Woman Chased by Crows Page 4

  “Got a body in here,” she said.

  “Dead?”

  “Oh yeah. Shot in the head, looks like. Phone it in, Dutch.”

  Drummond leaned in to get a look at the body. “Self-inflicted?”

  “Don’t see a gun yet,” Stacy said. “Start knocking on doors, see if anyone heard anything, saw anything.”

  He stuck his chest out again. “On it,” he said.

  There was a red smear from the doorknob to the body, and a wad of blood in the man’s hair. There was a splatter of blood and fragments of bone and tissue surrounding the bullet hole in the door jamb, higher than her head, as high as a tall man’s head. She stood on her toes in front of the impact area and looked back. The line of sight went through the open bathroom door to the window above the shower stall.

  Dutch reappeared. “Medical examiner on the way. Got an ID?”

  A jacket and a pair of pants were draped over the back of the chair by the telephone table. She tugged a leather folder out of the jacket pocket. There was a badge and a photo ID card. “Oh craps,” she said. “He’s a cop, Dutch. Metro. Name’s Delisle.”

  “Jesus H. Christ.”

  “Can’t see his weapon.” She put the ID and badge on the coffee table and stood in the middle of the room. The bedclothes were rumpled. An open leather bag was on the chair beside the bed — clean shirt, toiletries kit. There was a condom wrapper on the carpet beside the bed, a bottle of Jack Daniels on the bedside table, opened, mostly full, two glasses, both empty, one with lipstick traces. “He had female company. They had drinks. They had sex.” She moved carefully around the room, talking more to herself than to Dutch. “Nothing broken. Neat and tidy. Except for the body.” She slid open the closet door with her hand on her weapon, half expecting to see a cowering woman. There was a Burberry trenchcoat hanging. She patted the pockets, heard keys jangling. “Find out which car is his,” she said.

  “Right,” Dutch said.

  Still no sign of his weapon.

  “Cavalry’s coming,” said Dutch.

  She could see vehicles pulling into the parking lot, the ambulance, an OPP unit, even the Chief’s big 4x4. Hi folks, she thought, good luck shoving me to the sidelines this time. I’m first on the scene.

  An OPP investigative unit was in place before noon, and shortly thereafter four detectives from Metro’s homicide unit had arrived and taken over the case. Orwell had been introduced to at least three of them, but hadn’t bothered to commit their names to memory. The four were uniformly unpleasant, behaving as though the town was complicit in the brutal murder of one of their own. Definitely herrisch behaviour, Orwell decided. He gave two of them the gist of his conversation with Delisle. The other pair grilled Stacy and then as much as told her to stay the hell out of their way. She found a desk and attended to the paperwork demanded by the discovery of a murder victim inside the town limits, keeping any resentment well hidden. Orwell admired her composure.

  The Metro cops split up, one team checking on Anya Daniel, the other pair calling on Dr. Ruth. The provincial police, and as much of the Dockerty force as they cared to use, were canvassing the other motel patrons, checking Delisle’s credit cards, cellphone records, working to pin down his movements since hitting town.

  Orwell retreated to his office. Entirely too much excitement for one day. Everything would be taking a back seat to the homicide. Overtime, shifting shifts, interlopers taking up space. Roy Rawluck would handle the details, he was good at keeping unnecessary annoyances off the Chief’s back, but whenever outside police departments came to town, Orwell got the uncomfortable feeling of jabbing elbows and shoulders. It made him cranky.

  “Chief. Mr. Rhem on two.”

  “Thank you, Dorrie. I’m taking it. Hello, Georgie.”

  “Yeah, Stonewall, done some checking. We have to petition for a hearing by the ‘consent-granting authority.’ Whoever they may be.”

  “Whoever?”

  “I’m still not sure if we’re talking about the Durham Region Land Division Committee or the Newry Township Acreage Preservation Assembly.”

  “And then what?”

  “Once we get a date, you show up and make your pitch. Lay on some of that irresistible Stonewall Brennan charm.”

