(2012) Cross-Border Murder (29 page)

I came back down with it. We compared the pictures.

Naomi’s photos were blow-ups of shots taken with a telephoto lens. All the faces were slightly grainy. Given the distance of close to two miles, and the play of sun and shadows caused by low-lying clouds the results were probably remarkable. We were almost certain that the third person was Bull. Of course we were comparing two sets of photos of someone we had never met.

Mary sighed, “well it’s either him or someone who looks remarkably like him.”

I agreed.

“But what does it really tell us?” She asked.

I realized that I had never given Mary a full briefing on the Bull connection and its potential significance. I did so now, and I had her undivided attention. Gina had come back downstairs and was also listening carefully.

“Who finally killed him?” Gina asked.

“According to his biographer, the Israeli Secret Service.”

“Why?”

“Because he had finally found a virtually unlimited source of funding. Iraq. At the time, of course, Iraq was considered an American ally. At least to the extent that Saddam was seen as a bulwark against Iran. But the Israelis could see down the road. Bull was developing the mother of all artillery guns for Iraq. Its range and accuracy could have seriously threatened Israel. The irony is that Bull’s initial pet dream had been to put communication satellites into space at a cost that even small, less developed countries could afford. But the big funders didn’t want that. Hell, they won’t even let the United Nations have its own reconnaissance satellites. Unfortunately, the same technology led to something that might possibly lob a small nuclear or bacterial payload an unprecedented distance with close to pinpoint accuracy.”

“All of which,” Mary said, “could have intrigued an ambitious young man like Gooden. Trust Gooden to put himself, somehow, into a key global opportunistic situation.”

“Maybe worth killing Monaghan for.” I said.

“Well, I’ve downloaded some material,” Gina said, “but it’s made me ravenous! Is there any food around?”

I glanced at my watch. It was now almost ten o’clock. I realized that I hadn’t eaten supper. “Why don’t we order in some food?” I suggested. “There’s a number of places nearby that are fast, as long as we don’t get too complicated.” I went and fished out their menus from a drawer in the dining room where I kept such things. I handed it to Mary and suggested that she order for all of us. I explained that I wanted to try and reach a lawyer before it was too late. So while she used the phone downstairs, I went up to the den, and when the line was free I put a call through to a lawyer I had recently consulted when I was thinking of incorporating myself as a freelance writer. But he was not at home. I left a message saying that I would try to reach him first thing in the morning.

I returned downstairs and opened a bottle of white wine. Gina declined and got a bottle of Perrier water from the fridge. When the Chinese take-out food arrived we ate and drank in silence. Mary had one glass of wine and I drank the rest. Gina gobbled her food. She said that she still had hours of work to do on the computer. After she had returned to the den, Mary and I both agreed that Gooden was probably the villain her daughter had traveled to Montreal to expose.

Mary looked at the food that remained on the table. “There’s enough left over here for lunch tomorrow.” She seemed determined to end the day on a bright note, no matter how modest that might be.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
 

When I got up, Gina and Mary were still in bed. From sounds I vaguely remembered hearing as I drifted in and out of sleep the night before, I assumed that Gina had worked very late on the computer and I presumed that Mary had stayed up as well in a supporting role. I moved about quietly. I made coffee, had two pieces of buttered toast, forced down a glass of orange juice, and ignored the newspaper that lay folded on the outside stoop anxious to inform me of the shame that had occurred in the world within the last twenty-four hours.

I went into the den and closed the door behind me. I placed a call through to the lawyer. I have had very little recourse to lawyers in my life, although I knew enough of them on a casual basis through my work as a journalist. But when I had thought of incorporating myself a few months ago, I had called an old school buddy, Gino Iuticone. He had a small firm. I had a horror of dealing with any of the large legal factories with their wealthy corporate dealings and high-priced corporate billings. I know that as a former journalist they would have handled my needs. But I also knew I was not in their league, nor did I want to be.

Gino, in fact, seemed happy to hear from me again. We took a few minutes off to joke about some of the classes we had skipped at university in order to indulge our youthful obsession with poker. Finally I explained my dilemma to him. He listened with the patience of a parish priest who had spent most of his life dealing with the sloppy legal ineptitude of ordinary people.

