Collins and Thorpe arrived at Police headquarters to find four task forces in different stages of preparation waiting to assist them in the hunt for the killers. The department heads were shouting orders. Off duty officers were called in heedless of the cost to the police department or the city.
They filled in Captain McCoy on their findings. The Captain dispatched officers to watch Gervais’ home and business. The detectives reported they believed Gervais knew more than he was telling.
“Understood, we’ll have to dig up information on our own. See what you can find out about Gervais Industries. There has to be a link. And talk to Mrs. Gervais.” Captain McKoy spoke in clipped phrases.
“We’re on it,” said Thorpe.
On the highway between Edmonton and Sherwood Park the two detectives took note of the gleaming Gervais manufacturing complex to their right. Every instinct told them the thriving family business was somehow the centre of the killings. The Gervais residential estate was as fresh and modern as the manufacturing building. The house was wide and three stories high. Its garden was immature, a sparse collection of tree waifs and lonely clusters of flowers. The house dominated the property as well as the street. The property screamed new money and ostentatious tastes.
A young, attractive maid opened the large oak front door when they knocked. Both Collins and Thorpe wondered whether Mrs. or Mr. Gervais hired her.
The maid showed them to comfortable chairs on the elaborate patio and the detectives waited a few minutes before Mrs. Gervais made her entrance. She curtly dismissed the maid and sat across from them. She appeared tired in spite of the expensive makeup and designer sunglasses. Something was on her mind, perhaps more than the business difficulties experienced by Megapower.
Mrs. Gervais crossed her legs. “Now, how may I help you gentlemen?”
“First, thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Mrs. Gervais,” said Thorpe. “We know these are trying times.”
Her posture remained wary, lips pursed in silence.
Thorpe continued, “Detective Collins and I have a few additional questions, if we may?”
Again no response.
Collins leaned forward, using his notebook as a buffer between the passive aggressive lady and himself.
“Mrs. Gervais, our questions relate to business matters at Gervais Industries.”
“Well, you’ll have to speak to Claude about that. He keeps a tight reign on corporate issues.”
Collins quickly moved on to ease the tension in the room. “We have talked to your husband, but hoped you might give us a fresh perspective.”
“Well, if I must. I’ll do what I can.”
“Thank you. First of all, can you think of any business associates that might want to cause harm to your husband?”
Mrs. Gervais waited a bit too long. “Claude’s business is very competitive. He’s been very lucky the last few years. I suppose there may be some competitors who are upset at losing business to us.”
“Who was his main competition, or more precisely, who has he taken the most business from” asked Collins.
Mrs. Gervais ran her finger back and forth on the glass tabletop. “Well, I suppose the company most hurt by ours would be Clelland Industries.”
“Are they in Edmonton” asked Collins.
“Were,” Thorpe broke in. “They closed their plant in the west-end of the city about a year and a half ago.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Gervais twisted her ring uneasily. “Um, my husband worked for them before opening his own company.”
Thorpe and Collins glanced at each other.
Thorpe opened his phone and started taking notes. “Was there any animosity when your husband left Clelland Industries?”
“Well, they were surprised, I suppose. Claude built a modern plant that was difficult for Clelland to compete against. We simply could make the products cheaper. Mr. Clelland passed away about a year ago, his wife the year before.”
Thorpe and Collins thanked Mrs. Gervais for her assistance. “We’ll be in touch as soon as we have more information.”
The detectives left the house and climbed into Thorpe’s sedan. Collins rubbed his temples. “Man, maybe we’re finally getting somewhere. But with both owners of the competitor’s company deceased we need to find someone who knows if there was enough animosity to cause someone else involved in Clelland to go after Gervais in such an aggressive manor.”
Thorpe nodded and smiled. “I know just the person.” Thorpe opened his door and got out of the car. He leaned back in and tossed the keys to Collins. “Here Jim, you drive. I’ll try and track down the man who may be able to give us some answers.”
