Woman Chased by Crows (33 page)

They were on 35, heading north, Dockerty was a half hour away. Weather coming in, gusty March weather from the northwest, always from the northwest it seemed, grey clouds moving and climbing. Anya leaned against the passenger door, her hands inside her coat sleeves. She wasn't wearing the brown wig and she had scrubbed off the crooked lipstick. “The detectives wanted to keep me one more night,” she said.

“Your alibi checked out,” said Stacy.

“The best alibis are simple, do you not agree, Detective? I was asleep. Refute it if you can. I had the receipt for a nice little motel on Kingston Road. Silver Lake Motel. Sixty-three dollars. Not cheap. But it had a colour television. I had a long bath and went to sleep.” They passed a dark stand of trees and she caught a brief reflection of her face, a flicker of white. She smiled at herself. “I
could
have had a long bath and a short nap and gone out after midnight. A receipt is not much of an alibi. Is it, Detective?”

“Not much.”

“But you would need a witness who saw me leave, or return, and a witness to put me at another location.”

“That would be helpful.”

“Otherwise there is no point holding me.”

“It takes time to build a case. Just because you aren't in jail doesn't mean you're eliminated as a suspect.”

Anya turned to face her. “Yes. That is good.”

“Why is it good?”

“So you do not stop looking.”

Delisle's locker was crammed. Adele banged her head softly on the wall. “Oh Jesus fucking Christ.”

Danielle marched inside, taking over, checking boxes, shifting piles. “I bet he hated it when you talked like that.”

“Fucking right he did. He was always giving me shit about my language.”

“I never heard him swear. Not once.”

“A real choirboy.”

“Not really. He screwed around a lot, didn't he? That's what my mom says. A skirt-chaser.”

“Women liked him.” There wasn't room for two people to rummage. Adele stood in the doorway and watched Danielle being busy.

“Did you?”

“Hell, yeah, sure. We were partners for six years.”

“I mean like that.”

“What? No. He never made a pass at me. I wasn't his type. We worked together.”

“Would you have?”

“The subject never came up.”

“Did you want it to?”

“This is a fucking weird conversation to be having with Paulie's daughter.”

“I'm just asking because you're crying.”

“It's the dust and shit.”

“It's not that dusty.”

“Oh man, he was my partner, six years, he saved my ass more than once, and I saved his, too. We were tight, the way partners get tight. Hard to explain.”

“No. I get it.”

“So you wind up . . . loving the person. In a way.”

“You're still crying.”

“I miss him.”

“I'm glad. I'm glad he had somebody who cares that much.”

“Okay, enough emotion. We've got work to do.” She took a deep breath. “How do we do it?”

“Three piles, right, no, say four piles. Stuff to sell, stuff to give away — Sally Ann, Goodwill, whatever — stuff to keep, and stuff to toss. Call up Clear My Junk or one of those places, have them come around and haul it away. Okay?”

“Bless you.”

“Here's more records. Like five more boxes. You're keeping them, right?”

“Good Christ Paulie, what did you do, corner the
LP
market? I don't know if I've got room. I'll take them home, sort through them. If I wind up selling any, I'll put it into your school fund.”

“Don't worry so much about that. Another box of pictures. Hey. Here's one of you. Wearing your uniform.”

“I know, I look like a geek.”

“There are models out there who'd kill for your frame.”

“Yeah right.”

“I'm serious. What are you, six feet?”

“Six one.”

“Right, square shoulders, long neck. I'm telling you.”

“Face like a horse.”

“No way. But you don't wear makeup and you cut your own hair. That doesn't help. You could look way better.”

“Maybe next lifetime.”

“See, here's one of my mom all dolled up. She's not perfect, but she knows how to pull it together.” She handed the picture to Adele. “It's about making the most of what you've got.”

The photograph had marks that suggested it had been framed at one time. Paul and Dylan O'Grady and their wives were at a party. There was a Christmas tree in the background and shadows and shapes of other partygoers. Many were in uniform. She might have even been one of them, somewhere in the crowd, on her own. Filling the frame were Paul and Dylan, both wearing tuxes, and their wives, wearing gowns. Jenny Delisle's dress was low cut and the photographer had caught Dylan O'Grady's eyes looking at her cleavage. Paul was oblivious, his attention elsewhere, but Dylan's wife knew where her husband's eyes were straying.

