by Joan Boswell
“Me?” His mouth curved into a sardonic smile. “I expect many people would like me dead. Whether anyone would do it—that’s an interesting question.”
“Mr. Hartman, this isn’t a game. Someone killed your son in a horrible, premeditated way. If you were the intended victim, he or she may try again. We need to work quickly. Give me names.”
“My ex-partner, Arthur White, and my ex-wife, Lena Kalma, both hate me. Sometimes Arthur hangs around, muttering threats.”
“Have you reported him?” Zee Zee said, looking up from her notebook.
“I don’t take him seriously. Arthur’s a zealot. Once he clamps onto a subject, he hangs on like a pit bull until something else comes along. I figure he’ll eventually move on.”
Zee Zee shook her head but said nothing. Stalking was a crime, and stalkers were to be taken seriously. They seldom shed their obsessions.
“I’ll add the SOHD opponents to the hate list. They harass me with abusive phone calls.” His eyebrows rose. “On occasion, the caller has threatened to do more. They never say kill, they say remove, destroy—words like that.”
“SOHD?”
“Stamp Out Hereditary Diseases. I’m local chapter president.” He moved into lecture mode. “We want to reduce numbers in hospital by eliminating hereditary diseases. We lobby for government money to educate people to voluntarily take genetic testing and not have babies if they carry hereditary disease genes. Our opponents, the same people who oppose abortion, think it’s like playing God.” He ran his hand through his silvery hair and turned slightly as if displaying his best side to the camera. “Because I’m known to be good with media, I’ve become their spokesperson.”
“Thank you—we’ll follow up on those leads, and we’ll have more questions.” Despite his speech, he looked exhausted. “But that’s enough for tonight. We’ll talk to Tomas now.”
Tomas knocked before he came in. He was taller than his father. His red-rimmed eyes and clenched jaw reflected his stress.
“I’m sorry about your brother. What can you tell me about him and about you?” Rhona said.
“Not enough. I feel awful.” He pulled a wad of soggy tissue from his pocket, blew his nose and apologized as he sat down. “Dad says you want information about me in case the killer tampered with the wrong bike.”
“It is a possibility.”
His features relaxed. Maybe it felt better to hear suspicions validated.
“You want to hear if I have enemies—if I belong to Hell’s Angels or deal dope.” He shrugged. “I did do drugs at thirteen. They busted me.” His eyebrows rose. “You can imagine my father’s reaction—major league anger. Not about me. About him and his reputation. Everything’s always about him. I ended up with a warning. The old man—ever since I saw Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, I think of him as Big Daddy—wanted me in detox.” His eyes brightened. “Thank God for my stepmother. She intervened. Told him she’d handle everything.” He stopped and frowned. “It isn’t a secret, but I don’t know if she’s told you that she has problems with depression.”
“Not yet,” Zee Zee said.
“Well, it’s true. She’d learned from firsthand experience how much better you feel if you exercise hard. I was a good swimmer—she encouraged me to become a competitive swimmer.” He leaned forward and spoke with intensity, “For years, years, she drove me to swimming practice at five a.m., even though she had Etienne and a full-time job.” He smiled. “I suppose you don’t hear much praise for stepmoms, but Manon has always cared about me and Ivan.”
His smile disappeared. “My dad is great if you’re doing fine. We sail and bike and have fun. He’s no use if you have problems. But you want names of anyone who might have it in for me.” He shrugged. “I came home from the University of New Brunswick last week. I don’t have a girlfriend right now. I don’t think I’ve seriously pissed anyone off. When I asked myself if anyone wanted me dead, I didn’t come up with a name, but I’ll keep thinking.” He met her gaze. “It’s not a happy thought that whoever did it made a mistake and still wants to murder me or my dad. I promise I will think about every single person I’ve ever met. If I hit on a name, I’ll call you. Believe me I will.”
“Now tell us about Ivan. Who did he hang around with?” Rhona didn’t expect Tomas to know but had to cover the ground.
