Читать книгу Victim of Convenience - John Ballem - Страница 11

Nevermore was perched on top of his cage when Chris got home. The cage door dangled from one hinge. He ruffled his feathers and cocked his head to stare at his owner, half-defiantly, half-triumphantly, with a bright yellow eye. His belated "Hello, Chris" made Chris smile indulgently.

"So, you finally succeeded!" he congratulated the bird. Nevermore had been entertaining himself for days working with his beak on the nuts and bolts that held the cage together. "All those toys I bought you weren't enough, were they? You want to expand your empire. Well, I can understand that," he added as he carried Nevermore over to his perch.

Nevermore's dismantling of his cage was amusing, not to say impressive. But he couldn't be left loose in the penthouse while it was empty during the day. He could do too much damage. Especially to himself. The penthouse was full of hazards for an inquisitive parrot. And there was Cassie. The parrot and the cleaning lady did not get along. Psittacine birds were notorious for preferring either men or women. Usually, although not always, it was sex linked, with male birds preferring women and vice versa. It was one way of determining the sex of those species of parrot where male and female were identical in appearance. African Greys were known to be more tolerant in this regard than any other parrot species. Nevermore, for instance, positively doted on Angie, the lady from Petcare who looked after him when Chris was out of town. But Cassie brought out the worst in him. It was probably the noise of the vacuum cleaner.

After dinner he would go down to the storage locker where he kept a toolbox and dig out a screwdriver and needle-nose pliers. He would tighten the nuts as much as he could, but that would only slow Nevermore down, not stop him. Maybe there was some kind of non-toxic glue that would cement the nuts in place.

Mixing the one pre-dinner martini he permitted himself, Chris realized the parrot's antics had given him a much-needed break from the Vinney murder. It never hurt to let the brain lie fallow for a spell. Putting a disc by Sonata on the CD player, he settled back with his drink. Music lovers still raved about the concert she had given at the Epcor Centre more than three years ago. Sonata was one of Nevermore's favourites, and he chit-tered quietly to himself as the music filled the room.

There was a photo of Adrienne along with a brief obituary in the classified pages of the Herald. The black-and-white photo did full justice to her beauty, highlighting the to-die-for cheekbones, expressive eyes, and wide, slashing smile. Her life spanned thirty-seven years; her mother was listed as her only living relative. There was no mention of it in the obituary, but inquiries made by the police revealed that her mother suffered from Alzheimer's and lived in a Halifax nursing home. According to the obituary, Adrienne had died suddenly on Monday, May 26. Now there was a euphemism for you! Funeral arrangements were to be announced. That, Chris knew, would depend on when the medical examiner's office released the body.

Placing the obituary page face up on the coffee table, Chris turned his attention to Madison Energy's annual report. First he read the President's Report, traditionally a summary of the past year's activities with a forecast of things to come. As expected, Madison's CEO was upbeat, hailing the rapid development of the Lost Horse field that had been discovered some eighteen months earlier. Wells in the Alberta Foothills were deep and expensive, but they were also extremely prolific if they encountered oil—some producing more than 2,500 barrels of oil per day. It was an incredible bonanza for a comparatively small company like Madison, and the annual report made the most of it.

Nevermore paused his attack on his favourite toy—a dried coconut shell stuffed with nuts, hanging from the top of his cage—as Chris, briefcase in hand, repeated the words "Goodbye, Chris" four times. The parrot, head cocked to one side, listened intently. It wouldn't be long before he mastered the phrase, which would sound a great deal better than, "Sorry, Nevermore."

Walking north in bright morning sunshine along 4th Street, Chris found his thoughts still occupied by Madison Energy and the Lost Horse discovery. What a thrill it must have been when that wildcat came in! Especially since Madison was still a start-up company just getting underway. He himself participated in the oil patch by owning shares in oil and gas companies, but that was one stage removed from actually getting in there and exploring for the stuff. Maybe someday ...

