Frightened senseless, Gerry begged her not to tell.
After that, Purvis looked pale and sick, in her presence. Drawn by the power of the Reverend’s dark secrets, a thrill coursed through her body. A sense of control over both her brother and men grew swiftly within her. The keeper of secrets was the master of the game. So thought Katharine at eleven, as her burgeoning sense of power became inextricably linked with dark sexual stirrings.
To banish the recollection, Katharine smiled warmly at the archbishop, who rose from his chair and rested his hand on her shoulder as he looked at the plans. With his gold pen in hand, he traced the perimeter of the church lands and the property to the north. “Any word, Mrs. Rowe, whether we can get the Deighton lands incorporated into our plan for the shopping mall?”
Shocked, Katharine stared at him. “I didn’t know they were part of the development.” She withdrew slightly from his touch.
He jerked his hand away. “They’re an integral part. Didn’t Mr. McKeown explain that to your senior partners?”
Momentarily, Katharine appeared confused. “It’s the first I’ve heard of it,” she managed to say. Her office was full of cutthroats. Intentional neglect to pass on key information was a common form of sabotage. “How does the property fit into the plan?” she asked.
“We need parking.”
“But isn’t it underground?” Katharine consulted the plan.
“Some is. But we need more.”
Katharine found nothing in her file. “I’ll speak to the senior partners, sir. I’m sure it’s an oversight.”
The Archbishop asked, “Don’t you report to Donald Coventry?”
Katharine nodded, furious that the vice-president of planning had succeeded in such a simple game of corporate subterfuge. Wearily, she exhaled.
“Then he should be here, I think,” Staunton grumbled.
The boardroom door flew open. Tony McKeown strode past, closely followed by two young men laden with stacks of legal texts. The lawyer was in his shirtsleeves, collar open and tie loosened. He acknowledged no one’s presence. Throwing himself into the chair next to Staunton, he motioned the junior lawyers to set out the books. Only then did he look at the archbishop.
“Now, Mr. Staunton,” Tony began, “we’ve got problems, and they have to be sorted out before tomorrow. One of them is you, sir.”
The archbishop remained in shocked silence. His eyebrows shot up and his mouth dropped open. Finally he said, “Me? And why am I a problem?”
Chewing on his cigar, Tony rose and began to pace. “All our work goes down the drain unless you can sell the plan to our esteemed council members. So let’s get to it. We’ve got to get you prepared for your examination tomorrow.”
With that, he turned a brilliant smile on the archbishop. “You’ll be on the hot seat, sir. Don’t worry about all the detail stuff. We’ve got experts like Mrs. Rowe to do that. Are you ready, sir?”
The archbishop nodded curtly. Never had he been addressed in such a discourteous manner. This lawyer would have to learn respect for the office.
“Good. Now remember, the aldermen will be throwing all kinds of questions at you. They’re not all that smart, but those questions have been fed to them by the ratepayers, who pay their exorbitant taxes to the city.” McKeown waved his cigar dismissively. “And those aldermen and ratepayers are a bunch of holier-than-thou armchair socialists with the brains of sheep.”
Katharine caught her breath. She had entered a world of domination by a master. Last night’s smoothly polished lawyer had turned into a barroom brawler and bully. A courtroom lawyer, a consummate actor…undoubtedly there were other personae in his repertoire. McKeown lurched forward in his chair and touched the archbishop’s arm.
“Think of it this way, sir.” His tone was deferential at first. “You must surrender yourself into my hands. I am about to create an appropriate personage in you to address these aldermen.”
Smiling, Tony paused to tap his cigar. “It’s something like trusting in God,” he concluded softly.
The archbishop gave an almost imperceptible nod.
McKeown grinned and sprang from his chair. “Let’s get to work, sir!”
With a small smile, the lawyer began strolling the length of the conference table. “Archbishop Staunton,” he began in a respectful tone. “You preside over the diocese of this city?”
The Archbishop was quick to reply, in clipped tones. “I do, and, I might add, my authority and responsibility cover the extended metropolitan area.”
