Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (33 page)

Back behind his desk, he turned on his computer and obediently settled down to his report. After an eternity, his phone rang. It was Sharon. He glanced at his watch instinctively, but it was barely four o’clock. Time crawled when you were having fun.

“I’m leaving in half an hour,” he promised.

She chuckled. “I don’t think I can stand this new suburban you. And actually, I think you should swing by the synagogue and take your Dad home first before you come home.”

“Dad?” His mind drew a blank.

“It’s Thursday—his pinochle afternoon. It’s too cold and icy for him to walk home. He’s pretty frail, and I think those pinochle games are getting really depressing. Sort of like, let’s see who’s left standing this week.”

The image of Eugene Walker’s frozen body face down in the snow was incentive enough, and Green abandoned his desk gratefully at the stroke of five. Sid Green lived in a seniors’ residence in Sandy Hill just off Rideau Street, barely a mile from the tenement where Green had grown up. For the past fifteen years, Sid had walked up Rideau first to the old Jewish Community Centre, and when that closed, to the adjacent synagogue to play pinochle with a handful of elderly immigrant Jews like himself. For fifteen years, a touch of
shtetl
Poland had flourished in the middle of Ottawa.

Now, as most of them passed eighty and various parts of their bodies failed them, the number was slowly dwindling, and when Green pulled up outside the synagogue, his father’s scowl told him that today had not been a success. In a daily life of so few successes, his father had little optimism to spare.

“I want you to take me to Bernie’s house,” Sid said as Green guided him into the car.

Green was reaching for the seat belt and stopped abruptly. “Why?”

“He didn’t come to the game today.”

“Maybe it was too cold for him.”

Sid waved an impatient hand. His white hair stood in thin tufts, and his eyes watered from the cold. He drew his coat tightly around his throat. “Bernie never missed a game.”

Green started the car. “So call him.”

“Marv did. There was no answer.”

“Dad, he was probably just out visiting friends.”

Sid snorted. “And who are we, chopped liver? We’re all he’s got. Where would he go?” He stole a glance at Green’s set profile, and his voice dropped. “Something is wrong, Mishka. Bernie is looking very bad these past weeks.”

With resignation, Green steered the car in the direction of Bernie Mendelsohn’s apartment, which was a crumbling low-rise mainly occupied by the elderly poor. He left his father in what passed for a foyer and went in search of the building superintendent. They were just jiggling the lock of Mendelsohn’s apartment when the door cracked open, and an old man in pyjamas peered out.

“Bernie!” Sid exclaimed. “Why didn’t you answer our call?”

“What call?”

“You missed cards! Marv tried to call.”

Mendelsohn closed his eyes briefly, then turned to make his way back inside. Green noticed that his hands shook, and he limped badly. Quickly, he thanked the super and followed his father inside. The apartment was barely fifteen feet square and lit with a single yellow bulb hanging from the ceiling. Clothes were scattered everywhere, and open food cans were piled haphazardly by the sink. Green had only been there once before, but he remembered it as scrupulously clean. Like Sid, Mendelsohn had been widowed for nearly twenty years and had his set routines.

“I didn’t hear the phone,” Mendelsohn was saying. “I’m sorry, I was asleep.” He sat down on the edge of his bed, and Sid took the rickety white kitchen chair. As there was no other place to sit, Green leaned against the wall and waited. Both men were frail, but his father, even with his heart condition, looked far healthier. Mendelsohn’s skin had a yellowish cast and hung on his frame in folds. A quick glance around the room revealed a collection of prescription bottles by the bed. While the two friends bickered, Green went over for a closer look.

“You think I don’t have eyes?” Sid demanded. “I can’t see you look bad?”

“I’m eighty-four years old. You think you look so good?”

“Bernie—” Green interrupted, holding up a vial. “These are pretty strong painkillers.”

Mendelsohn snatched the vial away with trembling hands. He shoved it into his pyjama pocket and took a deep breath. “Michael, I have a few aches and pains. Tell your father to leave an old man in peace.”

