by John Mackie
I noticed Ted had stopped with the sighs and was paying attention now. Put “$18 million” and “high priced escorts” in a story, and you would definitely get my brother’s attention.
“Did they say his wife owns the company?”
“Biggest shareholder.”
“Guy’s got a massive set, huh? Using company money to pay for hookers when his wife owns the place?”
I nodded in agreement. The on-screen image shifted from the news anchor to an image of the courtroom steps, with Legenko and his counsel surrounded by a wall of microphones and screaming reporters. Legenko looked like he was going to be sick, his stock brazen glare replaced by a deer-in-the-headlights look. His counsel was a decidedly unattractive man, comb-over blowing in the wind, bulging eyes and a sneer of a mouth. At his other side stood Legenko’s wife, a statuesque brunette who had modeled for several years before using her fame and fortune to establish a global real estate development conglomerate. The rest of the small entourage was made up of a tall crew cut fellow with “security” written all over him, a female lawyer dragging a massive briefcase on a trolley, and one guy who looked a little out of place.
“That’s his wife? Maybe she’ll need some company when hubby’s in jail.”
“Hmph.” She was hot. But something else had caught my eye.
“What the... ?” I squinted at the screen and pointed. “That’s the idiot that robbed us!”
“What?” Ted had a goofy grin on his face, but it disappeared pretty fast when he saw I wasn’t laughing. “Which guy?”
“That guy!” I stumbled over the side table and stabbed at the image on the screen. Up close I could see it was him, same massive frame, same jacket, same greasy hair, same broken nose. He stood to Legenko’s left, just behind the security guy. A lit cigarette dangled from his lip.
“Legenko faces eight counts of fraud, money-laundering, tax evasion and obstruction of justice. If convicted, he could serve the rest of his life in jail.”
Ted lumbered forward to stand by my side. “You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
The image switched back to Mr. Anchor, who now moved on with a story about a school shooting in Nebraska.
I punched the Power switch with my knuckle, and took a long, slow breath. It was Kuzmenko. I was ‘they have weapons of mass destruction’ positive. But what the hell was he doing with a high-profile corporate executive? I would have picked the guy for a street hoodlum at best, maybe a low level bookie or dealer. Why would Maxim Legenko keep company with a piece of dog dooky like him? Legenko hung out in Yorkville, even spent a month every winter in Nevis. Guys like him did not consort with punks. It just didn’t happen.
“Here he is again.”
I turned to the TV, but it was still off. Then I realized Ted was sitting in front of the computer. And yes indeed, there was Kuzmenko again, in a photo from Legenko’s arraignment. No question about it. It was like GE’s Jack Welch had chosen to hang around with Paris Hilton, or one of the morons from Jersey Shore. The accompanying article said nothing new, but a sidebar link caught my eye. I pointed to it, and Ted clicked through.
LEGENKO WITNESS FEARS FOR LIFE
Toronto - A Crown witness in the trial involving Ruscan Industries’ CEO Maxim Legenko now fears for his life because he is being forced to testify.
Andrew Simpson-Doig, former Chief Financial Officer of Timber Circle LC, a UK-based subsidiary of Ruscan Industries, was responding to a subpoena that compels him to testify next week at Legenko’s trial for corporate fraud.
“They may as well just kill me now,” Simpson-Doig told the media after a hearing before Justice Helen Richauer in which the court denied a request that the subpoena be quashed. Defence lawyer Alec Lawson argued that the lives of Simpson-Doig and a second unnamed witness are in jeopardy.
Certain recent events raise serious questions. The death of banker Marcel Papineau in April of this year marks the second death of an individual associated with the Legenko trial since the scandal was first discovered. Papineau, who had close ties to the Ruscan organization and was rumored to be a possible Crown witness, committed suicide in his Sedona, Arizona condominium nearly five weeks ago.
“These are extraordinarily powerful people we are dealing with here,” Lawson told reporters outside court. “We believe the Crown has significantly underestimated the lengths to which they will go in order to avoid a conviction.”
