Reluctant Detective (9 page)

19

Anne took a chance. There were three motorcycle dealers in
Charlottetown, but only one was within walking distance of Carson's home, and that's where she headed. The name of the shop was C. C. Rider. Anne flashed a photocopy of Carson's yearbook picture. The
manager ignored it and continued to gently stroke the fender of a
black Harley chopper with a soft flannel cloth.

“You don't look like a cop,” he said indifferently.

“I'm not.”

“What's your interest then?”

“I'm a private investigator. I have a client who's interested.”

“In a high school kid?”

“Who said he was in high school? Have you seen him today?”

“Never saw the kid before. Honest truth.”

“The truth is, you're being kind of defensive about somebody you claim you've never seen before. That raises my eyebrows. I've got friends on the force. I suppose it'll raise their eyebrows, too.”

“So?”

“I watched a program on the Nature Channel last week. Maybe
you caught it? It was all about dogs. You know what happens when hounds catch a scent? They don't stop huntin' until they catch what
they're chasing or drop in their tracks from exhaustion. And ya
know what?” Anne tossed back her head, glanced around the store,
and sniffed the air a few times. “Somethin' smells kind of funny
around
here
.”

“Look. I got nothin' to hide, and I don't need anybody hassling me
either. You or cops. It's bad for business. I'm legit, a hundred per
cent. I just don't like to see some dumb kid get in a jam for no good reason. That's all there is to it.”

“What would he get in a jam for?”

“This I couldn't say, but he
was
here two… three hours ago. I can
tell ya that. He wanted to buy a bike. He had his eyes on this one. It's used, but it's a beauty. I laugh and tell him it's ten grand. He doesn't blink. He takes off his backpack and pulls out a fistful of money and counts it out. Surprised the hell outta me.”

“Where's the money?”

“He still has it. It wasn't Canadian. It was American. It looked real,
but I couldn't take the risk. Who knows where it came from? And
where does a kid come up with ten grand cash? Like I said. I don't
need a hassle.”

“Where'd the kid go from here?”

“No idea. Maybe get it changed at the bank? Another dealer? Who knows?”

“What about Sean McGee?”

“Don't know him.”

Anne put one hand on her cocked hip and looked at him with
pathetic disbelief.

“It's too late for backsliding now, don't ya think?”

“Try his shop. Smoke Signals.” He pointed down Kent Street. “Just before Kings Square.”

Smoke Signals was a head shop, a retail store for cannabis paraphernalia. The shop took up one side of a double, two-storey, wood-frame house. In front of it near the sidewalk stood an antique cigar-store Indian holding a peace pipe. Around his wooden shoulders someone had draped a white serape. A pattern of green marijuana leaves was woven into the fabric. Anne let her fingers float across the smooth wooden features of the Indian's face as she rounded the corner and entered the shop.

The display room was rather small. It would have been the parlour
when the building had been a residence. The glass shelves on one wall were filled with glass and Pyrex bongs, a smaller version of
the Oriental hookah. The glassware was hand-blown in mauve and
violet, amber and ruby, emerald and frosted white. The display
case held specialty lighters, decorative tins, rolling machines and grinders, roach clips, pipes, and scales. Beads and necklaces dangled
from a side wall. Next to them was a rack of T-shirts promoting the
resurrection of Bob Marley, the freedom of Marc Emery, and an end to the prohibition of grass.

Anne took a deep breath and wondered if she had sucked in a
lungful of incense or something else. The clerk, a young, long-
waisted blonde, had not heard her enter the store and was facing a backroom door and several large speakers next to it. Her figure
swayed. Her arms floated gracefully above her head. Her body
moved to the pulsing rhythm of an African a cappella group.

Anne reached across the counter and tapped the dancing clerk on the shoulder. She continued her dance as she turned slowly around.
“Ooooh… hey… ya know drums and chants and stuff make me feel
so… I don't know… primitive… and happy… ya know what I mean?”
Her eyes were wide with wonder. Her demeanour was euphoric. And she continued to sway and stare at Anne and waited for an
answer.

