Woman Chased by Crows Read online

  Damn Viktor! Damn him and his sticky fingers, his decadent love of silk shirts and 4711 Kölnisch Wasser and Colgate toothpaste. Damn Grégor for being a clumsy fool. Damn them all. Anya Zubrovskaya might have taken her place alongside Pavlova, Karsavina, she might have been one of the great ones. Instead she became a non-person. When she defected, they didn’t even raise a protest, they didn’t demand her return. Who cares, they said. Who will notice? She won’t be missed. She gave everything for her art, for the system that honed her art, for the history and the legacy of the Mariinsky, and in the end she was discarded without comment. Forgotten.

  But not by everyone. Certain people might not remember how she danced, but they know why she ran.

  The night is clear in her mind. La Sylphide. That nice theatre in Buffalo. The orchestra had paid attention, the stage had the right spring. Her partner, Sergei, was stiff and stolid as usual, the man had the charisma of a mailbox, but it didn’t matter, he was there to show her off, it was fine that he was invisible. At least he could count. And he was a strong as a tree. He didn’t drop her. She deserved the standing ovation. There were curtain calls and bouquets thrown onto the stage and she was in a daze, euphoric, exhausted and starving hungry. It was a magical night; perhaps her best performance. The entire troupe was taken out for a meal. She ate wonderful roast beef and drank champagne and cognac. She wasn’t drunk; she was radiant with triumph and release. She almost allowed a handsome young ballet lover into her hotel room but at the last moment decided that she wanted to savour the rest of the night in private and let him kiss her, once, before pushing him gently but firmly on his way.

  She was sitting on the edge of the tub, soaking her feet when the pounding on her door started. She thought it was the young man come back to beg her to change her mind, but it was Viktor, sweating, drunk, laughing like a lunatic and terrified at the same time. Nanya, he said, look at this, you won’t believe this! He had a suitcase with a false bottom and it opened very cleverly by removing the little brass feet, and inside was some cash, American dollars, and some gold coins, and, wrapped in a cloth, was a chain with links like gold coins and hanging from the chain, a crucifix, heavy, like the hilt of a Roman sword, covered with gems. Do you know what this is? he asked her. This is not real, she said. Please tell me this is a fake. But she had known right away that was not true. Look again. Look at the marks on the back, he said, look at the little diamonds around the clasp. Little diamonds. There was not one under two carats. Look at the sapphires. Oh my God. Look at what is in the centre. It is real? Of course it is real, he says. It is the Ember, for God’s sake. Where did you steal it? I didn’t steal it, he says, I just bought some shirts.

  “Viktor, this is bad,” she said. “This is very bad.”

  “Look at it, Nanya, hold it in your hands, never in your life will you hold anything as perfect as this is in your hands.”

  “I do not want to hold it in my hands,” she said. “This is death. Take it away and do not bring it near me again.”

  “It’s too late.”

  He had been right about that. It was too late. For all of them.

  By the time he reached the station it was raining heavily. There was still a puddle where he parked his car (although he didn’t have to park exactly in that spot) and some late night dog-walker had failed to pick up after their beast befouled the struggling grass near the flagpole. Although, Orwell noted, Alastair Argyle’s bronze relief was polished to a fare-thee-well, thus encapsulating, to Orwell’s thinking, the priorities of the Department.

  There was an unmistakable hush as he clomped through the outer office. Heads turned away. He put it down to people recognizing that he wasn’t to be trifled with this morning. “We may be exceeding the shamrock quotient, Staff Sergeant,” he said loudly.

  “I’ll start cutting back forthwith,” said Roy Rawluck. There were three shamrocks dangling on the bulletin board. Roy chided himself. One of them was supposed to be a harp. He’d missed it. Leprechauns were, of course, verboten.

  Dorrie (who wasn’t the least afraid of her boss no matter what his mood) handed him the morning’s Register with more solicitude than was customary.

  “No bank robberies overnight? No riots?”

  “Not yet anyway,” she said. “I’ll wait until you’ve read the paper.”

  “Anything in particular I should be reading?

