Kill All the Judges (37 page)

A spell of awkward silence, not even a titter from the bemused gallery. Cud Brown, out of the loop again, gestured to Arthur: something weird's happening, man, visit me, explain. Haley joined Arthur and asked, “What do we do?”

“I suggest, my dear, that we give thanks that we missed out on the canard à l'orange.”

A few minutes passed, some jurors fidgeting; others, more attuned to the fact that judge and prosecutor were in extremis, suppressing ungracious joviality. Charles Loobie caught Arthur's eye, winked. It was hard to see him as a murderer, but if one accepts the wit and wisdom of the noted author Pomeroy, the perp is always the one you least suspect.

Arthur scanned the gallery for familiar faces. J. Dalgleish Ebbe had taken another day off to pursue his intense interest in this case. Presumably he had time off to compose judgments, and was playing hooky from that task.

The clerk took a call, then addressed the room. “His Lordship has advised that circumstances have arisen requiring us to recess until two p.m.”

All to the good, Arthur decided. It would give him a chance to get on top of things–the case had been moving too swiftly, the witness list expanding. And there was the matter of Donat LeGrand's subterfuge to deal with, the hiring of April Wu, the adage-spouting private eye. LeGrand was somewhere on the grounds, along with his counsel. A big name, Abigail said.

He turned to Shawn Hamilton. “Take me to your leader.”

Though still in his gown, Arthur followed him outside, toward Robson Square, past its skating rink, where young couples were gracefully swirling, and across the street into the lobby of a boutique hotel. Shawn's only words en route were to confirm he'd been at Kroop's jamboree. “I had the salmon.”

“Good choice.” Appropriate, given he was on retainer to federal Fisheries. Arthur's own firm, Tragger, Inglis, had handled their prosecutions until the Conservatives began rewarding their friends.

Shawn led him into an elegant penthouse suite. Donat LeGrand was standing by an ersatz fireplace, gas-powered and brightly flickering. He acknowledged Arthur with a nod but made
no move to greet him, perhaps appalled on seeing Arthur black-robed, like the angel of death. The tycoon was tall, a thick thatch of greying hair, amply jowelled and girthed. A dejected look.

More welcoming was the cherubic silver-haired gentleman rising from behind a tray of pancakes and eggs to his full height of five foot six and extending not just a hand but both arms in loving embrace. Gib Davidson, Q.C., the most courteous and benign lawyer in the ranks of the bar. Such qualities disarmed all who opposed him while his weapon of choice, a polite stiletto, made them cautious. “King Arthur, the ground shakes whereon he walks.” He backed off a step, examining him. “Where have you been hiding, in a health club? My God, the years have treated you well.”

“More true of you than me, Gib. How a man keeps such robust health when he never stops eating is beyond me. But who else do we have aiding in this cabal?” Not that he needed to ask: the Kowloon Mata Hari herself, April Fan Wu, perched delicately on a lounger. “Ah, so you didn't flee the country, my dear?”

“Once on a tiger's back, it is hard to alight, Mr. Beauchamp.”

He couldn't help but smile.

“Let's hope the tiger will have less bite after he hears me out,” said Gib, “Then he will either make a meal of the lovely Ms. Wu or offer clemency. Would any of you mind if Arthur and I have several minutes?”

At the door, LeGrand finally took Arthur's hand, saying, “My pleasure, sir, and I'm deeply sorry,” then led April and Shawn out.

Gib took a plate of wafers and blue cheese and a bowl of almonds to a couch, sat it on his lap, kicked off his shoes, rested his feet on a glass-topped table, and patted the seat beside him. Arthur took it.

“Nice cut,
très distingué
, as Roberto might say. Still using him? That's his British Ambassador, isn't it? There's coffee, sodas. Anything? Almonds?”

“Lost my appetite after seeing the casualty list from Kroop's banquet.”

“Damn, I'm glad I missed that. There's a rumour someone tried to poison the old bugger.”

“A gross canard. Okay, Gib, what is the game we're playing here?”

