Читать книгу Victim of Convenience - John Ballem - Страница 10

As he often did, Chris took a little detour so he could walk along the Stephen Avenue Mall on his way back to headquarters. Office workers lingered over lunch on outdoor patios or sat on benches basking in the sun, while a band entertained the noonday crowd with twangy country music. A Native Canadian, wearing a chief's head-dress, sold dream catchers from a makeshift booth; an amateur comedian drew groans from his audience as his jokes fell flat; and buskers, a modest harvest of coins glinting in the instrument cases open at their feet, strummed guitars and played accordions and violins. As he walked past, Chris checked out at the entrance to Scotia Centre, hoping to see Joan Cunningham. But there was no sign of the disabled panhandler with her mobile platform and pet cockatiel. Every few blocks a street person sorted through the contents of a garbage bin. A late spring sun shone down on the lively scene.

Dummett put down the magazine he had been leafing through when he saw Chris emerge from the elevator and walk across the lobby toward him. His manner was easy and relaxed as he held out his hand and said, "You and I have never met formally, but I guess we know each other."

"We do," replied Chris as they shook hands. The journalist topped Chris's five-foot-eleven by a lanky two or three inches. He smiled when Chris added, "I make a point of reading your material whenever I come across it."

Chris recalled Gwen, back in their Crime Scene days, once remarking that a couple of the girls in the office thought Dummett was hot. Chris could see how that might be. Dark hair, parted in the middle, fell over a high forehead; the face was long with prominent cheekbones and a strong jaw line. An engaging smile lightened what otherwise would have been a severe countenance. Chris found himself warming to the guy.

Picking up a slim leather briefcase, the journalist followed Chris over to the elevators. Chris had decided to hold the meeting on the tenth floor with the idea that being in close proximity to the Homicide section might make Dummett more willing to co-operate.

"Will Ken be joining us?" Dummett asked as he placed his briefcase on the table that, together with four straight-backed chairs, comprised the furnishings of the small interview room.

"I didn't think that was necessary. But I can ask him to join us if you like."

"No. It's just that he was the one who called me. But it's entirely up to you, Detective."

"Chris, please."

"Great. And Phil for me." Once again that easy smile. "Okay, Chris, it's your dime. What can I do for you?"

"I hope it's more what we can do for each other." Chris paused, and continued when Dummett gave an encouraging nod. "As you know, I'm the lead investigator in the serial killer case. I'm sure you're also aware that the investigation is pretty much stymied at the moment."

Again Dummett nodded and waited for Chris to continue.

Clearing his throat, Chris said, "That's where you come in, Phil. It's our hope—my hope, actually—that you might write something that would goad the killer into some kind of a reaction. Make him do something that would provide us with a clue." Chris paused to look at his visitor. "Is this something that you could be comfortable with, Phil?"

Dummett returned the look with a grave stare of his own. "Depends. Is what you want me to write kosher? Authentic. Not something that can come back to discredit me as a journalist?"

"Absolutely. I am your source. I will have to remain anonymous for obvious reasons. But what I will tell you is legitimate. As well as being newsworthy."

"And what is it I have to do in return for this information?"

"Release it to the public."

"Fair enough." Dummett opened his briefcase. "Can I tape it? I guess not," he sighed when Chris shook his head. "Okay. I'm listening."

Chris drew a deep breath. "You will write that you have reliable information that the police do not believe the Vinney killing is the work of the serial killer known as TLC."

Dummett absorbed this in silence for a moment, then murmured, "It's newsworthy all right. Not to mention sensational." Another pause, then a frown. "Why don't the police come right out and say that? ... Of course. You can't make it official. It has to be a rumour. A leak. Stupid me."

"Not stupid. But you understand why it has to be done this way?"

"Completely. And thank you for playing straight with me. I appreciate that."

"How will you get the word out?"

