Middlemen, page 35
“Sounds good, Mary. It’s been a long morning and it’s not yet ten.” He glanced over at the old oak’s root ball and wondered if the gorget was once again resting under Jeremiah Stokes’s chin. He also wondered if Lester Wright believed that his partner’s spirit and the spirits of the oak and that old warrior were mingling now at the escarpment’s edge.
Back at the road, MacNeice asked Steiner to give them a lift.
“Certainly, sir. To Cascade or Division One?”
“Neither . . . On the way down Highway 20 there’s a narrow lane on the west side. You can drop us there.” MacNeice could feel Fiza’s eyes on him; he imagined her discreet smile.
Steiner did a slow U-turn and Aziz looked off toward the lake. It was the ideal setting for a last breath.
As they passed the cops stringing up do not cross tape, MacNeice mused aloud. “A vehicle moved through here last night, Sergeant. It’s a lonely road; the sound of an approaching car might’ve drawn someone to the window. Have these men conduct another door-knock — from Highway 20 to the other end.”
“Will do, sir. I’ll go with them.”
Halfway down Highway 20, MacNeice pointed out the cottage lane. Steiner switched on his grille and dome lights, waited for the northbound traffic to clear, and swung about. “Want me to take you up, sir?”
“No, this is perfect; a walk will do us good. Thanks for the lift, Sergeant.” MacNeice got out, holding his beat-up briefcase, and opened the rear door for Aziz. Steiner turned off his emergency lights and headed back up the Mountain.
[97]
Everything changes the moment you enter a forest in August. Fifty feet in, sounds outside soften and fade. The light, like the temperature, is cool. August air lacks the freshness of spring. And yet, the earth releases its reserves of moisture to let you know it’ll survive.
They walked on quietly side by side, dodging potholes, taking in the world around them. MacNeice felt Aziz relaxing into a trail walker’s pace, one that comes naturally if you let it. She was looking at the canopy above — either seeking signs of birds or just marvelling at the myriad variations of green. She paused and pointed to a cluster of fat-faced mushrooms poking out of the ground cover. Further on, she stopped to study a large patch of moss surrounding a near-perfect circle of stone that resembled an old monk’s tonsure.
MacNeice spoke tentatively at first. “When I was a kid, I’d walk with Silver — my dad’s dog — through the forests of Georgian Bay. One summer, I had a project — I called it a secret, only because I was too embarrassed to tell anyone.”
“Tell me . . .”
“I loved watching Silver smell everything — nothing escaped him. So I brought a pencil, a notebook, and a government tree-identification chart . . . and together we went into a forest quite different from this one. My goal was to smell every species — spruce, cedar, hemlock, maple and oak, birch and aspen. I’d step right up to each tree and take a deep breath. I kept that notebook for years” — he shook his head at the thought —”certain that one day it would come in handy.”
“And?” she asked.
“Well, I learned that every tree smells different. Sometimes dramatically, but mostly it’s so subtle I couldn’t find the words to describe it. To make up for that, I sketched all the bark patterns . . .”
At a steep turn, he took her hand to help her over a bumpy stretch that Streets and Sanitation had repaired only a year before. Once beyond it, he let go — and immediately regretted it. The road ahead resembled a long arcade under the interlocking branches overhead. It ended in a small clearing where the sun fell, warm and uninterrupted.
Something moved off to the right, scurrying out of sight into the ground cover. Moments later and a few feet away, a shy salamander retreated from a rock. Chickadees flitted about on all sides, anticipating the possibility of food. A shiver of a breeze shook the poplar leaves, and farther off, a woodpecker was tapping.
“Can you hear that above us?” he asked.
“Yes. One branch is rubbing against another?”
“My father would say that trees have family quarrels. Everything listens and sees, only asking that we do the same.”
A few turns later, they arrived at the plateau. Nestled off to the left was his stone cottage.
He opened the door, put down his briefcase, and asked, “Can I make you breakfast?”
