by Anne Emery
The biggest surprise was what was not there. There was not a word about the delayed and recently revived Bromley Point property development out on Highway 103. Glen Crocker had told me Dice was involved. The scheme promised — and would now belatedly deliver — a big chunk of fees with interest compounding at generous rates over six years. Why was there nothing in his files?
†
By the time I got back to the office, it was early evening. The staff had left, and only a few lawyers were still at work. My desk was piled with correspondence to be signed, and messages to be returned. I started to slog through the pile. One of the messages, I saw, was from Constable Phil Riley. I got him on the phone.
“Evening, Phil. You called? I was out for the afternoon.”
“Hi, Monty. I’ve got some news for you. It’s the same gun. The bullet lodged in Darren Campbell’s old office wall matches the ones that killed Leaman and Scott. Which may just mean Leaman stole Campbell’s gun. Or somebody else stole it and it made the rounds, ending up with Leaman. I went through what we have on the Campbell suicide. Looks like we did a pretty thorough job of canvassing his friends and acquaintances, other tenants in his office building. The medical examiner’s report shows the injuries were consistent with a jump or a fall from a great height. You know the building. It’s twelve storeys high, and some of the upper floors are stepped back so the corner offices on those levels have small terraces. Campbell had one of those, on the tenth floor. The terrace door was open. There was nobody else around. If there was another individual involved, we found no evidence of it. Of course the offices were all closed for the night, except his. My partner and I went back to the building the other day and took a look around but except for the bullet we didn’t come up with any new insights. We’ll keep an open mind, but we don’t have much to go on at this point.”
“I understand.”
“One more thing. You got lucky with Wanda Pollard. We can’t find her. So, still no witness who can contradict the murder-suicide theory. But we’re going to maintain a lookout for her.”
“Thanks, Phil. Keep me posted.”
The cop’s information left me, for the time being, with the appearance of a good case of suicide. Which was the whole point. Ross Trevelyan and I wanted to build a case for damages against the Wallace Rennie Baird Addiction Treatment Centre on the grounds that the centre had been negligent in releasing Corey Leaman before getting his drug habit under control; Leaman, still suffering from drug-related problems, had killed himself and, for some reason, had killed Graham Scott before putting a bullet in his own brain. If this wasn’t a suicide — if the two men had been murdered by somebody else — our lawsuit on behalf of the victims’ families was a non-starter. I was trying to rule that out. Phil Riley’s information about Wanda didn’t hurt us. But where was she? Her absence could mean many things: she was out of town; she was the victim of revenge by or on behalf of Yvette; word had spread about Wanda’s presence at the shooting, and she had been frightened off or taken out by the killer. If there was a killer.
The gun connection was disturbing. In my mind, I pictured not an old German pistol but a time bomb ticking away in the background, set to go off at any moment and blow my case to bits.
†
Saturday morning, the fourth of May, was beautiful and warm. After I completed a few long-neglected chores, I stopped by the house on Dresden Row to see if the family wanted to head out to Lawrencetown to walk the beach and admire the surf. I saw that congratulations were in order: my daughter had a thriving little garden of daffodils and paperwhites in front of the house. The door was open, but nobody was downstairs, so I skipped up the stairs to Normie’s room. When I glanced out the window overlooking the backyard I saw Maura, and was about to call down to her when I noticed two strong-looking legs sticking out from under the shed. A repairman? With bare legs? Then I saw that her chair and the one next to it each had a glass in the cupholder. Was this Giacomo, the young bit of stuff my wife had on the side? I wouldn’t have thought his legs would be that long. I waited, staring. The legs began to emerge, followed by gym shorts and a naked torso.
The man turned away from her and wiped dirt off himself. Then he reached for a white T-shirt lying by the shed, and put it on. It was — when he turned to my wife, I could see it was Burke! What the hell? He looked at her and shrugged. Whatever he was supposed to do under there, he hadn’t done it. No surprise there. He was even less of a handyman than I was. But never mind that: what was he doing with her on a Saturday morning and how long . . . I stopped myself in mid-thought. I was acting the way I had on a couple of occasions when Burke first came into our lives as a client. I had got myself all balled up wondering whether there was something going on between the two of them — or, at the very least, whether he had his eye on her. Unfounded suspicions that reflected badly on only one person: me. I had put it down to the stress of Burke’s trial. Thinking back on it now, I had to laugh. But here he was with her again, drinking and half naked. I told myself to get a grip. The man had become my closest friend; he was a friend to Maura and the children as well. And he had made it his own personal mission to get our family reunited.
He put his arm around Maura’s shoulder and said something. She bolted up and hooted with laughter. He got up, drained his glass, and headed to the shed. He slipped his feet into a pair of sneakers. I knocked loudly on the window and waved. Burke looked up, squinted, and raised his hand. I met him downstairs. He didn’t look any more guilty than if he were standing at the back of his church, wearing a cassock and clutching the Word of God in his hand. But then, he wouldn’t look guilty. He was the type whose expression wouldn’t change if his butt were on fire.
“What’s up?” I asked him. Nothing, I hoped.
“Why don’t you tell her to spring for a new shed?”
“What do you mean?”
