Middlemen, p.1
Middlemen, page 1
middlemen
A MacNeice Mystery
Scott Thornley
Also in the MacNeice Mysteries series
Erasing Memory
The Ambitious City
Raw Bone
Vantage Point
Copyright © 2023 Scott Thornley
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Published in Canada in 2023 and the USA in 2023 by House of Anansi Press Inc.
houseofanansi.com
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
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House of Anansi Press is a Global Certified Accessible™ (GCA by Benetech)
publisher. The ebook version of this book meets stringent accessibility standards and is available to readers with print disabilities.
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: Middlemen : a MacNeice mystery / Scott Thornley.
Names: Thornley, Scott, author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20230197701 | Canadiana (ebook) 2023019771X | ISBN 9781487011505 (softcover) | ISBN 9781487011512 (EPUB)
Classification: LCC PS8639.H66 M53 2023 | DDC C813/.6—dc23
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Cover image: (goshawk): Milan Zygmunt / Alamy Stock Photo
Series design: Alysia Shewchuk
Book design: Lucia Kim
Ebook design: Nicole Lambe
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House of Anansi Press is grateful for the privilege to work on and create from the Traditional Territory of many Nations, including the Anishinabeg, the Wendat,
and the Haudenosaunee, as well as the Treaty Lands of the Mississaugas of the Credit.
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We acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Government of Canada
In Memoriam
John Bienenstock
1936–2022
A visionary researcher, immunologist,
and beloved friend.
Secrets are those places we cannot find
on a map
because no road is paved to go there.
— Jean-Pierre Larocque, Montreal, 2022
[Prologue]
MacNeice chose the Left Bank, where he and Kate had first met, not because he was still searching for her shadow — he hadn’t been to Paris since her death, and that was long ago — it was just that he felt most at home among Kate’s haunts. He wanted to wander familiar streets and melt away the crime scenes that had defined his life in Dundurn.
There was, however, one lingering task from his last case that he couldn’t erase: he had to retrieve the portfolio of grisly staged photographs of murder victims from the Parisian gallery that had unwittingly offered to exhibit them. A week into his stay, he placed a call to the gallery and left a message with his name and the number of his hotel.
The next morning, MacNeice emerged in search of a croissant and strong coffee. He nodded to the desk staff, who greeted him cheerfully with “Bonjour, Monsieur MacNeice,” and walked toward the breakfast room.
The hotel’s concierge, Jean Vernaz, stood at the bar with a look of concern. “Monsieur MacNeice, un moment, s’il vous plaît,” He walked the taller man back several steps. “You have two women in the lounge . . . They are . . . quite exceptional.”
MacNeice wondered for a moment what the concierge meant by exceptional, but he suddenly understood. “Je suis désolé, Jean; it’s okay.”
“You know them? They are very famous in Paris, maybe infamous . . . I don’t know.”
“One is slender and chic and somewhat sad; resembles Jean Seberg?”
“Oui, c’est ça. With black hair, not blond.”
MacNeice said he was expecting them, even though he wasn’t.
They were sitting on the sofa facing the fireplace, locked in quiet conversation. Chanel Bourget wore a white linen blouse, slim-fitting tan slacks, and matching tan slip-ons. The throw cushions had been pushed aside, and against them she’d tossed a brilliant red scarf and a purple leather briefcase. On the glass table before them were two coffee cups, Chanel’s vivid red lipstick imprinted on one. She was facing her partner and appeared to be wiping away a tear as MacNeice arrived.
They’d probably drawn stares from passing guests; Carmen’s arm was draped tenderly over Chanel’s shoulder, while Chanel’s hand lay casually on the older woman’s knee. A large square portfolio sat next to a vase of pale pink roses so perfect you’d swear they were silk.
The older woman spotted him; she squeezed Bourget’s shoulder and nodded in his direction. Chanel turned and launched herself off the sofa, sending her sunglasses skidding across the parquet floor. Picking them up, MacNeice said, “Bonjour, Chanel,” and held out his hand. She brushed it aside, threw her arms around his neck, and held him close. He inhaled a scent so subtle that he could only assume it was the spring fragrance that comes with being a Parisienne.
“Je suis très contente que tu sois venu me voir.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I say how happy I am that you came to see me.”
Taken aback by Chanel’s enthusiasm, MacNeice gave her the glasses. “It’s wonderful to see you. Please introduce me.”
The other woman stood and thrust out her hand. “Carmen Weitzman. Thank you, Detective MacNeice, for saving the life of my beloved.”
MacNeice registered the soft touch of her hand; he’d expected a stockbroker’s vise grip. He smiled, enjoying how quickly his assumptions could be proven wrong. “You’re welcome. Though her life was actually spared by her captor.”
Tall and curvy, Carmen wore a tailored grey suit with electric blue pinstripes, a deep purple shirt, and, below her trouser cuffs, shimmering blue socks tucked into a pair of near-black oxfords.
Chanel patted the couch. “Please, MacNeice, sit with me.” She smiled openly and appeared half her age; she’d had no reason to smile in Dundurn. Carmen went in search of fresh coffee for three.
