No Pain, No Gaine

by Edwina Franklin

  “Well, thank you, Mr. Ragusz. I appreciate your talking to me.”

  “Any time, Miss DiGianni,” he said, grinning as he escorted her to the front door. “Any time you need me, you know where I am.” He watched her leave, appreciating the graceful sway of her hips. Then he relocked the door, returned to his back room and pulled a cellular phone out of a small cupboard. He punched up a number from memory, counting three and a half rings before a man’s voice answered.

  “This is Ragusz, down at Dragnet. A girl was just here, wanting to know about Bert Waldron. Yeah, that was her name—DiGianni. I thought you’d be interested.”

  Traveling from Dundas and Ossington to Sandy’s apartment near Eglinton and Bayview should have taken just under three-quarters of an hour by streetcar, subway and bus; today it took her an hour, and she spent the entire sixty minutes brooding over the terrible mistake she had made that afternoon by going to Dragnet.

  Well, at least she hadn’t said anything about Bert’s file, she consoled herself. Perhaps the situation could still be salvaged if she just avoided Ragusz and took every possible precaution.

  Preoccupied, she stepped off the Eglinton bus and strode quickly down the street and into her building, one of a row of narrow old stone houses that had been renovated inside and divided into two apartments.

  Sandy lived in the upstairs one. As the front door closed behind her, she glanced up automatically toward the landing—and froze.

  Sergeant Gaine was standing at the top of the stairs, his hard gray eyes trained disapprovingly on her face.

  “I’ve warned you twice now, Ms. DiGianni,” he said.

  Sandy relaxed with a faint groan. Wasn’t this just what she needed to put the icing on her day?

  As she climbed the stairs, digging her key out of her handbag, she noticed that even Sergeant Gaine had shed his impeccable gray suit in favor of blue jeans today, and a baseball cap, white and navy, with a Toronto Police crest sewn onto its front panel. He was probably off duty—but still not off her case, she observed wearily.

  “Stop worrying, Sergeant,” she sighed as she passed him on her way to the door. “I haven’t been playing detective.”

  “Then what were you doing at Dragnet this afternoon?”

  Bending to put her key into the lock, she glanced up, startled. “How did you know I was there?”

  “I know when you arrived, I know when you left, and I know what was said in between. Writers aren’t the only ones with sources, Ms. DiGianni.”

  “Obviously not,” she agreed, managing to keep her voice low pitched and level as she pushed in the key and gave it a vicious twist. “However, if you really do know what we discussed this afternoon, then you’re aware it had nothing to do with the Parmentier case, or any ongoing police investigation, or Mr. Vanish. So just what the hell do you want from me, Sergeant?”

  Gaine’s expression hardened to stone. “I think we’d better continue this conversation inside,” he said, nodding curtly toward her door.

  Sandy whirled angrily and preceded him into the apartment.

  Ted paused in the doorway, sweeping a policeman’s trained eye over what he could see from the entrance. The apartment was small, but tidy and cheerful, too. The walls were pale gold, fading to tan in the section of kitchen that was visible from the front door. In the living room, Ted saw no sofa, just a pair of orange wicker love seats facing each other across a wicker-and-glass coffee table on a rust-colored carpet. And everywhere he looked, there was green: potted plants lined the windowsills, decorated the coffee table and lamp stands, even hung from the ceiling in the corners of the room. Thriving, carefully tended plants, he amended on closer inspection. She obviously took a lot of care with them.

  Just like Carol. Ted felt something tighten inside his chest as he recalled his ex-wife’s singular passion for anything that bloomed. In the two years before their divorce, it had been the only passion he’d seen in her.

  Did Alessandra talk to her plants too? he wondered, yielding momentarily to his personal interest in her. Did she call them her babies? Give them names? Leave the radio on for them during the day when she wasn’t home?

  Suddenly he realized there were no blossoms on any of Alessandra’s plants. All green, the hanging plants overflowed their pots and sprawled in skinny fronds halfway to the floor. A few of the others were succulents—one resembled a prickly pear wrapped in spider silk—but mostly they were tidy arrangements of varicolored leaves.

