Ruggage Read online

  He passed Lareault in the arched doorway. The inspector raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

  The rooms were so empty they echoed. Since there was no place in the living room to sit, Fenn stood and examined the walls where small brass hangers denoted where pictures had been. If he looked carefully, he could see the paint was slightly darker where the frames had prevented sun fade. From snippets of conversation in the kitchen, he gathered that the furniture removal had not been authorized. In fact, Mandy’s father, the chap in the golf shirt and slacks, became indignant at the suggestion that his household goods had been repossessed.

  The main floor wasn’t entirely open-concept yet the entrance to each room was wide. From where he stood, Fenn had a good view of the kitchen, foyer, connecting hallway, and the stairways that went up to the second floor and down to the basement.

  The basement seemed to be where all the forensics techs were going.

  Fenn checked his watch. Carole would have rescheduled Sam Parsons by now. If Sergeant Bloomfield kept him waiting much longer, he’d also have to rebook his eleven o’clock.

  The sound of footsteps on tile, undamped by rugs or drapes or the fabric of furniture, signified movement from the kitchen. Inspector Lareault led the way to the basement followed by the Rolland family. Sergeant Bloomfield detoured to the living room.

  Fenn gave him a friendly smile but kept his hands in his pockets.

  Bloomfield flipped to a fresh page in his notebook.

  “Charleton Fenn,” he said as he wrote. He looked up. “Did you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Do you know who did it?”

  “Did what?”

  “Why are you here, Chas?”

  “Mandy, the daughter. I’m teaching her to drive.”

  “Right, I remember. You were a driving instructor.”

  “Still am.”

  Bloomfield gave a flat smile. “Anything you can tell us?”

  “Always check your mirror when you brake.”

  Bloomfield’s flat smile curved up a little. “So, you brought Mandy here this morning. Where’d you pick her up?”

  Fenn told the big cop what little he knew. If Bloomfield decided not to reciprocate, he might get more details the next time he took Mandy out.

  “It was her first lesson. I picked her up at her grandmother’s house.”

  “What time was that?”

  “About ten past nine. I take it someone burglarized the Rollands.”

  Bloomfield looked up from his pad to glance around the empty room.

  “Not much gets past you.”

  “Is there a body in the basement?”

  That drew a hard stare from the sergeant. “Are you a journalist now, too?”

  “C’mon, Sergeant. Perhaps we can help each other.”

  “Mr. Fenn, you can do us both a favour by telling me everything you know then minding your own business. Now, got anything else?”

  “Only that I was here before I went to grandma’s house. A couple minutes before nine. The place was deserted.”

  “Did you notice any doors or windows open?”

  Fenn shook his head, and Bloomfield made a note. “That everything?”

  “That’s it, unless there’s something you’d like to share with me. Probably take a tractor-trailer to empty this place. I’m on the road, driving around town, all day. I could keep an eye out.”

  “If we need your help, we’ll put out a media release.”

  “Okay. But don’t blame me when the headline reads ‘Bloomfield Baffled By Burlington Break-In’”. Fenn checked his watch again and headed for the door. “I really do have to go, but you’ve got my number.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Dennis Collier rose from his crouch and nodded to the men standing beside the pool table. A body bag had been laid out and by the time the coroner had stripped off his nitrile gloves, the paramedics were ready to pull up the zipper. One of them wheeled a collapsible gurney over.

  Collier put up a hand. “Leave her there for a minute, lads. The Inspector wants to bring the homeowners down for a look.”

  It was only due to the clean state of the corpse that the coroner hadn’t objected to Lareault’s request. His first impression was the young woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties, had suffered a single killing blow to the back of the head. Otherwise, she was ‘presentable’. Clothed in summer attire: baggy t-shirt with a faded McMaster University logo, cut-off-jeans shorts, and a grubby pair of Nike running shoes, her tanned skin suggested plenty of outdoor activity. The rug she’d been rolled up in had a Persian pattern. It was wider than the body had been long, and longer than it was wide.

