by D. L. EVANS
“Hmmmm.” Something was nuts all right. I thought out loud, “Correct me if I’m wrong. Another ‘personality’ in her body whacks the boyfriends after the break-up?... I was just getting used to the vampire and witch theory. I think I need to talk to her. Can you let me know what’s the status of the investigation?”
“Sure, but there’s another reason why I asked you here.”
“God Mack, I can’t take many more surprises like this, what is it?”
“While Annie and Alison were at the Station, there was a very strange blackout, only affected the Station itself. Before you say anything, I know it’s impossible, but that’s what happened. The computers and the phones went down for about fifteen minutes. Electronic experts are going over the place but so far can’t find out what caused it. Annie and Alison were the only ones in the whole building that weren’t freaked out. They just sort of stood there... looking detached from the excitement. Annie especially seemed like she was in a trance. Alison was in complete charge. Since they couldn’t officially charge Annie with anything yet, she left with Alison and their lawyers. When she was out of the building, the lights came back on. It was like nothing happened. The ‘up’ side is that Chief Lewis is in the crapper over the whole incident, like it was his fault.” Mack grinned.
“Well, both sisters could have been in shock. What do you think happened?”
“It’s something to do with Annie,” he said decisively. “I want you to arrange something for me. I want to speak to her privately. I mean ‘unofficially’. Can you get her to talk to me, alone? You can be there, but specifically, no big sister. Annie seems to let Alison do all the talking for her when she’s around, or maybe it just gives her a chance to stand back and observe. I haven’t quite made up my mind.”
“Just let me know what’s happening with the charges,” I said. “I can’t give you a definite answer until I speak to Annie myself and ask if it’s possible I’ll give it a shot. She might have had enough of cops and questions though, so I can’t promise anything, but I’ll ask her. What’s up your sleeve? What are you thinking?”
“Nothing that’s solid enough to describe but she’s a key Adam. Something is swirling around her, and maybe Alison too... Something that’s been going on for a long time. Annie must know something, even if she doesn’t know that she knows. I got the sense that she wants to cooperate. I mean, she came to the station on her own to clear up the meeting with Hennesey and didn’t seem to know that her uncle was dead. I believed her but I don’t think Martchenko or Elphick did. I need to talk to her and she has to be relaxed. I’ll get nowhere if she’s guarded or observed. This file on her past is only part of the story. Let me know when we can get together, OK?”
I agreed, trusting his nose and his instinct. Now, if I could only get Annie to do the same. We finished our drinks and left.
Chapter Forty-Six
MACK MACKENZIE:
A police station was the last place on earth that the bike courier wanted to go. He took a long drag of his cigarette and finished his coffee. It was stupid to keep smoking and it was a disadvantage in his line of work, pedalling a bike through traffic all day, but he found it more difficult to give up than heroin. Prison had solved his drug habit but not the cigarettes. It had been twelve years and seven months since his release, after serving five hard years for drug trafficking and he never wanted to see the inside of a cop shop again. The whole delivery deal smelled but a hundred bucks is a hundred bucks and he sure wasn’t in a position to turn down a gift horse even if was channelled through a kid. Still, what if it was a bomb? Nah, he thought. Too small for a bomb. It felt like a DVD. He squeezed the padded brown package and looked at the address yet again. All he had to do was plop the damn thing on any desk and get the hell out, right? No signature, no fuss, no muss and all over in five minutes. A little unscheduled drop-off and he could go about his business for the day and delivering packages was what he did now for a living. A cakewalk right?
The courier attached his bike to the bike slots outside the station with his wire lock. Even a police station bike rack wasn’t safe from bike thieves. He reluctantly entered the building and approached reception. The clerk glanced at the package, noted the name above the address and ordered him to drop it on a desk in a room a few doors further down the hall.
Mack was quietly sitting at his desk, having just poured a mug of his own coffee, home made in a thermos, thinking how he usually enjoyed an early, relatively quiet morning at the Station. Today, he thought, thanks to Vladimir-fucking-Roman, was going to be the exception. No one knew where the famous artist was hiding. The city was still bubbling with the global attention focussed on the newest landmark and the delicious mystery of it’s missing creator. It was probably a publicity stunt, Mack thought. He would wait for a drum roll, the Prime Minister would cut the ribbon, the masterpiece would be exposed to a million flashes and Vlad the fucking-vampire would fly down from the trees with his stupid cape flowing behind him like Superman. Lauren was right, he thought about the papers jumping to the conclusion that a killer was on the loose, selecting famous artists as targets and a few suggestive headlines succeeded in stirring up the entire artistic community. Mustn’t confuse the headlines with facts, Mack muttered to himself. Any jerk who fancied himself a genius, also considered himself a potential victim and what were the cops going to do about it? The ‘phones were ringing off the hook. Most of these never-be’s were pleased to take the spotlight, just to whine about their bloody insecurities. If it was true, the killer would be providing an aesthetic service to the city anyway with the crap that passed for art these days, he figured. He told the last ass-hole that had the nerve to demand protection that it would never happen because Mack considered it ‘natural selection’ at work.
