Striking Out (11 page)

I jumped up and walked across the room, waving the paper.

“Here, look at this. Now you’ll believe me.”

Andy looked up from the cards he was shuffling.

“Kate, you’re really getting on my nerves.”

I read him the ad.

“Mary Alice Gabel Carlson has got to be Maggie. She made up her phony name based on her initials. The age is right, and she told me she was from the prairies. This is why she ran away.”

“So? Even if you’re right, what does this tell you?” Andy asked. “Someone’s looking for her. Someone other than you. So what? Maybe that person found her and she left town with him or her. Of her own accord.”

“I know for a fact that Maggie read
NOW
, because the woman at the greasy spoon told me. That’s what got her scared. She was talking strangely the other day about people wanting to make her go back. Then the guy with the suit showed up, and no one has seen her since. It must be connected.”

Andy and Jim kept slapping down their cards and moving their pegs.

“Could be.” Jim said. “But there’s not much you can do about it, is there?”

“I could find out who placed the ad. I can call this number and say I have information.”

“Here she goes again.” Andy said.

“Right. Here I go. And I’m gone,” I said. “I’m meeting T.C. and Anthony at four.”

“More sleuthing?” Andy asked, sarcastically.

I kissed him and headed for the door.

“I’ll come back later, maybe in time to watch you eat your peach Jell-O.”

I ransomed the car from the lot, then realized I had time to stop off at the
Planet
on my way home. I could check in and pick up my mail and messages. I slid back the rag top and headed south.

When I got there, I stopped by the desk of Margaret Papadakis, queen of the front page. Not my favourite person on the paper. Then, I’m not one of hers, either. The mutual animosity went back to some moves she’d tried to put on Andy when we were first together. And she had some serious attitude problems. But she had also something I needed.

“You did a piece on God’s Law a while ago, didn’t you?”

“The pro-lifers, yeah. I hate that term. Does that mean that I’m anti-life? I don’t think so.”

“Well, they’re hanging around my neighbourhood now. I live down the block from Janet Sachs.”

“Oh,” she said cattily, “got a case of the nimbies?”

“Huh?”

“Not In My Back Yard.”

I ignored the crack.

“What I’m wondering is if the group has ever been suspected of any violence.”

“Nothing I could ever print, but a lot of people think that Reverend Ken was behind the bombing of the Morgan Clinic last year. And one of his followers was charged with abduction after he, in his words, ‘rescued’ his girlfriend from the office of another abortionist. The Crown had to drop the charges when she refused to testify.”

“I remember that. She had the baby, didn’t she? And married her abductor.”

“Those God’s Laws guys get what they want.” she said.

“Thanks for the info.”

“Always glad to help the toy department,” she said.

Bitch. I went back to the corner where we jock writers hang out, separated from the self-important front section reporters by the entertainment writers, the weirdest bunch in the paper. They are constantly having screaming rows with each other, especially the drama critic and the lead columnist. Entertainment indeed.

I said hello to Jeff, who gave me a hug, and poked my nose into Jake Watson’s office.

“Are you back at work?” he asked.

“Just picking up some stuff. Andy gets out of the hospital tomorrow, so I’ll keep working at home for now. I’m in touch with New York, though, and with the Titan players and front office.”

“That’s fine. If you could manage something for Sunday I’d appreciate it.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Tell Andy to take it easy.”

“Fat chance of that.”

I checked the clock. I just had time to call
NOW
and check on the ad. The number listed put me in touch with the classified message machine. I punched in the appropriate code.

“Thank you for calling,” the message began. The voice was male, the accent flat, the age not readily apparent, but neither very old nor very young. “And thank you for helping reunite Mary Alice and her family. If you have information for us, please leave your name and a telephone number where you can be reached after the tone. Someone will call you back as soon as possible.”

I left my name and number, then re-dialled and listened to the recording, while flipping through my phone messages. Nothing urgent. Nick Matas had called. I looked across the newsroom but couldn’t see him at his desk.