“You actually do breakfast?” she asked doubtfully.
“When I can . . . I’m spoiled by Cristiana, my housekeeper, who comes up from Secord twice a week to make sense of this place. As I’ve never kept much in the fridge, she began shopping for me. She was here yesterday; I’ve got heirloom tomatoes, fresh eggs, breakfast sausages, toast . . . and coffee from Clappison Corners.”
“Almost a full English breakfast — lovely.”
“Why don’t you sit outside and get reacquainted with my feathered and furry friends. I’ll make a cappuccino — and put in a call for a replacement car.”
Their conversation focused on birds, breakfast, and the ancient escarpment. It was a preoccupation for MacNeice, something he considered to be fundamental and primordial. “It’s a humbling reminder of the passage of time, Fiz . . . that even if you live to be a hundred, you’re doing so in the shadow of half a billion years.”
“A somewhat daunting thought . . .”
“Not to me; I stand in awe of it. Occasionally I’ll rest a hand on its face. There’s something, an immutable energy . . .” MacNeice was struggling to find the words when his phone interrupted him.
“Heads up, boss.” It was Vertesi, speaking in a whisper. “Wallace came to Cascade for a media scrum; he’s looking for you.”
“Anything else I should know?”
“No, it’s all good. Gotta go —”
Aziz was leaning back in her chair. She’d arranged a line of crumbs on the edge of her plate, waiting for a bird with the courage to collect them. “I could get used to this . . .” She smiled. “I mean, breakfast in a forest.”
“I know what you meant.” He handed her a jar. “For your toast — direct from Paris.”
She read the label. “Fraises des bois — strawberries of the forest. Oh my.”
A chickadee arrived; tilting its head this way and that, it hopped closer to the plate.
When Aziz opened the jar, the bird retreated — but not for long. She’d just finished spreading jam on her toast when her phone rang. “Bonjour, Jean-Pierre . . .”
MacNeice was happy to listen. Even if he couldn’t catch everything, it reminded him of the Café Laurent and “My Funny Valentine.” But his reverie was cut short when his cell rang. “MacNeice . . .”
“You’re awol, Detective.” Wallace tried to sound angry, but it was clear that he wasn’t. “I’m down at Cascade — it’ll take time before we know the full extent of Abatstvo’s enterprise, but we’ve got enough to charge him with racketeering, drug dealing, human trafficking, and ordering Garrick’s kidnapping. Burlington’s the family bank and home to his muscle — they’re all here illegally, with overstayed visitor visas.”
“Aziz is on the phone to Detective Girone in Montreal — have you heard anything from them?”
“Partials; all good. Niagara had a closer link to Dundurn than Montreal. Again, it’s early, but we do know Niagara was running an illegal casino — strictly for American clients. In Dundurn they offered ‘gymnastic entertainment’ in the form of young girls and boys on cruises around the lake.”
“And the drugs?”
“Abbey developed Chernopill as a next-generation ecstasy. Their hype line is that it’s ‘guaranteed radioactive’. The sons are the drivers of that one. Look, I was expecting we’d find skeletons in Abbey’s closets — and that may be yet to come — but arresting them for what we do know is a good start, and taking the lead on this is a first for Dundurn.”
“Forensics might also find a trail linking Abatstvo and Jeremy Slater to Clarence Blow for the homicides . . .”
“True . . . Anyway, Mac, I just called to congratulate you and your team, and pass on the mayor’s acknowledgement as well . . . Where the hell are you? I can hear Aziz and birds.”
“Daintry’s dead, sir. We went out to confirm his identity. We’re at my house, waiting for my replacement unit. Mine was —”
“Yeah, I saw your vehicle. Okay, later . . .”
MacNeice wondered how Abatstvo had managed to run a diverse criminal enterprise in three cities without being charged for one of their several sins. If Chernopills had already hit the illicit market, how had they escaped the attention of drug squads or public health officials?
