Woman Chased by Crows Page 13

  Yes, give him that. He wasn’t brilliant, but he was on time. He couldn’t fly, but he saw to his responsibilities: he lifted, presented, caught and held her.

  And now? Still seeing to your responsibilities? Still there to catch me? It is good that you are so predictable. I will make it easy for you. There will be no more running, Sergei. I will present myself. All I have to do is fly, and you will be waiting, like a city bus.

  An ambulance was pulling up to the emergency entrance. A pregnant woman was making a lot of noise as the EMT wheeled her through the sliding doors. The woman’s husband stayed outside to grab a smoke. Inside it was the usual parade of pre-dawn emergencies. A big man with a bandage on his hand and an Elvis hairdo was discussing his condition with an overworked intern, two young men with bruises and bloody noses were explaining how they got that way to an OPP constable, a sad woman with an alarming cough was huddled in a chair. The pregnant woman’s husband finally pulled himself together enough to come inside. His wife bellowed at him, “Where the hell did you go?” Stacy took a deep breath and headed for the elevator.

  The officer posted outside Dr. Ruth’s room was happy to be relieved.

  Stacy settled herself on two chairs across from the hospital bed, hoping to grab a little sleep and be nearby should the patient’s condition change. Good luck with that. Why the goddamn robins had to start chirping like happy idiots so early was beyond her. The sky was still dark, there wasn’t any moon. Maybe they were just happy that it stopped raining. Then the patient made a small noise and Stacy went to get a nurse.

  Family disputes, especially ones fuelled by alcohol, were Constable Maitland’s least favourite calls. He’d rather chase a maniac down a dark alley, at least he’d have a good idea where the danger lay. With domestics you never knew. A mousy little woman, quietly sobbing in the kitchen, picks up a cleaver and tries to behead her asshole husband. A drunken man fires up a chainsaw and starts dividing the family assets down the middle, starting with that ugly fucking sofa. A wife has trouble working the slide on the pump-action shotgun, her husband laughs at her until she gets it right. At least this one didn’t end with a trip to the hospital or charges laid. He should be home before his kids finish breakfast. There was time for one last check on the dancer lady.

  She was standing in the doorway of the florist shop, smoking a cigarette and looking at the arrangements. Or maybe checking reflections. She spotted him the second he pulled up, turned to face him.

  “You were my guardian angel all night?” She had a half smile.

  “Part time, yes, ma’am.”

  “It was a comfort, Officer . . . ?”

  “Maitland. Constable. Charles.”

  “Thank you, Constable Charles Maitland. I am going home now. You are relieved.”

  “Going straight home, ma’am?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I’d be happy to drive you.”

  She gave him another smile, broader this time. “How thoughtful,” she said. “Perhaps we could stop for just a moment. I need a cup of coffee.”

  “Be my pleasure.”

  “Pleasant young man. I would be honoured to buy you a coffee as well. Perhaps a doughnut?”

  Maitland laughed. “Don’t eat ’em,” he said.

  “I do.”

  Timmies was already doing good business, the parking lot was filling up, a few truckers outside slurping large double-doubles and passing around a box of a dozen assorted, unkinking stiff spines, hacking their first butts of the day.

  “A medium coffee with cream and sugar,” she told the woman. “And for you, Constable?”

  “No thank you, ma’am. I’m hoping to get some sleep.”

  “Thanks to you I had a nice sleep,” she said. “And three of the honey-dipped ones.”

  On their way to the door, she stopped, put a hand on his arm. “One moment please,” she said. She headed for a man standing by the window, stared at the back of his head until he turned to her, a big man, he towered over her, but she stood her ground, her smile was tight and polite, her eyes were bright, her voice when she spoke was clear and precise.

  “Good morning, Ivan, or Igor, or whatever your name is. The next time you report to your boss, tell him I am going to Grova’s pawnshop. I need to raise a little cash. I have decided to take a vacation. Somewhere quiet.” She gave him a little wave as she turned away. “No need to see me home. I have an escort.” She took Maitland’s arm.

