Middlemen, page 22
Aziz had finished her muffin and stood next to the table. Her right hand rested on her belt — close to but not exposing her service weapon.
When they were settled in the car, she noticed MacNeice hadn’t put the key in the ignition. “Everything okay, Mac?”
He nodded. “I’ll be right back . . .” He stepped out of the car, leaving the door open.
He was gone for a minute or two, then returned and started the engine. Dropping the car into reverse, he turned to look over his shoulder and noticed the look on Aziz’s face. “Just following a hunch . . .”
“And?”
“Mino was on his cellphone with his back to the door. When he spotted me, he put it in his apron. I left my card.”
[57]
Thomas Cameron appeared at the door wearing a plastic apron and long rubber gloves. He removed the right glove and held it in his left, where it flopped like a dead mallard. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Detective Inspector Aziz; with me is Detective Superintendent MacNeice. We’re here —”
“To learn about crematoriums. Yes, my partner called. Come in.” They shook hands as he let them through. Locking the door behind them, he asked, “Shall we go to my office?”
“A couple of questions first,” MacNeice said. “Why would Giacomo call you about our visit?”
“Because he’s a good partner. We’re both small business owners; he may have been concerned that two detectives were coming for a visit.”
“Does he have a reason to be concerned?”
“No. But I imagine that’s a common reaction whenever Dundurn detectives come calling.”
“You have a point.” MacNeice smiled. “Especially homicide detectives.”
Cameron tilted his head and his somewhat boyish face tightened. “I don’t believe you mentioned that to Mino, Detective.”
“An oversight perhaps, though it’s clear on the card I left him. To your office, then?”
“Yes, but you had another question . . .” Thomas returned the smile, leading the way.
“When did you develop such a refined taste for coffee?” That wasn’t the question, but it would do for now.
“A long time ago . . . Giacomo’s from Trieste. Coffee’s in his blood, probably quite literally.” When they reached his office, Thomas gestured to the chairs opposite the desk, then removed his protective gear and stacked it on a nearby shelf. “I’d offer coffee, but you’ve already had the best —”
“Correct. Giacomo probably mentioned our composite sketches . . . Tell me, do you call him Mino or Giacomo?” Aziz asked.
“Either . . . as the spirit moves.” Cameron was relaxed and engaging. Tall and very slender, it was easy to imagine how comforting he’d be for bereaved families arriving for the cremation of a loved one.
They exchanged business cards, but as the conversation turned to Cameron’s business, MacNeice was increasingly aware that the light in the room was changing — dramatically. He swung around to study the source. Two tall stained-glass windows illuminated the room with a jumble of colours that flickered and moved as though animated. MacNeice smiled in wonder.
“Magic hour — happens on days like this and shifts with the seasons. In winter, the sun almost misses them entirely, but in July and August, this is what early morning looks like. They’ll calm down soon.”
“One might assume that such a spirited display is the point,” MacNeice said.
“It would be, but for the fact that it happens so early — and in here, not in one of the chapels.” Cameron cleared away a stack of papers, opened a leather-clad notebook, and positioned his pen on top. “That said, I never quarrel with celestial timing.” He waited.
Over the next half-hour, the detectives listened to an overview of Cameron’s business model. This was followed by a review of the ledger — presented willingly and without hesitation — covering the last six months of operation. While there’d been an overall increase in the business, the source was the area’s established funeral homes and cemeteries.
“Ours is not a get-rich proposition. But we provide a necessary and efficient service.” Thomas shrugged his coat-hanger shoulders to suggest that was good enough for him.
Aziz asked, “When we arrived, you were wearing an apron. Have you just completed a cremation?”
“No. I was scrubbing the fire chamber; its walls have just been rebuilt, and I didn’t want the brick-and-mortar dust to mingle with —”
“We’d be grateful for a tour, Thomas. But first, we have several composites — pictures of people of interest — that we’d like to show you.”
