When the Killing Starts (6 page)

"I'd like to talk to the duty inspector, please."

He went into the inspector's office, and a minute later I was in there. And once again it was a man I didn't know.

He didn't shake hands. He was sitting at his desk, working on some paper or other. He looked up. "You're Chief Bennett."

"Yes, thank you for seeing me, Inspector."
 

He closed his file folder and frowned at me. "You used to be with the department here, didn't you?"

"Yeah, until two years ago. I was a detective in Fifty-two Division."

He nodded. "Rings a bell. You offed a couple of bikers, or something like that, got arrested, right."

"Right. For manslaughter. Was acquitted but left the job when the papers wouldn't let go of it."

Now he stood up and stuck out his hand. "Crawford."
 

We shook. "Reid Bennett. I've just handled a case up in my patch that involved some more bikers. I'm in town on vacation, and a woman asked me to look into a mercenary outfit that's signed up her son."

"How can we help?" He waved to the chair in front of his desk, and I sat.

"Thanks. Well, I found the guy in charge. Limey, name of Dunphy. According to a guy I know in the Intelligence Service, he runs an outfit called Freedom for Hire. I went looking for him, found him, and then the guy outside, who works for him, came after me with a knife. So, he's charged with weapon dangerous, but Dunphy took off in the scuffle. I want to try and track him."

"What's your plan?"

"According to my source, he doesn't hole up anywhere permanent, keeps moving every night. So I won't find him through a hotel registration, but he had a car, an '87 Chev. Beretta. There's a chance I could track him through the hire-car companies. I'd like to use an office, or a phone, anyway, for a while, see if I can get a handle on him."

"That's no problem. You can use the detective office." He leaned back in his chair. "Of course, it may not help. If he thinks he's blown, he'll dump the car, or he may have used a phony ID."

"Yeah, I know, but it's all I've got to go on. I've been trying to shake something out of Wallace; that's the guy with the knife. Only he's playing dumb."

"He would." Crawford nodded. "I'll get one of the other guys to talk to him. Looked to me as if Hennessey was out there. He's still kinda green. Maybe we'll get somewhere with an experienced man." He frowned at me. "I can't promise anything. You know that."

"Appreciate the courtesy, Inspector Crawford. If there's anything I can do for you up at Murphy's Harbour, like maybe show you where the pickerel are. Something unofficial."

He grinned. "Thanks, anyway, I'm a golfer. Tell the duty officer to take you up to the detective office."

"Thanks, Inspector."

I went back out, and the young PC pointed up the stairs to the left. I called Sam and went up there. It was the typical detective office. Tables shoved together in the middle of a big room, a couple of old manual typewriters, phones, file cabinets, departmental memos on the walls. It brought back memories of nights like this two years ago when I'd worked a mile from this place, twelve—fourteen-hour days tidying up the mess that passes for life in the fast lane even in a law-abiding city like Toronto.

I found the phone book, dug out the hire-car section of the yellow pages, and started calling. Between them they had seventeen dark-colored Berettas on lease. None of them was on loan to anybody called Dunphy or Wallace. Three of them were out to women drivers. In the other cases, the clerk who answered had not been on duty when the car was released. They had no idea who had taken them out, but none of the records showed a Dunphy or a Wallace.

I was still working when a short middle-aged man came into the office. He was wearing a dark gray suit and a fine sheen of perspiration. He mopped his face with a handkerchief and waited for me to finish the call I was making.

"You're Reid Bennett?"

I stood up. "Right, you're the private detective?" He put his handkerchief away and stuck out his hand, smiling ingratiatingly. "Sam Broadhurst. Yes."

"Okay. Mrs. Michaels asked me to help you look for her kid. I've found the people who signed him up. One of them is downstairs under arrest. When I'm through here, I'm going to latch on to him when he's released on bail, try to track down the boy."

"You may be too late," Broadhurst said nervously. "As I was coming in, I saw the justice of the peace leaving. I think the bail hearing's over. And the door of the hearing room was open. It's empty. I'd say he was gone."

