Woman Chased by Crows

by Marc Strange

  “Sort of. I’m playing them in the order they were in the box.” She cued up the next cassette. “Here’s a good one except it sounds like Darryl recorded the first part on toilet paper. We’ve got O’Grady, Grova, Siziva and, somewhere in the background, Citizen Grenkov.”

  (unintelligible, possibly in the kitchen)

  “. . . going on?” (Dylan)

  “This . . . to meet you.” (Louie)

  “Yes, good ev . . . is Siz . . . , . . . gei . . . ziva.”

  “. . . the moose?”

  “. . . my protection.”

  “. . . is?” (chuckles) “(unintelligible) to stay out . . . worth shit . . . tear him a new asshole.”

  “. . . civilized, okay? Neutral ground. Mutual interests . . . in . . . differences.” (Louie)

  “. . . listening. . . . a cold beer at least? . . . Fuck no, I’ve seen how you wash your glasses. You? Siz . . . what?”

  (Random noises, a short exchange in Russian. Yevgeni’s voice is recognizable. Sound of beer cans being popped open. Swallowing, burping.)

  “Okay . . . called this . . . on your mind?”

  “We . . . mutual interest. . . . tor Nim . . .”

  “Who he?”

  “. . . should. . . . not play games. I . . . he . . . happened in Montreal.”

  “. . . Nimchuk . . . ything? . . . who gives a . . . anyway? Nothing to do with me.”

  (Three minutes thirty seconds unintelligible. Possible move outside.)

  “Wait a bit,” Stacy said, “it gets better.”

  (Closer to mic. Entering living room?)

  “. . . a big man, and that makes you untouchable, you think. Yes?”

  “That’s not a threat, is it?”

  “But, you admit, currently you have much to lose.”

  “Careful Ivan. You don’t want to piss me off.”

  “When you were a policeman you had much more control over a situation, yes? You had a gun, a badge, a code I suppose. Now you are a public figure. You seek elected office. Your image is important.”

  “Cut the crap. What do you want?”

  “I believe we have mutual interests and can help each other get what we seek.”

  “Get me another beer, Louie. And you, tell your big friend to sit down. He’s not making me nervous, he’s making me angry.”

  (Brief exchange in Russian. Yev is heard grumbling.)

  “I’m sure you don’t want an altercation in this place, my friend, with all the secrets it might contain. We wouldn’t want to attract the attention of the police, would we?”

  (sound of a beer can releasing gas, chair sliding)

  “All right, whatever your name is, I’m listening.”

  “Viktor is worried about what might happen.”

  “Happen?”

  “To him. What might happen to him.”

  “Why should anything happen to him?”

  “Because of what happened to Vassili. That you will do the same to him.”

  “I didn’t do anything to this whoever.”

  “Vassili.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Viktor told me about Montreal.”

  “Un hunh. What happened in Montreal?”

  “You and Viktor and Louie here. The woman.”

  “Okay. I’ve heard enough of this. I don’t know what you think you know but if it comes from Viktor Nimchuk it doesn’t mean shit. So why am I listening?”

  “He would like to make an arrangement. He has another of the blue stones you are interested in.”

  “Yeah? What about you? What are you interested in?”

  “Mine is a different colour.”

  “You want the diamonds? Fine. More trouble than they’re worth. What else?”

  “That’s all. Viktor and I will arrange for you to acquire another of the blue stones. You already have one, am I correct? Viktor and I will deal with the remaining diamonds and whatever remains of the neckpiece.”

  “What do I get out of it?”

  “Much peace of mind, I’m sure. Viktor and I will both depart the vicinity, albeit in different directions, and you can sleep well at night knowing all is clear.”

  “Right. And what’s to stop you coming back next year and getting another bite.”

  “Do not forget that both Viktor and I will have engaged in numerous illegal acts as well. It would be in our best interests to get as far away from you as we can.”

  (long silence, sound of beer can being crushed)

  “You tell him to give me a call.”

  “I’m certain we . . .”