I stuffed the messages and my mail in my bag.

“You’re off so soon?” Jeff said.

“Yeah, I’m meeting someone.”

“On the strike?”

“No. You haven’t heard anything, have you?”

“Not a peep. I think these guys are just going to write off the season.”

“No way. Cancel the World Series? Forget it. It’s the Fall Classic. That’s when they make all their money.”

“I’ll bet you lunch you’re wrong,” Jeff said.

“You’re on.” I checked my watch. “Got to go. I’ll talk to you later.”

I took the back stairs to the parking lot. I was running late, and I didn’t want the boys to start without me.

I saw the cruisers as soon as I turned off Broadview onto my street. The first one I saw was parked in front of my house. There were people on my porch. I went down to the laneway and found a second cruiser there, and a uniformed constable who waved me off. I did a U-turn and parked across the street. I got out of the car and locked it. Another constable came along with a roll of yellow crime-scene tape in his hand.

I crossed the street to my house. As I got closer, I recognized the people on the porch: Sally, with T.C., Anthony, Trevor, and Steve. There were also a couple of girls, one of them in tears. Some of our neighbours were out on their porches, watching the show. I ran up the walk.

“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Is it Maggie?”

Sally started to answer, but was interrupted by the policeman, whom I now recognized as Constable Brewer, one of the cops who had refused to take our fears seriously on Wednesday.

“It looks like your young friends have found themselves the trouble they were looking for,” he said.

I looked from one stricken face to another.

“Maybe we should go inside,” I said.

I pushed past Brewer and went through the door. The group followed me up the stairs.

We settled in the living room, including Brewer, who sat four-square and stolid, both feet on the ground and his hat still on his head. I asked him to tell me the story.

“An apparent murder victim has been found,” he said.

“Maggie?”

“The victim was a white middle-aged male.”

“Wearing a suit?” I asked.

He looked at me quizzically.

“No. He was wearing green garbage bags. Why?”

I told him about the mystery man who had been seen arguing with Maggie. He shifted his body and glared at the boys.

“You’re regular junior detectives, aren’t you?”

“Excuse me, P.C. Brewer,” I said. “It seems to me you weren’t interested in following up our concerns the other day. So it was left to us to do it.”

He grunted.

“What else can you tell us?” I continued on the offensive.

“I have to wait until the detectives get here,” he said. “This is a homicide matter now.”

“Then perhaps you’d better leave,” I said.

“Can’t. There are witnesses here.”

“What witnesses? Witnesses to what?”

“Stacey and Tamara found the body, Kate,” T.C. said.

I looked at the two girls, one white, the other black, both red-eyed and sniffling.

“I’m sorry,” I said to them. “Are you all right?”

“Tamara’s my sister,” Anthony said. “Stacey’s her friend. They wanted to help, so we told them to look around the far end of the laneway. That’s where they found the body.”

“But didn’t you look there the other day?” I asked. “After we found Maggie gone?”

“Yes, but that’s not where the body was,” T.C. said. “It was at the other end, behind that halfway house.”

“Yeah, the police are all over those guys,” Trevor said, looking sidelong at Constable Brewer.

“Like they’d leave the dude’s body in their own backyard if they did it,” T.C. snorted.

“Yeah, like, duh,” Trevor said, giggling slightly.

“This is no time to be joking, boys,” Sally said, looking at the two distraught girls.

The doorbell rang. I went downstairs and opened it to a woman constable in uniform, her hair tucked up under her cap.

“I’m looking for P. C. Brewer,” she said.

“Right upstairs.”

I stood aside to let her in the front door, then led her up the stairs and called to Brewer, who came to the door. I hung around to eavesdrop.

“The boss wants you at the crime scene,” she told him.

“What about the witnesses?”

“Stimac said they’ll come to talk to them after.”

