A Cloud of Suspects

by Laurence Gough

  “I’m just wondering what you do for a living, that’s all.”

  Sandy reached down and patted her on the butt. His hand rested lightly on her flesh. “Don’t worry about it. All worry ever gets you is wrinkles.”

  “The flashy truck,” said Jan, “cute little apartment, the big TV, stereo. We go out, it can be anywhere. You never worry about money, always pay cash.” She tilted her head for a better look at him. Her blue eyes were serious as blue eyes can get. “When was the last time you ate at home, Sandy?”

  “You can do that?”

  “Very funny. When we went back to your place last week, after we had dinner at Pepita’s? When you used the bathroom, I looked in your night table for an ashtray and … ”

  She felt him stiffen beneath her, and it made her nervous, maybe even a little scared, but it was too late to stop, so she kept on. “There was a black folder in the drawer … ”

  Sandy lay quietly beneath her. His chest rose and fell. Jan took another hard pull on her cigarette.

  She said, “Want to tell me about all the clippings, Sandy?”

  “Not really. It’s just a hobby of mine, that’s all.”

  “Robbing and stealing?” She flicked her cigarette at the ashtray and didn’t miss by much. “Stealing cars, purse-snatching, smash-and grab, burglary. You’ve really been working your way up the ladder, haven’t you.”

  “That guy isn’t me. Is that what you think, that he’s me?”

  “Why else would you keep the clippings?”

  Sandy patted her bum again. He said, “Shift off me, I got to go.” Jan didn’t budge an inch. She said, “The thing is, I’m hoping that crook is you.”

  He slapped her bum hard enough to sting. “c’mon, move!”

  “Don’t you want to know why?”

  “You’re gonna phone ‘Crime Stoppers,’ make some easy money?”

  Jan said, “How would you like to move up to the big leagues, make such a big score you’d never have to throw a brick through another display case?”

  Sandy laughed. He was pretty convincing. He said, “What in hell are you talking about?”

  Jan put out her cigarette. She eased off the sofa and sat down on the carpet beside him, and ran her fingers through his short, sweat-sticky hair. She said, “Diamonds. I’m talking about seven hundred and fifty thousand to one million dollars’ worth of uncut blood diamonds illegally imported from Africa.”

  He said, “Wow!” Like he didn’t believe her. Pissed her off, though she didn’t let it show. She said, “There’s supposed to be some coloured diamonds in the shipment. Green ones, and blue, and maybe some red.”

  “Blue and green and red diamonds? You gotta be kidding.”

  “No, It’s true. Red is the rarest of all.” She gave Sandy the same deadly serious look she’d hit the welfare dude with, that time she’d needed a few extra bucks to make the rent. “I wouldn’t be giving away any big secrets if I told you most of the wholesale diamond merchants in this city work out of the Vancouver Block.”

  Sandy said, “Back up a sec. What’s a blood diamond?”

  Jan gave him a quick primer on the world diamond market. She told him about Matt Singh, how he had become her friend, and how he’d set up the score and then been killed in a Metrotown shootout. As she talked about Matt’s untimely death, she remembered that, when Harvey had dropped by the tattoo parlour, he’d told her he’d gotten out of jail a couple of weeks earlier. Fine, but then, since he was so eager to see her and Tyler, why had it taken him so long to drive to Vancouver?

  A chill ran through her, as if she had been stabbed in the heart with an icicle. Had Harvey shot Matt? The timing was right. Harvey was a notoriously jealous guy, so he had a motive …

  Sandy said, “You had some kind of relationship with Matt?”

  “Yeah, a business relationship. Are you wondering if we were lovers? Not a chance. He was a really sweet guy, but there was nothing between us.”

  He gave her a sceptical look.

  “Matt was gay,” said Jan. “He didn’t like women.”

  “Not even you?”

  Jan leaned past him so she could squash her cigarette in the blue glass ashtray on the windowsill. Her nipples grazed his chest as she sat back.