  “Okay, Georgie. I’ll do a dance for them.”

  The old lawyer chuckled. “So. How’s your day?”

  “You heard?”

  “At least three different versions. It was a Metro detective?”

  “That’s right. I met him yesterday afternoon. Seemed like a nice enough guy.”

  “He was an asshole!”

  “Say what, Stonewall?”

  Orwell’s head snapped up. “Unexpected visitor, Georgie. I’ll get back to you.” Detective Adele Moen from Metro Homicide stood in his open doorway, looking ferocious. Orwell rose, held out a hand. “Under normal circumstances I’d say this was a nice surprise, Detective, but you don’t look at all happy to be here.”

  “You’ve got a homicide.”

  “Your guys are all over it.” He watched her plunk herself down across from him. A tall, rangy woman, prominent jaw and cheekbones, big hands and chopped mannish hair. Orwell liked her a lot. They had worked a big case the previous year and had stayed in touch. This obviously wasn’t a social call. “Personal connection?” he asked.

  “He was my partner.”

  “Oh dear,” said Orwell. “That’s bad. I’m so sorry.”

  She waved a hand dismissively. “I know, I know, appreciate that, but I’m not ready for condolences and shit. I want to know what the fuck he was doing up here!”

  “He said you were taking some personal time,” Orwell said, “and he had some vacation coming.”

  “That’s bullshit! I don’t know what in the name of Christ he was up to, but it wasn’t a vacation, and he sure as hell didn’t let me in on it.”

  “He said there was a man found dead in a motel room on the Queensway last week, a Russian man. Were you two working that case?”

  “What Russian man? What the hell was he talking about! Jee-zuss! You think you know somebody . . .” She stood up abruptly, paced Orwell’s office looking for walls to punch, furniture to kick. “Turns out you don’t know dick.” She wanted to damage something.

  “Don’t know anything about that homicide?”

  “We don’t work anywhere near the Queensway. That’s Peel Division. We were working a nightclub stabbing. I had to take a couple of days off for some medical crap that turned out to be nothing, thank Christ, and he said he’d keep working the case. We weren’t getting anywhere anyway — no witnesses, too many witnesses and nobody saw . . . ah, who gives a crap!” She slumped in the chair again, long legs splayed out in front of her, rubbed her eyes, red from rage. “Anyway, that’s beside the point, or that is the damn point. He was supposed to be in the city, working our case like he said he was going to.” She looked directly at Orwell. “Not up here.”

  Orwell was at a loss. He couldn’t help her. “Wish I could tell you more,” he said. “I got the impression he wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing. He mentioned a partner he had some years back, named O’Grady, you know him?”

  “Dylan? Sure. Big Smoothie O’Grady. A natural politician. What about him?”

  “He and O’Grady questioned a ballet teacher six years ago about a murder in High Park. The woman confessed, but it turned out she couldn’t have done it.”

  “I know the one, I know the one. He told me about it. Said she was certifiable, always calling 9-1-1. So what? If she was the biggest nutbar roaming the city, I’d be out of a job.”

  “She moved up here, has a dance studio in town.”

  “So?”

  “He thought there was some connection between her and the Russian man.”

  “What Russian man?” She was on her feet again and pacing.

  “T
he one . . .”

  “I know, I know: on the Queensway.” She was impatient — with him, with puzzles, riddles, the scarcity of anything approaching rationality. “I don’t know anything about any damn Russian man. What was the connection?”

  “Apparently the man had Anya Daniel’s picture in his wallet.”

  “That’s the dancer?” She waited, palms up. “That’s it?”

  “And he was somehow connected to the ballet.”

  “Oh Lord Jesus on a bicycle! This is so stupid it makes me want to puke.”

  “I’m sorry,” Orwell said. “I really am.”

