Murder in Focus

by Medora Sale

  “You mean like, let me see, Anthony Armstrong-Jones?”

  “Who’s he?” said Sanders, and ducked in mock terror. “No, I know who you mean. Yes. Like that, or him.”

  “No,” she said. “Definitely not. I am well known—thank God, because otherwise I’d starve—among a small, very small, group of people who hire me. I’ve had pictures printed in architectural and photo magazines, so a few more people might recognize my name but not my face. I am not famous. Sorry.”

  “Then . . .” He picked up her hand and held it tightly. “Harriet, have you been in . . . Goddammit.” He searched for a tactful way to put it. There wasn’t one. “Is the RCMP running a current active file on you?” he asked bluntly. “So that someone in Administration would recognize you just like that?”

  “Are you asking me if I have a criminal record?” she said coldly as she tried to pull her hand away.

  “No, dammit!” he snapped. “Be reasonable. Of course I’m not asking you if you have a record. You’re from Toronto, for God’s sake. If you were that well known to the police, I’d bloody well have recognized you. Remember where I work? For chrissake, I am not asking you if you go around robbing banks. It would have to be something the RCMP were interested in—political demonstrations, God knows what. They’re all bloody paranoid,” he added in disgust. “Have you taken pictures of Mounties beating up Indians or bashing strikers? They’d sure as hell keep a file on you for something like that.”

  She stared at him for a moment, and then slowly shook her head. “I don’t do news photography,” she said. “I’ve never published a picture of people doing anything, except occasionally standing somewhere to show the scale of a building. I don’t think I’ve ever taken a politically sensitive picture in my life, and I’ve certainly never had one printed.”

  “Then why in hell would someone who does PR work for the Mounties—because that’s all this goddamn seminar is—see you across a parking lot, through a car window, and know who you are?”

  “Maybe he made it his business to find out who I was because he saw me with you. Some people are just nosy. Couldn’t he get my name from looking up my license plate number?”

  Sanders shook his head. “That goes beyond common nosiness. Let’s get out of here.”

  “To the conference?”

  “Is that what you want to do?” She nodded. “We really ought to call the local cops, you know. That break-in has to be reported. Even if they did it. But come on. We’ll call them later. Let’s go.”

  Chapter 8

  “Was it the RCMP who wrecked the motel room?” asked Harriet abruptly.

  Sanders felt his hands tightening on the steering wheel; he made a concentrated effort to unknot his shoulders and keep his gaze calmly on the road. “Don’t know,” he said, his voice devoid of anger. “They could have, I suppose. If they were the ones who turned over your apartment.”

  “Would they have done that? Really? John, whoever went in there smashed up several thousand dollars’ worth of equipment. Doesn’t that come in the category of criminal behaviour?”

  He made a noncommittal noise. “More convincing, though, isn’t it?” he said. “You’d never believe that a government agency would do something like that, would you?”

  “Oh, wouldn’t I,” she growled. “But why would they do it?”

  “If it was the RCMP,” said Sanders, “and I’m not saying it was, they’re looking for evidence. The wrecking was just distraction.”

  “Evidence of what?” Her voice crackled with impatience.

  “Oh, they want the pictures, that’s clear. It’s possible they need them for identification—or maybe they’re trying to destroy them.”

  “Why? Why destroy a picture of someone who apparently goes around killing people? I realize I’m just a stupid and naive woman, but I thought the idea would have been to use the picture to help catch him.”

  Sanders accelerated around a truck and a van and found himself speeding past RCMP headquarters. “That’s easy. Either they want to find out who killed this Bartholomew or they already know and they want his identity suppressed. There’s nothing much in between. And if it’s the second option, then probably they’re up against something they consider to be much bigger than murder. Or at least than Bartholomew’s murder.” He glanced down at the speedometer and eased up on the accelerator. This was no time to get picked up for speeding. “Of course, they could have had nothing to do with your apartment—or my motel room. I could be suffering from a conspiracy obsession. It happens to you after you’ve been around these security types for more than a day or two.” Harriet coughed, a cough of disbelief. “And while we’re asking questions, lady. Would you mind telling me why we’re racing out to Carleton—where we probably won’t find any nests of Mounties conspiring about anything—when you seem to be convinced that they’re the ones responsible for what happened?”

