by A. M. Potter
Moore next reported that two Metro detectives had interviewed Tyler’s artist contacts in Toronto. Without prompting, three of them said that Tyler’s previous agent, Louise Hennigan, had been his lover fifteen years ago, when he was twenty-four and she was forty. There’d been a lot of acrimony when the affair ended. On Hennigan’s side, it was apparently still simmering. Moore had arranged to interview her in Toronto.
Finally, he surveyed the room. “I trust you all remember what I said about lone wolves. I don’t abide by them. We’re in this together. We succeed or fail as a team. Understood?”
Everyone nodded, Naslund included. She believed in sharing all intel. However, she couldn’t identify J.J. and Marty and thus lose them. She’d double-checked their whereabouts during the murder window. They were clean, and they had a lot to offer. Thanks to them, she rationalized, she was feeding important details into the case notes.
“I’d like to commend everyone,” Moore continued. “I know the media hounds have been nipping at your heels, but they’re not getting anything, not even a sniff. You’re holding them at bay. Well done.” He smiled. “I also know that I’ve been pushing you hard to find bio evidence. But you need to dig into human nature as well. I don’t often say this, but let your inner psychologists loose. Think like a criminal. Think motivation. Keep hard at it! Your next actions are on the cork board.”
He dismissed the team.
Meeting over, Naslund kept a close eye on the time. At exactly 1500, she strode to the foyer. No sign of Larmer. She stepped outside for some air. A wall of heat hit her. The afternoon sun looked like a ball of fire. The humidity had been building all day.
She turned around, walked back into the air-conditioned station, and waited for Larmer. Was the man playing games again? Upon reflection, it appeared the inspector had evaluated Larmer correctly. He was a me-first sort, a type difficult to trust.
A minute later, Moore hurried up to her. He looked irritated. “I had to cancel our fifteen hundred with Larmer. M and M didn’t come through.”
She nodded. M&M, the financial forensic section, aka the Money-n-Murder unit, was usually behind the eight ball.
“Can you join me in my office?”
My office, she thought then smiled. “Sure.”
Once seated, Moore harrumphed. “I expected M and M to deliver some data to pin Larmer down.” He pursed his lips. “We’ll bring him back in a day or two. A few days might soften his shell.”
“Exactly.” She felt worn out. She’d thought of taking a short break and then working from home. Other than last evening with Hal, she hadn’t had any time off. She’d been working seventeen or eighteen-hour days.
“Are you hungry?” Moore asked.
She wasn’t but she nodded.
“How about a sandwich?” he suggested.
“Okay,” she said. She wasn’t going home. “I know a place near Bluewater Park.”
***
Sandwich finished, Moore proposed they sit outside. It was thirty-three Celsius, but the inspector didn’t seem to be feeling the heat. He had his jacket on. They walked to the water and sat on a bench under a willow. Sunlight danced wildly on the bay. Naslund put on her shades and slid off her shoes. A gray jay abandoned the willow and buzzed Moore’s head. He paid it no heed.
“Well,” he said, “how do you think the case is progressing?”
She shrugged.
“We’re a little stuck,” he admitted. “Happens in every case. You go full-speed for three or four days and seem to get nowhere. The truth is, though, we’re making some progress. But don’t tell the team that. We have to keep a fire lit under them.”
She said nothing.
“We’re gathering details, sorting and re-sorting them, rejecting some, promoting others, building the big picture. It’s like painting. You need to erase and re-brush. You need to apply hundreds, if not thousands, of brushstrokes to finish a canvas.”
“Right. Are you a painter?”
“Amateur. Very amateur.”
She decided to probe. “Is that why they assigned you to the case?”
He smiled perfunctorily. “I was the next one on the bench.”
She didn’t believe him. The Tyler case was a top priority. National icon killed in cold blood. Top-gun Moore would have been sent no matter who was next on the bench.
