Extensions (50 page)

Sleep overruled my appetite, and I awoke two hours later feeling groggy and hungry. I was too tired for any phone calls other than room service. A Greek salad and teriyaki chicken wrap arrived as I was arranging the pages into five sets. Propped against pillows, I set Jane's letter on my legs and tried to eat as I reread it. Each sentence burst open another cell of my great-grandmother's locked world. The will required for this final act humbled me to the bone.

Something in the paragraph about her baby grabbed me. I forgot to open my mouth for a forkful of Greek salad my hand was delivering. Olive oil dripped down my chest, barely missing the page. That she and Adam Strong could not be together was a given Jane felt no need to explain to her sister. Raising a child as a single mother in her society, especially a black child, must have seemed more daunting than explaining him eventually to Roland Hughes, which she might well have done had the poor thing lived. Her trust in her husband was deeper than we imagined.

Unplanned pregnancies today entailed fewer secrets.

Or did they?

The oil was soaking through my sweater. I pulled it off and got a facecloth from the bathroom. My last Greek salad had been in a hotel room with Selena Kubik just after the brutal death of her baby. I was so hungry I had eaten her garlic bread as well as my own. I wiped the oil from my skin.

Suddenly cold, I got into the fleece pyjamas I had brought to this frigid province. I picked up the letter and read once more:
Our baby has
been my secret alone, and now yours. Tragically, he stopped breathing within
hours of his birth. Was he meant to be a sacrifice for the sins of his mother?
Suspicions of his origins were buried with his ruddy complexion, and with him
a piece of my heart.

I set the tray with my food on the dresser, the chicken wrap untouched. My head fell back against the headboard. I lay perfectly still, barely breathing. Had my great-grandmother's letter solved another murder?

THE WEEKEND PASSED in slow motion. From the time I got off the plane Saturday until I arrived at work Monday morning, my mind was at once in a daze and clearly focused. Words and scenes circled over and over, dislodging more words and scenes. Even my dreams, when I was lucky enough to sleep, trapped me in one of those banked cement velodromes for sprint cycling.

I made a few attempts at distraction, like going for a run/walk along False Creek. A pathetic teenage ploy: put yourself coyly in the neighbourhood of the guy you like in the hope you will/will not see him. Of course, I didn't. I wasn't up to the grown-up gesture of a phone call yet. My future was on an hour-to-hour basis.

I also called Dad to recount my visit with Mona Mingus and read the two letters over the phone. He suggested supper at Wendy's or at the house, but I declined. With my thoughts in such turmoil, I was in no mood for conversation, even with my number-one fan. Perhaps that was part of my problem. Mona and Laura were perfect examples of where excessive parental attachments could lead. Dad would never knowingly abet my arrested development; it was up to me to keep the bonds loose enough for someone else to enter.

In my present state, I also decided Gail and Monty could wait for the update. Especially since there might be another shocker to add.

On Monday morning, I was first to the office, having slept little the night before. In the past four days and three nights I might have logged eight hours total. Dex arrived a few minutes later, then Sukhi, then Wayne, and once we were all set with coffee in hand I put the
DVD
of Robin Basa's interview into the machine. When it was over, Wayne put his arm around my shoulder.

“Good work, Dryvynsydes. This should go a long way in nailing the bugger.”

“You can thank Robin Basa. She could have held out.”

“Not against our Bella's persuasive powers.” Sukhi gave me a fist bump. Dex was already occupied in printing off fresh weekend e-mail Fwds and nodded. I looked at my watch. Eight-thirty. Jan Kubik would have left for work by now. I cleared my throat. “Who wants to make a house call with me?”

Hands shaking on my coffee cup, I put forth the theory that had been consuming me for three days. Wayne's and Sukhi's eyes widened; even Dex stopped his printouts. “It's still guesswork,” I said, “but who's in?”

“I'll go with you,” said Sukhi.

Since most of my meetings with the Kubiks had been solo, my dread hit full force as I pulled up to the house on Colleen Street in an unmarked car with Sukhi. At the door Selena's dark eyes darted back and forth between the two of us, then fixed on me. Her thick black hair hung lank and greasy. I introduced Constable Ahluwalia.

She offered us a seat, but we remained standing in the foyer. In the living room I noted the sun catching the sheen on the raku bowl — this time with no effect. Sukhi looked at me, waiting.

“We believe we have new information. I'd like to talk to you some more about Anton at the police station. About your part in what happened the day he died. We can take you there now, or you can use your own car.”

Selena opened her mouth as if to catch her breath, then said quietly, “I will go with you.”

“I can help you change.”

This was the point in movies — and often on actual calls — where someone under suspicion makes a swift move and produces a gun or knife. That's why we go in twos. I had no fear in Selena's case, her spirit having been replaced with embalming fluid. I walked behind her, as she clutched the banister mounting the stairs.

The master bedroom was done in the same minimalist style as the lower floor: mud-coloured walls, sleek leather king-size bed with a soft lime-green duvet cover and lime-green and grey striped shams. I turned my head as she slipped out of her lounge suit and into a turtleneck and pair of jeans. If my hunch was right, she would soon have no privacy at all; it seemed proper to extend this courtesy to her, like a last meal. She folded the outfit, put it into a perforated stainless steel laundry hamper, and pulled her unwashed hair back at the neck with an ivory barrette. She held up a cosmetic bag and asked: “Will I be coming back soon?”

