by Louise Clark
"And your wife accepted that?"
Roger Day sighed. "Brittany was a smart kid, but she could be emotional under stress. Yeah, we accepted it. We thought she'd work out the problem and that it was just part of her growing up."
We failed her. The words hovered, silent, but no less deadly for not being spoken.
"You mentioned donations," Quinn said, not acknowledging the painful emotions in Day's voice. He sympathized, but the best way to help Roger Day deal with them, was to find out who killed his daughter.
Day nodded resolutely, responding to Quinn's professionalism, though his expression remained anguished. "The grad program she was enrolled in is an experimental one. The base funding is minimal and most of costs are covered by donations. She claimed that donations were drying up and Jacob was worried about whether he'd be able to keep all the grad students."
"Have you asked Dr. Peiling about that?" Quinn asked.
Day shook his head. "It doesn't matter now."
It might not matter to Roger Day, Quinn thought, but it would matter to the other students in the grad program, particularly if they feared the funding for their positions would be cut.
Roger Day looked down at his hands. "When the fall semester began, Brittany told her mother and me she wanted to dump her program and come back to Calgary. I talked her into staying." There was anguish in his voice. "I trusted Jacob. And he failed me."
Chapter 13
Christy and Quinn made it back to Burnaby in time for the triumphant return of Noelle and her guardians from school. Noelle was delighted. Apparently the parade of grandparent-aged adults had caused a stir amongst her fellow students, only surpassed by Stormy when he leapt up into her arms as she was leaving the classroom. The whole class of twenty-five students had crowded around wanting to pat him. Noelle, in her glory, had allowed them access and the cat, thankfully, had purred loudly.
By the time Noelle finished gleefully reciting her story, Stormy still in her arms, Christy was sitting on her front steps, shaking her head and laughing. Ellen was disapproving, but no one was paying any attention to her. Eventually she brushed past Christy without acknowledging her and entered the house. As the door closed with a snap, Christy stiffened, then went back to talking to Noelle and the others.
Over the next couple of days Quinn watched as tensions grew at the Jamieson house. Natalie DeBolt visited both days, arriving after Christy and Noelle left for school and while Ellen was still drifting around in her nightclothes. Quinn knew all about that, because Christy wouldn't stay in the house with Natalie and retreated both days to Quinn's place. It was a situation ripe for disaster and Quinn thought that Natalie was at the core of it. He decided it was time to do some digging into her background.
He knew that she was married to Nathan DeBolt, the CEO of one of the province's wealthiest forestry conglomerates and a prominent member of Vancouver society. Nathan had a reputation of being a workaholic executive who used his recreational activities for networking rather than pleasure. Natalie, it appeared, had a similar philosophy. She had used her charitable work to enhance her profile and to provide her with a powerful position that built upon her husband's. Together they were a power couple.
Until their son was arrested as an accessory to murder.
That made Quinn wonder when Natalie and Ellen had become best buds. It also made him curious about how Natalie and Nathan DeBolt felt about their only son and his wayward ways.
Did Natalie have the kind of fierce protective feelings toward Aaron that Christy had for Noelle? How did Nathan feel as he watched his position and power erode because of a wastrel son who squandered the opportunities inherent in being the child of wealth and power and frittered away his time with drugs and wild sex?
Only one way to find out, Quinn thought, and that was to ask.
He secured an interview with Nathan DeBolt more easily than he'd expected. His reputation as an internationally known journalist was probably why the company communications director helped him out. Whatever the reason, he found himself in DeBolt's office at British Columbia Forest Industries at three on a Friday afternoon, sitting on one side of an oblong table with DeBolt on the other.
The BCFI offices were on the top twenty floors of a modern glass-and-steel tower on West Georgia Street. As was appropriate for the CEO of an international corporation with revenues in the billions, DeBolt's office was large and professionally decorated. Forestry products dominated the space. Gleaming hardwood paneling on one wall provided a surface for West Coast First Nations art.
