The Dead Letter (14 page)

38.

“Anne? Listen. You've got problems.”

At first Anne didn't recognize Ben's voice. It was abrupt, sharp, and impatient. Anne was about to ask him how he heard about the flat-tire incident so soon, but Ben gave her no chance to interrupt.

“Where are you right now?” he asked.

“Just got into the office. Why?”

“You're going to have company.”

“What do you…”

“Just listen.”

“Do you have a photocopier?”

“Yeah.”

“Photocopy the Villier police file.”

“Yeah.”

“Photocopy any notes you've made on your investigation so far.”

“Yeah. Why?” said Anne finally able to squeeze one word into their one-sided conversation.

“They may be serving a warrant for your files. Also, that letter from Carolyn?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Put it in an envelope and mail it to yourself. All photocopies you make? Remove them from your office right away.”

“You're kidding, right?”

“Wish I were. Get on it now. I don't know how much time you have. I'll meet you for lunch and fill you in.”

Ben returned the phone to its cradle on his desk. Immediately he picked it up again, thought for a moment, and replaced it. He got up and walked quickly from his office to the office three doors down. The placard on the door read “Ministry of Justice.” The door was open. The secretary looked up from her typewriter just in time to see Ben move past and through the open door of Fenton Peale's office. Peale was startled by the looming figure entering his domain, and it took a second for his eyes to focus on the grim face of Ben Solomon.

“Ben? I didn't know we had a meeting.”

“We don't. Your door was open. I need a second.”

“Go on, then. What is it? You look flustered.”

“More confused than upset,” said Ben. It was as close to conciliatory he could manage at that moment. “Question. Were you aware of a complaint about a police file I requested regarding the Villier murder?”

“Never heard of it.”

“Were you notified of a warrant issued to seize the files of a private detective, Billy Darby?”

“No.”

“Your office licenses private investigators and security officers.”

“Oh, I see. Let me explain. Our ministry's legislation covers the police and other peace officers. PIs and security guards operate under Department of Industry legislation. Industry regulates the private sector. Justice does criminal background checks on their applicants and rubber stamps Industry's submissions for licensing. It's more efficient that way.”

“Who investigates PIs that violate the legislation?”

“Industry.”

“And warrants?”

“Industry. Anything else, Ben?”

“No. Thanks. Sorry for the intrusion.” Peale said nothing. Ben turned and left the office. Embarrassment followed closely behind him.

39.

Anne picked at her lunch and fidgeted in her seat at The Blue Peter. Every time she heard the whoosh of the front door opening, she looked up anxiously.
Where the hell is he
, she wondered.
What's keeping him?
When he finally came through the door, she sprang out of her seat at the round table, and rushed over.

“Ben, what's going on?”

“Same question I was going to ask you. You pissed somebody off. Can I guess who?”

“MacFarlane?”

“I expect so. I tried to warn you. Slow, quiet, methodical investigations don't stir up big stinks, and from the odour floating in the halls of the Jones building, you've set fire to the entire outhouse.”

“The trouble with slow investigations is that they're slow,” she said. She sounded defensive. She hoped that Ben didn't perceive it, but she knew that she'd been backed against a wall. “You never know if you're making progress. It's like those British TV detectives. Always tiptoeing around, afraid they're going to offend someone. At least I know that I struck close to home, and I know it's MacFarlane at the grassroots level, but who's helping him in government?”

“Hard to say. Industry is doing the kicking. Justice seems to be out of the loop. MacFarlane knows and has worked with pretty well everyone who's connected and can pull strings. He owes favours, and lots owe him. Easy to cover his tracks. So what happened exactly?” Ben asked. “Who showed up? What did they say?”

“They didn't say much really. Some bureaucrat from Department of Industry arrived, knocked, and came in with the sheriff who served the warrant. It was only about an hour after your heads up. Thanks for that, by the way. They even made me open the safe.”

Ben raised his eyebrows.

“I know what you're thinking and, no, they didn't find my .32. But they were surprised at Uncle Billy's little arsenal. The sheriff checked the paperwork. Everything was up-to-date, he said. He looked closely at the box of .32 cartridges stacked with the others. Then he looked at me and said, ‘You know that .25 and .32 calibre handguns are prohibited weapons in Canada, right?' I told him I thought that Uncle Bill had a .32 a long time ago, but I hadn't gotten around to cleaning out all his odds and ends.”

“Where was the .32?”

“In my purse. I knew their warrant wouldn't cover a personal search.”

“What was the basis for the warrant?”

