Читать книгу This Thing of Darkness - Barbara Fradkin - Страница 11
ОглавлениеStop the Carnage!” The Tuesday morning headline stopped Omar cold. He was just heading to the cash with the bottle of laundry detergent his mother had asked him to buy and the jumbo bag of chips that was his reward. She wouldn’t know about the pack of DuMauriers he’d pick up too. Using his own money, so what business was it of hers? What other twenty-year-old man was grounded to the house for a month anyway?
It had been less than three days, but he was already going insane. He’d practically begged his mother to let him go to the store for her. She was as scared of his father as he was, so it had taken some persuading, but when the old man went off to work that morning, she’d slipped Omar some house money and sent him up to Rideau Street.
His mother didn’t read English, and his father said the newspapers were all lies, so there weren’t any in the house. Since part of his punishment was no TV, he hadn’t heard any news either. That headline was the first he’d learned of the old man’s death on Saturday night. That fucking black-hole Saturday night.
The Ottawa Sun screamed the headline in its usual half-page type, followed up with more hype. “Roaming gangs to blame in senior’s death.” Beside that, there was a photo of a building with a body sprawled against it. Details were fuzzy so it took Omar a moment to recognize Rideau Street, but then fear shot through him. He pretended to be cool as he bent to look at the more conservative Ottawa Citizen on the rack below. No headlines about gangs, but a recap of the progress the police were making into the brutal beating. “We are looking at video footage and at known gang members operating in the vicinity,” some cop was quoted as saying.
Video footage. Fuck! Omar nearly bolted from the store. He snatched up the paper, and it took all his willpower to put his stuff down at the cash and wait for his change. He completely forgot about the cigarettes.
Back at the house, he shut himself in his room and read the story five times, his brain refusing to take it all in. This was bad. The guy had been beaten with a bat over a dozen times, even after he was dead. His body was pulverized, then robbed. An innocent old guy out for a walk, just minding his own business. Omar felt a dumb surge of anger. Well, that was the old man’s first mistake. What the hell was he thinking, going out for a walk on Rideau Street in the middle of the fucking night?
Then he felt guilty for the anger. The old man’s actions may not have been too smart, but no way he deserved to get beaten to death. This wasn’t Somalia, where his father said your life was in your hands every second, where just to show your face in the wrong place to the wrong person could mean a machete or a strafe of bullets. Which was why his mother never complained about his father, no matter what he did, because he’d rescued her from that. Picked her from all the village girls in the camp, brought her back here when he transferred back to Canada. Omar had already been born by then, but not too many soldiers married the village women they’d fooled around with.
His father said it was a matter of honour after the things the military had done in Somalia, and maybe that was true. His father still sent half his money over there for a village school. But Omar knew it wasn’t that simple. His dad liked to be king of the heap, and he knew he had them all by the short and curlies.
He raised his head from the newspaper. How many times had he asked himself if they’d have been better off if the old man had left them in Somalia? He knew the answer, but it was a game he played whenever the bastard tightened the screws. Martial law, that’s what this was. Once a soldier, always a soldier, and his father had been with the worst. The government hadn’t disbanded the Airborne Regiment after Somalia because the guys had handed out lollipops. They knew all about beating. And killing.
Omar wrenched his thoughts back to Saturday night. He raked his memory. He remembered something metal, something shiny like a knife. But not a baseball bat. Who the hell had been carrying a baseball bat? A knife could be concealed, but a bat was pretty fucking long to hide under your shirt. Not to mention uncomfortable when you’re sitting down. He tried to picture the four of them sprawled on the grass in Macdonald Gardens, smoking weed and talking about getting laid. He remembered jokes about the size of their hard-ons, about how far up a girl they could go. If anyone had had a baseball bat, it would have come out then.
Omar shook his head, feeling a bit better. It was possible one of them had picked up a baseball bat later during their walk, but not likely. Not too many baseball bats lying around in alleyways around here, especially when it wasn’t even garbage day.
He heard his mother’s soft bare feet on the stairs. Quickly he folded up the newspaper and stuffed it under his mattress. He pulled his math textbook out of his bag and had just flipped it open when there was a light tap on his door. As always, his mother waited silently outside his door until he opened it. She was tall, and even after four kids—plus two who died in the refugee camp, but no one ever talked about them—she didn’t have an ounce of fat on her.
Even inside the house, she kept herself wrapped head to toe in browns and blacks. His father sometimes bought her bright scarves and pretty clothes, but they sat in her closet. She looked at Omar now with her huge, sad eyes.
