Old Scores

by Scott Mackay

  Lombardo came in five minutes after he got his coffee. The young detective glanced around the Homicide Office.

  “We alone?” he asked.

  Gilbert motioned at all the empty desks. “Everyone’s out doing things,” he said.

  Lombardo grabbed a chair and sat down. His face was stiff and unflinching, the way it got whenever he had bad news to convey.

  “You know that blond hair we found in Boyd’s bed?” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “We found a match.”

  “Judy Pelaez?”

  “No,” said Lombardo. “Regina Gilbert.”

  Lombardo let that bomb explode for a while. The shock waves reverberated. Gilbert had to give it several seconds before it settled. He pulled his thoughts together. Bomb or not, he didn’t lose faith in his wife, never believed, not once, that she was anything but faithful to him, even with the presence of her blond hair in Boyd’s bed. Hairs got all over the place. Regina’s hair in Boyd’s bed could have had any number of explanations. Regina was his wife. She was his religion. And he would believe in her always.

  Then it dawned on him—a match. A match would need a comparison hair.

  He figured it out instantly.

  “The consent-to-search,” he said. “When you went up to my bathroom.”

  Lombardo nodded guiltily. “I’m sorry, Barry,” he said. “I had to. Tim pressured me.”

  “Shit,” said Gilbert.

  The corners of Lombardo’s eyes creased, his lips drew back, and he seemed to struggle for words.

  “I’m a bit caught in the middle here, Barry,” said Lombardo, “in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “As soon as we find Barcos, this case will be closed.”

  Lombardo took a deep breath and sighed. “Funny you should mention Barcos. The skin under the fingernails of Boyd’s right hand?” he said.

  “It belongs to Barcos?” said Gilbert, his brow rising with hope.

  “No,” said Lombardo.

  “Really?” Gilbert was disappointed. “Who does it belong to?”

  “We don’t know yet. But it doesn’t belong to Barcos.”

  Gilbert glanced out the window sullenly. “This is bullshit, Joe,” he said.

  Lombardo rubbed his hand over the nap of his now extremely short hair and looked toward the front of the office with an expression of supreme helplessness.

  “Don’t you think…that with this particular case…you know…the emotional baggage, and all.”

  “I’m fine with it,” said Gilbert.

  “I don’t know, Barry…this blond hair.”

  “Hairs get all over the place,” said Gilbert.

  “I know, but—”

  “Why shouldn’t one of Regina’s hairs be down there?” he asked. “We know she was down there to help him with his…his problem. She told us so, plus those e-mails spell it out. I see no reason to be surprised by the comparison result, or to even think it suggests a smoking gun.”

  “Yes, but when you add the blond hair to everything else…the scarf, the perfume, you losing her at the Royal Alex…” Lombardo’s lips drew back. “Regina’s a major roadblock in all this. That’s why we’re having a meeting with Tim at three. To talk about Regina.”

  Gilbert’s eyes narrowed. “You’re going to be at the meeting, too?” he said. “I thought it was going to be only me and Tim.”

  “Ling’s been after him on this one.”

  “Tim doesn’t have to worry about Regina,” insisted Gilbert.

  “I know, but he said this new evidence is diagrammatic of Regina’s culpability. His exact words.”

  “Diagrammatic?” said Gilbert. “That’s the word he used?”

  “I thought it was weird, too.”

  Gilbert stood up, his chair rolling back with force. He slid his hands into his pockets and walked to the window.

  “It’s not a, duck, Joe,” he said. “It’s not even diagrammatic of a duck.”

  “Try to put yourself in Tim’s shoes,” said Lombardo. “He’s got to be concerned about how all this looks. Technically, Regina’s a suspect. And if someone like Roffey were to sniff that out, even though we all know Regina would never hurt a flea, it wouldn’t look good, especially because you’re the primary on the case. That’s what Tim’s got to think about.”

  “I think he’s wasting his time.”

  “He wants the paperwork to add up, that’s all,” said Lombardo.

  Gilbert swung around, his hands coming out of his pockets in a gesture of supplication.

