Erasing Memory

by Scott Thornley

  “Tossing a kid off a balcony, you mean.” Swetsky made a diving motion with his hand that both MacNeice and Aziz ignored.

  “Whoever threw Johnson off the balcony may have suspected that he ran because he knew something.” MacNeice looked down the line of cars. A small rabbit edged out onto the driveway and hopped over to the crabapple trees to nibble on the vegetation below. He pointed it out to Aziz and Swetsky.

  “Sweet,” Aziz said.

  “Dinner,” Swetsky replied.

  “And here’s another thing—these guys are Romanian but the syringe was likely built by a Bulgarian.”

  “What do we do about diplomatic immunity?” Aziz asked.

  “To quote the deputy chief, fuck ’em. If the conversation stays pleasant it won’t be an issue. If the sticks come out, assume malicious intent.”

  “And if these guys leave without you and get into their truck?” Swetsky asked.

  “We’ve all got pagers, and we’ll use them. If you feel the buzzer in your pocket, stop them. If you don’t, try buzzing us. If we don’t answer, it’s your turn to be John Wayne.”

  MacNeice was still watching the rabbit, hunkered down and nibbling at the greens. Suddenly its head popped up, its ears went vertical and it bolted back across the pavement. MacNeice looked beyond it to the entrance to see the black Range Rover ease around the corner, heading towards them. “Well, perhaps no need to wait. Turn the two-way on, Aziz.”

  The SUV stopped three feet from the Chevy’s front bumper. Several seconds passed before the truck’s rear door opened. Then Gregori Petrescu stepped out and straightened his suit jacket. He took a cigarette out of a package, put it in his mouth and lit it. Standing in front of the Chevy with one hand in his pocket, he smiled slightly and waited.

  MacNeice told Aziz to stay put, got out of the car and walked towards him. “Good day, Mr. Petrescu.”

  “It must be embarrassing, Detective, to be approached like this. You, a professional, caught sitting in—how do you call it—a dead end?”

  “Caught? I wasn’t aware I was being hunted.” MacNeice looked through the windshield at the two bodyguards, who stared back at him. The one in the passenger seat was sporting dark rings under his eyes, and neither man was smiling. Turning back to Petrescu, he said, “Do you want to ask these boys to step out of the vehicle, or shall I?”

  “It’s safer if I do.” Petrescu knocked twice on the door panel and moved out of the way. As the two men got out, Aziz and Swetsky emerged from the Chevy.

  “Ask them to take those dowels from their pants and place them on the ground.” MacNeice put his hand on the grip of his service revolver where the colonel could see it.

  “Are you arresting me, Detective?” Petrescu asked, without taking the cigarette from his mouth.

  “Do I have reason to?”

  Aziz and Swetsky moved forward to stand on either side of MacNeice with their hands on their service weapons. Gregori studied Aziz from head to toe and smiled. “She’s a beautiful woman, MacNeice, but she looks so terrible—like she’s been rolling in dirt, or blood.”

  “The dowels?” MacNeice nodded at the two bodyguards, who were standing with their hands crossed in front of their genitals, soccer style. Petrescu smiled, took the cigarette out of his mouth and motioned to the two. They reached behind and took out the dowels, placing them on the ground in front of their feet.

  “Push them forward.” MacNeice motioned with his hand and the two rolled the sticks in his direction.

  “Now what, Detective? I have a plane to catch.” Petrescu dropped the butt on the ground and crushed it with his shoe.

  “You’re not staying for your sister’s funeral?” MacNeice asked.

  “Sadly, no. Events in Romania are calling me home. So, what do you want with us?” He put his hands in his pockets and again turned his attention to Aziz. “Shall I ask you, lady detective? What do you want with me?”

  Aziz did not acknowledge him.

  “There are several questions that I’d like answers to, Colonel Petrescu, and until I have them, you’ll be staying here. But I’d like to conduct that interview at Division and not here in the parking lot.”

  “So you are arresting me. On what charge?” Petrescu’s tone indicated that he was finally in danger of losing his cool. The two bodyguards took a half-step forward, dropping their hands to their sides.

