Old Scores Page 7

  “No,” he said. “But I’ll take you up on the beer.”

  “Yeah, yeah, go ahead. They’ve been sitting there all day getting cold. Help yourself.”

  “Thanks, Casmir.”

  “I watch the game now,” said Casmir. “Blue Jays and Kansas City Royals. We’re down by two, but it’s only the fourth inning.” He gestured at his son. “You talk to him. You let me know when you’re done. And don’t let Snowflake bother you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Gilbert stepped into the kitchen. Snowflake backed away, startled.

  “And Barry?” said Casmir.

  “Yes?”

  A troubled expression came to Casmir’s face. “I’m sorry about your daughter,” he said.

  Gilbert’s throat tightened. “I am, too, Casmir,” he said.

  Casmir went into the living room while Gilbert picked his way around the garbage bag to the fridge. He opened the fridge, took out a beer, and twisted off the cap. He tossed the cap into the garbage bag, spooking five or six fruit flies, then went into the dining room and sat at the table across from Mike.

  Mike looked at him nervously, like he was afraid Gilbert might yell at him. The boy wore a sleeveless Toronto Raptors jersey, and, like his father, had thick, muscular arms. He was handsome, boy-band handsome, and Gilbert understood why Nina liked him—boy-band handsome was her thing right now.

  Gilbert felt like shaking Mike, asking him how he could have been so stupid, and why in this age of media saturation he didn’t know that unprotected sex could kill him as efficiently as a loaded revolver. But he controlled himself. He knew Mike was just a kid. At the age of eighteen, Mike wasn’t about to have unerring judgment about all things at all times.

  Gilbert sighed, took a sip of his beer, then looked out the grimy first-floor window at the traffic. Two little black girls—identical twins—played on the sidewalk with a couple of Barbie dolls. Out the corner of his eye, Gilbert caught Mike glancing at him.

  “I’m sorry about Nina,” said Mike, his voice deep, soft, unsure. “I didn’t want to do this to her. I didn’t know I had what I had the night we hooked up at Pascale’s party.”

  Hooked up. That was a big catchphrase these days. And now it was being used to describe sexual relations with his daughter.

  “I know you didn’t,” said Gilbert. He noted the boy had an earring in his left ear. “I’m not here to lecture you, Mike. I know, you don’t need that.”

  “She’s nice. She’s really nice.”

  “Mike…I just want to know a couple of things, that’s all.”

  Out on the street, the Dawes Road bus swept past, swirling a few momentary dust devils in its slipstream.

  “I’ll help any way I can, sir.”

  Gilbert could see it in the intensity of the young man’s eyes—he was desperate to make things right, to somehow turn back the clock, even though it now couldn’t be turned back.

  “Okay,” said Gilbert, sitting forward, putting one hand on his knee. “So you had sex with my daughter…when? The end of February? That’s what Nina told me. I just want to make sure she’s remembering it right.”

  “She’s remembering it right,” said Mike. “It was at Pascale’s party. That was the twenty-fifty of February.”

  “The twenty-fifth, right, that’s what she said.” His right eyebrow rose a fraction. “And you had sex with her just the once? She mentioned only the party, but I thought…you know…that maybe in March, or April…that it might have turned into a couple thing.”

  “No, sir. It was only the once. And I’m sorry about that, sir. I should have had better sense. I’m awfully stupid.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that you might get her pregnant?” asked Gilbert.

  “No, sir. She said she was on the pill.”

  This stopped Gilbert. Nina was on the pill? Why was he always the last one in his family to know these things? He so often felt like the odd man out. He was sure Regina was privy to the news. Why not him? Then again, neither Regina nor the girls knew he was here with Mike Topalovich, and that he was trying to find out what he could about the timing of the thing as a way to possibly lessen family anxiety about it.

  He took another sip of his beer.

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go on. Were you having sex with other partners before you had sex with Nina?”

  Mike stared at the candle sitting in the middle of the table.

  “Three,” he said.

  “Just three?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And do you know if any of those girls had HIV?” asked Gilbert.

  “They’re all getting tested. I don’t know if they were HIV-positive at the time I had sex with them.”

