Cut to the Quick (18 page)

“To change tack—why would Lena accuse Curt?”

The lights in the studio flicked off.

“We'll talk more later.” Manon rose to greet Curt as he emerged from his lair.

Hollis said a quick hello and nipped inside to collect MacTee for a walk.

* * *

“I've heard retrievers eat anything,” a voice behind Hollis said in a conversational tone.

Hollis shivered. She didn't have to turn around to know it was him—the cherubic little man who perched on his umbrella staring at the Hartmans' house.

Hollis braked and whirled around.

“I'll report you to the police.”

A wide, wolfish smile split his face.

“And what will you tell them? I said I've heard retrievers eat anything, a perfectly innocuous remark.”

Hollis felt icy cold. It was true. Retrievers would eat anything. It didn't matter if you kept them leashed. They'd lunge at and ingest decaying food or worse faster than an alligator zooming after an unsuspecting bird. Poisoned meat lying on the path, rat poison hidden in old hamburger buns— impossible to keep MacTee safe. She wanted to lash out, to smash the little man

“Well,
you
can go to the police with what I'm going to say. Listen up, you creep. I will kill you if anything happens to my dog.”

“Big talk.”

Hollis had the satisfaction of seeing his smile fade. Did she have it in her to follow through? She hoped she wouldn't have to find out.

R
hona
arrived at the shop, large coffee in hand, shortly before seven on Wednesday morning. For homicide detectives, sleep deprivation during a murder investigation necessitated frequent caffeine infusions. She'd brought in a tin of her favourite brand to brew when she needed a lift. Now she'd get on the phone and set up appointments with the women who'd signed the condolence book. By ignoring the women's names, she had been guilty of gender bias, of the stereotyping she hated. The sooner she corrected her mistake, the better.

Frank Braithwaite approached her desk.

Rhona smiled and pointed to her coffee mug. “No doughnut.”

Frank didn't return her smile. Instead he frowned and adjusted his green and black geometrically-patterned tie. A great choice—it deepened the intensity of his eyes. Rhona wouldn't tell him—that could be construed as reverse sexism. She was fixing her first gender problem. She didn't need a second.

“Bring me up to date. What's the scoop on the younger brother?”

“Tomas—he had problems as a young teen. Then he discovered competitive swimming. And marathon swimming. He has records galore and stars with the
UNB
swim team. He works at Wendy's, where they cooperate with scheduling shifts around swimming practices. Probably wears a Wendy's bathing cap.”

Frank frowned.

“I'm kidding—you know how golfers and other competitors wear branded clothing?”

Frank's brows drew together. Obviously he did not consider levity a virtue.

“He does competitive sailing with his dad. No current girlfriend, no dramatic sagas of broken romances or enraged ex-boyfriends. Nothing in his life to explain why anyone would target him.”

“Talk to his friends to make sure, but it does seem unlikely that he was the intended victim.” Frank crossed his arms. His body language expressed hostility. “What else have you found out?”

Rhona ignored his stance and gave him the facts.
“If
the killer targeted Ivan Hartman, it may have been because of a woman. There was one in his life, but we haven't yet tracked her down. We're examining phone records from his mother's and father's houses to find her. His cell phone was destroyed in the crash, but we're looking at those records too. We've checked with Sex Crimes, and he isn't on their radar. Still working on him.”

“Sex Crimes? Why didn't I hear about this?”

“Because we didn't find any connections. We're searching for his computer.”

“Was he the intended victim?”

“Too soon to say.”

“You're also considering the father?”

“If it's the father, the line of possible killers stretches as far as the Santa Claus parade.” She tapped a pen on the desk. “We've done a door-to-door canvass. One neighbour recognized Arthur White's photo and said he saw him in the lane behind Hartman's place on Sunday evening. She couldn't pinpoint the time, but claimed it was before she watched the ten o'clock news. White denies it. We're following up.”

Frank picked up a small aboriginal sweetgrass basket woven by Rhona's grandmother. Ostensibly, Rhona used it to store paper clips. In reality, she kept it on her desk to remind her to be true to her heritage.

