Torque (10 page)

The heat lulled her back to the randomness
that lurks on the edge of daydreams. The scene was Marty Durrell’s
apartment. She saw herself reflected in a mirror, naked under his
uniform jacket with the security guard cap perched jauntily on her
red ringlets. She looked pretty good in that wig. Marty was
laughing, reaching for her from the bed.

The picture changed. His face was florid and
strained, eyes wild with panic and disbelief. With particular
clarity she saw the veins on his neck distend as his back arched in
an uncontrollable spasm. The vision became vivid and engaged her
senses. Legs bent and knees apart she stood as if to straddle a
small pony, her skin increasingly sensitive to every fine jet of
rain. Electrified from core to tip with flickering images of
Durrell’s paroxysm, every sensation she’d felt was reproduced
faithfully by a mind locked in a moment.

That moment.

She’d suppressed the memory for three days
but there it was. Not a dream. Not even a nightmare. It was a
reality that blocked the air in her throat and left her mouth open
in shock. Durrell was dead, and she had murdered him.

She had murdered a man for his clothes.

The water temperature dropped, terminating
the replay. Her legs grew weak and she slid down the wall to the
floor of the stall. The spray became mixed with salty tears as she
smacked the side of the cubicle with her palm. A wail emerged from
her lungs and she sucked it back in with heavy sobs.

It was Durrell’s own fault. He had made her
do it. She had liked the guy. He was cute. If she’d thought he
could be persuaded to do the job, she would have cut him in. But he
was honest. Too honest for his own damned good. Now he was dead,
out of the game, and she’d sucked Svoljsak’s dick to replace
him.

She brought her knees up to her chest. Damn
them both.

Women always have to work harder to get
satisfaction in life. Her mother had told her that. Her mother had
also said ‘There’s something wrong with you, child. Why can’t you
show some emotion?’ She could, but only when events impacted her
directly. Being detached was safe. Gave her an edge.

Cancer claimed her father the year she
started college. Her mother spent his life insurance money on a
world cruise. It was a solo trip. ‘Nothing moves you, Brianna, so
there’s no point in your coming,’ was the last thing Virginia
Saldoreis ever said to her. Within a year Brianna had unofficially
adopted the name Brittany and shortened Saldoreis to Reis.

But her mother was wrong. Some things did
move her. Money moved her. Power moved her. Sex moved her. She
didn’t need to feel love, or even lust. It was the act of sex. The
physical stimulus. The source generally didn’t matter.

Her side began to ache and the hissing rain
was no longer hot. She reached up to turn off the shower and the
remaining warmth slowly dissipated as the water drained between her
feet. The past was the past and she’d done what was necessary to
move on. Now all she had to do was deal with the present. And job
one was to dispose of a red ringlet wig.

CHAPTER
16

“Present for you.”

“Take it back.”

“Sorry, Evan.” The staff sergeant dropped a
box onto the file cabinet and hitched up his belt. “Heatherington
said that until Rowan's suspension is lifted we just have to close
ranks. Take up the slack, as it were.”

Detective Inspector Lareault grimaced and
tossed a paper cup into the trash. He hated lukewarm coffee but
that last bit of bagel had needed help going down.

“Remind the Chief Super that she’s already
got me on loan to Hamilton Homicide for two possibles, there's this
funeral home thing, not to mention a case file on my desk so old it
makes the Cold Squad nostalgic. Come on, Frank. Tell her we're
busy.”

Frank Bloomfield chuckled. “She's already
heard it. In fact, she said one more budget cut and ‘We’re busy’
would become our automated message for 9-1-1 calls.”

Lareault closed the case file he’d been
working on.

“Fresh or stale?”

“Pretty fresh, though the body is a few days
stale. Rowan had managed to get the immediates together, just
before his re-assignment to ‘other duties’. Pictures, statements,
Coroner's call. They're all in the file there. Plus a few bits on
the mainframe you can download.”

Bloomfield hitched up his belt again.
Lareault figured Arlene must have him back on the diet. “This one’s
got a bit of everything; sex, drugs, maybe even rock & roll,”
the sergeant added.

“You make it hard to say no, Frank. Give me
the highlights.”