Moore clasped his hands behind his head. “Tyler’s a master,” he said. “But he wasn’t a financial wizard. Not from what M and M says. Fortunately, I got a preliminary report from them.”
“Good.”
“Not bad. Short on ammo, but we have a start. Tyler had plenty of money coming in, yet he had more going out. A lot more. He had assets--boats, houses, a car--but didn’t own much of it. The banks did. Well, they still do. There’s a thirty-three-foot sailboat, refurbished and outfitted for painting trips, a cottage in Mallory Beach with a double lot, a waterfront condo in Toronto with three bedrooms and a full-length terrace, plus a 2012 Volvo station wagon. Apparently, the vehicle is paid for, but he has big loans on all the other items. His account showed red every month for the past three years. Blood-red. And what often goes with red money?” It was a rhetorical question. “Red murder.” Moore stretched his stilt-like legs. “From what we know, Tyler didn’t write a will. He died intestate.”
Naslund nodded.
“M and M reported that none of his property is co-owned by MacLean. You’d think she’d be his beneficiary. In the eyes of the court, she’s a civil partner. However, as it happens, Tyler’s father co-signed the sailboat loan. Ditto for the cottage and condo mortgages. The father was a joint owner of all three. He’s now the sole owner. Given what he told Conrad yesterday, he’s an unlikely suspect. Did you read the transcript?”
“Yes.”
“Did you find his alibi solid?”
“Completely.”
“Okay. As for MacLean?” Moore shrugged. “It looks like she’ll inherit Tyler’s vehicle. Might be worth twenty grand. I don’t imagine she killed him for his car.”
“Not likely,” Naslund said. “She drives a new Subaru Forester.”
Moore pursed his lips. “Maybe she stands to inherit some of his art, which, I can tell you, doesn’t look promising either. As to property and money, it appears she was locked out of almost everything. She and Tyler had separate credit cards and bank accounts, with different banks, in fact. From what Tyler’s bank records show, he only activated one bank card, his own. She may not have had any access to his money.”
“Probably has enough of her own. She has an established business.”
“Right. By the way, I ran a wider check on her. She’s squeaky clean. Pays her taxes on time, charges HST, pays her staff above board. Not a hair out of place. Our Miss MacLean looks like a good girl. But the good-girl act could be a cover.” He shook his head. “She’s difficult to read. She might be an accomplice. At this juncture, she’s still on the hook. If she colluded with someone, despite her apparent attempt to frame Larmer, it could be him.”
Naslund shrugged. It could be, but she didn’t see MacLean conspiring with Larmer. In fact, she didn’t see MacLean conspiring with anyone. She was too independent.
Moore kept rolling. “Let’s consider, for argument’s sake, that Larmer used a boat. I know, Chandler didn’t find any evidence of that, but we can’t write it off yet. Larmer could have ‘borrowed’ one and returned it without anyone knowing it was used. MacLean could have done the set-up, compromised the skiff, that is. Are you confident the centerboard screws didn’t pop out?”
Naslund nodded.
“Well, perhaps she compromised the skiff’s centerboard at the boathouse and then Larmer assaulted Tyler in the bay.”
“I don’t think that’s likely. I suspect someone compromised the centerboard out in the bay, and I think they came aboard the skiff to do it. The details are in my latest case notes.”
“Summarize the salient points for me.”
“Okay. Tyler always did a full boat check before h
e left a dock. Even if he hadn’t, he would have realized the centerboard was damaged within minutes and turned around. That suggests someone compromised it after he left the boathouse.”
“We don’t know with certainty that Tyler did a boat check that morning. A defense lawyer would shoot holes in that.”
Naslund didn’t reply. A defense lawyer could shoot a lot of holes in their “evidence.” So far, much of it was speculative or circumstantial.
Moore stood abruptly. “Excuse me. I need a little walk.”
