by Sheena Kamal
It takes me a few minutes to notice the Chopin seeping out of Leo’s office. I didn’t even know Leo was here. The lights are off in the office, and the door is closed. And yet, spilling forth is our death song. It’s a bad omen, this, though I try not to think about it as I walk out into the icy night, a night that is as unlike Vancouver as I’ve ever experienced. It’s so cold out that it’s almost surreal.
17
Whisper and I linger on Vidal’s street in Point Grey. Seb’s town house is several blocks away in Kits and is all but cleaned up, ready to be sold again for an exorbitant price. I’m sitting in a park that takes up an entire block, and Whisper is off-leash exploring. There are almost no passersby, and no children on the playground in front of me. Nobody is walking their dogs. Empty houses line the street, but there are lights on in Vidal’s mansion. The mansion itself is protected by a large stone fence, and there are cameras mounted over the gate.
When I used to live in the basement of the Hastings Street office, at least there were people on the street. They were high, but they were around. There was evidence of lives being lived. Here, the lives—if there are any—are barricaded away. Including Vidal’s.
If he’s even here.
Before I leave, I call Leo to see if he’s at the town house. He slurs his greeting. “It’s late,” I say, not wanting to speak to him like this.
“No, no, I can—talk.”
“Really, it’s fine. I’ll call back tomorrow.” I hang up. It’s not even dinnertime, and Leo is drunk. I call Simone for advice on an intervention. She doesn’t answer. The sultry message comes on again. I try Brazuca, because at one point he was my sponsor. He was never great on the advice front, but I don’t know what else to do.
“I was just going to call you,” he says. “Can we meet?”
I give him the address to Leo’s apartment.
“I’ll be there in an hour. Any more tails?”
“Not since that day we went to find Nolan.”
When he hangs up, I feel an unexpected sense of relief.
After I feed Whisper, I heat up some Chinese food from the fridge. Brazuca arrives just in time to eat half of it, go figure.
“What did you want to meet about?” I ask, not yet ready to talk about Leo. We’re sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a kind of herbal tea that I found in Leo’s cupboard. I don’t for a moment let this scene of cozy domesticity get to me. I’m watching for signs of a meltdown, but Brazuca’s hands are steady. He’s wielding his chopsticks, if not with precision, with a certain amount of capability.
His expression, however, is guarded.
“I may know someone else who might be able to help us find Dao. He has more resources and, frankly, more time on his hands. I went to see him today and he seemed open to helping, but I don’t trust him.”
He is hiding something.
“Who is it?”
“A former client. I can’t give you a name right now.” This, at least, is the truth. He’s letting me know up front that he’s hiding something. I can respect that, so I give him the update on Nolan and share my suspicions that he might want to join the team.
“Shit,” he says. “The last thing we need is some guy who doesn’t know what he’s doing muddying the water. You think he’s going to be a problem?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I have to get to Vidal first at that event, before he has a chance to scare him off.”
“When are you going?”
“Nine p.m.”
He nods. “Okay, I’ll see you there.” He’s got something else to say, but he can’t quite get through it. Whisper allows him to pat her head, perhaps also sensing that he’s stalling. I hope he’s not interested in a good-bye hug. I can’t help but think about the night we’d spent together and immediately try to focus on something else.
The air between us becomes thick with the memories of things better left unsaid.
He clears his throat.
I open the door.
We are careful to step around each other.
“See you tomorrow,” he says.
He leaves behind him a sense of restlessness I’m becoming used to.
When Whisper and I reach Seb’s town house, the night is quiet. The street is empty. I make sure to linger outside for a while to see if anyone is keeping watch. The air is cold but still. There is no snow, no rain.
After I’ve made sure that no one’s looking, I go in through the back.