  Sandy had one more question. “Was Matt’s shooting related to the diamonds?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Matt was involved in all sorts of projects, and he was a gang member. The cops said the shooting was turf-related. Cocaine, smack. Don’t ask me for details, because I haven’t got the foggiest idea.”

  “No? I thought you were in business together”

  “From time to time, nothing steady” Jan saw that Sandy didn’t believe her. She decided to take a chance, and tell him about her role in the ATM robbery. It didn’t take long. Sandy was a good listener. She was surprised how relieved she was to finally be able to tell somebody what she’d done.

  Jan said, “So, you in?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. That kind of money … Let’s say, just for the sake of argument, that we steal a million dollars’ worth of diamonds. What does that number mean, exactly?”

  “Instant retirement, and no more sweating over the cable bill.”

  “No, I mean how much could you get for the stones.”

  “Half.”

  “Half?”

  “Probably half. It would depend on how we marketed them, all at once or bit by bit, in dribbles.”

  “Got a buyer lined up?”

  “Matt knew a guy. I’ve got his name. He doesn’t know me, but … ”

  She didn’t need to finish the sentence. Sandy knew from personal experience just how good Jan was at getting to know guys she wanted to meet. He said, “Anybody else involved?”

  “No, it’s just the two of us.”

  “What’s my cut?”

  She smiled. “Half, of course. We’d be partners. What did you think, I was going to offer you six bucks an hour to start?”

  Sandy didn’t say anything. That was okay, because he was as easy to read as the morning paper. Jan could see he was thinking about the money, and the risk. Half a million dollars was half a million dollars, and half of that was a quarter of a million dollars. Two hundred and fifty thousand bucks. Serious money, no matter how you added it up.

  She said, “You carry a weapon?”

  “Not really. A knife, sometimes, in case I want to peel an apple.”

  “Ever take a fall for armed robbery?”

  “Nope.”

  “All those clippings. I didn’t have time to read them. Were you ever arrested?”

  “No, never.” He smiled. “Just lucky, I guess.”

  Jan said, “The diamond wholesaler’s sixty-eight years old. He’s in good health, but he isn’t going to put up much of a fight.”

  “What’re you telling me?”

  “Even if we got caught, if you’ve got a clean sheet you’d catch five tops, be out in three or less.” Jan lifted her arm so he could see her watch. “What time is it?”

  “Quarter past four.”

  “Tyler’s due back sometime between five and six.” She kissed him on the chest, and playfully batted her eyelashes. “Want to do something in the meantime?”

  Sandy gave her a puzzled, determinedly dim-witted look. He said, “What did you have in mind?”

  Jan told him exactly what she had in mind, in giddily unrepressed, obsessively graphic, three-dimensional, full-spectrum Technicolor detail.

  Chapter 9

  Lust

  Chelsea hadn’t seemed the least bit surprised when Willows, without preamble, suddenly offered to drive her home. She waited with uncharacteristic patience in his unmarked car’s shotgun seat while he fielded questions from a mob of TV and print media. When a sharp-eyed cameraman separated himself from the mob and zeroed in on her, she responded by tucking her long legs under her and curling up in the seat with her skirt riding high up on her thighs. The came
raman’s lens shade tapped against the window. Chelsea gave the camera a naughty-but-nice smile, and put away her tube of glossy lip gel and lit a menthol cigarette. If the cop car had an ashtray, she couldn’t find it. She pursed her lips and blew out the match and tossed it on the uncarpeted floor. The camera kept rolling. Chelsea didn’t mind. She was a seasoned performer, and had long ago mastered the fine art of looking deservedly spoiled and eternally petulant and lethally bored.

  Willows pushed his way through the crowd. Chelsea saw him coming. She reached across and pushed open the door. Willows gave her a startled look but didn’t say anything. He slid behind the wheel, started the engine. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “That’s okay. It was fun watching you deal with the TV crowd.” She adjusted her skirt as she straightened in her seat.

  Willows rolled down his window.

  Chelsea said, “The smoke bother you?”

