by Karen Long
“Urm… wait, I can see him putting on his coat, should I ask?” the receptionist sounded worried now.
“No, I’ll just deliver it to his home. Thank you,” replied Eleanor and broke the call.
“Why don’t we just go up?” asked Laurence.
“I’m interested in why this guy wasn’t the first to call in that his girlfriend was missing. Let’s see whether he goes straight home or needs to pop in anywhere first? You watch,” said Eleanor as she handed Laurence a photocopy of his driving license, along with his car make, model and registration number. “We’ll give him five and then swing round to the parking lot.”
“No need, that looks like our guy,” responded Laurence instinctively climbing out of the car and following him. Eleanor started the engine and after a few seconds swung out into the evening traffic.
Eric Stollar was about five feet eight inches tall, and appeared to possess, from the discrepancy between his waist and shoulder breadth, an unnatural preoccupation with the gym. Strangely, Laurence noted as he followed his brisk step along the sidewalk, he wasn’t carrying either a briefcase or laptop, essentials for a man pulling six figures in a top law firm. He moved quickly, almost at a jog, barging through the commuters with indifference. This wasn’t the way to either the subway or his apartment complex, so maybe Eleanor was right. It only took Laurence one more block and a cross-over to realise where Stollar was heading. He felt his cell vibrate. “He’s heading for Xxxstacy isn’t he?” he blurted into the phone.
“He might be,” came Eleanor’s calm tone. I’m going to stop on Victoria and get there first ok? If we’re wrong, keep with him and I’ll catch up,” she broke the call. Laurence noted her car slip past him and make another illegal left onto Yonge ahead of him. If he was right, Stollar would cross over Yonge Street and then take another left at The Cheese Factory. He couldn’t help smiling when Stollar did just that.
Laurence walked into the club and looked around for Stollar. He was talking animatedly to the bartender, who shrugged and then turned away and picked up a glass. Laurence followed as he moved quickly in the direction of the basement. He watched as Stollar looked around anxiously and then entered the restroom. Laurence was about to follow him in when he felt a hand on his arm. He barely recognised Eleanor; she was wearing sunglasses, a leather jacket and had piled her hair up in a messy pony tail and drawn a thick smudge of dark colour on her lips. She thrust a pair of what looked like non-prescription reading glasses at him. “Take off your tie!” Laurence put on the glasses quickly and yanked off his tie as he entered the room.
Stollar was so preoccupied frantically rummaging through the cards pinned to the notice board, it took him several seconds to register Laurence’s presence. By that time Laurence was peeing into the urinal and not of any further interest. Stollar yanked a few of the cards off, glanced at them and then dropped them to the floor in frustration. With an audible “Fuck!” he left the restroom, trampling the cards underfoot. Laurence gave him a second or two as he adjusted his clothing and then followed him up to the bar where he saw Stollar talking to the bartender again. Eleanor was sitting at the bar playing with her phone. Laurence made his way out of the building taking off the glasses as he walked out and tucked himself in behind the adjacent doorway, where he put his tie back on.
Eleanor listened carefully to Stollar.
“You see anyone putting up one of those cards or you see a card appear with any variation of that on it you call me straight away. You hear?” The bartender stared coldly at him as he was handed a business card and a fifty. Stollar walked briskly out of the bar leaving a heavy tang of sweat and fear.
Laurence watched Stollar launch himself into the busy traffic and head back in the direction he’d come from. He was about to pursue when Eleanor put her hand lightly on his arm and turned her back on the retreating figure. “He’ll be going back to the office to finish off his day. We’ll wait, I want to get an invite into his apartment.”
While they waited for Stollar to complete his business in the office, Laurence and Eleanor sat patiently in the car.
“Why the disguise? Bit nineteenth century, eh?” quipped Laurence.
“Research proves that the chances of anyone recalling a face after only a couple of seconds exposure is low to negligible. What we tend to remember are non-natural features such as glasses, heavy lipstick and hats. I don’t want Stollar to recall seeing either of us in the club, so I just scrambled our images a little, so to speak,” replied Eleanor.
