Free Raw Bone by Scott Thornley Page B

promise anything specific. He was about to hang up when he volunteered something else. “The guy that towed it in said it’s not local. The numbers on the side are American and the draft is so shallow, it really is meant for bass fishing on a river, not Lake Ontario or even Dundurn Bay. We’re checking the registration now.”
    It wasn’t just that a shallow draft boat couldn’t make it across the bay in November or December. To dump a body wrapped in a rope with a heavy anchor overboard would take a man much more robust than Byrne. But, when the winds of winter were howling over the water, crossing with three people might have drowned them all. No, MacNeice didn’t think Byrne was the prime suspect, but he wasn’t ruling out that Byrne knew who was.
    When MacNeice turned, Aziz gave him the update on her interview with Salty Conner. She had taken a Google Earth aerial view of the park beyond the promenade and asked the old man to point to where the wagon-puller entered the park and where he went after leaving thewagon. Salty drew the line with his finger from east to west, saying, “Came in this way, left that way.” He tapped the paper, indicating south.
    “I asked him, ‘What makes you think he went south and not north?’ ” She glanced at her report. “He looked at me like I was a bit batty and said, ‘I’m not Buck Rogers, lady, I’m just saying I think he went that way.’ ” Not knowing who Buck Rogers was, Aziz asked again if he was just guessing. “Salty tapped the south end again and said, ‘Because I’d turn that way, ’cause the cops would come up from Main.’ ”
    “Smart man.”
    Salty had also told Aziz he thought the wagon-puller knew the park, because he didn’t hesitate. “He just dropped the handle and kept on going. He knew where he was headed.”
    MacNeice leaned against his desk, studying the board. He asked Aziz if she had a sense of the wagon-puller yet. Without hesitation, she replied, “A cool-headed man, and calculating. What do you think?”
    “I agree with you. Do you think he’s done yet?”
    Aziz shrugged. “I’m not sure. The killing was so artful that repeating it might prove irresistible—just to show how truly clever he is. Alternatively, if it was about exacting punishment on one individual, there’s no reason to worry that it will happen again.”
    The phone rang. Ryan answered and turned quickly to MacNeice. “It’s Vertesi, sir, calling from the door-to-doors.”
    MacNeice picked up the phone. On the other end, Vertesi raised his voice to be heard over the rain. “Boss, I think we may have something—the apartments at Cumerland and Gage.”
    Martha and Bob Goode lived in the fourth-floor corner apartment, fronting on Gage Avenue. Retired from a maintenance job at the university, Bob was happy to have the attention of both MacNeice and Vertesi, who stood beside him on the narrow balcony overlooking the park. Though sheltered from the rain, they were getting hit by a bracing spray, like standing too close to Niagara Falls on a windy day.
    Goode said, “I was out here, having a smoke—Martha don’t allow me to smoke inside. That’s when I sees it, like a flash and then a loud bang—jeez, it was loud. All of a sudden this black cloud floats up over the trees. Then I could hear some screaming from somewhere—I don’t know where exactly, maybe one of the other apartments. But, like you can see, we’re right above that park entrance over there.”
    He called his wife to come out and see what was happening, but she was in the bathtub and hollered that unless the building was on fire, he should leave her alone.
    “I was just about to go inside and give her what for, when I see this guy wearing a long, dark coat and a hat—the kind with the flaps on the ears—pushing an old shopping cart.” Goode said he was certain it was old because one of the front wheels was spinning this way and that and it all seemed a bit rusty. MacNeice nodded, and the man