“Thank you.” Debbie Haczkewicz opened the envelope flap, pulled out the contents, noted them in her book, and replaced them. “What did you do when you saw what was in this, Mrs. Shreve?”
“I was sick – not literally – just angry and frightened. You met our daughter in the hall, inspector. She could easily have been in the room when I opened the envelope. It was an unsettling thought. I’d already had a few sleepless nights wondering how Zack and I could have explained the DVD to Taylor if somehow she’d happened to see it. Anyway, I was furious, and I wanted these invasions of our home to stop. I picked up the phone, called the number on the funeral program, and Bree answered. We arranged to meet at Nighthawks. We talked for a few minutes. I paid for the information she gave me. She was obviously high, so she didn’t have much to tell me that was useful. Just that she hadn’t met the person who asked her to deliver the envelope.” I shifted my eyes to Zack, and when he blinked slowly, I knew not to volunteer the information about Jason. “Anyway, I wrote my cell number on my business card and left it with Bree. She wanted to reciprocate, so she wrote her address on a slip of paper. And that’s the end of the story.”
“Not quite,” Debbie Haczkewicz said, and her face was touched with sorrow. Apparently, what she was about to say never got easier. “Bree Steig was attacked last night. She was on foot. Her assailant grabbed her, pulled her down an alley, and beat her.”
“Is she dead?”
“She’s in a coma. The doctors don’t know whether she’ll recover.”
I felt myself go cold. Zack came over and took my hand. Debbie Haczkewicz’s eyes were steely. “Your business card was in Bree’s pocket, Mrs. Shreve, and she still had her cellphone. The records suggest she called you ten times last night.”
I turned to Zack. “I turned my cellphone off before we went to Mieka’s,” I said. “I never thought to turn it on again.”
“Do you have your phone with you?” Debbie Haczkewicz asked.
I reached into my bag, pulled it out, and handed it to her.
“Ten text messages,” she said.
Zack leaned forward. “Deb, you’re free to read them. Joanne has nothing to hide.”
Debbie’s face grew grimmer as she read the messages. When she was through, she handed the phone to me. “Bree was trying to get in touch with you. Do you have any idea why?”
“No,” I said. “None.” The messages were garbled. It was obvious Bree had gone straight from Nighthawks to her dealer. She was incoherent but obsessive. She had two preoccupations: the pie at Nighthawks and the possibility that the slip of paper she’d given me contained a telephone number she needed.
“Do you still have the slip of paper?” Debbie Haczkewicz asked.
“It’ll be in my purse,” I fetched the purse. Bree’s MySpace address was on one side. On the other was a telephone number. I passed the paper to Debbie Haczkewicz; she wrote down the number and handed the paper back to me. “Could you call that number please?” she said.
I picked up my cell and dialed. The person who answered was Jason Brodnitz.
CHAPTER 10
By the end of the next day, Zack had settled Peyben’s case with Evangeline, the clairvoyant, and Bree had taken a turn for the better.
Zack phoned me from the office after his lunch with Evangeline. He was riding high; he was also a little drunk. “Hey, Ms. Shreve, I just got offered a job – house counsel for Peyben – salary in the high six figures, bonuses, stock options, use of the company jet. You can quit working and become the lovely piece of fluff on my arm.”
“Gee, that just sounds like so much fun,” I said. “I take it you settled Peyben’s case out of court.”
“I did. Evangeline and I went to Peyben’s private dining room. I ordered a bottle of Pouilly-Fuisse and asked her to tell me her great dream of life. She revealed that her dream was to spend a summer on the beach, watching boats bob on the Adriatic, drinking fine wine, and perfecting her tan. We had another glass of wine, and I confided that, although I wasn’t a clairvoyant, I could foresee two distinct futures for her. In one, she accepted Peyben’s generous offer and was in Belgrade soaking up the rays before Canada Day; in the other she grew old, hanging around gloomy courtrooms watching the kind of lawyers she could afford being eviscerated by lawyers like me. We ate our meal, finished our wine, ordered another bottle, and Evangeline accepted Peyben’s cheque before our mousse au chocolat arrived.
“Two bottles of wine. Want me to come and get you?”
“Nah, I have to hang around here for a while. Francesca called. She needs to see me, so Norine has managed to squeeze her in later this afternoon.”
“Tonight’s Ginny’s debate, so we’re eating early. Okay with you?”
“Everything’s okay with me,” he said grandly. “One more piece of information: Jason Brodnitz has wisely secured the services of my new partner.”
“To deal with the fact that his phone number was in Bree Steig’s purse?”
“Among other things,” Zack said. “Incidentally, I called Debbie this morning to check on Bree. They’re keeping her in an induced coma, so her brain can heal.”
“That’s good news,” I said.
“Yep. Incidentally, how old do you think Bree is?”
“Hard to tell,” I said. “Late twenties, early thirties?”
“Seventeen,” Zack said. “Gotta go, kiddo.”
“The corporate jet awaits?”
“Actually, I have to take a leak.”
“I’ll pick you up at four-thirty.”
“I don’t need to be picked up.”
“I think you do,” I said. “We pieces of fluff have to protect our investment.”
The debate among Ginny Monaghan and her opponents was being held in the gym of St. Pius School. When I arrived, citizens were not yet storming the doors to witness democracy in action, but Francesca Pope was there, sitting in the front row of empty chairs, her backpack of bears on the chair beside her, her hands folded primly in her lap. She evinced no surprise when she saw me; she simply stood up, slid her arms through her backpack straps, and walked over.
“Tell Zack I’m sorry I didn’t come to his office today,” she said. “I tried, but the lights inside were too bright.” She raised her hand to her eyes, shading them from the memory. “I waited outdoors until I saw someone I recognized. His name is Blake Falconer. Zack introduced us. He’s Zack’s partner, so I thought it would be all right if I gave it to him.”
“Gave what to him?” I asked.
“The journal I had for Zack.”
“Is it yours?”
“No,” she said. “It was Cristal Avilia’s.”
Apparently that ended our conversation. Francesca walked over to a table where someone had set out coffee, juice, and plates of cookies. She pocketed some cookies, poured herself coffee, then went back to her place and left me to my thoughts.
I wasn’t alone for long. The NDP candidate, a former student of mine named Evan Shattuck, came over to say hello. He was twenty-six years old, and he’d been the sacrificial lamb nominated when Ginny was riding high. When her fortunes fell, his rose, and for a brief and shining moment, there had been talk that he would take the seat. Now the wheel of fortune had taken another spin, and Evan was on the bottom again. As he held out his hand to me, he didn’t seem particularly disheartened.
“Having fun?” I said.
His smile was rueful. “I was having more fun a couple of weeks ago,” he said. “But what the hey. This is my first time out.”
“The game’s not over,” I said.
Evan made a face. “Sure it is, but I’m still going to give it my best shot.”
