Torque (13 page)

Whether all three items, or just the letter,
represented a link to his past it was tangible evidence that one of
his vague memories was actually a live person. Fenn’s past had
always been relayed through second-hand accounts and rumours. The
package was a connection to someone who could fill in the gaps, and
having just received it Fenn was not about to give it up.

The party broke up around nine p.m. with
Carole’s suggestion that Dieter stay with ‘poor Chas’ overnight,
and Dieter’s exegesis that ‘poor Chas’ probably wanted to be alone
at a time like this.

Asha gave Fenn a hug and a peck on the
cheek.

“Call me if you need me.”

And then they were gone. He pushed the door
against the jamb, and put the broken TV behind it to keep it
closed.

Casually waving her tail, Mogg sniffed her
way around the apartment. It hadn't been quite this clean for a
long time, although it did look a bit beat up. Fenn went to the
bedroom and brought out the bubblepack envelope. The postmark was
dated two days previously and stamped in Hamilton. He examined
again the disc, the figurine, and the letter that began with
Dear Charleton,
and ended with
Your Father
.

He read the signature out loud.

“Stanislaw Svoljsak.”

He said it in the same flat tone his mother
had used, on the rare occasion she spoke of the man who had bailed
on her. Fenn could only recall him coming around a few times. Once
they had gone to the zoo and had ice cream. Or was it the circus?
His mother never smiled much during these visits and Fenn hadn’t
understood why his parents’ relationship was so different than
those of his young friends. It just was.

Dear Charleton,

Getting this package from someone you have
not seen in over twenty-five years will no doubt be a surprise.
Frankly, I did not expect to be sending it though I have wanted to
contact you for some time. Believe it or not, I have never
forgotten that I have a son, yet I understand I have no right to
expect any consideration from you after all this time.

Your mother and I married too young and life
was not easy where we came from. I never had the means to support
more than myself although recently I have come onto something with
interesting potential. The information on the enclosed archive is
valuable to the right party, and I need to keep it somewhere safe
for a while.

If you want nothing to do with me I will
understand but I send this package as an olive branch. It could
profit us both financially as well as personally, though getting to
either point may be complicated. I will try to contact you soon but
if for some reason I don’t then do with these things as you see
fit.

Your Father,

The signature was neither formal nor
messy.

It was impossible not to be emotionally
stirred yet Fenn was determined to remain rational. His mother
always maintained her runaway husband was trouble, and Fenn’s
destroyed apartment could attest to that. But curiosity is a great
motivator and he could count his living relations on both thumbs.
Or could he?

With the line,
I will try to contact you
soon but if for some reason I don’t then do with these things as
you see fit
, the letter had the flavour of a dead drop. And, if
Fenn was honest with himself, he had next expected to hear of his
father through the obituaries.

In the quiet apartment, without distractions,
the stress of the day began to weigh in. Fenn felt a chill that
morphed into a shiver. He lay down on the sofa’s ruined cushions
and pulled a blanket over his legs. By the time Mogg came to join
him he was well into a series of disjointed dreams.

== == ==

He awoke in a sweat. An alarm was sounding.
No, it was the phone. What time was it? Eleven thirty p.m. He'd
only been asleep for ninety minutes.

He nudged Mogg off his chest and untangled
his legs from the blanket. The phone persisted. Fenn wove an
unsteady path across the room and dragged a chair to the desk.

“Hullo?” There was silence on the line.

In no mood for games he said, “Speak or I’m
hanging up.”

“Is this Charleton Fenn?”

“It is. Who are you?” More dead air. Fenn
rubbed his eyes. “Look, if you’ve got something to say, let’s have
it. Otherwise, don’t bother me.”

He was about to disconnect when the caller
galvanized.

“I’m sorry to have to bother you at this
hour, Mr. Fenn, but I think we can be of service to each other. My
name is Brittany Reis.”

