Barney's Version (49 page)

“My name's Sean O'Hearne,” said the detective, who turned up a day after Boogie's disappearance, extending his hand. “I think we should have us a little chat.”

His more-than-firm handshake was sufficient to put my finger bones at risk, and then he suddenly flipped over my throbbing hand as if he meant to read my palm. “Those are some blisters you've got there.”

O'Hearne, not yet gone to fat, or balding, or cursed with wet cough seizures that made his eyes bulge, wore a straw fedora and a racing-green gabardine jacket and tartan slacks. As he settled into a bamboo chair on my porch, I caught a glimpse of his two-tone golf shoes with tasselled tongues. He intended to spend the afternoon on the links. “That Arnold Palmer is something else,” he said. “I caught him once at the Canadian Open and figured to go home and make a bonfire of my clubs. What's your handicap?”

“I don't golf.”

“Oh, more fool me. I figured that's how you got those blisters.”

“I've been digging a trench for an asparagus patch. Have you guys found Boogie yet?”

“They say no news is good news, but maybe not in this case, eh? The police launch and divers have both come up empty and, so far as we know, nobody has picked up a hitchhiker wearing a bathing suit and flippers.”

O'Hearne had arrived in an unmarked car, followed by two Sûreté du Québec cars. And now four young cops, feigning boredom, started to wander over the grounds, obviously looking for signs of freshly dug earth. “You're damn lucky not to be stuck in the city in this heat,” said O'Hearne, removing his straw fedora and wiping his brow with a handkerchief.

“Your guys are wasting their time out there.”

“I had me a place once on Lake Echo. Not as grand as this, just a little shack. But I remember how you always got to worry about ants and field mice. So before leaving every weekend you got to clean up and bag the rubbish. Do you drive yours to a dump?”

“I leave it outside the kitchen door and Benoît O'Neil collects it. You want to go through it, be my guest.”

“You know, I can't understand you're not telling the first officers who came round —”

“They didn't come round. I sent for them.”

“— what transpired here, given how upset you must have been, losing your friend like that, thinking he was drowned.”

“He's not drowned. He's broken into somebody's cottage and he won't be heard from until he's finished every bottle of booze he can find.”

“Uh huh. Uh huh. But there have been no break-ins reported.”

“I fully expect a sobered Boogie to turn up here later today or tomorrow.”

“Hey, maybe Mr. Moscovitch is still somewhere out there in the woods in his bathing trunks. God, the mosquitoes must be driving him crazy. I'll bet he's getting hungry too. What do you think?”

“I think you should be covering every cottage on the lake until you find him.”

“That's your considered opinion, eh?”

“I've got nothing to hide.”

“Nobody suggested you did. But maybe you could help me fill in some of the boring details, just for the record.”

“Would you care for a drink?”

“I wouldn't say no to a cold beer.”

So we moved inside. I fetched O'Hearne a Molson and poured myself a Scotch. O'Hearne whistled. “I've never seen so many books outside of a library.” He stood close to a small ink drawing hanging on the wall. Beelzebub & Co. ravishing a nude young woman. “Hey, somebody has a real sicko imagination.”

“It's by my first wife, not that it's any of your business.”

“Divorced, eh?”

“She committed suicide.”

“
Here?
”

“In Paris. That's in France, in case you didn't know.”

I was on the floor, my head ringing, before I even realized I had been hit. Startled, I scrambled to my feet on rubbery legs.

“Wipe your mouth with something. You don't want to get blood on that shirt, eh? I'll bet it comes from Holt Renfrew. Or Brisson et Brisson. Where that bastard Trudeau
⁷⁴
shops. Your wife's been in touch with us. Correct me if I'm wrong, but according to her there was a misunderstanding here early Wednesday morning, and you thought you had reason to be angry with her and Mr. Moscovitch.” Flipping open his little black notebook, he continued, “According to her, you drove in from Montreal, arriving unexpectedly early, and surprised the two of them in bed, and thought they had been, well, fornicating. But, and I'm quoting her again, the truth is your buddy was a very sick man. She brought him breakfast on a tray, and he was trembling so bad, chilled in spite of the heat, his teeth chattering like crazy, that she got into bed to hold him, just like a nurse might, and that's when you barged in, sore as hell, jumping to conclusions.”

“You are such a prick, O'Hearne.”

