Patrick made his way back to the B&B on Gate Street, chiding himself for his overreaction at the detective. He replayed the sequence of events leading up to the fight with Ava over and over again. MacKay. The discussion of murder. The apartment. Snapping at her outside. There had to have been a better way to go about it. He’d have to find a way to make it up to her, to make things right, but, how?
Later, inside the B&B, he paced around his room, stopping only briefly to look outside a window that overlooked the back garden terrace. The soundless, arresting image of the snow-blanketed grounds subdued him, but only for a moment. The same self-perpetuating thoughts prickled him with no sign of letting up. Poking and prodding him like an incessant child.
What if…
No, that’s crazy.
But could he…
Maybe if he…
He let out a long sigh, peeled away from the window, and threw himself onto the bed.
You just got here and you’ve made a mess of things already, haven’t you? He stroked a hand on his chest.
Maybe that detective was right. Maybe you’re nothing but trouble. This wasn’t what you were supposed to be doing here. Why go looking for trouble?
Deep down he knew the truth. He may have left the city to get away from the spotlight and painful memories, but death had followed him here. There’d be no running away from it now.
It wouldn’t let him.
He knew what he had to do. He edged up off the bed, picked up his cell phone, and placed a call to a friend in the city.
Someone picked up on the other end quickly, and the voice said, “Garden Homicide, hold please.”
He waited, hesitation creeping in and gnawing away at him. Should he really be doing this? Did he really want to bring this part of him to Old Town?
Before he could go any further, the voice came back and interrupted his thoughts. “Homicide, Detective Merritt speaking.”
“Ah, hello,” Patrick said, his voice shaky. “Could I speak to Detective Paul Mitchell, please?”
The man grunted on the other end. “Mitchell? Sure, give me a sec.”
He’d worked with Detective Mitchell several times while on the job. While Patrick was busy sketching a crime scene, or taking photographs of the victims, Mitch worked the scene. Unlike most of the other detectives, Mitch would engage in small talk and treat him like an equal, a partner in the investigation, rather than some schmo. He’d always remembered that, right up until the very end when things went sideways, and before he left the department.
“This is Detective Mitchell,” a new voice answered. “How can I help you?”
“Mitch?”
“Sully? That you, Kid?”
Patrick smiled. They’d always called him Kid even though he wasn’t much younger than some of the other detectives in the department. “Yeah, Mitch. It’s me.”
“Good to hear from you, Sully. How you been?”
“Oh, all right, Mitch. All right.”
“All right, huh? You don’t sound like it.”
The steely-tone of MacKay’s voice echoed inside his ears. “No, it’s fine.”
“Glad to hear it. So, I heard it’s official. You’re out. Where’d you end up?”
Patrick gave a nervous laugh. “Well, as a matter of fact, I’m in Old Town.”
“Old Town? I figured you’d hightail it north or something the way you were going on the last time I saw you.”
“Ha, yeah. About that…”
“Nah, don’t sweat it, Kid. You don’t owe me an explanation or nothing.”
“Well, you know about the stuff with my Pop,” Patrick told him. “I didn’t want to stray too far. And you know I couldn’t very well bring him here.”
“Right, right. That makes sense. How is he holding up?”
“Pop? He’s good. Not out of the woods yet, I don’t think, but he’s a fighter.”
“Well, all right then. So, not to be rude or anything, Sully, but I’m kind of pressed for time right now. It’s this Four Mile Creek thing again.”
“That’s still going on, eh?”
“Yeah. Some ice fishermen found another body over by the pirate ship in Jordan Harbor.”
“Ah, jeez.”
It wasn’t really a pirate ship. That’s just what the locals called it for lack of a better word. One day, out of curiosity, he’d looked it up online. It was called the Grande Hermine. But it wasn’t the real Grande Hermine.
It turned out, it was a life-size replica and the name of a carrack that had brought French explorer Jacques Cartier to Saint-Pierre in 1535. The replica was purchased by a businessman with the intention of using it as a floating restaurant similar to that of another replica in Montreal, Quebec. Unfortunately, the businessman’s funds would run out, and soon, arsonists took to the vessel, setting it ablaze in 2003. The ship’s burned-out hull still sat in the harbour untouched next to the Queen Elizabeth Way, a 400-series highway.
