Cold Comfort

by Scott Mackay

  Bannatyne drove up in an unmarked Chrysler Spirit. Gilbert got out of his car. Bannatyne did the same.

  Bannatyne, despite the cold, wore his customary London Fog raincoat; he was a heavyset man who drank beer by the six-pack—his stomach rested like a medicine ball over his belt. He was nonetheless fit, an energetic fifty-nine who had the dour visage of a bulldog and the dedication of a true soldier. He walked over the sidewalk, his feet crunching against the densely compact snow, his shoulders seesawing back and forth with each step, his customary DuMaurier hanging from the corner of his lips. He was a gruff man, but always effective.

  “Are we on planet Earth?” asked Bannatyne. “Or is this Pluto?” He cuffed Gilbert gamesomely on the shoulder. “Let’s get the hell inside.”

  They climbed the steps. Broken slabs of drywall crowded the swaybacked porch; someone was doing work inside. Bannatyne took out his key and opened the door. They went inside.

  “This is where the Danbys live,” said Bannatyne. “He’s an instructor at George Brown, does computers, and she’s a legal secretary, a young couple, no children, just starting out.” Bannatyne indicated footprints in plaster dust leading to the basement stairs. “The guy’s fixing the basement. Donna lived on the third floor. She got along with the Danbys. I don’t know. This is from Diane’s statement. We’ll have to wait until the Danbys get back from Florida for more details.”

  “Were the Danbys here when she was murdered?” asked Gilbert.

  “They left on the sixth,” said Bannatyne. “Donna was murdered on the fifth. But both of them were out when it happened. When did you say her stepsister was murdered?”

  They began climbing the stairs; a brief image of Cheryl’s frozen corpse flashed through his mind. “The eighteenth.”

  Bannatyne raised his eyebrows. “Nearly two weeks later.”

  They rounded the banister at the top of the stairs. Gilbert peered into sparsely furnished bedrooms; one of them had been turned into an office, another into an upstairs sitting room. Though much of the furniture looked second-hand, all of it was tasteful; the art on the walls—reproductions of Flemish masters, a few Constables, and the obligatory Van Gogh—hung in neat brass frames under glass.

  “What about the neighbors?” asked Gilbert. “Did they hear anything?”

  “No,” said Bannatyne. “The walls are thick in these old duplexes. And my perp put his gun to a pillow. That would cut down on noise.”

  “And it was a Heckler and Koch?”

  “We found the slug lodged in one of the floorboards. He took the brass. I don’t know why he didn’t take the slug. It wasn’t that hard to find. Maybe he just didn’t have anything to dig it out with.”

  They began climbing the third-floor stairs. “And you’re sure the perp was male?” asked Gilbert.

  “It was gangland, Barry,” said Bannatyne. “Point-blank in the head with a large caliber round. I’ve never seen a woman kill like that. Women like knives.” Bannatyne shrugged. “You know how it is.”

  At the top of the third-floor stairs, Bannatyne removed a piece of yellow police tape from between the banister post and the wall.

  Donna Varley’s apartment was essentially one large room. The name Varley. He knew it had been familiar. A serve-through wall partitioned the kitchen from the rest of the unit; she shared the second-floor bathroom with the Danbys. The ceiling followed the slope of the roof. A Venetian blind covered the dormer window.

  “For someone on welfare, she sure had a lot of nice things,” said Bannatyne. “I bust my butt, and I still have the same department store stuff I bought ten years ago.”

  Gilbert took a few steps into the room and gazed at the chair in the corner. An expensive recliner. In off-white. Now soaked dark with dried blood, reminding Gilbert of one of those psychiatric ink-blot tests. Near the top, crusted brain tissue, skull fragments, hair. Donna Varley. The mysterious stepsister from up north. Donna Varley, gunned down in cold blood; then two weeks later, her stepsister, Cheryl Latham, most probably frozen to death on purpose in the trunk of a car, then shot in the chest. And the gun, a Heckler and Koch. Making matches. Finding connections.

  “We’ll have ballistics compare the bullets,” said Gilbert.

  “I’ve already done the paperwork,” said Bannatyne.

  “I guess it’s only a formality.”

  “Maybe,” said Bannatyne.

