress shoes. He backed up guardedly. Then he stepped forward and extended a hand to help her up.
Anne ignored him and lifted herself from the floor. She moved toward the stairwell door, but the tiled floor was wet. She slipped, lurched forward, clutched his still outstretched arm, and fell headlong into his chest. His arms closed tightly around her. Her head buried itself in the scent of a freshly pressed shirt and a pleasant cologne.
She pulled away in embarrassment.
“Thanks.”
“Not at all. It was entirely my fault…trying to get someplace unimportant too quick.”
“Now I’ve ruined your jacket,” she said pointing to his sleeve, stained with coffee from her sweater.
“Nothing to be concerned about. I’m clearly the cause of my own misfortune…and yours. Again, my apologies. My name is Fenton.”
“Anne.”
“Do you work in the building?”
“I’m visiting a friend.”
“Well, if your friend isn’t offering lunch, then perhaps I could persuade you to join me…as a way of my making amends…or supper, if you prefer.”
“And how would your wife feel about that?” asked Anne pointing to his wedding ring.
“I’m sure she could be convinced of the harmlessness of it.”
“I’d bet that even my teenage daughter would raise her eyebrows at that suggestion.”
“You’re married?”
“A widow. Thanks for the offer, though, harmless…or otherwise.”
“I understand. Still, I can’t let you go without redeeming myself in some way. Let me at least cover your dry-cleaning costs.”
“No. I’ll just toss these in the wash.”
“Surely not the sweater,” he said and quickly pulled several bills from his pocket. He pressed them into her hand. “I insist,” he added, “and perhaps if we meet again, it will be under more pleasant circumstances.”
Then he turned and rushed off before Anne could object.
Anne watched him disappear through a door. Then she trudged up four flights and poked her head through Ben’s open doorway.
“Hey,” she said as she walked in.
Ben smiled at the sound of her voice and finished signing a letter. Then he looked up. His smile drooped.
“What happened? You’ve sure gone to hell since I last saw you.”
“Yep. Just got back. They were askin’ about you.”
Ben laughed and wagged a finger at her.
“You’re sharp this morning…for a person that looks like they’ve been dumpster-diving.”
“I was up early. My office was ransacked.”
Anne dropped into a deep comfortable chair facing Ben’s desk and curled up on the seat. She looked washed out and suddenly felt rather tired.
Ben’s smile faded into attentiveness. He leaned forward.
“Tell me about it.”
She shrugged. “Police think it was a drug-related B and E.”
“And you?”
“I think it was something else.”
Anne described how she had found the office, and she explained the inconsistencies that made her doubt the police explanation.
“And you think someone was looking for the letter?”
“That’s the only conclusion I could draw from the pattern of litter near my desk.”
“Who knew it was there?”
“Only two people. Gwen Fowler and Chief MacFarlane.”
“Not the usual suspects,” said Ben.
“Well, we can rule out Gwen. She has no connections to anything. MacFarlane, however, is beginning to smell a bit.”
“I’d tread carefully before I turned over that rock.”
“You sayin’ I should leave him alone?”
Ben noted an all-too-familiar edge creep into her voice. It had always reminded him of the low growl a terrier makes before it snaps at your finger. It brought a smile to his mind, but he managed to stifle it before it slipped onto his face.
“I’m sayin’ follow the evidence before you get bit by whatever might be under that rock. He may be a small-town police chief, but he has a lot of influence. By the way…”
“Ben, we need to meet,” a voice interrupted. “I need some input on that staffing report I sent you.” The man who poked his head into Ben’s office wore a red and grey silk tie and grey trousers. His grin forced its way through an impatient expression, and it took a few moments for him to notice an elbow on the armrest of the chair in front of Ben’s desk.
“Didn’t know you had company.”
“That’s quite all right. I’d like to introduce someone, if you have a second. Mr. Peale, this Anne Brown. Anne, Fenton Peale, Minister of Justice…my boss.”
Anne craned her head around the back of the chair and said, “Good morning again, Fenton.”
“Anne?” He said with surprise.
“You two know each other?” asked Ben.
“We met over coffee,” said Anne.