Cameron pushed his notepad aside and waited, still smiling, though less so. He seemed aware of MacNeice’s intense focus on him. Aziz took the printouts from the folder and flipped them over one by one.
Thomas’s hands floated above the first composite. “May I?” MacNeice nodded. Cameron looked closely at the white man wearing silver sunglasses. He set it down and reached for the sketch of the Black man wearing dark sunglasses. He studied them side by side before taking the third. He spent more time with this composite, carefully reading the details noted off to the side, before placing it beside the other two.
“I don’t recognize them. Of course, the sunglasses make it difficult.” He stacked them in the order they’d been given to him and handed them back to Aziz. “Can you tell me why you’d bring them here?”
“Yours isn’t the only crematorium we’re visiting, Thomas; that’s all we can say.” MacNeice noticed a slight narrowing of Thomas Cameron’s eyes.
“I understand . . . Well, to our tour, then.” He led them into the coffin room. “This is where we keep the sample coffins and urns . . .” He opened the elevator doors and ushered them inside.
Weaving through traffic, MacNeice asked Aziz to call Wallace for a tap on Cameron’s phone. When the call ended, she turned in her seat. “It’ll be on within the hour. He said it’s highly irregular and only temporary, till he has the judge’s signature. He’s using ‘life in imminent danger’ as his rationale.”
“What did you make of Cameron?” MacNeice asked. He merged with the 403 traffic.
“Smooth . . . maybe too smooth. Since I have no experience with his world, I was somewhat persuaded by his sleek demeanour — he seemed authentic.” She looked out at Cootes Paradise. “I was struck by the attention he gave the composites.”
“Working hard to convince us that he didn’t know them, perhaps . . .”
“It was faultless.” She seemed lost in thought.
They’d just crested the hip of Main Street, where the road dropped down to City Hall and Division One. MacNeice felt the weight of her silence, and rather than wonder what was causing it or whether he was projecting, he asked, “Something on your mind, Fiz?”
She pushed herself upright. “Kate was cremated . . . Did you watch it happen?”
Her question was unexpected. He swallowed uneasily and smiled uncomfortably. “No . . .” The bottom fell out of his voice. “She didn’t want me to . . . Worried that would dominate my memory of her . . . of us.”
Aziz remained quiet and turned her attention to the cyclists enjoying the downhill ride, pumping away on racing bikes, wearing candy-coloured Lycra and helmets that looked like the shiny shells of exotic beetles.
[58]
“Every man should have passions that linger rather than fester.” It was the kind of pronouncement that would make most listeners recoil. “I’ve had my share, and I’ve followed every one of them.” Charles Cameron put the Range Rover into Park and went to open the gate. “Just be a sec . . .”
Returning, he picked up his narrative. “This was one of those passions. It didn’t work out . . . but it was a helluva ride.” He drove through, turned off the engine, and walked over to close the gate. His passengers exited the Range Rover and waited for him next to the vehicle.
Fists on his hips, Charles continued. “We’ll do a tour around the track and look at the buildings — though I know you don’t give a shit about houses, stables, and such.”
Both men said that wasn’t true, but it was — and Charles Cameron knew it. Irving Kelber and Gary Cuttlesworth were property developers; as far as they were concerned, passions like this place were hobbies or distractions, and C.C. was a dabbler who’d occasionally gotten lucky.
Charles drew a horizontal line in the air. “One hundred and fifty acres of environmentally sound land — farmland before I came along. Now it’s got city water and services.” The men nodded approvingly but without conviction.
“Before we do a look-see, I need to get something straight. This ain’t the Marrakesh Express; I’ve got a number in my head. If you accept it, we’ll have a deal; you wanna haggle, this’ll be a short stroll and we’ll go back to town. You good with that?”
Kelber, a compact man in his fifties, smiled. “Whether we turn around or not depends entirely on the figure that’s in your head. I’m not sure why you dragged us out here before sharing the amount, to be honest.”
