Scammed (15 page)

Not trusting himself to speak, Greg just shook his head.

“Can you believe it, on Riverbottom Road—not a hundred yards from your folks' front gate.”

“No kidding!”

“Of course, we didn't know the significance right away. It was only later, when we started to go though the guy's stuff and found your ID, that I remembered your story and the Cowichan River connection. So, being a naturally curious guy, I looked up your folks' address and, bingo, it was almost exactly where the guy's car was. Now
that's
a coincidence, wouldn't you say?”

Greg nodded numbly. “Incredible.”

“I mean, our guy leaves his car near where someone must have topped him. And that place is connected to one of his victims: yourself. So you see, I have to ask: do you have any information at all that could make this any less of a coincidence than it seems?”

Ever since the revelation about the car, Greg's mind had been churning. How could he have been so stupid? Christ, he had even seen the dead man's keys while searching him. But not until this moment had he given thought to the now painfully obvious question: how had he got himself there? Now, he mustn't let that mistake sink him entirely. The best thing, he decided, was to stick as close to the truth as possible. Taking a deep breath, he said, “Perhaps this guy . . . by the way, does he have a name?”

“Eric Molinara. No harm you knowing that, I guess.”

“Perhaps this Molinara went there with the idea of robbing my parents' house.”

The sergeant's eyebrows lifted. “
Was
it robbed?”

“No. Otherwise I'd have reported it. What you may not know is that my dad is—was—a pretty famous artist. Because of that, and the way my mum passed so quickly after he did, there was a lot about it in the papers. Maybe this Molinara guy read it, figured the old man was rich, and that the house would be empty and worth robbing.”

“And was it?”

“I told you, no.”

“I mean, worth robbing?”

Greg gave what he hoped was a realistic chuckle. “Goodness, no. My folks were very old-fashioned. They didn't have any of the electronic stuff that I understand thieves usually go for. Not even a TV set. And as I told you, they'd already been scammed out of most of their money. They certainly didn't keep any in the house.”

“But you said your dad was famous.”

“Yes, so someone might have thought he was worth robbing. But, believe me, Sergeant, if the guy
had
got into the house, all he'd have found was a bunch of paintings my dad couldn't sell.”

“Why not?”

“Because his work is out of fashion. In Canada, being famous and being rich can be two very different things. The irony is that now that my dad's dead, his work is quite valuable again. But no ordinary thief could know that, and it wouldn't do him any good anyway.”

“I see what you mean. So—you've no idea why Eric Molinara's car was found where it was?”

“None at all.”

“Fair enough. And you didn't notice anything strange at any time? Like—say—odd characters hanging about?”

“No. But you need to understand, I was hardly ever there. Even now that I'm clearing the place out for sale, I can only make it on weekends.”

The sergeant nodded, opened a desk drawer and took out a photo, which he slid across the desk. “Ever see this guy?”

Greg willed his hand to remain steady as he picked up the photograph. It was a mug shot of his intruder, a few years younger, posed stone-faced for the police camera, but undeniably the man with whom he'd had the fatal meeting. “This is Molinara?”

“Yeah—minus his extra head ventilation. Well?”

“Never laid eyes on him. Sorry.”

“You sure?”

Greg risked a dry smile. “Doesn't look like someone you'd easily forget. Yes, I'm sure.”

Tremblay shrugged. “That's it, then. It was a long shot, but you have to follow every lead, even if they go nowhere. In my business, we like to say there's no such thing as a coincidence, but that's bullshit. God knows why Molinara got whacked, or who put him in the river, but it clearly had nothing to do with you. Hell, maybe the clown shot himself. That's what the Mounties think, though God alone knows why he'd do it in a river. Probably we'll never know. Anyway, thanks for coming in.”

“That's okay. Sorry I couldn't be more help.” Trying to hide his relief, Greg stood up. “Is that all, Sergeant?”

“Yeah,” Tremblay said. “Oh, there's just one other thing I should tell you.”

“Yes?”

