Dali Connection - Frank Pilger Book 1

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The Dali Connection by W. W. Walton Copyright 2000 This is a work of fiction. Characters, corporations, institutions and organizations in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously without any intent to describe their actual conduct. ISBN 0-9688492-1-0 Daisy Wheel Press 277 Hearst Street North Bay, ON P1B 8Z2 705-474-0258

copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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Chapter 1 When the court clerk and I had sorted out how to swear in a witness without using a Bible we were ready to proceed with the ritual swearing in. There are more and more of us who prefer not to use the Christian trappings in our lives but this was a new clerk and I was either the first atheist he had run into or he had not been properly briefed on administering oaths to non-Christians. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?” “I do.” “Give your full name, address and occupation” “Frances Wingham Pilger, 260 Maplegrove Drive, Route 10, Vaughan, Ontario. My occupation is Accountant.” The wheels of justice in this case had ground more slowly than anyone could ever imagine. This was the third time I had appeared as a witness in this case, both previous times the whole process had faltered when first the crown attorney became ill and had to be replaced and then the accused had fired his lawyer. Now everything had fallen into place and the presiding judge made it very clear to both sides that he would brook no further delays. The case was based on evidence I had supplied as an undercover Ontario Provincial Police officer three years ago when I posed as a shady bookkeeper for a restaurant owner who was laundering drug money for three brothers who were pushing drugs in Toronto’s north end. Two of the brothers were now in prison but the third was sitting in the gallery. Revenue Canada also had an observer at the trial and I had no doubt that Lou Cantoni would be facing tax evasion after the trial. While I was no longer with the OPP, I was being paid for my time. I am not sure that the accused believed I was no longer a police officer as he kept prompting his lawyer to question my relationship with the police and whether my evidence could be used. The evidence was all there in black and white along with some tape recordings I had made and by four p.m. the jury was back with a guilty verdict. The judge reserved sentencing for a week but I was at last free of my obligations to the OPP. I paid little attention to the threats that Lou made as they led him away to his holding cell although I did pick up on the hand signal he made to the brother. Back at the office I finished the notes on an audit that we had just completed. I glanced at the wall clock and realized that the office was quiet because everyone had left for home two hours ago. I locked up and headed for my car in the parking lot, carrying my heavy leather briefcase that was full of my homework for the evening. I was thinking of what I could cook for my dinner and did not see the two men standing by my car until I was about ten feet from them. “Hey, bookkeeper - we want to have a chat with you,” the smaller of the two said. I recognized the third brother, dressed in his usual black leather jacket. His big friend was not a pleasant-looking fellow even in the dimly lit parking lot. He was well over six feet tall and would likely weigh close to three hundred pounds even without the long hair and beard. He had a baseball bat in his hand. “Puzo - you don’t want to do this,” I said. “Gonna teach you something about bookkeeping. About how you ought to keep your mouth shut, about how you don’t cross us.” He flicked open a knife that glinted in the light. At least they weren’t showing guns - just a baseball bat and a switch blade knife. I was armed only with my briefcase. I gambled on the big fellow being slower than Puzo and went for Puzo without saying anything. The leather case had at least ten pounds of paper in it. I swung it as hard as I could, spinning around copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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to add momentum as I released it into Puzo’s chest. It sent him staggering back against my car setting off the car alarm. He dropped the knife. I dropped down, doing a modified Snake Creeps Low from my Tai Chi routine, balanced on my hands and swept my legs, aiming at the big guy’s knees. My right foot caught his kneecap and he yelled in pain and staggered and finally fell, crashing like a big old pine tree. I was back on my feet and ready for Puzo. But he was bent over feeling the pavement for his knife. He came up slashing but missed on the first pass and I chopped hard at his neck. The solid contact knocked him down and his left arm, numbed by the blow, gave him no support. I launched a vicious kick that took him on the side of the head. He was out. The big guy was moaning about his knee. I picked up his baseball bat and carefully lining up the label, whacked his other kneecap. There was a satisfying crunch and scream. I dragged Puzo away from my car, found my briefcase and tossed it into the back seat. Puzo was making noises as if he were conscious so I dragged him over beside his big whining buddy. AIf I ever see either of you two again, I’m going to get really mad. Do you understand?” They both mumbled something but Puzo didn’t seem convinced. So I took the Louisville Slugger and applied the hardwood to his left knee. He understood now. I called 911 on my cell phone and told them there were two guys in the parking lot at Pilger and Associates who needed an ambulance. I told the dispatcher not to rush the call but didn’t give her my name. It took a couple of glasses of scotch to get the adrenaline under control when I got home. It had felt good to release some pent-up aggression that my accounting profession gathered but found no place to release. The daily rushes of police work had been difficult to replace after I quit the force three years ago. Bookkeeping is interesting, but hardly exciting. I was too restless that night to do my homework so I surfed around the TV channels until the eleven o’clock news. I finally fell into a deep sleep after telling Felix, my cat, all about two-bit thugs who thought bookkeepers were easy to intimidate. I had a bit of a hangover but tried to put on a cheery face as I went into work the next morning. It worked until Mary at reception told me Dad wanted me to go to Florida. I used to like to visit sunny, warm Florida in the dead of winter when Karen was alive. A week or ten days, at least two or three times each winter, was just the break we needed to recharge our solar batteries that kept us from contracting the winter blahs. But now I was not looking forward to the trip south, even though we had suffered through one of the coldest Canadian winters in recent years. There were just too many memories of past vacations in the Sunshine State. “Really, Dad, are you sure you can’t send someone else? I’m still cleaning up the details on the Morgan file - I need at least another week on it. Why the Morgans ever hired a dyslexic bookkeeper, I’ll never understand. Nothing balances in their accounts,” I said in frustration. I had never seen so many transpositions of numbers in a set of books. Usually one can sort out transpositions by dividing by nine and thus correct the numbers, but in the Morgan file, there were so many errors I had to check virtually every entry. My father, and my boss, was busy flipping through the pages of a client’s file and only glanced up when I entered his roomy, plush office that was home to him for fifty or sixty hours a week. For as long as I could remember, my father, Philip Pilger, had spent more hours at this office than he had at our home in north Toronto. He was either working extra hours or away on business. Not that I had missed him as I was growing up, I just accepted his absence as normal. Many of my friends also had fathers were so busy earning a living that they had little time for family. I suppose it did not matter that much, for most of us had mothers and sports coaches who filled in the gaps in our lives left by absentee fathers. We grew up with other heroes, men on the silver screen who led exciting lives that copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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had no comparison to the boring treadmills our real fathers walked. Perhaps some of us harboured unrealistic expectations of life that could never be met except in the movies or on the television screen, but I think I ended up being as normal as any boy who had a full-time dad. “No, Frank, I want you personally to take care of Upper Canada. This is developing into a major account and I want the family touch on it. Upper Canada’s connection with that pension fund can open many new doors for us. One day this firm will be yours and an account like Upper Canada could be the backbone of your business. Give the Morgan file to Henry, he can finish it.” “But Dad, I’ll have to start right from scratch - I haven’t even met the client - why don’t you handle it yourself? You like Florida - a trip would be good for you.” I tried the worried son approach. “Besides, you have been working much too hard lately. Take Mother and spend a couple of weeks resting in the sunshine.” “Frank, you know goddamn well that I don’t want to spend two weeks with your mother - not in Florida, not anywhere. That woman drives me crazy!” he said much more aggressively than