  Outside, the wind howled through the leafless branches of the maple tree. The frost was congealed in a thick crust all around the window frame. They both looked out.

  “That’s depressing,” said Bannatyne. “I’ll be leaving you assholes to freeze your nuts off next week.”

  Gilbert grinned. “Freeport, isn’t it?”

  “Actually, it’s Pimento Beach, just west of Freeport.”

  “Which one is that on?” asked Gilbert. “I get them all mixed up.”

  “Grand Bahama Island.”

  Bannatyne walked over to the chair; back to business.

  “The toxicology came back positive for alcohol and cocaine,” he said. Bannatyne looked at him quizzically. “Did you get the toxicology back on Cheryl yet?”

  Gilbert shook his head. “It takes an age.”

  The frown came back to Bannatyne’s face. “And can you believe they’re going to cut staff over there,” he said. “Blackstein shit his pants when he found out.”

  Gilbert nodded toward the chair. “So she was piss-drunk and stoned.”

  “Fuck, I hate that smell,” said Bannatyne. “Do you smell that? Guess she lost control of her bladder when he nailed her.”

  “It’s not so bad from over here.”

  “I vouchered a few grams of coke. And she had some pot in the freezer.”

  “A real party girl.”

  “Seems that way.”

  “So no forced entry?” said Gilbert.

  Bannatyne stubbed his cigarette out on the sole of his shoe and slid the butt into his pocket; he didn’t want to contaminate the crime scene.

  “She knew him. She let him up. And then he blew her away. And that’s where we got similarities. No forced entry at Cheryl’s, right? She knew him. So they both know the perp. All we have to ask ourselves is who do they know in common.”

  Gilbert thought for a moment. “Latham,” he said.

  Bannatyne left the chair and came over to the banister. “Maybe.” Bannatyne pulled out his DuMauriers, tapped one out, and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. Chain-smoking as usual. “But I was thinking maybe we have to dig deeper, go back a little further.”

  “Like who?”

  Bannatyne shrugged. “I was thinking maybe the stepbrothers,” he said. “Larry and Dean Varley. I did some checking. The older one has a record.”

  Gilbert rode the subway home that night; Regina needed the car to take her aging mother to a widow’s meeting.

  From the subway, he got the Coxwell bus. The Coxwell bus took him past the Toronto East General Hospital onto O’Connor and over the Taylor Creek Bridge. This was East York, the sleepy borough where nothing ever happened, where Gilbert owned a home in Parkview Hills above the ravine.

  As he entered his quiet neighborhood, he was preoccupied, running over the Donna Varley crime scene in his head again and again. Larry and Dean Varley. He would get Lombardo to run a thorough background check. If it looked promising, he would drive up to Sudbury and visit the Varley brothers in person. He was turning right onto Prestine Heights Boulevard, the street where he lived, wondering whether it would be worth his while to go over the Varley crime scene inch by inch in the hope of discovering something Bannatyne might have missed, when he heard the roar of a car engine, saw headlights flick on up ahead, and watched a car squeal out from the curb toward him. Another teenage speed devil. But then he saw that the car was coming straight for him. He took a few quick steps toward the other side of the road, thinking the driver hadn’t seen him, but the car swerved right toward him; and he knew the driver was trying to hit him.

  He ran toward
the curb onto the wide median beside the sidewalk, but the car jumped the curb, bashing through a snowbank, targeting him. He didn’t think. Instinct took over. He jumped. Even so the car’s fender tagged his thigh, sending shockwaves of pain up and down his leg as he rolled onto the front lawn of the nearest house. Someone was trying to kill him. He looked at the car as it sped away, trying to get a make on the license plate; but the number had been covered with grease or mud. Then he heard gunfire. And looking the other way, he saw Joe Lombardo, one knee to the road, taking careful aim at the escaping car’s tires, saw Lombardo’s Fiat parked along the curb further up, saw Valerie Breitkaupt stand up out of the passenger side of the Fiat, most of the buttons of her blouse undone. Lombardo fired again, the muzzle flash bright in the deepening dusk. The car fishtailed around the corner and disappeared toward O’Connor Drive.

  Lombardo shoved his gun into his holster and ran over to Gilbert. Gilbert struggled to his feet, wincing at the pain in his thigh; at least it wasn’t broken.

