The Cooperman Variations (36 page)

“Me, you mean?”

“Naturally. As they say in the movies, ‘You know too much.’”

“So you planned this little trip in the
Sir Edward Coke.”
Devlin was sitting upright now. He looked like an insect about to strike, except that he was carrying too much weight to be any insect I could think of.

“I’m sorry about this, Mr. Cooperman. But you see the necessity.” By his moving from “Ben” to “Mr. Cooperman,” I could feel that he was getting ready to make his move. It’s easier to kill someone with whom you are on rather formal terms.

“You may have forgotten a thing or two, Raymond.”

“Such as?”

“I’m not a complete fool. Do you think I’d have accepted your kind invitation without taking out insurance?” I could hear the wind whistling around the mast as Devlin weighed what I’d said.

“You can’t bluff your way out of this. All the cards are face up. There are no more surprises on the table.” He was sneering slightly. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

“What if Ed Patel comes home from the hospital? That would be another complication.”

“Ed Patel isn’t getting out of there except to go to the funeral home across the street. Even
he
knows that.” The boat was heeling over again, the sails were bellied out. The sheets were squeaking in their cleats.

“Are you sure he hasn’t contacted anyone? Friends, visitors?”

“Who’ll believe him? He’s wandering in his mind. When he’s not going on about Lawrence of Arabia, he’s telling you who owned which cottage on the lake at the turn of the last century. He’s a colossal bore. He can’t spoil things. Only
you
can.”

“The police know I’m here.”

“More bluff. But not good enough to save you.” Here, Devlin swung the tiller hard over, ducking his head down as he went. I ducked as well, just as the boom slammed over hard, parting my hair as it went. But Devlin had a second part to his plan. He was up on his feet now, and I could see that there was a gun in his right hand. It looked like a toy. It was the circumstances that told me it was real. He made a start for me, silhouetted against the light, as I cowered in the cockpit. He added the support of his left hand to his right as he took aim. I closed my eyes just as the boom crashed back to where it had been. The boat had refused to come about. Devlin was struck full in the chest and knocked off balance. He went over the side without my being able to either see him properly or get to him. The gun went off as he fell, and I heard the zing of the bullet as it hit the aluminum mast. By the time I got to his side of the boat, there wasn’t even a ripple showing where he’d gone down. Then, I saw his head come up and saw his yellow slicker as he thrashed around.

I was surprised how quickly the yacht was moving away from him. He was becoming smaller, vanishing under the swell. I looked for a life preserver and tossed it overboard. I tried to turn the boat to get back to the place where he’d disappeared. But, as I said, I’m no skipper. I’ve felt helpless before, but this was a new issue, nothing like any earlier experience. I attempted to come about, but by the time I managed it, I was half a mile from where I’d last seen Devlin. I tried again, got closer, but could see nothing.

Then I remembered the motor. I turned the key and pushed the button; it caught the first time. I tried the throttle, moving it back and then forward to get the hang of it, and then sped back where he’d last been seen. I passed the empty life preserver, made another turn and came around again. I wanted to criss-cross my path as well as I could, but the sails had their own plans. At last I had to admit that we were totally out of control. The boom had come loose and was under water on the side away from the wind. I tried to straighten it, but by the time I’d got the sheet firmly caught in the cleat, I couldn’t tell where I was. I’d lost sight of the life preserver and, with it, all chance of finding Devlin. That’s when I gave up the search. By now I was sailing a piece of the lake that had not witnessed any of this. Innocent water. That’s when I turned my mind to getting
Sir Edward
back to the Island.

TWENTY-FIVE

I arrived back at the ROYC main dock, towed by a police launch that had been alerted by the duty commodore of the club. My erratic thrashing around, my many attempts to sail directly against the wind, finally attracted attention. If ever a fine boat hung its head,
Sir Edward
did. The police corporal at the controls of the launch that towed me back to the club had never heard of Sykes or Boyd. Later, Jack Sykes told me that they had had a helicopter circling above the
Sir Edward Coke
all the time. I never heard it. It’s one of those stories you’d like to believe.

