Sleep of the Innocent (18 page)

“Pay no attention to it.” Harriet caught his hand, dropped a light kiss on it, and returned it to his side of the table. “I'm still suffering from post-holiday euphoria.”

“But other people hated the man as well. Did you hear about the fire in Markham? It was the night after we left for the coast. A woman and two kids were killed. Well, Neilson owned that development. His company built the house. Of substandard materials. The husband survived because he worked night shift. Anyway, he threatened to kill Neilson and to burn down his house—wife, child, and all.”

“Did he? I mean, kill Neilson. Obviously he hasn't burned down Neilson's house, or we would have heard.”

“I don't know.” Sanders shook his head. “Lydia Neilson gave him to us, saying she feels terribly sorry for him. Handing over his threatening letters with sweet reluctance. You know—Gee, Officer, I hate to do this to the poor guy, such an unhappy man, but here they are, waiting for you, encased in plastic to preserve fingerprints, if any.”

“She didn't,” said Harriet. “Not Lydia.”

“Well, not quite. But she dredged him up in one hell of a hurry once we started talking about her kid.”

“I told you she was hysterical on the subject of that child. Otherwise she's quite a rational woman.” Harriet toyed with the crust of her pie for a moment. “Motherhood does strange things to people—I see it all the time in my friends.”

“Anyway, to get back to your question,” interrupted Sanders, alarmed at the direction the conversation was taking. “As soon as we find the man, we'll ask him. He didn't try to conceal his identity. The letters were handwritten; he referred to himself quite clearly. He didn't sign them, but he didn't start with ‘Dear Carl,' either. If he killed Neilson, he'll probably tell us.”

“Where is he?”

“How the hell should I know?”

Harriet put down her fork and looked gravely at him.

“Okay,” said Sanders irritably, “he's probably with relatives somewhere. We'll find him soon enough.”

“What's going on with you, John?” Harriet pushed aside her plate and settled her elbows on the table, leaning toward him. “You're uncommonly prickly tonight. The case getting on your nerves?”

“I don't know.” He stood up abruptly. “Come on, let's get out of here. I feel like walking.”

Sanders put his arm around Harriet and steered her through the Saturday-night crowds on Danforth Avenue. Lovers, late-night shoppers, families wheeling bundled-up, sleepy babies all swirled around them as they walked in the direction of Harriet's apartment. “The case can damn well look after itself at this point. I'm more worried about— Do you remember Rob Lucas?”

“Rob Lucas. Rings a faint bell, but I can't place him.”

“You've met him. He was part of my group for a while. Big blond guy with a broken nose.”

“The gorgeous one! With that English public-schoolboy face. I remember him. Didn't remember his name.”

Sanders looked down at her in disbelief. “Public-schoolboy? The Harriet Jeffries system for classifying physical types is beyond someone as dull-witted as I am. Well, gorgeous or not, he's disappeared.”

“What do you mean, disappeared?”

“Just that. Disappeared. He had a line on a witness he'd misplaced and went tearing off to interview her out in the middle of nowhere, someplace between Haliburton and Bancroft, and the next we hear, he's been in a car accident on the way up there and they've taken him to a Deerton hospital, which should be miles out of his way. We got this from him—he called in. But when Matt calls Deerton to ask how Lucas is, they've never heard of him. When they check the cabin where the witness was living, they find a corpse. Murdered, rifle bullet. No witness, no Lucas. But the cabin looks as if a war was held in it, and the witness's car has been smashed to pieces. And now Baldwin's instituted a province-wide search. The owner of a motel somewhere east of Bancroft reported that a highly suspicious character bearing a striking resemblance to Lucas was staying at his place, but when they got there, he'd gone again.”

“That's it? Has something happened to him?” she added hesitantly.

“Well, he rented a car in Deerton, which is I don't know how many miles west of the cabin, and took a pile of money out of his bank account. That sounds as if he planned out what he was doing. We should be able to find that car, but it's disappeared, too. They found a sweater belonging to him in the cabin, by the way. He was there.”

“Why would he want to disappear?”

Sanders shook his head. “Or take his missing witness with him. Because the man who rented the motel room had a girl in the room. She had black hair and slept all the time.”

“You mean that she was drugged?”

“It's hard to believe.” Sanders sounded as if he was finding it only too easy. “Lucas is an odd guy in some ways, but not like that. I can't imagine him kidnapping a witness—which is what it looks like. And I can't figure why, once he found her, he didn't bring her down here.”

