A torn corner of a newspaper. Arthur shook the ring free. It fell with a comfortable plop on the reception countertop, gold, inset with an oval opal, a restive stone, yellow, orange, red. The power must not be used for evil. Arthur had trouble believing Pomeroy forgot it was in his wallet; it would have made a bulge.
“Find any drugs?”
“He was clean.”
“My gratitude is unbounded.”
Faloon clapped Wentworth on the back. “Whattaya think, Stretch, Mr. Beauchamp got this in the bag? He ain’t lost a murder yet, right?”
“Three losses, but fifty-four wins, if you count the ones on appeal. Eleven were reduced to manslaughter, and there were four mistrials.”
Arthur rewrapped the ring in the newsprint, handed it to Wentworth with advice not to lose it on penalty of ending his legal career in ignominy and disgrace.
Arthur stood there puzzling, wondering why the Chrysler wasn’t in its allotted space. He’d left it in the lot an hour ago, after leaving his club. Was he losing his grip? Wentworth seemed to think so.
“You sure you didn’t, like, sort of forget…I mean, given how preoccupied…”
“Damn it, Wentworth, my mind hasn’t turned to sludge. Right here. Stall Eighteen.”
“Um, did you leave the keys in it?”
“I have them right here!” Jingling them.
They wandered about, found no sign of a 1970 Chrysler New Yorker, and finally made inquiries of a grease-stippled young man changing a tire. “You sure that car was yours, because the towtruck driver said it hadn’t been paid for, and he had some kinda seizure order.”
“Stoney,” Arthur snarled.
It took only a few minutes to flag a taxi, Arthur muttering imprecations all the way to the law courts. Wondering about my jitney. Just checking, no reason to be concerned.
He wasn’t able to put the matter aside until they found themselves alone with Hank Chekoff in an elevator. Arthur was gruff in his greeting, and the sergeant went on the defensive.
“Give me a break, counsellor, enough with the boot marks all over my ass. Even my wife’s laughing at me. This ain’t the VPD; I got limited resources in West Van.”
“Nothing against you, Hank, you’re doing just fine.”
Though forbidden to discuss his evidence until his cross-examination ended, Chekoff did just that. “I had nothing to do with this April dame, you got to believe that. I didn’t see her reports. Ask Florenza’s old man about her when he shows up–I served a summons on him last night, by the way, after I finally got past the butler and the bodyguard.”
“Was Shawn Hamilton there?”
“Always.” As the elevator slowed for level six, he said quickly, “All I ask is go easy, counsellor. As a favour I ran Carlos Espinoza’s name last night. That’s a hint.” As they walked out into the hallway, he added, “By the way, Abigail Hitchins ain’t feeling too good. Something about bad food at a restaurant.”
That diagnosis was confirmed when Arthur found the ashen-faced prosecutor standing by the railing outside court 67, looking as if she might lose her breakfast. She was being attended by her courtier, who was mopping her brow. Haley, the girl Wentworth seemed keen on.
“Salmonella in the rubber chicken,” said Abigail hoarsely.
“Why are you even here? We must adjourn and get you home to bed.”
“No. Can’t show weakness. Kroop will lynch me if he misses his date with destiny. I’m waiting for legally prescribed narcotics to kick in.”
Ire at Stoney faded in the face of his learned friend’s distress. “The main course was chicken?” He supposed it would be too much to hope the supplier was Chip O’Malley.
“No, almost. Canard à l’orange. Rubber duck.”
“Your tainted bird, I would imagine, was shared by others?”
“I don’t know who.” She put a hand to her stomach, fought off a minor tremor.
“I think we should call it a day.”
“Never surrender. I’ll see how far I can go.”
“Who do we have?”
“Florenza’s maid. Then Rashid. Donat LeGrand is in the building, with counsel.”
“Silent Shawn?”
“No, bigger.”
Arthur had no chance to ask who; she went off quickly to the ladies’ room.
A reconciliation of sorts was underway between Cud and Felicity, who was holding his hand as they took their seats. Irma Brown hadn’t joined them today. Shawn Hamilton was at his usual station, tapping out a message on a Blackberry. And at the press table, newly nominated suspect Charles Loobie was grinning, as if at some private feat of cunning.
