"Ithink it's time for a return visit to McKinley's." Chris stopped by Gwen's desk. "We know considerably more now than we did before. This time we'll tape the interviews."
Gwen nodded and took a tape recorder from the top drawer of her desk. She possessed a photographic memory and, once back in the office, could transcribe a verbatim report of what had transpired. This time, however, Chris wanted the lawyers' voices on the record.
Ingram had to be called out of a meeting, but his expression betrayed no resentment as he ushered them into a small, windowless conference room. He apologized for the cramped quarters, saying that all the other conference rooms were booked.
Chris began by recording the details of the interview—date, time, and identity of the witness—then took Adrienne's junior back to the circumstances of the ill-fated Madison share prospectus. Jeff readily confirmed Adrienne's sterling reputation for integrity and was more forthcoming than previously about what had really happened. "It's all pretty much in the public domain, anyway," he said.
Chris nodded encouragingly, although privately he thought that it wasn't all that straightforward. If there had been a cover-up, however brief, those involved could be liable in civil damages. It soon became apparent, however, that Ingram was choosing his words with considerable care. There had been increasing concern over the performance of the Lost Horse field, but the intrusion of the salt water had been so sudden, so unexpected, that, not surprisingly, the oil company executives argued they needed more time and more information to properly evaluate the situation. He conceded that Adrienne had been very concerned and felt that they should go public right away.
"As early as Monday, the twenty-sixth, the day her body was found?"
"Yes. She made her position very clear. We met with the Madison people and Mr. McKinley all Sunday to discuss what should be done."
"How long did this meeting last?"
"Until five in the afternoon."
"And?"
"She was still insisting that we notify the stock exchange in the morning before the market opened." Ingram shifted in his chair. "I can see where this is leading, but can I ask why? Aren't the police satisfied that she was the victim of our serial killer?"
"As I told you before, we have to eliminate every possibility. For that reason, I have to ask about your relationship with Ms. Vinney. Specifically, were you two intimate? Sexually intimate?"
"Are you serious? Yes, I guess you are," Ingram said when Chris continued to stare impassively at him. "Our relationship was professional. Strictly. She was my boss, and I had the greatest respect and admiration for her. Working with her was a great privilege and opportunity for me. It was a wonderful learning experience."
"She was a very attractive woman." Chris stared unblinkingly at the lawyer.
"And you're a bit of a hunk yourself," Gwen added with a smile, although the pudgy-faced Ingram was anything but.
"All those nights working together," Chris murmured.
"‘Working' is the word. That's what we did. Work." Ingram shot them an exasperated look. "That's the truth. Whether you believe me or not."
"We believe you. And you've been very helpful. Thank you."
Chris extended his hand and, after some hesitation, Ingram took it. Gwen switched off the tape recorder with an audible click.
A female legal assistant waited for them in the hallway to inform them that Mr. Pettigrew would like to see them.
"Are you making any progress?" demanded the head of the firm's corporate department from the depths of an outsize armchair. The detectives were seated on the adjoining sofa, behind a glass-topped coffee table. He frowned but made no objection when Gwen placed the recorder on the table. "But first let me offer you some coffee."
"That would be very welcome," Chris replied with a small sigh. "Gwen and I have been on the go since early this morning. The criminal element in this town manages to keep us very busy."
"I'm sure it does." Pettigrew paused with the coffee cup at his lips. "But my concern is with your investigation into my partner's horrible death. Unimaginably horrible."
"Of course." Chris took a careful sip of the coffee. It was almost too hot to drink, but he welcomed the caffeine jolt. "All I can tell you is that we have dedicated every available resource to it. Our investigation is still in the early stages."
Morris Pettigrew was unimpressed. "I've heard that unless a murder is solved within the first forty-eight hours, the chances of it ever being solved are substantially reduced."
"That's often the case, I agree. If you're dealing with what one might call random killings, where the only motive is the gratification of some psychological depravity. It's otherwise when there is a rational, purpose-driven motive; where the killer has a reason, personal or financial, to eliminate a specific victim. Cases of that sort take longer to unravel."
"Are you telling me that Adrienne was not the victim of this unknown person who seemingly kills for the thrill of it?"
"No, I'm not, sir. Ms. Vinney being the victim of a serial killer remains the most likely outcome. One we are pursuing vigorously."
"So I gathered from the interview your chief gave to the press." There was a glint of humour in Pettigrew's pouched eyes. "If I'm not mistaken, he went so far as to refer to a full court press."
