Woman Chased by Crows (7 page)

“We'll have to take the tape,” Stacy told the manager.

“That's what it's there for.”

Staff Sergeant Roy Rawluck plugged in the
VCR
, fast-forwarded until they reached 20:27.

“That's Dr. Ruth,” Orwell said. “Lorna Ruth. Good work, you two. Roy?”

“Yes, Chief?”

“Get those other Metro guys over here. We've solved one of their mysteries for them.”

“Right away, Chief.”

The Dockerty Police Department wasn't thanked and wasn't invited to participate in the Metro/
OPP
joint effort, but someone involved was kind enough to inform Roy Rawluck two hours later that an arrest had been made.

“They arrested the husband, Chief,” Roy said.

Orwell sighed. “Well, I guess that makes sense.”

Roy checked the piece of paper he was holding. “Harold Ruth. Forty-three. General contractor. When they picked him up he had a Savage lever action deer rifle in the car. Looks like he shot Delisle through the bathroom window. One shot, through the head.”

“They bringing him in now?”

“Should have been here by now. I'll check.”

“All right. Let's take good care of him.”

“Will do. Detective Moen wants to see you.”

“Oh, sure. Send her in.”

Adele Moen came in. Stuck out her hand. “Wanted to say thanks, Chief.”

“Hey, thank
you
.”

“For hooking me up with Detective Crean. Sorry she doesn't work in town. I'll be looking for a new partner.”

“I'm glad you two hit it off. Sorry it had to be on this case, though.”

“It's a bitch, but what are you gonna do?”

“You do what you did.” Orwell felt an urge to put an arm over her shoulder, but resisted the impulse. Instead he walked her through the outer office to the stairs. “Locate his weapon?” he asked.

“They found a .32 short nose Smith in the bottom of his suitcase.”

“Sounds like a backup piece.”

“It is,” she said. “He wore it in an ankle holster.”

“What was his primary?”

“A .357 Smith. He was a cowboy. Liked his hog-leg.”

“And no sign of that?”

“Nada,” she said. “The doctor says she never saw it.”

“Would he have come up here without it, do you think?”

“Possible, but I doubt it. I'll check his apartment in the city. Maybe it's there. I'll email you the particulars, in case it shows up, serial number, model number.”

“Don't like the idea of a stolen handgun floating around,” Orwell said.

“It's probably at his place.”

“You'll let me know?”

“You bet. Just wanted to say thanks. Those other guys won't bother.”

“What about Dr. Ruth? She in any trouble?”

“Maybe. She lied. Said Paul left her office that afternoon and that was the last she saw of him. I can understand her lying about it, I guess, but she could be charged with obstruction. Don't think they'll bother though, since it got wrapped up so fast.”

“I'm happy with that,” Orwell said. “She'll be punishing herself quite a bit, I'm sure.”

“Anyway, I'm out of here. Appreciate your help.”

“I'll pass it on. And I'm sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. Stupid bastard. He was a skirt chaser in the city, too. I told him his dick would get him into trouble some day.”

“You will let me know if you locate his weapon,” Orwell said.

“And vice versa,” she said. She stuck out her hand again. “It was good seeing you again, Chief. Even though . . .”

“You too, Detective. Safe drive home.”

“Thanks.” She started down the stairs.

“Oh, one other thing.” Orwell came out to the landing. “Just to satisfy my curiosity if you please, could you check into this Russian man business? The one your late partner mentioned? Maybe find out a few details for me?”

“Shouldn't be too hard.”

“I know it's none of my business, but if it has anything to do with the dance teacher, remote as that possibility seems . . .”

“I'll be looking into it.”

Orwell watched her clump down the stairs. She didn't look back.

“Chief?” Roy was at his desk, holding up his hand. “Just talked to Sergeant Turkle, headed the
OPP
unit. He says the Metro guys took the accused back to Toronto.”

“They what?”

“Turkle says two of the Metro guys scooped up Harold Ruth and drove off before
OPP
could interview him.”

“That's not good.”

