The Brutal Heart (19 page)

“Nothing wrong with that,” I said. “So are you having fun?”

“I am. These young women and I have been telling one another stories, and it’s my turn now.”

“May I join you?”

“Please do.”

For the next fifteen minutes Dacia told a fantastic tale about the friendship between an English sparrow and a peacock. Her voice was mesmerizing: musical, full, and expressive. The girls were enthralled.

“You’re a great storyteller,” I said when she finished.

Dacia leaned close. “I can juggle too.”

“Really?”

“Really,” she said. “But I didn’t bring my devil-sticks to the party. Have to give you some reason to invite me back.”

There have been many Mother’s Days when I awoke to breakfast in bed. Once, when Angus was in charge, the menu was blue Kool-Aid and Sugar Pops. This Mother’s Day I woke up to a large and luminous abstract propped against the wall at the foot of our bed. I had spotted the painting, titled
Firebrand
, at a gallery in Saskatoon, and I knew it was the kind of painting I wanted to see first thing every morning. There was a beginning-of-the-world intensity about the way the artist, Scott Plear, used colour that made my spirits soar, but Zack had been noncommittal, and I’d assumed the work hadn’t evoked the same passion in him that it had in me. I’d been wrong.

“You have no idea how hard it’s been for me to wait till today to bring this home,” Zack said. “I wanted to see
Firebrand
in this room, and I wanted to watch your face when you realized we owned it.”

“I didn’t think you were paying attention when we were at the gallery.”

“When it comes to you, I always pay attention,” Zack said. “Are you in the mood for a little quid pro quo?”

“It’s a big painting,” I said.

Zack checked his watch. “By my calculations we have at least five hours till church.”

It was a morning filled with uncomplicated happiness. Taylor, who had been in on the purchase of the Scott Plear, had painted a companion abstract in blues, silvers, and greys that was the perfect complement for the Plear with its fluid reds, orange, and saffron. Abstracts were new turf for Taylor, and she was critical until she saw the pieces side by side. “They’re right for each other,” she said simply, and so they were.

While we were having breakfast the phone rang. It was Milo O’Brien. His telephone manner was less than impeccable. “You go to church, right.”

“Right,” I said.

“Which one?”

“St. Paul’s Cathedral,” I said. “It’s not in the constituency, Milo.”

“So which church is? Sunday morning is pretty much a dead loss for campaigning, so I figured Ginny and the twins might as well attend a service somewhere.”

“Lakeview United is within walking distance of their condo. If you alert your pal at the
Leader-Post
, you might even get a photo of Ginny and the girls in their Sunday best strolling down the avenue.”

“I’ll make that call. See ya.”

“See ya,” I said.

When we picked up Maddy and Lena for church, they were wearing their Easter hats and clutching pictures of the dogs they had drawn for our refrigerator. The dean’s sermon, on the complex relationship between mothers and children, was thoughtful, and after the service, reasoning that we are all children of mothers, he stood outside with a basket of gerberas and presented each of us with a flower. In the car going home, Taylor, Maddy, and Lena made a bouquet of our daisies and planned our afternoon together. There were a number of possibilities: the science centre had a new Lego exhibit, there was a children’s festival in Victoria Park, and there were three playgrounds within walking distance of our house. One possibility they didn’t consider was starting our afternoon with a visit from the police, but as it turned out, that was what happened.

I hadn’t met Inspector Debbie Haczkewicz until that day. She’d been at Cristal’s funeral, but she’d left before we could be introduced. She was a tall, powerfully built woman with assessing eyes and a gentle manner. She and Zack greeted each other warmly if warily, and he introduced me. When I unlocked the door, the dogs came bounding. I bent to stroke their fur and set their minds at ease. “The girls and I will put the dogs outside and start lunch,” I said. “Give me a shout if you’d like coffee or something cold to drink.”

Inspector Haczkewicz’s voice was even. “Actually, Mrs. Shreve, you’re the one I’ve come to see.”

I felt my heart lurch. “It’s not about someone in my family, is it?”

“No,” she said. “No, this isn’t a family matter.”

“Then what?”

Debbie Haczkewicz’s eyes drifted towards Taylor and my granddaughters. “Maybe we should talk privately.”

I turned to my daughter. “Taylor, could you get the girls a sandwich?”

“Sure,” she said, but she looked worried. I put my arm around her. “It’s okay,” I said. “Inspector Haczkewicz just needs information about a case she’s working on.”

