“How did you manage to finish college?”
“Determination. Education was important to both of us. We took night courses or day courses, depending on what kind of schedule we could coordinate between us. Dad’s insurance money kept us afloat for a while. Carolyn and I always worked well together. We worked part-time, too, she as a bookkeeper and me at a vet clinic. After Carolyn’s death, though, I couldn’t handle Mother on my own. Her health was deteriorating…mentally and physically. I had to put her in a nursing home. By then, I had got my nursing degree.”
“You married, too.”
“A hapless marriage, as it turned out. He was a lovely man, ten years older than I. He suddenly died in his sleep. Completely out of the blue. We had been married for just eighteen months. An undiagnosed heart problem. At that point I’d had my fill of dealing with human complaints and sicknesses and death. So I moved on. I pursued a Master’s in pharmacology and a Doctorate in veterinary medicine. I’ve been associate professor for half a dozen years now…and I like it very much.”
Abruptly, Edna’s tone shifted from personal and reminiscent to direct and businesslike: “So where do we stand? Have you made progress?”
“I have. There’s a connection between the Villier murder and Carolyn’s death. The common thread is Simone’s boyfriend, Jamie MacFarlane. He was a police officer at the time. Now he’s Chief of the Stratford Constabulary. I may have uncovered a motive for him to have murdered his girlfriend. I’ve caught him in a string of lies about his testimony and his relationship with Simone and others. I’m following up on them now.”
“But what’s his connection to Carolyn’s death?”
“She was interviewed as part of the Villier investigation, and she lied. She said she had gone home early the evening of the murder when, in fact, she had worked until quite late.”
“You think Carolyn would have been a witness? Surely not. I would have known. She would have told me something.”
“Carolyn wasn’t aware of the murder until several days later. She probably never actually witnessed anything, but she may have somehow concluded that MacFarlane had done it. That’s the only reason I can think of that would explain her lying. If MacFarlane somehow became aware of her lie, then he might have felt compelled to kill her to prevent her from coming forward.”
“Will you be able to establish that?”
“I’m working on it. I think I’m stepping hard enough on his toes to make him very nervous. When people become rash, they make mistakes.”
“How much longer?”
“Hopefully a few days. I can’t say for certain.”
“Then you’ll have proof?”
“I can’t promise anything. Like I said, it’s been a very long time since the crime was committed. I’m confident I’ll have enough to discredit him, but a conviction for murder will be difficult to substantiate. The reality is that the only way to get him for Carolyn’s death is to get him for Simone Villier’s. The two are tied together. Sorry.”
“I can give you two more days. That’s the most I can do. Two days.”
Anne returned to the service station. The mechanic rolled out her tire, jacked the car, and replaced the spare.
“That’ll be ten dollars,” he said.
“Nail?” asked Anne.
“Core in the valve stem.”
“I’ve had valve stems replaced but never a core.”
“Wasn’t replaced. Just tightened it, pumped her up,” he said.
“Did it vibrate loose?”
“Not by accident.” Anne looked at him expectantly. He got the hint and continued. “Used to be a common high school prank in the day.” He took a small tool from his pocket and held it up. “This part fits in the stem hole. Twist it counterclockwise. If you twist just a little, air leaks out slowly.”
36.
“Let’s go! Let’s go! Let’s go, ladies!”
Phys Ed teacher Fred Mueller shouted into the showers. Steam billowed, spray cascaded from two rows of shower heads, students hooted and shouted and laughed, and their echo was deafening.
Mueller waited a minute and stuck his head ’round the corner into the shower room and shouted again, “Let’s go, ladies. The bell’s about to ring. C’mon! Get a move on!”
Sig Valdimarsson rushed past him out of the cloudy haze and into the locker room. William Larsen was right behind him. He loosed a ninja cry and snapped his towel. It cracked like a whip against Sig’s ass. Sig yelped.
“Knock it off, Larsen! Get dressed,” shouted Mueller.
Sig’s long wet blond hair clung to his neck. He was slender, but broadly built and muscular. He towelled off and started dressing for the second class. Larsen’s locker was next to his.
What’s up this weekend?” he asked.
“Birthday party.”
Larsen’s ear perked.
“Birthday party? Whose?” he asked.
“Bobby… Fogarty…at his house,” said Sig, grunting between tugs at the clothes he was rushing to put on.
“A big seventeenth blowout, huh?”
“Nah, just a few friends. A family thing. His mother’s got something planned.”
“Oh,” said Larsen.
“… Then I think we’re going over to Madame Desjardins’.”
“Whoa, she’s pretty hot for a teacher. I bet Bobby’s mom didn’t plan that.”
Sig gave him a disdainful look.
“Jacqui Brown is babysitting. She can’t come to the party, but she wants to give him something. I’m tagging along. Might do something afterwards, though.”
“I know what she can give me for my birthday,” he laughed. Sig ignored him. “So it’s a party, and then a party after the party. Cool. See you at practice.”
37.
