“Is that a compliment, Doctor?”
“Merely an observation, though you may take it as you wish.” She smiled warmly and sat down at her desk. “Though it raises the question, why are you always early?”
The Celtic brain is quick to see the other side of any compliment, and MacNeice’s was no exception. His had already swung into action, digging out all the times he’d been late. His serial lateness included police budget meetings, the dentist, most of his schooling, and cocktails with strangers; he was fifty-fifty with arriving on time for meetings with Wallace. Still, here he was. “I recognize the value of these sessions. How’s that?”
Before she could answer, her desk telephone rang. “I apologize.” Her brow furrowed as she reached for the receiver. She looked at the call display, then turned to MacNeice. “I was going to ignore this call, but I suspect it’s for you and may be important.” She put the telephone to her ear and listened. “Yes, we were just beginning. Yes, it is inconvenient . . . Right . . . Very well, here he is.” She handed the phone to MacNeice and stood up. “I’ll give you some privacy.”
He waited for her to leave the room before speaking. “MacNeice.”
Wallace cleared his throat. “I won’t ask how it’s going with the good doctor; I’ll just assume that since you’re there it’s going well.” Wallace wasn’t interested in a reply, so MacNeice didn’t offer one. “Mac, I know you’re leading two different homicide investigations right now, and I don’t want to add to your work —”
“What’s happened?”
“David Palmer’s happened. Now, I know Swetsky spoke to you, but there’s a new wrinkle. Palmer missed his shift this morning and isn’t answering his cell or the landline at his house. McMillan had sent a patrol car to check on him and another to the house of the woman he’d been screwing. Everything seemed fine; the husband quickly apologized for the scene he’d made, and neither knew of Palmer’s whereabouts. Palmer didn’t answer the door at his place, so the cop looked in through the windows. It looked trashed. His car’s in the driveway and there’s no sign of him.”
“Is the woman he was involved with still working at the precinct?”
“She is.” Wallace cleared his throat again. “Mac, we’ve got several problems here, first being that Palmer’s an embarrassment to the force. He’s lazy and no one on his team trusts him — and I’m getting that from McMillan, the head of their division. God knows what they say among themselves. Second, and this one’s on me, Palmer has a history of screwing other men’s wives, yet he remains a DPD detective. Third, we don’t know if he had more women on the hook, and maybe one of their husbands found out.”
“Why is he still on the force?”
“When I overlooked his behaviour the first time, I set a precedent. And the Police Union would come out swinging if I dumped him now. They’d connect his dismissal with Dundurn’s budget crunch.”
“What’s the status at his house now?”
“I’m trying to pry loose a small team from Forensics to go through the place. The DI who went in said it was a mess but there weren’t any signs of a struggle or blood. So maybe we can add ‘slob’ to Palmer’s list of achievements.”
“Leave it with me.” MacNeice put down the phone.
Moments later, Sumner returned. She could see he was distracted. “Mac, I think it’s best that we reschedule this session.” She opened the door to her reception area before MacNeice could say anything.
Back in the car, MacNeice slipped Tom Waits’s Foreign Affairs into the CD player and turned on his cellphone. The deep purr of the Chevy’s engine connected with the gravel-voiced Waits. There were four messages from Wallace and one missed call from Richardson with no message. Punching in the number, he called dispatch on the radio-telephone. Lucy of the smoker’s voice answered. “What can I do for you, Detective Superintendent?”
“Give me DI Palmer’s home address, please. I’ll wait.” MacNeice watched a cat rolling around on Sumner’s lawn, scratching its back. “Ready, yes . . . 678 Upper Paradise Road. Perfect. Thanks, Luce.”
* * *
Do you remember how much I hated Tom Waits’s voice?
“Yes, but I expected it. That’s why I focused on his choices, his taste, his strength as a storyteller. And anyway, I was so far gone on you, I couldn’t be offended. I just kept looking to see how Tom and I could turn you around.”
Ha! You and Tom won me over with “Foreign Affair.” That song was written for the me I was before I met you. Remember when I asked you to play it at my memorial?
