Corkscrew (Reid Bennett) Page 9

  By the time I got to the marina, the big light was already burning, turning the purple shadows of dying daylight into bright blue-tinged visibility. In it I saw the OPP cruiser parked to one side of the marina, and next to it the two-year-old Cadillac that belonged to the town reeve. I wondered if there had been some scare about the bikers while I was gone, and I didn't slow as much as I usually do when entering the dock, but the motor reversed neatly for me and brought me in to the mooring without a bump. I ordered Sam out at dockside, then pulled forward into the boathouse. I would have the OPP crew check for prints in the morning. For now I would drive up to the Levine place and take statements.

  As I came out of the boathouse, locking the door carefully, the reeve came up with another man. I recognized him at once. He's the OPP inspector in the district that embraces ours. We've crossed swords once or twice, and I could see by the smug look on his face that his visit wasn't meant to make me feel comfortable.

  I nodded to the pair of them. "George, Inspector."

  The reeve cleared his throat nervously. "Hi, Chief. Inspector Anderson has had a complaint about you."

  Now it was Anderson's moment, and he milked it. "A very serious complaint," he said slowly, pitching his voice low.

  I straightened up to my full height, any man's reaction under threat. Anderson was shorter than me, and he bristled a little harder. "What kind of complaint?"

  "Brutality." He dragged the word out to its full length, loving it. "You knocked down a man with your stick and kicked him in the testicles."

  I couldn't believe him. "You could be talking about a fight I had with one of those bikers, but you've got your facts wrong. I didn't hit him with the stick or kick him. But I put him down. I had to."

  "Oh, I'm sure you have a story," he said primly, "but there's no justification for violence. I'm here to tell you that you're suspended, pending a hearing."

  Chapter Nine

  Anderson was smiling like a bad poker player with four aces. I spoke slowly. "Who laid this complaint?"

  He composed his face. "A citizen, on behalf of James Murdoch, who is in the hospital in Sundridge."

  I remembered the other biker, crouching by Jas as he lay and groaned. I'd expected violence, but he'd been smarter than that. He'd attacked my livelihood instead.

  The reeve spoke. He sounded apologetic, for however much good that was going to do me. "I'm sure there's an explanation, Chief."

  "There is, but Inspector Anderson doesn't want to hear it," I said carefully.

  Anderson leaped on that one. "Oh, yes, I do. You're a regular police officer, a little unconventional, I'm told, but you'll get the same hearing as any other policeman." He waited, and when I didn't answer, he prodded, politely. "What happened?"

  "I had occasion to visit the camp where the bikers are staying overnight in connection with the homicide investigation I'm conducting. This Murdoch character insisted on fighting. I had no choice. I didn't hit him with my stick. I defended myself against a chain and a switchblade. I put him down and never touched him from the moment he hit the deck."

  Anderson glowed. I could almost see him swelling. "And, of course, you arrested him for assault with a deadly weapon."

  "Oh, sure. Just the same as you would have done, single-handed against a whole gang of bikers." I turned away in disgust. There it was. I had failed to work by the book. It made no difference that the other bikers would have jumped me, maybe even blown me away with their sawed-off shotgun if I'd tried to take Jas in. I hadn't followed the procedures, and it would cost me my job. It was that simple.

  Anderson thundered out the question. "Where do you think you're going, Bennett?"

  "I know where I'm going, Inspector. Back to the station to turn in my badge. You can notify me who's taking over the investigation and I'll brief him. Then you can tell me when the case against me will be brought before the police commission and I'll attend."

  He was still talking, and the crowd of vacationers that had formed quietly around us, at the edges of the pool of light from the marina, were soaking it all up. "You'll do as you're ordered," he said.

  "Why? I'm not working here anymore, am I?" Sweet reason itself. So why did I slam the door of the car after I'd placed Sam inside and got into the driver's seat? I had the same sense of disgust, at authority and at myself, that had driven me out of the Toronto Police Department two years before.

