Woman Chased by Crows Read online

“Not without a court order. Anything special about those files? Anything worth stealing?”

  “She was an interesting subject.”

  “Did she ever talk about smuggling?”

  “I can’t breach . . .”

  “Yes, Doctor, I know, but your confidentiality may have already been breached if those files were stolen. And why would anyone steal them unless there was something interesting in them?”

  “I don’t know, Detective, I don’t know.”

  “Did you ever discuss her case with anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Your husband?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Without breaching your doctor/patient responsibility, can you tell me if there’s anything in those files that might have motivated someone to attack you? Or your patient? Or anyone else?”

  “Could you get the nurse for me? I’ve got a terrible headache.”

  “Of course.”

  “Constable Maitland, thanks for coming in, I won’t keep you. I bet you and your family have plans.”

  “Nothing too special, Chief, we were going to take the kids to a movie.”

  “That’s special, trust me.” He saw Maitland make a quick check of his watch. “Be out of here in a minute.”

  “It’s Mrs. Emery, right? She making noises? I didn’t . . .”

  “Never mind her. I’ll deal with Georgia Emery. You drove Anya Daniel home, right?”

  “Yes, Chief. Straight home. Walked her to her door. She gave me a doughnut.”

  “Well sometime after that she flew the coop. We don’t know where she went. Nobody saw her leave. You get any sense she was planning anything?”

  “Oh cripes!”

  “Oh cripes?”

  “I didn’t think much of it at the time. But I should have. I was thinking about getting home.”

  “What happened?”

  “We stopped to get her a coffee and she talked to a man. Just for a second. I asked her if he was someone I should check on; she said he’d be gone soon.”

  “What’d he look like?”

  “Heavy set, maybe six feet, wasn’t smiling.”

  “You hear what she said?”

  “I think she said she was going to Grova’s pawnshop. She needed cash for her vacation.”

  “She told him she was going to the pawnshop?”

  “Wait. She said, ‘Tell your boss I’m going to Grova’s pawnshop.’”

  “Aha! Okay. Thank you, Constable. Thank you very much.”

  “You know what it means, Chief?”

  “Haven’t a clue, Charles. Haven’t a clue. That’s why we have detectives. Go. See a movie with your kids. Say hi to your wife. Emily, right?”

  “That’s right Chief.” Maitland smiled. “About Mrs. Emery . . .”

  Orwell waved his hand. “Don’t give it another thought, Constable. I’m looking forward to speaking to the woman.”

  Whatever Dr. Ruth’s assailant had been looking for couldn’t have been found without an inventory and code key. Other than furniture and equipment, the office was a jumble of sealed boxes labelled with cryptic notations, dates and letter/number combinations. The doctor’s desk drawers had been pried open, the wood was splintered. A few of the boxes had been roughly torn open and nothing but crumpled newspaper remained. The report from the detectives who investigated the attack said that a couple in the office next door heard loud noises and pounded on the wall. They then saw a large man leave in a hurry and pile into a car parked on the street. No second man, no license plate number. The car was described as “black, or dark blue, a Chevy or Ford, or maybe a big Toyota.” Not much help.

  Even if Stacy could locate the files relating to Anya’s sessions, she was legally prohibited from opening them. It was a dead end. At least for now.

  What next?

  “Hey, it’s Stacy. How’s it going?”

  “Oh, well, you know: shitty, crappy, like that. Sitting on the floor in my kitchen. Trying to decide between getting shit-faced or finding out what that crud is under my stove.”

  “Jeeze, I hate to drag you away.”

  “Oh yeah?” She ached all over. “What’s up?”

  “Our ballet dancer is in the wind. I’m trying to figure out where she went.”

  “She on the wanted list?”

  “I don’t know what the hell she is. You heard anything about stolen jewels mixed up in this?”

  “Jewels.” Paulie’s crap was still scattered on her kitchen table.

  “Diamonds mostly.”

