A Vicious Balance: A Mystery Thriller

by Jolyon Hallows

  He had a detonator that he could trigger with a phone call, but he didn’t know when Travathan would leave, and there was nowhere he could watch for the several hours it might take without raising the suspicion of a security guard. He could rig up a timer that would kick in when the car was started. Say half an hour? No, he couldn’t be sure the driver wouldn’t go to a restaurant or someone’s house. How about a switch that triggered if the car was moving? No, that could get the valet. A combination of the motor running and a timer? That might work if he set the timer for about twenty minutes after the motor started. That would give enough time for the valet to get the car out of the parking lot. But what if the driver stopped? He couldn’t risk the bomb going off if the driver wasn’t in the car. He could adjust the timer to reset itself if the driver turned off the motor. That would work. The bomb wouldn’t go off until the car had been running for an uninterrupted twenty minutes. Still not perfect, but the best option.

  He assembled his bomb in the privacy of his van. When it was ready, he cut the cable that led to the video camera and scrambled over to Travathan’s car. This would have to be fast. The camera was probably monitored.

  He picked open the driver’s door and popped the hood. He taped a brick of C-4 to the firewall, attached a magnetic clip with a sensor onto the side of the engine block, then inserted leads from the sensor into the C-4. When this package went off, it would demolish the car, destroying any evidence and taking the cops months to figure out. He returned to the van and drove out of the parking lot.

  In his hotel room, Travathan looked up Sherry Galina on the internet, but the only references he could find were a few stories of her murder and a news item about her moving into the house on Roseway Crescent. The story was laced with references to the real estate agent, Eddie Barrtels, who had taken to heart the principle that publicity was a real estate imperative.

  Next, he tried Tony Galina, but came up with a similar paucity of information. Curious, he thought. Everyone leaves some trace on the internet these days. According to the police notes, Tony Galina had been a sales rep for a company, Hotel Guest Systems, that specialized in software for hotels and resorts. Its web site extolled its virtues and the quality of its management including the sales director, a woman named Darlene Bannerman. He called her and left a message.

  He checked his notes again. Before she got married, Sherry Galina was a receptionist at an insurance company, Miller, Shouldice, and Warren. He called them and cajoled the office manager, a woman named Barbara Congee, for an appointment that afternoon. She consented to meet at two-thirty.

  He had just hung up when Darlene Bannerman called back. Yes, she remembered Tony Galina, yes, he’d worked for Hotel Guest Systems, and yes, she was willing to talk to Travathan if he could make it at three-thirty because she was leaving the next day on a well-earned vacation. He hung up and frowned. Darlene Bannerman seemed keen to talk, and he got the impression that anything to do with Tony Galina, particularly if it was unpleasant, would be fine with her.

  He had about an hour before his meeting with Barbara Congee. Enough time to squeeze in a call that he put into the loose ends category. He rode down to the lobby, handed over his valet parking stub, and drove to the real estate office of Eddie Barrtels. When he arrived, the timer had counted down to four minutes. He switched off the motor. The timer reset itself.

  An overweight man, his face alight with what looked like a smile that had been surgically implanted, greeted Travathan with a solid handshake and an eye contact that seemed to shout, “Trust me.” The man said, “I’m Eddie Barrtels. Your dream house is our mission. How can I help you Mr. . . .?”

  “Travathan. Gord Travathan, but I’m not here to buy a house. I’m conducting an investigation, and I’m looking for information. I understand you sold a house to a Tony and Sherry Galina.”

  Barrtels’ smile remained, but his eyes lost focus as if Travathan, not being a customer, was no longer important to him. “Gord, I’d really love to help you, but I can’t discuss my customers.”

  “That’s admirable, but as you know—and I know you know because you sold the house again—Mrs. Galina was murdered. That trumps any commercial confidentiality.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Have it your way. I’ll just have to get a warrant. It shouldn’t take more than a day or two of your time to comply.” Travathan turned to go.

  “Hold on. I’m always happy to help the authorities.” He beckoned Travathan into his office. “Yes, I sold the house to the Galinas.”

  “What can you tell me about them?”

  “I remember them well. He came to me wanting to buy that specific house. I had several similar places, some at good prices, but that’s the one he wanted. It’s tough getting an owner to sell if he hasn’t planned to, but I figured if I could arrange a deal, there wouldn’t be much dickering over money.”

  “You got the owners to sell?”

  “No, they refused. Something about their daughter. Yeah, I remember. She’d been in an accident and was in a wheelchair. They’d fixed up the house—you know, handrails, a staircase lift, stuff like that—and they didn’t want to move. I told Galina and offered to show him other properties, but he just walked out, and I figured that was that.”

  “But he did buy the house. What changed their minds?”

  “The kid committed suicide. I hear she was depressed over having to spend the rest of her life in a wheelchair. About a week after that,” Barrtels paused. “Oh yeah, I remember. The Cramers. That was their name. They called and said they couldn’t bear staying in that house, and they wanted to know if the buyer was still interested. I called Galina and we completed the sale the next day. Cash. No conditions. My kind of deal.”

  “Was there anything particular that you noted about either of them?”

