The Dime Box

by Karen Grose

  The Dime Box

  KAREN GROSE

  First published in 2019 by Notebook Publishing,

  20–22 Wenlock Road, London, N1 7GU.

  www.notebookpublishing.co

  ISBN: 9781913206239

  Copyright © Karen Grose 2019.

  The moral right of Karen Grose to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1998.

  All characters and events described in this publication, with the exception of those known within the public domain, are fictitious. Therefore, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is to be considered purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher, aforementioned. Any person who is believed to have carried out any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may consequently be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available

  from the British Library.

  Typeset by Notebook Publishing.

  To Jaime

  ONE

  G reta sat rigid in the hard-backed chair. The quiet was oppressive. Thoughts she didn’t want to acknowledge—thoughts that crawled and lived in abandoned corners of her mind—crept into the light. What was taking the police so long to conduct their investigation? She’d recounted her story and answered each question. Only one had taken her by surprise.

  What’s a daughter’s obligation to her parents?

  Greta wasn’t sure what her obligations were to anyone but herself. And she didn’t know why she couldn’t answer.

  Except that wasn’t true… She did know why.

  If she’d answered the question honestly, the detective might have seen the raw, feral side she’d worked so hard to tame, and that, quite simply, was too much of a risk. She’d buried the past and she wanted to move forward. And so she’d left that particular question dangling, unresolved.

  Minutes later, the door swung open. Detective Perez stepped into the room, walked to her desk and sat down in the chair, shuffling through a file of papers in her hand. She took off her reading glasses and laid them in front of her.

  Greta’s chest tightened. Even with her lawyer beside her, she struggled for air. She reached down, felt around the front pocket of her jeans, and found the coin hidden deep inside. She rubbed it, working hard to calm herself, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth. Slow, steady breaths.

  Detective Perez focused her eyes on her. “Let’s go over process,” she said.

  Greta sighed. Process? Again?

  “The police lay charges in an investigation,” the detective told her.

  She nodded. She knew. Sometimes they consulted the Crown.

  “We collect the evidence.”

  Yep. She’d heard it all before.

  “In cases like yours, I want to review the possibilities.” The detective’s tone made it sound like she was having an everyday, routine conversation.

  Greta stiffened, jaw clenched in an effort to stay poised.

  Detective Perez held her hand up and pressed a pencil to the tips of her fingers. “One: first-degree murder; two: second-degree murder; three: manslaughter.”

  Greta looked to her fourth. “Or no charges at all and I’m free.”

  The detective paused. She didn’t look at Greta’s lawyer as she spoke. “That’s correct and—”

  A cellphone buzzed, causing the words to dangle in the air. Detective Perez reached across her desk and flicked the button on the left side to silent. She smiled apologetically and glanced at her notes.

  “So, between the Coroner’s report and our investigation, I determine whether there’s enough evidence to lay a charge.” The detective stopped and looked at her. “I’ve made that decision.”

  Greta’s heart thumped. Her mouth went dry. This was it. She stared back at the detective and wondered what she was thinking. What sort of person could kill her own parent? But the detective’s eyes gave nothing away.

  The phone lit up again. No sound, but Greta could feel the vibration through the desk. The detective looked down and groaned. This time she picked it up. “What?” she said. She listened. “Really?”

  Greta curled into herself. To her surprise, Detective Perez stood, picked up the file of papers and left. She leaned back. Her palms left sweat marks on the chair. A hand squeezed hers gently. In the adjacent seat, her lawyer shrugged, then smiled, but not before the expression on his face had dissolved completely.

  TWO

  Forty-Eight Hours Earlier

  R at-a-tat-tat.

  Greta muted the TV. She threw the blanket aside, stumbled from the couch and made her way to the front door.

  “Oh my god,” she said as she peered through the peephole. The faces of two uniformed police officers stared back at her from the dim of the hallway. She ran back to the living room and shook Latoya’s shoulder. Her friend stirred as Greta shoved the shot glasses behind the cushions. A radio crackled. She retraced her steps, yanked the chain from the lock and cracked open the door.

  “Ms. Greta Giffen?”

  “Uh, yeah… That’s me.”

  “I’m Officer Hatten. This is Officer Sanchez.”

  “How did you get up here?”

  Tall and thickset with salt and pepper stubble, Officer Hatten smiled. “Perk of the job.”

  Greta’s head pounded and she gripped the side of the door. She caught a glimpse of a man peering out from the opposite apartment over his shoulder. A cigarette dangled from his lips as he searched his pockets for a lighter. Her eyes narrowed. What the hell? Another short-term rental? A tourist? Wouldn’t be her choice. No desire to move again, she’d had her studio for close to a year now and, finally, a home of her own.

  “Is something wrong?” the man asked, his voice thin.

  The officers ignored him.

  “May we come in please?” Officer Sanchez made it sound more like a demand than a question.

