The Brutal Heart Read online

  I had worked in campaigns like that. I knew what it was like to wake up in the morning with my stomach in knots because there was no way to stop the grim downward spiral of loss. That’s where Ginny’s campaign had been the night of Zack’s birthday, but after Jason Brodnitz withdrew from the custody battle, the public’s assessment of Ginny underwent a tectonic shift, and Ginny knew it. I could see it in the way she strode up front walks to knock on the doors of her constituents. She was sniffing victory. As we criss-crossed Palliser, the riding that I knew better than any, visiting the cafés with the chrome tables filled with farmers in John Deere caps who met every morning to discuss what needed discussing, and showing up at all-candidates meetings with attendance swollen by Ginny’s sudden possibilities, the campaign became fun.

  One sweet May day, after ordering Monaghan Maple-Walnut at the Moose Jaw ice-cream shop where the proprietor had labelled an ice cream with each candidate’s name and tallied votes on the basis of how much of each ice cream sold, Keith and I sat outside on a bench, and he talked about his next big push.

  He had decided to look past this election towards the big leadership challenge – the one that would rout the social conservatives and return his party to the principles Keith espoused. He wasn’t looking for a squeaker in Palliser; he was looking for a big win that would turn the party around.

  In the days after she gained custody of her daughters, everything broke Ginny’s way. Momentum – “the big Mo,” as politicos and sports announcers call it – was with her. Media stories became soft focus, crowds swelled, and senior party people, scrutinizing her anew, liked what they saw: a smart, affable, seemingly tireless candidate. When, at Sean Barton’s urging, Ginny’s daughters agreed to campaign with their mother, Keith shook his head. “I don’t know what dark magic Sean used, but having the twins out there with Ginny is the best thing that could have happened for us.”

  Indeed, the sight of these three powerfully built women with the identical engaging smiles silenced the cynics. Suddenly, family values, the two most semantically loaded words in modern politics, was Ginny’s issue, and the Monaghan campaign milked it. Three days before Mother’s Day, Sean arranged for a friend on the local paper to photograph Ginny and the twins bicycling in Wascana Park. The chokecherries were flowering, and the three women were positioned against a tree that had exploded in blossoms. It was the best of photo ops for the ad-fat Mother’s Day edition of the paper, and sister papers owned by the same chain in big markets picked it up. But Ginny’s campaign was more than just pretty pictures. She ended all her speeches with the same sentence; “We are the real party of the people.” The message was simple, positive, and utterly meaningless, but it was catching on, and the pundits had noticed.

  One of our national newspapers published a story under the headline “NOTHING BUT BLUE SKIES FOR GINNY MONAGHAN,” and indeed the consensus seemed to be that it was smooth sailing all the way for Ginny. Those of us closer to the centre of the campaign knew better. Francesca Pope’s appearances at Ginny’s events became almost hallucinatory, like the troubling presence of a mysterious figure in a dream. More significantly, something was terribly wrong between Ginny and her ex-husband.

  Ginny, who had seemed so indifferent to custody, suddenly was demanding full custody, and her demands had nothing to do with politics. She seemed genuinely concerned about allowing Jason to see the girls without a third person present. I heard her on the phone with him one night. “I’m getting these anonymous phone calls about you, Jason. They’re frightening. They say you’re a pimp. We both know what we know, but this is new, and it’s ugly. We’ve got to talk.” Seemingly they never did. Ginny watched the girls carefully, and whenever they saw their father, no matter how busy her schedule, she went along.

  When I told Zack about the conversation I’d overheard, his reaction surprised me. “You know the woman at the centre of this is going to be Cristal.”

  “Isn’t that a bit of a leap?”

  “I don’t think so. According to Debbie Haczkewicz, the cops are getting nowhere trying to identify Cristal’s boyfriend. This guy was a genius at covering his tracks. They’ve talked to everybody – including Cristal’s sister – all they’ve got is that Cristal’s boyfriend was a mystery man who had to protect his reputation at all costs.”

