Little Boy Blues

by Mary Jane Maffini

  “I thought you might talk to Mombourquette.”

  “Will do.”

  “And make sure you tell him I don’t believe it’s P. J. Not even a little bit.”

  Thirty

  Back at Mrs. Parnell’s, the war room was booming. Vince was there, as well as Tracy and Frances Ann. Mrs. Parnell had morphed into General Patton at his finest. Even Vince was on his best behaviour.

  Mrs. Parnell signalled me to meet her in the kitchen. Once there, she lowered her voice. “I don’t want to upset the Fergusons, but there’s no joy from Sydney. Loretta talked to Mrs. Smith. She remembers Mrs. Redmore well. And Honey. Apparently they attended the same church. To make a long story short, she’s absolutely certain neither one was the woman chasing Jimmy in the backyard.”

  Back in the living room, the mob was getting restless. Alvin sat poised on the edge of the black leather sofa, several large bags from Radio Shack at his feet. Mrs. P. picked up a laser pointer and beamed a red dot at a series of blue Xes on a large chart taped on the wall. Lester and Pierre shrieked support. Gussie grinned.

  “Damn, I forgot to bring the cat,” I said.

  “Sit down, Ms. MacPhee. We are planning our deployment to isolate and contain Jimmy Ferguson.”

  “Really.”

  “You will be an essential part of our strategy.”

  “What exactly are you planning?”

  “Pincer movements.”

  “Of course.”

  “Don’t mock, Ms. MacPhee. Surely you didn’t think we were sitting on our backsides while you did the investigating?”

  It was one of those questions best not answered. “Tell me what you’re planning.”

  “Young Ferguson here is convinced his brother will come to the youth night concert tomorrow.”

  “The Matthew Good Band concert. Jimmy really wanted to go. It was the main thing he wanted to talk about when I found him yesterday.”

  “You think he could get in without being spotted?”

  “We hope to find him early on, but he may be able to slip by us.”

  “The whole family’s going to be there.”

  “What if he sees you? Will he run away?”

  “We’ll take a leaf from the killer’s book,” Mrs. Parnell said, pointing to a pile of red baseball caps.

  “The Ottawa police will be combing the place,” Deveau said.

  Alvin paled. “That’s the worst thing you can do. Ever since you guys hauled him in, Jimmy’s afraid of cops in uniform. He kept hiding from them when he was on the run. If he sees cops, he’ll take off, and we won’t find him until it’s too late.”

  I said, “Okay, stop hopping around, Alvin. I’d be the last person to deny the police can be kind of ham-handed.”

  Deveau looked kind of hurt, but I couldn’t help that.

  “Precisely, Ms. MacPhee. That’s why we have a better plan.” I said, “But they don’t need to be in uniform. They could give us some plainclothes officers and we could...”

  “Hear us out.” Mrs. P. flashed her pointer.

  I sank down on the leather sofa and listened.

  “As soon as the subject is spotted and his location confirmed, Platoon A will advance from behind these hills to the East and move in a westerly direction.”

  “Who’s platoon A?”

  “That’s me,” said Alvin. “I’ll be moving in a westerly direction.”

  “Platoon B, that would be Vince, Tracy and Frances Ann, will come from the North. And platoon C will be moving forward obliquely from the Southwest and…”

  “Let me guess who Platoon C is.”

  “Please resist the urge to interrupt, Ms. MacPhee. You will play your part.”

  “Platoons A, B and C will remain in contact through Command Central.”

  Ah. No need to ask.

  “And how will these communications be managed?”

  “Bring out the materiel, dear boy.”

  I watched as Alvin produced boxes of walkie-talkies. It might have felt like Christmas if we hadn’t been so worried about Jimmy.

  “They’re easy to use, Camilla,” he said. “They work up to three kilometres. We just need to get our codes arranged.”

  “That’s right,” said the field commander, putting down the laser pointer just long enough to jam a fresh Benson and Hedges into her cigarette holder. “Everyone will get one, and we will use them to co-ordinate our approaches.”

