Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island Read online

  The obscurity of both Rabinovich’s principles and the capital that supplied them had aroused the fascination of the Mossad. A chaos of information had been gleaned from hundreds of debriefings of the many who joined Rabinovich at his table. Most claimed Pyotr as close friend and loyal acquaintance. He trusted none of them.

  Rabinovich represented too many unknown, therefore dangerous, possibilities. Hence the door to Rabinovich’s condo at 6:15 on a Thursday evening, hence Lev Sten as telephone repairman with a tool belt strapped to his waist, hence the electronic lock decoder.

  The door opened. Too easy, thought Sten, a short blond man in khaki shirt, shorts and sandals. He called out in Hebrew, “Bell Yisroel!” No answer. He grimaced thinly, closed the door behind him and felt the barrel of a pistol at the back of his skull.

  A voice said, “I did not order a phone repair.”

  With thumb and index finger Sten took from his pocket a sheet of folded paper and showed the man the repair order. “Are you Mr. Rabinovich?”

  “Yes,” said the man in English, “and your Hebrew is lousy. British?”

  “Nottingham,” and Sten continued in English with a midlands accent, “and you were cursed to be born Russian.”

  “A metre from the wall. Legs apart. Undo your work-belt. Drop your trousers.” Sten did. “Arms apart, high, lean against the wall. Thank you.” With his pistol Rabinovich patted Sten along his shirt and pants. “Pull your undershorts down, please. Good. Now spread the cheeks. Kick your trousers over here, please.” Rabinovich examined the tools on the man’s belt. Among these, a palm-held camera. “All in order, chaver. Except your lock pick. Standard Mossad issue.”

  Sten said nothing.

  “I assume the camera is normal. Everyone in this country is a tourist.”

  Sten squinted at Rabinovich as in mild disbelief.

  “Please, turn around and raise your scrotum. A little higher. Good, thank you. Now put your pants on. You are here to explore my condo. I am a loyal Israeli. If Mossad believes I am a cause for concern, you must do your job.” He waved his pistol wide, an invitation. “Please.”

  “I’m here to fix your phone.”

  “Go right ahead. But place no listening devices. No, you could not, you have not brought anything with you unless you are wired ve-e-ery deep up your asshole. So. Be my guest.”

  For the next two hours Sten searched in and beneath drawers and under beds, tapped walls and floorboards, examined letters and notebooks and packages of photos, showing Rabinovich in the company of publicly familiar faces. Also letters in languages Sten didn’t know. He found nothing that might prove of interest to his agency control. Which itself was interesting.

  Rabinovich asked Sten many questions and Sten, while going about his professionally thorough search, responded with casual truthfulness. Halfway through they discovered they shared Yiddish in common, which shifted them to first name basis. By the end they found they knew British-Jewish and Russian-Jewish versions of the same anti-Israel jokes.

  Lev left as he’d entered, through the front door, thinking if he’d stayed any longer Pyotr would’ve offered him a drink. A convivial man. Lev felt relief that he hadn’t been ordered to kill the Russian—not that he’d have been able to till the middle of their joking, then a quick jerk to the side, the wire from the belt, an instant garotting. If Pyotr hadn’t shot him first.

  He reported his search with precision, suggesting further surveillance. His agency control agreed with Sten’s analysis and ordered the agent to spend several late afternoons a week at the Wet Negev. Over a year and a half Pyotr and Lev—Lev even after Llewellyn Katz revealed his English name, Rabinovich exclaiming, “Llewellyn?! Every parent is an anti-Semite!”—talked and joked. In the end Rabinovich sold the Negev to a South African playboy and left Israel for the US, grumbling, “No room to grow in this socialist country.”

  Six years ago he asked Katz to join him at The Hermitage, head of security, vice-president electronics division. Mossad never did figure out what Rabinovich was doing in Israel.

  Llewellyn Katz, arriving in Las Vegas, finding the desert landscape eerily familiar and his salary quadrupled, adapted with loyalty to his designated alias, Herm 3.

  Rabinovich would this evening send Herm 3 to Nanaimo. His assignment: two detectives.

