Raw Bone (32 page)

It skipped twice, three times, then curved up on an angle and swung off course before careening downward and slicing through the surface. MacNeice’s head hurt from the effort and he was having difficulty breathing. Behind him, he heard the passenger door of the Chevy open
and clunk shut. Bishop had slaughtered three people, MacNeice thought, but in Britain and elsewhere, he’d be remembered for saving hundreds. He was a hero.

“You looked like you were trying to throw that all the way to the marina.”

“I was. But I put too much on it.” He coughed. “Sorry, Fiza.” Though what he was sorry about remained unsaid.

“Have you heard from Samantha?”

“Not a word.”

She didn’t respond, and he looked up at the hills on either side of the tiny bay. Anniken’s body was on the way home for a proper burial, where once again she’d be surrounded by loved ones. Duguald would likely be interred locally with only his uncle to see him off.

But out here, very soon, the world would green, and kids would look for jack-in-the-pulpits and trilliums, chase frogs and turtles, or fish for sunfish and be terrified when they hooked carp in the shallows. Kayakers would swing in for a respite from Dundurn Bay’s chilly winds, and again lovers would come for kisses and more.

MacNeice and Aziz entered the offices of Canada Coil and Wire at 2:51p.m. No one was in the reception area, though they noticed a woman in a floral dress glancing back at them as she entered the washroom down the hall. Since the door to Zetter’s office was open, they walked in, startling the man behind the desk.

“Who the hell are you?” he said, standing up.

“Sit down,” MacNeice said. “I assume you’re Paul Zetter.”

“Yeah, so you know me. Who are you?”

“Detective Superintendent MacNeice. This is Detective Inspector Aziz.”

Zetter sat down, gathered the papers on his desk into a pile and turned them upside down as the two detectives sat across from him. He was a pale, thin man with pockmarked skin, whose eyes narrowed as he studied them.

“Do you know why we’re here, Mr. Zetter?”

Zetter shrugged. “I haven’t a clue. Why don’t you enlighten me after you show some identification.”

When that formality was over with, Aziz put the photos of Anniken Kallevik and Duguald Langan face up on the desk. Zetter didn’t move, nor did he look at them right away. When he finally glanced at them, his eyes skittered away after a moment. Aziz laid a photograph of Sherry Berryman next to the others. That one, he didn’t bother to look at.

“These are the bittersweet moments in an investigation, Mr. Zetter. They are precious—but brief,” MacNeice said.

“I have no idea what you just said, pal. Nada. Zip. Next?”

Aziz put the SAS dress uniform portrait of Buchanan down beside the others. Zetter leaned forward. “He’s big, but I don’t know him.”

“I think you did. You knew him as Jacko Mars Bishop.”

“Did I?”

“Yes,” Aziz said.

MacNeice was looking at the overturned stack of papers. “Tell us about your business.”

Zetter sat back in his chair and smiled at MacNeice. “The import and export of coil and wire. These days, more import than export.”

“Due to the closing of the steel mills?” Aziz said.

“That, yeah. The Chinese and Indians—among others—can deliver faster and cheaper than we ever could.”

“By the looks of it, you run a lean operation here.” MacNeice looked around.

“We’ve got the reception and my office, and with the warehouse and the yard, maybe fifteen thousand square feet … Yeah, it’s lean.”

“Pays well though, does it?”

“Why, you want in?” Zetter put his elbows on the desk. “What’s your point, detective? You want to see my books? I promise you they’ve been looked at by smarter guys than you.”

“I’m sure they have. What I’m interested in, however, are your off-book expenditures and income.”

“You two got some nerve—do you even know who I am?”

MacNeice said, “You’re a businessman who hires muscle. One of the men you hired is Bishop. Bishop is responsible for three murders and two attempted murders.”

“What the—”

“I’m not finished. The only question we still need to answer is whether Bishop did two of these murders on your orders.”

“You’re seriously whacked. You should seek help.”

“Perhaps I should.”

Zetter stood up. “This is fucked. I want you two outta here now, and”—he shoved the photos across the desk toward Aziz—“take this shit with you. You think I don’t have contacts? I know people. I’ll call the mayor. I don’t need this shit.” He reached for the phone.

MacNeice stood up. “We’ll go, but before we do, could you tell me why an importer of coil and wire requires personal security?”

Aziz reached over and collected the photos, putting them back in the folder.

