Middlemen, page 26
“No . . . no. While I certainly don’t understand everything, I can’t say it’s unbelievable. So far as I’m concerned, Clarence is a chartered accountant.” He grappled for a better word than secretive and settled on private. “Clarence is extremely private; I’ve no idea where his office is, or whether he even has one. He speaks about clients coming in from out of town but has never — not once — mentioned who they are, or talked about his practice on their behalf.”
“Tell us about your relationship with your son, Mr. Blow,” Bichet asked.
“I think you’ve gotten a sense of it. At any rate, it’s difficult . . . non-existent. Put bluntly, my son and I don’t trust each other. However, he’s still his mother’s little boy, so for her sake, I hope this is all a ghastly mistake.”
“Have you any recent photographs of him, sir?” Williams asked.
Blow shook his head as if the question was absurd. “No. Barely a few from his adolescence, and Clarence avoids us like the plague. He’s never liked being photographed.”
“Why is that?” Bichet asked.
“Clarence was undone by his height. Where you and I might use that to excel in our endeavours, he became . . . ever smaller.” He raised his hand as if to silence himself. “I’m sorry I don’t sound like a loving father — Clarence would never accuse me of being one — but what else can I say?”
“Do you know any of his friends or associates?” Williams asked.
“Of the former, he’s too calculating to have friends. Of the latter, no.”
“Do you have his current address?”
“Yes, 7 Southview Place. It’s a small home on a cul-de-sac in the west end.”
Two hours later, MacNeice and Aziz met Williams and Bichet on the stoop of a nondescript ranch-style bungalow. The curtains were drawn and the garden needed tending, but other than that, there was nothing to set it apart from the neighbouring houses.
“When we arrived,” Williams said, “the next-door neighbour came out. Lise asked her if she knew Clarence Blow.”
Bichet picked up the narrative. “She said no, that this house belongs to someone named Stephen John. When I asked her to describe him, the first thing she said was that he’s about my height, lives alone, and never seems to have visitors — except for recently, when two men started coming to see him.”
“One white, the other Black?” Aziz said.
“Correct. And an old man came in a chauffeur-driven car a couple of days ago — he didn’t stay long.”
“That was Eugene Blow, Clarence’s father, Williams added.
“Interesting . . . Anything else?”
Williams shook his head. “Not much, sir. The back garden’s on the edge of a shallow ravine; there’s a swing set back there that looks like it hasn’t been used in years. The lawn’s merged with the weeds from the forest, and there’s a rusted-out barbecue on the back stoop that hasn’t seen burgers in a long time. All the windows have closed curtains or blinds.”
“Doors secure?” MacNeice asked, adding that he’d brought a search warrant.
“Pretty much, but we could knock out a window.”
“No need,” Bichet said, pulling a leather kit from the thigh pocket of her fatigues. “With your permission, sir?”
MacNeice smiled. “You have it . . . And check the door before you open it — just in case this place is wired to explode.”
Williams shot a look at Aziz before turning to MacNeice. “Why don’t we step off the porch, just in case?”
Bichet knelt, a thin metal tool poised before the lock. Less than a minute later she nodded at the others, opened the door slightly, and deployed a dentist’s mirror on the end of a telescoping rod. Slipping it through the narrow gap between door and frame, she slid it slowly from the base up, until she’d reached the limit of her height.
Stepping onto the bottom stair, Williams said, “Wait, I’m coming —”
“Stay where you are; I got this,” Bichet interrupted. She took a vertical leap up onto the iron railing and tipped forward to support herself on the door frame. Sliding the mirror along the remaining gap, she surveyed the rest of the door. Satisfied there wasn’t a tripwire, Bichet dropped down to the stoop, gave one swift kick, and the door flew open.
[70]
The moment the transaction was confirmed, Slater opened his mouth to say something — just as Two drove the letter opener so deep into his ear that only the onyx handle remained visible. Slater’s head slammed onto the leather desk pad, where it remained more or less still — even as his body was seized by spasms.
