The Evil That Men Do Page 10

  Around 4 p.m. I stopped at a convenience store, known in Quebec as a dépanneur, and picked up a six-pack of Stella Artois, a far better beer, in my opinion, than Lawrence Thomason’s Coors. Gil Maxwell, like Terry, also lived in Pointe-Claire, but in a somewhat more recent development north of Autoroute 20, in a stodgy, mock-Tudor bungalow in a neighbourhood of stodgy bungalows. The driveway to the two-car garage was surfaced with interlocking sand-coloured bricks and bordered by ragged shrubbery and a row of knee-high solar lights, leaning drunkenly. More solar lights lined the “crazy-paving” flagstone path to the front door. The lawn needed mowing and was festooned with dandelions. While the neighbouring lawns sported little piles of uprooted weeds, weeding must have required more effort than Gil was prepared to invest.

  As I reached for the doorbell I could see the flickering of a big, flat-screen television through the living room window. It extinguished a second or two after the doorbell chimed. A moment later, the door opened.

  “Riley,” Gil Maxwell said. “What are you doing here?” He scrubbed his face with his hands. “Sorry. I fell asleep in front of the TV.”

  “I was in the neighbourhood,” I said. I raised the six-pack. “How about a couple of games of chess?” The summer before we’d started university, and barely legal, we’d got together once a week or so to play chess and kill a six-pack or two.

  “Man, that takes me back,” he said. “Haven’t played in years, but sure, c’mon in.” The entrance hall looked as though it hadn’t been cleaned in some time. The hardwood floor was so dusty there was an actual path leading to the living room. “Sorry about the mess. My cleaning lady quit and I’ve been too busy to look for another one.” With a sheepish smile, he added, “Or to do much housework.”

  I followed him into the living room. The television was even bigger than it had looked through the

  window, standing on a bench in front of a brick fireplace and flanked by tall speakers. On the end table between the black leather sofa and a matching recliner there was a glass containing a clear drink, ice mostly melted.

  “Sit,” Gil said. “Let me see if I can find the chess set. And a bottle opener.”

  “Don’t bother with the chess set,” I said, raising a thin cloud of dust as I sat on the sofa. “I haven’t played much lately, either.”

  Taking the glass from the end table with him, Gil went into the kitchen. He returned a moment later with a bottle opener. I opened two bottles, and he lowered himself into the recliner. I handed him a beer, held mine out, and we knocked bottles.

  “Cheers,” he said, and we drank. “So, what’s up?”

  “I had lunch with Terry Jardine today,” I said.

  “Terry …? Really? I didn’t know you’d kept in touch.”

  “We didn’t. She was at Nina’s album launch on Friday with her daughter and a friend, a guy named Lawrence Thomason.”

  “Don’t know him,” Gil said. He took a slug of beer. “So how is she?”

  “She’s fine. All things considered.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Did she tell you who her husband is?”

  “Nina told me on Friday night.”

  “Right. She works for the law firm representing Terry, doesn’t she?” He drank some more beer, then looked at me, expression grim. “Did she tell you that my old man was a victim of her husband’s fucking Ponzi scheme?”

  “No,” I said. “Do you remember Sy Chesterton?”

  “I think so. He was the kid brother of that girl you were banging, wasn’t he? You and everyone else. I forget her name.”

  “Her name was Sally,” I said.

  “Right,” he said, oblivious to the coldness in my voice.

  “Sy writes a high-tech business blog,” I said. “He told me about your dad.” Among other things. “I understand now why you were upset with me when I came to your office on Friday. You’ve got a lot going on besides cash flow issues, you don’t need me adding to your problems. Are you having personal cash flow problems too?”

  “What makes you ask that?”

  “The state of your house, for one thing. You were always pretty fussy when it came to cleanliness. I remember the few times you came to my old apartment, it was like you were afraid to touch anything.”

  “Yeah, well,” he said. “I guess things are a little tight on both fronts. But I’m not quite as fussy as I used to be. Anyhow, I hope you and Terry had a nice visit.”