  “Well, it was hard not to notice her. She was hot.”

  “So I’ve been told. What about him?”

  “Nothing comes to mind. He looked like an ordinary guy, although he seemed to be pretty athletic.” Travathan nodded. As he expected, this wasn’t useful, but Barrtels frowned. “Yeah. There was one thing. He refused to have his picture taken for my gallery.”

  “Your gallery?”

  Barrtels crossed over to a filing cabinet, riffling through the files. “Yeah. Every time I sell a property, I take a picture of the buyers in front of the place. They’re always happy, and the pictures kind of keep me motivated. But Galina, he refused.”

  “So you didn’t get a picture of him?”

  “Wrong. Nothing interferes with my gallery. He just didn’t know I took it. Palm camera.” He handed a photo to Travathan.

  A couple was standing in front of the house. The woman was Sherry Galina. The man appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties, over six feet tall if the scale of the picture was accurate. His body was that of an athlete, and he was clean-shaven.

  “May I take this and make a copy? I’ll return it to you.”

  “Technology, my friend. I’ll print you a copy.”

  A few minutes later, Travathan was on his way, a picture of Tony Galina in his folder and a promise from Eddie Barrtels to make him a great deal on a house whenever he was ready. He started his car and drove to his appointment with Barbara Congee. When he parked, the timer had counted back down to five minutes.

  20

  The insurance company of Miller, Shouldice, and Warren was in a downtown office building designed to flaunt financial muscle. The furnishings in the lobby were mahogany, glass, and steel. The television monitor in the elevator displayed a banner showing currency exchange rates and stock quotes. The elevator deposited Travathan in front of a reception desk carved from teak and holding a display case of plaques awarded to the insurance company of the year. He asked the receptionist for Barbara Congee and allowed himself to be enveloped by a plush chair, its leather smooth and supple beneath his fingers.

  He didn’t have long to wait. Barbara Congee, a woman in her thirties in a
business suit and the gait of an executive on the way up, shook his hand in a firm grip and led him back to her office.

  She smiled at him with the distance of customer service and asked, “What can I tell you about Sherry Galina?”

  He smiled back. “I’m investigating the conditions surrounding her murder, so anything you can tell me about her background would be helpful.”

  “Her murder has been solved. Has something changed?”

  “You’re right. A man has been convicted, and the files are officially closed. But several questions have emerged that may affect its outcome.”

  She frowned. “How would the outcome be affected? Surely her killer is in jail and will remain there for his sentence. What other kind of outcome is there?”

  Travathan’s policy in an interview was to disclose as little as possible, to let the interviewee stumble into some slice of information that seemed off track but that would turn out to be valuable. But Congee was becoming suspicious.

  “Ms. Congee, I’m working with the Brouer Foundation for the Wrongly Convicted. Have you heard of it?”

  “Yes. There was an article in the paper about them.” She leaned back and crossed her arms. “Are you saying this boy who was convicted didn’t do it?”

  “That’s what we’re investigating, and our research has produced some questions about Ms. Galina that may affect the case.”

  Her eyes narrowed, her voice rising in volume and tone. “I get it. You’re trying some form of blame the victim. She was having an affair, so she deserved to be killed. Maybe we can even give the killer a reward for punishing her for her immoral behavior. Well, you’ve come to the wrong place.” She slammed her chair back and started to stand.

  “My sister was raped.” His voice was hard, no longer the seeker after information. “I don’t appreciate you giving me lessons on blaming the victim.”

  A flicker of confusion crossed her face. “I’m sorry. It’s just that— well, I’m a volunteer for a rape crisis center. We’re used to the kind of offensive attitude that says the victim must have done something to deserve it.”

  “I know. Ms. Congee, I have some serious doubts about Jake Handley’s guilt—he’s the boy who was convicted. We’ve uncovered some other evidence that I’m not about to disclose, but that calls into question his conviction. Our purpose, my purpose here is not to tarnish Sherry Galina, but to determine if there was a miscarriage of justice and if possible to rectify it. After all, you work with rape victims. I hope you’re as interested as anyone in ensuring that the real killer is off the street, whether or not that’s Handley.” He waited for an indication of assent. “May I ask you my questions?”

  She nodded and sat down. “All right.”

  “Other than her husband, did she have any next of kin?”

  Congee studied a file folder. “There are none listed.”

  “What about her educational background?”

  “She graduated from Mason Warren Secondary and got a certificate in office administration from a private school, the Grosswood Academy. This was her first job after she earned her certificate.”

  “Did she have any hobbies?”

  “None that I’m aware of.”

  “How about friends?”

  Congee shook her head. “I was probably closest to her, at least in this company. She was the receptionist, and I was a filing clerk. We often went for lunch together.”

  Travathan gave her a gold star. To rise from a filing clerk to the head of the department in three years was an achievement. “What did you talk about?”

  “Not much. To be frank, she wasn’t an intellectual. Our conversations tended to focus on her social life, which, given how attractive she was, was barren. I know that most of the single guys here, and some of the married ones, tried to hit on her with no success. She seemed to live the life of a monk, a resentful monk.”

  “Resentful? Of what? What held her back?”

