Woman Chased by Crows (25 page)

She stopped the tape, put the recorder on the coffee table. No, she thought,
not
nice.

Saturday, March 19

She slept in his bed, in her clothes, her face buried in his pillow. She could smell his hair on the pillowcase, his body on the sheets. She woke three times during the night, woke from dreams in which she was crying, woke to find his pillow damp. Three times she washed her face in his bathroom without turning on the light, sat on the commode to blow her nose and dry her face with a fresh towel that still contrived to smell of him, remind her where she was. The stars were visible and the sky was an hour from turning grey when she gave up on sleep and sat at his office desk, listening to the wind whistling across the balconies. The gems were in a brown envelope, unsealed, contents listed on the flap
—
“1 blue stone (possibly sapphire), 4 white stones (probably diamonds), evidence as yet unreported due to the death of the investigator.” The list was signed,
“Adele Moen, Detective.”
The envelope wasn't dated. Not yet. Not just yet. Not until she had an hour to think things through.

What's to think about? Turn them in.

And the tape?

Destroy it.

Well, why not? She could do what she wanted with it. Toss it, squash it. It wasn't evidence. It was a personal message, not a confession. What she did with it was up to her.

Listen to the rest of it.

“Okay, so there we are, there I am, hanging onto something I shouldn't be holding onto. But then I start wondering, who carries loose diamonds around in their pocket? And the
DOA
, he's got no
ID
, nothing personal, and I'm wondering if it belonged to the vic in the first place, or if he just happened to fall down dead on fifty K worth of gemstones. Seemed unlikely . . . walking in the park, on his own, with a couple of big diamonds in his pocket? That's odd.”

She heard liquid poured, a bottle cap replaced, wet lips again. His voice thicker, slurring certain words, but still articulate, still forming clear lines of thought, his brain still operating like a cop's brain, looking for answers, searching for an explanation.

“And what was Dylan doing at the crime scene twenty minutes before I got there? Why didn't he pick up the stones? Not like Big Smoothie to overlook something like free jewellery lying around. So I went back to the park, on my own, just to have a long look around in the daytime.

“Don't know what I figured I'd find, big park, you can come at it from ten directions, weave your way toward where we found the body a hundred different ways. No way to search the park completely without a big team on foot, dogs, metal detectors, a hundred sets of eyes. On my own? Not a chance.

“The vic was found shot in the back, about a hundred and fifty metres into the park, facing the lake, a long way from the beach, so you can make some basic assumptions from where he was found, right? The way he was pointing, how he was dressed. I decided he probably came down from Queen Street, quartering in from northwest to southeast. What was he doing there? Middle of the night, jacket, pants, street shoes, not a jogger, not a dog-walker. Another assumption: maybe he was there to meet someone. And if it was a planned meeting, there'd have to be specifics. You don't go out in the night without knowing where you're going. So there's a phone call, something, where should we meet? By the big tree in the middle? Nope, a hundred big trees in the middle, something more specific.

“The park's got this big gazebo bandstand thing where they have concerts. Kind of an obvious meeting place. And since he got shot maybe a hundred metres past there, what do we assume now? That he met whoever, and they continued walking, and then whoever shot him. In the back. It could have gone down that way.

“So he's meeting someone in the middle of the night, he's either very sure of this person, or he's very nervous about this person. Let's jump and say whoever he's meeting scares him. What does he do? Takes some precautions, right? He's got two loose diamonds in his pocket. He's there to meet someone carrying two loose diamonds? That's not how you carry gems. Diamond merchants fold them up inside a piece of paper. That's all. They fold a piece of paper and put the stones in a little folded package. So either the guy gave them to whoever he met, or, if
I
was going to do it, I'd take a sample to show, but I'd stash the rest somewhere. Where, somewhere?

“I tell ya, Stretch, I'd'a made a helluva crook if I hadn't become a cop. I've got the devious instincts. You know it. I'm a porch-climber in my heart. Just following my nose, thinking like the crook I could be if I felt like it, and so what do I find? Well, you got them too now. Wrapped up in a piece of paper, folded into a square and stuck under the bandstand steps. The big blue one, a couple more diamonds. And the piece of paper. Even better. It's a pawn ticket. I'm on a roll . . . Damn! Battery light's blinking. I'll get back to . . .

