Middlemen, page 3
Three hours later they were sitting in the same chairs, having coffee. There was no sign of what had happened, owing in part to the office’s metal and plastic finishes. The rags had already been incinerated, and short of a full-on forensic scan, the place was just as it appeared: an industrial park auto-body office with outstanding soundproofing.
“Well, then, let’s call it a night.” Clarence pushed his chair away from the table and stood. “I’ll tell the boss we need to replace the sample books, that we had a leak and I tossed them in the incinerator. He’ll understand.” He patted John hard on the back. “Put this behind you. Peter was a bad hire; that’s on me. And don’t worry about pissing yourself, either. That was the least of what needed cleaning up.”
“Thanks.” Johnny’s face flushed with embarrassment. “How’d you know he had that piece under the table? Was it him drinking the wine with his left hand, or the sweat?”
“No, no, I’m not that clever.” That was insincere; Clarence was absolutely that clever. “The room’s wired. I was listening from the wine cellar. The owner uses it when people come in with their expensive cars. They arrive with wives or brothers or lawyers or accountants; restoration work can easily run into six figures. So when he leaves to get the wine to seal the deal, he knows their negotiating strategy before he returns.”
Johnny couldn’t recall if he’d said anything to Pete that he needed to worry about, but just in case he had, he changed the subject. As he set the glasses on the counter, he asked, “So, are you married, Clarence?”
“I was. Tragically, though . . . she died.” He raised a gloved hand to add a correction: “Though she died . . . tragically.” Clarence pursed his mouth in satisfaction.
Johnny was pretty sure there was a difference, he just couldn’t imagine what it was. “Cancer?”
“No, no . . . a gas explosion.” Clarence opened the door and followed Johnny out of the office. Walking past the soda machine, he stopped and took hold of Johnny’s arm. He yelled something and pointed toward the tank. John leaned in to hear him.
“I forgot. We have to put another forty pounds of soda in the bath.” Clarence pointed to the ladder hooked to a horizontal rail at the top of the tank. “Drums are over there — grab one and I’ll get the remote for the tank.”
Clarence shut down the agitator, opened the tank’s cover, and waited for Johnny. Though the exhaust fans continued to howl, communicating was a little easier with the agitator quiet. Johnny discarded the lid and carried the plastic container to the foot of the ladder.
“Be careful,” Clarence hollered. “I’ll hold the ladder, just get it to the top and pour it in from the last rung.” Clarence laid the remote on the concrete floor and waited for John to start climbing. Holding the sides of the ladder, he could feel the man’s fear shivering through the metal.
Johnny wasn’t very confident, but having dumped three dead-weight bodies in the bath earlier, he felt he could manage the bucket. And, since he and Clarence were in this together, there was no refusing. Using one hand for support and the other for the container made climbing difficult. But he was determined not to fail; he’d seen Blow’s response to failure.
Clarence stabilized the ladder with both hands. Above him, Johnny paused with his shins leaning against the tank’s edge. He lifted the large bucket to his chest with both hands.
The moment he leaned forward to tip the bucket into the tank, Clarence hauled the bottom of the ladder off the floor. A teeter-totter second later, Johnny and the soda bucket disappeared.
There wasn’t a sound, at least none Clarence could hear. He thought a yelp might break through the din, but no — Johnny’s legs flew high in the air and out of sight without a peep. Clarence set the ladder down, picked up the remote, closed the tank, and turned the agitator back on.
[5]
Room 302 was two floors above Café Laurent, the hotel’s jazz bar, MacNeice’s nightly stop before turning in. He’d sit at the bar nursing a Calvados — an alternative to the unavailable grappa.
For the most part, the venue featured piano trios, though on this occasion the trio had added a vocalist — Dominique Dupuis. When D.D. hadn’t appeared by 10:40 p.m., MacNeice wished the bartender bonne nuit and headed to the elevator.
