Muzzled

by June Whyte

“Actually, Mr. Brady’s been asking to see you. We’ve been worried about his recovery because he’s upset and won’t settle down. Says he needs to thank you.”

  “He does?”

  “Yes.” Once again the nurse’s eyes settled on Ben and she slipped him a wink. Damn hussy. Still, if it got us through Scott’s door, I guess I could refrain from strangling the woman with a dog lead—this time. “If you’d like to wait here, I’ll have a word with the cop on duty,” she said. “Officer Joel Patterson and I were in the same class at primary school, so maybe I can talk him into letting you in to see our patient.” She paused for effect, this time with a roll of her eyes. “Especially if I emphasize the fact that I spotted him cuddling a blonde bird, dressed in little more than a brightly colored scarf, deep in a dark corner of the Sunset Lagoon nightclub last weekend. And the woman he was cuddling was not raven-haired, Suzy, his current girlfriend.”

  With another wink at Ben, the nurse set off down the passageway, emphasizing the kaboom-kaboom of her booty with every measured step.

  “Earth to Ben,” I said and dug a well sharpened elbow into his ribs. “By the drool running down your chin, you’re enjoying that display far too much.”

  Nurse Belinda spoke to the policeman on duty and within a couple of minutes she looked back at us and waved. “He says it’s okay, you can go in for a few minutes, Kat—but your friend will have to wait outside.”

  “Go on,” said Ben, pushing me forward. “I’ll keep my ear to the door, in case you need a distraction.”

  “As long as that’s all you do while I’m otherwise engaged,” I warned.

  Officer Patterson stood up from his sentry’s chair as I approached. “I’m going against direct orders here,” he said. “But I saw you at the greyhound track yesterday struggling to keep the guy in there alive. I’ll give you three minutes to talk to him but you can’t talk about the case and I’ll be standing beside the suspect’s bed the whole time. Orders you know.”

  “Thank you, Officer.” Damn. How could I grill Scott with a uniform hanging on every word I spoke? Shrugging my shoulders at Ben, I followed Officer Patterson through the doorway into a single hospital room and looked around. The patient was propped up in bed and although he’d lost his scary pink coloring and seemed to be breathing a little easier, he certainly didn’t look ready for a night on the town yet.

  “Hi Scott,” I said, smiling as I approached the bed. “I’m Kat McKinley. How are you feeling today?”

  He didn’t return the smile. “I feel like someone who’s woken up after being given a drink laced with drugs only to find they’ve been bundled into their own car and they’re the victim of an attempted murder.”

  My ears almost stood up and wiggled. “Yeah? Is that what happened?”

  Officer Patterson grunted. “Mr. Brady, please restrict your conversation to the weather or other neutral topics or Ms. McKinley will have to leave.”

  Crap.

  Scott lifted his chin at me and sniffed. “’Spose I’ve got you to thank for me being alive.”

  What a sweetheart. Not. “’Spose you do.” I twisted a strand of my hair and glanced across at the policeman on the other side of the bed. The uniform stood soldier straight, arms crossed, face impassive.

  “So…Scott…has your girlfriend been in to see you yet?”

  “Haven’t got a girlfriend.”

  So that’s how he was going to play it. Like a clam. I should have left the little toad to turn into a pink Popsicle. “Come on, a good looking guy like you must have a girlfriend.”

  “Girlfriend’s indisposed.”

  “Why’s that? Where is she?”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. McKinley, I’ll have to ask you to leave. I’m under strict orders not to let the patient speak to anyone until he’s been questioned by the top brass. So, if you’re satisfied Mr. Brady has recovered from his ordeal it’s time to—”

  At that moment, a white coated doctor, clipboard in hand, pushed through the door of the room and strode briskly toward Scott’s bed. I blinked. Did a double-take.

  Ben?

  “And how is our patient feeling this morning?” he boomed.

  “Amazing,” snarled Scott. “You try vomiting for a six hour stretch and see how you feel.”

  Ben poked him none too gently in the chest with his clipboard. “If this young lady hadn’t been close by yesterday you wouldn’t be feeling anything now—you’d be dead.”

  Scott had the good grace to look apologetic. “Sorry. You’re right. I’m not my usual cheerful self at the moment.” He stretched one hand out to me. “Thank you.”

