by Ted Wood
The first hint of anger snapped into his voice. "Smarten up, asshole. You call somebody down in T'rannah. They pick up the item for us and deliver it up here pronto. Got that?"
"Oh, yeah, I got you. But it's going to take me half an hour to round somebody up to get it. Then it will take another three hours to deliver it up here. Where do I bring it?"
"We'll tell you," he said.
I leaned on him as far as I dared, keeping my voice businesslike. "Meantime, you stay away from the women. Otherwise, there's no deal, I trash this stuff you want."
He laughed. "Oh, you won't do that. I know you won't. This is a nice-lookin' momma. You wouldn't want some bad man playin' rough with her, would you?" He laughed, then said, "Here, tell her how much you miss her."
The phone rustled, and Freda spoke, "Reid?"
"Yeah, Fred. Where are you?"
I could hear the phone being moved, torn out of her hands, but not before she had a chance to speak to me, almost sobbing. "Be brave, Reid. Be brave."
The same man spoke again. "Lissen, Bennett. Don' get cute. Just do like we say. Otherwise, we party."
"Two-twenty-seven Marlborough, Yonge, Finch area. Gray metal two-drawer file cabinet. Don't worry, I'll get it. How do I get in touch?"
"You stay put is how," the voice said harshly. "I'll ring this number anytime I want, an' I wanna hear your voice every time I do. Forget about playin' hero. This ain't 'Nam. You stay put an' your chickieboo stays the way she is. You jerk us around an' she gets it."
I've heard enough threats from enough angry men that I knew the worst thing I could do was bluster. I kept my voice calm as I said, "Okay, I stay put and this whole deal is business. Let's keep it that way. Now what about the rest of your property?"
"One video camera, seven videotapes. You deliver them when you deliver the file cabinet." The voice sank for a moment as he cleared his throat. "An' don't go pokin' your nose into any of them tapes. Ya got that?"
"Yeah, sure." I made my tone impatient. You have to keep some pretense of control no matter how many trumps they hold.
"What if something gets screwed up, like my errand boy gets a flat or something?"
"Make sure he don't," the voice said. "I'll call you back. Now start movin'. You got three an a half hours before party time."
He hung up. I put the phone down and sat staring at it, the stare of combat fatigue. What could I do?
I reached into the drawer for my phone book. Irv Goldman's number was there, and I dialed him, waking up Dianne, his wife.
"I'm sorry, Dianne, this is Reid Bennett, I have to talk to Irv—it's an emergency."
A second later he was on the line, his voice thick with sleep. "What's up, Reid?"
I told him, and he took over the Toronto end of the business. He would call the police, explain the circumstances, and break into the Spensers' house to take the file cabinet. Then he would bring it north. He would bring a neighbor of his, another copper. They would be armed, for whatever good that might do.
I thanked him and called the OPP. After a minute or so they gave me the home number of Sergeant Positano, the man in charge of the biker squad. He was still up, just in from a hard day's work, but he listened to me without complaining. When I'd finished, he spoke.
"That's the Devil's Brigade. They're new in Ontario. Most of our gangs are headquartered around Toronto, but this bunch is out of Vancouver."
"You mean there's no place we can raid and expect to find the women?" What about Freda? I wanted to scream. What about poor shell-shocked Mrs. Spenser?
"No, they don't have any permanent address yet. Maybe they're setting one up, up close to you, but I'd doubt it. Bikers are criminals, into drugs, extortion, prostitution. They'll locate close to Toronto, if they dare, if the other established biker gangs will let them."
I interrupted him. "What's going on? We were told to back off the gang by the inspector. Have you got a bust going down?"
"I can't discuss that," he said. "But take it from me, this abduction wasn't in the cards. It changes everything."
"Okay, you're the boss. But if they could be anywhere, what do I do next?"
