Raw Bone

by Scott Thornley

  There was a long pause before the voice on the other end said, “Hey stranger … I’m home.”

  Samantha sounded sleepy, maybe jet-lagged, and her tone was intimate. Aziz turned to look at MacNeice. He grabbed the phone and clicked it off speaker.

  “Hey, yourself. Can I call you … in ten minutes?” He listened for the response, aware that Aziz was still watching him. When the call ended, he smiled sheepishly and put the cell back in his pocket. He busied himself with easing the Chevy onto the street.

  The rest of the drive, seven minutes long, was crowded with silence. They parked, and as they got out of the car, Aziz said, “Sherry Berryman, a paralegal, went out last night, dancing at the Boogie Bin. Her roommate, who’s also a paralegal, couldn’t go—she had to work. I’ll phone the club, but they probably won’t be open yet.”

  When they got to the door, he opened it for her. Reaching for his cell, he said, “I’ll be right up.” Aziz hesitated, trying to think of something to say, but finding nothing, she went in and up the stairs. At the landing between the first and second floor, she turned and stopped, leaning against the wall. Though faint on such a grey day, his shadow could be seen in the doorway. Her breathing was shallow, not because of the twelve-stair climb, but from the shock of realizing that MacNeice had a lover.

  MacNeice’s shadow grew larger on the floor and she heard the door swing open. Aziz pushed herself off the wall and ran up the remaining flight as quickly and quietly as possible. Stepping into the corridor, she went immediately to the washroom to splash water on her face. Feeling the fool, she didn’t want to look like one.

  MacNeice spotted the cane as he headed for the cubicle; it was kicked slightly into the corridor, leaning against a chair. He turned the corner to see Swetsky, a doughnut cushion under his butt to ease the pain from his hip. His face was pale, and his sweater hung loosely over his chest. Seeing MacNeice, he started to push himself out of the chair. “John, please stay put. And what are you doing here?” MacNeice reached down to shake his hand.

  “I got out a day in advance. Good behaviour—that or bein’ a pain in the ass.” MacNeice turned to the others, Ryan busy rewiring the computer he’d nicknamed “The Millennium Falcon” with some new gizmo, Vertesi and Williams hunched over their desks. “Can you three give us a few minutes.”

  “You pissed off with me?” Swetsky said.

  “Does your wife know you’re here?”

  His wife didn’t know. She had left him lying comfortably on the couch, watching television as she went out to shop. “Comfort comes from a full fridge” was her mantra, which is why Swetsky usually stretched his sweaters.

  “Christ, Mac, I just wanted to fill my head with something other than alcohol swabs, drips, sleeping pills, pain pills and, ‘How’re you feeling now? One to ten, rate the pain.’ I’ll leave soon; just let me hear the sound of work.”

  MacNeice placed a hand firmly on his shoulder and squeezed. “Soon as you’re tired, John, you’re gone. And I’ll be the judge of that, you crazy Polack.”

  “Deal. I promise.”

  Vertesi and Williams had already briefed him on the developments in the Nicholson case. So MacNeice thought that now was the time to sound out Swetsky on the idea he’d had about the young basketball-playing son who was now an orphan. When he was done, he said, “Mercy is now down an assistant coach, and next year is going to be critical for the boy when it comes to both recovering from what just happened in his life, and maybe drawing a scholarship.”

  Swetsky was looking off to the whiteboard. He said nothing but started to smile.

  “I think he’s really talented, John. He’s just adrift with grief, and I think you—”

  “Enough. You had me at ‘basketball.’ Besides, I knew about this kid already. He’s what I’d call a prospect. The school going to buy it?”

  “I haven’t pitched Mercy yet. Leave it with me, and thanks.”

  Swetsky said, “You know I’d love an excuse to get involved, so lemme thank you.”

  MacNeice turned to the whiteboard and put Sherry Berryman’s name next to Anniken Kallevik’s. Off to the side, with a dotted line to both, he wrote Bishop’s and Zetter’s names. As he was finishing, his crew came back, along with Aziz. He turned to them and said, “Another young woman has been murdered, we believe by the same person who killed Anniken Kallevik and, probably, Duguald Langan.” He nodded for Aziz to continue.

