Woman Chased by Crows

by Marc Strange

  Orwell made a conscious effort to lower his voice. “My daughter,” he said.

  “We can still hear you,” the director bellowed. “We’re working here!”

  “Quite lovely,” Mikhael said. “Perhaps we should step outside.”

  As Orwell was squishing himself sideways into the aisle he saw his daughter shade her eyes to see who was there and then look heavenward directly into the blue light. She had recognized her father’s distinctive shape. He hoped she wasn’t too embarrassed.

  “And Ms. Brennan,” the director yelled, “please try to remember that you are a dead person. Dead people don’t declaim.”

  The Globe Theatre was on Lock Road, dead centre in the cross of a T intersection that marked the eastern terminus of Vankleek Street. To the right and slightly downhill were the locks alongside the Little Snipe, to the left, the road curved past St. Barnabus and joined a meandering series of tree-lined avenues climbing to the Knoll. The two men stood under the portico looking down Vankleek.

  “My daughter too is an actor,” said Mikhael. “In Moscow. She was in Uncle Vanya just last month.”

  “Really. You must be quite proud.”

  “I didn’t get to see it. I was far away.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “We all give up things for our jobs, do we not?”

  Orwell, who had to admit that currently his life was rather full, was at a loss for adequate words of commiseration. “This front door has been smashed at least six times since place was built. In 1923,” he said, “someone comes speeding down Vankleek, can’t make the turn, kaboom.”

  “Are we safe, standing here?” Mikhael wondered.

  “Usually happens late at night.” He hesitated, not sure if the man was up to strolling. “We can walk down to the locks . . . if you’d care to.”

  “Lovely,” Mikhael said. He smiled to put the big man at ease, “I walk all the time. It is therapeutic.”

  “I feel the same way,” Orwell said. He patted his torso. “Move it or lose it, they say. Although in my case, losing it is the point of the exercise.” The two men started down the sloping sidewalk and onto the first bridge. Tomashevsky’s rolling gait was surprisingly nimble and Orwell didn’t have to slow his usual pace very much at all. “How’d you wind up here?” he asked.

  “A Captain Rosebart in Toronto pointed me . . .”

  “I mean at the theatre, this afternoon.”

  “Oh. Ha. Curiosity. I ran out of things to do. I couldn’t find Zubrovskaya, your detective is out of town and the only other person on my list could be almost anywhere.”

  “You’ll be staying in town another night then?”

  “Yes. More if necessary.” The little man smiled. “What I would like is a month in one place; the same bed, the same view, the same newspaper every morning.”

  “I could never do it,” Orwell said. “Travel all the time.”

  “I don’t mind. Most of the time. But I’ve been away for eight months now and I miss my wife. On this trip I have been in a dozen cities, interviewing hundreds of people about a thousand missing artworks, artifacts and relics. These are approximate numbers, Chief Brennan, it could be more.”

  “Well, any help I can give. Who else is on your list?”

  “It was always a long shot. Have you had a visit from any other representative of my ministry?”

  “You mean recently?”

  “It could have been any time in the past few years I suppose.”

  “You’re the first.”

  “In the years before me there were three perhaps four other people assigned to this case. Two of them have since retired and are home.” He sighed. “Well, they did their duty, they earned their rest. As some day so will I.”

  “And the others?”

  “One married and is living in Saskatchewan, I believe. And the other, well, we are not certain.”

  They stopped in the middle of the bridge and watched the water moving by underneath. Mikhael took a deep breath. “It is good to see another spring, is it not?”

  Orwell nodded with enthusiasm. “Oh yes.”

  “It is the same in all northern countries, I’m sure. The winters are long. To see green things returning gives hope to people who have been cold for so many months.”

  The two men enjoyed the fresh air for a few moments, their eyes scanning the open land of the far side of the bridge for signs of green things emerging. At the same instant both men looked up at the sounds of honking and watched a ragged V of Canada Geese heading northwest.