Opposite the art wall was a bank of built-in shelves in the same dark, polished wood. These were home to more West Coast art; wood carvings this time. The shelves also housed a small bar, with appropriately expensive versions of manly drinks—single malt scotch, the best Canadian whisky, and the finest bourbon. Hidden in a cabinet below was a small fridge filled with that other manly drink—beer. Quinn knew about the fridge and its contents, because DeBolt had offered him his choice of the local microbrews stashed inside as he led Quinn to the dark wood table in the elegant meeting area in the back of the office.
"How may I help you?" DeBolt said, after Quinn had turned down his offer of a beer.
Quinn used the moment to study the man, allowing the silence to stretch out. Hopefully it would unnerve him, because DeBolt was already playing power games, as indicated by the offer of a beer, not a glass of one of the expensive and exquisite brands of hard liquor. Admittedly the selection of microbrews included the best of the best, but Quinn had a hunch that the sixty-year-old scotch was only offered to someone DeBolt considered an equal.
He was pretty sure DeBolt had offered the beer to put him in his place and to annoy him at the same time. Why? Did the man have something to hide? Maybe he did. Quinn decided he'd play along, let Nathan think he was uneasy in this luxurious office and not sure of himself or his position.
Perched on the edge of the comfortable leather swivel chair, he put his forearms on the gleaming surface of the table, then gestured with his hands, as if in supplication. "Thank you for seeing me, Mr. DeBolt. I know you are busy and have a large number of demands on your time."
DeBolt sat straight in his seat, his hands clasped before him and resting on the tabletop. He nodded, apparently open and ready to answer freely, when in fact the expression in his eyes was guarded.
"I'm writing an article, and a book, on the murder of Frank Jamieson. When I started the project it seemed pretty clear that your son was involved." Quinn spread his hands wider. His expression was earnest, a truth seeker looking for answers. "Now I understand Aaron has an alibi, provided by Brittany Day, who was recently the victim of murder."
DeBolt nodded. Cautiously. "That is correct."
"Have the police released him from custody?"
"I understand that the alibi must be confirmed before that can happen."
Quinn allowed himself to frown. "Is that possible, since Brittany Day is dead?"
"I believe she signed an affidavit."
Every statement the man made was careful, correct and cautious. He was clearly well trained in dealing with the media. Time to shake him up. "Ms. Day stated that she was with Aaron on the night in question. Do you know what they were doing?"
DeBolt's expression blanked. Quinn waited.
"I'm afraid I do not have those details."
Quinn allowed the corner of his mouth to kick up into a cynical half smile. He leaned forward. DeBolt shifted in his chair. "She claimed they were in a club, having sex," he said. "In public. According to one source I spoke to, that is a favorite pastime for your son."
DeBolt's hands flattened on the gleaming tabletop. Quinn pressed on.
"If Brittany were still alive, it's my guess that the media would have been all over her when the police released Aaron. Beautiful, smart, good family, she'd have made great copy. The details about what she and Aaron were up to on the night of Frank Jamieson's death would have created a sensation. But Brittany's dead and words on a pag
e don't have the same impact. No visuals make for a harder sell. I think you lucked out. You may be able to bury what Aaron was up to and focus on Frank's best friend wrongly accused."
DeBolt's face was flushed. He looked as if he was holding on to control by the smallest thread. "Who is your source for my son's behavior?"
Quinn raised his brows. "You expect me to tell you?"
DeBolt narrowed his eyes. "My company is a major investor in the media network you work for."
"Wrong, Mr. DeBolt. I resigned two years ago. Now I'm an independent. I sell my stories to the highest bidder and I think I've got a gold mine here. Your son is rich, entitled, and spoiled. The only reason he may skate away from the Jamieson accusation is because one of his women was murdered. How do you think people will react when they find out that your precious son is morally corrupt and a sexual deviant besides?"
"I disowned him." The words came out in a rush. Nathan glared at Quinn as if he hated making the confession and blamed Quinn for forcing him to do it. "He's an addict. I arranged for him to go to a treatment center in the States where he could get clean and no one would know. He refused."