When the girls left, Zack led Debbie into the living room, and I followed.

“What’s this about, Deb?” he said.

Debbie Haczkewicz didn’t answer him. She turned her eyes on me. “Mrs. Shreve, are you comfortable having your husband present at this interview?”

“Of course,” I said. “Why don’t we sit down?”

The inspector and I sat on the couch and Zack wheeled up close.

Debbie Haczkewicz plowed right in. “What’s your connection with Bree Steig, Mrs. Shreve?”

I glanced at Zack. His nod in response was barely perceptible, but I knew it indicated I should answer what I was asked.

I turned to face the inspector. “Yesterday, when my daughter and I came back from shopping around six o’clock, there was what appeared to be a Mother’s Day card in the mailbox. The envelope was peach, and it was addressed to me. There was no stamp, and I didn’t recognize the handwriting, but Zack likes surprises, so I assumed it was a gift.”

“But it wasn’t,” the inspector said.

“No,”

“I’ll get the envelope,” Zack said. His eyes met mine. “Tell Debbie what she needs to know.” I picked up his cue: I was to divulge only what I had to. When I saw the set of Inspector Haczkewicz’s jaw, I knew that she’d picked up the warning too.

She pulled a notepad from her jacket pocket. “Whenever you’re ready, Mrs. Shreve.”

“It starts with Cristal Avilia,” I said. “I’m aware of the connection between Zack and her, inspector. The relationship was over before we were married, but he did tell me about it, and he told me about the blackmail attempt.”

“When did he tell you all this?”

“Just after you called on the night Cristal Avilia was murdered.”

“Go on.”

“A few days after Cristal’s death, a
DVD
appeared in our mailbox. It was in a small padded mailing envelope. There was no name on it, but I assumed it was for me. I’ve been covering Ginny Monaghan’s campaign for a program I’m pitching to Nation
TV
, and they often send along footage they think I’ll find helpful. Most often, they send it electronically, but not always. Anyway, I put the
DVD
in our machine. It was of Zack with Cristal. They were having sex.”

Debbie Haczkewicz’s head flew up. “I thought that disc had been destroyed.”

“Apparently not,” I said.

Zack came back in and offered the envelope to the inspector. She pulled a pair of white cotton gloves from her bag. “I assume when they dust this in the lab, they’ll find prints from both of you.”

I nodded.

“Zack, your prints are on file, but we’ll need yours, Mrs. Shreve.”

“I’ll stop by this afternoon,” I said.

“Thank you.” Debbie Haczkewicz opened the envelope flap, pulled out the contents, noted them in her book, and replaced them. “What did you do when you saw what was in this, Mrs. Shreve?”

“I was sick – not literally – just angry and frightened. You met our daughter in the hall, inspector. She could easily have been in the room when I opened the envelope. It was an unsettling thought. I’d already had a few sleepless nights wondering how Zack and I could have explained the
DVD
to Taylor if somehow she’d happened to see it. Anyway, I was furious, and I wanted these invasions of our home to stop. I picked up the phone, called the number on the funeral program, and Bree answered. We arranged to meet at Nighthawks. We talked for a few minutes. I paid for the information she gave me. She was obviously high, so she didn’t have much to tell me that was useful. Just that she hadn’t met the person who asked her to deliver the envelope.” I shifted my eyes to Zack, and when he blinked slowly, I knew not to volunteer the information about Jason. “Anyway, I wrote my cell number on my business card and left it with Bree. She wanted to reciprocate, so she wrote her address on a slip of paper. And that’s the end of the story.”

“Not quite,” Debbie Haczkewicz said, and her face was touched with sorrow. Apparently, what she was about to say never got easier. “Bree Steig was attacked last night. She was on foot. Her assailant grabbed her, pulled her down an alley, and beat her.”

“Is she dead?”

“She’s in a coma. The doctors don’t know whether she’ll recover.”

I felt myself go cold. Zack came over and took my hand. Debbie Haczkewicz’s eyes were steely. “Your business card was in Bree’s pocket, Mrs. Shreve, and she still had her cellphone. The records suggest she called you ten times last night.”

I turned to Zack. “I turned my cellphone off before we went to Mieka’s,” I said. “I never thought to turn it on again.”

“Do you have your phone with you?” Debbie Haczkewicz asked.

I reached into my bag, pulled it out, and handed it to her.

“Ten text messages,” she said.

