Act of Evil (22 page)

And stopped.

At the last moment his eye had been caught by an extra detail: another shape on the far side of the tableau, slightly apart and so still as to have remained unnoticed. It was a man, leaning casually and gazing out into the bay, a heavy-set fellow, perhaps in his fifties. He too was holding a glass and a cigarette, the smoke of which rose in a tiny unbroken stream into the rafters.

Then, as Hal watched, Fitz sucked in a breath and took a drink from his glass. The movement caused the man by the window to turn and glance around at his companion. For the first time, Hal got a look at his face. It was broad and wide, rugged in a slightly coarse way. The squarish skull was covered by a brush of dark hair, receding at the temples, one of which bore a quite pronounced scar. Something about him was vaguely familiar.

Then the man turned away, looking back at the bay. With the withdrawal of the face, the feeling of familiarity evaporated. Anyway, Hal thought, at least the old man wasn't drinking alone. So that was a good thing.

He backed off, leaving the boathouse without a sound. As he started up the cliff path, he could still hear the music of New Orleans, a sweet lament for a time long departed.

thirty-four

Lyall Penney, known as Bill Iverson to his new buddy Fitz, was very pleased with himself. Having surveyed the boathouse the night before and developed a meticulous plan of action, he was now carrying it out to the letter.

The vitally important thing was that the death should appear purely accidental; no reason for questions, or investigations delaying the disbursal of the estate. Once the old man was out of the way, Iverson's boss needed to know that a clear and legal path was open for the acquisition of the vital parcel of land. In that way the investment capital could be kept on the hook, and the facilitator of all this—his worthy self—suitably rewarded.

So this operation was going to be immaculate and based on two factors.

The first was the character of the man. He was a heavy smoker. That and the fact that he was also a drinker formed the basis for a scenario all-too familiar to fire investigators. The second factor was the character of the fire itself: it must not only do the job, snuffing out Fitz for good, but be seen to be accidental and entirely the old coot's fault. So traditional accelerants such as gasoline were out; they'd been okay in the Nanaimo job, but wouldn't do here. Of course, he'd been told not to use fire at all, but that was too bad. Time was short and he was running out of options. A fire would do fine—just so long as there was absolutely no hint of foul play.

As for accelerants, nothing artificial was even needed; the tinder-dry building was practically knee-deep in wood shavings. With minor encouragement, they could promote a fine inferno. Should there be enough evidence left to investigate, it would be clear that the starting point of the fire was where the old man had dropped his last cigarette before drunkenly passing out.

Now, in the early evening, most preparations were complete. Sucking Fitz in with a tale of a mythical soldier-son had been—if he did say so himself—a stroke of pure genius. Considering Fitz's own history of loss, hitching a ride on that emotional roller coaster had been the perfect way to go. Letting the old fuck come to
him
, as he had with the bad-back scenario, had been elegant in its simplicity.

But since this opening gambit was fluid, requiring Fitz to discover and approach him in his own time, an early start had been needed. As it turned out, that stage was quick. He'd been safely and secretly ensconced in the boathouse by early afternoon. That was good, but also left a small problem: though the fire itself was unlikely to be noticed down below the cliff, the smoke certainly would. To avoid the risk of premature detection, it was vital that nothing happen until after dark, which meant there was a whole lot of time to fill.

Once they were alone, it would have been simple enough, of course, to knock the old guy out and wait till the appropriate time to roast him. But that left hours in which anyone might appear, so Fitz needed to be compos mentis to ward off busybodies. This precaution bore fruit in late afternoon, when a mouthy Limey broad had dropped by. Fortunately, folks were well used to getting the bum's rush from the grouchy woodcarver, so that had worked out okay.

All through the long afternoon they'd talked and drunk rye. Comfort for Iverson's “loss” had been the starting point for this charade and he had to admit, had the farce been real, Fitz's brusque camaraderie would have been effective. As it was, Iverson let himself be fed booze—which he mostly disposed of—while making sure his companion maintained just the right degree of intoxication: not too much to render him incapable of repelling visitors, but enough to hold him comfortably until it was time for the ax to fall.

