Woman Chased by Crows by Marc Strange

It took Stacy three phone calls to get the information. She knew a few cops in the GTA . Even Dorrie was impressed. But
where
in Jamaica was still up for grabs. Wouldn’t mind going over a few things with her. There it was again, “go over a few things.” What
things
? All right, she had notes from the first investigation. There was a reference to the shooting of some Russian man on the Queensway. Peel Division. Worth a call.
    â€œStaff Sergeant Hurst? Hi there, this is Detective Stacy Crean, Dockerty Police Department, trying to get some information on a case you’re working down there. Russian man shot in a motel room on the Queensway last week.”
    â€œYou got a date?”
    â€œNo. A detective from Metro was up here checking a few things regarding that one. He just mentioned the basic facts . . .”
    â€œThis Delisle we’re talking about?”
    â€œThat’s correct.”
    â€œHe said the guy was shot when?”
    â€œHe didn’t say exactly, he said a week ago.”
    â€œTechnically, I guess. Probably late Saturday night. When did he show up in your town? Monday?”
    â€œMonday morning.”
    â€œThe Queensway vic was found DOA Sunday morning. Four a.m.”
    â€œThis is the same case?”
    â€œI know this is a tough town, Detective, but one dead Russian a week is about our quota.”
    â€œHe said there was material in the man’s wallet that connected him to Dockerty in some way.”
    â€œThere was no wallet. We wouldn’t know anything about the dude except he had his union card in his pants pocket.”
    â€œWhat was his name?”
    â€œNimchuk. Viktor.”
    â€œNimchuk,” Stacy was writing it down. “I think that’s Ukrainian.”
    â€œUkrainian, Russian, Uzbek, doesn’t really matter. Guy was a Soviet citizen until he defected back in ’81.”
    â€œHave you made an arrest?”
    â€œWe don’t have anything yet. In fact, the most interesting thing about the guy is you saying how much interest Delisle had in him.”
    â€œFind a weapon?”
    â€œNo weapon.”
    â€œGot a slug?”
    â€œWell, yeah, got a bullet. Pretty mashed up.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œLooks like it might be a .357.”
    â€œSmith?”
    â€œFar as we can tell.”
    â€œThat figures,” Stacy said.

    The cat was on the fire escape, looking in at her. Wet. Impassive. An unneutered tomcat, tiger-striped, orange and white, built the way mature tomcats get, heavy neck and shoulders, skinny ass, big balls. He never sprayed inside the studio. The first time he showed up at her window, she told him that the minute he lifted his tail inside her workplace, he would be banished for eternity. They had an understanding. She hadn’t named him. She didn’t feed him. Once, a few years ago, she left a dish of canned tuna out for him. He wouldn’t touch it.
    She opened the window enough to let him inside. He took his time, assuring himself that she was alone before stepping across the sill and dropping to the floor. He paused for a long moment and looked to be studying himself in the wall mirror.
    â€œWhat do you see?” she asked out loud.
    This is how one should live, she thought. This creature has no fear. He has no allegiance. All places are the same to him. He comes here when it suits him. Who can say how many other fire escapes, laneways, back porches he knows? Sometimes he goes away for weeks. Sometimes he stays for a while. Sometimes when he’s bitten and bloody and hurt, he comes here to get better. Then he stays for a while.
    â€œI think maybe you will have to find another fire escape,” she said. “I may have to find another escape myself.” She lit a smoke, deliberately closed the window and locked it. The cat jumped onto the settee under the photographs of her sad career, inspected the area carefully before settling himself. “You hear me?” she