“Would you like something to eat?” he asked Antonia in English.
“Ya, thank you, Boris.”
“I’ll make some scrambled eggs and toast. Then you can go back to bed for an afternoon nap while I go out for a while. I have to get something for supper and buy more paint.”
“For the birdhouses.”
“I’m almost done but didn’t want to show them to anybody yet.”
After they finished lunch, he helped her up from the chair and half-carried her up the stairs to her room, his good arm around her waist. She was lighter than he remembered, the two weeks in bed taking their toll. The first week, she’d refused to eat for six straight days, turning her head away from him when he entered her room even though he’d told her over and over that this was for her own good. The steady diet of drugs hadn’t helped her appetite and he’d been lessening the dosage the last couple of days. She seemed docile and sweet but he suspected that she was waiting to see his next move before making her own.
She swallowed the pills that he handed her without resisting this time. She’d sleep while he was gone but not as deeply or as long as the last few weeks. He knew the police would be returning soon to question her and he couldn’t afford to keep her under much longer. He’d have to keep a watchful eye and hope she towed the party line. He smiled grimly at the reference to his Communist homeland and other times best forgotten.
His wrist was throbbing this morning, along with his aching ribs and leg, but he’d ignore the pain. He’d get a rest in after he returned from the store before Antonia woke up toward suppertime. She needed a bath and he’d have to manage getting her into the tub with one arm.
His sixth sense told him that Antonia was keeping something from him. Finding her holding on to the photo from the dresser had been odd. He knew that he should have gotten rid of the pictures long ago but she’d begged him not to and he couldn’t deny her at the time. The pictures had faded into the room and he’d forgotten they were even there. He’d thought she had as well.
Her eyes were closed and she was snoring softly when he left her room and went into his own for a heavier sweater. If he hadn’t promised the birdhouses for the weekend, he’d have stayed home, but with the storm coming this might be his last opportunity for a while to get the red paint for the trim. It took him several tries to put on the sweater and his outdoor clothes and boots. The clouds were lower in the sky and had turned from light grey to gunmetal when he finally stepped outside. A sharp wind was blowing in from the east and the first flakes of snow were caught in its slanting force. He turned to face the wind and closed his eyes, enjoying the damp coolness rocking his body and making him stagger backward half a step. This is what it feels like to be alive, he thought.
The two McKenna kids had done an adequate job clearing out his driveway and he supposed he owed them his thanks. He could have taken a cab again to the store, but decided to take his car, which he kept in the unheated garage at the head of the drive. He eased the old Buick out of the garage and stopped, letting the engine warm up enough to melt the layer of frost on the inside of the windshield. He’d worried that the car battery might have died and was thankful the engine turned over without much coaxing. He backed slowly down the driveway and onto the road using his one hand on the wheel. Sweat beaded on his forehead from the exertion but he wasn’t done yet. He’d have to carefully navigate the icy streets and hope to God that he didn’t get stuck anywhere. With luck, he’d be back home within three quarters of an hour.
As he pulled onto Grenville Crescent, he kept his eyes scanning the road for black ice and so didn’t see Lauren McKenna standing in her living-room window, watching his slow progress down the street. If he’d seen her look from his car across the yard to his house, he might have had second thoughts about his shopping trip into town.
chapter thirty-three
Kala retrieved her truck from long-term parking at the Toronto airport late that morning and took Highway 401 home to Kingston. The snow had tapered off by the time she pulled onto Old Front Road soon after lunchtime. The snowplow hadn’t made it this far yet but her truck had little difficulty cutting through the drifting snow. She craned her neck to look up Gundersund’s driveway but his car was gone and she remembered that he was at headquarters. Dawn was at school and only Taiku greeted her at the door. She let him out for a run around the yard before she took the stairs two at a time, stripping off her clothes as she went. A quick shower and a fresh change of clothes in her overnight bag and she was ready when Rouleau pulled into the driveway half an hour later. She waved to him from the window and wrote a note for Dawn before she locked up the house and joined Rouleau in his idling car.
“Sorry to drag you out of town again so soon,” he said while backing out of the driveway.
“I don’t mind.” Except for not seeing Dawn. Gundersund had said he’d keep track of her one more evening if they didn’t make it back so she could relax and concentrate on the case. “How do you know this Romanian cop. Petran …?”
“Petran Albescu. We worked together on a war crimes case in Serbia about twelve years ago and stayed friends.”
“But he’s from Romania?”
“Yes. We were part of an international working group headed up by Department of Justice lawyers from each country.”
“He’s the one you called about the Orlovs?”
Rouleau nodded. “I have no idea what he wants to tell us but he didn’t feel comfortable doing it over the phone. A lifetime of being watched and eavesdropped on has made the older generation of Romanians cautious to the point of paranoia. Lord knows, the state has given them good reason.”
“Not difficult to understand their reactions.”
Rouleau turned on the radio and they listened to the end of a song followed by the weather report. “Good that Petran’s arriving mid-afternoon. I don’t expect the meeting will take more than an hour and we might make it home before the storm hits in full force,” he said. “I don’t relish driving home in a blizzard.”
