When the Killing Starts (27 page)

He paid off the cab at a fleabag hotel called the Alameda. Maybe somebody Spanish had owned it once, and maybe that was why this guy was staying there. If he'd wanted anonymity, he had chosen well. I guessed that most of the patrons wouldn't be there much longer than it takes to warm up a pillow. I gave him a minute or so to go in, then sauntered after him.

A middle-aged man in a greasy suit was sitting behind the counter reading an Italian soccer magazine. He looked up at me suspiciously. Most visitors at this time of night would be signed-in guests or couples.

"Yeah," he said.

"Hi. Looking for a guy. He just came in." I took out my wallet and extracted a ten. He watched it warily.
 

"No visiting in the rooms after midnight," he said.
 

"Except for broads." I did a big grin, and he cracked a smile of his own.

"Well, you know."

"Yeah, I know. What's his name, this man?"
 

He folded his newspaper. "I'm not supposed to tell names or nothin'." Not supposed to, as opposed to not allowed to.

"But if I was to drop this ten-spot on the floor and while you picked it up, I happened to check the book, what would I see?"

"Room three oh five," he said, and reached out for the ten.

I held on to it. "Name'd he give?"
 

He sighed and flicked through his card index. I reached over and took the box off him. Room 305 was occupied by Mr. J. Alvarez. The only home address given was Detroit.

"Thanks." I handed him the ten and then took out a second one. I was feeling flush with Michaels's reward money stashed in the bank. "I'm just going up to see him. Don't bother letting him know. I want it to be a surprise."

"Hey, listen." He suddenly got Italian on me, waving both hands. "I don' want no trouble."

"You're not getting any, are you? You're getting twenty bucks. Is he alone up there, or has anyone else dropped in?"

He licked his lips. "Well, there was one guy, fellah 'bout his size. He came in an hour or so back. Like it's a double room, we don' complain. Two guys, guy 'n' a broad. You know how it is."

"Intimately," I said. "Tell me, are the rooms either side of him taken?"

"Why you wanna know?" He was so worried now that he wasn't even looking at the second ten.

"Well, I've got a jug in the car, and we might just laugh it up a little."

He knew it was a scam, but he didn't mind. Booze he could live with. "Oh, 's okay," he said, and reached for the second bill.

I held on to it. "I'm just going to the door and get the jug. You get this when I come back in. Okay?"

He shrugged, palms up. "Sure, is fine."
 

I went to the door and whistled Sam. He squeezed through the open car window and bounded up to me. I held the door for him, and he came in ahead of me. The desk clerk gave a little gasp of alarm. "Hey, you said a jug."

"You really should get your ears looked at." I tucked the ten into his top pocket and went up the stairs. He talked to himself in rapid Italian, but I didn't look back.
 

There wasn't any sound on the third floor. Not surprising at that time of night but encouraging. I guessed that most of the patrons wouldn't want police around, anyway. Unless I burned the place down, they would stay quietly in their rooms. There was light showing under the worn, old threshold of room 305, and I banged the door confidently.

After ten seconds of silence a man's voice called in accented English, "'O's there?"

"Immigration. Open up." Sam stood at my left side, panting. I wondered if he would be quick enough if one of the men had a gun. Come on, Bennett. I cooled myself down with a quick breath. This is Toronto the Good. Guys don't have guns.

The door opened, and the man from Bowen's house peered out. I shoved the door wider and stepped in, telling Sam, "Come."

There was another man sitting on the bed, holding a glass. He looked like a countryman of my guy, and it looked like water in the glass, or tequila. The first guy said, "Gerrout."

"Not yet, Señor Alvarez. You sit down."
 

He wasn't going to until I told him, "This dog is trained to go for your balls. Sit down when you're told."

He sat, knees together.

"Good. Now, let me see your passport."
 

"Passport? What the fuck you doin'?"
 

"Passport," I repeated, and held my hand out.
 

He swore under his breath and squirmed his hand into his right pants pocket and came out with an American passport. The picture might have been him, but the name was Fernando Guzman.

"You've been telling lies to the hotel people, Fernando. Why would you do that?"