Two hustled a wide-eyed Clarence out of the building and into the Yaris.
Unable to speak, the fear that Clarence had kept at bay broke free. There were questions — four-alarm questions — but he didn’t dare ask them. He didn’t even protest when Two hustled him into his rental and drove away, leaving Blow’s car parked outside Slater’s building.
Driving under the speed limit, Two kept to his lane, determined to be unremarkable. Clarence tried to swallow, but everything was dry, even his teeth, and he wished Two would just leave him at the side of the road. When he realized where they were headed, he was seized by another wave of panic, this one feeding a fear that Clarence had felt from the outset: he knew absolutely nothing about One and Two except how swiftly death occurred around them. And the weight of his holster brought him no comfort.
“You would have liked my grandpa,” Two said, glancing over at Clarence. “Before the war, he fought in Spain, got shot in the foot — that gave him a limp. When the real war kicked off in ’39, he joined the Merchant Navy in Nova Scotia, met my grandma there — I’m actually part Canadian.”
Clarence managed to squeak, “Really . . .? What’s One doing?”
“Yeah, not bad for a ranch hand who’d never been off dry land. Anyway . . . he told me once about a convoy in ’41. They were on their way to England, weighed down with heavy stuff like grain, tanks, probably bombs . . .” Satisfied that Clarence seemed to be listening, he continued. “Around midnight two of the ships near his blew up, one after the other; the one closest was blown clear out of the water.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“That’s probably what he said — he also said it was like shootin’ fish in a barrel. Anyway, two things about his story of that night stuck with me ever since he told me about it.”
“What were they?” Clarence wanted the lesson — he was desperate to know why they’d left One behind.
“Gramps said the radio operator came out of his shack when that first ship blew, holding a frying pan with eggs he’d been cookin’ — they were still runny and slid off the pan onto his pants and boots, but the man took no notice. He just kept screamin’ over and over, “We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die!” Two nodded for emphasis. “Scary shit, but that’s only the first part . . .”
“About the radio op —”
“Hell, no. About an Anglican priest. After the second ship exploded, he was in the mess hall with some nurses and wives — young women who were scared like him. The priest didn’t offer any comfort, didn’t recite nothin’ from the scriptures — he pasted himself to the bulkhead, singing ‘Give me land, lotsa land, under starry skies above . . . ’ He sang that in fine choral fettle pretty much till dawn. When he realized they’d made it through the night, he disappeared into his cabin and didn’t come out until they docked in England.”
Two smiled at the story while Clarence waited for a moral that didn’t come. He looked out the window and realized they were already halfway to Clappison Corners.
Two noticed him checking the side mirror. “One’s coming . . . just had some housekeeping to do.”
“Why are we going to Tom’s?”
“We’ve got a business idea.”
“Do you need me there?”
Two smiled. “Why, you got somewhere else to go?”
[71]
“Tell me something . . .”
About what?
“About anything. Tell me something about anything.”
You’re looking for a story?
“Yes. No. I’m looking for closeness. I need to escape my head — just for a while.”
Mac, I’m only alive in your thoughts. You brought me here.
“Sir. Down here . . .” Williams called from Blow’s bungalow basement.
Lit by fluorescents — some tubes flickering, one burnt out — the basement appeared neglected and forgotten, except for the laundry machines.
Williams stood near the stacked units. “See that electrical panel on the far wall?” MacNeice looked over at the grey metal cabinet. “That’s the unit for the house . . . but there’s also this one, maybe installed before the house was rewired. It’s empty except for this plywood panel; you can see where its edges have scraped the sides of the metal box.” Centred near the bottom of the panel was a small hole. Williams put his finger in it and pulled hard. It squawked but came free to reveal a short-barrelled shotgun resting diagonally in the cavity. “Fired recently. Hasn’t been cleaned.”
“Shells?”
