Sleep of the Innocent (25 page)

But first, he needed a car. He looked uneasily at his telephone. If they were monitoring his calls . . . He slipped down the stairs, out the back entrance, and into the back door of the restaurant behind the building. “Hi, Lum,” he said with his usual casualness. “A sandwich to go—anything that's fast—while I'm telephoning.” He walked out of the kitchen and around to the pay phone beside the washrooms.

Tricia had no objections to lending him the Jag. “I've got Bertie's car. I really don't need two. Where shall I drop it off? And don't worry, Mrs. Henderson's here. She won't let anyone near Grainne.”

Eight minutes later the Jag screeched to a halt at the corner of King and Bathurst. Tricia leapt out, leaving it running, and before Rob had a chance to say anything, she had one elegant arm in the air, flagging down a cab. “'Bye, love,” she called, as she climbed into the taxi that had miraculously appeared, “see you later.”

Lydia Neilson appeared behind him as he stood in front of her door, waiting. “I thought I heard someone,” she remarked. “Come on. I'm in the stable.” He followed her numbly around the house, convinced that coming here was a mistake; Sanders was nowhere in sight. “Now, what do you want?” she asked, as they walked slowly around the paddock. “I was under the impression that you had murdered Carl and were on the run. If you did, by the way, you have my profoundest gratitude—but I don't suppose you've come to be thanked.”

He stopped, leaning against the white fence. “Is that what they're saying about me?” he asked, unsurprised.

“According to Marty Fielding,” she said. “Of course, Marty is a mine of gossip and half-truths. It doesn't do to take him seriously. But he does report what people are saying—he doesn't give a damn if it's true or not. You've replaced me as everyone's favourite murderer.”

Lucas shook his head. “I didn't kill your husband, Mrs. Neilson, and I don't suppose you did, either, but someone thinks that I—” He was interrupted by the sound of car engines.

Lydia Neilson's head swiveled in the direction of the driveway. “Just a minute,” she said, holding up a hand. She ran lightly over to the edge of the house. In a second or two she was back and reached out a hand to grab his. “Come on,” she said. “To the stable.”

“What?” he asked, scrambling to follow her.

“It's your friends from the police department. Two carloads of them. Perhaps they heard you were here.”

“Jesus,” he muttered breathlessly. “Where—”

“Into the woods,” she said. “You can't get a car onto the bridle paths.” She flung open the door, and the spring light flooded in on the restless figure of the enormous gray gelding. “He's ready to go—you caught me just before I took him out. You'll need boots,” she said, in horror, looking at his running shoes. As she spoke, she rummaged in the tack room, appearing seconds later carrying a pair of boots and a hat. “Here, quick. They're Carl's, but they should fit well enough. As soon as you get far enough away, just dismount, hitch up the reins and give him a slap. He'll come home. He did it often enough when he threw Carl.”

As her voice ran on in an urgent, breathy whisper, she was lengthening the stirrup leathers; he was pulling off his running shoes, stuffing them in his pockets, yanking on Carl Neilson's boots—a little large—and cramming the hat—a little small—on his head. “Ready,” he said.

Lydia ran to the door. As soon as she opened it, a voice called out across the paddock. “Anyone home? Mrs. Neilson?”

“You'll have to mount in here. Duck as you go out. Hurry up!”

In an automatic movement he had almost forgotten, Rob grasped the saddle, settled his foot, and vaulted onto the gelding. It snorted with disapproval.

“'Bye, Achilles,” Lydia said brightly. “Show us what you can do.” Her slap on the gelding's rump sent him scrambling precipitously out of the stable.

Rob's leg muscles quivered as they adjusted themselves to his mount; it had been five or six years since he had ridden, and for a few moments he felt disoriented and awkward. Then Achilles swerved and headed at a canter toward a grass-covered primitive road that ran between a meadow and woodland behind the stable. At that moment a roar of rage or excitement echoed from behind him, and even under Carl Neilson's hat and above the steady beat of Achilles' hooves, he recognized that voice. Baldwin.

The grassy track ended at the back of the meadow, where it intersected with a narrow bridle path. He had a moment of panic; there were woods in every direction. Lydia had neglected to tell him which way to go. He tried to pull Achilles up a little to give himself time to think. Then engine noise and a quick glance behind him told him that Baldwin was coming as far as he could in a car. A loud blast of the car horn, and the issue was decided. Achilles started, half reared, and took the left fork.