 

 

 

FOUR

 

 

Broadhurst was right. The hearing had happened, and my man was gone. I swore. Hennessey should have called me when the hearing occurred. I wasn't sure whether his failure to do so was an oversight or deliberate punishment for doing police work on his turf. It made no difference either way. Wallace had slipped through the cracks. My work had been for nothing. Only now the mercenaries knew me and would avoid me even more carefully.

I did the only thing possible. I reclaimed Wallace's knife and gave it to Sam to sniff. He led me out onto the street and along a half block before coming to a dead end at the edge of the roadway. Wallace had gone off in a car, a cab probably.

Broadhurst suggested that he contact all the cab companies to see if any of the drivers had picked Wallace up. There wasn't anything better to do, so I turned him loose. I didn't hold out any hope. A man like Wallace would change cabs at least once before reaching his destination. Most likely he would switch to the subway for the last lap. I'd lost him.

I returned the knife to the detectives, got into my own car, and drove Sam over to the hotel Wallace had given as his Toronto address. Too late, of course. He had checked out that morning. The clerk let me see his room, but it was empty. He hadn't left any indication of where he was heading. Smart, just like Dunphy.

By now it was midnight, and I drove back up Yonge Street to Fred's apartment. The strip was busy, as always. At its worst it's like the least scrungy part of Forty-second Street in New York. There are all kinds of girlie shows, but the Toronto Morality Squad keeps an eye on things, and the pictures of the girls displayed outside are eight-by-ten glossies, not posters. But the people are the same creepy bunch you get in districts like this everywhere, pimps, punkers, a few hookers, and a crowd of shiny-faced tourists. I kept my eyes open for Wallace but didn't see him. It was a long shot, anyway. He'd probably rejoined Dunphy and they were making plans to leave town.

I got back to Fred's place at midnight and parked on the street, putting a Murphy's Harbour police summons card in the windshield. So far it had kept me clear of parking tickets.

I walked around the block in the midnight warmth, giving Sam a chance to stretch his legs before we went up to our cell. A few people were sitting on the front stoops of their houses, talking softly, laughing. I heard the clink of glasses and at one point whiffed the familiar smell of grass. Maybe it helped the smokers forget the concrete around them, let them imagine they were out somewhere peaceful, like Murphy's Harbour.

The apartment was warm, and I didn't fancy sleeping alone in Fred's bed, so I took the cushions off the couch and a blanket outside onto the balcony. From there I could see the sky, and in the quiet that slowly settled over the city it was possible to forget where I was.

I woke early and dressed for a run. Sam came with me, and we clipped through the sleeping streets for most of an hour. Then I showered and reheated what was left of my hash, frying up a couple of eggs to go on top and making a pot of good coffee. I was drinking my second cup when the phone rang. It was Mrs. Michaels.

"I hope I didn't wake you up, Mr. Bennett," she said.
 

"No, I've been out for a run."
 

"Oh," she said. "I was wondering whether you had any luck in your inquiries."

"Yes, I did. In fact, I found the man who signed your son up."

"And what did he say?" Her voice was all business. We might have been discussing her stock portfolio.

"He wasn't very helpful. In fact, I was obliged to fight him and a partner of his. I stopped one of them, but the man I wanted got away." There. It didn't sound so foolish put that way.

"Does that mean you've lost him?" she asked. She wanted value. She'd done her part, handing over the check. Now it was my turn, and I could expect the screws to keep on tightening.

"I'm going out to the airport to check around. I figure he's heading out of town. He'll most likely fly."

There was a silence. I could imagine her gray eyes focusing on some distant object while she thought, wondering what else to do. At last she said, "Did you get in touch with Broadhurst?"

"Yes, he turned up and helped after the fact. I'm taking him with me this morning."

"Is there anything I can do?" The first human thing she'd said to me.

"Yes, Mrs. Michaels. If you hear from Jason, ask to meet him. Tell him you respect his decision but you have something for him."

"I don't think that would work," she said. "He would probably sneer and say he didn't need anything. In fact, I don't know that he will call me at all.

