Finders Keepers (10 page)

“That was quick.”

“That’s why your boss pays me so well. What’s on your mind?”

“A favor.”

“That what we’re calling it now?” Raybould chuckled. “Feast or famine, eh Paulie?” Nothing for six months, now two in the same week.

“The Vienna Café on Bloor, across from the—”

“I know it.”

“Day after tomorrow, nine AM.”

Raybould hung up and lit his smoke. Then he walked back to his car.

Investigative services occupied the third floor of the Metro headquarters building on College Street, the different squads—Homicide, Holdup, Sexual Assault, Crime Stoppers—honeycombed around a central bank of elevators. Aretha, the receptionist in Sexual Assault, spotted Steve as he got off the elevator. She got up from her desk and met him at her office door.

“My eyes. Is that the young Constable Seger?”

“None other,” Steve said, blushing as he always did when Aretha made a fuss. Aretha had changed more of Steve’s diapers than his own mother had. She got right in there and gave him a hug. “How you doing, Reeth?” Steve said. It was what he’d called her when he was little, his first crack at her name, and it just sort of stuck. “Say, have you lost weight?”

Aretha gave him a swat. She’d weighed in at a solid two-eighty as long as Steve had known her, most of it in her can. “You really think so?” she said, round face beaming. “I been eatin’ those Slim-Fast dinners, bagels for lunch, cuttin’ back on the greasy stuff.”

“Well, keep it up, girl. You’re a shadow of your former self.”

Aretha swatted him again and said, “Boy, you lie like a rug. Lookin’ for your mom?”

“Yeah, you seen her?”

“She had a lecture with a bunch of rookies at nine.” She glanced at her watch. “Should be through by now, though. I was you, I’d check the coffee room.”

Steve said, “I’ll give it a try,” and started away. “Nice seeing you, Reeth.”

Her big voice followed him into the corridor. “You too, baby. And hey, next time, wear the uniform.”

Smiling, Steve headed for the coffee room.

Sure enough his mother was there, running one of her scams on a pair of rookies. She saw him come in and winked, an impish glint in her eye that got him grinning right away. He joined a small group of detectives gathered by the coffee machine to watch her perform, all of them playing dumb, like straight men, knowing what was coming.

Whatever she’d told them so far, the rookies still looked skeptical.

“Whoa, Sergeant Seger,” the taller one said. “Lemme get this straight. You’re saying with one hour training and a maga
zine
, a woman about to be raped by two guys can inflict enough damage to just…walk away? She don’t have a handgun or nothin’?”

Liz Seger said, “Okay, boys, first thing. Lecture’s over, this is the coffee room. Call me Liz.” She got a dig in next, razzing the bigger one in front of his buddy. “And no, she don’t have a handgun or nothin’. They don’t teach English at police college anymore? Now pay attention.” She picked up a Newsweek off the counter, rolled it into the shape of a baton and stood between the two men, her back to the taller one. She said, “I’m four-eleven. How ’bout you, Stretch?”

“Six-five,” the taller one said to her back.

“And your partner?”

The other rookie said, “Six-foot even, ma’am.”

“Okay, I’m willing to bet—say, twenty bucks apiece?—you and Stretch here can’t grab hold of me long enough to lift up my skirt.”

“You’re not wearing a skirt,” Stretch said.

“If I were, then. Use your imagination. Get my belt off if you need a trophy. Care to give it a shot?”

Stretch looked over Liz’s head at his partner. “You in?”

“I’m in.”

Now both men looked down at Detective Elizabeth Seger, fifty-one, Coordinator of VI-CLAS, Violent Crime Linkage Analysis System. She stood at ease, the rolled-up magazine in her right hand, smirking at them.

“Whenever you’re ready, boys.”

“Go easy on her,” one of the spectators said.

Then Stretch made his move, not mad but goaded, the way Liz wanted him. She let him put a choke hold on her while his partner reached for her belt. With a twitch of her hip she pushed the end of the magazine into the partner’s gut, not as hard as she could but hard enough, and heard the wind go out of him, watching as he sank to one knee, at the same time reaching back and getting hold of Stretch’s baby finger. She gave it a crank and felt the strength go out of him. The poor guy actually screamed.

