Reluctant Dead

by John Moss

  Walking briskly to ward off the morning chill, Miranda cut down University Avenue to the gigantic steel-and-glass edifice in the financial district which housed D’Arcy Associates on an upper floor. The revolving doors were locked, but she attracted a security guard who let her in after she flashed her ID through the glass. Taking the elevator up, she stepped out into a lobby appointed with opulent austerity calculated to be intimidating, mysterious, and in its suggestion of brute force under restraint, either daunting or reassuring, depending on which side you were on.

  “Welcome,” said a cool voice off to the side, as Gloria Simmons stepped forward through an office door. “You must be Detective Sergeant Quin. I’ve been expecting you. Not, perhaps, at 5:30 in the morning. How did you know I’d be here?”

  “Because it’s 5:30 in the morning. I take it that the security guard announced my arrival.”

  “He did. But I knew you’d be coming sooner or later. From what your partner told me about you, it was inevitable.”

  They looked at each other. Miranda had expected a beautiful blonde, but not the self-possessed icy demeanour. Gloriasimmons looked absolutely at home in this soulless place, inseparable from the extravagantly manufactured materials surrounding her. Miranda could not imagine her in a city park, never mind the Arctic. She was a perfect specimen, perfectly turned out, robotic in her sexual, sensual perfection. She could not imagine this woman committing a spontaneous act.

  They both wore suits, perhaps in deference to the early hour. Miranda’s was her best. The other woman was wearing Armani.

  Miranda wondered, how had she known that Gloriasimmons would be there at this time in the morning? Cyborgs and Cylons don’t sleep. A chill ran through her. When they do, they count electric sheep. Morgan might see her as the alluring fusion of a Vogue supermodel and a Playboy vixen, but for Miranda she was a magazine layout, two dimensional, air-brushed, and her staples were showing. Gloria Simmons, meanwhile, gazed unabashedly at her. She seemed puzzled by how beautiful Miranda was. Hazel eyes and auburn hair. Morgan had talked warmly about her, but with the kind of casual admiration usually reserved for an unruly sister. Miranda knew instantly, this woman who was apparently fearless was afraid of her. This surprised them both.

  “Come into my office,” said Gloria Simmons, stepping back and inviting Miranda to walk by her into a large room with one wall of glass and another of leather-bound legal books. “We’ll be more private in here.” Given that there was no one else around, Miranda couldn’t tell whether this was meant to be ominous or ironic. “Have a seat,” she said, indicating an exceptionally low-slung Swedish-design sofa. “Please.”

  As soon as Miranda sat down she was aware of the disadvantage. She struggled forward to get up and found that Gloria Simmons had placed herself so close in front of her that she would literally have had to push the woman aside to get to her feet. She settled into the leather cushions, feeling her semi-automatic press reassuringly into her spine. Gloria Simmons moved back a little and leaned against the edge of her very large desk, lifted slightly, and relaxed so that her weight was supported, but she was poised to spring. Miranda crossed her ankles then uncrossed them carefully, ready to rock forward and break free from the sofa’s indelicate grasp if the occasion demanded.

  This would be where she’d seat her adversaries, Miranda thought. Clients would get the chairs, also Swedish, but higher and more firm. Meanwhile, she would stand as she was, her perfect bottom on glass, her shoes firmly on the oriental carpet. The day-lit window would cast her features in shadow while offering a sharp silhouette with a glaring corona, and it would spotlight the faces of her audience. The forbidding darkness of her law books to one side was counterpoised with a wall of prints and sculpture on the other.

  “Detective Quin?”

  “I was just admiring the Inuit art. “

  “No, you were not.”

  Miranda knew enough from browsing through high end galleries in Yorkville that she recognized original prints by Pitseolak Ashoona and Ovilu Tunnillie from Cape Dorset, but the sculpture was what she thought of as corporate generic. The best soapstone art was by artists who lived the life; men who hunted, women who turned polar bear fur into kamiks to keep the feet warm at minus fifty. These women and men carved pieces small enough that a single carver could handle them. The sculptures artfully placed in Gloria Simmons’s office were massive polished stereotypes.