"Yeah, I was coming to that. First thing to do is get your phone tapped to see if we can trace where they're calling from. I'll set that up from here. It's gonna take an hour or so. Tracing a call is a bitch once you get away from a big center. Next thing is to do like they say. Get all the gear they want back and have that file cabinet delivered to you. Meantime, I'll be rounding up the troops to help when it comes delivery time. Don't call me here again. I'll be gone. Okay?"
"Yeah. And thanks," I said, and hung up just as the door opened and Werner and Kennedy entered. I could tell from their faces that they'd come to break the bad news.
"I know," I said. "They called here."
"I'm sorry, Reid. It's a hell of a thing to happen." Kennedy raised his shoulders helplessly.
Werner was practical. "What've you done?"
I told them and they nodded. Then Werner said, "I'll call the inspector again, tell him what happened. Maybe he knows something useful. They have to be on to something or they wouldn't have warned us off like they did."
I waved to the phone and sat back, thinking. What could I do? I wanted to be out there, armed and ready to take them all out, with my marine M16 for preference and six or seven of the guys from my old platoon. I blazed with anger for one moment, but the fear of what could happen to Freda washed back over me, dousing the anger, making me cold enough to shudder.
"The only thing we've got to go on is whatever is in that cabinet," I said. "It has to be vital. We can hope they won't do anything to stop themselves getting that."
Kennedy looked at me, his face as grim as mine, but he didn't say anything. He was wondering, like me, whether a gang of dedicated yahoos would leave two women prisoners alone for three hours no matter what was at stake. But he kept on thinking like a policeman.
"What beats me is why they asked you to set it up for them. Hell, scared or not about your girl, you're a cop. They have to know somebody else who could break into that house."
Werner fished out a cigar from his inside pocket. He hadn't smoked all evening. I guess it was his indication that he was on overtime now and the rules he set himself for work didn't apply anymore. He bit the end off and spat it casually on the floor.
"Only thing that makes any sense is that they're in some kind of a time bind," he said, digging in his pocket for matches.
Behind him one of the three women cleared her throat. He turned to them and then slowly walked over to the one we had found in the tent. "You're in pretty good with the bikers. What racket're they into?"
"I don't know," she said, enunciating every word angrily. "Whyn't you do your own goddamn dirty work."
Werner paused to light his cigar, then waved the match out, like a rich man at dinner in his club. Then he flicked the match away, put his hand under her chin, and jerked her face up toward him.
She shrieked with alarm. "Brutality," she shouted. She rounded on the other women, holding her right hand to her face. "See what he done? See what this bastard done?"
"Nobody saw anything, sweetheart," Werner said. "Because nothing happened. But it's going to if we don't get some answers out of you right away, the reason being, there's a couple of women in trouble unless we can get to them fast. And you can help us do that." He let the statement sit for a moment, then lashed her with a shout. "You understand?"
"Sure," she said sullenly. Neither of the others was looking at her. They had developed a sudden interest in the office linoleum.
"Right," Werner said. "Now, as I was asking you. What racket are these guys into? We know they run hookers and drugs."
"We're not hookers," she flared.
"I know you're not. You're exotic dancers and hostesses," Werner said. "But I wasn't talking about you, was I?" He puffed pleasurably on his cigar. The door opened, and the OPP constable came in. He looked at Werner in surprise but did not say anything, jus
t moved through the counter gap and out the back door into the room by the cells.
Werner spoke to the girls again. "What is it they're into? Drugs, porno movies, what?"
"Yes," she said softly.
"Yes what? Yes drugs, yes pornos, what?"
"Drugs an' movies," she said. "But if you say I said it, I'll tell about you hittin' on me."
"Nobody's going to tell them anything except to say they're getting fifteen years out of your sight in Millhaven," Werner said. "How long have you known them? Let me rephrase that. How long have they been running the club where you work?"
"They don't run it," she said. "It's legit."
"Sure." Werner's voice was soothing. He breathed out a long plume of sweet-smelling smoke. "Sure. So who owns this legitimate club of yours?"
