Murder in Focus (21 page)

“I love all this intricate study of the human psyche,” murmured Harriet. “One of these days someone's going to do something you haven't predicted, and then where will you be?”

“I'll be confused. It'd be nothing new,” said Sanders. “People are always refusing to do the logical, sensible thing. But that's people like you, of course. People like our blond friend behave predictably. I knew before you left the room last night that he'd shake you and you'd end up somewhere miles away from him, following some perfectly innocent professor to his innocent bed. That was why I didn't really worry about you being left with that useless little what's-his-name.”

“God, you're obnoxious. What if he hadn't succeeded?” Her voice was challenging. “If I'd been a little more careful and managed to follow him?”

“If he was that careless, we would have known he had nothing to do with anything. It's good to know that. Saves a lot of legwork.”

Harriet handed some cash to the parking lot attendant and collected a yellow pasteboard ticket in exchange, which she dropped on the dash. “Now what?”

Sanders looked at his watch. “We'll sit here for a while. The last talk ended fifteen minutes ago. There's a lunch for members of the executive or whatever they call themselves. He won't be one of them. That means that he has to pick up his stuff from his room and put it in his car. I'm assuming that he was staying here for the conference.”

“Why?”

“Because he led you straight into the parking lot and melted off into the bushes. That is, he wandered off to his room, very conveniently, while convincing you that he was staying in a motel somewhere.” Suddenly Sanders grabbed Harriet from behind the wheel and dragged her head down onto his chest. He bent himself awkwardly over her, as if they were embracing in some agonizingly intense manner. He heard a protesting grunt coming from somewhere near his tie. “Sorry, love,” he murmured. “It's a pretty stale dodge, but it's the best I could think of in the time available. He's getting into his car.”

Harriet's head popped up cautiously just beside the steering wheel. “That's him,” she said. “I could pick out that profile in a million. What's he carrying?” she asked, diving back into Sanders's tie again.

“A suitcase and an attaché case. Very neat and professional-looking.”

“John, what do we do if he turns out to be a member of the faculty at Harvard or something like that? Maybe he just gave a paper on Charlemagne. You know, now that I think about it, he doesn't look like a hood.”

“He doesn't look like your conception of a hood, you mean. After all, what do hoods look like? Maybe he's a very high-class hood. In the big money.” Sanders paused. “Okay, I want you to start the car now.” Harriet turned the key in the ignition while her foot reached for the brake. “You'll be following him at a distance. I'll tell you when to drop back or speed up. And this isn't LeMans, remember. You are to pretend to be an ordinary, cautious, slightly nervous female driver, no matter how alien you might find that idea. All right?”

“All right,” she sighed. “If that's what you want. When do I start?”

There was silence. Sanders had straightened up again, and was looking idly out the window. “Now! And you'd better get to the exit fairly rapidly—he's speeding up. Not that rapidly, Harriet,” he added, as the car leaped forward like a greyhound after a rabbit.

While Harriet was turning out of the parking lot and heading toward the main road, a pale blue Ford Escort pulled out of a space at the far end of the lot, where it had been out of sight behind a dark green van, and keeping well back, set out after them.

Harriet drove steadily and expertly, with a calmness Sanders didn't know she had at her command, keeping at least three cars between them and the blond man ahead. It was a simple enough task on the four-lane road, and she was beginning to enjoy herself. She glanced in the rearview mirror, changed lanes, switched, looked again, more sharply this time, switched back into the right-hand lane, and looked once more. “John,” she said conversationally, “do you know anyone who drives a light blue Ford? Like your ex-wife, maybe? Or an old girlfriend? Someone like that?”

“Why do you ask?” he said cautiously.

“Well, it seems that whenever I get into a car and drive you anywhere, there's this Ford in my rearview mirror, unless I make a really determined effort to get rid of it. I didn't think it was worth mentioning at first—after all, a lot of people buy Fords, don't they? And blue is a very popular colour. But I'm beginning to wonder who this is.”

