Reluctant Detective (6 page)

12

The sight of so much money took Anne's breath away and, for a
moment, her hands hovered above it, afraid to touch it, afraid that to do so would transform a surreal dream into a disturbing reality. But
as her surprise ebbed, her hands settled and rested upon the stacks
of green bills. They were smooth, crisp, palpable. They were real.
This was real. And it frightened her.

Bundles of hundred-dollar bills filled the valise. She counted one
stack. Fifty bills in a stack, five thousand dollars in a bundle. All of it US currency. And there were many, many bundles.

Anne stepped back and looked again at the mound of cash. She felt a little giddy now, as well as frightened.

A thick grey envelope lay on top of the money. Anne reached for it and tore it open. Inside, five more bundles of bills and a typewritten letter tumbled onto the rest of the money. She picked up the letter:

Darby,

This package contains $1,500,000 plus your $5,000 fee. Take the bundle in this envelope for yourself. Deliver the rest at 12:30 a.m. on June 21st. Follow these instructions: Take the Perimeter Road to where it intersects the Upton
Rd. Turn left. Enter the Industrial Park at Fourth Ave.
Continue on Fourth past two large buildings on your left. Beyond that, there is a field where three truck trailers are
parked. Place the package between the left rear double
wheels of the middle trailer. Then leave the Industrial Park. Your job is done. Once the money is collected, another party will reclaim the ransomed material.

There was no signature.

Okay, let's think about this
, Anne said to herself.
It looks like Uncle Billy arranged something, though I can't imagine why he wouldn't let me in on it… unless it would put me at risk… though I can't imagine how… or maybe he thought it was dangerous and I'd worry about him… but that doesn't make much sense either. I know he's capable and experienced, and he wouldn't take unnecessary risks. He has no reason to. So what's this all about?

Her question hung in the air without an answer.

The 21st is tomorrow. So the package has to be delivered just after midnight tonight… if I decide to deliver it. I'm under no obligation legally. I have no experience with this sort of thing. Maybe I'd be better off staying out of it. Maybe the client would be better off, too. Maybe I should have told him straight up that Billy was dead.

Images of Darby's funeral flashed into her mind, and an empty ache
filled an empty space within her. Darby had been as much of a father as her real one had been. In fact, Anne had shared more confidences
with Billy than she ever had with her dad. Billy didn't judge, he just
listened. And that was often all the support she'd needed to solve
her own problems and ease her own frustrations as a young girl and later as a young woman.

Thoughts of the funeral gave way to a sweet sadness at her more
cherished memories. Then a note of self-pity spoiled the moment.
She despised that feeling because it was seductive. It was as alluring
as it was poisonous. It weakened the soul; it demeaned the person. And the scent of it in the air drove her back to the matter at hand –
what to do with all that money.

Billy made a deal
, she thought to herself.
So I'll take care of it for him. No big deal. It's a simple drop-off. Besides, maybe the ransom is for something really significant. And maybe somebody will get hurt if the ransom isn't paid on time. And there's also the possibility that ransom is for some one, not some thing. Who knows what's happening at the other end?

She took in a long, deep breath and let it slowly escape.

“No big deal,” she repeated with confidence. “I can do this.” Then,
with a little smirk, she added, “An hour's work for five grand. I'm
liking this job more and more!”

A sharp, loud rapping on the outer office door extracted Anne from her deliberations. She couldn't leave the money in the open. So she
grabbed the valise. Her eyes were on the safe door when her foot
caught a corner of the desk, the suitcase slipped through her fingers, and the contents spilled across the floor.

The rapping grew louder.

“Hold on a minute. I'll be right there,” she shouted, hoping to be
heard through the two closed doors.

Anne grabbed at the bundles, threw them back into the valise,
chucked everything into the safe, closed the heavy door, and spun the dial.

More rapping.

“I'm coming!”

More rapping.

“Mom! Are you in there?”

Jacqui leaned against the door frame in her most bored and
impatient pose and, when Anne opened the door, she let out an exasperated sigh.

“Where
were
you?” she asked. Even at fourteen Jacqui stood eye-
to-eye with her mother. She wore her hair shoulder-length, straight,
and unadorned. Her face was rounder than her mother's and her
frame was sturdier and athletic, like a soccer player's. “It's late. I'm starving,” she pleaded.

“Okay, okay. We'll grab a bite downstairs. I've got some things to
do this evening. I won't have time to cook. How was school?”

“Great! Second-last day. Then it's over.”

“Any plans?”

“Marilee and Becca heard about some great beach parties next
week. Everyone's going. It should be fun. I'll probably take that in with them.”

“No, but good try.”

“Oh Mom! Why not?”

Anne answered with a knowing smile, grabbed her jacket from a rack, and closed the door behind her.

13

After dinner, Anne dropped Jacqui at home. Then she returned to
the office and prepared for the evening's work. First, she planned to follow up one of Mrs. Murphy's leads and trail Somerville. After that she would make the money drop.

