Erasing Memory

by Scott Thornley

  “Who have they got to use them against?”

  “It’s hard to say. It might just be insurance. But when you consider that it’s Romania … Under that repressive, paranoid Stalinist Nicolae Ceausescu, who was extremely suspicious of Moscow, they probably got up to a lot of skulduggery. Then pffft, Ceausescu is deposed and the government falls. But old habits die hard. Most of these guys, including your Gregori—who was just a kid at the time—learned their trade in the Soviet bloc era.”

  “But who are they afraid of now?”

  “Well, they’re not Slavic and they’re virtually surrounded by Slavs they distrust. Adding to that, less than one percent of Romania is Muslim—”

  “Thank goodness for that,” Aziz said wryly and took another sip of water.

  “Well, sure, but right next to them, Bulgaria has a twelve percent Muslim population, and below them is Turkey, which is ninety-eight percent Muslim. And all around the Black Sea are people itching for a fight. Meanwhile, seventy percent of Romanians are Orthodox Christians.”

  “I don’t get it. Are you talking the old orthodoxy rag?”

  “Partly. But there’s an exodus of young people going to work in Italy and Germany and so on, and the folks who remain in Romania may be feeling threatened enough to shore up their borders and their defences.… But what all this geo-politicking has to do with a murdered girl from Dundurn is anybody’s guess.”

  “The father? Anything turn up on him?”

  “Your superior officer”—she paused cheekily for effect, which Fiza registered but ignored—“said he deals in papers and antiques.”

  “Yes, he has a very exclusive shop full of beautiful odds and sods and he has a lovely house with a terrific garden.”

  “Well, your MacNeice has a very refined nose. Antonin Petrescu was a minister in the Ceausescu government, and he is indeed—or was—a microbiologist. And can you guess what his area of interest was?” She crossed her arms and looked at her friend.

  “Infectious diseases.”

  “It’s a family affair. No information here about what Petrescu senior was doing, but it’s safe to say that Soviet-era Romania had no shortage of enemies and none of the moralistic posturing of the West about engaging in bio-warfare. It’s cheap and effective—if you’re upwind. Petrescu got out just before the government fell. How did MacNeice pick up on that?”

  “He’s an observationist, Bo. That may not be a word, but it does describe him. He spotted a row of microbiology books in Petrescu’s library.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “No, I’m an observationist-in-training. When MacNeice was here yesterday, he gave me a tutorial on observation that was incredible—and a bit terrifying.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, I don’t know. But if everything that you see, feel, hear, touch, sense, imagine and even dream doesn’t just pass you by, but is observed and considered in some way before you move on—”

  “It sounds exhausting.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But it also sounds like you’re training with the right boss. I mean, I wouldn’t want to be like that—or even particularly close to someone who is like that—but I’d want such a man investigating my murder. How was the girl killed?”

  “By a needle through the left ear and into her brain. The syringe was loaded with battery acid. She was dissolved from the inside out.”

  Bozana winced and instinctively cupped her ear. “Christ, I wish you hadn’t told me that!”

  “It has us a bit freaked too, though each of us seems to deal with it differently. She was an up-and-coming violinist who had just graduated from the Conservatory. She was looking forward to a wonderful career in which she would play her music dressed in beautiful gowns, taking bows and giving encores.”

  “Fuck. Okay, I don’t know what else I can do from here, but if you make a request—not too many, mind you—I’ll do whatever I can. But if it goes too far, this will have to be a formal affair, and trust me, you don’t want to go there.” Bozana closed the file folder and shoved back her chair.

  SIXTEEN

  —

  MACNEICE EASED HIMSELF BEHIND the wheel of the Chevy at 7:34 a.m. He’d had too much grappa the night before, initially to help him sleep. When the second shot didn’t work, he went for a third. The room swam as he lay in bed, and when he finally did drop off, he was set upon by dreams he now couldn’t recall. He woke with a headache and the distinct impression that they had all been bad.

