“Okay, okay. I probably would have done the same thing. Look, I’m no hero either. What else? Did you hear anything?”
“Nothing until the door closed. I must have stayed there for another five minutes before I realized that the murderer had gone and wasn’t coming back.”
“So you got up to see what had happened?”
“That’s right. What had happened was that Renata … had … You know. Don’t take me through that again. I turned on the hall light. Just for a second. I had to turn it right off again. I couldn’t …”
“Okay, you saw that she was dead-that she was beyond saving, anyway. What else?”
“What do you mean, ‘What else?’”
“Did you think for a moment that you might call the cops?”
“I went into the bedroom with that in mind, but before I reached the phone, I saw how bad I’d look. I’d be perfect casting for the murderer. I’d set up an alibi so that I could show I was a hundred miles from the crime scene. Why would I do that if I didn’t have some sinister purpose?”
“But, Mr. Bosco, you did make those arrangements.”
“That wasn’t to provide an alibi! I got Roger to spell me off for the evening. He’d do the talk, and I’d see what Renata wanted. It only becomes suspicious in the light of what happened to Renata.”
“You’re lucky Roger’s so ambitious.”
“He’s nearly come unstuck twice. Don’t get me started on that.”
“Back to the scene of the crime. Besides Renata lying there, what else did you see?”
“Nothing. Nothing but the two spent shells from the gun. The ones they found later in Vanessa Moss’s locker. I can’t figure that one out.”
“The shells were left in the hall by the murderer? Is that what you’re saying?” Bosco nodded. His lank hair was falling over his eyes, and he brushed it back with his hand unsuccessfully. “You could have told the police that it was Renata and not Vanessa who’d been killed. You kept quiet. For a whole week. Why?”
“I don’t know. I must have been in shock. I tried to think of a way to let them know, but everything I thought of brought the cops to my own front door. They’d have finished me. Ray runs a very tight ship, Mr. Cooperman. There’s no room for second chances.”
“So, instead of doing something useful, you’ve been playing Sherlock Holmes on your own. I hope you have a couple of prime suspects?”
“That fellow George Brenner, the parking guy at the network. He knew where Vanessa lived. They’ve been having an affair. He may have seen me arrive at Vanessa’s house and mistaken Renata for Vanessa.”
“The old jealousy dodge. Who else?”
“Well, Bob Foley was looking good for a while. It might be the reason for his suicide.”
“Why’d Dermot Keogh choose him as one of the trustees of the Plevna Foundation?”
“They were friends. Foley was Keogh’s gofer. He saw to Dermot’s laundry, licence renewals, boat and car maintenance, electric bill, you know, all the stuff a genius hasn’t time to look after.”
“You’re not impressed by genius?”
“It’s all right in its place. But Dermot’s affairs have transformed our firm. It should be renamed Dermot Keogh Enterprises. The whole of his estate is operated out of our office, and the balance between criminal and corporate law, which used to exist, is way out of whack. I haven’t been in a courtroom for six months. That’s a long time, Mr. C. I love trial work and I’m good at it. But the firm’s interest in that end of the business has been distracted.” The waiter dropped two hot, wet washcloths in front of us. I scalded myself in two places before catching on to the operation. Bosco handled his cloth better, but he wasn’t looking well.
“I’m still not thinking straight, Mr. C. Give me a break, please? I can’t talk any more. I touched the hall light switch. I must have left a print. Since that night I’ve been jumping every time the phone rings. I have heard the voices of the cops asking if I could come downtown to clear up a few things.”
“Just one more minute, Mr. Bosco: how did you leave the house? The body and the shells were in the hall. Was the door open?”
“I think it was closed. Yes, it was closed. But when I left, I know that I left it open. I had an instinct to go back and close it, but I couldn’t make myself. I fled. That’s the only word for it.” He looked at me with his eyes watering, searching my face for the answers to questions I hadn’t the skill to ask. They were washed-out blue eyes now, like the colour of a chalk drawing on a rainy sidewalk.
Most of the vegetables and meat had grown cold over half an hour ago. Neither of us had eaten much. The tea was cold. Bosco paid the bill and left, miming a parting word. I cracked open one of the two fortune cookies. It read: “Your problems will vanish if you have patience.” I never found out what Bosco’s said. He didn’t open it.
EIGHTEEN
After Bosco left, I sat with the green tea until it was bitter as well as cold. I couldn’t think of anything witty enough to write on the wall. I was asked if I wanted more tea. I did, but I thought a walk through Chinatown would be even better. There were some things on my mind that had been rattling around without my having time to see if any of them stuck together. The walk along Dundas Street to University Avenue wasn’t a long one, but just the right length to get my thoughts straighter than they’d been. I reminded myself of a visit from my Uncle Nathan from New York. He took one look at my father’s dress store and complained, “Manny, you’ve got inventory all over the place. You must be crazy overloading the shop like this. A man can’t live on inventory alone.” He was right. And an investigator can get facts so stuck in his head that he can’t read them any more.
There was a big grey truck backed up to the entrance of NTC’s main entrance. The back doors were open, and a wheeled ramp led from the truck-bed to the top step of the entrance. As I approached, I saw a security guard holding visitors back from the dismantled revolving door. Three men in grey shopcoats were running a pair of digital editing machines through the lobby in the direction of the truck. Another mover was holding a padded blanket to help ease the hardware through the tight squeeze of the glass doorway. I waited my turn. They looked like professionals. The man in charge, with a redoubtable beer belly, supervised the manoeuvres without putting his hands on metal. When the first two machines had been loaded, I saw that a second pair was waiting just inside the door, with a security guard keeping visitors well away from adding their fingerprints to the shiny blue-grey metal surfaces. How did I know that they were digital editing machines? To be honest, right then, I didn’t. They could have been egg hatchers or baby incubators as far as I was concerned. The only thing I thought about them then was the fact that I was coming and they were going. I was between a dismantled revolving door and a hard place to get into.
A couple of familiar technicians I recognized from the pub around the corner were watching the loading procedure. They looked at one another, wearing curious, lighthearted, knowing expressions. It took me a while to learn how to read them. When I looked for them a few moments later, they were gone. The usual crowd of smokers hovered in a group, like exiles, just beyond the door.
“How long is the door going to be blocked?”
“You can get through in five minutes,” one security guard said, sizing me up. “Or you can go around to the side door or you could come back later. They’ll be through here in ten minutes at the outside.” I was about to follow the latter advice when I saw an opening between the first two pieces, and grabbed it. I could feel the weight of the machine pressing against me as I sucked in my breath and forced my way between the quilting and the doorway.
Once inside, I found myself in the midst of another break in the routine. A bandstand had been assembled in front of a huge map of Canada cut into a massive screen of illuminated glass, and a jazz band was playing its heart out while NTC regulars went about their business without giving them more than a shrug of notice. The lobby hadn’t been designed to encourage music, and the glass entranceway and marble interior offended it with a hostile bounce, repelling the Dixieland riffs as though they were an embarrassment. Whoever organized this noon-hour concert had forgotten the plugged doorway. The boys in the band were playing for the converted. There were no strangers within the gates. The musicians paid that no mind; they were in a groove and enjoying themselves. The lead guitar was pushing a modern version of an old prison work song: It’s a long John,He’s a long gone,Like a turkey through the cornThrough the long corn.