Blood Wine (32 page)

“Morgan, that's xenophobic.”

“No. They're not all foreigners.”

“Or immigrants.”

“No, okay, I take it back. But Savage, he likes to live well. He has a fabulous house in the country, only it's ashes and dust now. He commuted. From where? From a great place in the city … it stands to reason. He fancies himself cosmopolitan. He'll have a suite in a hotel in the heart of Toronto, yes!”

“You are not being monitored by every kiosk selling lottery tickets.”

“The lottery outlets, I hadn't thought of them.”

“Shut up.”

“Do you know Mrs. Oughtred's husband and I, we might have been distantly related?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I have a family hope chest that belonged to a Haun from the Niagara area, at least two hundred years old. The old lady said her husband was a Haun on his mother's side.”

“It's sad. She didn't tell us about her own ancestry, only his. She was a woman of her era, I guess. Ninety-six years old. What an absurd way to die, blown to ashes and dust.”

Walking north past the Ontario Legislature at Queen's Park, they each experienced brief encounters with nostalgia evoked by university buildings visible through the trees on either side of them. Avenue Road stretched out ahead, a canyon between condos running all the way to the tower at Upper Canada College, where it diverted around the playing fields of the privileged.

“That's it,” said Miranda, suddenly. “Not a hotel, a condo. We're looking for a condo. Philip's nails were immaculate, too — did I tell you his name was Mohammet Jousef? He was Albanian.”

“You told me he was an Albanian. I don't think you told me his name.”

“Mohammet Jousef. He was educated in the States. Morgan, his nails were manicured.”

“No big gold rings?”

“No, he was a corporate lawyer.”

“Miranda —”

“I know, Philip Carter was the corporate lawyer, not Mohammet Jousef. He told me once it was an occupational thing.”

“Getting his nails done?”

“Washing his hands, you know, Pontius Pilate, Lady MacBeth.”

“Ah, don't we love lawyers. So, do you think Mr. Savage is Albanian as well?”

“Morgan, we're not looking for a barbershop. We're looking for room service manicurists.”

“At a hotel. You think these guys lived at The Four Seasons.”

“Not necessarily. But I'm betting if we check out the manicurists in a few of the better hotels around here, we'll find one who provides off-premises room service.”

“Let's give it a try.” They were within easy reach of several expensive hotels, but it seemed an arbitrary undertaking.

“I'm betting Savage lives in one of these condos,” said Miranda, gazing up Avenue Road. “He wants to be at the centre of things. This is it. There aren't many condos by the big hotels closer to the lake. Except down at the harbour. We'll try there next.”

“You think you know this guy.”

“You're chasing down a killer, Morgan. I'm after a nightmare. I know him, yes.”

“And you think he's somewhere near the corner of Bloor and Avenue Road.”

“Toronto has any number of centres, right? But this is the centre of refined decadence. This is where he needs to be — to observe all that is dissolute about the world he wants to destroy, to revel in the richness of its inevitable demise. He'll fuck it, the world he fears and can't have. That's how this guy thinks. He'll lift its skirts for a peek, feel it up publicly, fuck it by stealth.”

“Nasty,” Morgan responded. She was handling herself so well emotionally, he was taken off guard by the revelation in her crude language of how much she was hurting inside.

They walked into a palatial hotel lobby, past service personnel in livery, straight to the beauty salon near the Unisex Health Club.

“Police,” said Miranda, flashing her ID at the mascara- afflicted receptionist. “We're looking for a manicurist who works off premises.”

“No one here like that,” said the receptionist, her voice indicating she had taken offence. “We're not allowed.”

“You send people up to guests' rooms, don't you?” Morgan leaned past her desk to look through the door of the gym, over which there was a large sign reading
GUESTS ONLY
.”

“Yes, we can keep an eye on things here. But no one goes out. We're not an escort service.”

“No,” said Miranda. “That's not what I heard.”

She was bluffing but she had pressed the right button.

“That was months ago. It wasn't us, just one of the girls. She worked independently, she was a pro.”

