by Joan Boswell
Tomas, still holding his beer can, took a long drink. “Ivan hated his bike—maybe he was psychic. Maybe Dad should have let him sell it.” Tears filled his blue eyes and glittered on his long black lashes. “Shit. I guess it’s up to me to go and tell Mom.”
Clearly he wanted Hollis to say “no”, to tell him someone else would do it.
She felt helpless but wanted to do something. Her friend, Kas, had made her drink sugared coffee after Paul’s murder. “A cup of tea or something hot and sweet will help,” Hollis said to Nadine.
Nadine collected the kettle, filled it and set it back on the stove.
“Nothing will help,” Etienne sobbed.
The back door opened.
Curt and Manon came in, looking like shell-shocked refugees staggering away from a bomb blast. Hollis hadn’t seen Curt for several months. Always an ectomorph, he was now skeleton-thin. His skin was grey. There were dark circles under his eyes. His tall frame stooped. Every feature on his face sagged. His thick, silvery mane stuck up in wild disarray. He stared at them, but not as if he really saw them. Finally, heavy-footed and deliberate, he headed to the cupboard above the refrigerator, reached up with shaking hands and pulled out a bottle of rum. Without turning, he said, “Who wants what to drink?”
Etienne ran to Manon, who remained beside the door as if she didn’t have the will or energy to move any further. She hugged and rocked him like a much younger child. Tears streaked her makeup. “Nothing for me,” she said.
“Dad, I don’t want anything either. Are you going to tell Mom, or should I?” Tomas asked. He stood with his legs apart as if to steady himself on a rolling ship’s deck.
Curt swung around, clutching the bottle. “My God, poor Lena.” His gaze moved from one to another. “You don’t know the worst.”
“What could be worse than Ivan’s death?” Hollis said almost to herself.
“Someone cut the brakes. Ivan was murdered.”
Two
Midmorning—Rhona Simpson sorted through her paperwork. She surreptitiously surveyed her environment— the Homicide Division of the Toronto Police Service headquarters on College Street. A year earlier, she’d left the Ottawa police. She wouldn’t be sitting here now, the newest appointee to Homicide, had she not been a woman who knew the right people and had a Cree grandmother. Nevertheless it felt great. She’d work like hell to prove the appointment hadn’t been a mistake.
“Join me for an early lunch? I have court this afternoon.”
She looked up and met the gaze of Zee Zee, a tall, elegant black woman who’d introduced herself several days earlier. She could have been a princess or modelled for a Modigliani painting. The combination of elongated head, cropped hair, fine features and almost breastless body created a regal image. Her voice rose at the end of each sentence, making each statement into a question.
Food’s siren call, morning, noon or night, she could never resist. “Love to.”
Entering the cafeteria a little later, Zee Zee said, “I’m not sure who your Homicide partner will be.”
Again the rising voice implying a question. She made you want to provide an answer. This vocal characteristic must be useful in interrogations.
“Before he or she is assigned, I’ll fill you in on a few things you need to know,” Zee Zee explained. She led them to a cafeteria table away from other officers. “No point in having to whisper,” she said.
Should she agree? No, it had been a statement. Rhona looked down at her tray. She’d chosen a salad, tomato juice and black coffee. When she’d moved to Toronto, she’d resolved to do something about the weight collecting around her middle. Because she was short and compact, every extra pound showed immediately. Body types resembled apples or pears when it came to excess weight distribution—she was definitely an apple.
Zee Zee, who had selected cream of mushroom soup, an egg sandwich, apple pie and a soft drink, surveyed Rhona’s tray. “Has the boss already given you his food lecture?”
“No, what is it?”
“He’s a health food nut. Actually, Frank Braithwaite is one reason why we’re having lunch—I’m sure you want the lowdown on his major and minor fixations? I expect because he was forced to take you, he’s ready to give you a hard time. You’ll need ammunition, won’t you?”
Should she have come? Never a big fan of gossip, she wanted to tread carefully in her new workplace. No help for it; she was here.