  What had that psychology professor told him? Something about people preferring leaves to flowers because they hated to see petals fall?

  Alessandra stood pale and taut on the other side of the living room. “I believe you had some questions for me, Sergeant,” she reminded him stiffly, making no move to sit down or offer him a seat.

  Ted turned his back on her boisterous greenery and thrust it—and Carol—firmly out of his mind. “What made you decide to visit Dragnet, Ms. DiGianni?”

  “The truth is I was curious,” she replied. “What made you decide to ask me about it?”

  She was on her own turf now and it showed, Ted noted. She met his eyes more directly today, and there was a confidence in her voice he hadn’t heard before. For her own good, he would have to toughen his approach to overcome it.

  “Because I happen to know that there’s only one way you could have found out about Dragnet,” he told her, frowning. “But even if it was a coincidence, you gave away your source when you asked Ragusz about his connection with Bert Waldron.”

  Encouraged by the stunned expression on Alessandra’s face, Ted went on, “Bert kept a file on Mr. Vanish. It went missing shortly after he died, but I was certain it would turn up again. So I kept in touch with some of Bert’s confidential contacts, in case some bright reporter with a lot of curiosity came calling on them.”

  “Contacts—like Dave Ragusz,” she murmured faintly, comprehension dawning.

  “First the Parmentier file and now this. You do have a knack, Alessandra,” he said, shaking his head. “And you do have Bert’s file, don’t you?”

  Uneasily, she nodded.

  “Does Rudd know?”

  Sandy shook her head.

  “Have you told anyone else? Spoken to any other of Bert’s contacts?”

  She took a step backward, disquieted by the intensity she heard in his voice. “No.”

  “Perfect,” he said, half to himself. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to turn the file over to Homicide? Didn’t think so,” he concluded as her chin reflexively assumed a defiant angle. “In that case, there’s only one thing to do, Alessandra.”

  When had he begun using her first name? she wondered, as he crossed the room, halting only two feet away from her.

  “You’re not to discuss that file or its contents with anyone but me,” he told her sternly.

  It took a moment for his words to register. “What?”

  “Since you’re committed to this investigation, we’re going to work on it together,” he told her. “Don’t fight me on this, Alessandra. Keep in mind that having Bert’s file gives you a better than even chance to prove Mr. Vanish exists. And having me for a partner gives you a better than even chance of surviving the experience.”

  “But yesterday you said—”

  “Yesterday I didn’t know you had the file,” he told her bluntly.

  “I see. And if I refuse your kind offer?”

  “Then I’ll be forced to arrest you for withholding important evidence in the Parmentier case. That I can do. Take your choice, Alessandra.”

  “That’s not a choice—it’s an ultimatum,” she protested.

  His granite gaze didn’t waver. “Take it or leave it, Ms. DiGianni.”

  Her stomach clenching like a fist around three days’ worth of swallowed anger, Sandy returned Gaine’s unyielding stare. This partnership he was talking about wou
ld be anything but equal, she was certain; for she’d met Ted Gaine’s type before—had even dated a couple of them. He was a man who wouldn’t rest until he had full control—of the situation and of her.

  And then common sense cut in with a reminder that Ted Gaine was already in control. He’d given her two choices: let him direct her investigation, or go to jail. With a despairing sigh, Sandy picked the less unacceptable alternative.

  “All right, you damned chauvinist,” she muttered, turning her back on an unmistakable snort of male laughter.

  “You know, we really ought to sit down and discuss how to go about this,” he suggested after a moment’s silence. “Maybe over dinner. How about it, Alessandra? Are you hungry?”

  Discuss how to go about it? Who did he think he was kidding? Sandy pivoted with an angry retort on her lips, but her stomach rumbled a complaint before she could say a word.

  “I guess you are,” said Gaine, and suddenly Sandy found herself gazing into an open, smiling, incredibly appealing face. This was a Ted Gaine she’d never seen before. He had a dimple in his right cheek, and his mustache tilted rakishly atop a lopsided grin; and all at once her heart seemed to be pounding its way up her throat and she had to swallow hard to force it back down.

