CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"Fraser, I need you to make the arrangements for a visiting -" Meg Thatcher was deep within Fraser's office before she looked up from the letter in her hand. The Constable was not, in fact, in his office. She wandered the upstairs hallway peeking in doors. She found him downstairs, in the Consulate library, a richly furnished, well-appointed room filled with comfortable chairs, reading lamps and wall-to-wall bookshelves. Turnbull kept it neat and tidy, but it was rarely, if ever, used. Or, perhaps more accurately,she never used it.
Her missing officer was seated in a chair by a window. The morning light streamed in behind him, shining on his dark hair and the book on his lap. Curious, she peered at the book from her vantage at the door. It was a large, heavy tome. The open pages were dense with small print, tables, and graphs. He was as engrossed in it as she would be in the latest Stephen King novel. She watched him read, unaccustomed to seeing such an unguarded expression on his face. She studied his features, trying to see the real man beneath the reserved mask he usually wore.
When she took up her post at the Consulate, she had read the files on him, backwards and forwards, as she had done for all the staff. For months now, she had been trying to reconcile the man in those files with the man under her command. It didn't fit with the Fraser she saw every day, the one who quietly took everything she could dish out, who performed his job superlatively, if unconventionally, who spent his down time assisting the local police, without remuneration. Those files described a nettlesome outlier, while she saw a Don Quixote in red serge, constantly tilting at urban windmills. Was it all an act, as she had first suspected? A charade to gull her, his new superior on her first command, into scrubbing clean his troublesome reputation? Or a guilty, but repentant, man attempting rehabilitation, whose foot might slip again at any moment? Or, and she could hardly credit it, could he actually be for real?
Meg was an ambitious, competent officer on a career path she hoped would someday take her to the highest levels of Ottawa. The consular assignment had been a multi-faceted opportunity - a command of her own, invaluable diplomatic experience, exposure in a major American city. She had intended to make the most of it, surpassing the expectations of the brass that had put her here. She had been warned that the plum assignment came with some baggage.
Fraser.
Because he had been on medical leave when she had first taken up her post, her first impression of him had come from her superiors and those files. Meg believed in the chain of command, in working from within the system, in sucking it up for the good of the Service. What Fraser had done, exposing the government in the Yukon dam scandal, turning in a superior officer, publicly disputing the corruption allegations surrounding his dead father, should have been handled internally, through proper channels. Instead, his actions had caused the Service to be dragged through the mud.
Oh, he had his supporters in the Force, who applauded or excused his actions. But they were primarily field officers in the Territories or the Yukon with little political clout. When he himself had become embroiled in a sex and murder scandal in Chicago last year, it seemed to underscore what his detractors had been saying all along. Inspector Margaret Thatcher, eager to shine at her first command post, had believed everything she had been told. She had put pressure on him, within legal parameters, hoping he'd resign. Or cross a line that would justify dismissal. She thought she was being fair to someone who really didn't deserve it.
But, as time passed, she had begun to doubt the veracity of the files and the motives of the superiors who encouraged his departure from the Service. Things happened which were at odds with the picture the files painted. The latest anomaly occurred when Fraser had wanted to refuse the Mayor of Chicago's commendation for apprehending the Rooftop Burglar, insisting that it was Vecchio who deserved the credit for arresting the perpetrator. She had insisted right back, pointing out that such an accolade reflected well on the Consulate, the RCMP, and their nation in general, as well as being a feather in her cap. He had apologized profusely for his obtuseness, and agreed to accept the honor. She had passed her report and the favorable newspaper clippings on to Ottawa, expecting a pat on her back and perhaps new thinking on the Fraser problem. But, there had been only silence.
So, when the firearms certification snafu had been revealed last week, it had been like a slap in the face. She had gone to bat for Fraser, trying to get an extension from Ottawa, and barring that, shipping him home to a target range before the deadline expired. She had been coldly rebuffed at every turn, leading her to the uncomfortable thought that she had not moved quickly enough to deal with the Fraser problem, from certain points of view. Or, maybe she was perceived as having switched sides. She shook her head. You're just being paranoid, she told herself, with a small sigh.
With his preternaturally acute hearing, he heard her. He glanced up, then leapt to his feet, book quickly tucked under one arm. "Sir! I didn't see you there."
She strode into the room. "What is that?"
"What is what, sir?"
"There, under your arm."
He looked down at it. "A book, sir. I was just ... uh ... reading," he finished lamely.
