He pocketed the cellphone, slung his backpack over his shoulder, grabbed his suitcase, checked out of the hotel room, descended into the parking garage, jumped into his rental SUV, and joined the anonymous traffic in the gathering gloom outside.
Less than two kilometres away, in the police station just beyond the western end of the Macdonald Bridge, Daniel was sick of looking at mug shots. Hundreds had already flashed by on MacKinnon’s computer screen. None of the faces were smiling. This was understandable, since the photos were taken after arrests. He recognized a former high-school classmate, who had been voted most likely to succeed. Many of the faces betrayed a sense of resignation at being caught. But none of them resembled the man he saw for a second or two in the hallway. He worried that his image of the man was receding, growing fuzzier by the hour. Would he still recognize him in another day?
Detective MacKinnon returned, bringing a laptop computer and a doughnut-sized Tim Hortons bag. He closed the door behind him and handed the bag to Daniel. “Sorry about the delay. We should be done soon. I really appreciate your help.”
Daniel opened the bag and popped two Timbits in his mouth one after the other. “I haven’t found him,” he said between mouthfuls.
“Maybe we have.” MacKinnon sat down in the chair across from Daniel and opened the computer. He began to type. “The security camera covering the fourteenth floor was damaged, but we have footage from the hotel lobby.”
Daniel pushed away from the screen. His aluminum chair screeched a short distance along the floor. The sound echoed in the concrete room. “Let’s have a look.”
MacKinnon swung the computer around so Daniel could see the screen and its frozen image of him and the hotel manager walking quickly to the elevator. “According to forensics, Forrestal is already dead at this point. And here you are, on your way to see him. Running the coverage backward, we find several people in the lobby. I’d like you to look at them and tell me if you recognize anyone.”
He rotated the computer around and typed then spun it back to face Daniel. The screen showed a woman in a black dress walking along the corridor from the el-evator. The pretty one. The one who came out of the elevator as he entered. Daniel shook his head. The next picture, a hotel employee with room service food on a tray, and anonymous guests milling about the lobby. Daniel didn’t recognize any of them either. The pictures continued for a few minutes until he saw himself and the hotel manager walk away from the camera, toward the elevator. Then the video showed a man in a black suit and black turtleneck, holding a silver briefcase, approaching the camera then moving directly underneath, and most likely out the main entrance and onto the street.
“That’s him.” Daniel pointed emphatically.
MacKinnon stood and walked over to stand beside Daniel. He nodded at the jittery picture. “You recognize him?”
“Yes. He’s the one I saw in the hallway just as we approached Forrestal’s room.”
“Why so sure?”
“He was humming that song.” Daniel was pleased.
MacKinnon studied the face and smiled. “So now we know what he looks like.”
FIFTEEN
DANIEL HAD TO SHIELD HIS EYES from the dying late-February sun as he emerged from the front door of the Halifax Regional Police Headquarters on Gottingen Street. It had been a stressful few hours. MacKinnon was a skilled interrogator, forcing Daniel to reveal more than he had anticipated by asking rapid-fire questions without giving enough time to construct answers. Daniel’s real thoughts had begun to leak through. MacKinnon was clever.
MacKinnon didn’t want him to stray too far in case he had more questions. He promised to call Daniel if anything new developed.
The sky was painted blue to orange to red near the western horizon. Snow began to fall and bitter gusts of wind cut through his coat, even with his collar tucked up. His apartment in the South End was seven blocks away. He flagged down a passing cab.
In the rear seat, as the taxi lurched around potholes, he pulled out his cellphone and dialed. Pick up the phone, pick up the phone, he pleaded, but he heard her voice message again, in her neutral, businesslike voice, as if speaking to a colleague. After the beep, he said, “Please call me. I haven’t heard from you. I’ll be on the six o’clock flight tomorrow, as usual. It’s been a crazy few days here. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you and Emily at the airport. Tell Emily I love her.”
Why isn’t she answering my calls? The police interview had lasted longer than he had anticipated, but he still had plenty of time to get a good night’s sleep back at the apartment, wake up early, throw some clothes into his carry-on bag, get a quick present for Emily, and catch his regular flight back to Montreal. Every two weeks, he got to spend time with his daughter. Part of the court settlement. But worry crept in. He had no way of knowing what his ex-wife was up to.
The cab jerked to a halt. He paid the fare and strode into the apartment lobby. A short elevator ride to the fourth floor took him to his apartment. It was supposed to have been a temporary place, until he decided his next step as a single man and an estranged father. All he had left was Emily, and only for two days at a time.
Halifax was his clean start, a personal-life reboot, and a chance to redefine himself away from the trauma of his former careers and the guilt of a failed marriage.
He grabbed the lonely beer in the fridge. He opened his laptop on the coffee table and confirmed his seat on the Air Canada flight to Montreal leaving in twenty-four hours. On Travelocity, he got a room at the Novotel downtown, a short taxi ride from his former home. He couldn’t stay there. Vanessa had her own life now. He just wanted to see Emily.
