The Always Anonymous Beast Read online

  I eyed her curiously, took off my good camel hair jacket and pants, and hung them in the closet. “I’m not so complicated. Who says thugs can’t read Shakespeare?”

  I rummaged around for a pair of navy cotton pants, purloined from an earlier adventure, zipped them up, found a belt, and threaded it through my holster. I got it positioned where I wanted it in the small of my back, and took a navy jacket off a hanger. It had a large orange oval on the back that said METRO GAS and a smaller oval on the right breast that read SMYTHE.

  “Your gun is showing,” she said quietly.

  I put on the jacket and zipped it up. “Now it isn’t.”

  “Do you need to take it?” she asked curiously.

  “Better safe than sorry,” I told her truthfully, stuffing my hair up under a Metro Gas cap, donning a pair of mirror sunglasses, and sliding a clipboard under my arm.

  She shook her head in dismay, turned and went back to the living room. I tried not to be irritated. Tough luck if she hadn’t like what she’d just seen. Who asked her to watch me change anyhow? Nosy broad.

  “Help yourself to coffee and donuts and so on,” I told her. “I shouldn’t be more than an hour or so.”

  “I hope not,” she said. “I have to go home and get ready for a dinner party tonight.” She gave me a long look. “Surely you’re not going to want to...”

  “Tag along?” I supplied. “It would probably be a good idea. Where is it?”

  “At a colleague’s house. There will be five of us.”

  “Hmm,” I said, thinking. “Well, maybe I’ll just follow you. To see that you get there and back without being run down by any more skaters.”

  She tapped her foot in irritation. “All right. But I think you’re overreacting.” A thought crossed her mind. “What about Val? We’re in this mess together. Aren’t you concerned that young hoodlums may be mugging her, too?”

  “Yeah, I am. But I can’t be in two places at once. I’ll go see Val once you’re safely partying.” I walked to the door. “Oh, if a large grey cat comes to the window and hollers to get in, would you open it for him? And don’t let him sweet-talk you. He doesn’t need a thing to eat.”

  She actually smiled. Was it my feline ownership that amused her? Perhaps she had expected me to keep a brace of pit bulls. Or a tank of pirranhas. “I’ll let him in. What’s his name?”

  I was embarrassed. “Repo. Short for Repossessed. The kids who live upstairs—the ones who run the health food store and café—gave him to me. They liberated him from some horrible sounding animal experiment at the University. He’s definitely on his ninth life.”

  I was almost out the door when she said it. “I do hope you’ll ...be careful.”

  I felt like five-year-old Caitlin being sent off to school by Mom. “I always am,” I told her a little acerbicly. “It’s my edge.”

  Chapter Six

  Redfern Street is just a few blocks from the Oak Bay Recreation Center, in a section of the municipality euphemistically called “Oak Bay Border.” Realtors call it that to make it more saleable. Lying north of the so-called “Tweed Curtain” of Foul Bay Road, it is unacknowledged by us who live in Oak Bay proper. It is beyond The Pale. Actually, it is a perfectly ordinary mixed residential district of retired couples and young marrieds. The houses are small, plain, and modest, their yards neat. There are none of the astonishing Tudor monstrosities, towering oaks, elaborate gardens, and lush lawns, that you find in Oak Bay.

  And in my opinion, Oak Bay is the nicest thing about Victoria. Pains have been taken by the merchants to make it appear the quintessential English village. The shop fronts are black and white Tudor, the lampposts sport baskets of flowers, and everyone knows everyone else. Within a space of three blocks we have all the necessities of life—a fishmarket, butcher shop, tea and coffee emporium, English woolen shop, a bakery, a hardware store, a tobacconist’s, a shoe store, a travel agency, a delicatessen, a photo shop, several banks, two grocery stores, three tearooms, and a genuine British pub. Elderly ladies in Harris tweed skirts and sensible shoes march their Corgis and Westies enthusiastically up and down Oak Bay Avenue in all kinds of weather. It really does have a village atmosphere, and I loved it. I would never consider living on the other side of the Tweed Curtain.

  Redfern Street in Oak Bay Border could have been a street in any city in Canada. But although many of the houses seemed in need of a spring fix-up or two, none was as seedy looking as James Harrington’s. The neighborhood definitely didn’t deserve him.

