Woman Chased By Crows Part 27

"So you do not stop looking."

Delisle's locker was crammed. Adele banged her head softly on the wall. "Oh Jesus f.u.c.king Christ."

Danielle marched inside, taking over, checking boxes, s.h.i.+fting piles. "I bet he hated it when you talked like that."

"f.u.c.king right he did. He was always giving me s.h.i.+t about my language."

"I never heard him swear. Not once."

"A real choirboy."

"Not really. He screwed around a lot, didn't he? That's what my mom says. A skirt-chaser."

"Women liked him." There wasn't room for two people to rummage. Adele stood in the doorway and watched Danielle being busy.

"Did you?"

"h.e.l.l, yeah, sure. We were partners for six years."

"I mean like that."

"What? No. He never made a pa.s.s at me. I wasn't his type. We worked together."

"Would you have?"

"The subject never came up."

"Did you want it to?"

"This is a f.u.c.king weird conversation to be having with Paulie's daughter."

"I'm just asking because you're crying."

"It's the dust and s.h.i.+t."

"It's not that dusty."

"Oh man, he was my partner, six years, he saved my a.s.s more than once, and I saved his, too. We were tight, the way partners get tight. Hard to explain."

"No. I get it."

"So you wind up . . . loving the person. In a way."

"You're still crying."

"I miss him."

"I'm glad. I'm glad he had somebody who cares that much."

"Okay, enough emotion. We've got work to do." She took a deep breath. "How do we do it?"

"Three piles, right, no, say four piles. Stuff to sell, stuff to give away - Sally Ann, Goodwill, whatever - stuff to keep, and stuff to toss. Call up Clear My Junk or one of those places, have them come around and haul it away. Okay?"

"Bless you."

"Here's more records. Like five more boxes. You're keeping them, right?"

"Good Christ Paulie, what did you do, corner the LP market? I don't know if I've got room. I'll take them home, sort through them. If I wind up selling any, I'll put it into your school fund."

"Don't worry so much about that. Another box of pictures. Hey. Here's one of you. Wearing your uniform."

"I know, I look like a geek."

"There are models out there who'd kill for your frame."

"Yeah right."

"I'm serious. What are you, six feet?"

"Six one."

"Right, square shoulders, long neck. I'm telling you."

"Face like a horse."

"No way. But you don't wear makeup and you cut your own hair. That doesn't help. You could look way better."

"Maybe next lifetime."

"See, here's one of my mom all dolled up. She's not perfect, but she knows how to pull it together." She handed the picture to Adele. "It's about making the most of what you've got."

The photograph had marks that suggested it had been framed at one time. Paul and Dylan O'Grady and their wives were at a party. There was a Christmas tree in the background and shadows and shapes of other partygoers. Many were in uniform. She might have even been one of them, somewhere in the crowd, on her own. Filling the frame were Paul and Dylan, both wearing tuxes, and their wives, wearing gowns. Jenny Delisle's dress was low cut and the photographer had caught Dylan O'Grady's eyes looking at her cleavage. Paul was oblivious, his attention elsewhere, but Dylan's wife knew where her husband's eyes were straying.

"Dylan O'Grady," said Adele. "You remember what his wife's name is?"

"I don't like him," Danielle said. "Mom said he made a pa.s.s at her after she and Dad split up."

"Like an African name or something. Keyasha?"

"No." Danielle stood beside her, having another look. "Keasha."

"Keasha, right. Now she looks like a model."

"She looks p.i.s.sed. He's staring at my mom's b.o.o.bs and she's staring at the back of his head. She totally wants to brain him."

"Men and women," Adele said. "It never stops."

"You a lesbian?"

"Nope. Not that either."

"I was thinking about being a lesbian."

"Don't know that it's any easier for them."

"Except you wouldn't have to deal with men."

"There is that." She looked at the photograph. "Holy f.u.c.k," she said. "Will you look at the size of the rock on that woman's finger."

Anya sat at a picnic table on the far side of the parking lot, wrapped in her brown coat, facing out, watching the traffic roll up and down the highway. Stacy finished ga.s.sing up, then pulled away from the pumps. She parked close by, but didn't get out of the car. Anya still had half a cigarette. She wasn't going to throw it away. At these prices? She turned her shoulder and resumed counting cars. After a while Stacy got out and leaned against the driver's side door. Anya knew she was there and spoke without turning. "It really is too bad about Louie. He was a loathsome creature, but still, it is too bad."