She held out her hands and he surrendered it to her. Industry, Regional and Provincial Economic Trends and Forecasts in National Commodities: A Special Report. She flipped through its densely packed pages. It fell open to where he had inserted a slip of paper as a bookmark. A graph charting the increased production of maple syrup in the post-War years caught her eye.
The tone of her voice dropped several degrees. "Is this about that maple syrup business of yours?"
"No, sir. It's a Ministry of Finance compendium, chronicling all national commodity production, regulation, trade –"
"I mean, Fraser," she said, exasperated, "are you reading this in connection with your little 'mystery'?"
He hesitated slightly. "Yes, sir."
"I told you not to pursue that."
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir." He looked pained. "Actually, sir, I believe you told me not to pursue a line of inquiry with the Federation of Quebec Maple Syrup Producers." He paused, then added helpfully. "I do not recall that you told me not to read official government reports. However, if you would prefer that I limit my reading to certain material, perhaps a list of the prohibited subjects could be –"
"Of course, I want you to read official reports. It's part of our jobs, Fraser. As you well know." It stung that his impression of her would be that of officious tyrant. Her inner voice added, then, stop behaving like one!
"Yes, sir."
"And, I'm not trying to tell you what you can and cannot read. Ours is a free county, after all." She frowned, and added, "Within reason ."
"Yes, sir."
She riffled the pages of the report, creating a slight breeze that ruffled her hair. When she spoke, her voice was less strident. "Have there been any new developments in the maple syrup mystery?"
"Yes, sir. There have."
"Would I want to know about them?"
He looked at her speculatively, then said. "No, sir. I don't believe that you would."
She waved a hand, dismissively. "Then, forget I asked."
"Y-yes, sir." He had been standing rigidly at attention since jumping out of the chair. That open expression was gone, replaced by what she thought of as his Mountie mask.
She sighed. "Fraser, I'm not a martinet."
"N-no, sir," he said, faltering. "I'm sorry if I implied that you were."
"Stop apologizing," she said, more sharply than she intended.
"Yes, sir. Sor –" He bit his lip and looked down at his feet.
She wished she could take the rebuke back, or at least soften the tone. But, she didn't know how, especially with a subordinate officer. She had developed an aggressive mien and a thick skin to get her where she was now. It was a hard lesson, but she had learned to suppress the softer side of her nature. A lesson that he, too, should have learned by now, if he had any ambition. Still, as his commanding officer, she had him at a disadvantage. There was no call to be abusive as well. He couldn't very well respond in kind.
She deliberately lightened her tone. "At ease, Constable."
He relaxed slightly. "Were you looking for me, sir?"
"Yes, Fraser. I was," she said, relieved to change the subject. "The assistant Undersecretary for Business Development will be visiting Chicago next month." She handed him the letter. "Please make the travel arrangements. And schedule some suitable entertainment and cultural activities while she is here. This will be her first visit to the United States."
He glanced at the letter, then back at her. "I will, sir."
"And I need the FAFFs completed for Banff asap," she began.
"I finished them this morning, sir."
"Finished?" she said, surprised. "I put them on your desk only last night."
"I was in early, sir," he explained. "I'll get them." He didn't mention that Ray had dropped him off after their delivery of Helen and Dave to the suburban station. He had changed into the spare uniform he kept in his office and started in on the FAFF forms immediately. He hadn't yet been to bed, but six cups of bark tea had provided the necessary stimulant. "Er, that is, if I am dismissed?"
"Yes," she said, absently, "put them on my desk." She was squinting at the book in her hands. She couldn't make out the fine print without her glasses. But a large pie chart caught her eye. Ten million pounds of maple syrup were kept stored in warehouses in Quebec as part of the government's grand plan to stabilize price and supply. She reread that. Ten million pounds. Global Strategic Maple Syrup Reserve, indeed! Perhaps, she had been too hasty in dismissing Fraser's interest in his 'mystery.' She sat in the chair he had vacated, and turned a page.
After a few minutes, she felt something and looked up. Fraser was watching her from the precise spot where she had stood watching him. He saw that she was aware of his presence. With a determined air, he crossed to her and reached out a hand. He was holding her glasses.
As she reached for them, they spoke at the same time.
"Sir, I think you were wrong –" – "Fraser, I think you were right–"
They stopped, then both said at the same time:
"What did you say, Fraser?" – "What did you say, sir?"
Fraser recovered first, and said hastily, "You first, sir."
She gave him a sour look, but complied. "I said, I think you were ... not wrong."
"Ah," he said, then paused, savoring the moment.
