“Gotcha!” Oops, I said that out loud, very loud, loud enough to shatter the peace and earn sharp looks from at least two of the inhabitants of the downtown public library.
There is a link to QX4’s website and I poke around there until I find a link to Management and Board, which takes me to a listing of the Board of Directors and there, halfway down the page, is George T. Walsh. One more click and I read the information on my ex-wife’s intended husband, beside one of those phony, posed photos business people seem to love.
George T. Walsh (Chairman) is CEO of Walsh Investment Corporation. He joined the QX4 Board in June 2013. George has a Bachelor’s degree in biochemistry from MIT and an MBA from Stanford and he brings a wealth of business and financial experience to QX4. Walsh Investment Corporation is the largest single shareholder in the Company.
Brad told me that ‘the main investor’ invested something like eight million dollars in QX4 and that before it went public, he owned fifty percent of the company. And it’s George!
What if George discovered that Kevin had been doing illegal testing of the QX4 drug and that he had killed some of his subjects? George would know that if the information leaked out, it would ruin QX4 and he would lose everything he had invested. It would seem logical that George might have killed Kevin, or had him killed to cover it up. Or would it? Could Sam’s fiancé be a killer or am I so close to this that I’m seeing what I want to see?
I click back to the listing of the Board and the name beneath George’s catches my eye: Arnold Young. It’s a common enough first name but I click on it anyway and there it is, Arnold’s photo. What the hell is he doing on the Board of Directors of QX4?
Arnold P. Young (Director) is a Director of Wallace Holdings Inc. which was one of the early investors in QX4 and was instrumental in helping the company transition to the public market.
The surprise at seeing Arnold’s photo is tempered by the brief bio. My first guess is that Mr. Wallace invested in Kevin’s company when Kevin first started to work there and that since he has been ill, Arnold has been sitting on the board of directors in his place. Still I should check this out with Arnold or, better still, with Mr. Wallace himself. Maybe Arnold’s association is not as obvious as it seems. Is this why he didn’t want to tell me his last name, knowing that I might Google him and find this connection?
Thinking of Arnold brings back the memory of his visit with me in the hospital. I still can’t make any sense of his implication that the gang beat me up because of my investigation into Kevin’s murder. I need to find out where he got such an idea.
Regardless of George’s or Arnold’s possible involvement, I have uncovered two lies. Or, to be accurate, one lie from two people. Both Sandi and Brad hid George’s name from me. Sandi claimed, I don’t even know their names, when I asked her about QX4’s investors. Brad said that the major shareholder was an off-shore corporation. You’d never find out who the person is behind it. Yet it has taken me no more than fifteen minutes to discover that George is the big investor in QX4. Why would they both tell a lie so transparent? And why would they want to keep George’s name from me anyway? Especially Brad.
My gut tells me there’s a major clue here, so I need to think this through…
Sandi first. If she killed Kevin in a fit of jealousy she might want to divert my focus away from herself by telling me about Kevin doing the illegal drug tests to support the idea of him killing himself. So why keep George’s name from me? Maybe to implicate him as an alternative suspect at a later date, in case I did not buy the suicide story. But that doesn’t ring true… unless there’s something going on between her and George. What if they were having an affair and Sandi told George about what Kevin was doing? Could they be in it together?
And Brad. Why did he try and keep me in the dark about George? I can see Sandi lying to me but Brad’s a friend. Sandi asked me not to tell him about Kevin’s illegal testing and he said that he didn’t know about it when we met for lunch. Even if he was lying about that, why would he lie to me about George’s involvement in QX4? It doesn’t make sense… unless Brad is somehow mixed up in Kevin’s murder, in a way which might have become apparent to me if I’d known about George being the big investor. But what?
Despite what I have just discovered, all I feel is frustration at creating more questions and fewer answers.
Maybe I’m full of it. Just because George is an investor in QX4 does not make him Kevin’s killer. Maybe Kevin did commit suicide and I’m just chasing a will-o-the-wisp trying to find a non-existent murderer. Maybe my burning need to get back into the VPD by finding a murderer, whose existence they deny, is warping my judgment. Or maybe, even worse, I just want to nail George because, with him out of the way, I could have a shot, admittedly a long shot, at winning back Sam.
None of it makes any sense. It is all a junkie delusion. In two days I’m going into detox and then into rehab. I should put all this behind me and get on with the reality of my life.
It is time to make good on one of my promises.
I phone the detox help line. Yes, they still have a spot for me and they are expecting me on Saturday afternoon and, yes, they have had a cancellation and I could come in sooner, this evening if I’d like.
Although I have probably lost Ellie and Sam forever, I still promised them I would do this. And I’m ready. I am so weary of this life on the streets. This is the promise I need to keep.
I get up from the computer, mentally wash my hands of Kevin’s murder and make my way out of the library. I can walk to my room in Strathcona, pick up my stuff and be at the detox centre by six, six thirty.
