Safe at Home (13 page)

I filed my game story and two short sidebars, about Watanabe and the brawl, from my office at home. When Christopher Morris phoned, I arranged to meet him at The Fillet of Soul, a restaurant specializing in southern cooking. We’d eaten there the last time he was in Toronto, and he told me he’d been dreaming of their ribs and collard greens ever since.

I called Andy and explained that I had a hot date with my sports-writing hero.

“Why don’t you join us?”

“And talk baseball all night? No thanks,” he said. He sounded weary.

“He can actually talk about other things,” I said. “That’s why I like him. Come on. It will do you good.”

“What time are you meeting him?”

“In an hour. Eight o’clock.”

“I’ll see what I can do. If I’m not there by eight-thirty, go ahead without me. Maybe I’ll join you for a drink afterwards.”

“Please try to make it,” I said. “You could stand a hearty meal.”

“I said I’ll see what I can do, okay?”

“You don’t have to bite my head off,” I said. “I just want to see you. Since when is that an indictable offence?”

“I’m exhausted, Kate. I’ve been reading computer printouts all day long. The staff inspector is on my back. The FBI is still in town.”

“All the more reason to relax and forget about it for a couple of hours. It’s Sunday night, for God’s sake.”

“I’ll try, really.”

“I know you will. And tomorrow night, Joe and his friend are coming. I’d like it if you could be there.”

“If I can, I will. And I’ll get there sometime tonight. I promise.”

I showered and changed into a pair of slacks and a green silk shirt that matches my eyes. On the way out, I stopped by Sally’s. They were having dinner. Elwy was there, too, looking up at me without shame from his own plate of table scraps.

“What a lovely family scene,” I said. “Where is David? Off being sincere elsewhere?”

T.C. laughed. Sally didn’t. I mentally slapped myself in the face. Sometimes I think I should get a tongue transplant.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just stopped by to see if you guys can come to supper tomorrow night. Joe’s coming, with his friend Sandy.”

“Oh boy, can we, Mum? Please.”

T.C. had obviously got over his squeamishness about Joe’s sexual preferences and was ready to be buddies again.

“Sure. That would be great. Can I bring anything?”

“No, I’m just going to barbecue if the weather stays nice. If not, I’ll fake it. Nothing fancy. Six o’clock.”

“See you then.”

“Drop Fatso upstairs when you’re tired of his company. I’m going to the Fillet.”

“With anyone we know?” Sally asked.

“I have a date with an older man,” I said, then explained about Christopher. “His nibs may or may not join us.”

“Have fun.”

I decided to take the streetcar on the not-too-remote chance that I might drink enough later to make driving illegal. Also, I hoped I would be coming home with Andy.

I walked out to Broadview Avenue. The King streetcar rattled along almost immediately, practically empty, having begun its journey two blocks away at the Broadview subway station. I settled into a double seat on the right-hand side for the view across the park to the downtown lights, twinkling in the twilight. It’s the best view in Toronto. A few elderly Chinese were doing tai-chi exercises at the base of the statue of Sun Yat-sen, watched by a couple of Anglo kids leaning on their bicycles. The spring weather had brought Torontonians out of hibernation.

At the corner of Broadview and Gerrard, dozens of Chinese piled into the car, fresh from their shopping at the grocery stores around the intersection with their displays of exotic produce labelled in elegant calligraphy. An elderly lady sat next to me, then turned to talk to her friend in the seat behind. Neither spoke enough English to understand my offer to change places with the friend, but with sign language we got the switch accomplished, then smiled broadly in cross-cultural fellowship.

My new seat mate, a stolid-looking middle-aged man in a suit shiny with wear, opened the
Planet,
turned immediately to the sports section and began to read my story. This has happened to me before, and it always gives me a little charge, a mixture of pride and embarrassment. I’m always tempted to identify myself and ask what they think, but I’ve never dared. I’ve also never given in to the temptation to comment on what a fine writer I think the reporter is.

I got to the restaurant a few minutes early, so I joined the owners at the bar. Tom Jefferson came to Toronto in the sixties to play football. In that era, the National Football League didn’t believe that blacks had the necessities to quarterback, but the Canadian Football League didn’t suffer from that particular bit of mean bigotry. He met and married Sarah and decided to stay after his long and successful career. They opened the restaurant, serving the kind of food Tom had grown up on in Georgia, and it became a second home for visiting athletes, local blacks, and anyone else who loved ribs, fried chicken, black-eyed peas, and jazz on the sound system.

