Middlemen, page 25
Clarence realized he was wearing that smile again.
[66]
“Sir, you might remember hearing about Clarence Blow seven years ago. He and his wife, Tilly, lived on Binkley Road, in the west end.” Bichet pointed to a press photo of the site on her computer.
“The penny drops . . .” Aziz said, watching MacNeice.
Bichet referred to her notes. “Blow is, or was, an accountant. He was at his office when a gas explosion demolished the house, killing Tilly. He was investigated but not charged. Forensics and the fire marshal believed the explosion was caused by a nicked gas line, following work recently completed at the house.”
“Where is he now, Sergeant?”
“Well, that’s the thing, sir. He kept his office in the Pigott Building for another four years. During that time, he rented an apartment on Herkimer Street. Since then, I haven’t found any trace of him, as a practising accountant, an apartment renter, or a homeowner . . . and he doesn’t appear to be filing personal or corporate taxes in Ontario.”
“Cellphone?”
“No, sir. At least, not under his name.”
“Family?”
“Yes, sir. Parents; father’s still a practising chartered accountant.”
“Photographs from the time of the incident?”
“Affirmative.” She handed the printouts to MacNeice.
MacNeice taped up Blow’s juvenile mugshot and a press photo taken the day of the explosion next to the photos of Wright and Daintry. He studied them quietly before turning back to Williams, Aziz, and Bichet.
“Lise and Montile — get on the parents. We need to confirm that Clarence Blow is alive and hasn’t left the province. Before you go, Montile, get an update on Garrick’s condition.”
“Yes, sir,” said Williams.
“Ryan, put the latest photo of Blow into the dpd system and get it out to the media. Label him as a person of interest.”
Swetsky was smiling. “You’re fucking with their heads . . .”
“A bit.” MacNeice realized that the computer tech, Larry Nichol, had spotted Blow near Garrick’s house, and it was Blow who had engaged Vanderkooy in conversation. He’d probably spoken to Giacomo too.
“Think Blow might strike a deal to save himself?” Aziz asked.
“That’s the dream scenario, yes.”
Ryan swung around. “Sir, Vertesi’s on his way back, DI Maracle’s on the line . . .”
With a catch in his chest, MacNeice realized Maracle had been out of the pocket for some time. “Charlie?”
“Sir, I know you’ve got a crematorium on the go, but there’s something about industrial incinerators that’s been bugging me . . .”
“In what sense?”
“Dave DiLillo from Erie Prefab called. They build garages, sunroom additions, that kind of thing. I was there yesterday asking about their incinerator — it’s one of the small ones. Everything they’re using it for seemed legit.”
“And now it doesn’t?”
“No — they are legit. DiLillo called to tell me that he mentioned my visit to the incinerator company rep when they were playing golf. The rep remembered that he’d delivered another unit exactly like DiLillo’s to an autobody shop on Arvin near Green Road. They rebuild antique and luxury cars.”
“I don’t understand . . .”
“That’s the point, sir. Neither did the guy who sold it to them. And DiLillo couldn’t stop wondering why a garage needed an incinerator.”
“I assume you have an answer?”
“Well . . . So I picked up my brother’s ’57 Thunderbird and drove it over to Riviera Automobile Restoration. I met the owner, a guy named Ronald ‘Ronnie’ Slater. I wanted to get a rough estimate for restoring the ‘Bird to mint condition.”
“And . . .?” MacNeice felt uneasy that Maracle had gone hunting alone. He recalled him saying that his favourite position on patrol in Afghanistan had been point, and that a close second was being a scout.
“It took Slater thirty minutes to cough up an estimate. When I asked him why it was so expensive, he gave me the old If you have to ask, you can’t afford it. He took me into the shop — it was noisy as hell, guys working on a ’49 Hudson Hornet and an Alfa Romeo Spider. They’ve got this huge tank — Slater called it a dip-’n’-strip — that strips metal clean. And beside it was the incinerator, exactly like DiLillo’s. It’s used to burn wooden skids and other wood products.”