As the stacked glass cubes of the aggressively modern Municipal Building came into view beyond the leafy screen of the Olympic Plaza poplars these pleasant musings were abruptly displaced by more urgent ones of the serial killings. Putting the Vinney murder aside for the moment, he concentrated on the first three attacks. They were pretty clearly thrill killings, with no apparent motive other than sadistic fantasies. Unlike many multiple killings, the victims were not prostitutes. Maybe the killer was astute enough to realize that the lurid history of streetwalkers being tortured and killed and buried in pig farms or dumped in farmers' fields must have increased police surveillance of their favourite strolls. Or more likely this killer just wanted game that was more challenging, more exciting.

The first victim had been in her mid-twenties, a legal assistant in the law department of an oil company. Seating himself at his desk, Chris first dealt with his phone messages, including two from brokers, then called up her file on the computer. Even making allowances for it being a morgue photo, it was clear that Myra Frazier had been no beauty. But she had been definitely, and amply, female. Her breasts, the right one displaying a dark wound where the nipple should be, were splayed across her chest, and the triangle of pubic hair was dense and dark above fleshy thighs still stained with dried blood. She had been the first of the park murders, her mutilated body having been discovered not far from a pathway in Nose Hill Park.

The killer made no effort to hide the bodies; if anything, he displayed them. At first, Chris had wondered if this indicated a desire on the killer's part to be caught. That was not uncommon among serial killers. Then he concluded that it was probably a reflection of the killer's overweening self-confidence, a gauntlet thrown at the feet of the investigators.

"Awful, isn't it?" Unannounced, Gwen had come over to stand at Chris's side and was looking down at the screen that now showed the second victim, Elizabeth Livens, a sales clerk at Holt Renfrew. She had been mutilated in the same fashion as the Frazier woman. Like the others, her hands were folded piously on her abdomen as if she were at peace. It was obscene. Chris scrolled down and clicked on the name of the third victim, Theresa Thompson. There could be no doubt but that all three were the work of the same sadistic brute. Sickened, he looked away from the screen and glanced up at Gwen.

"I thought you'd be interested in this," she said. "I just heard from a friend of mine at the courthouse that the Harris jury has come back in."

"And?"

"And nothing. The foreperson told the judge that they haven't been able to reach a verdict, and she does-n't think they will be able to."

"What did the judge do?"

"Told them to keep trying."

"Good psychology on her part. Today is Friday, and being sequestered over the weekend should help them concentrate."

"Like knowing you are to be hanged in a fortnight," said Gwen, blithely paraphrasing Samuel Johnson.

"Not exactly," Chris said, grinning in reply. "I go along with most of the crusty old lexicographer's sayings, but I've never bought that one. For my part, I think the prospect of being hanged in a fortnight would make it impossible to concentrate. You really couldn't think of much else."

After a solitary lunch at the Hyatt, Chris was back at his desk, still brooding about the multiple killings. He was convinced that the first three were the work of the same individual, almost certainly acting alone. But the Vinney case? The modus operandi seemed to be the same—the victim had not been killed where the body was found, she had been rendered unconscious before being mutilated, and the mutilation pattern was the same. Except for the untouched breast implants. And the cross. Like the others, it was identical in design to the one used to crucify Christ. Everyone's idea of what a cross looked like. But it was on the wrong hand. Maybe that didn't matter. Maybe what was really bothering him was the victim herself—a high-profile lawyer responsible for important and complex files. Maybe the killer just wanted to up the ante. Or maybe, as Mason kept insisting, he had seen her out jogging and couldn't resist. Chris had switched off the computer and was staring into space, a light frown creasing his forehead, when the telephone rang.

"Forget everything you read in Madison's annual report," Jack Adams said when Chris answered. "They've just come out with a press release as soon as the market closed."

The stock market closed at two o'clock, and it was two-thirty now. Jack hadn't wasted any time in calling him. That must be some press release!

"It's a disaster!" Jack's voice was hushed. "I'll fax the release to you, but the gist of it is that the Lost Horse field has watered out."

"What?" Chris was thunderstruck. Oil fields eventually did go to water as they were produced and the reservoir pressure dropped, letting salt water from the ancient inland sea that once covered Alberta flow into the well bore. It was called "coning" in the oil patch, and it normally happened only after years of profitable production as a reservoir was gradually depleted, certainly not after just over a year.

