by Linda Moore
“Feeling a little cynical these days Eloise?” I said.
“Goes with the territory, I guess,” she replied. “I got depressed when Peter King died. I hadn’t realized how much I was leaning on him to help me through some of the issues we deal with. He was an optimist in many ways.”
“So you knew him quite well?”
“Uh, yeah. Quite well.” Her tone made me curious about their relationship, but I was reluctant to pry.
“I understand you commissioned him to write an analysis of the sewage treatment development plans, ” I said.
“We did. And he did a fantastic job investigating the Europa proposal that was before Council—looking at it for overall viability and for its ramifications in terms of international trade. He was dead set against it for many reasons. His report was excellent, very thoughtful and articulate, and even though City Staff tried to repress it—water it down, so to speak—it did ultimately have an impact. The councillors voted against the Europa contract on the final draft, even though they ran the risk of having to pay a penalty. I believe it’s a valuable legacy from Peter—one of many.”
“Why on earth would City Staff try to repress it?” I said. “How did they become so gung-ho about this notorious conglomerate that was already being taken to court in other countries for not fulfilling their obligations?”
“It’s a mystery,” she said. “We and other organizations presented them with so many reasons not to go forward, and yet it seemed as though they were intractable. Maybe they were all exhausted and just wanted to take the option that was right in front of them because it seemed easy. As I say, it really was a last-minute turnaround and I think that was through Peter personally meeting with each and every councillor. He was tireless.”
“Did he ever say anything about anyone in particular at the City who was deliberately throwing up roadblocks?” I asked.
“He tended to be very circumspect about individuals,” she replied, “although we used to share a bad laugh about how the Mayor and the Big Cheese from Planning must be sitting on Europa stock.”
“The Big Cheese from Planning—who’s that?”
“His name always escapes me…it’s odd sounding. Um, Spiegle?…Carl, I think.”
“I’ve heard the name before,” I said. “How long has he been in the job?”
“He was hired four or five years ago. I don’t recall him being on the scene before that. But you know who would know plenty about him is my good friend Harvie Greenblatt. He’s a lawyer—used to be on Council. Very smart lawyer. Lefty. Good friend of Peter King’s and very knowledgeable about the ins and outs at the City. He’d probably be happy to talk to you. I think I even have his card.” She looked through her desktop cardholder. “Here we go.”
“That’s fantastic, Eloise, thanks,” I said taking the card. “And could I also get a copy of the report that Peter King prepared for you?”
“Oh, for sure. We actually had them printed up for distribution.” She walked over to a bookstand that held various flyers and publications and took a copy of the report from one of the shelves. “What are you researching exactly?” she asked handing it to me.
“I’ve gotten interested in all this water and sewage stuff and someone mentioned that Peter King had done a comprehensive study. I’m just educating myself about my own city, and about the work that Peter was doing. It sounds like you worked with him on all kinds of things.”
“He was generous, gave us a lot of free legal advice. He ended up being a very good friend to me and just was—I don’t know—the best. We should have lunch sometime.”
“I’d love that—here’s my card. Call me.”
“Criminologist!” she said looking at it. “That’s funny—I thought you worked in theatre.”
“Theatre’s a passion of mine,” I replied, “but not really a job, though I am actually working on a production of Hamlet at the moment. Yeah, I guess I should change my business cards to read ‘Criminologist and Dramaturge.’”
“Multi-tasking—it’s all the rage,” she said laughing.
“Keep up the good work Eloise…and your spirits,” I said. “Oh, can I use a telephone for a moment?”
“Sure, on the desk at the front. Just pick any line that’s free.”
I called the lab to confirm that the toxicology report was ready. Picking it up was next on my list.
It was a beautiful day for the end of November. The snow from the recent storm was almost melted away and it was warm enough that the brine was in the air. I opened the car window on the way to the Burnside Industrial Park and took a deep breath. If only this was spring instead of the dark time of year, I thought, turning towards the Angus L. Macdonald Bridge.
The morning light was clear. From the bridge, I could see George’s Island and out to the mouth of the harbour. Off to my left, I could see the new bridge and beyond into the Narrows. Approaching the Dartmouth side I moved into the left turning lane and it was as I was switching lanes that I first noticed the vehicle behind me as it switched lanes as well. It was an older-model, dark blue sedan. A Dodge? Something about the look of the driver rang a bell, and all at once I remembered seeing him sitting in his car when I left the Ecology Counts office. I’d been having a pretty good day, but now I was shaking. Was I being followed?
I tossed the bridge token into the toll machine and advanced, signalling to turn left. The Dodge was right behind me. I thought about the location of the lab—off the back end of a warehouse building in the more isolated part of the industrial park. Feeling vulnerable, I needed to think about this carefully before I got there. There was a Tim Horton’s drive-through on my right. Without signalling, I impulsively turned in. He didn’t follow me in. As I stopped to place my coffee order, he turned right at the intersection just past the doughnut shop. I breathed a sigh of relief.
