Mindfield, p.12
Mindfield, page 12
The elevator opened onto a hardwood forest, burnished oak floor-to-ceiling, thickets of ficus benjamina in pots. Two receptionists, both busy, a half dozen businessmen and women with briefcases waiting, tapping feet, jotting notes on pads, reading the Financial Times. Handsome lawyers and secretaries made up to look like department store mannequins drifting about in the background, as Kellen, in jeans and military coat, waited at the receptionist’s desk.
It seemed a long way from The Main, from murder.
Monsieur Beaulieu came out personally, dapper and ski-tanned, gray-templed in pin stripes, a man you’d confidently bring your contracts to. Kellen followed him to his office.
“I primarily work with wills and estates,” Beaulieu said, “and therefore two varieties of clients. Those who contemplate their deaths, and those who are death’s benefactors.”
Kellen took a seat in front of the desk, which was polished and ordered, a single file on the varnished desktop. The view from the window was north; the awakening sun shone sallow and cold on the mountain. Alphonse Bague, who was waiting for him outside, the meter turned off for his best client, had translated Celsius into Fahrenheit for him this morning: twenty-six below.
Beaulieu sat, clasped his hands, looked at Kellen directly. He spoke accentless English.
“I knew Bob Champlain from law school. University of Montreal. Not well. He was, if I may be blunt, a slackass. I used to lend him my notes. He seemed on his way to becoming a fringe person, and I think he succeeded. Coffee, ah . . . Detective?”
“No thanks.”
Beaulieu consulted his file. “He was here on an appointment a month ago. Seventh of January, eleven-fifteen. He was alone. I have never met Mr. Sloukos. He presented me with two sealed envelopes. Inside, he said, were wills which he had drawn himself. Wills which I was not invited to read, and which remained in these envelopes until yesterday.”
He passed them to Kellen. Standard long envelopes, the name of Champlain’s law firm stamped on the top left corner. Typed on the face of each: TO BE OPENED ONLY UPON THE DEATH OF . . . In the one case Robert Walter Champlain, and in the other, Leo Dimitry Sloukos.
“Mr. Champlain told me I had been appointed to administer their estates. We talked a little. Whatever happened to so and so. A bit of politics, horses, we both enjoy the track. He left.”
The lawyer was good, Kellen thought, straightforward, economical, knew the value of time.
“I usually don’t go into the office Sunday. But I was intrigued by the coincidence of these two violent deaths. The wills were inexpertly drawn, but sufficient, in standard form, witnessed, and notarized, gifting everything — almost everything — to their respective next of kin.”
Beaulieu retrieved the envelopes and removed the wills, unfolded one, and opened it.
“Each will, however, contained a similarly odd bequest. I thought about where my duties lay before calling you. I wanted to do the right thing.”
Kellen nodded. He liked him doing this. The right thing.
Beaulieu placed horn-rimmed spectacles on his nose, and read: “‘I bequeath the contents of a certain safety-deposit box, numbered 59, at the Essex and Edinburgh Trust, offices on Saint-François-Xavier St., etc. etc., to a certain Leo Dimitry Sloukos, his address, etc.’” He looked up over his glasses. “Sloukos directed a similar legacy in his will, making Monsieur Champlain his beneficiary of the contents of that same deposit box. But each named the same alternate legatee.”
He read on. “‘In the event that the said Leo Dimitry Sloukos predeceases me, or dies within thirty days of my death, whichever event shall first occur’ — rather tautologic, isn’t that? ‘then I bequeath the said contents of the safety-deposit box jointly to the news editors of La Presse and The Globe and Mail.”
He raised his eyes above his glasses, inquiring what Kellen thought about that.
“I, as solicitor for the estate, am instructed forthwith to render jointly unto the said news editors a key to such deposit box, in the event such be found among the deceased’s effects.”
He looked Kellen square in the eye. “Of course if no key is produced, the box will have to be drilled open. That could take several weeks, several trips to court. I probably have an immediate responsibility to contact the newspapers, however. I can wait at most twenty-four hours.”
