Текст книги "Murder on the Run"

Автор книги: Medora Sale

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Chapter 15

As Eleanor bit voraciously into the second half of her pastrami on rye, wondering if it was really going to tide her over until John agreed to release her and she could get a proper meal, a tech wafted in from the lab. “I hope you realize what service this is,” she said. “That ‘urgent’ had better be legit. They don’t look very urgent to me.”

“Was there anything on the film?” asked Sanders impatiently.

“Oh sure. Lots. Three shots out of a possible thirty-six were exposed, and you can almost see people in a couple of them. We did what we could. It’s Tri-X—we pushed it a little and it’s a bit grainy. You can’t get what isn’t there, you know. Whoever took them didn’t know much about light levels, I guess. So long.” She dropped the large manila envelope on the desk with a wink at Eleanor and left.

Sanders opened the envelope with great care and pulled three eight-by-ten glossy black and white prints out of it. Eleanor wiped the mustard off her fingers and pulled her chair over to get a look. The film had obviously been greatly underexposed, but it was possible to make out the faces of several people on each print. At first glance there was no apparent reason for the film to have been hidden away so carefully, but as Sanders pulled his desk light closer to look at the first enlargement, he whistled in triumph. In it they could see the smiling face of Jane Conway, dressed in something dark and hard to distinguish; leaning over her in a relaxed and affectionate way, was a tall man who looked vaguely familiar. Eleanor pointed at his face in astonishment. “It’s that politician. The one who was talking to Grant at the party. Well, well. He seems to be a good friend, doesn’t he?”

“Are you sure?” said Sanders. “Really sure?”

“Positive. Is he in the other picture?” Sanders picked up the next print and held it up to the light. “There they are again. See? She’s half turned, but you can tell from the dress and hair, sort of, that it’s her, and it’s an even better picture of—what was his name?”

“Wilcox. Paul Wilcox.”

“That’s right. But I don’t recognize the guy he’s talking to—the little guy beside him.” She pointed to someone who was apparently in earnest conversation with Mr. Wilcox.

“Ah,” said Sanders. “He’s a very interesting man to find in that group. The famous Jimmy Fielding. You know—the gray Honda.”

“No wonder she hung onto these pictures,” said Eleanor. “They’re very suggestive, aren’t they? Who’s in the third one?” Sanders picked up a dark, badly focused shot in which it was just possible to make out the figures and faces of Conway and Wilcox, talking to a third man. Eleanor took the print and peered closely at it. “That’s Grant,” she said flatly. “I’m sure it is. Although you’d have a hard time proving it from this.”

“So it is,” murmured Sanders. “Isn’t that interesting. Conway, Wilcox, Fielding, and Keswick, all in cosy conversation. The government, the mob, and the arts, all together with one girl. I’m glad the head of the police commission isn’t in one of those pictures. That’s all we need.”

“What do you suppose they were all mixed up in?”

“Who knows? Contracts, government jobs, drugs—Fielding’s in drugs, but that’s not all he’s in. Maybe even murder. We’ll find out soon enough.” He paused for a second, and then, dismayed, looked at Eleanor. “My God, we have to do something about you. When does that child of yours get out of school?”

Her stomach contracted ominously. “Three-thirty. Why?”

“You are to call the school. Get someone you know—Roz Johnson—on the line. Tell her that you, and you alone, will pick up Heather, and you will be arriving soon in a patrol car. On no account are they to release her to anyone—whatever the reason—but you. Even if you call and ask them to change the arrangements. Have you got that?”

Eleanor shuddered. “Yes. Do you really think they’d—”

“They got you, didn’t they? And they’re going to get even unhappier once they figure out I’m not sitting on my ass doing nothing. Telephone.”

Sanders saw Eleanor off to pick up Heather in a patrol car, with instructions to go straight home and stay put until he called. The car and its occupants would stay with her. As soon as that was done, he turned his mind to more urgent problems. “Well,” he said to Dubinsky, “who do we pick up first?”

“I dunno,” said Dubinsky, looking blank. “I’m out of practice arresting MPPs. Why don’t you go get him and I’ll pick up Keswick. He’s more my type.”

“Coward,” said Sanders. “Let’s send Collins and Wilson out to get Keswick—he’s easy. All he’s likely to do is paste them, and they can handle that.” He twirled his pen in his fingers for a moment, watching the effect with admiring eyes. “Jesus.” He let the pen drop. “There’s no way we can get Wilcox without clearing it upstairs, though. Here, give us that stuff—and send Collins and Wilson off while I’m gone.” He picked up the file folder, slipped the prints into it, and headed off upstairs.

