High Chicago

CHAPTER 2

I met Katherine Hollinger last summer while I was still at Beacon Security. Her investigation into the murder of a Toronto pharmacist overlapped with the case I was working on: another pharmacist whose family had been targeted for extinction. Hollinger was about thirty-six and already a detective sergeant. Five-seven with a lithe build, glossy black hair and eyes whose colour was somewhere between honey and caramel. My feelings for a woman almost always start with the eyes; I liked her from the first look and felt it was mutual. Of course, I'd been stabbed the night before by a badass mobster and was sailing along on Percocet, so my judgment could have been skewed.

The next day one of my co-workers was shot to death and Hollinger, in addition to her many other charms, was the first to pick up on the heartwarming fact that the hit had been meant for me. She even turned up at my door late one night, supposedly to ask me about the shooting victim but really, I think, to check up on me.

After everything crashed to a head those last hot days of June, with more than half a dozen killings in two countries to account for, Hollinger and her mouth-breathing partner, Gregg McDonough, had more than a few questions for me. The sessions were long and tense. We sat in a small interview room with four bare walls, a small table, three hard chairs and a video camera that stood above us all on a tripod, recording every question they threw at me and every poor excuse for an answer I gave back. I bobbed and weaved my way through it, telling no outright lies but providing nothing near the truth. None of the killings could be attributed to me, though I had seen and done enough that I still wake up shuddering, chasing away images of faces under water, of bullet-riddled bodies in hot closed rooms.

Hollinger and I hadn't spoken since. I had thought about calling her half a dozen times, asking her out for coffee. Then I'd stop and wonder what exactly we could talk about.

How about those corpses in the Don River, Katherine? All that sorted out?

Well, not quite, Jonah. Don't suppose you could clear that up for me. And pass the skim milk.

Like Hamlet and Gertrude sitting across a table from each other, plates piled high with funeral baked meats.

Now she had called first, so I called back from the reception area-away from Jenn's rolling eyes.

When she answered, I said, "Hey, Sarge."

"Hey, yourself, Geller. How are you?"

I liked her voice almost as much as her eyes. An alto with just a slight husk. "I'm good," I said. "How about you?"

"No complaints. Except people keep murdering each other."

"The mayor just put out a press release saying what a safe city we have."

"The mayor doesn't work my crime scenes. So," she said, "how's the new agency?"

"We're doing all right. Finished one case this morning. About to start another."

"Good," she said. "Okay. So… listen, Jonah. I have some news I thought would interest you."

"What's that?"

"I had a meeting with Gruber this morning." That would be Les Gruber, the new head of the Homicide Squad. "We're closing the Di Pietra cases. All of them."

"With what smoke and which mirror?"

"I wouldn't question it if I were you. As far as we're concerned, Ricky Messina and Stefano di Pietra were responsible for all six murders."

"They did keep busy."

"We also believe Ricky and Stefano both died as a result of injuries sustained during their fight in the river."

"Who came up with that? You or Gruber?"

"It does wonders for our clearance rate."

"Gruber, then."

"He's got his black marker out as we speak. And I'm not going to second-guess him on it. We have too many red cases as it is."

"So no more questions for me?"

"Just one. How late do you work?"

"I set my own hours."

"Yeah? 'Cause I was wondering if you maybe wanted to have dinner."

"Dinner?"

"Tonight, if you're free."

I said, "Tonight?" Smooth, Geller. Smooth as shrapnel.

"It opened up just now. I took it as a sign. If you don't want to…"

"No," I said. "I mean yes. I do."

"You sure?"

"Very sure."

"You like Italian?"

"Of course I do," I said. "Scratch a Jew, find an Italian. Except on Sunday evenings, when we all convert to Chinese."

"A friend of mine recommended a place that has real southern Italian cooking and decent prices."

"Won't leave us much to complain about." "It's Toronto," she said. "There's always weather and real estate." Call number two.

"So you're seeing Marilyn Cantor today?"

"Any minute, Ma."

"Such a tragedy," she said. "I went to the shiva and she was a broken woman."

"I didn't know you knew her that well."

"I don't really," my mother said. "She was on the board of volunteer services at Baycrest when I chaired it a few years ago." My mother makes her living-and a good one-as a real estate broker, but she's also one of those dynamos who manage to sit on half a dozen boards of arts, culture and community service organizations. How anyone in Toronto gets along without her is beyond me. "But a situation like this," she said, "you pay your respects. If you were more connected to the Jewish community, you'd understand."

And there it is, ladies and gentlemen. The first shot across my bow.

"I don't know that much about her situation, Ma."

"Daniel didn't tell you?"

"I didn't speak to him."

"But he referred her to you."

"Not directly. His assistant set it up."

"And you didn't call to thank him?"

Shot number two.

"I was going to, Ma. Right after I meet Marilyn."

"Jonah," she said. "Honey."

Oh, God. Not the "honey."

"You have one brother."

"So does he."

"Which means?"

"Which means he could have called me himself, instead of having Sandra do it."

"So take the high road. Call and thank him. It's not as if your business is booming."

"Ma-"

"Is it?"

"I wouldn't say booming but we're doing all right."

"Are you, dear? Really?"

"Yes, Ma." Stretching the definition of all right, perhaps, but this was my mother. Telling her how close to the bone we were would only send her to that place we've been too many times before: unwanted career advice, which ranked right up there with matchmaking.

"I wish I knew what it was with you two."

What it was-what it had always been-was that Daniel was more successful. A lawyer, and a highly esteemed one at that, senior partner in the firm of Geller, Winston, Lacroix. Married with two adorable boys. A shul-goer, on the board of Young Israel congregation, and a contributor to charity. All the things a mother hopes for or, in the case of a Jewish mother, demands. All the things I wasn't and felt I'd never be.

"I'll call him the minute Marilyn leaves," I said. "Before the door swings shut."

"Just be good to her," she said. "Do right by her. Her youngest child killing herself… she's had such a terrible time."

"Her husband hasn't?"

"Her ex-husband," my mother said. "And him, you never know what he's feeling. Half the time I was there, he was taking phone calls. During shiva!"

"Listen, Ma, I think that's her at the door," I said. And no lightning bolt struck me down.

"At least it's just a family matter," she said. "This business you're in, I worry so much about what could happen to you."

"I know, Ma."

"No, dear. If you knew-if you really knew-you'd get into something safer."

"That's definitely her at the door," I said.

"You'll call Daniel?"

"Yes."

"And you'll be careful?"

"Like you said, Ma, it's a family matter. How dangerous could it get?"