Inside the town house all the furniture is gone. There’s a single light on in Seb’s study, and that’s where I find Leo wrapped in a blanket. The desk is gone, and so are the books on the shelves. All that’s left of Sebastian Crow in this space is the worn sofa he used to curl up on when he was too tired to go to his room but needed a nap. As the cancer took a firmer hold of him, became terminal, ate him up from the inside, this is where I’d find him.
It’s now where I find the lover he’d abandoned.
Leo is asleep with a bottle of bourbon at his side. There’s a shot or two left. I’m careful to pour it down the sink before Leo wakes up. Or before I forget that booze was once the greatest joy of my life and that it is a cruel mistress who only takes, never gives. It’s a shame, though, because this is the good stuff.
When I return to the study, Whisper is on her belly by the sofa, and one of Leo’s hands has fallen over her. She doesn’t seem to mind. I leave them there and pull all the shades in the house closed. I’m tired, but I know I won’t get much sleep tonight. I drive to Vidal’s house. The lights are off, but there’s a streetlight right in front of the house. I can see the glow of a laptop screen in one of the darkened rooms upstairs, visible through a gap in the curtains. A few minutes later, a face appears in the window.
Even though I’m in the car, I flinch and draw back into my seat. I don’t know if I’ve been seen or not.
Suddenly I don’t want to be on empty streets anymore. It would have been nice to have Whisper here with me, but I think about how calm she seemed on the floor beside Leo, and I remember that he’s a part of her life now, too. I don’t feel guilty about going to the Hastings office without her.
I sit in Leo’s office and read through the latest financials.
Krushnik and Co. is still getting work, but increasingly money seems to be paid out to Stevie Warsame more than anyone else. Brazuca hasn’t worked for the firm in a month. Leo barely answers his emails. There have been several inquiries for services that he’s left unread. As I suspected, things aren’t looking good. I shut down Leo’s computer.
I can’t help but think about why I lied to Brazuca tonight. I was right. His nerves are shot because he’s scared. I could see it in the car when he thought we had a tail. I could see it tonight when I let him into Leo’s apartment. Brazuca is terrified, but his concern is not for himself. I told him the wrong time for my meeting with Nolan because I can’t afford to have his fear clouding what I know I have to do. I can’t have it laid bare tomorrow night in front of Peter Vidal, our only real lead.
It’s for the best, really, but I still feel terrible about it.
18
Leo shows up to the office dressed in a blue suit and orange-patterned tie. His shirt is tight around the middle, but he wears it with such confidence that both me and Stevie Warsame take a moment to appreciate the transformation that has taken place. Two hours ago, he dropped off Whisper at the office looking like he’d spent the night drinking away his sorrows, which he had. Now look at the wonders a shower and beautiful suit can perform.
He beams at us. “Thanks for leaving Whisper with me last night, Nora. She woke me up this morning and we went for a walk by the sea. It was . . . it was exactly what I needed. I’m feeling so much better now.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, holding myself back from telling him exactly what’s on my mind. Which is how insulting it is that he’s lying to me, of all people. Stevie’s not fooled, either. He’s giving him a side eye he reserves for the people who try to bargain down his ra
tes.
“Were you able to close up the town house okay?” I ask.
“Yes. It’s done. Finally. How’s the search going?”
I shrug. “A couple leads. Nothing solid yet.”
“I just have to clear some things from my desk and I’ll be right there with you.” He looks vulnerable, all of a sudden. “I’m glad you’re back, Nora. And even though you’re a pain in the butt—Seb always said so—you mean a lot to me.”
Is it getting hot in here? I pull at my collar, scratch an itch below my ear, look at a point over his shoulder.
“Okay,” I say. Then I leave. I sit in the waiting room and think about why I wasn’t able to say to Leo that he means something to me, too. How much it hurt to keep Seb’s illness from him.
Stevie comes out of the office. “Drink?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Over a year sober.”
He winces. “That makes a lot of sense, actually.” For a moment it looks like he’s about to expand on that thought, but thankfully he decides to move on. “Doing some interviews for a background check. Want to come along?”
“Can’t today.”
