For Love of a Good Book:

A Due South Story

 

 

By Annette Griessman, 11/2000

 

 

 

 

It was Thursday, it was five minutes until five o'clock, and it was turning out to be a less than memorable day for a certain Canadian Mountie.

Benton Fraser, RCMP, and currently assigned as deputy liaison officer for the Canadian Consulate in Chicago, watched the rain fall in front of his eyes without blinking. It was a cold rain, falling through the chilled November air in a steady downpour. Thankfully, Inspector Thatcher had allowed him to wear the brown, regulation oilcoat and a transparent plastic cover now protected his Stetson. Fraser supposed that those concessions would have to be enough. He still had to stand here until five o'clock, even though his regular duties no longer included sentry duty. Inspector Thatcher had somehow taken offense that he had been unable to pick up her dry cleaning. How could he help it that the dry cleaners had been closed due to the fact that its owner, a 97 year-old woman, had died?  Sometimes, even Fraser had to admit that Thatcher was a bit unreasonable. Someday, he'd find the nerve tell her that.

A familiar, green Riveria slid into the open spot in front of Fraser, and he felt his heavy mood lighten almost immediately. He allowed himself to move his eyes just enough to catch a glimpse of the car's lone occupant. His mood fell as quickly as it had risen, and he had to fight the urge to break his stance before his shift was ended. Ray looked terrible, and as Fraser watched, the lean Italian wearily leaned his head back against the seat as he waited for his friend to get off duty.

Finally, the clock overhead chimed the hour. Fraser was at the car door before the second chime sounded. He slipped inside, heedless of the water that dripped from his oilcoat onto the Riv's spotless leather. Ray, usually so particular about his beloved car, didn't say anything either. The detective looked like a drowned rat. Water slicked back his thinning hair, dripped down his neck onto his rain darkened gray trench coat. Where the coat hung open in front, water traced puckered a spider web of lines down his gray silk shirt.

"Hey Benny," said Ray, lifting his head as the car door slammed shut. His usually bright green eyes were dull, his skin pale. "You tick the Dragon Lady off again?"

Fraser thought of how his outspoken friend would react to the dry cleaning incident, and felt it wise not to go into detail. "It was nothing, Ray, really. Turnbull was up for sentry duty today, but called in sick."

Ray leaned forward, his gaze thoughtful as he looked past Fraser's left shoulder. "Yeah, he looks pretty sick alright. Especially when he does that little skip/hop thing."

Fraser turned to see Officer Turnbull stepping jauntily down the sidewalk, heedless of the rain, a witless smile plastered across his face. "He's not exactly skipping Ray..."

At that moment, Turnbull did a little double shuffle with his feet that did indeed look very much like a skip.

"Oh?" said Ray, his voice taking on a bit of life as he waited for Fraser's response.

Fraser tugged on the collar of his oilcoat as he considered. "Well, no Ray. That particular gait is used by the Inuit for walking long distances. It is a very efficient gait, especially when done correctly." He watched as Turnbull did another shuffle as he turned the corner. The man was definitely skipping. And from the tilt of his head and the theatrical waving of his hands, he had broken into song as well.

Ray snorted and smiled a slow, knowing smile. "Turnbull's from Toronto."

Fraser's eyebrows flew up. He didn't know the detective had "detected" that much about the younger man. Turnbull had only been with the Consulate for a few weeks now, and even Fraser didn't know much about him, other than he was annoying and not too bright. "Ah, well." He cleared his throat. "There are Inuit in Toronto, Ray. There are Inuit all over Canada, in fact."

"All doing their long distance skipping, I suppose, instead of taking the bus?"

He hesitated only a moment. "Only when they're short of bus fare, Ray."

Ray shook his head and put the car in gear. "You'd better stop while you're behind, Benny."

"Understood Ray."

Ray pulled the Riv out into traffic, pointing in the direction of Fraser's apartment on West Racine. After six blocks of silence, broken only by the swishing of the windshield wipers, Fraser quietly asked. "You look like your day was far from peachy."

The corner of Ray's mouth twitched at Fraser's use of outdated slang. Fraser knew it was an outdated term, but also knew how Ray would react to it. "Peachy? Oh yeah, it was peachy all right. I've been up since 3 AM, standing in the rain, trying to talk to people who don't want to be talked to."

Fraser waited. It was a fairly normal occurance for people to want to avoid talking to police. Ray was used to it, and they both knew that. Ray would get to the heart of the matter shortly. He always did.

"This city, Benny." He flicked the fingers of one hand toward the side window. "People get lost here, you know? They think they're gonna find their fortune, and they find bupkis. They find garbage heaps and cold nights and colder shoulders. Some of them end up finding themselves dead..."

Fraser straightened. "There's been another murder?"

Ray sighed. His face twisted in pain. "Yeah. Another murder. This time, a homeless kid on Elm Street. They found him under a pile old tires. He couldn't have been more than nineteen."

Fraser turned away from Ray's haunted gaze to stare out of the window. He had come to Chicago to track down a murderer. And he had found him. He also found a new job, new friends, and a new place to call home. At first, the city life had seemed strange, too busy and full of noise and motion. Over time, he had come to care for life here more than he thought he could. The city was alive like the wilderness was alive. Only its predators were more deadly.

When Fraser had first met Detective Ray Vecchio, the man in the Armani suit had not impressed the more serious Mountie. He was loud and pushy, and had been disrespectful of Fraser and his request for help. It wasn't until Fraser realized the sheer number of cases the Chicago detective was expected to handle on a daily basis, that he realized that Ray's initial attitude had stemmed more from his workload than his personality. Since then, Ray had proven his loyalty and friendship time and time again. The Italian's quick temper, more often than not, served as a cover for other, more fragile, emotions. Fraser didn't know of a more caring person in the city. Which was most likely why Ray had been out all day in the rain.

"Was this one the same as the last two?"

Ray didn't answer until he pulled the car into a parking space in front of Fraser's apartment building. The car quieted as he turned off wipers and killed the engine. He let his hands rest on the steering wheel as he answered. "Yeah, same as the last two. Killed by a blunt force injury to the head. No one knew him, and no one saw anything. He was homeless and a junkie, and it won't even make the morning paper."

Fraser knew that was probably true, and for a long moment, they sat in silence as they considered a life ended with no one to mourn its ending. The first murder had taken place two weeks ago, an old drunk who was only known by the street name of Fat Fred. While he was certainly fat, no one had been able to figure out if Fred was his real name or not. No one had stepped forward to claim the body, and after the required waiting period, he had been buried in an unmarked grave in a city cemetary. The morgue wasn't a hotel, and didn't have extra room for the unwanted dead.

The second murder had taken place only three days later, a middle-aged hooker found dead in a dumpster. She at least had a full name, not that it helped much. It wasn't her birth name, but a working name. Kitty Willow wasn't a name that most parents would foist upon their baby daughters. She had been buried last week. Only Ray and Fraser had attended the funeral.

And now this. A young drug user, who most likely had run away from home years ago. Fraser wondered if his parents were thinking about him, worrying about him, at this particular moment.  Or were they perhaps happy that the boy was gone, so he would no longer steal their money, their TV, and their jewelry, all in order to supply his desperately needed drugs.

Fraser glanced at Ray. "You coming up?"

Ray looked over, tiredness evident in every line of his body. "I shouldn't. I told Welsh I'd have the report for him by morning."

Fraser was sure Ray hadn't eaten since morning. He never stopped to eat when working on a case. "You need to eat, Ray. We can order a pizza." Fraser could see that he hadn't convinced his friend. "I borrowed Mr. Mustafi's coffee maker," he added suggestively. "and I have a new bag of Starbucks coffee."

"It actually works, this borrowed coffee maker?" It was a running joke between them how many of Mr. Mustafi's household appliances were broken when Fraser borrowed them. Fraser never complained and always fixed each one before returning it. So far, he had paid to have the vacuum cleaner fixed, the TV repaired, and had ended up buying the older man a brand new radio when the borrowed one turned out to be an empty plastic case filled only with spider webs.

"It works. I brewed a pot of coffee just this morning."

Ray's expression brightened at the thought of a steaming cup of coffee. "You got yourself a deal."

When they stepped inside Fraser's apartment, the Mountie paused. Something wasn't right, something that he couldn't quite place. For one thing, the wolf wasn't there. Diefenbaker was staying with Willie, the young boy who helped care for him while Fraser worked, for the week. Willie's sister had gotten a new job, one that paid well, but it left Willie at home nights alone. Diefenbaker had thought it best to stay with the boy for a while, and Fraser had no choice but to agree. No one could argue with the wolf once he made up his mind about something. While he was unused to coming home to an empty apartment, he was sure that wasn't the source of his unease.

"Something wrong?" asked Ray from beside him, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets.

Fraser's gaze moved carefully around the room. No...everything was where he left it, what little he had anyway. "No," he said carefully. "I don't think so."

Ray pulled out his cell phone. "You want to order, or should I?"

Fraser closed the door and turned. "I'll do it..." He stopped as he realized how wet Ray was. Not an inch of him was dry, not even his tie. Water dribbled from hems of his pants and puddled around his shoes. More dripped from the end of his elegant Armani tie. He slipped off his own oilcoat and Stetson, and hung them on the coat tree in the corner. "Why don't I find you some dry clothes, Ray?"

Ray shrugged, but did take off his shoes. Then he moved to the table and took off his coat, his socks slapped wetly on the wooden floor as he moved. "Naw. These'll dry. The tie though, is definitely ruined."

Fraser was not about to let Ray sit and eat in wet clothes. He refused to be responsible for the detective catching pneumonia. "You're dripping all over my apartment."

Ray sat down on a hard wooden chair, his gaze taking in the spartan furnishings. They looked like they came from Cabins "R" Us, with not a cushioned seat or comfortable chair to be found. "Oh, and I'm sure that the fine upholstery will suffer." Fraser gave him a look. "Oh, all right, Benny. I'll change so I don't drip."

"Thank you kindly, Ray."

"Yeah, yeah." Green eyes rolled expressively. "Throw me the phone so this pizza gets on the road. I have work to do."

Ray ordered the pizza, then changed into the clothes Fraser supplied. Only after Ray had pulled on the thick white socks, something the fashion conscious detective probably hadn't worn since gym class at school, did Fraser turn his attention to making coffee. Contrary to other items borrowed from Mr. Mustafi, the pot not only worked, but appeared to be brand new. Fraser had little experience with such features as "select a brew" and an autotimer. Somehow he had managed this morning, but only after ten minutes of fussing. Tonight it took him nine minutes this time to figure out how to turn off the autotimer so he could turn it on manually, and fill the thing correctly with coffee grounds. By the time he was done, Ray Vecchio, one of Chicago's most energetic detectives, was asleep, his head cradled on his arms on the top of Fraser's kitchen table.

Fraser drank coffee and ate pizza to the sound of soft snoring. Ray could use the sleep, and Fraser knew as well as Ray did that the homicide report could wait. Out of curiousity, he rumaged through Ray's coat and pulled out his notebook. Inside, were the notes from today's investigation, as well as notes from his last month of cases. Quietly, least he disturb his sleeping friend, Fraser read through Ray's hastily scribbled notes to try and find a connection between the three murders. He found nothing, not that he expected to. Ray might take sloppy notation, but he was a thorough investigator. Yet...the three killings were tied together. Ray knew it, and so did he. Someone was murdering street people...and killers always killed for a reason. The trick was finding the reason before the next murder. He shook his head and laid the notebook down. That was always the tough part...finding that reason.

He thought of his dad's journal...his dad had once had a similar case. Four Inuit killed over the course of a year. All had apparently died in fishing accidents, yet his father had found out that they had all been pushed into the icy northern waters by a fisherman jealous of the size of their catches. His father had not only caught the man, but obtained a full confession and a lifetime supply of fish for the murdered fisherman's families.

Fraser got up and moved toward his battered trunk, the place he kept his valuables under lock and key--his father's journal and his guns. It was when he knelt before it that he realized what had bothered him when he first entered the room.

His trunk was unlocked. And when he opened the lid, he found that his father's journal was missing.

