by Marc Strange
“Nothing! She met someone. A musician. An American. She fell in love. They’re going to California. She said you can keep what’s left, she just wanted enough to start a new life with her musician in California.”
“You are a liar. She wouldn’t do that!”
“She did it, Vassi. Don’t pretend you two were crazy for each other — you were just convenient.”
“That’s it? She didn’t write a note? She can’t tell me on the phone at least?”
“She was in a hurry. The musician was leaving.”
“How can she get back across the border?”
“She bought some identification. It wasn’t hard. They’re going first to Reno, and they’ll get married, and then she’ll be an American citizen. In California. Be happy for her. She found a new life.”
Vassili wasn’t happy for her. He was angry, and suspicious, and lonely. “I never should have let her go with you,” he said.
“If you had come, maybe you would have met an American, too, and you’d be going to Reno to get married.”
“I am married,” Vassili said.
“They give divorces in Reno, too.”
“What’s the name of this musician?”
“Why torture yourself? She’s gone. She’s happier. We still have the best stones.”
“I want to know his name.”
“I don’t know his name. He’s a black. A big black man. I wouldn’t trouble him. He looks dangerous.”
“I don’t care. I don’t like this. I don’t trust you, Viktor. I’m not giving you any more stones to sell in Montreal. I will find somebody here.”
“You’ll be caught. You don’t know your way around.”
“And you do? You took diamonds to Montreal and brought back nothing! You took Ludmilla to Montreal, and she’s gone. What good are you?”
After the celebratory breakfast, the family went off about its divers business: Gary, the travelling veterinarian, down the road to check on cows, horses and other quadrupeds; Patty and Erika on their way to Peterborough in search of “necessary items” that they did not care to enumerate, but which were somehow vital to the upcoming nuptials; and Diana, ferrying Leda and her father into Dockerty.
“Didn’t drive yourself home last night, did you, Oldad?”
“I left Bozo in the police lot. I had a designated driver. ”
“So did I.”
“I know, sweetie. Twenty-three dollars worth. I’m sorry.”
“You’re forgiven. I had a good time waiting.”
“What’s his name?” Diana asked.
“Peter.”
“This the young man with the odd hair and the black leather jacket?” Orwell asked.
“You know it,” she said. “Don’t get all fatherly now, Father. Perfectly innocent. We were rehearsing.”
“I’ll bet you were,” said Diana. “He good looking?”
“He’s okay.”
“That good, eh?”
“He has a strange haircut,” said Orwell.
“He’ll be cutting it for the role, Oldad.”
“If I had that much hair I’d do things with it, too,” he said. “Drop me here, gorgeous. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”
“Sure,” said Diana, with a knowing smile. They were right outside Laurette’s Baked Goods, the door was open and seductive aromas were wafting.
Orwell waited until his daughters had driven off before stepping inside. He made a show of checking the selection in the glass case, but he was only there for one reason.
“Shortbread, Chief?” Laurette asked. Orwell thought she looked like a dumpling, round and warm.
“You know me too well, Mrs. Munch. Shortbread is my weakness. And pie.”
“I have a very nice key lime pie, Chief.”
He smiled. “Won’t fit in my desk drawer,” he said. In truth, Orwell considered Laurette’s pies a clear notch below his exacting standard and not nearly as good as the ones at the Kawartha Kountry Kitchen. Her shortbread, on the other hand, was exemplary. “A dozen should do nicely,” he said. “Just a bag, please.” Laurette’s white boxes with the pink and purple lettering were too identifiable to be carried discreetly into the office.
His pocket began vibrating as he was paying for his treats. He stepped onto the sidewalk before answering. “Brennan,” he said.
“Stacy, Chief. Ms. Daniel’s gone.”
“That’s it? Gone?”
“Just gone, sir. I’m standing in her apartment. Corporal Scheider and a uniform are questioning the other tenants. No one saw her leave.”
