by Ross Pennie
“Sure. Let’s order and then you can tell me about Mrs. Patel.”
As Marcus strode toward the kitchen to prepare their lunch, Zol took a long swallow of his coffee and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Okay. I’m all ears.”
Natasha skipped the details of arriving at the Patels’ two- bedroom apartment in a respectable but aging high-rise where the superintendent put no priority into vacuuming the lobby carpet. She didn’t tell her boss about her embarrassment at the strong smell of curry that burst into the hallway when Mrs. Patel answered her door. Nor did she talk about her irritation that Indian homes were too often cluttered with family photos and tacky knickknacks — tassels and elephants and gaudy statuettes of Hindu gods. She much preferred the spare apartment of Bjorn, her stockbroker boyfriend — it gleamed Scandinavian chic and never gave off any cooking smells.
“The Patels — that’s Mr., Mrs., and their son, Nikhil — came to Canada eight years ago from England. They lived in Leeds for twelve years — from 1983 to 1995. They’re Hindus, from Gujarat state.”
“Have they been back to India?”
“Just once. Five years ago. I gather money has always been tight.”
“He was a car salesman, right?”
“Yes. A frustrated one, according to Mrs. Patel. He studied engineering at university in India and worked as a factory supervisor in Leeds, but no one would accept his qualifications here in Canada.”
“Yeah. It’s a familiar story,” said Zol, lifting a slice of sesame flat-bread from the basket on the table. “We open our immigration doors to qualified professionals, but once they get here we slam the doors of opportunity.” He snapped his bread with both thumbs. “For some,” he continued, his jaws working, “it might be better to start with a clean slate and no expectations.”
“I suppose,” she replied without conviction, thinking of her own father, a pediatrician with a thriving practice in downtown Hamilton. He’d immigrated at a time when Canada gave full opportunity to good doctors from all over the world. Things were different now. She shuddered at the thought of her gentle father behind the wheel of a taxi cab.
Zol dabbed his lips. “Anyway — back to Mrs. Patel.”
Natasha enumerated Danesh Patel’s negative checklist of CJD risk factors: no family history, no brain surgery, no corneal transplants, no growth hormone injections. Never a blood transfusion. The Patels never ate even a sliver of meat; Mrs. Patel had never allowed it in her home. Whenever she and her husband dined out, it was always at the homes of friends and relatives or at Indian restaurants that prepared proper vegetarian meals.
“What about her husband’s lunches when he was at work?”
“She usually packed them. But she did say there’s a Sub Haven near his work. He would get a veggie sandwich there when he’d forgotten his lunch.”
“Now, remind me — where was he run over?”
“Outside the car dealership. Mrs. Patel showed me the newspaper reports. She’s kept a file of them. The police claimed he just walked blindly into the traffic on Upper James. Killed instantly by a woman driving a minivan. It wasn’t her fault. But it was a hit and run. The woman turned herself in the next day when her kids spotted blood on the front bumper.”
Zol grimaced. “I remember the story. But why did he wander into the traffic? Was it suicide, like the dentist?”
“No. Not that Mrs. Patel would admit. But he hadn’t been himself for a while.”
Zol’s eyes brightened. He finally seemed interested in the details she’d spent all morning harvesting. “Yeah? Since when?”
“Mrs. Patel couldn’t say exactly. Since sometime in April or May.”
“And when was he killed?”
She checked her notes. “June twenty-eighth.”
“So he hadn’t been himself for two or three months before he died. Just like Dr. McEwen.”
“Sorry?”
“Dr. McEwen underwent a change in personality about three months before he committed suicide. Hamish Wakefield met with his widow this morning. McEwen had become distractible, angry, and tearful.”
“I don’t know about angry or tearful, but Mr. Patel did become forgetful. He forgot to pay the phone bill for three months in a row, and the company cut off their service.”
“Do you suppose he walked into those busy lanes of traffic purely out of distraction?”
She shrugged. “It’s possible.” She stared at the crumbs on her plate. They almost formed the image of the Mesha Rashi from her mother’s favourite astrological chart — Passion and Determination. Not that Natasha actually believed all that stuff. “Um,” she said, biting her lower lip, “there’s one more thing. I’m not sure it’s worth mentioning. But . . .”
