Middlemen, page 6
“Circle the forest; I think you’ll find an older-model blue Subaru Forester near the community centre. See if you can get it open. I’m looking for a dog leash and anything else of interest. Use your gloves, Jensen.”
“For clarification, a B&E?”
“Enter without breaking, please.”
“Understood.”
MacNeice stepped out of the netting and gazed at the empty nest. He scanned the surrounding trees but saw no sign of the goshawk. Nor were there any calls to be heard, save for chickadees chattering from a sumac thicket in a shallow gully nearby.
Aziz was walking slowing through the forest. Between her posture and the nervous attention she was giving the tree canopy, it was clear her search of the ground had been compromised. As she approached, she appeared relieved to see MacNeice standing upright and smiling.
“Okay, yes. I don’t want to be assaulted by an angry bird.” She noticed the camouflage netting. “What have you got here?”
“Dr. Evan Moore’s observation blind; his partner is Colin Gleadow. They worked in eight-hour shifts. Gleadow should have been here this morning.” MacNeice looked up to the nest as his thoughts wandered.
“What do you make of it, Mac? Could he be a suspect?”
“No . . . if he was involved, he wouldn’t have left this diary.” He shrugged. “I think Dr. Moore and Jack walked into an unfolding crime scene.”
“And the other victim?”
“Was the intended execution . . . It was late; they wouldn’t have expected a birder.”
“It would’ve been traumatic for the goshawk; maybe that’s why she attacked . . .” Aziz said, scanning the higher branches.
“It’s possible. Moore’s final posting suggests the adolescents may have left for good.” He went over to examine a large clump of feathers under the white pine. In it were the remains of a cardinal’s wing, plus the skull of a starling. Smaller grey feathers were everywhere, as if someone had shaken a torn pillow.
Aziz looked down in amazement. “Savage beasts, aren’t they?”
“Incredibly efficient — a family of five to feed . . . She wasn’t the savage in this forest last night.” MacNeice stepped away, avoiding the open grave of feathers.
Aziz fell in behind. “I didn’t see anything unusual on my walkabout. Nothing disturbed and, judging by what was left here, the killers didn’t do a walkabout either.”
Ryu was waiting for them. “You’ve found something?” MacNeice said.
“Yessir. I’ll call him Victim One. He was bleeding before he reached that clearing — not badly. It mighta been a nosebleed. But there was enough that Benny and Poirot could track it back to the entrance.” The dogs were nuzzling his legs for a treat. “We just came back to track Victim Two, but he didn’t enter the forest with the others.”
“No — his name is Dr. Evan Moore, a birdwatcher with a blind near that goshawk’s nest. His gear is there, including a logbook.”
“Your dog’s human?” Ryu said, shaking his head.
“Had Moore stayed in the blind, he’d likely be here today.”
MacNeice’s cellphone rang. “Subaru’s in the community centre lot. Leash was inside. Nothing unusual. A blanket on the passenger seat; I guess Jack rode shotgun. Other than that, a change purse full of coins, some gardening tools in the trunk, a shovel, a bag of dog cookies, and a box of poop bags —” Kendrik stopped short. “Sir, we’ve got sirens heading our way. I’ll get out there and direct traffic.”
[14]
Leaving Aziz at the scene, MacNeice eased the Chevy past five emergency vehicles already parked along Powerline. He was on his way to pick up Jack. At Jerseyville, he took the first deep breath he’d taken since they entered the forest.
How was Paris, Mac?
“Ah, it’s you.” He sighed and checked his rear-view mirror for no particular reason; “I followed shadows, Kate, just as I once followed yours.”
Romantic shadows?
“No . . . just shadow-tracking to fill a void.” MacNeice was cruising in the slow lane, mostly to let the day turn over in his head. “I was there to decompress, and I did.”
Thought so, when you didn’t reach out for me.
“Hmm. I met a man at the hotel’s jazz bar; he was French but spoke English fairly well. His wife didn’t like jazz; she’d gone to bed. When the first set was over, I asked him where he was from and what he did. He said he’d just retired as chief of Homicide for a region in the southwest. They’d come to Paris to celebrate his retraite. Then he asked the same question of me.”