Once in bed, he adjusted his pillow so he could hear the music seep into the room as perfume might. He closed his eyes to a sensual instrumental of “My Funny Valentine.” The musicians were in no hurry; the piano player casually, expertly employed spaces between the notes. MacNeice was surprised that he could distinguish the heartbeat of the bass and the drummer’s brushes as they swept lazily over the drumhead. Strangely, the tempo was timed precisely to his breathing.
Though smoking in bars had long been outlawed in Paris, it didn’t surprise him that his room was smoky. Jazz was smoky. MacNeice could feel the weight of his body sinking deeper into the bedding; he smiled and drifted off toward sleep.
Through fading consciousness, he heard a sultry voice humming along with the piano before sliding into the lyrics. Her voice was soft, but not because of distance; it sounded like she was a breath away. MacNeice opened his eyes. She was in bed beside him.
It was Aziz, sounding hauntingly like Billie Holiday. Certain he must be dreaming, MacNeice opened his eyes wider. She was propped up on one elbow, leaning toward him. The sheet was draped across her breasts like a satin gown. She was incandescent as she sang and her voice was filled with longing.
He turned on his side; he wanted to touch her but felt she might vanish if he did. Her eyes smiled down at him. A small diamond hung around her neck, its facets catching the light like a tiny disco ball. But what light? The room was dark. Another sparkle drew his attention, glittering high on her cheekbone.
As if hearing it for the first time, he considered the lyrics. Was it a love song or one filled with longing and loss? What man wouldn’t care for such a woman? He stopped, realizing that he was investigating a masterpiece. The sparkle slid slowly down her cheek and fell — blossomed — on the sheet.
He had been so preoccupied with Aziz’s tears that he hadn’t heard the phone ring. When he finally noticed, he waited for it to stop, but the ringing persisted. Reluctantly, apologetically, he leaned over for the receiver and responded to the front desk: “Oui, qu’est-ce qu’il y a?”
[6]
“MacNeice? Is that you?”
In a panic, his eyes opened wide. He scanned the bedroom, shocked to find himself in his stone cottage in Dundurn. His heart was pounding; he was alone at home.
“Mac . . . is this a bad time to call? You were speaking rather horrid French.”
It was a woman’s voice. Completely disoriented, he cleared his throat. “Yes. I’m here . . . What time is it?”
“Just gone nine-thirty.” Realizing he was still confused, she added, “Mac, it’s Mary. Do you want to call me back?”
Embarrassed, he bolted upright. “No, Mary, no. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I’ve received an interesting call from a Detective Sergeant Steiner — he’s currently with a veterinarian.”
“A veteran . . .?” In a flash, his stomach tightened at the thought of pursuing another burnt-out warrior. It had taken a month in Paris to get over the last one.
“A veterinarian.” Mary Richardson, Dundurn’s chief pathologist, was as smart as anyone he’d ever met — and she had a very short fuse. “Again, shall I call back?” Mary hated wasting time.
“I’m sorry; just a bit lagged . . . Got in late last night.”
“I’m aware. I was just speaking to DI Aziz; she assured me you’d be up, because of course you’re six hours ahead.”
“Tell me about the vet.”
“Right. Steiner says a dog was found on the side of the highway. Its injuries were minor, but there’s a considerable amount of blood and matter on its coat that appears to be human. He’s asked me to investigate.” She paused to let that sink in. “The vet’s name is Christopher Redsell.”
From the ambient sounds of traffic, she was already on the move. “Where are you now, Mary?”
“I’ll arrive at his clinic in twelve minutes; Highway 8 on the Dundurn side of St. Davids. While it’s too soon to declare a homicide, Redsell’s description of blood and matter — well, I just thought you should be there. Unless of course you’d rather delegate it.”
That stung. Mary’s clipped accent only made it worse. He cast the sheets aside. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Eighteen minutes later, MacNeice was manoeuvring the heavy Chevy down the mountain road, dodging potholes where he could, easing through them where he couldn’t. With this daily ritual, he often imagined himself a cowboy, riding his horse down a steep and uneven slope. He’d lean back in the saddle, at one with his mount. The horse would grunt; its hips would shift with the gait, and so would his. Not much had changed, just the mode and horsepower.