With that settled, he tried to make a mental summary of what he knew. Forrestal’s murder was a professional job. Daniel and the police knew what the murderer looked like. The police were on the hunt. But they were baffled as to the motive. Who would want the star Canadian entrepreneur dead? Sure, not all business deals succeeded. He must have had enemies, but it was unthinkable that anyone would want to kill him. Forrestal had made one spectacular deal after another for years. Daniel couldn’t recall any failures. Everything the man touched turned to gold. And what did Forrestal want to talk about? Did he have a deal in mind? Why did he want to talk to a junior no-name professor? If he wanted advice, he should have sought out someone more experienced, like Lloyd, or someone still in the business. There were plenty of others. Does he know about my prior career?
He pulled out his cellphone and dialed. There was a way to find at least one answer.
After three rings, a flat voice said, “Fanshawe.”
“It’s me, Daniel.”
There was a long pause before Lloyd said, “Did you fuck it up?”
“What?”
“You didn’t like the deal?”
“What deal? There was no deal.”
Lloyd paused for a second before continuing. “So what did he want?”
“He never said.”
“You did piss him off. I knew it.”
“No, he’s dead.”
Daniel could hear accelerated breathing at the other end of the call.
“Did you hear me?” Daniel said.
“You killed him?”
“Are you nuts? Of course I didn’t. He was dead before I got to meet him. Police say he was murdered.”
Lloyd stumbled with his words. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. When I got there he was already dead.”
“How do you know he was murdered?”
“Oh, it was pretty obvious. He was shot. In the head. Looked like an execution. It was pretty disgusting.”
“I can’t believe it. Everybody loved Patrick. I can’t believe it.”
He called him Patrick. “Me neither.”
“Who killed him?”
“Don’t know. I just spent hours being interviewed by the police.”
“And they let you go?”
“Of course. I didn’t do it.”
“So who did? Was i
t robbery?”
“I don’t think so. It was a professional hit.”
“Christ.”
“You have any idea who did it?”
Lloyd paused. “Not a clue. He was always a winner. All the way.”
“Well, somebody was pissed off —” The line went dead.
Lloyd is still an asshole, Daniel thought, but his reaction was interesting. He shut off his phone, placed it on the night table beside his bed, and stared out his window. Lloyd said everyone liked Forrestal, that he was always a winner. He knows Forrestal personally.
Maybe there was one loser out there.
The sun had dipped below the horizon, and darkness started to blanket the city. The falling snow was heavier now, covering the city’s secrets, wrapping everything in white with a tinge of jaundice under the sodium streetlights. Daniel felt dizzy, disoriented, as if floating through space, each snowflake a star, travelling faster than light through the vacuum of space.
Another storm was coming. He didn’t know what form it would take, but he sensed that the strands of fate that tied him to a dead entrepreneur would soon throw him into another dangerous situation. A killer was out there somewhere and the skills that Daniel had tried to deaden might have to resurface. His old life might be starting to ooze back.
SIXTEEN
CURLED UP IN THE ROCKING CHAIR in her apartment, Claire stared at the clock on the wall, following each tick of the second hand. She wasn’t used to having time on her hands. With nothing to do but wait, her thoughts spun downward into the abyss that she never wanted to acknowledge, that she always tried to hide away. The harder she pushed them back, the clearer the memories flooded in.
“Maman, I’m home.” Home was a brownstone three-bedroom condo in Outremont, the tony neighbourhood on the north side of Mont-Royal, where upper-class francophones, the political elite, lived out their oversized dreams. She hopped up the steps, opened the door, and saw her mother tapping away at her laptop on the kitchen table.
Late-afternoon sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, lighting up her mother’s face. A cool summer breeze teased the white curtains.
Her mother turned as Claire walked through the vestibule. “Salut, ma chérie.” She smiled.
“Salut, maman,” Claire said from rote.
“I sold two paintings today.”
“À qui?”
“A collector in Geneva. Can you come with me to deliver the paintings? We could pick up the cheque together. Then we can go shopping in Paris. Just like old times. Mother and daughter.”
Her mother ran an art consulting company from her kitchen. With a long list of clients in Europe, the U.S., and Asia, she offered portfolios of high-quality Canadian art. Not Group of Seven or Riopelle, but lesser-known artists with big potential to increase in value.
“Maman, I’ve got plans of my own.” Claire dropped her backpack full of unloved textbooks and pulled out a letter. “I’ve been accepted.”
Her mother held her arms out. “Wonderful! Université de Montréal? I’m so happy that law school finally accepted you.”
Claire frowned. “Non, maman. I’m not going to be a lawyer. I want to do something interesting. For me.”
“I thought we’d already settled this.” She crossed her arms. “So what is it then, sociology, history?”
Claire pouted. “Oui. History. I love it.” She thought her mother, at least, would understand, but it had been a losing battle the last few months.
“What can you do with a history degree? Work at Starbucks? No one will pay you to study the history of paintings.”
“It’s my life, my choice. I’m not here to make up for what you and papa regret in your own lives.”
