Raw Bone (10 page)

Twenty minutes later they emerged with Ziploc bags containing the man’s toiletries, shaving kit, brush and comb, toothbrush and nightshirt, which they found tucked neatly under the pillow. It was an XXL burgundy T-shirt with white lettering on the front: “English Teachers Do It Literally.”

MacNeice was grateful Dylan didn’t ask why they wanted these things, as there was only one answer to give: DNA testing. When Dylan saw them with his dad’s T-shirt, he took a deep breath, then told them it was a gift to his father from his last graduating class.

At the door, Dylan handed MacNeice the photograph of his parents on their wedding day, but didn’t take his eyes off it.

“We’ll take care of this, I promise,” MacNeice said as he glanced down at the image. The first thing to strike him was how pretty Jennifer Grant appeared in her wedding gown. David Nicholson was big and blustery, puffed up like a young professor, not in a tuxedo but a donnish dark tweed suit. Dylan’s mother was petite, with a round face and reddish hair. There was no veil or elaborate hairstyle. Her smile was wide and open. There was no indication of the approaching disaster of their marriage in either of their faces, but then there seldom is.

“Dylan, we’ll also need the spare set of keys to your dad’s car. It’ll be removed from the school parking lot and searched to see what we can find out.” Dylan opened the drawer of an end table and retrieved the keys and handed them over.

As they stepped outside, MacNeice turned back to him. “You said that you and your father drive home from school together every day?”

“Yeah, even from practice, since he became an assistant coach.”

“Any ideas why his car is still in the lot?”

“I thought that was weird. We came home together, just like always, and had dinner. I just assumed he went back to Mercy after I was asleep, or he had an early morning meeting he didn’t tell me about …” Dylan hesitated. “But, for sure, he would’ve left me a note. Dad’s a big-time note guy.”

“Is there a notebook of his in the house, a journal perhaps?”

“No … Dad writes on anything he gets his hands on. One time, he wrote the grocery list on the back of a parking ticket.” Dylan shook his head.

Aziz said goodbye and headed down the stairs. MacNeice shook Dylan’s hand. He tucked the wedding picture under his coat and walked quickly through the rain to the Chevy. Once inside, he handed the photograph to Aziz and looked back to the house. Dylan was still at the door, but when MacNeice nodded in his direction, he closed it.

“I’ve got a very bad feeling about this,” MacNeice said, turning on the engine and the windshield wipers.

Vertesi was waiting for them at Division. “The buggy handle has been checked, and there were no fingerprints, boss. And the bags? Like you thought: full of paper, two weeks of
The Standard
; again, with no prints.”

MacNeice wasn’t surprised. Why would the buggy man go to those lengths and leave any traces of his identity? He looked at the whiteboard, sighed quietly, then turned and watched as Aziz put the Ziplocs and the framed photograph on the desk.

She said, “I’ll get these items down to Forensics. Get a comparative DNA check with what was left of the man in the wagon.”

MacNeice nodded, then handed the photograph to Ryan. “Meet Jennifer and David Nicholson on their wedding day, roughly twenty years ago. Copy the image, and please be careful to put the original back in the frame. It may be all the son has left of his mother. Four
years after they were married, Jennifer disappeared and no one has heard from her since. The cops were involved in tracking her, but nothing came of it.”

Ryan took the photo. “I can try to trace her, boss. I’ve got a program that will age her wedding photo to show us what she might look like now.”

It was past nine when MacNeice finally said good night. He was too tired to make the trek to Marcello’s and decided instead to throw some pasta together with Mrs. Provenzano’s sauce, followed by a grappa—or two—before bed.

He was just finishing dinner when he thought, again, of Dylan. MacNeice couldn’t shake the feeling that body in the wagon was David Nicholson’s, though he hadn’t a clue why anyone would kill the man. If Dylan’s father was dead, would his aunt be willing to move in, or take him to live with her? Was there someone else in the family who would adopt him? As he twirled the last of the spaghetti through the sauce in slow figure eights, he made a mental note to inquire, discreetly. Otherwise Dylan would be sent to live in a foster home until he was eighteen. Having lost his mother to desertion, and his father to a grisly murder, would his choice be to live with a frosty “fetch this” aunt, or with maternal grandparents he hadn’t seen in years, or with foster parents—total strangers?

