Reluctant Detective (15 page)

30

Dit's van didn't pull into the driveway until eight-thirty. Anne
was still asleep on the couch when he entered the living room. She was sleeping on her side, her hands clasped together as if she were
in prayer, and they tucked under her head to form a pillow. Her hair had fallen over her cheeks, and he could hear soft breathing. His heart quickened at the sight of her. She looked so small and vulnerable. He wanted to reach out and touch her, hold her in his arms, and the thought of doing so began to stir old memories and a familiar, warm reverie, but his grip on the cold metal rims of the
wheelchair quickly brought him back to reality. He lived in a world
of sensation and intimacy different from the world around him. It
was foolishness to think otherwise, he thought, and it was fantasy to
pursue it.

Dit gathered up a light blanket, spread it out, and pulled it over her
shoulders. She sighed at the touch of it. His hand drifted across her
hair. Then he wheeled himself toward the master bedroom.

Anne woke at seven. She felt disoriented. For a moment she
couldn't remember where she was and, when she did, she still felt
that something was not quite right. Then she heard the splash of
water. Still groggy, she went onto the patio. She saw Dit in the pool.

“I didn't know you could swim,” she said.

“You never asked,” he hollered from the far end. Then he pushed
off and headed back toward Anne. She stood near his wheelchair. Steps led down from there into the water. When he turned again
for another lap, Anne watched his arms bite into the water. Muscles
rippled across his shoulders and back. Then she noticed a strap
around both lower legs.

“What's the strap for?”

“Keeps legs together… so they won't thrash about… maintains stability… when I'm swimming…,” he explained in short bursts at
each stroke each time his head lifted out of the water.

Anne sat in his chair and watched him continue his laps. Dit's curls went nearly straight with the weight of the water. He swam strongly, as if in a race, and after two more laps he pulled himself
onto the steps and sat in the shallows near Anne, his chest heaving to catch his breath.

“How many laps?”

“Thirty today.”

“Isn't the water cold? It's not even July yet.”

Dit just pointed to the solar panels.

“Do you do laps every evening?”

Dit looked at her and began to chuckle.

“What's the big joke?”

Dit shook his head and waved a hand in the air as if to say,
you've done it again
.

“What time is it?” he gasped, still a bit out of breath.

“It's seven, smart-ass. So what? And stop giggling at me.”

“It's seven in the morning, not seven at night. You slept through.”

Anne looked carefully around. “Oh… I thought something about the light was different.”

An hour later Anne had showered and dressed. She towel-dried her hair and followed the smell of bacon and coffee to the kitchen.
Dit was making breakfast. Anne took a seat at a dining room table, her back to a wall. Through the window beside her, Anne watched
a steady creep of cars. They moved like dedicated ants across the Hillsborough Bridge and headed for the downtown core of the city. Dit slid a glass of orange juice toward her. She drank it down.

“Beautiful set-up you have here,” she began. “Did you design it?”

“It's pretty much a traditional French plan. Though I made some changes to suit my lifestyle,” he added.

“The cabinets and countertops are lower,” she observed. “Almost the right height for me.”

“And no doorsills, steps, or seams between rooms. Wider pas
sageways. And some other stuff. Doors which open automatically. A satellite sound system which turns on when I come through the front door and follows me from room to room. Convenient and fun, too.”

“So if all that is for convenience, why'd you build a two-storey
house with a staircase you can't use?”

“I've always liked big houses… with staircases. I thought about
putting a motorized lift in, but I didn't. Instead I have an elevator. It
holds a couple of people, it opens onto the upstairs hallway, and it can go up another level to a look-out. Spectacular view from there. Makes you feel like you own the universe. I'll show you later. Now,
let's eat,” he said.

As it turned out, there would be no tour of the house. And as
time for the money drop neared, the butterflies in Anne's stomach
became more unruly, and she became more focussed on the job
ahead – making the drop, tracking the go-between, and locating the Client.
So many things could go wrong
, she thought,
and this may be my last chance to get it right
.