“Some days I know what some people mean… some days I know what I mean… and some days I know what nothing means… When that happens, it's just me that's here… and there is no meaning. Ya
know what I mean?” replied Anne, looking at the clerk with as much gravity and earnestness as she could muster without laughing at the absurdity of her own words. Then she waited for an answer.

The clerk's swaying body slowed like a pendulum in a wound-
down clock. For a heartbeat or two the clerk's eyes looked like those
of a little girl, lost but not quite frightened. Then they brightened as if she suddenly remembered where she was, and she smiled know
ingly. “Yeaah,” she said. “I do. I've been there, too.”

“Cool store!” said Anne looking around. “Do ya have any buds to go with the bongs?”

“No,” said the clerk with disappointment. “Not a leaf.”

“So what's that smell?”

“Black Afgano,” she giggled, “by Nasomatto.”

Anne looked quizzically at her.

“Perfume. My favourite perfume. Try some?” she asked and pulled
out a square bottle from her purse.

Anne shook her head. The clerk continued.

“I know what you mean, though. People keep asking the same
question, and I keep telling Sean that we should get some in stock – Black Afgano, not the weed. But he just says ‘no.'”

“Sean is funny like that,” said Anne. “Is he around?”

“He was here. You just missed him.”

“Ohhh man,” Anne moaned. “This is crap. He was supposed to meet me here. Any idea where he went?”

“He took off with some kid.”

“Carson? Skinny kid? Backpack?”

“Yeaah, that's him.”

“Where'd they go?”

“Maybe he went home. Maybe he went to that bike club for a drink or something.”

“That sucks. Where's home?”

“I can't say. Sean says it's private stuff. He'll get mad.”

“Of course he would. And if I were you I wouldn't tell either, but
he's going to be pissed if we don't meet up. I've got some money for him. He must have forgot. Anyway, it's not like I haven't been
there before. It's just that I was kinda stoned, and I can't remember exactly which place it was.”

“I guess,” said the clerk with a measure of reluctance, “… if you've
been there before, he'd be okay with it.” She took a pencil and
scrawled his address on a pad of paper and gave it to Anne.

Anne had her hand on the doorknob and the door half-open when
she stopped, turned around, and called out to the clerk who had returned to her ritual swaying: “Ya know I would have gone over
to his house last night, but I called and there was no answer. If I got hold of him then, I wouldn't be in this spot now.”

“Wouldn't 'a' done no good,” said the clerk. “Sean and Carson were cruisin' round town half the night, so he says.”

“Huh!”

Anne felt emboldened and a bit heady when she stepped onto the sidewalk outside the shop. Finally, she was making progress. She had put Sean McGee and Carson White together on the night her car was burgled. Carson had a pile of money he couldn't have gotten anywhere else. So that made them the pair who had taken the valise.

What didn't make sense was that Carson had any money at all.
Sean was older. More experienced. He would have been the brains
behind the theft. But he wasn't stupid. He would never have let
Carson walk away with that amount of money… and American bills at that. It would have drawn too much attention to Carson and, if he were busted, then Sean knew that he would be next.

No matter how that scene had played out, Anne knew a couple of things for certain. Either Sean or Carson had her money; there
would be a showdown tonight; and she had to prepare herself for whatever that meant.

A deep, dark pool of blue was filling the sky, and shadows were
long and black on the old brick façades of Victoria Row. Anne's cell phone rang as she mounted the stairs to her office.

“Ben? Hi… You ran the plate? Wait 'til I write that down.” Anne
unlocked her office door, turned on the light, and grabbed a pencil
from the desk tray. “Go ahead… Devon MacLaren, KT7-169. Got it. Address? 27 Wigmore Street, Summerside, PEI. Anything else? Pre
vious violations? Arrests? Convictions? Nothing? Okay. Thanks, Ben. Jacqui? She's on vacation.” Anne's suspicious eyes quickly surveyed the room. “I'll tell you and Sarah all about it maybe tomorrow… Are you're going to The Blue Peter for happy hour. Yeah. See you then.”

