Woman Chased by Crows

by Marc Strange

  “Hey Della, made it to the joint, right? Being cool about all this, right? Okay, here’s the deal: have a look in the freezer, way in the back, ice-cube tray. Careful when you thaw it out, okay?”

  She had to chip the tray out of a thick crust of white ice. She knocked the cubes onto a dishtowel and twisted it into a sack, ran it under hot water until she felt the cubes melt away.

  There were five stones on the towel. Four of them were diamonds, she didn’t know much about gems but they looked to be engagement ring size, if your fiancé drove a Bentley. The other stone was bigger. It was blue. A sapphire, she thought, probably, a big one, a very big, very blue sapphire.

  “Get ’em? Nice, eh? Yeah, they’re stolen, but stolen long long ago and far far away, so knowing what to do with them is a real problem. I mean, who the hell can you give them back to?

  “What the fuck, just hand them into the department, ‘recovery of stolen goods, details unspecified,’ before your time anyway, well, most of it. Anyhow, at this stage, who gives a shit, right? I’ll understand if you can’t deal with it.

  “Here’s the thing —” His voice was rambling — a bit drunk, maybe very drunk, he handled it well but when he drank, he drank. She could hear him, almost see him, cruising the apartment, bumping into things, settling finally into a chair that whooshed, the big leather one. She heard him take another drink, heard ice tinkle against glass, his lips sounded wet. “It was all a big accident, the first two were anyway, the two big diamonds, that was an accident.” He laughed, a laugh she’d heard before, his “Isn’t life some weird shit?” laugh. “I got a call, some guy dead in the Beaches, shot in the head. DOA. Had them in his pocket, well they weren’t in his pocket, they were on the grass just outside his pocket, like he’d been pulling them out when he got shot. So, long story short, I palmed them. What? It was a reflex. Dylan was already there cruising the perimeter with a flashlight looking for tracks or brass, or maybe more jewellery, who knows, pitch black, the uniforms were at the car, calling in the cavalry, the damn things were under my hand when I bent down to check him out, and I palmed them, reflex, easy as pie. Shouldn’t have. Know that. I’m sure Dylan would have. Maybe that was it. Save him from himself.

  “I checked all the reports, stolen jewels, nothing like these two, these were big baby, big. I didn’t even think they were real at first. I had a guy I know check one of them out, he says, oh yeah, that’s the real thing, maybe fifty K worth. So there you go. My first step off the straight and narrow. Okay, maybe not the first time, but the first time I didn’t get right back on. None of that matters now anyway, does it? Not if you’re listening to this, not if I’ve got a tag on my toe, then who gives a shit how it happened, right?

  “So anyway, I’ve got my hands on an easy fifty K worth of unreported, unclaimed, anonymous ice. Nice, hunh?”

  She stopped the tape, put the recorder on the coffee table. No, she thought, not nice.

  Six

  Saturday, March 19

  She slept in his bed, in her clothes, her face buried in his pillow. She could smell his hair on the pillowcase, his body on the sheets. She woke three times during the night, woke from dreams in which she was crying, woke to find his pillow damp. Three times she washed her face in his bathroom without turning on the light, sat on the commode to blow her nose and dry her face with a fresh towel that still contrived to smell of him, remind her where she was. The stars were visible and the sky was an hour from turning grey when she gave up on sleep and sat at his office desk, listening to the wind whistling across the balconies. The gems were in a brown envelope, unsealed, contents listed on the flap — “1 blue stone (possibly sapphire), 4 white stones (probably diamonds), evidence as yet unreported due to the death of the investigator.” The list was signed, “Adele Moen, Detective.” The envelope wasn’t dated. Not yet. Not just yet. Not until she had an hour to think things through.

  What’s to think about? Turn them in.

  And the tape?

  Destroy it.

  Well, why not? She could do what she wanted with it. Toss it, squash it. It wasn’t evidence. It was a personal message, not a confession. What she did with it was up to her.