Collins hopped behind the wheel of the car while Thorpe pulled out his cell. The sedan pulled away from the Gervais house and soon dashed along the freeway on its way back to Edmonton.
“Hey Sully, Albert Thorpe. How’s it going?”
“The shits. You?”
“About the same. Look Sully, I need your help. Can we stop by?”
“Sure, but bring me a coffee, and none of that designer crap. Coffee, black, strong, and extra-large. Oh, and tell my secretary that it’s yours. Sylvia has her watching what I eat and drink.”
Thorpe ended the call. “We have to make a stop at a coffee shop on the way, but he’ll see us.”
“Knows his stuff?”
“None better. I’ve known Sully for twenty years. He’s been writing a column for one of the papers on the comings and goings of Edmonton business for forty years. Just one thing, he’s not exactly polished.”
“No sweat.”
Thorpe laughed. “Some sweat, you’ll see.”
Collins gave Thorpe a quizzical look.
Despite the heads-up from Thorpe, Collins wasn’t ready for Sullivan or his office. The man weighed over three hundred pounds and poured over the armrests of his old wooden office chair. His desk was covered with enough business journals and notepads to confirm he kept informed on business matters. Sullivan pushed himself out of the chair to greet the two detectives. He grabbed the coffee first, and then shook hands with his two visitors as he sipped the hot coffee. Thorpe explained Collins was from the Toronto PD.
Thorpe walked behind Sullivan’s desk. “Holy shit Sully, a computer.” Thorpe touched a key and the screen lit up. “And it’s on.”
“Kiss my ass, Albert. I had no choice. All of the information is on that thing these days. I’m getting used to it.” Sully laughed then coughed. He pointed to the door to the outer office. “I have Emily out there put the sites I need in the “favourites”. Don’t know what the hell I would do without her.”
“Sit down. Sit down.” Sullivan reached for a stick of nicotine gum. “God damn non-smoking rules.”
Sully tossed the empty gum package in an overflowing garbage can. “How’s the missus?”
“Same as ever. Busy with the kids,” responded Thorpe.
Sullivan looked at Collins. “You married, Jim.”
“Yeah, twenty-two years.”
“No shit, never lasted that long with any of my wives, maybe the next one. Well, how can I help you, old friend?”
“Sully, we need to know what killed Clelland Industries … and Sully, not just the official stuff. We need to know who might be really pissed off the company went belly-up. I mean really pissed off.”
Sullivan’s wry smile told both detectives that the chubby reporter knew what the detectives wanted to know. “This must be important if both the Edmonton and Toronto police are involved.”
“Your reporter instincts are as good as ever, Sully. It’s important.”
“All right, Albert, stop sucking up. I’ll help any way I can.” The fat man took another long pull at his coffee. “Well, over two-hundred people lost their jobs when Clelland folded, from workers on the line to upper management. I know that the pension fund was protected so the older workers pretty much landed on their feet through early retirement. As for the others....well, Edmonton had plenty of jobs. The ones that wanted to work found it quickly.”
Collins leaned forward, “How did Mr. Clelland take it?”
“Shit, it killed the old man. Poor bastard, he lost the business he built from the ground up and then promptly lost his wife, who died of cancer six months later.”
“So what caused the business to collapse so quickly?” asked Collins.
Sully reached for another caffeine gum from a new package in the desk drawer. He chewed the gum and leaned back. The wooden chair squeaked under the strain. “Well, the official word is that the company failed to update its equipment in order to compete with the growing number of competitors.”
“And the real reason?” asked Thorpe.
“Albert, what I heard was the thing that killed Clelland Industries was losing their chance to use the new formula for their sport drink. It was less expensive to manufacture and was getting great reviews in taste tests.”
The heavy reporter sipped and savored the coffee, a few drops joining others on his frayed tie. “Clelland was preparing to rebuild his plant and start focusing on this new product, let alone the private labeling.”
Thorpe stopped writing. “What’s private labeling?”
