“The Range Rover. Come on, we’ve been distracted by these two.” MacNeice opened the side door, but the black SUV was gone. They went back inside the shop.
“Swetsky, you okay?”
“I’m fine. This guy ain’t doin’ so good, though.” The blond’s breathing was shallow and his eyes glassy. Several sirens could be heard in the distance.
Looking at the blood streaming from Swetsky’s hands, MacNeice said, “Give Williams your keys. You stay and handle this. You okay with that?”
“No problem.” Swetsky found himself a chair, brushed it off and sat down. “Messed this place up pretty bad.” He threw the keys to Williams.
“It could have been a lot worse,” Williams said. He put his right fist on his chest over his heart, then pointed at Swetsky.
“Yeah, yeah. Go on, get outta here.”
People were gathering on the other side of street. Maybe it was because the dog was licking the rouge off her cheek, but the old lady woke up just as MacNeice and Aziz came out of the shop, followed by Williams. She was about to scream again when MacNeice said, “He’s a police officer, ma’am, and a very good one. Do you need any assistance? Can we help you up?”
She shook her head, and as Williams walked by, she stared at him. He smiled and said, “You have a nice day, ma’am.”
When they got to the Chevy, MacNeice said to Williams, “You take the international airport, we’ll take Dundurn.”
“You knew, didn’t you?” Aziz asked as they drove away.
“Knew what?”
“That the old lady would freak out when she saw Williams.”
“I figured it was fifty-fifty, and that either way, it would work to our advantage.” MacNeice switched on the radio. “Give me your position, Williams.”
“Just turning onto the Queen E. No sign of him so far.”
“When you get to Pearson, go to Departures. There’s no place for him to return the Rover there, so he’ll likely dump it outside. We’re fifteen minutes away from Dundurn Regional. If you see the vehicle on the way, stay back, call immediately and we’ll come to you. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Put your shoulder harness on,” MacNeice said as he hung up. “We’re going to do some driving.” MacNeice took the cherry from under the dash, put it on the roof and switched his headlights to flashing. He gathered speed and began weaving through the traffic.
He glanced over at her. She was looking out the window to the right.
She felt his gaze and said, “I thought you were hit, Mac. I couldn’t see you from the corner, but I saw Williams and that guy pointing the gun at his head. I didn’t think about it; I just took aim and fired.”
“That was impressive shooting, Aziz. How about now? Are you feeling steady?”
“I think I am … but I may be in shock. I’ve never shot anyone before.”
“We’ve been playing catch-up all through this case, always arriving after the fact. Now Petrescu’s on the run and we don’t know how he’ll respond to that.”
“What are you getting at?” She looked over at him.
“He’s not a man to get his hands bloody. But he sacrificed both those men, and now he has to deal with us on his own. I need to know that you’re steady, Fiza. There’s no shame if you’re not—I just need to know.”
“I’m a little shaky, but my adrenalin’s pumping.… I’ll deal with the repercussions later.”
“Right. He’s got perhaps eight to ten minutes on us. We can reel him in before he reaches the airport.”
“And if we don’t?”
“He’ll be among hundreds of people, and that could get ugly. Alert airport security.”
“What do I tell them?”
“Tell them we’ve received a bomb threat for both airports and they should take the necessary precautions. Let Williams know you’ve done that, then call the DC and tell him. Use my cellphone.” He took it out and handed it across to her.
BOTH LANES OF THE ACCESS ROAD to the regional airport were fairly busy. MacNeice hit the outside shoulder, raising a cloud of dust. He sped past the vehicles, watching the adjacent lanes for the Range Rover. A quarter-mile from the terminal, he spotted it on the inside lane, several cars ahead. He stopped, but not quickly enough—the Range Rover suddenly pulled out of line and across the shoulder onto the grass, where it halted for a moment.
“Call Williams. Tell him to turn around—we’ve found him.”