“Anne runs Darby Investigations and Security in Charlottetown. She’s a private investigator.”
Peale looked suddenly confused and said, “Yes, I believe I saw the name on an application for renewal of her license. Nice to see you, Anne.”
“You, too. I’m sure we’ll bump into each other again.”
“Ten minutes, Ben?”
Ben nodded. Peale disappeared, his footsteps clicking down the hallway toward his office.
“Guess I have to get back to work. So what’s your beef with MacFarlane?”
“A number of loose ends. First of all, he was Simone Villier’s boyfriend. She was murdered, and he wound up arresting the man who would be convicted of her murder. He’s too close to everything.”
“Was he a suspect?”
“He was interviewed. His alibi held up, apparently.”
“Anything else?”
“Sam Best, another Stratford officer, interviewed Carolyn Jollimore. But Carolyn lied to him about being in the office at the time of the murder. A co-worker is quite clear about talking to her on the phone on the evening of Simone’s murder. Carolyn was at work when she made the call. A week later Carolyn was dead.”
“…and Carolyn said that she couldn’t go to the police about the murder.”
“Right. It’s also occurred to me that the only connection between the two deaths is that letter. We have photocopies, but they can’t be introduced in court. The only real piece of evidence is the original.”
“So you think he killed both women?”
“That’s my guess.”
“Motive?”
“Not yet, but solve the first murder and the second is a slam-dunk.”
“Just be careful, and don’t stick your neck out, okay? And by the way, before I forget… John Dawson is out of prison.”
27.
The Charlottetown Police had no current address on John Dawson. In fact, they had no knowledge of his release—at least that’s what they claimed. The Parole Office was reluctant to release personal information, but they agreed to pass on any information to him if he should glide into their radar. Anne left her card.
The halfway house for Queens County was in Charlottetown. It had been a large residential home in the twenties. It was in good repair, large enough to accommodate at least half a dozen clients, most of them parolees with a lingering taste for alcohol, amphetamines, and popular drug cocktails. Three of them were sitting in wicker chairs in the shade of the front veranda when Anne pulled into an empty parking space. The veranda faced a busy street. A table had been set between them, and they passed the time by watching the stream of c
ity cars, moving the pieces on their checkerboard, and blustering about grandiose plans for the future.
The bluster sank into a surprised silence as Anne strode up the pavement toward the steps to the halfway house. Parole officers, medical staff, counsellors, ministers, and relatives often dropped in. Of course, most of those who visited did so only out of professional necessity or some guilt-fuelled compassion. Even the pizza delivery man sported a strained grin when he balanced his blanketed trays at the front door. Those passing on the street avoided eye contact. For the average person, a visit to a halfway house would have been tantamount to visiting a lepers’ colony. So the sight of an attractive young woman with no briefcase walking toward them with a bright smile on her face was not only unexpected and startling, it was also disarming.
“Hi, guys. Who’s winning?” she asked, looking down at the checkerboard.
“I believe Tipper has the edge in this game,” said Pun’kin.
Pun’kin had an enormous head, and the unruly shocks of orange hair that covered it made it look even larger. It looks like a pumpkin on a fencepost, a boyhood friend had once said, and the nickname stuck. Anne had never met Pun’kin, but she recognized him from the streets of Charlottetown. He had been a drunk, a petty thief, and a brawler. Tipper, on the other hand, had run over his dealer half a dozen years ago because the pouch of drugs he had bought contained more filler than fun. It was an “accident,” Tipper had claimed, but he served time for vehicular manslaughter anyway.
Anne didn’t recognize the third man. He moved a checker thoughtfully, but it was promptly taken by Tipper. Then Tipper took two more pieces. The third man just chuckled.
“Maybe you should get a student loan for checkers college?” Anne said.
He chuckled again.
“Barry’s an accountant,” said Tipper.
“For real?” asked Anne. Barry nodded.
“Do you work here?”
Then Tipper and Barry laughed. Pun’kin bent over in his chair. Both hands supported his laughing convulsive head, and from Anne’s perspective it looked as if he were gripping a bowling ball.
“I didn’t think white-collar criminals did real jail time anymore. What was so special about you?” said Anne.
The Dead Letter Page 9