by Medora Sale
“You left in a hell of a hurry for someone who just thought he had a few days coming to him, Gruber,” said Dubinsky. “Not very convincing.”
Gruber looked at him with one raised eyebrow and said nothing.
Sanders brought his fist down on the table in front of him with a crash. “Get the hell off the pot, Gruber. Let’s stop playing games. The girl has identified you. That was a pretty stupid thing to do if you didn’t want to spend the next twenty years in maximum security. You know what they do to cops in there, Gruber? It’s not very nice. You don’t want to spend twenty years watching out for a knife in your back every time you turn around.”
“What girl?” said Gruber. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The girl you went off so nobly to help us find on Thursday morning, Gruber. The one who screamed as soon as she saw you again and ran like hell. Why do you suppose she screamed, Gruber?”
“I don’t know, sir,” said Rick. “I suppose the poor kid was confused.”
“No—she was the one you were planning to murder, only she got away from you. You bungled it, Gruber, and you got caught.” Gruber looked at the ceiling, apparently fascinated by some non-existent pattern traced on its plain white surface. Sanders’ voice got lower and lower until it was almost a whisper. “She was awake, Gruber. All that time you were farting around figuring out how to finish her off, she was awake. And listening. Your little friend, Jimmy, gave you bad advice about putting people out. You didn’t give her enough, and she woke up. And so we know what you were going to do, only we don’t know why. And that’s what you’re going to tell us, Gruber. You’re going to tell us why, and you’re going to tell us the names of everyone else involved in this.” He stopped to let it sink in. Gruber continued to stare at the ceiling, apparently oblivious to his surroundings, happy to sit quietly and observe.
“I think maybe we should just leave him for a while to think about things, don’t you, John?” said Dubinsky, in a pleasant, reasonable tone of voice. “I mean, like he has to think up a story about where he got that car from, and all that fancy equipment in his expensive apartment. That might take him a while, don’t you think?” Sanders nodded, and Dubinsky went to the door and signaled to the constable waiting outside.
“We’ll be back,” said Sanders. “Soon. Think about what you’re going to tell us, Gruber. It had better be good.” He turned to the man coming in. “Give him some dinner. We wouldn’t want him to complain about the way we treat prisoners in here. We’ll be back in an hour.”
“You eating?” asked Dubinsky, as they headed for the collection of little fast-food stands and restaurants in the complex nearby.
“Not yet,” said Sanders, sliding into a quiet table. “Get me a coffee while you’re up there, will you?” He flipped him two quarters.
“I think,” said Dubinsky, when he had finished with his chow mein, “that he’s ready to do a deal, don’t you?”
“I’d say so. He knows we’ve got him and he’s worried. I hope he knows it, anyway. By the way, has anything come in on the Parsons woman today?”
“Kranik said that they were going to try to operate on her head again, maybe tomorrow morning. They’re surprised she’s still alive—think maybe if they get the crud out of her skull”—Sanders looked greenly at him—“bone chips and stuff like that, you know. Anyway, Kranik’s word, not mine.”
“Do you think she’ll regain consciousness?”
“Maybe. There’s a chance it’ll work, I guess.”
Half an hour later they were back in the little room. Gruber didn’t look as if dinner had improved him much.
“Let me put it this way, Gruber,” said Sanders, quiet and confidential. “We might be willing to believe that kidnapping the Griffiths girl wasn’t your idea in the first place. I mean, you’re probably not bright enough to have worked out a plan like that. And we have lots of evidence that you’re on the take, Gruber. You’re going to have trouble explaining all that money in your bank account, all those expensive toys in your apartment. Have you considered what we have on you? Kidnapping, attempted murder, accepting bribes, just to start with. But you’re a very small minnow, and we want the big fish, Gruber. Who is he?
What was the idea behind kidnapping the girl? Who’s Jimmy? We would like to talk to Jimmy, Gruber. We really would.” His voice trailed off. He smiled at Gruber.