  “Is that someone I should be keeping an eye on?”

  “Do not bother, Constable Maitland. He will not be in town much longer. Are you sure you would not like a pastry? They are still warm.”

  “Well . . .” he said.

  “Go on,” she said. “You deserve one after your night’s work.”

  “Started to come to a couple of hours ago. The doctors are still with her. It looks like she’s going to be all right.”

  “That is very good news indeed, Detective. Any idea when she might be ready to answer questions?”

  “They’ve got a bunch of things they want to check. She’s still groggy. The doctor says maybe I can talk to her in an hour or so. I’ll stick around.”

  Orwell was in his cubbyhole office under the stairs. He could hear bright morning conversation coming from the kitchen and smell bacon and fresh coffee. “You get any sleep?”

  “I’m fine, Chief. Will you be coming to the hospital?”

  “It’s your interview, Detective. I’ll catch up with you later and you can fill me in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “After they let you talk to Dr. Ruth, take another run at Ms. Daniel. She can tell you all about the crown jewels of Russia.”

  “Just keeps getting better and better, doesn’t it?”

  “Enjoying yourself?”

  “Having a blast, Chief.”

  “Good. I figure you’ve got until about noon Monday before we’re invaded by people with bigger badges.”

  Orwell hung up the phone and took himself upstairs for a shower and shave and an outfit appropriate to an occasion demanding a measure of ceremony. His beloved first-born, and her fiancé . . . Gary, right, were announcing their engagement with the entire family in attendance (a rare event in itself): Leda, the budding stage star, and Diana, the smart big-city lawyer, and of course his lovely wife, who, it appeared, had forgiven his numerous lapses and was preparing to feed him a decent breakfast. Definitely worthy of a suit and a white shirt and a tie of righteousness. Red paisley, that was the ticket.

  “Change your tie,” Erika said.

  “Why?”

  “Change your tie.”

  “Why?”

  She met his eyes. “I don’t think she’s happy in the city.”

  “It’s what she always wanted,” he said. “Classy law firm, nice apartment, lots of shoes.”

  Erika riffled through his tie selection. “She’s lonely.” She chose a dark blue with a small diamond pattern. “Bend your knees.” She lifted his shirt collar and deftly arranged the tie around his neck. “She doesn’t have any friends. Just a bunch of lawyers. And they work her too hard. She’s too thin.”

  “She tell you why she’s up here?”

  “She’s consulting.”

  “She might wind up doing more than consult.”

  “Good. She can have a few decent meals for a change.”

  “There is that.” Marvin Gaye sang out from his pocket. “Yes, Staff?”

  “The Daniel woman’s gone back to her apartment, Chief. We watching her all day?”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary. Stacy will be talking to her this afternoon sometime, try to get an idea if there’s any real danger.”

  “I’ll arrange a regular drive-by.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Looks like Constable Maitland ruffled some feathers last night.”
r />   “How so?”

  “Mrs. Charles Emery has lodged a complaint. Quote, I want that officer punished, close quote.”

  “For what?”

  “Evidently Constable Maitland was rude.”

  “He didn’t break any furniture, did he?”

  “No, Chief.”

  “Why I don’t like single officer patrols. What was he doing up there?”

  “Domestic, Chief. Neighbour reported loud noises and screams. When he got there he was told by Mrs. Emery that nothing was amiss. He inquired how she had sustained a black eye. She told him to ‘expletive off.’”

  “Did he say if Mrs. Emery had been drinking?”

  “Detected the smell of liquor, yes sir.”

  “She’s probably a little embarrassed. Give her some time to cool down. See if he can drop by later. I’ll have a chat with him. And if the Queen of the Knoll calls again, I’ll talk to her.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You have a good time last night, Staff?”

