Not Safe After Dark

by Peter Robinson

  “OK,” he said, rewrapping the gun and slipping it in his briefcase along with the will. “I’ll do as you ask. Don’t worry. You rest now. Everything will be OK.”

  Mr. Garibaldi smiled and seemed to sink into a deep sleep.

  * * *

  Mitch stood on the porch of the Garibaldi house and pulled on his sheepskin-lined gloves, glad to be out of the cloying atmosphere of the sickroom, even if it was minus ninety or something outside.

  He was already wearing his heaviest overcoat over a suit and a wool scarf, but still he was freezing. It was one of those clear winter nights when the ice cracks underfoot and the breeze off the lake seems to numb you right to the bone. Reflected streetlamps splintered in the broken mirror of the sidewalk, the color of Mr. Garibaldi’s jaundiced eyes.

  Mitch pulled his coat tighter around his scarf and set off, cracking the iced-over puddles as he went. Here and there, the remains of last week’s snow had frozen into ruts, and he almost slipped and fell a couple of times on the uneven surface.

  As he walked, he thought of old Garibaldi, with no more than a few weeks or days left to live. The old man must have been in pain sometimes, but he never complained. And he surely must be afraid of death? Maybe dying put things in perspective, Mitch thought. Maybe the mind, facing the eternal, icy darkness of death, had ways of dealing with its impending extinction, of discarding the dross, the petty, and the useless.

  Or perhaps not. Maybe the old man just lay there day after day running baseball statistics through his mind; or wishing he’d slept with his neighbor’s wife when he had the chance.

  As Mitch walked up the short hill, he cursed the fact that you could never get a decent parking spot in these residential streets. He’d had to park in the lot behind the drugstore, the next street over, and the quickest way there was through a dirt alley just about wide enough for a garbage truck to pass through.

  It happened as he cut through the alley. And it happened so fast that, afterward, he couldn’t be quite sure whether he felt the sharp blow to the back of his head before his feet slipped out from under him, or after.

  * * *

  When Mitch opened his eyes again, the first thing he saw was the night sky. It looked like a black satin bedsheet with some rich woman’s diamonds spilled all over it. There was no moon.

  He felt frozen to the marrow. He didn’t know how long he had been lying there in the alley—long enough to die of exposure it felt like—but when he checked his watch, he saw he had only been out a little over five minutes. Not surprising no one had found him yet. Not here, on a night like this.

  He lay on the frozen mud and took stock. Despite the cold, everything hurt—his elbow, which he had cracked trying to break his fall; his tailbone; his right shoulder; and, most of all, his head—and the pain was sharp and spiky, not at all numb like the rest of him. He reached around and touched the sore spot on the back of his head. His fingers came away sticky with blood.

  He took a deep breath and tried to get to his feet, but he could only manage to slip and skitter around like a newborn deer, making himself even more dizzy. There was no purchase, nothing to grip. Snaillike, he slid himself along the ice toward the rickety fence. There, by reaching out and grabbing the wooden rails carefully, he was able to drag himself to his feet, picking up only a few splinters for his troubles.

  At first, he wished he had stayed where he was. His head started to spin and he thought it was going to split open with pain. For a moment, he was sure he was going to fall again. He held on to the fence for dear life and vomited, the world swimming around his head. After that, he felt a little better. Maybe he wasn’t going to die.

  The only light shone from a streetlamp at the end of the alley, not really enough to search by, so Mitch used the plastic penlight attached to his key ring to look for his briefcase. But it wasn’t there. Stepping carefully on the ribbed ice, still in pain and unsure of his balance, Mitch extended the area of his search in case the briefcase had skidded off somewhere on the ice when he fell. It was nowhere to be found.

  Almost as an afterthought, as the horrible truth was beginning to dawn on him, he felt for his wallet. Gone. So he’d been mugged. The blow had come before the fall. And they’d taken his briefcase.

  Then Mitch remembered the gun.