  • • •

  Noel wondered if he actually liked Lyle. At least Lyle was a connection to Brendan. So it was okay to see Lyle. His eye caught Lyle’s painting over the chesterfield. Not bad. He loaded some CDs and set the machine to random. Melissa Etheridge sang out, “It shouldn’t bother you—”

  Except it bothered him a hell of a lot, the obituary that lay concealed at the back of the bottom drawer of the chest. Hidden from his eyes. Not from his mind.

  Lyle arrived at 6:30 holding a bottle of 2005 Mercurey. He glanced at Noel’s bare feet and kicked off his sandals. Was Lyle’s mustache new? Noel couldn’t remember. He did remember how Lyle slouched. Still, he looked good in blue open-collared dress shirt, maroon V-neck vest and brown corduroys. Noel took the bottle, nodded with pleasure, and offered Scotch, gin or vodka. Good thing he’d assembled the dinner this morning; he’d arrived back from Gabriola thirty minutes ago. On the stove the contents of the Dutch oven looked after themselves.

  “End of September,” Lyle announced, “early evening is still vodkatonic time.”

  “Right.” Noel busied himself with bottles, ice and glasses. Inside, he was wincing. Brendan and he, in summers at 5 p.m. would break into their v ’n’ t song: Early in the evening, Just as the sun is waning, The Friendly Giant calling, It’s vodka ’n’ tonic time!

  Lyle surveyed the living area. “You still have my painting up.” He sounded gratified.

  “Yep.” Noel handed Lyle a glass, picked up his own, clunked. “Cheers.” Noel sipped, Lyle chugged half his drink. Noel sat at one end of the chesterfield. “How’s your work going?”

  Lyle sat at the other end. “Comme ci, comme ça.” He flipped a so-so with his hand. “After the exhibit at Eaglenest I got galleries in Toronto and Montreal. Sold a few small ones. But nobody really cares about painting.” He cocked his head.

  “That bad, eh?”

  “My lectures about the stock market keep me in paint. How’s the investigation going?”

  “It’s okay.” But Noel preferred research.

  Lyle drained his drink, leaned toward the coffee table but couldn’t reach it. He shifted to the middle of the chesterfield, set his tumbler down, and turned to Noel. He rested his arm along the back of the sofa. “And how you doing, buddy, really?”

  “Okay,” Noel said.

  “You got to get out more. There’s this party coming up, whole community’s going, dress as your fave movie star. I’ve got a great Dietrich schtick.” His arm dropped to Noel’s shoulder.

  Noel turned to face Lyle. “Marlene with a mustache?” He shook his head. “Thanks, but I’m not ready for a party yet.” Noel jiggled his glass and sipped. “Kind of you to ask, though.” Lyle’s arm felt warm, but out of place. Noel inched his leg away, picked up Lyle’s glass and stood. “Another? I’ll check on dinner.” He headed for the kitchen. He realized he was flattered.

  “I can make it.” Lyle followed Noel. He found the mixings and poured himself four ounces of vodka. “Freshen up yours?”

  Noel added a glug of his cooking wine to the sauce. “Fine for now.” He poked at the potatoes steaming happily. He felt the pressure of hands on his shoulders and froze.

  “It’s true,” Lyle whispered into his ear, “you are fine.” He kneaded Noel’s shoulders in gentle massage.

  Noel dropped his head. This was ridiculous. But it felt good. But but but. He turned to face Lyle, forcing Lyle’s right hand to pull away. He set his own hand over Lyle’s left, applied a moment of pressure, then lifted Lyle’s fingers. “Thank you, Lyle. We can eat in ten minutes.”

  Lyle replaced his hands on Noel’s shoulders, now facing him. “I want you to know that I’ve admired and lik
ed you from the day we met. I want you to believe that.”

  Noel wanted to pull his eyes away from Lyle’s. He couldn’t. He nodded. “Good of you to say that.” He nodded again, harder. “And I like you too. But—” And suddenly Lyle’s lips were against his own. Only a little pressure. Enough to spark sensations absent many months. He didn’t kiss back. He closed his eyes and waited.

  Lyle pulled away. “I know. You aren’t ready yet.” He grinned. “But you’re coming along.”

  The CD player moved to Cole Porter. Noel said, “I hope so.”

