by A. M. Potter
Five meters away two swans took flight, their huge wings beating against the water. The explosive sound made her feel more agitated. She slowly inhaled and exhaled ten times. Think things through, she told herself. She was fully aware that Tatyana could be playing her. What if she isn’t? an inner voice said. If she isn’t, she can help. Naslund nodded to herself. True. Tatyana might know things.
She certainly had an inside track. Beyond that, at this point, the team didn’t have any other avenues into MacTavish’s world.
A boat raised its sails and skimmed away from shore. Naslund followed its passage until the couple onboard were invisible to the eye.
As she was about to stand and leave, her duty phone blared.
“Sergeant Naslund,” she answered, “OPP.”
“Sergeant?”
“Yes.”
“Is Tatyana Filipov, from gallery.”
She hadn’t recognized her voice. “Hello, Tatyana.”
“Can we meet for coffee?”
“Yes.”
“I am on streetcar, soon coming to Lakeshore and Louisa in Etobicoke. There is coffee shop on corner.”
“I know it,” Naslund said. “Fifteen minutes?”
“Yes.”
***
“How long are you police?” Tatyana asked.
Quite a while, Naslund thought. “Sixteen years,” she said.
“Only sixteen? You look more, what is word, established?”
Naslund nodded. Did she mean older?
“I think you are good police. Yes, I see that.”
“Thank you.” Naslund had decided to say as little as possible. She and Tatyana were sitting on a bench by the lake. Earlier, she’d purchased a few sandwiches which they ate in the coffee shop, chatting about the city and the weather. Tatyana had seemed formal, almost shy, definitely less flashy. Which was fine with Naslund.
“In my country, all is corrupt. All! Government, police, army. Russian system make me leave home.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Tatyana’s eyes hardened. “I want to be lawyer here.”
Naslund nodded noncommittally. Was Tatyana stringing her along?
“I want to help system work. I told you, I see things.” Tatyana stopped and examined Naslund’s face. Apparently satisfied, she continued. “I will tell you interesting thing about Mister MacTavish.” She paused. “Do you want?”
“Of course.”
“I think he is dishonest.”
“Oh?”
“But I am not sure. It is just feeling. I need to get evidence.” She glanced at Naslund. “He doesn’t know what I think of him. I am, what you say, all smiles at work,” she said and smiled.
“I saw that.”
“Yes, is good. I help in office. I file sometimes the sales invoices.”
“Yes?”
“It looks like boss keeps changing them. He often has four or five versions for one thing. Like for same painting.”
“I see.”
“I think maybe he does same thing with contracts. Maybe Tyler contracts I photocopy for you were not most up-to-date ones. Boss might bring out other ones when those expire. I will, as they say, keep open eye.”
“Thank you.”
Tatyana smiled coquettishly and crossed her legs. She was looking at Naslund as if she could be more than a confidant. The flash was back. Naslund checked her watch and stood. “Got a meeting. Thanks again.”
Chapter 22
Wiarton. July 15th:
The next morning Naslund was in the shower when her personal phone crooned. “Watching the detectives...” She’d had a late night. Moore hadn’t showed up at the Sheraton until 1700. He’d been in a miserable mood. His Metro contact had been called to a CS and left him hanging for three hours. She and Moore had pulled into Wiarton station at 2030 and then spent hours updating case notes.
Now, Naslund tried to shut out her phone. As usual, it didn’t stop crooning. She gave in, turned off the shower, and found it. “Eva here.”
“I have an idea,” J.J. said. “Keep that thing next to you.”
“I was in the shower.”
“Again? Well, at least you’re clean. Okay, Sarge, can you get dressed--your best plaid outfit--and get to the marina in fifteen?”
“Aye, laddie.”
“Bless ya. Marty’ll be waiting behind the main shed.”
***
“Good morning, Sarge,” J.J. said. “Porridge or donuts?”
“How about both?”
“Can do. How’s your time?”
