“Starlings—the mimics of the bird world. They want to be bad but they only end up comical.” He turned away from the view, resting his hand briefly on Swetsky’s shoulder before walking over to the family. Aziz introduced him.
“Mr. and Mrs. Vertesi, Lisa, this is Superintendent Detective MacNeice, our commanding officer.” They all shook his hand, but the mother and father barely looked at him.
“I’m terribly sorry that we are meeting for the first time under these circumstances. Michael is a wonderful man, as no doubt you know better than I, and I can tell you he’s an equally wonderful detective.”
The father nodded, the mother looked away and only the sister watched MacNeice as he was speaking. It was difficult for him to decipher whether it was with contempt or rage or both.
In heavily accented English, the old man spoke. “That man, he called my son a wop. Did you know that, Mr. MacNeice?” There was the fury of a lifetime in the question.
“I did, sir. And frankly, though I regret it now, I was proud of what your son did in response. He is a very courageous man, and I have tremendous respect for courage—and family.”
“Maybe a bit too much courage, maybe. I think so.”
“I’m proud of your son, Mr. Vertesi, and I’m confident he’ll come through this, in part because of his courage.”
MacNeice nodded again and retreated, pushing through the waiting room doors to the exit stairwell. He didn’t check his watch as he tore down the stairs two at a time. Stepping outside, he leaned up against the wall facing the parking lot and tried breathing deeply. The sun was warm on his face and he closed his eyes.
The door opened slowly beside him and Aziz appeared. “What are you doing, Mac?”
“I’ll be right up. I needed some air.” He stood away from the wall with his hands in his pockets, looking out on the sea of shiny metal.
“Mac, this is not your fault. And Vertesi is going to come out of this a smarter cop.” She put a hand on his shoulder and looked up into his eyes.
“I know. I couldn’t say that to his parents, but I know.”
“And you couldn’t have known, any more than Vertesi did, that this guy was going to go ballistic.”
“Funny thing, that. Do you remember, Aziz, we used to call it ‘going postal’? Someone shows up one day at work with an assault rifle and runs amok.… Well, in every case, without exception, when you track back through the story, there is always immense human wreckage. No, the problem with Gibbs going postal is there’s never enough attention given when the signs are presenting themselves.”
“But we can’t do that job.”
“No, we can only become better at noticing those signs. I promise you, Michael will see more intensely, more … finely, from here on. At least, I hope so.”
“I hope so too. Come on, let’s go back up.” She made a move for the door.
“I’ll want Rachel Ingram to give her statement before she leaves, and I’d like you to take it.”
“No problem, boss.”
“She’s already very attached to Michael. They may be a perfect match—assuming he comes out of this with a healthy frame of mind.”
“Yes, it’s been a real Sidney Carton day.”
MacNeice found himself smiling. “Now, when’s the last time two cops got together and made a reference to Charles Dickens? Let’s go and see how he’s doing.” He reached over and opened the door.
“I’ll race you upstairs,” Aziz said. “You want to time us?” She didn’t wait for his answer but hit the stairs running. She opened the door at their floor a second ahead of him, breathless and grinning.
“How’d you know that about me?” He moved beside her.
“I get paid for being observant, sir.”
IT WAS 8:46 A.M. LYING ON THE stone tiles, a ginger cat with white front paws rolled back and forth in the sun, kicking its legs about, playing with a piece of copper wire. MacNeice sipped his espresso and watched, happy to be distracted. He, Aziz and Swetsky were sitting on a bench outside the entrance to division headquarters. None of them could remember ever sitting there before, but the combination of sun and stress over Michael’s shooting had made the office cubicles unappealing.
After a long silence during which they watched the cat roll about, MacNeice said, “Aziz, get down to the Conservatory with a photo of the boyfriend. Let’s see if anyone knows him.”
She nodded. MacNeice looked over to Swetsky, who was sipping a large double-double. “Now that we have Rachel Ingram’s statement, can you find out what happened to the second boat? It’ll either be booked in back at the marina or it’s still missing. And get back onto the doctor who owns the cottage.”
