Presumed - part 2

Alone. He'd never felt so alone. Never, except maybe for those first moments waking up out surgery after Ray had shot him in the back, realizing that Victoria was gone, that he had lost the only woman he had ever truly loved. And now . . .

Ray was still alive. There could be no doubt, he could not allow for there to be doubt. But even Francesca believed he was dead, Francesca, who was perhaps the only person in the world who knew Ray Vecchio as well as Fraser did. And now Fraser could barely look her in the eyes, afraid of what he might find there. Fear, grief, or worse. Certainty.

"You should let him go."

Fraser opened his eyes, stared at the ceiling in the dark. "I can't."

"Hmm. I always brought you up to believe in your own actions - or at least I think I did - but there are times . . ."

"When the branch that cannot bend must break. I know. But this is different. He's alive. I'm sure of it."

"Yes? And just why are you sure? I'm dead, and I can't give you a positive answer."

"I feel it." And it really was that simple. He turned in the bed, rolled onto his side, trying to avoid his father, keeping up a pretence at sleep, knowing it was futile. Saw the metal barrel glint in the dark, a hint beneath the cloth, from where he'd taken it from the wooden chest. His father's rifle, the only real weapon Fraser owned.

"And where do you think you are going with that?"

He closed his eyes, voice tight. "I have to do something. He's out there, and I have to find him."

"And what if you don't? What if he really is dead - will you keep on looking anyway?"

Fraser glanced at him. "What if it was Buck Frobisher?" he asked. "Can you honestly say that even if the evidence said otherwise, even if everyone told you not to, can you say that if there was the smallest doubt in your mind you wouldn't go after him?"

Fraser Snr. didn't answer for a moment, considering. "Perhaps," he admitted. "But what I might do in a situation doesn't make what you are doing now either sensible or right. Sometimes, son, a man's arrogance in his own righteousness can blind him to the truth. I realized that too late, and it got me killed."

"I don't intend to die."

"Neither did I. You can't do this alone."

"Is there any other way?"

There was no answer. There was never intended to be an answer. Fraser rolled onto his back again, his father gone. Closed his eyes. It wasn't until he fell asleep he became aware of how tired he was.

"Wow."

Stood beside Fraser, Ray Vecchio gave the landscape a wide-eyed look, as though it was the first time he'd ever seen a desert. It was huge, a wide, open expanse of rock and sand, stretching from horizon to horizon, its surface rippling slowly, brushed by the breeze. Occasionally an outcrop of rock marred the smoothness, ruined the perfect symmetry, but worse was the silence. No people, no buildings, no civilization, but it wasn't like the comforting quiet of the Territories. The sort of landscape through which you bared your soul, exposed a vulnerability within. Walkabout land, where a man could keep walking and walking and walking until he met himself. Together, the two men stood and stared out at eperion, infinity.

"Wow," Ray repeated. One hand reached out and found Fraser's. The Mountie glanced down, frowned gently, then took hold of Ray's hand, childlike, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Wow indeed."

The Italian looked up at him with those same wide eyes. "Where are we?"

"I'm not sure." He took a step forward, felt Ray move, somewhat hesitantly, with him.

"Don't let go," Ray said plaintively, and Fraser gave him a surprised look.

"Of course not."

They started walking, and it was then Fraser realized both he and Ray were barefoot. He could feel the sand, hot against his touch, and if he curled his feet it crunched between his toes.

This place was really huge. He had had to deal with wide, featureless expanses growing up in the North, but somehow here was different. Perhaps it was the bareness of the place, the sheer mind numbing intensity of it. Barren, visible proof of the fragility of human life. No wonder the city-born cop was having such a problem dealing with it.

He felt the hand slip from his and he turned, quickly, about to grab hold of his friend.

"Ray!"

Silence. Ray was gone, and he was alone in the desert, turned slowly, casting his gaze over the empty landscape that surrounded him. Called out, louder, his voice echoing surreally in an area in which there was nothing for the sound waves to bounce off.

"Ray!"