"What did you say, Fraser?" she said, impatiently.
"That's not important, sir," he said. Thatcher could discern no expression on his face, but was that a twinkle in his eye? "What is important is that you think I'm ... not wrong." Before she could react, he said, quickly, "That is, I mean ... what did you mean, sir?"
She donned the glasses and read aloud, "'At any given time, the Federation of Maple Syrup Producers stores over ten million pounds of maple syrup in a secret location in rural Quebec.'" She looked up. "Ten million pounds!"
He looked down at her. He rarely saw her bespectacled. She usually snatched them off when other people entered the room. The glasses suited her, emphasizing the rich chocolate of her eyes and the heart shape of her face. He nodded. "The Global Strategic Maple Syrup Reserve is a significant part of our national economy."
"I know that. Maple syrup is also intrinsic to our heritage."
"I pointed that out to Detective Vecchio just the other day, sir."
She looked down at the book in her lap then up at his earnest face. She gestured to the adjoining chair. "Sit down, Fraser."
He sat, stiffly.
"Tell me," she said.
He took a moment to gather his thoughts, then related a condensed version of the murders of Albert Ames and Brian Mosely and the attempt on David Everett's life. She was silent throughout his recitation .
Fraser said, in conclusion, "Detective Vecchio believes that organized crime is behind the violence. In retaliation for the presumed theft of the maple syrup by Brian and Al from them."
Thatcher was appalled. "They killed two people for stealing what they themselves had already stolen?"
"According to Ray, in Chicago, there are two things written in stone. One, you never, ever steal from the Mob." He paused, tugging at his ear. "But, we don't know for a certainty that the maple syrup was stolen, sir. Or, if it was, by whom. I have been unable to ascertain the source of the supply." He steepled his fingers and continued. "The young men in question had apparently pilfered 10 fifty-five gallon drums of premium maple syrup, part of which consisted of Quebecois Dark Reserve, the most expensive and exclusive maple syrup in Canada. That large a quantity of maple syrup, if stolen from a retail or even a wholesale outlet, should have been reported to law enforcement on one side of the border or other. The Quebecois Dark, especially."
"That's why you wanted to contact the Federation," she mused. "To see if there were any losses before the syrup reached the retail or wholesale market."
"Yes, sir," he said, looking at her. "But, you were ... not wrong." There was that twinkle again. "I realize now that this is a politically sensitive issue, and that such an inquiry would be likely to raise ... uh ... hackles." He made a face. "Especially, coming from me."
So, he did understand he was a pariah in political circles. Maybe, he wasn't as naive as he appeared. "Hmmmm," she said, thoughtfully. "Perhaps, I was hasty." She made a decision. "I have a friend in Ottawa. She can be discreet." She sat up straight. "I'll make a careful inquiry."
"Thank you, sir."
"What's the other thing?"
"Sir?"
"You said there were two things written in stone in Chicago. What's the other thing?"
"Oh," he said, surprised. "Never cross the Donnelly Brothers."
"Who are the Donnelly Brothers?"
"Criminals, sir."
"Did you?"
"Did I what?"
"Cross them," she said, exasperated.
He tugged at his ear. "I suppose I did. But, they're in jail now, so I imagine that's no longer written in stone. Although, if it isn't now, how could it ever have been in the first place?" He looked confused. "I'll have to ask Ray."
She looked at him. "What is your next step?"
Fraser straightened in his chair. "I'm meeting Ray after my shift ends. We will investigate the victims. Perhaps, find the link that leads to their killers." He added, "And to the source of the maple syrup."
She spoke briskly. "After you finish the arrangements for the Deputy's visit, you are dismissed." At his surprised look, she said, "You and Vecchio are in a unique position to follow up these leads. That must take priority over other duties."
He lowered his voice and leaned in closer. "So, this is a job for the International Joint Task Force of the Canadian Consulate and the Chicago Police Department?"
She looked blank for a moment, then said, "Oh, right. The ... uh ... International Joint Task Force of the Chicago Consulate, I mean, Canadian ..." She grimaced, "that's a mouthful." She thought. "Perhaps, we should just refer to it as the IJTF."
Fraser nodded in agreement. "Ray wants to print that on T-shirts." At her alarmed look, he said, "Just joking, sir."
She smiled, and just as quickly, it was gone. But, for a moment, Fraser had felt like the sun had come out from behind a cloud. She stood. He followed suit. She handed him the book.
