CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Lieutenant Welsh took a bite of muffin, chewed appreciatively, and said, "All right, Inspector. Let's see if I can sum this up." Thatcher sat in the chair across from his desk. "They left here yesterday around noon. Vecchio told Elaine they were checking out the rented rooms of the two murder victims."

"That fits. Fraser told me they hoped to uncover the connection between the murders, the Mob, and the maple syrup."

"Elaine said they took the wolf with them."

Dief yipped from his spot on the floor. He returned to his muffin.

"Elaine called Vecchio's sister. Francesca."

Thatcher nodded. She had met the brash young woman.

"Vecchio left a message on the answering machine around four pm that he wouldn't be home for dinner. He didn't come home at all, last night." He sighed. "That happens from time to time when he's working a case, so the family wasn't alarmed." He added. "Until now."

She leaned forward in her chair. "I sent Turnbull to Fraser's apartment. He's not there.

"Doesn't that make him A.W.O.L.?"

"No."

Welsh waited for more. "I thought he only worked with Vecchio on his own time."

She cleared her throat. "I excused him from other duties so he could work this case," she said, not meeting his eyes. "After all, there is a Canadian connection."

"Ri- ight," he said. Interesting. "So, no one has seen or heard from them since four o'clock yesterday afternoon."

Dief made a noise.

"Except for Diefenbaker," he acknowledged. "What makes you think they're in trouble? Maybe they're just following a hot lead."

"That," she said, pointing at the paper on his desk, "is a call for help. Fraser sent that to me, via the wolf. It means that he was unable to communicate through more conventional methods. I find that ... ominous."

Welsh conceded her point. "You may be right. Vecchio's not answering his radio or cell phone. So," he looked down at the paper on his desk, "all we got is this note." He picked it up, squinting. "Which we can't make out."

"I'm sure Fraser had a good reason for making the note illegible," she said, defensively.

"This isn't some weird kind of Canadian code, is it?"

"No!" she retorted, "I just meant that there must be a good reason that he could not make it more legible. As a rule, the Constable's penmanship is perfect."

"Except this time," he muttered. "So, he had to scribble this. Perhaps in haste. Or in the dark? Or a moving vehicle?"

Dief barked three times.

"Perhaps all of the above?"

He barked once.

"OK," Welsh said, getting to his feet. "We'll keep the maple syrup details to ourselves. But I want as many brains on this as possible. Turnbull, too."

She followed him as he gathered up Elaine, Huey and Guardino. He stopped at the copy machine while she grabbed Turnbull. They entered Interview 1 in a parade, Diefenbaker bringing up the rear.

Welsh waited until everyone was seated. "OK, people, listen up. You know that Vecchio and Fraser were working on a mob connection to the two young men who were murdered the day before yesterday. Now, it appears they've gone missing." Heads nodded. "Fraser sent a message in care of the wolf. We've got to figure out what he was trying to tell us." He gave each of them a photocopy of the note and taped the original to the blackboard. "Read it and give me your thoughts."

As Turnbull opened his mouth, Thatcher said, for his ears only, "So help me, Constable, if you mention bran muffins or bark tea, you'll be on sentry duty till next Christmas." He subsided, without comment.

"That first word looks like 'brain' to me," Huey said.

"Nah," Guardino said, "it's Brian. That was the vic in the Camaro."

"I think it's bran," Elaine said. Turnbull's head jerked up. "I think that's a period. Here. 'B-R-A-N' period."

"Ooh, ooh, I know." All eyes were on Turnbull. "Branson!" he exclaimed. "Constable Fraser is quite the aficionado of country music."

Everyone looked at him. Then, Welsh said, not unkindly. "I doubt they'd send the wolf to tell us about a concert."

"Oh, but Branson is much more–" He subsided as the Inspector savagely jabbed her elbow into his ribs.

Welsh continued. "OK, let's assume Elaine is on the right track. Let's try place names in the city beginning with BRAN."

Elaine had left the room and was back, holding a City street directory. She read from it. "Brand Avenue, Brandon Avenue, Brant Street."

"Good, good. Write those down."

Elaine wrote 'BRAN' in large letters on the blackboard, then the street names under it.

"Any other ideas? Anybody?" Welsh said. All he got were blank stares in response. "OK, what about this next bit?"

