Several steps later, the Ram’s fuel tank exploded, sending metal panels and debris into the air and significantly increasing the height of the flames. MacNeice and Maracle waited for the high-flying metal to land. It wasn’t hard to track; the fire illuminated everything.
MacNeice was moving forward when he heard a high-pitched whistle. He looked over at Maracle, who was holding up his index finger, making a slashing motion downward with his hand. There’s one man ahead on the left.
MacNeice nodded and waited. Maracle made walking movements with his fingers and signalled three times with his open hand. He’s fifteen feet ahead.
With that, Maracle dropped his crutches, got down on the ground, and began crawling forward. When they had moved another six feet or so, he whistled again. MacNeice crouched down and looked over at him. Maracle put two fingers towards his eyes and quickly pointed beyond the clump of forsythia directly ahead of MacNeice. He extended two fingers to suggest a gun and nodded. He’s armed.
Maracle was on his belly. With his arms extended, he took aim, then nodded to MacNeice. MacNeice signalled for Maracle to hold fire. Stepping into the open, he could see a middle-aged man sitting upright against a tree, his head leaning back against the trunk. MacNeice took aim, then called, “Stay down. It’s over. Throw away your weapon.”
The man was wounded and bleeding from both legs. He managed to square himself on the trunk to face MacNeice, but he kept his semi-automatic resting on his thigh.
“Drop the weapon.”
The man’s face was blackened from the smoke, but his lips parted slowly to reveal a mouthful of bright white teeth. He was grinning. He raised the weapon and wildly fired three quick bursts.
It was hard to tell who was first to return fire, but he was struck several times. The shots sent him into a forsythia bush, where dozens of yellow blossoms fell and settled on his face, some not far from the entry wound above his left eye.
MacNeice kicked away the weapon and squatted over the dead man. He checked the man’s pockets and found a wallet with several credit cards, a driver’s licence, vehicle registration and insurance, a health card, and two thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills. Kyros Galanis, fifty-four years old, 269 Parkdale Avenue North, Dundurn. The Ram was registered to Galanis and Sons Upholstery, 1646 Main Street East.
As MacNeice walked over to Maracle, five members of the Tactical Unit came running towards them with assault rifles. After a quick assessment of the scene, they helped Maracle to his feet, handing him the crutches. They left the two detectives alone and went to check the body.
“Kyros Galanis. Is he the one who came for Palmer?” MacNeice was looking back at the burning vehicle.
Maracle was studying a scorched piece of metal. “I never saw him, but yeah, that’s his name. I was planning to make a house call to his place tomorrow morning.”
Minutes later, firefighters had transformed the Ram into a foamy white hulk. The flames that had ignited the nearby shrubs were extinguished and the lane returned to darkness. MacNeice stepped forward to examine the Ram. It was riddled with bullet holes and its interior appeared gutted. Between the darkness and the steam, it was impossible to see anything inside.
The tactical team produced two enormous floodlights and directed them through the side windows. Fire-retardant foam covered everything and dripped in glops from the roof. The door panels and seats had burned down to their metal frames and the dashboard had melted. But MacNeice wasn’t interested in the truck; he was looking for something else. When he found it, he called Maracle over. There were two bodies, one in the passenger seat and the other stretched awkwardly over the driveshaft in the rear. Covered in foam, they looked like ash-encased citizens of Pompeii.
The head of the tactical team came over to see inside the truck. He didn’t say anything at first, but once he’d seen what was in the front and back seats, he asked, “Is there anything you need, sir?”
“No, I’ve seen enough for now, Commander. I shouldn’t ask it of you, but we’ll need a positive ID for that man over there. Please call DS McMillan to organize a viewing for Mrs. Galanis. Make sure she goes to the morgue with two female officers — preferably tonight.”
“Will do, sir. It’s not exactly in our job description, but I realize you’re tapped out.”
MacNeice shook his hand. “We’ll let you get to it.”