Zack leaned forward. “Deb, you’re free to read them. Joanne has nothing to hide.”

Debbie’s face grew grimmer as she read the messages. When she was through, she handed the phone to me. “Bree was trying to get in touch with you. Do you have any idea why?”

“No,” I said. “None.” The messages were garbled. It was obvious Bree had gone straight from Nighthawks to her dealer. She was incoherent but obsessive. She had two preoccupations: the pie at Nighthawks and the possibility that the slip of paper she’d given me contained a telephone number she needed.

“Do you still have the slip of paper?” Debbie Haczkewicz asked.

“It’ll be in my purse,” I fetched the purse. Bree’s MySpace address was on one side. On the other was a telephone number. I passed the paper to Debbie Haczkewicz; she wrote down the number and handed the paper back to me. “Could you call that number please?” she said.

I picked up my cell and dialed. The person who answered was Jason Brodnitz.

CHAPTER
10

By the end of the next day, Zack had settled Peyben’s case with Evangeline, the clairvoyant, and Bree had taken a turn for the better.

Zack phoned me from the office after his lunch with Evangeline. He was riding high; he was also a little drunk. “Hey, Ms. Shreve, I just got offered a job – house counsel for Peyben – salary in the high six figures, bonuses, stock options, use of the company jet. You can quit working and become the lovely piece of fluff on my arm.”

“Gee, that just sounds like so much fun,” I said. “I take it you settled Peyben’s case out of court.”

“I did. Evangeline and I went to Peyben’s private dining room. I ordered a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé and asked her to tell me her great dream of life. She revealed that her dream was to spend a summer on the beach, watching boats bob on the Adriatic, drinking fine wine, and perfecting her tan. We had another glass of wine, and I confided that, although I wasn’t a clairvoyant, I could foresee two distinct futures for her. In one, she accepted Peyben’s generous offer and was in Belgrade soaking up the rays before Canada Day; in the other she grew old, hanging around gloomy courtrooms watching the kind of lawyers she could afford being eviscerated by lawyers like me. We ate our meal, finished our wine, ordered another bottle, and Evangeline accepted Peyben’s cheque before our mousse au chocolat arrived.

“Two bottles of wine. Want me to come and get you?”

“Nah, I have to hang around here for a while. Francesca called. She needs to see me, so Norine has managed to squeeze her in later this afternoon.”

“Tonight’s Ginny’s debate, so we’re eating early. Okay with you?”

“Everything’s okay with me,” he said grandly. “One more piece of information: Jason Brodnitz has wisely secured the services of my new partner.”

“To deal with the fact that his phone number was in Bree Steig’s purse?”

“Among other things,” Zack said. “Incidentally, I called Debbie this morning to check on Bree. They’re keeping her in an induced coma, so her brain can heal.”

“That’s good news,” I said.

“Yep. Incidentally, how old do you think Bree is?”

“Hard to tell,” I said. “Late twenties, early thirties?”

“Seventeen,” Zack said. “Gotta go, kiddo.”

“The corporate jet awaits?”

“Actually, I have to take a leak.”

“I’ll pick you up at four-thirty.”

“I don’t need to be picked up.”

“I think you do,” I said. “We pieces of fluff have to protect our investment.”

The debate among Ginny Monaghan and her opponents was being held in the gym of St. Pius School. When I arrived, citizens were not yet storming the doors to witness democracy in action, but Francesca Pope was there, sitting in the front row of empty chairs, her backpack of bears on the chair beside her, her hands folded primly in her lap. She evinced no surprise when she saw me; she simply stood up, slid her arms through her backpack straps, and walked over.

“Tell Zack I’m sorry I didn’t come to his office today,” she said. “I tried, but the lights inside were too bright.” She raised her hand to her eyes, shading them from the memory. “I waited outdoors until I saw someone I recognized. His name is Blake Falconer. Zack introduced us. He’s Zack’s partner, so I thought it would be all right if I gave it to him.”

“Gave what to him?” I asked.

“The journal I had for Zack.”

“Is it yours?”

“No,” she said. “It was Cristal Avilia’s.”

Apparently that ended our conversation. Francesca walked over to a table where someone had set out coffee, juice, and plates of cookies. She pocketed some cookies, poured herself coffee, then went back to her place and left me to my thoughts.

