self-evident—and it didn’t help. She tried cranking it again right away, but the whiz turned into something much worse, a kind of breathless death rattle that made her cringe. So she got out in the muggy heat, grabbed a Coke out of the pop machine and paused to take a long swig and stare bullets at the Jetta. And when she got back in the car a few minutes later, it started on the first try.
That had been bad enough, but the real time waster came at the construction site that had held her up the day before. She’d forgotten about it, and when she got jammed in it again she cursed herself for not keeping it in mind and planning an alternate route. As before, the merge to a single lane took forever, and the truly annoying part was that from a distance it didn’t appear as if anyone was actually working over there, the machines all standing idle.
But then she saw the police cruisers and the crime scene tape, and there was a cop standing next to the flag girl at the choke point now, the officer leaning in to speak to each of the drivers in turn, slowing things down even more. When Trish got four car-lengths away the Jetta stalled, and in her fear of holding things up she tried to start it right away—and this time that wretched death rattle was punctuated by a crisp backfire, the report so loud the cop actually reached for his sidearm.
In a dreadful kind of déjà vu, the vehicles in front of her cleared the check point one by one and now the cop was waving her ahead, impatient in the sweltering heat.
Trish turned the key and the Jetta shrieked. She shrugged at the cop and tried on a smile that didn’t fit. The flag girl came to the window and said, “You’d better get it moving, Miss. Fuses are pretty short around here already.”
“You want to give it a try?” Trish said and the girl unclipped her walkie and turned away. She said something Trish couldn’t hear, and a few moments later three grim-looking crewmen appeared. The flag girl told her to put it neutral, and the men pushed the Jetta up to the cop like it was a kid’s toy. The cop showed her a picture saying, “Do you recognize this girl?” and Trish did, right away. She said, “Yes, I saw her here yesterday,” and pointed to the shoulder of the equally backed-up southbound lanes. “Right over there. She was working, holding a sign.”
The cop thanked her and said she could go, and Trish was left to wonder what had happened here. The crew guys pushed her out of the way and she spent the next forty minutes waiting for a gracious on-site mechanic to come have a look under the hood. Thirty minutes after that they got the car started and the mechanic told her it was probably her starter.
Starving by this point, she broke for lunch at a truck stop restaurant and got underway again as quickly as she could. North of Pointe au Baril there was a car accident that cost her an hour, then she got caught in a cloudburst so intense she had to slow to a crawl for the next fifty kilometers.
And now she was late.
She turned the key and the Jetta started.
* * *
When Detective Boland entered the police mortuary in Barrie that afternoon he found the pathologist, Dr. Franklin Todd, hunched over a high-powered microscope, numerous glass slides littering the table in front of him. Mozart played softly in the background, Piano Concerto No. 24 in C minor, one of Dan’s favorites. The music soothed him.
Without looking up, the pathologist said, “Afternoon, Dan. Just finishing up the microscopic.”
Smiling, Dan said, “How’d you know it was me?”
“Those infernal cigars. You reek.” He raised his eyes now, flicking the bifocals off his forehead to land smoothly on his nose. ”I’ve got some lung cancer slides that might smarten you up. I have my teaching stuff around her somewhere...”
“Never mind,” Dan said. “If Connie can’t make me quit, what chance do you think you have?”
“Stubborn bastard.”
The pleasantries dispensed, Dan said, “So
That had been bad enough, but the real time waster came at the construction site that had held her up the day before. She’d forgotten about it, and when she got jammed in it again she cursed herself for not keeping it in mind and planning an alternate route. As before, the merge to a single lane took forever, and the truly annoying part was that from a distance it didn’t appear as if anyone was actually working over there, the machines all standing idle.
But then she saw the police cruisers and the crime scene tape, and there was a cop standing next to the flag girl at the choke point now, the officer leaning in to speak to each of the drivers in turn, slowing things down even more. When Trish got four car-lengths away the Jetta stalled, and in her fear of holding things up she tried to start it right away—and this time that wretched death rattle was punctuated by a crisp backfire, the report so loud the cop actually reached for his sidearm.
In a dreadful kind of déjà vu, the vehicles in front of her cleared the check point one by one and now the cop was waving her ahead, impatient in the sweltering heat.
Trish turned the key and the Jetta shrieked. She shrugged at the cop and tried on a smile that didn’t fit. The flag girl came to the window and said, “You’d better get it moving, Miss. Fuses are pretty short around here already.”
“You want to give it a try?” Trish said and the girl unclipped her walkie and turned away. She said something Trish couldn’t hear, and a few moments later three grim-looking crewmen appeared. The flag girl told her to put it neutral, and the men pushed the Jetta up to the cop like it was a kid’s toy. The cop showed her a picture saying, “Do you recognize this girl?” and Trish did, right away. She said, “Yes, I saw her here yesterday,” and pointed to the shoulder of the equally backed-up southbound lanes. “Right over there. She was working, holding a sign.”
The cop thanked her and said she could go, and Trish was left to wonder what had happened here. The crew guys pushed her out of the way and she spent the next forty minutes waiting for a gracious on-site mechanic to come have a look under the hood. Thirty minutes after that they got the car started and the mechanic told her it was probably her starter.
Starving by this point, she broke for lunch at a truck stop restaurant and got underway again as quickly as she could. North of Pointe au Baril there was a car accident that cost her an hour, then she got caught in a cloudburst so intense she had to slow to a crawl for the next fifty kilometers.
And now she was late.
She turned the key and the Jetta started.
* * *
When Detective Boland entered the police mortuary in Barrie that afternoon he found the pathologist, Dr. Franklin Todd, hunched over a high-powered microscope, numerous glass slides littering the table in front of him. Mozart played softly in the background, Piano Concerto No. 24 in C minor, one of Dan’s favorites. The music soothed him.
Without looking up, the pathologist said, “Afternoon, Dan. Just finishing up the microscopic.”
Smiling, Dan said, “How’d you know it was me?”
“Those infernal cigars. You reek.” He raised his eyes now, flicking the bifocals off his forehead to land smoothly on his nose. ”I’ve got some lung cancer slides that might smarten you up. I have my teaching stuff around her somewhere...”
“Never mind,” Dan said. “If Connie can’t make me quit, what chance do you think you have?”
“Stubborn bastard.”
The pleasantries dispensed, Dan said, “So
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