“Maybe he decided he didn't want to,” said Harriet as they turned the corner onto her street. “Maybe he's one of those weird guys who likes to collect his women safely under lock and key. Maybe he has a whole lot of strange girls stashed away somewhere.”

“Jesus, Harriet, if that's the best you can do, then shut up. I can think up things like that without your help. Anyway, I can't imagine anything worse than having a room full of vicious broads like you, all locked up, ready to murder me once my back was turned. Rob is too bright for something like that.”

“Why, thank you, Officer,” said Harriet sweetly. “I appreciate the compliment. Are you coming up?” she asked, reaching into her pocket for her key. “I must show you this collection of helpless males I keep in the basement. A nuisance to look after, but sweet. Do come in, Officer.”

Reaching around her with both arms, Sanders took the key, opened the door, picked her up, and carried her awkwardly into the hall. “Never mind,” he said huskily, as he kicked the door shut. “I can still win arguments by brute, stupid force.” He set her down gently, turned her around, bent down, and kissed her with a desperation that startled her.

John Sanders had wasted the better part of Monday morning reading through material compiled before he had taken over the investigation: maddeningly incomplete reports; vague statements from witnesses that should have been checked before now and found wanting. The writer of the threatening letters to Carl Neilson, whom he had expected to trace instantly, was still missing. Dubinsky was off pursuing his favourite daily occupation—harassing the auditors from the solicitor general's office, reminding them yet again that homicide was at least as important as fraud.

“Nothing.” His partner's voice interrupted a highly complex sketch he was adding to a sheet of paper with a three-line interview statement on it. Dubinsky dropped his coat over a chair. “But I think I've convinced them that if they don't start looking into some of his other business enterprises, I'm going to start breaking shinbones. They're obsessed with that goddamn development that caught fire. The boss man got himself ‘a promising line of inquiry,' he said. Anyway, one of the other guys is going to start in on the two restaurants this afternoon. I suggested La Celestina.”

“Why?”

“I dunno. I have a few not-so-good memories about that place. I wouldn't mind seeing it up to its elbows in shit.”

Sanders yawned and pushed aside the paper he was scribbling on. “Speaking of the restaurant, I want to talk to the pimp.”

“Was that any particular pimp you wanted?” asked Dubinsky. “Because there are a hell of lot them around.”

“The one who was tried for the murder of the hooker in the restaurant. Neilson's restaurant. The one who got off. Maybe he knows something, off the record. Say, about Neilson, that he didn't bother mentioning to us or to the judge.”

“The La Celestina pimp. Sounds kind of neat, doesn't it? I'll see what can be done.” Dubinsky reached for his phone and punched in some numbers. There was a long pause, punctuated by low-voiced murmurs. “No shit,” he said at last, his voice flat. “That's a real bitch. Who got him?” After a further pause he muttered what could possibly be construed as thanks and hung up. “The pimp's dead. Someone took his head off with a mortar or a guided missile or something. Hardly enough left of him to identify. In Peel—that's why we never got it. They wrote it off finally to turf battles.” He sighed. “They were so damned glad to get rid of him, they didn't exactly bust their asses to find out who did it.”

“What the hell—you can't win them all. If we can't get the pimp, let's go take a look at the restaurant,” said Sanders.

No one had intended the restaurant La Celestina, as the sign outside called it, to be seen in the harsh light of Monday morning. The vacuum cleaners were still being run over the stained red carpeting; the deep red curtains were pulled back to allow the sun to fight its way in through the dirty windows. A waitress was moving slowly from table to table, covering each with a white and then a bright red tablecloth that clashed violently with the rug and the curtains. It was eleven. By noon, no doubt, it would be too dimly lit to notice such infelicities. Cooking smells drifted in from the double doors leading to the kitchen.

“We're not open yet,” said the waitress, in a voice that was neither hostile nor friendly. She yawned. “You should be able to get something in thirty minutes or so. Except that Monday morning the chef is always late with the specials. But we can do you a sandwich or something.”

Sanders raised a hand to stop the sleepy flow. “This place have a manager?” he asked.

She nodded in the direction of a smaller door in the back, marked Exit and Washrooms. “Through there. At the end.”

The manager's door proclaimed him to be a Mr. Horvath; the tall, thin, balding, and hollow-eyed man inside greeted them without surprise. He glanced at Sanders's identification and pointed at two empty chairs in the crowded room. “I wondered when you guys would turn up,” he said. His voice was as hollow and gloomy as his eyes.

