Part 6 (1/2)

”Shouldn't be too hard.”

”I know it's none of my business, but if it has anything to do with the dance teacher, remote as that possibility seems . . .”

”I'll be looking into it.”

Orwell watched her clump down the stairs. She didn't look back.

”Chief?” Roy was at his desk, holding up his hand. ”Just talked to Sergeant Turkle, headed the OPP unit. He says the Metro guys took the accused back to Toronto.”

”They what?”

”Turkle says two of the Metro guys scooped up Harold Ruth and drove off before OPP could interview him.”

”That's not good.”

Adele took her time getting back to the city. It wasn't that far away, she could have been home in an hour and a half if she'd booted it down the 401, but she took the scenic route, a two-lane blacktop running through a forest of bare trees and mud paths. Not exactly scenic in mid-March, she allowed, but perhaps it would soothe her jangled spirit to wind through the Rouge River Valley. On the far side of the narrow single-lane underpa.s.s she parked and walked into the trees a few steps until she could see the river running high with ice melt. This was a conservation area, favoured by birders and hikers, a good place to spot wild creatures if you were quiet. Like that little brown bird with the twitchy tail sticking straight up, whatever it was - she couldn't tell a robin from a c.o.c.katoo. I swear, if he was standing beside me I'd cold-c.o.c.k the sonofab.i.t.c.h. I'd tell him, Paulie, you are such an a.s.shole! Gawd! So dumb. Worse, so corny. Shot by a jealous husband. I mean, how trite is that? And pointless. And probably overdue, considering how many dicey hookups he'd indulged in over the years, and not all of them after his divorce from whatever-her-name-was. Jenny, h.e.l.l, she probably felt like taking a shot at him herself, more than once. Jealous wife, jealous husband, what's the diff? Sooner or later it was bound to catch up with him.

She had just transferred from Vice to Homicide to fill the slot vacated by the retirement of Dylan O'Grady, Paul's former partner who had expressed a desire to enter politics. There was some talk that Dylan had been encouraged to put in his papers before awkward questions could be asked about evidence that may or may not have gone missing. The general opinion was that Big Smoothie O'Grady would do well in politics. Their boss, Captain emile Rosebart, introduced them with the words, ”You two are bound to have a good influence on one another. One of you is strictly by the book, the other one can't read.”

And they did get along, made a good team. They were both quick, intelligent, no private lives. Well, he had a private life, but nothing that compelled him to make ”Honey, I'm working late” phone calls. He went through girlfriends like magazine subscriptions. Sometimes one of them would hang in there for a few months, hoping for a renewal, but sooner or later his roving eye would catch sight of someone newer and s.h.i.+nier and he'd s.h.i.+ft his attention. Some girlfriends stayed enamoured even after they'd been shelved. Some of them carried a torch for years, sending him Christmas cards and birthday presents long after they'd been replaced. And some hated his guts.

In a hundred ways he was a terrible partner: he stuck her with paperwork, with interviews, left her alone on stakeout while he ran off for a brief encounter. But where it counted, where it counted to her, he was the best she could have hoped for. For one thing, he was the first partner she had who was taller than she was. She liked that. Liked not feeling like a moose all the time. He treated her as an equal, never condescended, never bullied, and yet he had a natural courtesy that let her know he was aware of her as a woman. He never made a pa.s.s at her, or suggested anything inappropriate. Well, she could hardly blame him for that, he had no shortage of women, good looking women, and she was, as her grandmother once remarked, ”plain as a mud fence.” She could live with it, had lived with it. She knew what she looked like. But Paul was always courteous, no other word for it.

There was that one time, once when they were going somewhere and she had to put on a dress, he said, ”Hey Stretch, first time I noticed: you've got a great a.s.s.” Crude and offhand as the remark was, she carried it with her. Pitiful, isn't it? Some guy remarks on her b.u.t.t, maybe the first time in ten years anyone's said anything remotely s.e.xual to her about her body, and she treasures it.

She walked back to the car. A blue jay yelled at her. ”Shut up!” She threw a stick. ”I am in no mood to take s.h.i.+t from a G.o.dd.a.m.n woodp.e.c.k.e.r!”

And that other stuff, what the h.e.l.l was that all about? Some dead Russian? Some ballet dancer? d.a.m.n! I should have at least talked to the woman. I don't even know what she looks like. He was probably up there to get her into the sack and settled for the psychiatrist because . . . why? Who cares? Younger, prettier maybe, available, handy. Like Dylan used to say, ”Paul would f.u.c.k a snake if somebody held its ears.” Maybe he never got around to doing whatever he was in Dockerty to do. What did he do? Checked out the town, paid a courtesy call on the local cops, had lunch with the Chief, let them know he'd be nosing around - why bother doing that if he was just up there to get laid? Couldn't be. He was in town for something. He checked into a motel. Planned on spending at least part of two days in town. So? So whatever it was, he never got around to doing it. Instead he got lucky with the shrink. Paid for it.

She climbed behind the wheel and slammed the door, sat staring at nothing, muttering to herself. ”Got me talking to myself, you dips.h.i.+t!” She turned the key in the ignition. Turned it off. ”So what's your unfinished business, Paulie?” She tugged her hair away from her scalp until it hurt, until it cleared her vision.

