Erasing Memory (28 page)

“Well,” MacNeice said.

“He’s an impressive little fucker, that one,” Williams said. Then, “Sorry, Aziz, no offence.”

“Don’t be a smartass, Williams. Boss, it’s twenty minutes to midnight. He’s not going anywhere tonight. What do you want to do?”

“We visit Antonin Petrescu first thing in the morning, but before we do, I’ll send Swetsky to check Lydia’s bedroom closet to see if her album is still there. Cold pizza, anyone?”

S
HORTLY BEFORE EIGHT ON
Wednesday morning, as the hospital staff were clearing away the breakfast trays, Aziz walked into Vertesi’s hospital room carrying half a dozen magazines, from
Sports Illustrated
to the
New Yorker
. She wasn’t sure what he liked to read, so she was trying everything. He was asleep with a newspaper on his lap. She put the magazines down on the table and gently rested her hand on his shoulder to wake him.

In the moment it took his eyes to open, she took in his pallor and the new hollows in his cheeks. The stubble looked so black against his skin that it seemed dyed. Then he saw her and smiled, embarrassed, it seemed to her, to be in this fix.

Aziz pulled up a chair and sat beside him. “I brought you some magazines, enough to keep you going for a while. Are you feeling better, Michael?”

Looking at the stack on the table, he said, “Thanks, Fiza, that’s great. I’ve mostly been reading about you guys in the newspapers every day.” He gathered up the paper and set it on the table to his left. “I still feel pretty weak, but yeah, I’m better.”

“Have they said how long you’ll be in here?” She scanned the room, noticing the many flowers and get-well cards, including those from Division.

“Not yet.” He looked down at his left side. “All the buckshot’s out, but it was torn up in there. They’re worried about infection.”

“Are you able to sleep?”

“Sleep is what I do best. The drugs are great—it’s like you’re in pain one minute and it’s getting worse, then you get this pill and slowly you’re drifting off to dreamland.”

“I feel like I could use one of those about now.” She smiled wearily.

“How are things with the case? Wallace is doing a great job at not saying much to the media.” He winced as he shifted a little towards her.

“We’re making headway, but I didn’t come to talk about that. I don’t want you thinking about work.” She put a hand on his wrist above the bandage that secured the intravenous tube.

“But I really want to know what’s been happening.”

Changing the subject, Aziz said, “I met Rachel. She seems lovely, and she was very concerned about you.”

“I’m so ashamed, Fiza. I feel like I let you all down.”

“You couldn’t have known that the old man would snap.”

“Yeah, I could have. I knew there was something seriously off with the guy.”

“So why did you go out there alone?”

“I don’t know … I wanted to do something that would bust open the case, I guess. Does Mac know you’re here?”

“No, I’m meeting him in an hour or so. Has Rachel been back to see you?”

“Every day after school. She brings me oatmeal raisin cookies. Want one?” He pointed to the bulging paper bag on the bedside table.

“No, thanks, I just had breakfast. When you sleep, do you have nightmares?”

“Fiza, what’s going on with you?”

“Do you have nightmares?”

“If you mean do I see Gibbs comin’ at me with the shotgun—yes. If you’re asking about my shooting him—no. Truth is, I can’t remember it.”

“Maybe that’s a blessing, Michael.”

“Not according to the department shrink. She wants me to dig deeper and she’s insisting that I open up; she won’t sign me ready for duty until I do.”

“Makes sense, I guess. Do it when you’re ready, though. Especially if you feel you went out there to prove something—”

“Christ, I’ve been ‘proving something’ since I went into the academy—before, even—maybe since I was a kid. I know I cranked the old guy up after he called me a wop. I was playing with him. Worse, I humiliated him in front of his mechanic, and he could see I was enjoying it. It was like I was back on Barton Street showing off in front of my friends.”

“Did you tell the shrink that?”

“No … this is the first time I’ve been willing to admit it.”

She met his eyes then, and they were serene. He knew he’d
brought this on himself, and he didn’t mind her knowing too.

“Thank you for trusting me, Michael.”

“What’s happened to you, Fiz? And please don’t blow me off.”

“Excuse me?”

“C’mon. I know you, at least a little, and you don’t look like your usual impervious self.”

