“No,” he said, his voice rising for the first time. “I did not.”
“Why’d you help the cops?” Ayesha asked. “Didn’t it work out great for you, Duclos being out of the picture while you were sitting pretty with the missus?”
Copta made to lie down. I gently pulled him back up to a sitting position.
“Annie asked me to help them,” he said. “She needed him back. Said a son needs his father. I think she still loved him, to be honest. I mean, she loved me, but what do I know.” He blinked. Tears were close. “A marriage is a complicated thing, I suppose. She missed him.”
And that four million, I thought.
“Copta, listen to me: We gotta find him. That’s it. There’s still a lot here that needs answering, and a lot that needs cleaning up. If you know anything, and I mean anything, now would be a good time to come clean.”
“Hang on,” Magnus said, rousing from his dispassionate sentry duties. “Why are you lot here and not the cops?”
“I’m under a bit of a deadline here,” I said. “So I need any info you have as fast as possible.”
“I told you before,” Copta said. “I’m out of the game. I was helping the cops, for God’s sake.”
“You gotta know something or somebody,” Ayesha said.
“Why are we even talking to these two?” Magnus said, his voice rising. “Mr. Copta, let’s go—”
Copta stood and faced me. Magnus shut up.
“I don’t know anything else that could help,” he said. “I would if I could.”
‘That alibi better hold up,” I said. “The cops will be here. Count on it.”
“I’m not worried,” he said. He nodded to Magnus and headed back to the bar.
“Let’s go,” Magnus said.
“Hang on,” Ayesha said. “Thad—”
“Yeah. Let’s go,” I said.
She stared at me, amazed. The only sound in the room was the ice hitting the bottom of Copta’s well-used glass.
“Jesus, we don’t have anything,” she snapped after a moment. “You’re just going to walk out of here?”
I took in the room: the art, the bed, the lush rug, the bar. Copta had yet to turn around, lost in thought, in his mourning. Underneath my feet, I could feel the slightest roll of the water underneath this yacht, this bloated cathedral. Copta turned to wobble back to his bed, his face red and puffy.
“And some people have everything,” I said. “And look how goddamned happy they are. Let’s go.”
34
Back in the Mercedes. Ayesha was still brooding. We drove in silence for a while. I knew Charlie well enough to know she may have correctly read the mood, but it was only a matter of time before her curiosity got the better of her and she asked how it all shook out. I struck pre-emptively.
“He didn’t do it, Ayesha,” I said. “Look at him. He’s a mess.”
“Sure, or maybe he’s just a falling down drunk.”
“Literally nothing we have seen so far supports that,” I said. “Face it. He loved her. He didn’t kill her. And he sure as hell doesn’t know where Duclos is.”
Stony silence settled upon us again. Charlie turned on the radio.
“We’re fucked,” Ayesha said.
“What do you want me to do?” I demanded. “I can’t make the guy admit to killing her when he, you know, didn’t.”
“So, uh, you guys hungry…?” Charlie said, sliding onto Shoreditch High Street. “’Cause it looks like we’ve got a day ahead.”
“We’ll send out when we get back to the office,” I said. I turned back to Ayesha. “Why are you so pissed, anyways? We can tell Dunsmore the Vivian tip, they’ll interview him—if he’s lying, they’ll find out, and even if he’s not, we get a few brownie points for helping the investigation.”
“Until she asks why you went by yourselves first,” Charlie piped in.
“Yeah, thanks,” I said. “But we still figured it out first.”
“Don’t think they’ll be patting us on the back too hard for that,” Ayesha said.
“Hey, I’m just trying to stay optimistic here.”
Ayesha turned in her seat and faced me.
“You’re broke. In a few days a crew of Irish madmen are going to grab you and work you over, big time. Then a few days after that they’re going to do it again. And then they’ll say you now owe them more money. Plus, I guarantee you that whatever happens, Dunsmore is going to make your life scorched earth hell, especially if she doesn’t get that promotion. She’ll do everything she can to get your license, and she will, because you’re a mess of a human being who thinks being clever is the same as being smart. You’ll be lucky to get a job as a Waitrose security guard.”
“Interesting you led with the me-being-broke part,” I said. “Worried about getting paid?”
“Oh, for—” she started, her teeth flashing, before Charlie jumped in.
“Enough,” she said, loudly and firmly. “Everyone relax. Thad, how much are you in for?”
“Oh no,” I said. “Forget it.”
Charlie looked pointedly at Ayesha.
“Don’t—” I said.
“He needs about ten grand,” she said. “And more soon. That’s how this works.”
“I have money,” Charlie said.
I sighed.
“Royce has money, but thank you,” I said. “And I can still figure this out.”
“You’re running out of time,” Charlie said.
“If we can find Duclos, we have a good chance,” I said.
“Forget it,” Ayesha said. “He’s dead. If he was alive, he’d have come out of hiding by now. His wife got murdered, for God’s sake.”
“Yeah, but didn’t you say he might have had some mental health issues, based on who you talked to?” Charlie said. “The murder might have really messed him up, driven him deeper underground.”
