Last of the Independents (18 page)

We waited like that for a half hour before Deb came back. She unhooked the leash and the collar and handed them to me. She guided the dog by the scruff of her neck. “Do you want to be with her?”

“No,” I said. “Just tell me when it's done.”

They went into a room at the end of the hall. I strapped the collar to my wrist like a tourniquet. I imagined Amelia Yeats doing this, tapping for a vein. But that was wrong, she said she didn't use needles.

I swung the leash, letting the hook hang like a pendulum. I thought of a great furnace somewhere in the barrens, where a soot-stained dwarf, face blackened, shoveled the corpses of euthanized pets, stoking the flames as thick clouds belched out towards the clean city, where the owners let their pets be taken away so that the animals' last moments were spent with strangers whose only interaction with the beasts was to kill them.

I bypassed the receptionist and opened the door at the end of the hall. The dog sat in a cage while Deb made an entry on her clipboard.

“Changed my mind,” I said, opening the cage. “I'll let you know.”

“Are you sure?” she said, but we were already heading back out to the street.

“
How bad was it?” my grandmother called as I took my shoes off by the door. She appeared in the kitchen entryway wearing oversized floral print oven mitts, sleeves rolled up. The day before, I'd told her about having Amelia Yeats over for dinner. She'd been anxious to cook something. We'd stopped at Granville Island market for fresh produce and seafood. Her expression turned to dismay as she saw the dog, who skulked to the basement stairs without glancing at her food bowl.

“I thought this was the day.”

“She looks better to me,” I said. “Doesn't she move better? Not as stiff as a week ago. The doc said she misjudged the speed of the metasta-whatever-it-is.”

“Michael.”

I noticed the opened bottle of wine on the counter. I grabbed an old Slurpee mug from the cupboard and poured out a generous amount.

“Two weeks,” I said. “The appointment's already made, I swear. How'd we make out on the pie crust?”

“There was enough dough left for a bottom,” she said, her disappointment forgotten. “I did a brown sugar crumble topping. If your friend doesn't like it, tough.”

I kissed her cheek and went downstairs to shower and change.

D
inner consisted of salmon steaks coated in flour and skillet- fried a golden brown, pasta with Duso sauce, steamed broccoli, tossed salad with lemon vinaigrette. Amelia Yeats showed up with wine and beer, and we consumed both. The women seemed to enjoy each other's company. Their conversation was pleasant. What do your parents do, dear? My dad used to produce records but he's mostly retired now. That's nice. And your mother? She's in jail. Sorry to hear that. It's okay. This salad dressing is excellent. That's because it's homemade. I'll get you the recipe if you like.

I made coffee and loaded the dishwasher. We had pie in front of the television, catching the last few minutes of
Jeopardy
before
Criminal Intent
started.

“She's half in love with D'Onofrio,” I explained to Amelia.

“Oh piss off,” my grandmother said.

“It was Jimmy Smits before that. I forget the others, but they all run to a type. A long line of Byronic heroes.”

Amelia patted my grandmother's knee. “Jimmy Smits was hot,” she said.

My phone rang at the second commercial break. I took the plates and mugs into the kitchen and tucked the phone between ear and neck.

“Satisfied?” Theo Atero said.

“With my phone bill, you mean? Is anyone?”

“This morning I'm at work, I find out the blues have rousted my brother out of bed and taken him downtown to answer questions about something he doesn't know nothing about. I got to lose a half day plus pay the cunt lawyer's fees to get him kicked. Now who do you think should be responsible for that?”

“
My Brother the Scumbag's Epic Tale of Woe
by Theo Atero,” I said. “You could get shortlisted for a Giller.”

“The hell's a Giller?”

“It's an award for a long, boring book that nobody reads.”

Theo said, “I know you're sitting back laughing at this, thinking you got one over on some poor drug-addicted kid who wouldn't hurt a soul. Make my brother a laughing stock, get him harassed by the police. I'm sure you and that big dyke and that fat slob are having a good laugh. You know that can change, though. Hope you know that.”

“Why don't you come by the office tomorrow, Theo? Personally I like to look the people I insult in the face.”

“Watch your back is all I'll say.”

“I know where you live too, Theo.”

I brought my grandmother half a baby aspirin and her grape juice concoction. Amelia and I killed the last of the wine.

