Amuse Bouche (26 page)

Mr. Chavell. Did they know each other better than he was letting on?

"He seemed just fine. But even if he wasn't, I'm not sure I'd have been able to tell. I didn't know Tom that well."

So much for that idea. Maybe.

"So you didn't notice anything out of the ordinary?"

"Nothing."

"You didn't stay for lunch? Perhaps something from the Blue Carrot Cafe?"

He quirked his head to one side as if trying to determine the significance of my question, "No. As I've said, it took ten minutes and then I left."

The lawyer was on the verge of objecting to being on the wrong end of an interrogation. But he stopped himself. He knew I was only doing my job and grudgingly gave in to the questions.

"Did you happen to notice a half-heart pendant in a jeweller's box while you were there?

Or a gift package of any kind—wrapped or unwrapped?"

Another quizzical look. "No."

"There's one more thing that's been bothering me, Mr. Shiwaga."

He looked at me with surly eyes, unimpressed with my
Columbo
routine. "Oh?"

"Why didn't you tell me about the cabin?"

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"What are you asking?"

"The cabin at Pike Lake. The one owned by Harold Chavell. The one near where Tom Bom's body was found. Why didn't you tell me about it when Chavell sent you to re-hire me?"

Again with the shrug. "I thought you knew."

"Bullshit. You just didn't want to implicate your client any further than he already was."

"And what's wrong with that?"

"A little thing called obstruction of justice.

You're a lawyer. Didn't you read that chapter in your law book?"

"Mr. Quant, you are not the police. 1 don't have to tell you anything."

"But I'd think you'd want to if I'm supposed to be on your side!"

That shut him up.

"I want to go out there. I want to see the cabin."

"Why? The police have already been through it. There's nothing left for you to find."

"If a murder I'm investigating took place in that cabin, I want to see it."

"Harold Chavell did not kill Tom Osborn!"

Our eyes met across the desk like stalemated lasers. "I never said he did."

Shiwaga grudgingly pulled a miniscule electronic organizer from his suit breast pocket 298

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and together we agreed on a time to meet at Pike Lake.

"The next time you see Mr. Chavell," I said when our date was arranged, "tell him I'll try to get in to see him as soon as I can. With these new developments I have a lot of things to do."

"Do you think you're onto something that could clear Mr. Chavell?"

I gave the attorney the most confident look I could muster. "I'm onto something that I hope will lead us to the truth."

"Do you doubt Mr. Chavell's innocence?"

His tone was rough.

"My job is to discover any proof of his innocence. If there is such proof, Mr. Shiwaga, I'll find it." To show him I wasn't kidding, 1 walked out without another word. I didn't have to prove anything to this stuffed shirt. And it made for a nice exit.

I ignored the speed limit on my way to Innovation Place. I wanted to catch Randy Wurz at work. Given the time of day I knew I was pushing it but I'd been lucky so far. As I crossed the University Bridge for what seemed like the hundredth time that day I wondered if Randy might have been too upset to return to work after his partner's funeral and the gathering at Amuse Bouche

Kathryn Wagner's. I used my cellphone to call his office number and, as I'd suspected, reached an answering machine. I tried Randy's home number. No answer. By my watch I saw it was now after 6:00 p.m. Since I was already near Innovation Place I decided to drive through anyway. Perhaps he'd gone into work but wasn't answering the phone. I knew Randy drove a Jaguar because I'd seen him pulling up in it at the funeral. I searched the parking lot nearest The Galleria building that housed QW Technologies.

No luck. Randy's car could have been in any one of several other lots but I was betting it was more than likely at home or sitting outside a fancy restaurant. I parked and jumped out of my car anyway and went inside. The security guard was either away from his post or off duty so I went on by and down the now familiar hallways to
QW.
I tried the door. Locked. I knocked. No answer.

My luck had run out.

As 1 returned to my car a new thought hit me. I remembered seeing a stack of invoices in Tom's office from a company called TechWorld.

And when I was in Tom's apartment and hit redial on his phone, I reached TechWorld's answering machine. Whatever this company was, it definitely had a few connections to Tom.

