CHAPTER SIX
Ray pulled up in front of the Consulate. It was getting dark as it did so early these days but he could see Fraser standing sentry duty in front of the building. He couldn't believe that Thatcher had consigned him to the cold, hard pavement on his first day back from medical leave! Punishing him for the embarrassing incident in his hospital room, no doubt. As he walked around the front of his car, he realized he was mistaken. The red-suited statue was not, in fact, Fraser.
"In the doghouse, eh, Turnbull?" Ray said, as he approached. He didn't get an answer, which was to be expected. Still, the younger Mountie blinked and looked chagrined. Ray ignored the better angel of his nature and sidled up to the man. He spoke in his ear. "There once was a man from Nantucket," he began, then stopped at the look of horror on the kid's face. Ray clapped him on the shoulder, feeling the bulk of several underlayments of clothing beneath the red serge. "Sorry," he said, and continued up the steps and through the heavy wooden doors. He had tried that one on Fraser his first week in Chicago, to no reaction, not even a blush. Fraser had told him once that he used the art of Zen when on sentry duty, which freed his mind from his physical body, and enabled him to endure hours of standing still and the antics of passersby, without reaction. Well, maybe he should teach those techniques to Turnbull. His face was an open book.
Ray started up the curving stairwell to Fraser's second floor office. A voice downstairs halted him in his tracks.
"Ray!" Fraser approached, a stack of files in his arms. He was dressed in the brown uniform. "You're early," he said, surprised.
"I had to run a personal errand over this way."
"I have to finish my Form 10989Bs," he said, apologetically. "Please, make yourself comfortable in the kitchen." He gestured to the end of a long hallway. "There's a hot pot of bark tea," he began, then at Ray's grimace, continued, "the coffee is left over from this morning, though." He shifted the files in his arms. "Give me a moment and I'll make a fresh pot."
"Nah, don't bother," he said. "I'm a cop. We thrive on bad coffee." He continued down the hall.
Sure enough, the coffeepot was cold. He filled a mug and zapped it in the microwave, added cream from the fridge, and settled down at the small table. There were several newspapers on the table. Ray idly flipped through them. Calgary Herald. Vancouver Sun. Globe and Mail. La Presse, that one was in French. Yukon News. While the other papers were addressed to The Consulate of Canada, Chicago, the Yukon paper was addressed to B. Fraser. I guess Toboggan Today doesn't deliver, he thought. He settled down with the paper and contentedly sipped his coffee. At some point, he heard the click-click of Diefenbaker's claws on the hardwood floor as the wolf padded over and settled by his feet.
"Dief," he acknowledged.
"R-rrrayyyy," growled Dief.
Ray did a double take and peered under the table. "Say that again!"
Dief looked quizzically at him until Ray returned to the newspaper. A half hour later, Fraser poked his head through the door. He was wearing his hat and coat. "I'm ready if you are, Ray."
Ray looked up from the newspaper, surprised. He had been completely engrossed in the news from the frozen North. He folded the paper, rinsed his coffee cup, then shrugged into his coat. He followed Fraser out. He noticed that his friend was moving a little slowly, a little stiffly, but otherwise normally. Good.
Fraser exited the door, pulling on his gloves as he went. He glanced at the red statue, then looked at his watch. "End of shift, Turnbull," he called.
The young officer immediately hustled to the steps, alternately rubbing his arms and breathing on his hands. He hurried through the door. "G'night, sirs," he muttered, as he passed them.
"Good night," Fraser replied. "Get warm!" he called after him, then "Dief! You're letting the heat out." Dief padded out. Fraser shut and locked the front door. He opened the passenger side of the Riv, held the seat for Dief to climb in the back, and slid into the front. Ray started the engine and let it warm up.
"What did he do?" he asked, curious.
"A mishap with the daily communiques from Ottawa."
"Bummer," he said, as he pulled away from the curb.
"Yes."
Traffic was stop and go as they made their way to Cabrini-Green. The Mayor's godson had been released from the hospital yesterday. They needed to take his statement as they continued to build the case for the prosecution against Paul Maxwell. Traffic was relatively light for this time of day but it was all the way across town.