  “Yes, it does. Anyway, you can’t smoke in the car. The computer … ”

  “Sorry.” She leaned against Willows, resting her left hand on his shoulder and letting him take some weight as she flicked her cigarette out his open window. “Colin was always telling me I was an inconsiderate person, and it’s true. But is it my fault? Jimmy told me men look at me in a way that’s pathetic, and slavish, and resigned. Like they’d do anything to have me. Well, I mean, they almost train you to be a bitch, don’t they?”

  Willows said, “Who’s Jimmy?”

  “A set designer. You’d hate him. Everybody does.”

  Willows had no idea what she was talking about. She said, “It’s all a fucking pose anyway, isn’t it?”

  Willows rolled up his window. He turned on the air conditioner and adjusted the vents so the blast of cold air washed across his face. The car had been surrounded on three sides by the media crowd. He put the car in gear, tapped the horn and eased slowly into traffic, then gunned it. He said, “Have you been thinking about who might have killed Colin?”

  “Yes, of course.” She gave him a teasing smile. “You told me to, and I’m the kind of woman who likes to do what she’s told.”

  Willows made a right turn, drove two blocks, and parked beside a hydrant. He said, “Come up with any suspects?”

  “A few.”

  Willows got out his notebook. He uncapped his gold-plated fountain pen.

  Chelsea said, “That’s a nice pen. Was it a gift?”

  “A birthday present. Why do you ask?”

  “My brother and I bought my dad a gold fountain pen for his birthday about five years ago. I was still in school and didn’t have much money. My dad’s an assistant manager at a Bank of Montreal. We thought he’d really like it, but he never used it, not once. It’s still in the box, on the desk in his den. Maybe he thinks it’s too flashy. Who gave you your pen?”

  “My son.”

  “What’s he do?”

  Willows hesitated, and then said, “He’s a student. Post-grad work. Very intense. Let’s get back to your suspect list, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Got some names for me?”

  “Mine, for one.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “No, but I might’ve.”

  “But you didn’t, is that what you’re saying?”

  Chelsea nodded. She said, “Colin was such a prick. A real animal. There were times when I … ” She trailed off, and looked out the window.

  “Why did you go out with him?”

  “My shrink asked me the same question.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  Chelsea shrugged and looked out the window.

  Willows said, “Got an alibi?”

  “No, I don’t. I spent the night at home. I didn’t have any company and I didn’t make or receive any phone calls.”

  “A popular girl like you?”

  “I watched TV and then I snorted some coke and fell asleep. Does it shock you that I take drugs?”

  “To the very marrow of my bones,” said Willows. “Other than yourself, who else do you know who might’ve killed Colin?”

  “His ex-wife, Nancy. They’ve got three kids enrolled in St. George’s and he told me she was always bitching about money. Colin’s divorce lawyer has standing orders to make sure she never gets her support cheque on time. Colin told him to randomly vary delivery of the cheque so it’s anywhere from three days to three weeks late. She fucking hates him, and who can blame her?”

  Chelsea flashed her million-dollar smile. “The only problem is, Nancy’s in Florida, visiting her mother.”

  “Who was Colin’s lawyer?”

  “Melvin Hartmann, Q.C. He’s got offices on Georgia, in the eight hundred block.”

  “Have you met him?”

  “A couple of times, at parties.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “A little over six feet, thirty pounds overweight. Boozer’s nose, pale blue eyes, lots of wavy grey hair. Full of himself, yak yak yak, a total jerk.”

  Willows nodded. He said, “That it for suspects?”

  “If it was up to me, I’d arrest Colin’s partner, Michael Hughes. I was at Colin’s a couple of nights ago. Michael dropped by unannounced. I went into the bedroom, to watch TV. I mean, you have no idea how boring those two could be when they had to talk business. About ten minutes after Michael arrived, there was a lot of shouting. Colin was really angry, very abusive.”

  “Do you know what they were arguing about?”