Swetsky stood up with his coffee in hand. “Yeah, that got dropped yesterday. Okay, where can I find you?”
“I’m going over to see Petrescu.” Both Aziz and Swetsky looked at MacNeice. “I want to check in on him, ask him more about his son, and maybe, if the time is right, why he failed to mention that he is also a microbiologist.” He stood up and tossed his paper espresso cup into the bin next to the door.
“That’s it?” Aziz squinted up through the sun at MacNeice.
“I want to know if he thinks his past has come to claim his daughter … and if it has, why it happened.” He smiled, offered a hand to Aziz and hoisted her up.
Swetsky noticed the gesture, subtly raised an eyebrow and dropped what remained of his double-double into the bin.
“Do you want a lift?” MacNeice asked her as he walked towards his car.
“Nope, I’m going to take my bike. I could use the exercise.” Aziz walked away, pulling her shoulders back and swaying from side to side with each step like an exaggerated tough guy, knowing they were both watching her. She smiled back at them when she reached the rack where her tall black Amsterdam bike was locked.
HE SAW IT THE MOMENT he turned the corner—a black Range Rover parked outside Petrescu’s grey mansion. MacNeice pulled over and tucked the Chevy in behind a parked car so he could check it out. One of the sturdy black-jacketed blonds from the surveillance video stood beside the vehicle, his hands in front of him like a soccer player lining up for a penalty shot. MacNeice shut off his engine and took out his cellphone to call it in, but then thought the better of it. What was he calling in? He got out of the car to walk the short distance to the house and regi-stered exactly when the blond became aware of him. The heavy reached into his right pocket—the one closest to MacNeice—and took out cigarettes and a lighter. Most people’s attention would shift to his hands. MacNeice stayed focused on his face.
Stopping shy of the rear of the Range Rover, MacNeice took out his notebook and pen and wrote down the plate number. The blond came slowly towards him. “What you doing?”
“And you are?” MacNeice said, putting the notebook away and looking up at him.
“What business you have with the truck?”
MacNeice pulled out his shield, showed it to him and said, “I asked you who you are.”
“Fuck off.” The blond smiled, put the cigarette in his mouth and turned back to take up position at the rear door of the vehicle.
Looking at the bulk of the man, MacNeice didn’t think he’d fare well in a fair fight, and he doubted that fair fights were the man’s style. His thoughts turned to Vertesi and he suddenly felt naked without his service weapon. He decided to ignore the insult and head for the gate.
As he reached for the ornate metal handle, a heavy hand slammed down hard on his right shoulder. Instinctively he dropped with the weight of it, spun low to the right and drove his fist up and into the man’s groin. The blond let out a deep howl, bending into the pain. MacNeice grabbed him by the shoulders of his leather jacket and jerked his face down to meet his right knee coming up. The man’s nose blew apart on impact, and as MacNeice released him, he sagged sideways to the ground, groaning and clutching at his crotch, sputtering something foreign through the blood streaming from his nose into his mouth.
MacNeice walked quick
ly back to the Chevy, where he retrieved his service weapon from the glove compartment. When he returned, the blond was struggling to get up, still spitting blood onto the sidewalk. MacNeice took the weapon out of its holster and levelled it at the man’s head as he clipped the holster into his belt.
“I’m asking again—who are you?”
“His name is Uri Bavorich. He’s my bodyguard.” MacNeice turned to see a young man on the other side of the gate; he was wearing a black suit with a tight burgundy T-shirt and shiny black shoes. Next to him was the second blond, whose right hand was behind him, presumably resting on a weapon.
“And you are—?” MacNeice kept his gun on the man sitting on the sidewalk, wiping his nose on his sleeve.
“I am Colonel Petrescu. This is my father’s house.” He nodded towards the grey mansion. His father stood in the doorway, looking very pale.
