No Pain, No Gaine

by Edwina Franklin

  The nearest bus stop was a short block away. Keeping her head lowered to help the scarf conceal her features, Sandy walked toward the corner. Her heart was sledgehammering her ribs. Every breath became a silent gasp. She didn’t know why she’d worried about breaking into a run; even if she had the wind for a sprint to the corner, her legs were slowly turning to marshmallow beneath her.

  Ten minutes, she told herself again. Just long enough to lose myself in the subway system…

  The bus pulled up just as she reached the corner. As she climbed on and took her seat, Sandy glanced out the window, half expecting to see plainclothes detectives racing down the street, waving their badges at the bus driver. The pavement was empty.

  But she wasn’t in the clear yet, she reminded herself. Five more minutes…

  Every time the bus pulled over to take on passengers, Sandy held her breath. Not until they’d all walked indifferently past her could she release it. Two more minutes…

  At last the bus turned into the loop at the subway station. Sandy joined the swelling tide of the crowd rushing down the stairs to the platform. She heard the sweet burring sound of a train on the tracks and saw the flash of a headlamp bouncing off the tiled wall of the tunnel seconds before a southbound train roared into the station and screeched to a stop.

  The doors slid open. Sandy stepped aboard, and as the doors closed again she heaved a sigh of relief.

  She rode the subway to the Bloor station, made her way up to street level, and emerged on Bloor Street, half a block from the Shamrock, into the midst of the casually chattering Saturday-night throng. She let the crowd carry her along Bloor to the entrance of the laneway that ran behind the tavern. Then, with a glance over her shoulder, she darted into the darkening alley, made the turn, and backtracked the length of the block, counting buildings, until she was standing nervously beside a steel door with an oversized handle and the words Shamrock Tavern stenciled onto it in green paint.

  In her disguise, she felt like a child rushing Halloween. Should she knock? Anxiously, Sandy glanced around. She’d better do something soon, because the alley was swiftly turning into a place of sinister, scurrying shadows, bringing a lump of fear to her throat that refused to be swallowed. Charlie had insisted she meet him here. Where was he? Was this another of his damned tests to see whether she had the guts to do business with him?

  All at once the steel door flew open, and Sandy’s heart tried to leap out of her mouth.

  “What’re you standing out here for?” demanded Charlie from the doorway. “You wanna get mugged?”

  Weak-kneed with a mixture of relief and indignation, she replied, “All you told me was to meet you at the back door!”

  “Yeah, sorry, next time I’ll spell out which side of the door. Jeezus,” he exclaimed as she stepped into the rear hallway of the tavern. “What kind of a getup is that?”

  “Well, you told me to make sure I wouldn’t be followed.”

  Charlie looked her up and down once more, nodding wryly. “Yeah, that’d do it,” he said. “Come on in here and we’ll talk.”

  The tavern was busy at this hour—Sandy could hear voices and laughter and smell the sharp nutty aroma of draft beer right through the door at the far end of the hall. But the door that Charlie had opened for her led to a cleaning closet with a cracked porcelain basin and barely enough room for two people to stand in.

  “It’s not bugged, honest,” he said nervously, prodding her as she hesitated on the threshold.

  She waited until he had closed the door behind them, then asked, “Do you have the information I requested?”

  “D’you have the fifty?”

  Nervous or not, Charlie was all business. Sandy fished the money out of her wallet and handed it to him.

  “Okay,” he said, stuffing the bills into the pocket of his windbreaker. “Every one of those dates corresponds to a death, but none of them was a murder. One was a heart attack, one was a skiing accident, one was a diabetic who OD’d on insulin, one was a car smashup, one was a guy who got drunk and fell off his balcony, and the last one was an accidental drowning.”

  She groaned inwardly. Accidents. Her theory would only work with unsolved murders.

  “But that’s not all,” Charlie went on. “You mentioned a connection with those two clothing places, remember? Duds ’n’ Dudes and Unity Sportswear? The interesting thing about these accidents is that every one of the victims was either leaving them or competing with them.”

