Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island (41 page)

The front door opened. Lyle came out, walked down to the street, got into Noel's Honda. Kyra scurried around to the big car's front bumper and ducked low. The Honda started, backed past the driveway, stopped, turned onto the drive and parked directly behind the old car. She heard Lyle get out and head back inside. She slipped around to the passenger side and waited, knife in hand. The back door opened. Lyle, pushing a desk chair. Someone sitting there. Noel. She walked out from behind the big car. “Stop right there.”

Lyle whirled, his face a massive question. Then it warmed to a smile of pleasure. “Well well, the other half of Triple I.”

“Untape him, Lyle.”

“No hope of that.”

“Then I'll have to.” She stepped forward and raised her knife.

Noel saw Lyle step around the chair. In his hand too, a knife. He came toward her, she at him. He raised his knife and slashed forward. Noel shouted, “Look out!” but it came out as “Mmmnb o!” She had ducked away, thrown Lyle off-balance, lashed the knife at his free hand, missed. Lyle swung at her with his knife, she ducked under his arm and brought up her knife arm. Their forearms touched halfway between wrist and elbow. Kyra pushed. Her forearm angled below Lyle's, pushing back and up. He was swung to her right, off balance—

From out of nowhere a pickup truck turned into the driveway, headlights illuminating the battle scene. Before Kyra could take advantage of the moment, before Lyle could regain his balance, Jerry Bannister leapt from his truck. “Hey! What the hell's going on here?”

Lyle said, “Jerry, take the knife away from this woman.”

Jerry stared at Noel, at Kyra. Then at Lyle. “Her?”

“Do as I say!”

But Jerry didn't have time to. Three RCMP squad cars and two sedans swept in behind the pickup and across the front of the house. A bullhorn voice called, “Okay everyone, drop your weapons.” Mounties everywhere. Albert Matthew personally cut Noel's tapes.

• • •

Albert took statements from Kyra and a shaky Noel. They left, Noel in his Honda. “I'm fine, I'm okay.” Kyra followed in her rental. No, Noel was not okay. But he was driving adequately. They parked, they went upstairs.

“I don't think I'm up for eating much tonight,” Noel said.

“Neither am I. But a Scotch would taste good.”

“I have a fine single malt.” He tried to laugh but his voice trembled. “I didn't get one earlier.”

Kyra said, “Huh?”

Noel told her what she'd missed, Lyle's full spiel. By the time he was done his voice was stronger. “I find it hard to believe that the Lyle I had to dinner was the same Lyle as today's.”

“Gonna take some time to sift through all the shit in Sempken's psyche,” Kyra said.

“I guess. How about you and Tam Gill's shit?”

“I'll get over it.” She nodded. “I've started.”

“Damn good thing Albert was following Bannister's truck.”

“You didn't trust me to save you?”

“Always good to have reinforcements.”

They talked around and around it till Noel said, “One down, one to go. We still have to get out from under Gill's threat.”

Kyra agreed. “You know, it occurred to me. The best thing we have on our side is exactly what they disparage.”

“Which is?”

“They think we're small time. Not even mosquitoes. Gnats.” She sounded only a little defensive. “They think we're cowering, heads under blankets. But if we think of smallness as a power, kind of like Tam Gill's karate, going with the force of the approach—”

“Which means we first have to get Rabinovich out of our heads. We concede we can't touch him at the level he's operating on.”

“I'm in favor.” Kyra sipped. “For now. Pisses me off but it's more important to defuse Tam's threat. How?”

Noel raised his glass. “We brainstorm. As usual.”

By the time they quit they'd figured how to deal with the Marchands and Tam Gill. Kyra called Eaglenest.

NOEL PARKED IN the ferry lot. On board, he and Kyra stayed in the car. The grey morning sky was their excuse, just too much cold autumn. Noel wore his black jacket, Kyra her Gore-Tex. She hoped she looked okay. Looking okay to Tam was important, today more than ever.

They talked in monosyllables. Talking more would expose tight nerve ends held in place by leftover anger. Best way to take on the Marchand-Gills, keep an edge honed.

The ferry slowed, approached the ramp, and slipped into place. Foot passengers disembarked, front cars off. Noel said, “Something we ought to do.”

“What?”

“Figure what we don't know.”