“Face the music.”

“Play a few bars.”

He took a breath. “In the mid-1970s, Donat LeGrand was negotiating port fees for lucrative routes from Vancouver to the Far East, and he spent a lot of time in exotic places. One was Bangkok. That's where Florenza LeGrand was conceived of the loins of Donat and his…lover? Concubine? Call girl? Who knows.”

This music, if not the food of love, was food for scandal, an explosive one. Gib nodded, as if in response to Arthur's astonishment.

“He didn't abandon her. Give credit to Thesalie too, Donat's wife. She forgave–not because of possible stigma, but from her good heart. Lovely, decent woman. Shy. I didn't feel she should be stressed by coming here; hope you agree.”

Arthur nodded. Gib had a subtle way of extorting agreement.

“Mrs. LeGrand consented to her husband bringing the young woman to Canada, on maternity leave, as it were. Given an apartment, an allowance, sent to a well-endowed clinic to have her child, then quietly returned to a comfortable job with LeGrand's Bangkok office. Meanwhile baby Flo was adopted by both LeGrands. No papers exist to prove she's his bastard child. Thesalie LeGrand was barren, poor thing–and they spoiled their sole heir. Let her go wild. And she grew up believing, despite the golden skin and the Orient in her eyes, that she was conceived in their bed.”

“I have a feeling I'd rather not be hearing this. And made to feel responsible if it comes crashing down.”

“Devastating for Mrs. LeGrand especially. Such a gracious
lady. And despite his sins, Donat, too, has shown nobility, wouldn't you say?”

“What are you trying to sell?”

“First, let me plead the case of other suspects. I don't know what Silent Shawn knows–he won't tell even me–but Donat LeGrand says he personally engineered the hiring of April Wu. Shawn was just a mail drop.”

“And Ms. Wu was planted in my office to find out if we knew anything about Flo's provenance.”

“Ah, still the old silver fox. Nothing lost upstairs but a little off the top.” Munching contentedly on almonds. “Yes, indeed, that clever young beauty was hired to find out whether you'd uncovered a shameful thirty-three-year-old secret. And now you know it. It took some effort to persuade my clients that Arthur Ramsgate Beauchamp would be the last person in the world, the
last
person, to inflict pain on such an upstanding, charitable couple. Training programs for the destitute in the Third World, that's where his major contributions go, seventy million at last count. The cheese is a delightful Cambozola. Give it a go.”

Arthur dutifully nibbled. “The story going the rounds is he was also charitable to the less deserving.”

Gib grinned. “Right. Whynet-Moir. Two million dollars in July of 2006 upon his promise to marry Florenza. With an expectation of two million more after the vows. Cash. All under a pretense of anonymity, the funds sent to a Bahamian bank. More almonds?”

“No thanks.”

“Reform her, that was the idea. Marry her off to the handsome, cultured, top-ranked lawyer high on the short list for a judgeship. Under whose steady, nurturing hand, Flo would finally blossom from twenty years of painful adolescence into womanhood and take on her intended role as a priestess of high society.”

“July 2006, you said?”

“Two months before Raffy got the nod from the justice minister.” He drew a sheet from a briefcase. “Donat's sworn affidavit. It will attest that he had no knowledge the money was to be used to buy a judgeship.” Before offering it to Arthur, he said, “In trade for this, all we ask is that you not break confidence over Florenza's maternal origins. Deal?”

“Deal.”

 

THE MAID, THE MAJOR, AND THE MEXICAN

“H
ere he comes,” someone said. Then a hush as Chief Inspector Chance stepped into the circle. The room had been cleared of all but sheriffs, lawyers, and court staff. The death grimace on Kroop's face, the
risus sardonicus,
the pungent smell of curry provided all the proof he needed. Strychnine. Who here had motive…?

