Safe at Home (8 page)

Once we had changed the topic of conversation, the evening improved. We talked about trips we had taken, about journalism, about the Wells’s kids. It was past 11:00 when we left the restaurant and pleasant enough outside to stroll the Danforth, checking out the gift shop windows full of the kind of horrid, tacky statuary that must clutter up the apartments of half the Greek newlyweds in town. These shops are a reassuring counterpoint to the gentrification of the neighbourhood, cheek by jowl with the new, trendier, stores. Jim and Carol turned down the invitation, mine this time, to come back for coffee or a drink.

We were close to Allen’s when we saw them into a cab, so Andy and I went in and got a booth. While Andy ordered Armagnacs for us both at the bar, I picked out some of my favourites on the vintage jukebox. There’s a choice at Allen’s—old jazz or old rhythm-and-blues. I selected the quieter numbers from both genres, an attempt to pre-empt the tastes of a rowdy group at the bar that looked like a softball team that had mistaken the place for the sports bar down the street. Wouldn’t they be surprised when their bar bill arrived. Max, the owner, sat at the corner of the bar, the silver star imbedded in his right front tooth glinting when he smiled at the willowy society sweetie fawning over him. He was wearing his purple-framed round glasses and looked like a decadent little owl.

“All right, tell me about the note,” I said. “That is, if I’m allowed to have that information.”

“Stop being a jerk. What I tell you is confidential. I just want to keep it that way. I am breaking the rules by talking to an outsider. Jim may be my partner, but he’s still a cop. I look bad.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t think that Jim tells Carol everything?”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t. She’s not interested. Most women aren’t as nosy as you are.”

“Oh, nosy, am I? I prefer to say that I’m inquisitive. That’s my job.”

“No. Your job is only to be inquisitive about overpaid morons and the games they play.”

“Fine. Don’t tell me, then. I thought you liked talking about your cases with me.”

We sat in hostile silence for a few minutes, avoiding each other’s eyes, waiting each other out. Andy finally spoke.

“All right. I’ll show it to you. It was pretty strange. It was faxed to me.”

“Oh, great, a high-tech wacko. A yuppie serial killer. Do you suppose he sent it on his car phone?”

“Here’s a copy.”

He passed a folded sheet of paper across the table. I opened it. At first it looked just funny; a kid’s joke cut out of magazines and newspapers. It was well-designed, a collage of headlines about the crimes, photographs of the crime scenes, underlined paragraphs cut from the reports. But the words were chilling: “How are you doing, Munro? Not so good? Too bad. You haven’t got much time. I have my next victim chosen. The stalking has begun.”

“Catch me if you can,” I said.

“That’s about it. This is not unusual for a serial killer. The demand for attention, and the desire to be caught. In his more rational moments, this kind of guy often really wants to be stopped.”

“Well, you can tell a few things about him. He’s neat, for one thing. He probably got straight A’s in kindergarten. Isn’t there a way you can trace where a fax has come from?”

“It’s not easy if the sender wants to be anonymous. We might be able to get something from Bell Canada, eventually; but it will take time.”

“What else is happening?”

“Well, we’re keeping a bunch of our constables busy going door to door again. Sometimes people don’t realize what they’ve seen, or it’s so trivial they don’t realize how important it is. We’re launching another public appeal tomorrow.”

“Boring work. Is that how you usually find your killer?”

“No. It’s usually someone the victim knows. Half the time we find them with the knife or gun in their hand. Even when it’s not handed to us, we can focus on likely suspects. This time we can’t.”

“So what do you go on?”

“For example, someone on Heath Street saw a dark van on the street the night before the second kid was found in the ravine. Now we go back to all the people we talked to on the other two crimes and see if they saw a van, too. It might not have seemed worth mentioning the first time we talked to them.”

“Who saw it?”

“An old guy with insomnia who looked out his window at two in the morning. It stood out for him because he knows all the cars on the street. In the mixed commercial and residential areas the other two were found in, it wouldn’t be so unusual.”

“So, what do you do?”

“We talk to all the neighbours on Heath Street, for a start, to find out if they had a visitor who had a van. And we talk to people like the guy in the all-night doughnut shop near the plumbing supply store where they found the first body. If any of them saw one, too, then we begin to think it might be important.”

“Straws in the wind.”