  “You’ll find it, Chief. It’s on the front page.”

  Orwell located his reading glasses in the third pocket he checked. He spread the paper on his desk blotter and hung up his wet coat and hat before catching the headline: “Lyman Calls for a ‘New Order,’” under a photograph of candidate Gregg Lyman, caught in dramatic mid-gesture. “Where was this?” Orwell shouted through the open door.

  Dorrie appeared with her boss’s morning coffee and a sheaf of the usual paperwork and messages. “A ‘Lyman for Mayor’ rally,” she said. “The Granite Club.”

  “Of course. He’d be preaching to the choir up there.” He accepted the coffee with a curt nod of thanks and dribbled a few spots onto Lyman’s image.

  “Mr. Abrams wonders if you’d care to issue a statement.”

  “Statement about what?”

  “Second paragraph.”

  Orwell concentrated on the paper. His fist hit the desk. “What the hell?!” he bellowed.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” she said.

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute, when was this?”

  “Last night.”

  Dorrie backed out of the room. The Chief bent over the paper, deliberately setting his cup down on Lyman’s mug. He read aloud, his voice level increasing with each sentence: “. . . growing atmosphere of lawlessness?? . . . general laxity in police performance?? . . . a new sense of order is demanded??” Lyman’s face was disappearing in a spreading puddle of coffee. “Who the hell does he think . . . ?”

  “Chief?” Dorrie’s voice on the intercom was soothing. “Sam Abrams on one, Mayor Bricknell on two.”

  “I’ll talk to the Mayor first. Tell Sam I’ll get back to him.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And I spilled my coffee.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Mayor Bricknell. And what can I do for you on this fine sunny morning?”

  “I take it you haven’t seen the paper yet.”

  “Why of course I have. In fact I’m using it to wipe off my desk blotter as we speak.” Orwell stood aside as Dorrie bustled in and attended to the ruined newspaper and the spilled coffee. “Takes a good picture, doesn’t he?”

  “I trust you’ll have a statement for tomorrow’s edition.”

  “I’m not at all sure a statement from me is in order.”

  “You can’t be serious, Chief Brennan. The man as much as accused you of incompetence.”

  “Really? I’ll have to read it more carefully.” He bent over and pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk. “It sounded to me like more of a comment on the state of society as a whole. Damn!” There were only three shortbread cookies in the carefully folded bag. Orwell was certain there had been five when he left work the previous day. “I’m going to put a mousetrap in here,” he muttered.

  “I’m sure a statement will be much more effective,” said Donna Lee.

  “Will the Mayor’s office be issuing one?”

  “I’ll be making my own campaign speeches over the next month. I’ll deal with it then.”

  “So you agree it’s a campaign issue?” Orwell sat back down. His desk blotter was clear, a fresh coffee was waiting. “Dorrie, would you care for a shortbread?”

  “No thanks, Chief. Want another newspaper?”

  “I’ve seen it,” he said. “Thank you. My apologies, Mayor. You caught me in the middle of my morning’s clutter.”

  “I think you should seriously consider issuing a statement,” Donna Lee said. “Something to the eff
ect that Dockerty is one of the safest, most well-ordered communities of its size in the province.”

  “Now that would be a splendid fact to mention in your speeches, Your Honour.”

  Orwell bid the Mayor a polite good morning and took a deep breath. He arranged two of the three remaining shortbread beside the coffee cup and put away the bag, not as neatly folded, in a different drawer.

  “Chief?”

  “Dorrie?”

  “Mr. Abrams?”

  “Did I get a call from Detective Moen?”

  “Were you expecting one, Chief?”

  “I’ve been expecting one for a week.”

  “She only left town yesterday, Chief.”

  “Seems longer. See if you can track her down for me, would you?”

  “Forthwith, Chief.”

  “Definitely. Forthwith. And Dorrie?”

  “Still here, Chief.”

  “I need to talk to Detective Lackawana’s . . .”

  “Lacsamana.”

  “Lord! Why can’t I remember his name?”

  “You didn’t like him.”