I reached into the glove compartment and dug out the Innovation Place map the security guard 300

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had given me on my first visit. And there it was.

Tech World. It was listed as one of the tenants of a nearby building on Research Drive.

Deciding to walk, I headed out, map in hand.

I noted that the building in question was across the road from another building called The Atrium that was connected by walkway to the east end of The Galleria. So from QW most of the distance could have been covered indoors.

According to the map, the building's name was its address, and when I found it I saw that it was one of the smaller buildings I'd seen so far, probably only housing three or four separate businesses.

"Can 1 help you, son?" a cheerful man asked me when I opened the front door. He was in his late sixties and stooped behind a portable night security desk.

"I was wondering if you could tell me where to find TechWorld?"

He gave his grizzled jowls a rub with an arthritic hand. "I could, but won't do you no good. They're all gone for the day, unless you've got a lab booked. If ya got a lab booked, I can help you. But you gotta sign in first."

I wasn't sure what he was talking about but that had never stopped me before. "I see. Can you tell me a little about what TechWorld does?"

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"Just a security guard, son. Don't know what half these fancy high-tech places around here really do," he said pleasantly.

I chuckled. "I know what you mean."

"Maybe something over there could help you." He half rose from his well-worn swivel chair and pointed towards the entrance I'd just come through where a chrome rack was overflowing with brochures.

I sauntered over to the rack as if I had nothing better to do. The security guard settled back in his chair, picked up a Zane Grey novel and resumed reading. The old guy was right. I found a vast collection of written material provided by many of the Innovation Place tenants describing what they did, why they did it and who paid them to do it. And among them was a brochure for Tech World. A quick read told me all I needed to know. TechWorld made its money by renting specially designed laboratory facilities, about a half dozen of them, to research park tenants, particularly those in the high technology sector who needed to perform experiments but weren't big enough (or rich enough) to have their own labs. I made my way back to the security guard.

"You said you could help me if I had a lab booked?"

He put down his novel. I could see by the 302

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look in his eyes that he was beginning to suspect I might be up to no good. I had to work quickly before I completely lost him. "Well I'm really here looking for a friend of mine but he's not in his office. I was wondering if maybe he was in one of the testing labs." Before he could say no, I added, "My friend is Randy Wurz, from QW Technologies. Poor guy. Just lost his business partner, Tom Osborn."

"Oh yeah, Mr. Osborn. What a shame. He was a nice fella."

"So, can you help me?"

"Sometimes people come in after hours to use the labs for their tests or whatever it is they do in there. I let them in. Some fellas who do a lot of work here have their own key. But just to their own lab, the one they're renting that is.

They're still s'posed to sign in though. But I can tell ya without even looking that Mr. Wurz isn't in a lab. It was always Mr. Osborn in there.

There was another guy sometimes, but hardly ever Mr. Wurz."

"Mr. Osborn was always in the testing facility?"

"Oh yeah. Recently anyways. QW has a standing reservation for one of the labs—for the last coupla months anyway. Maybe even further back than that."

"But Mr, Wurz hardly came in with Mr.

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Osborn?"

"Nope. Some other man though. He'd sign him in as his guest."

I shook my head with great sympathy and sadness in my eyes. "I wonder if his guest has even heard about what happened."

Suddenly the security guard was on my side again. "Ya want me to get you the name? I could do that. I just can't let you look at the sign in sheet or let you into the room. It's all confidential like."

I nodded vigorously, full of respect for his protection of confidential matters. "Of course, of course."

I watched as the man pulled a binder out of a side drawer and began flipping pages. "Here we go," he said. "Actually the two of them were together the last time Mr. Osborn was in here himself. Yeah, him and a Mr. Dave Biddle, looks like."

Dave Biddle from Quasar? The man I saw talking with Randy Wurz at Kathryn Wagner's house earlier today? Something didn't seem right. From all I'd just heard, Tom was testing something in one of Tech World's labs, yet his partner, Randy Wurz, had told me nothing new was on the burner. Did he not know about it?

Why was Dave Biddle with Tom in the lab? Did Tom have a secret project that he was sharing 304

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with someone other than his own business partner? I asked the security guard to tell mc the date of that last visit.

