Part 35 (1/2)
”Fast worker, my Paulie.”
”And you have statements?”
”From all concerned,” said Stacy. ”Once we brought him in he was happy to tell his story.”
”Couldn't shut the f.u.c.ker up.”
”Made him feel better. He seems to think his actions were entirely justified.”
”Maybe two hundred years ago. In Spain.”
”Or last week, in Tehran,” Stacy said.
”I told you it was his d.i.c.k that got him killed,” Adele said.
”My my.” Orwell allowed himself a rueful laugh. ”Ha! Vain old coot that I am, I thought Doreen was flirting with me.”
”They all flirt with you, don't they, Chief?”
”This was more than flirtation. What's her story?”
Stacy consulted her notes. ”Doreen McCallister. Told her boss she had a headache and needed to see her doctor. Left work at 2:30 p.m., met Paul Delisle in the parking lot of the Hillside Chef, drove with him to the Sunset Motel. He drove her back to the Hillside parking lot at approximately 4:15. She went back to work.”
”Bet her headache was all better,” Adele said.
”Unfortunately for all concerned, Edwin Kewell was delivering a fare to the Jiffy Lube across the highway just when Doreen and Delisle were exiting the motel. He followed them back to the Hillside Chef and saw her go back to work, then he followed Delisle to Dr. Ruth's office where he waited for a while, but had to leave because calls were piling up.”
”How'd he happen to be at Lemongra.s.s?”
Stacy turned a page. ”Drove Ms. Zubrovskaya to her building at 8:30, then went back to the Sunset and parked. He says he just wanted to talk to Delisle. He saw Delisle drive off and followed him to Lemongra.s.s. Followed him in but didn't confront him, sat at the bar and watched him. Said Delisle was coming on to both servers, Kelly and Lara. Then Dr. Ruth showed up and they left. He followed their two cars to the motel. Went around to the back.”
”With a ladder.”
”And his Winchester.”
”Tsk tsk,” Orwell clucked. ”That's looking premeditated.”
”What really p.i.s.sed him off?” Adele was baffled. ”He said Paulie was being unfaithful to Doreen by chasing someone else the same day. In some weird way he thinks he was defending her honour.”
”Everything was by the book? Phone call? Read him his rights?”
”All recorded, Chief, and a stenographer.”
”All right. I'll let you two inform the OPP. Hand it off. Tell them to tread carefully. You never know, Mr. Kewell might hire Georgie and my daughter.”
”Sam, time to blow the DPD's horn. You ready?”
”Shoot.”
”Detective Stacy Crean of the Dockerty Police Department, in cooperation with an investigator from Metro's homicide unit, have made an arrest in the murder of Detective Paul Delisle. The man's name is Edwin Kewell. K-e-w-e-l-l. Resident of Omemee, drives taxi for Dockerty Cab Co.”
”That's it?”
”You'll have to check with OPP for anything else. It belongs to them now.”
”Will Diana be defending him?”
”Ha! Very funny. I have no idea what her plans are.”
”Just wouldn't mind seeing her in action again.”
”I wouldn't mind seeing that myself, Sam.”
In Orwell's world, the taking of whiskey had a ceremonial character; there was form to be observed, a level of appreciation that went beyond the mere enjoyment of triple-distilled Irish spirits. It was (for the most part) reserved for those occasions worthy of a toast - a victory, a momentous development, the resolution of a complex problem - and since he considered the lifting of a gla.s.s an intimacy not to be wasted on people with whom he had no connection, most of the time he savoured such moments alone in his little cubbyhole office under the stairs. Tonight was different. He had company. A beautiful woman was touching her gla.s.s to his, looking deep into his eyes as she raised it to her lips, smiling broadly as she swallowed.
”I wish I'd been there,” said Orwell. He knew that he too was grinning.
”I started talking, and something took over,” said Diana.
”You were in the zone.”
”Even Georgie was impressed.”
”I'll bet that was the most fun he's had in a while.” Orwell lifted his gla.s.s again. ”Proud of you,” he said.
”Thanks, Dad.” She knocked back the rest of her whiskey. ”How's your fishlet?”
”Keeping a low profile, just as you suggested.” Orwell poured them each a second tot, added a like amount of water to his, contemplated for a moment the light from his desk lamp dancing in the amber. ”Must be hard going back,” he said. ”Tax law won't feel nearly as exciting.”
”I won't be going back.”
That turned his head. ”This is news.”
”Well, I'll be going back for a while. Work out the separation agreement, as it were. Probably cost me a few bucks.” She had a sip, c.o.c.ked her head to match her father's quizzical expression. ”This feels right,” she said.
”What feels right?”
”Georgie says Rhem, Treganza and Swain need some fresh blood in the firm.”
”Since both Treganza and Swain are long gone to their rewards, it's probably time,” said Patty. Orwell's eldest filled the doorway. There wasn't room enough for three bodies inside the room. Nor was there a third chair.
”Hey, sweetie,” Orwell said. ”Just in time. May I pour you a dram?”
”Would, but can't. Driving to Uxbridge later. Gary and I are looking at a new stud just arrived in the neighbourhood. Great bloodlines. Might be a good mix with Foxy. If the stud fee isn't too steep.”
He raised his gla.s.s again. ”So, what do we drink to this time? New horizons?”