Zol raised his eyebrows. “Shoot,” he said, spinning his hand in that keep-going gesture she knew so well.
“I had the distinct feeling that Mrs. Patel was holding back about something.”
“What do you mean?”
“It wasn’t during the formal part of the interview. She was very helpful while I was taking notes. Tearful at times, understandably. But as I was getting ready to leave I made an innocent comment, and her manner changed.”
He put down his latte. “What happened?”
“I’d noticed a framed photograph that seemed to have a place of honour on a table. It showed a recent likeness of Mrs. Patel with a much younger man. At least, he didn’t look forty-nine. Jet-black hair, smooth skin, not a single wrinkle on his face. I asked if the man was her younger brother. That’s when she began to look anxious, as though she had something to hide.
“‘No,’ she said. ‘That’s my husband. On our twenty-fifth anniversary. We celebrated it this year.’ She sobbed and admitted how very proud he was of his youthful appearance. ‘To be successful in the business of selling automobiles,’ she said, ‘you must look young — no grey hair, no wrinkles.’”
“Sounds like he dyed his hair,” said Zol. “That’s no big deal these days. Lots of men do it. I don’t think it’s linked to CJD.”
“But she did seem to be hiding something. And feeling guilty about it.”
He tapped his chin and looked into the distance. “A little pearl for us to keep in mind.” He wiped his hands with his serviette then spread his fingers. “Look, Natasha — I know we agreed to visit Bernard Vanderven together this afternoon. But there’ve been two more streptococcal deaths at Shalom Acres, and I have to meet with the director. The staff and families are feeling guilty and angry. For us, that’s a dangerous combination.” He looked at his watch. “I’d like you to go spend a few minutes with Vanderven. On your own.”
Oh, no, thought Natasha. He must be kidding. She hadn’t finished with the outbreak at Shalom Acres. It wasn’t fair. Bernard Vanderven wouldn’t have any patience with an underling. Especially a brown-skinned woman under thirty. She’d never get anything out of him. “Please, Dr. Zol, shouldn’t I keep —”
“No, you’ve done a wonderful job at Shalom Acres. All you can. Today it needs politics, not epidemiology.”
The troubled look returned to Zol’s eyes. He glanced again at his watch. “I know it’s a lot to ask, and I’m sorry. But Vanderven won’t eat you alive.”
This was no time for Natasha to argue. “Yes, Dr. Zol. Of course I’ll go.”
“Thanks, Natasha. I can always count on you. He’ll be expecting you at three thirty.” He forced a smile. “The man is going to be brusque. But you can handle him.”
Shortly after three o’clock, Natasha settled into a seat in the sumptuous reception room on the top floor of Kelso International’s shiny glass building. She’d given herself plenty of time to drive from the health unit to Bernard Vanderven’s head office in the industrial park on Nebo Road. Her appointment was for three thirty.
She passed the time by checking and rechecking the list of questions she’d prepared and rehearsed after meeting with Zol at lunchtime. When she was unable to study her lists any longer, she looked at the décor of the overs
tuffed room. The reception area had the feel of an English manor-house parlour she’d seen in Architectural Digest: Oriental carpets resting on darkly stained hardwood, loveseats and wingback chairs upholstered in complementary brocade, large paintings of hunting scenes in gilt frames, heavy drapes of ruby velvet arranged in three layers.
“Come this way,” said a thirty-something secretary wearing a bias-cut silk dress in rich purples. Natasha thought the woman spoiled the overall effect with too much eyeshadow. The secretary’s heels, which matched the dress and the eyeshadow, clicked against the hardwood. “Mr. Vanderven will see you now. But he’s only got a few minutes.”
Natasha took a deep breath and slipped her papers into her briefcase, glad she hadn’t brought her down-market nylon backpack. Her knees felt insubstantial as she stood, but they didn’t fail her. She followed Miss Aubergine Eyeshadow through an oak door marked Bernard Vanderven, CEO.