“And in your position, sir, you are primarily concerned with matters of the spirit, church doctrine, and the like?” The lawyer’s tone was casual, even friendly.
“Yes, I am.” The archbishop spoke authoritatively.
“You must be extremely busy, then. How is it that you have time to take such a personal interest in the application of one parish church, out of perhaps two hundred, to sell out to a shopping-mall developer?”
Momentarily, Staunton flushed in confusion, “Why, the church always takes a special interest in the neighborhoods where its parishes are located.”
Tony gazed intently at the archbishop. Delving his hands in his pockets, he nodded thoughtfully and said, “Not bad, sir. Not bad at all.”
Staunton looked vaguely pleased with himself.
“With respect, then, sir, why would you persist in supporting an application that is obviously unpopular with the ratepayers?”
Momentarily, the archbishop looked puzzled, but gaining his composure, he replied smoothly, “Obviously, they don’t see, at least not yet, that the increased revenues will help not only the church, but the neighborhood as well.”
McKeown was at the far end of the boardroom. Wheeling around, he jabbed his finger at Staunton. “Wrong, Reverend. Wrong!” he shouted.
With his voice beginning in a low growl, but quickly rising in strength and resonance, he strolled the length of the room, as if addressing a jury. “You’re not in your pulpit now, Rev. You’re talking to real people like they’re out on the street and you’re one of them. You can’t say ‘obviously.’ That makes them feel stupid. You can’t say ‘yet.’ That’s telling them they’re going to see it your way, once they’ve stopped being so stupid. And, Reverend, you can’t use that goddamned sanctimonious tone of yours, because it makes them real mad.”
Tony dropped into the seat beside the Archbishop Staunton and grinned at his frozen countenance. “Now sir, please,” he said with weary patience “I’m going to tell you what to say and how to say it.”
God, thought Katharine, this is more than woodshedding. She permitted herself a small smile. Staunton deserves it, and McKeown is enjoying humiliating the man. But as the afternoon of grilling and rehearsing wore on, she was surprised to see a more convincing and likeable witness emerge from the austere personage of the archbishop.
Signaling the end of the session, McKeown reached across the table and covered Katharine’s hand. Startled, she drew back. McKeown held her wrist tightly and winked. “Tonight, Mrs. Rowe, we’ll work on you.” With that, he strode from the room, leaving his two silent assistants to clear the materials from the table.
CHAPTER 9
After speaking with Katharine, Harry looked about his empty kitchen. From the hollow sounds of the house, he knew Laura had not yet been home. Her absence disoriented him.
Later that evening, with sleep eluding him, he lay still in the darkness of his empty bed. He saw the placid face of Mudhali regarding him as a deadbeat. Jesus! As if refusing to shoulder his deceased partner’s personal debts were a serious crime. Turning onto his back, he stared at the ceiling. He saw his hand scrawl the check in anger. Never mind; he could fix it in the morning. He just needed to give the client the accounting, and all would be well. Dorothy Crawford would just have to pay Richard’s debt to the bank.
Then Laura’s face floated up. Beset with different worries, he tortured himself with visions of the charming Dr. Stover. Harry had never met the man, but now
Stover leered at him and stroked a pretentious beard. In his thrall, he thought.
No longer could he drive out recollections of his Sunday afternoon walk in the ravine with Laura. Together, they had strolled down the dirt road past the formal gardens of Alexander Muir Park. Holding hands was the public pretence of intimacy. Up ahead lay the sun-filled tennis courts and the neat white-and-green clubhouse.
“What do you want to do this summer?” asked Harry, testing the waters.
“I’m not sure I can get away.”
“You always have.”
She shrugged and poked a stick at a muddy patch of dead leaves. “Work schedules.”
In the distance, a small boy was reeling after flocks of birds.
Harry’s shoulders slumped.
“You’re thinking we should have had children.”
“No. Why?”
“You’d make a lousy poker player, Harry.”
Saddened at being so intimately known by someone drifting out of reach, he admitted, “Yes, actually, I was.”