"Excuse me." It was the fifth time in as many minutes.
Ray rolled his eyes. "You don't have to keep saying 'excuse me' every time, Benny. One per city block is enough."
"That's not how I was - *- urp -* - excuse me, Ray - raised." Fraser rubbed his chest and grimaced.
"You sick?"
"Indigestion," he explained, stifling another belch. "Excuse me, Ray." At Ray's look, he added, hastily, "I can't help it."
"Burping or apologizing?"
"Either." He sighed. "My neighbors have been very kindly supplying me with covered dishes since I was laid up. Hummus, pierogis, chitlins and collard greens, kim chee - *- urp -* - excuse me, Ray. Some of the dishes can be a little ... rich." He tugged at his belt. "Like me, my refrigerator is full to bursting."
Dief woofed happily from the backseat.
"And you, being the polite Canadian that you are, have to eat some right in front of them."
"Well, they insist, Ray."
He nodded. "Hey, I'm Italian. My first words were 'mangia-mangia.'"
"I've also eaten at twenty six," Fraser paused, thinking, "no, twenty seven pancake houses, diners, and cafes in the downtown area since I've been off."
"Why, with all that food in your fri–?" he began, then answered his own question. "The Montreal Black."
"Quebecois Dark," he corrected, automatically.
Ray whistled. "That's a lot of greasy spoons."
"And forks and knives," Fraser added, "*- urp -* - excuse me, Ray - plates and cups, too."
Ray had enough. He leaned over and popped open the glove box. "Here," he said, handing Fraser a small bottle of Pepto-Bismol. "Take a swig."
He held his hands up in a warding off gesture. "No, thank you, Ray. I don't like to take –"
"You can't burp and pardon your way through the interview, Benny. We'll be there forever."
Fraser hesitated.
Ray zeroed in for the kill. "Besides, a belching Mountie is not exactly a credit to the uniform."
At that, Fraser grabbed the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and took a healthy dose of the medicine. He gagged and wiped his mouth. He looked at Ray, in suspicion. "I think it's spoiled."
Ray sniffed the bottle, took a small sip, then screwed the lid back on. "Nah, that's what it's supposed to taste like."
Fraser swallowed convulsively and flicked his tongue repeatedly over the roof of his mouth, trying to get rid of the taste. He gratefully accepted a piece of gum from Ray. The chalky, pink liquid was vile, but after a few minutes, he had to acknowledge that it did the trick.
"So, how's it going?"
"It's helping. Thanks, Ray."
"No, I meant ... any results on the Hunt?"
Fraser nodded. He reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out his notebook. He flipped through a few pages. "I found high quality Canadian maple syrup at six establishments. Three varieties. No Reserve, however, other than at Nick's." He tugged at his ear. "No leads on the suppliers, as of yet."
"Let me guess. Bottles of maple syrup just happened to fall off the back of somebody's truck, right?"
"Essentially, yes."
"Why am I not surprised?"
Fraser consulted his notes again. "What I find even more curious is that there are no reports of missing maple syrup – no thefts, no shipment hijackings, no warehouse break-ins - in any of the law enforcement data bases. I checked all of them - RCMP, federal, provincial, territorial, and tribal agencies. Nothing." He looked at Ray. "At least, nothing in the data bases that I could access."
Ray nodded. "I'll check out this side of the border. Put the word out to my snitches."
"Thanks, Ray."
"Just doing my part as a member of the ... ' he paused, thinking. "The I.J.T.F ... uh ...C.C.C.P.D." The capital letters were evident in his tone.
Fraser looked puzzled, then smiled. "The International Joint Task Force of the Canadian Consulate and the Chicago Police Department. The Inspector informed me this morning."
"Gotta love those anagrams, Benny."
"I think you mean acronyms, Ray.
"Whatever." He pulled over to the curb. They had arrived. "It's all alphabet soup to me."
