When the Killing Starts

by Ted Wood

  "Loud and clear." I laughed to show I knew she was kidding but made my decision right then. "In fact, tell you what. I'm going to sort out my payment tomorrow. Then I'll put in a day with Louise and her kids, playing big brother. After that I'll come out for the weekend with you. Will that be okay?"

  "Would you?" I've heard her do a thousand different voices as we kidded around or as she read parts for rehearsals, but this one was the real essential Freda, warm and womanly. I gripped the phone tighter.

  "Count on having me there on Saturday. I'll stick around until you get back into the thick of things, than vanish. I don't want to clutter you up. You're working."

  "Worrying about my beauty sleep?" She laughed again. "Forget it. A good infusion of hormones does more for a girl's skin than any amount of sleep and cold cream. I'll be counting the hours."

  "I'll call tomorrow night, around this time."

  "I'll call you if you're a minute late," she said, then added, "This is for real, Reid. Don't let me down."

  "You're stuck with me."

  "Stuck on you, too," she said. "Good night, lover."

  "Good night, lover. Until tomorrow," I said, and hung up the phone.

  Sam was sitting beside the couch looking at me, and I reached out and patted his head. "How are you at second fiddle, Sam?" I asked, and he blinked at me.

  Talking to Fred had made me restless, so I poured myself a solid Black Velvet and sat with it, watching the late news. My adventures were covered in a lot of detail. My name was mentioned as the guy who recently sorted out a gang of bikers in Murphy's Harbour, and the news people had done their homework and found out a lot of my history, starting with the fact that I'd been in the U.S. Marines in 'Nam and going on with the story of the bikers I tangled with in Toronto before I quit here. They'd even dug out a photo of me from my Metro police days.

  I groaned when I saw it all. The Canadian media is still bleeding over 'Nam. The Americans have made their peace, but our people haven't. Anyone who fought there gets painted with a broad black brush. It had been that piece of news that had made life impossible for me to stay with the Metro police a couple of years earlier. And now it was all coming out again. I'm proud that I'd gone and glad. 'Nam had turned me from being an angry kid into being a much quieter and saner man. But as I watched, I wondered whether Dunphy and Wallace were looking at the same pictures, making their plans to get even with me.

  Probably not, I decided as I switched off the set. Most likely they were sneaking out of the country right now, back into the anonymity of some big American city. Extradition laws are so complex that they would be safe in the States even if the police tracked them down. I hoped that was what was happening but wondered why they had taken a side trip to kill Alison Beatty. What had she done aside from sending me after them? That might have been enough to earn her a beating from them if they'd ever met her again somewhere. But to go out of their way to expose themselves by killing her, that didn't make sense.

  The weather had turned blustery, so I didn't sleep on the balcony. I crashed into Fred's bed and slept solidly. I was up at six-thirty and ran, with Sam alongside me, for a brisk half hour, then fed us both and got ready to tackle Michaels.

  I figured the detectives would have located him no matter where he spent the night. He would know I was in town and would be perhaps a little fragile from all the publicity. There was a good chance that his relationship with Alison Beatty would come out during the investigation. Reporters love that kind of story, lust in the boardroom. He might be a little gun-shy. Well, that made it tougher, but I was prepared to face him down, anyway. I owed George, who wouldn't collect unless I got my pay. A guy from his background needed all the support he could get for law school.

  The early radio news didn't give much detail on the killing. An unnamed woman had been found drowned in an unnamed condominium. Homicide detectives were investigating. The usual minimal stuff. There was more in the Toronto Sun, a breezy tabloid that didn't mince words like the older dailies, but even it didn't add anything to what I knew firsthand.

  The day was cool, one of those late-August mornings when you know the leaves won't be hanging on the trees for a lot longer and you start digging deeper into the closet for something warm to wear. I had dragged out a pair of cord pants and a good tweed jacket, but I was still out of place among the suits on Bay Street, the financial center where Michaels Senior did business. I left Sam in the car and went up to the forty-second floor.