“As in prostitute or fingernails.”

“And toenails. She was both, I suppose.”

“And where would we find her?”

“She was murdered.”

“What?”

“Two nights ago. Someone found her in a dumpster.”

“I heard about that,” said Miranda. “Bourassa's case, he's working with Audrey Slocombe.”

“Pardon?” said the receptionist.

“I was talking to my partner. So, what can you tell us about her?”

“The same pretty much as I told the other cops, yesterday.”

“Did they leave a card?”

“Yeah, the big guy did. Here it is. His name is Detective Bourassa.”

“Like I said, do you know who her customers were? Did she have regulars?”

“This is a clean operation. You'll get us thrown out of the hotel. I never talked to her for months. I hardly knew her name. Rhoda something, she was a part-time blond. Good looking, with roots. Not too smart. I know she had regulars in that condo across the street. Over there, top floor. She had every guy up there on the string.”

“On the string?” said Miranda. “She was working them.”

“Yeah, there are three or four really large condos on the top floor. She'd spend a whole day there, once every week.”

“A whole day?”

“Like I said, she was a pro.”

“But you didn't keep track of her.”

“We'd better call Bourassa,” said Morgan.

“Thanks, for now,” said Miranda to the receptionist, whose eyelids drooped under her makeup, her lashes solid gashes of deep blue. Then as they stepped out into the corridor she said, “No need. I heard them talking at lunch. It was a domestic quarrel. Her old man beat her up. She climbed into the dumpster herself and died there. You got to figure she felt like garbage. The bastard, he lived on her money, hated her for it. And she hated herself, probably for loving him. It's a funny old world, Morgan.”

“It's a hell of a way to die.”

“Yeah.”

He pointed to the massive new art deco building across from them when they emerged onto the street. “Do you think Philip Carter lived there?”

“He had to live somewhere,” she said.

They crossed over and rang the buzzer for the building manager.

“Sure,” he said, when they asked him. “Philip Carter, he's a lawyer. Top floor. Condo fees paid up until September. Haven't seen him around much.” The elderly man's nose twitched and his small eyes glistened.
Some people look guilty
, Miranda thought.
Not for anything in particular, it's just the way they are. He looks furtive, like a squirrel after the first snowfall
.

“What about the others?” asked Morgan.

“What others? He lived alone.”

“Was he friends with the other residents on the same floor?”

“I don't know, I mean how would I know? These people, they're polite, but they keep to themselves.”

“These people?” said Miranda.

“Yeah, single guys with a lot of money. You don't want to ask.”

“What does that mean?” Morgan demanded.

“Hey, I don't know. It means nothing.” He paused, looked at them. He plainly did not want trouble from the police.

“Speak,” said Morgan.

“Single guys, lots of money, no parties, you don't know what to think.”

“Well, try,” said Morgan.

“Maybe drugs?” said Miranda.

“You just don't want to know. There are three of them up there. I guess they know each other. They have the same interior decorator. Very expensive, nothing personal, you know what I mean. No photographs. Generic collectables.”

“Generic collectables, where'd that come from?” said Morgan.

The man's nose twitched. “I read it,” he said. “It's in a magazine. Generic collectables. What's the matter with that? I wasn't snooping, just doing routine maintenance.”

“Is there anyone up there now?” asked Morgan.

“I don't know, I could ring.”

“No!” said Miranda. “Don't do that. We'll want to surprise them.”

“You sure you're cops?”

“Yeah, we like surprises.”

“On them, eh? Not on yourself.” The man with the squirrel eyes chuckled.

“What are the names of the other two?” Morgan asked.

“Besides Mr. Carter, there's Mr. Johnson.”

“Does he wear a gold ring?” said Miranda.

“Johnson? Yeah, a big honker. And the other one is Mr. Savage.”

“You're kidding,” Miranda exclaimed.

“He's registered as
Savage
?” said Morgan, incredulously.

“He's the owner, he owns it. Yeah. He banks offshore.”

