by Sky Curtis
“Yes, I know what you mean by execution style. TV and all. Anyway, Richard van Horner was born in Holland in 1958 but came to Canada as a baby with his parents in the early sixties.”
I did the math. He was almost exactly my age. No wedding ring, but what did that mean these days? Maybe married, maybe not.
Alison continued, “He currently lives in North Toronto, on a street near the end of Mount Pleasant. He bought the house about a year ago.” She gave me the address. “Rich guy.”
Really rich guy. Those houses by the golf course were valued in the multi-millions. I wondered where all his money had come from. “Are his parents dead? And what did they do?”
Alison clicked her mouse. “Yes, they’re dead, but recently, only last year. Both of them at the age of eighty. They ran a small dry cleaning business in the west end. On Ossington. Ummm…” click click, “it looks like it was just south of Bloor.”
He had probably sold it and then purchased his new home. “That place would be worth a mint. I wonder what he got for it. Any idea what his new house is worth?”
“I can find general estimates by looking on the real estate site. Here, I’ve got it. Well, there’s a property further south on Ossington that’s going for two point four, and his house is worth, ummm…” more clicking, “there’s a house the next street over from his that’s for sale for five point six. So about a three million spread.”
There was no way he’d be able to support a three million dollar mortgage on his salary, even if he was VP of a major company. He had to have had a windfall of some kind, larger than the sale of his parents’ business. So, where did the money come from? Had he been bribed for information about the location of the pump in the lake? I should interview the guy and sniff it out.
“And did you have any luck with the ship’s captain?”
“Sure I did,” Alison laughed. “I can find anything. That’s why I work here. He’s Spanish—Agustin Jimenez. Did you know Agustin means ‘the exalted one’?”
“No, I did not.”
“Well, they call him Jimmy, probably after his last name.”
“Did you discover who else was on the ship?”
“Just two guys were on board with him that September: Santiago Martinez and Diego Duarte.”
“All Spanish names. Now that’s interesting. I wonder if they knew each other from their home country. Anyway, did you get a sense of how much money he was paid while working for Everwave?”
“I looked at his income tax forms for the past five years and there was nothing out of the ordinary that would indicate a huge payment for last year. Year over year he made a fairly consistent amount. I mean, there was no spike in income or anything like that.”
“No spike in claimed income, that is. He probably wasn’t stupid enough to claim a cash payment. Can you find the addresses for Duarte and Martinez for me as well?”
“Already have. Here are the three addresses of the men on the ship.”
I typed into my computer the names and addresses she gave me and hit print. That Alison was a real whizz kid. I pictured her hunched over her computer, wearing glasses, her blonde hair tightly pulled back in a ponytail, out of her way. “Alison, how exactly did you find all this information? Especially his income tax. Isn’t that protected on a government site?”
She paused, and then laughed. “Let me know if you need anything else, okay?”
So, no answer. I guess as long as I didn’t know I was in the clear.
We said goodbye and I looked up to see Cindy looking at me quizzically. She had returned. “I’m back. Sounds interesting. What’s up?”
Putting my phone and iPad in my bag and looking for my car keys, I said, “Not sure. Something is up. Todd Radcliffe’s profile has disappeared off the dating site. A lot of things need checking out.”
“What do you mean, ‘disappeared?’” Cindy’s chair squeaked when she sat down.
“Gone-zola. Disparu. I searched almost the whole site and it didn’t come up anywhere.”
She frowned. “I don’t like the sounds of that. The only person who can take down a profile is the person who wrote it. I mean, there are passwords and everything.”
“I know. And I also know that his profile was up and running up past midnight last night. I came home from our date, called you, and then looked at it again, later. Anyway, we can talk about it tonight. No wait, I keep forgetting that our wine and pizza is cancelled tonight because of England. How about Saturday?”
“Sure, Saturday works. Being single and all with nothing to do.”
I quickly sent a text to Diane, letting her know about the change of plans. My phone dinged quickly with her reply, a smiley face. I guess that meant that she was good to go on Saturday night, too. At least I got a reply. That woman was so busy sometimes it took days to hear back from her.
Cindy glanced at the car keys in my hand. “Where you going?”
“I’m checking out where van Horner lives. He has a huge house by Rosedale Golf Course. Thought I’d sit on his house for a bit, see what’s what. I could maybe talk to him. At least watch him.”
“You gotta be kidding me, Robin.”
“What?”
“You can’t simply sit outside a guy’s house in a rust bucket in that neighbourhood.” Cindy started pitching her phone and glasses, keys and wallet into her purse. “I’m coming with you and we’re going in my Accord. It’s not so fancy that it will draw attention, and not too shabby for that neighbourhood.”
“Okay, but you’ll have to drive me back down here. I’m seeing England, remember, at eight-thirty. Bloor and Avenue Road.”
“No problem. Even if van Horner doesn’t get home until six or seven, we’ll still have lots of time. We can have a hamburger in the car.”
As we walked past Doug’s office, I could see that he was still staring out the window at the lake, a blank look on his face. What was going on with him? Who had called him and what had been said?