  As soon as I walked in, I realized that the news of Alison Beatty's death had just broken. Two women were leaning over the receptionist's desk making "Isn't it terrible?" faces. They finally gave up, and the receptionist fitted on a brave smile and asked if she could help.

  "I have an appointment with Mr. Michaels," I lied cheerfully.

  "Yes, sir, who may I say is here?"

  "Reid Bennett. And please tell his secretary I have some important news for him." I smiled back at her and waited while she called and was told that Michaels had never heard of me.

  She lowered the phone and said, "Mr. Michaels's secretary says you're not on his appointment list for this morning, Mr. Bennett."

  "This is impromptu. He contacted me last night after the news you were discussing earlier. I said I would report to him at nine."

  She mouthed a perfect O and raised the phone. "This is personal; Mr. Bennett has news for Mr. Michaels."

  That worked. A middle-aged, capable-looking woman came out through the double doors for me and led me to a corner of the floor, the southeast corner. We went in through her office, and when she tapped on the inner sanctum, the curt voice I'd heard on the phone up north said, "Come in."

  The woman opened the door and said, "Mr. Bennett, Mr. Michaels," and went out quickly.

  He was sitting on the window ledge looking out over a view that took in all Toronto's waterfront and a panorama of the islands. He didn't stand up but turned around and looked at me, his eyes angry. "You've got news?"

  "Not about your loss. I'm sorry."

  "You presumptuous bastard," he said, but he still didn't stand up, so I knew he wasn't going to throw me out. Not yet. I studied him and waited. He was wearing a gray three-piece suit. Fifty, I thought, tall but running to fat. He looked as if he might just be giving up tennis for golf. After about thirty seconds he turned back to the window. "So what's the news."

  "Well, it comes in two parts. One part affects me. The other part affects you."

  That got his attention. He turned and stood. He was about six two, an inch more than me, and he used his height to bully. "What could you possibly know that affects me?"

  "We'll get to that. First, let me get my own news into the open." I pulled the stopped check out of my pocket and held it out between both hands. "This was supposed to reimburse me for getting your son out of the hands of the Freedom for Hire organization. When I presented it, I found payment had been stopped. I want my money."

  He didn't like that, and he moved to press a button on his phone, but I caught his hand. "You're stuck with this meeting until I get satisfaction. Why not sit down and think about that?"

  He was stronger than he looked, but I had him. He wasn't going to lose face by tussling, so he sat, and I reached over and pulled the phone out of his reach.

  "You come to me this morning of all days to ask for money?" He hated me with eyes that were almost colorless. He looked like an aging SS man in a late movie.

  "I didn't choose the time. I'm sorry for your loss, but I almost lost my own life yesterday getting your son to safety. I was promised payment, and it was canceled. I came to find out why and, when I have my money, to give you some other information."

  The pressure was good for him. He was becoming an executive again, not a grieving lover. "If you want another check, I'll give you one," he said contemptuously. "Or would you feel safer with cash?"

  "Cash would be ideal," I said easily. "Can you arrange that?"

  "I can arrange just about anything I want," he said
angrily. "If you want cash, that's what you get."

  "Good," I said, and waited.

  He sat for about thirty seconds, staring at me. Then he stood up abruptly and came out from behind his desk and took down a picture from the wall. There was a safe behind it. He fiddled with it and took out a box, which he set on the arm of the couch under the picture and opened. I waited where I was, and he put the box back in the safe and whirled the wheel on the front. Then he turned and shoved a handful of bills at me. They were Canadian thousands and I counted them, twenty-five. Mission accomplished.

  He spoke as I was counting. "I keep cash on hand for emergencies. This suits you, does it?"

  "Fine, thank you." I shoved the bills into my left-hand pants pocket. They made a nice comforting bulge. "Do you want a receipt?"

  He looked contemptuous again. "Of course I do. I have to account for money the same as anybody else." He opened his desk and took out a sheet of paper. It was blank, no letterhead. "Got a pen?"

