He had a cell phone, but it was at home on his dresser in need of a new battery or some other incomprehensible electronic part. He went inside the station to a bank of telephones across from the VIA Rail ticket counters and tried Fielding’s number. There was no answer. He hung up. He waited a few seconds then tried the number again, thinking Fielding might be screening his calls. Still, there was no answer. Out for a Sunday morning walk, most likely. Or sleeping in. Still, he had to be sure. He pulled Hassan’s card from his pocket and called the driver.
“Yes?” Hassan answered on the third ring.
“It’s McKelvey,” he said. “Are you working today? I need a ride.”
“Always working,” Hassan said. “Where are you, Mr. McKelvey?”
“Just inside Union Station.”
Hassan laughed. “Go look outside. I just pulled up.”
McKelvey hoped this flash of serendipity was a sign of things to come, but he didn’t really believe it. That wet wool blanket was hanging around his shoulders again, the sense of impending doom, the understanding that he was responsible for everything from here on out because, as Hattie had been so willing to remind him, he should have enlisted some help from the beginning. Like the police, she had said. The real police.
McKelvey had Hassan wait outside the building in a visitor parking space while he ran up to check in on Fielding. On the drive over, he had worked it out in his head. Without causing undue alarm, he would suggest Tim come and bunk with him for a few nights until Donia Kruzik turned up, her jealous husband or boyfriend had time to calm down, or the whole thing otherwise blew over. It would be a chance for them to live like a modern day version of Felix and Oscar, the Odd Couple. But in truth, he sensed it wouldn’t be quite as easy as that. As he played through the key facts to date, the potential coincidence of the garage, the broken nose, the empty apartment—he suddenly remembered the magnet from the fridge. The immigrant support centre. A lead he needed to follow up, one he had almost let slip through his fingers. Out of practice, out of the game—was this the first trace of rust settling in? It was amazing how much of the job remained with him, the way he watched people, the small things he noticed as he walked the streets or talked with strangers— and yet also startling how quickly he had dulled at the edges. It was his age, and it was living alone and it was being “ex” this or that, the whole jarring experience of retirement. It happened so quickly. As though you were driving along the highway at eighty miles an hour and someone suddenly reached over and pulled the emergency brake. Here, pal, why don’t you hop out here and go sit on that picnic table over there and let the people who still matter go on by?
“What do you think of these Blue Jays?” Hassan said, glancing in the mirror.
“I think they need to win another World Series,” McKelvey said. “You get sort of used to it, you know, the parades and the street parties. Seems like a long way off these days. Hard to believe that was only seven, eight years ago. Be nice to even make the playoffs for starters.”
“My wife says they need a woman to manage the baseball team. Only a woman, she says, can stand back and see the whole picture. In my country, Mr. McKelvey, in my country she would be shot for saying something as foolish as that. But here, in my kitchen, she tells me what she thinks. Oh, does she tell me what she thinks. Are you married, sir?”
McKelvey went to respond in the affirmative—the old habit of prattling off police codes or his Social Insurance number, it was that automatic. Married? What exactly were he and Caroline, besides about three thousand miles apart? Neither one of them had mentioned divorce in the nearly two years of their twice monthly phone calls. It was all cordial updating on life’s little wins and losses, the new muffler for the car, the weather and what was going on in the news, and of course their shared joy in measuring the growth of the only grandchild, Emily. They were legally separated, the details of their arrangement set out in pages of legalese. But to the question, at least in legal and technical terms, yes, they were married. It was strange, McKelvey thought, how they had stumbled and fumbled through the past thirty years to end up in this strange place, this new and uncharted landscape. It was then that he realized how much he had missed her these past few years. Even before the trouble with Gavin, even before all of the grief, he had stopped trying. To talk to her, to listen, to reach out and touch her sometimes for no reason at all. To hold her. The things that would not have cost him at all, the things that seemed so easy in hindsight.
