"The police garage just called. The SUV Forsyth rented that weekend has arrived." Chris stood up and beckoned to Gwen. "Let's go see if it's got anything to tell us." he added.
"The fact that it's been driven by other parties since Forsyth turned it in isn't going to help," Chris muttered as the two of them exited from the rear of the building and walked over to the side lot where the police vehicles were parked. "Unless we come up with something that can be linked directly to the victim. I'll drive," he said as the door locks of the cruiser clicked open.
"A nice blood sample or a blond hair that matches Ms. Vinney's DNA would be very helpful right about now." Gwen adjusted the safety harness on the passenger's side. "Thanks to your knowing about flow-through shares, hold periods, and things like that, we've got a very convincing motive. But ..."
"I know. No hard evidence," Chris finished the sentence. "And the chances are against finding anything incriminating in the vehicle. If my scenario is correct, Vinney would have been rendered unconscious, transported somewhere to be killed, mutilated, and then deposited in Edworthy Park."
"So that's one, maybe two trips in the vehicle. Lots of opportunity for something to be left behind."
"Not if our killer was careful. As someone like Forsyth would be. Anyway, we'll know soon enough," said Chris as they pulled into the police garage.
The Honda, its silver finish caked with mud, held centre stage. Its doors and tailgate stood open and two Crime Scenes investigators were examining the interior.
"Anything?" asked Chris as a plainclothes constable backed out of the door on the passenger side and stood up, pressing his hands against his lower back.
"Lots. If you're interested in candy bar wrappings, empty Coke cans, half-eaten cheeseburgers, and soiled paper serviettes. There were three young kids in the family and they sure left their mark. Apparently the mother wanted to clean up the mess, but the Mounties wouldn't let her touch anything."
"They did the right thing."
"I know. But it sure doesn't help. Contaminates the scene something fierce. Don't look promising anyway."
A canvas-covered metal frame big enough to fit over the vehicle stood off to one side. It was used to block out the light when luminol was sprayed over a surface to detect traces of blood.
"The luminol didn't come up with anything?"
The constable shook his head. "Not a trace. You want to have a look?"
"I'll wait and see what, if anything, Gwen finds."
Magnifying glass in hand, Gwen was bent over the passenger side of the front seat. "Nothing here. I'll try the rear compartment," she said as she straightened up.
"All we need is a single hair, or a stray fibre," Chris said softly as he stood beside her, peering into the jumble of portable camp stools, backpacks, and skateboards.
"You've photographed everything?" Gwen asked the constable holding the camera.
"Everything. It's all tagged and identified," he told her.
"Then let's remove this stuff and see what we have."
"Surgical," Gwen pronounced after fifteen minutes of prying and probing. "If this vehicle was used to transport a body, it was wrapped in something completely leak proof."
"No surprises there. Thanks to TV everyone knows what we do and what we can come up with."
The two of them remained on the scene for another half-hour, watching, for the most part, as the Crime Scenes constables continued their search of the Honda. There were fingerprints, both clear and smudged, on the steering wheel, glove compartment, door handles, and virtually every surface that could hold a print. Many were small and could only have been made by a child. The family who had rented the vehicle had provided their fingerprints on the understanding that they would be destroyed after they had served their purpose.
"Call me if you turn up anything," Chris said as he and Gwen walked over to their van.
"Don't hold your breath," one of the constables grunted from under the Honda.
"Crane here." God, he sounded like Nevermore!
His smile was replaced with a frown when he heard Tom Forsyth's terse, "We need to talk, Chris."
Chris was equally terse. "Where and when?"
"This afternoon. Four-thirty. The O.N. bar." There was a click as Forsyth rang off.
Tom Forsyth was sitting at a table that was partly screened by a fretwork partition of dark wood, but afforded a good view of the entrance. It was too early for the cocktail hour and the popular bar was less than a third full.
"What will you have to drink?" was his only greeting.
"Whatever you're having."
"Two glasses of red wine, please," the corporate lawyer said to the server who had appeared at the table as soon as Chris arrived.
"You wanted to talk," said Chris after the two men had stared silently for several minutes at the untouched wine.
"I should sue you bastards," Forsyth gritted.
"Dangerous. Think of Oscar Wilde and the Marquis of Queensberry."
"Very funny." Forsyth was not amused. "Two of your colleagues showed up at the office this morning, flashed their badges around, barged into a meeting I was having with an important client, hauled me back to my office, and proceeded to interrogate me about Adrienne's murder."
Chris struggled to remain expressionless as he cringed inwardly. "What were their names?" As if he couldn't guess!
"Some buffoon called Mason. He did all the talking, and I never did catch the other guy's name. That son of a bitch Mason tried to bully me into confessing to her murder! You can imagine how that fiasco went over at the firm!"
Chris took a calming sip of wine. "Detective Mason is not noted for his tact."
"Tact! That bastard is a disgrace! A menace who shouldn't be allowed out of his cage! And then there's you." When Chris took another sip of wine and made no reply, Forsyth went on, "Forcing Jack Adams to disclose information about my stock transactions. Threatening him with a warrant if he didn't." Forsyth inhaled deeply, as if to control his pent-up anger. "For your information, it has always been my intention to sell the Madison shares the moment they were free to trade. I was counting the days until Tuesday, May 27. I had already taken advantage of the income tax deduction and I had other plans for the cash."
