Woman Chased by Crows (5 page)

“He said there was a man found dead in a motel room on the Queensway last week, a Russian man. Were you two working that case?”

“
What
Russian man? What the hell was he talking about! Jee-zuss! You think you know somebody . . .” She stood up abruptly, paced Orwell's office looking for walls to punch, furniture to kick. “Turns out you don't know dick.” She wanted to damage something.

“Don't know anything about that homicide?”

“We don't work anywhere
near
the Queensway. That's Peel Division. We were working a nightclub stabbing. I had to take a couple of days off for some medical crap that turned out to be nothing, thank Christ, and he said he'd keep working the case. We weren't getting anywhere anyway — no witnesses, too many witnesses and nobody saw . . . ah, who gives a crap!” She slumped in the chair again, long legs splayed out in front of her, rubbed her eyes, red from rage. “Anyway, that's beside the point, or that
is
the damn point. He was
supposed
to be in the city, working our case like he said he was going to.” She looked directly at Orwell. “Not up here.”

Orwell was at a loss. He couldn't help her. “Wish I could tell you more,” he said. “I got the impression he wasn't exactly sure
what
he was doing. He mentioned a partner he had some years back, named O'Grady, you know him?”

“Dylan? Sure. Big Smoothie O'Grady. A natural politician. What about him?”

“He and O'Grady questioned a ballet teacher six years ago about a murder in High Park. The woman confessed, but it turned out she couldn't have done it.”

“I know the one, I know the one. He told me about it. Said she was certifiable, always calling 9-1-1. So what? If she was the biggest nutbar roaming the city, I'd be out of a job.”

“She moved up here, has a dance studio in town.”

“So?”

“He thought there was some connection between her and the Russian man.”

“
What
Russian man?” She was on her feet again and pacing.

“The one . . .”

“I know, I know: on the Queensway.” She was impatient — with him, with puzzles, riddles, the scarcity of anything approaching rationality. “I don't know anything about any damn Russian man. What was the connection?”

“Apparently the man had Anya Daniel's picture in his wallet.”

“That's the dancer?” She waited, palms up. “That's it?”

“And he was somehow connected to the ballet.”

“Oh Lord Jesus on a bicycle! This is so stupid it makes me want to puke.”

“I'm sorry,” Orwell said. “I really am.”

She rubbed her face with both hands, pushed her hair back and held it for a moment on the top of her head, staring out at Vankleek Street. “He was
such
an asshole,” she said. “A charming, good-looking asshole. He kept secrets. You're not supposed to keep secrets from your partner. I mean you can have a private life, sure, but things that are going to affect the partnership, things you should know just to be able to back each other up, cover for each other, shit, shit, you have to share.”

“I agree,” Orwell said.

“I had a lump.” She wiped a hand across her chest as if brushing away crumbs. “Turned out to be nothing, but I was a little freaked. I told him. I didn't hide it. I said I was worried, I said I was going in to have it checked out, I made sure he knew exactly what was what.” She turned from the window, spread her hands wide, asking for something unavailable, something that made sense. “Okay if I hang around for a while? I'm not supposed to be working the case, but I'd like to find out what's happening. I'll stay out of people's way.”

Orwell stood, spread his arms. “My house is your house,” he said. “Hey, wait a sec.” He motioned her toward the door, pointed to the far side of the room. “Stacy Crean. Over by the window. You met her last year.”

“Right. Dating Natty Bumpo. What about her?”

“First on the scene,” he said. He put his hand on Adele's shoulder and gave her a gentle shove. “She found the body.”

She didn't like either of the detectives. She didn't bother to remember their names. One had a moustache like a dirty toothbrush and the other one had a pimple over his left eyebrow. Their voices matched their distinguishing characteristics — Dirty Toothbrush sounded like his yap was full of bubbles, Pimple squeezed his words and breathed through his mouth. They were both big. They wanted to intimidate her. She laughed inside her head.

“He was here to talk to you.”

“He did not talk to me.” She lit a Players with her brass Zippo.

“Don't smoke.” Pimple.

“My studio, I pay the rent, I buy the cigarettes.”

“You have children come up here for lessons.” Pimple again. “You don't care about them?”

“You see any children?”

“This is a workplace, there's a law against smoking in a workplace.”

“Today the place is closed. Today it is my private place. I am beside an open window, see? I blow my smoke outside with the car smoke. You going to arrest me for a cigarette?”

“I think you should put it out.” This time from Toothbrush.

“You, with the ugly moustache, you smoke, too, I can smell it on your clothing. You want one but you cannot have one because your partner with the pimple in his eyebrow would not like it.” She blew smoke in their direction. “You are just jealous.” She smiled.

“Maybe we should take you into the station and question you there.”

She smiled again. “You have badges, you have guns, you have authority. You can do what you want.”

“Did you see him?”

“He was walking on the street.” She looked down at Vankleek. The newspaperman, the overcoat with the black beard, was talking to a pair of
OPP
officers on the opposite sidewalk. “I saw him from this window.”

“You recognized him?”

“Of course I recognized him. Who could forget a man like that?” She squashed her cigarette on the brick sill outside the window. The sill was black with burn marks.

