The Evil That Men Do Page 8

  “Perhaps. Nina Sparrow?”

  Chesterton shook his head. “Can’t say I have,” he said, although the bartender’s ears perked up at the mention of Nina’s name. “You still in touch with Gil Maxwell?” Chesterton asked.

  “I am,” I said. “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, no reason,” he said. “I just remember you two were pretty tight.”

  “I wasn’t aware you knew him.”

  “His old man and my old man were friends, even though they had car dealerships across from each other. Used to trash-talk each other in their radio and TV commercials for the free publicity. You know his old man is dead, don’t you? Died a couple of years ago.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Hit Gil pretty hard.”

  “He and his father were close,” I said.

  “Yeah, I guess,” Chesterton said. “But I think it had more to do with the fact that he was counting on his old man’s money to help him bail out his software company. It’s in big trouble, I hear. He’s had to lay off most of his employees and’s having trouble finding the money to pay the few he has left. He’s looking around for a buyer, apparently, but nobody’s taking.”

  That wasn’t something I really wanted to hear. “I thought his father was pretty well off,” I said.

  “Yeah, I suppose he was,” Chesterton said. “But the silly bastard had put all his money into a fucking Ponzi scheme run by some guy out on the West Island. Uh. What’s wrong, man?”

  “Charles Brandt,” I said, my voice hollow, as though

  I were speaking from the bottom of a well.

  “Yeah,” Chesterton said.

  Frank Gendron was right, I thought: the Montreal English community was too damned small.

  “What do you do, Sy? How do you know all this? Are you a reporter?”

  “Well, kind of,” he said. “I write a blog for Canadian Business. Specialize in the high tech industry.”

  “So you know what you’re talking about?”

  “I don’t know about that,” he said, with a whoop of laughter. “But I guess the guys who sign my paycheques think so.”

  “What do you know about Chaz Brandt?”

  “Brandt? Not much. Nothing, really, except that he was a psycho who ripped off a lot of people like Gil Maxwell’s old man. A good many of them, maybe all of them—those that are still alive, anyway—would like to see him strung up by the nuts from a highway overpass. The ones screaming the loudest, though, are the idiots who, like Maxwell, stood to inherit a few bucks, but who were so stupid and greedy they let mom and dad or grandma and grandpa invest in a scheme that anyone with a couple of functioning brain cells could see was a scam.”

  “No idea where he might be hiding out then?”

  “Christ, no. If I did, I’d go straight to his victims’ lawyers. There’s a finder’s fee for anyone who can help them recover the money he stole.”

  “How about Brandt’s wife? Do you think she knew what he was up to?”

  “Plenty of people think so,” he said. “But I dunno. I saw her interviewed once. Either she didn’t know anything about it or she’s one damned fine actress.” He shrugged. “But I’m a sucker for women as good-looking as she is. Have you seen her?”

  “Yes, I have,” I said.

  His phone chimed and the screen woke up, displaying a text-message alert. Chesterton looked at it and stood up. “I gotta go,” he said. “See you around, okay?” Grabbing the phone, he headed toward the rear of the pub where the toilets were located.

  I looked at the bartender. “Was it something I said?”

  She chuckled. “Nah. He’s avoiding one of his exes. He’s gonna duck out the back. Don’t panic, though. He runs a tab.” She gestured toward my drink. “So, can I top you up?”

  “Thanks. Time to call it a night, I think.”

  “Have a good one,” she said, and went off to serve another customer.

  I stood, tossed back the rest of my drink and headed out just as a remarkably lovely black woman came into the pub. She seemed to be looking for someone. Chesterton? I wondered. If she were looking for me, I wouldn’t have run away. But then, she wasn’t my ex.

