by Giles Blunt
Thus Sandra Mayhew on Gloria Beltran and son: “You can’t use any of this, Lise. Not for anything other than background. You can’t call me as a witness.”
“I know that,” Delorme said. “We’re working against the clock, here. We’re looking for anything we can get.”
“Let me tell you about Gloria, first. Cuban immigrant, no skills, only visible means of support a drug dealer who got himself killed shortly after she arrived in the country.
“One day, I pay her a surprise visit the way we’re supposed to and she answers the door and there’s this guy leaving in a hurry, doing up his pants. It’s absolutely clear she’s been screwing him, and Raymond is sitting there in the corner of the living room, watching television like there’s nothing going on. I mean, Gloria is so out of touch she doesn’t even realize that what she’s doing is deeply disturbed.
“Raymond didn’t seem to think anything of it, either. I talked to him alone the next day and he didn’t know what I was concerned about. We already had a supervision order and, believe me, we talked about going for Crown wardship. But the fact was, Raymond was fifteen going on sixteen. There would have been no benefit to bringing him into care for a few months.
“The neighbours complained about both of them. Their apartment was filthy—I mean disgusting, and after ten years in this business, believe me, I don’t disgust easily. And Raymond was violent—not like some kids who are out of control, constantly getting into fights and so on. He was a brooder. When he bashed that kid over the head with the shovel, it was over some slight that had happened months previously.
“I tried to talk to him a couple of times, but there was no getting through to that kid. No response whatsoever. Partly, I sensed an extreme hostility to women—not surprising, given that his mother was fucking strangers all the time. But it was more than that. He was only hauled up on charges a couple of times, but that isn’t because he wasn’t a suspect in a lot of things. This is Regent Park we’re talking about. Anyone who wants to find trouble will find it.
“Talk to the Juvie Squad at 51 Division. They’ll tell you. They never nailed him for much, but ask them who they suspect for Molly Davis—teenage girl who disappeared from his building. Ask them who they suspect for—just a second, here, let me look it up—for Richard Lee, twenty-year-old guy out walking his dog one night in Allan Gardens.
“The long and short of it, Lise, I didn’t have much to do with Raymond Beltran. He was close to being outside my jurisdiction under the Child Welfare Act, and I had an apocalyptic caseload. Only thing I ever managed to do for him was get him into a summer camp—it was his first time outside the big city and he absolutely loved it. But I’ll tell you, every other contact I had with him, he scared the hell out of me. Creepy eyes. He could be quite charming when he wanted to be, but it was so obviously an act that you just wanted to get away from him.
“Bottom line, Lise. Raymond Beltran is one of nature’s mutants. You ever get close enough to interview him, you don’t do it alone.”
A few more phone calls, a few more faxes, a lot more e-mail. When Delorme had pretty much exhausted her ingenuity, she went to the lunchroom and brewed up a fresh pot of coffee. She found Cardinal in the boardroom, where he had spread out the results of his own investigations. He was staring at the pages like Napoleon examining his maps, but there was a sag to his shoulders even now, when he was on the chase.
“Thought you could use this,” Delorme said, handing him a decaf.
Cardinal turned, and she read grief in his eyes for the split second it took him to tuck it away wherever he kept such things.
Delorme outlined what she had learned. Cardinal listened intently, staring into his coffee, stirring it slowly.
When she was done, he said, “I’ve been working out a timeline. April 1999, Toronto cops head over to Beltran’s apartment to discuss a case of forcible confinement involving a fifteen-year-old girl. Out of the country, his mama says.”
“Let me guess,” Delorme said. “Cuba.”
“Close. Miami. Apparently Mama has relatives there. Anyway, he stays in Miami for the next four years, comes back to Toronto August ’03 and gets nicked on a gun charge—which is still outstanding, by the way. Toronto cops believe he’s ‘up north’ somewhere, which could mean here, could mean anywhere. But I just got off the phone with Miami.”
Delorme set down her coffee cup. “What does Miami say?”