Over the credits I heard a car door slam and the car tear up the street, and then two shots. I dragged my grandmother off the couch, knocking over her glass. Next to me, Yeats followed suit. It occurred to me in the silence afterwards that the sounds were out of order, that the gunshots should precede the car driving off. I fetched the Glock from the coat rack, hit the porch light and stepped outside.

I saw three smoking firecrackers on the lawn and one in the gutter, and a woman righting her bicycle, and a pair of joggers, cellphones out, already dialing 911. My dog brushed my leg and shuffled out onto the porch, letting out a half-hearted bark. I felt Yeats behind me in the doorway.

“This is the guy you just talked to,” she said.

“Most likely. Yes.”

“What will you do about it?”

Good question.

The Corpse Fucker

W
hat
I did was answer the uniformed cop's questions and then drive Yeats to her father's, stealing one long kiss before heading back to be with my grandmother. In the morning I installed a security camera over the door, along with flood lights, and hooked them to a motion sensor. My electrician skills make my carpentry look professional, but despite the unseemly wires, the system seemed to work. I devoted another hour to showing my grandmother how to work it.

Gavin Fisk wasn't answering his cell. I called Kroon and Son. I explained to the younger Thomas Kroon that I was ready to admit defeat. I'd be in later that afternoon to pick up my things and give a last brief warning to the employees.

“I want them all to understand basic security procedures,” I said. “I'll sleep better knowing we're all on the same page.”

“Sounds fair enough,” Kroon said. “I'll warn you, though, it's our staff Hallowe'en party. You'll be talking to a bunch of nurses and Frankenstein's monsters.”

“Just as long as everyone's there,” I said. “If it's possible, could you make sure your father's there, too? Some of this he'll need to know.”

“The old man never misses an opportunity to see Carrie in her police woman's uniform.” Kroon added, “I think you're making a wise decision, packing it in now. Saves everyone a bit of grief, not to mention money.”

“I just have too many other things on my plate,” I said. “Monday I'll send off the last invoice.”

While I was on the phone with Kroon, Cliff Szabo had phoned twice. I rang him back.

“I owe you a hell of a long explanation,” I said, “which you'll get Sunday morning, I promise. For now, suffice to say there's a lead on your son, the cops are following that lead up, and we'll see very soon what pans out. If the press phones, stick to the basics — the cops are handling it, you've hired a PI, et cetera. No details yet.”

“All right.”

“Another thing: this suspect and his brother might make trouble, so take precautions.” I gave him a brief description of the Atero brothers.

“Did these two take Django?” he asked.

“It's not quite that simple.”

“I want an explanation.”

“Sunday,” I said.

B
y noon I got through to Gavin Fisk. “And the media shit storm begins,” he said.

“Far as we're concerned, Mr. Szabo and I, the matter's in your capable hands.”

“Real comforting,” he said, a strange mix of sarcasm and gratitude. “I'll be in touch with Szabo later on.”

“What'd you find in the house?”

“A lot of cat shit and no surprises,” he said. “There's no forwarding address for any of these girls, though Barbara Della Costa has some relatives in Saskatchewan. Hookers always do. Their records of employment are also a bit spotty.”

“There's no line on any of them?”

“We're not done looking,” he said. “Sooner or later one of them will take a collar or, gasp, apply for a job that doesn't involve lying on your back.”

“Keep me informed.”

“Fair enough,” Fisk said. Where he'd usually click off, he hesitated. “I ask you something, Mike?”

“Why yes, Gavin, you certainly can.”

“You think Mira would like to go on a cruise?”

“Why ask me?”

“I'm racking my brain trying to think of a Christmas-slash-birthday gift she'd like. Big three-oh this year, should be something big. So how about a cruise? I know a chick who sent her parents to Mazatlan. They told her it was the best trip of their lives. What's your take?”

“Thinking back, Gavin, has Mira ever mentioned boats, sea voyages or Mexico with any particular fondness?”

“No.”

“So what does that tell you?”

“Maybe she hasn't tried it yet,” he said. “Is it true you're banging that music producer?” I didn't answer. “The ass on her, huh? Those tight little tits?”

“Just tell me when you get a line on those hookers.”

“I sure will, Mike. Pardon me for voicing an opinion.”