I thought necessary. That was the other side of my parental upbringing. My mother and father had grown apart over the years, and while they still shared the same roof, the bedrooms were separate. They were always civil to each other at home, and even pleasant when in company of strangers. An outsider would not believe that they were, for all intents and purposes, separated. But it was unusual for Father to show this much emotion about Mother. I wondered if their relationship had deteriorated recently. “Come on, Dad, lighten up. If you two tried to get along, I’m sure you would both have a good time.” “No. Absolutely no! Besides, you’re the one who needs a holiday. Get out and meet some new people. All you ever do is work. Hell, who knows, you might even meet a cute little beach bunny down there . . .” I stopped listening. It was going to be one of those speeches about getting my life back together: find another woman; life is for the living; I had been in mourning too long; Karen was a wonderful wife, but there were other women who could give me the companionship and love that I needed; and on and on and on. Didn’t they understand that I was simply not interested in bonding with another person - that I was content to live with the memories of Karen? Why did everyone near me find this so hard to comprehend? “All right, all right, I’ll go! Who’s got the goddamn file?” I snapped. Philip allowed a hint of a smile to cross his face. He had won again. “Mary has everything ready for you, Frank. We booked you on a flight this Friday.” Philip Pilger was used to getting his way. He has imposed his will on people as long as I can remember. If he could not prevail by forceful argument, then his size was enough to change most people’s point of view. He had this knack of knowing when he had to dominate someone physically and when he could sweet-talk them around a problem. He was not one for compromise, always believing that his was the best solution to any problem. Even now, as he approaches sixty-two, my old man is a strong figure. He is almost as tall and weighs nearly as much as I, yet he is nimble of foot and strong of arm. He goes to the Country Club every day for a thirty-minute workout, watches what he eats and is a moderate drinker. My Dad never smoked and is quite intolerant of those who do. His staying power on the tennis courts attested to the good lungs that he says are the result of not smoking. I cannot remember the man ever being sick enough to miss a day of work. He seems to have bypassed that time of life when the male body starts to fall apart, aches become common, copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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inflexible joints appear and that extra weight goes on around the middle. He has all of his hair, although it is turning grey around the edges now, giving him an even more distinguished appearance. Philip always dresses very well, buying only the best suits, shirts and shoes. His clothing never overshadows that of anyone he meets, but one look by a discerning eye and you see quality. Dad never had a mid-life crisis, when men often go chasing after younger women to prove their virility, although I often wondered why, since he and mother certainly had no sex life together. The one failure in his life has been his marriage, and even that has the public face of success. I tried to slam his door on the way out of his office but it has one of those pressure regulators on it that won’t let a person express his frustration in a loud way. Mary had the regulator installed so Philip couldn’t do the same thing in front of customers. Mary Jeppson always has everything ready. She is the most organized person I have ever known. Without Mary, Dad’s office would be a shambles, but then, I often wondered if he didn’t intentionally leave things around for Mary to organize. Mary has been with the firm for at least thirty years and knows more about accounting than some of the junior staff members. She has a degree from the University of Toronto but prefers to present herself as just a normal, everyday, effective secretary, not our super-efficient office manager, not a person with a Master’s degree in English Literature. Mary has been my special friend since my childhood, a person I could always talk to, a ready listener for a teenager who could not talk to his Dad because Dad was always too busy. Mary must be close to sixty, although she looks much younger. She too, has a membership at the Country Club, paid by the firm, and does the workout routine. I have never seen her play sports, but she has a couple of trophies for tennis and curling on the filing cabinet in her office, so I supposed that she has some athletic skills. My Mother, Clara, well, Mother lives in her own world, a world of social fantasy. My Mother is one of those tall, large-boned women who carry their stature so well as they age. Although Mother’s hair is now grey, it is always perfectly coiffed and tinted only slightly with a rinse that makes it sparkle. I get my blue eyes from Mother, and I suppose the combination of genes from both parents explains my size. Mother of course dresses well, wearing only the finest labels that must have put a dent in her budget. Mother was from a moneyed family and she had a few investments that gave her a degree of independence from Philip. Her life has always been bridge and tea parties, fund-raising instead of raising her only child, shopping for clothes and endless hours on the telephone trading all the gossip of who and what in the society circle of her female friends who live in the right neighbourhoods in Toronto. My mother had this image of herself and her role as wife of a successful businessman that left little room for me. She always saw that I was properly fed, clothed and healthy, but she never had that motherly touch that I now know most mothers have. She could apply a Band-Aid to a small cut but would never kiss a scratch better. Little things like that. So when I reached my teens and had a problem understanding the female psyche, it was Mary I turned to. Mary, who had never married, and as far as I knew never had a beau; Mary, my Father’s employee; Mary, my surrogate mother. “Good morning, Mary,” I said as I entered her small private office, “How’s your love life?” Mary and I always greeted each other this way. Whoever spoke first got to ask that question. And the reply was always the same. “Mine’s just fine, Frank. How about yours?” “Well, I’m not complaining. Dad says I’m supposed to take on that new file and go to Florida on Friday. Why is the Upper Canada Mall interested in property in Florida?” copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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“Actually, Frank, it’s not Upper Canada, but the mall manager, a Mr. Martin Cosso, who is the client of record. He is acting unofficially for Upper Canada, as he described the situation to me. I checked with the Chairman for Upper Canada, and he has confirmed to me that they are looking for property, but their Board has yet to ratify the venture. For reasons that will become obvious, Upper Canada does not want their name used until a deal is struck. This is just preliminary work - I think you may find yourself going to Florida several more times. I have everything in the file for you and I have arranged for you to meet Mr. Cosso tomorrow for lunch so you can get the finer details from him.” “Tomorrow?” “I checked your scheduler and you were free so I reserved a table at Spencer’s for twelve thirty. Is that okay?” I had forgotten to check my computer when I came in or I would have seen the addition to my schedule. We had just installed the electronic mail system so I was not yet trained by the computer to check my mailbox first thing each day. The Lotus Scheduler is another of those computer programs that takes over your life once you sign on. Everyone in the office could look at my schedule and plan meetings for me. Mary prints my schedule for me and puts on my desk each morning in case I forget to read my messages. “Uh, sure.” Mary and Dad had obviously worked this out long before they told me I was getting the file. Even though I am a full partner in the firm, Dad seldom tells me what was going on until the last minute. It is a trait of his that has irked the other partners at times, but a highly successful accounting business with handsome dividends keeps the grumbling about management techniques to a minimum. The electronic mail and scheduler were supposed to keep staff more informed but it would take some time before we all were comfortable with the system. “Dad said you had me booked to Florida. Where am I staying and how long am I supposed to be there?” “Philip suggested you stay in Tampa the first week. You can meet with several of the larger real estate brokers there and then move over to Clearwater for a week or two. I have a list of possible contacts in the file for you so don’t forget to update your laptop before you leave. Mr. Cosso has expressed an interest in the area around Clearwater,” Mary replied. “Am I staying at the Holiday Inn in Tampa?” I asked. I liked the location of the Holiday Inn in downtown Tampa. I like Tampa’s downtown area. It’s a city that seems to have grown with some forethought, a city that has room in its core for people. There are only a few tall buildings and each has its own unique architecture. Someone even built a round building; a structure that I imagine is terribly impractical when it comes to installing the traditional square offices. Perhaps everyone has a wedge-shaped