"When was this?"
"A year ago."
Now that the taps were open, the words were pouring out. "He said he didn't have a problem. I knew he did. I stopped his allowance and told him he had to survive on his own."
"That's when he started dealing drugs? Or had he been doing it before?"
DeBolt's face twisted. Quinn saw anger there, but he also saw the need to unload some of the anguish that must have been eating at him for a long time. Nathan DeBolt might be a powerful, well-connected businessman, but he was also a father whose son was destroying himself.
"He'd been doing it before." Nathan looked over Quinn's shoulder to the wall of First Nations originals. "My wife thought I was the cause of Aaron's downfall." He shook his head. "She couldn't see the darkness in him. She thought affection and cossetting would sort out his problems, when what he really needed was a spine."
Quinn thought that a personality transplant was what was actually required, but he didn't say it. He had Nathan talking and he wanted to keep the flow going. "Disagreeing over how best to help your son must have put a strain on your relationship with Mrs. DeBolt."
Nathan shrugged. "Natalie can be stubborn. When she wants to get her way, she doesn't care who she has to push aside."
Interesting. The answer was simple, but vividly expressive at the same time. Quinn decided to push a little and see what happened. "Was she having an affair?"
DeBolt's body stiffened. Quinn saw anger in his narrowed eyes. "What the devil are you suggesting?"
Quinn met his stare. "I have a source that claims your wife is having an affair with another woman."
Shock was followed by amazement on DeBolt's face and he burst out laughing. "Are you kidding me? Natalie? With a woman? I'd dump your source, Armstrong. If you told me she was having an affair with the pool boy I might have believed you. But a woman? My wife is many things, but I can guarantee you this. She lusts after men, not women."
* * *
"The husband is often the last to know," Roy Armstrong said. He was in the living room, presiding over a Saturday morning coffee klatch consisting of Quinn, Trevor, Christy and the cat. Rebecca Petrofsky had taken Noelle and Mary skating at the local community center rink and Ellen was out shopping with Natalie. Ellen and Natalie's relationship was the focus of the conversation.
"In novels," Quinn said. He accepted a mug of coffee from his father.
"In real life too," said Trevor. He finished doctoring the coffee Roy had given him a few minutes before. Two sugars, lots of cream. He cradled the mug between his hands, frowning.
Christy took the mug Roy handed her, but she put it on the coffee table in front of the sofa almost immediately. She and Quinn were sitting together, with Trevor in the easy chair at the end near her. The free chair near Quinn was where Roy would sit. The cat sat on the coffee table and eyeballed the cream, his whiskers twitching.
"I hope Nathan DeBolt is right," Christy said. "I've never been able to read anything more than malice in Natalie. She's power hungry and she's ruthless."
Power hungry? How? She doesn't do anything but run committees for charities.
"You never understood, Frank," Christy said, hostile. She knew she was bickering with him again, but she couldn't help it. In life, Frank had never understood the motivations of the DeBolts or the cruelty Natalie had dished out so effortlessly. "Those charitable boards she's on? The events she organizes? They make a difference in people's lives. The media thinks Natalie DeBolt is just this side of a living saint. Her good works give her the power to paint actions—hers or everyone else's—any way she wants."
The cat hunkered down, compacting his body into a crouch. Frank had never liked to lose an argument and death hadn't cured him of that flaw. She watched Roy put a saucer of cream on the table. There was pity in his eyes, but his action distracted Frank, because Stormy went right for the food.
"The detective seems to have bought into Natalie's storyline," Trevor said, gloomily watching the cat lap the cream. "Patterson admits that she knows about Aaron's threesomes. She even claims she wondered if Brittany had fabricated the alibi in a desperate attempt to focus Aaron's attention on her and only her. The cops are investigating the alibi and how it might relate to Brittany's death, but the evidence they have all points to Ellen. The murder happened in her apartment in the early hours of the morning when she claims she was alone. She has no one to confirm that. She's got motive. Brittany's alibi will get Aaron out of jail and in fact, will mean he never goes to trial. The cops will claim that Ellen believes Aaron took part in Frank's death, and that Brittany was lying. That's a pretty good motive to get rid of the only person who can put Aaron in the clear."