  “We haven’t even got the toxicology results back yet,” he said. “That’s paperwork. And okay, the skin doesn’t belong to Barcos. So we have to positively identify it, and that’s more paperwork. Paperwork we should do before we even think of looking at Regina in any serious way.”

  “Tim knows that,” said Lombardo. “And in fact he’s ordered a comparison-DNA test of the skin against Regina’s hair so we can rule her out.”

  “Christ, Joe. I can’t believe this.”

  “Tim just wants all the pieces to fit together so there won’t be an uproar when the case goes to trial.”

  “This is bullshit. Judy Pelaez had a big fight with Boyd that night. I bet that skin belongs to her. If we’re going to run a comparison test against Regina, we have to run one against Judy as well.”

  “It’s already been requisitioned,” said Lombardo. “I found some hair in her rented car.”

  “So when we run the sample against Judy’s hair, that’ll be it. We can leave Regina alone.”

  Lombardo’s face sank. He looked positively woebegone.

  “Actually…there’s something else…Tim wants me to show you this…Ling’s seen it, and he’s really concerned about it.”

  His young partner got up, walked over to his desk, lifted a manila folder full of papers, and came back.

  Gilbert’s eyes narrowed apprehensively. “What’s that?” he asked.

  Lombardo sat on the edge of Gilbert’s desk, opened the manila folder, withdrew a half dozen sheets, and handed them to Gilbert.

  “These are additional e-mail printouts,” said Lombardo. “We hacked through more of Boyd’s e-mail folders. Read the top one. The rest of them really don’t say much. But this one…I don’t know, Barry. Regina sent it to Boyd on May thirtieth, two days before Boyd was murdered. Go ahead. Read it.”

  Gilbert read the short missive out loud. “‘Glen. I’ll do anything—anything—to stop you from telling my husband about Marseilles. RG.’”

  Gilbert looked at Lombardo. Distress spread through his nervous system like hemlock through Socrates. “Marseilles?” he said. “What the hell is Marseilles?”

  “It’s a city in France,” said Lombardo.

  “I know…but what does she mean by it? Marseilles. She never said anything to me about Marseilles. What the hell is she talking about?”

  Lombardo gazed at the other sheets.

  “I read through all those other e-mails looking for clues,” he said. “I found a few more mentions of Marseilles, but nothing that really told me what she meant by it, or what, if anything, might have happened there.” Lombardo weaved a bit, like a boxer in the ring, something he occasionally did in a difficult situation. “So I had to use a different approach.” He swung his hand toward the phone. “I had to track down people who knew Regina from way back when, people who might know something about Marseilles. You told me about Michelle Morrison. So I tracked Michelle Morrison down and talked to her.”

  “You talked to Michelle Morrison?”

  “She’s got this beautiful flower shop downtown.”

  Gilbert nodded, even as the hemlock advanced further through his body. “Stacy Todd told me she was in the flower business.”

  Lombardo nodded. “Anyway…I asked her about Marseilles.” Lombardo looked at the e-mails again and shook his head. “At first she was reluctant to tell me anything. But when I explained how she might make matters worse if she kept it to herself, and how she actually mi
ght end up hurting Regina, she took me to her office and told me what I needed to know.” Lombardo tapped the manila folder a few times. “This is so awkward…this is like…your own personal business. And I wish I didn’t have to be mixed up in it, because I know it’s going to hurt you, and I don’t want to hurt you, Barry. But Tim asked me to brief you about it before we had our meeting, so I guess I’m going to have to…and…well…” Lombardo looked him in the face, a belligerent curl coming to his lip. “Regina made a trip from Aix-en-Provence to Marseilles with Boyd in September of 1978 to have an abortion.”

  Every so often the tone of the street crept into Lombardo’s voice, what they called Ital-Inglese in Toronto’s old Calabrian districts. Rough, boomy, and aggressive, Joe’s voice conveyed the essential fact, and the essential fact was like another dose of hemlock to Gilbert.

  He sat down, leaned forward, rested his elbows on his desk, and put his head in his hands. He felt like this was his own personal Cuban Missile Crisis.

  “And it was Boyd’s child?” he asked.