“So that’s it,” said Sanders to the smoothly elegant man on the other side of the desk. “I don’t know whether one of them killed her, or why. As far as we can tell now her death may be completely unrelated, but these prints show a connection between Wilcox and Jane Conway, and between Wilcox and Jimmy Fielding. And Fielding certainly has links with organized crime. I don’t know where Keswick comes into this, but he does come into it. Anyway, he’s being picked up right now. He should be able to fill in a few gaps.”

His interlocutor folded his fingers together and rested his chin lightly on them. He seemed to focus on the middle distance as he contemplated. He was paid to be smooth, and clever, and to juggle all the possible strands and inter-connections and pitfalls of any action taken by government, the attorney general’s office, or the police. “I had better talk to the A.G.,” he said finally. “This is too hot for me to stick my neck out alone on.”

Sanders nodded. “What I need is to get into his office in the Parliament Buildings. We’ve got to have evidence, and it might be there.”

“That’s tricky,” he said in a distant voice. “You, of course, have no shadow of a right to do that. But then, he knows that as well, and is likely to have left anything of a—uh—sensitive nature there for just that reason. If we go through regulation channels, we are likely to lose the element of surprise, I imagine. It’s complicated.”

Sanders nodded again. “Maybe we should bring the chief in on this in case questions are asked. He’s going to be mad as hell when he finds out.”

“Good God, no! The fewer people who know about this, the better.” He reached for his telephone and spent the next few minutes in muttered conversation. Finally he hung up and spoke to Sanders. “At six o’clock tonight,” he said, looking somewhere past Sanders’ left ear, “everyone in whom you are interested will be at a small reception. It will last at least until seven. This will get you past the small east door”—he handed Sanders a card marked “Press/Special Occasion”—“and the regular patrolling of the halls doesn’t start until after the House rises. It is sitting right now, so there are lots of people around and a certain amount of confusion.” He stood up. “You’re on your own in this. Don’t get caught. You’d find it unpleasant, and we’d find it counter-productive.”

It was four o’clock by the time Sanders got back to the office. “We’re on,” he said. “How are you at B and E, Dubinsky?”

“How complicated?” Dubinsky leaned back and yawned. Dinner looked to be a long way off tonight.

“Not very—an office door, some desk drawers, a few filing cabinets, maybe a small safe. Probably wouldn’t be a difficult one, you know. Just one of those home-security types.”

“Not a chance,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m okay on doors, not too happy about filing cabinets, but no safes. That’s not my line.” He looked pensive for a moment. “I know a couple of guys who could do a safe without too much trouble—but I never acquired the skill. And I don’t want to.”

“Who’s that?”

“A pal of mine from the RCMP is pretty good with small safes.”

“Would he do it?”

“Naw. It really wouldn’t be worth his while. I mean, they’d crucify him if he got caught.” He shook his head. “And it’s not even his bust. Eddy might, though. Eddy owes me. He’s pretty good—doors, safes, anything at all. We went to school together.”

“Do you think you could get hold of him—soon? Before six?”

“I could try. Might take a few minutes, though. He travels around a bit.” Dubinsky reached for the phone, and began dialing a number culled from his elephantine memory. Sanders wandered tactfully out of earshot. After twenty minutes of telephone calls and earnest quiet conversations Dubinsky finally put his hand over the receiver, and said, “Eddy wants to know how he’s supposed to get in there.” Sanders picked up the press pass. On it was neatly written the date and the number two, circled in red. No matter how sleepy the guy on the door was, he’d be able to count to two. “I told him about the reception. He asked would it be okay if he comes as a waiter. Then he can blend in if all hell breaks loose.”

“Sure. Anything. He can come as a duck if he wants.”

At six o’clock Dubinsky, Sanders, and a small man in a dinner jacket pulled into the University of Toronto parking lot across the street from Queen’s Park. By the time they were out of the car, Eddy had disappeared. “Jesus,” said Sanders, impressed. “Where did he go?”

“Don’t ask,” said Dubinsky. “I never met a guy who could vanish the way he does.” They walked boldly over to the east entrance with the arrogance of reporters with a perfect right to be there. As they were showing the bored O.P.P. constable their press pass, a small figure nipped by them, squeaking, “Extra catering staff. Which way?” The constable pointed to the left, and Eddy disappeared again. Sanders shook his head in admiration.