“Supposedly, I had passed myself off as a police officer in order to get information from someone. They didn't say who filed the complaint, but I have an idea who. I was looking for John Dawson yesterday. I stopped at the transition house and talked to three parolees on the porch. I'm guessing somebody leaned on one of them.”

“And I'm guessing that someone has been keeping a close watch on your travels in this case. Did you get everything photocopied that needed to be?”

“Yes. Everything that was important.”

“Where are the copies?”

Anne tilted her head toward Mary Anne's restaurant office.

“And Carolyn's letter?”

“With Canada Post again,” she said lightly, but her levity was short-lived. “You know that I'm out of business, don't you? They've suspended my private investigator's license.”

“A temporary setback. They'll investigate the complaint. After a few weeks they'll find that it was bogus, and you'll be back in business again.”

“In the meantime…?”

“In the meantime, give it a rest. MacFarlane's not going anywhere.” Ben smiled and patted her hand reassuringly, despite knowing that she would not take his advice.

40.

“He said what?”

Ben's voice rang sharp and loud. He grew livid. His face glowered.

Fenton Peale wasn't used to anger, confrontation, or anyone questioning his suggestions, and he felt suddenly trapped and helpless. For a real moment, Ben had frightened him, and he shrank back against his chair as if someone had thrown a punch, but, after realizing that Ben had kept his distance, Peale recovered enough composure to respond.

“Don't shoot the messenger, Ben. I'm just passing along what Carmody shared with me: he wants you to take a step back from the Billy Darby situation…at least for the short term. Personally, I like the girl. She's got a lot of spunk. Realistically, though, Carmody's got a point. He's received allegations of improper conduct, and the government can't be seen to take sides or assist her. You're a part of this government. If she's tainted in some way, you will be, too and, in the political arena, so will Carmody and Premier Clark and me and Bob MacEwen at Industry. When Carmody speaks, he speaks on behalf of the Premier, and he makes sense. We all have to step back and see what plays out. That's how things are done around here, Ben. That's how we survive.”

“Bullshit,” said Ben. He backed out the door of Peale's office and passed his secretary's desk. One of her hands gripped the phone. Her other gripped the desk. Her face was pale, her mouth agape, and her mind uncertain whether to phone security or flee.

Carmody's office was one floor up. Ben took the stairs, rather than the elevator. He wanted to be sure that Peale had time to phone Carmody but, before he hit the stairwell, he was intercepted by his part-time receptionist, Ida Treat. She huffed as she passed him a bundle in an interdepartmental envelope. She disliked her services being shared by several offices, and a sour expression on her face revealed that mindset. Ben took the envelope, noted that it came from Department of Industry, and handed it back to her.

“File this under ‘political interference,'” he told her. She huffed.

“Now,” he said. She huffed again, but headed toward Ben's office.

Carmody's door was open wide. The door to the Premier's office was ajar. The Premier's personal assistant sat at her workstation next to it like an edgy guard dog. Her eyes flicked quickly up at Ben and down again to her computer screen. Her hands rested on the keyboard, but they scarcely moved.

“Hey, Cathy. Deputy Dog in?” In spite of the rebuffs by Fenton Peale and Ida Treat, Ben's tone had become warm and cordial.

Cathy Doiron relaxed. She looked up and smiled timidly back.

“If you mean Mr. Carmody, he's out of the office at the moment.” She cocked her head and threw a glance toward the crack in the Premier's door.

“Is he expected back anytime soon?”

“Hard to say. Something came up quite suddenly, and he had to step out. Is there something I can do for you?”

“If you had a moment, could you scribble down a note for him?”

“Sure.”

“I want to start it off like this:” Cathy picked up her steno pad. “Dear Mr. Carmody, It's come to my attention that you are either a sonofabitch or the messenger of a sonofabitch, both of which put me in the undesirable position of having to inform you that it is…inadvisable to tell any peace officer in the execution of his legal duty to ‘take a step back.' As the chief peace officer in this province, I am obliged to carry out…my obligations and duties under the legislation that empowered me. Remember that I am not an elected official. Remember, too, that I was offered this position by…a higher authority, which shall remain unnamed, and subsequently appointed by the current government. Be advised, therefore, that the only circumstance in which I might find myself ‘taking a step back' would be…to better position myself to direct a proper kick to the balls of anyone who makes such a suggestion in the future. Thanks for the opportunity to make my views clear, and…by all means feel free to share this point of view with colleagues who might find it useful. Signed, Benjamin Solomon.”

Cathy's eyes had grown merrier as she continued recording her shorthand. At the end, she stifled a snicker and rolled her eyes again toward the opening in the door. “After I type it, do you want me to send it down for you to sign, Ben?”

