Lindstrom's Progress

by Moss, John

  He had parted company with Simon Wales in front of the imposing Victorian entrance to the St. Lawrence Market and watched as the young man in his dark linen suit disappeared wraith-like into the crowd of early morning shoppers.

  The first assignment Harry had given him was to provide Rachel Damboch with a personal history. Who was she and what was the significance of 1902 in her life? What was her relationship to Madalena Strauss?

  As he gazed at the Klimts in the morning light, Harry wondered if the writing on the back of The Kiss might have been Lena’s. The India ink was similar to the note that accompanied the polished ebony box delivered to him at the Kressler. He lifted the painting from the wall and placed it face down beside Gwyneth Paltrow, then he retrieved the note in the box from the bedroom and held it close to the back of the painting. While the writing looked faded on the painting and bold in the note, it was in the same hand. He had no doubt that he was meant to uncover the connection between Lena and Rachel Damboch.

  He replaced The Kiss on its nail and stood back. Madalena Strauss was there in the room. In The Kiss, the entire painting was in scale, but in the detail from The Forces of Evil, although the painting was sufficiently smaller to have nestled inside the frame of the other, her face was more accessible, like someone beckoning from across the room.

  His condo was beginning to seem crowded.

  It wasn’t noon yet but quelling his latent sense of guilt and decorum he opened a cold beer. He went out onto his balcony, curious to know if Karen would follow, but she stayed away. His mind wandered back to Madalena Strauss.

  Possibly, his new research assistant would provide some answers to questions he hadn’t been able to articulate. The kid had a knack. Meanwhile, he would do some digging of his own.

  9 LINGUINI CARBONARA

  Harry had dinner three nights later with Miranda Quin and her former partner, Detective Sergeant David Morgan. They met at Via Veneto, a spaghetti joint on Yonge St. just above Wellesley that had been a hangout for the two detectives when they worked together. Morgan made a crack, obviously meant to be ironic, about the service being slow, but you didn’t mind waiting because the food was so bad. Quin grimaced. Harry smiled a little, to be polite.

  In fact, it was the best pasta Harry had ever eaten. It was described on the menu as linguini carbonara, but it was made with chunks of roasted salt pork, whole garlic cloves, and just enough flecks of sun-dried tomatoes to turn the cream sauce amber. They divided a huge order among them and ate without speaking, except to exchange a few pleasantries when they paused to enjoy their Brunello di Montalcino—the only Italian wine, Harry argued, to surpass all but the very best Barolo. Morgan concurred, insisting it measured up to a grand cru Bordeaux. Miranda avoided the passionate superficiality of their opinions by staying out of the discussion. She told them she was contemplating hockey and the future of the Leafs, if any.

  Miranda had arranged the dinner, but she waited until they finished their profiteroles and were sipping coffee before getting down to business. There was no air conditioning; it was a sultry evening. The proprietor had set the front door ajar, which only let in more heat and humidity. Miranda slipped off her jacket.

  “So, Harry, weren’t you going to call me?”

  “About what?”

  “About your client being dead.”

  “You heard?”

  “I went to the funeral.”

  “You what?” Harry was astonished. “In Vienna! Really? I didn’t know there was one.”

  “Of course there was,” she said. “An official ceremony.”

  “Why wouldn’t there be a funeral?” This was from Morgan. “There was a body. It’s the one time police come together—to bury their own.”

  “She was my friend.” Miranda explained. “There’s kind of a global cadre—in oral italics—of top female cops. Your buddy Hannah Arnason flew down from Stockholm for the day. Did you know she’s been promoted?”

  “I thought she was suspended for unorthodox methods in the Ghiberti affair.”

  “Oh, she was, she was censured. And then she was promoted.”

  “To obscure the fact that the National Criminal Police of Sweden, including Inspector Arnason, sat on their collective butts while young women died who could have been saved.”

  “She put in a good word for you.”

  “Did I need it?”

  “We all do, Harry.”

  “I imagine she looked stunning in black.”