“Apart from the usual spiel about getting in touch if you think of anything else, it's this: the guys Molinara ran with are not small time. He probably didn't steal your ID but got it from whoever did. Frankly, turning over private houses wasn't his style—not unless there was something very valuable involved—so I'd be surprised if your place was his real target.”

“I see.”

“It's possible that something bigger than we suspected may be going on in your area. Mob guys could be involved, bikers, who knows. To me, Molinara's death has the smell of a hit.”

“Really!”

“Yeah. So here's what I'm saying. If you
do
get the feeling of something strange, out of the ordinary, up there in the Cowichan Valley, get in touch with me right away. Would you do that?”

“Of course.”

“Good. And don't forget what I said—there could be some very dangerous guys, so whatever you do, don't try to be a hero.”

“Don't worry,” Greg said fervently. “I'm an accountant. Heroes we definitely are not.”

Tremblay's laugh was warm. “Good thing. We need you guys to save us from the taxman, eh? Okay, Mr. Lothian, thanks again.”

When he reached his car, Greg realized that the smile that had been on his face when he left Tremblay's office was still fixed there. He got in, only then seeing the parking ticket on the windshield. It didn't faze him. In fact, he didn't even bother to retrieve it, but left it flapping in the breeze as he drove off. When, a couple of blocks later, it flew away, he was still smiling.

T
he Montisarian Gallery on Granville Street in Vancouver was modest in its outside appearance: dark glass and burnished bronze façade, name in discreet gold script, beautifully carved but modestly proportioned entrance. Only the presence of a single, glowingly lit painting by the Group of Seven's Arthur Lismer in the front window indicated to the initiated the exclusive nature of the works displayed and transactions conducted therein.

The interior of the place was larger than might have been expected, with interconnected galleries on several levels, all with pale walls and thick carpets, and room for a considerable number of paintings. For two weeks, the entire space had been used to display the works of Walter Lothian: a prelude to the auction.

Greg had come over from Victoria the evening before the sale and stayed at the aging but historic Sylvia Hotel, on English Bay. Jill—who still had not visited the island since their parents' deaths—made what was for her a conciliatory gesture by arriving early to have breakfast with him at the hotel. Although the meeting was cordial, neither had any illusions as to the real reason they had come together; as joint beneficiaries of a sale which had set up a country-wide buzz in the art world, they were merely looking after their own interests.

Enough time had passed since the terrifying events at the house by the Cowichan River that to Greg they were like a half-remembered dream. Because he had refused to think about that night, steadfastly diverting his mind whenever dark images appeared, and since—save for the meeting with Sergeant Tremblay—nothing more had occurred to remind him of it, the twin emollients of peace and time had performed a small miracle of reconstruction upon his equilibrium. Also, in a mild but unmistakable manner, the experience seemed to have brought him out of himself. What had first emerged as a relaxation in his attitude at work had expanded into convivial exchanges, which made him feel among friends.

Greg's sister had also noticed the change in him. When, at 10:00
AM
, they were seating themselves in the already overflowing gallery, preparing for the start of the sale, she said, with a sly smile, “All right, Greg, let me in on it.”

“In on what?” Greg asked, confused.

She shook her head. “Oh, come on, don't tell me you don't know what I'm talking about. I've been wondering about it ever since we met this morning.”

“
What
, for heaven's sake?”

“Something about you is different. Have you got yourself a girlfriend?”

“Don't be ridiculous!”

In fact, during the last months he had been seeing something of one particular girl: pending the sale of the Lothian property, Lucy Lynley had continued to use the studio. While he readied the place for the market, Greg had found himself spending quite a bit of time in her company, occasionally even repeating the enjoyment of her excellent cooking. But girlfriend? To tell the truth, he had occasionally thought in that direction; she was, after all, a very attractive young woman. But she was fully occupied with her mother and her art, while his life was a world away in Victoria. Anyway, what on Earth would an attractive woman like Lucy possibly see in a dull numbers-wrangler like himself?