  Greta wondered whether she had a choice. There was no fire alarm, no announcement of a building evacuation, and if there were some sort of emergency, the tactical unit, dressed head-to-toe in black, would no doubt be standing there.

  “What do you want?”

  Grim, neither spoke.

  When Latoya stepped in behind her, Greta waved her back and opened the door. The officers followed them inside. Two steps and they were out of the tiny hallway.

  Round and red-haired, a foot shorter than her partner, Officer Sanchez’ eyes swept the apartment. “Can we sit?”

  Shoes littered the hall. A sweatshirt had been flung over the back of the couch. The coffee table was covered with pizza boxes and a crushed Doritos bag. Beside it, two blankets lay crumpled on the floor. Her stomach tightened at the sight of the vodka bottle, still a quarter full, standing tall and incriminating on the kitchen counter, company for the dishes stacked in the sink.

  She stopped, planted her feet on the floor, and turned to face them. “What’s going on?”

  Officer Sanchez cleared her throat. “It’s about your father.”

  “The asshole?” Latoya muttered under her breath.

  “Have some respect.”

  Greta shrugged. “Because he died?”

  Officer Sanchez’ mouth tightened and she rubbed the base of her neck. “We’d like to ask you to come to the station to answer a few questions.”

  She glanced at the clock on the wall. “At nine-thirty on a Sunday night?”

  “Not now. Tomorrow.”

  Greta crossed her a
rms over her chest and thought about it. She could clean her apartment. Go for a walk. Shop for groceries. Stream The Big Bang Theory. Or maybe even Handmaid’s Tale. She hadn’t seen Season Three. And what about Game of Thrones?

  “Don’t you want to come down so we can get your side of the story?”

  She glared. Please. She’d heard that line and they never listened before. She knew those uniforms backward and forward. The dark shirt. Those shiny, black boots. The stripe along the side of the pants. The badge tacked to their chest reading Serve and Protect in small block letters. Did they? Who did they protect? Certainly not her.

  “Do I have to?”

  Officer Hatten glanced briefly at his partner. “It’s voluntary, but we’d appreciate you helping us decide how to handle his death.” He slipped his fingers into the top pocket of his shirt and extended his hand across the hall. “Detective Sergeant Perez is suggesting eleven.”

  “Not with you?”

  He shook his head. “She’s the boss.”

  What harm would it do? She had nothing to hide. “Sure.”

  While Officer Hatten explained what would happen, she reached out and took the card, only half-listening to what he said.

  “She’ll make it as quick and comfortable as she can,” Officer Sanchez added.

  Greta rolled her eyes. Right. Of all people, she certainly knew answering questions at the police station was the most enjoyable thing in the world.

  “You need a ride?” asked Officer Hatten.

  She sighed.

  As he walked back towards the front door, he grinned. “Only trying to be nice.”

  Officer Sanchez followed her partner out. The door brushed her back as it closed.

  Greta unscrewed the top of the bottle on the kitchen counter, tipped it to her lips and took a long pull. In the living room, she sunk onto the couch, flipped on the TV and, after brushing a hand across her chin, passed it over.

  “That was weird,” Latoya said, flopping down beside her.

  She leaned over the edge of the couch and picked up a blanket from the floor.

  Latoya took a sip, gold hoops dangling to her shoulders. “Why’d they show?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Anything you want to talk about?”

  “Already told you what I know.”

  “Want to get some advice before you go?” Latoya pointed to the TV playing an ad for a law firm. “How about them? Or call Colleen maybe?”

  Cold to the bone, Greta jerked the blanket toward her and glimpsed at the screen. “It’s late. Besides, what’s the point? The dude up and croaked.”

  They spread out across the couch, legs meeting in the middle, bent at the knees, watching the rest of the show. Before it finished, Latoya was softly snoring, head back on the arm of the couch, blanket pulled up to her chin.

  Though lying next to her best friend was still like being next to a heater on full blast, so much had changed from the first time in they’d slept over in grade school. She polished off what was left in the bottle, slid off the couch, crossed the room, and opened the cupboard beneath the kitchen sink, pushing it as far down as she could so she wouldn’t have to take it out later. In front of the fridge, she stared into the shelves, looking for something to eat. She shivered. How long had she even been standing there?

  Back on the couch, she tucked her feet beneath her, the blanket around her. Soft and warm, she thought of her mother’s arms wrapped around her on those hot summer nights up at the cabin on the back patio. The edge of the fabric pressed to her nose, she couldn’t capture her smell. She checked her phone, and then twisted the knob on the raggedy lamp at her elbow. The lights of the city shone through the living room window, cracked open to let in the cool night air, as she replayed the officer’s visit in her head.

  She barely slept. All night she tossed and turned, wondering what she should say.

  ***

  “Detective Sergeant Perez, please.”

  “Homicide?”

  “What?”

  The constable on duty pointed to his left. “Room three forty-seven.”

