Middlemen, page 14
Clarence washed down a bite of biscotti with some water. “Sorry, the coffee was going to my gut.” He noted Tom watching Clarence.
“Before I say yes, I want some things understood.” Tom tried to quiet a tic at the corner of his mouth.
Clarence moved the plate aside. His cousin’s demeanour had brightened so much that if they had to go up to forty thousand, he wouldn’t hesitate.
Tom raised a hand. “To be clear, I’m not saying yes — not yet.” His questions ranged widely, even to wondering out loud just how Clarence’s wife had died. “Did you do it?”
“I was never charged with her death; it was a gas explosion.”
“I know it was. I read that in the Standard. But that wasn’t my question.”
Clarence took a sip of water, glanced at Tom, then looked over at the waitress arranging muffins on a platter.
Tom realized his cousin had no intention of answering, so he moved on to his next question. “How can you be certain the victims are guilty of something that would justify their execution?”
“I can’t. And I don’t try to be. Look, I can’t help making assumptions, Tom. I assume these are all underworld figures and — in an age of cctv cameras, cellphone cameras, and video recorders — disappearing people has become difficult.”
“Have you personally killed anyone?”
“Honestly, Tom, the less you know, the better. As your financial advisor, I recommend you treat this as a simple — well, not simple, but basic — cash-for-ash transaction.”
“What’s your exit plan?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Why?” Tom was mystified. “Because I didn’t come all this way from the Glorious Reformius to end up back in prison.”
“Just know I have one, and you should too. Who bankrolls your business?”
“My father. I completed my apprenticeship and a few years later I was running a large crematorium. I thought I could improve on the basics of the business and Dad agreed. I’ve been paying him off . . . slowly.”
“And you’ll continue to do it . . . slowly. We’ll put your earnings in an offshore account.” Clarence glanced at his watch. “Now, Tom, we’re well past the hour you allotted, and to be honest, I have to deal with this disposal . . .”
“I have an idea for that. You know C.C. has his passions. He’s the polar opposite of his brother-in-law — your dad always seemed so careful, while mine got caught up in schemes destined to fail . . . But some didn’t; he’s filthy rich, after all. And there’s one passion that might interest you.”
Clarence brightened, happy the questions were over and relieved he hadn’t revealed anything he’d later regret.
As Tom told his father’s story, there was no hint of bitterness. It might have been the story of a stranger, one devoid of judgment and scorn; he was as detached in his recounting as if he were reading from a novel.
It turned out that one of Charles “C.C.” Cameron’s passions was horse racing. Not just going to the track and betting but owning a world-class facility to produce the thoroughbreds that win the races. “To put C.C. in the limelight, and, of course, increase his wealth.”
“Where is it?”
“Where was it. The sign’s still there —“C.C. Rider Thoroughbreds”— a hundred and fifty acres, a half-hour from Mount Hope at Hall and Trimble Road. The farm’s name comes from an old blues song. But, as with many of C.C.’s big ideas, there were fatal flaws that torpedoed the plan. First among them was hiring a bent breeder — anyway, the point is that the farm shuttered three years ago. He could have kept it going out of pride, but that would have left him open to further ridicule. C.C. sold off the horses, gave generous bonuses to the staff — that’s the backstory.”
“Interesting . . . why are you telling me this?”
“Because I have the keys. The barn is high and dry. The breeder’s quarters are locked; I don’t have those keys. There’s a twelve-foot fence around the entire property, with evergreen trees around most of it; the barn is pretty much out of sight, behind a berm.”
“What’s his plan for the property?”
“Development. He’s in no hurry to sell, not until the market demands it. After that, he’ll make a fortune.”
“How’d you come by the keys?”
“He thought the girls would love it up there, and they did, until the horses were gone.” Tom smiled. “A key for the barn and a code for the main gate: 1066BOH.” When he heard the code, Clarence looked up. “1066, the Battle of Hastings. C.C. loves English history.”
