A Woman Scorned

by James Heneghan

  The security office was in the basement of the hotel, at the end of a long uncarpeted and deserted corridor. Casey knocked on the door. When there was no response, he pushed the door open. The office was empty except for a desk and a chair. A gray uniform cap sat on the desk. A gray security uniform jacket hung on the back of the chair. Behind the desk was a closed door. Casey could hear groaning sounds coming from behind the door. He opened the door and found the security guard pushing a woman hard up against the wall, his trousers down around his ankles, the woman’s skirt up around her hips.

  “Excuse me,” Casey said.

  He turned and left. He waited outside in the corridor for a count of ten and then, after knocking, re-entered the office.

  The woman, a no-longer-young blond, rushed by him on her way out the door.

  He introduced himself to the security guard, now behind his desk, putting on his uniform jacket.

  The guard’s name, Anthony Donizetti, appeared on his lapel pin.

  “Homicide in suite four-zero-zero-four, May twenty-third. I would like to see the security-camera tape for that evening,” Casey said.

  “The police have already inspected that tape, Mr. Casey, and I’m afraid it’s no longer—”

  “It’s just Casey. Sorry for busting in on you just now, Anthony.”

  They stared at one another for a couple of beats.

  Casey smiled.

  Donizetti leaped to his feet. “No problem, Casey. Let me get that tape for you. The period of time examined by the police is marked. It’ll be easy to locate. Please follow me.”

  He led Casey into the passion room, loaded the tape into a VCR and fast-forwarded it to 6:12 PM. Then he switched off the main light, leaving Casey alone in front of the monitor.

  Casey moved the black-and-white tape forward, watching pictures of the deserted hallway outside Nash’s door. It didn’t take long for the figure of a woman to come into view, at 6:15 PM. The angle of the camera was high. The woman, if it was a woman, carried a handbag and wore a hoodie that obscured her face. She inserted a key in the lock and let herself in. All of which took only seconds.

  Then not long after, at 6:30 PM, Nash appeared and let himself in. The door closed once again.

  Casey moved the tape forward. At 7:25 PM, the door opened and the woman came out of the apartment, still wearing her hoodie and carrying her handbag. She did not look up. She did not lock the door. It was obvious to Casey that the woman knew of the security camera and had worn the hoodie to make it impossible to identify her.

  He looked at the complete sequence one more time, stopping the tape on the woman for careful examination. He saw nothing that might help ID her. She was just an average, ordinary woman in a hoodie. For that matter, it could even be a man in disguise.

  He had drawn a blank.

  “Thanks, Anthony,” Casey said, leaving. “Have a good day now.”

  Sunday at two.

  Whiskey and soda.

  “Ma’s gone, Casey.” Emma cried into the telephone. “Passed away in the small hours before dawn. I heard her call out. I went to her and held her hands. I felt her leaving me. It was physical. Like she wanted me there to see her go. Waited for me to say goodbye. But not a word she spoke. But rose up out of the house she’d lived in all her life and left it behind her. Her leaving was the quietest thing. Like a sparrow flying up the chimney and into the sky.”

  “I’m sorry for your trouble, Emma.”

  “Oh, Casey!”

  “She’s resting now, in peace.”

  “She is. I’ll finish up here. There’s a lot to do—the house needs to be sold. A couple of weeks and then I’ll be home, I’m hoping. I miss Vancouver. But mostly I miss you, Casey. I even miss the awful Vancouver rain. It rained here this morning, but it’s not the same. It’s…”

  “Soft,” they said together, laughing.

  “I will call next Sunday,” Emma said. “I love you, Casey.”

  “I’m waiting for you, girl.”

  12

  Ross Brierley stood up from behind his desk, hand extended.

  “I need a huge favor, Ross,” Casey said, shaking his hand. “You remember last time I was here? I was asking about a city hall employee named Cally? Well, I’ve got to find her. That means a search in the employee data bank for someone I can pin that nickname on.”

  “Restricted information, Casey. Sorry.”

