by Alison Bruce
I swallowed convulsively, wishing I’d stuck to black coffee.
“I saw him at the Starbucks in the mall, Friday morning. I met a friend for coffee, stayed to write. He,” I pointed at the dead man, “came in at about ten-thirty— according to my laptop—just before I went to get a refill.”
I took a deep breath and another few swallows. Hope was going to ask me about everything I saw and did. I didn’t want to have to tell her I threw up.
“He asked me if there was WiFi. I pointed out the Hot Spot sign and explained how it worked. After that, I ordered my coffee, went to the washroom, and took a short walk to stretch my legs. When I got back to my table, he was gone.”
“But you’re sure this is the man you saw Friday morning?” Parrino asked.
“Pretty sure. I noticed him because he had an interesting accent—one I couldn’t quite place—and because of the dyed blond tips.” I pointed. “It’s the kind of fashion choice you expect in a younger man. I won’t say I’m a hundred percent sure because this guy isn’t quite himself right now.”
“Did you give him your name or address?”
Give my address to a stranger? I don’t think so. Then another wave of nausea threatened to overcome me. All the warmth in my body seemed to drain away, leaving me feeling shivery.
“No, but . . .” I hesitated, it was a longshot. “There’s a small address label on my laptop. I don’t know why he would look at it, but he might have.”
Parrino gave me an odd look.
“An address label on your laptop?”
I gave a shaky laugh.
“A World Wildlife address label and several matching envelope stickers, six Spiderman decals and a Fantastic Four logo. Leftovers from my kids’ sticker phase.”
“Ah.”
The ME cleared his throat. Parrino nodded and the body bag was zipped up. I let out a sigh of relief. The ME gave me a sympathetic smile and then loaded the body into his wagon.
Parrino looked up from his clipboard. “You state that you’ve been out of town all afternoon.”
My head nodded like one of those bobble-head dogs people used to keep in the back window of their cars.
“You don’t seem to have an alarm system, is that correct Mrs. Hartley?”
“That’s correct. And it’s not missus.”
“Did you lock up when you left?”
“The front door is always locked with a deadbolt, but the back door lock doesn’t work.” Not since I broke it five years ago when my darling son locked himself in the house so he wouldn’t have to go to the dentist.
“You should get that repaired, Mrs. Hartley,” he said without looking up from his notes.
I was starting to get irritated. “It’s Miss or Ms., Detective. I’ve never been married.”
Parrino kept writing. “Go on, Ms. Hartley.”
“I took my mother out for lunch and a drive in the country. After I dropped her off, I came back to town and picked my kids up before coming home. That’s when I found the body and called 9-1-1.”
“According to the ME, time of death was between two and four o’clock this afternoon.”
I let out a shuddering sigh of relief. “When the kids are at their father’s for the weekend, I sleep in Sundays then visit my mother. I picked her up at eleven and took her for a drive. We stopped on the road for lunch. Mom paid cash, but I’ll bet they’d remember us. My mother is rather memorable.”
This was an understatement. Mom had a long list of food rules ranging from only being able to eat cooked cabbage and raw onions—cooked onions and raw cabbage made her ill—to refusing to eat meat unless it was produced locally, and sharing her etho-political reasons for this stance.
“At about three,” I continued, “we picked up a coffee in Kincardine. I don’t know if anyone will remember us there, but I filled up with gas before leaving town and I have the receipt in the car. At four forty, I dropped Mom off at her complex—she’s in an assisted living apartment. The concierge should remember me. I know it was four forty because I had to sign her in. I took her to her door but couldn’t stay because I had to get across town to pick up the kids by five.”
“Let’s take a look at your car.”
Parrino checked the exterior of the car with a flashlight before looking inside. He marked down the mileage and started the engine so he could get the gas tank level, then he asked me to produce the gas receipt. Next, he went over my statement line by line. By the end, I was getting a little incoherent.
“You understand,” he said, sounding like the sympathetic undertaker again, “I have to ask these questions.”
I gave him a tired smile. “‘S’okay. I figure after tonight I’ll be ready to turn my hand to mystery stories. You’re helping me branch out into a new market.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
“It’s the only way of looking at it that will keep me from screaming.”
Under police escort, I was allowed to pack a bag and go. Constable Kallas followed me right to the scarlet door of the Neo-Victorian house that Seth and his wife had traded up to. She asked Seth for confirmation on when I picked up the kids, then wished me a safe and peaceful night. The moment she left, Seth dropped his cool, collected veneer.
“What the hell happened?”
I held up a hand. Hope and Boone were out of bed and halfway down the stairs. I beckoned them to me, enveloping them in a tight embrace. Hope broke free first, asking what they missed.
“Tomorrow, honey. Right now, you need to sleep. You’ve got school in the morning.”
Reluctantly, after assuring me they weren’t tired, then realizing that I was, they gave me more hugs and went back to bed. I wanted to follow them.
Seth’s wife Sarah made tea, and I gave them the short version of the situation.