“Signs of struggle?”
“No, sir. The place is tidier than it was last night. Clothes in the closets, toiletries in the bathroom. The bathroom window is wide open.”
“You think she went out the bathroom window?”
“I guess you could make it over to the next building if you wanted to chance it.” Stacy leaned out, calculating the distance, visualizing how it might be done. The gap between the buildings wasn’t impossible, but the drop to the concrete below was scary. “Not a jump I’d do unless I had to.”
“She can fly. That’s what she told me.”
“She might have done it that way. Or just walked out the front door. It’s not like we had her under observation full time.”
“Darn it,” she heard him say. “Okay, Detective. I’m almost at the office. Get back here. We’ll start tracking her down.”
“Yes, sir.” Stacy clicked off. She took another look at the walkway four floors down, caught a fleeting mental image of how big a splat a human body might make. She shook her head. “Have to be pretty sure of yourself,” she said.
“What say, Stace?” Corporal Scheider was coming down the hall, looking into the bathroom.
“Talking to myself, Dutch,” she said. She motioned him to clear the way and started prowling the apartment, opening closets, drawers, refrigerator. “Anything from the neighbours?”
“Nada. Not exactly a close-knit community. She left her studio around 08:30.” He flipped open the top of an empty box, ran a fingertip across a trace of sugar. “Stopped off at Timmies on the way, came back here with coffee and a donut.” He licked his finger. “Honey-glazed.”
“Okay, let’s pack it in here. I’m going to check her studio. Who knows? She might be back there. Giving flying lessons.”
Adele landed early Friday, no luggage, a carry-on and a shoulder bag. Took a cab straight to the shop. Well where else? Home? What am I going to do there? Might as well grind my teeth at my desk.
She checked in, made a call to her counsellor to let her know that she was feeling much better. The emotions weren’t as close to the surface now, not moderated exactly, more like suppressed. The counsellor suggested she take more time off. She thanked her for the advice.
She didn’t want to take time off. She sat at her desk, pawing through Paul’s notes and files, they were no help. There was no mention whatsoever about dead Russians on the Queensway or compulsively confessing ballet dancers. Not even a mention of Dockerty. How the hell did he know she was up there?
“You missed a pretty good wake,” said the man on the other side of the desk. He cast a shadow. He was huge, very dark skin, teeth white, smile broad, voice deep and seductive. “We drank too much Jack.” He gave her one of his rumbling laughs. “Thought it was appropriate. Under the circumstances.”
“Hi Dylan,” she said. “Sorry I missed it.”
Dylan O’Grady sat, uninvited, as though he still belonged there. “It was just a few of the old crew, and that girl from Licenses he dated for a year, you remember her?”
“Betty.”
“That’s her. She took it hard.”
“Few more out there I bet.” She leaned back in her chair. “Who’s the jug-eared baldy in the pinstripes?”
On the far
side of the room a tall, pale man was standing by the door, blatantly checking his watch.
“My exec assistant. Cam makes sure I get to all the bunfights on time.”
“You late for one now?”
“It can wait. Just wanted to drop by, let you know how sorry I was about Paul. I know you two were close.”
“You were with him longer than I was.”
“We hadn’t talked in a few years. But it hit me pretty hard, too. We survived some hairy scrapes together. Always had my back.”
The man by the door was fidgeting. “You’d better hit the campaign trail, Dylan. Your handler’s looking twitchy.”
“Twitching is what he does best. ” His smile was as insincere as a campaign promise and it crossed Adele’s mind that she’d never liked Dylan O’Grady very much. Even after he left the job he was always dropping by the shop, slapping shoulders, telling loud jokes, maintaining his connections, reminding people he’d been a big dog in the unit. He leaned closer and she caught a whiff of cologne. He reached for her hand, covered it, gave her a searching look. “What the hell was he doing up there, Adele?”
She pulled her hand away. “You’ll have to talk to Lacsamana. He caught the case.”
