She realized that the sound came from her outer door. A muted rapping.
Why would Dit knock, she asked herself. He wouldn’t, she concluded.
“Come in,” she shouted. Her voice had turned uncharacteristically loud and sharp and unreceptive.
Who the devil is it? Now…of all times.
Anne had wanted at least a solitary moment with Dit to make amends, to assure him that she had been out of sorts, that she had not meant what she had said the night before.
The door to her inner office was open wide and, from her desk, she watched the door at reception pushed in with an irritating sluggishness. A head peeped timidly from behind it. Anne recognized that it was Eli Seares.
Years before, Dit had hired two researchers for his electronics company. At the time Dit’s decision caused some eyes to roll and blank stares to linger, because each of the young men had peculiarities. Urban Nolan had a degree of autism, and Eli Seares had a chronic shyness. Dit had not hired them for charity’s sake, though. He knew that they had talent and ability, qualities many others viewed as curiosities, and that they were dismissed, underestimated, or masked by behavioural oddities that often accompanied them. Dit saw through all that and was among the first to perceive the potential of Eli and Urban in his business environment.
Later Dit became aware that Eli and Urban were not just good, reliable workers. They were brilliant in applied electronics and were making significant advances in the research and development of the electronics surveillance devices Dit was manufacturing.
Although Anne had desperately wanted Dit to walk through the door, her disappointment vanished when she saw Eli. Of the two researchers in Dit’s shop, Eli had always been her favourite. There was something endearing about him. Perhaps his crooked little smile. It seemed to peek out reluctantly, but uncontrollably when he was happy. And he always seemed pleased when Anne visited Dit at Malone Electronics.
Eli was still half-hidden behind the front door when she beckoned him in. He smiled shyly. His glance ricocheted from her face to her shoes and then away toward the window.
“Come in, come in, Eli. I’m so glad to see you. Are you here on an errand or do you need the services of a private investigator?”
Eli’s bashful giggle sounded like a stifled cough. But Anne’s cheerful invitation led him away from his protective place at the door frame, and he edged into the room. His left hand toted a leather satchel. His right arm raised up to display a small black metal box. A black cable plugged into it, and at cable’s end dangled a silver rod.
“An errand, then, is it? What exactly does it do?” Anne knew very well that it was a sweeping device for r.f. signals. Dit must have decided to send Eli to check for hidden listening devices instead of coming himself. He was still angry, Anne concluded.
Eli’s lips moved, but no sound escaped. She saw a flicker of fear in his eyes. She smiled encouragingly at him.
“Take your time. I’m in no rush, Eli.”
Eli took two long, deep breaths. Each time Anne could hear the breath expelled. All the time, Eli’s eyes were fixed at a corner of the room as if searching for something. Then he began to speak.
“…mumble ’tronic mumble surveillance mumble ’vice.” Eli spoke in soft, muted tones almost impossible to hear. His face flushed.
At work Eli had always spoken rather sparingly to Urban and Dit, just what was necessary, little more and, prior to this visit, he had managed to utter only a few words to Anne. So this venture was a new challenge.
“An electronic counter-surveillance device?” repeated Anne. He nodded jerkily.
“Yes,” he whispered.
“You’re going to sweep for listening devices?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Would you be more comfortable if I went away while you work…or shall I stay?”
“You can stay,” he said and smiled benignly.
Eli turned the detector on and made a few adjustments.
It took less than two minutes for Eli, silver wand and cable in hand, to sweep the reception area and Anne’s office. Eli displayed the bug he retrieved from her telephone and set it on her desk.
“Good one, Eli!”
Eli looked confused, then said, “…mumble more to do.”
Anne must have had a puzzled look on her face when Eli said, “Your car.” He pointed out the window. “Need to examine it.” A modicum of strength had slipped into his request.
Anne’s car was in a parking lot around the corner. She and Eli walked toward it. Anne unlocked the doors and got behind the steering wheel. Eli circled the car pointing the wand toward possible transmission spots. Then he climbed into the back seat with his gear. Anne watched him through the rear-view mirror. He waved the silver probe slowly around, but the r.f. detector revealed no transmission signal. He shook his head.
“Excellent,” said Anne and grabbed the door handle to get out.
“No…more,” he said, loudly, almost a shout from Eli’s perspective. The sound of his own voice unnerved him. He recoiled, the sweetness of his elfish face dissolving into a cowering tremble, his breaths short and shallow.
“My mistake,” said Anne, anxious herself for him and trying to calm him. “Sorry. What do you want me to do?”
“Drive someplace…please.”
Anne drove a few blocks east and north. Eli expelled another slow deep lungful of air in an effort to control his breathing. “Yes…,” he said, and more excitedly, “…a…GPS tracker.”
In his own timid way, Eli made clear to Anne that he had found a second device, a latent battery-powered GPS tracker that transmitted only when the car was moving and was impossible to detect otherwise. This model could transmit signals to a remote computer or smart phone that overlaid the data onto a Google-like map image, showed the route taken and the stops made, and recorded the date and time of each.
