Woman Chased by Crows

by Marc Strange

  “Mikhael, please, Chief. Thank you for seeing me.” His accent was under control, his English was precise and formal. “Would you care to see my credentials?”

  “Maybe you could just tell me who you represent.”

  “The Russian Ministry of Culture.”

  “Right. Yes, well that makes sense. I’ve been expecting someone to show up. Come on in.” He led the way into the office and pointed to a chair. “Please, sit down. You’re here looking for a missing treasure?”

  “In one way or another, we have been looking for it for many years. I myself have made seven trips to Canada.” He lifted himself neatly into a chair and hooked the toe of one shoe behind the opposite ankle. One pant cuff slid up, giving Orwell a glimpse of a metal brace. “Before me there were three other individuals assigned to the case.”

  “Really?”

  “Not permanently. I myself have not looked into this particular matter for several years.”

  “This particular matter being the Ember.”

  “That’s right. That gem and the cross were part of our national treasures.”

  “I was told that the crucifix was broken up and sold piecemeal over the years.”

  “Yes. That is unfortunate, but not uncommon. People on the run, needing money.”

  “But some of the gems have been returned.”

  “Located, not returned. That will take a while. Provenance, identification. It is necessary to be certain.”

  “Of course. Can I offer you some coffee?”

  “I am floating already today, but thank you. You have a very pretty town.”

  “You think? I guess. This isn’t its most beautiful time of year. In another few weeks though it will start looking very nice.”

  “It is the same where I come from. In April, things . . . improve.”

  “So. How can I help you?” Orwell said.

  Tomashevsky opened a small, leather-bound notebook. “Let me see, I would like to talk to one of your officers, a Detective Creen.”

  “Crean.”

  “Yes, thank you. Would she be available?”

  “She’s on assignment in Toronto right now.”

  “Oh dear. And I just came from there. When will she be back?”

  “I’m not exactly sure. Later today. Tomorrow, certainly.”

  “Good. Good. I’ll see her then. And I would also like to talk to Anya Ivanova Zubrovskaya.”

  “You don’t need my permission for that.”

  “I find it’s best to be as clear about my intentions as I can be.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Of course, but it is really for my benefit, Chief. If I’m not precise I can get confused. Two days ago I was in Washington, D.C., looking for a Rembrandt. Next I fly to Berlin.”

  “I hadn’t considered that aspect. I guess you’re chasing after a lot of things.”

  “Half the treasures in the world are in the hands of people who don’t really own them.”

  A sigh was heard to pass Captain Rosebart’s lips as Stacy and Adele walked into his office. A sigh or a barely audible moan, Stacy couldn’t be sure. “Am I going to love this, or am I going to hate this?” he asked.

  “You’ll definitely love it,” Adele said, “and maybe hate it a little, but mostly love it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I fucking love it.”

  He looked at Stacy. “You love it too, Crean?”

  “I have enjoyed being part of it, Captain.”

  “Your boss send you down here again?”

  “I have his blessing.”

  “Keeps throwing you at me, like I’m supposed to do something about it.” He turned to Adele. “All right, let’s hear it, and keep the F-bombs to a minimum, if you please.”

  “Certainly, sir. Paulie’s off the hook for the Nimchuk murder.”

  “Okay, I don’t hate that part. How’d you pull that off?”

  “It wasn’t his gun.”

  “You can prove that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Lay it on me.”

  “We’ve got tapes you need to hear, things to look at, we’ve got statements, interviews.” She nodded in Stacy’s direction. “We’re building a case.”

  “A case against anybody in particular?”

  “This is the part you might hate a little.”

  “Because . . .”

  “Because we think that a former detective with this squad, who is now running real hard for a vacant federal seat, is responsible for three, make that four, deaths.”

  “Oh fuck,” said Rosebart.

  Rosebart wasn’t a man easy to convince. Their case was built mostly on hearsay and speculation and riddled with holes, and while he had to admit they told a great story, it was his job to point out exactly how flimsy it was.

  “You’re not rousting some pickpocket here, Detective. You’d be dragging in a very high profile local politician about ten days away from getting himself elected to Parliament. He’s polling about forty-seven percent, which is pretty damn high. The next candidate is at nineteen.”

  “What’s the big deal? Dilly’s always dropping in here. He showed up at Paulie’s wake. He was here last week nosing around. He still thinks he’s got privileges.”

  “That’s a five-minute drop-by. You’re going to want his butt in a chair a bit longer than that. He brings his campaign manager who let’s say turns out to be a hotshot lawyer and Dylan says I’m outta here, what are you planning on holding him with?”

  “We’ve got Sergei. He’ll testify that he brokered a meeting between Dylan and Viktor.”

  “Was he at the meeting? No. Is he credible? Let’s see, he’s been arrested twice in the past week, he’s an illegal immigrant, he’s been hiding out in this country for thirty years doing who knows what. This guy is your big weapon?”

  “Dylan’s wife is in possession of a sapphire that was previously in the possession of a murder victim.”

  “What we have is a ten-year-old picture of her wearing what could be a sapphire, that maybe was once in the possession of some Russian woman thirty years ago, although we only have your loony dancer lady’s word for that.”