They walked confidently through the high-ceilinged corridors to the area in which important members of the current government had their offices—they hoped. Those few people who passed by them paid no attention to them at all; they turned a corner, and there they were, in front of the office of Paul Wilcox, MPP. “How does he rate such a classy corridor?” whispered Dubinsky. “The rest of these guys all seem to be Cabinet ministers.”

“Yeah. And potential Cabinet ministers. Our boy is—was—on his way up. Now where’s Eddy?” And then they heard a soft shuffle of fast-moving feet, and Eddy appeared behind them, a tray under his arm.

“Camouflage,” he said. “Is this the door?” Without waiting for a reply, he loosened his jacket and extracted from a series of pockets inside the front a couple of odd-looking tools. “Simple locks,” he said, fiddled, held his breath, slipped the second tool between the door and the frame, and opened the door. “Get in and close it,” he said, flipping on the light. “Before someone comes along. Jeez, you guys are slow.” They were in a small, well-furnished reception room, with a desk, filing cabinets, and a couple of comfortable chairs, coffee table, and expensive magazines. There was another door behind the desk, also locked. Eddy approached it, looked, murmured “piece of cake,” and slipped open the bolt in a few seconds. In this room, also small, but pleasant, were a window letting in soft evening light; a bare desk, dark, reddish, and opulent; a couch, chair, and a large plant; and, in the wood paneling of the wall, something that was unmistakably a safe of ancient vintage.

Eddy walked over to it, sized it up, and opened his jacket again. He selected a couple of instruments, laid them down on the floor, and then crouched in front of the safe. Meanwhile Dubinsky took a flat tool from his pocket and set to work on the desk drawer. It took him a while, and a few breathy curses, to get that lock snapped back and the first drawer opened. Sanders began to flip rapidly through its contents, while Dubinsky, working on top of him, scrambled through the second one. Finally Eddy spoke. “Do you think you guys could crash around the outer office for a while? I can’t hear anything—I’ll never get this bitch open with all that noise. Besides, you make me nervous.” Abashed, they fled.

“Might as well try the filing cabinet,” said Sanders. “Can you manage that lock?”

“Only if someone has a paper clip,” said Dubinsky in scorn. “I hope they don’t keep important stuff in here. Security is terrible.”

“I don’t suppose they do,” said Sanders. “Come on, let’s go.”

The metallic screech of the top drawer of the filing cabinet opening covered the quiet click of a key in the door. Sanders was already flipping through the contents when his hand stopped at the sound of Wilcox’s pleasantly cultured voice.

“Well, well, gentlemen, isn’t this a surprise! From the press, I assume? I assure you that whatever you might find in there would be very dull from your point of view.” He walked over to the secretary’s desk. “But I don’t think that the police will find someone breaking into my office boring. Not at all.”

Sanders straightened up and looked at Wilcox with casual amusement on his face. “Ah,” he said, “but we are the police. And we don’t mind being bored, not at all. We’re used to it.”

“The police?” Wilcox paused a moment. “Then no doubt you have a warrant of some sort. May I see it?” He looked steadily at them. “Or are you on some sort of fishing expedition here? And just what kind of police are you?” His voice acquired a nasty edge. “Either you produce identification or God help me you’ll never get out of here in one piece. And shut that filing cabinet. There’s nothing in there anyway.”

Dubinsky automatically drew out his warrant card: “Metro Police—Sergeant”—before Sanders could kick him hard enough to shut him up.

“Isn’t that nice?” purred Wilcox. “You gentlemen have made a grave mistake, Sergeant. You have no jurisdiction in this building. You need permission just to set foot in the hallway.” He reached for the telephone on the desk. “I hope you two weren’t set on a career in the department, because you won’t have one.” Then he snarled, “You picked the wrong man to harass this time. I’m not some insignificant backbencher who’s afraid of cops. The police commissioner can deal with this. I’ll be seeing him on Thursday, and that’s about as long as you’ll be on the force.”

Dubinsky looked appalled. An expression of detached amusement settled itself on Sanders’ face. As Wilcox picked up the receiver and began to dial, the door to the inner office opened gently. “There wasn’t much in there—is this what you guys were looking for?” asked Eddy, and held up a small green notebook and a black leather briefcase in front of Paul Wilcox’s horrified eyes. A sound came out of his throat, part scream and part sob, and he flung himself out the door, slamming it in their faces.

