Authors: Scott Thornley
“When I paid her out after she’d given notice. I just assumed she’d gone to join her Norwegian friend out West. When Duguald stopped coming to the club, I assumed he either went with her, or he’d been cheating his customers and had left Dundurn for some other port. He told me once that drifting was in his blood.”
“Did the members know he had continued paying you a commission?” MacNeice asked.
“No. He told me that would be our secret. The members kept giving me a cut too, to keep me happy … and quiet.” Her face betrayed the fact that she knew how corrupt that sounded. “I was relieved when he disappeared. Until Anniken’s body was found, I thought I was safe. But now Duguald is dead too … Who would kill them both?”
Aziz closed her notebook with a slap. “Ms. Chapman, you’re free to go back to work. If anyone asks about your visit here, tell them we needed to see you about Anniken Kallevik. Don’t mention to anyone that you know that their Irish bookie is also dead.”
“And the charges against me?” Melody asked nervously.
Aziz moved her chair back. “You’re not out of the woods, and the answer to your question depends on how honest you’ve just been. We can arrange a ride back to the club in a cruiser, if you wish.”
“No … I’ll take a taxi. I’m sorry for … for—”
“Save it,” Aziz said, dismissing her.
After Chapman was ushered away to the elevator by a uniform, MacNeice turned to Aziz. “I owe you an explanation about the phone call I took in the car.”
“Actually, no, you don’t.”
“I wasn’t looking for this to happen, Fiza …”
“Are you happy at least?” She stood up, the notebook held to her chest.
“I have no idea. But I do know I should’ve told you.”
She opened the door and left the interview room, thinking about how thoughtless and insensitive this most thoughtful and sensitive man could be.
Later that afternoon, with Swetsky settled into the front passenger seat, MacNeice drove east toward Mercy on Main Street. As he crossed Sherman Avenue, his cellphone rang.
“Detective Superintendent MacNeice.” It was Bourke-Stanford.
“I just took a call from the VP at Mercy. You’re going to a basketball practice? I thought we had an agreement that all further contact with Dylan Nicholson would be managed through this office?”
“We did, and we do. I’m taking DS Swetsky to a basketball practice and have no intention of approaching Dylan. This is strictly police work. Call it
observation
. I apologize for not informing you beforehand. I’m convinced that the answer to Dylan’s father’s murder is in that school. I want my colleague to sit in on a practice, in part because I don’t know anything about basketball, but also because this was the thing the father and son did together most. I’ll say hello to Dylan, of course, but I won’t engage him.”
Bourke-Stanford was silent for a moment, then said, “I’ll hold you to that, Superintendent. Please don’t make me regret this.”
Coach Knox met them at the gym door. Seeing the cane and the doughnut cushion, he offered them a seat at the timer’s table opposite the team benches, rather than on the oak planking of the bleachers. He told them that the team had already done their wind sprints and stretches and they’d be out for a scrimmage momentarily.
Once Swetsky and MacNeice were settled, Swetsky filled MacNeice in on what he knew about Mercy’s basketball coach. Knox had been a McGill University basketball player chosen for the national team until he blew an ankle in training, missing the Pan American Games. Though he was tall, a few inches over six feet, he would have been below average height on most elite teams.
MacNeice glanced over at Knox. In his Mercy polo shirt and warm-up pants, he still appeared fit.
Swetsky was looking up at the championship banners hanging from the rafters of the gym.
“Bring back memories?” MacNeice asked.
“Big time.”
None dated to his own era, he told MacNeice, because back then, this was a new school. It took them a few years to get their sports programs together. “Having followed the city tournaments for years, I knew this team was in the top three. Just before you got to the house, I also Googled Knox. He’s been consistent. Every season he’s coached them, the Mercy team seems to have the potential to win it all.”
The doors swung open from the locker room and the players ran into the gym. They immediately formed two circles at either end of the court, tossing the ball rapidly from one to the other. Dylan Nicholson and Tom Smylski were in the circle to the right. When someone dropped the ball, the others yelled, “Mercy!” and the next player tossed the ball faster until it was essentially a line drive to the next player.
Knox blew his whistle, the lines unwound and each player took a layup at the net. Knox paced outside of the action, encouraging and sometimes correcting either the shooter or passer.