  “It’s the twenty-first century, Harry. She was wearing a summer print.”

  “At a Jewish service?”

  “Lena had already been cremated. It was all very secular. We gathered in a place called Vereinigung Bildender Künstler Österreichs. A beautiful example of art nouveau.”

  “It’s also known as the Secession Building.”

  “Could be.”

  “Was there any talk about murder? The word kept cropping up when I read about it in the Austrian papers.”

  “Do you know German, Harry?”

  “I know the word for murder. Totschlag. It was in the write-up, but it might have been describing her job.”

  “I don’t know German either. I memorized the name of the Secession Building while Madalena was being eulogized by her colleagues.”

  “You’re assuming they were eulogizing.”

  “What else?”

  “Of course,” said Harry. “It was a funeral. Was there any suggestion her death wasn’t suicide?”

  “That’s why we’re here.”

  “Having dinner?”

  There was an awkward pause before Miranda responded: “You went to the police station, the central command. You were interviewed by Frau Detektiv Honsberger, blue hair, pearls, silver tooth. You told her you were staying at the Kressler Hotel. Did you realize a Canadian couple died while you were there? Wealthy lawyers from Oakville. Apparently they jumped from the roof.”

  “So I heard. And the boy?”

  “What boy?”

  Harry made an intuitive leap to shut up and keep further information to himself until he knew its significance.

  “The woman with the blue rinse,” he said. “I interviewed her, she didn’t interview me.”

  “And you gave her Rolodex a spin.”

  “Which she invited.”

  “Really?”

  “Virtually.”

  “And from the central police station you went to Madalena’s apartment in Gumperdorf.”

  “Gumpendorfer. I did.”

  “Where there was a lot of blood.”

  “I cleaned up as much as I could.”

  “But left evidence that you had been there.”

  “I never denied it.”

  “There was an eyewitness, an employee of the Kressler.”

  “Heinz Ichstadt. So much for patron-concierge privilege.”

  “Your prints were all over.”

  “I’m not surprised. How did they know they were mine?”

  “Technology, Harry. They’re on file from your contempt of court charges in Nanaimo.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “You broke through her door to get in.”

  “I had no choice. The blood preceded the break-in. She needed help. Your eyewitness will confirm she was alive when he delivered my things from the Kressler.”

  “Did he actually see her?”

  “Probably not, but she was there. And if you check, she went out three days later, we went to the market together.”

  “Who would we check that with?”

  “Her neighbours, maybe. The point is, she was alive when we went to the Naschmarkt. I flew out the next morning. As far as I know, she wasn’t dead when I left.”

  “You were a very sinister character in Vienna.”

  “But only in Vienna. And not a killer.”

  “They asked me to make inquiries.”

  “Who asked? I doubt it was of pressing interest to most of her colleagues.”

  “Frau Detektiv Honsberge
r.”

  “And otherwise, there wasn’t much interest in how she died, was there? She killed herself, Miranda.”

  “You seem sure of that.”

  “I am.”

  “Was she depressed more than usual? Of course, you don’t know what her usual was.”

  “But you do, I imagine,” he said.

  “She was obsessively self-contained, compulsively logical, fixated on her own research project about abused kids, zealously secretive, not given to chatter, liked clothes that played to her complexion and figure, loved her own hair, and she was tough as nails. Vain and vulnerable. I wouldn’t have said she was suicidal.”

  “That sounds like a diagnosis,” said Harry. “Not the description of a friend by a friend. The last time I saw, she was on an inexorable course with only one possible outcome. Not all people who commit suicide are suicidal.”

  “I would have thought it was axiomatic.”

  “Think of rebels blowing themselves up for a cause they believe more important than themselves.”

  “You think she’s a martyr?”

  “Sometimes despair is heroic, that’s all I’m saying. It’s not the same as depression.”

  “Thank you, Professor Lindstrom.”