"Why did you go there?"

"I do not take much joy from life, Detective. It is the way I am. A small measure of pride I have, small pieces, pride in what I was, long ago, but not much joy. Small pleasures. I live on small pleasures." She lit a second smoke from the ember of the first. "I wanted to bring the thing to a head and end it. End it and have some peace. So I could enjoy my small pleasures."

"Did it work?"

She shook her head. "Not yet." She swung around to face Stacy, lifting her legs neatly over the bench, knees together, toes pointed, stretching them out in front of her, placing them gently side by side on the dirt. "Sergei Siziva is a nasty little man, but too fastidious to kill anyone with his own hands. And his big dog is too clumsy not to leave enough evidence behind to hang himself. Those two didn't kill Louie. You know that. And neither did I. I think it would be good if you kept looking"

"What happened to the big ruby?"

"Ha! That thing! I hope Louie swallowed it. I hope they find it when they cut him open." She b.u.t.ted the second smoke and stood up, brus.h.i.+ng ashes off the front of her coat. She faced Stacy, straight and proud. "That would be fitting."

They had made progress. It was difficult to see much change but progress had been made. She was sure of it. Clothes had been sorted and boxed, Danielle was headed home with a full suitcase holding two of her father's leather jackets, an Ironhead watch cap, his gold Bulova and a baseball glove signed "Paul Molitor." A tentative date for the following Sat.u.r.day was agreed to. Danielle was sure they could finish the job next weekend. Adele didn't think it was possible given the stacks of boxes now crowding Paul Delisle's living room. Five more boxes labelled "Records" were lined up by the bookcases where the other thousand-plus recordings stood upright in their proper paper sleeves, along with the thick ledger holding a complete inventory of the "Blues, Jazz and Roots Music Collection of Paul Alfred Delisle."

Alfred? No wonder you never mentioned your middle name.

The collection was organized alphabetically, cross-referenced by artist, label, recording date, sidemen . . .

. . . and on and f.u.c.king on. Jesus Paulie, if I'd known you were this meticulous, you could've handled all the paperwork. Saved me hours of c.r.a.pola. How'd you manage to convince me you couldn't handle forms? What a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Why lift a finger when you can charm your way out of it?

Okay, so I've got the records. I'm taking the bookcases too, I'm not having these things lying around my place. Plus those boxes are looking a little mouldy on the bottoms. That's not like you, Paulie. What if Big Bill Broonzy's face is getting slimy?

Adele tore open the first box and carefully lifted the alb.u.ms to the floor. Most of them were RCA Victor cla.s.sical collections in heavy bound covers, like picture books. Complete operas, Beethoven's nine symphonies . . .

Oh great. Just what I need. These I'll be selling. Nothing against the cla.s.sics, Paulie, but I've got a cla.s.sics channel on my cable package pumps out this s.h.i.+t 24/7. Very soothing when I can't sleep.

And another box full of geniuses, and another one, and . . . a box filled with records. The side split and the contents spilled out. Records. Not recordings: file folders, notebooks, case files, Paul's entire career as a cop.

Adele lowered herself to the floor. Oh f.u.c.k, Paulie. Now what?

July 24, Responded to a call from my partner, Detective Dylan O'Grady at the scene of a homicide near the Beaches boardwalk. When I arrived Det. O'Grady was present, searching the area with four uniformed officers from 52 Division. Victim was a white male, approximately 50 years old, wearing work clothes. Initial examination revealed what appeared to be two bullet holes an inch apart in the victim's back. Wallet and identification were missing. Medical Examiner rolled the victim. Both exit wounds visible, slugs not recovered. No bra.s.s found at the scene.

August 19, Detective Dylan O'Grady informed me that the July 24 victim has been identified as V. A. Abramov, age 54, a Russian emigre, self-employed. A search of Abramov's residence, suite 305, Hollis Apartment Hotel, was unproductive. Apartment was empty, contained few personal effects and produced no useful leads. No suspects, no evidence.

September 11, Detective O'Grady received a phone tip that Abramov was carrying a large amount of cash from a housepainting job. Canva.s.sed the Beaches area, but couldn't find his employer. Robbery is the likely motive. Possible random a.s.sailant. Case to remain open.