  (tape runs out)

  “Darryl’s never getting that job with the CIA,” Adele said.

  “Seems like they’re in reverse order, doesn’t it?” Stacy said. “Sergei sounds like he’s trying to broker a deal between Nimchuk and Dilly. Then after that we’ve got Louie coughing up the phone number of the motel. And then we’ve got Dilly handing over Paulie’s .357 to Louie Grova and telling him to stash it.”

  “If that’s what was happening on that tape, because nowhere is the actual fucking weapon mentioned.”

  “Right. So, you’d figure he hands the weapon to Louie after he shoots the Russian in the motel. Right?”

  “Sounds reasonable.”

  “Nimchuk was killed sometime between Saturday night, March 12th, and Sunday the 13th. Which means that O’Grady has to show up here with Paulie’s piece sometime Sunday, at the latest, Monday, because he’s on the campaign trail and he can’t be running around stashing guns when he’s supposed to be cutting ribbons and kissing babies. But here’s the thing.” She needed to change the cassette and find the right spot. “Wait a sec. Here. Listen to what’s on the television.”

  In the foreground of the section where Dylan O’Grady is clumping down the stairs and Louie is cursing, they can hear audience laughter and cheering and women’s voices.

  Adele spread her hands. “So?”

  Stacy spread her hands as well. “So? That’s Ellen.”

  “And that means . . . ?”

  “Ellen Degeneres? She isn’t on Sunday. It’s a weekday show.”

  “You watch Ellen?”

  “No, I don’t watch Ellen, but I know who she is, and I know when she’s on television. How come you don’t know?”

  “All right, so he shows up here on Monday and gives the gun to Louie. While fucking Ellen’s on? What’s the diff?”

  “Listen again.” She rewound the tape a few seconds and played it again. “Hear it?”

  “Hear what? What am I missing?”

  “Ellen is talking to . . .” Stacy looked embarrassed. “. . . Denzel.”

  “Denzel? Denzel who?”

  “Oh Jesus,” Stacy hid her face briefly with both hands, as if about to reveal a shameful little secret. “Denzel Washington. The . . . actor?”

  “So?” Adele suddenly hooted. “Ha! Wait a minute. You’ve got the hots for a movie star?!”

  “All right. I admit it. A little crush. You happy?”

  “Old Daniel Boone’s leaving you alone too much.”

  “Okay, okay, can we get past that part and concentrate?” She wiped her hands across her face to erase the blush in her cheeks. “The thing is, I saw that show. It was on Friday. I didn’t see the whole thing, I just checked it out for a minute after my workout.”

  “Ri-ight.”

  “Nimchuk was killed March 12th, okay? Sometime that night. That show was on the week before. Friday the 11th.”

  “You sure?”

  Stacy sighed. “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Holy shit! ”

  “If Dylan’s showing up with the gun on the 11th, then he, or for that matter, your partner, couldn’t have been using it to shoot Viktor Nimchuk on the 12th.”

  “
Motherfucker! Murderer fingered by Ellen.”

  The two women took a moment to enjoy the absurdity of the situation, then Stacy became businesslike again. “When Dylan was a cop, what did he carry?”

  “Same as Paulie. Smith .357 Magnum.”

  “A .357 fires .38 Specials, too. Interchangeable. The slug they recovered from the Queensway scene was a magnum, right? Paul’s revolver was loaded with .38 Specials. Did he ever switch? Any Magnum slugs around?”

  “No. Not in his locker, not in the apartment. His ammo in the desk, box of .38 Specials.”

  “So unless he loaded a Magnum bullet exclusively and specifically for shooting Nimchuk, Paul’s piece isn’t the murder weapon.”

  Georgie Rhem carefully removed the white tin letters that spelled “Treganza & Swain” from the lobby directory board and dropped them into a brown envelope. “Oh darn,” he said, “I’m going to need that ampersand. Find it for me would you, Stonewall?” He handed the envelope to his friend and began inserting the D-A-I-L-E-Y of his new partner.

