When MacNeice arrived, Aziz could see he was struggling.
“You and I will take Mr. Zetter first.” His voice was raspy, barely a whisper. “I think it’s good to keep his wife on ice for the moment.”
Zetter was a little less cocky, though he still denied knowing Bishop. “But I did hire several men to guard the yard. There’s always theft and graft in the coil and wire business.”
“The names of the guards?” Aziz asked.
“I can’t remember. I always pay them in cash, so I have no record of them. Why was I arrested?”
“DS MacNeice told you not to leave Dundurn, because you are under suspicion and may be charged as an accessory to murder,” Aziz said. “And you were trying to leave.”
“MACHT4. Your silver Mercedes?” MacNeice asked.
“Yeah, so?”
“Bishop was seen getting into your vehicle.”
“Says who?”
“Says me. I saw him get into your vehicle and drive away from the Block and Tackle Bar.”
Aziz put the photograph of Bishop/Buchanan in front of him again.
“I want to talk to my lawyer,” Zetter said, taking one of their cards from his pocket and using it to pick his teeth.
“As is your right, Mr. Zetter.” MacNeice stood up. “And our right is to impound your yacht and vehicle. They will be swept by Forensics, as will your home and offices.”
Aziz stood. “A constable will be in shortly to escort you to a telephone.” She followed MacNeice out of the door.
Gloria Zetter was another story. Terrified and deeply embarrassed at being escorted in handcuffs through the airport, she immediately claimed she knew nothing about her husband’s business affairs. That changed when MacNeice reminded her that she was her husband’s business partner.
“Sure, but I don’t know what he does beyond the coil and wire business. Pauly keeps that away from me—and I don’t wanna know.”
“But you have met the so-called security men.”
“Well … yeah, I guess.”
“Tell me, is theft in the coil and wire business so rampant that you need three security staff to protect it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, how many break-ins did you suffer and how much was stolen before your husband hired these men?”
“I can’t recall.”
“Can you recall ever hearing of theft at your warehouse?”
“No, but …” She shifted in her chair. “Do you do things like plea bargains here?”
“You mean in the homicide interview room.” Aziz was surprised to hear the question so soon.
“Mrs. Zetter, if you tell us all you know about the deaths of these three people,” MacNeice said, putting the photos on the table, “and how your husband was funding his bets on the horses with Duguald Langan, something can be worked out.”
Gloria sat forward, sighed and then started talking. “Pauly was a bookie himself a long time ago. It’s not easy to steal in the coil and wire business—really not easy. Basically, we ship whatever we can source locally very quick. And when our product comes from Asia, we ship that real quick too—that’s how we get paid.” She turned to Aziz. “Miss, can I have some water, please?”
“Certainly. And it’s detective, not Miss,” Aziz said, pressing the pause button on the recorder.
When they were alone, MacNeice studied the woman across from him. She was slightly overweight, but not unattractive. Though it wasn’t hot in the interview room, her forehead glistened. “You look tired, Mrs. Zetter. It must have been a rough night.”
“Yeah, you got that right.”
Aziz returned with a large paper cup of water. “Here you go.” She sat down and turned on the recorder.
“The heavies?” MacNeice asked.
She put the cup down and wiped her mouth with her hand. “He hired them to ensure bets and debts are collected.”
“You’re saying that Paul was taking bets?”
“For years he hadn’t been. But then the Irish guy came along and he was doing so well. Pauly wanted in on the action.”
MacNeice put the photograph of the man she would have known as Bishop on the table in front of her. Gloria shivered and looked away.
“That guy was trouble from the start. I seen it comin’ and I said so. Pauly asks him to do somethin’ and that wacko does it and then some.” She shifted, crossed her legs and adjusted her dress so it rested neatly above a dimpled knee. “We were gettin’ beat on bets by the Irish kid who gets off a boat and, just like that, he’s a bookie, like fairy dust. We thought it was ’cause of his winning personality—he had that in spades.”
