“I have, sir. He knows what I know.”
“If I knew what was going down in that barn, sir, I swear on my mother’s tears I woulda found a way to go in for him. I swear—”
“I believe you would, Wenzel. I believe you would.” MacNeice said.
“What happens to me now?”
“We’ll take you to Dundurn and put you up in a hotel under twenty-four-hour protection. The American authorities will be informed in the morning”—MacNeice looked at his watch—“about four and half hours from now. I expect the local forces will pay a visit to Old Soldiers. We’ll get someone in to look at your nose and chest and get you a clean set of clothes. Sergeant Penniman will go home in the morning and report for his deployment back to Afghanistan,” MacNeice said. “Right?”
Penniman, who was opening a tall tin of Guinness, didn’t look up.
38.
AZIZ WAS WEARING a pale-blue blouse with her black suit. Her shoes had heels, modest compared to most, but nonetheless they gave her an additional two inches. However, it was her eyes that were most transformed—they were highlighted with brown-black liner. She looked more dramatic than MacNeice had ever seen; the line extended a quarter-inch from the outside corner of each eye, curving slightly upwards—as erotic as it was exotic. Though he knew he shouldn’t be thinking that way.
As they walked across the parking lot to City Hall, Williams trailing them to cover their rear, MacNeice glanced so frequently at Aziz that she asked, “What, is it too much?” Concern flashed across her face.
“No, certainly not. I’m just adjusting.” He changed the subject and spoke about the order of the presentation. He would recap what they knew about William Dance, from the Yamaha to the Camry, from his work with BDI to his disappearance following the death of his parents. “I’ll review the attacks and the damage done and finish by saying that we’ve launched a province-wide manhunt involving hundreds of police.”
“Not strictly true, is it, boss. I mean, I haven’t seen anyone,” Williams said from behind them.
“Electronically speaking, it’s true,” MacNeice said. “Then I’ll turn it over to you, Fiza. Have you considered what you’ll say?”
“You know I have.” Aziz smiled briefly and he saw the real genius of the makeup. Her lips and eyes smiled together, as if the curves in the corners of both were in harmony—though he didn’t think there was much to smile about.
Outside the rear entrance to City Hall were more mobile news units than he could remember ever seeing, and through the doors, more flat black power cords snaking to the media room than there was space for walking. Approaching the double doors, MacNeice could see that it was standing room only, and he steered Aziz to the anteroom from which the mayor made his entrance. Inside, the mayor’s communications officer, Julia Marchetti, nodded at MacNeice and Williams but studied Aziz curiously.
“Mayor Maybank,” Marchetti called, and the mayor, who’d been speaking to Wallace, spun around with his Vote for Me face on. His jaw dropped, but he recovered quickly. “My goodness, Detective Aziz, don’t you look lovely.”
Then Wallace came forward, obviously struggling for something to say that would be politically correct. “Yes, Detective Inspector, you’re very—”
Aziz saved him. “I’m going for exotic, sir. And you needn’t worry—you won’t be seeing me like this again.”
Wallace smiled awkwardly, perhaps unsure of what she meant.
Williams led the four of them into the conference room, then made his way back to the media riser, scanning faces on the off chance that Dance was crazy enough to show up. MacNeice stepped to the microphone and gave a clear and restrained update of the investigation. On cue, the screen behind him faded from the city’s heraldic logo to images of Dance, his motorcycle, the Toyota Camry. He showed the student ID photographs of Taaraa Ghosh, Lea Nam and Samora Aploon and stated that anyone knowing the whereabouts of Dance had an obligation—enforceable by law—to contact the authorities. Failure to do so would be met with severe consequences. The phone number and Web address came onscreen, where it would remain for the rest of the conference.
When he introduced Aziz, MacNeice made a point of putting her in the same category as the three women so savagely attacked: an immigrant known for her accomplishments as a Canadian citizen. He noticed that his stomach tightened anxiously as he did so. He picked up his note cards and took his place beside the mayor.
