The Ambitious City (25 page)

“I
T’S LIKE YOU
were invisible, walking across that beach,”

He said to his friend in the mirror.

“I know. I can’t explain it, but I think there’s something in the way I walk—unassuming, focused, but at the same time distracted—part of the landscape, a person who wouldn’t catch your eye.”

“But the blood—you were covered in it!”

“Doesn’t matter. No one noticed me.”

Billie Dance turned to pin the photo from Samora Aploon’s cellphone on the wall next to those he’d taken of her behind the counter of the Burger Shack and several others of her walking along the beach with a book or papers and her tray of food. “I like how these all look like spy photos.”

Samora wore the same T-shirt in each, the one with the happy typeface and a cartoon of a shack that didn’t look anything like the real building. “She went down like a tree.”

“It was a noble stroke.”

Stepping back, Billie leaned against the wall of the living room. It was furnished with a sofa from a second-hand shop on Parkdale and a chair that he’d picked up off the street. The cane seat was torn through, but he’d put a piece of plywood across it and secured it with duct tape. He looked at the images on the wall.

“They look good together.”

“Yeah, Samora—that great cellphone death shot—next to Ghosh …”

“Major freak-out when this hits the Web.”

“Major.”

“When do we tell the world what this is all about?”

“Okay, a history lesson: we don’t tell the world. We leave that to our adversaries. Eventually they’ll figure it out. Our actions will be our proclamation. No words.”

“The new Knights Templar.”

“Exactly. And it was two hundred years or so before they were finally put down. I don’t need two hundred years—I’ve got 3G broadband. The Knights only had runners and pigeons.”

“Drag about Lea Nam. These scouting shots look lonely—missing that splash of red.”

Below the photos of Samora and Ghosh were newspaper clippings touting Nam as an Olympic prospect as well as a brilliant student. “We’re in no hurry. It’ll be better the second time around, and you know she’ll be waiting for it.”

“What’s next?”

“No, who’s next?”

He swung about and pointed to the opposite wall, which was stained from an ancient roof leak that had streaked and bubbled the faded floral wallpaper from the ceiling to the floor.

“The entrepreneur?”

“Yes, the entrepreneur. The scouting’s done—we’re ready.” He was looking at a photograph of an elegant young woman emerging
from an office building, briefcase in hand, putting on large and stylish black sunglasses. Below were six underground parking lot photos of a silver Mercedes 300 parked in the same reserved space, with individual times printed on the bottom of each image—8:10 to 8:53 a.m. and 6:47 to 7:35 p.m.

“A breeze.”

“No, not so easy. It’s the first level down, there are cars coming and going—it could be tricky.”

“What about doing her at the apartment?”

“Security’s too tight. This is the best option. There’s no camera at the entrance or on the parking level—just rape phones.” Billie walked over to tap the print. “They’ve got a barrier but no booth. We take our ticket, and on the way out we dodge the barrier and vanish.”

“So, morning or night?”

“Personally, I’m a morning guy.”

“I like mornings.”

“She may be the prettiest yet.”

“Maybe, but I don’t care about that.”

“What does she actually do?”

“In India, where she comes from, they can do things faster, better and cheaper than anything we can do here. We’re undereducated but we think we’re not; we’re lazy and uninventive but think we’re brilliant. Narinder Dass was named one of the top ten CEOs under thirty—see here …”

“Oh yeah, nice photo.”

“Runs a company staffed in India that makes every Canadian call centre redundant. No great loss, you might think.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“You’ve got to understand. It starts with handling all our Q&As on credit cards, then it moves on to everything else.”

“At least they stay where they belong.”

“No, they don’t. Look, they speak English better than most Canadians, and better than any Chinese. You don’t hear about call centres being run out of Beijing, do you?”

“No.”

“We’ve had millions of Indians already emigrate here, but that number is just a trickle of what we will have. How do you think Narinder Dass got her money?”

“From over there?”

“For sure—India’s now a superpower … And look at that smile—who can resist that? It’s like having a Bollywood movie star right here in Dundurn. She’s doing social events, running in marathons; soon I bet she’ll even run for office.”

“I see your point.”