She was nodding as she recalled their reaction to him. “Pauly says, ‘Bishop came off the same boat. He’ll rein him in the moment I say so,’ and so we go on and, just like I warned him, the kid has a touch. He’s taken over the yacht club, he’s got guys up and down the north end.” She sipped her water.
MacNeice was going to prod her, but realized she was not done talking. She leaned forward to signal she was going conspiratorial on her husband.
“Pauly tells me he tried to negotiate with the Irish, ya know, like bring him on as part of our team, to lighten our load. But no—in his mind, he was there first.” She lowered her voice as if she was afraid to say it too loud. “Pauly tells Bishop, ‘Straighten that kid out. He plays with us or he don’t play.’ That’s all he said, I swear to Holy Mary—I was there when he said it. So off Bishop goes—alone, mind you—and next thing we hear, Irish has left town. Then they’re fishin’ bodies outta the bay. Why he off’d them we never knew. Then he goes to the dance hall, and he offs that little girl … Sherry, Cherry—what’s her name?”
“Sherry Berryman,” Aziz said.
“Yeah.” She shrugged and pointed across the table at Aziz. “I tell ya, this guy comes to dinner—watch out, eh—you may not make it to the ice cream. I was scared—oh shit, was I scared. Then he comes in, asks me for his payout. He says—and this is God’s truth, cuz I wrote it down, eh.” She wiggled in her chair, trying to make herself more comfortable. “He says, ‘Family Zetters’—he makes Zetters sound like “Zeeters”—‘I must take my leave of your rusty wee town and bid a-doo’—whatever that means—‘as duty calls and I must away.’ Anyway, we paid him and pretended we’d miss him.” She shuddered theatrically.
“Did you know anything about what he did before he got here?”
“Naw, he never said anything. One day though, I’m watching him take off that heavy sweater he was always wearin’, to put on a Canada Coil and Wire T-shirt, and his tits were bigger than mine—but solid, eh—and tattoos everywhere, so I just knew he was trouble. Jesus, there’s a Mom’s worst nightmare, eh?” She tucked in a strand of hair that had broken free of her blond, but vaguely pink, hair.
“Gloria, we have already begun forensic searches of Paul’s car, the yacht, and your house. Do you want to tell us what we might find?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, during the sailing season, we’re told, Paul would take parties out on that boat and wouldn’t return for hours.”
“Yeah, he loves it. I hate it, makes me feel sick.” Gloria screwed up her face to suggest gagging with seasickness.
“We’ll need the names of the other guards.”
She feigned not knowing, shaking her head slowly from side to side. At last she said, “Larry Cornelli and Jimmy Albert—good guys really. They’re listed in our annual report as drivers. Never killed anyone, that’s for sure … least that I know of.”
“Is there anything else, Mrs. Zetter?”
“We’re in the coil and wire business. It’s legit. Beyond that, we’re just bookies, y’know? We’re not into rough stuff beyond smacking bad debts outta people, and even then, that’s rare.” She put a hand to her chest. “My heart almost broke when I heard about those girls. Tore me apart—I knew Bishop did it and I couldn’t say squat … till now. I told Pauly I was gonna leave him for that, for that and lotsa other reaso
ns.” She leaned across the table toward MacNeice. “Am I gonna be okay here? Pauly will be really pissed to hear me singin’ like this.”
“Your co-operation here today is appreciated, Mrs. Zetter. However, you’ll likely be charged as an accessory to murder. Your lawyer will guide you through it. Detective Aziz will have your statement printed out for you to sign. If you have anything to add, now is the time to do it.”
She blinked at him like she’d been kicked in the head, but she had nothing more to add.
MacNeice made his way back to Zetter’s interview room to find him sitting with his lawyer. MacNeice turned on the recorder and announced the beginning of the second interview.
“Counsel, please state your name.”
“James Dempsey.”
“Mr. Zetter,” MacNeice said, “you’ve had time to reconsider your statement. Have you anything else to add?”
Zetter looked at his lawyer, who spoke for him. “Mr. Zetter will not be saying anything further at this time.”