“So where’s Dr. Szabo?” asked Bernard Vanderven from behind his desk after Natasha introduced herself. He didn’t stand at her approach. “Your boss said he had to meet with me urgently. Today. So where is he?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Vanderven, but he got called away on another matter. He asked me to come in his place. I — I have just a few questions to ask, and I promise not to take much of your time.”
He lifted the French cuff of his white shirt and glanced at his watch. “Let’s get going. Have a seat.”
She started off with a brief condolence on the death of his wife. Vanderven dismissed it with a wave of a giant hand, the amber gem on his cufflink catching the late afternoon sun streaming through the picture window behind him. Natasha used the opener she’d used with Mrs. Patel, that his wife had suffered an unusual form of encephalitis.
“Encephalitis? What are you talking about? It was her heart.”
“Yes, Mr. Vanderven, your wife suffered a cardiac event. But a detailed examination of her brain showed she also had encephalitis. Inflammation of the brain.”
“Why the hell are you bothering me about this now?”
“The health department needs to be sure that it wasn’t contagious, that other people aren’t at risk.”
“For God’s sake, girl. That was five months ago. If it was contagious, you people are a bit late.”
He was right. Five months was way too long to be tracing encephalitis contacts. But CJD had an entirely different time frame. She had to ignore Vanderven’s contempt and press on. She opened her notepad. “Can you tell me about her illness? What was it like?”
“Her heart stopped. She died in her sleep. That’s it.”
“But was she not unwell for some time before that?”
“What are you implying?”
She’d have to frame the poor woman’s mental symptoms diplomatically if she wanted to get anything out of the husband. “Was she feeling stressed? A little forgetful, perhaps?”
He snorted through pursed lips. “Joanna had nothing to be stressed about.”
“Was she becoming forgetful?”
Vanderven’s gritty face softened a little. “Well, yes.”
“In what way?”
“She was a fashion model when I married her. But for the few weeks before her death she no longer cared about her appearance. When she left the house without putting on her cologne or her eye makeup, I knew something was wrong.”
“Did you notice anything else?”
“She’d go shopping and not remember where she’d parked the car.”
Natasha reckoned it might be safe to smile, to relax the conversation just enough to squeeze a few more details from this icy man. She smiled, nodded, and ventured: “I’ve done that, too.”
“But not every time you take the car out.”
“Oh dear. I see.” She paused. Her eyes caught a painting on the wall — hounds goring a fox. She gripped the hem of her skirt, pulled it straight, and looked at Vanderven. “When did you become aware of these things, Mr. Vanderven?”
“For God’s sake. I don’t know. I’m a busy man.” He stared at the office door, as though expecting someone important to walk through it. After a moment, he frowned, as if joggled out of a distraction. “Look — she was fine in Rio. That was February. Carnivale. It must have been after that when she started forgetting things.”
Now that he seemed prepared to provide a few answers, Natasha went quickly through her checklist. Where did Joanna grew up? Oxford, England. Where did they meet? Milan. When did she move to Canada? Three years ago. Was Joanna vegetarian? Certainly not; not even when she was a model.
When Natasha asked where they purchased their food, Vanderven’s bull neck flushed above his shirt collar. “Christ. How the hell should I know?”
Natasha’s cheeks burned, and her eyes stung with tears. She gripped her pad with both hands, stared at the polished brass carriage clock on Vanderven’s desk, and swallowed hard. Her cheeks stayed dry.
“All I can tell you,” Vanderven said, “we ate a lot of pork and Angus beef.”
He must have seen something in her face. Determination? Anger? Vulnerability?
“Joanna was big on salads,” he continued, a hint of softness in his voice. “I hate chicken. Get too much of it at dinner meetings.”
The telephone rang. He grabbed it before the second ring. “Yeah? Who? That guy from Detroit? Good, I’ve been expecting him. Park him on hold for a sec.” He pulled a business card from the desk drawer, scribbled on the reverse, and thrust it toward her. “Show this to my housekeeper at this address. She’ll let you in and tell you everything you want to know.”
He picked up the phone, pressed a button, and started talking auto parts before she had time to stand.