Rather than thinking about Aziz singing to him in a Parisian bed, he decided to check in with Steiner. Over the radiophone, he greeted the dispatcher. “Patch me through to Detective Sergeant Steiner.”
Moments passed, then a click. “Steiner, sir.”
“Tell me what you know so far, Gerry.”
“We’re waiting for Richardson’s analysis — she just arrived. I’ve got two cruisers out on Highway 8 where the dog was found. They’ve found a dried-up puddle of blood and bloody tracks along the westbound south shoulder. We don’t know how far they go, but they’re tracking and already five clicks from where they started. Haven’t been able to reach Dr. Evan Moore, the dog’s owner. I’ve sent a uniform to his house over at Jordan Harbour.”
“Good, very good.”
“Vet says the dog coulda been running all night . . . might’ve covered forty miles — or more. No idea where he began, but it appears he was heading home.”
“I’ll meet them on the road. Call in a K9 team.”
“Yes, sir.”
Paris, the clubs, the walking and watching — it all evaporated. This, exactly this, was his reality. Dundurn Homicide’s Detective Superintendent MacNeice had spent a month away — breathing, borrowing another city’s air, someone else’s night — only to return to the psychic stain of violence, the familiar and unforgiving ache in his spirit. He drove on in silence.
Rounding a bend, MacNeice spotted the high-top lights of a patrol car and behind it, a cruiser had pulled off to the side, the constable directing traffic. MacNeice opened his window.
“DS MacNeice,” he said, as the officer leaned in.
“Yes, sir. Constable Jensen Kendrik.”
“Tell me, how far have you come?”
“There’s a trail eight miles or so behind us, sir. And it goes on from here.” Kendrik pointed in the direction of Dundurn. “The blood fell in regular intervals, so if he stuck to the highway, the path won’t be hard to follow.”
“There’ll be a K9 team here soon. Get as far as you can, as fast as you can, but stop if the trail goes off the road.” MacNeice put the car in gear. “Understood?”
“Yessir.” Kendrik tapped the roof and stepped back as MacNeice pulled away.
[7]
Richardson stood over the dog, picking pale specks from its coat with stainless-steel tweezers. The animal was groggy but conscious; the vet’s soothing voice kept him calm.
Steiner was so intimidated by Richardson that he whispered his update at the door, certain the pathologist wanted total silence. He leaned closer to MacNeice. “I feel like I’m in grade six again. You know what I mean?”
“I do.”
“The dog’s been a prince.”
Aware that MacNeice had entered the room, Mary Richardson swung around. “Mac. Thank you for coming after that rude awakening. If either of you care, whispering is always more disturbing than talking.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” Steiner said.
Returning to her task, she responded, “Detective Sergeant, I’m Doctor Richardson, C.P. Richardson, or simply Doctor. I am not, nor have I ever been, ma’am.” She made a sound like a bleating lamb.
“MacNeice, come, we’ve much to discuss.” As she waited, her gloved hand rested gently on the dog’s rump. “This gorgeous creature comes bearing horrific gifts. Dr. Redsell has identified — correctly — that much of the blood is human. In addition, there are these fascinating fragments. I’ll confirm my thesis back in the lab, but do you care to take an educated guess at what part of the anatomy they recently called home?” She moved the large circular lamp closer to the dog and stood back.
MacNeice stepped forward and studied the blood-matted fur. “A lot of thick and congealed blood mixed with dust and small fragments of bone? Though the colours differ . . . some are creamy, others almost pale brown.”
“Splendid, as always.” Richardson smiled warmly. “Your observation skills survived Paris.”
She placed the tip of the tweezers next to the first of three particles on a tray. “White is rib.” The next was cream-coloured. “Cartilage.” Finally, she pointed to the light brown one. “Sternum.” Richardson set the tweezers down. “That’s a guess, but there’s a bucketload of knowledge before you.” Redsell smiled, enjoying the show. “Those tan bits are the key — they’re not from an arm or leg.”