“You got a trunk-load of accessories in the back?” Laurence smiled at her.
“No,” said Eleanor flatly, watching with a certain amount of pleasure as the smile faded from his face.
They had followed Stollar’s erratic drive back to the apartment and now stood at his front door, Eleanor insisting that allowing him only a few moments to enter the flat would place them at an advantage. He opened the door cautiously, his face falling on recognition of what they represented.
“Can I help you?” he said coldly. Eleanor took in his features. His eyes were small and deep set but reflective. His lips were thin and his face slightly over large, his brows furrowed more deeply than usual in a man of his age.
“Mr Stollar? I’m Detective Inspector Eleanor Raven and this is my colleague Detective Laurence Whitefoot, may we come in?” She leaned her body a little closer anticipating a positive response.
“What do you want?” Stollar snapped.
“Mr Stollar we have an extremely delicate matter to discuss and I don’t believe the corridor is the best place for it,” replied Eleanor pushing gently past Stollar. Before he had a chance to prevent her she walked straight into the lounge area. Laurence noted that this seemed to make Stollar extremely nervous.
“What is the problem?” he asked testily.
“Do you know a Miss Lydia Rachel Greystein?” She watched as Stollar swallowed hard a paleness creeping over his collar line.
He nodded. “Yes, yes I do.”
Eleanor watched him silently as he waited for more. His next words would have a direct bearing on how she tackled the next part of the investigation.
He fidgeted. “Has anything happened to her?” he said quietly. Eleanor furrowed her brow but still didn’t say anything. “Has there been an accident?”
“An accident Mr Stollar, what kind of accident?” she said knotting her brow in puzzlement.
“A…a car accident?” he said. Now there were beads of sweat appearing on his brow.
“No, I don’t think so,” she replied.
“Then why the fuck are you here?” he bellowed, losing any attempt at composure.
“Because Miss Greystein has been murdered.” At that Stollar took a staggered step backwards and slumped onto his white leather sofa.
“What happened to her?” he asked in a shaking voice.
“Haven’t you heard this from her parents?”
“What? Her parents? No, I haven’t. When did this happen?” Stollar’s hands were now shaking.
“Would you like a drink Mr Stollar? My colleague will bring you a glass of water,” she nodded to Laurence who slipped out of the lounge and began to look for the kitchen.
“No, I’m fine,” he heard Stollar moan but ignored him. This was an opportunity to have a quick look around. “I really don’t need a drink.”
“When did you see your fiancée last? She was your fiancée wasn’t she?” asked Eleanor.
“What? Yes she…was?” he stammered.
“Was. She’s dead Mr Stollar. Murdered.”
“I don’t…recall,” he said vaguely.
“You don’t recall what?” she asked quickly. She noted that the window of opportunity was closing. Eric Stollar was a lawyer and was savvy to interrogation techniques. He sat himself upright and took a deep breath. Eleanor watched this with interest.
“I don’t recall when I saw her last. It was in all probability Friday or Saturday night,” he said calmly.
“Mr Stollar are you du
e to make any court appearances this week,” she asked.
“Yes. Why?” he was confused.
She slipped out a small thin notebook and opened it giving the impression she was checking availability.
“Can I ask when? It would be helpful,” she added politely.
“Tomorrow 3pm and Friday at 11 am.”
“Then why, if you can remember these details, can you not remember the time and date when you last saw the woman you were intending to spend the rest of your life with?” She stared hard at him.
“It was Saturday night at around sixish. We met at The Rodeo Club’ and had a couple of drinks and then we parted.” He looked angry.
“Why did you not spend the rest of the evening together?”
“She had a dinner date with her friends.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know! Some fucking restaurant on Bloor Street. And no, I don’t know who she was meeting,” he snapped.
“How strange,” she added.
“Not at all!”
“When were you due to meet her again?”
