Body Blows (10 page)

I'm sitting in a parked car with the engine off, a box of cigars on the passenger seat, watching people walk by; couples, window shopping, holding hands. Most of them look content, perhaps even happy. I don't often procrastinate. My usual approach to a situation is to take care of things as soon as I can so they don't nag at me. Get it over with. Move on. But I'm dragging my feet on this one. Admit it. I don't want to face Leo.

Maurice is a busy man these days, arranging theatre tickets, group tours, special orders. He didn't have a lot of time to devote to my problem.

“I got the runaround from Ultra Limousine Service,” Maurice says. “They said any complaints would have to be made to Mr. Goodier who wasn't available. They don't give out information over the phone.”

“Even to their best customers?”

“I told them who was calling. They said they'd need some authorization. I told them their attitude was unacceptable. They said I should take it up with Mr. Alexander.”

“And you said the complaint was being lodged by Mr. Alexander?”

“Wrong Alexander,” says Maurice. “
Theodore
Alexander. His company.”

“Sorry, Maurice. I didn't know,” I say.

“Theo swung an exclusive contract with the old man a few years back. His name isn't on it. Somebody named Goodier's the manager, but Theo owns it, fleet, licence, garage, the works.” He holds his palms up and open, out of options, waiting for orders.

“I'll take it up with Theo, personally,” I say. “Thanks, Maurice.”

“How's the boss man doing?”

“He'll be okay.”

“Yeah, he's a tough old bird,” says Maurice.

“I can't talk to you now, Ms. Hiscox,” I say. “I've got a job.”

I can see Gritch behind his fern giving me an elaborate shrug. Not his fault. She was waiting in the lobby.

“So have I,” she says.

“At cross-purposes.” I start walking, just to be going somewhere. “Talk to the police.”

The mezzanine looks like a possible escape route — displays, boutiques, espresso bar. I seem to recall a Staff Only back door. I head up the wide staircase. The new carpet is striped. Admit it, I'm running for cover.

“I'm not interested in the investigation,” she says, matching my stride. She can probably run, too. “I want to know how he's dealing with it.”

“I can't help you,” I say.

“The last time it happened, he was a suspect, did you know that?”

Halfway up the staircase and nowhere to go. I can feel my shoulders slump. The first words through my brain are, oh Lord, now what?

“The last time
what
happened?” I manage to keep the gloom out of my voice. I think.

“The last time one of his women was killed.” She is standing in front of me. She has my complete attention.

Her smile is frosty, almost as cold as her eyes. “You didn't know? Well, not surprising, I suppose. It's not something he advertises.”

A party of seven happy travellers descends without a care in the world. I lower my voice. “If you have something to say, why don't you just say it?”

“Why don't you buy me an expensive coffee?” she suggests. This time she leads the way.

Hers is a tall latté. Mine is dark Colombian, double-double. I need the caffeine, and the sugar. We sit in a far corner by the window. Nobody really cares about us anyway. Still, she leans across the table, her voice conspiratorial. She's enjoying this.

“He ever mention his second wife? Lorraine?”

“I heard she passed away,” I say.

“He was almost arrested in connection with her ‘passing away,'” she says. “Did he tell you that?”

“What was the charge?”

“Oh, he was never charged. He had a good lawyer; the Calgary cops didn't have a case. But he was a suspect. Still is, far as I know. Case was never solved.”

“How did she die?”

“Yes, well that's the eerie part, isn't it? She was stabbed. In the back.” She has a sip. “And the front.” She has a dapper foam moustache. She'll probably twirl it in a minute.

“When was this?”

“Nineteen eighty-two. Spring of '82. Back when he was pretending to be a cattle rancher.”

“Ms. Hiscox,” I begin.

“Why don't you call me Roselyn?”

“Ms. Hiscox,” I reiterate most firmly. “None of this has anything to do with me. I have a hotel to watch over.

The police are in charge of the investigation and I've been told to keep my nose out of it.”

“You aren't curious?”

“Not even a little,” I say. “My general feeling is one of aggravation. Leo was with me when what happened, happened.”