  “Vera Wang told me the relationship Cristal had with her pimp was a troubled one.”

  Zack raised an eyebrow. “Those relationships are never made in heaven. And Jason Brodnitz would have solid reasons for keeping the relationship with Cristal secret.”

  “Both professional and personal reasons,” I said. “Until a year ago, he was a pillar of the community. He must have wanted to get back his reputation.”

  “And he wanted his daughters,” Zack said. “Being exposed as a pimp would put the kibosh on both those dreams.”

  I thought of Jason’s abrupt change of heart after he encountered Sean in the men’s room of the courthouse. “Zack, would Sean have known that Jason was involved with prostitution?”

  “Ginny was his client. If she was aware of the situation, she should have told him.”

  The image of Jason watching with dead eyes as his counsel announced that he no longer wished to pursue custody flashed through my mind. “Zack, when Jason came back into court that day, he was in shock. If there was some secret between Ginny and him, it wasn’t that.”

  Zack shrugged. “It’s possible the truth came to light after the hearing started – some kind soul might have dropped Ginny an anonymous note.”

  “Regina’s a gossipy town,” I said. “You must have heard rumours about Jason.”

  “Actually, in the last year I heard a lot, but they weren’t about Jason’s love life, they were about his business.”

  “And what were people saying?”

  “Pretty much that he was a guy to avoid. When he was working for Tatryn-Mulholland, he was hot stuff – a stockbroker with the Midas touch. He decided he was good enough to go it alone.”

  “And it didn’t work out?”

  “Nope. As soon as he was on his own, Jason lost his magic. He also lost a hell of a lot of money for his customers.”

  “I hate stories like that. I’ve chosen mid-risk investments all my life, and I always get a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach when the quarterly report arrives in the mail.”

  “I’m glad you weren’t watching our investments the first couple of months we were married. Luckily for us both, Ms. Shreve, I had a stock fraud client who gave me some solid advice about what to hold on to and what to sell. You and I are in good shape.”

  “But Jason isn’t? His finances came up a couple of times during the custody suit, but Margot gave the court the impression he’d turned a corner.”

  Zack frowned. “That surprises me, because I don’t know anybody who would have trusted Jason to handle their spare change. Of course, it’s entirely possible Margot was blowing smoke. I’ve done that myself when I got broadsided during a trial.”

  “Margot’s your partner now. You could ask her.”

  “Good idea.” Zack picked up his cell and hit speed-dial. “Hey, it’s me. I’ve got some questions, and don’t get pissed off and start telling me it’s none of my business, because I think it may be. How much did you charge Jason Brodnitz?” Zack whistled when he heard Margot’s answer. “You don’t come cheap. Has he paid you? Good. Now, Joanne tells me that during the custody dispute, you implied that Jason’s business reverses were over.” He listened. “Fair enough. The truth is always open to interpretation, and if he paid your bill up front, no worries. One more question. Is Brodnitz named as a beneficiary in Cristal’s will? Really? That is weird. Anyway, easily solved. Just go online with the Law Society and ask the firm that handled the will to get in touch with you.”

  He held the phone away from his ear. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. But for all your expertise, you haven’t found the will, have you? So keep at it. If Brodnitz was Cristal Avilia’s boyfriend, we may have an interesting situati
on on our hands.”

  The Friday before Mother’s Day, Zack flew up north with a client who was the CEO of a mining resources company. Their meeting was in La Ronge, and the client took pleasure in flying his own plane and doing some serious sightseeing en route. I spent the day trying not to think of my husband suspended over one of the heart-stoppingly immense lakes that make the north so beautiful and so deadly. At three-thirty, I left Ginny campaigning in a seniors’ home and picked Taylor up at school. We were going shopping.

  Taylor surprised me by suggesting we start at Value Village. “Sometimes they have neat stuff,” she said. “And I don’t want to be like everybody else. I guess I’m kind of like my mother.” Her dark eyes scrutinized my face, watching for a reaction. I sensed there was something more she wanted to say, so I waited. “Did it matter to my mother that she was beautiful?” she said finally.

