Woman Chased by Crows

by Marc Strange

  “One way to find out.”

  Orwell was amused. “You realize I was blowing smoke when I suggested that, right?” he said. “We don’t have a case. They processed Lorna Ruth’s office. No prints, no eyewitness, no evidence that Grenkov hit the doctor or trashed her office. Likewise with the assault on Ms. Zubrovskaya. No eyewitness, her word against his. Have a hard time making it stick anyway, since she wasn’t touched.”

  “She says he cut himself chasing her through a chain-link fence,” Adele said. “Might be blood, DNA.”

  “This isn’t New York, Detective. Who’s going to pay for that? We can’t afford it. Takes months the way the system works these days. And then he might wind up making a countercharge since he obviously got the worst of it.”

  “Lost my head.”

  Stacy said, “Chief, we just want a chance to question them again. If we wind up charging either one, it’s a bonus.”

  “Do it all by the book. But let them know they’re going to be very inconvenienced by the process.” Adele was enjoying herself. “Mention Immigration and the extradition process, ask them if they’d like to contact the Russian embassy.”

  “And what do you figure to get out of this production?”

  “We need bait,” said Stacy. “We’re after a bigger fish than those two. We think they might give us something we can dangle.”

  “And what do you think your big fish might do?”

  Adele was honest. “Who knows? I don’t have a fucking clue what he’ll do. But I sure would like a chance to rattle his cage, make him mess his laundry. This man is a killer. I know it the way I know it’s lunch time.”

  “Chief?”

  “Yes, Dorrie?”

  “Sam Abrams on one.”

  “Thank you.” He snatched up the receiver. “Hi, Sam. No comment.”

  “No comment about what?”

  “Whatever it is you wanted me to comment on.”

  “All right, Chief. I just thought you might have some fatherly reaction, aside from your position as chief.”

  “Why fatherly?”

  “I just came from the courthouse. Harold Ruth’s pretrial hearing. I guess you haven’t heard. I suppose no one’s in a hurry to report.”

  “Report on what? Jeeze, Sam, don’t get all coy. What is it with you this morning? You’re almost giggling.”

  “Your daughter and Georgie. Formidable team. Formidable. A dazzling display.”

  “When’s the trial date?”

  “Won’t be one. Gord Blumberg’s declined to prosecute.”

  “Declined? Why?”

  “It was the smartest move. The judge would have tossed it.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I have a source. Someone who overheard a somewhat contentious exchange between the Crown and the defence counsels. Some of which I myself heard while, ah, passing by.”

  “And which you are just about to share.”

  “Georgie and Diana ambushed Gord Blumberg in the hall. Diana had a gun expert lined up who claimed that the bullet they dug out of the door jamb came from a Winchester 94, 30-30 lever action and not a Savage, model 1899 of the same calibre. The footprints at the crime scene would show that whoever was back there had big feet, probably eleven and a half or twelve. Harold Ruth wears a nine and a half. Harold was arrested with a recently fired rifle in his hand. Members of his gun club confirmed, or would confirm, that he’d been sighting it in at a shooting range and that he was there when he said he was.”

  “Georgie got all that in the hallway?”

  “Diana did. Like a machine gun. To top it off, she knew the two Toronto detectives had been suspended for seriously bad conduct and exceeding their authority, holding the accused in isolation, denying him any right to counsel, and on and on. She told Gord his whole case was a collection of useless evidence and poor police work and he should hold off or the judge would toss the whole thing.”

  “They had no case.”

  “May I quote you?”

  “No, you may not. You can say that ‘Under the circumstances, the DPD will consider the case still open and assumes that the OPP and Metro’s homicide unit will be doing the same.’” Orwell hung up and sat for a moment staring at his map with unfocused eyes.

  “You forget we were here, Chief?” Stacy asked.

  “Did I hear right?” Adele asked. “They’re cutting Paulie’s killer loose?”

  “Harold didn’t do it.”

