Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island Read online

  “Artemus,” she said. “I’m worried.”

  “Oh?” He put his fork down. “About what?”

  “Maybe— I think we have to stop making shipments to Rab.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “We’ve done very well. We’ve reached a—a kind of peak. But with the increasing fear of terrorism, the country’s changed. All this new security. Maybe the time has come to stop.” She sighed. “And I worry about Tam traveling so much.”

  “Rosie— I think that might make Rab very unhappy.”

  “We shouldn’t be greedy. Either of us.”

  “No telling what an unhappy Rab might do.”

  She felt a small shiver but wheeled to his side and took his hand. “I think Rab will understand.”

  “But what about increasing the Foundation’s endowment?”

  “It’s strong enough for what we want to do. We have to leave well enough alone.”

  “Rosie, do you really think things have changed that much?”

  She looked into his eyes. “I do.”

  “I mean, for all our work.”

  “Yes.”

  Perhaps for Rose. But his charitable endeavors couldn’t disturb anyone. Just the contrary. Commerce and philanthropy must go hand in hand.

  • • •

  They dropped off the film of the Gallery paintings at the drugstore. At his apartment Noel unlocked the door and Kyra entered. He stared down at the rug. “How’d you do that?”

  “What?”

  “Kyra—” He shook his head and closed the door. “A little tequila?”

  She glanced at the rug—parallel to the threshold—then at Noel. “Yeah. Tequila and talk. I’ll get the drinks.” He suddenly looked worried.

  “It’s at the back of the cabinet. Use the narrow glasses from the cupboard.” The answering machine was blinking. Noel pressed the Play button. Albert’s voice: “Got your messages. What’s up? Call me at home.” Noel did. The machine again. In the bathroom he peed and washed, then returned to the bedroom. Something felt off. He glanced around. In the dim light all looked normal. Except— A chill took him. He flicked the light switch. On the chest of drawers, two photos, himself and Brendan. The third, of Brendan alone? He walked to the chest. The picture lay image side down. He stared at it, reached for it. Stopped himself. “Kyra!” He stepped backward to the door, turned. Bumped against her.

  “Hey! Careful.” She held out two full tequila glasses. “What?”

  He pointed. “Brendan’s picture. It’s face-down!”

  “So? It fell.”

  “It can’t fall forward. It leans backwards.” A glimmer of sweat beaded down his forehead.

  She put both glasses on the chest and picked up the photo. Brendan smiled out at her. His cleanly etched eyes and lips, in life making him attractive to men and women both, looked weary. “At least the glass didn’t break.” Noel’s carotid artery throbbed. She lay her hand on his wrist.

  “How’d it fall?”

  She checked the hinge and set the picture upright. “I don’t know. A small earth tremor?”

  “Oh sure.” He pulled his arm away. “Here, but it missed Gina’s.”

  “I have no idea. Come on, let’s have our drink and talk.”

  He took his glass and followed her out of the bedroom. Halfway to the balcony his feet slowed. The rug, the picture— “Wait. I have to show you something.” Back to the bedroom, pull open the bottom drawer, reach for the envelope— He thought about it, in the kitchen he opened the utility drawer—

  “What’s up?”

  “Just a minute.” He found a package of plastic gardening gloves from Brendan’s patio garden days, tore off two, slipped them on, returned to the bedroom, lifted out the envelope. Back in the living room he plopped onto the couch. “Read this.” He drew the newsprint obit out of the envelope and unfolded it. She sat beside him. “I’ll hold it. You read.”

  She did. She said, “Wow.”

  “Yeah.”

  “When did you get this?”

  “Yesterday morning. Leaving to go to Gabriola.”

  “What! And you waited till now to show me?”

  “There hasn’t really been a chance. Lyle was here and—”

  “You could have told me.”

  “I wanted to speak with Albert first. I mean, it could just be someone playing a joke.”

  “Like the tires.”

  “Okay, the tires. And Brendan’s picture. Someone’s sending me a message.”

  “About?”

  “No idea. But I do think someone broke in here this evening.”

  “Wouldn’t take much.”

  “Guess not. Any ideas?”

