Conduct in Question

by Mary E. Martin

  Rosenberg shook his head impatiently. “Sure, sure, Jonathan. My secretary can organize all that kind of stuff. Send flowers from the firm for the funeral.” He leaned forward in his chair and jabbed his finger at Conroy. “But we’ve got to get in touch with whoever’s investigating and reach an understanding. The police can’t go rummaging through all the files and taking up time with questions.”

  Conroy shook his head. Niels and Rosenberg were sad cases, he thought. Not one iota of humanity in their sleek carcasses. “None of us has anything to hide,” said Conroy, looking at his partners. “We have a duty to assist.”

  Silently, the door opened. Tony McKeown stood before them, his shoulders sagging. Conroy was shocked to see him so ashen and stricken with grief. All watched as he took a seat, closed his eyes, and massaged his temples.

  “Gentlemen, I cannot think of a sadder day,” he said at last. “Such horrific events are totally beyond human imagination.” Choking, he continued, “Those poor women! To meet such a grotesque fate…” His voice trailed off. “I trust, Jonathan, that we will personally convey our sympathy to the families, and that all of us will attend the funeral. We should also tell the police that we want to give our fullest cooperation in the investigation. I knew the girls only slightly, but I think we should tell the police anything we can about them.”

  Finally, Conroy thought, a strain of decency had been voiced. The other partners shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Conroy knew McKeown’s reputation as a tough guy, but was now delighted by Tony’s sense of honor and decency. In the past, he had been disconcerted by the hunger and depth of calculation in the man’s eyes, but had put it down to healthy ambition.

  Everyone was silent.

  “You’ve all seen the photographs? “ Tony asked, his voice faltering. He spread the newspaper open, as if arranging a shroud. “Those poor women,” he sighed. “Only a mad beast could have ravaged them. The families must be in grave distress.” He rose to pace. Everyone was silent. “We must help in any way we can.”

  McKeown had never really fit in, thought Rosenberg. Always the lone wolf, never a team player. Here he was making everyone look like cheap shits.

  Cawthorne was quick to take his cue from McKeown. “Tony’s right, gentlemen. We’ve all been remiss.” Steepling his fingers together, he continued in his most judicious tones, “It matters not a whit whether anyone in this firm is implicated. We must cooperate fully with the police.”

  “That goes without saying, gentlemen,” said Tony, with his back turned on them. He stared out the window onto the cavernous windows of the Old City Hall. “And we must do whatever we can to comfort their families.”

  Fascinated, Conroy watched McKeown turn from the window. With the light on his face, he seemed pale and tentative. A stricken soul, he thought.

  McKeown stopped. He gripped the boardroom table. The others saw him shake his head as his eyes grew flat and unseeing.

  “You all right, Tony?” Conroy reached out to touch his arm.

  McKeown did not speak for several moments. “Gentlemen! What if the Florist is within this firm?” He looked at each member of the committee, one by one.

  Conroy drew Tony into the chair next to him. “I know, Tony. It’s beyond contemplation. But rest assured, we’ll do whatever is necessary to help.”

  Conroy was convinced of one thing. Despite the nasty rumors about Tony’s greed and questionable practices, there was a solid, decent human being within.

  Back in his office, Tony slumped into his leather chair and stared out the window. The pigeons were waddling along the ledges of the Old City Hall. He remembered the rush he had felt the other night when the hawk had swooped down.

  “Mr. McKeown?” his secretary called. “Archbishop Staunton is on the line.”

  “Yes, archbishop.” Tony spoke quietly. “The church application for rezoning was dead as of yesterday.

  “What happened? I testified just as you said. Why did we lose?” demanded Staunton angrily.

  “It was as I told you, Archbishop. Staunton. The ratepayers were very much opposed from the outset. And you, sir,” Tony said, lounging back and smiling thinly, “were imperious, overbearing, and ultimately ineffectual.”

  Staunton choked. “What is the church to do now?”

  “I promised that I would have an offer for you.”

