The Safe Word

by Karen Long

  “We’ve got him,” he hissed, handing her the card. Eleanor scowled, pulled on a latex glove, took the proffered card and read with astonishment the script, ‘Kidnappings Arranged’ and below it a cell number.

  Chapter Four

  Laurence was not surprised that Mo’s desk was still dominating the workstation he was to share with Eleanor, he was just irritated that he wasn’t allowed to use it. Eleanor had had a small, temporary table shoe-horned into the corner of the room where movement was well nigh impossible and he’d had to find an extension cable to link his laptop to the power supply. So far he’d been unable to stretch the telephone far enough so that he could reach it and every time it rang he had to lunge over the table top to reach it. It was ringing now and after a gymnastic stretch heard himself snap into the receiver, “Yes!”

  “Whoa, back up there Detective! Only the brave or those not wanting their AFIS report use that sort of tone,” said Wadesky tersely.

  “Mea culpa,” replied Whitefoot. “What have you got?”

  “Well there are three complete fingerprints, two are yours because you weren’t wearing latex gloves,” she said pointedly.

  “And the others?”

  “One partial index, unknown to database and a complete thumb and partial index, which are known,” she replied. Laurence felt the adrenaline kick in and held his breath. “The known belong to a Cheswell Barnes, white, male, thirty-four years who served three for forgery and tax evasion.”

  “Is he on the sex crimes register?”

  “’Fraid not. Clean on that score, he’s got two DUI’s and one domestic in 2007,” Wadesky read off her screen.

  “Domestic?”

  “His wife beat him with a shoe,” she laughed. “She was charged and fined.”

  “Ok,” he sighed. “Send it through and I’ll go and check this guy out.” He broke the call and typed the name into the record bank. He sighed when he saw Cheswell’s mugshot. Weighing in at slightly more than a bag of feathers, he didn’t look capable of fighting of a sparrow never mind hauling a dead woman thirty feet up a wall and then hooking her onto a cross beam. Still, it was the first lead. Checking the address, he called Eleanor on the phone and left instructions as to where he was heading.

  Eleanor stared at the middle-aged couple through the two-way glass and felt intuitively that they would now be able to identify the victim. She saw the woman wring her hands together and throw beseeching looks at her husband, who sat in stoic silence. It was time for them to move onto the next stage of their lives now, knowing they would have to live with the anger and guilt of their daughter’s murder, never quite able to talk to friends about what happened or want a full disclosure of the circumstances of her death. She sighed deeply before entering the room, watching grief hit people was a deeply unpleasant experience but one she had never shied away from.

  “Mr and Mrs Greystein?” Eleanor asked and thrust out her hand to Mr Greystein first. His hand was dry and cold but his shake solid. He was a tall man and stood rigidly to attention. His wife scrabbled to her feet, clumsy and desperate. “My Sergeant tells me that you’ve come to register your daughter as missing?” Eleanor said calmly.

  “Lydia’s dead isn’t she? Isn’t she? That’s why we’ve been brought in here instead of lining up like everyone else?” choked Mrs Greystein. “You’re a detective and they don’t deal with these sorts of things,” she looked to her husband, whose mouth was set in a rigid line, his jaw grinding his teeth together, “Isn’t that right Harry?” Eleanor considered her approach for a moment or two before deciding clear and honest would serve the couple best.

  “Mrs Greystein, the body of a young woman was discovered this morning and it’s protocol for the primary on the case, myself, to deal with all enquiries that could be matched to that case. We have no reason at this stage to believe the young woman to be that of your daughter Lydia.” The woman’s gem-laden wrinkled hand hovered in front of her mouth, as if that would stop the flow of misery.

  “Was your daughter engaged Mr Greystein?” asked Eleanor carefully.

  “Yes she was! How did you know?” gasped Mrs Greystein. “Harry, how do they know?” She turned to her husband grabbing his hand in hers.

  “She’s engaged to be married to Eric Stollar, he works for Delacroix and Stansfield,” he said slowly.

  “They’re a law firm, a good company. Eric is a good man,” said Mrs Greystein falling into what Eleanor could tell was a comforting mantra.

