Erasing Memory (8 page)

Marcello and his father both loved hockey. Before he got married, March had been a decent goalie. The position of the television, high up and angled towards the espresso machine, made it a bit difficult for anyone but the bartender to watch it without getting a stiff neck. MacNeice’s bar stool afforded the next best view in the house.

Neither of them took his eyes off the screen, but MacNeice had already begun to drift back to Lydia, or more specifically, to her father. While he was obliged to inform him of his daughter’s death as quickly as possible, MacNeice decided that he and Aziz would not pay the man a visit until the morning. Apart from Betty’s identification, which could not be considered irrefutable, the girl’s identity was officially still a mystery. Things would be better for everyone if it was done in the morning.

A bell sounded in the kitchen and one of Marcello’s cadre of beautiful, bright young wait staff went to retrieve his first course,
zuppa di pesce
. Placing it in front of MacNeice with flirty efficiency, she asked, “Pepper, Mac?”

“Does it want it?”

The waitress and he both looked to Marcello, who drew down the sides of his mouth in consideration. “Naw, not this one. Go without.”

As MacNeice was finishing the soup, his cell rang. It was Vertesi. “Well, sir, nobody knows the guy who owns the cottage.…” Vertesi paused, maybe because of the music, the background noise of the place, or maybe it was MacNeice’s greeting, a kind of throaty “mm-huh.”

“You’re at Marcello’s. Cool—say
ciao
to him for me. Yeah, so they know the name of the doctor but nothing about him. And sorry, Mac, I didn’t nail his whereabouts today as promised.”

“No problem, Michael. I’d given you a lot to do.”

“Well, here’s the thing—I just got home and I’m downloading the images from my camera. They’re not exactly
Time
magazine but you can clearly see a groove in the sand. I shot it every way from Sunday and marked it with a stick, but if the wind is up tomorrow it may all be gone.”

“Not bad for a dark-horse theory. What did you find out about the troller?”

“That’s the thing—no one heard the boat. And everyone I talked to said they’d look if they heard a boat out at night, ’cause I guess that’s what they do. One did suggest that if the breeze was coming down the lake, like towards the scene, and apparently it was, there’s a likelihood they wouldn’t hear it at all if it was revving low for trolling.”

“And the marinas?”

“The first had shut down for the night, but the guy who works on the motors at the second one was still there. He says he thought they did rent out a runabout, a cedar-strip job that he didn’t see come back. When he walks me around to its berth, which is empty, he says, ‘No way that was an overnighter, since it has no running lights on it at all.’ He scratches his head and says, ‘Some of the day trippers up here are city-stupid, though.’ Even with a moon, the lake can be tricky at night—a lot of shoals and rocks. He figured maybe the guy ran aground and took off without letting them know.

“So then I’m walking to my car when he calls, ‘Chief, check this out.’ I go back to him and he points to a beat-up Dodge
pickup. ‘That’s been sittin’ here for two days. It must be the guy who rented the runabout. Can’t think of anyone else who owns it.’ And so I call in the plate and it turns out it’s a guy I know—Ronnie Ruvola, a twenty-eight-year-old from the west end with a record ranging from B and E to dope dealing.”

“Don’t know him. Is he a serious player?”

“I don’t think so, but I’ll find out. I got the mechanic to take me to the marina’s tuck shop and office. The owner, John Gibbs, wasn’t there, but the mechanic pulls up the receipt from the credit card. The card says ‘Robert Raymond Walters,’ but he gives me a description that matches Ronnie. He also rented a tackle box and fishing pole and even added live bait to the credit card. Gibbs was apparently pissed because that boat had been rented for the following day to some day fisher. He had to upgrade him to a Boston Whaler. I’ve had the pickup taken in to the pound and I’ll go back to interview Gibbs.”

“A good day’s work, Michael. Aziz and I have news too, but not to be discussed, as she says, over a cellphone. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Marcello came over, martini shaker in hand. “Anytime I see you on your cell here, I’m concerned. Everything okay?”

“The soup’s terrific and, yes, all’s well. Say, March, before the place gets into all that thumpa-thumpa stuff, can I hear ‘Nun Ti Lassu’?”

“No problem. Chris’ll love it too. But one of these days I’m gonna teach you that not all Sicilian songs are sad.”

