Murder in Focus Read Free

of his eyebrows. “Then what . . .” His voice trailed off good-naturedly into a question, but his blue eyes remained sharp and cold, as always.
    â€œI need someone to coordinate security for the rest of the conference. Can you handle that as well as continue to monitor intelligence reports?”
    â€œJesus.” MacMillan shook his head. “That sounds like three or four full-time jobs.” He thought for a moment. “I’ll need some more men. Good ones. At least three.”
    Deschenes shook his head doubtfully. “I’ll see what I can find. I can’t promise you much, though. Just about everyone available with half a brain has already been assigned.”
    â€œDammit,” said MacMillan. “I sure as hell could use Steve Collins right now. Do you think there’s any way we could get him back from Intelligence on temporary assignment? There must be some sort of emergency proviso in all those new regulations.”
    Deschenes shook his head. “Not a chance.”
    â€œI haven’t seen him around lately,” added MacMillan. “He is still with those bastards at CSIS, isn’t he?” His thick, pale brows creased with incredulity. “I never could figure why he decided to leave the department.”
    â€œMmm,” said Deschenes vaguely. “Restless, I think. You know Steve—he never much liked Operations. And so there wasn’t much left for him to do here when we lost the Intelligence branch. I hear he’s happier where he is. If no one’s seen him, I suppose he’s back to undercover work.” Before MacMillan could answer, Deschenes was back at the files on his desk.
    Wednesday, May 10
    Steve Collins looked down at his dirty hands and muddy work boots and smiled grimly. He hadn’t looked quite like this at the end of a working day for ten years—not since he left the farm and what he regarded then as the prison of manual labour. The situation wasn’t exactly the same, of course. The end of his shift on the construction crew was nowhere near the end of his working day, and physical labour no longer felt like the imposition it had been when he was nineteen.
    He paused at the little white gate in front of the boarding house and calculated how rapidly he would have to mount the stairs to his room in order to avoid the landlady. Her hunger for small talk had already—in two days—led him to slip once or twice out of his deliberate loutishness. Once or twice he could cover easily enough, but too many evenings of cozy chat in front of the fire would be a disaster.
    He tried the handle. The door was open, of course. His landlady was criminally trusting. “Evenin’, Miranda,” he called in the direction of the kitchen as his boots hit the stairs. “Nice night out there, eh?”
    Before her reply could drift up to the second floor, he was in his room. He sat down on the bed and pulled a small black notebook out of his shirt pocket. After a moment’s thought, he drafted a brief report and cast it into this week’s simple code—one designed to foil nothing more sophisticated than the curiosity of telephone operators and innocent bystanders. He thrust the notebook into the pocket of his work pants, gathered up some clean clothes, and headed into the bathroom to take a shower.
    Hot water gushed over his aching shoulders and then slowed to a trickle. Bloody Miranda and her ancient plumbing. As he waited for the water to reappear he found himself trying to figure out how long it would be before he could contact Betty again. The ache in his shoulders transferred itself to an ache in his loins. He leaned forward, one hand on the mildewed tiles, his head bowed under the faint
drip, drip
from the shower head, and wondered for the third time that day whether the job was worth it. Suddenly a flood of rusty water, cold this time, drenched his dull black hair. He jumped back out of range and waited. There