"Yes. I read that as well. However, when the victim is as high-profile as Ms. Vinney, one has to investigate other possibilities."
"I know nothing of her personal life. Insofar as her professional life is concerned, I can think of nothing that would make anyone want to kill her."
"She was very much involved in the Madison deal and the Lost Horse disaster."
"As I told you previously, that was one of her major files."
"The one she was working on at the time of her death."
"Yes."
"I understand she was concerned about timely disclosure?"
"Is that what young Ingram told you? Well, it's true. She did express some concern, but we all realized that time was required to determine the real extent of the problem. A similar thing happened in the Ladyfern field in B.C. but it continues to produce, albeit at a reduced rate."
"I know something about Ladyfern. It turned out to be not quite as bad as was thought at first. According to Mr. Ingram, however, Ms. Vinney was insisting on immediate disclosure. Before the market opened."
"That was her view. It was not mine."
"Did you plan to override her?"
The suggestion seemed to startle Pettigrew. "It was her file, Detective."
"So it was her call?"
"Yes."
"The Madison executives must have been pretty unhappy?"
"Of course. But their concern was for the company. Lost Horse was its principal, and for all practical purposes its only, asset."
"The shares they owned would be hammered, and their share options would be worthless."
"As individuals they would suffer severe financial setbacks. No question about that. But I can only repeat what I observed, which was that they were devastated by what it would do to the company. They were the ones who had created Madison Energy, brought it into being, and celebrated its discovery of the Lost Horse field."
"A devastating blow. As you say, sir." Chris placed his empty cup to one side and prepared to stand up. "You and Mr. Ingram have been very helpful. I trust we may talk to you again if the need arises?"
"You can talk to me, certainly. Although I can't think why. But you'll have to reach Ingram at his new address. He's leaving us and going with another firm. Torrance, Forsyth."
"Because of the Madison affair?"
"Good Lord, no. Can't you think of anything else, man? They have offered him a partnership in the firm. I understand they first approached him some months ago. In time he would have become a partner here, but under our policy it would be another two years before he could be considered for partnership. I think it's a mistake on his part, but"—he shrugged—"these young hotshots are an impatient lot."
"I think we better have another chat with ‘young Ingram' as Pettigrew calls him," said Chris as he and Gwen waited for the elevator on the forty-fifth floor. Once inside, he pressed the button for Jeff's floor, seven levels below.
"Mr. Ingram is with clients," the receptionist informed them. "But I will let him know you are here."
"We'll wait." Although far less grand than the one on the forty-fifth floor, the reception area was impressive enough. The decor was Western: a large oil of a cattle drive dominated one wall; a mountain scene hung on another. Chris sauntered over to the floor-length windows to gaze out at the cityscape. The closely grouped office towers glistened in the bright sunlight. He turned as a door leading from the office space opened and Jeff Ingram entered.
"We won't keep you long," Chris assured him, before the lawyer could say anything. "Is there some place where we can talk in private?"
"This way." Ingram led them through a doorway on the opposite side of the reception area and into a small conference room, windowless like the one where they had met earlier that morning.
"I understand congratulations are in order." Chris smiled amiably up at the lawyer, who had remained standing as if to cut the meeting as short as possible.
"So Pettigrew told you, did he?" Ingram slowly subsided into a chair.
"Tom Forsyth is a friend of mine. He's a good guy." Ingram acknowledged this with a slight inclination of his head.
"Was he the one who invited you to join the firm?"
"What's that got to do with anything? As it happens, he was. We've known each other for some time."
"You must play squash," Chris smiled.
"I do. Tom and I belong to the same club."
"I expect you probably mentioned the Madison situation to him?" Chris's tone was casual, but his eyes remained fixed on Ingram. The lawyer's eyes narrowed and his lips tightened as he glared silently back at his interrogator.
"You did, didn't you? It would be a perfectly natural thing to do. One law partner to another." In fact it would be completely unethical, but Ingram's reaction convinced Chris that Ingram had talked about it with Forsyth. Hoping to impress his new mentor.
"You told Forsyth about Adrienne refusing to sign off on the Madison prospectus, didn't you, Jeff?"
Ingram's lips tightened even more and he continued to glare silently back at Chris.
"You wouldn't want to start off your new career with being charged with obstructing justice, would you, Jeff? I don't think your new partners would be too happy about that."
