Part 11 (1/2)
Orwell stopped in the middle of the walk and fumbled for a handkerchief. Erika always supplied him with a fresh one before he left home, he just never remembered which pocket he'd put it in. His old friend looked back with a trace of a smile and gave his umbrella a twirl in the opposite direction.
”Yes, that would be an interesting case for a lawyer,” Orwell said carefully.
”The thing is,” Georgie started, ”what case? Has he been charged? Has he been brought in front of a judge? Have you heard from him? By my watch, he was disappeared for almost seventy-two hours.”
”He's here now. OPP have him in custody.”
”I know. I'm on my way to see him,” Georgie said. He started walking again. ”He finally got his phone call.”
Orwell's laugh was brief, but genuine. ”And he called you.”
”It's not like he's spoiled for choices up here. Barristers who've actually done a murder trial, I mean.”
”When was your last one, Georgie?”
”I'd have to check my files. I believe the firm had just purchased its first electric typewriter. State of the art it was. Yessir.”
”I'll bet you were a big hit with the polka-dot bow tie and the 'aw shucks' country lawyer routine.”
”That I was, my friend, that I was.”
They stopped near Argyle's s.h.i.+ny bra.s.s shrine. ”You'd think with all the money they spent on this place they could have stuck a roof over the porch,” said Orwell. The two men looked at each other for a moment. Georgie grinned, Orwell sighed. ”Henceforth I suppose we'd best exercise extreme discretion where this subject is concerned.”
”Ah h.e.l.l, I don't know. I might not be up to it.”
This time Orwell's laugh was full-bellied. ”You might aw shucks a jury, my friend, but it won't work on me. Any minute now, you'll start breathing fire.”
”I just might,” Georgie said. He spun his umbrella one last time and then furled it. ”If nothing else, I'll have him back on the street before five. Least I can do.”
”Oh dear,” Orwell said. ”Gord Blumberg is in for a fight.” He opened the door and waved Georgie through.
Anya dozed most of the afternoon, curled up on the little couch, listening to the rain dancing on the fire escape. Once, she got up to see if the cat was back and to check the lane between the buildings. No sign of cat or killer.
”Is this George?”
”Yep.”
”This is Anya Daniel. It is true Edwin is gone for a week?”
”Yeah, says he'll be back next Tuesday. Something about his sister's in the hospital.”
”Who is driving tonight?”
”We've got four working tonight, because of the rain. You'll have to wait ten, fifteen minutes.”
”Is that woman driving? What is her name, Olivia?”
”She's on a run up to Fenelon Falls. She'll be back in an hour.”
”I do not like her, anyway. Who else is driving?”
”The new guy.”
”What new guy?”
”Name's Simon. He's filling in for Ed.”
She hung up. She did not trust new guys. New guys were always suspect. She would walk home. They will not kill me. Not while they are still looking for it. And they will not do anything stupid, not while there are police poking around. You have to bide your time. Stay very quiet. You think you are close, you must be close, you have eliminated all the other possibilities. And as long as you think I have it, you will be careful. Oh, who knows? You might get frustrated, grab me off the street, threaten me with pain. But I do not think you are ready for that yet, are you?
What does it matter anyway? There is only so far a person can run, only so long you can keep running. After a while you give up. Or lose your mind. Or they kill you. Or you kill them.
Steady monotonous rain without electricity or thunder. Vankleek Street was bare of pedestrians. Cars went by with wipers slapping, the people inside were dry and warm and listening to music. She let the rain plaster her hair to her scalp, ruin her shoes, soak the shoulders of her coat. She did not care. She broke her prime rule and took a direct route, straight down Vankleek where at least the lights were bright.
