The Cooperman Variations (26 page)

“Barry Bosco?”

“Very good. You
are
keeping your eyes open. Yes, Barry Bosco. He’s taken a rather personal interest in the murder of his inamorata. I don’t think his legal firm will be happy about this if it continues beyond the end of this month. He’s a clever lawyer and all, but no Greenspan or John J. Malone. You might do worse than trying to have a word with him yourself.”

“I’ll remember the suggestion.” The smile Rankin gave me was dismissive. His eyes returned to other things. Just to bug him, I said, “I read a paperback biography about Dermot Keogh over the weekend.”

“Enterprising. What did you think?”

“It was a fast job, not very good. Looked like it was a collection of write-ups and reviews from the papers.”

“That’s exactly what it was, Mr. Cooperman.”

“I’d give another thought about writing your own book on him.”

“Mind your business, Mr. Cooperman.”

Sally came out of the office to meet me when she smelled the aging victuals I was carrying.

“Your senses are in terrific tune. Good morning. I’m afraid that the Danish has become cold and soggy and the coffee cold with a cardboard aftertaste.”

“I’m well acquainted with both. Which are mine?”

“I was waylaid by Philip Rankin down the hall.”

“Yes, he poked his wobbly chin in here too. I don’t know what he’s so worried about. Music can’t win a bigger piece of Entertainment than it already has. Maybe it’s just habit.”

“Any further word from our chief?”

“She’s in La Jolla, meeting with Winkler from Warners.”

“I thought that Warners was in L.A.?”

“Right now, if you ask me, Warners is wherever Winkler is. He has a house on Camino de la Costa. Doesn’t that sound delicious?”

“You’ve tried out his pool?”

“No such luck. I remember typing the address on an envelope. But I can imagine the Pacific across the street whispering to them as they contemplate those three outstanding series that he has yet to deliver for our fall line-up.”

“Has Ted Thornhill been in touch with her?”

“Not yet. He’s still at the message-leaving stage.”

“So the department is still in one piece. The moving vans haven’t arrived.”

“As of this moment, but the day is young. Here, let me get you a napkin before you get cherry jam on your other cheek as well.” Sally jumped up and with a few wellchoreographed motions delivered a few paper napkins to my sticky fingers.

We munched in silence for a few minutes, during which time I gave her the once-over: her seams were straight, her eyes unlined, her makeup minimal. She’d had a good night, and Gordon was leaving her alone. Good. I hadn’t even thought of my black eye this morning. It must be doing well too.

“Sally, do you happen to know what Barry Bosco’s specialty is at Raymond Devlin’s office?”

“Mostly putting deals together, I think. He put together the Reliance Cable deal with Northeastern. He was in charge of the legal side of Global’s acquisition of anchorman Garth Walsh’s contract from CBS. Remember that? He was Mr. Devlin’s right hand in putting the Dermot Keogh Hall project together. He had to keep an eye on his boss, who is the executor of Keogh’s estate.”

“Ah, yes, as one of the senior executives in the big boardroom keeps saying, ‘Justice must not only be done but be
seen
to be done.’”

“Oh, him
. He never saw any justice around here. And he was one of the founders. Anyway, these days it only must
seem
to be done.”

“Sally, is there any way of getting a peek at Dermot Keogh’s will? The Keogh Concert Hall is being set up under the will, isn’t it? Is there a copy around?”

“Sure. It’s attached to the file. I’ll put it on your desk. We only had to have the pertinent sections, but I think they sent the whole thing from—Oh, that reminds me, I have to send the matted copies of the contracts over to Devlin’s office by courier. Raymond Devlin likes his trophies framed.” Sally stretched to find a piece of pink paper on which she scribbled a note to herself.

“I can take care of that. I was on my way in that direction anyway,” I fibbed. “And I’ve been looking for an excuse to butt my nose in there.”

“Wear your sunglasses. All that chrome and glass is too much for the normal unprepared human eye.”

“I’ll remember. Barry Bosco is still handling the Dermot Keogh Hall stuff, right?” Sally nodded, and I said, “See you later.” I collected the wrapped bundle of matted contracts and put them under my arm. Downstairs, the security people were of two minds about whether I should be allowed to leave the premises with a parcel. While they were arguing, one of them remembered that it was time for an eleven-o’clock coffee break. I slipped out before they did.

