“But in the end, he couldn’t stomach what you were doing and he wanted out,” I said. “Was that why he was killed?”
Ben held up his hands in protest. “Dean was my friend. I would never let anyone harm him.”
“Some friend you were,” I replied. “Ben, the world knows you as a philanthropist, but you’re just a dirty crook.” I paused. “You don’t need the money. Why get involved in this scheme?”
“For kicks. As for the money, you’re right that I don’t need more money, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want more.”
I shook my head in disbelief.
Ben gave me another big smile. “Let it go, my dear. You have nothing on me.”
He was right. He’d been running a real-estate scam, but what proof did I have? I didn’t know a single victim who could testify against them.
Frustrated, I turned to Mindy. “You heard about Ben and Gabe’s operation from your Aunt Riza. That’s why she sent you to Dean.”
“Riza told me Dean was a top-notch financial advisor,” she shot back. “That’s why I went to see him. And I became his client.”
“Then why aren’t you on his client roster?”
“How should I know? He probably ran a sloppy office.”
“Ben just said you wanted to get in on his sideline.”
“You heard that from Ben, not from me.”
I tried a different tack. “Giorgio, who runs the diner across the street from Dean’s office, saw a woman visiting Monaghan Financial in the late afternoons,” I said. “A woman who looked like you.”
“So it was Giorgio who saw me go into Dean’s building.” She chuckled. “Business must be slow if he spends his time looking out the diner window. But Giorgio doesn’t see everything. One day, I went in the back. Dean had his fire-escape door open, and I went up the stairs.”
“So you met Dean a few times,” I said.
“Yeah, I understand these meetings are standard procedure when an advisor takes on a new client. That’s what I told the police.”
“And you lied when you told me you only met him once.”
She gave me a scornful look. “You came into my home, started firing questions at me. Like you’re doing now. How dare you complain about the answers you get. You’d better leave.”
***
I left the house feeling mortified. I’d gone out with Ben a few times, and I’d enjoyed his company. I found him attractive. And all the while he’d been playing me, trying to find out what I knew.
Inside the Volvo, my shame turned into anger. Ben was a scumbag who preyed on people who had worked hard and put their savings into their homes. But, as he had pointed out, I had nothing on him. Nothing at all.
I wanted to weep—and tear out my hair in frustration. My cell phone rang, saving me from doing either.
“Where are you?” Sam asked.
“Outside Mindy’s sister’s house.”
“You saw her?”
“Yes.”
“How did it go?”
“Not well.”
“But you’re okay, thank God.” She paused for a few beats. “What are you up to now?”
I had planned to head home when I left Markham, but now I wanted to check something out.
“I thought I’d catch Giorgio before he closes up for the day. I have something to ask him.”
The rush-hour drive back to Toronto gave me plenty of time to ponder what Mindy had just said. She’d entered Dean’s office through the fire-escape door on at least one occasion. And Sam had told me that Dean liked to keep that door open on warm days.
Who had climbed up the fire escape on the afternoon Dean was killed?
Chapter Forty-seven
A Closed sign was on the diner’s window. Inside, I saw chairs overturned on the tables and Giorgio sweeping the floor. He opened up when I knocked, setting the bells on the door jingling. “I close now,” he said.
“A quick question.” I pushed past him and set my handbag on the lunch counter. He looked taken aback by my intrusion. “The afternoon Dean Monaghan was killed…who did you see go up to his office?”
“I already tell police,” he said wearily. “Sam leave at her usual time, but she come back maybe 20 minutes later. I tell this to police.”
I turned and glanced out the window. I had a good view of Dean’s front entrance across the street. I could also see the rest of the block to the east of Dean’s building, and the street that intersected Bloor.
“Anyone else go in?” I asked.
“Man in Staples truck—”
“Yes, Sam signed for three boxes from Staples,” I said. “The woman you saw visiting Dean after Sam left the office. An attractive Filipina, long, dark hair. Did she come by that day?”
He closed his eyes, apparently considering the question. “I cannot remember.”
“Dean kept his back door open on warm days. Did you see anyone you know walk down the street, and go around the corner? That person could have entered the building through the fire escape door.”
Giorgio’s hands began to shake. “No more questions. You go now.” The broom he was holding dropped to the floor. I looked into his tired brown eyes, and saw that they were filled with fear.
“Giorgio, what’s wrong?” I asked.
His shoulders slumped, and his face turned ashen. I helped him over to a stool at the counter, sat him down, and waited.
“I no sleep well anymore,” he said dully.
I whispered, “Giorgio, what really happened that afternoon?”
“I make mistake.” His face was wet with tears. “I do not want to kill Dean.”
Giorgio killed Dean? I couldn’t—I didn’t want to—believe it.
I sat on the stool next to him. “Tell me what happened.”
He turned his sad eyes on me and leaned closer. “Man called Gabe, he come here some afternoons when business is slow. We talk about the Leafs, who will win next election, how much house cost in Toronto. I think this Gabe is my friend. I tell him my wife, Maria, and me just pay off our mortgage. But Gabe say that is no big deal. He say investments that make money much smarter than paying off mortgage.”