  I shook my head. “No. The only thing that ever mattered to your mother was the art she made.” It was the truth, but that didn’t make the statement any less thoughtless.

  Taylor didn’t let it pass. “And me,” Taylor said. “I mattered to my mother.”

  “Yes, you did. Very much.”

  “Because I had talent.”

  “She loved you,” I said. “Your talent was just something else that connected you to her.”

  Taylor’s look was assessing. “I guess some day I’ll figure out whether that’s true.”

  I put my arm around her. “In the meantime, we might as well check out the bargains.”

  The shopping gods were with us that afternoon. Value Village offered up a genuine treasure – a white cotton jersey T-shirt with cap sleeves and printed with Andy Warhol’s acerbic observation “Everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes” in black and pink. The moment Taylor put it on, she knew what she needed to complete the look: fitted black cotton pants, pink Capezio ballet flats, and a black cardigan. We continued shopping, stopped for a bowl of soup at the Creek Bistro, then went home. While Taylor changed, I let out the dogs and tried Zack’s cell, but he was out of range. I’d just started to riffle through the mail when Taylor came in wearing her new outfit. She looked like a very young Audrey Hepburn.

  “So what do you think?” she said.

  “I think for a girl who used to go to birthday parties in frilly dresses, pyjama bottoms, and odd socks, you’ve developed a definite fashion sense.”

  “Did you really let me go out wearing my pyjama bottoms?”

  “Sure. You were happy. That was all that mattered.”

  Taylor lowered her head and stared at her pink Capezios. “Jo, what would have happened to me if you hadn’t taken me?”

  “Where did that come from?”

  “Lately I’ve been thinking about it a lot. You know, just kind of wondering…”

  “Well, my guess is that some amazingly lucky family would have adopted you, and you would have been fine.” I touched her cheek. “But, Taylor, I wouldn’t have been fine.”

  Her voice was small. “You wouldn’t have known.”

  “I would have known,” I said.

  “You have the other kids.”

  “But I wouldn’t have had you, and I cannot imagine my life – any of our lives – without you.”

  Her lips were tight. “I can’t imagine not having you either.”

  “Then let’s let it go for the time being,” I said. “But if you want to talk, I’m here.”

  Taylor swiped her eyes with the back of her hand. I reached across her desk and took a tissue from the box and handed it to her.

  “Thanks,” she said. She blew her nose ferociously. “Angus says you’re always there whether we want you there or not.”

  “Angus is right,” I said. “Now, we both have homework, but as soon as we get that out of the way, let’s make some popcorn and watch an episode of Battlestar Galactica.”

  “Sweet,” Taylor said. “Can I ask Isobel to come over? She is so into Tahmoh Penikett.”

  “As opposed to you,” I said.

  Taylor dimpled. “I’m not as fanatic as Isobel. She sleeps with his picture under her pillow.”

  When Taylor went off to call Isobel, I picked up the mail again. At first glance, it seemed like the usual: two magazines, a brochure encouraging us to holiday in Prince Edward Island, a tax receipt from a charity, and a bill from our water-softener company. But at the bottom of the pile there was a surprise – a peach greeting card envelope addressed to Joanne Shreve. The hand was unfamiliar, and there was no stamp. Neither fact set off any alarms. Zack liked surprises, and he always said I was a hard woman to spoil. There’d been another mystery envelope in the mailbox at Christmas. That one had contained the key to Chris Altieri’s cottage – the one closest to ours at Lawyers’ Bay. Zack had bought his partners’ shares of the cottage so that our grown children would have a place to stay when they visited. I smiled at the memory and opened the flap.

  The envelope held three condoms and the bulletin from Cristal Avilia’s funeral. Across the picture of Cristal someone had scrawled a message in pink ink: “Is your husband missing her? I’ll help him forget.” There was a telephone number. I scanned the room to make certain Taylor hadn’t come in, then I picked up the phone and dialed. My hands were shaking, but I was tired of being jerked around.