“You’re wondering why I’m doing this, and if you should find a reason to leave?”
“Either I’m transparent, or you’re good at figuring people out.”
“You found out in Ottawa that the old boys’ police network is a powerful force?”
Rhona nodded. She was getting used to the woman’s questioning voice.
“Don’t you think it makes women police officers’ jobs harder than they should be? I’m talking to you as an old girl.
You must agree that we need to hang together and help each other? That’s why I’m filling you in. You’ll need to recognize and avoid landmines.”
Rhona grinned. “Sounds good—I’m all ears.”
“First, you’ll want to know about the boss? Frank is forty-three, and divorced. He’s a university science grad and gung ho about technology—wants us to be Canada’s most up-to-date police force. Don’t tell him you have a hunch or a feeling about anything. It’s all science and high tech with him.”
Zee Zee sipped her drink. “Now you’ll want to hear the interesting stuff that isn’t in the records? It explains his fixations. His wife, a high-powered financial analyst, left him four years ago. No kids, so it should have been okay, but it wasn’t. Bet you can’t guess why?”
Rhona, who had gobbled her salad and still felt hungry, shook her head.
Zee Zee spooned up several mouthfuls of soup and munched a bite of sandwich. “No guesses?”
“No—tell me.”
“His wife left without warning, at least that’s what Frank says. Didn’t she prop a note on the kitchen counter informing him she’d moved to Calgary? That would have been shocking, but okay, except she crated his dog, Bailey, and took him with her. Frank loved that dog. Did his wife know that and figure he wouldn’t risk looking silly going to court to get the dog back? Probably, and it broke his heart. Hadn’t he taken him to classes for obedience, retrieving and who knows what else, and entered him in field trial competitions? The dog’s a retriever, and they do that.” She smiled. “Believe me, being Ethiopian, I know zippo about dogs. But didn’t Frank bore the hell out of us by giving every detail of his trials, tribulations and triumphs as he trained Bailey?”
“I sympathize. I have a cat, Opie. She’s an overweight, neurotic pain in the butt, but I’d sure miss her. “
“He kept Bailey’s photo on his desk for ages.”
“So I shouldn’t talk about dogs?”
“Or about older guys who live with young girls.”
“How young?”
“Not jail bait—he is a police officer. Twenty-somethings.
Blondes with start-up jobs and...”
“How do you know this?”
“Isn’t my mother’s best friend his cleaning lady? If you think cleaning women don’t know what’s going on, think again. Wouldn’t we be smart to use them as undercover officers? Anyway, she says a young woman moves in and establishes herself as if she figures she’s there for the long haul. She puts her health foods and vitamins in the kitchen, leaves her birth control pills in the bathroom and her yoga mat in the bedroom. Then, six months later, isn’t she gone? Soon a new one, a clone of her predecessor, moves in.”
“Weird.”
“Isn’t it? Who knows why he lives that way? Is he a misogynist? I suspect he is. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have any use for women police officers, although he’s careful about what he says.”
“Terrific. How do you cope?”
“Mostly, ignore his innuendos. Early on, didn’t I let it be known that I’m prepared to file a grievance if I
have cause? Does he want a black woman grieving? I don’t think so. But, to be fair, results count for Frank. He would never permit his personal feelings to jeopardize a case’s outcome.” She shook her head. “Never.” She pointed at Rhona’s tray then at her own pie. “He’s nuts about keeping fit and eating right. Whatever he’s doing agrees with him. Isn’t he a handsome guy, with that mop of brown hair and those green eyes?”
“Almost a pretty boy—he dresses like Mr. Preppy.”
“I think you’ve identified one of his problems—he still considers himself a young preppy swinger. As I started to say, he has a thing about Tim Hortons. He despises the doughnut-eating cop stereotype. Don’t ever suggest picking up anything there.”
Rhona considered dumping sweetener in her coffee, but she’d read that every kind but Splenda pickled your brain. Hers needed all the help it could get. She was cultivating a love of black coffee but finding it difficult. “Thanks, I’ll remember no dogs, no bimbos, no hunches and no doughnuts.”
