BY the time the happy new owner of the Healey roared out of Isabelle’s driveway with his wife in straw hat and sunglasses waving from the passenger seat, it was nearly 6 p.m. I was somewhat sorry to see it go, but there was too much else to think about to spend on last-minute regrets now.
I headed up the stairs to my flat above the garage, which now contained only the partly dismantled Riley RM. I checked messages – nothing of any consequence. I left a message for Tom and Linda apologizing about missing the party the night before and said I’d be in touch. I reached Sandy at her new apartment, and over the line could hear a cartoon show playing in the background, presumably being watched by little Jane.
“Hi.”
“Hi, yourself.”
“Something’s come up …”
“Second thoughts?”
“No, no. Sandy, I have to see Isabelle, then I’ve been delayed by something else … it’s to do with the fire at the shop and all that …”
“Okay. Well, don’t feel you have to come over …”
“It’s not that …”
If I was right that the gray Chev that tried to run me off the road earlier had been the car I’d noticed parked across the street from Sandy’s flat yesterday, it was a good bet the driver of the Chev was the missing Public Works man, probable murderer of Morrison and Archambault. He must have followed us yesterday from Isabelle’s property, where he obviously had already determined I lived, to Sandy’s new flat on Hopewell. He now knew her address.
“Sandy, can you call me back at Isabelle’s in about ten minutes?”
“Why? I mean, sure, but why?”
“Please, just humour me on this.”
“Okay, ten minutes then.”
I left my flat, crossed the driveway, knocked on Isabelle’s door, and entered her living room.
“Conn, there ye are! When are ye taking this cat away?”
Jerry was on her lap and looked quite comfortable where he was.
I just nodded.
“I’ll take him back to the shop tomorrow, Isabelle; he seems to be all right now. But we need to talk. Sandy will be phoning here in a few minutes …”
“What’s wrong, Conn?”
Much later, I was back in my flat, restless and perturbed. I poured a hefty measure of single malt scotch into a tumbler, topping it up with water from the tap, and went to the CD player in the living room to select Bach’s unaccompanied cello suites. As Casals’ bow swooped up and down and back and forth, I sat in my overstuffed living room chair, gulped the scotch, closed my eyes, and tried to think.
When I suddenly awoke in the dark with a dry mouth and a stiff neck, I had at least some semblance of a plan.
Monday morning at the shop I tied up a few loose ends. Odette Johnson, JP’s parole officer, returned the voice mail I’d left for her about JP’s being in the clear for the wallet theft. A call to the Jaguar club’s librarian was also quite satisfying.
“Word went out over the weekend, Conn. Apparently Bartlett’s lawyer managed to talk the son’s charges down to mischief. He’ll likely just get a slap on the wrist and probation. But what with one thing and another, we’re all a little tired of Bartlett’s reign of temper. We’ll be having an executive meeting this week, will likely suggest he step down from office, and will certainly put the word out that your guy, your shop, is completely in the clear over this wallet theft.”
There was a part of me that didn’t care one way or another whether I saw another Jaguar club member’s car at Britfit or not. But there was no point in biting off my own nose to spite my face, so I let it go. It had also occurred to me that Bartlett’s sending around an e-mail to club members blaming JP for theft was tantamount to libel, but again, I let it go. The important thing was that JP was in the clear.
As for JP, I had an assignment for him. On my way out Isabelle’s door last night, after what amounted to a council of war with her in her living room and Sandy by telephone, I’d remembered the tiny black-and-white photo Michelle had discovered in the Lagonda’s map pocket.
“Well, well. I have nae seen this face for quite a wee while. I’m thinkin’ it’s Lawrence Cross.”
I vaguely remembered this actor, an American who hit it big in 1930s Hollywood with roles in swashbucklers and bodice-ripping romances. Off screen, he was known for being a bit of a rake with the ladies, his alcohol-fuelled parties, and profligate spending. It made sense he would swan around in a Lagonda. Just one of a parade of such types, consigned to cinematic oblivion except on late night TV when somewhat stilted black-and-white films are aired for insomniacs.
“So, JP, if Isabelle is right, and the Lagonda was owned by Lawrence Cross …”
JP whistled.