At least Dit had eased some of her anxiety. She would never have gotten a wink's sleep either on that sofa in the office or on her bed at home. Every creak on the stairs and every crow scratching at the
roof would have kept her eyes bolt-open and her nerves wound taut
as a guitar string. The invitation to stay at his house was a godsend, but not the only one. She discovered the other one soon after they
had returned to the living room and Dit handed her the valise.

“Oh my god, that's real money,” she exclaimed. The valise rested on her lap. She stared into it. It was filled with bundles of US hundreds
and looked just like it had when she first received it. “Is it?” she
added hesitantly. She ran her hand over the bundles as if to dispel a mirage. Her expression changed to confused astonishment.

Dit grinned. “To an extent,” he said. “Lift that top bill.”

“Oh my god, the rest is just paper. But the bills…?”

“They're real. I had to scour three local banks to get enough
American money to bait your trap. Good thing it's tourist season.”

“Everything is perfect… but how did you do this?” she said, still in awe.

“I modified a surveillance system for Same-Day Printers last year. Somebody had been walking out the back door with supplies and
skimming their till. I installed it on the QT in the wee hours one night. We caught the thief on tape. It was the owner's nephew. They were still happy enough about my work to do a rush job for
me yesterday afternoon. I showed them a few bills. They measured the dimensions, found some passable pale green stock, and cut it to match. They were also able to bind it into packets. Pretty neat job, eh?”

“Perfect,” she said again. “And the tracking device?”

“Beeping away as we speak… in the middle of a bundle of money.
These two little antennas here attach to my van. They'll pick up a
radio transmission from the button. This box,” he said and held up
something the size of a pistol storage case, “records the direction.
The needle on this dial points toward the source of the signal, and we just follow it.”

“Sounds simple,” said Anne brightly.

“It sounds that way, doesn't it?” Dit said.

3
1

The Confederation Centre of the Arts is a cluster of buildings. Each of them is sheathed in glass and grey stone slabs on an elevated grey
stone plaza. The complex covers an entire city block in the heart of
Charlottetown. Its modern, bunker-like appearance starkly contrasts
with the nineteenth-century red brick buildings that huddle around it. Inside, broad corridors connect a commodious stage and theatre, a gift shop, a coffee nook and restaurant, an art gallery, lecture halls,
three levels of public library, a stately reception hall, and mezzanines
of offices, dressing rooms, and storage areas.

To reach the Confederation Centre, Dit and Anne drove across
the Hillsborough Bridge, turned left, and headed along the avenue
which paralleled the water. Neither of them spoke. Each was obsessed with their individual silent preparations for Anne's transfer of the baited money. Anne had visited the Confederation Centre on countless occasions. She thought she knew it well. Still,
she found herself tracing the main hallways in her mind and trying
to remember passageways less frequented and exits rarely used.

Dit turned right on Great George Street. A few blocks up he pulled
into an empty parking space half a block from where Great George
intersected Victoria Row.

“All set?”

Anne nodded. “You?”

Dit opened the box on the console next to him. He flipped a power switch. The needle jumped to life as the machine registered a signal from the beeper in Anne's valise.

“Looks like you've got a live one.” He glanced at his watch. It was
eleven. “Got your cell phone? And your car?”

Anne nodded to the first question and pointed to the parking lot on the corner to answer the second.

The parking lot was next to her office on Victoria Row, and the Confederation Centre's stage-door entrance was across the street.
Anne grabbed the valise, got out of the car, and headed for it, and, as
she did so, she glanced back up at her office window. The face that
stared back at her from that same window expressed just as much
surprise as her own certainly revealed. His visage disappeared
behind the reflective glare, but not before she recognized the blond
hair that belonged to Cutter. He must have broken in and lain in
wait for her, and now that he had seen her and had seen the valise
with the bullet hole still in it, he would be coming after her.