“Charge me with something or get out.” Zetter’s hand was still on the phone, but he made no move to dial.

“Consider yourself under suspicion in the deaths of three people, Mr. Zetter. Do not attempt to leave Dundurn.”

As they left the office, the woman in the floral dress was sitting behind the reception desk. By the look on her face it was clear that she’d heard most, if not all, of the exchange.

MacNeice stopped in front of her. “Your name, please?”

“Gloria …” Her voice quavered. “Gloria Zetter. I’m Paul’s wife.”

“You’re also his receptionist?” Aziz asked.

“I run the office.”

“For chrissakes, Gloria,” Zetter screamed.

It was as much of an assault as a smack across the face. Gloria went red with humiliation and turned back to her computer—which hadn’t been switched on.

In the car, Aziz asked MacNeice why he hadn’t pressed Zetter further.

“No need. We have a confession from the killer, who’s now dead. Gloria Zetter is listed as partner and chief financial officer, though I wonder if she’s aware of his gambling on horses or exactly why he needs heavies around him. We’ll come back to him, but for now we’ll track his movements.”

“You think he’ll bolt?”

“Absolutely, and as quickly as possible.”

“You think he’s up to more than gambling, don’t you?”

“I do. He takes people for boat rides—perhaps across the lake. I could imagine there are women on that boat to amuse his clients.”

“Drugs.”

“Possibly, or just prostitution. Enterprises for which you occasionally need heavies.”

“I’ll get a surveillance team on him.”

MacNeice was exhausted. He had just finished briefing Wallace on rattling Paul Zetter’s cage and the meeting with Colonel Lyttelton. He gave him copies of the images and the written transcripts from the survivors in Nigeria for his press briefing. Before he left, MacNeice told Aziz to call him if anything broke.

It was only five-thirty when he walked through the door to the cottage. He put the keys down on the table under the Bill Brandt photograph of a nude on a stone beach. He patted her bum and kicked off his shoes. Propping himself up on a pillow on the sofa, he lay down to watch for birds, and fell asleep.

The call from Aziz came at 10:56 p.m.

Paul Zetter and his wife had been detained while trying to board a plane to the Bahamas. A pair of shorts, one change of underwear, a Hawaiian shirt and a shaving kit were all he’d packed, perhaps because he had $456,920 nestled at the bottom of his suitcase. Zetter had argued that it was a family ritual to take a March break—though he and Gloria had no children. The couple were now waiting for MacNeice in separate interview rooms.

When MacNeice arrived, Aziz could see he was struggling.

“You and I will take Mr. Zetter first.” His voice was raspy, barely a whisper. “I think it’s good to keep his wife on ice for the moment.”

Zetter was a little less cocky, though he still denied knowing Bishop. “But I did hire several men to guard the yard. There’s always theft and graft in the coil and wire business.”

“The names of the guards?” Aziz asked.

“I can’t remember. I always pay them in cash, so I have no record of them. Why was I arrested?”

“DS MacNeice told you not to leave Dundurn, because you are under suspicion and may be charged as an accessory to murder,” Aziz said. “And you were trying to leave.”

“MACHT4. Your silver Mercedes?” MacNeice asked.

“Yeah, so?”

“Bishop was seen getting into your vehicle.”

“Says who?”

“Says me. I saw him get into your vehicle and drive away from the Block and Tackle Bar.”

Aziz put the photograph of Bishop/Buchanan in front of him again.

“I want to talk to my lawyer,” Zetter said, taking one of their cards from his pocket and using it to pick his teeth.

“As is your right, Mr. Zetter.” MacNeice stood up. “And our right is to impound your yacht and vehicle. They will be swept by Forensics, as will your home and offices.”

Aziz stood. “A constable will be in shortly to escort you to a telephone.” She followed MacNeice out of the door.

Gloria Zetter was another story. Terrified and deeply embarrassed at being escorted in handcuffs through the airport, she immediately claimed she knew nothing about her husband’s business
affairs. That changed when MacNeice reminded her that she was her husband’s business partner.

“Sure, but I don’t know what he does beyond the coil and wire business. Pauly keeps that away from me—and I don’t wanna know.”

“But you have met the so-called security men.”

“Well … yeah, I guess.”

“Tell me, is theft in the coil and wire business so rampant that you need three security staff to protect it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, how many break-ins did you suffer and how much was stolen before your husband hired these men?”