  “Sherry Berryman was twenty-nine. She was described by her roommate, who was the one who found her, as fun-loving: she loved to dance, had no steady boyfriends, and her personality and looks meant that she only came home alone if she wanted to. When I asked the roommate if Sherry was indiscriminate in her choices, her answer was, ‘At our age, we all like to have some fun.’ The parents of both girls contributed to the upkeep of the apartment, but they were otherwise independent.”

  “What’s the connection to the Cootes case?” Vertesi asked.

  “Berryman’s eyes were taped shut and her neck snapped, just as Kallevik’s were, though Berryman seems to have engaged in a night of drinking, dancing and fairly intense lovemaking. Kallevik may simply have been in the wrong place, with the wrong person, at the wrong time.”

  “Does he tape them before he kills them?” Swetsky wondered.

  “Good question,” Aziz said. “We can’t say with Kallevik, but it appears not with Berryman.”

  “This guy’s been busy,” Swetsky said, massaging his thigh.

  No one responded, but everyone’s eyes drifted to the whiteboard.

  Williams was the first to break the silence. “Boss, Melody Chapman’s in the interview room. She’s been there for about an hour now.”

  MacNeice nodded, then turned to Vertesi. “Do you know if Mercy has a basketball practice scheduled today?”

  “Yes, sir, one every day, at four.”

  “Let the coach know we’re coming.” Looking down at Swetsky, he said, “Head home and rest. I’ll pick you up at 3:30.”

  “Absolutely.” Swetsky pulled himself gingerly out of the chair. He picked up his doughnut cushion and cane, and after saying his goodbyes, limped slowly toward the elevator.

  Chapter 29

  Aziz entered the interview room ahead of MacNeice. When he arrived minutes later, Melody Chapman was already clutching a worry ball of tissue.

  “Twelve-thirty p.m., DS MacNeice has entered the room,” Aziz said when he came in. He noticed she did not look his way.

  “Where are we?” MacNeice sat down beside Aziz.

  “I just asked Ms. Chapman if she had any idea why she was brought in for questioning.”

  MacNeice looked at the woman for the answer, but she shook her head several times to indicate her confusion. “No … I’m not sure I understand.” She used the balled tissue to wipe a tear away.

  MacNeice said, “This can be a very intimidating place, particularly for someone like you, Melody.”

  She nodded and wiped away more tears. Aziz reached over to the side table and handed her a box of tissues. Chapman hesitated, then put down the tattered ball and took out two fresh ones. “I honestly don’t know why I’m here.”

  “But you do. Really, you do,” Aziz said.

  Chapman’s lower lip quivered, but she said nothing.

  “We’ll spell it out for you if you’d like,” Aziz said. “But you’ll be much better off telling us what you know and having that on record as your voluntary statement.”

  They waited three more minutes, while Chapman stared at her clutched hands. Then Aziz said, “We discovered another body in Cootes Paradise, and you know this one too. In fact, Anniken Kallevik and Duguald Langan met because he asked to be introduced to her by his bookmaking associate at the yacht club—that was you, Ms. Chapman.”

  Her mouth opened, but she still didn’t speak, just took another tissue and crushed it in her fist.

  “Melody,” MacNeice said, “later this afternoon your bank accounts and income statements will be seized. The tiny window throug
h which you have a chance to help yourself, by helping us, is closing. When it does, your silence will suggest a greater involvement in this tragedy than we currently suspect you of. So you can speak with us or spend the night in a holding cell.”

  There were no more tears. Chapman asked for a glass of water, which she drank quickly, glancing from Aziz to MacNeice, before clearing her throat.

  “There were eight members on Duguald’s list at the club,” Melody said. “I was the go-between in the beginning, but later they wanted to bet directly with him. After that, he was on his own and I wasn’t involved.”

  “But you continued receiving a cut—from both sides,” MacNeice said.

