The K Handshape (36 page)

“Well, that’s a good question. Some of his things have gone and he, er, he left a note. Shall I read it to you?”

“Go ahead.”

“Dearest Paula. I know I am going to look like the worst coward in the world but I have to get away for a few days. You know how I am with sick women. It drives me batty. Your mother is here so I know Chelsea will be fine and you are on the mend. Probably not
having me around will even help you get better faster. I’m sure your friends will agree with that. I won’t be long, I promise. Just a few days at the most and I will phone as soon as I land somewhere. Take care darling, I love you even if I have funny way of showing it.”

I exploded. “Funny way of showing it! What a prick.”

Her voice on the other end was tight. “I know I said it was the last straw and I would leave him but he’s sort of taken the wind out of my sails.”

“Good riddance, I say. Hang onto that resolve, Paula mine. You’d had it with him. Coward indeed.”

I knew I shouldn’t be going on in this way; it tended to send Paula to his defence. This was no exception.

“He did have a rotten time when his mother died.”

“Paula. A lot of people have had rotten times when they were children and they get over it. They don’t abandon their wives when they are in the middle of a crisis. For God’s sake, when are you going to face the truth about this guy? He’s a self-involved flake who doesn’t give a shit about anybody except himself!”

I was practically shouting down the phone but I heard the quiet sob at the other end and I stopped myself. “God, I’m sorry Paula. I’m sorry. The last thing you need is a diatribe from me. Look, I’ll come over as soon as I possibly can. There’s something I’ve got to do here and I’ll call you. Are you going to be all right? Shall I see if Brenda can drop in?”

Brenda was a neighbour who Paula was friendly with.

“They’ve gone on a cruise to the Caribbean. Don’t worry. I’ll be all right. It’s good to be in my own home. Mom and Chelse should be back in a couple of hours. I’ll just have a rest.”

“Try not to worry. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“All right. See ya.”

We hung up.

Staring at my desk, I saw the photo of me and Paula when we were sixteen. Chelsea minutes old, all red scrunched-up face. And the wedding photo. Craig and Paula looking like the perfect couple. She had pulled in the growing bulge that was Chelsea and as long as she didn’t stand sideways, you wouldn’t notice. Tenderly, I touched the photo. Al had looked so handsome in his tuxedo and Marion, a bit plumper then, had glowed. Her happiness at being a
grandmother had out balanced some good old-fashioned Catholic principles about wedding first, then baby. I was maid of honour, looking rather skinny in the blue silk dress that Paula insisted on. Goes with your eyes was the usual remark. What the heck had I done with that dress, anyway? Oh right. I’d had it cut down to cocktail length but I never seemed to go anywhere that dressy and a few years had rearranged my waistline. Eventually I’d given it to a Goodwill charity store.

The phone rang.

“Miss Morris, Susan Bailey here. I’ve got the all clear from Sergeant Chaffey. Shall I pick you up out front in, say, ten minutes?”

“I’ll be there.”

For a minute, I considered letting Susan interview the Russian bombshell by herself. It would save some time and I could go over to see Paula. Damn. I had promised Leo I would be the one to go. I grabbed my raincoat and hurried out.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Susan was driving one of the OPP’s generic American cars that we got such a good discount on. The heater wasn’t working properly and the way it moved suggested the cylinder capacity of a motorcycle. Typical. The inside smelled as if somebody had sneaked an illegal cigarette. I glanced at her, wondering if she was the culprit. No smoking in police cars under any circumstances. Gone were the days that still existed in my time on the active force when the cars were so thick with smoke you couldn’t see into the back seat. I was a non-smoker but it never occurred to me or anybody else to complain. Smoking was the norm and you just accepted it. She glanced over at me apologetically.

“Sorry about the cigarette smell. It’s the mechanic. He’s a chain smoker and his clothes reek. He was working on the clutch this morning and I can always tell. He must have transferred some of the stink to the car.” She wound down the window. “I’ll blow in some air for a bit.”

Take your choice. Wet, cold air blasting you in the face or a warm odorous car. No contest. I knew I’d become inured to the cigarette smell within minutes. I told her so.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh please, don’t call me ma’am. You make me feel ancient. Sergeant is fine with me and in private we could even try Christine, if you like.”

