Erasing Memory (18 page)

The two-way radio was off, but his cellphone suddenly buzzed to life. MacNeice pushed the button on the phone, and over the in-car speaker he heard Wallace’s voice: “MacNeice, you there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Give me an update. Your desk sergeant told me you worked the weekend. What have you got for me?”

“The girl was pregnant, sir. The father is grief-stricken, as you’d expect. The brother is a colonel in the Romanian army. There’s a young man we’re looking for—we have a digital security capture of him and we’ll be going to the Conservatory to find out if anyone can identify him. He was her boyfriend.”

“A strong suspect, then?”

“A suspect? Not in my opinion, sir, but he is a person of interest.”

“Word’s out about the relationship with the boyfriend, MacNeice. I know it wasn’t your crew that leaked it, but the media are building a sensational story about how this beautiful girl came to be found dead in a beach house.” He stopped there, clearly hoping that his detective would have a sense of how uncomfortable this was going to get.

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir, but I guess it was inevitable. Has how she died been leaked?”

“Not yet. I’ve been saying that the manner of her death is still under investigation. I hope that will give you some more time. How much do you think you need?”

“I have no idea, sir. We’re making headway, I think, but I can’t give you a time frame.” By this point MacNeice’s hand was cupping his head, his elbow resting on the window frame as he cruised slowly down the road.

“Right. Keep me in the loop. I’ve got a policing conference in Toronto that I have to attend and I know our chief will be grinding me all the way there. I’m counting on you.”

The surround-sound of his voice disappeared and MacNeice heaved a huge sigh. About a mile later, the cellphone buzzed again.

He signalled his intention to pull off onto the shoulder so he wouldn’t have to listen and drive. As he came to a stop, he pushed the button. “Yes, sir?”

“Is that you, MacNeice?” The cheerful English accent was a welcome relief from the suppressed anxiety in the deputy chief’s voice.

“Yes, I’m here.”

“Let’s speak on a land line. Call this number.…”

Judging by the ambient noise, Donald Ferguson was calling from a phone booth, probably downtown. MacNeice pulled off King next to a booth outside Betty’s Burgers.

“While I don’t want to alarm you,” Ferguson said when he picked up, “I think we can’t be too careful.”

“Sure.”

“Splendid. Look, I thought I should let you know what I have on your stainless steel syringe. No one in Canada or the U.S. fits the bill, but there are two men—one wonders why it’s always men who specialize in such things—and they’re both Bulgarian.”

“Bulgarian, not Romanian?”

“Right. These two were trained in Moscow but they are most definitely Bulgarian.”

“How can you be so sure of that, Ferguson?” MacNeice was reaching for his notebook.

“There was an East German candidate, but he has been inactive since the Wall came down. Now I’m told he’s dead of lung cancer. So I’m very certain—or rather my source is certain—but as to which Bulgarian it is … Well, that, I’m afraid, is your problem.”

“I take it I cannot speak to your source?” MacNeice already knew the answer.

“That would be imprudent, Detective, and it would render me useless to you in the future. It would also put me at serious risk.” Ferguson hadn’t lost the brightness in his voice, though MacNeice could detect a shadow of surprise that MacNeice had put such a question to him.

“Can you give me the names of the men?”

“Gheorghi—George, I suppose, with a couple of H’s—Borisov; he’s from Sofia and is the younger of the two, possibly in his early forties. The other is Hrista—H-R-I-S-T-A—Popov, just as it sounds. He’s from Stara Zagora, again like it sounds.”

“Thank you for this. Is there anything I can do for you?” MacNeice put his notebook and pen away.

“No, of course not; I’m happy to help. These are both nasty customers but they don’t operate independently. They’re for hire, I’m told, and very accomplished.”

“What do you mean exactly?”

“They’re engineers—very refined tool-and-die makers like me—and they build what they’re paid to build. Should anyone ask, Detective, I’ll deny knowing anything about this. Cheerio.”

The line went dead, leaving only the sound of traffic streaming by and his shallow breathing. MacNeice hung up the phone, took a deep breath and instantly regretted it as his nostrils filled with the smell of stale grease from the burger joint. On the bright side, he realized that his headache had abated, but it was soon replaced by the thought that he might be in over his head, and way outside his territory.