There was a buzz in the room beyond the whirring, clacking and flashing of equipment. People were leaning this way and that to get a better view or to say something to the person next to them. Aziz cleared her throat and adjusted the principal microphone to her height, ignoring the cluster of seven others taped to the podium.
“I am standing before you as a homicide detective and criminologist. I’m also standing before you as a Lebanese Muslim, a woman—like those who’ve been brutally attacked, a woman of colour. I’m here not to offer more insights into the mind of William Dance but to make a direct appeal to this young man.”
She took a moment to scan the faces before her. Some had pen and notebook in hand, others were kneeling, trying to get their microphones closer without obstructing the view of those behind them.
Aziz took a deep breath that was heard throughout the room, then looked down, not to study her notes—she had none—but to focus clearly on what she’d say next. When she lifted her eyes again to the room, she scanned each of the journalists’ faces. She didn’t want any of them going away not having been seen by her. She wanted each to be her collaborator.
“In my lifetime—my parents’ lifetime—Lebanon has known war. War interrupted by peace, but always the certainty of another war. I know that my parents chose Canada because of many things: Pierre Trudeau and the multicultural society; the dream of a country where we, as Muslims, could live peacefully next to people from every other race and creed in the world. The certainty of peace drew them here, and keeps me here.”
For several seconds there was no other sound in the room but her breathing.
“The suspect we are looking for didn’t choose Canada. He was privileged enough to be born here; his parents and their parents before them were born here. He has been blessed with a life that these three women and I would never have known if we hadn’t chosen to be here.”
She looked down again, this time to control her emotions. When her eyes returned to the room again, she was all cop. “William Dance, as Detective Superintendent MacNeice has indicated, the steel net of law enforcement is descending swiftly around you and on top of you. You are a smart young man, smart enough to know how this will end. I appeal to you now to turn yourself in, to call the number listed on the screen or to make your way to any of the police divisions in the city.”
She looked directly into the television cameras on the riser at the back of the room, trying to focus through them on Dance, sitting somewhere, watching her. “There’s no need for further shedding of blood—neither yours nor that of the women you’ve been intent on destroying. And while there’s no going back, you can go forward. I urge you to end this and surrender today. Surrender—now.”
—
“What do you think?”
“Masterful manipulation.”
“Yeah, she’s making a good point …”
“No. No. No. She’s missing the point! Of course I know how this will end, but I’m not concerned about the ending.” He quietly recited the Templar code: “A KT is a truly fearless knight, secure on every side, protected by the armour of faith. He fears neither demons nor men, nor,” he added, “Muslim women.”
“But they’ve identified the bike, the car … they’ve got a call out for us.”
“They’ve probably also figured out my target list. Any dummy could do that.”
“Yeah, well, I guess. Man, that was one sexy Muslim, though …”
“Done up for the occasion. Yes, she’s impressive.” Billie Dance was studying the images on his wall. News clippings of Aziz without makeup would soon share spa
ce with those from today, as she was certain to be front page, above the fold, in the daily papers. His eyes scanned the images of his first three women, pausing on the razor-torn flesh and the deep, precise punctures. He smiled briefly at the symmetry of each stroke. “Time to flip a coin. Call it.”
“Cool. Okay, heads we do the Muslim, tails the Indian. Best two out of three?”
“Nope, one flip is all you get.” He pulled a quarter out of his pocket and flipped it high into the air, catching it on the way down and slapping it hard onto the back of his left hand. Pulling his hand away, he said, “Heads.”
“No, it’s not! I saw it; it was definitely tails. Tails for the Indian.”
“Chance. The beauty of chance … Get it?”
“Well, yeah … no, actually. I think you were going for Aziz all along, so why flip?”
“Just fuckin’ with chance.” A flash of a smile.
“She got to you. I think she got to you.”
“Maybe …”
“She’ll be covered by MacNeice. See him watching her when she was speaking?”
“Like I said, they’ve got something going that ain’t police work.”
“She’s also armed.”
“Yes, but she’s not going to have time to use her weapon. Now that she’s opened up to me, I’m going to open her up.”
“Big time. She’s got those Arab tits—for sure hers are plump and have those blackberry nipples.”