"You're talking about revenge as a motive," Roy said.
Trevor nodded.
"If Ellen denies that, how can the police prove it?"
"They don't have to," Trevor said. "If they have a strong case built on physical evidence, they can suggest motive. A good prosecutor can sway a jury, particularly if the motive supports the evidence."
And Trevor McCullagh would know. With his record of acquittal after acquittal, he'd probably influenced a few juries himself. "Detective Patterson doesn't blindly accept the obvious," Christy said. "She was the one who thought Frank's disappearance was suspicious. She was the one who alerted me that Frank had apparently returned to Vancouver. It was her who helped us discover Frank's fate and set us on the trail to finding his killer."
"A good point," Roy said, settling deeper into his chair. "Gives us a clue as to how we should proceed."
"We need more information," Quinn said. He watched the cat lick the pads on one paw then rub the paw over its whiskers as it cleaned away the remains of the treat. "Why did Brittany provide a false alibi for Aaron in the first place?"
Maybe she loved him. Aaron always had babes falling over him.
"Maybe," Christy said doubtfully.
"He's good looking," Roy said. He sounded doubtful too.
"I've never met him. What makes him so special?" Trevor asked.
"Okay, so you're all talking about Aaron. What did the damned cat say?" Quinn sounded more resigned than miffed.
"You can't hear him?" The twinkle in Trevor's eyes indicated he found the Quinn's limitation interesting.
"He suggested that Brittany might have been in love with Aaron," Christy said, rushing in to change the subject. Quinn had gone a long way to accepting that he couldn't hear Frank's thoughts, but it had to be annoying when even the newly arrived Trevor did.
Quinn thought for a moment, then he shook his head. "Frank might be right, but I don't see her coming up with the alibi idea on her own. Everything we've learned about her says she was basically a decent kid who got lured into something she couldn't handle. I think someone put her up to it."
"Okay, but who?" Trevor asked.
Roy lea
ned forward. He waved his coffee cup in an enthusiastic way that had the beverage inside slopping up the sides dangerously. "Aaron's family, for starters. His father Nathan has a lot to lose, reputation wise. He's a pillar of the community. Having a son convicted of murder is a big blot on the family name."
"Natalie has always been besotted with Aaron. He's her only child and though she's cold to anyone she doesn't like," like me, Christy thought, "she can be a very affectionate to those she cares for."
"Then there's Aaron himself," Trevor said. "I'm sure he doesn't want to spend the next twenty years of his life in a prison cell."
"So everyone in the DeBolt family has a motive," Quinn said. "What about the blackmail that's been mentioned? Was it one of the DeBolts who was blackmailing Brittany? And if it was, what would they have on her?"
"Her lifestyle," Christy suggested. "She wouldn't want the sex-in-public stuff to become generally known. Her parents would be devastated. Nor would she want her drug habit to be public knowledge."
"That adds Cara LaLonde to our list," Quinn said. "She has a direct link with Aaron and she knows a lot about Brittany's relationship with Aaron. If Brittany is out of the way and Aaron is free, then Cara gets Aaron all to herself."
Who fed Brittany's habit after Aaron went to jail?
Roy, Christy and Trevor stared at the cat.
"What?" Quinn said.
"Frank suggested we follow the drugs," Roy said. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "It's a good point. If Brittany was hooked, she had to be getting her drugs from somewhere after Aaron was arrested. Where?"
Trevor shrugged. "Easily available on the street."
"Cara," Quinn suggested.
"Or someone Cara found. Cara had to find a new source too," Christy said.
"Let's find the new source, then," Quinn said. "Any more thoughts on the blackmail angle?"