“And the individual stalls?”
“Concrete exterior walls with a high barred window at the back of each stall; sturdy wooden divider walls with a gate low enough that the horses could stick their heads out and feel less like prisoners.”
Clarence checked his watch again. “Tom, I have to go. Simple yes or no, are you in?” He pushed his chair back but waited for an answer.
Tom reached into his pocket. “I pulled this from my glovebox.” He slid the C.C. Rider key fob across the table. Yeah, I’m in — in three days. Use your nav app to get there.”
[36]
MacNeice parked the Chevy at the treeline to watch a starling groom its wing. The bird would stop, look around, make a couple of half-hearted calls, and then go back to preening.
His mind drifted to the body of the businessman found in Lincoln. Why had it been placed, not dumped, in that former orchard? From his recollection, Montreal had more than twice the homicides. Between the St. Lawrence River and plentiful deepwater lakes — why was a Montrealer left on the Niagara Escarpment?
He was startled when his cellphone rang; so was the starling. It stopped grooming, tilted its head left and right before flying off.
“MacNeice.”
“Mac, I’m on Province Street with Sergeant Evanson from Missing Persons. I think we’ve got something. It might not have anything to do with Moore and the John Doe, but an eighty-four-year-old grandmother called in as I was going through files.”
“Top line?” He took the key from the ignition and left the car.
“She spoke to her grandson last Saturday. He accepted an invitation for Sunday dinner but never came.”
“And that was unusual . . .?”
“Highly. The one thing he would always accept was a roast chicken dinner. That was the draw — otherwise, she’d never see him.” The squeak of the Division door echoed on the line and Aziz paused. “She said her grandson had been . . . in a few scrapes with the law, and was worried that something had happened. I asked her to define scrapes. She said that he’d gone away for three years for assault with a weapon.”
“Name?”
“Peter Allen Raymond, twenty-six. No fixed address. She doesn’t know if he has a job, though he was a housepainter for a time.”
“Family, beyond the grandmother?”
“None. Divorced parents; mother died of pneumonia, father of an overdose. If he has a girlfriend, he’s never mentioned her. When I asked for a description, she produced two photos. One’s recent; one from before he went inside. He looks sketchy in both . . . When I asked about his personality or demeanour, she pursed her lips and asked where I was from.”
“Was that an innocent question?”
“Hard to tell . . . I said I’m from Dundurn Homicide, Division One. That probably wasn’t the answer she was looking for, but what the hell . . . my skin’s a lot tougher than it looks.”
“Thicker, you mean,” he said playfully. “Mentioning Homicide must have surprised her.”
“Correction noted. And it did shock her. Anyway, to my surprise, she said Peter is the son of an angry man and that all the ugly traits of the father seem worse in the son. She did say he was never violent with her.”
“Any dna?”
“He left a gym bag with a comb and hairbrush, a sweater, ball cap, socks, and running shoes — and a hefty pong suggesting he never washed any of it. I would assume there’s enough there. Evanson’s taking it for analysis.”
“Is that it?”
“For the moment . . . Based on the photos, I wonder which end of the gun Raymond was on.”
“Let’s check the department’s database. Hopefully it’ll include known associates.”
“Before you hang up, I’ve got information on the incinerators and crematoriums in Greater Dundurn. There are nineteen of the former, seven of the latter.”
[37]
Cindy Morrow arrived at Professor Arnie Garrick’s office five minutes before her appointment, only to find the door closed. No problem; there were two straight-back wooden chairs outside every office. Cindy sat next to the door, relieved that she could hear Garrick inside on the telephone. At first he spoke softly, but as the call continued, his voice grew louder and more intense. He’d pause here and there; after each, he became more agitated.