  “Diamonds.” She waved her hand across the clutter as if to make it all disappear. “Mostly.”

  “Supposed to be a big ruby, too.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “Your partner ever say anything?”

  “You know what? I don’t think that shithead ever told me . . .” She picked up one of Paulie’s Adidas sneakers and fired it at the wall. Bam! “. . . anything!”

  “You okay?”

  “Oh yeah. Oh yeah. I’m just great. You know any lawyers?”

  “Not down there.”

  “The only ones I know are either court-appointed or charge a thousand bucks an hour.”

  “You got a problem?”

  “What I got is all of my asshole partner’s unfinished personal shit to take care of. He left me in charge of his . . . his fucking legacy!” She started to laugh. “I thought it was just his pension plan. Turns out I’ll be dealing with . . . oh who the fuck knows what I’ll be dealing with.”

  There was silence on the other end while Stacy waited for Adele to pull herself together.

  “Okay, okay, I’m cool. All right, from the top. You’re looking for the ballet dancing lady, right? You think she’s down here?”

  “Here’s what I know: she left me a message saying she was going away for a while. And one of our constables overheard her say she was going to Grova’s pawnshop. That name turns up in my notes from when I interviewed her.”

  “She got any Toronto connections?”

  “She knew Nimchuk.”

  “And he’s dead.”

  “And . . .” There was a brief pause. Adele heard notebook pages flipping. “. . . she told us Mr. Nimchuk was involved with stolen jewels.”

  “Really?”

  “Detective Delisle never mentioned gems at all?”

  “You’re saying he might have been up there looking for stolen jewels?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “Who do these jewels belong to?”

  “Near as I can figure out, they were part of the Russian state treasure, and probably belong to the Russians.”

  “You’re shitting me, right? Crown fucking jewels?”

  “I know: Not a hundred percent credible, but getting more and more interesting.”

  “What’s your next move?”

  “I was thinking I’d come down there.”

  “Oh yeah? You’ve got something, haven’t you?”

  “Nothing I can put my finger on, but something’s going on. If I’m going to poke around in your town, I’d feel better if I had you backing me up.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll be at Paulie’s apartment. Broadview and Danforth. Call me on my cell when you get here.”

  “It’ll be early.”

  “That’s okay. I’m going there now. With all the crap in his joint I might as well spend the night. Saves me having to clean under my stove.”

  “Chief? Mrs. Emery on one.”

  “Thanks, Dorrie. Mrs. Emery, it’s Orwell Brennan. How are you?”

  “Frankly Chief Brennan, I am outraged.”

  “My goodness. Well, I’m certainly sorry to hear that, Mrs. Emery. Is there anything I can do?”

>   “Of course there is. You can fire that policeman who harassed me last night.”

  “Let’s see now, I have his report right here. That would have been Constable Maitland.”

  “I don’t care who it was. He was obnoxious, rude and intrusive.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Charles Maitland. He’s a very polite young man.”

  “I do not care to be badgered in my own home.”

  “Oh, was he inside your house?”

  “He was on the front porch. What difference does that make?”

  “Just trying to get a clear picture here. So Constable Maitland came to your door. Did he knock or ring the bell?”

  “Who cares?”

  “What I’m getting at is, he didn’t kick in the door or anything like that, did he? You answered the door?”

  “I told him to leave. He wouldn’t.”

  “Dear me. How long did he linger?”

  “Far too long. And he was impertinent.”

  “Do you have any idea why he was there?” Silence. “Because I have a notation here that he was responding to a call from one of your neighbours, that they heard shouts and the sounds of something being broken.”

  “It was none of their business.”

  “Perhaps not, but evidently they were concerned enough to make a phone call. Can you tell me if it was the Whiffens or the Conrads who called? Oh, I have it here. Doris Whiffen made the call.”

  “Meddling old busybody. I’ll deal with her, too.”

  “I think I’d better have a chat with Mrs. Whiffen as well, find out why she was so upset.”