  “Are you all right?” asked Lombardo.

  Gilbert glanced at Valerie who was now hastily doing up the buttons of her blouse.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” asked Gilbert.

  “Can you move it okay?” asked Lombardo.

  “Joe, she’s only nineteen.”

  “I gave her a lift home from the Goethe Institute.”

  “I’m going to tell her mother.”

  Lombardo stepped back. “I can’t believe this,” he said. “I just saved your life, and now you’re going to tell her mother.”

  “You’re going to break her heart. Can’t you be a little more careful.”

  Gilbert winced in sudden pain.

  “Let me have a look,” said Lombardo.

  Lombardo knelt, pulled away Gilbert’s coat, and looked at the leg. “At least it’s not bleeding. You got a paint smear there. I can just see it.”

  Gilbert looked down the now-empty Prestine Heights Boulevard. “That was no accident,” he said. “Did you see what kind of car it was? It looked like maybe the kind we’re after.”

  Lombardo stood up and nodded. “It’s a Crown Victoria,” he said. “It’s in our target group, third on Laird’s list.” He looked at Gilbert’s leg. “I’ll have to voucher your pants, Barry. Do you mind taking them off? They’re vital evidence now.”

  Gilbert looked at Valerie. “What, right here?”

  Lombardo grinned. “Right here.”

  “Yeah, yeah, very funny.” Gilbert began limping toward the house. Gilbert gave him a pointed look. “What about the car?”

  “I couldn’t get the color,” said Lombardo. “It was too dark. It could have been blue, black, purple, grey, maybe even dark green, who knows?”

  “Did you get the plate number?”

  Lombardo shook his head as Valerie gave them a guilty wave from the Fiat. “Nope, sorry, I couldn’t make that out either.”

  Eight

  Gilbert drove to the Ashbridges Bay Co-operative and Workshop for the Mentally Handicapped that same evening. His leg throbbed and there was a big bruise on his thigh, but he wasn’t seriously injured; in fact, this vehicular assault provided yet more evidence, especially because the Auto Squad would be able to match paint samples from his pants; and if the car was actually recovered, they could get a print of the weave of his pants from it using laser retrieval equipment. Not only that, they knew for sure the car was a Crown Victoria; also, the tire tracks left in the snow, confirmed by Laird, were Michelin XGTs. A good possibility the man driving that car tonight was the same man who had killed Cheryl.

  Gilbert bumped over the streetcar tracks on Queen Street, glanced at the huge rubble pile that was once the Greenwood Race Track, and turned left on the next side street, into that area of Toronto simply know as the Beaches. The evidence was tantalizing, and as far as the Cheryl Latham case was concerned, they were now looking for a Crown Victoria.

  At the Ashbridges Bay Co-op he found Judith Wendeborn, the evening supervisor, playing a game of Ping-Pong with three mentally retarded adults. He stared at Judith Wendeborn through the small window of the games room door; she was having fun and so were the handicapped adults, their faces beaming in that innocently gleeful Down’s syndrome way. He hated to ruin it. But an order was an order. He snapped open his accordion-style briefcase and pulled out the murder warrant. He pushed open the door. He took a few tentative steps into the room. Judith Wendeborn looked up. He gave her a sheepish wave. She was somewhere in her thirties, but prematurely grey, with a young and pretty face but nearly white hair, tied back in a ponytail with a piece of turquoise wool. She said a few words to the other players and came over.

  She smiled, but it was an uncertain smile. “I didn’t expect to see you for another few weeks,” she said. “Did you talk to that woman?” Judith was referring to Susan Allen.

  He glanced over her shoulder. “How’s Wesley doing?”

  Her eyes narrowed; she could tell something was wrong. “He’s settled in nicely. He’s a big hit with everybody.”

  Gilbert looked around the room. “I don’t see him,” he said. “Where is he?”

  She glanced at the murder warrant, unsure what it was. “He’s in his room,” she said. “He’s building a model airplane.”

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to arrest him.” Gilbert presented her with the first-degree murder warrant. “My Staff Inspector gave me direct orders. I have no choice.”

  She scanned the document, a frown slowly coming to her face. “This is for first-degree murder,” she said. “Didn’t we talk manslaughter?”

