Downfall

by Robert Rotenberg

  “Hi, Britt. It’s me. I’ll always treasure the nights when your dad brought you to the law office where I worked with your mom.” She waved at the camera. “Remember the paper shredder? Cccrunch Cccrunch.” It was Parish’s private way of messaging Britt about Melissa. Karl and Lydia wouldn’t want to hear about Karl’s ex, but too bad.

  Parish had taken her godmother duties with Britt seriously. They met three times a year. Once at Karl and Lydia’s annual pre-Christmas open house. Parish would bring her a present, and they had a tradition of sneaking out and going to Starbucks for hot chocolate. At March break, before the golf season, and in the fall after the season ended, Britt would come and stay with Parish for a weekend. It was a big thrill for her to be downtown, and they’d spend most of their time shopping. Her dad wanted her to be in golf clothes and sweatpants all the time, but Britt had some of her mother’s flair for fashion.

  The club’s vast ballroom was festooned with banners and balloons with BRITT stencilled on them. The walls were covered with more life-sized photos of Britt golfing from the age of three on up. Parish noticed that Melissa wasn’t in any of the pictures. Her very existence in her daughter’s life had been erased.

  The dance floor was already packed with kids Britt’s age. A hip-looking guy was leading them in moves to the music of a DJ on the stage at the end of the room. A photographer was taking pictures and a videographer was taping the whole thing. Tuxedo-wearing servers circulated with precious-looking hors d’oeuvres and glasses of champagne. Parish grabbed a glass and downed it in two gulps.

  She found the place with cards on it for table assignments. Hers was named the “Twelfth Hole.” She got another glass of champagne and walked over there. People were already seated at a round table busily talking to each other, old friends who all knew each other. She didn’t know any of them. The only seat left was by the window. She sat and took in the room.

  There were some prominent politicians and local celebrities, whom she recognized, but she didn’t know anyone here. She wasn’t surprised. Ever since Lydia had left the law firm and married Karl, she’d hung out with this new, wealthy crowd.

  Parish gazed out the window. A lone golf cart with the word Security painted on its side drove along the path that cut across the back lawn and disappeared into the darkness.

  Keeping the barbarians at the gate, she thought, trying to imagine what it was like for the homeless people across the river sleeping out in the cold. And wondering about Melissa: where oh where could she be?

  “Hi, I’ll be your server tonight, ma’am,” a familiar male voice behind her said.

  She swivelled around to look at a server, who was holding up two bottles of wine.

  “Will you be drinking red or white?” he asked.

  “I’m thinking red. Fill it right to the top please.”

  He bent over to pour the wine and whispered, “Good choice, Ms. Parish.”

  “You need to keep me well lubricated tonight to get through this,” she whispered back. “But don’t worry, Detective Kennicott, I’ll take a cab home.”

  28

  Kennicott had decided to work the party as a waiter—Greene knew the caterer and made the last-minute arrangements—so he could keep an eye on Hodgson. It was important that he not realize the police were watching him. There was a small chance he might recognize Kennicott because he’d appeared on TV during some of his homicide cases, but that was in another context. People tended to look at the uniform and not the person.

  Kennicott wore a black suit, white shirt, and black tie, like all the other servers. He’d put on a pair of thick glasses, with non-prescription lenses, as a final touch. He had one other undercover working with him, Constable Sheppard. She was at the entrance checking people in. Then she was going to help the young men who were parking cars and keep her eyes on the entrance.

  The party was buzzing. Before dinner was served, the kids danced away on the dance floor while clusters of adults socialized at the bar. Ever energetic, Hodgson jumped right in and circulated among the crowd. Various “golf stations” had been set up around the edges of the room: a mini–putting green; a chipping station; a driving range. Kennicott watched Hodgson take Britt with him and go from station to station, glad-handing, both he and Britt then taking clubs and using them. Hodgson was good, but it was obvious that, even at her young age, Britt was better. The videographer followed them, capturing it all for golf-posterity.