Naslund glanced at her watch: 0746 and no 0830 meeting. “Good. We can have a few donuts, shoot the breeze, then have a few more, like you mechanics always do.”
J.J. winked at Marty. “I think she’s learning.”
Marty smiled and turned to the stove.
“Okay, Sarge,” J.J. said, “we’ll move fast anyway. You know that feud between the Murphys and Thom? I used to think it was my fault.”
She nodded.
“It wasn’t. As it happens, the fish were just a fuse. One of my contacts told me the bomb was a woman. Jenny Murphy, Jake’s older sister.”
“Jenny Murphy?”
“Do you know her?”
Naslund nodded. “She got pulled in on a pot bust a few years back. Relax, J.J., growing, not personal use. I saw the plants out there.” She smiled at Marty. “Nothing to worry about. Anyway, Jenny Murphy was innocent. Got caught up with the wrong crowd.”
“That’s Jenny.”
“If I remember correctly, she went down to Toronto.”
“Yep.”
“Who told you she was the bomb?”
“A little birdie who wants to remain anonymous. I don’t know why she’s the bomb, but I know she’s home now.”
“I need to talk to her.” Something told Naslund to move it. “ASAP. Thanks for the lead.”
“No time for a donut?”
“How about a takeaway?”
***
After Marty dropped Naslund off at the marina, she roared up Bruce Nine in her own car, foot to the floor. The hell with Bickell. She screamed past a slow-moving truck. She’d sensed Jenny Murphy wouldn’t be in Colpoys for long. A minute later she pulled off the road and zipped up the lane leading to the Murphy house. The adjacent lots were unkempt. The land had an aura of decay. However, the property at the end of the lane blew the decay away. Mature fruit trees surrounded a quaint white house which resembled an English cottage.
As she reached the end of the lane, Jenny rushed out the front door with a suitcase and ran toward a blue Camry. Naslund parked tight to the Camry, cutting off Jenny’s exit. Finally, she thought, a little luck.
Jenny shook her head in disgust.
Naslund stepped out of her car. “Hello, Jenny.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“Maybe not.”
Jenny shook her head again. She wore a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves and a pair of faded cut-offs. Her hair was much longer than the last time Naslund saw her, three years ago.
“You leaving?” Naslund asked.
Jennie eyed her as if she were stupid. “Brilliant, Sherlock.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to.” She faced the door. “Mother,” she yelled, “you have a visitor.”
“I’m not here to see your mother.”
“My brothers aren’t here.”
“I know.”
“You want to talk to me?”
Naslund nodded.
“I’m clean.”
“Probably. Let’s talk.”
Jenny shrugged then gestured at Naslund’s shorts. She hadn’t had time to change. “New uniform?”
“You got it.”
Jenny cracked a smile.
Naslund gestured at the Camry. “Where’re you going?”
“Toronto.”
Dawn Murphy scurried out of the house and bustled toward Naslund, eyes front, neck rigid, resolutely ignoring Jenny. In Naslund’s
mind, it was like watching a cartoon. Mother Hen pretending her chick wasn’t there. Dawn waved Naslund to a wrought-iron table under a maple tree, chatting all the while. “Sergeant, you look prettier every time I see you. Tea? Yes, and scones.”
She turned and curtly waved her daughter into the house. “Tea.”
Jenny seemed about to say something then appeared to think better of it. Instead, she rolled her eyes.
Naslund watched her go, her gait now languid. After interviewing Jenny years ago, she’d opened up about her life. She’d told Naslund her mother infuriated her. Being an only daughter, she’d said, was like being a one-trick pony. Naslund knew the feeling. Refreshments served, Jenny lit a cigarette and whispered to her mother. Dawn huffed. Naslund surreptitiously examined Jenny. Her eyes were bright, as if she’d been on a purge. “So,” Naslund said, “you came back. Why?”
“Well.” Jenny waved her cigarette. “For a short visit.” She looked at her mother. “Very short.”
Dawn huffed again and marched into the house with a look that said the shorter the better.
Almost immediately, the air felt lighter. Jenny smiled openly. “Want a drink?”