  “No I didn’t, you’re right, that’s probably it. Nonetheless and even so, I need his boss, whoever he is. And find Adele Moen. And Lacka-whatever.”

  “Lacsamana,” she said gently.

  “Fine. Good. Find me someone to talk to.”

  “Right Chief.”

  Orwell dipped a shortbread into his coffee. A mousetrap, he thought. Must remember to bring one. “First get Sam for me would you please?”

  “He’s waiting on two.”

  “Oh. Fine. Hi, Sam? You want some response to what Mr. Lyman said last night, is that right?”

  “If you’d care to make one, Chief.”

  “You can say that ‘the Dockerty Police Department doesn’t involve itself in civic elections.’ Please quote me exactly, Sam. You know how I hate it when you paraphrase me.”

  “I trim sometimes, Chief.”

  “I count . . . ten words, Sam. Shouldn’t require much pruning.”

  “That’s it?”

  “We are now officially off the record, Sam. Gregg Lyman can say any damn thing he wants while he’s running for office. Should he get elected and make the same statement while wearing his mayor’s hat, I would definitely have a response, but as long as he’s on a soapbox he’s free to speechify as he pleases.”

  “I like the second quote much better.”

  “I wasn’t speaking.”

  “I know, I know. Wouldn’t even have to trim it.”

  “Goodbye, Sam.”

  “Much.”

  “Goodbye, Sam.”

  Captain Émile Rosebart of Metro’s homicide unit sounded, to Orwell, as if he was reading a prepared statement. “Detectives Warner Hong and Thomas Siffert, in a misplaced but perhaps understandable excess of zeal brought on by the death of their valued comrade, unwisely brought the accused into Toronto for questioning. He has not yet been charged.”

  “They bringing him back here?”

  “We’re making arrangements to return him to Dockerty forthwith.”

  “Yes of course, ‘forthwith,’” said Orwell. “Was he given access to a lawyer?”

  “He didn’t ask for one.”

  “Did he get his phone call?”

  “I’ll copy you into everything that transpired, Chief. I’m sorry about this. It shouldn’t have happened.”

  “They bringing him up? Tong and the other guy?”

  “Hong. And Siffert. No. They’ve been relieved of duty until SIU has a look at what happened. There may be disciplinary action taken.”

  “I should think there might.” Orwell was doodling jagged lines on his legal pad around the names Tong and Hong and Siffert. “So how’s this going to work? He’s being delivered here and then what?”

  “Under the circumstances, we’ve decided to hand him over to the OPP and they can deal with it.”

  “They’d better get him a bail hearing in a hurry,” said Orwell. “He’s been held incommunicado for, by my watch, 37 hours without seeing a judge. Harold Ruth’s lawyer, once he’s given the opportunity of speaking to one, is likely to make our lives miserable over this. Who’s handling the evidence? Who’s got his Winchester, wait, no, it’s a Savage 30-30, who’s checking that?”

  “All we have we’ll turn over to the OPP.”

  “That chain of evidence better be solid.”

  “Chief, I am at least as pissed as you are. They screwed up. They know it, they’ll have to pay for it, it’ll cost them, pay, maybe grade, I don’t know.”

  “Ship the accused home, Captain. Sooner the better.”

  Four

  Thursday, March 17

  Orwell was one Irishman who disliked St. Patrick’s Day and all the nonsense that went with it — green beer and ridiculous hats. He did allow for a decorous measure of emerald trim in the station, provided the place was kept leprechaun-free. All shamrocks and harps had to be promptly removed by the morning of the 18th.

  “Morning, Staff. Harold Ruth show up yet?”

  “No, Chief. They’ve still got him. He could be en route, but I have no official . . .”

  “Dorrie, Captain Rosebart. Right away.”

  “I’ll get him for you, Chief.”

  “They’d better be handling him with kid gloves.” Orwell stormed into his office, slamming the door behind him. He was back in three seconds, jacket half off, hat still on his head. “Well?”

  “Trying to locate him, Chief.”

  “How can that be hard, on a workday morning? This isn’t the first time they’ve pulled this nonsense. Tramping all over my town like we don’t matter, kidnapping suspects. That’s right: kidnapping. Dorrie?”