Sarah, blonde and motherly, though not much older than I am, hugged me when I arrived. Tom, behind the bar, shook my hand. I hadn’t been in since before spring training, so we spent ten minutes catching up on my news, their news, and gossip about some of the other regulars.

Christopher arrived right on time. Tom and Sarah greeted him like an old friend, despite the fact that he had been there just once before.

“Scotch for you, am I right?” Tom asked.

“Good memory, but I think I’ll join Kate in a Martini this time.”

“Table for two?”

“Andy might be joining us,” I said.

Sally led us to a table in the corner.

“Andy? Do I know him?” Christopher asked.

“No, he’s not a sportswriter. Just a nice guy I think you might like. Actually, come to think to it, you have met him. I forgot that you were here during the murders last year. Andy, also known as Staff Sergeant Munro, was in charge of the investigation.”

“And?”

“And I’ve been seeing him since then.”

I don’t know why I was embarrassed to tell Christopher this. There had never been anything between us but mutual admiration and friendship. Christopher is almost a father figure to me, professionally. Perhaps that’s why I was anxious for him to like Andy.

“I hope you don’t mind that I invited him,” I said. “He’s in the middle of a tough case and he could use the distraction.”

“Not at all. I remember him. Quite a good-looking fellow, I think.”

“So do I.”

“What’s the case?”

“It’s pretty nasty. A series of killings of young boys. Also molesting. They call him the Daylight Stalker.”

“That’s horrible.”

I was filling him in on the details when Andy arrived. He had gone home to change and was dressed in nicely fitting jeans and a soft blue sweater. He sat down. Sarah brought our Martinis and a coffee for Andy, who was half on duty. We ordered our dinner. Ribs for the men, fried chicken for me, and collard greens all around.

“Kate has been telling me about the murders,” Christopher said. “It’s a terrible story. It must be very frustrating for you.”

“It’s not exactly fun,” Andy acknowledged.

“It’s a fascinating business, serial killing. My brother-in-law is Montague Browning. Have you heard of him?”

“Of course,” said Andy, obviously impressed. “I’m a great admirer of his. His book is the best thing written on the subject.”

“What is it called?” I asked.

“
Studies in Serial Psychopathology
,” said Christopher.

“Snappy title,” I said.

“It’s not a mass-market book,” Christopher said. “He’s a professor of forensic psychiatry at Columbia.”

“And he is respected by any homicide cop I’ve ever talked to,” Andy added. “What’s he like?”

“A very congenial guy,” Christopher said. “His specialty makes for some pretty gruesome conversations around the family dinner table, but he is a very cheerful chap. My sister is devoted to him, and he’s my youngest son’s favourite uncle. But he’s at the age when mayhem is particularly fascinating.”

“Like T.C. My tenant’s kid, who’s not quite twelve, thinks Andy is almost as exciting as the baseball players.”

“I think we are all secretly like that. I was on a jury for a murder trial a couple of years ago, and I dined out on it for a week. Everybody wanted all the details.”

“So do I,” I said.

“Just a depressing New York murder. Two neighbours disagreed about a barking dog and one of them ended up dead. The man with the dog just happened to be carrying a revolver in his bathrobe pocket at seven in the morning.”

“It’s the American Way,” I said.

“In his neighbourhood, you’d probably carry a gun, too, Kate,” Christopher said. “Try to curb your smug nationalism for a moment.”

“Do you carry one?”

“Are you nuts? The things terrify me,” he said. “But I live in a building with a doorman and neighbours who are more likely to bore me to death than shoot me.”

“I was afraid you guys would spend the whole dinner talking shop about baseball, and you’re talking my shop instead,” Andy said. “Tell me more about your brother-in-law. I’ve heard he’s revising his book.”

“He’s finished. It’s coming out next month.”

“And a year later here, probably.”

“I could send you one, if you like.”

“I’d appreciate that. Does he deal with the killings in Larchmont?”

“Ah, the Westchester Creeper, as the tabloids called him. Yes. That was a fascinating character, a classic case.”

“Who on earth was the Westchester Creeper?” I asked, feeling a tad left out.

“He killed seven children over a period of six months. He was caught with the kid who was to be his eighth victim. I’m interested, because our guy here seems to be behaving in a similar pattern. I’ve talked to the police involved in it, but I’d be interested in your brother-in-law’s opinion.”

