Cut to the Quick (8 page)

“He was jealous.” Anna's voice was low and bitter. “Everyone likes Olivero.”

“And how do you feel about Curt?” Rhona asked.

“Curt is a fool, an egotistical fool, but not as bad as his wife. Always playing the sensitive, misunderstood, hard-done-by woman. Now I ask you, how that can be? She has a terrific career, a beautiful house and children. How can she even suggest such things?”

Olivero raised his arm as if to stop her. “Anna, take it easy. Manon has psychological problems. That can happen to people, no matter what material things or education they have.”

“So she says and so you believe. You are such a silly man. She managed to make you her champion. Fools, she makes fools of men.”

Jealousy, dislike, hatred—Anna could have murdered
Manon,
but did she have reason to kill Ivan? Rhona thought.

“And Ivan and Tomas Hartman, what about them?”

“Nice young men. I only knew them to say hello. Because we don't have children, we never socialized with other families like some of my colleagues did,” Olivero explained.

“Did you know the sons?” Rhona asked Anna.

“To say hello,” she mumbled.

Rhona addressed her next remark to Olivero. “Your sculpture outside is delightful. So are the ones on your website. I take it you're very comfortable with tools.”

Olivero shifted and considered her silently for a moment. “Are you asking if I'm knowledgeable enough to sabotage a motorcycle?”

“Are you?”

“Of course. Like ninety per cent of Torontonians. It isn't hard to cut holes in something.”

“And where were you on Sunday evening, June 26th?” asked Zee Zee.

“Right here. We both were.”

“Thank you.” Again Rhona produced a card and handed it to him. “At your convenience, would you both go to 51 Division for fingerprinting.”

Their eyes widened as they absorbed the implications of Rhona's request.

“My wife may hate Manon, but neither of us would do anything violent,” he said in a low voice as he escorted them to the door.

“What do you think—could either one have done it?” Rhona asked later as they drove north.

“Keep them on the list. Although Anna hates Manon at the moment, I can't see what she'd gain by killing Ivan or Curt?”

* * *

On Friday, Rhona and Zee Zee brainstormed while they ate two take-out lunches Hollis had collected from a nearby Tim Hortons.

“Initially, Frank thought it might be a simple open and shut case—a gang vendetta, a lover's quarrel, a drug deal gone bad...” Rhona said with a sigh.

“So far it's none of the above.” Zee Zee had cleared a space on her desktop and was fastidiously arranging her lunch as if she were dining in an expensive restaurant. She shook her head. “Who leaves three Harleys parked outside? I may be a super-cautious cop, but isn't that asking for trouble?”

“Ego trip,” Rhona mumbled. She washed a morsel of whole wheat roll down with a swig of coffee. “Curt Hartman strikes me as a guy with a giant ego, capital G, capital E. I understand why Tomas Hartman calls him Big Daddy. Did you ever see the movie,
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof,
with Elizabeth Taylor, Paul Newman? Orson Welles was Big Daddy?”

“No. But doesn't the name fit Curt? Motorcycles aside, an artist might be hated for many reasons.” She stirred her chili. “Envy—there's a reason it's a deadly sin—it's a corrosive, destructive force. Wasn't a jealous contemporary accused of murdering Mozart? There must be students or other artists Curt destroyed with private or public criticism. It's an unstable community. No matter how high your reputation is at any given moment, you're only as good as your most recent work.”

“Tell me about his work.”

“It's valued internationally. He's admired because he teaches. Not loved or revered or even liked.”

Frank Braithwaite walked in. Rhona twitched a napkin over her doughnut.

He waved and marched over. “I assume you two are tying up loose ends in the Hartman case.” His tone was jocular, but his eyes were not.

“Afraid not. It's getting more complicated every day. Not open and shut, as you'd hoped,” Rhona said. God, why couldn't she just have said no? She was such a wimp sometimes. “Let me tell you what we've done.” She itemized who'd been interviewed and the leads they were following.

“I've heard from the mayor. Curt Hartman has complained about our inability to solve the murder.” He sighed. “This isn't a
TV
show where they neatly wrap up in half an hour. I can't provide any more people. Have you used the profiler?”

