Conduct in Question

by Mary E. Martin

  A dim light was at the end of the hallway. Frank stumbled and touched his wet cheek. When he reached the light, he saw blood smeared on his hand. He tried to catch his breath. A door opened. Benny sat at his desk. Except for the eyes, he could be anybody’s grandfather.

  “Listen, Benny, I’ll settle up with you next week. Honest.”

  “You’ve been stealing, Frank.” Benny said quietly. “I’m very disappointed.”

  “Benny, I swear to God I’ll pay you back. Just give me another week,” Frank pleaded. The other men moved closer to Frank. Benny waved them off.

  Frank wrestled his briefcase open. “Maybe we could make a deal. I got an offer on a hot property. Somebody wants this land real bad, Benny. Give me a little breathing space and I’ll sign it over to you.” Frank wiped away the blood dripping from his eyebrow.

  “An offer on a house? What good is an offer on a house to me?”

  “Everybody’s bidding on it, but I’m in there first,” Frank lied. “When I flip it…”

  Benny’s eyes flickered, but he remained silent. One of the men said, “You don’t understan’, fat boy. Benny wants the money now.”

  Benny stood up and glided around the desk in his slippers. He rested his hand on Frank’s shoulder. Softly, he asked, “Are you a family man, Frank?”

  Frank shook his head.

  Benny stood back in surprise. “You mean you got no kids?” He took out a pipe and began to tap it on his palm. “You know, Frank,” he continued softly, “my biggest pleasure in life is taking the grandkids to the park, getting them ice cream on a Sunday afternoon.” Benny smiled broadly in recollection. Turning, he said sadly, “Don’t let one of life’s biggest pleasures pass you by.”

  Frank grinned in relief. Benny was giving him time. “No Benny. For sure—”

  “You’re still a young man, Frank. There’s still time.”

  The men crowded close to Frank.

  Benny’s eyes narrowed. “If you steal from me, maybe you’re never gonna be a papa. Understand me?”

  “I swear to God, Benny, I was strapped.” Frank trembled as he reached for the offer. “I tried to call you to ask, but—”

  One of the men stabbed a gun in Frank’s back. “Shut up, you fucking liar!”

  Benny spoke quietly as he patted Frank’s shoulder. “I don’t like liars, Frank. You get me the money—all of it, today. Okay?” His smile was gentle as the men grasped Frank’s arms.

  “Sure, Benny. I’ll get it for you right away.”

  “How you gonna do that, Frank?”

  Frank threw out his hands and grinned. “Don’t worry. I got resources. I’ll be back this afternoon with it. Just a matter of freeing up some capital.”

  Benny’s mouth tightened into a straight line. Frank backed out of the room. Benny nodded to the two men.

  ***

  At the family cemetery, Donnie slid onto a bench. He tried to figure out how to load the gun. Nobody except him and Aunt Suzannah cared about Gram. They were just like a bunch of bugs scurrying around mindlessly. His father spent all his time cramming his hand into people’s mouths and counting up the cash. His mother was always wondering what people thought. It was a useless existence. But today he would do something that mattered.

  He whispered, “Gram, I got the gun. Today’s the day.” He held the barrel up against the sky. It was starting to rain again. “See? Here it is. I did something right.”

  ***

  In the laneway, Frank squeezed behind the wheel of his car. Gasping, he frantically searched for the keys.

  “Hey, Frank!” One of Benny’s men dangled the keys just outside the window. Leaning in and grinning, he said, “Don’t forget this afternoon, fat boy!” He tossed the keys ten feet from the car. Frank squirmed out and picked them up. As soon as he pulled away from the curb, the men got into a blue Buick and followed him.

  After Frank cleared Canadian customs, the Buick disappeared. His breathing began to ease. Tilting back the seat, he turned on the radio. Somehow he could scrape some money out of his realtor’s trust accounts.

  He saw a blue flash. Instinctively, he wrenched the steering wheel to his right. His head slammed against the dash as he desperately braked. The car swerved violently onto the shoulder, raising a cloud of dust behind him. Dazed, he fought for control of the car. A concrete abutment rose up ahead of him. Careening to a stop, he narrowly avoided slamming into the guard rail. From the blue Buick, Benny’s boys waved up ahead in the distance.