  Gussie’s tail beat a tattoo on Mrs. Parnell’s hardwood floor.

  • • •

  “Don’t feel bad about it,” I said to Deveau, as he left my apartment some time later. “I’m sure if you’re a good boy, they’ll let you be Platoon D.”

  He chuckled. “I’ll be there with the local guys. They’re not as dopey as you think. They’ll be undercover.”

  “But he’s bound to know you.”

  “Not a chance. He might recognize your Keystone Cops down the hall, but I guarantee, he won’t spot me.”

  “Mysterious. But good, I suppose.”

  He leaned in a bit. “What about you, Nancy Drew? Will you be keeping an eye on your so-called date, the liar?”

  • • •

  The rest of Wednesday was a nailbiter. We spun our wheels around town, combing bike paths, peering under bridges, easing our way through shelters and parks, hospital waiting rooms, walk-in clinics, the Food Bank, the Shepherds, the Sally Ann, the Rideau Centre, the food courts and vacant lots, the back alleys and the tawdry strip of tattoo parlours, junk shops and sleaze on Rideau where the street kids hung out.

  All without a glimpse of Jimmy.

  “Sorry to be the one to tell you,” Deveau said, “but the Ottawa guys hauled in your friend.”

  “They’re holding him?”

  “Questioning. So they tell me.”

  “I better get over there. I don’t believe P. J. could be involved in this. No matter how it looks.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first person to be fooled by a con artist.”

  By the time I got to Elgin Street, Mombourquette had finished the questioning. P. J. passed me with his head down as he walked out the front door. For some reason, he wasn’t speaking to me.

  • • •

  We had a lot riding on the Matthew Good Band concert.

  The Ottawa cops had planned to ring the area. Deveau was their secret weapon. After all, he knew Jimmy, and chances were good he could recognize him even in the unlikely event Jimmy managed to disguise himself.

  The unofficial team, led by General Violet Parnell-Patton, was assembling HQ, collecting walkie-talkies and practising their roger over and outs. I got my marching orders, walked Jimmy’s dog, fed the commandant’s kitty, picked out my baseball cap and sunglasses and paced.

  Nothing much would be happening at Bluesfest before nine-thirty, when the band tuned up. At eight-fifteen, I figured I had nothing better to do and nothing to lose. Everyone else seemed to have some kind of important and urgent task.

  That gave me time to skip to the Ottawa General and try to see if I could slip in and see Father Blaise. I took the sunflower.

  I grabbed a cab to the General. Lucky I had twenty dollars in the pocket of my jeans for the fare, because we had pulled up in front of the main door before I noticed I had forgotten my backpack at home. That’s the state you can get in when someone who is more than just a friend might be something very different.

  I had no cellphone either, but then you can’t use a cellphone in a hospital anyway. I had my housekeys with my serious Swiss Army knife, but that didn’t help. They don’t make a Swiss Army knife with a cellphone. Maybe they should.

  • • •

  “That’s right. I am Father Blaise’s niece,” I said, making every effort not to look shifty-eyed. I wasn’t sure where this would rate on the scale of sins. “We’re so glad to hear he has regained consciousness. Mom can’t get out of the rest home to see him. I represent the family.”

  Lucky this niece got a round-faced, chatty nurse. “You’re fortu
nate. He’s conscious now. He’ll be glad to see a family member.”

  Father Blaise gazed nearsightedly at me, mystified. “Niece?” he said. “How lovely, a new niece.”

  “Oh, dear,” I whispered to the nurse. “His memory’s not good at the best of times. I hope the accident doesn’t make it worse.”

  “My memory’s better than yours, I’ll bet,” Father Blaise whispered. He lay like a grey lump in the bed. With the bandage around his head and no sign of his glasses, I wouldn’t have known him.

  Good thing the plump, cheerful nurse was already making her smiling way to check on another patient.

  “White lie,” I said. “We need to talk. It’s a matter of life and death for Jimmy, and they only let family in.”

  “You’re that MacPhee girl,” he said, weakly.

  “Looks like you had a rough time, Father.”

