Erasing Memory (27 page)

In the elevator Aziz asked, “What are you thinking, Mac?”

“I was just wondering if the fox hasn’t been chasing the hounds. We leave Marcus’s room and a moment later someone arrives to kill him. We pull in to the parking lot here and a few minutes later the Range Rover arrives and parks right in front of us.”

“Why would he follow us when he knows we’re coming for him?”

“Good question. If he’s got nothing to do with the killings, it doesn’t make sense. If he’s responsible for the killings, it also
doesn’t make sense.” When the doors opened on the fourth floor, they walked towards Room 406.

Two pieces of Petrescu’s luggage were sitting on the floor at the end of the bed, packed and locked. The room had been cleaned, as had the adjoining rooms on either side, each with a full duffle bag sitting beside the bed.

Back in Petrescu’s room, MacNeice took out his cellphone and called Wallace. “I need clearance, sir, to open the bags of three Romanian nationals who are claiming diplomatic immunity.”

“Where are they now?”

“They’re in custody, sir, being brought in as we speak.”

“On what charges?”

“Obstruction, being in the possession of stolen materials, littering.”

“Littering? Are you serious?”

“If I have to be. Petrescu dropped a cigarette and ground it into the pavement in front of three police officers.”

“Christ, MacNeice, do you have a charge that has a hope of sticking?”

“Possession of stolen materials. He had the photo portfolio of the girl in the back seat of the car. It could have come from only one—or maybe two—places.”

“So open the bags. I’ll call upstairs and get Ottawa on side. But do it quickly in case I get turned down. Good work, MacNeice.”

“We’re not there yet, sir, but thanks.” MacNeice put his cellphone away. They both pulled on their latex gloves, then MacNeice pulled out the Leatherman he had tucked into his belt.

“Were you anticipating this?”

“Yes and no. I knew he’d be too cocky not to push it, but I had no idea he’d give us an excuse to handcuff him.” He
unfolded the tool, turning it into a pair of wire cutters, then snapped the woven-wire locks on both cases and lifted them onto the bed.

“The portfolio coming from one of two places … What are you thinking?”

“Marcus was an artist. He would have created a set of prints for his own portfolio, a copy of the one he gave her. When he ran, I think he would have abandoned everything but that. It was a talisman—a reminder of her and the promise of his talent.” He flipped open the large suitcase. “You take the smaller one. Before you touch anything, shoot it as is.” He took out his digital camera and snapped two shots of the folded clothing, on which a grey envelope with a Romanian flag rested, before handing the camera to Aziz.

“Which would place them in his room at the hotel.”

“Precisely.”

“It’s creepy to think of those goons going through that album.”

“It is. On the other hand, it’s a significant cut above
Hustler
, so maybe they wouldn’t get it. Then again, if their fingerprints are on those pages along with Marcus’s, there’s something delicious about it.”

“How so?”

“Marcus and Lydia are both dead—and they died horribly—but the photos document the story of their love and their art. I think there’s something delicious about capturing the people who did this to them by using the portfolio as evidence.”

“You’re a romantic, boss.”

“I suppose I am.”

Aziz turned back to the task at hand. “Papers, lots of papers. All of it in Romanian, I guess.”

“Shoot them all. Lift them out neatly and shoot as much detail as you can, page after page.”

“What’s in yours?”

“He comes from a country that’s on the ropes, but Mr. Petrescu wears only the best—Italian mostly, even down to his underwear. Wait a minute—hand me the camera again.” He took out a folder with several images inside, all black and white but for two badly faded coloured prints. They looked like they had been taken in Romania before the fall of communism. Two were of a young boy in a military uniform squinting into the sunshine as he stood at attention; the other showed a family vacation: a trip to the beach, the mother and father sitting on a blanket, the boy—clearly Gregori—in the foreground with a bucket and shovel, digging in the sand. In addition there were two photos of Antonin in a laboratory and three of sadly deformed young children lying on metal cots and staring vacantly at the camera. For modesty, a narrow cloth had been thrown over their genitals, as if the obscenity of their bodies wasn’t more than enough.

“Grotesque,” Aziz said as she looked over his shoulder at the images MacNeice was framing with the camera.

“I wonder if these were given to Gregori to show his father or given to him by his father.”