Giorgio pulled a handkerchief out of his trousers pocket and mopped his forehead. “Gabe say he and Dean have business that help people make investments with money from home. They do this for me, he say, and I make lot of money. Maria and me can pay Nick’s tuition at medical school.”
He looked stricken. “I do what Gabe say. I go to bank, and get $250,000 home-equity loan. I give money to Gabe to make investments.”
“And that was the last you saw of Gabe,” I said.
He nodded sadly. “He give me paper saying I own shares in ABC Data Systems Limited, but when I show it at bank, they tell me paper is fake. Worthless. There is no ABC Data Systems Limited. And phone number on Gabe’s business card not in service.”
My heart went out to this man who had come to Canada to start a better life. He and Maria had worked long hours, and they had finally paid off the mortgage on their home. Now they wanted to help their son become a doctor, and their savings had been stolen.
I thought of Dean, and what had happened to him. He hadn’t deserved that, either.
“I cannot find Gabe,” Giorgio said, “but I know where I can find his business partner.”
“You visited Dean.”
“Yes,” Giorgio said. “I walk down alley, and see door open at top of Dean’s fire escape. On warm days, he sometimes do that. I go up the stairs.”
That was why Giorgio hadn’t been seen on the surveillance footage: he came in Dean’s back door.
“Dean, he was sitting at his big desk. He surprised to see me, but he greet me like friend,” Giorgio continued. “But when I ask about my money, he pretend not to know. He pretend not to know about fake paper for shares in ABC Data Systems Limited. I tell Dean I work hard to pay off mortgage, and Maria work hard too with her catering business. I tell him I want my money back. He say he cannot help me.”
Giorgio’s face was gray. I brought him a glass of water.
“I say I not leave without my money. Dean stand up and tell me to get out. I look at this rich guy who take our money, and I feel terrible anger.”
He took a sip of water. “Then I see it. Fancy knife on desk.”
The letter opener.
“I grab knife, and stab Dean in his neck. He step back, hold his neck. I stab him in chest. I stab him again…and again. Dean falls on floor. Blood is everywhere.”
Giorgio leaned over the counter and held his head in his hands. “I wipe knife with handkerchief, drop it beside Dean.” He turned to me. “I do not mean to kill him.”
“You left by the back door?”
“Yes,” he croaked. “I kick away box that hold door open. Door close behind me.”
“You must have been covered in blood.”
“I take off apron and roll it up before I leave office. I put it in dumpster far away from here.”
The last thing I wanted to do was turn Giorgio over to the police, but I had to. Maybe, just maybe, a jury would take pity on him.
But as I looked at the man slumped over the counter beside me, I realized he was a direct link to the real-estate scam. Giorgio was Gabe’s mark. He could testify against him.
“Do you still have the paper that says you own shares in ABC Data Systems Limited?” I asked. “The paper the bank told you was worthless?”
He raised his head and inclined it in the direction of the cash register. “I keep in there.”
I took my cell phone from my pocket. “Giorgio, I’m going to call the police. When they get here, tell them how Gabe stole your money, then told you he had invested it. Would you do that?”
Giorgio drew himself up and swiveled the stool around to face me. Certain that he was about to refuse, I began to punch Hardy’s number into my phone.
Then he spoke, slowly and painfully. “Yes, I do that. I tell police Gabe take our money and give me worthless paper. I do this so he cannot hurt more people.”
Epilogue
It’s been two-and-a-half months since Giorgio told the police that Gabe Quincy stole the savings he’d put into his home. And what he did because of that.
Giorgio pleaded guilty to second-degree murder. He’s serving a 10-year sentence, but I have my fingers crossed that he’ll be eligible for parole in a few years. Maria is running his diner, and she rarely smiles these days. I stop by for coffee and a breakfast sandwich every morning to give her some business.
Gabe is in a correctional facility notorious for overcrowding, violence and drugs. The trials for the murders of Rebecca Quincy and Riza Santos are set for the spring, and I hope Gabe spends the rest of his days behind bars. He ruined and ended lives, including his wife’s.
Four more victims of the home-equity scam have come forward, and Gabe and Ben have been charged with five counts of fraud. Ben is currently out on bail awaiting trial. The newspapers have been running long articles on him. “’Tis Better to Receive Than to Give: Toronto Philanthropist Charged with Fraud” was the headline in the Toronto World yesterday. Some of my clients had met Ben at Dean Monaghan’s parties, and they were shocked to learn about his dark side. “He seemed like such a nice man, so committed to the arts,” one woman told me. “You really can’t judge a book by its cover, can you?”
If he’s convicted, Ben will probably spend a few years in one of the Club Feds, our minimum-security resorts for the well-connected, with tennis courts and swimming pools. I figure he’ll move on to more white-collar crime when he gets out. It’s way too much fun for people like Ben to resist.
So my top client turned out to be a crook. Ben’s assets are frozen pending the outcome of his trial, but this week I received a letter from his lawyer telling me that, “when the situation is resolved,” his client would no longer need my services and would take his business to Optimum Capital.
And, yesterday, I received a handwritten note in the mail from Ben himself. “You were wondering about that worthy cause I mentioned,” he wrote. “After the dust settles, I plan to set up an animal rescue shelter, and provide for it after my death through a trust. See? I’m not really so bad.”