“You went up there.”
“Wasn’t any of my business. I was just so pissed off at him.”
“Where’d he meet this woman?”
“How should I know?” She shrugged. “You know Paulie, always willing to travel for something strange.”
“Long way to go to get laid. Or shot.”
Someone placed a large paper bag on her desk. “Detective Moen?”
Adele looked up at the uniformed woman, a corporal, then at the bag. “What’s this?” The bag was stapled shut and had a list of contents attached.
“Sign this please. Receipt for his personal effects.”
“What?” She glanced at the list of contents. “Paulie’s crap? What the hell do I want with that?”
“Got some papers for you to sign. Insurance forms, pension forms.”
“What for?”
“You’re down as his beneficiary.”
“I’m his what? He has a kid. What about his kid?”
“I just do the paper, Detective. Sign here, please. His personal effects are in the bag, whatever was in his locker.”
Adele scrawled her name on the lines indicated. She caught a glimpse of Dylan angling his head to read the list of contents. She reached out with her left hand and tore it off the bag and stuffed it in her jacket pocket. She smiled at Dylan insincerely, handed the clipboard back to the uniformed woman. “There you go.”
The woman put the signed papers inside a file folder. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“If you find my wristwatch in there, you’ll let me know, will you?” O’Grady said.
“Want his little black book, too?”
“Got my own,” O’Grady said. He stood up. “Good to see you again, Adele. We’ll see you at the funeral, right?”
“I’m not too great at sticking people in the ground,” she said.
“Well, you need anything, feel like talking, you know how to get hold of me.”
She nodded, distracted, happy to see him leave. His handler was happy, too.
Roy Rawluck looked none the worse for his night of revelry. Spit and polish, same as ever, automatically coming to attention. “Good day, Chief.” He noted Orwell’s suit and tie, nodded with approval. “What’s the occasion? Lunch with the mayor?”
“My daughter’s getting married.”
“Today?”
“What? Oh, no. June, probably. I don’t think they’ve decided on a date.”
“Congratulations. Please convey my best wishes.” He nodded at the white bag. “Wedding present?” The soul of discretion. Roy knew what was in the bag his boss was clutching.
“First of many, I expect,” Orwell said. “Anything demanding my attention this fine Friday?”
“Nasty three-car over near Bobcaygeon. One dead, two injured.”
“Oh Lord. From here?”
“No, sir. Two people in a van from Fenelon Falls, airlifted to Toronto. The fatality is a woman from Lindsay. Driver who caused it walked away.”
“Drunk?”
“More than. Blood-alcohol was point two five.”
“Christ almighty!”
“OPP says he was doing at least two-hundred klicks.”
Orwell walked away, shaking his head. “Christ almighty,” he said again, more quietly this time, a sad little prayer. He stood at the window staring blankly at the street below, the sunny day no longer lifting his spirits. The world was filled with horrors, he knew that, he dealt with it the way most people did, by acknowledging that there were circumstances beyond his control or understanding, and that giving them too much emotional identification was pointless. But highway fatalities cut too close to home. A drunken driver murdering an innocent woman in the middle of the night was a knife in his heart. He stepped back into the big room.
“Who was she, Staff?”
“Haven’t released the name yet, Chief.”
“Find out, will you?”
“Will do.”
Roy looked toward the entrance where Stacy Crean was coming in, wearing last night’s clothes, and looked tired and testy. “Morning, Detective,” he said.
“Staff Sergeant.” She walked directly past the Chief and into his office.
The Chief was about to follow her, then turned back. “Roy? See if the traffic victim has any family in town here, any help we can give.”
“On it, Chief.”
“Thanks, Roy.” He half-closed the door, then leaned out. “Same with the two injured. Let me know how they’re doing.”
“Yes, sir.”
Stacy was rising from a chair. Orwell motioned her to stay where she was. “Still missing?”
