Читать книгу Victim of Convenience - John Ballem - Страница 9

Later that day, alone once more, Chris pondered the possibilities. At this stage, there were three. A sex killing by a serial killer. That's what the evidence pointed to. Except for the cross being on the wrong hand. And the breast implants left untouched. The killer couldn't have missed them. He must have felt them when he was slicing off her nipple. Everything else was consistent with the previous murders. The second possibility was a bitter ex-lover. Adrienne Vinney had been a remarkably attractive woman. The cleaning woman might be able to fill them in on that side of the victim's life. If there was one. In her mid-thirties, a partner in a prestigious law firm, she could have been wrapped up in her career to the exclusion of everything else. Her work as a corporate lawyer was the third possibility, and this was his line of country. Since her identity was already in the public domain, he was free to talk to those who might have known her. Chris picked up the phone.

Tom Forsyth's expression was bemused as he watched Chris fill out the bar chit in the Petroleum Club's lounge. "You're sure as hell not the average policeman, with your membership in the Petroleum Club and—"

"It's very useful for making contacts," Chris interjected to forestall any further discussion of his lifestyle.

"Of which you make very good use." Forsyth took an appreciative sip of his martini. "Is this a purely social occasion, or are you here to swab me down about the delectable, recently deceased Adrienne Vinney?"

His friend's casual, almost light-hearted reference to the gruesome murder surprised Chris, but he made no mention of that as he replied, "A bit of both, actually. It's been a while since we've had a drink together, and I'm sure you would have known the delectable Adrienne, as you call her. You were both in the same line of work."

"Were. Funny how the past tense bring things home, isn't it? Well, you're right. She and I did work together on a number of corporate files, representing different parties to the transaction. Mergers and acquisitions mostly. We also did a couple of income trust conversions. In a nutshell, she was very bright, worked like hell, and was a pleasure to work with. A couple of her partners at McKinley are good buddies of mine and they tell me she is—was, rather—one of the highest billers in the firm. Right up there with old Pettigrew himself."

"Have you worked on any files with her recently?"

"Not since the Freeholders royalty dispute six months ago. We were on the same side in that one." Forsyth's smile was reminiscent. "We won a million-dollar settlement for our clients. The fair Adrienne showed no mercy. The lady is one tough negotiator."

Chris could see that Tom was growing restive under the questioning, but he persisted, "Can you think of anyone who might have thought she was too good a negotiator? Someone who felt she had cheated him out of his rights, and resented her for it?"

"No, I can't. And that's highly unlikely in any case. Her practice is exclusively corporate law: mergers and acquisitions, public share offerings, that sort of thing. No disputes. No adverse interests. Just a matter of satisfying the security commissions and stock exchanges. Difficult, I grant you, and frustrating at times, but not adversarial, if that's where you going."

"I'm not going anywhere in particular. I'm just casting about. And I appreciate your patience. Bear with me while we have another martini."

"This one is on me." Tom handed a chit to a passing server and tilted back in his chair to regard Chris with a quizzical look. "How come this interest in her legal career? I thought she was a victim of our serial killer. I can't see him being interested in what she did for a living. It would be that awesome body of hers that would turn him on."

In point of fact, none of the killer's previous victims had been what you would call ravishing beauties. Young, wholesome, and healthy, yes, but nothing like the Vinney woman. Except maybe for the third one, the one with the breast implants. But even she wasn't in the same class as Adrienne Vinney. No need to mention that, though. "How well did you know Adrienne, Tom?"

"What kind of question is that? I'm a married man!" Tom was making a joke out of it, but there was an under-tone of something else—regret, maybe?—in his voice.

"You wish." Chris grinned, keeping it light.

"You're not asking these questions for the fun of it, are you?"

"No. I'm investigating a murder."

"So you are. Well, what do you want to know? There's not much I can tell you."

"Any information on her personal life would be helpful. Boyfriends, girlfriends. That sort of thing."

"You'll have to ask someone else about her friends. But what I can tell you is that men were a distant second to her career. Very distant." Forsyth sighed. "You know Scott Millard, don't you? The criminal lawyer?"

"He's cross-examined me a couple of times on the witness stand. He's very good. Very well prepared. No wonder he gets so many high-profile cases."

"He speaks highly of you, too. He admires the way you analyze situations. Says you make a deadly witness for the prosecution."

"You and Scott are good friends, aren't you?"

"Have been for years. We play squash together twice a week at the Glencoe. He almost always wins. And we're both Benchers of the Law Society."

Tom paused, and Chris prompted, "You were saying?"

