Iris’ grey eyes turned away quickly.
Rebecca leaned forward and softened her voice. “I appreciate your concern, Iris, but I’m alright. Really. It’s just going to take time.”
She lifted her finger in the air to attract the attention of the waitress. “Cheque, please.”
Rebecca threaded her sports car in and out of rush hour traffic like an agitated teenager. She usually avoided Bathurst Street if she could but it was the fastest way to Mrs. Kochinsky’s house. A truck honked as she cut in front. The little red Jaguar XJS had belonged to David; he had been the one with a sense of panache. She never cared one way or another which car she drove as long as it got her there. Hers had been one of those beige Oldsmobiles that faded into the traffic, but when he died she had surprised herself by selling hers and keeping his.
Her father liked GM cars. He had driven a long line of Chevys till he could finally afford to buy himself an Olds. His pharmacy had thrived because he never lost his sense of humour and customers enjoyed dealing with him. Rebecca’s mother took care of the buying and kept the books. All in the family. Now that they had sold the business and retired, Mitch and Flo Temple had become snowbirds, migrating to California for the winter. They were finally wending their way home next week, thank God. Rebecca missed her father’s bad jokes, her mother’s strength and common sense. None of them felt in any condition to cook for Passover this year. David’s death had sapped everyone’s spirit and energy. So Rebecca had ordered a kosher dinner from a reliable caterer, mostly in deference to Susan and her Orthodox husband who were driving in from Montreal with the kids. Rebecca wished she were closer to her sister. She could’ve used a friend these past months. Not that Susan didn’t try. She had offered herself as a shoulder to lean on, a phone number at night if Rebecca wanted to talk. But Susan had plenty on her plate already — three kids weren’t enough to take care of? At least her husband wasn’t too traditional to help out. Just traditional enough to require paper plates for the Seder since Rebecca’s kitchen wasn’t kosher. That was all right, they all liked him. But Rebecca knew she wasn’t going to call Susan when she needed to cry at night.
Rebecca pulled into the driveway beside Mrs. Kochinsky’s duplex. Daylight clung to the street in that long moment before dusk turns it blue. The building, like all the others along that stretch of Bathurst Street, looked quite respectable for forty or fifty years old, the exterior in good repair. She sat in the car a moment, restrained by the thought of the surprised Greta Garbo face when she opened the door.
“Is it really Wednesday already?” Mrs. Kochinsky might say. “I lost track of time.”
Maybe she was out on the town with her cousin from the States. Had he been the one who’d sent the photo Mrs. Kochinsky had flashed before Rebecca’s face? Apparently she’d only met him once, when he was a boy in Poland. They had exchanged some letters when she lived in Argentina but they had lost touch. Then the sudden phone call. Maybe he’d arrived, and in all the excitement of catching up, she’d forgotten what day it was. It happened. If that was the case Rebecca would admonish her gently and go away relieved. But she had to check and make sure her patient was all right.
Carrying her black medical bag, she climbed the steps to the wooden front door. She lifted the brass lion’s head knocker and clanged it twice. There was no sound of stirring from inside, no one preparing to open the door. She turned the knob and was surprised to find it moved easily. As soon as she opened the door, her heart reeled. Inside the small vestibule, the door to Mrs. Kochinsky’s apartment stood ajar. The glass panel, still covered by a sheer curtain, had been smashed, leaving a jagged hole. She pushed the door open and called out, “Mrs. Kochinsky?”
The place had been ransacked. She ought to leave to call the police rather than risk meeting the intruder face to face. She stood very still on the threshold, listening. The silence hung in the air. Only the desultory hum of tires on Bathurst Street and her own ragged breath interrupted the quiet. How could she leave without checking her patient?
“Mrs. Kochinsky? It’s Dr. Temple.” Nothing.
From the dimness of the entrance hall she could see coffee tables on their sides, ornamental cushions, vases, framed photos scattered on the floor. The kitchen lay straight ahead at the end of the hall; to the left, the living- and dining-room. Stepping over the shards on the floor, she moved forward, then stopped.
The muscles in her neck suddenly tightened. Adrenaline leaped through her chest. Mrs. Kochinsky lay crumpled, near the fireplace, like a pile of cast-off clothes.
Rebecca ran around an upturned chair to reach her, called out her name for a response. There was none. She kneeled down, her heart pounded against her ribcage. The woman’s face had turned a dark congested purple. Her eyes bulged. A line had been burned across her neck, tell-tale contusions and abrasions left by a ligature. A rope, a cord, something solid wielded by someone strong. Rebecca placed her fingers flat against the woman’s carotid artery. The neck and jaw were slack, the skin clammy. She shuddered at the unnatural angle of the lifeless head. The bastard had pulled so tight he had broken her neck. Crushed her like a bird. Rebecca closed her eyes and suddenly there was Mrs. Kochinsky, terrified in her office yesterday. Yesterday. A quiet panic took hold of Rebecca. The woman had run to her for help. Mrs. Kochinsky had trusted her. Rebecca could almost hear her: I know you care, that’s why I keep coming, I put myself in your hands. She looked down at her hands. She was responsible. And what had she done? Soothed her with words. Bathed her with platitudes while blinded by her own diagnosis of paranoia. No. Mrs. Kochinsky was paranoid. Wasn’t she? All those times men had chased her across her nightmares, all those times Rebecca thought her patient was viewing things through her own distorted lens, perhaps it had been Rebecca misinterpreting, denying. Perhaps Mrs. Kochinsky had seen exactly what was there. Rebecca could hardly fathom it. She had been convinced of her patient’s paranoia. And yet the woman was lying dead at Rebecca’s feet.
She stood up wavering, numb with an old pain. Her last memory of David’s face flashed by, white against the white sheet, his mouth loosened at the jaw, foreign, his body empty of him, the emptiness taking her over. She felt it wring her heart the same way, the old squeezing inside her chest. Surprising how much she cared for the old woman. How the bond between them had grown stronger when David died, each understanding the grief of the other. And she needed Rebecca so much; she said Rebecca helped her stay alive one week to the next. Then why was she dead? Why was she lying there in her pyjamas, fallen awkwardly on her side, arm beneath her back? Stay calm, thought Rebecca. Look carefully. Piece it together. There must have been a struggle. Rigor mortis still clamped part of the body tight but had released the small muscles. Mrs. Kochinsky had been dead all day, maybe all night. She seemed much smaller now than when she was alive.
A pale light filtered through the brocade curtains of the front window, creating murky twilight an hour early. Rebecca realized the chandelier in the diningroom was on. Last night. He’d come last night. But who? She glanced around the littered apartment. Could she be sure it wasn’t exactly what it appeared? Why couldn’t it have been a burglar? Maybe instead of the Argentine death squad Mrs. Kochinsky anticipated every day of her life, it had been a thief caught in the act who had played out her worst nightmare. Was it impossible that she had fled persecution on two continents only to find meaningless death on the third? Yet would a thief come here? The woman was not rich. If they were looking for saleable goods, any of the houses on the winding, genteel streets off Bathurst would have yielded more.
Hovering at the edge of the living-room, Rebecca realized the side door to the apartment was open. It led to a short hall and the back staircases, one upper, one leading to the basement, then the door to the outside. This must have been the way the killer got out. He would have ended up in the laneway at the side of the house. No problem escaping unseen.
On her way to the phone in the kitchen, Rebecca passed the bedroom: everything Mrs. Kochinksy owned lay scattered on the bed and floor — cosmetics, clothes, shoes. On the dresser her leather purse resembled a dead animal, its insides pulled out. The wallet sat open, presumably empty. A robbery? A good imitation?
Rebecca stood