  “Because I’m not convinced,” said Harriet. “I’m just confused. And besides, can you think of anything more useful to do? The camera equipment is insured, and so there’s nothing else I can do there, but the pictures are gone somewhere, our only lead is that damn conference, and the final banquet is tonight. So,” she said in tones of weary patience, “if the guys are at the conference and if they have the pictures, maybe we can get a line on them. And if they don’t, well, what the hell. What have we missed out on?”

  “I suppose I follow you,” said Sanders. “Are you sure we can get in for free drinks?”

  “Scott said there’d be no problem. They’re dying for press coverage and he said we could slip in with him if worse comes to worst.” She stared out the window. Her anger and irritation had given way; she was tired and felt now that she was being foolish. “I hope I’m not dragging you out there on a wild-goose chase,” she said at last in a forlorn voice.

  “It’d be nothing new,” said Sanders, feeling suddenly cheerful. “That’s what I spend most of my life doing. Fifty wild geese for every tame one.” He reached over and took hold of the back of her neck, massaging it affectionately. “Besides, it’s your gas.”

  Harriet sighed and dropped her head back, wriggling her shoulders in a gesture of pleasure and relief. “Where’d you leave your car?” she murmured.

  “In the parking garage,” he said, withdrawing his hand and returning it to the wheel. “I’m thinking of renting a space for it on a permanent basis.” He flicked on the left turn indicator and pulled into the wide and barren grounds on the perimeter of the university.

  It was only a few minutes after five when they located the room where the reception was being held. As they looked through the packed mass of humanity, Harriet spotted a small, elfish man fighting his way over to meet them. “Is that him?” asked Sanders incredulously. Harriet nodded, and they both watched his progress through the delegates. The crowd dividing them was large and ill assorted. Men in grubby tweeds rubbed elbows with other men in black tie and dinner jacket; the women were clad in every possible variation of dress, from jeans to floor-length brocade.

  “I didn’t need to go shopping,” said Harriet, looking around. “You could wear anything in this crowd. Or nothing. Although I suppose we might have stood out if we’d arrived with nothing on.”

  “I doubt that, Harriet darling,” said a voice beside her. “They would have assumed you were part of the entertainment.”

  “Oh, hi, Scott. What entertainment?”

  “A play, I think, on the Seven Deadly Sins or something equally juicy. You’d be Lechery, of course, slithering about in the nude.” He smiled seraphically. “A sort of medieval dinner theater.”

  “Scott, this is John Sanders. A friend of Kevin’s. He’s looking for him as well. Scott O’Reilly.”

  Scott took Sanders’s hand for a brief and firm shake. “And you’d be Wrath, I expect—or maybe Pride.”

  Sanders looked down at him, assailed by sudden anger and an ur
ge to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. Who in hell did he think he was? Clever, snotty little bastard, counting on his malice and brilliance to protect him from physical injury. Not to speak of Harriet, who would be appalled if he hit him, no doubt. “Stop being so damned clever, Scott,” she said, as if she could read Sanders’s thoughts, “and let me look for Kevin. Can you see him, John? You’re taller than we are.”

  Sanders bent down with his mouth close to her ear. “What in hell have you been telling this guy?”

  “We’re looking for my depressed, beautiful, drunken, and cocaine-soaked cousin, Kevin. I thought it would intrigue him. Especially the beautiful part,” she whispered. “Omigod, John, there he is. Don’t look. He’s standing by the tall plant near the door to my left. Damn, he’s looking over this way. He’ll see you.” Her voice took on a slightly desperate note.

  “What’s wrong?” said Scott, scenting trouble and looking as bright-eyed as a beagle after a rabbit.

  “He’s over there,” said Harriet. “By that plant. I hadn’t realized how painfully obvious John is in a crowd. As soon as he sees John, he’s going to bolt, and we’ll never find him.”

  “In that case, my love,” said Scott, “we’ll just have to ditch your tall friend here and tail him ourselves. He certainly won’t recognize me, and anything that gorgeous is pretty easy to spot. Stay behind me; we’ll follow him when he leaves and find out where he’s staying.”

  “What do you think?” asked Harriet, turning to Sanders.

  “I think it’s a lousy idea,” said Sanders forcefully.

  “Temper, temper,” said O’Reilly irritatingly. “Don’t worry, love. We won’t stop to talk to him. We’ll just get his address and hurry right back. I promise.” He winked at Sanders.

  “I have to talk to you,” said Sanders, his voice grim. He caught Harriet by the arm and dragged her away from the little photographer.

  “Go ahead,” said Scott. “I’ll keep an eye on the beautiful Kevin for you.”

  “You’re crazy. If that’s the guy who trashed the motel room and ripped apart your apartment you’re not going to want to meet him in a dark alley somewhere. If anyone’s following anybody, it’ll be me.”

  “He’d spot you in two minutes, John. Have you any idea how much you stand out?”

  “For chrissake, I’ve been doing this sort of thing for a living for almost twenty years. Give me credit for some sense, at least.”

  “How much time do you spend following people? Without them seeing you? Listen, John. We’ll be in a car. We aren’t going to follow him into dark alleys or even goddamn parking garages. Give me credit for some sense, as well. And Scott isn’t nearly as flirty as he looks—most of that’s protective cover. He just got back from two years in Beirut. Alive. As you can see.” Her cheeks flared red with anger.

  Sanders gave up. “Can you go in his car? Just in case?”

  “Hurry,” said O’Reilly, who had materialized out of nowhere. “He’s decided to leave. Of course we can take my car. This is such fun, Harriet, my dear.”

  “See you back at the motel,” breathed Harriet at John, and melted into the crowd after the photographer.

  Sanders watched uneasily as the three of them left. It was the second man in the picture who had come to the reception, not Scarface, and he was moving away as though he had nothing more pressing on his mind than dinner. A pro, thought Sanders. Or an innocent. He frowned. Harriet wasn’t bad at tailing, he concluded, watching her weave her way through the assorted medievalists, apparently absorbed in Scott’s chatter with wide-eyed girlish enthusiasm. With a little luck, Mr. O’Reilly would be able to shield her from doing anything disastrous. This also left him free to work things out. Because it was time to stop reacting to events and start using brainpower. When the three of them had had enough time to clear out of the corridors, he left the room and headed for the nearest telephone. He could use a little help from his partner at this point. Sanders glanced at his watch. Not yet 5:30. Ed Dubinsky might still be at his desk in Toronto. He reached into his pocket and fished out a quarter.

  “Goddammit, I know you’re about to go home. The miracle is that you haven’t made it out the door already,” snarled Sanders into the phone. “But I need some information and I’m in no position to get it myself. Not from here. Christ, all I’m asking you to do is make a simple little phone call to the Capital Region Police Department.”

  “And what am I supposed to want to know?” asked Dubinsky.

  “What they have on a corpse called Don Bartholomew.”

  “And what goddamned reason do I have for wanting to know about their fucking corpse?”

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something. Your sister-in-law was in love with him, the chief of detectives was in love with him . . . something.”

  “Thanks. Where do I call you when I’ve found all this out?”

  “Back at my motel. In an hour. And, Ed, thanks a lot.”

  When he pulled into the motel parking lot, he did what he should have been done hours ago. He parked at the entrance and went in the scruffy door marked “Management.” Management raised its head from a page of figures on the desk in a hopeful manner, recognized someone who was already staying there, and sank back again. “Can I help you? Inspector Sanders, isn’t it?”

  Sanders grunted. “Just wondered if anyone dropped in today looking for me. I was expecting a friend.”

  Management leaned back in its chair reflectively. “Sanders . . . today. Yes. Someone did, I think. Wanted to know if you were still staying here, I think. No message that I can remember.”

  “Was he tall?” asked Sanders. “Sort of thin face with high cheekbones and dark eyes?” He ran a set of fingers in front of his face, indicating the striking configuration of Scarface’s features.

  Management paused and thought. “No. Nothing like that.”

  “Blond and good-looking, then?” asked Sanders, thinking of the young man Harriet was pursuing and hoping that he wasn’t the one who had smashed the room apart.

  Management shook its head. “Don’t think so. Just sort of sandy hair and ordinary-looking, I think. You know anyone like that?”

  “Thanks,” said Sanders, and walked over to have a look at the room.

  “Jesus, they really did a job this time, didn’t they?” said the loud-mouthed sergeant from the break-and-enter squad.

  “Yeah, and this time they destroyed a lot of equipment,” said Sanders. “Expensive equipment. About ten thousand dollars’ worth. So you might at least pretend you’re trying to do something about it. Like looking for prints, or something. Or don’t you know how?”

  “Back off, eh?” said the first man’s partner. “We’ll check, but I’ll lay you five to one the whole damn place has been polished up like a new car. What’d they take?”

  Sanders shook his head. “Can’t tell. Nothing, as far as I know. Maybe when Miss Jeffries gets back, she’ll know if anything’s missing. It looks to me as if they didn’t find what they were looking for and got mad.”

  “Maybe,” said the sergeant, and sighed. “We’d better get a list of what’s wrecked. Come on, Bert, might as well start back here.”

  The telephone rang while they were still picking up each small piece of equipment on the floor and trying to put a name to it. Sanders grabbed for it and snapped into the receiver.

  “It’s me.” His partner sounded tired and bored. But Dubinsky usually sounded tired and bored, so that meant nothing. “About Bartholomew, your corpse. I’ve got his address. It’s a rooming house at Fifty-nine Main Street, Stittsville. Got that? He was bludgeoned to death, no weapon found. He was in good physical condition.”

  “And drunk,” said Sanders.

  “Don’t think so,” said Dubinsky. “Just a minute.” There was a pause. “Cold sober, in fact.”

  “That’s interesting. Very interesting. Anything else?”
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br />   “They traced the car to a rental outfit and lost the trail. The driver’s license used for ID was stolen. They have a description of the major suspect—”

  “I’ve got that. Nothing else?”

  “Don’t think so. Have fun spying, John. I’m leaving for a nice, peaceful evening at home.”

  Sanders hung up thoughtfully. “You guys know how far away Stittsville is?” he asked.

  “Sure, about fifteen miles,” said the sergeant. “Go out the Queensway to Richmond Road, old number seven. It’s not far. Look, there’s nothing much more we can do. Miss Jeffries can call us if she notices that there’s anything missing. Oh, and tell her not to forget to call her insurance company. Here’s my number,” the sergeant added, dropping a piece of paper onto the table.

  “Thanks,” said Sanders. “You’ve been a real help. Almost as much help as last time,” and pushed them out the door. As soon as their car pulled out of the parking lot, he bounded down the stairs and into Harriet’s car. He found a map in her glove compartment, checked where he was going, and headed out for the Queensway and Stittsville.

  The long spring evening was just beginning as Sanders pulled south off the expressway, grateful to get the low sun out of his eyes. A medium blue car pulled off after him; he slowed down perceptibly to get it off his tail. Instead of using the deserted road to pass, it too slowed down. He looked again. A fairly new Ford Escort, front license plates blurred with mud and rust. He picked up speed suddenly, found some traffic to put between them, and pulled far ahead before settling back down to the speed limit. The blue Ford appeared to be gone. He must be catching the prevailing local paranoia. He couldn’t even let a perfectly ordinary car exit from the Queensway without being consumed by suspicion. He glanced at his watch. He’d be in Stittsville around seven-thirty.