“What can we assume about the person these belonged to, Mary?”
“Well, of course, nestled behind the sternum and ribcage is the engine room. So, I believe he — and it is a he — is dead.” Somewhere outside the room, a horse whinnied. “Ah, that will be Dr. Redsell’s herniated patient. “We must vacate shortly.” Richardson took a plastic comb from its sterile solution. “I’ll remove what remains of the particles and be gone before that creature breaks down your door.”
As MacNeice and Steiner left the room, followed by Redsell, the vet asked Steiner, “Have you given any thought to our conversation?”
“Yeah, but I don’t have a solution for you.”
“What’s the concern?” MacNeice asked. For a moment he wasn’t certain who was going to answer — Steiner had a sudden interest in the floor tiles. But Redsell stepped forward and explained that the issue was Jack. He needed someone to agree to take him in and care for him.
Steiner shrugged. “Dr. Redsell doesn’t have room, sir. And the men that brought him in can’t take him.”
“Detective MacNeice, dogs — animals generally — have well-developed instincts. They know whether you’re going to harm them or care for them. Presumably, it’s only for a short while, until his family is located.”
Without thinking, MacNeice said, “I’ll take him, if he’ll take me.”
Redsell nodded. “Perfect. I’ll have him cleaned up and ready to go in an hour. We’ll walk you through his wound care and what kind of food would be best for now.” He shook MacNeice’s hand, “Have you ever had a dog, Detective?”
“When I was a boy, my family did, but not since then.”
MacNeice wondered if he was making a serious mistake — one that he, and more importantly Jack, would soon regret. He also wondered what would happen if Jack refused to leave with him. But he’d offered and that was that. “One small caveat, Doctor. I’ve got to head out to meet with the K9 unit following Jack’s tracks back to where he was injured.”
“Okay . . . well, in that case, Carole, our receptionist, will keep him at the front desk for what, three or four hours?”
“I think I can make that work.” MacNeice had no idea if it would work. He was still thinking about the gore on Jack’s coat and about what he’d find at the end of the trail. The thought made his stomach tighten.
[8]
“Welcome home, boss. Are you in today?” Detective Inspector Vertesi asked cheerfully.
“Not for a while. I’m following a trail of blood.” MacNeice smiled; it sounded like a line from a western.
“Hard-core, yeah. That’s why I’m calling. Duty sergeant took a call from Evan Moore’s neighbour; she’s his bridge partner. They were supposed to play this morning at the club in Jordan Harbour.”
“Okay . . .”
“Moose put her through to Missing Persons, but following a hunch about what’s happening out there, they let us know. Neighbour said there was no answer at home or on his cell.”
“Steiner’s got a uniform headed there. Give him her coordinates.”
“Will do.”
“She knocked on his door?”
“No answer. Moore’s dog barks whenever the doorbell rings, but not this time.”
“That’s because he’s a witness to a killing.”
“Figured as much when Richardson called in for you.”
“Before I go, is Aziz there?”
“Yessir. Hang on . . .”
Seconds passed . . . “Bonjour, Mac.”
“Fiza. Your wound has healed?”
“Four days ago. I’ve been slathering vitamin E cream on it ever since.”
“Can you join me on this one?”
“Certainly. I’m done rearranging the pads and pencils on my desk. Where are you?”
“Highway 8, approaching Vineland. You can’t miss us, we’re in the Niagara-bound lane. Hitch a ride with a patrol car; I’m about to do something radical.”
“Working on another suspension?”
“No, just a time saver.”
Jensen Kendrik’s car was leading K9’s wide-body pickup with its red and blue flashing lights. In the back, the dogs stood in their crates, sniffing the air, excited to get to work. Nestled next to them was a fat-tired atv. The small convoy appeared to be averaging fifteen miles or so per hour. MacNeice flashed his lights before coming to a stop on the side of the highway; Kendrik left his vehicle and came on the run.
