Fall Guy

by Scott Mackay

  “Let’s see the key,” said Gilbert.

  The coroner lifted a scalpel from his tray and sliced the balloon open.

  A key for a public locker. The key had an orange plastic handle. Why would Edgar swallow a key? And how many public lockers could there be in Toronto? Gilbert grew suddenly dismayed. Who even said the locker had to be in Toronto?

  “Does it have a number?” asked Lombardo.

  Blackstein turned it around. “Forty-three,” he said.

  Locker 43, thought Gilbert. But locker 43 where?

  After the autopsy, Gilbert drove to New City Hall to see Metro Councillor Rosalyn Surrey. Having spent two years in architectural school back in the 1970s, Gilbert had some interest in the municipal seat of government, a building which still looked futuristic even after thirty years. Two glass-faced office towers, both curved, embraced the saucer-shaped council chamber. The architectural array was modernist and sculptural, a design by Finnish architect Viljo Revell, submitted in competition against other designs from all over the world back in 1958. Gilbert entered the podium block, the two-story office block at ground level. He followed the broad winding stairs to the second level, glanced at the council chamber’s supporting column as it rose and spread like a giant toadstool from a sunken carpeted amphitheater down below.

  On the second floor he walked along a corridor until he came to Rosalyn Surrey’s office. Out the window at the end of the corridor he saw Old City Hall, a Romanesque pile of red brick which had served as Toronto’s seat of government as far back as Queen Victoria’s reign. He opened the door and went inside, the photographs in his briefcase, unhappy that he should have to trample upon the obvious tenderness he saw in them, but compelled as if by an internal command to follow up on this most obvious lead.

  Rosalyn Surrey’s secretary looked up from her computer and smiled brightly, her lips glossed with a crisp shade of red, her gold earrings discreet but suggestive. The nameplate on her desk said Ms. Cindy Cheng. She was a pretty Chinese woman of thirty, wore a brown two-piece outfit, had her hair cut shoulder-length, styled with a hint of curl, and wore peacock-blue eye shadow. Her smile broadened. She smiled with as much cheerfulness as Gilbert could stand.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  Gilbert took out his badge and ID and showed them to Ms. Cheng. “I have an appointment to see Rosalyn Surrey.”

  Ms. Cheng looked at his shield. “She’s not back from council yet.” Cindy Cheng looked at him questioningly. “Is this about the Police Services Board meeting?” she asked. “Are you delivering the agenda?”

  Gilbert didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. Did she really think he looked young enough to be a messenger boy?

  “No,” he said. “This is an unrelated matter.”

  “Oh,” said Ms. Cheng, surprised. “And she knows you’re coming?” She glanced at her Compaq PC. “Because I don’t have you marked down here in the computer.”

  “It’s last-minute,” said Gilbert, “but she knows I’m coming. I gather she didn’t tell you. I called early this morning.”

  “She’s been in Council since nine,” said Ms. Cheng.

  “Is she due back soon?” Gilbert had to meet Lombardo at the Champion Gardens Restaurant in an hour. Donald Kennedy’s report said the cook had seen a man prowling near the back of the restaurant around the time of the murder, but the cook had gone off duty before they’d had a chance to question him about it. “Can you not page her?”

  “If she knows you’re coming, I’m sure she’ll be back.” Ms. Cheng smiled brightly again. “I wouldn’t want to take her out of Council. Have a seat over there if you like.”

  Gilbert glanced at the waiting area. “Thanks,” he said.

  He sat down. Magazines lay fanned out over the table. Also some Chinese newspapers—Rosalyn Surrey knew who her constituents were. Up on the wall Gilbert saw framed photographs of Rosalyn Surrey at various public functions. One showed Surrey opening the Annual Dragon Boat Race on Toronto Island, dressed in a red tracksuit, a paddle in one hand, a starting pistol in the other, her smile so genuine it looked as if it might jump out and hit Gilbert over the head. Another showed her shaking hands with a visiting Chinese dignitary at the black-tie gala celebrating recent Royal Ontario Museum acquisitions from Zhejiang Province; she was dressed in a simple black evening gown stitched with subtle black beading, and, in this incarnation, looked like a sophisticated and cosmopolitan woman who knew how to handle her duties as a functionary well. Another captured her with a smudged face on a hot August night serving bottles of Gatorade to brawny police officers—like a cheerleader among football players—during the subway-crash rescue effort a few summers ago. Poignant public service photographs. Vanity photographs. Photographs meant to show visiting constituents that she was the right woman for the job.