It took about an hour to get the statement from the mayor's godson, a good-looking kid in his late twenties, who, though recovering from the skull fracture, was still pale and sickly-looking. He could not identify Paul Maxwell as his attacker, as he was struck in his sleep. Still, he did know the man from their mutual membership in the health club. And he was able to ID his own jewelry and personal effects which were seized from Maxwell's apartment. He had been thrilled to meet an actual Mountie, and had peppered Fraser with questions.
On the way down in the elevator, Ray gave him a sly glance. "I didn't know your horse's name was Buttercup."
"I rode him as part of my job, Ray. I didn't name him." He stepped out as the elevator doors open. "And Buttercup was very virile. A real stallion."
"Ri - ght," he said, skeptically.
"No, Ray," Fraser said, "he was really a stallion."
"Whatever you say, Benny."
They pulled into the station lot and parked. On the way up to the squad room, Fraser was besieged by so many well wishes and congratulations from the uniforms that Ray just plowed on up to his desk without him. It was a good fifteen minutes before he and Diefenbaker entered the detectives room.
Guardino spotted him first. "Hey, it's Big Red!" he shouted. Heads turned and greetings rang out. Fraser was clapped on the back several times as he snaked his way through the desks. Welsh, hearing the commotion, greeted him from the doorway of his office.
"Welcome back, Constable," he called out in his rough-hewn voice.
Fraser turned, hat in hand. He was obviously flustered by all the attention. "Thank you kindly, Lieutenant." He spun back and nearly knocked over Elaine. He dropped the hat and grabbed her shoulders, steadying her.
"Elaine! Excuse me!"
Elaine took a deep breath. "Fraser! My fault. I crept up on you."
"Are you all right?" he asked, solicitously.
She peered up into his face. "I should be the one asking you." She put a hand on his chest. "All better now?"
He realized he was still holding her. Very close. He let go and took a step back. "Oh, yes. I'm fine." He shrugged. "It was nothing, really."
She blew a lock of hair out of her eyes and gave him an exasperated look. "Nothing, huh?" She leaned in and kissed his cheek, the spice of her perfume filling his nose. "Glad you're back." Then, she was gone. Dief, tongue lolling, trotted after her.
Fraser stood, his hand on his cheek, staring after her. "Earth to Fraser," Ray called a couple of times. He shook himself and took a step towards Ray's desk, stepping on the crown of his hat. He bent and picked it up, punching out the crown from the inside. He slid onto the chair across from Ray. The squad room slowly returned to business as usual. Mostly. Every few minutes, someone, usually female, would come over and congratulate Fraser or welcome him back.
Now, Ray loved the recognition and accolades, even though he knew it was as fleeting as yesterday's news. He had basked in his moment in the sun last week. But Fraser ... Fraser sincerely hated the attention. He alternately tugged at his collar and twirled his hat in nervous fingers as he was fussed over. Ray took pity on him.
"You wanna type the statements on Maxwell while I do the computer search on the syrup?"
Fraser nearly leapt over the desk to get to the typewriter, which sheltered him in the corner behind Ray's desk. Ray handed him the forms and his notes and happily left him to it. Ray turned on the computer. He started with home base. Neither the Chicago Police Department nor the Illinois State Police had any reports of large scale maple syrup thefts. He moved on to the feds, sharing his results, or lack thereof, with Fraser as he went. FBI, USDA, Commerce, and Customs - nothing. They spent a companionable couple of hours. Ray kept Fraser abreast of his search results and fielded Fraser's questions and comments on the witness statements.
Ray leaned back and stretched his sore neck. "You're sure the syrups you tasted were Canadian?"
"Yes, Ray."
"So," he reasoned, "chances are they were stolen in Canada and brought across the border."
Fraser steepled his fingers. "We're assuming they were stolen in the first place. It's odd that there are no reports." He looked at Ray. "But to answer your question, most of the maple syrup consumed in the US is imported from Canada. The syrups could have been legitimately shipped to the US, then stolen from the repository here."
Ray frowned "We don't make our own syrup?"
