Reluctant Detective (18 page)

“Understandable. Let's start with a clean slate then. I'm Michael
Ryan. I'm an attorney. I love dogs, ignore cats, sail boats, and fly
planes. You?”

“Pleased to meet you, Michael. I'm Anne Brown, private investiga
tor with Darby Investigations and Security. I love old movies, I
admire unambiguous heroes, I adore my daughter, and despise men about town.”

“I've always had a weakness for straightforward women,” he said.

“And I have a special fondness for an honest man,” she said. “Was Mrs. Ryan straightforward?” she added.

Ryan looked stunned, then offended, and then sad in rapid sequence.

“She was… until about two years ago,” he said.

“What happened?” Anne had to ask the question, but she really
didn't want to. She felt that what had been a fun and playful banter was taking a nosedive into a place she'd rather not go.

“She passed away… breast cancer.”

“I'm sorry.”

Michael stood up and walked a few steps toward the large window
fronting the runways. A small plane was making its approach. It seemed to float. Its wheels touched down. It took one, small,
skidding bounce and disappeared out of view. Anne thought she could hear the plane strike the tarmac, but the sound came from somewhere else, behind her. She looked around. Through the front window of the terminal she saw Dit's van. It had ground to a halt on the hard-packed driveway outside.

“I've gotta go, Michael,” she said scooping up her surveillance gear.
“Thanks. Send a bill to my office. I insist on paying for the fuel and
time. Okay?”

“Not a chance. It's on the house. I was out for a joy-ride anyway.
But maybe we could chat again some time.” It was a question.

“I'd like that,” she said.

“Over dinner?”

“All right,” she said, a little more hesitantly. “Mid-week sometime.”

“I'll call.”

“Right. Gotta go.”

“One more thing. I was going to mail it, but…” He pulled an
envelope from a briefcase and handed it to her. It was addressed to Darby Investigations and Security.

Anne grabbed it, smiled, and ran out the door to Dit's waiting van. Gravel flew as Dit hit the gas and spun out of the lot toward
downtown Summerside and the wharves along the shore. He was as
anxious as Anne to reach the truck they had been trailing before it
disappeared again.

“You got lucky,” Dit said, reflecting on her quick thinking and subsequent recovery of the RF signal.

“It wasn't luck, Dit.”

Dit returned his attention to the road ahead. Anne fumbled with
the seal on the envelope and extracted an official-looking document. The heading was printed in large, bold, ornate script. It read: “Notice of Eviction.” Buried in the legal jargon below were the names “Darby Investigations and Security” and “Patricia Pacquet.”

It doesn't get any more straightforward than this, she thought.

35

“That's it,” said Dit, pointing at a blue pick-up truck in a parking lot behind the wharves, “and the license plate matches.”

Anne thumbed through a small notebook in her pocket. “And that's
the same plate number that Ben ran for me the other day. I got it from the truck at the original drop-site. It belongs to somebody
named Devon MacLaren. So I guess we're on the right track.”

“You have a plan?”

“Yeah, I'm gonna tell him I want my money back,” she said, winked, and got out of the van.

Anne took in her surroundings. On her left was a small shopping mall, a marina, and a training centre. A string of newly built tourist
shops lined the boardwalk. On her right were three commercial
wharves and a seaside restaurant. The likeliest place to find Devon MacLaren, she decided, would be the nearest site, and that was one of the wharves.

A mid-size freighter was tied up alongside the first one. A crane
was lifting large crates of produce, probably potatoes, from a
staging area on the wharf into the ship's hold. Forklifts crept about.
A few longshoremen worked the machinery and manhandled
empty containers. One of them wore a white hard-hat. He leaned up against
the frame of an open bay door smoking a cigarette. Anne assumed
that he was a foreman.

“Hello,” she shouted above the noise, “I'm looking for Devon MacLaren. Seen him?”

The foreman indicated the ship. “Check the bridge.”

“Where the captain is?” she asked.

“Mr. MacLaren's there. Captain's ashore.” Anne surveyed the ship
for a moment, took a hesitant step or two forward, and came up
short with a confused look. The foreman's thick work glove came
down on her shoulder. His other glove pointed. “Climb up that
gangway to the main deck. Then take those metal ladders to the big glass window. That's the bridge.”

The wooden gangway was a steep climb. The ladder to the bridge was steeper. At the top was a steel catwalk. Anne struggled with the heavy door to the bridge. No one was on duty, but she heard a voice.
It came from a companionway behind the wheel house. The voice was hushed but excited. Anne removed an axe from a nearby fire station, choked up a short grip on the handle, and slipped quietly
toward the sound.