“You have laundry?” she asked in English.
He glanced around his room. His brothers had left their own clothes strewn around, but Omar’s own corner was army shipshape. Just one more sign of his father’s double standard. He handed her his bag of laundry, then remembered the clothes from Saturday night, still in a ball at the back of his closet. He said nothing.
She peered into the small bag and frowned. “Your jeans?”
Panic shot through him. “I’ll check if they’re dirty, I’ll bring them down to you.”
She went out and he closed the door. He ran to the closet and fished out the clothes. They were stiff with dried blood now and gave off a sickening smell. They were probably a write-off, except his father would ask him where they’d gone. He could make some excuse, but he’d never hear the end of it. The jeans had cost good money and were nearly new. He shook them out and peered at them in the light from the window. Against the dark blue fabric, it was hard to tell the stains were blood. They could have been...
He shook his head. His mother wasn’t born yesterday, she knew blood when she saw it. She’d figure he was into something hot and heavy. But she wouldn’t say a word to his father. She’d wash the stuff and never ask. It didn’t pay to ask.
He began to empty the pockets to make sure there was no weed or folded bills that could get ruined in the wash. In the third pocket, his hand closed around something heavy and cold. He pulled it out. He stared at it a moment then yanked his hand away like the object was hot. It clattered to the floor.
Heart pounding, he picked it up again. Stretched the gold band, cradled the heavy disk. It was still ticking, the hands on the gold face keeping perfect time.
Which was no surprise, because below the dial, in sleek, classy letters, was the word Rolex.
He was on the phone before he’d even thought it through. “Nadif! What the fuck happened Saturday night!”
“Sh-h!” Nadif hissed and slammed the phone down without saying a word. Omar raced down the stairs, stopped for a moment to listen for his mother, who was busy with the laundry in the basement. He ran out the front door. Only when his bare feet hit the cold pavement did he realize he’d forgotten his shoes.
Ignoring the cold, he headed diagonally across the street and had almost reached Nadif ’s townhouse when he saw the curtains twitch in the upstairs room. A few seconds later Nadif came barrelling out his front door and ran at him, grabbing his arm and dragging him behind a van parked in the laneway beside the house.
“Fuck, man! You want to get us arrested? The cops are everywhere!”
“Sorry,” Omar said. Sorry was always the first word out of his mouth when trouble started, but now he took a few seconds to process what Nadif had said. His mouth went dry. “You think my phone’s tapped?”
“I don’t know about yours, but you can sure as hell bet mine is. The cops were all over me about that old man’s death on Saturday night.”
Omar grabbed his arm. “What the fuck happened? What was in that weed! I don’t remember a thing.”
“Nothing happened. Got nothing to do with us.”
“But I got blood all over me. All over my clothes!”
“You fell off the sidewalk. So wasted you didn’t even see it coming. Fell flat on your face.”
Omar was silent a moment, testing this theory against his memory. Didn’t ring any bells. “But what about the knife?”
Nadif ’s face hardened. “What knife?”
Omar felt panic rising. “I remember a knife. I remember blood.”
Nadif gripped him by both arms and dug his fingers in. “Listen to me. Nothing. Happened. Nothing. We were out partying, we came home, you tripped and fell, end of story.”
To his shame, Omar felt hot tears gathering behind his eyes. “But I have a Rolex watch in my pocket. I don’t know where it came from.”
Nadif released him and stepped back from him almost like he was pushing him away. “I don’t know nothing about a Rolex watch. I don’t know where you got that. But my advice? Get rid of it. Now. Throw it down the sewer, chuck it in the river. Just get rid of it. And don’t ever, ever talk about this again.”
The phone was ringing on Green’s desk when he reached his office that Tuesday morning. Fearing it was Devine with another last minute demand before her job interview, he debated letting it go to voicemail, but after a long, stuffy meeting with the Provincial Crowns, any diversion was welcome.
A dulcet Southern drawl greeted him. “Inspector Green? Agent Jim Benoit of the FBI here.”
The name rang no bells. “Yes, sir. How can I help you?”
“Your department put in a search request for a David Joseph Rosenthal yesterday?”
Green masked his surprise. There was a protocol for requesting assistance from south of the border. Had Levesque deliberately circumvented it? “Yes, he’s next of kin in a death up here. Any luck?”
“Well, we found him for you. That is, we found his residence, and local police paid a visit to his wife. According to her, he’s out of the country on business, and she doesn’t know for how long. Do you want us to trace him?”