Eli retrieved the tracker from the steel frame underneath the plastic rear bumper of her car. He dropped it in her palm as quickly and deftly as a wary pigeon nicks breadcrumbs from a hand on a park bench. Before he left the office, he gave her a weak smile, but Anne believed that he was quite worn out from the efforts he had put forth communicating with her. She thanked him profusely again and waved as he left.
From the vantage point of her window Anne watched Dit’s van pull away, Eli at the wheel. It was obvious that Dit was still angry with her, but she didn’t know what she could do about it. Perhaps time would heal their relationship, she thought. Or perhaps nothing could ever put things right again.
A gust of wind engulfed the Confederation Centre Library building across the street. Maple trees on the terraced courtyard quivered. A handful of red, orange, and mottled green leaves were torn from their tenuous hold on limbs and drifted onto the street.
44.
“I’ve got good news and bad news,” said Ben. Anne was on the other end of that telephone call, still at her office, and still looking out her window.
“Shoot,” she said.
“Good news is… I’m officially opening an investigation into the Villier and Jollimore deaths.”
“That is good,” said Anne, and then added somewhat sarcastically. “Do I get to watch?”
“Ha, ha,” said Ben flatly. “You can look, but don’t touch…for now.”
“Thanks a lot. I’ll clean up my rose-coloured glasses, too.”
“Much appreciated.”
“And the bad news is…?”
“I’ll be out of town for a week or so.”
“You never watched many Westerns when you were a kid, did you, Ben? If you had, you’d have known that good guys don’t leave town ’til after they round up the bad guys. Cooper, Eastwood, John Wayne, Gregory Peck… Lee Marvin…et cetera, et cetera.”
“They didn’t work for the Province of Prince Edward Island.”
“W
ell, thanks, Ben. That image just sucked all the life right out of my ‘home on the range’ fantasy. Maybe I should just go shoot myself now.”
“That would be illegal…besides, moviegoers prefer happy endings.”
“So what’s this trip about?”
“It’s been in the works for a while. A sit-down with the gold braid at various law enforcement agencies off-Island. We just got the schedule this morning. I leave tomorrow, early. I’ll be gone five or six days. Kinda looking forward to it… Sarah might come, too. If I’m lucky, I might even catch a Raptors home game.”
“So you’ll be able to dig into my case when you get back?”
“Actually, with my laptop and wifi, I may be able to dig into something while I’m away. Here’s the thing though. I want you to keep a low profile. Don’t rock the boat. Get it?”
“Don’t rock the boat,” she said. “I got it.”
“I mean it now. There’s no need to rush ahead. None of the players are going anywhere.”
“Okay, okay, I can live with that…for a while. By the way, Eli was here.”
“Dit’s Eli?” Ben sounded incredulous.
“Yep. He swept my office and car. Guess what? Telephone was bugged. Car had a tracking device.”
“Figured. Check with Dit. See if he can assess the devices he recovered. Are they high-tech? Low-tech? Law enforcement issue? Or off-the-shelf junk? Serial numbers. They might lead somewhere, too, and could be that the program used by the tracking device is managed by an online company. If so, we might get a warrant for the account.” Ben was becoming excited. So he was surprised to hear only dead silence on Anne’s end. “You still there?” he added.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m still here. Sounds good but, better yet, why don’t you check in with Dit on that?”
“Yeah… I guess I could handle that, if you want.”
“Thanks.”
Ben caught a tone in that one word that sounded troubled. He had sensed something out of tune earlier in their conversation, but had ignored it. Anne had joked and teased, much as she always did, but he perceived an edge to her humour that was not customary. It was not mean, but it was dispirited and more callous than he would have expected.
“Mind if I make a suggestion?”
“If you feel the need.”
“Look, Anne. I know that you’ve had a rough few days…and no doubt you’re going to have a few more. It’s happened to me more times than I want to admit, but, whenever I’ve been in a fast game, and I couldn’t make the moves I wanted, sometimes I’d slow things right down…change the pace big-time. It throws the other team off. Know what I’m sayin’? Think about it.”
“Didn’t know you played basketball, Ben.”
“Never did. I’m Jewish. Remember? I’m talking chess.”
45.
Anne changed the message on her answering machine to indicate that she would be out of the office for a few days. She locked the door, dropped the key into her coat pocket, and walked down the creaking wooden stairs to the main level and Victoria Row. She headed toward The Blue Peter. It was almost lunchtime.
Mary Anne’s restaurant was only a few steps up Victoria Row from Anne’s office but, in that short distance and in the time it took to get there, Anne had reached a conclusion: Ben’s advice made sense. Maybe it was a good time to change the pace, do something different, let the dust settle on the case until she could find a side door into its secrets. There were still several pieces missing, and maybe they would fall into place with a little distance and perspective. Like Ben said, the players aren’t going anywhere soon.
By the time Anne withdrew from her thoughts, she had reached the intersection at Grafton Street and, rather than backtrack to The Blue Peter, Anne turned left and headed down the street toward the waterfront. Maybe try something different for a change. Something new, she told herself, and something borrowed, something blue, echoed in its wake.