  “Passable, Chief. I still think the Avalon would have been a better pick. Pizza doesn’t agree with my disposition.”

  Orwell put the phone back in his pocket. “Wouldn’t admit to a hangover if he was at death’s door.” He checked himself in the bedroom mirror, made final adjustments to the knot in his new blue tie.

  “Who is it you’ll be talking to this afternoon?”

  “Detective Crean will be. The ballet teacher. Her apartment was robbed.”

  “This is the Russian woman you were getting drunk with last night?”

  “A slight exaggeration. But yes. She was upset. Understandably so.”

  “And you were easing her mind?” Erika sat at her dressing table brushing her hair. “For this you needed a red tie?”

  “The tie was for Patty, and the occasion.”

  “Hmm.” She was watching him in the mirror. “What’s her problem?”

  “She has bad dreams about Chernenko. He’s chasing her. Or he sent people who are chasing her.”

  “Chernenko’s gone to hell a long time ago. She can stop dreaming about him.”

  “He died in 1985.”

  “Yes. How do you know this?”

  “I went to the library yesterday. At lunch.”

  “You didn’t eat?”

  “Sometimes I skip lunch and go to the library. You know that.”

  “You don’t lose weight by skipping lunch. You eat a sensible lunch. You skip lunch, you sneak cookies in the afternoon.”

  “I don’t have any cookies. My night sergeant eats them when I’m not around.” He bent close to her. Kissed her cheek. “I think you tell him where I hide them.” They held each other’s gaze in the mirror. “Maybe I’ll put a mousetrap in the drawer.”

  “Maybe I’ll warn him.”

  The manager of Anya Daniel’s apartment building had an enormous belly and wore his shirt outside his pants. It didn’t help. There was no concealing the fact that he ate too much. Mostly fried chicken and beer, Stacy figured. His coffee table held a dozen empties and a family-size bucket of bones. “I was asleep,” he mumbled. His tongue was thick and his breath was bad. Stacy took a step back. The man blinked and tried to focus on the badge she held in front of him. “Watching TV,” he said. “Drifted off.”

  “Sorry to disturb your nap,” she said. “I’m Detective Crean, Dockerty Police, this is Corporal Scheider. We need you to open 405, that’s Ms. Daniel’s apartment.”

  “What? She dead?”

  “Why would you think that, sir?”

  “I don’t know, cops pounding. What do I know?”

  “Would you come with us, open her door, please?”

  “You want a key? Here’s a key. Wait a minute, not that one. Here’s a key.” He lifted the correct one from a hook beside the door. “I’m not walking in on a dead body,” he said.

  “Did you hear any noises? Did her neighbours say anything?”

  “What do I know? She got robbed last night. Cops all over the place.”

  “Thank you, sir. We’ll bring the key back.”

  By the time Thursday rolled around, her nose was blistering and she’d had enough therapeutic vacationing to last her a long time. Adele booked a dog’s breakfast of red-eyes and shuttles that would get her back to Toronto Friday morning. She paid a considerable surcharge for the privilege of cancelling her holiday early and flying all night. I just hope I stayed long enough to miss Paulie’s wake. Bet there weren’t any bagpipes. She crammed her carry-on and vacated the room without regret. Shoot me a taxi driver if that frickin’ plane leaves before we get there.

  “I’m sure the taxi is on his way right now, hon.”

  No way the Commissioner showed up. Well? Why the hell would he? It’s not like he died in the line of duty, saving a pregnant mother from a roving band of crack dealers. Oh no, not my Paulie. Shot by a cuckolded spouse in a cheesy motel room. In the middle of nowhere. Wearing one red sock for Chrissake. She caught sight of herself in the lobby mirror, full length, all the better to thoroughly appreciate the benefits of her run to the sun — burnt knees, freckled shoulders, a pale mask where her sunglasses sat on her peeling nose. No doubt about it, a raving beauty.

  “Taxi’s here, hon.”

