get ugly drunk. I hoped so, anyway.
They worked quietly, ignoring me and not disturbing the other shoppers, most of whom waited outside until the bikers were through. Then they saddled up and rode off up the side road, going two by two like animals into the ark, moving at the limit.
I wondered if they were on their best behavior because I was there to see. Probably not. From time to time bikers play this kind of game, behaving like choirboys instead of the hoodlums they really are. People fear them, anyway. They can afford to walk softly occasionally. It makes the public more likely to come down on their side if some poor bloody policeman has to wade into them. If I was real lucky, they would be on good behavior all weekend, but I wasn't holding my breath. I was glad I'd informed the OPP.
I sat for a minute or two longer while the last-minute shoppers went into the liquor store, which closes at six. That would be the classic time for a holdup, before the day's take was stashed in the safe. But, as usual, nobody tried anything, and when the manager closed the door, I started up again and drove to Carl's house.
There was a polite sign over the doorbell—typical Carl. "May keep you waiting a couple of minutes. I'm in the darkroom. Please ring and wait."
I rang and waited, settling Sam down on the step. Carl's voice came from inside, singing up in the campy way he uses with customers. It's his way of letting them know he's more creative than the other people who live in the Harbour. "Thank you for waiting," he yodeled. "I'm coming."
Behind me a car went slowly up the road. I turned and saw the shopper who had been in the grocery store with me earlier on. He had a girl with him, heading back to town. He half waved at me, and his girl turned a plain face my way. I waved back and turned to greet Carl, who had opened the door.
"I'm sorry to tell you, Carl. The boy's been found dead."
He gasped. "Oh, no. That's terrible. How did it happen?"
"Can I come in, please?"
He stood aside. "Yes, of course."
I went in, leaving Sam out on the step. "Look, Carl. I don't think you're involved in this. But I've got two things to ask you, one off the record, one on."
"Glad to help," he said, and reached for the film. I kept hold of it, and he checked himself and met my eyes.
"First favor. Can you tell me, off the record, if the boy seemed like he was gay?"
"No." He said it quickly, and I cocked my head without speaking as he hurried on. "Not the least. No. He was anxious to talk, but just about cameras. He was a perfectly ordinary little boy." He hesitated and went on in a voice that had a hint of a tremor to it. "You're not saying this was a sex case, are you, Reid?"
"The doctor says no. But tell me, what did you talk about?"
Carl shrugged. "We just discussed photography. He was keen to ask me questions because he thought I was an expert. He wanted to know things about depth of field, and I gave him some advice."
I pushed the film toward him. "The second thing I needed—I was wondering if you could develop this film for me. It was in his possession."
"Of course." He took the film and turned toward the back of the house. "I'll do it right away. It's warm in the darkroom, but if you want to come along, please do."
We went into the little room with its trays and machinery. He turned on a work light, then closed the door. "Kodacolor. I've just been working with it. That's good; everything's set up."
He had a commercial tank that ate the film out of his hand so he could keep the light on while he worked. I suppose I could have asked him about the process, but I didn't have time to waste. I was working out what to do next. Spenser was the key. He may not be the prime suspect yet, but there was something about the picture of him outside the apartment building that intrigued me. Perhaps he had some guilty secret that the boy had discovered. He wasn't the boy's father. If the secret was big enough, maybe he had taken the boy out in a
They worked quietly, ignoring me and not disturbing the other shoppers, most of whom waited outside until the bikers were through. Then they saddled up and rode off up the side road, going two by two like animals into the ark, moving at the limit.
I wondered if they were on their best behavior because I was there to see. Probably not. From time to time bikers play this kind of game, behaving like choirboys instead of the hoodlums they really are. People fear them, anyway. They can afford to walk softly occasionally. It makes the public more likely to come down on their side if some poor bloody policeman has to wade into them. If I was real lucky, they would be on good behavior all weekend, but I wasn't holding my breath. I was glad I'd informed the OPP.
I sat for a minute or two longer while the last-minute shoppers went into the liquor store, which closes at six. That would be the classic time for a holdup, before the day's take was stashed in the safe. But, as usual, nobody tried anything, and when the manager closed the door, I started up again and drove to Carl's house.
There was a polite sign over the doorbell—typical Carl. "May keep you waiting a couple of minutes. I'm in the darkroom. Please ring and wait."
I rang and waited, settling Sam down on the step. Carl's voice came from inside, singing up in the campy way he uses with customers. It's his way of letting them know he's more creative than the other people who live in the Harbour. "Thank you for waiting," he yodeled. "I'm coming."
Behind me a car went slowly up the road. I turned and saw the shopper who had been in the grocery store with me earlier on. He had a girl with him, heading back to town. He half waved at me, and his girl turned a plain face my way. I waved back and turned to greet Carl, who had opened the door.
"I'm sorry to tell you, Carl. The boy's been found dead."
He gasped. "Oh, no. That's terrible. How did it happen?"
"Can I come in, please?"
He stood aside. "Yes, of course."
I went in, leaving Sam out on the step. "Look, Carl. I don't think you're involved in this. But I've got two things to ask you, one off the record, one on."
"Glad to help," he said, and reached for the film. I kept hold of it, and he checked himself and met my eyes.
"First favor. Can you tell me, off the record, if the boy seemed like he was gay?"
"No." He said it quickly, and I cocked my head without speaking as he hurried on. "Not the least. No. He was anxious to talk, but just about cameras. He was a perfectly ordinary little boy." He hesitated and went on in a voice that had a hint of a tremor to it. "You're not saying this was a sex case, are you, Reid?"
"The doctor says no. But tell me, what did you talk about?"
Carl shrugged. "We just discussed photography. He was keen to ask me questions because he thought I was an expert. He wanted to know things about depth of field, and I gave him some advice."
I pushed the film toward him. "The second thing I needed—I was wondering if you could develop this film for me. It was in his possession."
"Of course." He took the film and turned toward the back of the house. "I'll do it right away. It's warm in the darkroom, but if you want to come along, please do."
We went into the little room with its trays and machinery. He turned on a work light, then closed the door. "Kodacolor. I've just been working with it. That's good; everything's set up."
He had a commercial tank that ate the film out of his hand so he could keep the light on while he worked. I suppose I could have asked him about the process, but I didn't have time to waste. I was working out what to do next. Spenser was the key. He may not be the prime suspect yet, but there was something about the picture of him outside the apartment building that intrigued me. Perhaps he had some guilty secret that the boy had discovered. He wasn't the boy's father. If the secret was big enough, maybe he had taken the boy out in a
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