Mister Jinnah Mysteries 2-Book Bundle. Donald J. Hauka
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but —”
“Sarge, for me. Please.”
“Oh, for the love of God …”
Graham seized pen and notepad and scribbled his name and rank on the bottom of the page. As he did so, he had a vague feeling of uneasiness — an emotion that usually preceded the realization that Jinnah had somehow pulled one over on him. But he could not see what use Jinnah could possibly put such innocuous quotes to.
“Is that all?” asked Graham, handing Jinnah back his pen.
“No,” said Jinnah. “I would like to know if you intend on telling Mister Chan that he is a hero — in person.”
“I’m a bit tied up right now,” sighed Graham.
Sparks flew as the jaws of life sawed through the twisted metal frame of the car.
“Then I shall pass on your regards, with your permission.”
“By all means, Jinnah.”
Jinnah took a step off the curb and paused, looking at the accident.
“Just what the hell happened anyway, Sarge?”
“Cement truck’s brakes failed. Sailed through a red light. Poor bastard in the car never knew what hit him.”
“Jesus,” Jinnah swore softly. “Makes you feel unsafe on the roads.”
“Nowhere are we secure, Mister Jinnah,” said Graham.
“Very comforting. Good afternoon, Gus.”
“I hope I have been of some modest assistance you, Hakeem.”
“Sarge, you have no idea,” said Jinnah with a smile that Graham did not like at all.
Jinnah walked away and gave a wink to the traffic corporal as he passed. The corporal gave him a knowing smile and turned his gaze sourly on Graham. The staff sergeant didn’t notice. He was preoccupied, wondering how Chan would taken his heart-felt comments on his bravery when he saw them in the newspaper the next morning.
Robert Chan was watching the hockey game on television in his private hospital room when the nurse announced he had a visitor. His face lit up.
“Kathy?” he asked hopefully.
The nurse shook her head.
“Some guy who claims to be on police business.”
“Not another one — they’ve interviewed me twice,” Chan shuddered, putting the game on mute. “Might as well show him in.”
“All right,” said the Nurse. “But make it short.”
Chan adjusted his hospital gown as best he could and sat up in bed. His burns weren’t that serious and he would likely be released tomorrow. The doctors had been more concerned about the trauma he’d suffered seeing a human incinerated than the second and third-degree burns he’d received. He expected a uniformed officer to walk in and was taken aback when a slender man of East Indian descent wearing civilian clothes and large, gaudy gold jewellery came through the door.
“Robert Chan, I have a message for you from Staff Sergeant Graham of the Vancouver Police Department,” the stranger said in a deep, rich voice that was as warm and cloying as honey.
“Ah, yeah,” said Robert Chan. “And you are?”
“My name is Hakeem Jinnah. Here.”
Jinnah had closed and locked the door before walking over to Chan’s bed and handing him a folded piece of paper. To Chan, it looked like a page torn from a spiral notepad. He unfolded it and saw the words that Jinnah had written down with Graham’s signature at the bottom. Try as he might, he could not decipher Jinnah’s hasty scrawl. He turned the page sideways.
“Is this shorthand or something?” he asked.
“It says Robert Chan is a hero and a very brave man,” said Jinnah smoothly. “You must forgive my handwriting. It is appalling.”
“Are you with the cops?” asked Chan. “I’ve already given a statement.”
Jinnah pulled up one of the heavy visitor’s chairs and sat on it backwards, arms resting along its back.
“My friend, the police think you’re a hero and so do I. And in fact, I am here to make sure that the world knows about it.”
Chan looked down at the signature on the torn piece of paper, rather flattered.
“A hero? Geez — that’s an improvement. My wife thinks I’m an idiot.”
“Does she now? A sign of love, no doubt.”
“If being supremely pissed at me for nearly burning myself to death for no good reason is a sign of love, I guess you’re right,” he grinned. “I take it you’re married too?”
“Affirmative. Behind each successful man there stands a surprised woman.”
“This letter should go to Kathy. She’s the hero.”
“Really? Tell me about that.”
“She dragged me away from the car — and her not even five feet tall!”
“Golly! You’re kidding!” said Jinnah, pulling out his notebook.
Robert Chan’s body froze as his friendly smile slowly melted.
“Are you a reporter?” he said weakly.
“Did I not mention I was from the Tribune?” said Jinnah, sounding surprised. “I apologize. Naturally, we are anxious to have your first-hand account —”
“I really don’t think I should be talking to you — no offence.”
“Oh, I understand,” said Jinnah, closing his notebook.
Chan was even more shocked by this than the news that Jinnah was a reporter.
“You do?” he said.
“Oh, absolutely, my friend,” said Jinnah, tucking his pen neatly into his shirt pocket. “The police will have warned you not to talk to the press, hmm?”
“Er, yeah. How did you —”
“Crime is my beat, Mister Chan. I am constantly up against the veil of police silence. Normally, I would give you my standard lecture about this not being a police state, but a democracy where freedom of speech is guaranteed.”
Jinnah stood up. Chan felt somehow disappointed as well as relieved.
“So I don’t deserve the lecture?” he asked.
“A hero deserves time to heal. And I am used to witnesses being reluctant to talk.”
“I guess you’ve had a few people hang up on you in your job.”
Jinnah looked at Chan with what he hoped was a noble expression.
“My friend, I have knocked on many doors of silence in my time.”
Chan was now somewhat confused. He didn’t like the idea of a reporter sneaking into his room and trying to con him into an interview. At the same time, being called a hero was quite gratifying. And the thought of having that in print to show to his friends and family — not to mention his wife — was tempting.
“You’ve had a few of those doors slammed in your face, I bet,” he said, hoping Jinnah would stay a while longer.
“Indeed, sir. I recall one particular case: a multiple-murder in East Vancouver. A whole family wiped out by an axe-murderer — all save the grandfather. It was my painful duty to ask him how he felt about it.”
“Jesus,” said Chan. “What happened?”
“The old bastard slapped me as hard as he could and asked me how that felt. Then he slammed the door in my face.”