As I trudge eastward, I think over all that has happened in the days since Kevin’s death. My world has been stood on it’s tail but maybe for the best. And then, from the mass of memories flooding through my head, one image bobs to the surface and persists: an old man with parchment skin looking up at me from what will soon be his deathbed. Find out who did this, Cal, no matter what the consequences.
I made a promise to Kevin’s father. I promised to do my best to find the murderer if there is any possibility that one exists. I owe this to him.
I stop, wrenched between my two diametrically opposed promises with their attendant desires and, after an age of indecision, I do what we Canadians do so well.
I compromise.
I’ll spend the next two days investigating with an open mind and see where it leads. If I’m no further ahead by Saturday afternoon, I’ll keep my appointment with the detox centre.
I turn around and, with a spring in my step, head for the buses on Granville. I have two days. It’s time to start again from the beginning.
30
Cal
The watery November sun is just visible in the west, dropping behind the roof of a house on the next block. Its light illuminates the undersides of the heavy black clouds which are rolling in from the southwest, bathing the street in a surreal light matching my mood.
It feels strange to be here again. Like returning to a childhood place that is at once familiar and yet fundamentally changed. I do not like this feeling which is probably what has kept me from coming here sooner; this should have been the first stop in my investigation.
All of the townhouses in the row are identical and as I press the doorbell, I am surprised not to hear the opening bar of the 1812 overture. Mrs. Komalski’s doorbell emits a plain and sensible two note chime, more appropriate to her personage.
On the few occasions in the past that I have communicated with Kevin’s neighbour, when I picked up his key from her, she has made it clear she does not approve of me. Her radar had me pegged as a junkie from day one. It is possible that she is not at home and, more than likely that if she is, she will not open the door to me, especially if she gets a look at my face.
My one chance of her talking to me is that Mrs. Komalski is the gadfly of the condo association and the local gossip. I am betting that there is one thing you can rely on from a gossip: if there is information
to be exchanged, she will be in there trading. Or will she?
The door swings open and I am looking at her sharp face, the set back eyes circled by dark rings, sitting atop a gaunt frame.
It takes her a moment to recognize me and when she does, I can clearly read the conflict on her face; my police training has not forsaken me. My battered face frightens her but, on the other hand, Kevin’s death must be the best grist her gossip mill has ever processed and here, on her doorstep, is someone who may just have some juicy tidbit of inside information.
“Mr. Rogan.” I am impressed that she remembers my name. “What can I do for you?”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Komalski. May I have a word with you, please?”
Her “About what?” is said warily. She makes no move to invite me in.
“About Kevin’s death.”
“I’ve already spoken to the police about that.” She retreats a step and the door closes six inches, only her curiosity keeping her from closing it all the way.
It’s a thin line. I need to get it right. I no longer have a badge that will guarantee me ingress.
“Yes, of course. But there are some things the police don’t know. I’d like to discuss them with you.” This sparks a raised eyebrow.
“Go on.” She still makes no move to invite me it.
If I want to get into the house and sit down with her, I need a lever. “Standing out here on the step is not really the right place to discuss Kevin’s murd— uh, death.”
The indecision on her face is almost comical but, as I knew she would be, she is hooked by the curtailed word. “Yes, well…” The smile that appears on her face is a rare event indeed. She steps back and opens the door. “Come in. Please.”
The house is identical in plan to Kevin’s but bears no other similarity. Every square inch of the hallway walls is covered with paintings, photos and the output of various arcane crafts. I recognize macramé in several places. Unlike Kevin’s house, it does not smell of sandalwood but of cat food.
She doesn’t lead me upstairs to the living room—the likes of me do not warrant entry to the upper floors—but to the back bedroom which she has turned into an office and cluttered with bric-a-brac. She clears a newspaper from a straight-backed Victorian chair and indicates I should sit.
Above my head, and about six feet to the west, is the couch on which Kevin died. I think of his punctured corpse and know that I must get this right. I owe him.
“So were you saying that Kevin was murdered?” No subtlety here. No beating about the bush for Mrs. Komalski.
“I believe so, yes.”
“But the police said it was suicide.” She is sitting on the edge of an office chair, swivelled away from its desk. She is leaning in towards me.
“Really. Did they tell you that themselves?”
She sniffs. “Huh!”
I raise my eyebrows but she doesn’t continue.
“I’m sure you must have been an important witness for them,” I prompt her.
“They came to see me… eventually,” she admits. I nod encouragement. “I knew something was amiss on the Saturday. First, I was woken up at about seven-thirty by a whole lot of shouting. We don’t approve of that in this development. The walls are thick here so I couldn’t hear what was being said, but she was real angry."
She?
Before I can question her, Mrs. Komalski continues, “Then it all seemed to quieten down.” I picture her, one ear to an inverted glass pushed against the wall, desperately trying to catch any items of conversation.
“Anyways,” she continues, “a few minutes later I heard Kevin’s front door slam, I looked out the window and I saw her march across the street and into that fancy car of hers.”
My suspicions are confirmed. Sandi was there and she had a big argument with Kevin. That likely explains the engagement ring on the floor. How it must have hurt poor Kevin to have it thrown in his face.
