“Tattoos, earrings, piercings?”
“No. You know, she looked like most white girls. She had a backpack.”
“What kind was it, do you know?”
“No. It looked cheap. It was yellow.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“I brought in the tea and she nodded. That was it.”
“What happened next?”
“Nothing. I went back at four and she wasn’t there.”
“How many cups were used?”
She paused. “I didn’t think about it until now. Only one cup. The other was clean.”
The waitress looked around the restaurant.
“Can you think of anything else?” Kennicott asked.
“The dead guy was real nice. He once asked me if I was in school. He said I should study architecture, but my uncle wants me to go to business school.”
She walked back to the counter and got right back on her phone.
Kennicott picked up the chopsticks and ate a few shrimp, took out a fifty-dollar bill, and left it on the table. He was following Fox’s footsteps, but he was getting nowhere.
36
“Good day, Detective Greene. I’ve already researched your inquiry,” Anthony Carpenter said, as he escorted Greene into his well-ordered, second-floor office. “Have a seat.”
Greene had been to this law office once before. He’d met Carpenter here when he was trying to find out who had killed Jennifer. It was the day he’d been arrested and now it felt as if that was a lifetime ago.
Nattily dressed, wearing his usual bow tie, Carpenter sat calmly behind his old wooden desk, a single file folder in front of him. Greene took the chair facing him. He was carrying a sports bag, which he placed by his side on the floor.
“Thank you for seeing me on a Saturday,” Greene said.
“From June until September I play golf on Wednesdays and Thursdays because it’s easier to get tee times, and I work on weekends.” He opened the file and slipped on a pair of reading glasses, then handed over a sheet of paper. “This piece of real estate you inquired about is quite interesting.”
“What did you find?”
“Conclusion: Seven years ago the detached home located at 329 Augusta Avenue was purchased from its owners, Mr. and Mrs. Halls, and sold to Mr. Birrel Israelite, in trust, for the sum of five hundred twenty-three thousand dollars. There was no mortgage on the property, which the Halls had owned for forty-three years. No liens against the property. It was a cash purchase.”
Greene looked up from the memo. “What does it mean that the property was sold ‘in trust’?”
“It means that the lawyer, Mr. Israelite, made the purchase and held the property confidentially in trust for his client. Big companies do this all the time when they don’t want anyone to know they are gobbling up properties.”
“Because the lawyer won’t be able to reveal the identity of his client?”
“Exactly. Solicitor–client privilege.”
“What do you know about this Mr. Israelite?”
“Only that he’s a lawyer in Niagara Falls. But the plot thickens.” Carpenter began reading again. “Two years later, the property was sold by Mr. Birrel Israelite in trust to Ms. Alice Robillard in trust for the exact same sum.”
“Robillard is also a lawyer?”
“Yes, in Ottawa. Then the house was flipped again six months later to a lawyer in North Bay. Again in trust and again for the same price.”
“Presumably the same secret client is behind all of these transactions. Why?”
“I can’t read minds. But I’d say they did this to ensure their identity could never be discovered.”
“Have you ever seen anything like this before?”
Carpenter shook his head. “For a residential property? No. Not in thirty-three years of practice.”
Greene got up and started to pace. “Do you know either of these other two lawyers?”
“No. But I’ve looked them all up.”
An idea occurred to Greene. “Can you check to see what year all three were called to the bar?”
“You’re thinking they went to law school together and you could piece together a connection to the owner somehow. I had the same notion. I noted their years of call when I did my original research,” Carpenter said, digging into the file. “Let’s see, Israelite was called in 1982, went to Osgoode Hall, Robillard was 2001, went to U. of T., and the third one was called in 1994 and graduated from Western. Dead end, I’m afraid.”
In other words the lawyers had been chosen at random, the best way to be certain that it was impossible to trace back and find out who the owner was, Greene thought.
“Can you check out other houses adjoining Fox’s condo buildings and see if any of them were also purchased in trust? He pulled out a piece of paper. “These are the seven most recent buildings listed on Fox’s website.”
“Certainly.” Carpenter examined the list. “I’ll need a day to look into this.”
“Thanks.” Greene pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and slipped them on. He opened the bag he’d left on the floor and pulled out the yellow backpack and placed it on Carpenter’s desk.
“Please deliver this by rush courier to Homicide Detective Daniel Kennicott.”
“Certainly.”
“Write him a note on your letterhead that says: My client has requested I pass this item to you. It was found earlier today under the kitchen sink in the house at 329 Augusta Avenue.”
“You realize,” Carpenter said, “that as it’s coming from my office, Detective Kennicott will assume it’s coming from you.”
“Exactly,” Greene said, pulling off his gloves. “He’ll know it was from me, but he won’t be able to prove it.”
37
Kennicott strode into the boardroom at the Homicide office. Darvesh was there, waiting for him. He’d laid out several piles of paper, each with a handwritten title page.
“Let’s start with the people you met at Omni Jewelcrafters,” Darvesh said, handing Kennicott a set of papers stapled at the corner. “We’ve done a complete background check on each person as well as a summary of their alibis for yesterday afternoon. We’ve been able to confirm all of them except for Odessa Breaker’s. She’s on page five.”