“Turns out Miami has a string of unsolveds: missing heads, extremities removed while the victim was alive, Palo Mayombe signs nearby. Freaked hell out of the Cuban community down there. Killer became known as El Brujo, which I gather means witch.”
“And the dates of the killings?”
“First one is December 2000, last one is August 2003.”
“When he comes back to Toronto. He’s our guy, John.”
“I know it. You know it. Now, all we gotta do is find him.”
50
RED BEAR DROVE THE BMW past the eagle sign and into the camp. Leon’s Trans Am was gone; he was in town looking for Terri Tait. Red Bear went over to his temple and listened for a few moments. No sounds from within. He took his parcels out of the trunk and went into his cabin.
He took a long hot shower and, afterwards, spent considerable time drying his hair.
Then, still naked, he surveyed his packages, all of which he’d ordered over the Internet to be delivered to a rented postbox. He opened a medium-sized parcel first. Inside was a wooden case, only pine but well carpentered, with neatly fitted brass hinges that worked smoothly. He lifted the lid to reveal a Northern Industrial butcher’s handsaw, set in a silk lining. The blade was highly carbonized steel and measured a full twelve inches; the rosewood handle fit his hand as if custom made.
From another package he pulled out a set of Brennan butcher knives, ergonomically designed, according to the accompanying literature, “to reduce fatigue and wrist strain in your meat department. The upright handle allows YOU to control the blade.”
Then there was the commercial-grade Forschner five-inch boning knife with the famous Forschner blade—high carbon, stainless steel, hand-finished in Switzerland. The rosewood handle was a plus.
There was a five-inch lamb skinner with a cheap-looking nylon handle that didn’t please him at all. And a six-inch Microban skinning blade, which did. He took out a ten-inch semi-flexible slicer, a seven-inch fillet knife with one of those disgusting Fibrox handles, and a Swibo sticking knife with a stiff blade. Several functions for that one presented themselves to him in a dreamy way.
In a separate box, he found the Henckels International Classic Meat Cleaver. Heavy, the way a meat cleaver should be, “so IT does the work.” The steel alloy was lesser quality than a top-of-the-line item, but the handle had been specially moulded for small hands like Red Bear’s.
He set out his new blades beside his Chef’s Choice 3-Stage Diamond Hone Professional Sharpener. It made a pleasant hum when empty, and a soothing grinding sound with a knife in place. He loved the way the grooves held the blades just so, setting exactly the right edge whether straight, curved or serrated.
Afterwards, he switched off the lights. In the upper left quadrant of his window, the last of the old moon formed a dull, orange crescent. Wisps of cloud drifted from its lower horn. Tomorrow night, it would be a new moon. There would be nights and nights to feed the nganga. He would call forth the most powerful spirit of his magical career.
The moonlight glistened on his naked arms and legs. He took up the sticking knife, with its thin, needlelike blade, and hefted it in his left hand. In his right, he took hold of the Forschner. He struck poses before the full-length mirror. He began to dance. The blades flashed in the moonlight, his muscles rippled. Colours flowed in his vision, scarlet and crimson and, richest of all—the colour of blood in the moonlight—deep black.
51
KEVIN’S WRISTS WERE BLEEDING. He had been trying now for hours to work the knot loose by hooking it on the point of a nail, but he coul
d not see if he had made the slightest progress. Nor could he tell if the knot was any looser. All he could feel was the ache in his arms, the savage pain in his wrists.
Terri lay slumped over on the floor on the other side of the cabin, unconscious. Leon had injected her with something in the car to keep her quiet. Knowing Leon, he had probably used just about enough to kill her. Her breathing sounded laboured and shallow.
Kevin’s head had cleared, now; the withdrawal symptoms had passed. Despite the fearful stench in this place, hunger was gnawing at his belly.
“Terri,” he said. “Terri, wake up.”
She didn’t stir.
Kevin hooked the rope once more on the nail and leaned away. The rope slid off like dental floss. He tried again, to no avail.
“Terri, you have to wake up.”
With his feet bound at the ankles, he lurched across the floor to her on his knees. He lay down on his side and nudged her with both knees.
