The Evil That Men Do

by Michael Blair

  It was a few minutes before 6 a.m. when I parked on the shoulder of Marine Drive overlooking Fisherman’s Cove. Marie-Claire hadn’t been able to tell me much about the marina she’d followed Brandt to, but my money was on the Thunderbird, where most of the larger boats were moored.

  My eyes felt as though they were packed with hot sand as I scanned the marina with the binoculars from the Serendipity. It was too early on a Sunday morning for many boat owners to be out and about, but a pot-bellied middle-aged man was transferring green trash bags from a wheelbarrow to a dumpster at the far end of the embankment overlooking the six sectional floats. The larger boats, all motor yachts, were moored across the ends of the main floats. Three looked to be at least twenty metres long. One was shrouded in a huge white stretch tarp.

  I got back into the car, drove around the bend at the head of the cove and into the marina yard. There were a couple of dozen powerboats and sailboats up on cradles in the yard, many of which sported For Sale signs. I parked by the Thunderbird marine supply store, which wasn’t open, and walked around to the quayside. The gate at the top of the one of the ramps down to the floats was propped open by a pile of trash bags.

  “Can I help you?” the middle-aged man said, parking the wheelbarrow by the gate.

  I introduced myself, thinking that there was something familiar about him as I presented my ID and investigator’s license. “I’m looking for this man,” I said, showing him the photo of Charles Pearson Brandt. “He may be going by the name of Andrew Kimball.”

  “Can’t say I’ve seen him,” he said.

  “His hair may be lighter and longer.”

  “Sorry.” He looked at me, cocking his head as if trying to remember something.

  “He’s a con man,” I said. “He may be targeting someone who keeps a boat here, an extremely tanned woman who owns a large motor yacht?”

  “Do I know you?” he said. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Riley. Seventeen years ago I worked for a summer over at the yacht club.”

  “You were Tory Dinsmore’s friend.”

  “That’s right,” I said. A name surfaced. “You’re Harry Dykstra. You were the manager here.”

  “Close,” he said. “It’s Zylstra. And I own a piece of the place now. For my sins.”

  “So you don’t know an extremely tanned woman who has a 20-metre motor yacht,” I said.

  “I didn’t say that,” he said. “But I don’t want to get anyone into trouble.”

  “She’s not in any trouble that I know of. Except that she may be involved with a sociopathic con man. You could be doing her a favour.”

  “Well, I might know someone like that,” he said. “Adrianna Shay. Addy. Some people call her the Black Widow on account of she’s tanned so dark. My wife says she’s a ‘tanorexic.’ She’s even got one of those tanning beds on her boat. She was married to Willy Shay. Thirty years ago or so he cornered the market on feldspar or sulphur or something, made so much money he could have lent some to God if he hadn’t been so tight-fisted. The only thing he ever spent any of it on was his Porsche, the house on Eagle Island, and an 86-foot Paragon Sky Lounge. When he died, Addy sold the house and the Paragon and bought a 60-foot Hatteras. That’s it across the end of float number three.”

  I remembered that Harry liked to talk. “Is she aboard?”

  “Far as I know.” He pointed to a silver Mercedes sedan nosed up to the guardrail along the top of the embankment. “That’s her car there.”

  “And you’re sure you haven’t seen this man?” I said, showing him Brandt’s picture again.

  “Pretty sure. But there are people in and out of here all the time. If they’ve got the codes to the gate locks, we don’t pay much attention.”

  “Any cars here that don’t belong?”

  He glanced around. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Look, Addy is a little unusual, with tanning and working out and all, but she’s nice. Maybe a little naive and a tad too generous, but she’s got plenty to be generous with. We kind of look out for her, try to keep people from bothering her. Willy Shay was a bastard, whored around and had a whole string of girlfriends, but threatened to throw Addy out without a dime if she so much as looked at another man. The best thing he ever did for her was flip his Porsche off the Sea-to-Sky Highway into the Cheakamus River gorge. He was on his way back from Whistler with one of his girlfriends. Didn’t do the girlfriend much good, though, not to mention the Porsche.”

