SIREN'S TEARS (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 3) (13 page)

CHAPTER 23 – SERGEANT PRESTON

I went home to change and take a cold shower. Then I summoned a car service to take me to the airport. When you factor in the tolls, daily parking fees and aggravation of taking your own car to the airport, it’s not even a close call.

The next morning I caught a noon United Airlines nonstop to Toronto and rented a car for the hour drive to Cashman. I had made an appointment to see Sergeant Preston at 4 PM in the Ontario Provincial Police barracks 10 miles north of the town. It was a pleasant drive. Once out of the Toronto environs, the road leading to Cashman passed through a beautiful landscape of mixed forests, meadows, ponds, streams and wetlands.

The town itself was miniscule, and I had no trouble finding the police station.

“You just missed him, Mr. Rhode,” the female officer at the front desk informed me. “And I don’t expect him back before morning.”

She was a good-looking young woman with close-cropped brunette hair and a small, pointed nose. The name plate on her desk said “Constable A. Barrett.” I looked at my watch. It was 3:43PM.

“How could I just miss him? I’m early. And I had an appointment.”

“Well, you will have to come back in the morning.” She bent her head to some paperwork.  “He was called away. Police business.”

I was dismissed. I don’t like being dismissed. I stood there for several minutes just staring at the top of her head. Finally, she looked at me.

“Is there anything else, sir?”

“I just flew in from New York. My arms are tired. Perhaps you can call Sgt. Preston and tell him I’m here.”

She gave me a wintry smile.

“It wouldn’t do any good. The Sergeant will be unavailable until tomorrow morning. Come back at 9 AM.”

I wondered what kind of police business could be so damn important in Cashman, Ontario.

“You mean he wouldn’t respond to an emergency?”

“Is it an emergency, sir?”

She had me there. I left, Yankee tail tucked between my legs.

I had passed a Holiday Inn on the way to my non-appointment. I checked in and picked up a couple of tourist brochures from a stand near the front desk. I like reading them when visiting a new area. They can often tell you a lot about a place.

When I got to my room there was a couple entering another one just down the hallway. The man had a florid face and a handlebar moustache. The woman had the face of a moose and a chest that could have been set up as a table for eight. They were laughing as they entered their room. Handlebar had his beefy hand on her ass.

I unpacked and took a shower. After I dressed, I poured myself a scotch from an airline bottle in the small room fridge and read my brochures. There was apparently a lot to do in the surrounding area, if you liked to fish or shoot furry animals. The only other activity that sounded vaguely interesting was the Cashman Autumn Fair “held annually since 1884 and famous throughout Ontario for attractions that include crafts and antiques; vegetable and flower shows; exhibits devoted to cattle, goat, sheep, poultry and rabbit shows; tractor and heavy horse pulls; a demolition derby; a rodeo, and Celtic entertainment.” I was actually sorry I missed it.

I went down to the bar and ordered a Labatt, the Canadian brew that never disappoints. The bar and adjoining restaurant were empty and from talking to the bartender I quickly found out that, when there wasn’t a fair going on, there were basically only four things to do in town.

“Two of them are eating and drinking.”

“What’s the other two?”

“Not eating and not drinking.”

He pulled me another beer and set out some peanuts.

“Well,” I said, “I spotted at least one guy upstairs who found something else to do. Maybe he just got lucky.”

The bartender laughed.

“Luck has nothing to do with that.”

“What do you mean?”

He just smiled.

“Hungry? Try our restaurant. You can beat the dinner rush.”

“Dinner rush?”

He laughed.

“Believe it or not, we have the best kitchen in Cashman. Try the pike before it runs out. It’s fresh.”

“I’m sure.”

He looked offended.

“Hey. I caught it myself this morning. Big bastard. Thought it was a fuckin’ muskie at first.”

I left him a sizable tip to assuage his fisherman’s feelings and took my beer into the dining room, determined to avoid the pike, which tends to be bony. As I was the only patron in the place, I didn’t want to depend upon the lone waitress being handy with the Heimlich Maneuver. I would probably have to settle for a mooseburger.

The waitress gave me a menu.

“Try the pike,” she said.

There it was, listed as a special:
Pike Quenelles, with Chicken Liver Tambale in a Wild Mushroom Tomato Sauce
. Was it possible? Not a moose, but a mousse?

“Our chef is from Quebec,” she said, hopefully.

“Do you have a wine list?” I said, just as hopefully.

It was one of the best meals I’d ever eaten. Set off with roasted potatoes, asparagus and a bottle of decent chardonnay, the ground-up pike, mixed with eggs, flour, butter, cream and cheese, was Paris-worthy.

I went to my room, watched a hockey game break out during a fight and fell asleep, sated and slightly drunk.    

***

The next morning I was back at the police station at 9 AM sharp. Constable Barrett was again on the desk.

“The sergeant will see you as soon as he’s free. He said to tell you that since you don’t have an appointment, it may be a while.”

There was absolutely nothing to be said to that, so I found a seat and waited. At 10 AM, her phone buzzed.

“You can go right in,” she said. As I passed her, she had the decency to say, “I’m sorry.”