office. One of these days I am going to take a look inside that building. The only rectangular building is the Barnett Bank tower, and I suppose if there has to be one traditional building, it should be a bank. Since every major building has either a fountain or some outdoor art, whether it is the silver metal wave or the over-sized aluminium flowers, the downtown core has some class. It also has a number of really good restaurants that Karen and I used to visit every year. “Not this time,” Mary said, “Philip wants you to use the Helnan. He has worked out some sort of a deal with the Helnan for the Transat flight crews and he wants you to check out the place and see that the Transat people are being properly cared for. Transat is one of our bigger accounts . . .” Besides the accounting business, my father was the majority owner in a travel agency and a shareholder in Transat Airlines, so whenever he could combine the two ventures he did. There was no one who would tell him he had a conflict of interest, not even the tax man. The last young auditor from Revenue Canada got so lost in the inter-company transactions that he finally just took Dad’s copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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word as a fellow accountant and went away hoping never to get the file again. Junior auditors are fun for Philip. “I know, Mary, and we always put the customer first,” I said, echoing my father’s favourite saying. “But the Riverside Helnan is as old as Methuselah. Karen and I stayed there ten years ago, and it was an old hotel then,” I complained. “Well, I didn’t book anything in Clearwater for you so you can get a nicer place there.” “Gee, I wonder if I’ll be able to find anything - it’s still the busy season down there.” “I’m sure you’ll be able to find something comfortable, Mr. Detective,” she jibed me. The ‘Mr. Detective’ was what Dad and Mary used to call me when I was with the force, working as a forensic accountant. After graduating from Western with an MBA, I worked in Dad’s business for two years while I earned my CGA accounting designation. The good marks I maintained after Western attracted my next employer - the Ontario Provincial Police. I had never thought about police work as a career, but one of the students in my final year of the CGA course, a Mountie named Buddy Olsen, talked to me a few times over a beer or two after a class. The work of the forensic accountants sounded quite interesting, and his description of a few of the cases he had worked on made the job did sound much more exciting than just auditing the books of some relatively honest company. I asked him later if he had put the OPP onto me, but he denied it. As I found out later, Buddy never lied; he just had a habit of omitting some of the truth. I was twenty-four when I joined the force and my career lasted twelve years. I suppose that I could have stayed on with the police, then retired from the force when I reached sixty and had a long, enjoyable, productive life fighting crime using computers and my accounting skills. But when I was hauled up on the carpet for sticking my inquisitive nose into the accident investigation of Karen’s death, I decided that it was time to move on to something else. Little did I know that I was about to be drawn back into that investigation three years later. I met Karen when I was at the Police College in Aylmer, a small farming town in south-western Ontario. Karen worked as assistant manager at the local art gallery in Aylmer. I met her on one of my weekend excursions, and when she heard I was a cop, she tried to brush me off as a suitor. The boys at the police training college have a little reputation as philanders and that no doubt had preceded me. But I was a good-looking, husky young man, who was interested in art and I finally broke through her defences. I did a lot of body-building exercises back in my teen years, labouring under the delusion that young women would be attracted to my fine physique. I have kept myself in good training condition and even now, after all these years, and although I tip the scales at 220 pounds, my six foot-two, bigboned frame carries the weight well. I no longer do the body building but I belong to the local Tai Chi club and the daily exercises keep my muscles as fit as if I worked out in a gym. I had visited the little art gallery as a courtesy to my mother who was doing her arty thing at that time. She was always on the lookout for promising, new young artists who often got their beginnings in small galleries. Mother was in her Mennonite period and Aylmer was in Mennonite country. Karen did have a few works by a young painter named Snyder that I thought Mother would like to see, so I arranged to drive Mother to Aylmer one weekend. Karen and Mother struck it off right from the start and this improved my status with Karen. In six months time we were engaged; a year later we were married. Through Mother’s connections, Karen got a position with one of the better galleries in Toronto and she was soon doing very well, financially. Karen had taken a postgraduate course in modern art and spent one year in France doing research on her doctoral dissertation, a copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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critique on artist authentication. I had not realized how important this field of endeavour was, but when I heard the figures that were involved in the sale of some of the old masters, I was suitably impressed. One did not want to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on a Vermeer only to find that it had been painted by some apprentice who could copy the master’s style, but would never become famous in his own right. Karen continued to write papers after we were married and had several published through the U of T. I was able to help her a little with her research projects since I had some connections at the OPP Forensic Laboratory and had a friend who would run some spectrograph tests for Karen. He would do it after regular working hours, of course. Tuesday at noon I met Martin Cosso. It may have been my years with the police that triggers a prejudice when I meet some people for the first time, or perhaps when you have worked with the criminal element for so many years, you can recognize one of them, but in either case, I did not like Mr. Martin Cosso. Cosso was a few years my junior, of short, but solid build. He had a nose that was slightly too large and eyes that seemed just a little too close together. His was a rat-like face. His body movements were quick, almost hyper-active, giving off signs of nervousness. In the old days I would have said he gave off bad vibes, but now, in jargon of the New Age spiritualism, and even though I personally could not see any aura around Martin Cosso, he would be placed towards the red end of the spectrum. Maybe a warning amber. “Frank, Frank, so glad to meet you! Your Dad says you’re just the man for my project,” he said as he grasped my hand too firmly, shaking it as if he were trying to test my strength. I like a firm handshake but I have deliberately eased up on the pressure I apply. I was meeting many Orientals in this business, and to them a display of personal strength is not the proper way to open negotiations unless you are in the brawn, not brains, end of the business. Much better to show one’s mettle when it got down to the short strokes. And frequently, I was being introduced to women who were slowly working their way into the upper ranks of commerce. An overly-firm handshake was definitely not going to impress a woman with a small, fine-boned hand, although I have met some women whose hardened hands attest to a level of physical fitness that belies their overall appearance. But when some people meet a big man, they try to impress themselves with their own strength. Martin Cosso was one of these turkeys, and I was sure that I could have crushed his hand. This was not the time to do it, so I only partially met Cosso’s grip. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Cosso. Yes, I think we can help you with your real estate search.” “Martin. Please, all my friends call me Martin. You know, at first it seemed funny to me to be going to my accountants for real estate, but when Philip explained how you handle all of a client’s work nowadays, it does make sense. Why hire accountants, lawyers, real estate brokers and investment consultants when one firm can do it all!” “Yes, we like to think we can give a full line of service to our clients. This way there is better control of the accounts, less chance of confidential items going astray,” I prompted. Somehow I thought that this guy would like to think that everything was confidential. “Glad to hear that, Frank,” he leaned towards me, dropping his voice, “This deal has to be kept quiet for a few weeks. The Board of Upper Canada hasn’t passed the motion yet to go ahead with this, but I am certain it’s going to pass. If the word gets out that they are looking to buy land in Florida for a mall, the competition will force the price up.” “You mean the American companies would be worried about a Canadian company going into Florida?” I asked. It seemed highly unlikely to me. I was used to American companies coming into Canada and swallowing up our smaller enterprises - the thought that the people south of the border copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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were afraid of us was one to be savoured. “No question about it. You may not realize it, but Canadian