by Pat Capponi
The lowly teller is back, with crisp new bills and some things for me to sign, which I do with an unusual flourish. Then I stand, thank her, and turn to Mr. Amos.
“If I think of any more questions, I’ll be in touch.”
He grimaces, looking less than pleased.
On the way back home, there’s time to reflect. The streetcar rattles along with its handful of passengers as I stare out the grimy window without really seeing. It’s funny, I’ve dreaded running into people from “before,” dreaded having to explain what I’m doing with my life, where I’m living and why. It’s hard enough with new friends, like Ed the cop, who just doesn’t get why I’m not moving on, going back to school, renting a real apartment in some nice neighbourhood. As far as my classmates at university were concerned, one day I simply dropped out. I never told any of them about the vicious attack I suffered through, the long rehabilitation, and the paralyzing fear that it could happen again. I thought if I ever did bump into anyone that I’d be looked at, maybe even pitied, as a failure, someone who never lived up to her potential. I love Delta Court, I love my new friends, but I also know how incomprehensible my choices would seem to others. What I never expected was the admiration I heard in Bernie’s voice. It’s enough to make a person a bit dizzy.
They’re all there: Michael, Miss Semple, Gerry, and Diamond is back too—my team, gathered around the card table, in the room with the peeling grey walls and distressed furniture. Home sweet home. After showing up with bags of burgers and hot apple pies, and sending out for pop, I tell them all about Harp and the office building and the magic cheque.
Gerry belches, a great volcanic eruption that bounces off the common room walls. Catching a glimpse of the look on Miss Semple’s face, a mixture of disapproval and awe, he apologizes. “Sorry. That’s the last one, I think. Pretty sure.”
I take the picture of Anna from the envelope, and another smaller photo falls to the floor. Bending over to retrieve it, I see it’s the one Harp showed me earlier, the one with him and me and our friends from long ago. I turn it over and, sure enough, there’s an inscription on the back: “Here’s to better times, Harp.”
Michael leans over. “Let me see. Hey, that’s you!” One grubby finger stubs out my face. “Where was this taken?”
“Back when I was at the University of Toronto. It was a party at someone’s house, I forget whose. And that’s Harp, the way he used to be.”
“Who’s the guy with his hands all over you? Was he your boyfriend?”
Everyone except Miss Semple is up and crowding around, jostling each other for space. I put the photo in the middle of the table. “For a while, I guess, he was. I can’t even remember his name now. Or the party. We’d get pretty wasted back then, blowing off steam. But Anna’s the one you should be looking at; she’s our case.”
Miss Semple claps her hands. “This is so exciting, it’s the true beginning of your career!”
“About bloody time,” Gerry grumbles. “I don’t think I can take another weirdo coming through the door, whining about the voices in his head.”
“Yeah,” snarks Michael, “it’s not like there’s any room here for another mental patient, unless they’re very, very skinny.”
I cut through their jibes and call them back to the case.
“It seems to me we should start by visiting the assisted-living centre where Mrs. Preston was staying before she moved back home, ask some questions. Any ideas how to do that?” I look around for suggestions, and everyone is suddenly very businesslike and thoughtful. Miss Semple, hesitating only slightly, is the first to break the silence.
“It would probably be best not to go in as ourselves. They might say it’s none of our business. Do you think your friend Jeremy might lend us a hand?” Jeremy is an aging actor from the same social environs as Mrs. Preston. Miss Semple continues to flesh out her idea. “He could pretend he’s looking for a place to put me; I’ll be his country cousin. It would give us the excuse we’d need to snoop around.”
We’re all nodding, impressed. Diamond pipes up. “Sounds like a scheme from that Agatha Christie novel we read. And by the way,” he adds, rescuing a scrap of paper from the bottom of the grease-soaked hamburger bag, “from now on you have to keep receipts. This counts as a business expense.”
That reminds me. I hand the money order over to him. “You’re our accountant now, Diamond.”
“Send us a postcard from Mexico when you get there,” Michael snipes.