  When a woman picked up, I pressed on. “This is Joanne Shreve,” I said. “I got your card. Who are you?”

  The woman on the other end of the line sounded young and stoned. “My name’s Bree,” she said. “Are you mad at me?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “But I want to get to the bottom of this.”

  “It will cost you,” she said.

  “How much?”

  “Is fifty dollars too much?” she said.

  I exhaled. “No. Fifty dollars is fine. Where do you want to meet?”

  “Nighthawks?”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” I said. “And, Bree, you’d better be there too.”

  As I freshened my makeup, my resolve began to weaken, but Bree was expecting me. There was no turning back. Taylor’s bedroom door was open. She was at her desk, with Bruce and Benny at her feet.

  I went over to her. “I have an errand,” I said. “I’ll be back in an hour. If I’m going to be longer, I’ll call.”

  She nodded and kept working. “Isobel’s coming over in a few minutes to do homework with me.”

  I leaned over to check her math exercise book. The pages before me were scrubbed thin with erasures. I rubbed her shoulder. “Taylor, do you need a tutor?”

  She bent to her task again. “Uh-uh,” she said. “I just need a brain.”

  I would have bet a cup of joe that the owner of Nighthawks on Broad Street hadn’t named his establishment after Edward Hopper’s signature painting of three customers seeking refuge from the loneliness of the night in a big city diner. Sealed off from the world by the diner’s expanse of glass, sealed off from one another by their own impenetrable isolation, the three customers in Hopper’s picture are a poignant reminder that, in the small hours, we are all alone. The people who haunted Nighthawks didn’t need Hopper’s painting to remind them of that. They knew they were alone every night when they inserted the key into the lock of their cheerless room and every morning when they hit the sidewalk and passersby averted their eyes at the sight of them.

  When I stopped to withdraw cash from a bank on Broad Street, it occurred to me that I hadn’t asked Bree how I could identify her, but she made it easy. She was sitting at a table by the window, and when I came in, she jumped up and waved as if we were old friends. She was an anorexic with patchy white-blonde hair and she was definitely high on something other than life. Her long fingers never stopped fluttering and her pale feral eyes darted as she talked. “I’m having pie,” she said as I took the chair opposite hers. “They have really good saskatoon berry pie here. Do you want some? I can order it for you. I know the manager.”

  I settled back in my chair. “I’m a big fan of saskatoons,” I said.
“But I don’t want to take too much of your time.”

  “My time is your time,” she said. She slipped her hand under the table. It took me a moment to realize she was waiting to be paid.

  Over drinks at a rival firm’s holiday party, Zack had articulated his rule of thumb: “Pay an informer four times what they ask for and they’re yours.” I knew I needed Bree on my side, so I opened my wallet and took out four fifties.

  When she saw the bills, Bree’s pale eyes took on a hectic glitter. Her white halter top hadn’t been constructed with room for a deposit, and her studded shorts were skin-tight, but she knew how to handle her finances. She scooped up the money, and either out of habit or hope of more, when she stood to slide the money into her back pocket, she thrust her pelvis at me.

  “Now tell me exactly how you came to send out those cards,” I said.

  Bree’s pie arrived and she took a spoon and began digging into it, moving the pieces around. “I have this page on MySpace – do you know what that is?”

  I nodded.

  “On my page, I say I do odd jobs for money. Most of the jobs I get are sex-related. I don’t care. At least it’s not boring.” She forked a piece of pastry loaded with saskatoons and licked the berries. Several of them fell on her halter top. She swept at them, smearing them on the shiny material covering her small breasts. “Turning people on gives me a rush,” she explained. “But that’s not why you handed me all that money. You want information, so here it is. What happened was I got a hit a few days ago from someone who said they would pay me big for doing a practical joke. I wrote back saying my life was a practical joke, and this person said everybody’s life was a joke, and if I sent them my home address, everything I needed would be sent to me.”

  “You sent a stranger your home address?” I said.