CHAPTER ELEVEN
George walked Nina back to the Star Room, as it was on the way from Station House 4 to Parkington Whiskey. A light rain had started to fall, and he shrugged out of his coat, giving it to Nina. "I don't like this at all," she was telling him, for what seemed like the hundredth time since they'd left the station house.
"I know," George said. "But this is the way it has to be done. You need to go back and tell your manager about that case of whiskey. We both have a job to do to help save lives."
"As thrilling as that sounds," Nina shook her head. "I couldn't bear it if something happened to you, George Crabtree."
"I have the easy part," he said with a grin. "I'm just doing a little breaking and entering. You and John have the hard part-I wouldn't want to tell my boss the liquor he bought killed a man. On the plus side...you won't have to worry about Ken Smith anymore."
Nina squeezed his hand. "Will you come see me when you're done?" she asked. "Just to let me know you're all right?" She stopped in the middle of the street and looked up at him with pleading eyes. "Please?"
He kissed the top of her head. "All right," he promised. He glanced at the clock on the exterior wall of the Bank of Toronto. "If I'm not at the Star Room by 7:00, you go to the station house and alert Detective Murdoch."
"6:59," Nina countered. "And not a moment after."
He placed her hand in the crook of his arm. "6:59 it is."
Murdoch looked up from the table as John and Constable Jackson manhandled Connor O'Neill into the interrogation room and sat him down, cuffing one wrist to the arm of the chair. "Mr. O'Neill," Murdoch greeted him. "You haven't been completely honest with me. I can hold you on obstruction of justice, and, if I try really hard, accessory to murder." He nodded at Jackson, who let himself out. John stood by the door.
"I didn't kill anybody!" Connor exclaimed. "Brendan was my best mate!"
Murdoch leaned forward. "Convince me," he said shortly, glaring at the young Irishman. "I know that you had a fight with our murder victim the night he died, a fight you failed to mention during our first encounter!"
"Because I knew how it would look!" Connor yelled, giving the wrist with the handcuff on it a sharp rattle. "Yes, Brendan and I fought, but I didn't kill him!"
"But you know who did. And I think you also know why," Murdoch said. "I suggest you start talking."
Connor stared at him. Murdoch held his gaze, until finally, Connor looked away.
"I didn't kill him," Connor said finally. "But I might as well have," he added guiltily, looking down at his hands.
John cocked his head to the side, curious. The Irishman sighed. "Brendan and I went out for a drink after work, like we usually do," Connor began. "I didn't want to-days have been busy with the loads coming in. But we always go, so...I didn't want to say no. Brendan seemed, well, nervous, I guess. He told me that he'd overheard Martin talking with Alfie Dwyer and Ken Smith that night after the end of our shift."
"What does Alfie Dwyer have to do with any of this?" Murdoch asked.
"Alfie's got the keys to the denaturing room," Connor said. "I guess Brendan said they were doing something in there…something with a separate batch of whiskey. Said they were doing something to it and selling on the side to make a few extra dollars."
Murdoch and John exchanged a knowing glance. "Did Mr. Parkington know about it?"
Connor shook his head. "I dunno, I don't know how many people were involved. Brendan only said those three. He…he kept going on about it, how it tastes horrible, and how they dye it violet to separate it from the regular batch." He sighed. "I didn't believe him. I thought, there's no way someone's going to drink that stuff, it sounds terrible. How if it was purple, that people would know about it." He shook his head. "He wanted me to go back with him, to see for myself. But I didn't...I didn't want to get involved. I just wanted to go home. I didn't believe my best friend. I should have."
George darted across the train tracks and onto the Parkington Whiskey complex. Staying close to the walls for cover, he made his way to the one door he hadn't really paid much attention to the past couple of days. The building was solid brick, with thick wooden shutters over the windows. George tugged on one of the shutters, but it didn't budge. So much for the easy way in. Glancing around, he stopped in front of a heavy door with a couple of different sets of locks. He studied them. Hopefully the detective's lock picks can make quick work of these, he thought to himself as he pulled the set from his pocket. Setting them down in front of the door, he went to work, looking around every few seconds to make sure he was still alone.
