Striking Out (15 page)

When I got home, I found Andy and T.C. on the couch, eyes glued to the television screen. I glanced at it for long enough to see Sean Connery, some blonde hair, and a whole lot of cleavage.

“Oh, isn’t this cosy,” I said. “The boys, James Bonding.”

“Shhh!” Andy said.

“We’re just at the good part,” T.C. explained.

The screen erupted with explosions and noise.

“Cool!” T.C. said. I left the room.

They were still at it when Tip Keenan arrived, looking more comfortable in jeans and a T-shirt. I apologized on the way up the stairs, but he wasn’t having any of it. He just told T.C. to shove over and joined them.

“Oh, great, I didn’t miss Odd Job,” he said.

I gave up and, like a good little woman, offered to get drinks. T.C. asked to stay for the meeting and we couldn’t think of any reason why he shouldn’t.

“But what you hear here stays here,” I said.

“I promise,” he said, looking suitably solemn.

“Let me give you the background, Tip,” Andy said, then told him what we knew of Maggie’s story, with interruptions from T.C. and me, who, after all, knew her better than he did. But, truth be told, Andy summarized the story more efficiently than I ever could, with fewer detours.

“So what’s your take?” Keenan asked, when Andy was finished. “Could she have done it?”

“No way,” T.C. said. “Not Maggie.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I think I’ve got to agree with T.C., just because of the way it was done.”

“You mean the murder was too brutal for a woman?” Tip asked.

I thought about it for a long moment.

“That’s probably part of it,” I admitted. “I mean, I certainly know women are capable of murder. But doesn’t that kind of mutilation imply a great rage? That’s what steers me away from Maggie. I think that Maggie was completely in control of herself, even of her anger. What I mean, I guess, is that if Maggie decided to kill her husband, I figure she would just do it and take off, not stab him over and over again. Not cut off his hands like some kind of grisly souvenir.”

“I seem to remember from my days on the force that a body that is disguised like this, stripped of clothes, rid of fingerprints, can indicate the murderer knows the victim,” Tip said. “Isn’t that right, Andy?”

“That’s often the way it is,” Andy agreed. “Remember, Kate, she hated him, and she had ten years to chew over what he had done to her. Ten not very comfortable years. If it hadn’t been for his abuse, she would still be living in the mansion, not on the street. That rage could have exploded when she felt herself under threat again.”

“You could be right.” I said. “Besides, according to her son, the Carlsons were one big happy family. Maggie’s the only one talking about abuse. I don’t know which of them to believe.”

“Well, I believe Maggie.” T.C. said, stubbornly.

“Tell you what.” Keenan said. “Why don’t I tell you what I know, then we’ll put it together and see where we are.”

He unzipped the cracked brown leather folder he had brought with him and pulled out a file. He opened it and spread some messy notes out on the coffee table.

“On June 15th, I got a call from Jack Carlson. He’d been referred by someone I had done some work for in Milwaukee. He was looking for his wife, Mary, who had been missing for ten years.”

“Pete said that he’d been looking off and on ever since.” I said. “Hadn’t he ever tried Toronto before? I gather Maggie, or Mary, was Canadian.”

“He said he had, a couple of times, but wanted to try again. I did the usual checks, phone books, voters’ lists, the Ministry of Transport for a driver’s licence, and came up empty. The
NOW
ad was just a fishing expedition.”

“Why
NOW,
instead of one of the bigger papers?” I asked.

“I figured that since I couldn’t find her in the mainstream, someone out of it might know about her. Like I said, I didn’t really expect anything out of it, but, hell, it wasn’t my money. So I put it in for two weeks.”

“What response did you get?” Andy asked. “Aside from Kate.”

“A couple that sounded good.”

“The Greek guy at the restaurant and the man known as Hoss.”

Keenan looked surprised.

“How do you know that?”

“You’re not the only one with sources.” I said.

“Can it, Kate.” Andy said, then turned to his buddy. “She has this dangerous hobby, playing detective.”

“I’m a reporter.” I said. “It’s what I do.”

“If you ever want to get out of the newspaper racket, give me a call.” Keenan said. “Anyway, you’re right. Those were the two who knew her. The cook didn’t know where she lived, though. He just knew her from the restaurant.”

“How did he know her by her real name?” I asked.

“Just a guess. He saw her read the ads, then split in a hurry. After, he checked the page she’d been reading and figured it was worth a call. Five thousand bucks is a nice reward.”

“But it was Hoss who told you where she was.” I said.

“It took me a couple of days to get in touch with him.”

“Who’s Hoss?” T.C. asked.

“He’s the man you call Mr. Bottle,” I said.