  For the first time, Gilbert felt some hope. “And have you heard back from any of them yet?” he asked. “Are any of them positive?”

  “I haven’t heard back yet.”

  “Okay. So did you have sex with any partners after your night with Nina at Pascale’s party?” he asked.

  “One.”

  “One?” said Gilbert.

  His hope strengthened even more. If the pre-Nina sex partners weren’t HIV-positive, there was no way Mike could have contracted the infection from them. Which meant he would have contracted it from this post-Nina sex partner. Which meant Nina might be all right.

  “Yes, sir,” said Mike.

  “And when did you have sex with her?”

  “In March.”

  March. Somewhat below the wire as far as developing HIV antibodies was concerned, but, as Dr. MacPherson suggested, not beyond the realm of possibility.

  “And do you know if she’s HIV-positive?”

  Mike’s brow settled. “I haven’t been able to find her, sir. My dad and I looked all over the place last week, when I first found out I was HIV-positive. She used to live two buildings down, but she’s not there anymore. She’s originally from Trinidad. We think she might have moved back.”

  Here was an obstacle Gilbert hadn’t counted on, but he pushed ahead anyway.

  “Do you know her name?” asked Gilbert.

  “Vashti.”

  “That’s her first name?” asked Gilbert.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you know her last name?”

  “No, sir. We never found that out. She lived with a great-aunt while she was here, and her super says her aunt’s last name is Parmar. But that’s not Vashti’s last name.”

  Gilbert glanced up at the ceiling where a few silken cobwebs dangled.

  “And you don’t know whether she was HIV-positive?” he asked.

  “No,” said Mike. “I hardly knew her. I met her at the rink. It was…kind of a one-night thing.”

  Gilbert paused, and took another sip of his beer.

  “Could you do me a favor, Mike? Don’t mention you had sex with Nina to any of your friends. She’s a bit freaked out by the whole thing. She really wants to keep it confidential.”

  “I won’t, sir. You have my word on it.”

  “And could I get the telephone numbers of the other girls you had sex with? The ones before…you know…before Pascale’s party.” He took out his notebook. “I’m going to have to phone them.”

  Mike looked away uncomfortably. Snowflake sprung to the boy’s lap but he pushed her off.

  “No, sir. I can’t do that.”

  Gilbert’s face stiffened. “Why not?”

  “Because they’re just like Nina, sir,” said Mike. “They don’t want anybody finding out.”

  Gilbert paused. Mike had a point. It wasn’t right that Gilbert should ask Mike to safeguard Nina’s confidentiality, then insist he do the exact opposite with the other girls. As much as he felt he had the right to be inflexible when it came to Nina’s welfare, he knew he had to give in on this point.

  “Okay,” he said. “Fine. But it’s really important Nina’s mother and I learn their test results. You’ve been Nina’s only sex partner, so there’s no way you could have caught it from her. And if those girls befo
re Nina weren’t HIV-positive, it means you caught it from Vashti. If you caught it from Vashti, it means Nina is clean. So we would really like to find out.” He took out his business card and handed it to the teen. “Here’s my number at work. I’ve written my home number on the back, too, and you can call me there if you absolutely must. But I’d prefer you to call me at work.”

  Mike looked at the card. “You’re a homicide detective?” he said.

  “Yes,” said Gilbert.

  “Wow. That’s neat.”

  “I’m proud of my job,” he said. He pointed at the card. “Could you call me? When you find out their test results?’

  “Yes, sir, I’ll do that.”

  “And if you hear anything about Vashti?”

  “I’ll call you straight away, sir.” He looked at Gilbert’s card again. “I was thinking I might become a police officer.”

  “It’s a good job,” said Gilbert. “There’s always something new. You never get bored. And the benefits are good.”

  Mike’s eyes grew pensive. “Now I don’t think I’ll ever get the chance,” he said.

  Gilbert had to agree. Nothing stole a future away faster than an HIV infection.

  The next day passed without any significant development in the Glen Boyd case. Gilbert called Phil Thompson’s home, left several messages, but Phil didn’t return any of his calls.