Zee Zee impaled a chunk of pie. She considered it. “Later I’ll fill you in on the others. A good bunch, but not as enlightened as they should be.”
“Since you’re the source of all knowledge, what do you know about me?”
Zee Zee pushed her half-eaten pie to one side and leaned back. She tilted her head and contemplated Rhona. “Really want to know?”
After Rhona nodded, she held up her left hand, extended her left index finger and used her right index finger to tick off her points. “You left Ottawa because you didn’t like the old boy network. Don’t you have a First Nations grandmother who lives on a reserve somewhere in Ontario? You filed a complaint about references to squaws.”
“It didn’t do any good.”
“You never know—won’t whoever made the remark be more careful in the future? Anyway, to continue, you solved your last homicide case. You wear cowboy boots because you’re short.” She cocked her head to one side. “I have a thought. Do you think it’s because you watched too many cowboy and Indian movies where the good guys, the cowboys, got to wear the boots?”
Rhona laughed. “No doubt you have a psychology degree?” “To continue—you followed your boyfriend, who’s with the Ontario Provincial Police, to Toronto. You’ve broken up with him. And you had luck and connections to get moved to Homicide.”
Did she have no secrets? “Where did you find out all that information?”
“A constable’s brother is with the Ottawa police.”
“My turn,” Rhona said.
“You want to hear why I’m a police officer—that’s always the question,” Zee Zee said. “I’ve told the story so often, I could recite it in my sleep. As a six-year-old Somalian refugee, didn’t I come to Canada from one of the most lawless countries in the world? Although I was young, I’ve never forgotten what it was like to live without law and order.” Her dark eyes clouded, and she seemed to be picturing something horrible. “I studied business at York University—I wanted to be a successful businesswoman. I opened a gallery to showcase African artists. The arts community and the buying public loved it, and I made money.” She shook her head. “It wasn’t very fulfilling.” She clasped her hands together. “I thought that if I became a police officer, I could make a difference. In our community, women are not equal. I’m not ashamed to say I’m a role model—our women need them.” She laughed. “Talk about touching speeches. Why aren’t you mopping your eyes? Enough. Time to get back. Did I say that Frank’s a stickler for promptness?”
Back at her desk, Rhona evaluated what she’d heard. Good to know about her boss. His aversion to Tim Hortons disturbed her—she depended on coffee and doughnut fixes. But she recognized that this was her big chance. Misogynist or not, she intended to prove she could do the job.
She surveyed her overflowing in-basket. Since her move to Homicide, she’d been assigned routine tasks. Many required filling out paper work. Although only thirty detectives worked Homicide, their case documentation in quadruplicate required one woman to do nothing but run the copying machine. The paperless society had not arrived.
Although she hated completing documentation, she knew it was necessary to do it and do it well. Years before, one bad experience in court had taught her the importance of record keeping. A defense lawyer had not only twisted her words but also suggested she might have had a questionable motive for not including all relevant information. She’d kept meticulous notes ever since.
“Got something for you.” Frank Braithwaite dropped a file on her desk. “Your first case. Someone tampered with a young guy’s motorcycle brakes and killed him. Hate to think what the poor bugger thought when he pumped the brakes and nothing happened. Must have been quick—he hit a loaded dump truck. Happened on Parliament Street. We’re lucky the traffic guys saw that the brakes had been cut. Probably took a careful look when witnesses told them the guy didn’t slow down. No skid marks either. After they saw the cuts, they called Homicide.”
She hoped this would be a relatively uncomplicated case. The master board detailing each officer’s cases recorded ongoing and solved crimes in different coloured marker. She didn’t want her first case to remain unsolved for all to see. As if she had spoken aloud, Frank cocked his head to one side and regarded her quizzically.
“I’m pairing you with Zee Zee.” Frank frowned. “Be interesting to find out how two women go about solving a crime—they don’t often get a chance. But then, unless they have something special going for them, not many women are appointed homicide detectives. Certainly it will give you two the opportunity to show us what you can do.”
