by Glenn Muller
Jenner and his buddy left the building and drove off in the Grand Marquis. Reis, who probably had to lock up, came out a couple of minutes later. He watched the BMW drive by and let it turn onto the service road before rolling out to follow. That there were few cars on this stretch of road was not a problem. It ran parallel to the highway and was intersected by only a few streets. Fenn was able to maintain a discreet distance for several kilometres.
Reis drove quickly, though not beyond the pleading range of a speeding ticket, and eventually turned north onto Guelph Line. On this main artery Fenn let a few cars come between them until Reis turned right onto Palmer Drive. He drove on as she turned into the subterranean garage of an upscale condo. Fenn parked and walked back along the sidewalk opposite the condo, scanning the units for lights coming on. He got to Guelph Line and turned back.
Either her lights had been on timers set to come on earlier, or her unit was on the backside of the building. He went up to the lobby and checked the intercom board. There was no Reis listed, though Occupied seemed to be a popular name.
Back on the sidewalk, Fenn stood by the entrance to the underground parking. The garage door began to open. He waited for the exiting car to pass and drive down the street then he ran down the ramp and ducked under the closing door. It was an old trick he’d used as kid whenever he’d lost his apartment key. There were no rust buckets in this place, though, only quality carriages in varying states of clean. The BMW had a spot by the wall. How nice. Unit 606.
Reis was probably under a hot spray by now. With the scratches on his back starting to itch, a shower was high on Fenn’s list, too. The garage door began to ascend once more, a set of headlights shone beneath. He had what he came for so he waved at the driver and slipped out.
CHAPTER 28
Fenn took the shortest way home. Now he’d upped the ante by relieving Reis of ten thousand bills, he fully expected another visit from Jenner and company. Rather than waste time threading through the underground garage of Brant Square he parked on the side street and went in through the nearby utility entrance.
His apartment had a new door complete with a new lock. The keys were hanging on the knob. Mr. Bedeer probably figured the door wouldn’t get busted if thieves could let themselves in. Fenn called for Mogg and she came nonchalantly from the bedroom. He put several tins of her food in a bag with one of his sweatshirts, freshened up the litter box, then took everything two floors down to the apartment of Cecelia Humphries.
Cecelia had been one of Fenn’s most aged students and over the course of many lessons they had become good friends. She’d taken to looking after Mogg whenever Fenn was away for a weekend. Fenn would return the favour in any way he could, most recently by helping her to shop for a new television. Cecelia and Mogg also got along well. One appreciated the company and the other enjoyed the change of venue.
With Mogg in good hands, Fenn dashed back upstairs where he tossed a shaving kit and some extra clothes into a duffel bag. The disc that everyone seemed to want was already in the car. If Reis had given him the information he’d wanted, he probably would have given it to her. From the top shelf of his bedroom closet he retrieved a small fireproof safe. It contained important documents like his passport and birth certificate. He added his chequebook and the newspaper article about the murders to it then, after a couple of minutes spent shredding old bank statements and one last look around, he was ready to go.
Out in the corridor he pulled the new keys from his pocket. For a moment he contemplated leaving the door unlocked then thought, fuck it—this is war, and made it secure.
Outside, it had started to rain. He put the safe and the duffel in the back seat then sat behind the wheel to consider his next move. The traffic light on the corner changed and a large car came quickly through the intersection. It passed at speed and Fenn picked it up in his side view mirror as it slowed to enter the underground parking.
It was the Grand Marquis.
Fenn got out of his car and ran to the ramp in time to see the barrier lower behind the sedan. He wondered how Jenner had got a pass card, though one wouldn’t be difficult to obtain. Staying close to the wall he went down the ramp and concealed himself behind a minivan. The sedan came to a stop near the elevator and after a moment backed into a spot close by. The occupants got out. He watched Jenner toss the keys to his square-shouldered companion who opened the trunk and took out a long-handled sledgehammer. Fenn sighed. Mr. Bedeer was going to be livid.
He waited until the elevator whisked away its passengers then jogged back to his Toyota. He returned with a towing cable—a thick strap about four metres long with heavy steel hooks on either end. Scanning around to make sure no tenants were about he approached the Grand Marquis.
Folding the strap so the two hooks hung together he began to whirl them at his side like a propeller. He spun them three times until the weight pulled hard against his arms, then with a final downward surge stepped forward and crashed the hooks against the windshield of the car. The tempered glass didn’t shatter but, from two distinct impact spots, cracks radiated out to every edge.
He dragged the hooks to the rear of the sedan. Jenner had backed up to a narrow concrete support pillar and Fenn looped one end of the strap around it and attached the hook. He crawled under the bumper and wrapped the other end around the exhaust pipe, ahead of the muffler. He rolled out with a grin. He hadn’t felt this kind of thrill in years.
He sat in his car knowing he wouldn’t have long to wait. Jenner had come specifically for him and was unlikely to search the apartment a second time. The rain was steady now and he watched droplets on the glass swell and slide down. With the side window gapped to prevent fogging, he heard the Grand Marquis ascend the ramp.
