Erasing Memory (12 page)

“Sleep, my daughter. Sleep.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. He was crying openly, his anguish so raw that he was shivering. He turned towards them, then back for one last look at his daughter before he stumbled towards the door.

“Thank you, Dr. Richardson,” Aziz said, as she followed Petrescu and Madeleine out of the room.

P
ETRESCU SAT IN THE FRONT SEAT
on the way home, staring out the side window as he quietly wept. From the back seat Madeleine leaned forward to rest her hand on his shoulder, but he simply patted it twice, as he had patted his dead daughter, and removed it. No one spoke.

As they came to a stop outside the house, Aziz said, “If there is anything we can do for you, Mr. Petrescu, please don’t hesitate—”

“Find who did this.”

He met her eyes briefly, then got out of the car and walked to the gate. Aziz watched as Madeleine opened it, and then the door to the house. They disappeared inside as if in slow motion, but when the door closed firmly behind them, the finality of it all rang like a gunshot. Aziz took a long, deep breath and eased the Chevy away from the curb.

T
URNING ONTO THE SIDE ROAD
to Gibbs Marina, Vertesi could see the mechanic working on the underside of a boat hanging in a cradle outside his workshop. He parked in front, crossed the road to the tuck shop and went inside. It sold just what he’d expected it to sell: tackle and bait, fish buckets, life jackets and milk, bread and ice cream.

Gibbs was behind the counter taking cash for two buckets of worms from a teenager in flip-flops who had put down a twenty-dollar bill. As Gibbs handed back the change by dropping it onto the counter, he gave Vertesi the once-over without meeting his eyes. The kid looked at his change and said, “Ah, sorry, Mr. Gibbs, but I think you owe me another four dollars. I gave you a twenty.”

“I don’t think so.” Gibbs frowned at the teen and looked in his cash drawer.

“Yes, he did give you a twenty,” Vertesi said, smiling.

The teen nodded. He hadn’t picked up the change, as if doing so would somehow complicate the issue further.

“Okay. Yeah, sorry. So I owe you four bucks.” Gibbs took out two coins and slapped them onto the counter.

The teen thanked him, picked up the toonies and the buckets and left the shop.

“Mr. Gibbs, I’m Detective Inspector Michael Vertesi.” He offered his hand but Gibbs leaned back against the cigarette rack with his arms folded and said nothing. “I’m here on an investigation and have a few questions.”

“What questions?”

“You rented out a boat, the one that was hauled up from the bottom of the lake.…”

“What’s that got to do with you?”

“Well, to begin with, there was a body in that boat. That makes it homicide—and I’m a homicide detective, so it has a lot to do with me. For starters, I need to see your register.”

“You mean my cash register?”

“No, I mean the book you keep to record who you rent your boats to, with their names and addresses.”

“You got a warrant?”

“No, I don’t. Would you like me to get one, or could I just see the register?”

“I don’t have one.” Gibbs busied himself with arranging the stack of newspapers on the counter.

“Then how do you keep track of your rentals for tax purposes?”

“I know who rents my boats and I pay my taxes.”

“Fine. Who rented the boat that was pulled up from the lake?”

“Ruvola. An old customer.”

“Did he pay with cash?”

“Credit card.” He picked up a toothpick from the little dispenser on the counter next to the beef jerky and stuck it in his mouth with a sly smile.

“Can I see the receipt, please?” Vertesi knew that Ruvola wasn’t the name on the credit card slip, and he was working hard to keep his temper.

“You get yourself a warrant first.”

“Mr. Gibbs, you are aware that Ruvola’s body was found in your boat and that he was a known drug dealer, aren’t you?”

“You accusing me of something?” He rolled the toothpick with his tongue to the side of his mouth.

“You’ll know when I’m accusing you of something serious. Right now all I’m accusing you of is being a jerk.”

“Get the fuck off my property.” Gibbs stepped to the side of the counter and pointed to the door, his face reddening.

“I’ll be back, with the paperwork,” Vertesi said. “And even more questions, like what is it that cranks you up? And what on earth are you hiding?”

Gibbs glared at the young detective before throwing the toothpick on the floor. It was clear that the interview was over. Vertesi smiled and walked out of the shop.