“In high school, no one special. He wasn’t victimized, bullied, nothing like that, but he didn’t have close friends. He liked girls, but he was shy—he had bad acne in high school. At Christmas when I came home, I saw a big difference in him—he smiled a lot and whistled. When I commented he shrugged and gave me a platitude.”
“You have no idea what brought about this character change?”
“None.”
“Did he always like cooking?”
“Forever. He was really good.”
“Do you know where his computer is?”
“His computer? No.”
Rhona thanked Tomas and asked to see Ivan and Tomas’s apartment. Upstairs, they slipped on gloves before they opened drawers and examined cupboards and book shelves. In case they needed anything fingerprinted, they made sure not to contaminate the scene. Ivan didn’t have many personal mementos. The one photo in his room pictured Etienne as a toddler splashing in the bathtub.
Zee Zee plucked it from the shelf. “Is this the room’s single photo because he loved his brother, or because it was the only child’s photograph he could legitimately display?”
“It’s horrible when you have to ask questions like that. It’s a wonder all cops aren’t total cynics,” Rhona said.
Heavy cookbooks and photo albums crammed particle board bookshelves that sagged under their weight. Ivan had filed hundreds of recipes in photo album pockets intended for 4x6 pictures. This storage system was new to Rhona. If she ever found time to cook in a serious way, she’d remember.
In one album, she found a card with fellow students’ names and phone numbers. She’d faxed George Brown earlier for class lists. “We need his cell phone number to check his calls,” Rhona said, showing the card to Zee Zee, who stood at Ivan’s desk sorting through the papers in the file drawer.
“He designated one for bills.” Zee Zee extracted a red folder and thumbed through it. “Here they are. We’ll go back a couple of months and track them. Wasn’t he a tidy young man? I wish I kept my records in such good order.” She straightened up and allowed her glance to sweep the room. “If his computer isn’t here and isn’t at his mother’s, where is it?”
“At his mother’s, I wondered about child pornography.
Maybe that’s why he locked the door. Maybe when he figured she was reading his email, he took his computer and left home?”
“I had the same thought. It might provide motivation for his murder. We’ll run his name through the records in the sex crimes unit.”
“We have to find the computer. Before we leave here, we’ll see if anyone can tell us.”
Rhona waved the card listing students’ names. “Some students may come to the visitations or attend the funeral— we’ll talk to them.” She considered the card. “In the meantime, we’ll match names with phone numbers and call the ones he spoke to most frequently.”
* * *
“Absolutely no idea,” Curt said when asked about the computer’s whereabouts as they were leaving.
They talked outside as they headed for the car. “We have a lot to check—Ivan’s mystery life, Curt’s enemies—the list grows ever longer,” Rhona said.
“Not much we can do about Ivan’s life tonight. If SOHD ’s opponents are the same people as the anti-abortionists, I’ve run into them before. They allegedly murdered an abortion clinic doctor. I say allegedly, because the police never pinned it on them—the killing remains unsolved. If it’s the same lot, we shouldn’t underestimate them—those men and women are dangerous. As for Arthur White...” Zee Zee’s voice trailed off.
“Should we talk to him tonight?”
“Why not? It’s not late. Our ap
pearance on his doorstep may unsettle him enough that he unintentionally reveals something. I’ll interview. I knew him years ago in my other life.”
Rhona found a parking spot close to Arthur White’s apartment, a low rise near the intersection of St. Clair Avenue and Yonge Street. Ten thirty. It took a second and then a third push on the bell before a squeaky voice responded and buzzed them inside.
The elevator, shabby but clean, smelled like dogs, incontinent dogs. On the fifth floor, dim light and threadbare stained carpeting left an impression of genteel poverty. Halfway down the hall, a diminutive man with a halo of white curls awaited them. They followed him into a half-furnished apartment. Lighter coloured spaces on the wallpaper indicated where paintings had hung. In the living room, two upholstered chairs huddled on the bare floor. A darker wood rectangle in the room’s centre acted like the carpet that must once have been there.
“She took everything that belonged to her family, and half the things we’d bought together,” Arthur explained and grimaced. “She insisted on scrupulous fairness—I’ll give her that.” He nodded at the two chairs and collected a metal kitchen stool for himself. Perched on it, he hooked his feet around the rungs.