And if Adrienne Vinney had still been alive, there wouldn't have been any cash, Chris silently reminded himself. Now Forsyth was saying, "That kind of information is confidential, for Christ's sake! If I decide to sue, you'll be one of the defendants."
"Nothing is confidential in a murder investigation." Chris paused at the sight of a young, petite Asian woman standing in the entrance. Giving a little wave, she began to walk toward their table." Who's that?"
"My alibi." Forsyth stood up and held out his hand. She took it with a demure little smile, settled onto a chair with a graceful twirl of her skirt, and deposited her outsize handbag on the floor beside her.
"This is my friend, Chris." Forsyth introduced Crane, who had resumed his seat across from her. "Chris, meet Mai Lin." Chris was rewarded with a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage and an entrancing smile as she acknowledged the introduction with a deep bow.
"Well, gentlemen," she began in a voice that had an unexpected edge. "What did you have in mind? A three-some? That would be very nice, but it costs extra."
"Not exactly." Forsyth gave a little cough. "Chris is a detective."
"I'm outta here!" Mai Lin scooped up her bag and jumped to her feet.
"He's not Vice. Relax." Forsyth grabbed her by the elbow. "Tell her, Crane."
"He's right. I'm not with Sex Crimes. I'm investigating a homicide, and if this is about what I think it is, you have nothing to fear."
"He's not interested in what you do for a living. Isn't that right, Chris?"
"That's right."
Chris met her eyes as she gave him a long, searching look. It seemed to satisfy her, for she sat down, her back rigid and skirt folded primly across her knees. "All you need to do is to answer a few questions," Forsyth told her. "And don't worry about your fee. I'll take care of it. Now I want you to tell Chris where you were the night of May 25. That was the Sunday before last."
Mai Lin paused for a moment before saying, "I was here, in this hotel, with you."
"Are you sure?" queried Chris. "I noticed you seemed to hesitate for a moment."
"I'm sure. I was just trying to sort out the date."
"I can see where that might be a problem in your calling."
The almond eyes flashed at him, but her expression eased when she saw he was being matter-of-fact, not sarcastic. "I remember because he"—a finger indicated Forsyth—"hired me for the whole night. That does-n't happen very often. Fifteen hundred dollars."
"How much of that night did you spend together?"
"All of it. We had a room service supper in his room."
"When did you leave?"
"Just after seven in the morning. He wanted to order breakfast, but I wasn't hungry."
"Satisfied?" Forsyth leaned back in his chair and regarded Chris with a slight smile.
Chris quirked an eyebrow. "Seems pretty conclusive."
"Is there anything else?" the escort asked Forsyth.
"No, Mai Lin. That does it. You've been very helpful. I'll put you in a taxi."
"Well, you can call off the dogs now," said Forsyth when he returned.
"Yeah. It would seem that way."
"Cops!" Tom shot him an exasperated look. "Okay. I'll be getting my Visa statement any day now. It will show a charge for this hotel on that night, and also fifteen hundred dollars payable to Tanya's Fitness Spa. How do you like that for a name? I'll show it to you. Chris, can you just tell that bastard Mason that I have an unbreakable alibi without going into details? I'm not particularly proud of that little escapade, but Madge was out of town, and," he added with a touch of defiance, "I felt like celebrating the fact that I would be able to sell my Madison shares on Tuesday."
"I'll talk to Detective Mason. You won't be suing him or anyone else, though."
"Oh?"
"Let me remind you again of poor Oscar Wilde and his ‘Ballad of Reading Gaol.' You wouldn't want your little escapade to become public knowledge, would you, Tom? Somehow, I don't think Madge would approve."
Forsyth laughed. "That lawsuit business was just so much talk on my part. But that Mason character would get anyone's back up. Can I give you a lift?"
"No thanks. It's a nice evening for a stroll."
"Suit yourself. No hard feelings?" Forsyth held out his hand.
"None." They shook hands, and Forsyth headed for the elevators that would take him down to the parkade.
"That son of a bitch!"
Chris was actually fuming! Not his style at all. "Could you by any chance be referring to the good Detective Mason?" asked Gwen with a sly grin. It was after six, but she was still there checking some notes she had typed.
"How did you guess?" Chris, his good humour restored, smiled back at her. "Can you believe what he did? Marched into Forsyth's law office, yanked him out of a client meeting, and practically accused him of being the serial killer! Tried to make him confess. With no evidence. He must have heard us talking about Forsyth and figured he'd grab all the glory for himself. Just the sort of tactic that endears the police to the public!"
"Steve is from the old school. He spent years as a beat officer on the street. I find it helps to keep that in mind. Besides, he does have his good points."
"He does?"
Gwen laughed. "Not many I grant you. But he is loyal to his friends. You remember Constable Ralston? Gordon Ralston."
"The guy who in the dead of winter used to transport drunks in his cruiser outside the city limits and leave them in a snowbank to freeze to death. What the street people call a starlight tour. He was discharged from the force in disgrace. When was it? About four years ago?"