“Formidable … it is worth … combien?”
“I don’t know. Possibly a lot. It’s already a valuable car in its own right.”
Quite ordinary cars owned by famous people sometimes went for ridiculous sums of money in the classic car marketplace. The value of an extraordinary car, such as a vintage racing spec Lagonda, with the added cachet of a Hollywood actor owning it, was scary to contemplate.
I scratched my head and tried to think.
“JP, did you mention to Michelle’s uncle about our plan to contact the Lagonda club in England?”
“Oui, oui … I spoke with him last night. He says he is good with that.”
“Well, I’m going to call Derek now and get his legal advice on this. In the meantime, I guess the best thing is to go online after work and see if you can link Lawrence Cross to this car somehow. We’d better hold off contacting the Lagonda club until we have as many pieces of the puzzle as we can find.”
Though he was a modern Porsche man through and through, Derek was intrigued to hear the tale and agreed to prepare a stiffly worded letter on Britfit’s behalf to the Lagonda club in England.
“Don’t worry; it will be on our letterhead, with a lot of abjuration requiring all of the parties to desist on revelations as to the discovery, identity, and etcetera of this vehicle. I’ll fax you a draft.”
“Great. Just put it on the bill.”
“Too late, Conn, the bill for your and JP’s adventures with the police is already on its way. My secretary is a mongoose about billing. We’ll just start a new file for this letter and call it Larry’s Lagonda.”
“Fine. Thanks, Derek.”
Once we had this letter, I’d call the Lagonda club myself before sending it to explain the situation, and speak about the need for discretion. At the same time, I wanted to confirm the provenance of this car, if possible, through the club’s good offices.
I spoke to Marjorie about accounts. She’d obviously enjoyed her weekend, and as with the rest of us, was glad to have Jerry back in the shop. He’d settled onto his favourite car seat cushion in her office after I’d brought him back from Isabelle’s this morning.
She would take him to the vet’s tomorrow for a check over and removal of the bedraggled splint on his leg. The bandage had fallen off the stump of his tail long since, and he looked strange lurching around without his proud plumage, but didn’t seem to be too bothered about it. There was certainly nothing wrong with his appetite, judging from the empty state of his food bowls by lunchtime.
Dougald and Reg were handling the Monday morning traffic of cars booked and brought in after a fine weekend of top-down motoring. Owners were discovering problems with their gleaming steeds after the first real test drives of the spring season and wanted them sorted out. Mostly these glitches were fairly minor, with “engine running on” after the ignition was switched off being typical, usually due to the timing needing adjustment, a too-high idle speed, or old gasoline in the tank from last fall. Or all of the above.
Dougald was also carrying on with the Jaguar 150S engine rebuild in between these jobs, and shortly after lunch, I went over for a chat.
“So you’ll be able to reach me at the flat, Dougald. Just leave a message if you need to. I’ll tell the others, too.”
“Okay, Conn.”
Dougald had straightened up from his position stooped over the Jag’s engine block and wiped his hands on a rag. He looked at me closely.
“Are you … getting into something better left to the police?”
“Perhaps … but I don’t really have a choice at this point. One way or another, this week should see the end of it. I just need you to take over for a bit.”
He didn’t look altogether happy about it, but he nodded. I explained to Marjorie, Reg, and JP that I’d be basically off for the rest of the week, that Dougald was in charge, but they too could always leave me messages on my machine at the flat, and I’d check in with Dougald anyway. It was at times like these that I thought perhaps having a cell phone wasn’t such a bad idea after all. But I’d been plagued with the blasted things I’d had to carry and answer twenty-four hours a day when I worked in government and was still resisting getting one.
By 1:30 p.m. I was in the Cooper headed to Martello’s office at RCMP headquarters on the Vanier Parkway just north of the Queensway. It was cloudy, still warm though, and trees along the highway were that vivid green that spring brings. No bad thing to look at.
The security man in the RCMP parking lot booth had my name on his clipboard, as arranged this morning by Martello after my phone call. After checking my driver’s licence through his sliding window, he pushed a button to lift the gate.
