(2012) Cross-Border Murder Read Free Page A

to. They didn’t.”
    I was tempted to suggest that her parents could have faced the future differently. But it would have been presumptuous. And besides I knew better. At some point the damp rot of the past just weighs too heavily. Hope smoulders out. She handed me a sheet of paper with the names, current addresses and phone numbers of the people in the photo.
    “Have you tried to contact any of them yet?”
    She hesitated. “No. I haven’t quite summoned the nerve to do that.”
    “Good.”
    “Why is that good?”
    “If your father was innocent then one of them might consider that your snooping around poses a danger to them.”
    She ate a small piece of chicken before replying. “I’m not a fool. I would have taken the appropriate precautions.”
    “That’s not the issue.”
    There was gender resentment in her voice. “Yes it is. You’re being condescending.”
    “I was not being condescending.”
    She smiled down at her plate. I wondered if she was testing me. “Are you sure? You know. Big, experienced, Mr. Webster will be okay because he’s male. He can recognize danger and handle it. But I’m a bit on the petite side. Too innocent or inexperienced to deal with real danger.”
    I began to wonder what I was getting myself into. There was a trace of annoyance in my voice when I spoke. “That’s not what I meant at all. I may be old enough to remember when someone like you would have been treated condescendingly, but I’ve worked beside women, even petite women, who were tougher than I was. I’m in less danger because I’m a reporter. It’s that simple. Hurt a reporter and half the country’s media will be shoving their mikes down your throat before you can rustle up an alibi. Even sociopaths think twice before touching a reporter or a policemen. We have institutions behind us. A simple individual like you doesn’t.”
    She gave me a smile. A private smile. There was something hidden behind it. But what? I decided to change the subject again. “So how did you track down their addresses and telephone numbers?”
    “I’m sorry,” she said.
    “For what?”
    “For being antagonistic. It’s important that we get along. That we trust each other. And so I should tell you that what I said earlier is not quite accurate. I haven’t tried to contact any of those people personally. But when I was going through my father’s things prior to the funeral, I came across some very short letters he had written to all of them asking them to help clear his name. But he never mailed the letters. I phoned the university and found out that Professor Gooden and Professor Hendricks were still at Winston. I mailed those letters from Oregon. I guess I thought I might set a cat loose among the pigeons.”
    I did not know what to say. I had the feeling that Gina Montini would prove a constant surprise to me.
    “I got the addresses and phone numbers,” she went on, staring at the food that remained on her plate, “through the university registrar. He had known my father. I told him I wanted to let my father’s former friends know about his death.”
    “And he believed you?”
    “Why not?” She gave me a crooked smile. “But he looked a little doubtful when I asked if he had Naomi Monaghan’s address and telephone number.”
    “The wife of the murdered professor.”
    “And the woman my father had had the affair with,” she said. “But I got lucky. One of his elderly female assistants had kept in touch with Naomi Monaghan. Good thing too because she’s gone back to her maiden name of Bronson. The woman seemed hesitant, at first, but she finally gave me an address and a telephone number.”
    I glanced down the list and noticed that the address was in the east end of Montreal. A district almost exclusively French speaking. I finished my wine. “I told you I spoke to the policeman who handled the case. I doubt if many people are going to be very co-operative. He, for example, is still convinced your father was