Sgt. Preston, wearing a crisp blue uniform, had his back to me when I entered his office. He was putting pins into a map on a corkboard behind him. Probably some appointments he was planning to miss.

“Take a seat,” he ordered. “I’ll be right with you.”

I sat. And waited a full five minutes. He finally turned around. I laughed.

“What’s so funny?’

“Police business.”

He gave me a stern look, which is hard to do when you have a handlebar moustache.  He sat in a large, high-backed, brown leather swivel chair that I suspected wasn’t government-issued.

“Police business is serious business, laddie, though I expect your kind wouldn’t know that. Let me see your credentials.”

I love when people call me “laddie.” And I’m really fond of “your kind.” I opened my wallet, took out my license and passed it across to him. He looked at it so long I thought perhaps he had a stroke. I thought about asking him to touch his nose or stick out his tongue – the only two stroke signs I remembered – but instead took the time to size him up. Hell, he studied my “credentials” so long I could have measured him for a three-piece suit.

Preston was a big man, maybe six-two, with a paunch and thick reddish hair. His nose showed early signs of too much drink. Eventually, he handed my license back. Or, rather, he flipped it on his desk, where I had to lean forward to retrieve it.

“This isn’t the United States,” he said with a smirk. “You have no privileges here.”

“Hell, I don’t have many privileges back home. I’m just looking for some information.”

“About what?”

“Well, Sarge, as I explained to the lady Mountie on the phone before I flew up here, I’m investigating a possible homicide back in New York that may be related to the disappearance of a woman who lived here. Her name is Mary Naulls. I was hoping you could help me out.”

He didn’t like me calling him “Sarge.” I didn’t care. He thought he had the high ground. I would soon disabuse him of that notion.

“We are officially known as the Ontario Provincial Police,” he huffed. “Totally separate from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, who have no jurisdiction in Ontario.”

“Sorry. I should have realized that when I didn’t see your horse parked outside. Anyway, what can you tell me about Mary Naulls.”

He leaned forward and put his hands on his desk.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I believe you were informed that your trip here would be a waste of time. You should have listened.”

“Her disappearance was investigated by your department, wasn’t it?’

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Well, in whatever manner, I’d like to know what you found out.”

“It wasn’t my case.”

“It was somebody’s case, Preston. Maybe you don’t have horses, but you do keep records don’t you? I think I even spied a computer or two lying around. Perhaps I can talk to the officer who was involved in the investigation.”

He was seething. He was a big deal in this town and wasn’t used to “laddies” pulling his chain.

“I don’t like my officers talking to private detectives. In fact, I don’t like private detectives snooping around. Especially wise-mouth Yanks, eh.”

I gave him my most disarming smile.

“Just for the record, Sarge, we can’t call ourselves private detectives in New York. I’m a private investigator. But I can certainly understand why you might not like me snooping around. I might interfere with your moose humping.”

He looked confused.

“Moose hunting? I don’t hunt. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.”

I was being dismissed again. I stayed seated.

“I can have you escorted out of here, mate. If you resist, I’ll have your arrested, eh.”

I crossed my legs and started whistling. I don’t know the Canadian national anthem and I couldn’t remember Celine Dion’s latest, so I made do with “Waltzing Matilda.” The sun has long since set on the British Empire, but I thought I might win points for remembering the good old days.

Preston angrily punched a button on his phone.

“Constable, come in here.”

“Does the delectable Constable Barrett know that you left early yesterday to have your hockey stick polished at the Holiday Inn,” I said. “I bet she does. I bet a lot of people know. They’re afraid of you. You think you have this shithole town by the balls because you’re the top cop. But I have
you
by the balls. I’m a legitimate investigator backtracking what might be a serial killer who was right under your big fat nose. You blew me off yesterday to get laid on police time. Do you think I fell off a Labatt truck? I know the Mounties don’t have provincial jurisdiction in Ontario. But they do have Federal jurisdiction and might be interested to learn what kind of asshole is running things here. The Toronto media might, too. By the way, now that I have a close up, I think one side of your moustache is a tad longer than the other, eh.”

I couldn’t resist the “eh.” I heard the door open behind me.

“Yes, Sergeant?”

Sergeant Preston’s face was even redder now. I thought a stroke was now a real possibility. He visibly swallowed.

“Uh, Annie, could you get us a couple of coffees?”

“Black,” I said. “Eh.”

CHAPTER 24 – DESK JOCKEY

On the way out, I stopped by the front desk, where Constable Barrett was just getting off the phone with Preston.

“I’m to show you everything we have on Mary Naulls,” she said. “Please follow me.”

“Who is going to handle the desk?”

“We don’t get many visitors.”

“I’m not surprised.”

She led me to a small room, which looked the same as every small room in every police station on the planet. Dirty tile floor, metal table and chairs, gray paint. There was no large one-way mirror on the wall. It was probably where they gave the third degree to mink poachers. She left me but was soon back with a small file and a laptop. She sat down across the table from me.

“Do O.P.P. constables typically get coffee for their superiors?”

“What business is it of yours?”

She handed me the file and started booting up the computer. I started reading. I saw the name of the investigating officer.

“You caught the Naulls case, Constable Barrett?”