“You got it. We’re just slogging. The traffic guys are having fun interviewing anybody who got a parking ticket in the neighbourhoods involved. It all goes in the computer, and I make myself crazy going through the printouts. I keep thinking that maybe I missed something.”

“But what are you looking for?”

Who the fuck knows?” he said wearily. “I’ve felt all along that this one isn’t going to solved by the routine stuff, but we can’t be sure.”

“You think this guy is smart?”

“I think that he thinks he is. I think that’s why he sent me that thing.”

“Don’t let it get to you, Andy,” I said. “Let’s just forget about it for tonight.”

“I can’t do that, Kate. Carol was right. There comes a point in an investigation where it just takes over my life. If you’re going to get involved with a cop, you’re going to have to understand that.”

“Andy, I didn’t get involved with a cop. I got involved with a man. A wonderful man. A human being, not some sort of crime-busting robot. I want to know where he has gone.”

“Oh, please. Let’s can the meaningful relationship conversation for tonight. I’m tired.”

“What about me? I’m tired, too. Tired of playing second fiddle to your murderer.”

“That’s typical,” he said. “I’m sorry, Kate, but the world doesn’t revolve around you.”

“I understand the pressure you are under,” I began.

“No you don’t,” he snapped. “You are not a cop. Just because you like to play detective doesn’t make you any different from any other civilian.”

“And maybe you’re no different from any other cop. Maybe you have more in common with that scumbucket I met at the party tonight than you do with me.”

“What are you talking about now?”

“That noble law-enforcer at the party who reminded me why I don’t much like cops.”

“Flanagan?”

“Yes, that rough-around-the-edges guy who likes talking about ‘big nigger dicks.’ That charmer.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Kate. I can’t believe that you’re getting bent out of shape by something like that.”

“The guy is a pig. He’s sexist, racist, and vulgar.”

I told Andy what Flanagan had said to me. He rolled his eyes and laughed.

“And you didn’t belt him? I’m amazed at your self-restraint.”

“I’m sorry, but I fail to find the humour in this.”

“All right. Bob’s not exactly subtle. But you can handle that kind of stuff. Things aren’t exactly a tea party in the locker room are they?”

“Oh, now we’re getting into it. I spend time with naked men, so I’m a slut, right? Just because my job puts me into that situation means I don’t deserve any respect.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Even the bozos at the bar had noticed our raised voices. When I got up and walked towards the door, they moved silently out of my way. At the door, I turned back towards Andy.

“If you like him so much, you can just go spend the night with Flanagan.”

As the door closed behind me, I heard the bozos cheer.

I walked around for half an hour before I went home, stomping off my rage. I half expected Andy to be waiting for me when I got there, and had been rehearsing the good lines I hadn’t thought of while we were at the bar. But the house was dark. No Andy. No note. No message on the machine.

I felt let down, a bit stupid, and a little drunk. I sat with my feet up on the couch to wait for him. Elwy came and sat on my lap, kneading his paws into my stomach and purring.

“What will I do, Elwy? Should I call him?”

He didn’t answer.

“Meow if you think I should phone him.”

Silence.

“You’re probably right. We’ll sleep on it, and it will be all right in the morning.”

We headed into the bedroom. I got out of my party clothes, including the garter belt I had worn to surprise and titillate Andy, and into the comforting blue flannel nightie.

We curled up together under the duvet. Elwy was asleep in minutes. I was awake for half the night, worrying about Andy, worrying about my Kelsey feature, worrying about what would happen to Joe when the story appeared. And thinking about the killer out there somewhere, stalking.

I planned to take the day off, but went into the office late in the morning to have a look at the layout of the Kelsey piece for the next morning’s paper. I was glad to see that Jake had handled it with a bit of restraint, by which I mean that the headline stopped short of shrieking “PREACHER KELSEY IS A FLAMING FAG.” The photos were good: Kelsey laughing with his teammates, thoughtful in the on-deck circle, and at home, relaxed.

We were in Jake’s office, still trying to keep the lid on the thing, to make sure the other papers didn’t find out. The design department had been sworn to secrecy.

“I love it, Jake. It’s really nice looking. What page is it running on?”

“Three, with a big pointer on the section page. Plus the small story on the front, with a picture. Can you write that before you go? We just need a short sell.”

“No problem. What are we going to do on the weekend?”