“Why is that, Mr. Horvath?” asked Dubinsky genially.

“Why? Because someone shot Mr. Neilson, that's why,” snapped the manager. “On top of everything else. I've been expecting to be up to my ears in police for the last week.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” said Sanders. “We had other fish to fry. They said you were the manager—”

“I am the manager,” said Horvath sourly.

“How much did you see of Mr. Neilson on a day-to-day basis? How much control did he exert?”

“Not much and a lot,” said Horvath. “Meaning, he wasn't hanging around every day tasting the soup or anything like that. Jesus, I've worked for owners who thought they knew something about food.” He shook his head. “It's godawful. Chefs get mad and quit. No, Mr. Neilson used the place for entertaining. I guess his wife didn't like parties much, and we're a big operation. We can handle a party of two hundred or more without any trouble if we close the dining room. We can put sixty upstairs
and
run the dining room with a few days' notice.”

“So otherwise he left you to manage things on your own.”

“Well, sort of. I do what you'd expect. Inventory, ordering, beverage control, food cost. But then everything is done over again, in a way. The bookkeeper—”

“Is that West?”

“Yeah. You know him? Randy. He comes in every night, tallies the cash, picks up the printouts I work from, and checks it all. I guess. Banks it and reports to Mr. Neilson. Stupid.”

“Unless he didn't trust you.”

“So let him fire me. Or audit me. Who knows why he did it? Owners are weird. I asked him once. He said he believed in double-checking everything.”

“When did you see him last?”

Horvath scratched his earlobe. “Dunno. Two weeks before he died? He had a lot on his mind. The investigation and everything. Too busy for us. Anyway,” he said, standing up, “you want to know anything else, come back after lunch. I got work to do.”

“Interesting,” said Sanders, as they walked back into the dining room. The curtains were drawn; the soft lights were on. “The place looks almost worth eating in.”

Dubinsky yawned. “Not my kind of food. Besides, where are the girls? You could at least have asked about trafficking, rake-offs—all the good stuff.”

“Softly, Ed. This is just a start.”

“Can I get you guys anything?” said the sleepy waitress. By now the tables were supplied with napkins and cutlery, and more staff lounged around chatting.

“Just a little information,” said Sanders.

“Jesus, I shoulda known,” she said. “One look at you, and I shoulda known. Am I out of it today. We've been expecting you guys. So?”

“Tell me about how things work around here,” said Sanders. “Money—that sort of thing.”

“That little prick Randy does the money,” said the waitress. “Except on his days off, when I do it—or Mr. Horvath. And he skims tips, Randy does. I know. The day I catch him at it, I skim his balls off.”

“You don't care for Mr. West?”

“I like that. Yeah, I don't care for Mr. West. He can't keep his greasy hands off the girls—or the boys, I wouldn't be surprised. And mean as hell if you do anything about it. One girl bashed him across the ear with a tray, and he went straight to Mr. Neilson and had her fired.”

“Were they friends? West and Neilson?”

“I wouldn't describe them as friends. Being as Randy's a miserable little ass-licking son of a bitch when Mr. Neilson's around. Or was around. Maybe he got on better with the other owner.”

“Which other owner is that?” asked Sanders cautiously.

“I don't know his name. I only know there's another owner because I heard him once when I was in the washroom. They were holed up in Horvath's office, and he was mad—saying something about as an owner, he had a right to know what was going on.” She shrugged. “Places like this, it's hard to find out who owns what.”

“Tell your friends at the solicitor general's office that we need some more information about this place,” Sanders growled to his partner as they walked back outside. “Before all the witnesses die of old age.”

For three more nights the fever had raged. Each morning Rob Lucas looked at Annie, appalled at the responsibility he had cavalierly taken on himself, and decided it was time to throw in the towel and take her to a hospital. But each night as he sat up with her in the dim light of one small lamp, he was haunted by visions of Jennifer Wilson's dead body, by memories of the chaos and destruction at the cabin, and he changed his mind. Looking after her consumed every hour of the day. He coped badly with changing her dressings, and worse with trying to keep her warm, clean, and dry. He had discovered extra bed linen and a washer-dryer in the laundry room, and conscientiously changed her sweat-soaked sheets each morning. Every night he lowered the shutters, in case somehow someone tracked them to Lake Wanitake. In that time she did not speak an intelligible word, didn't appear to know he was there. He sat by her anyway, afraid that if he turned his back, death might catch her alone in that big room. When she seemed to be awake, she stared out at the water or up at the wood-paneled ceiling. Otherwise she slept, fitfully and restlessly, moaning in her sleep, or worse still, lost again in a delirious trance, she raved at him with an intensity of fear and despair that appalled him. She screamed to some invisible hordes of devils to leave her alone, she grasped his arm and demanded his name, and from time to time she returned to
Lulu
: “I do not know; I am no one; I believe in nothing.” His constant preoccupation was a never-ending fight to keep her from dehydrating; for hours he held her in his arms and forced liquids down her throat. Some she swallowed, some spilled, some she coughed up again. He carefully mopped her face and began to despair.