  “I’m ravenous,” she told him, realizing as the words came out that it was the truth. She hadn’t bothered eating lunch that day.

  They settled on seafood. Forty minutes later, Sergeant Gaine was sitting across a Formica-topped table from Sandy, doing his best to ignore the toddler in the next booth who kept leaning over the back of her high chair to flirt with him. Involuntarily Sandy smiled; and the little girl, encouraged, redoubled her efforts.

  “You’re sure you don’t want anything else?” he asked, for the third time.

  Their waitress was visibly impatient now. Sandy just shook her head. He’d already talked her into ordering chowder, salad and three kinds of shrimp, plus a pot of orange pekoe tea. Hungry or not, after a meal like that she would be lucky not to waddle out the door of the restaurant.

  As the waitress spun away—busy wasn’t the word for the Dockside restaurant on a Saturday night—Gaine glanced around cautiously, then leaned forward on his elbows.

  “Bert was a thorough professional,” he told Sandy in a voice she had to tilt her head forward to hear, “and I know he was close to wrapping up the case when he died. If you’re in possession of all his notes, then you probably have enough leads to conclude the investigation. But I don’t want you doing anything by yourself. For your own safety, we’re going to follow up those leads together.”

  Reflexive indignation jerked her erect in her seat. Not do anything by herself?

  “It’ll have to be during my off-duty hours, of course,” he went on, completely ignoring her reaction. “Officially Mr. Vanish doesn’t exist, and the Department takes a dim view of detectives who chase phantoms while on duty. I’ll try to make my free time correspond to yours as much as possible.”

  It did make a kind of sense, she reluctantly conceded. She had her own full-time job to do, too—and Paul wouldn’t exactly be thrilled to discover that she was ignoring his edict and pursuing the investigation after all. But not do anything? And just how did he expect to prevent her? she wondered rebelliously.

  “There’ll be three stages to this investigation,” Gaine continued. “Studying the printouts, interviewing possible leads and gathering physical evidence. We’ll have to be especially careful after stage one—Bert was conducting interviews when he was killed, so it’s a safe bet that one of his leads points directly to Mr. Vanish.”

  Sandy eyed Gaine narrowly. He seemed to know a great deal about Bert’s “secret” investigation. And he’d known about her visit to Dragnet, from Ragusz. And he’d been very pleased when she’d told him that nobody, not even her editor, knew she had the file. As pieces began falling into place, she felt her throat go dry. Was that why Bert had stopped using the hacker, because he’d found out Ragusz was passing information along to Gaine? When she read the printout of Bert’s file, would she also find a subfile on Detective Sergeant Ted Gaine, urging that she approach with extreme caution? Dio, it was much too late for that!

  Just then the waitress arrived and set steaming bowls of chowder in front of them. Gaine began stirring bits of clam and potato through the creamy soup; distractedly Sandy did the same. It was odd, she thought, how they called it “cold feet”, as though that were the only part that went icy when you suddenly realized you’d made a terrible, possibly fatal, mistake…

  “What’s the matter, Alessandra?”

  Startled, Sandy glanced up into Ted Gaine’s concerned face. “Oh…I… Nothing, I just…” Swallowing a dry lump of fear, she decided to plunge ahead. “I was just wondering how you happened to know so much about Bert’s investigation.”

  Gaine paused thoughtfully, then, “No one was supposed to know about this—and it’s still just between you and me,” he warned, “but Bert consulted with me, unofficially. He was a good investigator, but he realized that Mr. Vanish was going to be…a different kind of case. So he approached me for support, and I helped him out whenever I could.”

  Wondering just how much Sergeant Gaine knew about Bert’s past, Sandy leaned forward tensely. “When you say Bert was an investigator, do you mean…?”

  “He was a licensed private investigator before he got into crime writing. That’s how we originally met.”

