by Howard Engel
Barry Bosco sat behind a huge glass-topped desk and lent me five fingers without doing great damage to my right hand. It wasn’t a boneless handshake, but with work it could get there. My first impression of him was that he looked like a private schoolboy. It might have been the haircut, no clipper marks, and his rosy, unmarked face. He was tall, willowy even, with a big head that gave the impression of being concave. I tried to see where the impression came from: a big chin and a pronounced forehead without much nose to speak of. The eyes, partly hidden by round glasses, were blue. I couldn’t read them as either warm or icy, yet. He’d cultivated that. Naturally, he didn’t look anything like the Orillia photograph.
“I’m Ben Cooperman, working with Vanessa Moss at NTC,” I explained, as though the receptionist hadn’t already filled him in. I handed over the package with the signed contracts inside.
“That’s good of you to drop by with this. I could have got the messenger service.” Having said that, he now felt that he had to offer me coffee, which would lift my personal service out of the class of paid go-between. He tried to make small talk, but not with much skill. He examined his watch only once before the coffee arrived. “I hope you take your coffee unabridged. I didn’t think to ask if you’d prefer decaffeinated.” I assured him that I took my vices at full strength.
He asked about NTC’s plans for the official press conference and reception scheduled for Wednesday. I told him what I remembered and admitted that Vanessa was out of town.
“You’re Vanessa’s executive assistant, isn’t that right?”
“That’s what she calls me. I’m still learning the ropes.”
“Come, now, Mr. Cooperman, you’re being too modest. I suspect that that befuddled manner of yours proves very useful on occasions.” I hadn’t expected that, and I couldn’t wait to hear what I was going to say in response.
“You’re well informed, Mr. Bosco. No sense asking who your moles inside NTC are, I guess.”
“You know as well as I that a blown mole is no mole at all, Mr. C. Now why don’t you tell me the real reason for this visit. Does it have anything to do with the agreements represented in these contracts?”
“You know the answer to that. Maybe it has to do with a red Volvo, somewhat the worse for wear, that keeps turning up like a dirty penny. Maybe it has to do with a photograph I have of Roger Cavanaugh accepting a T-shirt from the friendly people of Orillia a few weeks ago.”
Bosco looked stunned. It wasn’t a passing expression that flickered across his face. When it hit him, it stayed there, unfocused, poleaxed. He’d known that it would come one day, but he hadn’t expected it to come today, and not from me. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, getting to his feet. Without looking back to see if I was following him, he hurried down the corridor and around the bend to the waiting area, where he told the receptionist to hold his calls and reschedule all of his meetings for the next two hours.
“But, Mr. Bos—”
“All of them!”
“What about Ms. Slopen? You invited her to lunch!”
“Send her a dozen long-stemmed roses. Make it two dozen. Tell her I’ll call as soon as I can. Tell Mr. Devlin—”
“What should she tell Mr. Devlin?” Raymond Devlin had stepped out of his office into the reception area. Bosco looked like he’d been goosed. Then, recovering, he smiled at the senior partner.
“I’m stepping out of the office for—”
“For two hours. I heard you loud and clear. What’s this about? Hello there, Mr. Sugarman, isn’t it? From Vanessa Moss’s office?”
“Yes, Mr. Cooperman just brought over the matted contracts from NTC.”
“Good of you, Mr. Cooperman. Sorry about your name; I still have some ragged edges left over from when this was a one-man operation. Back then, I was something of a fire-engine chaser. But I wasn’t very good at it because I couldn’t remember names. People told me I should settle for a less adventurous brand of law. I think they were right. Anyway, what’s this all about, Barry?”
“Just a few minor glitches in the details of the reception tomorrow, Raymond. The hotel had a few logistical problems. Security; things like that. We’ll be able to sort it out over coffee around the corner. I think it’s important that things should run smoothly tomorrow.”
“Well, better you than me, Barry. I’ll see you later. Good afternoon, Mr. Cooperman.” He was about to step back into his office, and Barry Bosco had recovered a little.
