“Let me see that.” Grant moved from behind his desk with surprising speed. “This photo was taken after a recital my wife gave. Lili Doubek accompanied her.”
“And the young man?” Dobbin asked.
“My son Alan. He never missed one of his mother’s performances.”
“What was the date?”
“Nine years ago this month.”
Shannon felt they were getting bogged down in details.
“Wasn’t that shortly before she took her own life?” she asked, not taking pleasure in blindsiding Grant that way, but he needed to be shaken up. So she took the chance her earlier hunch was correct.
He blanched. “Where did you come up with such a preposterous idea?”
“Are you saying she did not commit suicide? And before you answer that, let me warn you we can verify the truthfulness of your statement by checking the medical records, regardless of what the newspapers said about it at the time.”
Grant went back behind his desk and sat heavily, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. “Surely you can see why we kept that from the media.” He looked down at the blotter. “In her final months, Rosa was growing more and more despondent. I urged her to seek professional help, but she refused, said she could cope. My son, who was very close to his mother, also tried to help. Unfortunately, neither of us knew how much my wife was covering up. Alan was the one who found her. She’d hung herself at our weekend home in Caledon. It was a horrible day.”
Dobbin glared at Shannon as he said to Grant, “I’m very sorry such a painful subject was brought up. Shannon, can you get to the point of all this?”
She went to her shoulder bag and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Smoothing it out as she crossed the room, she handed it to Grant. It was time to play her trump card.
“Mr. Grant, this is a list of dates that Marta Hendriks received bouquets of roses from the person we believe not only kidnapped her, but who is also responsible for the death of Arturo De Vicenzo in Rome and Lili Doubek here in Toronto. With my limited resources and time, I haven’t been able to corroborate all the dates, but the ones with check marks are times when we know you were also in the same country as Marta.”
Dobbin looked amazed. “How did you get that kind of information?”
“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies, Les. Just ask Grant how he explains those coincidences.”
Turning to Grant, he asked, “Well?”
Still with his eyes on the list, Grant looked flustered. “Some of these dates are fairly old. I travel a lot for business, you see. I would have to check on these with my executive assistant.”
“And how about the most recent one?” Shannon asked. “Surely you can remember where you were a week ago.”
Grant squinted down at the paper again. “I was here. In Toronto. I haven’t been out of the country since the first week of January when I was skiing in France.”
Dobbin pulled Shannon to the far end of the room. In a low voice, he asked, “How reliable is your information?”
“Are you beginning to come around?” she asked in return.
“Just answer my question, O’Brien, goddamn you.”
“Very reliable. My source says records show Peter Grant was in England at the time that opera singer was murdered in Rome, and Marta Hendriks and my employee were attacked in Venice. Grant returned to Toronto a day after Marta did. You and I both know it’s not difficult to move undetected once you’re within the E.U. these days, especially if you have money.”
“Okay. I’ll go with you on this for now.” He walked back to Grant. “Well, Grant, you’ve had a few minutes to collect your thoughts. Has your memory improved?”
“My memory is fine. I was not out of the country at any time since early January.”
“You did not travel to the United Kingdom two and a half weeks ago?”
“Absolutely not. And I can prove it.”
Shannon stepped right to the edge of the desk and looked across it. “Then how do you explain that Peter Grant entered the UK at Heathrow Airport on February 8th?”
“I explain it by saying that your information must be incor —” His voice trailed off and an expression of anxiety flitted across his face. “I think I would like to call my lawyer now.”
Dobbin, sensing blood, also moved in. “First you said you could prove you were in town, and now you want to call your lawyer? What gives?”
Grant had his face covered by one hand. “Oh my God,” he said, “Oh my God.”
Shannon asked, “Mr. Grant, could you tell us what is bothering you so much?”
It was as if he hadn’t heard her question. “Why would he do such a thing? Hasn’t he caused me enough grief?”
Shannon put her hands on the desk and leaned across. “Grant! Who are you talking about?”
He looked up, startled. “I suppose I have to tell you. My son, of course, my damned son.”
She shook her head. “You don’t have a son named Peter.”
“My son’s name is Peter Alan Grant. He doesn’t use Peter anymore. His initials are the same as mine, too. Both our passports say Peter A. Grant. My middle name is Augustus, after my grandfather.”
“And was your son out of the country at that time?”
“I have no idea. He hasn’t lived here for at least six years and I haven’t seen or talked to him since last October.”
“You’re estranged from him?”
“No. He’s estranged from me. Alan and I have always had a difficult relationship. From birth, he’s been an odd boy — brilliant but odd. His mother was the only one who could deal with him. Our relationship deteriorated further after Rosa’s death. They were very close. He blames me for … what happened.”
Dobbin was suddenly all business. “Do you think your son is capable of murder and kidnapping?”
Grant looked up, a totally lost expression on his face. “I gave him everything and now he does this. Oh God. What am I going to do?”
Shannon raised her voice in order to get through to the distraught man. “Do you know where Alan is?”