.

"MRF?" Huey said.

"Nah, it's MUF," said Guardino.

Elaine squinted at her copy. "I think it's MRT?"

Guardino blurted. "There's a Brant Street Market!"

"Yeah, that second kid was killed outside a market!" Huey chimed.

"Write that down, Elaine," Welsh instructed.

Thatcher frowned. "I don't know." She held her photocopy up to her eyes and squinted at it.

"Perhaps, sir, your glasses–" Turnbull began, then stopped at her withering look.

"I don't think that's an 'M.' I think it's a 'W,'" she said, still squinting. "Fraser always starts his 'M's with a little loop. There's no loop here."

"Are you sure?"

"No, of course not, Lieutenant. Not in this instance. But, his customary script always contains the loop."

"W?" Elaine said, wrinkling her brow in thought. "Then, WRF?"

Welsh slapped a hand to his forehead and looked at Thatcher. "The barrels," he exclaimed. "In the Lake!"

Everyone but Thatcher looked at him, mystified. This was one of the details that only Welsh and Thatcher were privy to.

"Waterfront? Like a wharf? WRF?" She said. "BRAN. Wharf?"

The Chicagoans shouted in unison, "Brannigan's Wharf!"

Thatcher put a hand to her ear. On her left, Detective Huey's response had been particularly enthusiastic.

"So, this next part may be related to the waterfront," he said. "BARN ... barnacles?"

"No, no," Guardino said, excitedly, "it's 'BARF'! I always barf when I'm on a boat!" He turned to Thatcher. "Does Fraser get seasick?"

"I don't know, Detective," she retorted, "but if he did, Constable Fraser would purge, or vomit, or regurgitate. A Mountie never barfs!"

Elaine giggled, then sobered when the Inspector shot her a frosty look.

"Let's assume, for the sake of argument, that Constable Fraser, a competent, experienced police officer with little time to write this message, is attempting to give us relevant information," Welsh said, peering through his glasses at Guardino.

Elaine piped up. "Maybe it's the name of a boat?"

He snapped his fingers. "Or a type of boat. B-A-R-G. Barge." He grinned. "Now, we're getting somewhere."

"Yes, of course," Thatcher said. "Brannigan's Wharf. Barge. It makes sense. Write that down, Elaine."

Diefenbaker barked excitedly when she finished writing.

"Well, the wolf seems to agree," Welsh said, drily. "I suppose that's something."

"What about this last part?" Huey said.

"T-P-K- and N-A-R?" Guardino sounded it out. "Turnpike Narrows? You got turnpikes in Canada?"

"We have tollways," Thatcher said, speculatively. "We do not generally refer to them as 'turnpikes.'"

Elaine consulted her directory. "That's what we call them around here too. But Ohio has a Turnpike."

"So, does Pennsylvania," Welsh said.

"And Jersey," Guardino said. "I used to live in Jersey, you know."

"None of which are close to Brannigan's Wharf," Thatcher said, frowning.

"TPK, TPK. Hmmm," Welsh said, thoughtfully. "That was a term sonar operators used when I was in the Navy. It means 'Turns Per Knot'. It had something to do with the screws on an approaching ship. A way to identify them, like a signature." He frowned. "Would Fraser know about something like that, coming from the Great Frozen North?"

She shrugged. "He reads a lot. Still, that's promising. At least, it's a marine reference."

"What about this last bit? N-A-R. NARCO? Narcotics?" Huey asked.

"I thought it was N-O-R -something. Not N-A-R," Elaine said. "Not NORTH, I don't think. Maybe a name. N-O-R-A?"

"NORAD?" Guardino asked.

The room fell silent. Finally, Thatcher broke it. "Lieutenant, is TPK also used in radar parlance, as well as sonar?"

"Could be," he said, somberly. "Could be."

"What's NORAD?" Elaine asked. "And why are you all looking so grim?"

There was a pregnant pause, then Thatcher spoke. "North American Aerospace Defense Command," she said. "It's a joint American-Canadian defense system that monitors and responds to air, space and sea threats." She cleared her dry throat. "Including nuclear threats."

"Y-you mean, like in Dr. Strangelove?" she asked, her hand going to her throat.