  I drove out, past the people who were crouching to peer in at me, anxious for a glimpse of news in the making. Behind me in the mirror I saw the reeve get into his car, and then Anderson got into the OPP cruiser on the passenger side. That much was good news. He had someone else with him, somebody to take over the search for whoever had killed young Spenser.

  Fred's car was at the station, with another OPP car parked alongside it. I got out of my cruiser and locked it, then went inside. A young OPP constable was operating the radio. Fred was sitting on a bench in front of the counter. She jumped to her feet when I came in. "Reid, what's going on? Some man came in and told me you weren't in charge anymore. He put this officer on the phone."

  "I've been suspended," I said. She gasped, and the young constable got to his feet and came to the counter. "I'm sorry about this, Chief. The way I hear it, some hairy goddamn biker laid the charge. I dunno why anybody would believe one of them over a copper."

  "Thanks for your concern." I smiled formally and started emptying my pockets of police material. First thing to go was the plastic ID from my wallet. Then I took out my notebook and stood at the counter, entering the details of the engine block found by the divers. Fred was a good enough actress to know when the best line is silence. She stood and waited for me to finish.

  When I'd brought my book up-to-date, I told the constable, "There's the investigation details so far. I also want to talk to the detective who takes over from me."

  The door opened behind me, and Anderson came in, along with a sergeant I recognized. I ignored Anderson and said, "Hi, Sergeant Kowalchuk, isn't it?"

  He stuck out his hand. "Yeah, Wally. Sorry to be here under these circumstances, Chief."

  "You taking over the investigation into the Spenser boy's death?" I asked as we shook hands, and Anderson pursed his lips.

  "That's none of your concern," Anderson said before Kowalchuk could answer. "You're off the case. Go home."

  "What a professional," I said, smiling at him. "Throw away all the work that's been done just to treat me like a naughty boy."

  He began to speak, but I cut him off. "A real copper works from facts. Your man hasn't got any. I have. Now why don't you drive back to your nice, comfortable office and start preparing the book you're going to throw at me while Sergeant Kowalchuk gets on with some police work."

  Anderson knew he was out of line. He drew himself up to his full five foot ten, his cheap summer suit darkening and lightening as his movement changed the creases around the chest. "Sergeant Kowalchuk, you're in charge. If you want to talk to this man, that's up to you. I'll send the detectives out as soon as I can. In the meantime, take his ID and his gun."

  "No dice," I told him, and he stopped in midturn, a double take from a silent movie.

  "What did you say?" he spluttered.

  "The gun is personal property. I had to buy it when I took this job, and I'm licensed to carry it within this jurisdiction. The ID you can have."

  "Check for sure that he has a license for it," Anderson told Kowalchuk. "If he hasn't, take the gun."

  He left, and Fred broke her long silence. "Who the hell is that guy?"

  Kowalchuk made an apologetic little shrug. "He's the duty inspector. He lives and dies by the damn book."

  "Well, I hope he drops it on his foot," she said.

  We all grinned, and then I sat down with Kowalchuk and brought him up to date. He was over his head, as he soon admitted. He didn't normally do detective work, but at least he could keep tabs on things until the detectives showed.

  "When will that be?" I wondered.

&nbs
p; "Not until tomorrow now. There's nobody closer than Gravenhurst, and they're working on a stabbing at the Magnetawan Indian Reserve. But forget about Anderson. If anything breaks while I'm here, I'll call on you." He paused and cleared his throat. "Like, it'll have to be off the record. That guy would have my job quick as winking if I didn't play along with him."

  I stuck out my hand. "Well, it's an ill wind. We'll go home and make like this is a normal weekend."

  "Good enough. Enjoy it. This nonsense isn't going to come to anything," he said.

  I hissed at Sam, and he came out after Fred and me to her car. "I hope you don't mind a few dog hairs on the seat," I said, but she didn't play along.

  "Why aren't you mad?" She was blazing now, her hands up in a half-fighting stance. "Why didn't you tell Anderson what a nerd he is and ignore him?"

