could have done. It got me straight past denial into anger.”
“Have you talked to anyone?”
“Professionally, you mean?”
“The firm pays for it. Marital problems, trauma counselling. Depression.”
“The only thing depressing me is being stuck at my desk. I made a mistake and I haven’t been given a chance to make good.”
“There are some things you can’t make good.”
I looked down at my shoes. They weren’t doing much of interest but I kept on looking at them.
“People make mistakes all the time,” he said gently. “In most cases, my policy is ‘No harm, no foul.’ Learn from it and move on. But serious harm was done this time. The bad guys walked. You got hurt. And Colin MacAdam will never work again. Not as a cop anyway.”
I took a deep breath to quell the jumpy feeling in my gut. “I went to see him, you know.”
“When?”
“The May long weekend. I drove up to the rehab centre and spent the afternoon with him.”
“How’s he doing?”
“I guess the correct phrase is he’s doing as well as expected. He handles the chair pretty well. His detachment held a fundraiser and he’ll get a motorized one when he leaves rehab.”
“Did you talk about what happened that day?”
“No,” I said. “We stuck to the things guys talk about when they don’t know each other well. The weather. The Blue Jays’ chances in the East this year, which was a somewhat short conversation. Who’d win the finals in the NHL and NBA. Free-agent signings we’d like to see. All the big issues of the day.”
“But nothing about getting shot.”
“No.”
“Do you think he blames you?” Clint asked.
I could picture MacAdam wheeling himself along a walkway in the garden of the Trenton Convalescent Hospital and Rehabilitation Centre, his pale freckled arms moving it at a clip that was hard for me to match.
“He never said. We had our awkward moments, but there was no animosity. I think what we went through bound us together more than it set us apart.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“How do you feel about what happened that day? Do you blame yourself?”
“Come on, Clint. I know I screwed up.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“You my shrink all of a sudden?”
“Answer the damn question.”
“I feel like shit, okay?” My voice rose. “I cost MacAdam his livelihood and the use of his legs and for the rest of his life he’s gonna have to piss and shit in a goddamn bag. Does that answer your question, Doc?”
“Yes it does,” he said in a softer tone. “Yes it does.”
It was quiet in the office for a moment, except for the sound of my breathing. Good thing the door was closed: if Carol Dunn heard me talking to the boss like that, she’d bust in swinging a fire axe.
Clint said, “I needed to know.”
“Know what?”
“Whether you accept responsibility for what you did. What you learned from it. What you’ll do next time lives are on the line.”
“Believe me, Clint, I never intended to get shot and I definitely intend to avoid it in the future.”
He smiled at me. “I might have something for you later in the week. Nothing major, just a fraud case to get you back in the saddle. In the meantime, give Franny whatever he needs on the nursing home.”
“I’ll be standing by when he gets in,” I said. Which I hoped wouldn’t be for another hour at least.
CHAPTER 11
There was nothing significant enough in the morning papers to warrant circulation so I was back in my car by a quarter to eight, hoping Jay Silver and family weren’t early risers. Traffic heading north from the downtown core was light and by eight I was parked outside the Silvers’ home on Richview Avenue, which ran parallel to Bathurst where it crossed the Glencedar Ravine. Richview wasn’t quite the heart of Forest Hill, with its mansions and gated lots, but the homes were large, verging on stately, mostly in neo-traditional styles. The cars parked along the street or on front-yard pads were late-model SUVs and minivans or high-end sedans.
The street was coming to life at this hour: people in business dress heading to work; joggers out for a run before the real heat started; kids going to camps or day care now that school was out; gardeners using nose-hair scissors to trim the hedges just so.
I called the office of Mitchell Weintraub, a cousin on my mother’s side who is a real estate agent. I could have called my mother for the same information, but with Jewish mothers, there are no short phone calls.
“Hey, cuz,” I said when he answered. “I wasn’t sure you’d be in this early.”
“With the market this hot? I’d sleep here if Cheryl let me.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Really great. We can feel the baby moving inside her now.”
“Mazel tov, Mitch.”
“Thanks. I think the excitement of becoming a dad is finally starting to overtake the total panic.”
“That’s great.”
“Listen,” he said, “I’m sorry I didn’t call when you were in the hospital. We had just had the first ultrasound and we were in baby-brain world.”
“You can make it up to me now.”
“How?”
“Check out a house on Richview Avenue and tell me when it last sold and for how much.”
“Richview?” he said. “Business going that well?”
“It’s not for me, dopey.” I gave him Silver’s address.
“Two minutes,” he said.
The hold system on his phone kicked over to a radio station playing some soul diva swooping through “Have a Little Faith in Me,” adding trills around every other note and draining the song of all the power of John Hiatt’s original.
When Mitch came back on the line, he told me Jay and Laura Silver had bought the house just over a year ago for $1.15 million.
“Any record of them selling another property at the time?”
“Two more minutes.”
Which meant two more minutes of faux-soul: Michael Bolton’s version of “When a Man Loves a Woman.” More like “When a Man Rips a Kidney.”
“Okay,” Mitch said. “They sold a semi on Hillsdale at the same time, listed it at $649,000, got multiple offers, sold it for $689,000.”
And bought a new house worth almost half a million more. Where did you get the money, Jay?
“Okay, Mitch. Thanks. Give my love to Cheryl.”
“We going to see you Sunday? You can give it to her yourself.”
“What’s Sunday?”
“Hello! The Rally for Israel at Earl Bales Park. You’re not going?”
Just what I needed. A stick to whack the hornet’s nest this morning’s dream had already stirred up. “I don’t know, Mitch. I have plans.”
“What plans? It’s two hours of your time. Come on, Jonah, Israel doesn’t have a friend in the world these days.”