  All that, in itself, was not unusual. Bodies had been bundled in broadloom since time immemorial. A body with two skulls; however, was a first for any of the team. Collier and Motungi had carefully unrolled the carpet, taking several photographs as each detail was revealed. It was as the rug lay flat and the corpse completely exposed that the second skull, devoid of skin, flesh, or contents, was discovered tucked between the victim’s knees.

  Ancient-looking and missing the lower jaw, Collier could tell it had belonged to an adult male. The attached upper teeth, worn down and the same tea-stain colour as the skull, were in surprisingly good condition. Their lack of decay, usually caused by sugar which was unavailable until the seventeenth century, led him to estimate an age of at least three-hundred years. Motungi took several more photographs and placed the artifact in a sealable chain of custody envelope. While she used a HEPA-filtered hand-vac to collect any minute particles left on the tiled floor, Collier wondered what connection an ancient skull had with a twenty-first century corpse.

  He made a mental note to check the victim’s fingertips, something he’d do anyway though, in this case, he’d look for rough skin and short, possibly broken, nails with dirt beneath. There had been no wallet or purse, pockets had been empty, not even a necklace pendant with initials for identification. If it could be determined she was an archaeologist, it would be a place to start.

  The possibility that one of the Rolland family knew the victim was why the Detective Inspector had them coming down the stairs. Seeing that Koki Motungi was still vacuuming, Lareault stopped on the bottom step.

  Lareault raised a hand to halt the procession. “Just give her a minute, folks.” To Collier he said, “Can we show them the artifact?”

  Collier brought the evidence bag over and passed it to him. “It’s not fragile, but please handle it gently.”

  “Is that a skull?” Mandy Rolland leaned forward to look over her mother’s shoulder.

  Mr. Rolland held out his hands. “May I?”

  Lareault handed him the bag. “Have you seen this before?”

  Julian Rolland slowly shook his head. He turned it over to look inside the cavity. “What’s it doing here?”

  “Let me see it, Dad.”

  “It came in the rug with the victim. What about you, Mandy? Not part of a school project?”

  “I wish.” The teen showed none of the distaste currently on her mother’s face.

  “Give it back to him, Mandy. I’d rather not touch it.” Beth Rolland had spotted the body bag and clearly wanted to get the next bit over as soon as possible.

  Koki Motungi, now finished, had moved to a corner of the room to seal the vacuum’s sample pouch.

  “Okay, folks,” said Collier. “If you can walk carefully in my footsteps to just over here.” He led them to the wet bar where they could look at the unrolled carpet.

  “Was this always here in the basement?”

  “No,” said Mrs. Rolland. “That’s not ours.”

  “Looks like a nice one,” said Lareault. “Have any of you seen it before?”

  Mandy and her dad shook their head. Beth went down on her haunches for a closer look. “It’s not that nice.”

  With a thumb and forefinger, she rolled back a corner to look at the underside.

  “Machine-made. Probably polyester. Wouldn’t waste my money on this.” She stood back up.

  “Beth’s family sells antiques,” said Julian Rolland.

  “Oh? Ever had any skulls come through the shop?” Lareault handed the evidence bag back to Collier who returned it to the pool table.

  “My father once bought and sold a pair of shrunken heads,” said Beth.

  “I guess there’s a market for everything,” he replied diplomatically. “Dennis, perhaps we could look at the victim now.”

  Collier knelt beside the cadaver and slowly undid a zipper that ran in an L-shape to reveal a clear vinyl window. The face of the corpse was visible, yet the layer of plastic gave it a wax figure appearance. The Rollands inched closer and bent forward. Mandy now had an arm round her father’s waist.

  Beth Rolland peered down for maybe three seconds, then turned away. Her husband and daughter had an almost scientific detachment to their posture. Collier looked up at them.

  “Anyone you know?”

  “No,” they said together and straightened up.

  “How about you, Mrs. Rolland,” said Lareault.