P
hone calls all day. The vet, asking did I want to reschedule for today? Hell no. Estelline Loeb: she'd read an article about a child pornography ring busted in Fort McMurray. Remember that vice cop in Oklahoma who noticed the face of a missing girl in a batch of kiddie porn and reunited her with her family? I told her I'd check on it. The Kos' nephew phoned to ask if he could postdate a check for December 1st. I told him that was fine so long as it cleared. My lawyer wanted to know how to proceed on the school lawsuit. I told her full speed ahead.

A
t four o'clock I was nursing a hot water with lemon and honey in the breakroom of Kroon and Son. A boom box was playing a fifteen-minute mix of Hallowe'en music on repeat. I'd already heard Oingo Boingo's “Dead Man's Party” four times.

“Lame-ass party,” Kurt the dispatcher said, perusing the cold pizza and warm sushi. He was dressed in a blood-stained version of his normal office attire. I agreed that it was. He leaned over and gave me a conspiratorial smile, then held his thumb and index finger up to his lips. “You want to smoke a joint?”

A former office manager now on maternity leave arrived with a basket of homemade samosas. Kurt came back from the parking lot. At 4:30, the younger Thomas Kroon gathered everyone in the main office. He made a banal speech full of generic attaboys, then handed the floor to me.

“My name is Michael, I'm a security consultant. For the last months we've been working to stop a security problem in this building. I wish I had better news, but the investigation has stalled.”

“After a very thorough job,” Kroon said, “which we all appreciate.”

“All of you should be cautious until the new security measures are installed, which will be next week. For the next few days the building will be vulnerable. Be careful exiting and entering the building and make sure to safeguard your valuables.” I swept a hand over the brochures I'd fanned out on one of the tables,
How to Protect Your Work Environment
and the like. “Feel free to browse the literature. There are some excellent steps you can take to feel safer. I won't take up any more of your time. Enjoy your party.”

Polite applause. “What's that about?” someone asked.

“Corpse Fucker,” Kurt whispered.

“Watch your language,” the older Thomas Kroon said.

Carrie asked me, “What new security is going in?”

“Reinforced steel doors with electronic key cards which record who comes and goes from what room. Additional cameras and a few other surprises.”

She turned to the Kroons. “And when was the office supposed to find out about this?”

“We'll discuss everything Monday,” the younger Thomas Kroon said, peering at me with a raised eyebrow. The security measures were new to him. Before he could cross the room to ask me about them, he was waylaid by Supreet the former office manager. I made my escape.

“
And here I thought you'd be the one to cheer me up,” Ben said. He put his plastic tray down on the plastic table and squeezed his bulk onto the stool to my right.

“Just preoccupied,” I said, stowing away my book. I transferred my tray to a nearby table, keeping the half-finished soda in front of me. From where we sat, with our backs to the kid's ball room, we could watch rush hour traffic battle inertia along Marine Drive.

Ben unwrapped his chicken burger, removed the top of the bun, set the tomato aside and squeezed a packet of ketchup onto the exposed patty. “So you don't want to talk about it?” he said. “Because unlike some friends, if you tell me you don't want to talk about something, I won't force you to.” With a mouth full of food he added, “Unless you're really dying to, and you just don't want to seem too eager to unpack your heart. Then I might consider pursuing it.”

My reluctance stemmed from the fact that I'd been contemplating the Szabo case, comparing details with Cynthia Loeb's disappearance. The circumstances couldn't have been more different — years apart, one grabbed in her neighbourhood, the other in a commercial district, Django missing with the car and bike, Cynthia with the clothes she was wearing, a dollar seventy-eight in change and one of her mother's berets affixed in her hair. The similarities had to do with the effect the disappearances had on their families. Cynthia Loeb, Django Szabo. Cynthia Szabo, Django Loeb. Not the subject I'd choose to bring up with the brother of one of the missing.

I said to Ben, “I guess I'm disappointed in myself. I thought I'd been disabused a long time ago of the notion that everything has an easy and accessible answer. I recognize that some cases don't solve. Some of them you know but you can't prove. Others you know and can prove but no one's listening, or the ne'er-do-well perp's cousin is the Minister of Finance or some other bullshit. I know I have no reason to believe we'll find this kid alive, but I keep thinking, that's not good enough. I'm getting stupid, because I'm starting to believe that whoever's out there might actually be listening to me.”