“That probably won't be necessary. My signature won't make it anymore true or heartfelt than it already is. Just see that he gets the message. Oh…and use your discretion with the wording. I'm told I can be a bit too blunt at times. My wife Sarah probably would say ‘crude.' It's a cop thing,” said Ben. He winked and headed out the door. He had a smile on his face. He felt energized. Feigned outrage had always been his favourite investigative tool. No laws governed it, and one was always surprised at the reaction it produced.

Carmody slowly opened the door of the Premier's empty office. He emerged when he perceived that Ben had gone. He stepped warily past Cathy Doiron's workstation.

“How many copies of Ben's letter would you like?” she asked.

Carmody scowled.

“Just asking,” she said and shrugged.

“Not a word about this,” he said savagely. “Not a word.”

“Of course not, Mr. Carmody,” she said and smiled to herself.

41.

Anne was shattered at the suspension of her license. She sat alone in
her office and stared blankly at the phone as if anticipation somehow would make it ring and the incoming message would make everything all right again. The power of wishful thinking was fleeting, though, and after the last trace of it vanished, she slumped into a morass of gloominess and self-pity. In a short twenty-four hours she lost her best friend, her private investigator's license, her client, and the prospect of any income.

She'd hurt Dit terribly. She had read it in his face. He would never forgive her. How could he? She had demeaned the most important segments of his life, and he had lashed back, and rightly so.

Then the investigator from Industry had said that her suspension would likely last for two weeks while their enquiry process took its course, but who knows? It could just as easily drag on for a month…or more. Why would the bureaucrats give a damn? They're still getting paid.

And Edna, her one big client, had given her two days to clear things up. Edna didn't have an unlimited bankroll for detective services, and she was counting on tangible results for her investment in Anne. Now, all of that seemed elusive and a colossal waste of time, energy, and money.

And that wasn't the end to the fallout from this disaster. It would take no time at all for gossip to spread, true or not, that she was employing dodgy tactics. Her enemies, and she had made a few over the past year, would leap at the chance to spread lies about her. Her methods would be under a microscope. New clients would be less likely to call. Reputation was essential in her business, and especially so on a small island like PEI where word of mouth was the measure of a trustworthy enterprise.

The more she contemplated the ill luck that befell her, the more her focus returned to how it all came about, and it was that which confounded her most. The allegations claimed that Anne had passed herself off as a police officer to pry information out of someone, but the name had been kept from her. That was the key to moving ahead—knowing who had been tossing kerosene on the fire. She knew it had to be someone she had spoken to in the last few days. But who?

Anne turned over the names in her head.
Edna Hibley. Davidia Christian. Bernadette Villier. None of them seemed likely candidates. Neither would have had a reason. Jacob Dawson? No again. If anything, he would have more cause to support me than deceive me. If I find he was falsely convicted, there may be grounds to have his conviction overturned, and that could open the door for a lawsuit. Irene MacLeod? Not interviewed, but the gatekeeper to Dawson and others. She was a possibility…more of a wild card. She may have loyalties apart from Dawson. She could have a closet full of secrets, for all I know. Then there were the boys on the porch. Pun'kin, Tipper, and Barry. Each of them a parolee. Each exposed to pressure from up the food chain, legal or otherwise. Four possibilities altogether
, thought Anne,
but which one?

Then it suddenly dawned on her. It may not matter. The investigation would continue at a snail's pace until it was resolved regardless. What did matter, though, was that some key player had to know that she had talked to these people. To put pressure on one them, Anne must have been followed and seen talking to them. Anne had been extra careful to avoid surveillance. So following her would have been difficult, but not impossible. On the other hand, no one could have followed her to Lydia Vandermeer's home in Pownal. It was a two-lane county road with little traffic. She would easily have spotted another car.

No
, she thought.
I wasn't being followed. Someone knew where I was going…or where I had been.

Anne had stared at the phone long enough. She picked it up and dialled. The number rang.

“Dit, don't hang up! Just listen! I behaved like an ass last night. I did. But I was stressed and tired and frightened. You know that. And a lot came out that shouldn't have, and I'm sorry. Really, really sorry! I didn't mean any of it! I don't want to lose you as a friend! I really wish you all the best. Okay? Can we talk about it? My day yesterday was shitty, and today has been worse. My office was searched. I'm facing bogus allegations of posing as a police officer. My license has been suspended, my files have been seized, and I think my car or phone has been bugged, and I need some help. So if you can, that would be great. If not, that's okay, too.”

“I'll tell him you called.”

The voice belonged to Gwen Fowler. Her reply was civil, but cool and impersonal. Then she hung up.