  “Money, something to do with development costs. I was watching a George Clooney movie, and cranked up the sound.” Chelsea looked out the car window at a man waiting to cross the street. She said, “Is that Todd Bertuzzi?”

  “Who?”

  “The hockey player.”

  Willows shrugged.

  Chelsea said, “Colin doesn’t like it when people drop in on him unexpectedly. Especially if I’m staying over. He was really hot. I heard glass breaking. Michael left shortly afterwards.

  “I asked Colin what Michael was so upset about, but he didn’t tell me, just laughed it off.”

  Willows said, “That’s it, for suspects?”

  “Not really. I don’t know how many thousands of people in this city are living in leaky condos that Colin and Michael’s various companies built. But there’s an awful lot of them. Some of the people had to pay fifty to a hundred thousand dollars in repairs, and some of them had to walk away from their apartments because they couldn’t afford that kind of money, so they were ruined. And there were lots more who sold at a huge loss, and probably won’t be able to afford to buy another apartment for years, if ever.”

  “Colin talked to you about this?”

  “He found out a few months ago that his own building, I mean the one he was living in, his ‘flagship building for a new era,’ he liked to call it, anyway, he found out it was leaking like a sieve. I don’t know the details, but he said there was a design flaw and they were going to have to strip the cladding off the entire building. He said it was going to cost a fortune.”

  “Did other people in the building know there was a problem?”

  “You bet they did. Everybody on the north side of the building had a problem, because the window casements were leaking. The condo’s board of directors hired a Toronto company to analyze the building’s ‘envelope.’ Colin said it was a total disaster, that it was going to cost a ton of money to fix. The board of directors offered Colin a chance to take care of it quietly, to minimize the bad publicity. But the original repair estimate was for somewhere between five and eight million dollars. Colin freaked. All his money was tied up in new projects. He was afraid if word got out that his latest so-called watertight building was leaking, the banks would pull the plug on him, and he’d be wiped out.”

  Willows had no idea how many people lived in Colin’s building. Hundreds. At this early point in the investigation, every last one of them was a suspect. So were all the untold thousands of unhappy condo owners in all the other affected buildings in which Colin Mc
Donald’s many numbered companies had been involved.

  Willows sighed heavily. Inspector Bradley had saddled him with a monster of a case. Unless the killer jumped up on his lap and confessed, he’d be interviewing suspects until the day he retired.

  Chelsea rested her hand on his arm. “Are you okay?”

  Willows collected himself. He said, “I’d better get you home.”

  Chelsea lived in the West End, in an older building across the street from Stanley Park. It was a déjà vu drive for Willows — Peter Markson, the ATM Bandit who’d killed himself with a TV antenna, lived only a few blocks away. The drive across town took less than twenty minutes, despite the heavy seasonal West End traffic.

  As Willows pulled up to the curb, Chelsea unbuckled her seat-belt and turned towards him. Her skirt again rode up on her thighs but she didn’t seem to notice, or care. She gave him a very direct look and said, “Would you like to come in for a minute?”

  “Thanks anyway.”

  She pouted. Her lip gloss was blinding. She said, “Your mistake, Jack. Maybe you aren’t such a smart detective after all. But thanks for the ride.”

  He gave her a vague, meaningless smile. He was old enough to be her father, and he wasn’t looking for any handouts, but the way she’d said thanks for the ride had dripped with sexual innuendo and careless promise. He wouldn’t have thought it was possible, but Chelsea had shocked the hell out of him. She knew it, too, judging from the way she was staring at him. The pink tip of her tongue darted between her lips.

  Willows told himself that any man would find Chelsea attractive. He told himself that what he was feeling at that moment didn’t mean anything, that there was no need to worry about it or beat himself up over it.

  Funny how sometimes you could be simultaneously right and wrong, for perfectly good reasons that had nothing in common.

  Chelsea pushed open her door. Unburdened by false modesty or any doubt about what she wanted, she fully exploited her short skirt and long legs as she got out of the car.

  There was no time for Willows to look away. His brain recorded a strip of film he would play back over and over again, all day long.