They began to make their way back down the lane. Maracle kept his eyes on the ground, dodging ruts in the dark with his crutches. He glanced up at MacNeice. “I’ve got an awful feeling that Mrs. Galanis didn’t escape that guy’s rage, sir.”
“We’ll know soon enough, Charlie.”
MacNeice checked the registration again: Galanis and Sons Upholstery. A wave of fatigue swept over him as he understood the name’s implication. “It’s also possible that the two bodies inside the truck are his sons.”
* * *
MacNeice took Vertesi’s car through an unhurried U-turn, weaving through the police vehicles, fire trucks, ambulances, and emergency personnel heading towards the narrow lane or standing in clusters discussing what had happened. Many of their eyes fell on the dark blue Chevy as it slowly headed north.
They didn’t talk; both men were exhausted. Each preferred to focus on the night and the passing cars and pools of light sweeping over the hood, guiding them to the edge of the mountain and down into the embrace of the city. As he turned into Emergency at St. Joe’s, MacNeice said, “That was an impressive shot from that distance, Charlie.”
[27]
It was 11:45 p.m. and John Swetsky was bored. He sat hunched over his knees in the hospital corridor, twirling a paper cup between his fingers, as he kept vigil for Aziz. He didn’t notice when MacNeice stepped out of the elevator. Others did, and gave the tall detective covered in dried blood a wide berth.
Seen from a distance, Swetsky dwarfed the chair. He looked like a lineman about to snap the football. His suit jacket was straining to overcome the muscles and meat that buttressed his chest, arms, and lower legs. MacNeice picked up another chair and sat down next to him. Swetsky glanced over at him “Christ, brother, you’re a mess.” When MacNeice didn’t respond, he said, “She’ll be fine, Mac. They brought her back a while ago. It went through clean. No contact with bones or organs, and no shell fragments.”
MacNeice inhaled sharply and leaned forward. He looked back towards the elevators, and Swetsky understood why. “Surgeon said they did a good job closing up her exit wound. Said Aziz will be in a bikini by summer.” Swetsky walked over and dumped his cup in the bin. When he sat down again, he looked at his colleague. “Never occurred to me that Aziz would even own a bikini, her being a Muslim and all.”
“Can I go in, John?”
“She’s still doped up. It’ll be another hour or so.” He turned to MacNeice. “You eaten anything?”
“No. It’s been a day.”
“There’s a decent all-nighter on King Street. I’ll get something good for both of us, but I’ll take mine home.” Swetsky didn’t wait for a response. He was about to leave when he turned back. “Donkey-head’s got a name, Mac. Leonard James Tundell, twenty-six. No fixed address. Cops found his wallet and clothes stacked high up on a rock shelf east of where he was found. There’s a rap sheet on him. Drug-related, mostly petty stuff, nothing violent. Since we didn’t hear anything from the dead shot, the photo ID from his health card is going in the paper tomorrow. I’ve already seen it on the waiting room TV.”
* * *
Swets handed him the comfort food in a grease-stained brown paper bag. MacNeice watched him lumber off to the elevators, where he turned, nodded, and waved his big paw in the air before disappearing inside.
MacNeice was aware that the bag’s aroma was drifting along the corridor. He opened it to find a toasted Western sandwich in wax paper, a sliced pickle in tinfoil, and a can of Italian lemonade to wash it down. MacNeice ate as the shifts we
re changing, avoiding the shocked eyes that passed by.
It was 1:35 a.m. when a nurse emerged and told MacNeice he could see Aziz. “For ten minutes only, Detective. She’s asleep. If she wakes up at all, she’ll be very groggy.” Holding the door open with her foot, she whispered as he passed, “Ten minutes.”
The light in the room was directed at the ceiling from the valance above the bed. MacNeice stood inside and listened as the door closed behind him with a soft whoosh. The hallway sounds fell away, replaced by the electronic beeps of monitors. Asleep, Aziz looked like a gift-wrapped package. The sheets had been tucked crisply across her chest; a baby-blue blanket lay reassuringly over her legs and feet. Someone had smoothed the shiny black hair away from her forehead. Even in the dim room she was striking.