“I hate it when you go off on that shit. We have a code!”
“All the same, though, she’s a sweet piece. Full bush too, I bet—Muslims probably don’t allow shaved pussies.”
“You are sick, you know that? I’m starting a revolution, a crusade, and you’re talking about pussy and nipples and shit.”
“Nothing sick about that, Billie. Why couldn’t we—you know—do her, before we do her?”
A minute or so passed before Billie responded. “Ah, what the hell—I bet there were Knights Templar like you, Crusaders too. A little bit of rape keeps the troops keen for more fighting. I should research that—the number of rapes per knights in the field at any given time.”
He muted the television as Deputy Chief Wallace began fielding questions, and picked up his paintbrush. He dipped it in a can of black and began to apply it to the tank of the Yamaha. “Don’t know why I didn’t do this before …”
“Yeah, man, and the silver fenders look cool too. It’s not a great paint job, though.”
“I know, but fuck, I’m not entering bike shows with it. Now that I have different plates, it’s like I’m riding a brand-new horse.”
“How we gonna isolate her?”
“That’s the challenge, or, as Pop would say”—Billie changed his posture to deliver his father’s golly-gosh epithet with sneering contempt—“Why, that’s the opportunity, son.”
“Dontcha miss him at all?”
“Miss him? … That hadn’t occurred to me. I miss my mother. The dumb fucks that did the autopsy didn’t notice he was full of cancer. I think he was waiting for that truck.”
“Murder-suicide, you mean?”
“A double homicide and suicide, you mean. That other driver died too. You know, long before he was diagnosed, when I got my master’s degree, he said to me, ‘These are your salad years, William. Don’t ever grow old.’ ”
“Salad years … hmm.”
“This was a guy with a lot of talent who ended up running an insurance company … definitely no dressing on his salad years. To his credit, though, he knew a suicide would cost me my inheritance. Somewhat ironic, since I’ve taken a vow of poverty.”
“Sad fuck.”
“Whatever. Hey, what’s this?”
On the television screen, a photo of Aziz filled the frame. Billie reached for the remote and hit the Mute button.
“… tune in this evening at six p.m. when Dr. Aziz is interviewed for our special, ‘The Mind of a Serial Killer.’ That’s tonight at six. Thank you for watching this broadcast. I’m Kelly Forrestal.”
“We’ve made that Arab a star!”
“Doing her will be like doing ten nobodies. It couldn’t be better.”
39.
“NO SHIT, THAT babe is your partner?” Wenzel was sitting on the edge of the bed with the remote control in his hand.
“Strictly speaking, I never refer to her as a babe, and I’d prefer it if you didn’t either.”
“Shit … sorry, I gets hoof and mouth disease. It won’t happen again.”
Vertesi was lying on the twin bed nearest the door, where he’d spent the night, seeing as how no one else was available to babysit. To be certain he wouldn’t miss the press conference, however, he’d asked the front desk for a wake-up call at 9:30 a.m. He was still in bed, propped up by foam pillows, as Aziz took the podium. He’d been suprised that MacNeice could pull off his presentation so effortlessly, having had, at best, three hours’ sleep. Though maybe that lack of sleep added to his air of gravity.
Looking over at Wenzel, Vertesi smiled. The kid had taken a shower and cleaned himself up as soon as they got to the room, but he still had raccoon eyes and an off-centre, puffy nose. The good news was that he hadn’t been coughing and it seemed that he had no problems sleeping. Vertesi was fairly certain that whatever damage the beating had done to his chest and stomach wasn’t severe enough to require medical attention.
Shortly after the wake-up call, a cop had delivered a bag containing new clothes for Wenzel: sweatpants, a knock-off Leafs jersey, sweat socks, underwear, a toothbrush and toothpaste, shaving foam and a razor. Wenzel was now decked out in his Canadian regalia.
When the press conference wrapped, he started channel surfing. Vertesi got up, showered and dressed. When he was ready to leave, he told Wenzel to order breakfast from room service and watch TV till either he or MacNeice came back for him. He told him not to answer the door; there was a cop on duty outside, and he would open the door and bring in his food when it arrived. “Just sit tight, eat, drink and watch movies. Got that?”