Frank sniffed the basket. “Still a little fragrance left.”

“It's stronger in damp weather. My grandmother made it.”

“Is she still...”

“Alive. Yes and very well.” She might as well give him the details. “She lives on the Oneida Six Nations reserve near London, Ontario.” She returned to the business at hand. “Curt Hartman's enemies are legion, but there isn't one person who seems most likely.”

Frank replaced the basket. “Have you prepared a summary?”

“Not yet.”

“Before you leave tonight, I want a list of what you've done, who you've spoken to and your prime suspects.”

Rhona nodded, already busy at her keyboard. She wasn't going to rank the suspects—too soon for that. But she'd give Frank everything they had. It would motivate her to organize her own thoughts and plan their next move.

Later Wednesday afternoon, Rhona trotted to her boss's office and laid their summary on his desk. Frank skimmed the headings. “You've interviewed all of Curt Hartman's colleagues?”

“Not yet. We're working our way down the list. Because it's July, many people are away. They might shed light on his life, but they aren't suspects. We've talked to those we could contact.”

“You're new to Toronto. Some cottage country is no more than an hour away. Make sure you don't miss any supposed out-of-towner who might have killed him.”

“We won't. We also plan several in-depth interviews.” Rhona's cell phone rang. She glanced apologetically at Frank. She'd intended to turn it off before she came into his office.

Frank waved dismissively. “Take it.” He ran his finger down the report.

“Rhona, it's Hollis. I have something else for you.”

“Go ahead.”

“Two things. The first relates to Olivero Ciccio—he's a painter and Curt's colleague.”

“I've interviewed him.”

“I feel like the schoolyard tattletale. I really like him, and I'm sure he's out okay but...”

“You're helping us speed up our investigation. And you're doing it for Manon. Keep reminding yourself.”

Hollis provided Rhona with information about Olivero that Rhona already knew.

“The most important news—Lena Kalma, Ivan's mother, has a show opening tonight. She implies she proves Curt is responsible for Ivan's murder.”

“What. Are you sure? That sounds libelous.”

“It does. In case you want to go, it's at the Revelation Gallery on Queen Street.”

“Sounded interesting,” Frank said, clearly waiting for her to give the details.

“I have a mole in the Hartman house—a woman I knew in Ottawa.” And she repeated what Hollis had told her.

* * *

“Lena Kalma's exhibition opens tonight—want to come with me?” Rhona and Zee Zee were filling out forms and completing paperwork.

“Lena Kalma—isn't she an original? Nothing derivative about her work. It always sets you on your ear, forces you to think differently. Yes, I'll join you. Could she have intended to kill Curt and accidentally killed her son?”

“The boys must have ridden their bikes to her house a million times. And the bikes weren't absolutely identical. She's a visual artist and would have seen the differences. Even at night in the dark, I don't think she'd confuse them. And why would she choose such a method?”

Zee Zee ran her necklace's triple strands of large wooden beads through her fingers like prayer beads. “Did she want her son dead? Mothers do kill children.”

“Why now? He was grown-up, out of the nest, embarking on a career. Lena's bizarre, unique—pick your adjective, but I don't believe she killed Ivan accidentally or on purpose.” She shrugged. “Maybe I'll change my mind after I see her show. By the way, Hollis provided more info today. Apparently individuals from the anti
SOHD
group make threatening phone calls to the Hartmans. The family hasn't reported it because they don't want to press charges or go to court. I've requisitioned their phone records. Knowing what we do about those people, we should take their threats seriously.”

The beads sliding through Zee Zee's fingers clacked rhythmically. “Pretty scary when you see the fanatical gleam in their eyes. I expect some Crusaders looked like that when they ran their swords through the infidels. Righteousness.
This
is for god and country. Yah, they're scary.” She sighed. “Believe me, I'm well acquainted with scary, with men who see you as the enemy, not as another human being. I wouldn't want the
SOHD
opponents after me. Let's talk to them again.” She fingered the largest bead. “I enjoy interviewing Barney Edwards—he's such a misogynist racist. He has to pretend he isn't when faced with a black woman. It must kill him. Do we have printouts from his computer?”

