Middlemen, page 11
When it was on the board, Ryan looked at it again before returning to his computer. He began enlarging the image until it took up the entire screen, until it looked like a late-night television channel after all the programs had ended — a wall of grey snow.
MacNeice left Ryan alone to figure it out and went to study the photos from Lincoln. The charred victim, a shoe, fabric from the pant leg, and a small piece of paper that might be a Wi-Fi password.
“Did you get anywhere with that slip of paper?”
Ryan answered over his shoulder. “It’s a bit like a needle looking for its haystack, sir. I might get lucky, but my odds are worse than winning the lottery if I never buy a ticket.”
“So that’s a no?” MacNeice was still focused on the slip of paper. “Let’s not give up on it just yet. Tell me the likely scenarios where a man might be handed something like that.”
“Restaurants and bars give them out . . .” Ryan offered. “Hotels, I guess . . .”
“Used to be a book of matches from a nightclub in a dead guy’s pocket . . . but maybe that was just the movies . . .” Vertesi said from his desk. “Cool names like the Black Cat Club, a place with a huge galooch guarding the door . . .”
MacNeice was going to let it slide, but asked, “Galooch . . . is that Italian?”
“You’d think. I know I did. Growing up, the guys I knew used it to describe a big, clumsy guy. I asked my dad; he said it wasn’t Italian.” Vertesi chuckled. “Then I asked my uncle . . . he punched me hard on the shoulder and said, ‘Hey, wait, yeah. It means a guy like you, Mikey.’”
“Gaa-looch . . . I like the sound. Mind if I use it?” MacNeice smiled.
“I’ve got something, sir.” Ryan moved his chair aside; with a stylus, he drew a large circle around an area of TV snow. MacNeice and Vertesi couldn’t see anything.
“A half-pie curve at the bottom. The straight part runs from eleven to five o’clock.”
Ryan sketched on a notepad what he alone could see. “See how everything is snow — consistent snow — but here, you’ve got random dark bits that run down? They’re not random. I’ll try and enhance it again . . . looks like a dent to me.”
“I want to see what you see, Ryan,” MacNeice said.
“I’ll do my best, sir . . .”
“Before you do, print it out for the whiteboard.” MacNeice studied the security camera capture and time code. “The van arrived shortly after Moore’s last logbook entry.”
“That’s the sound of progress . . .” Aziz said, from the corridor. When she appeared, she looked at the whiteboard, then back to MacNeice. “What is it?”
“The van . . . from Power Line,” MacNeice said.
“Right . . .”
Vertesi added, “Ryan sees a dent; he’s trying to adjust the image so we can see it too.”
“Oh yes . . . a faint happy-face thing down at the bottom there?”
Ryan swung around on his chair, beaming. “You can see it?”
“I think so . . . a half-circle?”
“Can you put your finger on it?” MacNeice asked.
“Here.” With her finger on the printout, she moved so Ryan could see.
“Impressive, but it’s still lost on me.” MacNeice returned to his desk. “Anything from Missing Persons?”
Aziz draped her jacket over her chair. “Nothing yet. They’ll scan missing persons records and send any that fit our profile.”
“Can I offer you a coffee?”
“Yes, please . . . they use the coffee from Missing Persons to dissolve concrete.” She leaned down to rub Jack’s ear. “I’ll come. Macchiato, if you please.” Jack fell in line behind them.
MacNeice’s hands were gliding through the ritual of making espresso when Aziz asked, “What’s next?”
“Crematoriums, and industrial or farm incinerators. How many, and how close are they to the city?”
“Oh my, we’re descending to nasty.” She smiled as he added a tiny foamed-milk cap to her cup.
As they walked back to their desks, MacNeice said, “Jack’s gone from being an orphan to having an uncle — Dr. Moore’s brother, from BC.”
She paused at the stairwell. “Sorry . . . I imagine that’s a very mixed blessing for you.”
“Yes . . .”