The sergeant propped himself carefully
against the cubicle wall. “Martin Wayne Durrell. Twenty-eight. Died
from an injected overdose after, or maybe during, intercourse.
Discovered naked in his bed by the ex-wife.”

“Ex. Is she a suspect?”

“They were still friendly, apparently. And,
no: pubic hair ruled her out.”

“Wrong colour?”

Bloomfield appeared to have found something
fascinating on the ceiling. “More like, she had some and the crime
scene didn’t.”

“Positively?”

“Absolutely. Of the female variety, anyway.
They did find one long strand of red hair but it probably won’t
help us much.”

“Why is that?”

“Synthetic. From a wig—although if it does
figure in, it could be evidence of a premeditated act. A disguise
and all that.”

“Accomplices?”

“Doesn’t look like it, but Rowan may have had
other things on his mind and missed something.”

Lareault had a respect for the big sergeant
that was shared by the entire department. A bullet from a Saturday
Night Special had ended Bloomfield’s detective days, but it was
retirement that began to drain the life from him. His part-time
posting as staff sergeant was a good deal all round.

“Which way does it lean, Frank?”

“Forensics vacuumed everything, and the
ex-wife affirmed the victim wasn’t interested in little girls, so
we’re looking for a woman who is intimate with her Gillette.”

“The victim overdosed. A junkie?”

“There was but a single needle mark, below
the left shoulder blade, and Durrell was no contortionist. The
coroner thinks he was either jabbed from behind or, more likely,
the couple were sitting conjoined, facing each other on the bed.
The perp could then reach around the victim and stick him in the
back. After that, Collier said, she likely got one hell of a
ride.”

Lareault took the lid off the file box and
peered inside. For a copper it was like opening a treasure chest
because the contents always unveiled a mystery. It was sort of a
consolation prize for being lumbered with someone else’s case.

“Feel like some overtime?”

“Arlene'll shrink my undershorts, but okay.”
Frank rubbed his nose. “What do you need?”

“Harrowport & Dynes. The funeral home
volunteered their services for the two street kids but there could
be more to it.”

“What’s the scoop on the kids?”

“Two separate incidents. Collier said one was
high and wandered in front of a car. The other one was an allergic
reaction. Tongue swelled up and he suffocated.”

Bloomfield grimaced. “Not nice but not
unusual. Was there something more?”

“They both had patches on their arms.
Butterflies.”

“Butterflies? What sort of gang is that—The
Monarchs?” Bloomfield’s limp-wristed gesture made Lareault
laugh.

“Not gang patches. These are like what
smokers use when they want to quit, except the active ingredients
are different.”

“And you think the funeral home is tied
in?”

Lareault shrugged. “The home is already on
the radar for pilfering and fraud. Who knows what we’ll find once
we start turning over headstones. We already have an undercover
officer working the case but I could use an extra pair of eyes on
the street. Just short term, and it may turn out to be a dull
watch, so pack a flask.”

“Good idea. I can tell Arlene I’m playing
poker.”

“I meant a coffee flask.”

“Whatever. Tonight?”

Lareault shook his head. His desk phone rang.
“I'll make up a schedule in a day or so.” He picked up the handset.
It was the coroner.

“Evan? Dennis Collier. I finally remembered
where I’d seen that patch before. We had a cerebral haemorrhage
victim at Chedoke about two weeks ago. He had one in his
wallet.”

Lareault perked up. “Did you send it to the
lab?”

“Well,” Collier sounded embarrassed. “At the
time I actually thought it was a fridge magnet. It was something I
hadn’t seen before.”

“Where is it now?”

“All the personal effects were handed over to
his lawyer, but her card is stapled in his file. I’ll send a copy
over as soon as I can.”

“Thanks, Dennis. I could use a decent lead,”
Lareault began, but Collier wasn’t finished.

“Then follow this: the deceased was a
research scientist for a drug company, and,” he pressed as Lareault
tried to comment, “it may be nothing, but the lawyer insisted we
send him to Harrowport and Dynes.”

“Just a sec, Dennis.” Lareault had grabbed a
pen and was jotting it all down in shorthand. “You said the lawyer
was female?’

“That’s right. Not much in the way of
personality but nicely developed in every other way.”