She grinned.

Police protocol was fluid these days but still retained some formalities concerning rank.

I filled her in as to our task and told her about Sigmund’s escapade with the exotic dancer.

“Let’s hope he’s telling the truth. It’ll be terrible for Doctor Forgach if he isn’t.”

It would indeed and I hoped I was right in my intuitions.

The Atherley Arms was about twenty-five minutes away. I left her to negotiate getting there.

“I just have to make a call,” I said to Susan.

“Another case?”

“Uh-huh. A nasty one.”

I keyed in the Reliable Cleaning Services number and a chipper young voice answered. I introduced myself and explained that I needed a list of their employees starting from May 2002. There was a silence at the other end of the line, then she said, “How do I know you’re who you say you are? Cleaners are worth their weight in gold, you know. Anybody could impersonate a police officer and steal our list from us.”

She had a point. “Look, I’ll give you a number to call where you can confirm who I am. Do you have another line? You can call while I wait.”

“No, I don’t. We’re a small company. Give me the number and I’ll call you right back. Your name again?”

I told her, gave her the number of headquarters, and disconnected.

Susan put on her indicator to make the turn.

“Let me make one more call,” I said and keyed in Barbara Cheevers’s number. A mechanical prompt answered. “The party you are trying to reach is not available. Please leave a message at the tone or try your call again.”

Damn.

Susan pulled up into a parking space. The Atherley Arms had a neon sign across the roof, a bosomy girl bent over to touch her toes and peered over her shoulder in jerky repetitions. There were some clumsy paintings on either side of the door, both of semi-nude girls looking coy. Tuesday night was lady’s night, half price for escort. Gorgeous girls, exotic dancers. Pole dancing and lap
dancing. There were only two other cars parked in the lot. Perhaps a bit early for erotic arousal.

“Let’s go,” I said to Susan and we got out of the car.

At the same time the door opened and a chunky dark-haired man emerged, buttoning up his raincoat. He saw us and an expression of uneasiness flashed across his face. We were obviously not his usual clientele.

“Can I help you, ladies?”

“Are you the manager?”

“That’s right. I’m Clive.”

I took out my ID card to show him and introduced myself.

“We’d like to have a word with one of your employees. She goes by the name of Natasha.”

He frowned. “She don’t work here anymore.”

“Since when?”

“Since this morning… What you want her for?”

“We just want to ask some questions concerning an investigation we’re conducting.”

“Drug squad?”

“No, actually. Is that why she was fired?”

“No. I don’t allow drugs here. It causes too much problems. My girls are clean. No, she didn’t get along with the other girls, so I had to let her go.” He shrugged. “You know how it is with these Russkies, they’ll do anything the men want and I draw the line. No screwing, pardon the language. No kissing or fondling. They’re paying for a dance and that’s it. Lookee, lookee is all they get. The girls complained that Natasha would go all the way, so of course she got more customers. Too much trouble. I didn’t want to lose my best girls and I keep my place in bounds. I know the law.”

“Where can we find her?”

He fished in his pocket and took out a notebook. Flipped the pages.

“She lives on Ogden street. Number 67. Just go back along the Atherley Road heading toward the town and turn left at the first street then left again.”

“Thanks. By the way, do you know anybody by the name of Sigmund Forgach? He’s a regular customer.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Medium height, kind of plump. Wears sideburns. A sort of Elvis look-alike. He says he was here on Tuesday night.”

Clive shrugged. “I keep the lights low on purpose. Keeps it cozy. I didn’t see nobody like that.”

“He sometimes drives a red sports car or a beige Nova.”

“No, sorry. I don’t ever see who comes in what. They could walk here for all I care. I’m busy inside.” He made a point of consulting his watch. “Is that it? I’ve got a dentist’s appointment and I’m gonna be late.”

“One more thing… you said you fired Natasha this morning?”

“That’s right. She came in and I gave her the heave-ho at once. No point in delaying it, was there?”

“Was she bothered by that?”