“But he liked her. Why would he turn her in?”

“All those bucks look pretty good when you’re a bottle picker with a booze problem.” I said. “That kind of money would buy a lot of cooking sherry.”

I turned back to Keenan.

“Did you pay him all the money?”

“No, I gave him five hundred dollars for showing me where she was. He was going to get the rest from Carlson.”

“But first you went and spoke with her.” Andy said.

“Yes, how do you know about that?” he asked, mildly surprised again.

“You can thank T.C. and his friends for that bit of information,” I laughed.

“Me and my friend Anthony asked around the neighbourhood after she disappeared,” he said. “Someone saw her yelling at you. Except we didn’t know it was you. We found the body, too. Well, our friends did, actually. But it was our search.”

“Ever thought of opening your own agency, Munro? You’ve got a couple of hot operatives right under your roof.”

“A couple of meddlers is more like it,” he said. “One of these times, they’re going to find themselves in too deep.”

“Tell me about your conversation with Maggie,” I said, to get Andy off that track. “When was that?”

“Tuesday. It didn’t last long. I asked her if she was Mary Carlson, and she denied it. I had the photograph he sent me, and she looked like the right lady. I showed her, and told her that her husband was anxious to know she was alive, that he wanted her to come home. She started to yell at me. Said she’d call the cops if I didn’t stop bothering her. She got pretty wild.”

He paused, then continued.

“She pulled a knife. Threatened me. That’s when I backed off. Said I must have been mistaken and got out of there. But I called Carlson and told him I’d found her.”

“So it was you who scared her away,” I said.

“I’m afraid so. I probably should have waited for Carlson to get there, but I had to be sure I had the right woman.”

He sipped his beer.

“I’ll tell you, that woman in the alley didn’t look much like the picture he sent, and I didn’t want to bring him up on a wild goose chase.”

He took a five-by-seven print out of the folder.

“The same one you saw this morning,” he said. “Have a look, T.C.”

He shrugged.

“Oh, yeah. I saw that one already.”

Tip looked surprised.

“Like you said, a hot operative,” I said. “But please go on, Tip. You left Maggie there, having decided she was the right woman, and what, you called Carlson?”

“Yeah. I had talked to him Saturday, saying I had a lead. On Tuesday, after I talked to her, I called to confirm. He flew up that night. I put him in touch with Hoss. Never saw him again.”

“And that’s the last anybody’s seen of Hoss, too,” I said. “Weren’t you surprised when Carlson didn’t get back to you?”

“No, he paid me my fee and told me he’d take it from there. I’ve got other cases to keep me busy.”

“How did you find out he was dead?”

“Well, Pete called me a few days ago, said he hadn’t heard from his father, and what did I know about it.”

“How did he know to call you?” Andy asked.

“I guess his father told him he was coming up. They worked pretty closely together, as I understand it.”

“So what did you say to him?”

“I told him where Carlson was staying, which he already knew, and said I’d look into it. Next day I read in the paper about the unidentified stiff, and figured it could be my guy. So I called Stimac and told him. He called the son, and one thing led to another.”

“So you’ve handed over everything to Walt Stimac?” Andy asked, rather too pointedly, I thought.

“Yeah, I’m right out of the murder investigation, but I’m meeting with the family tomorrow, after the brother and sister get here. Pete wants to hire me to find their mother again.”

“Good luck,” Andy said.

“Hell, I get paid again just for trying,” Keenan replied, raising, then draining, his glass.

“And we can help you,” T.C. said. “Can’t we, Kate?”

“I think I hear your mother calling,” I said.

Andy had a terrible night, tossing and turning so much he woke me, talking in his sleep, clearly in the grip of nightmares. I woke him a couple of times, trying to calm him down, and once got up and brought him a pain pill. He didn’t noticeably appreciate my Florence Nightingale imitation. Around three, I left him, got a sleeping bag out of the storage closet, and moved to the couch in my study.

Next morning, when I went to get the papers, I found an envelope on the porch. It was greeting-card-size, sealed but not addressed. I brought it up and left it on the kitchen table with the papers, then gave in to Elwy’s loud protestations of hunger.

After I’d fed the cat, I poured Andy a cup of coffee and took it to him in bed. He cursed when I woke him, and pulled the sheet over his head, so I left the coffee on the trunk that serves as a bedside table.

I took my own coffee, and the papers, down to the garden, which is shaded from the morning sun. The
Planet
gave front-page play to the identification of John Carlson’s body. “Murdered Man a Tourist,” read the headline. There were pictures of Carlson, and of Maggie, from her former life, and a request from Stimac for information about her whereabouts. The head of the Metro tourist board was quoted saying reassuring things about the safety of our streets.

