Woman Chased by Crows (36 page)

“Prove what?” Orwell wondered.

“Who the fuck knows?”

The three cops were silent for a short while, each one focused in a different direction — Adele looking at the creased photograph in her hand, Stacy at the window watching the traffic go by, Orwell, as was his habit when looking for answers to tough questions, scanning the aerial map on the far side of his office. “By the way, they're letting the two Russians walk.”

“What kind of bullshit is
that
?” Adele was livid. “What do they want, signed confessions?”

“Your boss is under some scrutiny, given recent events. He's treading lightly.” He swung around to face Stacy. “Rosebart tells me that Grenkov character is going to sue you for crippling him.”

“Fuck, I wish I'd seen that,” said Adele.

“I told him I might send you down there to arrest him again.”

“Dibs on the other kneecap,” Adele said.

Orwell stood up and rubbed his big hands together briskly as if preparing to do physical labour. “Dang! I expected us to be swamped with outside troops by now,” he said. “These people are awfully slow off the mark, don't you think? So far, nothing from Montreal, nothing from Ottawa, nothing from the Russian embassy. We should have officials from all over hell's half acre showing up, don't you think? We've got jewel thieves, murders going back twenty-five years, what does it take to get their attention?”

“I'm sure they'll saddle up any day now, Chief,” Stacy said.

“I mean, this is . . .
international
.”

“They've got a lot to sort out.”

“Yes. Yes. And no doubt a joint Russo-Canadian task force is massing on our borders.” He stopped pacing and made a few minute adjustments to the piles of forms, files and printouts on a side table. Stacy and Adele waited for him. “But it seems we're to be on our own a little while longer,” he said at last. “Now, what we
could
do, probably
should
do, is wait until the duly authorized get their acts together and come in here to take over.”

“Is that what we're doing, Chief?” Stacy asked.

Orwell went back to his desk, rubbed his hand across his dome, picked up the photograph. “Okay, just for the hell of it, let's say your man O'Grady got his hands on this particular stone back when he was playing football.”

“Louie Grova's brother says Louie was selling stones to football players,” Adele started. “Argos are playing in Montreal. Somehow Louie Grova meets Dylan, or knows him from before, offers him a deal on a rock. Dylan buys it. Okay, not a hundred percent kosher, but, long time ago, doesn't tie him to anything.”

“Players,” said Stacy.

“What?”

“Your friend the diamond merchant said
players
, plural, right? Maybe Louie sold jewels to other players. Maybe there's someone from that Argo team still around that we can talk to without tipping O'Grady off.”

“Jee-zuss,” Adele muttered. “Good luck tracking one down.”

“What are we talking about here?” Orwell asked his map. “The 1982 Argos?”

“Yeah, '82, somewhere around there,” said Adele.

“Because it just so happens there's a resident Canadian Football League expert right here in town. Knows the name of every man on every Grey Cup winner for the past fifty years. And we don't have to look back nearly that far. Hell, 1982. That'd be recent history to him.” Orwell picked up his phone, punched in a number from memory. “Georgie? How about a slice of pie?”

“You're buying, right?”

“Need to pick your brain.”

“You're buying.”

Georgie was waiting in their usual booth. It was after three, the lunch crowd had moved on, allowing the pie fanciers to check out the selection and indulge their choices in peace. “Easiest decision of the day,” Georgie said. “Coconut cream's been missing for weeks.”

“I was thinking of putting together a petition,” said Orwell.

“Woman who makes them had a baby,” said Ethel. She waited patiently. The choosing process was important she knew, at least on the Chief's part. “And there's pecan,” she said. “Really good.”

“Can't justify it, Ethel, calorically speaking. I think a slice of the apple, with maybe a piece of that nice cheddar cheese.”

“Not sure about the calorie count,” Georgie said, “but it
sounds
nutritious.”

“Exactly,” Orwell said, with a virtuous air. “Wholesome to a fault.”

Ethel lifted her eyebrows. The apple pie was as thick as a dictionary. “And you'll be wanting the sharp cheddar, Chief?”

“If you would be so kind, Ethel, my dear,” he said. “And coffee, of course.”

The Chief began his ritual unfolding of the napkin and polishing of the fork and spoon. To Georgie, it looked as formal as a tea ceremony.

“Gregg Lyman getting on your nerves yet?”

“What? Pah. Politics is politics. He can blather all he wants.”

“Taking shots at you and yours.”

“Consider the source, Georgie. Lyman's base is on the Knoll. That's where the money is, and those are the people who would love to have me out. If he gets elected, I wouldn't bet on me getting a contract extension.”

“Doesn't piss you off?”

“Ever hear of a Jersey Giant? Or a Bearded Wyandotte? How about a Buff Orpington?”

“These are chickens, right?”

“Fowl. Fancy fowl,” Orwell said. He beamed as Ethel set his massive wedge of pie before him. “That looks scrumptious, Ethel dear,” he said.

“Wouldn't know,” Ethel said. “Screws up my blood sugar.” She put an equally large slice of coconut cream in front of Georgie. “Coffee's on the way.”

“Just black for me,” Orwell said.

Ethel shook her head. “Sure,” she said. “Mustn't overdo.”

“What about the Ruffled Hottentot?”

“When I retire, or get canned, I'm going to raise chickens.”

“Sure you are.”

“I am, Georgie. Patty says horses and chickens get along just fine.”

They concentrated on pie for a few moments. For all his size and gusto, the Chief was a very neat eater, feeding himself cheddar chunks with the fingers of his left hand while wielding his fork like a scalpel. “Diana phoned this morning,” he said. “She's coming up. The two of you will make a formidable team.”