“I brought an overnight bag in case we have to stay but I’d rather come home if we’re able.” She glanced over at his profile. “You seem in a good mood this morning. Any reason?”
“Nothing special. Happy for a day out of the office.”
She smiled at him. “It’s been a while since we were on the road together.”
The drive was uneventful and they reached the outskirts of Montreal half an hour before Petran’s arrival time. Rouleau left Autoroute 20 and merged onto Chemin Herron. At the roundabout, he took the Autoroute 520 east exit and less than a kilometre farther on, the Romeo-Vachon north exit to the Pierre Elliott Trudeau Airport. Rouleau pulled into the dropoff/pickup zone and pulled out his cellphone. “Petran’s plane landed fifteen minutes ago and he’s on his way out the main door. I’m guessing he only brought carry-on so we should see him any minute. I’ll send him a text to let him know we’re here.”
“What does he look like?” Kala asked.
Rouleau looked up from his phone. “Last time I saw him, he had thick black hair but that was ten years ago. He has pale-blue eyes and usually wears a beard. Medium height and build.”
“I’ll keep an eye out.”
“And I’ll finish this text.”
Petran was as Rouleau had described him, although his thick black hair and beard were now grey and his blue eyes were both kind and tired. Rouleau and Petran hugged and slapped one another on the back and hugged again. Kala shook his hand and climbed into the back seat so that he and Rouleau could catch up.
“Where to?” Rouleau asked.
“I’m booked at the Sheraton, which is close by. I’ll get some sleep and catch the morning flight back. I’ve made this trip many times before.”
Kala let her mind wander as the two men exchanged their news on the short drive to the hotel. She was pleased to see the snow holding off and hoped they’d be able to make the trip home after the meeting. The exhaustion of the last few days was beginning to catch up with her and the c
ar stopping in the hotel parking lot jolted her awake from a state of half sleep. Rouleau decided Petran should check in and drop off his bag while they waited for him in the restaurant.
“Seems like a nice man,” she commented after the waitress handed them menus.
“First rate.”
“Does he have a family?”
“He’s married with two grown sons who are also cops. His wife is a judge so they’re immersed in crime and punishment, you could say.”
They ordered coffee and club sandwiches once Petran arrived. He waited until after they’d eaten and gotten refills of coffee before he handed Rouleau a file folder. They were seated next to the fireplace away from two other tables of customers and Petran appeared satisfied that he could talk freely without being overheard.
“When I got your call, Jacques, I had a team search through the files kept on its citizens during the Ceauşescu regime. It took some digging because they aren’t digitalized, but we found the files on both Boris and his sister.”
“Sister?”
“Antonia Vasilescu is her married name. From what you told me, she reverted to her maiden name when she and her brother moved to Canada.”
“Necessary, since she and Boris were passing themselves off as a married couple to the neighbours.”
“Boris had a past he was eager to bury back in Romania. He was a member of the Secretariat. The secret police. He was a skilled and cold-blooded interrogator, feared by Ceauşescu’s enemies, who often disappeared into the prisons never to emerge.” Petran’s eyes glinted with renewed energy. “As you can imagine, we are very interested in having Boris Orlov extradited to Romania to be tried for war crimes, including the torture and murder of hundreds of men and women. We have witnesses who will testify but they’re getting older and time is of the essence. I brought this file to you personally so that you know what we are dealing with and to let you know that we’re preparing to apply for his extradition once we confirm his identity.”
Kala met Rouleau’s eyes and took a moment to absorb the horror of what he’d told them. She asked, “Was Antonia also part of the Secretariat?”
Petran turned his gaze on her. “No. The opposite, in fact. Her husband, Cezar Vasilescu, was a dissident who worked to oust Ceauşescu. While typewriters were confiscated by the state, Cezar kept one hidden away and used it to type up newsletters to expose the atrocities going on under Ceauşescu.”
“What happened to him?”
“Cezar Vasilescu was arrested and sent to Râmnicu Sărat prison, where he was tortured and died two years later.”
“Don’t tell me that Boris tortured his own brother-in-law,” said Rouleau, giving voice to Kala’s own terrible thought.
“Not that we’re aware of. Cezar and Antonia had two children and we don’t have the details on what happened to them, although we know they went into an orphanage a year after their father went to prison. This wasn’t uncommon. Destitute parents would put their children in the orphanage for a period of time and take them out when they were able to look after them financially.”
“Boris and Antonia didn’t arrive in Canada with children,” said Kala. “I wonder what happened to them.”
“The notes in her file don’t keep track of the children, but we know that she cleaned houses in Bucharest after moving into a housing complex when her own home was bulldozed soon after Cezar was arrested. A little over two years later, Antonia was admitted to a mental institution after she received the news that Cezar had died.” Petran removed his reading glasses and sighed. “Our mental institutions were considered worse than the prisons in some respects, and sadly, many haven’t advanced as they should. They were dumping grounds for the mentally ill but also housed the elderly or spouses who were left bereft. This could have been the case for Antonia.”
“Perhaps the children went into the orphanage when Antonia went into the mental institution,” said Rouleau.