“You look beat,” Seth remarked when I was done. “I’ll make up the couch for you.”
I shook my head.
“Just let me use the shower, if that’s okay. I can bunk in with Hope. She still sleeps on the upper bed, doesn’t she?”
“You don’t mind?”
I shook my head. My children grounded me. They were my reason for being. “I’d prefer it.”
* * *
In the light of day, the events of the night before seemed rather like they happened to someone else. I took Hope and Boone for breakfast at Tim’s and I gave them the expurgated version of events. We speculated about what would happen next and the possible—and impossible— reasons the dead man ended up in our living room. The kids went to school with Tim’s sandwiches packed for lunch, anxious to tell their friends everything. I returned to the house with a large ET Capp to find the door sealed.
“Now what?” I asked aloud.
In TV shows, they don’t give any indication of how long a crime scene investigation takes. I realized that I should have called Detective Parrino first and saved myself some time. Of course, if I was here anyway, I could take some photos of the crime scene tape and the other evidence of last night’s activities for Hope. The detritus of a dozen cops and who knows how many sightseers littered the area. Most of the litter washed up on my front lawn, despite last night’s efforts to keep it clear. Prevailing winds didn’t respect police cordons.
“You think this is bad, you should see what they did out back.”
I turned to the source of the comment. My neighbour Walter was looking out from behind his screen door. A retired contractor, Walter was the best neighbour a single mom could have.
“Your backyard too?” I asked.
“They didn’t spend much time in my yard. Yours, on the other hand . . .” He gave an exaggerated shrug.
I took photos, pretending this was my scene to investigate.
Coffee cups, candy wrappers, a stray latex glove, scraps of the tape that defined the outer perimeter of the scene were all systematically photographed while my imagination turned my digital camera into a scanner and I thought about how a tricorder would be able to identify who
dropped what cup.
“You gonna sue the city for clean up?” Walter asked, curiosity drawing him out onto his porch.
“Think it would work?”
He shook his head.
“This is just grist for Hope’s mill,” I explained. “Can I check out your yard when I look at mine?”
“Sure, Prudence. Knock yourself out.”
Seth called while I was examining the damage in the back.
“Where are you? Sarah said you left with the kids and didn’t come back. She was waiting around in case you wanted to stay at the house. She said to drop by her office if you wanted to go back.”
Sarah was a real-estate agent. She wouldn’t have dreamed of leaving a backdoor open . . . unlike me.
“Don’t tell me you’ve gone back to your house.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Prudence?”
“You told me not to tell you.”
“Prudence!”
I was saved a lecture from the professor. My low battery indicator pinged and I used that as an excuse to disconnect. I knew what Seth was going to say and he had a point. It might not be safe to poke around a crime scene. This was borne out when I returned to my car. A tall, solid man in a dark suit and darker overcoat was waiting for me. He flashed a badge.
“Ms. Hartley?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Detective Sergeant Merrick. Would you come with me?”
Would I? The man looked more like a mob enforcer than a cop. He was beefy enough, that if you put him in the right uniform, he could be a Starfleet marine. Or, he could have been the killer.
“Would you show me your badge again?” I asked, sudden fear gnawing at me. My flight response was ready to kick in.
He pulled out his badge again, this time holding it steady while I examined it. Not City Police Services or OPP, it was an RCMP badge.
“What’s up?”
“It’s a matter of national security, Ms. Hartley, not a matter I wish to discuss on the street.”
I stared, slack-jawed. He had the build of a marine, the voice of Mr. Spock, and the dialogue of a ‘Man in Black’.
He gave me a slight smile, a lift to one side of his mouth that indicated understanding rather than humour. For a moment I was afraid he could read my mind.
“This is getting surreal,” I muttered.
“It’s all too real, Ms. Hartley.”
Two black-and-whites pulled up; my eyes went to them like ball bearings to a magnet. These guys were here for the long haul, armed with coffees and boxes of donuts.
“Don’t worry about them, Ms. Hartley, they’re just here to watch your house until we get our team here.” He put a hand to my back, gently guiding me toward his dark sedan. “In your statement to the police, you said you had a laptop with you when you first met the deceased.”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s in my car.”
He stopped abruptly. His hand dropped from my back.
“Was it in your car last night?”
“Yes,” I said, nodding vigorously as I turned back to face him. “I always keep it with me just in case.”
His nod was slow, thoughtful.
“Can you get it, please? I think it may answer a lot of questions.”
CHAPTER 2
The good news was, he didn’t think I was a spy. The bad news was, the dead guy was a spy, and they suspected he slipped me something at the coffee shop. He was probably trying to retrieve it when he was killed.
I was sitting in a briefing room in one of the Federal Offices downtown. Someone had brought me a cup of bad coffee. It wasn’t drinkable, but I held it because it was warm and the room was cold. I had to hold it anyway because the table was covered with the contents of my pack, purse, and pockets.
The pack was my portable office. Everything from laptop to paperclips was identified while I confirmed that there was nothing present that I hadn’t put there. Then it was all taken away for further examination by a geeky-looking guy with horned-rimmed glasses and a worried smile.