"A guy name of Roger Walmsley," she said. "I ain't never seen no bikers in there." She looked up at him, trying to look innocent, but the lie was written across her face.
"Not as customers, that is," Werner said. "But sometimes they might drop by to talk to Mr. Walmsley."
She shrugged, dropping her eyes to the floor. "Lots of people talk to him."
"Yeah, I'm sure. So how did you happen to be on partying terms with this social club we found you with tonight?"
"Jack's a friend of mine, from when I was workin' in Vancouver."
"Working at a biker place," Werner said, and she shrugged.
Werner looked up and caught Kennedy's eye, nodding toward the phone. Kennedy looked at me, and I pointed out to the back. No sense letting the women hear his conversation.
The phone rang, and the OPP man answered it. He looked up at me. "Yes, he's here. Who's calling, please?" I saw him wince and knew who was on the other end. I held out my hand for the phone, and he passed it over.
"Bennett here."
"Good. That's what I like to see. You're not doin' nothin' dumb. That's good."
"I've called Toronto. That file cabinet is being picked up right now. It'll be up here by three."
"Good. You jus' do what you're tol'." There was a long pause while I waited for him to add something else, but in the end he just let the receiver clatter down.
Werner left the girl and came up to the counter, close to me. "What gives?"
"Not a hell of a lot. He said he was going to be checking up on me and he is. The only thing that bothers me, it sounds like he's blowing weed. His voice is getting a bit vague."
"It figures he would be," Werner said. "You know what it's like with those kind of guys. Grass is breakfast. They do drugs regular as breathing."
"I know." I kept tight hold of my emotions. "I don't care what they do to themselves, but I'm worried about the women."
Werner nodded. "That's why I'm working on this woman. Maybe she knows where they're hanging out."
"There's got to be a faster way than this." I punched my fist into my palm. "The Toronto connection is interesting, but they've got to be within a ten-minute ride of this station. The trick is to find out where."
"Easier said than done," Werner said. He waved his cigar at me placatingly. "I know, we'll try it. But how would you suggest we do it?"
"The quickest way is to head for the highway." I walked over to the map of my district that hangs on the wall behind the teletype machine. "Look. The Spenser house is on the west side of the lake. Now that means they must have gone from there either north, up into the bush, or south, out to the highway."
"Right." Werner laid his cigar down and studied the map. "We'll head over to the Spenser place again and ask around the neighbors. The woman next door didn't know which way they'd gone. She just knew that they came and drove away with the two women in the car and one guy with them. That was only a couple of minutes before we got there."
"And she didn't see whether they went north or south?"
Werner shook his head. "She says her husband threw a tantrum, started calling her down for getting involved, pulled the blinds shut, and kept shouting so she didn't know what was happening."
"That bastard needs a swift kick," I said.
"Agreed," Werner said. "Lissen, I'll get Bert and we'll go look for them. If we start getting close, I'll call."
I nodded and sat down and took out my .38, flipping the chamber open to check that all six shells were in place. My mind was racing, but it wasn't productive thought. I was working out ways of approaching the gang if I could locate them, wondering if I could round up any explosives to use to create a diversion. But I hadn't come to grips with the hardest question of all. Where were they?
I closed my pistol and holstered it, then stood up and studied the map again, trying to remember all the landmarks that corresponded to the symbols on the map. If I was right and the bikers were within ten minutes of the police station, there weren't too many places they could be. Unless they had gone to someone's cottage up along the west side of the lake, they would not have been close to a telephone. There aren't any public phones once you leave the area of the marina. That meant they had most probably gone south, out to the highway, where they could have cranked up their bikes and covered fifteen miles in ten minutes.
I stood looking at the map as Kennedy and Werner came out from the back of the station.
Kennedy stopped to speak to me. "I spoke to Walmsley. He denies all knowledge of the bikers; says I have no right to speak to him and he is going to have my job or my balls or both."