companies control a lot of the mall properties in the US. And it’s not just the big ones like Cadillac-Fairview or the Reichmans. Yes, Frank, this must be done quickly and quietly.” “Well, I can definitely guarantee that it will be done quietly but I’m not sure just how quickly we can move. Do you have any particular area of Florida in mind for this mall?” “Yes. The area just north of St. Petersburg up as far as Tarpon Springs is what I am looking at. Are you familiar with that area?” “Yes, in fact up until a few years ago, my wife and I owned a timeshare condo at Hamelin’s Landing. We played golf throughout that part of the country.” “Good. You’ll know then that there are a lot of strip malls and smaller traditional malls in the area. My plan is to put in a super shopping mall - a mall that will pull people from the whole of the panhandle and even from Tampa. That whole west side of Florida does not have an attraction that can compete with Orlando or Miami,” Cosso said. “But surely you can’t be thinking of competing with Disney or even Busch Gardens. Those places draw people like flies to syrup,” I said. They also drew a few flies to other things, as I remembered the area around the gorilla cages at Busch Gardens. “Have you ever been to the West Edmonton Mall?” I nodded that I had. “There have been a couple of other large theme malls tried, some have had a measure of success, and a couple have failed. I have studied the ones that failed, and in every case there were ordinary malls nearby that expanded or upgraded their services just enough to keep some loyal customers. When the West Edmonton Mall was built it was out in the boonies - no competition nearby. What I want you to do is to check out the land around these other malls,” he said, taking a list from his briefcase, “I have all the major malls listed here for you. If none of these malls can expand without a great deal of cost, then we have a safer location.” Cosso talked through the lunch of club sandwiches and imported beer, telling me about how he had managed the malls where he had worked, what techniques he had used to minimize costs while still attracting more and more customers. He apparently had some purchasing connections in the Far East where he could pick up manufactured goods at very low prices and he helped his mall tenants by using this purchasing power. This seemed almost too altruistic for a mall manager, but then maybe that was what made his malls successful. The man did seem to have some good ideas but he would not tell me just what was going to be so unique about this mall that he planned to build right in the midst of some of the most concentrated shopping facilities in Florida. But I did see from the area of land that he had written in his notes that this was going to be a large project. We were just finishing coffee when Cosso sprung the last part of his project on me. “Frank, I would also like you to do some personal work for me while you are down there. This is not to be billed to the Upper Canada account, but to my personal account. I have some friends who are interested in residential properties in Florida. If we can pick up some land adjacent to the mall property, I would be interested in presenting this to them. I figure it would be a good deal for both them and Upper Canada, since they would have a choice location for some residential buildings and the Mall would have a built-in customer base.” “Okay,” I said, AI guess there is no real conflict there.” Was this the red flag going up? Who were his >Friends’? AI’ll keep the costs separated as much as I can. It may take me a little longer than the two weeks I had planned to spend down there. Do you have a firm time line of when you copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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need the report?” “I’d like the report by next month at this time. That’s a couple of weeks before the Board meeting. If you find something that looks promising and think we should put a deposit on the land, just call me and we’ll see what we can do to raise the money before the Board meeting.” It was snowing again and the thoughts of Florida seemed somewhat more appealing to me as I drove back to our office. I asked Mary if she would pull both the Upper Canada and Martin Cosso’s files. I spent the afternoon looking for some clue that would reinforce my gut feeling about the man, but found little. The Mall account was perfectly normal. The owners, the Ontario Municipal Employees Retirement fund, or OMERS as it was referred to in the file, had a large portfolio, the Upper Canada Mall being just another one of their successful investments. Cosso’s own paperwork could have been handled by a novice - there was really no reason for him to pay us to do his books and tax return. He was drawing a good salary, nearing the $70,000 mark, plus annual bonuses from the Upper Canada group of about $25,000. Not bad, I thought. But it was not the kind of money that would be partnered to people wanting to develop a residential complex in Florida. The old cop in me smelled a rat. That evening I looked at the travel folder Mary had given me. I was booked on an early morning - 6:15 a.m. - flight that would put me into Clearwater three hours later. Dad wanted a full day of work from me. The Helnan had booked a comfortable, air-conditioned room on the sixth floor overlooking the scenic Hillsborough River, right in downtown Tampa, the most progressive city in Florida. Dollar Car Rentals had a car reserved for me at the airport. I made a mental note to have Mary upgrade the car because I knew the one that came with the discounted package would be some little puddle- jumper that would be too small for me. The folder included flyers from all the local attractions, offering half-price admissions or free rides. A dozen free oranges with every purchase over ten dollars and free driving range privileges at Bardmoor. Mary knew I liked oranges and golf. There was a folder advertising Tarpon Springs and I put that one aside since Tarpon Springs had come up in the conversation at lunch. The last folder in the package advertised the Dali Museum. Damn. I blamed Salvador Dali for my wife’s death. I felt a momentary flash of anger at Mary. She knew that we had visited the Dali Museum many times and she knew damn well how I felt about Dali! Mary was getting as bad as my father for meddling in my private life. They had what was beginning to look like a conspiracy going - either make me forget Karen or . . . no, Mary would not do that to me. In fact, she was one of the few people who believed me when I maintained that Karen had been murdered, not the victim of a hit and run accident. So perhaps this was Mary’s way of pushing me to take one last look at Karen’s death. And the Dali Museum was the logical place to start. Karen’s thesis was that you could identify an artist’s work by more than the usual brush strokes, the recurrence of colours, or themes and locations, and even carbon dating. Her theory was established on the simple fact that we humans are all different. We are particularly different when it comes to seeing things. If we could see the artist’s work through his eyes, would it be different? If we could exactly catalogue the colours, using, say the OPP colour spectrometer in the Forensic lab, we could then ‘see’ the paintings as the artist saw them. If an artist liked a particular shade of blue, and that colour was the one he used to express himself, then that was the colour he would use most often. Everyone looking at his pictures would see them the same way, but not perhaps in the exact shade of blue that the artist saw when he painted the picture. Of course, the mixing of pigments is not copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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an exact science, but that was one thing that made the great artists different from the ordinary - they could mix their colours to an exactness that they could see was just to their liking. Anyone painting a copy or forgery would see that blue from his own eyes, not from the eyes of the artist. So an art authenticator could tell the fake from the original, not only by applying the usual tests, but also if he or she knew what exact colour to look for and was able to compare that to a specification sheet printed from the spectrometer. Of course, not many art dealers could afford to have a colour spectrometer or even know how to use one. Nor could Karen. Once she had a sample of the artist’ work tested and catalogued, she would know how the artist viewed the world. She could duplicate that world view by fitting herself with specially coloured lens and an ultra violet light. It took her several months and many, many trips to her optician, but Karen finally had two pairs of >glasses’ that worked for her test subject, Salvador Dali. One pair for looking at his Spanish works, another pair for the New York period, for although Dali did not change his view of the world, the light conditions were different in these two settings. Karen calibrated her eyes against the standard set by the spectrometer using a large sample of photographs of works owned by the Morse family, and so she determined the way Dali saw his own works. I used to kid her that Dali had much more wrong with him than his vision, but by the time she solved the dead artist’s visual quirks, I began to admire his work. These >glasses’ were really prisms fitted to a regular set of eye glass frames. The glass was ground to spread the green/blue light, under the ultra violet lamp, on a painting so Karen