Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle (103 page)

He took Sheppard Avenue into North York and hung a right on Florence. A lot more high rises spotted the neighbourhood than the last time he’d visited this area. He took Radine into the residential streets until he reached Stuart Street. The houses on the north side of Stuart were prime property, backing onto the ravine that cut north from the West Don River. It was an old working-class neighbourhood, but a goodly number of the small brick homes had been bought up by developers, torn down and spit into the landfill. Fancy oversized homes decked out in beige, cultured brick had taken their places, large price tags and small yards the new normal.

Rouleau checked the house number again on the paper lying on the passenger seat. Half-way down the block, he pulled over to the curb directly across from one of the original grand dwellings: two-storey gold brick with a turret and leaded windows. As he walked toward the front door he saw harbingers of decline in the tired paint around the door and fissures in the concrete foundation. The bushes under the bay window were overgrown and badly in need of a trim. It was as if the will to keep the place going was slipping away, although he still put the property at two million easy.

It took a few minutes before the front door was slowly opened by a Latino woman with grey hair and black eyes. She wore a pink nursing uniform and rubber-soled shoes. She looked at him quizzically before her eyes lit in recognition as she recovered the memory of his appointment.

“You are the detective from Kingston who called,” she said, stepping aside to let him enter. “You’ve come at just the right time. Mr. Amato is having a good day. He’s expecting you.”

She led Rouleau into the back of the house to a sunny solarium. An emaciated man was stretched out on a couch, his head propped up by pillows and a red blanket covering his legs even though Rouleau found the room hot and suffocating. Tubes from a tank of oxygen were hooked into the man’s nose. Classical music played softly from speakers hidden somewhere in the room. A medicinal smell cloyed Rouleau’s senses.

“Do you need anything, Mr. Amato?” the nurse asked. When he shook his head no, she signalled for Rouleau to sit in the chair across from him and said, “I’ll be back in ten minutes to see you out.”

“I’m sorry to hear that you’ve been ill,” Rouleau said, pulling the chair closer. His words sounded grossly inadequate to his own ears. The man before him with skin the colour of waxed paper and diminished size was obviously nearing the end. The nurse had told him that Amato had two months left to live on the outside when he called the evening before. “I just need to find out about your daughter, Della.”

“Del-la.” His papery voice rose just above a whisper.

“You were upset that she married Brian Munroe.” Rouleau wanted to make the interview as easy as possible, to save the man from having to speak more than necessary.

“Began long before that.” Mr. Amato paused, gathering his strength. “Della caused … so much pain. Stole money. Lied all the time.” Another pause. Another deep sucking of oxygen from the machine. “My wife and I gave up. Couldn’t take it anymore. Had to think of Emily.”

“Emily?”

“My other daughter. Lives nearby.”

Rouleau nodded, surprised that her name hadn’t been in any reports. “Is it okay if I speak with her?”

“Go … easy,” Mr. Amato smiled, his face softening at the thought of her. He coughed, a harsh rasp deep in his chest. His face contorted into a purplish knot and he pushed forward, trying to catch his breath. Rouleau rose to fetch the nurse. Mr. Amato waved him off and sucked in oxygen from the tank. “Am okay,” he said. He took a few moments until his chest stopped its frantic in and out.

Rouleau lowered himself into the chair, anxiety making him lean forward to watch for any more signs of distress.

“Della’s changed. Am hoping. My wife and I … our fault.” Deep regret settled over his face. His eyes fluttered closed as he sank into the pillows. “Need to make it right. It’s just the two of them left now.”

Rouleau lightly touched Mr. Amato’s shoulder. The collarbone jutted sharply against his hand. Amato’s wife had died a few years before. The two of them must be Emily and Della. Rouleau was suddenly too cognizant that this would be the one and only time he would meet this man, because his spirit was slipping away to a different plane. Rouleau wasn’t sure if he believed in an afterlife. He hoped along with everybody else, but he didn’t have the gift of blind faith. He spoke softly, not sure if Amato was still awake. “I’ll let you rest now, Mr. Amato. Emily should be able to fill me in on the rest. I appreciate that you saw me today.”

