Bay of Blood

by A. M. Potter

  Naslund returned to Moore’s car and sat in the passenger seat. Waiting for him, she replayed her conversation with Tatyana. “Is immaterial...Patronym, you mean...I have uncle here.”

  She breathed slowly in and out, letting her thoughts cycle. Her mind clicked. There was something familiar about Tatyana’s last name. Filipov. Yes. Nikolai Filipov was the Russian national on the boat. Uncle Nikolai? she wondered. Brother? Was the common patronym a coincidence? In any case, MacTavish and his doll were about to be looked into.

  ***

  After checking into the Sheraton, Naslund and Moore walked to Metro HQ. Inside the building, the two went their separate ways, Moore to meet with homicide detectives, Naslund to see a former colleague, Jan Januski, now an inspector in Organized Crime. Compared to OPP Central, Metro HQ was harried and crowded. Januski met Naslund at the security desk and signed her in.

  “Still tripping over men?” Januski gestured at her leg as they rode up the elevator.

  She smiled.

  “You look good,” Januski said.

  “You too,” she replied, which wasn’t true.

  Januski had a twitch in his right eye and his lips were dry and cracked. She knew the signs. Her old friend was being overworked. She wouldn’t keep him for long. She’d already run Jock MacTavish, Tatyana Filipov, and Nikolai Filipov through the usual databases--OPP and CPIC, Canadian Police Information Centre--but she wanted a wider net, with international scope.

  Inside Januski’s office, she cut to the chase. “Can you run three names for me?”

  “Any time. I’ll get Constable Marinca to do it. She’s a wizard. Got a secure email?”

  Naslund delivered it then gave Januski the particulars for Jock MacTavish and Tatyana and Nikolai Filipov.

  Januski ordered two espressos from the commissary and swiveled his chair to face the window. His office overlooked Bay St. A fiery sun dominated the sky. A few blocks away, the slate roofs of the university shimmered in the heat. The espressos arrived almost instantly. A minor efficiency, Naslund thought, one of the hallmarks of the Metro machine. Sipping the coffees, she and Januski shot the breeze. Organized Crime was swamped. The usual gangs from Italy, Jamaica, the Philippines, Vietnam, Russia, Mexico. Newer ones from Somalia, Serbia, Romania. “An international piss-pot,” Januski concluded. “And you, you swamped up there?”

  “At the moment. Murder. High-profile.”

  “I think I read that. That painter, right?”

  She nodded.

  “There’s no respite.” Januski’s phone buzzed. He picked up the handset. “Okay,” he eventually said. “Thanks.” He turned to her. “Marinca. Finished already. Nothing on little Miss F. Mr. F rang a few small bells. Your Mr. MacT had a trail, but a cold one. Check your email in five.”

  “Thanks,” Naslund said. “I’d invite you for a pint.” The Duke of Somerset was a block away. “But I know your answer.”

  Januski smiled. “Next time.”

  ***

  Naslund exited Metro HQ and walked to the Duke of Somerset. She and Moore were interviewing Louise Hennigan nearby. Tyler’s previous agent had agreed to come to Metro 52 Division. In the meantime, Naslund would have a pint for old times. The street was hot and hectic. Office workers jostled each other on the way to the subway. She kept to the inner sidewalk, prominently showing her cane.

  Sitting on the Duke’s patio, sipping a Scottish oat ale, she pulled out her phone and read the Marinca email. Jock MacTavish and Tatyana Filipov had Toronto addresses. Nikolai Filipov had a Laval, Quebec address. Tatyana had no familial connection to Nikolai. According to Interpol, Tatyana wasn’t connected to organized crime. However, Nikolai was. He was twenty-seven, born in Volgograd, formerly Stalingrad. Currently a second-tier bratok, he was assumed to be part of a smuggling ring at the Port of Montreal. However, his Canadian sheet was clean. MacTavish had a documented connection to mobsters. Three years previously, he’d been arraigned on fraud charges. He’d allegedly used Russian Mafia backing to seed a pyramid scheme which sold shares in a non-existent “art fund.” Before that, he’d allegedly used the same backing to resell fraudulent European art. Both times, MacTavish’s lawyers had gotten him off the hook. Currently, there was nothing on him.