  He’d felt deeply embarrassed by his ramblings to Aziz. He’d even felt some shame, as if he’d been caught showing off or looking through her underwear drawer. Her desk was just a desk, after all. Where she placed her coffee cup, whether her right palm was itchy … He considered the explanations or apologies he might offer and almost settled on “I have nothing to teach you that you cannot discover on your own.” But in the end he decided he’d said enough.

  He reached over to the car’s CD player, hit the On button and immediately regretted it. Frank Zappa was into a second verse of brilliant lunacy: “Movin’ to Montana soon / Gonna be a dental floss tycoon.…” Zappa was the greatest thing for clearing his head but the worst thing for a massive headache. MacNeice turned him off and didn’t bother scanning the CDs for something more mellow.

  He powered the Chevy down the hill and onto Mountain Road. The light slashed through the windshield and he saw flashing dots everywhere. He pulled over to the shoulder, found his sunglasses and put them on. Driving in the slow lane, MacNeice tried his deep-breathing exercises and before long was feeling light-headed. He turned west on King Street, determined not to think about anything else till he reached division headquarters.

  The two-way radio was off, but his cellphone suddenly buzzed to life. MacNeice pushed the button on the phone, and over the in-car speaker he heard Wallace’s voice: “MacNeice, you there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Give me an update. Your desk sergeant told me you worked the weekend. What have you got for me?”

  “The girl was pregnant, sir. The father is grief-stricken, as you’d expect. The brother is a colonel in the Romanian army. There’s a young man we’re looking for—we have a digital security capture of him and we’ll be going to the Conservatory to find out if anyone can identify him. He was her boyfriend.”

  “A strong suspect, then?”

  “A suspect? Not in my opinion, sir, but he is a person of interest.”

  “Word’s out about the relationship with the boyfriend, MacNeice. I know it wasn’t your crew that leaked it, but the media are building a sensational story about how this beautiful girl came to be found dead in a beach house.” He stopped there, clearly hoping that his detective would have a sense of how uncomfortable this was going to get.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, sir, but I guess it was inevitable. Has how she died been leaked?”

  “Not yet. I’ve been saying that the manner of her death is still under investigation. I hope that will give you some more time. How much do you think you need?”

  “I have no idea, sir. We’re making headway, I think, but I can’t give you a time frame.” By this point MacNeice’s hand was cupping his head, his elbow resting on the window frame as he cruised slowly down the road.

  “Right. Keep me in the loop. I’ve got a policing conference in Toronto that I have to attend and I know our chief will be grinding me all the way there. I’m counting on you.”

  The surround-sound of his voice disappeared and MacNeice heaved a huge sigh. About a mile later, the cellphone buzzed again.

  He signalled his intention to pull off onto the shoulder so he wouldn’t have to listen and drive. As he came to a stop, he pushed the button. “Yes, sir?”

  “Is that you, MacNeice?” The cheerful English accent was a welcome relief from the suppressed anxiety in the deputy chief’s voice.

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  “Let’s speak on a land line. Call this number.…”

  Judging by the ambient
noise, Donald Ferguson was calling from a phone booth, probably downtown. MacNeice pulled off King next to a booth outside Betty’s Burgers.

  “While I don’t want to alarm you,” Ferguson said when he picked up, “I think we can’t be too careful.”

  “Sure.”

  “Splendid. Look, I thought I should let you know what I have on your stainless steel syringe. No one in Canada or the U.S. fits the bill, but there are two men—one wonders why it’s always men who specialize in such things—and they’re both Bulgarian.”

  “Bulgarian, not Romanian?”

  “Right. These two were trained in Moscow but they are most definitely Bulgarian.”

  “How can you be so sure of that, Ferguson?” MacNeice was reaching for his notebook.

  “There was an East German candidate, but he has been inactive since the Wall came down. Now I’m told he’s dead of lung cancer. So I’m very certain—or rather my source is certain—but as to which Bulgarian it is … Well, that, I’m afraid, is your problem.”

  “I take it I cannot speak to your source?” MacNeice already knew the answer.