  “It could lead to George Nash’s killer.”

  Brierley shook his sleek head.

  Casey said, “You could connect with the data bank and accidentally leave it on. Then you could take a break in the coffee shop while I—”

  “But there are hundreds of employees on that list. It would take an hour or more. I can’t leave you in here with—”

  “Take a lunch hour, Ross. On me. I promise I won’t tamper with the list.”

  “You couldn’t without the password, and even I don’t have that.”

  Brierley logged in to the data bank and then gave Casey his seat. “I’ll give you half an hour, Casey. Not a minute more. That’s the best I can do.”

  He left his office, closing the door behind him.

  Less than an hour later Casey was back at the Clarion office, talking with Ozeroff.

  “You remember the name Moira Nash gave me?” Casey said. “Cally?”

  “Moira said the woman called Nash at home a lot.”

  “That’s the one. I tracked her down.”

  “She works at city hall?”

  “You got it. I think it is probably Angela Brill. She’s a councilor. Her middle name is Calista.”

  “Cally for short,” Ozeroff said. “I bet she’ll turn out to be Nash’s mistress.”

  Casey punched ten digits into his desk phone.

  “Could I get an appointment with Councilor Brill?” he said.

  “What name, please?”

  “Casey, West End Clarion.”

  “One moment, please.”

  Casey chewed the end of his pencil.

  He waited.

  “Mr. Casey?”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s no need for an appointment. Ms. Brill is here Mondays and Fridays, in the afternoon. She’s usually available. Come to the council offices anytime before four.”

  Casey made for the door. “See you later, Deb. I’m off for a face-to-face with Councilor Angela Cally Brill herself.”

  Casey could see Brill sitting behind a desk in the empty council chamber. He tried the glass door, but it was locked. He rapped his knuckles on the glass. As she got up to let him in, he watched her swift, confident stride and swirling skirt.

  Casey’s usual view of Councilor Brill was from behind his media desk. From there, she appeared to be attractive. But close up, Angela Brill wasn’t merely attractive—she was beautiful. Classic features, straight, fine blond hair to below the shoulders. Hazel eyes and a peaches-and-cream complexion. All packaged alluringly in a gray skirt, white shirt and black heels. Tiny invisible motes of expensive perfume circled about her.

  “Come in and take a seat,” she said, smiling at Casey and indicating the city clerk’s empty chair.

  He sat. Her ring finger was bare, he noticed.

  She occupied the council secretary’s seat, moving her chair so she could look him in the eye.

  “Thanks for seeing me,” Casey said.

  Luminous smile. “It’s a pleasure. I always read your ‘Up and About’ pieces in the Clarion, Sebastian—may I call you that?”

  “Everyone calls me Casey. You, too, are entertaining. I watch and listen to you at council meetings. I enjoyed your remarks on the topic of homeless chickens. I also admired your research on the Olympic Village financial fiasco. And your speech about the rights of the Falun Gong people to continue their protest in their little shack outside the Chinese embassy. It was spot-on, I thought.”

  “Thank you, Casey.” Brill leaned back in her chair, fingertips together, eyebrows raised, waiting for him to start.

  She was
a cool customer, he could see that. Perfect control. He wasn’t about to win her with flattery.

  “So, Casey?” she said after a while. She crinkled her eyes at him in a friendly manner.

  “George Hamilton Nash,” Casey said. “I’m investigating his recent death. I wonder if you can—”

  “But isn’t that the job of the police?”

  “It is. But the police need all the help they can get, don’t you think? Investigative journalism can sometimes play a small part in helping bring criminals to justice.”

  Her luminous smile had disappeared. “Criminals? But Councilor Nash committed suicide.”

  “You haven’t heard? The police have upped it a notch. To homicide.”

  She said nothing, but for a brief instant something happened in her eyes. Casey caught a sense of her pulling back, losing a thin slice of that perfect control.