The path then veered sharply to the right; as Achilles rounded the bend at a canter, they were suddenly on top of a file of three novices, whose mounts were moving at a bone-crushing trot. Their riders bounced painfully with a precarious lack of connection to saddle or horse. The one in the rear had lost a stirrup; her back was already eloquent with panicked insecurity when Achilles snorted and barreled past them, crowding the three bored horses over to the verge. A howl of despair told Lucas what had happened; he reined in to make sure that he had not created a disaster and looked back in time to see Baldwin, red-faced and panting, snatch the bay mare with the awkward gait from its fallen rider and mount.

“Lucas,” he yelled. “Get off that goddamn horse and come back here. You're under arrest, you bastard.”

Without thinking for a moment of the consequences of his actions, Lucas bent over Achilles' arching neck and spoke into the ear that was cocked back to catch the excitement behind them. “Come on, Achilles,” he murmured. “Let's move.” And he dug his heels with their nonexistent spurs in the gelding's side for an instant. Achilles lowered his head, stretched out his body and broke into a fast, relaxed gallop. Lucas glanced back. The bay mare, resentful of her new and heavier burden, was resisting the invitation to race.

Suddenly up ahead he could see bright sunlight that spoke of the end of the wooded area. He cursed and looked back. The bay mare was still behind them, although falling farther and farther back with each of Achilles' strides. The bridle path ended at a gravel road that ran off to the right, dividing the woods from farmland; to the left were woods, except for a meadow enclosed in white fencing, which had been carved out of the brush. As they drew closer, Lucas could see that the field held six or eight mares and their foals; he had a choice between the gravel road, which could carry a vehicle searching for them, and the mares. He nudged Achilles to the left and urged him toward the formidable gate. “I hope you jump as well as you run, baby,” he said, and held his breath as he felt the horse consider the distance, adopt a deliberate and workmanlike pace, gather himself up, and sail over. “Beautiful, Achilles,” said Lucas, patting him on the neck. “Now where?”

The gray continued his more measured stride as Lucas scanned the field. Up ahead there was another gate, leading into woodland. “Where there is a gate, there is a path, Achilles,” he said. “Let's go.”

They had now gathered an admiring crowd of mares, running inquisitively along with them, drowning out the noises from behind. Then, as Achilles jumped easily over the far gate, Lucas heard an indistinct and angry yell from the far side of the meadow. This time he didn't look back.

The path on the other side of the pasture joined what was evidently the same long string of paths throughout these woods. He must have missed some fork earlier in his journey while he was concentrating on Baldwin. Achilles was continuing on a steady, untiring gallop. “Easy, there,” said Lucas soothingly. “No need to do yourself in. We're safe. I think we'll just mosey along here and then cool down.”

Achilles turned an ear to listen, caught the tone, and slowed to a canter, then to a disciplined trot and a comfortable walk. The woods were filled with lacy sunshine, filtered through the bare-branched, budding trees, and Lucas found himself wondering whether Lydia Neilson would sell Achilles and how much she might want for him if she did. Surely she had more use for a sturdy pony that the boy could ride than for a restless gray who was over seventeen hands and needed serious exercising. His pleasant reverie was interrupted by the sound of a car driving by. He looked up, startled. Ahead, the path turned sharply to the left; the wood ended in a broad grassy ditch, and beyond it was a two-lane paved road. Lucas dismounted, rather stiffly—he was going to pay for this tomorrow, he knew—and began walking the gray gelding along the path.

It was time to think. Was it possible that the voice he had heard in the background at Homicide had been Baldwin's? Baldwin had meant him to think that Sanders was at Freyfields. Baldwin came out to the house to confront him, not to bring him in. Nobody in his senses would set out alone after someone who was suspected, in that lovely old phrase, of being armed and dangerous. Not even an old colleague. And Baldwin had left everyone else behind when he set out after him. What had he been planning to do? Get him alone, shoot, and claim self-defense? Lucas patted the weapon in his shoulder holster and reflected that he was a fool to be carrying it around. All Baldy needed to do was place it in his dead fingers and fire it once. But why out here, he wondered, and the answer came with a swiftness that horrified him.

They wanted him out of the way because he stood between them and Grainne.

If this were true, then Baldy wouldn't be around anymore, he reckoned. He might have left someone at Lydia Neilson's place for appearances' sake, but the heavy artillery would have pulled out. And that meant he could ride back toward Freyfields, leave Achilles near home to find his own way to the stable, and search for the little park by the river where he had left Tricia's car. “Come on, fella,” he said, “we're going back.” Achilles tossed his head impatiently and then stood as Lucas threw his stiffening leg over the gelding's back.