Ben Solomon felt just like he had been when summoned to Mrs. Bell’s office. Mrs. Bell had been principal at the junior high school he attended in Ottawa. That time, he knew what the summons was about. Fighting again. Rudy Fitz had called him “bagel baby.” It wasn’t the first time. So, at recess Ben popped him with a volleyball shot to the face. It swelled like an overripe tomato. A supervising teacher had seen the whole thing.
Rudy could blubber with the best of them, and at thirteen he had mastered the art of lying. So he denied his provocation. The teacher believed Rudy’s whimpering explanation. So did Mrs. Bell. Ben was suspended for the day. His parents were called.
“It won’t happen again,” said Ben’s mother.
“No, Mrs. Solomon, I’m sure it won’t,” said Mrs. Bell crisply.
“Benjy, what’s the matter with you? Haven’t you learned anything?” scolded his mother as she left the office with Ben. Her hand swatted the back of Ben’s head as they descended the broad stone steps of the schoolhouse. “You’re a bright boy, Benjy. Next time, act smart. Don’t let anyone catch you. Here. Here’s three dollars. There’s a matinee at the Odeon. Be home for supper, and don’t be late.”
Serpico was the main feature that day and later that evening Ben Solomon imagined himself as Al Pacino, cleaning up a corrupt Canadian city from the forces of vice, greed, and cruelty.
The premier’s office was on the fifth floor of the Jones Building, one floor above his. Premier Thane Clark had not summoned him, but his chief of staff, Wendell Carmody, had. He was the premier’s go-to man for problems he’d rather distance himself from.
The door was open. Premier Clark and Carmody were talking. Ben knocked politely on the door frame and entered. Both men turned toward the door.
Premier Thane Clark always looked taller than he actually was. He had a full head of grey hair, casually combed back on the sides, always a touch long for the professorial, liberal-thinking look, and always meticulously arranged. He was quick to step forward and greet Ben.
“Good morning, Ben. It’s good to see you again. Wen
dell tells me that you’re beginning to settle in. That’s wonderful…and I’m hearing good things about you. Someday soon we’ll get together for a longer chat. It’s wonderful to have you on our team.” The premier glanced quickly at his watch. “Another meeting,” he said with a smile and returned to his office, closing the door behind him.
“What’s up, Wendell?”
“Have a seat, Ben.” Wendell motioned Ben to a chair. “Won’t take long. I’ve been made aware of an irregularity that we need to take care of. More of a nuisance really.”
Wendell didn’t take a seat. Instead, he leaned against the edge of his desk in front of Ben’s chair. The smile on Ben’s face grew weaker.
“Yes?” said Ben noncommittally.
“Actually there’s been a complaint, unofficial of course. It’s about a police file that you requested. I understand that it’s fallen into the hands of a private detective, a Ms. Billy Darby. We need it returned.”
“Why?”
“Only peace officers or officers of the court can have access to those files. They’re confidential. As a matter of fact, it’s a personal privacy concern, too.”
“I authorized it.”
“You can’t do that.”
“She came into new evidence relating to the case.”
“Then she should have requested it through a proper application.”
Ben felt the steam rising and his chest constricting as he watched Carmody’s lips move through his playbook of political hoops and bureaucratic red tape. Ben took several long slow breaths to control his breathing. He couldn’t count how many times he’d seen contents of a police file slipped into the hands of an outsider, and he knew that he had the authority to widen the circle of access to the file in spite of Carmody’s declaration. He took a few longer, controlled breaths until he felt some calmness return. There is something else going on here, he thought.
“Who initiated the complaint?”
“I can’t go into that. It’s confidential.”
“I can find out.”
“I’m sure you can, but as I mentioned, it’s unofficial at this time. No one wants to draw any more attention to it. If it’s ratcheted up to an official complaint, it may come back on you. And let’s face it, Ben, you knew it wasn’t kosher.”
Ben winced at his choice of words and wondered if it was an unconscious choice or a mindful one.
“No problem. I’ll get it back. And I assume there won’t be any fallout for Ms. Darby.”
“Nothing permanent. As I understand it, though, a separate privacy complaint has been made, and that will have to work its way through the system. I’m sure it will be done quietly, though, and expeditiously.”
“I’ll do what I can to help, Wendell. You know that. Perhaps, though, if you can spare a moment, you could explain how everything will ‘work its way through the system.’ I’m a little muddy on this administrative stuff.”
Wendell Carmody stood up and returned to the chair behind his desk. His posture relaxed. The tautness in his smile faded.
“Coffee?” he asked, pointing to a fresh carafe at a side table.
“Perfect.”
“Sweetener?” Wendell asked as he held up a bottle of liqueur.
“More than perfect.”
Carmody poured two cups, brought one to Ben, and settled into a chair next to him. He took a quick slurp, and then he began: “According to the legislation governing private investigators, here’s what usually happens…”
38.
“Anne? Listen. You’ve got problems.”
At first Anne didn’t recognize Ben’s voice. It was abrupt, sharp, and impatient. Anne was about to ask him how he heard about the flat-tire incident so soon, but Ben gave her no chance to interrupt.
“Where are you right now?” he asked.
“Just got into the office. Why?”
