Читать книгу Victim of Convenience - John Ballem - Страница 12

There was no coffin. The printed program, with the same photograph of Adrienne as in the obituary on the cover, made it clear that this was a memorial service, not a funeral. The remains were to be returned to Halifax for burial in the family plot. Chris knew the medical examiner was due to release them tomorrow. He and Gwen seated themselves toward the rear of the hall, half filled with mourners. Chris judged them to be almost entirely members of the legal profession. In the front row a woman wearing a dark wool dress that looked too warm for the late spring weather sobbed quietly into a handkerchief. Chris recognized her as Adrienne's legal assistant, whom he had met while having his unsatisfactory interviews with Jeff Ingram. Jeff was seated across the aisle from her, beside Morris Pettigrew on the aisle. The McKinley firm was out in force. There had been an ad in the paper that the firm was closed for the day out of respect for their late esteemed partner.

Tom Forsyth was looking back over his shoulder to catch Chris's eye. They exchanged nods and subdued waves. There was no sign of Scott Millard. The Harris jury was still out and the defence lawyer must have felt compelled to stay within reach of the courthouse. Chris thought that if it were him, he would have come to a different decision. This train of thought led him to remark on how few purely social friends were there. Contemporaries she might have known and socialized with. The price of her fierce dedication to her career.

The organist finished playing the last notes of a Bach fugue, and Morris Pettigrew rose from his seat and proceeded to the lectern. "Adrienne was not a religious person," he began, speaking into the microphone, "but I know it would be a comfort for all of us to join in singing that beloved old hymn, ‘Unto the Hills.'"

When the congregation was once more seated, he delivered a short and moving eulogy, dwelling on Adrienne's love for the law and her devotion to it. He concluded by saying that he could only speak about the Adrienne they knew since she had arrived in Calgary a few years ago, and now he would call on Ian Carmichael, a childhood and college friend of hers from Halifax, who had flown out to be with them today.

A tall, strikingly handsome man in his thirties took Pettigrew's place at the lectern. "Adrienne and I grew up together," he began. "I first saw those blond pigtails in grade three, and we were classmates from then on. She was always the class sweetheart, and it wasn't just because of her looks. She was friendly and outgoing, and excelled at sports, particularly track and field. In her last year of high school she was the class president and was voted the most popular student. It was in law school that she really came into her own." Carmichael paused as if to collect himself.

"He's still in love with her," Gwen whispered to Chris.

"Adrienne loved the law," Carmichael continued. "From the very first she was at home in it, intellectually and philosophically. So much so that she was the gold medallist in her graduating year. I know that you, her Calgary friends and associates, are fully aware of her love for the law and her aptitude for it. As in high school, she continued to be immensely popular. In her sophomore year she was elected Monroe Day Queen, and that, let me assure you, is a very big honour at Dalhousie."

As he carried on for a few more minutes with his glowing tributes, Gwen again whispered to Chris, "If that guy is married it's a good thing his wife isn't here to listen to this." Chris nodded, his attention focused on Carmichael's concluding remarks.

"If any one of Adrienne's sterling qualities stood out more than the rest, it was her integrity. I remember one incident in particular. At the end of our graduating year in high school we were writing the provincials—exams set by the government. A friend of hers had provided Adrienne with a copy of the questions from several years back, and she had distributed them to some of her chums, including me, to help us prepare for the finals. When the exam questions were handed out, we were astounded to discover they were identical, word for word, to those in the copy Adrienne had been given. Some of us lesser mortals might have treated it as a gift from the gods, but it was too much for Adrienne's sense of fair play, and she immediately brought it to the attention of the instructor, and the exam was rescheduled with a new set of questions."

So Adrienne was a whistle-blower. Interesting, possibly significant, thought Chris as Carmichael ended his remarks with a graceful little comment about how much Adrienne would be missed, both here in Calgary and back in her home town.

On behalf of Adrienne's friends and associates in the firm, Pettigrew invited everyone to a reception at the Calgary Golf and Country Club, just up the street, and the mourners got to their feet to sing a final hymn. They remained standing when it ended, preparing to leave, until the strains of a bagpipe froze them in place. A kilted piper marched through an open doorway and stood at the front of the hall, marking time while he played a stirring Highland march. Then he did a slow march down the aisle, followed by Pettigrew, Ian Carmichael, and the rest of the mourners.

A small knot of onlookers, including a TV cameraman and reporter, plus some members of the press, stood outside as the crowd filed out into the sunlight. Chris saw the TV camera zooming in on him and Gwen but no questions were shouted at them as they walked to their van. The fact that the police had attended the memorial service for TLC's latest victim would be on the six o'clock news.

