Scammed

by Ron Chudley

  Other than Lucy, of course.

  “Okay, okay!” the sergeant breathed. “All right, then.” He rubbed his hands together briskly, as if warming them, stared at his fingertips and then at his visitor, while Greg thought, What’s happening? If he’s going to arrest me, why doesn’t he get on with it?

  “Do you know the Starlight Café?” Tremblay said.

  “What?” Then, as the cop seemed about to explode again, Greg continued hurriedly, “Sorry, it’s just . . . yes, of course I do.”

  “Good. Now listen.” Sergeant Tremblay backed off and hovered, hands on hips, still getting himself under control. “Pull yourself together, pay attention, and don’t make me repeat myself again. In one minute you’re going to leave this office. You will look perfectly relaxed and normal, as if nothing important has been happening. You will not—repeat, not—speak to a soul, and you will leave as quickly and quietly as you can. From here you’ll go straight to the Starlight Café, where you’ll get a table in the quietest damn corner you can find and wait for me. I may get there in minutes, or it could be a whole lot longer. Whatever it takes, you will wait, and again—apart from your server—speak to no one. If there’s any part of this you don’t understand, tell me now. Otherwise, just nod.”

  Numbly, Greg nodded.

  “Oh, yeah,” Tremblay continued, in a different tone. “There is one alternative I should mention. If you’ve got problems with any of this, you can always come with me down to the cells right now. Is that by any chance what you’d prefer?”

  Silently, Greg shook his head.

  “Okay, Mr. Lothian. So what say you get the hell out of here?”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Starlight Café was a Victoria institution. As venerable, if not exactly as old, as the Empress Hotel, it had the advantage of being off the obvious tourist routes. Instead of being a tarted-up parody of itself, like so many venues in pursuit of the tourist dollar, the Starlight had remained true to its genteel past. Serving fine tea, passable coffee and splendid, creamy treats, the café had been able to maintain its perch in the fast-food world due to an influential and fiercely loyal clientele, plus long-established proprietors not totally obsessed with the bottom line. The Starlight was an eatery out of yesteryear, well-mannered and quiet, its only eccentricity being the name; ironically, the place had never been open after the time respectable folk head home for supper—5:00 PM in the afternoon.

  Greg entered and, as instructed, found himself a secluded table. It took several minutes for service to find him there, but he was familiar enough with the place to be unsurprised. When help did arrive, in the form of a kind-eyed waitress with white hair and a broad Yorkshire accent who called him “love,” he ordered coffee, then sat back in his dim corner, trying vainly to relax.

  He had no notion about the reason for this assignation. Curiosity fought with apprehension, but eventually he gave up trying to figure it out, thankful simply to be sitting in a marginally comfortable chair rather than a cell. He waited an hour, had two coffee refills, went once to the toilet, decided he’d better ask for the lunch menu, was just checking his watch for the umpteenth time when—almost like an illusionist’s trick—there was Tremblay approaching the table. Greg had noticed the sergeant’s powerful build earlier, not realizing that he was capable of moving with such stealth. With barely a pause, the officer dropped into the opposite chair and leaned across the table. His face was neither flushed nor wax-pale now, but the look he fixed on Greg was so intense that he fancied he could almost feel heat.

  “We are not here!” Tremblay said.

  Knowing better than to say anything, Greg made a vaguely quizzical head movement and waited.

  “Neither cops nor perps hang out in this place,” the sergeant continued, “so there’s not likely to be anyone to know different. You are clear on that, eh?”

  Greg nodded vigorously. The waitress appeared and Tremblay ordered a pot of tea. Since it was approaching noon, the café was starting to fill, but their isolated corner remained quiet. Not until the tea appeared, Greg’s coffee had been refilled yet again, and they were alone, did the one-way conversation resume.

  “All right,” the sergeant said, “first things first. Yes, I believe you’re a gibbering idiot. No, I don’t believe you’re a murderer.”

  Greg felt the knot in his stomach begin to relax. “Thank you.”