  “Perhaps you could give us Mr Stollar’s address before you leave?”

  “Why? You think it’s her don’t you?” Mrs Greystein’s voice had risen an octave.

  “Mrs Greystein you came in to tell us that your daughter is missing and we need as much help as possible if we are to find her,” Eleanor said firmly.

  “Yes, yes, I understand,” she whimpered.

  “Mr Greystein I’m going to ask you to accompany me to the morgue. Do you feel able to do that or would you like us to contact another member of your family?”

  His eyes widened with fear but he spoke clearly and with strength. “I can do that on my own. Thank you.” He gently disentangled his wife’s hands from his.

  “I will come, she’s my daughter!”

  Eleanor registered the fear on Mr Greystein’s face and took a pace towards his wife. She spoke slowly and firmly, “Mrs Greystein, if this is not your daughter you will have exposed yourself to an unpleasant experience. If it is her you will see her later when you can have quiet moments and see her in the right environment. Do you understand what I am saying to you?” Slowly the woman nodded her head, tears loosened her mascara and ran down her cheeks leaving rough tracks.

  “I do,” she whispered.

  “I’m going to get someone to bring you a drink and sit with you till we come back,” Eleanor nodded to Mr Greystein who kissed his wife and then followed her.

  Eleanor walked in silence along the corridor taking the emergency exit to the car park so Mr Greystein would not be exposed to the bedlam that was reception. He needed to compose himself and a few moments would help.

  She drove fairly quickly to the morgue, which was less than five minutes from the station. Parking in the reserved bay, she turned and picked up the manila envelope containing the photograph of the ring. “Sir, can you describe your daughter’s engagement ring?” She saw his lip tremble, knowing that this would be the decisive moment. If his description matched the one in the envelope his life was over. He cleared his throat, “It was a large diamond solitaire mounted on white gold,” his voice trailed as Eleanor’s eyes began to reveal the truth to him.

  “Can I ask you to look at this photograph and tell me if you recognise it?” she said. He nodded. There was no need for him to say ‘yes’ because his face gave his answer.

  “I thought it was rather showy myself,” he said quietly.

  Mr Greystein, Eleanor noted, no longer held himself ramrod straight but let his shoulders slump and back curve, as if his body was succumbing to the inevitability of what lay behind the glass partition. A curtain was drawn across the viewing window, enabling the bereaved to take the identification process in a series of small steps. “Are you prepared Mr Greystein?” He nodded. Eleanor tapped lightly on the window. Matt Gains pulled open the curtains and then stood behind the gurney where the woman’s body was covered with a green surgical sheet. He gently lifted the corner of the sheet and folded it neatly across the woman’s throat. Eleanor was relieved to see that Matt had washed and arranged her wet hair and removed all traces of makeup making her look younger and less abused. Mr Greystein made a choking sound and seemed to sway a little before regaining his composure.

  “Mr Greystein, can you confirm that this is the body of your daughter Lydia?”

  He nodded and then realising Eleanor needed more, “Yes. This is my daughter Lydia Rachel Greystein.”

  “Could she have been in an accident?” asked Mr Greystein desperately as Eleanor drove them both back to the station.
/>   “No, I’m sorry. We’re looking for her killer now,” she said quietly but firmly.

  “I will need to tell Eric,” he said vaguely.

  “Perhaps you wouldn’t object to talking to him after we have? We’ll be visiting him this afternoon.”

  Mr Greystein turned to look at her, his brow knotted with concern. “Do you think Eric had anything to do with Lydia’s death?” he asked.

  “At the moment we’re gathering information, not making any assumptions,” she replied. “Mr Greystein what are your impressions of Eric Stollar?” Eleanor thought she could detect a rise in colour in the man’s cheeks.

  “He’s a…” He paused, “Slimy little shit,” With that he clamped his jaw tightly closed and stared ahead.

  Cheswell Barnes stood shivering on his front porch, his arms wrapped tightly around his chest and stared aggressively at Laurence Whitefoot.