“I do. And I kept that promise. I can’t listen to it now — I mean, really listen to it — without weeping.”
I know . . .
* * *
With two cruisers blocking the driveway and orange traffic cones diverting traffic to the next lane, the split-level on Upper Paradise was easy to find. Tucked into the driveway, an unmarked blue Chevy was parked next to what MacNeice assumed was Palmer’s beat-up beige Corolla.
MacNeice stepped out of the car and scanned the street. With one exception they were modest, well-kept homes with wide, trimmed lawns bisected by the city’s sidewalk. Palmer’s was the missing tooth in that pleasant but uninteresting smile. The paint on his house was blistered and cracked. The roof needed attention where several shingles had given up and slid down to the eavestrough. The grass in front was a foot tall and giddy with dandelions. Palmer was the neighbour others loved to hate.
“When travelling abroad in the continental style / It’s my belief one must attempt to be discreet . . .”
“You do a passable imitation of Tom’s voice. Is ‘travelling abroad’ a reference to my visit to Paris?”
I’m dead, you sweet man. I don’t have a voice, but for the one you give me. And now I have the ability to sing. Thank you. And yes, though it could also have been a reference to my time in Paris.
“I’m tired, Kate. Or maybe weary is a better word.”
I’m not surprised, Mac. You’ve been holding it together for so long. “And subsequently bear in mind your transient position / Allows you a perspective that’s unique . . .”
“I never imagined you’d be singing ‘Foreign Affair’ to me.”
Oh, I love this part. “Most vagabonds I knowed don’t ever want to find the culprit / That remains the object of their long relentless quest / The obsession’s in the chasing and not the apprehending / The pursuit, you see, and never the arrest.”
“I won’t take that personally.”
I wish you would.
“I knowed.”
* * *
A young detective wearing a light grey suit greeted MacNeice at the door. He looked football-tackle fit and introduced himself as Charlie Maracle. Backing into the living room, he stepped aside and said, “Welcome to paradise, sir.”
MacNeice studied the high cheekbones, wide-set eyes, and ready smile. “You’re from the Six Nations, Detective?”
“Yes, sir, born and raised.”
MacNeice smiled. “I believe I know your father. You walk in very large shoes.”
“Thank you. He also speaks highly of you, sir.”
“What do we have here, Charlie?”
Maracle looked into the living room and shook his head. “Other than this place being tipped over, there are no signs of a struggle. No broken windows or shattered doorframes. We don’t know if this is foul play or just Palmer going for a different kind of casual.”
“How well do you know him?”
Maracle paused, then stepped back through the doorway and outside. MacNeice joined him. They stood together facing the street. “No need for the guys inside to hear us, sir.” Maracle picked up an unopened copy of the Standard and tossed it inside. “Thing is, Palmer’s a brother, and I owe him.”
“In which case consider the question as coming from another member of the family.”
“Yes, sir
.” He squinted against the sun and looked up at the taller man. “We’re a tight unit, sir, smaller than yours. We rely on each other. I’m not bothered because Palmer’s a bigot; I can deal with that.” Maracle put on his aviators to cut the glare. “Straight up, sir, Palmer’s a fuck-up. When he’s next to me, I go into the field knowing I’m on my own. And sloppy doesn’t come close to it; I don’t think the man has a clue when it comes to police work. His thing for women . . . since I’ve been in Homicide I know of three, and two of those were married.”
“That’s a blunt assessment.”
“I’m told he came from your division, so I figure anything I have to say isn’t coming as a surprise . . . sir.”
“Correct.” MacNeice changed the subject. “Which branch of the service were you in?”
The question surprised Maracle. “RDLI, 31 Brigade Group — three tours in Afghanistan.” Maracle paused as a Harley rumbled down Upper Paradise Road. “Trust over there cuts cold through the bullshit, sir.”