"Guilty as hell," Werner said, and I nodded.
"It looks as if we're going to have to sort this thing out ourselves. Now they've phoned me, so we know they're close to a phone, so that means they're either at a cottage up the west side of the lake, north of the Spenser cottage, or else they're out on the highway, anywhere within a fifteen-mile radius, give or take."
"Pity you didn't get a chance to speak to the women," Kennedy said. "They might've told you something."
"I spoke to them, to Freda, anyway," I said. "That's what makes me so certain they're close to town."
Werner was salvaging his cigar stub from the ashtray. He raised it carefully to light it, and as he puffed, he asked, "What did she say? Anything useful?"
I shook my head. "Not really. All she said was, 'Be brave.'"
"'Be brave'?" Kennedy almost snorted. "What kind of a line is that?"
I shrugged. "It was meant as encouragement, I guess. Freda's an actress, but she's not hammy."
I wasn't looking at the others, I was still staring at the map, mentally filling in all the features as they existed along the highway close to the east and west exits from the Harbour. And suddenly I understood what Fred had meant.
The detectives were turning away, heading for the door, but I grabbed both their arms and swung them around to face the map.
"I'll tell you what she meant," I said triumphantly. "Look." I put my finger on the map, about a mile west of the exit from the Harbour. "'Be brave,' she said. Brave, Indian, right."
The other two looked at one another, then at me, carefully, assessing how crazy I really was. "It fits. That place there is a camping ground. It has everything, including public telephones. And it's got the most Indian name you can think of, The Happy Hunting Grounds Campsite."
Kennedy whistled, low and tonelessly. "You could be right," he said. "Sonofabitch. You could just be right."
"I am right. And I'm going up there."
Werner shook his head. "You can't do that, Reid. Not on your own. And we can't go with you. The gang's been put off limits. God knows what's going down, but we can't screw it up."
I nodded impatiently. "I understand. But for now I'm just a suspended ex-chief of police. I'm going in there, and I'm going in to win."
Kennedy tried again. "It's dumb, Reid. If you get in trouble, they'll grease you and the girl, both."
I paused at the counter. "And if it was your wife in that camp, you'd be doing the same thing as me, wouldn't you?"
"Of course," he said. "What can we do to help?"
"For one thing, keep the phone off the hook. We'
ve got two lines—keep them both tied up. Otherwise, they'll know I've gone. So lift the receiver off right now on both lines."
The constable looked at Kennedy and waited for his nod; then he went to the desk and reached for the phone. He was just lifting it as it rang. He took the call. "Murphy's Harbour P'lice."
I waited while the constable covered the phone. "It's for you, Chief."
I came back through to my desk and took the call, expecting the smoked-up hoarseness of the biker. Instead, it was Irv Goldman's voice. "Hi, Reid, got some news for you. That address you gave me—I'm there now. The place has been raided, trashed, and the file cabinet is missing."
"You say it's missing. Can you see where it was?"
"Yes, there's a different-colored patch of paint in one place, just the size you described, and there's a squashed-down place in the rug where the base of the thing must have been. But it's gone."
I swore. "What now?" I wondered out loud.
"What the hell was in the thing, anyway?" Irv grumbled. "We might have a better chance of finding it if we knew why it was gone."
"Something these bikers wanted, and from the look of it, something another gang wanted, as well," I said.
The line sighed between us for a long moment. Then Irv asked, "What now, Reid? You want me up there?"
"I've got the OPP swarming all over me at the moment. Why don't you go back to bed. Thanks for turning out for me in a panic."
"Yeah, well, no big deal. But it leaves you up the creek. What are you gonna do now?" I could imagine him as he spoke, probably leaning against the wall on his left shoulder, his trademark stance, tired from his own long day and broken sleep but still looking to help.
"No, thank you for trying, Irv," I said. "I've just had my first real idea of this case."