Williams smiled. “You can always tell when someone’s been fussing with acoustic ceiling panels. Fingerprints, for one . . .” He walked to the end of the basement and pointed to the floor. “Gypsum powder.”
He removed the panel above and tilted it, sending a box skidding into his hand. “Twelve-gauge, six shells missing. Two in the chamber of that piece — that leaves three unaccounted for . . .”
“Well, well, well, back to the forest —” MacNeice’s cellphone rang, interrupting him.
“Mac, get down to Riviera, quick as you can.”
“What have you got, Swets?”
“Best you see for yourself.”
“I’ll be right there.” MacNeice turned to Williams. “Get Forensics in. I’ll take Aziz; you and Lise keep going here till they arrive. Great work.”
He punched in another call and waited. “Bill, it’s not exactly a lineup, but it’s the next best thing. Can I borrow Jack in two hours?” Bill confirmed they’d make it, and MacNeice ended the call.
Aziz asked, “You’re going to do what I think you are —?”
“Most likely.” He lit up the blue dome light and swung the Chevy out of the cul-de-sac, driving quickly along Main, heading to the north end. Once he’d turned east on Burlington Street, his cellphone rang again. “MacNeice.”
“It’s me, sir.” Williams was using speakerphone. “Lise was out front a few minutes ago, I’ll let her tell you . . .”
“That neighbour came out again. She remembers Stephen John saying that he heads an industrial waste company — that he moved to Dundurn from Vancouver some time ago.”
“When will Forensics arrive?”
“They’re tied up at Riviera; nearest they could give me is two hours.”
“Good. Don’t let them on site until we get back. We’re bringing Jack . . .”
[72]
Several cops stood at the roadside blocking the entrance, while Swetsky was under the Riviera sign, hands in pockets, beefy forearms bare to the elbows. He kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other, as if he was waiting for the referee’s whistle to start a game.
MacNeice said under his breath, “John’s got something big . . .”
Aziz quipped back, “Oh, I thought he needed to visit the loo.”
As they approached, Swetsky spoke in a hurry. “Before we go in . . . there’s a lot here. The office, the garage, an incinerator, the stripping tank. The smell and ventilation noise are something fierce; there are masks if you want ’em. The yard out back is where they store cars and trucks and the lrv vanity plate suvs from their leasing business.”
“The owner’s here?”
“Ronald — Ronnie — Slater. He’s in the office waiting for his lawyer; a uniform’s with him. The five guys working on cars were interviewed and sent home.”
“Has Forensics searched the office?”
“Not yet — it’ll be the last they do. Let’s head to the backyard first.”
Walking down the driveway, MacNeice craned his head to study the large chimney and its metal top hat. “Is that the exhaust for the incinerator or the stripping bath?”
“Both. The hvac system is Ford-plant big, and this is a small operation.” Swetsky led them past the black forensics van and into the yard. He pointed to a large metal plate in the ground and said, “That’s where the used sodium hydroxide goes. It gets sucked out usually once a month. Supposed to be empty now.”
“And then where does it go?” Aziz asked.
“Dunno. Ronnie’s response was that it’s not like nuclear waste — it’s all legit.”
“Comforting,” Aziz said sardonically.
There was no need to ask where to go next. The two forensics teams in hazmat suits offered a clear destination: a grey Econoline van was getting stem-to-stern attention. Aziz knew what she was looking for and walked off to examine the panelling near the driver’s door.
She closed her eyes and ran her hands over the external panelling several times. Each time, she shortened the path until, opening her eyes, she was certain she was looking at the crescent-shaped dent. Turning to a member of the forensics team, she asked if it was okay to mark something on the van with a Sharpie. When he confirmed that it was, she asked for one.
“What colour?”
“Black.”
Moments later she returned the marker, pausing to look inside the van. “Have you found anything?”
“Oh yeah . . . they cleaned it pretty good, but we’ve got eight BBs in an evidence bag.”
