This Thing of Darkness (10 page)

“Your department put in a search request for a David Joseph Rosenthal yesterday?”

Green masked his surprise. There was a protocol for requesting assistance from south of the border. Had Levesque deliberately circumvented it? “Yes, he's next of kin in a death up here. Any luck?”

“Well, we found him for you. That is, we found his residence, and local police paid a visit to his wife. According to her, he's out of the country on business, and she doesn't know for how long. Do you want us to trace him?”

“She isn't able to contact him herself?”

“That's correct. According to her, that's normal. He's a busy man, apparently. Flies all over the world.”

“But surely—” Green stopped himself. There was no point badgering the
FBI
with his skepticism. He asked for the woman's phone number, then thanked the
FBI
agent and asked him to carry on the search.

Afterwards he studied the information he had jotted down, an address in Baltimore that meant nothing to him. He dialled the number, listened for five rings, and braced for voicemail. He was thrown off-guard when the phone was snatched up.

“Yes!”

“This is Inspector Michael Green of the Ottawa Police. May I speak with Mrs. Rosenthal, please?”

“Who?”

Green repeated his introduction, as gentle and polite as she was abrupt.

“Oh. Is this in relation to his father?”

“Yes. We really need to get in touch with Mr. Rosenthal.”

“It's Dr. Rosenthal, even if his father never admitted it. Two PhDs and half an
MD
weren't good enough for him. Why do you want David? Did the old man die or something?”

Green abandoned courtesy. “Yes. That's why I need to find him.”

“Huh.” The woman paused. “Well, I don't know where he is. New Dehli, Frankfurt, Tel Aviv? He doesn't keep me informed.”

“Does he have a cellphone or Blackberry?”

“I don't have those numbers.” Another pause, the sound of smoke dragging into lungs. “Look, you might as well know. He doesn't live with us any more.”

“Where does he live?”

“Take your pick. He's got six houses. Well, maybe only four or five now. He's had to sell a couple off. But he may not be at any of them. He has his own plane, and he's always off wheeling and dealing.”

“Who might know how to reach him, Mrs. Rosenthal? His secretary? Executive assistant?”

“I can give you the company number, that's all I have.” She was silent a moment, presumably tracking down the number. When she came back, her voice sounded more excited. “I don't suppose there's money or...whatever involved?”

“That's not my area. But the sooner I can contact Dr. Rosenthal, the sooner you'll know.”

That little nudge proved useful. She rhymed off the number, then added as an afterthought, “I never even met his father. David hadn't talked to him in years, but sometimes that's the worst kind of loss, isn't it? For what it's worth, at this time of year, David is usually up in Canada, duck hunting. The man loves to hunt.”

After he'd hung up, Green sighed. Duck hunting up in Canada—that really narrows it down. Hoping for more details, he dialled the number the ex-wife had given him. He got the runaround through an automated phone response system before finally snagging a real person. She passed him on, like a hot potato, to Rosenthal's executive assistant, who was as treacly smooth as the ex-wife was blunt. But impressions could be deceiving. After oozing out the obligatory expressions of dismay, she began to stonewall.

“I will pass on this message as soon as possible, and I'm sure he'll contact you as soon as he's able.”

Able, thought Green with disbelief. What, when it reaches the top of his “to do” list? “Give me his cellphone number.”

“I don't believe he's in cellphone range. But I assure you, he will call you. Is there anything else I can help you with?” She'd reverted to her script, so he thanked her and hung up. He headed off to alert Levesque and Sullivan, hoping the secretary was right. He was anxious to get his own read on David Rosenthal, who was emerging as more peculiar by the moment.

By noon the rumour mill on the third floor was going full tilt, and snippets of gossip were seeping down to the Major Crimes Unit on the second. The first round of interviews for the Deputy Chief 's job had been going on all morning, and the faces of candidates parading in and out of the Chief 's private conference room were being minutely analyzed for signs of hope and defeat. Green heard that Barbara Devine had swept into the interview wearing her most conservative navy suit and practical pumps, with neutral polish on her nails and only the subtlest hint of red on her lips. He had to smile, thinking the Chief would have to have been blind not to notice the woman's penchant for scarlet and stilettos in the past three years.

She had emerged from the interview an hour later—the longest among the candidates so far—and had flashed a discreet victory sign at her secretary. Victory was far from assured, everyone knew, but the prospect of a new boss to fill her shoes left Green feeling ambivalent. A Chief of Detectives who actually knew something about major crimes would be nice, but on the other hand, Devine's ignorance, together with her blatant self-absorption, left him with a free rein to run his section as he chose. A new boss might be a pain in the ass.

Green was preparing for an afternoon meeting with his
NCO
s when his telephone buzzed. “A Mr. Fine on the line, sir. He said he left three messages.” The major crimes clerk sounded dubious. Green wondered if Fine had asked for “Mr. Yiddish Policeman”.

Green pounced on the phone. Fine's singsong voice came through. “So, you don't have private secretaries any more? A bigshot like you?”

“What can I say? Voicemail, automated menus... Thanks for calling. You got something for me?”