I didn’t have long to wait until Martello got off an elevator and collected me at the building’s reception desk. We walked down a spotless corridor passing various serious-looking, mostly young and fit, men and women either in uniform or plainclothes. Martello nodded to all and sundry, but ignored the curious glances being sent my way.
We found a corner table in the huge echoing cafeteria away from the few groups of other Mounties and civilian specialists who were drinking coffee and chatting. Martello stared at me and then grinned suddenly.
“Lee was a busy boy over the weekend. He had his informants troll Chinatown in Toronto and has come up with other cases, names of other consultants from other customers who paid their $5,000 to get their PR cards after being shown authorizations from Morrison on Minister’s Office letterhead.
“Thing is, what’s happening now, these people are saying that they’re not getting what they paid for. The consultants they’ve been dealing with are disappearing after taking their money and not returning their calls. The pipeline has dried up, and the customers figure since they are being ripped off, they might as well squeal on the consultants.”
“Well, it figures that the pipeline has dried up,” I responded. “Morrison was found dead around 1 a.m. the Tuesday right after Easter, wasn’t it? But Archambault was still alive …”
“Yeah, Morrison was found around 1 a.m., April 14, and you saw Archambault April 25, the Saturday when you went for your little interview with him in the Byward Market. Found dead Monday, April 27, presumed murdered Sunday evening.”
“So Public Works man has effectively shut the operation down, leaving the consultants to face the flack from their customers, or leave town. No more special PR cards coming out of Sydney.”
“Yeah, PW guy is moving on.”
Martello puffed out his cheeks and blew out a breath.
“We had a conference call this morning with our regional HQs and from what I could tell from our guys on the ground, we suspect this business has been operating in Vancouver, Calgary, and Montreal as well as Toronto. Our undercover guys there have been picking up the same rumours, same amount charged, same type of shady consultant, same demand to hand over foreign passports when the clients pick up their new PR cards, same coming forward of these suckers now that the cards aren’t appearing.
“We expect to have arrest warrants prepared by the end of the week for what looks like some forty consultants across the country we have identified. My commissioner has already told the CIC Deputy Minister that the RCMP needs to lay charges quickly, because this is really going to blow and fast. CIC shut down production at Sydney this morning, so no PR cards at all will be produced for a while. They’ve brought in a computer forensic team to track down how these cards being sold could have been produced, and by whom. They’ve dragged in the original successful bidders who built the processing centre in the first place, have got internal security grilling all the employees … it’s a real mess.”
I reflected briefly that Jill Bryson, still my old department’s DM, was not going to be a happy camper. This was a disastrous situation for the department. Immigration matters are touchy subjects in the first place, always under the media microscope. A scandal of this type had all the ingredients for a raging media conflagration – illicit production of machinereadable Permanent Resident cards at CIC’s own supposedly secure processing centre, a network of shady immigration consultants, two murders that we knew of, and worst of all, the Minister’s own Executive Assistant directly involved.
“It’s going to sound like a bowling alley around here with all the heads rolling,” I said. “I can’t see the CIC Minister keeping his job once this hits the media and the hounds in the Opposition start baying for blood in the House of Commons.”
“Oh yeah,” Tony grinned. “This is going to blow up real good. Lee says there’s already a Chinese language media reporter in Toronto sniffing around this as a story, and it’ll go public pretty soon.
“Hey, do you want to sit in on the meeting at 4 this afternoon at PCO? I could get you in. A lot of your old chums will probably be there.”
I shuddered.
“What about the murder investigation side of things?”
“Phillips touched base with his squad at Ottawa PD this morning. As far as they are concerned, this unknown Public Works guy is prime suspect for the murders of Morrison and Archambault. Everybody is now accepting the suicide as a fake. Apparently Quebec Sûreté is pretty embarrassed, but tough luck. They blew it.
“Trick is, we don’t have a name and only a vague description of this guy from your gal Friday to go on from when he brought the Jag S-Type to your shop in January. Phillips is over at Public Works now to really go over their files with Tate and see if he can be tracked down that way, maybe through the signature on your invoice or through the proceeds of crime auction where he probably got the car. ”
“What about the crack cocaine angle?”