"My name is my business," he said. He was a little more confident now. His buddy was with him. They had arms somewhere, knives certainly, maybe something heavier. He would try to talk himself out of trouble, but failing that, he would act. I was glad I'd brought Sam with me. They looked like hard men.

"And what business is that, Fernando?"
 

"Jus' business," he said.

"And what's your boss's name? Would it be Green? Or Webster?" He started to relax, I could see it in the muscles of his face, and then I sprung the third name. "Or Dunphy?" And his muscles flickered.

He recovered, but not well. "Never heard of him."
 

"Never heard of Green or Webster? That I can buy. But Dunphy, now that's different. Where is he?"

"I don' know who you talkin' about." He shrugged and tried to loll, and I hissed at Sam. Sam snarled low in his throat, and Fernando sat up straight.

"I don't have time for this," I told him. "Give me Dunphy and I walk away. If you don't, I take you to the cops."

He spoke in Spanish, and his buddy set down the glass very deliberately on the night table. But he took too long leaning over the drawer, and as he tried to slip it open, I kicked it shut on his hand. He yowled, and Fernando sprang at me. I straight-armed him under the chin with the palm of my hand, sending him sprawling as I told Sam, "Fight," and he took over, driving Fernando back into a corner. Fernando was pressing himself back almost flat on the wall, babbling in Spanish, one hand cupped over his groin.

I shoved the second man aside, and he rolled onto the bed, nursing his hurt fingers. There was an automatic in the night table and I took it out and checked it. The safety was off, and I slipped the magazine out and looked. Loaded. I shoved it back into the butt and pointed it at Fernando, moving out of the possible range of the other man. "Easy, Sam," I said, and he stopped pressing and fell silent, watching Fernando carefully.

"Illegal firearms. That's bad, Fernando. We put guys in prison for having guns in Canada."

"Is not mine, is his." He jerked his chin toward his buddy.

"Sure, your gun is someplace else, I guess. Never mind, I'll find it. But first, where's Dunphy?"

He swore at me, flat and unemphatic. Muy macho.
 

"I'm going to ask you one more time. Then I'm going to start breaking you up," I said. It's not my style. I'm a copper and I go by the rules. Usually. But this time I was in real trouble. Dunphy was behind the killing of Alison Beatty and probably behind the killing of Mrs. Michaels. And that meant he was behind the attempt to frame me for the murder. My only chance of a clean sheet was finding Dunphy. The police couldn't help. I had broken the law already. They would have to let this man go and charge me with unlawful entry, assault, God knew what.
 

"Where is Dunphy?" I said slowly, and I saw the fear coming alive in his eyes. He was tough in combat but not one-on-one with a gun and dog against him. I smiled and slammed him across the face with my left hand. He fell sideways and sat on the ground, holding his face, not looking at me.

"Get up," I said quietly, and when he didn't move, I hissed at Sam, and he growled and bared his teeth. Fernando kicked at him desperately, and Sam grabbed him by the ankle and held him as he yelled, keeping just enough pressure on the ankle that he couldn't get it free.

"Easy, Sam," I said in the same tone, and he fell back a pace. Then I said, "On your feet," and Fernando got up slowly, pressing himself back against the wall. "Next time I hit you with the gun and you have no teeth," I said. Just talk, but he bought it. It wasn't me he was scared of; it was Sam. And Sam gave him an excuse to opt out of his machismo. His partner would vouch for Sam's ferocity. He was able to talk without fear of being scorned later.

"Dunphy 'as gone nort'." Fear had thickened his accent.
 

"Where north?" I asked, and in that moment his partner jumped at me. I didn't even have time to command Sam. I straight-armed him in midair with my left hand, but in that moment Fernando bolted. Sam was standing, whining, waiting for a command, and I called, "Track," as I struggled with the second man. He was wiry and hard, and I was holding the gun which I didn't want to use, handicapped. He cracked me a good punch in the left temple, and then I got him in a bear hug and head smashed him across the nose. He fell, and I left him and ran out of the door after Fernando.

He was on the floor at the end of the hall, Sam tugging at his arm. I was dazed from the punch I'd taken and from using my head as a battering ram, but I stuck the gun in Fernando's face and told him, "Freeze."

