10.19.2008 / EP. 48
Police Business
Brendan woke up and banged his knee on the dashboard as Pam started her car outside the Governor’s house. As he cursed, he recognized Andreas Rinehart, a businessman from Europe who spent a lot of time with the Carreras. There was a deal of some kind in the works that might or might not be police business. Brendan knew Sam Carver, an old buddy of the Governor’s, absolutely trustworthy. And this Chinese fellow was the man from the reception, Steven Lin. Brendan used Albany’s new photo equipment to capture some images of Lin. It was early, but he felt tired and old and stale. He wouldn’t be much good if he went back to headquarters or followed one of this group. It was time to go home and sleep.
Twenty phone messages were waiting for Brendan in the morning. He hadn’t slept well, though the other officers looked no better: bleary-eyed, comatose and clumsy. What would they do without coffee? Most of the messages went straight to delete, proof that nobody should call a police station at night. One of the calls Brendan returned, albeit reluctantly, was from a Wanda Furness. She was responding to a newspaper photo of the unidentified man found dead in a car. Her message said he looked like someone she’d met on holiday, but the picture wasn’t clear. Brendan thought Wanda was the type who phoned the police to get attention, but he couldn’t ignore the chance she might know something. He’d visit her quickly before picking up the real work of the day. The real work was the body in the park. His cases were growing so stale he’d soon grow mould.
Wanda Furness was a surprise. She worked at the Howe Branch of the Albany Public Library and looked every inch the part. A mousy 43-year old, Wanda had a thin red streak in her hair that was easy to miss. It was probably the only adventurous thing she’d ever done. She toiled in the reference section, helping high school delinquents find facts for essays and unemployables decode the forms that paid them welfare. On her holidays, she broke out of the pattern. Wanda Furness loved Club Med. She’d been everywhere from Tahiti to Mozambique. And, yes, she’d taken a snapshot of Mr Mystery. Brendan had to admit there was a strong likeness. “He didn’t want me to take pictures,” Wanda complained. “But we spent every moment together.” She had the coyness to blush. Brendan thought it was charming. “How could I not take a souvenir?” How indeed, Brendan thought. Wanda’s snapshot showed Mr Mystery in profile on the beach. The height and weight are about right, thought Brendan. And you could just see a mole on his neck. Mr Mystery went by Georges Ralet, said Wanda. But when he was getting drinks once she’d fished through his wallet and found ID for Georges Daloux. Wanda guessed he was married and didn’t want complications, which was all right by her. She liked her life and didn’t intend to change it. He was French; Wanda would swear to that. She spoke the language and Georges was fluent. He wasn’t Bayou or Quebecois or Martiniquais either. He was born and raised in Paris. She’d swear it. Brendan had Wanda email him the photo and drove back to the station.
This was where police work became an art. Georges Daloux or Ralet sounded Parisian, but that could be disguise. Brendan sent the photo to Louisiana and Quebec as well as France. Which photo? Brendan decided on a frontal post mortem and Wanda’s snapshot. Someone might recognize the face and not the body, or the reverse. And what to say about the man? Cast the net too narrow and you catch no fish. Too broad, and you get the dogcatcher. Brendan directed his faxes to missing persons departments. He didn’t say the man was dead, but inquired whether anyone had reported him missing. He said the man was probably French and the physical features were all they knew about him.
Ten hours later, Brendan had his answer. Wanda was right. It was Paris. Georges Daloux. His brother had reported him missing a week after the body was found. The brother said Daloux worked for the French Department of Foreign Affairs in the passport office. A minor official, just the sort who lusted after the lavish sun, food and sex that Club Med provided. He would contrast them with the routine of his job, thought Brendan. A lot like Wanda herself. Georges and Wanda might have made a good couple. Brendan, however, had to learn what Georges was doing in Albany. Brendan assumed he wasn’t chasing Wanda. The brother had no idea. The family was small, only Georges and himself were left. They weren’t particularly close. No, the brother didn’t have the money to ship the body back to France. Neither of them were Churchgoers. Brendan could do what he liked with the body. Brendan hung up. The brother had dampened his enthusiasm.
It was in the heart of doughnut time, mid morning, that Brendan drew the threads together. They didn’t quite match, but they didn’t not match either. Ms Carrera’s friend is Mr Europe and here is good old Georges, from France also. Brendan flipped through the file. Andreas Rinehart, he repeated to himself. A coincidence he and the body arrive at roughly the same time. It means nothing, he told himself. Yet Brendan couldn’t help feel his adrenalin flow. He’d found a scent.
At which time precisely, Milly was throwing up in a washroom beside her office in the Quall Building.