"Are you serious? About charging me with obstructing justice?"
"Absolutely," Chris replied. It was a bluff, but Ingram didn't seem to know that. His area of practice was far removed from criminal law.
"Okay. I did say something to Tom about Adrienne and the Madison file. But it was just lawyer talk."
"Sure. And as part of that lawyer talk you would have told him that Adrienne wanted to go public with Lost Horse watering out? The truth, Jeff."
"I mentioned it. Yeah. I told Tom I thought she was right. They were going to have a big meeting about it on Sunday. But I knew she wouldn't change her mind."
"When did you and Tom have this conversation?"
"On a Saturday. We played squash in the afternoon and had a drink after."
"Saturday, May 24?"
"Yeah. The same weekend Adrienne was killed." Ingram looked as if he wanted to say something more, but held back with an obvious effort.
"You should have told us this before," Chris admonished him mildly to signal that the interview was over.
"Why on earth should I have?" protested Ingram. "It wasn't relevant then, and it isn't relevant now." He paused, then asked in a more subdued tone, "Are you
going to tell Tom about this?"
"Not at this stage. And you're right. It's probably not relevant. But it's the sort of thing we need to know. I take it we can assume that you won't say anything to Tom yourself?"
"Good Lord, no!" Ingram shuddered.
"There, as the logicians would say, is our nexus," remarked Chris as he and Gwen walked east along the mall.
"Now we know for certain that Forsyth knew Vinney was going to blow the whistle," Gwen agreed.
"We also know that he wasn't the only one who knew. And he wasn't the only one who would suffer ruinous losses when news about the field became public. Those executives stood to lose more than Tom. Far more. Maybe we should take a closer look at them. So far we've ignored them as possible suspects. But they had the same motive as Tom did. No." Chris shook his head while they waited for the pedestrian light to change. "That's a non-starter. They're insiders and are required to file insider reports on any dealings with company stock. Apart from anything else, they could go to prison for using insider information if they sold any of their shares."
"Too bad," said Gwen as the light changed. "I was beginning to like the idea of corporate tycoons committing murder by moonlight."
"They're not tycoons. Not any longer. Excuse me for a moment." Chris left her side and went over to talk to Joan. Bemusedly, Gwen watched him as he chatted animatedly with the extraordinary creature and petted her little grey bird.
"You got a thing for her?" she asked when Chris rejoined her and they resumed their progress along the mall.
Chris laughed. "No, I don't have a thing for her, as you put it. But I like her, and I admire the way she copes with the world she is forced to live in."
"She has a pretty face."
"You have a visitor," the tenth-floor receptionist told Chris as soon as he and Gwen stepped off the elevator. They had used the rear entrance of the building instead of the main entrance.
"Who is it?"
"His name is Phillip Dummett. He's a journalist. Says he knows you."
"That's right. Where is he?"
"Downstairs. In the public reception area. I'm not authorized to let him come up here." Chris nodded, and she asked, "Should I tell them to let him come up?"
"Yes. Is there an interview room I can use?"
"Number three."
"What gives, Phil?" Chris waved the journalist into a chair across the table from him.
"This gives," replied Dummett, unsnapping his briefcase with barely suppressed glee. "I'm now on TLC's mailing list," he added handing Chris a stamped envelope.
Chris accepted it gingerly, holding it between thumb and forefinger. "Is this the original? What about fingerprints? Have you had it tested?"
Dummett shrugged. "It's the original. There's no way our friend would leave any prints on it. Take a look inside."
The top of the envelope was neatly slit open.
Chris reached in the breast pocket of his jacket and took out a pair of latex gloves. Slipping them on, he extracted a single sheet of paper that precisely fitted the envelope. Like the other missives from the serial, the message was terse and used letters cut from a newspaper:
There was no outline of a heart around the initials. That could mean two things: either TLC only used the heart when communicating with the police or the message was a hoax. Maybe Dummett had mailed it to himself. That was unlikely. A journalist on the cusp of international fame wouldn't run a risk like that.
"The word dream is extra large. It looks like it was part of an advertisement," Chris observed.
"That's the way I read it too. It's from an ad for dream homes."
"It should be possible to trace where it's from."
"I already have. It's from the New Homes section of last Saturday's edition of the Herald."
"It seems he didn't much care for the idea he was possessed by demons."
