Woman Chased by Crows (53 page)

“Moen, get in here!”

“Captain?”

“We've got a situation.”

“What's up?”

Rosebart had the drawn look of a man who had spent far too many hours parrying blows and some of the shots were getting through his weary defences. “Goddamn! O'Grady has two bullet holes.”

Adele's stomach lurched and she sat down heavily. “I'm gonna take a wild guess that he didn't shoot himself twice.”

“Or even once. The
ME
says he's got a big hole going in, two holes coming out. Looks like somebody shot him, put the gun in his hand and pulled the trigger over the same hole. Only they didn't line it up just right. Second shot came out half an inch higher than the first one.”

“Holy Jesus!”

“You got that right.”

“His gun?”

“Oh yeah. His service piece. Looks like he checked it out as soon as he checked it in. I'll be wanting some answers from whoever screwed up down there.”

“Where do you want me?”

“Good question, Detective.” Rosebart rubbed his face. He hadn't shaved very well, probably used the crummy electric he kept in his desk. His sigh sounded a trifle melodramatic, but the pain in his eyes was genuine. “Goo-ood question. If I had half a brain I'd chain you to your desk so you couldn't bring me any more grief.”

“But.”

“Yeah, right,
but
. But maybe you should get your ass back up to Dockerville . . .”

“Dockerty.”

“Whatever . . . and find out what that loopy dancer lady was up to last night, because as I have it in one of your reports,” he waved a stack of papers at her, “which I'm reading far too frickin' many of these days, she likes to sneak out of her hotel room in the middle of the night.”

“She was in plain sight when Dilly took off.”

“Was she in plain sight at 03:00 when, according to the
ME
, he popped his clogs?”

“I don't see it.”

“I don't give a crap. According to you, she was on O'Grady's case all day yesterday.” He swivelled his chair around to show her his back. His shirt had a dark sweat stain down the spine. “And that other Russkie. Serge? Track that asshole down, too. Find out if he can account for his actions all night. Do that forthwith.”

“Yes, sir, forthwith.”

He waved the back of his hand at her. “With any luck it'll get you out of my sight for the day, and that's not a small thing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And don't talk to any goddamn reporters, hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bugger off.”

“Yes, sir.”

Stacy had no luck at either Anya's apartment or her studio. Likewise with Dr. Ruth, whose office was locked and house empty. She checked the bus schedule. The first bus from Whitby had pulled in an hour ago. She checked the Timmies at the mini-mall on Vankleek and took a slow cruise from the bus stop and back to the apartment building, then made a return trip to Dr. Ruth's locations as well. Nothing.

On her way back to the station the complexion of the day changed significantly. Adele called from the city with the news that Dylan O'Grady hadn't departed this life without help. Adele said she was coming up. She needed to talk to Anya Zubrovskaya. She also wanted to know where the fuck “Serge” was since as far as she could determine, he too had left the city. Citizen Grenkov had no idea where Sergei might have gone, and as far as he was concerned it was immaterial as long as Sergei stayed far away from him.

“He says Serge came by in the middle of the night and packed his stuff, so who knows, he might be on the run.”

“Dang. And our little dancer's gone missing, too.”

“Be there about two o'clock, give or take. I'll call when I hit town.”

Dorrie directed her to go right in. Stacy found the Chief in a meeting with a very small man whose eyes lit up when he caught sight of her. When the man got up to shake her hand, it had the odd effect of making him shorter than when he was seated, but it was a courtesy he would have insisted upon under any circumstance. “Detective Crean,” he pronounced perfectly, “it is a pleasure.” When he shook her hand she noted that his hand was almost as big as the Chief's. “I am Mikhael Tomashevsky,” he said. “Chief Brennan has been singing your praises for the past fifteen minutes.”

“How do you do, sir,” she said.

“Grab a seat, Stacy,” Orwell said. “Any luck?”

Tomashevsky waited until she was seated before he took his chair again. The smile he gave her confirmed that his size had no bearing on his capacity to appreciate an attractive woman.

“I just got a call from Detective Moen,” she began. “Dylan O'Grady didn't kill himself. Someone shot him and tried to make it look like a suicide.”

“Good Lord,” said Orwell. He shook his head.