Looked up, the sun on his face, hot sand beneath his feet, closed his eyes against the brilliant glare . . .

And woke up.

  * * * *

The next day. A bright glass building, towering above the streets below. Smart suits and the scent of fresh showers, aftershave, hair-gel. Smiles and all teeth, manicured nails and decor that screamed expense.

"Sorry to have kept you waiting. How may I help you?"

The pretty receptionist looked up at her visitor with a bright, falsely cheerful smile, well practised. Fraser put down the leaflet on home insurance he'd been reading to keep himself occupied, and returned the smile.

"I'm here to see Mister Benedetti."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"Ah, no. Actually, I'm not here to speak to him about insurance. It's about another matter. Ma'am, my name is Constable Fraser, I'm with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Force, I first came to Chicago -"

"You're in luck," she interrupted, looking up from her book with another jaw aching smile. "One of Mister Benedetti's clients has just cancelled, so he's free for the next half hour. I'll just ring through to let him know you're coming."

"Thank you kindly."

Elaine had warned him, upon handing over the photocopies, that the witness to Ray's murder was of 'good character,' the sort that the District States Attorney liked best. Leading member of a high ranking insurance firm, on the career track to partnership. A keen family man, with a wife and two boys living in the better end of Chicago's suburbs. Fraser wasn't exactly sure what he hoped to prove by coming here, but at present it was the only lead he had.

There was another secretary on the third floor before Benedetti's office, who waved him through, identification made obvious by the red serge and Stetson. Benedetti himself sat behind a heavy, oak desk, a wide window giving him a clear view of the cityscape below. The office was familiarized with various objects: portraits of lost landscapes on the walls, a large purple orchid, several family photographs and a bowl of jellybeans on the desk. The man himself fitted completely the image he chose to portray - average height, average build, hair greying slightly, small laughter lines at his eyes. He rose when Fraser entered, offered his hand.

"Constable Fraser, I presume?"

"Yes, sir. Mister Benedetti?"

The other man eyed Diefenbaker warily. "Is that a wolf?"

"Half-wolf, actually."

"Oh. I suppose it's the non-wolf half they let you keep here in Chicago," he joked. Fraser smiled, accordingly, took the chair offered.

"So what are the Canadians doing in this case? I mean, the detectives at the other precinct told me that my part in the case was completed."

"Ah, yes. Well, you see sir, the officer involved in the mugging was . . ." he hesitated, stopped himself short. "He was unofficially partnered with one of the members of the RCMP. Due to the close links between the Consulate and the officers of the 27th District, the RCMP have taken it upon themselves to perform their own investigation of the incident."

It wasn't entirely a lie. On the other hand, it was so far from the truth that it may as well have been. Benedetti, however, seemed to swallow it, and for once Fraser was glad of the strange naiveté when it came to Americans and their idea of the Canadian truth.

"And you can't just exchange notes?"

"We like to be thorough."

"Oh." He gave a small shrug. "Fair enough. What is it you want to know?"

"I was hoping for an account of your movements on the night in question."

"Checking if it tallies with the truth, huh?" He folded his arms casually, considered. "It was about eight o'clock, I'd been working late, came out to find my car wouldn't start. The place was pretty much empty by then and it was a clear night, so I decided to walk to the train station rather than take a cab. Anyway, I'm walking along South and East Street, along the side of the lake, when I hear this commotion coming from one of the tracks leading up to the water. I see these two men, and they're arguing, pretty loudly. I can tell they're gonna get into a fight, and they do, the taller man pushing the other guy. Must have been about, oh, eight thirty?"

"You didn't go down to the lake to see what was wrong?"

Benedetti gave him what might almost be a condescending look. "Look, I don't know how they do things in Canada, but if you see a fight going on in a Chicago alley, when you're on your own, and the place is dark . . . I've got a wife and kids, Constable. I wasn't going to stick my neck out for two strangers, and besides, there was nothing to say that these two men weren't just arguing, you know, and it would all blow over."