“Charlie — please tell me you’re not there now?”
“No, I’m a few blocks away. Anyway, Slater could see I was impressed by his operation, and I hadn’t rejected his high five, low six ballpark for Donny’s ‘Bird. I guess he was convinced I could afford it, so he showed me the back lot.”
“Okay . . .?”
“A Ferrari under a car cover, a ’59 Mark IX Jag, and two Caddies, one from the forties, the other all fins and chrome. A gullwing Mercedes without an engine . . . and a dark grey Econoline van — no lettering.”
MacNeice swallowed hard. “Please tell me you didn’t ask about it?”
“Paid no attention to it, sir,” Maracle said. “Last thing: he’s got six suvs — all fairly new. I asked what they were in for — it’s his livery service for customers like me when their vehicles are being restored.”
“A Lincoln Navigator?”
“Yep. I played disinterested — said they looked like prom boats to me.”
The call ended and MacNeice went to the whiteboard, where he wrote: Ronald Slater, Riviera Automobile Restoration — Arvin Road and Green Road. Grey van, incinerator/stripping bath, Lincoln Navigator.
[67]
MacNeice turned to Swetsky. “John, call Forensics. We need a large team ready to go within the hour. When I get the nod from Wallace, take Vertesi and the warrant to Riviera. I want to know what’s been dissolving in that stripping bath besides rust and paint.”
“And Cameron’s crematorium, Mac?” Aziz tapped her notes from the interview.
Swetsky turned to her. “You think he’ll do a runner?”
“Not at all. He and his counsel know what we have is circumstantial . . . Cameron might decide to fight, or flip, or just wait us out.” Aziz added, “Plus, I expect his father will show up with a big-fee defence lawyer.”
MacNeice nodded. “I’ll request twenty-four-hour surveillance on the crematorium.” He walked down to the parking lot and punched in a number. Waiting for the connection, he scanned the trees lining the lot — nothing in flight. The heat was stifling; the breeze passed lackadaisically through the trees, reaching him without a hint of cool . . . “How are you, Bill?”
Bill Moore was alone with Jack at Evan’s house, his wife having returned to BC. When MacNeice asked how Jack was doing, he laughed ruefully. “To be honest, it was hard going for him in the beginning, understandably, with Ev’s things around him — the smells and all. Even the doorbell ring sends him bounding off to see if Ev’s home. Mostly it’s the lady next door.”
“He’s recovering well, I assume?”
“Pretty much. We go walking on the beach or out to the Niagara Parkway where the trees are thick and it’s not hot. Anyway, has something happened, Detective?”
“Almost. Not there yet, but we’re much closer.”
“Anything to do with that professor they found alive?”
“Yes — we may need to borrow Jack soon.”
“You want him to identify somebody?”
“Exactly. And we’d all like to see him before he heads out west for good.”
Moore asked, “Can I tell Evan’s son that we’re getting close?”
“If he calls you . . . tell him the case is developing very quickly.”
Moore was relieved. “Thank goodness. It’s been very hard on David . . . Well, on all of us.” He cleared his throat. “Jack and I can be there within an hour — anytime, day or night.”
Having stepped outside to clear his head, MacNeice sat down on the parking lot bench and leaned back. In the heat he could smell engine oil and lubricant, the hot rubber of cruiser tires. He called Wallace.
The Deputy Chief congratulated him on Garrick’s rescue. MacNeice deflected the credit, but the DC was having none of it.
“So, Detective, what do you need now?”
“A search warrant and a robust team from Forensics, sir. And, separately, twenty-four-hour surveillance on a crematorium.”
It took all of six minutes, a long conversation by Wallace’s standards. He whistled through his teeth, making the sound of a bomb falling — then, “You’ve got it” — and hung up.
Across the lot and farther down the line of trees, MacNeice heard a robin calling. Not the melodic, cheery song of morning or evening, but a short, rapid warning to a mate or offspring.
