Woman Chased by Crows (28 page)

And then Sergei decided to take his chances back home and Viktor started making trips to Montreal.

“West” was the last word Stacy heard as Adele disappeared into the Coxwell subway stop, but how far west was anyone's guess. Keep driving. Keep the phone handy. At least the red
BMW
was easy to track.

Danforth Avenue was the kind of road that kept you on your toes. An erratic traffic flow, either over the limit or crawling, drivers either racing between red lights or knotted in the middle of an intersection. It was four lanes wide but felt narrower — parking on both sides made the inside lane less than generous, and jaywalkers routinely dodged vehicles to stand on the white centre line.

“Yeah, you'll be safe there,” Stacy said.

Her cell was buzzing.

“Yo, Stace, I'm out of the subway now. Hear me okay?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Still got 'em?”

“Coming up on Chester. The Beemer just pulled into a lot.” Stacy turned into the lot in time to see the men enter a back door. It looked to be the fourth or fifth building from the corner. “They've gone into a building. I'm parked.”

It was still there. She had been certain it would be. The same flat brick façade and the red door set at an angle inside a niche just big enough to accommodate two smokers at a time on rainy days. The sign, in Cyrillic script, “Бакунин,” and a notice board under a cracked plexiglass cover offering jobs, announcing meetings and entertainments and sometimes seeking companionship.

Sergei and his hulking companion went straight in, not looking around, not checking behind, oblivious to the possibility that they'd been followed. Anya however knew that
she'd
been followed, and she was quite content. The big one had been in the next coach all the way. Odd-looking woman, angular and tall, but not uncoordinated, quicker than she looked.

She found a table in the McDonald's across the street, away from the window, but with a clear view reflected in the artwork on the opposite wall. She nursed a coffee and waited. It was something she was good at.

Adele sat in the passenger seat. “You getting pepperoni repeats?”

“No.”

She belched delicately behind her palm. “With maybe fried egg?”

“Need some Pepto?”

“Hell no, I need a regulated life, some order, some better habits.”

“She still in McDonald's?”

“Staring at that bar across the street.”

“What's she up to?”

“Sounds weird, but I get a strong feeling she was just leading the way. And now she's waiting for us.” A small burp. “Too early for a beer?”

The bartender had stubble heavier than was currently fashionable. His look, lecherous when he checked out Stacy, soured when he saw her companion.

“Couple'a Coors Lite,” said Adele.

“Place you're looking for is two blocks that way.”

Adele was amused. “Oh yeah, what place would that be, sir?”

“You know, where the ‘girls' hang out.”

“This place ‘boys only,' is it?” She looked around the room. “I don't know, Stace, most of the gay bars I've been in, the guys had style.”

“Hard to tell sometimes,” Stacy said. “Check his wrist. That's a five thousand dollar timepiece, don't you think?”

“Five easy.”

“Easy. You pay retail for that?”

Bartender gave them a hard look, placed two bottles on the bar and moved to the other end. Adele put down a ten dollar bill. “No glass?” The bartender's attention was on the
TV
above the pinball machine. A silent soccer game was in progress.

Stacy deliberately spilled a few drops on the floor. A private ritual. The gods shouldn't have to do without just because she didn't drink. She scanned the room, taking it all in, weighing everything, locating doors and hallways, counting bodies — a dozen, all male — vodka, coffee, tea, newspapers, chess. Travel posters invited the world to visit the Black Sea and St. Petersburg, to drink Stolichnaya and fly Aeroflot. The music was the best of
ABBA
or something, European disco, no balalaikas. “Charming spot,” she said.

Adele wet her lips. “Far side, Big Hair and Dapper Dan?”

“I think the big one was in my town,” said Stacy. “Yesterday, day before.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I'm pretty sure I saw him at the hospital. I recognize the hair. Who combs their hair like that?”

“And the short one has nasty eyebrows.”

“You think? Yeah. Kind of objectionable.”

The two men were arguing about something, in Russian, but being very controlled about it, with phony smiles and bogus laughter, sometimes audible over the inappropriate music. “Dapper Dan wants to strangle his friend but his hands aren't big enough,” Adele said.

“How do you want to do this?” Stacy asked.

“Oh hell. Let's see how cool they are.”

Adele walked straight across the room. Stacy left her beer on the bar and took the scenic route, crossing the room at oblique angles, checking faces, expressions, features, making an impression.

