by Amir Lane
Even with my hand over my ears, I heard the pitchy whistle form a melody I didn't recognize. My head swam, the effect of Indira’s song muted but still present. I remembered my younger brother, Amin, grabbing a handful of my hair and pulling until some of it came out. I'd screamed and screamed until Mama came out of the kitchen and scooped Amin in her arms to coo at him, even though I was the one hurting.
“He’s just a baby,” she had said. “He doesn’t know better. He pulls my hair too.”
“It still hurts!” I had shouted back between sniffles, my older brother, Emad, repeating my words in agreement.
Such was life as the eldest and middle child. We would both die for Amin, but he was still a little shit. A little shit with an engineering degree, but still a little shit.
“That's enough. That's enough!”
Rowan slammed his hand on the table. I jumped, and the song stopped immediately. Upstairs, a door clicked open.
“Everything all right down there?” Ariadne shouted.
“We’re fine!” I shouted back. “Keep watching…”
What was she watching? I knew she’d told us. It was something I'd already seen. She wouldn't let me talk about it until she’d watched it all, but she was taking forever with it. If I could remember what it was…
I touched Rowan’s arm. He was tense, his hands balled into fists, and sweat rolled down the side of his head.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“I'm fine. I don't think I forgot anything important.”
“Do you remember what happened with the stolen coke?” Indira asked.
He suddenly sounded tired. It had never occurred to me before that this took as much out of him as it did us. Rowan nodded.
“Yeah. Yeah. I know who our fucking nightshade is.”
Constable Boise Solanace had been investigated by Internal Affairs four times in his six years with the Toronto Police. Nothing had ever come from it, but it didn't stop him from being investigated. Getting a warrant to search his apartment despite the nonexistent evidence was easy enough. I'd been engaged to a contract lawyer back when I was doing my undergraduate degree and he was starting his first year of law school at York University. The gay thing had sort of ruined it for both of us. It worked out, though; we were still friends and he was married to a Judge William Fisher who was more than happy to sign a warrant as long as I was a hundred percent sure he was our guy. I wasn't, but Rowan was. That had to be enough for me.
It made me feel dirty, and I almost hoped the warrant would get disputed on the count of a conflict of interest. It didn’t.
They found the cocaine behind the baseboard in Solanace’s apartment, the same kind and quantity that had been stolen, along with thousands of dollars in bills marked with serial numbers stolen during a robbery by the Ruby Vipers.
“So it was him?” I asked, approaching the interrogation room.
Rowan leaned against the wall, his arms folded against his chest. It had taken me longer than I wanted to admit to find him. I didn't know this precinct well. He took the coffee cup I held out to him.
“Apparently, he’s been an enforcer for the Vipers since before he became a cop. You’d think that’s something someone would have noticed, but what can you do? He's not giving us any names, but he’s admitting everything. That was easy enough.” He pat my arm and moved past me. “Good work, partner. See you tomorrow.”
I watched Solanace through the glass window. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but he seemed to have a lot to say if the speed the detective was writing on a yellow legal pad was any indication. The other detective interrogating him stepped outside.
“Morris,” he introduced, sticking his hand out toward me.
I shook it, trying to figure out if that was his first or last name. His cat’s eyes shifted toward the glass, then back to me.
“Hell of a tip you got us. I appreciate you giving us the arrest.”
“I'm more than happy to let you have the credit.”
“Don't want anyone knowing Special Crimes is butting in our business, eh? Don't worry, IA is happy as long as we get our guy.”
I wasn't so sure we did get our guy. Internal Affairs certainly was; there didn't appear to be anyone else involved in the cocaine theft. I just wasn't convinced he was my guy. I was looking for a dryad prince, and while he certainly fit the dryad part, he didn't have much of a prince-y vibe to him. Morris turned to return to the interrogation, and I touched his arm to stop him.
“Can you— This is an odd favour, but could you check the bottoms of his feet for a brand or a tattoo?”
Even though Rowan had said there was no such thing as dryad royalty, Terrel’s conviction hadn't suggested he was lying. If it wasn't a real thing, why even mention it? Normally I'd say he could have been trying to waste my time, but surely he would have realized Rowan would know it was a lie. Which meant either Rowan was wrong, or there was something he wasn't telling me. And I hated to even consider it, but my gut told me it was the latter.
Morris raised an auburn eyebrow at my request but shrugged and turned away from me. Inside the interrogation room, he whispered something into his partner’s ear, who twisted to face me with an expression of disbelief. I knew it was a strange thing to ask, but they owed me for this arrest. They evidently felt the same. With some resistance, they got Solanace’s shoes and socks off.
There was no tattoo, no brand, not so much as a mark on either foot.
He wasn't our prince.
Rowan was wrong.
It wasn't that easy. It was never that easy.
Chapter Ten
The storm kept me up at night. Frozen rain pelted the windows and when it finally quieted for an hour or two here and there, my thoughts raced.
Solanace wasn't the Prince.
