Murder in Focus (19 page)

“No more now than it ever was,” said Henri Deschenes. “Why? Did you want to go somewhere secure?”

“It doesn't matter that much,” Cassidy said briskly. “I just like to know. Here it is, and you'll find it interesting, I think. Before you look at it, though, I should tell you where I come in—in case you haven't heard.” He looked over interrogatively in Deschenes's direction and got nothing but the same steady, courteous gaze he had been greeted with. “We're doing our own investigation at CSIS into any connection between Steve's death and the business at the secure site, of course—”

“What have you found out?” asked Deschenes.

Cassidy shook his head. “None of the workmen could have killed him. They're all clean and accounted for as far as we can tell. We're working on the assumption that he finally connected with the person he was looking for, the one Carpenter reported was nosing around, asking the workmen questions. Except that we can't make the descriptions fit with the guy in the bar who rented the car. The one who gave him a ride. Steve must have just drifted along with him to find out what he was up to. You remember how he worked, a great believer in giving people enough rope to hang themselves with.”

“Entrapment,” said Deschenes mildly.

“If you prefer,” said Cassidy. “It works. Anyway, whoever he is, if that bastard took Steve Collins by surprise he must be one hell of an operator. So the answer to your question is nothing, I suppose. Nothing new, anyway. There's a fairly large contingent working on it because that's where the results are most likely to come in. And they do seem to have picked up a couple of interesting threads. But I was asked to nose around and see if there was anything else potentially explosive in his files, or if he was mixed up personally in anything else, and all that I can come up with is something he called Royal Twist. He had the craziest names for things, didn't he?”

“And that is?”

“It has to do with a lost heroin shipment and the murder of a dealer named Maurice Charbonneau. Steve was looking for someone connected in any way with drug enforcement near Montreal in the old days who seemed to have a bit too much money. This is the letter Betty Ferris wrote me about the material.” He handed the slightly crumpled paper across the desk.

Deschenes read it and cleared his throat. “Interesting.”

“We're all in it—anyone who was posted in the Montreal area five to ten years ago. I can't say I care much for what he says about me. In fact, I considered burning that page,” Cassidy said with a self-conscious laugh, “but then I decided that on the whole it might be better to leave the material intact.”

“Especially since Betty has probably read it all, you mean?”

“I mean,” he answered, and grinned.

“Well, now,” said Deschenes, picking up the first page. “What have we here? It starts with Superintendent H. Deschenes, as is only right and proper. I shall read out the salient facts and you can comment on errors and discrepancies, so don't fall asleep. It notes that I am forty-six, which is correct enough, and married to Marie-Claire, and have a house in Sandy Hill that is no longer mortgaged—God be praised—and that as far as he can tell, except for the purchase of a new car two years ago, have not indulged in any unusual pattern of expenditures.”

‘He seemed to think that you were as honest as cops go,” said Cassidy.

“We'll see. Next is Charlie Higgs. Forty-four and a widower. Poor Charlie. He's taken that very hard, you know. He's gotten bitter. And it doesn't seem to be getting any better. He, too, has a house without a mortgage, and a cottage, two children, the boy a police cadet, the girl at Carleton. But we knew that, of course. He paid off his mortgage suddenly two years ago—”

“That was after Helen died, wasn't it? He must have used the insurance money.”

“That's right. This list is garbage so far, Andy. How many years did Steve work on it? Never mind. Frank Carpenter, thirty-eight, married to Carmen, three kids—hellions, those kids are, and old enough to turn up in court one of these days—house, again no mortgage, cottage, new car, and holidays in Florida for the last three years. Sounds menacing until you look at the figures for bank accounts and credit cards.”

“It still seemed to me to be a bit excessive.”

“Maybe. But it's hardly yachts and weekends at Monte Carlo, Andy. Ah, here we go. Andrew Cassidy, thirty-five, single, no assets except for a registered pension with a trust company. New car, expensive vacations three out of the last four years, including trip to Ireland last summer. And a lot of comments about your private life as it relates to your expenditures. You know, Andy, you make the rest of us look like a dull lot. Who are these next people?”