His phone rang again; it was Sergeant Evanson from Missing Persons. “Sir, we may have an ID on your forest John Doe. Martin Allen Jessop, forty-seven, from Allentown, Pennsylvania. Reported missing by his wife two days after our forest killings. Jessop owns three Ford dealerships — Allentown, Harrisburg, and Trenton. He told his wife he was going to Ford headquarters in Dearborn for their new product meetings.”
“And that wasn’t true . . .” MacNeice lifted his glass of water and, without thinking, he looked for the ripples Venganza had said would be there — and they were. He set the glass down without a sip.
“Correct . . . According to Ford and to Jessop’s secretary, no such meetings were scheduled. And while his business was successful — regional sales leader for the last five years — he was heavily in debt. Local cops and the fbi think he emptied the till and left the state, maybe the country. I’ve downloaded publicity photos of him and have requested dna samples — that’s it for now, sir.”
A few minutes passed, and two house sparrows that had been watching nearby came to join the chickadee. With the arrival of another chickadee, the race was on; the birds began frantically driving their beaks into the crumbs.
“Greedy little buggers, no?” Aziz said, looking over at MacNeice.
He smiled, gave a slight shrug, and flicked a small wedge of crust off the plate toward a newly arrived sparrow. “Fiza, I want to be honest with you . . .” He laughed awkwardly to cover taking a deep breath. “I want tonight to make up for the first night we would have spent together in Paris.”
Aziz reached for her own glass of water. She drank and set it down so softly the birds didn’t flinch.
“If you’re uncomfortable, you can stop me anytime —”
“No, go on . . .” A smile flickered nervously across her lips.
“At the end of my stay in Paris, I dreamt about you . . .”
“Working a case?” Then she seemed embarrassed by her attempt to diminish the electric charge of the moment. “I’m sorry . . .”
“Actually, you were singing.”
“Ah, a fictional dream . . . Sorry again.”
“It was as real as you are right now. Though fictional — as all dreams may be — it continues to haunt me.”
“Go on . . .”
“So much rides on what I say next, and even if —” MacNeice snapped his head around. Two vehicles were straining up the mountain lane. “Wait here; don’t move.”
Once inside, he released the strap on his weapon and stepped out the front door. He waited with his hand on the grip for the first one to turn the last corner. What appeared was a midnight-blue heavy Chevy, followed by a dpd cruiser. He looped the strap over his weapon and waved.
A young man from the dpds fleet pound got out. “Apologies for the interruption, sir.”
“No problem, thanks for bringing it so quickly.”
“Well, I got to see it do hill climbing . . .” He handed MacNeice the keys and added, “Boss managed to send you one with a CD player — I haven’t seen one of those in years.”
“I’m old-school.”
“Is there a way out if we keep climbing up?”
“Sorry, there’s no up up there. You’ll have to swing about and head down.”
He watched the cruiser turn around and waddle back down with its brake lights on, then went inside. Aziz was in the kitchen rinsing dishes. “Other than a few crumbs, the table’s clear . . .” She dried her hands on the dishtowel. “I’m sorry we were interrupted . . .”
“Yeah, I was just getting to the good part.”
“And I do want to hear it — tonight. Now, though, I suspect we’re both more than a bit distracted, and I want to debrief you on that call from Girone.”
“Understood. I want to be clear though, Fiz — this is about romance.”
A wide smile took over her face; she stood on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. “But if we stay here much longer, I’ll be in your bed — and then where will we be?”
“In bed, together.”
[Epilogue]
Fifth in line behind four suvs was the perfect position. It allowed him to study the US Customs agent’s body language and temperament. Was he jacked up on caffeine? Doesn’t appear to be. Was he butt-tired after a long shift? Could be. That’s why he had arrived a half-hour before shift change. Was the agent a mean spirit, determined to take out his resentment on the powerless arriving at his window? Hard to tell. Did he appear affable with those in the Canadian vehicle directly ahead? No. He was doing a relaxed version of standard procedure — keeping an eye peeled for the next vehicle in line.
