Woman Chased by Crows (46 page)

“That's all. Viktor and I will arrange for you to acquire another of the blue stones. You already have one, am I correct? Viktor and I will deal with the remaining diamonds and whatever remains of the neckpiece.”

“What do I get out of it?”

“Much peace of mind, I'm sure. Viktor and I will both depart the vicinity, albeit in different directions, and you can sleep well at night knowing all is clear.”

“Right. And what's to stop you coming back next year and getting another bite.”

“Do not forget that both Viktor and I will have engaged in numerous illegal acts as well. It would be in our best interests to get as far away from you as we can.”

(long silence, sound of beer can being crushed)

“You tell him to give me a call.”

“I'm certain we . . .”

(tape runs out)

“Darryl's never getting that job with the
CIA
,” Adele said.

“Seems like they're in reverse order, doesn't it?” Stacy said. “Sergei sounds like he's trying to broker a deal between Nimchuk and Dilly. Then after that we've got Louie coughing up the phone number of the motel. And then we've got Dilly handing over Paulie's .357 to Louie Grova and telling him to stash it.”

“If that's what was happening on that tape, because nowhere is the actual fucking weapon mentioned.”

“Right. So, you'd figure he hands the weapon to Louie
after
he shoots the Russian in the motel. Right?”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“Nimchuk was killed sometime between Saturday night, March 12th, and Sunday the 13th. Which means that O'Grady has to show up here with Paulie's piece sometime Sunday, at the latest, Monday, because he's on the campaign trail and he can't be running around stashing guns when he's supposed to be cutting ribbons and kissing babies. But here's the thing.” She needed to change the cassette and find the right spot. “Wait a sec. Here. Listen to what's on the television.”

In the foreground of the section where Dylan O'Grady is clumping down the stairs and Louie is cursing, they can hear audience laughter and cheering and women's voices.

Adele spread her hands. “So?”

Stacy spread her hands as well. “So? That's
Ellen
.”

“And that means . . . ?”

“Ellen Degeneres? She isn't on Sunday. It's a weekday show.”

“You watch
Ellen
?”

“No, I don't watch
Ellen
, but I know who she is, and I know when she's on television. How come
you
don't know?”

“All right, so he shows up here on Monday and gives the gun to Louie. While fucking
Ellen
's on? What's the diff?”

“Listen again.” She rewound the tape a few seconds and played it again. “Hear it?”

“Hear
what
? What am I missing?”

“Ellen is talking to . . .” Stacy looked embarrassed. “. . .
Denzel
.”

“Denzel? Denzel who?”

“Oh Jesus,” Stacy hid her face briefly with both hands, as if about to reveal a shameful little secret. “Denzel
Washington
. The . . . actor?”

“So?” Adele suddenly hooted. “Ha! Wait a minute. You've got the hots for a movie star?!”

“All right. I admit it. A little crush. You happy?”

“Old Daniel Boone's leaving you alone too much.”

“Okay, okay, can we get past that part and concentrate?” She wiped her hands across her face to erase the blush in her cheeks. “The thing is, I
saw
that show. It was on Friday. I didn't see the whole thing, I just checked it out for a minute after my workout.”

“Ri-ight.”

“Nimchuk was killed March 12th, okay? Sometime that night. That show was on the week
before
. Friday the 11th.”

“You sure?”

Stacy sighed. “Yes, I'm
sure
.”

“Holy shit! ”

“If Dylan's showing up with the gun on the 11th, then he, or for that matter, your partner, couldn't have been using it to shoot Viktor Nimchuk on the 12th.”

“Motherfucker! Murderer fingered by Ellen.”

The two women took a moment to enjoy the absurdity of the situation, then Stacy became businesslike again. “When Dylan was a cop, what did he carry?”

“Same as Paulie. Smith .357 Magnum.”

“A .357 fires .38 Specials, too. Interchangeable. The slug they recovered from the Queensway scene was a magnum, right? Paul's revolver was loaded with .38 Specials. Did he ever switch? Any Magnum slugs around?”