CHAPTER
20

Thursday, October
22nd

Morning fog had rolled in off the lake and
drenched everything as thoroughly as rain. It was one of the thick
ones that felt like mist and looked like smoke and seemed to slow
down time. Cars crept from driveways and were smothered until their
taillights flared like soft red fireballs. Darkened limbs, mostly
bare of leaves, shivered and dripped and hit or missed pedestrians
some of whom carried umbrellas but saw no advantage in having them
open. Time drifted on. The day had begun, though the daylight would
be slow to arrive.

Slow was fine by Fenn who had the senescent
Muriel Stafford beside him. Slow was Muriel’s top speed but since
the morning rush was a morning crawl, she fit right in. For the
first time in four sessions Fenn was able to get her onto main
streets with real traffic. They followed a delivery van along
Lakeshore Road and Fenn, gazing out his window, caught an
occasional glimpse of the mansions that the local realtors loved to
sell.

“What do you think of these places, Muriel?”
Fenn said mainly to divert his driver from her fixed stare.

Keeping her focus on the truck in front she
replied, “I think they’re overpriced and overtaxed; but I’d take
one in a heartbeat if the keys were offered on a plate.”

Fenn agreed. He’d been inside several when
picking up students, and could have happily lived in most, though
had never seen any with apartments to let. Granny flats, yes, with
grannies installed, but no rentals. Finding a new place to live
might be difficult, especially if he had to give references. After
yesterday’s trashing of his apartment Mr. Bedeer was unlikely to
offer a glowing referral.

Muriel piloted on. Shoulders up, elbows out.
She was hanging on to the car rather than driving it.

“Sit back and relax, Muriel, and loosen your
grip or you’ll wear yourself out.” Fenn glanced up at his own
rear-view mirror. The car behind was maintaining a judicious space.
The fog prevented seeing beyond that but Fenn was pretty sure they
were leading a parade.

“Let's turn right onto that side-street,” he
said. She made the corner staying more or less in her lane without
Fenn having to apply his instructor’s brake. Muriel tended to get
the pedals mixed up but, today, she was responding well to his
verbal commands. They circled the block and came back onto
Lakeshore Road. As they approached the shopping district, traffic
began to bunch up in front as much as it had behind.

On the left, a motel seemed to be the center
of some attention. The small parking lot was host to four police
cars, a fire truck and an ambulance. The presence of an SUV with
the banner of a local media station on the side signified the event
might be more interesting than a basic heart attack.

The fire crew was milling about, hoses still
on the truck, and one of the police vehicles was an incident van.
Fenn put his money on serious bodily injury. A stabbing, a
shooting, or maybe a suicide. Oddly enough, he felt strangely
connected to it.

He put it down to sleep deprivation, and that
the previous day’s events were still resonating within him. After
all, he had been the victim of a violent act followed by veiled
threats over the phone late at night. The caller had said he was
swimming in dangerous waters, her actual words, and that he should
hand over the contents of the package in exchange for a finder’s
fee. He hadn’t slept much after that.

Muriel applying the brake brought Fenn back
to the present. Cars ahead were stopping for a red light.

“What do you think is going on over there?”
he asked when they were stopped, hoping for an opinion more
objective than his own was at the moment.

Muriel allowed herself a glimpse through the
side window.

“That’s a seedy motel. I’m thinking some
smack-dealing pimp got whacked by his ‘ho’.” Her expression was
deadpan but she cracked a grin at Fenn’s look of surprise.

“My grandson was over watching that music
station, MTV, the other day,” she explained. “Since then, I haven’t
been able to find the remote to change the channel.”

The light turned green and Muriel’s foot
started to lift off the brake. Fenn belayed that.

“Hold on a second. Scan the intersection
first.”

A cyclist with wet brakes slipped across in
front of them.

“Wassup wi’ that jive fool,” she said.

Fenn laughed. He was starting to really like
Muriel.

== == ==

Detective Inspector Lareault finished his
examination of the unit’s small bathroom and edged past the
forensic specialist applying dust to a light switch. He took a
position where he could watch the medical examiner without blocking
the light and unwrapped a stick of gum. His disposable mask only
buffered the smell, he hoped the spearmint would keep it out of his
throat. Dennis Collier straightened up from his crouch and stepped
back from the body.