  “So what’s the deal?” asked one of Benny’s men.

  “We kill the fat boy at his office or his house. Wherever he goes. And we don’t use guns.”

  “What?”

  “No guns. Just a knife.”

  “Benny doesn’t use knives.”

  “This time he does.”

  The other man whistled and looked out the window at the city looming up ahead. “I don’t like this kind of shit. A bullet through the head would be just fine.”

  CHAPTER 30

  On the way back from Marjorie’s, where he had found the secret trust, Harry heard the news in the car. “An arrest has been made in the murder of Marjorie Deighton.” Harry turned up the volume and gripped the steering wheel.

  “Last night, shortly after midnight, police arrested Mr. Albert Chin on charges of the murders of Miss Deighton and her housekeeper, Miss Rosalind Michaels, and two employees of the law firm Cheney, Arpin, Deirdre Jamieson and Linda Lee Hong.”

  Harry caught the voice of Sergeant Welkom.

  “The investigation has followed along the normal channels, in the usual manner. Good, careful police work has enabled us to make this arrest on all four murder charges.”

  Harry snapped the radio off. They had arrested the wrong man.

  Jesus! Good solid police work, he thought. Don’t call in forensics. Don’t do an autopsy. Ignore everything I’ve said. Don’t follow up with Frank.

  Chin couldn’t weigh more than one hundred and forty pounds, and Rosie weighed at least two hundred pounds and was four inches taller. Already, he’d seen Frank’s handiwork. Poor Suzannah! Like an animal, Frank had torn and pounded her face. And he had plenty of reason to kill Marjorie. Harry knew he owed it to Suzannah to set the police straight.

  When he stepped out of his car at the police station, reporters swamped him. Flashes blinded him as the reporters crowded in with their mikes and cameras.

  “Sir? Are you Harold Jenkins?” a reporter shouted.

  “What about the Albert Chin case?”

  “Me?” Harry was flabbergasted. “How do you know me?”

  “The police want to talk to you about some land deals you made with the accused.”

  He pushed past the reporters and hurried to the front desk.

  Trailing behind him, one reporter shouted, “Sir? Wasn’t Marjorie Deighton a client of yours? How is her murder connected to the two women from Cheney, Arpin? Were they in on the deals too?”

  Harry demanded to see Welkom. He was surprised to be immediately ushered through the swing gate and down a corridor to an empty office.

  Harry sat down on a chair, scrunching his knees under a small table. Moments passed. He looked out the window onto the parking lot. He stood up and leaned on the windowsill covered with grime. Not until he began pacing did he realize how small the room was—just like a cell. Typical intimidation by the police. What in hell had Chin been saying about him?

  “Afternoon, counselor. Good of you to drop in. I’ve been looking forward to our little meeting.” Welkom tossed a binder on the table. Two more men crowded into the room.

  “This here is Officer Riley.” Welkom gestured toward a man, who took a seat and grinned at Harry. “And here’s Officer Cominskey. They arrested our Mr. Chin early this morning.”

  Welkom pulled his chair so close to Harry that their knees bumped. Riley leaned over the back of Harry’s chair. Cominskey sat motionless, staring at him. Swept by a wave of claustrophobia, Harry shoved his chair backwards, banging against
Riley, who still grinned down on him.

  Then anger surged in him. “It’s completely ridiculous. You’ve arrested the wrong man.”

  “How so, counselor?” Welkom looked intently at him.

  “I told you Frank Sasso should be investigated. He has plenty to gain from my client’s murder.”

  “Like what?” Welkom asked.

  “Marjorie’s house for his girlfriend. He forced Marjorie to make a new will, and likely stole the old one from my office. And I saw his girlfriend, Suzannah Deighton, today. There’s no doubt in my mind he beat her up. Besides, just look at Chin. He’s half Rosie’s size.”

  “Where would we find this Mr. Sasso?” Cominskey asked mildly.

  “He’s a realtor. His office is out on the Danforth.”

  “A realtor? How well do you know him, sir?”