  I shook his hand and felt a slip of paper transfer from his hand to mine. I slipped it into my pocket.

  “That’s it. Definitely no touching,” spluttered Officer Patterson, his face turning pink. “Your time’s up, Ms. McKinley. I want you to leave.”

  “Excuse me, Officer,” said Doctor Ben stepping between the policeman and me. “Is your face usually pink?”

  The policeman blinked, then transferred his gaze to the doctor. “Pink?”

  “Yes. Pink.”

  “Um…no. I don’t think so.”

  “Hmm…” Ben peered more closely at the man’s face. “You haven’t been near our patient without wearing a mask have you?”

  The policeman, eyes bugging, mouth slack, nodded.

  “Oh dear. That means you may have inhaled deadly carbon monoxide.” Ben, face grim, shook his head slowly from side to side. “That could cause all sorts of unpleasant side effects unless treated immediately.”

  “What do you mean? What…what sort of problems?”

  “Oh, research is presently being conducted on the effects of carbon monoxide poisoning on rats. Let’s see…labored breathing, dizziness, flu-like symptoms, spots on the tongue and oh yes…several male rats in the program have become impotent.”

  My mouth opened. Closed. Then shot open again.

  Scott went a funny shade of green.

  The young policeman grabbed at his essentials and went an identical color.

  After sending me a surreptitious wink, Doctor Ben reached for his new patient’s wrist. “Here, let me take your pulse, Officer—see if you’re showing any signs of agitation.”

  My back to Doctor Ben and his patient, I perched on the side of Scott’s bed. “I have two questions for you,” I whispered to Scott. “Did you kill Jack Lantana? And where is my sister?”

  One hand partly covering his mouth, Scott pretended to wipe at his lips. “No, to the first—and I’m not sure to the second. Kat, I didn’t write that suicide note and wasn’t trying to commit suicide. Some asshole must have drugged my drink at the track, ’cos when I woke up I was inhaling pure poison and was too weak to do shit-all about it.”

  “Good.”

  “Good? What part of my horrific experience do you define as good?”

  “The part that says you’re not the bad guy.” I smiled at him. “If you were—it would mean Liz’s choice in men was down there with her wacky lifestyle.”

  “Thank you. I think.”

  Before continuing, I glanced over my shoulder at Officer Patterson. The poor man was perched on the edge of a chair, tongue protruding, while Doctor Ben examined said appendage for little white spots. White spots—according to the sage doctorly advice being given—was a very bad sign.

  “You said in your text that Liz was in trouble. What sort of trouble?”

  “She overheard someone talking about how the slow dogs were winning races. Wouldn’t tell me, but she planned to confront Bob Germaine, the acting-secretary of the greyhound club. I told her to go to the police, but she doesn’t trust the cops. Said they’d laugh at her because the victims were only dogs. Anyway, when I rung Liz an hour later, her phone was switched off. That was Friday morning and I haven’t been able to contact her since. I thought if I met you, told you about it, you could talk to Bob Germaine.”

  “Why didn’t you talk to him yourself?”

  “Tried to. He said I
was delusional. Said he hadn’t set eyes on my idiot girlfriend and ordered me off the track.”

  I could hear Officer Patterson becoming loud and stroppy behind me. Probably due to the fact that Ben had requested he drop his pants in readiness for a rectal examination.

  “Scott,” I said, leaning forward, “first you tell me Liz is missing from a rabbiter’s hut and now you say she’s missing after fronting the stand-in secretary of the local greyhound racing club. Which story is true? And how can I believe a word you say?”

  Scott, suddenly looking exhausted, ran a hand across his forehead and leant back against the pillows. “Seems Liz met up with some guys protesting about mining in Arkaroola the first time and went off with them for a few days without letting me know.”

  “And the blood in the shack?”

  “Cut her finger while making bamboo baskets for homeless dogs.”

  “So now you want me to—”

  “Outside! Both of you!” Officer Patterson, face now a very unhealthy shade of puce stormed across to the bed and pointed a stiff finger at the door.

  “Well, if you’re sure—” Ben began.