“We’re separated,” McKelvey said, “by three provinces.”
And a Y chromosome, he was going to add. He caught Hassan’s quick glance in the rearview, and he couldn’t hold the man’s eyes. He turned to the window and watched the city rushing past. Here was again, yet again, in the centre of a mess of his own making. He imagined Caroline slowly shaking her head, perhaps even smiling as she said something like, “Here you go again, Charlie…why don’t you ever ask for help?”
McKelvey, the Blunderbuss.
“Good ones are hard to find,” Hassan said. “Remember that.”
“I’ll remember it,” McKelvey said.
Hassan smiled and said, “I can’t forget it, because my wife tells me every day.”
McKelvey knocked at Fielding’s door and waited. He leaned in to listen, but, unlike the cheap door at Donia Kruzik’s apartment, this was solid wood reinforced with steel. You get what you pay for. He tried the doorknob without expectation and was surprised when it turned in his hand. He pushed the door open and felt his heart in his chest, this mess of wires connected to his ribs, and he closed the door behind him.
“Tim,” he called out to an empty apartment for the second time in a week.
Goddamn, he thought, and he knew in his gut that something wasn’t right. He looked around, over at the kitchen and the island bar, the living room, nothing out of order. He walked over to the two-piece bathroom off the living room, pushed the door and looked inside. Then he walked over to the master bedroom. The door was closed. He put his hand on the doorknob, hesitated, uncertain now whether he should walk back out and call Hattie, or maybe just sit on the couch and wait for Fielding to come back from his walk or his trip to buy fresh bagels, wherever the hell he was. But it was just fear, something he had to get past. The same brand of certainty that had brought him over here was telling him now that what he had come for was behind that door, waiting for him. He took a deep breath, turned the knob, and eased the door open to reveal the body of a woman sprawled face-down beside the bed.
The room was in chaos, the mattress askew, sheets torn off, books and magazines and a reading light knocked from a night table and scattered on the floor. He went to the closet on instinct and rushed the doors open, then went to master ensuite bathroom and did the same with the shower curtain, even the doors on the vanity, knowing from experience how impossibly small a human could make themselves when it came to the necessity of hiding from the police. And he wasn’t about to get blindsided twice in the same week, a shadow springing from behind a shower curtain with a butcher knife. He reached out and felt the towels that were hung, and they were damp. Fielding had showered that morning, he had been in the apartment. Or someone had, at least.
I’m fucked, he thought, easing back into the bedroom. Fucked six ways to Sunday. First witness on the scene is the first suspect. Without adjusting her body, he bent over and touched the woman at the carotid artery with two fingers. There was nothing, and she was somewhere on the colder side of lukewarm, her flesh already beginning to turn the blue-grey of early death. What, a couple of hours? She was about five foot six, maybe a hundred and forty pounds, her dirty blonde hair shoulder length. One arm was tucked beneath her belly and the other was outstretched, the hand reaching for something, perhaps the light or a cordless phone, a last desperate clutch at faint hope. He squinted and noted that between the strands of tousled hair there appeared to be darkened flesh. He gently moved the hair and confirmed it. The neck was dark with bruising, the deep purple of strangulatio
n. Hands or a ligature, he couldn’t tell, he wasn’t an expert in these matters—the crime scene and forensics folks would take photos, measure, create diagrams and schematics. But given the width of the line of bruising, his money was on a ligature of some fashion. He looked around the room, around the floor, for anything that might have been employed in the task—the belt from a bathrobe, a tie—but there was nothing that he could see.
He stepped back out of the room and stood there for a long minute. Fielding was gone—either of his own volition or against his will. So then, think. Play it through. Okay, Fielding finally makes contact with Donia Kruzik. Maybe she comes by and they get into a heated argument. She admits she has a husband or a boyfriend or turns tricks every third Wednesday, and Fielding loses it, strangles her, and he bolts.
No. Jesus.
Not Tim Fielding.
