by Alison Bruce
“I’ll get beer.”
I removed my coat and draped it over the end of the couch and put my bag on the floor beside it. Crabbe returned, clutching two bottles. I shook my head at his renewed offer and sat at the edge of the couch, within easy reach of my things. Crabbe lounged sideways, one leg on the floor, the other crooked and leaning against the back cushions. If I cared to, I could look up his shorts in this position.
Only years of training stopped me from shuddering. Instead I asked about his cats.
“Are they all tagged and chipped?”
“They don’t have to be. They’re indoor animals. Cats would be a lot better off if the law had made letting your pets loose illegal instead of going the electronic chip route. A chip isn’t going to stop your cat getting or spreading rabies or feline distemper or heartworm. It won’t stop your cat from getting run over or poisoned either.” He shook his head. “But I might have to tag junior. She’s a tricky kitty.”
I asked him whether he had seen anyone or anything suspicious on his evening walks. He went into exhaustive detail that amounted to him seeing nothing useful. When I asked him about strays in the neighbourhood, he was more helpful.
“I pick ’em up when I can. If I can’t keep ’em or find ’em a home there are always farmers looking for more vermin hunters. Better that than waiting for execution in a small cage.”
I took issue with his portrayal of Animal Control’s operation. They worked with the Humane Society to return or place domestic animals as much as possible. But I kept my thoughts to myself and let him rant until he reached for the second beer. Then I turned the conversation.
“I understand you knew Blake Collins.”
He paused, bottle tilted.
“We hung around together when we were younger. Why?”
“It’s been suggested that he wasn’t fond of cats and might have abused his wife’s cat. It’s not a strong lead, but if he came back…”
Crabbe gave a snort of laughter.
“He got along fine with my cats. He was just yanking her chain.”
He leaned back and gulped down almost half the bottle as if to make up for the brief pause in his drinking.
“Blake was a man’s man. He was hetero when it came to sex, but he preferred the company of his buddies. Back then I was one of them. Never could understand why he married. Now me, I like to stay available.”
Crabbe started to spread his legs so his boxers would gape more. It was like a train wreck—hard not to look. Instead I focussed on his eyes. For an apparently hard drinker, his eyes were remarkably clear.
“What about Koehne?” I asked.
“Mike ‘call me Ishmael’ Koehne? Bit of a loser, but Blake let him hang out with us. We stay in touch, go out for a beer or six. You don’t think he could be an animal killer, do you? He’s so squeamish he faints at the sight of blood. Blake showed me a couple of times.”
Blake was a real piece of work.
He cupped his crotch and grinned.
“I bet I could make you faint.”
And Crabbe was a real idiot.
“I should go. I have other interviews to conduct tonight.”
I handed him my business card before standing and putting on my coat.
“If you think of anything else…”
He squinted at the card then turned it over and over.
“Garrett. Any relation to Joe Garrett?”
Since I was a kid, I had taken it on faith that everyone in the City knew my father. Today was proving I was right.
“He’s my father. How did you know him, Mr. Crabbe?”
“Call me Paulo.”
He levered himself off the couch.
“You got to stay for a drink now. I was outta town when he died. Would have been at the service if I’d been around.”
Crabbe weaved out of the room, avoiding cats, cat toys and other things that landed on the floor and stayed there. He returned through the obstacle course with two very full shot glasses. Miraculously, very little of the amber liquid left the glasses. He passed me the fullest one.
“We’ll toast you father.”
I could almost feel my father rolling over in his grave. “Never accept a drink that’s already been poured.” He’d drilled that into me since I was ten. Of course, he meant any drink, not just alcoholic. Even so, I took the proffered glass and raised it for a toast.
“Here’s to Joe Garrett,” said Crabbe. He tossed down his shot. “May he rot in hell for his sins.”
The glass was at my lips, which was as far I intended it to go. With snake-like speed, Crabbe leaned in and tipped the contents into my mouth. I tried to spit, but he covered my mouth and soon I could feel the telltale burn at the back of my throat. Then he pushed me onto the couch, landing on top of me. Air whooshed out of me, spraying the liquor I managed not to swallow in Crabbe’s face.
As soon as I got my breath back, I pushed him off of me, onto the floor.
“Crap! What the fuck was that about?”
He just laughed and pushed himself up to sit on the floor between the couch and the coffee table. A black and white cat came out from under the table to check on him. Laughter morphed to cooing noises as he fussed over the animal.
Whatever he’d spiked my drink with was going to work fast. I could feel the lethargy spreading. Soon I was going to either fall forward on to the floor or back into the deep cushions of the couch. “That’s right. Go to sleep, Garrett Junior. I couldn’t touch Garrett Senior for what he did to Blake, but I sure can touch you.”
“What is your problem? Collins shot my father. My father winged him, but he was well enough to bolt.”
“So his whore partner hunted him down. Garrett either sent her or covered up for her. Then he retired with a full pension and honours heaped on him.”
He put the cat down and started to get up. I smashed the heel of my fist into the top of the coffee table. Both of us were surprised when the glass shattered, but not as much as the cats that went from zero to speed blur before the first shard hit the floor.