The door to the cabin was open, and MacLaren's back faced the door. Even though he was sitting on his bunk, Anne estimated that
MacLaren was average height. He wore dark green work pants
and a long-sleeved shirt rolled to the elbows. His arm showed off a fading Royal Canadian Navy tattoo. The clothes would have fit him
ten pounds ago. His black hair was thin and patchy at the crown, but thicker elsewhere, so that with a cap on, he might pass for a
young man.

The valise was spread open on the bunk behind him. The bundles of fake money were strewn about.

“There's a few real bills on top for window dressing. The rest is
paper. What more can I tell ya?” he said into the cell phone.

“I can fill in the blanks for him,” shouted Anne. MacLaren jumped
up with fright and cracked his head against an overhead compart
ment. He fell back, half-turned around onto the bunk, and saw Anne
take two swift strides forward with the axe raised above her head.
The suddenness of it, the imminent threat, and the awkwardness of his position left him little means of defence. He closed his eyes and braced his hands to block the swing of the darkly gleaming blade.

Anne swung the axe. Splinters of wood rained down on MacLaren. She swung again and large parts of the storage compartment above
MacLaren separated from the wall and crashed on top of him. By then, MacLaren had scuttled into the back corner of his bunk. His head clanged against the steel bulkhead. His eyes widened in fear,
and his mouth gaped as Anne wound up the axe like a softball bat.

“MacLaren, put your hands behind your back and leave them there.
Good. Now shuffle down a bit. I want your head resting flat on the
bunk. Don't look at me! Look at the ceiling! Good. Now, if I see your hands move or see your head come off that bunk, I'll put a new part in your hair.”

Anne took a step back and, as she did so, she picked up MacLaren's cell phone.

“I guess you know who this is, you sonofabitch!”

“Anne Brown, I presume. My associate tells me that you've been
busy. I thought we had a deal.”

“That deal hinged on whether or not you were telling me the truth. You weren't.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I may be a slow learner, but my first hint was when the Mounties brought me in for passing counterfeit money – your retainer deposited in my bank account.”

“You realize, of course, that wasn't my intent. And it wouldn't have happened if you hadn't mixed up the bundles somehow. Rather shoddy work for a PI, isn't it?”

“Intent doesn't matter. You lied to me. You lied about your agreement with Billy Darby. You lied about the ransom. You lied about the legality of our transaction. You lied about… well, just about everything.”

“So, where does that leave us? I'm out my money. You're out your
money, a great deal of work, and I suppose, to some extent, your
reputation. Where do we go from here? Are you going to burn the
money? That seems a waste. Turn it in to the police? That would raise even more questions you wouldn't be able to answer. And
what was the purpose of this recent charade of yours? This switch. What did you hope to gain from that? Revenge? Payback? Some kind of judicial retribution?”

“No. My bottom line is simpler than that.”

“What?”

“Money.” Anne let the word hang in the air like a gull hovering
over a tub of fish. “I want twenty thousand for my trouble. I want
cash. Canadian money. It'll be a face-to-face exchange with you.
I'll pick the day, time, and place. If that doesn't suit, then I'll have a
helluva bonfire on Canada Day. Perfect way to celebrate. I'll be in
touch.” She hung up.

Anne cradled the heavy end of the axe in the crook of her arm. Her
eyes hadn't once shifted from MacLaren during her conversation with the Client, and he hadn't moved since Anne burst into his
cabin. Now she focussed all her attention on him. She tossed him
the cell phone and demanded the Client's number. He gave it to
her. She had him repeat it twice. Then she began to grill him on his
involvement with the Client. He was difficult at first, but finally he
came around when he figured out that she probably wasn't going to
kill him if he talked and that anything he said wouldn't be evidence enough to send him to prison.

When Anne had heard enough, she retreated to the doorway and ordered MacLaren to repack the money in the valise.

“One last question. Whose cell phone is this?”

“His.”

“Hang onto it,” she warned. She grabbed the valise, backed out
toward the forward part of the bridge, and made her way ashore.

Anne threw the valise into the back of Dit's van. Dit gave Anne a searching look, and, when she said nothing, he threw a disdainful look in the direction of the valise.

“I hope you came back with a head full of information and not just a bag full of nothing,” he said.

“I did,” she said perkily. She burst out the details of her adventure with MacLaren, half-giggling like a schoolgirl who had just skipped class on a dare. Dit remained stonily surprised at her candour.

What she learned from MacLaren filled in a great deal of the outside of the puzzle, but not the heart of it. MacLaren knew little more about the Client than she did. Like her, he had been contacted
anonymously by phone. His job was to pick up the valise at the industrial park and bring it back to his ship. MacLaren was first
officer aboard the
Arctic Growler
, the freighter loading seed potatoes
at the Summerside wharf. After agriculture officers had signed off on
the cargo, the ship would steam to Cuba. Just outside Havana, they
would take a harbour pilot on board, and MacLaren would pass the money to him.

“What was MacLaren getting out of this?” asked Dit.