I wasn’t alone for long. The
NDP
candidate, a former student of mine named Evan Shattuck, came over to say hello. He was twenty-six years old, and he’d been the sacrificial lamb nominated when Ginny was riding high. When her fortunes fell, his rose, and for a brief and shining moment, there had been talk that he would take the seat. Now the wheel of fortune had taken another spin, and Evan was on the bottom again. As he held out his hand to me, he didn’t seem particularly disheartened.

“Having fun?” I said.

His smile was rueful. “I was having more fun a couple of weeks ago,” he said. “But what the hey. This is my first time out.”

“The game’s not over,” I said.

Evan made a face. “Sure it is, but I’m still going to give it my best shot.”

“That’s the spirit,” I said.

When Keith Harris came over, I introduced them. Evan was clearly overwhelmed. “I know this sounds stupid,” he said. “But even though, in my opinion, you’re on the wrong side politically, you’ve been a hero of mine since I was a kid.”

Keith shook his hand. “That means a lot,” he said. “It’s good for the process when people like you agree to run. So are you glad you’re doing it?”

Evan’s eyes were shining. “Are you kidding? Every day I learn something new and every day I meet a lot of great people. It’s a blast. Look, it really was an honour meeting you, but I’d better go shake some hands.”

After Evan was out of earshot, I turned to Keith. “Makes it harder when you like the other guy, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Keith agreed. “But never lose sight of the fact that he
is
the other guy.”

Evan was head and shoulders above Ginny’s other two opponents. He was smart and he’d done his homework. In truth, he’d overdone his homework. His answers would have earned him top marks in a seminar, but they were too long and too detailed for a debate, and the moderator was repeatedly forced to cut him off. As well, either out of nervousness or the belief that a debate was a discussion among four people running for the same office, Evan focused on the other candidates, and the audience repaid him by growing restive during his answers. He was a much better candidate than he appeared to be that night, and I found myself longing for the chance to sit down with him the next morning, go over the debate tapes, and talk about ways he could improve his performance.

Ginny didn’t need my help. She was thoroughly professional, and she was having the time of her life. Her answers were crisp, clever, and often funny. The audience loved her, and she loved them back.

“She’s having a good night,” I said to Keith.

Keith sighed. “It scares me when a campaign is going this well. I know it’s only a matter of time till the dragon crawls out of his lair and tears us apart.”

When I got home, Zack was already in bed with his laptop on his lap and his trial bag on the nightstand beside him.

“How did it go?” he said.

“Ginny was brilliant. I think Keith’s right. If she can win big in Palliser, there’ll be no stopping her.”

“You look excited.”

“Contact high from the crowd,” I said. “Politics can be a lot of fun.”

“There’s something we need to talk about,” Zack said.

“That sounds ominous.”

“It’s not good.”

I sat on the bed and kicked off my shoes. “It would be nice to have one evening that didn’t end on a shitty note.”

“Your call – we can talk in the morning.”

“No. Let’s get it over with. Better to know now than be awake all night wondering.”

Zack reached into his trial bag, pulled out a journal, and handed it to me. On the cover there was a tranquil picture of a dark-haired young girl in a silk dress sitting under a tree with her dog. There was a cat on her lap, and one on the branch above her. The girl was reading.

“That belonged to Cristal,” Zack said.

“So Blake got it to you,” I said.

Zack’s forehead creased in surprise. “How did you know about that?”

“Francesca Pope was at St. Pius tonight. She told me she couldn’t keep her appointment with you today because the light in your building was too bright. She waited outside until she saw someone she recognized.” I started to undress. “Poor Blake. Of all the people Francesca could have given it to.”

Zack’s face was grim. “No doubt about it. Blake has all the luck. And of course, he read the journal before he handed it over to me. He’s devastated, but to be fair, Cristal’s account of her life is pretty devastating.”

“Let me finish getting ready for bed, and I’ll take a look,” I said. When I had my pyjamas on, I sat beside Zack on the bed and opened the journal. The handwriting was precise, but so tiny I couldn’t read it without my glasses. I hooked Zack’s off his nose. “Can I borrow these?” I said.

“Be my guest,” Zack said. “But stay close. This is ugly reading.”

Writing in fragments, connecting her thoughts with dashes, Cristal had recorded a life of sadistic abuse with breathtaking immediacy. Nothing distanced the reader from her narrative. Every sentence was raw with pain. As I read, I could hear Cristal’s small, breathy voice, and I could feel her panic.

The journal opened with the phrase
bad day
. It was a fitting epigraph for what was to follow.