“I don’t know. We hadn’t made any plans,”
“None at all?” replied Eleanor “Surely you would have some plans to meet this past weekend or maybe tonight. Did you call her? Were you confused as to why she wasn’t answering?”
Stollar’s eyes narrowed and he stood up. “You don’t have a search warrant!” He made for the door but at that moment Laurence walked in, an innocent expression on his face as he handed him a glass of water with several ice cubes in.
“Sorry, couldn’t find your glasses,” he said soothingly. Stollar looked at him in disbelief for a second or two then took the water and gulped it down. He sighed deeply.
“I need to come and identify her… body,” he said quietly.
“There’s no need to do that Mr Stollar, her parents have already done it,” Eleanor said.
“What! They saw her?”
Eleanor narrowed her eyes. “Shouldn’t they have? They reported her missing this morning. Why didn’t you?” For a moment she thought that Stollar had fallen for the bait but he had regained sufficient professional sense to close his mouth and keep it closed. “Here’s my card Mr Stollar,” she handed over the small piece of paper, watching with interest as he hesitated slightly before taking it. “Please call me if you remember anything that may help us in our investigations. My colleague will make arrangements for you to be formally interviewed at Headquarters. Thank you for your time.” She turned and headed for the door but stopped when she heard what sounded like a sob. She turned and looked at the man curiously. For a moment she was almost convinced that he was genuinely crying.
“Ok, apart from knowing where he keeps the glasses, what did you find?” asked Eleanor as they both climbed into her car.
“Well his refrigerator had an interesting collection of fountain syringes and other douching equipment. Some weird looking creams with a high capsaicin content. Do you think he’s a hygiene nut or into the kinkier stuff?” asked Laurence.
“What do you mean?”
“Well the label on the cream indicated it was from ‘The Punishment’ range!”
“That can be purchased on the High St. It indicates an interest not a lifestyle,” snapped Eleanor.
“You said observe. I observed,” replied Laurence.
“I didn’t say impose a value judgement on it,” stated Eleanor. “You start judging people and you’re not investigating. You want to evaluate morals then take another sideways move into the judiciary.” Laurence was about to launch a defense but decided a coffee and some carbs might be the better option.
“Ok. I judged… how about a coffee?”
Eleanor set her jaw and then let it relax a little as she wondered whether she wasn’t indulging in a bit of hypocrisy herself.
“How about D’Angelo’s? I’ll pay,” he added as a sweetener. Eleanor tried a smile and turned over the engine.
“Hey, I did see something else, not sure if it’s of any relevance but he withdrew five grand’s worth of cash from his bank account last week. I saw his bank statement on the breakfast bar,” said Laurence.
Eleanor glanced at him. “And why did that seem relevant?”
“Because that was the only cash withdrawal, he pays for everything on the card. Even his milk and papers.”
Eleanor smiled. “Now that is interesting.”
Chapter Six
Laurence let out an exaggerated moan as Eleanor drove past D’Angelo’s and then took Wellesley in the direction of Police HQ.
“At least let me have a coffee before the boss chews me out,” he muttered.
Eleanor reached into the glove compartment and handed him an energy bar and a can of soda.
“It’s not the same!” he whined theatrically.
Eleanor smiled in spite of herself. “Listen I have to go and see someone. You need to go and make personally sure that there is a twenty-four hour solid watch on Barnes. Make sure the paperwork is logged, I don’t like wriggle room for the defense,” she said.
“You’re not leaving me to go and tackle the boss on my own?”
“For fuck’s sake!” Eleanor grabbed her reporter’s notebook, scribbled a sentence, folded it and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. “Ok, you go meet Samuelson and call me if he gets shirty. When you get up there check the note and see if I’m right.” She tapped his pocket and ushered him out of the car. “I’ll meet you in D’Angelo’s at seven am.” With no further discussion she drove off.
“What about the debrief? The development of a strategy?” he muttered and taking a look up at the third floor window made his way into the building.
“Honey he left at six for his dinner,” said the woman fiddling with a malfunctioning photocopier outside Marty Samuelson’s office.