Anne ran the last few steps to the Confed Centre and pushed
through the stage-door entrance. Twenty yards ahead was the inner
courtyard, a hub of restaurants. To her left was a small doorway
which led backstage. A uniformed commissionaire manned a desk and phone there when he wasn't making rounds.

“Excuse me,” she said to the guard. “I have a delivery for the
seamstresses.” Anne held up the valise. “Can you tell me which room they're in?”

“Which seamstress are you looking for, luv?”

“It doesn't matter. They ordered some fabric and lace trim. They said they needed it right away.”

“Right, then. Through that door…” He pointed behind him. “Turn right, and it's second door on the right.”

Anne took a quick look behind her. She saw no one, but she guessed Cutter must have been halfway across the street and heading for the door.

“Look, I think I saw someone that might be following me. A big
rough-looking guy. Blond. He kept staring at me. Gave me the
creeps. Do you think you could keep an eye out?”

“Consider it done. Have a good day, ma'am.”

Anne disappeared through the door leading to the seamstress's
room, passed it, and worked her way deeper backstage. It was
almost empty this close to lunchtime. One or two stage hands leaned
against walls and took no notice of her. The door to the dresser's
room was ajar and vacant, and Anne slipped inside. There were no
windows and the lights were off. She sat on a stool on the darkest
side of a large cupboard and listened to the beat of her heart and the wheezing sound of her own breathing.

“Can I help you, sir?” asked the commissionaire. He had stepped away from his desk and was standing in the middle of the main corridor when Cutter pushed through the double doors and stumbled down the half dozen stairs to the main floor.

“I'm looking for somebody,” Cutter said. His eyes scanned the
corridor ahead and the passages that opened on several sides. She could be anywhere, he thought. “A girl.”

“Aren't we all, sir? The commissionaire smiled at his own little
joke. “And what might yours look like?” he said, resuming his
businesslike demeanour.

“Short. Long brown hair. Slim build. Not bad-looking.”

“Was she carrying a suitcase?” asked the commissionaire.

That's the one. Where did she go?”

“Friend of yours, is she?”

“My sister… Kate.”

“In that case, she came through here, headed toward the coffee shop, and went upstairs to the plaza and the Grafton Street exit.
Looked like she was in a rush… taking a short cut somewhere.”

Cutter stepped around the commissionaire and ran down the
corridor. The commissionaire watched him bound up the stairs and disappear outside.

“And you have a good day too, sir,” he said to himself, settling into the chair at his station and reaching for the crossword puzzle in
The Guardian
.

When Anne looked at her watch, it was eleven-twenty. Cutter
would have had plenty of time to search and leave, even if the com
missionaire hadn't intercepted him. She had ten minutes to make her rendezvous with whoever was picking up the money. So she left the dresser's room and worked her way past a rehearsal area,
brushed through a heavy curtain, and stumbled into total darkness.
She felt her way along the curtain line, tripped on something, and fell across the valise which had tangled in her legs. When she fell, she caught a dim glimpse of light. She pushed ahead and walked onto the front of the stage. Stairs led to an aisle, through a pair of
heavy oak doors, and into the red carpeted foyer of the theatre.

The front of the foyer was enclosed by a spacious portico with
broad colonnades which widened into arches at the ceiling. A glittering gift shop spread along the wall opposite. Between the foyer and the shop a wide hallway ran from the building's main
entrance to the coffee shop and the bistro where she was to leave the suitcase.

Anne moved slowly through the shadowy cover of the portico
and headed in the direction of the restaurant. At the last column
she paused and studied the brightly lit area ahead. The end of another grand hallway met this one. In the corner they formed was
a coffee shop. Next to it was a glassed-in courtyard rising two levels
up to a glass ceiling. Potted trees and plants gave a semi-tropical appearance to the courtyard. A dozen café tables and chairs were half-filled with tourists nibbling at their lunches.