Bad day – told 3 I can’t deal with it any more. I’ll do the rest – even the ones who want me to pretend I’m their little girls, but no more hoods and no more gags – in the night my heart pounds – I’m dying because I can’t get out – choking to death – it happens – girls die. 3 says I have to trust him – our love is about absolute trust. He knows what’s best – letting a date gag me and tie a hood over my head shows 3 that I love him – knowing I’ll do whatever he wants is the way I prove my love. 3 says he never hurts my body – sometimes I think that would be easier – the worst is when he won’t speak to me or touch me – even when I’m on my hands and knees in front of him, begging him like a dog – and he ignores me until I agree to submit.

April 7 – This is hell – 3 says I have to tell N I can’t see him any more – that he disgusts me. N doesn’t disgust me – he makes me feel valuable. He gave me a book –
Portrait of a Lady
– he says I’m like Isabel. To become a lady, she had to learn to live with sadness and disappointment, and N says that’s what I have to do too. He says I’ve earned the right to be happy.

This afternoon I forgot to turn off the camera when N and I were talking. When 3 was reviewing the tapes he heard N tell me I have to get out. It’s never been this bad – he spit on me and then he walked out – anything’s better than this.

I looked up. My voice was shaking “Zack, I can’t read any more of this.”

“Just read April 13,” Zack said. “That explains why Ned was the client singled out for blackmail.”

I turned the pages of tiny handwriting. There were references to encounters with other men, but always the number three was there dominating, manipulating, wounding. Finally, I came to the notation.

April 13 – 3 made me write to N – tell him I’ll put the pictures of us on the Internet unless he pays me off. 3 says N has to learn that a whore is a whore is a whore is a whore.

April 14 – N is dead – shot himself – my fault, my fault, 3 says. He’s right. Could my 3 be 666? Evil – Evil.

I handed Zack the journal. “That day you took her the cheque, Cristal asked if you believed in evil. She was starting to see the truth, wasn’t she? She was beginning to realize
3
was a monster. Ned died because
3
had to show Cristal that she was nothing – just a whore who needed to be taught a lesson.”

Zack tented his fingers. “I guess the next question is who is
3?
The current wisdom seems to be that it’s Jason Brodnitz.”

“I can’t believe that,” I said. “Ginny Monaghan was married to Jason. He was a husband and a father.”

“Sociopaths don’t have horns, Jo. I’ve defended some. They blend in. That’s how they get away with the things they do.”

“But if Jason is such a ruthless manipulator, why would Ginny shield him?”

Zack shrugged. “Maybe she didn’t want her daughters to know their father was a monster. Maybe she was safeguarding her reputation. Living with a sadist isn’t exactly evidence of sound judgment.”

“Zack, none of this makes sense. Cristal wasn’t a stupid woman. Why would she let herself be abused like that?”

“According to Blake, Cristal thought that’s what she deserved.”

“No wonder Blake was devastated.”

“Devastated and furious. I’ve never known Blake to lose control. He’s always been able to keep it together – even when Lily was putting him through all that shit. But tonight if Jason Brodnitz – or whoever
3
is – had walked through that door, Blake would have ripped him apart.”

“More misery,” I said. I took my husband’s hand. “I want us out of this,” I said. “It’s like that old story of the tar baby – every time we touch this Cristal Avilia mess, we get in deeper. Let’s walk away. Tomorrow morning call Debbie Haczkewicz and tell her you’ll bring the journal down to headquarters. Then get a hold of Blake and suggest he go out to the lake for a few days – get some rest – figure things out.”

Zack didn’t hesitate. “Okay. I’ve had enough too.” He reached over and turned off the light. “Tomorrow will be better,” he said.

“It had better be,” I said, and even I was surprised at the anger in my voice.

The next morning when the dogs and I stepped outside for our run, the air was mild and sweet, and the sun was shining. Its beams were weak and watery, but they were persistent. The grass, after so much rain, was dazzlingly green, and the flower bed closest to the deck was shining with daffodils. The prospect of having breakfast outside was seductive.

When I got back, Zack was on the front porch taking the morning papers out of the mailbox. Pantera leapt towards his master and tore the leash from my hand. Even for a mastiff, Pantera was big and there’d been more than one occasion when he’d knocked Zack’s chair over. Zack never minded. “I’m just grateful he’s on my side,” he’d say. This morning we were lucky. Pantera was enthusiastic but restrained.