  “It was Boyd’s child,” said Lombardo. “I didn’t want to tell you, and I told Tim that, but in the context of this e-mail, he insisted I had to. He’s the boss. You can see she was trying to protect you… but the way she did it…it doesn’t look good, does it? Especially when we look at all this other crazy evidence. She was willing to do anything to stop him from telling you about Marseilles. Anything.”

  “Joe…I just want to crawl under a rock.”

  Gilbert didn’t feel sorry for himself. He felt sorry for Regina.

  He remembered how broken Regina had been when she’d returned from France: skinny, drawn, and as pale as parchment. He recalled how she hadn’t left the house for a whole month, how she had never smiled, and how she hadn’t even had the energy to walk up and down the stairs. He remembered her overwhelming sense of hopelessness, and the crying jags that would go on for hours. He would never forget how he would sometimes wake up in the middle of the night and find her sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing, unable to sleep. Regina loved children. Never mind the great unsettled abortion debate. Politics aside, aborting a child was against Regina’s nature, and he now believed that Boyd had coerced her somehow, talked her into it against her will. No wonder she had returned from France in such bad shape. The guilt she must have come home with!

  Joe offered some support. “I hope you and Regina…you know…I hope you can work this out.”

  “We leave for Kipawa tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll have a lot of time to talk. And Joe, it’s not going to shake us apart. Our marriage is the strongest thing we have, and we’re both smart enough to know it. I just wish she would have come to me sooner about this. I wish she would have realized she could have spoken to me. And this e-mail.” He tapped the sheet. “I wouldn’t call it a stellar example of her better judgment. As you say, it supports all this other crazy evidence.”

  Nowak entered the Homicide office at a quarter to three with his small, sleek attaché case carried primly at his side. He walked directly into his office, looking at neither Gilbert nor Lombardo. Lombardo was answering some of his voice mails. Gilbert tried to work, but was too upset to concentrate. He took a few deep breaths, but it didn’t help. He wasn’t mad at Regina. Or angry at Boyd. Rather, he was annoyed with himself because, all professional pride aside, he hadn’t detached himself enough from his feelings about Boyd to run an unbiased investigation.

  Fifteen minutes later, at exactly three o’clock, Nowak leaned out his door.

  “Barry?” he called. “Joe?” The staff inspector ran his schedule with military precision.

  The partners rose and went into Nowak’s office.

  Nowak gestured at the two chairs.

  “Have a seat,” he said.

  The detectives sat down. Nowak took his own chair and glanced at his computer screen. He rubbed his thin lips with his index finger, his thick wedding band gleaming in the overhead fluorescent lights, then turned to Joe. A calm grin came to his face.

  “You told him?” he said.

  Lombardo nodded. “I told him.”

  Nowak looked at Gilbert. The staff inspector’s expression softened.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “I’m still working through it,” said Gilbert.

  Nowak nodded, put his elbows on the edge of his desk, interlocked his fingers, and leaned forward, his eyes seeming to sharpen to fine points as he gazed at Gilbert.

  “You go on holiday tomorrow, don’t you?” he said.

  “Yes, I do,” said Gilbert.

  “And you’re gone for…how long?”

  “A week.”

  “To Lake Kipawa?”

  “Yes.”

  Nowak nodded reflectively. “It must be nice up there,” he said. “I’ve never been to that part of Quebec. I have my cottage here in Ontario.”

  “It’s everything you want a lake to be,” said Gilbert.

  “And you take the girls fishing?”

  “Jennifer’s okay with it, but Nina doesn’t like the worms.”

  “I try to get my boys to come with me,” said Nowak, “but I guess they’re getting sick of the old man.” His eyes grew pensive. He got back to business. “Seeing as you’re going on holiday, Barry…and because the Boyd case is becoming…I don’t know—” He turned to Joe. “A liability? Would that be the right word, Joe?”

  Lombardo, put on the spot, shrugged vaguely. “I guess so,” he said.

  Gilbert already knew what was coming. “You’re going to yank me, aren’t you?” he said.

  Nowak paused. He let his interlocked fingers drift apart, allowed his lips to separate in a patient and disappointed smile, and tapped his black desk blotter a few times.