Mack opened his thermos and poured another cup of his homemade coffee. He found it hard to function without a residue of unleaded caffeine in his veins. Just as he picked up his mug, a large manila envelope dropped on the desk in front of him. Even in his half-awake condition he could see that the courier was distinctly uncomfortable. Jittery eyes, skinny lips, the lean, calorie depraved look of a marathon runner. As he tried to scurry away like a rodent, Mack collared him and slammed him down in the chair opposite his, to question him about the sender. Even without opening it, Mack knew it was important and probably anonymous. The courier insisted that a ten-year-old kid gave it to him along with a few extra bucks to deliver it. Figures, Mack thought. Besides, the quivering turd was obviously too scared to lie. Mack pointed toward the door and he took off like the proverbial bat. The envelope had a name printed in large black letters, Max Mackenzie, misspelled, and a disc inside. No explanation of course. By now the rest of the squad, who never minded their own business anyway, were hovering, curious about the ruckus between Mack and the weasel-faced courier. He took the disc into one of the interview rooms, followed by the entire investigation team.
At least fifteen of them watched the small TV screen as the white noise cleared and a beautiful room came into focus. In the centre of the frame Annie Stanford sat beside a magnificent carved bed and comforted her uncle, Richard Stanford. No one in the group of investigators knew that Mack was already familiar with the place. There were a few questionable glances in his direction when the ancient old fossil, Richard Stanford himself, ranted to his niece about being illegally questioned by the police, namely Mack and his partner-in-deceit, Adam Stone. Mack knew Chief Lewis was going to jump all over his head about the interview actually being caught on tape but at this stage, Mack couldn’t care less. Lewis was deep in his own shit. They watched in silence as the conversation progressed. Annie’s back was to the camera. Where was the damn camera and why didn’t we know about it? Mack thought. She calmed the old man down with her deep whispery voice, touched his hand as he closed his eyes and left. The tape continued to play for about ten seconds, then when Mack was about to eject it, someone else entered the bed area. At first he looked like a doctor as he glanced around the room a
nd pulled a white mask that was hanging around his neck, up over his lower face. There was something familiar about him Mack noted. In a matter of seconds he wrapped a cord around the old man’s neck, tightened it, paused while the old man died and then left. The whole thing took twelve seconds. Proof that Annie didn’t kill him, hand delivered, but not to the investigating officer Mack thought. Why didn’t the damn director of Summerhill Glen or the security officer, turn in this tape in the first place? Everyone had a question and spoke at the same time.
Mack put up his hand, waited for silence, and stated, “The killer is Serge Mentz,” he paused, “and as far as I know, still works for Vladimir Roman. Issue a warrant for his arrest, first degree, and put out an APB out on him. I think it’s time for another chat with his boss.”
“Everyone and his brother is already trying to see Mr. Roman, Mack. With the big Bank opening hype in full swing, he’s the ‘man of the hour’.” Simpson said.
“Yah I know,” Mack agreed, “but we won’t be ‘asking permission’ to speak to him. If we get to him now, chances are he won’t be lawyered up yet.” Mack replied. “Thing is,” he thought out loud, “I can’t think why Roman, or this Mentz bloke would want to kill old man Stanford. What possible motive could there be?”
Simpson shrugged. “Are you going to volunteer what you and Styles were doing interviewing Richard Stanford?” Simpson asked.
“No, I am not.” Mack answered. “It wasn’t relevant to the case... at least it wasn’t until he croaked. Guess I’ll have to dance my way out of this with the Chief.” Another subtle head-bashing confrontation behind the door, he thought. He turned to Simpson and said, “Get Jonesy to get me a print off the disc of Mentz and make a bunch of copies.”
“Don’t worry about Lewis too much,” Simpson volunteered. “You’re too high profile with the press now for him to kick you off the case.” Mack looked puzzled. Simpson explained, “Lewis did his usual shit-to-camera, at a press conference yesterday, ” he explained, “about all the security the city will be providing at the Bank Plaza Opening on Thursday but when they cut to the action at the Plaza, there you were, directing and running around, getting the place organized for the big day. Honestly Mack, it looked like the Chief took the bows while you did all the work. My wife loved it... said you’re quite photogenic. Can I have your autograph?” he asked over his suppressed laughter.
“Fuck you.” Several officers within earshot joined the laughter. “Send the tape to the lab and have them check for a fiddle with the edit, although I’m sure it’s real.“
“Sure looks genuine. Has to be a bogus camera though. Easy enough to check out,” Bill Mapplebeck offered.
“The director of Summerhill Glen is....” Mack consulted his notes, “ Doctor Ron Solda. Drive out there and find the wee ‘insect’ device responsible for the evidence, assuming it’s still there but frankly, I think the chances of that are lower than whaleshit. Take Clifford with you. Call in as soon as you find something.” Mapplebeck was the natural choice to go, Mack thought. If it ran on electricity, he could build it, copy it, modify or compromise it. Right now he just had to find and identify the bug and follow the trail back to its master. Rick Clifford took the bows as a fingerprint expert.
