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Authors: Anthony Bidulka

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BOOK: Amuse Bouche
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Amuse Bouche

at again. I have a garbage can for that. I booted up my computer to begin making notes on my meeting with Chavell. I noticed the message light on my phone blinking red. Why did it have to be red? It reminded me of an ambulance light or stop light, things that needed immediate attention. Blue would be a nice change or even purple. I tried to ignore it. That damn machine had to learn that sometimes it was not the number one priority. But the red light flashed in the corner of my eye with the insistence of a lighthouse. In the battle of wills between man and machine, I was a failure.

I activated the speakerphone and listened to the recorded message. "Quant, it's Darren Kirsch. I have the information you wanted on Queasy. 975-8241." Click.

I had to shake my head. Detective Darren Kirsch. The formality of his phone message was hilarious. As if we hardly knew one another.

And he had to know I had memorized his phone number ages ago. I had used it often enough in the last year. Maybe it was his way of saying, "Please understand that we are not friends or even acquaintances. Here is my phone number to be used to call me back. Just this once; don't use it again." I often wondered why Darren Kirsch
did
return my calls. Was he simply too polite not to? Did he think it was his
26

Anthony Bidulka

professional duty? Did he know he was the only cop in the entire Saskatoon Police Service who ever bothered? The rest of them just ignored me.

Most cops, and I know this because I used to be one, think private investigators are unprofessional money-grabbers that will suck information out of you and give nothing back in return. And sometimes this is true. But I knew if I wanted to make a go of being a private detective, I'd need some friends in the police department. And a smart cop would know that being friendly with a detective who wasn't employed by the city and was out there on the streets was not altogether a bad idea either. The jury was still out on whether Darren was a smart cop or just a naive one who didn't know he could blow me off Darren was now a detective in the Criminal Investigations Division, so I guess he couldn't be that naive. He and I had trained together at the Saskatchewan Police College in Regina and we both ended up in the SPS, Saskatoon Police Service. Every so often we had worked together but we never hung out or really talked to one another. When I decided life in uniform was not part of my long-term goals and left the force, I don't think he missed me.

Queasy is a sixty-two-year-old, self-described bum who has crossed my path more than a few times over the past years, first in the course of
27

Amuse Bouche

my duties as a police officer and then as a private detective. He is a PI's worst nightmare: a client who is always in trouble but can never pay to get out of it. Everyone has to do a little pro bono work, and Queasy is mine. I'd heard the old fella was back in trouble and called Darren to find out the scoop. I wasn't ignoring the fact that Darren has more serious things to do, but I just happened to know he too has a soft spot for Queasy and tends to keep an eye out for him.

I dialled Darren's number and he answered on the first ring.

"Kirsch? Quant here." Two could play at his game. I didn't have to like him any more than he liked me.

"Hold on, I have his sheet right here." Such a friendly guy.

"Doing pretty good, thanks. You?"

He ignored that and updated me on Queasy who was being released that morning.

"He's just bored," I said. "And too smart. He gets to sing and dance in the bus mall while we're working our butts off"

I thought I could almost hear the detective smile. "Queasy thinks you work your butt off?"

Oh, clever man. Nice shot. Now I was sure he was smiling. "You know how it is, Kirsch.

Actually I'm getting on a plane for France tomorrow. Compliments of a client. You know
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Anthony Bidulka

France, it's in Europe, the place with all the wine, fine food, the Riviera."

"Drafty hotels, snooty waiters, thirteen dollar cups of coffee."

"You're jealous."

"You're dreaming. Local client? Anything I should know about?" Darren keeps his ear to the wall.

"Missing person...sort of"

"Oh? Local?"

Although I was not in the habit of revealing details of my cases to the police, over the past several months Darren and I had begun to develop an understanding. We helped each other when we could. We were still working on figuring out where the line was that we shouldn't cross. When that happened, generally we'd hang up on each other. But this time I had a reason to continue with this conversation. Chavell wasn't giving me a lot of prep time. I had to do some fast digging. Chavell had told me Tom hadn't been reported as a missing person, but at the beginning of any case the last person I trust is my client. If the police knew something about this case or anything at all about Tom, I wanted to know about it. "Fellow by the name of Tom Osborn."