  “That must be one of the signs,” said Mikhael. “We have them too, in Russia. Perhaps a different kind, but high-flying geese. It always cheers me.”

  Orwell gave a delighted laugh. “Me too,” he said. “Brightens my whole day to hear those honkers heading north.”

  They shared the moment of connection with eyes lifted to the sky and simple smiles on their faces. After a while, Orwell broke the silence. “I haven’t been chief here all that long. I could check our records. About who you’re looking for.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Chief. It would have been in the last three years or so. She wouldn’t have come by until after Ms. Zubrovskaya arrived.”

  “She?”

  There was a time when Anya would have attended an event such as this in the company of a suitable escort, someone who would perhaps have given her a flower, opened a door, taken her arm as she climbed the steps, held her chair, leaned close to tell her how lovely she was, how brilliant she had been. Tonight was a pas seul, a solo turn. Not that there was dancing, or a dance floor. The music was recorded chamberbabble, schmaltzy fiddlepop, the room was too bright, the flowers inappropriate, the conversation was gossip about bureaucrats she was unlikely to meet. She had attended anarchist gatherings in basement flats boasting more hospitality. And better wine.

  She reminded herself that this was about Ludi. And Vassili. Yes, and even Viktor. Our little gypsy band paid a big price. Someone must be held accountable. It falls to me. I am the lucky one. I am alive. I survived. Three of my friends did not. Someone must collect what is owed.

  And there he was, entering the room with the texting woman and the vigilant man. He looked refreshed, showered, shaved, fresh shirt, power tie, moving through the gathering, shaking hands, kissing cheeks, very smooth, every inch the rising political star. But no matter how tough he is, or was once, no matter how ruthless, surely he knew this day must come, that someday, someone would call on him for a reckoning.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.” It was the watchful man with the jug ears, her dance partner of the afternoon. His nametag read, “Cam Gidrick.” He took her arm. “Please don’t make a scene,” he said.

  “I am registered,” Anya said. “I paid seventy-five dollars for my ticket.”

  “I’ll get you a refund,” he said.

  “But why must I leave?”

  “The candidate believes that you are here to disrupt the reception.”

  “Nonsense,” she said. “I have been most supportive, all afternoon. This is quite outrageous. When exactly did this become a fascist state?”

  “Just leave quietly and I won’t have to call for a police escort.”

  That made her laugh. “Oh, I do not think you want that just now, do you?” This last comment caused the man to sneeze violently for some reason.

  Odd how things work out. Here she was getting thrown out of the reception mere moments after walking in, when who should be entering but her new best friend, Mrs. Andrew Lytton, in the company of none other than the candidate’s wife, Keasha Asange-O’Grady, looking tall and lovely in a silk dress the same shade of blue as the ring on her finger. Where are you going? asked Mrs. Lytton. Why, I have been denied admission, Anya answered. Whatever for? No reason was given. Who asked you to leave? Mrs. O’Grady wanted to know. This man. Nonsens
e, said the candidate’s wife. I’ve been looking forward to hearing all about the Bolshoi. It was the Kirov, actually, said Mrs. Lytton. Oh, of course, said Mrs. O’Grady, that’s even better, isn’t it? Many would agree, Anya said. And the three of them walked inside together, much to the discomfiture of the candidate’s assistant, who was forced to stand aside and endure Anya’s entirely smug smile as she passed.

  “I swear,” said the candidate’s wife, “these campaigns get more paranoid every year. Last week Cam evicted someone who was wearing a ‘Save the Whales’ button. Come on, I’ll introduce you to my husband. He’s not as fierce as he likes to think.” She led the way straight toward the man himself, who watched their approach with a wary grin. “We have a celebrity with us tonight,” she told her husband.

  “Really? I hope you vote in this riding,” said the candidate.

  “No, I will not be able to vote for you, but I am sure you will do well. They tell me this is a safe seat.”

  “That’s what they told me, too. I should have got it in writing.”

  “Yes. Nothing is certain, is it? Except perhaps Judgement Day.”

