Woman Chased by Crows (34 page)

July
24
, Responded to a call from my partner, Detective Dylan O'Grady at the scene of a homicide near the Beaches boardwalk. When I arrived Det. O'Grady was present, searching the area with four uniformed officers from
52
Division. Victim was a white male, approximately
50
years old, wearing work clothes. Initial examination revealed what appeared to be two bullet holes an inch apart in the victim's back. Wallet and identification were missing. Medical Examiner rolled the victim. Both exit wounds visible, slugs not recovered. No brass found at the scene.

August
19
, Detective Dylan O'Grady informed me that the July
24
victim has been identified as V. A. Abramov, age
54
, a Russian émigré, self-employed. A search of Abramov's residence, suite
305
, Hollis Apartment Hotel, was unproductive. Apartment was empty, contained few personal effects and produced no useful leads. No suspects, no evidence.

September
11
, Detective O'Grady received a phone tip that Abramov was carrying a large amount of cash from a housepainting job. Canvassed the Beaches area, but couldn't find his employer. Robbery is the likely motive. Possible random assailant. Case to remain open.

But you didn't you leave it there, did you, Paulie? You poked around a bit more. Went back and found some other stuff, right. Why isn't that in here? Getting suspicious about Dylan? About how he got to the scene way before you, got the identification, found the residence, heard about a “large amount of cash”? Who'd he hear that from, Paulie? Or fucking ‘whom' if you want to be your usual pain-in-the-ass self, whom are we talking about? Who's giving all this good information to Dylan? Why not to you? What's gnawing on your cop mind, pal? You worried you're walking around with diamonds you took off the dead man? Is that it? Or something else? Were you building a case against your partner?

Oh this makes so much sense, haven't been in Union Station in months. Even if he's not there it'll get me out of the house for an hour, away from mouldy cardboard boxes and piles of paper I am
not
going to read if I can fucking help it. And who said the man was even going to be there? What are the chances? It's not even your case anymore. It never was your case, or at least it shouldn't have become your case. The minute you found the diamonds in Paulie's apartment you should have washed your hands of the whole frickin' business.

That was Pete Lacsamana's reaction a half hour back. “Del, dammit, it's Sunday, I'm watching basketball. Bugger off, get off the phone, you're tying up my phone.”

“You finished with Paul's place?” It was the only excuse for calling him at home she'd been able to come up with. “I needed to get back in there. To take care of his stuff. You know, for his daughter.” The longer she talked the weaker it sounded.

“It's all yours. We never got in there. We've been pulled off that end of it. Whatever your shithead partner was up to, that's a whole 'nother bag of crapola. It's all gone Internal. Pretty soon they'll be sucking your brains out your nose, too. Smartest move for you is get your ass back wherever the fuck you got your sunburn and lie low, get drunk, get laid and
stay out of it
.”

“Right, sure, that's cool.” She hated begging. She tried to keep it conversational. “So, come on, cop to cop, how's the Grova thing going?”

“It's going, it's going. Hell, we're just getting started. Not like it's the only case we're working. Best candidates were the two Russian dudes. We like 'em, can't connect 'em.”

“You looking at anybody else?”

“Oh yeah, got a list of at least twenty-five dipshits who wanted to break this Grova dude's face. So far they all have alibis.”

“Including his kid.”

“That one can barely tie his own shoes, but his alibi is solid. He was passed out at his girlfriend's place. She wasn't a hundred percent pleased about it.”

“So nothing.”

“Well, he croaked at least an hour
after
somebody beat the shit out of him, so even if we track the perp down, they likely walk on murder one.”

And this would be the tricky part. “You finished with the body?”

“Oh yeah, his kid didn't waste any time. Straight to the furnace. Didn't even want the ashes. His brother had to come in from Montreal to collect them.”

“His brother? This is Martin Grova?”

“That's the guy. Eighty-two years old. Taking the ashes back to Montreal this afternoon. The kid couldn't care less.”

“He flying back?”

“Took the train.”

She would have pushed for more details, but that was just about all the slack Pete was going to give her. That was how she came to be wandering through Union Station on Sunday afternoon, looking for a man she probably wouldn't recognize, who probably wasn't there, anyway. What the hell, take a shot, right? If the brother came in from Montreal that morning he probably took the express. Okay, not “probably” but “likely.” It would have been the best way. And if that's what he did, and if he had a round trip ticket, then he'd be catching the express home. Maybe. That train left at 5 p.m. It was 3:47. That gave her, hell, a whole hour to track down Louie Grova's brother.