In addition to the testimony of Simpson-Doig and one other unnamed Ruscan Industries witness, the Crown has an abundance of evidence, including banking records, wiretaps, footage from security cameras and the testimony of other witnesses, said Crown Prosecutor Barbara Moodie. She also pointed out that both witnesses had been offered the opportunity to enter the federal Witness Protection Program, but declined, citing an unwillingness to relocate or to abide by restrictions regarding travel.
Approximately 25% of witnesses decline protection offers, according to RCMP statistics. Simpson-Doig’s lawyer indicated they have made private arrangements for lodging at an undisclosed location during the trial.
“What’re you thinking?”
I wasn’t thinking anything yet. But something told me I had found a loose thread worth pulling at.
Two hours later I had managed to put my thoughts of Niki Kuzmenko aside. I was aimlessly surfing the Net, letting StumbleUpon guide me from cat photos to celebrity scandals.
When the phone rang, Ted crossed the room like a track star, hurdling the coffee table in one bound. I snorted. It was very easy to forget Ted was athletic. God knows, based on beer consumption and hours prone on the sofa, there was good reason to assume otherwise.
Phone in hand, Ted winked at me before answering it. He punched a button and tried out his latest spoof.
“Candy Condom. Try our newest flavor – big banana.”
He grinned at me like an idiot, but then the corners of his mouth sagged, like a balloon losing air.
“Hi. Where are you calling from? I didn’t recognize the number. What? Oh, sorry about that, had the TV on too loud.” He dropped onto the sofa, continuing to deflate. “It wasn’t me. It was some stupid sitcom. How was I to—.”
I could hear her from where I sat, and Ted was so far up shit creek it had opened into a lake.
After a five minute lecture on decorum and the family name, Ted claimed he needed to get some air. He reappeared half an hour later, having apparently detoured to pick up a couple of donuts and a large coffee.
Halfway to the sofa he paused, then erupted with a loud sneeze that shook the building foundations.
“Jeez, would you keep it down?”
“Sorry for living. Not my fault I— AAAASCHOOOO!”
He grabbed a box of Kleenex from the coffee table. I could see that his eyes were red, and his nose was leaking like a New Orleans levee.
“You got a cold or something?”
“Cold? No. AAAASCHOOOOO! Man. I must have caught something at the rink.”
I stretched out on the sofa, leery of catching whatever virus he had attracted. Ted was forced to plop down in the armchair, a sneezing, nose-dripping mess.
“I was thinking about this new job of yours. Let’s see... Your boss has a heart attack on your first day of work, and you were robbed at gunpoint by some goon who hangs around with the rich and powerful. You just don’t pay attention to hints, do you?”
I tried to ignore Ted’s usual enthusiasm.
“Clay’s a good guy. This could work out real well.”
“Are you forgetting who got you this job?”
So true. My number one concern about Arcane was the fact that my mother was close to Clay and Harper. In fact, she had spent more time talking to Clay in the week prior to my first day than I had.
“Did you even check this guy out?”
Sure I had. I was going into partnership with the guy. But I could tell Ted wasn’t going to let this go. For him, the Internet was the root source of valid information worldwide
, never mind that the latest hot stock tip came from a pizza delivery guy in Winnipeg, typing a blog in his basement. In his underwear.
So I decided to humor the idiot.
I moved over to the desk, pulled up a browser, typed in “Arcane Transport” and hit return. Up popped the results – 1 of 10 of about 117. Not much, but at least someone had heard of them. Fact was, I knew Clay had no real presence on-line – it was one of my priorities for the coming months.
At that moment a chunk of greasy pastry dropped onto the keyboard.
“Watch the crumbs, man.”
Ted stood behind me, watching over my shoulder and munching a croissant. I tried to pry the flakes from between the U and the Y, but only managed to work them further into the bowels of the keyboard.
“Put it in your mouth, fathead.”
“There’s the website. Second one down.”
