by Dave Butler
“What do you suggest we do?”
Austin blotted his palm with the back page of an environmental report, creating what looked like a red Rorschach test. “I don’t fucking know. I guess we’ve got two choices. Either we pull the pin on everything, wrap up the funds, and move on, or we put our foot on the gas pedal and try to force the approval of the ski area. That’ll hopefully keep some of our investors onboard and some new money coming in. To do that, we’re going to have to make a hell of a compelling case.”
“Neither of those options sounds very attractive.”
“Have you got any better ideas, Hank? I’m so angry, I can’t think straight.”
“At this point, no, I don’t. Seems like you’ve got us into a hell of a mess.”
“Me? I thought we were a team here.”
Myers moved forward in his chair and put his arms on the desk, one on top of the other, the one above less muscled after months in a sling. “I accepted this gig and played my role to bring money to the table, based on the promises you made about finding projects that would make investors foam at the mouth. In fact, I was approached by another prospective investor just this week. She seems keen on helping us build the ski area. But now I don’t know. It seems like you’ve fucked up, Stafford, and fucked up big time.”
Shocked at Myers’s sudden reversal, Austin felt as though, in the last thirty minutes, he had been cast adrift on the sea in a leaky raft. Two of the three projects that were key to his investment funds had essentially vanished, the third was a crapshoot, and his main business partner seemed to have shifted from friend and confidant to accuser and potential defector — one with enough information to not only scuttle all his plans, but force him to leave the country or send him to prison for the rest of his life. Or he could tell the South Americans where Austin was. “Look, we’ve still got the ski area, Hank. I’ll phone Paul DeSantos to see what he knows and push him to get us an approval. But I need to know: Are you willing to see this through … or are you giving up?”
“Based on what I’ve heard this morning, it’s obvious that things have changed in a big way. I’m gonna have to give it some thought. What’ll help me decide,” said Myers, his eyes cold, “is whether or not there’s a dramatic change in our financial arrangement. If I do stay, I’ll be taking on more personal risk, you realize. To do that, I’ll have to be better compensated.”
“And what would that look like?”
“That’s an excellent question.” Myers rose and moved to the office door. “I’ll have to chew on it.” He looked back at Austin. “In the interim, I encourage you to think about what you’re willing to offer, or maybe afford is a better word, to keep me on as a partner … a silent partner.”
With that, Myers left.
CHAPTER 34
APRIL 21, 9:00 P.M.
“What are the chances there’ll be weapons in the house?” asked Willson.
She and Fortier were speeding down a gravel road north of Golden, Fortier driving a police SUV with the emergency lights flashing but the siren quiet. Two police cars followed, each carrying two more officers. They were near Donald on the old Big Bend Highway, at one time the main connection between Golden and Revelstoke before the Rogers Pass opened. It was now a dead-end road leading to a few cutblocks and backcountry lodges.
“No idea,” Fortier said. “Let’s assume they’re there until we know otherwise. By the way, did you ever talk to that investor of Austin’s?”
“Yes, I phoned him while I was waiting for you to get the warrants — which I must say took forever.”
“I did everything I could, short of driving to Revelstoke or Invermere to find out where the duty JPP was. You know as well as I do that tearing out here without warrants would have been stupid. Your mother could have been hurt, and besides, then anything we found couldn’t be used as evidence. Tell me about Merrix.”
“Well, it turns out he’s a Vancouver-based pro sports agent. He and many of his clients have invested with Austin. I was actually surprised at how eager he was to talk to me. I went over those questions that Courtney gave us, the ones to determine if something was a legit investment. He told me they’d been promised guaranteed high returns, but that the investment strategies seemed very complex and had been poorly explained. Most recently, he told me there were issues with the paperwork and that some of his clients were having difficulties getting their money back from Austin. We both agreed that they’d invested in a classic Ponzi scheme. From his responses, I think he already knew, but he was obviously hoping it was something, anything else. My call just confirmed his hunch.”
“He must be pissed. How much money are we talking about?”
“Oh, he’s pissed all right. And embarrassed and worried. I asked him about the money, but he wouldn’t tell me exactly how much. But it was clear to me that they’re in to Austin for a substantial chunk of change.”
Fortier let out a low whistle. “Has he talked to the police in Vancouver?”
“He hadn’t when I talked to him … but I’m guessing he will.”
As they moved on to rougher roads, Willson reached up for the grab bar with one hand while she gripped the centre console with the other, her fingertips inches from the shotgun bolted there. With each turn in the road, each thrust of the powerful engine, she fought to keep her body from sliding sideways on the vinyl seat. “Oh, and I meant to ask, did you ever hear whether or not the rifle we seized from Leo Springer matched the bullets from Austin’s house?”
“Just this morning, and it did. It took over a week to get the results from the crime lab, but the bullets were definitely fired from that rifle. The Calgary Police Service arrested him this afternoon. He was still in hospital.”
“So, can we assume he was the one who shot at Austin and Myers?” The vehicle hit a hole in the road and Willson’s head banged against the ceiling. “Shit!”