  * * *

  The next morning was a nightmare. Mitch had managed to get himself home from the alley without crashing the car, and after a long, hot bath, a tumbler of Scotch, and four extra-strength Tylenol, he began to feel a little better. He seemed to remember his mother once saying you shouldn’t go to sleep after a bump on the head—he didn’t know why—but it didn’t stop him that night.

  In the morning, he awoke aching all over.

  When he had showered, taken more Tylenol, and forced himself to eat some bran flakes, he poured a second cup of strong black coffee and sat down to think things out. None of his thoughts brought any comfort.

  He hadn’t gone to the cops. How could he, given what he had been carrying? Whichever way you looked at it, he had been in possession of an illegal, unregistered firearm when he was mugged. Even if the cops had been lenient, there was the Law Society to reckon with, and like most lawyers, Mitch feared the Law Society far more than he feared the police.

  Maybe he could have sort of skipped over the gun in his account of the mugging. After all, he was pretty sure that it couldn’t be traced either to him or to Garibaldi. But what if the cops found the briefcase and the gun was still inside it? How could he explain that?

  Would that be worse than if the briefcase turned up and the gun was gone? If the muggers took it, the chances were someone might get shot with it. Either way, it was a bad scenario for Mitch, and it was all his fault. Well, maybe “fault” was too strong a word—he couldn’t help getting mugged—but he still felt somehow responsible.

  All he could do was hope that whoever took the gun would get rid of it, throw it in the lake, before anyone came to any harm.

  Some hope.

  * * *

  Later that morning, Mitch remembered Garibaldi’s will. That had gone, too, along with the briefcase and the gun. And it would have to be replaced.

  There’s only one true will—copies have no legal standing—and if you lose it you could have a hell of a mess on your hands. Luckily, he had Garibaldi’s will on his computer. All he had to do was print it out again and hope to hell the old guy hadn’t died during the night.

  He hadn’t. Puzzled, but accepting Mitch’s excuse of a minor error he’d come across when proofreading the document, Garibaldi signed again with a shaking hand.

  “Is the gun safe?” he asked afterward. “You’ve got it locked away in your safe?”

  “Yes,” Mitch lied. “Yes, don’t worry, the gun’s perfectly safe.”

  * * *

  Every day Mitch scanned the paper from cover to cover for news of a shooting or a gun found abandoned somewhere. He even took to buying the Sun—which he normally wouldn’t even use as toilet paper up at the cottage—because it covered more lurid local crime than the Globe or the Star. Anything to do with firearms was certain to make it into the Sun.

  But it wasn’t until three weeks and three days after the mugging—and two weeks after Mr. Garibaldi’s death “peacefully, at home”—that the item appeared. And it was big enough news to make the Globe and Mail.

  * * *

  Mr. Charles McVie was shot dead in his home last night during the course of an apparent burglary. A police spokesperson says Mr. McVie was shot twice, once in the chest and once in the groin, while interrupting a burglar at his Beaches mansion shortly after midnight last night. He died of his wounds three hours later at East General Hospital. Detective Greg Hollins, who has been assigned the case, declined to comment on whether the police are following any significant leads at the moment, but he did inform our reporter that preliminary tests indicate the bullet was most likely fired from an old 9mm semiautomatic weapon, such as a Luger, unusual and fairly rare these days. As y
et, police have not been able to locate the gun. Mr. McVie, 62, made his fortune in the construction business. His wife, Laura, who was staying overnight with friends in Windsor when the shooting occurred, had no comment when she was reached early this morning.

  The newspaper shook in Mitch’s hands. It had happened. Somebody had died because of him. But while he felt guilt, he also felt fear. Was there really no way the police could tie the gun to him or Mr. Garibaldi? Thank God the old man was dead, or he might hear about the shooting and his conscience might oblige him to come forward. Luckily, his widow, Sophie, knew nothing.

  With luck, the Luger was in the deepest part of the lake for sure by now. Whether anyone else had touched it or not, Mitch knew damn well that he had, and that his greasy fingerprints weren’t only all over the grip and the barrel, but on the wrapping paper, too. The muggers had probably been wearing gloves when they robbed him—it was a cold night—and maybe they’d had the sense to keep them on when they saw what was in the briefcase.