"It'll be on the wire. Which means I've got work to do." Making no effort to hide his excitement, Dummett got to his feet. "This is bound to get under TLC's skin. Either way. If he killed that lawyer, he'll want the credit. If he didn't, he'll be worried about what the police know that he doesn't. I like it!"

"I'm glad. Here is my card with my cellphone number. Could I have yours?"

"Absolutely. Here you are."

At precisely 6:28 the following morning Chris stationed himself behind the front door of the penthouse. He waited for a couple minutes after hearing the soft thud of the papers landing on the doormat to give the concierge time to get back on the elevator, then opened the door and scooped up the newspapers.

The story, with Phil Dummett's byline, was the same in all four papers; only the headlines differed. Variations on the same theme: "Police Search for Second Killer"; "Is There More Than One Killer?"

Dummett had certainly carried out his end of the bargain. Now to see if it stirred up any response from TLC.

There was nothing he could do about that. It would either happen or it wouldn't. Next on the agenda was to interview some of Vinney's colleagues at the law firm. Patterson was out of the office at a crime scene so there was no chance to talk to him about the meeting with Dummett. But the other detectives—with the exception of Mason, who remained at his desk—crowded around Chris, pummelling him with questions. When the excitement died away and they went back to their desks, he turned to Gwen. "What have you arranged with the McKinley people?"

"We start with Jeff Ingram. He was Vinney's junior. You're to see him at ten-thirty."

"Her junior is a good place to start," Chris said approvingly. "I want you to come with me, Gwen. See how her associates come across."

"Sure. And one of the senior partners, a Mr. Pettigrew, wants to meet with whoever is in charge of the investigation."

"I'll be happy to oblige him. After we've heard what this Jeff Ingram has to say. Meanwhile, you can fill me in on what we know about Mr. Ingram."

"Not an awful lot," Gwen began. "So far ..."

"I understand you worked very closely with Ms. Vinney?" Chris posed it as a question, but it came out as a statement of fact.

"She was my mentor," Jeff Ingram replied in a hollow voice, gazing solemnly at the two detectives. The look on his pudgy, soft-chinned face reflected his sense of loss. Ingram was showing more signs of grief than the others Chris had interviewed, including Scott Millard. But there was something else besides grief. The eyes, heavy lidded and of indeterminate colour, were alert and watchful behind round, metal-rimmed glasses. Probably afraid of saying something that would get him in trouble with the partners. This was borne out by his reaction when Chris asked about the files he and Adrienne had been working on recently.

"I can't answer that. Solicitor-client privilege." The reply was rehearsed, either by himself or on instructions from the firm. Ingram clearly intended to avoid saying anything that might jeopardize his career.

"We have ways of finding out, you know," said Chris with a meaningful glance at Gwen.

"I realize that. It would be better if you found out that way."

Chris shrugged. "I'm sure Mr. Pettigrew will tell us when we see him."

"If Mr. Pettigrew gives the okay, I'll be happy to tell you everything I know about the files." Ingram smiled his relief. "I don't see how that will help your investigation, though."

Chris let that pass. "What about her life outside the office? Can you tell us anything about that? Anyone she was involved with? Anyone who might have had it in for her?"

"I know nothing about that part of her life. Absolutely nothing. We never spoke of anything besides work. There was no need to."

"Adrienne's dance card was always full." Morris Pettigrew's smile was reminiscent, tinged with sadness. "She will be sorely missed, not only for the files she generated but also for her work ethic. She set a wonderful example. For all of us."

"That's what we would like to talk about. Her files." Chris and Gwen were perched rather uncomfortably on the edge of a padded black leather sofa in Pettigrew's spacious office. The portly lawyer remained behind his desk, the size of a drilling platform, its polished surface completely bare except for a computer terminal.

"That's what I hear."