  “You must have seen quite a lot of Councilor Nash,” Casey said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Sorry. Clumsy of me. I meant you must have seen him many times. At council meetings here in this chamber, and in and around the offices. Two councilors working together, so to speak.”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you ever see Councilor Nash at other times?” Casey said.

  “I don’t know what you’re suggesting, but the answer is no. We were, however, good friends. We often discussed council matters together over coffee or lunch.”

  “Do you know, Ms. Brill, if Nash was well liked by the other council members and city-hall staff ? Did he have any enemies, to your knowledge?”

  “None as far as I know,” Brill said.

  “That’s all?” Casey said.

  “What do you mean?” Brill said, frowning.

  “Can you think of anyone who would want him dead?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ever call Councilor Brill at his home?”

  “I can’t recall…”

  “Using the name Cally?”

  Brill blushed. “It’s short for Calista, my middle name. Friends call me Cally. I occasionally called him at home, yes. But only if there was something important on my mind regarding council business.”

  “You had no relationship outside of council business?” Casey said.

  “Not at all. Councilor Nash was a married man.”

  “Do you remember what you were doing on the evening of May twenty-third?”

  “Is that when he died? You’re asking if I have an alibi? Well, no, I don’t. I was probably at home, writing as usual. Either that or I was washing and ironing. I don’t remember.”

  “Writing?”

  “Yes. I write books for young people.”

  “Children?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Do you have children of your own?”

  “None. I’m not married.”

  “Thanks, Ms. Brill. You have been helpful. If you think of anything, please give me a call.” He left his card on her desk. “I’ll find my way out.”

  He hadn’t learned much about George Nash’s death.

  But he had learned a little about Ms. Angela Calista Brill, also known as Cally.

  Casey got back to the office as Ozeroff was about to leave for the day.

  “What is she like, this Cally Brill lady?” Ozeroff said. “She look like a murderer?”

  “Not a bit. She’s a good-looker and she’s smart. Also, she’s really…” He thought for a moment. “She’s really very nice.”

  “Then she’s a murderer for sure,” Ozeroff said.

  13

  The next day at Hegel’s Bagels on Denman Street, Casey, Ozeroff and Simmons occupied a table near the window.

  Casey looked out at the late-spring sunshine and the huge splashes of color in Morton Park. Rhododendrons, flowering dogwoods, azaleas. Laughing bronze giants. Beyond the borders full of colorful flowers lay English Bay’s sandy beach and glittering green ocean. Beyond the ocean, white-topped mountains reached up to a clear blue sky. Vancouver at its best.

  Their editor almost never lunched with them. But today there was much to discuss. Simmons had wanted a meeting in his office, but a hungry Ozeroff insisted he come along with them to Hegel’s. He could have his meeting there, she told him. “It will do you good, Percy, to see how your serfs are forced to subsist on the cheapest and most basic of foods.”

  Now the only topic left to discuss was the Nash murder.

  “So anything new?” Simmons asked Casey.

  “The killer could be Councilor Angela Brill,” Casey said quietly. “Or it could be Nash’s partner Joanne Drummond.”

  “You have any evidence?” Simmons said.

  “Joanne Drummond definitely had a motive. I think Nash discovered she was cheating their clients. Maybe even running a Ponzi scheme. He probably threatened to go to the police. So she shut him up with the help of a butcher knife.”

  “What about Brill?” Simmons said.

  “Many calls to Nash at home,” Casey said. “Could’ve been his mistress. I’m pretty sure he had a mistress at city hall. Brill might be a good candidate. Then he started sleeping with Pauline Parker, his new secretary. I think Brill or somebody found out. And had her revenge by killing him. I haven’t a shred of proof for any of this, of course.”

  “Theories are not evidence,” Simmons said. “What do the police think?”

  “I’ve no idea what the police think,” Casey said.

  Simmons said, “Look, Casey, it’s our job to report the news, not make it. I don’t want you wasting any more time on George Nash.” He stood. “I’m out of here. Leave police work to the police, okay?”

  Where had he heard that before?

  Simmons left.

