The Devil's in the Details (20 page)

I stared at the shimmering people and buildings, fiddled with my cellphone and tried to figure out a better course of action. I found myself mesmerized by the minarets on the sign of the Turkish restaurant across from me. They reminded me of something.

What?

The minarets did a subtle yet elegant belly dance. Interesting culture, I thought.

But what was I trying to remember?

Something.

Oh, yes.

A name.

A place name. Turkish.

Istanbul?

That was the name of the restaurant? Something like it.

What did that remind me of?

Stop the swirling, I'm dizzy.

I know I know I know what it is.

Constantinople!

In the excitement of remembering, I let down my guard. I felt myself propelled forward into the late-night traffic. I lay on the road, stunned. Hands grabbed my shoulders and pulled. Or were they pushing? I did my best to fight them off. The last thing I remembered was yelling out Constantinople again. A lovely light show played in my head, rivalling the Canada Day fireworks, but much, much closer to home.

I heard the faraway blare of horns and the screech of brakes.

A few words of advice: try not to pass out cold, sprawled half on the street, half on the sidewalk, in the Byward Market on a Saturday around midnight. Especially if you have been sitting on a curb immediately prior to this. In addition, do not yell at passing cars. Such behaviour brings out the police officers, but not the big friendly ones you learned about in elementary school.

“Constantinople,” I said confidently as I raised my head to greet the constables who were approaching. “I need to go to Constantinople immediately.”

The female officer snorted. “Constantinople? Ma'am, you must mean detox.”

“Detox?” I batted away her helping hand. “I'm not drunk.”

“Do you want to try standing up, ma'am?”

“Hey, where's my box of photos, they're important. And my backpack. What happened to that?”

“No idea, ma'am.”

I squinted at a lump halfway down the block. “That looks like it. What's it doing way down there?”

The officers exchanged glances, but one of them trotted the half-block and picked up my backpack.

“Now just try and stand up, ma'am.”

“I don't feel like standing up. Somebody rolled me into the traffic. That's not legal.”

I twisted around to see who that somebody might have been. The sidewalk swam, the cops divided into doubles, then triples. No problem. I was used to that. But quadruples were new. I didn't like them at all. I closed my eyes. “My head is out of control.”

“We can see that, ma'am.”

“Did I mention I hate being called ma'am?”

“No, ma'am.”

A wave of nausea washed over me. I opened my eyes and tried not to upchuck Maisie's Chocolate Triple Threat onto the eight pairs of regulation style police footwear in front of me.

“Come along into the car, ma'am,” the not-so-nice officer said. “We'll make sure you're all right at the station.”

“Hold on. I may have a concussion, but I haven't lost my law degree, and last I heard, there was nothing in the criminal code or in the civic ordinances about sitting on the goddam curb.” Fine words, although even I could tell they were coming out a bit slurred. I sank back to the same curb while speaking.

“True enough,” the officer said, with a too-wide grin. “But we have complaints about you disturbing the peace.”

“What?”

“Dis–tur–bing the peace,” she said with entirely unnecessary emphasis.

“What are you talking about, disturbing the peace? Look around. You have me mixed up with hundreds of drunken louts.”

I had drawn quite a crowd. There's nothing more entertaining than someone else getting arrested.

“Attempted break-in, too. That has some teeth,” she continued merrily.

“What?”

“And don't forget uttering threats. That was still illegal when I signed on tonight.”

This would have been a good time to demonstrate grace and dignity. But I felt a surge of panic at the thought of being arrested and probably strip-searched and tossed into a cold damp cell. I never understood how anyone could get through that. I used to imagine jail cells and holding tanks when I had legal aid clients. The images helped me to work up a good head of steam for court. I didn't want to be in one of those cells, ever. I tried to stand up. On the third try, I managed, but without dignity, let alone grace.

“Let's see if I understand. You are saying I uttered threats? Me?”

“You got it.”

“Who accused me?”

“How about getting into the car, ma'am?”

“Don't call me, ma'am. I have the right to know who accused me, and that hasn't changed since you signed on tonight.” Slur slur.

“We got a call from Maisie's Eatery.”

“Ah. Probably from the person who kept my cash card tonight.”

“Then someone of your exact description took off from Legal Beagle without paying.”

“That's because of the cash card.”

“Explain it at the station, ma'am.”

“Do you know officers Yee or Zaccotto? They can tell you I have a concussion, and I am a lawyer, not a drunk, and definitely not a criminal.”

“I think those guys are on days this week.”

“Okay. Maybe you should call my brother-in-law. He's a Detective Sergeant on the Ottawa Force. Really. Major Crimes.”

“Is he on duty tonight?”

“No, he's at the family cottage.”

“How about you use your one phone call to reach him from the station?”

“Wait a minute. I'll call him now. Hey, where's my phone? Shit, it's not in my backpack. Who stole my phone?”

I just hate it when people roll their eyes. She said, “Check for a phone, guys.”

“And my jacket's gone. Do you see a jean jacket? New. With butterflies.”

“We'll look around, but it's time for you to get into the car, ma'am.”

Lucky me, I was saved from a trip to the cells by a furtive scurrying through the crowd. Never thought I'd be so glad to see Mombourquette. Every mean thought I'd ever had about him evaporated.

“Oh, hey, Sarge,” the female officer said.

The other officer gave Mombourquette a respectful nod. A gesture appropriate from a junior colleague. A subtle expression of support.