  I had a ballpoint in my pocket, and he dictated and I wrote. "Received from Alison Beatty, twenty-five thousand dollars for services rendered." Then I signed it.

  "I want her name clear," he said. "So you better put the date of your meeting with her. What was that, Friday last? Forget the stopped check. That was an oversight."

  I shrugged and wrote down the date of our meeting. If he wanted to protect his girlfriend's name, that was up to him. I had my cash.

  "Fine with me. Thank you for being so understanding. Now for the second part of the bargain. I have to tell you that Dunphy and Wallace, the heads of the Freedom for Hire outfit, were seen at Ms. Beatty's apartment yesterday."

  "The police told me that when they gave me the news of her death," he said. He folded the piece of paper neatly in three so it would have fit into an envelope and looked up with a calm expression on his face as if paying the money he owed me had laid to rest the ghost of his dead lover. "Is that your big news for me?"

  "That's half of it. The other half is that they're obviously out for revenge over something. I think you should hire yourself a bodyguard for a while or get police protection. And it would be a good idea for your wife and son as well."

  "I'm not going to cower in a corner because two men are suspected of killing my assistant." He tucked my receipt into his inside jacket pocket and stood up. "I should thank you for your good work in getting my son out unharmed, Mr. Bennett. But quite frankly, if I never see you again, it will make me very happy."

  "I couldn't have put it better myself. Thank you for honoring Ms. Beatty's check. Good day."

  I nodded to him and turned away. He said nothing, and I left the office, nodding politely to the woman outside. She was shuffling through the desk, trying to sort out the mess that Alison Beatty's death had created for her. She nodded back abstractedly, and I left. Somehow I couldn't get rid of my surprise that Michaels had paid up so readily. Was he in shock over his girlfriend's death? I'd expected fireworks, and he'd rolled over.

  I guess I should have opened an account in Toronto and deposited the money, but instead I decided to drive up to my place. It would fill the time until my sister Louise was home from work and I could give George his money in big bills. His half would be more than his family made in an average year, and I guessed he would spread some of it around them, keeping only what he needed for his year at the university. In some ways he was still all Indian. They share everything.

  The highway was almost empty now, in the middle of a week when summer was virtually over, and I didn't have to drive fast to get home in a little over two hours. I stopped at the station and found George inside, studying one of his textbooks. He grinned and snapped it shut. "I was thinking about you as I read up on banking law," he said. "How'd it go down there?"

  "Good, financially. I got paid okay. But bad for the woman who retained me. Dunphy and Wallace came calling yesterday and drowned her in her bathtub. I found the body."

  George whistled and stood up. "Why'd they do that? I would have thought they'd head south and keep on running till they got to Nicaragua or wherever the hell they work."

  "Yeah, me, too. But they were seen at her apartment, calling on her, about a half hour before I got there. They could still be around. They might even come here looking for you."

  He grinned and reached down under his desk, coming up with the station shotgun. "The thought had crossed my mind as well."

  "Good thinking. I don't like the way these guys work. You've seen them."

  "I'd be happier if they were in the pen," he said. That was a big confession from an Indian. He was as close to being afraid as he liked to admit.

  "They will be. Every copper in the province is looking for them now."

  "I'll bear that in mind," he said.

  I winked at him. "So, now for the good news."

  I pulled out the wad of bills, and he laughed. "Well, hot damn. Money. So that's what a thousand-dollar bill looks like."

  "Twenty-five times over. Would you like yours now, or should I put it in the bank for you?"

  He looked me in the eye. "Listen, Reid, this is heavy bread. I can't take half of it off you."

  "If you hadn't come in after me, I'd be dead now and this money would still be in Michaels's safe. No arguments. Right?"

  He shook his head doubtfully. "That's more money than we'd make in two years trapping."

  "If you're going to be a lawyer, you're going to have to get used to earning big bucks. Better start practicing."

  He stuck out his hand, and we shook. "Thanks, Reid. I was glad to help, anyway."

  "For services rendered. Thank you for having the balls to come in after me."