Like soulmates . . . Just kidding.
“But you’re right; we were both on our second Calvados when I told him. He immediately took my hand and gave it a solemn shake. Then I asked how many homicides he had to deal with in a year.”
Just to compare notes — you weren’t competing?
“No, just curious. He answered that in thirty-five years as regional head of Homicide, there had never been a homicide, not one.”
My word . . . it must have been hard to justify that title. And did you share your numbers?
“I told him that Dundurn averages ten to fifteen homicides a year . . . He asked me how long I’ve been on that job. Twenty-nine years, I said. I could see him doing the math — counting bodies — after which he shook his head and under his breath said, ‘Merde.’ ”
Was it a merde of pity or envy?
“Hard to say exactly. His eyebrows jumped around for a while, and after that, his toasts went from santé to courage.”
MacNeice’s cell rang. He pulled over to check the call display — DC Wallace. They hadn’t spoken since his suspension. “Yes, sir?”
A long pause followed before Wallace spoke. “I see you’re back at work, Mac. I have you down as returning tomorrow.”
“An unusual case, sir. I’m on my way to pick up a material witness.”
“Who’s that?” Wallace bristled.
“His name’s Jack.” MacNeice was too tired to explain further.
“Got it. A call came in from Singapore; it was transferred here. Gloria took the number, said someone in DPD would call back.”
“Last name Moore?”
“How’d you know?”
“A neighbour of Dr. Evan Moore told us; he’s one of the victims. She said his son was working in New Zealand.”
“David Moore.” Wallace read out the phone number before asking, “You’re going to deliver the bad news . . .?”
“Very bad. We haven’t located the remains, but he probably bled out in a forest. The other body’s missing too, no ID.”
“Keep me posted. If you need more resources, just ask.” He was about to hang up, then added, “I’ve approved another six months of your Sumner sessions.” Wallace didn’t wait for either a thank-you or a goodbye.
MacNeice placed a call to Colin Gleadow. In spite of what he’d said to Aziz, if he had even a scintilla of doubt about whether Gleadow was involved, MacNeice would have him picked up immediately. The phone rang several times before it was answered. “Who’s calling?” The voice was weak and raspy.
“Detective Superintendent MacNeice, Dundurn Homicide. Is this Colin Gleadow?”
“I don’t follow . . . Sorry, yes, I am.”
“I believe you share an observation blind with Dr. Evan Moore?”
“Yes . . .” Followed by a deep, rolling cough.
“You’re laid low, Mr. Gleadow?”
“Bronchitis, maybe pneumonia. Why are you calling? What’s happened?”
“We believe Dr. Moore came to harm last night in the forest.”
Gleadow struggled to suppress another cough. “But you’re from Homicide . . . What are you actually saying?”
“There appear to be two victims, but we haven’t located their remains. Dr. Moore’s dog was wounded but escaped — his coat had traces of human blood. The incident took place roughly eighty or ninety yards from your blind. Moore’s notes were updated; his last entry was in the middle of the night.”
“No, this isn’t true — it can’t be.” From the sounds of it, Gleadow was struggling to get up. “I’m coming. I’ll be there —”
“Don’t do that. The site is closed for our investigation. Police will collect everything from the blind; you’ve no need to be concerned about it.”
Gleadow broke into a deep, ragged cough and dropped the receiver. When he picked it up, he was breathless. “Evan . . . can’t be gone. He can’t . . . What can I do, Detective?”
“For the moment I only have one question. After that, you can rest. Did Dr. Moore have concerns for his safety . . . or was there anyone that might have wanted to harm him?”
It took several seconds for Gleadow to answer, and when he did, his voice was clear. “Ev was loved — I mean, loved. He was my mentor . . . and not just mine.” He gasped for air that wasn’t there. “No . . . biologists don’t attract vendettas.” He couldn’t keep his congestion or tears at bay any longer. He whispered, “I’m sorry . . .” before hanging up.