“Yes, well, we’re going to cut the line. Disconnect it. Hang up, Ms. Dass.”

“Call failed.”

“Exactly.”

“Did you watch that press conference?”

“No, why?”

“Why?! It was about our project. I’d say we’ve got a new candidate—a Muslim.”

“What does she do?”

“Detective, criminologist … Bottom line, she thinks we’ve always felt inadequate. I think she’s calling us a coward.”

“No shit, that’s rich. I don’t think Samora or Taaraa would have agreed.”

D
EFINED BY A
low fieldstone wall, the house sat deep in a large lot, barely visible through a dense cover of trees and landscaping. MacNeice parked the Chevy adjacent to the large electronic gate that guarded the driveway to the red-brick and greystone mansion. The curtains were drawn and it was difficult to tell the place had been abandoned—difficult, but not impossible. He could see flyers and newspapers scattered on the stone walkway behind the iron side gate.

A small stand of oak, birch and maple trees on the grounds appeared to have been lifted from the forest and ravine beyond—roughly a mile from where Lea Nam had been attacked. Several large rocks were strategically placed among them, and under a large pine, two grey squirrels were foraging on the ground. MacNeice surveyed the scene as he got out of the Chevy, closing the door behind him. He opened the trunk, took out his old Samsonite briefcase and approached the gate, Aziz trailing him.

“You look like a travelling insurance man with that,” she said.

He smiled briefly. “I suppose I am, in a way.” Though right now he hadn’t been doing so well at ensuring the lives of Dundurn’s young women.

“I’ll check the side,” Aziz said, picking up a small branch. She walked along a path that ran between the stone wall that bordered the grounds and the line of old-growth trees that led to the edge of the ravine.

MacNeice tried the side gate and was surprised to find it unlocked. He waited, watching Aziz until she turned back towards him. Scanning the forest beside the path, he looked for one thing that didn’t look like the rest: a clump of darkness in the leaf and shadow pattern, a misfit patch of colour, a shivering branch or bush, a startled bird or squirrel calling on an otherwise still day … but nothing pulled focus.

Pushing through the gate, he stooped to check the dates on two newspapers—early February. Counting another seven, he concluded that Dance had cancelled the subscription. MacNeice put the briefcase on the ground and sat on one of the large rocks, trying to imagine the family that had lived here. The place seemed as cold as the stone beneath him.

The neighbouring house—a greystone heap—was another fifty yards beyond the stone wall and set even further back. In its garden, several concrete deer wandered about, eating the grass or looking up surprised and ready to scamper off into the forest. There they stood, year in and year out—lifelike and lifeless.

Tossing the stick away, Aziz came through the gate. “They’ve got a big pool and a hot tub in the back garden. Both still have winter covers over them, with lots of fallen leaves left over from last autumn.” She sat next to him on the rock, picked up a pine cone and turned it slowly in her hands. “Fascinating things, these …”

“They are,” he said, looking down at it, “very mathematical—the entire golden mean in that one cone. From nautilus shells to the
Parthenon to pine cones … What do you think happened to Dance?”

“You mean, why do I think he snapped?” she said, lobbing the pine cone over to the next rock, where the squirrels gave it only passing interest.

“Yes.”

“Well, I don’t think his sickness has anything to do with his parents getting killed. I think he must have been ill for a long time. Perhaps their deaths were the trigger for this …” MacNeice noticed that Aziz was careful to suppress any disgust she felt for William Dance. “It’s his use of the Internet, not the killings, that will guarantee him a chapter in the texts on psychopathy,” she added.

MacNeice looked up at the facade looming over them. “Maybe Williams is right. Maybe it is a ‘groin thing,’ and the Web is the fastest way to build a following—his version of standing on a chair in front of the class and dropping his pants.”

Moments passed in silence before he said, “Hear that bird? Not the crows off to the right, but the one calling from down in the ravine—high, sharp, short calls.”

She listened for several seconds, then said, “Yes, what is it?”

“A downy woodpecker. If it comes closer, you might hear him tapping on a tree.”

“When did you develop a love of birds, Mac?”

“I think I’ve always loved birds, but I’d have to credit Kate’s family in Suffolk for teaching me about them. It seemed like everyone I met over there was a birder.” They listened, but the calls grew more distant before receding altogether.