“Sorry. Yeah, it looks like it. We’ve charged him with two counts of attempted murder, two of reckless discharge of a firearm, and two of careless use of a firearm. We have the rifle with his fingerprints on it and the bullets matching the rifle. But although the fact that he ran from us is incriminating, it doesn’t mean shit. And we have no witnesses to the crime, nor do we have anyone who can place Springer at or near the scene at the time of the shooting. Without more evidence, it could go either way when it finally gets to court.”
“In other words, it’s a crapshoot.”
“Exactly.”
“Did he admit to anything?”
“Nope. When he was finally healthy enough a few days after our chase for the doctors to let investigators talk to him, he was eerily quiet.”
“Gave them nothing?”
“Nothing. He was still a mess of bandages and casts and bruises. He just stared at the investigators from his hospital bed for the longest time, expressionless. And then he said the four words we all love to hear: ‘I want a lawyer.’ They tried the standard approaches to get him to talk, and a few new ones … but that was the extent of the interview with him.”
“I wondered whether Springer might have been responsible for the arson and Webb’s murder, too,” said Willson, “but after the fire at Ilsley’s place, and what we saw on the security video, it makes less sense.”
“Agreed, but we made no assumptions, even though he was on the side of the anti–ski hill folks and had no obvious reason to burn down Stoffel’s office. But I’ve seen stranger things happen. I still haven’t ruled him out, but he’s dropped way down the list.” He pointed at lights in the trees to their right. “There’s the house.” A waiting RCMP cruiser posted there by Fortier since late last night was ready to block the road behind them.
Fortier switched off the emergency lights and the headlights, slowed the vehicle, and turned in to a gravel driveway.
Willson unbuckled her seat belt. “You’ve got the warrants,” she said, her voice firm, “but I want the front door.”
“Hold on, Jenny. We should have the element of surprise on
our side tonight, but we’ll both go to the front door. We’ll keep two of the officers with us and send the other two around back.”
In her impatience to enter the house and confront those inside, Willson had forgotten about the cavalry behind them. “I’m good with that … as long as I’m first through the door.”
Fortier nodded once and grabbed the microphone from the dash. “Echo Two-Four and Three-One, this is Echo Five-Two. Two-Four, you guys stay with us to hit the front door. Three-One, I want you at the back of the house.”
There were two sets of double-clicks, indicating that the officers in the vehicles behind them heard and understood their orders.
They rolled up to the house slowly, furtively, their tires crunching almost imperceptibly on the gravel.
“You talked to them once before, right?” asked Willson, watching for movement in the house.
“I did. The day after the café window blew out. They didn’t admit to anything. They seemed calm, like they were expecting me. I made it clear I was watching them.”
When the SUV had rolled to a stop, Willson opened the door and moved toward the front of the house. It was a house in the loosest sense of the word, constructed of a mishmash of cedar shingles, recycled metal, salvaged wood, mismatched windows, and peeling paint. A leaning chimney belched smoke. There wasn’t a right angle in sight, like a cartoon house drawn by a child. An older model Ford sedan was parked near the west wall, and the yard beyond was filled with junk.
Willson paused to let the two officers reach their position at the back. Each scurried low along the sides of the structure to avoid the windows. A few seconds later, she heard another double-click on Fortier’s radio. They were in position.
Their hands resting on their weapons, Willson and Fortier walked quietly to the front door. Willson banged on it rapidly and loudly. When no answer came, she banged again. “Peace officers,” she yelled. “Open the door!”
Finally, the faded door cracked open and a pair of eyes peeked out at them. Not knowing who it was and unwilling to wait, Willson swiftly pushed her way in, head down, shoulder against the door. Fortier, with his hand on her left shoulder, followed.
“What do you want?” said John Theroux, stepping back suddenly, his face a pale canvas of confusion and shock, his hand still on the door handle.
Fortier started to speak. “We have a warrant to search —”
With both hands, Willson grabbed Theroux by the front of his tattered flannel shirt. Below the shirt, he wore stained grey flannel sweatpants. His feet were bare. “Where’s your wife? And where the hell is my mother?”
“What?” said Theroux, his eyes wide. “I don’t know what you’re talking about…. Let go of me.”
Furious, impatient, Willson pushed him back two steps, shaking him like a dog with a chew toy. “I said, where the fuck are they?” She could smell his fear.
“Sandy’s not here and I … I don’t know anything about your mother. Why are you asking me?”
Willson shook Theroux again, this time tearing a piece of his shirt. “Stop stalling. I asked you where they were.” She felt Fortier’s hand on her shoulder.
“Jenny, let’s take it slow here …”
But Willson ignored him. Her face was inches from Theroux’s. “Where?” Her spittle hit his cheek.
“I don’t know where Sandy is! She left two nights ago. I didn’t see her all day yesterday, not until we met at the airport to greet Austin and his investors. She’d taken the truck, so I had to drive her shitbox of a car. As soon as the helicopter left, Sandy jumped in the truck and drove off again, leaving me standing there wondering what in the hell was going on. I haven’t seen her since.”
Willson gave Theroux one last shake, then relaxed her hold and stepped back. She glared at him, trying to decide if he was telling the truth or playing with her. “The officers with me will look around to be sure,” she said. “But if your wife’s not here, where else could she be? Where would she go?”
