Woman Chased by Crows

by Marc Strange

  “Oh cripes.”

  Twelve

  Friday, March 25

  It was a fine and fresh Friday morning. Almost April. Less than a week until opening day of the baseball season. That was something good.

  Far less good was the news of Dylan O’Grady’s suicide the previous night. It had yet to hit the newspapers, but the early television broadcasts had been filled with speculation as to why the man had done such a thing.

  Orwell needed a walk, a good brisk walk across the fields to clear his mind. The dogs always needed a walk; across the fields, through the woods, over the footbridge across the stream, back along the side road, down the gully, up the other side, as much as they could get, and certainly more of a walk than Orwell was prepared to lavish upon them, that was certain. But they would happily walk to the ends of the earth if he had a mind to hike that far, and this morning Orwell was prepared to walk at least as far as the footbridge. It would do him good he was certain. He was getting fat. Well, not exactly fat, not obese, definitely not obese, but, face it, he hadn’t lost any of his “winter weight,” that’s what he was calling it, winter weight, as opposed to summer weight, which, for the past few years had been roughly the same as what he carried during the cold months.

  Yes, it was a nice morning and he was out of the house and moving in plenty of time to see the sun come up from the top of the second rise. A bright clear morning: birds, breeze, the air rich with the smells of things starting to grow, things beginning to come back from the cold and dark. And to kill yourself on such a morning. To miss even one more sunrise. Orwell couldn’t begin to grasp such a thing. He knew, even without referring to the crumpled faith of his childhood, that such a thing was a terrible sin. Despair. One of the great sins, albeit not listed among the Seven Deadlies, but perhaps the worst sin, giving up entirely, ceasing to believe in even the possibility of salvation. Or if not salvation of the soul, at least in the value of life, the worth of one more breath, one more sunrise, one more walk with the dogs, one more conversation, meal, idea.

  And dammitall, he wasn’t about to waste a fine morning such as this one letting it drag his spirits down. The dogs were enjoying it; even Borgia had been inspired to break into a trot from time to time, and Duff had battered himself ragged charging through brambles and hedgerows, splashing across the stream, digging furious holes in the muddy earth. His paws would definitely need sluicing when they got back.

  Something else was nibbling at the back of Orwell’s mind, something vague and unresolved. Tomashevsky, that was it, Tomashevsky and the missing investigator on his list. Her name, according to Tomashevsky, was Lorena Wisneski. Doctor Lorena Wisneski, an art historian and retrievals expert. He wished Stacy was back. Like to set her loose on that one. He wished he’d had the presence of mind to mention it to her during last night’s phone report. That would have prompted her return forthwith he was certain. Forthwith, indeed. Just the sort of thing she could sink her teeth into. He supposed he could give it to Emmett Paynter, let him pass it on to one of the other investigators, but Orwell didn’t like that idea. This was Stacy’s case. And his. Lengthy explanations wouldn’t be required. Hell’s bells, she had a cellphone, she wasn’t that far away.

  “Come on beasties! Let’s ramble. Breakfast is waiting. At least I have high hopes it’s waiting. God knows I’ve worked up a hell of an appetite.”

  “Front-Runner Bolts Fundraiser.”

  The early television news programs were already full of conjecture as to why Dylan O’Grady had shot himself, but that news had come too late for the morning papers and they only had the first part of the story. Still, Anya read them all on the trip home by train and bus, read them dutifully, as if paying a debt. Ludi’s killer was dead. It was necessary that she pay close attention to the details.

  But there weren’t many details. The Globe made reference to a police presence at the fundraiser, but did not venture an opinion as to what the cops were doing there. The Star concentrated on the scrambling campaign and the implications for the imminent election. Both the Sun and National Post hinted at conspiracies and smear tactics, but ultimately failed to connect any dots. Tomorrow’s editions would be much juicier, albeit a full news cycle behind events. Anya entertained a fleeting thought that she should save the items in some kind of scrapbook, some sort of testament to justice, but in the end she decided that was pointless and recycled the papers in the appropriate bin.