“Call him. He’d be glad to talk to you. Mention my name. I’ll give you his phone number.”

“How much like ours was this guy?” I asked.

“The victims were boys about the same age,” Andy said. “There were similar patterns of rape, mutilation, and murder. The killer turned out to be a local merchant and boy scout leader. He was married with children of his own and active in the church.”

“It was his background that was classic,” Christopher said. “He was sickly as a boy, no good at sports. He could never please his macho father and watched him beat his mother most nights. He left home at fourteen to escape, and lived on his wits. He built a good, respectable life for himself.”

“He also got involved in the investigation,” Andy said. “The local force ignored him because he was always underfoot. But he finally left enough clues that he could be found.”

“It caused the department a lot of grief,” Christopher said. “The parents of the later victims felt, quite justifiably, from their point of view, that the police had ignored evidence right under their noses.”

“Little wonder,” I said.

“Not so fast,” Andy said. “You’re talking about hindsight, here. I have to identify with the police on this one. There is nothing more annoying than an enthusiastic amateur cluttering up the investigation.”

“Looking back, they could see it was a cry for help,” Christopher said.

“Is that typical of serial killers?”

“Sometimes,” Christopher said. “Sometimes they let success make them careless, but there is considerable evidence that they leave clues so that someone will stop them.”

“I wish our guy would oblige.”

“Well, maybe he has,” I said, and started to tell Christopher about the notes. Andy kicked me under the table.

“Ouch! What did you do that for?”

“For blabbing on about things that are supposed to be confidential parts of the investigation.”

“Don’t be silly” I said. “Christopher isn’t going to print anything.”

“Of course not,” he said. “And if it makes you feel any better, I probably have an alibi for the times of the killings. This is my first trip to Toronto since the playoffs last October.”

“Of course,” Andy smiled. “I’m sorry. But you will keep this to yourself.”

“Right,” I said. “So. Hey. Why don’t we talk about baseball for a while?”

“Great idea,” said Andy.

We all had to work in the morning, so we didn’t linger too long over coffee. Tom and Sarah joined us as the restaurant emptied, bringing a round of cognacs with them. It was a lovely, relaxed evening, far away from the problems on the playing field and the children of the city. I was yawning when Andy parked in the driveway.

“Come on, you slug,” he said, coming around to open my door and drag me out of the car.

“Tired,” I mumbled, leaning on his shoulder.

“Bed,” he replied.

Arms around each other, we strolled up the walk. Jim Wells was waiting for us.

“Where the hell have you been?” he asked Andy.

“I left the number with the desk,” he said.

“You left a wrong number. We woke up some old lady who subsequently called 911 to say she was getting obscene phone calls.”

I giggled, but not for long.

“This concerns you, too, Kate. He left another note.”

“What about the goddamn surveillance?” Andy asked. “Didn’t our guy see anything?”

“He had gone down the lane to take a leak,” Jim said, embarrassed. “He found the note tucked under his windshield wiper when he got back.”

“Who was on duty?”

“Larsen.”

“He’s off the case,” Andy said. “Let’s see the damn note.”

“Let’s go inside,” Jim said.

Once we were inside my house, he handed Andy a baggie with the note inside. I looked over his shoulder.

It had the same salutation as the last one, my byline clipped from the paper.

“Tell your boyfriend to sleep well tonight,” it read. “The stalking is almost over. Four is my lucky number. What is his?”

“Damn,” said Andy. “Let’s go check your phone.”

There were three messages. One, from a former boyfriend inviting me to lunch, was a bit embarrassing to listen to with Andy there. The second was from Sally, saying she would be late for dinner the next night, but that T.C. would be right on time. The third was from Dickie Greaves. God knows what he wanted. I’d see him at the office. Nothing else. No mysterious whispers or heavy breathing.

“Coffee?”

“Sure,” said Andy, moving Elwy out of his favourite spot on the couch and sitting down.

“Appreciate it,” Jim said. “Can I use your phone to call Carol and tell her I won’t be home?”

“Help yourself.” I said.

By the time I’d made the coffee and brought it into the living room, the partners were in deep gloom, talked out.

“Well, this is a cheery little group,” I said. “Did you tell Jim about our conversation with Christopher? The evening wasn’t a complete waste.”