  “I need to talk to Addy,” I said.

  “I got no problem with that,” he said. “If this guy you’re looking for is trying to take advantage of her, I’ll help you any way I can. It’s a little early for her to be up, though.” He looked at his watch. “She doesn’t usually show her face much before eight. I’d give her another hour or two. And maybe it would be better if I introduced you.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “In the meantime, is there someplace nearby I can get some breakfast and about a gallon of coffee?”

  “Coffee I got,” Harry Zylstra said. “And I can do you up some toast and scrambled eggs, if you like.”

  “I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

  “No trouble at all.”

  At 8 a.m. Harry Zylstra and I walked down the ramp and out to the end of the long sectional float to where Addy Shay’s 60-foot Hatteras was moored. It was called the Mariposa II, and it looked more like a floating condominium than a boat. The flybridge towered fifteen feet above the waterline, twelve feet above the float deck. Designed to maximize interior space rather than for seaworthiness, the Mariposa II was almost guaranteed to cause seasickness in rough seas. Unlike many of the other larger boats in the marina, it was not equipped with a Zodiac, although there was a davit for one on the aft deck of the flybridge. I wondered how long it had been since the Mariposa II had been farther from her mooring than the fuel dock or sewage dumping station.

  The wraparound windows of the main deck cabin were tinted and curtained. I stepped on to the boarding platform and, with Harry Zylstra following, climbed the steps to the covered afterdeck. Vertical blinds were drawn across the sliding glass doors to the main cabin. Harry knocked, waited, then knocked again. A pair of slats parted, revealing a gaunt, deeply tanned face capped by a swirl of blonde hair. Wary green eyes shifted from Harry to me. I tried my best to look benign. I must have succeeded because the door slid open, revealing the owner of the face.

  “Harry,” she said, peering out at us.

  She was wearing a short, semi-sheer robe that did nothing to hide the fact that she was naked beneath it and did not have any unsightly tan lines. Her body glistened with oil, co-mingled with beads of perspiration, as if she had just climbed out of her tanning bed. I could almost feel the residual heat radiating from her. Her eyes were startlingly bright against the depth of her tan.

  “Addy,” Harry said, seeming unfazed by her semi-nudity. “This is my friend Riley. He’s from Montreal. He needs to talk to you.”

  “What about?”

  “It would be better if he explained it himself.”

  “This man,” I said, handing her the photograph of Chaz Brandt. “Do you know him?”

  The robe parted as she took the photograph. She didn’t seem to notice. Neither, apparently, did Harry. She had a very good figure, lean and hard. Perhaps a little too lean and hard. There were round patches a little bigger than dollars covering her nipples, to protect them from the ultraviolet light of the tanning lamps. She was in her mid-forties, I guessed, but her face looked older, slightly simian.

  She made a show of examining the photograph, then handed it back. “No, I don’t know him,” she said, closing the robe over her breasts.

  “Are you sure?” I said, holding the photo so she could still see it.

  She cocked her head as she looked at the photograph again. “I’m sure,” she said. “I don’t know him.” />
  “Sorry to bother you, Addy,” Harry said. She started to slide the door shut.

  “Don’t you want to know who he is?” I said, holding the door panel open.

  “Excuse me?” Addy Shay said.

  “Most people would be curious about why I’m asking about him,” I said. “Aren’t you?”

  “Okay,” she said. “Who is he and why are you looking for him?”

  “Do you think we could we talk inside?” I said. “I won’t take much of your time. Harry will certify that I’m harmless. Won’t you, Harry?”

  “Uh, oh, sure,” Harry said.

  Addy thought about it for a moment, making it look like hard work, while I practised my benign look. She shrugged. “Okay, it’s all right, I guess.” She stepped back from the doorway.

  “Um, I gotta get back to work,” Harry said.