  As she headed north on the final leg of the trip, watching the farms and fields roll by, she found herself gnawing on her knuckles, generating a familiar pain, something she hadn’t done in a while. Long ago it was her way of holding herself together offstage while awaiting her cue, or in rehearsal, enduring a harsh critique, and sometimes simply to confuse her mind into forgetting other more serious agonies in legs and knees and feet. This morning it seemed that she had other pains to forget, deep-seated aches of heart and mind.

  Some would say Dylan had taken the coward’s way out, some might say he had done the honourable thing, but to Anya it seemed only logical for him to skip out that way. What did he have to live for? His career was destroyed, his future was bleak, all his debts had come due, it was over for him. And she was the one who had pushed him into the corner, cut off his escapes, exposed him for all to see. It was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Now she could live some kind of life, get some rest and perhaps, in time, sleep without dreams full of shadows. So why was there no sense of relief? Why was she still unfulfilled? Why was she biting her thumb hard enough to draw blood? Did she want to kick his dead body? Would that be enough? No. Not enough. Never enough. Was it because he escaped exposure, would never be forced to admit that he murdered Ludi? Perhaps. That was part of it, surely. To convict him of Ludi’s death would have brought satisfaction, but she knew it would have been unlikely. More conceivable that Viktor’s murder was the one they could prove. Or Louie’s. Or could they have proven any of them? With a good lawyer playing up the murky string of events and the dubious backgrounds of the victims, he might have walked out of a courtroom free as a bird. A ruined career to be sure, but no guarantee of a life behind bars. He could have escaped. But his pride could not handle it. In the end it was probably vanity that killed him. How sad that was.

  And unsatisfying.

  As it turned out, and notwithstanding his energetic romp across the fields, Orwell’s breakfast had been something of a disappointment. It was becoming obvious that his wife was cutting back on certain of the morning staples he considered mandatory: bacon, sausages, waffles, unlimited toast and jam, fried eggs basted in butter, the basics. Instead, for the past few days he’d been confronted by such items as fruit cups, oatmeal (with 2% milk for Pete’s sake), grapefruit juice, a single scrambled egg — it was punitive, no other word for it. Worse, she had begun saddling him with a brown bag for his lunch, a bag containing raw vegetables! And a hard-boiled egg! And an apple. He had nothing against apples, they were nature’s vitamin pills, but they were far tastier surrounded by pastry and scented with cinnamon or allspice. This of course wasn’t the first time Erika had kept such a close watch on her husband’s caloric intake, but in the past she had eased up after a while, or relented entirely during traditionally tasty cycles such as Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter. Well, at least Easter was on the horizon, and there had better be some decent grub that weekend or people would hear about it.

  He was in a mood, no doubt about it, Dorrie could tell by the way he was clumping up the stairs — it was a dead giveaway to her boss’s morning disposition. On good days he charged up filled with energy and bonhomie, on preoccupied days he climbed slowly with pauses for thought and on days when he was in a black mood he clumped. Today he was clumping.

  “Morning, Chief.”

  “Dr. Lorna Ruth,” he barked, without greeting. “See if you can get her on the phone.” He stomped into his office and reappeared almost immediately, aware that he’d been brusque. “Would you, Dor
rie? Please?”

  “Of course.”

  “And good morning,” he added.

  As she handled the phone calls she could hear him banging around inside his office. “Dang it all!” She heard the distinct sound of a filing cabinet drawer being slammed. “It’s a bloody conspiracy!” He was hungry. That’s all it was. “Dr. Ruth isn’t answering, at her house or office,” she said.

  “Where the heck is everyone? This is a workday, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s Friday.”

  “I know what day it is. The question was rhetorical. Why aren’t people where they’re supposed to be on a Friday was the gist of it. Try the Zubrovskaya woman.”

  “No luck with Ms. Zubrovskaya either.”

  “Keep trying. Please.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s going on?” Stacy whispered.

  Dorrie looked up at the new arrival. “The Chief’s wife has him on a diet again.”

  “What’s going on out there? I hear whispering.”