Kellen didn’t want the media tampering with this. The wrong headline — just mentioning these wills — and the bad guys will be back over the border, out of reach. J.C. Beaulieu seemed to share Kellen’s wavelength, was hinting at courses of action.
“I, of course, don’t know if you found such a key during your searches. Or how hard it would be to get a search warrant.”
“For a company called Essex —”
“Essex and Edinburgh Trust. Saint-François-Xavier.”
Kellen nodded. “Will you copy your file for us, Mr. Beaulieu?”
“My pleasure.”
When Kellen walked outside onto the plaza and into the brittle cold, his eyes were pulled north, up the street, Cathédrale becoming Metcalfe, Metcalfe becoming McTavish, a narrow defile through the heart of the city, Coldhaven Manor perched high at the end of it, watching him, raptorial, predacious.
He climbed into Alphonse Bague’s cab, and felt the heat pouring from the Chrysler’s big, pumping fans. Alphonse was bundled small in a big jacket, listening to the weather report.
“Coldes’ day of Feb’r’y since fifteen year. Tomorrow, he say world record for Montreal, ’nother cold front comin’ from Bafflin’ Island, it gonna sit on top the one we got a’ready here. Were to, Lieutenant?”
“Bafflin’ Island.”
Alphonse turned to look at him.
“Station Twenty-six, Phonse.”
Monday, ten a.m.
Kellen fed some commands to the Monster, which ignored them and blinked its cursor, tauntingly.
Beside him, a young woman detective was taking statements from two of the dancers at the S’Extasie. She was putting everything right into the computer, fingers whizzing expertly over the keyboard.
“Wrong command or file name,” Kellen’s computer chided.
He gave up for a while, and phoned Sarah’s office again. Still in court. He said he’d try later.
Raolo came in and dropped the little safety-deposit key on Kellen’s desk. It was tagged. Separately tagged was the key locator, with its chimes and dancing girl.
“Talked to commercial crime. They say Essex and Edinburgh Trust is an absolutely straight vieille compagnie in Vieux Montréal. I phoned them, got the assistant manager. Thank you but no thank you. Return with a court order. Won’t even confirm who signed for the safety deposit.”
“Arrest him for obstruction,” Kellen said.
“Yeah, and we’ll beat the shit out of him in the wagon.” He sat beside Kellen, stared at the key. “So what do we do, get a search warrant?”
Borko, from above, “Hey, you guys, I want you to meet someone.”
“A warrant will take fucking forever.” He returned to his computer.
“Hey, Kellen, Raolo.”
Kellen glanced up: the bad news giraffe, wearing a crisp, ironed blazer. Beside him, a handsome black man in a three-piece suit, puffing on a big black pipe. Forties, gangly, loose, played wide receiver for Michigan State.
“Who’s that guy up there with Captain Queeg?” Kellen said, banging several times at the Enter key. The Monster stubbornly withheld its secrets.
“I’d guess FBI,” Raolo said. “Borko must’ve called the Yanks in.”
“Wonder if he’s brought some bumf on this Roy Salvador; hope he’s got some mug art.” He stared at a screenful of unintelligible figures. He was aware of Borko bounding down the stairs.
“Developments,” Borko said as he entered the detective area.
“I wish you’d get off our case, Eugene. Like literally.”
“I’m off your case. So are you. There are some matters of more
local moment which have to be dealt with. I’d like you gentlemen to close some of your waste-of-taxes files before you go on strike tonight.”
“Okay, what’s up, Eugene?”
“They’re no longer in Canada.”
“We’re grateful for your help, Raolo and me, we really are.” He went back to his keyboard, rapped out another command. “However, I think we know what we’re doing.”
“It appears that you don’t.” Borko peered over his shoulder at the screen, examined Kellen’s pathetic attempts to key into an information bank.
“The firearms registry won’t let me in,” he said, sullen, beaten.
Borko daintily tapped out some fresh commands. “You seem to have modemmed into the Chicago grains futures market. You know, a police officer who refuses to catch up with the times . . . I didn’t see you gentlemen at the last data management seminar . . . There.”
