Booking In Page 27

  “Oh,” I said. “None of them approve of Froot Loops?”

  The old guy seemed on the verge of tears. “I love Froot Loops, Andy.”

  “Since it’s only me here today,” I said. “Neither of the Gabriels is on duty and none of the others. That leaves me in charge, and I vote for Froot Loops.”

  Was I nuts? I had just finished risking my life to make the escape from Charlie’s apartment, and here I was wasting time to help a complete stranger eat some food that probably wasn’t good for his already tenuous health.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said to the old guy, heading for the front door.

  “Isn’t it breakfast time, Andy?”

  “That’s why I’m going on a run for Froot Loops.”

  Out in the hallway, I decided against using the elevator. Its sound at the late hour, almost midnight, might raise questions in Charlie’s apartment. Always best to be cautious, I told myself.

  Downstairs, I looked around for something to wedge open the door into the apartment house from the lobby. A giveaway golf magazine was sitting on a ledge beside the mailboxes. It ought to do the job I wanted, which was to keep the door open during my Froot Loops expedition. I put the magazine in place, hoping nobody would move it in my absence. Then I hurried on my way to the variety store a half block south of the apartment, a trip only slightly hampered by my missing right loafer. I reached the store just as a kid was locking up from the inside. I tapped on the window. The kid, who looked Korean, gave me a weary smile, and let me in.

  “Froot Loops?” I said.

  “Second aisle.”

  I found the package and paid the kid, who asked me if I knew my right shoe was missing.

  “Damn,” I said. “I wondered why I was tilting to one side.”

  The kid laughed.

  I hustled back up the street, detoured into the parking lot at the back of the apartment building, and found my right loafer. It was sitting on the hood of Charlie’s green Mazda. Was that a good omen?

  In the lobby, the golf magazine was still in place. I pushed through the door and decided to take the elevator up. All the commotion of the last half hour had left me in no shape to hike up four flights of stairs. The elevator was waiting at the ground floor. I stepped on, and pushed the button for the fourth. The elevator started up.

  As the floor indicator showed that the elevator was passing the third, a terrible thought struck me. What if Fletcher was waiting for the elevator at the fourth? I needed a plan of resistance. No plan came to mind. Maybe no plan existed. What I would do if Fletcher happened to be in the hall was run like hell for the old guy’s apartment. Charlie’s apartment was to the right of the elevator, the old man’s to the left. The positioning favoured me if my evasion of Fletcher came down to a foot race.

  The elevator stopped at the fourth. The door slid open. I leaned out far enough to get a view to the right.

  Son of a bitch! Charlie’s door was open, and Fletcher was standing in the doorway. But his back was to me, and he was saying something intense to Charlie, who was somewhere inside the apartment.

  I stepped off the elevator, turned left, and let my feet do their stuff. I ran on the toes of my loafers, fast but silent, my heels never landing first, the box of Froot Loops held high to block any view of my face. Behind me, I could hear Fletcher still speaking intently to Charlie. The words weren’t audible, but whatever Fletcher was saying, it couldn’t have had anything to do with me. I was the speed merchant farther down the hallway going pell-mell for the old man’s door, apparently unobserved by Fletcher.

  I reached my destination. I’d left the door unlocked. Opening it as quietly as I could manage, which was very quiet, I stepped into the apartment, closed the door, and stood leaning against the wall, waiting for any commotion from the hall. Like Fletcher pounding on the old man’s door. But nothing happened. A minute or two went by with no action on the other side of the door. Definitely, Fletcher must not have seen me. Or heard me.

  “Is that you, Andy?” the old man said from the living room.

  “Me and a box of Froot Loops.”

  I went into the kitchen and took down a cereal bowl from one of the cabinets.

  “Do you like to eat at the breakfast table or in front of the TV?” I called to the old gent.

  “Do I have a choice, Andy?”

  “You’re the boss.”

  “Fred Astaire’s on TCM.”