Wentworth jumped as the door opened. A sheriff peered into this cramped, dark interview room. “You wanted to see Mr. Vogel?” Who was standing there in a tractor cap, chewing on a toothpick, looking sour, as if expecting the worst. Stealing up behind him, Philomène Rossignol, not looking too anxious to resume her interview. Wide-eyed, elflike, barely past her teens, she'd been so nervous with him she looked like she might pee her pants, which is maybe why she rushed away to the washroom.

He asked her to wait, sat the old rancher down, told him he had news, good news.

Vogel didn't show any reaction as Wentworth, blushing at his own exaggerations, explained how he'd entered into protracted negotiations after learning Clearihue had been felled. Played hardball, refused to settle for partial victory. With a modest shrug, he explained that Clearihue's counsel had finally thrown in the towel. He was a bit disgusted with himself, but he'd watched how top guns like John Brovak enhanced their fees. “I'm going to try to get something extra for the insult too.”

Nothing from Vogel. For a long time. Finally came the dawn. “He got his nut clobbered, Clearihue?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“All them years going to church are paying off. You mean I won? You saved my ranch?”

“The whole megalith.”

“Well, I'll be darned. Mr. Chance, soon as I set eyes on you, I knew you was a fighter. You're the champ. Now I guess I got to pay a fancy bill, and that's fair. But when you get something for that there insult, you buy yourself a ticket to Hundred Mile House and come on up and spend the weekend at Vogel Ranch. We'll put on a celebration like you never believed, Joy and Penny and Lucy and me and you.”

Wentworth tried not to stammer. “Paperwork, there'll be paperwork. I'll call you when it's done.”

He ushered Vogel to the door, not finding it easy to suppress visions of grateful cherry-cheeked granddaughters snuggling him around a fire. Life looked better, he sensed a turning point, improving prospects. Look at the way Haley has been coming on to him, earthy, jasmine-smelling Haley who liked to brush her breasts against him.

Philomène entered the room tentatively, a frightened fawn. She must have had anxiety bred into her in Haiti, fear and distrust of authority, of lawyers–Wentworth didn't know how to make her relax. Her English was maybe okay for household chores, but so far the session had been hard work.

What he'd learned so far was she'd arrived for work shortly after seven on Sunday, October 14, after spending the night with her boyfriend. She identified herself to the constables on duty but was unsure why they were there, thought at first there might have been a break-in. Or a rowdy party, because in her suite, she found men's toiletries strewn about, the bed in disarray, her stuffed animals tossed on the floor beside a mystery backpack. Without really thinking, she wiped everything down, gathered
used linen, towels, washcloths, and later threw them in the wash.

She'd found nothing of Florenza's, no handbag, brush, comb, lipstick, underthings. Still, Wentworth assumed that the lovemaking had progressed from steam room to bed, given all the disorder. No bottles full or empty. No copies, signed or otherwise, of
Liquor Balls
or
Karmageddon
. She trashed some cigarette butts that were in a soap dish, a couple on the floor.

It wasn't until she started in on the main house that she realized Donat LeGrand and his medical-legal advisers had set up camp there, but no one stopped her, and she just carried on cleaning until Chekoff showed up.

“Okay, Philomène, try to relax and let's finish this.” Wentworth tried to warm her up with a smile, but that didn't seem to work. “I want to ask you about a man named Carlos Espinoza.”

Had she met him, heard of him? No, monsieur. A helpless look. He asked her to recall January 9, a Wednesday, six weeks ago–when Brian had paid a visit to Château LeGrand.

“That day, I do not work. All that week.”

Why? Because Florenza had given her that week off. Which seemed too coincidental.

He learned that Donat, not Florenza, had asked Philomène to stay on after Whynet-Moir's death. She didn't have a whole lot of work: Flo became a recluse, cut all ties–no more dinner parties, no social occasions at all, no visitors unless you count father, mother, Silent Shawn, and the occasional pizza delivery person.

“Did she have
any
visitors?”

“I think she has like to be alone with her computer or TV or books, magazines. She swim, maybe, sometimes, and drink a lot.”

Wentworth dug the opal ring from his briefcase.