  Listen to the rest of it.

  “Okay, so there we are, there I am, hanging onto something I shouldn’t be holding onto. But then I start wondering, who carries loose diamonds around in their pocket? And the DOA, he’s got no ID, nothing personal, and I’m wondering if it belonged to the vic in the first place, or if he just happened to fall down dead on fifty K worth of gemstones. Seemed unlikely . . . walking in the park, on his own, with a couple of big diamonds in his pocket? That’s odd.”

  She heard liquid poured, a bottle cap replaced, wet lips again. His voice thicker, slurring certain words, but still articulate, still forming clear lines of thought, his brain still operating like a cop’s brain, looking for answers, searching for an explanation.

  “And what was Dylan doing at the crime scene twenty minutes before I got there? Why didn’t he pick up the stones? Not like Big Smoothie to overlook something like free jewellery lying around. So I went back to the park, on my own, just to have a long look around in the daytime.

  “Don’t know what I figured I’d find, big park, you can come at it from ten directions, weave your way toward where we found the body a hundred different ways. No way to search the park completely without a big team on foot, dogs, metal detectors, a hundred sets of eyes. On my own? Not a chance.

  “The vic was found shot in the back, about a hundred and fifty metres into the park, facing the lake, a long way from the beach, so you can make some basic assumptions from where he was found, right? The way he was pointing, how he was dressed. I decided he probably came down from Queen Street, quartering in from northwest to southeast. What was he doing there? Middle of the night, jacket, pants, street shoes, not a jogger, not a dog-walker. Another assumption: maybe he was there to meet someone. And if it was a planned meeting, there’d have to be specifics. You don’t go out in the night without knowing where you’re going. So there’s a phone call, something, where should we meet? By the big tree in the middle? Nope, a hundred big trees in the middle, something more specific.

  “The park’s got this big gazebo bandstand thing where they have concerts. Kind of an obvious meeting place. And since he got shot maybe a hundred metres past there, what do we assume now? That he met whoever, and they continued walking, and then whoever shot him. In the back. It could have gone down that way.

  “So he’s meeting someone in the middle of the night, he’s either very sure of this person, or he’s very nervous about this person. Let’s jump and say whoever he’s meeting scares him. What does he do? Takes some precautions, right? He’s got two loose diamonds in his pocket. He’s there to meet someone carrying two loose diamonds? That’s not how you carry gems. Diamond merchants fold them up inside a piece of paper. That’s all. They fold a piece of paper and put the stones in a little folded package. So either the guy gave them to whoever he met, or, if I was going to do it, I’d take a sample to show, but I’d stash the rest somewhere. Where, somewhere?

  “I tell ya, Stretch, I’d’a made a helluva crook if I hadn’t become a cop. I’ve got the devious instincts. You know it. I’m a porch-climber in my heart. Just following my nose, thinking like the crook I could be if I felt like it, and so what do I find? Well, you got them too now. Wrapped up in a piece of paper, folded into a square and stuck under the bandstand steps. The big blue one, a couple more diamonds. And the piece of paper. Even better. It’s a pawn ticket. I’m on a roll . . . Damn! Battery light’s blinking. I’ll get back to . . .

  Paulie, Paulie, you titanic asshole. What the fuck did you get yourself into? Russian crown jewels? Are you kidding me? Tell you one thing, dummy, there is no way I am sinking my career to cover your ass. And what exactly would I be protecting? Your reputation? Hell, the time for that’s long past, don’t you think? Pensi
on? Life insurance? Whatever. Your daughter loses some money coming to her, tough, sure, but not the end of the world. So why would I bother? You’re already up to your neck, pal, the question is, how deep is the shit? You go under, you go under on your own.

  What’s the big deal? Turn it in. Some jewels were found, he didn’t have time to write up a report before he was killed. I know nothing about them except they don’t belong to me.