 

*                                                          *                                                          *

 

Ray Vecchio stood just inside the door to Fraser's apartment and watched Sarah James, a petite redhead from the crime scene unit, dust Fraser's battered old trunk for prints. Sarah had given Ray an odd, bemused look as she sauntered in just after 10 PM, although Ray wasn't sure if she was bemused by his new outfit of worn jeans and a red flannel shirt, or because of the fact that he now owed her dinner at Fazinni's. Most likely some of both, he thought as he shot a dark look at his Mountie friend. Benny now stood protectively near the trunk, his eyes glued to Sarah's efficient movements as she lifted two partial prints. Did Benny know how much money he cost him? In suits, in cars, and in bribes to encourage unwilling people to aid in the Mountie's wild goose chases? Ray didn't think so. He sighed at the pinched look on Benny's face, and all his annoyance faded away like smoke. Benny saw what was important, and so did Ray. Benny saw people, not suits, and Ray wouldn't want it any other way.

Sarah spared the Mountie a look before turning to Ray. "These partials are pretty smudged, but I'll see what I can do." She slipped the print bags into her sachel, and zipped it closed. She stood up and moved toward the door, the knob of which still black from Sarah's previous efforts to locate prints there. She had found too many, and had been unable to isolate anything useful. Ray nodded in gratitude as she walked out.

"Thanks, Sarah. I appreciate it."

Sarah pressed her lips together and smiled. "Oh, don't thank me. Wait until you see the bill at Fazinni's. I plan to order all 12 courses. And a really good wine."

Ray sighed silently, but watched Sarah's hips sway as she moved down the hall. Was he imagining things, or had that sway been a bit suggestive? He began to worry less about the dinner bill as he considered what might come after. After all, Sarah hadn't swooned at the Mountie, as Elaine, Frannie, and practically every other woman in town did. Perhaps Sarah, the fiery redhead, preferred dark Italians...

"Thank you, Ray," said Fraser, breaking Ray's pleasant train of thought. "I appreciate you calling Sarah down here for me."

Ray turned back into the room. "Hey, no problem Benny. Maybe the prints will give us something, huh?"

"Maybe," said Fraser, and then he fell silent as he stared at the trunk. Ray frowned. Fraser didn't have many earthly possessions, but one of his most precious was his dad's journal. Why anyone would want the ramblings of an old Mountie, while leaving a beautiful rifle and .38 behind, Ray didn't know. And truthfully, they didn't have much of a chance of finding it. It would take a miracle to turn up the book... Ray shook his head and grabbed his coat, slipping on his shoes as he made for the door. Still, if anyone could find the journal, Benny could. Maybe he'd be able to sniff it out from the mud or something. You just never knew with Benny.

"I gotta go, Benny. Welsh needs that report ASAP." He gestured at his borrowed clothes. "I'll get these back to you in the morning, okay?"

Fraser nodded and moved away from the trunk, toward the door. "That's fine Ray."

"You need me to pick you up in the morning?"

Fraser shook his head. "I'm off tomorrow. Instead, I'm working Saturday afternoon to help with a Consulate dinner for the British trade delagation."

Ray considered. He wanted these murders solved, even though Welsh and his higher ups didn't seem overly concerned. The victims were undesirables with no family to weep and wail for the press, and hence to put pressure on the police department to solve the cases. A victim's social status had never stopped him from giving each and every case his full effort, even though Welsh would continue to fill his in basket with new, more urgent cases. "You want to spend the day helping me then?" he asked quietly.

Fraser looked over at him with serious blue eyes. "With the murders, you mean?"

"Yeah, Benny, with the murders."

Fraser nodded, a mixture of eagerness and sorrow filling his face. "Of course, Ray..." He seemed about to say more, when a ripping sound followed by a wet crash came from the hallway.

"Oh! Oh!" said a high, reedy voice, one edged with panic. The Mountie was off like a shot, darting into the hallway to the rescue. Ray followed more slowly, glad that he was wearing Benny's clothes. At least this particular rescue wouldn't ruin another one of his suits.

An old woman huddled dejectedly over a torn grocery bag and a split carton of milk. Two apples, an orange, three cucumbers, a head of lettuce, and a plastic bag full of cheese lay in the mess. The woman, an extremely short, but plump woman with henna red hair and heavily wrinkled face, seemed unable to move, frozen by the plight of her fruits and vegetables. Milk stained the hem of her faded green dress, only partially covered by her equally faded brown coat. Fraser, in typical Mountie rescue fashion, began to pick up produce and wipe it clean on his shirt. "Don't worry, ma'am," he assured as he examined the apples carefully. "I don't believe they suffered any bruising, and cucumbers and lettuce can handle quite a blow before crushing." As Ray watched, he plucked the cheese from the mess. "The seal held," he said, nodding in approval. "This will be fine." He held up his arms, now full of goods. "Can I help you to your apartment, Ms...?"

The woman seemed to come to life, both of her hands flying up to her cheeks as she peered up at the Mountie. "Bertie," she squeaked, apparently overcome by either Fraser's tallness or his good looks. Her cheeks flushed a deep pink as she glanced from Fraser to the open door of his apartment, as if he were her own fairy godfather...or with her age, godson. "Bertie Meadows." She drew a breath and managed to gush and look upset at the same time. "Oh, you are such a nice young man to help an old woman like me!" She waved a hand at the floor. "But my milk! Whatever will I put on my cereal in the morning?"

Fraser smiled and Ray started edging down the hallway, away from the scene. Knowing Fraser, he'd mop up the mess, buy the woman more milk, and clean her apartment before he was done, and Ray didn't have the time tonight to deal with it. "I think I can help out, Ms. Meadows. The market is only a short walk from here." She made more gushing noises and started down the hallway toward a door at the end.

"Oh my! To think, I've only lived here two weeks, and already, strong young men are helping me. I thought I'd have to take care of everything on my own..."

"Everything?" asked Fraser as he waited for her to open the door.

"Well, yes," she said, her hand going again to her cheek. "My stove appears to be broken, and I can't seem to get the heat set properly..."

Ray sighed as the two disappeared into the apartment. "Pick you up at 8, Benny!" he called as loudly as he dared for this time of night, knowing the sharp-eared Mountie would hear him. Then, the distant apartment door closed as Bertie Meadows began telling Fraser about the woes of her stuck window. Ray smirked in spite of himself. That old woman had found the right place to drop her groceries. Benny would have everything working for her if it took him all night.

"I’m telling you, that guy's a loser," said a gruff voice from behind him. Ray turned to see a hard-faced Italian man glaring at him, his hands shoved deep into his too-tight knit pants. Ray shook his head and walked faster, knowing that the man would keep up. You couldn't escape your own dead father's ghost. He should know...he had tried.

"Shut up, Pop. You never helped anyone in your life."

"Always think of numero uno, that's what I say..." began his dad.

Ray cut him off. "Yeah...so I've heard. Look where it got you."

The voice huffed indignantly. "Hey! What's that supposed to mean? I did all right, you know. I don't know what you're implying. You could learn some lessons from me, son. If you just would listen and learn..."

I listened and learned, all right, thought Ray. More than you know...

He stepped out into the street, turned his thoughts to finding the killer of a young street kid, and left the voice of his dead father behind.

  

*                                                          *                                              *

 

Fraser helped Bertie Meadows with various appliances until well after midnight. The woman had very few belongings, and seemed completely dumbfounded by such modern conveniences as a self-cleaning oven and a frost-free refrigerator. Fraser admitted a bit of jealousy over her shiny kitchen gadgetry. Apparently her apartment had been refurbished during one of the landlord's more generous streaks. Either that, or the previous tenant had paid for the upgrades himself. Fraser hadn't known much about Mr. Logan, other than he wore his hair a little too long and smoked smelly cigars. He had lived in the apartment for less than three months before moving on.

After making a detour to rescue some cold and wet kittens from the fire escape, Fraser stepped into his apartment to find someone waiting for him.

"Well?" said the figure sitting in a corner, shadows covering his face. "Did you find it?"

Fraser sighed. The visit wasn't unexpected, but he was tired and his dad wasn't. It was hard to be tired when you were dead. "No, dad, I didn't find it." He carefully closed the door, took a few measured steps, and sank down on the bed. "I wasn't looking."

The man on the chair leaned forward into the light, until Fraser could see his faded blue eyes. He saw indignation, astonishment, and something deeper, something that looked a lot like fear. "What are you saying? You can help old ladies with their groceries, help Yankee police detectives who can't find criminals on their own, and rescue kittens from the rain, but you can't take the time to find my journal? What kind of a son are you?" The man stood up abruptly, squaring his shoulders as he tugged to straighten his bright red Mountie uniform. "If only your cousin Simon were alive. He'd find my journal, I'm sure of it..."

Fraser interrupted the frantic tirade. "Ray is perfectly capable of finding criminals on his own, Dad, and the kittens were starving. Mrs. Franklin and her children on the first floor were happy to take them in." His dad took a breath as if to start in again, but Fraser continued. "Furthermore...since it's your journal, I would think that you could help me find it."

The towering figure seemed to shrink. "Well, how could I do that son? I'm dead."

Fraser shook his head. "For being dead, you seem to know an awful lot, Dad."

His father shuffled over toward the window. As Fraser watched, his Mountie boots changed into snowshoes, which his father seemed to wear in moments of extreme stress or excitement. For a long moment, he didn't speak, but stood at the window, his head cocked as if listening. Finally, he said "I never knew much when I was alive, you know. Not really..." Fraser started to interrupt, but his father cut him off with a wave of a now mittened hand. "I didn't know enough about your mother, about you...about life in general." He sighed, and his voice grew softer. "What I did know about was being a Mountie. And everything I knew is in that journal."

Fraser didn't know what to say to that, so he said nothing. After time of silence, the room was again empty except for him. "Good night, Dad," he said to the still air. Then he got ready for bed. Ray needed his help in the morning, and he was going to give his friend his best. After all, lives were at stake. He tried to picture the images of the murder scenes in his mind, to recall all the information as Ray had described it.

But as he went to sleep, all he could he could see was the image of his dad's ghostly face.

He dreamed of blizzards and dog sleds and of precious books buried forever in the deepening snow...

 

*                                                                      *                                                          *

 

By the time Ray pulled up in front of Fraser's apartment the next morning, the weather had gone from wet to icy. Just before dawn, freezing rain had fallen across the city, transforming the trees and sign posts into beautiful crystal sculptures, but turning the streets into slick channels where vehicles hurtled along with only the illusion of control. Ray was sure of his own driving in such conditions, but the other drivers--women putting on eyeliner, men talking on their cel phones, and gray-haired oldsters who could barely see over the steering wheel--these people made him nervous. Due to the extra care he took to keep his precious Riv in mint condition, he arrived ten minutes after eight, to find Fraser standing patiently on the curb. The Mountie was dressed in a heavy blue overcoat, something that Ray had never seen him wear.

"Heya Benny," he said as Fraser slipped in beside him. "New coat?"

Fraser glanced down as his eyebrows flew up. "It's not exactly new, Ray, but I usually wear my brown one."

The tone of his voice made Ray expect more...but when no more appeared to be forthcoming, curiosity got the best of him. "And where, pray tell, is your favorite brown one?"

"I lent it to Bertie Meadows. Until she can buy a better one, of course."

It was Ray's eyebrows that flew up now. "You lent your Mountie coat to that little old lady?" As many good deeds as Fraser did on a regular basis, Ray could not remember him lending out articles of his uniform. The little old lady must have made quite an impression on him. "What, and you didn't lend her your Stetson too?"

Fraser blinked at him indignantly. "Really Ray. Lending her my hat would hardly be appropriate." Ray just looked at him. "Oh, all right. Her coat was threadbare and worn, and she got a cough from going out last night. I saw her this morning, and even though she looked terrible, she said she had to go out to see a friend. She said she'd be fine, but..." He trailed off and held out his hands, begging Ray's understanding. "What else could I have done?"

Ray nodded knowingly. He had been well trained by his mom and four elderly aunts. He well knew the power those women could wield. With a few well placed statements like "Don't worry about me," and "I'll be fine," his aunt Marcela could get her house repainted, reroofed, and completely refurnished, and still make people feel like they hadn't done enough for her. Benny, inexperienced as he was in the ways of matronly aunts and mothers, hadn't stood a chance. "That's okay, Benny. Your blue coat looks good."

Fraser seemed suddenly uncertain, as if parting with his brown coat had been a huge mistake. "You think so?"

"Definitely," said Ray, hoping to make his voice convincing. The brown coat did look better, but only because Ray himself favored brown. Navy blue made him feel like he was still in uniform, still on the beat. "But maybe we should stop by a department store later and pick her up a new coat. Your coat can't fit her all that well."