“I … I have no idea. I tell you, I have no contact with him. That’s what our argument was about last fall. I wanted to know why I should keep giving him a generous allowance when I have no idea what’s going on in his life. I told him he needed to act like a grown man, get a job, and stand on his own two feet. Heaven knows he has ability. One of the big computer companies in California practically begged him to work for them.”
Dobbin looked frustrated. “Surely you have a phone number?”
Grant shook his head. “Since he moved out, Alan has always called me — and not very often, I might add. It’s only when he wants money.”
“Are any family members on friendly terms with him?”
“No. He dislikes them as much as I do.”
Shannon cursed under her breath. Once Alan knew they were on to him, he could do anything. They needed to move in on him quickly.
Dobbin persisted. “Does Alan have any friends we might —”
Grant’s hand sliced the air angrily. “Alan never had any friends — except for his mother. He followed her everywhere.”
Dobbin said to Shannon. “We need to get this information to our boys on the street, pronto, without the media getting wind of it. Mr. Grant, do you have a recent photo of Alan?”
“There’s one from the last family gathering we attended two years ago.”
Shannon asked, “How old is your son?”
“He turned twenty-nine last week.”
“And there was no contact at that time?”
Peter Grant sighed heavily. “None whatsoever.”
The photo was soon retrieved by Grant’s executive assistant, now properly dressed.
Dobbin went to the study door and yelled, “Somebody find Samotowka for me — pronto!”
When Shannon emerged from the study, she found Tony and Dan side by side on a padded bench by the door, boredom and not a little irritation plainly on the
ir faces.
“Sorry that took so long.”
“That’s all right,” Dan said. “We had nothing better to do. So what’s up?”
“It’s not Peter Grant. It’s his son Alan.”
“But that’s impossible. The passport clearly said Peter Grant. My contact couldn’t have gotten it wrong.”
“His son’s full name is Peter Alan Grant.”
Tony stood up, clearly agitated. “So the cops are going to reel this punk in?”
Shannon sighed. “As soon as they find him. Dad doesn’t know where he lives and has no way to contact him.”
“But we’re running out of time!”
“I know that, you know that, and the cops know that. I’m going to go to police headquarters with Dobbin and see what help I can be. I’ll call you as soon as we learn anything.”
“So we’re supposed to just sit around and wait?” Dan asked. “That totally sucks.”
Shannon threw up her hands. “What can I say? I know it sucks, but our hands are tied. Right now the cops are the best people to move this forward.”
From the front door, Dobbin shouted, “O’Brien! The bus is leaving. If you’re coming, you better shake a leg.”
Turning to go, she said to Dan and Tony. “I promise I will call you the moment I know anything, okay? And Tony, try not to worry. The police are going to move heaven and earth to find Alan and get to Marta.”
The two men followed her out of the house, stopping on the doorstep to watch the police cars race off.
“So what do we do now?” Tony asked.
“I guess we wait — unless you happen to know where Alan Grant lives.”
While they’d been talking to Shannon, Tony’s phone had pinged its alert that he received an email. Tony took out his phone and began reading.
Hudson had continued walking toward his car. When he realized his companion was still back on the doorstep, he turned around and shouted, “Come on, Lusardi!”
It was meant in jest, but Tony looked up, his expression deadly serious. “He just sent me another email.”
Dan sprinted back. “Here, let me see that.”
Tony handed over the phone. The subject line of the email was blank, the return address was Tony’s own, so obviously the email was spoofed and they’d likely never trace it back to its source.
It read simply: “Don’t think you clever people are ever going to find her. I have Marta in a place you’ll never think of looking. I can keep her until she dies and you can’t do a thing about it. Learn to accept your complete and utter failure.”
Dan shook his head as he handed Tony the phone. “The guy sure has balls.”
Tony’s face was hard. “He’s spitting in our faces.” He looked as if he was about to hurl his phone to the ground. “I could kill this bastard with my bare hands! Figlio di puttana!”
“Whatever that means, I’m with you.”
“I’m so filled with rage I can barely think. I know he’s trying to do that, and still I can’t stop it. We’re dancing like puppets on his strings.”
“You know, Tony, I’m thinking that maybe this time his massive ego has made him step in it.”
“How?”
“Take his taunt literally: where would we never think of looking?”
“You mean for real?”
“Yup.”
Tony shrugged. “I don’t know. A police station? The opera house? My condo? City Hall? The top of the CN Tower?”
He listed a few more outrageous locations, not noticing Dan had held up his hand.
“Just a second. You mentioned one place that is a distinct possibility.”
“Where?”
“Your condo.”
“Huh?”
“Well, not your condo exactly — but the building where it is. Think about it. It’s brilliant, just the sort of thing that would appeal to Alan Grant’s warped sensibilities. I’ll bet he’s been enjoying watching the cops and us struggle to figure out where he’s taken her, and all the time, he’s got her right under our noses. Make sense?”
“I don’t know. He’d be taking a huge chance.”
“No, he wouldn’t be. Your building really is the last place anyone would look.