“Talk to him. Softly or firmly — but keep talking to him.” Carole had embraced the task of getting Jack ready. “In that bag, you’ve got an advanced starter kit. Kibble, treats, poop bags, a leash, antibiotics, ointment and bandages for the wound — basically, the works. Oh, and there’s a squeaky toy too . . . though he may not play with it at first.”
MacNeice was watching the dog watching him. He wondered if Jack could smell where he’d been. Turning back to Carole, he asked, “Where will he sleep?”
“Hard to say. You can fold up a blanket, keep it in the corner of your bedroom. He might sleep on that, or your sofa — or on your bed if you let him.”
“I assume he’ll be upset — I mean, mourning.” He turned to Redsell, who’d just dropped a report on Carole’s desk. “Do I try to comfort him?”
“He’s not human, but in that respect, he might as well be. The answer is, do what you would with a human friend. Jack will let you know whether he wants more of whatever that is. Trust me, he’s probably already figured you out.”
[15]
The clanking of the door knocker woke Clarence from a deep sleep. Four insistent clanks followed before he went to open a sliver of curtain. Once he saw the dark blue Mercedes idling nearby, he knew.
He took several deep breaths, slapped his cheeks a few times, and opened the door. “Hello, Father, I wasn’t expecting you . . .”
Eugene Bernard Blow gave him a quick once-over. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No, Father. I was just lying down after a long day.”
The old man looked at him disapprovingly. He was smart enough not to ask about Clarence’s day, having developed a robust distrust of anything his son said. “Your mother thinks a family dinner is in order, next Friday. It’s our fiftieth anniversary.”
“Oh, a half-century. Impressive.” Clarence’s voice lacked any hint of sincerity.
His father’s smile — an empty Hallmark card — dissolved in a flash. “Shall I mark you down as one guest or two?”
“Maybe just me.”
“Right. Well, until Friday, then. Goodbye.” His father turned and walked briskly down the steps.
Clarence shut the door and smiled. He knew his father hated ambiguity, perhaps because Clarence used it as a weapon. Though certain that he was superior to Eugene Blow, Clarence knew that as long as he drew breath, he’d never measure up to his father’s greatness. It was too bad, Clarence thought, that he’d already used his free pass with gas explosions.
Before heading to the shower, he grinned at the brown-skinned woman emerging from frothy surf on the “Beaches of Polynesia” poster. He read the advertising slogan yet again, convinced it was a solemn promise: “Picture yourself under a blue azure sky, frolicking in a warm turquoise sea.”
“I am, I am. Soon . . . maybe two more disposals.” Clarence stripped and, walking tall into the shower, he set out to sing “Some Enchanted Evening” in its entirety.
Covered in soap, he belted out the song’s lyrics. Over the shower and the show tune, Clarence heard his cellphone ring. He swore, stepped out, stamped his feet on the mat, and ran to the bedroom. “Yes, sir?”
“Mr. Blow, it took some time for you to answer . . .”
“Sorry, sir, I was in the shower. How can I help?” Clarence said, wiping the soap from his face.
“You’ve been quiet, Clarence.”
“The day, sir. Just for a day.”
“A day can be an eternity, Mr. Blow. As an accountant, you know that.”
“I do. Do you have a disposal?”
“If I said yes, would you have the means?”
“Well, I —”
“No. I thought not.”
“But I can —”
“No, I don’t believe you can. That’s the point of this call. We need secure practices, men we can trust with our disposals — men of absolute discretion. You’d be a fool and a very poor accountant not to realize that disposing of your disposal team is inefficient.”
“I do understand —”
“Two replacements arrive early this evening. They have all the qualities I’ve mentioned. You’ll meet them at seven p.m. in the McDonald’s parking lot at Main and Dundurn. They’ll be driving a black Lincoln Navigator, license plate LRV-6.”
“LRV, Luxury Rental Vehicles — your brother’s company.”