She had left the car in front of her office so she didn't have to lug the ransom money very far. The valise that held it fit snugly on the
floor behind the driver's seat. She set her camera case next to it
and, before she left, she tossed a blanket over both. On the way she stuffed her $5,000 retainer into a deposit bag and dropped it down the after-hours chute at her bank.

Parked on a side street of North River Road, Anne had a clear view of the Burtons' home where Somerville had been staying. There had
been no activity around the place in the hour she had been watching. It was a quiet neighbourhood. So she had expected little. Mrs.
Murphy had told Anne of Robert Somerville's schedule, as best she knew it, and, for a short-time visitor to the Island, he seemed to fill
his time quite nicely. He frequented lectures at the Confederation
Centre, recitals at the University's music department, weight train
ing at the Metro Sports Centre, and advanced yoga classes, which were part of a smorgasbord of volunteer-taught evening classes
held at Charlottetown's Central High School. Today was Tuesday.
Today was yoga class.

Anne took a long sip of water from a sports bottle and fitted a
70-210 telephoto lens onto the ring mount of her Nikon camera. She
sighted down on one of the windows in the apartment above the garage and turned the lens until it focussed clearly on the drawn curtains. She saw them move once. Then the casement window
wound shut. A few minutes later the garage door lifted and a black Buick sedan emerged. Somerville was driving.

Anne followed Somerville cross-town to the school. All classes
began at eight and ended at ten. At quarter to eight the parking lot was half-full, maybe fifty or sixty cars. People carrying guitar cases, cameras, sports bags, and notebooks made for the nearest entrance.
Anne watched where Somerville put his car. Then she circled the
block a few times, re-entered the lot, and parked. She changed the
telephoto for a 35 mm lens, slipped the telephoto into her coat
pocket, and followed a few latecomers into the main corridors.

A poster on the wall identified the night class activities and the
rooms in which classes were taught. Basic yoga and advanced yoga were in the gym. Photography was in room 241 on the second floor. Anne passed the gym doors and took to the stairs. She wanted to see
the photography class in case she needed a good excuse for being
in the building. Darby's rule number two:
Always have a solid cover story
. Outside room 241 was a small placard:
Photography, Laurie Creed, Instructor
. She peeked through the small pane in the door.

“Looking for photography?” asked the voice behind her.

“No,” said Anne turning around. “I'm with
The Guardian
. Here for a photo story on yoga.”

The voice had come from a tall, lanky red-head. Under the fluores
cent lights her hair was orange and frizzy, her face and bare arms
deeply freckled.

“I'm Laurie Creed. Yoga's downstairs in the gym. If you finish early, come up. The class would love to hear some tips from a pro.”

“Thanks. But I'm more of a pressed-into-service amateur, if you
know what I mean.”

“Well, if you change your mind…,” said the redhead, as she strode into the classroom.

The gym was large and served as recreation centre, lunch room, assembly hall, and theatre. Both yoga classes shared the area, but
each instructor organized activities at opposite sides of the gym.
Basic yoga class included about twenty-five students. They dressed in a rag-tag collection of denims, sweatpants, and beach gear; most of them moved clumsily, and several giggled incessantly whenever
they broke position. The advanced class, twelve or fifteen in
number, performed more like a precision drill squad and dressed the part as well.

Robert Somerville had positioned himself in the centre of the advanced group. For the first several minutes of class, they sat
quietly and meditatively on their mats. The Lotus position. Then the
instructor said something, and each member of the group slowly,
deliberately, and uniformly evolved from one asana to another, like a ballet in slow motion.

Anne changed lenses and took a few shots of Somerville's group
through the glass panels of the double doors. Then she moved down the hallway to a second gym entrance and took a few more shots.

Anne watched the class for almost an hour until their routine
concluded, and they took a break. Many brushed past Anne on their
way out the door. A few others remained and chatted amongst
themselves and sipped on juice packs or bottled water. Somerville
stayed in the gym, too, eventually drifting toward his instructor.
From their body language, Anne thought the two of them seemed more comfortable with each other than the relationship between yoga master and disciple called for. They stood a bit too close, their
facial expressions were those of people sharing confidences, not
techniques or chitchat and, at one point, he touched her shoulder in a rather tender way. Anne clicked another picture.

“Get anything good?” asked the voice behind her.

“The usual,” said Anne turning toward a flourish of orange hair. It was Laurie Creed again. “Just finishing up a roll. Random shots. See
what turns out.”

“Leave a few snaps. There's a better news story outside,” said Laurie waving an awkward arm toward the main door. “Cops are outside now. Go see. You might make page three instead of page
twelve.”

A swirl of adult students, wanting outside, created a bottleneck at
the door, and Anne found herself jostled in the press of them. Just
like recess at elementary school, she thought.

“Do you know what's going on?” she asked a woman who stumbled against her.

“Vandals,” said the woman. “I believe they've damaged some cars.”

The red and blue lights of a city police cruiser pulsed like a
quickened heartbeat and illuminated a small group of people at the back of the parking lot. A car horn bleated hysterically and added to the anxiety of those who had gone outside. Twenty or thirty of them
wandered through the rows of cars, looking for their own vehicles.
Doors squeaked and banged. Dome lights fluttered on and off.