McKelvey understood it was a cardinal sin of police work to discount from the get-go, to let personal feelings or judgments blind you to the cold, hard facts, but he knew the man. His nature, the stuff that he was made of. Just not possible. No, there was something at play here, and Fielding had found himself at its rotten centre. What had Tim found out about this woman, who she knew, where she was from? Was his body somewhere as well, or had he been taken, set up as the fall guy for the murder? Christ, was the dead woman even Donia Kruzik? Who was Donia Kruzik, for that matter?
It didn’t look good, not for McKelvey, definitely not for Fielding. All the connections, the dotted lines that could be drawn. He had called the apartment twice before coming over. From a payphone, but still, they could and would make that connection. Hassan was waiting downstairs, had driven him straight over after he had made the calls. The superintendent at Donia’s building could confirm that yes, this ex-cop had showed up looking for her. Passed himself off as a cop on active duty. Jesus. He felt dizzy for a minute, his chest tight. What sort of half-assed, half-rate hack would bumble through something like this? What a fucking fiasco…
He found the cordless on the coffee table and dialed Hattie’s cell phone.
“Detective Hattie,” she said.
“It’s me,” he said. “Where are you?”
“With Anderson. On our way to an address in Scarborough to get a few hammerheads out of bed, see if their mommas can vouch for their whereabouts last night. This after-hours bar got turned over for the cover charge take.”
“There’s a situation,” he said. “At Fielding’s apartment.”
“A situation,” she repeated. And she waited.
He drew a long breath and exhaled slowly. He closed his eyes and shook his head at nobody in particular. “A body,” he said. “I think there’s a pretty good chance it’s Donia Kruzik.”
“Jesus and Mary.”
McKelvey said, “And Fielding’s missing.”
“Sit down and don’t even think of moving,” she said. “I’ll make the call, Charlie. You’re in enough shit.” He heard her turn to Anderson and say something, then she came back on the line. “My very understanding partner here has offered to bring me around once we finish up our stop. Shouldn’t be too long. They’ll be all over you by then, but I’ll try to be quick.”
“Thanks,” he said.
She didn’t answer, she was simply gone. The dial tone. About what he deserved. He walked over to the kitchen bar and sat on a stool, trying to focus his thoughts on the facts, the details of the last few days. Hattie called it in from the road—a 10-45, dead body—and patrol cars arrived on the scene within six minutes. Two patrol officers entered the apartment with their sidearms unstrapped, hands at the ready—modern-day gunslingers. McKelvey could tell right away they were young on the job, at least the first one in the door who caught sight of McKelvey at the kitchen bar. This kid held a hand out in caution, the other hand hovering at his holster.
“Don’t move,” the cop ordered. “Hands up where I can see them.”
The rookie’s oxymoron—don’t move, but put your hands up. McKelvey slowly raised his hands to shoulder height and said, “Vic’s in the master bedroom face-down on the floor. Female Caucasian, mid-thirties. Signs of trauma to the neck. Secure the scene and don’t touch anything.”
“He’s the cop they said was here,” the second officer said to the first.
“Ex Hold-Up Squad,” McKelvey said and slowly lowered his hands.
The first patrol officer nodded and stood in the centre of the room to secure the scene while the second officer ducked into the bedroom to clear the rooms and then check for a pulse. McKelvey heard the officer making a call on his radio. He sat there with his hands on his lap, lightheaded and in serious need of a pain tablet. Christ, even a half tab. Why had he flushed them in a moment of guilt? He wasn’t an addict; he was simply looking for a window to let in a little light.
THIRTEEN
Hattie hung up and tossed the phone on the seat between her and Anderson. They were headed east on the 401, the King’s Highway that cut across the very heart of Ontario. It was a line of two, four and six-lane asphalt spanning 820 kilometres from Windsor in the southwest corner, to the far eastern border with Quebec. One section of the freeway in Toronto alone carried more than 400,000 vehicles on an average day, giving it the distinction of being North America’s single busiest stretch of highway. For three hours each morning, and for three hours each afternoon, it turned into the country’s biggest parking lot. Today, a Sunday, traffic was light and moving well.