“Hi there, gents,” Adele said. “Mind if we join you?”

The big one looked them over. “She can stay,” he said, pointing. “You can piss off.”

“And I thought this was a social club,” said Adele. She sat down. Stacy remained standing, keeping an eye of the rest of the room.

“You are police?”

Stacy turned her shoulders to look the big man in the eye. “That's right, sir.”

“Being police is dangerous job,” the big man said.

Stacy smiled, “So's being an asshole.” She resumed picket duty.

“What's your name, sir?” Adele asked him.

“Yevgeni Grenkov. I am citizen.”

“Are you now? That's good to know. Pay taxes and everything? Very nice.” She turned to his companion. “How about you, sir?”

“You drink on duty?”

Adele's face creased in a broad grin. “I
know
that voice. I thought that might be you. Didn't I say that, Stace?”

“You did.”

“I said I'll just bet that dapper little fucker is my pal,
Serge
.” She had another sip. “And yes,
Serge
, I'm sipping a beer. I'm on compassionate leave today,
Serge
. You know, on account of my partner getting shot. You remember my partner, Paul. Paul Delisle, Mr. . . . ah, what is it?”

“Siziva,” said Stacy.

“Right. Siziva. You a citizen too, Serge?”

“What do you want?”

“My friend and I were checking out pawnshops. You like pawnshops, Serge? How about you . . . ?”

“Yevgeni,” said Stacy.

“That's right. Citizen Yevgeni Grenkov. You like pawnshops? How do you feel about pawnbrokers?”

“He's never met any.”

“Let the big guy talk,” Adele said.

“I talk for myself.”

“You didn't just kick him under the table, did you, Serge?”

“It's
Sergei
.”

“I
know
that,
Serge
, but you know what, I'm going to call you whatever the fuck I feel like calling you because I think you are seriously bent and I'm looking forward to substantiating that. Where were you two guys, say, last night, early this morning? Around eight, when you called Paulie's apartment?”

“You are confused.”

“Well, we can check that, phone logs, you know. You weren't stupid enough to call from Grova's place, were you? That would have been dumb, even for you smart guys.”

By now Stacy had made eye contact with each man in the room, establishing to everyone's satisfaction that she was badged, armed and authorized to make their lives miserable. She turned her attention to the two men. “If we were to check you guys out, would we find any weapons? Guns, knives, electrical cords?”

“We are not armed,” said Sergei. He spread his fine wool jacket revealing a bright silk lining. “You are welcome to look.”

“How about you, big fella? You packing?”

“No.”

“Care to stand up for a sec, open your coat, turn around. Hurt your hand, huh?” She was brisk, efficient. “Been in Dockerty recently? Like yesterday? I think you were noticed. Reason I'm asking, had a serious mugging and a couple of break and enters up there. Not the sort of thuggery our citizens are known for.” To Adele. “He's clean. Nasty bandage on those knuckles.”

“Ripped his pants, too, looks like. What happened? Grova put up a fight?”

The big man sat down. “We weren't there.”

“You were definitely in the neighbourhood. Shopping no good this end of town?”

Sergei shrugged. “Very well. We were going to pay Mr. Grova a visit, but when we arrived we saw all the police cars so we decided to leave.”

“Why were you paying Mr. Grova a visit?”

“He was keeping his ears open for us. About certain items.”

“Right. So what happened? Did he call? ‘Hey Serge, guess what I found?'”

“We did not go upstairs.”

“Not what I asked, Serge old boy, stay on topic here, what happened? Did the pawnbroker give you a call? What?”

“It was just a friendly visit.”

“I see, out of the blue, hey, let's go see our old pal the pawnbroker and strangle him for a while?”

“We weren't there!”

“Calm down, Serge,” Adele said. “We should be able to clear it up, a little forensics, you know, fingerprints, blood work, footprints, fibres.”

“Go ahead. Police were all around his place. Why would we stay if we had done a crime?”

“Because you're stupid?”

“What do you want?”

“Oh, shit, Serge, what everyone wants, you know, world peace, stiffer sentences for parole violators, that kind of thing. Where were you last night?”

“I was home.”

“And where's home, Serge?”

“I have an apartment. Upstairs.”

“You live here too, Citizen?”

“He is staying with me.”

“Visiting? From where?”