  “The fuck he didn’t!”

  “Settle down. Take a deep breath. Harold Ruth didn’t do it. There’s a killer out there. Been walking around for two weeks.”

  Adele paced the room. She looked ready to punch a wall, she just hadn’t decided which one. Stacy sat quietly near Orwell’s desk, waiting for the smell of sulfur to die down.

  “So all right! Who did it?”

  “I don’t know, but until we find out I can’t spare Stacy for any road trips.” He spread his hands apologetically. “Sorry.”

  Stacy didn’t look sad at all. She leaned forward, her eyes bright and her head lifted, a hunting animal, testing the wind. “Any chance Del and I can take another run at that one?”

  Adele liked the sound of that.

  Orwell looked at the two of them. “I don’t suppose you two have ever heard of a Buff Orpington?” He held open his most recent copy of Fancy Fowl to a colour photograph. “Handsome creature, don’t you think?”

  “Is that supper, Chief?” Stacy asked.

  “Retirement. Something to look forward to after I’m kicked out of this office by a new administration. I figure it’ll be around the same time Captain Rosebart chains you to your desk for a year, and around the time Emmett Paynter teams you up with Randy Vogt for the duration of your career.”

  Stacy smiled. “We’re either doomed, or bound for glory.”

  He shook his head. “Tell you what. I’ll give you twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours that you can use any way you like.” He held up an admonishing finger. “But without going anywhere near Lorna Ruth, or her newly released husband, Harold. Got me?”

  Stacy grinned. “Twenty-four hours.”

  “Unless you want to wait for Lacsamana and Heatley to get back up here and do their jobs properly.”

  “And if we pull it off?”

  “Well then, I guess I’d have to let you take another run at Yevgeni Grenkov and Sergei Siziva.”

  Adele picked up the magazine and looked at the cover. “Seriously, you gonna be eating these chickens, Chief?”

  The landscape had changed since their first drive to Omemee; the snow was gone, green was starting to show in fields and hedgerows, winter wheat waking up, grasses springing, branches budding. Adele wasn’t soothed by the change. “Do those cows ever get washed?”

  “They will. Next time it rains, I think.”

  Adele shook her head at a mob of muddy Herefords. “Need a power-washer on some of them.” She was glum and edgy at the same time. “We might as well eat,” she said.

  “Where? Lemongrass?”

  “While we’re there. Did you check out the menu last time?”

  “I know they have tom yum soup.”

  “Whateverthefuck that is.”

  Reading the bill of fare didn’t lighten Adele’s mood. What she craved was something bad for her. A burger, or a medium pizza with too many toppings. The bartender was the same young man as last time and one of the servers had a familiar face. Stacy had them neatly gathered at the end of the bar under a flatscreen TV showing a glimpse of Florida and someone in a batting cage sending long flies toward a bright centerfield. Adele was trying to find something recognizable on the menu while listening with one ear to Stacy work her way through the preliminaries.

  “. . . week ago,” Stacy said, “asking about the tall red-headed man.”

  “The
basketball player. The one who got killed.”

  Adele turned a page. The menu totalled six pages and absolutely nothing decent to eat.

  “You’re Lara, right?” Stacy said. “You remember anyone else who was here or left around the same time?”

  “I don’t know. It got pretty busy.”

  “How about you, sir? You said you were watching basketball. Was there anyone else at the bar watching the game at the same time?”

  “Yeah, couple of guys.”

  “Names?”

  “The only one I know is Ed.”

  “Last name?”

  “Ed Kewell. He drives a cab. Sometimes he comes in after his shift. Or maybe during his shift. Only ever has one.”

  Adele lifted her head to look at Stacy. “He’s in the notes.”

  “He is?”

  “Yep. Dancer lady’s cabbie. Drove her home. Went off to look after his dying mother . . .”

  “Sick sister,” Stacy said.

  “That’s the guy.”

  “He’s a regular?”