Van Horner lived on a beautiful tree-lined street that had a prettily landscaped boulevard running down the centre. Cindy drove down one side to the dead end at the bottom of the street and then followed the loop around so that we were parked facing the way we had come from. The house was on the driver’s side of the car, beyond the boulevard. When I protested that I couldn’t see over the central divide, she explained that first, we might need a quick getaway, and second, we needed to have a little protection from being seen.
“I always do this,” she said. I shut up and learned, just like Shirley told me to.
We sat outside van Horner’s house, a huge Edwardian edifice, eating the hamburgers we had picked up on our way and making a smelly mess of the interior of Cindy’s car. Unlike my car, hers was pristine and Cindy frowned at me when I crossed my left leg over my right knee, the sole of my foot barely inches away from touching her glove compartment. I was balancing my French fries in the V formed by my two legs.
“Put your foot down,” she snipped.
I removed my foot. “Yes, mum.”
We were both quiet for some time, munching away, eyes watching the street for a car, any car. The neighbourhood was dead. The quiet enveloped us as we waited and I fought the carbs slushing through my veins and dragging my eyes shut. I tried to lighten the moment and stay awake.
“A house like this is at least worthy of a proper stake out. I feel badly, giving it only a hamburger out.”
Cindy rolled her eyes. It was a dumb joke. We both laughed. The sun sank a little lower in the sky while we waited and watched. Absolutely nothing was happening. A bird flew by. I looked it up on my Peterson app. A jay of some kind. In between van Horner’s house and his neighbours’, I could see glimpses of the Rosedale Golf Course stretching out behind, with its lovely hills and copses of beautiful trees. Oh, to be rich. I could hear cicadas buzzing in the distance, giving their last mating calls
of the hot day. It was a perfect summer evening.
The house was two stories tall, squarish, a formidable pile of a pale yellow stone. Almost beige, but with flecks of gold. Leaded windows gleamed in the early evening light. The massive door itself must have been custom designed by an artisan in Europe. France, probably. Wrought iron fleur de lies protected a full-length pane of frosted glass.
I was bored. I had no idea that stakeouts were so tedious. I got out my tablet and started taking pictures of the tree-lined street, first one up towards Mount Pleasant and then another down the street towards the golf course. A workman’s van was parked at the curb, dirtying up my pretty shot. Then I zoomed in on the house, and took a picture of the lovely door.
Suddenly the garage door groaned open. Cindy and I both instinctively ducked down., “Geezus!” she hissed. “How did that happen?”
“He probably has a long distance remote opener,” I whispered back. “Wireless, no doubt.” There were advantages to working the Home and Garden section. I knew all the house gadgets. Intimately. We both peeked over the edge of the driver side window.
And sure enough, a shining gold Lexus swooped down the street and slid into the garage. Cindy muttered, “Did you see who was driving? Was it van Horner? I think so. A man for sure, wearing glasses. Did he wear glasses?”
“I can’t remember,” I said, as I inched the photo lens of my iPad slightly over the dashboard and clicked a picture of the guy getting out of his car as the garage door slowly hummed down. “On the other hand, some people wear glasses just to drive, so that’s not a great clue. Now, if I could see his bum, I would know for sure.”
“Yes, I remember he had a gluteus maximus worth thinking about.”
I was surprised my gay friend had even registered his derriere and turned to her, settling my iPad on my lap, “You noticed that?”
“Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I don’t recognize a great ass on a guy when I see one,” she giggled, watching the house.
I pondered this for a minute.
We watched as he headed towards the left side of the garage. “There’s probably a door there that goes to a side entrance,” I said, confident about my knowledge of floor plans. Once the garage door was completely down we sat back up. Lights came on as he made his way through the residence. “Do you think he senses us watching him?” I asked.
“Nah.”
A very pale glow lit up the front bay window on the right. He was probably in the kitchen, behind the front room, which was no doubt the dining room, if his house was a typical centre hall plan. Suddenly a bright light went on in the dining room and then finally the chandelier in the foyer illuminated the frosted glass in the front door. We watched his silhouette bend over, most likely picking up the mail that had been pushed through the slot. He straightened up and we could see the shape of his arms flipping through the letters.
Suddenly there was a deafening bang. Cindy and I jumped a mile and twisted our necks around, looking for the source of the explosion. Down the street, the derelict white van I’d noticed earlier was coughing away from the curb, belching smoke. We laughed hysterically, hands on our hearts. It was a car backfiring! As it passed us I could see its rocker panels were decayed by cancerous rust. When we looked back at the house, van Horner must have gone upstairs because his silhouette was no longer visible in the frosted glass.
“I wonder where he’s gone now,” mused Cindy.
“Probably going up to his bedroom to change into something more comfortable. A T-shirt with a little alligator on it. Pink.”
She laughed a little too loudly, releasing the tension. We dipped our now cold fries in ketchup as we waited for one of the upstairs lights to come on.
“I don’t like this,” said Cindy, munching.
“What, the fries? A little cold but otherwise, they’re perfect,” I said, smacking my lips appreciatively. So much for that diet.
“No, that we lost him in the house. I want to know where he is.”