When the talk ran down, Iverson kept things moving by getting Fitz to show off his carvings. Iverson didn't give a shit about such junk, but it didn't take a brain surgeon to concoct the kind of baloney that would appeal to the old fart. Then there was the music. At one point Fitz had plunked on some old jazz and Iverson was surprised to find it was something they actually had in common. Well, wasn't that funny as hell; they might have shared some good times, had it not been necessary to fry the old goat's ass.

After the departure of the Brit bitch, no one else had appeared. It was still too early to complete the next phase: that would involve getting Fitz passed out, then in the right location for his immolation. Next would come the delicate task of arranging and distributing the shavings to maximum effect. Finally—the fatal match.

But, now that they were unlikely to be disturbed, things could start to move. Iverson drifted from the window where he'd been appearing to drink while he really
did
smoke up a storm. (Sadly, he'd probably rekindled his old addiction, but if all went as planned it would be worth it.) Feigning a slight stagger, he went to the old man, smiling, his eyes moist with what looked for all the world like real tears.

“You're a good guy, Fitz,” he said, with a slur so believable that even he was impressed. “Let's have another drink, ol' buddy. I just can't tell you how grateful I am for all you've done for me today.”

thirty-five

Genoa Bay was a tiny haven fifteen minutes by winding road from the Trail property. When Hal pulled into the waterside parking lot, it was to find himself confronted by a scene of near-mythic beauty and peace. The bay itself was a small but deep basin, almost completely surrounded by steep hills, which reared greenish-purple in the evening haze. The water was blue-black, slashed with bronze where ripples reflected the last hurrah of a radiant sunset. In the foreground, a marina filled with yachts and snug houseboats occupied almost the entire frontage. Farther out, in the still waters beneath the cliffs, more boats were moored. To one side, perched on an outcrop commanding a fine view of the harbor, was a picturesque building. The back section was enclosed with a series of antique-looking windows. The front was a broad deck overhanging the ocean. The place was tastefully lit, with a sign indicating that it was an eating establishment.

“This is it,” Mattie said, as they emerged from the car. “Great seafood. And not too crowded during the week.”

“Looks cozy.”

“Actually, I haven't been here in ages,” Mattie continued, as they walked up the wooden approach ramp. “But Con works here now, and he says it's very good.”

“Con? Your dad's fishing buddy?”

Mattie smiled. “The same. Doesn't look like the waiter type, I know. And, frankly, it's quite a comedown from what we expected. Con was one of my brightest students. I was sure he'd go on to university and end up as some sort of writer. His English compositions were that good. But after . . . what happened . . . he seemed to lose all interest. Just hung out in town or mooned around our place. In some ways, I think the disappearance of my son affected him as much as any of us. They were best friends, after all. Without Brian, Con sort of lost his way. His poor mother wasn't much help either.”

“Why not?”

“She had a lot of sadness of her own, not helped by alcohol, I'm afraid. She's a really nice woman, and I know she loves Con. But—well—she's not often in the best state to show it. But I think Con's finally coming out of his troubles. Fitz certainly thinks so. And . . . here we are.”

They entered the restaurant and were shown to a table. Tucked in a corner, it was near a window with an impressive view of the rich afterglow. They ordered drinks, and after these arrived Mattie said quietly. “Thank you, Hal.”

He smiled curiously. “For what, exactly?”

“I don't know . . . Well, yes, I do, but it's too complicated to put into a few words—or maybe
any
. So—just—thanks for being here.”

They talked of this for a time, while waiting for the meal, at first awkwardly and then later, as food and wine did their work, with more ease. Bit by bit, they were able to say that, though their lives apart had been good—and indeed the only ones possible—they'd also missed each other. This conversation was not so much confession as discovery. Not lovemaking, but the clearing away of cobwebs, of denial and perhaps regret, in preparation for what—they both would have agreed—was a more mature friendship. The fact of physical attraction, which was still strong, was something they couldn't be quite so frank about. But it was a wonderful evening, not only heartwarming but—in light of recent events—a vast relief.