  Sandy did a double take. “What?”

  “The heart attack was a competitor with a flashy new line of sportswear. When he died his business fell apart, so no more competition. The car crash was a clothing designer who’d just bought out his contract with Duds ’n’ Dudes so he could go to work for another company. And so on, and so on. Every last one.”

  Her eyes widened. “What are their names?”

  Charlie shook his head. “Names’ll cost you another fifty,” he said. “You just wanted to know if there’d been any deaths connected with those companies on those dates, and I’ve told you.”

  “You’ve told me enough to explain why Roger Blass was killed, anyway,” she said thoughtfully. “It’s beginning to look as though somebody at Unity Sportswear has put Mr. Vanish on the payroll.”

  “Mr. Vanish? Oh, jeez,” he moaned, looking pained.

  “That was great work, Charlie.”

  “Well, I’m glad you liked it so much, because it’s the last job I’m going to do for you, lady. We’re through.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re finished. I want you to forget you ever heard of me.”

  Charlie looked nervous enough to jump out of his skin if anything touched it.

  “Bert was on the trail of Mr. Vanish, too, you know,” she pointed out.

  “Yeah, but Bert was careful not to get too involved with the cops. Vanish may have been the one who iced him, but nobody had any reason to connect Bert with me, so I was safe. You’ve got a police bodyguard and bugs in your apartment, for chrissakes. They recorded our phone conversation, so now they’re on to me. And once Vanish has killed you, he’ll make the connection and come after me, too. So goodbye, lady. It’s been interesting, but this kind of business I do not need.”

  “I need your help,” she concluded simply.

  “You’ve got to be kidding!”

  “I’ll give you another fifty and then I won’t bother you again, I promise. Think of it as a going-away present. I won’t contact you again if you’ll just do me this one favor. Please?”

  He considered for a moment. “Have you got a plan?”

  Sandy told him what she had in mind. Charlie resisted the idea at first, but he had to admit there wasn’t a hiding place in Toronto that couldn’t be reached by a well-placed message, and nobody else could place them the way Charlie could. So, he accepted the other fifty dollars and took her to the streets to try to get word to Dooley.

  As Sandy sweltered under her disguise, they strolled down Yonge Street to the beginning of the Strip, then walked up and down between College and Queen Streets, talking to everyone Charlie recognized as a regular. He was a regular, too, so people talked back. On each street corner, Sandy and Charlie found runaways who had heard of Sean Dooley, who might have seen him lately, who might be seeing him later; on each street corner they left urgent messages and hoped he would get at least one.

  On the margins of the Strip and on the nearby parallel streets, the streetlights were farther apart, the buildings were dingy and covered with crude graffiti, and the kids Charlie could trust to carry messages were older and more hard-boiled, with bold, calculating eyes that made Sandy almost as nervous as the prospect that Mr. Vanish might be out there, too, watching her perspire beneath too many layers of clothing.

  Near a liquor store on Jarvis, Charlie left Sandy standing on the corner while he ducked into
a doorway to talk to two girls. It was nearly 11:00 p.m., and the darkness felt like a heavy blanket, kept from smothering her by the light of the nearby street lamp. All around her she heard hushed whispers as people faded in and out of her peripheral vision like malevolent ghosts. As a vagrant breeze raised gooseflesh all over Sandy’s arms and legs, she decided that she’d had enough for one night. This would be her last street corner. Charlie could tour the entire Track if he wanted to. She just wanted to go home and wash this evening’s adventure off her skin, and try to sleep without dreaming.

  Just then a dark green car turned the corner and pulled up at the curb beside her. A large hand reached across the front seat and rolled down the passenger-side window. Then the hand beckoned to her.

  Now Sandy’s skin was crawling for a different reason. Licking her lips nervously, she leaned toward the passenger side of the car. The wedge of light from the street that angled through the window showed her only an empty seat, with a right hand resting palm down on the upholstery. The rest of the driver remained anonymously in the shadows.