Mombourquette took a minute to huddle with the constables. They relayed a quite animated version of what I was supposed to have said and done. The female officer waved her arms a lot.

“I'll look after this, if it's all right with you guys,” Mombourquette said.

“Who are you calling ‘this'?” I said.

“She did have a head injury last night. And she is Conn McCracken's sister-in-law. I'll take her to the hospital to see if the concussion is causing her bizarre behaviour.”

The female officer wasn't so quick to let go. “We got a fistful of complaints.”

I said, “What do you mean, bizarre behaviour?”

Mombourquette's dear little whiskers twitched. “If anyone lays charges, I'll see she shows up at the right time and place.”

“No problem,” the male officer said.

I said, “Charges? I'm the one should lay charges.”

The female winked. “Careful, Sarge. She's a handful.”

“I hear ya,” Mombourquette said, leading me toward his car, conveniently parked on the sidewalk. I guess old habits die hard.

“Hey, Lennie,” I said as I fumbled my way into the passenger side. “You sure took your time.”

“Something tells me I should have left you there.”

“But they would have tossed me into the ladies drunk tank.”

“You got it.”

“I already had a concussion, who knows what I have now. I could have died in a cell.”

“Don't put thoughts in my head,” Mombourquette said.

“We need to get to the bottom of this situation,” I said as we cooled our jets in Emerg.

“One more time,” Mombourquette said. “There is no ‘we'. There is only you and I. You were acting like a lunatic, and I helped you out for the sake of your family. You're damn lucky you're not being arraigned as we speak. And just so there's no mistake, as soon as you get cleared by a doctor, we will both go to our respective homes. Stop making things worse.”

“Whatever. Can I use your cellphone?”

Mombourquette's jaw clenched. “Use your own cellphone and . . .”

“I told you it was stolen. So were my photos, and my new jean jacket is gone too. I love that jacket. Those cops were no help.”

Mombourquette said nothing. I fished in the backpack for Jasmine's number, but I didn't have any luck. “There's someone I need to talk to, and I'm having trouble seeing. Can you find a slip of paper with a phone number on it? It should say Jasmine, and it's in here somewhere.”

“Even if you find the number, you're not allowed to use a cellphone in the hospital. You, of all people, should know that.”

That was one of a million ordinary life details I was having trouble remembering.

“What harm can it do? We're nowhere near the operating rooms, and as you keep pointing out, it's the middle of the night. This person could be the key to the case.”

“That's another thing I'd like to make clear. There is no case.”

“Is.”

“Isn't.”

“Is.”

“Look, Camilla, if you think there's a case, then you get on it. I am on administrative leave, and if I get tangled up in anything like a case, the shit will hit the entire cooling system. So, for me, there is no case.”

“Okay then.” I felt my head clear briefly. “It doesn't matter if you get involved, because there is no case, since according to everyone in the police, there was no murder. See? It depends on how you look at it.”

Mombourquette said. “The answer's still no.”

“Once we get out of here, all you have to do is help me in one of these ways, which are not illegal, not dangerous, and
not out of line for a private citizen such as yourself.”

“No again.”

“Let me tell you what they are, first.”

“Nope.”

“One, retrieve my cash card from Maisie's. That way I can get some money, pay off Legal Beagle—maybe I didn't tell you about that.”

“I don't want to know.”

“Two, help me get my photos back. I've been trying to explain to you that this girl, Chelsea, is one of the servers at Maisie's. I met with her a few hours ago, before the incident at the curb. She recognized three people in the photos of the old Carleton crowd. Elaine dug out the shots for me.”

Mombourquette massaged his temples.

“The thing is that two of these people are dead. Dead. So-called accidents.”

“Accidents happen.”

“We're talking three women in their forties, friends from university. One drowned in June. One was thrown from her horse in July. And now, in August, we have the third, Laura, falling to her death in downtown Ottawa.”

“Coincidence.”

“I need to show the photos to Jasmine. She's a lot more intelligent than Chelsea.” I didn't say less grasping. “I'm hoping she'll recognize other people. Maybe one of them can help us.”

“Let it go.”

“The photos are in a flowered box. The cops didn't care, because they thought I was drunk. But if
you
ask them to look around. It's so important.”

“I believe the term is ‘belligerent drunk'.”

“Fine, then if you could just find Jasmine's number, then
you can be on your way. Can you see a small sheet of paper in my pack?”

“No.”

“Two seconds of your time. Please.”

“For the last time, I am not taking any part in your investigation.”

“It's just a piece of paper. And what are you doing here? If not taking part in an investigation?”

“I am spending way too long,” he made a big deal out of glancing at his watch, “in an Emergency waiting room because of your fondness for getting concussed.”

“We're already in one of the examination rooms. And what do you mean my fondness for . . .”

Before I could finish, we were interrupted by a doctor, holding a file. Wouldn't you know, it was my regular guy.

Dr. Hasheem shone a lot of lights in my eyes. “This is getting to be a bad habit,” he said.

Mombourquette said. “She's in and out all the time.”

“It's not necessary for you to stay during the examination, Leonard.” I injected just enough firm warning into my voice.

“We need to know what the doctor says about you sitting on curbs in the Market in the night and then rolling into the street. I want to hear if he thinks that's a good idea.”

“I don't, actually,” the doctor said.

“Well, you're not aware of the circumstances,” I said. “Let me explain.”