“I checked for similar crimes, but this is a stand-alone. Profiling would only help if there was more than one similar crime,” Zee Zee said.

Frank flipped the napkin off Rhona's doughnut. He shook his head and clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Shame on you—you're confirming people's worst suspicions.”

After he left, Rhona fumed. “It's a goddamn doughnut. You'd think he'd caught me snorting cocaine or taking payola or worse. And how come he didn't comment on yours? It's discrimination.”

“How do you figure that?”

“You're thin and elegant. I'm not, so he focuses on me— definitely discrimination.”

Zee Zee laughed. “I can give you chapter and verse about discrimination, because I'm black, not because I'm thin. I'm not apologizing. I was born this way.”

“Lucky you. Back to the Hartmans. The perp will try again if he killed the wrong man.”

“Did you warn them to be careful?”

“Not when we thought it would be a straightforward case.” Rhona collected their dishes. “I'll drop around after the funeral and talk to them.”

“Back to the grind. Now that we've broadened the scope, we'll press father and son to tell us what they have to hide— everyone has something.”

O
n
Friday morning, pelting rain discouraged all but a few morbidly curious onlookers from waiting outside the funeral home while the ceremony took place. Later, when everything was over, the family, sheltered by umbrellas, headed for two waiting cars. Manon, Lena, Curt and Etienne went first, followed by Manon's mother, Tomas, Etienne and Nadine.

As she bent to slide into the second car, Hollis looked ahead. A young dark-haired woman wrapped in a shiny black rain cape with its hood pulled up to shield her from the rain had run forward and touched Curt's arm. Hollis heard her say, “You're Ivan's father, and I...” Curt made a dismissive gesture and followed Manon into the lead car. Hollis caught the briefest glance before the girl turned away and stepped back. She considered rushing after her but felt it would be inappropriate. But who was she? What had she wanted?

“Was that girl Ivan's girlfriend?” Hollis murmured to Tomas.

“Search me. He never talked about a girl,” Tomas said.

“I wonder what she intended to say to your father.”

* * *

Back in Ottawa late on Friday evening, Hollis opened her door, scooped up her mail and ran to answer the ringing phone.

“Detective Simpson came by an hour or so ago,” Manon said. “She told us to be careful—said that Curt or Tomas might be targeted. She warned us to watch for suspicious parcels, avoid isolated places and keep an eye on Etienne.”

This was bad news. There was no point in adding to Manon's fear by expressing her shock. She made a conscious effort to suppress her alarm. “They're probably just covering their bases until they get a handle on who killed Ivan.” She hoped her voice sounded normal and reasonable.

“I requested protection, a police officer inside or a police car outside. She claimed they lacked the manpower. Then I asked her what progress they'd made.”

“What did she say?”

“That she wasn't at liberty to discuss details. She reassured me they were doing everything possible. She churned out the sort of polite remarks people make when they haven't a clue and don't want to talk about something. It felt like I was speaking in a huge empty void that sucked up everything I said and didn't give anything back. And there's something else...”

The low, defeated monotone alarmed Hollis. She imagined Manon's slumped shoulders and downturned mouth. How unfair it was for Manon to have to cope with this. Manon appeared to be an efficient banker, a woman in charge of her life and herself, although those close to her knew she fought an ongoing battle with depression and panic attacks. She constantly struggled to deny her urge to convert relatively ordinary events into crises. Hollis hoped this was the case; hoped Manon's molehills had grown into mountains. But the warning sounded serious. Was she strong enough to help Manon deal with her anxieties?

“What? What else has happened? I hope Tomas and Curt aren't riding their bikes until the killer is caught.”

“Tomas suggested that maybe they shouldn't. Curt blew up and ordered Tomas not to be a coward.”

“Sounds like Tomas was being sensible.”

“Exactly. Then Curt sneered that Tomas should paint his yellow if he was afraid the killer would confuse their bikes. Maybe it was an attempt at humour, but it wasn't funny. Curt said only serial killers used the same
modus operandi
repeatedly. He said a run-of-the-mill killer wouldn't tamper with either bike. He's probably right, unless it
is
a serial killer.”

