by Marc Strange
It was one thing to be cool in front of policemen, she was good at that. It was better to be resolute and unafraid with them, they were like dogs, if you cowered they bit you. Alone was different. After she locked the studio door she started to shake. Why would they kill him? Because of her? Her hand was trembling, holding the cordless phone while she paced the wooden floor. “The police were here,” she said. The receiver was damp where she clutched it. “You believe me now? He found me. Sooner or later they always find me.” She watched herself passing in the wall mirrors. “The police were asking about me?”
“Yes.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Nothing.” Dr. Ruth’s voice sounded tight. “Whatever you’ve said to me is privileged communication, doctor/patient. I confirmed what they already knew, that you saw me regularly. Beyond that I couldn’t tell them anything about you.”
“They think I killed the man.”
“Did you?”
“Of course not.”
“You might have thought he was another assassin, coming for you.”
“It was a possibility.” She stood in the middle of the studio floor. From this position she could see herself from three angles. Automatically she pulled her shoulders back. “If he had come to me last night, I think . . . I would have let him do . . . whatever he had come to do.” She took first position, second position, sur les pointes, then flat, then on her toes again. “I was ready. I was waiting. I waited all night for him to come.”
“To kill you?”
“Maybe,” she said. She began to dance, a practice class adagio, slow, measured steps. “Because I’m tired of waiting. It takes its toll. I have trouble sleeping. I try drinking myself to sleep: that doesn’t work. I tried those pills you gave me, they make me stupid and slow and I still don’t sleep. I am always looking behind me, beside me.”
“I can’t do anything for you, Anya, until you’re ready to tell me.”
“I came to this town because I had no reason to come here,” she said. “It was a place on a map.” She moved the phone to her right hand and stepped to the barre on demi pointes, began to work through the basic exercises, the foundation. “Anyone who followed me here would have done hard work to find me.”
“I have to go, Anya, I can see you tomorrow. I have an hour in the morning. I think you should come in.”
“And someone did. Someone found me. So I say, okay, that is enough now, I give up.”
“Come and see me tomorrow morning, ten o’clock. Okay?”
“I was very good, you know,” Anya said. She watched herself in the long mirrors as she lifted her leg. “I might have been a ballerina.”
“You were.”
“In the old sense of the word. Over here it just means a dancer, but in the Mariinsky, it is different, it is a title. It means something.”
“Anya? Will you come?”
“It means something,” she said.
She wouldn’t come in, the doctor knew it, she could hear it in the woman’s voice. She’d been spooked. The shooting of the detective would be all the proof she needed that assassins were in town, watching her, waiting for her in the shadows. It was unfortunate. So close to a breakthrough, so very close.
The road to Omemee was clear, traffic was light. Stacy drove, Adele leaned against the window staring out at acreage blotched with patches of old snow, muddy cattle pens, livestock gathered around broken bales of hay. “You like it up here?” she asked. “All this . . . scenery.”
“It’s okay,” Stacy said. “I’d rather be down in the city, doing what you do. But I’d probably have to start all over.”
“Maybe not. The Chief thinks a lot of you. He’d back you.”
“He doesn’t want me to leave.”
“Would he stand in your way?”
“No. Hell. He thinks I’m wasted up here.”
“What do you think?”
Stacy smiled. “I think that today I’m working a homicide.” She looked at Adele. “Sorry. Must be really hard for you.”
Adele waved off the suggestion. “So. How are things going with you and Davy Crockett?”
“Who?”
“Dan’l Boone. That Greenway guy.”
“Joe?” Stacy laughed, a low chuckle deep in her throat. “Fine. Good. It works out we get to see each other maybe once every couple of weeks.”
“That’ll keep the romance fresh.” Adele was quiet for a while. Stacy concentrated on the road. When Adele spoke again her voice was harsh, bitter. “You feel that chill in the air?” she said. “When a cop goes down. Even if it wasn’t in the line of duty.”
“We don’t know it wasn’t,” Stacy said.
“Oh who knows what the Christ he was up to. Sonofabitch baffled the hell out of me. Always had something going on the side. Hard to work with a partner like that.”
“Haven’t had a partner yet I really got along with.”
“Like a marriage,” said Adele. “At least that’s what the married people tell me.” She snorted dismissively. “Takes some fine tuning while you work out how to deal with the fact . . .” her voice rose “. . . the fact that your partner is a lying, sneaking, selfish sack of shit who wouldn’t know the truth if it bit him on the ass!”
Stacy kept her mouth shut for a full klick. “What do you figure?” she asked after a while. “Jealous husband?”
“Serve the bastard right,” Adele muttered.
The potted palms and thatched canopy over the bar were an attempt to give Lemongrass a Thai motif and obscure vestiges of the pizza joint it once was. The lunch crowd had long since departed, two waitresses were setting tables and organizing flatware and linen. The bartender was watching the bar television where young men were twirling skateboards in the air. He looked up as the two women crossed his line of sight. Stacy held up her shield.
“I don’t suppose you’re here for the tom yum soup,” said the bartender.