“Exactly. But don’t get too attached to that plate; it’ll change soon.”
“And the disposal?”
“The following day.”
“Would you like to meet the men?”
“If I wanted to meet them, why would I need you?”
“Clearly. I’ll be there at seven.”
“Before you go, Clarence . . . you’d be wise to dispel any lingering thoughts of dealing with these men as you dealt with the others. Were you to try, you just might find yourself in the dip-’n’-strip.”
Clarence felt his face flush. He was a little boy again, being scolded for his bedwetting. Except now he was the little man being mocked for hiring incompetent thugs.
That self-pitying funk didn’t last long. Within minutes he returned to his life-saving mantra: one more disposal — maybe two.
[16]
As MacNeice came to a stop near the forest trail, Jack cowered in the back seat, shivering from cone to tail. Power Line Road was awash in cop cars and forensic vans. Before he had time to shut the engine down, he saw Aziz and Vertesi approaching. The truth was, MacNeice didn’t have the stamina to go back to the sad and bloody little clearing. Worse, Jack was now whimpering so pitifully that he realized it had been a mistake to bring him. He left the engine running and rolled down the window.
“Good to see you, boss.” Vertesi noticed the dog in the back seat. “See you’ve picked up a stray . . . he looks scared.”
Aziz bent down and peered inside. “Jack was there — he has reason to be shaken.” She looked at MacNeice and realized he had no intention of getting out. “Mac, you’re done. Go home.”
“Yeah,” Vertesi said. “This place is bluer than a cop convention. They’re going through at arm’s-length. So far, no bodies.” He added, “One of the uniforms took a hit on the back of the head from a bird; Fiza said it was a gosh hawk.”
A flicker of a smile crossed Aziz’s face. “Goshawk; one word.”
“So now we got cops looking up as much as down.”
“Steel pellets, Mac. Twelve-gauge,” Aziz said. “Forensics confirmed two victims, said if they were chest shots at a range of ten to fifteen feet, they’d be fatal.”
MacNeice shook his head. “And the nearby houses? Anyone hear or see anything?”
Vertesi glanced at his notes. “According to Christine and Brad Wingate in the first house, they thought the noise was a bird banger the corn farmer installed to protect his crops.”
“In the middle of the night?”
“Apparently he hasn’t worked the bugs out.” Vertesi shrugged. “But they gave us their security camera footage — we’ve got a van passing by at 2:39 a.m. and leaving at 3:08 a.m. It’s blurry; maybe Ryan can sharpen it.”
“That’s promising . . . Okay, Jack’s had enough. We’ll take the scenic route home.”
He checked the rear-view at Jerseyville; the dog was in the middle of the back seat looking at him. The evening sun streamed through the rear window, turning the cone into a halo and Jack’s eyes to dark pools. When MacNeice turned left, the light shifted, and Jack was just a dog with a bandaged leg and a wounded heart.
[17]
MacNeice had been awake for an hour when the clock radio came to life. Jack was curled up on the carpet at the end of the bed. His chest rose and fell, and only his nose poked out of the cone.
When MacNeice came out of the shower, Jack wasn’t in the bedroom. He listened for a moment and heard him lapping up water, his collar tag ting-a-linging against the edge of the bowl. MacNeice went to him and removed the cone; he wouldn’t put it on again unless Jack disturbed the wound.
An hour later, Jack’s tail was up for the first time. MacNeice lifted him onto the Chevy’s front passenger seat, where he sat erect and ready to go. MacNeice tossed the bag containing kibble, bowls, treats, and the cone into the back seat. He descended the hill carefully and smiled as Jack leaned into the turns. Driving west along King, MacNeice noticed him looking straight ahead, not once glancing to see the dogs they passed along the way.
When MacNeice pulled over to punch in a call, Jack seemed momentarily curious. Dr. Sumner’s voicemail recording listed several options, the last of which was “Finally, if you are experiencing extreme anxiety, a psychotic episode, or suicidal thoughts, please call 911 immediately — and don’t forget your health card.” A pause followed before the beep.