  Sandy glanced toward the doorway and found it empty. Charlie had gone inside the second the car had pulled up. She was alone out here, alone in the seediest part of town and already targeted by someone who made her feel cold all over—

  Suddenly the hand turned over and flashed a shiny police badge in her face.

  A dry, empty feeling spread down her throat and into her stomach as she frantically searched for words. Placating words. Humorous words. Dio, any kind of words at all.

  “You’re making a mistake,” she finally croaked.

  “Not like the one you’ve made, Alessandra,” growled a blessedly familiar voice. “Get in the car!”

  She was in big trouble with Sergeant Gaine and she knew it. But a surfer could have ridden the wave of relief that crashed over her as she got into the passenger seat and buckled up.

  He drove in stony silence along a maze of side streets that Sandy didn’t recognize except by name.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked meekly.

  “Home.”

  That single word silenced her. In the dark, his profile looked chiseled out of granite; and the tone of his voice was almost as hard. Clearly, Sergeant Gaine wasn’t interested in hearing any arguments or explanations, not now, possibly never.

  When they arrived in front of her duplex, he pulled over to the curb and turned off the ignition. “Go on upstairs,” he told her.

  With a sigh, Sandy got out of the car and headed for the front door. Hearing Gaine’s footsteps behind her, she ran up the stairs to her apartment, fitted the key into the lock with shaking hands and let herself in. Before she could slam the door in his face, however, he followed her inside and double-locked it.

  Sandy fled to the bedroom. Ten minutes later she reemerged wearing beige slacks and a loose orange top, and marshaling her forces for the inevitable confrontation with Sergeant Gaine. Yes, she had stolen away from his surveillance for purposes of her own; and yes, that had been a very foolhardy and dangerous thing to do. But she would do it again if Tommy’s life hung in the balance, and it was time Ted Gaine knew that.

  He was standing with his back to her, studying the row of plants on the windowsill.

  “How did you find me tonight?” she challenged him.

  He turned at the sound of her voice. “I used my sources on the street,” he said, frowning. “Once we knew what had happened I put out the word. But I was expecting to find you with your source—Charlie, isn’t it?”

  Sandy stood motionless, staring at him in wounded horror, feeling her own breathing fan the heat in her cheeks. Charlie had been right. There were police bugs in her apartment.

  Gaine stepped over to the phone and picked up the receiver.

  “Calling up Sergeant Taylor?” she asked, putting a cold edge on her voice. “Why don’t you simply talk in the direction of that framed print on the wall? I’m sure he’ll be able to hear you just fine.”

  Gaine stiffened for a moment; then, with a heavy sigh, he hung up the phone and faced her. “I guess we’d better have a talk,” he said. “Got any coffee?”

  “Tea.”

  “Okay, tea.”

  As she went to the kitchen and filled the kettle, Gaine sat down on one of the love seats, stretching his long legs out to either side of her small coffee table. Surrounding it. It was, she observed bitterly, a typical Ted Gaine position.

  “What were you doing out there tonight, Alessandra?”

  She returned to the living room, wiping her hands on a piece of paper toweling. “I was looking for Dooley.”

  “Looking for Dooley?” he repeated, shocked disbelief stamped on his darkening features. “What the hell is the matter with you? Aren’t you in enough jeopardy already, that you have to go out at night looking for more? Or maybe you think you’re some kind of superwoman. Yeah, that’s it—Alessandra DiGianni, by day a mild-mannered crime writer, by night an intrepid and very short-lived crime fighter.”

  Savagely crumpling the paper toweling in her fist, Sandy replied, “I’m a big girl, Sergeant. And in any case, you’re not my father.”

  Before she could move to avoid him, Gaine exploded out of his seat, crossed the room in two strides and grasped her tightly by the shoulders, making her gasp with fright.