“BBs?”
“Sorry, that’s slang for buckshot. Twelve-gauge; they’re in that rolling lab. We’ve also got biological evidence.” He drew her attention to the floor of the van. “Traces of blood got caught in this metal joint.”
Aziz looked down at the joints. “So BBs are tiny metal marbles. Assuming the van was speeding, they’d roll about and get caught in these joints, or in the corners?” She noticed his eyes widen. “That’s where you found them?”
“Yeah, two in the brace joint on your left, the rest in the same joint on the right. We’re about to examine the chassis, wheel wells, and tires to see if there’s soil from the forest or Power Line Road.”
MacNeice approached Aziz. “What’d you find?”
“A match to our video: a crescent-moon dent on the driver’s door. And blood and shotgun pellets inside . . . You?”
“Navigator’s clean. We might get lucky if Clarence Blow’s prints from the house match any inside the Lincoln. Oklahoma’s sending prints for the other two so . . . we’ll see.” He seemed lost in thought.
“Mac, what’s on your mind? We’re almost overwhelmed with evidence here, and we haven’t even stepped inside the building yet.”
“No doubt, and it’s all solid.”
“Did you tell John about the shotgun in the cabinet?”
“Not yet.” MacNeice was watching a small plastic bag as it skipped across the lot; it came to rest on the taillight of an old Cadillac. Turning to Aziz, he said, “I can’t actually recall a case where evidence has mounted so quickly . . .”
“My thoughts exactly.” She shrugged. “So?”
“It’s a poverty of riches, Fiza. We’re close to finding these three, and inching closer to figuring out who gave them orders . . .” The plastic bag was back on the move again, ricocheting off a wheel and fender to the end of the lot, where it slapped into the chain-link fence. “But what’s Rodney Conway’s connection to Dundurn?”
“You’re convinced we’re chasing the octopus’s legs, not the head?”
“I am. And if we catch the leg, it’ll just grow another one . . .” He shrugged. “If it’s a smart octopus, these three men have no idea where the head is.” MacNeice watched as the metal fence exhaled, releasing the deflated bag and letting it slide slowly to the ground.
Behind them, Riviera’s metal door swung open with a bang. Vertesi emerged in a full-face respirator that made him look like a firefighter from the neck up, in contrast with his shirt, suit pants, and cross trainers. As he approached them he was saying something, but he sounded like Colonel Kurtz or Darth Vader. MacNeice motioned for him to take off the mask.
Vertesi tucked it under his arm. “It’s not so bad inside now. Slater’s still in the office, about to blow a gasket — that’s an automotive term for your benefit, Fiz. Forensics are in that stripping tank and they’re talking about a strange scum. And they haven’t even started with the incinerator.” Vertesi scratched his head. “Something else, though, boss . . . I can smell fresh paint in that office, like they’ve been redecorating. But nothing’s really spruced up . . . it’s just the smell of paint. Can we get Ronnie out of there so we can check it out?”
“No problem. I’ll move him downtown,” Swetsky said, coming over from the forensics van. “Got a match — blood in the van is Evan Moore’s.”
Once Slater had been taken away, MacNeice scanned the office before zeroing in on one wall. He turned on his cell’s flashlight, rested his left cheek against the wall, and swung the beam slowly across the surface . . . searching. Switching it off, he ran a palm over the wall above the credenza as if reading a Braille message, pausing frequently.
Moments later, he swung about and smiled at Aziz and Vertesi. “There are patches . . . small ones, scattered roughly in a circle. Good catch, Michael. See if you can borrow someone from Forensics.”
“Be right back,” Vertesi said as he left.
Slipping on his gloves, MacNeice turned to Aziz. “Help me move this unit . . . nice and steady so we don’t damage the toy cars.”
After they’d slid the credenza away from the wall, MacNeice picked up a red Ferrari convertible. He was impressed with its weight. “Steel, and the tires are rubber, not plastic.”