He looks relieved.
We chat for a bit. It feels normal, like it used to feel when I worked here. We discuss the news about an alleged serial killer who was caught after eluding the police for decades. He famously went on a killing spree, terrorizing the Bay Area. It was said he was driven to murder because a woman had rejected him.
He continued murdering because he simply enjoyed it.
Stevie thinks it’s just morbid office banter, but I’m happy we’re speaking like this. About this topic in particular. I don’t want to ever forget what people are capable of. Especially given who I have to go see tonight.
19
To live in Vancouver is to be obsessed with the ocean. There’s nothing else of value here. You can find nice trees elsewhere in Canada. You can hike in other places. Mountains abound in this country. There are no shortages of lakes. To choose Vancouver specifically is to choose the Pacific, to sacrifice the entirety of your paycheck to be near it. That is, if you’re a hobo like myself. If you’re a man like Peter Vidal, and you can afford to park your yacht here in perpetuity, then it’s no sacrifice at all.
But the ocean is still the draw.
I can’t help but take a few minutes to appreciate the view from the marina at Coal Harbour, circle around to where the seaplanes take off, and then head back to the Van Club.
As I approach it, I peer through gilded doors and into the lobby lit with a cascading chandelier, the light spilling out into the street in little droplets. Even though I’m half an hour early, there’s no reason for another bouncer to be at the door. Yet there he is, this guy, unapologetically being a man other than Joe Nolan. I clock his girth first, taking up most of the doorway, and then his guarded expression.
There’s no way this man is going to let me through the front without an invitation.
I’m about to try my luck at the service entrance around back when I see a young woman approaching the club, rolling a cello case behind her. Her sleek updo is half-unraveled, but she’s in so much of a hurry that she doesn’t stop to fix it. It takes me a split second to make a decision while the bouncer is momentarily distracted by a couple in evening wear.
I reach the bottom of the stairs at the same time she does and grab the bottom end of the case.
“I got it,” she says stiffly.
“You’re late, so let’s get this over with.” I go up the stairs with my end of the case, and she has no choice but to follow.
“I’m sorry, who are you?”
“I’m helping with this evening’s entertainment. I was told to wait for you.”
“Really, I can handle this.”
We bicker like this all the way up the steps and past the bouncer. I give him a breezy “We’re with the band” on my way past. He’s about to say something, about to reach out with his hand to stop us, but the cellist is closer to him and she’s wearing a silky evening gown under her open jacket. He doesn’t want to chance ruining it. It’s in this moment of hesitation that he gives up. I’m inside so fast that the cellist has trouble keeping up with me in her low heels. Once we reach the corridor I stop and pass over the case.
“Is this the right way?” she asks.
I shrug. “Sure.”
I walk away before she can protest. Like the bouncer, she misses her chance. I wish I had thought to bring a clipboard with me, because there’s nothing as invisible in a crowded room as a woman with a clipboard who is taking notes, but I had stupidly relied on Nolan to get me through this somehow.
No matter. If anyone asks, I’m prepared to tell them that I’m with the band.
No one asks, because as soon as the cellist comes striding through the door at the other end of the room, shedding her coat on an empty chair, the room goes hushed. She takes her place with the band, a rather stripped-down affair, actually. There’s the pianist, the cellist, and a female singer. From their dress and the theatrical nature of the singer’s makeup, I can tell we’re about to be treated to some opera. Looking around the room, which is filled with the most elegant people I’ve ever seen in my life, this seems fitting.
Vidal isn’t in here, and I wonder if Nolan was wrong about this. Maybe that’s why he didn’t show his face this evening. Amateur detectives are a pain in the ass for a lot of reasons, but their basic lack of reliability is at the top of the list.
I slip out, just as the pianist stretches his long fingers. I’ve left my jacket at the corner of the room, and underneath I’m wearing a white collared shirt and a pair of black slacks. Both of which I borrowed from Leo’s closet, along with his shiniest dress shoes. With luck, I’ll be mistaken for waitstaff. Without luck, I’ll be tossed out because even Leo’s best dress shoes aren’t good enough for this postal code.