  So that was done. I went across and had Millie credit both our accounts with twelve and a half grand. It was the most money I'd had in the bank since I split the sale price of our house with my ex-wife. Millie chattered, delighted to be playing with big bills, and then I left and drove home. I was on top of the world when I got there, but I let Sam out of the car for a quick check around before I got out. And that brought my mood to earth. He checked around the door closely. Someone had been calling.

  My hair tingled, and I called him back into the car and went down to the station to pick up George and my gun. He brought the shotgun with him, and we went up to the door as if we were on patrol. I unlocked it and shoved Sam inside. He ran through the house, barking everywhere, but I didn't realize why until he came back to me, letting me know the place was empty. Then we went in and checked it ourselves. It was still neat and clean, but the back door had been forced. Somebody had broken in.

  "That was done since this time yesterday," George said. "Dad checked the house on his rounds, checked all the vacant places."

  "The house hasn't been turned over," I said. "Maybe it was kids looking for booze." I opened the door of the fridge, which was largely empty except for half a dozen cans of Labatt's Blue. They were still all there. Next I checked the cupboard over the sink where I keep my liquor, one full, one started bottle of Black Velvet, plus some Montego rum I'd bought for Fred. All of them were there.

  "Doesn't look as if they've taken anything." I checked the door for damage. "Looks amateur. The scar where they jimmied it is rounded, as if they'd used the spiked end of a tire iron."

  "Sounds like kids," George said. "But they'd've ripped off the booze for sure. You don't think it was those bikers, do you?"

  I shook my head. "They'd have trashed the place like they did the Corbett place that time. No, these guys must have been looking for something."

  "Better check and file a report," George said. "Did you have anything valuable?"

  "Naah, I don't have anything worth ripping off. Books, a few clothes, not even a good television set." I thought about it. "Listen, don't bother putting the break-in on the record. It's just going to sit there as an unsolved crime and there doesn't seem to be any harm done."

  "You're the boss." He stooped and patted Sam. "So what's on now? You going fishing?"

  "No, I
just came up to get rid of the cash, kill time until my sister gets off work. I'm staying with her overnight, then heading out to join Fred for the weekend. I can afford it now."

  "Hell, you could afford Hawaii." George laughed. "When you coming back?"

  "Next week, early. I'll pick up Sam from my sister's place and head back out. Think we can go fishing?"

  He grinned. "I'm sure of it."

  He turned down my offer of a beer and left. I opened a Blue and wandered through the house opening drawers and cupboards, checking my belongings. I'd told George the truth; I don't have a lot to attract thieves. An old stereo with a few records, mostly country, one suit, a few pairs of pants and another jacket, my winter gear, a cheap camera, books. I could carry away anything important under one arm.

  One of the last places I looked was the bureau in the bedroom. Fred had left a couple of things on top of it, suntan lotion and a pair of big costume-jewelry earrings, and I grinned when I saw them. Then I opened the top drawer. It holds socks and underwear, and underneath it in a tin box I keep souvenirs, some photographs and a locket of my mother's and my father's and my own medals and discharge papers. I could tell at a glance that the tin had been searched, and I stopped at once and went down to the kitchen for a pair of rubber gloves Fred had bought when she decided to clean my stove. They were stiff from the gunk in the stove, but they would prevent my smudging any new prints on the tin.

  Wearing the gloves, I went through the contents of the tin. The locket was still there. It was gold and the only item a normal thief would have taken. The other items were all intact except for one thing. My marine dog tags.

  I stood and thought about that for a minute, wondering why anybody would bother stealing five cents' worth of metal. Then I set the tin on the bureau and called George.

  He answered at once, on a tinny-sounding phone. I guessed he was out back of the station again, fishing for pike. "Yeah, George, Reid here. Whoever it was has taken my service dog tags."

  I could hear his puzzlement as he said, "Why in hell would they want them?"

  "Beats me. But they didn't touch anything else. I've got the container here, it's metal, should hold prints pretty good. You want to print it for me?"