Chris wondered how Pettigrew had heard that, but he let it pass. The legal grapevine at work, undoubtedly. Pettigrew was saying, "I thought we were dealing with a serial killer. The notorious TLC. What a cruel joke those initials are!" The senior partner shook his head. "His, ah, ‘activities' have been in the headlines for months. He seems to be leading the police on a merry chase, I must say," he added, a glint of malice in his eyes, deeply set in pouches of flesh. "You'll forgive me, but I can't help feeling that if you had managed to catch the killer, my brilliant partner would be alive."

And billing up a storm, Chris thought sardonically. Aloud, he said, "The evidence does seem to point to a serial killer, but we have to explore every avenue. We would be remiss otherwise."

"I understand. So you want to know about the files she was working on?" Pettigrew swiveled his chair around to face the computer and clicked on the mouse. "There they are. Only five, as you can see. But big. Very big."

Gwen made a note of the names while Chris walked over to the desk and peered at the screen. Not surprisingly, they were all oil companies. This was Calgary, after all. "Can you tell us something about them?" he asked.

"Certainly. Ensign Petroleums is engaged in merger negotiations with another company. The next one, Premium Resources, is fighting off a hostile takeover bid. Madison Energy is about to come out with a new share issue; an oil sands consortium is selling its interest to China's national oil company; and Pegasus Energy is folding natural gas properties into an income trust. As I said, she had a full dance card. Fortunately, we have adequate bench strength in the department to take over."

"Energy trusts are really dominating the stock market these days."

"And they will continue to do so. It's a way for a company to realize on its assets and make them available for distribution to the unit holders."

"It also means those funds are no longer available to explore for oil and gas."

"True. The industry is maturing. There's no doubt about that." Pettigrew shot Chris a speculative glance, as though somewhat surprised by his comment. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he smiled. "You're the lawyer, aren't you? I missed the connection at first. I've heard of you."

Still looking at the computer screen, Chris said, "The Madison share issue should be well received by the market. Their shares have been hot ever since the Lost Horse field came on stream."

If Chris hadn't been standing so close to Pettigrew he would have missed the sharp intake of his breath. Without moving his head, he shot a quick downward glance at the seated lawyer. A nerve jumped in Pettigrew's flushed cheek, twisting his lips in an involuntary grimace.

"Something wrong?"

"No, no. I was just thinking that I will have to take on that file myself. We have already lost a couple of days."

It was more than that. Things could change rapidly in the oil patch. Fortunes made and lost overnight. Madison Energy could stand a little close examination. Although it was hard to see what connection it could have to the Vinney woman's murder. Chris mentally congratulated himself that there were no Madison shares in his portfolio. He had thought of buying some when the news of the Lost Horse discovery first broke, but the share price had risen so quickly that he figured the potential for profit had been squeezed out of it already.

A few months later he'd had another chance to invest in Madison. Jack Adams, his main stockbroker, had contacted him, recommending an issue of Madison flow-through shares. With flow-through shares, a company that already had sufficient credits to offset its taxes renounced the tax deductions earned by exploring for oil and gas in favour of the shareholder. Chris could have used the tax credits but was put off by the year's hold on selling the shares. Many companies required the owner of this class of shares to hold them for a certain period of time before they could be sold. A lot of things could happen to an oil company in the space of a year, good or bad. A few weeks later, Chris had been able to acquire flow-through shares in another oil company that did not impose a mandatory hold period.

"This share issue that Madison is making. What can you tell us about it?"

Pettigrew seemed surprised by the question, and something else—uncomfortable? "It's a normal course issue to raise twenty million dollars of new equity to fund the company's ongoing operations. Routine, really. It's received all necessary regulatory approvals."

"So it's a done deal?"

"Yes. For all practical purposes. Twenty million is not what you would call a big deal. Quite modest, in fact. By way of comparison, the Pegasus Energy Trust, which Adrienne was also handling, involves over five hundred million."

He was being steered away from Madison. Why? More to watch Pettigrew's reaction than anything else, Chris asked, "I know about Lost Horse, of course. Everybody in the oil patch does. Does Madison have any other oil and gas production?"