  On the way to the boat I’d told him that I would prefer to talk to Mrs. Shay on my own, if possible. Addy watched as Harry left the boat, then looked at me, green gaze apprehensive. I gave her a broad, aw-shucks smile.

  “I’ll call him back if you like.”

  “No, it’s okay,” she said. She slid the door farther open. “Come in.”

  I stepped through into the main cabin and she slid the door shut behind me. The cabin was at least fifteen feet across at its widest point, and a third the length of the boat. Aft was a salon with wall-to-wall carpeting and recessed lighting. Forward was a galley/dining area that rivalled the kitchen of Nina’s condo. A step up from the salon, the galley had dark wood cabinetry, marble-topped counters and kitchen island, and stainless-steel appliances. There was a built-in wine cooler in the forward bulkhead, next to the companionway down to the lower deck. A fair-weather boat, the Mariposa II did not have a lower helm.

  “Wow,” I said. “This is sure some boat.”

  “Thank you,” Addy said.

  “It’s a Hatteras, right? What’s it like below? Any chance of a tour? I’m thinking about getting a boat myself. Nothing this big, of course. Not on my budget.”

  “It’s, um, well, not a good time,” she said, flustered.

  “Hey, no problem,” I said.

  “Can I offer you something?” she said. “Coffee?”

  I could smell it. “Coffee would be great,” I said. “Thanks.”

  She went into the galley and fussed with a built-in coffee maker. I wondered if it would be impolite to ask her to put on something less revealing—and less distracting. Her lack of modesty, I thought, must make for an interesting challenge for Harry Zylstra and her other protectors.

  She placed a cup of coffee on the counter between the galley and the salon and asked me if I wanted milk and sugar.

  I tasted the coffee. It was weaker than I liked. “No, thanks,” I said.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said, and went below, closing the hatch and sliding the hatch cover shut behind her.

  Coffee in hand, I wandered through the salon. The artwork screwed to the bulkheads not given over to glass consisted mainly of abstract prints that looked as though they’d been selected to go with the decor. However, there were also a couple of framed photographs of the Widow Shay wearing tailored hunting togs and holding a wicked-looking crossbow, standing over the body of an elk with an impressive rack of antlers. There was more to Adrianna Shay than met the eye. Less surprising, the paperbacks and DVDs on the shelves of the entertainment unit ran to fat romance novels, Hollywood rom-coms, and workout videos.

  I turned as she came up the companionway from the lower deck, closing the hatch cover but leaving the hatch open an inch or two. She’d changed into white stretch jeans and a blouse that was as sheer as the robe but with two strategically placed pockets. She’d brushed her pale hair into a short ponytail and applied pale pink lip gloss. Her pink mouth, light green eyes and blonde hair contrasted so sharply with her complexion that she looked like a photographic negative. She took a bottle of spring water from the wine cooler before joining me in the salon.

  “I’ve forgotten your name,” she said.

  “It’s Riley.”

  “Harry said you were from Montreal. I thought everyone from Montreal was French.”

  “Not everyone,” I said. “Mrs. Shay … ”

  “Call me Addy,” she said, sitting in a club chair against the port bulkhead.

  I sat at the short end of the L-shaped settee, facing her across a two-foot gap.

  “Addy,” I said. “You know the man whose photograph I showed you, don’t you?”

  Her cheeks purpled as she blushed beneath her tan. “No, I told you I didn’t.”

  I leaned closer to her. “Is he below?” I said, keeping my voice down.

  “No, of course not.”

  “But you know him.”

  “No, I don’t. Why do you keep saying that?”

  “Because you were seen together on this boat. Is he below?” I asked again.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head, voice strained. “There’s no one else here.”

  “With respect, Addy, you’re a terrible liar. I don’t know what he told you his name was, but his real name is Charles Pearson Brandt and he ran a hundred-million-dollar Ponzi scheme in Montreal.” I figured a little exaggeration wouldn’t hurt my case. “His victims were mainly seniors. He left dozens of them destitute.”

