Erasing Memory (32 page)

“Your father feels otherwise.”

“My father is dead, Detective.” MacNeice looked up at him. “Yes, I see you’re surprised. An hour ago he sent Madeleine for strawberries and cream, and when she came back he was dead, sitting by the garden window of the library. That’s when she called me. He put a bullet through his mouth and emptied his skull. My method is much more civilized.” Glancing down at the clock on the dashboard he said, “Eight minutes.”

“Why kill Lydia, and why that way?”

“Elegant, no? There is only one person who could do that with such finesse. He’s Bulgarian, and a former KGB specialist. He was also born on the Black Sea. His five-year-old son was one of those deformed for life by my father. Because of that he gave me a discount for Lydia. He’s left the country; you’ll never find him.”

“The boyfriend and Ruvola?”

“Collateral damage. I believe that term was invented over here. The boyfriend was a pornographer. The other was trash, a drug dealer.”

“Did you show those images of Lydia to your father?”

“No. You don’t understand—I didn’t do this to hurt my father. He’s nothing to me … was nothing to me. Yes, I was his blood and she wasn’t, but I did this for my country.”

“Are you saying the Romanian government was involved in this?”

“Not at all.” Gregori managed a short chuckle. “We are a poor country, very weak militarily and economically. I was doing research on my own. Had I the documents that are back there”—he motioned towards the back of the SUV—“I could have ensured that at least we were not defenceless.”

“That was once your father’s plan too, it seems.”

“Do you play chess, Detective?”

“Some.”

“Antonin Petrescu was not a pawn but a rook. He could move on certain limited paths. He imagined himself as much more—a bishop, perhaps.”

“You presumably have more power?”

“I do.… I did. We are trying on capitalism like a new suit, but the ones learning fastest are the ones who learned to survive in the old suits.”

“Why didn’t you just ask your father for the formula? Why did you have to kill the girl?”

“My father was righteous and repentant. He felt guilt for what he had done, even though it was Ceausescu who forced him to do it. He would have gone to his grave without handing over those documents. But the one thing he feared—call it
the sentiment of the region—was a Bulgarian invasion of Romania. He thought that Lydia’s death—the manner of her death—was a message from Bulgaria. Compared to the clumsy poisoning of rivers and beaches, this was a precision-engineered death. He had no choice but to give them to me.”

“What about Lydia?”

“We have thousands of beautiful girls, talented girls, in Romania. None of them will ever have the privileges she enjoyed. The money was dirty. The father, Ceausescu, was filth. My father pretended to be a father—he never was one, not to me and not to her. The girl meant nothing. I wanted the formula, and I wanted to settle accounts.”

“And yet he withheld one piece of the puzzle.”

“Yes. It was foolish of him to do so, and when I realized what he’d done, foolish of me to go looking for it. I’m sure that within a year I could have worked out the last piece. I am—I was a better microbiologist than my father. By far. He was privileged, of course, because of my mother. What did he do with that privilege? He couldn’t keep his wife faithful, and if he had stayed in Romania, he would have lost all his privileges, along with his head.”

“Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

“The rest is details, best left alone. You have the basics.” Petrescu looked at the clock again. “I have perhaps two minutes or so. Do you mind, Detective, leaving me alone to look at the sky?” A series of mild convulsions rocked his body; he belched several times, and his face suddenly lost its colour. He looked over to MacNeice and smiled weakly, his eyes shining with sudden tears that reflected the sunlight and blue sky. “I may have miscalculated.” He coughed, and a stream of blood-red spittle rolled down his chin. “Next time, I’ll—”
A tear spilled out of his right eye and slid down the swiftly greying cheek.

MacNeice took his recorder and got out of the vehicle, quietly shutting the door behind him.

Speeding towards them over the grass were two airport cruisers and an ambulance. “Intercept them, Aziz,” MacNeice said. “Keep them away for a couple more minutes.”

Raising her hand to the oncoming cruisers, Aziz stopped them just beyond the Chevy. Two police officers exited the lead vehicle and came towards her, one carrying a shotgun and the other with his hand on a holstered sidearm. Aziz switched off the cherry on the Chevy and waited for them.