S
ATURDAY MORNING CAME EARLY
at the lake. Tim Bookner and his four-year-old son Aidan were sitting on the rear deck of Tim’s handsome twenty-four-foot Limestone,
Book’s Boat
, designed for heavy weather on Georgian Bay. Anchored fore and aft, the boat bobbed gently in the breeze coming off Billings Island. Tim had been fishing on this lake since he was Aidan’s age. He knew where the pickerel and bass were, and he was proud to be introducing his son to his heritage.

For the first half-hour Aidan ate animal crackers. When he was full, he threw one towards a gull that was hovering over the boat. The small cookie barely had time to hit the surface before the gull swept it up and banked high overhead before returning for more. Excited, Aidan pointed up at the bird, calling out in his high-pitched outside voice, “Dad, the bird just ate a lion! A
lion!”
Father and son howled with laughter, and
they kept howling as one by one Aidan tossed up the remaining lions, monkeys, giraffes and elephants. In less than five minutes he’d fed half a box of safari wildlife to five gulls and was spent from laughing.

Though they both had lines overboard, Aidan was more interested in looking over the side, hoping to catch the moment when a fish would grab hold of his orange and yellow rubber wiggly. His life jacket was tethered to the rail surrounding the engine housing, so there was no chance he could fall over.

“There’s someone looking at me, Dad.” The boy was staring directly down.

His father turned slightly towards him and said, “Where?”

“Waving at me—down there, in the water.” Aidan waved his small pink hand, hesitantly at first but then vigorously up and down, the way he did when he was glad to see someone.

“Maybe it’s a mermaid. Does she have a fishy tail?” Tim kept his attention on the end of his rod, waiting for any movement that would indicate the big moment he was looking forward to—when he and Aidan would land tonight’s dinner and return home triumphantly.

“No. His hair’s like mine, only longer. Dad, he keeps waving at me.”

“Maybe you’re seeing your own reflection, like in your mirror at home.”

“No, Dad. He’s in a boat.”

There followed a silence that made Tim uneasy. He looked over at his son, who was still waving, slowly now, hesitatingly, downward. Tim put his rod in the white vinyl tube and went to sit on the cushioned bench beside Aidan, who turned to his father and said, “See, Dad? See him there—he’s waving at me.”

Tim looked down. “Oh fuck! Sorry, son. Oh my fucking Christ—oh sorry, Aidan, sorry Daddy’s swearing. Oh shit, oh shit!”

Tim covered his mouth, then grabbed at his hair. He quickly undid his son’s tether, took Aidan by the arm and put him in the wheelhouse seat, snapping his shoulder and seat belts on. Aidan had no idea what was going on but was awestruck to see his father so excited by the man in the boat. Tim went back and leaned over the side again. “Oh fuck. Oh shit—sorry, Aidan, Daddy’s bad language.” He retrieved both rods and tucked them into the hull rails.

He turned the key with the happy-face float fob and the powerful Swedish diesel rumbled to life, sending two small clouds of black smoke out of the stern’s twin exhaust pipes. Running forward, he pulled up the anchor and stowed it haphazardly on the deck. As the boat began to drift, he hauled up the stern anchor, laying it and its line across the blue vinyl bench. In the wheelhouse he threw the transmission into reverse and powered the craft backwards with such force that the water crested over the swimming deck at the stern. He spun the wheel hard to starboard and swung the boat around, shifting back to neutral, then dropped the red ball gearshift down. The bow lifted so dramatically that Aidan wasn’t sure whether to be filled with fear or glee. He chose the latter and started squealing as if this was the best day of his life. The deep V of the hull settled down as the boat gathered speed, scattering the gulls that had been resting on the water as they digested their crackers.

Turning around for a moment to watch the white wake breaking the stillness of the lake, Tim picked up his radio microphone and called,
“Book’s Boat
to Hangdog Marina.” Clicking
off, he waited, but only static came back.
“Book’s Boat
to Hangdog. Come in, Hangdog.”

“Hangdog. What’s up, Tim? We’re just getting started here. Over.” It was Kathy Doolittle, who ran the tuck shop.

“There’s a fucking awful problem out here, Kath. You need to get the marine unit on it right fucking now. Over.” Tim dropped his speed to ten knots, but he couldn’t drop his heart rate. Suddenly he thought,
What the fuck, I can hardly breathe. What if I have a fucking heart attack out here and I’m plowing ahead with Aidan wondering what the fuck!

“Ah, Tim, don’t be messing with me now. I’ve got Walter here and I don’t want any guff—or foul language—from you. Over.”