  “Yes. Our drink. Tomorrow you show it to Albert.”

  “Okay.” He sighed. “Uh, let’s have our talk in the morning?”

  To the bleak look in his face she said, “Sure. We could use some sleep.”

  He glanced at his watch. Barely 9:30. “Yeah, I’m tired.” He drank down his tequila.

  “Good night.” She kissed him on the cheek, and left him.

  He took off the gloves and set the envelope on the dresser beside Brendan’s picture. He undressed, lay down, tried to read. The words on the page buzzed into each other. He killed the light, shut his eyes. Did someone break in? He fell asleep. Dreamed of Brendan, a high stone wall in the woods, Noel on this side, Brendan, Kyra, Sam and Lyle on the other. All walking fast, the wall went on, on, he met people—

  He sat up, sharp awake. Checked his watch. 1:18. Kyra, Sam and Lyle with Brendan on the other side. He turned the light on. Peed, drank some water. The picture of Brendan, upright as it should be. “Good night, Brendan.” He sat on the bed.

  Stood. Strode across the living room to the study. Opened the door. Kyra, a fast-asleep lump on the couch-bed. In the corner, his computer. He tiptoed over, turned it on.

  Kyra muttered, “I hope that’s you.”

  “Yep.” The computer whirred.

  “What you doing?”

  “Checking. I— Aagh!”

  “What? What?” Kyra leapt from the bed.

  “There.” He pointed to the screen.

  “What?” She stared. “I don’t see anything.”

  He pulled away from the keyboard. “Brendan’s gone.”

  “Oh!” The first computer image Noel saw every morning. Erased. “A glitch?”

  “Somebody was here.” He checked his closet. “Computer glitches don’t move pictures. Or a rug.” He checked the balcony.

  “But why?” Kyra wore her jacket as a bathrobe.

  Noel sat. He took a deep breath. Released it. Sat forward. Tapped the keyboard, worked down his subdirectories. Third level, Other. Fourth level, Eaglenest. Fifth, first subdirectory Artemus. Subsubdirectory, Artists. He opened the first file: some electronic garbage, half sentences about flowers, Hermitage, pieces of words jammed together. “It’s fucked.” Second file, background, schools-of: snatches on gambling, many smiley faces, e-mail addresses chopped up.

  “You sure?”

  “Look at it!”

  She did. “How can that happen?”

  He shook now, furious. “Software virus. Chaotex. Eats files, pukes up their contents in bits and pieces.” Upward through subdirectories. The Chung book; files okay. Finances, GICs, stocks— “All okay. Except for Eaglenest.” He set the computer on standby.

  Kyra pulled him away from the machine and held him tight for a moment. She guided him to the living room, poured him a glass of water, made him sip it slowly.

  He stared at her. “I think— Someone is not happy with me.”

  “An Eaglenest someone?”

  “I don’t know. The calls started coming long before Eaglenest.”

  “That virus attacked just one set of files.”

  “I know, I know.

  “Someone at Eaglenest is distressed. Who?”

  Noel let out a nervous giggle. “I don’t see Rose fucking up my computer.”

  “Or Artemus breakin
g in.” She stared at Noel. “Tam?”

  Noel forced control into his voice. “You’d know better.”

  Kyra tried to picture Tam sneaking in. No image came. “Maybe someone they hired?”

  “Exposing themselves by paying somebody to break in?”

  “To get rid of what we know?”

  “Everybody backs up their files, Kyra.”

  “Somebody trying to scare us?”

  “They just succeeded.”

  Kyra considered this. “I think they succeeded earlier. With that fake obituary.”

  Noel nodded. “God, this pisses me off.”

  “Good. That means you’re not scared any more.”

  Noel wasn’t so sure.

  SIXTEEN

  IN HIS MOTEL room Llewellyn Katz, Herm 3, considered his report.