MacNeice rinsed the dish and cutlery, the pot and pan, then put them in the dishwasher with those from the day before and the day before that. As he put the container of grated Parmesan back in the fridge, Dylan was still in his thoughts. Where had his mother gone and
why? And why she’d never reached out to him? The woman in the wedding photo didn’t look like someone who’d desert a child. And why would she also abandon her parents and brother?

From his small collection of fine grappas, MacNeice chose a Nonino so rare that he rarely gave himself the pleasure of it. Barely a glass gone in the many months since Marcello gave it to him for his birthday. Bottle and glass in hand, he went to the living room to watch the rain as it lashed furiously at the window. The branches of the trees beyond were waving frantically, like they’d just witnessed something horrific and were desperate to tell someone.

At 8:40 the next morning, the manager of Dockyards Marine Supply called for DS MacNeice. The clerk who handled the purchase of an anchor in late November was back at work following a bout of pneumonia. With Aziz and Vertesi off doing interviews with the teachers and staff at Mercy High, MacNeice went alone. The clerk was easy to find; he was coughing and swearing among the racks of equipment.

His name was Jamie Corbeau, and MacNeice was able to avoid a handshake because the clerk was on his knees, stocking the shelves with small, shiny outboard propellers. When he’d finished, he led MacNeice back to his “office,” a corner of the loading dock with two chairs.

“I understand that you recall selling an anchor and some nylon line in late November, early December?”

“Yessir. But it wasn’t one, it was two anchors.”

“To the same customer?”

“Yep. I remember, see, because this guy first tells me he wants an anchor for a small skiff. I asked him to define ‘skiff’ and turns out he’s talking an eighteen-foot aluminum flat-bottom runabout. I show him some eleven-pound pieces, but he’s going for weight. I explain to him he doesn’t need weight for a small boat, but he says, ‘Oh yeah, I do.’ He wanted two sixty-six-pound galvanized claw anchors fit for a boat at least sixty-foot long.”

But a sale is a sale, Corbeau said, and this was pick-n-go stuff at the end of the season, so he wasn’t about to argue, especially since those two heavyweights had been on the inventory for
years. The customer paid cash and left with an anchor in each hand and a bag of nylon line under his arm.

“Do you remember what he looked like?”

“Not really.”

“Did he have an accent?”

Corbeau scratched his head and closed one eye to suggest he was thinking real hard. “Yeah,” he said at last. “He did. I’m no good at accents, but maybe English or somethin’. And he was big, like you but thick, like a wrestler—you follow me?”

MacNeice sat in the Chevy afterwards, looking out to the waterfront’s rusting behemoths, the industrial hulks that once were alive with thousands of men making tractors and combines. The second anchor presented a problem. He punched in Wallace’s number. When the deputy chief picked up, MacNeice told him he needed a dredging unit for the small bay in Cootes Paradise. The sound pressure on the line changed, like Wallace was holding the phone away from his ear and looking hard at the receiver. Then he went on a tear about how there was no wiggle room in the department’s budget. MacNeice waited for him to finish—waited until Wallace finally asked, “You’ve got a serious hunch there’s another body down there?”

“I do.”

“If you don’t find a body, for your sake I hope you find sunken treasure.”

Pulling into the division parking lot, MacNeice was surprised to see DS John Swetsky and DI Montile Williams getting out of Swetsky’s car. They had been partnered up with the OPP on a
double homicide on the edge of Dundurn’s jurisdiction. All killings are senseless, but the slaying of an elderly couple out on Mud Street had set a new record for dumb. Two brothers, who lived nearby, showed up late to the couple’s garage sale. The objective: stealing the cash from the sale, which amounted to about twenty dollars. The murder weapon: a nine iron from an ancient set of golf clubs that nobody had wanted.

MacNeice turned off the ignition and was about to open the door when Swetsky opened it for him. Startled, he said, “John, what brings you two back to town?”

Swetsky stuck out his hand and hoisted MacNeice out of the Chevy. “Came back to see the wife, have a decent meal and grab some clean clothes.” Williams stood behind him, a large duffle bag slung over his shoulder.

“But we’ve also been watching the news, so we thought you could use another hand,” Williams said.

“They’ll let you go?”