  “I know, but I have no choice. It’s all politics. Don’t worry, I’m still going after Susan Allen. We’ve got pressure at work.” He took the document back. “You know how it is. I’m still going to work the manslaughter angle. But I’m in a bit of a jam right now. She’s not cooperating. We’ve hardly got any evidence. I’m not sure I can get the Park to issue a warrant. I’d like to get her typewriter so we can compare…”

  He trailed off; Judith’s hands were on her hips; she looked as if she had been betrayed.

  “So he really has to go?” she said.

  He took a deep breath. “There’s nothing I can do about it.”

  She stared at him a moment more then glanced away. “The sad thing is, he doesn’t remember any of it. Or maybe that’s a good thing.”

  They left the games room and walked down the hall to the ward.

  “Try and be nice about it,” said Judith Wendeborn. “He talks about his mother all the time. He keeps asking when he’s going home to see her.”

  Gilbert nodded. “Don’t worry,” he said. He pulled a Mars Bar from his pocket. “I’ve got a bribe.”

  She gave him a glum smile.

  At room 106, Judith opened the door. The room smelled of LePage’s plastic cement. Wesley Rowe, five-feet-six, 180 pounds, sat at the desk in an old cotton shirt and a pair of Wrangler jeans he wore too low at the hip. He turned around. His hair was brushed back from his forehead. His face was small, with his features seeming to be pushed near the middle, and his chin was so tiny and ill-defined it was all of a piece with his neck. He smiled, revealing brown and crooked teeth. He looked forty years old, but there was nothing savvy or experienced about his eyes. He didn’t suffer from Down’s syndrome, but he was definitely simple.

  “Hi, Wesley,” said Judith. “Look who came to see you.”

  Wesley waved. “Hi, sir,” he said.

  “Hello, Wesley.” Gilbert glanced at the model. “What do you have there?” he asked. “A Spitfire?”

  “I don’t know,” said Wesley. “It’s an airplane.”

  “My father flew one of those during the war,” said Gilbert.

  Wesley looked at the airplane doubtfully. “Wouldn’t he be too big to fit inside?” he said.

  Gilbert and Judith looked at each other. Gilbert took a step closer and put his hand on Wesley’s shoulder.

  “Remember how I told you I was going to take you
to police headquarters some day?” he said. “You said you really wanted to see it.”

  Wesley’s eyes widened expectantly. “You mean we’re going?” he said.

  Gilbert glanced at Judith; he hated this duplicity.

  “If it’s okay with Judith,” he said.

  Wesley turned to Judith. “Can I go, ma’am?”

  Judith lost her smile. She turned to Gilbert. “Look after him,” she said. “Don’t let anything bad happen to him.”

  Gilbert lost his own smile. What she asked was impossible.

  Lombardo came to his desk and put a mimeographed copy of a Ministry of Transport record on his desk.

  “Look at this,” he said. “Those are the registration papers for a 1994 midnight blue Crown Victoria. Look at the name.”

  Gilbert glanced over the document.

  Then he looked up at his partner. “Daniel Shirmaly?” he said. “Who the hell is Daniel Shirmaly?”

  Lombardo’s eyes narrowed. “That’s Danny,” he said. “Latham’s Danny. His gardener, his chauffeur, whatever you want to call him. He owns a Crown Victoria.”

  Gilbert looked at the papers again. “So we ask him where he was the night of the eighteenth, and if he has no alibi, we investigate.”

  Lombardo nodded. “I looked into car rental companies, too,” he said. “Budget and Tilden rent the Crown Victoria in Ontario. I had them check their records. Guess what? Larry Varley’s got one out. He’s had it out since the seventh.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And returned it when?”

  “He hasn’t,” said Lombardo.

  Gilbert stared up at the dozens of court briefs in red binders on the shelf.

  “I might take a drive up to Sudbury,” he said. “To check out the Varleys. Maybe you can check Danny out while I’m gone.”

  “Sure.”

  “And see if you can dig a little more on Susan Allen.” Gilbert felt the cold winds of his cynicism returning. He looked up at Lombardo, trying to hide the big sadness he felt about the Wesley Rowe case, but he couldn’t manage it. The two detectives stared at each other. They were more than just partners; they were friends. “I feel bad about Wesley,” he said.