  Harry was disarmed by the tone. “Well enough. For years, he’s been in my office trying to get money out of Suzannah Deighton’s trust fund.”

  “What makes you think he did this?” asked Cominsky.

  Harry leaned forward and spoke intently. “Frank brought Suzannah to my office today. Her face was bruised and scraped raw and her lip had been split wide open and stitched up. Until I saw her with him, I wondered why beaten-up women didn’t just leave.” He paused, then continued more quietly, “But after seeing them together, I know why. It’s gut-wrenching fear, plain and simple.”

  “Frank admitted that?” asked Cominsky.

  “He didn’t have to. It was obvious.” Harry replied.

  “Why didn’t you call the police?”

  Harry sighed. “If you saw the pleading look in her eyes, you’d understand.”

  “So this guy Sasso’s in real estate.” Welkom’s jaw jutted out. “Trying to pick up more commissions, counselor?”

  Harry’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

  “Well, counselor,” began Welkom, setting his cigar on the edge of the table, “Mr. Chin says you’ve had some real interesting land deals together.”

  “I already told you about those, Sergeant Welkom.”

  “In fact, he says you masterminded and drew him into a massive money-laundering scheme, demanding some very handsome secret commissions. And that you stole part of his retainer to cover some bank debts.” Welkom turned the page in his binder. “Says you even demanded a trip for you and your wife to the Bahamas.”

  In shock, Harry said nothing.

  The officer sat back and stared at Harry. “I hear the Atlantis Resort is a pretty fancy place. Most honest folk would have to save up for years to stay there.”

  Harry knew he had turned a blind eye. Of course—what else could Chin have been doing other than laundering dirty money, and setting him up to take the fall?

  Welkom squinted at him. “Says you put the whole deal together, so when Marjorie Deighton died, you’d sell him her house and pocket another fat commission.”

  Harry spoke evenly. “Are you charging me with something, sergeant?” No one in the room responded. “Because, if you are, I want to call my lawyer.”

  “What makes you think you’re being charged, counselor?”

  “Obviously, your questions, sergeant.”

  Cominskey spoke for the first time, in placating tones. “They’re just questions in the normal course of our investigations, Mr. Jenkins. Anything you can tell us might be helpful.”

  Mutt and Jeff routines, thought Harry, glancing at the young officer. “I’ll say nothing until I speak with my lawyer.”

  The sergeant gruffly slammed a phone down in front of Harry, who dialed Stephen immediately. Stephen’s voice was chilling. “Harry, keep your mouth shut until I get there.”

  Within twenty minutes of Stephen’s arrival, Harry was released. They stood squinting in the sunlit parking lot.

  “For Christ’s sake, Harry, stay away from the police. They’ve got nothing on you about the murders, but they’ll follow up on the money laundering. Don’t talk to them at all without me present.”

  Shaken, Harry thanked Stephen. He had unwittingly walked right into the trap Chin had set for him. He got into his car and phoned his office. Laura had left a message. Back from Montreal, she wanted to talk over dinner. To regain some shared intimacy? No, probably to tell him she loved another man.

  CHAPTER 31

  Donnie walked slowly across the Bloor Street viaduct to Frank’s office. Tires hissed across the broad expanse of concrete and asphalt. Up so high, it was lonely and ugly. But looking over the bridge, he could see the budding trees creating a green and yellow haze over the valley below. He shut his eyes tightly. Donnie had heard of people, especially kids, jumping off this bridge. Once he got Frank, he’d come back and look over the edge.

  Moving slowly along Danforth Avenue, Donnie looked up. The sign on the second-storey window read “Procon Realty, Inc.” It was Frank’s office. Without any particular plan, Donnie hobbled around to the back lane and climbed up the fire escape. The washroom window was open a couple of inches.

  Looking down, he wondered about the blue Buick with New York plates parked below him.

  Two men ran out a back door. Donnie coughed. One of them stopped and looked up.

  “You hear something?” Slowly, the man drew his gun.

  “Jesus, Sam! Get the fuck in the car!” They spoke in hoarse whispers. Donnie could see faces in the dim light. Their eyes seemed to drill into his. Jumping in the car, the men slammed the doors and lurched into reverse, shooting out of the lane.