He froze, and I told Sam, "Easy," and he let go and stepped back a pace. I could hear voices in a couple of the rooms and knew I had to be fast. The guy downstairs had heard the ruckus, and he might just chicken out and call the police. I was in enough trouble.

"Where is Dunphy? No crap. Where is he?"
 

"He 'as gone nort'," Fernando hissed. "Gone nort' to find that guy."

"Which guy?" I jabbed him in the chest with the muzzle of the automatic, not hard but crisply.

He pulled his hands up over his face. "That guy 'o shot his frien'." He struggled for the word and lapsed into Spanish. "El indio."

I shoved him again with the gun and stepped over him, calling Sam after me. Behind me a door opened, and a man's voice said, "Fer Crissakes, keep it down out there. I'm tryin'a sleep."

"On your feet," I said, and Fernando stood up, backing away from Sam. "Downstairs," I told him, "and don't try to run or the dog will get you."

The desk clerk was standing at the bottom of the stairs, bobbing from foot to foot nervously. "Wha's happening?" he asked in a voice that told me he didn't really want to know.

"Nothing, thanks. Me an' my buddy're goin' for a drink at my place. G'night." I had slipped the automatic into my pants pocket, and I beamed at him. Apart from the anger on Fernando's face, there was nothing to disprove what I'd said.

I walked Fernando to a phone booth a couple of blocks over and told Sam, "Keep," while I went in and called Murphy's Harbour police station. I figured George would have patched the phone through to his house, or to the police car via the radio. It rang eighteen times, and I hung up reluctantly. He must be out in the car, checking properties for signs of break-ins. Maybe he was out of the car looking at the back door of the liquor store or the bank. Or maybe he was sitting behind the wheel with a bullet through his head.

I got my quarter back and called Elmer Svensen's office. He was there, sounding weary but still working. "Elmer, Reid. Got something for you."

"Good news, I hope. I'm getting no place," he said.
 

"Yeah, picked up a guy who knows Dunphy. He's seen him since he got back from the north."

"Where are you?"

"On Cynthia Street, close to the corner of Grange."
 

"Be right there," he said.

"Good, but before you do, ring the Parry Sound OPP. Tell them Dunphy is back up in the Murphy's Harbour area. My friend here says that he's gone north to kill George Horn. I can't raise the kid on the phone. Have them check the station and make their presence known, lots of flashing lights, and have someone try to raise George on the station phone. You got the number?"

"Gimme," he said, and I did. "Right. Stay put; there in ten minutes."

I hung up and went outside the call box to stand side by side with Fernando, looking as if we were just shooting the breeze, in case some citizen came by and phoned the local police and I had to do things by the book.

For the same reason, I didn't bother interrogating him. If he had argued with me, somebody might have heard and called the heat. Nobody did. I heard a couple of cars way down the block on Dufferin Street, one of the city's arteries, moving slowly, bakers or produce people at groceries, heading in for an early start on their day's work or guys coming back from successful dates. Then I heard a speeding car, and a minute later Elmer Svensen and his partner pulled up at the curb.

Elmer got out and took two quick steps up to me. "This him?"

"Yeah, Fernando Guzman, Florida. I think he's involved with the Freedom for Hire people. He tells me that Dunphy's gone north."

"Where'd you dig him up?"

"Step over here a minute and I'll tell you." I repeated, "Keep," to Sam, and he sat on his haunches, staring at Guzman calmly.

Elmer and his partner walked off a few steps with me, and I said, "I found him at the pilot's house, the company pilot for the Michaels outfit. Followed him to the Alameda Hotel. There's another guy with him, likely gone by now. They had a gun, and I got Sam to take this one out and bring him down here. So far there's nothing on him that you want to touch with a ten-foot pole. It's all been pretty shaky procedure. But if I walk away and then call Sam off, you can talk to him like you just found him here. You may get something. You may not, but it'll all be kosher."

"Thanks, Reid." Elmer slapped my bicep lightly. "Where you heading now, home?"

"No, I'm going up to the Harbour to help George Horn find Dunphy. Tell Lou something so she won't worry when I don't show up. I figure Sam can dig the guy out if he's hiding around the station or wherever."

"Okay." Elmer nodded. "I've called the OPP, and I've got a kid at the station calling the Harbour every three minutes until we raise your deputy."