“I’ll speak to you as soon after five as I can, Raymond. The Cluny and Lorringer files are on my desk. We have to see Mr. Murphy about the Levitt business. Could you be free next Thursday after lunch?” Devlin emitted a golden smile and waved five fingers as he retreated to his desk. The young receptionist, however, was obviously flustered and Bosco saw this. “Esmé, don’t bother to cover for me. Go to lunch; let the machines do the work.”
“Yes, Mr. Bosco.”
Fifteen minutes later, Bosco and I were seated in a booth in a Chinese restaurant called the Champion House. It specialized in serving Peking duck and announced the coming of each duck from the kitchen by sounding a gong. Although the restaurant looked tidy and comfortable, the patrons repaid the good food and service by writing their thanks on the wallpaper. On the wall behind Bosco, I could make out: “Greeeeaaat duck!! You did it again. Blessings and thanks, Alabama and Stan, Mel and Lorne, Port Alberni, B.C.” Bosco ordered a plate of Chinese vegetables and some sliced duck. The waiter brought a big pot of green tea.
“Okay, let’s have it,” Bosco said. “I want to know what you know. Then tell me your price.”
“I’m not buying or selling. I’m collecting the facts, just like old Joe Friday on TV.”
“You’ve talked to Roger? Shit! You can’t trust anybody!”
“Look, if we’re going to get anywhere, let’s not cut the ribbon before we build the bridge. No, I haven’t talked to Roger, but I recognized him in the Orillia photographs. He must have been crazy to stick by the alibi he provided for you. I’ve never heard of a more harebrained scheme. I mean, talk about stupid. The pair of you. You both could lose your licences. Hell, with the murder, you could both be facing prison. How did you shut him up when Renata was murdered?”
“Like everybody else around here, he wants into the charmed circle. He’s a good trial lawyer and will be an asset to the firm, so I’m not introducing dead weight to the partners.”
“Save me your rationalization. I just want the why and wherefore.”
“I’ve felt like a hit-and-run driver since it happened.”
“So you got him to cover for you on the night of the murder.”
“It didn’t start out as the night of the murder! It was just a Monday-night talk. Christ, you have to see that.” He moved a hand through his hair, checking to see that it was all there. “All he had to do was drive to Orillia and read my speech.”
“But how did you keep him quiet when they found Renata dead? Suddenly it had become more complicated.”
“Promises. I made him promises, just as I said.”
“Okay, now the big one: where did you go that night?”
“I could lie to you.”
“Yeah, and you could stand mute. But I have a hunch that you want this thing cleared up. You went to see Renata, didn’t you?”
“You’re leading.”
“Didn’t you?”
“Yes. Oh, yes; God, yes!”
“Tell me about it.” He looked at the ceiling, then around at the three remaining diners in the place. Nobody was looking at him.
“I got there at eight. She cooked dinner. We ate it. Do I have to tell you this? We made love in her room. Is that what you want to hear? You want to know what it was like? Sorry, Cooperman, but you’re pushing me, and I don’t like it.”
“Just tell me.”
“Later, we did the dishes, you know?—and talked. We had a lot to talk about. About us, I mean. Things hadn’t been going all that well.”
“Did you arrang
e to meet her or was it the other way around?”
“She phoned me at the office; said she had to see me. It was important, she said.”
“Did she get to the subject?”
“No. She did say that she thought she was being followed. She was nervous. We’d gone from the kitchen to the living-room; she was leading up to something she wanted to tell me. I could tell, but before she could get launched, the doorbell rang.”
“Go on.”
“She got up, said that she’d be back in a minute. Before I could pick up the paper, I heard Renata’s voice. At first it was indistinct and then it built into a scream. I can still hear it in my head. I won’t ever get that sound out of my head. Then I heard the gun go off. Just the two blasts, one right after the other. Almost at the same time. It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds after she left me sitting there.”