  “Just thank your lucky stars that I’m not a by-the-book guy, like some cops I know,” the sergeant snapped. “And if that–observation—let alone the rest of what I’m going to tell you—ever gets beyond these walls, I’ll not only see you’re charged with murder, I’ll even cook up the evidence to make it stick. That clear?”

  Greg’s knot began to return. “Very.”

  “Okay!” With surprising delicacy, which blended oddly with his still-simmering anger, Tremblay poured milk into his cup and added tea. Having taken a sip, his eyes once more bored into Greg’s. “Were you ever in the service?”

  Presuming, after a moment of uncertainty, that the sergeant meant the military, Greg shook his head.

  “Well, I was—before I became a cop. In the army. Even saw some fighting, in Bosnia and West Africa. Military operations have commanders and planning guys who look like they know what they’re doing. But mostly they don’t. Have you any idea what actual warfare is, when it comes down to it? Shambles! Chaos! Once the lead starts to fly, no one has time to think about damn all, except how to stay in one piece. Even when battles are won, it’s often as not by accident. And you want some news? Police work isn’t much different. Oh, we’ve got lots of good guys who do their best and sometimes they get it right. But it’s a goddamn war out there: a world war, that’s bust its way even into our little one-horse town. And, what with drugs and guns and kiddy porn and terrorist mania, it’s getting tougher by the minute. Like the military, we cops like to pretend we’ve got it covered, but really it’s a mess. We don’t have enough of anything—men, money, resources—and every day’s a running battle just to keep up. Add to that the time we waste trying to cope with idiots like you, and it falls apart.”

  Greg flushed. Whatever he’d expected, it was not to be accused of being the last straw in the breakdown of society. His expression must have shown this to comical effect, for Tremblay unexpectedly gave a snort of laughter.

  “Oh, hell,” he snapped. “It’s a hobby horse, okay? You made me mad and set me mouthing off. Now listen. I’ve been checking, and there’s nothing I could find that would make me disbelieve your story. That doesn’t mean that you haven’t been bloody stupid. It also doesn’t mean that some sort of charges may not be laid eventually. It all depends on how it turns out.”

  “Turns out?”

  “Well, you don’t imagine this is over, do you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Whatever your motives, as a civilian you’ve been acting inexcusably. Let’s take that as read. And now, as a cop, I’m doing the same thing. If anyone knew we were talking like this, I’d not only be out of a job, but probably up on charges myself. Obstruction of justice, for a start.”

  “But surely you don’t intend to . . .”

  “Obstruct justice? No. My plan is to help the warty bitch all I can—though that’s not how my bosses would see it. But never mind about that now. Let’s talk about that perp you wasted.”

  “Molinara? But I told you, I didn’t . . .”

  “Just kidding. The important thing right now is that the guy’s dead. This wouldn’t be considered evidence, but do you know the thing that convinces me you didn’t do it? The guy was such a smart and evil fucker, he’d never have given you the chance to off him: he had to have somehow done it himself. And that’s one hell of an irony.”

  “How come?”

  “Because there are at least three killings—two the Mounties have been working on and another one here in Victoria—that we’ve been trying to pin on him. Molinara was a real bad dude. Mob connections, a whole string of felonies going way back
, kidnapping, arson and attempted murder. We wouldn’t expect him to be doing smalltime stuff like B and E, except you made the bait so tempting. A safe full of cash? Very smart.”

  “I only wanted to . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah, no need to explain. You were just too damn clever for your own good.” He chuckled. “Though screwing up by dropping your phone in a coffee cup has got to be classic: I must put out a warning memo to my guys about that. Seriously, the fellow you dumped in the chuck was a very bad man and you’ve done the world a service, but don’t expect me to ever admit I said that. But I’ve gotta tell you right now—the other one is just as bad.”

  “Jay?”

  “Yeah. Just to make sure we’re talking about the same guy . . .” Tremblay produced a photo, which he slid across the table. “Is that your friend from the casino?”

  Greg examined the picture. It had apparently been taken from a distance, but the bland, oddly smiling face of the fellow was clear enough. “That’s him. But look, he’s no friend . . .”