Aziz called and then quickly stepped out of the Chevy. She slammed the palm of her hand on the window of a Lincoln town car that had stopped in the confusion and motioned to the driver to pull out of line and onto the shoulder. “Do it now!” Then she ran to the inside lane and waved at a frightened woman approaching in a Toyota to pull out of line onto the opposite shoulder. The woman hesitated until Aziz ran up and bashed on the hood. “Now move!”
With a gap opened up across the two lanes, she held up both hands to the vehicles beyond and motioned for MacNeice to drive through. After he got across the road, he stopped, and Aziz got in the car and did up her seatbelt.
The Range Rover was skidding along the grassy slope, trying to make it up to the highway again. MacNeice pursued it from above, using the gravel shoulder for traction as both vehicles raced towards a culvert less than a hundred yards ahead. Suddenly the SUV swung to the right, heading for the chain-link fence that separated the highway from the airport. On the tarmac a commuter plane was slowly taxiing away from the terminal.
“He’s going to try to crash the fence,” MacNeice said.
The black SUV tore down to the bottom of the slope and up the other side, hitting the fence with force. The shock of the impact rippled down the line of fencing and bent the two supporting poles, but they didn’t give way. The Range Rover’s front end was suspended on the mesh, its back end tearing at the sod and kicking up dirt as the engine screamed and the wheels spun.
MacNeice brought the Chevy to a stop to the left of the Range Rover. He couldn’t see through the tinted windows, but stepping out of the Chevy, he pointed his handgun at the driver’s side, moving slowly forward. Aziz got out and ran to cover the other side.
“It’s over!” MacNeice shouted, not certain he could be heard above the racing engine and screaming tires, which were digging deeper into the dirt. “Shut it down!”
Suddenly the brake lights came on and the wheels stopped spinning as the engine returned to idle.
“Get out of the truck, Gregori,” MacNeice ordered. The door didn’t open.
As if he’d thought of a new strategy, the engine came to life again. The gearbox clanked as the Range Rover rocked violently forward and then backwards.
“Aziz! Stay clear.” Once she’d moved out of the way, MacNeice shot out the driver’s-side rear and front tires and motioned to her to do the same. The engine continued to howl, the wheels spinning on their rims, the vehicle rocking harmlessly back and forth. And then it stopped, the motor dying.
For a moment the sound of a birdcall filled the void. Red-winged blackbird, MacNeice thought, trying to chase these intruders away from its nest.
Holding his weapon before him, he approached the driver’s door. “Open the door, Petrescu.”
Moments passed, and then the window slid down to reveal Gregori leaning back against the headrest, something classical playing on the radio, so softly that MacNeice couldn’t make it out.
“I have no weapon, Detective. Join me in the car, please. I wish to make a statement.” The dark glass window closed again.
Motioning to Aziz, MacNeice said, “Get the recorder from the glove compartment and bring it over to the passenger’s side. Call off the bomb scare and get the airport police and an ambulance out here fast.”
Aziz ran to the Chevy, its headlights and cherry top still flashing.
Keeping his gun trained on the driver, MacNeice opened the passenger door and stepped into the Range Rover.
“I told you, I’m not armed. You don’t need that.”
“No offence, but I like to take precautions when I’m arresting a suspect on murder charges.” He listened for a moment to the music. “Beethoven—Piano Concerto number one.”
“Just so. MacNeice, I have approximately nine and a half minutes left. I’ll answer any questions you have.”
“What do you mean?”
He held up a small steel cylinder and handed it to MacNeice. “There was a capsule in here. I created it for just such an occasion. Check the pockets of my bodyguards and you’ll find two more. It takes about ten minutes, depending on your stress level.”
“Why did you kill your sister?” MacNeice heard a tap on his window and rolled it down. Aziz handed him the recorder, silently mouthing, It’s on. He set it on the black leather dashboard.
“Hello, Detective Aziz,” Petrescu said. “I’m sorry we don’t have more time to chat about the Old Country.”
“Your sister?” MacNeice asked.
Petrescu rolled his head towards him. “She was not my sister. I never knew her. She was an orphan.”
