“Oh, come on! You’ve got a mess up there. A respected doctor dead, his stepdaughter hanging by a thread, a local tour guide murdered. I’m wondering if we should be going up there at all.”
“Perhaps not,” Standish replied calmly. “I’d be happy to have Doucette out of my hair anyway.” With that he hung up.
Well played, Goderich. But Matthew had managed to learn fentanyl was not yet a big local problem and had more likely been brought in by outsiders. Standish had also implied, obliquely, that at least the drug investigation was ongoing.
The truck was loaded, Amanda’s motorcycle was secured in the back, and Kaylee was already in the driver’s seat as they locked the cabin door. Amanda took one last look out across the bay. Rain clouds were massing on the horizon again, and blackflies formed clouds around their heads.
“It was a nice place,” she said, waving away the flies. “Even with the bugs.”
He grinned. “Mother Nature, reminding us who’s boss.”
He climbed into the truck, shooing Kaylee over. As Amanda moved to join him, her phone rang. Matthew sounded apologetic as he filled her in on his meagre discoveries.
“How could they close the investigation so fast?” she demanded.
“They seem to have concluded he took the overdose by accident himself.”
She thought of the vibrant man she’d met on the dock at Pointe au Baril. Confident and in charge. She thought of his photos, which showed a finely tuned artist’s eye and a love of light and colour. To reach their conclusions, the police would have relied on statements by the family, any one of whom might have had something to hide.
“But …”
“It happens, Amanda, even to the most careful user. Dealers mix fentanyl with ecstasy or cocaine to give that extra little edge of euphoria, and sometimes the user doesn’t even know. We know the Saint Clairs had wild parties. We know drugs were available. Being a doctor doesn’t automatically make you more careful with your own health.”
She pictured Benson in the middle of the floor amid pools of vomit and urine. It looked as if he’d been trying to get to the door. To get help? And why the vomit?
“Do you know how he took the stuff?”
Matthew said he didn’t.
“He vomited. Maybe he ate a cookie or a brownie, and he didn’t even know it was laced until it was too late.”
He was silent, but she sensed his skepticism.
“What if he was trying to induce vomiting, Matthew? What if, in those last few seconds, he realized he was about to die?”
“We’ll never know. And even if the police had concluded that, it doesn’t mean he was forced. With drugs freely available at the party, the police would never be able to prove malicious intent.”
Yet something strange was going on. Kaitlyn had obviously been distraught about something. She had tried to sneak back on the island, she had fled to her Aunt Venetia’s house to escape her family, and upon learning of Ronny’s death, she had gone to see Julio — where she had nearly lost her own life. Would have done if Amanda and Chris hadn’t found her.
Amanda felt a chill as the potential implications sank in. Kaitlyn was in the thick of things. Was she in danger?
Amanda thanked Matthew hastily, asked him to keep digging, and hung up. Chris had been driving in silence, his eyes focussed on the road, and now he turned onto the main highway.
“On our way back,” Amanda said, “can we stop by the Parry Sound Hospital? I want to check on Kaitlyn.”
He pursed his lips. “Remember what Janine said.”
“I don’t give a fuck about Janine. I can deal with her.”
“She said she’d sue you.”
“Let her try. She’d have to air all her dirty laundry.”
He looked at his watch. “I’d like to get to Toronto before rush hour. That can be a nightmare around the airport.”
“Chris! Half an hour, that’s all. I just … I need to … I’m worried.”
He sighed, but he must have had his own concerns, or heard the edge in her voice, for he nodded. The West Parry Sound Health Centre was a sprawling modern hospital carved into a jagged rock face above the main street. Kaitlyn had been moved from ICU to a private room, which Amanda took to be a good sign. They wandered the halls for a few minutes before they found George pacing the small waiting room down the hall from her room. He looked haggard and dirty, as if he’d been in the same clothes for days. After learning Kaitlyn was asleep, they led him outside onto the terrace, and Chris went to buy him a coffee and a sandwich from the cafeteria.
