Cut to the Quick (4 page)

“I'm sorry to hear what happened to you. It's hard to imagine.” She meant the murder, not the extended family. Rhona's own clan played a large part in her life.

“Even harder to live,” Zee Zee said. “Maybe Ivan's mother will have more to tell us?”

She clearly wanted to change the subject. And who wouldn't? They agreed it was Zee Zee's turn to interview.

Rhona drove south then west to the far reaches of Queen Street. In her first months in the city, she'd read dozens of books about Toronto and memorized the gazetteer. She sometimes amused herself by thinking about passing the cabbies' test if police work didn't pan out. She not only knew streets but also had familiarized herself with the characteristics of neighbourhoods.

Lena lived in South Parkdale, a run-down district with few trendy bars and boutiques. Investors and home buyers considered it an iffy neighbourhood for two reasons. First, because of its proximity to 999 Queen Street, the mental hospital. Secondly, because the conversion of many large homes into warehousing rooming houses for the mentally ill and downand-out had populated the streets with frightening people.

Lena Kalma lived in a former store on Queen Street. Two display windows flanked a glass-fronted door from which she'd removed all hardware. She'd painted almost everything vermillion, wood and glass alike. The exception—each window and the door had a shoebox-sized unpainted glass rectangle located at the average person's eye level. Underneath she'd stencilled the word “LOOK” in white.

Naturally, they did.

She'd affixed boxes to the other side of the unpainted glass rectangles. A colour diorama filled the first one. Somehow, inside the small space, she'd created an illusion of great depth. Far in the distance, an ambiguous tiny figure, arms uplifted, screamed in terror or ecstasy. The second box contained a foreground unisex face pressing against the glass. A viewer could read its enigmatic expression as horror or jubilation. The third box's black interior held the white floating word “oh”. Nothing made immediate sense but challenged a viewer to provide her own explanation.

Rhona stepped back. “As if this neighbourhood's residents don't have enough problems. Now they have peepholes in blood red windows to make them question their sanity.” She grinned at her partner. “If I had to, I'd make a wild guess that an artist lives here.”

Since the centre door lacked a doorknob, they moved to the bright red door next to the storefront. Zee Zee lifted her hand to press the bell. Before she touched it, the door opened a crack and a tall woman peered at them.

“I've been waiting,” she said, hovering behind the partially open door. She wore a white coverall and head scarf. A surgical mask dangled on her chest. Her red-rimmed eyes stared at them balefully.

After Rhona and Zee Zee identified themselves, Zee Zee said, “You're Lena Kalma?”

“Yes,” the woman said, widening the opening and allowing them inside. Stairs climbed from the small hall.

“Follow me,” she ordered and passed through a doorway into the storefront's front room. Here the opaque paint on windows and door allowed no natural light inside. Overhead fluorescents illuminated chaos. Tiers of stacked containers teetered and threatened to topple. Rusty buckets, feather boas, old clothes from a dozen ethnic groups—an eclectic mix—swung from ceiling racks. A stew of smells defied cataloguing—old leather, dust, sweat and stale air. Lena tacked through the room and wove down the hall through the labyrinth of cartons. One or two stacks climbed upward and scraped the ceiling.

“Wouldn't the fire department be unhappy?” Zee Zee murmured. “Isn't this house a four alarm waiting to happen?”

Low wattage wall sconces lit their way. Finally they emerged into a large room. Dazzling late afternoon June light flooded through floor to ceiling windows. Although not as crowded as the front room or the hall, a host of unrelated objects hung on the white walls. Magenta, ochre, indigo, fluorescent orange—Rhona's eyes flitted from object to object. Possibly the room contained something made from every natural and unnatural colour. It pulsed with energy. Hundreds of photos littered three tables ranged along one side. Lena indicated that they should sit on one of the four straight chairs lined up as if they'd entered a doctor's waiting room.

Rhona chose the one burdened with the smallest pile. She carefully lifted off a tricorn hat, three art books and a Mexican
serape
before she lowered herself to the lime green and orangestriped chair. Zee Zee gingerly removed a nest of fifties style Pyrex mixing bowls topped with an actual bird's nest before she sat down. While the detectives cleared space for themselves, Lena tipped miscellaneous items from a short antique wooden bench and pulled it over to face them. Before she sat down, she pointed to the tables.