I’ve come too far to give up, though.
A staircase leading to the second floor is barred, but the lobby is empty anyway, so it’s nothing to throw a leg over the rope. In seconds, I’m up on the second floor. Down the hall from me, beyond a set of glass doors, there are two men smoking on a balcony. This floor isn’t lit as well as the first, and I am able to stand in the shadows, watching them smoke. Eventually they shake hands.
The door to the balcony opens, and Peter Vidal comes into the hall. The other man stays outside. I can’t see his face, but it doesn’t matter anymore because Vidal is walking toward me. What strikes me the most about him is his unfettered confidence. I can see him steering yachts all over the world, as comfortable on deck as he is in a boardroom. I step out of the doorway I’m standing in and am about to say something when the balcony doors open once again and the man Vidal was with calls out, “Nora Watts?”
Both Vidal and I turn to see playboy billionaire Bernard Lam striding toward us, a huge grin on his face. Lam grasps my hands in his large, soft grip. Before I know it, we’re embracing like old friends.
When I pull away from him and look behind me, Vidal is gone. No sign of him on the staircase, either.
Shit.
“You know,” Lam says, “I was just talking about you the other day. With our pal Brazuca.”
Brazuca may be his pal, but he and I are . . . I don’t get to think too much about it, because Lam is off again, walking toward the stairs, heading down to the lobby, to coat check, talking the entire time about what a gift to humanity Brazuca is for accepting money to do work for Lam. He shakes my hand at the doors while the bouncer who is still not Nolan looks on.
When he wishes me a cheerful good-bye, I want to murder him.
I’m not sure what just happened, but it’s possible that Vidal is still in the building, so I go into the dining room to take a look. As soon as I open the doors, a wave of sound comes thundering over me. It’s the piano, the cello, but most of all it’s the woman standing at the front of the room, singing.
I have never been able to afford a ticket to the opera. The closest I came was watc
hing a young man, a busker like myself, blast “Time to Say Goodbye” from a boom box on the steps of the Vancouver Art Gallery. His voice soared over the music like nothing I’d heard before. I gave him half of the money I’d earned that day and walked away feeling a lightness inside to match the lightness in my pocket.
So when I hear the band start this song, I recognize it immediately. It’s not opera, per se, but for my money it’s better. It’s something I can understand. Something I can feel. I’m more of a blues gal, myself. The rawness of the blues, the stories of it, they’ve burrowed inside of me and made a home that I’ve never been able to root out. But you can’t be tethered to your blues every second. There are epic, grand things in life to experience, and what is happening here is just a little taste of it.
Standing just inside the room, I forget, for a moment, what I came here for. This time it’s a woman singing, and she is so good that nobody wants to say good-bye to her when it’s over. I feel tears in my eyes, and I don’t know why. Her voice has wrapped itself around me, but it doesn’t feel light, like it did with the busker. It feels like I’m choking on it.
In her voice I hear nothing but melancholy and longing.
Grabbing my coat, I leave to the sound of ecstatic applause. The ecstasy is lost on me, but the melancholy remains. The lobby is stifling. Everything is gold and red. If I sink into one of the overstuffed armchairs, I might never rise again.
The doorman, having seen me shake hands with Bernard Lam, doesn’t bat an eyelash at me. Besides, what trouble could I be on my way out?
“Have a nice night, ma’am,” he says to me.
I guess shaking hands with Bernard Lam is enough to earn me a ma’am and some well wishes for the evening. The song I’d just heard stays with me, dissipates my anger toward Lam.
I was this close.
Vidal was right in front of me, and I could have found some way to confront him about Three Phoenix, about where Jimmy Fang went. Where Dao could be right now. There are so many could haves in this, but I don’t have it in me to be angry about the loss of opportunity.