The big block motor grumbled up the incline like an old cement truck and the roar increased when Jenner stomped the gas pedal. Without a muffler to provide backpressure, power was diminished and the car simply gargled throatily up the road at a sedate speed. The damaged windshield was obvious as hell and the broken exhaust pipe, still attached to the undercarriage, dragged along beneath the rear bumper in a shower of sparks.
Fenn sank down in his seat and let out a whoop. They’d have to ditch those wheels in a hurry or be pulled over by the first cop they passed. He was tempted to follow but there were things to be done before he could call it a night.
The barn seemed the logical place to stash his safe. And the safe was now the logical place to put the disc. In a pinch he could also sleep at the barn. He’d done it before but the back seat of an old Lincoln was best contemplated when drunk. Besides, he needed to clean up and although it might be safe to go back to his apartment for a quick shower he didn’t have the energy to deal with what he might find there. It was too bad that he couldn’t afford a hotel room for a week, or so.
Wait a second. He felt his pocket.
From the two wads of cash he peeled off ten of the hundred dollar bills and put the rest in the safe. No point having spoils of war if you weren’t going to use them. The clock on the dash said it was just after eleven. He could decide on the accommodation after he’d been to the barn but he needed to find a place to eat before everywhere was closed. He turned left onto Brant Street and headed north toward the King’s Head Pub.
Spoils of war. That had a nice ring to it.
== == ==
Lucien Harrowport put down his book and reached for the ringing cell phone on the bedside table.
“Lucien, It’s Brittany. We need to talk.”
Harrowport flashed an anxious glance at his wife. She was idly flipping through the pages of a magazine.
“I see. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Oh, really? Well you’ll be sorry for your loss when I tell you what happened.”
“Of course.” He got out of the bed. “Let me just go downstairs to my briefcase and I’ll take the details.”
His wife made a point of not acknowledging his apologetic shrug. She couldn’t understand why some underlin
g couldn’t take these after hours calls. Truth was, it had been easier to tell her there was a problem with the phone lines at work rather than say that he suspected a wiretap. That would raise too many questions altogether.
Technically, Marjorie Dynes-Harrowport owned half the business having inherited it from her late father Wilfred M. Dynes. Realistically, though, she preferred to leave the running of it to her husband while she fulfilled the role of wealthy shareholder. Harrowport grabbed his briefcase at the bottom of the stairs and went into the kitchen.
“Brittany, I was in bed with my wife!” he hissed.
“Well then I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
“Why are you calling?”
“I thought you should know that I met with that guy Fenn, tonight. He gave me a decoy and took off with your ten G’s.”
“What! How could he manage to slip out like that?”
Because, she thought, my knees were still quivering when he finally did slip out.
“It was just bad timing. I’ve sent Brick and R. J. after him. He’s probably in the trunk already.”
“We’d better hope so. That disc is part of our deal with Wharfmine Investments, or whatever cover name they’re using. We’re meeting at the funeral home on Wednesday night and everything needs to be in place.”
“It will be. Guaranteed. Then perhaps you and I can take a little holiday. Someplace hot where clothes are optional.”
“And I’m paying, of course.”
“Of course you are, darling.”
“You can ‘darling’ me when this deal goes through. Let’s make sure that it does, shall we. And, if you’re going to hang on to my BMW at least see that it gets an oil change.”
“Perhaps I should bring it back and let your wife change your oil.” Before he could respond Reis disconnected.
She was expecting R. J. to check in and an hour later he called. He spoke less than five seconds before she cut him off with a tirade that left no doubt that she would either have Fenn’s ass on a plate, or Jenner’s head on a platter.
“Pick out a casket, R. J. because one of you is getting buried.”
CHAPTER 29
Tuesday, October 27th
Lareault stood in front of two magnetic white boards that held the salient points of the murders. A new picture had been added to each of them this morning and he held copies of it in his hand. The assemblage, those who had worked on either case already and additional officers now joining in, were attentive.
“Yesterday we obtained several key pieces of information. There is now a good degree of certainty that Marty Durrell was murdered so that Stanislaw Svoljsak could replace him at the Simedyne facility. A research scientist at Simedyne, one Roger Aird, succumbed to an aneurysm a few days before Durrell was killed. Aird’s access card was used at the facility the night Svoljsak allegedly replaced Durrell on the security detail. Our own coroner, Dennis Collier, recalled that a woman posing as a lawyer for Roger Aird claimed his belongings from the morgue.
“Here,” he held up the papers in his hand, “are copies of the computer-rendered likeness of the woman as provided by Dr. Collier. She used the name of Brittany Reis, though that could be an alias. There is no Brittany Reis registered with the law society, and the address and phone number on her business card belong to other, unconnected, people.
“Forensics suggest that the same woman used a toxic injection to kill both Durrell and Svoljsak during sexual encounters. For now we’re accepting that she acted alone but we won’t rule out the possibility of accomplices.”
Lareault handed his flyers to the closest officer who took one and passed them on.
“You’ll notice there is a second image on the page, of the same person without hair. We have reason to believe our suspect is suffering from a hair loss disease.”
“Just like Bloomfield!” someone joked. Frank Bloomfield bowed in acknowledgment.