Paulie, Paulie, you titanic asshole. What the fuck did you get yourself into? Russian crown jewels? Are you kidding me? Tell you one thing, dummy, there is no way I am sinking my career to cover your ass. And what exactly would I be protecting? Your reputation? Hell, the time for that's long past, don't you think? Pension? Life insurance? Whatever. Your daughter loses some money coming to her, tough, sure, but not the end of the world. So why would I bother? You're already up to your neck, pal, the question is, how deep is the shit? You go under, you go under on your own.

What's the big deal? Turn it in. Some jewels were found, he didn't have time to write up a report before he was killed. I know nothing about them except they don't belong to me.

You'd think a woman her age would know how to make coffee. What kind of a person lives almost forty years without picking up that rudimentary skill? Paul had all the gear, grinder, whole beans, coffee maker, espresso machine, one of those French plunger gizmos; he prided himself on his coffee. She was okay as long as it was hot and had enough caffeine to wake her up. Not Paulie. He liked his lattes and his cappuccinos and teeny cups of bitter brew. Damn! Not one lousy little jar of Nescafé in the joint.

There was coffee dust in the grinder. She filled it with beans but couldn't find a switch to turn it on. The phone rang. She lifted the receiver before the second ring ended, held it to her ear without speaking.

“Yes. I thought someone was visiting.”

She recognized the voice. “You must be Sergei. Got your messages. How you doin'?”

“I saw a face at the window.”

“Really? Where were you, up a tree?”

“I was in the parking lot. Briefly. I'm not there now.”

“How sweet. You've got the place staked out.”

“How many of you are up there?”

“Just me, Sergei. Come on up, I'm making coffee. We should talk.”

“We are talking.”

He sounded relaxed, confident, perhaps a bit playful. She wanted to kick him in the scrote. “I think we should get to know each other a little,” she said. “Don't you?”

“But slowly. You know my name, but I don't know yours.”

“Come around, I'll show you my birth certificate.”

“Will you show me your badge, too?”

“What can I do for you,
Serge
?” She deliberately mispronounced his name.

“Perhaps we can do something for each other.”

“Such as?”

“Are you looking for something up there?”

“Well, you know, I kind of inherited all this stuff. It's mine now.”

“I believe Mr. Delisle had something that didn't belong to him.”

“Really? Paulie? Like what?”

“I believe he is also missing something that
did
belong to him.”

Her voice hardened. “Such as?”

“You tell me. You're in his apartment. Is everything there that should be there?”

“Far as I know. Well I haven't looked everywhere yet. Paulie was big on storage. You ever been up here, Serge?”

“Let me just say that I might know where your partner's missing item wound up.”

“You have it?”

“Not personally. I wouldn't want to be in possession of something that could be connected to a serious crime.”

“Of course not. But you know where this something is?”

“Shall we say I might be able to find out.”

“I see.”

“How hard I look would be directly related to how hard you were looking for what belongs to me.”

“Want to give me a hint?”

“Use your imagination. I'll be in touch.” He hung up.

She shook the grinder, listened to the beans rattle, wondered for a moment if one could pulverize coffee beans with a hammer. The door buzzer sounded and she picked up her weapon and crossed the room. So soon, Serge? Love to get a look at you, you slimeball. Maybe pulverize
you
with a hammer. “Yes?”

“It's Stacy. Too early?”

“Not a chance. C'mon up.”

She put her weapon on top of the brown envelope and took herself to the bathroom to wash the Serge off her face.

Adele looked shell-shocked, raw, her face scrubbed red, her hair wet in front. Stacy smiled anyway. Adele pulled her through the door. “Can you make coffee?” There was hope in her voice. “I mean, do you know how?”

“Sure. What have you got?”

“Oh Christ, everything. Except instant.”

Stacy took off her leather jacket and folded it over the back of a club chair. “Wow, look at this place.”

“I think he was going for the New Orleans whorehouse look,” Adele said.

“From memory?”

“Who knows? Kitchen's over here. Need coffee. Need it bad.”

It turned out you just had to push down on the grinder to get it going. Who knew?

Stacy got a pot brewing, located cups, checked the refrigerator. “We're creamless.”

“Okay by me.”

“Me, too,” She admired the kitchen, shiny surfaces, pots and pans organized. “Kept a nice place,” she said.

“Oh yeah. He was a fastidious fucker. How many single guys have a shiny toilet bowl?”