  The wave of relief that swept through her then was so exhilarating that Sandy almost laughed out loud. “So you were old friends,” she said.

  “More like old business acquaintances. Bert came to me because he knew he could trust me.”

  “And did he show you what was in his file?”

  Gaine swallowed a mouthful of chowder before replying, “Some of it. I knew that there was a file, and that it supposedly disappeared shortly after he was killed. And knowing Bert,” he added wryly, “I also knew I could count on its eventually reappearing in the hands of another intrepid reporter. And when it surfaced, wherever it surfaced, I knew I would have to offer my assistance.”

  Involuntarily Sandy stiffened. “Offer your assistance?” she repeated angrily. “Is that what you were doing back at my apartment when you threatened to throw me in jail if I didn’t cooperate? Offering your assistance?”

  He paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth, his brows drawing together with displeasure. “Keep your voice down, Alessandra. If you’re upset because you think I’ve arbitrarily taken over your investigation, then let’s get something straight right now. Bert was a seasoned veteran, well able to take care of himself. I occasionally rendered assistance to him—I didn’t worry about protecting him. I was wrong—he’s dead. I’m not going to make that mistake again.

  “I happen to think Mr. Vanish does exist and that he poses a threat to anyone attempting to unmask him. Therefore, we are going to retrace Bert’s steps—together—and I am going to watch over you the whole time like a mama bear with a cub. With luck, we’ll both come out of this alive. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to finish my chowder before it gets cold.”

  Her cheeks warming with embarrassment, Sandy turned her attention to her bowl as well, glad to have something to look at besides Sergeant Gaine’s handsome but annoyed face.

  When the silence between them had grown too heavy to bear, she broke it. “I’m sorry, Sergeant,” she said with a sigh, hating herself for being the one to bend.

  Gaine glanced up, his lips quirking at the corners. “Finish your soup, Alessandra. We have a lot more to discuss.”

  It was time to assemble some props. He waited in the shrubbery beside the house, listening as the back door opened and closed, as the garage door swung up and back, as the doors of a silver-blue BMW clicked twice each and a second later the well-tuned engine purred to life.

  Standing in the lengthening shadows, he watched the road in front of t
he house as the car glided down the laneway, silently made the turn and disappeared down the street.

  He pulled on a pair of surgical gloves, counting off thirty seconds in his head. Then he strolled casually toward the rear of the house, one hand searching his pants pocket for the keys he’d had made last August.

  The back door opened without a sound. He paused in the rear hallway just long enough to slip off his shoes before making for the security alarm switch concealed in the front-hall closet. Then he pocketed the keys and walked through the darkened house to the study.

  Here he could switch on a light. The electric typewriter was standing, uncovered, on the huge walnut desktop. Carefully he reached inside the machine and took out the metal sphere with all the letters and numbers in raised relief. He found the letter a on the ball, pulled a jeweler’s screwdriver from his pocket, and pressed a dent into the loop of the letter. Then he replaced the sphere in the typewriter, searched desk drawers until he’d found a piece of paper, and sat down to type, I’m sorry. I killed Lou and Roger. I shamed my family. Now I can’t live with the guilt. May God forgive me.

  He reread the note and smiled. He pulled it out of the typewriter and carefully dropped the sheet of paper into one of the hanging files in a lower desk drawer–S, for suicide note. A nice touch, he thought.

  Then he opened the middle desk drawer and took out the handgun he’d seen on an earlier visit. It was a .38 caliber Webley revolver, exactly the same model he’d used on Parmentier, and it was loaded. Perfect. He slipped the gun into his other pocket and put everything else back the way he’d found it. Then he stepped into his shoes, let himself out the back door and went for a stroll through the park, toward the subway station.

  That wasn’t the way he usually acquired his murder weapon. Usually he bought it in pieces from pawnbrokers all over the city and put it together himself just before the hit. Then he disposed of the gun the same way he’d gotten it—in pieces, all over the city. It was his standard procedure. He’d assembled, used and gotten rid of guns more times than he cared to remember, and not a single murder weapon had been found, let alone traced back to him.