“I can't stand doing nothing. I feel so helpless.” She frowned, “I'd like to run out and kill Ivan's murderer.” She sniffed. “Don't worry. Since I can't do that, I'm going back through all my photos and making a photo collage of Ivan's life.”

“I'm sorry for your loss and apologize for intruding on your grief, but we need to talk to you about Ivan. Tell us about his life, his friends, his enemies, that kind of thing,” Zee Zee said.

“Enemies.” Lena thrust her head forward. “He didn't have enemies. You have to piss people off to have enemies. Ivan specialized in niceness. He should have told his father to go to hell. Should have lived with me. I loved him. His father didn't.” Her voice shook, and her lower lip trembled.

“He did live here sometimes, didn't he?”

Lena bit her lip to regain control. “Not recently.”

“When did he leave?”

Lena straightened and contemplated them like a predator considering tasty prey. “If you can imagine, he accused
me,
his mother, of prying. He said he wasn't going to live where his personal life wasn't private.” She crossed her arms on her chest. “Private!” Her voice skidded up the scale to high C. “I
am
his mother.”

“Did he move out because of something specific?”

“That's none of your business. It has
nothing
to do with his murder.”

“We decide information's relevancy. Please tell us.”

“He
said
I read his emails.”

“Did you?”

Her eyes didn't quite meet theirs. “I might have happened to touch some key or other and seen it.”

Zee Zee said nothing. The silence stretched and expanded.

Finally, Lena said, “I wanted to find out why he spent so much time in his room.”

“And, what did you discover?”

“He didn't save many emails,” she said defensively.

Rhona didn't buy this. More likely Lena had erased ones she didn't like, and that's how Ivan had found out what she was doing.

“We'll have a look at his computer.”

“Good luck. He took it. Maybe it's at his father's house.”

They hadn't seen a computer or a laptop in his apartment. They'd have to follow up on this lead. “Show us his room, but first tell us about his problems with his father?”

“His father was the be-all and end-all for Ivan. He craved Curt's love and approval.”

“Did he tell you he was going to George Brown College?”

“I knew
nothing,
and I was his mother. He told me nothing, shut me out of his life. I only wanted the best for him. Why do sons do that? Tomas doesn't tell me anything either.” Lena jerked to her feet, sending the bench crashing. She didn't pick it up. Instead, she motioned to them to follow her. “Come upstairs. I guarantee that his room will tell you nothing.” She pointed at them. “Nothing. I keep using that word. My son was a mystery—a big zero—a nothing.” She strode from the room.

They followed her upstairs and along a hall to the only door that sported an unlocked padlock dangling from a latch.

“Is the lock new?”

“He installed it a week before he left.” She straightened. “Of course I had to intervene. In case of fire, I
insisted
on having a key.”

Which rather defeated the purpose. No wonder he'd moved out.

The room resembled a monk's cell.

“Please don't come in here or allow anyone else to do so until we've checked everything out.” Rhona said.

“Help yourself. If you find anything that tells you about my son, it will surprise me.” Lena nodded dismissively. “Poor Ivan. Whoever killed him deserves to suffer pain like he did. Can you imagine his panic, his horror when he realized his brakes wouldn't work? We don't execute killers any more— maybe we should. Or maybe we should mete out justice ourselves.” Her eyes narrowed. “I'm capable of doing that. I would enjoy watching his killer suffer like my poor boy did. You'd better find him before I do, or don't hold me responsible for what I'll do.”

A
fter
they'd spoken to Lena, Rhona and Zee Zee returned to the Hartmans' to interview each family member individually. They began with Curt. He escorted them to the family room, casually furnished in yellow and cream. A bowl of red apples on the glass and brass coffee table added a splash of colour. Inside, he positioned himself beside a wing chair upholstered in mustard yellow corduroy and waved them to the sofa.