  “I guess this makes it official,” Orwell said.

  “Soon as you find that thingy.”

  “End of an era,” said Sam Abrams.

  “Or the beginning of one,” Georgie said.

  “Here’s your thingy.”

  Georgie inserted it between the two names and the three men took a step back to admire the new listing.

  RHEM & DAILEY

  Barristers and Solicitors

  3rd floor

  “Calls for a ceremonial slice of pie, don’t you think?” Georgie said.

  “Well, a cup of coffee, at least,” said Orwell.

  When the three men reached the opposite sidewalk, they turned back to look up at the third floor windows where “Rhem, Treganza & Swain” still glowed in fine gold leaf.

  “It’ll take a while to get that scraped off,” Georgie said, “let alone find someone who does that kind of gold leaf lettering in this town. I think the guy who did that died in ’64.”

  “I’d leave it up there, Georgie,” said Orwell. “It’s worth preserving.”

  “A heritage site,” said Sam.

  “I suppose. They were middling lawyers, but they taught me a lot.” He clapped the two big men on their backs. “Come on then, I’m buying.”

  Ethel smiled when she saw her three favourite regulars come through the door. “You make a lovely couple,” she said.

  “There are three of us,” said Georgie.

  “I meant the Chief and Donna Lee.” She held up a copy of the Dockerty Register, where the Chief and the Mayor were on the front page. Again. “Was she standing on a flowerpot, Chief?”

  “He was bending his knees,” said Sam. “Kathy told me. Most considerate.”

  “Hard to get them both in the frame otherwise,” said Georgie.

  “Glad to see you’re taking the election seriously, Chief,” said Sam. “Not in a rush to start raising chickens?”

  “Not just yet. If Donna Lee gets reelected maybe I can hang in for another five years. After that, who knows?”

  Ethel brought coffee and three menus. “We all having pie, gentlemen?”

  “I’ll hold off until next week,” said Orwell. “I made the mistake of stepping on the scales this morn. Not a pretty sight.”

  “I broke mine,” said Sam. “Just coffee, thanks.”

  “That leaves you, Georgie,” she said.

  “In that case I’ll have French toast and maple syrup. And sausages.”

  “Atta boy.”

  The two big men shook their heads sadly.

  “So Georgie,” Sam started, “you handling the Edwin Kewell case perchance?”

  “No one’s called,” he said. “Two murder cases in two weeks? A bit much to hope for.”

  “Too bad. When does your new partner get here?”

  “Well, she has to take care of a few hundred things in the city.”

  “She won’t dawdle,” said Orwell. “Once she’s made her mind up, she moves pretty fast. I’ll drive down when she’s ready, get her stuff packed up.”

  “You need any help, let me know,” said Sam.

  Orwell smiled to himself. His pocket started singing. “Brennan,” he said. “Okay, on my way.” He stuffed the phone back in his pocket and levered himself out of the booth. “Duty calls, gents. Visiting dignitary.” As he was heading out the door, he heard Sam’s voice.

  “Oh what the heck, Ethel. Give me a small slice of the rum raisin.”

  It is good to have friends, even if you never see them, people you can call upon without worrying whether they will remember you. Gita Crystal (born Brigitta Schneiderschnitz) was one of those. Twenty years ago at the National Ballet she had attended to Anya’s fine golden hair on a nightly basis. These days she owned and operated a salon and day spa in Yorkville. Arabesque, an intimate oasis, neither trendy nor excessively posh, was, like its owner, elegant and devoid of affectation save for (in Gita’s case) a fondness for rose-tinted glasses. She loved Anya Zubrovskaya.

  “Nanya! My goodness. How wonderful! To see you! My darling! Come in here! Give me kisses! More kisses. Let me look at you. Ach! You are as lovely as ever. But. Of course, your hair . . . Something must be done! You agree?”

  “That is why I am here. Perhaps you can work a little magic on this wreckage.”

  “A new man?”

  “In a way.”