"It's true. It's all in the press release. The carnage when the market opens Monday morning will be appalling. I've got to hang up now, Chris. I've got a bunch of calls to make. Calls I dread making. There will be some very unhappy shareholders out there. One hell of a way to start the weekend."

"Before you go, what happened to the stock today?"

"Nothing unusual. It closed at $18.52, down ten cents for the day. Four thousand shares traded, which is pretty much the normal pattern. But the shit will hit the fan on Monday!"

Would it ever! The carnage awaiting the Madison shareholders when the market opened on Monday would be awful. Horrendous. If anything, the press release Jack faxed over to him was worse than what he had told Chris over the phone. The three wells Madison had drilled and put on production had turned to water almost overnight. In the eighteen months or so since the discovery Madison had drilled two stepout wells. The stepouts were located two miles apart to delineate the extent of the reservoir with the expectation of drilling infill wells to fully exploit the potential of the field. There would be no more wells. Only the cost of abandoning the initial wells to add to the millions of dollars already spent.

Chris read the fax a second time before putting it down on his desk, bemused to find himself treating it gingerly, as if it might explode in his face. He paused for a moment to absorb an almost giddy sense of relief that he was not personally involved in the debacle. It had been so close. But those poor devils who were long on the stock! His copy of the Herald was back in the pent-house, but Gwen always brought the paper with her to work. She wasn't at her desk, but the paper was. Chris picked up the paper, pulled out the business section, and turned to the stock quotations. Madison had closed yesterday at $18.62, with a trading volume of 6,982 shares. And Jack had said today's trades were normal.

He had come awfully close to investing in the Madison flow-through shares. They had come out at $10.25 and had climbed steadily up into $18.00 territory. Chris had kept his eye on the stock and more than once regretted the handsome profit he had foregone. He had comforted himself with the fact that the shares had been encumbered with that long hold. Twelve months before they were free to trade; too long to have money tied up with no control over what happened to it. The twelve months must be up by now; it had been sometime last spring that Jack had told him about the upcoming share issue. Could that explain the evasiveness he had encountered at McKinley?

Chris flipped through the annual report, now outdated and rendered meaningless by the Lost Horse disaster. As expected, there were no details of the flow-through shares nor any conditions attached to them. The report contained little other than glowing accounts of Lost Horse. Jack would know when the hold period expired, but there was no point in trying to reach him now. He would be working the phones, spreading the unthinkable news. He would call Jack at home in the evening. That would be a bit of an intrusion into his personal life, but the broker would overlook that. Chris and Jack were not close personal friends, beyond an occasional lunch, but Chris was a preferred client. Besides, the circumstances were extraordinary.

The door of the cage was still in place when Chris arrived home that evening. Nevermore was squatting on the floor, dismantling a collection of wooden blocks and bells braided through a strip of leather. The blocks were chewed until they were mere splinters, and the bells were strewn around the floor. The breeders had told Chris that a destroyed toy is an enjoyed toy. If that was the case, Nevermore certainly enjoyed his toys. Chris chuckled to himself as his avian pet, well satisfied with the day's work, climbed onto his hand.

Chris waited until eight o'clock before calling Jack. By then, the broker would have finished dinner. It was also obvious from his slurred speech that he had finished off more than a few drinks. Chris didn't blame him; he would have put in a soul-searing afternoon.

"Everything about that damn stock is burned into my mind in letters of fire," Jack growled, in answer to Chris's query. "The hold period expired at the close of business last Monday, May 26."

That meant that the shares were free to trade on Tuesday, May 27, which was what Chris wanted to know, but he continued to chat for a few more minutes, commiserating with Jack for having to be the bearer of bad tidings, before ringing off. If the broker wondered about Chris's interest, he didn't mention it. Maybe he figured that Chris had bought some of the shares through another house.