  “Yes.” Her eyes met his for a second before she looked down to her hands again. “I did introduce Anniken and Duguald, but I swear I didn’t know about their relationship until one of our members saw them walking up Burlington, holding hands.”

  “Which member was that?” Aziz asked.

  “Paul Zetter.”

  “Tell us about Zetter,” MacNeice said.

  “Mr. Zetter?” Chapman hesitated. “He’s a successful businessman with connections all over the city and abroad, as far as China. At least that’s what he told me. He made a pass at me shortly after I was hired, but I told him I had a boyfriend, which was a lie.”

  “Why lie?” Aziz asked.

  “Paul Zetter is married,” Chapman said. “But, he’s also, I don’t know … he’s crude.”

  “And Duguald? Were you attracted to him? Is that how this whole betting thing began?” MacNeice asked.

  “No … well, yeah, sure.” The tissue disappeared in her white-knuckled fist. “He was very attractive … very. But he was a wild child, and a bookie. I couldn’t afford to get involved with someone like that.”

  “That’s ironic, given the reason you’re here today,” MacNeice said. “Tell us what you know about a man named Bishop.”

  Her brow furrowed, as if she was searching through her neural cabinetry to find the name. “Yes,” she said at last. “He works for Mr. Zetter. I think he’s Scottish—his accent is very distinct. He shows up at the club occasionally to meet Zetter and have a beer at the bar. Once, Bishop and two other men went aboard Mr. Zetter’s yacht and they left port for a few days.”

  “Did Mr. Bishop ever hit on you?” Aziz asked.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Bishop was someone you just steered clear of, though I know he grabbed Anni once and asked her to dance.”

  “While she was working?”

  “Yes. It was late afternoon and there was no music on the PA system, but I could hear Bishop humming something. Then I heard Anni say, ‘No, no, please, sir,’ and I came out of my office to find him trying to waltz her down the corridor.”

  “Did he know Duguald?” MacNeice asked.

  “Yes. I think they got here at the same time, off one of the ships.”

  “Was he involved in the gambling?”

  “Not at first, but I don’t know what happened after Duguald started dealing with the members directly.” She looked at both of them. “I did overhear one of the members refer to ‘that greedy little mick.’ I asked Duguald about it, but he laughed and said something like, ‘The less you know, the better.’ ”

  “What about Duguald’s uncle, the owner of the Block and Tackle Bar?”

  “I only met him once. I just thought they were friends from the old country.”

  “Tell us about the last time you saw Anniken,” MacNeice said.

  “When I paid her out after she’d given notice. I just assumed she’d gone to join her Norwegian friend out West. When Duguald stopped coming to the club, I assumed he either went with her, or he’d been cheating his customers and had left Dundurn for some other port. He told me once that drifting was in his blood.”

  “Did the members know he had continued paying you a commission?” MacNeice asked.

  “No. He told me that would be our secret. The members kept giving me a cut too, to keep me happy … and quiet.” Her face betrayed the fact that she knew how corrupt that sounded. “I was relieved when he disappeared. Until Anniken’s body was found, I thought I was safe. But now Duguald is dead too … Who would kill them both?”

  Aziz closed her notebook with a slap. “Ms. Chapman, you’re free to go back to work. If anyone asks about your visit here, tell them we needed to see you about Anniken Kallevik. Don’t mention to anyone that you know that their Irish bookie is also dead.”

  “And the charges against me?” Melody asked nervously.

  Aziz moved her chair back. “You’re not out of the woods, and the answer to your question depends on how honest you’ve just been. We can arrange a ride back to the club in a cruiser, if you wish.”

  “No … I’ll take a taxi. I’m sorry for … for—”

  “Save it,” Aziz said, dismissing her.

  After Chapman was ushered away to the elevator by a uniform, MacNeice turned to Aziz. “I owe you an explanation about the phone call I took in the car.”

  “Actually, no, you don’t.”

  “I wasn’t looking for this to happen, Fiza …”

  “Are you happy at least?” She stood up, the notebook held to her chest.

  “I have no idea. But I do know I should’ve told you.”

  She opened the door and left the interview room, thinking about how thoughtless and insensitive this most thoughtful and sensitive man could be.