  Swetsky and Aziz both drew their weapons and assumed firing positions. MacNeice hadn’t drawn his; he simply stepped towards the colonel. “Questioning, in this country, is not the same as arresting. But I think it would be best to keep your boys on a leash, so I’m going to ask my partner to cuff them.”

  “You called me Colonel—thank you for the respect. By partner, do you mean the fat one or the dirty woman?”

  “Fuck you, Jack,” Swetsky said, his eyes on the bodyguards.

  “Well, I think that’s enough.” MacNeice pulled his weapon out of its holster, pointed it at Petrescu’s head and walked forward till the end of the barrel was touching his temple. He moved behind him, took his shoulder and turned him in the direction of the bodyguards. “Swetsky, cuff Black-Eyes first and then his mate.”

  Petrescu nodded slightly, and the bodyguard put his hands together and brought them forward. Swetsky holstered his weapon and took out the handcuffs.

  “Do you mind, Detective, if I call my consul general?” Petrescu asked.

  “Right now, yes, I mind.” He tapped the barrel gently against the man’s temple. “Aziz, once Swetsky’s dealt with those two, search the Range Rover.”

  “With pleasure, boss.” Aziz moved around Petrescu and MacNeice, gave her cuffs to Swetsky and waited till he had cuffed the other bodyguard.

  “So you do speak,” Petrescu said. “Aziz.… You’re Muslim, but they let you be a detective. What a country!”

  “Like my partner said, sir, fuck you.” Aziz holstered her weapon, took the latex gloves from her jacket pocket, snapped them on and opened the driver’s door of the SUV.

  Swetsky grinned and tapped hard on the bodyguards’ shoulders, encouraging them to sit down on the pavement.

  “The driver’s seat is clear,” Aziz said, and walked around to the passenger side.

  “Do you not need a search warrant, Detective?” Petrescu asked.

  “Not this time. Here, blocking a police vehicle is perceived as a threat.”

  “Passenger side, glove compartment, under the seats all clear, except for a Hustler magazine,” Aziz called.

  “They get lonely being so far from home.” Petrescu smiled.

  “MacNeice, come take a look at this.” Aziz was on the far side of the SUV, leaning over the back seat. In her hands was a black portfolio. She lifted it up towards MacNeice. “Marcus and Lydia’s album.”

  MacNeice pushed Petrescu over to the vehicle and looked in as Aziz slowly turned the pages. “Where did you pick that up?” he asked Petrescu.

  “I’ve told you before, Detective, I am not obliged to answer you.”

  “That’s right, you did. We’ll continue our conversation later.” At the end of the driveway, three unmarked Chevys bounced over the ramp and into the lane, followed by a large black van. One of the cars circled around and stopped just ahead of the Range Rover, while the other two pulled up behind.

  MacNeice turned over Petrescu to the first cop out of his vehicle. “Cuff him, search him and have the Rover searched stem to stern.”

  “I demand you inform the consul general. You have no idea what you’re doing here.”

  MacNeice ignored him, addressing the officer who now had Petrescu’s arms behind him. “Treat him with respect—he’s a foreign national. Get someone to move this vehicle out of the way of my car.” All three men were led away and disappeared inside the black van.

  “Jeezus, Aziz,” Swetsky said, “I was going to whack him when he made that crack about your clothes, but the creep had a point.” He was looking at the dried blood on her pants and shoes, her creased and tear-stained blouse.
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  She looked down in mock surprise and smiled insincerely. “Thank you, Swetsky. So good of you to notice.”

  “Swets, put your gloves on and get those sticks down to Forensics. I want to know if there’s anything on them. Also, photograph the portfolio where Aziz found it and then confiscate it. Can you check whether there was a security breach at Lydia’s apartment? If there wasn’t, this is another portfolio, and I think I know where it came from.”

  “Okay, Mac.”

  “Aziz, come with me.” MacNeice led her down the lane to the hotel entrance.

  AT THE DESK, MACNEICE AND AZIZ showed their badges. “The key for Gregori Petrescu’s room, and those of his two companions, please,” MacNeice said. The clerk looked surprised to see them—they were the only people around who weren’t in the parking lot gawking at the show.

