The Dells (15 page)

Hallam, with a bloody grin, swung the two-by-four at Shoe's head. Shoe parried with his skate again. He grabbed the board. Something stabbed through his glove into the palm of his hand. Hallam wrenched the board out of Shoe's grasp, swung again, batting the skates aside. Shoe scrabbled backwards, away from Hallam and the board. He'd forgotten about the third boy.

“Look out!” Janey shouted again.

Too late. Something smashed hard into Shoe's back, just above his kidneys. The pain was excruciating, but it propelled him to his feet. Janey threw herself at the boy who'd kicked him, clawing at his eyes. He tossed her aside. She fell and Shoe went after him. He ran. Shoe heard a grunt of exertion behind him, reflexively ducked and hunched his shoulders as he turned. The two-by-four
struck his shoulder and glanced off the side of his head. He fell again, head ringing.

“Hey, you boys,” a man bawled from the back of one of the houses bordering the park.

Hallam swung the two-by-four. Shoe raised his arms to protect his head. The wide edge of the board smacked into his left forearm, otherwise his arm surely would have been broken. It hurt nonetheless, but Shoe grabbed the board with his right hand and yanked it out of Hallam's grasp. Hallam backed off. Using the two-by-four as a support, Shoe struggled to his feet.

“You boys,” the man shouted again. “I've called the police.”

Disarmed, Hallam's grinning bravado had disappeared. “Fight fair, Cochise. Get rid of the board.”

“You've got a funny idea of fair,” Shoe said. “I think I'll keep it.”

“Go home,” Hallam said to Janey. “This is between me and him.”

Janey stepped to Shoe's side. “Leave us alone, Dougie.”

Hallam made a grab for her. He yowled as Shoe slashed him across the knuckles with the two-by-four. Shoe threw the board aside.

“All right, Dougie. You want a fair fight, you got it.”

Hallam hesitated. Then he lowered his head and charged. He might as well have sent Shoe a note. Shoe sidestepped and hit him on the side of the head. Hallam staggered a couple of steps and sank to his knees. As Hallam struggled to his feet and turned unsteadily toward him, Shoe stepped up and drove his fist straight into Hallam's nose again. He felt cartilage split under his knuckles. Hallam grunted and fell onto his back, rolled over, but did not try to get up. Blood ran onto the snow. Janey tried to kick him, her face contorted with anger,
but Shoe hauled her back. The anger in her face faded, to be replaced by fear.

Shoe's back hurt as he bent to pick up his and Janey's skates. Holding his left arm to his chest, gritting his teeth against the pain, he slung both pairs of skates over his shoulder. He pulled off his right glove with his teeth. The knuckles of his right hand were starting to swell and there was a two-inch splinter of wood in his palm. He plucked it out with his teeth and closed his fist on the blood. He heard sirens.

“Let's go,” he said to Janey.

She shook her head. “I gotta take him home.”

“The police will take care of him. Won't they, Dougie?” He nudged Hallam with the toe of his boot. Hallam moaned.

“I gotta take him home,” Janey said again. She started to help her stepbrother up, but he lashed out at her, hitting her in the chest. She sat in the snow, wheezing for breath.

“Leave him,” Shoe said, pulling her to her feet with his good arm.

“Go home. Please,” she pleaded. “Let me take him home.” She pushed him toward the park exit. “Go. Go. Please.”

Reluctantly, Shoe left her with her stepbrother.

The following Monday, Janey wasn't in school. She didn't return until mid-week. She had a black eye, a bruised jaw, and a bandage on her right wrist. She'd fallen down the stairs, she told anyone who asked. Shoe knew better.

“He did this to you, didn't he?” The look on her face was answer enough. Shoe's anger ran deep and hot. “I'll kill him,” he said, through clenched teeth.

“Please, Shoe, don't do anything. It'll only make things worse. He'll only beat me up again.”

“Not if he knows what's good for him he won't.”

“Don't be stupid,” she said. “He's not worth it. I'm not worth it.”

“Don't say that. You tell him, if he touches you again, he'll be sorry.”

“It won't do any good. Stay away from him. Please. I had to beg Freddy not to come after you. You might be able to take Dougie, but you wouldn't stand a chance against his old man. He'd kill you, believe me. Let it go. Please. For my sake, at least, but yours too.”