“I’ve seen how he watches you, Mac. You filled a hole in his life too — I’m sorry, that sounded like Jack was filling one in yours.”
“Well, it’s true; he has.”
Sensing the conversation was heading in a direction that wouldn’t do either of them any good, Aziz nodded sharply. “Right then, I’ll start researching . . .” She sipped her coffee. “Again, who attempts to bury someone in the woods if they’ve got access to a crematorium or an incinerator?”
“Mary first planted the idea of an unscrupulous undertaker. As to why that wasn’t their first choice . . . I don’t know.”
Back in the cubicles, MacNeice noticed that Ryan had moved on to studying the paper slip in the evidence bag. He shrugged in defeat, handing it to Aziz. “Probably a Wi-Fi code, but for what? Basically, this kind of Wi-Fi is an added incentive: free internet for a limited time and range. If it was a restaurant, they’d put it on the menu or something, and hotels usually print it on cards or key covers.”
“What about an airline lounge, for business travellers?” MacNeice asked.
“Absolutely — it’s used for convenience; the range is limited to the lounge — and it’s temporary because whoever is using it is leaving on a plane.”
[29]
“Let’s just say they come from near and not very far away.” The client sat quietly in his big chair awaiting the second act of Clarence’s business strategy. The desk clock switched over to 8:05 a.m.
Clarence told him he was still considering the most efficient and safest process of killing. “Similar to the work I do as your accountant, it comes down to cost savings, risk mitigation, and enhanced security. Therefore, I now believe that every disposal must also be a disappearance, not merely a body waiting to be discovered. That’s the ‘what’ of it. If you agree, I’ll work on the ‘how.’”
No one had ever accused Clarence of having a quiet mind, but at that precise moment, it was Zen-level quiet. He studied the client’s face and felt no pressure to fill the void with something pithy. He believed his silence projected strength, prudence, and intelligence. And, apart from his right index finger tapping lightly on the armrest, he was at ease.
The client cleared his throat before commenting on the business proposal. “With regard to the disappearance of our subjects, I’ve no issue with it in principle, unless the customer wants a body to be discovered. We don’t need to go into the reasons, though it might be obvious.”
“I see . . .”
Glancing at the empty wall, he continued, “The customer delivers the subject in a nondescript van that would go unnoticed in any city. The drivers take the subject to Riviera — its rear parking lot is hidden from view — and leave as quickly as they arrived.”
“Yes, and we transfer the subject to a Riviera van.” Clarence understood the process.
“Correct. But, as you know, my brother didn’t appreciate the way that was handled last time. He wants less exposure, particularly with regards to his stripping bath and incinerator. I’m sure you understand . . .”
“I do.”
“The next subject — let’s call him Lincoln — went smoothly. He arrived drugged and bound and your men put him in the suv — albeit from my brother’s livery, when he had been told it would only be used for scouting. And, were it not for that lightning strike, the body might still be under those trees.”
Clarence raised his hand; he didn’t want a conversation about innovation devolving into an accounting of his failures. “Sir, that makes a strong case for disappearance . . .”
“It does . . . and your next contract might sound prescient in that regard, as it takes place today — the subject is local and must disappear. I’ll be in touch within the next hour.” Seeing Clarence’s nod, he smiled. “You surprise me, Blow; you’re somewhat of an enigma, but this is a happy surprise.”
Leaving the office, Clarence was once again struck by how fast he’d changed his fortunes. The terror — that urgent need to flee — had evaporated. The only thing that mattered now was for it all to go without incident, apart from the actual killing. There could be no pistachios.
[30]
The sun slid through an opening in the sheers and caught Dr. Sumner’s cheek as she looked up from her notes. “I took a call from your commanding officer this morning,” she said. “DC Wallace mentioned that you had returned from your suspension and arrived at his office with a dog.”
“His name is Jack.” MacNeice smiled, and immediately wished he hadn’t.
“Would you care to explain, Detective?”
“It was a spontaneous decision, one I felt was right given the circumstances.”