“You heard the scream and then the gunshots, right?”
“Yes. I thought I’d said that.”
“What did you do?”
“I’m ashamed. I’m so ashamed!”
“I’m not your priest. Just tell me.”
“I hid behind the couch. I thought he was going to come into the room and get me too.”
“You were sure it was a man?”
“At the time I was. I don’t know why. I guess it could have been a woman.”
“And you forgot that he or she had to reload the gun after firing both barrels?”
“I didn’t see the gun. It could have been a pump action. But I wasn’t thinking straight. I hid, sitting on the floor. Behind the couch.”
“Okay, okay. I probably would have done the same thing. Look, I’m no hero either. What else? Did you hear anything?”
“Nothing until the door closed. I must have stayed there for another five minutes before I realized that the murderer had gone and wasn’t coming back.”
“So you got up to see what had happened?”
“That’s right. What had happened was that Renata … had … You know. Don’t take me through that again. I turned on the hall light. Just for a second. I had to turn it right off again. I couldn’t …”
“Okay, you saw that she was dead—that she was beyond saving, anyway. What else?”
“What do you mean, ‘What else?’”
“Did you think for a moment that you might call the cops?”
“I went into the bedroom with that in mind, but before I reached the phone, I saw how bad I’d look. I’d be perfect casting for the murderer. I’d set up an alibi so that I could show I was a hundred miles from the crime scene. Why would I do that if I didn’t have some sinister purpose?”
“But, Mr. Bosco, you did make those arrangements.”
“That wasn’t to provide an alibi! I got Roger to spell me off for the evening. He’d do the talk, and I’d see what Renata wanted. It only becomes suspicious in the light of what happened to Renata.”
“You’re lucky Roger’s so ambitious.”
“He’s nearly come unstuck twice. Don’t get me started on that.”
“Back to the scene of the crime. Besides Renata lying there, what else did you see?”
“Nothing. Nothing but the two spent shells from the gun. The ones they found later in Vanessa Moss’s locker. I can’t figure that one out.”
“The shells were left in the hall by the murderer? Is that what you’re saying?” Bosco nodded. His lank hair was falling over his eyes, and he brushed it back with his hand unsuccessfully. “You could have told the police that it was Renata and not Vanessa who’d been killed. You kept quiet. For a whole week. Why?”
“I don’t know. I must have been in shock. I tried to think of a way to let them know, but everything I thought of brought the cops to my own front door. They’d have finished me. Ray runs a very tight ship, Mr. Cooperman. There’s no room for second chances.”
“So, instead of doing something useful, you’ve been playing Sherlock Holmes on your own. I hope you have a couple of prime suspects?”
“That fellow George Brenner, the parking guy at the network. He knew where Vanessa lived. They’ve been having an affair. He may have seen me arrive at Vanessa’s house and mistaken Renata for Vanessa.”
“The old jealousy dodge. Who else?”
“Well, Bob Foley was looking good for a while. It might be the reason for his suicide.”
“Why’d Dermot Keogh choose him as one of the trustees of the Plevna Foundation?”
“They were friends. Foley was Keogh’s gofer. He saw to Dermot’s laundry, licence renewals, boat and car maintenance, electric bill, you know, all the stuff a genius hasn’t time to look after.”
“You’re not impressed by genius?”
“It’s all right in its place. But Dermot’s affairs have transformed our firm. It should be renamed Dermot Keogh Enterprises. The whole of his estate is operated out of our office, and the balance between criminal and corporate law, which used to exist, is way out of whack. I haven’t been in a courtroom for six months. That’s a long time, Mr. C. I love trial work and I’m good at it. But the firm’s interest in that end of the business has been distracted.” The waiter dropped two hot, wet washcloths in front of us. I scalded myself in two places before catching on to the operation. Bosco handled his cloth better, but he wasn’t looking well.
“I’m still not thinking straight, Mr. C. Give me a break, please? I can’t talk any more. I touched the hall light switch. I must have left a print. Since that night I’ve been jumping every time the phone rings. I have heard the voices of the cops asking if I could come downtown to clear up a few things.”