  His laugh was hollow. “Ha ha, yes, oh, and taxes, of course.”

  “Still, it is brave of you to seek such a public verdict. I myself have kept a low profile for many years.”

  “But that’s soon to change,” offered Mrs. Lytton.

  He was already looking for a way to disengage. “It is?”

  “Your lovely wife and I are determined to involve Anya in the arts centre.” Mrs. Lytton had decided this would be a good moment to press her case. “She is, after all, one of the ballet world’s great artists.”

  “Perhaps Mrs. Lytton exaggerates my reputation,” Anya said. “My career was somewhat brief.”

  “But incandescent, my dear. Besides, you represent what is great about the Russian ballet tradition, training, technique.”

  “Pain, loss.” Anya smiled to take the sting out of the words.

  “We won’t lose you this time,” Mrs. Lytton said. She turned to the candidate. “I do hope you’ll find the time to look over the plans I sent you,” she said. “Our list of supporters is growing every day.”

  “I’ll have to get back to you on that. After election day.” He was already tugging his wife’s elbow and stepping back. “Nice to have met you, Ms. Daniel,” he said as he turned away.

  “Zubrovskaya,” she said to his retreating back. She turned to Mrs. Lytton. “Daniel was my alias, for a time. I wonder where he might have heard that.”

  This night was becoming a trial for Cam Gidrick. Not only was the annoying little blonde woman still hanging around, schmoozing with the old doll in the flowered hat and making nice-nice with his candidate’s wife, the man himself was getting increasingly nervous about something, snapping at him about nothing. Barb was no help; she was thumbing her damn iPhone off in a corner somewhere, probably blogging or tweeting — that’s all she did these days. And now these people? Three new arrivals who obviously didn’t belong: some gawky beanpole in a trenchcoat for Christ’s sake, another one who looked like a biker chick in a leather jacket and paratrooper boots and an obvious pansy filling his face at the buffet table. Whoever they were, they had to leave, even if it meant calling out the storm troopers.

  The tall one was heading his way. Where the hell were the rent-a-cops when you needed them? He took a deep breath. “Something I can do for you?”

  “For a start, how about getting out of my face?”

  “I’m sorry, you’ll have to leave. Mr. O’Grady has a speech to give in about three minutes.”

  Adele flashed her badge. “This won’t take long.”

  “Look here, Officer . . .”

  “Detective.”

  “Detective. This is hardly the appropriate time.”

  “I know. If it isn’t one damn thing it’s another, right?” She leaned closer to read his nametag. “But I promise, Cam, not to get all official, and loud, if your boss meets me over by the punchbowl in about thirty seconds. Okay?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “You do that.”

  Cam made his way back to where the candidate was pretending to laugh at some idiot’s lame jokes. He wiped his brow. Police? Detectives? An immediate sinus headache unfocused his eyes and made him stumble. What in God’s name was going on? He felt overwhelmed by guilty knowledge, but knowledge about what? His ability to do his job depended on knowing the details, and there were details he didn’t know, and for the first time in the campaign there were things he didn’t want to know.

  Adele was tempted to load a plate with goodies from the dessert table but restrained herself when she saw Dylan coming toward her, trying to look like he wasn’t ready to blow up. “Hey, Dilly, how’s it going?” she asked sweetly.

  “Del. Didn’t read the invitation? Formal, you notice?”

  “My prom dress has barf stains on it. I just need a minute. Lacsamana’s been trying to track you down. Wants you to come in for a sit down about that DOA in the Beaches.”

  “The what?”

  “Case you and Paulie worked eight years ago. Something about jewels. Guy named Vassili Abramov. Shot in the back. Twice.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Sure it does.”

  “Lissen, why don’t you go down to campaign headquarters and talk to my guys and we’ll work something out, all right?”

  “All these people all kicking in to your war chest, Dilly?”

  “It’s a real bad idea sticking your nose into the political snakepit, Del, know what I mean? You don’t want somebody calling up Rosebart, telling him you’re being a pain in the ass.”