“Maybe he’s taking a bath.”
“Well, I’m curious.” She undid her seatbelt and opened the car door. “Coming?”
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m going to knock on his front door.”
“Are you whacko? What are you going to say?”
“I’m going to say the truth. That I’m the press and I’m doing a follow-up story to the convention.”
I threw my napkins in the brown paper bag from the fast food joint, “Good line, yeah, okay, I’m coming.” I grabbed my iPad.
We walked up the cobblestone driveway together, Cindy’s supermodel legs wobbling slightly in her high heels. I looked this way and that, taking pictures of everything I could see: the trees in the yard, the manicured lawn, the detail in the windows, everything.
“What are you doing?” Cindy asked me, steadying herself on my arm.
“I’m being a reporter for the Express Home and Garden section, taking pictures of a nice house. It’s a better cover story than yours, I think. Won’t make him clam up.”
“Oh, right. Good thinking.”
Cindy was about to lift the doorknocker, a lion’s head, when I noticed a fine filigree of lines fanning out from behind the wrought iron fleur de lies. I grabbed her arm and pulled it back. “Wait,” I muttered quietly.
Something was definitely wrong here. My scalp was contracting on the back of my head. Someone was watching us.
“What now?” Cindy scowled at me.
Oh so casually, I made a show of taking a picture of the knocker up close. I nodded imperceptibly towards the frosted glass and said to her through unmoving lips, “Just act normal. Look. See? The glass has been broken. Don’t look at it directly, just move your eyes. I think we are being watched.”
We both rotated our eyes towards the glass. Slowly but surely a small circular hole in the middle of the lines came into focus.
“Bullet hole,” we whispered in unison.
“Okay, now pretend you don’t see it. You knock, we’ll wait for a second, and then, when it seems like no one is coming, we’ll leave, slowly and normally.” The hairs on the back of my neck were standing up. I felt so exposed. For sure we were being watched. Would we be shot? I didn’t want to die. Not yet. I would stop drinking. What was the name of the firm that cleaned my windows? I would lose weight. I loved my children. Where was my wedding ring? Was the milk out of date?
Amazing what whistles through your mind when you think there’s a gun aimed at you.
Cindy lifted the lion’s head twice in rapid succession. It clanged emptily through the house. We waited for a minute and she lifted it again. Again it echoed. I raised my shoulders in an exaggerated “what can you do” gesture and we turned and slowly walked down the steps, over the cobblestone driveway and back to her car. We ad-libbed loudly as we went.
“I told you we should have made an appointment.” I stated emphatically and loudly for the benefit of anyone watching us, “He’s gone into the bathroom, having a shower. You can’t just turn up, Mary, you gotta make an appointment.”
“How was I to know, Betty? I mean, maybe he wouldn’t let us interview him.”
Cindy had caught on. Fake names. Mislead whoever was watching.
“Oh well, at least I got a great photo of that lion’s head knocker. That will dress up my article on front porches for next Saturday’s issue of the Toronto Times.” I articulated “Toronto Times” carefully.
It seemed to take five years to reach Cindy’s car. We both opened our doors and got in as slowly as we could.
“I think we threw him off,” I said, keeping my head down so my lips didn’t show. “Fake names. Different newspaper.”
Cindy turned the key in the ignition and rotated the rearview mirror towards her, ostensibly to check her makeup like any self-respecting reporter would do, but she was really examining a wide circl
e behind us. She exhaled. “That decrepit white van that drove off? It didn’t come back. I don’t see it anywhere. I’ll bet the shooter was in the van.”
I didn’t think so. For one, from where the van had been parked it would have been an impossible shot. Also, the van had taken off, it was gone, and I knew we were still being watched.
The reality was sinking in. I was starting to pant. “We could’ve been shot, Cindy. We were so lucky.”
Cindy pushed the mirror back into position and carefully pulled away from the curb, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. She turned her frightened green eyes towards me and stretched her lips in a fake smile. Without moving a muscle in her face she enunciated through clenched teeth, “Holy Fuck. Holy fuck. Holy fuck.”
19.
CINDY TURNED LEFT ONTO MOUNT PLEASANT and then turned right on a side street, where there was a set of lights on Yonge to help us cross. We sat at the light puffing as if we’d run a mile, our breath coming fast and furious. She kept checking her rearview mirror.
“No white van. I don’t think we’re being followed.” Her body bounced back and forth with impatience as we waited for the light to change.
As far as I was concerned, the van was long gone. “Somehow it doesn’t make sense that the van was even involved in the shooting. It drove by us so innocently. Plus, I mean, Radcliffe and then van Horner? Sounds like pretty high-end crime is going on here, not a rusty van kind of job.”
“No such thing as coincidence. Big noise. A gun shot. Pretty coincidental. Nope, the van’s related.” She made a quick left onto Yonge Street, flinging me against the car door.
“Where the hell are you going? Go straight across. We’ll be trapped in the traffic here. We have to get away.”
“We have to call the police, Robin, we can’t just walk away from this.”
I was terrified. I wanted nothing at all to do with any of this. I’d had enough. I shouted, “Of course we can.”