There was a long pause. Gruber looked from Sanders to Dubinsky. “I want a new identity,” he said, suddenly. “And immunity from prosecution.”
“You won’t need a new identity if we catch the big fish. He won’t be around. And I doubt, somehow, that I could get immunity past the Crown. Not for a police officer. The public doesn’t like its police on the take. But I might get charges reduced. Maybe even enough to make you eligible for a provincial institution. You don’t want to go to a federal institution, do you?”
“Christ,” he muttered. “You guys don’t realize what could happen to me if I open my mouth.”
“We’ll do our best, Gruber,” said Sanders. “But you should bloody well have thought of that before you got involved in this.”
“I don’t know that much,” he whined. His thin mustache was soaked with sweat. “I don’t know who the big fish is. I only dealt with Jimmy.”
“Jimmy who?”
“Jimmy Fielding. I don’t know where he lives. He has an office on Dundas Street West, above a crummy Chinese restaurant, The Golden Apple. Only a couple of blocks from here.”
“What does Mr. Fielding do in that office?” asked Sanders.
“He’s an agent—for all sorts of things. He does some importing, and runs a translation service and that sort of thing, and acts on behalf of immigrants who have problems.”
“You mean he smuggles in illegals? And then slides them into the States for a bit extra.”
Rick squirmed a bit. “Well, maybe. I don’t know.”
“And where did you fit into his little business?”
“Well—I didn’t have to do much. Sometimes I just turned up when he was talking to someone and stood there. He just liked to have someone in uniform there; it made him feel safer, he said. Jesus, it’s just like the supermarket people hiring an off-duty to stand in the goddamn parking lot. It wasn’t anything to worry about.”
“Sure,” said Sanders. “Only in the office was some poor bugger who didn’t understand English and was terrified of people in uniform, and Fielding used you to extort what he wanted from him, didn’t he?” Gruber shrugged. “And what else did you do, besides intimidating illegals?”
“Well—sometimes I just carried packages around. I don’t know what was in them, but they were packages he didn’t want anyone to steal. So he figured no one would knock off a cop, you know.”
“Shit!” said Sanders. “Packages. Come on, Gruber, you’re not that stupid. Just what in hell was he importing? Heroin? Where did you pick it up from? The airport?” Gruber nodded. “Carried in by innocent-looking tourist types, I suppose.” Gruber nodded again. “And you were in uniform? And driving a patrol car?” Gruber nodded for the third time. “Christ. That’s all we need.”
“I don’t think it was heroin, though,” said Gruber.
“Oh, good,” said Sanders. “What was it?”
“Coke.”
“That’s nice. It’s much classier, isn’t it? Goes with the apartment and the silk shirts.” He stuck his head out the door. “Hey you. Get someone to come in and take Mr. Gruber’s statement. We’re off to find a friend of his.” Then he turned back. “By the way, Gruber, why did you snatch the Griffiths girl?”
“I dunno,” he said. “Jimmy said the boss wanted her out of the way, and it had to be done in just that way. You’ll have to ask Jimmy.”
“I will,” said Sanders. “I will.”
Mr. Jimmy Fielding was sitting tranquilly in his large, grubby office, that, with b
athroom and kitchen attached, formed the entire second floor of the building that housed The Golden Apple. Smells of old grease and newly burned food wandered up through various cracks and crannies in the floor and reminded him that he had not as yet had his dinner. But he was waiting for a client. Because of the nature of his business dealings, which were many—those that Gruber had known about were only a small sampling of the rich variety of his services—he often worked evening hours. To accommodate honest working folk. Tonight he was pleased with life. Gruber had screwed up, but Gruber had had the sense to disappear. If he had done what he was told, he should be in the Cayman Islands by now, happily living on what had been banked there for him. And when that ran out, he could be useful at the Caribbean end of things. But he was going to have to find another cop—someone as greedy as Gruber, but a touch cleverer.
At the sound of a step on the stair, he looked at his watch. Right on time. Good. That meant he was anxious and would be easier to deal with. “Come in,” he called jovially as soon as he saw a hand raised to the milky glass of the door. His feet abruptly left his desk and the welcoming grin his face when he saw his two visitors.
