by A. M. Potter
She appeared to be taken aback. “Yes.”
“It may not be showing yet,” he said, “but we have our sources. A Mr. Ward Larmer, to be precise.”
She shrugged as if she wasn’t surprised.
“He also told us that you asked Mr. Tyler to marry you and that Mr. Tyler refused.”
“Thom didn’t refuse. He said we had to wait.”
“Wait?”
“Yes, until he got some debts paid off.”
“What debts? To whom?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come, Miss MacLean, you lived with him for ten years.”
“We kept our finances separate.”
That rang true, Naslund thought.
“So,” Moore said, “you didn’t covet his money?”
Covet, Naslund said to herself. That’s old-school to the core.
“Of course not,” MacLean replied. “I make more than enough money.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Nonetheless, you asked John Tyler to help put your name on the cottage. Why?”
“For the baby.”
Moore acted as if he hadn’t heard her. “From where I sit, you wanted the cottage. If you murdered Mr. Tyler, it’d become yours.”
“It was for the baby.”
“It was for you, Miss MacLean.”
“Me? Are you serious? Think, Inspector. If I was after Thom’s property, why didn’t I put my name on everything? The cottage, the condo, his boats, his art. Listen, listen carefully. The cottage was for the baby.” She glared at him. “It would have helped the baby. His baby. Are you deaf?”
“That’s enough! I’ll ask the questions.”
“Thom’s dead!” she cried. “What else do you want to know?”
“The truth, Miss MacLean.”
“I’ve told you the truth. Let me state it bluntly. I didn’t kill Thom or have him killed.”
Moore eyed her. “All right, you didn’t murder Mr. Tyler. But your associate did. Your partner, I should say, in more ways than one.”
“My partner?”
“Your lover.”
“Lover? What lover?”
“Ward Larmer.”
“Are you crazy?”
“You aided and abetted Ward Larmer in the murder of Thomas Tyler. Miss MacLean, you’re an accomplice to first-degree murder.”
She stared at him.
“Confess. It will be better for you. You colluded with Ward Larmer. You gave him access to your Mallory Beach boathouse and dock. You informed him of Mr. Tyler’s movements.”
“I did nothing of the kind.”
“Confess, Miss MacLean.”
“I have nothing to confess.”
“Confess. It will be better for you.”
“I’m innocent.”
“It’s no use lying. We’ll uncover the truth.”
“Please do. And please find out who murdered Thom.”
“We will.” Moore eyed her then strode confidently from the room.
***
A few minutes later, Naslund joined Moore in his office. The inspector waved her to a chair. “She’s as slippery as Larmer,” he began. “I don’t believe either of them.”
Naslund remained silent.
“From what I’ve seen and heard, MacLean is different things to different people. She’s all over the place. She’s the long-suffering saint, the supportive partner, the fair-minded boss.” He shook his head. “I don’t buy it. I don’t trust her.”
Fair enough, Naslund thought, but distrust didn’t translate to guilt. She sat back. From what she’d just seen, MacLean was clean. So much for the cottage being a gate. So much for her optimism.
“What’s the best way to crack a liar?” Moore asked. “Let them think you believe them. Then go back at them. Again and again. They’ll eventually muddle their stories.” He nodded with assurance. “In the meantime, we have a team meeting at eleven hundred.”
***
Sitting at her hutch, Naslund updated the case notes on John Tyler. As she completed them, the team filed into the murder room. No one was absent. No one was late.
Moore called the meeting to order and asked FID Constable Wolfe to address the room. The ninja rose and told the team that he and Mitchell hadn’t found any useful bio matter or workable prints at Colpoys wharf. However, they’d collected soil samples. If the perps used a vehicle, it might have deposited floral or mineral features that could be linked to a specific location, leading to the perps themselves. On the flip side, someone not residing in the Bruce might own a vehicle that presented floral or mineral features unique to the Bruce, thus indicating they’d been in the region.
