Woman Chased by Crows (13 page)

“She say who
they
were, Detective?”

Stacy turned a page. “Besides the Russian assassins who've been chasing her for thirty years? Let's see. There's a Louie Grova, a pawnbroker who used to be in Montreal, now he's in Toronto. I checked him out. Not a hundred percent clean but nothing violent. Arrested for receiving but charges stayed. His brother's a diamond merchant in Montreal, Martin Grova. No record. The brothers had a falling out some years back.”

“About jewels?”

“She didn't say.”

“Lot of people after her.”

“Oh yeah, and let's not forget Konstantin Chernenko, president of the Soviet Union.” She closed the notebook. “He's long-dead, but the dance teacher assured me that his reach extends beyond the grave.” Stacy waggled her fingertips. “Booga-booga,” she said.

Orwell shook his head in wonder. “How about you, Detective? You buying any of that?”

“She's persuasive. But delusional people can be very convincing.”

“So which is it, Detective. Is she delusional? Or is she in danger?”

“Hard to say, sir. She has a record — paranoid about people following her, trying to kill her — file goes way back. Toronto cops had her down as a loon.”

“That's what our friend Delisle said. Except we now have at least one verifiable corpse connected to this business.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So maybe she's not completely loony.”

“Maybe not.”

“Strikes me our friend wasn't entirely candid about his reasons for being in town, was he? Maybe he was hunting jewels, too.” His desk phone rang. “Yes, Dorrie? Jesus Murphy, it's about goddamn time!” He hung up. “Metro just brought Harold back,” he said.

“About goddamn time,” said Stacy.

Estelle Macklin presided over the Dockerty Public Library like a dowager empress, imperious and chilly until newcomers had established their custom and assured her of their respect for the printed word. She had nothing against properly modulated conversation, but could not abide books put back in the wrong place. It was a rule of the library that research material be left on the table so that her staff could do the job properly. Once Orwell, attempting to be helpful, had inserted a Chagall catalogue on a shelf of photography books and had received a stern lecture for his troubles. Estelle had been head librarian since the place was built and fully intended to see out her days within its well-ordered confines. By now she was used to having Chief Brennan drop in on his lunch hour. He had begun the habit out of a desire to learn some basic Dockerty history, but lately his visits had become more of a diversion from the irritations of his day, allowing him a hushed half hour or so to wander the quiet stacks in search of nothing in particular. His foraging in scholarly pastures also kept him from visiting the all-you-can-eat buffet at the Szechuan Garden in the East Mall.

“Mrs. Macklin, what do you know about Russian history?”

“I know where to find it.”

“Recent Russian history. Say, 1980 through 1984.”

“Have a seat, Chief. I'll get you some light reading.”

Orwell took his favourite chair around the corner and out of sight.

“What you need should be in here,” said Mrs. Macklin, when she returned with enough reading matter to keep him busy for a year.

“Thank you,” he said. “I probably won't get to the bottom of this today.”

“Leave them out when you've finished.”

“Of course.”

Mrs. Macklin left him to his research. He had to wade through Stalin versus Trotsky to the Warsaw Pact before he got to the basic information he was looking for. In late 1982, Leonid Brezhnev died after almost thirty years at the head of a regime noted for its corruption. He was succeeded by Yuri Andropov, former head of the
KGB
. Andropov hadn't lasted long in office. It was said that he “ruled from his hospital bed.” He died of “kidney failure,” but the presence of quotation marks in a scholarly tome suggested to Orwell that there might have been another explanation. Upon Andropov's death, power fell to his former rival, Konstantin Chernenko, the last of the old guard, born before the Revolution. Chernenko hadn't lasted long, either. He died in 1985, the cause of death “unspecified” (quotation marks again), although many, if not most, believed that it was cirrhosis. According to one account, upon Chernenko's death, large bundles of money were found in his desk drawer and in his office safe. Well then.

“Did you find what you were looking for, Chief?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Macklin. I am now much better informed than I was when I arrived, but I still don't have a clue what I was looking for, or if I found it.”

“It's the searching isn't it, that gives us pleasure?”

“I suppose,” he said, without conviction.

“Could I lend you an umbrella, Chief?”

“No, thank you. That's why I wear a big hat.”

“Yes,” she said. “Perhaps you could leave it with the umbrellas when you come in. It does tend to drip.”

“I was careful,” he said. “Besides, the last time I left a hat like this unattended, someone made off with it.”