“Get rid of it,” said Sanders.

“Really? What about Blue Eyes up there?”

“I'd rather you got rid of the Ford. It's been taking an unhealthy amount of interest in me these past few days.” Sanders suddenly felt his spine being flattened into the back of the seat as Harriet accelerated, switched into the left-hand lane, and then executed a rapid U-turn in front of a sign forbidding that maneuver. Before he could orient himself, she had darted into the right lane, signaled, braked, turned, turned again, and was driving with due care and concern up a twisting road through a pleasant, well-grown subdivision.

“I think I lost it,” she said. “And as far as I can tell, I haven't picked up a police car, either.”

“Good. Pull over. I want to talk to you in peace and quiet. Because there's something else I've got to tell you about what's been happening lately.”

Sanders finished running through the events of the morning, or, at least, almost all the events. When it came to telling her about the telephone number he had fished from his pocket, the number from the coffee shop in Brockville, he fell silent. He could still see that man at the telephone, watch the relaxed movements, and hear that casual murmuring that spoke of a friendly call to an old pal. The implications, if true, were monstrous. He had a sudden vision of trying to explain the mynah bird and his conviction that he could decode the numbers from its whistle to a doubting Harriet. After all, what kind of nut would think a bird could imitate telephone numbers? And even if it could, would? And did he believe it himself? The absolute certainty he had felt when he called Dubinsky was dissolving rapidly into an uneasy sense of vague foolishness. If it had been any other number . . . He leaned back and stared out the window at the neat lawn they were parked beside.

“That certainly adds an interesting twist to the story, doesn't it?” said Harriet cheerfully. “How about some of this coffee?” She reached into the paper bag. “It might just still be warm.”

“Thanks,” said Sanders. “And I'm happy to see that you haven't let a little thing like my imminent arrest upset you.”

“It's too deliciously ironic to be upsetting, you have to admit that. And I can hardly believe that your colleagues are going to hunt you down with slavering hounds and blazing guns. Really, John. Whatever has happened to the old masculine clubhouse atmosphere? Besides, I'm sure you're full of brilliant ideas about what we should do next. Aren't you?” She spoke in a voice rich with honeyed sweetness.

He glared at her. “This is no time to sit around being funny. But, yes, I do have a few ideas. They may not be brilliant, but at least they're better than nothing. The first one is to get rid of this car before we get picked up. It's known, and by now it'll be on the list of wanted vehicles. Assuming, of course, that they're really looking for me.”

Harriet looked at him in alarm. “What do you mean, get rid of it?” she said. “This car is only eighteen months old. I like it, and I plan on driving it another ten years, at least. If you think I'm going to ditch it in the canal or something, think again.”

“We're only getting rid of it temporarily. We'll park it somewhere and take a bus.” He pulled out his notes. “Give me a minute to think first, though. These last few hours have been a little . . . startling. Okay,” he said, adopting a lecturing tone, “Bartholomew was expecting something to happen today at seventeen hundred hours. That's five o'clock,” he added kindly.

“I know. Believe it or not. What kind of something?” asked Harriet.

Sanders shook his head. “If I knew that, I wouldn't be sitting here asking myself stupid questions. Except, of course, that we're dealing with a professional, uh, exterminator,” said Sanders, pointing at his notes. “And since the time is specified, this is not an ordinary hit.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because ordinarily if you hire a professional to get rid of a nuisance for you, you don't have to tell him exactly when and where to do it. This must be someone who is very hard to get at. Bartholomew found out about it and put it in his notebook. And he's dead. He gave the notebook to Mrs. Cruikshank.”

“Who's dead, too,” said Harriet flatly. “And the whole world thinks you killed her for some reason.”

Sanders nodded. “But if I didn't kill her, then it seems pretty likely she's dead because of what's in the notebook. And I happen to be pretty certain that I didn't kill her.”

“We'll accept that as a given,” said Harriet gravely. “At least for the time being. So, since you didn't kill her, who did?”

