Woman Chased By Crows Part 20

He sounded relaxed, confident, perhaps a bit playful. She wanted to kick him in the s.c.r.o.t.e. "I think we should get to know each other a little," she said. "Don't you?"

"But slowly. You know my name, but I don't know yours."

"Come around, I'll show you my birth certificate."

"Will you show me your badge, too?"

"What can I do for you, Serge?" She deliberately misp.r.o.nounced his name.

"Perhaps we can do something for each other."

"Such as?"

"Are you looking for something up there?"

"Well, you know, I kind of inherited all this stuff. It's mine now."

"I believe Mr. Delisle had something that didn't belong to him."

"Really? Paulie? Like what?"

"I believe he is also missing something that did belong to him."

Her voice hardened. "Such as?"

"You tell me. You're in his apartment. Is everything there that should be there?"

"Far as I know. Well I haven't looked everywhere yet. Paulie was big on storage. You ever been up here, Serge?"

"Let me just say that I might know where your partner's missing item wound up."

"You have it?"

"Not personally. I wouldn't want to be in possession of something that could be connected to a serious crime."

"Of course not. But you know where this something is?"

"Shall we say I might be able to find out."

"I see."

"How hard I look would be directly related to how hard you were looking for what belongs to me."

"Want to give me a hint?"

"Use your imagination. I'll be in touch." He hung up.

She shook the grinder, listened to the beans rattle, wondered for a moment if one could pulverize coffee beans with a hammer. The door buzzer sounded and she picked up her weapon and crossed the room. So soon, Serge? Love to get a look at you, you slimeball. Maybe pulverize you with a hammer. "Yes?"

"It's Stacy. Too early?"

"Not a chance. C'mon up."

She put her weapon on top of the brown envelope and took herself to the bathroom to wash the Serge off her face.

Adele looked sh.e.l.l-shocked, raw, her face scrubbed red, her hair wet in front. Stacy smiled anyway. Adele pulled her through the door. "Can you make coffee?" There was hope in her voice. "I mean, do you know how?"

"Sure. What have you got?"

"Oh Christ, everything. Except instant."

Stacy took off her leather jacket and folded it over the back of a club chair. "Wow, look at this place."

"I think he was going for the New Orleans wh.o.r.ehouse look," Adele said.

"From memory?"

"Who knows? Kitchen's over here. Need coffee. Need it bad."

It turned out you just had to push down on the grinder to get it going. Who knew?

Stacy got a pot brewing, located cups, checked the refrigerator. "We're creamless."

"Okay by me."

"Me, too," She admired the kitchen, s.h.i.+ny surfaces, pots and pans organized. "Kept a nice place," she said.

"Oh yeah. He was a fastidious f.u.c.ker. How many single guys have a s.h.i.+ny toilet bowl?"

"That would impress the girlfriends."

"I don't think he ever brought one up here. I mean it. Asked him once, said he didn't like long goodbyes. Gone like a cool breeze, that was Paulie."

They watched the coffee dripping far too slowly into the carafe. Stacy broke the silence. "His piece wasn't here?"

"I wish. Nope. Found some other stuff, though."

"Such as?"

Adele waved off the question, took her time, long enough to get her first sip. "Bless you," she said. "Follow me. Sit down over there." She emptied keys and spare change out of the bra.s.s bowl and put it on the coffee table in front of Stacy. "You said jewels, right?"

"Yes."

"Big jewels." She s.h.i.+fted her weapon, picked up the envelope, shook it gently. "Check these out." She tilted the envelope, the bra.s.s bowl rang like a tiny gong.

"Oh yeah." Stacy looked at them for a long breath. "Big jewels."

"Maybe like Russian crown jewels?"

"Might as well be." She poked them with a finger. "And they're real?"

Adele sat across from her. "People going to a lot of trouble if they aren't." The stones glittered, held their eyes like crystal b.a.l.l.s. "Do you have any f.u.c.king idea what's going on?" Adele asked.

"I know some of it."

"Yeah? Well I know squat. Except I know my dead partner stepped on his d.i.c.k big time. He's involved in the theft of at least two of those diamonds - which two exactly I couldn't tell you since he got them all mixed up - but I have his recorded admission that he lifted two of them at a crime scene. Strike one. Then he went back to the crime scene and found the other ones. You could say he stole them too, but I'll withhold that charge pending further evidence." Adele began picking up the gems, one by one, sapphire first, then the diamonds, counting quietly. Stacy counted with her. "One blue, four white, right?"

"Right."

Adele sealed the envelope. "Sign it?"

"Pleasure." Stacy signed the flap. "So what are you going to do?"

"Turn them in."

"Today?"

"Yeah, well, it's f.u.c.king Sat.u.r.day." She folded the envelope into a tight square and stuck it in her back pocket. "Definitely don't owe Paulie my freakin' badge!" She went to the balcony window, leaned her head against the gla.s.s, banged it three times.

Stacy waited, watching Adele. "But you don't like thinking that the guy you partnered with for . . ."