They went back inside, where two uniformed officers were combing through the shelving above and beside a huge television screen. They were wearing gloves but nothing over their boots. Seeing MacNeice look down at their footwear, Maracle said quietly, “We don’t know that this is a crime scene, sir. Palmer could come walking in any minute, wondering what the hell is going on.”
MacNeice looked at the overflowing ashtray and the three empty beer bottles on the coffee table. They hadn’t found his cellphone or computer, nor anything that would suggest Palmer had packed up his things and left. There were a significant number of adult videos in the bedroom, and a television screen even larger than the one in the living room. The refrigerator and cupboards were bare, except for beer, a jug of milk, cereal, canned soup, crackers, and cheese.
“He was hoarding Standards; there’s a stack of them next to the back door. And — this is interesting — the real estate sections were in a separate pile, with properties circled in all of them. Cottages and houses on the Great Lakes, up north, and all the way to the Quebec border.”
“A second career in real estate?”
Maracle laughed. “Yeah, well, this place is definitely a renter.”
“And those four impressions in the carpet?” MacNeice asked.
“A heavy chair, we figure, but where it is or why it’s gone? No idea.”
MacNeice thanked Maracle and requested that he not put up police tape. “For now,” he said, “ask the neighbours if they noticed or heard anything unusual, but don’t refer to Palmer as a missing person. He may just have gone to Vegas for the weekend.”
“You believe that, sir?”
“No, but I do know the Mountain has only two squad cars, and both of them are sitting outside. If we put down tape, we’re obliged to leave one of them here. Lock up when you’re done, Detective. After forty-eight hours we’ll reassess.” MacNeice shook Maracle’s hand and turned to the door. “And Charlie, give my regards to your father.”
* * *
As he was walking back to the car, MacNeice’s cellphone rang. It was Mary Richardson.
“Amelia Street’s fairly straightforward, Mac, and the bodies have already arrived at Barton Street. Dead three days, perhaps a little less.” Judging from the background noise, Richardson was standing in front of the Punchbowl corpse. “Thank you for leaving the donkey mask on. There were fluids trapped inside from the deceased’s mouth, and I suspect from the colour that they’re toxic. Based on speculation as I stand here, the cause of death was a drug overdose, and that occurred several hours before he was shot. I’ll know about the toxins once we get him on the table. However, those two holes in his chest were absolutely unnecessary.” She paused to let MacNeice consider the news. “Are you surprised?”
“No. I think all three men were murdered as set pieces, like theatre. They were wearing the same nightshirts . . .”
“Ah, yes. On that subject, I wear nightshirts and I also dabble in oil painting. These nightshirts are made of duck cloth — artist’s canvas. Good for painting but unbearable in the sack.”
[19]
MacNeice walked into the cubicle early Wednesday morning and handed Ryan his point-and-shoot camera. Though it was sunny and warm outside, there was every reason for the mood in the cubicle to be dark, but it wasn’t. Dundurn had had its vacation from murder; killers were back at work.
John Swetsky’s barrel laugh interrupted MacNeice’s thoughts; the big man was in the canteen with Vertesi, making coffee. Fiza noticed the stitch in MacNeice’s step when Swets laughed. She smiled her “boys will be boys” smile. “I think John’s sharing his line about getting the dead man’s head out of his ass.”
Aziz took a red marker and wrote amelia street — howard / matthew terry at the top of the whiteboard, and next to it devil’s punchbowl — john doe. Turning to MacNeice, she asked, “Is there anything else?”
Before he could answer, Swetsky and Vertesi appeared carrying mugs of coffee, tea for Aziz, and a double espresso for MacNeice. Swetsky glanced up at the whiteboard before handing a cup to DI Montile Williams.
“Does this mean we’ll be recruiting, boss?” Vertesi asked. “I mean, I’ve heard we’re getting Palmer back, but anyone else — like someone who actually does cop work?”
MacNeice raised an eyebrow in Swetsky’s direction, “David Palmer will be returning, but he’s currently out of communication and didn’t report for duty yesterday at Dundurn East.” He turned to Aziz. “Leave room on the board. If Palmer doesn’t show up here tomorrow morning, we’ll assume he’s come to some harm.”