"You do," he nodded. "But, as a country, you consume far more than you produce domestically. Vermont is the largest producer in the US, but it still has only five percent of the world supply. Another ten percent of production is the combined output of New York, Maine, Wisconsin, Ohio, New Hampshire, Michigan, Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, and Connecticut."
Ray gave him an irritated look.
"What?"
"Nothing, Mr. Encyclopedia. Where does the other eighty five percent come from?"
"Canada," Fraser said, with a touch of pride. "Quebec, primarily. And since the implementation of NAFTA, our market share in the US has been growing."
"OK, OK, I get it. Maple syrup is big business in Canada."
"It's more than that, Ray," he said, earnestly. "It's part of our national identity." At his questioning look, he prompted, "The Maple Leaf?"
"Oh, right," he said, "the hockey team."
"I meant our flag, Ray."
"Oh, yeah. I knew that," he said, hastily. And before Fraser could launch the Canadian history lesson that was obviously on the tip of his tongue, he added, "I'm hungry. Wanna get a bite?"
Fraser looked a little queasy, but consulted his notebook. "Would you mind if we tried the Starr Diner, 2598 Fifteenth Street?"
"Sure," Ray said, as he stood and pulled on his coat. He picked up the stack of files on his desk. "Let me drop these in the Lieutenant's office." He smiled. Six cases closed and prepped for the State's Attorney. He put them in the Lieu's in-basket, triumphantly. They found Diefenbaker curled up in the canteen in hopes of scoring a snack. When he heard they were heading to an eatery, he sprang to his feet.
Ray's diversion didn't work. He still got the history lesson in the car.
"You know, Ray. Your Stars and Stripes was officially adopted by Congress in 1777 in nearly the same design as exists today – subject to the addition of a star when a new state enters the union, of course. And minor changes to the official color tones. But Canada adopted the Maple Leaf flag only recently, relatively speaking." Fraser rubbed an eyebrow with a thumb. "In fact, in our lifetimes."
"Really?" he said, interested in spite of himself.
"February 15, 1965. Flag Day," Fraser said. "In fact, the Great Flag Debate of 1964 still rankles in some quarters." He looked serious. "I'm sorry to say, it got ... ugly."
"Over a Maple Leaf?" Ray said, incredulous.
"Oh, yes, Ray. Tempers ran high. The debate ran along party lines and grew quite raucous. It culminated in the vote on the floor of the Commons, with the Liberal majority singing O Canada over the Tory opposition'srendition of God Save the Queen."
"That is ugly," he agreed.
Fraser shook his head, sadly. "Not our proudest moment."
Diefenbaker yip-growled from the back.
"We're not getting into all that right now," Fraser said, over his shoulder.
More growling-whines.
"No," he said, firmly. "Ray is not interested in the minutiae of the debate."
More noises.
"Diefenbaker, I will not be drawn in."
Ray hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "What's with him?"
Fraser sighed. "It's an old argument. Diefenbaker favors the conservative position; I tend to side with the modernists." A grumble and a growl. "We've never settled it." Then, pointedly to Dief, "And we're not going to tonight!" He sat resolutely forward.
They continued in silence for another block, then Ray spoke. "So, Sophie asked me to the wedding."
"What did you say?"
"What do you think I said?"
Fraser was silent for a moment. "I think you did whatever you thought was right," he said, diplomatically.
"She's a beautiful woman and she needs a date. I'd be helping her out."
"That's very gallantof you, Ray," he said, studiously neutral.
"Yeah, I'm a regular Ganymede."
Fraser puzzled over that one. "You mean, Galahad?"
"That's what I said." Ray peered at the red light, tapping his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. "Actually, I turned her down."
"You did?"
"Yeah," Ray said, shifting in his seat. "We talked. About the boyfriend. About why she wanted to invite me." He shrugged. "She cried a little, said she still loved him. I told her she deserved better than a fling on the rebound. And so did I." He scratched his chin. "Make a long story short, I told her to call him." He looked at Fraser. "Turns out, they'll be going to the wedding together."