“I guess it’s worth checking out.”
“You’ve got that right. Let’s go.”
“Shouldn’t we tell Shannon?”
“We just got blown off, remember? I know when I’ve been patted on the head and told to stand in the corner. I vote we check this out on our own.”
“I don’t know …”
“C’mon, Tony. We’ll just go down there and take a quick look around. If we find even a whiff of Grant, we’ll call in the cavalry, pronto. Can you imagine the looks on their faces when we tell them we’ve found Marta?”
Tony nodded. “Okay. Let’s do it.” As they got into Dan’s car, he added, “You know, we’re probably going to end up looking like the two biggest jackasses on the planet if we got this all wrong.”
“Another reason not to tell anyone. But I prefer to look at it positively. We might be the heroes of the day. But most important, if we do nothing and it turns out we were right, how would we feel then — especially if he does his worst.”
“What’s the plan?”
“How well do you know your building’s doorman?”
“Sam? Pretty well. He’s a nice little guy, always helpful. We can count on him. Marta’s one of his favourites.”
“Good. If I’ve learned one thing about doormen, it’s that they know everything going on in their building: all the gossip, who’s blissfully happy, whose relationship is on the rocks, who just got a new job, and who just got fired. Let’s hope your Sam is cut from that cloth.”
“Oh, I think you can count on that.”
They both knew this was a Hail Mary pass, but it sure beat sitting around waiting for someone else to do something.
Chapter Thirty-Six
I was deep inside myself, trying to find a place without darkness and fear where I could remember my dear friend who was now dead — and whom I would probably soon join.
So far, I’d only managed to replace fear with a slow-burning anger directed at my captor, who seemed to feel it was his God-given right to end her life so cruelly. It would be my turn next, whenever he decided my time was up. He was going to “release” me. Yeah, right. The ultimate release.
I didn’t believe any longer I would be saved. Hollywood endings don’t happen in real life, as much as we’d like them to. Someone would find my body, probably Tony. The monster who’d taken the outside world away from me would see to that. What was going on was not about me, Lili, or De Vicenzo back in Rome. Everything that had happened or would happen was at its heart all about him.
When the end came, I would fight if I could. I wouldn’t cry or beg for mercy. My end would be faced with dignity — if there was even a shred of dignity to be found in being strangled. This monster had stripped me of liberty, light, sound, freedom of movement, even clothes and human contact. But he would not strip me of dignity.
How ironic it was that my last hours would be so lonely, much the same as Naomi’s in The Passage of Time. Maybe that was part of my enemy’s plan. The new opera was certainly a factor. Naomi was a captive, too, although the dark world she inhabited was partially of her own making.
Her long third act aria, “Once I roamed in a place of light,” began in my head, the tragic meaning of its lyrics driven like spikes into my brain because of my own desperate plight. In it Naomi sings that she had given everything to those around her, family, friends, even strangers. She had not harmed a soul, had lived a good life, and yet, this grace didn’t save her from the end that she saw coming to her. It is a desperate and desolate piece of music that to me was the high point of the opera I would now never perform.
I began to sing — the only refuge I had left. I sang for Naomi, an imaginary person whose plight I now understood completely. I sang for Lili. I sang for myself.
Sadly, no on
e would ever hear it. I hadn’t discovered the core of my role in the opera until it was too late.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Tony directed Dan down Mount Pleasant Road and onto Jarvis Street. The morning rush was beginning to ease up and they were making good time.
“I don’t think we should park out front of the building,” Dan said. “Where else would you suggest?”
“There’s a small parking lot right behind the St. Lawrence Farmer’s Market. Since there’s nothing going on there today, it should be empty. Hopefully, you won’t get towed.”
Dan laughed. “Hell, they can have the damn car if it gets us Marta back.”
“We’ll buy you one, okay?” Tony was only half kidding.
Luck was with them. The lot was deserted. After getting out of the car, they retraced back up Jarvis to King, and then down the open space between the market building and the building where Tony and Marta lived. Partway down, a colonnade began and they used that to further avoid detection from above. The winter wind was blisteringly cold so there weren’t many people about.
At Front Street, they ducked into the lobby of the bank at the corner of the building.
“I think we should assume our friend has a direct feed into the building’s closed circuit system,” Dan said. “Do you know if there’s a security camera at your building’s entrance?”
Tony shrugged.
Dan stuck his head out and looked up. “We’re in luck. There’s nothing. I want you to go to the door. Hopefully, your doorman will be behind his desk. Motion him outside and bring him here. Okay?”
In less than a minute, Tony returned with Sam.
“Yes, sir. Mr. Tony has told me that you need my help. You have got it. What do you need from Sam?”
During the trip downtown, Tony had used his phone to search online for a photo of P. Alan Grant to show to Sam. He finally found one, but it was taken at his mother’s funeral so it was nearly ten years old.
“This is who we’re looking for. Does he live in the building? Have you ever seen him?”
Masques and Murder — Death at the Opera 2-Book Bundle Page 55