“Yeah. But she knew it was coming. She’ll get a job. She’s a good-looking girl. Okay then? I gotta go. My tooth is killing me.”

I released him and he headed for one of the two other cars that were in the lot. Susan hadn’t said anything, just stood by and observed.

We walked back to our car. “I have to tell you, Chris, I don’t get this stripper business. Why pay to see a girl’s nude body? These days, you can get it for free. Just walk downtown in the summer, even here. They don’t leave anything to the imagination I can tell you.”

We had a chuckle together about male foibles.

Natasha had located herself within walking distance of the strip club and number 67 was one of the most decrepit buildings not yet condemned that I had ever seen. There were blankets and sheets covering the windows, any paint on the door and frames had long been burned off by the elements and the front yard looked like a local “bring your own garbage” dump. A fridge without a door was tipped on its side and as we approached some creature that was using it for a home darted away. I didn’t see what it was and didn’t want to know.

I’d asked Susan to wait in the car. I didn’t want to scare off our subject. Cautiously, I walked up the rotting stairs to the front door. There was a list of at least seven names, all handwritten, tacked to the mailbox. Natasha was in the basement. In pencil beside her
name was written Side Door. I signalled to Susan and she got out of the car while I went down the short flight of stairs to the door and knocked hard.

Music was blaring from the other side of the door, a hard-beat aerobic style. I wasn’t sure she was going to hear anything above the din. I thumped as hard as I could, thought I heard somebody shout, “Just a minute,” and finally the door opened a crack and a young woman peered through the chain.

“Yes?”

I showed my ID. “We’re police officers. I wonder if we could have a word with you?”

She didn’t budge. “What about?” She hadn’t lowered the music at all and it was hard to hear her.

“Can we come in? I’d rather not explain standing out here.”

Not to mention having to compete with some track way over the legal decibel limit.

She thrust a skinny bare arm through the gap in the door like a tough-minded Gretel trying to put off the witch. “ID. Gimme your ID.”

I handed it over and she studied it carefully, looking at the photograph then at me then back at the photograph. I felt as if I was going being checked out by a particularly obsessive customs official. Yes, I did pack my bags myself. I’ve always wanted to know if anybody answered no to that question.

“Hers!” she pointed at Susan, who promptly stepped forward, and Natasha did the same scrutiny on her, not opening the door any wider than it already was. I wondered if this was peculiar to Russian girls or to her specifically.

Satisfied, she stepped back, slipped the chain off and opened the door so we could come in. The music was deafening and the room reeked of sweat and reefers. There appeared to be only one room and a small one at that. Natasha was dressed in skimpy workout clothes, her hair pulled back tight with a pink scrunchy. She was anything but voluptuous, with thin arms and legs, no bosom to speak of, and wide hips. I guess some exotic dancers rely on other charms to attract the guys, beauty of movement perhaps.

With obvious reluctance, she went over to a boom box, which was perched on top of a minuscule fridge, and lowered the music.
I’d have preferred it if she’d turned the whole thing off but that was too much to ask. She picked up a tea towel and wiped her face. She’d been working hard, I’ll give her that. She didn’t invite us to sit down so I took the initiative.

“Do you mind if I move these clothes?”

There was only one chair and a two-seater couch in the room which I assumed pulled out into a bed. An old-fashioned wardrobe dominated one corner but either Natasha had a lot of clothes or she hadn’t got around to putting them away yet. Jeans and tops, tights and underwear were scattered everywhere.

“Help yourself.” She went over to the tiny sink and poured herself a glass of water.

I took the chair and Susan the couch.

“So why you want talk to me?”

Her accent was actually slight, just a
v
instead of
w
.

“We’re investigating a serious crime and we’re verifying statements.”

She was continuing to towel off with a casualness that reflected her profession. Armpits, inside her tights to get at her rear end and crotch, but she halted when I said that.

“You’ve come about Siggy’s sister, haven’t you?”

“If you’re referring to Deidre Larsen, yes, we have. Mr. Forgach told you what has happened, did he?”

“Oh yes, he was very disturbed. Tragic event.”

“Can you tell us when you were together?”

She stared at me. “Why?”