“Not yet. I'll make it a priority request.”

Zee Zee dropped her beads from hand to hand then coiled one strand inside the other. “Now we should talk about Curt's colleagues. I ran their names past friends in the arts community. Everyone agreed poor Lefevbre had flipped out after his daughter's death. The vote was split about fifty-fifty on whether he'd inflict his pain on anyone else.”

“He was pathetic. But that doesn't rule him out.”

“What about Olivero Ciccio? He's a sculptor and uses tools.” Zee Zee continued to play with her beads.

“Would having Curt veto him for chairperson be a motive for murder? He didn't seem like a fanatically ambitious man, but maybe he's hiding his true feelings. And you have to wonder how Curt's death would change things. Curt wasn't chairperson, so it wouldn't mean Olivero would get the job. Maybe he was thinking ahead to the next election. If he's having an affair with Manon Dumont, Curt's death would complicate his life, because he'd have to decide whether or not to leave his wife. I can't see it.”

“Someone cut the brakes,” Rhona said. “The print on the asphalt isn't a match for anyone we've interviewed. Should we broaden our net? Maybe the show will provide road signs?”

“You're forgetting Arthur White.”

“True, and he certainly does have reason to want Curt dead.”

T
he
Revelation gallery, originally a turn-of-the-century brick residence, was one of many galleries on Queen Street. Renovators had removed interior walls, opened up the stairwell and hung halogen lights. These details registered subliminally when Hollis stepped inside.

Noise.

A revving motor cycle, the roar of acceleration, a terrible smashing, tearing metal sound and a high pitched scream, broadcast at a decibel level designed to invade your consciousness and fill you with horror. After a few minutes, she recognized that one particular gut-wrenching scream occurred at regular intervals. It was a loop: the track played over and over and over.

Inside the door, on the right, a motorcycle's shattered remains lay jumbled with one intact wheel, upside down and rigged to spin forever. Simulated blood, along with bits and pieces of what appeared to be bone and flesh; a torn black leather sleeve; a cracked and broken helmet; and one black boot splashed with red: all added to a macabre sense that this was an actual accident scene reconstruction. Lena had finished the tableau by adding an aerial dimension—brake lines in the air, looping, black, twisting snakelike hose with nicks cut and marked in white.

Blow-ups of Lena's photos added shock value to the soundtrack and ever-spinning wheel. These pictures focused on Curt and Ivan, Curt and Tomas or Lena and Ivan. In the initial one, shot soon after Ivan's birth, Curt held the baby away from him like an alien being or a drippy garbage bag. Curt
might
have pulled Ivan close after Lena snapped the picture, but Hollis doubted it. In a contrasting photo, Curt snuggled Tomas in the crook of his arm and gazed at him fondly.

Differences between Ivan and Tomas were apparent in their childhood photographs. Tomas had inherited his father's tall, lean frame, aquiline nose, dark skin, hair and eyelashes which framed pale blue eyes like Ivan's but made them appear entirely different. Ivan was a short, plain clumsy child, who grew increasingly unattractive as adolescence took its toll on his skin and body. It transformed him from a gawky kid to a pudgy, acne-ridden teenager. Tomas held the winning hand in the genetic crapshoot.

Photos relentlessly recorded Curt's dislike. In one, he raised his arm as if he was about to hit Ivan. In another he extended an arm to push him away. In still another, he turned his back in dismissal. Shot after shot underlined his contempt and distaste. They were even more startling when contrasted with the photos of Curt with Tomas. In the final section, Lena had chosen snapshots picturing her as Ivan's loving, caring mother. She'd underlined the difference between father and mother.

Pictures could say anything. In these days of manipulated images, you had to be suspicious. Hollis contrasted these negative pictures with Lena's positive photo boards at the visitation. At the funeral home, each and every one had celebrated Ivan's life. Here, each and every one picturing Curt did exactly the opposite.