“We’re here to talk to you about Ivan and Curt Hartman.” Zee Zee indicated the recorder. “We’ll have to tape what you say.”
Curt peered at her. “Don’t I know you?” He considered. “I do. You ran the Horn of Plenty Gallery—wonderful African art and textiles—wonderful things.” He frowned. “And I heard you did well. Why would you give that up for a police career?”
“You have a good memory. It doesn’t have any bearing on why we’re here, but I’ll tell you that although I succeeded, I wanted to do more with my life. But this isn’t about me. Tell us about Curt Hartman?”
“Curt—that bastard.” The little man’s face folded in on itself, and he scowled.
“What happened between you and Mr. Hartman?”
“It’s not complicated. I represented him, sold his work everywhere.” He shifted on his uncomfortable-looking seat. “I considered him my friend. We owned a sailboat together. When he was married to Lena Kalma, the four of us went sailing in the Caribbean.” He paused, as if remembering a pleasant holiday.
Zee Zee didn’t interrupt.
“A few years ago, he left me for a bigger, more prestigious gallery in Yorkville.” Arthur crossed to a half-empty bookcase, plucked a well-thumbed volume from the bottom shelf and waved it at Zee Zee. “Curt’s biography—have you read it?”
“Not yet.”
“He says I ripped him off.” Arthur exhaled dismissively. “Can you imagine he’d make a charge like that after the years we worked together?” His shoulders sagged. “My gallery went bankrupt last year after this book came out. Artists removed their paintings.” He shrugged. “You can’t run a gallery without work to sell. I’m suing him for defamation. Even if I win, it won’t restore my gallery or bring my wife back.” His voice thickened and tears threatened. “They were my life,” he quavered.
“Your wife left at the same time?”
He pulled a large, none-too-clean handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. “And took half my assets and...” he waved at the apartment, “half of everything.” He sniffed. “I can’t offer you a decent cup of coffee, not that anyone drinks coffee at this hour. She grabbed the coffee maker. Now I’m reduced to drinking instant; I won’t offer that vile beverage to anyone.”
“Did you know Ivan?”
“Not as well as Tomas, who loved sailing with us, even as a very little boy. Ivan never came. Apparently he threw up even if the water was mirror-calm, not that you sail if it is. But you get my drift. He wasn’t comfortable on Lake Ontario. A big wading pool probably makes him nauseous. A nice young man. Too bad about him.”
There was no sorrow in his voice; it was a perfunctory thing to say.
Zee Zee pulled one of her cards from her black book and scribbled something on it. “We may be back. In the interim, go to the nearest police station and have your fingerprints taken.”
“You have to be kidding?”
“We’re not. It’s routine in a murder investigation for those who might be involved. And we’ll want proof of your whereabouts in the hours before the murder.”
“Well, you won’t get any, because I don’t have any. I was alone. I’m always alone.”
He walked them to the door, shaking his head and muttering under his breath.
Back in the car, Rhona pulled away from the curb. “Arthur certainly has reason to hate Curt. Could he kill him? It’s a good question. He definitely warrants a second interview.” Rhona drove them back to headquarters, where they split up, picked up their own cars and headed home. Cruising up Yonge Street toward her apartment, Rhona considered Toronto air. Almost midnight, and it remained chokingly thick and oppressive. Why hadn’t someone warned her about summer air pollution?
Back in her shabby apartment, she stripped off her working outfit, her tailored and now crushed black linen pantsuit, perspiration-stained silk blouse and black cowboy boots and tossed them toward her unmade bed.
Opie, her oversize tortoiseshell cat, vocalizing his displeasure at his long, boring day, stalked around her legs. Then he batted at her without sheathing his claws. He didn’t like the new apartment either, and she didn’t blame him. For the same price she’d paid for her spacious Ottawa townhouse, they rented a cramped one-bedroom apartment. Probably built on the cheap right after World War Two, it had concrete walls, window air-conditioners unequal to their task and mold in the bathroom fan outlet.