Crabbe started to get up. I pointed a bloody finger at him and motioned him to stop.
“Sit! Stay!”
I was always better with dogs than cats.
“Bitch!”
I grabbed my bag and stood, only a little wobbly. He didn’t move until I started backing towards the door. Then he was up—and his boxers were down. He stumbled. I reached into my bag and grabbed what I thought was my Maglite. When he righted himself, I slammed the peach syrup into his face.
That’s when the door burst open.
17
“Kate!”
Through the open door, lights were flashing. They made my head spin. The effects of pain and adrenaline were subsiding and the drug was taking hold of me again.
Carmedy caught me before I fell. My last thought before passing out was if he insisted on calling me Kate, I’d have to start calling him Jake.
I woke up in the ER with Mohr staring down at me.
“About time, Garrett. The shot they gave you was supposed to wake you up five minutes ago.”
“I guess I needed the rest.”
My head was clearer. I hurt all over. I was hooked up for plasma, oxygen and who knows what drugs, and my hand was enveloped in what looked like a Mylar balloon. I’d seen this kind of dressing demonstrated during my last first aid requalification. It combined compression and cushioning when a wound had foreign objects in it. It kept everything clean and secure until the patient could be treated.
I waved my balloon.
“This doesn’t hurt as much as I think it should.”
“Topical analgesic,” said Mohr. “It’ll hurt like a bitch later.”
“How’s Crabbe?”
“Broken nose.”
“No cuts?”
“Nothing serious. But then he didn’t put his fist through glass.”
“Worked though,” said Carmedy—that is Jake—giving my shoulder a pat. I hadn’t seen him there on the other side of the bed.
“Did Joe tell you about using pain to counteract a tranquilizer?”
“Not exactly.” They were going to laugh at me. “I saw it in on the Avengers—the British spy series not the American superhero franchise.”
“Haven’t seen that yet,” said my partner. “I guess Joe hadn’t got around to that show.”
“It’s a good one,” said Mohr. “I think I remember the episode.”
I should have known. Some people bonded over sports. Dad hosted vid-nights of old crime shows served with appropriate food and drinks. Since I was pretty young when we did the Avenger’s marathon, Dad made a champagne glass fountain with sparkling grape juice. We fenced with umbrellas and I learned how to throw a hat like a Frisbee. Good times.
Mohr pinched my arm.
“Don’t fall asleep, Garrett. I need to take your statement.”
I nodded and looked over at my partner. “Can you go check on Crabbe?”
“I was going to stick around so you wouldn’t have to do this twice.”
“I’d really appreciate it, Jake.”
He looked stunned. It was as if I’d never used his first name before. I’m pretty sure I used it once—maybe twice.
He gave my shoulder another squeeze and left the cubicle.
Mohr pulled up a stool and sat down.
“What?”
“I need to ask you something personal before I give my statement.”
Mohr turned his eCom towards me. Then he held it closer when it was obvious I was having trouble focussing.
“Recording is on standby. I guessed there was something when you dismissed the soldier.”
He leaned in to whisper. “Is he getting in your face too much?”
“Huh? No.”
“He’s gotten awfully protective of you.”
“He probably thinks my father expects it of him.”
Mohr shook his head and I was curious about what he thought, but I also knew I might not have much time before we were interrupted.
“You remember when my father was shot in the hip?”
“I won’t ever forget that day. I should have gone in earlier.”
“You didn’t know.” My response was automatic. The fact is, I don’t know if he should have anticipated events or not. I’m not sure I would have in his place. “It doesn’t matter now.”
Mohr nodded.
“Joe always said you can’t change the past. You can only learn from it.”
“The past has just bitten me in the ass. Crabbe thinks Blake Collins is dead, that Dad’s partner Marten killed him and Dad covered it up.”
Mohr gave a snort of disgust. “Crabbe’s an idiot.”
“He was so convinced, he assaulted me for revenge.”
He rolled his eyes.
“It doesn’t make it so. Anyway, Carmedy knows all this. He recorded it.”
“Yes, but…” How could I explain this? “I knew my father back then. Carmedy didn’t. I know what the injury did to him and how angry he was.”
“I knew him too.”
“That’s why I’m asking for your help, Mohr, not Carmedy’s. Two people disappeared after the shooting.”
“Marten resigned. With good reason.”
I gave him the long stare. It was actually kind of fun putting him at the receiving end of it.
“No, I didn’t see her after she handed in her resignation.”
I waited.
“Okay, Garrett, I’ll see what I can find that you can’t on your own.” He switched on his recorder. “Now, in your own words, what happened when you visited Mr. Crabbe?”
Jake returned while I was describing how things went south after I gave Crabbe my card. I did my best to ignore him and how he might feel about the lash out against my father. I had to focus on presenting the facts, clearly and succinctly.
When I was done, Mohr asked, “Where was your service pistol?”
“Locked up at home.” I flushed with embarrassment as Mohr played the staring game with me. “I’m on leave. I’m not required to carry. And I thought it would be better if I didn’t push the fact I’m a cop when I’m working as a PI.”
He frowned.
“Ca-Jake doesn’t carry a gun.” Okay. That sounded a bit whiny.
