“In the meantime…?”
“In the meantime, give it a rest. MacFarlane’s not going anywhere.” Ben smiled and patted her hand reassuringly, despite knowing that she would not take his advice.
40.
“He said what?”
Ben’s voice rang sharp and loud. He grew livid. His face glowered.
Fenton Peale wasn’t used to anger, confrontation, or anyone questioning his suggestions, and he felt suddenly trapped and helpless. For a real moment, Ben had frightened him, and he shrank back against his chair as if someone had thrown a punch, but, after realizing that Ben had kept his distance, Peale recovered enough composure to respond.
“Don’t shoot the messenger, Ben. I’m just passing along what Carmody shared with me: he wants you to take a step back from the Billy Darby situation…at least for the short term. Personally, I like the girl. She’s got a lot of spunk. Realistically, though, Carmody’s got a point. He’s received allegations of improper conduct, and the government can’t be seen to take sides or assist her. You’re a part of this government. If she’s tainted in some way, you will be, too and, in the political arena, so will Carmody and Premier Clark and me and Bob MacEwen at Industry. When Carmody speaks, he speaks on behalf of the Premier, and he makes sense. We all have to step back and see what plays out. That’s how things are done around here, Ben. That’s how we survive.”
“Bullshit,” said Ben. He backed out the door of Peale’s office and passed his secretary’s desk. One of her hands gripped the phone. Her other gripped the desk. Her face was pale, her mouth agape, and her mind uncertain whether to phone security or flee.
Carmody’s office was one floor up. Ben took the stairs, rather than the elevator. He wanted to be sure that Peale had time to phone Carmody but, before he hit the stairwell, he was intercepted by his part-time receptionist, Ida Treat. She huffed as she passed him a bundle in an interdepartmental envelope. She disliked her services being shared by several offices, and a sour expression on her face revealed that mindset. Ben took the envelope, noted that it came from Department of Industry, and handed it back to her.
“File this under ‘political interference,’” he told her. She huffed.
“Now,” he said. She huffed again, but headed toward Ben’s office.
Carmody’s door was open wide. The door to the Premier’s office was ajar. The Premier’s personal assistant sat at her workstation next to it like an edgy guard dog. Her eyes flicked quickly up at Ben and down again to her computer screen. Her hands rested on the keyboard, but they scarcely moved.
“Hey, Cathy. Deputy Dog in?” In spite of the rebuffs by Fenton Peale and Ida Treat, Ben’s tone had become warm and cordial.
Cathy Doiron relaxed. She looked up and smiled timidly back.
“If you mean Mr. Carmody, he’s out of the office at the moment.” She cocked her head and threw a glance toward the crack in the Premier’s door.
“Is he expected back anytime soon?”
“Hard to say. Something came up quite suddenly, and he had to step out. Is there something I can do for you?”
“If you had a moment, could you scribble down a note for him?”
“Sure.”
“I want to start it off like this:” Cathy picked up her steno pad. “Dear Mr. Carmody, It’s come to my attention that you are either a sonofabitch or the messenger of a sonofabitch, both of which put me in the undesirable position of having to inform you that it is…inadvisable to tell any peace officer in the execution of his legal duty to ‘take a step back.’ As the chief peace officer in this province, I am obliged to carry out…my obligations and duties under the legislation that empowered me. Remember that I am not an elected official. Remember, too, that I was offered this position by…a higher authority, which shall remain unnamed, and subsequently appointed by the current government. Be advised, therefore, that the only circumstance in which I might find myself ‘taking a step back’ would be…to better position myself to direct a proper kick to the balls of anyone who makes such a suggestion in the future. Thanks for the opportunity to make my views clear, and…by all means feel free to share this point of view with colleagues who might find it useful. Signed, Benjamin Solomon.”
Cathy’s eyes had grown merrier as she continued recording her shorthand. At the end, she stifled a snicker and rolled her eyes again toward the opening in the door. “After I type it, do you want me to send it down for you to sign, Ben?”
“That probably won’t be necessary. My signature won’t make it anymore true or heartfelt than it already is. Just see that he gets the message. Oh…and use your discretion with the wording. I’m told I can be a bit too blunt at times. My wife Sarah probably would say ‘crude.’ It’s a cop thing,” said Ben. He winked and headed out the door. He had a smile on his face. He felt energized. Feigned outrage had always been his favourite investigative tool. No laws governed it, and one was always surprised at the reaction it produced.