She watched him go. He looked aggravated. Was she being argumentative? Some old boys thought female detectives were too quarrelsome, not to mention too emotional, too invested in victims. And some were, she agreed. They believed you had to bond with victims, bring them back to life so that you could know their hearts. Method sleuthing, the old boys scoffed. Naslund went with them on that one. While she always felt for victims, she didn’t need to know absolutely everything about them. Instead, she wanted to know everything about their potential killers.
Chapter 18
After mechanically pacing to the government wharf and back, Moore sat beside Naslund. Eventually he spoke. “Okay, Sergeant, here’s what I see. Let’s say MacLean didn’t need money. However, maybe she was working with someone who did, someone like Larmer. M and M provided a cursory trace of Tyler and Larmer’s fiscal connections. Over the last eight years, Tyler wired just over three hundred and eighty-eight thousand dollars to Larmer, usually in relatively small amounts, fifteen to twenty thousand dollars at a time.”
“Ah.”
“M and M found three wire transfers from Larmer to Tyler, to the tune of one hundred and twenty-six thousand dollars. Now, the two could have been buying each other’s art, or something else, but I’d guess not.”
She nodded. This was a side of the inspector she admired. The man was thorough.
“However, at this point, we have no proof. M and M is having a hard time digging up Larmer’s financial history. Sketchy record of money in. Same for money out. Pays cash for his rent, ditto for major purchases like cars and air tickets. Other than the wire transfers, he flies off the radar or covers his tracks.”
No surprise, she thought.
The inspector sat back.
She felt him thinking. She remained quiet.
“You know,” he eventually said, “with more evidence, I think we’ll have a good case against Larmer. But we need more evidence. On the other hand, I don’t see a murder case against MacLean--even if she dropped some fingerprints on the skiff during the murder window. She doesn’t benefit from his death. I don’t see any deep motive for her. Do you?”
“I haven’t seen one yet. However, from what I just saw at the memorial lunch, she’s hiding something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“So, it’s a hunch?”
“Yes.” In her view, hunches shouldn’t be immediately discounted. Minor details, like a POI’s body language and clothes, could generate big leads. She knew some people considered her too logical, too male. Admittedly, she didn’t bring a bleeding heart to work, but she brought more than her head. She brought intuition, something men like Moore often seemed oblivious to.
“Do you think she’s working with Larmer?” Moore asked.
“I wouldn’t say it’s impossible,” Naslund replied. “But I’d say it’s unlikely.”
“Why?”
“I don’t see her and Larmer as a team.”
“Why not?”
“They’re both very independent.”
“Independent, eh?” Moore grinned. “I know people like that.”
Naslund smiled. “Very independent. Beyond that, before lunch today, Larmer tried to frame her. The details are in my latest report. As for her, a few days ago, in her interview, she did her best to incriminate Larmer.”
“True. However, that could be self-preservation. After the fact, as it were. Not too long ago, they worked together to murder Tyler, but now they’re selling each other down the river.”
“Maybe.”
“It’s a puzzle,” Moore said. “She admitted to knowing about boats and anchors. Why would she do that if she’s guilty? If I had blood on my hands, I’d keep my mouth shut. Most perps do.”
“Maybe she wants us to think she’s a straight-shooter. Maybe she’s setting us up. The blood on the boom. The centerboard disabled to make it look like a damaged boat led to Tyler’s death.”
“Maybe.”
“She’s a planner. Caterers have to be planners. Banquets, functions, buffets. Can’t serve them unless you’re organized. She could have thought the whole thing through and acted as she did to throw us off.”
“Could have,” Moore said. “In any case, we’ll finish with Larmer before we bring her back in. We’ll dig into her connection to Larmer the next time we interview her.”
“Okay.”
“I’ve been working with a psychologist over at Central, a profiler. He ran data on Larmer and MacLean. Both are organized, both are strong-willed, both are no-nonsense, but that’s where the similarities end. MacLean keeps things in. She’s not emotionally demonstrative. On the other hand, Larmer lets things out. Rather than internalizing emotions like hurt or anger, he externalizes them. He’s capable of aggression. Instead of feeling inferior to people, he feels superior to nearly everyone.”