  A few minutes later Councillor Surrey walked into the office. She was tall, wore a pale green blazer with a matching skirt, had her blond hair up and off her neck with a spring-clasp comb, and wore jade earrings, ones that offset her cat-green eyes. She gave Gilbert a pleasant and helpful smile, perhaps thinking he was a constituent. He got to his feet, his knees bothering him again.

  “Ms. Surrey?” he said.

  “It’s Mrs. Surrey,” she said, correcting him politely.

  He extended his hand. “I’m Detective-Sergeant Barry Gilbert, of Metro Homicide. We spoke earlier on the phone.”

  Though her smile stayed in place, he detected a change in her eyes, a dimming of their brightness. “How do you do,” she said. She shook Gilbert’s hand, a firm handshake for such a feminine hand. “Perhaps we can talk in my office,” she suggested. He understood; Ms. Cheng eyed them curiously.

  Gilbert nodded. “Whatever you prefer,” he said.

  He followed her into her office and they sat down. From up here on the second floor of the podium block he saw the reflecting pool in Nathan Phillips Square, now converted into a skating rink despite the constant drizzle. He saw the big bronze sculpture by Henry Moore, The Archer, the brown metal dark and slick in the rain. He saw hot dog vendors, streetcars on Queen Street, and the towers of the financial district farther down. He turned to Rosalyn Surrey. He was surprised by the anxiety he saw in her face. She leaned forward, her green eyes intent.

  “It’s about Garth, isn’t it?” she said.

  Gilbert’s brow rose. “Garth?” he said, caught off-guard by this unexpected inquiry. “Who’s Garth?”

  She stared at Gilbert. Her expression changed. She made an instant retreat. He expected some explanation but none came. Garth, whoever he might be, was none of his business. She leaned back in her chair, tapped the space bar on her keyboard, watched the screen saver disappear, scrutinized the e-mail prompt as it flickered to the monitor, and turned back to Gilbert. The look on her face, blank yet challenging, made Gilbert feel as if he had just inadvertently been rude to her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice now bland, unapologetic. “You weren’t specific on the phone.”

  He opened his briefcase and took out the manila folder. He saw no reason to delay her embarrassment. He opened the envelope and withdrew Edgar’s compromising photographs. She looked at the photographs—her own lithe body sheathed in the crimson cheongsam—with unsurprised eyes. She wasn’t going to tip her hand this time.

  “Where did you get those?” she asked.

  “In Edgar Lau’s apartment,” he said.

  He let that sit. He was a homicide detective. He was here because of a homicide. He knew she had to know that. He watched her closely. He admired her self-control. Yet for all her miraculous calm, she was too calm. Her face was too still. Too placid. She waited. But Gilbert waited longer. Stared at her. Waited for her emotional reflexes to betray her.

  “Is he all right?” she asked at last.

  He continued to stare. Was that a lover’s anxiety he saw in her eyes? “Mrs. Surrey,” he said, “you’re on the Police Services Board. You have some knowledge of the way we work.”r />
  “Those photographs,” she said. “They were my idea. I wanted to give them to my husband.” Denying guilt, denying blame. “As a Christmas gift.”

  Gilbert looked at the photographs. “You’re lovely,” he said. “But I’m afraid I’m going to have to keep these photographs. You’ve got a few shopping days left. You better get your husband something else.” He looked at her. “I’m afraid Edgar Lau was murdered last night in his apartment.” He let it out of the box, the dark little fact of another human being’s violent death, like releasing a predator into the wild, not sure of the reaction he would get. “Shot to death around ten o’clock.” Saying it as if he believed even she were capable of shooting someone. “When we searched his apartment we found these photographs. You understand that because of the intimate nature of these photographs…we have to investigate.”