"This is so far out I feel silly even mentioning it. Scott and Adrienne had an affair, but she broke it off not long before we worked together on the Freeholder claim. She never mentioned it. She wouldn't. But I heard all about it from Scott. He was devastated. I even managed to beat him a few times at squash. He hated that. He hates to lose."

"That's what makes him a good defence counsel. You say he was devastated?"

"Absolutely. He just couldn't bring himself to believe it was all over. I think he expected to marry her. That's how serious he was."

"Do you know how long their affair lasted?"

"Six or seven months. They weren't living together or anything like that. I can't see Adrienne ever living with anyone. Do you intend to interview Scott?"

"As soon as I can arrange it. It's just a process of elimination."

"I would just as soon that Scott doesn't know I was the one who told you about him and Adrienne."

"He won't. Their relationship must have been known to a number of people. It won't be necessary to identify my source. I'll simply be relying on the well-known ‘general knowledge.'"

Calgary's brief rush hour was over by the time the two friends left the club and stood for a moment on the sidewalk outside its 5th Avenue entrance.

"I can see the thrill of the chase in your eyes." Forsyth smiled as they shook hands. "That's why my offer of a partnership in the firm goes begging."

"It's not so much the thrill of the chase, as you put it, as it is finding the correct answer."

As always, Chris took pleasure in walking home along 4th Street, vibrant with its eclectic mix of shops and restaurants, apartments, condos, and medium-rise office buildings. His condo was a penthouse, on the thirty-second floor of The Windsors on the banks of the Elbow River, flowing down from the Rockies to join the Bow at Fort Calgary. The click of the opening door brought a guttural "Hello, Chris" from Nevermore. The words, which Chris had taught him, were getting clearer and more distinct each day. Depositing the mail on the hall table, Chris went over to the parrot's cage, a large affair, more of an indoor aviary than a cage. Nevermore was a Congo African Grey, larger than his cousin, the more common Timneh variety, and had a bright red tail and black beak. The parrot cooed softly as Chris scratched him on the cheek and carried him over to his stand. African Greys were reputed to be the best talkers of the parrot family, and Nevermore, at only fifteen months, showed promise of living up to that reputation. He could say his name and called out, "Hello, Chris here," when the phone rang. From time to time he surprised and delighted his owner by trying out a new word or sound. His most recent accomplishment was "Good boy" in Chris's approving voice. All in all, he was entertaining company.

Looking around his high-ceilinged quarters Chris thought it must be much the same as the way Gwen had described Adrienne Vinney's condo. Post-modern cool, except that the colour contrasts were provided not with cushions, but with paintings, mostly Western Canadian—foothill scenes by Gissing, a spring chinook by Turner, mountain peaks by Glyde, two large paintings of vintage airplanes by Drohan. An equally large oil by Collier of icebergs floating off Banks Island in the Arctic had pride of place over the marble fireplace.

The library, with bookcases to the ceiling, a built-in ladder on rollers to reach the highest shelves, desk and tables in warm walnut, and soft leather armchairs, was in sharp and reassuring contrast to the other rooms.

The condo, like many other aspects of Chris's lifestyle, was wildly out of keeping with his salary as a police officer. It was widely assumed that he had inherited wealth and dabbled in criminal investigation for something to do. Many, like Steve Mason, thought of him as a dilettante. Only his brokers and a few members of the financial community knew the truth: that he'd made himself independently wealthy by shrewd and well-researched investing, exclusively in energy stocks and trusts. He had kept a low profile for a number of years before saying to hell with it. The luxurious condo and the Ferrari 360 Spider convertible parked down below under a dust cover in the stall next to his Dodge Durango were the results of that decision. He was also supporting his ex, Robyn, while she studied law at the university. He was not obligated in any way to do that; it was something he wanted to do.

The morning light spilled in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking east over the Elbow. Seated at the granite-topped breakfast table, Chris glanced up at the wall clock over the fridge: 6:36 a.m. The concierge would have delivered the morning papers by now. He always started with the penthouse. Chris took a swallow of coffee, gave Nevermore a piece of toasted English muffin, and pushed back his chair. He subscribed to all four morning papers—the Sun, the Herald, the Globe and Mail, and the National Post—and all four were arranged neatly on the carpeted hallway outside his front door.

He poured himself another cup of coffee before steeling himself to look at the papers spread out on a coffee table. The sensational story of the latest gruesome murder took up the entire front page of the Sun and the top half of the Herald's, and was the lead story in the Post, while being relegated to the bottom half of the front page in the Globe. The headlines in the two Calgary papers were identical, both screaming "Killer Strikes Again." The accompanying articles feasted on the prominence of the latest victim and the fact that she had been naked and mutilated when found. Predictably, the police came in for a lot of heat over "the killer in our midst" remaining at large and killing at will.

