“No,” Greene said, sitting down on a dusty old sofa and picking up a three-year-old Time magazine. “I’m more than happy to wait.”
Dent emerged ten minutes later. He wore a pair of green khaki pants and a clean dress shirt with the sleeves rolled down and the collar buttoned up at the neck. Greene knew the shirt was to hide his considerable tattoos. He looked clean and clear-eyed. A skinny Asian man with pink and green streaks in his black hair slunk out behind him.
Dent, who had not expected to see Greene, didn’t flinch. He winked at him as he put his arm around his patient.
“Tran, you’re doing well.” He pulled out a tiny old cell phone. “You had a bad weekend, that’s all. Something comes up, you call me twenty-four/seven.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Tran mumbled, and walked out without another word.
Dent smiled at Greene.
“You look good,” Greene said.
“Saving the world one soul at a time for fifteen dollars an hour.”
“Since when do you have a cell phone?”
“This crappy old thing?” he said, twisting it in his hand. “When I worked on Bay Street I had two full-time secretaries, my office phone, and two cell phones. Now I have this old piece of junk the clinic gave me since I’m working here more than twenty hours a week.”
“That’s great.”
“Not great, but it’s good. With all these murders, I was waiting for you to find me. Come on in to our luxurious boardroom.”
The boardroom was a square windowless room with a beat-up round table and a mishmash of chairs pulled in around it. Towers of paper towels, toilet paper, and tissue boxes were stacked high against the walls.
Dent pulled out a chair and motioned Greene to take another. He pointed at the wall. “What do you think? A modern art piece, or a donation from one of our clients—no names mentioned—who works in the grocery business?”
“People appreciate what you do for them,” Greene said.
“Once in a while. What do you need, Detective?”
“To find out what’s going on in Humber Valley. None of the homeless people will talk to us.”
“That surprise you?”
“Not one bit,” Greene said, “That’s why I smoked you out.”
26
Alison had worked as a food server one summer at a posh restaurant in Sloan Square. Now she was working in the basement of the Eastminster United Church. She’d been instructed by the people who ran the feed-the-hungry program that all the homeless people were to be seated at a properly set table, complete with cutlery, napkins, and glasses, and that they be served fully plated meals—no one was forced to stand in a humiliating food line—and that once they’d finished eating, their dishes should be cleared promptly, as in a real restaurant.
Alison was taken aback by how many people were there—more than a hundred—and by how many of them were women. She counted forty-two. One old woman caught her attention. She was thin and frail, but she had an erect, dignified posture and excellent table manners. Alison watched her eat. She grasped her soup spoon between her thumb and forefinger and scooped outward before bringing it to her mouth. She held her fork facing down, then piled small portions of food on the outside of it with her knife—which she held with her forefinger on top of the blade. When the woman finished her meal, she put her knife, then her fork on the plate in a line at the exact five o’clock to eleven o’clock angle, the way Alison’s mum had insisted.
Serving was surprisingly hard work. As she rushed in and out of the kitchen, Alison saw Burns. He was on dishwashing duty, his hands in long yellow plastic gloves, intent upon scrubbing down a pile of large pots in a deep industrial sink. Out of the limelight, when he’d turned off the charm, she could see that he took what he did seriously.
On one of her passes through the kitchen, he noticed her and smiled.
“I’ll have to add ‘fine dishwasher’ to your list of accomplishments,” she teased.
“I’m a doctor. I’m used to scrubbing in.” His face turned serious again. “It’s important. The last thing any of these people need is to pick up an infection.”
When the meal ended, she joined Burns and the staff in the kitchen and ate mushroom soup with rice and chicken stew. The volunteers were tired and no one was talkative. It had been sobering, seeing so many people in such desperate straits.
By the time she and Burns went outside, it was dark. He had his bicycle with him and he walked with it as they strolled along the Danforth, a wide thoroughfare filled with restaurants and shops. A limp blue-and-white sign hung across the street announcing, “Welcome to Greek Town.” She’d been out here a few times in the summer and it was always packed with people, but on a cold November night it felt deserted.
“What did you think?” Burns asked her.
“I was most impressed with the dignified manner with which the people were treated, with real plates, napkins, and cutlery.”
“It all matters.”
“One older woman I noticed had perfect British table manners.”
“You must mean Pipa. Comes every Monday. She showed up about two years ago after her husband died. He was a plumber, never had much in the way of savings. They didn’t have children. Then the landlord renovicted her.”
“Renovicted?”
They’d reached the start of Danforth Bridge, the long span over the Don River Valley below. He stopped and looked at her. Shook his head. “You do have a lot to learn. Rents are skyrocketing in the city and landlords want to cash in. A renoviction is when they kick out a tenant to do some minor renovations so they can jack up the rent for the next tenant. Renoviction applications in the city were up three hundred per cent last year. Tons of people are homeless now just because they can’t pay the rent. It’s only going to get worse.”
“And Pipa?”
“She used to live in a spacious two-storey flat with a sunny balcony she filled with flowers in pots every spring. We were lucky to find her a basement apartment, and it costs twenty-five per cent more.”
