by Sam Wiebe
“The second, judging from the troughs of cat food.” I swung open the bedroom door. Two sets of feline eyes, a used condom on the floor, a ratty-looking mattress, and a mouse carcass near a puncture in the drywall.
“That poor child,” Mira said over my shoulder.
“We’ve all seen worse,” Fisk said. “I don’t see any trace of the kid.”
“There’s two other suites.”
One of the cats nuzzled my ankle, not quite feral even after the months on her own. “I could use some air,” I said. “How ’bout the garage?”
“How’d you get clued in to Atero?” Fisk asked me as we watched Mira attempt to unthread the rusty padlock on the garage doors.
“Do you believe in the divine conduit, Gavin?” I handed him Madame Thibodeau’s card, which he read and flicked back at me in disgust.
“He and his brother work for some heavy money-lenders,” he said. Mira had borrowed my knife to force the lock. She scraped away a layer of oxidation, the blade slipping and catching the cuff of her jacket.
“Careful,” I said. To Fisk I answered: “His employer wants nothing to do with this mess, but he made it clear he won’t stop the Ateros from coming after me.”
“Theo is a shylock when he’s not unloading trailers at the warehouse. Zak’s a bag boy who moonlights as a car thief, or vice versa.” Fisk watched Mira tug on the lock and spat. “Point is, they’re not going to let bygones be bygones. Whoever made that tape should be careful.”
“If I find out who did it I’ll pass the message along.”
“You stubborn son of a —” Mira put her boot on the door and pulled. The chunk of rotten wood anchoring the bolts on the lock came away in her hand. Fisk and I wasted no time in ripping the doors open.
The floor of the garage was clean-swept, though a rainbow of machine fluids stained the concrete. Cliff Szabo’s Taurus was inside.
“Nary a scratch,” Fisk said.
I checked the passenger’s door. The handle was broken. The brown core of a pear sat on the dash. The back was empty. No blue Schwinn.
“No bike,” Fisk said, echoing my thoughts. “Could be a good thing, letting him take his toy.”
The plastic panel beneath the steering column had been ripped away, exposing a coil of wires.
“If he’d only screamed when Atero broke in,” Fisk said. “If he hadn’t frozen up.”
“Maybe if he had he’d be dead,” I said.
“Assuming he’s not dead now.”
“Which we’re not.”
The three of us stared at the empty car before heading back to the prowler to call it in.
I left so they could cordon off the house and summon the technicians. Fisk told me he’d keep me informed, but I didn’t hear back from him that night.
Thursday morning was cold and clear skied. I piled the dog in the car and took her to Jericho Beach. I gave her the full length of the retractable leash and watched her paw at driftwood and inspect broken seashells, working her way to the edge of the surf.
When we were back in the car I drove by the office. I didn’t see either of the Ateros or their vehicles, though a car thief could be driving anything. The window of the diner across the street showed only the usual patrons. That was the logical place for them to set up, but then neither brother seemed to adhere to logic with any consistency. I did get the feeling that it was Theo who wanted to hurt me. Zak seemed either to hide behind his brother or not to care.
With the cameras and locks the office was a safe place to be, but the surrounding streets, with their dark doorways and alcoves, could hold any number of surprises. I made this clear to Katherine and Ben after my talk with Crittenden.
“You expect them to try and kill you?” Katherine said on the phone Thursday morning.
“No, but they’ll try something.”
The topic shifted to Hallowe’en. Katherine was going to some party with Scott, but she’d have time for dinner and drinks before. Did we want to celebrate?
“Depends if I can wrap up the Kroon job before then. Otherwise I’ll be locked away in the mortuary.”
“Kind of fitting,” Katherine said.
“Course, if anything breaks in the Szabo case, that takes precedence.”
After I checked out the office I drove to the vet’s, which was on West Broadway, sandwiched between a taqueria and a Black Bond Books. In the waiting room a young woman sat texting while her terrier scampered and yipped. I signed in with the receptionist and sat on a hard plastic chair across from the woman. The terrier showed interest in my dog, who scratched her own shoulder and regarded the younger dog with irritation.