  “Still can’t locate him, Chief.”

  “All I can say is Mr. Ruth better look as fresh as a newborn babe when he shows up. And he’d better by God show up soon or heads will roll. Heads will roll!”

  This time Orwell’s office door stayed slammed.

  Stacy enjoyed it when the Chief got all oratorical. From the far side of the big room she could hear the Voice booming inside his office. She couldn’t tell whether he was yelling into a phone or holding court. “What, no one knows where she is? I find that hard to . . . yes, would you do that for me, please?” It was a phone call. She heard him hang up, heard his tone turn rhetorical, perhaps addressing the world in general. He did that sometimes. “No problem? Is that what passes for polite discourse these days? No problem?” Brennan was in a mood. No doubt about it. “Of course it’s no problem. It’s your job.” She saw the Chief appear at his office door and scan the room, perhaps looking for anyone who might disagree with him about something. “Dorrie, according to Detective Laka-whatever . . .”

  “Lacsamana,” Dorrie corrected.

  “. . . who has been giving me the runaround for the past ten minutes.”

  Dorrie handed the Chief a piece of paper. “I wrote it down.”

  Orwell glanced at the paper, crumpled it and jammed it in his pocket. “With any luck I’ll never be forced to speak to the man again. According to . . . him, Detective Moen is taking some personal time and is unavailable. Un-available. Nonetheless, would you keep trying her number at regular intervals?” The Chief pointed at Stacy. “Detective Crean? Are you available?”

  The Chief wasn’t alone in his office. Staff Sergeant Rawluck was at parade rest, with his hands behind his back, his shiny boots shoulder width apart. Stacy’s immediate boss, Lieutenant Emmett Paynter, recently promoted from detective sergeant, was sitting by the window wearing his usual shapeless grey suit. The Owl, they called him — round glasses, feathery hair, very slow blinks. Emmett wasn’t a bad boss. Stacy had no problem with him. He was organized, had a sense of humour (if you liked fart jokes), knew the town, used his small force effectively an
d wasn’t blind to the fact that his most productive investigator was a woman.

  “Grab a chair,” said the Chief.

  “Thank you, sir.” She nodded at the other men. “Good morning, Lieutenant. Staff Sergeant.” She looked around for the designated chair. It was facing the Chief, but Stacy got the impression that it was Emmett’s show, at least for the moment.

  “You’ll be at Billy Meyer’s going away bash tonight?” Emmett asked. It wasn’t really a question.

  “Yes, Lieutenant. I’ll certainly put in an appearance.”

  “Good, good, glad to hear it. Irish House.”

  “Can I put you down as a designated driver, Detective Crean?” Roy Rawluck wanted to know.

  “Yes, Staff Sergeant,” she said. Stacy didn’t drink. “Happy to.”

  “Fine. Some of the lads might overdo the auld lang syne if you take my meaning.”

  Stacy waited quietly. She knew Billy Meyer’s retirement party wasn’t the reason she’d been called into the Chief’s office.

  Emmett shifted in his chair, blinked slowly. “So. Randy Vogt’s going to be on his own, come, oh I guess Monday morning.”

  Had to happen. Might as well get it over with. “You’re partnering me with Detective Vogt?”

  “Yes, well, that was the plan. I don’t have a lot of options.” She saw Emmett and the Chief exchange a look.

  “Sir? Was the plan?”

  “Still is, still is, in the long run. But Detective Vogt has some vacation time coming, couple of weeks, and I think we can wait until he gets back to finalize things. That okay with you?”

  “Yes, sir, certainly.”

  “Right then.” He looked at her. A smile might have twitched the corner of his mouth, but she couldn’t be certain. “Until things get sorted out you can work solo, a while longer.”

  Some days you get a reprieve. “Certainly, Lieutenant.”

  “Chief Brennan here asked if I could free you up to look into a few things for him.”

  “And your boss has generously offered to lend me your services for a little while.” The Chief stood, signalling that the meeting was over, for some of the participants at any rate. Emmett stood, she stood, Roy Rawluck came to attention.