“Just one more minute, Mr. Bosco: how did you leave the house? The body and the shells were in the hall. Was the door open?”
“I think it was closed. Yes, it was closed. But when I left, I know that I left it open. I had an instinct to go back and close it, but I couldn’t make myself. I fled. That’s the only word for it.” He looked at me with his eyes watering, searching my face for the answers to questions I hadn’t the skill to ask. They were washed-out blue eyes now, like the colour of a chalk drawing on a rainy sidewalk.
Most of the vegetables and meat had grown cold over half an hour ago. Neither of us had eaten much. The tea was cold. Bosco paid the bill and left, miming a parting word. I cracked open one of the two fortune cookies. It read: “Your problems will vanish if you have patience.” I never found out what Bosco’s said. He didn’t open it.
EIGHTEEN
After Bosco left, I sat with the green tea until it was bitter as well as cold. I couldn’t think of anything witty enough to write on the wall. I was asked if I wanted more tea. I did, but I thought a walk through Chinatown would be even better. There were some things on my mind that had been rattling around without my having time to see if any of them stuck together. The walk along Dundas Street to University Avenue wasn’t a long one, but just the right length to get my thoughts straighter than they’d been. I reminded myself of a visit from my Uncle Nathan from New York. He took one look at my father’s dress store and complained, “Manny, you’ve got inventory all over the place. You must be crazy overloading the shop like this. A man can’t live on inventory alone.” He was right. And an investigator can get facts so stuck in his head that he can’t read them any more.
There was a big grey truck backed up to the entrance of NTC’s main entrance. The back doors were open, and a wheeled ramp led from the truck-bed to the top step of the entrance. As I approached, I saw a security guard holding visitors back from the dismantled revolving door. Three men in grey shopcoats were running a pair of digital editing machines through the lobby in the direction of the truck. Another mover was holding a padded blanket to help ease the hardware through the tight squeeze of the glass doorway. I waited my turn. They looked like professionals. The man in charge, with a redoubtable beer belly, supervised the manoeuvres without putting his hands on metal. When the first two machines had been loaded, I saw that a second pair was waiting just inside the door, with a secu
rity guard keeping visitors well away from adding their fingerprints to the shiny blue-grey metal surfaces. How did I know that they were digital editing machines? To be honest, right then, I didn’t. They could have been egg hatchers or baby incubators as far as I was concerned. The only thing I thought about them then was the fact that I was coming and they were going. I was between a dismantled revolving door and a hard place to get into.
A couple of familiar technicians I recognized from the pub around the corner were watching the loading procedure. They looked at one another, wearing curious, lighthearted, knowing expressions. It took me a while to learn how to read them. When I looked for them a few moments later, they were gone. The usual crowd of smokers hovered in a group, like exiles, just beyond the door.
“How long is the door going to be blocked?”
“You can get through in five minutes,” one security guard said, sizing me up. “Or you can go around to the side door or you could come back later. They’ll be through here in ten minutes at the outside.” I was about to follow the latter advice when I saw an opening between the first two pieces, and grabbed it. I could feel the weight of the machine pressing against me as I sucked in my breath and forced my way between the quilting and the doorway.
Once inside, I found myself in the midst of another break in the routine. A bandstand had been assembled in front of a huge map of Canada cut into a massive screen of illuminated glass, and a jazz band was playing its heart out while NTC regulars went about their business without giving them more than a shrug of notice. The lobby hadn’t been designed to encourage music, and the glass entranceway and marble interior offended it with a hostile bounce, repelling the Dixieland riffs as though they were an embarrassment. Whoever organized this noon-hour concert had forgotten the plugged doorway. The boys in the band were playing for the converted. There were no strangers within the gates. The musicians paid that no mind; they were in a groove and enjoying themselves. The lead guitar was pushing a modern version of an old prison work song: