CHAPTER 5
Tracking Maxwell
Stitch entered the US at Sault Ste. Marie. An old steel town, the Sault wasn’t much to look at anymore. He drove across the short bridge that led to the US side. He passed under the Welcome to the United States sign and headed toward the immigration booths. He sighed. There seemed to be only three or four booths open. Each had about 30 or 40 cars lined up behind it. He scanned the row of stalls. Six were closed. What’s with that? he thought. Michigan has the worst unemployment numbers in the country. And they can only hire four guys at a major border crossing?
Stitch made sure he had his passport on the passenger seat. He listened to Led Zeppelin as he inched forward. After more than an hour, he finally pulled up to the booth. He took off his sunglasses and put them on the dashboard. If there was anything that set off border guards it was wearing dark glasses.
A burly man in a blue immigration suit sat on a stool in front of a computer screen. He eyed Stitch suspiciously. Stitch thought about someone he’d heard on CBC one time. “I always get nervous when I cross into the States,” the person had said. “Even though I haven’t done anything. I call it ‘borderline paranoia.’”
“Where do you live?” the agent barked.
Stitch was careful to make eye contact with the guard. But not too much. Too much, Stitch thought, and they’re like dogs. They feel challenged. Too little and they think you’re afraid too look them in the eye. Hiding something.
“Toronto,” Stich said. The guy didn’t look too bright. “Ontario,” he added.
“Purpose of visit.”
“I’m visiting a friend.” Keep it simple.
“And where would that friend live?”
“Lansing, Michigan.” Big city. But not Detroit. Too general.
The guard looked doubtful. “Let me see your passport.”
Stitch handed his blue Canadian passport to the guard through the window. The guard flipped through the pages. He studied each one carefully.
Finally he looked down at Stitch. He leaned forward, his eyes searching the inside of the car. “Looks like you’ve travelled a lot overseas.”
“Overseas?” Stitch asked in surprise. What the heck was this guy talking about? “I’ve never been off the continent,”
The guard opened Stitch’s passport and pointed to the many stamps he’d accumulated travelling to the Bahamas. “Yeah? Then what are these, then?”
Stitch looked at the guard. He couldn’t help but shake his head just a tiny bit. This guy was a border guard? “Those are from the Bahamas. I go there regularly.” He paused. “The Bahamas are in North America. Just a few hundred miles off the Florida coast.”
The guard grunted, unconvinced. “So what were you doing down there?”
Stitch knew he should say vacationing. But the guy was bugging him. “Solving murders.”
The guard’s eyes opened wide. He sat back in his chair. Then he leaned forward again. “Are you jacking me around?” he asked dangerously.
Stitch leaned over toward the glove box. He noticed the guard tense and drop his hand to the gun strapped on his belt. Stitch quickly sat back. Boy, he thought. How dumb can you be?
The guard’s face was flushed. His hand rested on his gun butt.
“Sorry, Officer.” They always liked to be called Officer. “I wanted to show you some papers. They’re in the glove box. Can I get them for you?”
The guard eyed Stitch uneasily. He gave a curt nod. Stitch leaned over again. He pulled the glove box door open and searched through some envelopes and papers. He made sure the guard could see what he was doing.
Stitch found the brown envelope he was looking for. He sat back and opened it. He pulled out a newspaper article. It was a front page story from The Nassau Guardian. There was a large picture of Stitch. The headline read, “Canadian Sleuth Commended for Solving Grimm’s Island Murder.” He handed it to the guard. The guard scanned the article. Stitch could see him begin to relax. He turned back to Stitch, pointing at the picture. “That you?”
God, Stitch thought. Who else could it be? “Yes sir.”
The guard nodded. “And what’s a ‘sleuth’?”
“It’s a detective.”
The guard nodded. “Kind of like a cop.”
“Kind of,” Stitch agreed.
“Can’t have too many cops,” the guard commented. Stitch chose to keep his mouth shut.