  I puffed out a slow breath. "That's not the way it works, except in the movies," I said. "The guy has right on his side. I should have arrested that biker after the hey-rube. I didn't, so his story is the authorized version."

  "Well, why didn't you arrest him?" We were standing now on opposite sides of her car as she shook out her keys from the little leather holder.

  "It wasn't going to help," I said, and left it at that.

  She opened her door and sank out of sight into the driver's seat. Then my door clicked, and I let myself in, putting Sam into the rear seat first.

  Freda was facing forward, wriggling the key into the ignition. I reached over and put my hand on her wrist. She stopped fiddling and looked at me. In the gloom of the car interior her face was nothing but a pattern of angles and shadows, but her perfume was light as summer. "I'm sorry, kid. I'm mad as hell about all this, but it doesn't help. So let's just go home and kick back. Okay?"

  "Sorry, Reid," she said, and bent toward me. We kissed, and when we stopped, she said, "Let's go right home and have a drink. Maybe you've got a steak in your fridge for a hungry woman."

  "You've been peeking," I said. "Did you find the bottle of wine under the sink?"

  "Pouilly-Fuissé," she said approvingly. "Was that intended to loosen some other lady's elastic?"

  "You mean that stuff works?" I asked, and she laughed, and the knot in my gut slackened a little. So I was suspended? I'd been through this before. So what? I wouldn't quit this time, the way I had in Toronto after I'd killed those other bikers. This time I'd sit in my little house and live on my savings until the hearing, and then I'd decide, in cold blood. And then I'd quit. My gut tightened up again, and I reached out and patted Fred's arm as she drove out onto the roadway.

  "Well, at least we can try out the wine without my having to rush off and play cops and robbers."

  "Good," she said. "If you're not doing that, I was going to suggest we play nice. How does that sound?"

  When we got to the house, I put Sam in his pen on the front lawn, making sure his water dish was full; then we went inside. Acting the clown, I carried Fred over the threshold, and she didn't laugh or protest. She put her arms around my neck, and we kissed so hard I almost stumbled on the top step. "No wine for you," she whispered. "Forget it, anyway. Let's go upstairs."

  I tightened my grip on her, but she laughed and swung her legs down. "I don't want you with sacroiliac problems. I'll walk up. You can carry me down later if either of us has got any strength left."

  "Brave talk," I said. And then the phone rang.

  It was Carl Simmonds, his light voice squeaky with alarm. "Reid, what's happening? I phoned the station, and somebody told me you were off duty."

  "It's a long story." My mind was still on Fred, who was standing three steps up the creaky old stairs, slowly pulling off her blouse as if a saxophone were playing "Night Train" somewhere.

  "But can you come? There's people all over the place, and they're calling out all kinds of things." He sounded almost in tears. Fred was reaching around to unsnap her brassiere, but I held up one hand and shook my head. She gave a stagy pout and stopped.

  "Where are you? At home?"

  "Yes, and nobody will come from the police station. They said they'd call a patrol car in off the highway, it would be here in half an hour. I don't want to worry you, Reid, but half an hour could be too late."

  "Are they threatening you?" Fred had dropped her acting and was slipping back into her blouse as efficiently as if she were trying it on in a store.

  "Yes." His voice was almost a squeal. "They've already ripped up half my picket fence, and they're all over the lawn. I need protection." For the first time since I'd known the guy, he sounded petulant.

  "I've been relieved of duty, but if you've got a problem, I'll come and help." And then, through the metallic filter of the telephone, I heard the unmistakable music of splintering glass.

  I put the phone down and said to Fred, "Be back in a minute; there's a riot going on." I tossed my hat on the table and pulled my light windbreaker off the back of the door and slipped it on over my uniform shirt and Sam Browne belt and the gun. Then I ran out. Fred pattered down the steps behind me and out onto the lawn.

  "Where are you going?"