  The door to Noel Franklin’s condo could have been opened by a child. It gave more easily than any Katz had encountered in Tel Aviv or Miami—or Memphis, for that matter. At 6:10 in the evening he’d crossed the threshold, shut the door, stared about and considered each detail. The place sat empty. A few minutes earlier he’d followed Franklin and the woman to the little casino, a provincial joke of disastrous proportions; recycling welfare money with such speed, government check to cash to casino and back to government, was underproductive. Consumer cash needs wide circulation to undermine crime, drugs, disease and ignorance, that was Herm 3’s analysis. Then the two had gone to a restaurant. He’d have half an hour easy. Plenty of time.

  Nothing about Eaglenest Gallery in the file cabinet except Franklin’s final report. Five minutes in closets and chests of drawers produced only shoes and clothing, mostly men’s, some female. And a curious fake obituary. Franklin wanting to die, join his partner? On the chest, three photos, two of Franklin with another man, clearly lovers, the third of the lover alone, a Chinese gentleman. Kitchen: dishwasher, sink, cabinets and fridge hid nothing of value. In the clothes washer, a Canadian two dollar coin. He left it.

  The computer. The opening wallpaper had been scanned from a photo of the lover. How sweet. From an inside pocket Herm took a CD. He found the Eaglenest directory immediately, no encryption. Naive, these people. He flicked through files. Well, not so naive. Franklin had found traces of probable though not incriminating relationships between the Gallery and The Hermitage. He fed the computer his disk and set its program to invade the Eaglenest directory. Files bled into each other, names changed, files shortened to a few words, lengthened with multiple repetition. There’d assuredly be backups. But Franklin would get the message.

  One more gesture, that picture of the lover. Best separate the two dear queers with a minor adjustment. He checked the condo to be sure it was all as his memory recalled it. At the door he noted the rug. It lay at an angle. Had he kicked it? He toed it square, parallel to the wall.

  Now in his motel room he poured a large bourbon over ice, encrypted his report, and sent it to Rabinovich.

  • • •

  Kyra, awake early, felt wonderful. She dropped her feet to the floor and stood. Her legs were limber. Silence from Noel’s room. She peered in. Asleep. She stepped out on the balcony, stretched, bent, twisted, a five minute workout at the railing. Feeling alive and enthusiastic.

  Noel dragged himself out of his room and met Kyra at the coffee pot.

  “Good morning,” she announced. “Coffee’s ready.”

  He watched her bounce to the fridge for milk, bounce to the cupboard for sugar, bounce for crapsake like a pogo stick up for cups. Time to go back to bed.

  “Drink this.” She gave him coffee with warm milk.

  “Someone broke in.” His voice was raw.

  “I know,” she said, all calm, to calm him. “Phone a locksmith.”

  He held his coffee mug with both hands. “The break-in tells us somebody’s trying to scare us.”

  “And that your lock needs replacing.” She sat. She would not let him descend deeper into this mood. Noel was right, this was a campaign of fear. They wouldn’t succeed. At the same time, Noel needed a little compassion. Briefly.

  He grunted.

  “Eaglenest. Why?”

  “Either they’re trying to find out what we know, or a warning.”

  “Or both.”

  “It gives me the creeps. Like somebody’s raped my apartment.”

  “I know.” She patted his arm, then squeezed. “But some day even we may have to break in somewhere.”

  “I’m not ready for this discussion.”

  “In fact, I’ve got a lock pick in my purse. I could break in anywhere right now.”

  Noel nodded. “Great. Your wanting to break and enter makes it okay for me to be broken into.” He wandered toward the bathroom but stopped. “Damn, I’ve got to clean out the desktop.” He searched the web and downloaded a generic Chaotex cleanser. “Shouldn’t take long.”

  “Shower time. Go.” She ushered him toward the bathroom.

  “Okay, all right.”

  She sipped her coffee. Now take the bull by whatever you can grab. She called Eaglenest. Marchand answered. She gave her name, she’d like to talk to him again. “When’s a good time?”

  “I don’t have a single free moment.” Brusque.

  “Then tomorrow.”

  Marchand grudgingly allowed he had a half hour tomorrow at 12:30.

  “See you then.” She hung up.

  A few minutes and Noel came back, his wet blond hair plastered flat. From the fridge he took eggs, milk, bread.

  Kyra stated, “An appointment with Marchand, half-past noon tomorrow.”