“Drug Squad, Montreal. I'm not sure there's anything there, but look them over. There are some interesting people, but only one who merits investigation.” He reached across the desk and pointed at one name on the list in front of Deschenes. “That's the only interesting one.”

“I know him,” said the superintendent. “Not a wonderful sort, but I think we have a pretty complete file on him already. Of course, we'll open it again.” He turned to the last page, looked at it, and then went back to the first page again and ran his finger down the list of names on all the pages in front of him. “Where's Ian?”

“Ian MacMillan? He's on one of the sheets I didn't bring. I discounted him, I guess, because he wasn't anywhere near drugs at the time.”

“But he was with us in Montreal.”

“Sure, but he was on immigration, wasn't he? Doesn't matter. I'll bring it over tomorrow. There wasn't anything much. He seemed to be living pretty well for a while, but you know it was all his wife's property. And when they split up, he was left with his salary, that was all.” Cassidy gave Deschenes a puzzled look. “What did you make of the last page?”

“Ah, that. We'll consider it later. Let me look at the figures again. Find yourself a magazine, Andy.” Twenty minutes later, Deschenes pushed the pile of papers away. “I'm gratified to discover how rich the men I work with day by day seem to have become. You and I appear to be the poorest.”

“True,” said Cassidy. “But then I have made two visits to the Caribbean, to islands where the banking laws would protect an illicit account from search and seizure. Lots of opportunity to stash away lots of profits.”

“Which I have not,” said Deschenes. “Although presumably I could have buried it all in my backyard until such time as it would be safe to dig it up again. It simply takes a little more patience.” Deschenes went back to the beginning and began to run quickly through the file again. He looked up at last and shook his head. “There's nothing here, Andy. You must realize that. There's nothing here you couldn't find out by walking down the corridor and asking anyone you passed. Nothing you could build a case on. Certainly nothing that anyone would kill someone for.” He slipped the material into an empty file folder. “Why did you bring it to me?” he asked at last. “Instead of someone at CSIS.”

“I'm not sure,” Cassidy replied slowly. “Because I assumed that the whole inquiry must have been instituted under you originally. Five years ago he was working for you. Didn't you give Steve his instructions?”

Deschenes shook his head. “Not on this one. If anything, he gave me my instructions. He didn't like what he thought was going on—not at all. And he wasn't going to allow it to happen.”

“And so I figured you could decode the last page,” Cassidy said simply. “Since I thought he had started the inquiry for you.”

Deschenes shook his head and tapped the file with his forefinger. “He's using a simple book code here, as I suppose you've worked out already.” Cassidy nodded gloomily. “And you were hoping that I had the key, weren't you? Because if Betty Ferris is telling the truth, Steve thought he had the goods on someone. But the material in clear is a matter of public record. If he had evidence enough to convict, it's on the last page.”

“Maybe we can work around it, find out how many of that old Montreal-area detachment are in town right now—or were here on Monday,” said Cassidy, shrugging aside the problem.

“I think you'd be better off finding out whether he left the key to the code around someplace else.”

“Maybe it was in his diary,” said Cassidy. “You guys have that along with all the rest of his stuff?”

“Not that I know of,” said Deschenes. “Do we have all his things?”

Cassidy nodded. “If there was anything else, it might be in the place he was staying at, wherever that was,” said Cassidy. “A boardinghouse near the secure site, I think. I have the address somewhere.”

“The place he was staying at? Do you mean out in Stittsville?” Deschenes formed a pyramid of his fingers and rested his chin on it as he looked at Cassidy. “When did you get up this morning?” he asked suddenly.

“About half an hour ago,” said Cassidy. “I was up late last night trying to work out that code. Why?”

“Do you think we're the right people to be looking for all this?” he said, dismissing Cassidy's question with an abrupt gesture.

“Who else would do it?” said Cassidy, startled.

