Chambers received the works. Bagpipes and dress blues. A few words spoken by the deputy commissioner. The same service my father had received. Cautions about the stresses involved in police work pervaded the media for a few days.
The party line maintained that Chambers was a good officer who’d met with trouble and hadn’t been able to deal with it. Maybe there was even some truth to that. In any case, Chambers had inspired some loyalty from the people he served. His funeral was a grand one.
No word from Blatchford. No word from Essex. I didn’t see Nagy or Wong or their beige Nav. The bruises faded to dull yellows and the cut on my forehead began to knit.
In the meantime, I cleaned the office to where it looked better than it had before I’d wrecked it. I put time in on old cases that didn’t pan out. I read the book Essex had left me, Ishiguro, but it didn’t hold any clues. She’d personalized it, signing To D.W. in elegant blue cursive. If it had to be someone, I’m glad it was you.
The morning after the funeral I showed up at the office before three. Early rush hour traffic turned Pender Street into a circus, pedestrians streaming up the street toward the bus lines and Skytrain stations. As I approached the door I saw Sonia leaning against it, a brown-bagged bottle in her hand.
“Suggested stress leave pending redeployment,” she said. “After Chris, they’re worried. I’m off for a month to recover my wits.”
“Plans?” I asked.
She held up the bottle. “Just this. It’s Tuesday. Time we come clean with each other.”
“Everything?”
She nodded. I unlocked the staircase door and held it open. “After you, then,” I said.