Fraser's response was quick and relieved. "Good thinking Ray. I was worried about her tripping on the hem."

Ray nodded again, and put the car in drive. He crept out into the street, his eyes watchful for speeding motorists. The freezing rain had stopped, but now sleet pattered against the windshield with a steady rhythm.

"Where are we going, Ray?" asked Fraser, his mind turning to the case at hand.

"We're going to ask some more questions, see if we can find anyone who knew this kid." Ray didn't mention the fact that he had talked to almost everyone in a two block radius of the murder scene yesterday, everyone that would talk to him, that is. He somehow hoped that the Mountie's intangible charm would bring answers out of the woodwork, or at least keep a few people from slamming doors in his face. Failing that, maybe Fraser could taste something, or smell something, or otherwise use his Mountie skills to find a clue as to why someone would bash in the head of a 19-year old kid and stuff the body in a pile of tires. Ray saw a lot of deaths...most of them violent, all of them senseless. The more death he saw, the more upset it made him. He wanted to find the killer, and he wanted to find him badly.

"Has forensics been able to provide any clues?"

Ray's face hardened. "No. They got nothing useful. The kid was bashed over the head with a brick that they found nearby. No prints, no foreign blood, no fibers...nothing."

"And the other two?"

"The old drunk was killed by a wine bottle, the hooker...well, they haven't found the object used, but the medical examiner still isn't sure that she was hit at all. She could have fallen and hit her head on the sidewalk..." he trailed off, thinking of his conversation with Lt. Welsh yesterday afternoon. Welsh was short-handed, and wanted Ray to investigate a series of burglaries in the downtown business district.

Fraser seemed to read his mind. "What does Leftenent Welsh think about the connection between the three cases?"

"Welsh thinks there is no connection. The medical examiner thinks there's no connection. Huey and Elaine and half the department think there's no connection..."

"But you think there's a connection," cut in Fraser, somewhat uncharacteristically.

"You bet your boots, Benny."

Fraser nodded sharply, once. He wouldn't bet his boots lightly. "So do I." 

 

They spent the morning pounding on doors and stopping half-frozen people in the street. As Ray had predicted, the Mountie seemed to bring out the kinder, gentler nature of at least a few people, and Ray only got his foot slammed in a door twice. Unfortunately, the Mountie's influence couldn't also give people knowledge. No one knew the kid, saw anything, or admitted to even caring. Ray sighed, shoved his cold hands deeper into his pockets, and tried to keep his footing on the slippery sidewalk. He stopped in front of the alley where the kid had been killed, and looked the his unofficial partner. "You got any ideas here, Benny? Because I'm freezing."

Fraser straightened and squared his shoulders, a sure sign of impending Mountie behavior. He didn't answer, but charged down the alley as swiftly as if he were on ice skates. Ray struggled to keep up, arriving just in time to see him dive headfirst into a dumpster next to the pile of tires where the kid had been killed.

Leave it to the Mountie to end up in the garbage, thought Ray, as he watched him lift first one piece of trash, then another, inspecting each piece as if it were buried treasure. For once, he could tell the Mountie that the fine Chicago police department had beat him to the garbage inspection. "That was gone through yesterday, Benny. Thoroughly. They didn't find anything."

Fraser was undeterred. "I'm sure they were thorough, Ray...but perhaps they didn't know what they were looking for."

Ray rocked back on his heels. "And that would be...?"

Fraser's expression brightened. "This, perhaps." He held up a wet and tattered book, one that had obviously seen better days.

"A book," said Ray.

"Not just a book, Ray. War and Peace, by Leo Tolstoy."

Ray had long ago learned not to be surprised by anything coming from the Mountie's mouth, so his reaction was minimal. "And how does this fine piece of literature tie into the murder of a 19-year old junkie, may I ask?"

"Well, anyone can love a good book, Ray, including a young drug user."

"That's not what I mean, Benny. How else can you tie that to the murder or the kid?"

Fraser tugged on a corner of plastic just visible beyond the book's battered red cover. "By this, perhaps?" He pulled the plastic free, holding carefully with gloved hands. It was a small bag filled with a residue of white powder. He looked pointedly at Ray.

"Heroin," said Ray softly.

"Heroin," agreed Fraser.

Ray thought that through as Fraser climbed out of the dumpster. "All right. We have a well-read junkie. Where can we go from there?"

Fraser gave the book another sniff. His eyes took on a faraway look as he sniffed yet a third time. "I'd say, we go to Sal's Super Dry Clean."

Ray didn't even blink. Benny would explain on the way. "Of course we do. Let's go."

 

Sal's Super Dry Clean was at a point mid-way between the murder scene and the Canadian Consulate. It was also closed.

"So," said Ray, peering through the car window past Fraser's shoulder. "Tell me again why we're here."

"The fragrance, Ray."

Ray pursed his lips. "So you said...but I have yet to smell the all important fragrance. Why is this fragrance important?"

Fraser gave him a long suffering look. "I believe I told you, Ray."

Ray's look was equally long suffering. "Indulge me."

Fraser pointed at the concrete block building, painted a dirty white, with the words "Sal's Super Dry Clean" scrawled across the top in green. "This is the dry cleaner that Inspector Thatcher prefers," he paused and waved a hand in the air, "well, that is, until it closed."

"Which was when?"

"Wednesday. The owner died."

"The famed Sal?"

Another pause, and another odd, placating gesture with the hand. "Well, no actually. Viola Swamp." A pointed look. "She was 97, you know."

"Which certainly gives her a reason to pass on," said Ray agreeably. "And the fragrance?"

"Viola's special recipe. She mixed it herself and applied it to all her dry cleaning. She said it was supposed to smell like lilacs and gardenias, but it always reminded me more of lavender and roses..."

Ray rolled his eyes. "Are you sure you smelled this particular fragrance on the book?" Ray himself thought the book smelled vaguely of old cheese.

"Yes, Ray."

"All right, Benny" said Ray, sliding out of the Riv. "Let's see what we can find out."

Fraser climbed out on the other side. "You believe me, then?"

Ray shrugged as he walked around the corner of the building, his feet slipping on the ice. The alley that ran alongside was narrow and full of litter. "Never doubt the senses of a Mountie, is my motto."

Fraser followed a few steps behind. "I thought your motto was 'Shut up, Benny.'"

Ray's eyebrows flew up so fast that they almost jumped off the top of his head. He twisted to look at the Mountie, whose expression was carefully neutral, but his blue eyes were twinkling. "That too, funny guy."

Fraser did smile at that. "Both are fine motto's Ray, although my senses are somewhat superior to the average Mountie, as were my father's, due in part to genes from my Inuit great-grandmother on my mother's side who was rumored to be able to smell the herds of caribou three days before they arrived near the village..."

Ray grinned. He was sure that Fraser launched into these Inuit stories on purpose, whether to amuse himself, or to entertain others, he didn't know. Most of the time, they did both. "Shut up, Benny."

"Understood Ray."

They reached the back of the building and stepped out into the tiny parking lot that served for both the dry cleaner and the barber shop next door. Ray looked around. "Now what?"

Fraser sighed. "It would be helpful if the dry cleaner were open..."

"...or if there was someone around to talk to," finished Ray.

"Exactly," said Fraser. Unfortunately for both, the parking lot and surrounding area were completely empty.

Ray started back up the alley. "Let's go ask around at the barber shop. Maybe they can tell us something." The sleet had stopped and the sun was trying to come out, and in places the glaze of black ice over the asphalt was beginning to melt. Soon, travel, foot and otherwise, would be much easier for everyone.

As the two came around the corner of the building, a sleek, silver sedan glided up to the curb, and the power window slide down. "Can I help you gentleman?" said a heavy-faced man from inside the car. His eyes were too tiny in his oversized face, and his lips too thin when compared to his jowls. The effect made him look hard and cold, even though his tone was pleasant enough. Ray bent to peer into the car, suddenly cautious. Reflexively he held one hand in front of his coat, near to his holstered gun. It was Fraser who stepped forward.

"Yes, sir. We were trying to find information on a young man who was killed early Thursday morning in an alley not far from here. We think he may have frequented this dry cleaner, and was hoping someone might know him."

"Who are you?" asked the man, his voice still neutrally pleasant.

"Who are you?"countered Ray, ever wary of strangers. Ray couldn't be sure, but the man's gaze seemed to sharpen.

"I'm sorry," interjected Fraser smoothly. "I'm Constable Benton Fraser, RMCP, and this is Detective Ray Vecchio of the Chicago police force." He motioned to Ray, who slowly drew out his shield and flashed it in the direction of the man. Fraser held out his hand, and Ray pulled out the picture of the junkie, handing it over. "This is the man who was killed, and we're just trying to find someone who knew him."

The man's face paled as he stared at the picture. Ray sympathized. The picture was one taken at the crime scene and wasn't a pretty sight. The man's gaze shifted away, focusing instead on the Mountie. "How is it that a Mountie is helping solve a crime in Chicago?"

Fraser's mouth twitched. "That is a long and rather interesting story, which takes an hour and thirteen minutes to tell..." Ray cleared his throat in warning. "...which I don't have time for today." He held the picture closer to the man. "Did you know this young man?"

"No."

Ray didn't like the way the man's eyes kept shifting back and forth between Fraser and a point down the street to Ray's left. Ray glanced that direction and caught a glimpse of a short woman in a long coat boarding a city bus. The bus doors closed, and the bus pulled away. Ray turned back to the man.

"Who did you say you were?"

"I'm Sal Swamp, the owner of this establishment," he said, with a nod toward the dry cleaners.

"Oh," said Fraser. "Then Viola was your...?"

"Aunt," said Sal. "I bought the place from her years ago, but let her run it. She loved dry cleaning more than life, you know." He attempted a smile, but it stretched his thin lips so that they appeared to disappear into his wide face, which gave him a sinister look.

Ray took in the car, the man's clothes. The coat he wore was Versachi, his sweater looked like cashmere. The car was a BMW. "The dry cleaning business has been good, I take it?"

Sal chuckled. "Oh yeah. This place is a real money maker."

Ray eyed the white building critically. "I'm sure."

"Do you know of anyone who might know this young man? We have reason to believe that he frequented the area near here..."

"How is that?" asked Sal. His voice was curiously edgy, sending alarm bells off in Ray's head.

Before Benny could answer, Ray said tersely. "Just something we heard." Sal's gaze rested on him for a moment, then  shifted again, this time off to Ray's right. As Ray watched, the beady eyes narrowed to slits. "I'm sorry," he said, "but I can't help you." He put the BMW in gear, and barreled away down the street. Ray and Fraser whirled just in time to see a black woman in a tight purple skirt and short, rabbit fur coat dash down the sidewalk, running at top speed away from them. Her purple shoes slipped and slid on the ice, but her legs never stopped pumping. In her arms, she held a tattered cardboard box. The silver sedan pulled up beside her, and Sal, the pleasant voiced man, started yelling obsenities. Fraser bolted after the woman as if his feet were on fire, and Ray did his best to keep up. Ray saw the woman duck into a alley, saw Sal try to follow in his shiny silver sedan, saw the car slide out of control on the ice and slam into a parked pickup, and saw Fraser disappear in the same direction as the woman. Ray figured Fraser would take care of the woman. Instead, he ran toward Sal, and his now not so shiny car.

As he reached the passenger door handle, Sal managed to get the vehicle back under control. He gunned the engine and thundered away, his rear end fishtailing as he sped down the street. Ray got a good look at his face as he pulled away. The man was obviously furious about something.

When the car turned out of sight, Ray hurried down the alley to see if the Mountie had fared any better than he had. He hadn't. The woman was no where to be seen, and Fraser was looking completely bewildered. As Ray stopped beside him, the Mountie bent and pulled a cardboard box from a pile of garbage along one wall.

  "Where'd she go?" asked Ray.

"I don't know," said Fraser, his voice betraying his agitation. "I lost her."

Ray stared. "You lost her?" He gestured at the ground. "Well, Benny. Just do your Mountie thing. Taste the mud or lick the wall, or...something. I think we need to find her."

Fraser's gaze darkened. "There is no mud, Ray." He bent and set the box down, kneeling to look at the contents. "Besides, this might tell us something."