  “That’s ridiculous. He—” Adrianna Shay clamped her mouth shut. She stood up. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

  “He’s a dangerous man,” I said, standing as well.

  She crossed the salon to the door and slid it open. “Please leave,” she said. “Before I call the—before I call Harry.”

  I considered letting her call Harry. I was pretty sure Brandt was below and that between us, Harry and I could probably handle him. Except for one thing …

  Chapter 27

  I found Harry Zylstra in the marina office, poking at the keyboard of a computer.

  “How’d it go?” he asked.

  “I think Brandt is on her boat.”

  “Do you want some help grabbing him up? I can round up some muscle.”

  “I’m worried he might be armed,” I said. “Do you know if she keeps her crossbow on the boat?”

  “Oh, Christ,” he said. “I’d forgotten about that. She’s got two or three of the bloody nasty things. Knows how to use them, too. So what’re you going to do?”

  “I don’t want anyone to get hurt,” I said. “Myself included. If he’s aboard, I’ve probably spooked him. I think the best thing is to wait till I know for sure he’s on the boat, then call the police, let them wrap him up.” To avoid a hostage situation, I’d try to get Addy off first. “If he’s spooked enough, though, he might try to make a run for it. Would it be all right if I hung out awhile?”

  “You mean like a stakeout? Sure, no problem. I could even put you to work,” he added with a smile.

  “Why not?” I said. “It’ll be good cover.”

  I took out Zach Jardine’s iPhone and struggled for a moment to remember the number of my loaner phone before finding it in Zach’s incoming call log.

  “What’s up?” Zach said.

  “I found Brandt,” I told him. “I haven’t actually seen him, but I’m pretty sure he’s hiding out on his new girlfriend’s boat at the Thunderbird Marina in Eagle Harbour. You’d like this one. It’s a 60-foot luxury motor yacht called the Mariposa II. I’m going to hang around for a while, see if he comes up for air. How are things there?”

  “Okay,” Zach said. “She’s still in bed. There’s nothing to eat, though. And not much left to drink. We’re going to have to make a supply run. I’ve also gotta find a WI-FI hotspot so I can check up on what’s happening at work. Maybe we’ll go to the hotel. Seeing as I’m paying for two rooms. I’ll let you know.”

  Between Harry Zylstra and his crew—a skinny ki
d named Sam and Val, a strapping woman in her thirties—there wasn’t a lot for me to do but try to look busy. So I would blend in, Harry outfitted me with a grimy baseball cap and a Thunderbird Marina T-shirt, and I spent the morning pretending to work on the electrical system of a Boston Whaler runabout midway along the float on which Addy’s boat was moored. I had a clear view of the Mariposa II’s afterdeck and flybridge, but due to the window tinting and blinds I couldn’t see into the main cabin. The lower deck portholes were also tinted and curtained.

  The weather was calm and clear. The sky was an unbroken expanse of breathtaking blue, the sun sparkled on the water, and a soft breeze whispered through the masts and spars of the sailboats, carrying the smell of salt and seaweed, pine and cedar. The forecast had called for a high of 30°C, but the temperature was moderated by the proximity to water. Nevertheless, I was grateful for the shade provided by the hardtop of the Whaler’s helm.

  Around 11 a.m. Addy Shay emerged from the Mariposa II’s cabin, hair pinned up and wearing a white bikini that would have fit into a shot glass, with room left for a shot. Carrying a towel and a straw beach bag, she made her way to the bow, opened a padded lounger built into the forward slope of the lower cabin roof and spread her towel. She slathered herself with oil from hairline to toes, flexible enough to do a complete job of it, then lay back. After toasting her front side for half an hour or so, she sat up, removed the bikini top, and lay on her stomach. I heard a splash and imagined young Sam falling into the water. Another half hour later, she stood, collected her towel and beach bag and, not bothering with the bikini top, made her way aft and went inside.