Ninety minutes and several cups later, MacNeice led the women to the hotel’s entrance. Chanel had wept several times during their meeting, and while she’d glanced at it frequently, the portfolio remained untouched. It, and all it represented, seemed to exude a power over her, but she didn’t want to know more about the creator of the images it contained other than what she’d known when rescued from the farmhouse.
As they stepped outside, Chanel turned back to MacNeice, pointing to the portfolio under his arm. “What will happen to that?”
“It’ll be filed away in an evidence room . . . and possibly never opened again.” He smiled tenderly. “Your role, Chanel, will never be forgotten. Not by you, and not by me.”
She swallowed hard, nodding to regain her composure. “Merci, MacNeice . . . I do owe my life to you. I will never forget.”
He watched as they strolled up rue Dauphine. Fifty yards on, she looked over her shoulder to see if he was still there — so he waved. Chanel pirouetted, raising her hands to her lips in a prayer-like gesture, before swinging around again and continuing on.
Back in the hotel, he again went off in search of breakfast as an antidote to the caffeine speeding through his bloodstream.
It wasn’t long before his mind started unravelling their affectionate parting. What if, his brain teased, Bourget had made a copy, or a dozen copies, of Venganza’s stunning homicidal photographs — for private collectors? MacNeice put a generous helping of the hotel’s strawberry jam on a piece of croissant, but he left it on the plate because his mind wasn’t finished. What if Chanel’s intimate knowledge of the artist’s technique — of killings doubling as works of art — only added to their value?
MacNeice’s frontal cortex broke the thread, recalling his old friend John Michaluk: “Mac, it’s like the two most famous words in sport . . . You never know.”
[1]
“Run, Jack, run!” The command was urgent, anguished, and final. Jack was frozen by the explosions illuminating the forest and the desperation of the command, causing him to betray the instinct to respond to a threat he couldn’t see. He started to run, hesitated, then turned back. Another explosion — a blinding flash — and the ground erupted. Something hot pierced his leg. The path he’d taken into the woods was no longer an option. He swung about and ran off into the night.
Jack hurtled through a colonnade of trees standing silent like soldiers, each laying claim to the slate sky above. He leapt over the fallen ones, was lashed by the limbs of young saplings and torn by needle-sharp buckthorn. Slipping sideways on the moss-covered rocks, he kept going. Driven by panic and terror, he flushed birds out of hiding and tore past their startled yellow eyes.
As he ran, his panic was replaced by a desire to seek help — to get home. His natural ability as a sprinter took over. While he couldn’t run flat out forever, he quickened his pace to the point where each footfall barely touched ground.
Reckless running cost him. Losing his footing on a shale embankment, he tumbled into a gully, and while scrambling for purchase, he stumbled again. When at last he gained traction, he raced onward with such determination that his remaining fear dissolved. In the darkn ess, Jack relied on his other senses. Smell and sound would have to do what sight could not.
Somewhere behind him came the report of another explosion. Jack kept running. He had no idea how far he’d gone or where he was. He simply trusted he’d find the way home.
Emerging from the forest, he was confronted by a wall of corn waving drunkenly in the night breeze. He stepped cautiously into the first row and ran for twenty yards — then, acting purely on instinct, he reversed direction and picked up speed. He would run to the end of the field, or, if necessary, the end of his breath.
Jack burst out of the cornfield into a drainage ditch and then onto a highway. A car horn blasted; its lights startled him and — before he could react — a fender grazed his hip, throwing him hard against the other side of the ditch.
Gasping for breath, he lay on his side as more cars passed. Within minutes, adrenaline and tenacity got him up again. Limping badly, Jack still believed he’d make it home.
In pain, his heart racing, Jack loped along the shoulder. Drivers honked their horns, worried he might dart in front of them.
He ran on, giving only fleeting glances to the silhouettes of barns and houses, the mist-covered cars and pickup trucks. He was certain he’d come upon a sight, a sound, or a familiar scent.
But — time slides. It’s never accounted for in the tick-tock-tick of a second hand. It slides, passing by unnoticed like a stranger on the street.
Had Jack known the moment he was spent — had he slowed to the point where he was walking, then stopped and fallen? Had he paused to ease the pain in his hip, check the bleeding from his leg, or just to gather strength to carry on? Whatever the reason, he eventually lay down on the gravel shoulder and, moments later, closed his eyes.
Though greatly diminished, his senses continued to track the sounds of engines, of night-birds and crickets and frogs calling between the waves of traffic. He noted a radio somewhere in the distance before its sound dwindled, pushed sideways by the wind.
The passing vehicles left exhaust-infused gusts to buffet and soothe him; the smell of dusty, dewy weeds comforted him. But as Jack’s breathing slowed and his chest stopped heaving, all those sounds and scents, like consciousness itself, faded — and his body finally surrendered to the dark.
[2]
“Hey, there. You okay, pal?”
“He dead, Bert?”