Mavor's Bistro stood in stark contrast to the brilliantly lit and
loosely structured courtyard. The black glass which formed the front
of the bistro was the same glass which formed the backdrop of the
courtyard. Together they vaguely resembled a French sidewalk café.

Anne carefully watched the small groups near the coffee nook for
anyone she recognized – good or bad. She didn't want to get involved
in any conflict. Nor could she risk even an unwanted conversation
this close to the crucial drop. Then she peeked round the corner and
down the long corridor toward the art gallery, the reception hall,
and the stage-door entrance where she had met the commissionaire. When she was convinced that the coast was clear, she strode into the
courtyard and through the bistro's black glass door.

Anne felt almost a sense of relief inside the bistro. It was dark as a cocktail lounge. A couple of tables were occupied, and the atmosphere was quiet. The lively jump of Dave Brubeck's jazz
quartet filled the silence. The air conditioning was up, and the black glass front allowed her to watch people outside but prevented those outside from observing her.

The bistro was shaped like a railway car, long and narrow. Doors
opened at either end. The bar, kitchen, cash register, and washrooms
lined one side. Booths and tables lined the other.

Anne slid into the first booth. It was the only one marked
reserved
. The seats were plush, leather, and comfortable. She leaned back and
stretched out. Her foot nudged the valise on the floor alongside her. She ordered iced tea and a smoked meat on rye, though she didn't
think she could eat it, and waited.

At eleven-thirty, she slipped out of the booth and went to the washroom as the Client's instructions had directed. She waited
the required five minutes and returned to her seat. The waiter
had brought her sandwich and tea. It sat on the table. The valise remained where she had left it.

Something must have gone wrong,
she thought.
The case is still here. Maybe he was delayed in traffic or something. But that would be pretty sloppy work if that were true… and sloppiness doesn't seem to be a trait of the Client. Now what do I do?

Anne didn't hear the gentle swish of the door when it opened
behind her, but she did hear a couple of soft metallic clicks when Cutter flicked his wrist to open his butterfly knife. He pushed into the booth alongside her and shouldered her over. Anne felt his right hand slipping between her legs and looked down. She saw the glint of a steel blade. An involuntary whimper escaped from her mouth.

“Make a sound or make a scene, and you'll never make another, baby,” he said. “Shove that suitcase over here.”

“You can't get away with this,” she said. The words just spilled out
of her mouth as if someone else had uttered them. She wanted to
retract them. She didn't believe them. But she said nothing.

“Shut up and do it!” he growled.

Anne let her hand feel about under the table. She grabbed the handle and slid the case toward the outside of the booth. Cutter
grabbed it; the knife disappeared; he stood up and reached for the door.

Anne heard the great crash before she saw what caused it. The
sharpness of it cut through her fear and brought her to her senses again. She turned her head in time to see Cutter stagger backward
and about to go down. His hand let go the valise in order to keep
himself from falling flat. He clutched for a corner of a booth. Behind him through the door came Constable Timmons in plain clothes. A trickle of blood had begun to dribble from a gash on Cutter's temple
where the edge of the door had caught him. Timmons rushed forward. Cutter recovered and hurled himself toward Timmons head low enough to catch him square in the belly. The force of it
drove Timmons into a booth, Cutter on top of him. Constable Doiron
in uniform with another officer burst through the other door as Cutter pummelled Timmons who was trapped between the table
and the seat of the booth, unable to swing freely, and unable to gain a footing.

Doiron pulled a pepper spray canister from her belt, levelled it a
few feet from Cutter's face, and pulled the trigger. Cutter stood erect like a cranky bear and lumbered towards her, his arms stretched out
to interfere with the spray and to grapple her, but it took only those few seconds for Timmons to leap up, grab Cutter from behind, twist
him off balance, and pin him face down on the floor.

Timmons handcuffed Cutter, stood up, took a breath, and looked
around. Anne was gone. So was the valise.

“Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!”