Ray bent just enough to see that the box contained three books and a box of tissues. Fraser, his gloves still on, pointed to the cover of the top book before opening it. The title read War and Peace. Ray frowned, and stayed silent. Inside the front cover was a note and a photo. The photo showed a smiling young man hugging a smiling black woman dressed in purple. The young man was the junkie, looking much better in life than in death, and the woman had to be the woman Fraser had chased just moments ago. "What's the note say," asked Ray, pointing with his chin toward the folded white paper. Fraser gingerly picked it up and opened it.

"Violet, I'm worried about Aunt B. Meet me at the dry cleaners at 3 pm. Joey." He picked up the photo so that both he and Ray could see more clearly. Underneath, on the inside cover of the book, a name appeared written in a delicate script. Violet Wilson.

Ray locked eyes with his friend. "I'm guessing the woman is Violet Wilson and our dead junkie is Joey."

"Very likely," said Fraser.

"Mr. Sal Swamp knows more than he's telling," Ray added.

"Most certainly," said Fraser.

"And Sal knows Violet."

"Definitely."

Ray let those facts play through his mind, trying to make sense of the seemingly unrelated details. They didn't form a complete pattern...yet. But Ray had a feeling that they were on to something, and that soon, the pattern would emerge. He loved that feeling...the feeling that he would be able to solve a case...that it was only a matter of time. That feeling, more than any other thing, kept him in a thankless and low paying job. "Let's take the junkie's book to the crime lab...see if they can turn anything up from it." He waved at the box. "That too. In the meantime, let's see if we can locate an address on Violet Wilson."

As they made their way back to the Riv, Ray had a nagging feeling that he was missing something. Finally, it dawned on him. The short woman in the long coat...

"Did Bertie Meadows say where she was going today?"

Fraser shook his head. "No. Why?"

Ray frowned. "I thought I saw her down the street...getting onto a bus."

Fraser looked around and blinked. This was a run-down commercial area of town. In addition to the dry cleaners and barber shop, there was a liquor store, a pawn shop, a bailbonds office, and two shabby convenience stores. It was a funny place to come to visit a friend.

"Maybe she needed to change buses, Ray," said Fraser sensibly.

"Maybe," said Ray, yet he remembered the way Sal Swamp's gaze had focused on the older woman. As he pulled the Riv out into the street, the image of Bertie Meadows tried to find its place in the emerging pattern...

 

*                                                                      *                                                          *

 

When they got back to the precinct, Welsh was waiting for them. "Vecchio!" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the crowded room. This was a fairly common occurance, and only two people even glanced up. Fraser hung back while Ray dropped Violet Wilson's cardboard box on his desk, and strode obediently toward Welsh's office. Welsh stuck his head out of the door and gave a sharp gesture. "And bring the Mountie with you!"

Fraser bit back a sigh and followed Ray. His sessions in Welsh's office usually involved quite a bit of shouting, and could, depending upon the circumstances, involve many minutes of contrite head-hanging. While Fraser didn't participate in the shouting, he often was reduced to head-hanging. For some odd reason, both Welsh and Thatcher seemed well-qualified to induce fits of guilt or embarrassment. Fraser figured it was one of the qualifications required for being in a position of authority--which meant he never would be in such a position. Thankfully so.

Welsh stood by the door and waited for Fraser to step inside, then he gently, too gently, closed the door.

"Vecchio," the gruff lieutenant said as he stepped behind his desk and sat down. "Have you managed to find that tricky burgler down in the business district yet?" He leaned back in his chair and waited. Fraser spared a glance at Ray. At the lieutenant's tone, the detective's chin had dropped at least an inch.

"No sir, I haven't," admitted Ray.

"And why is that, pray tell?" Welsh's eyes were narrowing even as he appeared to become more relaxed.

"Because I've been looking for the person who murdered three street people...sir," he said.

"Have you found my journal yet, son?" asked a voice from behind Fraser's left shoulder. He managed to avoid jumping, but just barely. Of course, his dad knew that he couldn't answer.

Welsh stared at Ray. "The person? As far as I can tell, Vecchio, forensics hasn't come up with a connection between the three murders. Are you telling me that you have?"

Fraser glanced at Ray, only to find that Ray was glancing at him. As if on cue, they both looked back at Welsh. But Ray hesitated to answer. Fraser knew why.

"Uh, yes sir...I think so sir," said Ray finally.

"This is just a waste of time, son," said Fraser's dad, who had wandered around by Welsh's desk and now perched on one corner. He wore his fur hat, his mittens, and as Fraser watched, he lifted one snowshoe into the air. "Looking for murderers," he rolled his eyes, "when you should be looking for my journal. Didn't I teach you what was important? Didn't I teach you some priorities?" He tried to pick up the rather large roast beef sandwich from Welsh's desk. His mittened hand waved through the bread and meat ineffectually, and he snorted in disgust. "What I wouldn't give for a decent bite to eat. They don't tell you that, you know. That when you're dead they serve only yogurt and celery...all that terrible low-fat stuff..." He kept on muttering about mustard and murderers, but Fraser tuned him out.

"So?" prompted Welsh when Ray failed to say any more. "Are you going to tell me this connection, or are we going to have to play charades?"

Ray took a deep breath and just blurted it out. "War and Peace, sir."

To his credit, Welsh didn't even blink. "War and Peace," he repeated blandly. "Well, Vecchio, I suppose that Tolstoy did, in fact, know much about death and dying, but I have trouble believing that he was an expert on murdered street people in Chicago. Would you care to elaborate?"

Ray sighed again. "Not really sir."

Fraser's dad was now standing directly between himself and Lt. Welsh,  blocking Fraser's view of the lieutenant's face. Somehow that made it easier for Fraser to say something, and hopefully help Ray out. "We found a copy of the book in a dumpster near the last murder scene, Leftenant. Inside the front cover, we found a bag of heroin..."

"Meaning it belonged to the junkie, sir," cut in Ray helpfully. Welsh shot him an annoyed look.

"And when we went to Sal's Super Dry Clean, we happened across a woman who dropped a cardboard box with the same book...," continued Fraser.

Welsh waved a hand. "And you went to Sal's Super Dry Clean because...?"

"Because of Sal's...I mean, Viola's, special dry cleaning freshener that Fraser smelled on the junkie's book," said Ray. Welsh closed his eyes with a look of long suffering.

"Smelled? Not tasted?" asked Welsh, his eyes still closed.

"How does that sandwich taste, huh fella?" said Fraser's dad, now leaning over Welsh's shoulder. "Does it have pickles and onions? Maybe even green peppers...?"

Fraser kept his eyes glued on Welsh. "No sir, I didn't taste the book. While Viola's fragrance is particularly strong and lingered on the book's pages, I don't believe it would be strong enough to taste. In order to taste it, the book would have had to have been soaked in the fragran..."

"Stop!" snapped Welsh, his eyes flying open. He kept his temper with effort. "You still haven't told me how the second book...from a dropped cardboard box, is it?... ties in with the kid's murder..."

"There was a photo, sir. Inside the copy of "War and Peace," began Ray.

"The first copy with the heroin, or the second copy in the box?"

"In the second copy sir," said Ray. "The photo is of the woman who dropped the box and the murdered kid. They appear to be quite chummy."

Welsh considered. "So, you've found someone who knew the kid. How does that tie this murder in with the previous two?"

Fraser managed not to glance at Ray, and he hoped that Ray had managed not to glance at him. "I really don't know, sir," said Ray, his voice carefully neutral, "but I think we should investigate further. I am certain that they do tie together."

Welsh stared a moment longer, then broke eye contact and picked up his sandwich. "All right. Since you have a lead on the kid, I'll leave you on the case...for now...," he interjected with a sharp look, "and put Huey on the burglery case." He waved a hand in dismissal.

"Thank you sir," said Ray, and practically bolted from the office. Fraser nodded and followed more slowly.

"Yes, thank you leftenant." He had one last glimpse of his dad, his face pressed cheek to cheek with Welsh's, as he tried to sniff at the sandwich. His dad breathed in noisely through his nose, and let the air out in through his mouth in an explosion of sound.

"It's no good," he complained. "I can't even smell the mayonnaise..."

Fraser shook his head and stepped out to find Elaine waiting for him.

 

*                                                          *                                                          *

 

Ray was relieved to be out of Welsh's office. The whole affair went better than he had anticipated. Usually Welsh indulged in more yelling before he let Ray and Fraser run off on some wild goose chase. Not that this was a wild goose chase, he amended hastily. This was a tame goose chase...or whatever. They had a real lead, and it was going to lead them to the murderer. Ray could feel it in his Italian bones.

He watched as Elaine walked up, a yellow sheet from a phone message pad in her hand. The attractive, dark-haired woman held the paper out to him with a smile, and at the last second, snatched it away. "Not for you, Vecchio," she said smugly.

"Ah, gee," said Ray with a smirky grin, "And here I thought Rachel Welch was calling me for a date."

"Rachel Welsh is a bit old for you, isn't she?" Elaine asked, pausing just briefly beside him as the Mountie came out of the lieutenant's office.

"Rachel would never be too old for me."

"In your dreams, Vecchio," said Elaine, and she gave the phone message to Fraser as her eyes wandered over the Mountie, very appreciatively. Fraser, as he always did under Elaine's appreciative gaze, turned an interesting shade of pink.

"Thank you kindly, Elaine," said Fraser politely.

"Yeah, thank you kindly," repeated Ray, in quite a different tone. As Elaine walked away, he managed to whisper in her ear. "In your dreams, Elaine." He got a great deal of satisfaction out of the dark look she shot him.

"I have to go back to the Consulate, Ray," said Fraser suddenly.

"What, the Dragon Lady need you to fetch her coffee?"

"She drinks tea, Ray," said Fraser, then shook his head at Ray's annoyed look. The Mountie usually missed the implied sarcasm in Ray's comments. "Er...no. Apparently, there is someone at the Consulate waiting for me."

"And who might that be?" asked Ray.

"I don't know, but I have to get back." He looked over at his friend. "Can you drive me?"

Ray thought for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah. I'll take the box of books over to Sarah James and see if she can find anything useful on them. And then, I want to talk to Ms. Wilson." He looked across the room where Elaine was just sitting down at her desk. "Just give me a second, huh? I'll have Elaine look up the address."

 

Ray dropped off the Mountie, then pointed his car toward the crime lab building. The ice on the roads had almost entirely melted, and the sun was shining brightly. Ray was grateful that he wouldn't have to be so watchful of other drivers on the icy roads, and barreled along at break-neck speeds. Sarah was busy, but told him she could have something for him in a couple of hours. Ray thanked her and headed out to the last known address of one Violet Wilson.

The building was more run down than he expected, which was saying a lot. Over half of the windows were broken, some of them covered with boards. The bricks of the building were crumbling, their faces popping off, leaving rough surfaces behind. Two overflowing dumpsters provided a spectacular view in front of the building, and off to the side, hulks of three cars, permanently displayed on concrete blocks, offered the low-rent district's idea of modern sculpture. Ray stepped around the drunk on the steps, and made his way inside.

Violet Wilson's apartment, if you could call it that, was on the third floor facing the street. The door looked as if it had been kicked in at least twice, and was now covered in duct tape to patch the holes. The door frame had been splintered, but had been repaired with bits of graying lumber, most likely scavanged from other parts of the building. Ray checked the number on the door with the number on the paper Elaine had given him, and then knocked firmly.

"Ms. Wilson?" he called loudly. "Open up, ma'am. Police. I need to talk to you." When there was no answer, he knocked again. "Ms. Wilson?"

"She ain't there," said a nasal voice from down the hall. Ray turned to find a very curvatious woman looking back at him. She was maybe 25, with long black hair that hung over her body like a curtain. Her skin was dusky and her eyes brown, making Ray fairly certain that she was either of Italian or Spanish ancestry. She was wearing nothing but a pink bra and panties, her hips and bust thrust out prominently, and was watching Ray boldly for signs of reaction. He reacted all right, but his primary thought was how cold she must be standing there in the hallway. It was freezing in here.

"And why is that?" he asked, taking a step toward her.

The woman shrugged, and interesting movement given her attire. "I think it's because of some guy."

"A boyfriend, perhaps?" suggested Ray, taking another step. The woman's eyes began to shine as he got closer. She fingered the top of her bra suggestively.

"I wouldn't know," she said. "But she was afraid of him."

Ray started to ask another question, but was interrupted by a low wolf whistle behind him. "Now your talking, son," said an unwelcome voice. "Maybe this police work is all right after all."

Ray took a deep, calming breath, and ignored the ghost of his dad. "Why was she afraid?" asked Ray, walking up to the woman. She twisted a length of hair around her finger, and looked him over.

