The doorbell rang.
“Christ, now what?” Hannah muttered as she went to the door and peered through the peephole. “Shit,” she said when she saw her brother’s balding pate shining under the porch light. She was briefly tempted to leave him standing there, but he must have been waiting nearby in his car for her to get home. She opened the door.
“You’re working late,” he said.
“You know how it is,” she said, stepping back to let him in. She closed the door behind him. “What’s up?”
“Haven’t you listened to your messages?” He followed her into the living room.
“No.”
“The light on your phone isn’t blinking. You erased them without listening to them, didn’t you?”
She sighed. “C’mon, Ron. Gimme a break. It’s been a long day.”
“You know what that crazy bitch says I did now?”
“No,” she said. “And I don’t want to know.”
But Ron wasn’t listening. “She says that I hired someone to hide in her closet, videotape her getting undressed for bed, and post the videos on the Internet. I’ve had it up to here with this crap. I’m going to get me a lawyer.”
“Save your money, Ron. The woman’s obviously got psychiatric problems. No one takes her seriously. Just ignore her.”
“Hell with that. I did some poking around and found out she was diagnosed with a borderline personality disorder. Hah! Nothing borderline about it. Last year, when her husband claims she was on vacation in Mexico, she was locked up in the psych ward of Mount Sinai. Sleazebag’s been covering for her for years. She’s been busted for everything from shoplifting to public indecency. If she doesn’t stop this crap, I’m going to send what I got to my buddy at the Sun.”
“Christ, you really are your own bloody worst enemy, aren’t you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded.
“If you go dragging her psychiatric history through the muck, you’re going to need that lawyer. Let it go.”
“You’re afraid that if I make a stink it will wreck your chances of promotion.”
“That’s not fair,” she said. But it wasn’t entirely untrue. Being a cop, and a female cop at that, was tough enough without making enemies on the Police Services Board. “Have you eaten? I’m going to fix myself something.”
“I’m okay. Wouldn’t turn down a beer, though.”
“Help yourself.” He did, and when they were seated at the table in her kitchen-cum-dining room, Ron with a beer and a can of dry roasted peanuts, Hannah with a salad and a glass of white wine — a big glass — she said, “You’ll never guess who I saw today.”
“Okay, so tell me.”
“Joe Shoe.”
“No kidding. Where?”
“At his parents’ house in Downsview.”
“What were you doing there?”
“Working a case.”
“Don’t tell me he killed someone.”
“No. He’s in town visiting his family. Last night a man who used to live in the neighbourhood was beaten to death in the woods behind his parents’ house.”
“Bad timing. How is he?”
“I didn’t recognize him at first. He’s been living out west. Vancouver.”
“He still a cop?”
“No. He’s some kind of corporate investigator. He looks like he’s taken his share of lumps, though.”
“I hear the corporate world can be pretty dog eat dog. The vic …?”
“What about him?”
“Any leads?”
“Nothing much so far. Early days yet.”
“What was the name again?”
She smiled dryly. He smiled back. She hadn’t mentioned the victim’s name. She said, “Cartwright. Marvin Cartwright.”
“Cartwright?” Ron said.
“That’s right. What is it?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Sounds familiar, that’s all.” Hannah finished her salad and poured herself another glass of wine. Ron refused a second beer.
“I’m driving,” he said. “Speaking of which, I should get going.” He stood. “If you see Shoe again, say hello for me, will you?”
“Sure,” Hannah said, walking him to the door.
“Tell him … ” Ron paused, seeming lost in thought for a moment. Hannah let him find his own way back. “Tell him, if he’s got time, to drop by the shop. We’ll go grab a beer or something, get caught up. Tell him … ” He hesitated, then said, “Tell him it’d be good to see him.”
“I will,” she said.
“Good,” he said. He kissed her quickly on the cheek and almost ran down the steps.
No, nothing much surprised her anymore.
chapter eight
“Goddamnit, Hal,” Maureen said, bracing herself against the dashboard as Hal braked suddenly. “What the hell is going on with you? And slow down, for god’s sake. Or pull over and let me drive.” She immediately regretted the offer, hoped he wouldn’t take her up on it; she’d had a couple of glasses of wine too many herself.
“I’m not drunk,” he snapped, mashing the horn button because the car in front of them had slowed to make a right turn without signalling.
“I didn’t say you were drunk,” Maureen said with a sigh. Sometimes talking to Hal was like talking to a fiveyear-old. “I wish you’d tell me what’s bothering you.”
“Nothing’s bothering me,” he growled.
“Oh, for god’s sake, Hal, it’s obvious something is bothering you. What is it? Is it work? Is it me? Have I done something to piss you off?”
“What were you and my brother talking about?”
“He was telling me about Marvin Cartwright, the man who was killed in the woods.”
“I know who Marvin Cartwright was, for Christ’s sake. What did he tell you?”
“He didn’t get a chance to tell me very much at all before you came barging out and practically accused him of trying to fuck me. Frankly, it was bloody embarrassing.”
“Not half as embarrassing as watching you fawn all over him like he was some kind of rock star or something.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Hal, don’t be ridiculous. I was not fawning all over him. I was just being polite. What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing’s the matter with me,” he barked. “What’s the matter with you? Look at you. You’re a forty-fiveyear-old woman dressed like a goddamned teenager. You’re practically falling out of that shirt. And it’s so thin I can see your nipples right through it, for god’s sake.”
“If I was dressed like a teenager, Hal, you’d see a lot more than my nipples.