Woman Chased by Crows (21 page)

“None of that. I have the feeling if she wanted to skip town there wouldn't be much we could do to stop her.” His phone rang and he snatched it up before a second ring. “Brennan.”

“Got a shitload of messages on my desk, most of them from you.”

“Hello, Detective. How was Jamaica?”

“Terrific, my nose looks like bad wallpaper. Still haven't found Paul's weapon, if that's what you were calling about.”

“On my mind, naturally, but other things have come up and I think you, or maybe someone looking into the Nimchuk murder, might want to come back up here.”

“Nimchuk? Who's that? The Russian?”

“Sorry. Yes. The Russian. The mystery man on the Queensway. Murder weapon was quite possibly a .357 Smith.” There was silence on the other end. “Doesn't mean anything, Detective. Lots of those around.”

“I guess.” She sounded calm, professional, dispassionate. “I don't know a lot of people who lug around a big-ass six-shooter these days, but they could be making a comeback.”

“Could have been stolen from a collector. That happens. Getting ahead of ourselves, anyway. Peel doesn't have much of the bullet.”

More silence. Papers rustling. Finally, a loud hooting laugh and a sharp echo, as of a hand hitting a steel desk. Then, “Of course it's
his
gun! Who
else's
gun would it be? Why the fuck
wouldn't
it be his gun?” He heard a desk drawer slam. “Thank you, Chief. Thanks a
whole
lot. This is
perfect
.” Another pause, and a sound that might have been a chuckle, or a stifled sob. “I'll get back to you.
ASAP
.” And she hung up.

Orwell looked up at Stacy. “Didn't get to tell her about the smugglers and the jewels.”

“Rocked her?”

“She thinks it'll turn out to be . . .”

“His gun,” she finished for him. “Or else it's another huge coincidence.”

“Entirely too many of those, wouldn't you agree? Okay, Detective Crean, what are you going to do?”

“How big do you want to go, Chief?”

“Be discreet. I don't want to put out an
APB
if she just went to the drugstore.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But I would like to know where she went.”

“She said she'd let me know if she was going to leave town.”

“Did she let you know?”

“I gave her my card. It's got my extension on it.”

“Check your messages.”

The ticket was good to Union Station but she got out one stop early, at Danforth and Main. She needed to make sure Grova hadn't moved his pawn shop, or burned it down, or lost it in a card game, or died, like everyone else. How many years was it? The last time she saw the troll? Ten? More? Had to be more. She was in Winnipeg four years. Four and a half. When she came back, she stayed away from this part of the city, avoided the old crew. They found her anyway, but that was her fault.

It was eleven years. She remembered it now — the year, the season, even the day of the week. A hot, humid Sunday night on the Danforth, sitting in the back room with Viktor and Vassili, talking about survival.

Ludmilla would have been dead by then, but they tried to believe that she was in her new life in California with her big black musician husband. It was a good thought to carry. Viktor knew better, of course, as did Grova. It was just she and poor Vassili who were still clinging to the story of Ludmilla's magical escape. Escape was much on her mind that year, that night.

Viktor and Vassili were still arguing about the stones, had been since the beginning. There were so many, but the numbers always came out uneven and they couldn't agree on the split. Vassili argued that since Viktor had already lost a small fortune in Montreal, he should give up a percentage. Viktor countered with the inescapable fact that they wouldn't have
any
jewels if he hadn't brought them into the country. That started another round of fighting about how Viktor had ruined all their lives.

In the beginning, before they had begun tearing it apart, the crucifix held forty-eight diamonds, all roughly two carats, twenty-three pearls, exceptional ones, all the same size and colour, and four extravagant sapphires, deep blue, more than five carats each. The cross and chain could be melted and sold for weight. Grova said he would handle that part of the operation. They decided not to take so drastic a step unless and until it was absolutely necessary.

The big question was what to do with the Ember. Vassili and Viktor didn't trust each other, and neither one trusted Louie enough to let him hold it. And at some point during the endless arguing they agreed that Anya should carry it until a decision was reached. And while they were arguing about diamonds and sapphires and gold, she made it disappear. “It is hidden away,” she told them. “It is safe, and you cannot find it, and I will not tell you where it is. It is too well known for you to sell. It would be your death warrant. Its only value is as insurance. If someone catches up to me, if they find me, I want something to bargain for my life with. You and Vassili have all the other stones. They are worth more than the two of you put together, unless you are so stupid you lose them, or give them away like the last ones.”

“Nobody gave anything away.”

“Yes? How much money do you have in your pocket?”

And Grova? What were you doing that night, you troll? Sitting in your dark corner, surrounded by your mountains of junk, quietly planning how to separate Viktor and Vassili from their treasure. Wondering where I'd hidden the big prize.