"That b.a.s.t.a.r.d is not getting me jammed up in this, whatever it is."

". . . how many years?"

"Five, almost six, who cares?" She banged her head against the gla.s.s again, gently this time.

"He had your back."

"Yeah. Mostly I had his." She picked up her weapon, checked it, holstered it and strapped it on. "Plus, I just had a conversation with a guy named Sergei who insinuated that he either has Paulie's gun, or knows where to find it." She gave Stacy a grim smile. "Strike two."

"Maybe just a foul ball," said Stacy.

"Still a strike." She emptied her cup. "Good coffee."

They had breakfast at the New York Cafe, a few blocks south of Paul's apartment. Adele had steak and eggs. It was her first meal in twenty-four hours and she wolfed it. To keep her company, Stacy had an English m.u.f.fin with honey and a small orange juice. The power smoothie she'd sucked back before leaving Dockerty contained enough protein and nutrients to keep her going most of the day. Adele chewed and scowled at the Sat.u.r.day traffic moving up and down Broadview; streetcars and taxis, a double-decker tour bus, dog-walkers, joggers and double-wide baby buggies. Stacy had her notebook open. She did most of the talking.

"Sergei Siziva. He was one of five people from a ballet company who defected back in '81. Of the five, three are dead. Ludmilla Dolgus.h.i.+n, murdered in Montreal twenty-five years ago, Va.s.sili Abramov, eight years ago. And Viktor Nimchuk, barely a week ago." She looked up. "The two survivors are the ballet teacher, Anya Zubrovskaya, a.k.a. Anya Daniel, and Mr. Sergei Siziva. Ms. Daniel is convinced that Mr. Siziva, or someone connected to him, or hired by him, is out to kill her."

"Because?"

"The way she tells it, Sergei's been tracking down the jewels to return them to their rightful owners."

"The Russians? So? This guy Sergei's official? Didn't sound official. Sounded bent."

"Yeah. That sort of thing usually goes government to government. Happens all the time - works of art being identified, recovered, returned to their rightful owners. Might take a hundred years, but there are procedures."

Adele pointed at Stacy's uneaten m.u.f.fin. "Gonna eat that?"

"Help yourself."

Adele had a bite, wiped honey from her bottom lip. "So, if he doesn't have some piece of paper giving him diplomatic immunity or some such bulls.h.i.+t, which I doubt, then my friend Sergei's just another s.h.i.+theel looking for buried treasure." She had another bite. "We got a picture?"

"Of Sergei? Nope. Description from the Daniel woman - this is at least ten years old - not too tall, black hair, 'nasty eyebrows.'"

"Yeah, he sounds like the kind of p.r.i.c.k who'd have nasty eyebrows." Adele finished the m.u.f.fin. She'd run out of things to eat. She still looked hungry. "I don't think you want to get stuck in this," she said.

Stacy laughed. "Are you kidding? I mean, come on! Russian royal treasure. A ruby as big as a hockey puck. My boss figures I've got until maybe noon Monday before visitors start showing up: your guys, Peel Division, maybe Montreal, maybe even the Russian amba.s.sador. After that I'll be on the sidelines. You, too." She put money on the table. "My treat. I've got an expense account."

"Forty-eight hours?"

"Give or take."

Both entrances to Grova's p.a.w.n were taped and guarded. Patrol cars were parked at angles in front of the building, lights flas.h.i.+ng. Traffic was crawling, uniformed officers in the street, drivers inconvenienced and unhappy about it.

"Well now," said Adele, "what have we here?"

"Something serious."

"Oh yeah, definitely."

"Can you get us in?"

"Kidding me? I own this town."

Adele parked in a no parking zone with her red four-ways flas.h.i.+ng. Her stride across Danforth with arms spread could have parted the Red Sea. Stacy had to jog to catch up with her. Adele flashed her badge at the uniform at the entrance. "Goin' on?"

"The owner. His son found him. Body's still up there."

"Who caught it?"

"Heatley and his partner."

"Lacsamana," Stacy threw in.

The uniform looked at Stacy.

"She's with me," Adele said. "Dockerty PD. We're working a homicide that's likely connected. Door unlocked?"

The uniform opened the door next to the shop entrance. A staircase went straight up. Stacy looked back to catch the uniform watching her climb. Well, who could blame him? He blinked and closed the door.

Two more uniforms were on the landing outside the apartment door. Adele showed her badge and they s.h.i.+fted sideways. The main room was crowded; medical examiner's crew, crime scene techies. The body of an old man was being bagged. Stacy saw blood on a handlebar moustache before the zipper hid his face. In the kitchen area, two detectives were talking to a man with stringy hair and a dirty s.h.i.+rt. The man was sitting at a cluttered kitchen table. He looked numb, or badly hung over. One of the detectives spotted them, said something to his partner and headed in their direction.

"Yo, Moen. Thought you were in the Bahamas."

"Somewhere down there."

"Missed the wake."