“He didn't come up here? Come to your house?”

“He did not visit me. I was hoping he would.”

“Why?”

“He was an attractive man. He had beautiful hands.” She clenched hers.

“Where were you last night?”

“At home.”

“Alone?”

“All alone,” she said. “That's how I live.”

“What time did you leave here?”

“Nine o'clock. Later than usual. The evening class was over at eight. I stayed for a while. I was dancing. Alone.
Giselle
. You know
Giselle
?”

“Anybody see you leave?”

“My driver.”

“Who's that?”

“Ed. He drives a taxi. He picks me up every night. He took me home.”

“Where would we find him?”

“I would try the taxi company,” she said. “There is only one taxi company in this town.”

“You know his last name?”

“Yes, it is on his license, on the back of the passenger seat. His picture and his name and his cab number. His name is Edwin Kewell. With a K and two Ls. His middle name is Arthur, it is not on his license. We talk a lot. He likes hockey. He does not like parsnips.”

“Enough about Mr. Kewell,” Toothbrush said. “We'll talk to him. He drove you home?”

“That is correct. He picked me up at five minutes after nine o'clock. I smoked a cigarette in the doorway while I waited for him.”

“He pick you up all the time?”

“For a year now. I like to know who drives me places. Sometimes when people take you for a ride you do not know where you will wind up, you know?”

“What time did you get home?”

“About half past nine.”

“You live that far away?”

“Not that far. Six or seven blocks. We took the long way.”

“Why?”

“We were talking.”

The Pimple liked that. “Just talking? Do you and Mr. Ed have more than a
Driving Miss Daisy
relationship?”

“Mr. Kewell has never been inappropriate.”

“Depends on what you consider appropriate. Half an hour to drive six blocks? Sure you didn't park somewhere? Fool around?”

“Or plan to meet up later? Maybe go out and shoot somebody?”

“Being a policeman must be hard. Only ever thinking the worst. Poisons the heart, does it not?”

In the end they didn't take her anywhere for further questioning, but they promised her they would be back. She said she looked forward to it.

At first glance they seemed an unlikely pair — Stacy: cool, stylish, athletic; Adele: gangly, fiery, herky-jerky, no discernible fashion sense whatsoever. Adele wore basic black cop shoes, crepe soles, possibly steel-toed. Anyone getting a kick in the shins would know about it. Stacy preferred high boots and jeans with a bit of stretch. Stacy had black belts in three disciplines. She kicked higher than shins. Orwell was pleased with his matchmaking. He gave himself a reflex chastisement —
there you go again, being Big Daddy
— but it didn't diminish his pleasure in looking at the two women standing in front of him. A hawk and a heron. Both alert, fully engaged in what they did best.

“Sit down, detectives. What have you got?”

Stacy started. “Del thinks Delisle was up here seeing a woman.”

“Or he found one when he got here,” Adele said. “He moved pretty fast.”

“There was definitely sex involved,” Stacy said. “Maybe a married woman. Somebody he was careful didn't get spotted.”

“We checked with the guys about the dance teacher.” Adele consulted her notes. “Home alone, from 21:30 on. Her only confirmation is the cab driver who took her home, and he's taking the week off. Cab company says he went to Guelph to see his sister. They're trying to track him down.”

“Anya Daniel have a car?” Orwell asked.

“No, Chief,” Stacy said.

“Lives where?”

“Behind the hospital. River Street.”

“His car was still in the parking lot, right?”

“Yes, sir. They checked it out. No evidence anyone else was in it.”

“To get to the motel and back she'd need a ride. How'd she get back?”

“We figure he hooked up,” Adele said. “Wouldn't be the first time. Someone with their own car.”

“And if it was a spur-of-the-moment thing they might have had a drink somewhere,” Orwell threw in.

“Dr. Ruth says he left her office around four,” said Stacy. “Didn't see him again, but . . .”

A sharp knock on the door. “Come ahead,” Orwell said.

Dutch Scheider half-opened the door, took brief note of the two detectives. “The Metro guys want to take me back to the motel,” he said. “Walk me around back or something.”

“Sounds sinister,” said Orwell.

“That's how we do it downtown,” said Adele.

“Well, we'll know where to start the search if you turn up missing,” Orwell said. “Wait a sec. Tell me, Dutch, if you were going to have a drink and didn't want it to become public knowledge, with a married woman, say, where would you go?”

“Never given it much thought, Chief, seeing as how my loving wife would strangle me with my own shorts.”

“Sure sure, I know, but think about it for a minute. Is there any place within driving distance where you'd feel reasonably safe?”

“Not in this town. Maybe Omemee. There's a nice little place just opened. Lemongrass, I think it's called. Supposed to be good. And there's that Italian place in Port Perry. Couple of places there, come to think of it.”

“Thanks, Dutch. Off you go. Take your own car. Stay in touch.”

“Will do, Chief.” He looked back. “I'd start with the Omemee place,” he said.

Orwell turned to the detectives. “Why don't you two take a drive over there and see if anyone had a discreet rendezvous late last night.”