Carmody slowly opened the door of the Premier’s empty office. He emerged when he perceived that Ben had gone. He stepped warily past Cathy Doiron’s workstation.
“How many copies of Ben’s letter would you like?” she asked.
Carmody scowled.
“Just asking,” she said and shrugged.
“Not a word about this,” he said savagely. “Not a word.”
“Of course not, Mr. Carmody,” she said and smiled to herself.
41.
Anne was shattered at the suspension of her license. She sat alone in her office and stared blankly at the phone as if anticipation somehow would make it ring and the incoming message would make everything all right again. The power of wishful thinking was fleeting, though, and after the last trace of it vanished, she slumped into a morass of gloominess and self-pity. In a short twenty-four hours she lost her best friend, her private investigator’s license, her client, and the prospect of any income.
She’d hurt Dit terribly. She had read it in his face. He would never forgive her. How could he? She had demeaned the most important segments of his life, and he had lashed back, and rightly so.
Then the investigator from Industry had said that her suspension would likely last for two weeks while their enquiry process took its course, but who knows? It could just as easily drag on for a month…or more. Why would the bureaucrats give a damn? They’re still getting paid.
And Edna, her one big client, had given her two days to clear things up. Edna didn’t have an unlimited bankroll for detective services, and she was counting on tangible results for her investment in Anne. Now, all of that seemed elusive and a colossal waste of time, energy, and money.
And that wasn’t the end to the fallout from this disaster. It would take no time at all for gossip to spread, true or not, that she was employing dodgy tactics. Her enemies, and she had made a few over the past year, would leap at the chance to spread lies about her. Her methods would be under a microscope. New clients would be less likely to call. Reputation was essential in her business, and especially so on a small island like PEI where word of mouth was the measure of a trustworthy enterprise.
The more she contemplated the ill luck that befell her, the more her focus returned to how it all came about, and it was that which confounded her most. The allegations claimed that Anne had passed herself off as a police officer to pry information out of someone, but the name had been kept from her. That was the key to moving ahead—knowing who had been tossing kerosene on the fire. She knew it had to be someone she had spoken to in the last few days. But who?
Anne turned over the names in her head. Edna Hibley. Davidia Christian. Bernadette Villier. None of them seemed likely candidates. Neither would have had a reason. Jacob Dawson? No again. If anything, he would have more cause to support me than deceive me. If I find he was falsely convicted, there may be grounds to have his conviction overturned, and that could open the
door for a lawsuit. Irene MacLeod? Not interviewed, but the gatekeeper to Dawson and others. She was a possibility…more of a wild card. She may have loyalties apart from Dawson. She could have a closet full of secrets, for all I know. Then there were the boys on the porch. Pun’kin, Tipper, and Barry. Each of them a parolee. Each exposed to pressure from up the food chain, legal or otherwise. Four possibilities altogether, thought Anne, but which one?
Then it suddenly dawned on her. It may not matter. The investigation would continue at a snail’s pace until it was resolved regardless. What did matter, though, was that some key player had to know that she had talked to these people. To put pressure on one them, Anne must have been followed and seen talking to them. Anne had been extra careful to avoid surveillance. So following her would have been difficult, but not impossible. On the other hand, no one could have followed her to Lydia Vandermeer’s home in Pownal. It was a two-lane county road with little traffic. She would easily have spotted another car.
No, she thought. I wasn’t being followed. Someone knew where I was going…or where I had been.
Anne had stared at the phone long enough. She picked it up and dialled. The number rang.
“Dit, don’t hang up! Just listen! I behaved like an ass last night. I did. But I was stressed and tired and frightened. You know that. And a lot came out that shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry. Really, really sorry! I didn’t mean any of it! I don’t want to lose you as a friend! I really wish you all the best. Okay? Can we talk about it? My day yesterday was shitty, and today has been worse. My office was searched. I’m facing bogus allegations of posing as a police officer. My license has been suspended, my files have been seized, and I think my car or phone has been bugged, and I need some help. So if you can, that would be great. If not, that’s okay, too.”
“I’ll tell him you called.”
The voice belonged to Gwen Fowler. Her reply was civil, but cool and impersonal. Then she hung up.
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.
The Dead Letter Page 14