“Why would you need a bodyguard, Mr. Petrescu?” MacNeice moved aside so he could cover the man on the ground and be ready for anything from blond number two. His right leg was shaking slightly inside his pant leg. This sometimes happened to him, though it was rare these days that he found himself in a physical confrontation. He wondered whether it was fear or simply an animal nerve instinct, like the twitching tail of a cat just before it pounces on a sparrow. He hoped it was the latter, but he wasn’t sure.
The whurp whurp of approaching squad car sirens interrupted the discussion. Within seconds four patrolmen with their weapons drawn approached the Range Rover, two from the front and two from the rear. MacNeice recognized the older of the two at the back.
“MacNeice. You okay?” Patrolman Bolton asked.
“I am. Check these two for weapons and get their identification.”
“Will do. Stephens, you check buddy on the ground. I’ll take the one behind the gate. Hutchings, you cover me. Poznansky, cover Stephens.”
“You’re making a mistake, Officer.” The colonel pushed the gate open and stepped through.
“Detective. Your man made the mistake, Mr. Petrescu.” To Bolton he said, “When you’re done with him, check Mr. Petrescu.”
“I am a colonel in the Romanian army, Detective, and I demand the respect due to my rank.” Petrescu stood in front of MacNeice, apparently unperturbed.
“I know who you are, and I don’t believe I’m compelled to call you anything but mister. I asked why you needed a bodyguard.”
“I’m not compelled to answer you, detective.” Petrescu smiled, took a cigarette out of a silver case, tapped it against the top of the case and slipped it into his mouth. From his jacket pocket he took out a lighter and, without taking his eyes off MacNeice, lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply.
“Some kind of stick.” Bolton held up a foot-long hardwood dowel he’d retrieved from the back pocket of the bodyguard standing near Petrescu. It was roughly an inch and a half in diameter. “His name’s Petrov, Nicolai Petrov, a Romanian national.”
Kneeling next to the bodyguard on the ground, Stephens said, “Same here, sir. A stick—that’s it.” He tucked it under his arm before looking through the downed man’s wallet. “This guy’s called Uri Bavorich, also Romanian.”
“Help him up, Stephens. Give him this.” MacNeice handed a handkerchief to the officer, who in turn passed it to Bavorich, who clasped it to his nose.
Stephens turned his attention to Petrescu, who raised his arms, cigarette in mouth, as the patrolman patted him down. “Nothing here, sir. Want me to check his ID too?”
“That won’t be necessary. Give them both back their sticks and IDs.” MacNeice slid his handgun into its holster. “When did you arrive in the country?” he asked Petrescu.
“Last night. Bucharest-Rome-New York … here.”
“Where are you staying and for how long?”
“Chelsea Manor.” He inhaled, and on the exhale said, “I’m here for the funeral of my sister, however long it takes to get her body released. Now if you have no further questions, we will be leaving.” He turned towards the Range Rover, dropped the cigarette onto the sidewalk and ground it twice with his shiny shoe.
MacNeice stood aside as the bloodied Bavorich opened the rear door and Petrescu climbed in. His nose angry and swollen, he turned to smile broadly at MacNeice, revealing the blood rimming his teeth, before he climbed into the front seat and shut the door. MacNeice had always admired the pampered, insulated sound of a luxury-car door closing. Petrov, the driver, walked quickly past the officers without making eye contact, opened his door and climbed in. In a moment the Range Rover had powered off, leaving the four patrolmen looking at MacNeice.
“Why didn’t we arrest them, sir?” Bolton asked.
“Well, other than telling me to fuck off and putting a hand on my shoulder and carrying sticks, there wasn’t much we could book them for.”
“Your call. But I imagine those boys know how to use those sticks, and I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end when they do.” Bolton adjusted his vest and signalled his partner to head back to the car.
“Who called you in?” MacNeice asked as he made to leave.
“Someone inside—a woman, I think. It’s funny, we were having a coffee at Sacred Grounds two blocks away and shootin’ the shit about Vertesi when we got the call.”
“I’m glad you showed up when you did.”