“We failed to stop the death of a young man yesterday. It was horrific—and we could have stopped it.” She shrugged slightly and her eyes filled with tears.

“You and MacNeice?”

“Yes. It was Lydia’s boyfriend, Marcus Johnson. He was thrown off a balcony twenty-one storeys up. He smashed—” She cleared her throat. “He landed a few feet away from me … and we’d been with him only minutes before.”

“You blaming yourself, or Mac?” He raised the bed’s back higher.

“Me. Well, both of us.” Aziz grabbed several tissues from the bedside table and wiped her eyes.

“Don’t shit me. You’re blaming MacNeice. You’ve found out he’s fallible.”

“Maybe.” Now tears were streaming down her face, and she reached over for more tissues. “And here I am telling you to talk to the shrink.”

“Aziz, nothing in my life has ever scared me before—nothing. But that old man bearing down on me with a shotgun is deep-in-my-head scary. The shrink knew that; she said something about PTSD, though I don’t think I was listening. I am now, though. And I think you should too. You can’t have that happen to you without damage up here.” He tapped his temple several times.

“I know.”

“What I’m getting at is, don’t blame yourself, and don’t blame MacNeice—he’s human. And no matter what happened yesterday, he may be the finest cop this city’s ever known.”

She cleared her throat. “I had a message on my phone when I got home last night. It was from my professor in Ottawa. He’s now the department head and he wants me back to teach criminology.”

“Mistake.” Vertesi reached over carefully, picked up his juice and sipped through the straw.

“I’m not so sure. I thought I was okay last night, but I feel.…” Aziz put the clump of tissues into the plastic bag hanging off the bedside table.

“You’re not in any shape to make a decision like that. Have you told Mac?”

“No. I need time to think.”

“When do you have to get back to your professor?”

“Soon. He wants me to start in September.”

“Then you don’t have time to think. But as far as I’m concerned, it’s a mistake, Aziz.” He put the cup down and eased the bed back down to a sleeping position.

Aziz stood, leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, once again touching his shoulder with her hand. “Sleep, Michael. I’ll see you soon.”

“Thanks for coming. Do you want to take some cookies for Swetsky?”

“Nah, he’s a doughnut man. You have them—they’re good for you.”

“You asked about dreams earlier. You know what I dreamt about last night?”

“No, what?”

“That MacNeice was here, sitting in that chair.” He nodded at the one she’d just gotten out of. “He was just sitting there looking at me. It was like he was watching over me or something. So weird.… Next thing I knew they were waking me for breakfast.”

“Nice dream. Rest now. I’ll see you soon.”

She was already at the door when he said, “You’re a cop, Fiza—like me. Go and be a cop.”

O
N HER WAY OUT
A
ZIZ STOPPED
at the nursing station and waited for someone to notice her. Finally a big woman with a soft black face smiled and said, “Can I help you, miss?”

“Yes. I’m Detective Inspector Aziz, and I want to know if my colleague, Detective Michael Vertesi, had a visitor late last night. Can you check for me?”

“Certainly.” She swung her chair around and lifted a clipboard off the wall. Putting on her glasses, she turned over a page to read the entries from the night nurse. Looking over the glasses she said, “Yes, he did. A Detective Superintendent MacNeice. He arrived just before midnight and he left at 1:46 a.m.”

M
ADELEINE ANSWERED THE DOOR
at 9:16 a.m. Wednesday morning, but instead of opening it wide she merely held it tight to the length of the security chain. “You have an appointment?”

“Madeleine, please let him know we’re here.” MacNeice’s cellphone rang as they stood on the steps. He looked at the small screen. “This is Richardson. Fiza, you get us in there,” he said, nodding towards the now closed door as he moved back down the walk to take the call.

“Will do.”

Richardson sounded weary. “Well, MacNeice, you wanted to know if there were signs of blunt trauma on that young man before the impact of the fall.”

“That’s right. The weapon, I believe, could have been a twelve- or thirteen-inch-long hardwood dowel, approximately an inch and a half in diameter. There may have been two of
them going at him from different directions.”

