Haley introduced herself before Wentworth had a chance. “I’m so pleased to meet you, John. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Nothing good, I hope.”
“All bad.”
What were they doing, flirting? On Wentworth’s watch?
“Hey, kid, I met Arthur in the locker room.” Brovak always called him kid, it was demeaning. “He said to give you this.”
A manila envelope with a three-paragraph affidavit sworn by Donat LeGrand. Wentworth reviewed it, hoping he wasn’t showing his astonishment. Two healthy donations to a secret account, Whynet-Moir’s, to which, presumably, the saintly Jack Boynton had access. He excused himself, found a quiet alcove, dialed Arthur’s number.
His grandson Nick answered. “I’ll call him, he’s out on the dock, we’re getting ready for a fishing trip.” Wentworth pondered his boss’s audacity: a humungous trial and he takes time off to fish.
Arthur came on. “Wentworth, I meant to call, got bogged down with a little crisis here.”
Wentworth didn’t ask, suspected a ruse-he was struggling with a little loss of faith in the boss. He briefed him on his interviews with the maid and guard, Arthur listening politely but with a hint of restiveness. “Yes…yes, well, that sounds excellent.”
“What am I supposed to do with LeGrand’s affidavit?”
“Ah, yes, the affidavit. You might fax me a copy while I ponder how to handle the matter.”
“How the heck did you get hold of it?”
“It’s a payoff for releasing LeGrand from his subpoena and keeping silent about certain family difficulties. Enough said for now.”
Wentworth had to be satisfied with that. “Okay, what’s the fax number?”
“I’m not sure, I think it comes through Margaret’s computer…Never mind, I’ll phone you from the general store-I’m stopping there to pick up my mail, you can fax it there.” Shouting: “I’m on my way, check to see if the silver spinner’s in the bait box. Oh, Wentworth, one more thing. Do another run-through with Cudworth, that’ll give you something to do with all this lag time.”
“I’ve already set that up.”
“Good, good, you’re right on the ball. Get the full version this time, he’s had long enough to think about it. If it sounds halfway credible we might go with it. But he’s a loose cannon, he could sink his own ship.” Shouting again: “Make sure the reserve tank is full!” Back on the line: “Sorry, Wentworth, things are a little hectic right now. Some important, ah, family business.”
Like the business of fishing? Wentworth sought assurances that Arthur would return on time tomorrow, then ruefully disconnected. The boss must figure the trial’s in the bag-doesn’t he worry about Astrid Leich? Maybe if you’ve won 83.5 per cent of your trials, you stop giving a hoot.
He returned to the table to find Brovak making a big deal of signing the chit, rising, helping Haley on with her coat. “Oh, Wentworth,” she said, “we were just going for a little stroll. Why don’t you join us?”
Wentworth read the insincerity of that invitation, and his heart sank.
“Yeah, kid, why don’t you come along?” Brovak said. “Unless you got too much to do.”
“I’m overwhelmed, but thanks for the thought.” That little sardonic edge was as much as he could muster. As they slipped away, he stood there dazed, jilted at the altar, helpless, foolish, cuckolded, and he stumbled off to the bar and ordered a rye and ginger, amended that to a double. He pictured Haley waddling into court a couple of decades from now, a victim of overeating, spreading hips, ponderous breasts.
I’ve heard so much about you. What a sleaze. Brovak too, they don’t call him the Animal for nothing. Thinks he’s God’s gift. No taste in women.
He gulped his drink, made a face. “Same again.” He knew better than to seek solace in drink, even a couple made him spinny, his stomach queasy, but he needed courage, however false, to get through this abysmal day.
As he fumbled for his wallet, a man drew beside him, stilled his arm, threw some bills on the table. “My treat, young fellow.” Judge Ebbe, J. Dalgleish Ebbe, maybe a little liquored up himself with his flushed complexion and the way he slipped climbing on the stool. “Delighted to stand a drink for counsel doing such a meritorious murder.” He leaned close. “Scum. The deceased, in my respectful opinion, was scum.”
Wentworth thanked him for the treat, but felt contrary, the alcohol making him ornery. “You have any hard facts on that, Judge?”
“Aside from the fact that the dearly departed and the equally late and unlamented Jack Boynton were undoubtedly locked in an unholy embrace, no. The more notorious fact is that they were as corrupt as untreated sewage.”
“Whynet-Moir’s death had something to do with corruption?”
“Indubitably.”
“There’s a lot of people with motive.”
“One should not be surprised.”
Wentworth might not have probed further, but the rye had combined with the gall of feeling dumped. He tossed back his drink, shocked himself by saying, “Would you be surprised if your name came up, sir?”
Ebbe jerked back. “What are you suggesting?”
“Well, your animust…animosity to Raffy is pretty well known.”
Ebbe reared back. “I beg your pardon.”
Wow, he was taking major affront. But Wentworth was in too deep to pull back. “Well, ah, we wouldn’t want to make any wrong accusations in court, Judge, so if we knew where you were on October 13…”
“Why, you impertinent prick!”
Heads turned. The bartender was advancing. Wentworth slid off his stool, focused on the nearest exit, found his way outside, took several deep breaths, and tried to walk it off along the harbour to Gastown.
Inspector Chance looked down at the stiff with a world-weary smile. Many had motives to lace the chief’s buttermilk with strychnine, but only one had a cold killer’s heart. “In your insane lust for a high court judgeship, Judge Ebbe, you have been thwarted again. Take him away…”
Screaming guitars from below sliced through his throbbing head like an executioner’s blade. Blood’n’Guts in rehearsal for tonight’s opening. He’d looked in on them, unshaven brutes in black leather. Even the pigeons were fleeing, seeking sanctuary across the street on the hoardings of the Olympics 2010 renewal project.
How was he going to survive the upcoming hours with his balky client? Cudworth was on his way, he’d called five minutes ago, complaining, where the fuck had Wentworth been, he must’ve called ten times. Leaning over the Burrard Inlet seawall was where he’d been, hoping someone might come along and nudge him over. To join what was left of his stomach.
He should pack up, go home to Fort Nelson, open a traffic ticket practice, escape from this firm with its sweatshop pay and bullying prima donna partners. It had seemed so magical when he signed on to article here, the baddest, boldest criminal law firm in town.
He checked his e-mails. The first message: “Chip O’Malley is a clucking chicken plucker.” A photo of fat, immobile birds in tight cages. Electoral spam, infiltrating in-boxes, maybe even address books. Crudely adolescent, one rhyme short of obscenity. He’d heard these were going out all through the province, mostly to well-to-do businessmen, lawyers, other professionals.
His bottle of Zap jiggled with the vibrations from the Gastown Riot, an incessant bass beat like someone was pounding his chest with a hammer. The entire office resounded.
Oh-oh, an e-mail from Brian Pomeroy. “Private and Confidential” in the subject line, then: “Another judge will die.” Why was Wentworth the undeserving recipient of this information? He had an image of Brian hunched over his keyboard bug-eyed on withdrawal drugs, plotting his next death. He shook his head, refusing to be drawn into Pomeroy’s unreal world.
Here was an e-mail from Jobson, Clearihue’s lawyer, an attachment setting out the terms of their offer. Wentworth looked over it, but didn’t have the resilience to respond to it now.