"Very chivalrous, Sir Raymond," Fraser said, with a tip of his hat.
"Nah," he said. "It would never have worked out. She hates basketball."
"Of course, it wouldn't," he agreed, smiling inwardly. Ray would rather blow up another Riviera then admit to doing anything noble. He peered through the windshield. "There it is, ahead on the right."
Parking was tight. Ray finally found a space on a side street next to a dark alley. Fraser got out of the car. As he held the door for Dief, he leaned down and spoke directly to him. "As you know, you will have to wait outside. I will bring something out to you." Dief issued a rather cantankerous noise. "Don't take that tone with me, mister. I don't make the health regulations."
Dief tossed his head and sniffed at the entrance to the alley across from the car. He made a grumble-growl and continued sniffing around at a leisurely pace.
Fraser looked at him, with annoyance. "Ray, why don't you go on ahead and get us a table. I'll join you in a few minutes." He turned his face away from the wolf and lowered his voice. "I'm afraid he's sulking. This may take a little while."
Ray finished feeding the meter and nodded. "OK. You want I should order you a drink?"
"Tea with lemon, please." Then, he raised his voice as he stepped closer to the alley. "Diefenbaker, would you please take care of business!"
Dief grumbled, tossed his head, and turned away from him. He padded into the alley, which was in shadow.
"For heaven's sake! It was nearly thirty years ago! You weren't even born yet!" Ray heard the frustration in Fraser's voice and smiled. He walked to the corner, turned and headed toward the restaurant.
Suddenly, Diefenbaker sniffed, stiffened and let out a sharp bark. He ran into the alley, disappearing from sight. Fraser stood a moment, then called "Ray!" He ran after the wolf.
Ray, who was halfway down the block, heard something in his tone, and reversed course. He peered down the dark alley, then fumbled for his keys. He knew better than to run into a dark alley in this, or any, neighborhood. He unlocked the trunk of the Riv and retrieved a large flashlight, but left it off. He also knew better than to shine a light into a dark alley without knowing what was down there. He thought a moment, then drew his gun. He moved to the mouth of the alley. He debated with himself for a moment, then held his position, straining to hear.
Dief was running full tilt straight down the center of the alley. Fraser was taking it more cautiously. His eyes were rapidly adjusting, but it was still very dark. In the distance, he could just make out a vehicle crowding the narrow alley. He heard voices. He stopped to listen. Two, no three voices. Male. Too far away for him to hear what they were saying or see what they were doing. He crept forward.
Suddenly, the voices raised in surprise and consternation as the three men were talking all at once.
"Hey, dog, get out of here!"
"Beat it!"
"Shit, get away from there!"
The vehicle's headlights blazed on. Fraser raised a hand to shield his eyes, but he'd lost his night vision. He moved closer, hugging the alley wall. He was reluctant to make his presence known until he knew what was going on, but he was concerned about Dief.
He heard the sounds of a scuffle, then "Gimme that! Grab him, Dave!"
"Nice doggie," a man said, in a wheedling tone. "Be a nice doggie and drop it."
Fraser was now close enough to see Diefenbaker, fully illuminated in the glare of the headlights, flanked by two men in silhouette. They moved toward the wolf, crouching, with their hands outspread.
"Come on, pooch! Drop it!"
"Here, doggie! Nice doggie!"
One of the men lunged at Dief. There was a struggle, then the sound of breaking glass. Dief barked furiously.
"Shit! He ripped my jacket."
"Big deal! Grab the mutt."
"But it was my dad's jacket!"
Another voice, the third man, came from inside the vehicle. "Stop wasting time, for f—'s sake. Shoot it, Al!" Fraser saw the first man reach into his coat then extend his arm.
The second man, Dave of the torn jacket, stepped in front of the gunman, shielding Dief. He said, "Al, don't. It's just a dog!"
Fraser yelled, "Gentlemen! That's my dog! I'm sorry he disturbed you!"
The distraction worked. The men turned toward him. Al concealed the gun behind his back.