  I left my car at the top of the block and walked to 1074—a frame two-story once white, with peeling porch, faschia, and eavestroughs. A chain link fence enclosed the yard. I immediately thought dog, and opened the gate cautiously. No slavering canine appeared, so I trotted up the steps and onto the porch and rang the bell. No answer. Just to be sure, I leaned on it for maybe a full minute, but no one appeared. I went back out the gate and down the driveway beside the house, looking for the meter. I found it on the far side of the house, on the back porch, which was every bit as scabrous as the front. I recorded a bunch of kilowattage on my clipboard, and picked the back door lock when I was sure no one could see me.

  Opening the door a few inches, I waited to be sure a maddened Doberman wasn’t tethered to the doorknob. Once inside, I found myself in what my grandmother would have called a mud room. There were hooks on one wall which held a grimy down vest, a denim jacket, and a raincoat. Against the far wall was an enormous cairn of beer cases. I figured this entrance was used only for moving the beer in and out. I took a toothpick out of my pocket, broke it, and jammed the pieces into the lock. Now the spring wouldn’t release, and while the door would close, it wouldn’t lock. I certainly didn’t want to have to fumble with a locked door in case I needed to make a quick departure.

  “Hello!” I yelled. “Anyone home?” Just your friendly meter reader come about a problem with your service. No answer. Besides, the place felt empty. I walked through a kitchen, surprisingly neat and tidy, and a living room furnished with two old flowered couches, a ratty-looking carpet remnant, and incongruously, a bookcase full of shiny electronic equipment. There was a new Onkyo stereo and speakers, two Sony Trinitrons, a Magnavox VCR, a Canon portable video camera and deck, and a couple of Sony Walkmans. A table by the window held an IBM PC computer, two Epson printers, one of the new Zenith portables, and an Apple Macintosh. Bingo. This place looked like a used electronics store. Could it be this easy? I quickly wrote down the serial numbers.

  Now, upstairs, or downstairs? I ran upstairs. Two bedrooms, both furnished, one with bunk beds. Three people lived here. In the front bedroom a notebook on the desk said Lester Baines, Journalism 3. There was a Canon AE-1 camera and various lenses on the desk. I opened the drawers and quickly looked through them. Nothing much. Papers, journals, magazines, pens, pencils, empty film containers. The dresser held clean clothes, the closet mostly dirty ones. But a stack of cardboard file cabinets shoved in the closet proved interesting. I hauled one out into the room. It contained Lester’s photography assignments, I supposed—some interesting shots of the campus, and some perfectly awful ones of tree bark and ocean waves. In the back, however, was a file stuck up at an angle as if it had been removed recently and shoved back in some haste. Victor it said. I pulled it out. It was full of pictures of people, obviously taken with a telephoto lens. Big deal. Another boring journalism assignment. I almost shoved it back when a photo fell out onto the floor. I picked it up to return it to the file folder and froze in mid-gesture. The photo was of Tonia.

  She was standing at her kitchen sink, doing dishes, head turned, talking to someone. I flipped it over. On the back Lester had scribbled Subject 29, Feb. 10. I looked more closely at the file, and began to turn the pictures over. All the photos were candid shots of individuals, and all were labeled the same way, with subject and date notations. I began to get a bad feeling about all this. The negatives were clipped to the back of the file, and I hesitated for only a moment before I shove
d them into a pocket. I returned the file to the box and the box to the closet, and hurried into the next bedroom, the one with bunk beds.

  A quick search of the drawers and closet yielded no useful information save that this was the lair of the maladroit skater James Harrington, who was, it seemed, an engineering student. Harrington shared the room with another engineering student, Mark Jerome. Well, perhaps I had found enough for one day. I ran downstairs and exited the way I had entered, removing the broken toothpick from the lock.

  On my way up the driveway I saw a dark green Buick wagon drive up in front of the house—the same car that had followed Val home from the studio. I recognized the license plate. Three young men got out—the two I had seen in the car the night before, and a third I recognized as James Harrington. But the driver was new to me. He was about fifty, maybe five-eight, stocky build, porcine features, grey crewcut, and mean little pale eyes. The kids’ fence? Maybe.

