"I think I just embarrassed you again," I said. He didn't answer, apart from a moan and a dribble of spit from his lips. I pitched the spade into a bed of ground cover and walked to my car, rubbing my upper arm. I'd have a whale of a bruise there, but it beat getting my head stove in. That would have been embarrassing. I had picked up a Clarion on the way back to the office and was reading it while pressing an ice pack on my arm. The only tabloid in town, the Clarion generally had the best coverage of murders and other crimes. According to the story, Martin Glenn had not been killed in the alley where his body had been found. Lead investigator Katherine Hollinger was quoted as saying the killing had taken place "at a crime scene yet to be determined" and his body dumped in the alley post-mortem. Also quoted was the local city councillor, who said the real crime was that gay men were still targeted by homophobes.
Only the last quote in the story was of real interest to me: Martin Glenn's long-time companion, who told the Clarion he was in a "state of absolute shock that someone would harm Martin… I don't know how I'm going to make it without him."
His name was Eric Fisk.
I was looking up Fisk's number when my phone rang. I glanced at the caller ID and debated whether to answer it or not. I lost the debate around the third ring.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" my brother yelled.
Daniel is almost three years older than me and has the Pope beat six ways to Sunday when it comes to infallibility. Or so he thinks.
I said, "I'm fine, thanks for asking. And you?"
"I'm not kidding, Jonah. I passed along a simple job because I felt sorry for you and you turn it into a goddamn mess."
"Why would you feel sorry for me?"
"Because you're getting nowhere in life."
"According to you."
"And Mom."
"She said that to you?"
"Never mind what she said. This isn't about her."
"You brought her up."
"Will you just listen for once? Rob Cantor just called and he is furious-furious, Jonah. What the hell were you doing at his house?"
"Talking to his wife."
"And beating the hell out of their personal trainer."
"I was defending myself, Daniel."
"Whatever. I can't believe you're screwing up the one case I sent you-"
"Who says I'm screwing it up?"
"Rob does."
"I'm not working for Rob."
"Rob, Marilyn, it's the same thing."
"Not since he dumped her."
"Look, I referred Marilyn to you because I felt sorry for her."
"I thought you felt sorry for me."
"Cut it out! Her daughter killed herself and she needed some kind of closure. That's it."
"She didn't kill herself, Daniel."
"What!"
"Maya Cantor did not kill herself."
"Says who?"
"Says me."
"Her parents say she did. The police say she did. The goddamn coroner says she did."
"I don't care what anyone says. She did not jump off her balcony."
"This is so typical of you, Jonah. You take something straightforward and twist it around until it's totally out of whack. No wonder your boss fired you."
"He didn't fire me."
"Well, I am."
"You are what?"
"Firing you. You're done with this."
"You can't fire me, Daniel. I'm working for Marilyn Cantor."
"On my recommendation, which I greatly regret."
"Doesn't matter. She hired us. She wrote us the cheque."
"Tear it up."
"Piss off, Daniel."
"What did you say?"
"You heard me."
"Jonah, I am warning you. Call Marilyn and tell her you are done."
"Or what? You going to call Mom and tell on me?"
He sighed loudly into my ear. "You are such a baby sometimes. You have no idea how the real world works."
"But you do."
"Of course I do."
It occurred to me then that there might be another reason behind Daniel's call. "Are you involved in the Birkshire Harbourview project?" I asked.
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"You are, aren't you?"
"My clients are none of your business."
"Yeah? What if Maya died because she knew something about the building site that she wasn't supposed to know?"
"That is totally irresponsible of you to say. Unless you have concrete evidence-"
"But what if she did, Daniel?"
"What the hell are you implying? That Rob Cantor would kill his own daughter to protect his investment?"
"It's a big investment."
"Only someone without children could come up with something like that. You're losing it, little brother. You are completely and totally losing your mind."
"So maybe he didn't do it," I conceded. "It doesn't mean that someone else didn't."
"Like who?" he scoffed.
"When I find out, you'll be the first to know." I hung up before he could say anything more.
CHAPTER 15
"Wow," Jenn said, looking at the bruise on my arm.
"You live with a nurse and 'wow' is the best you can do?"
"She's a nurse practitioner, boss, and I'm pretty sure 'wow' would be her reaction too. I trust this Perry looks worse than you do."
"Much."
"Good. You want a painkiller?"
"I'd rather hear something new about Martin Glenn."
"All right," she said, flipping her notebook open. "I spoke to a guy named Ian Kinross at the Ministry of the Environment. He worked with Glenn for years, until Glenn left to start his consulting business. He says Glenn was as straight an arrow as you could find. Ran everything by the book. He said, and I quote, 'If Martin told us a site was clean, that meant it was clean as a whistle.' He'd never had a Record of Site Condition revoked."
"Did Kinross audit the report on the Harbourview site? They're supposed to do that before approval to build is granted."
"Supposed to being the operative words. With the number of new buildings going up, they're totally swamped."
"Do we know if Glenn himself did the tests at Harbourview, or could it have been an employee?"
"There are no employees. EcoSys is a one-man show."
"What? How is that possible?"
"Glenn subcontracted the work. Tests were done by an independent lab. If soil had to be dug out and treated, he hired a firm that specializes in that. Same with building underground barriers. He was basically a consultant for hire. His biggest advantage was being able to squire his clients through the bureaucracy."
"Well, something was bugging him about the project," I said.
"Kinross didn't know about it."
"I know someone who might."
"Who?"
I pointed to the last paragraph of the Clarion story. "His long-time companion." The apartment Martin Glenn had shared with Eric Fisk was on the top floor of a pink limestone Victorian townhouse in Cabbagetown, an old east-end working-class neighbourhood that had been revitalized in the eighties. The rooms had been opened up to let in more light; drywall torn away to expose brick walls. The floors were wide oak panels, sanded down and polished until they gleamed. Colourful framed photos of exquisitely prepared food hung on the walls, each illuminated with baby spotlights. There were cut flowers in vases everywhere: gladioli, snapdragons, birds of paradise and others I couldn't name.
Fisk was about five-foot-five and weighed little more than a hundred pounds. His head was shaved and his slight body wrapped in a heavy grey wool sweater. His jeans were cinched at the waist so they wouldn't slide down his hips, held by a belt that had had extra holes punched in it.