But you didn't you leave it there, did you, Paulie? You poked around a bit more. Went back and found some other stuff, right. Why isn't that in here? Getting suspicious about Dylan? About how he got to the scene way before you, got the identification, found the residence, heard about a "large amount of cash"? Who'd he hear that from, Paulie? Or f.u.c.king 'whom' if you want to be your usual pain-in-the-a.s.s self, whom are we talking about? Who's giving all this good information to Dylan? Why not to you? What's gnawing on your cop mind, pal? You worried you're walking around with diamonds you took off the dead man? Is that it? Or something else? Were you building a case against your partner?

Oh this makes so much sense, haven't been in Union Station in months. Even if he's not there it'll get me out of the house for an hour, away from mouldy cardboard boxes and piles of paper I am not going to read if I can f.u.c.king help it. And who said the man was even going to be there? What are the chances? It's not even your case anymore. It never was your case, or at least it shouldn't have become your case. The minute you found the diamonds in Paulie's apartment you should have washed your hands of the whole frickin' business.

That was Pete Lacsamana's reaction a half hour back. "Del, dammit, it's Sunday, I'm watching basketball. b.u.g.g.e.r off, get off the phone, you're tying up my phone."

"You finished with Paul's place?" It was the only excuse for calling him at home she'd been able to come up with. "I needed to get back in there. To take care of his stuff. You know, for his daughter." The longer she talked the weaker it sounded.

"It's all yours. We never got in there. We've been pulled off that end of it. Whatever your s.h.i.+thead partner was up to, that's a whole 'nother bag of c.r.a.pola. It's all gone Internal. Pretty soon they'll be sucking your brains out your nose, too. Smartest move for you is get your a.s.s back wherever the f.u.c.k you got your sunburn and lie low, get drunk, get laid and stay out of it."

"Right, sure, that's cool." She hated begging. She tried to keep it conversational. "So, come on, cop to cop, how's the Grova thing going?"

"It's going, it's going. h.e.l.l, we're just getting started. Not like it's the only case we're working. Best candidates were the two Russian dudes. We like 'em, can't connect 'em."

"You looking at anybody else?"

"Oh yeah, got a list of at least twenty-five dips.h.i.+ts who wanted to break this Grova dude's face. So far they all have alibis."

"Including his kid."

"That one can barely tie his own shoes, but his alibi is solid. He was pa.s.sed out at his girlfriend's place. She wasn't a hundred percent pleased about it."

"So nothing."

"Well, he croaked at least an hour after somebody beat the s.h.i.+t out of him, so even if we track the perp down, they likely walk on murder one."

And this would be the tricky part. "You finished with the body?"

"Oh yeah, his kid didn't waste any time. Straight to the furnace. Didn't even want the ashes. His brother had to come in from Montreal to collect them."

"His brother? This is Martin Grova?"

"That's the guy. Eighty-two years old. Taking the ashes back to Montreal this afternoon. The kid couldn't care less."

"He flying back?"

"Took the train."

She would have pushed for more details, but that was just about all the slack Pete was going to give her. That was how she came to be wandering through Union Station on Sunday afternoon, looking for a man she probably wouldn't recognize, who probably wasn't there, anyway. What the h.e.l.l, take a shot, right? If the brother came in from Montreal that morning he probably took the express. Okay, not "probably" but "likely." It would have been the best way. And if that's what he did, and if he had a round trip ticket, then he'd be catching the express home. Maybe. That train left at 5 p.m. It was 3:47. That gave her, h.e.l.l, a whole hour to track down Louie Grova's brother.

Sunday shoppers were streaming in from the subway laden with booty, racing for the GO trains, making the lower concourse a stampede. He wouldn't be down here, anyway: Via Rail loaded upstairs.

For all its size, the main concourse bore the unmistakable stamp of Toronto's ungenerous nature. The limestone columns were thick, perpendicular, half Greek, partly Roman, not quite certain of anything except their structural integrity. It wasn't pretty, but it wouldn't fall down. That was Toronto.

The man sitting in the corner of the cafeteria was the right age. He had on a black suit and a black wool topcoat with velvet lapels. He wore a yarmulke. On the tray in front of him was a small metal teapot with a teabag string hanging down the side. A rectangular package sat on the seat beside him. It was about the right size for a container of ashes.

"Mr. Grova?"

The old man blinked before he looked up as if she had awakened him from a sad dream. "Yes? Who? Do I know you?"

"No. My name is Adele Moen, I'm a detective." He rubbed his eyes, replaced his thick gla.s.ses and then appraised her badge as if it was collateral for a loan. "I'm looking into the circ.u.mstances surrounding your brother's death," she said.