(2012) Cross-Border Murder (6 page)

“What?

“Is there any way you could get the old police file out on the Montini case?”

There was a long pause. “Maybe. She really has you convinced that we arrested the wrong guy, hasn’t she?”

I explained that I had begun to interview many of the same people who had been questioned back then. I wanted to be able to compare what they had said then, with what they were telling me now. “I’m not planning to discuss the file with Montini’s daughter, I just want to compare notes with you, not memories, but specific details. It may not help, but then it may make all the difference in the world.”

He grunted. I pressed on, “there may still be a murderer out there. I don’t mind doing the leg work. But you may spot things that I would miss, particularly if our minds were refreshed by going over the old file.”

“Okay, I’ll see what I can do. I’ll get back to you one way or the other. Then we can decide where to meet before the game. By the way if I get the file out, you’ll owe me another favor.”

“I know. I’m still working on the first one.”

“No rush. So long as I get an answer before I go bald and lose all my teeth.”

“Oh, I’ll have it before then,” I mumbled.

After I had hung up I thought about his image of competitive millionaires running around a field in funny uniforms all paid for by the likes of him and me. My love for the sport had been taken down a peg towards alienation. But who was I to judge? Baseball players and Gina’s new found friend sold their bodies and skills to the highest bidder. I sold my skills and mind so that absentee owners of a newspaper could become billionaires. Is one form of selling more honorable than another? Probably, but I had earned no right to construct a moral ladder of virtue.

I glanced at my watch. I would not have time for supper until much later. It was time to go. I wanted a chance to confront Ms. Bronson before anyone else spoke to her. And I wanted to do it alone, without Gina. I parked my car a few tenements down from where Ms Naomi Bronson lived on Panet St. Her flat was on the second floor of a three floor tenement located in the heart of what was now known as the “gay” village.

The area had once been working class, the flats rented by the employees of a nearby brewery and slightly further away a sugar refinery. But some of the land had been leveled for the French headquarters and production facilities of the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. Later the provincial broadcasting network had constructed its operations a few blocks to the east. And less than a quarter of a mile to the north a private television station had located its production studios. In the process the character of the tenants had changed: they were now better educated and commanded better salaries. Much of the area had become gentrified. Tenements had been gutted and their interiors redesigned, cultivated gardens had now sprouted in the small front and back yards where once only weeds and crab grass had survived the trampling of too many children.

I got out and went up the wrought iron, outside stairs to the second story balcony and rang the bell. Someone pulled the door curtain aside and stared at me through the window. Finally the door opened half-way.

“Yes,” she asked in French.

“Madame Bronson?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied, this time in English. Her hair was a light red, short, and cropped close to her skull. Her skin was pale, almost translucent like fine bone china. Her eyes were a light green, or so they seemed to me in the soft light cast by a ceiling fixture in the vestibule.

“My name is Thomas Webster. I was the reporter who covered your husband’s murder. May I come in? There’s a few questions I’d like to ask you.”

There was a slight flicker of recognition. Her thin lips turned downwards in distinct displeasure. “Now is not a good time.”

“I need only a few minutes.” In truth, I wanted much more but tonight I was prepared to settle for a sense of what she was like.

She backed slowly away from the door and I followed her inside. From somewhere inside the apartment a woman’s voice asked in French, “who is it?” Naomi Bronson answered also in French, “a reporter who covered my husband’s death.” The other women appeared in the doorway to the living room. She was in her early forties, wiry, aggressive, protective. She scanned me up and down, her glance hostile. Naomi Bronson smiled at her friend, said she was going to be okay and that I would only be staying a few minutes. Her friend shrugged, smiled with her lips only and returned to what I assumed was the kitchen area of the flat.

I explained that Frank Montini had died and that Gina, his daughter, had come to see me. Naomi Bronson raised her eyebrows. I added that Gina had asked me to help clear his name.