  “We’re going there? Why? To ask if they broke into my condo?”

  “Among other things.” She sipped coffee.

  “And no doubt they’ll give us an informative answer.”

  “You know, there is someone who could shed light on what they are or aren’t capable of.”

  “Who?”

  “Lyle.”

  “Wait a minute—”

  “A consulting meeting. He keeps asking you to lunch. Call him, say that’d be nice.” She glanced at her watch. “Today even.”

  “Why me?”

  “He’d figure it pretty weird if I invited him.”

  “I’ll think about it.” He dropped a couple of slices of bread into the toaster. “Hey. But I do know who I have to call.” And Albert was home. Noel began with the break-in, the obit, worked his way backwards through the slashed tires and the phone calls. “It’s getting to me.”

  “Yeah. But I wish you’d have left everything as it was.”

  “Left my computer messed up?”

  “Left your apartment till someone from here could check it out.”

  “Hey, I live here.”

  “Anyway, too late for that. The plastic gloves were a good idea. Now use them to slide the envelope and obit into a Baggie, put it in a large envelope and drop it off at Nanaimo headquarters. And listen, whoever’s doing this doesn’t sound personally dangerous to you.”

  “He’s fucking with my psyche.”

  “Yeah, I know. But we’ll get him.”

  Noel told Kyra what Albert had said.

  “Good. Drop off the obit after you’ve called Lyle. And tomorrow, Marchand. Only way to find out what’s going on over there is to get on over there.”

  “Right.”

  And maybe, after talking with Artemus, some time with Tam? Maybe smile sweetly and say, Tam, who broke into Noel’s condo? Right.

  “What’ll you do today?” Noel asked.

  “Oh, hop over to the casino and feed some slots.”

  “Great idea, Kyra.”

  She watched Noel scramble eggs. “Schmidt, lucky you took your laptop to the restaurant.”

  “I’m old-fashioned. I do floppy backups too. And a memory stick for good measure.”

  “The Eaglenest files.”

  “They were and still are in my case.”

  The toast popped up. She waited as he buttered the slices and scooped on scrambled eggs. A plate i
n front of her, the other for him. They sat. She said, “Maybe they broke in for a reason other than a warning or to spy on us.”

  “Like what?”

  “No idea.” She munched egg and toast.

  They finished eating. He put their plates in the dishwasher. “Let’s get on with it.” At the desktop he clicked on the Eaglenest directory. It came up clean, the Chaotex undone. A breath of relief. Down to The Hermitage, down to painting, and he clicked on the paintings.

  Kyra carried a chair over. “Yep, that’s them.”

  “Ah, recognition. So much easier than recall.”

  “When I get the photos this afternoon I’ll write the names on the back.”

  “You don’t have to. The computer labels them.”

  “Oh.” The darned computer would make her redundant. She glanced at him. He was lost in the screen. “Will you stop that?”

  “What?”

  Now she was irked. “Turn it off, please.” Noel opened a new directory. “Noel!”

  He looked up. “What?”

  “It’s all in bits and pieces. I can’t get an overview when you’ve got all those files out. Come over here and sit.” His damn computer was an escape from thinking about the break-in.

  He got up and sat beside her. “Okay. I’m thinking.”

  “Good. What—anything, okay?—what itches at you the most about Eaglenest Gallery? Paintings, flowers, artists? Dead Dempster? Artemus? Tam? Crippled Rose?”

  “No one says crippled since Tiny Tim. It’s handicapped now. Or disabled.”

  “Actually, it’s physically challenged.”

  “Thank you, Kyra.”

  “All right, maybe not people. Challenged spaces. The handicapped house. The crippled grounds. The disabled Gallery showroom.”

  “The big house?” No response from Kyra. “The garden? Tam’s cabin?” A bit of an itch. Something— What? “The greenhouse?”

  “Kyra! What does the house or the cabin have to do with where those paintings come from?”

  An itch of memory— She found it. “Your comment, the greenhouse seeming large. The sense I had of the inside—”

  “Should be full of flowers, waiting to be transplanted in the garden. There weren’t many.”