She couldn’t accuse him of hostility or prejudice but, although he stated facts, there was no mistaking his meaning. And what about this you and us stuff. They’d better do well, or he’d use their failure as an excuse to turf her out, special status or not.
Rhona reached for the file, although there wouldn’t yet be much to read. She’d skim it before she dropped it in her large bag’s side pocket. The bag did double and even triple duty as a briefcase, purse and a place to stash the tools of the trade. She made sure she had her notebook, tape recorder and cell phone.
Frank’s gaze focused on the bag. “That has to be a weapon in itself. Better than a billy stick.” His eyebrows rose. “Maybe it’s something all our officers should have.”
Was he joking, criticizing or merely commenting? From Zee Zee’s rundown, she guessed his remark was designed to knock her slightly off base. She wouldn’t play his game—she’d go for humour. “Definitely. It should be standard issue. I’ve used it to knock out more perps than you’d ever believe. It deserves its own citation.”
Zee Zee, carrying her teapot, emerged from the duplicating room which doubled as the department’s food and coffee preparation centre. Frank beckoned her to join them. He related the case’s details without innuendo or underlying messages.
Interesting. Why had he directed his snide comments at her? Maybe because there hadn’t been a witness. Or perhaps he’d had previous run-ins with Zee Zee and knew enough to leave her alone. After he left, she repeated his remark to Zee Zee.
“He’s thrown down the gauntlet.” Zee Zee offered tea before she filled her own mug. “Can we solve this one brilliantly and in a hurry?” She raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t be a problem. Aren’t we twice as smart?”
“Undoubtedly.”
Zee Zee parked her tea pot, checked to make sure she had everything she needed and nodded toward the door. “First things first. We’ll interview the family.”
On Winchester, they parked and walked to the Hartmans’ house. Before they entered, they stopped and looked at the front yard.
“Two more Harleys?” Zee Zee said, although the evidence sat on the front yard parking pad.
“They look the same to me,” Hollis said.
“They’re probably different years, but it would be hard to tell them apart. I wonder if Ivan’s was the same? And check out the parking spot—looks like it’s had a new coat of asphalt
recently?” Zee Zee reached for her cell. “Time to get the techies here. We’ll cordon it off and check for fingerprints on the pad and the other bikes.”
Three
Murdered—the word expanded to fill the Hartmans’ kitchen.
Hollis knew her face must look as blank-faced and wideeyed, as the others did.
Tomas shuddered and crushed his empty beer can. “Murdered! Ivan. Why? Who would kill Ivan?”
The metallic crunch. Magnified a thousand times. Spilled oil and gas and blood. She hoped it had been quick, that he hadn’t suffered.
“The police will figure it out,” Manon said. “Never mind the police. I want to know. What was going on in my brother’s life? What was he doing? What had he done? Why? Why would someone kill him?” Tomas stabbed his finger at Curt. “You must know.”
Curt, grey-faced, gulped his rum and plunked the empty glass down. He ran both his hands through his hair and shook his head. “You’re right. I should, but I don’t. Ivan and I haven’t talked much lately. He was aware of what I thought of his dead end job and lack of ambition. He avoided me.” His dark eyes narrowed. “But don’t blame me. You’re his brother—what did you talk about?”
Etienne leaned against his mother. He sniffled. “I was his brother too. I loved him. He played cards with me and made terrific chocolate chip cookies.”
Manon tightened her grip. “And he loved you.” She released one hand to stroke his dark hair.
“Give me a break—I just got home this week—how would I know? Even when I lived here, he never hung out with me.” Tomas’s shoulders rose, and his chin lifted. “I asked him sometimes. I did. But he turned me down.” His shoulders slumped. “Jesus, I probably didn’t know him as well as Etienne. What did he do for fun? Who were his friends? I don’t know.” Tomas’s lean, hawk-like face twisted. He collapsed on a chair with his head in his hands. “And I feel really bad about it,” he said in a thick voice.
Nadine, crying softly, brought the teapot, sugar, milk and cups to the kitchen table. “Tea?” she asked.