“Your father feels otherwise.”
“My father is dead, Detective.” MacNeice looked up at him. “Yes, I see you’re surprised. An hour ago he sent Madeleine for strawberries and cream, and when she came back he was dead, sitting by the garden window of the library. That’s when she called me. He put a bullet through his mouth and emptied his skull. My method is much more civilized.” Glancing down at the clock on the dashboard he said, “Eight minutes.”
“Why kill Lydia, and why that way?”
“Elegant, no? There is only one person who could do that with such finesse. He’s Bulgarian, and a former KGB specialist. He was also born on the Black Sea. His five-year-old son was one of those deformed for life by my father. Because of that he gave me a discount for Lydia. He’s left the country; you’ll never find him.”
“The boyfriend and Ruvola?”
“Collateral damage. I believe that term was invented over here. The boyfriend was a pornographer. The other was trash, a drug dealer.”
“Did you show those images of Lydia to your father?”
“No. You don’t understand—I didn’t do this to hurt my father. He’s nothing to me … was nothing to me. Yes, I was his blood and she wasn’t, but I did this for my country.”
“Are you saying the Romanian government was involved in this?”
“Not at all.” Gregori managed a short chuckle. “We are a poor country, very weak militarily and economically. I was doing research on my own. Had I the documents that are back there”—he motioned towards the back of the SUV—“I could have ensured that at least we were not defenceless.”
“That was once your father’s plan too, it seems.”
“Do you play chess, Detective?”
“Some.”
“Antonin Petrescu was not a pawn but a rook. He could move on certain limited paths. He imagined himself as much more—a bishop, perhaps.”
“You presumably have more power?”
“I do.… I did. We are trying on capitalism like a new suit, but the ones learning fastest are the ones who learned to survive in the old suits.”
“Why didn’t you just ask your father for the formula? Why did you have to kill the girl?”
“My father was righteous and repentant. He felt guilt for what he had done, even though it was Ceausescu who forced him to do it. He would have gone to his grave without handing over those documents. But the one thing he feared—call it the sentiment of the region—was a Bulgarian invasion of Romania. He thought that Lydia’s death—the manner of her death—was a message from Bulgaria. Compared to the clumsy poisoning of rivers and beaches, this was a precision-engineered death. He had no choice but to give them to me.”
“What about Lydia?”
“We have thousands of beautiful girls, talented girls, in Romania. None of them will ever have the privileges she enjoyed. The money was dirty. The father, Ceausescu, was filth. My father pretended to be a father—he never was one, not to me and not to her. The girl meant nothing. I wanted the formula, and I wanted to settle accounts.”
“And yet he withheld one piece of the puzzle.”
“Yes. It was foolish of him to do so, and when I realized what he’d done, foolish of me to go looking for it. I’m sure that within a year I could have worked out the last piece. I am—I was a better microbiologist than my father. By far. He was privileged, of course, because of my mother. What did he do with that privilege? He couldn’t keep his wife faithful, and if he had stayed in Romania, he would have lost all his privileges, along with his head.”
“Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
“The rest is details, best left alone. You have the basics.” Petrescu looked at the clock again. “I have perhaps two minutes or so. Do you mind, Detective, leaving me alone to look at the sky?” A series of mild convulsions rocked his body; he belched several times, and his face suddenly lost its colour. He looked over to MacNeice and smiled weakly, his eyes shining with sudden tears that reflected the sunlight and blue sky. “I may have miscalculated.” He coughed, and a stream of blood-red spittle rolled down his chin. “Next time, I’ll—” A tear spilled out of his right eye and slid down the swiftly greying cheek.
MacNeice took his recorder and got out of the vehicle, quietly shutting the door behind him.
Speeding towards them over the grass were two airport cruisers and an ambulance. “Intercept them, Aziz,” MacNeice said. “Keep them away for a couple more minutes.”