Devon MacLaren was owner of the truck that tried to pick up the suitcase at the industrial park last night. It's likely he was the
driver, too, thought Anne, but she couldn't follow up on that tonight. Tonight she had some thinking to do and some precautions to take.
She might get the money back easily from Carson, but if she had to confront Sean, that was unlikely. He was dangerous. Ben had warned her about him. Nor could she be sure whether they were still together or headed in separate directions. And which of the
two had the money? Obviously Carson had only a portion of it in his backpack, and the vacuous blonde clerk hadn't mentioned Sean with a suitcase. Even her capricious attention would have stumbled over a curiosity like that.

Anne wasn't sure what approach she would use. There were too many variables. But the basics were always clear to her: to catch
a rat you need the right bait and a strong trap. To that end, she freshened up in the washroom and took a change of clothes from her closet in the waiting room – a cherry blouse, snug navy jeans,
and a black leather dress jacket. She brushed out her hair. Golden hoops gleamed under each ear.

Anne rarely wore makeup, but tonight she made an exception and
transformed herself from a pleasantly attractive but plain woman to one much more interesting. She examined herself in the mirror,
practised a playful wink and a pout, and pursed her lips. When she was satisfied with the look, she grabbed an atomizer and encircled
herself with a man-sized cloud of perfume. As a final touch, Anne undid the first three buttons on her blouse. Again, she looked at
herself in the mirror. She refastened two of the buttons. She was satisfied. This was as alluring as she dared to become.

Anne opened the safe door. She took the .32 cal. revolver from the
gun rack and matched it with a holster which fitted discreetly in
the small of her back and well-hidden above the hem of the leather
jacket. She was no stranger to guns. She had spent many hours at the firing range with her uncle. Then her hand dipped into one of
the drawers and drew out a lipstick-size container of pepper spray
and a handful of plastic ties. She slipped them into her right-hand
coat pocket.

Anne felt a quiver of anxiety as she strode out the door and down the staircase to the main floor. Her footsteps echoed noisily and the clatter of them made her feel suddenly clumsy and fallible.

She made a phone call from the street as she walked to her car. It
rang at the home of Dit Malone.

Dit's house was an impressive two-storey brick building on the
Stratford side of Charlottetown Harbour. From his living room
window, he could look across the water at an unencumbered view
of the city's skyline. A glass display case held an arrangement of
hockey trophies Dit had been awarded as a tough, hard-hitting defenceman. He had become a local hockey star as a teenager, and
he was being actively scouted for a Quebec major junior team when a summer diving accident left him paralyzed at eighteen. His dream of a sports career disappeared with his mobility, but in its absence
he discovered a special talent in electronics.

“Hi. Whatcha doin'?” Anne asked.

“Not a thing,” he said, turning his wheelchair around. His elbow
knocked over a jigsaw puzzle he had been working.

“Then what took you so long to pick up?”

“If you must know, I was working out.”

“Weights?”

“No. On the treadmill. I do a couple miles a day. Great aerobics. I
feel pumped. Might even qualify for the Paralympic marathon.”

“Very funny.”

“What do you need?

“What makes you think I need something? I call you whether I
need something or not.”

“You don't need anything?”

“I didn't say that.”

“Out with it. Come on. I've got a house full of guests I'm trying to
entertain.”

“Well… I need a side of beef.”

20

Young Carson White sat quietly in the chair. The chair was in a
storeroom. It was cluttered with boxes brought up the stairs and hastily dropped in the first available space found near the door. A decade of dead flies and dust covered them. Fifteen or twenty bar
stools, leftovers from a previous remodel, occupied a back corner. A
damaged neon sign advertising Dempsey's Deadhead Bar and Grill
leaned against a wall. Flakes of broken glass lay scattered along the
floor and marked the trail to a large scuffed mirror adorned with
shamrocks. Nearby, four sections of a mural showed a narrow-gauge
steam engine, crossing an Island bridge, and approaching the
perimeter of a nineteenth-century Charlottetown.