After several minutes with the set, the door popped open, and George deposited the picks back in his pocket and pushed the door inward. The smell he was greeted with was overwhelming. It reminded him of the interior of Toronto Mercy, or right after a heavy cleaning of the morgue. Inside, the floors were brick and two large tanks filled the colossal space. George's steps echoed in the space as he let the door swing shut behind him and looked around. In one corner, he saw pallets of whiskey bottles. The giant tanks had a glass window in them, and inside, he could see clear liquid swishing against them. Then, in a far corner in the back, he spotted a couple of large bottles. He popped the lid off of one and dumped some of it onto the floor. It splashed bright purple on the floor. "Dye," he whispered, replacing the cap. "This is it. This is where they're making that other batch."
"I should've hit you harder," a voice said from behind him. "Apparently, you didn't get the hint, Mr. Jennings."
George froze.
Nina watched the clock anxiously. 6:50. She went through the motions of getting dressed and preparing for her act, but her mind was elsewhere. Lydia came storming backstage with a warning that Ken Smith was out front and to avoid it all costs.
6:54. Nina got up from her vanity and stormed out to the front, blowing by a shocked Lydia. She strode across the stage to where Ken Smith was leaning over the bar, reeking of stale cigarette smoke, chatting with Michael.
"Mikey. This man sold us poisoned whiskey," Nina informed the bartender. Both men looked at her in disbelief. "The whiskey that Sam Hansen drank last night killed him. It's not made the right way."
"What are you talking about?" Michael asked her.
Ken leaned over. "You don't know what you're talking about," he told her, his breath rolling over her in waves. "Sounds like you could use a drink."
"Not from you," Nina shot back. "Mikey, whatever he brought in tonight, throw it out."
Michael shook his head. "Nina-"
Nina ignored him and strode behind the bar, giving the case a shove. The crate dropped to the floor with a resounding crash that brought all the activity in the bar to a standstill.
Ken Smith grabbed her arm. "You had no right-"
Nina jerked her arm out of his grip. "Get your sweaty hand off me!"
He reached for her again, but his arm was caught mid-rise by John Brackenreid. "It's not polite to hit a lady," he growled.
"She's no lady," hissed Ken. Before John could react, Nina slapped Ken Smith hard across the face. The bigger man staggered backwards into John, who struggled to keep him upright.
"Well done, Miss Bloom. George teach you that?" John asked with a grin.
George. Nina looked at the clock. 7:05. "John, you need to call Detective Murdoch. George said he would check in by 7:00 and he hasn't. I'm worried he ran into trouble at the distillery."
"George." Ken blinked. "Wait, that new loader-"
"Is a constable. And my friend," Nina hissed at him. "And he's going to run your entire operation into the ground."
Ken Smith lurched, lashing out with a booted foot at Nina. Mikey pulled her out of reach as John wrestled him to the ground, putting a knee in his back. "Please call Station House 4 for Detective Murdoch," John told Mikey.
A thought occurred to him. He glanced down at Ken Smith's boots. The tread pattern looked very familiar. "Miss Bloom, did this man make a delivery to you last Tuesday evening?"
"He did, I have the order slip here," Mikey replied as he hung up the phone.
John nodded. "Mr. Smith, I'm arresting you for the murder of Brendan Walsh."
"What? I didn't kill anybody!" Ken protested loudly. "It was Martin!"
"And where is Martin now?" John demanded. He pushed his knee harder into Ken's spine. The other man yelped.
"Parkington! He's at Parkington, he's getting the next batch ready!" Ken moaned into the floorboards.
Nina's hands flew to her mouth. "He's there with George. John, you've got to go help him!"
"I can't leave-"
"Constable, if there's one thing I can manage, it's a man in handcuffs." Nina gave Ken a dirty look. "Now go!"
Author's Note: Well shoot, stuff's goin' down now!