"Armani?" she said, pointing with her chin at his smooth blue shirt and his red and blue silk tie, just visible above the collar of his dark gray overcoat.

"Yeah," he said, pleased that she noticed.

"Nice," she commented, and licked her lips.

"Ya got her now, son," said his dad from beside him. Ray knew it was impossible, but he could almost feel his dad's hot breath on his shoulder. "She's all yours."

Ray wished his dad were alive so he could punch him in the jaw. "So why was Violet afraid?" he said quietly, as if his father wasn't there. Which, technically, he wasn't.

"I'm not sure," said the woman, her eyes going serious. "But she surely was. This guy came here yesterday and pushed her around in the hallway, until she managed to get away."

"What did this guy look like, Ms...?"

"Baker. Josephine Baker."

"Of course," said Ray with a smile. "What did he look like, Ms. Baker?"

"Like a pig," said Ms. Baker, then her eyes widened as she realized what she said. "Not your kind of pig," she added hastily, "but the real pig kind of pig." She seemed suddenly unsure of herself, younger. Ray decided that she couldn't be more than twenty. "He had a fat face, you know? And beady eyes. And he yelled a lot."

To Ray, the description matched that of Sal Swamp to a T, but he couldn't arrest a guy for looking like a pig. "Did you catch anything he was yelling?"

"Something about a book," said Ms. Baker. "And about finding Aunt B."

"Do you know this Aunt B?" asked Ray.

Josephine shook her head. "Not well. Violet usually went to the cleaners to meet with the group."

Ray's ears perked up. "Cleaners? Group?"

"Yeah," she said, again more sure of herself. "The book group run by Aunt B. They met at Sal's cleaners. Aunt B always said that even street people could love a good book."

A book group that met at a dry cleaners? What would he run into next? A symphony on the subway? He had a thought though, and pulled out a photo copy of the photo of Violet and the junkie, and also pictures of the other two murder victims. "Do you recognize any of these people?" he asked, handing them to her.

She brushed back her hair as she looked at them. Ray's father chose that moment to come into view. Ray glared at him as he leaned close to the scantily clad woman, his dark eyes gleaming. "Oh yeah. This is good work, Ray, if you get to meet people like this," he said. Ray realized again how much different he was from his dad. And how glad he was of that fact. He wished that his dad was still alive, that Ray could somehow get his dad to see things from his point of view. In the back of his mind, though, he knew that if his dad were alive, they would spend all their time together fighting. They fought enough as it was, and his dad was dead.

Ray had to force himself to keep his eyes off his oogling father, and on the face of the woman before him. "This one, the man with Violet, he's Joey Solenski. He lived on the street, but came here once and a while for a hot meal."

Ray felt a huge sense of relief at finally finding a name for the dead body in the morgue. "Does Joey have any family that you know of?"

"They live somewhere in Michigan," she said, before gasping. Her face drained off all color, and she pointed with shaking fingers at the picture of the dead hooker. "That's Kitty Willow! She lives downstairs! Is...," she peered more closely at the photo, "is she dead?"

Ray felt a mixture of elation and sadness. Elation that they had found the hooker's home. Sadness that he had to be the one to tell her friend she was dead.

"Yeah. I'm sorry."

The young woman started to cry, silent tears dripping down her cheeks to fall onto her bare skin. "Comfort her, you moron!" snapped his dad, making hugging motions with one thick arm. His arm wrapped around Ms. Baker's well-formed back, passed through her, and came out the other side. "If only you were the one who was dead," said his father. "I would know what to do with those flesh and blood arms that you don't seem to know how to use." The older Italian made an exasperated sound and stomped away. Good riddance to bad rubbish, thought Ray. If only he'd stay gone.

"Did Kitty know this Aunt B too? Was she involved with the book group?"

"Yeah. She said Aunt B made her feel special. Like she was somebody, you know?"

"What does this Aunt B look like?"

Ms. Baker thought for a moment. "She's got gray hair, and likes to wear red." Then she shrugged. "I don't know. She looks like all the pictures of grandmothers I've ever seen."

Wonderful, thought Ray. What he said was "Can you take me to Kitty's apartment?"

"Sure," said Ms. Baker. "Just let me throw on a robe."

The door to Kitty's apartment wasn't locked, which was somewhat surprising. Ray motioned for Ms. Baker to stay in the doorway while he stepped inside.

The room was in shambles. It was obvious from the mess that someone had been looking for something. Ray was very careful not to touch anything as he moved around the room. He stopped in front of a pile of fallen books. The one on the top had most of its pages ripped out and scattered on the floor. Ray felt a chill as he beheld its title.

They're going to call this guy the War and Peace murderer, thought Ray. As soon as I find him, that is. The only suspect he had was one piggish Sal Swamp, and the only motive he had was that the guy was irritating and drove a nicer car than Ray did. Maybe he hates good literature, thought Ray, remembering how much he hated reading "War and Peace" in school. But that's not a crime, or I'd be in jail for sure.

"You got any idea at all of how I can find this Aunt B?" said Ray to the waiting Josephine.

"I only know she held the group at the cleaners," said Josephine. She had stopped crying, but still sniffed now and then.

"The cleaners," said Ray thoughtfully. "It all leads back to the cleaners..."

Just then, his cel phone rang. "Yeah?" he said after flipping it open.

"Ray, this is Sarah," said the familiar voice. "You're never going to believe what I've found..." she began. Ray cut her off.

"Try me," he said.

"Those books you brought by? Well, I've found a finger print..." She trailed off, as her discovery was too unbelievable for the worldly-wise detective.

"And?"

"And the print matches the partial prints we lifted from Fraser's trunk."

That gave Ray pause. "I'll be right there, Sarah, after I pick up the Mountie."

He called Welsh to send over someone to check out Kitty Willow's apartment, then pointed the Riv for the Canadian Consulate. As he drove, he wondered about Benny's knack of somehow getting himself into the middle of things like this. The Mountie certainly had a talent, he had to admit.

 

*                                                                      *                                                          *

 

At the moment that Ray Vecchio charged into the Canadian Consulate, Benton Fraser, RMCP, was serving tea. Fraser watched the agitated Italian move over to Constable Turnbull's desk, but he sat quietly while Ray tried to get his whereabouts from the evasive young man. Fraser usually found Turnbull's cloak and dagger routine to be annoying, but today he was grateful. Ray didn't have a favorable image of Fraser's duties at the Consulate, and the position that Fraser now found himself in wouldn't help in that regard. He knew that Ray would get by Turnbull eventually however, and steeled himself for his friend's reaction.

Turnbull finally pointed, and Ray turned, looking mad enough to chew nails, and stormed down the hall. As he drew near, his expression magically changed from anger to extreme amusement. Beside him, Inspector Thatcher had noticed the detective's arrival, and lowed her delicate, gold-rimmed cup.

"Detective Vecchio," the Inspector said, her voice overly sweet. "How nice of you to join us." She gestured to the setting on the table before her. "Would you care for a cup of tea?"

Ray glanced at Fraser, his green eyes twinkling with the knowledge that Thatcher would rather sit in a meeting full of Pakistani camel traders, and their camels, than share a cup of tea with him. "I don't know, that would depend on the type of tea you are serving."

A reedy voice, light with excitement, spoke from Fraser's other side. "Peppermint. A lovely flavor of peppermint."

Ray turned his gaze to the henna-haired woman who now leaned far across the table, her plump hands handling the fragile tea pot with vigor as she poured herself another cup of steaming greenish liquid. She let the pot drop back to the tabletop with a clatter of porcelain, and Fraser winched inwardly. The tea pot was an antique, and had once been used by the Queen mother herself. "Ah," said Ray, with a thoughtful nod of his head. "Then I would have to say no thank you, my dear Ms. Meadows. I only drink Earl Grey myself."

Fraser rolled his eyes as Bertie Meadows beamed at Ray with pleasure. Everyone knew that Ray didn't drink anything but coffee, and even then, he poured in enough sugar to make coffee syrup. Fraser started to ask Ray what he was doing here, but Thatcher beat him to it.

"Is...there something we can do for you then, detective?" she said. "Or are you just here to observe how civilized people act?"

"So holding your pinkie in the air makes a person civilized?" Ray said with mock seriousness. "I had no idea..."

"Vecchio," said Thatcher, her tone now edged with impatience. "What do you want?"

Ray looked pointedly at Fraser, and he rose to his feet. "I believe he is here to speak with me, Inspector."

"Really?" snapped Thatcher. "I couldn't have guessed."

Fraser didn't say a thing as he walked into a nearby supplies closet with Ray.

"I see the Inspector is making good use of your abilities, as usual," said Ray drily as the door closed. "But what is Bertie Meadows doing here?"

Fraser shook his head. "Apparently, she felt that I might need my coat and came here to return it."

Ray blinked, as if not understanding a simple act of courtesy. "She came all the way here just to return your coat?"

Fraser looked at him impassively. "That is what I said, Ray."

Ray blinked again, his expression still puzzled. "Did she take the bus?"

Fraser shook his head. "I wouldn't know Ray. But I'm certain we can ask her." Fraser heard Thatcher raise her voice as she spoke to Bertie Meadows, obviously a sign for him to hurry up and come out of the closet. He gave Ray a look. "You found Violet Wilson?"

It was Ray's turn to shake his head. "Not exactly." He leaned forward eagerly and told Fraser what he had learned from Josephine Baker, and of how he had found a torn up copy of War and Peace in Kitty Willow's newly discovered apartment.

"A literary group for street people?" said Fraser, somewhat surprised by the notion.

"Yeah," said Ray. "Loony, huh?"

Fraser's eyebrows flew up. "Loony? Why I find the idea particularly refreshing. The homeless and those who make a living on the street need more than food for their bodies, they need food for their souls, Ray. The Inuit believe that feeding a person's soul with the stories of the tribal elders is essential for surviving the long winter..."

Ray cut him off with a huge sigh and Fraser repressed a smile at his friend's predictable reaction. He wondered if Ray knew how many Inuit stories he made up just for Ray's benefit. "Benny, stop with the Inuit stories already. I got something else you might be interested in."

"Oh? What?"

Ray looked warily at the closet door as something bumped against it. The sound was not repeated, and he turned back to Fraser. "Sarah's found something. That partial prints from your trunk?"

"Yes?" said Fraser, all humor and Inuit stories suddenly forgotten.

"They match a print from one of the books in Violet Wilson's box."

Fraser's blue eyes widened at the odd coincidence. "Indeed?"

Ray nodded once. "Indeed. She wants to see us at the lab."

"Then let's go," said Fraser, opening the door.

They stepped out to find Bertie Meadows standing midway between the table and the closet. Fraser had the distinct impression that she had been closer to the closet only moments before. She smiled brightly as they came into view, appearing to be relieved. "I was wondering when you would come out, Benton" she said in her reedy voice. "I was getting lonely."

Ray snorted with disbelief, which Bertie ignored. She kept her sharp gray eyes firmly on Fraser.

"Where is Inspector Thatcher?" asked Fraser, peering up and down the hallway. The tiny tea table was empty except for the teapot and empty cups.

"She had to go to a meeting," said Bertie. "Such an important woman, and so busy!" she said, fanning her cheek with one hand. "Just talking to her has me all flustered."

Ray snorted again, louder this time. Fraser spoke up quickly before he started laughing out loud. "Ah, well then. I must be going also. Detective Vecchio and I have business downtown..."

Bertie's face filled with panic. "You're leaving? How will I get home?"

"How did you get here?" said Ray. Fraser thought his tone was quite disrespectful for addressing the kind old woman.

"Can we drop you off?" asked Fraser politely.

"Benny, your apartment is completely in the other direction, and Sarah's waiting on us..."

Bertie put a hand on her cheek and smiled. "You are such a nice boy," she said, glancing at Ray, her expression saying that in contrast, the Italian wasn't. "Why don't I just go with you? You can drop me off at my apartment when you're done."

"Why don't we just get you a cab? Or better yet, you can take the bus...," said Ray in growing annoyance. Fraser detected the start of one of Ray's famous tirades. He glanced at the clock...it was 2:30 PM. He would hazard a guess that Ray hadn't eaten since breakfast, while he had managed to bribe Turnbull to give him half his sandwich with a bit of advice about not letting your lanyard be intangled in a caribou's horns during a hunt, which was something that Turnbull should have been able to deduce on his own.