  “It wasn’t murder.” Harry needed to believe Lena had been in control of her own death. Otherwise, Sakarov was. He pursed his lips as a gesture of refusal and stood up. “Thanks for the dinner. I figure it’s on you. A business expense.”

  “You’re being petulant, Harry.”

  “Petulance is like paranoia,” he said. “Sometimes it’s justified.”

  Morgan rose to his feet and held out his hand.

  “Good to see you, Harry. I’m working as liaison with Vienna, with Frau Honsberger. If anything comes to mind about your friend with the flaming red hair, I’d appreciate if you’d pass it on.”

  So he knows about the hair.

  It’s a memorable feature, Sailor! She took a course in Toronto, remember?

  No, I don’t. But she’s as hard to forget as she was to know. Right?

  “Harry, please sit down.”

  This was Miranda. She didn’t look up, she didn’t smile. But her statement was an invitation, not a command. Since she was his only real friend in Toronto, he decided to stay.

  “It’s awkward being suspected of a murder that never occurred,” he said. “Even by a woman with blue hair and a silver tooth.”

  Morgan waved to the restaurateur, a robust Italian with a pencil-thin moustache, bushy eyebrows, and a flour-smeared apron. With no words exchanged, the man brought a bottle of grappa to the table and four small glasses. He poured one for each of them and one for himself. They tossed back the burning clear liquid, then he poured each another and retired to nurse his alone in the shadows under the latticework with the plastic vines near the kitchen doorway.

  “All right,” said Harry. “I’ll pay my own portion of the bill.”

  Miranda smiled.

  “It’s no secret you knew I was going to Vienna,” said Harry, addressing Miranda. “How did you know I was back?”

  “Because you weren’t at the funeral. And because I had a strange visit recently from a young man. We had an odd conversation. He told me he needed to get in touch. I mean, he knew all about you, Harry. He came down to Headquarters in person. I told him you were still in Vienna. No, he insisted you were back. I told him that was too bad, I was on my way there myself.”

  “Did you mention why?”

  “I mentioned a lot of things, Harry. He was very engaging. I didn’t tell him anything confidential.”

  “Or perhaps you did without knowing it.”

  “Harry, I’m not stupid.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “He was a perfectly turned out young man.”

  “Wearing a dark suit in midsummer.”

  “It’s not midsummer yet,” said Morgan. The other two ignored the pedantry.

  “It was a linen suit. Grey-blue.”

  “Not dark? So he has several.”

  “Say what?’

  “He’s my researcher, I think.”

  “You think.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Harry? Why on earth would you need a researcher? What have you got yourself into?”

  He forced a grim smile.

  “Harry,” she continued, “secrets can be dangerous. Is this related to your work for Madalena Strauss?”

  “I promise you,” he said, including Morgan in a sweeping glance, “her death has already been filed under ungelöst.”

  “Nein Sprechen sie Deutsch!”

  “Unsolved. Look, there’s a lot going on. I need time to sort out a few things. I’ll get back to you both.”

  He stood up, nodded in the direction of the restaurateur, and strode out onto Yonge St., turned right and walked south. He had neglected to pay for his share of the meal and didn’t remember until he was in the elevator, rising toward his twenty-third story sanctuary overlooking the inland sea.

  On what should have been the thirteenth story, the elevator doors slid open. During construction, this floor had been designated the fourteenth as a concession to workers who refused to work on the thirteenth and nobody had thought to renumber when the building was complete. A fit couple in their thirties dressed for a late evening stroll along the waterfront stepped forward, hesitated, then eased back, pressed the down button again, and waved Harry on, to continue his ascension alone. The movement of air as the doors opened and closed stirred up the faint stale odour of dry leaves.

  Harry stepped tentatively into the lingering odour in the foyer at his own level. There were only four units on the twenty-third floor. None of his neighbours were smokers. He touched his fingers to the doorknob and twisted. The door opened. The lock had been breached and the red monitor light on the new alarm control panel in his hall was off; the siren was disarmed. He listened, but he could hear nothing. The rank odour of tobacco and sweat hung in the air. Stepping back, he pulled the door shut again very gently, remaining outside.