Toward the end of the meal, Con, who'd been busy with tables on the other side of the room, got a break and came over. “Hi, Miz Trail,” he said cheerily. “What do you think of the place?”

“Fine, Con,” Mattie replied. “We had a lovely dinner, thanks. This is Mister Bannatyne.”

“Yeah, we met when he first arrived at your house.” Con grinned. “Old Fitz thought he was from the developers. Wanted to kick his butt! But I recognized him from the
TV
. Hi, again, Mister Bannatyne.”

“Hello. And it's ‘Hal.'”

“Sure! Hey, I hear some weird stuff went down last night. Fitz says your brother took a dive off the cliff. Almost offed himself. What was that all about?”

Before Hal could reply, Mattie cut in quickly. “A small accident, that's all. Fitz was exaggerating, as usual. Oh, I saw an old friend of yours today. Gary Tremblay.”

Con looked surprised. “
Gat?
Wow, I haven't seen him in ages. How was the guy?”

“Fine. He said to say hello.” Mattie smiled. “He also sent a message: if you're ever stuck in—where was it?—
Sooke
—again, you'll know who to call . . . What's wrong?”

Her question was prompted by Con's expression of what looked like dismay. But he recovered quickly. “Oh, nothin'—old joke. That Gat always was a smartass. Thanks, Miz Trail—gotta get back to work.”

After he left, hurrying off to busk a table in a far corner, Hal said, “What was the matter with him?”

Mattie shrugged. “You know kids, always playing pranks on each other. Con was probably just embarrassed.” She rose. “Powder my nose. Back in a jiff.”

As Hal sipped on what remained of his wine, he idly watched Con bustling away. The boy never again glanced in their direction. He had been more than just embarrassed, Hal thought, more like shocked, at least momentarily. But who knew? Kids had always been cruel to each other. And what with all the new forms of harassment available—like text messaging and the Internet—things seemed hardly to have improved.

This somewhat somber train of thought was interrupted by a small commotion on the other side of the restaurant. Someone was having a birthday. The table erupted in cheers as a waiter brought a sparkler-topped cake. After the singing, laughter, and applause, someone jumped up to speak and then . . .

Hal was seized with a powerful sense of déjà vu. This had happened before. No, he'd seen something
like
this before—recently—in some place like this. Where?
Where
? Then he had it. Of course! A while ago when he'd dined at the restaurant on the Malahat, the noisy party whose host had turned out to be his old friend, Vince Smithson.

So much had happened since then that the evening afterwards at Vince's had been forgotten. Now he recalled vividly the clever guy and his mansion full of glitzy guests. Also the visit to the private office, where Vince had produced the map with all of his property developments. Hal recalled this scene with great clarity, only now realizing that at the time—apparently subconsciously—he'd noted a logo across the top: PacificCon.

PacificCon!
he thought.
Now where have I
 . . . ?

“Jesus!” Hal exclaimed, so loudly that a couple at the next table glanced around. The other day, when Mattie had told him about the people trying to get hold of the Trail property, she'd mentioned PacificCon. The name had sounded familiar then, and now he knew why. He'd seen it on Vince Smithson's map. Which meant his old pal owned the company that had been giving Mattie's family so much grief.

“Shit!” Hal said, this time in a whisper. But that embarrassing revelation wasn't the end of it. It had started a process he recognized from of old: a whole bunch of data would accumulate in his subconscious until a single fact created an overload and everything spewed out into the light. This final puzzle-piece, he sensed, was about to emerge. Something disturbing—
dangerous
—was coming—coming . . .

He found himself visualizing the evening at the hilltop mansion, recalling that soon after the visit to the map room, Vince had left him on his own, being called away on business. Suddenly, with brutal clarity, Hal recalled the face of the man who'd pulled Vince aside: someone who'd appeared to be out of place at the party, a tough-looking character with a broad face and an odd scar.