“Well, you can tell Gina that I’ve always felt sure he was innocent.” She said it as a simple statement. “Gina was a nice girl. I always liked her.” She did not ask me to sit down, and I felt I would be pushing my luck if I asked.

Some private memory seemed to amuse her. She sighed. “You can also tell Gina that her father had decided to end our brief affair before my husband was murdered. His death was certainly not the result of some pathetic love triangle.”

“Did you tell the police that at the time?”

“No. I did not. Why should I?”

“Because the police probably believed otherwise.”

“They would have anyways. The police were bunglers. They did not ask the right questions. I was angry. I did not volunteer the right answers.”

“What were the right answers?”

“She shrugged, “it was a long time ago. It no longer matters.”

“Do you have any idea who might have murdered your husband?”

She hesitated. I held my breath. “No. And as I’ve said, it no longer matters to me who did.”

“It matters to Gina.”

“You said Frank is dead.”

“Yes.”

“Tell Gina to get on with her life. That’s all that matters.”

“Did your husband ever talk to you about his involvement with Professor Bull’s artillery project?”

“I knew about it.” The compression of her lips showed her disdain. “But my former husband felt no need to share anything with me, Mr. Webster. Whatever I felt for him at the beginning, whatever he felt towards me, had died before we arrived at Winston University. We had our reasons for keeping up appearances. He was a cold man. He was certainly indifferent to my little fling with Frank Montini.”

“He knew about it?”

“Oh, yes. It amused him.” Her tone was bitter. “I really have nothing more to say to you Mr. Webster. None of this interests me anymore.”

Her friend had appeared quietly in the doorway.

“Just one more question,” I said. “If you felt Montini was innocent, that meant that your husband’s murderer was out there roaming around freely. Weren’t you afraid?”

Behind the glimmer of a smile, I sensed her growing uneasiness.

“No,” she said, “and now I must ask you to leave.” Her friend inched slowly in her direction. I realized that I had used up the little time that had been given to me. I took a business card from my wallet and proffered it.

“Just in case something comes up and you want to contact me.”

She shrugged, gave me a cold appraisal, but took the card. I moved somewhat reluctantly towards the door. As she was about to close it behind me, she said, “tell Gina to come and see me, if she wants to. I have no interest in answering your questions, Mr. Webster, but I would be willing to talk to her. I guess I owe her that.”

I smiled, “I’ll tell her to call you tomorrow.”

“No. Tell her to make it next Monday if she’s still here. I have to go out of town for the rest of the week.”

I stopped off at a restaurant where I ordered a half liter of wine and a smoked meat platter. My physician would not have approved. He wanted to get my cholesterol level back closer to normal.

Back at the house, I checked the answering machine. But the only call was from Gina. Her tone was mildly critical. She asked me to call her in the morning. She had, she announced, decided to go out to a movie with her new found friend. Tuesday, I guessed, was a slow night in the strip joints.

I was hoping for a return call from our stringer in Washington. I sat down at my desk and added what I could remember of my conversation with Naomi Bronson to the notes I had already made of the earlier meetings. I was about to give up and go to bed when the call came through from Washington.

When we had got through the preliminaries I explained what I wanted. Did either agency have a file on Professor Bull’s activities and did Professor Monaghan’s name appear in them? For good measure I threw in all the other names of those who had appeared in the photo Gina had given me. I did not expect there to be files on them, but most of them were Americans and had been vocally against the Vietnam War. Their names might be in a file somewhere. Then I told him that he could phone Mel Vogel if he wanted to confirm my request and get clearance for any special expenditures.

“Okay,” Jim Haylocke said, “but I want to be sure I can protect my sources. My contacts should be able to give me a good idea if there’s anything worth our looking into. But if you have to use anything out of here prematurely, I’d appreciate it if you would check with me before it appears in print.” He spoke with a slow drawl. Southern? Or just Washingtonian? I had no idea. But I found it disarmingly friendly.

“Sure,” I said, “anyway, I don’t plan to write anything until I’ve got something definitive.”