  “Not really. Drops in once in a while,” said the bartender.

  “Doesn’t eat,” Lara said.

  “At these prices, I’m not surprised,” said Adele.

  “Would you know where we could find him?” asked Stacy.

  “Lives just up the road.”

  Adele closed the menu. “Any chance we pass a McDonald’s getting there?”

  A phone call and the onboard computer gave them the necessary details. Edwin Kewell lived with his father, Lucian Simon Kewell, in a trailer park. The sign at the gate said “Rosteen’s Haven ~ water, power, cable, gas, garbage, security.” The park manager directed them to pad 23 where two mismatched units faced each other across a concrete patio. A Kropf double-wide with awnings and a barren flower bed, stood opposite a distressed twenty-eight-foot Prowler Travel Trailer sitting on cinder blocks, but still wearing tires and a towing hitch. A gas barbecue, Muskoka chairs, planters and other necessities for summer living were parked under a roofed walkway that ran between the two units.

  “You figure Edwin bunks in the guest house?” The Prowler had a rack of antlers hanging over the door. “See?” Adele pointed. “Now that’s romantic.”

  “Joe has a cowbell over his door.”

  “He shoots cows?”

  That got a laugh from Stacy. “Swap meet.” She knocked. “Mr. Kewell? Edwin?” She tried the latch and the door swung open. “It’s Detective Crean, Dockerty PD.” She stuck her head inside. “Edwin? Dockerty PD. Like to talk to you for a minute.”

  A small dog started yapping inside the double-wide followed by a man’s voice. “Hugo! Shut it! He’s not home.”

  “Then could we talk to you for a moment, sir?”

  The door opened and a man looked them over. He was in his sixties, dressed for an afternoon of nothing much. A Yorkshire terrier bristled between the man’s feet, growling and yapping. “Hugo. Shut it. Shut it.” The dog refused to shut it and the man shoved him back into the room with his slippered foot and stepped outside, closing the door behind him. The dog continued yapping, but with less enthusiasm.

  “You looking for Ed?”

  “We are,” said Adele. “He’s your son?”

  “He’s working.” He leaned to one side to check on what Stacy was up to. “Should she be doing that? Going inside without a warrant?”

  “Oh, it’s okay. The door was open. She’s just making sure he isn’t dead or something.”

  “He’s not dead, his car’s gone.”

  “See? Someone could have harmed him and stolen his car. Any bodies in there, Detective Crean?”

  “I’ll just look in the bathroom.”

  “Bathroom, right,” said the man. “That’ll take about two seconds.” He frowned as Stacy disappeared inside. “He done something?”

  “We have no reason to suspect him of anything. Do you?” She crossed the pad to stand in front of the man. “We wanted to ask him about a trip he took recently. To look after his sister. That would be your daughter?”

  “Lorraine. Yeah. What happened to her?”

  “I wouldn’t know. We heard that Edwin left town to look after her for a while.”

  “Woulda been a neat trick. She lives in El Paso.”

  “You’re saying Edwin wasn’t visiting his sister last week?”

  “Don’t know what he did last week. We don’t spend a lot of time together. Sure as heck wasn’t flying to El Paso. Unless he’s got a whack of frequent flier miles.”

  “All right then, thank you for your time, sir. We’ll try him at work. Dockerty Cab, right?”

  “Visiting his sister. That’s a hoot. They haven’t spoken a civil word in ten years.” He opened his door and yapping Hugo reappeared immediately. “Shut it. Hugo. Shut the hell up.” He scuffed the little dog backward and the door closed.

  Adele turned back to the trailer. “Anything interesting going on?”

  “Might want to have a look,” Stacy said.

  Adele stepped inside. The unit had the dark cramped feel of a fishboat below decks. “What’s up?”

