No Pain, No Gaine

by Edwina Franklin

  He smiled to himself. What he was doing right now went so completely against his usual procedure—against all logic, in fact. But he knew it was brilliant, because he had foreseen and planned for this moment ten months ago, when he had chosen another .38 caliber Webley handgun to use on Lou Parmentier, and then had disposed of every part of it except the barrel.

  A single screw, acting as a fulcrum, held the barrel of the Webley in place. With deft movements, he removed the screw and the barrel and set them aside. Then he reached for his camera, popped it open, and took out the small, tissue-wrapped package concealed inside it—the barrel of the Parmentier murder weapon.

  Some day, he thought, he would have to put some film inside that camera.

  Moments later the switch had been made. He was in possession of a traceable and very dirty gun.

  Tonight he would take care of the first part of his contract—the sooner the better, since the prey had evidently sensed the hunter. He hadn’t expected to have quite so many problems to solve all at once; if his client weren’t paying him so well, he might consider letting them go. But he’d taken his fee in advance this time, and earning it was a point of honor with him. He would make both the hits. Then he would turn his attention to solving his own nagging problem, hopefully eliminating it before it got too much closer.

  Mr. Vanish cocked the Webley and sighted down its long, smooth barrel. It was terrible, being torn in two directions like this…

  Chapter Six

  Tuesday, June 12

  The vacuum cleaner was huge and gray and upright and, ironically, dusty. It was the institutional model, weighing a short ton, better than barbells for developing the upper arms. It made a devilish racket when it was turned on and tended to squat sullenly when it was off. Yesterday it had squatted in Andover and Zosky’s working space, the day before that in Coolidge and Singh’s working space, and this morning it was squatting in a corner of Joe and Ted’s working space, reducing it by nearly a quarter.

  Ted paused at the entrance to their office and glared at the monster machine for a moment. Then he turned his attention to the short stack of files he’d brought from home.

  He had been up half the night running a paperwork maze—statements thirty pages long, reports from pathology and ballistics and forensics, sketches and photographs and lists and warrants… And this was just the interim report for the Chief of Police. After the arrest had been made, he and Joe would have to prepare the brief for the prosecutor, a bound document that could run to more than one thousand pages.

  And they would have to do all that for each case in their current load of eight confirmed homicides, not to mention the three suspicious deaths they’d investigated the previous week, two of which were probable homicides.

  It was a wonder his eyes could still focus.

  Joe strode into the office and dropped his own stack of files onto the middle of his desk. “I see Byron was here last night,” he remarked, nodding in the direction of the vacuum cleaner.

  “We’ve got to have a talk with that kid,” growled Ted, but even as he said it, he knew he could never bring himself to do it. None of the detectives could, in spite of their grousing; for they all recognized that Byron was special.

  Byron was the youngest member of the cleaning staff, hired six months earlier as part of an affirmative-action program providing employment opportunities for the disadvantaged. Against all expectations, Byron was working out well, meeting and even surpassing his job objectives. His supervisor’s unstinting praise made him fairly glow with pride when he donned his khaki coveralls. Now, if they could just get him to remember to put away all the cleaning supplies when he was done, particularly that behemoth of a vacuum cleaner.

  Ted’s ruminations were interrupted by the buzzing of the intercom phone.

  Joe picked up the receiver and spoke briefly to the receptionist. A moment later he hung up the phone, a bemused expression on his face.

  “She’s here, partner. Alessandra DiGianni.”

  “Just tell Sergeant Wegner what you told me on the phone Sunday evening.”

  Sitting across the wooden desk from her, Wegner finished writing a few preliminary lines on his legal-size pad of paper and glanced up expectantly.

  Sandy nodded and tightened her fist around a crumpled tissue, reminding herself for the fifth time that she wasn’t a criminal. She hadn’t been apprehended and brought here for questioning. There was no reason to be nervous. None at all.

  This interview room was smaller than the classroom where she had waited for Gaine before, but it was far from cozy. The furnishings consisted only of a desk and two chairs, and the cold fluorescent light overhead. The walls, the floor, even the two detectives preparing to take her statement presented a solid, neutral surface—Wegner seated behind the desk with his pen poised, Gaine standing beside the door, his gray eyes surveying her stonily from the impartial mask of his face. Sandy swallowed hard, feeling the familiar flutter at the back of her throat.

  “I’m ready to take your statement now, Miss,” prompted Sergeant Wegner.

  “Yes, of course. I was at home Sunday night at about eleven o’clock when the phone rang. It was…a person who would prefer to remain anonymous.”

  As she repeated what Dooley had told her about the murder, Sandy glanced back and forth between the two detectives. Ted Gaine was prowling the little room like a stalking jungle cat, occasionally pausing to nod agreement with a remembered detail. Sergeant Wegner had his head down and was grimly capturing on paper every word she uttered, scribbling so furiously his pen seemed to fly across each line.

  The moment she stopped speaking, the jungle cat cast a triumphant glance at his partner. “So the murderer was a Parmentier lookalike?”

  Sandy nodded. “That’s how my caller knew it was Mr. Vanish.”