  “I don’t know who the fuck you’re talking about. I aint never seen no woman and I aint done nuthin’ wrong,” said Cheswell peevishly. Laurence took in the pathetic spectacle that was Cheswell Barnes. Standing no more than 5 feet 5 inches, with patchy, sand coloured hair and a fourteen year old’s attempt at a moustache, he was sporting a large cold sore on his upper lip and crusted sleep around his blood-shot eyes. His clothing had a ‘slept in’ appearance and an aroma to match. Cheswell was not convincing as a murder suspect but he was certainly up to something as his eyes continuously flickered to the left as he spoke. Before Laurence could pursue matters a female voice boomed from within the confines of the house.

  “Chessie! Who’s there? Chessie!”

  “He’s leaving now honey,” said Cheswell with an edge of hopefulness.

  “He’s not I’m afraid,” Laurence replied firmly. “Perhaps it would be better if we went inside Mr Barnes?”

  “For fuck’s sake!” groaned Cheswell but led the way into the house. The hallway was narrowed by a wall of cardboard boxes each sealed with parcel tape and advertising its contents as televisions and stereo equipment.

  “May I take a look in the boxes Mr Barnes?” asked Laurence.

  “No you may not because you haven’t got warrant,” came a terse, heavily accented response.

  “And you are?” asked Laurence recognising the woman’s face from her arrest photograph.

  “Sashia Irina Yesikov but you already know that.” Sashia was as round as she was tall, a cigarette clamped between her uneven teeth which she puffed enthusiastically as she stared at Laurence. Her ill-fitting, low-cut T-shirt revealed a bosom covered in tattoos of surprising artistry and Laurence felt an unseemly desire to stare but fought it; the nasty smirk on Sashia’s face confirmed he hadn’t fought hard enough. “What do you want?” she spat.

  “We have a dead girl in the morgue, who was kidnapped and tortured and this –” he held up a plastic evidence bag with the ‘Kidnapping Arranged’ card clearly visible within “– has Mr Barnes’ fingerprints all over it.”

  “Metaphorically or literally?” asked Sashia, sneering. Laurence noted that Cheswell’s shoulders were slumping lower than he thought physically possible. It was clear that he was neither the brains nor the brawn of whatever enterprise Sashia was running.

  “Literally,” replied Laurence. Several seconds passed as Sashia pondered matters.

  “That cell phone is not registered to either of us and there is nothing other than Chessie’s fingerprints to link him to it, correct?” Laurence nodded, pleased that Sashia was feeling more relaxed and confident, which meant that she was more likely to make a mistake. He waited patiently for it. It didn’t take long.

  “So, for all you know Chessie could have been planning a little fun for his beloved Sashia, correct?”

  Again Laurence nodded. “But the card was left on the notice board, surely if that was Mr Barnes’ plan he would have taken the card with him,” replied Laurence catching the hopeful expression flitting across Cheswell’s face.

  “He just note the number,” said Sashia casually miming a pen motion on paper. Laurence nodded.

  “Again that’s possible,” said Laurence. “Were you?” he asked Cheswell, who glanced nervously at Sashia.

  “Maybe,” he answered cautiously, hedging his bets.

  Recognising the signs that Cheswell was about to fuck things up, Sashia began to draw matters to a close. “We have done nothing wrong, you must leave now.”

  “Do you recognise either the girl or the ring,” said Laurence handing Sashia the photographs. She looked at both, raised an eyebrow and shrugged.

  “Never. You find this on the girl?” She tapped the photograph of the ring with a long, painted nail.

  “Yes,” Laurence replied.

  “Then it definitely can’t be Chessie,” she said emphatically. Cheswell nodded in agreement at the thought that having taken the time and trouble to kill, anyone would leave a ring of such value on the corpse. Gathering the photographs Laurence prepared to leave.

  “The televisions?” Laurence asked.

  “Gone by the time you get the warrant,” smiled Sashia.

  Laurence nodded sagely. “IRS?”

  “Listen Detective,” Sashia hissed, leaning towards him, “women like that get killed every day because they play dangerous games. I run business here with Chessie make ok living and pay tax to –”

  “What do you mean they ‘play dangerous games’,” cut in Laurence. He noted with interest that Sashia, previously unconcerned and confident, began to fidget. Cheswell was staring at her, his brows knotted.