“Hi Mike,” Deb the vet’s assistant said, taking the leash from me and leading us into the examination room. It was well lit and decorated with posters of nutritional information and cat taxonomy. A beige travel cage sat on the floor by the examination table.
“Hi pooch,” Deb said. “How’s she been feeling?”
“I guess okay. Still some irritation, some leakage.”
“Looks like you two had a nice walk on the beach. She’s got sand on her paws.”
“You should be a detective,” I said.
Deb pulled down the dog’s gums to inspect her teeth. “Rhonda told me that’s what you do.”
“Private investigator, yes.”
“That sounds neat. Could you hold her front paws while I adjust her tail out of the way? There.”
The dog whimpered as Deb prodded her sensitive area. The checkup was quick. The vet stopped in, she and Deb consulted, then they led me back to the waiting area, leaving the dog sequestered in the examination room.
“It’s proceeding as expected,” Rhonda the vet said. “In my opinion you won’t get a better time to put her down. She’s not in too much pain, she had a nice walk this morning. It’s entirely your decision, but I want you to understand that things won’t get better from here.”
“You said the same thing a month and a half ago.”
“She was in pain then. I recommended putting her down to spare her the intensification. Now, maybe the metastasis has been slower than anticipated, but that doesn’t mean she’s not hurting, or that the diagnosis was wrong. I’m spelling this out for you, Mr. Drayton, because I don’t want you to entertain any illusions. She’s very sick and she’ll only get sicker. Now is the optimum time.”
I sat down, rubbed my palms into my eyes. “So what’s the earliest appointment you have?”
“We could fit her in within the hour.”
I looked down at the dog. She wasn’t meeting my gaze. I nodded to the vet. “Yeah, let’s do this now.”
She smiled conservatively. “Okay. Deb and I will get things ready. You and she wait here.”
Deb carried the dog back to me and set her on my lap in the waiting room. The girl with the terrier had disappeared.
We waited like that for a half hour before Deb came back. She unhooked the leash and the collar and handed them to me. She guided the dog by the scruff of her neck. “Do you want to be with her?”
“No,” I said. “Just tell me when it’s done.”
They went into a room at the end of the hall. I strapped the collar to my wrist like a tourniquet. I imagined Amelia Yeats doing this, tapping for a vein. But that was wrong, she said she didn’t use needles.
I swung the leash, letting the hook hang like a pendulum. I thought of a great furnace somewhere in the barrens, where a soot-stained dwarf, face blackened, shoveled the corpses of euthanized pets, stoking the flames as thick clouds belched out towards the clean city, where the owners let their pets be taken away so that the animals’ last moments were spent with strangers whose only interaction with the beasts was to kill them.
I bypassed the receptionist and opened the door at the end of the hall. The dog sat in a cage while Deb made an entry on her clipboard.
“Changed my mind,” I said, opening the cage. “I’ll let you know.”
“Are you sure?” she said, but we were already heading
back out to the street.
“How bad was it?” my grandmother called as I took my shoes off by the door. She appeared in the kitchen entryway wearing oversized floral print oven mitts, sleeves rolled up. The day before, I’d told her about having Amelia Yeats over for dinner. She’d been anxious to cook something. We’d stopped at Granville Island market for fresh produce and seafood. Her expression turned to dismay as she saw the dog, who skulked to the basement stairs without glancing at her food bowl.
“I thought this was the day.”
“She looks better to me,” I said. “Doesn’t she move better? Not as stiff as a week ago. The doc said she misjudged the speed of the metasta-whatever-it-is.”
“Michael.”
I noticed the opened bottle of wine on the counter. I grabbed an old Slurpee mug from the cupboard and poured out a generous amount.
“Two weeks,” I said. “The appointment’s already made, I swear. How’d we make out on the pie crust?”
“There was enough dough left for a bottom,” she said, her disappointment forgotten. “I did a brown sugar crumble topping. If your friend doesn’t like it, tough.”