“I was assigned to it.”

Her face was a blank, but I detected an undercurrent of bitterness in her voice. I continued reading. It wasn’t a thick file, but it was thorough. When I finished, I said, “So, you didn’t think she only poisoned the priest?”

“We could never prove that she did poison him.”

“What about the blood test?’

“There was a compound in his blood that was new to us. New to everyone, in fact. The Medical Examiner said it was suspicious, but maybe it was just the result of the priest’s regular medications reacting to all the alcohol in his blood. He was properly soused. The official cause of death was a heart attack brought on by an arrhythmia.”

“Come on, Constable. The priest leaves her house and drops dead. She works with poisons. Who do you suspect? Colonel Mustard Gas in the library?”

That got a smile out of her. It was a nice smile. I glanced at her left hand. No ring. I’m the kind of guy who always does that with a pretty woman, no matter what the circumstances. If I’m put in front of a firing squad and a gal offers me a final cigarette, I’ll check her hand. Sue me.

“Who are these other four men you mention in your report? You labeled their deaths as suspicious.”

She hesitated.

“I believe Preston the Magnificent told you to give me your full cooperation.”

That got an even bigger smile.

“Three of them died in the five years following Mary Naulls’s arrival in Cashman, all suddenly about a year and a half apart.”

“Did she know the men?”

“It’s likely. They were all active in the same parish, Holy Rosary. It would have been hard for them not to know one another. But the men were all married and we could find no traces of anything other than a casual relationship between Naulls and them.”

“They were in their 60’s?”

“Yes. Is that important?”

“It fits a pattern. What about the fourth man?””

“A guard at LexGen, the lab she worked at. But he was a lot older, in his 70’s.”

“Let me guess. A heart attack.”

“Yes.”

“When did he die?”

“The day we think she fled.”

I was incredulous.

“And no one else but you thought that was unusual.”

“There was no sign that she had gone to the lab. Nothing was missing. That was enough for Preston, who was handling the investigation.”

“But not for you.”

“The security cameras are fake,” she said. “The only person who would see her at the lab on Sunday was the guard, now dead. How hard would it be for her to take some weird chemicals from the lab and replace them with other weird chemicals?”

Every jurisdiction needs a savvy cop like Barrett.

“What did you do?”

“Went over Preston’s head, to our boss, Staff Sergeant Wallace. He went to the local prosecutor and we got all the bodies exhumed. It was a total cock-up. There was no trace of any poison. That caused quite a flap. Cost the local prosecutor his job. And Wallace was transferred to Sturgeon Falls.”

“Not a promotion, I take it.”

“Next stop, the bloody North Pole.”

“And Moustache Preston became top dog.”

She nodded.

“And you became a desk jockey.”

“That would have happened anyway. Preston doesn’t have a high opinion of female police officers.”

“And the Naulls case was deep-sixed.”

“Yeah. The clincher was a letter we got claiming that Father Richter had sexually abused children for years.”

“Anonymous?”

“Of course. Mailed from New York. Albany. My guess is that Mary Naulls sent it on her way south. But it turned out to be true. Kids came out of the woodwork. It was a black eye on the community and the general consensus was that if Richter was killed by Mary Naulls, he only got what he deserved.”

“What about the other men? Did they get what they deserved?”

“You have to understand. We had no absolute proof Richter or anyone else was poisoned. Naulls had disappeared into thin air. Even if we found her, any decent solicitor could have gotten her off. Besides, Preston doesn’t like complications. And the case had already cost two careers. He likes his job. It gives him certain …. privileges.”

We exchanged a look.

“I’m surprised the sarge is being so cooperative,” she said. “How did you do it?”

“He’s arrogant. Or incautious. Or both. He should use a motel farther from town to bop the local ungulates.”

Constable Barrett put her hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh.

“You mean Mrs.,” she stopped before she said the woman’s name. “You are being quite uncharitable. She is a lonely woman.”

I liked the fact that she was sticking up for one of her townsfolk. 

“Preston is a right bastard,” she added quietly.

“If you were going to look further into this,” I asked, “where would you go?”

She plugged a small flash drive into the side of her laptop and hit some keys. Then she gave me the flash drive.

“LexGen, the place where she worked. There is some stuff about the company on that drive, plus a copy of that file.”

“I take it you don’t hate private eyes as much as your boss.”

“You’re the first one I’ve met,” she said, smiling, “so the jury is still out on that.” 

I got up and shut the door.

“I take it this room isn’t wired.”

“No.”

“Listen, kid. I know about assholes like Preston. You know what he was doing yesterday afternoon, and a lot of afternoons, on so-called police business.”

“So.”

“Preston thinks women are only good for one thing. But he is a bully. He folded like an accordion when I braced him.”

“What are you saying?”

“Knowledge is power, Annie. Use it. Or lose it. Get yourself off the desk. You’re a good cop.”

“You’re a right bastard, too, aren’t you, Mr. Rhode.”

“He should have kept the damn appointment with me. How about taking a ride with me to visit LexGen? You being there might make them more thrilled to see me.”

“I can’t leave my desk.” We exchanged stares. “But I’m off tomorrow.”