They started walking again. Traffic was light. There was no one else around. At the halfway point across the bridge there was a circular alcove that extended over the river and highway below. They stepped out to take in the view. The lights of the office towers, each one topped with the logo of a bank or a big corporation, high-rise condominium buildings, and illuminated construction cranes sparkled across the horizon. It was stunning.
There was an old-fashioned circular telescope on a stand facing south. Alison had seen the same things last winter when her father took her and Grandpa Y on a day trip to Niagara Falls.
“Let’s try it,” she said, fishing out some coins.
“I hope it works.”
She put a quarter in and looked through the viewfinder. It was dark.
“It doesn’t,” she said.
“Let me see,” he said, leaning close to her. Their heads touching briefly.
“You’re right,” he said.
She stared at the downtown towers and thought of how the people who lived and worked there were a million miles away from Pipa and the others they’d fed in the church basement. Before she came to Canada, Alison had barely heard of Toronto. She had no idea it was this large or this affluent. She’d since learned that it was the fourth-largest city in North America and by far the fastest-growing one. Despite all the glitter, now she was seeing its dark underbelly of extreme poverty and hunger.
The view from the bridge was partly obstructed by a steel barrier that rose high above the stone railing. As Alison straightened up, Burns put his hand on one of the metal bars. Coloured lights rolled back and forth across it in what looked to be a random pattern.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked her, trying to shake the bar and showing her it was firmly fixed in place.
“Some strange type of modern sculpture, perhaps?”
He gave out a bitter laugh and jumped up on the ledge. “It’s a suicide barrier,” he said, spreading his arm out wide.
“This used to be a favourite place for people to jump. All these lights are supposed to turn it into an art piece. They were added later to try to pretty it up.”
“London is full of bridges, and I can’t imagine them covering one up like this. Did it work?”
“Yes and no. Nine or ten people a year used to jump from here. Now there are lots of other bridges in the city that they use.”
The night air was cold, and whether it was because of the wind coming up from the valley below or the thought of Pipa, alone in her life with her excellent table manners, Alison started to shake. Burns jumped down and put his arm around her.
“I didn’t expect to see so many women there tonight,” Alison said.
“Thirty-six per cent of the homeless are women. Do you have any idea how many homeless people there are out in the cold in this city every night?”
She shook her head. Even though he had his arm around her, she was still shivering.
“Take a guess.”
She held her hands up. “A few thousand?”
“Estimates go from seventy-five hundred to ten thousand. The average lifespan for people in this city is eighty-two years. Want to guess what it is for homeless people?”
“Not really.”
“Half. Think of ten thousand people dying on average at age forty-one.” He turned and looked at the shimmering view before them. “All those cranes throwing up condos for the rich, and so many people without any home at all.”
“It hurts you, doesn’t it?” she said.
“What?”
“Seeing people suffer. Dying so young.”
Alison wasn’t quite sure how what happened between them next happened.
She let her head drop onto his shoulder, and her lips lightly touched his neck. He held her closer. What little noise there was from the traffic seemed to disappear. And then they kissed.
27
Parish was checking her hair in the rear-view mirror of her ten-year-old Toyota as she sat in the long line of pricey cars and oversized SUVs, waiting on the street to enter the Humber River Golf Club.
She hated getting dressed up. On the rare nights when she wasn’t at work in the office meeting with clients or preparing for court the next day, she liked to stay home and loll around in sweatpants. But tonight she was wearing the only cocktail dress she owned, pearl earrings, a matching necklace, and an almost-new pair of Manolos. She’d bought the shoes last winter, the last time she had a serious date.
A month ago, Lydia sent her the invitation for tonight’s event. It called for “golf-club formal dress.”
Parish phoned her. “What the hell is golf-club formal?”
“Get out your best cocktail dress.”
“As if I have more than one. Tell me you’re kidding.”
“I know. The party’s kind of over the top for an eleven-year-old winning a golf trophy.”
“You think?”
“It’s Karl. When it comes to Britt and golf, the sky’s the limit.”
Ever since Karl divorced Melissa and married Lydia, Parish had been caught in the middle between her two close friends and former colleagues. She was determined to remain neutral, but it wasn’t easy. Especially because Karl’s whole life was wrapped up in his daughter, and his obsession with keeping Britt away from her mother, while at the same time Melissa’s behaviour became more and more erratic. Which was the cause, and which was the effect? It was impossible to tell.
“Nance,” Lydia said, filling in the silence on the phone line. “You still there?”
“I’m here.”
“You’re going to come to the party. Please.”
“I’ll be there,” Parish said, knowing she had to go.
Parish hadn’t heard anything from Melissa since she’d stormed out of the courthouse this morning. There was a chance she might show up tonight, and Parish was afraid there’d be a major confrontation. Maybe by attending the party, Parish could mediate if anything happened.
A woman in a black jacket with the label “Concierge for Hire” was stationed at the entrance, inspecting invitations. Parish rolled down her window and felt the night air. Typical see-saw November weather in Toronto: it had warmed right up and a light rain was starting to fall.