I rubbed my temples, hard, trying to coax some more blood flow through my weary skull.
“Both those are possible. Probable, even. But that doesn’t mean there’s not an angle we’re missing,” I said. I picked up the file again, and felt my insides sag a little with how heavy it was in my hand. “Did you get to check this out?” I asked Charlie.
“You guys weren’t gone that long, but I gave it a quick look,” she said. I smiled, in spite of myself. I knew it—of course she couldn’t resist. I would’ve been disappointed otherwise.
“And? Anything?” Ayesha said.
Charlie shook her head.
“It’s just the last year or so,” she said. “Pretty standard stuff. Bills, mostly: Cable, Internet, the mortgage, some home reno stuff, plus a few small-time investments here and there. Just enough to keep everything looking totally legit, I guess.” We were at a red light—she leaned her elbow against the door and rested her cheek in her hand. “There’s no Post-It that says, ‘My secret Swiss accounts can be found here’, if that’s what you were wondering.”
“I’m embarrassed to admit how much I was hoping for that,” I said, leaning back and flipping open the folder. “But be that as it may—this is all we got now.”
Traffic was slow. I felt anxious, caged even, in this barely-moving Mercedes.
“So, what’s your angle?” Ayesha asked.
“How’s that?” I said.
“You said we were missing an angle, something we hadn’t considered. What is it?”
I sat up, taking in the stream of pedestrians. The car finally lurched ahead.
“I dunno,” I admitted. “Except maybe if he’s alive, the only thing that makes sense is he doesn’t know what’s going on.”
Charlie returned to playing with the radio. Ayesha clicked her teeth against her thumbnail. I picked up the folder and began leafing through it. Unsurprisingly for Duclos, everything was neatly ordered, money going out every month for the day-to-day of adult life, one after the other, rows upon rows of tiny stagnant numbers boxed into their spreadsheet homes:
Cable
Internet
Phone(s)
Tuition
Home renovation
Insurance (car/home/life/other)
Entertainment (includes magazines and restaurants)
Gas
Car Payment
Normally, I’d be quick to dismiss something this achingly organized and face-meltingly mundane, but as most of my monthly paperwork is in a shoe box on my kitchen table, I’ve lost the high ground, to be sure. I flipped through more.
Insurance (car/home/life/other)
“Hey, what insurance do you guys have?” I asked.
“I dunno,” Charlie said. “Standard stuff. This car is covered, uh… our flat, I’m sure?”
“I have life insurance,” Ayesha said. “Seemed an ironic purchase after I left the military, but here we are.”
I flipped through, tracing the bills to the beginning of last year.
There was a cheque made out to Sirius Insurance. New policy. Extra insurance on the Duclos’ house to cover what seemed to be extensive renovations.
Yet Annie Duclos had complained about the house need a big facelift and nothing had been done with it for years.
Hunh.
I double-checked the payment and pulled out my notes. Cheque was cut early last year, soon as the work was done—all around a time when Annie had been away.
I dug around my pockets, finally finding the card.
Elmore Cranston. The old friend from school, the guy who had Duclos help sell all those candy bars for his kid’s volleyball team. In addition to apparently being a good father, he was also a Customer Service Specialist with Sirius Insurance.
“Hey,” I said. I handed Charlie the card. “Pop that in the GPS. Let’s go.”
She peered at it.
“That’s near Canary Wharf. In this traffic, we’ll be there by Tuesday.”
I grabbed the folder and hopped out.
“Hey!” Ayesha said.
“Get to the office, please—both of you,” I said, cutting through the motionless cars. Someone honked once, weakly. “I’m taking the Tube to get to this guy’s office,” I shouted over my shoulder. “I’ll check in as soon as I have anything.”
Their faces said it all. Both frustrated, yet resigned. The outraged horns on the street began to bleat louder, each vying for its own attention, drowning out any protests that they may have been shouting my way.
35
Cranston’s office turned out to be a disappointingly shabby cubicle. Despite the post code, his company maintained modest accommodations just outside the radius of the financial giants ensconced in this part of town. He was surprised to see me as I peered over the carpeted three-quarter wall a bored receptionist had pointed me towards, but despite how we had left our previous conversation, he was gracious enough to offer me a coffee from the ground floor newsagents.
“So what brings you by?” he asked, handing me a takeaway cup and taking a quick flip through the papers.
“I wanted to apologize,” I said. “In my job, you see a lot of people’s worst, and I think I might’ve been a bit quick to say some of the things I said.”
“Not at all,” he said, smiling genuinely. “Apology accepted.” Sealing the deal, he tapped his cup against mine.
“Well, that’s a relief,” I said. “Thank you. But I have a couple more questions, if that’s OK.”
“I imagine you might. Terrible news about Annie.”
“Yeah, it’s a mess. But this is about Yannick.”
Cranston took a sip.
“I don’t think I know anything more than what I said before,” he replied.
I held up the folder.
“Yannick took out a pile of extra insurance from you last year. Major construction job, apparently. Major construction that his wife definitely didn’t know about. You know anything about that?”