“We've got the pre-trial hearing set for tomorrow. You want to watch her in action? I tell you, Stonewall, she's a dynamo when you turn her loose.”

“I'd better stay away, Georgie.” He carved a neat section of pie, topped it with a nugget of sharp cheddar and made the arrangement disappear.

“Any fallout from that outfit she works for?”

“She was a little evasive on the subject. I expect we'll get the full story come suppertime.”

“Must be the Pie Club for Men,” said Sam Abrams.

“Grab a seat, you ink-stained wretch,” Georgie said. “Coconut cream has returned in time for spring.” Georgie slid sideways to accommodate Sam. The Chief's side of the booth couldn't handle both bulks at the same time.

“Oh dear,” said Sam. He was aware of his girth as he squeezed into position. “I don't think I'd better.”

“Then you have to leave,” Georgie said.

“All right. A small slice of, I don't know, any of that strawberry rhubarb left, Ethel?”

“You bet. Ice cream?”

“No. But thank you.”

“Warmed?”

“Please.” Sam beamed at the two men. “So? Discussing the Harold Ruth case?”

“Off limits for the duration,” said Georgie. “We're talking fancy fowl.”

Sam looked confused. “Chickens,” Orwell said helpfully.

“Okay. Chief, I've got a quote from Mr. Lyman's camp that you might have to deal with.”

The Chief put down his fork. “Really? What's he saying now?”

“He says you used police funds to pay for customizing your personal vehicle.”

“He did?” Orwell started laughing. “And how much did I bilk the people of this fine community for?”

“He wasn't specific. More than twenty thousand dollars.”

The laugh exploded into a huge barking roar so genuine that Georgie and Ethel joined in without a clue what they were laughing at. “Lordy me, will my wife be delighted! She thinks we paid for all that stuff
ourselves
!”

“So it isn't true?”

“Do I really have to bother with this while I'm having my pie?”

“Pretty much taken care of that pie,” Georgie said.

“He said it in public,” said Sam. “There was an audience.”

“Let me guess.”

“Wouldn't be the worst thing they've tried to pin on you,” said Georgie. “You have an actual quote?”

Sam had it scrawled on a piece of paper. “‘Chief Brennan's misuse of the police budget in order to customize his personal transportation . . .'”

“He
said
that?” Georgie was outraged. “
Misuse
? Not
alleged
misuse, or
reported
misuse?”

“Just misuse.”

“That fits the definition of slander, Stonewall.”

“Oh who gives a flying fig what Mr. Lyman says?”

“You plan on printing this, Sam?”

“I was hoping to get a response.” He looked up. “Thanks Ethel. This is a
small
slice?”

“I can give you a doggy bag.”

“Oh I think he can handle it,” Georgie said.

“You care to comment, Chief?”

“Why the hell is Lyman poking
me
with a stick? I thought he was running for mayor, not police chief.”

“He needs an issue. He's picked law and order, hearkening back to the good old days of Chief Argyle.”

“I'll stack the current record of the
DPD
up against Argyle's any day.”

“You want me to say that?”

“No, I don't want you to say that. I refuse to dignify campaign horse-pucky and I sure as heck don't have to defend myself against a professional haircut who hasn't lived here long enough to pay tax.”

“Doesn't finish his pie, either,” said Ethel. “Was in here last week, left most of his blueberry.”

“Afraid of staining his caps,” Georgie said. “You don't have to print his nonsense, do you Sam?”

“It's not going to stop, Chief. He's picked his hobby horse and now he has to ride it. Last week's murder, the recent increase in muggings and break-ins, complaints against one of your constables for harassment, plus egregious misuse of public money. He's saying the police department's a disaster. He even wondered how much the
DPD
might have contributed to the refurbishing and renovating of the Brennan Estate.”

“Jesus, Stonewall, he's throwing everything at you but your taste in neckwear, which, in my opinion, would be an inviting target.”

“Said the man wearing daisies and bluebirds.”

“Spring, dammit, get with the season.”

“And there's a rumour, as yet unattributable, to the effect that you were seen carousing at all hours with a woman who was clearly not your wife.”

“Well now that's going a bit far,” Orwell said. “I was hardly carousing.”

“Rumours spread, Chief. They're worse than outright lies. You can't refute a rumour, all you do is keep it alive.”

“Take this down, Sam. Word for word. Chief Orwell Brennan's vehicle carries the necessary modifications required for its use as an official police car — lights, siren, communication. All of which are now, and will remain, the property of the
DPD
. Any
other
modifications to my old Ramcharger were paid for out of
my
pocket and I have, or rather my wife has, all receipts and cancelled checks dating back seven years.” He picked up his fork and pushed the last crumbs of pie around the plate. “She'd be very happy to show everyone exactly how much money I've lavished on my personal transportation.” He tossed his fork onto the empty plate and stood up. “That last sentence is off the record.”

“What about the rumour?”

“As you say, anything I say just helps to keep it alive.” Orwell went to retrieve his hat and coat and leave money beside the cash register. Ethel was talking to someone at the other end of the counter. Orwell raised his hand in farewell.

“What was it you wanted to pick my brain for, Stonewall?”

“Oh Lordy,” Orwell said. “Almost forgot, what with defending myself against scurrilous attacks. Argos. 1982. You remember anything about them?”

“Of course.”

“Anyone from those years in the vicinity?”

“Surely you jest.”

“I do not jest.”

“We're talking history here.”

“Georgie, I'm a baseball fan. And I watch junior hockey when I can get to a game. I don't know much about the
CFL
. It's a failing, I admit.”