  “That would be imprudent, Detective, and it would render me useless to you in the future. It would also put me at serious risk.” Ferguson hadn’t lost the brightness in his voice, though MacNeice could detect a shadow of surprise that MacNeice had put such a question to him.

  “Can you give me the names of the men?”

  “Gheorghi—George, I suppose, with a couple of H’s—Borisov; he’s from Sofia and is the younger of the two, possibly in his early forties. The other is Hrista—H-R-I-S-T-A—Popov, just as it sounds. He’s from Stara Zagora, again like it sounds.”

  “Thank you for this. Is there anything I can do for you?” MacNeice put his notebook and pen away.

  “No, of course not; I’m happy to help. These are both nasty customers but they don’t operate independently. They’re for hire, I’m told, and very accomplished.”

  “What do you mean exactly?”

  “They’re engineers—very refined tool-and-die makers like me—and they build what they’re paid to build. Should anyone ask, Detective, I’ll deny knowing anything about this. Cheerio.”

  The line went dead, leaving only the sound of traffic streaming by and his shallow breathing. MacNeice hung up the phone, took a deep breath and instantly regretted it as his nostrils filled with the smell of stale grease from the burger joint. On the bright side, he realized that his headache had abated, but it was soon replaced by the thought that he might be in over his head, and way outside his territory.

  ARRIVING AT DIVISION, HE PARKED in the space closest to a small clump of evergreens and birch trees at the edge of the lot. Like a radio signal that flips from old-time rock to classical music without warning, his mind reeled between Lydia Petrescu and the potentially ever-expanding cast of Eastern Europeans.

  A slam on the car roof sent an electric shock of fear through him. He looked up to see Swetsky’s wide face grinning at him through the driver’s-side window. “You okay, Mac?”

  MacNeice nodded and took the key out of the ignition. Getting out of the car, he said, “You scared the shit out me.”

  “I figured if you were having a heart attack, a good smack on the roof would work as well as a defibrillator.” He slapped MacNeice on the back. “Actually, I thought you’d see me comin’ in your mirror—you drove past me as you came into the lot.”

  MacNeice locked the Chevy and together they walked to the side entrance. “What are you doing here?” MacNeice asked. “You’re not on today.”

  “The DC called. He wants me to pitch in full-time with you guys. I guess the mayor and the media are climbin’ up his backside. You’re the lead—give me somethin’ to do.” Swetsky knew how this would appear to someone of MacNeice’s experience. “I’ll play it anyway you want, Mac. This fucker’s going to move on, but you and I will still be here. Your call.”

  “I’m glad, Swets. But it would’ve been great if he’d told me when he called this morning, before you scared the bejesus out of me.”

  Inside, Swetsky turned to MacNeice. “Wanna coffee from the caff? I’ll grab you one.”

  “No thanks, I’m coffee’d out already. I’ll see you upstairs.”

  Leaving Swetsky in the lobby, MacNeice pushed open the stairwell door, looked at his watch, waited for the second hand to reach three, then took off. This morning he needed to grab at the railing to haul himself up the stairs. At his floor, his chest heaving and feeling slightly nauseous, he looked at his watch. “Sixteen seconds. Ah well, considering …”

  Aziz was already online and Vertesi, with his feet propped up on the edge of his desk, was holding forth about something.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt, Vertesi. Go on,” MacNeice said, as he dropped his notebook on his desk and switched on his computer.

  Aziz turned around, smiling. “Vertesi was just telling me about his date, sir.”

  “How did it go?” MacNeice swung his chair around to face him.

  “Aw, well.… Well, it was great, actually.” Vertesi took his bottle of water in hand but didn’t drink.

  “He’s being coy, sir. He told me he may be in love with a girl he met at the lake.” Aziz turned back to her computer.

  “Jesus, Aziz!” Vertesi raised his hands in a what-the-fuck gesture that both his colleagues were familiar with.

  MacNeice waited for the moment to pass. “Perhaps shy is a better word, Aziz.”

  “You’re right, sir, shy.” Aziz was keying something in and didn’t turn around.

