by Marc Strange
“Did he do it?” Rachel asks. “Raquel?
“That I don’t know,” I tell her. I need to sit down. I’m spilling coffee. My hand is shaking. “I don’t know. Truly. He had a knife. He was here that night. He’s certainly capable …” Rachel takes the cup from my hand and helps me into her chair. It feels solid and supportive; there’s an ObusForm insert to cradle my lower back. My hand is still shaking.
“You in pain?” she asks.
“Temporarily,” I say. “I’ve got some pills.”
“Have you taken them?”
“Not yet.”
“Gimme.”
“In my jacket.”
Gritch picks my jacket off the floor and locates the pharmacy package. He dangles the bloody rag. “Holy shit!” he says.
“Oh, God,” Rachel says. “Let me see.”
She gently pulls the sling aside. The bandage runs from my wrist to my elbow. It’s somewhat stained with this and that.
“A few stitches,” she says. “How much blood did you lose?”
“Not that much. Didn’t nick a vein.”
“Lucky bastard,” says Gritch.
“Crazy bastard, more like,” Rachel says. “Why didn’t you just phone the police?”
“I did.”
“I mean before he cut your arm off.” She checks the label on the pill bottle and shakes out a pair. “Take these. Now.”
“I need to talk to Leo.”
“You need your head examined,” she says. “Take.”
I wash the pills down with lukewarm coffee and lean back in the chair. “This is a nice chair,” I say. “I should get one of these.”
I didn’t finish the coffee. Rachel gave me orange juice instead and put me to bed, clucking like a Korean doctor. I must have slept a long time because when I wake up it’s almost midnight, and the pills have worn off. My left arm is throbbing. My cellphone is ringing.
I’m still not used to getting calls on a device the size of a chocolate bar. That the caller is on the other side of the world, speaking from the future, is an aspect I wish I could exploit.
“So you can’t actually tell me what happens tomorrow?”
“’Fraid not, big guy.”
“This international dateline nonsense is no use whatsoever.”
“You heading down to Olive’s for your nightly brew?”
“I guess.” First I’d have to locate my pants.
“You sound a trifle groggy.”
“I just woke up.”
“Did I wake you?”
“No, no, I was stirring.” My arm woke me up but she doesn’t need to know that.
“Just wanted you to know that Saint Chris and I made it in one piece.”
“Tell him he’s still on the clock.”
“How about you? Get anywhere today?”
“Truth is, I slept much of it,” I say.
“Tomorrow is another day.”
“From where you are it’s already yesterday.”
“I’ll call again yesterday,” she says. “Go have your beer.”
After she hangs up I give some thought to making my late tour, but the idea of getting dressed defeats me. My arm feels hot. I give in and take two more painkillers and walk around my bedroom until I can feel them kick in.
This time the bedside clock reads 08:09. I’m stiff and sore and wouldn’t stir except for the basic biological imperatives. I wash up as best I can without risking a shower. Wearing a clean shirt and a jacket with two intact sleeves makes me look semi-presentable. I leave off the sling and take two more painkillers.
The office is crowded; Gritch, Rachel, Roland, Brian, Margo, Maurice, voices hushed as a funeral home viewing. I certainly don’t think my wound rates that kind of observance.
“It’s not that bad,” I say.
“They’ve arrested Leo,” says Margo.
chapter sixteen
Leo is being held. Somewhere. I can’t get in to see him but I’m assured that Winston Mikela has met with him, or will soon meet with him, or has been contacted, or is on the way.
On the way to where? I’d like to know.
Sorry, sir. You should check with Detective Mooney. You should check with Detective Pazzano. You should bugger off and stop bothering people.
Finally, after annoying about twenty hard-working cops — never a good plan — I manage to irritate my way to Norman Weed’s office door.
“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” he says pleasantly.
He’s wearing tweed today. It’s stylish, for him, various shades of heather and blue. “New jacket?” I ask politely.