Moore interrupted Wolfe. “A soil analysis operation can take weeks. Nonetheless, we need to give it top priority. I’ve also assigned Detective Chahoud to the operation. I may assign other officers next week.” Moore waved Wolfe on.
“It’s possible,” Wolfe continued, “that the perps parked far away from the wharf and walked to it, perhaps using the Bruce Trail, which has numerous access points.”
Wolfe went on to report that he, Chahoud, and Mitchell had begun collecting samples from the closest access points. The lab would zero in on floral and mineral matter from distinctive bio-regions. Such bio-regions were generally small, making a match manageable, if not timely.
“Time is our enemy,” Wolfe concluded.
Moore broke in. “If a match is there, the lab will find it. Even high-powered carwashes don’t rinse all trace matter off.”
Naslund silently agreed. She wondered why criminals ever used a car. If they knew what forensics could pin on them, they’d ditch all cars, or severely limit their use. Ditto for firearms. Which, she concluded, was what the Tyler-Mackenzie perps seemed to have done.
Wolfe went on to relate that a ground study of the wharf suggested two people carried the victim to the wharf’s edge and threw him in the water. He and Mitchell found three lines of blood leading from the spot where the victim went down to the wharf’s edge. They also found partial prints indicating two sets of large shoes, both provisionally identified as size thirteen, moving in tandem at an average of .82 meters apart, starting at the victim-down position and ending at the edge. Although the prints were not complete enough to yield a match, they reconstructed the scene. Two people moved in the same direction at a steady distance apart using short steps--consistent with the steps used to carry a load about .60 meters wide, the width of the victim’s shoulders. Wolfe made a final point. He and Mitchell had found no evidence the victim was dragged.
As Wolfe sat, Moore stood. “Thank you, Detective.” He addressed the room. “Detective Wolfe just delivered important information. There were likely two perps. Although the reconstruction is not conclusive, it is highly suggestive. What do courts need to convict? Not absolutely conclusive evidence, but evidence beyond reasonable doubt. What Detectives Wolfe and Mitchell reconstructed appears to be beyond reasonable doubt.” Moore nodded gravely. “Going forward, I want everyone to be on the same page. In the MacKenzie case, we are likely dealing with at least two perps. Ditto for the Tyler case. Both murders appear to have been committed by the same perps. If we solve one case, we’ll likely solve the other. Sergeant Chu will now update you on the blood at Colpoys wharf and the bio matter found on MacKenzie’s boat.”
Chu rose and explained that the blood at Colpoys wharf was all the victim’s, just as the blood at the main Tyler CS was all the victim’s. There was no ancillary blood. However, the team had some solid evidence. The same weapon was used to perpetrate both murders: a gray metal ballpeen hammer. Chu went on to note that his team hadn’t found any useful DNA carriers on Hay Island. As for MacKenzie’s boat, all they’d discovered was saliva on seven beer cans, saliva with the same DNA profile. It was the victim’s saliva. However, it was planted.
“Constable Chahoud--” Chu pointed to his MU associate. “--detected minute cotton fibers in the saliva itself as well as directly on three of the seven beer cans. He concluded a cotton clot
h was used to transfer saliva from the victim’s mouth to the mouths of the cans. Unfortunately for us, the saliva cloth did not match the cloth used to plant blood on Mr. Tyler’s boat. Any questions?”
There were none.
Moore stood. “Thank you. As Sergeant Chu reported, the saliva was planted, like the blood on Tyler’s boom. It was no doubt planted in an attempt to deceive us, to mislead our investigation.” He held up a finger. “It didn’t work. We’re on track. Keep focused!” He pointed to the cork board. “I’ve posted new actions. Attend to them.”
Having dismissed the team, Moore beckoned Naslund to his office.
“I have a task for you, Sergeant,” he said after she sat. “First, did you check in with Lowrie on that MacKenzie list?”
“Yes. It looks good.”