Past the Royal Hotel. Music called to her from inside, a woman's voice, one of those black women who sing like they are on their way up to heaven. She remembered the Royal had a snug bar away from the pool tables and the big screen television in the main room. Inside it wasn't crowded, even in the big room. The smaller room was deserted except for a nuzzling couple in a corner booth, and a young man with dark, curly hair standing behind the bar. He reminded her of someone she once danced with - the curly hair, sharp nose, curved like that bird who eats pine cones. No. Not a dancer. He reminded her of Ludi. That nose.
”Vodka,” she said. ”Is it cold?”
”I keep one in the freezer,” said the bartender. ”But it's the premium stuff, Absolut.”
”I will have two or three,” she said. ”Probably three.”
”Ice, twist?”
”Do you have any caviar?”
He laughed. ”No.”
”Then just vodka, straight, in a small gla.s.s.”
”Still coming down, eh?” he asked as he poured the shot.
”Of course,” she said. ”I only drink when it is raining.”
The Chief arrived at the back door of the Irish House at the same time as an overloaded delivery guy from Mama Rosa's Pizza, who was wearing a poncho like a pup tent to keep rain off the six extra-larges in his arms. Orwell graciously held the door for the lad, then followed him down the hall past the His and Hers. The Pride of Erin, as the pub was bravely named, had a large back room suitable for gatherings. A hand-lettered sign reading ”Reserved for Private Function” was propped on a chair by the entrance. The sign had seen much use over the years and was stained and creased from revelries past. A Guinness representative pa.s.sing through town the previous month had festooned the place with harps and silly hats and there were tenacious shamrocks and b.l.o.o.d.y leprechauns everywhere. Orwell was sure remnants of St. Patrick's feast would stick around until the Halloween decorations went up.
Cheers for the arrival of food were followed almost immediately by hearty but respectful greetings as the Chief stepped in. He gave them all his most comradely handshakes, one after the other, with extra attention paid to the guest of honour, to whom he expressed the Dockerty Police Department's official appreciation for twenty-five years of service, as well as the Chief's personal good wishes and hopes for a comfortable and well-deserved retirement. He then presented the man with a medallion affixed to a small wooden plaque, and held a pose and a handshake long enough for the official and unofficial photographs. Having done his duty, Orwell accepted a cup of coffee, declined a slice of pepperoni and mushroom, and eased his way to the edge of the crowd.
As retirement parties go, the one for Billy Meyer was subdued, but it was early yet. The Chief, by no means a teetotaller, was nonetheless abstemious in public. Things would liven up after he'd gone and after the family men headed home. Dermot Grice, the publican, would be selling more drink to fewer people once the old hands settled in for war stories and lies.
Orwell's plan was to stick around for the presentation of the going-away appliance, collect Leda from rehearsal down the street and be on his way home by 9:30. Not that he was in a rush to return to the domestic fray. Erika was pointedly not speaking to him. Patty was in her bunkroom in the barn, polis.h.i.+ng saddles and weeping. When he took her supper, he'd been told to go away. How one generous impulse could have ruined so many lives was beyond him. Let's face it, if they were really right for each other, this situation wouldn't have wrecked things. And if it did, perhaps it was good that they confronted their incompatibility now rather than later. When he made that observation to his wife, he'd been met with stony silence, although after she'd stalked out of the bedroom he was sure a stream of German invective had trailed her down the stairs. His b.u.t.tons were only half-polished. He was definitely in the doghouse if she was willing to see him leave the house in that state.
He spotted Stacy checking in with Staff Sergeant Rawluck. As one of the designated drivers, she would be on call until everyone else was safely home. It was understood that while Orwell was easygoing in many areas, he was the fist of doom on the subject of alcohol and driving under the influence thereof. G.o.d might help a Dockerty cop caught behind the wheel with liquor on his breath; the Chief wouldn't.
”Evening, Detective,” he said.
”Good evening, sir. Thought you'd like to know, I got a hit on one of those names.”
”One of the missing smugglers?”
”Yes, sir. Female, Ludmilla Dolgus.h.i.+n. Montreal. Body was found inside a refrigerator at a dump site.”