When I pull out, I thought, I won’t turn but will go through the intersection and take an alternate route to the park. I set my coffee into the holder and pulled out into the traffic. As I approached the intersection the light turned red. I was second in line. That’s when I saw the Dodge in the parking lot of the Shell station across the road. So, he either turned around or he got into the lot from farther up the road. The driver was now out of the car, leaning on the trunk, smoking a cigarette. He was wearing a leather jacket and Matrix-style sunglasses—and he appeared to be looking my way.
Run or make a bold move?
I pulled into the Shell and drove up to the pumps. “Washroom?” I asked.
“Just around the side there. Key’s inside,” said the attendant. The side he indicated was exactly where my friend was waiting. After I paid for the gas, I pulled off on the other side of the lot, parked and walked into the station. I could see him through the narrow side window. The washroom key was on a peg behind the counter. There was a long-haired kid of about sixteen working the cash. “Can I get the key?” He handed it to me.
“Listen,” I said. “Do you happen to recognize that man leaning on that blue car out there? Is he a regular?” He leaned forward and looked. He shrugged. “I don’t remember seeing him before,” he said.
“What kind of car is that, do you know?” I asked him.
“It’s a Shadow,” he said, knowledgeably, “a Dodge Shadow. They stopped making them in ’93 or ’94. My brother used to have one.”
“A Shadow. Thanks.” This karma of names thing was a bit uncanny. “Do you have a telephone I could use?”
“Payphone,” he said, indicating a payphone on the wall just outside the door.
“Look,” I said, “I need your help. I don’t want that guy to see me making this call. I think he’s following me. ”
His blue eyes widened. “Come down to this end,” he said, suddenly engaging and pulling a telephone out from under the counter. The counter formed an L-shape going towards the back. “Thanks,” I said and dialed McBride.
Miraculously, he answered.
“It’s me. Do you remember what kind of car your thug
s were driving that night?”
“It was too stormy to see details,” he said, “but I’d say it was an older Dodge or Chrysler—nothing fancy. It was a dark colour.”
“Well, I think he’s on my tail. I’m at a Shell just across the bridge,” I said. “Can you get out to the lab quickly, just in case? That’s where I’m heading. I’ll stall here for awhile.”
“Where is he?” he asked.
“He’s sitting out in the parking lot, bold as brass, just waiting.”
“I’m out the door,” he said and hung up.
“He still there?” I said to the kid, pushing the telephone back across the counter.
“Yeah.” The kid leaned over the front side of the counter and peered out the side window.
“I’m going to the washroom. Just keep your eye on him for me, if you can. But don’t do anything.”
“Okay,” the kid said, now completely intrigued by the idea of someone being followed.
Here it goes, I thought. I went out the front door and turned right, walking along the front of the garage. At the corner of the building I turned right again. He was dropping his cigarette to the ground and stepping on it as I turned. I didn’t look at him directly, but glanced at the plate, which he concealed partially. I made out the letters “CSV.” I walked straight to the washroom and went in.
Four or five minutes later, I opened the washroom door and retraced my steps. A quick glance told me he was now sitting in his car with the engine running.
I would take a longer route to the lab. If he didn’t get behind me I would’ve brought McBride out for no reason—but it wouldn’t be our first wild goose chase.
As I returned the key, the kid said, “I saw him get in his car.”
“Thanks for watching.” I decided it was almost time to leave the station.
To give McBride a few extra minutes, I sauntered over to Old Solid. I opened the trunk and took out the windshield wiper fluid. Then, I opened the hood and took my time emptying the fluid into the receptacle. After strolling over to the pumps to discard the bottle, I went back to the car, got in, and pulled round so I could drive past the Dodge and back out onto the main road. I had certainly delayed long enough for McBride to get across the bridge. I would drive the lower route slowly. I turned right out of the lot and proceeded, keeping my eye on the rear view mirror. There he was. He’d pulled out and was a couple of cars behind me.
A large district of warehouses and retail and wholesale businesses, the industrial park could be a mind-boggling maze if you weren’t certain where you were going. Once you turned up one of the major arteries into the park, many of the side roads wound around in circles or became cul-de-sacs. My experience was that it was best to go directly to your location or risk getting hopelessly lost. Though the Shadow was quite far back, I could see he had made the turn and was still tailing me. Now there was a large transport truck separating us.
I turned onto a side road, went along towards the warehouse, drove past the courier depot through a narrow laneway and around to the back of the next building where the lab was located. I pulled in and parked the car near the lab office door.
I was hoping to see Ruby Sube waiting there, but there was no sign of McBride. And oddly, no sign of Matrix-man coming along behind me. I jumped out of the car and sprinted into the office.
“Hi Miriam,” I said to the receptionist, who was standing at the water cooler swallowing some pills. “How are things?”
“Roz, I haven’t seen you for awhile.” Her voice was hoarse.
“No,” I said, “I guess you were at lunch when I dropped the samples off yesterday.”
“No, I just came back to work today—I was out sick for a week. Even though I got my flu-shot and everything.”