She took the pearls to a jeweller in Winnipeg. Pearls are perfect; they're anonymous. She told the gem merchant a sad story of her great-grandmother. He might have believed her. It didn't matter. He brokered them for her, took twenty percent. She got enough to keep her alive for a while. She didn't tell Viktor or Vassili where she was going. They had the sapphires and all the diamonds big and small to sell. They had each other to keep an eye on. She didn't want to be near them.

Adele's apartment was as welcoming as ever: nothing edible in the refrigerator, a sink full of dishes, the new
Vanity Fair
she'd bought for the trip still sitting on the sideboard under her coffee cup and Pop Tart crumbs. Home sweet home. She put the bag full of Paulie's crap in the breakfast nook like an unwelcome guest. “Sure you don't want some coffee, Paulie? Fix you some really shitty instant. No trouble.”

Sole beneficiary, was she? Well
he
damn well wasn't
her
sole frickin' beneficiary, that's for sure. Her sister's name was on
that
line of the form; a replacement for her mother's name, once there, grudgingly, because it was too much trouble to think of anyone else. Finally got around to removing it a year and a half after the bitter old woman died. But here she was, Paul Delisle's sole beneficiary, of pension, insurance . . .

Okay, enough dicking around, open it. She didn't feel like messing with the goddamn staples. She sawed the top open with her mother's breadknife, spread the contents across the table. Christ, look at this. Clothes, shoes, shampoo, tweezers, floss, combs, hair goop — “Paulie, you are such a
dude
.” More beauty products than she had in her bathroom — Italian loafers, stinky Adidas, notebooks, mini-cassette recorder, pens, watch, phone book, business cards, wallet, keys, pictures of his daughter, baby pictures, birthday pictures, school pictures, “Danielle soccer” and the date, last year, what is she? Fourteen? Birthday in October. He always got her something. The only person he gives a shit about.
Gave
a shit about.

Stuffed inside a sneaker in an envelope marked “
DELLA
,” she found a mini-cassette for the recorder. He was the only one who called her that. As far as she could remember he was the only person who'd ever given her a nickname.

“Hey, Della. If you're listening to this . . . well, you know what happened, or maybe you don't, hell, maybe
I
don't, but whatever the specifics . . . I've checked out, right?”

She swatted the machine. Made it shut up. Shit! Her knees unlocked and her back slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, wishing she had a drink, wishing she was still in Jamaica.

“Well, how do you start a thing like this?”
It was the voice she remembered from nights of stakeouts and waiting: familiar, conversational, intimate.
“All the stuff, you know, pension, insurance, car and whatever, I've got to let you deal with it. Sorry. Don't have anybody else I can count on to take care of things. You'll have to handle it however you think best. If I know you, you're probably already worried about Danielle. I just never got around to organizing a fund or any of that stuff. She's still a kid, and I don't trust her mother not to make a grab at it. Anyway, when you have the time, get a lawyer to work out some system so Danielle can get some of it, for school, or leaving home, I don't care. Whatever you think makes sense.”

She heard a chair scrape. Where was he? Probably at home. She heard a siren far off. Middle of the night. Sitting in the dark, giving her his last will and testament.

“Don't do yourself in the eye, all right? Executors are entitled to a percentage. Should that be executrixes? Whatever. You're stuck with the job, Stretch
(another nickname)
, like who else can I trust? Right? So make sure you get the full share coming to you. And for sure keep the car, it's a great car, and any of my stuff you want, got a great
TV
, fantastic sound system, and my blues record collection you lust after, I know you do.”

She remembered one night after work when she was in his place for a beer, both on their way to some department nonsense, never made it, spent all night listening to his collection: Muddy Waters, Howlin' Wolf, Robert Johnson, he had them all. Sitting in the dark across from him, watching him handling his precious
LP
s with the same dexterity he finessed a basketball, or a set of cuffs, sliding the platters in and out of their paper sleeves, lifting the tone arm on his vintage turntable, adjusting the volume on his precious McIntosh amp. She, slightly stoned, watching his hands dancing in the lamplight, hearing the passion in his voice as he introduced her to Sonny and Brownie.

“I mean, you and Danielle are the only two people I actually give a shit about, so you figure out the split and I'll be fine with it.

“Okay, that's it for my last will and testament. Feels weird saying this into a tape recorder. There's some other stuff you need to know about, job-related, so I'll maybe put that on a different cassette. You'll need to play this one for the lawyer.”

There was a long moment's pause. She could hear him breathing into the microphone. Finally,
“Sorry to dump this on you, Stretch, I know you hate all this personal stuff. But hey, how do you think I feel?”
And then his laugh, infectious, wicked. She smiled in spite of herself.