Naslund pretended to consider it. “Better not. On duty.”
“So?”
“Not today, thanks.” So much for the purge.
Jenny crushed her cigarette into a full ashtray. “What brings you here?”
“The past.”
“Huh.”
Naslund took a bite of scone. She knew Jenny had once been crazy for Thom. She’d talked about him nonstop after the interview. Naslund put her scone down, seeing Jenny as she’d been three years ago. Her eyes had been like stars. Sitting across from her now, Naslund saw that much of their radiance was doused. She figured the bomb was connected to love. “Did you arrive too late for the funeral?”
Jenny stared at Naslund with wry amusement. Don’t bullshit me, her eyes said.
Fair enough, Naslund admitted. However, she had no choice but to try again. “It was a long time ago. Carrie MacLean wouldn’t have cared.”
“Nothing to do with her.”
Try again. “Did you want to marry him?”
“Hell no! Are you nuts?” Jenny pulled out a cigarette and lit it. She studied Naslund, seemingly deciding if she was still a good person to talk to. Eventually she nodded. Apparently, once a sympathetic listener, always a sympathetic listener. “Well, maybe. I was young, forever young. He was, well, beautiful. Only seven years older. Seven, and fifteen days. You don’t forget those things.”
There was more, Naslund saw. What? It came to her in a flash. A baby. Jenny Murphy had been pregnant. “How old is the child now?”
Jenny shook her head.
Naslund read her eyes. Jenny didn’t want to divulge it, and yet she did. The collision of emotions in her face was unmistakable. Pain and pride warred with truth and acceptance. Naslund saw a sudden release, like a thunder storm in July. She saw Jenny’s secret. She’d had an abortion. “So, he didn’t want a child.”
Jenny started running her hands through her hair. Her right leg bounced up and down. Only her gaze was steady. It was fixed on the ground. Suddenly, she became perfectly still and then looked up. “You’re right. He told me that at the start. I tried to change his mind, but, well...” She stabbed out her cigarette. “I went to the city. I didn’t come back much, not after he took up with Carrie.”
“Ah.”
“He didn’t help me at all. Not one bit.”
Naslund found that hard to believe.
“Didn’t give me money, understanding, anything. Wiped his hands of me. I blame it on that friend of his, that J.J. MacKenzie.”
Hmm, J.J. was in the mix. “Who did you confide in?”
Jenny didn’t reply.
“No one?”
“No one here.” She gestured toward the house. “Certainly not my mother.”
“Your brothers?”
She looked away.
That was all Naslund needed to see. Jake and Willie knew the whole story.
Jenny looked back. “They didn’t do anything.”
Naslund remained silent.
“They didn’t! Not my little brothers.”
***
Naslund arrived at the station just after nine. The Murphy brothers were back in play. Their alibis better be watertight. The staff parking lot was full. It was a beautiful day but no one was sitting outside with their morning coffee. Thanks to Inspector Moore, she figured. A cardinal darted from a tree, cleaving the air like a thick red arrow. Sitting in her car, with the sun on her face, she opened her laptop and made notes on Jenny Murphy, then updated the entries on the Murphy brothers as well as J.J. Go away for a few days and your note load doubled. Moore’s Law of Case Notes. Not to be confused with Inspector Moore’s Law, which said that if you don’t do your notes every day, you’re fired.
Having finally completed the casework, she left her car, took a last look at the summer sky, and entered the foyer. She got the impression someone had been watching her. And reported her activities, or lack thereof, to Moore. Maybe one of the ninjas. She hoped no one was onto her work with J.J. They shouldn’t be. A background in undercover had its advantages.
As she walked down the corridor to the murder room, Moore called from her office. “Sergeant, join me for a moment.”
She entered the office and sat.
“I reviewed your report on the hijacking,” he said. “I’m going to revisit the manager of the Griffith Island Club with Chandler. I’d like you to follow-up on a lead we just got for a sailboat. Could be connected to the sailboat the kayakers saw.” He referred to his notebook. “See Darrell Gundy. The end of Mallory Beach Road, number 744.”