“Okay, guys, let’s concentrate,” I say. “We have a plan of attack. I’ll give Jeremy a call tomorrow, see if he’s interested. I’m also going to call Mrs. Preston’s church. I’ll pretend I’m looking to do an article on their program, maybe there’s something I can find out.” It wouldn’t be a total lie; I do occasionally contribute to the local free paper—less than I used to, but still.
It seems to strike us all at the same time that we’re really in the detective business. Michael lets out a whoop. We’re all energized, grinning at each other like lunatics. I’m thinking, as I go upstairs, that I’ll buff up that plaque on my door, so it shines like it was meant to.
CHAPTER THREE
It’s easy to sleep late in a cold room, if people let you. I fumble around my night table until I find my watch. Nine-thirty and all’s quiet in the house. It feels luxurious as hell, lying here, no urgency driving me out of bed, nothing but my need for coffee. It takes only a minute or so until I’m sipping Taster’s Choice, back up against the pillow, surveying my room. I don’t miss the old metal-frame single bed that came with the place. It was my friend Charlene’s idea to search her basement for this fold-out couch. She swore it was more comfortable than the lumpy mattress I’d been cursed with, and she was right. The rocking chair was a bonus find, piled high as it was with boxes of clothing and silverware. I’d recognized its potential immediately, and Charlene had agreed.
Charlene, who gave me the pumps I wore to Bay Street, is my friend Jeremy’s niece. They both believe I’m a brilliant detective, but otherwise they’re fairly stable people, generous and fun. Jeremy will be coming by later this morning to take Miss Semple and me up to the assisted-living centre Mrs. Preston stayed at while she recuperated from her fall. That leaves me time for breakfast across the street, and a leisurely read of whatever daily paper Karen has hanging around.
I shower and dress in my Parkdale uniform of jeans and pullover, and grab my jacket. There’s no one to be seen on any of the three floors; everyone’s out or still in bed. On my way out the front door, I read the sign taped to it from yesterday: “We Are Closed! Out of Business! Do Not Enter!”
The stairs outside the house are slippery, I have to hang on to the shaky guardrail on the way down. There’s slush on the streets, too, just enough to leak through my running shoes and bite at my toes. It’s an odd fact about our neighbourhood that as soon as snow touches the ground, it turns grey-black. There’s never that winter wonderland whiteness I remember from my time in the Annex, the upscale community surrounding the University of Toronto. Drivers are having a difficult time coping with the snow. I dodge cars that are skewed sloppily in the street, none of the straight bumper-to-bumper lines that usually define downtown Queen Street. Wrestling with the heavy door of the restaurant/bar, oddly named Breakers, I’m blasted by heat as soon as I get it open. Karen and her rag-tag collection of morning customers like it warm.
“Hey, Dana, grab a seat, I’ll bring your coffee!”
A couple of the old men, each at his own lonely table, look up briefly to examine me, then fall back into their own musings as I take my place near the large window facing the street. It lets in some of the only light to be found in the place.
Karen bustles over with a full pot of coffee, a ratty newspaper folded under one arm, and pours me a cup before sitting down opposite me. “Did you guys see yourselves the other day? On the news? You all looked great! That Mallick had it coming, didn’t he, the miserable bastard.”
“You’re full of be
ans this morning, how come?”
“My husband’s away, that’s how come. No partying for me, I slept like a baby, went to bed at eight o’clock.”
“Where’d he go?”
“He’s down in New Brunswick, picking up a few pounds of weed from his brother. He’ll be back by the weekend.”
The front door opens. Karen looks over her shoulder while I fiddle with the creamer, then she grins at me. “Your cop is here.”
“What?”
She nods toward the door, I look and sure enough she’s right: Ed the cop is standing at the entrance, looking around.
Karen pushes back her chair and stands as Ed, looking damn good for a winter morning, comes over. “Karen, you remember Ed.”
“Hi,” she grins conspiratorially, taking the hand he offers and shaking it vigorously. “Coffee?”
“Sure.”
“Be right back.” Karen leaves the pot on the table and goes in search of a cup, as Ed grins down at me. “Congratulations!”
