The Dead Letter (15 page)

42.

Ben felt wonderful. It was a splendid October morning. The sky was
a deep, rich blue. Only a cluster of puffy clouds gathered along the eastern horizon as he walked from the parking lot toward the Shaw building and his office in the neighbouring Jones building. Behind him the bay reflected the sky. Ceremonial cannons pointed decoratively toward the harbour mouth, and the Lieutenant Governor's mansion on a grassy knoll behind him was a resplendent white in the strengthening sunlight.

Yesterday he had snarled and snapped like a new dog in the kennel. Today the old dogs would be wary and keep their distance, and today he planned to mark his territory. If worse came to worst, though, he still was on an extended leave of absence from the Charlottetown Police. He could return there. Or he could pack it in. Retire. He was a bit young to spend the rest of his time on Earth mowing the lawn and painting the trim on his house, but there would always be something he could do with the skills he'd developed over the last twenty-five-odd years. Security consultant, retail investigator, instructor at the police academy in Summerside.

Then he thought of Anne landing on her ass, unexpectedly, for no justifiable reason. It was a precarious, uncertain profession for sure. Then a picture of himself shouldered its way into his head: him struggling against an unkillable jungle of garden weeds, him shining up old war stories with other ex-cops at Tim's coffee shop, him shovelling the monotony of forever-drifting snow from his driveway. Images like that made him cringe. No, he would never retire, he thought to himself. He took one long, last, fresh, cool lungful of fall air into his lungs before he stepped through doors into the Jones Building.

Donnie Chamberlain, the uniformed commissionaire, greeted him at the entrance. He looked rather frail and small, white-haired, a crackling voice: “Good morning, Mr. Solomon.”

“A great morning, Donnie.” Four ribbons, one with a bronze oak leaf, identified his Korean War service. Ben stopped abruptly and asked, “How the hell old are you, anyway, Donnie?”

“Old enough to know a few things…and young enough to give you a thumpin' if you get rowdy,” he said and winked.

“Ever think about retiring?” asked Ben.

“I'm havin' too much fun to retire. You aren't after my job, are you, Mr. Solomon?”

Ben still had the grin on his face when the elevator opened on the fourth floor. He walked past the closed door to his own office and into the reception area for Ministry of Justice.

“Is the minister in?” he asked the receptionist. She nodded as she looked up from her keyboard.

The door to Fenton Peale's office was open partway. Ben knocked politely. He heard Peale's invitation to enter, and he did.

“Good morning, Fenton.”

“Ben. What's up?”

“I reached out to Carmody, and I think we've come to a mutual understanding.”

“You spoke with him yesterday?”

Ben hesitated for a moment. “Indirectly,” he said and then added, “He got my message, though.”

Peale looked puzzled and then brightened. “Then everything worked out. That's wonderful. So you can live with the suspension of Ms. Darby's license?”

“Of course. You had no control over it. Frankly, I'm not sure that Carmody did either. If there are allegations, they have to be looked into. That's the way it goes. She'll survive it. My knowledge of her suggests that she's squeaky clean. She'll land on her feet. She always does. Luck of the Irish, I guess.”

“I'm glad you see things that way, Ben. People I've talked to were of the opinion that she was stepping beyond her authority with that Villier case. Too much enthusiasm narrows a person's focus, and that can lead to errors in judgment. In the end, I would chalk her troubles up to…inexperience.”

“You may be right, Fenton, and that's why I have decided to open my own investigation into the connection between the Villier murder and the death of Carolyn Jollimore.”

Peale looked genuinely stunned.

“This is a surprise.”

“I thought it might be. That's why I wanted you to be first to hear about it.”

Peale looked away in thought and then said, “What brought this about?”

“Billy Darby may have been overenthusiastic. We'll wait for the outcome of the inquiry on that point. But there's no denying that she came across new evidence which can't be ignored. I'm not sure if you're aware, but it's a letter from Carolyn Jollimore posted to Darby Investigations just a day before she died in what was labelled a ‘single-car accident.' The letter apparently was lost for over ten years
before it reached Darby Investigations. The contents of the letter
suggest that Carolyn was aware that someone other than John J. Dawson had killed Simone Villier.”

“It sounds to me like something the police could better handle, doesn't it?”