“Welcome to Britt’s party,” the woman said to Parish. “Your name, please.”
Parish gave her name and the woman checked it off on her clipboard. Something about her looked familiar. Then Parish placed her. She was one of the “students” sitting in the back of the courtroom. An undercover officer.
“Here’s your Britt scarf,” she said handing Parish a scarf with Britt’s name in bold letters above the club’s colours and insignia.
“Thank you,” Parish said, then added the word, “Officer.”
The woman was composed. She smiled back at Parish. “Have fun, Counsellor,” she said, then waved Parish through.
Parish drove along the winding golf-club driveway to the front entrance, where three young men wearing the same concierge jackets were perched on the carpeted front steps that led to the clubhouse. One of them rushed out to the car in front of her and opened the driver’s door, unfurling an umbrella as he went. A second young man opened the passenger door to let out a woman wearing an elegant sheath, covering her with another umbrella. The driver, a man in a tux, passed his keys to the young man along with a dollar bill—of what denomination Parish couldn’t see—and took a ticket from him. The young man hopped in the car and sped away into the darkness.
Incredible, Parish thought. Valet parking when the lot was a two-minute walk away. And damn, she was going to be underdressed.
She pulled her car up. The third young man scooted down, easily taking the steps two at a time, swooped over, and opened her car door all in one smooth motion.
“Good evening. I’m Jack,” he said, covering her with an umbrella. “Welcome to Britt’s party.”
He had a beaming smile on his handsome face. Parish guessed he was in his early twenties. Very fit. Perfect teeth too.
Her foul-mouthed friend Zelda, who worried about Parish’s lack of a sex life since her divorce four years earlier, loved to tease Parish about how younger men were attracted to her. “It’s your great hair,” Zelda said. “To say nothing of your great ass and your goddam perfectly aquiline nose.”
Although Parish liked to deny it, perhaps Zelda was right. There’d been Bert, the young waiter, whom she met one night when she was out with Zelda at a vodka bar. He’d slipped her his phone number on the back of the check. Then Harry, a young guide, when they went on a canoe trip up north last summer. Both times, the flings only lasted a few weeks.
“There’s nothing to talk about with them,” she complained to Zelda the last time they were out at a Law Society trivia night and Jeff, a first-year lawyer, tried to pick her up.
“Talk? What the fuck do you need to talk about, girl?”
She swung her legs out of the car. Jack reached over and took her arm. She shook her head back and forth so that her hair flopped over her face and swung back away. What the hell, she was having a good hair day.
Up close, she put Jack at maybe his mid-twenties. Still boyish, and she could see he was in great shape.
He handed her a card with a picture on it of Britt holding a trophy in one hand, her golf club in another, a rather shy look on her face. Underneath the words Britt Is Number One, Your Car Number Is were typed out, and someone had handwritten in her number, 77.
“Thanks,” she said, taking the card and examining it. “Lucky sevens. This could be my night.”
“Hey, you never know,” Jack said, all smiles.
She noticed him looking sideways at her old Toyota and caught a smirk on his face.
“Maybe you should park my old jalopy at the dark end of the lot,” she said.
“Sorry.” He chuckled. “It’s just most people here drive ridiculously expensive cars.”
“You could finance a third-world nation with them,” she said.
He laughed.
“That’s a good line. I’ll have to tell my business professor that one.”
“Where do you go to school?”
“Community college. Special course in golf-club management. I’m kind of doing my victory lap. Two more credits to go.”
“Happens.” Parish was in no hurry. It was easier to make small talk and flirt with this good-looking young guy than face the high-powered crowd inside. “This looks like a good job.”
“It’s just part-time. Dad’s the general manager. He named me Jack after Jack Nicklaus. I’ve been golfing here my whole life.”
“You must be good.”
“Seven handicap,” he said, rubbing his hands together.
Parish realized he wasn’t only making small talk with her but was expecting her to give him a tip.
“Wait a minute.” She fished around in the little change purse inside her shoulder bag. The smallest bill she had was a ten, and she wasn’t about to ask him for change.
“Here, thanks,” she said, handing it over to him.
He glanced down. She expected him to be surprised to get such a big tip, but he momentarily frowned. The other members in their fancy cars must give these kids at least twenty bucks.
What the hell was she doing at a place like this? She was so out of her league.
She swiftly calculated. If she was seventy-seven, and there was still a line of cars behind her, say there were a hundred. If most of them gave only ten, that was a thousand dollars divided among four kids. Cash. Say the average tip was fifteen dollars. Or twenty. The rich, she thought, just get richer.
“Ah, thank you,” Jack said, seeming to remember his manners.
The car behind her beeped its horn. Jack looked at it and waved. “Got to go. Have a good time in there, lucky sevens,” he said, before he sped away.
Inside the ornate clubhouse, she was accosted by a photographer. He insisted on getting her to pose beside a life-size cardboard cutout of Britt swinging a golf club. Then a woman with a video camera directed her to a booth where she was asked to recall her greatest memory of Britt growing up.
Downfall Page 13