  “Barry…” The staff inspector cast for words. “I have no choice. I have to.” He leaned back in his chair, a few lines creasing his otherwise habitually smooth forehead. He looked out the window where the air was shot through with a damp and choking haze, then turned to Gilbert with a practiced it’s-not-my-fault look in his eyes. “I tried to keep you on it as long as I could…but now…under the circumstances, I just don’t see how I can.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of solving this case, Tim,” said Gilbert. “You don’t have to yank me.”

  “Yes, but your wife’s a suspect.”

  “Only in the technical sense,” said Gilbert.

  “What other sense is there?” asked Nowak.

  “You know what I mean. My wife would never kill anyone. Sometimes it’s not a duck, Tim.”

  “Yes, I know that, Barry,” said Nowak. “And everyone knows your wife would never kill anyone. But there’s a certain suggestive semblance in the evidence. I’ve talked it over with Deputy Chief Ling, and he agrees with me…that the evidence is diagrammatic of a certain…” Nowak shook his head. “Put it this way. Ling wants us to take a close look at Regina. And he feels we can’t do that if you’re the primary on the case. Ling wants results, and he wants them fast, particularly because Roffey and the Star can’t leave it alone. Ling knows what Roffey might write if he finds out about your wife. We can’t have a primary investigating a case where the primary’s wife is actually a suspect, even if she’s only a suspect in the…the technical sense. That’s my rationale for yanking you. It has nothing to do with your competency. I know how much you value what you do. You’re one of my best detectives. So don’t think me yanking you is a reflection of what you’ve done on the case so far. It’s not. It’s just that when Ling and I looked at it…I mean, put yourself in our shoes. You’ve got a victim like Glen Boyd, a well-known and even international figure in the entertainment industry. Then you’ve got Ronald Roffey barking like a dog around our heels.”

  “We don’t have to tell Roffey a thing,” said Gilbert.

  “We have to tell him something eventually. If we don’t, he’s going to dig, and Ling would just as soon avoid that.”

  “I wish the Star would fire that guy,” said Gilbert.

 
; “They’re not going to fire him,” said Nowak. “He’s too good at unearthing compromising facts. And there are a lot of compromising facts in this case, all having to do with Regina. There’s that e-mail about Marseilles. There’s the blond hair, the scarf, and the perfume. And I know she went directly home from the theater on the night of the murder, but no one can conclusively verify that. So in the interests of doing what’s best for the case, I really have to pull you, Barry. I have to minimize the risk of any fallout.”

  Gilbert stared at the Homicide Golf Open trophy on Nowak’s desk.

  “So what do you want me to do?” asked Gilbert. “Who’s going to be the primary on the case now?”

  Nowak and Lombardo looked relieved.

  “Give all your stuff to Joe,” said Nowak. “He and Gord are going to work on it. You’ll be on regular rotation when you get back.”

  “Thanks, Tim,” he said. He tapped his knee a few times. The others waited.

  “Is there something else, Barry?” asked Nowak.

  Gilbert wanted to protect Regina.

  “Are we still going after Barcos?” he asked.

  Because if he could manipulate the case, even from the outside, as a way of deflecting the investigation away from Regina, then at least he had to try. He wanted to spare Regina any unnecessary pain.

  “Of course,” said Nowak. “Barcos is high on our list. I’m sure he’s our guy, even though we haven’t got a match on the skin from the right hand on him.”

  “Okay. Good. And are we still going to offer him a deal on Deranga and Munoz if he’s forthcoming about Boyd?”

  Nowak turned to Lombardo. “Joe? Is that your game plan?”

  “I’ve talked to Bob, and he’s willing to go for it.”

  “Thanks, Joe,” said Gilbert. “The case is yours. And Tim…I understand. I know you had to do this. I don’t like it, it bugs the hell out of me, but I know you had no choice. I just hope we can get this thing over and done with quickly. Regina doesn’t like thinking about Boyd and neither do I. If you have to talk to Regina, try to be sensitive about it.” His throat tightened. “Especially if you have to talk to her about this Marseilles business. In hindsight, I can see it just about broke her to pieces. So let’s make an effort to bury this one fast. Okay?”