Part 46 (1/2)
”Well, get her in here. I'll have no conspiracies.”
Dorrie put a finger to her lips.
Stacy found her boss standing by the window, staring out at the street.
”I'll have my report ready for you in ten minutes, Chief. Just have to print it up.”
”Fine, fine, no rush. Sit down.”
”Yes, sir. Something come up?”
”There's a man in town, from the Russian Ministry of Culture wants to talk to you. And to Ms. Zubrovskaya of course. She on her way back?”
”I think she took an early train. I can pick her up.”
”If she's around I want to talk to her. And Dr. Ruth, too. I want both of them, separately or side by each, I don't care, see what you can do, will you?”
”Right away.”
”Good.” He turned his head. Dorrie had the Chief's coffee and newspaper and a jelly donut on a paper napkin. ”What's this?” he asked suspiciously.
”We took up a collection,” she said with a straight face.
He pointed at Stacy. ”Both of them. As soon as.”
”On it,” she said. As she left she caught a glimpse of him wiping a drop of raspberry jelly off his bottom lip.
Adele had no such constraints on what she was allowed to eat for breakfast, or lunch, but she had no appet.i.te this morning. Her last substantial intake had been a handful of macaroons followed by most of a bottle of Spanish red and she was experiencing a certain level of internal discomfort. She might also be carrying the plague judging by the wide berth her colleagues were giving her this morning. Or maybe she needed to change her deodorant. Or it could have something to do with the black cloud hanging over her head. She could feel it pressing down, almost see its dark shadow as she walked. Her mother would have said the Angel of Death was hovering near. That was how she talked: angels of death, ends of days, wages of sin, she loved saying the words, her mouth would curl into a mean smile as she p.r.o.nounced upon Adele's head the swift and sure retribution of a vengeful . . . f.u.c.k, long after the hag was dead and buried and her preaching silenced, those images continued to plague her. Out of my head, you old witch. I'm doing my job.
”Moen, get in here!”
”Captain?”
”We've got a situation.”
”What's up?”
Rosebart had the drawn look of a man who had spent far too many hours parrying blows and some of the shots were getting through his weary defences. ”G.o.dd.a.m.n! O'Grady has two bullet holes.”
Adele's stomach lurched and she sat down heavily. ”I'm gonna take a wild guess that he didn't shoot himself twice.”
”Or even once. The ME says he's got a big hole going in, two holes coming out. Looks like somebody shot him, put the gun in his hand and pulled the trigger over the same hole. Only they didn't line it up just right. Second shot came out half an inch higher than the first one.”
”Holy Jesus!”
”You got that right.”
”His gun?”
”Oh yeah. His service piece. Looks like he checked it out as soon as he checked it in. I'll be wanting some answers from whoever screwed up down there.”
”Where do you want me?”
”Good question, Detective.” Rosebart rubbed his face. He hadn't shaved very well, probably used the crummy electric he kept in his desk. His sigh sounded a trifle melodramatic, but the pain in his eyes was genuine. ”Goo-ood question. If I had half a brain I'd chain you to your desk so you couldn't bring me any more grief.”
”But.”
”Yeah, right, but. But maybe you should get your a.s.s back up to Dockerville . . .”
”Dockerty.”
”Whatever . . . and find out what that loopy dancer lady was up to last night, because as I have it in one of your reports,” he waved a stack of papers at her, ”which I'm reading far too frickin' many of these days, she likes to sneak out of her hotel room in the middle of the night.”
”She was in plain sight when Dilly took off.”
”Was she in plain sight at 03:00 when, according to the ME, he popped his clogs?”
”I don't see it.”
”I don't give a c.r.a.p. According to you, she was on O'Grady's case all day yesterday.” He swivelled his chair around to show her his back. His s.h.i.+rt had a dark sweat stain down the spine. ”And that other Russkie. Serge? Track that a.s.shole down, too. Find out if he can account for his actions all night. Do that forthwith.”
”Yes, sir, forthwith.”
He waved the back of his hand at her. ”With any luck it'll get you out of my sight for the day, and that's not a small thing.”
”Yes, sir.”
”And don't talk to any G.o.dd.a.m.n reporters, hear me?”
”Yes, sir.”
”b.u.g.g.e.r off.”
”Yes, sir.”
Stacy had no luck at either Anya's apartment or her studio. Likewise with Dr. Ruth, whose office was locked and house empty. She checked the bus schedule. The first bus from Whitby had pulled in an hour ago. She checked the Timmies at the mini-mall on Vankleek and took a slow cruise from the bus stop and back to the apartment building, then made a return trip to Dr. Ruth's locations as well. Nothing.
On her way back to the station the complexion of the day changed significantly. Adele called from the city with the news that Dylan O'Grady hadn't departed this life without help. Adele said she was coming up. She needed to talk to Anya Zubrovskaya. She also wanted to know where the f.u.c.k ”Serge” was since as far as she could determine, he too had left the city. Citizen Grenkov had no idea where Sergei might have gone, and as far as he was concerned it was immaterial as long as Sergei stayed far away from him.
”He says Serge came by in the middle of the night and packed his stuff, so who knows, he might be on the run.”
”Dang. And our little dancer's gone missing, too.”
”Be there about two o'clock, give or take. I'll call when I hit town.”
Dorrie directed her to go right in. Stacy found the Chief in a meeting with a very small man whose eyes lit up when he caught sight of her. When the man got up to shake her hand, it had the odd effect of making him shorter than when he was seated, but it was a courtesy he would have insisted upon under any circ.u.mstance. ”Detective Crean,” he p.r.o.nounced perfectly, ”it is a pleasure.” When he shook her hand she noted that his hand was almost as big as the Chief's. ”I am Mikhael Tomashevsky,” he said. ”Chief Brennan has been singing your praises for the past fifteen minutes.”
”How do you do, sir,” she said.
”Grab a seat, Stacy,” Orwell said. ”Any luck?”