Her mother recoiled at the ferocity of the statement. She turned and stared out the window. The light through the window blinds painted horizontal bars on her face. “Such a waste.”
“I want to know how we can make things better.”
Mother looked at the floor. “You know what he’ll say.”
Her father arrived after six, looking ragged after another day in Quebec’s pre-eminent high-tech company. He was a senior manager of a major aircraft project, but she didn’t know many details about what he did there. All she saw was her father aging rapidly, trying in vain to compartmentalize the stress of the office and prevent it from infecting the family.
He set his briefcase down and hung his coat on the hook by the front door. Claire gave him a hug that was more worry than warmth. “Papa, when are you going to stop working there? It’s killing you.”
“Don’t start that again.”
“I wish you would get another job.”
“It’s not that easy at my age. With the salary and the bonus, we can afford our trips and your brother’s hockey camps.”
Her maudit brother, Patrick, and his maudit unattainable dream of making it as a professional hockey player. He just wasn’t that good. She could see he would never make the NHL. Why couldn’t her parents? Their blindness was shocking.
She thought her father was important, with a big job, a big title, and lots of responsibility. He got it because he worked hard. That was his message to his children. Maybe he had fought for the job, but now it seemed to consume him, and he appeared more powerless than before, accepting his fate without a fight. She vowed never to be like that.
She thrust her letter in his face.
He read it in silence. “After all that we’ve done for you, ma petite?” He sighed.
“Papa, it’s my decision.”
He looked at her with sad eyes. “But law school would be good for you. You’re studious. Your marks are good. You’re strong-willed. It’s a career. Don’t throw it away with a history degree.” Another sigh. “What do you get with that?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m going to university. To find out.”
“I’ll tell you what you get. Unemployment.”
“You think I won’t learn anything useful?”
“Name one person with a history degree who did anything useful.”
“Lester Pearson, prime minister of Canada. One of the greats, you said once.”
“You serious?”
“I checked on Wikipedia. I knew you were going to ask.”
“So, you are going to Ontario then?”
“Yes. Guelph.”
Her father shook his head and wheezed as he sat in his regular chair at the far end of the kitchen table. “You should stay here, with your people.”
She threw him a look of disgust. “Our people?”
“I’ve worked with les Anglos for many years. They will never accept you.”
The stress of his sagging career was clear in his droopy face and hunched shoulders. She would never be like him.
Back in her apartment, her white uniform tunic lay across her sofa like a flat corpse. Dressed in a ratty T-shirt with a coffee stain that countless washings failed to clean and grey track pants, her hair uncombed, Claire stayed in her one-bedroom apartment and ignored the spectacular view of Halifax Harbour. She chipped away at her tub of Häagen-Dazs chocolate-chip ice cream while some talk show blared from the TV. She didn’t want to hear her parents say, “I told you so.”
There was no one else she could talk to. She hadn’t spoken to her navy friends in the months since she had been promoted to captain of the Kingston. There hadn’t been time. The captain’s chair had called to her, as if it had been waiting for a long time. During her first tour of duty as an ensign, she stood in awe at the chair where only the captain could sit.
Seven years in the navy wasn’t a long time to wait for a first command. She had moved swiftly up the ranks. She passed several classmates from basic officer training. A few of the men did not accept that a woman could be a better officer than they could. She knew that they, or someone who sympathized with their plight, had passed around rumours about her supposed lack of virtue. About the real reason she had risen so fast. About who in the chain of command she had slept with. And how well s
he kept her liaisons secret.
If a man were subject to such a rumour, he’d gain “cred,” but it wasn’t the case with her. She could hear it in the way some of the junior sailors addressed her as “ma’am” on her last posting as the executive officer of another patrol vessel. With a snicker. With a leer that seeped from the raunchy scene they pictured in their heads.
She had long given up trying to correct the record with her fellow sailors. Her protests met with deadened eyes and raised shoulders. Some of her superior officers got a bit too close when discussing orders. One suggested taking shore leave together. Another told her to smile more.
She was trapped. There was little she could do. Complaining to her commanding officer would only get her a reputation as a difficult officer to work with and would damage her chances at promotion. She would have to bottle up her frustration, while the perpetrators interpreted silence as a de facto acceptance of their behaviour. She focused on her career and tried to be the best officer she could be. It will be worth it in the end, she told herself in the lonely nights with only the drone of the engines and indifferent bleeps of the navigation console for company.
The first time she sat in the chair on the Kingston — her first command — an electric shock surged through her body. She had come home. This was where she belonged, surrounded by her crew. Ready to do what was right, helping those in need. To use the lethal power of her ship to enforce good over evil.
For the first time, she felt complete. Becoming captain vindicated her earlier decisions that had crushed her parents’ expectations. They wanted an honourable professional, a son-in-law, and grandchildren; she gave them an odd career choice, one where women stood a good chance of being sexually assaulted, had to endure long periods of absence and as a result had little likelihood of finding a serious boyfriend. Sure, there had been plenty of offers, but each was tainted by chain-of-command issues. The offers had come from her superior officers or from someone she supervised. None could be accepted.
True Patriots Page 6