They never found Devlin’s body. He was gone. Maybe he got to the life preserver and made it to the American side of the lake. Maybe he is now searching titles in a Rochester registry office. In a pig’s eye. He was gone in another way: gone not meaning simply not here. And I couldn’t make myself feel good about it.

Someone rescued my street clothes from the cabin of the yacht. I remember glimpses of ROYC members fussing over me as though I were Robinson Crusoe thrown up on Centre Island. A woman with blue hair gave me half a sandwich. A shot of rye was administered; I never found out who paid for it. I recall trying to explain that I was unharmed, that it was the other guy who could use some help. But by now it was dark and far too late to launch a search-and-rescue operation. So all of this unsolicited energy for good deeds centred on me. I fell asleep on the ferry, and the taxi left me at the New Beijing Inn without my being fully aware of the fact. The rest of the night was divided equally between unruffled sleep and nightmares of a nautical nature that I don’t want to go into right now.

Friday

When I awoke, the sun was stealing the colours from my bedclothes, and the bed was not quite fixed firmly to the floor. The phone was ringing. I don’t know when the ringing started. It was Vanessa. “Benny, Sergeant Sykes just called me and told me all about it. What a narrow escape!”

“Thanks. What time is it?”

“Time you started looking for another job, Benny. I don’t need protecting any more. You’re fired!” I thought that there would be more, but she’d left the line. I was fired, and she’d hung up.

I pulled myself from the bed and into the shower. My body felt tender all over. A few bruises had appeared where I don’t remember hitting myself. My face in the steamy mirror looked wraith-like. I tidied it as well as I could and took the elevator down to the ground to find something to eat.

Sykes and Boyd were waiting for me in the Open Kitchen. Pepper was late, by the look of it. He arrived after I’d got down my first swallow of morning coffee. We sat staring at one another. I crunched dry white toast. Orange juice helped. So did a second cup of coffee.

“Are you going to tell us about this or what, Benny?” Sykes asked. “We tried to discourage you from getting involved with this thing, but you didn’t listen. Now it’s time to pay the consequences. Spill your guts, or we will spill them for you.”

“Jack, I wouldn’t hold out on you. Just let me wake up a little, okay?”

“Sure, take all the time you need, just so long as you’re talking in ten seconds.”

“Where do you want me to start? I’m not sure where the beginning is. Where a guy like Devlin steps off the curb into a set-up like this is more a matter for a shrink. He had a screw loose, that’s certain.”

“Save the theorizing. We’ll settle for a few gory details.”

“Okay, okay. The basic scam was this: Devlin and his pals tried to suppress the last will and testament of Dermot Keogh, late of this parish.”

“What? What are you talking about? All through this case we keep bumping into Keogh’s will. That’s what set up the Dermot Keogh Hall. That’s what Devlin was administering.”

“That was Keogh’s
second
-last will, and as such, it doesn’t count. The will that set up the concert hall, that put Devlin and Foley and Rankin in the business of managing Keogh’s estate, was superseded by a later will, which they tried to bury.”

“Take your time, Benny. We’re listening. When did all this take place?”

“Dermot made the first will—well, it may not have actually been his
first
, but it is the first one that involves us—while he was pals with Devlin, Foley and Rankin. It set them up in good style forever. Only trouble was, Raymond spoiled things. He got Dermot peeved at him trying to research Dermot’s past: visited his sick father, asked him to paint for him a portrait of the artist as a young man. Guess who became angry at him and went off and made a
new
will? Ed Patel was the lawyer who drew it up. He’s in hospital in Bracebridge and unaware that the earlier will is the one probated. Renata Sartori was a witness to this will. So was Alma Orchard, Patel’s long-time secretary. Both of these women were murdered to keep them quiet. Dermot was killed too, so that he couldn’t make more trouble and to get the estate established. Only a few people knew about the new will.”

“Three murders! Is that what you’re saying?” Chuck Pepper looked stunned.

“More than three. Bob Foley was killed too, because he was getting out of hand. He planted the spent shotgun shells in Vanessa’s locker. He thought it would confuse things. That undermined Devlin’s plan. Foley was turning into a liability. Loose cannon rolling across the gun deck. His petty crimes, such as keeping Keogh’s Jaguar and motorcycle collection, threatened to expose the bigger deception.”