“You know it wouldn’t have worked.”
“I would have helped.” Harry heard his own wistfulness.
“Sure, Harry. But that would have made it my responsibility.”
They walked on underneath the ancient, gnarled trees. “Let’s talk about it next month,” she said.
Nothing resolved. Everything postponed.
At last, exhaustion swept over him, and he slept straight through the night.
To his surprise, he woke almost an hour early. Laura lay beside him. He drew her close and gazed at the line of her shoulder, smooth and still in the early rays of sun.
“What is it?” she mumbled into the pillow.
He dismissed her grumpy tone, and contemplated the pleasures of their early morning lovemaking—years ago. He slid his hand under the covers, reaching down until it rested on her thigh.
“What are you doing, Harry?” She clutched the blankets around her. “It’s not seven, is it? I’ve got a meeting at the museum at eight-thirty.” Pulling her robe on, she headed for her bathroom.
Harry sighed. Reality clashed with fantasy. But good Lord…what about the Chin offers and the Deighton funeral arrangements? In the bathroom, he began shaving. With determination, he looked beyond his puffy eyelids to concentrate on the intense blue eyes. He rinsed and patted his face dry.
He took stock. Time to cultivate a new image: shed a few pounds and cut down on the smoking. With the new business, he could afford a squash-club membership.
In the bedroom, Laura was almost dressed. He sat on the bed. Her gaze in the mirror told him she was already miles away.
“Harry, I’ll be late tonight. The meetings will go straight through dinner.”
“You were late last night too,” he said mildly. Her glance was wary. “I do worry about you, what with this murderer about.”
“Don’t worry. I’m with a group, never alone.”
“Maybe we could go out for dinner Friday night. Have some time together.”
She nodded. “I think that could work. I’ll check my agenda and leave you a message.”
“Friday night? Surely you can’t be booked with work then!”
She shrugged and gathered up her purse.
When she was gone, he chose his suit and squinted in the sunlight to coordinate his shirt and tie. Maybe, if he got into the real money, they could retire somewhere really nice. Fishing boats and brilliant blue waters flashed into his mind. But then, would she ever retire? He had to admit that it seemed doubtful. She was wedded to her career more than to him. But how could she leave him after twenty years? Had passion for Stover entirely blotted out her reason? It wasn’t unlike Richard Crawford and his thraldom. He chose the cufflinks she had given him last Christmas.
When he entered his office, Miss Giveny was hunched over her typewriter, fuming as she tried to replace the ribbon. “The Chin offers are on your desk,” she said flatly.
Harry examined all the offers. Not a single error—that was why he put up with her crankiness. He sighed, as the image of her poor sister, Merle, in her nightie, floated into his mind.
She had already opened a new file for the Deighton estate. Marjorie had executed the will last year, appointing Gideon Trust and Crawford as her executors. With the old man gone, Harry stepped into his place. The house was to be sold and the whole estate divided equally among Katharine, Gerry, and Suzannah. But Suzannah’s share was subject to a secret trust, which he had not yet found.
Staring out the window, he remembered. At tea, Marjorie had said the trust was safe with her. He made a note to hunt through her papers at the house. Usually, a secret trust was in the form of a letter addressed to the executors. Unlike a will, a secret trust did not have to be submitted to the Probate Court, and consequently it did not become part of the public record, available for all to see.
Harry liked to think such documents contained clues to the dark side of the testator’s personality. After all, only the dullest person would have no secrets best kept from prying eyes.
After instructing Miss Giveny to photocopy the will and return the original to the vault, he tried to reach Gerry and Suzannah, without success.
“By the way, Miss Giveny,” he called from his office. “Have we heard from anyone named Rosie this morning?”
His secretary appeared in his doorway and shook her head. “What’s her last name?
Harry shrugged and reached for the phone. Minutes later, he had Sergeant Welkom on the line. “I’ve heard nothing from Miss Deighton’s housekeeper, Rosie. She was supposed to be coming back last night.”
Welkom grunted. “We’re on it, counselor.”