could visually match the pigment on a painting to a printout from the OPP spectrometer. A. Reynolds Morse, a personal friend of Salvador Dali, had one of the more complete private collections of Dali art and it was through Morse that Karen had the opportunity to test her thesis. Morse had just recently moved his collection from Cleveland to St. Petersburg where Morse and his wife could enjoy the Florida climate and their beloved Dali art in their final years. Morse donated his collection to the Dali Museum, partly to avoid millions of dollars of estate taxes, partly to ensure that the works would be on display for the public long after the Morse family had passed on. The Gallery was ever trying to add to their collection of originals and it had been Karen who had warned them off a clever fake using her glasses. It was true that the painting in question was from a period when Dali may have painted a picture that he did not record or remember, for it was reputedly painted in 1928 when Salvador first fell in love with Gala Eluard. The painting was offered to the Dali Museum for a mere $450,000, a price that suggested its authenticity, but when Karen scotched the deal, the painting disappeared from the art’s marketplace. Rumour had it that it was purchased by a dealer who had tried to resell it many times but now no gallery would touch it. Someone had spent a lot of money to buy that picture and was very displeased with a young Canadian art critic for turning the painting into a worthless piece of early abstract art, painted albeit, in the Dali style. This all happened during the period of the great Dali art scandal that was sweeping the world. The scandal was not so much focussed on original paintings as on reproductions - both lithographs and photo-mechanical prints that were flooding the marketplace. The US Postal Office was pressing fraud charges against a number of galleries for misrepresenting prints as being signed by Dali, when in fact they were not. Dali was not one to keep records of his works or the signed blank paper used for reproductions, so it was difficult to decide what was real and what was not. In the case of original works, however, Karen was considered an expert on Dali. It was with a heavy sigh that I now stood on the old Bentwood chair and reached up into Karen’s closet for the boxes that contained her files on Dali. Once again I would have to read through copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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everything and see what it was that I had missed. I had been through these boxes several times in the months after Karen’s death, but I may have been too upset then to see something that would now, after three years, give me one more, and what I now swore would be the final chance, to solve her murder. Three hours later I realized I was thirsty, and although it was now nearing midnight, I was wide awake. I had completed my review of Karen’s research that led up to the spectrometer study of Dali’s work. I reached into the refrigerator for a Pepsi but came away with a can of beer. Karen’s notes must have been dry reading because by the time I finished there were three crumpled beer cans in the waste basket in my study. The one thing that I had not followed up on was the prescriptions for the Dali Glasses, as we had called them. I turned on the perimeter lights in the living room and the spot lights for the Dali prints we had hung there. We had a collection of eighteen Dali prints, all framed, that we rotated in our little private gallery. I had changed the works a few times since Karen’s death, but not as often as Karen did. The paintings now on the wall were the trio of works that we called the Millet series. Dali had been so fascinated with Millet’s Angelus that he had painted at least three different versions of the famous painting that depicted a peasant and his wife bowing over the basket of food at the end of the day, presumably in a prayer of thanksgiving. Dali, of course, claimed to see something beneath the surface of the painting, something not visible to others. As with the William Tell series, Dali had his own interpretation of the legends. He felt that Millet’s Angelus depicted not thanksgiving, but grief and remorse. Years after painting his Millet series, he persuaded the curators at the Louvre to x-ray the Angelus. Beneath the picnic basket, the x-ray revealed the image of a child’s coffin, thus proving that Millet had indeed changed his original composition to improve the painting’s marketability. So suddenly the Dali works, painted twenty years earlier as a sombre tribute to Millet, became all the more meaningful. I made a note to exchange the pictures when I came back from Florida. I would hang our William Tell group in honour of my last and most recent loss of willpower with my father. I went back to the study and found the file from Barney’s Optical. Karen had tried ten pairs of glasses before they got the prescription correct it seemed. All ten sets of lenses were marked and in their own envelopes. Once more, I looked at the invoices from Barney’s. Fifteen invoices. Ten sets of lenses. I opened another can of Blue Light beer and began comparing the invoices. I soon spotted what must have been Karen’s normal prescription marked on the bottom of the oldest invoices. In the notation field there were some numbers that I thought must have been the formula for grinding. I went back to her notebook on the spectrometer findings. And there it was, the solution that she had found for the Dali glasses. Somehow she had come up with a formula that compared Dali’s computed green/blue comprehension or as her notes abbreviated, DSS and DSN for Dali Skew Spain and Dali Skew New York. I checked the last set of figures to invoice number ten. They were the same. Invoice eleven was different. The prescription at the bottom was also different. In fact it was a strong correction, not anything near the numbers for Karen’s own eyes. Invoice fourteen was again for an entirely different prescription. Invoice fifteen was a credit note for the previous invoice. Someone had penned a note on it saying it was billed to Karen in error. But the glass was the same code - the DSS type. I went back to the notes. There was nothing that caught my eye, so I sat back and tried to recall the sequence of events leading up to Karen’s announcement of the fake painting. Felix, our cat, had been prowling around the house, obviously upset at my interruption of his night time routine. Felix is a black and white cat that Karen rescued from the Humane Society on a copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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tip from my mother. That was during Mother’s Humane Society period when she served on their Board of Directors. Mother had to get right down to the roots of the operation of the Society and had spotted Felix at a shelter in Rosedale. Felix adopted us and became my good friend and companion these past three years. He missed Karen, as much as I did, but finally agreed to let me become master of the household so long as I did not cross any of the many boundaries that were his domain. I am allowed to feed and brush Himself, clean out the litter box, and once a year, under protest, take him for his shots at the vet’s. In return, Felix will allow me to pet him, share his morning Globe and Mail paper and play tag with him just before bedtime.

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Chapter 2 The final police accident report of Karen’s death was really quite straight forward. Her car, a blue Volvo station wagon, had been forced off the road by another vehicle, later learned to be a five-tonne Tilden Rental truck. The site of the accident was approximately 500 metres east of the intersection of Highway 11 and the Stanton side road, the access road to our home in the Braeden subdivision. Road conditions were slippery and the visibility poor with fog and a light snow at the estimated time of the accident. The Stanton side road follows the top of a ridge and the Volvo had been forced off the narrow, winding road, plunging down the steep fifty-foot embankment, finally coming to rest in a stand of large maple trees. The accident happened at approximately 9:30 p.m., the time the clock in the Volvo had stopped, on a Wednesday night, the night that Karen taught a beginner’s art class at the King City community centre. I did not find Karen until after eleven, when I became concerned that she was not home at her usual time of ten o’clock. A broken guard rail was what led me to the wreckage. I called 911 on my cellular phone, asking for the police and an ambulance, although I knew that Karen was dead. The skid marks on the pavement showed where dual tires had gripped and then slid on the wet surface. Pieces of glass and the bent chrome rim of the left headlamp from the Volvo were near the centre of the road so we knew immediately that there had been a collision. There was yellow paint in the deep dents and scratches all along the driver’s side of Karen’s car. The truck had fled the scene but was found abandoned in a parking lot in Newmarket the next morning. The truck contained eight cases of smuggled cigarettes, which the file noted were all past the best freshness date, an imaginary time when cigarettes taste and smell worse than ever. It had been rented that same Wednesday afternoon using stolen identification and credit card for the transaction. The subsequent investigation by the OPP showed that there was no question that the owner of the credit card and license had not