  “Stacy’s back, Chief.”

  “Well, get her in here. I’ll have no conspiracies.”

  Dorrie put a finger to her lips.

  Stacy found her boss standing by the window, staring out at the street.

  “I’ll have my report ready for you in ten minutes, Chief. Just have to print it up.”

  “Fine, fine, no rush. Sit down.”

  “Yes, sir. Something come up?”

  “There’s a man in town, from the Russian Ministry of Culture wants to talk to you. And to Ms. Zubrovskaya of course. She on her way back?”

  “I think she took an early train. I can pick her up.”

  “If she’s around I want to talk to her. And Dr. Ruth, too. I want both of them, separately or side by each, I don’t care, see what you can do, will you?”

  “Right away.”

  “Good.” He turned his head. Dorrie had the Chief’s coffee and newspaper and a jelly donut on a paper napkin. “What’s this?” he asked suspiciously.

  “We took up a collection,” she said with a straight face.

  He pointed at Stacy. “Both of them. As soon as.”

  “On it,” she said. As she left she caught a glimpse of him wiping a drop of raspberry jelly off his bottom lip.

  Adele had no such constraints on what she was allowed to eat for breakfast, or lunch, but she had no appetite this morning. Her last substantial intake had been a handful of macaroons followed by most of a bottle of Spanish red and she was experiencing a certain level of internal discomfort. She might also be carrying the plague judging by the wide berth her colleagues were giving her this morning. Or maybe she needed to change her deodorant. Or it could have something to do with the black cloud hanging over her head. She could feel it pressing down, almost see its dark shadow as she walked. Her mother would have said the Angel of Death was hovering near. That was how she talked: angels of death, ends of days, wages of sin, she loved saying the words, her mouth would curl into a mean smile as she pronounced upon Adele’s head the swift and sure retribution of a vengeful . . . fuck, long after the hag was dead and buried and her preaching silenced, those images continued to plague her. Out of my head, you old witch. I’m doing my job.

  “Moen, get in here!”

  “Captain?”

  “We’ve got a situation.”

  “What’s up?”

  Rosebart had the drawn look of a man who had spent far too many hours parrying blows and some of the shots were getting through his weary defences. “Goddamn! O’Grady has two bullet holes.”

  Adele’s stomach lurched and she sat down heavily. “I’m gonna take a wild guess that he didn’t shoot himself twice.”

  “Or even once. The ME says he’s got a big hole going in, two holes coming out. Looks like somebody shot him, put the gun in his hand and pulled the trigger over the same hole. Only they didn’t line it up just right. Second shot came out half an inch higher than the first one.”

  “Holy Jesus!”

  “You got that right.”

  “His gun?”

  “Oh yeah. His service piece. Looks like he checked it out as soon as he checked it in. I’ll be wanting some answers from whoever screwed up down there.”

  “Where do you want me?”

  “Good question, Detective.” Rosebart rubbed his face. He hadn’t shaved very well, probably used the crummy electric he kept in his desk. His sigh sounded a trifle melodramatic, but the pain in his eyes was genuine. “Goo-ood question. If I had half a brain I’d chain you to your desk so you couldn’t bring me any more grief.”

  “But.”

  “Yeah, right, but. But maybe you should get your ass back up to Dockerville . . .”

  “Dockerty.”

  “Whatever . . . and find out what that loopy dancer lady was up to last night, because as I have it in one of your reports,” he waved a stack of papers at her, “which I’m reading far too frickin’ many of these days, she likes to sneak out of her hotel room in the middle of the night.”

  “She was in plain sight when Dilly took off.”

  “Was she in plain sight at 03:00 when, according to the ME, he popped his clogs?”

  “I don’t see it.”

  “I don’t give a crap. According to you, she was on O’Grady’s case all day yesterday.” He swivelled his chair around to show her his back. His shirt had a dark sweat stain down the spine. “And that other Russkie. Serge? Track that asshole down, too. Find out if he can account for his actions all night. Do that forthwith.”

  “Yes, sir, forthwith.”