  “Have you ever noticed?” said Gloria Simmons. “Carvings by men show the muscles beneath the surface, the spirit within. Women tend toward mythic representations, the spirits at work.”

  An interesting distinction, Miranda thought. This woman assumed she was now in complete control. Miranda smiled the smile she saved for occasions when she intended to imply the smile was unwarranted. “You must be busy, winding up your Arctic project,” she said in a tone that gave her the conversational initiative. “Your side won.”

  “My side? I’m a lawyer, Detective.”

  “You’re also an Inuk. Your side won. Which means D’Arcy lost.”

  “We were partners, Detective.”

  “On opposing sides.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Edify me.”

  “No.”

  It was difficult to argue with an unqualified no. Miranda thought of a term she had once heard for relentless interrogation: an interview without coffee. She decided to speed up the process, to go for the jugular.

  “I did some checking around. You don’t have a license, but you’re an experienced De Havilland Twin Otter pilot.”

  Gloria Simmons said nothing. The window behind her was slowly transforming in the dawn light from a wall of mirrors reflecting the room to a vista of the harbourfront punctuated with office towers, a crowding of condos, and mist rising off the water. Miranda slipped forward on the sofa. “You’ve studied navigation, haven’t you?”

  “I took a course.”

  Miranda smiled enigmatically

  “You’re not actually on duty, are you?” said Gloria Simmons. “You just got back.”

  “Actually, I am.”

  “And you’re carrying a gun.”

  “I am, actually.” Miranda rose to her feet a little awkwardly and moved around the room until she stood in front of the window, forcing Gloria Simmons to twist uncomfortably sidewise to maintain a perch against her desktop, and to squint to keep her in focus.

  “Nice earrings,” said Miranda. “Tahitian pearls. Are they new?”

  “A little gift. And yours?”

  “Would the donor be Terrence Rattigan?” Miranda assessed the pearls without moving closer or into the woman’s direct line of vision. Her own were small, 8 mm. These were maybe 14 mm, apparently flawless and with astonishing lustre. Probably worth ten or twenty times what she had paid for hers.

  “Thomas Ross gave them to me a year or two ago. A business associate.”

  Thomas Ross! Terrence Rattigan? The man Miranda had spent the day with on Bora Bora was Thierry! There was no Terry, no Terrence Rattigan. The man looking for her at the ferry was Ross. Of course. Not staying at the Four Seasons. The Haymarket. That was the only seasonally related hotel name that came to mind. She didn’t make the connection between the names Rattigan and Ross. She had never been to London.

  Miranda moved back around the desk, closing the space between herself and Gloria Simmons who rose to her full height, which was formidable. Morgan had not said she was tall. Although Miranda’s semi-automatic had not been discussed again, its presence was a factor in the dynamic of their curious pas de deux. As Miranda pressed closer, Gloria Simmons took small steps backward until her calves pressed against the soft leather sofa cushions. She settled gracefully into the depths of the sofa, crossed her long legs so that they showed to best advantage, and dangled one of her Louboutins so that the red leather sole displayed a disconcerting lack of wear.

  Miranda now perched on the edge of the desk. “I ran a navigational check,” she said. She did not know enough abou
t navigation to have sufficient vocabulary for what she had discovered, but she needed to convey its ominous significance. “The coordinates, you know, they don’t match up …” She let her words hang in the air.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “No, of course. You don’t know how to fly. You’re a novice with maps. You crash-landed safely. Turns out you landed within shouting distance of the three men who were lost in an offshore accident, only they were on shore. I’d call that precision flying. Your friend with the boat, the whale hunter who lost them, he was found floating in the water fifty kilometres away. Interesting, isn’t it? Fifty kilometres. You crashed so deftly on a coastal incline along Baffin Strait, one fjord to the south of where your friend was picked up, yet, by the most amazing coincidence, that was precisely where the three missing men happened to be stranded.”