  Donnie climbed through the window and inched the washroom door open. It was almost too dark to see. He squinted in the gloomy office.

  It was almost entirely dark, but Donnie could see well enough. Filing-cabinet drawers had been yanked out, and files were strewn on the floor. The telephone receiver dangled from his desk. Frank lounged back in his chair, oblivious to everything.

  Lazy bastard. Time to wake him up and have some fun.

  Gently, Donnie tipped the chair back and placed the barrel of the gun to Frank’s right temple.

  “I’ve come to settle a few scores,” he whispered close to Frank’s ear.

  He touched Frank’s shoulder and felt a sticky wetness across his back. He shook him, but jumped back when Frank’s head wobbled at a funny angle.

  “Frank!” he whispered fiercely, pinching his cheek. “Wake up. It’s time to pay.” Grinning, he put his face down close to Frank’s. “This is going to hurt as much as I can make it.”

  The streetlight outside the window flickered on, illuminating the office in a sickly yellow glow and revealing a huge gash across Frank’s neck from ear to ear. Blood still flowed. His shirt was completely soaked.

  “Jesus,” choked Donnie, jumping back. With the gun hanging limp in his hand, he gazed at Frank’s lifeless eyes. “No!” he wailed. Then he vomited onto the floor.

  He scrambled out the window and down the fire escape. At the street, he hailed a cab. He couldn’t go home, not with all the blood covering his hands and clothes. Donnie laid his head back on the seat of the taxi. Did those guys with the Buick do it, or had the Florist beaten him to it?

  He could hide out at Gram’s house. The cabbie kept glancing at him in the rear-view mirror. The swish of the tires on the glistening pavement lulled Donnie in and out of consciousness.

  “Hey, kid? Sure you don’t want me to take you to the hospital? You don’t look so good.”

  Donnie sat up as straight as he could. “No. Please, just take me to 42 Highland Avenue. It’s my grandmother’s place.” The driver shrugged and headed west on Bloor Street.

  At Gram’s house, Donnie slipped through the kitchen window and pulled himself inside. Stumbling through the darkened house, he reached the attic stairs. He could hide under the eaves for the night.

  CHAPTER 32

  At home, Harry showered and shaved, trying to preserve a shred of optimism against the sinking in his gut. Surely they could get counseling and work it out.

  Half an hour later, he sat on the patio in the su
n and smoked a cigarette. The house needed a new roof. Maybe a patch on the driveway would do.

  It was almost five o’clock. A breeze was up, and it was getting chilly. Harry went inside and called Laura’s office, only to get her voice mail.

  He glanced at the hall table and wondered why he had not seen the envelope before. Sinking onto a dining-room chair, he slit open the envelope, noticing the shadows creeping throughout the room. Although he already knew the message, he read carefully.

  Dear Harry,

  While I was going to meet with you tonight, I thought it better to write instead. We have not, for years, been going in the same direction. It’s as if we can never speak, one person to another. We are so different, and we always have been. Harry, I have found someone I truly love. Likely, it will come as no surprise that it is Peter Stover, at the museum. I have decided to move out and live with him. Consequently, I will come to the house tomorrow and take my clothes and a few personal items. (Please don’t make this difficult.) After that, I think we should communicate only through our lawyers. I wish there were some way to make this easier for you, but I know only time will do that. You’re a kind and reasonable man, Harry, so I hope I can count on that.

  Laura

  Tears stung at Harry’s eyes. Blindly, he shouldered his way out of the house and into his car. Never had he been so cold on a spring day. His fury piloted him in unknown directions. Somewhere on the highway east of the city, he admitted his part. Somehow they had simply drifted apart. Or was that true? No contented wife could be seduced against her will. Surely he could have prevented it. A floodgate had opened, and his mind was filled with useless waves of recrimination. There had been no huge argument, only skirmishes, followed by long silences. Over what?

  When he pulled off the highway, he realized his direction. He was going somewhere isolated from the world, where he could think. The Scarborough Bluffs wound round the eastern edge of the city. He had been there many times as a child. From the beach, the city skyline was barely visible. No one would see him on the deserted stretch on a weekday afternoon.