“You’re going to have company.”
“What do you…”
“Just listen.”
“Do you have a photocopier?”
“Yeah.”
“Photocopy the Villier police file.”
“Yeah.”
“Photocopy any notes you’ve made on your investigation so far.”
“Yeah. Why?” said Anne finally able to squeeze one word into their one-sided conversation.
“They may be serving a warrant for your files. Also, that letter from Carolyn?”
“Yeah, what about it?”
“Put it in an envelope and mail it to yourself. All photocopies you make? Remove them from your office right away.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Wish I were. Get on it now. I don’t know how much time you have. I’ll meet you for lunch and fill you in.”
Ben returned the phone to its cradle on his desk. Immediately he picked it up again, thought for a moment, and replaced it. He got up and walked quickly from his office to the office three doors down. The placard on the door read “Ministry of Justice.” The door was open. The secretary looked up from her typewriter just in time to see Ben move past and through the open door of Fenton Peale’s office. Peale was startled by the looming figure entering his domain, and it took a second for his eyes to focus on the grim face of Ben Solomon.
“Ben? I didn’t know we had a meeting.”
“We don’t. Your door was open. I need a second.”
“Go on, then. What is it? You look flustered.”
“More confused than upset,” said Ben. It was as close to conciliatory he could manage at that moment. “Question. Were you aware of a complaint about a police file I requested regarding the Villier murder?”
“Never heard of it.”
“Were you notified of a warrant issued to seize the files of a private detective, Billy Darby?”
“No.”
“Your office licenses private investigators and security officers.”
“Oh, I see. Let me explain. Our ministry’s legislation covers the police and other peace officers. PIs and security guards operate under Department of Industry legislation. Industry regulates the private sector. Justice does criminal background checks on their applicants and rubber stamps Industry’s submissions for licensing. It’s more efficient that way.”
“Who investigates PIs that violate the legislation?”
“Industry.”
“And warrants?”
“Industry. Anything else, Ben?”
“No. Thanks. Sorry for the intrusion.” Peale said nothing. Ben turned and left the office. Embarrassment followed closely behind him.
39.
Anne picked at her lunch and fidgeted in her seat at The Blue Peter. Every time she heard the whoosh of the front door opening, she looked up anxiously. Where the hell is he, she wondered. What’s keeping him? When he finally came through the door, she sprang out of her seat at the round table, and rushed over.
“Ben, what’s going on?”
“Same question I was going to ask you. You pissed somebody off. Can I guess who?”
“MacFarlane?”
“I expect so. I tried to warn you. Slow, quiet, methodical investigations don’t stir up big stinks, and from the odour floating in the halls of the Jones building, you’ve set fire to the entire outhouse.”
“The trouble with slow investigations is that they’re slow,” she said. She sounded defensive. She hoped that Ben didn’t perceive it, but she knew that she’d been backed against a wall. “You never know if you’re making progress. It’s like those British TV detectives. Always tiptoeing around, afraid they’re going to offend someone. At least I know that I struck close to home, and I know it’s MacFarlane at the grassroots level, but who’s helping him in government?”
“Hard to say. Industry is doing the kicking. Justice seems to be out of the loop. MacFarlane knows and has worked wit
h pretty well everyone who’s connected and can pull strings. He owes favours, and lots owe him. Easy to cover his tracks. So what happened exactly?” Ben asked. “Who showed up? What did they say?”
“They didn’t say much really. Some bureaucrat from Department of Industry arrived, knocked, and came in with the sheriff who served the warrant. It was only about an hour after your heads up. Thanks for that, by the way. They even made me open the safe.”
Ben raised his eyebrows.
“I know what you’re thinking and, no, they didn’t find my .32. But they were surprised at Uncle Billy’s little arsenal. The sheriff checked the paperwork. Everything was up-to-date, he said. He looked closely at the box of .32 cartridges stacked with the others. Then he looked at me and said, ‘You know that .25 and .32 calibre handguns are prohibited weapons in Canada, right?’ I told him I thought that Uncle Bill had a .32 a long time ago, but I hadn’t gotten around to cleaning out all his odds and ends.”
“Where was the .32?”
“In my purse. I knew their warrant wouldn’t cover a personal search.”
“What was the basis for the warrant?”
“Supposedly, I had passed myself off as a police officer in order to get information from someone. They didn’t say who filed the complaint, but I have an idea who. I was looking for John Dawson yesterday. I stopped at the transition house and talked to three parolees on the porch. I’m guessing somebody leaned on one of them.”
“And I’m guessing that someone has been keeping a close watch on your travels in this case. Did you get everything photocopied that needed to be?”
“Yes. Everything that was important.”
“Where are the copies?”
Anne tilted her head toward Mary Anne’s restaurant office.
“And Carolyn’s letter?”
“With Canada Post again,” she said lightly, but her levity was short-lived. “You know that I’m out of business, don’t you? They’ve suspended my private investigator’s license.”
“A temporary setback. They’ll investigate the complaint. After a few weeks they’ll find that it was bogus, and you’ll be back in business again.”
The Dead Letter Page 13