“Well, now gentlemen, may I help you? I have a client arriving very soon, so—”
“Well, well,” said Dubinsky, “if it isn’t little Jimmy Feldman. I haven’t seen you for a while.”
“Good evening, Sergeant. It is Sergeant now, isn’t it? But what brings you here? Surely it’s not a crime for someone to change his name and embark upon a life of hard work and legitimate endeavor, is it?” He smiled.
“Certainly not,” said Sanders. “but we’re here to talk about a kidnapping. As well as various other little enterprises.”
“Kidnapping?” said Jimmy, in tones of astonishment.
“Yes, Mr. Fielding. The kidnapping of Miss Amanda Griffiths. We’ve got you, you know. She identified Gruber, and Gruber fingered you. You can’t trust anybody these days.”
“Gruber?”
“Yeah.” Dubinsky leaned casually against the door. “Constable, or should I say, ex-Constable Rick Gruber, your partner in this alleged kidnapping.”
“Oh. That Gruber. Yes, indeed.” Fielding paused for a while, the pleasant smile sitting poised on his face. “An over-anxious and not very clever young man, I’m afraid. I fear he jumps to conclusions and misunderstands the simplest requests.”
“He does? In what way did he misunderstand you, Mr. Fielding?”
“Ah well. It was a simple custody case—you know, one of these instances in which children become the pawns of warring parents.”
“You’re about to make me sick,” said Sanders. “Get to the point.”
“Well, a very unhappy man came to see me a little while ago, with a very sad story. His beloved daughter had been snatched by his wife—a dreadful woman, apparently, with no morals to speak of—and had been placed in an expensive girls’ school where she was miserable. The place is a veritable prison. He hadn’t been allowed to see her or even to speak to her. He asked me if I could help him—out of pure charity, of course—regain custody of this poor girl.” He spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. “How could I refuse? And it seemed a simple thing to do, merely picking up a girl after school and delivering her to her father.”
“In a police car? Taken from a police garage without authorization?”
“No!” said Jimmy, quivering with amazement. “He didn’t do that, did he? I told you, he was a man of more goodwill than brains. You see, my car wasn’t functioning well that day, and Constable Gruber offered to help me out by driving her to her father. I don’t know what happened. The girl must have misunderstood what was going on. We thought her father had had a chance to explain the plan to her. Or, you don’t suppose that Constable Gruber forgot himself and tried to take advantage of her, do you? He is a very young man, you know. Anyway, he called me in the evening to say that when he tried to take her to her father’s car, she panicked and ran away, and he was dreadfully afraid that she had fallen and hurt herself. I think he must have spent the rest of the night torn with remorse and trying to find her, poor chap.”
“You mean, you weren’t there?” said Sanders. “Not at all?”
“Oh, I was there when we picked the girl up, but I had other things to do, and Constable Gruber dropped me off on his way to the rendezvous. I’m afraid I don’t know what happened after that. Except what I’ve told you.” He smiled gently at the two of them.
“And who was this poor deprived father, may I ask? Do you think we could discuss the matter with him? After all, if he had a custody order, we might be able to help him have it enforced.”
“Well, the document he showed me was from the state of Maine. He said it was a custody order. But I don’t believe he gave his last name—it must, of course, be Griffiths, mustn’t it, if that’s the girl’s name. His name is Pete, and I think he’s staying at the Park Plaza Hotel—close to his daughter’s school, to catch a glimpse of her if he can. Is the girl back at school, might I ask?”
“No, you might not,” snapped Sanders. “The girl’s whereabouts is classified information. In case someone else tries to get custody of her.” Sanders leaned beside the door of the office, and Dubinsky wandered casually over to the space between the desk and the entrance to the filthy little kitchen behind. “It was a lovely story, Jimmy. I enjoyed every minute of it. Only it was a crock of shit from beginning to end. Unfortunately for you, the girl was not unconscious. Someone should have told you how much of that stuff you have to give a person her size to keep her under that long. She heard it all. And Gruber has confirmed her story. We’ve got you.”