Yes, he had confessed. He had tried to kill Cerys Rees. He had tampered with evidence and case files. Of that, he was guilty. I had no doubt. But he was not the Prince. Did that mean there was another dryad in the police involved in this? There had to be. Unless Terrel was wrong. Unless he thought Solanace was still somehow the prince. Unless there was no dryad prince, like Rowan said. I had consulted the internet, but Google hadn’t given me any definitive answer that I could make any sense out of. No two sources seemed to say the same thing. It couldn’t have possibly been that complicated, and yet, it apparently was.
I rolled over onto my side, wriggling a little to keep my braid from getting stuck under me, and reached over to the empty side of the bed. I had asked Ariadne to move in again, and she’d said no. I couldn’t entirely blame her. The whole reason she was living with her boss was because of her last breakup. Her ex had found out that Ariadne was bisexual instead of a lesbian, decided she wouldn’t put up with that, and threw her things out into the street for her. To me, it didn’t matter if she was bi or gay or even ace, as long as we liked each other. But moving in together still made her nervous. At least she had started filling half my closet and dressers with her things.
Cases like this were never this cut and dry. It was too easy. Even if we got Solanace, we didn't know how far up the food chain this went. There could have been more than just him. He wasn’t the one telling Sabine to make me drop these cases.
I wasn't going to get any sleep tonight; that much was clear. It was nearly 4, still pitch black outside and freezing. I didn't bother changing out of my sweatpants and Toronto PD t-shirt, but I did at least put on a sports bra underneath and re-braided my hair. The rec room in the basement doubled as a home gym for me.
Reruns of Corner Gas played on the wall-mounted TV above me, much smaller than the one in the living room upstairs. Even with the subtitles literally spelling the jokes out for me, I didn't understand why Ariadne thought it was so funny, but I'd learned that Canadian humour relied less on actual jokes than it did on subtle sarcasm. Maybe it was a cultural thing. She didn't think any of my shows or movies from back home were funny, either.
The episode ended, and I wasn't in the mood to w
atch another one. For the first time since I left Homicide, I turned the news on. I never watched the news when I exercised anymore. Half the reason I exercised was to get away from work, to focus on something else for an hour or two. But no amount of strange sitcoms I didn't understand could distract me from the fact that there was still someone in the police working with the Ruby Vipers. No matter how much I nagged Rowan, he insisted there was no such thing as dryad royalty. And no matter how much he insisted, I couldn’t shake the fact that he was wrong.
There was never only one inside man. Kieron had told me that once, hadn't he? He'd done a brief run of undercover work in an Irish gang. The only reason they'd gotten the evidence they needed to shut it down was because when the other undercover officer had his cover blown, they didn't suspect there was someone else to worry about. If the police had the foresight to do that, why not the gangs? That was the proof, wasn’t it? It was right there, right in front of me.
“Rowan lied to me,” I told the newscaster.
It wasn't just a secret, it was an outright lie. It had to be.
Nothing else made sense. Solanace might have been able to change some files and give some warnings, but he didn't have nearly enough pull to make entire cases go away. I didn't have the proof yet, but I would.
I should have known better than to exercise before work. My hair was still soaking wet despite spending half an hour towel-drying it. Ariadne always suggested the blow drier, but unless I wanted my hair to be big enough for its own postal code, I was not doing that.
I rushed out, gathering the thermos of hot coffee into my bag on my way through the kitchen. I still needed to ask my parents to bring my Turkish coffee maker next time they visited from Ottawa.
Part of me expected to get Rowan’s voicemail as I drove. He had a terrible habit of not answering his phone outside of work hours. There was a chance he wasn’t even awake yet. It was still early. The phone stopped ringing, and I opened my mouth to speak before a familiar woman’s voice answered.
“Who is this?” she asked.
“I— This is Fairuz Arshad. I'm Rowan’s partner. Who is this?”
“You're the bitch who showed up at his place.”
That was where I knew that voice from. Rowan's girlfriend, Kseniya. Were they still together? I'd assumed — or maybe just hoped — they’d split up after her ex-boyfriend beat the daylights out of him. I didn't want to start a fight this early, but I couldn't help myself. It was early and my coffee was still unopened next to me.
“And you're the bitch he was fighting with.”
To my surprise, she laughed.
“I like you. You don't take bullshit. Why you calling this early?”
I hesitated. Nothing about this tripped up my paranoia detector, aside from the obvious indications that Rowan had terrible judgment.
“I actually wanted to ask Rowan something about a case. Is he there?”
“Rowan is in shower. I can take message.”
I was not going to tell a girl I had barely met once that I was almost certain there was still a mole in the police force.
“It’s fine, it can wait until I see him.” Something occurred to me. Rowan wasn't terribly forthcoming about his attack, and I didn't blame him. But while I respected his right to privacy, I also worried about his safety. “While I have you on the phone, do you know what happened with your ex?”
“Ex?” Her voice lifted at the end more than usual for a question. “What ex?”
“Your ex-boyfriend, the one who attacked Rowan. He was arrested.”
Was I being clear? I thought I had a pretty good grasp of English at this point, but I still misspoke sometimes, and people didn't always understand my accent, especially over the phone. It was even more difficult speaking to someone who also spoke English as a second language.