  “I don’t think she’s loony, Captain,” said Stacy.

  “Given her past history, any defence lawyer makes her look like a raving lunatic inside ten minutes. Anyway, she wasn’t in Montreal when it happened. And the two other men allegedly involved are both conveniently dead.”

  “Both of them can be connected to Dylan,” said Adele.

  “Says who? The dancer who wasn’t there? The illegal Russian who’s trying to stay in the country? The dead pawnbroker? His drunken son?”

  “You’re not buying any of this?”

  He looked at them both, one to the other, smiled. “I’m buying it, Detective Moen, Detective Crean, I’m buying it. But. I’m buying it on the installment plan. You haven’t got enough. Not yet. Go back to work.”

  Stacy munched toast and honey. Adele wasn’t hungry. She was sitting in front of a perfectly respectable BLT with mayo, on whole grain toast (Stacy’s suggestion), and had yet to take a bite. The diner was on Queen Street, east of Yonge, the sketchier part, not far from the Sally Ann and within sight of the Sherbourne intersection where men with nothing to do but wait waited.

  “We fuck this up, that’s where I’ll be next week: busting assholes on that corner.”

  “The murder weapon’s still out there,” Stacy said.

  “Who knows? Maybe Dylan ‘liberated’ his old service piece. He was always ‘visiting,’ showing up, slapping hands. Dropping in on Paulie at his desk. Being extra smooth to me, like he wanted us to be real good pals.” She picked up half the sandwich and examined it carefully.

  Stacy stuck with it. “It’s somewhere to start. Check storage to see if any weapon
s are missing, check on what happened to Dylan’s piece after he retired.”

  “That oughta be a load of laughs.” Adele dropped the sandwich, still intact. “What’s the difference? The slug’s so fucked up we couldn’t get a match anyway.” She pushed the BLT away from her. “I’m cool with that. We got Paulie off the hook.”

  “Your blood sugar’s low. Eat the sandwich before you curl up and die on me.” Stacy’s cellphone began buzzing. “That’s probably the Chief letting me know Mounties just showed up and it’s time to come home. Hello?”

  The voice on the other end was familiar. “Detective Crean. I think you are in the city, yes?” She sounded pleased with herself. “You spent the night as well, did you?”

  “Anya? Where are you?”

  “I am following a politician on his daily campaign rounds. Right now he is kissing babies and shaking hands and having his picture taken as many times as he can.”

  “Where?”

  “Many places. I have his itinerary right here. I believe next we are going to plant a tree. A bit early in the year, no?”

  “Plant a tree where?”

  “You should pick up a copy of his schedule at his campaign office. He has a full afternoon and evening planned.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I am smiling every time he looks in my direction, I am adding my voice to the general cheers, I am waving from the crowd when he makes his little speech. Now and then I ask a question but so far he has not acknowledged my presence.”

  “What sort of questions?”

  “When we stopped at the deli, I asked him how the pastrami compared to Montreal smoked meat. By the library steps, I asked him if his broken toe hurt him on chilly mornings. I know my toes hurt when it is cold.”

  “Has he said anything?”

  “There was a vigil at a public school where a young girl was run down last week by a delivery truck. Candles were lighted and flowers were laid at the intersection where it happened. There was a moment of silence. I looked at him the whole time.”

  “Did he look back?”

  “Finally. He had to. He stared right at me. And, after a decent interval, I lifted my voice and said, ‘Is it not tragic when a beautiful young life is snuffed out by a heartless monster?’ People said ‘Amen’ all around me. They agreed. It was tragic. Even he was forced to agree. He had to nod and say something.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Something suitably unctuous, about bad things happening to good people, and making our streets safer for our children. I did not pay much attention. I was looking at him and smiling.”

  “That’s a dangerous game.”

  “I am breaking no laws. I am not even heckling him. I am being supportive and engaged and committed to his campaign. I donated a hundred dollars to his election coffers, I am wearing an O’Grady button. I want him to know I will be there all the time, right up to election day. And after that if necessary. You don’t have to do a thing. Consider me your cat’s paw.”

  “Tell me where you are and we’ll come and pick you up.”

  “Oh we have several stops to make. He is going to talk to a group of concerned citizens who think our health care system is broken, and then he is going to put in an appearance at a garden show to have his picture taken with some tulip bulbs. This evening there is to be a fundraiser. A seventy-five dollar buffet. I’m sure the food will not be worth the investment.”

  “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “Good ideas, bad ideas, I do not much care. I have been running from dangerous men for a very long time and I have grown tired of it. Now I am the one who chases.”

  The line went dead.

  “What?” Adele asked.

  Stacy whispered. “Fuck.”

  “Good Christ, you swore.” Adele grinned. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “Wrap the sandwich. Our little ballerina’s started poking the bear with a sharp stick. Let’s at least be there when he wakes up.”

  Cam Gidrick was Dylan O’Grady’s special assistant. It was his responsibility to make sure that the Candidate got where he was supposed to get, arrived on time, departed on time, knew the names he needed to know, shook the hands he needed to shake, thanked the donors he needed to thank and otherwise cruised through the campaign smoothly and without stumbles. Cam’s job required tact, organization and the ability to deal with unforeseen developments.