  “If my coordinates were out by so much, then weren’t we lucky to find them? But, no, they all died, so perhaps it wasn’t lucky after all. For Morgan and me, yes, we got out relatively unscathed. Very lucky. But there was no nefarious plot, Detective, just amateur navigation and fate with a twisted sense of humour.”

  “A cosmic joke. You rescued corpses.” Miranda threw her a quick smile. “Fortunately for Morgan, you needed him to vouch for your heroic intentions. Otherwise you might have returned with four corpses, not three. You did bring the body back from the burial cairn, didn’t you? No, I suppose the Mounties did.”

  “It was your partner’s idea to be there.”

  “Where? In the Arctic, on the Twin Otter, at the death scene? I believe he was invited. By you. And compelled of course by his investigation into the death of Harrington D’Arcy’s wife, something about which you may be able to shed a little light. No? Not now? Perhaps later. You must have been pleasantly surprised, when you got there, and one man was already dead.”

  “He had been for several days.”

  “That must ease your conscience. You only murdered two.”

  “Do you really expect me to confess? Why would I want to continue this conversation? I have a lot to do.” She started to slide forward on her strategically designed sofa and found herself clasped in its indifferent embrace. Without squidging sideways, she was stuck.

  “I’m sure you have a lot to do,” Miranda wryly observed. “Wrapping up the details for Inuit control of the mine in league with the government of Chile — that has all worked out as expected, I assume.”

  “It will take years to finalize. I’m sure you must be disappointed. Your friends on Easter Island were hoping things would go the other way. They were on the fascist side.”

  “No, they were on their own side.”

  “Everything is connected, Detective. Collateral damage from one perspective is a direct hit from another.”

  “The men who died with D’Arcy, they were connected, right? Miguel Escobar, the other man. To the Pinochet bunch.”

  “Apparently they were; it is public record.”

  “So from your perspective, their deaths were another stroke of luck. And Harrington D’Arcy? He was up there to swing the deal in their favour. Not yours. So his death was fortuitous, as well.”

  “He was my partner.”

  “But he was on the other side, so you killed him.”

  Gloria Simmons flashed a chilling smile.

  “You work out at the Toronto Women’s Club on a regular basis, don’t you?” Miranda continued, as if this were the most logical question in the world. There was no response. “You run on the treadmill four days a week, an hour at a time. Never out of doors, always inside. You’re a big woman, and I mean that in the nicest possible way. Big rib cage, good set of lungs. Robust. Your oxygen intake must be enormous.”

  “Are you a runner, Detective?”

  “No, I’m a detective.” Miranda paused. “The two survivors, when you found them, were in very bad condition. Morgan went off to be a hunter-gatherer. When he came back, one was dead. Morgan went off to guide in the rescue chopper. When he came back, the other was dead. Very efficient, Ms. Simmons. You sucked the air out of them. You’re smiling? You placed your lips over their lips, you sucked them empty. You’re still smiling. I’m warm, but not quite on the money. You didn’t suck, you blew air into their lungs, rapid, deep breaths. I remember from scuba diving, it’s called latent hypoxia. You reduce the carbon dioxide in the blood by blowing in and the body thinks there’s enough oxygen when there isn’t — it’s counterintuitive, And bang, blackout. Then you prevent air intake. Bang, death. They were suffocated with the help of their own autonomic systems. I may not have the science quite right, but the smile’s gone!”

  Gloria Simmons adjusted her facial features and her posture into a professional mode, as if she were going to square off with an adversarial counsel. Then she slumped back comfortably into the leather cushions. Miranda was trying to determine whether this move was strategic when her cellphone rattled inside her purse. Gloria Simmons reached over and handed the purse to her. Miranda fished out the phone.

  “Morgan, not now.”

  “You’ll never guess who I just spent the morning with?”

  “It’s only six a.m. The morning’s not over. Morgan, I’m tied up at the moment.”

  “You’ll never guess.”

  “Thomas Edward Ross, a.k.a. Terrence Rattigan,” she proclaimed. The disappointment coming over the silent airwaves was palpable. “Morgan, can I call you back? I’m with Gloriasimmons right now.”