On the fourth morning he woke up with a start, his heart pounding, and lifted his head in alarm. He was stretched out on Annie's bed; she was on her side next to him, her arm in its awkward plaster casing flung high against the stuffed back of the couch. She was breathing deeply and regularly, the slow, even breathing of those who sleep soundly. The small lamp remained burning in the corner, but beyond the steel casing on the windows he could hear a bird singing. It was morning. The last thing he remembered was forcing a painkiller and an antibiotic capsule down Annie's throat at midnight and making her drink something. He slipped off the bed and walked into the bathroom. The sun was pouring through the windows. He looked at his watch. It was seven minutes past nine.

They had slept for nine hours. Nine hours without interruption. He looked at his four-day growth of beard in the mirror and grinned. To hell with shaving, to hell with spit and polish, to hell with greasy hamburgers and cold, scummy coffee. He wasn't a cop—he was a man who had just tilted with the windmills and won. He stripped and showered for the first time in days, got himself some clean clothes, and moved quietly back into the living room to have a look at his rescued maiden.

She was sleeping quietly, looking pale and thin and very sick, but the taint of fever and madness that had been a physical presence hovering over her was gone. She was a person again.

He opened the two sets of French doors in the dining room, unlocked the shutters, closed the doors again, and flipped on the raise switch. Green, woodsy light filled the cottage, and he went into the kitchen to make himself some coffee—some real coffee. And some breakfast instead of the crackers and cans of soup he had been living on. He was famished. He moved his down jacket from the freezer lid, lifted it, and discovered a treasure hoard. There were coffee beans, packages of bacon, loaves of bread of all kinds and descriptions, plastic bags filled with Danishes. Susie was a woman who knew how to live. And to shop.

Between microwave and oven, stove top and toaster, he had Danishes warming, bacon thawed and now frying, bread toasting, and freshly ground coffee dripping through its filter. He was searching through the refrigerator, looking for interesting jam, when he heard his name. Startled, he snapped upright, so rapidly that he hit his head.

“Robin—are you there?” This time the voice sounded worried.

“Sure,” he said, rubbing his head. He reached over and turned down the heat under the bacon before heading around the fireplace and over to the bed. “Of course I'm here. How are you feeling?”

“Can you help me into the bathroom?” she asked. Her voice sounded husky and unused. “I'm not sure I can make it on my own.”

“I am,” he said, reaching down and picking her up for what seemed like the hundredth time at least. And each time she had felt lighter and lighter. “Sure you couldn't make it, that is. Don't even try. Not yet.” He got her into the bathroom and turned to go. “I'll get you a clean nightgown. I didn't like to wake you up earlier,” he said, and left, suddenly embarrassed. He hovered nervously outside the door, listening for a thump as she crashed to the floor, wondering if she hated being dependent on someone like him, a stranger, hostile, someone with no connection to her at all except the accidental one of his job.

After a decent interval he knocked, walked in firmly, and reached down to take off her rumpled nightgown. She looked up at him, startled. “No point in getting prudish,” he said. “I've been changing your clothes and trying to give you sponge baths for three days now. Sorry, but Mike said it was important to keep you clean and dry. You sweated a lot sometimes.”

“Three days?” she said weakly.

He nodded, grabbed a clean washcloth, and rinsed it in hot water. “You want to wash your face?” he said, holding it out to her. “And maybe eventually I can even organize brushing your teeth. And your hair.” She buried her face in the hot, damp cloth, handed it back, and began to try to pull off her nightgown. In one rapid gesture, he had it over her head and the clean one dropped in its place; then he picked her up again, and carried her back to bed. “I'm cooking breakfast,” he said unnecessarily. The room was filled with the odor of bacon. “Would you like something?”