  “Damn right I’m not your father,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’m just the cop who’s been busting his tail to keep you alive, while you play hide-and-seek with the officers assigned to protect you. After everything that’s happened, how can you even think of this as a game, Alessandra? Doesn’t it matter to you that people care about what happens to you? That people worry about you?”

  Confused, she stared into his face, seeing the raw emotion there, feeling an answering emotion swell at the back of her throat, choking off her voice. His hands were burning her skin, kindling wildfires deep in the core of her that danced and sparked along every nerve.

  And then, as if on cue, the kettle began to whistle. “I’d…better get our tea,” she whispered, and reluctantly he let her go.

  Dishes clattered loudly in the sudden silence as Sandy filled her small earthenware teapot and loaded up a tray with cups and spoons and napkins. Meanwhile, Gaine paced the living room.

  Carefully, she set the tray down on the coffee table and began pouring their tea. “Tommy is innocent, you know,” she said unsteadily.

  “Oh?”

  “It was Dooley who gave Tommy the jacket. He must have removed it from Vito’s body after Mr. Vanish shot him. Dooley witnessed the murder. He was the one who called me up about the Parmentier case, as well. I agreed to protect his identity if he and Vito would stay away from Tommy.”

  “And when he gave Tommy the jacket, all bets were off?”

  She nodded. “I would have told you earlier if you’d been a little less efficient and a little more receptive last night.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, scowling into his teacup before he sipped from it. “There is a problem with Dooley’s story, Alessandra. Mr. Vanish didn’t kill Vito. The M.O. was all wrong.”

  “But he said…the jackets were identical, and Mr. Vanish thought Vito was Dooley.”

  “If Sean Dooley saw Mr. Vanish kill Parmentier, he must have realized what a slick professional Vanish was. There’s only one reason for him to try to finger Vanish for a slipshod murder like Vito’s, and that’s to protect the real killer.”

  Sandy nearly gagged on a mouthful of tea. “Tommy didn’t do it!” she exclaimed when she could talk again.

  “We know. And that leaves only one person. Think, Alessandra. Who would a scumbag like Dooley be most interested in saving?”

  Dio, he was right. Dooley wouldn’t care about anyone but himself. A terrible numbness settled around her heart, sending chilling fingers of fear into every part of her body. Slowly, she put her teacup back onto th
e tray, watching her hand tremble as she withdrew it.

  “Charlie left messages for him all up and down the strip,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper. “If he gets one and decides to come here…”

  Staring miserably at her half-empty cup, she didn’t see Gaine cross to sit beside her, only felt his arms surround her and tighten in a fierce hug. “You’ll be safe, Alessandra, I promise,” he whispered. “There are detectives watching the building, and listening devices so we can hear everything that goes on inside the apartment. Nothing will happen to you. And just to make sure, I’ll be staying right here in your living room—all night.”

  Wrapped in his embrace, feeling it all around her like a protective shield, Sandy closed her eyes and relaxed against him. There was no danger as long as he was near. If only she could remain in his arms…

  Chapter Eleven

  Sunday, June 17, 12:20 a.m.

  “Well, good night, then.” There was no further reason for her to stay up. The dishes had been washed and put away. The top of the coffee table had been cleaned off. She had given Sergeant Gaine a sheet and the spare pillow, in case he wanted to try dozing on one of the love seats. Reluctant to put even that much distance between them, Sandy turned and walked the few steps down the hallway to her bedroom.

  After slipping into a short cotton nightgown, she locked her bedroom window, then changed her mind. It was a sultry night. If she intended to breathe in that little back room, she would have to leave the sash open at least partway. So, with some trepidation, she reopened the window. There was a detective watching the back of her building, but the night was so black…

  Dio, please, give him eyes like a cat, she prayed, before sliding under the covers and switching off the lamp.

  But sleep would not come. She dozed fitfully, snapping alert each time an insect thrummed against the window screen.

  Then the phone rang just once, startling her fully awake. Gaine had picked it up in the living room. She could hear the buzz of his voice as he spoke quietly into the receiver.