Chief Johnstone's press conference late yesterday morning had been to try to reassure an angry and frightened public. Johnstone was an able administrator and did a good job of running the Police Service, but he had an unfortunate propensity for the cliché. Chris winced as he read how "no stone would be left unturned" and the investigation was a "full court press." But the clichés couldn't hide the fact that an aroused citizenry was demanding an arrest.

Chris had spotted Phil Dummett at the press conference, standing at the back of the room. Had he written anything about the latest murder? Pushing his empty cup to one side, Chris flipped through the papers. Maybe he was saving up to do a piece for a magazine, Maclean's maybe. No, here it was. On the third page of the Post's front section. As usual with Dummett, it was more of an in-depth treatment rather than straight news reporting. It said all the appropriate things about the horror of the crime, emphasizing the achievements of the victim and the brilliant career that had lain before her. Then it took a different tack with a not unsympathetic discussion of the demons and grotesque fantasies that must be driving the killer to commit such terrible deeds. It was almost certain to be picked up and circulated by the news networks, which would be what Dummett was aiming for.

The guy could sure as hell write. As he folded the Post and placed it alongside his empty coffee cup, Chris remembered what it was that had been niggling at the back of his mind. Ken Patterson, one of his fellow Homicide detectives, was a friend of Dummett's. He wasn't familiar with all the details, but while Chris was still with FCSU Patterson had used Dummett to plant some information in the press. That information had led to a tip from a neighbour of the victim that eventually resulted in the arrest and conviction of a suspect. The fact that Dummett worked as a freelancer didn't hurt either. He wouldn't have to worry about his responsibility to his employer.

Maybe what had worked before could work again. Chris's lips tightened. For sure nothing else was working for them!

"Mr. Millard is in court," the legal assistant informed Chris. The court wouldn't be in session until ten o'clock, two hours from now. The criminal lawyer must have gone over to the courthouse early to prepare for the trial, checking his notes or conferring with his client. Chris knew as he rang off that this would not be the right time to interview Millard, who would be totally focused on what he had to deal with in court. The case he was engaged in had generated a lot of media attention. The accused, Millard's client, was a city employee, a low-level supervisor in the Planning Department. Reporting for work one morning, he had been called into the manager's office to be summarily fired.

Shaken and white-faced, according to his fellow employees, some of whom had been aware that he was to be dismissed that morning, he had rushed past their desks and cubicles and stormed out of the building. Less than an hour later he'd returned with a Smith & Wesson .38 concealed in his jacket pocket. Marching directly across the floor to the manager's office, he'd shot him twice in the chest as he sat behind his desk. Then he'd shot and killed the female clerk who had filed a complaint of sexual harassment against him. While his co-workers had watched in horrified silence, he'd placed the muzzle of the revolver against his own temple. But his index finger had refused to squeeze the trigger. He'd stood like that for a full minute, a look of disbelief on his face. Then his arm had fallen to his side, the gun pointing harmlessly at the floor.

His only hope lay in being found not guilty by reason of insanity. If the jury bought it, he would receive a more lenient sentence than the mandatory life sentence that would be imposed if he was convicted of murder. For the not-guilty plea to succeed, Millard would have to convince the jury that his client was in such a state of mind that when he shot his victims he was not capable of appreciating that what he did was wrong. Chris mentally shook his head. A tough case to make. Especially since the accused had shot only those two persons who, in his eyes, had wronged him. Chris decided to drop in on the trial toward the end of the morning session.

In the meantime, he would talk to Patterson about his plan to use Dummett to leak some information that might lead TLC into making a fatal error. Chris turned to look back at Patterson, sitting at his desk two rows to the rear. He was on the phone. Chris had worked with the boyish-looking detective on a couple of homicides back when Chris was with FCSU. Patterson's fair-haired and youthful good looks were somewhat diminished by thin lips that curved too far upward when he smiled. It always put Chris in mind of a crescent moon. "It's because Ken's upper lip is so short," he had once told Gwen when she'd remarked on it. Patterson was good to work with. A university graduate himself, he wasn't disconcerted in the least by Chris's law degree and Harvard MBA.

As soon as Patterson finished his phone conversation, Chris went back to talk to him.

"Phil's a good guy. Bright as hell. But"—Patterson looked dubious—"I don't know how he would react to this."

"He's done it before."

"Yeah. But we weren't completely upfront that we were using him. He was a little ticked off when he found out."

"You're still on good terms with him?"