“How convenient,” she says. “He managed to be somewhere else the other time as well.”

“Do you know anything the Calgary cops don't?”

“Not a thing. If he was involved he covered his tracks perfectly.”

“And I suppose all of that will be in your book.”

“All that, and all
this
as well,” she says, taking in the entire hotel with a sweep of her manicured hand. “You've got to admit, Joe, this is going to make a great final chapter.”

chapter nine

“T
he Presbyterians” aren't necessarily Presbyterian or even churchgoers. They are four competent men from Midnight Security that Rachel put on long-term contract shortly after most of my original staff disintegrated a year ago in an unforeseen cluster of calamities that saw two of them dead, and a third hired away by a less dysfunctional organization. The guy who's guarding the door to the Ambassador Suite is named Brian Bester and I know for a fact that he's not Presbyterian because I distinctly overheard him say “Jesus Mary and Joseph!” when he heard about Raquel. Strictly a Catholic expletive.

“He alone?” I ask.

“He's got a roomful, Joe,” Brian says. “Lawyers, mostly.”

“He eat today?”

“Food came up. I don't know how much of it he ate.”

“Okay. You want to take a break for a while? Check in with Rachel?”

“Sure,” he says.

“Oh, one thing,” I say, reaching into my pocket. “You know your way around a computer, right?”

“I guess,” he says modestly.

“Check this out for me, will you?” I untie the medal and hand over the MedicAlert tag.

Brian has a quick look. “Sure,” he says, “plugs right into a USB port.”

“Hattie has one,” I say. “She's diabetic. It'll have all kinds of information inside.”

“Anything in particular you want?” he asks.

“Just the name, Brian. I want to return it to its rightful owner.”

There are six people in the suite with Leo — four men, two women. I recognize one of them, Leo's lawyer, Winston Mickela. This must be a serious gathering; Winston doesn't cross the street for under five thousand dollars. Leo is sitting at a table covered with documents, surrounded by suits. He looks relieved to see me lurking in the doorway and excuses himself.

“Making any progress, Joseph?” He leads me into the second bedroom, the one he isn't sleeping in.

“This is something Raquel wanted me to pick up.” I hand him the package. “For your birthday.”

He smiles tightly. “Oh. My birthday.”

“A special order.”

He opens the lid and stares for a long moment at the special bands, and then suddenly he moans like a wounded animal. I recognize the sound. I once made a noise much like it when a very large man hit me in the kidney and drove me to my knees.

“Oh, God!” he says. He slumps onto the edge of the bed, holding the open cigar box on his lap. Tears are making dark spots on the light candela wrappers. “I told her I was too old.” His voice is choked. “It wasn't going to happen. She said she would say a prayer to some saint, the patron saint of impossibility or … something.”

I put my hand on his shoulder. “I'm so sorry.”

“Oh, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.” It's more a curse than a prayer.

He puts the box carefully on the pillow, excuses himself and goes into the bathroom. I can hear water running, coughing and nose clearing. After a few minutes he opens the door. His face is red as if he's been scrubbing himself with a coarse rag, his shirtfront is damp, his eyes are wide and unfocused.

“I don't want this getting out, Joseph.”

“It might be hard to keep it a secret, sir. The police will know. After the autopsy.”

“Autopsy? Oh, Christ. Is that necessary?”

“It's standard, with a homicide, exact cause of death, other factors.”

“Factors? What factors?”

“I don't know, sir. Factors. Like was she drugged, what exactly caused her … Factors.”

He goes back inside the bathroom and closes the door again. This time I don't hear any noises. After a minute he opens the door a crack.

“Joseph?”

“Sir?”

“Would you be kind enough to get me a drink?”

“Certainly.”

In the sitting room, the six of them are perched uncomfortably, looking at papers, twiddling thumbs. I cross to the bar and pour a stiff shot of Glenlivet into a hotel glass. As I start out, Winston Mikela stands up and reflexively buttons his pinstripes across his belly.

“Is he going to be long?” he asks.

“You'd have to ask him,” I say.

“There are still some papers that he needs to sign.”