  You’d think a woman her age would know how to make coffee. What kind of a person lives almost forty years without picking up that rudimentary skill? Paul had all the gear, grinder, whole beans, coffee maker, espresso machine, one of those French plunger gizmos; he prided himself on his coffee. She was okay as long as it was hot and had enough caffeine to wake her up. Not Paulie. He liked his lattes and his cappuccinos and teeny cups of bitter brew. Damn! Not one lousy little jar of Nescafé in the joint.

  There was coffee dust in the grinder. She filled it with beans but couldn’t find a switch to turn it on. The phone rang. She lifted the receiver before the second ring ended, held it to her ear without speaking.

  “Yes. I thought someone was visiting.”

  She recognized the voice. “You must be Sergei. Got your messages. How you doin’?”

  “I saw a face at the window.”

  “Really? Where were you, up a tree?”

  “I was in the parking lot. Briefly. I’m not there now.”

  “How sweet. You’ve got the place staked out.”

  “How many of you are up there?”

  “Just me, Sergei. Come on up, I’m making coffee. We should talk.”

  “We are talking.”

  He sounded relaxed, confident, perhaps a bit playful. She wanted to kick him in the scrote. “I think we should get to know each other a little,” she said. “Don’t you?”

  “But slowly. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

  “Come around, I’ll show you my birth certificate.”

  “Will you show me your badge, too?”

  “What can I do for you, Serge?” She deliberately mispronounced his name.

  “Perhaps we can do something for each other.”

  “Such as?”

  “Are you looking for something up there?”

  “Well, you know, I kind of inherited all this stuff. It’s mine now.”

  “I believe Mr. Delisle had something that didn’t belong to him.”

  “Really? Paulie? Like what?”

  “I believe he is also missing something that did belong to him.”

  Her voice hardened. “Such as?”

  “You tell me. You’re in his apartment. Is everything there that should be there?”

  “Far as I know. Well I haven’t looked everywhere yet. Paulie was big on storage. You ever been up here, Serge?”

  “Let me just say that I might know where your partner’s missing item wound up.”

  “You have it?”

  “Not personally. I wouldn’t want to be in possession of something that could be connected to a serious crime.”

  “Of course not. But you know where this something is?”

  “Shall we say I might be able to find out.”

  “I see.”

  “How hard I look would be directly related to how hard you were looking for what belongs to me.”

  “Want to give me a hint?”

  “Use your imagination. I’ll be in touch.” He hung up.

  She shook the grinder, listened to the beans rattle, wondered for a moment if one could pulverize coffee beans with a hammer. The door buzzer sounded and she picked up her weapon and crossed the room. So soon, Serge? Love to get a look at you, you slimeball. Maybe pulverize you with a hammer. “Yes?”

  “It’s Stacy. Too early?”

  “Not a chance. C’mon up.”

  She put her weapon on top of the brown envelope and took herself to the bathroom to wash the Serge off her face.

  Adele looked shell-shocked, raw, her face scrubbed red, her hair wet in front. Stacy smiled anyway. Adele pulled her through the door. “Can you make coffee?” There was hope in her voice. “I mean, do you know how?”

  “Sure. What have you got?”

  “Oh Christ, everything. Except instant.”

  Stacy took off her leather jacket and folded it over the back of a club chair. “Wow, look at this place.”

  “I think he was going for the New Orleans whorehouse look,” Adele said.

  “From memory?”

  “Who knows? Kitchen’s over here. Need coffee. Need it bad.”

  It turned out you just had to push down on the grinder to get it going. Who knew?

  Stacy got a pot brewing, located cups, checked the refrigerator. “We’re creamless.”

  “Okay by me.”

  “Me, too,” She admired the kitchen, shiny surfaces, pots and pans organized. “Kept a nice place,” she said.

  “Oh yeah. He was a fastidious fucker. How many single guys have a shiny toilet bowl?”

  “That would impress the girlfriends.”

  “I don’t think he ever brought one up here. I mean it. Asked him once, said he didn’t like long goodbyes. Gone like a cool breeze, that was Paulie.”