  Thursday passed in much the same frustrating way. He checked in with the Crime Scene Unit. Boyd’s apartment had been gone over with special forensic vacuums, and the cataloguing of all myriad fibers, dirt samples, and other minute detritus was well underway, there for when and if he needed it.

  Lombardo spent much of these forty-eight hours in Computer Support trying to help them crack Boyd’s passwords.

  “One set of encryption codes leads to another,” Lombardo complained to Gilbert.

  Ronald Roffey from the Toronto Star came by on Thursday afternoon. He was a man in his late forties with longish brown hair and a nose that had a curious twist to the end, like it might have been broken.

  “Ron, I’ve got nothing to add to what I already told you on Monday,” said Gilbert.

  “So in other words, you’re stumped,” said Roffey.

  Gilbert frowned. “The investigation’s ongoing,” he countered. “The coroner hasn’t ruled conclusively on the autopsy yet.”

  “Can you at least give me a copy of the autopsy report?” asked Roffey.

  “That autopsy report belongs to the coroner’s office at present,” said Gilbert. “And the coroner’s office isn’t ready to release it at this time.”

  “But you’re still willing to admit that there was trauma to Boyd’s throat, and that one of the possible scenarios is strangulation.”

  “Yes.”

  Things didn’t start moving again until he got a call from Ted Aver, the former Mother Courage drummer, on Friday.

  “I’m calling from a telephone booth,” said the drummer, “and I’m being watched. Meet me in Jean Sibelius Square at seven o’clock tonight. Do you know where that is?”

  “Over in the Annex somewhere, isn’t it?”

  “At Brunswick and Wells, just south of Dupont.”

  Gilbert hung up. He stared at the paperweight made of bullets on his desk, perplexed by the call. Ted being watched? It sounded a little dramatic. Watched by whom? Was the man paranoid? Or was there a real threat? He glanced up from his paperweight where he saw Detective Bob Bannatyne, his old partner from Fraud, a thirty-two-year veteran of the force, now also a homicide detective, doing paperwork. One way or the other, he had to meet and talk to Ted.

  Accordingly, he found himself on a bench in Jean Sibelius Square—really more a park with a small playground for kids—at seven o’clock that night. Why the city named a park after a twentieth-century Finnish composer of symphonic music he wasn’t sure—it seemed an odd choice. The sun, a hot red ball, peered over the three-story duplexes to the west. The air was heavy with humidity, and the leaves in the maple trees drooped.

  Fifteen minutes later, a man in a wheelchair appeared. Even though the man wore sunglasses, Gilbert recognized him instantly as Ted Aver. From this distance, he saw that the top half of the drummer’s body hadn’t changed at all, was still strong and muscular. Gilbert glanced at the moms and nannies minding young children in the playground. A few, ever-vigilant, looked at Ted, but he doubted if any of them recognized the former rock star. Though world-famous at one time, Ted hadn’t been anywhere near the limelight for the past two decades. These twenty-something moms didn’t know Mother Courage at all, were more acquainted with the current crop of boy bands and adolescent divas.

  Gilbert waved to Ted. Ted spotted him and waved back. Gilbert got up, thinking Ted might want help. But Ted was athletic, had a hot-rod of a wheelchair, with the wheels slanted out, and he wore racing gloves. He made his way up onto the dipping wheelchair-accessible curb with ease, and headed over to the bench at a good pace. As Ted got closer, Gilbert thought to himself, here was yet another famous person, one he recognized well. Here was the characteristic Ted Aver square jaw and cleft chin, the heavy brow, and the hair—for the most part still brown, cut in bangs over his forehead, shoulder-length, in old rocker style. Here was the man he had even met once a long time ago, when Regina had been chums with Michelle Morrison. Despite that, Ted obviously didn’t remember Gilbert at all, and that was just as well. Gilbert wanted to remain anonymous for the sake of the investigation.

  “Detective Gilbert?” said Ted.

  “Hi.”

  Gilbert reached for his badge and identification.

  “Don’t show me your badge,” said Ted, looking around nervously. “Just be cool. I don’t want anyone getting suspicious. Sit down, will you? You look like a cop. Christ, do you ever. Sit down.”

  Gilbert sat down. “Sorry,” he said.

