Torque (20 page)

With Mogg in good hands, Fenn dashed back
upstairs where he tossed a shaving kit and some extra clothes into
a duffel bag. The disc that everyone seemed to want was already in
the car. If Reis had given him the information he’d wanted, he
probably would have given it to her. From the top shelf of his
bedroom closet he retrieved a small fireproof safe. It contained
important documents like his passport and birth certificate. He
added his chequebook and the newspaper article about the murders to
it then, after a couple of minutes spent shredding old bank
statements and one last look around, he was ready to go.

Out in the corridor he pulled the new keys
from his pocket. For a moment he contemplated leaving the door
unlocked then thought, fuck it—this is war, and made it secure.

Outside, it had started to rain. He put the
safe and the duffel in the back seat then sat behind the wheel to
consider his next move. The traffic light on the corner changed and
a large car came quickly through the intersection. It passed at
speed and Fenn picked it up in his side view mirror as it slowed to
enter the underground parking.

It was the Grand Marquis.

Fenn got out of his car and ran to the ramp
in time to see the barrier lower behind the sedan. He wondered how
Jenner had got a pass card, though one wouldn’t be difficult to
obtain. Staying close to the wall he went down the ramp and
concealed himself behind a minivan. The sedan came to a stop near
the elevator and after a moment backed into a spot close by. The
occupants got out. He watched Jenner toss the keys to his
square-shouldered companion who opened the trunk and took out a
long-handled sledgehammer. Fenn sighed. Mr. Bedeer was going to be
livid.

He waited until the elevator whisked away its
passengers then jogged back to his Toyota. He returned with a
towing cable—a thick strap about four metres long with heavy steel
hooks on either end. Scanning around to make sure no tenants were
about he approached the Grand Marquis.

Folding the strap so the two hooks hung
together he began to whirl them at his side like a propeller. He
spun them three times until the weight pulled hard against his
arms, then with a final downward surge stepped forward and crashed
the hooks against the windshield of the car. The tempered glass
didn’t shatter but, from two distinct impact spots, cracks radiated
out to every edge.

He dragged the hooks to the rear of the
sedan. Jenner had backed up to a narrow concrete support pillar and
Fenn looped one end of the strap around it and attached the hook.
He crawled under the bumper and wrapped the other end around the
exhaust pipe, ahead of the muffler. He rolled out with a grin. He
hadn’t felt this kind of thrill in years.

He sat in his car knowing he wouldn’t have
long to wait. Jenner had come specifically for him and was unlikely
to search the apartment a second time. The rain was steady now and
he watched droplets on the glass swell and slide down. With the
side window gapped to prevent fogging, he heard the Grand Marquis
ascend the ramp.

The big block motor grumbled up the incline
like an old cement truck and the roar increased when Jenner stomped
the gas pedal. Without a muffler to provide backpressure, power was
diminished and the car simply gargled throatily up the road at a
sedate speed. The damaged windshield was obvious as hell and the
broken exhaust pipe, still attached to the undercarriage, dragged
along beneath the rear bumper in a shower of sparks.

Fenn sank down in his seat and let out a
whoop. They’d have to ditch those wheels in a hurry or be pulled
over by the first cop they passed. He was tempted to follow but
there were things to be done before he could call it a night.

The barn seemed the logical place to stash
his safe. And the safe was now the logical place to put the disc.
In a pinch he could also sleep at the barn. He’d done it before but
the back seat of an old Lincoln was best contemplated when drunk.
Besides, he needed to clean up and although it might be safe to go
back to his apartment for a quick shower he didn’t have the energy
to deal with what he might find there. It was too bad that he
couldn’t afford a hotel room for a week, or so.

Wait a second. He felt his pocket.

From the two wads of cash he peeled off ten
of the hundred dollar bills and put the rest in the safe. No point
having spoils of war if you weren’t going to use them. The clock on
the dash said it was just after eleven. He could decide on the
accommodation after he’d been to the barn but he needed to find a
place to eat before everywhere was closed. He turned left onto
Brant Street and headed north toward the King’s Head Pub.