As he approached the bed, he noticed how free of tension her hands were, even though two drips, one clear and the other deep red, disappeared into her right arm and wrist. Her chest rose and fell as a calm sea rises and falls — gently. MacNeice put his hand on her shoulder but pulled it away moments later, feeling selfish. He’d wanted reassurance on so many levels, but he decided to let her sleep. He backed silently out of the room.
Outside he found her nurse and asked, “Can you give me an idea of when Detective Aziz might be discharged?”
“You’ll have to speak to the surgeon or his resident tomorrow, but I’d guess a few days to a week. She lost a lot of blood. But by the look of your clothes, you know that.” She smiled warmly. “She’ll be fine, Detective. Talk to the surgical team in the morning.”
* * *
At 2:30 a.m. MacNeice was standing at the window of the stone cottage, a double grappa in hand. He wasn’t searching for the night-stalking coyote that often passed by. He was studying the tiny ripples on the surface of the grappa in his glass. It reminded him of movies where the ripples in a glass foreshadow a coming earthquake. He changed hands but the ripples remained. MacNeice made a mental note to rebook his appointment with Dr. Sumner. Not trusting his memory, he wrote it down and left the piece of paper propped up against his service weapon.
By now you’re thinking you are the reason people around you get hurt.
“Maybe. Though this isn’t self-pity.”
No. You’re at war with your decisions, your intuition.
“I’ve run tonight over and over in my head, Kate. I failed to keep my team safe.”
Isn’t that like carpal tunnel syndrome for a violinist?
“You mean an occupational hazard? I hunt people who kill people. And yet I believe in reason, that no matter how committed to killing they are, there’s a moment — not big, not for long — when they can be talked down from killing again.”
And does that work?
“Not tonight. Not this time.”
Is that approach based on self-confidence?
“At this hour, I fear it’s based on my ego.”
And had it worked tonight, would you still think that?
“No. I’d say, ‘It’s time for a grappa.’”
As I recall, anytime you came home was time for a grappa.
[28]
His telephone rang at 5:45 a.m. MacNeice had no idea how many times it had rung, but it finally punched through the brain fog to wake him up. He fumbled for it and looked at the caller ID before answering. “Give me a minute.” He put it down and went to the bathroom.
Standing over the toilet, he peered out the window into the darkness for signs of life. Seeing nothing, he flushed the toilet.
“Did I wake you up?” Deputy Chief Wallace asked, insincerely enough to suggest that he wasn’t looking for an answer. MacNeice opened the curtain and sat on the edge of the bed, looking up the road to the yellow spill of the lamp. Wallace got to his point, or at least one of them. “I’m calling about last night. We’re holding a press conference this morning at ten a.m.” He could hear Wallace flipping the pages of a notebook. “I need to get it straight from you.” He paused. “Given how it turned out, Mac, did you make the right decision to go up there?”
“Next question.” MacNeice went into the kitchen and turned on the espresso machine.
“Okay. The tactical team discovered a small arsenal of weapons in that truck. Given that two officers were wounded, the tactical team leader was curious to know why they weren’t called in to deal with the situation.”
“That’s an elaboration of the first question.”
“You’re stretching my patience, Detective.” Wallace cleared his throat. “Last question: we don’t have an autopsy report on Palmer, so how certain are you that he was dead before the shotgun blast?”
“Give me a minute.” He put down the phone and made his coffee — short, strong, and black. For good measure he poured in a shot of grappa, then picked up the phone. “There was no reason to call in the cavalry. We were investigating Palmer’s storage unit, just as we’d searched his house.”
“Until the suspects arrived.”
“Yes, though they weren’t suspects until they opened fire.” MacNiece downed the coffee.
