Woman Chased by Crows (57 page)

“Wow. Are we dealing with some odd ducks on this or what?”

“He says the doctor was sent to Canada to find that big rock. She drops off their radar, winds up in my town where she's been hiding out for at least six months.”

“Hiding out and working on our dancer.”

“And getting married, too?” Stacy asked.

“Hunh?”

“She shows up in Dockerty, a small town in the middle of nowhere, ostensibly to get close to Anya and, what, she meets this guy, falls in love, gets married? Does that sound plausible?”

“Right, who
is
this guy?”

Stacy had three almonds in the palm of her hand. She held them out to her friend. “Have one. Good for you.” Adele took one, Stacy ate the second one, and then without hesitation whipped the last one across the parking lot to bounce with a distinct ping against the side of a dumpster. “That's what
I'd
like to know. Who's this Harold Ruth? The poor guy in the wrong place with the wrong gun in his hand who was treated like crap by the cops and set free because he didn't do anything.”

“So after that nobody looks at him again because he's just a poor shmuck who got some crappy treatment.” She burped and tossed her root beer cup into the trash can. “Let's get back to the station. I want to talk to Hong and Siffert.”

When Constable Maitland inquired of Mr. and Mrs. Wallace if he might look at the pictures they'd taken with their new Sony Cyber-shot that morning, they asked him, more or less politely, to get off their porch. When he explained that it was possible that they had captured an image that could help the police locate a missing woman, they relented, but not until Mr. Wallace had secured Maitland's promise to tear up the parking ticket. There was of course no guarantee that they had anything useful in their little camera, and Maitland knew that he might be stuck paying the ticket out of his own pocket, but he agreed to the bargain provided he could borrow the camera for a few minutes.

Mr. Wallace followed Maitland to his cruiser and watched him transfer the images to his cellphone, and when he gave back the camera, Mr. Wallace (rather smugly Maitland thought) tore the ticket in half and handed it back with a facetious “Have a nice day.”

Adele pulled her chair over to Stacy's desk. “Wayne Hong's unavailable. Don't know if he's unavailable to me or to the world, but I caught up to Dick Siffert at his mother-in-law's place. I think they were just sitting down to dinner. He was happy to have an excuse. Says she makes the worst pot roast in the universe.”

“Was he okay to talk about Harold?”

“Yeah, says he doesn't give a shit. Nothing's going to happen. Be back on the job Monday. They didn't do anything to the guy. I don't buy it a hundred percent, probably tuned him up a bit, but nobody's heard any talk about a civil suit. In fact nobody's heard anything from the guy since his case got tossed. Says the only reason they held on to him was because he dummied up, said he wanted a lawyer and they could go fuck themselves. That's why they were sure he was good for it.”

“They didn't look into him? Background check? Talk to the wife? Like that?”

“Nope. Scooped him, locked him up. Figured he'd give it up if he sat in a room for a while. Then your boss started making noises and they had to send him back here.”

“Too bad,” Stacy said. “They might have found out a few things.”

“Such as?”

“Such as, there's no such person. Harold Ruth, H&R Construction, the marriage, all
BS
.” Stacy, as usual, had copious notes. “He doesn't show up anywhere before last September when he rented that house. Buys a truck, has somebody paint H&R Construction on the doors, but aside from renting some equipment at the Rent-All, I can't find any record that he did any construction work anywhere. No building permits, no tax returns, nothing. The doctor arrives a few weeks after he shows up, sometime in October, rents space in the medical building, but she didn't have much of a practice, either. Their marriage doesn't show up anywhere. She wasn't listed with
OHIP
, Physicians and Surgeons, nada. Both of them totally bogus.”

“Mystery couple.”

“And no picture of him to show your tiny admirer.”

Orwell spotted them as he came out of his office. He was heading home for an early supper and a theatre date with the entire family, if reports of Diana's visit were accurate. As the two detectives across the room seemed entirely absorbed in what they were doing, he decided to leave them alone. Roy Rawluck gave him a smart salute as Orwell headed for the door.

“Anything pressing that needs my attention, Staff?”

