Law and Disorder. Mary Jane Maffini
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I forget to mention your office got blown up?”
I shrugged. “I don’t think I’m going back to that. There’s a lot more assistance for victims now than there used to be. There’s victims’ support in the Crown’s Office, in the police department, and some high profile groups offer it too. It was just me and Alvin at JFV anyway. I think we’ll both be glad to move on.”
As Alvin Ferguson has always been the world’s worst assistant, the modern office equivalent to wearing a millstone around your neck while being taunted by an albatross, I felt the need to add emphatically, “In separate directions, it goes without saying.”
Perhaps the emphasis came from the fact that Alvin had been camped in my house since his most recent housing problems. This was hard for many people to understand, but suffice to say that I am a MacPhee from Sydney, Nova Scotia, and Alvin is a Ferguson from Sydney, Nova Scotia, and, as long as my father is alive, I will have to honour the Cape Breton tradition of helping one’s compatriots.
Mombourquette had moved on conversationally. “You’re what, forty? You could go back into practice. Maybe even legal aid.”
I thought he was going to choke from laughing. When he pulled himself together, he said, “Hey, why not join one of the big criminal defence firms? You could end up representing guys like Brugel.”
“True enough. Or I could just stick pins in my eyes. In the unlikely event that I go back to legal aid work, I’ll let you know, Leonard. In the meantime, try not to worry your fuzzy little ears about me.”
“Speaking of Alvin, that place of yours might have been easier to sell before your crazy assistant redecorated.”
I shrugged. What could I say? Alvin has an artistic talent that has to be experienced to be believed and a spirit that can’t be crushed. I’d been in Italy. He’d been watching the fort. The house was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. And after all, it wasn’t like I even liked or wanted it. On the other hand, I couldn’t let Mombourquette take a free shot at Alvin.
“I kind of like the Italian theme,” I lied.
Mombourquette rolled his eyes and kept pressing my buttons. “Pull the other one,” he said before changing the subject yet again. “What about Ray Deveau in Sydney? Anything happening?”
“Does the entire population of Ottawa have to be informed about every detail in my life?” I snapped.
I had reason to snap. My sisters were bullying me to remarry. Edwina, Donalda and Alexa kept harping that ten years was long enough to be widowed. Everyone in my family found Sgt. Ray Deveau of the Cape Breton Regional Police irresistible. I found him irresistible too, maybe even more than irresistible. Calm, gentle, supportive, cute, widowed as well. He’d been a good husband, and he was still a fine father. Maybe they were right. I kept mentioning that there are 1,641 kilometres of Trans-Canada Highway between Ray and me. I guess I was the only one who thought that was any kind of an impediment.
“You’ll be the first to know if anything changes in my relationship status, Leonard. But you know what, that would make us cousins of a sort.”
He flinched.
I grinned. Wolfishly, I hoped.
Mombourquette averted his eyes. “Something’s happening.”
Kristen Wentzell, a cop I knew by name and reputation, was approaching us. With her blonde hair and piercing blue eyes, she could have had any of the more commanding female roles in a Wagner opera. She ignored me. “Did you hear the news, Lennie?”
“Hear what?” Mombourquette said. His whiskers twitched. He did not tilt his neck to look up at Wentzell, who was easily six foot two. She took up a lot of space. The Kevlar vest didn’t flatter her, but it did add to her imposing demeanour. For a split second I wanted one for myself.
“You call yourself a detective? We just got the word about Thorsten. Do you know where he showed up?” Wentzell was enjoying herself. Cats and canaries came to mind.
I said, “The bottom of your kid’s aquarium?”
“Close,” she said, giving me a booming laugh in return.
If there’s one thing Mombourquette hates, it’s other people’s banter. “Spit it out, Wentzell.”
Wentzell’s grin slipped. She glanced at Mombourquette, possibly thinking about snapping him in two.
I nodded encouragement. “Can’t wait to hear it.”
I thought I heard Mombourquette mutter, “Broad really pisses me off.”
I said, “In our lifetime, Constable Wentzell. Detective Mombourquette has places to go, people to see, possibly even things to do.”
She deflated slightly. I am such a killjoy. “Word is they found him swimming in the Rideau.”
“Rollie Thorsten? The consummate defence hack? What was he doing in the river instead of in court?” I bleated, falling into the trap.
Wentzell shook her head. Her blue eyes were shining.
Mombourquette said, “What of it?”
“On the bottom,” Wentzell said, obviously disappointed that she couldn’t drag the story out any further.
I said, “On the bottom?”
“You got it.”
“You mean drowned?”
She grinned happily. “Just preliminary information, of course.”
Mombourquette said, “Dead’s good enough.”
I gave him a dirty look and turned back to Wentzell.
“Are you sure?”
“Looks like it.” By this time, her grin was practically tickling her ears.
Mombourquette brightened. “Best news I’ve heard in months.”
Wentzell’s voice had carried, and a murmur was sweeping the area. Shocked as they were by the idea of Thorsten’s death, people around us chuckled nervously. The news was spreading like a brush fire through the crowded hallways.
“Too bad I’m on duty or I’d go celebrate,” Wentzell said.
“What is the matter with you?” I said. “You just told me the man’s dead.”
“Where’s your sense of occasion?” Wentzell said.
Speaking of sense of occasion, at that moment P. J. Lynch, who obviously smelled story, elbowed his way toward us, red hair tousled, determination across his face. People stepped out of his way. At this stage of his career, P. J. needs a big story, something that will catapult him out of the day to day stuff. If Rollie Thorsten had really been found dead at the bottom of the Rideau River, that could be quite a boost for him.
I guess P. J. had never seen Wentzell before, because he stopped and stared. In a cartoon, he would have fallen flat on his freckled face, and giant red cartoon hearts would have circled his head. In real life, he just stood there, apparently stunned. P. J.’s probably five eleven, but Wentzell managed to look down on him.
“You should close that mouth of yours before you start to drool,” Mombourquette said helpfully.
Wentzell smirked, folded her arms, and looked away.
It takes more than that to keep P. J. down. In fact, he can’t be kept down. I wouldn’t waste my time trying. He deftly moved in front of Wentzell and stuck out his hand. “P. J. Lynch. I’m from the Citizen.”
“You’ll have to wait for the press briefing,” she said.
“Hey, not everything’s about work,” P. J. said. “I just thought that I heard you saying something about—”
“No comment.”
Wentzell swaggered off down the hallway, substantial