Woman Chased by Crows (47 page)

“Nanya! My goodness. How wonderful! To
see
you! My darling! Come in here! Give me kisses!
More
kisses. Let me look at you. Ach! You are as lovely as ever.
But
. Of course, your hair . . .
Something
must be done! You agree?”

“That is why I am here. Perhaps you can work a little magic on this wreckage.”

“A new man?”

“In a way.”

“Oooh. Lovely. You must tell me all about him.”

“He is quite dangerous.”

“Wonderful. We will make you irresistible.”

When Anya left Arabesque three hours later, she did look, if not irresistible, certainly acceptable. Her skin was glowing, her hair was a chic tousle of platinum feathers and even her forlorn hands and aggrieved feet had been pampered and soothed.

Gita sent her on her way with an admonition never to stay away so long again, and gave her an address just three blocks distant where another old friend would be sure to greet her just as warmly.

“Anushka! My goodness! How long has it been. Good Christ don't tell me, I don't want to know.” Alain Abaire's establishment, Redemption
,
dealt in high-end fashion and vintage couturier consignments. Even the super-rich, it seemed, ran out of closet space from time to time. “And you have kept your figure. Bless your heart. So many of us have not. I myself, as you see, have become a blini. It's happiness, does it. My lover cooks. He is killing me with kindness.”

“An outfit, Alain. Daytime, in public. Something tailored, perhaps, not frivolous.”

“Secretary of State?”

“Satan's emissary, come to collect an overdue soul.”

“Oh, well then, you'll want Chanel.”

The hotel wasn't four-star, but it was pleasant enough. Her crusade was after all being financed (posthumously) by Louie Grova, and she considered it only fair that she keep her expenses within limits. Honour also demanded that she spend every penny on the assault. Her own resources were limited, and the battle ahead might go on for some time. She hadn't taken Louie's cash box because she wanted his money; wars require financing.

Poor Louie. What a sad way to go, tied to a chair, surrounded by his things, and not one of them of any use. He could not even lift his head to see who was climbing in through the window. She stood in the kitchen doorway and heard his last rattling breath. There was no way for her to help him. Louie was a goner.

She left no trace of her visit. The scene must not be disturbed. Louie's killer might have made a mistake before he departed, slipped up somehow, left a fingerprint or dropped a glove. Probably not. He was a careful and clever man. But you never know, it is often the little things that cause the most damage.

And Louie, you should have changed your hiding place once in a while. Ten years ago, while Vassi and Viktor were in the living room arguing about God knows what and she was on the back porch smoking and breathing in the humid summer air, dreaming of Dubrovnik, she caught sight of him through the filthy kitchen window. Saw him pull back a tile from above the sink and cram in a wad of bills. The tile was greasy and grimy and stuck in place with rotting grout and glazier's putty. Behind it was a black tin box and rolls of cash clenched in rubber bands. She loaded her pockets, replaced the box and the tile and went back out the window. “Goodbye, Louie,” she said.

In the motel room she counted out the money on the bedspread. It came to $8,400. She was expecting a fatter nest egg, but who knows: Louie might have had more than one hidey-hole.

Concealing the cash wasn't difficult for an experienced smuggler. Her brown coat had secret pockets that had served her well on many trips and across many borders. Ludi had sewn it for her many years ago. Clever, sweet Ludi. This is for you as much as for me.

A hundred dollar donation to the campaign fund gave her an O'Grady button and a complete schedule for the coming week. She could mix and match elements of the two Chanel suits and the three blouses in the new wardrobe to furnish her with several outfits for the crusade. It was important that she always look her best. If necessary, she could make a quick trip to Redemption
for something fresh to wear. She intended to be there until the victory party on election night. And perhaps beyond. Perhaps she would follow Dylan O'Grady all the way to Ottawa and sit in the visitor's gallery during question period. The money would be enough, if she spent it wisely. Louie would get a good return on his investment.