  Chapter 10

  I woke up Sunday feeling more rested than I had on the two previous mornings. I’d slept like a hibernating bear and if I’d dreamed, I didn’t remember. My knee felt better, and the jet lag had abated. My good mood didn’t last long, though, after I got downstairs. Rocky was in the kitchen. She didn’t reply when I said, “Good morning.” The silent treatment continued as she finished making my mother’s breakfast, ignoring my offer to take it up to her. I spread peanut butter and strawberry jam on a couple of pieces of toast and took them and my coffee upstairs. I knocked on my mother’s door. No one answered. I opened the door a crack.

  “Is it all right if I come in?”

  “Atticus? My goodness, is that you?” my mother said.

  “Yes, Mum.”

  “Come in, dear, come in. Rocky, why didn’t you tell me Atticus was home?”

  Rocky didn’t answer. She brushed by me on her way out of the room, almost causing me to spill my coffee.

  “Rocky’s not in a very good mood today, is she?” my mother said as I leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I think she’s been fighting with Lloyd again.”

  Later, when I went back downstairs, I went looking for Rocky. She was in her studio, applying a coat of tinted primer to the female-male figure. The unpainted male-female figure stood by, awaiting its turn.

  “Are you okay?” I said to her.

  “No, I’m not fucking okay,” she said, not looking away from her work.

  “Rocky, please. We talked about this. Do you think I want to sell the house?”

  “You’re sure in a hell of a hurry.”

  “Look,” I said. “I grew up in this house. Selling it feels like cutting off a part of myself. Without anesthetic. But I haven’t lived here in a long time. I get that it’ll be a bigger change for you than for me.”

  “It’ll be a lot harder on Gracie than on either of us,” Rocky said. “Just because she has Alzheimer’s doesn’t mean she isn’t aware of what’s going on around her.”

  “I know,” I said, pain welling up in my chest. “Look, I’m sorry my investment in Gil Maxwell’s company doesn’t look like it’s going to pay off any time soon, if ever. But there’s nothing we can do about that now. If you can come up with some other way we can take care of Grace without selling the house, please tell me. I’ll listen, believe me.”

  “Whatever possessed you to invest with him in the first place?” she said. “Okay, he was your friend, and maybe he’s changed, but he was such an obnoxious little turd when he was a kid, I wouldn’t have trusted him with a fucking paper route.” She threw down the brush and slumped on to a stool. “I’m sorry, Ace. I’ve never been good with change, I guess, and it’s just happening too bloody fast.”

  “Rocky, I—” The phone began to vibrate in my pocket. I fished it out and glanced at the screen.

  “You’d better take that,” Rocky said. “It might be your real estate agent.”

  It wasn’t. It was Terry Jardine. I carried the phone into the kitchen and tapped the answer button.

  “Hi, Red,” I said, the words out of my mouth before I realized what I was saying. “Uh, sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” she said. “I was thinking about you after we spoke yesterday and remembered you used to call me Red.”

  “As I recall, you didn’t like it much.”

  “God, was I really such an uptight little princess? You don’t have to answer that.”

  “Okay,” I said, which made her laugh.

  “Listen, Riley, about yesterday. I called to say I’m sorry about the way I turned down your offer of lunch. The truth is I wasn’t sure I was up to seeing you again. Nothing to do with our hi
story, really. I wasn’t exaggerating about my life being complicated. But, well, whose isn’t, these days?”

  “Yours might be a little more complicated than most,” I said.

  “As may be, it was ungracious of me. Let me make it up to you. Would you like to come to my place for lunch?”

  “You have nothing to make up for,” I said. “And my offer to take you out for lunch still stands.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “But after Friday night I’m not sure I’m ready to face the public again. How’s twelve-thirty sound?”

  “Sounds fine,” I said.

  I went back into Rocky’s studio. She ignored me, applying primer to the other figure. I said, “Are you going to need the car today?”

  “It’s your car,” she said.

  “I’ll take that as a no,” I said, and stalked out of the studio. I felt like such a jerk, though, I immediately turned around and went back. “I love you, Rocky. You know that, don’t you?”

  She looked up at me. Although there were tears in her eyes, she managed a smile. “Yeah, I know, Ace,” she said. “I love you, too. Now piss off and let me get back to work.”