  “When?”

  “Soon, Archbishop Staunton. Despite my disgust for the church’s irresponsibility in condoning the behavior of its priests, I shall not abandon it.”

  Staunton was immediately defensive. “The church cannot supervise each and every one of its clergy all the time.”

  “Listen, sir. Please do not try to excuse the abuse of innocents. It disgusts me.”

  There was a long pause. “Call me when you have the offer,” said the archbishop. Then he hung up.

  Tony took his binoculars from the desk drawer and began scanning the windows of the Old City Hall. It was amazing what you could see in broad daylight.

  CHAPTER 26

  The next morning, Harry’s mind was still beset with images of mutilated flesh. Seeking the world of normalcy, he decided to call Natasha first. But on his desk lay a scrawled pink message slip. It read: Mr. Tony McKeown called. Offer on 42 Highland about to expire. Call at once.

  “What’s this message from Mr. McKeown?” Harry called out to Miss Giveny. “What offer is he talking about?”

  “It’s on your desk.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me about it?”

  “I was going to last night, but you were kicking wastebaskets about and then storming out of the office,” she said stonily. “He called again just before you came in this morning.”

  Thoughts pounded in his brain. It was time for a change. A new secretary—one who did not hide evidence from him. Despite his newfound sympathy for her, he was getting sick of her crankiness. But if he were to fire her, what would happen? Immediately he pictured her and Merle eating cat food, in a kitchen with no heat.

  The offers were at least twenty percent over his estimation of the present market value. He rang Natasha.

  “The appraisal report is ready, Harry.” Natasha’s voice lifted Harry’s spirits.

  “I have an offer on the property. For two-point-five million dollars.”

  “That’s way over market value. Who submitted it?” she asked.

  “A numbered company. A lawyer, Tony McKeown, acts for the purchaser.” In the silence, Harry was unsure if she was still on the line. “Natasha?”

  “It is a fantastic offer. But who is behind the company?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I’ll find out.” Harry paused. “Natasha? Do you have time for a quick lunch today?” Harry caught his breath. “I mean, I would like to see your report.”

  “Certainly, Harry. I’d love to.” After making the necessary arrangements, Harry dialed McKeown’s office.

  Harry began, “I realize your client has given us until five this afternoon to respond to the offer on Highland, but I need more time to get the beneficiaries together.”

  “Take your time, Harry. Take another forty-eight hours, if you like. My client’s in no hurry. I’ll fax you a letter confirming the extension.”

  Harry sank back in relief. Time limitations gave lawyers nightmares. If some critical date whizzed by, the unfortunate lawyer was in the soup.

  The telephone rang again. Miss Giveny was not picking it up. Passive insurrection was one of her fondest guerrilla tactics.

  “Harold Jenkins here.”

  “Harry, it’s me.” Laura’s voice sounded distant.

  “Hi, me.” Habits of intimacy died hard.

  “Harry, I have to go to Montreal for a conference.”

  “Oh?” Suddenly, he felt too weary for anger.

  “For the museum. I didn’t mention it earlier, because I forgot to put it in my calendar.”

  Harry said nothing. Laura was driven to fill silences. “Is that all right, darling?”

  When d
id she last call me darling? “It’s part of your work, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I have to go,” she said hastily. After a pause, she said, “I got your note about the appointment tomorrow with the marriage counselor.”

  “I can rebook it if you want.”

  “Let’s talk about it when I get back.”

  Nothing decided. Everything postponed. His voice broke in frustration. “What the hell is the point? Be honest, Laura, you don’t have the slightest interest in our marriage.” Harry was amazed. At last the words were out of his mouth.

  “I didn’t say that!”

  “No, of course not.” Restless with fury, he did not want to stop. “That would be too straightforward for you. Games. Always games.”

  Her voice rose sharply. “What are you talking about?”

  “Forget it! Just go, but don’t expect me to sit around waiting.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.” Harry simmered. “I suppose Stover’s going?”

