On one side of her desk there was a wooden box with the words “Please Donate to Our Youth Shelter” stencilled on the side. On the other side was a box of tissues and a telephone.
“I’ve never liked the expression ‘sorry for your loss,’ ” Kennicott said as he reached in his jacket for his wallet. “It seems to trivialize things.”
She didn’t wear a wedding ring. There was a bulge of tissues in the cuff of her sleeve. “I was Livingston’s nanny before I came here to work for him,” she said. “I still remember how hard it rained the day he poured concrete for his first building. Gloria and I were there. We were so nervous and so excited.”
Without saying a word, Kennicott pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and put it in the donation box.
“Did you know that a third of the homeless people back home are youth?” she said. “The children thank you for your generosity.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
“Detective, who would do this awful thing to my boy?”
“That’s why I’m here. I’m hoping you can help me trace Mr. Fox’s movements yesterday. It’s vital we know where he went, who he met with, what he did.”
She half smiled. “Livingston was always on the move, even as a little baby. If I put him in the crib, he’d go stir-crazy. He never bothered to crawl. No, no, not my Livingston. He was walking at seven months. You believe that?”
Be patient, Kennicott told himself, the way Greene was with witnesses. People in shock need time to cope and to pour out their memories of the recently dead. He was hoping she had some kind of day planner for Fox. Probably not a digital one, as he couldn’t see any sign of a computer in this old-fashioned office.
She walked around her desk and sat on a high-backed chair that was much too big for her. He wondered if her feet even touched the floor. She turned over a folder. A label with the words “Detective Kennicott” was squarely placed in the middle. The folder looked used, and he could see the label had been placed over at least one other one.
She noticed him staring at the folder. “I’ve used this folder five times now,” she said with a light laugh. “I was the oldest of seven. Waste not, want not, that’s what my mother always said.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
“I prepared this chart for you. I hope it is what you require.”
“Thank you.” He opened the file. There were several documents, each held together by a staple in the top left corner. The first one was a printout of Fox’s day planner, one page per day, for the last month. “This is extremely helpful.”
He looked at the back of the pages and saw they were filled with print. Nothing relevant. She’d reused the paper.
“We were poor growing up. You get used to not throwing anything away,” she said with a chuckle. “Father was lost at sea a month after my youngest sister was born. My uncle Horace tried to help out, but he had six of his own to feed.”
She turned to the window, her eyes fixed on the water. “I told Livingston when he designed this office that I needed to be able to see the harbour from my desk. It reminds me of when I was a girl, how I used to go down to the wharf in the mornings hoping that Daddy had come home.”
Kennicott said nothing. He knew how one tragedy could trigger memories of an earlier one. His parents were killed in a suspicious car accident four years before Michael was murdered, leaving him with no family, and in his mind the two losses were always linked. A year after his brother’s death, when the murderer still hadn’t been found, he’d quit his job as a lawyer and become a policeman, with the goal of doing just this—being a homicide detective.
“For a young man you are very patient,” Maxine said, returning her attention to him.
She reached under her desk and a pop-up stand brought up a laptop. “Livingston got this for me so I could keep my desk clean.”
She tapped the keyboard and turned the screen to show him an open spreadsheet. “Here’s the contact information for every name mentioned. It’s all in your file.”
Kennicott looked through the papers for the printout. Maxine had highlighted phone numbers in yellow, email addresses in red.
“Perfect.”
“I send Livingston a draft itinerary at seven every night, and the next morning we go over it at our daily eight o’clock meeting. Livingston believes in starting work early.”
“Tell me about your morning meetings,” he said.
“We meet in here. It might surprise you, but Livingston likes my old-fashioned office. I give him his healthy snacks for the day that his chef has made him and the bottles of water that his nutritionist has prepared. Three for the morning and three for the afternoon. Blue, orange, and yellow, that way he can remember the proper order to drink them in. I always have his gym bag ready to go with freshly laundered gear for his next workout. At nine-thirty, Sherani takes Livingston’s elevator up here to get her assignment of where she’s driving him that day.”
Kennicott looked at Fox’s schedule for yesterday. He’d started the day with a workout, had a series of fifteen-minute meetings at the office, then a meeting at eleven at a place called Omni Jewelcrafters, and lunch with his father, which ended at two o’clock. There were no appointments for the rest of the day.
“Do you know where he went after two o’clock?”
“No. Every week there are blanks in his schedule. Livingston calls them his alone times.”
Kennicott could tell from the look on her face that Maxine didn’t approve. She probably assumed that alone time meant time Fox had booked to slip off with one of his girlfriends.
“You have no idea where he went after two o’clock?”
“You can ask Sherani. She’s got the car all ready to go. Just take Livingston’s private elevator down to B1, it goes right to his parking spot. She can drive you everywhere she took him yesterday.”
Her eyes misted over. She glanced at the tissue box.
“How about texts, emails, phone calls? Did he touch base with you after two?”
“No. He took Friday afternoons off. Even turned his phone off. Unless he had some kind of an emergency, I’d never hear from him again until Saturday morning.”