  She rubbed her face with both hands, pushed her hair back and held it for a moment on the top of her head, staring out at Vankleek Street. “He was such an asshole,” she said. “A charming, good-looking asshole. He kept secrets. You’re not supposed to keep secrets from your partner. I mean you can have a private life, sure, but things that are going to affect the partnership, things you should know just to be able to back each other up, cover for each other, shit, shit, you have to share.”

  “I agree,” Orwell said.

  “I had a lump.” She wiped a hand across her chest as if brushing away crumbs. “Turned out to be nothing, but I was a little freaked. I told him. I didn’t hide it. I said I was worried, I said I was going in to have it checked out, I made sure he knew exactly what was what.” She turned from the window, spread her hands wide, asking for something unavailable, something that made sense. “Okay if I hang around for a while? I’m not supposed to be working the case, but I’d like to find out what’s happening. I’ll stay out of people’s way.”

  Orwell stood, spread his arms. “My house is your house,” he said. “Hey, wait a sec.” He motioned her toward the door, pointed to the far side of the room. “Stacy Crean. Over by the window. You met her last year.”

  “Right. Dating Natty Bumpo. What about her?”

  “First on the scene,” he said. He put his hand on Adele’s shoulder and gave her a gentle shove. “She found the body.”

  She didn’t like either of the detectives. She didn’t bother to remember their names. One had a moustache like a dirty toothbrush and the other one had a pimple over his left eyebrow. Their voices matched their distinguishing characteristics — Dirty Toothbrush sounded like his yap was full of bubbles, Pimple squeezed his words and breathed through his mouth. They were both big. They wanted to intimidate her. She laughed inside her head.

  “He was here to talk to you.”

  “He did not talk to me.” She lit a Players with her brass Zippo.

  “Don’t smoke.” Pimple.

  “My studio, I pay the rent, I buy the cigarettes.”

  “You have children come up here for lessons.” Pimple again. “You don’t care about them?”

  “You see any children?”

  “This is a workplace, there’s a law against smoking in a workplace.”

  “Today the place is closed. Today it is my private place. I am beside an open window, see? I blow my smoke outside with the car smoke. You going to arrest me for a cigarette?”

  “I think you should put it out.” This time from Toothbrush.

  “You, with the ugly moustache, you smoke, too, I can smell it on your clothing. You want one but you cannot have one because your partner with the pimple in his eyebrow would not like it.” She blew smoke in their direction. “You are just jealous.” She smiled.

  “Maybe we should take you into the station and question you there.”

  She smiled again. “You have badges, you have guns, you have authority. You can do what you want.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “He was walking on the street.” She looked down at Vankleek. The newspaperman, the overcoat with the black beard, was talking to a pair of OPP officers on the opposite sidewalk. “I saw him from this window.”

  “You recognized him?”

  “Of course I recognized him. Who could forget a man like that?” She squashed her cigarette on the brick sill outside the window. The sill was black with burn marks.

  “He didn’t come up here? Come to your house?”

  “He did not visit me. I was hoping he would.”

  “Why?”

  “He was an attractive man. He had beautiful hands.” She clenched hers.

  “Where were you last night?”

  “At home.”

  “Alone?”

  “All alone,” she said. “That’s how I live.”

  “What time did you leave here?”

  “Nine o’clock. Later than usual. The evening class was over at eight. I stayed for a while. I was dancing. Alone. Giselle. You know Giselle?”

  “Anybody see you leave?”

  “My driver.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Ed. He drives a taxi. He picks me up every night. He took me home.”

  “Where would we find him?”

  “I would try the taxi company,” she said. “There is only one taxi company in this town.”

  “You know his last name?”

  “Yes, it is on his license, on the back of the passenger seat. His picture and his name and his cab number. His name is Edwin Kewell. With a K and two Ls. His middle name is Arthur, it is not on his license. We talk a lot. He likes hockey. He does not like parsnips.”

  “Enough about Mr. Kewell,” Toothbrush said. “We’ll talk to him. He drove you home?”

  “That is correct. He picked me up at five minutes after nine o’clock. I smoked a cigarette in the doorway while I waited for him.”