“No guff, for chrissakes, Kath! Walter, get a unit out here—just off the leeside near the end of Billings Island. Look down, twenty feet. There’s a guy in a fuckin’ boat! Over.” Looking over to his son he mouthed another apology for the swearing. The boy had never heard these words before, so the apology was somewhat lost on him.

“You mean on the bottom? Over.”

“I mean he’s lying in a cedar-strip, one of Gibbs’s, I think. It’s got a tank, a freakin’ motor—and this guy. He’s waving his right arm, waving! Over.” Tim slowed to six knots.

“Walter here. I’ve radioed the marine unit, but you’d better not be messing around, Tim. This is some serious shit. They’ll charge you and me with mischief and I could lose my licence. Over.”

“Do me a favour, Walt. Call my wife, tell her we’re coming in. Ask her if her mother could come over this afternoon and take Aidan to the movies. Over.”

Hearing this confirmed it—Aidan
was
having the best day of his life. He began his happy chant: “Oh yay, oh yay, oh yay.”

—

“H
ANGDOG TO
Book’s Boat
. Over.” It was Walter again, sounding more sober than Tim had ever heard him.

“It’s me, Walter. Over.”

“Well, there’ll be a uniform waiting for you when you dock. I let your wife know. She wanted to know what was wrong. I didn’t say. She’s on her way over too. Over.”

“I’m fine with that, Walter. See you soon. Ask Kath to grab an Eskimo Pie out of the freezer for Aidan. Actually, I’ll take one too. Oh, and last thing, maybe call Old Man Gibbs and ask him if he’s missing a runabout. Over.”

“Roger that, Book. Over and out.”

The marina’s slips were coming into view on the port side. Tim looked back but could no longer see the island, and he began to breathe easier. He reached over and tousled his son’s hair just to hear the practised big-boy response, “Dad … stop!”

Aidan couldn’t believe his luck. Usually he had to beg for an Eskimo Pie. “Did you ask Mr. Doolittle for Eskimo Pies?”

“Yep. After all, we’ve run out of animal crackers.” As Tim reduced his speed for the no-wake zone, they both focused on the marina directly ahead, for different reasons.

“U
SUALLY WITH A FLOATER
, they float.” His thermal diving suit rolled down to the waist, the burly young firefighter from the marine unit showed no sign of being impressed, either by the orange body bag being lifted out of the large idling aluminum-hulled cruiser or by the cedar-strip runabout that swung gently from the cantilevered arm above the stern deck.

“This guy was tethered, and not just by the neck to the motor lock. His feet were tied to the oarlocks. I can’t tell you whether he drowned or was strangled, but when that ten-inch
hole got punched in the bottom, that boat just floated down with him in it. As for the waving that freaked out the dad, that was caused by the current coming around the island. His other arm was pinned behind him by the gas hose, or it would have been waving too.” He made a crazy stop-the-train, two-arm wave to mimic what Tim and Aidan Bookner might have seen had both arms been free.

“It pretty much did the same for the diver who went down first. He’s in the cabin forward, sucking up ginger ale and trying not to puke.” He motioned with his head to the bag being laid on a rolling stretcher by the paramedics. “That guy had his eyes open, looking up and waving.”

Vertesi closed his notebook and climbed onboard, steadied by the firefighter’s grip on his arm. He walked aft and stood directly under the cedar hull. Just off the left side of the beam in the centre of the boat was a neat hole with blue sky showing through. It wasn’t a bashed-out “oh shit, we hit a rock” hole but looked as if it had been cut by a very large drill.

“What do you think made that hole?” He turned to the firefighter standing beside him, hands on his neoprene hips, squinting as he looked up at the underside of the boat.

“No fuckin’ idea, pal. But it wasn’t anything out there.” He nodded in the direction of the lake, as if lifting his massive arm would take too much effort. They both looked up at the hole again. “You see, it went right down through the floorboards.” He pointed to the edges of the hole. “The only thing I know that could do that is a circular jig, but I’ve never seen one that big—other than the ones they use for ice fishing, and I’ve never seen one of ’em for real, only on the fishing channel.”

“How can I get up there to take a picture of the edges of the cut?” Vertesi was looking around the deck and saw there
was nothing to stand on. “Can you bring it down a few feet?”

“No can do. The marine cops over there can do that, but I can’t. Not even for a cop.” He smiled. Seeing that Vertesi was still looking for a way to get up there and that the method he’d likely choose would be to stand on the rail in his loafers, the firefighter said, “Get your camera ready, pal.”