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  PENGUIN CANADA

  GETTING AWAY WITH MURDER

  HOWARD ENGEL is the creator of the enduring and beloved detective Benny Cooperman, who, through his appearance in twelve best-selling novels, has become an internationally recognized fictional sleuth. Two of Engel’s novels have been adapted for TV movies, and his books have been translated into several languages. He is the winner of numerous awards, including the 2005 Writers’ Trust of Canada Matt Cohen Award, the 1990 Harbourfront Festival Prize for Canadian Literature and an Arthur Ellis Award for crime fiction. Howard Engel lives in Toronto.

  Also in the Benny Cooperman series

  The Suicide Murders

  Murder on Location

  Murder Sees the Light

  The Ransom Game

  A Victim Must Be Found

  Dead and Buried

  There Was An Old Woman

  The Cooperman Variations

  Memory Book

  East of Suez

  Also by Howard Engel

  Murder in Montparnasse

  Mr. Doyle & Dr. Bell

  HOWARD ENGEL

  A BENNY COOPERMAN MYSTERY

  PENGUIN CANADA

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

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  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in a Viking Canada hardcover by Penguin Group (Canada), a division of Pearson Canada Inc., 1995

  Published in Penguin Canada paperback by Penguin Group (Canada), a division of Pearson Canada Inc., 1996

  Published in this edition, 2008

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 (WEB)

  Copyright © Howard Engel, 1995

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Publisher’s note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Manufactured in Canada.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-14-316751-8

  ISBN-10: 0-14-316751-0

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication data available upon request.

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Visit the Penguin Group (Canada) website at www.penguin.ca

  Special and corporate bulk purchase rates available; please see www.penguin.ca/corporatesales or call 1-800-810-3104, ext. 477 or 474

  For my son Jacob Harry Engel

  and his grandparents

  Arthur and Doris Hamilton

  and

  Lolly and the late Jack Engel

  Getting Away

  with Murder

  PROLOGUE

  The trees were leafless, holding black fingers against the sky. Stubborn and sullen, the snow was receding from the front yards on Henrietta Street. The white wood siding of the old houses along the eastern side were bathed in late afternoon sunlight. It wasn’t a warm light; there was little warmth in it at all. Still, the tall man with white hair brought out a red metal box of tools and a mechanic’s castered board for working flat on his back. He placed the tools beside his ten-year-old Buick before returning to the garage. There was almost too much equipment for a little job like changing his winter oil. If he waited a week or two, the weather would be gentler. He wheeled out a hydraulic jack and proceeded to position it under the car. After hoisting it above the driveway, he stretched himself out on the creeper board and rolled himself beneath the car. From time to time an arm appeared to reach for a wrench or a greasy rag. The man was humming to himself so he didn’t hear the footsteps in the driveway.

  The car looked as though it had been washed every other day since it left the showroom. There were no rusty patches on the fenders or doors where highway salt eats freely of cars in the Canadian winter. His tools looked well cared for. The jack, for instance, was in mint condition, the sort rarely seen away from a professional service garage. There was a handle, the up-and-down working of which raised the car incrementally above the driveway. There was also a valve, the turning of which lowered the car again so that its weight rested on its four regularly rotated tires.

  The song that he was humming was an old army song, something off-colour, and only half-remembered. The tune changed pitch as he stretched to reach for an oily rag, which he pulled out of sight. The leg that was visible was mottled with marks of age. The flesh looked grey above a navy blue sock.

  The footsteps stopped by the jack. The humming stopped.

  “Who’s that?” the man under the car asked, seeing feet standing in the drive. That is all that was said. A hand turned the valve and the car settled. The weight of the Buick returned to the driveway. Footsteps retreated. There was no one nearby to hear the scream.

  ONE

  “Get up!”

  There was a swimmer somewhere out in the lake. I could see a flashing line of rope playing out. It was a life-preserver thrown from a boat. I felt myself sinking. I was the swimmer. I was in trouble. The water was sucking me down.

  “Come on, you bastard! Get up!”

  “Show a leg, Cooperman!”

  “Let me get him going, Phil. I know how to do it.”

  My dream evaporated. The lake and the rope vanished just as I could begin to feel the tug of the line getting taut, shaking bright beads of water out of the rope. I was awake now, although my eyes were still closed. I felt a hand on my shoulder shaking me. I tried to locate where the various parts of me were lying: hand, head, feet, groin. I could feel hot, peppermint breath on my face.

  “Get out of bed! You heard me, damn it!”

  I struck out with all my strength, aiming at the smell and the heat of his face. I connected. I felt the pain in my wrist and fingers. At the same time, I opened my eyes. I’d knocked one of them to the foot of my bed. But there were two others. I knew it was all over then. Even as the man with the Lifesaver breath, the one called Phil, was rubbing his chin, I could feel the futility of resistance. I pulled my legs from under the covers and touched the carpet with my feet.

