The man behind the counter looked a little like Paul Newman. Same short white hair, clear blue eyes, and unlined face. He was reading a copy of Foreign Affairs and watching me without much interest. He did not ask if I needed anything.
“It says here you’ve got live bait?” I asked.
The man nodded.
“Can I have some?” I asked.
“What kind?” he asked. He had a faint English accent.
“Uh, worms,” I replied.
“What kind of worms?” he asked.
“I don’t know man. I’m going up to Lake Muskoka today.”
“On Monday?” he asked.
“Yeah, this way we beat traffic,” I said. “Since I was driving by I just thought I should get some bait.”
The man looked at me for a long time, and then he stood up and walked into the back room. I waited, feeling a bit like an idiot, for what seemed like a long time. But the man came back with a paper bag and handed it over to me.
“Five dollars,” he said.
“Credit card okay?”
“Two dollar charge,” he said.
“Fine by me.”
While he was running it through, I asked:
“Do you fish yourself?”
“Yes,” he said, “sometimes.”
“I’m not much of a fisherman,” I said.
“Hmm,” he replied.
“Why do you like it?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s relaxing.”
“You don’t find it boring?”
“Fishing requires patience,” the man said. “It’s important to be very patient.”
I took my receipt and smiled at him.
“Have a good day,” I said.
“Enjoy your trip,” the man said.
Although he lifted his copy of Foreign Affairs back up, his eyes stayed on me until I left the store.
22
Tuesday morning I made some follow up calls to the comic stores to ask about Brucie, and this time I had better luck. The first guy I talked to at the first store I called (the Silver Snail on Queen West) knew exactly what I was talking about.
“Oh yeah,” the guy said. “I remember him. Husky kid, right? Curly brown hair?”
“Yeah,” I said. “That sounds like him. His name is Brucie Goldstein.”
“Well, he said his name was Arthur Smith. But he didn’t show any ID and he paid in cash.”
“It was a Detective Comics #66? And he came in last July? Late in the month?”
“Sure, yeah, I remember,” the guy said. “I remember because the comic came back 9.2.”
“No shit?”
“Restored.”
It took a moment for that to sink it.
“What?” I said.
“Needless to say I was a bit concerned what the kid would do when he found out. If it hadn’t come back restored, that comic was worth up to 30 grand. Shit. Maybe more, what with Two-Face being in the last movie.”
“He must have been pissed.”
“You’d think,” the guy said. “The funny thing is he didn’t look that upset. He looked blank. Maybe he was in shock. Eight grand. Jesus.”
“What do you mean eight grand?”
“Well, I asked the kid where he bought it. He said he bought it for eight grand in a private sale online. I told him he should call the cops, but I never saw him again.”
“Thanks man,” I said. I took down his name and contact info and then I hung up. Right away I called Dean.
“I think I figured out why Brucie killed himself,” I said. “He tried to restore that comic.”
23
Later that evening, around seven, we sat in Dean’s backyard, sipping ice water with cucumber in it. Dean listened to everything I had to say about Derek Ha and my conversation with the guy at the Silver Snail.
“I know there’s a lot of weird stuff about this case,” I said. “The black box, the calls. But don’t you think this just looks more and more like a suicide?”
“Think so?” Dean replied.
“Sure. Brucie starts seeing a hooker. He loves her. He’s a bit unstable about it. Pretty soon he runs through all his money. So what does he do? He hatches a scheme to make some money. He’ll take a comic book with a big spread on the grading notes, and resubmit it. But he’s not going to just leave things to chance. He restores it a bit too. He was an artist, remember. Unfortunately, CQC catches him out. Faced with a huge pile of debt, he jumps off the bridge.”
“Hmm,” Dean said.
“What do you mean hmm? Just tell me what you’re thinking, you fucker.”