This time they followed the main path back. As they neared the area that bordered on the Neilsons' road, Lucas heard the rush of the small river that told him he was near the car. “This is where we part company, Achilles, my friend,” he said as he dismounted. He shortened the stirrups, checked the reins, headed him in the direction of home, and gave him a little slap on the rump. Achilles started off at a trot, slowed, and looked back, puzzled; then he shook his head in an equine gesture of dismissal at the follies of mankind and set off again.

In less than five minutes, Lucas broke through the thick brush growing alongside the river and came to the small park. In summer it would be filled with tired motorists and city picnickers; on a Monday in March it was deserted. Tricia's car was waiting. He brushed the twigs off his corduroy pants and got in, anxious to go, very apprehensive of what he would find.

Once past the pretty white-fenced farms, the road skirted an aged shopping mall, crumbling, down-at-heel and discouraged-looking, before heading into the industrialized suburbs. Rob Lucas spun the Jag into the parking lot and headed for the pay phone. With fumbling hands, he dialed his father's number, was reminded by a mechanical voice that his call was long-distance, swore at the seconds lost, and started all over again.

“What's happened?” he asked as soon as he heard Tricia's voice. His words were strangled with worry.

“Happened? Nothing. We had lunch, and we talked, and Grainne's taking a nap. Is something wrong? You sound out of breath.”

“Oh, God.” He sagged against the wall of the booth in relief. “I was sure they'd found her.”

“Well, they haven't. Whoever they are. And I certainly wouldn't have let them in if they had. Have a little faith, Robin. We're very comfortable and cozy. We're going to eat and watch a couple of movies. Nothing to worry about. And, Robin—”

“Mmm?” He barely heard her over the roar of panic subsiding in his head.

“She's awfully nice. If you don't mind my saying so. And very attractive, although she's terribly thin and does need some clothes—”

“You're not taking her shopping, Tricia,” he yelled. “And you're not leaving her alone while you go off, either. She doesn't need clothes. She's not going anywhere.”

“Relax, sweetheart. I'm not going to leave her alone. Will you be here for dinner?”

“Better not. I'll call you as soon as I know anything. And—”

“Yes. I'll look after her. Bye-bye.” And the click cut him off. As he stepped out of the booth, a woman waiting to use the phone gave him a very curious look.

Rob turned north from King Street, pulled into the network of alleyways behind his apartment building, and left Tricia's car in the cramped parking area beside the rear door. Although only the ground floor contained offices, the structure was not residential, technically. For this reason, certain conventions were observed for the benefit of city inspectors, who would otherwise be forced to acknowledge that the illegal second- and third-floor apartments were not used for warehousing, or as design lofts. The underlit and badly maintained halls, for example. And the absence of a buzzer system. Or security. If you liked space and valued privacy, the arrangement was ideal. Lucas liked it.

As he ran up the broad staircase to the third floor, he was aware of twinges that were going to turn into stiffened legs tomorrow. Terrible to let himself get that far out of shape, he thought cheerfully, pulling out his keys. From now on, everything was going to be different.

It was the light from the open refrigerator door that stopped him in the doorway, catching his attention first.

His kitchen was neatly arranged in the windowless corner to the left of the entrance. The counter that formed the barrier between the kitchen and the rest of the apartment had been knocked over; it was surrounded by broken dishes and glassware. Long, pale splinters caught the light where the screws anchoring it in its place had been wrenched out of the broad floorboards. His filing cabinet lay on its side, its contents scattered across the floor. Every drawer—desk, cabinet, wardrobe—had been dumped. Not the result of a frantic search, he concluded. Just someone amusing himself, that was all. Someone who hated him. Someone who had taken the trouble to break in and had discovered that there was no one in the apartment. He walked over and closed the refrigerator door, and then bent and picked up a wine glass that had miraculously escaped the carnage.

“Sort of messy, eh?” said a voice behind him.

Lucas jumped and turned around. Framed in the doorway he had left so invitingly open stood two uniformed constables, their faces blank, uninterested. “Yeah. It is,” said Lucas casually. “Did you guys do it?”

“Us? Hell no,” said the other one. “Not our style. Anyway, we were sent over to bring you in, Lucas. Sorry.”

The first man's hand rested on his weapon, already released from the confinement of its holster. Rob spread his arms peacefully in an outward gesture. “It's under my jacket,” he said.