“I'm not sure. An independent commission of inquiry of some sort, I suppose. After all, it's the RCMP and CSIS we're inquiring into. That's usually considered conflict of interest.” Deschenes paused again, looking very tired, and for the first time that morning Cassidy remembered that he had been ill, very ill. “Don't look so worried, Andy. We'll give it a try. Perhaps you could go back to his files and see if you missed anything last night.”

A knock sounded on the door. A heavy knock, like a harbinger of doom, or the hand of someone who has to knock on a lot of doors. Cassidy jumped. “Who in hell is that?” he asked.

“Ian MacMillan, I suppose,” said Deschenes. “I asked him to drop by. If you want to leave before he charges in, may I suggest that you can always get out through the washroom. It still connects to the outer hall. I expect Higgs will be up as soon as that group of his takes a break.” Cassidy uttered a squeak of protest and fled through the door that Deschenes was pointing toward.

MacMillan walked in, nodded briefly, and settled himself into a comfortable chair, crossing one long leg over the other knee. Before opening his mouth, he pulled out his notebook and flipped rapidly to a spot in the middle, slipped the book back into his pocket, and said, “Good morning. I trust I'm not late. Charlie not here yet?” Before the point could be scored, however, Sylvia flung open the door and ushered in Charlie Higgs. Deschenes looked at the two of them and frowned.

“Too many people are asking questions,” he said abruptly. “I need to know exactly what you've got, beyond the worthless junk that has turned up in your reports.”

“Questions?” MacMillan sat up slightly, as if astonished by the effrontery of people asking what they were doing.

“Yes. Steve Collins's death is getting harder and harder to keep in hand. The house he was living in out in Stittsville was torched last night and the landlady killed. There were people in and out, according to the neighbors. Constantly. Before the fire. The day before that. People who looked to them like police. Any of you go out there?” he snapped.

Higgs shook his head. “Are they sure it was arson?”

“That's what they say. Arson aside, was any one of us out there looking for what he might have turned up?”

“More likely to be his mates from CSIS,” said MacMillan.

“Or whoever took him out,” added Higgs gloomily. “You'd think someone would have had the sense to keep an eye on the house, wouldn't you?”

“I'm sure they did,” said Deschenes, relaxing for a moment. “This is probably a
pro forma
inquiry.”

“Any word on that picture?” asked MacMillan, yawning.

Higgs shook his head. “Bastard didn't turn up today. He's probably taken off back to Toronto with it as a souvenir.”

“Either that or CSIS got it from him before we did. From what I can figure out, things are still pretty wild over there,” said MacMillan. “My source tells me . . . well, let's say, he wouldn't be surprised if reports weren't getting through to us.”

“What I can't understand,” said Higgs doggedly, “is why we're not getting anything on what's going on with the Austrian delegation.”

“Why don't you ask them? Talk to their security man. Or better still, I will,” said Deschenes. “I'm curious about him.”

MacMillan pulled himself to his feet. “Do you need me for this?” he asked. “I have a helluva lot to check on this morning, with the goddamn meetings starting this afternoon. Surely you and Charlie can deal with the Austrians, can't you? Especially since his little class of new security experts is going away at lunchtime.” He picked up his coat and raised one hand in salute as he walked out of the office.

“I'd like to know what's going on,” said Higgs. “The violinist seems to be moving closer and closer to the prime minister, as far as I can tell—”

“But aren't the Austrians keeping an eye on her?”

“You're damned right they are.”

“Who's the businessman who gave the party?”

“Her boyfriend, maybe. But she might just have picked up with him to give her a door to the prime minister. I don't know. It's pretty difficult when you don't understand what's going on and no one's telling you anything and—”

“And they expect us to stop anything from happening. Maybe we'll send someone out to interview that businessman and have a chat with Austrian Security as well.”

Sanders walked briskly to the parking garage where he had stashed his car. He had no desire to land in front of Miranda Cruikshank's house driving the same car he had been in last night. As he moved from street to street, and from sidewalk to garage, he kept glancing into windows and down alleyways. That vulnerable spot between his shoulder blades twitched, and he found himself watching for a light blue, new Ford Escort. He was going to start dreaming about that damned car.