Читать книгу The Dells - Michael Blair - Страница 12

Very little surprised Hannah Lewis anymore. She had learned early to take things in stride. But that afternoon, she’d been knocked for a loop when she’d realized that the tall, dark-haired man with the battered face and distant eyes was none other than Joe Shoe. She hadn’t let it show, of course, but it hadn’t been easy; she’d spent so much of her teens listening to her brother’s endless bitching about how Shoe had stolen his wife and destroyed his career that she’d almost come to believe it herself.

Shoe had done neither, of course. Shortly after Ron’s “accident,” and two months before her death, Sara had set Hannah straight, explaining that her marriage to Ron had ended long before she’d met Shoe because Ron had insisted that she choose between marriage and her career as a police officer. Likewise, it had been Ron who, in a jealous rage after discovering that Shoe and Sara were seeing each other, had gone after Shoe in the locker room with his nightstick. If Ron’s injury and resulting forced retirement was anyone’s fault, it was his own, not Shoe’s. Shoe had simply been defending himself. Moreover, had Shoe not told the division commander that he and Ron had been roughhousing and that Ron’s injury had been an accident, for which Shoe had nevertheless received a reprimand, Ron would not have qualified for a disability pension.

“Most of Ron’s troubles are of his own making,” Sara had told her. “Maybe one of these days he’ll realize it.”

Hannah lucked into a parking space immediately in front of her three-storey row house in the Danforth, across from the old, scaffolding-encased Greek Orthodox church that was in its fifth year of restoration. She’d got the house in the divorce, otherwise she might not have been able to afford to live in the area. As it was, the upkeep and the taxes were slowly bleeding her dry. She loved her house, though, and the neighbourhood, even if parking seriously sucked.

As she locked up her ten-year-old Pathfinder, her cellphone began to ring. She swore when she saw the number on the call display, and pressed the button that sent the call directly to her voice mail. Florence De Franco had called at least twice a day for the past three days. Obviously, she’d weaselled Hannah’s unlisted numbers out of her husband, who was a city councillor, as well as a member of the civilian Police Services Board. Dominic De Franco had denied giving Hannah’s numbers to his wife, but there was no other way she could have got them.

Inside, the message light on her landline phone was blinking. She pressed the recall button and swore again. Her brother had called twice and Florence De Franco had called three times. Wearily, she accessed her voice mail. Both had left messages. She fast-forwarded and erased them all without listening to them. She knew what they were about.

In June, Councillor De Franco’s wife had gone into Ron’s copy and print shop to place an order for invitations to a charity event she was organizing. The day after the invitations had gone out, however, someone noticed that the date was wrong — August 12 had been transposed to read August 21. Ron was certain he’d used the date Mrs. De Franco had given him, but admitted it was possible he’d transposed the numbers when he’d filled out the order form. Either way, he offered to tear up the bill and mail out corrections at his own expense. Mrs. De Franco, however, would have none of it. She accused him of purposely trying to sabotage the event, claiming he’d made an indecent proposal, which she’d rebuffed, and that sabotaging the event was his way of getting back at her.

“It’s crap,” Ron told Hannah. “She’s not bad looking, but nothing to write home about.” As if it mattered.

Ron sent out the corrections, hoping it would end there. No such luck. A few days later, Mrs. De Franco filed a police report, alleging that Ron had vandalized her car and sprayed herbicide on her prize-winning roses. Likewise crap, apparently. The police couldn’t find any damage to the car and the roses looked fine. According to a reporter friend of Ron’s at the Toronto Sun, Mrs. De Franco had a history of making nutty allegations. She’d evidently accused mail carriers of reading her mail before delivering it, gas station attendants of making sexual advances by suggestively poking the pump nozzle into the gas filler, and her vet of injecting her dog with a drug that made it hump her leg. Her allegations against Ron were just more of the same. Now the woman was accusing Hannah of abusing her police powers to have her phone tapped and have her followed. Things were getting out of hand.