“Fascinating,” he said, “I think we should presume that you will be finally recognized as his executor, so the sooner we act the better. Could you fax me the suicide note?” He asked.

“Sure.”

“He doesn’t mention anywhere whether he had named an executor in the original will?”

“No.”

“But he mentions the bank where he has his will on deposit?”

“Yes.”

“Well let’s start there. I’m sure there’ll be some hemming and hawing by their legal department but eventually they’ll let me read his will. Then I’ll get back to you. You should also call that sheriff in Essex County to get some idea of when they may be releasing the body. You may have to make some decisions then.” He gave me his fax number. “I’ll get back to you as soon as possible,” he said, “and let’s put a night aside,” he added, “to drink wine, eat, and,” he laughed, “to talk about all the human scars we’ve acquired in the last thirty years.” I hung up feeling satisfied that I had the kind of lawyer I could feel comfortable with. I put the suicide note in the fax machine and listened to the mechanical whir as it sped its way across the city.

I then phoned Sheriff Wayman. He was in a meeting but he called me back almost immediately. I brought him up to date. Not only about my call to the lawyer, but about my meeting with Captain Leclair. Bringing him up to date on what I knew was more than just common courtesy on my part. While waiting for his call, I had the feeling that I might need his co-operation again soon. I asked him about when Hendricks’ body might be released for burial.

“The coroner’s hearing is Thursday,” he said, “in fact I was planning to call you later today. Can I count on your attendance?”

“Would you like the others to come as well?”

“Sure.” I sensed I was making his day. I realized the difficulties he would face trying to compel Canadians to attend an American coroner’s hearing.

“I’m sure we’d all be willing to attend.”

“Good. I got a call from Lieutenant Ricci first thing this morning.”

“Oh?” I said.

“I had faxed him an overnight note informing him that Hendricks had admitted responsibility in that letter to you for the shooting that Ricci was investigating. Has he been in touch with you?”

“No. He hasn’t.”

“He probably will.”

“Oh?” I said again.

“Ricci may want a copy of that confidential letter to put in his files. There are implications you may want to consider as executor.”

“Oh?” I said again. I was feeling a bit foolish at my monosyllabic replies and the ignorance they suggested.

Wayman chuckled. “I know Canadians, unlike us Americans, don’t tend to sue at the drop of a hat! But it occurred to me that the young lady who was wounded may decide to sue Hendricks’ estate for damages, particularly if the police wrap up the case concluding that Hendricks did indeed fire the shot. Down here, two law firms would already be banging on her door.”

That possibility had not occurred to me. “I’m glad you mentioned it,” I said, “I’m probably going to want to talk it over with Mary and Gina before Ricci calls. I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

“Good. So I’ll see you on Thursday then?”

“Yep. Definitely.”

“You might try to come a bit early if you can. I’m hoping to keep it all very simple and straightforward. May not even need you. But just in case, it may be useful to consult first.”

“Will do.”

I went downstairs to refill my coffee mug. Mary and Gina were there. They must have slipped down while I was talking to Wayman. Gina was tackling the remains of last night’s meal. I made a face.

“Warmed it up in the microwave. It’s quite good you know.”

“I’ve just made more coffee,” Mary said. She was sitting near the patio door in the alcove skimming through the newspaper.

“Anything in there about Hendricks?”

“About six paragraphs on page three. Expressions of dismay from the university and from Gooden.”

“Any details about his mysterious visitors only hours before his death?”

“Nope.”

I saw the smooth hands of Wayman and Vogel at work. I told them about my conversation with Wayman.

Gina’s eyes lit up. “Of course Linda should sue!”

“Why?” I asked.

“Well she surely deserves some compensation!”

“But if you and Mary are in agreement why should she have to sue?”

“She may have to sue,” Mary said.

“Why?” This was the second conversation in which I seemed to be able to do little more than repeat one syllable questions.

“Because the lawyers for Winston University may decide to contest the sanity of the suicide note. If only as a precaution, she should establish a legal claim, before some judge, if it goes to court, decides who is the executor and who are the beneficiaries.”

