Woman Chased by Crows by Marc Strange Read Free Book Online

damn point. He was
supposed
to be in the city, working our case like he said he was going to.” She looked directly at Orwell. “Not up here.”
    Orwell was at a loss. He couldn’t help her. “Wish I could tell you more,” he said. “I got the impression he wasn’t exactly sure
what
he was doing. He mentioned a partner he had some years back, named O’Grady, you know him?”
    â€œDylan? Sure. Big Smoothie O’Grady. A natural politician. What about him?”
    â€œHe and O’Grady questioned a ballet teacher six years ago about a murder in High Park. The woman confessed, but it turned out she couldn’t have done it.”
    â€œI know the one, I know the one. He told me about it. Said she was certifiable, always calling 9-1-1. So what? If she was the biggest nutbar roaming the city, I’d be out of a job.”
    â€œShe moved up here, has a dance studio in town.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œHe thought there was some connection between her and the Russian man.”
    â€œ
What
Russian man?” She was on her feet again and pacing.
    â€œThe one . . .”
    â€œI know, I know: on the Queensway.” She was impatient — with him, with puzzles, riddles, the scarcity of anything approaching rationality. “I don’t know anything about any damn Russian man. What was the connection?”
    â€œApparently the man had Anya Daniel’s picture in his wallet.”
    â€œThat’s the dancer?” She waited, palms up. “That’s it?”
    â€œAnd he was somehow connected to the ballet.”
    â€œOh Lord Jesus on a bicycle! This is so stupid it makes me want to puke.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” Orwell said. “I really am.”
    She rubbed her face with both hands, pushed her hair back and held it for a moment on the top of her head, staring out at Vankleek Street. “He was
such
an asshole,” she said. “A charming, good-looking asshole. He kept secrets. You’re not supposed to keep secrets from your partner. I mean you can have a private life, sure, but things that are going to affect the partnership, things you should know just to be able to back each other up, cover for each other, shit, shit, you have to share.”
    â€œI agree,” Orwell said.
    â€œI had a lump.” She wiped a hand across her chest as if brushing away crumbs. “Turned out to be nothing, but I was a little freaked. I told him. I didn’t hide it. I said I was worried, I said I was going in to have it checked out, I made sure he knew exactly what was what.” She turned from the window, spread her hands wide, asking for something unavailable, something that made sense. “Okay if I hang around for a while? I’m not supposed to be working the case, but I’d like to find out what’s happening. I’ll stay out of people’s way.”
    Orwell stood, spread his arms. “My house is your house,” he said. “Hey, wait a sec.” He motioned her toward the door, pointed to the far side of the room. “Stacy Crean. Over by the window. You met her last year.”
    â€œRight. Dating Natty Bumpo. What about her?”
    â€œFirst on the scene,” he said. He put his hand on Adele’s shoulder and gave her a gentle shove. “She found the body.”

    She didn’t like either of the detectives. She didn’t bother to remember their names. One had a moustache like a dirty toothbrush and the other one had a pimple over his left eyebrow. Their voices matched their distinguishing characteristics — Dirty Toothbrush sounded like his yap was full of bubbles, Pimple squeezed his words and breathed through his mouth. They were both big. They wanted to intimidate her. She laughed inside her head.
    â€œHe was here to talk to you.”
    â€œHe did not talk to me.” She lit a Players with her brass Zippo.
    â€œDon’t smoke.” Pimple.
    â€œMy studio, I pay