  I was shocked by the bitterness in his voice. “You say that as though she’s to blame for what her ex-husband did,” I said.

  “Oh, come on, man,” he said. “You don’t really believe she didn’t know about it, do you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I really do.”

  “Yeah, well,” he said. “You know we went out for a while, eh? After you split?”

  “She told me.”

  “It was fun while it lasted, I guess, but it got old pretty quick. She spent most of the time whinging about you. Wouldn’t have gone anywhere, anyway. Besides, I don’t think she really liked me very much. She was on the rebound from you, and I was just a convenient way to get even with you for running out on her. And a shoulder to cry on. Not that she did a whole lot of crying. She was too pissed.” He raised his head and looked at me. “I guess I was a little pissed with you, too.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Yeah, well.”

  We opened a couple more beers and I sprang for a pizza.

  It was 8:30 p.m. and starting to get dark when I finally said goodnight to Gil Maxwell, got into the Volvo, and headed home. It was a relief to get away. I was exhausted from listening to him vent his anger and resentment toward Charles Pearson Brandt and everyone associated with him.

  “The son of a bitch might as well have put a gun to Dad’s head and pulled the fucking trigger,” he’d said, working on his second drink since switching from beer back to vodka. “He took Dad for everything he had, leaving him with nothing, not a goddamned cent except for his Quebec and old age security pensions. And if the bastard could have managed it somehow, he’d’ve taken them, too. Thank god my mother wasn’t still alive. It would’ve killed her.”

  It was obvious that Gil felt considerable anger and resentment toward his father as well. Duncan Maxwell, like dozens of others, had fallen for Chaz Brandt’s charm and empty promises “hook, line, and sinker.” He promised returns of three or four times better than average and had the financial statements to back up his claims. Faked, of course. Plus testimonials from other investors who sang his praises to the sky, giddy with joy as they watched their deposits grow—on paper, anyway. And, a dead giveaway that Brandt was a fraud, the apparent value of their investments constantly increased, never going down by so much as a point. I found myself agreeing with Gil that some of Brandt’s victims could be considered accessories, so enthusiastically did they recommend Brandt to their friends and family members.

  “He hardly ever solicited clients. Most of his victims saw what he’d apparently done for their friends and practically begged him to take their money. They thought he walked on fucking water. When he did solicit, if you showed the slightest reluctance or skepticism, he’d back right off. Or he’d suggest you make a small investment, a thousand dollars or so, just to test the water, then six months later he’d give you a cheque for ten or fifteen percent more. Some people just took the money and ran, but most were so impressed they transferred all their investments to him. Of course, he was just paying out from his own bank account. He never invested a dime for anyone, just deposited it into his general account, where it earned maybe a couple of points, if anything at all.”

  Like all con artists, Brandt counted on people’s basic willingness to believe the best of other people. The notion that you can’t cheat an honest man is nonsense, a rationale grifters use to justify themselves, to place the blame on their victims’ cupidity rather than take responsib
ility for their own actions. The majority of Brandt’s victims were honest people, and they believed that Brandt was honest, too. Maybe they were a little more credulous than most, a touch more avaricious, but most were thankful for their good fortune, grateful for someone who promised to make their golden years more comfortable. And if they needed a little extra cash now and again to fix their furnaces, their roofs or their cars, he was always there for them with his chequebook.

  “Six or seven years ago,” Gil said, “I needed some cash to get over a shortfall and went to my dad. Dad went to Brandt, and without a blink Brandt wrote him a cheque for ten grand. When I paid Dad back, he endorsed my cheque over to Brandt.

  “Dad thought the sun shone out of Chaz Brandt’s ass. When Brandt disappeared with everyone’s money, Dad, like most of Brandt’s victims, was certain there was some reasonable explanation. It was only when the bank foreclosed on his house for being in arrears on a mortgage he didn’t know he had that he realized something was wrong. Three months later he was dead of a stroke, brought on by the stress.”