Sunday shoppers were streaming in from the subway laden with booty, racing for the
GO
trains, making the lower concourse a stampede. He wouldn't be down here, anyway: Via Rail loaded upstairs.

For all its size, the main concourse bore the unmistakable stamp of Toronto's ungenerous nature. The limestone columns were thick, perpendicular, half Greek, partly Roman, not quite certain of anything except their structural integrity. It wasn't pretty, but it wouldn't fall down. That was Toronto.

The man sitting in the corner of the cafeteria was the right age. He had on a black suit and a black wool topcoat with velvet lapels. He wore a yarmulke. On the tray in front of him was a small metal teapot with a teabag string hanging down the side. A rectangular package sat on the seat beside him. It was about the right size for a container of ashes.

“Mr. Grova?”

The old man blinked before he looked up as if she had awakened him from a sad dream. “Yes? Who? Do I know you?”

“No. My name is Adele Moen, I'm a detective.” He rubbed his eyes, replaced his thick glasses and then appraised her badge as if it was collateral for a loan. “I'm looking into the circumstances surrounding your brother's death,” she said.

“Circumstances? Someone beat him up.”

“Yes. Would you mind if I talked to you for a minute?”

“A minute only. I'm waiting for my train.”

“Your train doesn't start loading for half an hour. If I could just ask you a few questions.”

“Sit, sit.” He shifted the tray to one side, wiped the tabletop with a paper napkin. “You like some coffee?”

“No. Thank you.” She sat across from him. “Did your brother have a bad heart?”

“Louis? He had bad everything — heart, pancreas, veins, name it. It's a wonder he lasted as long as he did.”

“Were you close?”

“He was my brother. Hate, love, what's the difference? Blood is blood.” He shifted the package on the seat beside him. “Cremation isn't what we do,” he said. “Cremation is when you want a person to disappear. I would have given him a place, a stone.” He studied her face. After a while he nodded. She felt as if she'd passed some test. “You're investigating his death?”

“Yes. Peripherally. I'm investigating a murder that may be connected.”

“A murder. I see. And who else was killed?”

“A man named Nimchuk.”

At the name his eyes looked heavenward. “Of course.” His laugh was short and bitter. “Why not? ‘Someday,' I told him,” he waggled a finger, “it took nearly thirty years but I knew. Someday, this will all come back and bite you on the tuchus. Excuse my language.”

“All what?”

“His life, his connections, his involvements.” His lips pursed for a moment as though he wanted to spit. “Viktor Nimchuk.” He lifted the lid on the little tin pot, but let it fall without looking inside. “The first time Louis brought that man around, I knew. ‘Stay far away from this man. He brings trouble.'”

“Why did he bring Nimchuk to see you?”

“I need more tea,” he said. “Would you watch this package for just a moment?”

“You stay put. I'd like some, too.” The line was mercifully short. She slid a tray along the steel track and got tea for two. The cashier took her money without looking up. When she returned Grova was checking his ticket. He looked up. “How much time do we have?”

“You have lots of time. I'll make sure you don't miss your train.”

“Good. Thank you. I don't walk so fast these days. I have to start early.”

“So, this happened some time ago, right?”

“Twenty-eight years, I think. Yes.”

“In Montreal.”

“That's right. I've been in Montreal all my life. Louis, too, until he moved here.”

“When was that?”

“Fifteen years, no, eighteen years.”

“Okay. Can you go back to the beginning? Your brother came to see you with Viktor Nimchuk.”

“This Nimchuk, he's Russian, yes? He did some business with my brother once before, a fur coat, sable, none of my business, I stayed away from what he was doing. This time he had some diamonds he wanted to sell. Fine, good. That's what I do, estate jewellery is my area of expertise, so, let's have a look. Very nice. He has six stones. Old European cut. Maybe 1890. Something like that. Probably Vienna. Nice enough, two carats, two and a half. So I ask, where do they come from? That, too, is part of my job. This Nimchuk doesn't have his story straight. Maybe he doesn't think it's important. They belonged to my grandmother, he says. Really? She must have been a wealthy woman.”