“Well,” Dean said, “you’re operating under the assumption that Brucie bought this particular comic because he looked at the grading notes and saw the scores were spread apart. But remember, he sent Paradise Comics a list. If he was looking for a comic with a big spread of grading notes, he could have just browsed through what they had in stock. Don’t you think he must have had some other reason for sending the list?”
“But he asked to see the grading notes, and there’s nothing on them other than the different scores and comments about the comic.”
“Oh no?” Dean said.
He pulled out a copy of the grading notes from a manila folder and set it in front of me.
I looked over them.
“See? It’s just about which corner is bent, or whatever …” I began.
Dean’s finger jabbed down at the top right corner of the page, where it was stamped with a date. February 18, 2004.
“The date?” I asked. And then I said: “Oh shit.”
“The year of the NHL lockout,” Dean said. “When our buddy Mr. Ha had a CQC account.”
“Fuck,” I said.
“Now we don’t know what comics Brucie put on his list,” Dean continued, “except for the two that were mentioned in the e-mail back to him. I did a little browsing on Heritage, the auction site that Peter mentioned. You can browse their history to see everything they’ve sold for years. Back in 2004 and 2005, Over The Boards sold over thirty comics, including both mentioned in Peter’s e-mail to Brucie. Heritage’s site even lists the CQC numbers.”
“You think he bought this comic because he knew it was submitted at Over The Boards?” I asked. “But why?”
“Well,” Dean admitted, “I don’t know yet.”
“I don’t know Dean,” I said. “It seems like a bit of a stretch.”
“I just find it a weird coincidence,” Dean said. “I don’t know how else to explain the list.”
“The list could be anything,” I said. “He could have picked them based on how much their value changes by a point or two over 9.0.”
“Could be,” Dean said. “But here’s what I’m thinking. Let’s see if we can find the other comic on Brucie’s list that was submitted through Over The Boards. Then we’ll buy it and crack it open to have a look-see.”
“Okay,” I said. “We’ll need the money to buy the comic though.”
Dean waved his hand.
“We can always resubmit it afterwards anyway and resell it. We shouldn’t lose too much money. Jay will pay.”
“Up to you,” I said, and had a drink of my cucumber water. “You’re right that there’s not much else to do.”
“Actually,” Dean said. “There is one other thing.”
“What?”
“Well,” Dean said, “you remember that Chantelle told you that Oksana parties with NHL players? Specifically Mikhail Novosi?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Well,” Dean said. “Don’t you think it’s an interesting coincidence that the comic Brucie bought was submitted to CQC through a store that principally sells hockey memorabilia?”
I hadn’t thought of that.
“I checked out Over The Board’s website today,” Dean said. “They have loads of stuff signed by Novosi. Cards, pictures, jerseys. They even had him in the store during the summer for an appearance. He was signing pictures and stuff. It was all on the blog.”
“Tha
t is a weird coincidence,” I said.
“So maybe you should look up what you can find on Novosi,” Dean said. “I’d like to drop by and meet him sometime.”
“And say what?” I asked. “Hey, I hear you like to party with hookers?”
Dean smiled.
“I’ll think of something,” he said.
Tina came out bearing a tray of snacks, and we dropped the subject for a while.
24
When I got to my computer the next morning I saw that Dean had e-mailed Peter (and cc’d me) about the comic he was looking to buy. Peter had already e-mailed back saying he didn’t have it in stock but he could look around.
I also tracked down an address for Novosi. He lived in a condo in the big concrete forest at Lakeshore and Spadina. When I spoke to Dean about it, he said that the Leafs had a game Saturday night, so maybe we could catch him on Friday afternoon if we dropped by unannounced.
So for the better part of two and a half days, I followed Mr. Burke around the city. It was hard as hell to keep him in sight without making myself conspicuous. I didn’t catch him doing jack.
Dean and I met up Friday at five pm. He came down from his office looking a bit raw. Red eyes, hair messed up, a few days worth of beard.
“You okay?” I said, a bit concerned.
“Oh yeah,” Dean said. “Just working late on another file.”