  “Sure? Sure?” Officer Patterson spluttered, dancing on the spot. For a moment I thought he was going to explode into thousands of messy pink pieces right there on the sterile gray hospital floor. “The only thing I’m sure of is that something fishy is going on here.” He glared at Doctor Ben whose stethoscope dangled precariously from around his left ear. “What I’m not sure of is that you’re a real doctor.” He rested one hand on his gun and his glare intensified. “So, if this room isn’t cleared of all but the patient by the time I count to five, I’ll arrest you both, call for backup and you can prove your credentials down at the station.”

  I scrambled to my feet, Ben rescued his borrowed stethoscope before it hit the ground and by the time the irate policeman got to three we were gone.

  20

  My sister, Liz, was like the invisible woman. Here one minute—poof—gone the next. Had she merely bumped into a new group of protesters and marched off into the sunset, all primed to right another wrong? Or was there something more sinister to her second disappearance after talking to Bob Germaine?

  As we drove from the hospital to Kenny Gilbert’s place, I gazed out the car window at the water trickling along the gutters into drains, at the tarmac still wet from the storm of yesterday, and tried to compare a picture of the present Liz with the baby sister I’d grown up with and loved. Images of Liz at six with a bloodied nose after intervening when a bully twice her size had tied a tin can to the tail of one of the local cats. The bully had pulled her hair and punched her in the nose but although busy letting off a series of earsplitting screams, Liz had still managed to untie the can before the cat took off up the nearest tree. I sighed. Guess my little sister had always tried to right life’s wrongs. And yes, I loved her but was no closer to finding her.

  However, this time I had a lead.

  “Drop me off at the track,” I told Ben as we turned into the road which led past the Port Augusta Greyhound track. “While you collect your dogs from Kenny’s, I’ll have a chat with Bob Germaine. See what he can tell me about Liz’s visit.”

  “Want me to come in with you?”

  I tutted, rolled my eyes, and punched him lightly on the arm. “Ben, I’m a big girl. I can have a conversation with another man without you flexing your muscles in the background and putting the poor guy off his morning tea. Just go pick up your dogs. I’ll meet you out the front of the track in half an hour. Okay?”

  “And if you’re not there I’ll dress up in a sheriff’s outfit and come galloping to the rescue.”

  “Hmm…you’d look sexy in a Stetson,” I said.

  “Just a Stetson?”

  “Well…perhaps I’d let you wear your gun belt too.”

  “And my cowboy boots?”

  “Okay, but that’s the limit. Anything else and it would spoil the picture.”

  “What about spurs? Cowboy boots are no fun without spurs.”

  “Go!” I said waving him off with a laugh.

  “Maybe tonight?” With a grin so hot it would leave old maids swooning and even centenarians reaching for their vibrators, he drove off, leaving me standing on the footpath outside the dog track.

  Mind and body reacting to the image of a near-naked Ben with silver spurs fastened to his embossed cowboy boots, I closed my eyes. Gulped a cooling breath of fresh air. There’d be time for naked cowboy games later—like tonight. My mission at the moment was to grill a suspect without him realizing he was under suspicion. Before I barged in on Bob Germaine, I needed to prepare a suitable list of questions to ask him. Like what was his connection to the slow dog scam? Did he kill Jack Lantana and shove him in the fridge? Did he steal Stanley? Was he involved in Liz’s disappearance and if so, where the hell had he hidden her?

  All posed in a subtle manner topped with my inimitable PI charm—of course.

  However, as I trekked across the car park, I was unable to stop myself from staring at the crime scene tape strung around the corner of the park. Scott had come very close to dying in that spot. I shivered and pulled my coat closer around my body. Was it a case of attempted suicide because of guilt—or attempted murder by an unknown villain?

  The race track itself was empty, except for a grey-coated, track maintenance guy revving a noisy tractor on the far side of the raceway near the 400 metre starting boxes. Not bothering to check with him, I headed for a small brick building marked Office, pushed through the wooden glass fronted doorway and pinged the little silver bell at the front desk.

  “Hello, anyone around?”

  No office worker poked her head around the corner or jumped up from behind the copying machine. No cleaning lady came at me waving her mop or broom. No suspicious interim-secretary shot out of his cubby hole with a gun or dagger. Okay. So…what would Stephanie Plum do in this situation? Opt for a chance to search for clues in the empty office or beat a hasty retreat? Hmm. Probably choose the option that didn’t involve the likelihood of being caught and charged with burglary, trespass and countless other criminal offenses. Although come to think of it, our favorite bounty hunter always had Ranger or Morelli to pull strings for her when she bombed out.