"That's him. The brass disowned him, and so did a lot of his fellow officers. But there were those who felt he had received a raw deal. Made a scapegoat. Especially Mason. They're long-time buddies; they were probationary constables together and graduated from the same recruit training course. I know Steve helped Ralston find a job with a security company, and I've seen them having a meal together at Wendy's."
"I'm sure they have a lot in common. But to be fair, Mason has never been guilty of anything like what Ralston did. He's known to have roughed up suspects in his day, but ..." Chris dismissed the subject with a shrug.
"Your drink with Mr. Forsyth didn't last very long," Gwen observed, ending the thoughtful silence. "How did it go?"
"Interesting. Very interesting. Here it is. From the top."
"Boys will be boys." Gwen's smile had a trace of complacency when Chris finished. "But there goes a likely suspect. Now what?"
"Exactly."
"I keep thinking about Ingram. It's clear he idolized her."
"Natural enough under the circumstances. But where's the motive? He flatly denied there was anything going on between them. I've got to say I believed him. "
"So did I. But that's not necessarily the end of the story. Indulge me for a moment, Chris. Ingram works very closely with Vinney. They put in long hours together. Night and day. Adrienne Vinney is an extremely attractive woman, and at the very top of her profession. It's not difficult to imagine him falling head over heels in love with her. Let's say, late some night they're working together, and she does or says something that he takes as a come-on. He puts a move on her and gets rebuffed. Worse, she does it in a way that humiliates him, makes it clear that the very thought appalls her. He broods; if he can't have her, nobody can. You know, that kind of stuff."
"It happens," agreed Chris. "We've both seen it. But how about this? Adrienne, being the kind of person she is, lets him down easy. She wouldn't want to alienate him and risk losing him as her valuable junior, so she rejects his advances in a way that doesn't humiliate him but lets him think that, under different circumstances, there's still a chance. So, one night when they're together, away from the office, he tries it again, only this time there's no doubt that she wants no part of it, or him. He can't handle the rejection and hits her, knocking her out. Realizing the consequences of what he's done, he knows he can't let her live, and decides to make it look like the work of our serial killer."
"But how would he know how to do that?"
"Not a problem. At least not an insurmountable one. Lawyers talk. Particularly the younger ones. They meet for drinks after work, they socialize at bar association functions, hockey games, you name it. Some Crown prosecutors would be familiar with the details of the serial killings. How the victims were mutilated, and so on. There's always the temptation to impress your peers." Chris paused. "It's plausible, I guess. At least it's more plausible than the thought of those two getting it on together."
Chris stretched, and looked around the work area. At this hour half the desks were unoccupied. "I guess Ken has left for the day."
"He's out somewhere in the northeast interviewing the ex-husband in that child murder case. Where the girl was drowned in the bathtub. The mother's been charged."
"Ken's the right guy to be interviewing family members in cases like that. He's got the sympathetic touch. He's a great cop. A great partner to work with."
"Let's step outside for a moment, Chris."
Mystified, he followed her through the door into the little reception area.
"I didn't want to say anything in there, but I'd be careful about calling him ‘partner' if I were you."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"You don't know, do you?"
"Know what?"
"Patterson is gay."
"That's crazy! He has a girlfriend. I saw him with her at the annual barbecue in May. He introduced her to me." Chris paused to recalled the occasion. Patterson's date had not been what he would have expected. Glasses perched on a sharp, pointed nose, hair pulled back in a bun, devoid of makeup, she didn't seem like his type. Not at all. "I can't remember her name offhand."
"Irene Gelinas, and she's his friend, not his girlfriend. She works at McKinley. She's a lesbian who's well known in the gay community. She plays the field. Her relationships never last more than a month, and she never has a live-in lover. She and Ken are very close. Very. A mutually supportive arrangement."
"Are you sure about this?"
"I'm sure. Believe me."
"I sort of wish you hadn't told me."
"I wouldn't have, except I thought you had to know. People might take it the wrong way when you talk about your partner."
"Point taken. So the lady works at the same firm as Vinney did?"
"It's a big firm. I'm not sure what it is she does there, but she's not a lawyer."
"You know, I've never suspected this about Ken. Not for a minute. And I've never heard so much as a whisper about it around the office from anyone."
"He doesn't advertise it. Why should he? It's not as if it affects the way he does his job."
"Amen to that. Okay. Information received and subject dropped. 10-4."
Chris fell silent for a moment, then expelled his breath in a small exasperated sigh. "I have only one bone—if you'll forgive the pun—to pick with the gay community, and that's the way they have co-opted two very useful words—gay and queer—from the English language and made them impossible to use in any other context."
"You're serious, aren't you?"
"Perfectly."
Chris gave a slight shake of his head, as if to clear it of the troublesome thought. Pushing the door open, he said, "Back to our serial."
Once inside, Gwen started to say something, then clamped her lips shut as she saw his frown of concentration. When she saw his brow beginning to clear, she said softly, "You're having one of your ‘Crane moments,' aren't you?"
"I guess I am. Now to see where it takes us."