“Now that we have a face and a name, I’m going to recommend another press conference, to allow you to speak directly to Dance.”

“Ask him to surrender.”

“If you’re willing. Otherwise, I can do it.”

“In for a penny …” she said, somewhat cheerily.

A car approached. From the squealing of brakes, MacNeice knew it was Williams. In a moment he and Vertesi appeared at the gate.

MacNeice stood up and scanned the forest again, looking for any sudden movement. Aziz smiled, thinking he was looking for the woodpecker.

“Nice digs,” Williams said, looking up at the house.

“News?” MacNeice asked.

Vertesi went first. He’d spoken to the provincial police corporal who was first responder at the accident that killed Dance’s parents. It had happened on an unusually warm afternoon the previous November. They were leaving their cottage near Lake Joseph in their Land Cruiser and had stopped at an intersection with the highway. The father was driving. A witness said the left signal was on, indicating they’d turn south towards Toronto and Dundurn, but the driver missed several opportunities to cross when the highway was clear in both directions. Inexplicably, he shot out instead into oncoming traffic. Their vehicle was T-boned by a Dodge Ram carrying two 3,600-horsepower marine diesel engines. The impact fused the two vehicles together, and they clawed eighty yards out of the highway before grinding to a stop in the ditch.

“The driver of the truck—the OPP officer said he must have been doing at least eighty when they collided—was cut in half by one of the engine blocks when it tore through the cab. The autopsy revealed only that Mr. Dance had no alcohol or drugs in his system, and as far as they could tell, he hadn’t had a heart attack or stroke. Police concluded that he wasn’t paying attention.”

This news was greeted by a long pause. It would have been natural to express some sympathy for the horrific demise of the Dances, but the moment passed without comment. Perhaps, MacNeice thought, it was because William was their son, their responsibility, and ultimately their catastrophic failure.

“We’ve also got the bike’s plate number, but it’s still registered to this address,” Vertesi added. “Oh, and a uniform’s on his way with the warrant.” He looked over at Williams. “Your turn.”

Williams turned to Aziz and said, “You’re a media darling, darling. The Deputy Chief came down to the cubicle and left a message:
The National
wants an interview tomorrow at 6:00 p.m. The TV network’s promoting it as a major segment called”—he looked down at his notebook—“ ‘The Mind of a Serial Killer.’ ”

He also said that Ryan had found six more women who had been featured in the
Standard
over the previous twelve months. Two of the six had moved away and one had since gone bankrupt, leaving a Chinese doctor, an Indian entrepreneur and a Nigerian immunologist—all accomplished, all in their late twenties or early thirties.

Williams counted on his fingers. “A Bangladeshi, a Korean and a South African … probably the one with the least to worry about is the Nigerian.” As if Dance were trading hockey cards—
got it, need it
—building his collection.

“That makes me rather special, I should think,” Aziz said under her breath.

“Why’s that? Oh, right—a Muslim born in the Middle East.” Vertesi nodded, embarrassed at missing the obvious.

“We’ll call a media conference for ten tomorrow,” MacNeice said.

“If Dance is payin’ attention, he might realize we’re trying to provoke him to come after Aziz,” Williams said. “He might just stick to his game plan and go after the next one on the list.”

Either way, MacNeice thought, they wouldn’t have long to wait. His attacks were frequent enough that another one could be expected within the next forty-eight hours.

“Unless he’s superconfident and not rattled by what he hears. What do you think, Mac?” Aziz asked.

“I think we’re in uncharted territory. So far Dance has been free to act at will, isolating and working his way down a list of brilliant young women. Now he’s being challenged. Does he accept the challenge or ignore it?” Regardless of what he chose to do, MacNeice decided to assign a plainclothes unit to each of the three new candidates—and Aziz. To hell with staff shortages and strained resources.

He scanned the forest again, and seeing nothing out of place, he led them along the path and up the four steps to the house, where MacNeice opened the briefcase on a stone ledge. He took out three thin steel rods that looked vaguely like short barbecue skewers and knelt in front of the door, where he inserted them one by one into the keyhole.