  Chapter 30

  Later that afternoon, with Swetsky settled into the front passenger seat, MacNeice drove east toward Mercy on Main Street. As he crossed Sherman Avenue, his cellphone rang.

  “Detective Superintendent MacNeice.” It was Bourke-Stanford.

  “I just took a call from the VP at Mercy. You’re going to a basketball practice? I thought we had an agreement that all further contact with Dylan Nicholson would be managed through this office?”

  “We did, and we do. I’m taking DS Swetsky to a basketball practice and have no intention of approaching Dylan. This is strictly police work. Call it observation. I apologize for not informing you beforehand. I’m convinced that the answer to Dylan’s father’s murder is in that school. I want my colleague to sit in on a practice, in part because I don’t know anything about basketball, but also because this was the thing the father and son did together most. I’ll say hello to Dylan, of course, but I won’t engage him.”

  Bourke-Stanford was silent for a moment, then said, “I’ll hold you to that, Superintendent. Please don’t make me regret this.”

  Coach Knox met them at the gym door. Seeing the cane and the doughnut cushion, he offered them a seat at the timer’s table opposite the team benches, rather than on the oak planking of the bleachers. He told them that the team had already done their wind sprints and stretches and they’d be out for a scrimmage momentarily.

  Once Swetsky and MacNeice were settled, Swetsky filled MacNeice in on what he knew about Mercy’s basketball coach. Knox had been a McGill University basketball player chosen for the national team until he blew an ankle in training, missing the Pan American Games. Though he was tall, a few inches over six feet, he would have been below average height on most elite teams.

  MacNeice glanced over at Knox. In his Mercy polo shirt and warm-up pants, he still appeared fit.

  Swetsky was looking up at the championship banners hanging from the rafters of the gym.

  “Bring back memories?” MacNeice asked.

  “Big time.”

  None dated to his own era, he told MacNeice, because back then, this was a new school. It took them a few years to get their sports programs together. “Having followed the city tournaments for years, I knew this team was in the top three. Just before you got to the house, I also Googled Knox. He’s been consistent. Every season he’s coached them, the Mercy team seems to have the potential to win it all.”

  The doors swung open from the locker room and the players ran into the gym. They immediately formed two circles at either end of the court, t
ossing the ball rapidly from one to the other. Dylan Nicholson and Tom Smylski were in the circle to the right. When someone dropped the ball, the others yelled, “Mercy!” and the next player tossed the ball faster until it was essentially a line drive to the next player.

  Knox blew his whistle, the lines unwound and each player took a layup at the net. Knox paced outside of the action, encouraging and sometimes correcting either the shooter or passer. These drills lasted fifteen minutes. When Knox blew his whistle again, the players stripped off their warm-up suits, tossed them onto the bench and took positions at centre court, where they began doing two-man drills, tearing off toward the net, passing the ball between them as they attacked. If the man taking the shot missed, the second man attempted to tip it in or take a jump shot.

  Returning to the line after dunking the ball, Dylan looked MacNeice’s way for the first time and nodded. Smylski noticed and said something, and both boys looked at the detectives.

  “Focus. Focus. Focus,” Knox yelled.

  The two tore off again toward the net, and this time Smylski took the shot. Though he seemed to hang in the air and could easily have dunked the ball, he waited until he was arcing downward before flipping the ball casually into the hoop as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

  “Cut the showboating, Smylski,” Knox yelled.

  “Yes, coach.”

  Dylan gave him a low-five.

  Moments later, the scrimmage began. Freshmen or third-string players moved to the home and visitor benches, where they stood to watch the action. MacNeice could hear Swetsky coaching under his breath: “Good, good, good.” “Take the shot.” “To the guard—pass to the guard.” Several times, Swetsky was ahead of the coach on a call.

  Knox was focused on the players, but he was also watching the two detectives. At first, it was just passing glances, but then MacNeice noticed him standing, hands on his hips, looking at him through a cluster of players. When MacNeice caught him, Knox nodded, then looked at the clipboard he was clutching in his right hand.