  The sergeant cut him off with a shrug. “Stop being so uptight. We’re agreed that you’re a good guy, okay? But right now, teasing your ass is the only thing stopping me from kicking it. So shut up and listen. This Jay is a little hood, originally from the Duncan area, called Jules Riley. A few years ago he moved east and ended up pimping for the mob in Ontario. But he got on the outs with one of the heavies and someone tried to top him. Shot him in the head, but he survived. I don’t know if that scrambled his brains, but afterwards it seems like he was a regular oddball. Got to be such a pain that half the hoods in TO were after him. But the guy’s one cagey little jerk. Good at sneaking around and turning up where he’s not expected. So, the next thing that happens, the guy who shot him, plus a buddy and a woman they were bunking with, are all found in a house up in Markham, very dead. There’s evidence that Jay was responsible; he vanishes. Nothing’s heard of him for months, then he turns up here . . .”

  Tremblay broke off and waved to their elderly waitress. Without preamble, he ordered food—“any kind of sandwich”—which Greg, with little enthusiasm, seconded. Not till it arrived, quite swiftly, did the story resume.

  “The reason I know so much about this creep,” the sergeant said through a mouthful of pale bread, “is because we’ve got a guy in Vice who used to be with the Toronto cops. He recognized that picture I showed you. It’s from a surveillance we were conducting on some other hoods, one being the late Mr. Molinara. He was from Toronto originally, and we figure they met there. Anyway, Jay was ID’d and we kept coming across him while we were keeping tabs on Molinara. We’d have pulled him in, but we didn’t want to jeopardize a big bust we’ve been helping the Mounties set up: that’s the police business I couldn’t tell you about before. But after Molinara was killed, Jay dropped out of sight again.”

  “Seems like he was keeping busy following me,” Greg said.

  “Exactly. With his buddy deep-sixed, Jay was probably wondering what to do next—till you gave him the perfect idea.”

  Greg reddened again. Tremblay wasn’t going to let him forget his folly any time soon. But it was also clear that this clandestine meeting had not been set up just for the purpose of embarrassing him. The sergeant wanted something, and Greg had the unpleasant feeling that he was soon going to find out what it was. Thinking that he might as well get it over with, he said, “What do you want me to do?”

  Tremblay looked shocked: no, closer inspection showed that the expression was an intentional parody. “I don’t want you to do anything. How could I? Didn’t I say at the beginning that we are not here?”

  Greg sighed. “Right. But we’re not sitting at this table for a reason. Could you cut the explanations and tell me what it is?”

  The sergeant allowed a faint smile. “All right, here’s how it stands. We and the Mounties are involved in a big undercover operation—drugs, cross-border people-smuggling, the works—and we’re just about to pull the plug. Molinara was one of the bunch we were hoping to nab. But maybe Jay is too. We’re not sure. This thing he wants to get into with you could be an independent operation, or he may be hoping to use it to get an in with his new mob. Whatever, we don’t dare move on him until our big bust has gone down.”

  “When will that be?”

  “Very soon. Any day now, so I’ve got to make sure that no one gets spooked. Here we come to the part where you, as a civilian, get to know what I, as a cop, can’t officially tell you to do. If this purely hypothetical line of action should later occur to you as your own idea—and also some kind of payback for all the trouble you’ve caused—then I’m not going to be around to dissuade you.”

  Greg smiled grimly. “I get the idea. Describe this hypothetical line of action.”

  “It’s simple enough. What you do is play along with Jay.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know how long you’ll have to stall the guy. With any luck, just a few days. But during that time you’ll have to keep him happy. Convince him that you’re scared and you’ll do anything he wants. To keep it looking real, you may even have to start the cash flow. But I hope it’ll be all over before he’s cleaned you out completely.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Greg said sourly.

  Tremblay shrugged. “You’re the accountant. You’ll think of ways to hold things up. Anyway, the most important thing is to take things easy. You’ve shown you’ve got a good imagination. Use it to keep your friend Jay calm and yourself out of trouble—while, of course, keeping me informed.”