“Look, Kelber-Cuttlesworth builds high-end homes. But you’re not the only ones, and I have time. Dundurn’s coming to me, and there’s nothing else like this property by a long shot.”
“So tell us the number before we get too excited and take this on as a passion project.” Kelber smiled at the absurdity of his own statement.
“Three million.”
Pursing his lips, Kelber nodded and turned to Cuttlesworth. Whatever crossed the space between them was lost on Charles; he was busy admiring the landscape as if he’d created it.
Kelber got his attention. “Charles, I don’t know what to make of your reference to Marrakesh, as I’ve never been there.”
“‘Marrakesh Express.’ Crosby, Stills, and Nash — no?” Cameron shrugged. “I like the phrase — love the song.”
Cuttlesworth spoke up for the first time. “It’s like that sign out there — C.C. Rider — that’s an old song too.”
“Exactly. Music’s one of my passions.”
“Clearly,” Cuttlesworth said. “If Irv hasn’t told you, he’s the big-picture partner. I’m the details man.”
“Good for you.” Charles couldn’t feign interest in their corporate structure.
Cuttlesworth nodded. “Let’s do that look-see.”
Not being taken seriously wasn’t new to Charles Cameron. He’d had no idea why Cuttlesworth had joined them — and now he knew. Charles pointed left to the field and its modest viewing stand, and then to the right, to the stables. “If you’d like to know more about raising thoroughbreds . . .”
“Unnecessary — but seeing this up close does suggest a spectacular failure.” Cuttlesworth rolled up his sleeves and glanced admiringly at Cameron. “This would’ve crushed most men.”
“I wasn’t crushed . . . my net wealth practically doubled within two years of folding this place. Now, to the clubhouse or the stables?”
“The stables . . .” Cuttlesworth set off at an ambling pace.
Kelber’s tie caught a morning breeze and flipped up to his chin. Tucking it into his shirt, he turned to Cameron. “Charles . . . you’ve never worked as a developer, correct?”
“No.”
“I thought not. You stated a number; I don’t how you arrived there. As we go, I’ll outline the considerations that would determine whether we’ll consider three million.”
“I’m listening . . .” Charles shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his linen trousers and walked with his head down, as if it helped him listen.
Kelber was also looking down, but at the fine dust collecting on his shiny black shoes. “To take on a hundred-and-fifty-acre housing development, we’d immediately allocate twenty acres for green space and another ten for roads . . . leaving a hundred and twenty acres. For argument’s sake, let’s say we put up four hundred and eighty homes at three to four thousand square feet each on quarter-acre lots.”
“Sounds good. I might even buy one for my son’s family.”
“I’d expect no less of you.” Kelber patted the much-taller Cameron on the shoulder. “And, analogous to your offer to buy your son a home, you’d want to know the true value of that investment — whatever the selling price might be. Is it worth it?”
“Don’t dumb it down on my account, Irv.”
“I’m doing that assessment with your three-million asking price. You see, we have hard costs and soft costs. Hard are things like — what the hell is that smell?”
They were just coming up to the stables, and with every quiver of breeze their nostrils registered something foul and sour. Cuttlesworth was twenty feet ahead of them when he turned back, covering his mouth and nose.
“I don’t know what that is,” Charles said. “The stables have been closed up for a long time . . . must be the neighbour spreading fertilizer.”
“In August? I don’t think so.” Cuttlesworth spoke with authority, whether real or imagined.
Kelber pulled out his tie to cover his nostrils. They kept walking until they were near the barn’s open door. “That should’ve been locked; must’ve been the groundskeeper.” Standing on the track, Charles said, “Maybe something died inside. Stay here . . . I’ll go check.”
“No, I’ll come along,” Cuttlesworth said, his face buried in his elbow. “You sure you didn’t leave one of those thoroughbreds behind?”