  In the elevator Aziz asked, “What are you thinking, Mac?”

  “I was just wondering if the fox hasn’t been chasing the hounds. We leave Marcus’s room and a moment later someone arrives to kill him. We pull in to the parking lot here and a few minutes later the Range Rover arrives and parks right in front of us.”

  “Why would he follow us when he knows we’re coming for him?”

  “Good question. If he’s got nothing to do with the killings, it doesn’t make sense. If he’s responsible for the killings, it also doesn’t make sense.” When the doors opened on the fourth floor, they walked towards Room 406.

  Two pieces of Petrescu’s luggage were sitting on the floor at the end of the bed, packed and locked. The room had been cleaned, as had the adjoining rooms on either side, each with a full duffle bag sitting beside the bed.

  Back in Petrescu’s room, MacNeice took out his cellphone and called Wallace. “I need clearance, sir, to open the bags of three Romanian nationals who are claiming diplomatic immunity.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “They’re in custody, sir, being brought in as we speak.”

  “On what charges?”

  “Obstruction, being in the possession of stolen materials, littering.”

  “Littering? Are you serious?”

  “If I have to be. Petrescu dropped a cigarette and ground it into the pavement in front of three police officers.”

  “Christ, MacNeice, do you have a charge that has a hope of sticking?”

  “Possession of stolen materials. He had the photo portfolio of the girl in the back seat of the car. It could have come from only one—or maybe two—places.”

  “So open the bags. I’ll call upstairs and get Ottawa on side. But do it quickly in case I get turned down. Good work, MacNeice.”

  “We’re not there yet, sir, but thanks.” MacNeice put his cellphone away. They both pulled on their latex gloves, then MacNeice pulled out the Leatherman he had tucked into his belt.

  “Were you anticipating this?”

  “Yes and no. I knew he’d be too cocky not to push it, but I had no idea he’d give us an excuse to handcuff him.” He unfolded the tool, turning it into a pair of wire cutters, then snapped the woven-wire locks on both cases and lifted them onto the bed.

  “The portfolio coming from one of two places … What are you thinking?”

  “Marcus was an artist. He would have created a set of prints for his own portfolio, a copy of the one he gave her. When he ran, I think he would have abandoned everything but that. It was a talisman—a reminder of her and the promise of his talent.” He flipped open the large suitcase. “You take the smaller one. Before you touch anything, shoot it as is.” He took out his digital camera and snapped two shots of the folded clothing, on which a grey envelope with a Romanian flag rested, before handing the camera to Aziz.

  “Which would place them in his room at the hotel.”

  “Precisely.”

  “It’s creepy to think of those goons going through that album.”

  “It is. On the other hand, it’s a significant cut above Hustler, so maybe they wouldn’t get it. Then again, if their fingerprints are on those pages along with Marcus’s, there’s something delicious about it.”

  “How so?”

  “Marcus and Lydia are both dead—and they died horribly—but the photos document the story of their love and their art. I think there’s something delicious about capturing the people who did this to them by using the portfolio as evidence.”

  “You’re a romantic, boss.”

  “I suppose I am.”

  Aziz turned back to the task at hand. “Papers, lots of papers. All of it in Romanian, I guess.”

  “Shoot them all. Lift them out neatly and shoot as much detail as you can, page after page.”

  “What’s in yours?”

  “He comes from a country that’s on the ropes, but Mr. Petrescu wears only the best—Italian mostly, even down to his underwear. Wait a minute—hand me the camera again.” He took out a folder with several images inside, all black and white but for two badly faded coloured prints. They looked like they had been taken in Romania before the fall of communism. Two were of a young boy in a military uniform squinting into the sunshine as he stood at attention; the other showed a family vacation: a trip to the beach, the mother and father sitting on a blanket, the boy—clearly Gregori—in the foreground with a bucket and shovel, digging in the sand. In addition there were two photos of Antonin in a laboratory and three of sadly deformed young children lying on metal cots and staring vacantly at the camera. For modesty, a narrow cloth had been thrown over their genitals, as if the obscenity of their bodies wasn’t more than enough.