"Not to speak of. A few odds and ends. Minor working interests in some pretty marginal fields. But they've just acquired some Crown acreage up in the Peace River Arch. That's what the twenty million is for. To explore the potential of their Peace River play."

"That's still in the initial stages, I take it. Have they shot seismic over the lands?"

"Not yet. That's next on their agenda. Three-D seismic. They're very bullish on the play. They keep talking about a granite wash, whatever that means. It's beyond a simple lawyer like me."

It might have been beyond Pettigrew, which Chris rather doubted, but it wasn't beyond him. Back in the Devonian geologic age, more than 300 million years ago, huge upthrust blocks of granite were exposed to the surface. They were split, cracked, and fractured by the forces of erosion, and the pieces were washed down the mountainsides by water, hence the name granite wash. Over eons the broken shards were overlaid with other formations and were—what was the word?—lithified into stone; with their cracks and fissures they made excellent reservoir rock to trap petroleum as it migrated to the surface. But all he said was, "That's good to hear. With the revenue generated by their production from Lost Horse, plus twenty million in new money, they won't have to go looking for partners to work up their Peace River play."

"That's right." Pettigrew's response was restrained.

Knowing it was out of line, but wanting to probe further, Chris asked, "Should I pick up some of this new issue?"

"C'mon, Detective. You know perfectly well I can't answer that."

"Sorry. I guess I got carried away. Okay, let me ask you about Ms. Vinney's social life. Outside the office."

"I doubt if she had one. We're all pretty dedicated to our work in this shop, but none of us could keep up with her. You wouldn't believe the hours she put in." Visibly more at ease, Pettigrew added, "I thought this tragedy was the work of that serial killer. A random act, if you will. I do know that one of her extracurricular activities was running. Unlike some of us"—this with a rueful glance down at his own too-generous waistline—"she was very fit. Isn't it likely that her killer saw her when she was out for a run and pounced?"

"Her body was found in Edworthy Park, and she lived in Eau Claire. Not exactly walking distance."

"She could have driven to the park. Maybe she wanted to run there for a change. I'm told it's quite scenic."

"Her Mercedes was still in the underground parkade of her condo building."

"That puts paid to that doesn't it? Was she dressed for running when she was found? Shorts, running shoes, that sort of thing?"

"I'm afraid we can't divulge that information just yet. You understand."

"Of course." Pettigrew shot back the French cuff of his striped shirt to look at his watch. "If that's all, I'm due to meet a client for lunch at the Ranchmen's Club. Running a bit late as it is."

Chris looked at Gwen and nodded. She closed her notebook and they both stood up. Handing the lawyer his card, Chris said, "You can reach me there if anything occurs to you. One more thing," he added. "Would you have a word with Mr. Ingram and tell him it's all right to talk freely to us? At the moment, he's hung up on solicitor-client privilege."

"As he should be. I'll speak to him, but you must realize that solicitor-client confidentiality is a cornerstone of the legal profession. It's not something to be lightly put aside."

"I appreciate that. Just as I want you and Mr. Ingram to appreciate that this is a murder case."

"You can be sure that Pettigrew's instructions to his junior will be very carefully worded," Chris remarked to Gwen as they rode the elevator down to the ground floor.

"They don't have to talk to us if they don't want to," Gwen replied as the doors slid open and they stepped out.

"Nobody does," Chris replied. "Well, you've seen the distinguished Mr. Pettigrew in action. What do you think?"

"He's concerned about something. That's obvious. But it may have nothing to do with the murder."

"You could well be right," Chris agreed gloomily. "For that matter, the fact that the cross is on the right hand instead of the left may not mean anything either. A cross is still a cross, as Steve would have it."

"There's still the matter of the breast implants," Gwen pointed out. "We know TLC hates them. But Vinney's weren't touched."

"The profiler will have a field day with that one. Let's duck into Earl's for a quick lunch. I'm buying."