  I smiled. Felt a tickle in my knickers. Why should I be envious? I had my semi-naked cowboy.

  From my position in front of the enquiry counter, I could see a small room leading off the main office with SECRETARY etched on the glass door. The door was open. The room was empty. Undecided, I licked my lips and swayed from side to side. Maybe I could take just a tiny peek inside and if anyone found me, I could say I was waiting for Bob Germaine. Unless of course it was Bob himself who found me and I happened to be nose deep in one of his open desk drawers at the time.

  Pushing that chilling thought aside as too stressful to waste time on, I slipped into the office and glanced around the room. What was I expecting to find? A pale pink writing pad in the middle of his desk showing a detailed map of where he’d stashed my sister? Geez…what was I even doing here? I didn’t know for certain whether Liz had managed to query Germaine about the slow dogs. Maybe she’d been distracted and taken off with another group of professional protesters all steamed up about some hundred-year-old gum tree that needed saving. Maybe Germaine was telling the truth and Liz hadn’t got around to seeing him. There again, maybe he was lying through his perfectly aligned, expensively-maintained teeth and he’d squirrelled my baby sister away in an unused shed on the track grounds because he was the mastermind behind the scam with the slow dogs. Or maybe I needed to go home and rest up, take a couple of Panadol Forte and calm down. After all, I had a team of racing dogs waiting for me, and Liz had looked after herself without my intervention since leaving home five years ago. Why start now? I gritted my teeth and intensified my search—because my little sister might be in trouble.

  The papers on the desk seemed to be mainly racing nomination forms so after quickly flipping through the
m, I wriggled the flashing red mouse beside the computer until the screensaver disappeared. And did a double take. Oh boy! I grabbed a quick breath and closed my mouth with a snap. Three naked women lay entwined on a bed—and they sure weren’t sleeping. I blinked and felt a headache coming on. Who’d have thought a camera could see that far up…

  Bemused, I dragged my eyes from the graphic images and clicked on History. More explicit sites—plus similar breeding websites to the ones I found on Jack Lantana’s computer. What was the significance of greyhound breeding websites displaying the names of racing dogs with their sire and dam and litter mates? Was it a curious coincidence that Bob and Jack shared the same interest in the breeding of racing dogs—or a hot clue? No time to figure that out now. I took a deep breath. Would Stephanie take out her a nail file and open the suspiciously locked top drawer of Bob Germaine’s desk or would she examine the contents of his waste paper basket?

  As I wasn’t a nail file carrying sort of person, I upended the waste paper basket onto the floor and surveyed the contents. Screwed up papers, several unwanted brochures, a couple of empty McDonald’s packets and a revolting piece of rubber that looked awfully like a used condom.

  “Can I help you, Katrina?”

  I froze. Surrounded by incriminating evidence, I grabbed a quick breath and slowly turned around ready to run if necessary.

  Oh, God. Half-in, half-out of the doorway, virtually blocking my exit, stood the man I’d come to question, Bob Germaine. As usual, his smile displayed perfectly aligned teeth, but the coldness in those unnerving black eyes reminded me of a snake eying off the tasty live mouse he’d selected for breakfast.

  He raised his bushy eye brows. “Tell me, Katrina, is examining other people’s rubbish a bizarre idiosyncrasy of yours—or are you looking for something in particular?”

  “Bob?” Even my voice sounded like a squeaky mouse ready to bolt for the nearest mouse-hole. Except the only hole big enough for me to dart through was the doorway and the big bad snake had claimed that one.

  “Katrina?”

  “Um…” I stared down at the polished wooden floor where a dollop of ketchup had leaked from the remains of a Big Mac packet and left an ugly red stain that could have easily passed for blood. I closed my eyes and asked the Universe for a perfectly good reason to be standing beside this man’s desk surrounded by his detritus. “Well, you know me, Bob,” I said with a self-derogatory shrug, still panning the Universe. “I’ve always been a bit of a klutz. What happened—I was waiting to see you and-and—somehow tripped over the waste paper basket, and tipped it over.” Phew! I got down on my knees and reached for a mangy half-chewed biscuit that had skittered under his desk. “Don’t worry though, I’ll pick it all up.”