These drills lasted fifteen minutes. When Knox blew his whistle again, the players stripped off their warm-up suits, tossed them onto the bench and took positions at centre court, where they began doing two-man drills, tearing off toward the net, passing the ball between them as they attacked. If the man taking the shot missed, the second man attempted to tip it in or take a jump shot.
Returning to the line after dunking the ball, Dylan looked MacNeice’s way for the first time and nodded. Smylski noticed and said something, and both boys looked at the detectives.
“Focus. Focus. Focus,” Knox yelled.
The two tore off again toward the net, and this time Smylski took the shot. Though he seemed to hang in the air and could easily have dunked the ball, he waited until he was arcing downward before flipping the ball casually into the hoop as if it was the simplest thing in the world.
“Cut the showboating, Smylski,” Knox yelled.
“Yes, coach.”
Dylan gave him a low-five.
Moments later, the scrimmage began. Freshmen or third-string players moved to the home and visitor benches, where they stood to watch the action. MacNeice could hear Swetsky coaching under his breath: “Good, good, good.” “Take the shot.” “To the guard—pass to the guard.” Several times, Swetsky was ahead of the coach on a call.
Knox was focused on the players, but he was also watching the two detectives. At first, it was just passing glances, but then MacNeice noticed him standing, hands on his hips, looking at him through a cluster of players. When MacNeice caught him, Knox nodded, then looked at the clipboard he was clutching in his right hand.
The practice ended at six. Dylan gave a brief wave to MacNeice before disappearing into the locker room. Knox came over to usher the two men out of the gym, but neither stood to leave. “Have you got a few minutes, Coach Knox?” MacNeice asked.
“Well, no. Normally I’d go over what we did and the corrections I want to see.”
“I understand. It won’t take long. Perhaps your assistant coach could fill in.”
Knox reluctantly pulled out a chair and sat opposite them. “The assistant coach is the shop teacher. He’s just started—well, you know that, of course.”
“Good scrimmage, coach,” Swetsky said. “Initially, I thought you had a two-man team, but judging by their ball control, you’ve got quite a few strong players. Great passing and hustle all-round, which makes it difficult to double up on Nicholson or Smylski and shut them down.”
Knox nodded his thanks. “They’re good, but there’s a long way to go. And four of them are graduating next year, so I’ve been getting them to work with the younger players. Hopefully, we won’t feel like we’re starting over.”
“But that must be an annual concern,” MacNeice said.
“It is. Tomorrow, I’ll mix them up, get Dylan and Tom on opposing sides. I haven’t wanted to do that recently, since Dyl’s been through so much.”
“What was it like, having David Nicholson as an assistant coach?” MacNeice asked.
“Look, I already spoke to your detectives. Nicholson was only assisting because his kid was on the team.”
“How long had you known David Nicholson?”
“I’d been here for two years when the Nicholsons arrived.”
“How would you describe your relationship with him?”
A long pause. “It was okay. He loved the kid. Though even that, I personally found … a bit creepy. He didn’t give Dylan much space. But that was none of my business.”
“And his wife, did you also know her?”
“I did. She was an amazing woman, a great teacher—a natural. It was a blow when she disappeared. And it’s worse, now we’ve heard what happened to her.”
The door to the locker room opened and the assistant coach stuck his head out and called, “Coach, are you going to speak to the team, or should I let them go?”
“Let them go. I’ll follow up at tomorrow’s practice.”
The door closed and MacNeice said, “I know Dylan told you that his father was responsible for her death—were you shocked to hear that?”
Knox looked out to the court, studying the gleaming urethaned surface broken by circles and straight lines—white, red and blue—the elegantly rendered rules. “Frankly, I always thought Nicholson was a creepy control freak. But Dylan … that kid is so healthy. He’s balanced … smart. You saw him out here. He’s passionate, fair, shares the ball, has an eye for where the play is going and manages to find himself—more than anyone—in a position to capitalize … either by scoring or assisting.”
Knox stopped abruptly. “I don’t know—maybe he takes after his mother. Maybe four years with her was enough to set him on this path.” He shook his head as if to erase what he’d said. “Look, I teach mathematics, not psychology.”
