Spencer became agitated, rising from behind his desk and slowly pacing the carpeted floor.
“How did he seem to you? I mean, was he in good spirits?” Casey asked, swiveling his chair to follow Spencer’s movements.
“Excellent spirits,” Spencer said. “We’d just concluded a very profitable piece of business that morning. So we celebrated with wine over lunch. The last I saw of him he was on Burrard Street, waving back at me. A big cheerful grin on his face. A few days later he was dead. And the police were calling it suicide. I don’t understand it.”
He sat down heavily in his office chair, shaking his head.
“George wasn’t the suicidal type, whatever type that is. But he had no reason to kill himself. George was one of the most levelheaded guys I know. I called the police to tell them they were crazy. They eventually put me through to an Inspector Plank, who said he’d be dropping by to see me.”
“Did Nash say anything about his future plans?”
“Nothing special that I can think of.”
“And business is good. No problems of any kind.”
“None.”
“Thanks, Mr. Spencer. I’m sorry you lost your friend. Please call me if you hear anything further. For what it’s worth, I don’t think Nash killed himself either.”
“You think he was murd—?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Spencer, but I would sure like to find out.”
Casey ate a quick Subway sandwich on Robson Street, then set out for the Public Safety Building and went looking for DI Plank.
He was in his office, shuffling papers.
Casey sat himself down. “Afternoon, Frank.”
“I’m busy, Casey. Unless you got something for me.”
“Maybe I have.”
“Like what?”
“You first. I’d like to see that suicide note.”
Plank picked up a file from his desk and handed him a piece of paper. A photocopy of the note, undated and unsigned. Casey read the note, written all in capitals.
I CAN’T LIVE WITH MYSELF ANY LONGER
LIFE IS TOO TEDIOUS AND GRIM
I’M SORRY MOYRA
He handed it back.
“Look, Frank, I’m convinced Nash didn’t kill himself.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I think he was murdered,” Casey said.
“Murdered. You gotta be kiddin’ me,” Plank said. “I’ve told you before—”
“Hear me out. First, there’s his state of mind. Everyone, including his wife and one of his business partners, says he was a guy too fond of life to kill himself. I talked to Nash myself in his office at city hall. Told me about his plans to run for mayor. He had ambitions, Frank. Second, according to Nash’s wife, he was left-handed. He was found, you say, with a knife in his right hand. Third, that note you just showed me is phony. It’s unlikely Nash would misspell his wife’s name.”
“How does the wife spell her name?”
“M-O-I-R-A,” said Casey, spelling it out for him.
“Son of a bitch,” Plank said.
“See you later, Inspector.”
9
Following cop shop on Thursday morning, Casey had a face-to-face at city hall with his friend Councilor Ross Brierley.
Brierley smiled in welcome. They shook hands. “Take a seat, Casey,” he said. “What can I do for you, pal?”
An experienced councilor, Brierley was in his late forties. Blond and handsome with chiseled features, he looked good in a dark pinstripe suit, pink shirt, red and blue tie and black wingtips.
Casey asked him about Councilor George Hamilton Nash.
“Was he well liked on council?” Casey said.
“So-so. Good points and bad. Good head. A bit pompous.”
“You know of anyone might want to kill him?”
Brierley shook his head. “Nobody. I thought the police said it was a suicide.”
“Yeah, but I’m not so sure,” Casey said. “Would you happen to know if he was having an affair? Gay or straight.”
Brierley laughed. “You don’t fool me, Casey,” he said. “I’m well aware of your reputation as an amateur detective. You’re hoping Gorgeous George was murdered and you can collar his killer, am I right?”
Casey smiled modestly.
“My opinion? I don’t know if he was having an affair. But Nash was straight as they come. Never met a woman he didn’t like.”
“You know of any particular woman or women he hit on here at city hall?”