“And yesterday?”
She shook her head.
He looked out the window. Give her some time, he thought.
“Take a close look, Detective,” she said at last. “We’re building Fox Harbour right there on the waterfront. I walk down there sometimes before I come to work. I went there this morning, and it was peaceful.”
Kennicott looked where she was pointing. “It’s a large piece of land.”
“Oh my. It’s such a huge development, our biggest project ever. It will take years to build. Then it’s going to block my view of the water, but I suppose that’s the price you pay for success.”
Kennicott nodded. Not wanting to break her train of thought.
“Well, we were going to build it,” she said, her voice trailing off.
He turned back to her. “You must have been very proud of him,” he said as gently as he could.
She tucked another tissue into her sleeve. “He was my boy,” she said.
He stood up. “You can’t imagine how helpful this is.”
She did her best to smile. “Please leave the door open on your way out. I like the fresh air. It comes from growing up by the sea.”
28
Alison trotted down the steps to the outdoor subway platform at the midtown Rosedale station. Sheena Persad, the TV reporter, was standing at the far end with her back against the wall, reading a copy of People, just as Alison had instructed her to do. She had a small backpack slung over one shoulder. There was no breeze, and the air was thick and hot.
Alison was wearing a new Blue Jays baseball cap and cheap sunglasses that she’d just bought. She didn’t turn her head as she passed Persad. Ten paces away she pulled a copy of the Toronto Star from a new backpack she’d bought at the same place she’d got the sunglasses. This one was black, not yellow. She opened
the newspaper and started to read. When the train arrived, they both entered the last car through different doors. There were three people inside, sitting near the front. Alison motioned toward the back. Persad followed and sat down beside her.
“Thanks for the flowers,” Persad said when the train started up. “Very smart way to get a message to me in the greeting card.”
“Safer than text or email.”
“You got half the newsroom guessing the identity of my secret admirer.” She laughed lightly.
“It worked. I’m here, and no one knows.”
Alison pointed at Persad’s phone. “Do you mind? Please turn it off. No recordings. And erase the last two minutes. With my English accent, I stand out.”
Persad hesitated. “Okay. But I need to take notes.”
“Get rid of my voice on the tape first.”
Persad erased the recording and handed the phone to Alison. “Here. Take it as a show of good faith.”
“Okay, keep your phone,” Alison said. “You can take notes.”
Persad pulled out a notebook and a pen. “Can I get your name?”
“No.”
“How old are you?”
Alison shook her head.
“Do you have a background in journalism?”
Alison kept shaking her head.
“At least tell me how you got that photo of Fox.”
“I need to know I can trust you first.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Get me a copy of all the footage your cameraman shot yesterday at the demonstration.”
Alison needed to find out if she could be picked out of the crowd, and whether she’d been filmed cutting out of the march and walking behind the house on Augusta.
The tinny sound of the train’s speaker came on. “Next stop Summerhill Station,” a bland female voice said.
“This is a murder investigation,” Persad said. “If you have any information that might help the police, you should—”
“I don’t,” Alison said.
The train was slowing. She stood up. Persad stood up with her.
“Why should I give you that footage?” she asked.
“Because you’ll have a headline story if you get an exclusive interview with the Kensington Blogger.”
“The raw footage is about two hours long.”
“I need to see it all.”
“The police already have it.”
“I’m sure the station kept a copy. It’s all digital. Won’t take you long to download it onto a stick for me.”
“You seem to know a lot about how journalists work.”
Alison pulled out a plastic bag containing a flash drive that she’d also bought this morning. Persad held out her hand and Alison dropped the drive into it. She kept the bag, and stuffed it back into her pocket. This way, no fingerprints. After all, she was the daughter of a detective.
“Thanks,” Alison said, “for not outing me last night on TV.”
The doors slid open and several people entered the car. Alison and Persad moved to the side to let them pass.
“I need a few hours,” Persad said.
A chime sounded and the doors began to close.
“I’ll be back on the platform at four. Same spot,” Alison said. She hopped out onto the platform an instant before the doors closed firmly behind her.
29
Fox’s private elevator whisked Kennicott down to B1 in seconds. The door opened onto a parking garage like nothing he’d ever seen before. Fox’s Rolls-Royce finned convertible was the only car there, resting on a rubberized floor. Spotlights shone down on it as if the vehicle were a star performer on stage. It was so highly polished it glimmered.
Sherani, a striking young woman with black hair that cascaded to her waist, was standing at the passenger door, which she opened as he approached.
“Welcome, Detective,” she said in a cool, detached voice.
“Thank you for touring me around. I’m sure this is very difficult for you.”
“Mr. Fox was an excellent employer.”
“Interesting vehicle.”
“Mr. Fox loved this car. He bought it for himself on his thirtieth birthday. It’s a reconditioned 1958 Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud, a model nicknamed the Honeymoon Express because it has only two seats. The company just made two of them. Mr. Fox never wanted to sit in the back.”