  “Grotesque,” Aziz said as she looked over his shoulder at the images MacNeice was framing with the camera.

  “I wonder if these were given to Gregori to show his father or given to him by his father.”

  After they had taken everything out of both pieces of luggage, they felt through the linings, which were untampered with, then photographed any item they’d missed and put them all back. Next they went through the duffle bags. In Black-Eyes’s bag they found a stash of porn, several XXL black T-shirts and a bottle of Jack Daniels. In the driver’s there was nothing but clothing, everything neatly folded, military style.

  By the time they returned to the Chevy carrying the luggage, everyone had gone, along with the Range Rover. They drove slowly out of the parking lot, and just before turning down Chelsea Lane, MacNeice remarked, “I liked it better when it was an apple orchard.”

  TWENTY THREE

  —

  BEFORE THEY HEADED BACK to Division, Aziz persuaded MacNeice to drop by her apartment so she could change into clean clothes. When they got to the station, a Romanian was ensconced in each of the three interview rooms. Swetsky was leaning against the wall outside the one containing Petrescu. He looked over at Aziz—now wearing a blue suit with a crisp white shirt—and said, “Much better. There’s pizza waiting for you two upstairs—at least what’s left of it. I was starved.”

  “Maybe later. Swets, you take the driver. Let Black-Eyes stew for a while. Aziz and I will interview Petrescu. No word yet from Wallace?”

  “Nope. Petrescu’s been demanding a phone call and generally being a pain in the ass. The other two just sit in their rooms staring at the wall.”

  MacNeice looked through the wired-glass window at the colonel. Williams was standing in the corner behind him, and nodded to MacNeice and Aziz as they entered the room.

  “Are you comfortable, Mr. Petrescu?” MacNeice said. “Were you offered coffee or tea?”

  “You know what I want. Unless you’re willing to make this an international incident, you’ll give me my phone and let me make a call.” Petrescu laid both hands flat on the table as if to emphasize his point.

  “I hadn’t realized you weren’t given that opportunity. Aziz, ask the desk sergeant for Mr. Petrescu’s cellphone.”

  “Certainly, sir.” Aziz left the room.

  “How did you come into possession of that photo album?” MacNeice said as he sat down.

  “I don’t know what you
’re talking about.”

  “The portfolio of images of your sister. They were on the back seat of your vehicle. Where did you get them?”

  “You have no idea what you’re dealing with, do you, Detective? You’re just flailing about hoping there’ll be something to catch hold of.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. I’m not a scientist like yourself.”

  “No, certainly not. But you could—if you’ll excuse me—benefit from scientific study.” He was still looking down at the table as if studying the grain.

  “Was it upsetting for you to see those images of your sister, Gregori?”

  “I’d like a cup of tea. No milk, two sugars.” It was the first time he’d looked at MacNeice, and his eyes betrayed no emotion.

  “I’ll get that for you.” MacNeice stood up. “Oatmeal cookies with that?” Petrescu didn’t look up. “I’ll take that as a no.”

  Outside the door he met Aziz returning with the cellphone. “They’ve recorded all the calls from and to,” she said, “but haven’t analyzed them yet. Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to get Mr. Petrescu a cup of tea.”

  “Leave that. I’ll go.”

  “No, you go in. See what you can get out of him. Williams has your back, and Petrescu’s not a man of action. Give me that.” He took the cellphone from her.

  AS AZIZ SAT DOWN ACROSS from Petrescu, he leaned back in his chair. “Are you going to rough me up, Detective?”

  “I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  “Yes. You know, that colour blue is very beautiful against your skin—your Arab skin. You’re from Turkey?”

  “Did you know your sister well, Mr. Petrescu?”

  “Iran, perhaps?”

  “We understand she was your half-sister, but did you see her often?”

  “Your accent is British, so I’d guess you’re either Iranian or Turkish.”

  “Are you aware of how your sister died?”

  “No, I have it—you’re Lebanese. Your parents were among the petite bourgeois who left Beirut to its fate. Yes? Am I right?”

  “Tell me about your work in microbiology.”