  “God damn it, Harry, of course he is. He’s my boss.”

  “Fine. See you when you’re back.”

  “I’ll be at the Ritz-Carlton, if you need me.”

  When Harry hung up, he realized he was smacking his pencil on the receiver. Most of the stuff on his desk was from Laura: glossy, slick, impersonal items, suitable for anyone. He shook his head. Normally he was not an ingrate. Closing his eyes, the room at the Ritz-Carlton on their honeymoon floated in his memory.

  With determination, he forced himself to concentrate on work. He instructed Miss Giveny to set up an urgent appointment with Katharine, Suzannah, and Gerry for the afternoon. As a solicitor, he was obligated to present McKeown’s offer to all concerned parties, despite their arguments over the wills. Then he tackled the other phone messages. He crumpled up Mudhali’s latest message and pitched it in the garbage. Pretty soon he’d have a case against the bank for harassment.

  Natasha had suggested they meet at an Italian restaurant several blocks east, past the park and the cathedral. Stepping into the dimly lit restaurant, his spirits rose. It was a romantic atmosphere, certainly not suitable for reading lengthy contracts.

  He saw her in a booth near the back, and waved. Harry had been faithful to Laura throughout their marriage.

  “Great to see you.” They shook hands. “I wasn’t at my best at our last meeting at the house.” He slid into the booth across from her.

  Natasha smiled slowly. “The last time I saw you, Harry, you were in bed.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You should see your face,” she laughed. “I came to see you in the hospital.”

  “Ah…so it wasn’t a dream after all,” he sighed.

  “No. I really was there. You had nurses all around you, so…”

  “Thank you for coming,” he managed to say.

  He ordered a carafe of red wine from the waiter, and they picked up their menus.

  “So, Harry,” she said, “you have such good news. That’s a marvelous offer. Will it be accepted?”

  “Well, the house isn’t necessarily for sale. It’s up to the beneficiaries to decide.”

  “Will your clients want to expose the property to the market?”

  “Quite possibly. And if they do, I will recommend you very highly.” Harry sought to divert the conversation to a safe topic. He could not discuss the mess with the wills. “How’s the market for these properties?” he asked.

  “Excellent, Harry. The Deighton property is in a prime location, and it is of the highest quality. It will go very quickly, I think.”

  Only once did Harry lose his train of thought, as his gaze floated from her lips to her collar line.

  She reached for her satchel. “I have the appraisal here for you.” She handed him the binder.

  For a moment, he could not take his eyes from her. He estimated that Laura was probably catching the plane to Montreal. The details of their room eighteen years ago at the Ritz flooded his mind again. And here he sat, with another woman who was turning him inside out.

  “Harry? You look so far away.”

  He shook his head. “Sorry, Natasha.” He loved to say her name. “I was just thinking about the offer.”

  “But there’s so much flipping of properties,” she said.

  “A hot market?”

  “One that is about to explode. There’s a lot of money moving about.”

  “What do you think is its source?”

  “From everywhere. You know Toronto well, don’t you Harry?”

  “I’ve lived here all my life.”

  “I think every race, religion, and nationality is represented here.”

  “Yes?”

  “So that’s the number of sources.”

  “Have you lived here long?”

  “Since I was about twelve. We lived in the east end, above a store on the Danforth. My parents escaped from Russia in the fifties. They lost everything. They were so grateful to arrive safely in Canada.” She spoke with quiet reflection. “They always said this country was the best place in the world.” Smiling sadly, she continued, “Sometimes we think life is hard here, but unless you have lived in a country where your family can be dragged out in the street and shot, you do not know how truly lucky you are. My father always said that if you lost everything once, you needn’t ever be afraid again.”

  They ordered lunch. The waiter poured more wine.

  Natasha asked, “What’s your wife’s name?”

  “Laura,” he said quietly. “We’ve been married for almost twenty years.”

  The waiter came with the salads.

  “You’re married, Natasha?”

