by D. L. EVANS
Mack watched for another half hour, satisfied himself that the stakeout was history, and left, jittery from too many cups of coffee. ‘Something big was going down. The other men in the Smythe group that climbed into those limos, who were they? Was one of them the actual target of the stakeout? Was Reese watching one or all of them? Was Lauren in any danger? She worked in the same building.’ he thought uncomfortably. Just because he’d identified the game and watched from the sidelines, didn’t mean that he could guess the play.
Detective Charles Reese had joined the fraud squad a year ago, transferring from Vancouver. Everyone thought it was a joke. The guy looked exactly like Icabod Crane, in the cartoon version of the Legend of Sleepy Hollow. He was in his late forties; ridiculously tall and thin with massive ears that stuck out of unruly hair like pink seashells. To top off the image he spoke with a clipped English accent. Thank God he wasn’t in Homicide, Mack thought at their first meeting. No one would ever take any of them seriously if they showed up with this guy on the job. But Charles, (not Charlie or Chuck) was either oblivious or just used to the amusement that trailed after him. Mack speculated at the disastrous childhood he must have had with that face, knowing first hand children’s relentless capacity for cruelty. To give him credit, Detective Reese seemed immune to insults. In a matter of months, the lacklustre Fraud department started showing impressive results. No one made fun of him anymore, proving the old adage that the best form of revenge is success. And now, here he was larger than life following Smythe and Co. and doing a bloody good job of it too. A day full of surprises.
Later that afternoon, back at Division headquarters, Mack wandered upstairs to the Fraud Department. It was a beehive of activity; officers moving in and out, machines humming, ‘phones ringing. Mack leaned on the doorframe of Reese’s office watching for a moment, figuring out which way was best way to approach him. Reese was sitting with his back to the door at his computer. Mack drained the cup of hot liquid that passed for coffee and tossed the plastic cup into the garbage. Reese was a magician on the hardware, fingers moving with incredible speed. He could use the keyboard and speak on the phone at the same time; something Mack had never mastered. All traces of the denim-clad transient had disappeared, Mack noted and the conservative three-piece hung on his meatless frame. Did this guy have any blood? A tweed suit in June? Plus the fact that it looked made-to-measure for someone else. He was backlit from the sun, making his pink ears look translucent. Mack heard a throat clear, impatiently, and then realized it was his own.
Reese turned his swivel chair to face him and put on his glasses. Mack entered the room and sat in the uncomfortable chair opposite his desk. Reese looked at him without expression.
“To what do I owe the honour Detective Mackenzie? he said. "Somebody missing?”
“I’m not in Missing Persons any more, you know I’m back in Homicide,” Mack said. “I saw you and your team this morning at the CHAT plaza." Reese winced. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. “Hey,” Mac added, “you weren’t obvious or anything. It took me a while to spot you.”
“Yes, but you did. That’s the point.” Reese stood slowly, all six foot three inches of him unfolding like a deck chair and walked over to the file cabinets that served as a table for the inevitable tea set. “I guess I shouldn’t be so sensitive. Your reputation precedes you. You were interested in the management at CHAT-TV?” He poured himself a cup and returned to his desk.
“What if I was?”
“Were, you mean. You won’t get past Chief Lewis if you can’t master your subjunctives. That’s what you’re after isn’t it? Lewis’ job?”
“Shit.” Mack was a little surprised and a lot annoyed. ‘So’ he thought, ‘that’s why Lewis has a burr up his ass. He thinks I want his bloody job. What a stupid assumption... Of course, I could get rid of a lot of dead wood...’ “Reese, Don’t piss me about, just answer my question. I want to know why you’re watching Roger Smythe, specifically,” Mack said, his voice superbly modulated just as he imagined Mason Green’s would be in the same circumstances.
“Why? If I might ask?” The politeness had effort in it. Reese looked pained “I followed procedures. Smythe isn’t under suspicion for any homicide. Do you have something on him, something unofficial? “
“He’s involved with a friend of mine.” Mack gave his glacial smile.
“Ahh. Then it’s personal,” Reese nodded to himself. “You must mean the lovely Lauren Stone. Care for a cup of tea?” He eyed Mack sceptically, to see a reaction. When none was forthcoming, he continued, “Not exactly your cup of Oolong I expect... The gossip is that they’re quite serious and a marriage announcement is imminent.” Still no expression on the little detective but a tightness around the eyes; the canine glare of one who knows. Reese decided instantly that it might be in his best interest to help and cleared his throat.
“Actually, we’re watching four men,” Reese started dryly, “Roger Smythe, William Harmon, John Chernak and Philip Myers. The other three are all owners of their own companies and very rich men. The fact that came to our attention is that their personal profits are growing faster than their businesses, considerably so, in fact. We suspect that they’re spying through one of the communication satellites and investing according to the illegal insider information they’re collecting. Confirming it is proving a bit tricky, to say the least. They usually arrange to meet socially about once a month for an evening together where we suspect information is exchanged. They’re buying up other smaller companies and they’re purposely trying to cover major investments under complex paper trails.” He smiled tersely. “Is that what you wanted to know?”