  When I told Gil that Brandt had done the same thing to Terry Jardine, forged her and her brother’s names on a mortgage application on the family country house, he said, “Tough shit. Serves her right.” He refused to believe that Terry didn’t know Brandt was a fraud. “The police don’t believe it, either, but they can’t prove anything. If she has any of the money Brandt stole, they can’t find it. They’re watching her pretty close, though, so if she ever tries to get at it, they’ll know and nail the bitch’s ass.”

  “Come on, Gil,” I said, biting down on my anger. “You don’t have any special knowledge. You can’t be certain she knew anything about it. How about giving her the benefit of reasonable doubt?”

  “Fine,” he begrudged. “I’ll accept the possibility she’s innocent, if you’ll accept the possibility she isn’t.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “Did you ever meet Brandt?”

  “Couple of times. He took Dad and me to dinner once. Only other time was at a country club thing. I realized in retrospect that he was just too charming. Too flattering. Almost smarmy. But hindsight is 20-20 vision, isn’t it? I guess, like everyone else, I thought he was a great guy, smart and funny. He knew a lot about art and music, had lots of stories about golf and skiing and sailing. Once he called me up and offered me lift tickets for Tremblant. Another time it was tickets to Rogers Cup tennis. He was a terrific salesman, actually, could’ve made out gangbusters if he’d been legit. I almost wish he’d worked for me. Thank god all my money was tied up in the business, or I might’ve lost everything I had, too.” Including my investment, I thought.

  Before I left, Gil asked for the phone back. The

  employee to whom it had been assigned was returning to work and would be needing it. “But if you come to the office tomorrow, I’ll exchange it for an iPhone. Not a new one, but better than that thing.”

  “Sure, no problem,” I said, handing over the phone. “I’ll bring the charger and cables to the office tomorrow. You don’t have to give me another phone, though. I can scrounge one from Nina or Louise Desjardins. Nina’s trying to get me on the payroll again.” Gil’s eyebrows rose, creasing his brow. “Don’t worry. Everything you’ve told me will stay between us.”

  “I’m not worried,” he said. “I haven’t told you anything of a confidential nature. But let me give you another phone, okay? I owe you that much. I can courier it to you in the morning, if you like. I don’t really need the charger or cables for this thing.”

  “I’m going to be out and about tomorrow looking at assisted living facilities for my mother,” I said. “I’ll drop by the office in the morning.”

  “Okay,” he said. “And, look, next time you’re talking to Terry, tell her I don’t really blame her for what her husband did, but if she knows where he is or has any of the money he stole she should come clean before it’s too late.”

  “Too late for what?” I said.

  He just shrugged. “Forget it. I’m just venting.”

  When I got back to my mother’s house there was a red Mini Cooper parked in the driveway, nosed up to the

  garage, leaving barely enough room in the driveway for the Volvo. Rocky must have a visitor, I groused, as I let myself into the house. Nina was sitting at the kitchen table with Rocky. Nina was drinking tea; Rocky was smoking a joint. Not the first of the evening, either, judging from the number of roaches in the ashtray. The fan in the vent hood over the stove was doing its best to extract the smoke. Its best wasn’t good enough.

  “Look who dropped by for a visit,” Rocky drawled, eyes heavy-lidded.

  “I can see,” I said, giving Nina’s shoulder a squeeze.

  “Shit,” Nina said. “My car’s in the driveway. Sorry. I didn’t expect to be here this long.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said.

  “Do you want to swap now?”

  “Finish your tea.” I went to the refrigerator and got out the Brita water jug, poured myself a glass, and drank it down. The water had an unpleasant metallic aftertaste: the filter needed changing.

  Rocky stood up, weaving a little. “Now that Ace is here to entertain you, I’ve got something I need to do in my studio.” She snuffed out the joint in the ashtray, then hugged Nina. “Don’t be such a stranger, kiddo.” She sailed out of the kitchen, humming to herself. Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit,” I thought.

  Nina grinned at me. “Phew,” she said, fanning her face. “I’m half trashed just breathing second-hand smoke.”

  “Be right back,” I said. “I want to check on Mum.”