  She shook her head. Her summer tan seemed to be a shade lighter. “Why is this person in our house? Our whole life has just been stolen and we’re left with a dead body. What sort of sicko does that?”

  Julian Rolland tried to take his wife’s hand, but she folded her arms and turned away. He looked at Lareault. “Are we done here? We’d like to go upstairs.”

  Lareault indicated the coroner could zip up the viewing flap. “Sorry to put you through that, folks. Thankfully, it’s nobody close to you. Let’s convene in the kitchen.”

  Collier gave them a head start, then motioned that the paramedics could remove the corpse. When he and Motungi were alone, he said, “What do you think?”

&n
bsp; They began to roll up the rug. Koki had a bag large enough to seal it in, but Collier would let one of her team help with that. Union rules.

  “The only reaction I would call genuine was that of the daughter. Not saying the parents were lying, but they’ve had a lifetime to work on their poker face.”

  “What did you think of the rug appraisal?” The coroner packed up his examination gear.

  “She was showing off. Could be a defensive reflex. This has turned her world upside down and she likely felt the need to regain some control.”

  “Understandable, I suppose.”

  “So, who discovered the body?”

  “The real estate agent. She had a viewing booked and arrived early to open up, and to air the place out a bit. Was surprised to find it empty and called the homeowners to see if they’d arranged movers. Came down here and found the vic. That’s when we got the call.” Collier looked around to make sure he’d collected everything he’d come in with.

  “Where is she now?”

  “The agent? Frank Bloomfield took down her particulars and let her leave. She’ll go to the station later to sign a formal statement and give a set of fingerprints to compare with what we find here.”

  “Bet she’s bummed.” The forensic tech placed the collection pouch containing the floor particulates next to the skull.

  “Yeah. Nice commission on properties like this. Did you know that Evan Lareault lives about a mile down the road from here?”

  Koki Motungi gave a coy smile. “Actually, yes, I do.”

  “Oh,” said Collier, and quickly snapped his bag closed. “Right.”

  CHAPTER 4

  The diesel clatter of the Freightliner changed tempo as Marshall Stober downshifted and pulled off Barton Street into a nearly empty parking lot. He drove along the side of a large building that had once been a warehouse for a DIY home renovation store. Customers would order from a catalogue and drive their vehicle directly into the warehouse to pick up the product. The owner had hoped that with less overhead for displays and staff, the lower prices would allow him to compete with the big chain stores in town.

  He was wrong.

  So he cut his losses, leased the property out, and with rent payments deposited monthly to his bank account, barely gave it a second thought.

  There was one vehicle, an older model Mercedes sedan, parked next to the office. Stober stopped the rig to let his passenger jump down.

  “Tell Benny to open the bay door, Devon.”

  He waited until Devon Millcroft went through the frosted glass entrance, then put the truck back in gear and rolled slowly toward the rear of the building. He cranked the wheel to aim the rig at a large, segmented metal door and braked to a halt. The dash clock showed it was a few minutes after nine. They’d made good time. Only three hours to empty the house and drive to the depot in the east end of Hamilton.

  That was the good part.

  The memory of the corpse made him shake his head. Who on Earth leaves a frickin’ stiff rolled up in a frickin’ rug, in a mansion? That crap might happen in a crack house but, jeez! They were fortunate to have started upstairs and had the trailer pretty well loaded by the time they got to the basement. Then again, to look on the bright side, it might distract the cops. Take the focus off the burglary.

  The door rolled up.

  Just inside, Millcroft stood beside a balding heavy-set man in black slacks and a white shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He looked like one of those guys who might have played on the offensive line of his high school football team, then, for the next thirty years had given up sports for pasta. He’d been christened Maurice, but since his last name was Goodman, he was known to all as Benny.