The screen told them the Mitchell derringer found in Leo Sloukos’s stiffened hand had been stolen a year ago from a dentist’s office in Miami.
“And lo,” said Borko, “a hot gun. I know a man who carried one of these little fellows in his boot. Shot off his big toe with a hollow point. Hugh, come in here.”
The black man was at the doorway, looking in, interested but not pushy. He padded softly toward them.
“Special Agent Hugh McVeigh, FBI. Detective Lieutenant Kellen O’Reilly. Detective Raolo Basutti.”
“Hope you fellow porkers don’t think I’m butting in.” Gruff, friendly voice.
“Agent McVeigh’s been tracking your killers, gentlemen.”
Kellen studied McVeigh. A half-lidded stare, not soft, maybe deadly. Something about him. Perhaps not a receiver, a linebacker. His pipe had gone out, and he was holding it by the bowl like a gun held upside down, his index finger where a trigger might be.
He said, “Rudy Meyers is ex-private eye with a heavy Mafia connect who’s been using the Contra net to trade arms for toot.”
“He got a face we can look at?” Kellen asked.
McVeigh showed him some head shots. Moon-faced man with a tight smile.
“Works with the family d’Ambrozzio,” McVeigh said. “Miami. They hired a lawyer and an accountant here in Montreal —”
“Our deceased victims,” said Borko.
“— to set up a dummy business importing South American jewelry. Nose jewelry.”
“They have a man inside, Kellen,” Borko said.
McVeigh looked sharply at Borko, a complaint, the captain talks too much.
“They had to get the green light from some capo here in Montreal,” McVeigh said.
“Johnny Ronce,” Borko said.
“Who turned them down, so the d’Ambrozzios never used the Company, and reneged on the fees to set it up. The lawyer and accountant came up with a real great idea: blackmail. They’re now in the great eternal beyond. And here we are.”
“In Station Twenty-six,” Kellen said.
“Yeah.” McVeigh looked around. “Odd kind of shop.”
Thumbing more tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, his eyes drifted across the room, settling on the legs of one of the dancers from the S’Extasie. Kellen quickly slipped the bank deposit key into his pocket. He looked at Raolo, and saw his partner had caught the move.
“And where are these boys now?” Kellen said.
“Stateside. We have them in Lauderdale. They flew back last night, the four that are left.”
“You have it, gentlemen,” Borko said. “They’re no longer in our jurisdiction. Matter goes over to the Feds: RCMP and the FBI. Agent McVeigh and I will work out the transfer of exhibits.”
Kellen got up and went into the little bathroom adjoining the homicide offices. He splashed water on his face and listened to Borko, his tone effusive now.
“By the way, about tonight, Kel. We can’t leave the station unmanned for your little strike. There’ll be a skeleton crew?”
“No, Eugene.”
“I’ll drop back when you’ve completed your ablutions.” He stalked off.
Kellen worked up some lather and began, carefully, shaving his grizzle of whiskers and his mustache. When he came out, toweling his face, Raolo was staring at him.
“Where are Champlain’s effects?” Kellen asked.
“Kellen,” Raolo warned.
“Get the car.”
Monday, eleven a.m.
In the cruiser, driving to Kellen’s, Raolo said, “So maybe Johnny Ronce lied about it’s not Mafia. He’s a cagey old bugger. He coulda been having us on.”
“I don’t think he lied. Neither do you.”
“Okay, so the FBI guy has bad information.”
“Something to that effect.”
“I don’t like this, Kel.”
“You don’t have to stay in.”
At home, Kellen showered and put on his most conservative suit, gray with a banker’s stripe, mothballed for weddings and funerals. It felt good to be in a suit again; he felt substantial and solid. He slipped on his slate-green Piaget tie and rolled his ponytail up and pinned it, and set a felt porkpie hat on his head.
At his desk, he copied Champlain’s signature about thirty times, Raolo watching, not saying anything. Dissatisfied, Kellen got his partner to rig up a professional-looking sling for his right arm.