John Sanders stretched out his legs and accepted a beer with a sigh of deep relief. The afternoon had been maddening. Cassidy, the chauffeur, had not been amenable to dissection; he was, by turns, hostile, bored, and then irritated by questioning but devoid of incriminating responses. Yes, he had met Neilson's friend Annie, and thought she was a scrawny, stuck-up bitch who could use a few sharp lessons. Which Neilson had given her, he was glad to say. Otherwise he had no opinions. He did what he was told, he said; that's what he was paid for. And no one confessed any of their secrets to him—he was just the chauffeur. Dubinsky insisted he was a clever bastard, clever enough to disguise a relationship with Annie; Sanders was not so sure. In the end, a painstaking search had turned up nothing of any interest in Cassidy's apartment at Freyfields.

Lucas had called in from a Toronto number, disproving Dubinsky's theory that he was dead, and had disappeared again. Then Harriet had disappeared. That was the final blow. Harriet's disappearance had been temporary, fortunately, and here he was, in her apartment, surrounded by greasy and sticky cartons of Chinese food, allowing himself to be supplied with plates, glasses, napkins, and other unnecessary amenities.

“Where were you?” he asked. “I've been calling you since four o'clock. Every fifteen minutes.”

Harriet sat down beside him, reached into a container of shrimp with acquisitive chopsticks, and grabbed the largest one. “I was drinking soda water with a lecherous architect at the Park Plaza,” she said. “About a job. I only meet him in public places. It's safer. Here, have a shrimp, Inspector—they're wonderful.”

Sanders heaped rice, shrimp, chicken, pork, and vegetables onto a plate and settled back. He waited a minute for the hot, the sour, and the fish-salty sauces to penetrate the rice and then picked up a fork, took one mouthful of the resulting mixture, and put the fork down again.

“Something wrong?” asked Harriet. “You're not actually upset about that architect, are you? Because—”

John laughed and shook his head. “No. I just feel I shouldn't be here, lounging around, eating shrimp—”

“From soggy cardboard boxes. You're right. I can understood how luxury like this might upset you. But I'm fresh out of dry bread and stale turnips.”

“It's your warmth and sympathy I love, Harriet. You must be what they mean by a supportive woman.” He shook his head. “It's not that. I'm restless. My body is telling me to rush downtown and work all night, and yet I know damn well there's absolutely nothing happening. Not until we find Lucas again—and his witness. And God knows where he's gone to ground this time. So I might as well be sitting here.”

“Have another beer,” said Harriet unsympathetically. She put down her chopsticks and walked over to the kitchen. “Anyway, I thought you had more leads than that.” Her voice was slightly muffled as she rooted around in the refrigerator. “Who wanted to kill him?”

“Lots of people,” said Sanders. “The line forms to the right. He was cheating his business partners. Of course, we don't know who they were, so that's not a helluva lot of help. Someone he injured could have killed him—that girl in his apartment, for example. Lucas said she was bruised and beat-up-looking. Or—”

“Or Lydia,” said Harriet, handing him an open bottle.

“Well, yes. Lydia.” He paused, concentrating on pouring his beer. “How much do you know about her, Harriet? About her private life, I mean?”

“Only what I told you. She had a lover, poor thing. And I can't say I blame her, considering what Neilson was like.”

“Just one lover?”

“What do you mean, just one? I don't know what impression of her you picked up, but she isn't some wild, free spirit who sleeps with everyone she meets. She's actually rather conventional, in spite of the lover.”

“You wouldn't expect to find her at an orgy, then?”

“
Lydia
? At an
orgy
?”
Harriet stared in disbelief. “You're kidding.”

“We have some rather interesting pictures of Lydia,” said Sanders. “Not suitable for publication, you might say,” he added evasively. “And she has a story, a rather thin story, about being drugged and kidnapped at a huge birthday party Neilson gave for her. The trouble is, no one has even heard of this birthday party. All the people connected with Neilson—office personnel, restaurant employees, the housekeeper, the chauffeur—claim that Lydia never went to any of his parties, ever. The office and restaurant people have never even seen her.”

Harriet frowned in concentration. “Where was this alleged party?”

“At La Celestina. Three or four years ago. Nobody there remembers a huge party then. They claim she's never set foot in the place.”

“Well, it's not true. She did. But that wasn't an orgy,” said Harriet almost primly. “It was a perfectly respectable costume party.”

“You were there?”