"Well, you know him better than I do, but it's kind of an instinct when you're heading out. You touch base with home, just once, kind of a good-luck charm, something like that."

"If he does, I'll call you," she said. "Do you have an answering service or anything?"

"Yes, there's a machine. I'll call in for messages."
 

"Good." Another silence, and then she said, "Thank you. You seem to be making progress."

"Not fast enough to suit me, but some," I said. "I'll update you on anything that happens today."
 

"All right. Have you run up any expenses?" "Nothing heavy so far, thanks. If it runs into anything serious, I'll keep the bills and let you have them next time I see you."

"Good. Please do," she said, and hung up.
 

The next thing I did was phone Broadhurst, reaching his answering service. However, the operator let me ring through when I told her it was urgent, and I got him out of bed by the sound of it. "Any luck with the cab companies?" I asked him.

"None," he said. "Are you still looking?"
 

"I'm about to head out to the airport and check the departures, see if I can find anything. How about meeting me there?"

He hesitated a moment. "I haven't eaten yet. When will you be there?"

"Let's say an hour. I'll see you at the eastern end of the Air Canada terminal." He could pick up a doughnut on the way. Work is work.

"Fine," he said without enthusiasm. "See you there."
 

I hung up the phone and packed the few things I'd brought with me to Toronto. If I learned anything at the airport, I would follow up on it. Sam wagged his tail when he saw me pick up the bag. Behaviorists tell you that dogs don't think, but I'd make an exception in Sam's case. I'd swear he was a mind reader.

Toronto's Lester B. Pearson Airport has two terminals. One of them mostly deals with overseas flights. It's where most of the foreign carriers come in. The other is for Air Canada and some charters. From there you get most of the domestic flights. I decided to check there first. If Michaels was being tossed directly to the lions, he would probably fly out of the other terminal, direct to Dallas or some other crossroads for Central America. On the other hand, if his mother was right about his contempt for Canada, he was probably flying off to some remote location inside the country to learn soldiering before doing it for real.

At this time of year, a month before the first frosts, you can get a pretty good simulation of jungle conditions at a lot of points in Canada, remote points where you could fire all the guns you wanted without being heard. Going by the kid's comment to his mother, I figured that's what was happening. The only way to find out was to make like a copper.

I left Sam in the car, with the windows down, and went into the eastern end of the domestic terminal. Toronto is a city that lives and dies by its map references. Broadhurst was there, still wearing the same suit, eating a doughnut and holding a Styrofoam cup of coffee. "Hi," he said.

"Hi. Thanks for coming over. I thought I'd check the reservations people, see if the guys we need are booked on any flights."

"You think they'd use their own names?"
 

"No, but it's a starting point. I'll try the central terminal. Maybe you can talk to the people on the ticket counters. You have a photograph of Michaels?"

"Yes," he said. "But not his clothes. Nobody's gonna remember a kid like that from a photograph."

"Give it a whirl. Meantime, you might try describing the other guys I met." I told him what they looked like, and he nodded.

Then I flashed my ID at security and was admitted to the central reservations terminal for Air Canada. It was cool in the air-conditioned office, and the pale clerk who checked the passenger lists for me had a savage cold. He sniffed constantly as he did things his way, starting out by checking that there was no J. Michaels flying out to Montreal or New York or Florida before he got around to the northern flights. And here we struck oil.

"Yes, there's a J. Michaels booked aboard flight 76, to North Bay," the clerk said. He looked up at me and grinned, then sniffed, pulling in a dewdrop of misery that was dangling on the end of his nose.

"Could I see the whole listing, please?"
 

He pivoted the terminal so I could look over his shoulder. The names were a mixture of French and English, a good cross section of the area around North Bay, which is only a hundred miles from my patch at Murphy's Harbour. I scanned it quickly, noting the J. Michaels. "Any idea how this flight was paid for?"

He checked. "Credit card J. Michaels. Used for three tickets."

"Thank you very much," I said. "When does it leave?"

"Oh, it's gone," he said. "Left at 0850, that's half an hour ago."