It made sense. But it represented an American approach which seemed strange to my ears. My life was becoming much more complex than I had anticipated when I arose this morning. I asked Gina how her computer search had gone.

“Very well and very interesting,” She replied. She looked down at the plate of spareribs that she had finished off. She went over to the sink to rinse off her fingers under the kitchen tap. “His plagiarism is flagrant. I counted four paragraphs and fifteen other sentences that were taken word for word from Monaghan’s original. What was particularly interesting was that none of them contained the hand written improvements that Monaghan had made in the copy that Naomi had. I suspect that Gooden must have been unaware of its existence.” Mary nodded. “Gooden was always a prudent young man. He must have felt sure he had the only copy.”

“Which argues that he must have gone through Monaghan’s office,” I said.

“Certainly to plagiarize wholesale like that.” Gina added.

“Do you think Naomi confronted him?” I asked. It didn’t make much sense to me.

“She must have,” Mary said sadly.

“But why?”

“Maybe,” Mary said, “she wanted to test him out, see how he reacted, see if he came up with a reasonable explanation before passing on her suspicions to Gina. She probably would have been careful not to accuse him of murder, only of taking advantage of her husband’s death to further his own career. She might have felt safe going that far.”

“But Gooden might have decided that once Naomi passed that kind of information on to anyone connected to our investigation there was a real danger to his future career. Gooden probably still doesn’t know that we’re on to him,” I noted hopefully, but I had begun to doubt it.

“There’s something else that he doesn’t know.” Gina said, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“That we have grounds for assuming that two other articles he wrote while he was with the government showed similar signs of plagiarism from stuff Monaghan had published. I don’t even think Naomi knew that. But then, this time the plagiarism was more subtle, more sophisticated.”

“And how did you come across that?” I asked.

“When I checked his name against the library’s computer, a reference to these two other articles popped up. They weren’t listed on his CV. Possibly because he didn’t consider them important enough. Possibly because they were only published in a government publication rather than in a more prestigious academic journal. But eventually I was able to download the articles. In the parts I believe were plagiarized, there are recurring stylistic oddities that were peculiar to the way Monaghan used English.”

“Jesus!” I said.

“A plagiarist is a plagiarist is a plagiarist,” Gina said with a weary, legitimate pride, “it would have taken someone looking for plagiarism, and with the tools to do it, to spot it.” Gina went on, “he probably did it as a way of keeping himself ingratiated with Bull. That may have been the role the government had set for him.”

A thought began to form in my mind. A possible way to flush him out. But for the moment I thought it might be better to keep it to myself. The phone rang. It was Phil Ryan.

“I spoke to Ricci this morning,” He said immediately, “wanted to know what progress they had made in testing the rifle barrels. They hadn’t even begun, and now they aren’t even going to bother. Apparently Ricci got a fax from the police in Essex County noting that Hendricks’ had admitted firing the shot. Consequently Ricci has decided to just close the file.”

“The only admission Hendricks’ made,” I mentioned, “was in the private, confidential letter he wrote to me. Wayman said that Ricci may be phoning me to get my permission to put a certified copy of the letter in the file as evidence.”

Ryan grunted, “I doubt it. Not Ricci. He’s not that thorough. He’ll just write his report, append Wayman’s fax to it, and file the case as closed.”

“What if Linda wants to sue Hendricks’ estate based upon Ricci’s report? Wouldn’t he want the full letter to be in the file then?”

Ryan thought again. “Nah, that’d be a civil matter. Ricci would just let the lawyers fight it out. I tell you he’s already moved on to another case. Anyway, that’s not the real reason I called. I also phoned Leclair. As you can see, I’ve been sticking my nose into police matters where it’s not supposed to be, as everyone keeps reminding me, because I’m now retired. But I’m an old dog, Tom, and I can’t forget the way my mind used to work. So last night, when I got home I kept asking myself where would Gooden have stationed his car if he had driven to Naomi Bronson’s cottage to kill her? I mean, he wouldn’t have just driven up to her front door bold as brass! It’s pretty open territory, his car might have been easily spotted. If not parked at the cottage then possibly driving to it.”