“All right. You go watch them until they get here. Don’t let them talk about it.”

I ducked inside the door.

“New babysitter on the way,” I said, holding open the door. She came in, smiling.

“Do you need anything?” I asked.

“To tell you the truth, I’d really like to use the john,” she said. “And if you have a glass of ice water, I’d appreciate it, too. It’s hot out there.”

I showed her the way to the bathroom, then came back to the living room.

“We can all use some cooling down,” I said. “I’ll make some lemonade.”

I went to fix it. In a minute, the policewoman joined me. I gave her a glass of ice water.

“Thanks. I’m Jeannette Tremblay, by the way. Excuse my asking, but you’re Staff Sergeant Munro’s friend, right?”

I admitted it.

“How is he? I guess he’s still in the hospital.”

“Just until tomorrow, which makes him happy.”

“Give him my regards,” she said. “He’s a good cop. He’s fair, too. Fair with women, I mean.”

The doorbell rang, and Sally shouted that she’d get it.

“Is that unusual in your business?” I asked Jeannette. “Men who treat women well?”

“Same as in yours, probably.”

“You’ve got a point.”

She was unnerving me a bit, looking around, checking photographs on the wall, peering at the cartoons stuck to the fridge. I had a feeling that Andy’s and my household furnishings were going to be Topic A around the police water-cooler.

“I worked with him on a case last year,” she said. “I’d like to end up in homicide, too.”

“Good luck to you.”

“Yeah, well, I might have a chance if there were more of them like him,” she said.

Sally came into the kitchen.

“There’s a Detective Sergeant Flanagan here,” she said.

“Speak of the devil,” I muttered. The policewoman smiled.

I put glasses on a tray, along with the pitcher of lemonade, and carried it into the living room.

Flanagan stood by the door, sweat staining the armpits of his wrinkled sports jacket. I put the tray on the table.

“Lemonade, Detective Sergeant Flanagan?”

“You,” he said. “How are you mixed up in this?”

“What can we do for you?”

“You can tell me about the stiff in the alley, for a start,” he said. “Who found him?”

Tamara shyly raised her hand, as if she were in school.

“We did,” she said. “Me and Stacey.”

“All right,” he said, taking off his jacket. “We’ll start with you.”

He turned to me.

“You got someplace we can interview the witnesses in private?”

“My study would probably be the best,” I said. “It’s up the stairs by the kitchen.”

“I have to wait for the staff inspector,” he said. “He’s just getting the forensic unit started.”

“Don’t you think these children should call their parents before we go any further?” Sally asked. “I think they should be told what’s going on. They might want to be here for the interviews. I know I would.”

“Our parents are both at work,” Anthony said.

“So’s my mum,” Stacey said. “My dad lives in Ottawa.”

“Mine are both at the store,” Trevor said. “My grandparents are home, but they don’t speak English.”

“Well, call your parents at work, then,” I said. “I’ll talk to them, too, and we’ll decide whether we should wait for them.”

“Would it be all right if Kate or I sat in on the interviews, Detective Sergeant Flanagan?” Sally asked. “If the parents agree?”

“Okay with me,” he said.

“A lemonade in the meantime?” I asked, handing him one.

He took it and turned to Jeannette.

“You. Back on the street. They’re waiting for you.”

Walt Stimac arrived a few minutes later, looking remarkably cool, with his tie neatly done up. He took charge gently and politely.

“I’m sorry to impose on you,” he said. “But since we have all the witnesses here . . .”

“Don’t worry about it, Staff Inspector. This place has been a police branch office before, and it, probably will again.”

“Detective Sergeant Flanagan, where will we begin?”

“That’s the one who found the body, Tamara,” he said.

“And me,” Stacey said.

“Who wants to go first?” Stimac asked.

“I saw him first,” Tamara said, importantly.

“We’ll start with you, then,” Stimac said. “Are you ready?”

“My dad wants you to call him first,” she said.