  Greta double-checked the card in her hand and climbed to the top of the stairs. The walls of Toronto Police Headquarters were institutional white, the lights dim, and the hallway stunk of bologna. She remembered the smell because it was the only thing her father had ever cooked for her. When she found the room, she stepped straight in and stopped near the desk.

  The woman was stern-faced, almost cold. “Have a seat,” she said.

  Greta shrugged out of her jacket and hooked it over the back of the chair. She wondered why the detective’s chair was soft leather when the one she was offered was hard wood, but decided this wasn’t the best time to point out the inequity. Her eyes flitted around the office. She took in its height and depth. It had an air to it. Definitely imposing. Almost authoritative. She imagined when the detective entered a room, people noticed. She was that type of person.

  Detective Perez closed the file on her desk and glanced at her wrist. “It’s eleven AM. Let’s get started.”

  She frowned. No Hello? No How are you? No Thanks for coming? All business, her mother would’ve said.

  Detective Perez picked up a notebook and tapped the open page with a pencil. “So tell me, Greta, where were you Saturday night?”

  “At the hospital.”

  “At 8:30 PM?”

  She studied the detective from across the desk. Perfect, pointy chin. Crisp, white shirt. Nails clipped back. Silver bob secured with a silver clip. Had she ever been late for anything her whole life? A doctor’s appointment? A movie? She’d never be late for work, she guessed. God forbid she had any children.

  “Probably around there.”

  The detective scribbled on a page. “Details are important, Greta. You might think I’m asking because I’m meticulous but I’m also asking because I care.”

  She pointed to the notebook. “What are you writing?”

  “Specifics.”

  “Like what?”

  “Bits and pieces I’ll need to remember.”

  “Would it help if I talk slower?”

  Detective Perez jutted her chin toward the machine on the edge of her desk. “No. I’m taping the conversation. You okay with it?”

  Greta’s face fell. “Is it taping us now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  The detective looked at her. “Didn’t my officers tell you this last night? I need your statement recorded.”

  Greta’s mouth went dry. She didn’t answer. She couldn’t even breathe. She shut her eyes and blocked everything out around her. No, she didn’t remember. She had zero recollection of that part of the conversation. She thought harder. Okay, maybe something, but it was vague. She cracked her eyes open and felt herself in the fire of the detective’s stare.

  “Ready?” The detective raised her pencil.

  She nodded and tucked her hands under her thighs. The detective read out the date, the reason for the interview, glanced at her watch, and then added the time. “What’s your relationship with your father?”

  Greta straightened. “There isn’t one.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “I told you already...” Her voice trailed off. “Saturday.”

  “I mean before he died.”

  “I dunno.”

  She could see him lying there, cold and rigid in the hospital bed, as he was probably found. But that wasn’t how she remembered him. She thought back. When was their confrontation?

  “Last year sometime?” Had it really been that long ago? she wondered.

  “Can you describe what happened Saturday night?”

  The pit in her stomach grew as the detective watched her and waited. How could she explain it? Less than forty-eight hours had passed, yet she couldn’t account for the time she’d spent at her father’s bedside.

  “There’s not much to tell. I took the streetcar there. Visited. Took the streetcar back. End of story.”


  “When you saw him, did you talk?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Did you touch anything when you were there?”

  “No. The bedrail, maybe.”

  “Was there any physical contact at all?”

  “No,” she said.

  “When you arrived, did you see the nurse on duty?”

  She looked up to her right. Think, think. Who was it? Her mind went blank. “I don’t think so.”

  “Did you let the nurse know when you left?”

  “No,” she heard herself say, but she couldn’t quite picture it. Was she supposed to let the nurse know? Was that a rule? Someone might have yelled at her, she thought, but she couldn’t recall what he’d said. “Maybe?”

  The detective put her pencil down. “I’m missing something. You were there, at the hospital, but you can’t remember? You can’t remember two days ago?”

  Greta dipped her head to her chest. She’d been in the room less than five minutes and already the detective thought she sounded insane or was lying. She chewed the skin on her bottom lip. “I can’t be sure.”

  “Help me understand this…” Detective Perez blew air out through her lips. “This not remembering thing…”

  Greta leaned forward, cradled her head in her hands and drew short, quiet breaths through her nose. “I don’t know.”

  Detective Perez shook her head. “Well, if that’s all you do know...” Doubt splattered every word, but she picked up her pencil and continued. “We have someone who saw you with him. So, for the record, one more time, you were there, correct?”

  She nodded. “Doctor Hamid called to tell me my father was dying of cancer.”

  The detective lifted a hand and tucked a wisp of hair into her silver clip. Greta could tell her next words were carefully chosen. “Is this something you experience often? These lapses? For details?”

  Greta looked at her, trying to determine what to say. She opened her mouth to respond, but the detective was quicker.

  “All the time? Sometimes? Certain times?”

  “At times.”