Spoils of war. That had a nice ring to
it.

== == ==

Lucien Harrowport put down his book and
reached for the ringing cell phone on the bedside table.

“Lucien, It’s Brittany. We need to talk.”

Harrowport flashed an anxious glance at his
wife. She was idly flipping through the pages of a magazine.

“I see. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Oh, really? Well you’ll be sorry for your
loss when I tell you what happened.”

“Of course.” He got out of the bed. “Let me
just go downstairs to my briefcase and I’ll take the details.”

His wife made a point of not acknowledging
his apologetic shrug. She couldn’t understand why some underling
couldn’t take these after hours calls. Truth was, it had been
easier to tell her there was a problem with the phone lines at work
rather than say that he suspected a wiretap. That would raise too
many questions altogether.

Technically, Marjorie Dynes-Harrowport owned
half the business having inherited it from her late father Wilfred
M. Dynes. Realistically, though, she preferred to leave the running
of it to her husband while she fulfilled the role of wealthy
shareholder. Harrowport grabbed his briefcase at the bottom of the
stairs and went into the kitchen.

“Brittany, I was in bed with my wife!” he
hissed.

“Well then I’m not interrupting anything, am
I?”

“Why are you calling?”

“I thought you should know that I met with
that guy Fenn, tonight. He gave me a decoy and took off with your
ten G’s.”

“What! How could he manage to slip out like
that?”

Because, she thought, my knees were still
quivering when he finally did slip out.

“It was just bad timing. I’ve sent Brick and
R. J. after him. He’s probably in the trunk already.”

“We’d better hope so. That disc is part of
our deal with Wharfmine Investments, or whatever cover name they’re
using. We’re meeting at the funeral home on Wednesday night and
everything
needs to be in place.”

“It will be. Guaranteed. Then perhaps you and
I can take a little holiday. Someplace hot where clothes are
optional.”

“And I’m paying, of course.”

“Of course you are, darling.”

“You can ‘darling’ me when this deal goes
through. Let’s make sure that it does, shall we. And, if you’re
going to hang on to my BMW at least see that it gets an oil
change.”

“Perhaps I should bring it back and let your
wife change your oil.” Before he could respond Reis
disconnected.

She was expecting R. J. to check in and an
hour later he called. He spoke less than five seconds before she
cut him off with a tirade that left no doubt that she would either
have Fenn’s ass on a plate, or Jenner’s head on a platter.

“Pick out a casket, R. J. because one of you
is getting buried.”

CHAPTER
29

Tuesday, October
27th

Lareault stood in front of two magnetic
white boards that held the salient points of the murders. A new
picture had been added to each of them this morning and he held
copies of it in his hand. The assemblage, those who had worked on
either case already and additional officers now joining in, were
attentive.

“Yesterday we obtained several key pieces of
information. There is now a good degree of certainty that Marty
Durrell was murdered so that Stanislaw Svoljsak could replace him
at the Simedyne facility. A research scientist at Simedyne, one
Roger Aird, succumbed to an aneurysm a few days before Durrell was
killed. Aird’s access card was used at the facility the night
Svoljsak allegedly replaced Durrell on the security detail. Our own
coroner, Dennis Collier, recalled that a woman posing as a lawyer
for Roger Aird claimed his belongings from the morgue.

“Here,” he held up the papers in his hand,
“are copies of the computer-rendered likeness of the woman as
provided by Dr. Collier. She used the name of Brittany Reis, though
that could be an alias. There is no Brittany Reis registered with
the law society, and the address and phone number on her business
card belong to other, unconnected, people.

“Forensics suggest that the same woman used a
toxic injection to kill both Durrell and Svoljsak during sexual
encounters. For now we’re accepting that she acted alone but we
won’t rule out the possibility of accomplices.”

Lareault handed his flyers to the closest
officer who took one and passed them on.

