Free Blood on a Saint by Anne Emery Page B

neighbourhood survey. There was a stepfather, a timid mother, the daughter walking alone late at night. One might mould those bits of information into a profile of sorts, but there were no concrete details that Monty could use. There were no names, specifically no boyfriends’ names. So the next stop would be the police station. The police had their man, as least as they saw things, but they would have looked into the victim’s background to see what might have led her to such a violent end. Monty hoped he might get something out of his police contact. If not, he would consider giving the assignment to a private investigator. But if he could tap into work that had already been done, he would begin there.
    He picked up the phone and called the police station for Constable Truman Beals. He was out, so Monty left a message and heard back within the hour. They arranged to meet at the Tim Hortons on Spring Garden Road.
    “Truman, how’s it going?” Monty asked when they were seated with their coffee.
    “Not too bad, Monty. You? Been blowing your harp at the Shag lately?”
    “Oh, yeah. The usual. You should do a guest performance again sometime soon.” Beals’s guest appearances with Monty’s blues band had become infrequent since Beals joined the cop shop. Too many “persons known to police” in the crowd at the Flying Stag, a.k.a. the Shag.
    “I’ll think it over. But in the meantime maybe Podgis will do a live show from there, little tribute to his lawyer after you get him off.”
    “Think I’ll get him off?”
    “Wouldn’t be the first shit bird you got released from captivity.”
    “Thank you, Truman. That makes me feel really good about myself. I won’t have to attend the self-esteem workshop this week.”
    “Damn. I won’t be seeing you there? You’re the only one in the whole group who shares with me. I feel a relapse coming on.”
    “You’ll get over it. Couple of nights on the beat, everybody waving and smiling at their local coppers, you’ll be your usual fulfilled, empowered self. But, to tide you over till then, here’s a chance to help a member of the defence bar help his wrongfully accused client beat the rap. Think how good that will feel.”
    “I’m armed, white boy. Don’t piss me off.”
    “Busy yourself with your coffee to cover the awkward moment while I try to figure out how to get this conversation to go where I want it to go.”
    Beals took a leisurely sip of his double-double. Monty did the same.
    “All right,” Beals said, “what are you after?”
    “Jordyn Snider’s love life.”
    “With Podgis, you mean? It didn’t last.”
    “Not with Podgis. As far as I know, they never met.”
    “They met. It was nasty, brutish, and short. Like him.”
    “Well, I can’t really expect you to be open-minded and inclusive about who else might have done this, Tru. But I know you would have looked into her background, to see how likely she would be to take up with Podgis on the spur of the moment. That would have involved her history with men. And that’s what I’m looking for. Her boyfriends.”
    “Brandon the rapist, you mean? That who you’re asking about?”
    “Must be. What’s the story? Was Jordyn the victim?”
    “No. It was another, very young, girl.”
    “And the guy?”
    “Brandon Toth, eighteen years old when this happened two years ago, convicted of sexual assault causing bodily harm. Got eight years.”
    “Whoa! Must have been bad.”
    “Oh, yeah.”
    “So he’s still in the pen.”
    “He’ll always be in. Soon as he gets out, he’ll do it again. And back inside he goes.”
    “And this was Jordyn’s beau.”
    “Till they broke up.”
    “I should hope they broke up. Having your boyfriend sent to jail for raping another girl is one of the leading causes of women ending relationships, according to the latest study in — ”
    “ He dumped her .”
    “Oh. Met somebody new in the showers in the penitentiary?”
    “Who the fuck knows? Point is, he’s