“What about an autopsy?”
“We’ll let you know when we hear from the coroner.”
Damn lazy cop, Harry thought as he made a note.
Expecting Chin at one o’clock, Harry went out for an early lunch. He needed time to think. Miss Giveny had given him a message from Frank earlier that morning, inquiring about Marjorie’s death and her will. Pulling open the door of Moffat’s restaurant, he stopped. He hadn’t even reached Suzannah. How in hell did Frank already know? Maybe Katharine had spoken to him.
He entered the restaurant. The wide expanse of windows gave an excellent view of Richmond Street, which ran through the old business district. Sunlight flooded in. The long butcher-block countertops gave the restaurant an appearance of fastidious cleanliness and an airy lightness. Sam was at the back, polishing the salt and pepper shakers. Everything gleamed in the sunlight.
“Harry, how are you?” he called out. “You’re early today.” Only a few customers sat at the counter. “What can I get you?”
Harry scanned the menu. Realizing he’d only had coffee this morning, he decided on an omelet and a salad. Sam nodded and headed for the kitchen.
Thinking of Marjorie, Harry stared out the window. Someone had been in her house before him. No Rosie, and no word on an autopsy. And then there were those damned telephone calls at Marjorie’s house when he had found her.
He opened the newspaper to the Osgoode Law Reports, which listed decisions made the previous day by the learned Supreme Court Justices.
A name caught his eye as he scanned the law reports: 995607 Ontario Ltd. [Zaimir Heights Ltd.]
Where had he seen that name before?
The lawyer for Zaimir was Tony McKeown. Jesus, Harry thought. Tony McKeown has a finger in every development project in the city.
The report stated that the city fathers from years ago had declared that no construction permit would be issued for a building taller than forty-five feet. While the planning board granted exceptions, such decisions were rare. Another edict from City Hall required low-density structures to create open space to prevent overcrowding. Unfortunately, these policies caused the weedy proliferation of squat, ugly structures sprawling across the cityscape.
McKeown, a smooth and polished Bay Street lawyer, was a creative genius at circumventing arcane building by-laws
. Harry still could not figure out Zaimir. Folding his paper, he paid the bill and headed back for his office.
Opening his office door, he found Dean Faulkner pacing the foyer.
“Harry! I need you. They’re screwing me around with my package.”
Harry sat him down on the sofa. “What are they doing?” Dean’s bloodshot eyes looked even worse than they had last week.
“No vacation pay! No sick pay!” He almost sobbed. “If I don’t take their offer, they’re going to cook up some case for termination for cause.”
“But they have to have documented grounds for that, Dean.”
“Fuck! I can’t sleep or eat! I’m just walking all over the place, not knowing what I’m doing.”
“Look, Dean.” Harry grasped his shoulder. “I’ve got a client in a few minutes. Can you come in first thing tomorrow morning?”
Reluctantly, Dean stood up. “It’s that bitch, Katharine Rowe.”
Harry patted him on the shoulder. “Listen, Dean, come in at nine. Okay?”
Dean backed out the door. “Thanks, Harry.”
When he was gone, Harry shook his head sadly. Dean was on the bottle pretty heavily.
At one o’clock on the dot, Mr. Chin glided through the front door.
Seated in his office, Harry said, “You mentioned a conglomerate the other day. Who are the members?”
“Four Hong Kong businessmen, including me. They are from the finest families, Mr. Jenkins.” Chin smiled broadly, revealing his gold incisor.
“Really? What sorts of businesses?”
Waving expansively, his client said, “Mainly computer software; some investment bankers.”
As much as Harry tried to get further background information about his new client and the conglomerate, Chin would give up nothing.
The man read carefully through the paperwork and then, without comment, signed each document.
“Mr. Chin?” Harry coughed gently. “I have prepared an invoice, sir.”
Chin’s eyelids flickered and he nodded slightly.
“I have transferred a relatively small portion of the retainer into my own account, for services rendered in preparing the offers, and services to be performed.” He handed Chin the envelope.
Conduct in Question Page 6
