by A. M. Potter
She remained silent.
“Tatyana gets off at six,” he said suggestively and glanced at his watch. “Five minutes. I’m sure you can wait.” He winked. “Why don’t you take her for a drink? There’s a nice bar across the street.”
Naslund shook her head wryly. MacTavish’s innuendo didn’t surprise her. However, his blithe certainty did. “I have plans. In fact, they include you.”
“Oh?”
“I’m going to escort you home.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“I know, but I’ll be following you home.”
“I could be half an hour.”
“No problem.”
“Why don’t you have a drink with Tatyana?”
“I have some reading to do.”
“She won’t bite.” MacTavish grinned. “Unless you want her to. Not that I know,” he quickly added.
“I have some reading to do,” Naslund repeated. “Please show me all of your invoices for the last three years.”
He pointed to a filing cabinet. “Be my guest. Top shelf for the past two years. Middle shelf for three years back. Would you like a beverage? Tatyana can bring you one.”
“No thanks.”
***
Naslund left the Gallery Canadiana at 1840, following MacTavish’s Audi. She pulled into his driveway twenty minutes later. The agent owned an older brick ranch off Oriole Park Way. The hedges lining the property were overgrown; the flowers, drooping.
He stood waiting by his Audi. Naslund walked up to him.
“Thank you for your escort, Sergeant.”
“My pleasure. Now I’d like to take a look at your toolshed.”
“My toolshed?” He seemed amused. “I don’t have one, but there’s a workbench in the garage.”
“We’ll start there.”
“I suppose you have a warrant.”
She shook her head. No time for that. She was riding the edge.
He smiled magnanimously. “A woman with a job to do. That’s fine. Follow me. I’m not a handyman,” he said as they walked. “You can ask my wife. And my boys are sportsmen, not builders.”
Naslund nodded.
Having reached the garage, he pointed to the workbench. “Whatever tools we have are there.”
“Do you own a ballpeen hammer?”
“A what?”
She scrutinized his mouth. The man had no idea what a ballpeen hammer was.
Hours later, after MacTavish amicably left the garage and allowed her to search the complete building as well as the yard and basement, she thanked him and nodded goodbye. No Phillips screwdrivers, no ballpeen hammers, no hammers at all other than an old one with a very loose head. Barely enough tools to build a doghouse. As for MacTavish’s office, she hadn’t found any incriminating invoices or contracts. In the end, she hadn’t found anything. Not a hair out of place, as the inspector would say. MacTavish was clean.
Wrong, she thought as she started her car. Every POI was clean.
Chapter 31
Wiarton. September 30th:
Ten weeks later, Naslund was sitting in her own office. Inspector Moore had been recalled to Central in mid-September. His soil analysis initiative had been shelved. He’d grilled Ward Larmer and Carrie MacLean again and dropped in on Jock MacTavish, to no avail. All POIs and contacts had been checked and rechecked. No new leads had emerged. The Tyler and MacKenzie cases had gone cold. The murder room was once again Bickell’s boardroom.
Recently, whenever Naslund could--she’d taken to shunting other work to the side--she pored over interview tapes, transcripts, and notes from the Tyler and MacKenzie murders. She’d started working chronologically. That morning, she reached July twelfth. She cast her mind back. What had happened on July twelfth? She sipped her coffee. It was the day of her first meeting with J.J. and Marty at Marty Fox’s place. The day of Tyler’s funeral. The memorial lunch at Sawyers Inn. The M&M discussion with Moore. The afternoon of the “visit” to Tyler’s cottage. The ankle injury. The night she stayed at Marty’s.
Memory refreshed, she opened the case database. The July twelfth material ended with the M&M discussion. Why? She scoured the database then combed through four boxes of papers and printouts. Nothing anywhere on the visit to Tyler’s cottage. She stood, circled the office, and circled it again. Just as she was about to go outside for a walk, the answer came to her. The “visit” was off-the-record. Her mind kicked into gear. There was something she was supposed to remember. What was it? A little thing.
Step back, she told herself. Recreate the details. She searched the Tyler property, the MacLean women returned early, she hid behind a hedge, she heard them talking. Right! An X on a map. The grandmother found a map with letters and numbers and an X written on it. Naslund pulled out her personal phone.