"Carry on, Constable," she said, and exited the library. Fraser returned it to the shelves, then walked back to his office. He made the travel plans for the visiting dignitary, gathered up Dief, went home and changed to civilian clothes, and, to Ray's surprise, was at the 27th by noon.
Their first stop was the squalid rented room that Albert Ames had lived in. There was barely room for a bed, and no storage space. Not even a closet. The contents were typical for a twenty year old with limited means living in one room. Piles of dirty laundry, sheets that hadn't been changed in weeks, empty pizza boxes and takeout containers dominated the room. No reading material, except for a couple of adult magazines, which a red-faced Fraser discovered under the bed and hastily returned there. He and Dief sniffed away, but found nothing that hinted of maple syrup or anything to help with the quest. All Ray could discern was the stink of dirty socks. Fraser hadn't even found anything worth licking. The super had nothing to add. Al paid by the week and was one week ahead. None of his 'neighbors' knew anything. Or rather, none of them would open their doors to them.
They moved on to Brian Mosely's address, another rented room on the North Side. This one was a little bigger, a little neater, but otherwise, depressingly similar to Al's. Dave had not known Brian well. Dave had been Al's friend and Al had been Brian's. Dave had told them that he knew Al from high school, before they had both dropped out. Al, though older, had been held back a grade. Brian and Al had served in the same community service program, picking up trash for three months along Highway 94.
Dave knew none of the details of the origin of the maple syrup barrels. Nonetheless, it was clear from his tale that Brian had been the mastermind, so to speak, of the maple syrup caper. Still, there were no stores of maple syrup in barrels, bottles, or jars in his tiny room. And no sign of where they might be, where they had come from or whether they still existed. No helpful diary or calendar, no paystubs, no receipts, no paperwork at all. Ray theorized a rented storage unit or garage somewhere where the barrels had been kept and decanted to smaller containers. But nothing on the premises supported that theory. If there was such a storage space, it would take some real shoe leather to find it. Ray looked around the room, depressed. It might come to that.
Unlike Al, Brian at least had a closet. Fraser squatted by it, sifting through the few pairs of shoes. He picked up a well-worn work boot and examined the bottom. Fraser sniffed deeply, then held it out to Dief for his own olfactory analysis. He yipped and made noises.
"Yes, I think so, too," Fraser said, thoughtfully. He sniffed again. He took out his knife and scraped the bottom of the shoe onto his handkerchief. He dipped a finger into the scrapings and held it up to the light before touching the tip of his tongue to it.
"Eeewww," Ray said, though he knew it was a lost cause.
Fraser looked at Dief. "Creosote, sawdust..." He took another taste, then nodded, "Rust. Very high ferrous content. And, definitely, maple syrup." The wolf woofed in agreement. He carefully folded the scrapings into the handkerchief and returned it to his pocket.
Ray, who had just finished going through all the pockets of Brian's meager supply of clothes, sat on the bed. "I went over the Camaro this morning with the techs. There was nothing in it, not even a gum wrapper. It looked like it had just been washed and vacuumed. I bet he kept it off the streets, garaged it somewhere. If we find the garage, we'll find the syrup, I'm thinking." He sighed. "The kid must have loved that car. Shame about the bloodstains." He rubbed tired eyes. "If Guardino wins at auction, he'd be getting a sweet ride." He looked around at the sad remains of a young man's short life. "Maybe, ol' Brian would appreciate it going to a good home."
"Perhaps," Fraser said. Ray and Louis, and apparently Brian, had deep connections to their classic automobiles, a phenomenon that Fraser simply did not understand. "I'm glad I didn't dent it, then," he said, lightly.
Ray smiled. "Me, too." He stood up. "You hungry?"
They found a nearby restaurant. Fraser tried the pancake syrup for completeness' sake, but pronounced it Mrs. Butterworth's. They lingered over coffee after the meal. Ray was operating on a couple of hours sleep, Fraser on none.
"You said, creosote, right?" Ray asked. "Rust - iron ore. Sawdust - timber. Put them all together ... well, they don't spell MOTHER." He sipped coffee. "Brian worked the docks. But, not the pleasure boat marina where Dave worked."
"Logical," Fraser said, approvingly.
"They're a lot of docks on Lake Michigan. Where do we start?"
"The one place that holds all the answers, Ray."
"Church?"
Fraser gave him a strange look. "The library."
"Oh," Ray groused. "I'd rather go to church."
He finished his coffee. "There's a branch of the Chicago Public Library two blocks from here."
Ray was surprised. Fraser lived on the other side of town. "You been there?"
