by Glenn Muller
He read the signature out loud.
“Stanislaw Svoljsak.”
He said it in the same flat tone his mother had used, on the rare occasion she spoke of the man who had bailed on her. Fenn could only recall him coming around a few times. Once they had gone to the zoo and had ice cream. Or was it the circus? His mother never smiled much during these visits and Fenn hadn’t understood why his parents’ relationship was so different than those of his young friends. It just was.
Dear Charleton,
Getting this package from someone you have not seen in over twenty-five years will no doubt be a surprise. Frankly, I did not expect to be sending it though I have wanted to contact you for some time. Believe it or not, I have never forgotten that I have a son, yet I understand I have no right to expect any consideration from you after all this time.
Your mother and I married too young and life was not easy where we came from. I never had the means to support more than myself although recently I have come onto something with interesting potential. The information on the enclosed archive is valuable to the right party, and I need to keep it somewhere safe for a while.
If you want nothing to do with me I will understand but I send this package as an olive branch. It could profit us both financially as well as personally, though getting to either point may be complicated. I will try to contact you soon but if for some reason I don’t then do with these things as you see fit.
Your Father,
The signature was neither formal nor messy.
It was impossible not to be emotionally stirred yet Fenn was determined to remain rational. His mother always maintained her runaway husband was trouble, and Fenn’s destroyed apartment could attest to that. But curiosity is a great motivator and he could count his living relations on both thumbs. Or could he?
With the line, I will try to contact you soon but if for some reason I don’t then do with these things as you see fit, the letter had the flavour of a dead drop. And, if Fenn was honest with himself, he had next expected to hear of his father through the obituaries.
In the quiet apartment, without distractions, the stress of the day began to weigh in. Fenn felt a chill that morphed into a shiver. He lay down on the sofa’s ruined cushions and pulled a blanket over his legs. By the time Mogg came to join him he was well into a series of disjointed dreams.
== == ==
He awoke in a sweat. An alarm was sounding. No, it was the phone. What time was it? Eleven thirty p.m. He'd only been asleep for ninety minutes.
He nudged Mogg off his chest and untangled his legs from the blanket. The phone persisted. Fenn wove an unsteady path across the room and dragged a chair to the desk.
“Hullo?” There was silence on the line.
In no mood for games he said, “Speak or I’m hanging up.”
“Is this Charleton Fenn?”
“It is. Who are you?” More dead air. Fenn rubbed his eyes. “Look, if you’ve got something to say, let’s have it. Otherwise, don’t bother me.”
He was about to disconnect when the caller galvanized.
“I’m sorry to have to bother you at this hour, Mr. Fenn, but I think we can be of service to each other. My name is Brittany Reis.”
CHAPTER 20
Thursday, October 22nd
Morning fog had rolled in off the lake and drenched everything as thoroughly as rain. It was one of the thick ones that felt like mist and looked like smoke and seemed to slow down time. Cars crept from driveways and were smothered until their taillights flared like soft red fireballs. Darkened limbs, mostly bare of leaves, shivered and dripped and hit or missed pedestrians some of whom carried umbrellas but saw no advantage in having them open. Time drifted on. The day had begun, though the daylight would be slow to arrive.
Slow was fine by Fenn who had the senescent Muriel Stafford beside him. Slow was Muriel’s top speed but since the morning rush was a morning crawl, she fit right in. For the first time in four sessions Fenn was able to get her onto main streets with real traffic. They followed a delivery van along Lakeshore Road and Fenn, gazing out his window, caught an occasional glimpse of the mansions that the local realtors loved to sell.
“What do you think of these places, Muriel?” Fenn said mainly to divert his driver from her fixed stare.
Keeping her focus on the truck in front she replied, “I think they’re overpriced and overtaxed; but I’d take one in a heartbeat if the keys were offered on a plate.”
Fenn agreed. He’d been inside several when picking up students, and could have happily lived in most, though had never seen any with apartments to let. Granny flats, yes, with grannies installed, but no rentals. Finding a new place to live might be difficult, especially if he had to give references. After yesterday’s trashing of his apartment Mr. Bedeer was unlikely to offer a glowing referral.
Muriel piloted on. Shoulders up, elbows out. She was hanging on to the car rather than driving it.
“Sit back and relax, Muriel, and loosen your grip or you’ll wear yourself out.” Fenn glanced up at his own rear-view mirror. The car behind was maintaining a judicious space. The fog prevented seeing beyond that but Fenn was pretty sure they were leading a parade.
“Let's turn right onto that side-street,” he said. She made the corner staying more or less in her lane without Fenn having to apply his instructor’s brake. Muriel tended to get the pedals mixed up but, today, she was responding well to his verbal commands. They circled the block and came back onto Lakeshore Road. As they approached the shopping district, traffic began to bunch up in front as much as it had behind.
On the left, a motel seemed to be the center of some attention. The small parking lot was host to four police cars, a fire truck and an ambulance. The presence of an SUV with the banner of a local media station on the side signified the event might be more interesting than a basic heart attack.