“Of course I was. We were still friends at that point. Dressed as a clown, fittingly enough. Lydia was something classical, I think. A nymph, maybe.” She paused to stretch and scratch her earlobe. “Come to think of it, poor Lydia got smashed, and when the birthday cake and presents came out, no one could find her. Neilson oozed about, apologizing and looking embarrassed. I'd forgotten that. So he couldn't have been whisking her away and— But then, he didn't do his own dirty work, did he?”

“No, I don't suppose he did. Dammit,” he added, “I should have asked you about all this before.”

“Exactly. Why didn't you?”

He shrugged. “Well, those pictures made it all a bit awkward. And besides, it never occurred to me that you were at the party. Do you remember anything else about it?”

“It was on April Fools' Day. That was why I went as a clown. I remember that. Her birthday was actually on the second.” She stared off into the distance. “And I assumed she was drunk because when I went up to wish her happy birthday, she was hanging on to a couple of guys—I thought at first that one of them was the mysterious lover. She could have been drugged, though. She had that vague, spacey look. They sort of elbowed me aside and dragged her off. Out of the dining room somewhere.”

“Dragged her off?” said Sanders. “Unwillingly?”

“Hard to tell. But there was something—now I remember. They called her Mrs. Neilson; that was what was strange. Like employees, not friends. And certainly neither one was like a lover. Want some coffee?”

“Just a minute,” said Sanders, reaching for the telephone.

“A lot of things were happening at the restaurant in April,” he said when Harriet returned with two mugs of coffee. “A few days after that party there was a murder in the alley behind it, and it came in for a lot of scrutiny and bad publicity. That was probably when Neilson upgraded the place. New staff and so on. Would you remember the men who dragged Lydia away if you saw them again?” he asked.

“I'm not sure. Possibly.”

“Well, then, my love, prepare yourself for a happy day looking at mug shots tomorrow. Maybe we can find some of Neilson's associates and pals after all.”

Matt Baldwin set the telephone receiver down and leaned back in his chair. Patrick Kelleher stood, stiff and uneasy, next to the door; Eric Patterson sprawled gloomily in a chair pushed back against a file cabinet. “He isn't home,” said Baldwin. “And he hasn't responded to his call.”

“Probably turned the damn thing off,” said Patterson. “After all, he's human. Well, if we can't get Sanders to come and talk to him, maybe he'll say something to me.”

Baldwin paused a second and then jerked his head in the direction of the interview room. Patterson rose quietly and left.

“Hi, Rob.” Patterson's voice was calm. It was always calm. “What are you playing at? If you don't mind my asking. Because you get too cute, and they'll charge you with murder.”

“Whose murder?” asked Lucas. They were his first words in two hours.

“Neilson's. And the witness's. I can't do much about Neilson—after all, he's lying on a slab in Grenville Street. Someone killed him. But it would help one whole heap if you'd produce the girl. Everyone's convinced she's under a snowbank somewhere.”

“Not much left in the way of snowbanks,” said Lucas. “Sorry, Eric. But before I start talking, I have one or two little things I want to say to Inspector Sanders. That's all.”

“They can't raise him,” said Patterson. “It could be a long wait.”

“That's okay. I could use some sleep.” And Rob Lucas stretched out in the chair he was seated on and closed his eyes.

John Sanders had stopped, rigid, in the middle of taking off his raincoat. “Lucas is here?” he said. Dubinsky nodded. “Since yesterday?” Ed nodded again. “When did you find out?”

His partner looked at his watch. “One minute and four seconds ago. I called. You had left. They said,” he added, drawling his disbelief, “that they couldn't reach you. And it didn't occur to them to try me.”

“Christ almighty! More of Baldwin's tricks.” He threw his coat over a chair and started for the door. “Sometime he's going to try to get the jump on all of us once too often. Where is he? Lucas, I mean.”

Lucas was sitting in the interview room, tousled and unshaven, but remarkably clear-eyed and awake. “Who can hear us?” he asked as soon as Sanders, still white-faced with rage, took his place at the table.

“Hear us? In here? No one. You think I'm wired or something?” He spread open his suit jacket in an impatient gesture of proof. “See?”

“That doesn't prove much,” said Lucas, his voice so low that Sanders had to lean forward to pick up what he said. “But don't strip. I'll take your word for it. I am sorry to make all this fuss,” he continued softly, “but you're the only person who was out of town—far out of town—when Neilson was killed and when Jennifer Wilson was killed. I realize that's not a guarantee, but right now I have to trust someone.”