It hadn't been easy, but Shoe had let it go, hoping things would go back to the way they'd been. They hadn't, of course.

At a few minutes past four, as Shoe was leaving the park, a plain grey Sebring sedan pulled up to the curb. A Toronto Police Service scout car pulled up behind it. Detective Sergeant Hannah Lewis and Detective Constable Paul Timmons got out of the Sebring and two uniformed constables got out of the scout car. Hannah Lewis's fox-like face was serious. Timmons had an unlit cigarette in his mouth. The uniformed constables looked wary.

“Good day, Detective Sergeant,” Shoe said. “Detective Constable Timmons. Officers.”

Timmons nodded curtly, lighting the cigarette.

“Mr. Schumacher,” Lewis said, manner brusque and businesslike. “Have you seen Martine Elias?”

“She's in the park, talking with my sister.” Rachel and Marty had been sitting outside the welcome tent, catching up and reminiscing about Marvin Cartwright. Shoe, feeling like an eavesdropper, had left them to it.

Lewis nodded to Timmons and the uniformed constables and proceeded into the park. Shoe fell in beside her. She glanced up at him.

“Do you mind if I tag along?” he asked.

“Just remember you're a civilian,” she said.

Shoe looked at her out of the corner of his eye. Her face was too sharp and angular to be called pretty, but she was far from unattractive. And there was a keen intelligence behind those seemingly all-seeing violet eyes. There was a toughness, too, in the way she held herself, a sense that she would brook no nonsense. Like a lot of cops, it was a pose, a pretence one learned early and which eventually became habitual. Survival often depended on giving the right first impression.

“She's good,” Hank Trumbull had said during Shoe's brief conversation with him earlier in the day. “She was on the fast track for a while, but, well, she can be something of a loose cannon. Comes by it honestly, I suppose; her brother wasn't exactly the poster boy for
esprit de corps
, was he?” A sigh. “I tried to be a good influence on her,” he said, words heavy with irony. He paused for a moment, then said, “This Cartwright case could come back and bite her.”

“How so?”

“Do you remember a rape/homicide case in that area about thirty, thirty-five years ago? Three sexual assaults and the rape and murder of a female park worker.”

“The Black Creek Rapist,” Shoe said. “Yes, I remember.”

“Cartwright was a suspect,” Trumbull said.

“Not a very good one.”

“The best of a bad lot, maybe, but a suspect nonetheless.”

“All right,” Shoe conceded. “But how could that hurt Hannah?”

“Her brother was part of the investigation.”

“He was?” Shoe said, surprised. “I didn't know that.”

“No reason you should. It's not something he'd be inclined to brag about. According to a retired sergeant I play golf with, who knew him back then, Mackie had a major hard-on for Cartwright. He was convinced Cartwright was the Black Creek Rapist. He went way overboard, though, and got himself an official reprimand for harassment and insubordination. There was also something about him trying to pressure a witness into making a false statement. He's lucky they didn't kick him off the force. Might've saved himself and others a lot of trouble if they had.”

“Are you suggesting that Ron Mackie may have killed Cartwright?” Shoe said.

“Hell, no, but — ” A woman called Trumbull's name. “Be with you in a sec, love,” Trumbull called in return. “I gotta go,” he said to Shoe. “Listen, if there's the slightest hint Mackie is connected to this Cartwright murder, there's going to be some serious hell to pay, and Hannah is going to get stuck with the check. The smart thing would be for her to recuse herself, but — ”

“Hank!” the woman called again.

“Tell her to keep her head down and play this one by the book.”

“Hank! We're going to miss our goddamned plane!”

“Okay, okay,” Trumbull had shouted as he'd hung up the phone.

Lewis became aware of Shoe's sidelong scrutiny. “What?”

“Did you know your brother was part of the investigation into the old rape/homicide case I told you about?”

She stopped in her tracks. “What? No. Where'd you hear that?” When Shoe hesitated, she sighed and said,
“Right. Hank. Shit.”

“According to Hank, your brother was convinced Cartwright was the Black Creek Rapist and came close to being dishonourably discharged for harassment, insubordination, and possibly attempting to suborn a witness. He was concerned that Ron's connection to the case could compromise your investigation. He asked me to tell you to keep your head down and play it by the book.”