She referred to her notes again. “Because the dog was witness to a homicide?”
“Correct. And I’m Jack’s surrogate human until a family member arrives.”
“Should they decide they don’t want him, do have you a backup plan?”
“I’ll adopt him. To be honest, I haven’t thought that far ahead.” MacNeice stopped short of mentioning the half-baked lineup strategy he’d been mulling over.
Sumner registered his hesitation. “There’s something else about that?”
He watched the pen in her hand for any sudden movement toward the page. “Well . . . Jack witnessed a double homicide. I’m convinced that if he was put in a room with the suspects, he’d recognize them and react.”
“Are you suggesting that his reaction could be submitted as evidence?”
MacNeice’s face brightened. “It would certainly be dramatic and very telling. Even if it wasn’t possible to enter the dog’s reaction in court, it would reveal something to me, to our investigators.”
“Have you ever had a dog, Detective?”
“Funny, the vet asked the same question. Not exactly, no. My parents did.”
“Tell me more.”
He wondered at the relevance, but didn’t ask. “I was ten when my father brought a puppy home, but it wasn’t till I was twelve or thirteen that I thought of Silver as my best friend. My mother would say we were inseparable; I suppose that was true.”
Sumner put down her pen, “Given how close you were, why haven’t you had your own as an adult?”
“I don’t know . . . I guess life and work took over.”
“And a human relationship . . .”
“Of course.”
“Does your relationship with Kate continue as before?”
MacNeice’s eyes wandered to the window; the sun had slipped behind a cloud and the low hum of air conditioning had replaced birdsong. “I talk to her . . . though not during my month in Paris. Interesting, isn’t it?”
“Is it? As you weren’t investigating a homicide, perhaps you didn’t need her there. And being in the city where you met, she was all around you in the sights and sounds.”
That had changed when he’d returned to Dundurn. No, that wasn’t true. It had changed when he fell asleep on the return flight from Paris. He was overtaken by an idyllic dream of Kate — at least that’s how it began. He felt relieved to have the opportunity to tell Sumner about it and fixed his eyes on her hands.
“There’s a clearing in the forest across the road from the cottage, with a limestone flat, like a table, that heats up with the sun. We’d often have picnics there. It was as if we were far away from everything, surrounded by the forest, birds in the trees; on the ground, the occasional rabbit or fox. I don’t know why, but on that rock, we always spoke in hushed tones. Only fifty yards from our door, but it was sacred in some way . . . In my dream, Kate was on her stomach, lying on a sunflower-yellow beach blanket, reading a book. I approached quietly, careful not to break a twig or make a sound, not to frighten or surprise her — she hated surprises — but just to observe her more closely. Buttressed by her elbows, shoulder blades together, her muscles were emphasized.”
He’d study those small, tight muscles whenever he could. If she practised in a tank top, they’d dance across her upper back. Sax players, drummers, and pianists develop muscles, but a violinist’s upper body is a watchmaker’s masterpiece, subtle, refined, and captivating, at least to him.
“She’d tied up her hair with a pencil through the knot. She’d often do that when making notes about the music she was practising.” He lifted his eyes to see if Sumner was still listening. She waved her hand for him to continue. “She was wearing a sky-blue bikini. The dream was so vivid I could hear chickadees chatting above her. I noticed a young fox lying off to the side of the clearing, its head resting on its front paws, watching her as if she was the most enchanting thing it had ever seen.” MacNeice smiled at Sumner, embarrassed and no longer sure that telling her about the dream made any sense. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I realize I’m rambling with no apparent end in sight.”
“But there was an end to the dream. Tell me about that.”
He nodded. “It ended with a wake-up call: We’re going through an area of turbulence. Return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts.”
That was a lie. The end had been quite different.
In the dream, Kate had heard him coming and whispered, “You can’t creep up on a fiddler’s ears.” He crouched beside her and laid his cool hands on her warm back. She let her head fall. He unsnapped the bikini top to apply sunblock.