  “Good!” said the man with his back to the door. “Now put your clothes on. You’re coming with us.”

  The man I’d punched was still sitting on the end of my bed rubbing his chi
n. What did I expect? I’d only hit him a moment ago, yet it felt like three or four minutes since I first felt his hand on my shoulder. Where was the lifesaver with the rope attached? Was I translating his breath into my dream? I’d have to figure that out one day when I grew to be a very old private investigator watching my grandchildren scamper in front of the fireplace.

  I reached for my pants on the chair where I’d left them the night before. They seemed to belong to another age: “before.” This was “after.” How carelessly I’d left my clothes heaped in the order I’d taken them off. With my audience of three looking on, my clothes looked like artifacts in a museum, like the flints and baskets and stone axes in the diorama of Neanderthal life in Toronto’s big museum. I got dressed, trying the while to get my mind off the irrelevant. But the only things I could think of were the irrelevant. I’d been expecting the tired old Late-Late Show of my life spinning back before my eyes, but all I could think of was dirty underwear and overdue library books. Obviously, I had to try harder.

  First, there was the dream. Something about a struggling swimmer. What had that to do with anything? Not much. I’d been quietly canoeing up at Dittrick Lake. Then it had gone sour as I was shaken back to consciousness. I could let that go. It was a beginning.

  I tried to go over in my mind who I had crossed lately. I wasn’t working on a big case, just a couple of small-claims cases and a trail of credit-card flimsies that were leading me farther and farther away from ever seeing any more business from where my client was living. I couldn’t see my friend Mendlesham resorting to violence over the fee I was trying to collect from his law firm. Mendlesham was the least violent of lawyers, and my claim on his books from last year wasn’t the biggest headache in his medicine cabinet. I couldn’t see any heavy muscle coming from any other direction either. I tried to reopen in my mind a few old cases with loose ends hanging out of the files. I still couldn’t come up with anything that would get a trio of hoodlums out of bed before dawn and loid the two locks that should have protected me from the likes of them.

  I walked into the bathroom. Two of the hoods didn’t move; Phil, the one on the bed, glanced over at the others. “Leave it open,” said the man with his back against the door to the apartment. He was the boss of the three. Older, calmer, he exerted authority. He’d read my mind as I thought of closing the bathroom door. I left it open. The candour between us was perfect, if a little one-sided.

  How do you escape into a tube of toothpaste? That’s what I wanted to know as I examined my face in the mirror. Seeing nothing better to do, I brushed my teeth. When I reached for my razor, a voice in the doorway said: “Leave it!” I turned on the tap and gave my face a rub with a cold, wet washcloth.

  There was a fire escape just outside the large bathroom window. If it had been summer, the window might have been open to let in the hope of a breeze, but this was March, the weather outside clinging to February. I knew that the window was jammed with paper and locked. The face of Phil, with a red mark on his chin, appeared in the mirror. “You can quit stalling. We gotta get this show on the road!”

  I was rushed down the stairs, herded by the flanks of my keepers to a car that was puffing a warm exhaust trail up into the frosty air. The man behind the wheel didn’t bother to look at us as I was thrust into the back seat between two of the men, while the head man climbed in front with the driver.

  The local radio station was sending unwanted bright chat into the early dawn. There was steam on the windows from the driver’s breath. He turned on the wipers, which arced across the windshield, doing, of course, no good at all. This was the kind of person I was dealing with. I waved goodbye to sweet reason and settled back into the seat to take stock.

  I was still breathing. That was in my favour. If they had wanted to kill me, they could have done it in my room where I might not have been discovered until the neighbours started complaining. They could be in Las Vegas by the time the cops opened a file on me.

  Then I thought of Anna. She could have found me. I was glad that these hoods were saving me that at least. Even freshly slaughtered, I didn’t want Anna to first-foot it into my late presence. Anna was the person I most hated leaving behind. She—

  I had to cut myself off. This was no time to become sentimental. If I was being taken for an old-fashioned ride, I had to keep my head clear. Thoughts of Anna might keep me from hitting upon what had to be done. “Cooperman,” I said to myself, “get me out of here!” As though my inner life had been betrayed by the outer. As though part of me was lugging the rest of my anatomy to the nearest ditch.

  “Turn that radio off,” said the man beside the driver.

  “What? That’s Dusty Rhodes.”

  “You heard me! Turn the damned thing off!”

  “Okay, Mickey, okay!” The sound disappeared. There was no comment from the back seat.

  Mickey was the tallest of the trio, wearing a well-cut brown leather coat over a white Irish sweater. In his fur hat, he almost looked like a Horseman on leave from his Regina training ground. Under the hat I could see neatly shaved greying sideburns and the attentions of an earlymorning razor. He had all the high seriousness of a heavy without a suggestion that he split all of his infinitives.