  “Oooh. Lovely. You must tell me all about him.”

  “He is quite dangerous.”

  “Wonderful. We will make you irresistible.”

  When Anya left Arabesque three hours later, she did look, if not irresistible, certainly acceptable. Her skin was glowing, her hair was a chic tousle of platinum feathers and even her forlorn hands and aggrieved feet had been pampered and soothed.

  Gita sent her on her way with an admonition never to stay away so long again, and gave her an address just three blocks distant where another old friend would be sure to greet her just as warmly.

  “Anushka! My goodness! How long has it been. Good Christ don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.” Alain Abaire’s establishment, Redemption, dealt in high-end fashion and vintage couturier consignments. Even the super-rich, it seemed, ran out of closet space from time to time. “And you have kept your figure. Bless your heart. So many of us have not. I myself, as you see, have become a blini. It’s happiness, does it. My lover cooks. He is killing me with kindness.”

  “An outfit, Alain. Daytime, in public. Something tailored, perhaps, not frivolous.”

  “Secretary of State?”

  “Satan’s emissary, come to collect an overdue soul.”

  “Oh, well then, you’ll want Chanel.”

  The hotel wasn’t four-star, but it was pleasant enough. Her crusade was after all being financed (posthumously) by Louie Grova, and she considered it only fair that she keep her expenses within limits. Honour also demanded that she spend every penny on the assault. Her own resources were limited, and the battle ahead might go on for some time. She hadn’t taken Louie’s cash box because she wanted his money; wars require financing.

  Poor Louie. What a sad way to go, tied to a chair, surrounded by his things, and not one of them of any use. He could not even lift his head to see who was climbing in through the window. She stood in the kitchen doorway and heard his last rattling breath. There was no way for her to help him. Louie was a goner.

  She left no trace of her visit. The scene must not be disturbed. Louie’s killer might have made a mistake before he departed, slipped up somehow, left a fingerprint or dropped a glove. Probably not. He was a careful and clever man. But you never know, it is often the little things that cause the most damage.

  And Louie, you should have changed your hiding place once in a while. Ten years ago, while Vassi and Viktor were in the living room arguing about God knows wh
at and she was on the back porch smoking and breathing in the humid summer air, dreaming of Dubrovnik, she caught sight of him through the filthy kitchen window. Saw him pull back a tile from above the sink and cram in a wad of bills. The tile was greasy and grimy and stuck in place with rotting grout and glazier’s putty. Behind it was a black tin box and rolls of cash clenched in rubber bands. She loaded her pockets, replaced the box and the tile and went back out the window. “Goodbye, Louie,” she said.

  In the motel room she counted out the money on the bedspread. It came to $8,400. She was expecting a fatter nest egg, but who knows: Louie might have had more than one hidey-hole.

  Concealing the cash wasn’t difficult for an experienced smuggler. Her brown coat had secret pockets that had served her well on many trips and across many borders. Ludi had sewn it for her many years ago. Clever, sweet Ludi. This is for you as much as for me.

  A hundred dollar donation to the campaign fund gave her an O’Grady button and a complete schedule for the coming week. She could mix and match elements of the two Chanel suits and the three blouses in the new wardrobe to furnish her with several outfits for the crusade. It was important that she always look her best. If necessary, she could make a quick trip to Redemption for something fresh to wear. She intended to be there until the victory party on election night. And perhaps beyond. Perhaps she would follow Dylan O’Grady all the way to Ottawa and sit in the visitor’s gallery during question period. The money would be enough, if she spent it wisely. Louie would get a good return on his investment.

  The man waiting for Orwell was a little person, less than a metre tall, with long arms, short, bent legs and a rolling gait. Orwell felt a fleeting twinge of embarrassment as he bowed to shake the man’s hand.

  “Police Chief Brennan, how do you do? My name is Mikhael Tomashevsky.” His hand wasn’t small: his grip was strong, and he was unruffled by the size of his host. He had dealt with taller men.

  “Mr. Tomashevsky, hello.”