CHAPTER 6
A half-hour later, Natasha had typed and printed her page-and-a-half report. “Mr. Vanderven didn’t give me much to work with, I’m afraid,” she said, handing the two stapled sheets to Zol.
“I’ll say,” he replied after scanning each line. As usual, he found her wording concise, her points crystal clear. “Not nearly enough to get Trinnock off my back. I’m dreading him getting wind of this CJD business before we’ve made some decent headway.”
“I’m hoping to find something more useful tomorrow at Vanderven’s place.”
Zol’s phone began to flash on his desk. He picked it up.
“It’s Dr. Trinnock,” said Anne, “calling from Huntsville.”
Zol scowled. The moment of truth had arrived. He’d been counting on Trinnock being too distracted and too well-oiled by his cottage-country blab-fest to pester him for a day or two. He took a deep breath as Anne transferred the call. “Hello, Peter,” he said. “Having a good meeting?”
“It’s okay, but too cold for golf.” Ice cubes clinked in a glass, then Zol heard a burst of baritone laughter. “And you?” Trinnock said. “Anything exciting happening down there?”
“Couple of things we’re still sorting out.”
“Look, it’s all a bit hush-hush,” Trinnock continued, “but rumour has it there are two or three cases of variant CJD somewhere in southern Ontario. Tell me they’re not in Hamilton.”
Zol’s stomach tightened. His hands turned cold. Had Banbury squawked? “Well, actually . . . yes. We had three cases reported to us . . . yesterday.” Technically, it was yesterday. Hamish had called so late on Tuesday night it counted as yesterday.
“Three? Yesterday?” Trinnock sounded apoplectic. “For God’s sake, man. Why didn’t you call me immediately? I’m going to look like an idiot, ignorant of what’s going on in my own patch.”
“I’m sorry, Peter, but until a few minutes ago, there really wasn’t much to say. Natasha’s only just returned from interviewing the family of the third case. And it’s good news.”
“What do you mean, good news, for Chrissake?”
“All three cases lived in England at the height of the mad cow epidemic there. We’re pretty sure that’s where they contracted their CJD.” He shot Natasha a sheepish look: What else am I going to say to him at t
his stage?
“I damn well hope so.”
“We’re still checking the details.”
“I don’t want a horde of satellite trucks descending on us like that goddamn Lassa fever fiasco.”
“Yes, Peter.”
“There’ll be hell to pay if this blows up in our faces. I’ll give you the weekend to get it sorted out. Quietly.” Trinnock cleared his throat. “And keep in mind — that promotion of yours isn’t a done deal.”
Zol ended the call and gazed into the darkness that came all too quickly on November afternoons. “Oh, Natasha,” he sighed. “Life is one damn deadline after another.”
She nodded and bit her lower lip, then went back to her office.
He closed the door behind her and set the lock. He reached into the inside pocket of his blazer and pulled out a slip of paper. The note trembled in his hand as he pondered what was written in his own scrawl: the name and phone number of a private investigator recommended by his lawyer friend, Dave Hatala, earlier this afternoon. Dave had sworn that a PI’s alternative approach could be a lifesaver, especially when a matter needed absolute discretion.
There was no way the health unit could be seen to have a private eye on its staff. But Dave insisted that this particular one could slip invisibly in and out of anywhere, public and private. She used unconventional methods but she didn’t break the law. And what was the problem if she helped crack the case, saved hundreds of lives, and Trinnock never found out? When it came to paying her, Zol could call her a consultant. The unit hired many consultants every year, and the accountants seldom asked questions.
Zol fingered the paper. Yes, he’d phone her. Dave said she screened her calls, so Zol should leave a message. He looked at his watch: five forty. He had to get Max to soccer by six fifteen. He’d leave her his cell number.
Sweat trickled down his neck as he dialled. He couldn’t quite believe a regular guy like him was phoning a private eye.
“Colleen Woolton is bright and feisty,” Dave had said. “You’ll be pleased with her service. And one last thing . . .” He’d coughed or chuckled, Zol couldn’t be sure which. “Don’t be put off by her height.”