“More likely a dead raccoon, no big deal . . .”
AS HE EXITED the barn, Cuttlesworth passed out, gashing his forehead on the door frame. Fifty minutes later, with his head in a feed pail, he shook and heaved as a paramedic tried to dodge the vomit to clean and bandage the wound.
Upwind and some distance away from each other, Irving and Charles sat on dusty plastic chairs. Both men appeared to be in shock.
Charles was mindlessly flipping the lid of a silver Zippo that bore his initials; an unlit cigarette dangled from his lip. Four police vehicles — two regional, and two OPP — were parked bumper-to-bumper along the property’s access road. The cops stood in a clutch, some of them laughing. They weren’t being disrespectful, at least, not intentionally. They were just accustomed to arriving on the scene to much greater tragedies than a severely dehydrated man tied to a stable wall, reeking of piss and shit.
[59]
MacNeice, Aziz, and Swetsky were in the Chevy speeding along behind Vertesi, who was following Sergeant Evanson. The lights on all three vehicles were flashing and Evanson was running his whoop-whoop siren to clear the road. With less than a car’s length between them, they sped through the intersection of Upper James and Mohawk.
MacNeice wondered why Vertesi was driving alone. “John, where’s Maracle?”
“He’s following up with one of the incinerator contacts, about something that didn’t make sense.”
“Okay.” He felt a flicker of unease but put it aside. “What do we know about where we’re headed?” MacNeice glanced at him through the rear-view.
Swetsky straddled the driveshaft and rested his enormous arms on the shoulders of the front seats. “Not much. The owner was showing the property to some developers, and they found a guy they thought was dead in a stable.”
“They’re sure it’s him?”
“Yeah, he still had his wallet. Williams and Bichet were just coming back from Secord, so I told them to head over to St. Joe’s. The ambulance is there now . . . paramedic wouldn’t speculate on his chances. Cop on the scene was willing to, though . . .”
“And?”
“Minus to plus zero.”
A cruiser sped toward them, leading an ambulance — together, they slalomed through traffic. One by one, the three unmarked Dundurn PD vehicles pulled to the right to let them scream by, then they veered back onto the road, speeding toward the farm.
“Shall I call Elaine Garrick?” Aziz asked, cellphone in hand.
“Yes. You can’t say much, just that her husband’s alive and heading to St. Joe’s.”
Swetsky lowered his voice. “Mac, it’s like we’re dealing with a gang that can’t shoot straight. You grab someone, rough him up, leave two grand on the floor, torch his car, don’t ask for a ransom, don’t finish him off — then leave him in a stable with his wallet. That’s not how this is supposed to work.”
“No, it isn’t.” MacNeice kept his concentration on the road.
Aziz raised her hand for quiet. “Dr. Garrick, hello. It’s DI Aziz . . . I only have a moment . . .” She listened for the obvious question. “Yes, we do — your husband is alive. He’ll arrive at St. Joseph’s in approximately ten minutes.”
Garrick’s wife let out a shriek that burst out of the phone’s tiny speaker. She began sobbing, but Aziz cut off any further questions. “Elaine. Go and be with your husband. Two of our detectives will meet you at the icu . . . but you need to leave now . . . Yes, a team effort. No, we haven’t arrested anyone.”
“Skin in the game . . .” Swetsky said to no one in particular.
[60]
As they approached the farm’s gate, two opp cruisers were pulling out. The drivers — one male, one female — nodded in that cool, minimal-effort, fighter-pilot way. The three unmarked cars moved slowly along the road and parked on the grass.
A regional cop came forward and introduced himself as patrolman Les Richards. He was sporting a grey mesh summer Stetson that left a grid of sun and shadow on his face. Speaking with a slight Caribbean accent, he said, “I’ll be leaving too, sir. I know you’ve been looking for this guy; everything was catalogued before he was cut down. I sent the photographs to Missing Persons, for the record.”