“Yeah, this is quickly turning into everyone’s worst nightmare. The last thing anybody wants is another body on the Four Mile Creek.” He paused. “So, tell me… to what do I owe the pleasure, Sully? I take it by the sound of your voice, that this isn’t meant to be a social call.”
“No. I’m afraid it’s not, Mitch. I’ve got a problem here.”
“In Old Town?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s not that Remy Marco character, is it? He causing you some trouble? I can—”
“No. Well, at least I don’t think he’s involved.” He thought about Ava and the look on her face when he had mentioned Marco’s name in the café. Her whole demeanor appeared to change after that.
“Kid? You still there?”
Patrick cleared his throat. “Sorry, Mitch. Yeah, I’m here.”
“Well, spit it out, Kid.”
“I’m not sure how to say this so, I guess I’ll just say it. I’m pretty sure I’ve got a dead guy in my new apartment, Mitch.”
“Come again?”
“A dead guy. In my apartment.”
“Uh, so… I hate to ask you this but, you didn’t do it or anything, right?”
“What? No. Of course not. Mitch, come on. I may be a little messed up right now, but I’m not going out and killing people.”
“Okay, okay. But why is there a dead guy in your apartment, Sully?”
“I don’t know, Mitch. I haven’t been able to get a hold of my landlord so I’ve had to check into a B&B. I went to check on the place and there was a detective there. Just him. No techs, no Dr. Truby, not even any patrol officers.”
Mitchell chuckled on the other end. “Well, maybe you just missed them. Maybe they left before you got there?”
“Mitch, I’m being serious,” he pleaded. “This guy, his name is Horace MacKay, and he might as well be a bag of hammers.”
“He can’t be that bad.”
“Trust me, he is. This girl I met—”
“You met a girl? Nice. She cute?”
“Mitch.”
“Sorry, go on.”
“Forget it. All I’m trying to say is I don’t think this guy knows what he’s doing.”
“So… what? What are you asking of me, exactly? Do you want me to send one of ours down there? Is that it? You know we can’t just—”
“I don’t know, Mitch. Maybe this was a terrible idea. Maybe I shouldn’t have called.”
“No, no, it’s fine. I can send Montoya or Lesser down later today. They’re due up next anyway, but I don’t know. It’s not our District and this detective’s not going to be thrilled about it.”
“Yeah, you’re right. You’ve got enough on your plate as it is, by the sounds of it. I just—”
“What was his name again?”
“MacKay.”
“M-C? Or M-A-C?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I’ll try both ways, then.”
“Mitch, we gotta go,” another voice spoke in the background.
“Yeah, just give me a sec,” Mitch told the voice.
“All right, Sully. Here’s what I’m going to do,” Mitch said. “I’ll look into this Horace character and see what shakes out. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. In the meantime, sit tight, and go read a book or something. Go and put your feet up, Sully. If anybody’s earned it, it’s got to be you, man.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“I know I’m right. Take care, Kid.”
Patrick thanked him and hung up. By all accounts, Mitch was right. He was supposed to be enjoying some R&R, but still, the murder nagged at him. How could he relax when he had nowhere to actually relax? Not a proper place, anyway. Somewhere where his things weren’t in boxes, pushed into a corner, soon to be gathering dust. Somewhere where he could call home and start getting on with this new life.
He hated to admit it, but Mitch was right. He could get used to the idea of lazying around, enjoying a good book. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had cracked one open. Was it Harlan Coben’s last one? Or was it Michael Connelly? He couldn’t remember.
He picked up landline phone cradle and pressed the call button for downstairs. The owner answered it almost immediately. Like he was sitting beside the handset, just waiting for the call.
“Jeez, that was quick,” Patrick said.
“What’s that? Oh, that I picked up so fast, you mean? It’s this new whatchamacallit. I just had it installed. The line is tethered to my cell phone now so the calls come directly to it. It’s turning out to be quite useful, I’ve got to say.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Sullivan? I trust that everything is in order with your room?”
“Everything’s fine, thanks. Say, you wouldn’t happen to have a bookstore in town, would you?”
“Bookstore? Sure, we have two. There’s—”
“Whichever one is closest is fine.”
“That would be The Mystery Bookshop over on Regent Street. It’s run by a fellow named—”
“Thanks,” Patrick said, hanging up.
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