Erasing Memory (14 page)

“One small detail, sir. Did your daughter own a Seabreeze portable record player?”

“Yes, she bought one two months ago so she could listen to a record—the Schubert piano trios. It was, she felt, the finest recording of the pieces. The second trio was to be her professional debut, as part of a graduating ensemble. She listened to it constantly.”

As if on cue, the door opened and Aziz came through, followed by Madeleine.

“Was it helpful, Detective?” Petrescu asked.

“Yes, sir, it was, and I’m grateful to you.”

MacNeice said, “Mr. Petrescu, you have our office and cell numbers. Please don’t hesitate to call either me or Detective Aziz.” He reached over and shook Petrescu’s hand, registering again the older man’s strong grip. Aziz offered hers and Petrescu held it gently, for perhaps a second too long. MacNeice wondered if it was a form of apology.

They didn’t speak until the Chevy had moved away from the curb.

“What was that about?” MacNeice asked.

“I’m not quite sure, sir, but to suggest that Lebanon is a neighbour of Romania is a new one on me. I can only think that he’s talking geopolitically, maybe referring to the divide between Christianity and Islam.”

“How so?”

“Well, the son is a microbiologist. The Black Sea borders both Muslim and Christian countries and Turkey spans the
whole southern coast. Turkey borders Syria and Iraq on the south and Russia on the east. I suppose it’s safe to say that being a colonel in an infectious disease unit is a strategic alternative to being a colonel in charge of Soviet nuclear weapons.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he could argue that—assuming they’re not weaponized—research on infectious diseases is doing good for humanity.”

“I guess paranoia, real or imagined, is very real to the paranoiac,” MacNeice offered.

“I am intrigued nonetheless … curious that Petrescu put it on the table.” Aziz adjusted her position in the seat.

“I thought you were the one who put it on the table.” MacNeice stopped for a light and waited for her to respond.

“I asked about his son. I asked what he did in microbiology. It was a reasonable question and Petrescu took it from there. The question is, why? It should have been a simple inquiry about the brother of a murdered girl, but it became something else. I didn’t do that—he did.”

“What did you find in the girl’s room?”

“It had a beautiful view of the garden, as Petrescu said. A couple of teddy bears were placed neatly against the pillows on the bed. There’s a photograph on the dresser of, I assume, Lydia in her mother’s arms—she looks less than a year old. The mother is beaming and proud. A boy, maybe four or five, is rushing to get out of the picture—he’s blurry. The background is a garden wall, very high, made of stone and covered with clematis. The image looks European; there are rooftops just above the wall with chimneys in a style I’ve never seen before.”

“That’s it?”

“There was a desk in the garden window, but other than silver toilet articles with
LP
engraved on them, a desk pad and a pen-and-pencil set, it was very neat. It looked like a movie set. Madeleine said nothing, just stood by the door as I looked about the room. I think we’d need permission to go through the drawers and closet.”

“That’s fine. I’ll have downtown secure her apartment and go over in the morning to check it out.” MacNeice pulled up to the curb in front of Aziz’s place. It was just past nine but it felt like midnight. When he had gotten up from his chair at Petrescu’s, he was surprised how stiff his legs were, and realized that he’d been holding his body tense throughout the entire meeting. Petrescu stood up more easily than he had. As they left the library MacNeice noticed an entire shelf of books dedicated to microbiology, most of which bore English titles.

After she’d stepped out of the car, Aziz leaned back in. “I’d like to go with you tomorrow, boss, if it’s okay. You’re right—I’d just be sitting at home wondering what was up.”

“Your call. Pick you up at eight thirty?”

“Actually, I’m okay. It’s a good twenty-minute walk, and that’ll make up for my lack of exercise today. Good night, sir. Get some rest.”

T
HE HOUSE LOOKED VAGUELY
familiar. The door opened easily and he walked in without knowing why he was there. He could sense her presence but she didn’t answer when he called out. The silence of the place soon filled him with dread and he began searching the rooms frantically; if he went faster and looked harder—didn’t even take the time to blink—he’d find her. A curtain would move as he opened another door, tantalizing him. Finally, in the second-storey bedroom, he looked out the window just in time to see the backyard gate close.

