Erasing Memory (6 page)

On the way to the stairs, MacNeice heard Vertesi say quietly to Aziz, “ ‘Lethal subtlety’? The Wall? You’re a gen-i-us, Aziz, a freakin’ gen-i-us.”

“Why, Michael, my dear boy,” Aziz replied, channelling the Queen, “you’re too kind.”

F
IZA
A
ZIZ AND
M
ICHAEL
V
ERTESI
couldn’t have been more different, and maybe that was the magic of it. Aziz had been born of Lebanese Muslim parents who had escaped the inferno of Beirut to move to the U.K. in the 1980s. Her father was a mechanical engineer and her mother, a professor of biology. Their families had lived for generations in Beirut, where Christians, Muslims and Jews rubbed shoulders to such an extent that their many differences seemed to have worn away. Her parents were shocked when their world of peaceful coexistence dissolved, seemingly overnight.

Fiza had been eleven when her family emigrated to North America so her mother could accept a senior post at Queen’s University. By September 2006 Aziz had earned her doctorate and, with her parents’ support, she entered the police academy’s officer training course as its only female devout—as far as anyone knew—Muslim.

What sustained her, MacNeice imagined, was her sense of humour, which he took to be British. But there was something else about her, a quality he found both rare and fascinating.
She was elegant even in cop clothes. Though her demeanour was somewhat distant, the smile that had briefly lit her face just now was a moment of surfacing beauty.

As remarkable as Aziz’s journey had been, it wasn’t preordained that Michael Vertesi would become a cop either—far from it. His father was a Sicilian who had come to North America as a child after the war. Michael had been born about two miles from Division but still considered himself to be Sicilian. He had run with a tough crowd as a teenager, one that saw three of his best friends incarcerated before they were nineteen. Vertesi was saved from a similar fate only by excelling at football.

MacNeice remembered the time another second-generation Italian had arrived in the department and Michael had asked him where he was from. The sleepy-eyed young officer had smiled and answered, “Napoli. Where are you from?”

“Head office, Calabria.” Michael had shaken his hand, but neither man was smiling.

When MacNeice asked him later about the remark, Michael said, “Calabria, the toe of the boot, home of the families. I’m the only cop there’s ever been in my family. My pop loves that.”

Slightly younger than Aziz, he had joined the force at the same time. Michael had been with the department for six years and had distinguished himself not only as a uniformed officer but also as a student of officer-training courses with a focus on homicide investigation. His application for promotion to detective had come with a request: “If I’m chosen, I’d like to work with MacNeice.”

M
AC
N
EICE TOOK LUNCH ALONE
in the bar of a restaurant down the street from the division office. The television was on
but he paid no attention to it until the local news program cut away to Wallace’s press conference.

“Please turn it up a bit, just for this.”

“Sure thing.” The bartender aimed the remote at the screen hanging behind him.

MacNeice put his fork down and listened as Wallace made his scripted announcement. It was more or less precisely what MacNeice had given him during his call, but he added, “Our department is following several leads at the moment and we hope to make an announcement soon.”

MacNeice winced. He hated overpromises, particularly when they involved him. The reporters pressed the deputy chief for more details but Wallace deflected their questions easily and ended the press conference. The network already had cameras at the beach house but they were being kept at a distance; they could capture only the roof and part of the garage through the trees. He looked at his watch—1:32 p.m. He pushed the rest of his salad aside, paid his bill and walked out into the sun, heading to the parking lot behind the division.

As he turned onto South Shore Drive, something snagged him like a hangnail on a sweater. The spotless garage, as far as he could tell, had never seen a car, but at the beach, always changing, traffic could be coming and going and you’d never know. The thought that sent a chill through him, causing him to pull over to reach for his cellphone, was the boat—the trolling fisherman.

“Vertesi, get over to the beach house. Check the shoreline for any hull marks in the sand that would indicate a boat—maybe a sixteen- or eighteen-foot runabout—being pulled up on shore.”

“You thinking about the troller, Mac?”

“That and about how the girl got to the beach house. Go to every cottage around the lake and find out if anyone was out fishing in the early hours of the morning or if they saw anyone on the lake. There are two marinas nearby; see if either of them rented a boat to someone. And ask Aziz to give me a call.”

