Woman Chased by Crows (42 page)

“We aren't in the Soviet Union.”

“Of course. But what would happen if I accused that man of being a criminal? Put it a different way, what if I had accused the
other
man, the red-haired man of being a criminal?”

“
Are
you accusing him?”

“You just proved my point.”

“I did?”

“Of course. You were ready to tell me to go to hell. This man was your partner, yes? And because of that, you would defend him to the death.”

“Wouldn't bet money on it.”

“Now say some deranged Russian dancer told you your partner was a crook. You would say, who is this crazy woman? She is the one with assassins in all her closets. She is the one who makes false confessions, and reports stalkers twice a week, and changes her name all the time. You would say the woman is certifiable.”

“
Did
you tell Paul that his partner was a bad man?”

“My uncle never spoke of the five years he was gone. He went back to being a woodcutter. And he never complained about anything ever again.”

“Ma'am, just answer the fucking questions, okay? Did you say anything to Paul about his partner?”

Anya smiled slowly, blew smoke at the ceiling. “Oh yes. We had a long talk. Just the two of us.”

“What did you tell him?”

She had another drag on the cigarette, taking her time, not caring that Adele was shifting from foot to foot. “They came to my apartment one night to question me about a body they found in the park. Viktor Nimchuk was there. I thought Viktor was going to have a heart attack when he saw the black man. I wanted to get them out of there so I told them a lie. I said I did it. They took me in for questioning. The red-haired man was very nice. He drove me home. He said it was very bad to confess to things you had not done, that it wasted their time and made it difficult for them to take anything I said seriously. He gave me his private number and said if I ever felt the urge to confess again I should call him first.”

“Did you call him again?”

“Do not run ahead. When I got home, Viktor was gone, but he phoned right away — he was in a bar down the street. He wanted to know if I was alone. He was very drunk. He was very scared. He did not want to come back up; he asked me to meet him, to make very sure I was not followed.

“He said he would have to run away, that I should run away, too. He said the black man was the man who killed Ludi.”

“He said that? How would he know that? Did he witness it?”

“No. But he knew. He knew because he helped them hide the body. They used Louie's van. They put poor Ludi inside a refrigerator and took her to the dump. On the way they dropped the refrigerator on the black man's toe. They made up a story to tell Vassili, about a musician who took her to California. After that they had to stay away from each other for a while. That is why Louie moved to Toronto, to get far away from whatever happened. When Ludi went to Montreal she was carrying a sapphire.” She pointed to the photograph. “
That
sapphire.” She butted the smoke, made certain it was out and tossed it into a wastebasket. “What should I do?” she asked them “Should I accuse one policeman to another policeman? In the world I come from that would never be a good plan.”

“Let's say that right now it's the only plan,” Adele said.

“You are really after this man, yes? That is good. I am pleased with both of you.”

“What can you tell us?”

“I can tell you that this man paid a visit to Louie on the night he died.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know that because I saw him leave. I did not see him arrive, but I did not get there until 3 a.m. or so.”

“You were there?”

“Across the street. I was watching. I am good at that, the way you two are. I saw him leave. Then I called Louie from the phone booth, but he did not answer.”

Dockerty's police chief proudly, somewhat ostentatiously and most deliberately, arrived at the Dockerty Restoration Society's luncheon driving his freshly washed and waxed 1987 Dodge RamCharger with chrome accessories gleaming. His blue dress uniform was pressed, his brass and gold trim bright. And Erika had provided him with
two
snow-white handkerchiefs: one for propriety and one in case he got a spot of mud on his shiny shoes. Orwell Brennan wasn't exempt from the occasional surge of vanity, but concern for his appearance was in this case a pardonable offence, a mental girding (and guarding) of his loins before entering potentially hostile territory. Women made up a substantial percentage of the society's membership, and many lived on the Knoll, thus it was reasonable for him to speculate that not all were fans. As he dismounted, he caught sight of himself in Bozo's big side mirror and allowed that he did look rather impressive in full regalia.

The Restoration Society reception was being held in the newly refurbished greenhouse/conservatory complex at Borden College, a bright and airy (if somewhat humid) space filled with flora from far and wide. Some of those attending had flowers on their hats, which seemed a tad superfluous to Orwell, but then women's hats had always baffled him.

Unlike the Chief, Gregg Lyman never needed reassurance that his shoes were shined or that his tie was knotted properly. He was at all times prepared for a photo opportunity. Today he was dressed in a suit of sincerest grey wool matched with a plum tie over a pale lavender shirt. His lapel held a discreet gold maple leaf pin. His hair was impeccable. When he spotted the Chief entering the room, he excused himself from an attentive circle and strode across the floor with his hand out. “Chief Brennan, this
is
a pleasant surprise. I've been looking forward to meeting you for some time. I'm Gregg Lyman.” He gave Orwell the full sparkle of his expensive smile.

Lyman's grip was firm, but not too firm, eye contact was maintained without blinking, and to emphasize his sincerity, he added the overlay of his left hand to the top of the squeeze. Orwell was tempted (but only for a flicker) to top off the hand sandwich with his own massive paw but resisted the impulse as unnecessarily
herrisch
.

“Mr. Lyman, a pleasure. How goes the campaign? This is your first one, isn't it?”