“How do you know that?” said Morgan.

“I see the mail. I take it up to their foyer, that's part of the service. Funny thing, the other two don't get any mail. They must do their banking by phone.”

“He can't be that brazen,” said Miranda. “All we had to do was look him up in the phone book.”

“No, you couldn't do that. His number's unlisted.”

“Unlisted?”

“I tried to call him myself about something, can't remember what. Unlisted. If he's into drugs — do you think he's into drugs?— a young guy like that with money, he's going to be very particular who has his number.”

Morgan leaned into the man's space. “He's not that young.”

“To have enough money to live here, yes he is. Do you want me to go up with you?”

“We'd appreciate if you'd go to your own place, please. Stay there. We'll let you know when you can come out.”

“Yeah, sure,” said the squirrel-faced man, looking disappointed that he wouldn't be there when they confronted Savage. He had not seen the other two around lately but he was fairly positive Savage was home.

“Fourteenth floor?” said Morgan.

“Yeah. Here, you'll need this key. The elevator stops at thirteen, then you turn the key and it goes the rest of the way. They pay extra for that.”

Miranda took the key and turned to the elevator button. Morgan stood close beside her as the building manager retreated to his own quarters.

“You okay?” Morgan asked.

“Sure. You?”

“Yeah. You armed?”

“Yes. You?”

“Yeah. Press it.”

When the elevator door opened, they stepped into a mirrored cage, like a shower stall in a bordello. Only the floor was not mirrored. No matter which way they looked, they saw reflections and refractions of themselves.

The elevator stopped at the thirteenth floor. Miranda inserted the key, the doors closed again, and after a brief whirring opened into a marble foyer with a great crystal chandelier and three doors leading to the separate condo apartments. One door had a brass label by the buzzer that read
PHILIP CARTER
. Miranda felt a twinge and Morgan touched her on the arm. The next read,
JOHNSON
. An unlikely name for the man with the ring.

Poised in front of the third door, which had no nameplate, Miranda suddenly turned around and looked up. Concealed within the intricate armatures of the candelabra were three small cameras. She pointed them out to Morgan.

“We're expected, I imagine,” he said.

“He must have another way out — a private exit leading down to the fire stairs, a service elevator.”

“I don't think he's going anywhere,” said Morgan. “He can't be sure we don't have backup waiting at ground level. And he's not the kind to run.”

“You admire this guy, Morgan!”

“No way. Like you said, I know him. Not the way you do, but I do. He shot a man in the head right in front of me. He knew we would meet again. Some things are unavoidable. He's waiting for us.”

“I am, Mr. Morgan,” said the disembodied voice of Mr. Savage.

Neither Morgan nor Miranda whirled around. Both turned slowly and stared up into the lens of the camera aimed in their direction.

“You have come to pay me a visit, Ms. Quin. How very thoughtful. And you, Mr. Morgan, I have been expecting you. I have been expecting you both.”

Locks snapped on the door behind them and as they turned back it swung open. The voice urged them to enter.

“No need to draw your guns. There is no point,” said the voice. “Much of the weaponry at my disposal is already directed toward your vital parts. If I wished the flesh flayed from your bones by bullets and shrapnel, it would already be done. But that is not discreet, and I believe it is better if we keep our business discreet for the time being. Do come in, make yourselves comfortable. I shall be out in a moment.”

There were mirrors here and there along the walls of the entryway and in the two-storey living room, behind which, it was safe to assume, there were arms and armaments poised for the destruction of unwelcome visitors. They heard an electronic bolt slide on the door behind, locking them in. Looking around, Miranda and Morgan could see how this opulent if uninspired residence could well be a fortress, bristling with instruments of death.

Everything hidden. Morgan had no doubt the entire place was rigged for lethal impact. And yet, gazing out to the balcony, he marvelled at the serene view of Toronto that would be accessible, lounging among the summer palms that flourished in an oasis of huge plastic buckets, looking down Avenue Road to Queen's Park.