“A lawyer,” Flanagan grunted.

“That’s fine.” Stimac said, ignoring him. “We’ll do that before we start to talk.”

“And I want Mrs. Parkes with me, too.” she said.

“Again, no problem. Detective Sergeant Flanagan, have you got the tape recorder?”

“Already set up.”

“Then let’s get started.”

They took Sally and Tamara away, and the rest of us began the long, boring wait.

I got out the Scrabble, but the kids were more interested in the videos on MuchMusic. The boys controlled the clicker, surfing back and forth between Much and TSN, which was filling the baseball void with beach volleyball.

I phoned the
Planet
assignment desk to tip them off, then called Andy to tell him the news.

“Who’s in charge?” was his first question. I told him.

“Good. He’s the best. Don’t mess with his investigation.”

“I’m not going to mess with anything.” I said. “It just happens that the body was found at the end of the lane. I have to cooperate with him, don’t I?”

“Yeah, and I know your idea of cooperation,” he said. “That’s how we met, remember?”

“Well, I certainly don’t plan to cooperate with him that way.” I said, intentionally misunderstanding him.

Andy and I had, in fact, met when he was investigating the murder of two Titan ballplayers during the pennant race almost four years before. I admit I did get in his way a bit, but I had an excuse. It may have been his murder, but it was my story.

Anyway, after he arrested the murderer, who was trying to add me to his list of victims, we made our peace with each other.

“I’m in no shape to ride to your rescue this time, remember,” Andy said. “Besides, Walt Stimac is not only a first-rate detective, he’s my boss. Keep that in mind.”

“Don’t worry. I will be perfect.”

I could hear him snort.

“Any idea who the victim is?” he asked.

“They didn’t say.”

“How are the kids holding up?”

“I think they’re a bit freaked,” I said. “Not surprisingly.”

“Has anyone told their parents?”

“Sally or I have talked to all of them, and Sally is sitting in on the interviews.”

“Good thinking.”

“Thank you. So, anyway, I won’t be back tonight, if you don’t mind. What time are they springing you tomorrow?”

“By noon at the latest. Get here as early as you can. Bring clothes. Mine are pretty well shot.”

Cop humour, you can’t beat it.

“I’ll be there. With clothes. Everything will be ready for your triumphant homecoming. I got one of those chair-back pillow things so you can be comfortable in bed. And I’ll rent you an endless series of guy movies, cop flicks and old westerns, without a word of complaint, until you’re better. Anyway, I’ve got to go. Sleep well.”

“Wait, Kate.”

“Hmm?”

“I just wanted to say that I really do appreciate everything you’re doing. Sorry if I’m being an asshole. I just can’t wait to be home. It will all be better then. I promise.”

“Don’t worry.” I said. “You’ve still got a few invalid dispensation points left.”

“I’ll try not to waste them.”

After Stimac and Flanagan finished with the kids and sent them home, they invited me into my own study.

“I seem to remember, Ms. Henry,” Stimac said, “that you’ve been involved in solving a few crimes yourself.”

I shrugged. I didn’t want to get into that with them. Flanagan, looking irritated, leaned back in his chair—my chair, actually—while I tried to maintain my dignity in a rocking chair with the back carved and painted like a fish.

“So tell us, whodunit?” he asked. “Impress the shit out of us.”

“I don’t even know who got done.”

“The victim is a middle-aged male Caucasian,” Stimac said, glancing sharply at Flanagan. “Late middle age. No clothes, no jewellery or other identification, but he looks well-fed. He also has a good haircut and manicure. This is no indigent bum.”

“Do you know how he died?” I asked.

“Not officially, until we get the autopsy reports, but we’ve got a pretty good idea,” he said.

“Your bag lady have a knife?” Flanagan interrupted.

“I don’t like the term ‘bag lady.’”

“Did your unfortunate homeless victim of society,” he sneered, “have a knife?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said. “The man was stabbed? I thought you weren’t sure how he died.”

