Woman Chased by Crows (30 page)

The laneway was deserted. Not a crow in sight. A few gulls, the small ones with the black wingtips, she liked them, they reminded her of somewhere else. She caught a glimpse of Sergei and the tall woman going into the parking lot at the far end.

In the parking lot, Sergei was opening the passenger door on the red
BMW
. He bent over and rummaged under the seat. Anya saw the tall policewoman unsnap her holster and put her hand on the butt of her pistol. “Now, Sergei,” she said, “I want you to be
very
careful lifting it out of there.”

“It's wrapped in a plastic bag.”

“I've seen weapons go off inside a cardboard box. Now hand me the bag with your left hand. Good.”

“Detective. Your partner wanted me to fetch you.”

Adele swung around. “You. Get over here where I can see you. Stand there.”

“Sergei Gregorovich, you got fat.”

“You got old.”

Anya pulled off the dull brown wig and didn't look nearly as old. “But not fat,” she said. “Did you hear what happened to poor Louie?”

“You two can catch up on old times later.”

“We had a bargain.”

“Oh, you can forget about that, Serge. You're under arrest.”

“For what?”

“Start with possession of stolen property. That's my partner's service revolver. It could be the murder weapon in an unsolved homicide. That will do for now.”

“My prints are not on that gun.”

“Couldn't care less.”

“I have done nothing wrong.”

“That's good. You can explain it all to the three or four police outfits on your case. Plus the Canadian government will likely get involved, probably the Russian government. You guys are ass-deep in all kinds of bad shit. At least that's how it looks to me. Turn around, hands on your head. Don't fuss, I'm good at this.”

“Detective? Your partner . . . ?”

“Right. You walk ahead of me, dancer lady.”

“Anya.”

“Whatever.”

Most of Captain Émile Rosebart's homicides were either domestic or gang-related; a case involving crown jewels, Russian thugs and ballet dancers would have been an interesting way to end the work week were it not for the .357 Smith & Wesson revolver with special grips in a clip-on holster on his desk, along with the brown envelope (now unsealed) holding a sapphire and four diamonds and the mini-cassette labelled “Della #2
FYI
-only-P.” He shook his head and looked up at Adele, pacing the room, then at Stacy, sitting up straight and perfectly composed. “Brennan sent you down here? Jeeze, he's a persistent bugger. This woman? She wanted for something?”

“The Chief was worried about her,” Stacy said. “Her place was robbed, there was a mugging and she was also assaulted.”

“By the big Russian. The one with the dislocated kneecap.”

“He resisted arrest.”

“In my town.”

Adele spoke up. “I was otherwise engaged, Captain. Otherwise I would have made the arrest.”

“Of course. You had other Russians to bust.” He looked again from one to the other. “So how'd this go down again?”

“Detective Crean's a friend. I had a day off, she had a day off, you know what cops are like, let's have a coffee, why don't we swing by this Grova's place . . .”

“Yeah, that's what I generally do after breakfast. You ever hear of this Grova before this?”

“No.”

“But the ballet woman knew him?”

Stacy spoke up. “His was one of the names she gave the Dockerty police when she told them about the jewels. I had him on my list of people to check out.”

“So you two swung by there as a, what, just a natural progression after breakfast?”

“That's right, sir.”

“Unh hunh. Right. And out of the blue you walk in on a crime scene and a murder victim and the missing woman and you decide to trail two strange men you see in the crowd.”

“We were trailing her;
she
was trailing the two men,” Adele said.

“One of whom turns out to be the very man who was calling you at Delisle's place and hinting that he had Paul's gun.”

“Worked out that way.”

“A natural progression. This guy Sergei some kind of secret agent? Or just a hood dealing in stolen goods?” He picked up the brown envelope. “Goods which belong to . . . ?”

“Most likely the Russian government, sir,” said Stacy.

“Better and better. Governments. Mounties. Frickin'
CSIS
maybe. 'Cause if they want 'em, they can have them.”

“Except there's the dead pawnbroker.”

“Maybe I'll get lucky. Maybe the pawnbroker was a foreign agent, too, and they can take all of 'em off our hands.” He spread his arms across the inventory on his blotter. “It's a clusterfuck. No doubt about it.” He gave Adele a searching look. “And you knew dick about this? Nothing? Your partner.”

“Whatever it was, he was doing it on his own.”

“Where'd he get his hands on these things?”

She sighed. “It's on this cassette, how he picked up two diamonds at a crime scene.”

“More than two diamonds in here.”

“Yes, sir. It's on the tape. He went back the next day and found them. Wrapped in a pawn ticket.”

“Pawn ticket in here?”

“Haven't found it yet. Probably somewhere in Paulie's apartment.”

“Right. So. One blue, four white, five stones. Your friend signed, too.”

“I figured I should have a witness.”