“We’ve got one kid in custody, and the other is on the run,” Swetsky said. “I can wrap it up over the next couple a days.”

Williams shook Swetsky’s hand and headed for the division entrance. Swetsky said, “You’ve got Montile now, and I’ll pitch in soon as I can, Mac.”

“Do you have a line on where the kid is?” MacNeice asked.

“His dad says he’s trying to make it to Tijuana. There’s a record of him crossing into the States at Fort Erie an hour after the killings, so he’s got a good sixteen hours on us. His photo and a description of the vehicle are on every patrol car from here to Mexico.”

Swetsky gave MacNeice a goodbye slap on the shoulder and walked off to his car.

“Be careful, John,” MacNeice called after him.

MacNeice updated the whiteboard, then stood staring at the woman from Cootes, the wedding photo, and the barbecue shot of Nicholson in a Hawaiian shirt as if the images would speak to him. At last he put the marker in the tray and turned to Ryan.

“Keep searching for Jennifer Grant, but first track down members of her family.” And, because MacNeice knew he always underestimated how fast Ryan was with his array of computers and blinking boxes, he added, “Also, scan the incoming inquiries about the Cootes woman from the various police services responding to her photo and description.” There had already been three inquiries, all ruled out because the missing women had tattoos. Looking back to the board for guidance and spotting the images of the Gage Park blast site, he said, “Go to the military sources for M67/C13 fragment grenades and see if one’s gone missing.”

Ryan mumbled a yes, his fingers already flying.

“As for street availability …” MacNeice looked at Vertesi. “Get onto the vice and drug unit—see if they’ll squeeze their snitches for word about military ordnance that may have changed hands recently.”

“On it.” Vertesi turned back to his desk.

The phone rang; it was Freddy Dewar calling from a pay phone at the corner of James and Robert. MacNeice put him on speaker.

“I remembered, you know—I told you I would. Well, that young lass, I remember now. She worked at the Royal Dundurn Yacht Club.” He said the name slowly, pronouncing each syllable.

MacNeice looked sharply toward Vertesi, who whispered, “No way,” and flipped open his book to find the manager’s name.

“Freddy, you didn’t mention that you were a member of the yacht club.”

“Oh my, no. But I walk that way a lot, and yesterday it hit me: She came up to me when I stumbled on a curb and asked if I was okay. After that, since we were both going the same way, I walked her to work. She told me she had a job in the yacht club restaurant.”

“Do you recall when this happened?”

“Late November, I figure, because I slipped on some ice.”

“There’s a Portuguese bakery near you, north side of James, south of Robert. Head over there and order a coffee. We’ll be right down.”

Freddy was sitting in the back corner of the restaurant, tucking into a custard tart, when MacNeice and Aziz arrived. Seeing Aziz, he sat up straight and wiped his lips with the napkin.

“What an old fool I am. My memory is as clear as a bell about what happened in the ’40s and ’50s.” His brow furled and the corners of his mouth tucked into the folds of his cheeks. “I don’t recall much more than I said on the phone, except she sounded Scandinavian.”

“How can you be certain of that?” Aziz asked.

He smiled at her. “Merchant seamen get to know accents. I think she was either Swedish or Norwegian. I’m sorry now that I never asked her.”

“Can you remember anything else about her—her demeanour or personality?” MacNeice asked.

“Well, she was very attractive, that much I do remember.” He busied himself with folding and refolding the napkin and seemed happy to hear Aziz say the tart looked so good she’d get one for herself. As soon as she left the table, he ate the rest of his and wiped his mouth and chin before laying the napkin neatly over the plate.

“Freddy, does the name Duguald mean anything to you?”

“Well, it’s Irish …” Freddy pondered.

Aziz returned with a tart, a knife and two napkins. “You’re going to share this with me, Mac. I know you haven’t eaten.” She cut the tart in two, put half in a napkin and pushed it toward him. Then she lifted her half and bit into it, eyes closing the better to savour the taste.

MacNeice turned back to Freddy. “So … Duguald?”

“Sure, there was a guy by that name at the Block and Tackle. A night clerk … well not much of a night clerk, missing most of the time … maybe drunk or asleep somewhere. I don’t know. He was a relative of Billy’s from the old country.”

Aziz set her tart down reluctantly, to take notes.

“So he had an accent?” MacNeice asked.