Abigail walked into court tightly, a cosmetics-enhanced complexion, a grim smile. Chekoff shambled into the witness box with a look at Arthur, seeking clemency. The jury took their places–no sour faces there except, oddly, from Tom Altieri, who was frowning rather severely at his former brother steelworker.
Arthur told Wentworth to take a break, pull the maid and the guard from the witness room, and sit them down to take their statements. As Wentworth gathered his papers, Kroop shambled in, his pallor battleship grey, a pained and ravaged look that clearly marked him as another luckless duck victim. Wentworth fumbled pen and notepad onto the floor as he stared at the judge as if at an apparition. He bowed and hurriedly left.
“Good morning, milord. Though I regret having missed last evening’s grand banquet, may I add my own heartfelt applause to the many well-deserved tributes that I’m sure flowed as abundantly as the food and wine.”
Kroop, knowing Arthur was digging at him, said something undecipherable and slid down in his chair, only his head and shoulders in view. A touch of red by his anthracite eyes, other colours too, a hint of olive green. He was a warrior though, a lion, proud, contemptuous of weakness. Arthur will see how long he lasts.
“Sergeant, let’s see if we can pick up where we abruptly left off. I had asked you about a gentleman named Carlos Espinoza. You weren’t sure if the name rang a bell. Have you given that any further thought?”
Chekoff glanced at Kroop, who had vetoed this line of inquiry yesterday. But the Badger seemed preoccupied with deeper concerns. “Yes, I ran that name through the system, and there’s a match with a Mexican resident who has a record involving drugs.”
“And I take it the system disclosed that back in 1992 he was the paramour of Ms. Florenza LeGrand?”
“In that year, a certain Carlos Espinoza and a certain Florenza LeGrand were jointly arrested in Mexico for drug trafficking.”
Kroop seemed in no mood to joust this morning, so Arthur pressed ahead. “And the outcome?”
“The record isn’t clear what happened to him, but we’re checking on it. Ms. LeGrand was held for two weeks, then deported back to Canada.”
“And what would you say if I suggested Mr. Espinoza was seen in Ms. LeGrand’s company only last year?”
“Not much, because I don’t know that.”
“Assuming he was, indeed that he was her house guest, how would you suppose he entered Canada?”
“Illegally.”
“Mr. Beauchamp!” Agony in Kroop’s voice. “Assumptions, speculation, hearsay! This is a court of law, not a gossip mill.” That took a lot out of him, and he subsided, breathing heavily, tight as if holding back belches or farts.
Arthur felt a little sorry for him, sorrier for Abigail, who was holding her head with both hands. He changed tack. “Sergeant, it’s fair to say, is it not, that Rafael Whynet-Moir was not the only local judge who died suspiciously, or at least mysteriously, last year?”
“Fair to say.”
“In the course of your meticulous investigations, did you consider whether these deaths were in any way connected?”
“I didn’t see how.”
“What about Justice Warren Naught, who drowned off a dock last August 18, at Fishermen’s Wharf?”
“Well, that’s out of my jurisdiction, I don’t know much about it except what I’ve been told.”
Arthur was tempted to ask the ultimate hearsay question–What were you told?– to test Kroop, to see if he had any fight left, but it didn’t seem cricket to take advantage of his suffering. It would be unjust to trigger an audible gas eruption–which, from the intense look in his eyes, seemed impending.
To give Wentworth more time in the witness room, he backtracked to the higher priority matter of Carlos Espinoza, directing Chekoff’s attention to the news clipping from 1992 relating the dashing dealer’s history of arrests and escapes. When he sought to file the story as an exhibit, Kroop gave no sign of response except for a slight bulging of eyes and tightening of face muscles.
“You’re looking into whether Carlos Espinoza was recently in Canada?”
“Well, I can check with immigration, if you like.”
“I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”
Arthur sat and looked around for Abigail, but she’d obviously bolted for the loo. Haley looked anxious, seeming not up to the task of standing in. “Well?” Kroop said, irritated at the delay. “Well?”
Well was obviously what His Lordship was not, for he suddenly stood, holding his stomach, and sped to his chambers, emitting a clenched squeak from behind as he hurtled inside and slammed the door.