  “Nice chance to slow down,” he said. “We all need a break every now and then.”

  Adversity brings out the best in some people.

  “Father, I need your help. Jimmy Ferguson is still missing. I think it has to do with one or more incidents that happened in the past. So I’m really glad to hear your memory’s so good.”

  “Go on.” That gave me a shiver. How many times have I heard those words in confession?

  “The first incident was the accident in the park when Jimmy nearly died. We have reason to think he might have been injured by bullies. Does that mean anything to you? Would you have any idea who those bullies could have been?”

  “I’d shake my head, no, but it hurts when I shake.”

  “Fair enough. Then surely you remember the accusation against him and Honey Redmore.”

  “I certainly do. Disgraceful talk. Not that it was public, but small towns have their weaknesses.”

  “He was supposed to be at the Youth Club.”

  “It doesn’t matter where he was. He has his flaws, don’t we all, and he could be foolish, but I know in my heart he could never, never have done what they said.”

  “Thank you. I have a question about the boy who might have made the allegation, Will Redmore. I know he isn’t Catholic, but you may have known him.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember Will.”

  “Do you think he could have been a bully? Or capable of lying about the accusation that Jimmy assaulted his sister?”

  “That’s very serious. I couldn’t speculate. I knew him. He was a bit of a hellion in his early teens. I won’t say what he did, but his parents got him away from certain bad companions and packed him off to boarding school. I don’t remember which one, but it did the trick. He certainly settled down. He turned out well, successful, high profile, good son, that’s what counts.” Father Blaise seemed exhausted with the effort.

  “Just a couple more questions, Father.” My heart was pounding. But you gotta do what you gotta do. “Did you know a boy named P. J. Lynch? Red hair, freckles. Gap between his teeth? He’s thirty now. About the same age as Will Redmore. A bit older than his sister.”

  “No, I’m sure I don’t know that boy. No. Not one of mine.”

  “Thank God. And you can’t tell me anything more about Will Redmore?”

  “No. We mustn’t judge children because of their early behaviour. Adolescents are very fragile and easily influenced. They need a chance to prove themselves. Will turned out fine. And so did his friend.”

  “Friend. What friend?” Oops. A bit too loud.

  “What are you doing? This is a desperately sick man, you can’t upset him.” The plump, cheerful nurse stood behind me with her hands on her hips. I guess her initial opinion of me had changed.

  “Tell me what friend, Father.”

  “The other boy that was always in trouble. He was always the ringleader, in my opinion.”

  The nurse said, “You’d better leave.” She grabbed my arm. I shook her off.

  I leaned over Father Blaise’s bed. “What was his name, Father?”

  “He turned out fine too. I saw him last week, just before I left on my holiday.” Father Blaise’s voice began to trail off. Softly.

  The nurse called for help.

  “It’s good, you know, when the things we do pay off. Sports, drama club, those things can change a boy.”

  “His name, Father. Life or death.”

  “A long time ago that boy. So angry when he first showed up at the Youth Club. Setting fires. Stealing cars. Roughing up other children. But he certainly came to life on the stage. He could transform himself. It was marvellous. It’s what drama is all about. Gave him the polish he needs for public life. It helped him to deal with his anger.”

  Two burly orderlies appeared.

  “He’s still angry, Father. He killed Reefer. He ran you down. We need to find him before he kills Jimmy Ferguson.”

  The orderlies picked me up, one by each elbow. I tried to grab for the bed, then the doorframe.

  “No, no. You must be mistaken,” Father Blaise said, his eyes half-closed. “He turned out very well. I’m sure he’ll get elected.”

  Holy shit.

  I didn’t actually need security to speed me on my way. I was ready to race out the front door of the hospital so I could use my cellphone to call Mombourquette, Deveau, Alvin, Mrs. P. Everybody. But, of course, I didn’t have my cellphone.

  Or money for a payphone.

  Or money for a taxi, for that matter.

  Thirty-One

  The cab driver was pretty irritated as he accompanied me to my apartment. Some people lack a highly developed sense of humour. His mood did not improve when Gussie, the mildest of dogs, took an instant dislike to him.