An hour later, Mapplebeck checked in. He reported to Mack that there was no camera or any other kind of surveillance device in the late Mr. Stanford’s suite, confirming Dr. Solda’s indignant protest. However, that had not always been the case. Evidence was found of something in a wall sconce opposite the bed. He explained to Mack that a tiny hole had been expertly drilled out of the wood. It would have been missed as part of the intricate carving if he hadn’t examined the piece with a magnifying glass and a light. It indicated that a surveillance system that worked on infrared and radio frequency transmissions as opposed to the hard-wired cameras that are here legally. A signal from a microphone and fibre-optic camera was transmitted to a remote location, possibly an equipped van in disguise, of course, that had to be within a half-mile. The incoming signal was probably relayed by telephone to someone’s security room. If he had to guess, he’d bet that who ever it was used state-of-the-art digital technology that is only available to say the RCMP, FBI, CIA or equivalent.
“Jesus.” Mack swore.” Why go to that trouble to watch an old man?” Christ Almighty, he thought, it fits with Annie’s statement that she felt she was being watched but not consistently. After all, this clever prick probably has a real job too, a cover. Could Richard Stanford still control anything from his bed, in his condition? Mack thought, and how would Mentz be involved?
Mapplebeck and Clifford crawled over the ’TV’ (surveillance) room at Summerhill Glen for two hours, taking off cover plates and following wires and cables, but nothing out of the ordinary was found. The amiable but flustered guard, Mr. Jilly, reiterated once more, for the record (and probably his job), that the only unusual thing that had happened for years at the Glen, had to do with the hall camera that was found slightly askew and therefore missed the second visitor to Richard Stanford’s room that fateful afternoon. Mapplebeck’s report judged that Jilly seemed genuine and we already knew from the general investigation around Stanford’s death that he had a spotless record.
“Security,” Mack thought. “Everything keeps coming back to security. He sat at the computer and reviewed the case, re-reading the staff interviews at the Glen taken the afternoon of the murder. One small comment stood out. Mr. Jilly said that the surveillance system had been upgraded five years ago... five years ago. About the same time that Stanford checked in. It had been continuously upgraded. It fits, Mack thought. Scanning the data, he looked for the name he could take to Reese that might tie the pieces together. It was a long shot but what the hell else did he have? An anonymous DVD from an illegal camera or transmitter, whatever, showing a murder. The truth that the disc represented, freed Annie, convicted Mentz but still didn’t address the motive. Who sent it? Why were they watching Stanford? The company in charge of installing, maintaining and running the system was Owen Wright and Associates, a well-known and respected business that had been around for two generations.
Mack punched in Detective Charles Reese’s extension. “Hey Chuckie,” he said imagining the cringe, “Mackenzie here. I know you’re just wasting time playing with yerself over there but I have a question that could just light up your day.” No comment but a slight cough to show that he was waiting. Mack continued, “Check your list of companies that Harmon owns and tell me if Owen Wright and Omni are on it ... Detective Reese answered in the affirmative. “Yes?... Mack repeated, “Well, well, well.” He hung up the ‘phone, and looked at his watch. Mack figured it should take the string bean ‘bout two minutes (if he ran all the way), to arrive and demand to know what it’s all about.
One minute and twelve seconds later Detective Reese stormed through the door and sat deliberately in front of Mack’s desk, panting, red faced. Hostility thickened the air. Mack deliberately looked up from his notes.
“Calm down now,” Mack said, pouring a glass of water and offering it to the furious detective who just glared in response. ”Yer goin’ to blow something sure as hell. I needed you here face to face anyway and I knew that big nose of yours would bring you here with bells on, and here you are. In record time I might add.” The big gleaming smile and dimples were wasted on Reese who was so annoyed that he didn’t trust himself to speak. Mack drank the water himself.
“Troglodyte,” Reese managed after a dry swallow and a deep breath.
“Don’t use those big words with me, mister. Remember, I think finesse is a French pastry. And I was just going to suggest that we work together too. After all, I have something to bring to the party. I see you’re all ears... literally.”
Reese glared but said nothing in response to the insult.
“OK, OK.” Mack chuckled. “But let me say that you are going to have to develop a sense of humour, or I may have to kill you... eventually. Not now though. I have some good news.”
“First,” Mack answered, “I want you to see a tape that was delivered to me, anonymously, this morning. It’ll be back from the lab in a minute. It shows a bloke, Serge Mentz, Vladimir Roman’s assistant, strangling Richard Stanford.” Reese’s mouth dropped open. “We’ve got an ‘all points’ out on him. Should prove to be an interesting interrogation since we know neither Serge nor his brother take a crap without permission from their boss, Ivan the Terrible. Since we know the dear boy is in charge. I personally think they’ve left the country. And before you ask, we don’t have a clue why Vlad Roman would want the death of Richard Stanford. There’s no connection as far as we can see. Here’s the part that slips over into your area Reese; one of our guys, Simpson drove out to the retirement home where the tape was shot and found the hole where the illegal camera was installed. Owen Wright and Co. put in the updated security two years ago. I’ve been checking. Security seems to be the common denominator.”