Fraser stepped away from the wall, one hand shielding his eyes, and the other stretched out in a friendly gesture. He needed to defuse this situation before Diefenbaker got hurt.
"Who the hell are you?" Dave asked. Fraser couldn't see his face, but he sounded young.
"My name is Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police," he answered, politely, intending to reassure them with his rank and position.
Alarmed voices all at once.
"Canadian?!"
"Mountie?!"
"Cop!"
"Why, yes," he began, then froze as Al brought his arm in front and pointed the gun at Fraser.
Dave shouted, "No, Al!"
They had forgotten about Dief. Which was a very good thing for Fraser. The wolf leapt on the gunman's back, spoiling his aim. Then, Dief took off like a rocket, heading back down the alley from whence he came. Fraser ducked back into the shadows as a shot rang out. It hit the wall behind him. A second shot also missed the mark. Just then, Diefenbaker passed him at full gallop, racing to exit the alley. Fraser followed, running in a zigzag pattern, trying not to present a broad back in a straight line to the gunman. Still, he felt like he had a target painted on his jacket, the bullseye centered right over the scar left behind from the last time he had been shot in the back.
Then, with a sinking feeling, he heard the roar of the car's engine. The tires squealed as the car raced down the narrow alley behind him. The alley was one long, straight, narrow passage. There was nowhere to go, no doors or hollows to duck into, no dumpsters to shelter in, no fire escapes to swing on to. Fraser abandoned the zigzag pattern and ran for his life. He had a head start, but the car was gaining on him. His only chance was to clear the alley before the vehicle ran him down. He was racing full out, legs pumping, lungs straining, praying he wouldn't slip or stumble on the uneven surface.
"Run, son!" he heard his father's voice in his ear.
Fraser had no breath to rebuke his father for, once again, stating the obvious. He could see the mouth of the alley and the street beyond. He summoned all his reserves and put on a final burst of speed. But he wasn't going to make it. The vehicle was right on his heels.
Ray stepped out of the shadows, flashlight and gun held in an extended two-handed grip. He shone the flashlight into the windshield on the driver's side. The vehicle swerved away from Fraser, careening off the left alley wall. Fraser cleared the alley and dove to his right, his momentum rolling him over and over on the pavement until he slammed against the side of the Riv.
The car fishtailed, then recovered. Now, it was aiming for Ray. Ray dove out of its path, with inches to spare. The car swerved, fishtailed once or twice, then recovered and sped down Fifteenth Street. It ran the red light, nearly colliding with oncoming traffic, before it was brought under control and sped away. The blare of horns echoed in its wake.
Ray got to his feet, still holding the gun. He looked down at himself. There was a hole in the knee of his trousers. Another Armani bites the dust, he thought bitterly. He scooped up the flashlight and walked over to his car. Fraser sat with his back against the Riv, legs splayed, chest heaving. Dief stood over him.
"You OK?" Ray asked. "I heard the shots ... started in after you when Dief raced by, then I saw you running hell-bent-for-leather ahead of that car. Thought I'd be better positioned here."
Fraser nodded. Words came out one at a time between pants. "Good ... call ... I'm ... fine ... A ... little ... winded."
Ray sympathized. His friend had just come off medical leave and was not one hundred percent yet. Still, the speed with which he had cleared that alley was impressive. Well, a speeding car on your ass was a great motivator.
"You catch a license plate?"
"No ... Ray."
"Me, neither. I think it was a Camaro. Classic." He peered down at his friend. "What the hell was that all about?"
Fraser eyed Diefenbaker. "Dief ... care ... to ... explain?"
In response, Dief bent his head and dropped something in his lap. Fraser stared at it, then looked back at the wolf. Dief woofed, and looked pointedly back at the alley. Even Ray got it. He reached out a hand to Fraser and hauled him to his feet. He wobbled a bit, before letting go of Ray's hand. He held up the object for Ray to see. Ray cocked an eyebrow, then shone the flashlight into the alley.
Dief led the way. As they walked, Fraser gave Ray a synopsis of events. As he finished, Dief, barked once, then began licking something off the ground.