“Friendly with them all,” Brierley said. “Wouldn’t be surprised, though, if he had something going with that new secretary of his. Young and fresh. She wasn’t out of the city-hall secretarial pool. Hired her himself.”
“Know her name?” Casey said.
“Pauline something. Lost her job when poor old George popped his clogs. Not in the pool, you see.”
“Could you get her name and address for me?”
“Privileged information, I’m afraid.”
“Naturally.”
Brierley grinned. “I’ll see what I can do for you, Casey. Check back with me before you leave the building.”
“Also,” Casey said, “do you know anyone named Cally works in the building?”
“Cally?” Brierley thought for a moment. “No,” he said. “Can’t help you there, pal.”
“Thanks, Ross. Appreciate your help.”
Casey made his way down to the busy coffee shop in the basement. Found a seat at the counter. He looked about him, recognizing many of the faces. Regular staff members, most of them. He was just about to join a reporter from The Province when he spotted the council secretary, Margaret Mullen, coming through the door.
“Can I buy you a coffee, Ms. Mullen? I’m Casey of the Clarion.”
“Thanks.” She smiled and sat beside him at the counter. “I know who you are, Casey of the Clarion. I’ve noticed you dozing in the media benches. I’ll have a green tea.”
Casey ordered.
Mullen was attractive, with a trim figure and short dark hair to the shoulders. A jean skirt covered her knees. A black silk shirt with a high collar. High black boots. Minimal makeup. She looked about thirty but could be thirty-five, Casey guessed. Faint perfume fresh, like freesias. No wedding ring.
He thought of Emma. It would be about six in the evening in Ireland right now. Was John Burns taking her out for a drink at the local pub? Was he sweet-talking her? Holding her hand? Telling her stories about the famous writers he knew?
Mullen was talking. Casey thrust Emma from his thoughts.
“I try to read all your ‘Up and About’ pieces,” Mullen was saying. “I like your sense of humor.”
He nodded.
“But with that broken nose, you look more like a tough guy than a funny man,” she said.
“Not broken, Ms. Mullen, just slightly bent.”
“Please call me Maggie.” She looked into his eyes. “We have something in common, it seems.”
“We do?”
“Irish names,” she said. “I took my mother’s name, Mullen. She was born in County Wicklow, not far from Glendalough.”
“What happened to your father?”
She closed her eyes and shook her head. “He left us. I was only a kid. Four years old. My mother never talked about him except to say he went off with another woman. She changed her name back to what it was before she married him. Changed my name too. Didn’t want his name in our lives.”
Casey nodded. “Was your father Irish too?”
“No. He was from there, but I don’t want to talk about him. He’s dead, as far as I’m concerned.”
He liked her. Soft voice. Friendly personality.
“I plan to visit Ireland someday. Sooner rather than later, I hope,” she said.
Her eyes were blue. Darker than Emma’s. Bolder too.
“You didn’t invite me to join you just so you could charm me with your winning Irish ways, am I right?” Maggie said. “You either want insider news for the Clarion
or you’d like to ask me out for a drink some evening. Possibly both.”
“You saw into my black heart,” Casey said.
They looked into each other’s eyes for several beats as they sipped their drinks.
Then Casey said, “You ever have much to do with Councilor George Nash?”
Maggie shook her head. “Not really. We’d say good morning, that’s about it.”
“What did you think of him?”
She shrugged. “Seemed like a nice enough guy.”
“You ever see or hear him argue or get mad at anyone?”
“No.”
“You ever notice him being extra friendly with any of the women at city hall?”
“Nope. Why so interested in Nash? The poor dope committed suicide, right?”
“The police think so. But I wonder why a man with so much going for him would decide to end his life.”
“No one can ever know another person’s heart, my mother says.” She frowned. “But why the curiosity? Do you think he was murdered?”
“Maybe.”
“Then why not leave the questions for the police to answer?”
Casey shrugged. “I’m an investigative reporter.”