“Still, that you think Dylan takes after his mother is an interesting observation. Thank you for your time, coach.” MacNeice stood up, helping Swetsky to his feet. They came around the table and, as MacNeice offered his hand to Knox, he said, “Your first name is Al—is that short for Allan?”
“No, it’s Alexander.”
“Do you have kids of your own, coach?”
“No. Thankfully, my wife and I divorced before we had kids … Sorry, that didn’t come out right.”
MacNeice smiled and said he understood what he meant. “How long ago was that?”
“Thirteen years this September 18.” Knox’s voice was flat, matter of fact.
“If anything else occurs to you about David Nicholson, anything you’d like us to know, here’s my card. Please call me.”
They shook hands at the gym door. As he let go of Swetsky’s hand, Knox told him he’d be welcome to come out again. “I can use guys who know what they’re doing. We can’t pay, of course, but it’s clear you love the game.”
Pulling away from the Mercy parking lot, Swetsky said, “Dylan’s a star—royal jelly all the way. Smylski’s good, could be great: physically he’s got all he needs.”
“And the coach?”
“He’s a math teacher. Maybe creativity’s not his thing. He sees the players like geometry in motion. He’s built a well-trained and disciplined starting line, but what the juniors and freshmen are making of it, I can’t tell. I think the key is having a chance to go head to head with the seniors, not to sit there watching them play. But he’s a winning coach and this was one off-season practice, so what do I know.”
MacNeice said, “It’s interesting that the coach divorced roughly around the time the Nicholsons were together at Mercy. It’s a major leap, of course, to link the two events, but Knox clearly resented David Nicholson posing as a coach so he could watch over his son. And one other small point stood out: his first name is Alexander.”
“So?”
“Sandy is a common diminutive for Alexander. We’ve gone through that school looking for anyone with a name that begins with
S
, because Nicholson refers to someone by that initial in the diary he kept.”
“Jesus. Does Knox fit the profile?”
“He does. Nicholson would have had to be unconscious, but Knox is big enough to manhandle him onto that wagon … Mission accomplished: I didn’t even have to ask whether you could be involved. He invited you himself. And, as you’re still on medical leave, will you start attending practice?”
“I’m in, absolutely.”
Pulling up in front of Swetsky’s house, MacNeice noticed his wife at the door. By the time he stopped at the curb, she was striding down the front stairs. “Brace yourself, John.”
“Her bark is worse—no, come to think of it, her bite is much worse. I’ll blame it on you.”
As Swetsky got out of the Chevy, his wife was standing at the end of their front walk with her arms folded. With his big paw on the roof, Swetsky ducked back into the car and whispered, “I won’t tell her there’s a second grenade.” He slapped the roof and shut the door.
It was 7:50 p.m. when he shut the Chevy down, near Samantha’s apartment. He sat in the car, frozen by the thought of Fiza. While there’d never been anything explicit said between them, he couldn’t help feeling that he’d cheated on her. And Fiza’s frosty but civil response didn’t change that. Worse, though he was looking forward to seeing Sam, the week had gone by without her crowding his thoughts. Yet this was the first person he’d slept with since Kate’s death. What kind of sense did that make? It was just after eight when he buzzed her apartment, then climbed the steps to her door. When it opened, Samantha greeted him wearing a long black cardigan. As she slid her arms around him, he realized that was all she was wearing.
All his reservations flew, and he was about to pick her up and carry her into the bedroom, when she said, “Hey, let’s slow down a moment. I’ve ordered in from Thai Village. I’ve chilled the champagne … I thought you were the delivery guy, and even the delivery guy takes his time.” She smiled up at him as she pulled her sweater down to mid-thigh.
MacNeice smiled back, but he felt foolish and was thinking,
I’m too old for this
.
The doorbell rang and Sam reached past him and pressed the buzzer to let the delivery man in.
“Can you get it? I’m not decent.”
MacNeice patted his pockets for his wallet. He was retrieving it from the inside pocket of his jacket when there was a knock at the door. He opened it and looked up at the broad, smiling
face, saying, “How much is it?” He didn’t have time to register whose face it was, before the impact and the brief but not unpleasant sensation of falling backwards.