“No . . . but pretty banged up.” The dog lifted its head but couldn’t summon the strength to stand. Exhausted, its snout dropped slowly to the gravel, its eyes wide with fear or confusion. Bert saw the pool of blood around its hind leg. What hadn’t been absorbed by the gravel formed a gelatinous ruby shadow. “Al, grab that blanket from the trunk. We’ll take him over to Redsell’s.”
“The horse and cattle guy?”
“Yeah. He’ll either fix him up or put him down.” By now the dog was moaning softly. Bert settled him on the blanket, then withdrew a hand. “Christ! His back’s covered in blood and some kinda gore.”
Al leaned over. “Jesus, Bert, that looks bad. Hey, you got a post hammer back there — why not give it a whack on the head?”
Bert looked up. “Sure, Al . . . long as you do the whacking.”
“I’m juss sayin’ to put it out of its misery. I can’t do it; I’m a specifist.”
“Pacifist. We’ll take him to Redsell. I need to ask him some questions anyway.” Wrapped in the blanket, the dog’s body went limp. “Don’t you die on me now.”
It was dark inside the clinic, but Redsell’s pickup was there, so Bert rang the night bell. Moments later the reception fluorescents came to life.
“Seven o’clock, an early start for you . . .” A tall, slender man with tousled blond hair and blue eyes opened the clinic door. “We open at eight. Does this need dealing with now?”
“I think you’ll tell me.”
Chris Redsell let them in, locked the door, and led them through to the operating room. He lowered a large circular lamp and gently removed the blanket. On a table meant for horses and cattle, the dog looked tiny and defeated. Its eyes blinked several times against the light, and it struggled to get up. “Easy . . . easy. Let’s just have a look at you.” Redsell was calm and reassuring; the dog sighed, closed its eyes, and dropped back to the table.
“We’ll take a microchip reading, but first I’ll check these wounds. There’s a coffee machine next door. Make three; black for me.”
Waiting for the machine to brew, the two men looked at the photographs of large animals on the wall. “I guess they’re his happy customers,” Al said, peering closely at a Holstein.
“Yeah, some are thoroughbreds from Fort Erie. He’s one of the track’s go-to vets.”
When they returned, Redsell was washing his hands and the dog was still. “I’ve given him a sedative; that hind leg needs some work.” He finished drying his hands and pulled on a pair of surgical gloves. “He’s seen the wars — his name’s Jack.”
“You got that from the microchip?” Al asked.
“No. From that dangle-jangle on his collar.” Redsell called them over to the table, where his scalpel and instruments lay gleaming on a tray. “But this is interesting . . .” He pointed to a large area of matted blood on Jack’s backside. “There’s no injury here. That blood isn’t Jack’s. He’s got a nasty contusion on that hip, like he was hit — but the flesh there isn’t torn, so I don’t know what that belongs to . . .”
Looking closer, Bert asked, “What are those confetti things?”
“Shattered bone — again, not his. If I had to guess, something awful happened and Jack just ran himself out getting away from it. He was losing blood — a lot of it splattered on his belly and the back of his front legs,” Redsell said. “I’ll also test that blood and bone, so give me a couple of hours.”
[3]
Returning from the wine growers association, Bert and Al were surprised to see two cruisers and an unmarked car outside the clinic. Al’s chin dropped into his neck. “This doesn’t look good.”
Inside, they were immediately confronted by two cops in flak jackets, one with his hand resting on his sidearm. “What’s your business here, gentlemen?”
“We brought in an injured dog earlier.” Bert didn’t have to say another word; one of the cops turned and walked away. The receptionist offered an eye-roll in Bert’s direction. He interpreted that as something big about to drop on the morning’s good Samaritans.
The cop reappeared and waved them over. “In here,” he said. Inside were two more uniforms and a plainclothes detective who introduced himself: “Gerry Steiner, Detective Sergeant, Patrol Support.” The uniforms didn’t bother to look up.
Redsell was standing behind the operating table, sipping a coffee. “I’ll just give Bert and Al an update,” he said. “Jack’s fine. Something zipped through that hind leg, nicked the tendon, missed a blood vessel, and didn’t hit the tibia. I patched it up and did an X-ray of his hip; nothing’s broken, but I’m sure it hurts like hell. The rest of the blood and those tiny bone fragments are human. Dundurn’s chief pathologist is on her way.”
“What the hell?” Bert threw his hands on top of his head. “I mean — what the hell?”
“Exactly. Microchip identifies his owner as Dr. Evan Moore; lives over by Jordan Harbour.”
“We called; no answer.” Steiner watched both men. “Moore’s name doesn’t mean anything?” Al and Bert shook their heads. “Tell me about the dog; where’d you find him?” Steiner leaned against the wall, his hands slid casually into his pockets like he was watching a Little League game, one that didn’t include his kid.
Bert gave a quick overview of why they’d been on the road. His vineyard had taken years to break even, and now, with five seasons in the black, he wanted to expand his output and had purchased another hundred acres from a grape grower. “I was taking the signed deed over to the Wine Growers Association for registration. Al’s my field manager; we were on Highway 8, just past Vineland, when I spotted the dog on the shoulder and pulled over to take a look. I wanted to see Chris over here anyway . . .”