This time he surprised me with a quick punch to my stomach. I reeled, sucking air, and slid to the floor again. I should have stayed put, because no sooner did I get up, lunging at him, than he slapped me hard across the face with his left, and then walloped the other cheek with his right. I ran my tongue against my teeth, probing for loose ones.

“Now I don't buy it lock, stock, and barrel either. Not the whole
bobbe-myseh
, eh? I know some Yiddish. I was brought up on the Main. You're looking at a professional
shabbes goy
. I used to earn nickels and dimes Friday nights, lighting fires for religious Jews, and I never knew a finer, law-abiding bunch. I think you ought to wipe your chin again.”

“You were saying?”

“Hey, it must have knocked you for a loop. Your wife and your best buddy in the sack together.”

“Let's say I wasn't pleased.”

“I don't blame you. Nobody would. Say, where did Mr. Moscovitch sleep?”

“Upstairs.”

“Mind if I take a peek? It's my job, eh?”

“Have you got a search warrant?”

“Ah, come on. Don't be like that. Like you said, you've got nothing to hide.”

“First bedroom to your right.”

Fighting anger, commingled with fear, I went to the kitchen window and saw one of the cops moving into the woods. The other one had emptied my garbage pail and was going through the contents. Then O'Hearne returned, one hand held behind his back. “Damn peculiar. He left his clothes behind. His wallet. His passport. Say, that Moscovitch has sure done a lot of travelling.”

“He'll be coming back for his things.”

He dug into a jacket pocket. “You're fucking with me, Panofsky. If I didn't know better, I'd say this was marijuana.”

“But it's not mine.”

“Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, finally bringing his other hand round from behind his back. “Look what I found.”

Damn damn damn. It was my father's service revolver.

“You got a permit?”

That's when panic got the better of me and I blew it. “I never saw it before. It must be Boogie's.”

“Like the marijuana?”

“Yeah.”

“Only I found it on your bedside table.”

“I have no idea how it got there.”

“Hey, you're some sucker for punishment, aren't you?” he said, slapping me so hard I lost my balance again. “Now let's get serious.”

“Oh, I remember now. It's my father's. He left it behind one weekend. He was a detective-inspector with the Montreal police force.”

“Well, I'll be damned. You're fucken Israel Panofsky's son.”

“Yes.”

“That makes us
mishpocheh
sort of. Isn't that what you jokers call family? There's an empty chamber in the gun.”

“He never could load a gun properly.”

“Your dad?”

“Yeah.”

“I'm going to let you in on a little secret. Just like your dad, I've put more than one suspect into the hospital. ‘Resisting arrest,' you know.”

“I fired it.”

“Now we're getting somewhere. Like recently?”

“Boogie and I had a lot to drink after my wife drove off.”

“Sure thing. You must have been furious with him. I know I would have been. Screwing your wife behind your back. Biff bam boom. A guy with your hot temper.”

“What do you mean my hot temper?”

“You were brought into Station Ten once, I've got the date here somewhere, for fighting in a bar. Another time a waiter in Ruby Foo's had you charged with assault. I hope you didn't think I was a
goyisher kop
. We guys may not own big lakeside properties, but we sure do our homework, eh?”

“I pleaded with Boogie not to go for a swim in his condition. And when he started down the slope, I fired a warning shot over his head.”

“You just happened to have the gun in your hands?”

“We had begun to horse around by that point,” I said, beginning to sweat under my shirt.

“And you fired a shot over his head for a hee-haw? You fucken liar,” he said, giving me a shove. “Let's get serious here.”

“I'm telling you the truth.”

“You're lying through your teeth, while you've still got them. Because it would be fucken embarrassing if you fell and lost some, wouldn't it?”

“I don't give a damn how it looks. That's how it happened.”

“So he went for a swim and then what?”

“I was feeling a bit woozy myself. So I went to lie down on the sofa, and I woke from a nightmare in what I took to be only a few minutes later. I dreamt I was in an airplane about to crash into the Atlantic.”

“Oh, you poor dear.”

“I had actually been asleep for something like three hours. I went off in search of Boogie, but couldn't find him anywhere in the house.
I was afraid he had drowned, so I phoned the police and asked them to come over as soon as possible, which I clearly would not have done had I anything to hide.”

“Or if you were too smart for your own good. You know something? I'm an Agatha Christie fan. I'll bet if she wrote this one up she'd call it
The Case of the Missing Swimmer
. You should have turned in this weapon after your father died.”