The burly, ginger-haired agent studied the five-year-old Dodge Charger, noting the atl company 11 sticker on its windshield and Atlanta Fire Rescue plate below. Good eyes, the driver thought. He opened all the windows to the eighty-degree heat to make it easier to scan the interior — and to suggest he had nothing to hide.
Hanging against the window behind him was his turnout coat, his name embossed in fluorescent letters across the shoulders. Easing up to the window, the driver handed his passport over with a toothy smile. “Good day, officer. How’re y’all doing?”
“Could use a good AC.” He opened the passport, looked down at the driver, then scanned it into the computer. “What’ve you been doing in Canada, Malcolm? I see your firefighter coat; you been fighting fires up there?”
“Not exactly.” Malcolm chuckled. “I was asked to test a new chem-fire retardant . . . I’m the Atlanta Fire and Georgia Fire Academy chemical specialist.”
“Huh . . . Did it work?” the agent asked, passing an eye over the car’s interior.
“Close. It’s not there yet, but it could be a game changer.”
“Good to hear. You bringing anything in that I should know about?”
“No, sir. It was a wall-to-wall fire detail. Now I’m just happy to be headin’ home.”
“Back down the I-75 . . .”
“Tried and true.”
The agent handed his passport back. “Well, you drive safe now, and thank you for your service.” He tapped the car’s roof, his eyes already shifted to the pickup next in line.
Malcolm — Lester Wright — pulled away slowly. An hour later, he left the I-75 to head west on America’s longest highway — the I-90 to Seattle.
Eighty miles on, he took an exit at random, stopping at a strip mall for a burger and fries. When he’d finished, Lester dropped his garbage in a bin, then sat behind the wheel of the Charger watching a young family at a picnic table. They looked happy, laughing together as if they’d somehow escaped all the life-defining damage that had altered the lives of almost everyone he’d ever known.
He sighed, opened the glove compartment, and pulled out a US Postal Service pre-stamped padded envelope. He held it reverently, as if it contained some magical power — as if, in fact, it was alive. A usps mailbox stood outside the drug store next to the McDonald’s. But sealing the envelope seemed so final — Lester wanted to read the letter one last time.
He flipped over the faded Dundurn Blues Society poster and scanned the handwritten note. The top half was difficult to read through the dried blood smudged on the page, now more brown than red, but also because of the shaky hand that had written it . . .
Wright needed to see it — he needed to read it — one last time.
My dear Dolores . . . I can’t make it home to you after all. I want you to know I love you and wish you are by my side at this here time. Lester took good care of me to the end. He’s gonna send all my earnings for the work I done. Goodbye — I love you. Taylor
Dolores —
It’s me, Lester.
I left Taylor in a peaceful place. He was a fine and loyal man who thought of you all the time. Enclosed you’ll find his passport in the name of Frank James Cooper (the real name of his favourite actor, Gary Cooper).
As the funds are in an offshore account, I’ve enclosed Frank Cooper’s bank cards, social security, passwords, and signature — all you’ll need to retrieve the money.
It would make him very proud if you used a portion of it to buy a property in Alberta, up in Canada. When we worked there, Taylor saw a ranch he thought would be perfect for you. He asked me to include a listing for the property — also enclosed. I happen to know it’s still for sale.
When we were up there, Taylor learned a song, one he sang over and over — he really wasn’t hard to listen to. He always said he’d sing it to you. I suppose you could use Youtube to find it. It’s called “Four Strong Winds.”
Taylor was a true friend, Dolores, but, like me, a sinner.
God bless him, and you.
Lester Wright
[Acknowledgements]
I don’t know where these stories come from, but I do know how many disciplines and people I rely upon to help me bring them to life. To each of them, I owe a great debt.
First among them is my partner, Shirley Blumberg Thornley, my first reader. Without her support, encouragement, and knowledge of my principal characters — I’d be lost. Her belief in me makes me a very lucky man.