  Britt seemed camera shy, embarrassed by all the attention her extroverted father was lavishing on her. Kennicott saw her look longingly at the dance floor, where the other kids her age were jumping up and down, having fun.

  Kennicott also saw Hodgson’s wife Lydia come out from the kitchen and walk up to an older woman with a clipboard, who Kennicott assumed was the party planner.

  Lydia checked her phone, bit her lip, said something to the party planner, then walked purposely over to her husband and tapped him on the shoulder. She pointed toward the head table. Hodgson gave the golf club he’d been using to one of the guests, took Britt by the arm, and paraded her through the crowd up to the microphone in front of his seat at the head table.

  “Thank you, thank you, everyone,” he said in his booming voice. He took off his Britt scarf and waved it over his head.

  The rumbling sound of conversation in the room died down. A number of people in the audience took their scarves and waved them too.

  “Good evening. Lydia and I are overjoyed you could all be here to celebrate with us Britt’s tremendous victory. She’s the number one golfer for her age group in all of Ontario!”

  Everyone clapped. Even the servers.

  “This is Britt’s night. No long speeches. Dinner is being served, so please take your seats. Then there’ll be a special video presentation I’m sure you’ll all enjoy. In the meantime, dig into the club’s delicious food, and then take your turn at our golf stations.”

  For a while Kennicott was busy serving tables and keeping an eye on Hodgson. The man was back in constant motion. He didn’t bother to eat but flitted about from table to table, shaking hands, taking selfies with people. After about half an hour Kennicott slipped into a hallway and texted Sheppard.

  “See anything unusual out there?”

  “No. Just a few million dollars’ worth of cars and bored rich kids.”

  Kennicott went back into the hall. He looked around, but Hodgson wasn’t there. Where had the man gone? Did he figure out who Kennicott was, and had he waited for a chance to slip outside unseen?

  Britt was on the dance floor now, looking as if she was having fun. Lydia was talking to a group of women, but Kennicott could see her attention was directed more to the hallway that led to the back lawn. Kennicott made his way there. At the last moment he saw Hodgson running back in from outside, wiping his hands with a pair of napkins. Before Hodgson looked up, Kennicott ducked into the men’s washroom. It was a massive room with a high ceiling, big mirrors, stone floors, and marble countertops.

  He began washing his hands under one of the gold-plated taps. A few seconds later Hodgson rushed in and went straight for a stall. He barely noticed Kennicott.

  Kennicott watched Hodgson’s feet through the mirror. They never turned around. Hodgson wasn’t sitting on the toilet. Kennicott heard the toilet flush and, still watching Hodgson’s feet through the mirror, he went to the paper dispenser to dry his hands. Hodgson threw open the stall door and walked right out of the bathroom. The napkins in his hand were gone.

  Kennicott waited until the bathroom door closed, then another minute to make sure Hodgson didn’t come back, before he went into the stall. There were traces of blood on the toilet paper roll. He took some paper towels out of the dispenser, returned to the stall, and carefully folded in the stained pieces of toilet paper.

  He took out his cell phone and called Sheppard.

  “Hey, Janice,” she said, as if she were talking to a friend. “What’s happening later? I’m free in a while.”

  She�
��s a good cop, Kennicott thought. Quick on her feet.

  “I need you to meet me outside the men’s washroom in the back hallway ASAP.”

  “Cool,” she said. “I’ve heard that bar is great.”

  He stood outside the men’s room and less than a minute later she sped down the hallway. She loved to drive fast and it seemed she liked to walk fast too. He gave her the wrapped-up tissue.

  “Find a plastic bag and seal it, tape over the seal and photograph it. For continuity, you need to keep this on your person at all times and bring it to the homicide department lab when you’re done.”

  “Got it,” she said. No fuss.

  “Walk around the property, let me know if you see anything. Hodgson was outside and came back inside bleeding.”

  “I’m on it.” She turned and zipped out the door.