Right now, mold or not, a shower was the answer. Then she’d treat herself to a vodka martini. She couldn’t solve the crime tonight, unless her unconscious worked overtime and woke her at dawn with a brilliant insight.
Rhona, after a night of broken sleep, woke at first light, shortly after five, found the Advil and gulped two. Once the pills began working, she attended to the one domestic chore she could no longer postpone—she cleaned the cat’s litter box. That task completed, she offered Opie an extra-special breakfast of tinned tuna, filled his water bowl and topped up his cat kibble, knowing how much he’d resent it. He condescended to eat dry food only if he believed starvation threatened.
Domestic duties done, she luxuriated under the shower. Two good things about her apartment were strong water pressure and a large shower head. By six thirty, she’d dressed in a blue seersucker pantsuit, navy blouse and black cowboy boots, eaten a bagel and made coffee. She poured herself a rejuvenating mug before she filled a thermos. Since Frank disapproved of coffee shop stops, she’d brew her own and haul it to work.
* * *
“I thought you’d arrive early.” Zee Zee greeted her at seven and pointed to Frank’s office. “We didn’t beat him, but we’re here and ready to roll. Let’s dig into the data bank and identify SOHD ’s opponents? If they’re the same anti-abortionists I know, we’ll find two names I’ve dealt with before—Barney Evans and Allie Jones.”
Minutes later, she reported to Rhona. “Barney’s out on parole after serving time for assaulting a police officer. I’m still steamed because we couldn’t convict him in the Oshawa doctor’s murder.” She clenched her jaw. “I’d love to put him away.”
“What about the woman?”
“Allie’s got a sheet as well. Mostly from protests and demonstrations where she attacked police officers or resisted arrest. She presents herself as a sweet, neatly-groomed woman who stays at home baking apple pies. But if you’ve ever seen her face when she’s picketing an abortion clinic, you realize what a front that is. She’s vicious and single-minded—she says she’ll do anything to stop abortions. Don’t underestimate her.”
“Lovely. Which one do you want to interview?”
“Barney. We’ll go now.”
The parole office provided Barney’s current Port Credit address. While she drove, Rhona reviewed what she’d read about the community. Port Credit had once been a working class suburban dis
trict where small houses crowded around now-deserted factories, mute reminders of Canada’s past manufacturing history. Rail lines ran through the area, and Lake Ontario wasn’t far away. They pulled up in front of a tiny clapboard house. A mowed lawn and unadorned front porch neither repelled nor invited.
“Barney Evans?” Zee Zee said to the woman who peered at them through the screen.
“Not again,” she grumbled and shouted, “It’s them again, Barney.” Her lips turned down. “You might as well come in— you will anyway. He’ll be along. Don’t think he’s up. He may brush his teeth.” She shrugged. “Or not. I’m making strawberry jam. Went to the pick-it-yourself place yesterday.” She disappeared into the back.
“I didn’t think we wore signs on our foreheads,” Rhona murmured.
“Not for most people—but don’t you think that if you’ve had a number of brushes with police, you develop a sixth sense?” Zee Zee answered quietly.
In the small hall, wallpapered in a grey, narrow stripe, an overhead light with a smoked glass shade cast little light. Rhona untangled the odours assaulting her nose. Boiling jam almost, but not quite, cancelled stale cigarette smoke, cat pee, rotting wood and rancid fat.
“She could have moved us to the front room or the kitchen,” Rhona complained, concentrating on breathing shallowly.
As if she’d heard her comment, Mrs. Evans, if that’s who she was, poked her head out of the kitchen. “Sit in the living room,” she ordered and returned to her jam.
They did and set up the tape recorder alongside a flickering soundless TV .
“Maybe he’s having a shower?” Rhona said as minutes passed. She leaned toward Zee Zee and away from an overflowing brown glass ashtray sitting on a chrome stand. “Could we do this outside? I may throw up.”
“Poor little cop,” a voice said.
The man in the doorway would not have drawn attention in a crowd. He had a small quantity of sandy hair pulled across his forehead, pale, pasty freckled skin and a slightly overweight, paunchy body. If you disliked pigs, you would describe him as porcine.