"I think that is a marvelous idea," said Fraser, hoping that he could find some food at the crime lab building for Ray. "When we're done, Detective Vecchio and I will take you out and buy you a new coat."

Ray didn't comment until they were outside, with Bertie Meadows scurrying before them on her short little legs. "You're buying the coat, Benny. And don't you forget it."

"Of course, Ray," said Fraser agreeably, knowing he only had four dollars and ten cents in his pocket. That particular four dollars would go for Ray's late lunch, and the food would hopefully improve the Italian's mood enough to allow Fraser to borrow money for Bertie's much needed coat.

One thing Mounties learned early in their training....do the best you can with what you have. If he was anything, Fraser was very well trained.

 

*                                                          *                                              *

Ray leaned against a long lab table and took another bite of the meatball sandwich that Fraser had handed to him only moments ago, and listened waited while Sarah James finished up a phone call on the other side of the room. Fraser, who had disappeared after delivering the sandwich, now reappeared with a steaming mug of coffee, and a weak looking liquid that was most likely tea. Ray hadn't seen or smelled any food on the way into the building, and wondered where the Mountie had managed to come up with such a bounty. And how he knew that Ray was so hungry.

"So Benny," he said around another bite of the sandwich, "tell me how you tracked down such a great sandwich in the crime lab, not to mention beverages served in something other than Styrofoam.

Fraser gave him a look that said it should have been obvious to the most amatuer detective. "Torbjorn Petersen, the computer analyst on the third floor, has a well stocked refrigerator, Ray. Just down the hall, Jihane Billacois, detective/first in criminal history, always has a fresh pot of coffee brewing. It was a simple matter to...," he gave Ray an amused look, "track it down."

Ray nodded, becoming much more content with life in general as he stomach filled. "And where did you leave Old Lady Nosey?"

"Ray!" said Fraser, looking scandalized. "She's a nice older woman in need of our assistance...."

Ray cut him off. "She's a nosey old biddy who seems to have taken a liking to you." He rolled his eyes knowingly. "Trust me, I know. I have at least four aunts just like her. I'm surprised that she and the Dragon Lady seemed to get along so well. You give an old lady like that an inch, and she'll take a mile. Before you know it, you'll be running all her errands and fetching her coffee..." A thought struck him, and he smirked. "Now that I mention it, maybe I do see how she and Thatcher got along so well." He took a long sip of coffee and smiled serenely as he took another bite of sandwich. He watched his friend's reaction out of the corner of his eyes. It was subtle, but definite. The blue eyes narrowed slightly, and his mouth firmed into a hard line.

"When I left Ms. Meadows, she was talking to Miss Billacois. She said she would be down shortly."

Ray nodded and changed the subject to more pressing matters. The old woman was an inconvenience, but nothing more. Ray was getting used to the fact that Fraser tended to pick up strays. Kids, old people, slum lords, known felons--Fraser was an equal opportunity good deed doer, a regular Dudley Do-Right. "While you were off finding me this delicious sandwich, I called Elaine. She checked on this Sal Swamp guy," he shook his head at Fraser's waiting look, "and she turned up nothing. He's clean."

Fraser considered that. "How about his aunt, Viola?"

Ray smiled inwardly that the same guy who would let a little old lady like Bertie Meadows run him ragged, would consider 97 year-old Viola Swamp to be a suspect of criminal mischief. "Nothing on her either. Sal was telling us the truth though...he owns the building, and has for the past seven years."

Fraser made a complicated motion with his left hand, sort of a wind-milling that punctuated his words as he said "So, we have only the three books to tie these murders together, but nothing to tie Sal Swamp to the books."

"Exactly," said Ray, swallowing the last of the sandwich. "We've got the junkie's book, whom we now know to be Joey Solenski, Violet Wilson's book, whom we cannot at this time locate, and Kitty Willow's book, whom we know to be dead. Also, we have this Aunt B, and her literary group for those less fortunate, meeting in Sal Swamp's dry cleaners."

"Of which, three of its members are dead."

"Yeah," said Ray, realizing that the pattern of the murders in his mind revolved around Sal Swamp, but he couldn't fit Sal firmly into the pattern. This mysterious Aunt B also had to fit somewhere, but he knew even less about her than he knew about Sal. "Not much to go on, huh?" Ray glanced over at his friend, hoping against hope that the Mountie saw something in this mess that he didn't see.

This time, even Fraser was stumped. "No, Ray, not much to go on."

Ray looked up as Sarah James walked over and perched on a lab stool. She got down to business with no preamble. "This is what I've got for you, detective," she said formally, looking down at a clipboard in her hand. "First of all, I got three sets of prints off of the books you gave me. Two of the prints are not in the database, but the third print matches the partial prints we lifted off of Fraser's trunk." She glanced from one man to the other to see if they were listening. They were, intently. "Second, I found a name in one of the books in the bottom of the box--a signed edition of "Catcher in the Rye." There was a bookplate stuck in between the pages. The book previously belonged to a Ms. Ruth Stuart, who lives on Lake Shore Drive."

Ray's ears perked up. "How about we call this Ms. Stuart?"

Sarah nodded, and pushed a somewhat shabby book, currently encased in a large Ziplock bag, across the table in Ray's direction. "Already did. The book was stolen six months ago. She reported it, and the records are on file."

"What else was taken in the robbery?" asked Fraser, glancing over as Bertie Meadows scurried into the room. The older woman never seemed to move slowly on her short little legs, and Ray had the disturbing thought that she might actually be able to outrun him. He pushed that image aside as quickly as it appeared, to concentrate again on what Sarah was saying.

"Only more books," the red-haired woman said. "A first edition of "To Kill a Mocking Bird" and a leather bound copy of "David Copperfield."

"Oh my!" said Bertie Meadows, making her presence known. "A signed copy of "Catcher in the Rye?" Why that must be worth at least a thousand dollars, maybe more."

"Really?" said Fraser, obviously intrigued by the knowledge.

"Oh yes," said Bertie, nodding her head so vigorously her henna curls flew. "Signed copies are very rare."

"She's right," said Sarah, giving Bertie a strange look. "It's worth a lot, as are the other two, for various reasons. All three were the type of books valued only by book collectors."

Fraser gently touched the encased book. "You mean, they were all one of a kind books...just like my father's journal?"

"That's about it," agreed Sarah.

"Which leaves us where?" asked Ray, trying to decide what he would tell Welsh in the morning. He had promised to give him a solid connection between the murders, and all he had was a few books, some suspicions, and now, a particular book thief. Welsh wasn't going to like it, that was for sure.

Fraser gave Ray another one of those "Isn't it obvious, Ray?" looks, but thankfully, he didn't say it. "That leaves us with Violet Wilson, Ray."

"Whom I can't find, Benny," said Ray with exaggerated patience. He cocked his head at the Mountie's pleased look. "Unless you have an idea of how to track her down, that is?"

"I do, Ray," said Fraser, looking more and more pleased. Sarah and Bertie stared at him expectantly.

"Does it involve mud tasting or piddle sniffing?" asked Ray, feeling his energy return at the hope of again having a lead to follow in this case.

"It does not, Ray." Fraser's eyes were positively glowing. Ray expected him to launch into an Inuit story at any moment.

When he didn't, and he also didn't elaborate on his method for tracking down Ms. Wilson, Ray leaned forward and raised his voice. "You planning on telling me about it any time soon, Benny?"

"We need to go shopping, Ray."

"Shopping?" said Ray, his mouth dropping open. Of all the things the Mountie might have said, that particular response was the most improbable. "And what might we be shopping for?"

"A purple mini skirt," said Fraser, a bit too smugly. "Ms. Wilson's was brand new...it still had a tag on the back."

Ray looked increduously at the his friend, then glanced at Sarah and Bertie. They were looking at Fraser with so much awe it about made Ray sick. Did they realize what the Mountie was suggesting? That he meant for the two of them to look for purple skirts in every clothing store on this side of the city? That it was Friday night, and most of said stores closed at 7 PM? And that he had promised Welsh some news on this by morning? Ray inwardly moaned at the thought, but since he didn't have anything better to go on, he put forth his own suggestion. "Maybe Josephine Baker, given that they were in the same profession and lived in the same building, can give us an idea of where Violet liked to shop."

"Good thinking, Ray," said Fraser brightly. "And we can buy Ms. Meadows a new coat while we're at it..."

Uncharacteristically, Fraser charged off down the hallway, leaving Ray to wave Bertie ahead of him. "By all means, after you," he said, not even bothering with the sarcasm this time. It wouldn't matter. He'd still have to take Bertie along, and most likely, knowing Fraser and his thin wallet, he'd have to buy her new coat as well. Some days, thought Ray, he should be considered for sainthood.

"I'll bet he's as good as Mountie as his father," cooed Bertie as she scampered after the departing Fraser.

Ray had no sarcastic reply to that either, for he found he had to agree.

 

*                                              *                                              *

 

By 6:33 PM, they found the store where Violet Wilson bought her brand new purple skirt. Julie's House for Hotties. Fraser grinned wryly at the name. The three saleswoman wore very tight T-shirts that proclaimed them to be hotties themselves. He was currently speaking to one Kimberly Nicole, whom Ray would probably say was the "hottie of hotties." Fraser was above noticing such things, but Miss Kim, as she preferred to be called, did her T-shirt service.

"So, Miss Kim...can you tell us when you last saw Violet Wilson?" asked Fraser, keeping his eyes on Miss Kim's large hazel eyes.

The eyes blinked, long eye lashes batting, as she answered. "Just yesterday. She bought the skirt and the shoes." Fraser thought she must have something in her eye, the way her eye lashes were batting.

"You knew her well?" he asked, wondering if he should offer to assist her with her eye problem. He decided he wouldn't, because then he'd have to come very close to those slightly puckered, cherry-red lips. He did think that the red was a trifle too rich for her fair coloring, but admitted that it went well with her walnut-brown hair.

"Very," said said, leaning forward ever so slightly. Beside him, he was aware that Ray was not bothering to keep his eyes on Miss Kim's batting eyelashes. The Italian sighed appreciatively at what he saw. "She and I have lunch together almost every day."

"Do you know where we might find her?" asked Ray. Miss Kim shot him a suddenly wary look.

"Why would I tell you?"

Ray pulled his shield off his belt and slide it toward her on the counter. "I'm Detective Ray Vecchio, Ms. Nicole. We believe Violet may be in danger."

The woman's eye lashes stopped batting as she turned to Fraser for confirmation. "She was part of a book group, led by a woman named Aunt B," he said, not a question, but a statement of fact. She nodded, showing that their deduction was correct. "Two of the members of that group are now dead...and we have third victim who might have also been a member," he added, thinking of the very first murder, the drunk known only by the name Fat Fred.

Miss Kim was listening very closely now, her expression tense. "We also saw Violet this morning, outside of Sal's Super Dry Clean. We saw Sal chase her, saw her run, and that's when we lost her."

"You've tried her apartment?" asked Miss Kim, very softly, almost timidly.

"Yeah," said Ray. "She's not there."

"Sal's a bad dude," said Kim, tugging nervously at the hem of her T-shirt. Ray took time out to sigh again. "Real trouble."

"How so?" asked Fraser.

"I...I'm not sure," said Kim. She lowered her voice until both men had to strain to hear her. Her gray eyes darted around the shop. The other two saleswomen were chatting animatedly with two eager young men in one corner. "Violet said it was all at the cleaners. Everything. And that Aunt B was going to get him."

Fraser glanced at Ray in growing trepidation. "Get him?"

"Stop him," clarified Kim. "Make him stop what he was doing."

"Him who?" asked Fraser. "Sal?"

"I assume so," said Kim, with a shrug.

"Do you know where we can find Violet?" asked Ray a second time.

"No," she said with a shake of her head. "She only told me that Aunt B was going to keep her safe for awhile."

"Until Aunt B 'got' Sal?'" asked Ray.

"Yes."

"Can you tell us what Aunt B looks like?" asked Fraser.

Miss Kim shrugged. "Gray hair, old..." She shrugged again. "I dunno. She looks a lot like my grandmother."

That wasn't much help. Fraser glanced again at the Chicago detective. He could see questions swimming in the Italian's eyes, questions that Fraser was asking himself as well. What was Sal involved in? Where were Violet and this Aunt B? And how was Aunt B going to "get him?" "All right, Miss Kim. If you see Violet, have her call Detective Vecchio." He nodded toward Ray, who obligingly handed Miss Kim his card. "We'll be in touch if we have more questions."