“Which ‘we’ is that, kemo sabe? You are going to be covering it like Astroturf. Don’t worry about the game story, just get reaction. Players, fans, whatever happens.”

“You mean I have to go down in the stands and ask questions of strangers? Yuck.”

“It’s a tough life, Kate. But a noble profession.”

The coffee trolley had rolled in. First in line was Margaret Papadakis. We smiled insincerely at each other.

“How’s it going, Margaret? Still on the murders?”

“Mainly. There’s not much happening. I hope I’ll get some new stuff out of my lunch.”

“What lunch is that?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Perhaps I have been indiscreet. I assumed you knew that your friend Staff Sergeant Munro was taking me to lunch today.”

“Oh, of course. It just slipped my mind. I think he wants to make a public appeal.”

“He can appeal to this part of the public whenever he wants,” she said, gliding away. I contemplated the effect that a full-tilt catfight would have in the newsroom and decided not to go for her firm young throat.

“Have fun,” I said.

“Looks like Never on Sunday is after your man,” murmured Dickie across the desk divider.

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“You’re not worried about her, are you? No one in his right mind would prefer her to you.”

“Thanks, Dickie. Even if it’s not true. I’m just feeling a bit insecure today.”

Much to my own surprise, I found myself telling Greaves about my stupid behaviour the night before. He was very sympathetic.

“He sounds like my dad. When he was on a case, he was a different person. He was a nice guy, but when he got into the middle of an investigation, I wouldn’t go near him. I was as likely as not to get slapped around for playing ball in the driveway.”

“I don’t think Andy would go that far.”

“I don’t think he would dare. I just meant that everybody has two sides to him. When people are under pressure, sometimes their personality changes.”

“It’s just that he gets so selfish.”

“And you don’t when you are on a big story?”

“No, I don’t. I’m on a big story right now and I have time for him.”

This wasn’t really true. The story had been handed to me. All I had to do was write it down. I thought about the busy times in my job. I sure wouldn’t want to have Andy around while I was covering the World Series.

“Well, I’ve been wrong before. Maybe you are a rare and perfect creature after all. Would you like to run away with me to Tahiti?”

“Thanks for the offer. I think I’ll call Andy and apologize instead. Thanks for the ear.”

“Any time.”

The phone was answered on the first ring.

“Homicide. Flanagan.”

Damn.

“Staff Sergeant Munro, please.”

“He’s on another line. Want to leave a message?”

“I’ll hold.”

And hold, and hold, and hold some more. After about five minutes, Flanagan was back on the line.

“Are you still there? He’s still talking. Can someone else help you?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“It looks like he’s stuck. You’d better leave a message.”

I left my name, hoping Flanagan wouldn’t spew more filth down the phone line, but he just grunted and hung up.

Half an hour later I watched Margaret Papadakis sashay out the door. So did Dickie Greaves.

“A bunch of us are going up to Brandy’s. Why don’t you come along?” he said.

Why not? Even uninspired food in a fern forest was preferable to sitting and waiting for a phone that wouldn’t ring. The restaurant was favoured by the male reporters because of the waitresses, chosen more for their pulchritude than their aptitude, and was always packed.

Walking up Yonge and along the Esplanade, I had to endure hockey talk. The Leafs were threatening to back into the playoffs again. By the time we had settled around a couple of tables in the middle of the room, the talk had switched to some Canadian boxer’s chances in an upcoming fight. He was turning pro after winning a silver medal at the Olympics. Being a one-sport woman, I didn’t have much to add to the conversation.

“The guy he’s fighting is a bum,” said Jack Connors, who wasn’t letting his opinion of the fight stop him from accepting a trip to Las Vegas to cover it.

“They’re starting him off slowly,” said Jeff Glebe. “He’s got to work up to a good match.”

“Yeah, but he shouldn’t be wasting his time with bums,” Connors growled.

“So, what are his chances?” I asked. “He seems like such a nice kid.”

“He is,” Dickie said. “I knew him when he was really a kid. He was twelve when I wrote my first story about him.”

“Right, I’d forgotten you’d worked in Timmins,” Jack said. “What was he like then?”

“He was skinny, but determined,” Dickie said. “I never thought he had a chance, but he’s gone a long way on guts. I hope he makes it.”