Andy told him Christopher’s relationship with Montague Browning, the guru of serial death.

“I’m going to call him in the morning, see if he has anything new to tell us. It’s very like the Larchmont murders, and he evidently has some new angles on that one.”

“Why don’t you call him now? You’ve got his home number,” I said.

“It’s late.”

“Just past eleven. Maybe he stays up late. I’ll call Christopher and ask.”

“It would beat doing nothing,” Jim said.

I went to the kitchen phone.

Christopher said that he didn’t think it was too late, and offered to call him first to set it up. I consulted with Andy, then agreed.

We waited five minutes before making the call, Andy and Jim running down the questions they wanted to ask him. They made the call from my study, where they could take notes. They were back in ten minutes.

“He’s checking through his computer for us,” Andy said. “He’s going to see if he can find any similarities. He’s as well connected as the FBI, only more friendly.”

“Maybe another angle will help us out,” Jim said. “Sometimes the amateur has a different view on things.”

“Ahem,” I said.

“Right, Kate,” Andy said. “But you’re out of this one. I told him to call us back at the office. We’d better get going, Jim.”

“You’re leaving me here alone?”

“There’s still a stakeout across the street. We’ll add someone at the back.”

“This time, give the guys a bottle to pee in,” I said.

I’m fairly brave, but I’m not stupid. Chances are the killer wasn’t after me, a grown woman, but if he changed his habits, I didn’t want to be the one to start the new trend.

“Don’t worry, Kate,” Andy said. “They will be there.”

“Okay,” I said, and got up to see them to the door.

“Thanks for the coffee,” Jim said, before discreetly leaving us alone.

“And thanks for the evening, too,” Andy said. “It was good to relax. Christopher is a really interesting guy, and it may even turn out to be helpful.”

“You don’t mean I was right!”

“For once,” he said, kissing me on the forehead, a tender but condescending gesture that always pisses me off.

“I don’t know when I’ll be seeing you. If I can, I’ll be here for dinner tomorrow, but it doesn’t look good. I think this guy means what he says.”

“Be careful,” I said, hugging him.

“You too,” he said, hugging me back.

I bolted the outside door. There was a crack of light under Sally’s door. I tapped on it gently.

“Come on in,” she said. “I’m just watching a movie. Is something wrong?”

“No, not really.”

I told her about the letter that had just arrived. She shivered.

“I just thought you should know. You’d better put the chain on the door tonight. But don’t worry. There are cops all around. I didn’t want you to freak if you got up in the night and saw a strange man lurking in the back yard.”

“Come have a glass of wine,” she said.

“I shouldn’t,” I said, but followed her into the kitchen.

“I’m really sorry about the remark I made about David, earlier,” I said. “I didn’t really mean it.”

She shrugged.

“You’re probably right. It’s not working out anyway.”

She sat down at the kitchen table.

“I thought it would be good to have a nice, normal guy in my life. And in T.C.’s. But it’s not really happening for either of us. T.C. resents him, and he’s starting to give me the creeps.”

“How so?”

“Put it this way. Maybe he’s not a nice, normal guy.”

“Are we talking seriously kinky?” I asked.

“Kinky enough that he’s history.”

“Details, woman.”

“Some other time,” she said. “Right now, I’m trying to cheer myself up.”

She raised her glass towards the living room. She had paused a tape on the VCR. Ginger Rogers, wearing jodhpurs and a plaid jacket, was sitting in a gazebo while the rain poured down outside. Fred Astaire was frozen halfway up the steps in a hansom cabdriver’s greatcoat, a giant umbrella held rakishly.

“Care to join me?”

“
Top Hat
!” I said. “I can’t pass on
Top Hat
! If that won’t chase the bogeymen away, nothing will.”

We took the bottle and glasses and settled in on opposite ends of the couch. Within moments, we were singing along with “Isn’t this a lovely day to be caught in the rain?” By the time they were dancing cheek to cheek, Ginger’s feathers flying, we had finished the wine and were dancing along, all over the tiny living room.

When I stumbled up the stairs at 1:30, I knew I would have a good night’s sleep. Or coma. Whatever, I wasn’t going to be tossing and turning.

I put the chain lock on my door and checked to see that my shadow was in place in his car across the street, then went directly to bed.

I was almost asleep when the phone rang.

“Screw you,” I said. “I’m not going to let you scare me anymore tonight.”

The machine picked up after four rings.