  “Trust me, he knows I’m a pain in the ass.”

  His smile was brief, insincere and dismissive. “Gotta go.” He started walking away.

  She raised her voice, just a notch. “Hey, we found Paulie’s gun. Was that what you were looking for last Friday night at Louie Grova’s? The one he didn’t have any more.”

  He stopped in his tracks. His whisper was deadly. “Get your ass out of here.”

  “How do you figure a guy looks like you flies under the radar? You aren’t exactly hard to spot.” She grinned. She was having a great time. “We’ve got a witness.”

  “Witness to what?”

  “You at the scene, coming out of Grova’s around three in the morning, about the time the ME says the poor shmuck left for that big pawnshop in the sky. Not very smart for a high-profile political wannabe. I don’t think Lacsamana has that information yet.”

  “Are we done?”

  “Hell no. Got a whole lot of shit we need to straighten out. We’re still talking to some people.” She pointed. “Way at the back there? Chomping on chicken parts? You know Sergei, don’t you? Turns out Louie’s sneaky stepson was taping all your meetings upstairs. Got the two of you on record talking about another DOA. Guy named Nimchuk. Also shot. Remember him? Motel room on the Queensway?”

  “You’ve got nothing.”

  “But fuck, have I got a lot of it. All sorts of interesting shit. There’s Louie’s brother in Montreal. Remembers you and Nimchuk doing a deal with some diamonds. Back when you were playing football. Ring a bell?”

  “We’re not doing this here.”

  “And the woman. Her name was Ludmilla. Remember her? Russian? Friend of Nimchuk’s? Turned up in a dump site inside a fridge. Your old linemate Nate Grabowski says he saw you sneaking her into the hotel that night.”

  “None of this sticks.”

  “Sure gonna fuck up your trip to Ottawa though, ain’t it?” She watched him consider his next move. He didn’t seem to have one. “You should have got rid of the sapphire, Dilly. That wasn’t smart. I bet your wife’ll be really pissed when I have to pull it off her finger.”

  She could tell by the way his mouth started to open
that he wanted to yell at her but he remembered where he was and instead snarled. “You go near my wife . . .”

  “And what?” She pulled her jacket back far enough to expose the butt of her weapon. “You’ll stuff me in a freezer?”

  Cam was coming to get him. He had a worried look on his face. “Getting ready to introduce you. Everything okay?”

  Adele smiled. “What do you say, Dilly? Everything okay? Might as well go make your speech. I’ll stick around. We’re not quite done yet.”

  Keasha glanced in Adele’s direction as she rose to meet her hubby. She straightened his tie and dabbed his forehead, whispered a question. He waved it off curtly. She stepped back as if slapped.

  Cam stepped close to Adele. “Is there something I should be concerned about?”

  “Depends. You haven’t been aiding and abetting have you, Cam?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, you know, covering things up. You’re not involved in anything illegal, are you?”

  Cam blew his nose noisily and winced. “Excuse me,” he said. “The air in here is bone dry. Gives me a headache.”

  “Oh you’ve got a headache all right. Big headache. You might have to start beating the bushes for a new candidate.”

  It was odd, she thought, that Sergei Siziva had been dragooned into joining the campaign as an ally. It should have been difficult, if not unthinkable, that an arch enemy of almost thirty years could be this close without her fearing him, or loathing him, or at the very least wanting to push his fat head into the platter of shrimp on ice. And yet there she was, standing beside him, as she had done for so many years, and feeling a certain . . . kinship was the only word that came to mind. After all, in his way Sergei had been as much a victim in the initial affair as the other gypsy smugglers. His response had been understandable, if not wholly admirable, and the tragic aftermath, as it turned out, had not been his responsibility. And he too, as he made quite clear in a whispered aside, was there to “see justice done.” Besides, his presence allowed her a certain latitude, since he was more than willing to assume responsibility for keeping Mrs. Lytton entertained.