Tearing down the stairs, he used the newel post to whip himself around towards the back door. But in the hall he was confronted by a woman who blocked his way.

“Do I know you?” he said.

“I know you. Look, MacNeice, she doesn’t want to see you. It would be best for all concerned if you forget her.”

“Get the fuck out of my way.”

“You won’t find her. She doesn’t want to see you again, ever. Please, for your own sake, stop looking.”

MacNeice shoved her aside and ran out the back door. The garden seemed much longer and wider than it had through the window, and when he reached the gate, it wouldn’t open. He rattled the metal handle, kicked at the frame where the latch connected. Frustrated and out of breath, he yelled, “Kate, Kate! Let me see you, Kate. Please, Kate!”

He woke up, his T-shirt soaked with sweat. The room was still dark, though a sliver of daylight was bleeding through at the top of the curtains. He breathed deeply to slow the panic in his chest and looked over at the clock—7:47 a.m.

“Christ!”

M
AC
N
EICE TUCKED HIS CAMERA
into his jacket pocket, locked his car and took a deep breath before walking across the driveway to the door of the building. Aziz was waiting for him in the lobby, talking to one of the uniforms who had been there overnight. “Good morning, sir,” she said. “This is Officer Scales. His partner is outside the flat.”

“Good to meet you, sir. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Scales was taller than MacNeice by at least four inches. His handshake was earnest—too earnest for how fragile MacNeice was feeling. When he’d extricated his hand, he asked, “Has anyone come by asking about the place, or why you’re here?”

“A few of the other condo owners. There’s a young couple—they live two doors down the hall from the deceased woman—who were very upset to hear that she’d died. We haven’t interviewed anyone, but you see that camera up there …”

Scales pointed to the security camera looking back at them
from the corner of the lobby. “There’s another one by the elevators. There’s also one in the drive-by just outside and one on every floor. There’s a whole security room setup just through that door on the left. The guard is willing to review the digital files with us, but they erase them every seven days.”

“Thank you, Scales. We’ll take him up on that after Aziz and I look at the apartment. Did you get the key from the super?”

“I have it, boss,” Aziz said. “Though they don’t have a super here—he’s a
concierge.”

T
HEY STOOD ON THE THRESHOLD
, staring into light. A wall of windows took up the whole south side of the apartment; it was covered with what looked like white parachute silk. There was a faint but not unpleasant odour, like sugar.

“What’s that smell, Aziz?”

“Gardenia, I’d say, but I’m not certain.”

MacNeice moved farther into the room as Aziz softly closed the door. To the left was the kitchen, with a small dining area by the window wall, and to the right the bedroom and a large hall closet system with frosted glass sliders. The furniture was for the most part modern, accented by a few older pieces—a table, a mirror, a reclining chair with a zebra-skin cushion—that had surely come from home, or from her father’s shop. The carpet was white plush. Aziz took off her shoes at the door. MacNeice thought about keeping on his black brogues but then kicked them off and set them beside Aziz’s.

The freesias on the table—the possible source of the scent—still looked fresh. There were green-covered music scores and magazines on the coffee table, classical music magazines mostly, but also a
Vogue
. On the end table, next to the deep green and
grey sofa, was a glass with what looked like orange juice in the bottom. A music stand held a closed score—
Schubert Piano Trios
—and on the dining room table was a violin case. MacNeice slipped on his latex gloves and unsnapped the lid—a Guarneri, its surface a deep umber sheen—a beauty. He closed the lid and looked into the kitchen. There were no dishes in the sink, and nothing on the counter that would suggest someone coming back for dinner.

“Mac, I think you should see this.” Aziz was calling from the bedroom.

On the bed were a black bra and panties, a white terry-cloth robe and an airline ticket wallet, all lying there as if thrown down in a hurry. Aziz put on her gloves, leaned over and picked up the ticket. “One business class round-trip ticket to Istanbul—Lydia Petrescu, seat 6A. Date of departure, this Monday, seven p.m.” She put it back down on the bed.

MacNeice stepped into the washroom, an opus of light grey granite, white porcelain and tempered glass. It had a shower stall, a deep tub like those he remembered from France, a bidet and a toilet. On the marble counter of the two-sink chrome vanity was a perfume bottle with the glass stopper sitting beside it.