Fraser said nothing for a moment, apparently considering his next words, privately altering his opinion of Benedetti. It was one thing not to expect others to adopt his own sense of heroics, but it was another when the victim was a friend, his partner. Perhaps Benedetti would have been more tactful if he'd known the truth over Fraser and Ray's partnership.

"The two men you saw, can you describe him?"

A small sigh. "You sure you can't just check with the Chicago PD records?" Fraser shook his head. "Fair enough. Okay, the taller guy, the one who was doing all the shoving, he must have been, what, six foot tall at least, but lanky, you know? Not much muscle to him. White, maybe in his late twenties, though it was hard to tell. Wore one of those big black jackets, the puffed up ones, and jeans maybe. The other guy, slightly smaller, but not by much, wearing a long overcoat. He was holding his own with this guy, but . . ." He broke off, looked down at the desk. "This cop . . . the officers who interviewed me said it looked like a mugging. I guess, looking back, that's what it could have been. Maybe if, well, if I'd gone up to them . . ." He took a deep breath, raised his head. "Guess you can't second guess things, anyway. I mean, what if this guy had attacked me? Someone said he knifed this cop . . ."

Even Fraser was slightly startled by his ability to keep his voice controlled. "I'm sure you made the best decision, under the circumstances. And your statement will be of great value to the investigation."

"Right." He pushed the chair back slightly, so it was resting on two legs. "So is that all?"

"Yes, thank you kindly." He started to get up, Dief stirring from his place on the carpet.

"You know, Constable, I really hope they find the guys who did this. I have great respect for the police force of Chicago, and to think that the streets are so vulnerable . . ." He shook his head. "I hope they catch him."

"We'll do everything in our power." Fraser started for the door, hesitated, turned back. Benedetti had already returned his attention to the papers on his desk. "If you don't mind me saying so sir, you don't look Italian."

"Pardon?"

"Your name, sir. Benedetti."

"Oh." Flashed him a grin. "Benedetti is my married name. I never went in for all that traditional bull about family heritage, but my wife's family is big on all that, wanted the children to inherit the names, what with her coming from an all sister background. I didn't mind, and besides, it made an improvement on my original name." Gave Fraser enough time to form a questioning look, answered: "Bullocks."

"Ah. I see."

And then his hand was on the door, and he started walking out of the office, leaving Benedetti back to his paperwork. Nodded a brief greeting at the secretary, but didn't speak until he got out into the corridor, and looked down at Dief's soulful brown eyes.

"I know. He's lying."

  * * * *

It wasn't hard to follow Benedetti. He left the office early, at around four, taking his car in the opposite direction to the one his home address indicated. Dief followed, leaving tell-tale markers on frequent lampposts, fences, and trees. When Fraser eventually caught up, the wolf was sat patiently outside a large, white picket fence affair in one of the more affluent areas of Chicago suburbia.

"Well done," he told the wolf, making sure his lips were seen. A small whine. "No, I haven't got any food, as well you should know. Honestly, you're a wolf, you're supposed to track your prey. Don't give me that look. I'd only be patronising you if you were rewarded for every completed task."

Dief, had he been human, would have folded his arms at this point; at it was, he settled for a soft whine and a sulk . . .

"Oh, please."

Fraser sighed heavily. Standing up, he looked across at the house opposite, a Blue Sedan, Benedetti's car, in the drive. As he watched, a light in the hall flickered on, revealing two figures, opening the door. A man, Benedetti, and his companion, a woman dressed in close fitting jeans and tight pullover. At this distance Fraser could not read their lips, but body language alone made it clear that the two were a couple, and at one point Benedetti even leaned over and kissed the woman.

A moment later, and the door shut. Benedetti returned to his car, and the engine revved, then it swung out of the yard and set off down the street. The last thing he expected, when he turned the corner, was to find a Mountie stood in the centre of the road, wolf sat beside him, only a few metres from the car. There was a squeal of brakes, and the slight whiff of burnt rubber, and the car drew to a halt, Fraser a few inches from the bonnet.

"What the hell . . ."