“The floor’s rotten in that one. So the plank I tried to wedge underneath is going to let go, and she’ll still have a great gaping hole in the floor.”
She came in then. “Collins. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Try to contain yourself. I came to see if anyone wants to take a drive to the beach.”
“Oh. Well, the kids aren’t home. Normie had a sleepover at Kim’s.”
“Again?”
“What do you mean, ‘again’?”
“You may as well rent out her room, she spends so little time in it. At least on weekends.”
“Really. You’re conveniently forgetting that she spends half her nights at your place. Do you rent out her room when she’s not there? Or is it just your own bedroom in which money changes hands? Of course, I shouldn’t judge your entire stable of female companions by the impression made by just one, who certainly looks like —”
“Jesus the Christ and Son of God!” Burke exclaimed. “My work’s cut out for me here, I’m thinking. Ministering to the determinedly estranged. I have to go. Should I leave you two alone in the same room?”
I knew I would say a great many things that I would regret if I stayed behind, so I turned without a further word to my wife and left with Burke. I wasn’t in the mood for him either but I could not justify being uncivil.
“How did you get roped into fixing that floor?” I asked him.
“Came by at the wrong time. And now I’m overdue at the church.”
“See you later then.” I made ready to leave.
“I meant to ask you,” he said, “did you ever hear anything more about the Colosseum?”
“No, I didn’t. But I imagine the postcard was someone’s way of drawing attention to those crumbling condominiums my clients built. When you think of it, the word ‘condominium’ is Latin. Roman, in other words. Maybe this is the beginning of a campaign by a very literate consumer advocate.”
“But why would someone write ‘ask’ in reference to that? You already knew the place was in ruins, didn’t you?”
“Oh, yeah. We have shelves full of photos and engineering reports d
etailing just how badly the place fell apart.”
“Well then.”
“Well then, what?”
“I just think there’s something else going on. I told you about the Gladiator, the homeless man who comes to us for a meal now and then.”
“Right. The guy who fought at the Colosseum.”
“His name is Vernon. He was on about the Colosseum again yesterday.”
“Uh-huh.” Part of my mind was replaying the scene between Burke and my wife in the backyard; another part was castigating me for being a flaming idiot.
“Said the cops had been there.” Burke was waiting for my reply.
“What?”
“Vernon said the police had been there.”
“Where?”
“At this Colosseum. Have you been listening, Collins?”
“Sorry. All right. Vernon, the Gladiator, did something at this so-called Colosseum, and the cops showed up. Did he give you any other information?”
“No, but he was agitated. Said he might want to come to confession some day. But he’s not a Catholic, so he doesn’t know what to do. Said he wasn’t the only one, but then he got all mysterious and shut his gob. Literally. Pressed his lips together and flapped his hands at me to go away.”
“So, what do you think is going on?”
“I just think there’s something wrong. And somebody sent you a photo of the Colosseum.”
“Well, it wasn’t this guy. It arrived in the mail with a stamp and a typed address label. But, if you like, we’ll track Vernon down and ask him about it.”
“Good.”
Since Tommy Douglas and Normie weren’t around, I decided I’d better spend the rest of Saturday in the office catching up on work, including the condominium case. Sunday I had the kids with me all day, and we had our trip to Lawrencetown Beach. We hit it at a good time; the waves were enormous. When we got back to my place, we had a little Collins family jam session, with guitar, keyboard, harmonica and vocals. Dinner was spaghetti con le vongole, prepared by Tom, and we had cupcakes with Smarties on top, lovingly designed and crafted by Normie. A good time for all of us. On Monday, I worked a twelve-hour day and hit the sack as soon as I got home.
†
Tuesday morning, Burke and I took a stroll to Cornwallis Park, the one-block square between Barrington and Hollis streets, across from the venerable Hotel Nova Scotian. The park was dominated by a statue of the founder of Halifax, Edward Cornwallis, who gazed out over the harbour with his tricorne hat clutched in his hand. There were two men in overcoats sleeping on benches. We struck out with the first, but the second was the Gladiator. Brennan put his hand on the man’s shoulder, causing him to jump up and look wildly around him. His light brown hair was long and matted, and he had a straggly beard. He could have been anywhere from thirty-five to fifty years of age.
“Morning, Vernon.”
“Father! What happened?”
“Nothing happened. Get yourself awake there, and we’ll go for breakfast.”
It took him a while to get focused and to relieve himself of something clogging his throat; the sound brought a greenish tinge to the face of the fastidious Father Burke. Then we walked across the park together. I noticed Vernon had a slight limp. We sat at the counter in the South End Diner, the priest and I with our guest between us. After the waitress took our orders, Burke introduced me to the Gladiator.
“This is Monty. Monty, Vernon.”
His watery pale eyes took me in, and then he turned to Brennan. “Was he one of them?”
“One of whom?”
Vernon spun around on his stool and leaned towards me, his breath nearly knocking me flat. I resisted the urge to move out of range.
“Did I have sexual relations with you?”
“What?” I reared back suddenly, nearly falling off my stool.
“He looks like the type,” Vernon said to Burke.
“How do you mean, Vernon? He looks like what type?”