“Anything you want to share?” Anderson said.
“Goddamned McKelvey,” she said then unleashed a string of Maritime expletives, which included multiple references to saints and fishermen, many H’s and Mary’s.
Anderson whistled, and said, “Trouble in paradise.” He ran fingers over the short stubble on his chin. “He’s too old for you anyway, you know. You’ve got what, like a fifteen-year age difference?”
“Shut up,” she said.
“All I’m saying is he’s old school,” Anderson said.
“What the fuck do you know about old school?” she said, turning to look at him, his young face without even a hint of experience beyond the late nights he kept. He owned the tight and showy physique bought in a fancy gym where they handed you a clean towel on your way in, but she still figured she could take him down with a good solid shot to his pretty little nose. Her brothers had taught her how to fight the same way they had taught her how to tie a dozen different seaman’s knots.
Anderson shrugged and said, “Don’t take it the wrong way. I think McKelvey’s cool as shit, I mean, Jesus. He shot that biker, he fucking took care of business, you know what I mean? The guy has balls the size of pumpkins. I’m just saying, if you’re looking for, you know…someone who’s going to listen and understand, then…”
“Then maybe I should turn to someone like you, someone who really understands the complex inner workings of a woman,” she said, smiling now. “Well, whatever his faults, I can tell you, McKelvey never once even contemplated frosting his fucking hair.”
Anderson went to say something but turned to the window instead, and Hattie gunned them towards their destination, her mind stuck on Charlie, Charlie, Charlie. She knew she had a decision to make. They both knew it had been coming for some time. She was up for a promotion to the Homicide Squad. It was a very real possibility. Homicide in the biggest city in the country. She needed to keep her nose clean. The closer she was affiliated with McKelvey, the less her chances were of making the grade—it was that simple, the politics of his exit from the force, the cloud surrounding his dogged pursuit of Duguay. It made her sick to her stomach to think this way, some sort of careerist, but goddamnit, she was forty-two years old. She had herself to think of for once in her life. Well, maybe twice. Leaving Halifax, and her ex-husband, and two hundred years of ancestral roots, had been the first time she’d really thought of her own desires and aspirations over all else. The decision to leave a lifetime of fishing and fiddles, kitchen parties and long winters of her husband sitting at home drinking a
nd waiting and watching The Price is Right. It was strange, because she had loved her ex in much the same way that she loved Charlie, meaning she had stuck around too long waiting for the results to change simply because her heart won out, because she was in deep. She loved Charlie, but it was getting to the point where a shared future seemed like the dream of a naïve girl. Just when she seemed to catch the glimpse of a beacon of hope on the horizon, some notion that he might take up golf or surprise her with a sudden trip to Antigua—anything that signalled an investment in himself or their shared future—McKelvey retreated to his view of the world as this failed experiment that was long overdue for a cancellation of its funding.
“You’re not going to tell McKelvey what I said,” Anderson said. He sounded like a young boy now. He turned and looked at her, waiting for a response. “I didn’t mean anything by it. You know me, I take every opportunity I can get. I’m sick that way. It’s a disability, probably even chronic.”
Hattie laughed and shook her head.
Detective Mary-Ann Hattie arrived just as the crews from Homicide and Forensics were pulling into the parking lot of Fielding’s building. McKelvey knew that in an hour the place would be stuffed with evidence experts dressed in their white space suits, scanning the place with their blue lights, photographers taking still shots and 360-video of the scene, recording and measuring everything. Even the Homicide dicks had to wait for the evidence geeks to get in and do their job, crime scene preservation trumping all else. The nerds could take as long as they damned well pleased. They had all been patrol officers at one point, which was their saving grace. There was a shared understanding of roles and responsibilities.
Slow Recoil Page 12