George yanked back a patio chair and flung himself down on it. “Janine has slapped a no-visiting order on her and won’t tell me anything!”
“She’s being protective,” Amanda said, “but you can hardly blame her.”
“Protective, my ass. She’s trying to keep a lid on the story. So far she’s persuaded the doctor not to let the cops talk to the girl. And she’s making plans to move her back to Toronto.” Pain twisted his face. “Away from me, from Venetia, from anyone who really cares.”
“Did she wake up? How is she?”
“She woke for a bit, but she’s confused. I don’t need to talk to her, I just want her to know I’m here.”
“Did she say what happened?”
“If she did, Janine is not sharing it. I got friends on the force, so I know they’re looking for this guy Julio, and they’re analyzing the drug residue found at his house. But really …” He lifted his shoulders in a weary shrug. “It’s not the first time she’s used drugs. Venetia tells me she and her friends get high most weekends in the city. Mostly just the feel-good, lovey-dovey stuff like marijuana, mushrooms, and ecstasy. It’s at all their parties and even in the back corners of their school. The cops think she probably brought the stuff up from Toronto herself.”
Chris returned with the food and cast Amanda a warning look, which she ignored. “Really?” she said. “But what about Julio? She was at his place.”
George picked up his cup and lifted it to his lips with shaking hands. He took one sip and grimaced. “Barely waved over the coffee beans,” he muttered. “Neville Standish can’t get a lead on Julio. No address, no contact info. There are dozens of Julio Rodriguezes in Toronto, so without an address it’s a slow process. Benson hired him under the table, cash, no paper trail. That’s pretty standard up here. Nobody likes giving the taxman money. Not that Neville cares about that. Let Canada Revenue enforce their own rules. But finding one Mexican in a place the size of Toronto … I think Neville figures it’s a waste of time. He passed the name on to the OPP drug unit and the Toronto cops, but don’t hold your breath. Pretty small potatoes for them.”
Amanda sighed in frustration. “But there’s a bigger picture here! We know Benson died of a fentanyl overdose, which might have been slipped into his food or drink —”
“Amanda,” Chris said, “we don’t actually know that.”
“Humour me. On the night he died, there was a huge fight over the nanny’s documents, which were locked in the room where he died. Conveniently, she was then able to steal her documents and escape from the island in a boat. We know she was acquainted with Julio. We know she, and someone else — maybe her husband or maybe this guy Julio — killed Ronny and escaped in another boat toward the south. Goddamn! The cops can’t be giving up on Ronny’s death so quickly!”
George had been listening intently. “Of course not, but Ronny’s case has been taken over by major crime detectives from OPP Headquarters in Orillia. I hope they’re connecting all the dots between Ronny, Julio, Danielle, and her husband, but Neville’s not sure Kaitlyn’s overdose is connected to it. Janine is pretty insistent that the girl is just unstable.”
Amanda fell silent, but her mind seethed. Kaitlyn was connected, she was sure of it. The girl was tormented by something. Had she bought the drugs that killed her stepfather? Did she know how he died? And if she already had the drugs herself, why had she rushed to see Julio the minute she learned of Ronny’
s death?
It was a sinister, tangled web, and in the background was Kaitlyn’s mother, blocking contact and inquiry at every turn. Protecting her daughter, or herself?
Through the window she spotted a familiar figure with angular turquoise hair and a fringed leather jacket striding through the cafeteria. A hand-tooled leather computer bag was slung over her shoulder, and she juggled a take-out coffee and sandwich container with one hand while texting on her phone with the other. Frankie looked like a woman on a work mission, but when she saw them, she veered over.
“George!” she exclaimed, plunked her food down on their table, and reached across to him. “I’m really sorry about Ronny.”
When he remained rigid in her embrace, she drew back to scrutinize him. “What a terrible, terrible accident. Do the cops know what happened?”
“Not an accident, Frankie. Those people killed him. He’s dead because he was trying to help them, and they killed him for it.” He flushed, his whole body vibrating.