“And the other parties can't be accounted for. Anya Zubrovskaya and Sergei Siziva are also missing.”

“Siziva,” said Mikhael. “He has been seen?”

“Yes, sir,” said Stacy. “We've interviewed him a number of times.”

“That is most interesting.”

“You know the man?” Orwell asked.

“Oh yes. I'd very much like a chance to talk to him myself.”

“What about Dr. Ruth?” Orwell asked.

“She's nowhere in town,” Stacy said. “Her house looks empty.”

Mikhael gripped the arm of his chair and leaned forward. “Dr. Ruth, did you say?”

“Ruth,” Orwell said. “Dr. Lorna Ruth.”

“She is a medical doctor?”

“I'm not sure. She's either a psychiatrist, or a psychologist.”

“And what is her connection?”

“Anya Zubrovskaya was her patient.”

“Really? You wouldn't have a photograph of her anywhere, would you?”

“Sorry,” said Orwell.

“Yes we do, Chief,” Stacy said. “We've got her on tape. The security tape from the liquor store. If it's still around.”

It took Roy Rawluck all of ten minutes to locate the old
VCR
machine and monitor, find the tape and cue it up. Mikhael Tomashevsky stared at the frozen image of Dr. Lorna Ruth for a long moment, all the while shaking his big head slowly from side to side. “That is her,” he said at last. “Lorena Wisneski. Dr. Lorena Wisneski.”

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Lower your guard for just a moment and the world will bite you on the ass. What was it her grandfather used to say? “It is not only the shadows you need to be wary of, sunlight too can blind you.” Today the sun was shining, birds were singing, Lorna Ruth wore a bright smile when she slowed her car as Anya came out of the bus station. “Anya, can I give you a ride?” So easy. Never a second thought. A bit weary, heavy suitcase, legs a little tired from two days taking care of business in the city.

“Why not?” And in the car, and buckle up, and away they went. But not in the direction of home. And the seatbelt was jammed so it would not unlatch. And Lorna was not alone, Sergei was lying down on the back seat under a blanket and they were on the highway heading to the end of the earth. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“You have to talk to me, Anya. We're running out of time.”

“You perhaps.
I
have all the time in the world.”

“We have to take care of this. Too many things have happened.”

“Yes, and too many people have been killed. I do not wish to join their number.”

“You won't. I promise. Just give me what I want. It's no good to you. It doesn't belong to you.”

“Why not? Who
does
it belong to?”

“Everyone. No one. How do you think the Tsar got it? Legitimately, you think? The poor man in Mandalay who found it two centuries ago. Did he hold on to it for long? The Mogul who held it for a year. And then there was a Persian, and a Turk, and two brothers from India stole it, one killed the other, then another thief killed him, and a bigger thief killed that one, and then one of the biggest thieves of all took it to the Metropolitan of Moscow who pronounced it holy and declared it sacred and from there it went to St. Petersburg to be part of the great Romanov treasure. So, Anya Ivanova Zubrovskaya, who do you think it belongs to now?”

“Whoever is holding it, I suppose.”

“Exactly. Where is it?”

“You searched my studio, you searched my home. Did it look like I was holding the biggest treasure in the world?”

“It's a process of elimination. Vassili didn't have it, Viktor didn't have it. The last person who is known to have held it is you. So. Where is it?”

“I am so sorry for you, Doctor. You have been terribly misled all these years. Do you not know? It is not real. It is a big fake. Years ago I took that ugly red thing to a man who showed me, most conclusively, that it was just a piece of glass. Nice red Venetian glass, blown, cut and polished by a fine glassmaker and made to look quite legitimate. But only glass.”

“So where is the glass?”

“It is in ten thousand red pieces. I used a hammer. It is no more. It was the only way to be rid of it. If you are looking for the real ruby, I would start with Uncle Joe. That little devil Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili, known as Stalin, was quite the thief. He robbed banks before he started robbing royalty. I hear he got a hundred thousand rubles from that bank in Tbilisi. I hope he got more for the Ember. We poor gypsy smugglers got a piece of glass. It is tragic, is it not? So many lives wasted over a fake. And laughable, too. If not for so many deaths it might be the funniest joke in the world.”

“I don't believe you,” said Sergei from behind her. “You are too good a liar.”