Anne's camera beat a quick rhythm on her thigh as she hurried to
her own car. It was on the outer perimeter of the lot, the closest spot she could get, given her late arrival at the school.

“Mine's all right,” said a girl responding to Anne's inquisitive look. The girl was returning from her car. “I had all my groceries in there,
too,” she said with relief.

Anne smiled back, but her heart was thumping. Even in the
shadows she saw a shattered window on the driver's side of her car. Splinters of glass covered the front seat. The empty camera case was overturned. The blanket was on the floor. And the valise was gone.

A wave of panic swept over her. She felt faint. She gripped the
top of the rear door for support. Then she eased herself down. She
crouched there, staring at the empty spot where the valise had been, not wanting to believe that it was missing, not wanting to accept that she had failed miserably, and not wanting to face the
realization that she had sunk into a great pool of trouble.

“Check your vehicles,” said the cop. “If anything is missing or damaged, give me your name and phone number. Notify your insurance company. If you want, you can fill out a police report
tomorrow at the station. Okay?” He spoke to two confused women with violin cases and collapsible music stands who had asked what they should do. Then he continued his walk along the winding road
of the parking lot, and shone his flashlight at each car he passed.

“Are you all right? Ma'am?”

His penlight sent a sharp, narrow beam at Anne. Her head turned round, she flinched, and covered her eyes. The cop shifted the light toward the ground and walked over to her.

“You okay?”

Anne nodded.

“Did they take anything?” His light spilled across the broken car
window.

Anne stood up and smoothed her clothes. The camera strap tugged
at her shoulder. She felt a glint of rage creep into the back of her
mind. Then it disappeared.

“No,” she said. Her voice sounded calm and deliberate. “I had my camera with me. They must have seen the empty case and…” Her
sentence slipped away.

“Don't worry, lady. Insurance should cover yer window. They can replace that in an hour. You want to fill out a report?”

“Who does things like this? Did anyone see what happened?”

“Kids probably. Young punks. Some guy popped outta the school
for a smoke and heard glass breaking.” The cop paused for a moment. Then he continued. “Musta been your car. The other cars were jimmied. Anyway, he hollered… they took off… out the back
access road… past the stadium.”

“Will you catch them?”

“Not likely. The fella couldn't ID the car or see who was inside. So
unless we catch 'em with stolen goods…” The cop shrugged. Then he continued his flashlight investigation down the line of cars.

Anne rolled down the broken window. The glass that remained in
the track grated and scraped as it dropped into the hollow pocket
of the side panel. She picked up the shards of glass on her seat and dropped them on the floor. Then she took the blanket and brushed
off the finer pieces. She shook the blanket out, folded it over the
seat, and got behind the wheel.

Anne drove away, not along the route she had come in, but along
the back access road and past the stadium, the same route the
thieves had taken. She had no realistic hope of finding them. They were long gone, but, after she intersected upper North River Road,
she crossed over the Ellen's Creek Bridge on a whim and turned
down toward Lewis Point. She had no reason to go there other than
her feeling that aimless driving gave her the illusion of purpose. And this quiet, affluent neighbourhood with broad avenues and little traffic would give her an undisrupted opportunity to think. That offered at least a shred of hope and maybe, just maybe, she
thought, she could hammer out an idea or two that might lead her
out of this mess.

After half an hour of driving around in circles, Anne reckoned
that her thinking followed the same pattern.
What do I really know
,
she thought.
Practically nothing. The cop thought that the thieves probably were kids. Who they were was anyone's guess. Maybe Ben could get a list of suspects from the juvenile division. Likely a long list, though. Then again, the cop said that the doors were jimmied. That takes a bit of skill. Maybe that would narrow the list. Most likely they're familiar with Central High and the night school schedule. Could be a current student. Could be one that had quit, too. Either made sense. But getting a list from Ben, even if that were possible, would take some time and, by then, the money would be impossible to trace. Too many ifs and maybes.

Anne pulled the car over, took out her cell phone, and tapped in
her home number.

“Hi, Jacqui. Whatcha doin'?”

“TV. What's up?”

“Homework done?”

“Mom,” she said with astonishment, “tomorrow's the last day of
school! Well, half-day anyway,” she corrected herself.

“Sorry, honey. Guess I'm not thinking too clearly. What goes on
tomorrow?”

“We get report cards. Maybe some special treats in home room.
Then there's usually some activity in the auditorium. Movie or sports competition. Fun stuff.”

“Sounds wonderful. Wanted to let you know that I'll be late tonight. Okay? We'll talk in the morning.”

“Hot date tonight?”

“Aren't you the bold one?”

“Didn't answer my question, Mom.”

“The hottest thing I'll see tonight is a bowl of chili at BJ's Diner.”

“Have you ever considered getting a life, Mom? Everyone's doing it.”

“I don't have time for a life. I'm a mother. G'night.”

Anne had a smile on her face when she hung up. Then she shivered.
The chill of night rolled in waves through the empty window frame.
Her hand reached for the heater switch and turned it way up.

A life would be good
, she thought.