The found Bertie Meadows peering in a window down the street, her frayed brown coat pulled tightly around her in the cold night air. The air was dry, but carried a bite. She pointed excitedly at a coat on a manikin in the window. A dark gray thing with black leather trim. "I've found my new coat. What do you think?"

"I think it costs a fortune," said Ray blandly, his gaze moving over the rest of the store's stock, sizing it up with a practiced eye.

"But look!" said Bertie, practically hopping off the ground. "It's on sale!" She pointed to a tiny sign that announced, "Close out, 50 percent off."

"How about we try the Good Will?" said Ray, standing stubbornly in place.

"Ray...," said Fraser, hoping to persuade the emotional and notoriously tight-fisted Italian to at least go into the store with them.

"Or the Salvation Army," continued Ray as if he hadn't heard. "I hear they have some great second hand bargains."

"Ray..." Bertie's smile was become brittle, and her eyes were becoming watery and overly bright.

"Or even that outlet store over on Mulberry. Frannie tells me they have great deals. I'll bet we could find something for under twenty bucks."

Bertie's lower lip was beginning to quiver. "Ray," said Fraser, this time very firmly. "Let's at least look.

"Oh all right," conceded Ray, his expression sour. "But you're buying it, right?"

Fraser could see that Ray already suspected the answer to that. "Would you mind loaning me just a bit, Ray? I've left my wallet at home."

"You don't carry a wallet, Benny. You never carry a wallet."

Fraser cocked his head and adjusted his hat. "Well...I wouldn't say never Ray. I did once carry a wallet, but found it uncomfortable."

"Most likely because it was always empty," snapped Ray, opening the shop door and standing back while Bertie raced inside.

In reality, Fraser found it uncomfortable because he had kept it tied to his underwear, a trick to prevent pickpockets from taking it that his father had taught him when he was six. He gave up entirely on the practice by the age of seven, partly because it was always empty, but also because there were very few pickpockets in the Yukon. He didn't think that telling Ray the real reason he found it uncomfortable was relevant to the present situation, so he only said "Yes, Ray," and followed his friend into the store.

A few minutes later, Bertie had a new coat and a new red muffler, a sure sign that Ray wasn't as unfeeling as he pretended to be, and all three of them drove off for Fraser's apartment building on West Racine. Fraser was happy with the knowledge that Ray's wallet was only slightly lighter after their purchases, as the coat had indeed been on sale.

He hoped Ray wouldn't mind making his wallet just a little lighter by ordering Chinese. The only food in Fraser's fridge was a bowl of old dog bones, and he was starving.

 

 *                                                         *                                                          *

 

Ray wiped the last of the soy sauce on his napkin and sat back with a sigh. He had managed to eat an entire order of Kung Pau Chicken and three egg rolls, even though he thought he wasn't hungry. "So...what do we have?"

"As far as hard evidence, or supposition?"

Ray was thinking about what he could tell Welsh. "Hard evidence."

"Absolutely nothing."

"All right," said Ray heavily. "Let's review our suppositions."

"We have three dead people, two of which are tied into a book group..."

"...which met at a dry cleaners," finished Ray. "We got one missing woman..."

"Violet Wilson," said Fraser, ticking points off on his fingers.

"...and one woman who looks like everyone's grandmother..."

"Aunt B," said Fraser, tapping another finger.

Ray nodded, and paused for breath, "And a man who owns a dry cleaners, who also happens to drive a BMW and wear cashmere, and whom Violet Wilson says is, and I quote, "One bad dude." Ray gave Fraser a look filled with exasperation. "Does that about sum it up, Benny?"

"I'd say it does, Ray," said Fraser, nodding slowly.

"Yeah," said Ray, rubbing at his forehead. He had a headache that was building to gigantic proportions even as he spoke. "That's what I thought."

"What about the finger print of the journal thief?" asked Fraser, a distant look on his face, his head turned toward the wall.

Ray sighed for about the hundredth time that day. "What about it? We can't tie that in with the murders, and unless you know something I don't, I can't tie it in with anything else either."

Fraser turned farther toward the wall, his expression intense. Ray could have sworn that the Mountie was listening to something. "What, you suddenly develop super hearing that you can hear things through the walls?"

Fraser shot the wall a dark look, which was only odd if you didn't know the Mountie well, and turned back to Ray, his mouth twisting into a smile. "No, of course not." He looked at Ray, as if considering his next words carefully. "What do you want to do now?"

Ray stood up. The room was too small, too confining at the moment, and he found himself pacing back and forth beside Fraser's kitchen table. Fraser watched him go, his head moving back and forth with Ray's movements. Somehow, Fraser's actions made Ray feel like some sort of Italian wind up toy, which only served to make him pace faster. "What I want is to go home and go to bed. What I want is to have whoever is killing these people behind bars so I don't have to think about it any more. But what I mostly want..." he stopped in mid-stride and whirled toward Fraser. "is to have something to tell Welsh." He looked at his watch. 9:30 PM. Perhaps it wasn't too late to do some more investigating.

"Come on, Benny," he said, grabbing his coat and striding towards the door. "Let's go talk to this Sal Swamp and see if we can rattle his cage."

Fraser, coat already in hand, followed with a frown. "Don't you mean 'rattle his peaches,' Ray?"

Ray remembered saying those very words when he went across the restaurant to dance with Irene Zuko, an event that seemed to have happened a lifetime ago. The words concerned Frank Zuko, of whom Ray was not particular fond. The incident had ended in a major bar brawl--and later, had led to worse events. Ray nodded absently as he remembered. "Same meaning, Benny. Without the fighting."

Fraser only nodded. "Ah. Understood Ray."

 

Unfortunately for them, Sal Swamp wasn't at the home address that Elaine had given them earlier in the day. Not only that, but it the freezing rain had begun again, and the ten minute drive turned into thirty minutes of sliding tires and streams of irate Italian. Ray hoped Benny didn't understand much Italian, because if he did, the Mountie's ears would turn as red as his serge. Ray glanced at him more than once, but his companion sat impassive and silent as Ray negotiated the trecherous roadways. After detemining the Mr. Swamp was not at home, nor was a Mrs. Swamp coming to answer the front door, Ray decided on his next course of action. He turned the Riv, not toward either the precinct house nor Fraser's apartment, but toward Sal's Super Dry Clean.

As usual, Fraser was following his thoughts as if reading his mind. "You think he's at the dry cleaners?"

Ray gave as much of a shrug as he dared while steering the car. "Everything seems to center there, Benny, and goodness knows, this case needs a center." He shot a look at his friend. "If anything, maybe we'll turn up this Aunt B or Violet Wilson." He didn't add that he hoped they turned up alive and not dead. Fraser knew what was at stake as well as he did.

Ray managed to slide the Riv into a parking space without hitting anything. The two of them sat in the dark car and stared at the closed dry cleaners. Somewhere in the back of the building, a light was on. "Looks like someone's home," said Ray quietly.

"Shall we pay them a visit?" asked Fraser, adjusting his hat slightly.

"Indeed we shall, Benny. Indeed we shall."

The carefully stepped out of the car, and made their way in the direction of the dry cleaner's side door, not the larger front door. The rain was falling harder now, and the slushy drops found their way under Ray's collar and hit his face like icy bullets. "Another hour of this," he muttered, "and we'll have to ice skate our way home."

Fraser glance his way, and Ray thought he detected a hint of a smile. "That sounds like fun, Ray."

"Yeah, for Eskimos and penguins," snapped Ray. "And for annoying Mounties who like the cold far too much."

"Inuit," said Fraser. "Not Eskimos."

"Yeah, well, I'm not feeling politically correct at the moment," said Ray.

Fraser made a sound like suspiciously like a chuckle, and Ray got the distinct impression that Fraser found his own personal discomfort with ice and snow extremely amusing. But all he said was "Understood Ray." The Italian, struggling to keep his feet, at least had the satisfaction of knowing that Fraser hadn't let his amusement overshadow his wisdom. After all, Ray had the gun...and was becoming exasperated enough to use it.

They made it to the side door without falling, but Ray decided he needed to get a warmer coat. His teeth were beginning to chatter. He turned his attention to the door and what lay through the window beyond, but Fraser seemed more interested in peering down the alley toward the back of the building.

Ray, his hand on the door, paused, his eyes narrowed. "See something, Benny?"

Fraser's face was in shadow, but he appeared to be listening intently. "Heard something, Ray. Footsteps."

"Sal Swamp perhaps?"

"No," said Fraser with a shake of his head. "The strides were too short, too quick."

"A woman, then."

"I would say so," affirmed Fraser.

"Well," said Ray, his hand still on the door. "We're looking for two women...maybe we'll find one of them." He took a breath, said a silent prayer to patron saint of cops and fools, and gave the door a gentle shove. Surprisingly, almost frighteningly, it opened. "Hello," said Ray, showing his pleasure at the discovery. "You know, Benny, this is a bad neighborhood to leave the doors of your business unlocked. Perhaps there is a break-in. I think we should look around," Ray said, his voice barely above a whisper. Fraser, now accustom to the Chicago detective's more aggressive police methods, only nodded and waited while Ray drew his gun. Ray counted to three, gave Benny a look, and darted into the building.

He cautiously made his way through the front room, pointing his gun into each and every dark corner and cranny. The room was filled with racks of clothes, some covered with plastic and awaiting pick up, and some not. A counter along one wall held a cash register and a small TV.  In the dim light, Ray could see two delicate afghans hung like paintings on the wall. A last reminder of the dear, departed Viola, thought Ray, whose own aunts gave him new afghans every Christmas. He had finally started giving them to Father Behan at the church in order that they could go to someone who needed them. Ray had ten in his closet, enough to last him a lifetime.

Behind the cash register was something that made Ray pause--a bookcase full of books. From the looks of it, thick books, perhaps some leather bound books. Just the thing he would expect to find in a place where a book club met, even a book club for the homeless and drunks. Fraser had seen the bookcase as well, and gave Ray a considering look. Ray wasn't sure what was going through the Mountie's head, but he was nodding as if it all now made sense. Ray wished it made sense to him, but so far, it didn't. The pattern was still incomplete.

The front room was clear, and Ray made his way into the larger, more crowded back room. Here, large equipment loomed in the darkness like waiting giants, and the smell of dry cleaning fluid was strong. More clothes hung on a long rack, taking up one whole side of the room. A ceiling fan rustled the plastic covering the ones in the back. The light in the back of the room drew his attention...it must have been the light that they saw from the street. He glanced back to find Fraser directly behind him, his Stetson casting a black circle on the ceiling. He motioned with his chin toward the light, and they fanned out. Ray went directly toward the light, his gun held at the ready. Fraser veered off to one side, his steps almost silent.

The converged at a small desk set in one corner. The light was a battered desk lamp with a blue scarf thrown over its shade. And in the circle of light cast by the lamp... Ray's eyebrows flew up and his hand tightened on his gun. Under the lamp were bundles of tiny bags, each filled with a fine, white powder. Ray recognized it instantly as cocaine. He gave Fraser a sharp, wary look. "Looks like Sal is into other business besides dry cleaning," he breathed. The pattern in his mind became just a little bit clearer. The drug business was the kind of trade that caused people to become dead, for a variety of reasons.

"Indeed," said Fraser, he words only slightly louder than the whisper of the fan. His head cocked and he held up one hand, then made a cutting motion in the direction of a door just visible in the very back of the room. "Listen," he hissed. "Voices."

Ray obligingly listened. His ears weren't as good as the Mountie's, and it took him a moment longer to hear the sound of a deep, male voice, followed by a few words uttered in a higher, most likely feminine voice. Ray took a few quick steps and moved closer. The words became more clear the closer he got to the door.

"Where is it?" said the male voice. "My War and Peace? Where?"

"I don't know, I swear I don't know, Sal," said the voice, most definitely a woman. Ray wondered if she was one of the women they were looking for, or someone else.

Fraser shot Ray a questioning look as they paused by the door. Ray hesitated, unsure of whether they should go barging down the stairs. It would be better to call for backup, claim they suspected a break-in. Just as he was about to suggest that, the male voice got much louder, and much more menacing. "One of you took it...one of you is going to tell me! Or I'll kill you like I killed the rest."

The woman screamed, and Ray had only one choice. He reacted.