  When she shook her head, he wished he could reach out and touch her lustrous, dark hair.

  “No, I’m not.” She smiled and sipped her wine. Of course such a man would be married, but he looks so sad when he speaks of her, she thought.

  “So…Mr. McKeown is acting for the purchaser?” she continued.

  “Yes. You know him?”

  “Only by reputation, really,” she said carefully.

  “And?”

  “He’s brilliant, and…ruthless.” She reached across the table and lightly touched his hand. Her gaze held him. “Before you told me about this offer, I would have recommended listing it for sale at 1.75 million, Harry. But now, who knows?” She shrugged. “The surrounding properties have just skyrocketed. Do you know what is going on?”

  Natasha had done her job well. She knew from the title searches that he had acted for Mr. Chin, and she had spotted the potential conflict of interest.

  “Natasha, I know the titles to the properties may show that I’m in a conflict of interest.” He drank down his wine. “I wish I knew what was going on, but I don’t.”

  “I’m not worried about you, Harry.” Her gaze was soft. “But men like Albert Chin can be trouble. You don’t want to get too close.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “All I have is hearsay, but apparently, he has huge sums of money behind him and is a very determined man.”

  With her perspective from within a tight-knit real-estate community, Harry hoped she might shed some light on Frank. “Ever hear of a broker, Frank Sasso?”

  “Is he involved in this deal? If he is, that spells trouble. Sasso is a very small player. He does what he’s told by Chin.”

  After lunch, she kissed his cheek. Not much more than a peck. “I believe you, Harry, but watch out. I care about you.” Briefly, her fingers traced the pattern on his tie.

  “I’d like to see you again, Natasha.”

  “You have a wife, Harry.”

  He thought she spoke rather sadly. “Yes, but…”

  For Natasha, Harry was very unusual, but she understood his hesitation. Loyalty was a rare trait.

  Standing in the glare of sun on the sidewalk, Harry grinned as she walked away. But then, as if clouds had rolled in, he felt chilled. The possible connections between Chin and Sasso led to a swamp of conjectur
e. And now McKeown, the lawyer for the church, was further involved.

  CHAPTER 27

  At a quarter past three, Harry entered his office library. Copies of the offer and the two wills were neatly stacked at the end of the table. He massaged the back of his neck and contemplated the onslaught of the Deighton beneficiaries. No doubt a major confrontation was brewing.

  Crawford’s roguish visage glowered down upon all potential proceedings from the wall. Beside it hung the portrait of Crawford’s senior partner, the mild-mannered Geoffrey Crane. Although Harry never knew the man, he wondered how Crane had coped with the young Turk, Crawford. To Harry, Crawford was an aberration in the firm. He toyed with the notion of removing the picture, and smiled at the realization that he was still haunted by old ghosts.

  The purpose of the meeting was to effect some settlement among the warring factions of the Deighton clan. There was nothing like will changes to drive families apart. Rational clients usually shuddered at incurring gargantuan legal bills simply to make a point of principle, but a stubborn few could drain the estate coffers just to settle an ancient family score.

  The library door rattled. Opening the door, Harry was confronted by a fuming Miss Giveny, bearing a tray with a coffeepot, cups and saucers.

  “Where should I put this?” she asked, plunking the tray on the library table. “Those Deightons have been nothing but trouble for the firm,” she said in her most spinsterish tone. “I’m sure one of the children knows what happened to Marjorie.” Glancing significantly at Harry, she trundled from the room, muttering, “Those Deightons will never agree on anything.”

  Voices floated in from the foyer. Good grief. Ten minutes early. In his heartiest Crawford manner, Harry strode into the foyer.

  “Good afternoon,” he said, beaming and taking Katharine’s hand. Her smile was brief and professional. Gerry stepped forward to shake hands, then hung in the background.

  “We’re the first ones here?” Katharine asked.

  “Yes. I expect your sister any moment.”

  “Could Gerry and I speak with you alone, Mr. Jenkins?”