A
RRIVING AT
D
IVISION, HE PARKED
in the space closest to a small clump of evergreens and birch trees at the edge of the lot. Like a radio signal that flips from old-time rock to classical music without warning, his mind reeled between Lydia Petrescu and the potentially ever-expanding cast of Eastern Europeans.

A slam on the car roof sent an electric shock of fear through him. He looked up to see Swetsky’s wide face grinning at him through the driver’s-side window. “You okay, Mac?”

MacNeice nodded and took the key out of the ignition. Getting out of the car, he said, “You scared the shit out me.”

“I figured if you were having a heart attack, a good smack on the roof would work as well as a defibrillator.” He slapped MacNeice on the back. “Actually, I thought you’d see me comin’
in your mirror—you drove past me as you came into the lot.”

MacNeice locked the Chevy and together they walked to the side entrance. “What are you doing here?” MacNeice asked. “You’re not on today.”

“The DC called. He wants me to pitch in full-time with you guys. I guess the mayor and the media are climbin’ up his backside. You’re the lead—give me somethin’ to do.” Swetsky knew how this would appear to someone of MacNeice’s experience. “I’ll play it anyway you want, Mac. This fucker’s going to move on, but you and I will still be here. Your call.”

“I’m glad, Swets. But it would’ve been great if he’d told me when he called this morning, before you scared the bejesus out of me.”

Inside, Swetsky turned to MacNeice. “Wanna coffee from the caff? I’ll grab you one.”

“No thanks, I’m coffee’d out already. I’ll see you upstairs.”

Leaving Swetsky in the lobby, MacNeice pushed open the stairwell door, looked at his watch, waited for the second hand to reach three, then took off. This morning he needed to grab at the railing to haul himself up the stairs. At his floor, his chest heaving and feeling slightly nauseous, he looked at his watch. “Sixteen seconds. Ah well, considering …”

Aziz was already online and Vertesi, with his feet propped up on the edge of his desk, was holding forth about something.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt, Vertesi. Go on,” MacNeice said, as he dropped his notebook on his desk and switched on his computer.

Aziz turned around, smiling. “Vertesi was just telling me about his date, sir.”

“How did it go?” MacNeice swung his chair around to face him.

“Aw, well.… Well, it was great, actually.” Vertesi took his bottle of water in hand but didn’t drink.

“He’s being coy, sir. He told me he may be in love with a girl he met at the lake.” Aziz turned back to her computer.

“Jesus, Aziz!” Vertesi raised his hands in a what-the-fuck gesture that both his colleagues were familiar with.

MacNeice waited for the moment to pass. “Perhaps
shy
is a better word, Aziz.”

“You’re right, sir,
shy.”
Aziz was keying something in and didn’t turn around.

“Hey, you two, any second Swetsky’s gonna show up. He’s been put on our team full-time by the deputy chief. He’ll probably use his own desk, but we should give him a full briefing here.”

“What the hell is that about?” Vertesi said. “Wallace doesn’t think we can crack this?”

“He’s taking heat. What’s the headline this morning—“Cops Stumped on Beach House Killing”? So you’re probably right. This will signal that he’s doing something more proactive. But Swetsky’s one of us, and I’m happy to have him in our corner.”

Vertesi didn’t look so sure.

Soon Swetsky arrived, carrying four paper cups of coffee, a small stack of sugar packets, milk and cream cuplets and brown plastic stirrers. “I don’t know how you guys take it, but for future reference, I’m double-double.” He smiled, put the coffee tray down on the counter between Aziz and Vertesi and looked around for a chair.

“Michael, grab a chair for Swets.”

Vertesi nodded and got up.

Swets took a look at the younger man’s face and said, “Guys, I know this isn’t what you would have chosen. I’m not
that happy about it either. Apart from getting to work days—which is nice—I’d rather each of us work our own cases.”

“Thanks for the coffee, Swets.” Vertesi went to get the chair.

“Yes, thank you,” Aziz said. “I’m coffee’d out, though.”

“That’s what your boss said. Yeah, well, it’s there if you feel like it later. You can stick it in the microwave—it’s not half bad, but not like that expresso Mac makes.”

“That’s
espresso
, with an S.” MacNeice stood up, clapped him on both shoulders and gestured for the big man to take his chair. “Take a load off and let’s get started.”

He took out his notebook and, glancing at the page for the spellings, wrote on the board in red marker:
Gheorghi Borisov and Hrista Popov, Bulgarians—potential syringe connection
.