“Yes, Chief. The studio’s locked up. Sign on the door says, ‘Classes cancelled until further notice.’”
“Anything from Dr. Ruth?”
“They wouldn’t let me talk to her. Maybe later today, if she’s up to it.”
“You’d better get some sleep.”
“I’m fine, sir. I got a couple of hours in the hospital before she started coming to.” She slapped herself on the cheek. “Spent too much damn time sitting around that hospital. I should have checked on the other one.”
“None of that. I have the feeling if she wanted to skip town there wouldn’t be much we could do to stop her.” His phone rang and he snatched it up before a second ring. “Brennan.”
“Got a shitload of messages on my desk, most of them from you.”
“Hello, Detective. How was Jamaica?”
“Terrific, my nose looks like bad wallpaper. Still haven’t found Paul’s weapon, if that’s what you were calling about.”
“On my mind, naturally, but other things have come up and I think you, or maybe someone looking into the Nimchuk murder, might want to come back up here.”
“Nimchuk? Who’s that? The Russian?”
“Sorry. Yes. The Russian. The mystery man on the Queensway. Murder weapon was quite possibly a .357 Smith.” There was silence on the other end. “Doesn’t mean anything, Detective. Lots of those around.”
“I guess.” She sounded calm, professional, dispassionate. “I don’t know a lot of people who lug around a big-ass six-shooter these days, but they could be making a comeback.”
“Could have been stolen from a collector. That happens. Getting ahead of ourselves, anyway. Peel doesn’t have much of the bullet.”
More silence. Papers rustling. Finally, a loud hooting laugh and a sharp echo, as of a hand hitting a steel desk. Then, “Of course it’s his gun! Who else’s gun would it be? Why the fuck wouldn’t it be his gun?” He heard
a desk drawer slam. “Thank you, Chief. Thanks a whole lot. This is perfect.” Another pause, and a sound that might have been a chuckle, or a stifled sob. “I’ll get back to you. ASAP.” And she hung up.
Orwell looked up at Stacy. “Didn’t get to tell her about the smugglers and the jewels.”
“Rocked her?”
“She thinks it’ll turn out to be . . .”
“His gun,” she finished for him. “Or else it’s another huge coincidence.”
“Entirely too many of those, wouldn’t you agree? Okay, Detective Crean, what are you going to do?”
“How big do you want to go, Chief?”
“Be discreet. I don’t want to put out an APB if she just went to the drugstore.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But I would like to know where she went.”
“She said she’d let me know if she was going to leave town.”
“Did she let you know?”
“I gave her my card. It’s got my extension on it.”
“Check your messages.”
The ticket was good to Union Station but she got out one stop early, at Danforth and Main. She needed to make sure Grova hadn’t moved his pawn shop, or burned it down, or lost it in a card game, or died, like everyone else. How many years was it? The last time she saw the troll? Ten? More? Had to be more. She was in Winnipeg four years. Four and a half. When she came back, she stayed away from this part of the city, avoided the old crew. They found her anyway, but that was her fault.
It was eleven years. She remembered it now — the year, the season, even the day of the week. A hot, humid Sunday night on the Danforth, sitting in the back room with Viktor and Vassili, talking about survival.
Ludmilla would have been dead by then, but they tried to believe that she was in her new life in California with her big black musician husband. It was a good thought to carry. Viktor knew better, of course, as did Grova. It was just she and poor Vassili who were still clinging to the story of Ludmilla’s magical escape. Escape was much on her mind that year, that night.
Viktor and Vassili were still arguing about the stones, had been since the beginning. There were so many, but the numbers always came out uneven and they couldn’t agree on the split. Vassili argued that since Viktor had already lost a small fortune in Montreal, he should give up a percentage. Viktor countered with the inescapable fact that they wouldn’t have any jewels if he hadn’t brought them into the country. That started another round of fighting about how Viktor had ruined all their lives.