  Lyle raised his hand to Noel’s cheek and stroked it with his fingers. “I can feel it.” His amused tone washed into Ella singing, “I Get a Kick Out of You.”

  Noel reached for his drink. “I do like you. You’re witty and intelligent. Even handsome.” He took a sip. “But for now, can we just be friends?”

  “Rejected before dinner. Mostly that happens after.”

  Noel smiled sympathetically. He wished he weren’t feeling a bit aglow. He hoped Lyle hadn’t noticed. The glow felt good. But also scary. As if his face were too close to a flame.

  Lyle reached for his drink, raised it to his lips and looked at Noel flirtatiously over his glass. “Doesn’t mean I won’t keep on trying, you know.”

  Noel nodded. “Would you mind opening that lovely Mercurey?”

  • • •

  Kyra arrived at Noel’s door, still shaken. May I kiss you? The words had reverberated all the way down the hill: kiss you the electric surge was there, she knew they both felt it. She leaned her forehead against the door frame. She’d said, No. This way to Born-Again-Virgin country.

  Surely, if one decides to be celibate, one’s head rules? She tapped it on the wood. So why the heck had her body responded so intensely? Her skin still tingled. She breathed deeply. She longed for a cigarette. A couple walked swiftly down the hall. Maybe she could bum a cigarette. She got out her keys and fingered them.

  Her friend Mike, whose day job was painting houses, had developed a successful career in burglary until a small slip-up landed him three years inside. When Sam said to Kyra, Get a job, and that job turned out to be investigating claims for Puget Sound Life, she mentioned her work to Mike. Just out on parole, he said he’d be delighted to advise her on locks and picks and tumblers. She told him she didn’t think she needed that. He’d said one never could tell when an interesting door might turn out to be locked. She’d said, Okay, why not? Mike had found teaching Kyra so satisfying that he’d printed up cards advertising his “School” and soon found a comfortable number of lock-picking students—would-be private eyes mostly, an academic criminologist wanting hands-on training for a research paper. And one or two unskilled burglars? Did he burgle off and on to keep from getting rusty? She wondered how she’d feel breaking into locked places. She had enjoyed the learning. Picking locks was a skill, like juggling. Not needed at Noel’s door. Any key would unlock it. She slid hers into the loose lock and pushed the door open.

  Noel sprang up from his chair. “Kyra! Welcome back. Glad you can join us.”

  She noted Lyle move his arm along the sofa’s back, the disgruntled expression on his face quickly rearranging itself to blandness. Had that been delight? relief? in Noel’s voice?

  Noel stared at her, “The shirt—” he forced a laugh, “looks good on you.”

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, and Noel shook his head. “Listen, you need to change your lock. And the deadbolt only has two screws.” She dropped her keys into her bag. “Hi. You’re Lyle, right?”

  “Yes. And you are?” He stood.

  “Kyra Rachel,” Noel supplied. “You met at Brendan’s funeral.”

  “Oh yes. Hello.”

  Noel turned to Kyra. “This is great. Plenty of boeuf bourguignon for all.”

  “Certainly, dine with us.” Lyle, now debonair. “I want to hear about Noel’s case. Has he told you he’s been detecting?”

  “Want a vodka tonic? Or something else?”

  “Okay.” She’d had enough alcohol but needed a drink right now.

  Noel zipped to the fridge. He blinked rapidly a couple of times. The shirt—

  “We’ve been working on the case together,” Kyra informed Lyle.

  He raised an eyebrow. “So you can both fill me in.”

  A lot going on in the room, Kyra could feel it. She sat in the seat she thought of as hers, an over-stuffed 1920s green and grey armchair her father’d given Brendan and Noel when they made their public mutual commitment.

  Noel handed her a glass. She sipped. Noel and Lyle sat. “And how are you doing, Lyle?”

  “Not too well.” He grinned at Noel.

  “We can eat if you want,” Noel said.

  “Why don’t you let Kyra drink her drink? Tell me about the case.”

  Noel rattled his ice. “Body found on the Eaglenest grounds. The groundskeeper, actually.”