  Terry Jardine lived in the older section of Pointe-Claire, not far from the bulge in the St. Lawrence River known as Lac Saint-Louis, but a little too close to the roar and stink of Autoroute 20. It was a neighbourhood of mature trees and mostly modest homes. The exceptions to the latter were a couple of gaudy fake-stone monstrosities jammed on to small lots by people with more money—or a better credit rating—than good taste. Terry’s house, a pretty two-story red-brick cottage, was one of the more modest, but someone had added on a big two-car garage that clashed with the architectural style of the house. There were two cars in the driveway, a grey Ford Focus hatchback and a dark blue BMW 325i with lease plates. Lawrence Thomason had been driving a BMW on Friday night.

  I parked on the street and, collecting the bouquet of flowers from the passenger seat, walked to the front door, feeling a little like a teenager on his first date. I rang the bell. A moment later the door opened. Terry’s daughter Rebecca stared up at me, a dark scowl on her face.

  Oh-oh, I thought. But the scowl metamorphosed into a wide smile.

  “Hello, Mr. Riley,” she said. “C’mon in.”

  “It’s just Riley, remember?” I said, as I went into the vestibule. Her smiled widened and I was struck again by how much she looked like her mother.

  She shut the door behind me and bellowed, “Mom! Riley’s here.”

  Terry came into the front hall. “Riley,” she said, looking a little nonplussed, as if she’d forgotten she’d invited me for lunch. She smiled, though, when I held out the bouquet, a mix of miniature pink carnations, daisies, asters, and some frilly green stuff.

  “I remembered you didn’t care for roses,” I said.

  “They’re lovely,” she said, taking the flowers. “Come in.”

  Lawrence Thomason came into the hall from the living room, wearing a benign expression that didn’t look quite right on him. Rebecca’s scowl returned.

  “Are you sure?” I said, looking at Thomason. “If you’re busy, we can do this some other time.” Thomason’s expression made it clear he agreed.

  “No, please,” Terry said. “Come in.” She put her hand on my arm and all but pulled me from the vestibule into the hall. “Lunch isn’t ready, but it won’t take long.”

  “Teresa,” Thomason said, as if speaking to a recalcitrant child.

  “Weren’t you just leaving?” Rebecca said.

  “Rebecca,” Terry said, with a weary sigh.

  “This is just the sort of thing I was talking about,” Thomason said. “It’s not my place to tell you how to raise your daughter, of course, but you really shouldn’t let her get away with this kind of behaviour. It’s that Sparrow woman. I told you she was a bad influence.”

  “Fuck you, Larry,” Rebecca said. “And the asshole you brought with you.”

  I almost choked trying to keep a straight face. I wasn’t completely successful, judging from the glare with which Thomason rewarded my efforts. I actually felt a little sorry for the guy.

  “All right!” Terry said, practically stamping her foot with frustration. “Enough. Rebecca, go to your room. Now!”

  With a murderous scowl Rebecca stomped up the stairs. Lawrence Thomason’s face took on a smug, self-satisfied expression that faded when Terry looked his way and said, “We’ll talk later.”

  “Teresa, I … Yes, of course. I’ll come back when—”

  “No,” Terry said, cutting him off, which he didn’t

  appear to like. When he made no move to leave, Terry went into the vestibule and opened the front door. “I appreciate your concern,” she said. “But please call before coming by.”

  He was almost pouting as, from the table in the hall, he collected his car keys and a small black leather case that resembled a toilet kit. He paused in the doorway, glared at me again, then left.

  Terry shut the door behind him. “Welcome to my world,” she said.

  “I interrupted something,” I said. Duh!

  “Just a little domestic melodrama,” she said. “Nothing serious.” She raised the bouquet of flowers to her nose. “Come into the kitchen while I find a vase for these.”