“No. Not in his locker, not in the apartment. His ammo in the desk, box of .38 Specials.”

“So unless he loaded a Magnum bullet exclusively and
specifically
for shooting Nimchuk, Paul's piece isn't the murder weapon.”

Georgie Rhem carefully removed the white tin letters that spelled “Treganza & Swain” from the lobby directory board and dropped them into a brown envelope. “Oh darn,” he said, “I'm going to need that ampersand. Find it for me would you, Stonewall?” He handed the envelope to his friend and began inserting the D-A-I-L-E-Y of his new partner.

“I guess this makes it official,” Orwell said.

“Soon as you find that thingy.”

“End of an era,” said Sam Abrams.

“Or the beginning of one,” Georgie said.

“Here's your thingy.”

Georgie inserted it between the two names and the three men took a step back to admire the new listing.

RHEM
& DAILEY

Barristers and Solicitors

3rd floor

“Calls for a ceremonial slice of pie, don't you think?” Georgie said.

“Well, a cup of coffee, at least,” said Orwell.

When the three men reached the opposite sidewalk, they turned back to look up at the third floor windows where “Rhem, Treganza & Swain” still glowed in fine gold leaf.

“It'll take a while to get that scraped off,” Georgie said, “let alone find someone who does that kind of gold leaf lettering in this town. I think the guy who did that died in '64.”

“I'd leave it up there, Georgie,” said Orwell. “It's worth preserving.”

“A heritage site,” said Sam.

“I suppose. They were middling lawyers, but they taught me a lot.” He clapped the two big men on their backs. “Come on then, I'm buying.”

Ethel smiled when she saw her three favourite regulars come through the door. “You make a lovely couple,” she said.

“There are three of us,” said Georgie.

“I meant the Chief and Donna Lee.” She held up a copy of the
Dockerty Register
, where the Chief and the Mayor were on the front page
.
Again. “Was she standing on a flowerpot, Chief?”

“He was bending his knees,” said Sam. “Kathy told me. Most considerate.”

“Hard to get them both in the frame otherwise,” said Georgie.

“Glad to see you're taking the election seriously, Chief,” said Sam. “Not in a rush to start raising chickens?”

“Not just yet. If Donna Lee gets reelected maybe I can hang in for another five years. After that, who knows?”

Ethel brought coffee and three menus. “We all having pie, gentlemen?”

“I'll hold off until next week,” said Orwell. “I made the mistake of stepping on the scales this morn. Not a pretty sight.”

“I broke mine,” said Sam. “Just coffee, thanks.”

“That leaves you, Georgie,” she said.

“In that case I'll have French toast and maple syrup. And sausages.”

“Atta boy.”

The two big men shook their heads sadly.

“So Georgie,” Sam started, “you handling the Edwin Kewell case perchance?”

“No one's called,” he said. “Two murder cases in two weeks? A bit much to hope for.”

“Too bad. When does your new partner get here?”

“Well, she has to take care of a few hundred things in the city.”

“She won't dawdle,” said Orwell. “Once she's made her mind up, she moves pretty fast. I'll drive down when she's ready, get her stuff packed up.”

“You need any help, let me know,” said Sam.

Orwell smiled to himself. His pocket started singing. “Brennan,” he said. “Okay, on my way.” He stuffed the phone back in his pocket and levered himself out of the booth. “Duty calls, gents. Visiting dignitary.” As he was heading out the door, he heard Sam's voice.

“Oh what the heck, Ethel. Give me a small slice of the rum raisin.”

It is good to have friends, even if you never see them, people you can call upon without worrying whether they will remember you. Gita Crystal (born Brigitta Schneiderschnitz) was one of those. Twenty years ago at the National Ballet she had attended to Anya's fine golden hair on a nightly basis. These days she owned and operated a salon and day spa in Yorkville. Arabesque, an intimate oasis, neither trendy nor excessively posh, was, like its owner, elegant and devoid of affectation save for (in Gita's case) a fondness for rose-tinted glasses. She loved Anya Zubrovskaya.