MacNeice listened for the red-winged blackbird, but it was gone. He looked at the tinted window of the Range Rover, thinking about how, once again, Gregori Petrescu had dictated the pace of the game. The vehicle shook briefly, as if the man inside was moving about violently, and then it was still. He walked around the SUV towards Aziz and the assembled cops and paramedics.

“His name is Colonel Gregori Petrescu. He’s a Romanian national. Shield the vehicle from traffic”—he waved towards the airport-bound commuters without looking at the road—“then take him out with as much dignity as you can manage. Put the contents of the SUV in the trunk of my car. I’ll call the pathologist and tell her to expect him. There’ll be a report in your hands by tomorrow morning.”

As soon as the trunk was loaded, MacNeice climbed into the Chevy. Once again Aziz opened up a path through the traffic before climbing in beside him. He drove across the two lanes, then slowly over the grass infield before turning onto the airport exit lane. They passed people in cars laughing and sharing
their stories of holidays and honeymoons and graduation backpacking trips to exotic places. For some time they said nothing. There was, it seemed, nothing left to say.

“I never got to Lydia’s emails.”

“Leave them. They had nothing to do with her death.”

They continued on in silence for several miles, passing the flat unfolding suburbs, then climbing slightly till they reached the crest of the escarpment.

“I don’t know how I should feel now that it’s done,” Aziz said.

“Not entirely done. There’s still a Bulgarian to find.”

He eased to a stop outside her apartment, put the Chevy in park and let the engine idle. Aziz was looking out the window towards her building. “I’ve just been asked to go back to university—as a teacher,” she said.

“I see.” His voice was as flat as he felt. The day couldn’t end without more bad news. “You’re considering it, I take it.”

“Yes.”

“Because of Marcus Johnson?”

“Because of everything, Mac. I never thought I’d shoot a man.” She looked over at him, both wanting and fearing his response.

“I won’t do anything to stop you if it’s what you need to do.” He rested both hands on the steering wheel as if he was ready to drive off.

She wanted to say
I wish you would
, but instead she said, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” and opened the car door.

L
EAVING THE HOUSE EARLIER
than usual, California state trooper Sergeant First-Class Calvin Mendez, a fifteen-year veteran of the highway patrol, turned towards the Interstate from his neighbourhood outside Salinas and headed west towards Highway 1, where his day would officially begin. He stopped at a roadside diner south of Carmel, and after ham and eggs, buttered toast and a cup of coffee, he climbed into his cruiser and turned south onto the two-lane stretch known as America’s most scenic drive, the Pacific Coast Highway. Sections of the highway, like this one, were so far above the sea that the only way to detect surfers was by the white trails their boards made cutting through the waves.

Mendez believed he was blessed, not only to earn a decent wage but also to be so close to the ocean every working day. He studied the wave patterns on the sea as he drove, scanning for the dawn patrol of serious surfers, who always arrived early. He knew some of them from his own decades of
surfing—an obsession that his father, a former migrant worker from Mexico, believed would ruin his life.

It being so early on a Sunday morning, the radio was quiet, and Mendez knew that for the most part his presence was more a visual reminder than anything else. Cars slowed down when they saw him coming, but as he and every other trooper knew, it was the kids on the supercharged Italian and Japanese motorcycles—crotch-rockets, they called them—who were often the problem. On the weekend they’d come screaming out of L.A. heading north, or south from San Francisco, to test themselves on America’s most challenging highway. So far, however, this morning seemed peaceful.

Somewhere south of Big Creek Bridge at 7:39 a.m., he became aware of a Mustang convertible ahead that seemed to be weaving slightly but rhythmically, the way people on Rollerblades do when they listen to music while they skate. Several oncoming vehicles, including a large RV heading north, flashed their headlights and eased towards the shoulder to avoid the car.

Mendez called it in and began hop-scotching his way towards the vehicle. When he was directly behind it, he kept pace, assuming the driver would slow down the way most people do when they see a trooper in their rear-view mirror. This one didn’t. Then one weave caused the car to hit the shoulder, spitting up gravel that clicked off the cruiser’s hood and windshield. Mendez hit the switch for the light bar and gave him several
whurp-whurps
from the siren. He called it in again, reported the Mustang’s licence plate and his location, and said he was pulling the vehicle over.