“Correct me if I was hearing things, but did you just say that Dermot Keogh was murdered?”

“I said that.”

“Who killed Keogh?”

“Foley, under orders from Devlin. He monkeyed with the regulator of Keogh’s aqualung after they picked up the equipment at McCordick Brothers’ Marina. Renata was there, as well as Hampton Fisher and some strangers. Nobody’d suspect Foley because he was always tuning up the gear. That was the only killing last year. For a few months it looked like Renata was going to be a team player. She kept quiet about the suppression of the new will for nearly a year. But the conspirators could see that she wasn’t going to stay bought. At any time she could go public with her story. She had a new boyfriend; she could easily tell him. Ray killed Renata and Alma Orchard the same day. He drove up north, collected the shotgun from Patel’s place, where he’d seen it many times hanging over the fireplace. He took shells from there too. He dropped in on Alma, Patel’s legal secretary, surprising her on her way to a church bake sale and thumped her on the back of her head. He removed her clean clothes, put her in the tub and added the radio to the bathwater.”

“Nasty touch,” said Boyd. Sykes just made a face.

“Then he went through Patel’s office using her keys. That’s when he destroyed copies of the new will. He returned the keys and drove home to Toronto.

“That same night, Monday, the fifteenth, he shot Renata. She was about to spill her guts to Barry Bosco, her boyfriend. While he headed north again, to return the gun, Foley came in and took the spent shells. For him, it was easy to get into Vanessa’s office. He used a bolt cutter to remove Vanessa’s lock on her locker. When he’d put the evidence inside, he snapped on his
own
lock, thinking that nobody would check the combination of a cut-off lock.”

“Still harping on that damned lock!”

“Things remained calm for a while. First, everybody was convinced that it was Vanessa who’d been murdered. That suited Devlin fine. Later, the idea that Renata had been an accidental victim suited him just as well. Everything was coming up roses, until Foley walked off the Vic Vernon show. He was showing an independence above his station. That worried Devlin. It drew attention to Foley’s powers under Dermot’s will. When you test the fingerprint you found on the rubber glove in Foley’s kitchen with one of Devlin’s, I think you’ll get a match.”

“What did Trebitsch have to do in all this?”

“Not much. He didn’t kill anybody. He’s basically a busybody; has to know what’s going on. Insecure, you know?”

“What about Philip Rankin? How deeply involved was he?”

“He kept his mouth shut about suppressing the later will. He made the most of his Keogh connections at the network. But I don’t think he had the guts to kill anybody. But he knew that the killing was part of the plan. He was guilty of keeping his mouth shut, of conspiracy, of fraud and of being an accessory to one, two, three, four murders. Take your pick. He may not have known the details, but he collected all the benefits, including a cello named Hector.”

“Rankin was stabbed all right. We established that much before you left. But, Benny, there wasn’t a knife found at the scene. Not a knife, blade, shiv, nothing that could have made that single, deep, deadly wound in Rankin’s chest. I’m not talking about a tiny weapon: this one had to be at least a
foot
long.”

“Yeah,” said Jim Boyd. “And our searches haven’t turned it up. We’ve been into every sewer and gutter in the neighbourhood. We’ve been behind billboards and in empty warehouses: no murder weapon. Nothing like what we’re looking for at Devlin’s home or office.”

“That’s right. It wasn’t at the scene and it wasn’t in the vicinity. Nor did we get reports of somebody running down the street with a bloody knife in his hand.”

“I’d heard that Keogh was very strict about having sharp objects in his studio,” I said. “But I went over it in a dream last night. In my sleep I went through the room with a fine-toothed comb.”

“It’s your time. What did you come up with?”

“The murder weapon.”

“Don’t kid, Benny. Nobody likes a kidder.”

“That’s right,” said Chuck Pepper.

“Tell us about this dream.”

“Who’s buying breakfast?”

“I am,” all the others said together.

When we had all had our coffee cups refilled and finished off what was left of toast, bacon or egg on our plates, I took another deep breath and got back into the story. “You remember that studio room on the ground floor. It was crowded with stuff. Well, last night in this dream, I let my closed eyes wander over the whole room. You know, the way a camera scans a room in the movies when there’s some point to be made by a slow pan across the set?”