  “Hey, you two, any second Swetsky’s gonna show up. He’s been put on our team full-time by the deputy chief. He’ll probably use his own desk, but we should give him a full briefing here.”

  “What the hell is that about?” Vertesi said. “Wallace doesn’t think we can crack this?”

  “He’s taking heat. What’s the headline this morning—“Cops Stumped on Beach House Killing”? So you’re probably right. This will signal that he’s doing something more proactive. But Swetsky’s one of us, and I’m happy to have him in our corner.”

  Vertesi didn’t look so sure.

  Soon Swetsky arrived, carrying four paper cups of coffee, a small stack of sugar packets, milk and cream cuplets and brown plastic stirrers. “I don’t know how you guys take it, but for future reference, I’m double-double.” He smiled, put the coffee tray down on the counter between Aziz and Vertesi and looked around for a chair.

  “Michael, grab a chair for Swets.”

  Vertesi nodded and got up.

  Swets took a look at the younger man’s face and said, “Guys, I know this isn’t what you would have chosen. I’m not that happy about it either. Apart from getting to work days—which is nice—I’d rather each of us work our own cases.”

  “Thanks for the coffee, Swets.” Vertesi went to get the chair.

  “Yes, thank you,” Aziz said. “I’m coffee’d out, though.”

  “That’s what your boss said. Yeah, well, it’s there if you feel like it later. You can stick it in the microwave—it’s not half bad, but not like that expresso Mac makes.”

  “That’s espresso, with an S.” MacNeice stood up, clapped him on both shoulders and gestured for the big man to take his chair. “Take a load off and let’s get started.”

  He took out his notebook and, glancing at the page for the spellings, wrote on the board in red marker: Gheorghi Borisov and Hrista Popov, Bulgarians—potential syringe connection.

  Vertesi slid a new chair into the space beside the whiteboard as MacNeice looked back at Swetsky sipping slowly from his cup. “A lot’s happened since the beach house, so we’ll bring you up to speed and then determine next steps.”

  It was after eleven a.m. before the three detectives had finished briefing their new colleague and—as each was party to new information—each other. Then MacNeice divided the day’s efforts equally between them, giving Swetsky the job of tracking down the doctor who owned the beach house. When he fi
nally put the marker back in its tray, it was 11:48 a.m.

  “I’m hungry. I’m going over to Marcello’s—who’s coming?”

  “I’m off to the doctor’s office. I figure the best time to nose around is over the lunch hour, so I’ll catch a sandwich on the way back.” Swetsky hauled himself out of the chair and, in a move more graceful than MacNeice thought possible for such a big man, he was out of the cubicle and gone.

  “I’ve kind of got a date. I’ve got some more questions to ask the Ingram girl.” Vertesi stood, sheepish, avoiding their eyes.

  MacNeice looked down at Aziz, who said, “I’m going to let Bozana know about the two Bulgarians, which will take a few minutes, but then I’d be happy to join you.”

  “Perfect. I’ll go down to the lab to see if there’s anything on the Range Rover. Be back in ten.”

  THEY TOOK THE LAST BOOTH, nearest the kitchen. While it was the busiest area of the restaurant, it was also the most private, since the only people going by were wait staff.

  The special was Marcello’s mother’s handmade sage-and-goat-cheese ravioli. The food arrived as Aziz was telling MacNeice more about Vertesi’s new girlfriend.

  “He apparently walked right up to the cottage—or as he describes it, the family resort—and asked her to go out with him.” She stopped for her first bite of ravioli and hummed approvingly. “They went for a walk—this is so good—and they sat out on a point and talked for two and a half hours.”

  “About the case?” A stupid question, MacNeice thought, too late.

  “Initially it seemed like no, that this was Vertesi responding to the male urge to mate in springtime, but in the end they did. She actually remembered seeing the boat—two boats, in fact. The second one arrived later, anchored offshore a few hundred yards and just sat there.”

  “Two boats. From the same marina?” MacNeice had barely touched his ravioli.