The sound of the car door slamming. Fraser never even flinched, even when Benedetti pushed him, sharply.

"You stupid idiot! I could have killed you!" He broke off, stared at him. "You're that Canadian guy who came to see me. Is this some weird, RCMP thing? Trying to get yourself killed?" It was obvious he was still angry, it could be heard, simmering gently beneath his carefully controlled tone. A frown. "Were you following me?"

"No. Actually, it was Diefenbaker -"

"The wolf? Is that normal policy? In fact, do your bosses even know you're out here?"

Astute and uncomfortably accurate. "I wanted to ask you some more questions."

"Yeah?" He shook his head, struggling to calm down. "Look, Constable, I commend your dedication to duty, but I really am quite busy. If you could make an appointment with my secretary . . ."

He started to return to the car, stopped by a growl and flash of teeth before he could reach the handle.

"What's wrong with the wolf?"

"I think he believes you were lying today, and are now attempting to leave without giving me the truth."

"Yeah?" He straightened his tie, took a step back. "He's wrong."

"I don't think so." A short, tense silence. Benedetti could almost hear the sound of curtains being twitched from the houses around him.

With a small sigh, he decided he could probably talk his way out of this. Canadians were known for being naive, right?

"What do you want to know?"

"The woman you just spoke to. She isn't your wife."

"She's my sister."

A small, shake of the head. "You're lying," he said, simply. How had Ray ever interrogated suspects like this?

"Prove it," Benedetti challenged.

"I don't need to." Fraser shifted his stance, attempting to mimic the physicalities he'd seen Ray, Huey and Gardino adopt so many times before. He wasn't sure he was being very good at it. "Your wife may already have suspicions."

His eyes narrowed. "Get in the car."

Another growl.

"Look, I don't want to tell you out in the middle of the street. Get in the car, I'll start driving. I'm not exactly leading you into a trap you won't be able to get out of, am I?"

A small pause. Fraser said nothing, started walking towards the passenger seat as an answer. Benedetti hesitated, looked down at Dief.

"Is he coming?"

"He'll take the back seat."

"He'd better not get hairs all over the upholstery." He opened the door for Dief, then took his own place in front of the wheel. Started the engine. Glanced at his passenger.

"What do you want to know ?"

"All that you saw of the mugging."

"I told you all I know."

"You were lying." Fraser looked out at the road ahead, then back at the squirming driver. "You said your wife's name was Benedetti, and you adopted it upon marriage."

"So?"

"You lied about the mugging. You have a profitable job, Mr. Benedetti. Bribery is an unlikely option. So I assumed that someone had hold over you, a blackmailer. The woman you just met was neither your wife, nor your sister."

He winced, biting his lip. "I've been seeing her for about four months. I don't imagine you've ever been married, Constable, but there are times, periods in a man's life, when you come to realise that you no longer love the woman you married. I mean, I love her, but I'm not in love with her. Now Alice . . . she's different." A small sigh. "Look, Constable, everything was really perfect up to three weeks ago. Then I get a phonecall, from her brother, Paulo. Paulo's into some . . . stuff. My wife, she doesn't know, he likes to protect her, but the family is a powerful force, Constable. They've always watched me."

"I take it your brother-in-law is a criminal."

"He's a 'friend' of Marcus Marchiello's." He emphasised the term with distaste. "I received a phonecall from one of his associates, a man who works for him, I don't know his first name, just goes by Carter. Anyway, he told me that he's seen me with Alice, knows about the affair. He threatened to tell Paulo, and my wife, if I didn't pay him a favour."

"You volunteered as witness to Detective Vecchio's mugging."

"Yes." There was a long pause. Benedetti turned, glanced at him. "There was no mugging, Constable. I only saw what Carter told me to see."

Fraser took great effort to keep his voice controlled, though a part of him wanted to shake the answers out of Benedetti. "The body that was recovered . . ."

"Some homeless person, supposed to vaguely resemble the guy they really wanted. I guess they disfigured the body, right? Yeah, well, there were reasons."