Thatcher nodded. "I really don't know much about it beyond the basics. That's a bit outside my bailiwick." Her voice squeaked on that last word and she swallowed.

Everyone started talking all at the same time:

"Holy shit! If we're talking nukes here, we'll have to evacuate the city," Guardino said, standing up. "I gotta call my mom and dad."

"What do we do, Lieu? Contact the army? I gotta friend at Scott Air Force base," Huey said. "He's only a sergeant, but ..."

Thatcher said, almost to herself. "I don't have clearance for that kind of thing. I'd have to call Ottawa, but who ...?"

Elaine said, "I thought this was all behind us when the Soviet Union broke up –"

Turnbull said, "There's an old fallout shelter in the basement of the Consulate, sir. We can provision it with Constable Fraser's latest batch of pemmican and –"

"Everybody shut up! Sit down, Guardino!" Welsh bellowed. "Let's not panic, people!"

Guardino sat. All eyes were on the Lieutenant as he said, "Before we go down the path of declaring DEFCON ONE, I want to be damn sure of our facts." He pointed to the note taped to the blackboard. "Anybody have any other thoughts?"

Turnbull shifted uncomfortably in his seat, glancing surreptitiously at Thatcher.

"Yes, Constable," Welsh said. "I don't think we've heard from you on this last bit?"

He hesitated, remembering the Inspector's warning. "I am very familiar with Constable Fraser's handwriting, sir. I must respectfully disagree," he said, apologetically. "I don't think that it's N-O-R. I thought it was N-A-P, since that went with the bran muf - uh ... well, never mind. My point is that now, in light of the discussion, I think it's N-A-R. And the bit just before that, TPK. Well, you might think this is silly, but I immediately thought 'Toothpick.' Now, Toothpick N-A-R doesn't make sense–"

"Turnbull," Welsh exclaimed, "you're a genius!" All the Americans grinned, immensely relieved not to be on the verge of global thermonuclear war. Guardino patted his back, enthusiastically.

Turnbull, who had never ever in his life been called a genius, beamed, though he was unsure what he had done to earn the compliment.

"What?!" Thatcher said, loudly. "What in heaven's name is a Toothpick N-A-R?"

"You mean, who." Welsh said. "Toothpick Nardo is one of the scummiest wiseguys in Chicago. His claim to fame was the Dockworkers corruption scandals back in the eighties. He's got his hand in everything dirty in this city. Drugs, gambling, prostitution, racketeering, bribery, you name it, he's done it."

"Smuggling?" she asked, archly.

"Probably," he said. "OK, Huey, Louie, get down to Brannigan's Wharf. On the Q.T. See what you can see, but be careful. We may have officers in a precarious situation. Report in once you get there."

"Yes, sir," they chorused and turned to leave.

"Take the wolf with you,"Thatcher said, quickly.

They all looked at her.

She shrugged. "Diefenbaker was the last ... uh ... person to see them. He could help."

Dief yipped.

Welsh looked at Dief. "Take him." He leaned over and spoke to the wolf directly. "You listen to the detectives, or you answer to me. No solo heroics. You got it, Mister?"

Dief looked at Thatcher. "What he said," she said, sternly, pointing at Welsh.

He barked his agreement. The three of them left the office.

"Elaine, I want a complete rundown on Frankie Nardo. See what connections he has to Brannigan's Wharf or anybody connected to Brannigan's Wharf or anybody connected to anybody connected to Brannigan's Wharf."

"I'm on it," she said, hurrying from the room.

Welsh looked at Thatcher. "We'll find them."

She nodded. "Why is he called 'Toothpick'?"

"Trust me, Inspector," he said, grimly. "You really don't want to know."

She stared at him for a moment. "Understood," she said, rising. She smoothed down her suit jacket, then extended her hand. Welsh took it. "Thank you, Lieutenant. You can reach me at the Consulate. Come along, Turnbull."

Turnbull smiled a goodbye. Welsh clapped him on the back. "Good work, Constable."

His grin lit his face like the sun. "Thank you, sir."

Welsh's tread was heavy as he returned to his office. He meant what he'd said to the young woman. With two officers missing, he wished with all his heart that he didn't know why Frank Nardo was called "The Toothpick." He offered up a quick prayer for his detective and the Mountie before picking up the top file from the teetering stack on his desk.