Naïve questions like this brought back the hotel room when I was there for her comfort. I couldn't shake that feeling even now.

I shrugged. “Hard to say. But you won't need anything.”

Back in the foyer, she put on her leather car coat, then made a quick detour to the living room for her cigarettes. Sukhi was at the car and guided her into the back seat. No one spoke on the way. The face I watched in the rear-view mirror displayed no emotion, but it had aged a decade since I first looked at it from this angle six weeks ago.

Just as I was thankful then at the hospital, there was no one around when we pulled up to the back entrance of the detachment. Inside, Sukhi went next door to the interview room we would use to set up equipment. I informed Selena that she might like to call her lawyer because she was now a person of interest in this case, and anything she said could be used against her. I showed her a phone where she could make the call; she asked if I could look up Tomas Svoboda in the phone book because she had trouble seeing fine print. As I stepped away to give her privacy, I could not avoid hearing her low businesslike tone in Czech, as if she needed the lawyer to sign a real estate deed. When she finished, I asked her if she was satisfied with her phone call to counsel. I could be called upon in court to testify as to the occurrence and length of this call.

She nodded, and walked ahead of me into the interview room where an ashtray, a tape recorder, and two bottles of water awaited us on a table. I sat down across from her.

“You've been going through a lot, Selena.”

“My lawyer says I should not speak to anyone.”

“And that's good advice, but I know you and care about you. I think it might help to talk.”

“That's what you said in the hotel room, Constable.”

“And would it not have been easier then to spare yourself the past six weeks of torment you've been living with?”

She lit a smoke. I pressed
RECORD
.

“Here's how I see the situation, Selena. You'll have to correct me if I'm wrong.” I took a deep breath. “There never was an abductor, was there?”

I didn't expect an answer and continued. “And Anton was Greg McGimpsey's baby.”

Her forehead jerked visibly into her scalp. “What proof do you have for such a statement?”

“A soother was picked up next to the pond. Do you think its
DNA
will match Greg McGimpsey's?”

Pink blotches were forming on her cheeks, but she said nothing. Each drag of her cigarette was as deep and vital as a respirator inhalation.

“Let's go through it together. Greg was the perfect lover for you — artistic, spontaneous, passionate — though you knew he would not be the perfect husband. Jan was that, despite being too possessive and inflexible. Greg never asked for more; in fact, the thrill of the affair probably suited him. He believed you were taking precautions with him, so the baby had to be Jan's. You let him think that way. And only you will ever know whether it was an accident or staged. How am I doing so far?”

Selena's continual puffs created a veil of smoke like a beekeeper's netting over her face. She listened without a word.

“The pregnancy changed the equation for you, didn't it? You were still in love with Greg, but you had to cut him loose. The prospect of a baby brought you back to Jan — your history, shared dreams, and so on. Still inflamed over the forbidden love, Greg kept calling. You thought the loyalty of both men would last. And you're not alone; we all think that of our men.

“At the theatre production last fall, you noted Greg's interest in the new cast member. His calls became less frequent, but by now Anton was in the picture and you were engrossed with him. Neither you nor your husband was prepared for the delight the baby would bring. But here's the catch: although you and Jan had renewed your bond, Greg was more than ever a part of your life because he was the father of this child you loved so much.”

Selena sat as rigid as a wire sculpture, her eyes red and liquid.

“You're skilled at living on several levels, Selena. From hiding your true feelings under a dictatorship to nurturing fantasy in a stifling marriage. After a long and lonely Christmas holiday with Jan away, you indulged in the fantasy of you, Greg, and Anton together someday. Please stop me if I get too far off track.”

Her anguished face had become almost unbearable to watch. I had to finish.

“Then who should appear in your daydream but Greg McGimpsey himself? When you saw the car, you believed he was here to say he couldn't go on without you. But when he came to the door on January 2nd, it was to tell you he was getting married. Did he taunt you with the news or did he do it kindly?” I paused. “This was too much for you. You had a chance to tell him Anton was his, but you didn't. Instead you imploded. He had destroyed your dream and you destroyed the only part of him you had left. His baby.”

A howl like that of a snared wolf filled the small interview room.

“It was an accident,” Selena cried. “When I dropped him in the pond, it was an accident.”

Her face was a mess of wet, smoky streaks. I dug for tissues in my bag, handed a wad to her, and used some to wipe my own eyes, my nose, and my clammy hands. When I could speak again, I murmured, “How I hope that's true.”

She was still wailing, at first muttering in Czech, then between convulsive breaths: “I have wiped us all out — my baby, my husband, and myself.”

Her cigarette fell from her limp fingers to the floor, and I got up quickly to retrieve it for the ashtray. With her face contorted in wretchedness and her body heaving, I put my hands on her bony shoulders. When she had settled down to intermittent snuffles, I walked back to my side of the table. Before I sat down, I said, “Selena, I'm placing you under arrest for the second-degree murder of your son, Anton Kubik. You have the right to call your lawyer again to inform him of this charge.”

She shook her head, waved her hand, and did not move. Her voice, thick from tears, was a croak. “It is already too late for more advice. He will find out soon enough. What I want to know is how you did it, Constable.”