I double-clicked and the screen faded away, morphing into a black page with the name “Arcane Transport”, the company logo, address, phone number and the words “Premium Courier for Unusual Goods. Est. 1975.”
“Click on the name.”
“Nah. That’s all they’ve got – just the introduction screen.”
“Kinda sucks.”
Another clump of croissant fell, this time right down the back of my shirt. It felt like a moist lump of butter had dropped smack between my shoulder blades.
“Would you bug off!”
“Jeez. Lighten up.”
“Just eat the goddamned thing. Don’t spray it on me, don’t drop it on the keyboard, don’t leave crumbs all over the floor. Got it?”
He mumbled. “Sorry for living.”
I hit the back button, then tried the first item on the list. This one was a chat thread. A local forum, chatcentral.ca. The thread was Occult – Shopping.
“What’s this?” Ted leaned in to give it a read.
Anyone know of a reliable delivery service in town? I just sold a double-headed axe to a guy in Oshawa, but he wants it tomorrow and I don’t have a car.
Mitch (Fantasy Blades)
Hey Mitch. You might try Arcane Transport. They’re in the phone book. Very dependable. Is it an enchanted blade, or for simple rituals?
Azure Helen
I modeled it after one of the axes used by the dwarf in Lord of the Rings. It’s got a great leather grip.
Mitch
Might want to try FedEx.
AH.
“What’s that all about?”
Ted must have been finished with the croissant, since his question wasn’t accompanied by a rain of pastry crumbs.
“Haven’t figured it out yet?”
I checked three other websites, all of them standard phone-book type listings. The next site was for a bookstore, Northern Sanctuary. Clay and I had picked up a package from them on Monday. The shipping link said “All deliveries through Arcane Transport – Premium Courier for Unusual Goods.”
Then I flipped to their home page. Northern Sanctuary, your source for books on the occult. There were links for black magick, Celtic magick, druidic magick, sex magick, and so on. I had no idea why they spelled magic with a k, though I was already a supporter of their store, since I am a firm believer in the magical properties of sex.
“Okaaaaay. Donnie’s working for the Hogwarts FedEx. With a bunch of loonies.”
I nodded my head, saying nothing. God knows, Ted could well be right. Either way, I resolved to do some reading about the occult, if for no other reason than to be able to understand Arcane’s customers. In the meanwhile, I was going to do some thinking about Niki the Bull, and his friend Maxim Legenko. Something told me our paths would cross again very soon.
CHAPTER 6
I didn’t have much of a chance to consider the relationship between Maxim Legenko and Niki the Bull during my next two days on the job. Wednesday was “drive like hell” day. And on Thursday, I didn’t even make it out of the office before trouble showed up.
Kara paged me as I was stocking the van with the morning deliveries.
“Donnie, there are some visitors at Reception for you.”
The tone in her voice told me that something was up, so I grabbed the phone off the wall and buzzed her.
“Hey, it’s me. What’s up?”
“The guys from BOA are here.”
“Who?”
“Sure. I’ll ask them to take a seat in the conference room.”
The line went dead, and I stared at it. Something was going on. BOA? Where had I heard that before?
A moment later, Kara stood in front of me.
“Who are these guys?”
“BOA. Bureau for Occult Activities. Kind of a cross between Neighborhood Watch and the Guardian Angels. Volunteer police force for the paranormal community.”
“OK, and they’re here because... ?”
“No idea. But they can be a pushy bunch, so I thought you should be warned.”
“Thanks. How did Clay get along with them?”
“Well, he didn’t like them and I think they knew it, but he cooperated with them. Clay felt they could be of some use from time to time.”
“Well, let’s go see what’s on their minds. Uh, one thing—.”
She smiled, bringing out the matching dimples in her cheeks. I felt a ridiculous grin cross my own face, like some love-sick teen.
“I’ll give them ten minutes, max, then I’ll interrupt and say you have to deal with an emergency.”
“Thanks.”