  “It’s all right.”

  Ted took out a package of cigarettes, French Gauloises, shook one out of the pack, stuck it in his mouth, and lit up. The smoke, blue and thick, whirled around his head and dissipated into the hot, humid air.

  “What a fuck-up,” he said. He contemplated Gilbert serenely.

  “What is?”

  “Glen.”

  Over in the playground, a child started to cry.

  “You obviously know something about Glen’s murder or else we wouldn’t be here,” said Gilbert.

  Ted took a huge drag on his cigarette, attempted a few smoke rings, but there was just enough breeze to rip them apart before they were fully formed.

  “We never had this meeting,” said Ted. “I want to be a protected source, or whatever you guys are calling it these days, because if this ever gets back to the wrong people, I’m fucked.” Ted peered at him quizzically. “Are you looking at anybody specifically yet?”

  “I can’t really disclose…you know how it is.”

  Ted raised his hand. “Sure,” he said. “Say no more.”

  “And rest assured, your anonymity will be protected.”

  “I’m giving you a tip,” said Ted. “That’s all I’m giving you. I won’t go to court for you. I won’t testify for you. I won’t do anything but point you in the right direction. Because if word gets out I’m involved in this, I’m really screwed.”

  He glanced around the park one more time, relaxed a bit, then turned and stared at Gilbert for a moment or two.

  “I deal with these…these people sometimes. I do business with them. I’m a businessman. I don’t know if anybody’s told you, but I’ve done well since the breakup of the band. Better than any of the others. And that’s because I know how to be flexible. Part of being flexible is dealing with a wide range of people. I’m a legitimate businessman, Detective Gilbert, and I only deal with legitimate businesses. But some of the people I deal with, they run both legitimate and illegitimate businesses. The deals I do with them are legal, aboveboard, bread-and-butter, middle-of-the-road, law-abiding deals. But sometimes I hear things about their other deals, their illegitimat
e deals. It’s none of my concern. I keep my mouth shut.” His face reddened. He looked away. “But this is Glenny we’re talking about.” His voice now sounded torn. “And I want to see the fuckers put away as much as you do.”

  Gilbert leaned forward. “So you think you know who killed Glen Boyd, then?” he asked.

  Ted lifted his thumbnail to his mouth and nibbled for a second. “Glen and I deal with the same people. I’m a partner in a laminating business with them. He buys product from them. Drugs. An outfit from Barranquilla. Middling cocaine merchants trying to carve a niche here in Toronto. Three guys, young guys, real cowboys. They have connections to the Ramayà brothers in Cali.”

  Gilbert remembered the unopened packet of cocaine on Boyd’s bedside table.

  “Do you have their names?” he asked.

  Ted took yet another drag on his French cigarette, hesitating, like he was really afraid of these guys.

  But finally, he jumped right in.

  “The ringleader is Oscar Barcos. He’s the one who answers to the Ramayàs. Then he’s got two partners, Francesco Deranga and Waldo Munoz. I know for a fact that Glen owes these guys money, a lot of money, nearly a hundred grand. Problem is, Glen can’t raise it. GBIA’s always in a cash-flow crunch. But Oscar doesn’t care about any accounts-receivable log-jam bullshit. To further complicate things, Oscar’s getting nervous about the operation up here in Toronto. He thinks someone has compromised him, he’s not sure who. He thinks maybe Glenny. A lot of his street-level guys are getting busted. He told me he may have to leave for a while. But before he does, he wants to tidy up loose ends. Glen’s one of his biggest loose ends. So he gave me a message to give to Glen. This was a week ago Monday, five days before Glenny was killed.”

  “And what message was that?” asked Gilbert.

  Ted Aver shrugged, his well-developed shoulders flexing like a body-builder’s as a fragile and guilt-ridden twist came to his brow. “Pay up or die,” he said, “And I know Oscar meant it. He’s a real executioner, that one.”

  Seven

  On Saturday morning, Gilbert lifted the Star from his doorstep and went to the kitchen to read it. Regina made coffee and pancakes. He flipped to the entertainment section—a section as foreign to him as the dark side of the moon—and found the feature article on Glen Boyd.