“Well I’ll be damned,” said Sanders. “It worked.”

“Aren’t we going after him?” asked Dubinsky.

“Naw. Didn’t you hear the gentleman? We don’t have any jurisdiction in this building. If he’s in the House, no one can get him for now, and if he headed out the door, someone else can pick him up.” He dialed a number. After some rapid instructions, he looked around and said, “Hey. Where’s Eddy?” The office was deserted.

“Long gone,” said Dubinsky. “He’s probably picking up his pay as an extra waiter by now—and helping himself to dinner and someone’s diamonds at the same time.” He picked up the notebook and briefcase. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “This place makes me nervous.”

Chapter 16

Sanders swept aside all the accumulated memos, reports, coffee cups, and general debris on his desk with his elbow and carefully set down the notebook and the slim black leather briefcase. Gently, he sprung open its two silver fastenings and raised the top. Inside lay a modest pile of photocopied legal-size documents. Dubinsky peered over his shoulder as he lifted out the first one. It was on letterhead of the Pag-Jan Construction Company, and was headed “Tender no. 107593, Ontario Central Detention Centre.” Sanders’ eyes glittered as he leafed through the pages of figures and handed it to Dubinsky. He picked up the next one. Satisfaction twitched at the corners of his mouth—Beck Construction, same project. The next was from Jamieson Construction; below that, from Del-Fram Construction. Seven in all, from some of the largest and most solidly based firms in the area. “If you owned a construction company, Dubinsky, wouldn’t you be happy if someone gave you all this material? I wonder when the deadline for tendering is. In two days, I’ll bet; just enough time for someone to adjust a few of his figures after looking at these.” Sanders put them all carefully back in the briefcase. “This will have to go to Fraud. My God.” He sounded awestruck. “That detention center is a huge project. No wonder he was a little disturbed to see us with the briefcase. Let’s have a look at the book.”

His train of thought was interrupted by Collins bursting through the door, his normally stolid features pink with excitement. “We got him,” he announced. “There’s enough coke in that apartment to make trafficking stick tighter than. . . .” Comparisons failed him.

“Where is he?”

“Downstairs, with Wilson, keeping his mouth shut.” Sanders started for the door. “But that’s not all we found,” said Collins following after him. “I found a”—he pulled his notebook out—“pair of women’s lounging pyjamas, silk, purple in colour, size five. Could have belonged to the Conway woman.” He looked like a bird dog with a fat pheasant in his mouth. “They’d been worn, too. Smelled of perfume and were kind of wrinkled a bit.”

Grant Keswick was sitting on a straight-backed chair looking coldly angry when the two men were let in to the interview room. He gave no sign of recognition or acknowledgement, but said in clear and clipped tones, “I would like to speak to my lawyer. Until then, I have nothing to say.”

“Come off it, Keswick. You lawyer isn’t going to be able to talk away four or five thousand bucks worth of coke. Not very bright of you to leave it lying around like that. Besides, that’s not what we want to talk to you about, is it? Whose purple silk whatevers are those? Size five. Not many women around that small.”

“Maybe not in your circles, pal, but there are in mine. I know a lot of very classy-looking ladies.” He smirked in an irritating way, and Sanders stifled a flash of anger as he recollected that Keswick probably considered Eleanor to be one of them. His voice became silky and confidential.

“You have quite a temper, don’t you, Keswick? Probably you’d think nothing at all of bashing someone’s head in if you discovered she’d been sleeping around. You don’t look like someone who’d appreciate that sort of thing from your women. Those silk things were Jane Conway’s, weren’t they? Someone will be able to identify them, you know. She had friends.”

“So what you if they were? We used to see a lot of each other, back before we split up. Last October. That’s a long time ago.” Keswick laughed casually, but the sweat stood out on his forehead and darkened his shirt in patches; his clothes seemed tight, barely able to contain his stocky frame.

“Then why in hell did you get so mad at her the night before she was killed if you were all through with her? And why hang onto stuff of hers all that time? You don’t strike me as the sentimental type, Keswick. What did you do when she told you she was pregnant? Was she trying to make trouble for you? That must have upset you.” He drawled out the words.

Keswick froze into silence. “Pregnant?” he said cautiously. “What in hell are you talking about?” Then he pulled his indignation around him again. “I have friends who might have something to say about evidence being planted in my apartment, and about harassment of people in the arts, constant harassment.” He attempted to drape his arm carelessly along the back of the chair. “You can’t hang this on me, Sanders.”