“Have you dug around in their personal history?”
“Of course.” Reese ruffled some of the papers, annoyed to be asked something so elemental. “These men hide behind very powerful lawyers,” he explained. “A lot of crap gets thrown around but not much sticks. But we’re watching and they’re getting arrogant. Eventually, there’ll be a slip and we’ll be ready. Look, I have dozens of files and about three drawers of information about these men and their companies and holdings.” He continued. “Smythe has been groomed for politics probably from conception. He’s not the brightest bulb in the room, but we can’t find anything on him. Clean as a whistle, you might say.” He closed the file and made a show of cleaning his glasses but he suspected that a more serious game was afoot and Mackenzie had something on the hook. “Now, it’s your turn. What do you know?”
“I’m just watching out for a friend, so I’d appreciate it if you let me know when you have something on him. O.K.?” Mack said noncommittally.
Reese was suddenly unsure if he should push or not. He decided not. “Sure, no problem. But life is a two way street Mackenzie. If you hear anything from your people that I could use, I’ll expect to hear from you. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Chapter Nine
ADAM STONE:
Nothing is more frightening to a writer than a blank computer screen. I had been involved in several interesting crimes over the period of my twelve years as a cop, before I quit, but nothing seemed to work when I reduced my copious notes to words and I was tired of pushing the delete button. Heading back to the Stanford Galleries on my dear sister’s behalf seemed like the lesser of two evils. You could fry an egg on the sidewalk where I eased my Healy into one of the reserved spaces at the side of the newly sandblasted building. The baked grass that bordered the front steps resembled a fuzzy, brown rug and I wondered why they hadn’t done something about the condition of the lawn when they had gone to such lengths inside. I paused for a moment just inside the doors to let the air-conditioning wash over me, glancing around more out of habit than any sense of renewed interest. It was unimpressive from the exterior, but inside, I had to admit it looked good, even in the cold light of day, lit primarily by skylights. ’Lighting by God... not bad’ I thought.
As I proceeded through the foyer, a small, well-dressed man approached and
introduced himself as Winston Lucas, assistant to Ms. Alice Stanford. He shook my hand as briefly as he could, and led me into the main gallery. I shuddered, remembering the savage rock music that had battered this very space only hours ago. This guy seemed like a strange duck for an assistant however, since Alice Stanford could have just about anyone she wanted, he had to have something going for him, something beyond what I could see. There was a look of infinite patience on an otherwise forgettable face; bushy, Old Testament eyebrows over watery blue
eyes, framed by expensive optics. A fringe of grey dead-looking hair circled his pink scalp. As he snuck a look occasionally up at me, no doubt curious about my reason for the visit, his thick glasses reflected thousands of pinpoints of light from the surrounding room. He kept glancing at the ground as though his shoes were really interesting. I guessed his age at about sixty.
He led us skilfully around the cleaners who were dealing adeptly with the remains of the night before and headed past the bar toward Alice’s office. The main gallery seemed enormous without the tables and chairs and the crowd. Several worker ants in identical coveralls were manoeuvring a procession of large indiscernible sculptures into some pre-arranged configuration throughout the gallery. Now that it was visible, the inlaid parquet floor was beautiful. I studied one of the sculptures rolling past on a silent dolly. “Damn,” I said, “these things are big mothers. No wonder you needed to take out part of the second floor.” No response from Lucas but I noticed that his constantly moving eyes missed nothing. He bobbed his head up and down a few times. Was he agreeing with me or having trouble with his neck? I tried again. "Not exactly living room decorations are they?” No response. Was he deaf? He cleared his throat politely and did the neck thing again. God was this guy was made for public relations or what? The statues were more animated than he was.
Alison rose gracefully from her black lacquered desk wearing a conservative dark green silk tailored suit that managed to accentuate every curve as she moved forward to shake my hand. When I took hers, it was like grabbing a Popsicle. Firm, but cold.
Lucas excused himself, looking down at the floor submissively as he backed out, and the black doors closed silently behind him. The delicious smell of good coffee came from a silver and black service on wheels beside her desk. She seemed surprised that I was on time and we made polite conversation about the strange weather that preceded the ‘instant’ summer, while she poured into two small cups. There seemed to be no question that I wanted one or that I took it black. I checked out the room, wondering where the illusive little sister Annie was. All the low shiny black furniture stood out against white walls. Daylight from the windows was controlled through silver strip blinds casting thin striped lines on the cream and black carpet. A collection of ceramic masks adorned the wall behind her desk. At least thirty hand painted faces, all women without eyes, stared at me or anyone that she faced. What kind of message was one to make of that? If eyes were the windows of the soul she would rather not be watched? The monochromatic effect of the room was punctuated with slashes of red that matched her lips and nails. Natural stone and glass tables floated under pools of indirect light. Exquisite fresh red roses still in tight buds languished in a black vase on the corner of her desk. There were several newspapers opened to pictures of the previous night’s festivities. Judging from her mood, the reports were favourable. She liked drama. The desk looked like it had been dipped in syrup and the top was clear of any other clutter, testimony to her single-mindedness and exacting nature. Note: Her personal space was as cold and exquisite as the lady herself.