After they had taken everything out of both pieces of luggage, they felt through the linings, which were untampered with, then photographed any item they’d missed and put them all back. Next they went through the duffle bags. In Black-Eyes’s bag they found a stash of porn, several XXL black T-shirts and a bottle of Jack Daniels. In the driver’s there was nothing but clothing, everything neatly folded, military style.

By the time they returned to the Chevy carrying the
luggage, everyone had gone, along with the Range Rover. They drove slowly out of the parking lot, and just before turning down Chelsea Lane, MacNeice remarked, “I liked it better when it was an apple orchard.”

B
EFORE THEY HEADED BACK
to Division, Aziz persuaded MacNeice to drop by her apartment so she could change into clean clothes. When they got to the station, a Romanian was ensconced in each of the three interview rooms. Swetsky was leaning against the wall outside the one containing Petrescu. He looked over at Aziz—now wearing a blue suit with a crisp white shirt—and said, “Much better. There’s pizza waiting for you two upstairs—at least what’s left of it. I was starved.”

“Maybe later. Swets, you take the driver. Let Black-Eyes stew for a while. Aziz and I will interview Petrescu. No word yet from Wallace?”

“Nope. Petrescu’s been demanding a phone call and generally being a pain in the ass. The other two just sit in their rooms staring at the wall.”

MacNeice looked through the wired-glass window at the
colonel. Williams was standing in the corner behind him, and nodded to MacNeice and Aziz as they entered the room.

“Are you comfortable, Mr. Petrescu?” MacNeice said. “Were you offered coffee or tea?”

“You know what I want. Unless you’re willing to make this an international incident, you’ll give me my phone and let me make a call.” Petrescu laid both hands flat on the table as if to emphasize his point.

“I hadn’t realized you weren’t given that opportunity. Aziz, ask the desk sergeant for Mr. Petrescu’s cellphone.”

“Certainly, sir.” Aziz left the room.

“How did you come into possession of that photo album?” MacNeice said as he sat down.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The portfolio of images of your sister. They were on the back seat of your vehicle. Where did you get them?”

“You have no idea what you’re dealing with, do you, Detective? You’re just flailing about hoping there’ll be something to catch hold of.”

“Perhaps you’re right. I’m not a scientist like yourself.”

“No, certainly not. But you could—if you’ll excuse me—benefit from scientific study.” He was still looking down at the table as if studying the grain.

“Was it upsetting for you to see those images of your sister, Gregori?”

“I’d like a cup of tea. No milk, two sugars.” It was the first time he’d looked at MacNeice, and his eyes betrayed no emotion.

“I’ll get that for you.” MacNeice stood up. “Oatmeal cookies with that?” Petrescu didn’t look up. “I’ll take that as a no.”

Outside the door he met Aziz returning with the cellphone.
“They’ve recorded all the calls from and to,” she said, “but haven’t analyzed them yet. Where are you going?”

“I’m going to get Mr. Petrescu a cup of tea.”

“Leave that. I’ll go.”

“No, you go in. See what you can get out of him. Williams has your back, and Petrescu’s not a man of action. Give me that.” He took the cellphone from her.

A
S
A
ZIZ SAT DOWN ACROSS
from Petrescu, he leaned back in his chair. “Are you going to rough me up, Detective?”

“I’d like to ask you some questions.”

“Yes. You know, that colour blue is very beautiful against your skin—your Arab skin. You’re from Turkey?”

“Did you know your sister well, Mr. Petrescu?”

“Iran, perhaps?”

“We understand she was your half-sister, but did you see her often?”

“Your accent is British, so I’d guess you’re either Iranian or Turkish.”

“Are you aware of how your sister died?”

“No, I have it—you’re Lebanese. Your parents were among the
petite bourgeois
who left Beirut to its fate. Yes? Am I right?”

“Tell me about your work in microbiology.”

“Do you know microbiology, Detective?”

“No, that’s why I’m asking. What do you do?”

“I … do things that are too complex for a pretty woman such as yourself to understand.”

“You mean things like chemical warfare?” Aziz hoped her face hadn’t flushed with the contempt she felt for the man.

“The memory capacity of the human brain, Detective, while unknown exactly, has been estimated to be the equivalent of
two million home computers. But it does much more than that, doesn’t it?”

“Are you speaking about the way your sister died?”