“My wife,” he says. “She’s got me on a diet. Says my old suits don’t fit me any more.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Oh, yeah? Observational skills are rumoured to be a prerequisite in your line of work, aren’t they?”
“I usually let Gritch do the serious looking,” I say. I give the overture a chance to die out before spreading my good arm, palm up. “So?”
“He’s being interviewed. He’s got a lawyer, hell, ten lawyers far as I can tell.”
“What’s the charge?”
“He hasn’t been charged. Yet.”
“He was arrested.”
“He’s a person-of-interest and they want to have a long talk with him.”
“They don’t make an arrest, especially one involving such a high-profile citizen, without running it by you first.”
“Your point?”
“You gave them the green light.”
“They used their own initiative.”
“What did you get from Jesus? What’s he saying?”
Weed stands up, settles his shoulders inside his new jacket, buttons it, comes around the desk with one arm out like an usher. I’m being given a polite bum’s rush. “Gosh-almighty, Joe,” he says, “I sure would like to help you but I don’t think I will. I let my detectives run their own cases as much as possible. That includes deciding who gets to know what, and when.”
“Come on, Norman.” There’s an unfortunate note of pleading in my voice; he probably caught it, too. “I’ve been a big help,” I finish lamely.
“Oh, yeah,” he says graciously, “and don’t think we’re not grateful.”
“I need to see Leo.”
“And as soon as that can be arranged, you’ll have a chance to talk about old times. But right now …” I see that he’s ushered me as far as the exit. “I have work that doesn’t involve you, or your boss, or your hotel. This is a big town and other bad things are demanding my attention, so why don’t you go home, change your bandages, and let me do my job?”
And, of course, Winston Mikela is away from the office and, yes, we’ll make sure he has your cellphone number, sir. What was the name again?
There’s a birthday card in my office mailbox. I get a Christmas card every year, usually accompanied by a pair of warm socks. And every year on Leo’s birthday I get another card, because, according to Madge Killian, Leo wouldn’t be having a birthday were it not for how big a target I was. This year’s card says, “God bless our Guardian Angel.” Yeah, getting shot at, those were the days. I toss the card on my desk.
“My Granny always put a two-dollar bill in my birthday card,” Gritch says.
“Made the front page again,” says Rachel. “All we need now is a bomb scare and we can close up shop.”
I’ve already seen it. Larry Gormé’s byline is under the headline HOTEL HIGH DIVE! Trust the Emblem to use red ink.
“Tomorrow’s should be even better,” says Gritch. “Hotelier of the Year — Busted!”
“How’s that arm?” Rachel wants to know.
“Sore, unserviceable, but otherwise okay,” I say.
“Why aren’t you wearing the sling?”
“Makes me feel like an invalid.”
“You are an invalid,” she says.
“Get to see the old man?” Gritch asks.
“He’s being held at an undisclosed location,” I say.
&nb
sp; “You got Theo’s office number?” I ask Gritch.
“What are you asking him for?” Rachel wants to know. “I’ll dial it for you.”
“T. Alexander, may I help you?” asks a receptionist without enthusiasm.
“Yes,” I say. “I’d like to speak to Theo Alexander.
Tell him it’s Joe Grundy at the Lord Douglas Hotel.”
“Mr. Alexander is out of town. May I take a message?”
“Could you tell me when he’ll be back?”
“He was expected back on Wednesday but he called to say he’d be a while longer. He didn’t give a definite return date.”
“I see. Is there any way I can contact him?”
“I’m afraid not. He was in Las Vegas, but I think he may have gone to Los Angeles on business.”
“Would you tell him that I called, please? Joe Grundy.
He knows how to reach me.”
“Certainly, Mr. Grundy, I’ll leave him that message,”
“Thank you.” I hang up. “Still out of town,” I say.
“Was in Las Vegas, now in L.A. Maybe.”
“Making himself conspicuously scarce,” says Rachel.
“Thing is, he was due back Wednesday.”
“No mention of his travelling companion?” Gritch throws in.
“Nope.”
“Who would that be?” asks Rachel.