Looking at the time on her cellphone — four minutes past the hour — she considered knocking. Instead she began mentally cataloguing the phrases that made it through the heavy door. “You can’t . . . But I will go . . . Look, I don’t need this . . . Yes, I told you . . . I need a little more time . . . Aw, fuck you, there’s always more time. Be reasonable . . . I’m not afraid of . . . Where? Right now? Outside my house? My wife has nothing . . . Nothing to do . . . She doesn’t even know I’m —”
Cindy heard the receiver slam onto its cradle and what sounded like documents slapping onto the desk. Garrick was mumbling and swearing. And then everything went quiet. Cindy realized that whatever was going on, it wasn’t conducive to discussing her master’s thesis. She got out of the chair as quietly as she could and reached down for her bag and briefcase. The door opened suddenly, and as she swung about, Garrick knocked her sideways, sending the contents of her briefcase across the floor.
“Shit. I’m so sorry!” He grabbed her arm to keep her from falling. He didn’t let go; her face contorted in shock and from the pain of his grip. “I can’t meet . . . I mean I can’t stay. I’ll get in touch; just talk to David Yeung.” He released her arm and ran the length of the corridor; she heard him pounding down the two flights of stairs.
Cindy stepped over her papers to reach the window — Garrick was racing across the lawn to the faculty parking lot. While reassembling her notes, she heard a car squeal out of the lot, thumping heavily over the speed bumps.
When everything was back in her briefcase, she looked through the doorway at Professor Garrick’s office. There were papers and documents scattered about as if a sudden breeze had sent them flying. Out of respect, she closed the door.
It was August and Brant University’s campus was quiet. As far as she knew, she was the only person on the floor. She was shaking as she made her way outside, where she took several deep breaths. Looking up and down the tree-lined boulevard, she recognized no one. All she saw was proud parents with their freshman kids, wandering around like fascinated tourists — gawking and referring to maps.
Stepping into the administration building, she looked for a receptionist, but no one was there except a security guard, who was preoccupied with his cellphone. Cindy waited at the desk, thinking someone would arrive soon. To pass the time, she wrote down what she’d heard.
She imagined there’d be a man who took his job in security seriously; he’d look across the empty desk before putting a statement in the form of a question. He’d ask, So, were you eavesdropping on Dr. Garrick, Ms. Morrow? She’d explain that wasn’t what had happened, that it was impossible not to hear him, that the professor seemed terrified . . .
Pulling the ballpoint from his pocket-protector, he would squint suspiciously. Is that your assessment, Ms. Morrow, or did he say he was terrified?
He knocked me over; he was freaking out, she’d explain. He grabbed my arm. Look, see the bruises?
She ran through enough scenarios to convince herself there was nothing tangible to report — especially to a security guard. She convinced herself that whatever had happened was none of her business. Leaving the admin building, she reassured herself it had probably been about home renovations — a heated exchange with a contractor. She’d pretty much settled on that until she recalled something else: Garrick really was shit-scared.
On the bus heading home, she thought about her relationship with the professor. Garrick had become a leader in the field of financial risk management after developing algorithms that could dramatically shrink tons of data to predict the future of a financial risk. That his engine missed predicting the timing and magnitude of the 2008 global meltdown had damaged his otherwise stellar reputation, but to his credit, he had accurately predicted the recovery.
Cindy wanted to work with him, not because his risk engine was perfect, but because it wasn’t. Almost finished with her master’s degree in machine learning, she was determined to move on to a doctorate by matching her discipline with Garrick’s data-crunching technology.
It helped that he realized the importance of machine learning. Historically, the entire narrative of risk management had depended on ever faster, ever more robust supercomputers to reduce ever greater amounts of information down to something an economist at a tier-one bank could use.
Machine learning was a nimbler and more lively discipline — like an AI robot, the computer learned and adapted, adapted and modelled, modelled and predicted. And, while she wasn’t satisfied with her thesis title, it was accurate enough: “Modelling with Machine Learning to Accurately Predict the Future of Financial Risk.”