Adele took her time getting back to the city. It wasn't that far away, she could have been home in an hour and a half if she'd booted it down the 401, but she took the scenic route, a two-lane blacktop running through a forest of bare trees and mud paths. Not exactly scenic in mid-March, she allowed, but perhaps it would soothe her jangled spirit to wind through the Rouge River Valley. On the far side of the narrow single-lane underpass she parked and walked into the trees a few steps until she could see the river running high with ice melt. This was a conservation area, favoured by birders and hikers, a good place to spot wild creatures if you were quiet. Like that little brown bird with the twitchy tail sticking straight up, whatever it was — she couldn't tell a robin from a cockatoo. I swear, if he was standing beside me I'd cold-cock the sonofabitch. I'd tell him, Paulie, you are
such
an asshole!
Gawd!
So
dumb
. Worse, so
corny
. Shot by a jealous husband. I mean, how trite is that? And
pointless
. And probably overdue, considering how many dicey hookups he'd indulged in over the years, and not all of them
after
his divorce from whatever-her-name-was. Jenny, hell,
she
probably felt like taking a shot at him herself, more than once. Jealous wife, jealous husband, what's the diff? Sooner or later it was bound to catch up with him.

She had just transferred from Vice to Homicide to fill the slot vacated by the retirement of Dylan O'Grady, Paul's former partner who had expressed a desire to enter politics. There was some talk that Dylan had been encouraged to put in his papers before awkward questions could be asked about evidence that may or may not have gone missing. The general opinion was that Big Smoothie O'Grady would do well in politics. Their boss, Captain Émile Rosebart, introduced them with the words, “You two are bound to have a good influence on one another. One of you is strictly by the book, the other one can't read.”

And they did get along, made a good team. They were both quick, intelligent, no private lives. Well,
he
had a private life, but nothing that compelled him to make “Honey, I'm working late” phone calls. He went through girlfriends like magazine subscriptions. Sometimes one of them would hang in there for a few months, hoping for a renewal, but sooner or later his roving eye would catch sight of someone newer and shinier and he'd shift his attention. Some girlfriends stayed enamoured even after they'd been shelved. Some of them carried a torch for years, sending him Christmas cards and birthday presents long after they'd been replaced. And some hated his guts.

In a hundred ways he was a terrible partner: he stuck her with paperwork, with interviews, left her alone on stakeout while he ran off for a brief encounter. But where it counted, where it counted to her, he was the best she could have hoped for. For one thing, he was the first partner she had who was taller than she was. She liked that. Liked not feeling like a moose all the time. He treated her as an equal, never condescended, never bullied, and yet he had a natural courtesy that let her know he was aware of her as a woman. He never made a pass at her, or suggested anything inappropriate. Well, she could hardly blame him for that, he had no shortage of women, good looking women, and she was, as her grandmother once remarked, “plain as a mud fence.” She could live with it,
had
lived with it. She knew what she looked like. But Paul was always courteous, no other word for it.

There was that one time, once when they were going somewhere and she had to put on a dress, he said, “Hey Stretch, first time I noticed: you've got a great ass.” Crude and offhand as the remark was, she carried it with her. Pitiful, isn't it? Some guy remarks on her butt, maybe the first time in ten years anyone's said anything remotely sexual to her about her body, and she treasures it.

She walked back to the car. A blue jay yelled at her. “Shut
up
!” She threw a stick. “I am in no mood to take shit from a goddamn woodpecker!”

And that other stuff, what the hell was
that
all about? Some dead Russian? Some
ballet
dancer? Damn! I should have at least talked to the woman. I don't even know what she looks like. He was probably up there to get
her
into the sack and settled for the psychiatrist because . . . why? Who cares? Younger, prettier maybe, available,
handy
. Like Dylan used to say, “Paul would fuck a snake if somebody held its ears.” Maybe he never got around to doing whatever he was in Dockerty to do. What
did
he do? Checked out the town, paid a courtesy call on the local cops, had lunch with the Chief, let them know he'd be nosing around — why bother doing that if he was just up there to get laid? Couldn't be. He was in town for
something
. He checked into a motel. Planned on spending at least part of two days in town. So? So whatever it was, he never got around to doing it. Instead he got lucky with the shrink. Paid for it.