I grabbed a few of my business cards, then followed Kara out to the front. I tried not to focus on the sway of her backside.
She introduced me to two members of BOA, a wiry fellow by the name of Switzer, and a stern looking woman named Candice.
The three of us took seats in the conference room, Kara placing several bottles of chilled water on the table. I nodded at her, exchanging a glance, and she closed the door as she left the room.
“So, how can I help you folks?”
“Mr.—,” Spitzer glanced at my newly minted card. “Elder. Thanks for meeting with us.”
I nodded, waiting to hear what was on their minds.
“OK. Has anyone told you about our group, or our activities?”
“Not really, no.”
Switzer launched into a rehearsed script. “BOA was formed in 1927 by a bookstore owner in San Francisco. At the time, it was like Neighborhood Watch. Community members working together. Over time it evolved into what it is now – a volunteer organization that patrols communities to ensure that any activities involving the use of magic are monitored. Where we consider someone’s activities to be a threat to the Paranormal community as a whole, we step in.”
“How do you do that?”
“Think of it like a citizen’s arrest.”
“So you’ve expanded from San Francisco to Toronto?”
“And New York, Chicago, London, Paris, Tokyo, Shanghai. We also have new offices in Las Vegas and Orlando, Florida.”
The last one made sense. Need to ensure that Mickey and Goofy aren’t calling on the forces of evil.
“All of you wear the same uniform?” I nodded at their outfits – grey and white camo anoraks, black military-style pants (the ones with countless pockets in weird places), and black combat boots.
“Yup. With the BOA crest on the armband or chest pocket.”
OK. I had a feeling Mr. Spitzer here had earned his Master Geek Merit Badge to go with that BOA crest.
“So.” One more time, I thought. “How can I help you folks?”
“Well,” Spitzer’s colleague flipped through her note pad. “We had a report that on Monday evening a package containing a Class 2 Restricted device was taken from your possession at 150 King Street West in Toronto. Is that correct?”
“Not sure what you mean by a Class 2 device, but yes, Clay Jarvis and I were mugged on Monday night. How did you know that?”
She ignored me, continuing to look down at her notes.
“We unders
tand no report was filed with the Mundane authorities.”
“Presuming that means the cops, that is correct.”
“Your colleague Mr. Jarvis was injured in the attack?”
“He had a heart attack.” I paused, but there was no reaction. “He’s resting and it looks like he’ll be OK.”
That got her to lift her head for a moment. Then she went right back to the notebook.
“This device was collected from the offices of Sun Consulting just a few moments earlier?”
I mulled that over for a moment.
“I can’t comment on that. The identity of our customers and any information relating to them is confidential.”
That seemed to catch Spitzer’s attention, and he turned from the window to face me.
“This was a violent crime, Mr. Elder. The sort of thing that might result in someone being killed next time around. Are you saying that you’re unwilling to help us investigate this matter?”
I took a deep breath, leaning back in my chair. This had turned confrontational awfully quickly.
“No. But I would hazard a guess that we have never given that type of information to you in the past, and I don’t intend to start now. If you want me to describe the mugger, I am happy to do so. He even gave me his name. But any details regarding our customers or their businesses are off limits.”
Spitzer shifted forward, resting his hands on the table and leaning towards me, apparently intent on building the drama.
“It doesn’t concern you that a Class 2 Restricted device was stolen from your possession, and someone could right now be using it to devastating consequences in our city?”
“If I knew what a Class 2 Restricted device was, it might.”
I held his stare, willing to bet there was no such thing as a Class 2 Restricted device. And Switzer’s “devastating consequences” comment was at serious odds to Helen Findlay’s description. These BOA guys had probably been stonewalled by Clay in the past and were hoping to slide one by the new guy.
“Class 2 is a magical device or talisman. Class 1 mixing agent, Class 3 spell – we can get you a copy of the classifications if you like. Each Class is categorized Inert, Non-restricted, Restricted and Prohibited. Restricted means that you are required to advise us in the event the device is lost or stolen.”