Part 25 (2/2)
”Did it for you.”
”He brought Jamie here and gave him the lecture. Yada yada, you're going to wind up dead or doing time and the only person on the planet who gives a s.h.i.+t whether you live or die gave up on your sorry a.s.s a long time ago, yada yada.”
”Did it work?”
”Oh yeah. For a while. Jamie was clean for a year, more than a year. He wound up dead anyway.” Her gla.s.s was empty. The bottle was empty. ”I'm over it now. You have to get past things like that.” She was holding the empty gla.s.s in one hand and the empty bottle in the other. ”Paulie didn't have to do it. But he did it. I can't hate him.” She put the empties on the coffee table. ”Question is . . .”
”Is?”
”Do we go out, or do I try to sleep?”
”Long day.”
”Yep. Long day.”
The bar was dimly lit and spa.r.s.ely populated and within walking distance. The bartender recognized Adele. ”Hey, Del. Where's the big guy?”
”Oh, you know, probably chasing something blonde. Give me a half of the house red and a Perrier for my driver.” She led the way to a table in a quiet corner. ”I don't want to get into it tonight,” she said. ”I'll tell him some other time.”
Stacy had a careful look around. ”This a cop bar?”
”s.h.i.+t no, hookers and dart players. Hate cop bars. Nothing but cops.”
”Don't like cops tonight?”
”I like working with cops, most cops; don't like drinking with them. Cop talk. Tonight they'll be cop-talking about you-know-who and how he f.u.c.ked up and maybe shot somebody and stole some jewels, got his head blown off, and I'd wind up getting into a fight with some a.s.shole.”
The server put the wine and water on the table and Stacy handed her a twenty. Adele couldn't locate her wallet. ”This is mine,” Stacy said.
”Okey dokey,” said Adele. She lifted the carafe and slopped some on the table. Stacy took it from her, filled her gla.s.s neatly and wiped the table with a napkin. ”I'm getting there,” Adele said.
”You've probably worked it out for yourself, you don't need me rubbing it in.”
”Go ahead.”
”If I was building a case, if I wasn't teamed up with you and getting involved in your version, if I was coming into this cold, I'd be looking at Paul.”
”Yeah. Me, too.”
”He had the gems, his gun might be the murder weapon, he was at the Beaches crime scene. He took diamonds from there.”
”All that. I see all that. Only thing in his favour, he wasn't in Montreal in 1982 because in 1982 he was playing college basketball in Syracuse.”
”Right. Good place to start. When did Paul and Dylan team up?”
”Dylan quit football in 1982, broken toe I think. Went to the police academy. Got his s.h.i.+eld twelve years later. '94. His first partner retired in '96. In January '97, Dylan is teamed up with Paulie in the homicide unit.
”They called them the 'Jock Squad.' Basketball star, six eight, two hundred pounds; Argos defensive tackle, six five, two seventy. I saw them in action a few times when I was in uniform. Impressive team. The kind of d.i.c.ks you really don't want going through your laundry and bothering your customers. And you definitely didn't want to p.i.s.s them off.”
”Scarier than you and me?”
”Not as polite. n.o.body f.u.c.ked with them.”
”They got along?”
”Closed a lot of cases. Paul didn't talk too much about it. I know he had to cover for Dylan a few times. Par for the course, right? I was always covering Paulie's a.s.s. But I got the impression it was more than that. Paulie wouldn't rat out his partner, but there were plenty of rumours around the division. Things went missing, defence witnesses didn't show up when they were supposed to, not everything got turned in. Once in a while Paulie would let something slip, like some guy we busted who had a suitcase full of cash. Paulie said, 'Put Dil's twenty percent in a separate bag.' It was a joke, but later he said, 'Forget I said that.'”
”How about when you were with Paul? Was he straight arrow?”
”See, that's the weird part. We were together five years and seven months, and he never once made a sleazy move. He was always bending the rules in his favour, and he got raked over the coals plenty for how he got results, but I never saw him take a bribe, or a free lunch, or even hint that we could get something extra if we wanted to.” Adele picked up the carafe and swished it back and forth a couple of times. She put it down without refilling her gla.s.s. ”Possession of stolen jewels? Out of character.”
Stacy leaned closer. ”So I'm thinking, if the Russians didn't mess up the p.a.w.nbroker and likely cause his heart to explode, and if his son didn't do it, and if the dancer lady didn't do it . . .”
Adele took a moment to work her way through what Stacy was talking about. ”There's somebody else out there. Who we missing?”
”There's the brother. The other Grova.”
”Montreal Grova? Nope. They called him at home. He's pus.h.i.+ng eighty. He'll be here tomorrow to collect the ashes.”
”Releasing the body already?”
”They hurried it up. The Grovas are Jews. They don't leave dead bodies around if they can help it.”
”That's nice. You should talk to him anyway.”
”Not my case. I'm staying clear.” She looked at the empty gla.s.s. ”What's he going to tell us?”
”Who knows? Maybe who else might be involved. They were doing stolen jewels in Montreal, too.”
”That they were. But what, twenty-five years ago?”
”Which is when the first smuggler got herself killed.” Stacy pulled out her notebook. ”Ludmilla Dolgus.h.i.+n. That's one dead body your partner didn't have anything to do with. Then there's the second dead smuggler.”
”Nimchuk. The jury's still out on that one.”
”Not him.” She turned a page. ”That would be . . . Va.s.sili Abramov. He's the dead guy in the Beaches with the diamonds in his pocket. Eight years ago. Another one your partner didn't kill.”
”Probably.”
”I'd say pretty sure. So add it up, somebody has been knocking off the smugglers one by one, and you can't stick it all at your partner's door. Because if he didn't do the other two, if he just did Nimchuk, then that's a really big coincidence.”
”Seriously.”
Seven.
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