  I touched my cap to them and crossed the street. None of them even looked at me twice. Wear a uniform and carry a clipboard and you can go anywhere.

  On my way home, I mulled over the photos I had found in Lester Baines’ files. Why were his photos of people labeled with subject names and dates? Perhaps my intuition was wrong—perhaps this was just another journalism assignment. I doubted it, though. And who was Victor? Well, that was one problem. The other was the electronic gear I had found in the house. Was this really what it seemed—a trio of enterprising kids running a burglary ring? Was the older man I’d seen with them really a fence? Or their Fagin? Should I care? I decided I didn’t have enough information even to guess. Yet. Well, maybe when the negatives were developed, I’d have more to go on.

  I drove to the Oak Bay photo shop, put a rush on the negatives, and dashed across the street to the Back Alley Deli. The owners made the best muffins in the world. I bought half a dozen, a hunk of cheddar, a quarter pound of shaved ham, and ran back to the car. Maybe I could get this stuff smuggled into the house and devoured without Yvonne finding out. I intended to try.

  Back on Monterey, everything looked all right as I pulled into the driveway and parked. I rang the bell and Tonia let me in, checking me out first through the little window in the door.

  She had drawn the curtains, and turned on a table lamp. Was it that late? I looked at my watch. Nearly five-thirty.

  There was a mohair blanket on the couch with a grey tail protruding from under it and I guessed that Tonia and Repo had been snuggling together. I felt envious, and realized with a start that it wasn’t envy of Tonia. Heck, I could snuggle up to Repo any old time. Tonia turned to look at me and I noted that her hair was mussed, and her eyes still a little unfocussed from sleep. She closed her eyes and stretched, her lean body arching in an unconsciously graceful catlike motion, and I checked an impulse to reach out and smooth her hair.

  Good grief, Caitlin, get a grip on yourself, I told myself. Going to the kitchen for a drink suddenly seemed like a pretty good idea, and I quickly hustled my overactive libido out of the room and temptation’s path. I felt certain that Tonia would be able to tell how rapidly I had progressed from thoughts of hair smoothing to thoughts of earlobe nibbling. I decided to restrict all such activities to the shaved ham.

  My throat had begun to feel raspy again, and I suspected that another shot of Yvonne’s concoction was in order. Well, a handful of vitamin C and a drink would have to suffice.

  “How did the meter reading go?” Tonia asked from behind me.

  “Good. Meters are amazing things. You can learn a lot from them,” I equivocated, deciding not to tell her about the pictures I had found until I had some idea what they meant. And right now, I had a paucity of good ideas. I resisted turning around to look at her, and poured myself a Scotch. “Want a drink?” I called over my shoulder. I swallowed a healthy belt, along with my lustful thoughts of the good Dr. Konig, and turned around.

  “No thanks.” Tonia leaned against the kitchen door frame, arms crossed. Her dark green sweater clung softly to her breasts. “You haven’t forgotten?”

  “Forgotten what?”

  She closed her eyes wearily. Well, what could you expect from a thug? “My dinner party.”

  “Of course not,” I lied. “Just fortifying myself.” Inwardly, I cursed. What I really wanted was a hot bath and my bed. Or a cold shower and my bed. Instead I could look forward to an evening spent lurking in my car, waiting for Tonia. Great. Well, that would cool my ardor. And I could kill some of the time going to see Val. “Ready when you are,” I told her, tossing Smythe’s jacket over one of the kitchen chairs and exchanging it for my heavy suede windbreaker.

  Tonia gave me a long, unreadable look as I zipped up, and I tried my best to think about anything but her earlobes. I mentally whizzed through two verses of “Jabberwocky” and had just come to the line about the frumious Bandersnatch when she turned away. I exhaled heavily, admiring her small, firm, denim-clad rear end and those long legs as she walked into the living room to gather up her things. I waited until she was out the front door and onto the porch before I followed her. As I locked up, I told myself sternly that this was my client, for God’s sake. Professionalism, Reece. Right.

  I drove Tonia to pick up her car from the University parking lot, and followed her home. It was fully dark, and would soon rain, I realized. Wonderful. The evening was shaping up to be truly enjoyable.