I could hear Darren mulling over the name before he responded. "Don't ring no bells."

Amuse Bouche

" I didn't think so," I quickly told him. If Tom wasn't on the police radar screen I didn't want to put him. there. "Anything else about Queasy?

He going to be okay?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. It'll be the same ol' story as always."

"Okay. Thanks for the call."

I replaced the receiver and took the last swallow of my drink before lifting the phone again and dialling a familiar number.

"On Broadway," sang a friendly voice after a couple of rings.

"Kelly, it's Russell."

"Hey bud, how ya doing?"

"Good. Hey, I know it's short notice but would you and Errall be able to take Barbra for a few days?" I knew the chances were good the answer would be yes. Not only is Kelly one of my oldest friends, but she and Errall own Barbra's brother, Brutus, and the two dogs get along famously.

"Oh sure. No problem. When?"

I winced even though I knew Kelly couldn't see it. "I'm on a plane tomorrow morning."

"No problem. 1 can pick her up before work.

Your alarm code still the same?"

Good ol' Kelly. "Thank you, thank you, thank you. Yes, the code is the same. You sure you don't mind? I shouldn't keep you, you 30

Anthony Bidulka

probably have customers." Kelly owned a small pottery and craft studio on Broadway Avenue.

"Yeah, I should go, but no problem. You tell Barbra that Brutus will pull out all his toys tonight." It's a running joke between us that I've never bothered to provide enough doggie toys for Barbra to play with. And it's true. I don't think to buy pull ropes or rubber chickens with bells in their bellies. But Barbra never complains, only Kelly and Errall. "Where you off to?"

"France. But I'll tell you all about it later. You get back to your customers. And thanks a bunch, hon. I owe you."

"Nah, you don't. Have a good trip. Bye."

"Bye."

I stepped out onto my deck realizing I could just as easily have walked downstairs and talked to Errall directly about taking care of Barbra. But somehow it felt more natural and comfortable to call Kelly. I studied the photo of Tom Osborn. It was a five by seven of professional quality, taken perhaps for business purposes. He was wearing a suit and I estimated his age to be thirty or thirty-five. His face had more curves than angles, and I had a difficult time deciding whether he was handsome or merely cute. He had sandy brown hair, straight and clipped short, a smallish nose and plump lips. By far his most attractive features were his friendly, smiling, green eyes. Even reproduced, they sparkled. His was a face you might not pick out of a crowd but one you'd easily grow fond of and miss when it was gone. I stared at Tom Osborn and wondered what made him run. I felt sad for Harold Chavell.

For a while 1 sat. I watched the sluggish traffic on Spadina. I studied the trees in the park.

Their leaves would soon lose their verdant green in favour of autumn's bright hues. I love this time of year. So fresh and invigorating. But that didn't relieve the growing sense of discomfort I'd begun to feel after I left Cathedral Bluffs hours earlier. I was uneasy about boarding that plane tomorrow with no background information on Tom Osborn.

But I knew there was something I could do about that. I jumped out of my chair.

There are times in my career when i find myself doing things that are "less than completely legal." I prefer "less than completely legal" to "illegal," which has a decidedly negative sound to it. Semantics. Breaking and entering is one of those things. I do not commit myself lightly to such an act. Rather, I must believe it to be the most efficient and expedient means to an end
32

Anthony Bidulka

without causing undue harm to person, place or police investigation. I believed this to be such a case. Tom Osborn was in another country, so he certainly couldn't complain about what I was about to do. I'm a pretty fine lock-picker and tidy snooper, so I could guarantee I'd leave his apartment just as I'd found it. And, completing my rationalisation, I'd just been told by Darren Kirsch that Tom Osborn was not under police investigation, so I knew I wouldn't be treading on some cop's toes. As 1 parked my car a half-block away from Tom's place I had myself entirely convinced this was the right thing to do.