MacNeice looked up at the house and saw Madeleine’s face behind the sheers. It had been ten minutes since he’d seen the old man at the door—now shut—but presumably he too was somewhere inside watching. He shook Bolton’s hand and said goodbye, then turned towards the mansion.
ONCE AGAIN HE FOUND HIMSELF in the library. Nothing had changed, but there was an ache to the place he’d not noticed before, as if all the life had been sucked out of it. He had been in museums that felt more alive.
He stood by the window and waited, looking out to the garden, where a robin was busy searching for worms. The door opened behind him and Antonin Petrescu stepped in. “Detective MacNeice. Please, sit.”
MacNeice took the chair by the window where Aziz had sat last time, and Petrescu sat opposite him. “As you know, I met your son and his colleagues outside,” MacNeice said.
“Unpleasant. I trust you were not without justification in your actions.” Petrescu’s hands rested on his thighs, his eyes riveted on MacNeice’s.
“Yes, I was justified. Mr. Petrescu, is there anything I should know about your son?”
“In what regard, Detective?”
“Why does he need bodyguards?”
“His work is sensitive in nature and he would be a prize catch for several … competing interests.”
“What was his relationship to your daughter? While I understand that he has spent most of his time in Romania with the military, I found him less than—”
“Grief-stricken.” The older man looked away from MacNeice then, studying the garden.
“Cold is how I would describe him. I can only think that this is difficult for you, sir.” MacNeice watched as Petrescu’s left hand began folding over the crease of his grey trousers.
“They weren’t close, it’s true. And while it’s painful to admit, neither are we.”
“Your son said that he arrived last night. Was that because you called him, or was it a coincidence?”
“I had called and left a message, yes. But he was already en route.”
“A scheduled visit, sir?”
“Not exactly. From time to time Gregori is called to join the Romanian delegation at the United Nations. When that happens, he’ll often come here first. But you’re not here to talk about my son. What can you tell me about the investigation?”
“I believe that someone killed your daughter to deliver a message to you. It was a passionless act that had nothing to do with Lydia other than her being your daughter. Do you have any idea who that might be?”
Petrescu simply stared at him. “That’s very cruel speculation on your part, Detective.” He put both hands on the arms of the chair, preparing to stand. “I
f you have no more information or real questions for me, I think you should go. I’m extremely tired.”
“I did have one last question, sir. What did you do before coming to this country?”
Petrescu’s chest deflated as if he’d been punched, and his hands dropped back onto his thighs. He gestured weakly towards MacNeice. “No more, no more. I must ask you to leave, Detective. I will answer your question, but not now.”
“I understand.” MacNeice put away his notebook and got up. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Petrescu. I’ll find my own way out.”
As he opened the gate, he noticed his handkerchief on the ground, covered in the bodyguard’s blood. He picked it up and put it in the waste bin at the corner before returning to his car.
EIGHTEEN
—
AZIZ WAS ALONE IN THEIR CUBICLE. Vertesi’s chair was shoved under his desktop where the cleaning staff had left it. Other than when he was on vacation, MacNeice couldn’t recall ever seeing it like that. He swung it out and sat down next to Aziz.
“His name is Marcus Johnson,” she said. “He’s an on-again, off-again student at the art college down the street from the Conservatory.” MacNeice swivelled the chair towards her. “Several of the Conservatory staff recalled seeing him around, but even better, one of Lydia’s classmates told me who he is and where he lives.”
“Strange that he hasn’t come forward. Any word from the hospital?” MacNeice took out his notebook and put it on the desk.
“Yes. Good news. They’ve gotten all the buckshot out of Vertesi and they’ve managed to sew up the wound. His blood count is back to where it should be and the only concern now is infection. In time they’ll do a skin graft and they feel the muscle that was torn can be repaired. They think he’ll be fine.” She turned in his direction, her knees only inches from his.
“Good to hear.”
“What happened at Petrescu’s?”
“I met the son. He’s Shiny Shoes from the condominium security video. I met his bodyguards too—had a run-in with one of them.”
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