  For now, Naslund thought.

  Chapter 21

  Toronto. July 14th:

  |

  The next day, Naslund parked a borrowed Metro undercover car near the Gallery Canadiana and stepped into the street. It was a beautiful morning, bright and sunny. Her left ankle was still weak but the pain had completely subsided. She crossed the street with the cane, using it more as a fallback than a necessity.

  Surprisingly, MacTavish had agreed to another interview without hesitation. Over breakfast that morning, she and Moore had admitted to being puzzled. They expected MacTavish to refuse or at least call in his lawyer. In Naslund’s eyes, MacTavish was a prime suspect. First, there was his past; second, he was suspiciously accommodating. However, Inspector Moore didn’t agree. He felt that Larmer was their man. During last evening’s team teleconference, he exhorted them to dig deeper into Larmer’s movements. Lowrie closed the teleconference by reporting on the Murphy brothers. Apparently, Jake and Willie had solid alibis. They’d been working during the murder window.

  The Louise Hennigan interview had been short. She immediately admitted to being Tyler’s lover. Naslund figured the woman was still in love, but kept her thoughts to herself. Moore was in no mood for hunches. He concluded Hennigan was clean. She had an ironclad alibi. She was at an art expo in Europe.

  As for Tyler’s non-artist contacts in Toronto, Naslund and Moore had been on the stump until midnight. They’d interviewed all fourteen contacts but had no leads. Moore had insisted on handling ten, to give his gimpy partner a break.

  Naslund walked deliberately up the gallery steps. Per Moore’s request, she entered the Canadiana at exactly 0900. Unknown to MacTavish, Moore had dropped by the agent’s house to ask his wife and two sons about dad’s recent movements. Moore had timed his arrival to follow MacTavish’s departure for work.

  As Naslund approached the sales desk, her nose registered a familiar scent: femme-fatale perfume. Passing the Eskimo art showcase, she slowed her pace. Given the swelling fragrance invading her nose, Tatyana was only a few meters away. She rounded the showcase.

  There was Tatyana. Her man-trap lips looked wider than Naslund remembered.

  “Sergeant.” She smiled. “How nice.”

  Naslund nodded. Tatyana wore a skin-tight pantsuit with a tasseled cinch.

  “Is Mr. MacTavish available?”

  Tatyana smiled again. “Follow me, please.” She looked back.

  Naslund got the feeling that the doll was playing her.

  Tatyana stopped outside MacTavish’s office. “Would you like a coffee?”

  Naslund shook her head.

  “With cream,” Tatyana proposed and licked her lips.

  Naslund shook her head again. Was the doll gay? Or pretending to be.

  “Come in,” MacTavish called. “I’m waiting.”

  She strode into the office. She had no warrant to search the premises. However, at this point, all she wanted to do was uncover something on MacTavish.

  “Well,” he said as he rose and shook hands, “I see some detectives know how to dress.”

  Naslund was wearing her one decent suit, a sleek Italian indigo number. She sat, eying the disheveled office. It seemed more unkempt than yesterday.

  “How can I help you, Eva?”

  “Sergeant,” Naslund said.

  “Pardon me.” MacTavish smiled wolfishly. “Sergeant.”

  “Mr. MacTavish, you related that when Thom Tyler died, your contracts with him were extended for six months.”

  “Correct. By the way, some agents insist on twelve months, minimum. We put a lot of effort into selling an artist’s oeuvre.”

  Perhaps, she thought. “What is the procedure now when you sell a Tyler painting?”

  “Th
e wholesale price, as I referred to it, will go to the Tyler estate.”

  “When does the first of those contracts expire?”

  “Just a moment, please.” He consulted a rolodex. “September the thirtieth this year.”

  “How about the last of the contracts?”

  He leafed through the rolodex. “March the thirty-first, next year.”

  “May I see the contracts?”