“Terri! For Chrissake, wake up!”
She groaned. It was the first sound she had made since Leon had slung her in here and tied her to the table leg.
“Boy, you fucked up big time,” Leon had said as he’d tied the rope.
“Why is Terri here?” Kevin had said. “Let her go, Leon. She hasn’t done anything.”
“She’s too curious, man. That’s her problem. Inquisitive.” Leon finished tying her hands to the table leg. He gave the rope a couple of sharp tugs. “Tough, though. I’ll give her that.”
“What’s wrong with her? What did you give her?”
“Little Seconal. Keep her peaceful.”
“Leon, please. Terri’s never hurt anyone in her life. Why do you want to do this?”
“Boss’s orders,” Leon said. “Unlike you, I know what the fuck I’m doing.”
Leon came over and squatted in front of Kevin.
“Jesus, man. Stealing Red Bear’s dope. Of all the stupid moves, that’s gotta be the stupidest.”
“I was wired, Leon. Why the hell else would I do something like that? Listen, help us out of here. Red Bear’s gonna kill us.”
“That’s the least of it, I’d imagine.”
“Come on, Leon. How can you go along with him?”
“That’s just the way it is, bro. Red Bear and me just clicked. He’s shown me a few things. Opened some doors. He’s one powerful witch, and you crossed him. Not smart.”
“Leon, I thought we were friends, man.”
“Did you?” Leon cocked his head to one side. “You never seemed all that friendly to me. In fact, I got the distinct impression you looked down on me. You, with your fucking poetry and all.”
“I didn’t. Jesus, man. You know what Red Bear’s going to do to us?”
Leon stood up and stretched.
“Gonna work a little of that old Indian magic. Gonna get you working for us.”
Leon had left, then, deaf to Kevin’s begging. Kevin had been shredding his wrists ever since.
He kneed Terri in the shoulder. Harder this time. The wound in his side howled.
She groaned, and her eyelids fluttered.
“Terri, wake up. Terri, you gotta wake up.”
52
THE FAXPHOTO CAME IN JUST before noon the next day; it was Delorme who picked it up.
The picture showed a young man, maybe thirty, thirty-one, with a narrow, hawklike face. High cheekbones gave him a slightly Indian look. His stare into the camera gave nothing away. “Guess,” it seemed to say, “guess what I might be capable of.”
The caption at the bottom of the photo said Raymond Beltran. Underneath this, the date of the photograph. It had been taken eighteen months ago when he had been arrested on a weapons charge. He didn’t look too worried about the outcome.
Delorme showed it around the squad room. To McLeod, to Szelagy and to the ident guys, Arsenault and Collingwood. None of them recognized Raymond Beltran. She drove over to Corporal Clegg’s office in the federal building.
“You must like it here,” she said, “if you don’t even take off for weekends.”
Clegg was feeding documents into a shredder. He grinned at her over his shoulder.
“Since me and the wife broke up, I’m not in a big fat rush to get home, you know what I mean? I don’t see a ring. You married?”
“No.”
“Ever been?”
“No. I have something to show you.” Delorme dug in her satchel.
“Maybe you and I could go for dinner sometime. After you wrap up this case, I mean.”
“Thanks. But I have a policy against going out with guys from work.”
“Makes it kinda tough to meet people, don’t you find?”
“Yeah,” Delorme said. “It does. Listen, we really need to find this guy.” She handed him the photo.
“‘Raymond Beltran,’” Clegg read. “Latino, right?”
“He’s Cuban. Cuban heritage, anyway. Raised in Toronto. But he’s also spent time in Miami. Where, incidentally, he’s a suspect in three murders much like Wombat’s.”
“You’re kidding me. He cut them up?”
Delorme nodded. “And he didn’t wait till they were dead, either.”
“That’s not nice. Not nice at all.”
“Can you help us out? Have you come across this guy? If he’s the one that did Wombat, he’s likely deep into the drug trade.”
Clegg scanned the caption.
“Taken a while ago,” he said. “Of course, people can change their appearance quite a bit when they want to.”