MacNeice stood up to scan the trees and fence. “There you are.” He spotted a grey-and-white cat prowling slowly along the fence, pausing every few steps to check the canopy for movement. In the upper branches of a young maple, the robin darted frantically from limb to limb — and the sparrows that had a ringside seat had stopped talking.
His phone rang. He checked the display — Dr. A. Sumner. Focusing on the unfolding drama before him, he answered. “MacNeice.”
“While it’s not the reason for my call, on hearing the news about Professor Garrick, I couldn’t help but assume you were involved.”
“Not in his discovery or rescue, but in the wider and related investigation . . . Do you know him?”
“I don’t, but his wife, Elaine, did a practicum with me at Brant years ago. She’s a fine physician. At the time, I thought she’d choose psychiatry.” MacNeice heard her open a door, followed by the familiar squeak of Sumner’s task chair as she sat down at her desk. “Right . . . Well, to the reason for my call. DC Wallace mentioned you today; he said you were, and I quote, up to your eyeballs. If that’s accurate, I thought it best to let you know I’m available should you feel the need to talk.”
A session with Sumner would certainly clear out what he’d recently stored in his mental closet, but MacNeice was currently running so smoothly on adrenalin and caffeine that he knew an hour in her office would dull his edge — and right now, he needed to be sharp. “Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate the offer. I can’t now, but will when I can . . .”
The robin had finally had enough. It dropped swiftly toward the cat, which cowered to avoid the attack — claws and beak. The bird landed one strike, then banked and landed on a nearby branch, where its scolding continued. Hunkered down, tail flicking nervously, the cat slipped between the fence pickets and disappeared.
Vindicated, the robin flew the length of the parking lot and swung right toward Main Street. The scene so distracted MacNeice that he didn’t hear Sumner’s goodbye.
[68]
If the thought had crossed his mind — even for a second — before he opened the door, he would have fled and never looked back. Unfortunately, that possibility only flashed before him the moment Clarence stepped into the room.
His client was at the desk — arms crossed like an angry father. One, sitting opposite, gave a perfunctory nod to Clarence; Two seemed to be enjoying the abstract art on the black wall. Hearing the door open, he turned, smiled briefly, and returned to the painting.
Clarence’s heart pounded and he felt faint; he leaned back against the closed door and let out an involuntary sigh.
“Sit down, Mr. Blow,” One said, patting the arm of the empty chair.
Why was One giving orders now? Clarence looked to the client for a reaction, but the man remained stone-faced, focused on his pen as if it might levitate.
“What’s going on here, sir?” Clarence snapped. He made his way to the open chair. Sitting on the edge so his shoes remained on the floor, he turned to One. “This is my client — my job. You don’t belong here. You’ll get your money, now get —”
The strike was loud, and came so fast that Clarence’s head snapped sideways. The client’s arms flew up and he blurted something like “Wha-hah!”
Clarence thought his jaw was broken. His cheek stung and there was a high-frequency hiss in his right ear. He’d lived his whole life without being struck, and now it had happened twice in a matter of days. He looked to the client, hoping for some degree of compassion, but his attention had returned to his pen.
Clarence turned to One to speak in his own defence. “I —”
“Best be quiet now, little man. No one needs to hear how you’ve got things under control.” One didn’t appear angry; rather, he seemed empathetic.
A part of Clarence wanted to curl up and have a good cry, but a larger part wanted him to spray the room with his sidearm. With his head feeling like a shaken snow globe, he decided to answer, “Got it . . .”
“Good choice. Now, before you arrived, we were about to hear your client — Mr. Jeremy Slater here — explain why the contract on the professor won’t be honoured. So, Clarence, this is good timing on your part.”
Clearly rattled by the unexpected violence, Slater began moving things around on his desk. His face was flushed, he cleared his throat. “Well . . . Yes, I acknowledge that I changed the plan with regards to this disposal — we all answer to our clients, and I’m no exception. Nonetheless, Mr. Blow did, on several occasions, assure me that the contract would be fulfilled. Had it been, we all would have been compensated . . .”