“Great,” I said.
“I got an e-mail from Peter,” Dean said. “Looks like the Hulk one he offered to Brucie is still available. The CQC number proves that it was submitted by Over The Boards and we can buy it for $6,000.”
I whistled.
“We’ll get the money back,” Dean said. “I just want to take a look at it.”
While we were heading west on King I stopped to buy a hotdog. For a while I’d resisted trying that weird corn jam that all the hotdog stands have in Toronto, but now I was getting addicted to it. I also went with bacon bits, mayonnaise, barbeque sauce and olives.
“Fuck man,” Dean said. His tone was a mixture of disgust and awe.
“Don’t knock it till you try it,” I said.
“Duly noted,” Dean replied.
I don’t know why they put all the condo buildings in the city right next to each other. It makes for a depressing neighborhood; as sterile as an industrial zone, or Chernobyl. Fifty buildings stand together, right on the lake, nothing but concrete and empty roads between them. From the middle of them it’s a 15 minute walk to the real city. I guess if you’re lucky you get a nice view of the lake. If you’re unlucky, you get a not-so-nice view of the condo building right next to you.
“How are we going to get in?” I asked Dean. “Buzz up?”
“Nah,” Dean said. “Let’s just try it the easy way.”
So we hung around the front door until someone came out of the building and just walked in right after them. The guy leaving, a skinny Asian dude, even held the door open for us. Dean nodded at the doorman and we took the elevator up to the 36th floor.
“The simplest solution is best,” Dean said.
Loud, pulsing techno music was coming from Mikhail’s apartment. Dean knocked hard.
“What are you going to say?” I asked,
“Just follow my lead,” Dean said.
There was no answer for a few seconds, so Dean pounded on the door again.
This time it opened, revealing a shirtless man, with a fat face, very short hair, and an evil expression in his eyes.
“”Hey,” Dean said, “I’m here to talk to Mikhail about a sponsorship.”
The fat man lifted his eyebrows.
“Not here about music?” he said, with a Russian accent.
“No, no, I’m from TQ Sports. The jewelry company? I’m here about a sponsorship. We want to pay him to wear jewelry.”
I didn’t think it was going to work, but the fat guy stepped aside.
“Come in, come in!” he said. “Make yourself at home!”
So we walked in.
Great view, first of all. That was the first thing I noticed. Ceiling to floor view of the lake. Big balcony. A staircase curled up to a second floor. It was open concept, with a gleaming kitchen and a wide TV on the wall. White leather furniture. Nothing on the walls.
Two men, both in their underwear, were playing NHL 11 on the television. From where we were standing I could only see their hairy backs and their balding pates. A still-frosty bottle of Stolichnaya vodka was sitting on the table in front of them. The whole place smelt a little close.
“Come in, come in,” the fat guy said. “Have a drink!”
“No, that’s okay,” Dean said. “Where’s Mikhail?
“On the balcony,” the fat guy said.
And there he was. I’d missed him the first time because he was off to the side. He was sitting out there in nothing but his shorts, gripping a hockey stick between his legs, and applying a blow torch to the blade. His face was lean, scarred with the ghost of teen acne, and carried an expression of almost fanatical focus. Every now and then he would press the blade into the railing of the balcony, look at it again, and test it on the ground.
“I’ll just go talk to him,” Dean said. “Terrell, wait here.”
The two boys on the couch glanced at him as he crossed the room, and then went back to their game.
“You sure you don’t want vodka?” the fat guy asked.
“No, I’m cool,” I said. “I’ll just wait for my buddy.”
“Caviar?” the fat guy said. “Wine? Beer? Water? Pizza? We have left over pizza, I think. Sausage and garlic? From Amato?”
“No, no,” I said. “I’m good.”
“Please,” the fat guy said. “You insult me.”
He had to shout to be heard over the music. His breath stank of booze.
“Pizza,” I said.
The guy grinned and got the box out of the fridge.