  They watched the coffee dripping far too slowly into the carafe. Stacy broke the silence. “His piece wasn’t here?”

  “I wish. Nope. Found some other stuff, though.”

  “Such as?”

  Adele waved off the question, took her time, long enough to get her first sip. “Bless you,” she said. “Follow me. Sit down over there.” She emptied keys and spare change out of the brass bowl and put it on the coffee table in front of Stacy. “You said jewels, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Big jewels.” She shifted her weapon, picked up the envelope, shook it gently. “Check these out.” She tilted the envelope, the brass bowl rang like a tiny gong.

  “Oh yeah.” Stacy looked at them for a long breath. “Big jewels.”

  “Maybe like Russian crown jewels?”

  “Might as well be.” She poked them with a finger. “And they’re real?”

  Adele sat across from her. “People going to a lot of trouble if they aren’t.” The stones glittered, held their eyes like crystal balls. “Do you have any fucking idea what’s going on?” Adele asked.

  “I know some of it.”

  “Yeah? Well I know squat. Except I know my dead partner stepped on his dick big time. He’s involved in the theft of at least two of those diamonds — which two exactly I couldn’t tell you since he got them all mixed up — but I have his recorded admission that he lifted two of them at a crime scene. Strike one. Then he went back to the crime scene and found the other ones. You could say he stole them too, but I’ll withhold that charge pending further evidence.” Adele began picking up the gems, one by one, sapphire first, then the diamonds, counting quietly. Stacy counted with her. “One blue, four white, right?”

  “Right.”

  Adele sealed the envelope. “Sign it?”

  “Pleasure.” Stacy signed the flap. “So what are you going to do?”

  “Turn them in.”

  “Today?”

  “Yeah, well, it’s fucking Saturday.” She folded the envelope into a tight square and stuck it in her back pocket. “Definitely don’t owe Paulie my freakin’ badge!” She went to the balcony window, leaned her head against the glass, banged it three times.

  Stacy waited, watching Adele. “But you don’t like thinking that the guy you partnered with for . . .”

  “That bastard is not getting me jammed up in this, whatever it is.”

  “. . . how many years?”

  “Five, almost six, who cares?” She banged her head against the glass again, gently this time.

  “He had your back.”

  �
�Yeah. Mostly I had his.” She picked up her weapon, checked it, holstered it and strapped it on. “Plus, I just had a conversation with a guy named Sergei who insinuated that he either has Paulie’s gun, or knows where to find it.” She gave Stacy a grim smile. “Strike two.”

  “Maybe just a foul ball,” said Stacy.

  “Still a strike.” She emptied her cup. “Good coffee.”

  They had breakfast at the New York Café, a few blocks south of Paul’s apartment. Adele had steak and eggs. It was her first meal in twenty-four hours and she wolfed it. To keep her company, Stacy had an English muffin with honey and a small orange juice. The power smoothie she’d sucked back before leaving Dockerty contained enough protein and nutrients to keep her going most of the day. Adele chewed and scowled at the Saturday traffic moving up and down Broadview; streetcars and taxis, a double-decker tour bus, dog-walkers, joggers and double-wide baby buggies. Stacy had her notebook open. She did most of the talking.

  “Sergei Siziva. He was one of five people from a ballet company who defected back in ’81. Of the five, three are dead. Ludmilla Dolgushin, murdered in Montreal twenty-five years ago, Vassili Abramov, eight years ago. And Viktor Nimchuk, barely a week ago.” She looked up. “The two survivors are the ballet teacher, Anya Zubrovskaya, a.k.a. Anya Daniel, and Mr. Sergei Siziva. Ms. Daniel is convinced that Mr. Siziva, or someone connected to him, or hired by him, is out to kill her.”

  “Because?”

  “The way she tells it, Sergei’s been tracking down the jewels to return them to their rightful owners.”

  “The Russians? So? This guy Sergei’s official? Didn’t sound official. Sounded bent.”