“This one’s older, somewhere in his fifties.
That aside, there are several similarities to the one we examined
across town, last week.” The coroner peeled the latex gloves from
his hands by pulling them inside out, and folded one inside the
other.

“Approximate time of death?”

“Rigor mortis has run full cycle and judging
by the blisters, secretions, and gassing I would estimate between
three and four days ago. The heat was off and the unit was pretty
cool so that slowed decomposition down a bit. Once I get him in the
lab I’ll be able to give you a more exact time.”

“And this one also had a needle mark?”

Collier pointed to a small wound. “Just below
the shoulder blade, like the last one. The killer tries to
camouflage them with scratch marks.”

“One would have done it,” said Lareault,
taking in the discoloured rows of nail trails on the victim’s skin.
“I’ll get my sergeant to canvas the local call girls, though I’ve a
feeling there’s more to this case than a hooker with a hypodermic.
Do we have toxicology for the Durrell case, yet?”

“Now, Evan.” Collier gave the policeman’s
shoulder a fraternal pat. “When has Toxicology ever sent you
anything in less than a week?”

“Just thought I’d ask.” The detective eyed
the dustings of fingerprint powder on various surfaces in the room.
“Has Cy pulled any completes?”

“Several belonging to the victim, and a few
unknowns. The effluents helped. The blood you can see is from him
biting his tongue.”

The videographer arrived to make his
unflattering documentary so they made their way outside. The mist
still hung about but damp was better than foul. A constable in a
raincloak came forward with his notepad in hand.

“Sir,” he said, addressing Lareault but
looking at his notes. “The motel registry shows the deceased has
been renting the unit since August third of this year. He
registered under the name Stanislaw Svoljsak, the same as on his
driver's licence.”

“Does he have a car?”

The constable peered into the fog. “It’s that
Buick next to the ambulance.” He referred back to his book. “The
manager said the rent was paid a month ahead, and that he kept
mostly to himself. A quiet tenant.”

“Was anyone seen entering or leaving the unit
recently?” said Lareault. “In particular, the period between Sunday
night and Tuesday morning.”

“We're still knocking on doors, but,” the
officer flipped a page, “a Mrs. Francine Albert in 8B did notice a
tall slim woman with long dark hair, short dress and high heels,
entering the deceased's unit a little after one in the morning on
Tuesday. She, that is Mrs. Albert, had just finished watching a
movie and went to draw the curtains when she saw the woman crossing
the lot. Mrs. Albert described her as ‘a right tart’, sir.”

Lareault stifled a smile. “Thank you,
Constable. Keep knocking.”

Collier had his bag in hand. “Well I’m off,
but drop by the lab later this afternoon. I should have something
for you by then.”

The medical examiner went in the direction of
his car and Lareault headed for the victim’s Buick. He was about to
ask a nearby constable to locate the keys for it when he was
yoo-hooed from above.

“Yoo-Hoo! Hello! Officer!”

Hanging over the rail of the second floor
catwalk was a woman, late fifties, wearing a once white terrycloth
housecoat, matching slippers, and something resembling a knitted
tea-cosy on her head. She waved a magazine at him. “I just
remembered something—you got a minute?”

== == ==

Unit 8B had the same layout as the one
below. The stains, though, were more consistent with coffee and
cooking grease. It also appeared a lot more lived-in despite the
tenant’s futile attempt to make it appear less so.

“Let me just turn the telly down. You can’t
get too much Oprah, can you.” She seemed unconcerned with the
robe’s inability to keep her contained while she stooped for the
newspapers on the floor.

“Park yourself in a chair, Luv. Want a
coffee? Sorry, we’re out of tea.
Oh
, that’s the cat's chair.
A bit furry. Yes, the other one’s fine.”

She paused her commentary to look for a new
place to drop the papers and Lareault dove at the opening.

“You must be Mrs. Francine Albert. Am I
correct?”