A month earlier, she’d been far enough into her research to believe the best way to test it was in Garrick’s lab. The scheduled meeting had been meant to establish how they could work together. That he would suggest she speak to David Yeung — another Master’s student of Garrick’s who was a year further into the program — was disappointing.
In the past when she’d attempted to explain machine learning, Yeung’s eyes had glazed over, and sometimes they’d close altogether when she hypothesized about the impact it could have on predictive analytics.
Suddenly Cindy recalled a quip Yeung had made about Professor Garrick and machine learning: “Arnie probably wants to use it to perfect his gambling.”
“Does he have a problem?” she’d asked.
“Only when he loses.” Yeung had laughed. “When he wins, he’s obsessed. When he loses, he’s addicted. I think he loses . . . a lot.”
Cindy couldn’t shake the feeling that she had to tell someone about what she’d heard. But who? Yeung would probably shrug it off.
Three hours later, back at her shared apartment, Cindy picked up her phone.
[38]
Speeding through Brant University’s campus, Arnie Garrick swerved to avoid hitting the wandering clutches of incoming students. Year after year they appeared, embarrassed, wishing Mom and Dad had simply dropped them off and gone home.
Garrick turned east on Main and floored the accelerator, weaving between vehicles, forcing drivers to swerve away or hit the brakes to avoid colliding with the maniac in the red Volvo. Arnie was oblivious to the havoc; he ignored the chorus of horns and screeching brakes that followed in his wake. He was deafened by panic and waves of sickening, horrific what-ifs. What if they’d already taken Elaine? What if they torched the house with Elaine inside? What if ? What if ?
Speeding into a hard right on Dundurn, the Volvo lurched, throwing Arnie against the door and his phone to the floor. Dread had overtaken him and he was struggling to breathe. Pedestrians were screaming at him, but the only noise he heard was inside his head.
Arnie glanced down; the phone lay between the gas and brake pedals. He didn’t attempt to retrieve it. He used the steering wheel controls to call Elaine; it rang, once, twice, three times — click —“Hi . . . sorry I missed your call. Leave a message; I’ll get back to you.” Beep.
“Elaine, if you’re home — pick up now. Call me. It’s urgent.” His breathing came in short, shallow bursts from the top of his throat. His mind was suddenly inventing reasons for why she hadn’t answered the call — all of them bad. He pushed redial and waited . . . “Come on. Come on. For fuck’s sake, Elaine, pick up the phone . . . pick up the phone.”
“Hi, honey, what’s up?” Dr. Elaine Garrick’s voice, like her general personality, was positive.
“Are you at home?”
“No, why?”
“I’ve fucked up. Don’t go home.” He swung east on Aberdeen, narrowly missing a teenager on a bike; the kid swore as Arnie passed.
“What? Honey, I’m almost there —”
“Elaine. Don’t. I told you — don’t go home!”
“Arnie, what’s going on? Where am I supposed to go?” Her voice was incredulous.
“I don’t know . . . Go to your parents’. Go there. Stay there.”
“You’re joking. Go to Oakville? You’re seriously telling me to go to —” No more sunny disposition.
“Yes. Go there now.”
“Arnie — what have you done?”
“Like I said: I fucked up.”
Elaine was frightened. “How bad? It can’t be so bad that —”
“Really bad — I’m so sorry.” Ahead of Arnie, a UPS truck had stopped. Before jumping out with a parcel, the driver turned on the four-way flashers to alert traffic that his vehicle was taking up most of the lane. In between Arnie and the large van was a man in a motorized wheelchair; a Canadian flag danced atop a wire aerial. With no apparent concern for his safety, he swung the wheelchair into the oncoming lane, forcing a silver sedan onto the sidewalk and Arnie to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting them both. As Arnie eased by the sedan, he looked briefly at its driver; the woman’s jaw dropped. She hit the horn for several seconds in protest.
“What’s all that noise?”