  He studied her reaction. She stared at him with wide eyes. Her lips tightened, then pursed. Her eyes moistened and she looked away, the soft rainy light of the overcast sky blanching her face. The corners of her lips hardened.

  “What do you want?” she asked softly, but with enough force to make him understand that she considered his intrusion ill-advised.

  “Anything you can tell us,” he said.

  He observed a slight sag in her shoulders.

  “Edgar was one of my volunteers,” she said. Gilbert was disappointed. She was retreating again. “Half the photographs you see on the wall outside were taken by Edgar.” Doctoring the damage, spinning the evidence, hiding what he so plainly saw was a lover’s woe. “Many of the photos in my campaign literature were taken by Edgar.” Emphasizing a professional side to their relationship. “He was a friend, Detective Gilbert. Nothing more.” She looked at her hands. “Your innuendo is in bad taste.”

  “What innuendo?”

  “I’m a happily married woman, Detective Gilbert. My constituents know that.”

  He looked outside where he saw a handful of soggy skaters make their way around the civic rink. “Mrs. Surrey, I don’t want to wreck your day,” he said. “I’m just eliminating possibilities. And I want to do that as quietly as I can. I understand your position.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He felt sorry for her, having to hide like this when she was so upset. But he had to get on with it. “Were you anywhere near Edgar’s apartment last night?” he asked.

  She shook her head. She knew how it worked. “I was here until eight o’clock last night. Then I went home. You can ask Cindy.”

  “Is there anyone who can confirm that you actually went home at eight o’clock?” he asked. “Your husband, perhaps?”

  “No,” she said. “My husband is away on business.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Don’t look so worried.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  “I think it’ll be all right.” He couldn’t ignore her pain, even if she resolutely denied it. He felt he had to offer her something. Condolences, at least. “I’m sorry about Edgar,” he said. “I’ll double-check the things you’ve told me, and I’ll be in touch with you.” He looked at her inquiringly. “There’s nothing else you want to add?”

  “There’s nothing else I can add,” she said. “He was an acquaintance. A friend. A volunteer. That’s all.”

  Gilbert sensed the lie behind her brittle poise. She fabricated the most obvious smoke screen, out-and-out denial, the most tired tale he had ever heard. “Okay,” he said, deciding to give her time to think about it. “I promise this will all be done with a lot of discretion.” Deciding to make her feel safe. For now.

  She looked out the window. “Thank you, detective,” she said.

  But she didn’t sound thankful in the least.

  Four

  Gilbert met Lombardo at the Champion Gardens Chinese Restaurant, the restaurant immediately below the two apartments where the Laus lived, at three o’clock. December 18th, and Christmas shoppers filled the streets. He parked in front of Gwartzman’s Art Supplies and Lombardo ran from the doorway of the art store through the rain, a leather zip-up folder under his arm, and got into Gilbert’s unmarked Lumina. The rain splashed against the roof of the car in a soothing manner, blurred the windshield, and peppered the hood.

  “Where’d you park?” he asked Lombardo.

  “I’m around back,” said his young partner. “I wanted to look at the alley and the fire escape again. I’m not so convinced our killer came in the back door anymore. Maybe Edgar went out to the balcony before the killer arrived and tracked water over the floor. He’s got some stuff out there. Garbage cans and so forth. A blue box.”

  “It’s possible,” said Gilbert. “How did Telford make out? Anything on Edgar?”

  Lombardo nodded. “He’s got a fairly extensive sheet,” he said.

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” said Gilbert. “Narcotics?”

  “No.”

  “No?” said Gilbert.

  “Mainly assault charges,” said Lombardo. “Three old ones going back ten years. Then a much later one. It’s the later one we have to concern ourselves with.”

  “Why?”

  Lombardo looked at his lap, squinting, his mouth going slack, as if he were bothered by this later assault charge. “He attacked Pearl Wu,” he said. He looked at Gilbert, oddly shamefaced, as if he felt he had to apologize for Edgar. “He slashed her face with a knife.” Here was a sad little discovery, one that deadened the air inside the car with a chill malice. Lombardo shook his head. “I guess it’s more of a hot-and-cold thing than I thought.” Lombardo glanced out at the rain. So did Gilbert. The nature of the assault needed a moment or two. “He was convicted and sentenced,” said Lombardo. Lombardo turned to Gilbert. “He served two years of a six-year sentence.” A sad little discovery that proclaimed motive, and, in the most lurid way, implicated Pearl as their strongest suspect. “He must have had top-flight legal talent to get him out so early. I phoned the sentencing judge. Justice Martin Raff. Ever heard of him?”