  “Groundskeeper?” Lyle flipped his wrist in parody. “It’s too Lady Chatterley. No one on Gabriola has a groundskeeper. Not even Artemus.”

  “It’s a booming business. They just don’t call themselves groundskeepers.”

  “Groundskeepers.” Kyra could feel herself relaxing. “Groundskeeper has a certain—”

  “Cachet,” Lyle finished.

  “Baggage,” Noel insisted.

  Kyra instantly pictured four variants of sex in the grass. She set her drink aside for later.

  Noel stood. “Dinner really is ready.” He brought the Dutch oven and a trivet to the table—set, she noted, with Brendan’s Royal Doulton. First time out since he died? Bowl of steamed potatoes, loaf of sourdough French bread, green salad. First time Noel’s had a dinner guest since Brendan’s death? Who have you invited to dinner recently, Kyra dearie?

  They served themselves. First mouthfuls, spoken yums for Noel. A Brendan recipe.

  Lyle poured wine. “And the case?” he asked.

  “Confidentially, we got paid for not very much.” Kyra sipped. “Very nice wine, by the way.”

  “If I leave teaching, I’ll become a sommelier. Contact me then.”

  “Ah.” Two sommeliers today, both flirting. At least this one was gay. Safety there.

  “Anyway,” Noel could satisfy Lyle’s curiosity with common knowledge, “the groundskeeper was killed by a blow to the head.”

  “I know that. I recommended you to Artemus, remember?”

  Kyra looked up from her plate. “You did?”

  “Sure.”

  “Aren’t there any established detective agencies in this town?”

  “A few. But I’ve always thought of Noel as a natural investigator.”

  For how long, Noel wondered, had Lyle thought of him other than as Brendan’s partner?

  Lyle turned to Kyra. “And you’ve joined Noel?”

  No need to confide totally in Lyle. She fed a small smile a dab of bourguignon sauce. “I work for an insurance company.”

  “Two naturals, are you? Couple of super snoops?”

  Was Lyle suddenly, what? peeved? jealous? Noel said, “Investigative research is not the same as snooping.”

  “But, since you asked,” Kyra sopped up some sauce, “we enjoy working together.”

  “Oh?” Lyle said politely, and glanced to Noel. “You moving to Bellingham?”

  “He wouldn’t live in the States.” Interesting. Lyle knows where I’m from.

  “Well, that’s a relief.”

  “He has no need to move,” Kyra continued. “We’d work both sides of the border.”

  “It’s only at an early talking stage,” Noel said. No. Damn. Sounded like he was apologizing to Lyle. They were nowhere close to working together.

  “I like it.” Lyle folded his arms. “Always better to go international.” He turned to Kyra. “What do you do for your insurance company?”

  “Oh, stakeouts, tailing.”

  “In Bellingham?”

  “Mostly on the islands. I’ve been on San Juan, Waldron—”

&
nbsp; “Aha! There’s your schtick. An international company detecting on islands. Yeah, guys, this could sell. Get out there. Advertise.”

  Noel noted the excitement reaching Kyra’s face. Slow down, Kyra. “Have some more wine.” He picked up the bottle.

  “Yeah,” Lyle enthused, “it’s a great idea. International Islands Investigation.”

  “Islands aren’t international—”

  “Okay, International Investigation on Islands.”

  Kyra tried. “Or Islands Investigations International.”

  “That’s it! I love it. I.I.I.”

  “Triple-I,” said Noel. Why when you name something does it suddenly take on reality?

  “Here’s your logo,” Lyle waxed. “Three wide eyeballs connected at the edges.”

  “The Cyclops Agency,” Kyra threw in, laughing. “Or the Third Eye.”

  “You have to incorporate,” Lyle continued. “I could help you there, I know someone who can— Say, you could make it quadruple I. Islands Investigations International Incorporated.”

  “No no no, not four.” Kyra shook her head. “We wouldn’t want a logo that says myopia.”

  Noel laughed.

  Lyle said, with dignity, “Just so everybody can tell who you are.”

  Noel didn’t like this going public business. Let alone being pushed into a partnership in something he might never do. He sat up straight. “You wanted to know about our case.”

  “I want to know everything, Noel.” Lyle chuckled, sharing the joke only with himself.