“Okay. And it's his gun? Definitely?”

“Yes, Captain, definitely.”

“Shit!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Match?”

“Peel's got the bullet. It's pretty mashed up. They're trying to match it. Should get back to us today.”

“Who's the guy I talk to? Speed it up?”

“A Staff Sergeant Hurst,” Stacy threw in. “He's heading up the investigation into the other . . .”

“Right. The Nimchuk.” Rosebart poked the plastic bag and the revolver spun a lazy quarter turn to point across the desk in Adele's direction. “Where this weapon was used. Maybe. By one of my detectives. Maybe.” He shook the brown envelope. “While stealing a sack of jewels. Maybe. Jesus H. Christ. And it goes on. The two jokers you brought in, what do they have to say? He tell you how he got his hands on Delisle's piece?”

“I didn't question them. Turned them over to Lacsamana and Heatley forthwith. I'm staying arm's length. Keeping my distance.”

“Except you're already in it.”

“I didn't ask for it. I just picked up Paulie's phone. This guy Sergei said he'd trade the weapon for the jewels. I convinced him I was willing to do that. When he turned over the gun I arrested him. That's as far as I went.”

“Well, shit, I don't know what we've got here. Those Russians, they look good for the pawnbroker?”

“Not my call, sir. They were nearby, they knew the deceased.”

“Right. And the dancer lady? She look good for it?”

“I wouldn't say so. But not my place to say.”

“Right. Not your call. That prick partner of yours is lucky he's dead the way this thing's shaping up.”

“I read those jewels as evidence that Detective Delisle didn't get a chance to turn in before he was killed. If it turns out different, I won't be the one who makes the call.”

“Evidence of
something
, that's for goddamn sure. With extras. Don't suppose this cassette says how he came to lose his service piece?”

“No, sir.”

“Or why he didn't report it missing?”

“No, sir.”

“Kee-rist!” Rosebart pulled a Kleenex out of the box on his desk and blew his nose. “Snow mould,” he said. “My wife says when the snow melts off it lets out crap that's been trapped all winter.” He wiped his eyes, gave his nose another rub. “All right. So
you
,” looking at Stacy, “come down here looking for the dancer, who just happens to show up at a murder scene, along with two Russian hoods, who all seem to know each other from the last movie.” He shook his head slowly and began collecting the pieces of evidence. “I give up. Hand this stuff to Lacsamana and Heatley, they can log it in. Give them what you've got for facts but don't go speculating. Let them do their jobs and we'll deal with it.”

Stacy stood up. “It was nice meeting you, Captain Rosebart.”

“Sure, sure. Tell that big busybody you work for I don't need any more of his business.”

“I will.”

Rosebart motioned for Adele to stop before she went out the door. “Moen? You all right? I thought you were taking some more time.”

“Soon as I hand things over.”

“Slug got mashed up on the bed rail. They might not get a clean match. It was likely a Smith revolver, that's as far as they'll go. Doesn't mean it wasn't his gun. Probably not crucial. It's not like he'll be on trial.”

“He may be dead, but he's still on trial,” Adele said. “There's going to be an inquest. If the coroner pins it on Paulie, that costs him his pension, his reputation, screws up his kid's life.”

“Well I can't bury it. It's got to play out. You stay away from it. You're too good a detective. I don't want you smeared with this.” He waved his hand vaguely, either dismissing her or dispersing a bad smell. “You got any other thoughts about this?”

“I hope to Christ Paulie's clean.”

“Yeah. You can hope.”

The Pimple and the Toothbrush had been very happy to see her again, very happy to take away her cigarettes and make her wait two hours before they allowed her to pee. It was disappointing that her favourite policewoman was not allowed to question her, or even the tall one with the sad eyes, but she took her medicine, sat quietly and answered patiently.

It is hard sometimes not to think police are stupid, the way they go over and over a thing, but that would be a mistake. They plod because it is the surest way of getting somewhere. They write things down so they can reexamine the facts at a later date, catch you in a lie, confuse you with your own details. You cannot gloss over things. You cannot assume they will connect the dots on their own. And so she plodded with them and after a while they got bored with her story. They were much more interested in Sergei and his thick-necked partner, with stolen property and suspicion of assaults and robberies.

They provided accommodations in a holding cell and said they'd get back to her.

The bed was hard, but she'd slept on worse. With any luck she'd get a few hours rest, uninterrupted by dreams of killers. She might be locked up, but for now she was safe.

Pete Lacsamana's moustache wasn't exactly like a toothbrush, but it did have a squared-off bottom edge and clipped sides. Dale Heatley was taller, and likely to develop a dowager's hump if he wasn't careful, the way he nosed around like a vacuum cleaner. They both stood, both leaning on the front of her desk, bending over, pinning her down. Fuck 'em.