“Sure.”
“When?
“In an hour.” Long enough to change and walk.
“Please, I can’t take the chance of anyone else knowing.”
Who the hell else do you think is hanging around on a Sunday morning with nothing better to do than listen to our conversation, I thought.
“All right,” I said.
I took time to shower and change into my jeans and a tee-shirt. I pulled on a light plaid blazer on top in case I needed to look the tiniest bit businesslike.
As I left the apartment and pulled the door closed behind me, I was humming. Even a trip to the office couldn’t take that away from me.
“Good-bye, Mrs. Parnell,” I said to her half-open door.
* * *
The walk to Elgin Street was wonderful, and I needed it. The combination of head injuries and high drama had played hell with my regular exercise program.
The smell of new leaves, grass and general spring aromas tickled my nose, leaving me with the wish that I could enjoy the sun, the grass and the water instead of barrelling on toward the office. With luck, I told myself, I could amble back, stopping to check out the tulips, which were tantalizing the tourists.
I took Wellington Street all the way, enjoying the strollers and amblers and the splashes of tulip colour up on Parliament Hill.
All down Elgin Street, people were heading to and from restaurants and parks. My turn will come, I thought, as I entered the little foyer that led to the empty stairs that in turn led to Justice For Victims. Too bad the woman I was meeting had been so terrified. She would probably reject my suggestion that we move to the Mayflower’s open air café for our discussion.
I turned the key in the lock and gave a little push. Stuck. Must be the start of the damn summer humidity, I thought, banging against it. The door opened suddenly and I shot across the room and hit the desk.
“So glad you could come,” Rudy Wendtz said from the other side of the desk.
The blinds were drawn so that no one from the condos in the next building could see in, and the lights were on. I didn’t like that.
I also didn’t like the look of Wendtz’s smile. It hardly reached the ends of his lips, let alone his eyes. His eyes held something else. Anticipation? Whatever it was, I didn’t like it either.
On the growing list of things I didn’t like was the sight of Denzil Hickey lounging near the door.
They didn’t even bother to close the door. No one was in the building to see the gun Denzil pointed, very deliberately, at my head. I don’t know much about guns, but this one looked like the type that could make a very large hole.
“Very fashionable, I’m sure,” I said. As long as my bladder didn’t betray me, I wasn’t going to give him any satisfaction.
I think I managed to look cool, but my heart sounded like someone knocking at the door.
“Give my regards to Brooke, I appreciated her acting ability on the phone,” I said.
Wendtz smirked.
“You may wish to recommend some additional coaching on the finer points. If I was able to see through her, think what the critics would make of such a performance.”
“Cute,” said Wendtz.
“Very,” I chirped, feeling I had little to lose. “Cute enough for me to catch on. And get back-up.”
He lifted an eyebrow and stared before his smile broadened, showing teeth.
“Let’s see how much good your back-up does you against Denzil.”
I took another look at Denzil and deduced that the long, cylindrical object he was attaching to the muzzle of the gun was a silencer.
“Keep talking, Mr. Wendtz, your threat to have Mr. Hickey aerate my head is being duly recorded by the police who know you are implicated in the murders of Mitzi Brochu and Sammy Dash.”
Denzil caressed the weapon.
“Nothing personal,” he said.
“I hope you got that, McCracken,” I bellowed. “That should be enough to hold them.”
Wendtz kept on smiling. “Nice bit of bullshit. I suppose if you want to die with dignity, that’s the way to do it.”
He nodded to Denzil. Denzil raised the gun.
There was nothing I could do against the two of them. I kept my eyes open, expecting to melt into blackness, expecting to die.
Not expecting Wendtz to laugh long and loud.
I watched with my mouth open.
“I hope,” said Wendtz, unbending out of my chair, “you get the point of this exercise. You are a little lady, and you are playing with the big boys. You are stirring up trouble, and you are upsetting a lot of people. Take a lesson and mind your own business.”
I slumped against the desk, oozing with relief and resentment. My stomach felt like there was a dogfight going on in it.
He gave a lazy, arrogant stretch, secure in his power, knowing he had gotten through to me. Completely.
I glanced over to Denzil, who was showing his bad teeth. I did a double-take when I saw the third person. From behind the open door, a movement.
I whipped around to speak to Wendtz just as his head exploded like a pumpkin landing on the road. I dove for cover. From what? From whom? I didn’t know. And from the frozen look on Denzil Hickey’s face, he didn’t either.
I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised when the office lights went out; after all, the switch was in the hallway outside, along with someone wearing tan shoes. I grabbed the side of the desk and crawled around it, trying to stay away from Wendtz’s body. The room was deep grey rather than black. A deeper something moved on the other side of the desk. I could distinguish the shadow that was Denzil before the flash that finished him. With his last scream echoing in my skull, I lay cowering behind the desk for an eternity. But it was really less than a hour. Time enough to think, though. Who had killed Wendtz and Denzil? Had I really seen the same tan shoes again? And was the killer coming for me too?
* * *
“Excuse me while I call somebody,” I said to McCracken. “I’d like to use another telephone though.”
Bits of Wendtz were splattered over my own phone, and I couldn’t see myself picking up the receiver.
It was only after the police arrived with their sirens and heavy shoes that I began to shake. I could see my hands vibrating, and I stuck them in my jeans pocket. I tried to keep the wobble out of my voice, but didn’t quite manage.
“I’ll come with you,” said McCracken.
I didn’t know if that was procedure or some violation of it.
But it suited me. Someone had killed Wendtz and Hickey, someone who knew about my involvement in the Mitzi Brochu case.
“How did you know?”
McCracken held my arm as we walked down the stairs together. He did it well, so that I felt supported and not diminished.
“We received a call from an anonymous source.”
“Ah.”
He nodded gravely.
“Perhaps whoever shot them?”
“Could be.”
Across the street at the Mayflower, McCracken anted up for coffee and chocolate banana cake for two while I made my call.
When I finally reached Richard and told him what had happened, it was