The guard leaned forward and handed Stitch his passport through the open window. His eyes had cleared. Now he looked at Stitch with interest. “You’re after someone.”
Stitch eyed the guard cautiously. He wasn’t smart enough to be trying to trap him. So maybe play along. Maybe he could get something out of the guy. “Could be.”
The guard’s face lit up with excitement. Just like a little kid, Stitch thought. “Can I help?” the guard asked eagerly. His eyes narrowed and darted around like he was afraid someone might be watching. “I always wanted to be a detective. Not just a dumb border guard.” The guard looked up at the line of traffic behind Stitch. “Hour after hour: ‘What’s your name? Where you from?” He looked back at Stitch. “Gets boring, you know?”
Stitch nodded sympathetically. “Bet it does.”
The guard’s face lit up again. “So what did he do?”
“Who?”
“The guy you’re after! What did he do?”
“Oh, the guy I might be after.”
The guard half winked. He nodded his head to show he got it.
“Name is Robert Maxwell. Robert George Maxwell. From Mapleton, Ontario.” Stitch looked at the man’s round, eager face. What would get this guy onside? “Left his wife for another woman. She thinks he’s in a biker gang. Might be running cocaine into Canada from the US.” Stitch lowered his voice. “Nothing solid. Yet. That’s why I’m on the case.”
The guard nodded knowingly. “OK, I think I might be able to help you out there, partner.” The guard turned to his computer monitor and began typing on the keyboard.
Stitch looked in his rear view mirror. Now there were at least 60 cars behind him. “Listen,” he said uncertainly. “Shouldn’t we, uh, go to your office or something? Look at all the cars behind us.”
The guard didn’t look up. “Screw ‘em. We’ve got important work to do.”
Stitch sighed and settled back into the Rav’s leather seats.
“What date you figure he crossed into the US?” the guard asked.
“About a week ago. Either the night of the 26th or morning of the 27th. Somewhere around there.”
“Bingo!” the guard called out happily. “Mr. Robert George Maxwell. Crossed into the US at this station at 11:47 p.m. April 26.”
April 26, Stitch thought. Same day he left. Didn’t waste any time. He’s got nearly a week’s lead on me. “Anything else on the file?”
The guard studied the screen. “Said he was on a vacation. Headed for Parsons, Michigan.”
Parsons, Michigan. Stitch reached over to the Garmin GPS system mounted on his dash. He pushed the voice activation button. “Parsons, Michigan,” he said.
“Beginning navigation,” the GPS replied. Almost immediately the screen lit up with the route to Parsons. Damn, he liked voice recognition. He never could figure out all those keys.
Parsons was highlighted 174 miles south of him. 1,242 people lived in Parsons, the machine told him. A few miles off I-75. Near the Granville River. So he’s not in the Upper Peninsula after all, Stitch thought. So much for that lead. Unless he’s trying to throw me off.
“One more thing,” the guard added. “He had a companion.”
Stitch grabbed the notepad out of his shirt pocket. “Shoot.”
“Ms. Didi Anderson. Secretary.”
Stitch scribbled the information and returned the book to his pocket. He looked up at the guard. “Officer, if there weren’t a hundred cars behind us, I’d get out and give you a hug. But it might not look good.”
The man grunted good-naturedly. “If you got out and gave me a hug I’d knock you unconscious with my billy club. I don’t much like gays.”
Surprise, surprise, Stitch thought. “Well, in that case I’ll just thank you profusely.”
The border guard took a business card and handed it to Stitch. “If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”
“Thanks, Officer.” Stitch slipped a US$50 dollar bill into his passport. He pushed it through the car window again. “Just have another look. To make sure everything is in order.”
The man opened the book and slid out the bill. He handed the passport back, grinning. “Looks good to me.”
Stitch took the passport and set it on the passenger seat. He nodded to the guard and drove on, looking for the sign pointing to I-75.