Tom Osborn and Dave Biddle were in the testing facility the day before Tom disappeared.

305

LATE FOR MY APPOINTMENT WITH CLARK SHIWAGA 1 cleared the city limits heading southeast on Highway Seven towards Pike Lake and floored it. Sunset would be around 7:30 and I wanted to see Chavell's place in daylight. In fifteen minutes I was slowing down at the entrance of the park. I noticed both toll booths had signs declar-ing themselves closed for the season, allowing me free access to the resort. Parked to one side, halfway in the ditch with the motor idling, was Clark Shiwaga's truck. 1 pulled up alongside the vehicle. The lawyer had a sour look on his face just in case I hadn't already guessed that he wasn't the kind of guy used to being kept waiting. Without rolling down his window, he nodded and motioned for me to follow.

He eased out of the ditch and made a left turn off the blacktop directly into what seemed to be nothing more than a clump of poplars. I followed slowly over rutted gravel with thick brush on my left and, eventually, lakeside cabins on my right. The buildings were difficult to see from the road, often hidden behind gnarled clus-ters of trees and makeshift fences. In less than two minutes we'd reached our destination. I pulled off onto a berm at the end of the street Anthony Bidulka

next to Shiwaga. I fished around in the back of the car for a few supplies and got out. Shiwaga's imposing frame was standing next to my vehicle, waiting. I held up a flashlight. "Thought we might need this," I said brightly. What I didn't show him was the other goody I'd retrieved and slipped into my jacket pocket. My gun. It would get dark soon. I was in an unfamiliar place.

Shiwaga was a big guy who I didn't completely trust. This was a murder investigation. I figured 1 might need the gun more than the flashlight.

Shiwaga simply growled something about not being out there long enough to need the flashlight and then led the way down a well-worn path through a wall of tall, gangly caragana. Darren Kirsch had told me there were only a handful of residents who maintained homes at Pike Lake year round. From what I saw on the short drive to Chavell's, none of those people lived on the street we were currently on. Most of the cabins we passed had windows boarded over, their water lines likely drained and furniture covered in sheets.

As far as I could tell Chavell's place was the last one on the block, nothing beyond it but more bush and scrubby grassland. I wondered why Chavell would have chosen it. It didn't seem his style. I stumbled along behind the bulk of the big lawyer and immediately on the other Amuse Bouche

side of the caragana we found a rambling cottage surrounded by Swiss stone pines and junipers. Unlike some of its neighbours, the building appeared freshly painted and had recently been re-shingled with cedar shakes. I saw no signs of preparation for winter hiberna-tion. With all that was going on, closing his lakeside retreat for the season was likely the last thing on Chavell's mind. Besides, he was behind bars. Or perhaps it was winterized—the building certainly looked hardy enough.

As we continued on the path down one side of the property, squeezing between cottage and trees, I found myself enjoying the scent of pine needles and long-dead campfires, the chirp of crickets sounding the approach of evening.

Was I a closet camper? I shuddered at the thought. Or maybe it was just the cold.

The path curved around to the rear of the building and ended at a small, wooden deck raised a foot off the ground and the back door.

As Shiwaga dug in his pockets for keys I took in the scenery. Not unlike his home at Cathedral Bluffs, but on a much, much smaller scale, Chavell's lot appeared to be long and narrow.

Several lines of trees and other indigenous vegetation effectively blocked the line of sight from any neighbouring properties. The lot had a surprisingly spectacular view of placid Pike Lake.

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The area from the back door deck to the floating dock at lake's edge was a downhill tract that grew steeper as you got closer to the water. The landscaping had a low maintenance kind of look. I liked that.

Shiwaga unlocked the door. It opened into a large, glassed-in porch area lined with over-stuffed couches overflowing with cushions. It looked to be a recent addition, not insulated from what I could tell, but it would be a great room to take full advantage of the view. I could imagine Chavell and Tom spending lazy, rainy afternoons in this room reading and snoozing, which, as I understand it, is what one does when at the lake. Although there was still plenty of daylight shining in through the windows, Shiwaga turned on a light and I deposited my flashlight into a pocket.