  Calm down, he told himself. Even if the cops did find his fingerprints on the gun, they had no way of knowing whose prints they were. Mitch had never been fingerprinted in his life, and the cops would have no reason to subject him to it now.

  And they couldn’t connect Charles McVie to either Mr. Garibaldi or to Mitch.

  Except for one thing.

  Mitch had drawn up McVie’s will two years ago, after his marriage to Laura, his second wife.

  * * *

  Mitch had known that Laura McVie was younger than her husband, but even that knowledge hadn’t prepared him for the woman who opened the door to him three days after Charles McVie’s funeral.

  Black became her. Really became her, the way it set off her creamy complexion, long blond hair, Kim Basinger lips, and eyes the color of a blue jay’s wing.

  “Yes?” she said, frowning slightly.

  Mitch had put on his very best, most expensive suit, and he knew he looked sharp. He didn’t want her to think he was some ambulance chaser come after her husband’s money.

  As executor, Laura McVie was under no obligation to use the same lawyer who had prepared her husband’s will to handle his estate. Laura might have a lawyer of her own in mind. But Mitch did have the will, so there was every chance that if he presented himself well she would choose him to handle the estate, too.

  And there was much more money in estates—especially those as big as McVie’s—than there was in wills.

  At least, Mitch thought, he wasn’t so hypocritical as to deny that he had mixed motives for visiting the widow. Didn’t everyone have mixed motives? He felt partly responsible for McVie’s death, of course, and a part of him genuinely wanted to offer the widow help.

  After Mitch had introduced himself, Laura looked him over, plump lower lip fetchingly nipped between two sharp, white teeth, then she flashed him a smile and said, “Please come in, Mr. Mitchell. I was wondering what to do about all that stuff. I really could use some help.” Her voice was husky and low-pitched, with just a subtle hint of that submissive tone that can drive certain men wild.

  Mitch followed her into the high-ceilinged hallway, watching the way her hips swayed under the mourning dress.

  He was in. All right! He almost executed a little jig on the parquet floor.

  * * *

  The house was an enormous heap of stone overlooking the ravine. It had always reminded Mitch of an English vicarage, or what he assumed an English vicarage looked like from watching PBS. Inside, though, it was bright and spacious and filled with modern furniture—not an antimacassar in sight. The paintings that hung on the white walls were all contemporary abstracts and geometric designs, no doubt originals and worth a small fortune in themselves. The stereo equipment was state-of-the-art, as were the large-screen TV, VCR, and DVD player.

  Laura McVie sat on a white sofa and crossed her legs. The dress she wore was rather short for mourning, Mitch thought, though he wasn’t likely to complain about the four or five inches of smooth thigh it revealed. Especially as the lower part was sheathed in black silk stockings and the upper was bare and white.

  She took a cigarette from a carved wooden box on the coffee table and lit it with a lighter that looked like a baseball. Mitch declined the offer to join her.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, lowering her eyes. “It’s my only vice.”

  “Of course not.” Mitch cleared his throat. “I just wanted to come and tell you how sorry I was to hear about the . . . the tragic accident. Your husband was—”

  “It wasn’t an accident, Mr. Mitchell,” she said calmly. “My husband was murdered. I believe we should face the truth clearly and not hide behind euphemisms, don’t you?”

  “Well, if you put it like that . . .”

  She nodded. “You were saying about my husband?”

  “Well, I didn’t know him well, but I have done some legal work for him—specifically his will—and I am aware of his circumstances.”

  “My husband was very rich, Mr. Mitchell.”

  “Exactly. I thought . . . well . . . there are some unscrupulous people out there, Mrs. McVie.”

  “Please, call me Laura.”

  “Laura. There are some unscrupulous people out there, and I thought if there was anything I could do to help, perhaps give advice, take the burden off your hands . . . ?”