“Ordinarily I'd agree, but, in this case, the letter Ms. Darby received in the mail suggested that Carolyn Jollimore felt that she could not confide in the police. That's why I am handling it personally.”

“I see. This won't interfere with your regular duties?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Good.” Peale reached into a tray of incoming memos, retrieved an email, and read it to Ben.

“This came this morning. It pertains to your orientation with other Canadian law enforcement agencies. It's been difficult to cobble this schedule together, but we've finally worked it out. You're to meet with RCMP at their headquarters in Ottawa day after tomorrow and with ranking CSIS personnel the following day. Third day there's travel to Orillia for a meet with the Deputy Commissioner of the Ontario Provincial Police, et cetera. The following day is another travel day to Montreal where you've been scheduled into meetings with the Sûreté du Québec. Any problem?”

The Minister passed a copy of the email to Ben. Ben glanced quickly over it.

“I… I guess not,” he said.

43.

Habit had kick-started Anne's morning. She had launched herself
out the door at six and forced herself to complete her run along the boardwalk at Victoria Park. The water was still, the air was cold and damp, the sky was breathless, and the gulls seemed frozen against the grey tableau of a twilit morning.

In spite of the dour atmosphere, however, and at the end of her run, she felt energized and ready for whatever the day promised. She felt alive.

But that sentiment was short-lived. Anne arrived at work at her usual time, but she wasn't really sure why she went there. She had no job to work at, no client to pursue, and she had one less friend to keep her spirits up, so what was the point, she thought.

By the time she put her key into the locked front door of her
Victoria Street office, she had sunk into a depressing funk. She hated moping; she despised moodiness; and she loathed idleness, but now she was aware of each of those weaknesses taking hold of her, just as inevitably and insidiously as decay claims a fallen tree.

Perhaps this was a mistake, thought Anne. Perhaps she shouldn't have come here. She stood, anxiously paced the office, and returned to her desk. For a while she stood there, looking out the window. Victoria Row was bright and cheerful. Tourists, fresh from a Dutch cruise ship in the harbour, pointed cameras, clutched each other's arms, laughed, and strode briskly past and toward Province House. A flicker of their liveliness touched Anne, but with little effect. She fell again into a self-absorbed isolation.

On the street below, a wheat-coloured van pulled cautiously to the curb. Anne recognized it as Dit's van, the one he used at work. He must have got my message, she thought, and pulled away from the window lest he look up and see her there.

Anne suddenly felt excited and hopeful. She pulled a sheaf of papers from a drawer, scattered them about her desk top, and pretended to study them. She could feel her heart beat as she waited. It beat so hard that she fancied, rather foolishly, that Dit would notice it when he came through the door. Then, even more crazily, she believed she could hear the beat of her heart. A soft thump, thump, thump, thump that frightened her. Again, a soft thump, thump, thump.

She realized that the sound came from her outer door. A muted rapping.

Why would Dit knock
, she asked herself.
He wouldn't
, she concluded.

“Come in,” she shouted. Her voice had turned uncharacteristically loud and sharp and unreceptive.

Who the devil is it? Now…of all times
.

Anne had wanted at least a solitary moment with Dit to make amends, to assure him that she had been out of sorts, that she had not meant what she had said the night before.

The door to her inner office was open wide and, from her desk, she watched the door at reception pushed in with an irritating sluggishness. A head peeped timidly from behind it. Anne recognized that it was Eli Seares.

Years before, Dit had hired two researchers for his electronics company. At the time Dit's decision caused some eyes to roll and blank stares to linger, because each of the young men had peculiarities. Urban Nolan had a degree of autism, and Eli Seares had a chronic shyness. Dit had not hired them for charity's sake, though. He knew that they had talent and ability, qualities many others viewed as curiosities, and that they were dismissed, underestimated, or masked by behavioural oddities that often accompanied them. Dit saw through all that and was among the first to perceive the potential of Eli and Urban in his business environment.

Later Dit became aware that Eli and Urban were not just good, reliable workers. They were brilliant in applied electronics and were making significant advances in the research and development of the electronics surveillance devices Dit was manufacturing.

Although Anne had desperately wanted Dit to walk through the door, her disappointment vanished when she saw Eli. Of the two researchers in Dit's shop, Eli had always been her favourite. There was something endearing about him. Perhaps his crooked little smile. It seemed to peek out reluctantly, but uncontrollably when he was happy. And he always seemed pleased when Anne visited Dit at Malone Electronics.