"We're tight. Like I said, he wasn't happy about it, but he knows it was a bit of a feather in his cap as a journalist."

"Being part of this case would be a much bigger and brighter feather. And this time we would be upfront about what we had in mind. Appeal to his public spirit and sense of civic duty."

"I think he'd buy into that. You will be the reliable source, I assume?"

"Yeah. I'll give him something he can't resist. Try to set up a meeting for later this afternoon. Four o'clock. I've got some business over at the courthouse before then."

The white-haired orderly gave Chris a slight nod of recognition as he stood in the marble foyer of the courthouse, looking up at the list of cases and courtrooms scrolling down the TV monitor. R. v. Harris was in courtroom 302.

The Crown had elected to first try Harris with the clerk's murder. The trial had attracted a fair number of spectators. Three media types in the front benches had open notebooks on their laps; the remainder appeared to be friends and relatives of the victim and the accused. The dead woman, Chris remembered reading, was black, so the small cluster of black people sitting on the left side would be her family and supporters. A smaller group in the straight-backed benches on the other side of the aisle would be the family of the accused. It was like a church wedding, Chris thought as he took his seat, the bride's party on the left and the groom's on the right. He didn't know the presiding judge, a woman in her mid-fifties, seated on a raised dais under the coat of arms, the scarlet sash of a justice of the Court of Queen's Bench in vivid contrast to her black robe. The accused, a balding, inoffensive-looking man, blinking behind rimless glasses, sat in the prison-er's box, watching intently as his lawyer prepared to cross-examine a witness for the prosecution.

Scott Millard, a look of polite bafflement on his snub-nosed, deceptively guileless face, stood at the lectern, resting both hands on its slanted surface as he surveyed the witness. He was wearing a barrister's court gown of black cotton, or "stuff" as it was called in court circles, with a waistcoat of the same material, a wing collar, and white tabs. He was still young, as barristers go, which explained why, despite his brilliant record of court victories and being a Bencher, he had yet to be appointed Queen's Counsel. That appointment was sure to come with the next New Year's List, thought Chris, entitling Millard to wear silk.

The witness that Millard was gazing upon so benignly was a key one for the prosecution. He was a well-known psychiatrist who had testified in his direct evidence for the Crown that the accused, although distraught, clearly knew that what he had done was wrong. As the silence grew, the psychiatrist stroked his neatly trimmed beard and nervously pursed his lips in and out.

"Tell me, Doctor," Millard began in what sounded like a throw-away question, "how much time did you spend in the company of the accused, Mr. Harris?"

The witness hesitated, looked over at the table where the Crown attorney and his junior sat, and finally mumbled, "One hour."

"One hour! That's it?"

"Yes."

"No further questions." Scott Millard gave the jury a dumbfounded look and, shaking his head, resumed his seat at the counsel table.

A murmur, quickly silenced by a glare from the bench, rippled through the audience. The family of the accused whispered excitedly among themselves.

"Court will resume at two o'clock," the judge announced, gathering up her papers.

The lawyers' locker room in the basement of the courthouse was the best place to intercept Millard. The defence lawyer would have to go there to disrobe, even if that meant, as it often did, just exchanging his gown and waistcoat for a sports jacket. Signs were posted in the basement warning that it was a restricted area with access limited to lawyers and courthouse staff. No problem there. Chris Crane was a member in good standing of the Law Society.

Chris waited just inside the entrance to the large subterranean chamber, crammed with rows of green-painted lockers and echoing with the slam of metal doors and the banter of lawyers as they changed into civilian clothes. He was beginning to wonder if Millard was going to work through the lunch break when the lawyer walked in. He paused when he saw Chris and mouthed, "Me?", pointing to himself. Chris nodded and Millard said he would be with him as soon as he put his gown and briefcase in his locker.

"I realize you are in the middle of a trial and that this might not be a good time," Chris said as Millard, sans gown and briefcase, returned. "We could meet later if you like. But," he added, "we're in the early stages of the investigation, and time is crucial right now."

"I appreciate that. The trial is just about over. I'm just calling one witness, and closing arguments won't be until tomorrow. Let's go up to the cafeteria and grab some lunch while we talk."

"Let me guess," Chris said as he and Millard picked up their trays and joined the short queue of diners filing past counters laden with food. "Your witness will be a famous psychiatrist who will have spent considerably more than an hour with the accused."

"Considerably more." Millard laughed, helping himself to a slice of blueberry pie from the pastry counter. "Several days in fact."

"I don't understand the prosecution. Leaving their star witness vulnerable like that."