T
HE MECHANIC, WHO WAS WEARING
a well-worn undershirt, cut-off jeans and unlaced construction boots, didn’t turn around till he heard the screen door slap shut.

“You heard what happened to our cedar-strip, eh?” he said as Vertesi approached.

“Yes, I did, and I just wanted to check a couple of things before writing up my report. We met earlier—the name’s Thompson, isn’t it?”

“Yessir, Dennis Thompson, with a P.”

“With a P … thanks. Dennis, have you seen it?” The mechanic had turned away from him and was staring at the underside of the boat again.

“Yessir. Good for shit now.”

“You mean the hole?”

“Yeah. It’s done that boat.” He reached up to turn the propeller, its edges menacingly serrated from coming into contact with the shoals.

“What kind of drill would do a job like that?”

“Not a drill, chief. No, that was an auger—ya know, like an ice auger.” He watched as Vertesi wrote down
auger
, then he said, “C’mere, I’ll show you. We got a half-dozen of ’em for when the guys go ice fishing.”

He led Vertesi to a smaller corrugated steel building the size of a double garage. Swallows swung out from under the eaves as they went inside. As Vertesi’s eyes adjusted slowly to the dimness, Thompson marched on into the gloom where the sweet smell of oil hung in the air. Outboard motors of various sizes lined the racks on one wall, and on the other were fibreglass canoes and plastic kayaks, all stencilled with
GIBBS MARINA
, stacked three high. At the end of the shed was another rack; from it Thompson lifted a three-foot drill with a circular bit that looked like a cake tin.

“This is your basic ice auger, chief. It’ll go through a couple feet of ice in February quicker ’n stink through a pig.”

“You said you have six of them. I count five.”

“What? Yeah, we got six.” Thompson turned around, put the one he was holding back in the rack and counted them quietly to himself. Scratching the
Miami Vice
stubble on his chin, he looked around the garage, then back at the rack.

“Is this open all day?” Vertesi looked back out the open doorway and across the road to the tuck shop.

“Yessir.” Thompson was still looking around for the missing auger.

“If you’re in your workshop you can’t see the entrance to this building, am I right?”

“Well, yeah. But up here we don’t lock the doors till night, eh? It’s not like the city.…”

“That’s true. But what if the guy who took the auger wasn’t from up here?”

“I see where you’re going with this, chief. You think it was our auger that did the boat, eh?”

“Don’t you?” Vertesi glanced over at the mechanic, who was kneeling down at the dark end of garage looking at the augers.

“Whad’dya say the diameter of the hole was?”

“I didn’t. Ten inches.” He could hear Thompson mumbling something as he checked out the business ends of the remaining augers.

“We got three eights and three ten-inchers. The one that’s missing is a ten. I better tell Gibbs. He won’t be too happy—the tens were all new last October. D’ya think you’ll find her?”

Everything’s female to guys like Thompson—except females, Vertesi thought. Motors: “she’s a bitch to get the head off ’er.” Cars: “she’ll climb trees with that hemi in ’er.” Boats and bikes: “she’ll go like a banshee, that one!” But when it comes to flesh and blood late on a Saturday night, the romance has all been spent on machines.

“I doubt we’ll find her, unless we dredge the lake.” Vertesi stepped into the sun and sat on a crate between the two buildings to finish his notes. “This must be your favourite spot for a coffee break.”

“Why d’ya say that?”

“It’s surrounded by butts, Dennis, and the grass is worn away.”

“Yeah, well. Yeah, I sit here a lot. I’m the only marine mechanic for miles. I ain’t got a union but I got coffee breaks.” He headed for the tuck shop. “I’m gonna tell Gibbs. If I’m not out in ten minutes, chief, pull out that pistol and come and get me.”

“Are you really worried?” Though, having just spent ten minutes with Gibbs, he knew what Thompson meant.

“He’s got a temper—always had one. He’s what you’d call a first-class badass.” The mechanic chuckled to himself as if he’d cracked a line in a cop show. “The place used to be run by his wife and she was a gem. But when she died, Gibbs took over, and he just seems angry all the time.”