  I followed her. The room looked as though it had been transplanted bodily out of an Ikea showroom—white wood cabinets, composite-marble countertops, stainless-steel appliances. The table by the patio doors overlooking the small backyard was an anomaly, though, honey-coloured antique pine, surrounded by six Shaker chairs. Terry took a cut-glass vase down from a cupboard and filled it at the kitchen sink.

  “Would you like a glass of wine?” she asked, as she arranged the flowers. “Personally, I could use one.”

  “I’m okay,” I said. “But you go ahead.”

  “You never were much of a wine drinker,” she said.

  “I’ve evolved a little.”

  “A beer, then. I’m sure Lawrence won’t mind if I give you one of his.”

  “All right, I’ll have a beer.”

  She took a bottle of Coors Light from the refrigerator, prying it open before I could stop her. With apologies to Coors Light drinkers, I rated it only slightly higher than goat piss. Not that I’ve drunk a lot of goat piss.

  “Would you like a glass?” she asked.

  “I haven’t evolved that much,” I said. She smiled as she handed me the bottle.

  She took a half-empty—or half-full—bottle of white wine from the fridge, twisted off the screw cap and poured a glass.

  “Cheers,” she said, tapping her glass against my bottle.

  “Slàinte,” I said, taking a sip of beer. I regretted not choosing wine.

  “Slancha?” Terry said.

  “Common Scottish Gaelic toast. Means ‘good health.’”

  “Slàinte then,” she said, chinking her glass against my bottle again. She began removing food storage bins and salad fixings from the refrigerator, placing them on the kitchen island. I propped a hip on a high kitchen stool.

  “I like Rebecca,” I said. “She reminds me a lot of you.”

  “I never had that much spunk,” she said. “Or gave my parents as much lip as she gives me.”

  “She’s a pistol all right. She and Lawrence don’t get along very well, do they?”

  “You noticed that, did you? He tries harder than she does. She doesn’t try at all.” She shrugged. “I admit Lawrence’s social skills need work, and he has a tendency to overstep where Rebecca is concerned, but he’s been good to us. I wish she could see that, show him more respect.”

  “I don’t think he likes me much,” I said.

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s a guy thing. Machismo. I think he’s embarrassed it was you and not him who saved me from being doused with water the other night. My god, I’ve never see
n anyone move so fast. What on earth made you think there was acid in the cup? It’s not something that happens very often.”

  “Here, perhaps. Unfortunately, it’s more common in other parts of the world.”

  She looked at me, expression expectant, waiting for me to continue. I should have kept my mouth shut.

  “Some years ago,” I said, “I was in the souk in Beirut when a man threw battery acid into a woman’s face. She was standing beside me, so close that some of it splashed on me.” I pulled down my collar to show her the faded scar on my neck. “I saw him coming, carrying a jar of what looked like tea. Even as he threw it, it never occurred to me that it was acid until the woman started screaming and clawing at her face, and my neck began to burn. Some women in the market held her down and flushed her face and eyes with water, but she was still pretty badly burned, possibly even blinded. She was the man’s wife, I learned later, who’d somehow offended the family honour. I never learned how.”

  “My god,” Terry said.

  “As soon as I saw that man with a beer cup in his hand I flashed back to Beirut and did what I wish I’d done for that woman.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “What about him? Did he go to jail?”

  “I doubt it,” I said.

  “What were you doing in Beirut?”

  “Consulting work. Editing and document design for an engineering firm that was upgrading the rail system.”

  “From your reaction the other night Lawrence thought you might have been in law enforcement or private security. I told him I didn’t think it was something you’d be interested in.”

  “I did work for a private security firm for a while about fifteen years ago,” I said. “You’re right, I didn’t like it, but some of the places I’ve worked were pretty rough and the training came in handy.” It hadn’t saved the woman in Beirut from being disfigured, though.

  “Nina says you’ve been all over the world.”

  “Technically, I’ve circumnavigated it, I suppose, but I haven’t been everywhere, not by a long shot. When I find a place I like, I stay for a while. Rarely more than a couple of years, though, before moving on. Fort William is the longest I’ve stayed anywhere.”