“Ca-Jake isn’t a cop. He’s a combat veteran who could probably kill that wiry perv with his bare hands.” Mohr took a deep breath. He reached for his eCom, possibly thinking he should record over this altercation, but pulled his hand back. “No offense, Carmedy.”
“None taken. You are correct. I could have killed that parasite with my bare hands and was even tempted to do so.”
He was in “soldier reporting” mode. I’d seen it before. Not only did he stand at attention, he seemed to lose the ability to use contractions.
“Point of information, a gun is an artillery piece. I do carry a sidearm when the situation warrants it. I prefer an assault rifle, however.”
“You see?” said Mohr. “He’s a PI, but he’ll always be a soldier. And you, Garrett, will always be a cop. So act like one.”
“Sorry,” I said. And I was. I could tell that I had worried both of them and really, I should have been able to handle Crabbe better.
Mohr nodded and turned off the recorder. “Joe always said, ‘Don’t be sorry, just don’t do it again.’”
If I had a fiver for every time someone started a sentence with ‘Joe always said,’ I’d be a thousand dollars richer by now.
“Are you really going to include that in your report?” I asked, nodding towards Mohr’s eCom.
“Nah. I just kept it going so I could play it for the Chief. If he knows I chewed you out, he won’t feel the need. I’m going to go print up your statement. Don’t leave the hospital before I get you to sign off on it.”
As soon as he was gone, Jake nabbed the stool and sat.
“Crabbe is okay. They’re keeping him overnight, but he’ll be locked up until his arraignment. The assault has been recorded on two devices…”
“Three. Maybe four.” I counted off on my good hand. “My eCom, your eCom and then, from the moment I said “crap”, Emergency Response Coordination was uploading my recording and linked to my eCom.”
“And four?”
“I have a feeling Mohr has a flag on me. I wouldn’t put it past him to acquire a copy of the ERC recording as they received it.”
“That’s legal?”
I shrugged.
“I’m not a private citizen, so yes. It’s not exactly kosher and both the Chief and Staff Sergeant in charge would raise hell if it went beyond him, but Mohr was my mentor. He’s expected to look out for me.”
“And I thought platoons were close knit.” Jake shook his head like he was trying to knock his thoughts back into place. “Oh, and if he starts calling me Ca-Jake on a regular basis, I will take it out on you.”
I started to protest but caught on he was joking. Maybe I was getting better at reading him. Or maybe it was hard to believe he was angry when he was holding my good hand. I really did worry him. Thank heavens he kept voice business-like.
“So, do you still think Crabbe could be the cat-killer?”
I shook my head.
“Not impossible, but not likely either. I’m not even sure I’d characterize him as a Peeping Tom anymore.”
“You didn’t buy his searching for his pussy cat line did you?”
“No. I just think he’s more of an exhibitionist. He wants to be seen.” I shuddered. “I wish I could take back what I saw of him.”
Jake said nothing but I could hear his teeth grind. I changed the topic.
“It’s hard to pin down who is killing the cats when we don’t know why they’re doing it. Mr. Konstantin might think the cats are out to get him. Crabbe might be punishing the cat owners for letting their cats out.”
“Graydon Parnell might be killing cats because he can’t kill his wife,” said Carmedy.
I grinned and shook my head.
“He really loves his wife. Just don’t tell him I sh
ared that with you.”
“Someone might just be doing it because they can.”
Again, I shook my head, more gently this time because it was starting to hurt.
“There has to be a reason. We just have to find it.”
“Crazy doesn’t need a reason,” said Jake, poking my balloon hand.
“Crazy always has a reason. It just doesn’t have to make sense.”
18
December 21
I woke up when the painkillers wore off. I was in my father’s bed. My pills and a bottle of water were on the bedside table. I still had my underpants on and Jake’s shirt. He gave me the shirt off his back because they had to cut mine off. Everything else I had been wearing, including my bra, was in the laundry hamper.
Interesting, since I didn’t remember getting out of the car.
I was dead tired when they released me. Even with the whole blood they gave me after removing the glass and sticking me back together, I felt like I was down a litre. As soon they finished pumping blood and antibiotics into me, Jake was allowed to take me home. Once we decided he should take me to Dad’s apartment, I must have dozed off. That’s the last thing I remember from that very long night.
When I got around to going downstairs, it was mid-afternoon. I found Jake on the office couch reading. I poured some juice and opened up my mail.
“Check it later,” he said, coming up behind me. “Tell me about the Collins case—while you make coffee, of course.”
This was easier said than done with one good hand. I directed Jake to rinse and fill the reservoir and to warm the carafe. I muddled through the bean related tasks on my own.
“Irene Collins is the peach jam lady,” I said, once I’d counted the scoops for the grinder.
“No way.”
“Way.”
I picked up a half-empty jar and showed him Irene Cole’s name in the fine print.
“Irene Cole, nee Irene Koehne, was married to Blake Collins. She changed her name to Cole, probably to distance herself from what happened.”
“Does that mean you’ve dismissed her as a suspect? After all, we don’t want to stop our supply of preserves.”
He was joking, but I was serious when I shook my head.