“Dylan O'Grady,” said Adele. “You remember what his wife's name is?”

“I don't like him,” Danielle said. “Mom said he made a pass at her after she and Dad split up.”

“Like an African name or something. Keyasha?”

“No.” Danielle stood beside her, having another look. “Keasha.”

“Keasha, right. Now
she
looks like a model.”

“
She
looks pissed.
He's
staring at my mom's boobs and
she's
staring at the back of his head. She totally wants to brain him.”

“Men and women,” Adele said. “It never stops.”

“You a lesbian?”

“Nope. Not that either.”

“I was thinking about being a lesbian.”

“Don't know that it's any easier for them.”

“Except you wouldn't have to deal with men.”

“There is that.” She looked at the photograph. “Holy fuck,” she said. “Will you look at the size of the rock on that woman's finger.”

Anya sat at a picnic table on the far side of the parking lot, wrapped in her brown coat, facing out, watching the traffic roll up and down the highway. Stacy finished gassing up, then pulled away from the pumps. She parked close by, but didn't get out of the car. Anya still had half a cigarette. She wasn't going to throw it away. At these prices? She turned her shoulder and resumed counting cars. After a while Stacy got out and leaned against the driver's side door. Anya knew she was there and spoke without turning. “It really is too bad about Louie. He was a loathsome creature, but still, it is too bad.”

“Why did you go there?”

“I do not take much joy from life, Detective. It is the way I am. A small measure of pride I have, small pieces, pride in what I was, long ago, but not much joy. Small pleasures. I live on small pleasures.” She lit a second smoke from the ember of the first. “I wanted to bring the thing to a head and end it. End it and have some peace. So I could enjoy my small pleasures.”

“Did it work?”

She shook her head. “Not yet.” She swung around to face Stacy, lifting her legs neatly over the bench, knees together, toes pointed, stretching them out in front of her, placing them gently side by side on the dirt. “Sergei Siziva is a nasty little man, but too fastidious to kill anyone with his own hands. And his big dog is too clumsy not to leave enough evidence behind to hang himself. Those two didn't kill Louie. You know that. And neither did I. I think it would be good if you kept looking”

“What happened to the big ruby?”

“Ha! That thing! I hope Louie swallowed it. I hope they find it when they cut him open.” She butted the second smoke and stood up, brushing ashes off the front of her coat. She faced Stacy, straight and proud. “That would be fitting.”

They had made progress. It was difficult to see much change but progress had been made. She was sure of it. Clothes had been sorted and boxed, Danielle was headed home with a full suitcase holding two of her father's leather jackets, an Ironhead watch cap, his gold Bulova and a baseball glove signed “Paul Molitor.” A tentative date for the following Saturday was agreed to. Danielle was sure they could finish the job next weekend. Adele didn't think it was possible given the stacks of boxes now crowding Paul Delisle's living room. Five more boxes labelled “Records” were lined up by the bookcases where the other thousand-plus recordings stood upright in their proper paper sleeves, along with the thick ledger holding a complete inventory of the “Blues, Jazz and Roots Music Collection of Paul Alfred Delisle.”

Alfred?
No wonder you never mentioned your middle name.

The collection was organized alphabetically, cross-referenced by artist, label, recording date, sidemen . . .

. . . and on and fucking on. Jesus Paulie, if I'd known you were this meticulous, you could've handled all the paperwork. Saved me hours of crapola. How'd you manage to convince me you couldn't handle forms? What a bastard. Why lift a finger when you can charm your way out of it?

Okay, so I've got the records. I'm taking the bookcases too, I'm not having these things lying around my place. Plus those boxes are looking a little mouldy on the bottoms. That's not like you, Paulie. What if Big Bill Broonzy's face is getting slimy?

Adele tore open the first box and carefully lifted the albums to the floor. Most of them were
RCA
Victor classical collections in heavy bound covers, like picture books. Complete operas, Beethoven's nine symphonies . . .

Oh great. Just what I need. These I'll be selling. Nothing against the classics, Paulie, but I've got a classics channel on my cable package pumps out this shit 24/7. Very soothing when I can't sleep.

And another box full of geniuses, and another one, and . . . a box filled with records. The side split and the contents spilled out. Records. Not recordings: file folders, notebooks, case files, Paul's entire career as a cop.

Adele lowered herself to the floor. Oh fuck, Paulie. Now what?