The eye-catching displays in the store windows were a welcome distraction from annoying echoes. So was the heightened bustle of lunchtime foot traffic on a mild, sunny October day. The old business district of Charlottetown, through which she walked, had been transformed wondrously since her childhood memories of the place.
She could remember holding her father’s hand as they walked. Long-haired hippies and their bizarre attire were commonplace then, but still a curiosity to a five-year-old from a conservative family. A craft shop and a fancy restaurant had recently displaced the shoemaker’s narrow workplace, as well as a tailor shop her father used to frequent. And an art store with paintings of landscape and seascape hanging in its window had opened. Some looked like a child had painted them. Her father had laughed and swore that the shop wouldn’t survive the year, but it did.
Since that time, a large hotel had risen on the site of the old waterfront. Alongside it were the yacht club and a marina and the memorial park. Long gone were the decrepit wharves, rundown sheds, and nighttime gathering places for local drunks, layabouts, and vagrants.
By half-past twelve, Anne found herself at the water’s edge. Construction of a new convention centre had begun. The noise and dust were disturbing. So Anne edged away and followed a waterside boardwalk. The tide was rising. Waves lapped playfully against the rock breakwater and, in that watery chatter, Anne imagined children’s laughter.
The sound of laughing children faded while Anne stared across the bay toward Stratford and along its shore. Simone Villier and Carolyn Jollimore and Jamie MacFarlane came to mind. Dit, too, his lavish home visible there among the trees across the water.
Something borrowed, something blue echoed again, and Anne felt a cool wind draw in with the tide from the harbour’s mouth.
Anne abandoned the boardwalk, cut up through the yacht club, past the half-dozen boats already hauled up and trussed securely in carriages for winter storage. She turned again and strolled between the brick of the new courthouse on one side of the street and a row of brick lawyers’ offices on the other. Grafton Street lay just ahead. She had come full circle.
Anne stopped at the corner and waited for the light to turn. She heard footsteps padding softly behind her. She looked back and saw a familiar face.
It was Jacob Dawson.
“Jake,” she said, greeting him. It took a few more steps before he reached her. He recognized her, stopped, but struggled to remember her name.
“Billy… Darby, isn’t it?”
“It is. What brings you down here? Break from school?”
“A bit of old business,” he said, gesturing vaguely back toward the brick buildings up the street. “And you?”
“Just a walk to unwind before lunch.” Anne checked her watch. It was pushing one o’clock. “I suppose you’ve already eaten,” she said.
“No, not yet. Irene… Ms. MacLeod…usually makes up a bowl of soup and a sandwich if I’m not too late. I’m on my way back now.”
“Sounds like she takes an interest.”
“She’s had troubles with the law…like me. She tries to reach out.”
“A good friend. Well, I’m on my way to the restaurant just around the corner. You’re welcome to join me.”
“No,” he said hesitantly, “I don’t think I can…”
“It’s on me, of course. Great food there, and it beats soup and a sandwich…or cafeteria cooking.”
“Well… I guess a student can’t refuse a deal like that, can he?”
The Crown and Anchor was less than a block away. It was a popular restaurant decorated with a blend of nautical and regal motifs. Poses of famous and unremembered aristocrats wearing white wigs and buckled shoes and holding ornate swords decorated wood-panelled walls. Ships serenely at anchor in soft pastel mists or in close engagements at sea joined them. Comfortable, high-backed booths gave the feel of privacy and softened the voices from other tables.
The Crown and A
nchor was half-filled at the end of the dinner hour. Dawson, dressed in jeans and a university sweatshirt, looked around somewhat uncomfortably while Anne studied the menu.
“Grilled salmon, asparagus tips, and baked sweet potato is the special. Sounds yummy. What would you like, Jake?”
“That sounds good,” he said absently.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, sounds perfect,” he said, this time with confidence.
Anne placed the order with the waitress. Water and coffee arrived promptly.
“How’s school going?” Anne asked in order to stir up conversation and put Jacob at ease.
“Very well,” he said.
“Sociology, isn’t it?” asked Anne. Jacob nodded.
“Why that major?”
“Circumstances,” he said. “I would have preferred following a science curriculum, but it’s pretty hard to complete lab assignments in prison.” He smiled for the first time. “‘Please pass the potassium nitrate and sulphur’ always draws suspicious looks from the guards.”
“You have a year left? What’ll you do after you graduate?”
“Social worker, addictions counsellor. Something along that line. I have a lot of experience to pass along there.”
“Was it difficult getting started with university courses? Did the government pay for it?”
“The government will pay for GED and trade courses, not college courses so much, but I got some financial help from the John Howard Society once I convinced them I could handle the material. They funded a couple courses. I had access to tutors at Dorchester, and I could write to a student advisor at the school to keep me on track. Fortunately, I had a brother and sister who were luckier than I growing up. Maybe they felt guilty about it. Anyway, they split the cost of my correspondence courses between them. It didn’t amount to a lot of money all at the same time, and I pulled together a few dollars myself from my work in prison. Only a few bucks a day, but I didn’t smoke…and had nothing much else to spend it on.”
The Dead Letter Page 15