“She isn’t able to contact him herself?”
“That’s correct. According to her, that’s normal. He’s a busy man, apparently. Flies all over the world.”
“But surely—” Green stopped himself. There was no point badgering the FBI with his skepticism. He asked for the woman’s phone number, then thanked the FBI agent and asked him to carry on the search.
Afterwards he studied the information he had jotted down, an address in Baltimore that meant nothing to him. He dialled the number, listened for five rings, and braced for voicemail. He was thrown off-guard when the phone was snatched up.
“Yes!”
“This is Inspector Michael Green of the Ottawa Police. May I speak with Mrs. Rosenthal, please?”
“Who?”
Green repeated his introduction, as gentle and polite as she was abrupt.
“Oh. Is this in relation to his father?”
“Yes. We really need to get in touch with Mr. Rosenthal.”
“It’s Dr. Rosenthal, even if his father never admitted it. Two PhDs and half an MD weren’t good enough for him. Why do you want David? Did the old man die or something?”
Green abandoned courtesy. “Yes. That’s why I need to find him.”
“Huh.” The woman paused. “Well, I don’t know where he is. New Dehli, Frankfurt, Tel Aviv? He doesn’t keep me informed.”
“Does he have a cellphone or Blackberry?”
“I don’t have those numbers.” Another pause, the sound of smoke dragging into lungs. “Look, you might as well know. He doesn’t live with us any more.”
“Where does he live?”
“Take your pick. He’s got six houses. Well, maybe only four or five now. He’s had to sell a couple off. But he may not be at any of them. He has his own plane, and he’s always off wheeling and dealing.”
“Who might know how to reach him, Mrs. Rosenthal? His secretary? Executive assistant?”
“I can give you the company number, that’s all I have.” She was silent a moment, presumably tracking down the number. When she came back, her voice sounded more excited. “I don’t suppose there’s money or...whatever involved?”
“That’s not my area. But the sooner I can contact Dr. Rosenthal, the sooner you’ll know.”
That little nudge proved useful. She rhymed off the number, then added as an afterthought, “I never even met his father. David hadn’t talked to him in years, but sometimes that’s the worst kind of loss, isn’t it? For what it’s worth, at this time of year, David is usually up in Canada, duck hunting. The man loves to hunt.”
After he’d hung up, Green sighed. Duck hunting up in Canada—that really narrows it down. Hoping for more details, he dialled the number the ex-wife had given him. He got the runaround through an automated phone response system before finally snagging a real person. She passed him on, like a hot potato, to Rosenthal’s executive assistant, who was as treacly smooth as the ex-wife was blunt. But impressions could be deceiving. After oozing out the obligatory expressions of dismay, she began to stonewall.
“I will pass on this message as soon as possible, and I’m sure he’ll contact you as soon as he’s able.”
Able, thought Green with disbelief. What, when it reaches the top of his “to do” list? “Give me his cellphone number.”
“I don’t believe he’s in cellphone range. But I assure you, he will call you. Is there anything else I can help you with?” She’d reverted to her script, so he thanked her and hung up. He headed off to alert Levesque and Sullivan, hoping the secretary was right. He was anxious to get his own read on David Rosenthal, who was emerging as more peculiar by the moment.
By noon the rumour mill on the third floor was going full tilt, and snippets of gossip were seeping down to the Major Crimes Unit on the second. The first round of interviews for the Deputy Chief ’s job had been going on all morning, and the faces of candidates parading in and out of the Chief ’s private conference room were being minutely analyzed for signs of hope and defeat. Green heard that Barbara Devine had swept into the interview wearing her most conservative navy suit and practical pumps, with neutral polish on her nails and only the subtlest hint of red on her lips. He had to smile, thinking the Chief would have to have been blind not to notice the woman’s penchant for scarlet and stilettos in the past three years.
She had emerged from the interview an hour later—the longest among the candidates so far—and had flashed a discreet victory sign at her secretary. Victory was far from assured, everyone knew, but the prospect of a new boss to fill her shoes left Green feeling ambivalent. A Chief of Detectives who actually knew something about major crimes would be nice, but on the other hand, Devine’s ignorance, together with her blatant self-absorption, left him with a free rein to run his section as he chose. A new boss might be a pain in the ass.