Frankie laid her hand on his arm. “Then I hope they catch them. Ronny was one of the good ones. I know we fought, but we were like family.”
He seemed to deflate. After a pause, he gave a faint nod.
“How’s Kaitlyn Saint Clair?” Frankie asked. “Is that why you’re here?”
George raised his head to study her quizzically. Despite the studs and the tattoos, her smile was tender. “Ronny sometimes talked to me about her when he was worried about her drugs.”
“She’s okay. Her mother is going to put her in rehab in Toronto.”
“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
He shook his head. “How’s that going to fix anything? The poor kid’s adrift, like a boat with no anchor. She’s been adrift for years. The drugs are new, maybe this last year. But there are drugs in the house and that mother … well, some people shouldn’t have kids. God knows I made a lot of mistakes raising Ronny, but at least I tried, and there were lots of people around here to set me straight. Down in Toronto, who will Kaitlyn have? Especially now that Benson’s gone.”
“Maybe her mother will step up to the plate.”
George gave a dismissive grunt. “Yep. Kaitlyn will have more luck getting attention out of poor old Edith Doherty. At least Benson did stuff with her. I’d see her out in the boat with him taking pictures together.”
Frankie pried the lid off her coffee and blew across the hot liquid. She seemed to be stalling. George looked at her. “What?”
“Her idea or his?”
“I don’t know. I think it was an escape for both of them. Why?”
She set her cup down. Shook her head. “No reason.” With that she picked up her food and shoved her chair back. “You know me, George. Nosy Parker.”
George stirred. “Can you talk to her?”
“I don’t have permission —”
“Off the record. Just a quick ‘hi, how ya doing.’ Just to see how she is.”
Frankie glanced at her watch and wavered. “Gotta run. I’ll … I’ll see.”
George looked lost as he watched her stride away. “Kaitlyn seemed so happy when she was out with Benson, you know? He wasn’t her father, but he was the best she had.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Matthew’s phone rang just as he’d packed his laptop into his satchel and was draining the last of his coffee. He glanced at the display: an unknown number with a Toronto area code. He answered with his usual terse “Goderich.”
“Are you Matthew Goderich, the lawyer?”
He was about to laugh at the joke when something in the man’s apprehensive, almost furtive tone stopped him. It had a faint Spanish inflection. Did he have a Latino source he’d forgotten about? “Who’s speaking?” he countered.
“Are you Danielle Torres’s lawyer?”
The penny dropped and his pulse quickened. “Yes, I am. Who are you?”
“You said you could help. With documents and … legal things.”
Matthew gave up trying to pry the man’s name out of him for the moment. “Depends. What does Danielle need help with?”
“Me. I need help.”
Matthew rolled his eyes. How many times had the Filipino nannies passed his card around? Had he inadvertently invited every immigrant with a legal problem to contact him?
“With what? Tell me the problem, and I’ll tell you if I can help.”
“I did some work for a man on his house, and I want to get paid.”
“Is he refusing to pay you?”
“No. That’s not the problem. He’s dead.”
“Then go to his next of kin. The estate will pay you.”
“They don’t know about it.”
Matthew sat down again. “If you have a contract —”
“I don’t have a contract.”
Then you’re shit out of luck, Matthew wanted to say, but he restrained himself. “I’m sure if you explain your situation and show them the work you did —”
“It’s a secret. The house was a secret. Dr. Benson didn’t want his family to know, and if you knew his family …”
Matthew tightened his grip on the phone. “Who did you say?”
“Dr. Benson. Benson Humphries.”
“Benson Humphries has a secret house? Not his Rosedale house?”
The man managed a laugh. “No, this is a little house.”
“But he owns it? Do the police know?”
“The police?” The man sounded alarmed. “I don’t think so. He just buy it. It was a secret.”