“And yet when a computer dies, its memory doesn’t die with it.”

“Unlike your sister’s.” Aziz could feel her forehead getting moist and couldn’t bear the thought that the perspiration might be visible to Petrescu.

He turned his attention to the mirrored wall on his right. “I’ll wait for my cellphone.”

Aziz turned towards the door. Williams caught her eye from the corner of the room and mouthed the word
asshole
. She smiled.

The door opened and MacNeice stepped in and handed Petrescu the cellphone and his cup of tea. As Petrescu was dialling, he said, “She’s very pretty, MacNeice, but not that clever.”

“I’ve never had too much respect for clever, Colonel. I prefer depth and intelligence.” He touched Aziz’s shoulder lightly as he sat down, hoping that she’d realize he’d been watching through the mirror.

Petrescu’s urgent conversation in Romanian was being recorded. They’d find someone to translate it, but MacNeice knew his time with the man was running out. He decided he’d simply carry on until he was forced to stop.

When Petrescu ended the call and set his phone face down on the table, MacNeice asked, “You were in the possession of a portfolio of images—nude images—of your sister and a young man. Where did you get them?”

“My consul general has been on the phone to your deputy chief. He was very upset that I missed my flight and is on his way here now. I think, or rather I believe, that this pathetic charade is quickly coming to an end.”

“Your family deserted you, left you behind in a military boarding school. Why didn’t you join your parents after the fall of the communist regime?”

“My father told you that?” He put the paper cup down hard on the table.

“They had to leave in a hurry; they couldn’t reach you, not even to tell you they were going.” MacNeice’s voice was calm, even sympathetic.

“Did my father tell you that? Tell me!” Petrescu’s fists were clenched and his neck veins stood out for a moment, but then he forced himself to relax, sat back and smiled. “Is that what you wanted, Detective—some Oedipal rage that would fit your tiny picture?”

“That was very good, Colonel. Not entirely convincing, but nonetheless very good.”

There was a knock on the door. Williams looked over at MacNeice, who nodded for him to open it. Two men came in ahead of Wallace. The first was clearly the Romanian consul general, flushed with anger; the second, most likely a Canadian diplomat, had a look of weary detachment. He spoke first.

“Detective Superintendent MacNeice, I’m Farrelly from External Affairs. This gentleman is the consul general of Romania, Alexandru Banica. You are to release Colonel Petrescu and his men immediately into his custody, along with all their possessions.”

“All except one—a portfolio of images that is part of an ongoing homicide investigation,” MacNeice responded. “I might as well ask, since we’re all here, could you compel Mr. Petrescu to tell us how he came to be in possession of that portfolio?”

Farrelly shot a look at the deputy chief, who was staring at the floor. Stepping closer to MacNeice, Farrelly said, “You must
have misunderstood me. I said release this man and his associates immediately.”

Petrescu was on his feet. Stepping around the table, he turned to MacNeice. “Even in the Wild West, it appears, there are limitations, Detective. Pity. I was enjoying our conversation.”

“Where did you put the syringe, Gregori, when you were finished with it?”

“MacNeice, that’s enough,” said Wallace as he moved aside to let the three men out of the room. Farrelly gave MacNeice a weary parting glance.

“What the fuck was that?” Williams said.

DC Wallace swung around. He hadn’t noticed the tall black officer standing in the corner. “Who are you?”

“Williams, sir. Detective Inspector Montile Williams.”

Wallace nodded and turned back to MacNeice. “How far did you get?”

“Not far at all, sir. But we managed between the two of us to paint a picture for him—one he may or may not have expected. What’s our next move?”

“Nothing, unless you’re prepared to charge him and his bodyguards with something beyond littering. You’ve got very little time before they ship him out to New York, then on to Romania.”

“I apologize if this has put you in the meat grinder.”

“Fuck that!” Wallace swore, startling even himself, it seemed. Looking at Aziz, he said, “Sorry, Detective, I can’t seem to shake the street.” Aziz raised her hand as if to say
no problem
, and he continued. “MacNeice, I am having a fucking ball. You just keep going. Get something on that devious shit, and fast. When you do, I’ll make the call to Farrelly, and trust me, that’s a call I’m looking forward to making.” With that he
turned, nodded to Williams, who smiled and nodded back, and was gone.