“Nothing. Apparently, he was being blackmailed.”

“About what?”

“He wouldn't say.”

“Did he know the money was counterfeit?”

“He never brought that up. In fact, I don't think he knew what was in the valise until he opened it – and he didn't open it, he said, until
the Client phoned and told him to. I think he was too afraid to act independently. The Client must have something juicy on him. And
right now, my head is so full of jumbled possibilities that I'm getting a headache.”

“Some people call that stress.”

“Maybe so,” she said, and leaned her head back against the seat
and closed her eyes. They suddenly blinked wide open. “By the way,”
she added, “that was not ‘just a bag full of nothing,' Mr. Wise-guy.
The icing on those phoney cakes was real money. Your money, if you recall.”

“Does that mean that I'm buying supper?”

“Yes, please. I'm broke.” She closed her eyes again, and minutes
later Dit heard the soft buzz of her snoring. She huddled against the passenger door, her head rattling against the glass to the rhythms of the highway.

“Some people would call that stress, too,” Dit said. She didn't hear him.

3
6

Supper included two cheeseburger platters at Maggie's, a roadside
diner halfway to Charlottetown. Anne finished her burger and
picked at the fries. From time to time her head drooped, and her
hair dipped into the glass of water that she hadn't touched.

Dit had been unusually quiet since Anne had returned from the
Arctic Growler
, but she hadn't noticed. She was too busy fending off
sleep and struggling to piece together a plan for her meeting with the Client. She had demanded twenty thousand from him in return for a million-and-a-half in counterfeit. It made her look greedy, but greed was a motive the Client could understand. Everybody wants
something. Give them what they want, within reason, and everyone goes home with smiles on their faces. That was her reasoning, and twenty thousand seemed like a fair reimbursement, Anne thought, for the four days of his lies and deceptions, as well as the jeopardy
she had endured. She believed the Client would draw that conclu
sion, too. She hoped so, even though she didn't really care about the money.

Greed wasn't her motive. Revenge? Maybe. It felt like it, but she'd
never thought of herself as a vengeful person. She was too worn out to put a word to whatever her motive was, but she felt a deep-seated compulsion that this was something she must do.

Dit looked at his watch. “We'd better go,” he said. “It's getting late. You can't keep your eyes open.” Anne nodded.

The sun had set by the time they returned to the van. Dit pulled back onto the Trans-Canada Highway, and Anne settled into the
coziness of her seat and the warmth of the car. Her head rested to
one side. Her eyes closed slowly. But each touch of the brakes or unanticipated turn startled her out of light sleep. Sometimes she
woke with a shallow gasp or whimper. Then she drifted off again. It was during one of her semi-lucid moments that Dit spoke.

“Ya know, maybe it's about time you gave up this idea of becoming a detective. God knows it's not healthy.”

“What?” Anne stirred.

“Ben said you had a good shot at a job downtown, working for the
city police… but he doesn't think you're even considering it. Why
not?”

“Why is my job choice the hot topic around the dinner table these days?” she asked heatedly. “And what's it to you, anyway?”

“I'm talking as a friend. That's what?”

“Friends don't meddle. They just accept.”

“Bullshit! What kind of person lets a friend jump off a cliff?”

“There's no cliff, and I'm not jumping anywhere.”

“I think you're in over your head.”

“Sure, maybe things haven't always gone as expected, but I'm working it out.”

“My point is that you don't need this crap. Do something else. It's not worth it. You'll get hurt.”

“I'm fine.”

“You're a mess.”

“I said I'm fine.”

“Look at you. In less than a week your life has fallen apart. You were beaten once. Almost killed an hour later. Your client is some
kind of criminal or psychopath, and before all this is over, you might
end up in jail. Your daughter is hidden away in the wilderness.
You're exhausted, and there's not much chance you're gonna make any money for your trouble. Hell, the greeters at Walmart are doing better than you are. Admit it.”

“I don't want to talk about this anymore.”

“Call Ben. Tell him you'll at least consider that job.”

“Pull over!”

“What for?”

“Pull over! Pull over here!”

Dit pulled to the curb. Anne got out and slammed the door.

“Hey! Where are you going?” he shouted out the window.

“I'm getting my car. I'm going home. I'm going to sleep. Maybe I can dream up a man who has confidence in me.”

“You're a stubborn SOB. You know that, don't you?”

“At last. Something positive. I'll call you tomorrow… maybe.”

As Anne walked off, she raised her arm high above her head – a sign of defiance or a good-bye salutation, Dit couldn't tell.

Anne's car was outside the MacLauchlan Motel, four or five blocks from the downtown corner where Dit had dropped her. The evening
air was cool, damp, and scented with fragrant, unseen flowers. Her
walk to the car was pleasant and invigorating, and the quiet gave her the opportunity to reflect and clear her head.

