Woman Chased by Crows (38 page)

Adele joined in. “We
don't
know if, after fucking her beaky brains out, Dylan stole the rock and turned her lights off. We
don't
know if he strangled her in the hotel, or waited until they were in a more convenient spot, or if he was back in time for the fucking kickoff.”

“That's a long list of ignorance.”

“We know shit.”

“Except that Dylan's wife has a sapphire as big as a bottle cap on her ring finger.”

“I'll grant you that much.”

“No witnesses.”

“None alive.” Adele crammed the last bite of burger into her mouth. “Feel like coming back to the Big Smoke with me again?”

“You want to arrest O'Grady?”

“Not yet. No way. With what we've got he could still wiggle. I don't want him to have any wiggle room.”

“What then?”

“I think we need to take another run at Serge and Citizen Grenkov. I don't like them roaming around. They might fuck off. Serge still has some 'splainin' to do.” She wiped her mouth. “You got a couch?”

“Better,” Stacy said. “I've got a guest room.”

“You're kidding.”

“Clean sheets and cable.”

“You're spoiling me, partner,” she said. She wadded the hamburger wrapper and looked around for the bag it came in.

“By your foot,” Stacy said, “partner.”

Tuesday, March 22

It was a morning for carefully worded greetings, polite avoidances, nods and smiles and conversations that went nowhere. Diana was going to court and Orwell wasn't sure how he felt about it except that he was unusually fidgety for a man so calm. He had to admit that his daughter looked entirely competent: bright, brisk, smartly turned out in a dark jacket and a crisp blue shirt. He watched closely (but discreetly) for signs of nerves and couldn't spot any. What he saw was eagerness. Diana was standing at the kitchen window looking out at an eastern horizon barely tinged with pink, and one foot was tapping. She was champing at the bit.

“No!” Erika was emphatic. “You will not begin your day on a cup of coffee. Sit.”

“I'm in a hurry,” Diana said.

“You are in a hurry to get out of the house. You aren't late for anything. Sit.”

“All right, but nothing heavy.”

“You will eat what I feed you.”

Diana resigned herself to getting nourished and sat. She glanced at her father. He was offering her some toast. She took a half slice. He took the other half. There was a moment's silence. “Watch your shoes getting to the car,” he offered. “It's a quagmire out there. One of these days we should pave the lane.” He slathered on a layer of Erika's sour cherry jam. “Maybe after we dig the lagoon.”

“It is not a lagoon.” Erika served Diana a measured portion of scrambled eggs. “Eat that and have some juice so you don't fade away before lunch.”

“Georgie says we'll be done in ten minutes.”

Everything stopped for a moment. Diana looked up, aware that alluding to the forbidden topic might have been a breach of protocol. Orwell came to her rescue. “Pretrial hearings are usually just in and out,” he said.

“You will still need your strength,” said Erika. “And you, not so much jam. Have some eggs.”

“As soon as I receive eggs, I will devour them,” he said. He had a defiant chomp of toast. He was particularly fond of Erika's sour cherry. “That Lyman fellow has taken to calling this place the Brennan Estate,” he said happily.

“That is nonsense,” said Erika.

“It is, isn't it? The place deserves something grander. Xanadu, maybe.”

“Xanadu.” Erika was offended. “If you ask around the neighbourhood, it is still called the old Robicheau place and will be for another hundred years. Then, maybe, they'll start calling it the old Brennan place.” She put a plate in front of her husband, then sat at the other end of the table and looked from one to the other. “Go on,” she said. “Eat before it's cold.”

Orwell surveyed his breakfast plate, knife and fork at the ready. If he was upset at the absence of sausages he didn't mention it. From Leda's third floor atelier they could hear lines being declaimed. Leda was rehearsing Emily's goodbye speech from
Our Town
.

“She's going to be great,” Diana said.

“You too,” Erika told her daughter. She looked at Orwell. “Well, she will be.”

“I have no doubt of that,” he said.

It was Adele's first good sleep in more than a week. The bed in Stacy's guest room wasn't large, but it was a hell of a lot more comfortable than the one she had in her apartment. I should break down and get a new bed. One of these days. And the shower had a massage nozzle to beat the tension from her neck and shoulders. She wasn't a hundred percent convinced that a “power protein smoothie” would ever take the place of bacon and eggs, but had to admit that the woman did make a good cup of coffee.

Nice little house, too. If I had this setup, I wouldn't be in a hurry to ditch it. “I don't see any moose heads on the wall. No bearskin rugs.”

“Joe's pretty much a fishing guide these days.”

“No fish, either. What's wrong with the guy?”

“He planted three Rowan trees in my front yard. A male and two females. That was kind of romantic.”

“A threesome is romantic?”

Stacy laughed. “Never thought of it that way.”

“Wait a minute, boy and girl
trees
?”

“Otherwise you don't get the red berries, he says.”

“Yeah, I guess it's romantic.”

“Technically I think they're mountain ash but I like calling them rowans.”

“Because?”

“Rowans are magic.”

“Oh. Would that be practical magic? I mean, anything we can use?”

“Good for wands, I hear. You want more protein shake?”

“No. Thanks. It was good. With the banana and the soy milk and the whatever else you tossed in there. I feel energized. So, what's it gonna be? Think your boss was serious about you going to town to bust Citizen Grenkov?”

“One way to find out.”