Mr. Amato’s eyes fluttered open. The sound of his breathing was laboured as he pulled oxygen in sucking draws from the tubes. His eyes closed again but this time did not reopen. A harsh snoring sound started in his throat.

Rouleau watched for a moment more before standing. He stopped at the door and looked back. Mr. Amato had already drifted into a restless sleep. His mouth was open and pain lined his face.

The nurse met Rouleau in the hallway. “He’s sinking fast,” she said. “But something is making him hang on. When he gets it settled, I expect he’ll be at peace enough to slip away.”

She directed him down the street and around the corner to an older storey-and-a-half that had yet to be plowed under by developers. It was tucked in between two monoliths, three-car garages butting up against the property line on both sides. Rouleau studied the exterior: original red brick with wide concrete steps, a rose garden in vibrant bloom under the living room window. It was a well-kept house with a warm feel.

Emily Amato was a lesser version of her sister Della. Plump with black hair cut in a short bob. The dark almond-shaped eyes were the same, except for the kindness in these ones.

“I’ve made coffee,” she said, leading him into her sun-filled kitchen that looked out over a garden of tomato plants and sunflowers. “Please have a biscotti. I made them yesterday.”

Rouleau settled in and sipped the mocha brew topped with thick cream. The Italian biscuit was lemon-flavoured with vanilla-almond icing. He took a moment to savour the flavours while she watched him with troubled eyes. The room smelled of garlic, onions, and brown sugar.

“You have a sister. Della,” he started awkwardly, aware that this woman had no reason to share her family secrets with him. “I’m trying to find out more about her.”

“She’s hurt somebody.” Emily’s eyes searched Rouleau’s and found confirmation. “I knew one day … well, that one day, she would go too far.”

“Can you tell me about her? I understand she was estranged from your family.”

Emily’s hands clenched into a single fist on the table. She bowed her head as if in prayer. “My sister was never right. In my earliest memories of her, she was manipulative, always the victim. My parents fell for her stories for a long time before they saw that she did nothing without calculation.”

“Could you give an example?”

“I was born two years after Della. When I was five, she pushed me down the stairs. I was eleven when the stealing started. She took everything that mattered to me and either got rid of it or ruined it. She threatened to hurt me if I told. I got good at hiding when anyone or anything mattered to me. I learned that after she broke my cat’s back legs.”

“And your parents had no idea?”

“Not for a long time, or at least they weren’t willing to admit it. They bent over backwards, trying to make her feel loved, hoping she’d outgrow this phase. Dad especially pandered to her demands. But it wasn’t a phase. It’s who she is. When Della was thirteen, she turned on our mother and made her life a living hell. It’s a testament to my father and the strength of their marriage that they never divorced. When Della couldn’t break them up, she faked having cancer. She was seventeen. She had us and everyone we knew believing she was on death’s door. She even shaved her head so we’d think she was having chemo. People sent money that she never paid back. For my father, it was the final straw. When he found out how she’d used us, used all our friends, he kicked her out. He never saw her again until last month.”

“She came to Toronto?”

“With her son. She’d somehow found out that Dad was ill and was trying to worm her way back in. You may have noticed that my father has money. He’s also weak when it comes to Della. She told him that her husband Brian was abusive and she needed help to get her son away from him. Dad told her that he’d pray for her. He didn’t promise her anything, thank God.” Emily freed one hand and crossed herself.

“I imagine that didn’t make her happy. You know that she killed Brian and claims it was self-defence after some escalating abuse.”

The surprise in Emily’s eyes sparked, then quickly disappeared. “Della phoned Dad that Brian had been killed, but she never said that she did it. She was distraught and begged him to send money so she could come home to Toronto. Dad told her she and Tommy could stay with him. I was livid when I heard. How did she kill him?”

“She hit him with a hammer in the back of the head. Twice. She said that he raped her a few days before and she took out a restraining order. She claims that he was trying to take Tommy away and she acted out of duress.”

“Based on the fact you’re here, you must have doubts about her innocence.”

“I do.”