Liz said, “You belong to me now,” turning to face him, positioning him between herself and his winded accessory. “Wherever I point your pinky—” she twisted it toward the windows “—that’s where you go.” The big guy lurched toward the windows. His partner was on his feet now, deciding if he was through yet. Liz said, “If your accomplice still feels frisky—” She torqued on the finger again and the rookies butted heads. “Believe me now?”

“Yes.”

“Give up?”

“YES.”

She let him go and stuck out her hand. “Okay, officers. Ante up.”

Steve watched her take the money from the rumpled rookies and stuff it into her pocket, a street hustler with a detective’s badge and a fifth-degree black belt in karate, the traditional discipline of
Go-ju Ryu
. Her obsessive love of the martial arts was the main reason Steve’s father had divorced her when Steve was eight. Every chance she got she was off to Okinawa to train, often for months at a time. Her father, also a martial artist, living in Memphis where Liz was born—you could still hear the trace of an accent when she got excited or annoyed—started her off when she was five. He’d spent his life teaching karate, and though he’d trained Liz himself, he’d always encouraged her to learn from the source. Her longest stint over there, which began when Steve was eleven, lasted two-and-a-half years, with brief trips home for birthdays and holidays. Following the divorce and his father’s descent into alcoholism and depression, Steve had lived with his maternal grandmother, a wily old gal who at the time had employed Aretha as a housekeeper. The job advancement had been Liz’s doing, in appreciation of Aretha’s help raising Steve. And though Steve had missed his mother mightily during her absences he’d never resented her for it, often in spite of his best efforts. Bottom line, she loved him and she always did her best. And she was just so damned much fun to be with, who could stay mad at her? He’d never tell anyone this, but his mother was his hero.

The show over, the other detectives went back to their coffees. Liz let the rookies down gently, telling them a bit about herself, then came over to join Steve. She smiled at him like a school girl, arms wide open for a hug.

“There’s my big copper.”

“Hi, Mom,” Steve said, returning the hug briefly, then backing away. Why did the women in his life insist on embarrassing him? “People still fall for that routine?”

“All the time, sweetheart. You saw it yourself.”

“What do you do with the money?”

“Cigarettes.”

“I thought you quit.”

“Yeah, but I got tired of it. So what’s on your mind?”

“What do you mean?” Steve said, acting innocent. Christ, she knew him so well.

“I mean, that’s about as much small talk as I’ve gotten out of you since you were nine. So what’s on your mind?”

As Steve composed his opening line Liz asked him if he wanted a coffee and Steve said no thanks. She suggested they talk in her office and Steve said okay. They were barely out the coffee room door when one of the detectives who’d been watching fell in beside them, matching their stride. He put his arm around Liz’s shoulders and smiled. Steve could tell right away she didn’t like it.

“Want me to show you how I’d get your skirt up?” the detective said.

Steve realized he was witnessing something he’d never seen before, his mother intimidated.

“No thanks, Al,” Liz said. “You know all my tricks.”

“Yes, I do.” He took his arm away and looked at Steve. “This your boy?”

Liz made the introductions as they reached her office door. “Al Raybould,” she said, avoiding his eyes, “this is my son, Steve. He’s a constable with the O.P.P. now.”

Steve accepted the man’s handshake, surprised by his gentle, almost effeminate grip. “Pleased to meet you, sir,” he said.

“You too, son. And call me Al.” He cocked his head at Steve. “O.P.P., huh? Why not Metro like your mom?”

“Nicer cars.”

Raybould laughed. “Nicer cars. I love it.” He winked at Liz, saying, “If you change your mind, Liz…” and walked away.

Steve said, “Creepy guy.”

“You have no idea,” Liz said and left it at that.

Steve followed her into the office. Liz lit a smoke and Steve told his tale, doing his best to downplay his feelings for Kate, making it sound all business, one cop to another.

When he was done, Liz said, “And you believe this sad story?”

“Yes, I do.”

Liz said, “Okay, let me put it this way,” the Memphis accent coming through. “Are you thinking with your head right now or your johnson?”

Steve gave his neck a twist, like he was working a crick out of it, the way his old man used to show his irritation. “Okay, yes, I like her. But I believe her, too, and I’d like to help.”

Liz squinted up at her son, a big strappy guy of six-foot-one, six-two in his Prospectors, towering over her. She planted her fists on her hips and inhaled, holding it in, the way a thousand pressing decisions in Steve’s life had been made. He felt about ten years old.

