This Thing of Darkness. Barbara Fradkin
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Название: This Thing of Darkness
Автор: Barbara Fradkin
Издательство: Ingram
Жанр: Ужасы и Мистика
Серия: An Inspector Green Mystery
isbn: 9781926607146
isbn:
He shook his head. His mother wasn’t born yesterday, she knew blood when she saw it. She’d figure he was into something hot and heavy. But she wouldn’t say a word to his father. She’d wash the stuff and never ask. It didn’t pay to ask.
He began to empty the pockets to make sure there was no weed or folded bills that could get ruined in the wash. In the third pocket, his hand closed around something heavy and cold. He pulled it out. He stared at it a moment then yanked his hand away like the object was hot. It clattered to the floor.
Heart pounding, he picked it up again. Stretched the gold band, cradled the heavy disk. It was still ticking, the hands on the gold face keeping perfect time.
Which was no surprise, because below the dial, in sleek, classy letters, was the word Rolex.
He was on the phone before he’d even thought it through. “Nadif! What the fuck happened Saturday night!”
“Sh-h!” Nadif hissed and slammed the phone down without saying a word. Omar raced down the stairs, stopped for a moment to listen for his mother, who was busy with the laundry in the basement. He ran out the front door. Only when his bare feet hit the cold pavement did he realize he’d forgotten his shoes.
Ignoring the cold, he headed diagonally across the street and had almost reached Nadif ’s townhouse when he saw the curtains twitch in the upstairs room. A few seconds later Nadif came barrelling out his front door and ran at him, grabbing his arm and dragging him behind a van parked in the laneway beside the house.
“Fuck, man! You want to get us arrested? The cops are everywhere!”
“Sorry,” Omar said. Sorry was always the first word out of his mouth when trouble started, but now he took a few seconds to process what Nadif had said. His mouth went dry. “You think my phone’s tapped?”
“I don’t know about yours, but you can sure as hell bet mine is. The cops were all over me about that old man’s death on Saturday night.”
Omar grabbed his arm. “What the fuck happened? What was in that weed! I don’t remember a thing.”
“Nothing happened. Got nothing to do with us.”
“But I got blood all over me. All over my clothes!”
“You fell off the sidewalk. So wasted you didn’t even see it coming. Fell flat on your face.”
Omar was silent a moment, testing this theory against his memory. Didn’t ring any bells. “But what about the knife?”
Nadif ’s face hardened. “What knife?”
Omar felt panic rising. “I remember a knife. I remember blood.”
Nadif gripped him by both arms and dug his fingers in. “Listen to me. Nothing. Happened. Nothing. We were out partying, we came home, you tripped and fell, end of story.”
To his shame, Omar felt hot tears gathering behind his eyes. “But I have a Rolex watch in my pocket. I don’t know where it came from.”
Nadif released him and stepped back from him almost like he was pushing him away. “I don’t know nothing about a Rolex watch. I don’t know where you got that. But my advice? Get rid of it. Now. Throw it down the sewer, chuck it in the river. Just get rid of it. And don’t ever, ever talk about this again.”
The phone was ringing on Green’s desk when he reached his office that Tuesday morning. Fearing it was Devine with another last minute demand before her job interview, he debated letting it go to voicemail, but after a long, stuffy meeting with the Provincial Crowns, any diversion was welcome.
A dulcet Southern drawl greeted him. “Inspector Green? Agent Jim Benoit of the FBI here.”
The name rang no bells. “Yes, sir. How can I help you?”
“Your department put in a search request for a David Joseph Rosenthal yesterday?”
Green masked his surprise. There was a protocol for requesting assistance from south of the border. Had Levesque deliberately circumvented it? “Yes, he’s next of kin in a death up here. Any luck?”
“Well, we found him for you. That is, we found his residence, and local police paid a visit to his wife. According to her, he’s out of the country on business, and she doesn’t know for how long. Do you want us to trace him?”
“She isn’t able to contact him herself?”
“That’s correct. According to her, that’s normal. He’s a busy man, apparently. Flies all over the world.”
“But surely—” Green stopped himself. There was no point badgering the FBI with his skepticism. He asked for the woman’s phone number, then thanked the FBI agent and asked him to carry on the search.
Afterwards he studied the information he had jotted down, an address in Baltimore that meant nothing to him. He dialled the number, listened for five rings, and braced for voicemail. He was thrown off-guard when the phone was snatched up.
“Yes!”
“This is Inspector Michael Green of the Ottawa Police. May I speak with Mrs. Rosenthal, please?”
“Who?”
Green repeated his introduction, as gentle and polite as she was abrupt.
“Oh. Is this in relation to his father?”
“Yes. We really need to get in touch with Mr. Rosenthal.”
“It’s Dr. Rosenthal, even if his father never admitted it. Two PhDs and half an MD weren’t good enough for him. Why do you want David? Did the old man die or something?”
Green abandoned courtesy. “Yes. That’s why I need to find him.”
“Huh.” The woman paused. “Well, I don’t know where he is. New Dehli, Frankfurt, Tel Aviv? He doesn’t keep me informed.”
“Does he have a cellphone or Blackberry?”
“I don’t have those numbers.” Another pause, the sound of smoke dragging into lungs. “Look, you might as well know. He doesn’t live with us any more.”
“Where does he live?”
“Take your pick. He’s got six houses. Well, maybe only four or five now. He’s had to sell a couple off. But he may not be at any of them. He has his own plane, and he’s always off wheeling and dealing.”
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