“So you said.” Matthew thought fast. A whole new lead had just broken open! “Look, I may be able to help, but I’m not doing anything over the phone. We have to meet in person, and I want to see this house for myself. See the work for myself,” he clarified quickly. Glancing at his watch, he grimaced. Toronto rush hour would be starting soon, turning any trip into a nightmare of red lights. He grabbed a pen. “Give me the address.”
The man balked and hemmed and hawed before finally capitulating. Once he’d provided the address and arranged to meet him there in an hour, Matthew hung up and looked up the home on Google Maps. It was north of Eglinton Avenue and west of the core, but still fairly central. Matthew didn’t know Toronto well, but in his brief stint as a journalist with the Toronto Star decades ago, he remembered the area as rundown and largely working-class.
Curious.
He put in a quick call to Peter Pomeroy, an old university friend of his who was an actual lawyer, specializing by a stroke of luck in property and estate law. Matthew cultivated acquaintances — a journalist could never have too many — and over the decades he had accumulated hundreds. He didn’t have much time but wondered if his friend could work his magic and check the title of a specific Toronto property for him. He understood it had recently been purchased. Could Peter find out who had bought it, for what price, and had the deal closed?
It had cost him half the man’s outrageous hourly fee plus a bottle of fine Scotch, but a deal had been struck. “If you can give me the answers within half an hour,” he added, “two bottles of Scotch.”
The half hour was almost up, and Matthew’s taxi had worked its way northwest past strip malls and dilapidated shops on Weston Road almost to the cross street when his friend called back.
“You’re not telling me the whole truth, Goderich.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know damn well what I’m talking about. Why are you interested in this particular property?”
“I can’t tell you that. Journalistic privilege.”
“Uh-huh. You’re working on a story, aren’t you? Digging up dirt.”
“As it happens,” Matthew said, trying to sound aggrieved, “I’m not. I’m trying to do someone a favour. A worker that the owner owes money to.”
Peter Pomeroy said nothing. From the back seat Matthew drummed his fingers on the armrest as the cab waited at the traffic light. Up ahead, he could see a side street lined with an eclectic jumble of tiny bungalows and narrow two
-storey homes. Cars lined the curb, and the small, neatly tended yards were taken over by bikes, plastic fences, and overgrown shrubs. What the hell?
“Let me guess,” he said finally. “It’s owned by the recently deceased Dr. Benson Humphries.”
“Yes. That’s a matter of public record.”
“Is the sale final?”
“Yes, it closed last month.”
“What day last month?”
“Well before Humphries died, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“So it’s legal and above board?” Matthew said, hanging on as the cab squealed tires around the turn. “His estate owns the house?”
“I’d say so.”
“What was the purchase price?”
Pomeroy named a figure that sounded outrageous, but Matthew knew by Toronto standards it was probably modest, as befitted the neighbourhood.
“Is there a mortgage on it? A bank or trust company?”
“Not on the record. He paid for it outright. But then of course he could.”
Matthew asked if there were any other relevant details he could share, and Pete chuckled. “For half an hour and two bottles of Scotch, that’s what you get. I can look into it further if you or the worker retains me properly.”
Matthew thanked him and hung up just as the cab pulled up outside a miniature box of a house wedged into a narrow lot. A rusty pickup sat at the curb out front, and a commercial refuse bin filled much of the postage-stamp yard. Plank walkways crisscrossed the rest of the yard, and ladders, two-by-fours, and buckets of cement were piled on the front porch.
There was no one in sight, but the front door was ajar, and lively Latin music filtered out. Matthew climbed up the wooden steps and pushed open the door, revealing a living room with tarps spread across its gleaming hardwood floor. Cans of paint, cleaner, and rags were grouped in a corner.
A long corridor led toward the back to what Matthew assumed was the kitchen. A young man poked his head warily around the corner. “Mr. Goderich?”
Matthew nodded and watched a smile of relief spread across the man’s dark features. Matthew sized him up. A small, compact man with a muscular chest and short-clipped black hair. He was probably in his midthirties, although his smooth skin, high cheekbones, and dark eyes belied his age. He stepped forward to offer his hand.
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