"I understand that Mr. Pettigrew has talked to you and authorized you to speak freely about the files you handled with Ms. Vinney?" It was mid-afternoon, allowing time for Pettigrew to return from lunch and confer with his junior.

"That's right," Ingram replied guardedly, not meeting Chris's eyes. Chris and Gwen exchanged glances. It was clear that the junior lawyer was on a tight leash. He was nervously eyeing the open notebook Gwen was holding in her left hand.

"You appreciate that the information you can give us is very important?"

"Not really. I can't see any connection between it and Adrienne being killed the way she was."

"We're the best judges of that. It's just a process of eliminating possibilities, getting them out of the way, so to speak. So we can concentrate on more promising leads," said Chris, using a strategy that often helped make witnesses more forthcoming. It wasn't having that effect on Ingram, however. He remained as uptight and tense as before.

"Mr. Pettigrew told us that Ms. Vinney had five major files on the go." Maybe it would help if Ingram thought the senior partner had been open with the police.

"Maybe. I only worked on two of them. She never said anything about the others. She wouldn't."

"Professional discretion, eh?"

"That's right. She was very keen on that. She lectured on legal ethics at the law school."

"Did she? That's pretty impressive." Robyn would be taking that course at some point. Usually ethics wasn't taught until the third year, so she wouldn't have reached it yet. "Which two files were you working on?"

"The Pegasus Energy Trust and the Madison share issue."

"What can you tell us about them?"

"The Pegasus deal is mega!" For the first time Ingram showed some animation. "Five hundred million dollars! We've had to satisfy stock exchanges and security commissions here in Alberta and in Toronto and New York, not to mention the SEC. You wouldn't believe how picky they can be. The SEC sent our application back three times. We're still working on it."

"They've been spooked ever since those corporate scandals blew up on them a few years back."

"Yeah." For a brief moment Ingram looked at Chris like one professional to another, but his guarded look returned when the detective brought up the subject of the Madison share issue.

"Pretty straightforward," he muttered with a halfhearted shrug that didn't quite come off.

"When is it due to come out?"

"By the end of the week, I expect."

"With a Peace River Arch play on top of the Lost Horse discovery, it's bound to be a hot seller."

"Yeah."

"Is there anything you're not telling us about this? Anything we should know?"

"No. Like I say, it's pretty straightforward. Run of the mill. Anyway ..."

"Anyway what?"

"Nothing."

"That's all you're going to tell us?"

"There's nothing to tell."

Chris glared at him, then shot Gwen an exasperated look. There was nothing more he could do at this point in time, and Ingram knew it. It wouldn't only be Pettigrew who had talked to him. McKinley had a criminal law department so it could hold itself out as a full service law firm. Pettigrew would have brought along an experienced criminal lawyer to advise Ingram on how far he was legally required to go in cooperating with the police investigation. Which was precisely nowhere.

"I believe you are withholding something from us." Chris's tone was formal as he and Gwen stood up to leave. "If it turns out that you have been, things will go hard for you."

"I'll take my chances," Ingram replied with a touch of defiance and more confidence than he had shown in their earlier meeting.

"I hate it when that happens," Gwen muttered fiercely when they exited from Bankers Hall onto the Stephen Avenue Mall. "When people clam up on us and refuse to answer questions that could help our investigation."

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

"Your horse is calling you," Gwen said with something close to a giggle as the opening notes of Valencia suddenly rang out. Valencia was the name of the chestnut mare that had been Chris's best show jumper, and he had a snippet of the song installed as the ring tone of his cellphone.

He grinned back at Gwen as he answered. "Crane here."

It was Dummett, wanting to know if there had been any response from TLC to his story.

"Not so far as I know," Chris told him. "I've been out all day interviewing people, so there might be something back at the office. If there is, I'll let you know. Anyways, it's early days yet."

But apart from a number of voice mail messages, all that was waiting for Chris on the tenth floor was Madison Energy's annual report. He had asked Jack Adams to send over a copy. He put it to one side to take home.