* * *

The offices of Devlin and Devlin occupied a full floor and were situated in a tower that cast a long shadow over Bay Street. The green copper roof of the Old City Hall could be seen from the reception area, which also showed painted portraits of Mr. Charles Devlin and Mr. Raymond Devlin. The senior partner was pictured in vigorous middle age, wearing his gown and tabs. A notice on the wall beside the portrait told me additionally that he had been referred indefinitely to some higher court beyond the jurisdiction of the Supreme Court of Canada. Raymond Devlin, lucky stiff, was left with the whole shebang, aided and abetted by two dozen juniors who had not yet got their names insinuated into the partnership’s legal and official style and form. When I’d attracted the interest of the receptionist, I asked to see Mr. Bosco. I gave my name when asked and said that I was from Vanessa Moss’s office at NTC. When this information was repeated into the phone, I was requested to take a seat. I was on my way to do this when I caught my still-blackish eye in the chrome-and-glass space divider that shielded the entrance into the sancta that lay beyond. With very little movement on my part, I could change my reflection into a funhouse distortion of myself. I was occupied in this way when I was summoned into the inner chambers.

Barry Bosco sat behind a huge glass-topped desk and lent me five fingers without doing great damage to my right hand. It wasn’t a boneless handshake, but with work it could get there. My first impression of him was that he looked like a private schoolboy. It might have been the haircut, no clipper marks, and his rosy, unmarked face. He was tall, willowy even, with a big head that gave the impression of being concave. I tried to see where the impression came from: a big chin and a pronounced forehead without much nose to speak of. The eyes, partly hidden by round glasses, were blue. I couldn’t read them as either warm or icy, yet. He’d cultivated that. Naturally, he didn’t look anything like the Orillia photograph.

“I’m Ben Cooperman, working with Vanessa Moss at NTC,” I explained, as though the receptionist hadn’t already filled him in. I handed over the package with the signed contracts inside.

“That’s good of you to drop by with this. I could have got the messenger service.” Having said that, he now felt that he had to offer me coffee, which would lift my personal service out of the class of paid go-between. He tried to make small talk, but not with much skill. He examined his watch only once before the coffee arrived. “I hope you take your coffee unabridged. I didn’t think to ask if you’d prefer decaffeinated.” I assured him that I took my vices at full strength.

He asked about NTC’s plans for the official press conference and reception scheduled for Wednesday. I told him what I remembered and admitted that Vanessa was out of town.

“You’re Vanessa’s executive assistant, isn’t that right?”

“That’s what she calls me. I’m still learning the ropes.”

“Come, now, Mr. Cooperman, you’re being too modest. I suspect that that befuddled manner of yours proves very useful on occasions.” I hadn’t expected that, and I couldn’t wait to hear what I was going to say in response.

“You’re well informed, Mr. Bosco. No sense asking who your moles inside NTC are, I guess.”

“You know as well as I that a blown mole is no mole at all, Mr. C. Now why don’t you tell me the real reason for this visit. Does it have anything to do with the agreements represented in these contracts?”

“You know the answer to that. Maybe it has to do with a red Volvo, somewhat the worse for wear, that keeps turning up like a dirty penny. Maybe it has to do with a photograph I have of Roger Cavanaugh accepting a T-shirt from the friendly people of Orillia a few weeks ago.”

Bosco looked stunned. It wasn’t a passing expression that flickered across his face. When it hit him, it stayed there, unfocused, poleaxed. He’d known that it would come one day, but he hadn’t expected it to come today, and not from me. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, getting to his feet. Without looking back to see if I was following him, he hurried down the corridor and around the bend to the waiting area, where he told the receptionist to hold his calls and reschedule all of his meetings for the next two hours.

“But, Mr. Bos—”

“All
of them!”

“What about Ms. Slopen? You invited her to lunch!”

“Send her a dozen long-stemmed roses. Make it two dozen. Tell her I’ll call as soon as I can. Tell Mr. Devlin—”

“What should she tell Mr. Devlin?” Raymond Devlin had stepped out of his office into the reception area. Bosco looked like he’d been goosed. Then, recovering, he smiled at the senior partner.

“I’m stepping out of the office for—”

“For two hours. I heard you loud and clear. What’s this about? Hello there, Mr. Sugarman, isn’t it? From Vanessa Moss’s office?”