Petran checked his notes. “They were in the orphanage six months before she was admitted. More likely poverty was the reason she put them into the orphanage and she intended to bring them home when she could. Somehow, they were adopted out from under her while she was ill. Boris rescued her from the asylum after Ceauşescu and his wife were executed on Christmas Day 1989, and got her out of the country.” He put a black-and-white photograph on the table between Rouleau and Kala. “This is Boris Orlov when he was living in Romania some thirty years ago. Can you tell if it is the same man who lives in Kingston?”
Kala picked up the picture and studied the man’s features, comparing them to the man she’d interviewed in his kitchen only days before. “They have the same bone structure and eyes. I would say they are the same man.”
Petran smiled. “A good start. I will send word to my colleague in Bucharest to organize the survivors from that time. I’ll need you to send current photos and video if possible.”
“I can arrange this,” said Rouleau. “Will you be coming with us to Kingston to see him for yourself?”
“Next trip. I’m due back in Romania tomorrow for another pressing court case but I’ll be in Canada next week with a witness if he’s able to travel.” He checked his watch. “I have a meeting about another matter in an hour so this trip is killing two birds, so to speak.”
Kala considered what Antonia’s tragic history and Boris’s brutal past had to do with the murders of Zoe Delgado and Vivian McKenna. Rouleau must have been on the same wavelength. He said, “We don’t have any evidence that Boris Orlov murdered two women in Kingston, but we now know he was capable. The coincidence of him living next door to the location of Zoe’s murder and being home when Vivian left for her walk … at the very least, we need to bring him in for questioning. We should have enough to get a search warrant.”
“You might want to hold off on a search. This could alert him to something more going on. He’s nobody’s fool,” said Petran.
“I understand.”
Petran nodded. “Boris had no conscience when he worked in the prisons. He could have killed those two women without losing a wink of sleep. We need a few weeks to lay the groundwork for his extradition at our end. We have much paperwork to complete and our governments must get involved in the process.”
Rouleau said, “Of course. We’ll keep our inquiries strictly to the murder investigations when we approach him and Antonia. I’ll have the photos and video of him taken without them knowing.”
“Perfect.” Petran’s phone rang and he excused himself to return to his room. After he’d gone, Kala looked out the window. “We could start back to Kingston,” she said. “The storm is holding off and hopefully we’ll be home before the worst of it.”
Rouleau checked the weather app on his phone. “The snow starts in Kingston around seven tonight according to this and is sweeping up from the southeast. You’re eager to get back?”
“Yes. I have an uneasy feeling and I’m not sure if it’s about the case or Dawn. Maybe both.”
“Then let me pay the bill and I’ll tell Petran that we’re leaving.”
chapter thirty-four
Lauren’s phone beeped to let her know she’d received a text. She stepped back from the window and clicked on the message from Matt.
Need to see you before you leave Kingston.
She hesitated as she thought about replying before tossing the phone onto the end table. What would be the use of seeing him again? She didn’t think her heart could bear another round of longing and rejection, especially if Matt was only coming around because he wanted her to pin Zoe’s murder on Tristan. She had no illusions about his sudden interest, even factoring in his passionate kiss. She’d used and been used enough to know.
She looked out the window again and Boris Orlov’s car had rounded the corner and disappeared from sight. Even if he was only gone to the store, she should have time to whip in and out of his house. She could say that her mother had sent her over if he came home before she left. Perhaps she was being crazy, but she couldn’t get Anton
ia’s sad, drugged eyes out of her head. She had to know what was going on — whether Antonia was being held captive by Boris, for that was how it seemed, and even more far-fetched, perhaps, was whether he’d killed Zoe and Vivian. She shook her head at the thought, because once articulated, the ideas were preposterous. Boris had gone fishing with her father and they’d built furniture in the back workshop together, drank beer in the sunshine in lawn chairs, and laughed at each other’s jokes. Her dad knew Boris better than anybody and would have seen signs.
He’d have known.
Even so, she put on her mother’s winter coat and boots and crossed the lawn to stand at the Orlovs’ side door one more time. She knocked and rang the bell and waited, finally peering in through the lace curtain on the window and trying the door knob without success. She stood thinking for a frustrated moment and decided to try the front door, which Boris and Antonia rarely used. She was careful not to create new boot prints as she made her way around the house and up the front steps. At the top step, she looked up and down the street feeling exposed and jumpy. No sign of Boris returning home so she reached for the door and tried the handle. Surprise made her cry out in triumph as the knob turned and the door swung open.
The lights were off in the hallway leading to the staircase and she didn’t dare turn any on. She took off her boots and left them tucked in next to the umbrella stand, out of sight if Boris came home, although if she was still in the house, he’d find out soon enough even without seeing her boots. She first looked in the kitchen for Antonia. The teapot and mug remained on the table but Antonia wasn’t sitting in her chair. Lauren retraced her steps and climbed the stairs in the murky grey light, pausing on the landing before walking directly to Antonia’s bedroom at the end of the corridor. The door was pulled closed and she pushed it open while calling Antonia’s name. It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the darkness in the room as she crossed the carpet to the bed.
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