“Why don’t I just find out for you guys?” Gritch picks up the phone and redials. “Hi there,” he says, “my name’s Ray Brando. Wanna talk to Theo. Yeah, where is he? Lissen up, don’t give me the runaround here, he’s got my little sister with him. Julia Brando. I got news for him, if he’s messing … baloney!” He has a wicked grin on his face. “Look lady, I’m a police officer and I know he’s got a woman with him down in Vegas and it’s my sister. Oh, yeah? He’s got a woman with him, right? What’s she calling herself these days? Marcia? Marcia!? Yeah, sure. She got a last name? I’ll have the cops pick him up. My sister’s underage. What? Duhamel? Marcia Duhamel? Sounds made-up to me. Yeah, well, I’m sure that’s the information you have but I bet that asshole doesn’t tell you everything!” He hangs up, beams at the two of us, pleased with himself. “Marcia Duhamel.”
Rachel shakes her head. “I think impersonating a cop is against the law.”
“I just threw that in,” he says. “Besides, it’s against the law if you flash a phony badge for a free lunch. You can do practically anything over the phone.” He’s leafing through the phone book. “Marcia Duhamel. Here she is. False Creek. Nice neighbourhood.” He punches in the numbers, hands me the phone.
“Hi, it’s Marcia. I’m not in. Leave me a number, or call my cell.”
I have to listen to the message three times before I can write down the cellphone number she’s rattling off.
“Hi, it’s Marcia. I’m not answering my cell right now.
If this is Brandi, we’ll be back Sunday. Love you, bye.”
“Message says she’ll, no, they’ll be back on Sunday,” I tell Gritch.
“Bet they’re having more laughs than we are.”
“Gotta take off,” I say. “I’m meeting Leo’s lawyer in …” It hurts to pronate my forearm. My watch isn’t on my left wrist and I can’t remember where it wound up. That’s annoying. It’s a good watch. “Did you throw out my jacket?”
“I was going to have it framed with the rest of your mangled wardrobe.”
“Was my watch in the pocket?”
“I’ve got your watch,” Rachel says. She opens her desk drawer, looks at me. “You don’t think Leo did it, do you Joe?” she asks.
“I think he really loved her,” I say.
She buckles the watch on my good wrist. It feels odd there. “That’s not exactly an answer,” she says.
The watch crystal has a scratch from the 3 to the 7.
“I don’t have any answers,” I say.
But I do have a fresh thought, possibly my first of the day. “See if Bri can run a check on that Hiscox woman. Roselyn Hiscox. She says she’s writing a book but I have yet to see her make a note.”
Winston Mikela doesn’t handle criminal cases. He has invited the justly famous Arnold Köenigsberg to look after things, for which phone call Winston will no doubt charge Leo a substantial fee. Arnold is what Louis Schurr would have called a “shlub,” an observation based on the man’s inability to knot his tie properly or deal with his unruly eyebrows. But notwithstanding his somewhat casual aspect, Arnold Köenigsberg is the man I’d want representing me in a capital case. Arnold’s command of a courtroom is the stuff of legend.
Arnold says we can talk for a few minutes if I show up at Connor’s at 12:45. As I cross the intersection I can see him standing at the window counter, arms spread like a condor, two open newspapers, his bulging briefcase, and a legal pad arrayed before him. He is eating a tuna salad sandwich and drinking 2 percent milk from a carton. His tie is askew. His eyes are sweeping like radar, scanning both papers, consulting files, and scribbling notes. I’m impressed that he can spare a blip to acknowledge my arrival while turning pages of both the Emblem and the Globe and Mail.
“Is he okay?” I ask him. “Is he locked up?”
“Private room. They take good care of high-profile murder suspects.”
“Can I get in to see him?”
“Why bother?” he says with his mouth full. “I should have him out before supper.”
“How bad is it?”
“Feh,” he says. He has a big drink of milk, wipes his face with a wad of napkins, and uses it to brush some tuna flakes off the legal pad. “The Crown won’t go in front of a judge with what they have.”