  “He pick you up all the time?”

  “For a year now. I like to know who drives me places. Sometimes when people take you for a ride you do not know where you will wind up, you know?”

  “What time did you get home?”

  “About half past nine.”

  “You live that far away?”

  “Not that far. Six or seven blocks. We took the long way.”

  “Why?”

  “We were talking.”

  The Pimple liked that. “Just talking? Do you and Mr. Ed have more than a Driving Miss Daisy relationship?”

  “Mr. Kewell has never been inappropriate.”

  “Depends on what you consider appropriate. Half an hour to drive six blocks? Sure you didn’t park somewhere? Fool around?”

  “Or plan to meet up later? Maybe go out and shoot somebody?”

  “Being a policeman must be hard. Only ever thinking the worst. Poisons the heart, does it not?”

  In the end they didn’t take her anywhere for further questioning, but they promised her they would be back. She said she looked forward to it.

  At first glance they seemed an unlikely pair — Stacy: cool, stylish, athletic; Adele: gangly, fiery, herky-jerky, no discernible fashion sense whatsoever. Adele wore basic black cop shoes, crepe soles, possibly steel-toed. Anyone getting a kick in the shins would know about it. Stacy preferred high boots and jeans with a bit of stretch. Stacy had black belts in three disciplines. She kicked higher than shins. Orwell was pleased with his matchmaking. He gave himself a reflex chastisement — there you go again, being Big Daddy — but it didn’t diminish his pleasure in looking at the two women standing in front of him. A hawk and a heron. Both alert, fully engaged in what they did best.

  “Sit down, detectives. What have you got?”

  Stacy started. “Del thinks Delisle was up here seeing a woman.”

  “Or he found one when he got here,” Adele said. “He moved pretty fast.”

  “There was definitely sex involved,” Stacy said. “Maybe a married woman. Somebody he was careful didn’t get spotted.”

  “We checked with the guys about the dance teacher.” Adele consulted her notes. “Home alone, from 21:30 on. Her only confirmation is the cab driver who took her home, and he’s taking t
he week off. Cab company says he went to Guelph to see his sister. They’re trying to track him down.”

  “Anya Daniel have a car?” Orwell asked.

  “No, Chief,” Stacy said.

  “Lives where?”

  “Behind the hospital. River Street.”

  “His car was still in the parking lot, right?”

  “Yes, sir. They checked it out. No evidence anyone else was in it.”

  “To get to the motel and back she’d need a ride. How’d she get back?”

  “We figure he hooked up,” Adele said. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Someone with their own car.”

  “And if it was a spur-of-the-moment thing they might have had a drink somewhere,” Orwell threw in.

  “Dr. Ruth says he left her office around four,” said Stacy. “Didn’t see him again, but . . .”

  A sharp knock on the door. “Come ahead,” Orwell said.

  Dutch Scheider half-opened the door, took brief note of the two detectives. “The Metro guys want to take me back to the motel,” he said. “Walk me around back or something.”

  “Sounds sinister,” said Orwell.

  “That’s how we do it downtown,” said Adele.

  “Well, we’ll know where to start the search if you turn up missing,” Orwell said. “Wait a sec. Tell me, Dutch, if you were going to have a drink and didn’t want it to become public knowledge, with a married woman, say, where would you go?”

  “Never given it much thought, Chief, seeing as how my loving wife would strangle me with my own shorts.”

  “Sure sure, I know, but think about it for a minute. Is there any place within driving distance where you’d feel reasonably safe?”

  “Not in this town. Maybe Omemee. There’s a nice little place just opened. Lemongrass, I think it’s called. Supposed to be good. And there’s that Italian place in Port Perry. Couple of places there, come to think of it.”

  “Thanks, Dutch. Off you go. Take your own car. Stay in touch.”

  “Will do, Chief.” He looked back. “I’d start with the Omemee place,” he said.

  Orwell turned to the detectives. “Why don’t you two take a drive over there and see if anyone had a discreet rendezvous late last night.”