  I pulled my MG into Tonia’s driveway behind her chocolate Honda Accord and hurried up the walk. She was waiting for me at the front door of the condominium. As she closed the door behind me, there was a moment of awkwardness in the hall. I groaned mentally. Would I have to start that “Jabberwocky” stuff again?

  “Caitlin,” she said reasonably, turning to face me. In the cramped space we were maybe two feet apart. I was suddenly aware of her scent—equal parts shampoo, leather jacket and Tonia. “Why—”

  I told myself her question was a professional inquiry, and tried to control my breathing. “Why do I need to come with you tonight? Simple. Because I’ve got a bad feeling,” I told her truthfully. “Something about this just isn’t right. I don’t know what it is yet, but I will. And I don’t think you should be left alone to play target.” That had come out rather well, I thought. My voice had never even quavered.

  She blinked several times, then turned to go upstairs. “Go on in,” she told me. I made sure the front door deadbolt was turned, and went into the living room. “I’ve got to hurry,” she called from the stairs. “You know where everything is from the other night, I expect. Just help yourself.”

  I found a beer in the fridge and slumped on the sofa, feigning a pose of nonchalance: Caitlin Reece, cool, tough private eye. Always in control. Yup. I snorted, and swallowed the entire beer, recalling hopefully the devastating effect alcohol always had on my libido. I prayed for speedy results. Having another beer seemed like a very good idea, so I did. Then, thinking I’d rest for just a few minutes, I closed my eyes.

  “Caitlin,” someone said softly. A hand shook me awake.

  Tonia. I came awake with a start. “Mmmph,” I muttered. “Sorry. Must be my decongestant.” She was sitting on the back of the sofa, her hand on my shoulder. I prayed for strength and rose to my feet. Taking a step, I turned and checked to see that the sofa was indeed between us.

  She looked terrific. Her hair was freshly brushed and shiny, and she had traded her green sweater and jeans for a pair of grey flannel pants and a blue turtleneck sweater that exactly matched her eyes. She gave me that unreadable look again, then smiled quickly. I was glad the couch was where it was. “I know you think you have to come tonight,” she said, “so I won’t try to talk you out of it, but surely you don’t want to wait in the car.”

  “It’s not an especially appealing prospect,” I agreed.

  “I thought not,” she said. “So I’ve got a better idea.”

  “Oh?” I inquired, hoping she couldn’t read my mind. I, too, had a better idea.

  “Yes. I’ve called Kay an
d told her that a friend dropped in unexpectedly. She doesn’t mind. Setting another place for dinner would be easy, she said.” She smiled mysteriously at me. “But you might mind.”

  I had no intentions of attending this little soiree, dressed as I was in half of Smythe’s Metro Gas uniform, but wondered why Tonia thought I might mind. Did she imagine me to be so keenly aware of my low social station that I would be embarrassed to mingle with the upper crust? Did she believe that we thugs couldn’t tell one fork from another? That we would drink from the finger bowl? “Why might I mind?” I asked.

  Her eyes sparkled mischief. “I hardly think you’d feel at home with three lesbian separatists, a proponent of nonviolence, and a rather radical lesbian author.”

  “What, no partridge in a pear tree?” I inquired sarcastically.

  Tonia actually grinned, and I decided the wisest course of action was to refuse to rise to her bait. Did she really imagine, now that I knew the guest list, that I’d want to attend and trade pithy remarks with her dinner party companions? Perhaps she planned to sit back and snicker as I did verbal battle. Well, I’m afraid I have very little tolerance for philosophic discussions. It has always seemed so much easier to just do something instead of talking a subject to death. A sudden image of myself doffing my .357 Magnum and putting it on the dining room sideboard came abruptly into my mind, and I chuckled. That might produce a round of lively conversation. No, Caitlin, I told myself. Be good.

  “I think I’ll pass,” I informed Tonia. “But thanks for the thought, anyhow.”

  She grinned again, and I realized suddenly that she had taken a great deal of pleasure in setting me up for this. I felt confused. What was going on here?

  “Well, perhaps you’ll come in for coffee and dessert when you get back from the studio,” she said meekly.