“I forgot it was here.”

“You forgot it was here, but you had it in your hand, and fired a shot over his head for a laugh?”

“No, I got him right through the heart, and then I buried him out there in the woods, where those pricks are searching right now.”

“Now we're getting somewhere.”

“Are you a total stranger to irony, O'Hearne?”

“Unless I'm hard of hearing, what you said is, ‘I got him right through the heart, and then I —' ”

“Fuck you, O'Hearne. If you're here to charge me with anything, let's hear it. If not, the three of you can bugger off right now.”

“Boy, that's some temper you've got there. I hope you're not going to hit me. I mean I'm sure glad it wasn't me you found in the sack with your wife.”

“Here's something else for your notebook, but I'm afraid it weakens your case. I wasn't the least bit upset with Boogie. I was delighted. Happier than I've been in ages. Because I wanted a divorce and now I had grounds. Boogie had agreed to be my co-respondent. I needed his testimony. So why should I kill him?”

“Hold your horses. I never suggested any such thing,” said O'Hearne. Then he wet his tongue and flipped over several pages of his notebook. “According to your wife, just before she drove off, because she had reason to be afraid of your violent temper —”

“I have not got a violent temper.”

“I'm only quoting her. She asked, ‘What are you going to do about Boogie?' and you said, quote, I'm going to kill him, unquote, and went on to threaten her and her recently widowed mother.”

“It was a figure of speech.”

“You don't deny it?”

“Goddamn it, you idiot. I had no intention of harming Boogie. I needed him.”

“You've got a girl in Toronto?”

“That's none of your business.”

“A nice piece of ass called Miriam Somebody?”

“You fucking keep her name out of this, you boor. She wasn't even here. What could she have to do with it?”

“Okay. Gotcha. Now I will have to take this illegal gun with me, but I will leave you a receipt.”

“Let me know if you need any help with the spelling.”

“Hey, you're a card.”

“Do you wish to charge me with anything?”

“Bad manners, maybe.”

“In parting, then, let me wish you an afternoon of joy on the golf course. May you be hit on the head with somebody else's drive, not that anybody would be able to tell the difference afterward,” I said, grabbing him by the jacket lapels and beginning to shake him. He didn't resist. He merely smiled. “
Bobbe-myseh. Shabbes goy. Mish-pocheh
. Don't you dare patronize me with your pidgin Yiddish, you functionally illiterate prick. Agatha Christie.
The Case of the Missing Swimmer
. I'll bet the last book you read was your Dick and Jane reader, and you're probably still trying to work out the plot. Where did you learn how to question a suspect? Watching
Dragnet
? Reading
True Detective
? No, I would have known. Your lips would still be chapped.”

Smirking, O'Hearne released himself from my grip with a neat chop of his hand, making me wince again. Then he cupped the back of my neck with his other hand, yanked my head forward, and drove a knee into my groin. My mouth agape, I was bent over double only briefly, because next he raised his joined fists like a sledgehammer and caught me under the chin, sending me sprawling backward to the floor, arms windmilling. “Panofsky, do yourself a favour,” he said. “We know you did it and sooner or later we'll find wherever you buried the poor bastard. Asparagus bed, my ass. So save us time and effort. Show some
rachmones
for hard-working officers of the law. That means ‘pity' in your lingo, which I'm willing to bet I speak better
than you. Come clean. Lead us to the body. We give points for that. I'll swear in court you were a real sweetheart, cooperative, filled with remorse. You hire yourself a smart Jew lawyer and you are charged with manslaughter, or some shit like that, because there was a struggle and the gun went off by accident. Or it was self-defence. Or, good heavens, you didn't even know it was loaded. Judge and jury will be understanding. Your wife. Your best friend. Holy mackerel, it had to be temporary insanity. Worst case, you get three years and you're home-free after eighteen months. Hey, you might even get off with a suspended sentence, a poor, deceived husband like you. But if you insist upon that
bobbe-myseh
you're spinning us, and I testify in court that you hit me, nobody will believe your story and maybe you get life, which is at least ten years, and while you're rotting in jail eating dog food, getting the shit beat out of you by bad guys who don't like Jews, your hot number in Toronto will be spreading her legs for somebody else, eh? I mean, you finally get out you'll be a broken old man. So what do you say?”