"It's not entirely their fault. I know the celebrated Dr. Murray. He's an arrogant, opinionated son of a bitch who thinks he's infallible. Besides, the prosecution has consistently dismissed the insanity plea as a non-starter from the get-go. They thought all they had to do was go through the motions," Millard said as they took their seats and started to eat.

"They've probably changed their mind after what you did to Dr. Murray. Or what he did to himself."

"You think so?" Millard gave Chris a keen look and, pleased by what he saw, smiled as he pushed his empty soup bowl to one side.

"I was watching the jury. They didn't like the good doctor. Juries don't appreciate being talked down to."

"I hope you're right. If they buy the insanity defence it will make one hell of a difference for Harris. Instead of spending the rest of his life in prison, he will be sent to a mental hospital for treatment. His case will be reviewed every year and he will be released if the doctors find that he's sane. However, that's not what you're here to talk about."

The criminal lawyer seemed remarkably composed about his former lover's murder. He might have been able to find relief by immersing himself in his work. Professionals could sometimes do that. The good Lord knew trial work was challenging enough to banish all thought of anything else. "I believe you were well acquainted with Adrienne Vinney?" Chris began.

"Well acquainted? That's one way of putting it, I guess. We had an affair. It lasted several months, but that's been over now for the better part of a year. Her call."

"How did you feel about that?"

"How do you think I felt? I loved her. More than I've ever loved anyone in my life. Or ever will again." Millard paused for a sip of coffee. "But I've come to accept that she was right. The relationship—I hate that word—would never have worked in the long run. Not with each of us having separate, totally demanding careers. Not to mention outsize egos." Putting down the cup, he looked Chris in the eye. "I gather she died a horrible death?"

"As you know, there's not much I can tell you about that. But it was pretty grim, all right."

"The thought of her in the hands of a serial killer makes my skin crawl." For the first time the lawyer let his emotion show. "Are you going to catch the guy? That's a stupid question, I know."

"We're doing our best. You can help by telling me if you know of anyone who might have held a grudge against Ms. Vinney. Anyone who might have wanted her dead."

Millard stared at the detective. "I thought we were dealing with a serial killer. A guy like that would only be interested in Adrienne as an object of his perverted fantasies."

"I'm sure you're right. But we can't afford to rule anything out. Not yet. Can you answer my question?"

"Only in the negative. As you probably know by now, Adrienne had a corporate practice. Not the kind where you're likely to make deadly enemies. Not like criminal law, where the people you deal with can turn on you. Usually, it's the police who made the arrest and the Crown prosecutors who are the targets, but we defence lawyers can come in for our share too. A client thinks that you've let him down, didn't do a good job of defending him, and so on. Blames you for his being in jail. It's not the same in the corporate world."

"But the stakes in that world can be very high. And corporate criminals land in jail too."

"That's true. But to answer your question, I don't know of anyone who had a hard-on for Adrienne. Not in that sense, anyway," he added with a bitter smile.

"What about the other sense? Have their been other men since you?"

"How in hell am I supposed to know that?" Millard flared. "I haven't been keeping tabs on her, for Christ's sake! I'm not some kind of stalker."

He doth protest too much, methinks. The Shakespearean line leapt into Chris's mind, but he spread his hands in a placatory gesture. "I have to ask these questions. You know that."

Looking somewhat shamefaced, Millard nodded, and Chris plowed on. "Would you tell me where you were Sunday night? Particularly from, say, nine o'clock on."

"At home. Alone. Working on cross. It was after midnight when I went to bed."

"It couldn't have taken very long to prepare your cross of Dr. Murray. It was admirably succinct."

"It was, wasn't it? As things turned out. But I could have gone into much greater detail if I thought it necessary. Anyway, the cross-examination I was working on had nothing to do with the Harris case. I'm representing the accused in a rape case that's set down for trial the week after next. The defence is that it was consensual sex." He bared his teeth in a ferocious grin that briefly transformed his bland young face. "I'm afraid the complainant is in for a rough ride when she takes the stand. The lady has quite a track record."

"I feel sorry for her already."

"That's an interesting point. I'll remember to ease up on her so I don't get the jury feeling sorry for her. You ever think of practising law?"

"I like what I do." Chris paused to finish off the last of his dessert, then said, "Since you were alone I guess there's no way of corroborating your story."

"It's not a story, Detective. It's the truth. But you're right. I don't have an alibi. I'm sorry about that. I know you people like to eliminate ‘persons of interest' as early as possible. But there it is." Stacking his empty plates and dishes on the tray, Millard got up from the table. "Sorry I couldn't be of more help."

"Appreciate your taking the time. Good luck this afternoon."