  “I think you’d be better served dealing with the riffraff in town.”

  “Mrs. Emery. We try to deal with all our citizens with the same level of obligation and consideration, whether they live on the Knoll or on the wrong side of the canal. Do you have any idea why Mrs. Whiffen was concerned?”

  “She’s always got some bee in her bonnet.”

  “Perhaps I could speak to Mr. Emery.”

  “What do you need with him?”

  “I’d like to hear his side of the story.”

  “It isn’t a story, Chief Brennan.”

  “Of course, I understand, but when a citizen demands that I fire one of my best officers, I’m going to need a bit more than a complaint. At the moment, it’s your word against his.”

  “Naturally you’ll be accepting his.”

  “Well, I’ll certainly look into it further, if you think it’ll help. Have a chat with the Whiffens, might as well talk to the Conrads, while I’m at it. And your husband, of course.” The line was disconnected.

  She snaked in across a kitchen sink stacked with pots and dishes and dropped soundlessly to the floor, proud of herself. Giselle never had to handle a passage like that. Conflicting sounds were coming from the front room: two television sets, different channels, both with volumes high.

  On one screen was a hockey game, on the other, a crime show. She could tell it was a crime show because people were comparing fingerprints on a computer screen. She kept her hands in her pockets.

  “Hello, Louie. I came in the back way.”

  “What is that? A wig?”

  “How very perceptive of you.”

  “You got old.”

  “Not everyone was so lucky.” She went to the front window, looked out. “Ludi’s dead, Vassi’s dead, Viktor’s dead.” She smiled at him. “The list keeps getting longer. And shorter, too, I suppose.”

  “I thought Ludmilla was in California.”

  “Sure you did. Where did your son go?”

  “He won’t be back. I gave him forty dollars. He’ll buy a bottle and visit his girlfriend.”

  “He has a girlfriend. That’s so nice. Now there’s a man who got old in a hurry.” She checked the street again, a reflex.

  “So? You’re here. Stop sneaking around the room. Sit.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t give a shit. Move something.”

  “So gracious, Louie. I had forgotten how well mannered you are.”

  “I don’t need your bullshit, okay? All the time with the smartmouth.”

  She sat on top of a pile of magazines. “This is comfortable,” she said. She lit a cigarette, smoothed the front of her coat, smiled at the troll.

  “I think you wouldn’t be here if you had anywhere else you could go. Am I right?”

  “Don’t be silly. I wanted to say goodbye. To you. And to Sergei, of course.” She inhaled a deep puff and exhaled a thin stream through tight lips. “You still in touch with him?”

  “You think he talks to me? You think we’re friends all of a sudden?”

  “You have a phone number?”

  “Don’t be stupid. He moves around. Like you.”

  “Then I’m wasting my time.” She stood. “Goodbye.”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute. Sit down, okay? Let me think a minute.”

  “Think hard, Louie, because I am leaving the country and I will be taking it with me.”

  “Where can you go?”

  “I can go anywhere. I have a Canadian passport, remember? I am legal.”

  “You think you can sell it somewhere else?”

  “Perhaps. I think it is a question of going to the right market, don’t you think? Like the Sultan of Bahrain, or one of the Saudis, or some other billionaire? One of them might cough up twenty million, thirty million out of petty cash for one of the great treasures of the world. Don’t you think?”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to talk to Sergei. How do you get in touch with him?”

  “You have it with you?”

  “Do not drool, Louie. It is unbecoming.” She dropped her cigarette butt into a handy beer can. “I will go out the front door this time.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “I will call.”

  Paul Delisle’s apartment in Riverdale overlooked the Don Valley and the two rivers far below. One, grey water choked with silt and abandoned shopping carts, and the other, concrete, the Don Valley Parkway, six lanes north/south, almost deserted, crews and trucks crawling in both directions, closed for the weekend for maintenance. A March wind from the west was rattling the windows. She stared across the valley at the bare trees on the far slope, unwilling to turn around and face the cluttered rooms.