MacNeice just had time to open his notebook before his cell rang. “Aziz, I’m about twenty minutes away from Ferguson and I haven’t spoken to Betty yet. Please see what she’s got.”

“Okay. Vertesi just shot out of here—is this something to do with that?”

“He’s gone to see a guy about a boat. What if someone took her on a boat ride? A bottle of Champagne, two flutes, a moonlit lake in June …”

“After I call Betty, I’ll get down to Forensics and see if there’s any sand, grass or marks on that gown or on her shoes. Of course, if it was really romantic, he might have carried her to and from the boat.”

“Or if she was asleep. I checked her shoes at the scene and didn’t see any sand, but they may have found something.”

“Right.”

M
AC
N
EICE PULLED INTO
Ferguson Engineering, parking next to a fading burgundy Jaguar with a small plate on the back that read
RIGHT-HAND DRIVE
. As he paused for a moment, peering inside to admire its worn tan leather seats, he heard Ferguson’s chipper voice. “It was my father’s pride and joy. When he died, twenty years ago now, he left it to me. It sat in a rented garage in Pelham until I had enough money to bring it over.”

“It’s a beauty. It truly is.”

“Yes, it is, but it’s a heavy responsibility too. The electrics particularly, but I’ve rewired everything from stem to stern and I can’t complain about her now. It’s good to see you again, Detective MacNeice. Come back into the shop, where we can chat. The kettle’s on—would you join me for a cup of tea?”

“I’d like that.”

They walked by the kitchen window of the house, where a woman appeared to be washing vegetables. Ferguson nodded towards her and said, “The missus. We won’t disturb her, though; she’s preparing dinner for the grandchildren. I think I actually make better tea in the shop.”

MacNeice met the eyes of the woman in the window and nodded to her. He followed Ferguson to a garage that he’d doubled in length and skylit so that inside it seemed almost brighter than outdoors. A desk, several filing cabinets and a bookshelf were next to a window that looked out onto the garden. The window was a security marvel, likely made of Lucite and trimmed with security tape.

He took his seat opposite Ferguson’s chair and used the time while Ferguson was making tea to check out the other security measures. The skylights were rimmed with the same silver tape, and at several points along the walls infrared sensors were mounted that when activated would crisscross the workshop’s interior.

“Milk? Sugar?”

“Only milk, thanks.”

“You’re wondering, no doubt, why all this security? And there’s more than what meets the eye too.” Ferguson handed him a cup and sat down.

“I was actually wondering what there is to steal.”

“Ideas. Ideas are worth more than the equipment I have in
here. I enjoy the reputation I have with my neighbours—as old Donny who likes to putter around in his tool shop—but there are others who’d love to have a go at this place. What brings you here today?”

MacNeice took the snapshot of the girl on the beach out of his notebook and handed it across the desk. “Late Wednesday night or early Thursday morning, this young woman was killed by someone with a hypodermic. The needle was inserted in her left ear and pushed through the canal into her brain. Then the killer injected sulphuric acid. When I arrived, there was no indication of any trauma to the body, and only a faint acrid smell to indicate that anything had happened to her.”

“For the love of God.” Ferguson put the photograph down, staring at it a moment longer before looking up at him.

“It would take skill to do that, and a precision instrument. No plastics, and no small-gauge needle either, given the density of the acid.”

“The needle was eighteen gauge, I’m told. What I’d dearly love to know is what it was made of, and where in the world—or rather, who in the world could make it.”

Ferguson moved his teacup to one side of his green desk pad and took out several sheets of tracing paper, retrieving a mechanical pencil from a cup where it was nestled among pencils and pens of different shapes and sizes. He inserted a graphite lead and began rotating it in a small sharpener as he looked out the window. “Here’s the problem: The acid, as you can imagine, will eat away anything that isn’t steel, so stainless steel was likely used. The shaft must be long enough not only to hold the acid but also to allow him—we’ll assume it’s a male—leverage for the task of plunging it into the brain. Given the
average male hand, the shaft would need to be four or five inches long.”