  “Oh, man,” Greg breathed. “That’s a job for a professional.”

  “Precisely,” the sergeant agreed blandly. “That’s why I would never ask you to do it. But, if you decide to go ahead anyway—to take the law into your own hands, much as you did in the case of Mr. Molinara—then you may end up doing a whole lot of people, not the least yourself, a very big favour.”

  Greg breathed deeply, stared at his half-eaten sandwich, then gazed into the pale eyes that had never left his face. “Wow,” he said at last. “For a cop, you’re some piece of work.”

  Tremblay sucked air softly through his teeth. “For an accountant, so are you. Well?”

  Greg sighed. Finally, he said, “There is one thing I’m going to need, I guess.”

  “Which is?”

  “Another cellphone.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  “How long would you need this time?” George Allrod asked. Uncomfortably, Greg regarded his boss, whose patience he felt must surely have been tested to the limit. “Hopefully only a few days. But it’s sort of—open-ended.”

  “Mmm . . .You’ve already had a lot of time off, and the client list is growing, due in no small part to your own efforts, I might add.”

  “Thanks. I’ll put in extra hours when I get back.”

  “I just wish you could tell me what’s the trouble. No more—er—family losses, I hope?”

  “No, George, nothing like that. It’s just—personal business.”

  The senior partner’s kindly face creased in worry. “Greg—forgive me for bringing this up again, but since your parents’ passing, you’ve changed, come out of yourself, which, of course, is good. But you also seem quite distracted. I hope this doesn’t mean you’re dissatisfied with your place here.”

  “Goodness, no,” Greg said hastily. “If my job was the only thing I had to worry about, I’d be the happiest guy in the world. Actually, what you noticed is sort of connected with why I need to get away. But when I come back, everything’ll be back to normal. I promise.”

  Allrod smiled. “Good to hear. There’s also the partnership we talked about. I trust you’re still thinking about that?”

  Becoming a partner of the criminal, Jay, was the only thing he could think about right now. But he said, “Definitely. I just hope this won’t put me out of the running.”

  “Certainly not. You’re one of our best people, as I’ve often said. Okay, Greg, do what you have to do and return as soon as you can. W
e’ll manage somehow. Off with you—and good luck.”

  Considering what he was facing, he was going to need all the luck he could get. Still, his boss’s good-natured acquiescence did make him feel a little better. The office represented his real life, and just to know that it would carry on smoothly was a comfort.

  He returned home and spent the rest of the day cleaning his apartment, making ready for what might be a prolonged absence. He also collected all the documents he would need to convince Jay that he was going along with his plan, mostly those that would seem to facilitate the withdrawal of large amounts of cash. He didn’t mean to do this, of course; he intended to stall as long as possible. The proceeds from the art sale were what Jay had his eye on. As executor of his father’s will, Greg had full access to that, but he didn’t intend to lose any money, if it could be helped. He’d have to invent some legal problems to buy time. As Tremblay had said, use his imagination. Since he had no idea how soon Jay would demand cash, or, indeed, how long this charade would go on before the police were ready to intervene, all he could do was hope like hell he wasn’t bankrupted before the axe fell.

  One vital detail he had not taken care of, however, was Lucy. After his meeting with Sergeant Tremblay, he’d phoned, if only to let her know that he wasn’t in jail. He wasn’t sure how she’d react to what he was doing, or if he should even tell her. Mainly, he wanted to make sure that, for her own safety, she kept well away from the property. Calls to her house only got the answering machine. Shirl, Greg knew, was unable to come to the phone, and Lucy, what with looking after her mother, her painting and all the rest, was pretty busy. But since she neither answered the phone nor returned his calls during the day, he decided that as soon as he got out to the river, he’d better pay her a visit. He wouldn’t have to tell her everything, just enough to make sure she stayed well out of harm’s way.

  A call he did receive, however, later that afternoon, was one that he’d been expecting. “Hey, old buddy, how’s it hangin’?” Jay said, in the overly familiar tone Greg was beginning to loathe. “Just calling to make sure you’re heading out to the house.”