Sid rose and came across the dimly lit room to peer at Mendelsohn. His wheezing was erratic in the stillness. “Aches and pains nothing. You think I don’t recognize cancer? My Hannah took ten years to die, Bernie. And near the end, when it was in her liver and bones, she looked like you.”

“Well,” replied Mendelsohn quietly, “I won’t be that long. Not ten years. Not even one.”

Green stepped instinctively forward to take his father’s arm, but Sid did not waver. He flinched but kept his gaze on his friend.

“When did you learn?”

“Three weeks ago. The painkillers are strong, and they make me sleep a lot. But it won’t be so long. Thank God it won’t be long.”

“So…” Sid murmured. “Bernie. Don’t you think it’s time to call Irving?”

“Irving? Why should I call Irving?”

“Because he’s your son.”

“Son! Sure. What do you think, Sid? That everyone has a son like Mishka here?” Mendelsohn wet his lips and drew a palsied hand across his chin. For a moment his eyes misted. “I should be so lucky. Mishka would not have left an old man to die alone. But not Irving Bigshot Mendelsohn. He had to go to the United States, no law firms good enough for him here in Canada. I know his kind. Only what they want matters, and the hell with the weak old father who just gets in the way.”

So great was his bitterness that even Sid was alarmed. He looked pale when they left the apartment some minutes later. As he buckled his father into the car, Green picked his words carefully.

“I didn’t know Irving very well because he was a couple of years ahead of me in school, but I seem to remember he was always a
putz
.”

Sid sighed. “Yes, Irving had a big head, but it was not easy always to be Bernie’s son.”

Green glanced at him, wondering whether he should even stir up the memories. The two elderly men had more in common than widowhood; both had been in the camps, both had lost children there. “You mean Bernie’s second son.”

Green held his breath until his father replied. “Bernie doesn’t talk about it, but they are there, always in his memory.”

“They must have been very little when they died.”

“And that makes them easier to forget?”

“No,” Green soothed hastily. “What I meant was—how does he know how they would have turned out?”

“You have dreams for your child. You will see. You see in the baby the man he will become. Bernie has always loved you, Mishka. He sees you like the little boy he lost.”

“What exactly did happen to his kids?”

As he asked, Green kept his eyes casually on the road, but he heard his father’s breath catch in his throat. For a moment, Green thought he was actually going to answer, but then his father waved a peevish hand. “Watch the puddle. I don’t want to step out in a puddle.”

Skirting the slush, Green drew the car to a stop outside his father’s apartment and got out to help him. The senior citizens’ building was a bulky low-rise conveniently placed between a bakery and a drugstore. Sid had moved there under protest eight years earlier when he could no longer manage the stairs, but his heart still lay with the little brick tenement in Lowertown where his son had grown up and his wife had slowly slipped away. Sid scowled now at the squat, ugly cube as if it were an alien thing.

“Are you going to be okay, Dad?”

“Sure, sure. Eighty-three years old. All my friends are dying. I can’t walk even one block. My hands shake, I can’t open a door. A man should thank God for such a life.”

Green was surprised how unnerved he was by his father’s words. Both his parents were Holocaust survivors who had lost all their family in the war, but as an only child Green had seen nothing bizarre about the strange hours of silence and the lonely isolation of the home in which he’d been raised. He’d seen their fatalism and their protective paranoia as an irritating restriction on his youthful urge for adventure, and it was only when he’d started reading about the Holocaust as an adult that he’d begun to wonder about the depths of their pain. But all his parents had ever afforded him, as now, was a distant glimpse.

Later that evening, once their son had been securely tucked into his crib, Green fixed Sharon and himself a cup of Earl Grey tea. With a grateful sigh he sank down beside her on the sofa and drew her into his arms. Slowly, between soothing sips of tea, he told her about the visit to Mendelsohn’s apartment and his father’s reaction.

“He almost talked about it, honey,” he said. “It’s the closest he’s ever come to telling me anything, to saying he never forgets.”

