12 Rose Street (5 page)

He reached for my hand. “Cronus is dead,” he said. “A beat cop found his body lying on the hood of his Porsche. Cronus listed me as next of kin so they want me to identify the body.”

A block of ice seemed to form around my heart. “Where is he?” I said.

“In the parking lot behind the Sahara Club.”

“Do the police know what he was doing there?”

“Cronus lives in the condo over the club,” Zack said. “You and I had an open invitation to join him at the Sahara for dinner. I never took him up on it.”

Zack’s tone was remorseful, so I was brisk. “We can talk about that later,” I said. “Right now let’s just do what we have to do. I’ll call Brock, tell him about Cronus, and ask him to walk the dogs.”

“Jo, you don’t have to come.”

I rubbed his shoulder. “My grandmother always told me that a burden shared is a burden halved,” I said. “Let’s get going.”

The Sahara Club was on Dewdney Avenue in a strip called “nightclub row,” six blocks from where we lived. The area was sketchy. Most of the clubs occupied the main floor of buildings that had been abandoned in the 1960s when businesses started moving to the malls that were springing up on the city’s outskirts like mushrooms after a three-day rain.

There weren’t many scenic routes in our neighbourhood, and sometimes when Zack and I went for a wander after dinner, we’d head for nightclub row. For the most part, the clubs were charmless, gritty places with dead bulbs in the neon letters that proclaimed the club’s name and windows with yellowed signs announcing daily specials for cocktails that no one had ordered since the 1970s. In summer, the doors to the clubs were open and the music of bands that were either on their way up or on their way out blared into the street. Kids too young to be in a bar would be dancing on the sidewalk, high or drunk but harmless. Life in the Warehouse District.

The Sahara Club was an anomaly. For one thing, it was not a club. It was and is a steakhouse and piano bar. For another, in a neighbourhood of buildings that have been allowed to deteriorate, the Sahara has been carefully maintained. In winter, the steps and sidewalk are always shovelled; in summer, the flowers in the window boxes flourish; in all seasons, the legs of the neon camels marching on the sign over the club’s entrance move with the precision of the Rockettes.

The camels always made Zack and me smile, so our after-dinner meanderings often brought us to the sidewalk outside the Sahara. When the weather was pretty, the windows would be open, and we could smell the steaks sizzling and hear a pianist playing tunes that had the cool elegance of Cole Porter or Johnny Mercer. We’d always intended to go in one day.

That morning the side street that led to the parking lot was choked with police vehicles, but there was a parking space in front of the club and we took it. Zack’s wheelchair is a dynamite calling card and the first constable we talked to waved us in. Yellow crime scene tape marked boundaries we weren’t allowed to cross, but because Zack was there to identify the victim, the constable escorted us straight to Debbie Haczkewicz. She was watching the police photographer as he took photos of Cronus from every angle.

The body had not been moved. Cronus, still in his Gatsby suit, was on his back on the hood of his white Porsche, staring sightlessly at the dark September sky. Numb, I gazed at his battered body. His face was almost unrecognizable. His nose was broken; his eyes were swollen; the cuts on his skull, face, and lips had bled copiously. His beautiful white suit was blood-soaked and filthy with imprints of the boots that had kicked and stomped on him. Later we would learn that Cronus died of an occlusion of the carotid arteries and jugular veins. In layperson’s terms, he died from manual strangulation. It would have been an agonizing death.

Zack took a deep breath. “I can make it official, Deb,” he said. “That’s Cronus.”

Debbie made a note of the information. “Is Cronus his given name or his surname?”

“It’s both. He was born Ronald Mewhort Junior, but after he and his father had a falling out, Ronald Junior had his name changed legally. Cronus was the Titan who came to power by castrating his father.”

Debbie raised an eyebrow. “I’ll bet that showed Dad. Zack, do you have any idea why Cronus would have identified you as next of kin?”

“No.”

“Do you have any idea why someone would have killed him?”

“Yes.” Zack turned his wheelchair to face Debbie. “Deb, I didn’t tell you this yesterday because Cronus asked me to keep his name out of it, and I saw no reason to violate his confidence. Cronus was the one who told me about the kidnapping plot. After he warned me, he had Joanne take a photo of him with Brock Poitras and me, and he sent the photo to someone immediately. He included a message – a series of numbers. The numbers were 2, 5, 1, 0, 0, 6. He didn’t say why the numbers were significant, but he did say the combination of the photo and the numbers were the silver bullet that would put an end to the plot.”

As Zack talked I could feel Debbie’s adrenaline pumping. This was a solid lead. “So Cronus may have been killed because he warned you about the possibility of a kidnapping,” she said.

“That would be my guess,” Zack said. The sun was coming up. The pale light of dawn revealed the full extent of the cruelty that had been inflicted on Cronus’s body. My knees were weak and when I gripped Zack’s chair to steady myself, he shot me a quick anxious look. “Debbie, I’ve told you everything I know,” he said. “Find Cronus’s phone. There’ll be some answers there. In the meantime, Joanne and I have to get our bearings and we have to eat something. If you want to talk, you know where to find us, but right now we need to go home.”