My client's boyfriend was living in an area called Grosvenor Park, near the university. His building was the newest construction in a complex of five sitting in a semi-circle around a green area and the only one that had gone condo. Once I was inside the main foyer I glanced about and was grateful to see no evidence of a surveillance camera. I approached the security intercom system. Often with these systems, there's a list on the wall displaying the names of residents along with their intercom number. No such luck here. Apparently if you lived in this building you had to furnish visitors with your address
and
intercom number. Shit. I was not in the mood for scaling walls tonight. I should have tried to get a key from Chavell. Oh Amuse Bouche

well, no time for that now. This would make things harder but not impossible. I began with two digit codes. One-one. One-two. One-three. I worked my way up to two-five before deciding to try three digits. One-zero-one. One-zero-two.

1 kept this up for a few minutes. Nothing. I'd found that intercom codes are rarely four digits.

Too hard to remember. I returned to two digits with a zero in front. Zero-one-zero. Bingo. Zero-One-Zero yielded me a cautious "Hello."

"Yes, hello," I said as charmingly as I could.

I hate the sound of my voice when I'm trying to be charming. "This is Danny Bonaduce from the third floor." I hoped this person didn't know
Partridge Family
trivia. "I just moved in last week and I've got my apartment key but I forgot the one for the front door." I had to talk fast to get in my whole sob story before I got a yes or no. "My last place didn't have such a fancy security system. But it's great we've got this one. I was just wondering..."

She must have been bored with my story or wanting to get back to the television. I heard the buzzing sound that would unlock the door that led into the main lobby. Swell. I love it when things work out like this. It makes me believe I've learned a thing or two in the past year.

The building was eerily quiet and smelled clean. I knew Tom lived in apartment 303. I
34

Anthony Bidulka

wondered if his intercom number was zero-three-zero. But then what would the intercom number be for apartment 304? I dislike confusing number systems. There was an elevator but I chose to take the stairs. Less chance of running into anyone. Especially the woman from zero-one-zero. Conceivably she could have been a
Partridge Family
fan rushing down to the lobby with her autograph book.

I reached the third floor and Tom's door without incident. I knocked twice, making up an excuse should the unexpected happen and Tom answer. He didn't. I waited a moment to listen for sounds of impending departure from other third floor residents. Not much seemed to be happening. I pulled my prized set of lock picks from my jacket pocket. They are small, concise instruments made of something strong, don't ask me what. Any failure I had experienced with them was due to human error and not their capability. It took me two or three minutes. When 1 heard the click of success I had to restrain myself from cheering. Every time I do this I get a little better at it.

Once inside I took a moment to wipe the sweat from my brow and settle my racing heart.

The apartment was dark. I couldn't think of a reason not to switch on the lights, so I felt around the wall next to the door and flipped up 35

Amuse Bouche

the first protuberance I touched. I was in a short hallway. To my left a closet door. To my right an alcove shelf covered with a collection of stuff: paper chits, a bowl full of change, a pair of weight-lifting gloves and a portable CD player.

Further down was the entryway to the rest of the apartment. Throwing on lights as if I lived there, I walked first into a smallish dining room, which gave way to an odd, triangular-shaped kitchen. Over a marble-topped island I could see the living room and another hallway which I guessed would take me to the bathroom and one or two bedrooms.

As was my habit on such expeditions if I had the luxury of time, I spent the first few minutes getting a feel for the place and the person who lived there. My first impression was one of sparseness. Tom Osborn was neat and organized. His taste in furniture, art and doodads was good. Quality over quantity. I guessed he probably was fairly new to the place. It had that just moved in look. This surprised me. I would have thought if Tom and Chavell were about to get hitched, they'd also be planning to move in together. So then why would Tom move into a new place? I also suspected this was not a place where Harold Chavell would have spent much time. There was nary a luxury item in sight. No wine cellar, no humidor, no Persian rugs or 36

Anthony Bidulka

pantry full of foie gras. How could he possibly survive?

BOOK: Amuse Bouche
13.71Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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