“Yeah. Basically I’m on holiday with Dad’s credit card.”
“Your dad let you do that, did he?” Vertesi said, sliding his weapon into the holster attached to his belt.
“Naw, I didn’t know my dad.”
“What size shoes do you wear, Wenz?”
“Oh, eleven, but I’m okay with these,” he said, looking to where his shoes lay by the door.
“You’ll never get the blood off them. The City of Dundurn will spring for a new pair of Nikes.” Vertesi knew the city wouldn’t pay for them too; he’d pick them up himself.
When MacNeice and Aziz got back to Division after the press conference, Ryan flagged them down as they walked into the cubicle.
“I got a lead in Rhode Island on the couple in the Packard—a guy who’s in his mid-nineties. He was a ventriloquist in the Borscht Belt, which my Google search says was in the Catskills, also called the ‘Jewish Alps.’ I got his son on the phone first, and when I asked if his father was healthy, he said, ‘Ya mean, he still got his marbles?’ I felt busted, so I copped to it and said, ‘Well, yes, more or less.’ ”
“What’d he say?” Aziz asked.
“He says, ‘Sonny, he’s not only got his marbles, he’s got his bowling balls—whaddya think of that!’ ”
“Sounds painful …”
“He says, ‘Dad can remember all his tours from 1932 to 1957 but he can’t remember where he keeps his Depends.’ So we agreed that I’d call at five before the old guy went down for the early-bird special.”
“So what have you got?” MacNeice asked.
“Okay, the ventriloquist’s name is Al Katzenberg, but his stage name was Alley Katz. His dummy was a big ginger cat named Mort.”
Ryan’s fingers skipped rhythmically across the keyboard; MacNeice wondered if he had a melody in mind. An audio file appeared on the screen. “I’ve edited out most of the What? Whaddya say? I don’t understand yer accent? So here you go—it’s pretty clean. He’s a shar
p guy, so if I blew any questions, let me know and I’ll get him on the phone again.”
“How old is this man?” MacNeice asked.
“Ninety-four. Running time’s just over four minutes. A warning, though—his language is X-rated.”
There was a beep, then nothing for two seconds, then the sound of a phone being picked up. “Mr. Katzenberg?”
“Call me Katz.” The old man’s voice was strong, a bit raspy but not weakened by age. “You are Mr. Al Katzenberg the ventriloquist?”
“Whaa? Are you a fuckin’ moron? I just told ya, call me Katz! Who’s this jerk-off you put me on with here, huh?” In the background they could hear a male voice saying something about Canada and Chas Greene.
“Mr. Katz, I’m calling from Dundurn Homicide in Ontario, Canada.”
“Dundurn? Remind me, is that near Montreal? I killed ’em in Montreal.”
“No, it’s between Toronto and Buffalo. We’re investigating the death of Chas Greene, sir, a long time ago—”
“Who? Chas! You call him Chas?” Then, to the person in the background, “This putz talkin’ about Greenblatt?” The answer came clearly, “Yes, Dad, he’s callin’ about Chaim Greenblatt.”
“Then why didn’t he say so? Fuck, this call’s costin’ a shitload, ain’t it?”
Ryan’s voice: “Sir, we’re covering the call. Did you know Mr. Greenblatt?”
“Stop callin’ me sir, goddammit. You a fuckin’ limey?”
“Sorry. No, Mr. Katz, I’m Canadian.”
“Yeah, well … sure, I knew the little shit. Knew his fuckin’ dummy too—what was his name …”
“Archie.”
“Fuck! Don’t tell me that; I coulda got it. What’s yer hurry anyways?” And aside, “This kid’s getting on my tits, Murray.”
“Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing, fer chrissakes. Now gimme time to think here … yeah, so, Archie … Yeah, me ‘n’ Mort killed ’em one night in Jersey City. Killed ’em! We did the Catskills—everybody did—then we’d hit the road … Jeezus, we’d be gone for almost a year—”
“But you toured together?”
The Ambitious City Page 23