“Yeah, but it’s a distinctive face—the eyes, the cheekbones. Maybe I could go through your files, look at some mugs?”
“I don’t have any mugs here,” Clegg said. “That’s all in Sudbury.”
Delorme looked at the dented file cabinet by the window.
“Just paperwork in there,” Clegg said.
“Must be pretty inconvenient.”
“The RCMP is a federal organization. Nothing about it is convenient. Did you hear about our fire the other night?”
“You had a fire?”
“Sudbury. Property shed went up in flames. We don’t even know how much evidence we’ve lost.”
“Was it arson?”
“They don’t know yet, but I doubt it. Plain old incompetence is more likely. Guy in charge of that place is about ninety years old and practically blind.” Clegg held up the photo. “Can I hang on to this?”
“Sure. I’ve got copies.”
“I’ll take a dive into our incredibly detailed and bureaucratic records and get back to you.”
Delorme drove up Sumner to the bypass and then out to the OPP detachment. Jerry Commanda was at his desk, on the phone. With the receiver jammed between ear and shoulder, he pulled a chair from another cubicle and motioned for her to sit down.
When he hung up, he swivelled around to face her.
“I bet you’ve come to talk about the interagency ball game.”
“Sorry,” Delorme said. She pulled out the photo of Beltran. “You said you’d been working a lot of drug stuff, lately. Have you run across this character?”
Jerry took the photo from her and held it at an angle to catch the window light. “I can’t say for sure. What do you want him for?”
“Cutting up Wombat Guthrie, for one.”
“Really?” Jerry looked closer at the picture. “Well, there’s one guy it might be.”
He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a buff-coloured file folder. There was a stack of eight-by-ten black-and-white photos inside. He fanned them out on the desk like a deck of cards and selected one. It showed a group of young men sitting around outside a diner. Three of them seemed to be watching the fourth man, who had very long hair and was dressed all in white.
“Rosebud Diner,” Jerry said. “Reed’s Falls. We’ve been keeping an eye on that place for a few weeks now. We think there’s a lot of dope moving through the people that hang out there. We have theories, but we’re not a hundred-percent sure where they’re g
etting it from, and we don’t know where they stash it. Take a look at the guy with the long hair.”
Delorme picked up the photo. “But this guy’s an Indian, no?”
“Calls himself Red Bear.”
“Yeah, we had a tip from a junkie there was an Indian hanging around with Leon Rutkowski.”
“Guy’s not from around here, I can tell you that. Rumour is he’s from Red Lake, and I’ve been checking on that.”
“I recognize the other guys,” Delorme said. “Leon Rutkowski, and Toof Tilley, may he rest in peace. And the guy on the right is Kevin Tait.”
“You’re kidding. Related to our former Jane Doe?”
“Her brother. He has a prior for intent to traffic out west. We think he’s the reason Terri came here in the first place.”
“We’ve been wondering who the hell he was,” Jerry said. “I might even think you guys are pretty good, except I got the fax that said Terri Tait is missing again.”
“I’ll get to that.” Delorme was holding the two pictures side by side. “The Indian guy could be Beltran. It’s hard to be sure, though.”
“I think we’ve got a better picture in here somewhere.” Jerry shuffled through the glossy images. “Here we go.”
This one was a two-shot. It showed the long-haired man and Kevin Tait. Tait was laughing, but Beltran—and there was no doubting his identity now—was looking dead serious. The same high cheekbones, the same broad brow. And, most of all, the almost transparent eyes.
“I hope this doesn’t disappoint you, Jerry. But it looks like your Indian is actually a Cuban.”
“That’s interesting …”
Jerry swivelled away from her and stared at the ceiling for a few moments. Delorme waited. Finally, Jerry swivelled to face her once more. “As it happens, I called the chief of the Red Lake band. I didn’t tell him I was a cop. Told him I was a banker checking background for a loan. And the chief vouched for the guy. Called him Raymond Red Bear. Said he was born and brought up right there on the Red Lake reserve.”
“Why would he go to all that trouble? I heard status cards are easy to fake.”