The entrance gate to the golf club was at the end of a short cul-de-sac extending west from the intersection of Elbow Drive and 50th Avenue where the funeral home was located. Ken Patterson and another Homicide detective were sitting in an unmarked police cruiser parked with other vehicles on the curb in front of a balconied apartment block. Chris carefully avoided looking at them as he drove past. A security guard standing inside a little watchtower made of dark Rundle stone waved the line of cars through. A driveway curved down to the clubhouse through lush fairways and greens dotted with golfers and golf carts.

Morris Pettigrew had stationed himself at the head of the staircase to form a one-man reception line. He frowned at the sight of Chris, and he hesitated before accepting the detective's proffered hand. "I saw you at the service," he said. The inference that the police had no business being there was clear. "I trust you will remember this is a wake for a dear and valued friend."

"A dear and murdered friend," Chris corrected him quietly, and moved on.

The firm had laid on a lavish spread: canapés, sandwiches, and other delicacies were laid out on damask-covered tables; servers circulated with glasses of champagne and wine and took orders from those who preferred something stronger. Champagne flute in hand, Ian Carmichael stood by the concert grand, shaking hands and greeting people in a sort of informal second reception committee. Chris and Gwen declined an offer of champagne from a passing server and joined the lineup waiting to have a word with the visitor from Halifax.

"I'm Detective Chris Crane and this is Constable Staroski," Chris said as their turn came to greet Carmichael. "We're investigating Ms. Vinney's murder. We would appreciate a word with you."

"Of course," Carmichael replied, not missing a beat. Putting down his empty champagne flute, he followed the two detectives over to the floor-length windows overlooking the first tee.

"I'm not sure how I can help, but I am anxious to do whatever I can. I can still hardly bring myself to accept the fact that she is gone."

"It was clear from the way you spoke, sir, that you and the victim were lifelong friends. Your remarks were very touching, if I may say so."

"Thank you. It was a task I could have done without."

"‘Scotland the Brave' was a great send-off for her, being from Nova Scotia."

Carmichael brightened momentarily. "You recognized the tune? Good for you! It was her favourite. That's the first thing I did when I arrived here—arrange for a piper. Adrienne was an outstanding piper herself, but nobody out here seems to know that."

"She played the bagpipes?"

"Superbly. She was the pipe major of an all-girl pipe band that travelled all over North America giving concerts. But the people I've talked to out here have never heard of her playing the pipes. I find it hard to believe that she would give them up just like that."

"Maybe she would go up to the mountains to play them."

"You think so? That's a wonderful thought! That's what I will tell myself she did. Thank you."

"I was particularly struck by what you said about her integrity. I got the impression it was at the core of her being? That business of the exams was very revealing, I thought."

"That was classic Adrienne. Miss Integrity. Everything had to be above-board with her. That's just the way she was." Carmichael broke off to gaze out at the dauntingly steep fairway, a fond little smile on his lips. The smile quickly faded as reality came flooding back. Without looking at Chris he said, "I'm sort of curious about why you're asking questions like this. Adrienne was the victim of a serial killer. A case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, as I understand it. I don't quite see how her personality enters into it."

"Serial murders are not quite as random as people think. The killer enjoys the process of selecting his victim. He will study her habits, often stalking and watching her for days. Some of them kill when the urge comes upon them, of course. But others like to know their victim, however vicariously."

"Jesus! The thought of her being stalked like that makes me ill to my stomach." He turned to face the detective and said, "I have a question of my own. The impression I get from you who only knew her here in Calgary is very different from the Adrienne I knew. She appears to have done nothing but work, no outside interests, no extracurricular activities. Just work."

Not quite accurate. Chris kept the thought to himself as he spotted Scott Millard in conversation with Tom Forsyth. The criminal lawyer must have arrived while he was talking to Carmichael. "We both know how demanding the legal profession can be," he said to the Halifax lawyer. "Especially in a factory like McKinley. She made partner in record time, I'm told. You would have to be pretty single-minded to achieve a goal like that."

Nodding in the direction of a small group of people over by the piano, chatting among themselves and obviously waiting for a chance to speak to Carmichael, Chris said, "I'll let you go now," and handed him his card. As always, it made him feel like an insurance salesman. "But if you can think of anything, anything at all, that might be helpful, give me a call. And I would appreciate a call before you leave, in any case."