  Stacy was standing at the table near the messy kitchen area. An unmade bed, partially hidden behind a sliding accordion door, occupied the other end. “What do you make of this?” she asked. Spread across the table were week-old newspapers, Star, Sun, Globe, Lindsay Post, Dockerty Register, all of them were open to articles dealing with Delisle’s murder — “Metro Detective Shot in Motel Room,” “Cop’s Love Nest Homicide” and variations on the theme. “One of these clippings is from last Thursday’s Globe.”

  “When he was supposed to be visiting his sick sister,” Adele riffled through the clippings, “in El Paso.”

  “I thought she lived in Hamilton.”

  “He sure was following the case.”

  “Has a girlfriend.” Stacy picked a framed picture off the floor. The glass was shattered. “Or had a girlfriend.”

  “Don’t cut yourself. This place is probably crawling with cooties.”

  “Wasn’t an accident, this getting smashed. Bounced it off the wall.”

  “Anything on the back?”

  Stacy turned the picture over. The frame was falling apart, the photograph slipped out easily. “Just says ‘D.’”

  Hugo started yapping again the instant Stacy knocked on the door. “Mr. Kewell? Could we ask you something?”

  “What? Hugo, shut it, you barked at these people already.” The door opened halfway. “What?”

  “Just wondering if you know who this is?”

  “Doreen something.”

  “She’s his girlfriend?”

  “I guess. She only came around once. I don’t think she liked the ambience if you get my drift.”

  “You know her last name?”

  “Couldn’t tell you. Lives up around your neck of the woods.”

  “Thank you,” Stacy said. “Here’s my card. If you see your son before we do, tell him to give me a call, okay?”

  “Everything okay in there?”

  “Cozy place.”

  Adele hadn’t found a fast food outlet to her liking on the way out of town and was making do with a bag of Cheetos Puffs. “These things are better when they get a bit stale,” she said. Her mouth was full.

  “Stale.”

  “Not really stale, just chewy. Leave them out for a day or two with the bag open. Makes all the difference.”

  “Obviously I’m missing out on a whack of culinary adventures.”

  “You’re a health nut. This stuff would be poison to you. You need to build up an immune system before you can handle . . . ,” she lifted the bag to read from the list of ingredients, “hydrogenated vegetable oil, maltodextrin, artificial flavours, monosodium glutamate. Bag of these would probably kill you.”

  Stacy
reached over and helped herself to a cheese stick. She chewed for a moment. “And they’re better when they get stale?”

  “It’s an acquired taste.”

  They drove in silence; Adele munching, staring out the window at muddy cows passing, Stacy dealing with the maltodextrin on her lips and the orange colouring on her fingertips. “What do you think?” she asked after a while.

  “Oh I think we’ve got something, partner. Oh yeah.”

  “Those antlers over his door, you think he shot that deer himself?”

  “Oh we’ve got something.” She munched a bit more. “Should’ve picked up a Coke when I had the chance,” she said.

  The dispatcher pointed out Edwin Kewell vacuuming the back seat of his cab on the other side of the lot. “That’s him over there. He needs to clean out his unit. I had a complaint, yesterday.”

  “Is that a regular thing for him?” Stacy asked.

  “No. Just lately. Since he got back.”

  “From visiting his sister?”

  “Said he was going away for a week. He was back in two days. I guess she got better.”

  Stacy had to raise her voice to be heard over the vacuum. “Mr. Kewell? Hi. Mind turning that off a minute?”

  Edwin switched off the Dirt Devil and looked from one to the other. “What?” he said.

  “Hi. Detective Stacy Crean, Dockerty PD. This is my partner, Detective Moen, Metro Homicide Unit.”

  “Yeah?”

  “So. How’s your sister?”

  “My sister? What about her?”

  “We heard you left town to look after your sister.”

  “Oh. She’s okay.”

  “Did you visit her?”

  “For a couple of days.”

  “In El Paso,” Adele said.

  “What?”

  “We were just talking to your father. He said your sister lives in El Paso.”

  “Yeah, okay. That was just something I told people. It was a secret.”

  “What was?”