  “What burden would that be, Mr. Mitchell?”

  Mitch sat forward and clasped his hands on his knees. “When someone dies, Mrs.—Laura—there are always problems, legal wrangling and the like. Your husband’s affairs seem to be in good order, judging from his will, but that was made two years ago. I’d hate to see someone come and take advantage of you.”

  “Thank you,” Laura said. “You’re so sweet. And why shouldn’t you handle the estate? Someone has to do it. I can’t.”

  Mitch had the strangest feeling that something was going awry here. Laura McVie didn’t seem at all the person to be taken advantage of, yet she seemed to be swallowing his line of patter. That could only be, he decided, because it suited her, too. And why not? It would take a load off her mind.

  “That wasn’t the main reason I came, though,” Mitch pressed on, feeling an irrational desire to explain himself. “I genuinely wanted to see if I could help in any way.”

  “Why?” she asked, blue eyes open wide. “Why should you? Mr. Mitchell, I’ve come to learn that people do things for selfish motives. Self-interest rules. Always. I don’t believe in altruism. Nor did my husband. At least we were agreed on that.” She turned aside, flicked some ash at the ashtray, and missed. In contrast to everything else in the place, the tin ashtray looked as if it had been stolen from a low-life bar. “So you want to help me?” she said. “For a fee, of course.”

  Mitch felt embarrassed and uncomfortable. The part of him that had desperately wanted to make amends for his part in Charles McVie’s death was being thwarted by the frankness and openness of the widow. Yes, he could use the money—of course he could—but that really wasn’t his only reason for being there, and he wanted her to know that. How could he explain that he really wasn’t such a bad guy?

  “There are expenses involved in settling an estate,” Mitch went on. “Disbursements. Of course, there are. But I’m not here to cheat you.”

  She smiled at him indulgently. “Of course not.”

  Which definitely came across as, As if you could.

  “But if you’ll allow me to—”

  She shifted her legs, showing more thigh. “Mr. Mitchell,” she said, “I’m getting the feeling that you really do have another reason for coming to see me. If it’s not that you’re after my husband’s money, then what are you after?”

  Mitch swallowed. “I . . . I feel. You see, I—”

  “Come on, Mr. Mitchell. You can tell me. You’ll feel better.”

  The voice that had seemed so submissive when Mitch first heard it now became hypnotic, so warm, so trustworthy, so easy to answer. And he had to tell someone.

&nbs
p; “I feel partly responsible for your husband’s death,” he said, looking into her eyes. “Oh, I’m not the burglar, I’m not the killer. But I think I inadvertently supplied the gun.”

  Laura McVie looked puzzled. Now he had begun, Mitch saw no point in stopping. If he could only tell this woman the full story, he thought, then she would understand. Perhaps she would even be sympathetic toward him. Forgive him. So he told her.

  When he had finished, Laura stood up abruptly and walked over to the picture window with its view of a back garden as big as Central Park. Mitch sat where he was and looked at her from behind. Her legs were close together and her arms were crossed. She seemed to be turned in on herself. He couldn’t tell whether she was crying or not, but her shoulders seemed to be moving.

  “Well?” he asked, after a while. “What do you think?”

  She let the silence stretch a moment, then dropped her arms and turned around slowly. Her eyes did look moist with tears. “What do I think?” she said. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. I think that maybe if you’d reported the gun stolen the police would have searched for it and my husband wouldn’t have been murdered.”

  “But I would have been charged, disbarred.”

  “Mr. Mitchell, surely that’s a small price to pay for someone’s life? I’m sorry. I think you’d better go. I can’t think straight right now.”

  “But I—”

  “Please, Mr. Mitchell. Leave.” She turned back to the window again and folded her arms, shaking.

  Mitch got up off the sofa and headed for the door. He felt defeated, as if he had left something important unfinished, but there was nothing he could do about it. Only slink off with his tail between his legs feeling worse than when he had come. Why hadn’t he just told her he was after handling McVie’s estate? Money, pure and simple. Self-interest like that she would have understood.