Kyra sighed. “Right.”

Noel checked his watch. “Ten-twenty.”

“We have ten minutes. So we keep them waiting, so what.”

Ahead, their line of cars started to move. Noel turned on the engine, drove up the ramp, onto the island. Right turn after the parking lot, up the hill, back down to the water. He stopped at the pullout and turned off the engine.

“Okay,” said Kyra. “What don't we know.”

“If Rabinovich went back to Eaglenest.”

“It didn't sound like it, when I spoke to Rose.” Kyra smiled, mock-grim. She'd begun practicing it, a smile of dismissal, while in bed, in the mirror brushing her teeth, through breakfast. She had to carry the smile to Eaglenest. To keep the nausea away.

“If he is, we chicken out and go home.”

“How will we know?”

“That big black Lexus. If it's there—”

“Maybe it was a rental, too.”

“Any unfamiliar car, okay?” Noel thought a moment. “What else? Okay, we don't know how many of the paintings Rabinovich bought are forgeries.”

“Hmmmph. Doesn't matter. It's ace of trumps either way. What else don't we know.”

Noel stared at the ocean, small waves riding the surface toward shore. “Lots.”

“Does it matter?”

“Who knows?”

She laughed, her stomach tight.

Six minutes later they turned into the Eaglenest grounds. A minute to park. Noel grabbed his attaché case from the back seat. Walking to the door he glanced at his watch: 10:35. He reached for the knocker as the door opened inward. Artemus Marchand, stony, silent, severe.

Marchand stepped aside. Noel passed through the doorway. Kyra followed. Noel said, “Let's try to make this nice and simple.”

Marchand followed them to the living room. Rose sat in her wheelchair, her back to them. Tam, waiting but unclear for what, got up from the couch. Kyra noted a sparkle in his eye, a tautness to his movement. Consistent ability to control his image, technique on all levels.

“Hello, Kyra,” he said, smiling just for her.

“Hello, Tam.” She gave him the practiced smile. It held.

Noel said, “Please, everyone, have a seat.” He sat in the middle of the couch, the case on his lap. Rose turned her chair. Kyra sat opposite Noel.

“And in whose house do you think you are?” Artemus muttered, and sat.

Tam, bemused, glanced from Noel to Kyra, again to Noel and remained standing.

Noel held his eye. “And Rabinovich? Back in Vegas, is he?”

Tam said, “He didn't leave us his schedule.”

“No, I imagine he wouldn't.” Noel took a file folder from his briefcase, opened it, glanced at the top sheet. “What I'm sure we all want,” he looked from one to the other to the other, “is a win-win situation. Victories in silence. But silence about what? Well, silence from us about your activities. No. I'll call them what they are. Your crimes.”

Kyra held back the smile. It would look nervous now. With good reason.

Noel checked page three in his file. He looked over to Rose. “The growing of poppies for the purpose of manufacturing opium. The sale of this opium—”

Kyra noted Rose's small dismissive outward hand gesture.

“—and the transport of opium across international borders. With a business partner in Las Vegas,” casual, Noel, no proof here, “organizing and running an establishment with the intent of sale and use of such opium.” He looked again from one to the other. “Activities to keep hidden.”

Rose said, “We don't sell opium.”

“Ah,” Noel nodded. “You give it away.”

“That's none of your business.”

“No? But you have to tell us. How else will we know what to keep silent about?”

Artemus said, “You're being ridiculous.”

Kyra turned to Rose. “Rabinovich overpaid for the oils. But he did pay full value for each unit, painting plus frame plus narrow tube insert.”

Tam raised his eyes from his fingers and stared at Kyra. “Prove it.”

Noel shook his head. “We don't need to. In fact, to keep our side of the agreement, we don't want to. Oh, we could prove it. It's all in this deposition—”he raised the file for them to see—“plus the bills of lading, plus the photos we have of your studio, Tam, plus another roll, Rose—”

“My lab.” Rose rolled her chair to Noel's knees. “You did break into my lab.”

“Sorry, Rose. But we didn't contaminate anything. We wore gloves and masks.”

“You son of a bitch.”

“Yes, well, these things happen when you dabble in opium.”

“You stupid little people.” She glared at Kyra. “Both of you, ignorant dwarves.”