“In that case, I am charging you with counselling murder in the deaths of Anniken Kallevik and Duguald Langan. Further charges may be laid, pending the forensics reports on your vehicle, yacht, home and office.”
MacNeice stood up with some difficulty. Turning to the lawyer, he said, “You’ll inform Mr. Zetter as to what happens now. A constable will be in shortly to take him to a holding cell.”
Back at the stone cottage, MacNeice wasn’t sure which he wanted more: some of Marcello’s lasagna or simply to lie down. Even though it was late, he settled on the lasagna and put it in the oven.
The phone rang but he didn’t even consider answering it. He was fed up with talk, fed up with listening—even to himself. A half-minute later, his cellphone rang. He looked at his watch, 9:52 p.m., and looked down: unknown number. He let it ring until it stopped.
When his cell rang again, he picked it up. “MacNeice.”
“It’s Sam.”
He sat back in the club chair and took a deep breath. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, but that’s not why I’m calling.”
“I’m listening.”
“I wanted to tell you myself that tomorrow The Globe and Mail is publishing my story about what happened that night.”
“Okay …”
“I don’t need your permission, Mac, though I would like it. I’m a journalist, though, and you turned my home into a war zone. Quite apart from my feelings for you, I felt the need, the responsibility, to tell the story.”
“So what are your feelings for me?”
“Don’t, Mac. Honestly, I can’t …”
“Can’t what? Forgive me or risk having a relationship with me?”
There was a long pause before she answered, “Both.”
He could smell the lasagna and went into the kitchen, the phone to his ear. Before he was able to come up with a response, she said, “I’m sorry. I wanted to give you a heads-up about the article—I hope you understand.”
“Do I understand?” He pulled the foil off the meal.
“Mac, I don’t want this to be hurtful or spiteful. I’m just trying to …”
“Sam, thank you for calling.” He wasn’t sure whether she said goodbye because the phone was already on the counter, its screen glowing before slowly dimming to black.
Twice he dialed Aziz’s number and hung up before the call went through. At least that was what he thought.
When his phone rang at eleven-thirty and he saw her name, his heart jumped into his throat. He was terrified what he might say, or ask. “MacNeice.”
“You called me twice. Are you all right, Mac?”
“Ah, no, yes, sure—no, I’m fine. Must have been pocket dialing.”
“Right.” Her voice sounded sleepy but unconvinced.
“Did I wake you?”
“No, I was reading.”
“What are you reading?”
She laughed. “Mac, what’s going on?”
“I remember, years and years ago, Kate took me to the museum in Toronto, where her quartet was playing.” He stood up and looked out the window into the darkness. “While they were practising, I wandered about and ended up in the textile gallery. I didn’t care about textiles, I was just wandering …”
“Mac?”
“I saw this quilt … Actually no, I didn’t care about the quilt until I read its caption. It was titled, Keep Me Warm One Night.”
Silence. He could hear her getting out of bed or off the sofa.
“So Samantha called,” she said.
“Yes. She’s written an article about what happened. It’ll be in The Globe and Mail tomorrow … She just wanted me to know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m the one who should apologize to Sam for unwittingly bringing her into this … world. But I also owe you an apology and I know, I’ve said that before.” He heard her sharp intake of breath. “I don’t want to open this up,” he said. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for everything. That’s it … and now I feel awkward.”
“I accept.” She laughed briefly, and clearly with some effort, but it took the tension out of the air. “Have you been drinking grappa?”
“No, not tonight.”
When morning came, he remembered the call but not what he said. For the first time since the fire, MacNeice climbed onto the workout bike and peddled for his life, hoping it would bring colour back to his face and that he could do twenty minutes before falling into a coughing spell or a splitting headache. He managed it. As poor as he felt, his body responded as if he’d actually had a great night’s sleep.
Aziz looked up from the espresso machine. “I can see you’re feeling better.”