Kennicott turned to her page. “What does she say?”
“That she was out jogging alone down by the lake. There are no cameras on the trail so we haven’t been able to independently verify it yet.”
Kennicott peeked at his watch. It was five o’clock. Her note said he should meet her at seven.
“We’ve been tracking down the original suspects.” Darvesh passed him another set of papers and started flipping through his own copy.
“Carol Archer, the angry ex-girlfriend, is in a drug rehab clinic up north.”
“Happens.”
“George Braithwaite, Fox’s former business partner, is on a fishing trip in the Yukon.”
“Lucky guy.”
“Gary Edwards, the condo board president who is suing Fox. His oldest son graduated yesterday from King’s out in Halifax. He’s been there since Thursday and isn’t coming back until tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“Charlie Hicks, the financier who is suing Fox for twenty million dollars. She’s into some kind of extreme long-distance bike riding. Her husband says she’s currently doing a twelve-hundred-kilometre race out in the Rockies. He sent me a link to the event and I confirmed it. There’s a copy there for you.”
“Our suspects are falling like flies. What about Fox’s father?”
“It’s about forty kilometres from the Fresh restaurant to the Foxhole Wellness Centre. Assuming he rode at twenty-five kilometres an hour, it would have taken him less than two hours. Their lunch ended at two, but he didn’t show up until we were there at the Centre at five. That leaves more than an hour unaccounted for. The job site was a few blocks away from Fresh, and the 911 call came in at 4:01:23. He would have had enough time to kill his son. We c
hecked the cameras in stores north of the restaurant.
“Any luck?”
“We got him leaving Fresh, heading north toward Kensington Market at 2:12 p.m.”
“Good work. We know he argued with his son about money at their lunch. Where’s Fox’s estate going to go? To his fiancée? Fox had been supporting his parents for years. Once he was married, was he going to cut them off completely? It’ll take time to probate the will; in the meantime check their banking records and credit card debt. I want around-the-clock surveillance on the father.”
“You think the wife might have put him up to it?”
“I think we’ll investigate them up and down. What about our prime suspect, Amberlight?”
Darvesh handed over another sheaf of papers. “This is her criminal record, her police contacts, and the earlier convictions that she got expunged.”
Kennicott started to read through the pages on top.
“Look at the expunged convictions.”
Kennicott flipped to the back pages. “Phew, looks like she’s got a bit of an anger problem.”
“Violence and weapons,” Darvesh said. “We searched through her Facebook and Twitter histories. There’s lots of vitriol about Fox. But check the page where I’ve put a yellow sticky. It’s a tweet she sent last year.”
Kennicott read it out loud: “ ‘Fox buildings poorly built. I worked construction all thru university. If I had a hammer, guess what I’d do with it!’ ”
“It gets better,” Darvesh said, holding up a last set of papers.
“Tell me.”
“I had a rush DNA test done on the water glasses, and . . .”
He passed the papers over to Kennicott.
“We got a match from Amberlight’s saliva on the rim,” Darvesh said.
“I see why Greene wants her to come in to make a statement,” Kennicott said. “She was in the shed on the afternoon Fox is murdered, and we’ve got the proof.”
“What time is she coming in tomorrow?” Darvesh asked.
“At three, if she shows up.”
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” Kennicott said.
Francine Hughes, the receptionist, entered carrying a large package. “I wouldn’t normally come back here,” she said, “but this was marked urgent, from a lawyer’s office, addressed to you personally, Detective Kennicott.”
“Thank you, Ms. Hughes,” Kennicott said, taking the package from her. It was from the law office of Anthony Carpenter J.D. Why was that name familiar?
“I’ve got scissors,” Darvesh said. He slipped on a pair of gloves, cut through the packaging and pulled out a yellow backpack and a letter.
“Should I read it?” he asked.
“What’s the lawyer’s address?” Kennicott asked.
“Five hundred Danforth Avenue, second floor.”
Now Kennicott remembered who Anthony Carpenter was.
“What’s the letter say?”
“ ‘Detective Kennicott. My client has requested that I pass this item to you. It was found under the kitchen sink in the house at 329 Augusta Avenue earlier today. Sincerely, Anthony Carpenter, J.D.’ ”
Ari had beat him to the punch again, Kennicott thought. Why hadn’t it occurred to him to search that house on the other side of the alley?
“Empty the backpack, Kamil,” he said.
Darvesh pulled out a Toronto Blue Jays baseball cap, a pair of sunglasses, a black T-shirt, and a pair of white shorts. He checked all the pockets but there was nothing else.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked.
“It belonged to a young white woman who was supposed to meet with Fox around the time he was murdered.”
“I still don’t understand. Why is this coming to you from a lawyer’s office?”
Kennicott folded his arms.
“It’s a message from Ari Greene.”
“Detective Greene?”
“It looks as if he’s found the Kensington Blogger. Send all this out to see if we can get any DNA, especially from that baseball cap. Urgent request. Get a search warrant for the house at 329 Augusta Avenue. Go through the place top to bottom. And get hold of our legal department. We need to find out who owns that property.”