“What do they have?”
“Nothing substantive. Circumstantial at best. Rumours, theories. I think they jumped the gun.”
“What?” I’m pressing him more than he’d like. “This isn’t privileged information.”
Arnold has a lawyer’s natural disinclination to hand a third party anything other than a subpoena but he seems willing to accept, at least for the time being, that we’re on the same team.
He lowers his voice. “They’ve got one of Leo’s business cards. It was in the pocket of the dead man. It has the security code for the fire door at the top of the stairs.”
“So?”
“In Leo’s handwriting.”
“They can prove that?”
“I doubt it,” he says, “but they have it.”
“What about the driver?”
“Dimi Starr, AKA Dimitar Starryk, is still among the missing.”
“What else?”
“Theory. Far as I can see. Raquel was pregnant, she was talking to a lawyer, Leo changed his will immediately after she was killed, Leo’s past relationship with Vivienne Griese, née Saunders …”
“Past relationship?”
“According to Leo they had a brief affair some years ago.”
“Ri-ight,” I say. I can hear the weariness in my voice.
Of course he’d had an affair with Vivienne. One more fact I didn’t want to know. “They think it was a love triangle?”
“That looks like the way they’re going at it. Leo was in a bind with Ms. Mendez getting pregnant, possibly entitled to a large sum of money, perhaps pressing him to get married.”
“Idiots.”
“Well,” he says, starting to collect his trash, “the Crown won’t let it go any further. At least not yet. They’d need a lot more than they have now. I think they were shaking the tree to see if anything would fall out.”
“Like the business with his first wife?”
“Second wife,” Arnold says. “Can’t drag that in.” He tosses the newspapers in a recycle box and the rest in the garbage. “Leo was never charged with anything.”
“But it won’t help him.”
“It has no bearing.” His opens his briefcase to pack for the afternoon.
“We’d better hope not,” I say.
They haven’t let him shave yet. I can see silver stubble on h
is jaw and there are dark smudges under his eyes. I’ve been granted a grudging fifteen-minute visit and I have no doubt the guard has his eye on the clock.
“I’m fine,” he says. “Don’t fret, Joseph. I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop. They made their move, now we can fight back.” He shakes his head. “Timed it nicely,” he says. “Can’t get in front of a judge until Monday. I’m stuck for the weekend. Gives them two free days to dig.”
“How do they come up with second-degree murder?” I want to know.
“Probably sounds better than, ‘We’ve-got-bugger-all-but-let’s-charge-him-anyway.’” He makes a noise that might be a laugh. “They can amend it, up or down, depending.”
“On what?”
“On what they think they can prove.”
My frustration is building, or maybe my arm is putting me in a bad mood. “Mr. Alexander,” I begin, trying to maintain an even tone below the guard’s earshot but aware that my voice is pulled tight and ready to snap. “I don’t think I can be of any further help to you with this matter.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I can’t operate in the dark. I’ve been fed information, and not by you, about your wife’s murder in Alberta, the fact that you were, for a time at least, the prime suspect, that the case is still open.” I take a deep breath. Leo doesn’t interrupt. “Assuming your hands are clean, and damn it, that’s the only way I’ve been able to go this far, you’d better start being straight with me or I’ll walk. I mean it.”
“What do you want to know?”
“I don’t want to know anything about this. It wasn’t part of the job description, poking around in people’s private lives gives me a headache.”
“You’re an honourable man, Joseph. You won’t make it worse than it is.”
“Just how bad is it?”
“Ask.”
“You took Ms. Saunders to the awards dinner. Was it starting up again?” I need to know.
“No. That was Raquel’s idea. Vivienne had been suggesting that we should … see each other again … now that she was getting a divorce. Raquel thought I should explain to her that I was taking myself off the market, so to speak.” There’s a sad little smile tugging the corner of his mouth. “I never kept secrets from Raquel. I told her everything.”
I wonder what time it is in Beijing.