  “Of course.” The agent walked to a metal filing cabinet, unlocked it, opened a drawer, and pulled out a large file. Having returned to his desk chair, he shuffled an unruly stack of documents until he had them arranged as he wanted and then slid them across the desk. “You will find them ordered by expiry date.”

  She leafed through the contracts, noting the section headlines, occasionally skimming the text. They seemed to be valid legal documents. At the end of every document she found a section titled Augmentation of Obligation. In the event of Tyler’s death, MacTavish was entitled to a six-month extension, with no further extension after that.

  Well, she reasoned, so much for MacTavish holding on to the paintings for years, selling them when their value peaked--which, she had to admit, cast doubt on his guilt. Why would he kill Tyler? It would restrict his ability to sell extant paintings as well as prevent him from selling new ones. It was a double whammy. She straightened the documents. “I’d like photocopies of these.”

  “Of course.”

  Damn it, the man was cooperative. No delaying. No insistence he bring in his lawyer. The only black mark they had against him was the fact that he lied about paying Tyler within thirty days when a work sold. M&M had traced the date of all Tyler paintings sold by MacTavish over the past seven years and cross-referenced them to money transfers from MacTavish to Tyler. Although not definitive, the trace suggested the agent rarely paid the full amount within a month. “Mr. MacTavish, you lied to us. You didn’t pay Mr. Tyler when you said you did.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” MacTavish seemed truly perplexed.

  “You said you paid him within thirty days.”

  “I can confidently say that nine times out of ten I paid Thom within a month.”

  “Can you prove that?”

  “Of course. First, allow me to explain something. I advanced Thom a lot of money over the years--in cash. He always wanted cash. As it happens, he still owes me approximately one hundred and ninety thousand dollars. When I sold one of his paintings, he often asked me to apply a portion of the proceedings to his outstanding loan. Then I transferred the rest to his bank, which was sometimes less than half the wholesale price.”

  “I see.”

  “As I related previously, Thom and I had a wonderful partnership.”

  She stood. “Thank you for your time.” Three steps later, she stopped in the office doorway and absent-mindedly turned back. “I’m curious, Mr. MacTavish. How long have you known Nikolai Filipov?”

  “Who?”

  “Nikolai Filipov, from Montreal. Originally, as you know, from Volgograd, Russia.”

  She saw that MacTavish had no idea who Filipov was. Or was pretending not to. “I’ll ask you again. How long have you known Nikolai Filipov?”

  “I don’t know anyone of that name.”

  She casually retook her chair. “Are you sure?”

  MacTavish nodded. “Hold on. Filipov? Is he related to Tatyana?”

  “You tell me.”

  “How can I? I don’t know him.”

  “We can check your phone records.”

  “Please do.” The agent adopted an attitude of aggrieved silence.

  She scrutinized him, holding his gaze.

  He looked away.

  “What can you tell me about your Russian connections?”

  “Russian? Well, before Louise Hennigan, Thom had an agent from Russia, a Miss Vostokov, if I recall.” He flipped through his rolodex. “Yes, Vostokov. I don’t have a first name.”

  “Do you know her?”

  “I never met her.”

  “But she’s in the same business.”

  “Not really. She was on the edge. Street murals, art installations, that world.”

  “What else do you know about her?”

  MacTavish raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “Nothing.”

  Naslund let it slide. She suspected MacTavish was leading her one way to cover up another. “Where were you on Sunday July seventh?”

  “Toronto.”

  No hesitation. “Who were you with?”

  “My family.”

  “The whole day?”

  “Yes.”

  “I trust your wife will confirm that. Incidentally, Inspector Moore called on her,” Naslund consulted her watch, “about an hour ago. He also talked to your sons.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Oh?”

  “You seem to think that because I had a satisfactory business arrangement with Thom Tyler I took advantage of him.” MacTavish eyed her. “I didn’t.” He stood and handed her the bundle of contracts. “Don’t forget these. You can ask Tatyana to photocopy them.” He gestured toward the sales desk. “Why not invite her for a drink? She likes you.” He grinned conspiratorially.

  Naslund shook her head. Why was it that so many men assumed female officers were gay? Probably lack of imagination. Or brains.