She jotted down the name and address.
“He’ll be home after lunch. In the meantime, I want to run something by you. I’ve been thinking about Larmer and love triangles.”
Still? she wondered. She figured she better mention the Murphys before Moore got on a roll. “Sorry to interrupt, sir. I just got a lead about the Murphy brothers. We have potential motive. We need to review their movements during the murder window.”
He nodded impatiently. “I’ll assign Lowrie and Kraft to go back at them. Please update Lowrie on motive.”
“Of course. With all due respect, sir, I think we should go after them this morning.”
“We will. You can enlighten Lowrie in fifteen minutes. Now, on to Larmer. I examined all the case interviews again, both the ones conducted here and in the city. Do you know how many women said they loved Tyler or his painting? Without prodding. Almost ninety percent. I’m not saying they were all in love with him, but that they loved him or his work.”
“He had a following.”
“Sure did. As for the men? Some said they admired him. Others respected him. Others claimed they tried to live like him. In a sense, all three are male admissions of love.” Moore held up a stop-sign hand. “I mean they loved Tyler as a person.”
“Understood.”
“I’d wager Larmer still loves MacLean.”
She said nothing.
“Here’s where things get interesting. I’d say he also loved Tyler. As a friend, I mean. A brother. An admiring yet jealous brother.”
“Fair enough.” From what she’d seen and heard, Larmer did love Thom like a brother.
“What’s the opposite of love? Not indifference. That’s academic BS. The opposite of love is hate.”
“Okay.”
“When I look at Larmer, I see someone who’s trying to cover his guilt by lashing out at us, by acting angry and innocent. The more I consider his interview, the more I think so. He’s hiding a lot of guilt.”
She remained silent.
“M and M hasn’t been able to confirm if he had any financial motives for murder. But he had at least two other motives. One, he acted to please MacLean. Two, he was envious of Tyler’s success. As for opportunity, he rented a cottage in the Bruce this summer for the first time ever, w
hich put him close to Tyler’s cottage.”
“True.”
“They say envy is a monster. I’d wager Larmer hated Tyler enough to obliterate his eyes, the ultimate in artistic envy.”
“Possible.”
Moore shifted gears. “Do you remember the profiler I mentioned?”
“Yes.”
“He’s sure the killer was organized and an externalizer. That type of killer thoroughly assesses whether a planned action will be low risk or high risk. Such killers don’t carry out high-risk acts.” Moore stopped, waiting for Naslund to comment.
“All right.”
“I see Colpoys Bay at dawn as relatively low risk. Large water surface. Few boats about, if any. Hence few people, if any. Poor light. What do you think?”
“Low risk,” she mused. “Well, Colpoys Bay is usually quiet at dawn, that’s true. But it was still light enough to see. For example, an unidentified witness saw an Albin and two kayakers saw a sailboat.”
“Okay. But a self-possessed externalizer like Larmer wouldn’t be worried about a possible witness or two around dawn. He knows the bay. He’s comfortable and confident there. He knows how hard it is to ID people on the water at sunrise.”
Naslund nodded. Moore wasn’t about to drop his number-one suspect. But if Larmer was guilty, why had he killed Thom a week ago? He’d known Thom for years. If he wanted to kill his best friend--his family in Ontario--he would have had numerous opportunities. What made him snap now? She searched her mind. Did Larmer turn psychotic? He was two-faced, not to mention arrogant. It was easy to attach other labels to him. But was psychotic killer one of them?
Moore leaned forward. “From what we know, Larmer didn’t use a boat. However, I think he could have walked out of his rental cottage and gone for a swim.”
“Could have.”
“We know he’s a swimmer. Sunday July seventh was a very warm night, the kind you could hike in swim shorts and a T-shirt. If he swam up Hope Bay ten minutes, he’d reach the spot where the Bruce Trail veers inland. From there he could hike or jog to Tyler’s cottage.”