  Back in the ballroom, the kids were dancing and the hip guy who was leading them was handing out prizes to their outstretched arms. Hodgson and his wife were in intense discussions with the party planner. She handed Hodgson a microphone.

  Without warning the music stopped. The dancers froze in position.

  “Now, folks,” Hodgson said to the quieted crowd, “here she is, the one and only champion, Britt! Come on everyone, clap your hands!”

  The party planner signalled the DJ, and he started playing the song “We Are the Champions.” People began to clap. The lights went out in the room, then a spotlight came on focused on Britt. She must have snuck out of the room a few minutes before, because now she was being brought back into the hall, carried by four strong men on a chair made entirely of welded-together golf clubs.

  “Everyone join us on the dance floor!” Hodgson called out.

  Most of the guests left their seats and rushed up. In the dimmed light, Kennicott could see Parish sitting by the window alone at her table. Downing another glass of wine.

  Britt was brought into the centre of the dance floor, packed now with people singing along to the music. Kennicott heard a loud bang and was confused. Then he saw what it was. A huge cannon-like machine had been rolled in, and had shot a massive wave of blue, red, and gold confetti over the partygoers.

  Britt seemed uneasy with all the hoopla. But the spotlight switched to Hodgson, and Kennicott could see he was in his glory.

  “You’ll be picking the confetti out of your hair and clothes for days, but don’t worry, it’s all recycled paper,” he shouted to the people around him, who were pulling handfuls of confetti off themselves. Waiters appeared with big green garbage bags.

  “Wasn’t that fun!” Hodgson roared.

  “Yes!” the crowd roared back.

  “And now, everyone, look toward the head table for our special video presentation.”

  A gigantic screen descended behind the head table as the spotlight dimmed and the room went black. Perfectly timed, the video started to play. The opening shots, taken with a handheld camera, were of Britt, just a toddler, swinging a golf club with her dad. A title came up: Move Over Tiger, Here Comes Britt.

  A witty fake news reporter came on screen, and for the next fifteen minutes a sleekly produced mock-documentary video traced Britt’s golf career. Included were interviews with her various coaches—she’d had four already—and older members of the golf club, and clips from home-made footage of Britt swinging the club, sinking putts, and winning tournaments.

  Kennicott watched transfixed by the overindulgence. About halfway through, it occurred to him that Melissa had been left out of her daughter’s story again. Cruel, he thought, as if Britt’s mother had been erased as easily as chalk on a blackboard.

  As the video was coming to the end, Kennicott realized he had lost track of Hodgson in the darkness. Was he still in the crowded room, or had he slipped outside again? It was impossible to tell. There was nothing Kennicott could do but wait for the lights to come back on.

  Damn it.

  29

  There aren’t many sadder places in the city than a late-night donut shop in a rundown part of town, Greene thought as he strolled into Coffee Time on Sherbourne Street. It was twelve minutes before ten. A predictable group of urban wanderers and lonely misfits were here. In one corner, a pair of prostitutes wearing excessive amounts of makeup, taking a break from their night shift, were pouring copious amounts of sugar into their paper coffee cups. Near the counter an androgynous-looking young woman in army fatigues, a red bandanna tied around her neck, was sitting with an older guy who wore a short-sleeved shirt, his arms full of tattoos. Their faces half hidden under baseball caps, they were munching on stale-looking sandwiches and tapping away on their cell phones. An old man wearing a worn-out felt hat and skinny black tie sat alone at a table by the window bent over a crossword puzzle book. Behind the counter a tired-looking young woman in a sari was doing her homework between serving customers.

  Keswick said his daughter came in at exactly ten o’clock. She’d known Greene for years and Keswick was worried that she’d bolt as soon as she saw him. That’s why Greene had devised this plan.

  He went to the counter, ordered a tea and a donut, and took it back to a table in front of the west window, one away from the empty table in the corner. He’d brought a Toronto Sun with him, opened it up to cover his face, and began to read the sports section.