The Mustang hit the shoulder again and ran along it for several yards, enveloping Mendez’s cruiser in dust. When it
settled, he could see that the car was a foot or so from the cliff edge, angled towards the ocean. Mendez asked over the radio if they had anything on the plates.

“Roger that,” the dispatcher said. “It’s a rental out of San Francisco International. Nothing yet on the driver.”

“I’m getting out now. Have the unit south of me—I believe it’s Lane Montgomery—stand by.”

“Roger that. Be careful, trooper.”

“Roger.”

He took the restraining harness off his service weapon and, with his hand firmly on its grip, Mendez moved slowly to the driver’s side of the Mustang. The Beach Boys’ “Good Vibrations” was blaring from the stereo. The driver’s head was resting on the headrest, but it rolled to the left to watch Mendez approaching in the side-view mirror.

“Throw the keys out here, sir, and then step out of the vehicle with your hands behind your head. Do it now.”

The music stopped, the keys were tossed onto the gravel, and a tall man who looked to be in his late forties stepped out of the Mustang, still singing the tune.

“Turn around, sir. Put your hands on the car and spread your legs.”

The man gave a slight bow and turned almost theatrically towards the car. Searching him, Mendez noticed how silky the suit was; other than two hundred dollars in fifties, there was nothing in the pockets of his pants. In the left breast pocket of his jacket was a small leather wallet with no credit cards but a driver’s licence and some plastic ID in a language Mendez couldn’t identify. From the other pocket Mendez retrieved a passport—Gheorghi Borisov, mechanical engineer, Sofia, Bulgaria.

“Have you been drinking, Georgie?”

“It’s Gheorghi—
yor-gee
. No, I do not drink; it upsets my stomach. Without alcohol I have only good vibrations.”

“You were weaving back and forth on the highway. Why was that?”

“Oh, the music, the view … It’s beautiful, no?”

Mendez looked in the door pocket—nothing, nor was there anything under the driver and passenger seats or in the back.

“Get back in the car and stay there. I’m going to check the trunk. How long have you been in America, Gheorghi?” He was beginning to enjoy saying the name.

From the front seat Borisov said, “Three days only. It’s beautiful.”

There were two black metal cases in the trunk, both locked and bearing a tag with his name but no address, except for
Bulgaria
. “What are the codes to these cases, Mr. Borisov?”

“Same code—1-2, 1-2, 1-7. Keep it simple, stupid.”

Mendez dialled the code and popped the smaller of the cases to find it packed with brand-new clothes, all still wearing their shop tags, all very expensive. “Nice threads, Gheorghi.”

“Ya, sure. Though not American, only European. Americans make crap clothes. Hawaiian-shirt shit.”

“That so.”

Mendez reached below the pale grey and blue shirts, the charcoal and black jackets and pants, to find the entire bottom of the case layered with stacks of fifty-dollar bills. “You’ve got a lot of money back here, Gheorghi. Can you explain that to me?”

“Sure. I’m an engineer. I accept only cash payment. No credit, just cash.” He returned to singing the Beach Boys.

Mendez rotated the little wheels of the lock on the second case, but before he could open it, the drivers passing by started
honking their horns and yelling from their windows. He looked around the trunk lid to see Borisov standing with one foot on the hood and the other on the fender above the right front headlight. His arms were outstretched as if he was doing the “king of the world” scene from
Titanic
. Mendez quietly shut the trunk, retrieved the key and then walked slowly along the side of the car, once again with his hand on his weapon.

“Get down from the vehicle, sir. Get down now.”

“I don’t know where but she sends me there.…” Borisov sang as he looked out to the ocean, the updraft from the cliff face whipping his pants and jacket.

Several cars had slowed to watch the spectacle, and a pickup truck with three surfboards in it pulled off the road just ahead of Mendez. Three young men, tanned and blond, stepped out of the truck but stayed by its side.

Borisov waved to them and crooned, “Oh my, my, my, what a sensation.…”

“Get down from the car, Gheorghi. Get down now.” Into his shoulder radio he said, “Ah, I need support right now. Send Montgomery. And I need medical assistance. Please confirm. Over.”