Orwell was amused. “You realize I was blowing smoke when I suggested that, right?” he said. “We don't have a case. They processed Lorna Ruth's office. No prints, no eyewitness, no evidence that Grenkov hit the doctor or trashed her office. Likewise with the assault on Ms. Zubrovskaya. No eyewitness, her word against his. Have a hard time making it stick anyway, since she wasn't touched.”

“She says he cut himself chasing her through a chain-link fence,” Adele said. “Might be blood,
DNA
.”

“This isn't New York, Detective. Who's going to pay for that?
We
can't afford it. Takes months the way the system works these days. And then he might wind up making a countercharge since he obviously got the worst of it.”

“Lost my head.”

Stacy said, “Chief, we just want a chance to question them again. If we wind up charging either one, it's a bonus.”

“Do it all by the book. But let them know they're going to be very inconvenienced by the process.” Adele was enjoying herself. “Mention Immigration and the extradition process, ask them if they'd like to contact the Russian embassy.”

“And what do you figure to get out of this production?”

“We need bait,” said Stacy. “We're after a bigger fish than those two. We think they might give us something we can dangle.”

“And what do you think your big fish might do?”

Adele was honest. “Who knows? I don't have a fucking clue what he'll do. But I sure would like a chance to rattle his cage, make him mess his laundry. This man is a killer. I know it the way I know it's lunch time.”

“Chief?”

“Yes, Dorrie?”

“Sam Abrams on one.”

“Thank you.” He snatched up the receiver. “Hi, Sam. No comment.”

“No comment about what?”

“Whatever it is you wanted me to comment on.”

“All right, Chief. I just thought you might have some fatherly reaction, aside from your position as chief.”

“Why fatherly?”

“I just came from the courthouse. Harold Ruth's pretrial hearing. I guess you haven't heard. I suppose no one's in a hurry to report.”

“Report on
what
? Jeeze, Sam, don't get all coy. What is it with you this morning? You're almost giggling.”

“Your daughter and Georgie. Formidable team. Formidable. A dazzling display.”

“When's the trial date?”

“Won't be one. Gord Blumberg's declined to prosecute.”

“Declined? Why?”

“It was the smartest move. The judge would have tossed it.”

“How do you know this?”

“I have a source. Someone who overheard a somewhat contentious exchange between the Crown and the defence counsels. Some of which I myself heard while, ah, passing by.”

“And which you are just about to share.”

“Georgie and Diana ambushed Gord Blumberg in the hall. Diana had a gun expert lined up who claimed that the bullet they dug out of the door jamb came from a Winchester 94, 30-30 lever action and
not
a Savage, model 1899 of the same calibre. The footprints at the crime scene would show that whoever was back there had big feet, probably eleven and a half or twelve. Harold Ruth wears a nine and a half. Harold was arrested with a recently fired rifle in his hand. Members of his gun club confirmed, or
would
confirm, that he'd been sighting it in at a shooting range and that he was there when he said he was.”

“Georgie got all that in the hallway?”

“Diana did. Like a machine gun. To top it off, she knew the two Toronto detectives had been suspended for seriously bad conduct and exceeding their authority, holding the accused in isolation, denying him any right to counsel, and on and on. She told Gord his whole case was a collection of useless evidence and poor police work and he should hold off or the judge would toss the whole thing.”

“They had no case.”

“May I quote you?”

“No, you may not. You can say that ‘Under the circumstances, the
DPD
will consider the case still open and assumes that the
OPP
and Metro's homicide unit will be doing the same.'” Orwell hung up and sat for a moment staring at his map with unfocused eyes.

“You forget we were here, Chief?” Stacy asked.

“Did I hear right?” Adele asked. “They're cutting Paulie's killer loose?”

“Harold didn't do it.”

“The fuck he didn't!”

“Settle down. Take a deep breath. Harold Ruth didn't do it. There's a killer out there. Been walking around for two weeks.”

Adele paced the room. She looked ready to punch a wall, she just hadn't decided which one. Stacy sat quietly near Orwell's desk, waiting for the smell of sulfur to die down.

“So all right! Who did it?”

“I don't know, but until we find out I can't spare Stacy for any road trips.” He spread his hands apologetically. “Sorry.”

Stacy didn't look sad at all. She leaned forward, her eyes bright and her head lifted, a hunting animal, testing the wind. “Any chance Del and I can take another run at that one?”

Adele liked the sound of that.

Orwell looked at the two of them. “I don't suppose you two have ever heard of a Buff Orpington?” He held open his most recent copy of
Fancy Fowl
to a colour photograph. “Handsome creature, don't you think?”

“Is that supper, Chief?” Stacy asked.

“Retirement. Something to look forward to after I'm kicked out of this office by a new administration. I figure it'll be around the same time Captain Rosebart chains
you
to your desk for a year, and around the time Emmett Paynter teams
you
up with Randy Vogt for the duration of your career.”

Stacy smiled. “We're either doomed, or bound for glory.”

He shook his head. “Tell you what. I'll give you twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours that you can use any way you like.” He held up an admonishing finger. “But
without
going anywhere
near
Lorna Ruth,
or
her newly released husband, Harold. Got me?”

Stacy grinned. “Twenty-four hours.”

“Unless you want to wait for Lacsamana and Heatley to get back up here and do their jobs properly.”

“And if we pull it off?”

“Well then, I guess I'd have to let you take another run at Yevgeni Grenkov and Sergei Siziva.”

Adele picked up the magazine and looked at the cover. “Seriously, you gonna be
eating
these chickens, Chief?”