“Yes, Mr.
Cooper
man just brought over the matted contracts from NTC.”

“Good of you, Mr. Cooperman. Sorry about your name; I still have some ragged edges left over from when this was a one-man operation. Back then, I was something of a fire-engine chaser. But I wasn’t very good at it because I couldn’t remember names. People told me I should settle for a less adventurous brand of law. I think they were right. Anyway, what’s this all about, Barry?”

“Just a few minor glitches in the details of the reception tomorrow, Raymond. The hotel had a few logistical problems. Security; things like that. We’ll be able to sort it out over coffee around the corner. I think it’s important that things should run smoothly tomorrow.”

“Well, better you than me, Barry. I’ll see you later. Good afternoon, Mr. Cooperman.” He was about to step back into his office, and Barry Bosco had recovered a little.

“I’ll speak to you as soon after five as I can, Raymond. The Cluny and Lorringer files are on my desk. We have to see Mr. Murphy about the Levitt business. Could you be free next Thursday after lunch?” Devlin emitted a golden smile and waved five fingers as he retreated to his desk. The young receptionist, however, was obviously flustered and Bosco saw this. “Esmé, don’t bother to cover for me. Go to lunch; let the machines do the work.”

“Yes, Mr. Bosco.”

Fifteen minutes later, Bosco and I were seated in a booth in a Chinese restaurant called the Champion House. It specialized in serving Peking duck and announced the coming of each duck from the kitchen by sounding a gong. Although the restaurant looked tidy and comfortable, the patrons repaid the good food and service by writing their thanks on the wallpaper. On the wall behind Bosco, I could make out: “Greeeeaaat duck!! You did it again. Blessings and thanks, Alabama and Stan, Mel and Lorne, Port Alberni, B.C.” Bosco ordered a plate of Chinese vegetables and some sliced duck. The waiter brought a big pot of green tea.

“Okay, let’s have it,” Bosco said. “I want to know what you know. Then tell me your price.”

“I’m not buying or selling. I’m collecting the facts, just like old Joe Friday on TV.”

“You’ve talked to Roger? Shit! You can’t trust anybody!”

“Look, if we’re going to get anywhere, let’s not cut the ribbon before we build the bridge. No, I haven’t talked to Roger, but I recognized him in the Orillia photographs. He must have been crazy to stick by the alibi he provided for you. I’ve never heard of a more harebrained scheme. I mean, talk about stupid. The pair of you. You both could lose your licences. Hell, with the murder, you could both be facing prison. How did you shut him up when Renata was murdered?”

“Like everybody else around here, he wants into the charmed circle. He’s a good trial lawyer and will be an asset to the firm, so I’m not introducing dead weight to the partners.”

“Save me your rationalization. I just want the why and wherefore.”

“I’ve felt like a hit-and-run driver since it happened.”

“So you got him to cover for you on the night of the murder.”

“It didn’t start out as the night of the murder! It was just a Monday-night talk. Christ, you have to
see
that.” He moved a hand through his hair, checking to see that it was all there. “All he had to do was drive to Orillia and read my speech.”

“But how did you keep him quiet when they found Renata dead? Suddenly it had become more complicated.”

“Promises. I made him promises, just as I said.”

“Okay, now the big one: where did you go that night?”

“I could lie to you.”

“Yeah, and you could stand mute. But I have a hunch that you want this thing cleared up. You went to see Renata, didn’t you?”

“You’re leading.”

“Didn’t you?”

“Yes. Oh, yes; God, yes!”

“Tell me about it.” He looked at the ceiling, then around at the three remaining diners in the place. Nobody was looking at him.

“I got there at eight. She cooked dinner. We ate it. Do I have to tell you this? We made love in her room. Is that what you want to hear? You want to know what it was like? Sorry, Cooperman, but you’re pushing me, and I don’t like it.”

“Just tell me.”

“Later, we did the dishes, you know?—and talked. We had a lot to talk about. About us, I mean. Things hadn’t been going all that well.”

“Did you arrange to meet her or was it the other way around?”

“She phoned me at the office; said she
had
to see me. It was important, she said.”

“Did she get to the subject?”

“No. She
did
say that she thought she was being followed. She was nervous. We’d gone from the kitchen to the living-room; she was leading up to something she wanted to tell me. I could tell, but before she could get launched, the doorbell rang.”