“Ignorance,” the mock-grim smile now on Kyra's lips, “is where you find it. Like in casinos. A tax on the poor. Way worse than selling opium to the rich. Which is a crime. But casinos are criminal. Except not illegal. Tell me about ignorance.”

“Interesting, if a touch pious.” Artemus faked a yawn. “Now tell us please, why did you ask to meet with us?”

Noel leaned forward, his eyes again raking his audience. “You people have committed some serious crimes. Tell me,” he looked at Artemus, “does Peter Rabinovich enjoy buying forged paintings at the price of originals?”

Artemus grasped the arms of his chair. “How dare you!”

“Yes,” said Tam, “how dare you.” He turned and caught Rose's glance. He shrugged at the inevitable. He sat.

“All these paintings have been authenticated. Tam was there when they were authenticated. Tell him, Tam.”

Did Marchand really not know at least some were forgeries? How about that.

Rose turned to Tam. “Yes, each was authenticated. Tell them.” She spoke quietly.

Tam said, “By the highest authority.”

“Except we know where they were painted, and by whom.”

“Didn't you hear him?” Artemus half rose from his chair. “They're authentic. Each one.”

“Artemus,” said Rose, “let him talk.” She sighed.

Artemus sank back, his face alone asking his questions.

“Thank you.” Noel's gaze flowed from one to another. “The crimes, then. The forging of oil paintings, using some clever masking techniques to obfuscate the possibility for dating the work. Selling these forgeries, thereby profiting from the proceeds of a crime—”

Artemus said, “Rose. What is this man talking about?”

Without turning her head Kyra caught a glimpse of Tam. His own smile was there still, but now unmoving, stuck, forgotten. His eyes ignored Noel, finding much greater fascination with the knuckles of his right hand, his painting hand.

Rose rolled her chair to Artemus' side. “I'm sorry, Artemus.”

“But—but he's lying—”

“He's making a point, Artemus. He's leading us somewhere.”

“But Rosie, they're not forgeries.” He looked from Rose to Tam. “They really aren't.”

Tam said, “Oh Artemus, do shut up.”

Artemus stood. “Tam, you brought them from all over—Spain, Germany, the Ukraine—”

“I painted some of them, Artemus. Pretty good, eh? Pretty damn good, I'd say. And these people know how good they are. Don't you, Kyra?”

“Pretty damn good, Tam,” she said.

Artemus walked slowly to Tam's chair. “You painted them, Tam? Some of them?”

“Only thirteen. The rest are fully authen—”

Artemus' arm flew up and around and his fist caught Tam behind the right ear. Tam, unprepared for the first blow, caught Marchand's wrist before the second landed, directed the thrust, threw him to the floor and catlike pounced to deliver a return blow. But Rose had already positioned her chair and with her Extendiarm grabbed her brother's shoulder. “Stop it!”

Slowly, slowly, Artemus drew himself to his feet. He stood hunched over, staring at his hand. He tried to flex his fingers. His hand wouldn't close. He looked at Rose.

“Come sit, Artemus.”

“Rose. They aren't forgeries. They can't be.”

Rose nodded, a little smug. “Thirteen are, Artemus.”

Again his hand leapt up and slapped Rose across her left cheek. She gasped. Kyra was on her feet but Artemus had pulled back. He slumped down in his chair. Kyra reached her arm out to Rose. Rose flicked her away.

“Shall I go on?” Noel asked.

Artemus' head again began to shake. “But this makes no sense, none at all. Barnabé knows a forgery when he sees one—” his voice broke, “when—when he—sees—”

Rose turned to Noel. “What do you want?”

“The crimes you committed, you have to pay for them.”

“Don't try it,” said Tam, no smile now. “You talk to the Mounties, no telling what happens to your friends and relatives.”

Yep, a nasty hunk of business. Kyra did enjoy seeing the little muscle on the right side of Tam's neck spasming. Not a conscious technique, she was pretty sure. “Did Noel mention speaking with the RCMP? Much better to keep this among ourselves.”

“Go on.” Rose sat straight in her chair, suddenly taller. She held her hand over her cheek.

“Here's the deal. You've committed acts you'd prefer the Mounties and the FBI didn't know about. We'd rather not send you to rot in jail, particularly at the taxpayer's expense. Maybe we can find another solution. A kind of alternative justice.”