  “Sometimes life just breaks perfectly,” I said.

  I filled the bowl with Froot Loops, poured in some skim milk from the fridge, and carried the bowl and a tablespoon to the living room. Fred and Ginger were singing “Isn’t This a Lovely Day (To Be Caught in the Rain).”

  “Top Hat,” the old man said.

  “Terrific movie.”

  “Irving Berlin wrote all of the songs, Andy.”

  “Hardly anybody better.”

  The old man was as happy as a clam at high tide. For a moment I thought about the origin of the expression. Why were clams happier at high tide than at low tide? And how was clam happiness measured anyway? I hadn’t a clue.

  My iPhone rang. It was Charlie.

  “Were you just out in the hall with a box of Froot Loops?”

  “Fletcher identified me?”

  “More a case of him thinking he was experiencing hallucinations. That’s how he put it.”

  “How come you’re on the phone?”

  “Fletcher’s gone out to buy a pack of cigarettes.”

  “He smokes?”

  “He says he’s taking it up for the first time since he quit in 1982. The stress these days is getting to him is what he says.”

  “Stress caused by what?”

  “That’s the part he’s just kind of circling around in these conversations I’ve been having with him.”

  Across the room, the old guy looked as pleased as a person could get, munching his Froot Loops, watching Ginger flirt with Fred. I moved with the phone into the kitchen and sat on one of the chairs. Exhaustion was getting to me.

  “Fletcher’s going to be awhile buying the cigarettes,” I said to Charlie. “The variety store down the block just closed for the night.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Where do you think I bought the Froot Loops?”

  “Crang,” Charlie said, “where are you anyway?”

  “Next door to your place, in the apartment with the man who’s as old as Methuselah.”

  “That’s Henry Chambers, such a sweet dear, but he needs helpers all day.”

  “How come he’s left alone at night?”

  “Something about the terms of his health insurance policy.”

  “You mean the company doesn’t have to pay if Henry disables himself sometime between lights out and breakfast?”

  “He’s got a device that he presses at night when he’s feeling really shaky. That’s supposed to bring the health services people on the run.”

  “Nice to know,” I said. “But what about Fletcher? He’s laying his inner feelings on you?”

  “Something like that. He’s in a deep confessional type of mood. He talked a couple of minutes ago about his regrets, about the mistakes he’s made in life.”

  “Anything involving a fake copy of the Reading Sonnets?”

  “Not so far. But the conversation is kind of playing around the edges of his business. Fletcher lives for his store and the books. So the regrets and mistakes he’s talking about are bound to include those damn sonnets at some point. Honestly, Crang, he’s on an unstoppable monologue.”

  In Henry Chambers’s living room, the sound of “Cheek to Cheek” came from the TV screen.

  “Play it carefully with Fletcher,” I said to Charlie. “Maybe in his rambles, he’ll tell you something criminal he’s pulled.”

  “About a scam with the Reading
Sonnets?”

  “That, but also keep in mind somebody’s been murdered in this whole mess. Fletcher may give you information about the death.”

  “Oh dear lord, information like whether or not Fletcher killed the guy in the store?”

  “If something like that comes up,” I said, “get rid of Fletcher as gently and swiftly as you can, then phone me.”

  “I keep thinking to myself, how did I get in the middle of all this?”

  I paused for a moment, thinking of ways to keep Charlie from falling apart.

  “Never mind answering the question I just asked, Crang,” Charlie said. “I helped Brent steal the stuff from the safe. That’s what got me stuck where I am right now. It’s my own fault.”

  “But at the moment, Charlie, you’re working wonders,” I said. “Just keep Fletcher talking, and call me if anything deeply troublesome develops.”

  After Charlie and I finished on the phone, I checked on the old man in the living room. He had polished off his Froot Loops and was watching the last scenes of Top Hat. He had a smile on his face.