The fire crew was milling about, hoses still on the truck, and one of the police vehicles was an incident van. Fenn put his money on serious bodily injury. A stabbing, a shooting, or maybe a suicide. Oddly enough, he felt strangely connected to it.
He put it down to sleep deprivation, and that the previous day’s events were still resonating within him. After all, he had been the victim of a violent act followed by veiled threats over the phone late at night. The caller had said he was swimming in dangerous waters, her actual words, and that he should hand over the contents of the package in exchange for a finder’s fee. He hadn’t slept much after that.
Muriel applying the brake brought Fenn back to the present. Cars ahead were stopping for a red light.
“What do you think is going on over there?” he asked when they were stopped, hoping for an opinion more objective than his own was at the moment.
Muriel allowed herself a glimpse through the side window.
“That’s a seedy motel. I’m thinking some smack-dealing pimp got whacked by his ‘ho’.” Her expression was deadpan but she cracked a grin at Fenn’s look of surprise.
“My grandson was over watching that music station, MTV, the other day,” she explained. “Since then, I haven’t been able to find the remote to change the channel.”
The light turned green and Muriel’s foot started to lift off the brake. Fenn belayed that.
“Hold on a second. Scan the intersection first.”
A cyclist with wet brakes slipped across in front of them.
“Wassup wi’ that jive fool,” she said.
Fenn laughed. He was starting to really like Muriel.
== == ==
Detective Inspector Lareault finished his examination of the unit’s small bathroom and edged past the forensic specialist applying dust to a light switch. He took a position where he could watch the medical examiner without blocking the light and unwrapped a stick of gum. His disposable mask only buffered the smell, he hoped the spearmint would keep it out of his throat. Dennis Collier straightened up from his crouch and stepped back from the body.
“This one’s ol
der, somewhere in his fifties. That aside, there are several similarities to the one we examined across town, last week.” The coroner peeled the latex gloves from his hands by pulling them inside out, and folded one inside the other.
“Approximate time of death?”
“Rigor mortis has run full cycle and judging by the blisters, secretions, and gassing I would estimate between three and four days ago. The heat was off and the unit was pretty cool so that slowed decomposition down a bit. Once I get him in the lab I’ll be able to give you a more exact time.”
“And this one also had a needle mark?”
Collier pointed to a small wound. “Just below the shoulder blade, like the last one. The killer tries to camouflage them with scratch marks.”
“One would have done it,” said Lareault, taking in the discoloured rows of nail trails on the victim’s skin. “I’ll get my sergeant to canvas the local call girls, though I’ve a feeling there’s more to this case than a hooker with a hypodermic. Do we have toxicology for the Durrell case, yet?”
“Now, Evan.” Collier gave the policeman’s shoulder a fraternal pat. “When has Toxicology ever sent you anything in less than a week?”
“Just thought I’d ask.” The detective eyed the dustings of fingerprint powder on various surfaces in the room. “Has Cy pulled any completes?”
“Several belonging to the victim, and a few unknowns. The effluents helped. The blood you can see is from him biting his tongue.”
The videographer arrived to make his unflattering documentary so they made their way outside. The mist still hung about but damp was better than foul. A constable in a raincloak came forward with his notepad in hand.
“Sir,” he said, addressing Lareault but looking at his notes. “The motel registry shows the deceased has been renting the unit since August third of this year. He registered under the name Stanislaw Svoljsak, the same as on his driver's licence.”
“Does he have a car?”
The constable peered into the fog. “It’s that Buick next to the ambulance.” He referred back to his book. “The manager said the rent was paid a month ahead, and that he kept mostly to himself. A quiet tenant.”
“Was anyone seen entering or leaving the unit recently?” said Lareault. “In particular, the period between Sunday night and Tuesday morning.”
“We're still knocking on doors, but,” the officer flipped a page, “a Mrs. Francine Albert in 8B did notice a tall slim woman with long dark hair, short dress and high heels, entering the deceased's unit a little after one in the morning on Tuesday. She, that is Mrs. Albert, had just finished watching a movie and went to draw the curtains when she saw the woman crossing the lot. Mrs. Albert described her as ‘a right tart’, sir.”
Lareault stifled a smile. “Thank you, Constable. Keep knocking.”
Collier had his bag in hand. “Well I’m off, but drop by the lab later this afternoon. I should have something for you by then.”
The medical examiner went in the direction of his car and Lareault headed for the victim’s Buick. He was about to ask a nearby constable to locate the keys for it when he was yoo-hooed from above.
“Yoo-Hoo! Hello! Officer!”
Hanging over the rail of the second floor catwalk was a woman, late fifties, wearing a once white terrycloth housecoat, matching slippers, and something resembling a knitted tea-cosy on her head. She waved a magazine at him. “I just remembered something—you got a minute?”
== == ==
Unit 8B had the same layout as the one below. The stains, though, were more consistent with coffee and cooking grease. It also appeared a lot more lived-in despite the tenant’s futile attempt to make it appear less so.
“Let me just turn the telly down. You can’t get too much Oprah, can you.” She seemed unconcerned with the robe’s inability to keep her contained while she stooped for the newspapers on the floor.