Willson watched as the two Mounties moved through the ramshackle house, checking every room for people and weapons. She heard the two at the rear of the house come in the back door. Fortier had moved between her and Theroux, perhaps to protect him from her rage.
“I have no idea where she went,” Theroux said. “Like I told you, she drove off and left me standing there.”
“No calls from her since?”
The RCMP officers called “Clear!” as they moved through the house.
“Nothing. When I heard your car in the driveway, I thought it was her coming home.”
“Where does she go when she’s not here?” asked Fortier.
“Nowhere special. Like I said, I don’t know where she is. The truck’s gone, so she could be anywhere.”
“Do you have any other buildings on this property?”
“Or are there any other places she might go to? Friends? Family?” Willson asked.
“There’s an old empty barn through the trees,” said Theroux, pointing vaguely north. “We never use it. Other than that, nothing.”
Fortier spoke to his colleagues as they came back into the room. “Anything?”
“All clear,” said one of the officers. “We got one shotgun, one box of shells, but no one else in the house, and no other weapons.”
“Good,” Fortier said. “Two of you check the barn, please, and the others check around the property. Look in any buildings or sheds. Anywhere someone could be hiding, or being held.”
After the four officers moved away, Theroux turned to Willson, his hands on his hips. “You still haven’t told me why you’re looking for my wife.”
“We have your wife on a security video from yesterday evening,” said Willson, “setting fire to Sara Ilsley’s workshop down on the McMurdo Benches. She was also seen painting threatening graffiti on the side of Sara’s house.”
“Shit!” said Theroux, dropping his head before blowing out a loud breath through pursed lips. “Not ag— but what’s this got to do with your mother?”
“My mother was with her,” Willson said, not willing to say out loud that it was her mother who had thrown the Molotov cocktail, “and I’m goddamn sure she wasn’t there willingly.”
“You think Sandy forced her?” Theroux asked, incredulous. “I don’t believe it. Why … why would she do that?”
While Willson could sense the man’s confusion, she also saw a glimpse of the cockiness she’d observed at the rally. “You tell me, smartass.”
“Wait,” said Fortier. “John, a second ago you didn’t finish your sentence. Were you going to say ‘not again’?”
Theroux’s cheeks flushed. “Uh … maybe … yeah.”
“Why?” asked Willson. “Has she done this kind of thing before?”
Theroux’s eyes were blinking rapidly back and forth. It was if his mind and body were at war with each other, using confidence and confusion as contrasting weapons. “Let’s just say that Sandy’s … an intense woman,” said Theroux. “She takes things seriously and won’t let them go. Manic is the word the doctors use. She scares me when she gets worked up over things like politics and religion and people she thinks are being treated badly by the system. The meds help some, if she stays on them …”
“She’s on medication?” asked Willson.
“Her pills are still here … so not for at least two days.”
“What is it about Austin’s project that has her so worked up?”
“We created the ski society to help get the project approved. Austin’s been supporting us financially and otherwise while we help him by building community support, getting people excited about it. Since then, it’s like Sandy’s been on a personal crusade, a one-woman mission to make the project happen. I mean, I’m committed to the project, too, but not like she is. Not only does she believe in it, I think she relishes the profile we get in the community. It’s all she thinks about, all she talks about. It seems to give her a sense of power, so much so that she kinda loses it when someone threaten
s the project.”
“Someone like Albin Stoffel?” asked Fortier.
“Anyone on the anti side. When Stoffel’s office burned down and Sue Webb was killed in the fire, I asked Sandy the next day if she had anything to do with it.”
“Why?” asked Willson, seeing the man’s hands rolling and rubbing around each other like wrestling snakes.
“Because she came home late the night before, the night it happened, and went right into the shower. I smelled her clothes while she was in there, thinking that maybe she’d been out drinking, or with someone else. All I smelled was smoke.”
“And what did she say when you asked her?” Fortier inquired.
“She wouldn’t admit it one way or the other, but she said they got what they deserved.”
“Do you think she did it?” asked Willson.
“I don’t know. I guess she could’ve if she was mad enough. Those people who are against the resort should’ve listened to us.”
Willson ignored his weak attempt to reassign blame. “Now that we have Sandy on tape starting a fire at Ilsley’s house, what do you think?”
“I’m thinking you have a big problem.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Fortier.
“Because she’s completely unpredictable,” Theroux said, looking at Willson with a mocking smile, the cockiness apparently returning, “and you don’t know where she is.”
Willson moved toward Theroux, ready to wipe the smirk off his face. “You smug little fucker …” As Fortier moved between them, the other officers came back from their search of the property.
“We checked the small sheds. Nothing there, Ben,” said the senior constable. “But there’s a car in the barn. It’s your mother’s, Jenny, the one we’ve been looking for.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive,” said the officer. “Goldish Honda, licence plate matches. The keys are in it, and the insurance and registration are still in the glove compartment, in your mother’s name. Other than that, there’s nothing in it, and no sign of any damage. No purse, no cellphone, no blood. Nothing. It’s like she parked it there and walked away. Or someone did …”