“I am. After we talked, I fell asleep. Fiza, I apologize that it was so late—”
“Stop it. You’re allowed to be shaky—you’ve had a serious head injury.” She smiled at him, took her coffee cup and went back to the cubicle.
He looked at his watch—8:42 a.m. His legs were tingling from the exercise, but otherwise he felt stronger than he had since before the fire. He made himself a coffee.
“You good?” Swetsky said when he saw MacNeice leaning against the wall of his cubicle. “What a pair we make, eh?”
“I’m fine, John,” MacNeice said.
Swetsky looked at him skeptically.
“Okay, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want Bishop, but he’s gone and it’s over. There are accessory charges to deal with, but now I can focus on the Nicholson case.”
Swetsky shoved a chair toward MacNeice. “Vice-principal Brion, lovely lady, came to practice yesterday and asked me—on behalf of the coach, apparently—if I’d accept an official role as assistant coach. That’s protocol, apparently—Knox couldn’t ask me directly. Anyway, I said sure. Fact is, I’m having a blast.”
He could see that MacNeice was waiting, so he went on. “I’ve cranked Knox up on purpose. Any of the guys I play with wouldda popped me by now for my attitude. But this guy’s strange. He goes almost purple, leaves the court and heads into his office. Then he comes back five minutes later as if nothing happened. I actually think Knox is a great coach. All I’m criticizing him about are tactical differences. The thing is, he’s good precisely because he’s extremely controlled. Those kids know the fundamentals better than any teenagers I’ve seen. They’re actually pretty to watch. But, put a scrambling gutsy team from the projects on the court with them, one that claws their way to the net, and they’d have their hands full.”
Seeing he had MacNeice’s full attention, Swetsky went on. “Dylan and Tom are the only ones with any creativity. Whether they make the play or not, if it looks like they’re playing like street kids, Knox will holler something about hot-dogging or showboating, telling them to stick to the basics. I think spontaneity pisses this guy off; it’s not his thing. Control is.” Swetsky put his hand up. “Does that ring a bell for you?”
“David Nicholson,” MacNeice said. “Dylan must take after his mother, giv
en the men he’s been surrounded by. Take the job, John. You love basketball, and we have a long game to play here.” He slapped Swetsky on the shoulder and took his cup back to the servery.
Aziz was busy finishing a report on the interview with Lyttelton when Vertesi let out a whistle. “What is it, Michael?”
“Good news,” Vertesi answered, then said, “Boss, take a look at this.” He held up the front page of The Standard. Below the fold there was a sidebar with a photograph of Markus Christophe. The headline read: “Anniken Kallevik Travelling Companion Married in Oslo.” Vertesi read the item out loud.
Markus Christophe was married yesterday in a small civil ceremony that was attended by the sisters of Anniken Kallevik—close friends of the bride. Kallevik, 27, a graduate student from Hamar, Norway, was travelling the world with Christophe and had stayed on in Dundurn, Ontario, to work at the Royal Dundurn Yacht Club. She was strangled and her body disposed of in Cootes Paradise, where it was discovered in early March of this year. A member of the wedding party was quoted as saying, “The Kallevik family is, of course, very much in our hearts.” The wedding took place shortly after the interment of Kallevik’s remains. The consul- general of Canada to Norway was present at the burial on a cold, windswept hillside in Hamar, but declined to make a statement.
MacNeice swung around to the whiteboard to stare at the photo of Markus next to Anniken. Off to the right, someone had taped the official portrait of Major Buchanan. Behind MacNeice, his phone rang. Glancing around, Vertesi saw that he wasn’t going to answer, and picked it up. “Yes, sir,” he said. “One moment, I’ll see if he’s in.” Swinging about on his chair, he said, “Boss, it’s Wallace. Are you in?”
He nodded and sat down heavily. “MacNeice.”
“You’re the toast of Toronto, MacNeice,” Wallace said. “Did you know about this Globe article?”
“Yes, sir, I heard about it last night.”
“I’m going to put you on speaker so you can listen to the message Mayor Maybank left for me.”
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