  “Thank you, Gussie,” I said when I shut the door after the cabby had fled with my last twenty. “You’re like a secret weapon.”

  Gussie’s tail thumped.

  “In more ways than one,” I said.

  • • •

  I called Honey Redmore from Mrs. Parnell’s number. There’s more than one way to deal with Call Display.

  “Tell me,” I said when she answered, “did your mother lose a Hermès scarf in Sydney?”

  “How did you know that?” she said, before she caught herself. “I have nothing more to say to you. One more call and I’ll take legal action.”

  “I’d say you’d better be careful who you line up with here. Legal action plays both ways. Since you are choosing to protect people, you may find yourself in the hot seat with them. Your choice.”

  While I spoke to Honey, Mrs. Parnell got busy. “Pictures of Nicholas Southern and Will Redmore? Of course, I can get them off the web,” she’d said.

  “Good. We need to show both of them to Alvin. Fast.”

  “It will only take a minute.”

  “P. J. was in Prince Edward Island with Southern on June 30th when he got called back here because of his mother’s heart attack. I need confirmation Nicholas Southern was in Sydney on July 1st, officially, or otherwise. And I’ll need Southern’s bio, if you can find one.”

  Mrs. P. kept her computer and colour printer humming, while I made calls. I had just left messages with Mombourquette, Deveau, Alvin and P. J. when she slapped a sheaf of paper in front of me.

  She’d pulled up some good images of Southern and Redmore from the web. “Thanks, Mrs. P. We’ll show them to Alvin. Maybe he can identify them as the boys in the park.”

  “We see their faces splashed all over the media. It is hard to imagine young Ferguson wouldn’t have recognized them.”

  “Maybe. But it was a long time ago, and the context is so different. And Alvin follows the art scene, not politics.”

  “I’ll keep trying to find out where Southern was on Sunday.”

  “Thanks, I’ll check the bio.”

  “I printed out a couple of them. Try the long version.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “What is it, Ms. MacPhee?”

  “It’s all here. Nicholas Southern lived in Sydney among many other places for a while as a young teenager. Then he moved with his mothe
r to Calgary at sixteen. What else? Business degree on full scholarship. Active in drama and politics at university. Bless you, Mrs. P., and bless Father Blaise too.”

  “If I may say so, I believe these are slim grounds to accuse a public figure of these heinous crimes. But, who am I? You are the lawyer.”

  “And I’m building my case.”

  Of all the other people I needed to speak to, only Deveau returned my call. His timing couldn’t have been better. “How well do you remember the alleged assault on Honey Redmore?” I said. “Just answer. Don’t give me any bull about the YOA. I’m asking you how well you remember it.”

  “Well enough.”

  “Do you recall if there was anyone else in the house at the time except for the family and possibly Jimmy?”

  “Jeez. You don’t ask much, do you?”

  “Answer me.”

  “I think there was another guy there. A friend of the brother. He didn’t get involved, though. Just backed up the story.”

  “Nicholas Southern,” I said.

  “The software guy on the political crusade? What about him?”

  “Was he there?”

  Silence. Silence from cops, even nice ones, can be a good sign.

  “Did you know him in Sydney? My source says he got into plenty of trouble as a kid.”

  “I remember him.”

  “Don’t get slippery. Answer this question. Was he in trouble with the law as a juvenile?”

  “Come on now. We’ve been all through this.”

  “Fine. You could tell me where he lived. That wouldn’t violate any laws.”

  “I don’t see what difference it would make, but he and his mother had an apartment on Charlotte Street.”

  “Near the park?”

  “What of it?”

  “Okay. Now I’ll talk. You listen. Here’s what I think happened. Nicholas Southern and Will Redmore are buddies. A couple of smart kids with chips on their shoulders and nasty dispositions. Get in a bit of trouble in school. They push the younger kids around. Rough them up. Maybe get noticed by the cops. You with me?”

  “I’m not breaking the law.”

  “Good. So one day, things get out of hand, and a child is injured seriously. The child is Jimmy.”