With a slight downward motion of his hand he signalled Gwen to remain behind and stay close to Carmichael, then walked over to where Tom Forsyth and Scott Millard stood, conversing easily together. "Jury still out?" he asked Millard.

"Hung," the criminal lawyer replied succinctly. "No chance of reaching a verdict, so the judge discharged them."

"That's a bit of a victory for you, I would say."

Millard shrugged. "I guess it is. Considering what we had to work with. But the Crown will lay charges again."

"But you're in the driver's seat now," Forsyth put in. "The hung jury is bound to shake the Crown's confidence."

"They'll work harder next time," Millard replied.

Forsyth laughed. "Knowing you, you'll probably plea bargain him down to not guilty by reason of insanity, and your client will spend his days at some cushy government-financed retreat, playing golf and doing laps in the swimming pool."

"Harris doesn't play golf." Millard grinned. It was obvious that his client would never do hard time. There was a hint of something different in his voice—what? jealousy, perhaps?—as he went on. "Tom tells me that guy you were talking to was a childhood friend of Adrienne's."

"A bit more than that, I think. C'mon. I'll introduce you."

"Wait till I recharge my drink." Scott signalled a server and ordered a double Scotch on the rocks. He was either celebrating the hung jury or winding down from the stress of the trial. Taking a deep swallow of whisky, he followed Chris over to where Carmichael was in conversation with some of the mourners. When he spotted Chris heading toward him, Ian nodded polite agreement to what someone was saying and shifted his attention to the approaching twosome. Chris performed the introductions, then excused himself.

Seemingly absorbed in selecting a sandwich from the lavish array of goodies spread out on a table, Gwen observed the encounter from a distance. It was over by the time she finished a remarkably delicious egg salad sandwich. Face flushed a dangerous red, Millard exchanged his empty glass for a full one and stalked off to rejoin Tom Forsyth. As she reported to Chris, the tension between the two men was immediate, and almost palpable. "That Millard guy was really wound up. He's a lot smaller than Carmichael and seemed determined to make up for it. From the way he was carrying on, you would think he and Vinney had been getting it on until the day she died."

"That's what he would have wanted. Let's go talk to him."

Glass in hand, an agitated Millard was saying something to Forsyth, spitting out the words. Forsyth flinched, but managed not to blink as he was sprayed with saliva. Both Chris and Gwen heard "... some religious pervert ..." before the criminal lawyer became aware of their presence and abruptly stopped talking.

"Who's a religious pervert, Scott?" inquired Chris mildly. "Were you thinking of Adrienne's murderer?"

"It was just talk. Everybody knows most serial killers have fantasies of playing God. Holding their victims' lives in their hands. That kind of crap." Turning away, Millard struck up a conversation with his counterpart in the McKinley firm who had come over to congratulate him on the hung jury.

Murmuring something about having to leave, Forsyth handed his empty wine glass to a passing server and drifted away.

"Religious pervert. Do you suppose he knows about the cross?" asked Gwen in a voice that was almost a whisper.

"It's entirely possible that he does. A highly successful criminal lawyer like him is bound to have informants."

"But the cross is a holdback. Are you saying he has an informant in the police?"

"It wouldn't surprise me. Not the least bit."

Gwen absorbed this in silence for a few minutes, then said, "He's sure soaking up the booze, too. That pretty little Asian server is beginning to look at him kinda strange as he keeps ordering double Scotches."

"Scott's not at his best today." Millard would bear watching this afternoon. For his own protection. Because of the memorial service there would be a heavy police presence in the area, and they would be only too pleased to charge the defence lawyer with impaired driving. Scott was about to commit another faux pas. Placing his empty glass on a nearby table, he took out his cellphone and was about to dial when a shocked maître d' rushed up. Cellphones were taboo on the club premises. Millard looked at her as if he were about to protest, then pocketed the phone with a snarl.

It was time to intervene. "Hey, Scott, how did you get here? Did you drive or come by taxi?"

"Drove." Millard was instantly alert.

"The police are out in force today. It might be better if I gave you a lift home. You okay with that? Gwen and I are about to leave."

"What vehicle are you driving?"

"Not to worry. It's one of our unmarked vans. You know what they look like. Nobody associates them with the police."

As they reached the top of the driveway, where he stopped to let a foursome play through, Chris said in mock reproof, "You shouldn't be breaking training like this. First thing you know your squash partner will be beating you."

"Tom? He won't be my partner for long. He's packing in the law, and he and Madge are moving to a tax shelter in the Caribbean. Barbados, the last I heard. Madge has been down there for a couple of weeks, scouting out a place for them to buy."

