Raw Bone (33 page)

“I don’t know.”

“Well, during the sailing season, we’re told, Paul would take parties out on that boat and wouldn’t return for hours.”

“Yeah, he loves it. I hate it, makes me feel sick.” Gloria screwed up her face to suggest gagging with seasickness.

“We’ll need the names of the other guards.”

She feigned not knowing, shaking her head slowly from side to side. At last she said, “Larry Cornelli and Jimmy Albert—good guys really. They’re listed in our annual report as drivers. Never killed anyone, that’s for sure … least that I know of.”

“Is there anything else, Mrs. Zetter?”

“We’re in the coil and wire business. It’s legit. Beyond that, we’re just bookies, y’know? We’re not into rough stuff beyond smacking bad debts outta people, and even then, that’s rare.” She put a hand to her chest. “My heart almost broke when I heard about those girls. Tore me apart—I knew Bishop did it and I couldn’t say squat … till now. I told Pauly I was gonna leave him for that, for that and lotsa other reasons.” She leaned across the table toward MacNeice. “Am I gonna be okay here? Pauly will be really pissed to hear me singin’ like this.”

“Your co-operation here today is appreciated, Mrs. Zetter. However, you’ll likely be charged as an accessory to murder. Your lawyer will guide you through it. Detective Aziz will
have your statement printed out for you to sign. If you have anything to add, now is the time to do it.”

She blinked at him like she’d been kicked in the head, but she had nothing more to add.

MacNeice made his way back to Zetter’s interview room to find him sitting with his lawyer. MacNeice turned on the recorder and announced the beginning of the second interview.

“Counsel, please state your name.”

“James Dempsey.”

“Mr. Zetter,” MacNeice said, “you’ve had time to reconsider your statement. Have you anything else to add?”

Zetter looked at his lawyer, who spoke for him. “Mr. Zetter will not be saying anything further at this time.”

“In that case, I am charging you with counselling murder in the deaths of Anniken Kallevik and Duguald Langan. Further charges may be laid, pending the forensics reports on your vehicle, yacht, home and office.”

MacNeice stood up with some difficulty. Turning to the lawyer, he said, “You’ll inform Mr. Zetter as to what happens now. A constable will be in shortly to take him to a holding cell.”

Back at the stone cottage, MacNeice wasn’t sure which he wanted more: some of Marcello’s lasagna or simply to lie down. Even though it was late, he settled on the lasagna and put it in the oven.

The phone rang but he didn’t even consider answering it. He was fed up with talk, fed up with listening—even to himself. A half-minute later, his cellphone rang. He looked at his watch, 9:52 p.m., and looked down:
unknown number
. He let it ring until it stopped.

When his cell rang again, he picked it up. “MacNeice.”

“It’s Sam.”

He sat back in the club chair and took a deep breath. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, but that’s not why I’m calling.”

“I’m listening.”

“I wanted to tell you myself that tomorrow
The Globe and Mail
is publishing my story about what happened that night.”

“Okay …”

“I don’t need your permission, Mac, though I would like it. I’m a journalist, though, and you turned my home into a war zone. Quite apart from my feelings for you, I felt the need, the responsibility, to tell the story.”

“So what are your feelings for me?”

“Don’t, Mac. Honestly, I can’t …”

“Can’t what? Forgive me or risk having a relationship with me?”

There was a long pause before she answered, “Both.”

He could smell the lasagna and went into the kitchen, the phone to his ear. Before he was able to come up with a response, she said, “I’m sorry. I wanted to give you a heads-up about the article—I hope you understand.”

“Do I understand?” He pulled the foil off the meal.

“Mac, I don’t want this to be hurtful or spiteful. I’m just trying to …”

“Sam, thank you for calling.” He wasn’t sure whether she said goodbye because the phone was already on the counter, its screen glowing before slowly dimming to black.

Twice he dialed Aziz’s number and hung up before the call went through. At least that was what he thought.

When his phone rang at eleven-thirty and he saw her name, his heart jumped into his throat. He was terrified what he might say, or ask. “MacNeice.”

“You called me twice. Are you all right, Mac?”

“Ah, no, yes, sure—no, I’m fine. Must have been pocket dialing.”

“Right.” Her voice sounded sleepy but unconvinced.

“Did I wake you?”

“No, I was reading.”

“What are you reading?”

She laughed. “Mac, what’s going on?”

“I remember, years and years ago, Kate took me to the museum in Toronto, where her quartet was playing.” He stood up and looked out the window into the darkness. “While they
were practising, I wandered about and ended up in the textile gallery. I didn’t care about textiles, I was just wandering …”

“Mac?”

“I saw this quilt … Actually no, I didn’t care about the quilt until I read its caption. It was titled,
Keep Me Warm One Night
.”

Silence. He could hear her getting out of bed or off the sofa.

“So Samantha called,” she said.

“Yes. She’s written an article about what happened. It’ll be in
The Globe and Mail
tomorrow … She just wanted me to know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m the one who should apologize to Sam for unwittingly bringing her into this … world. But I also owe you an apology and I know, I’ve said that before.” He heard her sharp intake of breath. “I don’t want to open this up,” he said. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for everything. That’s it … and now I feel awkward.”

“I accept.” She laughed briefly, and clearly with some effort, but it took the tension out of the air. “Have you been drinking grappa?”

“No, not tonight.”

When morning came, he remembered the call but not what he said. For the first time since the fire, MacNeice climbed onto the workout bike and peddled for his life, hoping it would bring colour back to his face and that he could do twenty minutes before falling into a coughing spell
or a splitting headache. He managed it. As poor as he felt, his body responded as if he’d actually had a great night’s sleep.

Aziz looked up from the espresso machine. “I can see you’re feeling better.”