"No," he said. "I've memorized all the branch locations. You never know when you'll have an emergency." He paused. "We need the map from your car." They retrieved the map of the City of Chicago And Environs and continued walking.
Ray was silent on the way. As they approached the glass-fronted doors of the imposing stone structure, Fraser stopped. A large sign, with a figure of a dog with a red line through it, proclaimed in large type, No dogs allowed, except service dogs.
"Oh, dear," he said, then leaned down and spoke to Diefenbaker. "I'm sorry but you'll have to wait out here."
Dief grumbled.
"Yes, I know you're a wolf, but that is implied." As Dief made a complaining noise, he threw his hands up in exasperation. "We go through this every time!"
Dief, sulking, obeyed the restriction, and settled himself next to the marble lion lining the walk. He assumed the same pose as the feline statue.
Fraser held the door open for Ray.
He hung back, "I'll wait out here with Dief. Keep him company."
"That's not necessary, Ray. He'll be fine."
A woman holding a small boy by the hand thanked Fraser as she walked through the door he held open. Several more library patrons did the same.
Still, Ray hung back. "Go ahead, Benny. I'm fine out here."
He let go of the door and it swung shut. "Ray?"
Ray sauntered over to where Dief was perched, and leaned against the wall. He didn't meet Fraser's eyes.
Fraser came closer. "Is there something wrong?" It was obvious that there was. Ray looked extremely uncomfortable, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
In a low voice, he said, "I'm not allowed in there."
"Nonsense, Ray. It's a public library. It's open to everyone."
"No, you don't understand." He paused as a man with a little girl passed by him on the way in. When they were out of earshot, he continued, "I'm banned. For life."
Fraser chuckled. "Good one, Ray. Come on." Then, seeing that his friend was not smiling, continued, "Oh. You're serious!" At his nod, he asked, "Why?"
Ray kept his eyes on his shuffling feet. "Me and Peggy Ann Malina got ... caught ... in the Ancient History section."
"Caught?"
"You know - caught."
Fraser was confused. "Were you playing hide and seek?"
"Hide and seek? We were fifteen years old!" Ray rolled his eyes as he still looked perplexed, then said. "We were making out, Benny!"
The look on Fraser's face would have been comical if Ray had been in a comical frame of mind. "In the library?!" he said, aghast. He couldn't have looked more shocked if Ray had confessed to participating in an orgy in the nave of St. Peter's Basilica. On Easter Sunday.
"Yes, in the library," he repeated, testily. "I was fifteen, for chrissake!"
"Oh, Ray," Fraser said, shaking his head. "Ray, Ray, Ray."
But Ray was in confessional mode. "It was getting pretty hot and heavy there, you know," he made vaguely suggestive gestures with his hands, "when, all of a sudden, this old battleaxe of a librarian came round the corner. She marched Peggy Ann and me out to the front desk, ripped up our library cards right in our faces, then banned us for life!"
"That's horrible!"
"It was, actually," he said, touched by his empathy.
"In flagrante delicto in a ... a ... library!" Fraser clucked his tongue. "How could you?"
"I was fifteen!" he said, defensively.
Suddenly, the implications of his confession struck Fraser. "You can't mean ... you aren't saying ... that you have not set foot in a library - any library - since you were fifteen years old?!"
"Well, um ... yeah."
Stunned, the grandson of librarians rocked back on his heels. "Huh!" he managed, at a momentary loss. Then, with an air of determination, he said, "Right. Well, then. There's no time like the present. Come on." He held the door open, again.
Ray shook his head, and stayed put.
"Ray, that was eighteen years ago! It's time."
More patrons passed between them while Fraser held the door.
"Fraser, I am not going in there!" said the Immovable Object.
"Ray, you have to get past this," replied the Irresistible Force.
"I have survived without a library for eighteen years. I am not going in there, now!" He crossed his arms on his chest, defiantly. "And you can't make me." Just as he said it, a small group of children, preschoolers, were being herded up the steps by two young women. A little boy balked at the door and refused to go forward as the other children filed past him.
"Timmy, come along," a young woman, obviously his teacher, pleaded. The rest of the group continued on, shepherded by the other woman.
"No!"
"Timmy, you have to. Come on," she wheedled, taking his hand, "the library is a fun place."
Timmy yanked his hand out of hers, and crossed his arms over his chest, his lower lip jutting out, stubbornly. "No, I don't wanna!" He trotted over to Ray and Dief. "And you can't make me!"