“I’m on it,” Darvesh said.
“One more thing. Contact all the TV stations that were at the protest and get a copy of all the footage they shot yesterday. Get some officers to look through it all and see if they caught someone walking into that house wearing these clothes and this backpack. With luck it will stand out in the crowd.”
“Done. Are you going to talk to Greene?”
“No need,” Kennicott said, unfolding his arms. “We’re already having a conversation.”
SATURDAY EVENING
38
Kennicott timed it perfectly. He drove down Parliament Street, under the Gardiner Expressway, the crumbling elevated highway that cut off most of the city from the lake, and onto Queens Quay. On his right he spotted Small Street, a tiny road he’d never noticed before. To his left was an empty abandoned wharf and beyond it the lake.
The steel fence that ran in front of the property was plastered with colourful drawings showcasing the massive waterfront condominium complex that Fox had planned to build here over the next ten years. They depicted a pair of nine-storey office buildings fronting the street, six residential condominium complexes on the water, an athletic centre complete with a pool, rooftop terrace, outdoor dining lounge, solar panels and a green roof. There was an enormous photo of Fox standing at the helm of a yacht under a banner proclaiming “Welcome to Fox Harbour.” Another picture showed a scantily dressed, athletic-looking young couple in a shallow pool splashing with the headline “Water, Water Everywhere!” and a third showcased four smiling employees under the banner “Fox Harbour Presentation Centre, Come in and Meet Our Great Sales Team.”
A number of runners and cyclists were on the path in front of the fence. Kennicott waited until there was a gap, then drove in, turned down a short gravel road, and parked. He was at the base of a long empty wharf: the future building site. It was exactly seven o’clock.
Odessa Breaker was standing by her car, a sleek Audi 5000. She wore a black-and-white running suit, sculpted to her fit body, and a pair of bright red running shoes. Her cornrowed hair was fastened with black, white, and red clips. She held a red-and-white water bottle in her hand.
As he approached, a flock of seagulls down the wharf began to squawk.
“Right on time, Detective,” Breaker said, checking the sports watch on her wrist. She peered over his shoulder and scanned the road behind him.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I came alone. Nobody knows I’m here. Not even my partner.”
“Brave of you. But I was born suspicious. Let’s go.”
Breaker started running back up the road. There was loose gravel underfoot, and Kennicott slipped on it, almost falling. He righted himself, and it took him almost a minute to catch up. Breaker was a good runner. She glided along the trail with a long, easy stride. During the fourteen-week murder trial that he’d just finished, Kennicott had only been able to run on the weekends. His legs weren’t in shape. Plus he hadn’t slept since he’d got up to go to court early yesterday morning. But the evening air was invigorating, and it was cooler by the lake. Don’t push yourself too hard at the beginning, he told himself, as he lifted his legs high and found his rhythm.
He was going to let Breaker start the conversation, to use the power of silence the way Greene had taught him. At a curve in the trail, he heard footsteps rushing toward them, and in an instant a group of runners came flying around the corner, forcing them to the side. They stood under a huge concrete pylon that supported the overhead highway as the herd stampeded past. Once they were gone, Breaker put her hand on Kennicott’s arm.
“Don’t be fooled by those men you met today at Omni,” she said. “Believe me, they all hated Fox’s guts.”
“You saying they were putting o
n an act for me?”
“Oscar performances.”
“Then they weren’t upset that he was murdered?”
“Just the opposite. How do you spell relief? I don’t trust any of them.”
“My partner has checked out their alibis. They’re all solid.”
“These people are not dumb enough to do something like this themselves. And they’re not the only ones. I can think of twenty developers in the city who would have wanted Livingston out of the way. I bet they’re all secretly celebrating right now.”
“But why?”
She took her hand off his arm. He’d forgotten it was there.
“You don’t get it, do you?” She waved her arm at the city behind them. “Toronto is about the hottest real-estate market in North America. Look at all those cranes. No other place is building at the rate we are, and there’s way more to come. Do you have any idea how much money is involved in this business?”
“I’m learning.”
“I need to run,” she said, and took off. He kept pace beside her along the path that took them to the Leslie Street Spit, a long peninsula that stuck out into the lake like a bent finger.
They took the road up the middle of the spit and kept going in silence until they reached the turnaround at the end. Except for the occasional bird watcher, a few cyclists, and one or two other runners, they were alone.
Breaker led him to a rocky beach and they sat, looking back over the harbour at the city. A nearby flock of seagulls squawked in protest at their presence. Out on the water there were sailboats and groups of kayakers and paddle boarders. All normal people leading normal lives.
“This partner of yours,” she said at last. “Did he check out my alibi?”
“He said you told him you were running along the lakeshore.”
“Running alone. Does that make me a suspect?”
He didn’t want to give her a direct answer. This part of the city was remote. There’d be no video cameras, and it would probably be impossible to find a witness who had seen her jogging way out here.
“Adam Lewis called you a public housing czar,” he said.
She laughed. “That’s Adam being Adam the Ad Man. I’m a consultant.”
Heart of the City Page 14