  The driver wore a black leather cap. There were acne scars on the back of his neck. He was wearing a dark green parka. The man to my right was Phil, the one with the sore jaw and peppermint breath. He was stocky, with short arms and legs. Would have made a good fur-trade paddler two hundred years ago. No room for excess legs in the canoes of the Hudson’s Bay Company. Anna had told me that. Always running back to Anna. Get back to your man. It had been a lucky punch. I had to admit that. But it had been launched with my eyes closed. The other senses had come into their own. I’d been lucky that a bedsheet or blanket hadn’t impeded my aim. I turned my head; he didn’t seem to be in lasting pain.

  “Sorry I hit you,” I said, trying out a gambit without being too clear where it might lead.

  “Shut up!” said the man on the other side, punctuating his words with his elbow in my ribs. “We got a long drive ahead of us. The less noise in the car, the better.”

  “Where are we headed?” I asked with feigned innocence. Sharp pains hit ribs on both sides at the same moment. Nobody said anything. I settled on noting the year and make of the car. It was something to do. It wouldn’t have much post mortem value, but it showed me that I was being professional right up to the end.

  The guy on my left was weedy in a silver-studded black leather jacket. His head was shaved to the scalp and he wore an earring in one ear. A dark blue tattoo of a scimitar on his wrist made his skin appear unnaturally white. He was chewing gum. I was guessing that it was gum.

  It wasn’t as long a drive as the skinhead promised. Maybe it seemed shorter because of his advertisement. Maybe the situation was making me edit out the irrelevancies. Things like time were the first to go. This was tragedy pure and simple roughed in with a black brush.

  Anyhow, the motor died after a time and the bodies on each side of me shifted. Were we in a quiet corner of a hardwood bush? I could picture a patch of skinny saplings stretching up towards the grey sky. I had seen this scene in the movies a dozen times. As good a place for it as any, I thought and shrugged. There were four of them. Would the driver come out to watch? Or would he stay in the car, already planning to cop a plea: “But, Your Honour, I was in the car! I was behind the wheel! I didn’t see nothing!”

  Once out of the car, the frosty bush vanished. I took a deep breath. I wasn’t standing on the margin of a woodlot with snow still lingering under the trees. I wasn’t going to be buried under a snowdrift with last year’s blackened leaves covering my remains. Not now anyway.

  The car was parked behind a dark house that seemed to rise out of the chilly mist that clung to the ground. I could hear the frost cracking wood far away. Closer I could see the rooftops of other houses. Everywhere I looked, my imagined rural details were replaced by an urban reality: telephone poles,
curbs, asphalt, fire hydrants. “At least gunshots are out!” I thought. Other nasty ways to go came into my head, as I was prodded towards a back door.

  A light was shining through an open doorway half-blocked by a female figure standing between us and the light. “You were gone long enough,” she said to no one in particular. I was grateful for the light and for this feminine presence. They both seemed to stand between me and a sudden change of state. “He’s in a hell of a temper, Mick,” she said. “He wants this over and done with.”

  I swallowed hard. Again I was pushed forward. “I’m going. I’m going!” I said.

  TWO

  “Come in! Come in, Mr. Cooperman! Come in!” The voice was gruff, impatient and elderly. It came from somewhere behind the woman in the doorway, who quickly moved to one side. I heard a whispered instruction from the figure that was silhouetted against the light, and the woman retreated back through a hallway out of sight.

  “Mickey, get his coat!” the man ordered, and Mickey and the other three of my conductors all reached at once to remove my outer clothing. Once divested, I followed the figure in front of me as he moved through a high narrow hallway, made a turn, passed a glimpse of a kitchen, and entered a large, high-ceilinged, well-appointed room. I was grateful that I was no longer being prodded from behind. In fact, the sinister shapes had almost all been eclipsed by the warmth of the house, the radiance of oil paintings on the walls and the heavy deep red draperies covering the front windows. The only scary things in the room were little brown statuettes mounted on stands or on small tables; primitive terracotta figurines: votive idols, fetish figures? Who knows? In the indirect electric light and the changing glow of the fire, they looked evil.

  “Come in!” he repeated. The voice was gruff, as I said, but there was now an attempt to sound amiable about it, like a cobra trying to sound like an English butler in the movies. I moved forward into the room, while I tried to take in my host and our surroundings all at once. When he finally faced me, the light from a green glass lamp-shade gave me a distorted first glimpse. I was looking at a bald-headed little man with a large mouth and almost Tartar eyes. They were smiling as he moved about the room trying to find the right chair for his early-morning visitor. He was tanned to the jutting tops of his ears, dressed formally for this early hour, with a white shirt and a knotted tie pushed so tight it made me wince. His blazer was blue and sported a crest woven in gold thread on the breast pocket. A mounted terracotta mask of a scowling monster stood next to a gold pen and marble ink stand. I pass on these impressions as they occurred to me, in no particular order and with the room itself competing with the man for my attention.