“Do you know microbiology, Detective?”
“No, that’s why I’m asking. What do you do?”
“I … do things that are too complex for a pretty woman such as yourself to understand.”
“You mean things like chemical warfare?” Aziz hoped her face hadn’t flushed with the contempt she felt for the man.
“The memory capacity of the human brain, Detective, while unknown exactly, has been estimated to be the equivalent of two million home computers. But it does much more than that, doesn’t it?”
“Are you speaking about the way your sister died?”
“And yet when a computer dies, its memory doesn’t die with it.”
“Unlike your sister’s.” Aziz could feel her forehead getting moist and couldn’t bear the thought that the perspiration might be visible to Petrescu.
He turned his attention to the mirrored wall on his right. “I’ll wait for my cellphone.”
Aziz turned towards the door. Williams caught her eye from the corner of the room and mouthed the word asshole. She smiled.
The door opened and MacNeice stepped in and handed Petrescu the cellphone and his cup of tea. As Petrescu was dialling, he said, “She’s very pretty, MacNeice, but not that clever.”
“I’ve never had too much respect for clever, Colonel. I prefer depth and intelligence.” He touched Aziz’s shoulder lightly as he sat down, hoping that she’d realize he’d been watching through the mirror.
Petrescu’s urgent conversation in Romanian was being recorded. They’d find someone to translate it, but MacNeice knew his time with the man was running out. He decided he’d simply carry on until he was forced to stop.
When Petrescu ended the call and set his phone face down on the table, MacNeice asked, “You were in the possession of a portfolio of images—nude images—of your sister and a young man. Where did you get them?”
“My consul general has been on the phone to your deputy chief. He was very upset that I missed my flight and is on his way here now. I think, or rather I believe, that this pathetic charade is quickly coming to an end.”
“Your family deserted you, left you behind in a military boarding school. Why didn’t you join your parents after the fall of the communist regime?”
“My father told you that?” He put the paper cup down hard on the table.
“They had to leave in a hurry; they couldn’t reach you, not even to tell you they were going.” MacNeice’s voice was calm, even sympathetic.
“Did my father tell you that? Tell me!” Petrescu’s fists were clenched and his neck veins stood out for a moment, but then he forced himself to relax, sat back and smiled. “Is that what you wanted, Detective—some Oedipal rage that would fit your tiny picture?”
“That was very good, Colonel. Not entirely convincing, but nonetheless very good.”
There was a knock on the door. Williams looked over at MacNeice, who nodded for him to open it. Two men came in ahead of Wallace. The first was clearly the Romanian consul general, flushed with anger; the second, most likely a Canadian diplomat, had a look of weary detachment. He spoke first.
“Detective Superintendent MacNeice, I’m Farrelly from External Affairs. This gentleman is the consul general of Romania, Alexandru Banica. You are to release Colonel Petrescu and his men immediately into his custody, along with all their possessions.”
“All except one—a portfolio of images that is part of an ongoing homicide investigation,” MacNeice responded. “I might as well ask, since we’re all here, could you compel Mr. Petrescu to tell us how he came to be in possession of that portfolio?”
Farrelly shot a look at the deputy chief, who was staring at the floor. Stepping closer to MacNeice, Farrelly said, “You must have misunderstood me. I said release this man and his associates immediately.”
Petrescu was on his feet. Stepping around the table, he turned to MacNeice. “Even in the Wild West, it appears, there are limitations, Detective. Pity. I was enjoying our conversation.”
“Where did you put the syringe, Gregori, when you were finished with it?”
“MacNeice, that’s enough,” said Wallace as he moved aside to let the three men out of the room. Farrelly gave MacNeice a weary parting glance.
“What the fuck was that?” Williams said.
DC Wallace swung around. He hadn’t noticed the tall black officer standing in the corner. “Who are you?”
“Williams, sir. Detective Inspector Montile Williams.”
Wallace nodded and turned back to MacNeice. “How far did you get?”
“Not far at all, sir. But we managed between the two of us to paint a picture for him—one he may or may not have expected. What’s our next move?”
“Nothing, unless you’re prepared to charge him and his bodyguards with something beyond littering. You’ve got very little time before they ship him out to New York, then on to Romania.”
“I apologize if this has put you in the meat grinder.”
“Fuck that!” Wallace swore, startling even himself, it seemed. Looking at Aziz, he said, “Sorry, Detective, I can’t seem to shake the street.” Aziz raised her hand as if to say no problem, and he continued. “MacNeice, I am having a fucking ball. You just keep going. Get something on that devious shit, and fast. When you do, I’ll make the call to Farrelly, and trust me, that’s a call I’m looking forward to making.” With that he turned, nodded to Williams, who smiled and nodded back, and was gone.
“Well,” MacNeice said.
“He’s an impressive little fucker, that one,” Williams said. Then, “Sorry, Aziz, no offence.”
“Don’t be a smartass, Williams. Boss, it’s twenty minutes to midnight. He’s not going anywhere tonight. What do you want to do?”
“We visit Antonin Petrescu first thing in the morning, but before we do, I’ll send Swetsky to check Lydia’s bedroom closet to see if her album is still there. Cold pizza, anyone?”
TWENTY FOUR
—
SHORTLY BEFORE EIGHT ON Wednesday morning, as the hospital staff were clearing away the breakfast trays, Aziz walked into Vertesi’s hospital room carrying half a dozen magazines, from Sports Illustrated to the New Yorker. She wasn’t sure what he liked to read, so she was trying everything. He was asleep with a newspaper on his lap. She put the magazines down on the table and gently rested her hand on his shoulder to wake him.
In the moment it took his eyes to open, she took in his pallor and the new hollows in his cheeks. The stubble looked so black against his skin that it seemed dyed. Then he saw her and smiled, embarrassed, it seemed to her, to be in this fix.
Aziz pulled up a chair and sat beside him. “I brought you some magazines, enough to keep you going for a while. Are you feeling better, Michael?”
Looking at the stack on the table, he said, “Thanks, Fiza, that’s great. I’ve mostly been reading about you guys in the newspapers every day.” He gathered up the paper and set it on the table to his left. “I still feel pretty weak, but yeah, I’m better.”
“Have they said how long you’ll be in here?” She scanned the room, noticing the many flowers and get-well cards, including those from Division.
“Not yet.” He looked down at his left side. “All the buckshot’s out, but it was torn up in there. They’re worried about infection.”
“Are you able to sleep?”
“Sleep is what I do best. The drugs are great—it’s like you’re in pain one minute and it’s getting worse, then you get this pill and slowly you’re drifting off to dreamland.”
“I feel like I could use one of those about now.” She smiled wearily.
“How are things with the case? Wallace is doing a great job at not saying much to the media.” He winced as he shifted a little towards her.
“We’re making headway, but I didn’t come to talk about that. I don’t want you thinking about work.” She put a hand on his wrist above the bandage that secured the intravenous tube.
“But I really want to know what
’s been happening.”
Changing the subject, Aziz said, “I met Rachel. She seems lovely, and she was very concerned about you.”
“I’m so ashamed, Fiza. I feel like I let you all down.”
“You couldn’t have known that the old man would snap.”
“Yeah, I could have. I knew there was something seriously off with the guy.”
“So why did you go out there alone?”
“I don’t know … I wanted to do something that would bust open the case, I guess. Does Mac know you’re here?”
“No, I’m meeting him in an hour or so. Has Rachel been back to see you?”
“Every day after school. She brings me oatmeal raisin cookies. Want one?” He pointed to the bulging paper bag on the bedside table.
“No, thanks, I just had breakfast. When you sleep, do you have nightmares?”
“Fiza, what’s going on with you?”
“Do you have nightmares?”
“If you mean do I see Gibbs comin’ at me with the shotgun—yes. If you’re asking about my shooting him—no. Truth is, I can’t remember it.”
“Maybe that’s a blessing, Michael.”
“Not according to the department shrink. She wants me to dig deeper and she’s insisting that I open up; she won’t sign me ready for duty until I do.”
“Makes sense, I guess. Do it when you’re ready, though. Especially if you feel you went out there to prove something—”
“Christ, I’ve been ‘proving something’ since I went into the academy—before, even—maybe since I was a kid. I know I cranked the old guy up after he called me a wop. I was playing with him. Worse, I humiliated him in front of his mechanic, and he could see I was enjoying it. It was like I was back on Barton Street showing off in front of my friends.”
“Did you tell the shrink that?”
“No … this is the first time I’ve been willing to admit it.”
She met his eyes then, and they were serene. He knew he’d brought this on himself, and he didn’t mind her knowing too.
“Thank you for trusting me, Michael.”
“What’s happened to you, Fiz? And please don’t blow me off.”
“Excuse me?”
“C’mon. I know you, at least a little, and you don’t look like your usual impervious self.”
“We failed to stop the death of a young man yesterday. It was horrific—and we could have stopped it.” She shrugged slightly and her eyes filled with tears.
“You and MacNeice?”
“Yes. It was Lydia’s boyfriend, Marcus Johnson. He was thrown off a balcony twenty-one storeys up. He smashed—” She cleared her throat. “He landed a few feet away from me … and we’d been with him only minutes before.”
“You blaming yourself, or Mac?” He raised the bed’s back higher.
“Me. Well, both of us.” Aziz grabbed several tissues from the bedside table and wiped her eyes.
“Don’t shit me. You’re blaming MacNeice. You’ve found out he’s fallible.”
“Maybe.” Now tears were streaming down her face, and she reached over for more tissues. “And here I am telling you to talk to the shrink.”
“Aziz, nothing in my life has ever scared me before—nothing. But that old man bearing down on me with a shotgun is deep-in-my-head scary. The shrink knew that; she said something about PTSD, though I don’t think I was listening. I am now, though. And I think you should too. You can’t have that happen to you without damage up here.” He tapped his temple several times.
“I know.”
“What I’m getting at is, don’t blame yourself, and don’t blame MacNeice—he’s human. And no matter what happened yesterday, he may be the finest cop this city’s ever known.”
She cleared her throat. “I had a message on my phone when I got home last night. It was from my professor in Ottawa. He’s now the department head and he wants me back to teach criminology.”
“Mistake.” Vertesi reached over carefully, picked up his juice and sipped through the straw.
“I’m not so sure. I thought I was okay last night, but I feel.…” Aziz put the clump of tissues into the plastic bag hanging off the bedside table.
“You’re not in any shape to make a decision like that. Have you told Mac?”
“No. I need time to think.”
“When do you have to get back to your professor?”
“Soon. He wants me to start in September.”
“Then you don’t have time to think. But as far as I’m concerned, it’s a mistake, Aziz.” He put the cup down and eased the bed back down to a sleeping position.
Aziz stood, leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, once again touching his shoulder with her hand. “Sleep, Michael. I’ll see you soon.”
“Thanks for coming. Do you want to take some cookies for Swetsky?”
“Nah, he’s a doughnut man. You have them—they’re good for you.”
“You asked about dreams earlier. You know what I dreamt about last night?”
“No, what?”
“That MacNeice was here, sitting in that chair.” He nodded at the one she’d just gotten out of. “He was just sitting there looking at me. It was like he was watching over me or something. So weird.… Next thing I knew they were waking me for breakfast.”
“Nice dream. Rest now. I’ll see you soon.”
She was already at the door when he said, “You’re a cop, Fiza—like me. Go and be a cop.”
ON HER WAY OUT AZIZ STOPPED at the nursing station and waited for someone to notice her. Finally a big woman with a soft black face smiled and said, “Can I help you, miss?”
“Yes. I’m Detective Inspector Aziz, and I want to know if my colleague, Detective Michael Vertesi, had a visitor late last night. Can you check for me?”
“Certainly.” She swung her chair around and lifted a clipboard off the wall. Putting on her glasses, she turned over a page to read the entries from the night nurse. Looking over the glasses she said, “Yes, he did. A Detective Superintendent MacNeice. He arrived just before midnight and he left at 1:46 a.m.”
TWENTY FIVE
—
MADELEINE ANSWERED THE DOOR at 9:16 a.m. Wednesday morning, but instead of opening it wide she merely held it tight to the length of the security chain. “You have an appointment?”
“Madeleine, please let him know we’re here.” MacNeice’s cellphone rang as they stood on the steps. He looked at the small screen. “This is Richardson. Fiza, you get us in there,” he said, nodding towards the now closed door as he moved back down the walk to take the call.
“Will do.”
Richardson sounded weary. “Well, MacNeice, you wanted to know if there were signs of blunt trauma on that young man before the impact of the fall.”
“That’s right. The weapon, I believe, could have been a twelve- or thirteen-inch-long hardwood dowel, approximately an inch and a half in diameter. There may have been two of them going at him from different directions.”
“You understand, the face of this young man was so damaged by the impact that it’s very difficult to draw conclusions about any prior blunt trauma there. But there are signs on the back of his skull, just above the neck. As well, on his upper right shoulder and spine there are several bruises about one to one and a half inches in diameter. Two contusions indicate a shaft of some kind, though it’s difficult to determine anything exact from glancing blows. I’d be willing to say they’re within the range you’re talking about. Most telling of all, though, and the blow that likely rendered him unconscious prior to the fall, is the circular contusion we found near his intact temple once we shaved his hair off. That one—very nasty—is exactly one and a half inches in diameter.”
“These marks couldn’t have been caused by the fall?”
“Not possible, even if he had bounced. He hit a flat surface, and then moments later he rode that flat surface down to land on another flat surface. No, these were inflicted prior to the first impact.”
“Anythin
g else?” His phone beeped with another call. “Excuse me, Doctor, while I put another call on hold.” It was Swetsky checking in, and MacNeice asked him to wait. He went back to Richardson. “So, anything else?”
“I think I’ve answered your most pressing question, MacNeice. I can also tell you that the fellow had ingested large amounts of cannabis and some alcohol, but I don’t think that’s what you’re after.”
“No.”
“Incidentally, your cellphone number was scribbled on some hotel notepaper in his pocket. I thought you’d like to know that.”
“Anything else?”
“Eleven dollars and thirty-nine cents. No wallet and no ID. Quite sad, really.…”
“Thanks, Doc,” he said, and picked up the other call, holding up a finger to Aziz to let her know he’d be tied up a little longer. “Swetsky, what have you got?”
“The portfolio in Lydia’s apartment—it’s still there. Do you want me to leave it or pull it for safekeeping?”
“Leave it. Thanks, Swets.” Aziz was waiting in front of the open door, Madeleine behind her in the foyer.
“One more thing. Going through Gibbs’s house, Forensics discovered a crack pipe and a small stash. Turns out that his wife was one of Ruvola’s customers. When she was dying of cancer, she got seriously into smoking dope to ease the pain. Gibbs went for the heavier stuff after she passed.”
“This may be some comfort, however cold, to Vertesi. And it explains the financial incentive for Gibbs in this.”
“Yeah, that’s one unlucky wop. Later, Mac.”
TEA HAD BEEN SET FOR TWO in the window, empty cups and napkins waiting on the tray. Madeleine told them to make themselves comfortable, then picked up the tray and left the room, closing the door behind her.
They saw Antonin Petrescu out in the garden, pruning dead blooms off the lilac tree. When Madeleine walked across the lawn to speak to him, he looked over his shoulder in the direction of the library, put down his gloves and garden shears and turned towards the house. “Here he comes, Mac. What’s our strategy?”
“I don’t really have one other than to be blunt. We’re running out of time. We’ve been very gentle with Mr. Petrescu, and while I still feel great sympathy for him, there are answers we need right now.”
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