Fox sure knew how to promote himself as a rich and successful developer, Kennicott thought. But who was he really, behind the image he tried so hard to cultivate?
“Must be fun to drive.”
“It was enjoyable with Mr. Fox.”
Kennicott climbed in. She shut the door behind him, got in the driver’s seat, and put the Rolls in gear. A garage door opened silently, and in moments they were on the street. Kennicott had never been in a car that rode this smoothly or a leather seat that felt this luxurious.
“How long have you been working for Mr. Fox?”
“Eleven months. Mr. Fox hires his chauffeurs for one year. He pays us very well so that we can pay off our student loans. Then he helps us find employment elsewhere.”
Despite her cool manner, Kennicott sensed she was more upset by Fox’s death than she was letting on.
“What will you do for work now?”
“Everyone says I should go into modeling or acting. But my mother wants me to go to medical school. Mr. Fox set up interviews for me with three female doctors.”
“That was nice of him.”
“Mr. Fox was kind to me.”
Kennicott took out his copy of Fox’s itinerary. “Your first stop yesterday was Omni Jewelcrafters.”
“We’re heading there now.”
“Do you know what he was going there to buy?”
She gave him a questioning look. “He goes to Omni every Friday at eleven to meet with other people in the business. They meet there to discuss their deals. You really don’t know a lot about real-estate development do you?”
The man had inspired loyalty. She was protective of Fox.
“I’m learning quickly,” he said.
Sherani drove in silence, steering the Rolls through a warren of wealthy streets. In fifteen minutes she stopped beside a converted bank. What once must have been a lovely stone corner building was now adorned with a gaudy sign that announced “OMNI2 JEWELCRAFTERS JEWELS & JAVA.” Two more signs on either side of the front door blared: “CA$H for GOLD We Also Buy Gems, Watches, Diamonds.”
“Really?” he asked. “The developers meet here?”
“Apparently the coffee is good, and the owner’s wife makes excellent mushroom soup.”
“Apparently? You’ve never been inside?”
“I never leave the car. You going in?”
Kennicott checked his watch. It was 10:59. “I’m not used to having a chauffeur. I’ll be back.” He reached for the door handle.
“Please do not exit until I open the passenger door for you. That’s the way I always did it for Mr. Fox.”
Kennicott felt foolish waiting for her to walk around the big car to open his door.
“Thanks. See you in a while,” he said as he climbed out.
Inside Omni Jewelcrafters, he was surprised to find a functioning restaurant. Two waitresses were scurrying about, serving diners at tables set beside the windows on the south side of the building. The jewellery store was on the north side, where Kennicott imagined that years ago patrons once lined up to speak to bank tellers. A young couple were trying on diamond rings.
A thin man with a long menu in his hand approached Kennicott.
“Table for one?” he asked.
“I’m not here to eat.”
“You looking for a diamond?” He glanced at Kennicott’s hands to confirm he wasn’t wearing a wedding band.
“No.” He kept his voice low. “I’m a police officer and I’m looking to speak to the owner.”
“I thought I recognized you from TV last night.” The man whirled around. “Adam!” he yelled loud enoug
h for everyone in the noisy restaurant to hear. “The detective on Foxie’s murder is here for you!”
A group of men and one woman were seated at a round table in the middle of the restaurant, engaged in animated conversation. The wide-shouldered man sitting closest to the aisle sprang up and rushed over in a few quick, confident steps. He wore a sports jacket, a white shirt with a brown stain on it, and a kippah on his nearly bald head.
“Detective Kennicott, what a pleasure to meet you. Adam Lewis, but everyone calls me Ad Man. I’m sure you’ve seen my commercials on TV. You are most welcome. We all got together today to talk about Foxie. No one can believe it. Come. Come join us.”
He put an arm around Kennicott and walked him across the tile floor. “You have to try my wife’s mushroom soup. People come for it from Mississauga, Oshawa, you name it. And for the jewellery, of course.”
“Thanks. I’m not hungry.”
Detective 101: Never eat with your witnesses.
“Thirty-three years of marriage, I’ve learned: your wife makes soup, you eat her soup.”
Lewis waited for Kennicott to laugh, but he didn’t oblige.
“I’ve got some questions for you,” Kennicott said.
“And I’ve got some answers. But please, try the soup,” Lewis said. “Everyone, this is Detective Daniel Kennicott, the one we all saw on TV last night.”
Interesting. Kennicott hadn’t told Lewis his first name and on TV he’d only been identified by his last name. Lewis had been expecting him to show up.
“Detective, sitting here in front of you is the whole history of real-estate development in this city.” Lewis pointed to a handsome older man closest to them. “Sid Fream. Sophisticated veteran of the group. Sidney built half of the homes north of Wilson in the fifties and sixties.” Fream gave Kennicott a firm handshake.
“Tony Mantelli. Three-quarters of those high-rises on the outskirts of the city, Tony built them. Developers. Builders. First the Jews, then the Italians. These guys are the pioneers, they started by spending their last penny on concrete they poured on weekends. Unbelievable.”
Heart of the City Page 11