"Tom Forsyth packing it in? He's never mentioned it to me. Not that there's any reason why he should. I didn't realize he had that kind of money."

"He never talks about it." Millard sat up in the passenger seat. He seemed to have shaken off the effect of the whisky he had consumed and was obviously relishing the story he was about to tell. "I wouldn't have known about it except that the ranch foreman consulted one of my partners who does civil litigation. He wanted to sue for wrongful dismissal. Just drop me somewhere downtown where I can grab a cab," he said as they turned off Elbow Drive onto 8th Street.

"Wouldn't think of it," Chris, his curiosity fully aroused, told him. "Where do you live?"

"In the northwest. I have a condo near the university. It's completely out of your way."

"No problem." Chris exchanged glances with Gwen in the rear-view mirror. It would give them lots of time to hear what Millard had to say. "What's a ranch foreman who's lost his job got to do with Tom?"

"The ranch in question belonged to Tom's family. Been in it for generations, I gather. Like all these outfits, it had a name—Crooked Tree Ranch, something like that. I can't remember exactly." Crooked Tree? The Taylor ranch was called Bent Tree. It would seem trees didn't grow all that well out in the foothills. The whimsical thought didn't prevent Chris from hearing Millard say, "I gather the ranch wasn't all that successful, but it survived. When Tom's parents passed on, it was left to him and his sister. She and her husband lived on the ranch and managed it. Until"—Millard paused for effect—"it was annexed by the city in their last land grab. That meant it could be subdivided, and a developer paid top dollar for it."

"Jesus!" Chris breathed. "Do you know how big a spread it was?"

"A quarter section. Sixty-four hectares. I looked it up at the Land Titles office."

"No wonder Tom can afford to pack in the law. Do you know when it was sold?"

"Early last year. Sometime in March." He glanced uneasily over at Chris. "You're probably wondering how I know all this. I was curious, that's all. Knowing Tom as well as I do. I've never mentioned it to him. Not even when he told me about his plans."

"Perfectly natural. I would have done the same." Chris changed lanes as a bus in front of him slowed for some passengers waiting at a bus stop. "When you register a transfer at Land Titles you have to declare the value of the property. Right?" Chris turned it into a question, although he already knew the answer. "So they can assess the registration fee."

"It was an agreement of sale, not a transfer. The purchase price was to be paid in two annual instalments. The title would be transferred only when the second instalment was made."

"What was the purchase price?"

"It was 4.8 million. Thirty thousand an acre. Tom's share is 2.4 million, which should allow him to live comfortably, if he's careful."

And doesn't pay too much in the way of taxes, Chris added to himself.

"Turn off here," Scott directed as they drove north on University Drive. "I'm just at the end of the street." A cement truck was pouring concrete for a walk leading up to the entrance and workers were smoothing out top-soil for a lawn. "I just moved in last week," Scott said as he climbed out and Gwen took his seat. "Like nearly everything else in this town, it's still being unpacked. Appreciate this, Chris," he raised his hand in a half-salute as they drove off.

"Want to run it up the flagpole?" Gwen asked after they had proceeded in silence for several minutes.

Chris laughed. "Been watching old movies again? I know what you're thinking, but it won't fly. Okay, let's review the bidding."

"Now who's been watching old movies? What we have just learned could be the lead we've been looking for."

"All we've learned is that my good friend Tom Forsyth has come into a nice piece of change."

"Yes, 2.4 million to be precise. With the taxman waiting to grab his share. You always say that good police work involves eliminating possibilities. Let's see if we can eliminate your good friend Mr. Tom Forsyth."

"Okay. Here we go. We know he received a large amount of cash sometime last March. He is knowledgeable about these things, what the securities people call a sophisticated investor, so he would know one of the most effective ways to reduce income taxes is to purchase flow-through shares."

"I know there are such things as flow-through shares, but just how do they work?"

"An oil company that is not liable to pay income taxes, because of deductible expenditures or previous tax losses, issues shares and renounces the tax deductions created by its exploration activities to the shareholders, who can then deduct from their taxable income."

"So Forsyth buys some flow-through shares?"

"We don't know that. But it's not an unreasonable assumption. Tom deals with the same stockbroker as I do, a guy by the name of Jack Adams. Jack was very high on the Madison flow-throughs when they first came out, so, as I say, that's not an unreasonable assumption."

"Let's make it. Then what?"