Naslund nodded. That fit the bill.
“Studies show that over seventy percent of killers are externalizers, like Larmer.”
She’d read the research. In her opinion, the number was less than sixty. Pete used to say that she was no dumb-ass cop. He’d insisted she move into administration. Another strike against the marriage. As far as she was concerned, jockeying an office chair was hell.
“Then there’s life-style,” Moore went on. “Larmer may have a girlfriend, but he lives alone. He has no formal job, so he can do what he wants, when he wants. The psychologist said Larmer’s emotional age is that of a fourteen-year-old. Larmer thinks he’s a good communicator, but he isn’t. He doesn’t listen. He’s two-faced. He has prior criminal activity, albeit minor. He has no feelings of remorse or guilt concerning said activity.”
All true, she reflected. But nothing new. She shrugged.
Moore eyed her. “To know an artist, you study the paintings. Right?”
She nodded.
“To know a suspect, you study the data points.”
“All right.”
She had no problem with profiling per se. A detective had to view a crime from the suspect’s perspective, not their own. However, in this case, the psychologist hadn’t come up with anything new on either Larmer or MacLean.
“By the way,” Moore continued, “I got a detective in Toronto to interview LaToya Austin. According to Austin, Larmer is very possessive. Very hot-headed. I realize much of what I just covered is speculative, but there’s a lot of it. To cut a long story short, Larmer fits the profile of a killer. MacLean doesn’t. Granted,” Moore said, “she’s not off the hook. As I noted, I see her as a possible accessory.”
Naslund suspected MacLean could be more, but she had no proof.
“From what the bank records reveal, it’s possible Larmer still owes Tyler over two hundred and sixty thousand dollars. He could have paid it off in cash, or other goods. Which brings us back to paintings. We have to comb through Tyler’s possessions to see if he owns any of Larmer’s art. Just in case Larmer paid him that way.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t think MacLean will let us in the main cottage. We’ll need a warrant to search it. How are the justices up here?”
“Reasonable. Let me do the paperwork.”
“Thanks. I’ll handle the city condo. Want to scour the cottage with me when we get the warrant?”
“Absolutely.”
“We might uncover more than art. Larmer may have hidden the murder weapons inside to incriminate MacLean. I see him as the type who’d turn on an accomplice.”
&nbs
p; “I’ll give you that. But not MacLean as his accomplice.”
Moore grinned. “We’ll see. For now, we’ll make paintings our main target. We need to determine if Tyler bequeathed his work to anyone outside of a will. Larmer might be an inheritor. He may have killed Tyler to get some of his art. Or all of it. As to work currently on sale, from what I’ve learned, there are sixteen Tyler canvases out there.” Moore paused. “Their estimated market value is three-point-eight million.”
Naslund raised an eyebrow. Three-point-eight mill. She had no idea.
“It looks like the Tyler estate will get about thirty percent of that. Ditto for the taxman. Tyler’s art agent, Jock MacTavish, will get the rest. The man controls all sixteen canvases. I read your early case notes about him. You think he’s suspicious. Why?”
“That’s partially a personal opinion. Another hunch.” She smiled. “However, Tyler once said that MacTavish could be cheating him.”
“I see. How do you know MacTavish?”
“He knew my mother.” That was all she needed to tell Moore.
“Okay. So, this MacTavish has a right to sell all sixteen canvases. I spoke with him a few hours ago. Tyler signed a contract with him for each canvas, with an agreed-upon amount being paid to Tyler when the painting sold. A fixed amount, not a percentage. That usually benefits the agent, especially after an artist dies. MacTavish got twelve months for each canvas. If a canvas wasn’t sold in that time period, it reverted back to Tyler.”
“What happened then?”
“Good question. We didn’t get that far. MacTavish had to take a sales call. Like you noted, he seems suspicious. He sounded obliging and distrustful at the same time.”