“I don’t suppose she was a redhead?”

Collier thought back. “No. This one had
straight black or brunette hair.”

“Okay. Well, you’ve got my number should you
think of anything else. If you can fax me those papers I’d
appreciate it.”

“Will do.” Collier rang off and Lareault
relayed the new information to Bloomfield.

“What you’ve got here is a buffet,” the
veteran cautioned. “Sure, you can pile everything onto one plate
but there’s probably enough there for several meals. Take your time
and figure out which of the ingredients compliment each other the
best.”

Lareault nodded, and smiled.

“Hungry, Frank?”

Bloomfield hitched his belt once more.
“Maybe.”

“Come on, then. I’ll buy you lunch.”

CHAPTER
17

A tanker truck fire had turned the QEW
through Oakville into a fume-ridden parking lot. Finally home,
after weaving her way through congested side streets, Reis slipped
off her jacket and shoes and flopped onto the bed. Conventions
always made for a long day and The National Franchise Exposition at
the International Centre in Toronto was huge. It always involved a
lot of walking and a lot of talking but it was good for networking.
A couple of the cards in her purse were from men actually
interested in legal services.

One of them expected a callback so she
reached for the phone to let her boss know. The connection rang
three times then her own taped voice cut in:

“You have reached the office of Edward
Hartman, Q.C.: civil litigation; wills and estates; family law,
& notary public. We are presently closed, but your call is
important to us. Please leave a message.”

“Hi Ed. It went well. They all thought I was
a partner. I may be late coming in but you need to call Peter
Rennie of L. E. Parson & Sons, before noon, concerning a title
search and transfer of ownership.” She gave the number and hung
up.

Ed Hartman was wheelchair bound. While he’d
never let his handicap restrict him, since they’d taken on more
real estate clients he had expanded Brittany’s role from
legal-secretary to front-line businesswoman to ease the legwork.
The situation lent credibility to the cards she’d printed with her
name and personal number. It also gave access to connections like
the West Coast investor she’d met this morning.

He was the one attendee who had been
accompanied by obvious muscle; an Armani-clad bone-crusher with a
unibrow. Reis had freshened her lipstick, pulled the sag from her
stockings, and introduced herself. Their conversation had been
cordial and they’d spoken of mutual interests with broad strokes
yet, at the end of it, both understood the kind of pharmaceutical
venture she wanted to set up. When they parted the gentleman had
given her a card with the phone number of Wharfmine Investment
Group and said she should speak to Mr. Wray. It was exactly the
introduction that Reis had been hoping for.

Her current sponsor was a funeral director
named Lucien Harrowport. Handsome, cultured, and married,
Harrowport also fancied himself as a player and Brittany had
fostered that desire. He’d been able to supply Roger Aird with cash
and other hard to acquire items. Adequate in bed, he was generous
with his presents and, someday, she might even let him have his BMW
back. Where Harrowport had been a good resource to start her
venture, Mr. Wray and Wharfmine Investments had the capabilities to
take the project to the next level.

She looked at Aird’s ugly computer sitting on
her desk. Although it had burped up a couple more files Reis hadn’t
had time to try all the obscenities the fat man had favoured for
passwords. When Aird’s body showed up at the funeral home,
Harrowport had not even suspected he was actually connected to the
man. And Reis had not enlightened him.

She peeled off her stockings, fell back on
the pillow, and let the bed mould its warmth to her. Stanley
Svoljsak, another loser, would be waiting for his turn but it was
only eight-thirty p.m. and she needed to recharge.

== == ==

Reis slid a mirrored panel in front of its
twin and plucked a red stretch-cotton dress from the closet. She
chose matching heels from the Emelda section, and a knapsack-style
leather bag with large zippers like those on her black bomber
jacket. No stockings tonight. She freshened her face, checked her
hair, and then went for her favourite piece.

Snug within padded slots, inside a walnut box
lined with white satin, lay a rubber-stopped glass vial and an
antique jade hairclip of oriental design. About the width of her
thumb and slightly longer the dark green piece had a smooth
undulating surface like that of an ocean swell. The underside had a
narrow channel into which a brass tube had been fitted. One end of
the tube had a flexible grommet valve.