LITMIR.BIZ

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“I’ve never been there myself, but I’m told it’s pretty snazzy.”

      Doug shrugged. “You have to pay for quality.”

      “So what’s someone who can afford the King Eddy doing in a joint like McCully’s?”

      “The last time I saw you, you asked me if I would be around. I’m just checking in with you. Like with a parole officer.”

      “How’d you know where to find me?”

      “I asked your daughter when I was out at the track the other day. I told her I had something for you, that it was important I see you. She refused to tell me your phone number or where you lived. All she would give me was the name of this bar.”

      “So what’ve you got that’s so important?”

      Doug looked around. Down the bar, Vinny was talking to two drinkers, and Jessy was at the beer taps, filling a pitcher. Doug took a quick, shaky sip of his rye and ginger, looked up at Young, and said, “I know who killed Shorty Rogers.”

      Young narrowed his eyes. “You do.”

      Doug nodded. “Yes, indeedy.” He slurped at his drink.

      “I’m all ears.”

      Doug was sucking on an ice cube. “It was the bird guy. The birdman of King County. The saviour of birds. I can’t remember his name.”

      “I can. Stirling Smith-Gower.”

      Doug said “Bull’s eye!” and the ice cube he was sucking jumped out of his mouth and slid across the bar.

       Tuesday, June 13

      Young woke up in so much discomfort he was doubled over all the way to the toilet. If he breathed deeply, a searing pain burned across his abdomen. During the drive to work, he gripped the steering wheel tightly and groaned. As soon as he arrived at HQ, he was summoned into Staff Inspector Bateman’s office. Bateman, seated at his desk, eyed the stitches on Young’s cheekbone. “Trick’s back,” he said.

      “Good.”

      “Starts his computer lessons this morning. First time he’s been in since he got hit. Nearly three years.”

      Young nodded.

      Bateman fiddled with a letter opener. “He told me what happened out at the racetrack. Why didn’t you let me know? He says it was just an ‘attempt mug,’ but it could have been something else.”

      “Yeah, well, we got the crowbar. It’s in a plastic bag in my van. Wicary can dust it for prints.”

      “You don’t look so good. Maybe you should take a couple more days. Wheeler says you’ve been having gut aches, too, is that right?”

      “Just heartburn, boss. No problem.”

      “Could be diverticulitis. My wife had that. Watermelon seed. It was supposed to be a seedless.” He sighed and ran the fingers of one hand through his silver hair. “Very well, carry on.”

      Trick was sitting in his wheelchair in the hall. “How you feeling, brother?”

      “Shitty. Good to have you back. How’d you get here?”

      “Boum-Boum. He dropped me around back, and I came up the freight elevator.”

      Young gathered Trick, Wheeler, Barkas, and Big Urmson in the conference room.

      As people were seating themselves, Wheeler raised a tentative finger to the Steri-Strips on Young’s cheekbone. “That looks painful,” she said. “My sources tell me it happened Sunday afternoon. Why didn’t you say something?”

      Young shrugged. “What doesn’t kill us, Wheeler, makes us stronger.”

      When everyone was seated, he said, “Greetings everybody, and a special welcome back for Mr. Trick. As all of you probably realize by now, we’re basically working two situations at once, both at the racetrack, but there’s a good chance they’re more closely related than just that. The first one, the death of the horse that was in Shorty Rogers’ barn, my gut instinct tells me was not a natural death. My gut instinct tells me it was killed intentionally. It may or may not be related to the second situation, Shorty’s murder, but I’ll bet there’s a tie-in somewhere. Now, with respect to Shorty’s case, I know we’ve already interviewed all the likely suspects, but I want each of them interviewed again. Only this time by some-one different. Barkas interviewed Summer Caldwell the first time; this time, Wheeler, you’re going to do it. I want these people to get the impression that everybody in Homicide is familiar with them, not just one person. However, since our friend Mr. Harvey has let us down with regard to Percy Ball, I’ll talk to Percy again myself. I think he knows a lot more than he’s letting on. Then I’m going to find out about Mahmoud Khan’s financial situation. I don’t think he’s as rich as he looks. I think he’s got some serious money problems, which may explain the dead horse. Wheeler, like I said, you’ve got Summer Caldwell. We need to find out more about her. Is she squeaky clean like she looks, what with the good works and the Feed the Children, or is there more to her than we know about? She was at the meeting at Uncle Morley’s house, and it seems she’s jealous of his success in the whatchamacallit.”

      “The Beautiful Garden Competition.”

      “Right, but did she have any reason to want his nephew murdered? My guess is she’ll end up pretty low on the list, but check her out just the same.”

      Wheeler said, “While I’m at it, I want to see what she knows about Miss Sweet—”

      “Good, because I want you to stick with Miss Sweet, at least for the time being. I couldn’t get anywhere with her, and she opened up for you like a steamed clam.”

      He turned to Barkas. “Richard Ludlow, Barkas. Wheeler already did him, so now it’s your turn. President of the King County Golf and Country Club. Sniff around. I know he would just love to lay his hands on Uncle Morley’s land, but, again, did he have any reason to want Shorty dead?”

      His eyes moved from Barkas to Big Urmson. “And speaking of Shorty, I want you out at the track, Urmson. I’ll set it up with Debi. She’ll meet you at the gates. Talk to people about Shorty. What are they saying? What’s the latest theory floating around Shedrow. Hang out in the kitchen for a while, see what you come up with. I know you did Stirling Smith-Gower the first time, and you did a bang-up job. I want you to do the same thing with Shorty.”

      He swivelled in his chair. “Your turn,” he said to Trick.

      Trick smiled noncommittally.

      “I dropped by McCully’s yesterday afternoon, and Doug Buckley, the guy that won the lottery, was in there chatting up Jessy.”

      “That wasn’t wise of him.”

      “Turns out he was there to see me. Seems he knows who killed Shorty.”

      “Really?”

      “Yup. He claims it’s Smith-Gower.”

      “The bird guy?”

      “That’s right. Find out if he’s back from South America yet.”

      Trick looked uncomfortable.

      “How?”

      Young shrugged. “Call him up, for starters.”

      Trick was unconvinced.

      Young said, “Look, it’s simple, really. Pick up the phone and dial his number. If he’s there, ask him about the ring-necked booby, then ask him where he was at eleven p.m. on May 31.”

      That afternoon, Wheeler drove out to the Caledon Hills, northwest of Toronto, and spent an hour drinking iced tea and eating crustless cucumber sandwiches on a flag-stone patio behind a renovated century farmhouse. Despite the cool, overcast weather, Summer Caldwell was wearing a light summer dress and a floppy sun hat.

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