  Cam was a bachelor, and not by choice, for while his skills as a facilitator were valuable to campaign operations, they tended to showcase what many women viewed as a humourless and punctilious personality, lacking spontaneity, romance and sexual attractiveness. This wasn’t helped by the fact that he had an annoying sinus condition, was rapidly balding and possessed ears that his father once likened to a pair of “open car doors.”

  Nonetheless, he was very good at his job, and prided himself on having shepherded the successful campaigns of three city councillors, two MPPs and the mayor of a medium-size city. O’Grady’s run for a federal seat was Cam’s first shot at the big leagues and he was determined to pull it off with style and grace. Granted, the recently vacated seat was in a riding whose voting pattern hadn’t changed in fifty years and was considered “safe” by the party. However, the fact that the previous office holder had been forced to resign when found in the company of someone other than his wife made it vital that the candidate picked to replace him appear stable, trustworthy and a good family man. In this respect, the choice of Dylan O’Grady seemed to be preordained. His former career as a decorated police officer, his earlier days as the member of a beloved local football team and his most recent position on Toronto City Council cast him as a man for all seasons. Add to that the fact that he had been happily married for twenty-four years to a woman who might easily be mistaken for a fashion model, and Dylan O’Grady looked like the complete package. As a man of colour, he appealed to the multicultural nature of the nation’s largest city, not to mention the diverse ethnic makeup of the riding in which he was running. As a retired law enforcement professional, he wore the mantle of moral strength. And as a former athlete, he was considered by the party’s strategists as likely to be attractive to both men and women.

  It would seem, then, that Cam’s job was already half done. His candidate was polling close to fifty percent in a three-man race, the coffers were full and the crowds were responsive. What could go wrong? By any applicable measure, the race was already won. So why should Cam be sweating like a cold beer bottle on a hot day?

  Well, to start with, there was the fact that his candidate was telling him lies, and they weren’t just the effortless misinformation that goes with being in politics, nor the sloppy fibs about what a hotshot cop he’d been, or how many opposing players he’d put in the hospital in his football career.

  No, these were the tiny, troubling lies that tended to gnaw at the back of Cam’s mind and make him queasy. Small lies about why the man’s cellphone had been turned off (dead battery? — one of Cam’s duties was to make sure that didn’t happen) or where he’d been when Cam tried to reach him in his hotel room late at night (an old friend needed a ride home? — surely he could have come up with something better than that). Worse, he’d been asked to lie, twice, to the candidate’s wife: once to say he was in a meeting with some union officials when no such meeting was scheduled, and later to tell Mrs. O’Grady that they couldn’t meet for a late supper because an emergency had come up when there was no emergency. It wasn’t that Cam was unwilling to cover for his candidate, lying to people was part of his job; it was the fact that Dylan was lying to him. It’s much harder to tell convincing lies if you don’t know the truth.

  Most troubling was the matter of the package he was holding on the candidate’s behalf. Dylan had assured him that what was in the package was quite legal and that he had every right to own such a thing, but why was there a package at all? And
why was it necessary to keep it wrapped up and hidden under the passenger seat in Cam’s campaign car?

  Finally, there was the matter of the small blonde woman who had spent all day following the campaign from stop to stop. She was clearly getting on the candidate’s nerves, to the point where he’d whispered instructions to Cam — “Keep an eye on that one, she may be trouble,” and “If she moves too close, get in her way.” He refused to explain why the woman was bothering him, but there was no doubt that Dylan O’Grady was rattled by her constant presence. All of this was causing Cam’s palms to sweat and his sinuses to act up.

  Orwell, convinced that he could be unobtrusive if he wanted, slipped into the back row of the Globe Theatre and slumped as low in the seat as his dimensions would allow. Onstage, the Dockerty Players were having a technical run-through of Our Town. Leda Brennan was bathed in a pool of blue light and looking ethereal, which was entirely appropriate since at this point in the story she was the ghostly presence at her own funeral. Orwell wasn’t entirely comfortable with the thought of his daughter as deceased, but since the play was being repeatedly stopped for adjustments to the lights and the position of other actors, he wasn’t forced to dwell on the implications. Besides, his daughter sounded extremely healthy, so lively in fact that at one point the director was moved to remind her of her otherworldly condition and ask her to tone it down a peg.

  She did look lovely. All in white, with flowers in her hair, moving about the stage in a dreamlike state, saying goodbye to her butternut tree, among other things.

  As Orwell was unobtrusively dipping his hand into his jacket pocket hoping to locate a stray hard candy, he noticed another figure sitting in the back of the theatre. Unobtrusiveness was probably a bit easier for Mikhael Tomashevsky, whose head was barely visible. Orwell moved down a row. “Mind if I join you?” he whispered.

  “Could we keep it quiet back there?” the director yelled.

  Mikhael motioned Orwell to slide in beside him. “The tall girl in white is very good,” he said. It wasn’t audible to the director.