Kill All the Judges (25 page)

“You didn't mention this to Mr. Pomeroy.”

“I remembered it later, thought it might be important. Shiny Shoes didn't look happy after that little discussion. He kind of rushed off with his wife. But maybe that's because I pissed on his Lamborghini.”

Wentworth made a note. Cud's constant smoking was getting to him, bringing on hiccups.

“Anyway, a martooni or two later, I'm out on the deck and the judge is directing traffic and here comes the mink with her, ‘Want to fire me up?' She had both my books, she's an appreciator of the arts.”

“Those are the ones you signed?” Hic.

“Yeah…” A hesitant look at Felicity. “Maybe we should continue this over a beer.”

“We are.”

“Down at the Pig.”

As Cud led him toward the Pigskin, a sports bar a few blocks away, he said, “I never told Felicity about how I got seduced by that dame. It's embarrassing.”

“I ain't been beat in twenty-eight straight,” said Two-Ton Tony, “and I ain't gonna let some rank amateur stop my run.” He racked the balls as Wentworth tossed back his whisky. “What's your wager, four-eyes?” Wentworth pointed to his gorgeous girlfriend. “Her. For the night.” He chalked his cue, broke the triangle, and the seven ball rolled into the right corner pocket. The rest would be easy…

The back end of a cue almost struck Wentworth's glass of ginger ale. “Hey, fat man,” Cudworth growled, “you're bothering my friend; watch what you're doing with that thing.”

Wentworth edged back in his chair, ready to bolt, while the hulk sized up Cud's try-me look, his biceps, his broken nose. Then the guy pretended nonchalance, as if this challenge to his manhood was beneath him, and retreated to the other side of the table.

Cud was into his fourth pint and becoming more garrulous, not to mention dangerous. Wentworth had seen his sheet, a minor record: two assaults, both in barrooms. Those, of course, were inadmissible evidence unless Cud took the stand, in which case the Crown could force them out of him. He was smiling and expansive now, celebrating, relieved that Mr. Beauchamp was on the case. “Like a grizzled gunfighter riding into town to take on the Cattleman's Association and the corrupt sheriff.”

They'd been here an hour, and Wentworth was worried about his Outback 310, chained outside the Western Front. He would leave after the game started, but he still had a few minutes to venture into unexplored territory.

He was careful in his phrasing. “Cud, I'm going to leave it to Mr. Beauchamp to ask what happened after you left the steam room. But let's talk about some possible scenarios.”

Cud leaned back, chewed on the matter a while, gave him a cagey look. “Okay, one logical theory has me passing out so I don't remember a fucking thing else. Another has Flo and me going up to the maid's room and screwing our tails off and not seeing anything. Or maybe we do see Whynet-Moir, hear him go, ‘Goodbye, cruel world,' and jump.” He put his finger up for another pint. “Game's starting.”

“I've got some research to do.” Wentworth rose.

Cud pulled him close. “Or how about this–maybe I stepped out to piss and witnessed some dude flip Raffy over the deck. There's a cold-blooded killer on the loose, I'm drunk and scared shitless, I race down to the garage to commandeer a car and run it into a tree 'cause I figure that'll bring the cops faster than a phone call.” He grinned and turned his attention to the set.

Wentworth's desk was piled with files and notes, and he was seeing double. It was almost midnight, the city tucking in, sad jazz riffs from below, a drunk bellowing, “I wanna hear ‘Temptation.'”

He tried to focus on his scribbled list of possible perps. A late addition to the cast: Terrence G. Whitson, a.k.a. Shiny Shoes, owner of the Lamborghini. Had some business deal going with Whynet-Moir. Specialist in offshore investments according to the Web. A file for him.

A file for the alleged scandal-silencing hit man from Ottawa. A file for Clearihue, the land-grabbing developer whose trial was aborted by Whynet-Moir's death. A file for Florenza. A file for her secret lover, if she has one. A file for suicide. A file for a serial killer specializing in judges. Seven possible perps if you include Cud.

The trial was only ten hours away, mind and body needed rest. He put his head on his desk, tried to summon the strength to rise, pack it in, get on his bike. He jumped when the phone rang next to his ear. An impaired driver, maybe–this was when they usually called, after midnight.

“Wentworth?” Brian Pomeroy's sad, haunted voice.

“Er, yes, it's me.”

“Someone else is going to die.”

 

THE BADGER

A
rthur sipped a takeout coffee early on a chilly Monday morning as he waited at the locked door of Pomeroy, Macarthur. He would have preferred to work from his old firm, Tragger, Inglis, with its massive library and its coven of gnomic researchers, but the files were in Pomeroy's office, and as much as he'd like to escape the gluey ubiquity of Wentworth Chance, he felt obliged not to desert him.

He unfolded the
Sun
to a third-page item announcing the start of the Brown trial, with “veteran criminal lawyer A.R. Beauchamp, Q.C.,” standing in for the stressed-out Pomeroy, under care at an unnamed facility.

Here was an account of the all-candidates debate. The NDP labour lawyer got top billing, her efforts applauded as vigorous and witty. That accorded fairly with what he'd seen on the late news. Margaret had been tentative, nervous, as if afraid of miscues.