“Nothing that will do you much good, but yeah, I looked into your piece.”

“And?”

“It comes from Russia, like I thought. I'd estimate turn of twentieth century. Czarist Russia.”

“You can tell that from the gold?” Green asked, impressed. He knew metallurgists could work wonders these days. Microscopic impurities and variations in colour and content could be traced to specific locations or processing methods.

Fine chuckled. “I can tell it's good quality gold, yes, and the workmanship suggests old-style hand-tooling. But no, I can tell that from the lettering on the back of the piece. It's an inscription, roughly translates as
To life and hope, my darling.
It uses some old Cyrillic letters and spelling which the Revolution tried to eliminate when they standardized things in 1918. Not everyone gave up the old ways, so it's not absolutely certain that it's Czarist, but I'm guessing there wasn't much call for these religious baubles after the proletariat took over. Jews, you know—always at the forefront of new ideas. Always hoping this one will be better.”

Green didn't see how all this shed much light on Rosenthal's past. The Star of David had been made before the old man was even born. “So it's probably an heirloom passed down from immigrants who sneaked it out of the old country with them when they came.”

“Yeah. Or not so romantic, he could have bought it in any antique Judaica shop. It makes a nice gift. The chain isn't old, by the way. Your standard gold chain you can pick up anywhere. It's a woman's Star of David. For one thing, the ‘darling' is feminine, and for another, it's more delicate than most men would wear.”

“It was worn by the victim.”

“What can I say? Some men...”

“He had a wife. At least, did have.”

“Then maybe it's hers.”

Green turned the idea over in his mind. It made sense. Even the inscription
To life and hope, my darling
could have had special meaning to them as his wife struggled with cancer, and when she died—the love of his life in whose memory he had endowed an entire cancer research chair—he had taken to wearing it himself. Just as he continued to wear his wedding ring despite the passage of years.

“I wonder why the killer didn't steal it too,” Green said. “He took the poor man's shoes, watch, and wedding ring.”

“Maybe he didn't see it. These are normally worn inside the shirt.”

“No, it was lying on the sidewalk beside his body.”

“Ah, that explains it.”

“What?”

“It was damaged. The chain was broken, and it takes more force than you think to break those things, like it was ripped from his neck. Plus the surface was bent and scratched. I found tiny particles of sand embedded in the gold.”

Green tried to picture the chain on the ground. “Maybe it got stepped on in the struggle.”

“Possibly, but the amount of scratching and the way the sand was embedded, it was almost like someone ground it in with their shoe. A pretty violent act, yanking it from the guy's neck and grinding it into the pavement.”

That image stayed with Green afterwards, troubling him. The whole attack had been unusually vicious, beginning with the bat smashing the old man repeatedly when he was already down. Then the rings had been pried free, the Star of David ripped off and deliberately crushed into the ground.

Was there a message in this, or was he being paranoid?

He reached for the phone and dialled Sullivan's cell. The staff sergeant answered on the first ring.

“Where are you?” Green asked.

“Over in Vanier. About to go for lunch.” Sullivan sounded wary.

“Meet me at the Rideau Street crime scene. Then we'll go to Nate's Deli.”

“The crime scene's already been released, Green. There will be a hundred people walking over it.”

“Doesn't matter. Humour me. There's a big, juicy smoked meat on rye in it for you.”

Sullivan chuckled. “You springing for it, I'll have two.”

Green printed off the stills Levesque had made from the pawn shop security tape, tucked them into a folder, and headed downstairs to sign out his staff car. He parked a block from the corner where Rosenthal had been beaten and walked slowly up Rideau Street, passing under the security camera of the pawn shop about sixty feet from the alleyway of the crime scene. He studied the photos and tried to recall the movements of the four young suspects. They had been drunk, jostling one another, oblivious to their surroundings. If the old man was standing sixty feet in front of them, they hadn't noticed him yet. That seemed unlikely. Most people walking down Rideau Street after midnight were instinctively on guard.

Sergeant Levesque had dissected every inch of the security tape for the night in question. Besides Screech and the young black males, dozens of other parties had passed by. Couples, singles, hookers waiting for the patrons from nearby bars. Levesque's team had been trying to track them all down, but in truth no one believed any of the others were guilty. Two were simple working girls, a couple were late-night revellers and still others looked like students from nearby University of Ottawa, stumbling home to their dorms. None had carried bats, none had looked poised for violence. None of them looked like skinheads or white supremacists who would target Jews for sport.

This morning, Screech had taken up his usual position cross-legged on the sidewalk about half a block from the liquor store. He had an empty Tim Hortons cup today, and kept his cart close at his side. The Ident Unit had confiscated his bloody sleeping bag but had given him a brand new one in its stead, so he was taking no chances. At his feet was a stack of stained pencil drawings, mostly poor imitations of Native animal art. Green doubted he sold many, but it allowed him some dignity.

Green had crossed paths with him in court a few times in his earlier days, but Screech had a vague look this morning, as if not enough brain cells were firing for him to recognize anyone. Green squatted in front of him and introduced himself, trying to ignore the stench. “Have the cops been around to ask you about what you witnessed the night the old man died?”