Rhona knew better. She was too short. The sofa would suck her down like quicksand or leave her perched uncertainly, unable to lean back because of the seat's depth. A leather desk chair on casters provided an alternative. She rolled it to face Curt. Zee Zee, close to six feet tall and in no danger of being mired in the sofa, relaxed against the cushions and prepared to make notes.

“Have you identified any of Ivan's enemies?” Rhona said.

“No. Or friends either. He was a lone wolf.” He shrugged. “Not a true wolf—that implies strength and fierceness. He had neither—he was a loner.” He extended his legs and examined his shoes before he said, “I like my house shipshape. Like it to run well. No upsets. On an even keel.” He smiled faintly. “I'm a sailor. Nautical terms explain things. Until now, Ivan never rocked the boat.”

Sounded like navy or army boot camp. The house revolved around Curt and his needs, and he resented the rough water stirred up by his son's murder. Talk about egocentric.

“We're covering all bases. Because you had similar motorcycles, you or your son Tomas may have been the intended victim. Can you name anyone with a motive to kill you?”

“Me?” His mouth curved into a sardonic smile. “I expect many people would like me dead. Whether anyone would do it—that's an interesting question.”

“Mr. Hartman, this isn't a game. Someone killed your son in a horrible, premeditated way. If you were the intended victim, he or she may try again. We need to work quickly. Give me names.”

“My ex-partner, Arthur White, and my ex-wife, Lena Kalma, both hate me. Sometimes Arthur hangs around, muttering threats.”

“Have you reported him?” Zee Zee said, looking up from her notebook.

“I don't take him seriously. Arthur's a zealot. Once he clamps onto a subject, he hangs on like a pit bull until something else comes along. I figure he'll eventually move on.”

Zee Zee shook her head but said nothing. Stalking was a crime, and stalkers were to be taken seriously. They seldom shed their obsessions.

“I'll add the
SOHD
opponents to the hate list. They harass me with abusive phone calls.” His eyebrows rose. “On occasion, the caller has threatened to do more. They never say kill, they say
remove, destroy
—words like that.”

“
SOHD
?”

“Stamp Out Hereditary Diseases. I'm local chapter president.” He moved into lecture mode. “We want to reduce numbers in hospital by eliminating hereditary diseases. We lobby for government money to educate people to voluntarily take genetic testing and not have babies if they carry hereditary disease genes. Our opponents, the same people who oppose abortion, think it's like playing God.” He ran his hand through his silvery hair and turned slightly as if displaying his best side to the camera. “Because I'm known to be good with media, I've become their spokesperson.”

“Thank you—we'll follow up on those leads, and we'll have more questions.” Despite his speech, he looked exhausted. “But that's enough for tonight. We'll talk to Tomas now.”

Tomas knocked before he came in. He was taller than his father. His red-rimmed eyes and clenched jaw reflected his stress.

“I'm sorry about your brother. What can you tell me about him and about you?” Rhona said.

“Not enough. I feel awful.” He pulled a wad of soggy tissue from his pocket, blew his nose and apologized as he sat down. “Dad says you want information about me in case the killer tampered with the wrong bike.”

“It is a possibility.”

His features relaxed. Maybe it felt better to hear suspicions validated.

“You want to hear if I have enemies—if I belong to Hell's Angels or deal dope.” He shrugged. “I did do drugs at thirteen. They busted me.” His eyebrows rose. “You can imagine my father's reaction—major league anger. Not about me. About
him
and
his
reputation. Everything's always about
him.
I ended up with a warning. The old man—ever since I saw
Cat on a Hot
Tin Roof,
I think of him as Big Daddy—wanted me in detox.” His eyes brightened. “Thank God for my stepmother. She intervened. Told him she'd handle everything.” He stopped and frowned. “It isn't a secret, but I don't know if she's told you that she has problems with depression.”

“Not yet,” Zee Zee said.

“Well, it's true. She'd learned from firsthand experience how much better you feel if you exercise hard. I was a good swimmer—she encouraged me to become a competitive swimmer.” He leaned forward and spoke with intensity, “For years, years, she drove me to swimming practice at five a.m., even though she had Etienne and a full-time job.” He smiled. “I suppose you don't hear much praise for stepmoms, but Manon has always cared about me and Ivan.”