  He waved the back of his hand at her. “With any luck it’ll get you out of my sight for the day, and that’s not a small thing.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And don’t talk to any goddamn reporters, hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Bugger off.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Stacy had no luck at either Anya’s apartment or her studio. Likewise with Dr. Ruth, whose office was locked and house empty. She checked the bus schedule. The first bus from Whitby had pulled in an hour ago. She checked the Timmies at the mini-mall on Vankleek and took a slow cruise from the bus stop and back to the apartment building, then made a return trip to Dr. Ruth’s locations as well. Nothing.

  On her way back to the station the complexion of the day changed significantly. Adele called from the city with the news that Dylan O’Grady hadn’t departed this life without help. Adele said she was coming up. She needed to talk to Anya Zubrovskaya. She also wanted to know where the fuck “Serge” was since as far as she could determine, he too had left the city. Citizen Grenkov had no idea where Sergei might have gone, and as far as he was concerned it was immaterial as long as Sergei stayed far away from him.

  “He says Serge came by in the middle of the night and packed his stuff, so who knows, he might be on the run.”

  “Dang. And our little dancer’s gone missing, too.”

  “Be there about two o’clock, give or take. I’ll call when I hit town.”

  Dorrie directed her to go right in. Stacy found the Chief in a meeting with a very small man whose eyes lit up when he caught sight of her. When the man got up to shake her hand, it had the odd effect of making him shorter than when he was seated, but it was a courtesy he would have insisted upon under any circumstance. “Detective Crean,” he pronounced perfectly, “it is a pleasure.” When he shook her hand she noted that his hand was almost as big as the Chief’s. “I am Mikhael Tomashevsky,” he said. “Chief Brennan has been singing your praises for the past fifteen minutes.”

  “How do you do, sir,” she said.

  “Grab a seat, Stacy,” Orwell said. “Any luck?”

  Tomashevsky waited until she was seated before he took his chair again. The smile he gave her confirmed that his size had no beari
ng on his capacity to appreciate an attractive woman.

  “I just got a call from Detective Moen,” she began. “Dylan O’Grady didn’t kill himself. Someone shot him and tried to make it look like a suicide.”

  “Good Lord,” said Orwell. He shook his head.

  “And the other parties can’t be accounted for. Anya Zubrovskaya and Sergei Siziva are also missing.”

  “Siziva,” said Mikhael. “He has been seen?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Stacy. “We’ve interviewed him a number of times.”

  “That is most interesting.”

  “You know the man?” Orwell asked.

  “Oh yes. I’d very much like a chance to talk to him myself.”

  “What about Dr. Ruth?” Orwell asked.

  “She’s nowhere in town,” Stacy said. “Her house looks empty.”

  Mikhael gripped the arm of his chair and leaned forward. “Dr. Ruth, did you say?”

  “Ruth,” Orwell said. “Dr. Lorna Ruth.”

  “She is a medical doctor?”

  “I’m not sure. She’s either a psychiatrist, or a psychologist.”

  “And what is her connection?”

  “Anya Zubrovskaya was her patient.”

  “Really? You wouldn’t have a photograph of her anywhere, would you?”

  “Sorry,” said Orwell.

  “Yes we do, Chief,” Stacy said. “We’ve got her on tape. The security tape from the liquor store. If it’s still around.”

  It took Roy Rawluck all of ten minutes to locate the old VCR machine and monitor, find the tape and cue it up. Mikhael Tomashevsky stared at the frozen image of Dr. Lorna Ruth for a long moment, all the while shaking his big head slowly from side to side. “That is her,” he said at last. “Lorena Wisneski. Dr. Lorena Wisneski.”

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. Lower your guard for just a moment and the world will bite you on the ass. What was it her grandfather used to say? “It is not only the shadows you need to be wary of, sunlight too can blind you.” Today the sun was shining, birds were singing, Lorna Ruth wore a bright smile when she slowed her car as Anya came out of the bus station. “Anya, can I give you a ride?” So easy. Never a second thought. A bit weary, heavy suitcase, legs a little tired from two days taking care of business in the city.