Adrienne Vinney's memorial service was to be held on Monday, June 2, at 1:30 p.m. at a funeral home on Elbow Drive. Folding Saturday's Herald and placing it on the breakfast table, Chris decided he would attend. He would also arrange to have a police photographer with a video camera tape the mourners as they arrived. He had never given much weight to the theory that killers often attended the funeral of their victims, but one never knew. While the parrot supervised from his stand, Chris went about his regular Sunday morning chore of cleaning Nevermore's cage and re-arranging the toys—the breeders had assured him that this would help keep the bird from becoming bored. The familiar routine left him free to think. If someone who was obviously out of place showed up, that could provide a lead worth following. Even if there were two killers, one of them might make an appearance for some twisted purpose of his own. He decided to assign a woman detective who had never been part of the investigation to attend the service.

At four-thirty Sunday afternoon, Chris placed another call to Jack Adams. The broker sounded clear-headed and crisp as he answered.

"I know your phone will be ringing off the hook tomorrow," said Chris, "but I need to know what happens to Madison when the market opens."

"You need to know, Chris? Are you a shareholder? Or"—he paused—"is this Chris Crane the police officer?"

"I am not a shareholder. If I had decided to pick up some Madison shares, I would have done it through you. You're the expert on that company."

"Don't rub it in," Jack groaned.

"Sorry. What do you expect to happen tomorrow?"

"The Exchange will call a halt to trading in the stock to give people time to absorb the news and decide what they're going to do."

"How long do you figure the halt will last?"

"Not more than half an hour, I expect. The news will have been pretty well disseminated over the weekend in any case."

"Then what happens?"

"Well, the market opens at seven-thirty. If we assume the trading halt lasts for thirty minutes, the bloodletting will begin at eight. It will be a slaughter. It's not as if Madison had any other significant assets to fall back on. Their other producing interests are strictly nickel and dime. Plus a mountain of debt."

"How do I get through to you on the phone?"

Jack paused before replying. "Place your call at eight-fifteen. I'll be on the phone, but Lorna, my assistant, knows your voice and she'll put you through.

"It's terrible, Mr. Crane. Just terrible." Lorna's voice was subdued, almost awestruck. "Jack is expecting your call. Hang on."

"Madison is now a penny stock, Chris. The last trade was at ninety-eight cents. Not even the vultures are buying."

"You don't sound surprised."

"I'm not. Take away Lost Horse and that's what Madison is—a penny stock."

"What about the Peace River Arch play they were hyping?"

"Forget it. There's no way they could finance it. Not after this. It's a disaster. Plain and simple."

"Yeah. I'll let you go now, Jack. Thanks."

Chris was thoughtful as the phone conversation ended. Jack had sounded awfully down. That was understandable in the circumstances. But he was a professional, and Madison was just one stock, one of the many he traded on behalf of his clients. What had befallen the Madison shares should have been all in a day's work to him. Regrettable, of course, but the sort of thing that happened from time to time. Unless. Unless he had become a believer in his own sales pitch.

The trading in Madison shares for Thursday and Friday of last week had been in the normal course. But what about Tuesday, when the hold period had expired? The main branch of the Calgary public library was just a couple of blocks away. It would just take a moment to walk over there and check out the Toronto Stock Exchange listings in the Wednesday and Thursday papers. The quotations in Wednesday's Herald for the previous day's trades showed an opening price of $17.80, a high of $18.01, and a close of $17.93. Essentially unchanged. But the volume! 102,000 shares had changed hands. More than ten times the normal volume, with a dollar value in excess of 1.8 million. Wednesday's volume of 12,700 shares was higher than usual, but not by that much. It could be completely innocent, of course—nothing more than shareholders who had used the tax credit taking advantage of their first opportunity to sell and free up some capital.

Back at his desk, Chris placed another call to Jack, using Lorna's good offices to get through to him. There was a perceptible pause on the other end of the line when Chris requested the identity of the sellers in Tuesday's trades.

"That information is confidential, Chris. You know that."

"No big deal, Jack. I just thought it was something you would know." No use in pressing the matter. Not now. Jack had a valid point and knew it. Still, it was interesting that the normally accommodating broker had clammed up. And he was the one who would know. He had been the principal marketer of the flow-throughs, so normally the shares would be lodged in client accounts held in trust by his brokerage house. Anyone wanting to sell the shares would have to do it through him or his firm. Unless the seller held the share certificate in his or her own name. But that was unlikely.