I kissed her cheek and went downstairs to shower and change.
Dinner consisted of salmon steaks coated in flour and skillet- fried a golden brown, pasta with Duso sauce, steamed broccoli, tossed salad with lemon vinaigrette. Amelia Yeats showed up with wine and beer, and we consumed both. The women seemed to enjoy each other’s company. Their conversation was pleasant. What do your parents do, dear? My dad used to produce records but he’s mostly retired now. That’s nice. And your mother? She’s in jail. Sorry to hear that. It’s okay. This salad dressing is excellent. That’s because it’s homemade. I’ll get you the recipe if you like.
I made coffee and loaded the dishwasher. We had pie in front of the television, catching the last few minutes of Jeopardy before Criminal Intent started.
“She’s half in love with D’Onofrio,” I explained to Amelia.
“Oh piss off,” my grandmother said.
“It was Jimmy Smits before that. I forget the others, but they all run to a type. A long line of Byronic heroes.”
Amelia patted my grandmother’s knee. “Jimmy Smits was hot,” she said.
My phone rang at the second commercial break. I took the plates and mugs into the kitchen and tucked the phone between ear and neck.
“Satisfied?” Theo Atero said.
“With my phone bill, you mean? Is anyone?”
“This morning I’m at work, I find out the blues have rousted my brother out of bed and taken him downtown to answer questions about something he doesn’t know nothing about. I got to lose a half day plus pay the cunt lawyer’s fees to get him kicked. Now who do you think should be responsible for that?”
“My Brother the Scumbag’s Epic Tale of Woe by Theo Atero,” I said. “You could get shortlisted for a Giller.”
“The hell’s a Giller?”
“It’s an award for a long, boring book that nobody reads.”
Theo said, “I know you’re sitting back laughing at this, thinking you got one over on some poor drug-addicted kid who wouldn’t hurt a soul. Make my brother a laughing stock, get him harassed by the police. I’m sure you and that big dyke and that fat slob are having a good laugh. You know that can change, though. Hope you know that.”
“Why don’t you come by the office tomorrow, Theo? Personally I like to look the people I insult in the face.”
“Watch your back is all I’ll say.”
“I know where you live too, Theo.”
I brought my grandmother half a baby aspirin and her grape juice concoction. Amelia and I killed the last of the wine.
Over the credits I heard a car door slam and the car tear up the street, and then two shots. I dragged my grandmother off the couch, knocking over her glass. Next to me, Yeats followed suit. It occurred to me in the silence afterwards that the sounds were out of order, that the gunshots should precede the car driving off. I fetched the Glock from the coat rack, hit the porch light and stepped outside.
I saw three smoking firecrackers on the lawn and one in the gutter, and a woman righting her bicycle, and a pair of joggers, cellphones out, already dialing 911. My dog brushed my leg and shuffled out onto the porch, letting out a half-hearted bark. I felt Yeats behind me in the doorway.
“This is the guy you just talked to,” she said.
“Most likely. Yes.”
“What will you do about it?”
Good question.
XVIII
The Corpse Fucker
What I did was answer the uniformed cop’s questions and then drive Yeats to her father’s, stealing one long kiss before heading back to be with my grandmother. In the morning I installed a security camera over the door, along with flood lights, and hooked them to a motion sensor. My electrician skills make my carpentry look professional, but despite the unseemly wires, the system seemed to work. I devoted another hour to showing my grandmother how to work it.
Gavin Fisk wasn’t answering his cell. I called Kroon and Son. I explained to the younger Thomas Kroon that I was ready to admit defeat. I’d be in later that afternoon to pick up my things and give a last brief warning to the employees.
“I want them all to understand basic security procedures,” I said. “I’ll sleep better knowing we’re all on the same page.”
“Sounds fair enough,” Kroon said. “I’ll warn you, though, it’s our staff Hallowe’en party. You’ll be talking to a bunch of nurses and Frankenstein’s monsters.”
“Just as long as everyone’s there,” I said. “If it’s possible, could you make sure your father’s there, too? Some of this he’ll need to know.”