  There was no such thing as a smoking car on trains in this country. Not any longer. The social engineers had seen to that. The GO train between Oshawa and Toronto was strictly a commuter special, no more than a convoy of double-decker buses all hooked together. Once in a while, between the factories, malls and housing developments, she caught a brief glimpse of open water, never long enough to let her feel that this was an outing. There were no baskets of wrapped sandwiches or bottles of wine, no chattering friends and attentive suitors, and no music, no music whatsoever, unless you counted the incessant percussive hiss escaping from the earplugs of the sullen lout taking up three seats across from her. Manners have completely disappeared, she thought. No, that was not it, conductors have disappeared. There was no one marching down the aisle to make the young man lift his sneakers and turn down his entertainment system. And there were no purveyors of sweets or reading material. And she was not on her way to Dubrovnik for a weekend at the seashore.

  Where was she going, exactly? What was she planning? Did it matter? It was time to bring them out of the shadows. All of them. No more running.

  She would start with Grova. He would be easy to handle. And he could pull Sergei into the open. Sergei would be close. He was on a mission. At least, he was in the beginning. Who knows what it was now? As many years invested for him as for her. Can a man stay on the scent that long? Perhaps only someone as narrow and dogged as Sergei Siziva. He’d found his true métier as a bloodhound. Perhaps even wolf. We are all so old. By now, we all should have fallen by the wayside.

  Who was first to go?

  Ludmilla. Poor Ludi. Pretty girl, nimble fingers, sew fresh ribbons on your shoes in a twinkling. Sweet Ludi. She of the wicked laugh, deep, like a man’s laugh, with her clapping hands and happy bouncing up and down when times were good, and the company was touring, and the hotel room was better than she expected — terrycloth robes provided, room service in the middle of the night. How that made her happy, to order a hamburger at three in the morning after she and Vassili had made love.

  Gone now. Dead in Montreal so many years ago, the Chief had told her. No surprise. No shock. Just a wave of sadness. She had always known Ludi was dead. It did not matter who killed her. If Viktor did not do it personally, he was nonetheless responsible. He was responsible for everything bad that happened. He had made them all fugitives. They could not go back. What about their relatives? Ludmilla had a son in the army. What about him? Vassili had a wife. What about her? While they were on tour Ludi and Vassi were lovers, but in Russia they had families. Their lives were ruined because of him.

  Viktor said it was
too late for those arguments. They accomplished nothing. They must deal with what is, not with things that cannot be changed. They had stolen property, stolen from an important man who would want it back, who would kill to get it back. How many people has this man killed, or had killed? You cannot count that high. Lives are meaningless to these people. It is now necessary to decide what to do.

  We can’t sell it as it is, he said, it is too well known.

  Viktor knew people. Of course he did. There was a man in Montreal, Grova was his name, and there was another one in Detroit named Padillo who did business across the river in Windsor sometimes. Those were the two connections he had in Canada. Viktor said he would take the stones to Montreal, to Grova. Ludmilla and Vassili said no. They didn’t trust him. He could take some of the stones to Montreal, and if he got a good price, he could bring the money back and they would share, and he could make another run.

  You were gone such a long time that first trip, Viktor. Three weeks. And when you came back you did not have the diamonds, and you did not have much money. But you had a lot of stories. You were cheated, you were robbed, swindled, mugged, someone reported you to the police and you had to run before you got paid.

  Vassili called you a liar.

  Ludmilla wanted to kill you. “You took forty thousand dollars in diamonds to Montreal and you come back with eight hundred dollars and a load of bullshit. Now you want another forty thousand? Go to hell!”

  “It will be different this time,” Viktor promised. “I know my way around now.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Ludmilla said.

  This time when he came back he had even less cash, and no Ludmilla. “She took the money and she ran off,” Viktor said. “Fifty thousand dollars.”

  Vassili hit him. Hard. In the face. “What did you do to her?”