“I am. After we talked, I fell asleep. Fiza, I apologize that it was so late—”

“Stop it. You’re allowed to be shaky—you’ve had a serious head injury.” She smiled at him, took her coffee cup and went back to the cubicle.

He looked at his watch—8:42 a.m. His legs were tingling from the exercise, but otherwise he felt stronger than he had since before the fire. He made himself a coffee.

“You good?” Swetsky said when he saw MacNeice leaning against the wall of his cubicle. “What a pair we make, eh?”

“I’m fine, John,” MacNeice said.

Swetsky looked at him skeptically.

“Okay, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want Bishop, but he’s gone and it’s over. There are accessory charges to deal with, but now I can focus on the Nicholson case.”

Swetsky shoved a chair toward MacNeice. “Vice-principal Brion, lovely lady, came to practice yesterday and asked me—on behalf of the coach, apparently—if I’d accept an official role as assistant coach. That’s protocol, apparently—Knox couldn’t ask me directly. Anyway, I said sure. Fact is, I’m having a blast.”

He could see that MacNeice was waiting, so he went on. “I’ve cranked Knox up on purpose. Any of the guys I play with wouldda popped me by now for my attitude. But this guy’s
strange. He goes almost purple, leaves the court and heads into his office. Then he comes back five minutes later as if nothing happened. I actually think Knox is a great coach. All I’m criticizing him about are tactical differences. The thing is, he’s good precisely because he’s extremely controlled. Those kids know the fundamentals better than any teenagers I’ve seen. They’re actually pretty to watch. But, put a scrambling gutsy team from the projects on the court with them, one that claws their way to the net, and they’d have their hands full.”

Seeing he had MacNeice’s full attention, Swetsky went on. “Dylan and Tom are the only ones with any creativity. Whether they make the play or not, if it looks like they’re playing like street kids, Knox will holler something about hot-dogging or showboating, telling them to stick to the basics. I think spontaneity pisses this guy off; it’s not his thing. Control is.” Swetsky put his hand up. “Does that ring a bell for you?”

“David Nicholson,” MacNeice said. “Dylan must take after his mother, given the men he’s been surrounded by. Take the job, John. You love basketball, and we have a long game to play here.” He slapped Swetsky on the shoulder and took his cup back to the servery.

Aziz was busy finishing a report on the interview with Lyttelton when Vertesi let out a whistle. “What is it, Michael?”

“Good news,” Vertesi answered, then said, “Boss, take a look at this.” He held up the front page of
The Standard
. Below the fold there was a sidebar with a photograph of Markus Christophe. The headline read: “Anniken Kallevik Travelling Companion Married in Oslo.” Vertesi read the item out loud.

MacNeice swung around to the whiteboard to stare at the photo of Markus next to Anniken. Off to the right, someone had taped the official portrait of Major Buchanan. Behind MacNeice, his phone rang. Glancing around, Vertesi saw that he wasn’t going to answer, and picked it up. “Yes, sir,” he said. “One moment, I’ll see if he’s in.” Swinging about on his chair, he said, “Boss, it’s Wallace. Are you in?”

He nodded and sat down heavily. “MacNeice.”

“You’re the toast of Toronto, MacNeice,” Wallace said. “Did you know about this
Globe
article?”

“Yes, sir, I heard about it last night.”

“I’m going to put you on speaker so you can listen to the message Mayor Maybank left for me.”

There was the sound of clicking, then a pause …

Wallace picked up again. “I don’t need to add anything to that, I think. But, should your old pal Mayor Bob call, tell him I dressed you down for your poor choice in women.”

When he put the phone down, everyone but Aziz was watching him.

“You all right, boss? Was that the mayor having a shit-fit?” Williams asked.

“It was …” His chest tightened and he worked hard to relax his breathing before the rattle rising in his chest took over.

Aziz swung around to face him. “We all read the piece, Mac. You’re presented as courageous—even fearless—and Bishop just sounds bizarre. Sam says he was a gentleman to cover her up with a blanket and to not touch her. Nonetheless, he left you both for dead.” Aziz was going to stop there, then added, “Samantha wrote that she was terrified that you had died in that chair—that’s the reason she gives for ending the relationship.”

MacNeice nodded several times, and then he looked toward her. “He didn’t leave us to die.” He got up to tap the image of Bishop on the whiteboard. “I think he knew how long it would take for the firefighters to get there. While he hadn’t anticipated I’d knock over my chair—and maybe he should have—I don’t think he wanted us dead. He could easily have killed us both and disappeared. No one would have known. No, he wanted us to know what he’d done. I just don’t know why.”

Aziz said, “Maybe he was tired of it … of that life. Maybe he wanted the truth to be told—and not just the valour and heroics. Lyttelton would have turned him into a poster boy for recruitment.

MacNeice stared at the whiteboard. Turning to Williams and Vertesi, he said, “Okay, let’s get going. Arrest William Byrne and Melody Chapman for perjury and as accessories in the murders of Anniken Kallevik and Duguald Langan. When you’ve got them in lock-up, arrest …” he flipped through pages of his notes, “Larry Cornelli and Jimmy Albert, the heavies that worked with Bishop in Paul Zetter’s operation. Talk to Vice about potential bookmaking charges, but I want them in a lineup on a potential charge of assault and battery on Freddy Dewar. Freddy can take a good long look at them.”

“I love it. A roundup, just like the old days.” Williams grabbed his notebook and cellphone.

Vertesi stood up and nodded at MacNeice, then followed Williams out the door.

MacNeice picked up his coat and turned to Ryan. “Find the connection between Robert Grant, Jennifer’s brother, and Alexander Knox. There is one. I don’t know what it is, but I’m confident you’ll find it.”