  Benny held up two fingers and Stober eased off the clutch. The Freightliner rolled forward between red lines on the shiny concrete floor that marked out aisle two. The first aisle already had a trailer, and there was a third aisle currently vacant. The rest of the cavernous space was taken up with rows of industrial shelving. To walk among them was like shopping in a well-stocked consignment store. Many of the items were in nearly new condition, and those that weren’t would be priced accordingly. Benny was always ready to make a deal.

  Benny was a fence. He was the first to pay cash for stolen goods that would then be passed along until there were enough degrees of separation that their next owners either wouldn’t know of the illegality, or wouldn’t care. It was a different kind of chain store, one with many links. Guys like Stober and Millcroft supplied the product. Benny then distributed his stock to a variety of consignment shops, auction houses, antique stores, and second-hand or thrift shops who put the items back into the retail market. Most outlets were in Ontario, but occasionally he’d send a truckload to Montreal. The further from the source, the better.

  Stober killed the motor and got down from the cab, ready to unhitch the trailer and hook onto the other if it was scheduled to go. He was surprised when Benny stopped him.

  “Not so sure I want this load,” he said, holding up a pudgy hand. A chunky gold bracelet slid around his wrist. He stood sideways as if prepared to walk away. “The kid just told me about the stiff.”

  Stober was reaching beneath the trailer for the stabilizer crank. He straightened up. “Hey, it’s not like it’s in the truck. We didn’t even bring the rug.”

  “The goods don’t matter. All the cops will do is jot down what got took and ‘keep an eye out’ for it.” Benny liked to emphasize with finger quotes. “Dead bodies, now. That’s a whole other story. They’ll have a BOLO on you guys before the day’s out. I don’t need that kind of heat. Probably best if you just abandon the trailer at the airport.”

  Stober shot a look of exasperation at Millcroft.

  “Relax, Benny. Nobody saw us. There were no security cameras. We wore hats and gloves, so no prints or DNA. We were in and out. Got some really good, high-quality stuff.”

  Benny had started ambling back to his office.

  “At least look at it, Benny. Dev, open up and show him what we got.”

  Millcroft unlatched the doors, and they lowered the ramp. Benny stopped walking and turned around. For a moment, he stood with hands on hips and gazed at the back of the trailer. Stober and Millcroft were steady guys who never brought him chipboard. Muttering something they couldn’t make out, he walked up the incline to the top of the ramp.

  “What’re ya going to do with that?” He pointed with his shoe at the wall safe they had packed by the door.

  “That goes to our connection as payment for the security code,” said Millcroft.

  “And who’s that?”

  “Got ourselves some kind of cat-burglar. Gave us the door code in exchange for the safe.” Millcroft was proud of his contact, but Benny didn’t seem to care. He peered at a long-case clock and a couple of paintings that were easily accessible. What could be seen of the furniture revealed expensive fabrics and actual wood. It was a nice haul. He still grimaced and shook his head.

  “The stiff changes everything. Problem with quality stuff is it attracts attention.”

  “Yeah, but it also sells fast,” argued Stober. “Won’t stay on the market long enough to get noticed. Send it to Montreal. Different language, different culture. It’s almost like a different country, up there.”

  Millcroft opened a carton and brought out an art déco vase with nude women in relief around it. It looked like frosted glass.

  “You like this La-li-que, stuff, don’t you, Benny,” he said, reading the inscription on the base.

  “That’s Lalique, La-leek, you cretin. Hand it here before you drop it.”

  Millcroft grinned at Stober. Though he knew little about expensive crystal, he did know Benny had a weak spot for it. He unwrapped another piece. “Bunch more in here—but if you’re not interested.”

  Benny leaned over to peer into the box. Millcroft closed the flaps.

  “C’mon, Benny. Time’s wasting. Wha’d’ya say?”

  “I’ll give you two-hundred for the crystal. The rest, either find someone else or dump it. It’s part of a murder investigation, for Crissakes. If it comes back on me, it’ll shut me down.”

  “Who said anything about murder? The stiff could be dead from natural causes.” The last thing Stober wanted was to drive the trailer away still full. He’d figured on at least ten or twelve grand for the load.