“Okay. I realize you want to go after MacTavish. I can read you. Sometimes.” Moore grinned. “Go down to the city and pay him a surprise visit. Interview him re the MacKenzie murder. By virtue of the Tyler case, he’s a prime suspect. Hook him if you can.”
“Yes, sir.” In Naslund’s eyes, with the two Murphys, Larmer, Gordon Tyler, and Carrie MacLean seemingly clean, Jock MacTavish loomed large. A small forensic detail--the likely height of the killer--supported her supposition. All five of the “clean” POIs were under six-feet tall, the tallest being five-ten. MacTavish was six-two.
“One more thing.” Moore paused. “This is off-the-record. Use all the rope you need. Don’t worry about the letter of the law. Walk the edge.”
“Right.”
“Best of luck. I have absolute confidence in you. I’ve been watching you.” He smiled sincerely. “You’ll go places. You have the recording eye of a real detective.”
Naslund wasn’t sure what to say. In her father’s view, a detective’s eye wasn’t good enough; you also needed a detective’s mind. Well, at least Moore figured she was half-way there. Glass half full. “Thank you,” she replied.
“You’re welcome, and thank you. You know, Sergeant, it’s easy to see everything through your own eyes, your own bigotries and assumptions. It’s a bad habit, one I need to break. You’ve helped me start.” He smiled again. “Stay safe. Call for back-up if you need to shake any big trees.”
Chapter 30
Toronto. July 17th:
Naslund entered the Gallery Canadiana at 1700. Moore had arranged for a city detective to shadow MacTavish and let her know if he left the gallery. He hadn’t. He’d been inside for the last three hours.
As she stepped forward, a wall of perfume hit her nose. Tatyana was nearby. Her eyes lit up as Naslund approached. Per usual, her lips were wide and red, her hair said top salon. But there was something different about her blouse. It had three open buttons, not two. Her bra was visible. It was skimpy and sheer.
“Sergeant, you are back.” Tatyana smiled. “I see you park in street.”
Naslund wondered if that triggered the three-button opening. It seemed the doll was still playing. “I’d like to see Mr. MacTavish.”
“Of course. Your leg, is good now?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Very good.” Tatyana looked quickly behind her. The room was empty. “You catch boss. Ask to see sales invoices. I find no multi-contracts.”
Naslund nodded. Too bad, but she wasn’t surprised. Not having heard from Tatyana, she assumed her search hadn’t succeeded.
“Follow me.” Tatyana smiled again. “This way, Sergeant.”
Her hips swayed; her hair bounced. Her flash factor was over-the-top.
She glanced back at Naslund, who was looking ahead, down the corridor. The doll seemed disappointed. Her sway increased. Her skirt snapped with each step.
“Coffee?” she asked as they reached the office door. “With lots of cream? I know you like.”
Naslund shook her head.
“Water?”
“No thanks.”
Tatyana pivoted on the ball of one high heel, like a stage dancer.
“Come in, Sergeant,” MacTavish called. “Don’t dally.”
Naslund entered the office. It was as disheveled as on her previous visits. “Good afternoon, Mr. MacTavish.”
“What brings you to the Canadiana?”
“Business.” She sat. “I’d like to see the invoices for all your Tyler sales.”
“All of them? That’s seven years.”
“So you say.”
“Give me a moment.”
Forty minutes later, she leaned back. She’d counted 168 invoices and quickly scanned them. Although MacTavish had sold thirty-two canvases in seven years, he’d prepared 168 invoices. Just as Tatyana had said, there were multiple invoices for the same painting, all with different prices. Was MacTavish scamming the taxman? Was he scamming Thom? “Explain something for me. Why are there four, five, or sometimes six invoices for one Tyler sale?”
“It’s simple, Sergeant. When I put a Tyler canvas up for sale, I prepared multiple invoices beforehand.”
“Why?”
“To facilitate a sale. Let me explain. Everything was the same--the artist, the name of the work, the date of the work, etcetera--except for three entries. I left the sales date and sold-to name blank. I then printed numerous invoices with different prices, according to the price range I determined I could get.”