A spell of awkward silence, not even a titter from the bemused gallery. Cud Brown, out of the loop again, gestured to Arthur: something weird’s happening, man, visit me, explain. Haley joined Arthur and asked, “What do we do?”
“I suggest, my dear, that we give thanks that we missed out on the canard à l’orange.”
A few minutes passed, some jurors fidgeting; others, more attuned to the fact that judge and prosecutor were in extremis, suppressing ungracious joviality. Charles Loobie caught Arthur’s eye, winked. It was hard to see him as a murderer, but if one accepts the wit and wisdom of the noted author Pomeroy, the perp is always the one you least suspect.
Arthur scanned the gallery for familiar faces. J. Dalgleish Ebbe had taken another day off to pursue his intense interest in this case. Presumably he had time off to compose judgments, and was playing hooky from that task.
The clerk took a call, then addressed the room. “His Lordship has advised that circumstances have arisen requiring us to recess until two p.m.”
All to the good, Arthur decided. It would give him a chance to get on top of things–the case had been moving too swiftly, the witness list expanding. And there was the matter of Donat LeGrand’s subterfuge to deal with, the hiring of April Wu, the adage-spouting private eye. LeGrand was somewhere on the grounds, along with his counsel. A big name, Abigail said.
He turned to Shawn Hamilton. “Take me to your leader.”
Though still in his gown, Arthur followed him outside, toward Robson Square, past its skating rink, where young couples were gracefully swirling, and across the street into the lobby of a boutique hotel. Shawn’s only words en route were to confirm he’d been at Kroop’s jamboree. “I had the salmon.”
“Good choice.” Appropriate, given he was on retainer to federal Fisheries. Arthur’s own firm, Tragger, Inglis, had handled their prosecutions until the Conservatives began rewarding their friends.
Shawn led him into an elegant penthouse suite. Donat LeGrand was standing by an ersatz fireplace, gas-powered and brightly flickering. He acknowledged Arthur with a nod but made no move to greet him, perhaps appalled on seeing Arthur black-robed, like the angel of death. The tycoon was tall, a thick thatch of greying hair, amply jowelled and girthed. A dejected look.
More welcoming was the cherubic silver-haired gentleman rising from behind a tray of pancakes and eggs to his full height of five foot six and extending not just a hand but both arms in loving embrace. Gib Davidson, Q.C., the most courteous and benign lawyer in the ranks of the bar. Such qualities disarmed all who opposed him while his weapon of choice, a polite stiletto, made them cautious. “King Arthur, the ground shakes whereon he walks.” He backed off a step, examining him. “Where have you been hiding, in a health club? My God, the years have treated you well.”
“More true of you than me, Gib. How a man keeps such robust health when he never stops eating is beyond me. But who else do we have aiding in this cabal?” Not that he needed to ask: the Kowloon Mata Hari herself, April Fan Wu, perched delicately on a lounger. “Ah, so you didn’t flee the country, my dear?”
“Once on a tiger’s back, it is hard to alight, Mr. Beauchamp.”
He couldn’t help but smile.
“Let’s hope the tiger will have less bite after he hears me out,” said Gib, “Then he will either make a meal of the lovely Ms. Wu or offer clemency. Would any of you mind if Arthur and I have several minutes?”
At the door, LeGrand finally took Arthur’s hand, saying, “My pleasure, sir, and I’m deeply sorry,” then led April and Shawn out.
Gib took a plate of wafers and blue cheese and a bowl of almonds to a couch, sat it on his lap, kicked off his shoes, rested his feet on a glass-topped table, and patted the seat beside him. Arthur took it.
“Nice cut, très distingué, as Roberto might say. Still using him? That’s his British Ambassador, isn’t it? There’s coffee, sodas. Anything? Almonds?”
“Lost my appetite after seeing the casualty list from Kroop’s banquet.”
“Damn, I’m glad I missed that. There’s a rumour someone tried to poison the old bugger.”
“A gross canard. Okay, Gib, what is the game we’re playing here?”
“Face the music.”
“Play a few bars.”