“Morning, Carrie. Eva here.”
“Hello.”
A suspicious hello. “Do you have a moment?” Naslund asked.
“For what?”
“A quick question about some evidence. Just me, no Inspector Moore.”
“Good.”
“Can I drop by?”
“Well. Okay.”
“See you in fifteen.”
***
“Pull up a chair,” Carrie said to Naslund. “Coffee?”
Naslund shook her head. “No thanks.” Carrie looked tired. Her baby bump was huge. Naslund had heard she was carrying a son, due in eight weeks. “Don’t want to keep you long.”
“That’s okay,” Carrie said.
“I know your grandmother found a map with an X on it.”
Carrie eyed her. “How do you know that?”
“Can’t say.”
“You’re right,” Carrie eventually said.
“Can you show me the map?” Naslund asked.
“I’d have to find it. You sure about that coffee?”
“Yes. Thanks anyway.”
Naslund settled in to wait. Intuition told her the map was important. And they had no record of it. That’s what happened when you went behind the barn. You could broaden an investigation, but you could also weaken the evidence pool.
Ten minutes later, Carrie returned with a small folded map. To Naslund, it seemed like hours later. She donned a pair of CS gloves. Her heart started thumping. Her fingers tingled. With a focused effort, she controlled her breathing, opened the map, and revealed a local publication featuring the Bruce Trail. A small blue X marked the Tyler cottage. In the bottom right quadrant she noticed two inconspicuous lines handwritten in blue ink:
414 MB
JY8 5.30
The handwriting was small and neat, yet deeply etched. The letters and numbers slanted forward. They were tightly spaced. Humm, she pondered, 414 MB. Four-hundred-plus megabytes? No. She reconsidered. It could be the cottage address, 414 Mallory Beach Road. As for JY8 5.30? Possibly July eight, five-thirty a.m. The date and approximate time of Thom’s last departure from his boathouse. One potential hook, she thought.
She put the map down and looked up at Carrie. “I have a few questions.”
Carrie nodded.
“Is this your map?”
“No.”
“Was it Thom’s?”
“No.”
“Why did you keep it?”
Carrie shrugged. “My grandmother found it.”
“Did anyone ask to see it or borrow it?”
“No.”
“Where was it?”
“Under a pile of books in the guest room.”
Naslund nodded. Her fault again. She’d searched the guest room when she and Moore executed the warrant. “Is this your handwriting?”
“No.”
“Do you recognize it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” Carrie looked closer. “Sort of.”
“Go on.”
“I’m not sure. It looks like the writing of Thom’s first agent. It’s been a while. Almost ten years.”
“The agent before Louise Hennigan?”
“Yes. Elina Bayeux.”
&nb
sp; The name didn’t ring a bell. Naslund remembered a Vost-something. “Please confirm that name.”
“Elina Bayeux. Thom didn’t talk about her. Not often. She didn’t help him much. Point of fact, she was a hindrance, not a help. Actually, more than a hindrance.”
“How so?”
“Well, she borrowed a lot of money and didn’t pay it back. She didn’t sell any of Thom’s art. Not one piece. She was useless.” Carrie sniffed. “Always flitting around in knee-high boots. Even in August.”
“Please continue.”
“She screwed him. Figuratively, and literally too.” Carrie smiled tightly. “Elina Bayeux was a slut. An art groupie. She used to come around here. Until I made Thom kick her out.”
“When was that?”
“About five years ago.”
Before my time, Naslund thought. “Have you seen her since then?”
“No.”
“How about Thom? Did he see her?”
“I don’t know. Does it matter now? Women liked him. He sent quite a few packing. I had to watch that spectacle more than once. Some had no shame. Screaming, crying, saying they’d keep house for him if that’s all he wanted. Begging, pleading.”
“Were they angry?”
“Sometimes.”
“Was Elina Bayeux angry?”
Carrie nodded. “She went ballistic. Said she’d given him her best years.” Carrie harrumphed. “Maybe she did. I know how that feels.”
Two hooks, Naslund decided. Possible timeline fit and potential motive. “Do you happen to have any examples of Elina Bayeux’s writing?”