“You’ll notice there is a second image on the
page, of the same person without hair. We have reason to believe
our suspect is suffering from a hair loss disease.”

“Just like Bloomfield!” someone joked. Frank
Bloomfield bowed in acknowledgment.

“Well, since Frank is standing,” picked up
Lareault, “perhaps he can bring us to speed on our other
investigations.”

Bloomfield hitched up his belt and moved to
the front. “Two youth died in Hamilton this month. Both in
possession of a patch like you’d wear to quit smoking but laced
with a recreational drug formula. One of the victims simply died
from misadventure; hit by a car while jaywalking. The other victim
died from anaphylactic shock, apparently allergic to the synthetic
bee venom that is part of the patch’s toxicology. The patches were
also found to contain synthesized epinephrine. Epinephrine is a
popular stimulant, and is found naturally in the adrenal gland; but
a disturbing development in this case is that several human adrenal
glands were found in undocumented sample jars by the Simedyne staff
during their inventory audit.”

Officer Kraus raised a hand. “Whoever brought
those undocumented samples into Simedyne would have tried to
conceal them from the audit. Aird, being dead, obviously
couldn’t.”

Bloomfield nodded. “Aird also had one of the
patches in his wallet when he arrived at the morgue. Apparently,
the effect of the formula on healthy people is mild at best—our
white coats think that these patches were part of a beta-run put
out for testing. It’s reasonable to expect that subsequent versions
would be more potent, and more harmful. As we all know, consistency
and quality control is virtually non-existent with this type of
thing.”

“Yeah. And they’re using our kids for guinea
pigs,” said one of the officers.

“Not my kids,” asserted another.

Bloomfield raised a hand. “Okay. Now try and
stay with me. Aird fits as being the architect, though his
co-workers will also be questioned. The resources of Simedyne were
likely used during development though actual production may have
been off-site. When Aird died, Reis, his so-called lawyer insisted
the corpse go to Harrowport & Dynes Funeral Home. Harrowport
& Dynes is currently under surveillance in response to
allegations of petty theft, suspicions of money laundering and,
now, the harvesting of organs.”

“That home interred my brother,” came a quiet
remark.

“Don’t worry, Dana, there’s going to be a
full investigation.”

Bloomfield went back to his seat and Lareault
wrapped up.

“With all these connections we may only need
another key point or two to make everything click into place. Keep
yourself apprised of new developments, and update the case files
daily with anything you find. And don’t be cutting corners; we
don’t want a judge disallowing evidence because of improper
procedure.”

The room emptied and Bloomfield accompanied
Lareault down the hall.

“The briefing hit a few nerves this morning,
Evan.”

“It’s hard to stay detached where family is
concerned. Hopefully, those emotions won’t bleed into the
investigation.”

== == ==

Asha Fabiani picked up the phone and gave
her standard greeting, “DriveCheck-Burlington. How may I help
you?”

The caller was male. “Yes. Hello. I was just
following one of your driving school cars, a red Toyota, and the
rear licence plate fell off. I stopped to pick it up but the Toyota
kept going. If you can give me the address of his next couple of
appointments, I’ll try and get the plate back to its owner before
the police pull him over.”

“That’s very kind of you, sir. He’ll be in
town somewhere. Let me look at his bookings.” Fenn was the only
instructor with a red Toyota. Asha checked the clock and then
Fenn’s schedule.

“Okay, you can probably catch him when he
drops his student off at Noon.” She gave the address. “We
appreciate your consideration, Mr. …” She paused, waiting for the
caller to provide his name, but the line went dead.

== == ==

Muriel Stafford’s progress was incremental
yet steady, and that pleased both instructor and client. Their
sessions together had become mutually enjoyable, and while students
often confided in their teachers; given the right person, Fenn was
also open to some confessions of his own. Without going into
detail, other than to fib that his apartment was uninhabitable due
to a water leak, he’d been telling Muriel of his need to find a new
abode as soon as possible.

“So, at the moment I’m in a hotel. It has a
nice pool and room service, but it’s not a long-term solution.”