“If you’re talking about your pal Wilcox—we’ve got him too. There are at least fifty men out there looking for him. I wouldn’t count on his support right now. He has enough troubles of his own.”

Keswick abandoned his efforts to appear casual. “I’m not saying a word until I see my lawyer.” His mouth closed in a thin line, then he spat out, suddenly and spitefully, “and if you’re looking for someone to hang Jane’s murder on, try her husband. He had a reason.”

Sanders shook his head gently. “I don’t think we need go that far, Mr. Keswick. Her husband was working in a lab with ten other people while you were smashing Jane’s skull in. You should learn to control that temper of yours.” He smiled and turned to the other men in the room. “For now, you can book Mr. Keswick for trafficking, Wilson. But be sure you let him call his lawyer.”

“Do you think we can get him for the Conway woman?” asked Dubinsky as they walked briskly back to their own corner of the building.

“I don’t know,” said Sanders, looking gloomily at the squalor they had left behind them. “Probably not. I’m not even sure he did it.” He shook his head and reached for the briefcase, still sitting in the middle of his desk. “Has anyone checked Wilcox’s house?” he said suddenly. “We’re going to look pretty goddamn stupid if he’s at home, all quiet and cosy.”

Dubinsky reached for the phone, and carried on a hasty muttered conversation. “Not yet. They’ve established that he’s left Queen’s Park—they think, although they’re a little worried he’s found himself a hole there somewhere. They’ve got Avenue Road pretty well covered, with all the adjacent streets, and there’s someone out at the airport by now—and the bus depot and Union Station, just in case. I said we’d send Collins over to his law office and that we’d check out his house.”

“Did you put someone else on the sightings and reports coming in on the van?” asked Sanders suddenly.

“Yeah,” said Dubinsky. “McNeil. It’s going to need more than one guy, though.”

Glenn Morrison twitched back the floor-length curtains in his living room and looked carefully out at the sky. The everlasting spring twilight had finally given way to dark, or at least as much dark as one was likely to get in a fifty-mile radius of the city. Now he would be safe. There was no one to ask him where he was going. The brand on his face would disappear in the darkness. The only problem was that they were always on their guard at night. He sat and thought, drew up plans, rejected them; considered, reconsidered. It was the only way. One last successful raid and he would stop for now.

He stepped out of the shower and scrubbed himself dry. Sitting in the drawer were one last clean shirt, one last clean set of underwear, saved for this particular occasion. He shaved with particular care, avoiding the wounds on his face, and then gently patted some beige liquid from an old bottle that Ginny had left behind over the scratches. The odd scent of the make-up stirred him with excitement. Not bad, he thought. It would look all right under street lights. His hair was getting a little long, but still looked respectable enough. With new jeans and a matching jacket he looked believable enough as an emergency troubleshooter—maybe from Hydro or the phone company. Confidence surged back through his veins. Those last three misses were just temporary setbacks. That was it. Every good campaigner has to expect setbacks; the great ones don’t let them distract them from their larger plans of action. It was time to get started. He straightened his back, squared his shoulders; and started down the stairs to the garage.

Adrienne Wilcox looked at her watch and frowned. If Paul wanted her to give up her evening to look after his hush-hush business for the riding, he could damn well keep up his end of things. She loathed making plausible excuses for him to agitated constituents and backroom boys, and the only reason he was so casual about appointments, she knew, was because he could trust her to be good at it. She sat back in the pale green velvet chesterfield, a languorous French doll in exquisite harmony with her surroundings. Every piece of furniture in this room had been selected and arranged with the same rigor as her simple silk dress and perfect make-up. From eleven in the morning until the last guest left the last rally or reception at night she was prepared to be flawless. And Paul appreciated that. She knew he did, as much as he appreciated her money and her connections. So where in hell was he now? Out with some cheap, messy whore. This was the first time he had not turned up at all when there were documents to be handed over—but it didn’t surprise her. He had been getting more and more careless lately. It was time to terrify him a little again. She hadn’t had to do that for years—not since just after Sarah was born. Poor shy, awkward Sarah, upstairs studying furiously for some test or other. How had she managed to produce an inept little swat with a lot of shy, bookish friends? Time for a drink. No—better save it until she had placated the people coming for that material. Probably something for a speech that had to be delivered at noon tomorrow; they would be absolutely furious. She stood up, wavering between the drinks cabinet and the telephone, when the discreet front-door chime dragged her out of the room. She muttered a brief string of surprisingly forceful crudities as she went. Her daughter was already halfway down the stairs. “I’ll get it, dear. These people are here to see Daddy on business, and you aren’t going to make much of an impression in that outfit.” Her smile failed to take the sting out of her words. Sarah turned abruptly and fled.