Green was preparing for an afternoon meeting with his NCOs when his telephone buzzed. “A Mr. Fine on the line, sir. He said he left three messages.” The major crimes clerk sounded dubious. Green wondered if Fine had asked for “Mr. Yiddish Policeman”.
Green pounced on the phone. Fine’s singsong voice came through. “So, you don’t have private secretaries any more? A bigshot like you?”
“What can I say? Voicemail, automated menus... Thanks for calling. You got something for me?”
“Nothing that will do you much good, but yeah, I looked into your piece.”
“And?”
“It comes from Russia, like I thought. I’d estimate turn of twentieth century. Czarist Russia.”
“You can tell that from the gold?” Green asked, impressed. He knew metallurgists could work wonders these days. Microscopic impurities and variations in colour and content could be traced to specific locations or processing methods.
Fine chuckled. “I can tell it’s good quality gold, yes, and the workmanship suggests old-style hand-tooling. But no, I can tell that from the lettering on the back of the piece. It’s an inscription, roughly translates as To life and hope, my darling. It uses some old Cyrillic letters and spelling which the Revolution tried to eliminate when they standardized things in 1918. Not everyone gave up the old ways, so it’s not absolutely certain that it’s Czarist, but I’m guessing there wasn’t much call for these religious baubles after the proletariat took over. Jews, you know—always at the forefront of new ideas. Always hoping this one will be better.”
Green didn’t see how all this shed much light on Rosenthal’s past. The Star of David had been made before the old man was even born. “So it’s probably an heirloom passed down from immigrants who sneaked it out of the old country with them when they came.”
“Yeah. Or not so romantic, he could have bought it in any antique Judaica shop. It makes a nice gift. The chain isn’t old, by the way. Your standard gold chain you can pick up anywhere. It’s a woman’s Star of David. For one thing, the ‘darling’ is feminine, and for another, it’s more delicate than most men would wear.”
“It was worn by the victim.”
“What can I say? Some men...”
“He had a wife. At least, did have.”
“Then maybe it’s hers.”
Green turned the idea over in his mind. It made sense. Even the inscription To life and hope, my darling could have had special meaning to them as his wife struggled with cancer, and when she died—the love of his life in whose memory he had endowed an entire cancer research chair—he had taken to wearing it himself. Just as he continued to wear his wedding ring despite the passage of years.
“I wonder why the killer didn’t steal it too,” Green said. “He took the poor man’s shoes, watch, and wedding ring.”
“Maybe he didn’t see it. These are normally worn inside the shirt.”
“No, it was lying on the sidewalk beside his body.”
“Ah, that explains it.”
“What?”
“It was damaged. The chain was broken, and it takes more force than you think to break those things, like it was ripped from his neck. Plus the surface was bent and scratched. I found tiny particles of sand embedded in the gold.”
Green tried to picture the chain on the ground. “Maybe it got stepped on in the struggle.”
“Possibly, but the amount of scratching and the way the sand was embedded, it was almost like someone ground it in with their shoe. A pretty violent act, yanking it from the guy’s neck and grinding it into the pavement.”
That image stayed with Green afterwards, troubling him. The whole attack had been unusually vicious, beginning with the bat smashing the old man repeatedly when he was already down. Then the rings had been pried free, the Star of David ripped off and deliberately crushed into the ground.
Was there a message in this, or was he being paranoid?
He reached for the phone and dialled Sullivan’s cell. The staff sergeant answered on the first ring.
“Where are you?” Green asked.
“Over in Vanier. About to go for lunch.” Sullivan sounded wary.
“Meet me at the Rideau Street crime scene. Then we’ll go to Nate’s Deli.”
“The crime scene’s already been released, Green. There will be a hundred people walking over it.”
“Doesn’t matter. Humour me. There’s a big, juicy smoked meat on rye in it for you.”
Sullivan chuckled. “You springing for it, I’ll have two.”
Green printed off the stills Levesque had made from the pawn shop security tape, tucked them into a folder, and headed downstairs to sign out his staff car. He parked a block from the corner where Rosenthal had been beaten and walked slowly up Rideau Street, passing under the security camera of the pawn shop about sixty feet from the alleyway of the crime scene. He studied the photos and tried to recall the movements of the four young suspects. They had been drunk, jostling one another, oblivious to their surroundings. If the old man was standing sixty feet in front of them, they hadn’t noticed him yet. That seemed unlikely. Most people walking down Rideau Street after midnight were instinctively on guard.