“The price range? Don’t you have a set price?” She knew he didn’t, but wanted to irritate him.
“No. As I told you and the inspector, there is a set wholesale price, not a set sales price.”
“Why did you print a range of prices?”
“To ensure that I could immediately close a sale. It was a step saved. A seemingly minor, but very important step.” MacTavish smiled with attempted modesty. “Over the years, I’ve learned it’s important to have a number of invoices pre-printed, with a range of prices. That way, when the price is set, I can get the client to immediately sign on the dotted line.”
“What happens if you agree to a price that is not pre-printed?”
“That rarely happens.”
“Oh? Why?”
“Experience. I know my inventory and I know my prices.”
“Why not just write in the agreed-upon sales price, as you do with the sales date and sold-to name?”
“Security, Sergeant, which is closely linked to provenance. You want the price set in stone. You don’t just write in an amount. I use a special printer font and ink, unique to my business. It is far easier to change a hand-written price than to alter a uniquely printed price.”
Spoken like someone who’d done it, Naslund thought. “What about the sales date and sold-to name? Why don’t you print them?”
“Some agents do, but I don’t.”
“Please elaborate.”
“By all means. I write the sale-to name in ink and immediately hand the pen to the buyer for his or her signature. Regarding the date, although I am experienced, I am not clairvoyant.” He grinned as if he’d just told a brilliant joke. “As you might appreciate, it’s very difficult to forecast a sales date.”
“I suppose. But isn’t the name as important as the price?”
“No.” He rolled his eyes as if to say I live in a world of Philistines. “What is the main function of provenance?”
She shrugged.
“Establishing the value of a work of art. Which is why I focus on the price. Consider both the date and the sale-to name. While the two elements are indeed important, the main element is the price paid. Price is the single most important factor in determining value, which, in turn, dictates what a future buyer will pay.” MacTavish paused. “Most of my buyers don’t care about the sold-to name, unless, of course, the previous owners were famous, in which case the work’s value usually increases. For example,” he said, “if the queen owned a Thom Tyler, it would make it much more valuable than if you did.”
“Of course.” Snide bugger.
“By the way, what I just told you applies to all my paintings, not just the Tyler paintings. Would you like to se
e my other invoices?”
“No thanks.” Time to switch gears. She smiled. “I wonder if you can help me on a personal matter.”
“Of course.”
“I’d like to invest in an art fund. Can you recommend one?”
MacTavish’s face fell. “That was the past, Sergeant. I got out when I saw what was happening. Are you going to arrest me for bad judgement?”
“Tell me what happened.”
“I got out, that’s all I care about now.”
“Why did you get in?”
“I needed help. In short, loans. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get ahead in the art market when you’re competing against Sotheby’s and Christie’s?”
“Where were you yesterday from midnight until six-thirty a.m.?”
“At home.”
“Doing what?”
“Sleeping. Probably snoring. My wife can verify that.” He smiled. “Both things.”
“When did you get up?”
“Seven.”
“What’s your wife’s cell number?”
MacTavish told her.
She punched the number into her duty phone. A soft-spoken woman answered.
“Mrs. MacTavish?”
“Yes?”
“Detective Sergeant Naslund, OPP. I have a quick question to ask you. When did your husband go to bed the night before last? Sunday night, that is.”
“Ah. About eleven-thirty.”
“When did he get up yesterday?
“Seven. Why are you asking?” She sounded worried.
“Did he snore?”
“Why yes, he did. Why do you ask?”
“Part of an investigation. Thank you, Mrs. MacTavish.”
Naslund disconnected and pocketed her phone.
MacTavish was nodding. “See, you can believe me. Give me some credit.”
“Do you offer unverified credit, Mr. MacTavish?”
“I give credit where credit is due.”
“So do I.”
He waved a hand. “Enough. We may disagree, but we both have jobs to do. And you’re doing yours very well. I commend you.”