“No sir,” Stacy said. “We’re from Dockerty. You heard someone got shot over there last night?”
“Really? I just got up an hour ago. I work late.”
“We’re checking around to see if anybody remembers seeing the man yesterday.”
“You got a picture?”
“You’d remember him,” Adele said. “Six foot eight, hair like Ronald McDonald.”
“The basketball player? Oh sure. He had a beer at the bar. We talked roundball . . . fuck! ’Scuse me. Was it him? Did he get shot?”
“Yes sir,” said Stacy.
“Shot dead?”
“He’s dead.”
“Holy shit!” said the bartender. “Oh fuck. Sorry. Damn. He was a cool guy. We talked. March Madness, you know, the NCAA tournament. Said he played college ball in the States. Syracuse. The Orangemen. I thought that was cool ’cause of the hair and . . . Aw man, that sucks.”
“We’re trying to find out if there was anyone here with him,” Adele said.
“What? Yeah. Somebody. Somebody came in and he moved to a table. I didn’t see who. It got busy.”
“Would you know which waitress served them?”
“Couldn’t tell you, but it was either Kelly or Lara and they’re both here.”
Kelly remembered them because they hadn’t stayed. A woman had looked in and whispered to the tall man and they left right away. She didn’t know where they went.
Stacy said, “Can you describe the woman?”
“Not really. She just stuck her head in for a second.”
“Was she tall, short?”
“Ah . . . medium I guess.”
Stacy asked, “How old would you say?”
“Maybe thirty five . . . ish, I guess.”
“Blonde?”
“No. Not blonde. Dark hair, I think. Dark brown.”
“Long hair?”
“D
on’t think so. Pulled back maybe? Could have been pulled back. Lara? Remember that woman who stuck her nose in for a minute and didn’t stay? She left with the tall redheaded guy?”
“I wanted to leave with the tall redheaded guy,” Lara said.
“That lets out the Russian woman,” Stacy said as they headed back to the car. “She’s short, her hair is blonde, almost white.”
“Maybe they went somewhere else,” said Adele. “Maybe she saw somebody she knew and didn’t want them to see her. Can you think where else they might have gone, if they still wanted a drink?”
“Liquor store. He had a bottle of JD in the room.”
“Sometimes he kept one in his suitcase.”
“Well, there’s the liquor store, and we’re here.”
After that it all happened quickly. The liquor store had surveillance cameras.
“There he is,” Adele said. They were in the manager’s office looking at the tape from the previous evening. “He alone?”
The manager pointed at the screen. “That woman checking out the wine? She’s just stalling. She’s not buying anything.”
“And she follows him out,” Stacy said.
“Wind it back.”
“Thirties, shoulder-length brown hair, collar turned up, looking around.”
“There, stop.” Adele said. “She looks over at him. Clear look at her face.”
“We’ll have to take the tape,” Stacy told the manager.
“That’s what it’s there for.”
Staff Sergeant Roy Rawluck plugged in the VCR, fast-forwarded until they reached 20:27.
“That’s Dr. Ruth,” Orwell said. “Lorna Ruth. Good work, you two. Roy?”
“Yes, Chief?”
“Get those other Metro guys over here. We’ve solved one of their mysteries for them.”
“Right away, Chief.”
The Dockerty Police Department wasn’t thanked and wasn’t invited to participate in the Metro/OPP joint effort, but someone involved was kind enough to inform Roy Rawluck two hours later that an arrest had been made.
“They arrested the husband, Chief,” Roy said.
Orwell sighed. “Well, I guess that makes sense.”
Roy checked the piece of paper he was holding. “Harold Ruth. Forty-three. General contractor. When they picked him up he had a Savage lever action deer rifle in the car. Looks like he shot Delisle through the bathroom window. One shot, through the head.”
“They bringing him in now?”
“Should have been here by now. I’ll check.”
“All right. Let’s take good care of him.”
“Will do. Detective Moen wants to see you.”
“Oh, sure. Send her in.”
Adele Moen came in. Stuck out her hand. “Wanted to say thanks, Chief.”
“Hey, thank you.”
“For hooking me up with Detective Crean. Sorry she doesn’t work in town. I’ll be looking for a new partner.”
“I’m glad you two hit it off. Sorry it had to be on this case, though.”
“It’s a bitch, but what are you gonna do?”
“You do what you did.” Orwell felt an urge to put an arm over her shoulder, but resisted the impulse. Instead he walked her through the outer office to the stairs. “Locate his weapon?” he asked.
“They found a .32 short nose Smith in the bottom of his suitcase.”
“Sounds like a backup piece.”
“It is,” she said. “He wore it in an ankle holster.”
“What was his primary?”
“A .357 Smith. He was a cowboy. Liked his hog-leg.”
“And no sign of that?”
“Nada,” she said. “The doctor says she never saw it.”
“Would he have come up here without it, do you think?”
“Possible, but I doubt it. I’ll check his apartment in the city. Maybe it’s there. I’ll email you the particulars, in case it shows up, serial number, model number.”
“Don’t like the idea of a stolen handgun floating around,” Orwell said.