Merrick stripped off his gloves and exchanged a few words with the geeky guy just outside the door—just beyond my hearing. Then Merrick returned to sit across from me.
“Let’s go over your statement, Ms. Hartley.”
We went over my statement, line by tedious line. It was already twice as long as the one I gave Parrino the night before. I had pulled out the notes I took for Hope. With my permission, Merrick had someone photocopy my scrawl. Not that I wanted to give it. Besides my recollections of the day, my notes included observations and running commentary about the investigation last night. He would know that Parrino reminded me of the undertaker that helped us with my aunt’s funeral and that I remembered that I had prepared a resume for Kallas once and, if I recalled correctly, she was better educated than most of the people on the scene with the exception of my ex, the professor. If any of that got back to Detective Parrino . . . embarrassing.
On the whole, I figured Merrick owed me something. I asked about the deceased.
“His name is Whelan Nadar. He’s a known contract employee of an unknown intelligence broker. He acts as a go-between for the broker and his, or her, suppliers.”
“You have no idea who he’s working for?” I asked.
“None.”
“What could he have given me?”
He hesitated. “We don’t know.”
I gave him the same look I give my kids when they’re holding out on me. I didn’t expect results, but he gave up a bit more.
“We don’t know what format the information will be in, but he acquired payroll information.”
“Payroll?” Pay grades were top secret? Then it occurred to me that it was who was being paid that was important. “Oh.”
He nodded.
“Why me?” This was a whine on my part, not really a question.
Merrick answered anyway. “Probably because you were handy. We were following Nadar. We think he was at the coffee shop to meet someone and we hoped to catch whoever it was.”
“So I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
He nodded like he smiled—just barely.
“Essentially. Nadar was searching your house when he was found and shot. Understandably, your attention was focussed on the dead body in your living room. There’s evidence that he was going through your closets, drawers, and cupboards, at least on the first floor.”
Merrick removed his reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Though I had been sitting across the table from him for most of the morning, I couldn’t have told you his eye colour, but now I noted they were dark and shadowed with fatigue. His thick, wavy, salt and pepper hair was cut short enough to resist getting mussed in anything short of hurricane winds. His suit was wrinkle-proof. His face wasn’t so lucky, but the lines around his eyes and mouth were the result of weather and stress, not age.
I sympathised.
“I expect,” he continued, “he was waiting for you to return with your laptop.”
I gave an involuntary shiver. If he hadn’t waited two days, he might have caught me home alone, or worse, home with my kids.
“Why did he wait so long?” I asked.
“If he left something with you because he knew he was being followed, he would have wanted to shake his tail before he retrieved it. He succeeded. We didn’t catch up with him again until after he died. We’re assuming he staked out your home and waited until you were gone—not expecting you to take your computer.”
He couldn’t have been watching me too long or he’d know I always took my laptop with me. Experience had taught me to always be prepared. I might meet a client or need to spend time waiting with my mother in an emergency room. I had extra-long lasting batteries for hospital waits.
“In a way, you’re lucky someone else got to him first. Unfortunately, you may still be in danger from whoever killed Nadar. We don’t know if the killer was after Nadar or the information he was carrying.”
“How do you
know the killer didn’t get the information? Nadar could have found it and been killed for it.”
“We don’t know for certain. We can’t assume anything, Ms. Hartley. This is why we will need to hold on to your laptop and the contents of your pack.”
“For how long?”
He shrugged. I had a bad feeling I might never see my laptop again. At least I also had a desktop computer.
“When will I be able to go home?” I asked.
“I’m going to take you there soon. I want you to take a better look around and see what is out of place. As for moving back into your home, I don’t know. We have to process the house for evidence. If it’s not on your computer, we have to look for whatever Nadar gave you.”
I tried for a matter of fact nod, but I don’t think I pulled it off because he added, “I’ll make sure the mess is cleaned up before you return. Your life will be back to normal in no time.”
Liar.
You’ve been through worse, I told myself. You’re tough. You can do this.
“Good thing I got around to replacing the old carpet,” I said aloud. “Laminate will make clean up easier, won’t it? Of course, if it gets in the grooves, we’ll never get it completely clean. Do you think I could see what it looks like with Luminol? That’s the stuff you use, isn’t it? Was there blood spatter on the wall? We just painted . . .”
I was babbling. Merrick stopped me with a raised hand, palm forward. “You won’t have to go home to bloodstains, Ms. Hartley.”
I waved his hand off with exasperation.
“I won’t be going home at all for who knows how long. Where are we going to stay? My mother is in assisted living and I am not going to stay with my ex and his wife. The rest of my relatives live too far away to help. Of course, I’m not sure I want to go home. Someone broke into my house and murdered someone there. Even if they don’t come after me—”
This time a knock on the door interrupted my babbling. Merrick left and returned with two extra-large cups. He took away the untouched office coffee and put one of the cups down in front of me. According to the white crayon on the lid, it was an ET Capp. I was impressed.
