Part 40 (1/2)
”What d'you think? Anything we can use?”
”What we have is a steaming pile of circ.u.mstantial, conjectural and conditional, and not one shred of irrefutable.” Stacy poured a cup of coffee for Adele, turning her head to avoid the whiff of pepperoni and cold tomato sauce. ”Hard to build a murder case when all the prime witnesses are either dead, or have guilty knowledge.”
”Not quite the 'nuke-ular weapon of ma.s.s de-f.u.c.king-struction,' is it?” Adele went to the window, sipped coffee and chewed leftovers, watched the southbound traffic building on the Don Valley Parkway below. A cruiser with lights flas.h.i.+ng was weaving through the traffic flow, chasing someone. Adele watched until it disappeared from view. She snorted. ”Darryl's gonna need a month at Betty Ford before we can put him on the witness stand.”
”I don't think we'd make it that far,” said Stacy. ”We've got recordings, illegally obtained, from a questionable source, and who knows what's been done to them? Any half-decent lawyer gets them tossed pretrial.”
”Well f.u.c.k! Just for my own pathetic amus.e.m.e.nt, partner, give me the highlights.”
Stacy checked her notes, plugged in a ca.s.sette, reset the counter to zero and hit fast-forward. ”This would have been good but the television's on in the room so some of it you can't hear.” She hit stop. ”Dylan and Louie. I get the feeling it's in the stairwell because of the echo.”
”Is it loaded?”
”Keep it wrapped . . . want . . . your fingerprints on it.”
”. . . it yours?”
”Do what . . . all right? Hide it . . . your s.h.i.+thole.” (sound of feet clumping down the stairs to the street) ”Shut your f.u.c.king mouth, forget all . . . when I want it back.”
”Like when?”
”Mind your own f.u.c.king . . .” (traffic noise, door closes) ”Okay, okay, I'm just saying . . . Motherf.u.c.ker, Jesus, f.u.c.k f.u.c.k f.u.c.k.”
Stacy stopped the tape. ”Sounded like Dylan was handing over Paul's gun.”
”Yeah, well we know it sounded like that, but like you say, worthless.”
Stacy popped in a new tape. Found the spot she was looking for. ”This is Dylan and Louie again. Talking about where Nimchuk was staying. Maybe.”
”Where on the Queensway?”
”It's a motel. All he gave me was a number.”
”Give it to me.”
”He just wants to talk.”
”I'll call him.”
(aspect changes, another room, unintelligible exchange, door opening, voices faint but clear) ”He's afraid of you.”
”Nothing to be afraid of. What's he holding? He say?”
”He just wants enough to get away from here.”
”No problem.”
(outside door slams) ”So that happened before he stashed the gun with Louie, right?” Adele asked. ”He had the phone number. No trick for an ex-cop to find out where it came from. He pays Nimchuk a visit at the motel, maybe picks up some jewellery, pops him, then comes back here to hide Paulie's piece. Does that add up?”
”Sort of. I'm playing them in the order they were in the box.” She cued up the next ca.s.sette. ”Here's a good one except it sounds like Darryl recorded the first part on toilet paper. We've got O'Grady, Grova, Siziva and, somewhere in the background, Citizen Grenkov.”
(unintelligible, possibly in the kitchen) ”. . . going on?” (Dylan) ”This . . . to meet you.” (Louie) ”Yes, good ev . . . is Siz . . . , . . . gei . . . ziva.”
”. . . the moose?”
”. . . my protection.”
”. . . is?” (chuckles) ”(unintelligible) to stay out . . . worth s.h.i.+t . . . tear him a new a.s.shole.”
”. . . civilized, okay? Neutral ground. Mutual interests . . . in . . . differences.” (Louie) ”. . . listening. . . . a cold beer at least? . . . f.u.c.k no, I've seen how you wash your gla.s.ses. You? Siz . . . what?”
(Random noises, a short exchange in Russian. Yevgeni's voice is recognizable. Sound of beer cans being popped open. Swallowing, burping.) ”Okay . . . called this . . . on your mind?”
”We . . . mutual interest. . . . tor Nim . . .”
”Who he?”
”. . . should. . . . not play games. I . . . he . . . happened in Montreal.”
”. . . Nimchuk . . . ything? . . . who gives a . . . anyway? Nothing to do with me.”
(Three minutes thirty seconds unintelligible. Possible move outside.) ”Wait a bit,” Stacy said, ”it gets better.”
(Closer to mic. Entering living room?) ”. . . a big man, and that makes you untouchable, you think. Yes?”
”That's not a threat, is it?”
”But, you admit, currently you have much to lose.”
”Careful Ivan. You don't want to p.i.s.s me off.”
”When you were a policeman you had much more control over a situation, yes? You had a gun, a badge, a code I suppose. Now you are a public figure. You seek elected office. Your image is important.”
”Cut the c.r.a.p. What do you want?”
”I believe we have mutual interests and can help each other get what we seek.”
”Get me another beer, Louie. And you, tell your big friend to sit down. He's not making me nervous, he's making me angry.”
(Brief exchange in Russian. Yev is heard grumbling.) ”I'm sure you don't want an altercation in this place, my friend, with all the secrets it might contain. We wouldn't want to attract the attention of the police, would we?”
(sound of a beer can releasing gas, chair sliding) ”All right, whatever your name is, I'm listening.”
”Viktor is worried about what might happen.”
”Happen?”
”To him. What might happen to him.”
”Why should anything happen to him?”