Raising her hand to the oncoming cruisers, Aziz stopped them just beyond the Chevy. Two police officers exited the lead vehicle and came towards her, one carrying a shotgun and the other with his hand on a holstered sidearm. Aziz switched off the cherry on the Chevy and waited for them.
MacNeice listened for the red-winged blackbird, but it was gone. He looked at the tinted window of the Range Rover, thinking about how, once again, Gregori Petrescu had dictated the pace of the game. The vehicle shook briefly, as if the man inside was moving about violently, and then it was still. He walked around the SUV towards Aziz and the assembled cops and paramedics.
“His name is Colonel Gregori Petrescu. He’s a Romanian national. Shield the vehicle from traffic”—he waved towards the airport-bound commuters without looking at the road—“then take him out with as much dignity as you can manage. Put the contents of the SUV in the trunk of my car. I’ll call the pathologist and tell her to expect him. There’ll be a report in your hands by tomorrow morning.”
As soon as the trunk was loaded, MacNeice climbed into the Chevy. Once again Aziz opened up a path through the traffic before climbing in beside him. He drove across the two lanes, then slowly over the grass infield before turning onto the airport exit lane. They passed people in cars laughing and sharing their stories of holidays and honeymoons and graduation backpacking trips to exotic places. For some time they said nothing. There was, it seemed, nothing left to say.
“I never got to Lydia’s emails.”
“Leave them. They had nothing to do with her death.”
They continued on in silence for several miles, passing the flat unfolding suburbs, then climbing slightly till they reached the crest of the escarpment.
“I don’t know how I should feel now that it’s done,” Aziz said.
“Not entirely done. There’s still a Bulgarian to find.”
He eased to a stop outside her apartment, put the Chevy in park and let the engine idle. Aziz was looking out the window towards her building. “I’ve just been asked to go back to university—as a teacher,” she said.
“I see.” His voice was as flat as he felt. The day couldn’t end without more bad news. “You’re considering it, I take it.”
“Yes.”
“Because of Marcus Johnson?”
“Because of everything, Mac. I never thought I’d shoot a man.” She looked over at him, both wanting and fearing his response.
“I won’t do anything to stop you if it’s wha
t you need to do.” He rested both hands on the steering wheel as if he was ready to drive off.
She wanted to say I wish you would, but instead she said, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” and opened the car door.
EPILOGUE
—
LEAVING THE HOUSE EARLIER than usual, California state trooper Sergeant First-Class Calvin Mendez, a fifteen-year veteran of the highway patrol, turned towards the Interstate from his neighbourhood outside Salinas and headed west towards Highway 1, where his day would officially begin. He stopped at a roadside diner south of Carmel, and after ham and eggs, buttered toast and a cup of coffee, he climbed into his cruiser and turned south onto the two-lane stretch known as America’s most scenic drive, the Pacific Coast Highway. Sections of the highway, like this one, were so far above the sea that the only way to detect surfers was by the white trails their boards made cutting through the waves.
Mendez believed he was blessed, not only to earn a decent wage but also to be so close to the ocean every working day. He studied the wave patterns on the sea as he drove, scanning for the dawn patrol of serious surfers, who always arrived early. He knew some of them from his own decades of surfing—an obsession that his father, a former migrant worker from Mexico, believed would ruin his life.
It being so early on a Sunday morning, the radio was quiet, and Mendez knew that for the most part his presence was more a visual reminder than anything else. Cars slowed down when they saw him coming, but as he and every other trooper knew, it was the kids on the supercharged Italian and Japanese motorcycles—crotch-rockets, they called them—who were often the problem. On the weekend they’d come screaming out of L.A. heading north, or south from San Francisco, to test themselves on America’s most challenging highway. So far, however, this morning seemed peaceful.
Somewhere south of Big Creek Bridge at 7:39 a.m., he became aware of a Mustang convertible ahead that seemed to be weaving slightly but rhythmically, the way people on Rollerblades do when they listen to music while they skate. Several oncoming vehicles, including a large RV heading north, flashed their headlights and eased towards the shoulder to avoid the car.
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