As Thompson went to tell Gibbs about the auger, Vertesi opened his notebook and made his summary:

Enjoying his small joke, he put his notebook away, stamped the dust off his shoes and got into his car. He took his cellphone off the dashboard, heard the screen door slap angrily
and saw Gibbs walking quickly in his direction, Thompson following like an old mutt some distance behind. Gibbs’s head was down and he had the look of someone who’s just about had enough. Vertesi rolled the window down. “Can I help you, Mr. Gibbs?”

“You tell Denny here that my auger is likely in the lake, Officer?”

“Detective, Mr. Gibbs. Yes, I did.”

Gibbs put his hands on the roof of the sedan and leaned closer to make his point. “Detective, I’m out a cedar-strip, a damn fine motor, a five-gallon gas tank and a couple of oars. Now I find out I’m out a brand new auger too. I don’t need a smartass slick-suit wop from the city making wisecracks about my missing property—I need someone who’s gonna find out where my property is at.” He slammed the roof of the car with both palms.

“Well, Mr. Gibbs, I was ready to slap the cuffs on you when you got to
smartass
—but
wop?
Step away from the car, sir.”

Reluctantly Gibbs moved back a few feet, clenched his hands and tucked his thumbs into the aging belt that held up his baggy fatigues. Vertesi opened the door and stepped out. Thompson’s eyes were popping.

“Dennis,” Vertesi said, “don’t you love it when a cop says ‘step away from the car’? I know I do.” With one hand he was reaching into his inside jacket pocket for his badge and with the other for the weapon in the belt holster. He produced both and showed them to Gibbs. He then tossed them onto the driver’s seat and turned to face the older man.

“Mr. Gibbs, I have no idea what happened to your auger, but I am getting a good sense of what happened to your boat. Still, the one thing that has seriously messed me up today is
being called a wop.” Vertesi took off his jacket and tossed that into the car as well. Gibbs unhooked his thumbs from his belt and let his hands hang down. Vertesi rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and took a step towards the man, who shifted slightly as if he was expecting a blow.

“I’ve got a witness here.” Gibbs nodded in Thompson’s direction.

“Same witness I have, Mr. Gibbs, and he heard you calling me a wop. What you’re going to do, Mr. Gibbs, is you’re going to apologize for uttering a slur against me, my father and my ancestors, or I’m going to smack you about—as a citizen, not as a smartass detective.” He took another step towards Gibbs.

“You’d hit an older man?” Gibbs kept looking over to Thompson for support. The mechanic had taken a rag out of his jeans pocket and was wiping his forehead nervously, smearing grease across his brow.

“As a citizen, ordinarily, no. As a cop, never. Honestly, I can take lots of abuse, and I think you can tell that I’m not even angry. I’m just one of those guys who has an invisible trigger, and you just pulled it.”

As Vertesi took his next step forward both his hands came up, and Gibbs knew there was no more talk to be talked.

“Denny, go inside and call the cops. Now!”

Thompson looked back and forth between Gibbs and Vertesi. “Mr. Gibbs, he is a cop.” He stepped back to make it clear this wasn’t his fight.

With no ally watching his back, Gibbs finally made the only move that would keep him from a beating. “I—I was upset, you know, about what the—about the boat and auger, and what you said. I’m sorry, Detective, sorry I insulted you.” Gibbs had his hands raised in surrender.

Vertesi dropped his own slowly, looking straight at Gibbs, who was breathing as if he was going to have a heart attack or a stroke or something like that. “You’d risk a beating for an ice auger, Mr. Gibbs?” Deliberately he began rolling his sleeves down and then buttoned each cuff.

“It’s been rough—well, losing the boat, now the auger. And I don’t know if Denny told you, but I also lost the missus a while back. I’m pretty strung out, I guess, is all I can say.”

“I accept your apology, Mr. Gibbs. Now this wop’s going back to police work.
Ciao
, gentlemen.” He opened the door to the Chevy, put on his jacket, and tucked the weapon into its holster and fastened it before clipping it onto his belt. He put the badge back into his inside pocket. Gibbs and Thompson were still frozen to the spot as he eased the car into reverse and backed out of his parking spot, then pulled away slowly without kicking up any gravel. He looked back through the rear-view mirror before he turned out of the marina lot; they were still standing there but Gibbs was now yapping at Thompson and waving his arms about. He caught his own eyes in the mirror and said, “That was for you, Pop.”