“Can't imagine why.”

Georgie Rhem was waiting outside the library, a red-and-blue striped umbrella over his head. “I hear the coconut cream is back on the menu,” he said. He looked remarkably cheerful considering the steady downpour.

“Oh darn, Georgie,” Orwell said. “I have to pass. I've used up my quota of personal time for the day.”

“Well, there'll be fresh pies next week, I'm sure.” The two men started across Armoury Park. Despite the disparity in the length of their strides, they matched pace without difficulty. They walked together often. “Got a date for your presentation, Stonewall,” said Georgie. “April 25th.”

“Seems a long way off.”

“It's pretty speedy the way things usually go. I don't think you'll be the only petitioner.”

“At least it gives me some time. Haven't even started gathering all that stuff you say I'm gonna need.”

“A little bit chaotic over in the Big House?”

“An interesting couple of days to be sure.”

“I hear that Harold Ruth was renditioned into the murky depths of the Metro unit's filing system.”

“Lordy Lordy,” Orwell said. “Don't know what they were thinking. ‘Excessive zeal' is how their boss put it.”

“Juicy case for a motivated legal beagle.” Georgie twirled his umbrella, spraying rain in Orwell's face. “So many stumbles and bumbles to play with. My my.”

Orwell stopped in the middle of the walk and fumbled for a handkerchief. Erika always supplied him with a fresh one before he left home, he just never remembered which pocket he'd put it in. His old friend looked back with a trace of a smile and gave his umbrella a twirl in the opposite direction.

“Yes, that
would
be an interesting case for a lawyer,” Orwell said carefully.

“The thing is,” Georgie started, “
what
case? Has he been charged? Has he been brought in front of a judge? Have you heard from him? By my watch, he was disappeared for almost seventy-two hours.”

“He's here now.
OPP
have him in custody.”

“I know. I'm on my way to see him,” Georgie said. He started walking again. “He finally got his phone call.”

Orwell's laugh was brief, but genuine. “And he called you.”

“It's not like he's spoiled for choices up here. Barristers who've actually done a murder trial, I mean.”

“When was your last one, Georgie?”

“I'd have to check my files. I believe the firm had just purchased its first electric typewriter. State of the art it was. Yessir.”

“I'll bet you were a big hit with the polka-dot bow tie and the ‘aw shucks' country lawyer routine.”

“That I was, my friend, that I was.”

They stopped near Argyle's shiny brass shrine. “You'd think with all the money they spent on this place they could have stuck a roof over the porch,” said Orwell. The two men looked at each other for a moment. Georgie grinned, Orwell sighed. “Henceforth I suppose we'd best exercise extreme discretion where this subject is concerned.”

“Ah hell, I don't know. I might not be up to it.”

This time Orwell's laugh was full-bellied. “You might aw shucks a jury, my friend, but it won't work on me. Any minute now, you'll start breathing fire.”

“I just might,” Georgie said. He spun his umbrella one last time and then furled it. “If nothing else, I'll have him back on the street before five. Least I can do.”

“Oh dear,” Orwell said. “Gord Blumberg is in for a fight.” He opened the door and waved Georgie through.

Anya dozed most of the afternoon, curled up on the little couch, listening to the rain dancing on the fire escape. Once, she got up to see if the cat was back and to check the lane between the buildings. No sign of cat or killer.

“Is this George?”

“Yep.”

“This is Anya Daniel. It is true Edwin is gone for a week?”

“Yeah, says he'll be back next Tuesday. Something about his sister's in the hospital.”

“Who is driving tonight?”

“We've got four working tonight, because of the rain. You'll have to wait ten, fifteen minutes.”

“Is that woman driving? What is her name, Olivia?”

“She's on a run up to Fenelon Falls. She'll be back in an hour.”

“I do not like her, anyway. Who else is driving?”

“The new guy.”

“What new guy?”

“Name's Simon. He's filling in for Ed.”

She hung up. She did not trust new guys. New guys were always suspect. She would walk home. They will not kill me. Not while they are still looking for it. And they will not do anything stupid, not while there are police poking around. You have to bide your time. Stay very quiet. You think you are close, you
must
be close, you have eliminated all the other possibilities. And as long as you think I have it, you will be careful. Oh, who knows? You might get frustrated, grab me off the street, threaten me with pain. But I do not think you are ready for that yet, are you?