The doorbell rang.

“Christ, now what?” Hannah muttered as she went to the door and peered through the peephole. “Shit,” she said when she saw her brother’s balding pate shining under the porch light. She was briefly tempted to leave him standing there, but he must have been waiting nearby in his car for her to get home. She opened the door.

“You’re working late,” he said.

“You know how it is,” she said, stepping back to let him in. She closed the door behind him. “What’s up?”

“Haven’t you listened to your messages?” He followed her into the living room.

“No.”

“The light on your phone isn’t blinking. You erased them without listening to them, didn’t you?”

She sighed. “C’mon, Ron. Gimme a break. It’s been a long day.”

“You know what that crazy bitch says I did now?”

“No,” she said. “And I don’t want to know.”

But Ron wasn’t listening. “She says that I hired someone to hide in her closet, videotape her getting undressed for bed, and post the videos on the Internet. I’ve had it up to here with this crap. I’m going to get me a lawyer.”

“Save your money, Ron. The woman’s obviously got psychiatric problems. No one takes her seriously. Just ignore her.”

“Hell with that. I did some poking around and found out she was diagnosed with a borderline personality disorder. Hah! Nothing borderline about it. Last year, when her husband claims she was on vacation in Mexico, she was locked up in the psych ward of Mount Sinai. Sleazebag’s been covering for her for years. She’s been busted for everything from shoplifting to public indecency. If she doesn’t stop this crap, I’m going to send what I got to my buddy at the Sun.”

“Christ, you really are your own bloody worst enemy, aren’t you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

“If you go dragging her psychiatric history through the muck, you’re going to need that lawyer. Let it go.”

“You’re afraid that if I make a stink it will wreck your chances of promotion.”

“That’s not fair,” she said. But it wasn’t entirely untrue. Being a cop, and a female cop at that, was tough enough without making enemies on the Police Services Board. “Have you eaten? I’m going to fix myself something.”

“I’m okay. Wouldn’t turn down a beer, though.”

“Help yourself.” He did, and when they were seated at the table in her kitchen-cum-dining room, Ron with a beer and a can of dry roasted peanuts, Hannah with a salad and a glass of white wine — a big glass — she said, “You’ll never guess who I saw today.”

“Okay, so tell me.”

“Joe Shoe.”

“No kidding. Where?”

“At his parents’ house in Downsview.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Working a case.”

“Don’t tell me he killed someone.”

“No. He’s in town visiting his family. Last night a man who used to live in the neighbourhood was beaten to death in the woods behind his parents’ house.”

“Bad timing. How is he?”

“I didn’t recognize him at first. He’s been living out west. Vancouver.”

“He still a cop?”

“No. He’s some kind of corporate investigator. He looks like he’s taken his share of lumps, though.”

“I hear the corporate world can be pretty dog eat dog. The vic …?”

“What about him?”

“Any leads?”

“Nothing much so far. Early days yet.”

“What was the name again?”

She smiled dryly. He smiled back. She hadn’t mentioned the victim’s name. She said, “Cartwright. Marvin Cartwright.”

“Cartwright?” Ron said.

“That’s right. What is it?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Sounds familiar, that’s all.” Hannah finished her salad and poured herself another glass of wine. Ron refused a second beer.

“I’m driving,” he said. “Speaking of which, I should get going.” He stood. “If you see Shoe again, say hello for me, will you?”

“Sure,” Hannah said, walking him to the door.

“Tell him … ” Ron paused, seeming lost in thought for a moment. Hannah let him find his own way back. “Tell him, if he’s got time, to drop by the shop. We’ll go grab a beer or something, get caught up. Tell him … ” He hesitated, then said, “Tell him it’d be good to see him.”

“I will,” she said.

“Good,” he said. He kissed her quickly on the cheek and almost ran down the steps.

No, nothing much surprised her anymore.