Woman Chased by Crows (10 page)

“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.”

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 and 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.

“What did we wind up getting him, sir?” she asked.

“Retirement gift? I think it's a . . .”

“A Kitchen-Aid mixer,” Roy said. “Has all the attachments.”

“. . . right,” Emmett finished. “He's going to take cooking lessons, I hear.” He looked dubious. “Well, leave you to it then.” He nodded at the Chief, headed for the door. “Irish House. Any time after eight.”

“Looking forward to it,” Orwell said.

The Chief motioned Stacy to resume her seat. She heard the door close. She was on her own.

“Cooking lessons,” Orwell said. He sat, rubbed his big hands together as if preparing to dine. “Well, comes to us all, I suppose.”

“Cooking lessons, Chief?”

“Retirement, Detective Crean. Hobbies, diversions, avocations. Fancy chickens.”

Stacy allowed the Chief a moment to contemplate the inevitable, then got back to business. “What things would I be looking into, sir?”

“Well, for starters, the late Detective Paul Delisle's service weapon, a .357 Smith & Wesson revolver, is still missing. Lorna Ruth says he
did
have a gun, but Detective Moen believes it was his backup piece, a .32. So far, the .357 hasn't turned up among the dead detective's possessions.” The Chief stood, motioned to her to stay where she was. He wanted to widen his range. “Now, there's nothing to suggest that the gun is anywhere around here, and there's nothing to suggest that it isn't simply in Delisle's apartment, or with a gunsmith for repairs, or any one of a hundred innocent explanations, so I'm not sending up any red flags, but can we all at least admit that there's a gun floating around
somewhere
?”

“Yes, sir.”

He turned to the window. “Really coming down out there,” he said. The rain was steady, he could almost see Armoury Park growing greener under the shower. His voice turned conspiratorial. “And
while
you're nosing around, ostensibly looking for a missing revolver — which evidently is
no problem
to anyone else — you might have a discreet chat with the dance instructor, Ms. Daniel, and with Dr. Ruth.”

“Yes, sir. Anything specific I'd be looking for?”

“Wish I could help you there, Detective. You're the investigator. Go investigate.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “No problem.”

He swung around to glare at her. She was grinning.

Discreet
nosing around. That's what he wanted. I suppose I could go back over the little Omemee junket, talk to the bartender, waitresses, liquor store manager, whatever. Just see if anybody saw the thing. Adele said he wore it under his jacket, right side, in a black Jordan spring clip,maybe the jacket was open when he paid his check, maybe somebody bumped into him.

Discreet
nosing around
for
, but not limited
to
, Delisle's missing revolver. Why discreet? No red flags fine, let's not unduly upset the populace about a wandering handgun. But what else are we looking for?

Adele Moen was in Jamaica. It took Stacy three phone calls to get the information. She knew a few cops in the
GTA
. Even Dorrie was impressed. But
where
in Jamaica was still up for grabs. Wouldn't mind going over a few things with her. There it was again, “go over a few things.” What
things
? All right, she had notes from the first investigation. There was a reference to the shooting of some Russian man on the Queensway. Peel Division. Worth a call.

“Staff Sergeant Hurst? Hi there, this is Detective Stacy Crean, Dockerty Police Department, trying to get some information on a case you're working down there. Russian man shot in a motel room on the Queensway last week.”

“You got a date?”

“No. A detective from Metro was up here checking a few things regarding that one. He just mentioned the basic facts . . .”

“This Delisle we're talking about?”

“That's correct.”

“He said the guy was shot when?”

“He didn't say exactly, he said a week ago.”

“Technically, I guess. Probably late Saturday night. When did he show up in your town? Monday?”

“Monday morning.”

“The Queensway vic was found
DOA
Sunday morning. Four a.m.”

“This is the same case?”

“I know this is a tough town, Detective, but one dead Russian a week is about our quota.”

“He said there was material in the man's wallet that connected him to Dockerty in some way.”

“There was no wallet. We wouldn't know anything about the dude except he had his union card in his pants pocket.”

“What was his name?”

“Nimchuk. Viktor.”

“Nimchuk,” Stacy was writing it down. “I think that's Ukrainian.”

“Ukrainian, Russian, Uzbek, doesn't really matter. Guy was a Soviet citizen until he defected back in '81.”

“Have you made an arrest?”

“We don't have anything yet. In fact, the most interesting thing about the guy is you saying how much interest Delisle had in him.”

“Find a weapon?”

“No weapon.”

“Got a slug?”

“Well, yeah, got a bullet. Pretty mashed up.”

“And?”

“Looks like it might be a .357.”

“Smith?”

“Far as we can tell.”

“That figures,” Stacy said.