I glanced at the
World’s
sports section, which had a bogus strike story out of New York. Nothing was happening, but their columnist, Bill Sanderson, was justifying his expense account by stringing some quotes from his “informed sources” together into a column that delivered less than it promised. I decided to call a few of my own guys and get something better for the next day’s
Planet
.

I was halfway through the cryptic crossword when Andy came down the back steps. He had the envelope I’d found, and forgotten, in his hand.

“What’s this?”

“Beats me. Open it.”

He tore it open and took out the card, which had praying hands and a pastel rainbow on it. He read it, grunted, then handed it to me.

“Hold it by the edges,” he said.

In neat, old-fashioned handwriting, it read “It wasn’t Reverend Ken who threw the blood. On Tuesday night, Mr. Fitzgerald left the counselling centre. He had the bucket with him. I saw him. DON’T BLAME REVEREND KEN.”

The last part was not only capitalized, but underlined. The note was unsigned.

“I guess we should pass this on to the police,” I said.

“Yes, I guess we should.”

“Do you want to call them?”

“No, I think you should.”

I got up and headed for the back stairs.

“Why not? I can be in good with you guys for a change.”

“Bring the coffee when you come back,” Andy called, settling into the most comfortable lawn chair, the one I’d just left.

Stimac sounded surprised to hear from me, and said he’d send an officer around for the card and envelope.

“Put it in a Ziploc bag or something. Fingerprints.”

“Is this important?”

“No, it just confirms what we thought, that the blood had nothing to do with the murder. But I’ll still send someone to talk to this Mr. Fitzgerald. He might have seen something.”

“Or he could even have killed the guy.”

“The wife is still our best suspect. I don’t suppose you’ve heard from her since we last spoke.”

“Not a word,” I said. Well, it was the truth. It was Janet Sachs who had heard from her.

“You understand how important it is that we find her,” Stimac was saying.

“Of course. I saw the story in the paper. But there is one thing I forgot to tell you the other day. There was an ad about Maggie in
NOW
Magazine.”

“Yes, we know about that. The one Tip Keenan placed. He told us about it. He also told us that you were one of the people who answered it.”

“Well, yes. I just thought I’d tell you, just in case.”

“I’m glad you finally got around to it. How’s Andy?”

“He’s okay. He’s in the garden. Do you want me to get him?”

“No, don’t bother him. Tell him I’ll be by to see him soon. Off duty.”

“Will do.”

I went back downstairs with the coffee. Andy had not only taken over my chair, he was doing my puzzle.

“I can’t figure these damn clues out. Like, how did you get ‘recently’ from ‘money put in bank lately’?”

“Cent—money—in rely—bank, as in bank on something, rely on something.”

“You have a twisted mind,” he said, handing me the paper, and my pen. “What are you doing today?”

“I’m working at home this morning, but I might have to go to the office for a few hours. Will you be all right without me?”

“I don’t need my hand held.” he said.

“I wasn’t suggesting you do. I just worry about you getting bored. Why don’t you call Jim?”

“I don’t need to call anyone.” he said, more sharply. I backed off.

“Sorry. How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“Are you exhausted? You had a pretty rough night.”

“I slept fine.”

“No you didn’t. I was right next to you. You had nightmares all night. Maybe you should call that crisis team you told me about.”

“Maybe you should butt out and let me handle this myself.”

I’m not good at fights. You don’t learn that particular skill in the manse of a small-town Saskatchewan United Church. When I get really angry, all I know how to do is freeze up. So I froze and picked up the paper, pretending to be figuring the puzzle, with the clues swimming in front of my eyes.

Andy got up and went inside. I stayed put. He came downstairs five minutes later with a plate of fruit and cheese and half a baguette from Sunday night.

“Better have some breakfast before you go to work,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“I think I’ll start on the exercise bike today.”

“Good idea.”

“And I’ll walk down to the Danforth later and pick up dinner.”

“Fine.”

We were saved from this horrible politeness by T.C., who banged out of the back door. He greeted us, then sat down on the porch step to lace on his rollerblades.

“Where’s your helmet?” Andy asked. T.C. rolled his eyes.

“I don’t need it. I’m a good skater. None of the other guys wear them.”

“T.C. you know what your mother says,” I said. “Knee and elbow pads too. Don’t get me in trouble with her.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll get them.”

When he set off down the path between the houses, helmet firmly on, looking as dorky as he felt, Andy and I looked at each other and laughed.

“I know, I know.” I said. “The gear will be stashed in the bushes within two minutes. But I did my bit.”

The laughter helped. I left Andy with Elwy and the papers and went inside to my study.