“Where’s the bathroom?” I asked.
The guy motioned back the way I had come and I took my pizza there. When I glanced over my shoulder I saw Dean talking to Mikhail out on the balcony. Dean was showing him some sort of jewelry, looked like silver and gold chains, from a slim black carrying case. Mikhail was looking at the jewelry but still holding the blowtorch to the blade of his stick.
To my surprise, the bathroom was full of hockey memorabilia. Mostly sticks and jerseys, carelessly piled in the bathtub, but there were also stacks of cards and magazines on the counter next to the toilet, along with a big pad of what appeared to be clear stickers. A mug, bearing the Toronto Maple Leafs logo and full of sharpie markers, sat on the toilet tank. Finally, there was a plastic box of signed hockey cards next to the toilet. The cards were from all different brands and they all bore different pictures but the same player was on every one. Mikhail Novosi.
The sink and the tub were clean except for a fine layer of dust. No toothbrush, no shampoo, no soap. The cupboards under the sink and behind the mirrors were empty. It looked like the only thing that had ever been used was the toilet, like Mikhail only came in here to take dumps and sign memorabilia. Apparently at the same time. Delightful.
I took a whiz while eating my piece of pizza with my free hand. It was pretty thin so I folded it in half and I had finished it all before I was done peeing. Afterwards, I looked around for the hand soap but there was none to be found.
Instead, the garbage can caught my eye. It was tucked a little bit behind the toilet, and it appeared to be stuffed with brown wrapping paper and envelopes. Now, as you may or may not know, the courts have consistently ruled that there’s no privacy interest in your garbage. So that means as a private detective a good portion of your day involves sorting through the trash. These are things they don’t show you in Humphrey Bogart movies. Anyway, maybe it was just a reflex, but I pulled it out and start pawing through it. All of it was mail addressed to Novosi concerning the memorabilia he was signing.
I found a letter from Over The Boards.
Dear Mr. Novosi, we have not yet r
eceived the 300 cards we needed for the start of the season. As you recall, you were paid $3,000 for these signatures. It is important to us to get those cards in the packs so we can distribute them to our loyal collectors. I hope you have not misplaced the cards as they contain authentic game-used memorabilia and cannot be easily reproduced. I consider myself to have a good relationship with you and Vasily and I would not want a minor matter like some signed cards to get in the way of that. Please contact me immediately if there are any issues. Yours truly, Derek Ha.
I put the letter in my pocket and searched for anything else from Ha, but there was nothing. A quick search through the stack revealed the Over The Boards cards awaiting signature. Each one had a thin sliver of real wood attached to the front, and there was a hologram on the back. I thought about taking one but in the end I left them.
There was a thumping on the door.
“Just a minute,” I said.
“I’m coming in,” the voice said, and the door bumped open. One of the guys who had been playing video games staggered in, the music pouring in with him. “It’s okay! Don’t worry! I’ll use the sink.”
“Hey man!” I said. “Don’t do that, it’s cool!”
“No, no,” the man said, and gestured at me to use the toilet. “It’s all right! I don’t mind! Go ahead, go ahead! Sink is fine.”
He was already pissing. His urine was as clear as lake water, and stank like turpentine.
“What’s the matter?” the man said. “Are you worried about sizes? I don’t care about sizes, my friend. Go ahead.”
I laughed at patted him on the back as I made my way outside. The fat guy who had let Dean and I in had taken a place at the television. They had switched to some game that involved shooting Nazis, and they were singing a song I recognized (from Rocky IV) as the national anthem of the Soviet Union. Their voices were barely audible over the techno, which had apparently been turned up.
Outside Dean was talking on an iPhone. It was not his and I assumed it belonged to Mikhail, who had returned to working on his hockey stick and was smoking a cigarette. Dean glanced at me, held up his hand, and said a few more words. Then he passed the phone back to Mikhail and made his way out to meet me.
The Black Box: A novel Page 9