  “And did your informant say what time he’d seen the murder take place?”

  “He didn’t specify a time, but it was before dark.”

  His brow furrowed with concentration, Ted Gaine turned away from her. “Is this the same informant as before, Alessandra?” he asked, in a much gentler, more persuasive voice.

  A frisson ran down Sandy’s spine. She straightened. This must be the real reason he’d insisted she come in to make a formal statement—he wanted to grill her once more about her confidential source. Obviously, when he’d said they could only be allies during his off-duty hours, he’d meant they would otherwise continue as adversaries.

  Why had she expected anything different from tough, smart Sergeant Gaine? Just because he’d put his arms around her once, at a moment when she desperately needed it? As soon as she’d let on that she was enjoying the embrace, he’d pulled away, shaking his head as though to say, “Nothing personal, ma’am.” Maybe she’d been deluding herself, thinking that he cared about her when reassuring crime victims was just another part of his job.

  “No, Sergeant,” she sighed, “it was a different informant this time.”

  Sergeant Wegner turned another page and continued scribbling furiously. Sandy resisted the urge to lean forward and read what he’d written, upside down.

  “Did he say why he’d chosen to contact you instead of us?” asked Sergeant Gaine.

  Sandy moistened her lips with her tongue. “Yes. He wanted me to be his go-between because he thought you would take me more seriously than you would him.”

  The triumphant glance now passed the other way.

  “And where is he now, Alessandra?”

  She shrugged, feeling the tissue in her hand begin to dissolve. “I don’t know.”

  Sergeant Gaine bent down, placing his face close to hers. “Let’s hope Mr. Vanish doesn’t know, either,” he said quietly. “If your informant is right about being the ‘loose end’, then he’s in grave danger, Alessandra. But we can’t protect him without knowing who he is.”

  Doggedly she shook her he
ad. “I gave him my word, Sergeant.”

  “You’re a target, too, Ms. DiGianni,” said Sergeant Wegner. Sandy turned to him and found him staring at her.

  Then Ted Gaine spoke again, dragging her attention back to his forbidding face. “Both your lives are at stake, Alessandra,” he insisted.

  “Mr. Vanish won’t stop with silencing the witness.”

  “You may be withholding our only chance to nail the killer.”

  “Are you sure you want to obstruct this investigation, Ms. DiGianni?” Wegner concluded in an icy-calm voice.

  Sandy repressed a shiver. They were using fear and guilt to batter at her defenses, not realizing that she’d erected them around her brother. “Like a mama bear with a cub,” Gaine had said. Well, he wasn’t the only one with a duty to protect the innocent.

  Struggling to remain calm, she stared directly into his eyes and said, “I’m well aware of the risks, gentlemen, and also of the fact that as a private citizen I’m entitled by law to take them if I choose.”

  Exhaling a sharp, annoyed breath, Sergeant Gaine straightened up and returned to the door of the interview room.

  “If you have nothing else to tell us, ma’am…?” prodded Wegner.

  “There is something else. I don’t know how relevant it is, but—” Sandy reached into her handbag and pulled out the folded ledger page, “—I found this under my keyboard at work yesterday morning.” Paper rattled as she unfolded the sheet and laid it on the desktop in front of Sergeant Wegner.

  Both his eyebrows rose for an instant. Then his face resumed its official police expression. “Unity Sportswear,” was all he said. A half second later Ted Gaine was scanning the page over his partner’s shoulder and frowning darkly.

  “Do you know who left this for you?” Sergeant Gaine asked softly, his eyes hard as granite on Sandy’s startled face.

  She opened her mouth to tell him, then changed her mind, for although Bert’s file had given her a fairly good idea of who might have left the envelope, Sandy hadn’t actually seen Blass tape it to her keyboard. And if the way she’d been treated today was any indication of what awaited him at police hands, she decided she’d rather not share any speculations about Roger Blass with these detectives.

  “No, I just found it there,” she replied.

  “Has anyone else handled this note besides you and the person who left it?” Gaine demanded.

  She shook her head.

  They were carefully not touching the piece of paper, she noticed. Wegner opened a desk drawer and pulled out a clear plastic bag. In a second drawer he found a surgical glove, which he put on before picking up the ledger sheet to insert it into the bag.

  Now began another grilling. Who sat near her desk at work? Who had been around her computer that day? Had she noticed anything strange about this computer repairman? How long had she been in her editor’s office before coming out and finding the envelope? Did she know if any of her coworkers had any connection with Unity Sportswear?

  At last, Sergeant Wegner closed his writing pad and told her, “That will be all for now, Ms. DiGianni. If we have any further questions, we know how to contact you.” With a sigh of relief, Sandy got to her feet.

  “I’ll walk you to the elevator,” said Sergeant Gaine, his tone of voice suggesting he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  Lips pressed tightly together, she let him escort her out of the room.

  “Alessandra, I’m sorry we had to be so rough on you.”

  “You were doing your job, Sergeant. I understand.”