"And my friend? Detective Vecchio?"

"I don't know. All Carter wanted to tell me were the details of my job, and all I wanted to know was enough to cover me. But whatever Marchiello wants, he gets, and he wanted your friend." Benedetti appeared to be concentrating on the road for a moment, pulling up on the sidewalk in some non-descript area of Chicago suburbia.

"Look, Constable . . ." Had now recovered some of his earlier professionalism. "I don't need this coming out. If Paulo finds out if I've been . . . well, if he finds out, then he'll kill me. Marcus will know what happened to your friend, but I don't know how you get hold of him." The car drew to a halt. Leaving the engine running, Benedetti scrabbled at the glove box, eventually producing a half-chewed biro, and an old parking ticket. Scribbled something on the back.

"This is the name of a club where you can contact Carter. He's there most nights." Another glance at Fraser. "You have to know what you're getting in to. If Marchiello knows I explained all this to the police, then he . . . well, I won't be in his good books. But he's not going to like having the police - even a Canadian - digging up things maybe he shouldn't." Looked up at the back seat in the mirror. "I hope you'll take your wolf with you when you leave."

Fraser took the hint. Taking the paper, he pressed it carefully into his pocket, then opened the car door, stepped out onto the sidewalk. Diefenbaker followed soon after. As the car drew off, Fraser was left looking at the wolf, then at the paper, then at the wolf again.

"No. You can't come."

Dief decided to sulk.

* ***

It wasn't like Fraser hadn't been in strip clubs before, though it was always in the course of a case and never on his own. The Bada Bing was bigger than most. The staging area was central in a large, two tiered room. Three poles, complete with matching gorgeous women dressed only in thongs. Several feet of empty space separated the stage from the seating area, and there were more tables upstairs. A long bar ran along the far side of the stage, the bartender keeping his back to the girls, obviously more interested in keeping up with trade than watching the show.

The place was heaving. All men, except for the women on stage and the few waitresses, clad in little more than bikinis. There was a smell of sweat, spilt alcohol, cigarette smoke, but the carpet was clean, the furniture polished, the lights dim but not uncomfortable. Even the girls seemed to be enjoying the attention. Judging from the looks he received from the other patrons, this place was unofficial invite only.

"Get you something?" The bartender leaned over the counter. A flash of minty breath and tattooed knuckles.

"No, thank you. Actually, I was wondering if you could help me."

The guy's eyes narrowed. "Buddy, you know this is a licensed establishment. Cops won't find anything here that isn't strictly legit."

Fraser rubbed a finger across one eyebrow. "You know I'm a law enforcement officer?"

"You may as well have a sign over your head. Now look, this is a public place, but if you're a rookie then you should know cops aren't seen as friendly faces round here."

"I'm here on unofficial business." He hesitated, then drew some money from his pocket and pushed it across the counter. It was something he'd seen Ray do more times than he could count, but actually doing it himself seemed . . . alien. "I'm looking for a man named Carter."

A small smile crossed the barman's face, as he pushed the money back across the counter towards Fraser. "That isn't going to work here. But if you're looking for Carter, I can help. You're not the first cop he's dealt with." He turned, nodded at a small group of men huddled at the opposite end of the bar, nursing their drinks and watching the stage with unrivalled attention. "Over there."

"Thank you kindly."

Fraser had to weave his way through the crowd of people at the bar. His shoulder collided with another, and earned a dirty look from a heavy set man with thin wire glasses; he felt someone bump against his waist, caught a wide smile and flutter of eyelashes from a woman in bunny ears.

"Excuse me."

He tapped the shoulder of one of the men leaning against the bar. The guy turned, and Fraser looked into dark grey eyes and a thin, artificial smile.

"Can I help you?" Cold, threatening.

"I'm looking for a man named Carter. I believe he can help me."

"Yeah?"

"It's okay, Castello." The group of men parted quickly, Fraser felt a hand on his back pushing him forward, and he came face to face with Carter.