The man waiting for Orwell was a little person, less than a metre tall, with long arms, short, bent legs and a rolling gait. Orwell felt a fleeting twinge of embarrassment as he bowed to shake the man's hand.

“Police Chief Brennan, how do you do? My name is Mikhael Tomashevsky.” His hand wasn't small: his grip was strong, and he was unruffled by the size of his host. He had dealt with taller men.

“Mr. Tomashevsky, hello.”

“Mikhael, please, Chief. Thank you for seeing me.” His accent was under control, his English was precise and formal. “Would you care to see my credentials?”

“Maybe you could just tell me who you represent.”

“The Russian Ministry of Culture.”

“Right. Yes, well that makes sense. I've been expecting someone to show up. Come on in.” He led the way into the office and pointed to a chair. “Please, sit down. You're here looking for a missing treasure?”

“In one way or another, we have been looking for it for many years. I myself have made seven trips to Canada.” He lifted himself neatly into a chair and hooked the toe of one shoe behind the opposite ankle. One pant cuff slid up, giving Orwell a glimpse of a metal brace. “Before me there were three other individuals assigned to the case.”

“Really?”

“Not permanently. I myself have not looked into this particular matter for several years.”

“This particular matter being the Ember.”

“That's right. That gem and the cross were part of our national treasures.”

“I was told that the crucifix was broken up and sold piecemeal over the years.”

“Yes. That is unfortunate, but not uncommon. People on the run, needing money.”

“But some of the gems have been returned.”

“
Located
, not returned. That will take a while. Provenance, identification. It is necessary to be certain.”

“Of course. Can I offer you some coffee?”

“I am floating already today, but thank you. You have a very pretty town.”

“You think? I guess. This isn't its most beautiful time of year. In another few weeks though it will start looking very nice.”

“It is the same where I come from. In April, things . . . improve.”

“So. How can I help you?” Orwell said.

Tomashevsky opened a small, leather-bound notebook. “Let me see, I would like to talk to one of your officers, a Detective Creen.”

“Crean.”

“Yes, thank you. Would she be available?”

“She's on assignment in Toronto right now.”

“Oh dear. And I just came from there. When will she be back?”

“I'm not exactly sure. Later today. Tomorrow, certainly.”

“Good. Good. I'll see her then. And I would also like to talk to Anya Ivanova Zubrovskaya.”

“You don't need my permission for that.”

“I find it's best to be as clear about my intentions as I can be.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Of course, but it is really for
my
benefit, Chief. If I'm not precise I can get confused. Two days ago I was in Washington, D.C., looking for a Rembrandt. Next I fly to Berlin.”

“I hadn't considered that aspect. I guess you're chasing after a lot of things.”

“Half the treasures in the world are in the hands of people who don't really own them.”

A sigh was heard to pass Captain Rosebart's lips as Stacy and Adele walked into his office. A sigh or a barely audible moan, Stacy couldn't be sure. “Am I going to love this, or am I going to hate this?” he asked.

“You'll definitely love it,” Adele said, “and maybe hate it a
little
, but mostly love it.”

“Why?”

“Because
I
fucking love it.”

He looked at Stacy. “You love it too, Crean?”

“I have enjoyed being part of it, Captain.”

“Your boss send you down here again?”

“I have his blessing.”

“Keeps throwing you at me, like I'm supposed to do something about it.” He turned to Adele. “All right, let's hear it, and keep the F-bombs to a minimum, if you please.”

“Certainly, sir. Paulie's off the hook for the Nimchuk murder.”

“Okay, I don't hate that part. How'd you pull that off?”

“It wasn't his gun.”

“You can prove that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lay it on me.”

“We've got tapes you need to hear, things to look at, we've got statements, interviews.” She nodded in Stacy's direction. “We're building a case.”

“A case against anybody in particular?”

“This is the part you might hate a
little
.”

“Because . . .”

“Because we think that a former detective with this squad, who is now running real hard for a vacant federal seat, is responsible for three, make that four, deaths.”

“Oh fuck,” said Rosebart.