I look around the room at the platoon of legal talent.

“I'm sure he'll get to them as soon as he's ready.”

“If you could mention that we're waiting?”

“Be happy to,” I say. They can spend the afternoon for all I care.

I find Leo sitting in a dark corner holding a corner of the drape aside to give himself a glimpse of overcast sky. He takes the glass with a nod of acknowledgement but doesn't drink right away.

“She made me go to that damn thing,” he says. “I said ‘who needs it?' She said I needed to get outside, meet some people again. I was … I would have been … happy to stay home. With her. Up there.” He drinks half the Scotch in a gulp and inhales deeply through his open mouth. He shakes his head. “She couldn't marry me. Her husband is still alive. She's Catholic. She was Catholic. She wouldn't get a divorce.”

“Did you know he was after her for money?” I ask.

“I thought that was taken care of,” he says. “I gave the bastard fifty thousand two years ago. Some postal box. Hell, I couldn't even find the son of a bitch. I tried. I hired some people, people in California. He was supposed to be living in Fresno. They couldn't find him. He cashed the damn cheque, I know that much.”

“Is it possible he showed up again, looking for more?”

“Oh, Christ,” he groans, sits on the bed again. “It started so slowly, Joseph,” he says. “Six years ago. I never expected it to grow into anything … anything meaningful.” His voice is low, filled with aching. “I liked the way she folded things. I thought it showed care and respect, not for me, respect for the material. I called the housekeeper, asked who the woman was looking after my place Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. They thought I was unhappy, thought I wanted her fired. I just wanted her assigned to my personal staff. Full time.” He shakes his head. “Vera Dineen thought it set a bad precedent.”

I can see tears on his face. “I could send those people away for you,” I say.

“No, no,” he says wearily. “I'd better finish. They want me to straighten out my will now that … things have changed. If her damned husband
should
show up they don't want him making messes.” He finishes the drink.

“Freshen that up, sir?”

“No, I'm fine. I just needed to pull myself together. Seeing those … She wanted it so much.”

“There's something else, sir. I haven't made a full report what with everything.”

“What is it?”

“Someone defaced the award you got last night.”

“Throw it in the trash.”

“The police have it now.”

“What for?”

“To see if there's any connection. It looks like the driver who went missing had it in his possession, for a while anyway.”

“Have you tracked him down?”

“No, sir. The police are looking for him. I suppose you know that Ultra Limousine Service is owned by your son.”

“It is now,” he says. “Used to be owned by a friend of mine.” He shakes his head. “Sounds like something Theo might arrange. Hell, pissing on the award sounds like something
I
might arrange.”

“So you don't think there could be any connection between that and what happened later?”

Leo stops and turns to me. “I don't think he hates me that much.” He has to steady himself for a moment before he can open the door. “If you find out differently you'll let me know.”

I leave Leo to sort out details of his estate, or whatever else he's doing, and head up to the penthouse. I deliberately avoided any mention of Roselyn Hiscox, and her story about Leo's late wife — Leo hasn't made it my affair and I'd prefer it to stay that way. My instructions are to do a few chores around the penthouse before the cleaning crew arrives. It's not a job I'm looking forward to but at least it's something I understand. The rest of it looks like a dog's breakfast.

The Crime Scene Unit has departed, and unless I get a look at the police report, which is unlikely, I won't know what pieces of evidence they've taken. To me the place looks the way it did two nights ago. It feels strange to be in here, on my own. My visits to the penthouse always felt like an audience with the Pope. I was welcome enough, invited to watch a baseball game, or have a beer, but no matter how hospitable the atmosphere there was never any doubt that I was a visitor from below decks.

And something else, something I couldn't put my finger on back then but am beginning to understand now, the unspoken, veiled, yet palpable atmosphere of family. This was Leo's home life. When I arrived he'd be settled by the fireplace, or watching a football game, or reading the
Financial Times
, to all appearances a self-sufficient bachelor. And yet, Raquel was always there, somewhere in the background, discreetly out of sight, running his bath, sorting his vitamins and supplements, looking after him.