  All right, Della, you big stork, don’t let the damn place overwhelm you. You’ve been here before, it’s not that big — master bedroom, second bedroom with the office, kitchen, bathroom, closets, cupboards, bookshelves, desks, drawers, Christ! The man never met a space he couldn’t cram. Pick a starting spot. Where? Which? First things first; find his damn gun. If he left it behind on purpose, it’s in here somewhere. Please Jesus it’s in here somewhere.

  Where? Well, where did she keep her piece off duty? Desk drawer. Which desk? He had three: phone desk in the entrance hall, big rolltop near the balcony window, office desk with his computer and peripherals. Start with the little one by the door; he comes in, takes off his jacket, hangs it in this closet, opens this drawer . . . nope, nothing but takeout menus, junk mail, brass bowl filled with loose change. Okay, the office. Sit in his chair, clip-on comes off, into this drawer. Locked, but she had keys, all the keys in the world, just a matter of elimination. The phone rang. She hesitated for three rings, not wanting to talk to anyone who didn’t already know he was gone. At the fourth ring she snatched up the receiver in time to hear the end of his message, “. . . at home. Leave a thing. (beep)” The other end was immediately disconnected.

  The answering machine was in his top drawer along with a box of .38 Specials. Same as .357 for most applications.

  “You have seven unheard messages, three saved messages, listen to messages press one.”

  Four of them were from women. She fast-forwarded through me
ssages from Lydia, Jasmine, Lydia again and Paula. One message from his daughter, “Dad? You there? Pick up, Dad, if you’re there. Dad? Call me, okay. It’s your daughter, right? Call me.” Oh Christ, well, Danielle knew by now, at least I didn’t have to break the news. The other two messages were from a man, educated, confident. Some kind of accent. “Delisle, you know who this is.” Yeah, he probably knew; she didn’t. And him again. “It is Sergei. We need to talk. You should call me. Really. You need to call me.”

  “Love to, Sergei, whoever you are. Do call again.” Sergei? Another damn Russian. How many is that?

  There were three saved messages. One was from her. “Hey, dickhead, I had a thought, I have one from time to time, you remember that big dude with the tats on his neck, the bouncer, Gregory? I think we should go back at him. What d’ya think? Get back.” And a saved one from ex-wife Jenny, “What am I supposed to do, hire a collection agency? It’s three weeks. Your daughter needs clothes, books, call me, before the weekend, you remember the new number? Write it down.” And the third saved one was from her old friend, Sergei, fluent English but definitely an accent, Russian, had to be. “Don’t let it happen again, Detective Delisle, I am very serious. Her name now is Daniel. That should be easy to remember, yes? Like the name of your child. Anya Daniel. You can find her. I have faith.”

  Sergei, hunh? No phone number, no last name. But Sergei, whoever he was, was interested in the ballet teacher.

  Might as well do the rolltop, get that over with. Where did he get this monster? Behind the sliding cover were slots and cubbyholes and tiny drawers for stamps and paperclips and who the hell would organize their lives around stamp drawers and slots jammed with empty envelopes? And in one of the stamp drawers, or maybe it was a paperclip drawer, she found the second cassette, labelled “Della #2 FYI-only-P.” Oh shit. And where did I put that stupid little recorder thing?

  Now she definitely needed a drink. A shot of something, it didn’t matter, tequila, she hated tequila, brandy, she could stomach that, a shot of brandy to ward off the chills of a dead man’s apartment filled with the dead man’s things.

  She knocked back two ounces of Hennessey and took a gasping breath as the heat blossomed in her belly and spread to her heart and head. “Bring it on, asshole,” she muttered. Bring. It. On. She pulled the recorder out of her bag; she knew exactly where it was, had listened to the first tape more than once, more than twice too. She put in the new tape and went back to her place by the window, lit by the unexpected appearance of sunshine low in the west. She took another nip of brandy, held the recorder up like a mirror, clicked the button. Bring it on.