I decided I would shortly need a drink. Coffee, regardless how good, just wasn’t going to do it.
“I want you to know Mr. Stone...” she began, “Adam… that I was against my sister seeing you. Annie can be a little... well, confused at times. She must be handled with sensitivity. When Lauren suggested she speak to you, I instead advised that we hire a... forgive me, a professional bodyguard for her. I don’t mind you knowing that I checked into your credentials and of course your record on the police force, which was... is... exemplary... but since you left... well, the death of your wife was terrible, but I understand that you haven’t quite... recovered from your grief...." Her voice was warm and mellow with practised civility.
‘Shit, Where was she heading with all this? She checked ME out?’ I started to feel that she wanted me to react angrily and leave. Why? Who would have told her about my wife? Who would have mentioned my grief? I would kill someone for telling her this shit.
“... and,” she continued, “a book about murderers hardly qualifies you to advise my sister. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but I wanted my opposition made clear from the beginning.” Her eyes glittered like diamonds and were just as hard.
She was blunt. She sure wasn’t sorry. Did I really need this? I fought the urge to yawn; something to prove that she would never get close to the jugular. It was time to leave, but she would not have the last word. “First, let me assure you that I am not applying for a job,” I said trying to stay calm. “Secondly, my grief is my own business. I agreed to speak to the two of you as a favour to my sister and perhaps, if I choose, to offer advice. That’s it.”
Her cold green eyes bored through me without expression. I could hear the faint hum of the air-conditioner.
“And by the way,” I continued, keeping my voice as neutral as sand, “wasn’t your sister Annie supposed to be here? Doesn’t she have a say?” I took a last mouthful of the excellent coffee and placed the cup on the lacquered tabletop, ignoring the coaster, pulled myself up out of the couch, and headed to the door. Her voice followed me. Something had changed. Her tone was conciliatory.
“Mr. Stone, please… Annie is waiting in her office... well, it’s actually more her research library. Annie insisted that it remained unchanged during the renovations, and it’s where she spends most of her time when she’s not at her studio. I just wanted to speak to you first. I’m very worried about her. You will find her a little... unusual, but please accept that her talents are genuine.” This was a complete turnaround. Everything about her seemed softer; less confrontational. At the door, I swivelled back to face her. God she was beautiful.
With one hand on the doorknob, knowing it was a mistake, I replied, “Talents?” I’m learning to hate that word. I thought of Lauren.
She focused on my face staring hard. “I want to make it clear to you, that if Annie says someone is stalking her, then someone is stalking her!” Her green eyes flashed again as she closed the distance between us, firm breasts moving beneath the taut silk. She knew how to use her assets. Only then did I realize she was naked under the silk jacket but I kept my eyes above her neck with effort as I considered the gamut of emotions she had put me through in a matter of a few minutes. “We just can’t figure out why. She’s down the hall. Why don’t you ask her yourself..? She’s expecting you... Please...” She touched my arm, concern on her face. She was good. I caved.
I walked down a sky-lit hall, through the second door and into another world. The place was a mess. Books and magazines were piled everywhere, stacks of paper, leaning in defiance of gravity, covered every available surface. Her desk was literally buried under notes and binders. A computer filled a corner surrounded by files. Was there some unseen order in this chaos? Given the austere office I had just left, I had doubts that these two women could really be related. Around three sides of the room, books monopolized the walls, most jammed into shelves haphazardly, and I noticed to my surprise that they weren’t all art books. Melville, Hawthorne, Twain, Hemingway. One of my favourites, The Old Man and the Sea, stood out amid a number of other classics... a dreamer’s library. A polite cough startled me and I turned to face her indulgent smile.
Annie Stanford was the polar opposite of her sister. Her eyes held mine for several seconds, while the mutual assessment continued. I could feel her energy, her perception like heat from a lamp. Beautiful eyes like her sister but not green, they wandered somewhere betwe
en grey and amber, hard to define. No contacts lenses. The slightly upturned nose and full Cupid’s bow mouth were fresh, unpainted. The dress was unremarkable, ankle-length, airy, and floated around her as she moved to clear some debris from the couch. On closer inspection, I realized the abstract earth tones accented the warm glow of her skin and her long chestnut hair. Suddenly, it was a lovely dress. Her sister might have won a beauty contest but this would be the one you remembered. These two sisters were like the faces on different sides of a coin. They shared the same chin, the tilt of the head, the erect carriage, the same natural grace, but it ended there.
I found myself without words. She jumped in.
“You don’t see yourself in the role of bodyguard?” She glared a challenge.
No introductions, no ‘welcome-to-my-parlour’. Her voice was deep for a woman and serious intelligence glinted in the eyes that remained locked with mine. Had she been eavesdropping on my conversation with sis? It was an odd way to start a conversation. I stared stupidly, trying to think of something witty to say, but any chance of success was light years away, so for a moment, I willed myself to relax.
I finally broke contact and sank into the overstuffed couch where she had cleared space, suddenly feeling awkward, all elbows and knees. She remained standing, leaning against her desk, arms folded defiantly.