“Why would Curt or Tomas be targets?”

“I can't imagine that Tomas is. As far as I know, he leads a relatively blameless life. On the other hand, Curt's enemies are legion. However, I have a terrible feeling it
is
a serial killer who's after all of us. A deranged murderer will pick us off one by one.” A long, indrawn breath. A shaky voice. “I'm terrified for Etienne.”

Why would a killer want the whole family dead? Particularly eleven-year-old Etienne. Not a rational idea but, when it came to Etienne, Manon had never been totally rational. Etienne was the child her physician had counselled her not to carry to term. She'd rejected his advice and suffered through a difficult pregnancy made more stressful by a severe bout of depression. Hollis remembered how hard it had been for her.

“I'm up at night again. I didn't tell you when you were here, because I thought it would stop,” Manon said.

Hollis searched her memory. “You think you've lost Etienne. You're sleepwalking, searching for him.”

“I did it for a whole year after his birth.”

“You had a reason. He nearly died when he arrived prematurely. Right now, uncertainty about Ivan is taking its toll on your mental equilibrium. You must be exhausted if you're wandering around every night.”

“I'd fall asleep again if Curt woke me up and shepherded me back to bed. But my sleepwalking upsets him. I think he's afraid it means I'm having a total breakdown. He reacts badly.”

“How?” Hollis wished her bedroom had been on the same floor—she might have heard this nocturnal problem and been able to help.

Manon took a quick breath to steady her voice. “It's three a.m., and he lectures me. Tells me to get a grip. Says I'm neurotic and revelling in my craziness.” She sobbed. “I'm not. I'm doing everything I can to stay on an even keel. He upsets me so much, I can't go back to sleep. Next morning, I'm a basket case.”

“Hang on. I'll be there on Tuesday. Are you...” Should she ask if Manon was keeping to her medication schedule?

“Taking my meds and seeing my psychiatrist? Yes to both questions. I'm not about to go off the deep end. Mostly I do okay. But I'm terrified my sleepwalking means that subconsciously I know something. I'm afraid my body is warning me Etienne's in danger. Warning me to keep him from being the next victim.”

Useless to argue. Nothing she said would change Manon's mind. “You should have sent him back to Quebec with your mother.”

“I thought about it, but I can't bear to have him out of my sight for more than a few hours. I also considered resigning and staying home with him. Curt blew up when I suggested it. He said it would be the very worst thing to do, that I'd make Etienne into a nervous wreck like me. He ordered me to ‘pull myself together'. I hate that phrase. As if you wouldn't do it if you could.” She laughed shakily. “Even to me, my theory that the killer has his sights set on the whole family sounds crazy when I say it out loud.” She paused. “There's something else. Curt says they've implied he may have had something to do with Ivan's murder.”

Why hadn't Manon told her these things while she was still in Toronto?

“How strange. Why would they suspect Curt? I can hear him saying ‘Next they'll be accusing me' when he criticizes them for their inability to arrest the killer. I can't believe he means it, or that the police believe it. Curt seemed okay at the funeral. How do you think he's bearing up?”

“Not well. He's in denial.” A whisper. “I think he's gone a little crazy.”

“Crazy? You can't mean that?”

“Not crazy, crazy—but weird—weirder than me. Other things are happening...I'm desperate.”

Hollis reviewed what she had to do before she drove back to Toronto. There was no way she could get there any earlier. But she had to allay Manon's fears.

“This is easy to say, but not to do—try to relax. Take each hour as it comes. Don't think of all the bad things that could happen. And I'll call Rhona to see if I can get any more information.”

Hollis hung up and punched in the cell phone number on the business card Rhona had given her.

“We
are
making progress,” Rhona assured her.

“Warning the Hartmans to take care. Implying Curt had something to do with Ivan's death—that's progress?”

“This isn't television. All relevant information doesn't drop into our laps like manna from heaven. People lie or don't cooperate. For one reason or another, they don't come forward when they have information. Motive helps. In Ivan's case, we don't have one. Anyway, what business is it of yours?”