“Tactical counted twenty-eight shell casings from police service weapons at the storage depot.”
“I would have guessed more.” He rinsed the cup and turned off the machine. “I’m fairly certain Richardson’s autopsy will reveal that Palmer died of suffocation before he was shot.”
“From being upholstered into the La-Z-Boy?”
“That and a gag applied so tightly that he couldn’t swallow, plus the blood loss from his groin, which had been pounded by what I think was a heavy rubber mallet. This was a vengeful husband who was not the least bit interested in hiding his identity. Actually, he was so proud of the family business that he may have taken his sons along.” MacNeice listened for Wallace’s response but could hear only breathing.
“We’ll include an update on the Punchbowl killing, with the victim’s name. You got anything to add to that?”
“We’re pursuing a very interesting theory but it’s too soon to mention it.”
It was a measure of the pressure Wallace was under that he didn’t ask to hear more. He coughed, cleared his throat, and said, “Okay, good. Let me know,” before hanging up.
The day slipped by in Homicide. Everyone was doing research or connecting dots. It looked like progress. But to MacNeice, it felt as though the momentum had shifted in favour of the killer. And no one had any idea what he might do next.
* * *
St. Joe’s, east wing, fourth floor, 8:05 p.m. The dinner trolley was parked outside Aziz’s room when MacNeice arrived carrying a paper bag from Ola Bakery. He went to the nursing station, looking for the surgeon or his resident, and was told they were on rounds.
“Detective Aziz is doing well, sir,” the day nurse said, adding that the surgeon had been there when her dressings were changed. “She’s just having dinner now, if you’d like to go in.”
The blind was up, the mountain looked purple in the distance, and the monitors were beeping like robot sparrows. One of the intravenous tubes had been removed and Aziz was sitting up, sipping orange juice through a straw. Seeing MacNeice, she put down the container and uncharacteristically swept the hair from her face, then looked embarrassed at being caught trying to make herself presentable. In sweet betrayal, several strands fell back over her eye. MacNeice reached over and smoothed them away, tucking them gently behind her ear. “I brought you a treat.” He set the bag down on the tray. “Have you eaten anything?”
“The smell of the white fish sauce put me off. And while I’m tempted, that crimson Jell-O has yet to win me over. But the coffee smells good.” She lifted a paper doily off the plastic cup and fanned the steam towards him.
“In that case . . .” He put the coffee cup on the table and took the fish and Jell-O tray to the radiator. From the bag he produced two Portuguese custard tarts on top of a napkin. “Pastéis de nata.” Not minding that he’d
slaughtered the pronunciation, he reached for a chair and pulled it close to the bed.
When he sat down, Aziz was in tears. He gave her a tissue and waited quietly at her side, holding her hand. It’s complicated, he thought. He studied her hand, the long fingers falling loosely over his. They looked lovely together, though he thought her darker skin made his appear vaguely pale and sickly. She withdrew hers to better focus on a tart.
“Thank you for these, Mac.” She broke off a piece of the tart. “And for last night.” Her eyes welled up again. “I was scared and in shock, I guess.”
* * *
Over the course of the next half-hour, Aziz finished one of the tarts and MacNeice refilled her coffee. They spoke about the case, how the night had ended, and what still lay ahead. He was going to apologize, but she seemed to anticipate it. “I know you probably blame yourself for what happened, but please don’t. You made the right call by going up there.”
When he got up to leave, MacNeice wanted to lean over and kiss her forehead, but he didn’t. He held her hand and told her to rest and get well — then he kicked himself all the way to the elevator for not saying something more thoughtful. He pressed the button, but when the doors opened, he stood for a moment before turning back down the corridor.
She was just finishing the last of the second tart when he swept in. “I want you to know, Fiza, that I don’t know what I’d do if . . . Well, if this was worse.” He took her hand, felt the sticky custard on her fingers, and smiled. “I just wanted you to know.” With that he said, “Rest,” and left.
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