“The old man never misses an opportunity to see Carrie in her police woman’s uniform.” Kroon added, “I think you’re making a wise decision, packing it in now. Saves everyone a bit of grief, not to mention money.”
“I just have too many other things on my plate,” I said. “Monday I’ll send off the last invoice.”
While I was on the phone with Kroon, Cliff Szabo had phoned twice. I rang him back.
“I owe you a hell of a long explanation,” I said, “which you’ll get Sunday morning, I promise. For now, suffice to say there’s a lead on your son, the cops are following that lead up, and we’ll see very soon what pans out. If the press phones, stick to the basics — the cops are handling it, you’ve hired a PI, et cetera. No details yet.”
“All right.”
“Another thing: this suspect and his brother might make trouble, so take precautions.” I gave him a brief description of the Atero brothers.
“Did these two take Django?” he asked.
“It’s not quite that simple.”
“I want an explanation.”
“Sunday,” I said.
By noon I got through to Gavin Fisk. “And the media shit storm begins,” he said.
“Far as we’re concerned, Mr. Szabo and I, the matter’s in your capable hands.”
“Real comforting,” he said, a strange mix of sarcasm and gratitude. “I’ll be in touch with Szabo later on.”
“What’d you find in the house?”
“A lot of cat shit and no surprises,” he said. “There’s no forwarding address for any of these girls, though Barbara Della Costa has some relatives in Saskatchewan. Hookers always do. Their records of employment are also a bit spotty.”
“There’s no line on any of them?”
“We’re not done looking,” he said. “Sooner or later one of them will take a collar or, gasp, apply for a job that doesn’t involve lying on your back.”
“Keep me informed.”
“Fair enough,” Fisk said. Where he’d usually click off, he hesitated. “I ask you something, Mike?”
“Why yes, Gavin, you certainly can.”
“You think Mira would like to go on a cruise?”
“Why ask me?”
“I’m racking my brain trying to think of a Christmas-s
lash-birthday gift she’d like. Big three-oh this year, should be something big. So how about a cruise? I know a chick who sent her parents to Mazatlan. They told her it was the best trip of their lives. What’s your take?”
“Thinking back, Gavin, has Mira ever mentioned boats, sea voyages or Mexico with any particular fondness?”
“No.”
“So what does that tell you?”
“Maybe she hasn’t tried it yet,” he said. “Is it true you’re banging that music producer?” I didn’t answer. “The ass on her, huh? Those tight little tits?”
“Just tell me when you get a line on those hookers.”
“I sure will, Mike. Pardon me for voicing an opinion.”
Phone calls all day. The vet, asking did I want to reschedule for today? Hell no. Estelline Loeb: she’d read an article about a child pornography ring busted in Fort McMurray. Remember that vice cop in Oklahoma who noticed the face of a missing girl in a batch of kiddie porn and reunited her with her family? I told her I’d check on it. The Kos’ nephew phoned to ask if he could postdate a check for December 1st. I told him that was fine so long as it cleared. My lawyer wanted to know how to proceed on the school lawsuit. I told her full speed ahead.
At four o’clock I was nursing a hot water with lemon and honey in the breakroom of Kroon and Son. A boom box was playing a fifteen-minute mix of Hallowe’en music on repeat. I’d already heard Oingo Boingo’s “Dead Man’s Party” four times.
“Lame-ass party,” Kurt the dispatcher said, perusing the cold pizza and warm sushi. He was dressed in a blood-stained version of his normal office attire. I agreed that it was. He leaned over and gave me a conspiratorial smile, then held his thumb and index finger up to his lips. “You want to smoke a joint?”
A former office manager now on maternity leave arrived with a basket of homemade samosas. Kurt came back from the parking lot. At 4:30, the younger Thomas Kroon gathered everyone in the main office. He made a banal speech full of generic attaboys, then handed the floor to me.
“My name is Michael, I’m a security consultant. For the last months we’ve been working to stop a security problem in this building. I wish I had better news, but the investigation has stalled.”