“In plain English.”
“She developed persecutory thinking after being tortured in Argentina.”
He whistled softly between his teeth; his eyes brightened momentarily. “Tortured! God, aren’t you glad you live in Canada? You saying she thought people were after her? She was paranoid?”
“In broad terms, yes.”
“So when she came to you with this latest story about the guy who was going to kill her, it was like crying wolf, is that what you mean? You didn’t take it seriously?”
“It had all the same elements as her usual stories,” she said. “Except that she seemed more frightened this time. And she ran in without an appointment.”
“Did she describe this man? Or any of the others?”
“Only in psychological terms: he was evil, he had big dark eyes, he was powerful. I think she was waiting for someone to come from Argentina to kill her. But that would fit in with her paranoia.”
“You think this Argentina story is possible? Was there a reason someone would’ve come for her?”
Rebecca stared at the shell that used to be Mrs. Kochinsky. “I never thought so. Yet she’s dead. Who would’ve wanted to kill her? I know the woman was paranoid. She was a classic case, with a tightly connected system of her own truth — all very logical on the surface. But all based on a false premise. By any standards, paranoid.”
“Let’s start from the beginning,” he said. “Can you describe for me how you found the body? From the time you came to the door. Everything you can remember.”
He scribbled in his pad while she talked. It was the second time she had told her story in an hour. Only this time she mentioned the picture.
“Mrs. Kochinsky waved this newspaper photo in front of me. I didn’t get a good look at it. All I saw was a duck. She was almost incoherent and I thought she was having a bad episode. But now, well, I think it might’ve been important.”
“We’ll look around for it.”
“I already did. It’s gone.”
He looked up from his pad. “Did you touch anything?”
She shook her head. “I just looked.”
“Hey, Sharon!” he cried. The plump lady cop turned around. “Get some samples off the doc here.” He turned to Rebecca. “Just to eliminate your prints and fibres.”
The lady cop in white coveralls approached Rebecca with her tweezers. Wanless said, “Once Sharon’s finished with you, I’d like you to come down to the station to give a statement.”
She didn’t tell Wanless, but they would have to wait at the station. She was going back downtown to take another look at Mrs. Kochinsky’s file. There were holes in Rebecca’s memory. Maybe her notes would help.
Their attention was diverted by the distress of a raised voice near the front. “I saw the police cars out here, I’m only three doors down,” the man exclaimed with the clipped nasal quality of a German accent. “What is going on here? Has something happened to Goldie?”
The detective in the trenchcoat waved a hand of authority at the young cop posted near the front door. The man with the insistent nasal voice was allowed into the hall. From the den Rebecca and Wanless watched a trim, well-groomed man in his sixties approach the edge of the living-room. He was dwarfed by the tall detective who obstructed his view of the body and let him go no further.
“I have a right to know what is going on,” he said in his slight accent. “I am Feldberg. This is my sister-in-law’s place.”
Rebecca observed him with interest. The poor sister’s husband. Suddenly a phrase flew through her mind like a startled bird. Now he can have his fancy woman. Mrs. Kochinsky’s voice slurred by drugs after her sister’s retreat from the world. Rebecca understood better now, with Feldberg in view, handsome in tailored grey tweed sports jacket and white shirt; thick gunmetal hair combed straight back from his forehead.
The detective in the trenchcoat lowered his voice, became inaudible from the distance. Finally he turned his bulk aside to reveal the body lying near the fireplace.
“Mein Gott! Mein Gott!” Feldberg stared a moment, speechless. “Who would do this to her?”
“Do you know if she had any enemies?” asked the detective.
“Enemies? She was an old lady. What kind of enemies?” He gave a heartfelt shrug. “It looks to me like maybe a robbery.” He cast an eye over the havoc of the apartment.
“You said you live three doors down. Did you see anything unusual today?”
Feldberg shook his head, unable to take his eyes off the body.
“Anyone strange hanging around the building lately?”
Feldberg finally spoke. “Always punks are hanging around the stores on Eglinton. Nothing to do. It’s just a block away. Go talk to them.”
“Have you had any problems with them before?”
“They’re drinking, using drugs, always in front of that donut shop up there.”
The trenchcoat patiently rephrased the question. “Did they come down this way before?”
“I didn’t see them. But where they gonna get money for their drugs? You should talk to them.”
“Do you know who lives upstairs, sir?”
“Still in Florida. An old lady.”
Feldberg’s eyes finally looked up from the body and fell upon Rebecca in the near distance. He looked at her with curiosity and would have spoken if the detective had not motioned for him to follow.
“Are you the next of kin, sir?” Rebecca heard the detective ask, leading him toward the door.
“My wife, Chana, is Goldie’s sister, but she’s senile.”
“And where does she reside, sir...?”
Feldberg turned to stare a long moment at Rebecca before being ushered outside, out of earshot.
Then came a dog and bit the cat That ate the goat That Father bought for two zuzim. One little goat, one little goat.
chapter ten
Wednesday, April 4, 1979
Nesha restrained himself from approaching the front desk of the hotel until after dinner. “I’m expecting a package,” he said to the clerk. “Malkevich.”
The young man looked around under the counter. Nesha knew it was too early, that the thing couldn’t get there before tomorrow, but he was impatient.
“Nothing here, sir. Sorry.”
Nesha found the car he had rented waiting in the parking lot. Out of his wallet, he brought out the slip of paper with his cousin’s address scribbled on it. Finally they would meet again. The prospect warmed him like none other had for years. Why had he waited so long? He unfolded the map the rental company had thrown in. There was her street. It seemed to span the whole city going north. Well, he had the house number; he would find it.
Light was slowly fading in the sky as he drove through the maze of intersections near the waterfront. He found the street he was looking for rather quickly, since it ran directly off the lakeshore route. Turning north, he headed away from the water. Toronto was much bigger than he had expected. According to the numbers he was passing, it would be at least several miles before he reached her place.
He passed marginal quasi-lawns beyond which ugly narrow attached houses stood festooned with too many ornamental bannisters.