Before he could even think about what he was doing, the door was open, and he was racing down the steps behind it. He heard Fraser on his heels, the Mountie's boots thudding loudly on the wooden steps. The air smelled of mold and chemicals and of damp concrete. The stairway itself was dark, but a circle of light was visible at the bottom and off to the right. It was in the direction of the light that they heard the woman scream yet again.

Ray held his gun stiffly before him in a two-handed grip and ran in the direction of that scream. He found himself in a cluttered area, one obviously used for Sal's real business. Beakers and a silvery scales, along with a heap of plastic bags littered a long table's surface. And in front of the table, stood the pig-faced Sal Swamp, who was even now moving a gun up to the head of the woman he held clutched tightly to his chest. The woman wailed in terror, her dark eyes wide, her mouth open and trembling.

"Police! Put the gun down, Sal," said Ray, keeping his gun trained on a spot right between Sal's pig-like eyes. He hoped their dramatic entrance and show of force would intimidate the man.

Unfortunately for them, Sal didn’t seem all that intimidated. He clenched his jaw and gave Ray a calculating look. "You put it down," snapped Sal. "or I'll kill her." He jabbed the barrel of his gun into the woman's neck.

"Violet Wilson?" said Fraser from behind him. Ray sensed him move to the left, and he himself moved to the right. For about the millionth time since he meant the Canadian, he wished he carried a gun.

"Y-yes," said the woman, her gaze shifting in the Mountie's direction.

"Put it down!" yelled Sal, his own eyes focused fully on Ray. Ray could read the man's intent in the depths of his eyes. As if in slow motion, he complied, hoping that somehow Fraser would manage to save the day. The Mountie was good, but their options were few. He imagined how angry Welsh would be when he learned that Ray had blundered in here like a rookie and gotten himself killed in the process. His gun hit the concrete floor with a loud clattering crack. Then all was quiet except for the a few frightened gasps from Violet Wilson.

It was the Mountie who broke the silence. "Maybe we can help you, Mr. Swamp," said Fraser soothingly. "We know what you're looking for."

Interest flared in Sal's face like a quickening flame. "You do? Where is it then?"

Fraser moved up beside Ray, his hands held outstretched at his side. "What's in it for us? I mean, if it's so important."

Sal's expression darkened and his heavy jowls shook. "What's in in for you?" He licked thin lips, thinking. "I let you live," he said finally. "At least for now."

"And if we don't tell you?" Fraser's tone was light, mocking, almost as if he were baiting the man.

Sal snarled and Violet shrieked. "I kill you like I killed the rest." He pushed the gun so hard into Violet's neck that she started wheezing. "I kill her too. I kill you all."

Fraser nodded, seemingly unconcerned. "Why don't you tell me exactly what it is that we're to help you find. That way, we know we've got the right person."

Sal moved forward suddenly, almost dragging Violet with him. Ray tensed, ready at the first opportunity to dive for his gun. "My War and Peace! My War and Peace!"

"But of course," said Fraser, as if it all made complete sense now. He smiled knowingly. "I ask again, what's in if for us? Or...is the prize all for you?" Fraser's tone was almost suggestive, as if he knew more than Sal himself did.

Sal's expression faltered at Fraser's sure manner. He glanced at Ray, and gave him the once over. "Say...you fellas are from Frankie, are you? I mean, I meant to have the money I owed to him last week, but that old broad took the book. How was I to know she'd find it?"

Ray tensed at the name Frankie. "Money" and "Frankie" used with that fearful tone in the same sentence had to mean only one man. Frankie Zuko. He had no idea that Frankie was involved in this neighborhood. Obviously Sal owed Frankie for something, what, he wasn't sure. But he knew enough about Frankie Zuko and how he ran his business to bluff a yutz like Sal Swamp. "Frankie sent us because he was getting impatient, Sal," said Ray, his New Jersey accent becoming stronger as he spoke. His family had only lived in New Jersey until he was five, but the accent had remained. He hoped it would serve to make him sound like one of Frankie's out-of-town thugs. "You were careless to let the old woman interfere."

Sal's face paled, and his grip on Violet Wilson relaxed ever so slightly. "How was I to know that she'd find the money? I mean, who would look in a book for money?"

The pattern in Ray's head became startlingly clear. "Did you have to kill the drunk and the hooker for it? Murder is bad for business, Sal." He sadly shook his head. "Very bad."

"And the young boy has family in Michigan. They're putting a lot of pressure on the Chicago police to find the killer," added Fraser. "Mr. Zuko isn't happy about police pressure."

Ray could see a flurry of thoughts flow through Sal's mind, too rapidly for him to anticipate Sal's reaction. Even if he had been able to, he wouldn't have expected Sal to react like he did. The man exploded in a blind panic, threw Violet to one side, and began firing hap-hazardly around the room. Ray dove for cover along the wall. He sensed, rather than saw, Fraser dive for cover across the room.

"He's gonna kill me, isn't he? Kill me!" screamed Sal. Ray realized the bluff had gone to far--the man was too close to the edge, and they had managed to push him over. Somewhere, Violet screamed, and then the light went out.

Ray froze. Two more gun shots sounded in the room, echoing like thunder, then something thudded dully, as if something hard had hit something soft. Something hit the floor and Ray felt a surge of dread. Had Violet been hit? Or Fraser?

As suddenly as it went out, the light came on. Ray was amazed to see Sal Swamp lying in a crumpled heap on the floor, with a familiar woman standing over him holding a two-by-four. The woman's wrinkled face was set in an expression of fury, her gray eyes glaring. Ray slowly got to his feet. Across the room, Fraser held a frightened Violet Wilson. Both looked at the old woman with an expression of complete amazement.

The woman was none other than Ms. Bertie Meadows, nosey neighbor and shopper extraordinaire.

"Aunt B!" exclaimed Violet with relief, pulling out of Fraser's arms. "You're all right!"

Bertie sniffed in disdain. "Of course I am. I said I'd get him." She looked at first Fraser, then Ray. "And I did, didn't I?"

"I thought Aunt B had gray hair," said Fraser, frowning.

The old woman actually grinned and tugged at her reddish curls. "This comes from a bottle. But I like the red, don't you?"

Fraser smiled. "It looks lovely."

"How did you get here, Bertie?" asked Ray, still stunned by the woman's appearance. We left you at your apartment..."

Bertie rolled her eyes. "I walked, young man. I came here looking for Violet, but figured you two would end up here." She patted her cheek with one plump hand. "I just didn't think it would take you so long to arrive! I've been hiding under a pile of clothes for at least half an hour."

Ray thought of how slippery the roads had been, and how difficult their drive to get here had been. Yet Bertie had managed to walk here, over icy sidewalks, in the freezing cold, and get here first. Either Ray was getting old, or that coat he bought her was better than he thought. "Well, I'm sorry we took so long," he huffed in mild exasperation. "Next time we'll be faster."

Bertie nodded, not completely appeased, but appearing to be somewhat happier. "I did get him, didn't I?" she pointed again at Sal.

Ray cocked his head, thinking the facts through. They could put Sal away for assault on Violet, drug charges, and resisting arrest. Whether they could tie him to the other murders...that was for the lawyers to deal with. The evidence was lacking, but perhaps Sal would confess. Either way, Sal would be off the streets for a while. "Yeah, you got him all right...Aunt B." He said the name sarcastically and was pleased when Bertie had the grace to look chastised.

"I didn't like to fool you nice boys," she said in way of an apology. "But I had to have help in stopping him," she jabbed the prone form with the two-by-four. "His business is pure poison, and then, he killed my book lovers." She had tears in her eyes now, but they were tears of anger more than sadness. "I should have gotten him sooner. He deserves whatever he gets."

Ray leaned over and picked up his gun. Then he pulled his handcuffs from his belt and cuffed Sal. Sal's gun he left lying where it was. He wanted to preserve the crime scene as much as possible. "Why didn't you just come to the police?"

Bertie dropped the board she was still holding, and moved toward Violet. Even in the confines of the room, she moved with surprising speed. "He had threatened all of us." She shrugged. "I guess I was afraid."

Fraser crossed his arms and smiled. "You mean, you were afraid that the police would take the money."

Bertie tried to look surprised, but failed miserably. "What money is that?"

"The drug money you found in Sal's copy of War and Peace," said Fraser promptly. "How much was it, Bertie?"

The old woman drew herself up to her full height, which was maybe five feet. "How dare you say I stole drug money! I'm just an old woman who tries to feed the souls of those in need--to fill them with beautiful language. I have no need for drug money!" She gave them a secretive look. "But if I did find such money, I would use it to help those in need--to feed their stomachs as well as there souls. Maybe even to build them a mission where they can warm their hands if they wanted to."

Ray thought it was a very good use for drug money. Help lives instead of ruin them.

"The copy of War and Peace?" Fraser persisted.

Bertie's expression became one of smug glee. "I think you'll find that particular book in the bookcase in the front room. Except, it's not really a book...it's all hollowed out. That fool Sal apparently didn't look very hard to find it." Violet chose that moment to snicker. Ray shot Fraser a look, and decided to change the subject.

"Well then, since we have a suspect in custody, I say we call for some backup."

"Good idea, Ray."

It was 4 in the morning before all the statements were taken, the evidence was collected, and Sal Swamp was busy confessing to three murders, despite advice to contrary from his lawyer. Bertie was happy, Fraser was happy, Ray was happy, and most importantly, Welsh was happy.

It was almost dawn before Ray managed to drive Fraser and Bertie back to their respective apartments. The roads, which had been bad earlier, were now positively terrible. Ray and Fraser put chains on Ray's tires in the police garage, and thereby had managed to stay on the road. Even so, they had to take three detours in order to avoid other accidents. Ray was totally exhausted as he climbed the stairs leading up to the third floor. Even the energizer Mountie looked fatigued, with dark circles smudging the skin under eyes, and he didn't bother to straighten his hat which now tilted at an odd angle. Only Bertie, the old woman twice their age, appeared to be ready for more action. She darted down the hallway as sprily as ever, her short legs a blur of motion.

"Good night, boys!" she called with a cheerful wave.

Fraser and Ray only nodded in her direction. "You can sleep here if you'd like, Ray. I'll take the sleeping bag," offered Fraser as he opened the door and turned on the light. Ray consider the drive to his house--it would take him at least an hour with the present road conditions. He didn't think he could stay awake for even one more minute, let alone an hour.

"Thanks, Benny. I will." He threw off his coat and slipped off his shoes. "At least we solved the case. Bertie said you were as good a Mountie as your dad, and she was right. You put it all together in the end."

Fraser, about to toss his hat to the table, stopped in mid-motion. "Bertie said what?"

Ray slumped in a chair, determined to stay awake until Fraser got out his sleeping bag. A polite guest didn't fall asleep before the host...at least that's what his mother always said. "She said you were as good a Mountie as your dad..." repeated Ray, when Fraser cut him off.

"I didn't tell her that, Ray."

Ray yawned and felt his eyelids droop. He was too tired to make sense of what Fraser was saying. "Tell her what, Benny?"

"That my father was a Mountie." Ray blinked at that, and felt a measure of energy return.

"Then that means..."

"That Bertie stole my father's journal, and most likely those other valuable books..."

At that very moment, something slid into the room from under Fraser's door. A small black book that looked an awful lot like Bob Fraser's journal. Ray eyed it, not bothering to move.

"Well," he said, when nothing else appeared under the door, no one knocked, and the no noises came from the hallway. "It appears your journal is no longer missing."

"It would appear so," said Fraser, bending to pick up the book. He held it gently, as if it might break.

"And since those other valuable books will be returned to their owner, I think we can peacefully go to sleep, knowing that all is right in the world."

Fraser nodded, and unbuttoned the coat to his Mountie uniform. "It would seem so, Ray." He took a breath, his expression one Ray recognized. The tired Italian groaned, staggered to his feet, and threw himself on the bed. So much for being the polite guest...he just wouldn't tell his mother.

"You know, Ray, this reminds me of an Inuit tale that I heard as a boy..."

"Shut up, Benny," said Ray pleasantly, already on the edge of sleep.

"Understood Ray," said Fraser, his grin evident in his voice.

The last thing Ray remembered was Fraser's voice saying "No, dad...I didn't arrest her. She is a very nice woman. Yes...you'd like her... Well, no...she didn't comment on your writing style, but obviously she loved a good book. Yes...she had good taste..."

Then, Ray Vecchio, the only Chicago detective partnered with a somewhat crazy Canadian Mountie, heard nothing more. After all, it had been been a very long day.