"That's right. He wants us to believe that he enjoys what he does. That selecting a victim, stalking her, imagining what he's going to do to her, is a sport that gives him pleasure. Not something driven by demons. That's what nearly all these serial killers talk about after they've been arrested—the excitement of the chase, stalking the victim and planning how best to catch them. Ted Bundy talked about that a lot."
TLC doesn't seem to go in for the stalking bit; he seems to be more of an opportunist, thought Chris. But he let it pass. Instead, he remarked, "Bundy talked about a lot of things. A lot of them contradictory."
"He sure did. But he was always consistent about one thing: the thrill of hunting on and around university campuses—it was always a university. That's where he found the young, beautiful, long-haired women he liked."
"Liked to kill," Chris amended. "But you're right, they can't seem to stop talking about themselves. Dennis Rader—BTK—desperately tried to impress the cops. He thought they were his buddies, and he was crushed when they finally terminated the interviews. When he allocuted to his guilty plea at trial they couldn't shut him up. He went on and on about the things he had done and how he had justified them to himself. Some relatives of the victims refused to stay in the courtroom; he was enjoying himself too much."
"We're on the same wavelength, Chris. Look at Berkowitz, holding court in prison for his biographers. These monsters need to be recognized. To be famous. Most importantly, to justify what they've done. That's why I got this letter. TLC had to set the record straight. That he's driven by dreams, not demons."
"That was quite an article you wrote. You seem to know a lot about what makes these psychopaths tick."
"I've read the literature. I think I know how to get under this guy's skin."
"It sure looks that way. Are you prepared to continue with this?" Seeing Dummett hesitate, Chris went on, "You don't have to, you know. And there is always the element of danger in dealing with psychopaths."
"That's not what bothers me. I just don't want to do anything that will damage my reputation as a journalist. So far, I don't think it will."
"Nor do I. Assisting the police in their investigation of a serial killer can hardly damage one's reputation. It's up to you, of course. But this," he tapped the letter, "this is helpful."
"I know. Okay. But," Dummett added with that sudden, engaging grin, "I expect to be there when this goes down?"
"That depends." Chris opened a drawer in the table and took out a box of latex gloves. "The next time you get mail from our guy, use these."
Not long after Chris had accompanied Dummett down to the lobby, a constable phoned in to report that a clerk at the Budget car rental on 6th Avenue had recognized Tom Forsyth from Gwen's photos and confirmed that he had rented a silver Honda SUV late in the afternoon of Saturday, May 24. "We didn't need his photo. They picked it out all right, but the suspect used his driver's licence and Visa. Apparently he wanted a grey one, but silver was all they had left. I guess he didn't want to be too conspicuous." Chris grunted an affirmative, and the detective went on to report that the vehicle had been turned in on Tuesday, May 27, and had been rented out twice since then. At the moment it was in Banff and was due to be returned sometime tomorrow.
"Are you going to ask the Mounties to impound it?" Gwen asked when Chris told her about the SUV being in Banff. "Once they've traced it."
"Yes. I want it transported down here on a flatbed to the police garage. And I want it given a thorough inspection as soon as it arrives. Chances are it will be pretty well sterilized. The rental people will have cleaned it inside and out between trips, not to mention what Forsyth might have done before he turned it in. Oh, one more thing, Gwen."
"Yes?"
"Contact Budget and make sure the people in Banff are provided with a replacement vehicle."
The two police officers assigned to tracking down purchases of plastic sheets hadn't met with the same success. Both a Canadian Tire and a Rona outlet reported a modest run on plastic sheets that Sunday. Something to do with the late spring weather inspiring householders to spruce things up. None of the clerks or cashiers were able to identify Forsyth, which was hardly surprising in view of the volume of sales. Quite a few of the purchases were paid for by credit cards, but none were Forsyth's.
"Keep on it," Chris told them.
Everything seemed to be on hold until morning. That meant he could attend the dinner party at Marie and Doug Church's home in Mount Royal with a clear conscience. Doug was a merchant banker who had made his fortune arranging financing and IPOs for startup oil companies. Mason liked to sneer at what he called "Crane's high-society friends," but Chris was very much at home in those circles. It was, in fact, what he had been born into, his family having been prominent members of society for generations in Westmount, Montreal. Doug, like a number of Chris's civilian friends, had assumed that he had been demoted when he went from being a sergeant in charge of the Forensic Crime Scenes Unit to being a detective. Doug had been the only one who knew Chris well enough to ask him about it, and had smiled with relief when Chris told him the ranks were equivalent.