  “I’m off, Henry,” I said. “When the movie’s done, you have a snooze, and by the time you wake up, another minder will get you another breakfast.”

  “What’s the other minder’s name, Andy?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s also an Andy.”

  “Just like two Gabriels, Andy.”

  “Isn’t that a fine coincidence?”

  I slipped out of Henry’s apartment and walked down the four flights of stairs. On the first floor, I kept out of sight at the door between the lobby and the entrance to the stairs, watching for Fletcher. He arrived ten minutes later, smoking a cigarette and looking awkward at it. He stubbed out the butt on the steps outside, walked through the lobby, and got on the elevator.

  I strolled south on Bathurst all the way down the long hill to the flat part of the street at Dupont, then a few more blocks to Bloor and a little jog eastward to my house. The walk helped me feel mostly free of the night’s tensions, and at home, I went straight to bed. But it still took a long while before sleep came on.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Charlie phoned me at seven thirty. “The son of a bitch confessed,” she said, speaking in a mile-a-minute voice.

  “You’re talking about Fletcher?” I said. I was still in bed, though I’d been awake for a while, speculating about future possibilities.

  “He said he killed this man Biscuit,” Charlie said. “It was accidental, a killing of instant and uncontrollable rage is what Fletcher called it. But he was definitely the guy who bashed your burglar friend to death.”

  I got out of the bed, feeling a small zing of shock go through me. “You’re still at home?” I said.

  “Fletcher didn’t leave here till it must have been after four. I fell asleep on the chesterfield out of sheer exhaustion. But I woke up a couple of minutes ago, and I feel totally wired.”

  “Do you have a brother or sister or anybody whose place you can go to?”

  “You believe it? Fletcher says he actually killed a person.”

  “Listen to me, Charlie,” I said, raising my voice a little. “You need to get out of your apartment now. Right now.”

  “This is surreal, what’s happening to me.”

  “CHARLIE!”

  “No need to shout, Crang.”

  “Charlie, if you’re still dressed, get moving. Don’t bother packing clean clothes or anything else. Just head for your car out back and drive to your brother’s place or sister’s, whoever you got in your life.”

  “I don’t have a brother or sister or parents who live in Toronto. Or anyplace in Canada. Does a best friend count?”

  “Fletcher knows her, the best friend?”

  “My best friend’s a him, a guy I’ve been pals with since I moved to Toronto and we took the same classes at university. And no, Fletcher doesn’t even know my friend Ralph exists. He wouldn’t be interested in the ordinary type of person Ralph is.”

  “Drive to Ralph’s place pronto. Where’s he live?”

  “Ralph’s still in his family house in Swansea, only he’s all the family that’s left.”

  Charlie recited the street address, and I wrote down the information on a pad sitting on the little table next to the bed.

  “A criminal lawyer friend of mine will phone your cell number later this morning,” I said. “Or his office will. Do whatever they tell you.”

  “How come I need a lawyer? I haven’t done anything except listen to a guy describe how he murdered somebody.”

  “That’s the point. My lawyer friend will go with you to people on the Homicide Squad, and you’ll tell your story to them.”

  “Why can’t you be my lawyer, somebody I know already?”

  “Because I’m involved in the case more deeply than I really like.”

  “I guess I understand,” Charlie said, her voice growing smaller as she spoke. “This is all so terrible.”

  “It’ll get less terrible the sooner you start moving.”

  “I wish I could stay in my own apartment.”

  “Fletcher may rethink what he told you and decide to come back and rearrange his story. He might rearrange you while he’s at it. The idea is for you to be nowhere on the premises.”

  “I’m not even properly dressed.”

  “Be out of there in five minutes and call me from your car when you’re on the move.”

  Charlie hung up without another word. I put on jeans and a Steph Curry sweatshirt, went downstairs, and put the coffee machine to work. The second call from Charlie came while the kitchen was just beginning to fill with the aroma of the Sumatra. She said she was at that minute on her way straight out Dupont, getting close to High Park, which her friend Ralph’s house overlooked. Her voice was subdued. She’d be at Ralph’s in fifteen minutes.