Emily lifted her face to his. Rouleau saw anxiety in the creases and lines around her eyes. “Nothing that Della has ever done in her entire life has been without calculation, without concern for anyone but herself. I hope you can keep her away from my father these last weeks of his life. I dread how all this will end. She’ll stop at nothing to get the inheritance. She’ll sacrifice everything to get what she believes should be hers.”

“You make her sound like a monster.”

Emily looked Rouleau directly in the eyes. “If my sister is allowed free rein, I’m not sure any of us is safe. Me, least of all. If you don’t find a way to convict Della of murdering her husband, Inspector Rouleau, I fear that you’ll be investigating my murder next.”

Chapter Thirty-One

 T
he pizza smothered in gooey mozzarella cheese, pepperoni, and mushrooms was a rare treat for Dalal. Joe’s mother insisted she have three pieces and then a large slice of chocolate cake with strawberry ice cream for an added bit of heaven. Dalal’s mother scoffed at American food. She never gave Dalal or Meeza spending money in case they wasted it on foolish western food or clothes. She would have turned a shade of purple with steam coming out of her ears if she could see Dalal now. Dalal smiled thinking about this image of her mother while she sat quietly, enjoying the easy conversation and joking that went on between Joe and his sister and mom. Easy talking. No watching for words to set anybody off or waiting for a slap to reach across the table.

Joe’s dad was away on a business trip in Vancouver, but Joe and Meghan Skyped him after school. He’d even talked to Dalal through the marvel of technology in a way that her own father would never speak to her in person. He’d asked how her day went at school. She couldn’t remember her father ever asking about her school work. Her parents had only spoken of Ghazi having a career. She dreamed of being a nurse, even if she just took the two-year college course and not the university degree as she would have wished. But she knew the time wasn’t right to ask them. Her darkest fear was that it would never be the right time.

Dalal tried to store every moment of this visit inside to take out later when she was alone. This was how a real family lived; a family that loved each other and didn’t put family honour above everything else. Her own mother was uncompromising about proper behaviour. She would not tolerate daughters who did not bend to her will. She believed in punishing the sinner.

There had been a time when Dalal had bought into it, believing her parents were always right. She’d been horrified when her older sister Nadirah had rebelled against them, staying out at night, taking off her hijab, wearing mascara and blue eye shadow and faded jeans. The fights between Nadirah and their mother had been brutal, until the Saturday night when Nadirah had been beaten with a broom handle. After that, she’d stopped arguing and had done whatever her mother asked of her at home. Yet Dalal knew it was all an act; secretly Nadirah was doing whatever she wanted once out of sight of her family.

Once Dalal had seen Nadirah with a white boy standing outside the 7-Eleven. Nadirah had been laughing and touching his face with her graceful fingertips. Dalal had stopped for a moment, caught between panic and the realization of how beautiful her sister was, her long black hair trailing down her back, her curves outlined in the tight jeans and silky blouse. Her black eyes had glowed with happiness like they never did at home. Dalal had run as fast as she could away from Nadirah and her rebellion, fear for her sister beating inside like a trapped bird. If Ghazi had happened by, Nadirah would have been locked in her room for the rest of the school term.

“I saw you,” Dalal had said. “Ghazi will find out and tell. You’ll be punished and it will be very bad.”

“You worry too much,” Nadirah had laughed off Dalal’s whispered fears later when they lay on her bed after supper. “I just want to be like other girls. I just want them to stop telling me what to do. This is Canada, not India. Girls are free here. They aren’t kept like butterflies in a jar. Someday, you will understand. You’ll feel what I feel. I know you have the same questioning heart. Now go do your homework, little Dalal, while I write in my diary. When I tell the pages what I’m thinking, they never tell me that I should stop leading my own life like you and the rest of this family do.” Nadirah had smiled to let Dalal know she was teasing her. She knew Dalal would never betray her.

Dalal had lain on her stomach on her own bed, working on her math homework, but she couldn’t make the fear in her chest go away. Something terrible was going to happen. Nadirah’s recklessness would be found out and
they
would make her pay.

“What are you thinking about?” Joe asked.

Dalal blinked. “Pardon?”