But she'd been ready for Chipper O'Malley's low blow, a veiled reference to her acts of civil disobedience with a man charged with murder. “If it's Mr. Cudworth Brown you're referring to, he and I had drawn lots to be up that tree. We were fighting to save a beautiful wilderness area. What have you done to protect our natural heritage?” That televised quote didn't make it into the paper.

Finally the receptionist came, looking harried–the staff of this small, hectic firm was overworked. Arthur followed her inside.
Passing by Wentworth's office, he glanced within and saw the young man slumped over his desk, asleep. Before rousing him, he scanned his list of suspects. The notes concluded with an underlined quote, “Someone else is going to die.”

“Wentworth, we must be in court in an hour and a half.”

He woke with a start, stared in horror at his watch. “Oh, my God. I have to shower and dress.”

Arthur gave him the keys to the Chrysler. “I'll take a taxi. Meet me at court.” Wentworth flung several files into his backpack and fled before Arthur could ask him about that curious quote.

In Pomeroy's office, he found April Wu settling into work–she was still collating the mess of Pomeroy's scribbles, snippets, and printouts, some of which had been found in his dismal lair in The Ritz, as well as a backup disk. Here was a collection of paperback mysteries, several penned by one Hector Widgeon, a CD-ROM, and a well-thumbed how-to manual by the same obscure writer. Arthur sifted through the manuscript pages.

“Who might this Lance Valentine character be?”

“Mr. Pomeroy's version of a private detective. An over-glamorized version, if you wish my opinion.”

Any resemblance to others living or dead seemed not coincidental. Among the dead were Justices Naught and Whynet-Moir. Here was Detective Sergeant Chekoff. Cud Brown, and Flo LeGrand. Pomeroy himself. What an odd thing.

“April, please put me in touch with Brian's psychiatrist.” Arthur should actually visit him, check on his condition–though he had ample proof of his mind's chaotic state. Recovery of that opal ring was essential, his possessions must be searched.

“Is this of interest, Mr. Beauchamp? It was crunched up in a bottom drawer of his desk.” April handed him a crumpled page from the
Georgia Strait
, the entertainment weekly, dated October 11 last year. Caroline Pomeroy staring from the page, looking rather pleased with herself. An interviewer quoting this English professor's wry literary comments. Dr. Pomeroy being modest about
Sour Memories
, her award-winning collection. A reference to a reading planned for October 12 at the Vancouver Library. Then this: “Next evening she'll be dining at the lush waterfront manse of socialite Florenza LeGrand and Judge R. Whynet-Moir, one of four Literary Trust fundraisers planned in Vancouver that night.”

How had they got that wrong? But then he recalled Cudworth had been switched at the last moment from a similar event in Point Grey. The Literary Trust had obviously decided he and Caroline should trade places, and for good reason: Whynet-Moir had presided over the Pomeroy divorce.

He had to rush away to his cab. First stop was the Bank of Montreal tower–Tragger, Inglis occupied five upper floors, but Arthur's destination was Roberto's hair salon in the mezzanine. For three decades Arthur had entrusted his hair to his fussy old barber–Arthur was one of few who knew the secret of his baldness.

Roberto wasn't open yet, but on spotting Arthur behind the glass, he let him in and hurried him to the chair.

“You look like a sea monster risen from the kelp. We can only pray. The beard? Gone. I regret to say the geezer look is out this year. We prefer something
très distingué
.” Roberto, who in his former life was simple Bob the barber, liked his flowery French phrases, though otherwise knew little of the language. “The distinguished barrister, a power look. I used to do Whynet-Moir, did you know? Lovely hair. Silky. Met Ms. LeGrand.
Très magnifique!
”

She was to be the final witness, probably Friday. A call to the Crown confirmed she hadn't taken a Breathalyzer. She remained the wild card, with her self-incriminating silence. Arthur found no indication Pomeroy tried to contact her–doubtless, in any event, she would have slammed the door in his face.

A swivel of the chair brought Roy Bullingham into view, staring at his lathered face from behind the glass. Bully, they called him, Tragger, Inglis's last surviving original, ninety-one, still at his office nine to five.

“Ah, it is you,” he said, popping in. “Haven't seen you around much, Arthur. On holiday, were you?”

“Bully, I retired eight years ago.”

“Evidently not so. Nasty case. A high court judge. A home of good repute.”

“I shall not be using my old office.”

“Just as well, I can't imagine we'd want to be associated with this dismal business. Your Rabelaisian poet and his drunken goings-on.” He left.

“
Voilà
, a dapper statesman emerges from the ruins. I call this the British ambassador.”

Wentworth Chance was anxiously waiting for him at the curb, already gowned, looking confounded at the new, improved version of his idol. Arthur always felt more confident after his traditional pre-trial haircut. In his three-piece suit, he
felt
distinguished, ambassadorial. The transformation was setting in, from a doddering yokel to the lion of the courtroom. The process, vaguely magical but hinting of a dissociative disorder, tended to unsettle Arthur. It was if Stoney, say, had another life as a neurosurgeon.