“Yes, of course. To avoid contaminating evidence. Procedure is to ribbon a dwelling off after you’re satisfied there’s no one else inside.”
“And you waited outside for the Identification team to fly in.”
“Exactly.”
“Then explain why your right index fingerprint was lifted from the refrigerator door.”
“It…it was where?”
Arthur recalls to him the evidence of yesterday, the fingerprint specialist who took the lifts in Cotters’ Cottage. “‘Known Individual JF, upper refrigerator door.’ You are known individual JF.”
“Well, I may have looked inside the fridge…I must’ve taken the glove off, they can get itchy. I’m sorry, I can’t imagine why that happened.”
“Try imagining you were there the previous night. Imagine you wanted a late snack.”
“Don’t answer that,” says Kroop. “We’ll take the noon break.” The witness stand isn’t far from the door to his chambers, where he pauses, studying Flynn, having trouble accepting this man as a bad guy, this wise, gruff cop with his fifty school visits. We all accept that he’s a sterling fellow.
32
It’s 12:30. Hubbell will have picked up Margaret by now, to escort her to the city, to his posh suite where she’ll be uncomfortable, it’s aseptic, inorganic, unwelcoming. The reunion will be edgy, difficult.
These fusspot thoughts are, thankfully, interrupted by Lotis, walking beside Arthur with her phone to her ear, nudging him, drawing his attention to Gilbert Gilbert. Though said to have been driven to madness, there he is, shoulders back, head high, walking up Robson Square to the Law Courts, returning to his clerkish duties.
“Good on you, Gilbert,” she calls, raising a fist in salute to his gritty spirit. Gilbert walks on, expressionless, eyes distantly focused, too embarrassed to acknowledge them.
Lotis snaps her phone shut. “I’m getting the big stall. Daisy doesn’t want to get involved, that’s her lawyer’s hidden message.” B.K. Shrader, a sly divorce practitioner with a reputation for seducing the more attractive of his clientele.
“Phone him back, I’ll talk to him.”
Arthur doesn’t want to force Desiree Flynn to court, but if he is to prove Flynn guilty, he must impale him on the sword of scienter, guilty knowledge of the lesbian affair that smashed his marriage. Was he motivated by powerful jealousy-or by failure, the ego-shrivelling awareness that his wife had found a better lover in a woman?
As they enter the El Beau Room to lunchtime buzz and clatter, Lotis passes the phone to Arthur, who exchanges greetings with Shrader, parries, joshes. “B.K., you still hold the record of eight decrees in one day?”
“Nine, but who’s counting. I’m slowing down, the body can’t keep up with the demands of my grateful clients. Thought we got rid of your ugly face-and it’s a lot uglier than it used to be. Who’s the little dessert treat beside you? Must be your junior, what’s her name…Nookie. Rudnicki.”
Arthur stops dead, the dessert treat running into him. He stares at the phone-where’s the hidden camera? The phone speaks. “Look up.”
Arthur sees him at a balcony table with, presumably, a gay divorcee, plump and pink-lipped. He’s waving his phone, a crooked grin on his lumpish face. It’s a mystery how a fellow like him attracts women. It must be the scent he gives off, the gonadotrophins, they cloud women’s sensibilities. (What scent vents from Arthur? Something fusty, old books, worn boots, and potting soil.)
Lotis will wait at the bar with her busy phone. She has lots on her plate, including the breach-of-contract claim against Garlinc. Arthur shook hands with Clearihue. Lotis witnessed that, and will sign an affidavit. But they face a formidable problem: by ancient law, land sales must be evidenced in writing.
Upstairs, Shrader offers Arthur a chair, then encourages his companion to touch up her lips in the ladies. “No, Arthur, I won’t give you Desiree Flynn, and I won’t break client privilege by saying what I know. Except what’s already on the record-our pleadings allege, inter alia, rages, beatings, murder threats. If she was scared to death of Jasper before, how do you think she feels now, with you painting him as a jealous, vengeful, murderous son of a bitch?”
“Nonsense. If he goes scot-free she’s forever in danger. She’ll feel safe only if he’s convicted of murder. I don’t ask for anything dramatic. She doesn’t have to testify that Flynn threatened to kill anyone, just that he was suspicious about her goings-on with her therapist.”
“What the fuck are you doing in that court? Defending or prosecuting? If you’re prosecuting, you got it backwards, you’re supposed to lay a charge first. You’ve got reasonable doubt coming out your yin-yang, you don’t need Daisy. She doesn’t need the lurid publicity, she’s camera-shy.”
“I can get an order forcing her into court.”
“Give her a break, Arthur.” Drawing close. “She has a new life. The lesbian adventure is over. She’s going on thirty-four, an age when chances start to run out, even for the gorgeous. She’s engaged to a widowed pharmacist with three kids. It looks like she can finally grab a little happiness out of life. Why steal that from her?”
He has a point. Compel her to testify, shove her before the cameras, force her to wade through the jostling throng, subject her to whispers about lesbian lovers-engagements have foundered on less. It’s not Arthur’s role to subject anyone to that. He rises as Shrader’s client returns, lips glistening. “Okay, I’m persuaded. I’ll leave her be. But, between us, did he know about the affair?”
“What do you think? He’s a cop.”
Arthur bids them adieu. Gone is his daydream of thrusting a Perry Mason-like forefinger at the perp, bringing him to his feet to confess in trembling vibrato, I did it and I’m glad. He will stop playing his hubristic role as accusator, he’ll be generous, entrust the job to the state. Daisy may not escape attention, but let the regular authorities make their polite inquiries first.
He rejoins Lotis, who hands him her phone: it’s Brian, exultant, enjoying a smoke before lunching with an inspector and a Crown attorney. “The cat is among the pigeons. The Faloon rape was closed out eighteen months ago, and a notice filed to destroy exhibits, including two vaginal swabs in a zip-lock bag. The record is initialled by the exhibits custodian-a civilian, the cops don’t trust one of their own to do this job-but Flynn’s initials appear too, as a witness. My informant suspects scalawaggery, the document smells of having been backdated.”
“I assume Buddy has been apprised of this.”
“Yup. I’m getting vibes that Jasper had been making the Force uneasy for some time. Assault complaints by his wife, handled outside the court system. Threats. It’s why they bundled him off to Alberni. Some serious stalking was going on when he came back for that two-week stint. That’s why you’ve got Inspector Taylor of ACU sitting in the orchestra pit. After lunch, I’m coming in from the cold. See you then. Ciao.”
Arthur orders a bloodless Caesar and a sandwich. It’s one o’clock. Hubbell is showing Margaret through his apartment. She sees the unmade bed, the rumpled sheets. What does she think of the pillow pictures? I can’t imagine how they get into position number three, Hubbell. Arthur phones 807 Elysian, and there’s no answer. They’re letting it ring…
The Owl figured Jasper might cut ass out of town after this morning’s shellacking, but here he is, the Known Individual, Flynn of the Mounted, still in boots and saddle. Maybe he just couldn’t get away, maybe someone was frozen onto his tail all through lunch, for instance the man in the shiny shoes to Faloon’s right.
This afternoon’s performance is sold out again, you can see people lined up outside. Claudette and Holly are getting on like kissing cousins in the back row, two tough broads from the sticks. Even though the whole courtroom knows he boffed them both, Claudie isn’t pissed off, she’s too kind and forgiving, it’s guilt-making. A wedding next month. Did he actually agree to that? What’s marriage going to feel like for a dashing boulevardier like the Owl? Is it the right step for a man of great hidden wealth? Sebastien Plouffe, Sebastien Plouffe, I love you…