"Dief! That may be evidence!" Fraser remonstrated. The wolf, looking guilty, backed away. "Ray, could you shine the flashlight here, please." The light gleamed off a puddle of dark liquid, surrounding shards of glass. Fraser, down on one knee, dipped a finger in the puddle, and licked it.
"Aagghh." Ray shuddered. He would never, ever get used to that. "What is it?"
"Maple syrup." He examined the shards of broken glass. "No labels, no identifiers." He took his handkerchief out of a pocket, spread it on the ground, and placed the shards carefully within it.
"I thought you said there were no identifiers."
"I can't leave broken glass in an alley. Someone might step on it." Fraser dipped his finger in the puddle again.
"Ewwww, don't do it again," he complained.
"Could be the Reserve, but there are other ... conflicting notes, so I can't be sure ... motor oil ...10 W 30, I believe ... antifreeze." He licked his lips and closed his eyes. "And ... uh ...," he glanced at Ray, and stood up, "well, never mind."
Dief made a derogatory noise.
"I know," Fraser said, indignantly.
He whined-growled again.
"What?' Ray said, "Something else?"
"It's not important," he said, standing up with the bundled handkerchief in one hand. "What is important –"
"Tell me."
"You won't like it, Ray."
"So, tell me anyway."
"I detected feline urine." Dief yipped. "So did he."
Ray made a face. "And you think Pepto-Bismol is disgusting," he muttered. He shone the flashlight around the alley. "Bingo!" He centered the light on a door with the numbers "2598" and "Diner" stenciled on to it. "We interrupted a delivery."
"It would appear so," Fraser said. "If I may recap." He pointed way down the alley to where the Riv was illuminated by a streetlight. "Dief picked up the scent of maple syrup from the street." Dief barked once. "He raced into the alley, found the men beginning to unload the vehicle. He confronted them and confiscated a bottle containing the Reserve." Another bark. "One of the men, a young man, I believe, named Dave grappled with Dief, whereupon the bottle shattered. But during the struggle, Dief managed to tear this from Dave's sleeve, or perhaps, I should say Dave's father's sleeve." He held up a scrap of navy blue fabric with a badge attached. There was lettering around the edge of the badge, but it was torn so that only partial letters remained.
"Is that about the size of it?" he asked the wolf. Dief barked twice and wagged his tail. "Well done."
Ray shook his head, woefully. "You can get shot over a parking space in this city, so why am I surprised bullets were fired over a bottle of maple syrup ..."
Fraser looked troubled. "It wasn't until I identified myself as RCMP that they actually started shooting at me. They became quite agitated."
Ray frowned, ticking off points on his fingers. "So, we're looking for a young guy named Dave with a rip in his coat; his buddy, Al, who likes to shoot at Mounties; and a mean s.o.b. who drives a souped-up dark Camaro classic. " He looked at Fraser. "Anything else?"
"Not much. I couldn't see their faces, as they were silhouetted by the headlights. Average heights and builds, shoe sizes ranging from 9 to 11, judging by the footprints they left in the syrup. At least, Dave and Al. I couldn't see the driver a 'tall." He closed his eyes, concentrating. "But, all three are local. From Chicago, I mean." At Ray's upraised eyebrows, he explained, "They spoke with Chicago accents."
"Accent? Accent?" Ray shot back. "Wwe don't have no stinkin' accent." At Fraser's skeptical look, he said, "You're the one with the accent, Mr. Uh-Tall."
"I don't say that," he protested.
"Yeah, you do." Ray glanced at his watch. "Well, the bad guys won't be back here, tonight. Or ever." He heard a lapping noise and looked down. Dief was slurping up maple syrup, motor oil and cat pee like there was no tomorrow till Fraser stopped him. That reminded Ray that it was a long time since lunch. He gestured with his thumb to the diner. "I see from my shed-u-al that it is a-boot time for a meal. How a-boot some pancakes, eh?"
"Hoser," Fraser said, under his breath. Dief growled in agreement.