“Did you tell all this to the police?” I ask.
“Yes,” she sniffs, “although they didn’t seem to pay much attention. Just going through the motions, they were. I also told them I saw you arrive while I was having my morning coffee.”
She pauses waiting for my reaction. I imagine her perched, coffee cup in hand, in the bay window of the living room upstairs, a vulture on her bough scouring the scene for a juicy morsel.
I smile encouragingly and she continues. The next time she stops I will have to give her something in return. “Well that was normal, you always arrive at the same time every Saturday, as regular as clockwork. I could set my watch by you. When I told them about you, the skinny one that smelled of cigarettes seemed interested but the other one just sat there.”
“Told them what about me?”
She ignores my question. “The newspapers say the police think it was suicide; why did you say it was murder?” It’s quid pro quo time.
“I’ve known Kevin since the eighth grade,” I say, “and we were close. He was my best friend. I just don’t believe he would kill himself.”
“Well, that’s hardly proof,” she sneers.
I’m not going to tell her about the illegal drug tests, so I just say, “Well there are some business reasons that may have been a motive and there was a note that the police thought was a suicide note, but it turns out not to be one. What you just told me about an argument that morning reinforces my belief it was murder.”
There is a smirk on her face that I can only describe as triumphant. “What do you mean, ‘business reasons’? Was he doing something illegal? Embezzling, maybe…” she leaves it hanging.
She is no fool. Although she is off the mark, she is not too far off.
“Did anyone else come to the townhouse?”
“I don’t know, I went off downtown, shopping with my sister. When I got back, I was having a nice cup of tea when I saw you hurrying down the road with a green garbage bag but you were back in a flash and the next thing I know the place was crawling with police, ambulances and I don’t know what else.”
“Did you tell the police that I took out that green garbage bag?”
“Why? What was in it?”
“Just clothes.”
“Whose clothes?”
“Mine.”
She processes this and decides it’s OK to answer my question. “Yes, of course I told them.” So Steve and Stammo already knew about that?
“So you didn’t see anyone else?” I ask.
“I already told you I didn’t.”
I’m pretty sure I’m not going to get anything more out of her, so I stand. “Thanks for your time, Mrs. Komalski.” I offer her my hand; best to leave on good terms in case I need more information later. “The information about the argument with Sandi is very helpful.”
She ignores my hand and leads me to the door, a very obvious smirk on her face. I am down the steps and halfway to the gate before she says, “Who said it was Sandi?”
“Sorry?”
“Who said it was Sandi?” My confusion widens the smirk. “Who said it was Sandi who had the big argument with Kevin that morning?”
“You did.”
“No I didn’t, you just assumed it.”
She is right. A cop should never assume; maybe my police training has forsaken me: a depressing thought. “So who was it?” I ask.
Her grin has assumed shit-eating proportions. She just looks at me, keeping me waiting for what seems like an age.
“I don’t really know if I should tell you,” she says. “It’s not like you’re a police officer. Well, not anymore.” She is enjoying this.
As I puzzle out how to get this last item of information from her, she emits a laugh laced with derision.
“His stuck-up bitch of a mother, in her big, fancy, chauffeur-driven limo, that’s who.”
She shakes her head as she closes the door.
31
Cal
The thought that I might be about to speak to someone directly involved in Kevin’s murder makes my pulse race.<
br />
He opens the door and his eyes widen at my battered face. “What the hell happened to you?”
He ushers me in as I reply. “Last Friday I got the snot beaten out of me by a drug gang. I was in St. Paul’s for five days, in a coma for two of them.”
“What did you do to deserve that?”
With difficulty I ignore the implication that it was my fault… even though it was. Anger is not helpful in an interrogation unless it’s feigned… like it will be in a moment. I have forty-eight hours until I have to show up at detox, so I go straight to the matter at hand. “When we met for lunch the other week, you told me that the majority of QX4 shares were owned by an off-shore corporation and that I’d never find out who the big investor was.” Brad is already blushing; he knows what’s coming. I raise my voice a couple of decibels. “In less than fifteen minutes, I found out on Walsh’s and QX4’s websites, that George is the big investor. So I want to know why you lied to me?”
He hesitates for a second. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“No Brad, it’s not obvious. Enlighten me.”
“For Christ sake, Cal, there you were suggesting that Kevin might have been murdered by someone at QX4 and you wanted to know the name of the big investor in the company. I know how you feel about your ex-wife’s fiancé. If I’d told you that it was George, you would have gone about causing a lot of embarrassment for Sam, George, QX4 and for me. I just wanted to divert you.”
As much as I don’t want to, I have to admit that it’s a good enough reason… but I’m still going to take advantage of the fact that he is embarrassed about lying to me.
“I want you to tell me everything you know about George Walsh.”
“Cal, this is crazy. George couldn’t have anything to do with Kevin’s death.” Brad is angry, more than I would have expected; good, I’ll use it.
“Humour me. It’ll make up for the fact that you lied to me the other day.”
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 1, 2 & 3 (Box Set) Page 17