The young woman stared at them, exasperated. Then, turned and looked at Fraser, who was still holding the door.
Fraser fixed Ray with a steely gaze and then, looked pointedly at Timmy. "Ray," he said, firmly.
He looked at him, at the teacher, who was very pretty, at Dief, who was very amused, and finally, at the little boy. He peeled himself away from the wall, resignedly. "Come on, Timmy. The library is a fun place." After a moment, the boy followed him.
"Thank you," the teacher said, smiling at Ray. He brightened and returned the smile.
"You're welcome," he said, motioning her through the door. Fraser held the door for Timmy and Ray, then entered himself. They passed the front desk where the librarians looked at them curiously, having observed a commotion outside.
Ray blanched as he saw one old lady, her snow-white hair skinned up in a tight bun, frown at him. He quickened his pace, and caught up to Fraser who was marching on, a man with a mission.
"That's her!" he said, in a fierce whisper.
"Who?"
"The battleaxe," he said, looking over his shoulder. She was still staring at him. He glanced away, guiltily. "I think she recognized me."
"She probably has your picture posted on the wall of the Library's Most Wanted," Fraser deadpanned. His lips quirked at Ray's alarmed reaction.
. "Ha ha, Benny," he muttered. "What are we doing here, anyway?"
"Research. Ah," he said, pointing to the sign that said Periodicals Section.
A few minutes later, Ray's city map was spread out on the table of a small reading room they had to themselves. Fraser, oblivious to her flirtations, had borrowed a ruler and several crayons from an attractive librarian in the children's section, and was now bent over the map.
"The marina where Dave worked is here." He pointed. "The boat he borrowed on the night in question was docked there." He made an "X" with a black crayon. "Once he cleared the jetty, his course was northwest at a speed of approximately 20 knots." His finger traced an invisible line. "They had been cruising about one hour when Al sighted the first barrel. Here." He marked an "X" with a blue crayon. "Now, Ray, what was the wind speed and direction on the night in question? Ray?" He looked over his shoulder. "Ray?"
Ray had several newspapers spread out before him on the adjoining table. He was intent on reading and didn't respond.
"Ray!"
"Huh?"
"The newspaper. What does it say?"
"Ebert gives Apollo 13 thumbs up, way up. Thumbs down on Showgirls."
"Ray, the wind?"
"Oh, right." He shuffled through the papers. "The Sun-Times says 10-15 mph from the west." He grabbed another paper. "The Tribune agrees on the direction but says 15-20."
"So, a prevailing westerly wind would move the surface water of the Lake to the east," Fraser studied the map, thinking out loud, "and the barrels with it." Murmuring to himself, he continued, "Now, assuming the barrels went into the water no more than an hour before Dave and Al arrived ... granted, that's a big assumption, but too much lead time, and shifts in the wind, the speed, or the current could push the barrels too far off course ... plus, the longer they're in the water, the more likely they could be intercepted by someone else ... and assuming that they were launched from a dock or pier rather than a boat ... because, honestly, if it was a boat, we'd have no hope of finding it ..." He rubbed his chin. "Sure, so many assumptions can be like a house of cards, but, what can you do?" He shrugged, philosophically. "So, that would put the point of origin of the barrels approximately here!" He drew a red "X" with a flourish. He looked triumphantly at Ray, who wasn't paying the least bit of attention.
"Ray!"
He looked up from his reading. "What?"
Fraser pointed to the map. "X marks the spot."
He stood and stretched, then looked at the map. He squinted at the mark in the Lake on the paper map, took a look at the street names in the vicinity, and thought hard. Then, it clicked.
"Brannigan's Wharf." He blew out a breath. "Rough place, Benny. I had a few close calls there when I worked Vice." He pulled on his coat. "You ready?" He peered out the door and around the corner. "Coast is clear! Let's go! " He darted down the hall and out the front door, where Dief greeted him enthusiastically.
Fraser followed at a more sedate pace, returning the borrowed supplies and thanking the staff for their assistance. He was inwardly amused at the contrasting images of two Rays: one, eager to rush in to the rough and tumble world of the urban dock scene, and the other, who fled the wrath of an elderly librarian. Then, he remembered the time when he was seven, and spilled his chocolate milk on the traveling library's only copy of Treasure Island. Even now, more than twenty five years later, his own close encounter with an angry elderly librarian sent a shiver down his spine, and he realized he'd have rather faced a polar bear, hungry after its winter hibernation, than his grandmother that day. He hurried to catch up with Ray.