  Congee shrugged. “Beats me. She seemed uncomfortable with the bantering that’s part of normal office life, as if she were shy. But to me it was more than simple shyness, it was like a remoteness, as if . . . as if she were afraid of the consequences.”

  “What consequences?”

  “I don’t know, but if I had to draw an analogy, her behavior seemed to me like that of a defrocked nun who’s afraid life’s temptations will lead her away from God.”

  “That’s quite an insight.”

  She laughed, the first time she had allowed Travathan to see a human side to her. “Yes, isn’t it? But then she met Tony, and wow.”

  “Wow?”

  “It was as if she’d just discovered sex. They weren’t doing anything because apparently Tony had some religious hang-up about sex outside marriage, but she couldn’t stop talking about him and what she wanted to do with him. It got embarrassing, she was so explicit. When she announced they were getting married and she was looking forward to endless nights exploring new forms of coupling, I remember telling her not to expect too much. A man’s off switch is on the ring finger of his left hand.”

  Travathan glanced at his hand, free of jewelry. “No comment.”

  “After they were married, she quit. I never saw her or heard from her again.”

  “Do you know how she met Tony?”

  “She said she met him a coffee shop. She didn’t go into detail.”

  “How soon after that did they get married?”

  “No more than two or three weeks.”

  “Seems like a short time.”

  Congee shrugged. “I thought so, but it wasn’t any of my business.”

  “As I’m sure you read in the news reports, she was having an affair with the boy who was convicted of killing her. Did that surprise you?”

  Congee’s face creased in thought. “You know, it didn’t. I’d always thought she had it in her. To have an affair. Especially after she met Tony. The way she talked, I couldn’t help thinking of a volcano, placid on the surface, but ready to erupt. In fact, it occurred to me one day that she’d probably entertained a lot of men. She just needed the right trigger for it to happen again.”

  “How was she hired here? Who hired her?”

  “That would be Gerald. He was my boss before I got promoted. And Sherry’s.”

  “Was there anything odd about her being hired?”

  Congee shook her head. “She had the main qualification. Maximum good looks.” She frowned. “Now that you mention it, there was a bit of gossip when Gerald hired her. I remember someone else had the inside track—you know, more seniority, more experience with the company. Gerald had a reputation as a gambler. He was always getting into trouble during racing season. About the time he hired her, he seemed to hit a windfall. I’m sure there was nothing to it, but the timing was, well, suspicious.”

  “The thought was she paid him off to get the job?”

  “That was the water-cooler conversation. Me, I never bought into it. The job doesn’t pay enough to make it worth a bribe.”

  He checked his notes. “Those are all the questions I have except one. What was her last name before she got married?”

  She checked her file. “Trepanier. Sherry Trepanier.”

  21

  Travathan left his car in the parking lot. The office of Hotel Guest Systems was a short distance away, but it was in another world for ambience. The company was housed in a former warehouse that had been renovated into offices and workstations. The walls were the original brick, the ceiling crossed by timber beams, heating ducts, and conduit. The furnishings seemed to have been salvaged from yard sales or auctions. When Travathan asked for Darlene Bannerman, the receptionist stuck her head around a corner and called out, “Dar. Someone to see you.”

  Darlene Bannerman appeared before he could decide whether or not to try out the couch. She was dressed in a denim skirt, a blouse covered with images of wildflowers, and a plaid vest. Like her surroundings, she seemed neither to know nor care that there were ways to combine colors and patterns to
create a good impression. But if what she was wearing would have been a distraction, the smile that filled her face, reflecting a delight at meeting him, made it irrelevant.

  She took his hand in both of hers and when she said, “I’m pleased to meet you,” he knew she meant it. She ushered him back into her office, which, to his surprise, was an oasis of organization with binders arrayed on shelves beside a desk adorned only with a blotter, a pen and pencil set, and family photos. She beckoned him into a canvasback chair and said, “You wanted to know about Tony Galina.”

  One of Travathan’s tactics in an interview was to intervene only when the interviewee stopped talking or didn’t start. Darlene Bannerman seemed willing to talk, so he just nodded and waited.

  “Tony worked for us for about six months. He started when Hugh—he’s the owner—hired him, and he left shortly after his wife was killed. You heard about that, did you?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “As I said, he worked for us for about six months, and as far as I’m concerned, it was six months too long. I’m in charge of sales, and I can tell you that one thing any salesperson needs in this business is a good attitude. Oh, I’m not talking about New Age stuff like a Positive Mental Attitude, although some of that doesn’t hurt. But you have to believe that what you’re selling is useful and will make a contribution to your customer. Or at least you have to be able to make the customer believe you believe it. But Tony, he was always in some kind of funk, railing against big corporations or the government or, one of his favorites, the stupidity of the general public, which apparently included everyone except himself. Needless to say, he was abysmal as a sales rep, and I was about to boot him out the door, but when his wife was killed, it would have been heartless to do that so soon. But as I said, a week or two later, he was gone.”

  Travathan allowed himself to marvel at the difference between those who subscribed to the name-rank-serial number school of communications and those to whom one comment was enough to release a torrent of words. “Ms. Bannerman—”