From the station’s exhibit locker Raolo had signed out Champlain’s wallet and the jewelry box taken from his safe — first removing, on Kellen’s instructions, the small cut diamonds and braided gold chain.
Brass, seven inches square, the box lay open now on Kellen’s desk. In it, on a nest of cotton batting, was the ruby pendant necklace, which, assuming the bright red stone was a ruby, must be an item of considerable worth. Kellen presumed it had been stolen and fenced to the lawyer.
He stuffed the box into the big side pocket of his greatcoat.
Monday, eleven forty-five a.m.
Essex and Edinburgh Trust was in the old financial district, a British Empire leftover, early nineteenth century, uncomfortable with its neighbors, the new boutiques and artists’ lofts and fast fooderies in the touristy, preserved old city.
Sooty concrete pillars outside, sedate within, an eerie hush sifting through the air like dust.
Kellen oriented himself as he stood at a wall counter, and watched a woman, apparently the safety-deposit clerk, open a massive steel door and admit an elderly couple to the vaults. She disappeared into it for a minute then re-emerged. Bifocal half-glasses were hanging by a strap from her neck. A spinster. The Essex and Edinburgh has been her only lover. Twenty years of toil and loyalty.
She’d probably know all the regulars. But try not, gain not. He swung boldly toward her desk, smiling.
“Champlain, R.W., I have a safety-deposit box,” he said. A quiet, library voice, and a faked French accent. He was holding the brass jewelry box in his left hand, the one without a sling.
She looked at him severely.
“Do you have identification, Mr. Champlain?”
Fumbling with his good arm into his inner suit pocket, he dropped the jewelry case as he brought out a wallet. The case fell onto her desk, opening. The ruby pendant necklace spilled from it.
“Oh, dear,” she said, starting.
“Clumsy with this damn shoulder.” He stood there awkwardly, his wallet open. She picked up the necklace.
“My mother’s,” Kellen said. “Promised I’d keep it safe.” He laughed.
She softened. “This is quite lovely.”
“I bought it for her,” he said. “She’s . . . well, she has Alzheimer’s. She . . . loses things. We wanted a secure place for this.”
He opened the wallet in front of her, Champlain’s wallet. Minus the driver’s license with the picture. Law Society membership card prominent. He hoped she hadn’t read the newspapers closely.
She glanced at the identification while placing the necklace back in the case, then pulled out Champlain’s signature card from a file drawer.
She looked the card over, then put it in front of him and handed him a pen. He bent low, scribbling the signature with his sling arm, performing with difficulty.
He stole a quick glance at the notations on the card. Rented jointly by Champlain and Sloukos. Opened three years ago. Touched since only once, last November. They’d signed in together; maybe they didn’t trust each other alone with whatever instrument of blackmail it held.
Kellen followed her through the metal jaws of the vault. It seemed homey inside, leather upholstered chairs, flexible-necked lamps pouring pools of gold on felt-covered tables.
At one of those tables, across from a long wall of safety deposits, the elderly couple — white-haired, stooped, maybe in their eighties — were examining papers, certificates, smiling, chatting softly.
The vaultkeeper inserted her key into one of the two locks, and turned it and withdrew it.
“You can assure your mother her valuables are safe at the Essex and Edinburgh.”
She smiled, showing long teeth. Kellen smiled. She left.
He put the key in the second lock, and turned it and heard the deeply satisfying clunk of tumblers falling.
He slid the box from its long rectangular hole and carried it to a table, gently, almost lovingly, and raised the door.
Inside: one item. A five-inch-wide cylindrical film canister, taped shut. Has weight to it.
A little movie. Okay.
Raolo knew about this stuff, he did volunteer work for the force in local school auditoriums.
He placed the canister into the jewelry box with the necklace, a snug fit, and he replaced the empty deposit box.
He nodded to the nice old couple and walked from there. As he signed out, he talked with the vault clerk about the cold weather.
From Eddie Comacho’s newly rented Land Cruiser — a four-wheel-drive because snow had been forecast — Eddie and Mick Crowder watched Kellen walk from the building toward Raolo’s cruiser, removing the sling, transferring the brass box to his left hand.