  “Give her my regards. Be careful.”

  “Yeah, sure. How’d you know to call my cell?”

  “You didn’t answer at home. I figured jet lag and that you’d be out drinking coffee somewhere to get back into your normal irregular sleep pattern. It’s nothing that won’t keep.” He paused for effect. “Ross seems to know the Gibraltar coordinates.”

  “That’s impossible, Morgan? Are you sure? He must have been bluffing.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Maybe I should let McMan know.”

  “He’s already at sea. At lake. He left late last night.”

  “How do you know that? Your apprentice mortician?”

  “No, your Mr. Ross.”

  “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “For sure,” he said and clicked off.

  “Morgan sends his regards.”

  “And mine to him.” Gloria Simmons straightened against the back of the sofa again. “This is quite interesting. I have numerous questions, but since it’s all very clever conjecture, I think I’ll pass. My support staff are arriving out there. I really must get to work.” She rose awkwardly to her feet and immediately regained her poise. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, placing her hand on the door without pulling it open, in subtle acknowledgement that Miranda was still in control.

  “Of course,” said Miranda, “but in deference to the principles of full disclosure, let me illuminate the case for prosecution.”

  “Are you a lawyer, Ms. Quin?” Miranda smiled.

  Gloria Simmons smiled.

  Miranda proceeded. “With his wife’s death, Mr. Harrington D’Arcy did a serious about face, I believe. She was more persuasive in death than alive. And you needed the Canadian government to see that D’Arcy Associates was completely on side. Were completely on side, all of you, not just the corporate entity. When D’Arcy flew north to undermine your deal, he had to be stopped. You made arrangements. The hunter, his name is Pauloosie Avaluktuk, he’s active in politics on Baffin, he stranded the two Pinochet guys and Harrington D’Arcy on a remote shore, then he went off in search of the whales. The more absurd the account of the missing men, the less likely it would be to arouse suspicion. Absurd things happen, especially in the Arctic, it seems.” Miranda paused. “I have to wonder, is Chile paying you as well? Of course, they are. Why ask. You are Inuit, apparently, but you are a lawyer for hire. The problem: there was no guarantee that D’Arcy was dead. A billion-dollar deal, the future of your people, and a goodly commission were ridin
g on his death. When you heard he had only been reported missing, you flinched. You needed to be positive. So you went north to make sure the job was done, and you took Morgan with you to vouch for your innocence. Anything else you’d like clarified?”

  “He is a very pleasant travelling companion. Not my style, but a lovely man.”

  “And what is your style?”

  Gloria Simmons smiled. The exchange of enigmatic smiles was beginning to wear Miranda down. She was ready to leave.

  “Are you a lesbian?” Miranda asked in a sudden fit of inspired confusion.

  “Sometimes.”

  The interview without coffee was over.

  13

  Killing People is Wrong

  Morgan and Miranda agreed to meet at the open end of Trafalgar Mews, where it retreated from a leafy side street off Avenue Road into its own little realm of subdued good taste. This was a hard place to find, even if you lived in the neighbourhood. What had once been rows of carriage houses standing close to the street had been converted into chic private residences for people who found ostentation superfluous. Every building was the same, although each front door, opening directly onto the pavement, was a small work of art, painted and repainted to a high gloss like the doors of Dublin. Like Morgan’s front door, the only part of his home in the Annex on which he had ever expended effort to upgrade.

  Miranda arrived first. She had changed into a summer dress after she woke up in the heat of the day, but in the late afternoon she could already feel a chill gathering in the air. She had not thought to tuck a sweater into her handbag. She gazed down the Mews, at first bewildered by what seemed out of place. Then she realized that there weren’t any cars. Since there were no yards in the front or back, and no passageways or alleys behind, people there must keep their cars in a valet-serviced parking garage. Ironic, she thought. These very buildings would have been carriage houses for mansions several blocks away, the carriages to be summoned by messenger.

  She smiled as Morgan approached. He seemed deep in thought and appeared not to notice her until he was within whispering distance.