Leave it to Ben to provide for needy animals, but steal the homes of his fellow human beings.
With Ben no longer my client, I won’t have to pay Catherine the difference between the two offers I made for Dean’s business. But without all the billable hours working with him would have generated, I’ve been scrambling to recruit more clients. And, to my surprise, recruits have been coming in. The Ramsays and Kimberley Wilson have not only returned to my fold, but they’ve also brought new clients with them. I’m now working with Roz Ramsay’s parents and Kim Wilson’s fiancé, and I have an appointment with Phil Ramsay’s sister next week. Other clients have also promised to refer me to their friends.
Mindy, who managed to fly under the police radar in the home-equity scam, has not followed through on her intention of becoming my client. Which is just as well, because I’d have to turn her down.
I’ve come to rely on Sam at the office. Our clients love her, and she has excellent organizational skills. And she says that work is exactly what she needs right now. In January, she’ll begin another evening course toward her business degree. Becca’s final act—trying to save her sister—boosted Sam’s self-worth, and has allowed her to start healing.
***
Early in November, Sam came into my office looking almost like her old self. “You’ve been talking about throwing a bash for your clients, Pat, but you haven’t done anything about it. Christmas is coming, so now’s the time. You mentioned an artist who holds parties in his studio, which sounds pretty funky. And you’ve talked to Maria about catering.”
The clever girl knew I needed a push.
I called Ilona’s office, and reached her between clients. “That party you’ve been telling me to throw,” I said. “I’m ready.”
“It’s about time. We’ll visit András and see what he can do. Tonight? Tomorrow?”
“Tonight, after work.”
Ilona picked me up in her Audi, and drove us to Gallery Horvath on Gerrard Street East. Almost, but not quite, in the trendy Beaches neighborhood.
“András runs an art gallery,” I said as she maneuvered the Audi into a parking space in front of the building. “You told me it was a studio.”
“Gallery, studio. What’s the difference?”
András was in his late 30s, and wore his fair hair combed back from his face. He kissed us on both cheeks.
“Welcome to Gallery Horvath, Pat,” he said. “And please call me Andy.”
The interior of the old building had been transformed into a minimalist art space, with white walls, new hardwood floors, and good lighting. Large, swirling abstract paintings were on the walls, and abstract metal sculptures stood on pedestals. A sign beside the wooden staircase said more artwork was on display upstairs.
“Very nice,” I said, and I meant it.
“We showcase Canadian artists,” Andy said. “A few of the paintings are mine.”
“And you hold parties here,” Ilona said.
“I do.” He beamed at me. “Openings, of course. And, from time to time, I provide the space for cross-promotion purposes, such as for a financial planner with a high-end clientele who might be interested in Gallery Horvath’s paintings.”
And so the party began to take shape. I set a date, the second Thursday evening in December. Sam designed a stylish invitation on the computer, and we mailed out invites to all my clients. I hired Maria to prepare an assortment of finger foods and preside over the gallery’s kitchen. Stéphane volunteered to run the bar, and I appointed Kyle his assistant. Tracy and Jamie were enlisted to circulate with trays of food. Ilona offered to be my girl Friday, as long as she didn’t have to wash dishes.
I told Sam to wear her best party dress; her job was to help me entertain our clients. I felt terrible when she said she didn’t have a party dress. When I told that to L
aura, she insisted Sam try on some of hers. “I think we’re the same size. Or the size I was before…” She looked down at her enormous belly. “Well, I’m beyond partying right now.”
***
“Sensational!” Stéphane gave my black silk trousers and silver bolero jacket an approving nod.
“Sam, you look stunning,” I said. She had selected an emerald-green satin shirtwaist from Laura’s closet. It brought out the color of her eyes and contrasted beautifully with her red hair. She’d also borrowed a pair of high-heeled gold sandals from Laura.
“She certainly does,” Ilona said.
Sam was blushing furiously.
The front door opened. Our first guest was Catherine Monaghan in a red cape trimmed with black mink. I tried to hide my surprise. Sam caught my eye and raised a hand in a placating gesture.
“Thank you for your invitation, Pat,” Catherine said. “And Sam, I was so sorry to hear about your sister. I sent a note to your parents.”
“They told me,” Sam said. “Thank you.”
I had apparently invited Catherine, so I gave her a smile. “Let’s get you a drink,” I said.
She shook her head. “Sorry, I can’t stay. I came by to assure you that Lukas and I will build our business slowly. We will not go after Dean’s clients.”
“That’s good to hear.”
She looked me straight in the eyes. “My objective is to ensure that Monaghan Wealth Management is on a solid footing by the time I retire.”
In other words, she was building a business for her son. With the money I’d paid for Dean’s practice, she could afford to proceed slowly. Hopefully, she would help Lukas develop some people skills and business ethics along the way.
“Good luck with it,” I said.
Catherine nodded. “And all the best to you, Pat. You won’t get any more grief from Lukas.”
I looked at the woman who had been brought to her knees by her son. She’d been humbled, but she wasn’t broken. And I believed what she’d just told me.
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