Mister Jinnah Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Donald J. Hauka
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tonight,” Blacklock said, putting on his coat. “If there is any sort of an emergency, you may consult Mister Church. I shall be incommunicado.”
“Where you off to, chief?”
Blacklock’s mouth twisted as if he were anticipating the taste of a mouthful of rancid meat.
“I am attending the opera with Phil,” he said, making the name sound like the word “land” had proceeded it. “Apparently, we’re sponsoring this alleged event. Yet another sporadic attempt on our part to encourage the jejune arts scene in this provincial backwater.”
“What’s on?”
“Faust. Apropos, no?”
“Enjoy yourself if you can,” Frost said.
Blacklock snorted and charged out, pausing just long enough to give Crystal a dirty look that mystified the young woman. Sanderson noted his chief’s passing at 6:30 p.m. and called Jinnah on his cellphone.
“Lard Ass has left the building,” he informed his colleague. “Entering Phase Two of operation.”
“Excellent, Ronald! I shall head for the designated rendezvous point.”
“It’s only the bloody parking lot, Hakeem!”
“Quiet, my friend! We are not on a secure line! Stick to the code.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Jinnah!”
“Ronald, this operation must be carried out with military efficiency, hmm? For the greater good?”
“And your glory?”
“Just call me when Junior approacheth the throne.”
“Roger, wilco, over and out,” Sanderson had said, not without a certain amount of irony, which was completely lost on Hakeem Jinnah.
Jinnah had not been totally idle while waiting for Blacklock to leave. He’d made several phone calls, one of them to the corporal he knew in the traffic section and another to the office manager of the building where Sam Schuster had rented his office. The manager confirmed the kidnap incident and added a few paragraphs of colour: how Schuster had seemed shaken by the incident but still kept to his regular schedule, working hard on some big deal or other. But it was the call to the traffic section that struck gold.
“You’re kidding me!” Jinnah said to the corporal in question.
“No, I’m not and if you tell anybody — anybody! — I told you, it’ll be my ass!” the corporal replied.
“Don’t worry, corporal,” Jinnah promised. “They will have to torture me before I tell.”
“I get first right of refusal on that offer,” the corporal said and hung up.
Jinnah sat in the parking lot outside the Tribune building, smoking and writing his story in his mind. Timing, he thought over and over again. The timing of this operation has to be just right. He could rely on Sanderson, he knew that. But could he rely on Permafrost? He was the weak link in the chain. Well, Jinnah would see what stuff the senior assistant city editor was made of soon enough.
As Jinnah went through perhaps the fifth mental rewrite of his story, his cellphone rang. He jumped, even though he’d been expecting the call. It was Sanderson.
“Junior approacheth the throne: hurry!”
“Affirmative! Stall if necessary!” Jinnah cried and vaulted out of the satellite-guided Love Machine.
He fairly sprinted the short distance from the middle of the employees’ parking lot to the street dividing it from the building. His cigarette-ravaged lungs protested at this mild exercise and Jinnah was tempted to wait for the elevator, but he was delayed critically by the guard at the back entrance. By the time he’d shown his ID and signed in (Him! Hakeem Jinnah!) he had no time to wait for the slowest elevator in Vancouver. Gasping for breath, he took the stairs two at a time to the third floor. He paused in the stairwell, gulping air, trying to catch his breath, before proceeding to the newsroom. Timing was important, obviously, but Jinnah did not care to rush in breathless. He believed in making a grand entrance in full command of his internal organs as well as his faculties. After a moment, lungs had co-operated long enough to allow him to walk sedately down the hall, turn right, and throw open the double-doors of the back entrance to the newsroom like a gunslinger swaggering into a particularly tough saloon.
To his immense relief, Sanderson engaged Junior Church in conversation near the library exit on the far side of the room. He caught Ronald’s eye and gave a curt nod. Sanderson made his apologies and let Church go just as Jinnah approached Permafrost at city desk.
“Peter, my friend,” he said smoothly, spreading his arms along the length of the desk beside the hard-working editor.
“Forget it, Hakeem,” said Permafrost. “I’m out of smokes.”
“What a wit! No, I actually seek to solve your problem.”
“The only problem I have is highly paid reporters who fail to deliver the goods,” said Frost impatiently, eyes glued to his screen. “We’re all very busy here. What is it?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Jinnah saw Church exit. He had about two minutes.
“I have the line story, my friend,” he said quickly. “About Sam Schuster —”
Frost whirled about and looked for Church in vain. He gave Jinnah a blank look.
“Yes?” he said guardedly. “Do tell.”
“I have proof that Sam Schuster was murdered. I have an exclusive with his widow who tells of his kidnapping and brush with fiery death just two weeks before he was incinerated. It’s front page stuff, Peter!”
Permafrost knew it was front page stuff — if it was true and not just some bullshit Jinnah was spinning.
“You have the widow—” he began.
“And the cops confirming it, on the record,” added Jinnah hastily. “Better than that —”
“Grant tried to file a piece of shit today that had one of Schuster’s pals screwing his wife as a motive,” interrupted Peter. “You got that angle too?”
“Which name did he come up with?” said Jinnah quickly, squaring this new information with his own suspicions.
“Some guy named Cosmo,” said Frost.
“Ah!” cried Jinnah. “What an extraordinary coincidence. That’s whose car was parked in the driveway of the Widow Schuster’s mansion while I was there. Cosmo Lavirtue. Stock promoter.”
Peter looked at Jinnah shrewdly. He smiled, slightly.
“How do you know it was his car?” he asked.
“Because a cop ran the plate for me,” said Jinnah. “We don’t have to make the accusation — just the plain statement of fact.”
“That way you don’t have to share a byline with Grant.”
“More importantly, we don’t get sued.”
Frost looked at Jinnah for what seemed an eternity. Finally, he sighed.
“Y’know, that’s fabulous,” he said at last. “But I gots this teensy, weensy problembo — I gotta ask permission to change the front page.”
Jinnah was, on the inside, screaming. Haste, haste! But he had to feign nonchalance or all was lost.
“So call Blacklock,” he shrugged.
“He’s incommunicado at the opera,” said Frost. “Junior’s in charge.”
“Is he on his cellphone?” said Jinnah idly.
Frost gave Jinnah knowing look.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “He just left.”
Jinnah