“What kind of girl leaves the stopper out of her perfume bottle, Aziz?”

“None that I know of, sir, not even the ones with money to burn. Is it gardenia?” Aziz stood in the doorway, admiring the black-and-white print on the wall of a young woman dressed in a bathing suit from the thirties, smiling at the camera as she shielded her eyes from the sun.

“Ah, no, it’s jasmine.”

“Figures. I’ve never been good at perfumes.”

“Actually, it says it’s a body splash, but it smells like perfume to me.”

The bath towel had been hurriedly draped over the rail. Below it, on the grey granite floor, were white satin slippers, one upright, the other on its side.

“You tell me, does this look like someone was late for a date?” He turned around and studied the bedroom through the doorway, breathing in the joy and anticipation that hung in the air like a frozen reminder of her life.

“From the look of the place, I’d say yes.…” Aziz walked over to the night table and opened the drawer—Aspirin, a new passport, a book of poems, folded letters from her father, a point-and-shoot camera with no images on the memory card, several tubes of lipstick in different shades of deep red edging towards brown, and a small box of condoms. “This suggests she didn’t get pregnant the first time she had sex.”

MacNeice looked down at the contents of the drawer. “Peeling the onion can be as disheartening as it is revealing. We can see how her father saw her and—for good or bad—we get to see her as she actually was.”

He moved over to the closet, four mirrored doors that afforded a perfect reflection of the bed. He swung two of the doors open and the air filled with the faint scent of cedar from the closet lining. A dozen pairs of shoes sat on two racks on the floor, several pairs of boots beside them; her clothing was neatly hung in a progression of colours from bluish pinks to deep greens and blues. Above on a shelf were folded sweaters—more variations of blue—scarves, and several summer hats aligned like soldiers on parade.

MacNeice reached up to feel the depth of the shelf. Realizing that what was on display was well forward of the back wall of
the closet, he lifted out the stacks of sweaters and scarves, placing them neatly on the end of the bed. He took out the tiny Maglite that never seemed to find its way onto his keychain and used it to inspect the shelf. Standing at the back was a large black book.

He retrieved what turned out to be a photo album with a black leather cover. Carrying it over to the credenza that ran the length of the window, he set it down and flipped it open to the first page past the patterned tissue endpapers—a satin-finish photograph with the Guarneri’s backside filling the frame. The shot revealed the grain and depth of the violin’s finish, but also the wear of almost three centuries of being embraced in the same fashion. The oil from bodies long gone had sunk into the surface and created a rich hue that the photographer had worked hard to capture. “Beauty,” said MacNeice.

“Sorry, sir?” Aziz looked up from the night table.

“A photo album—a shot of her violin that’s quite extraordinary.” MacNeice turned the page, inhaled sharply and said, “Well.…”

Another satin print, this one in black and white. The image was of a tall woman, naked but for high heels, her back to the camera, playing the violin in front of the parachute-silk curtains.

“I think we’ve found her lover.”

There was no indication that she knew the photograph was being taken—but how could she not? She seemed intent, head to one side, right arm above her shoulder line, drawing the bow down across the instrument. The light from the window ate away at the details, her hair, her legs, her arms, the bow narrowed by its intensity. Her right leg was slightly ahead of the left, and while the backlight flattened the details, he could see
the lovely diving curve of her behind. “I think he’s the photographer … and he’s good. Very good.”

Aziz came over and looked down. “Oh my, yes. So lovely.”

MacNeice turned the page. This time Lydia was seated, the violin on her lap, and behind her the same white curtain. Her legs were slightly open and the photographer was at knee height. She was smiling down at him, moving a wisp of hair that had fallen across her face; her breasts, while not large, were beautifully formed, and the nipples were taut.

MacNeice looked at the smile on her face—she was in love. “I don’t think this is what her father sent her to the Conservatory for.”

“No, not likely.” Aziz leaned closer to see the grain and detail of the image.

On the next page Lydia was confronting the camera face on, standing at ease in both the military and sexual senses of the word. Both arms were down, the bow in her right hand, the violin in the left. She smiled at the camera with some mischief. Her stomach was flat, her hips even.