Debbie waved us off absently. Her mind was already grappling with the information Zack had given her. We were silent as we threaded our way through the officers working the crime scene and headed for our Volvo. I slid into the passenger seat and watched as Zack transferred his body from his chair to the car, dismantled the chair, and stowed it in the back seat. When he was through, Zack held out his arms to me. I leaned into him, breathed the familiar scent of his skin, felt his warmth, and wept.

When we got home, the dogs had been fed and watered, the coffee was on, and Brock was sitting at the butcher-block table. He stood. “I thought I’d stick around and see if there’s anything I can do.”

Zack’s smile was faint. “Maybe make the last twenty-four hours go away.”

“That bad,” Brock said.

Zack nodded. “Cronus was either killed by gang members or by someone who wants to make his death appear to be gang-related. The beating he took was beyond brutal. And he’d been stomped.”

Brock’s gaze was steady. “The gang signature,” he said. “But you don’t think Cronus was killed by a gang.”

Zack shook his head. “No. I think Cronus was killed by whoever received that picture of the three of us. If the cops can find Cronus’s phone, they’ll be on their way to solving this.”

Brock’s laugh was rueful. “And where do you suppose that phone is at this moment?”

“Probably at the bottom of a landfill,” Zack said. “But we’re going to have to let the cops handle this.”

“Right,” I said. “We have a campaign to run. You and Brock are booked to have breakfast with the Builders’ Association. The election is only eight weeks from today.”

“I’ll remind the builders of that,” Zack said. “I’ll also remind them that if there’s a new administration they’d be wise to get in on the ground floor.”

“Donate now, and reap the benefits later,” I said.

“It’s a quid pro quo world,” Zack said.

“Isn’t that what we’re trying to change?” I said.

Brock was matter-of-fact. “We can’t change anything unless we win the election,” he said. “It’s time to suit up and get in the game.”

After Brock went down to his condo on the third floor to dress for the breakfast meeting, Zack and I showered and readied ourselves for the day. Zack chose a light grey pinstripe dress suit, a pale blue shirt, and a blue paisley tie. As I bent to straighten his tie, I said, “You look like a
GQ
cover boy. How are you feeling – really?”

“Like homemade shit,” he said. “How about you?”

“The same,” I said. I gazed at our still-unmade bed longingly. “I would like nothing better than to burrow under those covers with you and stay there forever – safe and warm and away from the world.”

Zack chuckled. “You know what Grace Slick said: ‘No matter how big or soft your bed is, you still have to get out of it.’ ”

“Jefferson Airplane had answers for all of life’s large questions,” I said. I looked at my watch. “Come in and sit down with Taylor and me while we eat. You don’t have to be downtown for another hour and Taylor always makes you feel better.”

It was impossible not to get a contact high from sitting next to Taylor at breakfast that morning. She was not a girl given to fizzing with emotion. She had inherited serious talent as a visual artist from her birth mother, Sally Love, and knowledgeable collectors were already quietly buying up her work. When she talked about the art she made, Taylor was mature and thoughtful, but as gifted as she was, Taylor was still two months’ shy of her sixteenth birthday. That bright September day she was starting Grade Eleven at Luther College High School. She would be with her friends again, and when she turned sixteen she’d be starting driver education. As she anticipated the year ahead, Taylor’s words tumbled over one another. Except for Declan being away at university, it was, she assured us, going to be the best year ever.

Seeing Taylor’s joy made an unbearable morning almost bearable. Still, when Declan came to drive Taylor to school, I knew that Zack and I were both relieved that we could give in to our sadness. Twenty-four hours earlier Cronus had been alive, as full of plans as we all were. Now he was lying on a slab in the morgue. I couldn’t shake the image of Cronus’s body splayed like a hunter’s trophy on the hood of his car. The shadows under Zack’s eyes suggested that he hadn’t been able to shake the memory either.

When the door closed behind Taylor, I went over and rubbed Zack’s shoulders. “Your muscles are tight.”

“They’re going to have to stay tight,” Zack said. “I’ve got a couple of phone calls to make, and Brock’s on his way up.”

“Go make your calls. I’ll keep Brock company.”

When Brock arrived, I gestured to the living room. “Come inside. Zack’s going to be a few minutes, and I need to talk to you.”

Brock followed me into the living room and we sat in the reading chairs in front of the window. “I’m guessing this is about Michael,” he said.

“It is. Brock, Michael told me yesterday afternoon that he knew about the plan to kidnap a child but there was nothing he could do to stop it. You have to talk to him and find out what’s going on. He’s in over his head. He told me that he was
forced
to leave you.”

“By who?”

“He didn’t say, but he did tell me that you and Margot had intercourse. He implied that you’re still involved sexually.”

Brock made no effort to hide his frustration. “Michael knows that’s not true. He knows that I’m gay, not bisexual. Margot and I tried the medical route for three months. Nothing happened. Margot is forty-four. She felt time was running out. Intercourse was a last resort. We had intercourse
three times. I didn’t tell Michael that Margot and I had sex until her
OB
/
GYN
confirmed the pregnancy. At first the news didn’t seem to bother him. Then out of nowhere there was this big explosion, and he told me the relationship was over.” Brock placed his massive hands, fingers spread, on his knees. For a beat he just stared at them. Finally he said, “If it had been Zack, would you have wanted him to tell you?”