“The type they had there.”
“Where?”
A sly look. “You know.”
“The Colosseum, you mean?”
“Don’t, don’t, don’t,” Vernon pleaded. He put his head down and covered it with his hands as if he were ducking for cover.
Breakfast arrived, and we busied ourselves with knives and forks, coffee and cream.
“Vernon?” He gave me a wary look. “Do you know a girl named Wanda, who works around the park at night?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Just me.”
“I haven’t seen Wanda for a long time. Coincidence?” He raised his eyebrows.
“How long has it been since you’ve seen her?”
“Time, time . . .” He shook his head. “It marches on.”
“What did you mean by ‘coincidence?’ Coincidence between what and what?”
He gave me a blank look. Either the remark had been meaningless or it had already been forgotten.
Brennan spoke gently. “Vernon, I know you were a gladiator. Can you tell us something about that?”
“Oh, no. Oh, no. No, no.”
“All right,” I said. “We’ll leave you out of it. Would you just tell us where the Colosseum was?”
He wagged his finger under my nose. “The constabulary have it under twenty-four-hour guard.”
“The police are there now?” I asked him.
“They’re there. But you can’t see them.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I saw them.”
Brennan looked at me, then asked Vernon: “What makes you think you had se — something to do with Monty here?”
“I never!” With that, he jumped up, fell against the counter, righted himself, and stumbled out of the diner.
Burke pushed his plate away and reached for his wallet. Only then did I realize he hadn’t touched his meal.
“Well! What lesson can we take away from this, Father?”
“That you and Vernon once got it on at the Colosseum, and somebody sent you a postcard to remind you of it. Maybe your anniversary.”
“Father?”
“Yes, my son?”
“Piss off.”
Chapter 4
Wake up late and I walk down to the square Man sellin’ cocaine standin’ there.
— Maynard T. Maitland, “Cocaine Blues”
Back at the office Tuesday morning I looked through the file we had on Corey Leaman. Several drug convictions, theft, break and enter, assault, the usual breaches of court orders. And one assault with a weapon. Which was what again? I turned to the page. The weapon was a food blender, but it was not as gruesome as it had seemed when I first read it. He had not set the blades whirling and stuck someone’s hand in the jar; he had picked the whole machine up and thrown it at a counsellor at the group home where he was living. When I first read it?Where had I seen a reference to this blender assault case? It was just the other day, but I had never read through Corey Leaman’s file. Dice Campbell’s clippings file, that’s where it was. What was Campbell doing with a news clipping about Leaman? I recalled he had a lot of news stories. Maybe he kept a file of odd cases. I made a note to follow it up. For his kitchen appliance assault, Leaman had been represented by Bob Mahoney, an old crony of mine at Legal Aid.
†
“My boy didn’t do nuthin’, and he’s goin’ to jail. Because you didn’t do your job. If you were any good as a lawyer you woulda proved to the judge that the police been pickin’ on my boy since he was ten years old.”
“Your boy went to jail, Mrs. Craig, because he broke into the home of an elderly man, tied him up, slapped him around, stole his pension cheque and his dead wife’s jewellery, and then tried to cash the cheque at the old fellow’s bank. And it was his fifth offence. I got your boy eighteen months. The Crown was looking for seven years. The maximum sentence is life in prison. I didn’t rob the man, your son did, and that’s why he’s in jail.”
“I’m gettin’ a real lawyer next time.”<
br />
“You do that. Now, I really must go. Hey, Monty!”
“Some things never change, eh, Bob? How many times in my Legal Aid days did I live through that scene?”
“Yeah, this guy should be going away for years. I get him eighteen months and I have to put up with this.”
“I know, I been there. I caught up with you because I want to ask about another old friend. Corey Leaman.”
“Oh, right. Corey took a bullet in the head a while back.”
“Yeah. I’m representing his family in a suit against the Baird Centre.”
“Good luck.”
“I’m up against it, I know.”
“Poor Corey. Never had a hope.”
“Assaulted a group home worker with a food blender, right? Just how much of a badass was this guy?”
“It wasn’t as serious as it sounded. Honestly. And Corey wasn’t that bad a guy. Compared to some, and all things considered. I always had the impression that, for all his faults and rotten luck, he really wanted to better himself. He wasn’t stupid. He knew he was headed towards a black hole if he didn’t shape up. The time I had him for the blender assault, the judge reamed him out because his mother didn’t show up. Or rather reamed out the mother. She didn’t hear it because she was in the clink herself for some grievous offence.”
“How about a father?”
Bob cupped his ear and leaned in towards me. “How about a what?”
“Right. No point looking in that direction.”
“Nope. You’ve been out of Legal Aid too long, Monty. If it hadn’t been for old Tilly, the record would be bare of any kind words on Corey’s behalf.”
“Old who?”
We were interrupted by a shabby-looking man who came up to Bob and stood there shuffling his feet. “Hey, man,” he finally said.
“Hey, Ralph. I thought you were on your way home.”
“I was but, like, I don’t got no money to get home.”
“I gave you a bus ticket, remember?”
“Yeah, but, like, I sold it.”
“Sold your bus ticket? For what?”