Vertesi slid a new chair into the space beside the whiteboard as MacNeice looked back at Swetsky sipping slowly from his cup. “A lot’s happened since the beach house, so we’ll bring you up to speed and then determine next steps.”

It was after eleven a.m. before the three detectives had finished briefing their new colleague and—as each was party to new information—each other. Then MacNeice divided the day’s efforts equally between them, giving Swetsky the job of tracking down the doctor who owned the beach house. When he finally put the marker back in its tray, it was 11:48 a.m.

“I’m hungry. I’m going over to Marcello’s—who’s coming?”

“I’m off to the doctor’s office. I figure the best time to nose around is over the lunch hour, so I’ll catch a sandwich on the way back.” Swetsky hauled himself out of the chair and, in a move more graceful than MacNeice thought possible for such a big man, he was out of the cubicle and gone.

“I’ve kind of got a date. I’ve got some more questions to ask the Ingram girl.” Vertesi stood, sheepish, avoiding their eyes.

MacNeice looked down at Aziz, who said, “I’m going to let Bozana know about the two Bulgarians, which will take a few minutes, but then I’d be happy to join you.”

“Perfect. I’ll go down to the lab to see if there’s anything on the Range Rover. Be back in ten.”

T
HEY TOOK THE LAST BOOTH
, nearest the kitchen. While it was the busiest area of the restaurant, it was also the most private, since the only people going by were wait staff.

The special was Marcello’s mother’s handmade sage-and-goat-cheese ravioli. The food arrived as Aziz was telling MacNeice more about Vertesi’s new girlfriend.

“He apparently walked right up to the cottage—or as he describes it, the family resort—and asked her to go out with him.” She stopped for her first bite of ravioli and hummed approvingly. “They went for a walk—this is so good—and they sat out on a point and talked for two and a half hours.”

“About the case?” A stupid question, MacNeice thought, too late.

“Initially it seemed like no, that this was Vertesi responding to the male urge to mate in springtime, but in the end they did. She actually remembered seeing the boat—two boats, in fact. The second one arrived later, anchored offshore a few hundred yards and just sat there.”

“Two boats. From the same marina?” MacNeice had barely touched his ravioli.

“Mac”—she stopped eating and looked up at him—“I thought you were starved.”

“You’re right. Of course, sorry, go on.” He took a bite.

“She couldn’t tell for sure, because it was dusk and she wasn’t paying that much attention. But she remembered seeing
a girl in the bow, her hand over the side, trailing in the water, and a man at the tiller of the outboard. She was fishing off the end of the dock and saw them land at the beach. As you thought, he jumped out and carried her up towards the cottage, which is hidden behind the point—she can’t see it from the dock.”

She had managed to finish the ravioli between sentences, and now she picked up a piece of bread, broke off a bite-size chunk and swirled it around in the leftover sauce. Just before putting it in her mouth, she added, “Vertesi says she thought the girl was wearing a gown, because it looked so billowy and out of place. She assumed it was a honeymoon, except—and get this—the guy was in cut-off jeans or shorts.” She smiled and popped the bread into her mouth. “She couldn’t remember anything about the second boat other than there were four guys in it.”

MacNeice had stopped eating again. Aziz dropped her hands to the table edge and said, “Are you okay?”

“I was just wondering where this takes us. Why didn’t Vertesi mention this in the briefing with Swetsky? Was there anything else?”

“He wanted to tell you. If I hadn’t teased him he probably would have, but you know Vertesi—he’s a big team player and Swetsky coming on probably threw him. He’s having lunch with her today. She’s a teacher. He took a shot of Ruvola with him to see if she’d recognize him.”

“Romance and police work usually don’t mix well, but maybe Vertesi will prove that theory wrong,” MacNeice said, finally digging into his ravioli.

“W
HY DIDN’T YOU TELL THE POLICE
what you saw?” Vertesi was sitting in the park opposite Rachel’s school. They had just finished sandwiches and orange sodas and some breezy conversation about life in high school.

“When I heard that my parents had talked with the cops—that was the first time I thought what I had seen could mean something. I was out on the dock fishing when I saw the boat land, and it wasn’t till the next day that I heard the girl had been murdered.” She waved away some flies that had landed on the sandwich wrappers.