  He pointed at his watch. “Tempus fugit. I have an appointment. I wish you well, Sergeant. It’s terrible what happened to Thom.” He smiled. “If I can be of any further assistance.”

  “We’ll call you.” She turned away. That obsequious smile, it made her skin creep.

  Leaving the office, she tried to solidify her opinion of MacTavish. Was the man simply a money-hungry art agent? Or was he trying to snow them? Was he hoping his Russian doll would deflect their attention? As Naslund walked down the corridor, she registered the scent of Tatyana’s perfume. A few steps later she reached the sales desk.

  “Oh, Sergeant.” Tatyana raised a hand to her throat. “You surprised me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Tatyana bowed, showing Naslund the tops of her breasts. “Do you like,” she smiled and then pointed at the contracts Naslund was carrying, “help with that?”

  “This? Yes, please. Can we photocopy the whole bundle?”

  Tatyana nodded. “Why you would want them?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Why take these?”

  Naslund smiled politely. “Business, Tatyana.”

  “I am interested in law.”

  “Oh?” Naslund examined Tatyana’s mouth. No apparent subterfuge there.

  “I was pre-law student in St Petersburg. I study hard.”

  “Good.”

  “I see things.”

  “Yes?”

  The set of her jaw seemed to say Important things--things only I can see. “Give me card,” she said quietly.

  Naslund handed Tatyana her OPP card.

  “Can you meet in Etobicoke?” Tatyana asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I finish at noon. I call you then.”

  ***

  Sitting in the undercover car, Naslund waited for Moore to phone her, as arranged. The car ahead had been parked in a ten-minute loading zone for at least forty minutes. Two old men shuffled across the street. She absentmindedly surveyed the rest of the street, wondering what Tatyana was up to. Was the doll playing her? Did she really see important things? If so, what kind of things? She seemed to be genuine. As Naslund reviewed the set of Tatyana’s mouth--sincere--her duty phone rang.

  “Sergeant Naslund,” she slowly said, “OPP.”

  “You sound pensive,” Moore said.

  Did she? Maybe he was more attuned to her than she thought. “I was thinking about the case. Nothing important.” She didn’t want to mention Tatyana, given his apparent dismissal of her. “What’s the news on MacTavish’s family?” she asked.

  “The man was at home all day on July seventh. And, according to his wife, all night too.”

>   “That’s what he told me,” she said. “And it appears he was telling the truth about the Tyler contracts. As he said yesterday, they were extended for six months, that’s it. I have copies.”

  “Good.”

  She sighed. MacTavish’s words suggested he had no part in Thom’s murder but she still wasn’t sure. “I don’t think we’re finished with MacTavish.”

  “Don’t get stuck on him. Homicides can make you too suspicious. Believe me, I know. You end up suspecting everybody.”

  “Well, it’s just that...well, I can’t put my finger on exactly why he’s bothering me.”

  “Fair enough. He’s a slippery sort. Run him to ground, but don’t get overzealous.”

  Me overzealous? she thought.

  “We’re doing everything we can, Sergeant. All we can do is hunt down evidence, examine each piece, and take it forward or leave it aside. At the end, whatever we have makes the case.”

  “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “Remember, evidence isn’t perfect. It’s organic and messy, like life. It won’t all fit. We’ll have to drop what doesn’t. If we don’t, the final case won’t work.”

  “Understood.” Spare me the speech, Inspector.

  “Don’t forget, we have Larmer too.”

  Well, she thought, you have Larmer.

  “A Metro detective is taking me to Tyler’s condo now,” Moore said. “We’ll leave for Wiarton at noon. Can you meet me at the Sheraton?”

  “Sure. But how about fourteen-thirty? I’m pursuing a lead.”

  Moore didn’t hesitate. “Okay See you then.”

  ***

  Just after noon Naslund sat on a park bench in Etobicoke overlooking Lake Ontario. Tatyana hadn’t called her. Naslund leaned forward and cupped her chin in her hands. Although she hadn’t sensed any ulterior motives in Tatyana’s face or words, Naslund felt agitated. Did MacTavish have some way to benefit from Thom’s death that wasn’t yet evident?