been involved in the accident. The identification was that of a prominent Toronto criminal lawyer, J. Silverstein, whose credit card was used to rent the truck. The Tilden clerk was positive that Silverstein was not the person who had signed the contract form. The lawyer had been mugged and robbed that very day while waiting for a bus and had reported the crime to the police. Silverstein was not well-liked by the Toronto area police because he represented a number of the well-known criminals in our region. I admit that he was a good defence lawyer who had no compunction doing anything at all to discredit a police officer and his testimony. Naturally, when Joe was mugged, it was a big joke and no effort was made to find the assailants. J. Silverstein was at dinner with a client that evening and had an alibi for the time of the accident. The cancellation of the credit card was delayed by a computer error of some kind. When the Tilden Rental clerk entered the credit card, it was not flagged as invalid. The police were unable to find any finger prints on the truck and assumed that the driver had panicked after the accident and wiped the vehicle clean before he left it in the parking lot. The contraband cigarettes in the truck pointed to smugglers since cigarette smuggling was all the rage at that time. There had been a rash of warehouse thefts in the area where the use of rental trucks was suspected, and that was the official explanation in the report. I never bought into that premise because the cigarettes were stale-dated and could not have been sold. They were simply a prop to mislead the police. The cause of death was officially recorded as a broken neck. A comment in the file stated that the victim was not wearing a seat belt. Karen always wore her seat belt. The investigating OPP officer, Stu Carson, told me that he thought it odd that Karen would have copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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suffered a broken neck because the car was not that badly damaged. Volvos are tough machines, one of our considerations when we bought the vehicle. He believed me when I said my wife always wore a seat belt because we OPP officers always stress safety to our families, but we had no reason then to suspect foul play. As far as I knew, Karen had no known enemies. I know that they checked me out as a matter of course, but it was apparent very soon that I had no motive to have my wife murdered. I kept in touch with Carson and he shared the file with me, although technically, he should not have. He too, was not really satisfied that it was an accident, but we could not find any reason to keep the file open. I got into trouble by doggedly nosing around the criminal lawyer to see if there was anything in his background that looked suspicious, but he complained to the Superintendent and got a restraining order. I was told to keep away or else. The only controversial aspect in Karen’s life was the Dali painting scam that she had exposed. If there was a motive for murder, it had to be the connection with the Dali paintings. I had read Karen’s notes then and traced the would-be seller of the fake Dali painting to an art dealer in Montreal. I hired a private detective to investigate this man but the detective could not give me any worthwhile information. The dealer had been known to handle some art works that came to him through non-conventional ways, and he was careful to select his buyers from those private individuals who keep their art only for themselves. Selling a stolen work of art to a gallery or museum was not advised. Private collectors would sometimes purchase hot merchandise and keep it for years as an investment hoping to sell it when the dust had settled and then only to another collector. The shady art dealer uses the greed factor to sell his works. Men who were otherwise very careful with their money tended to let caution slip when they had the chance to get a painting that their fellow collectors wanted. In no time the underground network would spread the word that a new Dali was for sale. The Montreal dealer knew who the main Dali collectors were and Morse was on his list of prospective buyers. What the dealer failed to realize was that Morse was also the prime director of the Dali Museum. Museum boards are much more careful about their purchases. To display a painting and then have someone dispute its authenticity would be a disaster in public relations. The dealer must have known that the Dali painting would undergo some scrutiny, but that was all part of the excitement of the scam. In retrospect, he may not have known whether the painting was real or whether it was a fake. Or he may not have cared. What he had not known was that Karen would subject the painting to her definitive test. Karen had taken her Dali glasses and her sheets of prism-coloured paper and travelled with Reynolds Morse and his staff to Montreal. My feeling was that Morse himself had some doubts about the painting but Karen told me the old man was carrying cashiers’ cheques totalling $500,000 US and had every intention of bringing the painting home. But the glasses and the spectrograph colour sheets said something was not right with the painting and Karen had thrown enough doubt on the authenticity that the sale had failed. Of course the collector’s underground information network spread the word and the dealer could not sell the painting. It was withdrawn from sale and the dealer later spread the word that it had been pulled from the market by the owner. My detective was unable to discover the identity of that owner. He had managed a look at the dealer’s files but there was nothing in the records. Apparently the old dealer kept some things only in his head. A good security system when you are handling goods of questionable origin or ownership. Even though the reputation of the painting was forever in question, the dealer or the owner may have had a motive to want Karen out of the way. Perhaps whoever painted the first fake Dali had another, and once Karen and her funny glasses were removed from the scene, more paintings might copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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surface. My connections with the art world did not get me far, although I did ask Mother to help. But her sources had not heard of any more new Dali paintings after Karen’s death. There was no connection between the Montreal art dealer and the Toronto criminal lawyer that we could find. Of course, they would cover their tracks very carefully. They would not be involved with the murder personally, so they would hire someone for that. Stu Carson could find nothing from his information sources in Toronto, but again, the hired help would most likely have come from Montreal if indeed the dealer was involved. The only person who had any connection with Karen’s death was the lawyer. I began checking on him. When I discovered that he had not asked for a replacement driver’s license, I started digging deeper. It turned out that his wallet had been found in a waste basket at the Upper Canada Mall in Newmarket a week after the accident. Everything, except the cash, was still in the wallet. It took almost a month for the paper work to clear in getting the wallet back to the lawyer, and by that time Stu’s investigation had wound down. I was trying to find out why the lawyer would wait a whole month to renew his driver’s license when someone tipped the lawyer that I was again meddling in his affairs. I was called up on the carpet, told to get my nose out of the closed accident investigation. I had some strong words with the Superintendent that I later regretted, but my emotions were running a little high. On top of this, we had just lost a major court case and I was finding the whole due process of the law very frustrating. Philip saw this and again offered me a job at the firm. I quit the force the next week. During that week I managed to get everything in the file copied and safely hidden at home. Thursday night, after I had packed my clothes for Florida, I went through the file again. I came up with absolutely nothing new. The only thing that I had not checked was the mismatch of the invoices and the number of glasses Karen had purchased. I would do that as soon as I returned from Florida. In the back of my mind I thought that the one strong prescription must have been for the elderly A. Reynolds Morse and dismissed this as a clue that could prove Karen was murdered. I was dutifully at Pearson International the required hour and a half before flight time so my luggage could be inspected for bombs, my carry-on probed for hidden weapons and my stomach assaulted by the strong black coffee that tasted as if it had brewed and stewed all night in anticipation of early-morning travellers who needed their eyes popped open by a jolt of raw caffeine. The only weapon I was carrying was a new jumbo-sized golf club that my golf pro said would add at least twenty yards to my driving distance. My fear was that the slight slice I had would now send a ball twenty more yards into trouble, but I was determined to get my handicap under ten. Hitting the ball a few more yards on the par five holes might just make the difference. I needed to get within pitching club range before I could work my magic on the golf course. I was now looking forward to a few games of golf to break up the cold winter we had been suffering through. The flight was smooth and uneventful, just the way I like to fly. The passengers were mostly sun-seekers, off to spend a couple