  He started with three different articles about the Toronto Maple Leafs: there were “serious” questions about the backup goalie and the defense, the lack of secondary scoring was a “major concern,” the power play was radically “underperforming.” Bottom line, one of the columnists opined, was that the team still hadn’t developed its own “identity.”

  Greene heard the front door open. He felt a gust of cold wind blow onto his back. A moment later he heard Keswick as he talked to the server behind the counter. He peeked out from behind his newspaper to watch.

  “Amaya, how’s my favourite student doing this evening?”

  “I am well, thank you, sir,” Amaya said. “Do you wish to have your usual order? One medium black coffee, one large with triple sugar and triple cream?”

  “Yes, Professor.”

  “I am not professor, only student, sir,” she said.

  “Also a maple donut tonight,” he said.

  “Certainly, sir. Will you be purchasing coffee cards?”

  “Five-dollar ones, please. I’ll take eight this time.”

  “Your total will be forty-six dollars and twenty-six cents.”

  He counted out five ten-dollar bills on the counter and passed them to her. “Study hard. I’ll vote for you to become prime minister. And keep the change.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “Thank you, sir. Have a seat and I’ll bring your order to your table.”

  Greene put his newspaper up, covering his face. Now he was reading about the Toronto Raptors. The team was fighting through an early season rash of injuries. He heard Keswick’s heavy footsteps pass by him and stop at the table in the corner, then heard him pull out a chair and plunk himself down. A few seconds later he heard Amaya’s light footsteps and the sound of two cups being put down on the table.

  “You’re an angel sent from above,” Keswick said.

  “Thank you, sir,” Amaya said. “I see your daughter outside now.”

  Greene heard Amaya walk away.

  Keswick whispered to Greene, “Here she comes, Ari.”

  Greene felt the wind again as the door opened and shut, then rapid footsteps leading to Keswick’s table.

  “Coffee’s still hot,” Keswick said.

  “Good. Three sugars, right? Triple cream?”

  Greene hadn’t heard Daphne’s voice for many years. It was deeper and coarser than he remembered.

  “And I got you a donut. Maple,” Keswick said.

  Greene heard a slurping sound. “Damn it!” she said. “Coffee in this shithole place is too fuckin’ hot.”

  “How are you?” Keswick asked his daughter.

  “How do you think? There’s a fuckin’ killer on the loose in case you haven�
��t heard. Everyone is freaked. I mean totally freaked. Friggin’ cops don’t give a shit.”

  Greene heard the sound of her chewing on the donut.

  “Jeez, this thing is stale.”

  “You’re welcome,” Keswick said, lacing his voice with sarcasm for the first time.

  “Yeah, thanks,” she said.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Dad, stop it.”

  “Are you safe?”

  Greene heard her take another sip of coffee. “Fucking hell,” she shouted. Greene heard her chair scratch across the hard tile floor. Under his newspaper he saw her stand and stomp away from the table. He thought she was going to leave. He was about to get out of his seat when he realized she was headed toward the counter.

  He peered out of the side of his newspaper to watch her.

  Behind the counter Amaya looked up in surprise.

  “Hey, you got some ice?” Daphne demanded.

  The low murmur of chatter from the other people in the restaurant stopped.

  “Certainly, ma’am,” Amaya said. The sound of her scooping ice into a paper cup reverberated around the room.

  She held the cup out, and Daphne grabbed it out of her hand. “Coffee shouldn’t be so friggin’ hot,” she said.

  Greene pulled his newspaper up before Daphne marched back to her seat.

  “Just this one time,” she said to her father, “you gotta give me some cash. You keep saying you want me off the friggin’ street. I can’t exactly rent a room with a handful of coffee cards.”

  Greene heard Keswick exhale.

  “Come on,” she said. “I promise, Dad, this time the money’s not going to go into my arm. Really. I found a place in a rooming house. Twenty bucks a night.”

  “I can’t,” Keswick said.

  “You mean won’t.”

  “I know someone who will.”

  “Who? Who?”

  Greene put his newspaper down and stood. In two quick steps he was behind Daphne, effectively cutting off her exit route.