Eli was still half-hidden behind the front door when she beckoned him in. He smiled shyly. His glance ricocheted from her face to her shoes and then away toward the window.

“Come in, come in, Eli. I'm so glad to see you. Are you here on an errand or do you need the services of a private investigator?”

Eli's bashful giggle sounded like a stifled cough. But Anne's cheerful invitation led him away from his protective place at the door frame, and he edged into the room. His left hand toted a leather satchel. His right arm raised up to display a small black metal box. A black cable plugged into it, and at cable's end dangled a silver rod.

“An errand, then, is it? What exactly does it do?” Anne knew very well that it was a sweeping device for r.f. signals. Dit must have decided to send Eli to check for hidden listening devices instead of coming himself. He was still angry, Anne concluded.

Eli's lips moved, but no sound escaped. She saw a flicker of fear in his eyes. She smiled encouragingly at him.

“Take your time. I'm in no rush, Eli.”

Eli took two long, deep breaths. Each time Anne could hear the breath expelled. All the time, Eli's eyes were fixed at a corner of the room as if searching for something. Then he began to speak.

“…
mumble
'tronic
mumble
surveillance
mumble
'vice.” Eli spoke in soft, muted tones almost impossible to hear. His face flushed.

At work Eli had always spoken rather sparingly to Urban and Dit, just what was necessary, little more and, prior to this visit, he had managed to utter only a few words to Anne. So this venture was a new challenge.

“An electronic counter-surveillance device?” repeated Anne. He nodded jerkily.

“Yes,” he whispered.

“You're going to sweep for listening devices?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Would you be more comfortable if I went away while you work…or shall I stay?”

“You can stay,” he said and smiled benignly.

Eli turned the detector on and made a few adjustments.

It took less than two minutes for Eli, silver wand and cable in hand, to sweep the reception area and Anne's office. Eli displayed the bug he retrieved from her telephone and set it on her desk.

“Good one, Eli!”

Eli looked confused, then said, “…
mumble
more to do.”

Anne must have had a puzzled look on her face when Eli said, “Your car.” He pointed out the window. “Need to examine it.” A modicum of strength had slipped into his request.

Anne's car was in a parking lot around the corner. She and Eli walked toward it. Anne unlocked the doors and got behind the steering wheel. Eli circled the car pointing the wand toward possible transmission spots. Then he climbed into the back seat with his gear. Anne watched him through the rear-view mirror. He waved the silver probe slowly around, but the r.f. detector revealed no transmission signal. He shook his head.

“Excellent,” said Anne and grabbed the door handle to get out.

“No…more,” he said, loudly, almost a shout from Eli's perspective. The sound of his own voice unnerved him. He recoiled, the sweetness of his elfish face dissolving into a cowering tremble, his breaths short and shallow.

“My mistake,” said Anne, anxious herself for him and trying to calm him. “Sorry. What do you want me to do?”

“Drive someplace…please.”

Anne drove a few blocks east and north. Eli expelled another slow deep lungful of air in an effort to control his breathing. “Yes…,” he said, and more excitedly, “…a…GPS tracker.”

In his own timid way, Eli made clear to Anne that he had found a second device, a latent battery-powered GPS tracker that transmitted only when the car was moving and was impossible to detect otherwise. This model could transmit signals to a remote computer or smart phone that overlaid the data onto a Google-like map image, showed the route taken and the stops made, and recorded the date and time of each.

Eli retrieved the tracker from the steel frame underneath the plastic rear bumper of her car. He dropped it in her palm as quickly and deftly as a wary pigeon nicks breadcrumbs from a hand on a park bench. Before he left the office, he gave her a weak smile, but Anne believed that he was quite worn out from the efforts he had put forth communicating with her. She thanked him profusely again and waved as he left.

From the vantage point of her window Anne watched Dit's van pull away, Eli at the wheel. It was obvious that Dit was still angry with her, but she didn't know what she could do about it. Perhaps time would heal their relationship, she thought. Or perhaps nothing could ever put things right again.

A gust of wind engulfed the Confederation Centre Library building across the street. Maple trees on the terraced courtyard quivered. A handful of red, orange, and mottled green leaves were torn from their tenuous hold on limbs and drifted onto the street.