of a thousand dollars for a week of Florida leisure that they would talk about until next year, when they would again travel south for a sunburn, some pina coladas or tall bloody Marys as they sat pool-side and relaxed with friends. I was likely the only one on the flight wearing a business suit and carrying a laptop computer. I was also likely the only one to decline the complimentary glass of champagne and orange juice that the cabin crew was using to get these sun-seekers ready for their holidays. I browsed through the files and tried to plan a schedule that would allow me to golf every other day, either in the morning before meeting a Realtor or in the afternoon after a morning tour of potential shopping mall properties. Two weeks should be plenty of time if I could find a real estate agent who was keen and knew the area. copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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The Boeing 757 touched down smoothly and the sun-seekers all applauded the crew’s fine landing. My luggage arrived intact and I caught the shuttle to the car rental office across the highway from the airport. Twenty minutes after landing, I was standing at the counter to pick up my rental car. There is always a hitch in every holiday and it looked like mine was going to be the car. “Mr. Pilger, we have a subcompact car reserved for you but if you would like to upgrade, I’ll see what we can do,” the pert young thing at the Dollar counter smiled to me. I’m sure they have only one subcompact car in the lot that they know nobody wants. They park it right at the front of the line beside a regular size car for easy comparison. It’s not hard to rationalize an extra five dollars a day for a bigger car when you see them parked together. “Yes, I’d like something a little bigger. Not full-size, but something I can fit into,” I smiled and stood taller to emphasize the point. “Was that one week or two, Mr. Pilger?” she asked even though she had only to look at the reservation letter that said two weeks. “Two weeks, and I may want to extend that to three weeks. I’ll let you know,” I said. “Two weeks is fine, but I don’t think we have anything open for the third week. Everything is booked for the school break, but we may be able to work something out,” she smiled prettily as if to say that if I had the money up front they could work out anything. Some poor character would arrive three weeks from now and find that there had been a mistake in the reservations and all they had left was one Hyundai Excel that would seat five comfortably - if the three kids were all under the age of ten and would sit quietly beside each other without jabbing elbows. “Okay, let’s see what is available and if I like the car, I’ll pay for the three weeks right now.” I put the onus back on her - give me a satisfactory car or else lose the sure business. “We have a Chevrolet Caprice - that’s a large car,” she said. The latest issue of the Chevrolet Caprice is one of the ugliest cars ever made. There was no way I would drive one of them. “Sorry, I don’t care for the Chevrolets. Do you have one of the new Chryslers?” I asked. I was thinking of buying an Eagle Vision tsi to replace my four-year-old Buick and this would be a good time to test drive one. The clerk flipped through her file and shook her head. Sorry, they’re all out. All I have left in the Chrysler line is a Laser convertible and a Jeep Grand Cherokee.” It’s too hot in Florida to drive with the top down, and I did not want any extra ultra violet rays while I was driving. “I’ll take the Jeep,” I said, thinking to fulfil my fantasy of driving a four-wheel drive vehicle. “It does have air, doesn’t it?” I asked on second thought. “Yes, it has air. This one is loaded.” I picked up the pen to sign the contract. Martin Cosso could pay the premium price. He, and Upper Canada Malls - I could split the cost of the Jeep down the middle so they would both think I had rented the Hyundai. After patiently explaining to the clerk that I had adequate liability insurance through my father’s travel agency and then leaving an impression of my VISA card, I was off to the Helnan. I passed the Holiday Inn on the road in from the Tampa airport and was tempted to stop and ask if they had a room. I could always make up some story for Mary about the Helnan being over booked or under renovations, but I thought better of the deception. I was on a working trip, after all, and I owed it to the firm to check out the Helnan accommodations that Dad had arranged for the flights crews. A block from the Helnan I saw signs for the new Tampa Museum of Art, and right next to it, a display of metal horses standing in a reflecting pool. I would have to get some photographs of that display - a herd of different coloured horses grazing among the towering skyscrapers. It was a very copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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interesting concept. And of course, I would visit the new museum. Karen and I always stopped at every museum we came across in the States. There was always something unique and unexpected in these small local museums. Some rich benefactor would leave his collection to his hometown museum, often giving works that were more valuable than the whole current collection in the soonto-be famous little building. Karen and I were particularly interested in the ancient works from Greece and Italy. Karen had majored in art when she attended university, and it was the second-year course on Greek art that set her career. She studied ancient Greek works and compared them with the work the Romans did a few hundred years later. She had an excellent instructor at the university and this placed her on the path of art authentication. Her speciality was figuring out whether the vases found in southern Italy were made in Greece or if they were of local manufacture by artisans from Greece who had immigrated to southern Italy. I absorbed enough of her skills by osmosis that I could spot some of the better known works. Some of the superior craftspeople had their own little trademarks and once I spotted one, I could tell the works of that person or the people who had been taught by him. Karen told me that about the turn of the century, rich Americans travelled to that part of the Mediterranean, the place where our western culture was born, and bought shiploads of pottery and statues that the locals grossly undervalued. I made a mental note to visit the Tampa Museum of Art since it would surely have a collection worthy of an afternoon’s visit. From the outside, the Riverside Helnan looked much the way it did when I was last there. The stucco was still an ochre-pink, reminiscent of the south of France, but not quite making that impression nestled here among the modern office towers of downtown Tampa. I attached the privacy cover on the back seat of the Jeep so no one would see my golf clubs and left the vehicle in the lower level of the garage. I glanced out the opening on the west side and realized that if the river rose about six feet, this part of the garage would be under water. Florida gets the occasional heavy shower so I thought I should check the weather forecast before leaving the Jeep there again. There were water marks on the walls, so flooding was not out of the question. Things had changed at the Helnan. The very attractive female clerk explained that I could use the pool and their new exercise room, the cocktail bar would be open every evening, except Sunday, from five until seven thirty, complimentary continental breakfast was served in the lounge area from seven until ten, laundry service was available, but no, the dining room had been closed for several years. The one thing I had liked about the Helnan was that old dinning room. “What happened to the dining room?” I asked. “Well, I guess there just wasn’t enough business anymore. They turned it into two meeting rooms. We get the conference overflow from some of the bigger hotels in the area. If you want a light meal, the Riverside Cafe is quite good. They offer room service too, if you’re interested. I usually have one of their sandwich specials for lunch after I work out in the gym,” she said. I did not need to be told that she worked out. She appeared to me to be in her mid-thirties, was all muscle and very attractive, as I had noted more than once during our short conversation. No ring on her finger, either. For the first time in three years I felt a little interest in a woman. “What time did you say the exercise room opened?” I asked, knowing that she had said seven a.m. I asked about restaurants in the area, all the while knowing that I would be going to BDC’s and Shell’s. Carol (her name tag) suggested that the Hyatt had a very good formal dining room as well as a more casual bar where you could order excellent Texas ribs. I said I liked ribs and might give that a try some evening. Carol commented that her bowling team went there every Wednesday about 8.00 copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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p.m. so I made a note of the time. When I mentioned that I would like to do some golfing, Carol picked out some brochures for me, throwing in another coupon for free oranges and grapefruit and a half-price pass to Busch Gardens. I now had enough half-price passes to get into Busch Gardens free. Even though it was not yet eleven, the room was ready for me. The room was comfortably large with a balcony that looked out over the Hillsborough River across town to the campus of the University of