Sullivan continued, “Private labeling is when a retailer has a product, anything from toilet paper to tires, made with their own brand name on it. The retailer benefits because they can market their own brand and also get a lower cost-per-unit because they don’t pay for advertising of the national brand.”
“This is big business?”
“Big? Sullivan laughed. “The Clelland’s hung their whole future on it. The new formula allowed them to compete with the big multi-nationals. It was going to be a whole new level. But they ran into two problems. One of their long-term managers liked the idea enough that he secretly built a plant on the other side of the city and had eighty percent of the market locked up in four-year contracts. Clelland never even had a chance to order the new equipment. Hell, his new competitor built a second plant in Ontario and that was the end of the sport drink business for the Clelland family.”
“How does someone build a plant of that size without anybody knowing about it?” asked Collins.
“Good question. It was done through dummy corporations giving the impression they were building a bottled water plant.” Sullivan finished the coffee “Fooled everybody. Christ, they fooled me.”
Thorpe caught up on the notes in his phone. “Although I think I know the answer to this, could you tell us the name of this former Clelland employee who stole their future?”
“Oh, indeed I can, laddies, indeed I can. That man’s name is Claude Gervais.”
Sullivan grudgingly pried himself out of his chair and walked over to the window. He pointed to the southwest. “The Clelland family had a great reputation in the community. Mrs. Clelland was involved in multiple charities and the arts. When they lost their business the old man was embarrassed and secluded himself in their house until he died a few months after his wife. Only his private nurse and doctor were permitted to see him.”
“He died poor?”
“Hell, no. He lost a lot of income when he had to shut down the business, but Clelland was a cautious man. That was part of the reason they were slow to react to the changing market. He took too much time to make the change. But, at the same time his conservative ways saved those pension funds I mentioned. He would never have touched the money that gave the workers security for their retirement. He had saved plenty of money for himself. As well, they had several other investments to help them live a comfortable life. His estate was conservatively estimated at twenty to twenty-five million at his death. I’m sure his boys are living quite comfortably.”
Thorpe shot a glance at Collins then focused on the journalist who eased himself back into his chair. “Boys? What boys?”
“The Clelland’s had twin boys.”
“Tall boys, Sully.”
“Christ, yeah.” Sullivan lifted his plump hand high in the air. “Eric was named after his paternal grandfather and Ken shared the name of his father.”
“Any idea where we can find Eric and Kenneth?”
“Hell if I know. Both were educated in Europe. I know they were back in Edmonton when their father died. I saw them at the funeral. Bolted out of town right away, though. They left the business dealings to the lawyers and accountants.”
Collins nodded at Thorpe and closed his notebook. “Thank you, Mr. Sullivan. You’ve been a great help.”
The detectives shook hands with Sullivan and started out of the office.
“Good luck, lads,” Sullivan said. “Clelland and his wife were good people. Oh, if it helps, Ken senior once told me over a beer that his boys were crazy about windsurfing or diving, or some shit like that. How the hell two Canadian boys take to windsurfing and not hockey is beyond me.”
Thorpe turned and waved at his friend. “Thanks again Sully. I’ll be in touch.”
Sullivan was concentrating on stuffing the empty coffee cup in the middle of the garbage can as the detectives closed the door to his office.
* * *
In order to keep one step ahead of the police the Clelland brothers researched all of their targets before initiating the attacks, thus reducing the risk of being spotted when they carried out their plan. Their book listed the targets in a progressive manner, with Gervais himself the final target. The police targets were both for revenge and distraction. The brothers believed the police would concentrate on the hits aimed at police targets and spend less time working on the Gervais case. Deputy Chief Murray caught their eye when, while scouting targets in the police computer system, they noticed he played squash every Friday at mid-day at a downtown squash club. Eric and Ken made a couple visits to the club and watched Murray. They were pleased to see Murray was a fan of Megapower.
“Ken, I know we’re prepared, but isn’t this pushing things a bit?”
“We promised we would teach those cops a lesson. Part of it is taking chances. But remember we’ve prepared ourselves for everything. We’ve covered our trails completely.”