“At this level, yes. I did run for class president in high school. Lost in a landslide.” This prompted a ripple of sympathetic laughter from an obviously smitten gathering. “How about you, Chief? Ever throw your hat in the ring?”

“Never had the impulse,” Orwell said. “I have a hard enough time getting a consensus at the dinner table.” The ripple of laughter had a somewhat different character this time, a note of relief — the boys were going to play nice, and the Chief wasn't going to be mean to the charming Mr. Lyman.

“Chief, allow me to introduce the chairperson of this year's fundraising committee, my lovely wife, Cheryl.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Lyman,” Orwell said.

“Chief Brennan,” she said. Her press was cool, brief and single-handed. “Mrs. Brennan not with you today?”

“Alas, no. My wife is up to her chin in plans for the beautification of the Brennan Estate. I believe this year we're digging a lagoon.”

“How nice. I'm so sorry we won't get to meet her.” Cheryl Lyman had the lacquered look of a woman who had spent all morning preparing for a public appearance. She was, if anything, even more carefully put together than her husband. Her ash blonde hair was perfect, her designer frock was appropriate and her single string of pearls tasteful in the extreme. She was the picture of the rising candidate's wife. Her smile, however, couldn't quite hide the stainless steel at her core. Orwell knew instantly that if Gregg Lyman was the public face of the campaign, Cheryl was its motivating force. “Chief, we're hoping your officers will be able to help our campaign this year.”

“Which campaign are we talking about, Mrs. Lyman?”

She didn't bite. “We're trying to raise funds to clean up that awful stretch on the north side of the locks. It is quite unfortunate, don't you think?”

“A worthy cause, I'm sure,” said Orwell. “Have you checked with the owners?”

“I understood it was township property.”

“Some of it is, I think. But quite a bit of it belongs to the brickworks and the wrecking yard.”

“Those are the very places we're targeting. They're both terrible eyesores.”

“Well, the brickworks has been abandoned for many years, although I couldn't tell you who owns the property right now. The wrecking yard, I'm afraid, is a going concern and unlikely to relocate.”

“Businesses like that should be kept to the outskirts of a community, don't you think?”

“When they were established, those
were
the outskirts,” said Orwell. This brought forth a murmur of recognition from some of the senior members of the congregation. “How long have you lived in Dockerty, Mrs. Lyman?”

“I've been away for a while, but my family has been here for many generations.”

“Then I'm sure they'd remember the Bannock Brickworks. It was a thriving enterprise in the twenties and thirties.” This prompted one or two nods of confirmation.

“Have your people been here that long, Chief?” Lyman asked.

“Me? No, no. I get all my local history from the library.”

“Ah, there you are, Chief.” Mayor Bricknell was making her entrance, timed to the second, neither late nor early, a working executive with a tight schedule. Donna Lee was the anti–Cheryl Lyman. Her outfits tended toward the frumpy and discordant. Today she was mixing narrow stripes and big dots. Her glasses were hanging sideways on a chain, and, as was often the case, her hair had strayed from its assigned order. She looked just fine to Orwell. Donna Lee clasped his hand in both of hers. “I'm so happy you could spare us a little of your valuable time.” Her smile was genuine.

“My pleasure, Mayor Bricknell. Always happy to support one of your causes.”

She nodded graciously at the Lymans. “Gregg, Cheryl — how nice to see you together. Given any thought to a date for our debate?”

Lyman gave a vigorous noncommittal nod. “My staff is looking at our schedule for a possible time.”

“Great. Have your people get in touch with Mr. Frith here.” She turned her shoulder just enough to exclude the Lymans from any position other than audience. “Chief, you haven't met my new press secretary, Cullum Frith. Chief Orwell Brennan, the man who keeps our streets safe.”

“A pleasure, Chief.” Mr. Frith was lean, dark and had an assassin's eye. It crossed Orwell's mind that Donna Lee was taking the election seriously. The Lymans were in for a scrap.

“Mr. Frith, nice to meet you.”

“Chief, I'm hoping we can get a shot of you and the Mayor together.” In a series of smooth moves he steered both Orwell and Donna Lee away from the Lymans while giving a discreet signal to a young woman with two cameras slung around her neck. Orwell recognized Sam Abrams' eager young reporter, Kathy somebody. “Maybe over by these flowering bushes.”

“Chaenomeles japonica,”
Orwell said, “flowering quince.” He heard the distinct intake of a half dozen breaths from the flower ladies. “Lovely, aren't they?” A dozen women in flowered hats were nodding approvingly. The man knows his plants.

“Nice touch,” whispered Mr. Frith.

“My wife has Vita Sackville-West's ghost on speed-dial.”

“Oh my yes,” said Donna Lee, loud enough to be overheard, “Erika's garden is becoming quite famous.”

Orwell knew for a fact that Donna Lee Bricknell had never set eyes on his wife's garden, nor had she to his knowledge ever called Erika by her first name, but as a public relations move it was on target. The lines had been clearly drawn. Donna Lee Bricknell and Orwell Brennan were united.

As Orwell took his place beside the Mayor, bending his knees a bit to reduce the height differential, he spotted the Lymans on the far side of the room, near a large yucca, having a whispered conversation. “I think you won that round,” he muttered through his smile.

“That was just batting practice,” she whispered. “Game hasn't even started yet.” She lifted her chin as the flashes went off.