  Leaning against the elevator wall, he dug his cell phone from the depths of his shoulder bag. He hoped the battery was alive. He pressed the only number on autodial.

  Morgan answered.

  “It’s Harry Lindstrom,” he said.

  “I thought it would probably be you. We’re still in the restaurant. Miranda’s in the washroom. I heard her jacket playing ‘Strawberry Fields.’ Why are you whispering? Do you need help?”

  “Yeah. I think so.”

  “You at home?”

  “I am.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Harry settled against the wall and waited. He wasn’t sure what he would do if anyone found him there. It would be almost as awkward if it were a neighbour as if it were the intruder. Perhaps not so dangerous; his neighbours weren’t thugs.

  Waiting, he had time to think about Simon Wales, who wasn’t the world-class hacker he purported to be. He had interviewed Miranda. Or was it that Harry, with his Salander assumptions, had imposed a particular role on the elegant blank slate the young man provided? He might be a computer whiz, but he was also a people person. He had charmed the Superintendent of Homicide into revealing more about herself and Harry than she had imagined. Who else had he talked to?

  When twenty minutes later the elevator doors opened and Morgan stepped out, Harry breathed a sigh of relief.

  Morgan, in his early fifties, was reassuringly unkempt, with a crooked smile. He looked like a cop, the same way some surgeons look like a surgeon, some funeral directors like a funeral director. They each have their own way of going.

  “Are you armed?”

  “I don’t carry unless I have to,” Morgan responded. “No cell phone, no guns. I’m a practising Luddite. Except for Google. I Google a lot.”

  “What about Miranda?”

  “Yeah, she Googles. And she carries a scaled down Glock. But she isn’t here. I didn’t tell her I was dropping by.”

  “Why not
?”

  “I’ve got a feeling you’re into something big, dangerous, and not for public consumption. She’d be obligated to pass on whatever she knows, so what she doesn’t know won’t compromise either of you, right?”

  “What about you?”

  Morgan shrugged, then he turned and put his hand on Harry’s door.

  “You figure there’s someone in there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, let’s check.”

  “Unarmed.”

  “There’s less shooting that way,” he whispered. “If he wanted to kill you, you’d be dead. It’s the smoke, isn’t it? Sweet and dry, a blend of pot and tobacco. You know who he is.”

  Harry shrugged.

  “You don’t seem like a fearful man, Harry.”

  “It’s not him I’m afraid of.”

  A shadow passed across Morgan’s face, coming from the darkness in Harry’s eyes.

  “Of yourself? You’d kill him?”

  “I might.”

  “Not good. If we’re all lucky, he’s long since departed.”

  Harry sniffed the air. If the fat man was gone, why wouldn’t he have relocked the door and reset the alarm. If he was savvy enough to break in, he would have been smart enough to cover his tracks when he left.

  Harry, you’re missing the point. If he’s been and gone, it’s a warning. He wants to show you how vulnerable you are.

  Morgan pushed the door open slowly. Harry followed him in. As they proceeded from the foyer into the hallway, they brushed up against each other. Morgan whispered, “Don’t kill him. If he deserves it by definition, he’s not worth it.”

  And Karen whispered her own directive: Even if you wanted to, Harry, don’t do it at home.

  Morgan switched on the lights.

  10 A WARNING

  A sheet from Harry's bed was crumpled into a shapeless lump on the blue linen sofa. There was a half eaten sandwich on the kitchen counter. Cold smoked meat with mayo on rye. Morgan walked through into the bedroom and checked the closet. Harry checked the bathroom and then opened the balcony door to air out the mustiness but closed it again because the breeze forced fumes of the city into his sanctuary.

  He and Morgan looked at each other noncommittally. Clearly someone had broken in, but nothing seemed to be damaged or taken. The Klimts were in place. Morgan admired them and wondered if Harry had bought them in Toronto. Harry was just about to offer him a beer when the lump on the sofa moved.