“Wouldn’t that be a Missing Persons job?” asked Williams.
“Yes, and they may be called in. The distinction here is that Palmer’s a homicide detective, not a senior suffering from dementia or a runaway teen. That and he was threatened by the husband of a woman he was seeing romantically.” MacNeice thought for a moment before adding, “His house has been trashed but there’s no indication of a break-in, or that it wasn’t done by Palmer, for reasons unknown.”
“Jesus.” Vertesi leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head. “So it’s possible that the prodigal fuck-up may never return?”
“Let’s just hope he does,” Swetsky said, with a tone of correction.
MacNeice stood looking at the Amelia Street photograph on the whiteboard. He couldn’t decide whether he’d seen something like it before or he’d been looking at the crime scene photos for so long he’d memorized the details. Turning away from the board, he sat at his desk to write down everything he could remember about the scene. When he’d finished, he turned the page over and did it again.
After a third attempt, he stood up abruptly and went to make another coffee. Lost in thought, he didn’t notice the cup overflowing. When the espresso machine shut down, he came back to reality. In that moment, a fragment of memory surfaced. Leaving his coffee behind, MacNeice went back to the cubicle, as if unaware that sound travels in an open office.
Aziz turned when he walked in. “What is it, Mac?”
He was staring at the whiteboard. “I’ve seen it. I don’t know where or when, or whether it was television or something else, but I’m certain it’s a reproduction of something.” He tapped the image. “Amelia Street . . . I know I’ve seen it.”
Aziz smiled, waiting for him to piece together the puzzle.
“You mean, like this is a copycat case, boss?” Vertesi asked.
MacNeice shook his head. “In a way, but not in the sense that you mean. I’ve never seen or heard of anything like it.” He pointed to the photo of the V on the carpet. “I’m certain he’s telling us where to stand for a reason.” He looked across at the Devil’s Punchbowl photo. “And here as well.” He pointed to the donkey-head man. “Though I have no idea at all about this one.”
“So it’s like these are real crime scenes,” Williams said. “The scene of the crime . . . A r
estaging or retelling?”
“But couldn’t that V have been anywhere in the room?” Vertesi still wasn’t convinced.
“No.” MacNeice pointed to the brass letter on the carpet. “Had it been anywhere else, it wouldn’t have been in the right place.”
If intense concentration on a single point in space had the power of revelation, it should have happened right then. Aziz, Vertesi, Williams, Swets, and MacNeice were all staring at the Amelia Street photos on the whiteboard. It was like they were willing his memory to come to the surface.
The telephone rang and the moment was gone. Ryan swung around. “It’s for you, sir. Dr. Richardson.”
The large ceramic-tiled morgue produced an echo that made Richardson’s voice seem almost godlike. “MacNeice, Junior and I are midway through the Amelia autopsies. You might be interested to know that in addition to the tumour in Father Terry’s brain, he had another on his lung. It’s the size of a walnut and may not have been detected.”
MacNeice could hear the sound of an electric saw. He decided to sit down and wait for the next shoe to drop.
“However, I’m ringing to let you know I can confirm that the cause of death for your Punchbowl chap was a mix of fentanyl and heroin, which he’d coughed up into that lovely donkey head. The toxicology report for his stomach contents will come later, but he had several needle-mark sites, some recent but most several months old. He’d injected into his arms, abdomen, and ankles and between the toes. I hope that’s helpful.”
“Before you go, Mary, I’ll send someone down to take a photograph of that man’s face. Please don’t cut into it just yet.”
“Quick as you can, Mac.” As she was hanging up, he heard her shout, “Tools down, Junior.”
He put the phone in its cradle and turned to Vertesi. “Michael, go down to Richardson’s lab and take some headshots of the body from the Punchbowl. Ryan will clean them up for publication. Go quickly, though — Junior’s revving up his saw.” MacNeice picked up a marker and wrote: Cause of death: drug overdose (fentanyl/heroin) below the Punchbowl photo.
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