“Let me look in Thom’s studio.”
“I’ll join you. Can I do the actual searching?”
“Sure.”
Naslund followed Carrie to the studio, where she unlocked a large cabinet and pointed to the top shelf. “Try in there.”
Naslund soon uncovered what appeared to be two samples of Elina Bayeux’s penmanship, an envelope addressed to Thom and a birthday card. She placed the samples next to the map. To her eye, all three documents exhibited the same handwriting. Neat, tight, forward-slanting. She pulled out her phone, took photos of all three, and turned to Carrie. “I need to impound these.”
“Of course.” Carrie swept a lock of hair off her forehead. “There’s something I’ve been thinking about. A small thing.” She hesitated. “I’m not sure it means anything.”
“Please, tell me.”
“Back in the last week of June, I saw Louise Hennigan on Mallory Beach Road very early in the morning--twice. I know her car, a powder-blue Mustang. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I was leaving for work around five-thirty and there she was, driving back toward Wiarton. Then I saw her again the next day, and her lights were off. Seemed a little strange then, seems stranger now. The early hour, no lights. Like she was skulking around.”
“Did she stop or wave?”
“Oh no. She didn’t see me.”
“Okay. I’ll look into that.”
***
On the way to her car, Naslund called Orillia.
“Forensic Documents. Constable Jack Harding.”
“Morning, Harding. Detective Sergeant Naslund, Bruce Peninsula.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Got some handwriting. Three documents. I need to know if there’s a match.” She didn’t mention the connection to the Tyler-MacKenzie cases. Officially, she was no longer assigned to them.
“Sure.”
“I’ll send the originals by secure courier. Express. Meantime, I’ll email photos you can blow up.”
“Sounds good.”
“Can you get back to me ASAP?” She paused. Why not push things? Moore would. “Today, if possible.”
“Possible. Later in the day. How’s eighteen hundred?”
“Thank you.”
Back at the station, Naslund looked up Louise Hennigan’s number and phoned her. The call went to voicemail, the greeting saying Hennigan was on holiday. Naslund didn’t leave a message. She’d keep trying until Hennigan answered.
Switching focus, she dug up the particulars on Elina Bayeux. Elina Marlena Bayeux, nee Vostokov; DOB 3/25/72; birthplace Volgograd, Russia. Naslund stopped. Volgograd. Nikolai Filipov was from Volgograd. As for Vostokov, she thought MacTavish had mentioned the name. She reviewed the case notes. Right. On July fourteenth, he’d mentioned a Miss Vostokov, the agent before Hennigan. Convergence. Possibly double convergence: Volgograd and Vostokov.
Naslund continued her Bayeux nee Vostokov search--12 Iris Road, Etobicoke, Ontario; D/L M3458-10402-12735. Divorced. She had a record: three counts of Disturbance of the Peace, all at 14 Iris Road. Apparently, she didn’t like the neighbors. Or vice versa.
Naslund saved the details to her laptop. Sometimes you got lucky. Not only had she managed to recover a “lost” exhibit, it might lead somewhere. She didn’t care about Elina Bayeux’s record. She was a POI, regardless. She’d known Thom Tyler--and she’d fallen through the cracks. Even if the handwriting on the map wasn’t hers, Naslund still had to interview her. For now, though, she had to wait for Harding.
She tried to concentrate on two open B&Es. The hours dragged on. Her concentration waned. By late afternoon, she couldn’t concentrate anymore. She left the station, drove to the end of Bayview, and walked to a water-side lookout. The autumn air was cool but Colpoys Bay was still warm. Swirls of mist rose off the water. The sun cut through them. Her mind was drawn to Hal. He was a good man, in more ways than one. He was three years younger, which she liked. Younger men were usually more open, more accepting. She’d checked him out. No sheet. He’d been working at city newspapers in Ottawa and Sudbury. She’d have to ask him why he’d come to Wiarton. Some day. For now, there’d be no questions. She didn’t want to come across as a cop on a case. She’d done that before. Tonight they’d eat and laugh. And then, yes, then they’d enter the white room.