“Well, since Frank is standing,” picked up Lareault, “perhaps he can bring us to speed on our other investigations.”
Bloomfield hitched up his belt and moved to the front. “Two youth died in Hamilton this month. Both in possession of a patch like you’d wear to quit smoking but laced with a recreational drug formula. One of the victims simply died from misadventure; hit by a car while jaywalking. The other victim died from anaphylactic shock, apparently allergic to the synthetic bee venom that is part of the patch’s toxicology. The patches were also found to contain synthesized epinephrine. Epinephrine is a popular stimulant, and is found naturally in the adrenal gland; but a disturbing development in this case is that several human adrenal glands were found in undocumented sample jars by the Simedyne staff during their inventory audit.”
Officer Kraus raised a hand. “Whoever brought those undocumented samples into Simedyne would have tried to conceal them from the audit. Aird, being dead, obviously couldn’t.”
Bloomfield nodded. “Aird also had one of the patches in his wallet when he arrived at the morgue. Apparently, the effect of the formula on healthy people is mild at best—our white coats think that these patches were part of a beta-run put out for testing. It’s reasonable to expect that subsequent versions would be more potent, and more harmful. As we all know, consistency and quality control is virtually non-existent with this type of thing.”
“Yeah. And they’re using our kids for guinea pigs,” said one of the officers.
“Not my kids,” asserted another.
Bloomfield raised a hand. “Okay. Now try and stay with me. Aird fits as being the architect, though his co-workers will also be questioned. The resources of Simedyne were likely used during development though actual production may have been off-site. When Aird died, Reis, his so-called lawyer insisted the corpse go to Harrowport & Dynes Funeral Home. Harrowport & Dynes is currently under surveillance in response to allegations of petty theft, suspicions of money laundering and, now, the harvesting of organs.”
“That home interred my brother,” came a quiet remark.
“Don’t worry, Dana, there’s going to be a full investigation.”
Bloomfield went back to his seat and Lareault wrapped up.
“With all these connections we may only need another key point or two to make everything click into place. Keep yourself apprised of new developments, and update the case files daily with anything you find. And don’t be cutting corners; we don’t want a judge disallowing evidence because of improper procedure.”
The room emptied and Bloomfield accompanied Lareault down the hall.
“The briefing hit a few nerves this morning, Evan.”
“It’s hard to stay detached where family is concerned. Hopefully, those emotions won’t bleed into the investigation.”
== == ==
Asha Fabiani picked up the phone and gave her standard greeting, “DriveCheck-Burlington. How may I help you?”
The caller was male. “Yes. Hello. I was just following one of your driving school cars, a red Toyota, and the rear licence plate fell off. I stopped to pick it up but the Toyota kept going. If you can give me the address of his next couple of appointments, I’ll try and get the plate back to its owner before the police pull him over.”
“That’s very kind of you, sir. He’ll be in town somewhere. Let me look at his bookings.” Fenn was the only instructor with a red Toyota. Asha checked the clock and then Fenn’s schedule.
“Okay, you can probably catch him when he drops his student off at Noon.” She gave the address. “We appreciate your consideration, Mr. …” She paused, waiting for the caller to provide his name, but the line went dead.
== == ==
Muriel Stafford’s progress was incremental yet steady, and that pleased both instructor and client. Their sessions together had become mutually enjoyable, and while students often confided in their teachers; given the right person, Fenn was also open to some confessions of his own. Without going into detail, other than to fib that his apartment was uninhabitable due to a water leak, he’d been telling Muri
el of his need to find a new abode as soon as possible.
“So, at the moment I’m in a hotel. It has a nice pool and room service, but it’s not a long-term solution.”
He stopped talking and Muriel drove on without a response. At times it was hard to discern just what his students were thinking. He always hoped it was of the task at hand though their minds occasionally wandered, which he could usually tell by their fixed stare.
Muriel blinked.
“You could stay at my house.”
Fenn turned to look at her directly.
“My basement was converted a few years ago into a self-contained apartment. We used to rent it out until my husband’s health began to fail. It’s fully furnished with appliances.” Muriel was now looking directly at Fenn.
He glanced back at the road and said casually, “Stop sign.”
Her attention back to the fore she jumped on the brake pedal. When they had proceeded through the intersection Fenn said, “I sometimes keep late hours. Does it have its own entrance?”
“Oh, yes. The side door goes directly downstairs, and it has windows all around so you gets lots of natural light.”
It sounded ideal and he said so.
“What do you want for rent?”
“We used to charge nine hundred a month, but I don’t need that much anymore. How’s seven-fifty?”
“That seems reasonable. Why don’t I pay in advance for six months, and we’ll see how it goes.”
“Fine, by me, if that’s what you want to do.”
“It is. In fact, I’d like to pay in cash.”
Fenn had her back the car into her driveway to end the lesson, and arranged to drop by later that evening to see the apartment. Muriel got out and Fenn took the short cut, over the console, into the driver’s seat. As he fastened the seatbelt a long black limousine rolled across the end of the driveway like a battleship crossing his bow. It stopped, blocking his exit, and the first mate disembarked. Fenn locked his doors.