“Thank you.” I’m thinking, he’s taking it very well. Ed’s made it clear in the past that he’s not comfortable with this detective business. “You ran into Gerry?” Ed has cultivated Gerry shamelessly, bringing him cigarettes and the occasional Big Mac. Gerry thinks Ed is the ideal man for me. Ed seems to think the same thing.
“No, Diamond.” He takes the chair Karen left vacant. “He told me you’d probably be over here. I can see why, the ambiance, it just takes your breath away.”
Karen’s back with a menu and a cup and saucer, she pours his coffee and tops mine up. “The usual?”
“Yes, please.” I love the usual, it makes mornings bearable. Ed knows my routines quite well by now; we’ve been dating off and on since Maryanne’s disappearance, though we don’t call it dating. He’ll drop by the house or here, ask me to dinner, and afterwards drive me home. I’ve been to his place once, been very close to his bed once, and was rescued by an argument that broke out between us just in the nick of time.
“I just have time for coffee, thanks.” He returns the menu to Karen, and as she retreats, he picks up the newspaper she’s left behind and taps the front page with his index finger, pointing out the bold headline, Couple Pistol-Whipped in Their Own Home! “These home invasions, they’ve pulled me out of homicide and stuck me on that task force the chief set up. Said they could use my investigative know-how. Nobody told the guy in charge, though, so the first few days all I was doing is answering tip lines like some rookie.” He rubs his face with both hands and yawns hugely. “You know, there are some very crazy people out there, and they’re all phoning in with the names of relatives and husbands and bosses and neighbours they hate. And everything has to be checked and double-checked, no matter what. It means I have to cancel our dinner for tonight. Sorry, I’ll make it up to you.”
Even I’d heard about the latest crime wave striking the city. Home invasions. Some of the most expensive neighbourhoods in the city were being hit. Not something we residents of Delta Court had to worry much about, for a change. Drug dealers taking pot shots at each other, muggings, prostitution, yes—everyday crimes that barely made the papers, never mind the front page.
“That’s okay, we can celebrate when you’ve cracked the case. I’ve read a little about these guys. They’ve been in the news for a while, haven’t they?”
“Yes, almost a month now, since they first struck. They’re smart, really well organized, and disciplined. And they keep changing their tactics: time of day, neighbourhood, mode of entry, so that it looks like there’s more than one gang operating. Even the chief thinks so. Not me. You don’t find two groups like that springing up out of nowhere. No. It’s one gang, with one strong leader.” He stares at the newspaper, as though willing the headline to change into something more palatable, something like: Gang Captured, Police Praised.
“Sorry, Ed. It’s got to be discouraging.” I reach over and touch his hand. He smiles at me, though his eyes remain troubled.
“We need some kind of break, either they make a big mistake, or we get lucky. But I’m really happy about your news. So what’s next for you? Have you given it any thought?”
“Sure. We have a plan of sorts. How much did Diamond tell you?”
“Nothing, really, he was in a hurry, late for school.” He makes a face into his coffee. I know it’s not great, there’s always a bit of a layer on it, globules that won’t mix in, no matter how much you stir. “Maybe that’s something you should think about, now that you’ve gotten this detective business out of your system.”
Uh-oh. “I’m guessing you saw the sign on the door?”
“Yeah, it made my day.” He’s watching my face, the cop in him no doubt realizing that something’s amiss.
Karen appears just long enough to plunk down my breakfast; I pick up a slice of hot buttered toast, a little charred around the edges, biting into it to give myself some breathing space. Ed’s eyes, even narrowed as they are now, are a deeper blue than Bernie’s, and in a much nicer setting.
I burst out with it.
“Ed, we have a real client, an honest-to-God, fee-paying client. He’s a guy I knew at university, and he has a little problem he thinks we can help him with.”
Ed just sits there. It must be his interrogation technique, keeping grimly silent, forcing the perp to babble away, much like I’m doing now. “He’s an accountant, he has an office and everything, and he saw us on the news. It’s a simple case, really. Nothing too complicated, certainly nothing dangerous. It’s a start for us, Ed, a real start.”
“You’re not a detective, Dana, you don’t have any experience.”
“I told him that, he doesn’t care.”
He takes a piece of my toast and bites into it. “It kills the taste of the coffee. Tell me about this guy. How well did you know him? Did you ever go out with him?”
I don’t like being on the defensive; it gets my back up. “No, Detective, we never dated.”
He hesitates, wanting more information, then, correctly reading my mood, capitulates. “I’m sorry, Dana. After what happened last time, it makes me nervous. And I hate having to cancel our evening. Forgive me?”
The front door opens, and a six-foot-something statuesque blond woman in a full-length leather coat, knee-high boots, and a cashmere sweater curving out in all the right spots stands looking around, then heads right toward us. She puts one proprietary hand on Ed’s shoulder and he looks up at her and smiles. Instantly, I’m on the alert, alarm bells clanging madly in my head. Just because we don’t call what we’re doing dating doesn’t mean that we aren’t.
“Done all your banking?” he asks her, and she nods. “Dana, this is my new partner, as long as I’m assigned to the task force. Marilyn, this is Dana.”
She extends one manicured hand to me over the table, and I half-rise to shake it. I never thought I’d miss Price, Ed’s usual partner.
“Hi, Dana,” she says in a sexy voice, deep and smoky. “I hate to break up your breakfast, but we have to run. There’s been another one, Ed, and we’ve been ordered to the scene.”
I tell myself it’s the hunt that makes him leap to his feet. He rummages in his pocket, then lays down a twenty-dollar bill. Leaning over me, he whispers, “I didn’t mean to upset you.” Then he kisses me chastely on the cheek. “Bye for now.”
“Who was that babe?” Karen appears out of nowhere, just as the door closes behind them. I’m staring after them, noticing that even their height matches.
“His new partner.”
“Oh. Crap on a stick. Hang on a sec.” She bustles off, while I keep staring out the window. She’s perfect, right down to her name. No run in her pantyhose, no toilet paper sticking to her shoe, not a flaw I can find. She’s all grown up. I bet she even lives in a condo, like he does. Is this why he cancelled our date? He’s been so patient with me, not forcing me to move any faster than I feel comfortable with. Especially not after our argument at his place. He’d seen right through it, he knew that I’d needed a
reason to run.
Ever since I was attacked, I’ve been wary of getting too close, too intimate. I know it’s something I have to confront in myself, but not yet, not yet. He’s told me, “I understand what you’ve been through; when you’re ready, I’ll be waiting.” I bet there would be no waiting with her.
“Here, knock this back, you’ll feel better.” Something in a shot glass. I lift it and drink it down, sputtering a little at the taste and the burn in the back of my throat.
“Thanks, Karen.”
A voice from the back yells, “Hey, can I get some service here?”
“Keep your shirt on, I’m coming. Men are all bastards, Dana, that’s the long and short of it. I’m real sorry.”
“Me too.”
This is another loss I can lay at the feet of the man who attacked me, violated me, and was never caught, never punished. Ed has run out of patience, and is moving on. I have to accept it.
At first I thought the normally teetotalling Miss Semple had had herself a glass or two of wine. She was giggly and blushing from the start of her hairline to the Peter Pan collar of her flower-print dress. It took a few beats to realize she was being flirtatious, and a few more to overcome my own squirming discomfort with this evidence of senior citizen sexuality, a bit like discovering your grandmother necking in the parlour. The indisputable fact that Jeremy is gay seemed to present no barrier, and Jeremy himself took to the role of admiring gentleman caller with some relish, bending his lanky frame to plant a light kiss on one rosy cheek.
From the back seat of Jeremy’s Beamer, I’m doing a little fantasizing myself. They’d make a lovely couple, these two—the retiring, impoverished widow and the dashing actor. By the time we turn into the driveway of the Rosedale Rest Home, I’m halfway through their wedding ceremony, a splendid affair with huge, exotic bouquets crowding the altar, Miss Semple in a shimmering pink gown, Jeremy handsome and tall in his tux. For some reason, Ed is there too—without his new partner—in full uniform, one arm around my waist, and the rest of the scene fades into gauzy relief.