“Come on,” she said, finally exhaling. “We’ll talk to Gord Brown over in Fraud. He’s worked with the lottery people before.” She led him out of the office, saying, “We’ll have them detain whoever shows up with the ticket, assuming he hasn’t already cashed it in.” She grinned at him. “Then we’ll have a talk with the creep.

“Now, tell me about this girl.”

* * *

Kate’s doctor discharged her from the hospital later that morning. He gave her a prescription for Tylenol 3, which she filled at the hospital pharmacy, and suggested she see him again if the headache persisted for longer than a couple of days. The pain in her arm was the worst—she sometimes got the feeling the broken ends of bone were grinding against each other in there, the sensation bringing beads of sweat to her face—but with a couple of the codeine-laced Tylenol on board it all backed off into a vague drone. Her only other complaint was a persistent itch under the cast, which she quickly learned to control with the small metal nail file she kept in her bag.

She returned to ICU just before noon and asked to speak with the doctor looking after her father. A nurse parked her in a small conference room near the unit and a few minutes later a slender, red-headed woman in a lab coat came in and introduced herself as Dr. Sutcliffe. She had an open, girlish face and wore a stethoscope around her neck like a jock’s shower towel. Kate liked her right away.

“What can I do for you, Ms. Whipple?” the doctor said, her voice, like her gaze, steady and confident.

“Call me Kate.”

The doctor smiled and Kate wondered how old she was.

“Okay, Kate.”

“I was just wondering, you know, how he’s doing. His injuries have been described to me, but I don’t really know what to expect. Is he in a lot of pain? How long is he going to be…”

The doctor placed a warm hand on Kate’s forearm. “He’s not in any real pain, Kate, okay? That’s number one. He’s got what’s known as an epidural catheter in his back. You may have heard of them in connection with obstetrics.”

Kate nodded. A girl she worked with had given birth to twins recently and had told Kate the epidural was a life saver.

Returning Kate’s nod, the doctor said, “Since most of his serious injuries are below his waist, the epidural handles the pain beautifully. There’s a continuous infusion of narcotic being pumped into him, so his discomfort should be minimal. Now, as far as how long it’s going to take him to recover, he’s got some nasty fractures and those take time to mend. Since his head, chest and abdomen are all fine, however, I’m expecting to move him into the Stepdown Unit by tomorrow, the following day at the latest.”

“Stepdown?”

“It’s a parallel unit we use, one stage before transfer to the ward. It’s quieter in there and he’ll rest better.” She squeezed Kate’s arm. “He’s going to be fine, Kate. You were both very fortunate. He’ll need lots of physio and he’ll probably have to walk with a cane the rest of his life, but barring anything unforeseen, he is going to walk out of here. I’m quite confident of that.”

“Thanks,” Kate said, water coming to her eyes. The doctor handed her a tissue. “How long will he be so dopey?”

“He’ll sleep on and off for the next eighteen hours or so. He was ventilated overnight, just as a precaution, and we sedate our ventilators pretty heavily. He should be bright as ever by tomorrow, though.”

“Can I go see him again?”

“Sure,” Dr. Sutcliffe said, standing. “Come on. I’ll take you to him.”

* * *

Kate sat in a chair and watched him sleep, her oldest friend and dearest companion. For the most part he seemed to be resting peacefully, but from time to time he moaned or twitched restlessly, as though he were dreaming and the dreams were unpleasant, even frightening. It upset Kate to see him this way. Outside of the usual run of winter colds and viral illnesses he’d never been sick a day in his life, and in a child’s way Kate had come to think of him as invulnerable. Now he looked so beaten and frail. Diminished. It shook her all the way through, forcing her to envision a life without him in it. It made her reflect on her own life and the way she’d been living it. In hiding.

He awoke occasionally, groggy but full of questions: “Hi, kiddo. What happened?” She told him. “An accident? Really? Are you okay?” Yes, just a broken arm. “How about your car?” It wasn’t my car. “Really? What happened?” And round and round, the same run of questions every time he opened his eyes. A nurse told Kate it was because of his concussion and the sedation, nothing to worry about, probably gone by tomorrow. He seemed to have forgotten about winning the lottery and for that at least Kate was grateful. She wasn’t looking forward to tellng him about the ticket.