Erasing Memory Read Online Free
Author: Scott Thornley
what had been an endless parade of lake freighters and uninterrupted flow of traffic to and from New York and Ohio to the city of Toronto. To MacNeice, taking the bridge was simply the best way to get a view of everything.
Though he’d lived here all his life, it was still a thrill to see the sun rising over the lake and shining across to the old steel mills and factories that lined the bay. Most visitors thought Dundurn was ugly. MacNeice could never understand that. Theharbour was inspiring to him—even the smokestacks, the towering cranes and the enormous rust-coloured, dust-covered buildings with long piers that clawed like fingers into the bay towards the few freighters that still eased their way in and out.
THREE
—
T HE CITY, LIKE ALL CITIES , measured its prosperity geographically. With Dundurn, the best measure was how far you lived from the plants that provided its robust economy. The north end—closest to the factories and the bay—was the poorest and toughest, its houses forever coated in red dust. Depending on the prevailing wind, residents rarely knew anything but the smell of sulphur in the air. The sweet spot in Dundurn was still the west end, farthest away from the prevailing breezes of the steel plants. And the sweetest spot of all was close to the escarpment that ran the length of the city, referred to by everyone as “the mountain.”
The city’s crime played out the same way. The white-collar stuff was almost exclusively a west-end affair. In the north end, violence was frequent and always visceral. As Swetsky, who had grown up in the north end, put it, “If your everyday vocabulary includes the words
blast furnace
, you can expect somespillover in the kitchen at night.” When MacNeice was walking a beat there as a new recruit, people would joke that the local rats were bigger than the local cats, and more numerous. His sergeant told him that in the old Mafia days of the 1920s and 1930s, bodies wearing cement overshoes were dumped in the bay by the dozens. They were probably still there.
Slowing, MacNeice moved to the inside lane of the bridge, lowered the volume on the music and switched on his two-way. Within two connections he was speaking to Betty Fernihough, the head of the precinct’s IT unit. After a brief exchange of pleasantries—Betty liked it that way, as did he—he asked, “Have you found out who owns the cottage?”
“Yes, I gave the name to Swetsky about ten minutes ago. A Dr. Michael Hadley—he has a dental clinic in the west end. We think he may keep the beach house as a rental property.”
“Swets hit you early, Betty. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, Mac, I’m an early riser anyway. I was in at five thirty this morning.”
“Can you do me a favour, then? Look and see if you can find any images of young women just graduating or beginning their careers as violinists. First name Lydia. She was probably in her mid-twenties.”
“Christ, Mac, how the hell did you come up with that?”
“Just a hunch. Look at the university, the Conservatory of Music, chamber music societies, orchestras and soloists between here and Toronto. You’ll know this girl when you see her—tall, brunette, beautiful, and blessed—or cursed—with an optimistic smile.”
“Whatever the hell that is,” Betty said distractedly. If it weren’t for the road noise and the faint bluesy Miles, he was certain he’d be able to hear her already clicking away on herkeyboard. “Get some sleep, Mac—you’re sounding borderline crispy. Swets told me how come you got there first.”
M AC N EICE EASED THE C HEVY off the highway onto Mountain Road South, cranking down both driver and passenger windows to breathe in the early morning air. The sun was streaking through the houses and trees on his left, flickering through the car. The stripes on the road unfolded; the streetlights had gone out, but he couldn’t remember when. He wound the fingers of his left hand through his hair—it was long for
Though he’d lived here all his life, it was still a thrill to see the sun rising over the lake and shining across to the old steel mills and factories that lined the bay. Most visitors thought Dundurn was ugly. MacNeice could never understand that. Theharbour was inspiring to him—even the smokestacks, the towering cranes and the enormous rust-coloured, dust-covered buildings with long piers that clawed like fingers into the bay towards the few freighters that still eased their way in and out.
THREE
—
T HE CITY, LIKE ALL CITIES , measured its prosperity geographically. With Dundurn, the best measure was how far you lived from the plants that provided its robust economy. The north end—closest to the factories and the bay—was the poorest and toughest, its houses forever coated in red dust. Depending on the prevailing wind, residents rarely knew anything but the smell of sulphur in the air. The sweet spot in Dundurn was still the west end, farthest away from the prevailing breezes of the steel plants. And the sweetest spot of all was close to the escarpment that ran the length of the city, referred to by everyone as “the mountain.”
The city’s crime played out the same way. The white-collar stuff was almost exclusively a west-end affair. In the north end, violence was frequent and always visceral. As Swetsky, who had grown up in the north end, put it, “If your everyday vocabulary includes the words
blast furnace
, you can expect somespillover in the kitchen at night.” When MacNeice was walking a beat there as a new recruit, people would joke that the local rats were bigger than the local cats, and more numerous. His sergeant told him that in the old Mafia days of the 1920s and 1930s, bodies wearing cement overshoes were dumped in the bay by the dozens. They were probably still there.
Slowing, MacNeice moved to the inside lane of the bridge, lowered the volume on the music and switched on his two-way. Within two connections he was speaking to Betty Fernihough, the head of the precinct’s IT unit. After a brief exchange of pleasantries—Betty liked it that way, as did he—he asked, “Have you found out who owns the cottage?”
“Yes, I gave the name to Swetsky about ten minutes ago. A Dr. Michael Hadley—he has a dental clinic in the west end. We think he may keep the beach house as a rental property.”
“Swets hit you early, Betty. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, Mac, I’m an early riser anyway. I was in at five thirty this morning.”
“Can you do me a favour, then? Look and see if you can find any images of young women just graduating or beginning their careers as violinists. First name Lydia. She was probably in her mid-twenties.”
“Christ, Mac, how the hell did you come up with that?”
“Just a hunch. Look at the university, the Conservatory of Music, chamber music societies, orchestras and soloists between here and Toronto. You’ll know this girl when you see her—tall, brunette, beautiful, and blessed—or cursed—with an optimistic smile.”
“Whatever the hell that is,” Betty said distractedly. If it weren’t for the road noise and the faint bluesy Miles, he was certain he’d be able to hear her already clicking away on herkeyboard. “Get some sleep, Mac—you’re sounding borderline crispy. Swets told me how come you got there first.”
M AC N EICE EASED THE C HEVY off the highway onto Mountain Road South, cranking down both driver and passenger windows to breathe in the early morning air. The sun was streaking through the houses and trees on his left, flickering through the car. The stripes on the road unfolded; the streetlights had gone out, but he couldn’t remember when. He wound the fingers of his left hand through his hair—it was long for
Readers choose
Margaret Maron
Nancy Buckingham
Jodi Lynn Anderson
Mark O'Sullivan
Jessica Sorensen
Jenny Block
Jillian Hart
Stephen King
Krista Lakes