“Park yourself in a chair, Luv. Want a coffee? Sorry, we’re out of tea. Oh, that’s the cat's chair. A bit furry. Yes, the other one’s fine.”
She paused her commentary to look for a new place to drop the papers and Lareault dove at the opening.
“You must be Mrs. Francine Albert. Am I correct?”
“That's right. Fran, or Frannie. I already talked to the other policeman—nice chap. Told him I seen this woman; real cheap like, trouncing over to 8A. Wondered to meself; why ever is that man paying for it when I'd have kept him company for free!” She threw her head back to laugh, revealing uppers and lowers only a dentist could love.
“So you knew him, Mrs.—”
“Fran. Or Frannie. Not really. Well, we said mornin’ to each other once or twice, but apart from that, he was …” She trailed off and stared for a moment at a corner of the ceiling. Lareault followed her gaze but there was nothing there for him.
“Anyway,” she resumed, adjusting the tea cosy about her ears. “What I’d remembered was that the gentleman might have been a bit of a gambler. I saw him in the variety store the other day.”
“Which day was that?”
“Last Saturday. I remember because he was buying some cigars—and a racing form. I like a bit of a flutter, meself, on a weekend. Never win much though as I guess you can tell.”
Lareault smiled sympathetically. “Do you remember anything else?”
“About what?”
“The gentleman downstairs.”
“Shame that. Was he killed or what?”
“We’re still working on that.” Lareault sensed he’d got all he was getting and rose from the chair. “I appreciate your time.”
Fran, or Frannie, stood up and adjusted her robe. “Oh, it’s no bother. Come by later if you want a tea. Or was it coffee?”
Lareault made his way back down to the parking lot, stopping on the stairs to palm the cat hair from his slacks. A flatbed tow truck stood waiting to transport the Buick to the forensics bay. A constable opened the car’s trunk at his approach. It contained only a blanket and a camera bag. Lareault spent a moment admiring the equipment then did a quick inspection of the car’s interior coming out with a racing form, a pair of sunglasses, a few coins, and three stamps from a packet of ten. The team at the station would no doubt find a lot of finite stuff. He nodded to the tow truck driver who advanced with chains.
Inside 8A voices were being raised. Cy, the fingerprint guy, came out, fuming.
“Problem, Cy?”
“Cecil B. DeMille in there just kicked my powder bottle over.” He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. “I need a break anyway. You look like you do, too. I guess Detective Sergeant Rowan is going to be off for a while.”
“Yeah. And it could be quite a while.”
“So you think the misconduct charge will stick?”
“There could be more to it. I hate cliché’s but where there’s smoke—”
“—there’s an asshole fanning the flames,” finished Cy.
Lareault decided to leave it at that. The forensic expert obviously had a bond with Brian Rowan. During a routine drug bust Rowan had been named as a friend by someone a law enforcement officer shouldn’t be named as a friend by. The internal review was ongoing.
The videographer, having wrapped up, exited the unit. He ignored Lareault, glared at Cy, and walked briskly to his vehicle.
Lareault leaned around the doorframe.
“Is it safe to go in?”
Cy nodded. “Just watch for the dust by the television.”
CHAPTER 21
The rest of Thursday ran as scheduled for Fenn, though longer than usual since Asha had rebooked most of his cancelled lessons from Wednesday into the next day. He’d caught a short nap, mid-afternoon, but as the clock approached 8 p.m. he was glad to be finishing the last lesson.
The student was to be dropped off at a local cinema so Fenn had her back the car into a parking spot not far from the marquis. He made a point of watching her meet friends and enter the complex, then spent the next few minutes updating his client files. Thanks
to the long shift he’d pretty well made up for lost time. He was about to drive away when two people who looked very familiar ascended the steps to the cinema.
“Oh, say it isn’t so,” he muttered and leaned forward for a closer look. The uneven lighting of the parking lot had left a bit of room for doubt, but when the couple reached the spotlit theatre entrance there was no mistaking that Asha Fabiani was going into the show with Joe Posada, her arm looped through his.
Well, well, well. Those sly buggers.
As Joe held the door open and followed Asha inside, Fenn was uncertain about how he felt about his co-workers, close friends really, acting as a couple. With the car in gear, his foot stayed on the brake while he tried to digest this unexpected discovery.
He had to acknowledge the slight sense of betrayal was one that he had no right to feel. Despite the tangible chemistry in their flirting, Asha had given no sign that he might have a claim on her. Or had she? They’d casually discussed office flings but exactly who had said what he couldn’t recall. Hardly mattered now. From what he’d just seen that was all water under the bridge.
If she had given him a hint, along the way, he’d been terminally unaware of it and Joe had obviously filled that void with the right move at the right time. Posada was certainly more cavalier in that department. He slumped back in his seat and watched other singles and couples make their way in. Something had brought those two together and Fenn hadn’t seen it coming. While it was possible that he never had been in the running, it still felt like an opportunity missed.
And that just fit right in with the week he was having. Joe Posada had got himself a hot date, and all Fenn would be getting tonight was cold pizza. Wearily, he lifted his foot from the brake. Screw it. The only thing he really needed to get, right now, was some sleep.
== == ==