“You must tell me more some other time. But right now I’ve got to get back,” Maggie said.
“Just one more question. You ever hear of a woman works here name of Cally?”
“Cally? No. Don’t think so.”
Casey stood, left a bill on the counter and walked Maggie to the elevator.
“Nice talking to you, Casey. Maybe you can ask me out for that drink sometime.”
“Don’t see why not.”
Before leaving the building, he checked back with Ross Brierley. Ross had the goods for him. George Hamilton Nash’s former secretary was Pauline Parker, a West Ender. Lived in a rented apartment on Broughton Street.
Pauline Parker was expecting him but wouldn’t take the chain off her door until she had seen some ID.
He passed a business card through the gap in the door.
“Wait there one minute, okay?”
He could hear her making a call to the Clarion office.
A minute later she took the chain off and opened the door.
“Brenda described you very well,” Parker said. “Big guy with red hair, bent nose and Irish accent. That’s you, all right. I just made a fresh pot of coffee. Would you like some, Sebastian?”
“It’s Casey,” Casey said.
Brierley was right. She was young and fresh. Handpicked by the lately departed Councilor Nash, she was probably in her mid-twenties. Tall and slim, dark hair in a ponytail. Graceful like a dancer. She wore black tights, a long plain yellow T-shirt to her thighs and well-worn leather moccasins.
There was very little furniture in the apartment. Two packing cases did the work of tables. Casey sat in the only decent chair, a well-worn specimen from the 1950s. She pulled up a packing crate, placed his coffee on it and then sat on the rug facing him, legs folded under her, back straight.
“You know they laid me off, don’t you?” Parker said.
English accent. Sounded like the queen.
Casey nodded.
“Arseholes,” Parker said. English pronunciation. Casey nodded again.
“What do you want, Casey?”
“Just a couple questions about your former boss.”
“Fire away.”
Casey seldom made notes in face-to-faces. The sight of a pen and notebook scared most people off. “Did you like your boss, Councilor Nash?”
Parker shrugged. “He was all right.”
“Did you have a relationship with him?”
She giggled. “Sleep with him, you mean?”
Casey nodded.
“Will anything I say be printed in your paper?”
“Not a word.”
“That a promise?”
“A promise,” Casey said.
“We only shagged a few months—make that four.” She grinned. “He thought he was God’s gift to women.”
“Where did you meet to do this, er—?”
“Shagging? His apartment, of course.”
“Which was where?”
“Tallest building in the city. Shangri-La. Big fancy place on the fortieth floor, which is actually only the thirty-ninth because they don’t have a thirteenth. What kind of medieval thinking is that? View of sea and mountains. What a pad! I thought I’d finally made it.”
“Did you tell all this to the police?” Casey said.
“Police? I haven’t seen the police. The papers said it was a suicide.”
“I’m not so sure,” Casey said.
Parker’s eyes widened. “You think he was murdered?”
“Possibly. Did you kill him, Parker?”
“No way!” she said, happily bouncing her shapely behind on her heels. “I’m the kind of girl who wouldn’t hurt an earwig. How did he die? Was he shot?”
“Do you know anyone who might’ve killed him?”
“Not a clue.”
“You ever see or hear him arguing or fighting with anyone?”
“Never.”
“You ever hear of anyone working at city hall by the name of Cally?”
“Cally? Nope.”
“What kind of work did you do in England, Parker? Secretarial, same as here?”
“I was a registered nurse. In the OR, Cheltenham General Hospital.”
“OR?” Casey said.
“Operating room. Surgical procedures. I’ll go back to it eventually. But I needed a break. It’s quite intensive work. I needed a rest.”
“You would see a lot of blood in that job, I’m sure,” Casey said.
“Yes, you could say that.” She laughed. “But one gets used to it.”
Casey stood. “Thanks for the coffee, Parker.”