“I can’t recall.”

“Can you recall ever hearing of theft at your warehouse?”

“No, but …” She shifted in her chair. “Do you do things like plea bargains here?”

“You mean in the homicide interview room.” Aziz was surprised to hear the question so soon.

“Mrs. Zetter, if you tell us all you know about the deaths of these three people,” MacNeice said, putting the photos on the table, “and how your husband was funding his bets on the horses with Duguald Langan, something can be worked out.”

Gloria sat forward, sighed and then started talking. “Pauly was a bookie himself a long time ago. It’s not easy to steal in the coil and wire business—really not easy. Basically, we ship whatever we can source locally very quick. And when our product comes from Asia, we ship that real quick too—that’s how we get paid.” She turned to Aziz. “Miss, can I have some water, please?”

“Certainly. And it’s detective, not Miss,” Aziz said, pressing the pause button on the recorder.

When they were alone, MacNeice studied the woman across from him. She was slightly overweight, but not unattractive. Though it wasn’t hot in the interview room, her forehead glistened. “You look tired, Mrs. Zetter. It must have been a rough night.”

“Yeah, you got that right.”

Aziz returned with a large paper cup of water. “Here you go.” She sat down and turned on the recorder.

“The heavies?” MacNeice asked.

She put the cup down and wiped her mouth with her hand. “He hired them to ensure bets and debts are collected.”

“You’re saying that Paul was taking bets?”

“For years he hadn’t been. But then the Irish guy came along and he was doing so well. Pauly wanted in on the action.”

MacNeice put the photograph of the man she would have known as Bishop on the table in front of her. Gloria shivered and looked away.

“That guy was trouble from the start. I seen it comin’ and I said so. Pauly asks him to do somethin’ and that wacko does it and then some.” She shifted, crossed her legs and adjusted her dress so it rested neatly above a dimpled knee. “We were gettin’ beat on bets by the Irish kid who gets off a boat and, just like that, he’s a bookie, like fairy dust. We thought it was ’cause of his winning personality—he had that in spades.”

She was nodding as she recalled their reaction to him. “Pauly says, ‘Bishop came off the same boat. He’ll rein him in the moment I say so,’ and so we go on and, just like I warned him,
the kid has a touch. He’s taken over the yacht club, he’s got guys up and down the north end.” She sipped her water.

MacNeice was going to prod her, but realized she was not done talking. She leaned forward to signal she was going conspiratorial on her husband.

“Pauly tells me he tried to negotiate with the Irish, ya know, like bring him on as part of our team, to lighten our load. But no—in his mind, he was there first.” She lowered her voice as if she was afraid to say it too loud. “Pauly tells Bishop, ‘Straighten that kid out. He plays with us or he don’t play.’ That’s all he said, I swear to Holy Mary—I was there when he said it. So off Bishop goes—alone, mind you—and next thing we hear, Irish has left town. Then they’re fishin’ bodies outta the bay. Why he off’d them we never knew. Then he goes to the dance hall, and he offs that little girl … Sherry, Cherry—what’s her name?”

“Sherry Berryman,” Aziz said.

“Yeah.” She shrugged and pointed across the table at Aziz. “I tell ya, this guy comes to dinner—watch out, eh—you may not make it to the ice cream. I was scared—oh shit, was I scared. Then he comes in, asks me for his payout. He says—and this is God’s truth, cuz I wrote it down, eh.” She wiggled in her chair, trying to make herself more comfortable. “He says, ‘Family Zetters’—he makes
Zetters
sound like “Zeeters”—‘I must take my leave of your rusty wee town and bid a-doo’—whatever that means—‘as duty calls and I must away.’ Anyway, we paid him and pretended we’d miss him.” She shuddered theatrically.

“Did you know anything about what he did before he got here?”

“Naw, he never said anything. One day though, I’m watching him take off that heavy sweater he was always wearin’, to put on a Canada Coil and Wire T-shirt, and his tits were bigger than mine—but solid, eh—and tattoos everywhere, so I just knew he was trouble. Jesus,
there’s a Mom’s worst nightmare, eh?” She tucked in a strand of hair that had broken free of her blond, but vaguely pink, hair.

“Gloria, we have already begun forensic searches of Paul’s car, the yacht, and your house. Do you want to tell us what we might find?”