“Let’s just say he exsanguinated,” Flanagan said, “but we’re not sure of whether it was because of the seventeen wounds on his torso or because he got his hands sliced off.”

I winced. This was a terrible death, with an awful rage behind it.

“All of this is, of course, off the record,” Stimac said, quickly, shooting another glance at Flanagan. I realized suddenly that he was wary of my connection to the
Planet
.

“Of course,” I said.

“Please answer Detective Sergeant Flanagan’s question. Did the woman ever mention that she had a knife?”

I shook my head.

“I never saw one.”

“That’s not what your little chum said,” Flanagan said.

“Who?” I wasn’t really listening. I hadn’t been since hearing about the missing hands.

Flanagan started to speak again, but I interrupted him.

“That’s what those little girls found? They saw that?”

“No, fortunately,” Stimac said. “He was folded up and wrapped in a couple of garbage bags. They just saw his foot.”

“Okay, but can we just back up a minute? Are you saying that you think that Maggie’s disappearance has something to do with this man’s death?”

“It’s a possibility we have to look at.”

“It’s a damn good possibility,” Flanagan said. “One, there’s this woman living in the alley, you say, minding her own business. Two, she is seen arguing with a prosperous-looking middle-aged man, according to one of your junior rangers. Three, the next day, she disappears. Four, three days later, a corpse, one that has all the signs of being middle-aged and prosperous, turns up in the neighbourhood, stabbed repeatedly. Don’t you think there might be a connection?”

“Might be. Might not. Except I can’t believe that woman could be capable of anything like you describe.”

“How long have you known her?” Stimac asked.

“Not long. A few months.”

“Ms. Henry, this woman has been living her life in back alleys for a long time,” Stimac said. “She was hardly a member of the royal family. I would suggest she had a rough side. She had to, to deal with life in the streets. She knew how to protect herself, trust me. Now, what else can you tell me about her?”

“Nothing, really. I don’t know anything about her habits. As you pointed out, I barely knew her.”

“You think you knew her well enough to get bent out of shape when she disappeared.”

“She’s a neighbour, sort of. Naturally I’m concerned. But she was long gone before this thing happened, presumably.”

“We won’t know the timing until we have the autopsy report,” Stimac said. “But we must view her disappearance as suspicious.”

“But there are a lot of reasons she could have left,” I said. “She could have witnessed the murder. She could have just decided to move on, as everybody has been telling me, the police included, since she disappeared. Those God’s Law people were back there throwing blood around. It might have scared her. She’s paranoid. Anything could have frightened her.”

“You may be right,” Stimac said. “We don’t know who the victim is or whether he had any connection with the suspect. But, if you do see her, let us know. She could be an important witness.”

He folded his notebook and got up. Flanagan took the cue and turned off the tape recorder and stowed it in his briefcase.

Stimac led the way down the stairs to the kitchen and told Flanagan to wait for him in the car.

“We’ll be in touch,” he said to me.

“Should we be taking extra precautions? Staying out of the laneway? What should we do?”

“I wouldn’t go wandering back there on your own,” Stimac said. “Just to be safe. We’ve searched all the garages carefully, of course. There’s no one hiding back there now. I have people out in the neighbourhood telling all the residents about this. Look. there’s no need to barricade yourself inside the house, but just use some common sense.”

“All right,” I said.

He handed me his card.

“If you hear anything, be sure to call me, or Detective Sergeant Flanagan.”

We walked to the door. He turned on the way out.

“Things are going to be all right for Andy and Jim, have you heard?”

“Yes, I’m so glad. He’s coming home tomorrow.”

“That’s good. Maybe I’ll drop in and see him one day when I’m in the neighbourhood.”

“He’d like that,” I said. As he left, I could see the TV news cars, and the cameras waiting for him. I closed the front door and locked it before I went to see Sally and T.C.