“Timmins, eh? That’s a real hot spot,” teased Harry Kobayashi, the football writer. “Lots of major sport there.”

“Not exactly,” Greaves said, smiling. “But hey, the junior men’s figure-skating champion came from there. I got to go to Cleveland for the Worlds.”

“Fag sport,” said Harry and Jack, in unison. They all laughed. In the toy department, sports like figure-skating, golf, and tennis aren’t considered real manly.

By the time the food and beer arrived, we had moved on to hot topics from the front section.

“What do you think about these murders, Kate?” Connors asked.

“Goddamned pervert fags,” growled Harry Kobayashi. “They should all be locked up.”

Oh, wasn’t he going to enjoy my story on Preacher!

“Why do you assume the guy’s gay?” I asked.

“Well he buggered the little boys, didn’t he? That’s the only thing those guys think about. Little boys.”

“Neanderthal man strikes again,” I said. “The killer is obviously a monster. With that kind of twisted mind, sex is just another form of violence.”

“I still say the cops should back the paddy wagon up to all the gay bars and get them off the street,” Harry said. “That would stop the killings in a hurry.”

“I think Kate’s right,” said Greaves. “The guy isn’t necessarily gay.”

“What the fuck do you know about it?”

“Well, I knew one of the victims, you know.”

“Big fucking deal.”

“That’s why I’m so interested in the case,” Dickie continued.

“And here I thought you just got your jollies from death,” Harry said.

“Really, it’s a fascinating case,” Dickie said. “Don’t you agree, Kate?”

“Horrifying is more the word I would use,” I said. “Maybe grotesque.”

“I try to get inside the killer’s head,” Dickie said, taking a bite out of his hamburger. “What would make someone kill these children? Why the way he does it? Why does he smother them, instead of shoot them, or stab them? There’s something almost gentle about the way he does it.”

“Come on, guys, let’s change the subject,” said Jeff Glebe. “You’re putting me off my lunch.”

Not obviously. Jeff had stowed away two appetizers and was working on an entree. And was still skinny as a pencil.

“Well, I just hope they catch the guy,” Dickie said.

“I think they will,” I said, loyal to that rat, Munro. “I know they will. It’s just a matter of time. But time is something they haven’t got a lot of.”

“He usually takes a couple of weeks between victims, doesn’t he?” Jack asked.

“The pattern has been changing, though,” said Greaves. “There was a month between the first two, then three weeks before the third.”

“And the murders got more brutal,” Jeff said. “It looks like the guy is getting pretty sure of himself.”

“I’ll tell you one thing. If I had a kid, I wouldn’t let him out of my sight,” I said.

“I guess most parents feel that way, but it’s impossible,” Jack said. “They have to go to school. They go to play sports, they have music lessons. How are you going to protect them, short of keeping them home all day?”

“Besides, this killer is smart,” Greaves said. “He’ll find a way.”

On this gloomy note, I threw a twenty on the table.

“I’ll let you guys carry on,” I said. “I’m going to see what I can salvage of my afternoon off.”

“See you at the game tomorrow;” Jeff said.

“Be ready for a busy day,” I said. “There might be more going on than you think.”

I picked up the Citroën at the
Planet
parking lot and slid back the cloth roof. It was finally, or at least momentarily, real spring weather.

I went up the Bayview extension to the ballet studio at which I take class sporadically. I was a serious student when I was younger, with dreams of joining the National Ballet. But puberty took care of that. No matter what my talent might have been, there’s not much demand for prima ballerinas who are five foot nine, with tits.

But I still enjoy putting my body through the familiar routines. It beats jogging as a way to fight the ravages of age, late nights, and too many cigarettes. I have a barre in my study, and make it to class whenever I can. Madame was one of my teachers when I was a kid. She gets furious when too much time goes by between visits, but has come to accept that I’ll never be a regular. She lets me join whatever class is going.

That afternoon it was an early afternoon beginners’ class for housewives. I worked up a good sweat and felt like a swan among pigeons.

When I got home I called the office to check for messages. Andy hadn’t called. Throwing the last of my pride away, I phoned him. Bob Flanagan answered again, and was it my imagination, or was he pleased to tell me that Andy hadn’t come back from lunch yet? It was 3:30 in the afternoon.

“The hell with him, Elwy,” I said. “Let’s go dig in the garden.”