“Minimum risk?”
“Minimum risk. Relax. So…tonight we double-check our plan. The show is tomorrow.”
That evening Eric walked up to The Pickett Squash club, in a former warehouse building on the edge of downtown Edmonton. It shared the old brick complex with trendy loft condominiums, expensive clothing stores, and street front cafes. The only sign for the squash club was a small brass plate on the heavy wooden door. The club didn’t need advertising. There was a ten-year waiting list for membership.
Eric swiped the security card he duplicated after stealing one several weeks ago from a squash club member who never noticed it was temporarily taken from his SUV glove box. The light on the small box turned green, just as it had when he tested the card the previous week. Eric studied lock picking for a month the previous year in preparation for what his brother called “the game.” Eric concentrated on the studies despite his wish to abandon Ken’s plan and go and chill on a beach. The inside of the club maintained the charm of the turn-of-the-century building with thick wooden beams and dark paneling. Soft music drew him into the reception area, now vacant thanks to the security system. A small sporting goods store and a private restaurant shared the area with the reception desk. The courts and change rooms were a little busy at the moment so Eric walked into the restaurant and ordered a crab salad. He picked at the food while he sipped at a double espresso. On the seat across from him he displayed an expensive squash bag with two high quality rackets in the padded holders. Despite Eric’s tall, lanky build and his ability to play at a high level, he detested squash. He preferred games with high risk. He glanced around the dark room and imagined none of the other patrons had skydived or rock climbed without safety ropes. He smiled. The club members had no idea that an ultimate game would take place right there tomorrow night.
Many club members departed so Eric stood up and pulled out his wallet. He paid for his lunch in cash and glanced at the man with blond hair and a narrow beard in the mirror near the exit to the restaurant, barely able to recognize his own reflection. With the sports bag slung over his shoulder, looking every bit the serious squash player, Eric walked out of the restaurant and down a narrow hallway. Turning right, through a door marked Men’s Change Room, he was greeted by several rows of lockers. He noticed two men changing in the second row, busy formulating an investment plan that would triple their wealth. They glanced at Eric as he passed before turning back to their conversation. Eric confidently turned down the third row and stopped at number locker number 133. After checking that the aisle was clear Eric picked the lock on Robert Murray’s locker within seconds. After opening the metal door he replaced the two sports drinks on the top shelf with the duplicate bottles from his sports bag. As he set down the bottles, someone touched his shoulder.
“Slipping by,” said the powerfully built man with the towel wrapped around his waist.
Eric nodded while closing and locking the door.
The man stopped halfway down the row and opened his locker. “How do you like the V40?”
“I beg your pardon,” Eric responded in a perfect English accent.
“Your V40.” The man pointed at Eric’s racquets.
“Ah, yes, splendid, just the right balance.” Eric recalled the salesman’s description when he purchased the racquets in Vancouver. Eric picked up the bag and started for the exit.
“I prefer the laser series, a little more give. Maybe we can book a court for tomorrow afternoon,” the stranger offered.
“Love to, but I already have a game here tomorrow. Perhaps another time.” Eric left the room without waiting for a response.
Having the man see him did not faze Eric. He’d not only worn a disguise, but also made plans to soon be far away from the club in short order, far enough that nobody would find him. Eric exited the club and walked north until he was deep inside a residential neighbourhood, away from video surveillance of businesses. Cutting through an empty school ground and across a small parking lot behind the closed school, Eric picked up his car a few blocks away and drove to a park on the outskirts of the city. After stopping in an isolated area that was open enough that he could see people or vehicles approaching, he opened the trunk and pulled out three large bottles of water and a towel. The false nose and moustache peeled off easily. Eric stashed them in a rumpled plastic bag. After tossing the bag in a nearby garbage can he took one more look around to ensure he was still alone. The bottled water splashed over his head, washing the blonde dye out of his hair and eyebrows. He toweled dry his naturally brown hair and drove to a different garbage container a kilometre away and disposed of his blue contact lenses and fake fingerprints.