He took a breath. “In the mid-1970s, Donat LeGrand was negotiating port fees for lucrative routes from Vancouver to the Far East, and he spent a lot of time in exotic places. One was Bangkok. That’s where Florenza LeGrand was conceived of the loins of Donat and his…lover? Concubine? Call girl? Who knows.”
This music, if not the food of love, was food for scandal, an explosive one. Gib nodded, as if in response to Arthur’s astonishment.
“He didn’t abandon her. Give credit to Thesalie too, Donat’s wife. She forgave–not because of possible stigma, but from her good heart. Lovely, decent woman. Shy. I didn’t feel she should be stressed by coming here; hope you agree.”
Arthur nodded. Gib had a subtle way of extorting agreement.
“Mrs. LeGrand consented to her husband bringing the young woman to Canada, on maternity leave, as it were. Given an apartment, an allowance, sent to a well-endowed clinic to have her child, then quietly returned to a comfortable job with LeGrand’s Bangkok office. Meanwhile baby Flo was adopted by both LeGrands. No papers exist to prove she’s his bastard child. Thesalie LeGrand was barren, poor thing–and they spoiled their sole heir. Let her go wild. And she grew up believing, despite the golden skin and the Orient in her eyes, that she was conceived in their bed.”
“I have a feeling I’d rather not be hearing this. And made to feel responsible if it comes crashing down.”
“Devastating for Mrs. LeGrand especially. Such a gracious lady. And despite his sins, Donat, too, has shown nobility, wouldn’t you say?”
“What are you trying to sell?”
“First, let me plead the case of other suspects. I don’t know what Silent Shawn knows–he won’t tell even me–but Donat LeGrand says he personally engineered the hiring of April Wu. Shawn was just a mail drop.”
“And Ms. Wu was planted in my office to find out if we knew anything about Flo’s provenance.”
“Ah, still the old silver fox. Nothing lost upstairs but a little off the top.” Munching contentedly on almonds. “Yes, indeed, that clever young beauty was hired to find out whether you’d uncovered a shameful thirty-three-year-old secret. And now you know it. It took some effort to persuade my clients that Arthur Ramsgate Beauchamp would be the last person in the world, the last person, to inflict pain on such an upstanding, charitable couple. Training programs for the destitute in the Third World, that’s where his major contributions go, seventy million at last count. The cheese is a delightful Cambozola. Give it a go
.”
Arthur dutifully nibbled. “The story going the rounds is he was also charitable to the less deserving.”
Gib grinned. “Right. Whynet-Moir. Two million dollars in July of 2006 upon his promise to marry Florenza. With an expectation of two million more after the vows. Cash. All under a pretense of anonymity, the funds sent to a Bahamian bank. More almonds?”
“No thanks.”
“Reform her, that was the idea. Marry her off to the handsome, cultured, top-ranked lawyer high on the short list for a judgeship. Under whose steady, nurturing hand, Flo would finally blossom from twenty years of painful adolescence into womanhood and take on her intended role as a priestess of high society.”
“July 2006, you said?”
“Two months before Raffy got the nod from the justice minister.” He drew a sheet from a briefcase. “Donat’s sworn affidavit. It will attest that he had no knowledge the money was to be used to buy a judgeship.” Before offering it to Arthur, he said, “In trade for this, all we ask is that you not break confidence over Florenza’s maternal origins. Deal?”
“Deal.”
THE MAID, THE MAJOR, AND THE MEXICAN
“Here he comes,” someone said. Then a hush as Chief Inspector Chance stepped into the circle. The room had been cleared of all but sheriffs, lawyers, and court staff. The death grimace on Kroop’s face, the risus sardonicus, the pungent smell of curry provided all the proof he needed. Strychnine. Who here had motive…?
Wentworth jumped as the door opened. A sheriff peered into this cramped, dark interview room. “You wanted to see Mr. Vogel?” Who was standing there in a tractor cap, chewing on a toothpick, looking sour, as if expecting the worst. Stealing up behind him, Philomène Rossignol, not looking too anxious to resume her interview. Wide-eyed, elflike, barely past her teens, she’d been so nervous with him she looked like she might pee her pants, which is maybe why she rushed away to the washroom.
Kill All the Judges Page 25