Cranston buttoned the top of his suit jacket and straightened his already-straight tie. “Unless you’re interested in talking about buying some insurance, Mr. Grayle, I am getting back to work. I don’t have to talk to you or anyone else about my clients or their purchases.” He turned back to his office building.
“Don’t be dense,” I said, grabbing his elbow. “This is a homicide investigation now. The only reason I’m here before the cops is they just haven’t gotten to your name yet on the list of people I gave them.”
“What ‘list’?”
“The people I’ve interviewed about this case,” I said. “That’s what I gave the cops—the people who had a chance to tell everything they knew.”
He froze.
“Cranston, c’mon,” I said. “How do you think it’s going to look when the cops knock on your door to ask you the same questions, and I have to tell them you knew something and didn’t spill first chance you got?”
“I don’t know anything for certain,” he said.
“Well, I’ll settle for what you might know.”
He glanced around. Someone, likely a co-worker, walked by and nodded hello. “Can we go back upstairs?” he asked.
“I’m enjoying the sunshine,” I said. “Let’s go. Might as well get it over with.”
He sighed, and I could almost see the last of any defiance draining from his chest. He pulled out his phone and, after some rapid thumbwork, I felt the soft rumble of my own mobile in my pocket. I pulled it loose and opened his e-mail, an exchange between he and Yannick about a year and a half ago.
My eyes widened.
“Are you serious?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Jesus… How long did this take?”
“Not long at all,” he said, crossing his arms. “They put a tent around the place, made it look like an extermination. Anyone asked, they would've said a pipe burst. They were in and out in something like a week.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why would I?” he said, standing a bit taller. “He’s my friend. I was happy to help him.”
I thought back to our first conversation, that little bit of venom that leaked from Cranston’s mouth when Annie came up.
“You knew about the affair,” I said. “You’re covering for your guy.”
He shrugged.
I scrolled through the e-mail, the full exchange about this deal between Cranston and Duclos from about a year and a half ago. I finally got to the part I was looking for.
“Help him, yeah—you did that, for sure,” I said. “Plus, I’m guessing this whole thing was not exactly totally on the up-and-up. That’s a big number, so I’m going to take a shot and say Yannick overpaid. Either for your silence or, hell, just because you guys go back a ways.”
Cranston kept his nerve. “Just business,” he said, forcing a smile.
I put my phone away.
“Well, either way, a nice payday for you. Still, though. Pretty impressive getting that all done so fast. I mean, a week?”
“When you’re rich, you can get just about anything done,” Cranston said, regaining a bit more of his composure, the weight finally off what passed for his conscience. “Timelines are for little people.”
36
About an hour later. I sat in my Saab outside the Duclos’ house in West Brampton, where this all began. I had plugged in my battered iPod and was listening to some music, blasting it really, while considering my next step here, the wisdom of this move. The phone buzzed.
“Hey,” I said, killing the volume on The Clash. “How’s things back at the ranch?”
“We’re good, thanks. Got your message. Charlie sent out for pizza and we are getting all the paperwork and evidence together.”
“Yeah, she’s good like that.”
“Well, she remembered your credit card info, so I think this one is on you.”
I smiled. “Yeah, she’s good like that, too.”
“You ready to go?”
I rubbed my hands together, more nervous energy than the cold.
“Yeah, I think so,” I said. “I don’t think there’s any danger. Assumin
g this is actually what happened. It’s, uh, pretty crazy.”
She laughed, a tight little chuckle from the back of her throat. Ayesha had a lovely laugh. I would have to remember to tell her that sometime, when everything got back to normal.
“You gotta admit, it makes a lot of sense,” she said.
“Well it beats the current working theory, which is non-existent.”
“Didn’t you say something about lack of options streamlining the decision-making process?” she asked.
“Once or twice,” I said. I killed the car and buttoned my coat.
“Heading in?” she asked.
“Yep.”
“OK. I can meet you there, you know.”
“Nah. This should be over in a few,” I said, stepping out into the street and jogging across the road. “I’ll message if I get in trouble.”
“Hang on,” she said. She handed the phone off.
“Thad?” Charlie said.
“Hey.”
The briefest of pauses.
“Be careful, OK?” she said.
I stopped in front of the Duclos house. Yellow police tape swathed the front door. No matter. That’s not where I was headed.
“Yeah, of course,” I said.
“OK. We’ll save some pizza, but you’ll need to get back in one piece to enjoy it.”
“One slice of pepperoni will be enough. I’m keeping the winter weight at bay.”
“Big Valentine’s date coming up?”
“Oh, yeah, totally,” I said, angling around the corner of the house and heading out back. “Did I tell you I got that Ingrid Bergman box set?”
“Shame to keep her waiting, then. See you soon.” She hung up.
I hopped the fence separating the front of the Duclos house and driveway from the front and landed with a soft thud on the grass.
Across from me was the office shed Annie had pointed out when we first met.
The door was locked, but not in any way convincingly. Two hard drives of my heel below the latch and I was in. There was a small desk, a closed laptop, two shelves with books organized alphabetically by author and subject, and a single lamp. In other words, the office was everything Duclos I had seen was: Clean. Organized. Spartan.
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