  I hung up and phoned Petey Guelph, a criminal lawyer I had a lot of respect for. Petey was already in his office, and when I explained Charlie’s predicament, he said he liked the sound of the case.

  “I once had a situation like this one,” Petey said, “except all the people connected to it were mob people.”

  “Your guy was the person who the confession was made to?”

  “Yeah. I took him to Freddie Walnicki on Homicide.”

  “How did things shake down?”

  “Freddie made sure everybody did time, including my guy.”

  “That’s not the result I’m counting on for Charlie.”

  “She isn’t connected to the mob, is she?” Petey said.

  “Of course not.”

  “Then she’s got nothing to worry about.”

  I recited Charlie’s cell number for Petey.

  “Just one thing,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Take Charlie to a Homicide guy who isn’t Freddie Walnicki.”

  Petey laughed. “Freddie’s retired.”

  Off the phone, sitting at the dining room table, I poured a cup of coffee. It was a sunny, tranquil morning. I got up and pushed back the windows to allow whatever breeze was out there to drift into the house. So far there wasn’t a hint of wind, but the air felt fresh all by itself.

  I sipped some coffee and checked my iPhone. A text had arrived from Archie Brewster’s office. It told me that Wally and her colleagues had done enough work on the DNA from the items Maury and I left with them to confirm that the blood on the Reading Sonnets page was Biscuit’s. I gave myself a thumbs-up and poured more coffee.

  After a while, three of the GG’s crew walked into the garden. Monique was in the lead, a handsome woman carrying a pair of secateurs, an essential tool for Monique, since she was the crew’s ace pruner. Following her came big John, capable of all garden chores, especially ones involving heavy lifting. Bringing up the rear was tall, slim, muscular Pony with
a small implement I recognized in his hand. It was a Japanese weeder, a wicked little thing with a handle not much more than a foot long, topped by a sharp metal blade that could snap out ornery weeds with one well-aimed whack. Pony called the implement a hori-hori. He waved his hori-hori in my direction as he, Monique, and John disappeared into the lovely wilderness of our garden.

  I ate cereal and a toasted raisin bun, then phoned Maury to tell him why the murder of his old pal Biscuit was about to be solved. Maury sounded relieved. This was in no small part, I deduced, because it would end the activities that got Sal on his back. I made one more cup of coffee, read the Globe and Mail, and waited without much patience for phone calls from Charlie and Petey Guelph. They didn’t come until close to noon. Each brought me the same news; they’d had a good meeting and were now on their way to an appointment at Police Headquarters on College Street to talk to a guy on the Homicide Squad.

  “The guy’s named Rolly Mallenhauer,” Petey said. “I’ve never dealt with him. You know the guy?”

  “Annie’s in a gardening group with Rolly’s wife. Can’t remember her name. Maria? Maureen? It’s an M name. Anyway, the M woman and Annie talk plants all the time, a lot of it in Latin.”

  “How come in Latin?”

  “It’s a thing with gardeners,” I said. “You haven’t really identified a plant unless you give it the Latin name.”

  “Rolly himself is hot on gardening?”

  “He’s like me, an admirer of the beauty but a little nervous about the work involved. Out there in the garden, if you’re not tight with correct planting, the right amount of mulch, regular watering, all the procedures, it’s easy to bungle.”

  “Well, okay, whatever,” Petey said, “you can expect Rolly to get on to you later today.”

  “The way I think of Rolly, he’s not a particularly imaginative type of guy.”

  “You still talking about gardening? Or you on to Homicide?”

  “Homicide. Just talking old war stories with Rolly, he strikes me as a cop who plays every case entirely straight. If somebody comes up with a bright idea, it won’t be Rolly, but he can be persuaded that somebody else’s smart theory might work better than any conventional approach.”