  I let Sam out of the cage and tapped my back pocket to make sure my stick was in place as I ran toward my own car. "North of here; there's a guy being assaulted. Stay here."

  But she was at the car beside me. "You bloody chauvinist. I'm not staying home knitting if you're in a mess. I'm coming."

  I opened my mouth to argue, but she waved one finger at me. "Forget it. I'm coming with you."

  "Okay. Just stay in the car until I tell you to get out," I said. I whistled to Sam, and he jumped in behind the wheel, then over the seat into the back.

  There must have been forty cars around Carl's place, and I could hear the noise even before I switched the motor off. They were a little drunk, standard for Saturday night, but angrier than I've seen a crowd since I came here. Carl's fence was flattened, and they were gathering around his front door, hammering on it, shouting. He had his yellow porch light on, and they all looked jaundiced. I stopped the car in the middle of the road and jumped out. "Stay here. If there's trouble I can't handle, drive down to the station and get the OPP man," I said, and Fred squirmed behind the wheel as I got out and let Sam out of the back.

  I didn't waste time. I told him, "Speak," and the crowd split apart, letting me through, to the front step. I stood there, the light behind me playing on all their angry faces. "Go home," I said. "Go home before you all end up in jail."

  Someone at the back shouted, "What about this queer? He killed the little boy?"

  "If he had, he'd be in jail," I said. "You're all breaking the law. Take off now before you end up in big trouble."

  A young guy in a T-shirt pushed through to the front. He was bigger than the others, macho as hell, with his cigarette pack stuffed up his left sleeve. "You can't give orders. You've been fired," he said, and the crowd roared. I was watching them; there must have been close to a hundred, all men, all fired up. The crowd from the beverage room, I guessed, plus whoever else they'd been able to rope in for the razzing. I wasn't afraid of them. Canadians are peaceful mostly. These would be, when the beer staled in their bellies.

  "I'm telling you to go home," I said to him, but he laughed.

  "I was down at the marina when they fired you, copper. You're just the same as the rest of us now. You go fuck yourself."

  The roar built, and they started pressing forward again, the men at the back more eager about it than the ones closest to me and Sam but still menacing.

  I stepped down and moved in on the big guy. He was a touch taller than me and proud of his strength—gymnasium muscles by the look of him, useless in a fight. I pressed in on him, invading his space, so he drew back a fraction of an inch.

  "You can go peacefully, or you can go in an ambulance," I told him in a whisper, smiling as I said it. "Yes, I'm suspended, and so it won't make any difference if I take your head off."

  "Just try," he said, and I saw the punch coming, in his eyes. I swayed away from it
and sank a solid right into his gut. The wind went out of him in a rush. I said, "Speak," and Sam did, rushing at the closest man, excited now that he'd seen the beginnings of a fight. They broke and scrambled away, yelping with alarm. I stilled Sam with a whistle and waited until the bravest one of them had stopped running and turned to face me again.

  "Take this man with you," I told him, and turned away, walking up the steps and ringing the bell.

  Carl opened the door immediately. He was almost babbling, but I put a finger to my lips and pushed the door shut behind me. "Cool it. They're all going home now. You'll be okay."

  He drew in a breath that was almost a sob. "Whatever you say, Reid."

  "Good, I'll step outside until they've gone. You stay out of sight for a few moments."

  I opened the door again and found two clones of the guy on the floor picking him up. One of them looked up at me and then spat, but I ignored it. He was backing down. He didn't have to like it.

  I folded my arms and waited, and they supported their buddy over to a big green Mercury with splashes of brown primer paint on it. It started with a roar, then turned, running insolently over the grass of Carl's front lawn before spinning its rear wheels and heading back down into town. Then the other cars followed them, noisily at first, but with more and more decorum as the number dwindled and the drivers knew I would be able to identify them.

  I walked out to my car and spoke to Fred. "Park this thing on the side, please. We'll go in the house for a few minutes, make sure nobody comes back."

  "You've got it, Chief," she said. "I wouldn't want to get hit as hard as you hit that big guy."