“Oh. I don't know. He's in jail, isn't he? I will tell Rowan you called. Have nice day.”
Faint static filtered in through my Bluetooth earpiece. That was not a normal reaction, was it? If an ex of mine had attacked Ariadne, I would have been keeping very close track of where they were. Actually, I would have beaten them up, then hauled their ass to jail myself, then kept very close track of where they were. Assuming I wasn't a cop in this scenario, I would at least want to know if they were still in jail. It could have been that she didn't want to tell me — we were strangers, after all, and I did accuse her of hurting him — but the dismissive tone bothered me. Was the possibility that she had attacked Rowan herself so ridiculous? Even female dryads were capable of some terrifying displays of violence. One of my first cases in Homicide had been of a dryad who strangled her husband to death, not unlike the way Rowan had obviously been strangled.
I pressed the home button on my iPhone mounted to the dashboard until Siri blinked to life.
“Call Sergeant,” I said.
“Calling Sergeant,” Siri said back.
I didn't keep track of how many times the phone rang before Sabine’s gruff voice greeted me.
“You have reached Staff Sergeant Sabine Beaupré, Special Crimes Division of the 12th District of the Toronto Municipal Police. I am not available to take this call at this moment. Please leave a detailed message and I will return your call. If you are in an emergency situation, call 9-1-1. Vous avez rencontrer Sergent-chef Sabine—”
Her voicemail message continued on until I finally heard the unnecessarily long beep. I spoke in French without fully meaning to.
“Good morning, Staff Sergeant. I might be a little bit late this morning. I have to stop at the 51st Division. Please call me back. Thank you.”
After I hung up, I realized I hadn't told her who was calling. She would figure it out.
The 51st Division of the Toronto Police was a forty minute drive from the 12th. If everything went well, I wouldn't be terribly late. I put in enough overtime to make up for it, and I planned on working late today anyway. I chose not to listen to Sabine’s voicemail as I walked into the 51st precinct, but I did read Rowan's messages.
U called?
Where r u?
Boss is pissed at u. Told her it was for legit case. Call me to get our lie together.
U ok?
What’s at 51?
It was that last one that struck me as odd. Shouldn't he remember that the 51st had taken in Kseniya’s ex-boyfriend? The confusion would make sense if he was trying to think of a work-related reason. It probably didn’t even occur to him that I was here to follow up on his attack. In fact, considering he had made it clear he didn’t want me looking into this, it almost definitely didn’t occur to him.
I flashed my badge at the receptionist, Jessie, and she slipped into a casual slouch.
“What can I do for you, Detective?” she asked.
“I'm looking for some information on an arrest this precinct made a week or two ago.”
Jessie's fake nails, much longer than mine and bright pink, clicked against the keyboard as she rested her fingers on the keys to type. She raised her dark eyebrows at me expectantly. It also occurred to me that I had no idea how to narrow her search. There could have been any number of arrests made in the past two weeks for battery. This was so out of line. Even if it was to look out for Rowan, this was such an invasion of his privacy.
I should have told Jessie to forget about it and turn to get to work. I was late enough as it was, I didn’t need to make anything worse than necessary. If Rowan didn’t want to tell me what was going on with him, it wasn’t my place to pry. This was the last place I should have been.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong with all of this.
“There was a man arrested between now and February 26 for battery. He attacked a police officer.” When she looked up at me for more information, all I could do was offer a feeble smile. “That’s all I have.”
“Do you know which officer he attacked?”
“Detective Rowan Oak with the 12th Precinct.”
She tapped away at the keyboard and clicked th
e mouse, then rested her chin on her knuckles as she waited for the database to load. We were going to be here a while. In hindsight, it would have been easier to call for the information while I was driving and have someone email it to me.
“I don’t have anything.”
“I’m sorry?”
“There were no arrests regarding an attack on Detective Oak.”
That couldn’t be right.
“Maybe he was arrested in another precinct. Can you search other precincts?”
Jessie made a few more clicks, and we waited again.
“Still nothing. I went back a month. If you know the guy’s name, it’ll be easier to look.”
Well, if I had the guy’s name, I would have told her. I sighed and tapped my hand against her desk. My rings clicked against the wood. Unless I could get a name, preferably without Rowan finding out, this was as far as I could get. I thanked her and left the precinct. There were two distinct possibilities at this point. One was that there was a problem with the system or someone had input the arrest wrong.
The other, Rowan had lied again.
Chapter Eleven
I didn’t ask him about it.
Maybe I should have. How was I supposed to bring it up? ‘Hey, Rowan, I went to the 51st Precinct and asked about that guy who beat the crap out of you, and they had no record of an arrest. What gives?’ Rowan was a private guy. Finding out I’d been digging into his personal life after he'd told me not to wouldn't go well for me. I also felt a little guilty for snooping. If I was feeling guilty, then I was probably doing something wrong. None of my justifications could make that feeling go away. Likewise, I couldn't get rid of the feeling that Rowan had lied to me.