Fielding slowly started to open the drawer of his desk, without looking to either side. His right hand moved gently into it. “Look out!” yelled Dubinsky, throwing himself at him, as Sanders ducked sideways and tried frantically to extract his gun from the tangle of his suit jacket.
“Gentlemen, please,” said Fielding. “I was only trying to get my gloves out of the drawer.” He held up a pair of gray leather gloves and slammed the drawer shut. He reached for his Irish tweed hat and his raincoat from the stand by the desk and smiled.
Dubinsky pulled at the handle. The drawer was locked. He gave it a ferocious yank and it sprang open. “Do you have a license for this?” he asked, picking the revolver up gingerly and checking to see if the safety was on. Fielding shrugged and moved toward the office door.
Marny slowly scanned the dimly lit, smoky restaurant from her position by the door. There he was, sitting with a man almost as casually elegant as himself. She tossed an incoherent mutter at the hostess and bore down on the table. “Hi, Grant,” she growled, as brightly as she could. “I thought I might run into you here.” She half-smiled with blank eyes at his companion. “That answering machine of yours gives me the twitches, and so I decided that I really needed a drink anyway. I wish you wouldn’t put such cute remarks on it. I can never think of anything to say back.”
Grant’s expression remained carefully neutral. “What a pleasant surprise,” he said, in a very unsurprised voice. “Have you met Geoff Porter? He was in the series with me.”
Marny’s head whipped around. “That must be why you look so familiar,” she said. Now warmth dripped from every syllable. “How are negotiations going with the U.S. networks and all that?” she asked cozily.
“Nothing much happening at the moment,” said Grant. Geoff raised an eyebrow in his direction and then lifted his glass to drain his drink.
“These things certainly do get stalemated,” he said agreeably. “But I had better get going. I fear I am already a little late for this evening’s jollification. Thanks for the drink. And the interesting discussion. Goodbye, uh, nice to meet you.”
“Sorry,” said Marny, as he picked his way between the tables, “I guess I chased him away.”
“Not really,” said Grant with a slight yawn. “I think he actually did have
somewhere he had to get to. Some sort of reception or other that’s due to finish in about half an hour. But why did you come searching me out? I take it that’s what you were doing. After all, Giuseppe’s isn’t your usual stomping ground, is it?”
“Look, Grant, I have to have a talk to you. Is this place safe?”
“As safe as any, sweetheart. Talk away.” He looked both amused and faintly bored.
“Well—it’s just that ever since Jane died—I mean, I’m having a party on Friday night, like usual, you know. And there are going to be a lot of people there. I used to have two contacts, but one fizzled out on me, and lately I was relying on Jane. I mean, I only used her for emergencies and extra stuff like that before, because she was more expensive than this other guy. But he’s gone to Florida, and I mean, I don’t think he’ll be coming back. Look, Grant, those people are going to be expecting to buy from me, and my only two sources have dried up.” Her voice was low and nervous; she stabbed the air between them in her eagerness to be understood. “You have a source, don’t you? Do you think you could put me on to him? Your source wasn’t just Jane, was it? I never got the impression it was.” She glanced quickly around the room, stopping to look closely at the people at the tables closest to them. The sudden voice of the waitress in her ear sent her several inches into the air until she processed the familiar words. “Yeah, thanks. I’ll have a rum and Coke.”
“Well, it used to be,” said Grant. “Although I did get a line on her supplier. He’s a useful guy. I don’t know just where he fits in in the larger scheme of things, but he does do his own importing. I imagine there’s someone higher up bankrolling him, of course. One doesn’t like to ask about these things.” His voice drawled, unconcerned. “In fact, I was about to do a deal with Jane concerning a certain expansion of interests—increased marketing, you might say, tapping a demand that certainly is there. But that is something that you and I might consider at a later date, supposing we decided that we could work together in peace and harmony.”