“I’ve talked to my counterpart here in Drugs Enforcement and he’s very interested. Our guys in the regions all said this morning during the conference call that they were picking up ‘crack’ vibrations in this. The customers for the cards mention consultants being on something. And of course, Ottawa PD had definite tox results from the autopsies on Morrison and Archambault, plus the residue found in the Jag.
“Our DOCAS analysts say crack is back big time and not just among the poor and downtrodden. Use is up across the entire social strata. The stuff is cheap to make, easy to move, and profits can be huge. My DE guy is getting his people to reach out here to find source info. Someone knows either Archambault or Public Works guy as a buyer and distributor. It could take time, though.”
Time wasn’t what I had at this point. I sighed, and told Martello about my acrobatics in the Cooper yesterday afternoon, the gray Chev, where I’d believed I’d seen it before, and what I’d arranged with Sandy.
“Hmm. Back to London, eh?”
“Yeah, she wasn’t happy about it, and it just means more disruption for her daughter who she was trying to get settled into a new school here. But I was able to convince her last night that it was a good idea to avoid her new flat for now. They should be almost in London by now.”
It hadn’t been easy to convince her. I’d ended up speaking more forcefully than I’d wanted to. But I’d managed to communicate my fears for her and Jane’s safety.
I was pretty sure, and it depressed me, that Sandy wasn’t going to be in any rush to pick up on our relationship when she came back to Ottawa. What with the arson, being questioned for murder, and now pursued by a maniac who had likely already killed two people, I wouldn’t want to be seen with me either. Not to mention her daughter’s lack of enthusiasm for me despite my efforts to make friends. Sandy had promised to call me from London, but I wasn’t going to hold my breath waiting for the call.
Tony nodded.
“Okay. So you’ve made that precaution happen. What else did you have in mind, Conn?”
“There’s another piece to this, and I want to do some checking first …”
Martello put his big right hand up in a stop motion and looked hard at me.
“No way, José! You’re out of it.”
“I nearly got run off the road yesterday so there’s no way I’m out of it. And in fact, I represent the fastest way you and Phillips have got to flush this Public Works guy out of the woodwork. Yes, you can roll up the consultants, and yes, CIC will have to deal with the PR card fallout, and yes, your drug guys can track down the crack cocaine dealing, and you’ll also wrap up a foreign passport selling scam at the same time, so altogether, you’ll probably get a medal and good for you.
“But all this will grind along, and in the meantime you and Phillips have nothing concerning the murders. Tate couldn’t find out who his colleague was, if it’s the same guy, and it sure all fits. He was very inventive and careful in killing Morrison and Archambault. And he’s still out there. He’s had a go at me, and the chances are he’ll try again, so let’s use that.”
Martello gave one of his mirthless laughs.
“Pal, you’re not cleared for this kind of work. You aren’t even armed.”
“I can look after myself.”
Tony paused, and looked me in the eye.
“Leave this to us, Conn. We’ll get the guy sooner or later. Take a couple of weeks and go to London and be with your new girlfriend for goodness sake, after the grief you’ve been through. What is this, personal or something?”
I leaned forward.
“Yeah, it is, Tony. This guy … in effect he’s already attacked, and will keep attacking, everything I’ve got. So you’re damn right it’s personal.”
The RCMP cafeteria had been gradually filling up as it was getting on for 3 p.m., official government coffee break time. I was suddenly aware of a silence.
Tony looked around at his colleagues at the nearby tables. It wasn’t a friendly look. Voices resumed chatting and coffee cups started clattering again.
He sat back and sighed.
“What are you suggesting?”
I took a breath.
“First off, and this ought to make you feel better, I want my landlady protected, twenty-four/seven. Put a guy in her house. Public Works man definitely knows where I live.
“My guess is he’ll try something at my place next, and if you can organize someone for Isabelle’s side of things, then we’ve doubled our odds at nailing him.”
Tony looked at his empty coffee cup, then out the window, then finally back at me.
“All right. I don’t like it, but I guess I can’t force you to leave town. Let’s go to my office. I’m going to give you one of our cell phones for starters.”