When he’d finished putting the lotion on her shoulders, he turned his attention to the muscles supporting her lower back. As he applied the cream, he noticed the birds weren’t singing. He looked for them in the canopy; they were huddled quietly on a branch, as if holding their breath. The fox had slipped away. Looking down at Kate’s back, he recoiled in horror. The flesh was pale grey, not hot pink from the sun. She was emaciated. Her spine and ribs — just a bone cage. The intricate Swiss-watch muscles had atrophied. Her almost transparent flesh moved like crêpe under his touch; her breathing was intermittent and reduced to a reedy wheeze.
Wide-eyed, frightened, and seized by panic, MacNeice bolted upright, startling his seatmate. The dream was over, and he was strapped into 12A, heading back to reality.
Sumner’s eyes narrowed. “Where were you just now, Detective?”
“Sorry, Doctor. I don’t know. A bit of jet lag; it creeps up on you.”
Sumner wrote something on her pad: somnum exterreri. Reading it upside down, he couldn’t make sense of it, knew he wasn’t supposed to. She peered over her glasses at him. “Well, let’s leave that for the time being . . .”
The session lasted another ten minutes. MacNeice was dodging bullets and she knew it. He registered the change in Sumner’s face, a slight tightening around the eyes. When the session ended, she stood and glanced at her calendar. “I want to see you again, Detective. This week if possible. Bring Jack; I’d like to meet him.”
“Thank you. If I still have him, I will.”
Sumner leaned against the windowsill and crossed her arms. “You know, MacNeice, our work is more productive when you don’t edit your thoughts.” She wasn’t waiting for a response.
In the car, he googled the translation of somnum exterreri. She’d seen through the dream for what it had become — a nightmare.
That was a mistake, Mac.
“I know. I wasn’t ready to talk about it.”
Clearly. And crêpe? Was my skin that bad? No, it couldn’t have been.
“The cream wasn’t for the sun, Kate. It was for bedsores. Your skin was always soft, but in that dream . . .”
Don’t say any more; I prefer the beginning, in my bikini. And, though I probably never said it at the time, I always loved your hands on me. In fact, I loved the way you saw me . . . Do you recall what I was reading that day?
“I didn’t notice the book . . . my attention was elsewhere.”
Cheeky boy; it was Federico Garcia Lorca. Just at the moment you unfastened my top, I read, “To see you naked is to remember the Earth.”
“God, I wish I’d whispered that in your ear.”
You gave me so much more than a line from a poem, Mac.
[31]
“Boss, you’ve got Evan Moore’s brother and his wife in the interview room,” Vertesi’s voice rose at the end, as if it was a concern.
Aziz added, “Jack’s with them, Mac.”
“Ah, I see.” He nodded and draped his jacket over his chair. “Anything else?”
“A potential break from Missing Persons,” Aziz said. “I’ll pull it together. Do you want a coffee?”
“Maybe later.”
He approached the door slowly so he could briefly observe the couple through the narrow window. Jack was enjoying an ear rub from Bill Moore — the grin on the man’s face made MacNeice smile. Seeing they had mugs of tea or coffee, MacNeice decided to make a coffee — fuel for saying goodbye to Jack.
As it streamed into his cup, he had what he’d later tell Sumner was a breakthrough. By sublimating the need for a human relationship into the companionship of a dog, he was avoiding the dilemma between a dead Kate and a very alive Fiza Aziz. He realized how much life he was missing by choosing pain over joy. Comforted by that insight, he took the cup and walked away from his thoughts.
When he opened the door, Jack looked up and wagged his tail but stayed beside Moore, perhaps hoping the ear rub would continue. Bill Moore was bald, and what remained of his hair barely made it above his ears. The dome was pink from living under a hat, but the rest of his face was tanned. MacNeice had read in the file that he and Evan had been born two years apart; their narrow faces were both worn by nature, and Bill shared his brother’s sparkling eyes. As he and his wife stood to greet MacNeice, their faces returned to reflecting the gravity of the moment.