Checked in under the name ”Smith” for Chrissake. And what's up with you and the ballet dancer? s.h.i.+t, you couldn't tell a ballet dance from a bunny-hop. All the same to you, wasn't it? People jumping around, right? You wouldn't look at a dancer unless she was swinging on a pole with her clothes off. So, something about that Russian woman besides dancing. What? Not really your type, if you had a type, but you mostly liked them a bit younger, no? This dancer is, what, sixty? Something like that. Never into old broads, were you? Or even broads your own age. You were more into the cheerleader type, babes with b.o.o.bs, or, oh who the h.e.l.l knows, maybe you were branching out, maybe you were running out of cheerleaders, maybe . . . She started the car again, this time put it in gear and started moving, heading for civilization.

But now she was stuck, now she was thinking like a cop again instead of like someone who'd been dumped without even a goodbye note. You were up there for something besides a quick roll in the hay, weren't you, Paulie-boy? You were snooping around that ex-Commie ballet teacher. But why? Why not just brace her? Why all the p.u.s.s.y-footing? Why not just pay her a visit, bang through the door? Saw you do that enough times - excuse me, ma'am, I have some questions. What questions? Were you even going to talk to her? Or were you just trying to find out what everyone else knew about her? If she was just a loon, a compulsive confessor, why bother? Why the secrecy?

What was it? A cold one of yours? Yours and Dylan's? Cases that don't get resolved are like bad debts. They keep eating at you, taunting, never figured this one out, did you, loser?

And some dead Russian in a motel room on the Queensway? What's all that about?

I don't want to know! She gave herself a mental slap. None of my business. All I want now is a long soak in my bathtub, up to my neck in bubbles, with a big gla.s.s of red wine, thinking about where I want to go for a little vacation. There's time coming. Always time off when a cop loses a partner. They'll probably make me see a counsellor, help me deal with the pain. Pain? s.h.i.+t! I'd give him some G.o.dd.a.m.n pain. Somewhere warm and sunny. Maybe a week or two in Florida would help. Maybe.

And so she paid her obligatory call on the counsellor, told her she was handling it okay, a bit shaken up, still angry but getting over it, handed her notes on the nightclub stabbing case to the other team working the same incident, they weren't getting anywhere either, packed a bag and flew down to Jamaica, got some sun, drank pina coladas, even tried some local weed, listened to some local music. No one bothered her. Maybe because she was just some pale bony broad from the north, maybe because she glared at anyone who tried to start a conversation.

Three.

Wednesday, March 16 Patty Brennan's newest horse was a three-year-old bay mare with long black stockings and a star between her bright eyes. The name in the quarter horse registry was Red Rollover's Vixen, but she was called Foxy by the woman who bred her, and Patty thought it suited her. ”She's a smarty-pants,” Patty said.

Orwell leaned over the top rail and watched his daughter brus.h.i.+ng the mare's mahogany coat. Foxy had her eyes on Orwell. ”She's watching me,” he said.

”She sees everything. Right, gorgeous?”

”Pretty colour.”

”Pretty girl. Bright as a penny.” Patty moved forward to brush along the sweep of the withers and back. ”And sharp as a tack.”

”I talked to Georgie. He says it'll take a couple of months.”

”It's sweet of you and Erika to want this. But you don't have to go through all this nonsense.”

”It's the principle of the thing. When you own property you like to think it's yours to do with as you will.”

”Sure you're not trying to get rid of me?” She laughed.

”Just the opposite,” he said. He watched her for a moment, enjoying the sight of her. For a brief instant he saw her mother. The same generous mouth, generous bosom, generous hips. A big, good-looking woman with a hint of sadness in the tiny crease between her eyes. ”I guess I'm trying to keep us all close.”

She stopped brus.h.i.+ng and turned to face him. ”There's no rush, you know.”

He suddenly felt awkward. ”You like that spot over there by the creek, right?”

”It's a perfect spot, Dad.” The mare nudged her. ”Okay, okay, get back to work, got it.” She resumed the long strokes. Foxy bobbed her head. ”So bossy.”

”I mean if you and . . .”

”Gary.”

”I know his name,” he said. ”I'm just confused. Around Christmas you were sort of hinting at a June . . . you know.”

”Well, we sort of hinted our way into . . . later.”

”You okay, Pattycakes? You upset, or anything I could do?”

”Everything's fine. We just have a few things to work out, you know, one of them being where we're going to be. In the long run.”

”And I've made things difficult, pus.h.i.+ng you to live next door.” He rubbed his face. ”I'll mind my own business. One of these days.”

She came to the rail to lean close to her father, head to head, almost as tall as him, one hand on top of his. ”Don't go all dramatic, Daddy, I love the idea of living over there, and Gary doesn't hate it, he's just, you know, an independent guy, wants to make sure he has some part in things.”

”Well, whatever you want, sweetie. You know.” He stepped back. Smiled and shook his head in wonder. ”Sometimes, in a certain light, you look so much like your mom.”

”Does it make you happy, or sad?”

”Both. Mostly happy. And it's only a flash, just in a certain light, or a certain angle, I don't know. Most of the time you look just like you, which has to be one of the best looks on the planet as far as I'm concerned.”

”I like your big face, too, Daddy.” The mare came up behind her and b.u.mped her again. ”No, that's enough for you,” Patty said.

The crows in Armoury Park were cawing as she walked by, telling the world all about her. The most unmusical birds in the world, she was sure. She hated it, that they were so unmusical. She'd been almost enjoying the morning, but now the rain was starting and the crows were complaining about it. Raspy shrieking, no doubt pa.s.sing the word along that she was on her way, bringing rain with her. Gossips and liars. And thieves.