“My pleasure,” Parker said, rising fluidly from her position on the rug. Like a time-lapse film of a burgeoning sunflower. “In the meantime, if you hear of a job in the newspaper business, you let me know, okay? Drop in for coffee anytime. Bring some cake or biscuits if you can.”
10
Friday cop shop.
Sergeant Joyce Hastings in charge. Starting with the small stuff and working up to the large. “Last item,” she said. “City Councilor George Nash’s death last week is now being treated as a homicide.”
There were questions. “Why the change from suicide?” someone asked.
“New evidence in the case,” Hastings said. “That will be all. Good morning, everyone.”
Casey rushed off, but Plank wasn’t in his office. He found him in the cafeteria.
“Hey, what’s new, Frank?”
“We can talk in my office.”
Casey followed him back.
Plank sat down and sighed. “This is off the record, remember. Turns out the corpse had wrist and ankle abrasions. Nash was tied, or handcuffed, to the bed. Also, some skin abrasion of lips and mouth. Duct-tape damage.”
“The victim was bound to the bed and gagged while someone slashed his artery open.”
Plank nodded.
“Meaning you missed the abrasions first time round, right?”
Plank growled, “They didn’t show up until the body had been lying twenty-four hours in the morgue. Nash bled to death, remember? I warned you before, Casey. Leave the police work to the professionals.”
Casey made for the door. “Thanks for the update, Inspector.”
He returned to the newspaper office with two Starbucks coffees.
“Thanks, Casey,” Ozeroff said. “You’re a mind reader.”
Simmons poked his head around the door. “Coffee time?”
“Didn’t get you one. Sorry, Perce.”
Simmons shrugged. “Any exciting news from cop shop?”
“Nash’s death is now a homicide,” Casey said. “It’s official. Marks made by wrist and ankle restraints showed up at the morgue.”
“Can we print any of this?” Simmons said.
Casey s
hook his head. “Off the record, Perce.”
“Ropes and handcuffs?” Ozeroff said. “Playing sex games. Then the killer’s obviously a woman.”
“Could be a man,” Casey said.
“I guess so,” Ozeroff said. “She—or he—tied Nash to the bed. Helpless lamb to the slaughter. Enjoyed watching him die, probably. Revenge maybe. Bleeding to death. Lots of time for him to think.” She paused. “And to suffer.”
“That’s some sick imagination you got there, Debbie,” Simmons said.
Ozeroff grinned up at him. “I know. Don’t ya love it?”
Sunday, and no call from Emma.
On Monday, Casey was in the office of Joanne Drummond, Nash’s other business partner. He was there to ask her a few questions. But his mind kept skipping to an image of Emma and John Burns together. What had prevented her from calling this time?
Drummond was waiting for him to speak.
“How long had you known George Nash?” Casey asked.
“Over twenty years,” Drummond said. “We met as students at UBC. I see in the papers they’re calling it a homicide now.”
Drummond wore a smart gray business suit—jacket and slacks. Needed to lose ten or fifteen pounds to be fashionably slim. Right now her pleasantly open face was lined with concern.
“You ever have any serious disagreements or arguments?” Casey said.
“Arguments with George? Never.” She laughed. “He was much too easygoing.”
“I understand that you run Oasis Investments on your own, is that right? That George was a silent partner?”
Drummond nodded. “He left management to me. But I’ll miss him an awful lot. I knew he was always there if I needed him.”
“You bought a new BMW sports car recently.”
“Huh?”
“Paid in cash.”
Drummond frowned. “I don’t see what—”
“You also bought a house in Kitsilano.”
She stared at him, openmouthed. “That’s none of your fuckin’ business.”
“And a cottage on—”
Joanne Drummond sprang to her feet and held her office door open.
“This interview is over, Mr. Casey. Goodbye.”
11
The first things Casey noticed when he inspected the carpeted lobby and hallways of the sixty-two-story Shangri-La Hotel were the discreet state-of-the-art security cameras.
A Woman Scorned Page 4