“He did?” Laurence replied, a little astonished that his boss should have left so early in the middle of a major case like this one. Well at least he wouldn’t have to face Samuelson on his own. He was just contemplating his next move when his cell phone rang. “Hello, Detective Laurence Whitefoot speaking.”
“It’s Mags, just to let you know I let Monster in and I’m back on the eighth as we discussed,” his ex-girlfriend chirped into the phone.
Laurence felt his chest tighten and his heart rate double. “No! We did not discuss that! You left Monster unattended in the apartment?”
“Oh he’s fine now, Bill has been working on his little peccadilloes.” Bill was Mag’s latest ‘significant other’ and his general approach to dog calming as it was to all things, including Laurence himself, was to ignore it.
“Peccadilloes? What the fuck sort of phrase is that? The dog’s a fucking psychopath, he’ll destroy my apartment,” raged Laurence.
“Your apartment? The apartment you are squatting in belongs to me, Bill and yourself!” she hissed down the phone.
“How the fuck does Bill have any ownership? This is some sort of fucking joke isn’t it?”
“What is mine is Bill’s and vice versa. I’ll be back on the eighth!” And with that she disconnected.
“Motherfucking bitch!” bellowed Laurence as he redialled and heard the answer message kick in. He stared wildly around the corridor and saw the woman looking at him, her mouth open. He inhaled deeply. “I’m sorry. My ex-girlfriend,”
“No shit!” replied the woman.
Laurence felt his blood pressure rise exponentially as he stood outside his flat and listened to the steady brain-numbing bark of Monster. His hands shook with rage as he tried to insert the key. At this the barking stopped and some heavy, hysterical movement began to take place from somewhere in the flat. For one tantalising moment, Laurence had a fantasy that Bill had actually tamed Monster and he would be sitting obediently in the kitchen but on opening the door and seeing the chaos through a cloud of drifting feathers, reality hit. Laurence heard a strange whining noise but suspected it was emanating from him rather than Monster who was keeping a low profile.
&n
bsp; “Monster?” he called through gritted teeth.
The German Shepherd burst happily from the bedroom, carrying one of Laurence’s Italian brogues in his mouth. Laurence whipped his pistol from its holster and levelled the barrel at Monster who, suspecting that manners were required, duly flipped onto his back, tail wagging. Laurence tried to calm his breathing and was lowering the weapon when he caught sight of the photograph pinned to the refrigerator. It showed Monster his tongue lolling out of his stupid face, Mags and Bill arm in arm behind him waving like the bloody Walton’s and a hand written note proclaiming, ‘Back on the eighth!’ Laurence fired one shot, it entered Monster’s temple just above the right eye and then embedded itself in a risotto that had been sitting in between two ancient and unloved bags of seasonal greens. The sound ricocheted around the flat triggering Monster’s bowels to open alarmingly and pungently.
Eleanor sat on Minnie’s small occasional chair in her sitting room and stared at Mo. His face was an alarming porcelain shade and the weight he was losing, due to Minnie’s strict dietary regime and the gastric band, seemed to be slipping from his face and neck down his chest and arms and into what could be mistaken for a flaccid tyre around his waist. His breathing was erratic, punctuated by a slurping cough.
“So why do you think Stollar didn’t call it in?” he gasped, settling himself into a more comfortable position. Eleanor had given Mo a complete debrief, probably one she should have presented to her boss and new partner Mo had sagely observed. “You think he’s guilty? Stats say he is,” he added.
“Not sure,” she replied slowly. “I think there’s some sort of link between him and her death but I don’t know what it is yet.”
“What about the cards? The kidnappings to order?”
“Again I’m not sure, we’ve got a tail on Cheswell Barnes and hopefully he’s going to give us a lead in that direction.”
“You think this is a kinky kidnapping that went wrong?” Mo asked.
Eleanor thought for a minute before answering. “I don’t think this kidnapping went wrong at all. It was minutely planned and our perp covered his tracks.”