“Who's that?” Ben asked.

“I don't know. God?”

“Do you believe in God?”

“No. Do you?”

“No.”

“But I'll tell you, if prayer's what helps get that kid back, I'd be first in line at the candle store.”

“I'm pretty sure the church supplies those,” Ben said.

“They wouldn't let you bring your own to — what's it called? Mass?”

“I don't know, I've never been.” He balled up the burger wrapper and stuffed it in the empty french fry sleeve. “My family's Jewish if you go back far enough, but both my parents were free thinkers.”

“Mine are cultists.”

“There's a double date,” Ben said.

S
taked out a block from Kroon and Son, we talked about Ben's game design problems. More specifically, he talked and I listened. I kept my gaze on the door. At 7:30 the party broke up, and by nine the building was shut down for the long weekend.

“At least we all agreed to make the game a prequel,” Ben said. “They're working from the backstory I established in the first two games and the spinoff graphic novel. I'd hate to put any important character developments in Choad Boy's hands. I admit adding vehicles was a decent idea. We could never make those work with the physics engine we were using. But his great storyline idea? Rosalind and Magnus break out of prison. I mean, that was old back in the days of
Wolfenstein.
”

“You sound happier,” I said.

“I'm not, I'm just ultra-busy making sure Choad Boy doesn't screw things up.” He realized we weren't driving anymore and undid his seatbelt. “You're going to want to open your window.”

“Christ,” I said, as the smell of flatulence filled the car. I popped open the skylight. “Sure you're not one of the corpses in there?”

After hours, the industrial park was uninhabited save for the odd janitor or night crew heading to one of the warehouses. We were parked on a winding road with no curb, the car conspicuous but far enough from the doorstep of the mortuary not to arouse suspicion. Every car that passed us appeared first as a pair of headlights, giving us time to duck in our seats.

Everything I'd told the funeral workers was designed to flush out the Corpse Fucker, make him think he had a brief window to misbehave before the new security made sneaking in harder. That meant deceiving both of the Kroons, my clients. I was fine with that.

“Drayton,” Ben said. “What was your gut reaction to the Szabo case? Did you think it would solve?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“The state in which the kid disappeared tells you everything,” I said. “Most missing persons cases are either runaways or custodial disputes. There was none of that with Django. His home life wasn't great but it was all he knew. He didn't have anyone to run to, and no relatives that would want to take him from Cliff.”

Ben was silent.
Don't ask
, I thought.

“Is that the same feeling you got with Cynthia?”

“Course not,” I said, mustering as much of a poker face as I could. Luckily it was dark and he was staring out his window.

“Really?”

“I still hold out hope,” I said, which wasn't false. “So should you. Car coming.”

We slumped down in our seats so we could just see over the dash. The sedan slowed as it passed the mortuary but didn't stop.

“It's just that what you said was similar to how it was with Cynthia,” Ben said. “No reason to run away and no custody problems.”

“Was she in a car that got swiped?”

“No.”

“And was she in a high-crime area, like near a pawn shop?”

“Obviously not.”

“So the circumstances are totally different, right?”

The lies felt like bile in my throat.
She's dead and you will never see her again. Accept it.

“Don't confuse one case with the other,” I said. “I wouldn't lie to you about this. In fact, next week I'm talking to a Vice cop who has a whole new angle on things.”

“Really?”

“I'll tell you more when I know more,” I said.

Ben was silent. I thought about his mother and Madame Thibodeau. I'd felt good about keeping the psychic from sinking her talons into Mrs. Loeb. And yet how was I any better? I liked to think I was different because I wasn't after her money, and because I tried to be honorable. In the end, though, I was another bullshit artist, plying her with false hope. I should tell Mrs. Loeb and her son that Cynthia was never coming back. Help to puncture the last of their delusions rather than bolstering them. That was the right thing to do. It was also merciless.

I remember my grandfather coming home one day after being first on the scene of a homicide. The victim, sixty-seven and asthmatic, lived on the first floor of a high rise. The killer had smashed through the sliding patio door looking for valuables, thinking no one was home. He'd tied her up, robbed her, raped her, and cut her throat. He didn't nick a major blood vessel and she remained alive for two hours, struggling and bleeding until giving up the ghost shortly after my grandfather arrived. He didn't talk to us when he got home that night.