The contact must have been in his late twenties, he guessed, with overly greased hair and a white smile. Dressed casually in close-fitting jeans and white shirt, dark leather jacket slung over the back of his chair. Held out a hand, weak handshake.

"I don't believe we've met, but you already seem to know my name."

"Benton Fraser."

"You've been looking for me for a reason?"

"Yes sir. I believe you know a man name Steven Benedetti?"

A muscle in the younger man's jaw tensed, but otherwise there was no sign of conflict. Smoothly: "I know Steven. We met through his wife. You know him?"

"Ah, well, no. Not personally, although we have met." Fraser suddenly became overly aware of the men surrounding him. "He told me I should speak to you if I wanted to see a Mr. Marchiello."

"Woah." Carter held up his hands in mock protest. "No one sees Marchiello without good reason. And I think Steven might have got me confused with someone who can organize that."

"I don't believe so."

"No? Look, Marchiello is a busy guy. He can't be agreeing to meet everyone who wants to see him. Unless you've got some special reason I should know about."

Fraser hesitated, realized he had nothing left to lose. "I believe he knows something about a friend of mine who disappeared over a week ago. Detective Raymond Vecchio."

There was a sudden change in atmosphere; the crowd closed in, a hand appeared on his shoulder, tight grip, Carter looked away, studied his drink.

"You're a cop."

This wasn't going as he planned. "I'm a Constable with the RCMP, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. But . . ." he hesitated, "but I'm here in an unofficial capacity."

"A Mountie?" Carter snorted, a short laugh. "This just keeps getting better. Look, I spoke to Steven. He told me what he saw."

"I don't believe that's true. Mr. Benedetti seemed to think that you were responsible for telling him what he saw."

His eyes narrowed, tone changed, colder. "Just exactly what is it you're hoping to get from me, Constable?"

"I'm hoping you can help me contact certain gentlemen I believe may know something about my friend's disappearance."

"Let me guess. One of these guys would be Paulo Benedetti."

Fraser nodded, slightly "I'm also looking for Mr. Benedetti's associate, a Mr. Marchiello."

Carter shook his head, vehemently. "Look, seeing as you're Canadian I'm gonna cut you some slack - but you should know, the only way someone gets to see Marcus is if he's doing the asking. And you don't want that to happen."

"And Mr. Benedetti?"

The Mountie was considered for a moment. "Paulo . . . he's different. But he's not going to agree to a meeting with a cop - Canadian or not - without knowing what he'll get in return." He paused, one hand fingering the smooth surface of his glass. "If you'd be willing to trade information -"

"I'm afraid that's not possible."

"I'm guessing from what you said before that relations between you and your superiors aren't exactly great. Paulo has dealt with cops before, if that's what you're worried about -"

Fraser shook his head, more strongly.

"You're gonna need to offer him something."

He hesitated. "I told you I spoke to Mr. Benedetti's brother-in-law. If I informed the Chicago Police Department of my conversation -"

"Steven should have kept his mouth shut. He won't make the same mistake twice."

"Perhaps. But I . . ." He paused again, feeling uncomfortable with his words. "I have friends in the police force, who might be willing to reopen the investigation into my friend's death. I don't believe it would be long before they discovered Mr. Benedetti's relations."

"Yeah? And what if they said you were lying?"

"I don't lie."

There was a long silence. Carter stared hard into the other man's eyes, was rewarded with little more than impassion, eventually looked away.

"Alright. I can't get near Marchiello, but I can arrange something between you and Paulo." Taking a pen from his pocket, he scribbled something down on a beermat. "Tonight, nine thirty. Come alone, and don't tell anyone. Understood?"

Fraser nodded. Carter reached out, pushed the small slip of cardboard into his hands.

"Don't be late," he said, seriously. "In Paulo's eyes, you're still small fish, and he'll eat you if you make a mistake."

With a small, polite nod, Fraser slipped the card into his pocket, then made his way back into the crowd through Carter's small following, who parted before him. Suddenly, he had the most uncomfortable feeling of being watched, eyed up. And he wasn't sure he would like their eventual decision.

Part Three