“Do come in, gentlemen, please,” she said gaily, propelling them in the direction of the small room she had just left. “Do let me get you a drink, please. I was just about to get one for myself. And let me explain. Poor Paul has been held up again. There was a reception tonight, as you probably know, but one of his staffers took terribly ill and he had to go with him to the hospital. He called me from there and said that he should be along soon—he just has to return to Queen’s Park and pick up that material for you. It’s ready.” Her smile and air of calmness masked the frenetic quality of her chatter. “Now—Scotch? Or there is wine, of course, and anything else you care to mention, I hope. We’re always pretty well stocked here.” Her smile became conspiratorial, inviting them into her little private world of political privilege.

Sanders nodded amiably at the suggestion of Scotch, shook his head at water, and accepted his drink. He settled into a comfortable chair and looked at his admirable hostess. There was no doubt that she took them for the mob, here to collect their copies of the tenders, and it obviously didn’t disturb her at all to be entertaining such men in her pretty sitting room.

“Your husband must have to be out late a great deal,” he essayed, to keep up the conversational flow.

“It’s not as bad as it might sound,” she said, smiling a sweet Pollyanna smile. “Most of the evening engagements are social as well as business, and I can usually find the time to go with him. It’s hard on the children, though. Some weeks they only see him on Sunday.” She laughed, a sweet, tinkling laugh, as she turned her head to catch sounds from the driveway.

“Not even at breakfast?” asked Sanders. “Isn’t that when kids see their fathers?”

“Sometimes,” she said, beginning to look distracted. “Half the time, though, he’s off for a run, and they just get a glimpse of him coming in, covered with sweat, on his way to the shower. I think that’s him now,” she said, walking quickly to the window. “Good heavens.” She drew back abruptly. “There’s a policeman out there, standing by your car. I hope that you—that they haven’t. . . .” Her voice trailed away in alarm.

“Don’t worry about him,” said Sanders. “He’s with us. We should have introduced ourselves when we first came in, but you really didn’t give us a chance.” He flashed his identification under her nose. “We would like to speak to your husband. He isn’t home?” She shook her head dully. “When exactly did he telephone you?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “He didn’t,” she said in a flat voice. “I thought you were here for some stuff he promised one of his constituents. He’s just late, that’s all. It’s not unusual. He gets sidetracked. If it’s important I’ll have him call you.”

“Don’t bother,” said Sanders. “We may see you later, Mrs. Wilcox. Good evening.” He picked up his coat.

Sanders walked into the office with weary deliberation. The bored constable discreetly parked around the corner from Wilcox’s house could do as much as Sanders could out there. This day had already gone on for a very long time and there didn’t seem to be any end in sight. “Anything come in yet on Wilcox?” he asked Dubinsky while he picked up the new messages from his desk.

Dubinsky gave him that how-the-hell-should-I-know look but only muttered, “Just a minute. I’ll check,” as he picked up the phone. His “Nothing so far,” however, had minimal impact. Sanders was standing with a slip of paper in his hand and a curious expression on his face.

“Listen to this,” he said. “It’s a message from a Mr. Smith. ‘If you receive delivery of the consignment we were discussing earlier, you are welcome to it. We have withdrawn our claim since the goods no longer fulfil our requirements.’ Those bastards have their nerve, don’t they? And so much for Wilcox. I suppose he called them from somewhere and told them what happened, and they’re dumping him as fast as possible.”

“And that means he doesn’t know anything of any interest to anybody,” grunted Dubinsky. “Or they wouldn’t let him go so easily.”

“Probably. I suppose his contact was Fielding—he won’t know anyone else. Anyway, I can call the guard dogs off Eleanor now,” he said, and made the call. As he hung up, he decided that Eleanor had probably been too groggy to be reassured; but her mother, at least, had been relieved to hear that the siege was over. The thought of Eleanor sleeping peacefully distracted him powerfully; his foggy brain and aching body wanted nothing more than to sink into oblivion beside her.