“Uh-huh . . .” One was listening intently.
Two had settled on the corner of Slater’s desk and was letting his Stan Smiths glide back and forth above the oak flooring.
While the invasion of his personal space unnerved him, Slater soldiered on. “However, upon hearing of the professor’s release, my client feels justified in refusing to pay for a contract that remains unfulfilled — it’s that simple. Now, I can promise that another contract is imminent, and I’m happy to engage you all, but I’m afraid we must move on from this one without compensation. So, regrettably and without blame — I’m not blaming anyone . . .”
The client had run out of steam, perhaps because Two was twirling the point of Slater’s onyx-handled stiletto letter opener slowly around the tip of his left index finger.
“That it, boss?” One asked, shifting his upper torso forward so his arms were resting on the desk.
Slater laid his hands flat to suggest some degree of finality. “Well . . . yes. I’m sure you understand my position . . . I don’t know if Mr. Blow has led you to believe otherwise —”
Suddenly Two stuck the letter opener into Slater’s left hand, pinning it to the desk. “Hold up there, buckaroo.” He leaned over, bringing his face close to Slater’s. “You’re trying to throw our client, Mr. Blow, under the stagecoach?”
Pain and fear registered on Slater’s face. “Stop — I’m just saying — I’m not privy — to what he may have told you — about our contract conditions —” he stuttered.
Two withdrew the letter opener from Slater’s hand and returned to twirling it on his finger. With a belated yelp, Slater pressed his other hand over the wound.
Two shook his head and turned to his partner. “One, what’s that word in hardware stores, the one they use when they know they’re gonna lose money on a wrench but win on a drill?”
One chuckled; Blow and Slater looked confused. “A loss leader. Two’s suggesting that you treat the professor’s contract as a loss leader.”
“That’s exactly right,” Two said. “So, who’s givin’ away that wrench — and we don’t care who, or even if you split it.”
Clarence felt a line had just been crossed. He sat up and pointed a finger at Slater. “It won’t be split. I promised that you’ll settle the debt. This was your loss leader; you put this plan in motion. You agreed to pay the surcharge.” Clarence glanced over at Two, who smiled and gave him an attaboy wink.
What followed was a heavy silence. One started nodding — slowly — like he had a tune going on in his head, then sat back, pursed his lips, and thrust out his lower jaw.
Two grinned as he pointed the onyx handle in One’s direction. “That, boys, is not good. That’s a look you don’t wanna see.” He studied Slater and Blow to make sure they understood. “So, chief, now that Clarence has had his say, it’s time to clear your tab. And just so you both know, we’re down to seconds, not minutes, before this gloomy room gets painted red.”
[69]
Williams and Bichet approached the Aberdeen mansion slowly on foot. A dark blue Mercedes was idling outside; its driver stood waiting for his passenger. Seeing them approach, he made no attempt to hide his suspicion and contempt.
“Here’s trouble . . .” Bichet said.
“Naw . . . Probably thinks we’re Jehovah Witnesses.”
As they walked up the driveway heading for the house, the driver stepped away from the vehicle to block them. “Can I help you?”
Both detectives flashed their badges and kept walking. As they approached the door, it swung open. An elderly man stood before them — he seemed surprised, somewhat peeved; he was very short. His brow crumpled with concern, as if their arrival meant he’d be late for something important.
“Who are you? Why are you here?” While they were legitimate questions, something in Eugene Blow’s eyes suggested he’d been expecting them.
Williams gave the reason and the man sagged into his suit. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed his chauffeur and stepped back. “Inside . . .”
He explained that his wife had taken to her bed, refusing to believe that she’d seen Clarence’s likeness in the Standard, insisting there must be some mistake.
“And you, sir — do you refuse to believe it?” Bichet asked.