"The plot begins to thicken. Many companies, in fact most of them, require the owners of their flow-through shares to hold on to them for a period of time, often as much as a year." It wasn't necessary to mention that this was something Chris always avoided when purchasing flow-through shares for his own account.

"Which is why we spent so much time at McKinley, asking all those questions about Madison Energy."

"Correct. The hold period on the Madison shares expired just days before that announcement sent them down the toilet."

"So anyone who sold as soon as the shares were free to trade would be one happy camper?"

"To put it mildly. Very mildly."

"Someone must have known what was happening before they came out with that press release. Someone in the know."

"Absolutely. Wells have been known to water out in an amazingly short time, but not overnight."

"Vinney would be one of those who would know. Wouldn't she?"

"Almost certainly. She was working on the prospectus for a new share issue. The Lost Horse field going to water is a material fact that would have to be disclosed." Now there was an understatement!

"Ms. Vinney was famous for her integrity."

"As we have just been told." Chris braked to a sudden stop as a black Lexus ran a red light. Fortunately their speed was reduced to little more than a crawl in the busy and congested Kensington district. "Calgary drivers think a yellow light is a signal to step on the gas," he muttered.

Gwen, who had heard this complaint many times in the past, merely smiled. "We also know that Mrs. Forsyth was away in the Caribbean. Did they have any children?" "One boy. A young teenager. He's in the East, attending a boarding school."

"So your friend Forsyth is free to come and go as he pleases."

"True. You and I have built a nice theoretical case, Gwen. But it's all based on unproven assumptions with not one iota of evidence linking Forsyth to the Vinney killing. Without evidence, there's no case."

"We haven't been looking for it. Evidence, I mean."

"That's true. Not yet anyhow. We can at least find out if he had a motive. I'll pay a little visit to our broker friend in the morning. He's not been all that forthcoming so far, claiming client confidentiality. But I think I know how to make him co-operate. And then there's the matter of transportation. We know Vinney was moved from the actual murder scene to the park. Forsyth usually lunches at the Petroleum Club, at the community table. Why don't you park outside the club tomorrow at noon and take his picture if he shows up? We'll have someone take it around to the car rental outlets to see if he rented a vehicle, most likely an SUV, at the critical time."

Chris fell silent for a moment to concentrate on a difficult lane change so he could head east on 5th Avenue. That accomplished, he continued in an almost musing tone, "Of course, there's another possibility. How about this? Scott was setting us up. Making us think of Tom Forsyth as a potential suspect."

Gwen almost giggled. "What a delightfully evil mind you have! But aren't they the best of friends?"

"They are. But best friends have been known to betray each other. Maybe he knows Tom has an alibi. Or maybe Scott just had too much to drink."

"Well, that we know for sure."

Chris waited until eight o'clock, when the market would have been open for half an hour and the early rush of trading would have subsided somewhat, before taking the LRT to the low-rise building where Acute Capital was located. Jack was the principal partner of the brokerage house and prided himself on running a no-frills operation. The office reflected that approach. Under a high ceiling with exposed beams and rafters, the space was completely open, with no private offices or cubicles, only rows of desks crowded together. Like the set-up at Major Crimes, thought Chris. Phones, their muted rings barely audible, rang constantly. Jack's expression as he shook hands with Chris was an uneasy mixture of the welcome due an important client and wariness.

"Jack, I realize you are troubled over this business of client confidentiality, but this is a murder investigation."

"What murder? As if I didn't know."

"You know all right. The lawyer, Adrienne Vinney. Did you know her?"

Was there a flicker of hesitation on Jack's part before he replied? "I know of her, of course. She was well known in financial circles, because of the files she handled."

"Let's cut to the chase, Jack. Last Tuesday, 102,000 shares of Madison traded. Ten times the normal volume."

"Not surprising. It happens every time a stock comes out of hold."

"Understandable. Just give me the names of the sellers."

"You know I can't do that, Chris. Client confidentiality is the cornerstone of this business."

"It looks like you're forcing me to get a search warrant, Jack. That means a police squad will take over your office, go through your records, and question your staff." It was a bluff. The chances of obtaining a warrant from even the most accommodating judge were almost nonexistent on the basis of what they knew. It was all surmise, with no evidence. In fact, Chris couldn't see himself swearing the necessary affidavit to support an application for a warrant. Even old Jepson, a Provincial Court judge notoriously biased in favour of the police, wouldn't buy it. "Maybe a warrant is the best way to go, Jack. Then your clients will know you had no choice."

Jack sighed. "I like you better as a client, Chris. But what can I do? Hang on a minute while I go to the back office and look up the trading summary for May 27."