“You understand, the face of this young man was so damaged by the impact that it’s very difficult to draw conclusions about any prior blunt trauma there. But there are signs on the back of his skull, just above the neck. As well, on his upper right shoulder and spine there are several bruises about one to one and a half inches in diameter. Two contusions indicate a shaft of some kind, though it’s difficult to determine anything exact from glancing blows. I’d be willing to say they’re within the range you’re talking about. Most telling of all, though, and the blow that likely rendered him unconscious prior to the fall, is the circular contusion we found near his intact temple once we shaved his hair off. That one—very nasty—is exactly one and a half inches in diameter.”

“These marks couldn’t have been caused by the fall?”

“Not possible, even if he had bounced. He hit a flat surface, and then moments later he rode that flat surface down to land on another flat surface. No, these were inflicted prior to the first impact.”

“Anything else?” His phone beeped with another call. “Excuse me, Doctor, while I put another call on hold.” It was Swetsky checking in, and MacNeice asked him to wait. He went back to Richardson. “So, anything else?”

“I think I’ve answered your most pressing question, MacNeice. I can also tell you that the fellow had ingested large amounts of cannabis and some alcohol, but I don’t think that’s what you’re after.”

“No.”

“Incidentally, your cellphone number was scribbled on some hotel notepaper in his pocket. I thought you’d like to know that.”

“Anything else?”

“Eleven dollars and thirty-nine cents. No wallet and no ID. Quite sad, really.…”

“Thanks, Doc,” he said, and picked up the other call, holding up a finger to Aziz to let her know he’d be tied up a little longer. “Swetsky, what have you got?”

“The portfolio in Lydia’s apartment—it’s still there. Do you want me to leave it or pull it for safekeeping?”

“Leave it. Thanks, Swets.” Aziz was waiting in front of the open door, Madeleine behind her in the foyer.

“One more thing. Going through Gibbs’s house, Forensics discovered a crack pipe and a small stash. Turns out that his wife was one of Ruvola’s customers. When she was dying of cancer, she got seriously into smoking dope to ease the pain. Gibbs went for the heavier stuff after she passed.”

“This may be some comfort, however cold, to Vertesi. And it explains the financial incentive for Gibbs in this.”

“Yeah, that’s one unlucky wop. Later, Mac.”

T
EA HAD BEEN SET FOR TWO
in the window, empty cups and napkins waiting on the tray. Madeleine told them to make themselves comfortable, then picked up the tray and left the room, closing the door behind her.

They saw Antonin Petrescu out in the garden, pruning dead blooms off the lilac tree. When Madeleine walked across the lawn to speak to him, he looked over his shoulder in the direction of the library, put down his gloves and garden shears and turned towards the house. “Here he comes, Mac. What’s our strategy?”

“I don’t really have one other than to be blunt. We’re running out of time. We’ve been very gentle with Mr. Petrescu, and
while I still feel great sympathy for him, there are answers we need right now.”

“I’ll follow your lead.” Aziz stood by the chair nearest the window, took out the small recording device and placed it on the table.

“Detective,” Petrescu said as he entered the room, “what can I do for you?”

“Several things have occurred since we last met, Mr. Petrescu, and we believe you may be able to explain a good number of them. Do you mind if we sit down?”

“Sir, if you don’t object, we will be recording this interview,” Aziz said, and pushed a button. A small green light came to life on the silver panel.

“Object? Not at all. Shall I ring Madeleine for coffee or tea?” He sat down opposite MacNeice, settling wearily into the chair.

“That won’t be necessary—we are very short on time.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow you, Detective.”

“We detained your son, Gregori, and his two bodyguards.”

“On what charges?”

“On suspicion only, no charges. He and his colleagues were released when the Romanian consul general arrived.”

“But what do you suspect him of doing?”

“We believe your son was involved in Lydia’s death, as well as in the deaths of her boyfriend and a local drug dealer.”

For the first time Petrescu looked old and frail. He turned his eyes vaguely towards the garden and mindlessly began folding over the crease in his trouser leg.

“Your daughter’s boyfriend, the father of her unborn child, died yesterday after being thrown out of a hotel window,” Aziz said softly, leaning slightly towards the older man.

“My daughter’s boyfriend? Who would—Why on earth would Gregori do such a thing?”

“We don’t know, but we believe you may.” Aziz achieved just the right tone—accusation wrapped with such compassion that Petrescu wasn’t offended.