“Don’t believe in them myself, but lots of people swear by them. How are you now?” I turned to look outside through the glass door.
“I guess I’m a little better but it’s still hanging on—you know, coughing at night and that—I’m taking these decongestants…Hey are you okay? You seem kind of jumpy.”
“Right, I guess I am. I was expecting McBride. Can I use your phone?”
“Go ahead.” She walked to her desk and pushed the phone towards me.
I dialed his number. No answer. So he was gone. But why was he taking so long to get here, and where was my pursuer? It was at times like this that McBride’s cellphone would be just the thing. I made a mental note to push him to replace it.
“Thanks,” I said to Miriam, hanging up. “So I’d better get those lab results.”
“Right here,” she said, taking a brown envelope from a box on her desk. She sneezed loudly as she handed it to me. “Oh god, sorry.” She wiped the envelope with her sleeve.
“Bless you,” I said, watching her blow her reddened nose.
“See what I mean? It’s still hanging on. I don’t know—maybe I should go home…”
She was still talking as I tore open the envelope and took out the contents. The report indicated that both the seeds and the foliage were highly poisonous. The analysis of the sample I submitted indicated that “the decoction from just 50–100 grams of needles or a mere 50 seeds could be fatal for an adult, depending on weight. The action of the poison is extremely rapid because taxine is quickly absorbed in the digestive system.”
“Oh—here’s your partner!” I looked up to see McBride exploding into the office.
“Dammit! There was a stalled bus clogging traffic on the Macdonald,” he said. “I had to go around and take the MacKay. But you were right, Roz,” he said. “I’d say same car, same guy. Oh, hi Miriam.”
“You saw him?” I asked, before Miriam could respond to his greeting.
“I practically crashed into him two minutes ago. I was driving pretty fast to get here—and there he was at a standstill just around the side of this building. I almost rear-ended him. I managed to stop about two inches from his back bumper. He got a look at me as I was getting out of my car, put the thing in gear and peeled off in quite a hurry. You should have been able to hear the tires squealing from here.”
“I didn’t, but I’m all blocked up from this cold and I can’t hear anything. I was just telling Roz—” Miriam started in on her saga, hoping for some sympathy from McBride.
“Did you get the plate?” I asked, interrupting her.
“Only part of it,” he replied.
“Let me guess,” I said. “CSV.”
“CSV,” he said. “Well, even with that, we should be able to get a lead through the Registry of Motor Vehicles. They should be able to narrow it down for us since we know the make. I’ll give them a call first thing in the morning.”
“Great. The sooner the better,” I said. “That creeped me right out, being followed.”
“Oh yeah, that would creep me out, too,” Miriam added, and broke into a hacking cough.
“Now what do those test results say about the yews on the property?” McBride asked, indicating the report.
“The stuff’s deadly,” I replied, trying to keep my I-told-you-so vibes down to a dull roar. “So what’s the next step, McBride?” I asked as we were leaving the lab. I turned back and said, “Thanks, Miriam—hope you’re feeling better soon.”
“Thanks, Roz. Bye.” She waved a tissue at me.
“I guess we better approach the Chief Medical Examiner for a permit to exhume our victim.”
“Hey! Great idea, boss,” I said. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
Chapter Ten
McBride had arranged to meet Sophie in the afternoon and he suggested I follow him to her place, where we could work out the details regarding Aziz. I was still edgy, but saw no further sign of the blue Shadow.
Sophie invited us in to have tea. She had just received a gift from a friend whose horoscope she had done, a personal blend of Indian and Chinese black tea; we all sat down at her kitchen table as the pungent brew was steeping.
“So what’s the goal?” she asked, true to actor form, I though
t.
“The main goal is simply to get Aziz on the phone and make a safe arrangement to meet him so he can drop the information to us.”
“Okay. Do we know his last name?”
“I don’t know it. I heard someone address him as Aziz—that’s all I’ve got.”
“Wait a minute—wouldn’t I know his last name if I was his cousin?” Sophie said, cracking herself up. Her laugh was infectious. It felt good to laugh and relieve the tension of the day. Still giggling, she poured the tea for us and passed the honey in my direction.
“Okay, so I guess that makes me a friend or just some kind of acquaintance. What else don’t we know, detective,” she teased. “What’s his position there?”
“Most likely some kind of file clerk,” McBride said. “It’s possible he floats between different departments. But when I saw him, he was in Planning, and if I remember correctly that’s how he originally described himself.”
“Okay, so I manage to get him on the phone. Then what?”
“You need to convey to him that you know me and that you’d like to set up a meeting. You don’t have to say anything about delivering information. As soon as he hears my name he’ll know that’s what it’s about, if he is indeed the contact.”
“So what is it that you’re after?” Sophie asked.
“He indicated that he may have information about what happened to Peter King,” McBride offered. “He wanted me to get it that night in the parking lot, but then he got frightened off and seemingly for good reason—someone was keeping an eye on him. I might have been able to get it yesterday if I had followed him down to the archives, but three men he knew got on the elevator and I didn’t want to put any focus on a connection to me.”