“He's hardly the one to give that kind of advice.” She was deep in thought for a moment, then said, “Was there a witness? Besides the victims?”

“I don't know,” Shoe said.

“But you don't think Cartwright was the Black Creek Rapist, do you?”

“No.”

“How can you be so sure? Maybe Ron wasn't wrong.”

“Not according to Claudia Hahn.” Or Marty Elias, according to Tim Dutton.

“Hahn was the second victim?”

“Yes. I spoke with her this morning. She knew Cartwright and is certain he wasn't the man who raped her.”

“She wouldn't be the first woman to be raped by someone she knew but couldn't — or wouldn't — identify him.”

“No, but she's extremely compelling. Talk to her yourself.”

“Count on it.” She sighed. “All right, so Ron screwed up. It wouldn't be the last time, would it? On the other hand, maybe you're wrong about Hahn.”

“I'm frequently wrong about many things,” Shoe said agreeably. Lewis smiled thinly. He knew what she was thinking: Claudia had denied that Cartwright was her rapist in order to remove a possible motive she might
have for killing him. “But I'm inclined to believe her,” he added.

“Mm,” Lewis said. After a moment of contemplative silence, she resumed walking.

Rachel and Marty Elias were in the kitchen tent, sitting at the folding table, heads close together, looking at the laptop screen. Both stood when Shoe, Lewis, and Timmons entered. The uniformed constables waited outside, already attracting curious glances.

Rachel glared at Timmons. “Would you put that out, please?”

Timmons dropped his cigarette to the grass and ground it out beneath the toe of his shoe.

Lewis took a notebook out of her jacket pocket. She looked at Marty. “Are you Martine Elias?”

“Yes,” Marty replied, looking at Shoe, then at Lewis again.

Lewis introduced herself and Detective Constable Timmons, then said, “Do you have a few minutes to answer some questions?”

“What about?” Marty asked, a little warily, Shoe thought.

“Are you acquainted with a Joseph Charles Noseworthy?”

Marty's eyes widened. “Sure, I know Joey. We all do. Why?”

Lewis looked at Shoe. “You know Joey Noseworthy?”

“He was my closest friend until our first year of high school. I haven't seen or spoken to him since.”

“Why are you asking about Joey?” Rachel asked.

Lewis didn't reply. Shoe knew the answer. In the jargon of police speak, Joey had become a “person of interest” in the investigation into Marvin Cartwright's murder, possibly even a suspect.

“Miss Elias,” Lewis said. “We understand he's been
staying at your apartment. Is that right?”

“So?” Marty said belligerently.

“How long has he been staying with you?” Lewis asked.

“Since Thursday night,” Marty replied. “How — ”

“What time did he get there?”

“I dunno, um, around midnight, I guess.” She avoided eye contact with Shoe; earlier in the day she'd told him that Joey had shown up at her door at two-thirty in the morning.

“Are you certain of the time?” Lewis said.

“Look, I … ” Marty was flustered. Like lawyers, Shoe knew, cops also asked questions to which they already had the answer.

“Because when we canvassed your neighbours, they told us that a man who appeared to be quite drunk was banging on your door and shouting your name at twothirty Friday morning.”

Marty flushed. “Okay, so it was two-thirty.”

“Thank you. What was his demeanour?”

“Like you said, he was drunk.”

“Was there any blood on his clothing or on his person?”

“Not that I saw. He smelled like a dumpster, so I made him take a shower and threw his clothes in the washer. I didn't see any blood on them. Look, I know what this is about now, but there's no way Joey killed Mr. Cartwright.”

“I hope you're right,” Lewis said.

“Sure you do,” Marty replied sarcastically.

The two uniformed officers standing patiently in the hot sun outside the welcome tent were attracting attention from passersby. Nor did the kitchen shelter, with its bug-screen walls rolled up, afford any privacy. Shoe wasn't surprised when Lewis suggested a change of venue.

“Perhaps we should continue this at the division,” she said.

“I'm not going anywhere with you,” Marty said.

“Miss Elias,” Lewis said patiently. “This will go a lot easier if you co-operate.”