“It's not ridiculous,” Jill said tartly. “What
is
pathetic is you living alone in that stodgy little apartment in Oak Bay, like a crusty old . . .” She broke off, frowning and grinning at the same time. “Except—maybe you're not quite alone. I never thought of that.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Have you discovered you're gay? Is that the difference I feel in you?”

Greg had just begun an indignant, if not unamused, denial when the audience was brought to order by the rap of the auctioneer's gavel. The sale had begun.

From the start, it was like something out of a fantasy. The very first painting, one of Walter's more modest West Coast seascapes, took flight, doubling, tripling, then quadrupling its reserve, heading for orbit so swiftly that the auctioneer made no effort to hide his amazement. Rather than being a flash in the pan, this merely served as a spur for the following sales, and excitement mounted until by midmorning, it was evident that what was taking place was a Canadian art-world phenomenon.

At 1:00
PM
there was a pause for lunch, and Greg and his sister retired to a nearby restaurant, not so much to eat as to catch their breath.

After gulping half of the drink she'd ordered, Jill said, “God, Greg, I can't believe it. Have you any idea how much bloody money was paid for that lot this morning?”

The question was rhetorical, but Greg answered anyway. Producing the envelope on which he'd been noting final sale prices, he made a brisk accountant's calculation, jotted the total at the bottom and passed it across the table. When she saw the figure, his sister very nearly spilled the rest of her drink.

At 2:00
PM
the sale resumed, with no reduction in pace or enthusiasm. Greg recognized no one, but evidently there were high flyers from all over the country. Some of the bids were relayed by phone. More knowledgeable folk around him whispered the names of a number of prominent institutions, including the National Gallery of Canada, that were represented.

Greg found himself overwhelmed, not just by the amount of money flowing, but by the fact that all this was happening because of his dad. For this memorable response made one thing very clear: somehow, without anyone realizing it—least of all the artist—Walter Lothian had quietly attained the status of a national icon. That this had become evident only after his death was ironic, but hardly uncommon. What saddened Greg was that the fruits of it had not been available, especially for his mother. The fact that he and his sister were now a good deal richer hardly crossed his mind.

The affair ended just after 4:00
PM
with every single piece sold. The final tally, even allowing for the gallery commission, was staggering: over seven hundred thousand dollars.

Although, throughout the day, Greg had spoken only to Jill and, briefly, Jules Montisarian, the plump and very satisfied owner, word of his identity must have got about. As the crowd dispersed, several people approached, mainly with congratulations, but also with enquiries as to whether any more works would become available. The last of these departed, along with Jill, who begged off a proposed dinner; this day, though financially rewarding, seemed to have done little to add to the family feeling.

Alone, Greg was somewhat dazedly heading for the exit when he felt a light touch on his arm. A man had approached unnoticed. He was younger than most of the affluent auction crowd, but well dressed, with a pleasantly disarming expression. “Hey, Mr, Lothian,” he said quietly. “Went real good today, eh?”

Greg stared at the newcomer; his tone had been casual, but with an odd implication of intimacy. “Yes,” he replied. “Er—very well, I think.”

“Yeah.” The man produced an envelope. “I reckon it's about time I delivered this!”

“What is it?” Greg said, taking the offering anyway.

“Open it. You'll see.” He walked briskly to the door, where he turned back, smiling cheerfully. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “At last.”

He was gone. Only after several seconds did Greg remember the envelope in his hand. It was brown manila, portrait-size, sealed. Feeling a vague flutter in his stomach, he tore open the flap.

Inside was a single photograph. The lighting was harsh, the angle strange, but the subject unmistakable: himself—crouched over the dead body of Eric Molinara.

On the back was scrawled a brief message.
I'll be in touch.

F
or the week following the auction, Greg's mind turned slowly on a spit of anticipation and dread. After the first shock, his impulse had been to tear the picture delivered by the cheerful stranger into a thousand pieces. But that would have been useless. Anyway, he had to keep it close, poring over it endlessly, searching for some clue to how this evil magic had been accomplished. Of course, he came up empty. But the evidence of what had happened that night by the Cowichan River must surely be in the hands of very unsavoury people. Otherwise, it would have been given to the police.