“I don't know. The only people hanging around poor Miranda were the regional police and the Mounties. Except for that blue Ford, which was in town when I was there talking to her. And if the driver of the blue Ford was the person who killed Miranda,” he added in sober tones, “then I led him out there.” He turned his head and stared out the window.

Harriet reached out a hand to touch his shoulder and then drew it back. Sympathy wasn't going to help him right now, she realized. He needed answers. “Possibly,” she said. “But not necessarily. What's the connection with the house on Echo Drive?”

Sanders shrugged his shoulders and turned back in her direction. “I don't know that, either. The address was in Bartholomew's notes and so I assume there must be a connection. But I can't pursue it any further because Dubinsky can't help me now. Not without someone finding out what he's up to. But the situation also seems to be connected with your pictures.”

“What in hell is going to happen, then?”

The taut grimness of his expression was miraculously replaced by mock surprise. “Come on, Harriet. Surely even you can figure out what must be going on.”

“Let's pretend I'm really stupid,” she said, spacing out each phrase with exaggerated calm, “and you explain it to me, very carefully, in words of one syllable.”

“With all these goddamn foreign potentates pouring into the city, for chrissake? You can't figure out what's likely to happen?”

“Oh, that. You mean one of them's going to get assassinated. Is that it?”

“What do you mean, is that it? That's enough to give every goddamn civil servant in the city nightmares for months.”

“But they're always expecting these big shots to get blown up, or away, or whatever it is. Aren't they, whoever they are, ready for it?”

“Well, they are and they aren't,” said Sanders. “They're prepared, but no one really expects it to happen, if you know what I mean.”

“Ah, yes, not here. Things like that never happen here. We're too law-abiding.”

He nodded. “I suppose.”

“Then why don't you go to the RCMP with Bartholomew's notes and explain what we've found out to them?”

“Because, first of all, they might be the people who already know what's in Bartholomew's notebook. And next, whenever I run into those guys I get a strange itch between my shoulder blades. I don't want to end up resisting arrest and having something, uh, unfortunate happen to me.”

“Come off it, John. A little paranoia now and then never hurt anyone, but this is ludicrous. Itches between the shoulder blades! You think you're psychic or something? I can't think of anything less likely. You're a cop, for God's sake. One of their buddies.”

Sanders shook his head, still reluctant to bring up that blasted bird and risk looking like an even bigger idiot, and opened the car door. “Come on. Let's head for the nearest piece of public transportation.”

“Where to?”

“The lab. Didn't you say the pictures were going to be ready? Maybe we should pick them up and arrange to put them somewhere safe.”

She looked at her watch. “Sure. I asked them to do us a quality print, too. It'll be a bit pricey, but I'll just throw it on the account, and if I ever get my pictures back, I can bill it to Wheeler and Shogatu,” she said cheerfully.

“That's fraud, you know,” said Sanders. “Harriet Jeffries, did you realize that you are basically a dishonest person? Let's go.” But before reaching for the ignition key, he pulled her toward him with sudden longing. She wound her arms tightly around his neck and shoulders and kissed him as though she were afraid they would never touch each other again.

“I'm not really,” she said as she moved back and undid her seat belt.

Peter Rennsler pulled his car into the ruined laneway, turned off the ignition, and sat staring out the window. The dark-haired woman who had tried to follow him from the reception last night had been tailing him at least part of the way from the university. He frowned indecisively. She was neither police nor security—he was sure of that, although he could not have explained why—and he had lost her before he left the city. Therefore she was probably insignificant. If his employers had explained precisely what problems were cropping up, he would know what—and whom—to look out for. But they had merely assured him that the job was going as planned. In his experience, jobs never did. He removed the keys from the ignition, placed them carefully at the foot of the rickety gatepost, and covered them with a rock. Once inside the barn, he took out the parcel from under the cultivator, opened it, stripped down to his shorts and T-shirt, and put on the clothes he found in it. He folded his own things neatly and tightly, wrapped them in the same packaging, and stowed them under the cultivator again.