Dit had been right about one thing, she thought – the day had been
stressful. As a result, she'd lost her composure with Dit twice: first, when she thought that he neglected to track the signal, and, second,
when he couldn't regain a fix on the transmitter quickly enough. She was sorry about that.

Then came their last squabble when Dit had wanted her to give up her work. She was still steaming about that as she drove across town
to her apartment. Not until she pulled into her driveway, though,
did the truth occur to her. She had done to him exactly what he had done to her – shown lack of trust. In the clarity of the night air, she was sorry for that as well.

A stale smell permeated her apartment. She hadn't been there in
two days. With Cutter roaming about, and the Client dancing be
tween deceptions and threats, it had been too dangerous to return.
Now her fears were fewer. Cutter's fight with Constable Timmons
had surely put him in jail. This being Friday night, there wouldn't be a bail hearing until sometime Monday. And the Client? He wouldn't play his next card until he heard Anne's terms regarding the final exchange.

Anne didn't know where she was when she woke late the next morning. Face down in the bed, still wearing yesterday's clothes,
feeling stupefied, almost paralysed, she opened her eyes to a quality
of light which felt foreign. Her nose was buried in a quilt giving
off the scent of a perfumed soap not hers. Somewhere chickadees and finches chastised one another with annoying fierceness. Their bickering at a window feeder eventually drove Anne into a keener
awareness of her surroundings. She sat up, looked around. She saw her daughter's room around her and knew she had spent the
night on Jacqui's bed. Now a sad and lonely pall swept over her. She missed her so much. Perhaps, she thought, it wouldn't hurt to call… to find out how she was faring.

Anne's gloomy mood slipped away with a long, hot shower, a light
breakfast, and black coffee. A second cup topped up her spirits enough to phone Delia McKay. She didn't want to sound like a
worried drudge when she spoke to her or Jacqui, but Delia's phone rang and rang. No one answered.

It was getting near noon, and she hadn't spoken to Dit. She didn't want to phone him. Better to drop into his shop and act like nothing
untoward had happened last night, she thought. Maybe then they could put the tiff behind them and not have any awkward baggage
cluttering up their friendship.

Anne pulled into one of the parking spots in front of Dit's shop.
Urban Nolan, one of Dit's Geek Squad, pored over the schematics of a tech manual on the glass countertop of a showroom display case.
Urban looked up. That in itself was unusual. As he did so, his large
thick glasses caught the sun and exploded into dazzling orbs of light. Urban looked as if he had burst into flame. It startled Anne to a dead stop in front of him.

“Good morning, Anne Brown. How are you today? May I help
you?” he said. The syllables stumbled out of his mouth in a broken cadence. Then his head tilted down toward the schematics, and the fire in his eyes was extinguished. He turned the page as if Anne had been extinguished as well.

“Where's Dit?” she asked.

“Not here today. Wasn't here yesterday. Strange. How may I help you?”

“Do you know where he is?” She looked at Urban. Already he had lost himself in the schematics and forgotten that she was there. She
covered the page he was examining with her hand and quietly asked again.

“Perhaps Eli knows,” he offered.

Anne turned toward the open door to the workshop. From there she could see Eli watching the security monitor that was watching
Anne. Even seeing him from behind, Anne could tell that he was
giggling shyly. She waved. His shoulders hunched up like a blanket. His head shrunk halfway beneath it.

“Eli, do you know where Dit is?” she shouted into the workshop. Eli's head gave a quick, minute shake.

Anne called Dit's cell phone. No response. It was turned off. “Where
on earth did he go?” she muttered to herself as she got into her car.
“Maybe he's home… sleeping in… swimming… or avoiding me.”

Anne hoped the latter wasn't so, and by the time she crossed the Hillsborough Bridge on her way to Dit's house, she had convinced
herself that there was little likelihood of him trying to avoid her.
Dit didn't avoid problems or people. If he didn't like someone, they knew it.

It was a relief to see Dit's car in his driveway. She drew alongside it and beeped her horn to let him know she was here. Then she went to the front door. The door was open, but the house was quiet. Too
quiet. No background music from his sound system. No splashing
from the pool. But the patio doors which led to it were wide open.

Anne walked outside onto the patio. The sun had grown terribly strong, glaring even. The marble tiles gleamed, and the stainless
steel glittered. The strength of it hurt Anne's eyes. So she cupped a hand to shield them. Then she stepped on a wet patch and almost
slipped. Ahead she came across an overturned table. Splinters of glass from its shattered top were scattered about. Another wet
patch, a red sticky smear, led to the rim of the pool. A wicker chair had been upset there; another bobbed listlessly in the water. But
what most caught her eye was a fractured image beneath the rippling surface. Something motionless lay at the bottom of the deep end of the pool, and the sight of it drew a disquieting, almost inhuman moan from deep inside her.