“It’s probably at his place.”
“You’ll let me know?”
“You bet. Just wanted to say thanks. Those other guys won’t bother.”
“What about Dr. Ruth? She in any trouble?”
“Maybe. She lied. Said Paul left her office that afternoon and that was the last she saw of him. I can understand her lying about it, I guess, but she could be charged with obstruction. Don’t think they’ll bother though, since it got wrapped up so fast.”
“I’m happy with that,” Orwell said. “She’ll be punishing herself quite a bit, I’m sure.”
“Anyway, I’m out of here. Appreciate your help.”
“I’ll pass it on. And I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. Stupid bastard. He was a skirt chaser in the city, too. I told him his dick would get him into trouble some day.”
“You will let me know if you locate his weapon,” Orwell said.
“And vice versa,” she said. She stuck out her hand again. “It was good seeing you again, Chief. Even though . . .”
“You too, Detective. Safe drive home.”
“Thanks.” She started down the stairs.
“Oh, one other thing.” Orwell came out to the landing. “Just to satisfy my curiosity if you please, could you check into this Russian man business? The one your late partner mentioned? Maybe find out a few details for me?”
“Shouldn’t be too hard.”
“I know it’s none of my business, but if it has anything to do with the dance teacher, remote as that possibility seems . . .”
“I’ll be looking into it.”
Orwell watched her clump down the stairs. She didn’t look back.
“Chief?” Roy was at his desk, holding up his hand. “Just talked to Sergeant Turkle, headed the OPP unit. He says the Metro guys took the accused back to Toronto.”
“They what?”
“Turkle says two of the Metro guys scooped up Harold Ruth and drove off before OPP could interview him.”
“That’s not good.”
Adele took her time getting back to the city. It wasn’t that far away, she could have been home in an hour and a half if she’d booted it down the 401, but she took the scenic route, a two-lane blacktop running through a forest of bare trees and mud paths. Not exactly scenic in mid-March, she allowed, but perhaps it would soothe her jangled spirit to wind through the Rouge River Valley. On the far side of the narrow single-lane underpass she parked and walked into the trees a few steps until she could see the river running high with ice melt. This was a conservation area, favoured by birders and hikers, a good place to spot wild creatures if you were quiet. Like that little brown bird with the twitchy tail sticking straight up, whatever it was — she couldn’t tell a robin from a cockatoo. I swear, if he was standing beside me I’d cold-cock the sonofabitch. I’d tell him, Paulie, you are such an asshole! Gawd! So dumb. Worse, so corny. Shot by a jealous husband. I mean, how trite is that? And pointless. And probably overdue, considering how many dicey hookups he’d indulged in over the years, and not all of them after his divorce from whatever-her-name-was. Jenny, hell, she probably felt like taking a shot at him herself, more than once. Jealous wife, jealous husband, what’s the diff? Sooner or later it was bound to catch up with him.
She had just transferred from Vice to Homicide to fill the slot vacated by the retirement of Dylan O’Grady, Paul’s former partner who had expressed a desire to enter politics. There was some talk that Dylan had been encouraged to put in his papers before awkward questions could be asked about evidence that may or may not have gone missing. The general opinion was that Big Smoothie O’Grady would do well in politics. Their boss, Captain Émile Rosebart, introduced them with the words, “You two are bound to have a good influe
nce on one another. One of you is strictly by the book, the other one can’t read.”
And they did get along, made a good team. They were both quick, intelligent, no private lives. Well, he had a private life, but nothing that compelled him to make “Honey, I’m working late” phone calls. He went through girlfriends like magazine subscriptions. Sometimes one of them would hang in there for a few months, hoping for a renewal, but sooner or later his roving eye would catch sight of someone newer and shinier and he’d shift his attention. Some girlfriends stayed enamoured even after they’d been shelved. Some of them carried a torch for years, sending him Christmas cards and birthday presents long after they’d been replaced. And some hated his guts.
In a hundred ways he was a terrible partner: he stuck her with paperwork, with interviews, left her alone on stakeout while he ran off for a brief encounter. But where it counted, where it counted to her, he was the best she could have hoped for. For one thing, he was the first partner she had who was taller than she was. She liked that. Liked not feeling like a moose all the time. He treated her as an equal, never condescended, never bullied, and yet he had a natural courtesy that let her know he was aware of her as a woman. He never made a pass at her, or suggested anything inappropriate. Well, she could hardly blame him for that, he had no shortage of women, good looking women, and she was, as her grandmother once remarked, “plain as a mud fence.” She could live with it, had lived with it. She knew what she looked like. But Paul was always courteous, no other word for it.
There was that one time, once when they were going somewhere and she had to put on a dress, he said, “Hey Stretch, first time I noticed: you’ve got a great ass.” Crude and offhand as the remark was, she carried it with her. Pitiful, isn’t it? Some guy remarks on her butt, maybe the first time in ten years anyone’s said anything remotely sexual to her about her body, and she treasures it.
She walked back to the car. A blue jay yelled at her. “Shut up!” She threw a stick. “I am in no mood to take shit from a goddamn woodpecker!”