  “Your theories about those two women,” Ozeroff said. “They would have to be mental cases for sure.”

  “For sure,” Casey said.

  “Just dropped in to give you a heads up, Frank.”

  DI Plank looked up from his desk. “Big of you, Casey. Like what?”

  “Couple of things on the Nash case. His business partner, Joanne Drummond. She’s been spending a lot of money this past year or so.”

  “We’re already on to her, Casey. New home, BMW, holiday cottage. A forensic audit is under way off the record, by the way.”

  “You think she’s the one?”

  “Too soon to say.”

  “Okay, then get this,” Casey said. “Councilor Angela Brill’s middle name is Calista, Cally for short. According to Moira, Nash’s wife, a city-hall woman by the name of Cally often called George Nash at his home. Good-looking woman. Looks to me like Brill could be Nash’s mistress. But then Nash started bonking his new secretary. A young cutie named Pauline Parker. Brill found out. In a jealous rage Brill killed Nash and tried to make it look like a suicide.”

  “Makes a good story, but it’s all circumstantial,” Plank said. “Have you got one solid piece of evidence?”

  “Not really.”

  Plank sighed. “Casey, why don’t you just leave the—”

  “Yes, I know, Frank. Leave the police work to the police.”

  The next afternoon Casey found himself close to Broughton Street. He decided to call Pauline Parker, George Nash’s former secretary.

  “I’d like to drop by, if that’s okay.”

  “Casey! How lovely. I could use a little cheering up. More questions?”

  “A couple.”

  “How soon can you be here?”

  “See you in fifteen.”

  “Perfect. Gives me time to make fresh coffee.”

  He buzzed her apartment and she let him in.

  He handed her a bag. “I picked up some cookies—biscuits.”

  “Most thoughtful of you. Thanks, Casey.” She looked in the bag. “Arrowroots! Lovely.”

  He made himself comfortable in the same chair as before.

  Parker brought the coffee and biscuits. They sipped and crunched quietly.

  Today she was wearing a tracksuit, which covered up her
curves, and nothing on her pale and elegant feet.

  “You ever have anything much to do with Councilor Angela Brill when you were working for Nash?”

  Parker smiled. “Councilor Brill? That’s the glamorous blond. She was around quite a bit—in and out of Nash’s office—but she never said anything to me. Seemed okay.”

  “When she went into his office, did they close the door?”

  “I don’t think so. Usually it was ajar. I could listen to them if I wanted.”

  “Did you listen?” Casey said.

  “Sometimes. But they were just yakking about boring council stuff.”

  “Are you sure? Is there a possibility they were having an affair?”

  Parker shrugged and reached for an arrowroot. “Looked perfectly proper to me.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure.”

  They sat in silence for a while, Casey digesting what Parker had said.

  Then Parker said, “That’s it? No more questions?”

  “No more questions.”

  “You think someone at city hall is the murderer, right?”

  “It’s possible,” Casey said. “How’s the job hunt going?”

  Parker pulled a face. “There’re only service jobs out there. Minimum wage. I think I might go back to the UK. There’ll be lots going on with the Olympics. I like Vancouver though. I’d stay if I could.”

  “Something will turn up,” Casey said.

  They chatted more about jobs.

  Finally, Casey stood. “I should be on my way. Thanks again for the coffee.”

  “Good of you to bring the bickies. Keep in touch.”

  14

  Thursday morning. Casey sat with a coffee in the city hall coffee shop and skimmed the pages of the Vancouver Sun.

  Margaret Mullen swished in and joined him at his table with a smile. “Good morning, Casey. Okay if I join you?”

  She looked fresh and smart in a cream blouse, flowered skirt, silver hoop earrings and black pumps with silver buckles. A faint aroma of freesias surrounded her.

  “Hello, Maggie,” Casey said. He folded the newspaper and put it aside. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “Been busy,” she said. She headed over to the counter and placed her order. Casey watched her, admiring her slim, athletic build. She returned with her green tea.