She snuggled against his chest and cradled her cup of tea. Her eyes were half shut with fatigue, but her black curls bounced vigorously as she shook her head. “I’m sure he doesn’t. I couldn’t imagine losing Tony. I’d lose my mind. But your father, he’s had loss after loss after loss.”

The thought unsettled him, and he sipped his tea a moment to ponder. He remembered his father’s reaction to the long months of his mother’s dying. His mother had talked non-stop, even refusing morphine in order to stay alert, so desperate was she to cram twenty years of motherly advice into nine months. But his father had spent long, unnecessary hours at the factory and ceased to talk almost entirely. It was from his mother that Green had received his first glimpse into his father’s past.

“Don’t stop him from working,” she said. “That’s how he was in the camp after the war. Busy, busy, everything had to be just so. You stop, you think.”

After her death, his father had sunk into a deep apathy from which he’d been roused only briefly by the birth of Green’s daughter by his first marriage, who was named Hannah in her grandmother’s memory. When Green’s self-absorption torpedoed that marriage, Hannah had been yanked from both their lives by Green’s irate first wife before either man had much chance to know her. Green winced now as he thought how he himself had been responsible for that loss.

Bit by bit, Green, with the help of the hopeful widows in the Jewish seniors’ club, had coaxed his father back into a meagre social existence and into the companionship of his card-playing friends. And now even that was proving a mixed blessing.

Green sighed. “I hope Dad can bounce back. It must be hard watching everyone dying around you.”

“And poor Bernie. He’s had such a life too, and what a way to end it. With a crummy apartment, a handful of grumpy cronies and a son who doesn’t care.”

“I don’t know that Irving doesn’t care. He’s got his own life, and Bernie’s not the most approachable guy in the world. His motto was always ‘You think God cares?’ I know he’s gone through a lot, but as a father I’m not sure he was the best.”

“Was yours?” she countered. “For that matter, are you? Even without the scars of the Holocaust, we fail each other in so many ways. Because of our pride and our hurts. Bernie fails his son, his son fails him. Even me—am I everything I should be to my poor parents? They want to come up for Tony’s birthday, and I put them off till Chanukah, because I don’t have the energy to deal with them. We all have needs that no one can fill. People get busy with their own lives, so in the end, one way or another, the old all face death alone.”

That thought stayed with him, reminding him of Eugene Walker, who had faced death alone at one o’clock in the afternoon in the middle of a busy hospital parking lot. Sullivan had dismissed him as just another old drunk, Donald Reid had called it a quick and painless heart attack, MacPhail a simple “natural causes.” It was true it wasn’t top priority on the major crimes docket, but there was still that niggling mystery of the head wound, and surely the end of a man’s life—and the cause of that end—should be worth at least asking a few questions.

Three

November 7nd, 1939

Winter is young, just gathering strength.

It hurls through the flimsy walls
into the shed where we huddle at the end of the day.

Six strangers, made brothers by the whims of war.

We rouse the reluctant fire, and by its flame
I see my thoughts and fears in the strangers’ eyes.

We are not safe, even here.

Rumours fly eastward on the wind,
of hangings, houses burning and young men,
Poles and Jews alike, kidnapped off the streets,
to stoke the Aryan madness.

She droops against my chest, too weary for words.

Sickness hollows her cheeks and dulls the flame of her hair.

I am fine, she says, and the women laugh.

Laugh. While outside, the Nazi winter descends.

“Mike, it’s goddamn
natural causes!” Brian Sullivan exclaimed the next morning. “I closed the case yesterday.”

“Did you or did you not get photos of the scene?”

“Ident did. Of course.”

“Then just give me a peek. I’m not questioning your judgment. I’m just playing inspector, okay? Reviewing the file. What’s the problem?”

“Your imagination,” Sullivan replied. “You’ve got that look in your eye.”

“It’s just a hunch, a piece missing in the puzzle. Humour me.”

Sullivan gave him a long, wary look, then booted up his computer, inserted a CD and pulled up the photo file. Green scanned the photos quickly. Some were closeups of the body, others of the larger area. One gave a clear overview of the death scene, showing the placement of the body and the surrounding cars. Green squinted intently.