Music from the saloon downstairs was loud and resonant, but
Carson could only make out a driving thump of bass, a muffled kick of drums, and the contemptuous, garbled eruptions of an unidentifi
able singer. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine himself wading through the mire of a drunken nightmare, except that this was no nightmare. It was real. He could taste the blood of it in his mouth,
and he could feel the helplessness of his state each time he tried to squirm loose from the ropes which bound his hands and seized his ankles to the chair in which he was held.

It had been a mistake to trust Sean. He'd learned that too late.
But when the boss at C. C. Rider turned him away, he'd felt that he
had no choice. He couldn't just take hundreds of thousands of US
currency to the bank. They'd call the cops in a flash, but Sean… he could handle it. He had the contacts.

So Carson had caught up with Sean at Smoke Signals, showed him samples of the money, and offered Sean a deal – fifteen per cent to
convert it to Canadian dollars. After all, it was his money, Carson
told himself. Sean had kept all the rest of the loot they had stolen.
And hadn't Sean thrown the suitcase at him just before he booted him out of the car last night? A deal's a deal, isn't it?

Carson struggled to make some sense out of what had happened to him over the last few hours. Then he heard a noisy shuffle of boots. The sound of them rose up the rear stairwell of the biker club. They had a menacing quality. Suddenly, all of the scenarios and strategies
which Carson had cobbled together in his mind became stale and
pointless and crumbled like fragments of a dried-up manuscript. His chest heaved, but he felt like he was suffocating.

Mike Underhay opened the door to the storeroom and stepped
inside. Mike owned the bar, and he was unchallenged as leader of
Satan's Chosen. He was a thick, muscular man with a lumbering
gait and thinning blond hair. He grinned his crooked grin at Carson.
It hid the stump of a tooth, broken by Guy de Bois in a fight over cigarettes at Dorchester prison. Guy de Bois had won. Underhay
spent six weeks in hospital for a ruptured spleen, four broken ribs,
and a fractured skull. Three years later, de Bois was found badly crippled behind a New Brunswick night club. The letter M and U
were carved into his forehead. Though he denied it, some gave Mike Underhay credit for it.

Mike Underhay hadn't been called by his real name in years, not
since someone had nicknamed him “the Woodcutter.” He'd liked
the irony in that, but eventually the nickname had been shortened
to “Cutter” or “Cut.” Underhay liked that even better. It suggested
a contempt for any sentiment of pity the same time as it inspired a fearful respect.

The Woodcutter silently watched Carson. He savoured the fear re
flected in Carson's eyes, something his mere physical presence could produce. He enjoyed the kid's utter helplessness – no defensive tugs
at his ropes, no involuntary twitches. Carson was like an animal in
plain sight playing dead, and that made Cut grin his twisted grin
again. His tongue flashed across the stump of tooth a couple of times.
Then he spoke:

“If this hadn't been where you said it was, you'd be dead right
now.”

Cut tossed the leather valise into the room. It hit the floor with a solid thunk. Carson's knees and shoulders jerked reflexively at the sound. His lips and tongue laboured to find a trace of moisture in a dry mouth. His eyes struggled hopelessly to find tears. His voice
strained to find a few useful words.

“What… are you going to do… Mr. Cutter?”

Cut burst out in a great howl of laughter that left Carson even more profoundly frightened. His mouth gaped, and his eyelids
fluttered wildly.

“Oh god, you're funny,” said the Woodcutter, recovering somewhat
and stamping his foot several times to shake off the source of the humour. “It all depends,” he added, choking back his last mouthful
of laughter. “It all depends.”

The Woodcutter's grin was gone when he withdrew from the
storeroom. He said no more. He turned out the light. He closed the door, and the shuffle of boots faded.

All that remained was a soft whimpering in a blacked-out room.