Sergeant Levesque had dissected every inch of the security tape for the night in question. Besides Screech and the young black males, dozens of other parties had passed by. Couples, singles, hookers waiting for the patrons from nearby bars. Levesque’s team had been trying to track them all down, but in truth no one believed any of the others were guilty. Two were simple working girls, a couple were late-night revellers and still others looked like students from nearby University of Ottawa, stumbling home to their dorms. None had carried bats, none had looked poised for violence. None of them looked like skinheads or white supremacists who would target Jews for sport.
This morning, Screech had taken up his usual position cross-legged on the sidewalk about half a block from the liquor store. He had an empty Tim Hortons cup today, and kept his cart close at his side. The Ident Unit had confiscated his bloody sleeping bag but had given him a brand new one in its stead, so he was taking no chances. At his feet was a stack of stained pencil drawings, mostly poor imitations of Native animal art. Green doubted he sold many, but it allowed him some dignity.
Green had crossed paths with him in court a few times in his earlier days, but Screech had a vague look this morning, as if not enough brain cells were firing for him to recognize anyone. Green squatted in front of him and introduced himself, trying to ignore the stench. “Have the cops been around to ask you about what you witnessed the night the old man died?”
It proved too long a sentence, because Screech wrinkled up his nose and presented a gap-toothed smile. “Spare a loonie for a dying man?” he asked, his head bobbing as he extended his Tim Hortons cup.
Green extracted a ten dollar bill, held it out and tried again. “The night the old man was killed, did you see anything?”
“Eh?”
“Screech, come on. Did you see or hear the fight?”
Screech’s smile fled, and he whipped his head back and forth, spittle flying. He eyed the bill, but made no move to take it.
“Where were you?”
“Behind the wall.” He pointed to the brick building of the grocery store up the block. “Didn’t want no trouble.”
“From who? Was somebody giving trouble?”
Screech clamped his cracked lips shut. Green took out the photos and laid them all out on the sidewalk in front of him. “Did you see any of these people?”
Screech flicked a glance at the line-up, then averted his eyes. “Didn’t see nothing.”
“Come on, now. We’ve helped you out a lot in the past. Got you this new sleeping bag, bought you food, we even buy your drawings sometimes. If you can help us out this one time...” He registered the fear in Screech’s eyes. The street was a dangerous place for the homeless, particularly in the dead of night. Scores were settled in brutal ways. Green tucked the ten dollars into Screech’s shirt pocket and softened his voice. “I won’t tell anyone you told me. But you saw what they did to the poor old man. I just want whoever did it off the streets.”
Screech cast a wary eye up the street then bent over to study the photos one by one. Green said nothing as nearby an idling transport truck spewed hot fumes into the air. Screech paused at the four black males. “I seen them.”
“That night?”
“Yeah. Drunker than me. Hassling some hooker.” He gave his gap-toothed grin.
“Is that hooker in the pictures?”
Screech shook his head. Too fast, Green thought. “What was her name?”
“Don’t know her. Not a regular.”
“Did any of these kids have a baseball bat?”
“Eh?”
“A baseball bat? Did you see one?”
“Didn’t see nothing. Didn’t want no trouble.”
Green could almost picture Screech hiding, anxious to stay out of the way of four drunk young men fuelled by testosterone. “I know you didn’t, and you’re doing great. Did you see anyone else in these photos?”
Reluctantly, the man returned to the photos. He moved along the line-up, then shook his head and shoved himself away. “Nope.”
Green thanked him, packed up the photos, and headed up the street. The yellow crime scene tape had been removed, although a small tatter of it still hung from the pole of a nearby bus stop. The alleyway had been hosed clean of all traces of blood and brains. People walked over the spot without a care, sneakers shuffling, snakeskin boots clicking, stilettos tapping a pert rhythm. A bus pulled up and disgorged another crowd, which surged forward over the place of the old man’s death.
Green walked over to the dusty patch of weeds where the body had been dragged. A short distance but still a very cold-blooded act when you’d just pulverised the man’s brain. The body had been rolled on its side against the concrete wall, likely so that it would appear to the casual passerby like a drunk sleeping it off.
This killer was cool and collected, anticipating the angles.
Green studied the concrete wall of the building. It was spray-painted with gang tags, like dogs marking a hydrant. The Market was a free-for-all. No turf was safe.
“Recognize them?” came a deep voice from behind him.
Green turned to see Sullivan. The big man was looking rumpled and tired, flushed, as if his blood pressure was up again. “Some,” Green said. “Not all. The city is getting new wannabe gangs every day.”