  “No.”

  “He said he went hard on Edgar because Pearl Wu had been a fashion model. Raff says she’s one of the most beautiful women he’s ever seen.” Lombardo shook his head, his eyes growing solemn. “To slash her face like that was to take away her livelihood. Even with a lot of plastic surgery, Raff says she still has a highly visible scar. He was surprised to learn Edgar got out so early.”

  Gilbert watched a Spadina Avenue bus splash through a large pothole. He knew what needed to be said. “So we have a beautiful woman with her face slashed. She wants revenge. She’s had enough of looking at herself in the mirror every day. She’s got to make Edgar pay. She goes to his apartment and shoots him. She’s seen leaving the apartment by the waiter downstairs.”

  Lombardo nodded. “And then she disappears,” he said. Lombardo’s words were like lead now, his voice dropping into a well of disappointment.

  Gilbert looked at his partner with questioning eyes. “Disappears?” he said.

  “I still haven’t found her yet,” said Lombardo. As if the small miracles he had already worked this morning amounted to nothing.

  Gilbert went over one of the more likely scenarios. “She searches his apartment because she knows he has a ton of heroin.”

  “Only I don’t think she would be interested in a ton of heroin,” said Lombardo.

  “Why not?” asked Gilbert.

  “Because she’s rich.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Raff told me,” he said. “And Benny Eng confirmed it.”

  “Benny says she’s rich?” said Gilbert. Gilbert thought of the small smiling detective from the Asian Investigative Unit.

  “She’s married to Bing Wu,” said Lombardo.

  The name struck a chord in Gilbert’s mind. “Why does that name sound familiar?” he asked.

  Lombardo perked up. “He’s one of the richest men in Hong Kong and an alleged 14K Triad member.”

  This information made Gilbert feel as if he had just stepped off a tall
building. “Shit,” he said. “I knew it.”

  Lombardo steamrollered ahead with the rest of his facts. “Benny says Pearl had a highly successful career as a fashion model in Hong Kong,” he said. “As for Edgar Lau…” Lombardo’s brow knitted doubtfully. “He’s really not much of a criminal. Other than the assaults, he’s never been charged with anything. He was a floorman at a few Chinese gaming houses here in town for a while, but the officers of 52 Division never got around to charging him with anything related to illegal gambling. Benny says we should talk to a Constable Jeremy Austin at 52 Division if we want more information on the illegal gambling, and where Edgar might have worked.”

  Gilbert tapped the steering wheel a few times, thinking. “Did Benny have anything to say about Foster Sung? What’s this New Asian Solutions he owns?”

  “It’s a property management and development company. But also an import-export company.”

  “Christ.”

  “I know. Benny’s had his eye on the import-export division for a long time. But so far nothing. They’ve had dogs into the warehouse. And when the container ships come in, they get dogs down there too. But everything Sung brings into the country is innocuous. Jade jewelry. Brass trinkets. Incense. A lot of stuff comes from a company Bing Wu owns in Hong Kong, tourist-trade stuff, but also textiles and Chinese fashions. Benny’s been probing the Wu-Sung connection for a decade. He’s had his sights on Sung for a long time. But it’s been hit-and-miss. Remember the immigration scam case a few years back?”

  “Benny worked that?” asked Gilbert.

  “Yes. Foster Sung was indicted on that. And get this: he was indicted with two members of Toronto’s Kung Lok Triad, Sid Yuen Pan and Leslie Lee.” Lombardo pulled out a mimeographed copy of a newspaper story about the scam, with pictures of the three men. “Sung was acquitted, but the other two went to jail.” Lombardo’s lips stiffened, like a boxer who had lost a few rounds but who was now determined to win the match. “Benny’s convinced of a connection, he just hasn’t been able to prove it in court yet.”