He was now drawing as if he were at a seance producing names on a Ouija board—shaft, plunger, needle. “The interesting thing about the vial, or canister, is how he’d seal it. After it’s sealed it’s much easier to imagine puncturing for the kill, so to speak, but filling it—I think he’d have to do that on the spot. Your other question, about who could have made it, is also interesting.”

“Could the fabricator be someone from Eastern Europe?”

“You’re imagining the remnants of the KGB, the chaps who offed the fellow in London with the poison-tipped umbrella.… Yes, I’d say that’s a possibility.” He kept refining his drawing, giving the device form and shading, even marking the dimensions. “And finally, since there were no outward signs of violence, he’d have to allow for, you know, filling the hole once the job was done.” Ferguson looked up at MacNeice.

“He did. There was a small metal plug made of stainless steel.”

“It would only be a stopgap, of course, because the acid would eventually erode everything around it.” Ferguson was now drawing a plug that looked vaguely like the one MacNeice had seen.

“It was more like a nipple than a cone.”

“I see. Well, yes, with some force and speed, I can see that might do the trick. But back to the whodunnit. The former Soviet Union had several people who could pull this off, but they’ve either scattered to the winds or remained in the employ of their various governments and are likely still active over there.” He put his pencil down and looked up at MacNeice again. “I can do this for you: I’ll enquire with friends abroad,
and through a nephew I have in MI6, about who is active and where. It may not produce results, and certainly won’t overnight. One other thing I know—or believe I do—is the quality of the metal and who might supply it, so I’ll make some discreet enquiries there. Until then, you’re welcome to my sketch.” He began rolling up the drawing.

MacNeice picked up a pencil and scribbled down his number on a scrap of paper. “Here’s my cell. Call whenever you get something.” He drained his cup and took the rolled-up drawing from Ferguson. As he stood up, he said, “Damn fine tea, Donald. Thank you.”

“I’ll tell my wife you said so—she thinks I make terrible tea. But when I mention your last name, I’m certain she’ll say, ‘A Scot. What does a Scotsman know about tea?’ She can be prickly, my girl. Funny thing is, she’s from Edinburgh.” With that he laughed heartily, and together they walked down the driveway to the car.

S
TOPPED AT A TRAFFIC LIGHT
, MacNeice checked the time on his cellphone—3:37 p.m. He speed-dialled the office. “Aziz, have you got anything for me?”

“How far away are you?”

“Seventeen minutes, maybe a bit less. Why?”

“Let’s not talk over your cell. Come as quickly as you can. It’s all good.”

He drove with the lights, which were timed to keep traffic flowing east along Main Street—one of the more intelligent initiatives brought forward by the city’s engineers—and arrived in sixteen minutes. He walked briskly to the stairwell, inhaled deeply and bolted up the staircase two steps at a time, almost bursting through the second-floor door. He checked his watch:
twenty steps in seven seconds. He exhaled and walked to the cubicle where Aziz was waiting for him, smiling.

“Betty came through,” she said. “Lydia Petrescu, twenty-four, just graduated from the professional program of the Conservatory. Her father is Antonin Petrescu. He deals in European rare papers—diaries and letters mostly—and fine antiques in the Biedermeier style. There’s apparently more about his shop on the Web, but Betty did all she had time for. I was going to get onto it but I haven’t had a chance yet.”

“I assume we haven’t had any missing-person calls for a Lydia Petrescu?”

“I checked—not yet. I did look up the number of Petrescu’s shop and called it from the payphone downstairs so he wouldn’t pick up a caller ID, but I got a recording—a male voice—‘Petrescu. Leave a message if you wish.’ In the background was a violin playing something lovely. I rang off.”

“If she were my kid I’d be using her for phone messages too.”

“But there’s more. The nerd in Forensics who checked the dress for me said it was a rental. When I asked how he knew, he said, ‘It says so.
Oscar de la Renta.’
When I asked him what he meant, he said, ‘Like,
Oscar of the Rental,’
as if it should be obvious to anyone with a modicum of language skills.”

MacNeice appreciated the humour. “A designer label. That’s got to be what, a few thousand?”

“Well, I haven’t had the pleasure personally, but I’d be surprised if it cost less than five or six thousand.”