She glanced at her watch--1811. Where was Harding?
Her thoughts segued to the cold cases. With Moore’s relentless pace, the investigations should have succeeded. She shook her head. Maybe they were snake-bitten.
As she was about to walk to her car, her radiophone receiver buzzed. It had to be Bickell. No one else called her by radiophone. “Sergeant Naslund.”
“Bickell here,” the chief hurriedly said. “Get to 414 Mallory Beach Road immediately. Suspicious death. Carrie MacLean.”
Jesus. Carrie. “Copy.”
“Reported by John Tyler.”
“Copy.” Naslund ran to her car.
Chapter 32
Siren shrieking, Naslund roared up to the Tyler cottage to find two cars in the driveway. She recognized both: MacLean’s Subaru and John Tyler’s Toyota. Bickell had just informed her that Kapanen and Chandler were en route. She parked on the roadside; hastily dug out a clean suit, shoe covers, and gloves; and hauled them on. Stepping quickly yet lightly, she skirted the cottage driveway and front path, calling out to Tyler Senior.
He answered on the third call. “Down here! The boathouse!”
“Stay there!” she called back. “Don’t touch anything!”
She walked carefully down the stone staircase to the boathouse, avoiding the middle of each step, examining the stones and adjacent shrubs. No blood or noticeable prints. Nothing caught on the shrubs. Reaching the bottom, she saw Tyler Senior sitting on a rock ledge, staring at the bay.
He didn’t move as she approached. “Mr. Tyler, you reported a death.”
He turned to face her. “Yes.”
“How did you know Carrie MacLean was dead?”
“Her forehead’s completely caved in.” He stopped. “Sorry, I’m feeling a bit off.”
Naslund waited.
Eventually Tyler recovered his equanimity. “Her stomach is crisscrossed with stabs.”
“Where is she?”
“At the end of the dock.”
“When did you arrive at the cottage?”
“About half-an-hour ago.”
“After six. I was a bit late.”
“For what?”
“Dinner at six. She’d invited me.” Tyler sighed. “We were going to talk about the cottage. I’d decided to hand it over to her. For her son. She was going to have a son, you know.”
Naslund nodded. “When did you find the body?”
“About ten after, I’d say. I didn’t look. I called nine-one-one right away.”
That fit, Naslund thought. Bickell’s suspicious-death call came in just after 1811.
“She wasn’t in the kitchen,” Tyler said. “She wasn’t anywhere in the cottage or studio. That’s why I walked down to the boathouse.” He stopped and shook his head.
“All right, Mr. Tyler. Please remain exactly where you are. Don’t walk around. Protocol. We’ll be taking you to the station. We need a formal statement.”
“Of course.”
“One more thing. When I arrived, you were staring out at Colpoys Bay. Why?”
“I thought I saw something.”
“What?”
“Well, about ten minutes ago, I thought I spotted a small boat on the other side of the bay, far from here, heading toward Big Bay. Low in the water. One person aboard. But I’m not sure. With the sun going down, the bay was murky. At that distance, everything was murky.”
“Did you see anyone on Mallory Beach Road half-an-hour ago? Any cars parked on the roadside?”
“No.”
“Thank you.”
Eyeing the sun, Naslund calculated the amount of daylight left. Less than thirty minutes. She strode toward the wooden dock. No blood. Within ten seconds, she saw the body.
Carrie MacLean lay on her back, her long frame limp, head rotated to the left. Naslund knew what that implied: the victim died on land. She approached the body, knelt, and placed a finger on the right hand. The skin was warm. Rigor hadn’t begun. MacLean’s bowels had loosened. The corpse smelled of feces.
Naslund shut out the stench and inventoried the scene. Multi-blow blood splatter discolored the dock. Blunt force splatter. She turned her gaze to the forehead. Almost unrecognizable. Shattered bone, blood, and brain matter, one eye swollen shut. MacLean’s face bore no resemblance to the face Naslund had seen barely six hours ago. She bent closer. Four deep wounds, already hosting flesh flies. Almost immediately, she recognized the weapon imprints. She’d seen them twice already. The same ballpeen hammer used to attack Tyler and MacKenzie. The same MO. The same killer?