so somebody intervened.”
“It doesn’t sound as if Murray’s death was Noah’s fault.”
“That’s not the end of the story. We were all pretty juiced. Delia was staying with Noah, and I didn’t live far from his place, so Noah decided it would be a good idea if we walked – fresh air being a well-known antidote to a hangover. Chris, ever the good shepherd, decided he should see us safely to our beds. We took a shortcut through the alley back of the restaurant, and Murray came after us. He grabbed Delia and said maybe if she played ball, he could slide some cases her way. Noah went nuts. As I said, he was pretty drunk.”
“I’ve never seen Noah take a drink.”
“After that night, he never did. Anyway, Noah started swinging. He’s a powerful guy, but luckily the booze had affected his ability to connect. He only landed one punch and it wasn’t much, but Murray went down and stayed down. Chris was still sober. He checked and said he couldn’t find a pulse. Then… ” Zack shrugged. “Decisions were made.”
“Passive voice,” I said.
Zack’s smile was ironic. “You hang around with cops, you learn a few tricks… Anyway, Chris went back inside the restaurant to call for an ambulance, and Noah told Dee to go to my place. She was staying with him, but he didn’t want her involved in any trouble. Dee was always the decision-maker, but that night she was reeling. When she came to bed, she couldn’t stop shaking, and she hung onto me all night. The next day she stayed in bed, eating cereal out of the box, and watching reruns of sitcoms until Noah came.”
“The police didn’t hold him?”
“The police didn’t know he was involved in Round Two. Chris sent Noah home before the cops came. A dozen people had witnessed Round One of his fight with Murray, so of course he was on the cops’ visiting list, but Noah had an ace up his sleeve. Chris Altieri, a young lawyer who went to mass every day of his life, was prepared to swear that by the time Murray dropped dead in the alley behind the hotel, Noah had left the scene.”
“And Chris’s word was enough?”
“The cops didn’t have anything else,” Zack said softly. “And none of us has ever talked about that evening since.” He shrugged. “Now, I’m going to get the hammer and nails so you can put up our new wreath.” His finger touched one of the pomegranates. As it had with me, the mica came off on his fingertip. He stared at it thoughtfully. “Did you know that the French word for grenade is pomegranate?”
“You think Myra’s gift is a weapon?”
He shrugged. “We live in dangerous times.”
We left for Port Hope on the morning of Friday, December 11 – six days after Abby Michaels had handed Jacob over to the Wainbergs and disappeared into the blizzard. Despite intensive media coverage and appeals from Inspector Debbie Haczkewicz, no one who had seen Abby that night came forward. Seemingly, the blizzard and the blackout had obliterated memories both human and electronic. People who might have seen her as she left the school and got into her car had been absorbed by their own efforts to deal with the storm and darkness. Security cameras at intersections that she might have driven through and in the area around the pawn shop parking lot where, presumably, she was attacked and killed, were not functioning. Zack’s bleak prediction that the blackout would make it possible for Jacob’s mother to disappear without a trace had been right on the money.
Debbie Haczkewicz stopped by our house the night before we left. Her son, Leo, had sent a Christmas gift from Japan for Zack. It was a laughing Buddha. Debbie was droll as she handed the Buddha to Zack. “This is supposed to bring you happiness and good luck. I told Leo I’d trade you my new peony kimono for twenty-four hours of good luck on the Michaels case.”
Zack handed the laughing Buddha back to Debbie. “Why don’t you hold onto our friend here while I get you a drink? Maybe some of that luck will rub off on you.”
“Here’s hoping,” Debbie said.
“Still drinking Crown Royal on the rocks?” Zack asked.
“It’s been my drink since I hit legal age,” Debbie said. “Legal age is but a memory, but in my opinion, there’s no reason to question a smart decision.”
“Agreed,” Zack said. “I’ll pour, and you and Joanne can relax and enjoy the season.”
In a fruitless effort to help me before the flight, Zack had built a fire and put on
“It’s never too late,” I said.
Debbie’s smile was rueful. “It is if you have a pension you can’t afford to walk away from.”
Zack came in with the drinks on a tray balanced on his lap. He handed Debbie her rye. She raised her glass. “Happy holidays.”
We toasted the season, then Zack got down to business. “Anything new?”
Debbie shot him a withering glance. “No. I’m still squandering time, personnel, and taxpayer dollars on dead ends.” She took a sip of rye and her irritation melted. “Let’s see. We ran a preliminary match of the semen. The vi- class data on the match came up negative, so that eliminates every man in Canada who’s ever been convicted of a violent sexual assault. Abby Michaels was raped and murdered by an amateur or at least a rapist cunning enough not to get caught. The field is wide open, Zack, and you know what that means.”
“You’re hooped,” my husband said.
Debbie nodded. “It gets worse. Considering that Ms. Michaels didn’t know anyone in Regina, it seemed possible that a woman who’d just given away her child might have been sufficiently despondent to hit the clubs and pick up Mr. Wrong. We had officers checking the downtown bars to see if a bartender or server had spotted a woman meeting Abby Michaels’s description the night of the blizzard, but no luck.” Debbie looked at Zack. “Of course, when you told us that she was a lesbian, we checked the gay bars, but they were a wash too. Not surprising, I guess, considering that pesky presence of semen on the body.”
“I’m assuming Abby had no visitors at the Chelton,” Zack said.
Debbie shook her head. “No visitors and, as you know, an invariable routine. Incidentally, Joanne, thanks for suggesting we talk to your daughter. Mieka’s the only person we’ve found who actually had a conversation with the victim. The people who worked at the hotel said she was polite but withdrawn. When they tried to engage with the baby, she did not encourage them. We’ve checked the calls she made on her cell. There were remarkably few. She called ahead to a couple of motels when she was driving out here – apparently to let them know she’d be late arriving – but apart from that, the only calls were made the early evening of the blizzard. The first two calls were made at 6:01 and 6:02 p.m.”
“That would have been just after Abby left Luther,” I said.
“The calls were to Nadine Perrault’s cell, but Ms. Perrault’s cell was turned off. The third was to Our Lady of Mercy Church in Port Hope. That call was made at 6:03. Father Rafael Quines answered, and he and the victim spoke for seven minutes and thirteen seconds.”
“I take it you contacted Father Quines,” Zack said.
“I did.” The twist of Debbie’s lip was sardonic. “My conversation with Father Quines was not lengthy.”
“The Seal of the Confessional?” Zack said.
“He didn’t say. He just said he couldn’t discuss the conversation and that he was praying for Abby’s soul.”
“Maybe that’s why she called a priest,” I said. “Abby made a lot of serious decisions the day she died. Maybe she needed to clear the slate.”
“Let’s hope she did.” Debbie’s voice was sombre. She stood, then bent to embrace my husband. “Merry Christmas,” she said.
Zack patted her back. “We’ll figure this one out, Deb.”
“I know,” she said. “But if you want to speed the process along, before you go to Port Hope, give your laughing Buddha a pat.”
Zack chuckled. “You’ve got it. Merry Christmas, Deb.”
I awoke the next morning with Zack’s arms around me. All week, he had done his best to reassure and distract me, but he knew me well. “So how bad is it?” he said.
“Can’t you hear my heart pounding?”
“I have a suggestion. Why don’t we fool around for a while? You always say that making love relaxes you.”
“I’ll try anything,” I said.
