Martin Glenn had been qualified. As a former employee of the ministry, he would certainly have been trusted. An RSC submitted by him would in all likelihood have been rubber-stamped.
He had left the Harbourview job site in a fury earlier this afternoon and was now on the way to the morgue. I wondered what the hell he had gotten himself into. I also wondered who Eric was. Rob Cantor had told Glenn to think about Eric, and Glenn had been so angry he'd barely been able to respond.
It was ten o'clock when I was done. I was tired and I was also ravenous. I looked in the fridge and found little of interest. So I got into my car and drove back to the entertainment district. The interior of Giulio's was warm and inviting: the walls a deep vermilion, the tables and chairs glossy black. A fire burned in a stone fireplace along one wall; along the opposite wall was a long bar, where sparkling glasses hung upside down from wooden slats. Dante Ryan was standing at a podium with a reservations book open. When he saw me, his eyebrows raised and he broke into a smile. He set down the red leather-bound menus he'd been holding, came up to me and offered me his hand. We shook, then he pulled me into an embrace, clapping my back twice. "Took you long enough to show your face," he said.
"The place looks fantastic," I said. "Mazel tov."
"You hungry? You here to eat?"
"Yes and yes."
"Have a seat at the bar. I'll have a table for you in five minutes. Gino," he said to the barman. "Whatever this man wants, it's on the house." Then he walked to the back of the room to speak to one of the waitresses.
Gino was a slight, balding man with thin strands of dark hair pasted across his dome. I ordered Black Bush on the rocks. He poured a standard shot then topped it up with another ounce or so.
A loud roar went up at a table behind us where four men in business dress were hoisting drinks and toasting one another. By the look of it, they'd been dining on steak and pasta, with plenty of wine to wash it down. One of them-big, beefy and red-faced-was crowing over a deal that had apparently been consummated that day. "We took no fucking prisoners," he bellowed. "We took fucking scalps."
The patrons at the table next to them glared for a while then went back to their meals. I nursed my drink, wondering what Hollinger was doing now. Still at the crime scene, probably, combing the alley for evidence. Maybe directing a canvass of the neighbourhood. Almost certainly not thinking of me or what the evening could have been.
"Hey!" came a shout from the noisy table. The big man had an empty wine bottle in his hand. "You, behind the bar. Angelo, or whatever your name is. Bring us another bottle of red."
The bartender looked like he wanted to send the bottle airmail. Then Ryan appeared from the back of the restaurant, walking briskly toward the table.
"Sir," he said to the big man. "If you want a bottle of wine, we're happy to serve it to you. But show a little respect for our staff and the other diners. All right?"
The man broke out laughing, egging on his compatriots until they laughed with him. "Oh, sure!" he gasped. "We'll respect the little fucker, won't we?"
Ryan shook his head. I eased off my stool. There were four of them, all drunk enough to mess with Ryan, something no sober man would do. If things got ugly, I'd have his back.
Ryan leaned down, his hand on the table next to the man's dinner plate, and spoke very quietly into his ear. He had once boasted to me about his powers of persuasion, and whatever he said now prompted the man to settle right down, reach into his wallet and pull out a credit card.
Ryan waved down a waitress. "Monica, these gentlemen have to leave," he said. "Bring their bill right away, please. And add a nice tip-twenty per cent okay with you?" he asked the big man, still leaning over him like they were pals. The man nodded quickly.
Only then did I notice the man's steak knife was no longer next to his plate. The food was outstanding. Ryan wouldn't let me see a menu, just kept sending out dishes for me to sample. First what he called poor man's caviar-herring roe in oil flavoured with hot peppers. Then chilled eggplant seasoned with garlic and oregano. Tuna marinated in a lemon and black olive sauce. And finally lamb chops, Calabrian style, carefully arranged on a plate with grilled red peppers, artichokes and mushrooms.
"I spared you the octopus salad," he grinned. "It's an acquired taste for most people-and for a Jewish guy? I figured it might be over the top."
Each course came with a glass of well-matched wine. The best was the Montepulciano he brought to go with the lamb. "Life's too short to drink cheap wine," he said.
This from a guy who used to shorten lives professionally. Hollinger probably would have broken the bottle over his head.
When dessert came-a tart that was both sweet and fiery-he brought two espressos and sat with me at the table.
"That's made with orange marmalade and a chili jam," he said. "We call it Devil's Tart."
"After the owner's heart," I grinned.
"How was everything?" he asked, his dark eyes fixing on mine. "Honestly."
I said, "Mmph," as I had just stuffed a forkful of tart into my mouth. When I could speak, I said, "You've outdone yourself."
"Thanks. So how come you showed up out of the blue like this? No phone call, nothing."
"It's a long story."
"You and your long stories. I've sat through a few before."
I inhaled the last bite of Devil's Tart and pushed the plate to the side. "Remember the Homicide sergeant who dropped in on me that night?" He'd remember which night: the two of us eating pizza, drinking wine and planning to murder his boss.
"Sure," he said. "Kate? Katie?"
"That's right. Katherine Hollinger."
"Wait a sec. Hollinger. We had a no-show tonight. Seven o'clock for two."
"And you're looking at one of them."
"What happened?"
"She didn't tell me which restaurant she picked. And I didn't ask. Once we got here, it was too late. I had to tell her about us."
"About us what?"
"Being friends."
"And she had a prob-oh, yeah. I guess she would, being Homicide."
"Yup."
"Sorry, guy."
"It's not your fault."
"I can still be sorry. So listen," he said, leaning in. "There's no grief coming my way, is there? About what happened last summer?"
"She told me they've closed the books," I said.
"Because there's no going back for me."
"I think you're clear. I think we both are."
"All right."
"How's Carlo?" I asked.
"He's terrific, thanks. Cara too."
"I'm happy for you," I said.
"Thanks, Geller. And how's your new business, this repair shop of yours?"
"We've got a case."
"I hope it works out better than ours did."
"We did all right."
"Let me rephrase it then: I hope so many bodies don't pile up."
CHAPTER 11
I'm walking up a trail in a northern forest, a steep, narrow path lined with club pine and Labrador tea and the brilliant yellow petals of Arctic cinquefoil, opened wide to catch beads of morning dew. I walk carefully over moss-covered rocks that can turn an ankle, past trees scarred by bear claws, birches rubbed free of bark by moose antlers. Step around a nasty clump of wolf shit full of coarse white fur, probably from a meal of rabbit. I come to a fast-running stream and start across a path of stepping stones. I'm almost at the other side when the second-to-last stone gives way under my foot. I look down and it's not a stone at all but the submerged face of a man dressed in a suit. "Watch where you're going!" he snarls and my foot slips off his face and I tip over into the freezing water. Fish bump against me. Something long and slick slides over me. I put my hand down to brace myself and it sinks into the mud and I can't pull it out. The harder I try, the deeper I sink. "You ruined my goddamn suit," says the underwater man. "I'm never going to get these stains out." And the water rises higher around me until I too am beneath the surface. I woke up with my stomach in a knot, my breath shallow. Seven in the morning and nowhere to go but into the shower, where I tried to wash away the memories of Stefano di Pietra and his miserable end in the Don River. Maybe seeing Ryan last night had brought them back.