  “What games?” Laurence added more firmly.

  “When a woman wears expensive ring and ends up dead, she is playing a dangerous game,” said Sashia. “We cannot help you anymore. Perhaps you will be good to leave now.”

  Laurence stared at her for a moment and then made his way along the narrow corridor. He opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch, turning to face Cheswell who was gratefully ushering him out. Laurence slammed his hand on the door. Cheswell’s frightened face appeared in the slim gap.

  “I don’t care about this nasty little enterprise you’ve got going here Mr Barnes but I will happily turn you over to the department that does. Do you understand?” Cheswell’s head nodded imperceptibly. “I want to find who killed this woman and everything about your body language tells me that you know something.” Cheswell’s head remained rigidly set. “Think quickly about how you can help me and by doing so, help yourself.” Laurence slipped his card through the gap and felt it taken by an invisible hand. Laurence gave the worried eyes a final glance and then turned and walked back to his car. Mr Barnes, he concluded, would be costing the city some serious police overtime.

  Chapter Five

  “I thought we had a meeting with the boss?” noted Laurence as he followed Eleanor across the parking lot outside police headquarters. An increasingly cold wind was yanking off the last of the sugar maple leaves, sending them into a manic vortex accompanied by plastic wrappers and scraps of litter.

  “Well, if you look behind you, you can wave to Marty as we leave,” replied Eleanor as she swiftly unlocked the car and jumped in. Laurence peered up at the third floor and saw Marty Samuelson’s angry face as he banged expressively on the window pane and then stabbed at his watch in a gesture that could only mean he’d thought the same too. Laurence watched as Samuelson put his phone to his ear and pointed at Eleanor, who had started the engine and was about to pull away.

  Laurence hopped in. “I think the boss is…”

  Eleanor’s phone started ringing. Laurence stared at her as she calmly pulled into the heavy city traffic. “Are you going to answer him?” he asked. The phone stopped and almost immediately Laurence’s sprang to life. Sighing he answered.

  Samuelson’s voice filled his ear. “What the fuck are you doing? We had a meeting arranged.”

  “Sir, we’re following a lead,” replied Laurence calmly.

  “Fuck the lead, where’s my debrief?” Samuelson snapped. Laurence saw Eleanor rol
l her eyes.

  “An email was sent to you before we left outlining our knowledge so far. We’ve identified…” began Laurence timidly.

  “I know that!” railed Samuelson.

  Laurence opened his mouth and then closed it again; it seemed more prudent to leave his boss to do the talking. There was a pause as Samuelson waited for bait but when none came he snarled, “Neither of you clock off tonight without giving me a face to face, understand?” and hung up.

  “Fuck!” groaned Laurence. “First day in the department and I’ve pissed off the boss.”

  “What do you care?” asked Eleanor.

  “Unlike you I don’t have a gold standard solve rate, I’m a grunt.”

  “You think I’ve just adopted rebellion as a recent ploy? I’ve been pissing Marty and everyone else off since day one. If you stop to care, you’re losing sight of the fact that you only have one boss,” she slipped through the sluggish traffic, making an illegal turn onto Queen’s.

  “The city?” he replied.

  She turned to him with disgust. “The victim!”

  Eleanor stared through her windshield at the enormous glass tower that housed the most expensive legal advice in Toronto. ‘Delacroix and Stansfield’ was sandwiched on the eleventh, in between merchant bankers and two other legal firms. Eleanor tapped in a number she read off a post-it note and waited for a second before it was answered.

  “Delacroix and Stansfield. How may I help you?” trilled the enthusiastic tones of what could only be a recently employed receptionist.

  “This is Marilyn from Burbage Heights. Can you tell me if Mr Eric Stollar is still there as his order is ready for immediate dispatch?” cooed Eleanor.

  “Yes he is! Let me see if he’s available to take your call,” she chirped.

  “No, that’s alright honey. It will take us less than an hour to get it to him, will he still be there or should I send it to the second nominated address?” Eleanor spoke quickly.