  “Alessandra—”

  “Tell me, Sergeant, have I seen your real face yet, or are you saving it for some special occasion?” she asked bitterly.

  The elevator doors slid open then, and Gaine thrust his arm across the opening, stopping her from entering.

  “Meet me for dinner,” he said in a low voice. “I want to hear what else you’ve learned about Mr. Vanish.” When she hesitated he added, “Partners don’t keep information from each other, Alessandra, no matter how they feel about their partnership. I’m sure you spent most of last night immersed in that file. And we made an agreement, remember?”

  “All right,” she said reluctantly.

  “Meet me at the corner of Front and John Streets around five o’clock,” he told her, an instant before the elevator doors closed between them.

  He found Joe waiting for him back in their workspace, rereading the handwritten transcript of the interview. “I’m still not convinced, partner,” Joe sighed. “How do we know she didn’t make it all up? How do we know this source of hers is reliable? He told her himself that he didn’t think we would take him seriously. All we’ve got here is hearsay, some ramblings about the mythical Mr. Vanish. If Nielsen reads this in the report, we’re both going to be bulletin-board material. People are going to be chuckling about us around the water cooler for a long time.”

  Ted shook his head stubbornly. “I believe her, Joe.”

  “Of course you do—she’s feeding your pet theory. But is it the truth?”

  That was a good question. Could Ted trust his instincts, knowing that just being around Alessandra DiGianni blew his professional objectivity all to hell?

  Grimly, he thought about the workout equipment in his basement. At this rate, he was going to be the fittest detective on the force.

  First the computer ate her article—then it went berserk.

  Sandy stared in angry amazement at the splatter of nonsense characters the computer had tossed onto her screen.

  Punching the keys with unnecessary vigor, she instructed the processor to return her file to the terminal.

  File Not Found, said her screen.

  “What are you talking about?” she muttered to herself, and called up the directory listing all the articles she had filed on the system. There it was, in the directory—the third instalment of her series. If she could find it, why couldn’t the damned computer?

  Once again, she asked for the file.

  File Not Found, insisted the computer.

  “Stop lying to me,” she warned it.

  Frank Leslie, polishing his column at the terminal two desks away, swiveled his chair toward her and sighed. “What are you grumbling about?”

  By now Sandy was fuming. “It won’t let me work on my article,” she replied through gritted teeth. “The file name is right there, in the directory, but the computer refuses to call it up for me.”

  “Here, let me try,” said Frank, and Sandy made room for him at her desk.

  Frank’s instruction elicited a different message from the computer: File Deleted.

  Her heart plummeting, Sandy cursed softly in Italian.

  “Don’t panic yet,” Frank advised her. “It’s on the fritz. Maybe it only thinks it’s deleted a file.”

  But when he called up her directory, the article was gone.

  “I don’t understand this. It was working just fine before lunch,” she complained.

  Frank shrugged helplessly. “Tell you what—my terminal is still user-friendly. Once I’ve finished filing my piece, you can log on at my desk and access your backup file—again.”

  “We’ve got to stop meeting like this, Frank.”

  “Sure,” he said with a grin, and returned to his station. Fifteen minutes later, Frank leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms lazily over his head. “Your turn, kid,” he announced. “I’m done for the day.”

  Sandy took Frank’s place and logged onto his terminal with no problems. Then she called up the directory of her backup files. There should have been three, one for each of her articles. Instead there was only one, and it was impossibly small.

  A sudden chill settled in her bones. Sandy drew in a long, steadying breath and called up her remaining backup file. As the screen cleared and repainted itself, she stared in numb confusion at the three le
tters it thrust at her: RIP.

  Rest in peace. Sandy’s skin began to crawl. This was a message from someone who knew her user code and password. Whoever had broken into her files was letting her know that virtually any part of her life could be accessed. Who was sending her such a message?

  Suddenly the screen cleared itself again, and the computer informed her: File Deleted.

  Muttering in Italian, she yanked her hands away from the keyboard as though it were growing hands of its own. He was there right now, tampering with the system. Destroying the ominous message so she couldn’t prove what she had seen.

  Damn him! But she knew where he was now. And she wasn’t going to let him get away with this.

  Suffocating with rage, Sandy leapt to her feet and raced downstairs, straight-arming every door she encountered and a couple of startled people, as well. One of them was the security guard stationed just inside the entrance to the computer room.

  “I’m sorry, you can’t come in he— Hey, lady!” he protested, grabbing her arm as she pushed past him. “Are you blind? There’s a sign on that door says No Admittance.”

  “Where is he?” she demanded coldly.

  “Who? There’s nobody here but me.”

  “If you’re protecting him…!”

  “Protecting who?” he exclaimed. “I don’t understand.”

  “Whoever was down here a minute ago deleting all my files.”

  “There’s nobody down here. There hasn’t been anybody in this room since I came on duty at 2:30. Honest! If you don’t believe me, just have a look around.”

  Sandy looked around. Except for the guard, and the walls and desks covered with humming machines, the room was empty. There was nobody to confront. Swallowing her frustration, Sandy apologized to the guard and returned upstairs, trembling with unvented fury.