“Everything's under control, Chief,” Roy said. “Big night tonight, is it? Her debut?” (He pronounced it
day-boo
.) “I'm a Gilbert and Sullivan man myself.
Pirates of Penzance
and all that.”

“Yes,” Orwell said. “I hear you've got quite the singing voice when the mood strikes you.”

“Back in my school days, of course.”

“Sorry I missed it. All right, I'm off.”

“Wish her
merde
for me, Chief.” He leaned closer, as if imparting a secret. “That's what they say in the theatre.”

Orwell was almost at the door when he spotted Constable Maitland climbing in a hurry. “What's up, Charles?” he asked.

“Might have a lead on the car that picked up your ballet dancer, Chief,” Maitland said. “Got to check a few things first.”

“Things you need me for?”

“I don't know for sure if I've got anything. Might take a while.”

“Okay. Crean and Moen are up there. Work with them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Keep me in the loop.”

“Yes, sir.”

Maitland was obviously in a hurry to get moving. Orwell slapped him on the back. “Off you go then.” He watched his constable take the rest of the stairs two at a time. Darn. He was tempted to linger a while longer, but he'd probably just get in the way. He reminded himself that he should set his phone to vibrate or whatever it did. Wouldn't want Marvin Gaye going off in the middle of his daughter's big scene. That would be disastrous. He clumped down the stairs, feeling somewhat left out.

“All
right
, Charlie,” said Stacy. Three heads were close together peering at the computer screen. “You got it all.” The shot of the dark blue Chevy pulling away was beautifully framed between the bright faces of the Wallaces' smiling parents, and at over 1,600 x 1,200 pixels, the resolution was more than high enough to enlarge the small portion they were interested in and get a clear image of the license plate. One of the numbers was partially obscured behind the woman's hand raised in farewell.

“What is that, a two?” Stacy asked.

“Definitely a two,” said Maitland.

“I'm with Charlie,” Adele said. “That's a two.”

Stacy asked, “You want to stay with it, or are you clocking off?”

“I'd like to track it down, if you don't mind.”

“Go get 'em, cowboy,” Adele said. “We'll be right here scratching our heads and looking stupid.”

She was sitting in the near dark, it was after sundown, her eyes had become accustomed to the gloom and she could just make out the post beside the door. There was something jutting out of the post that she wanted to get closer to. Shifting the chair was a slow process, side to side, a centimetre at a time, and how much time did she have to work with? Someone would be back before long, and perhaps not the silky-voiced doctor this time, maybe now they would try harsher persuasion. She had a high tolerance for pain, but there were different sorts of pain and she did not want to be around when they decided that they could not waste any more time.

The chair was old and the glue in the cross members was dry and cracked and whoever tied her up did not know how strong her legs were. By working her knees side to side, back and forth, she was loosening the joints and the front chair legs were splayed, on the point of pulling apart. Not just yet, she cautioned herself — if it collapses now I will be tangled in the middle of the floor far away from where I want to be. Where she wanted to be was closer to the post. In the darkness she could just make it out, a big rusty nail holding an ancient license plate, someone's first car probably.

A centimetre at a time and try not to break the chair before you get there. Now, this part will be critical: tilt back until the front legs are off the floor and your back reaches the post, now pull your legs apart, hard. The snap of splintering wood was louder than she thought it would be, but there was no stopping now. First the cross brace popped loose, and then the front legs fell out. She rocked forward, her ankles were still bound, but the chair legs were lying on the floor and she was standing. She bent her knees and slid the back of the chair up the post until it caught under the nail, then she pushed as hard as she could, thighs burning, shoulders twisting, back and forth, working her hands up the splines until, finally, it slipped out from between her arms. She was free of the chair. Her hands were still tied behind her back, but that was no trick. Lie on her back, roll onto her shoulders, arms under her buttocks and feet. Still a mess with the broken chair legs and ropes around her ankles and her fingers swollen and numb. But those were just details, just a matter of working the knots, one at a time, until her legs were completely free and her hands were in front now where she could work on the knot with the nail head, pushing and pulling. She knew her wrists were bleeding, she could feel the blood running down her forearms inside her sleeves. Not too much of that please, she was weak enough. But the knot finally gave up its last secret and she was free.