  I went upstairs and eased open the door to my

  mother’s bedroom. The room was cool, the window open, as was her habit, even in winter. She was a formless shape under the covers, snoring softly. My heart ached to find a way for her to stay in her house for the rest of her days, but I knew it might not be possible, unless Gil Maxwell came through. And I wasn’t counting on him. I pulled the bedroom door shut and went back downstairs.

  “I wanted to say hello to her,” Nina said. “But she was already asleep when I got here.”

  “I think Rocky’s a bit quick with her sleeping pills,” I said. Easy for me to say, I thought. I wasn’t the one who had to look after her. “How was your gig in Cornwall?”

  “Pretty good,” Nina said. “The crowd got a bit rowdy but at least they didn’t chuck beer bottles at us.” She fingered the silver ring piercing the scar tissue at the outside edge of her right eyebrow, where she’d been struck by a thrown beer bottle some ten years before. “Sold a couple of dozen CDs, though.”

  “Is that good?”

  “About typical,” she said. “How was your day?”

  “I had lunch with Terry,” I said.

  “Oh,” she said, eyebrows rising. “How’d that go?”

  “A bit awkward,” I said. “It didn’t get off to a good start, though. Lawrence Thomason was there when I arrived.”

  “Lucky you,” she said.

  “He left soon after. Terry had to almost throw him out. He’s not one of your bigger fans, you know. You’re a bad influence on Rebecca, he says, and thinks Terry should forbid her from seeing you.”

  “Fuck him and the horse he rode in on.” I laughed and quoted Rebecca’s variation of the expression. “’At-a-girl,” Nina said.

  “Terry doesn’t completely disagree with him. She appreciates that you’re supportive of Rebecca’s interest in music and art, but wishes you’d mind your own business when it comes to her relationship with Thomason.”

  “Is that you or Terry speaking?” Nina said.

  “Terry. But I agree with her. Okay, he’s something of a dick, but he’s Terry’s friend. If Terry complains to Louise about your meddling, it could cost you your job. Besides, it’s causing friction between Terry and her daughter.”

  “I’m sorry about
that,” Nina said. “But Thomason’s more than just a dick. I’m pretty sure he thinks Terry has some of the money Chaz stole. She doesn’t, of course. But dollars to doughnuts that’s why he’s hanging around, hoping she’ll eventually trust him enough to tell him about it. Or let her guard down.”

  “She told me you ran a background check on him.”

  “Yeah,” Nina said. “When he first came on the scene Louise asked me to do a quick check to see if he had a criminal record.”

  “Does he?” I said.

  “Not that I can find. But neither did Chaz Brandt, before his scam fell apart and he ran.”

  “How did Terry find out about it?”

  “Louise told her, I suppose.”

  “You know that Gil Maxwell’s father was one of Brandt’s victims, don’t you?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Who told you? Terry?”

  “No.” I told her about running into Sy Chesterton the night before. “I just came from Gil’s place.”

  I recounted my conversation with him, concluding with his parting line about Terry coming clean before it was too late. Her response was the same as mine: Too late for what?

  She said, “Most of Brandt’s victims think she was, if not complicit, at least criminally negligent. They’re wrong, but who can blame them?”

  “Is Gil one of Frank Gendron’s clients?”

  “I don’t think so. As far as I know he isn’t represented by anyone.”

  “Did you know he and Terry dated for a while after I left?”

  “No, I didn’t. Jesus, she must have been hard up. I bet she never slept with him, though.”

  “He implied that she did,” I said. “To get back at me.”

  She snorted. “In his dreams, maybe. Christ, in his dreams he’s slept with me.”

  “Does Terry still think you and I were having sex when she and I were together?”

  Nina laughed. “Having sex? She thought we were fucking our brains out.” She shrugged. “I don’t think she really believed it, though. She just didn’t like me hanging around. Or Rocky, for that matter.” She stood. “I gotta go. I’m totally bagged.” She picked up her shoulder bag from the floor, rummaged through it, and withdrew a half a dozen sheets of copy paper, folded once. “Here are the assisted living search results you asked me to print out for you.”