“If it ends up having an American angle maybe I should write that part of it out of here.”

I knew that the life of a freelance correspondent wasn’t easy. And I knew that the paper was thinking of dropping him as a way of trimming the budget. I wanted him to have a vested interest in the story. “Sure. No problem. It’ll probably ensure more space for the story. Make it seem even more important to local readers.”

He chuckled. “Okay. Good. I’ll get on to it.”

What I had said was only too true. Most Canadian newspapers were filled with American bylines. It was, of course, a way of saving money since American bylines were syndicated and cost considerably less than using own own reporters. But it also met a public need. Most Canadians, subconsciously or otherwise, believed that the American media, like its universities and entertainment industry were the major leagues. Most Canadian writers, professors, and actors were, de facto, minor league. That widespread sensibility was fed by the fact that so many of our best and brightest went south for better money and larger audiences. For anyone who didn’t, an implicit doubt was left hanging like an unwarranted dangling participle. Maybe the public was right. Maybe I was, by nature, a second-string journalist. Maybe had I been first-rate, I would have moved to the States as well. But then I was here, possibly chasing down a killer who was still at large. Had I left I would probably only have added to the swollen rat pack inspecting the Clintons’ footprints for muck.

CHAPTER FIVE
 

After a two-coffee, instant oatmeal breakfast, I checked my answering machine. Gina had called again. I decided I would phone her later when I had something more positive to communicate. I put a call through to Joe Gibbs. He had gotten a green light to co-operate from the Rector. I gave him a list of some of the things that I wanted. He said he would try to have some of it ready by late afternoon, some the next day, and some probably never. I asked him to do his best. We agreed that I could pick up what was available between three and four o’clock that afternoon.

I had just put down the receiver when the phone rang. Gina, I thought. I was right. I suggested she come over around lunch time. She sounded grateful. I went down to the corner store and bought the ingredients for a salad. When she arrived they were sitting on the kitchen counter.

“Do you know how to make a salad?” I asked.

“Of course,” she replied. But she did not look enthusiastic. Finally something we had in common, I thought. Neither of us liked the chore of preparing meals. I told her what I had requested from Joe Gibbs. I also told her about my phone call to our Washington correspondent. But I postponed telling her about my meeting with Naomi Bronson.

“So when do you expect to hear from Washington?”

“Not for a couple of days.” But I was wrong. Shortly after lunch Haylocke called. I took it in the den. Gina followed me in and sat expectantly on a spare chair.

“Came across some interesting stuff,” Haylocke said.

“That was fast.”

“Yeah. For once, my contacts were at their desks and not at some interminable meeting. All they had to do was enter the right access codes and blip, blip, up came all this arcane data on their personal monitors. The contemporary computer is truly a marvel to behold. At any rate, there was indeed both a CIA and an FBI file on Professor Bull and his project, and your guy, Monaghan, warranted a minor footnote in both of them. But no more than that. I don’t think they considered him very important. But that was not the most interesting stuff,” he paused. His laconic drawl could not hide a smug satisfaction.

“So, what was?” I prodded.

“Well, get this, first, who do you think filed the CIA reports on Monaghan and Bull?”

“Who?”

“A Professor Symansky.”

“Steve Symansky?”

“Yeah. Bet you didn’t expect that when you put his name on your list, did you?”

“No,” I exclaimed, “I assumed he was one of the dissidents.”

“He probably gave everyone that impression. It turns out he was a paid CIA informer. But only a minor cog, according to my source. At first, he was paid to keep tabs on any American professors in your neck of the woods who were active in the anti-Vietnam War movement. He also filed some reports on that terrorist independence movement you had up there. What was it called?”

“The FLQ?”

“Yeah, that was it. But here’s an interesting tidbit, In that connection he filed a report on Monaghan’s wife.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Nope. I gather she had money. She gave a substantial cheque to the political wing of the Quebec independence movement and attended a rally supporting the terrorists’ manifesto.”