Tampa. The mattress was new, the springs still firm, the way I like them. The drapes appeared to be the same as I last remembered, but then, I don’t usually take particular notice of things like that. I went out to the balcony to take in the view one more time. I took a few minutes to recall how excited Karen had been when she first saw the minarets. The sun was setting that evening when we had arrived and the pink sky behind the university had made a postcard picture for us. Karen made me promise that the first thing next morning we would cross the river and investigate this strange fantasy land where Moorish minarets stood against the evening sky in the middle of Florida. I gave a little involuntary sigh and went back inside to unpack my clothes. I made myself a work area using the round arborite table. Its glass-stained top and cigarette scars spoke more of the holidays than work days but when I had my laptop computer and little printer hooked up, it looked more businesslike. I scrolled up the list of names of the real estate brokers that Mary had found in one of her directories and began dialling the telephone. The first two businesses I called did not have anyone in the commercial office who was familiar with the Clearwater area, and although they assured me they had contacts across the Bay, I said no thanks. The third name on the list was Boyd Brokers. A pleasant voice told me that indeed, Mr. Boyd knew the Clearwater area very well - he lived in Dunedin. It was two weeks before the Blue Jays would be in training camp, but if I extended my stay, I too, might be in Dunedin. Mr. Boyd was just going to lunch - would I care to join him? I was ready for a light lunch so I agreed, saying I would meet him at the front desk in twenty minutes. He was three minutes late, but somehow I knew when the big man in the western-cut suit came through the door, it had to be Boyd. He was just over six feet tall and must have weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds, perhaps a year or two older than I. He looked like what I thought would be a typical swampland Realtor, someone who had just recently upgraded from Mac’s Fine Used Cars. The man did doff his white Stetson hat as he came into the lobby so maybe he was not going to be a total loss. He handed me his card, William Robert Boyd, C.R.A., and said, “Howdy, Frank. Folks call me Billy Bob. Glad to meet you.” He spoke with that slow, unhurried speech common to southerners. “Uh, yes,” I said, not wanting to say ‘Billy Bob’ just yet. I would need a few minutes to get my grin under control. ‘Billy Bob’ sounded like a name from the Ozarks, a name you might find at a bait stand somewhere, not a name for this big fellow in the western-cut suit. I glanced at his shoes and sure enough, they were snake-skin cowboy boots. I was going to have to tell Mary that her listing of Realtors needed editing when I got back to Canada. Outside was an older pink Cadillac, license plate BB Boyd, of course. At least it did not have a set of steers’ horns attached to the hood, although this being Florida, a stuffed alligator head might have been more suitable. I almost felt like saying thanks but no thanks right then but I did have to eat lunch so I decided to stick it out and see if Billy Bob Boyd was from the Ozarks. The old car was in surprisingly excellent shape and we rode quietly and smoothly along as Billy Bob pointed out some of the highlights of downtown Tampa. I did not say that I knew the area well but listened to his spiel just to judge how well he knew the area himself. copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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“That there is the old town hall over to your right,” he pointed out, “They were going to tear it down and put up one of those damned fancy glass towers. They finally voted 6 to 4, agreeing that the old building had a little class of its own, and they decided to renovate the old town hall. Personally, I like these older buildings - gives the city a sense of history, you know what I mean?” “Yes, I agree,” I said. Thinking to test his knowledge, I asked, “I noticed all those minarets across the river. What’s that all about?” “There is a real interesting story to that. My wife’s the expert on the history of the Plant hotel, but apparently this fellow Plant wanted to build the best hotel west of New York - this was back in the eighteen nineties - so he hired an architect and told him he wanted something Moorish. Damnedest thing you ever saw, eh, Frank? You should go over and take a look while you’re here if you’re interested in history and such. They have some turn of the century stuff that Melissa says is not bad. The grounds are the University of Tampa now, but part of the hotel is a museum.” “Yes, I may drop over if I get a chance,” I said. At least he knew something about the history of Tampa. “I saw some metal horses in a reflecting pond on the way in - I’ll have to take a closer look at them also. That’s an interesting idea.” “Yeah, I like that one too. The artist is a local fellow and he comes down here once a week and moves the horses around. He makes some interesting effects with those tin horses. Me, I like the live ponies better. There’s a race track just north of here - the ponies run every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday, if you’re interested.” It was difficult not to overeat at lunch. Sitting across from Billy Bob as he devoured a plate of shrimp, a serving of pasta and then a veal cutlet with obvious enjoyment, was an invitation to participate and I did enjoy the shrimp. Billy Bob took some notes on what I was looking for in the real estate. He had sized me up as a serious buyer and was now doing business. He said he would have a list of properties ready by tomorrow morning at ten when he would pick me up and we could start looking. When he said we could spend the whole day visiting the different properties, I suggested that we spread it out a little since I was here partly on vacation and wanted to get in some golf. “Hell, Frank, that’s great! I’ll run you around to some places tomorrow morning and we can have a game of golf in the afternoon. We usually golf Tuesday afternoons and you could join us. There’s a nice little course just near to where we live. We’ll bring your clubs and we can make a day of it, maybe go out to dinner afterwards. You don’t mind golfing with my wife, do you?” “Well, no, I don’t mind, and sure, that’s sounds great. I would like to change clothes though if we’re going to dinner afterwards.” “Hey, no problem. Just bring yourself a fresh shirt. You can shower at our place after the game. There’s no sense in you all driving all the way back here. Melissa and I always eat out on Tuesdays and it will be good to have some company. She can tell you everything about that Plant Hotel!” We talked about the property requirements and I stressed the need for confidentiality. Billy Bob Boyd seemed all business when talking real estate and money but the next moment he was guffawing with the table server like some good old boy. He talked a good game of golf, replaying some of his favourite courses for me along with his score. He talked a ten handicap but I got the impression it would be more like a fourteen or fifteen when we got on the course. I backed off on my eight to a twelve handicap, allowing for four months of not having a club in my hands. If I had known the trouble that new jumbo driver was going to give me, I would have added another couple of strokes. Billy Bob dropped me off at the Helnan about two. I felt like a nap so I put my head down for a copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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fifteen minute snooze and woke up at four ten. I could hear some people splashing around in the pool six floors below, so I changed into my swimming trunks and headed down for a refreshing dip. There were some young ladies sitting beside the pool, so like a really macho man, I dove into the pool without testing the water temperature. The water was very cool in the unheated pool, but I found it pleasant enough after the first few minutes of shock. That is, when my heart started beating again and some feeling returned to my genitals. Most of the twenty or so people around the pool were content to dip their toes into the water and then lie back and absorb some of the last warm rays of the afternoon sun. One older couple were swimming and as I passed the lady she said, “The water’s nice, eh?” so I knew she was Canadian. No wonder the Floridians think we’re like polar bears. There was a group of three attractive young ladies sitting together at the pool. I had noticed that one had a Transat flight bag so I towelled off and walked over, thinking to ask them how they liked the Helnan. I was just doing my second job, the one that Dad had laid on for me. The women saw me coming and I caught a fleeting look that said, “Oh no, not another one!” as if I was going to try to hustle one of these beautiful young women. “Hi,” I said, trying to stand close enough to have a private conversation but not so close as to drip water on the stewardesses. “Do you ladies work for Transat?” The brunette gave me her professional Transat smile, “Yes, we do.” No invitation to continue the conversation, but I forged on. “My name’s Frank Pilger. My firm is part of the management group that runs Transat Tours.” The busty blonde looked at me as if to say that she was not impressed with management and that line would get me nowhere. “We arranged for the Helnan as your stopover hotel and I wanted to ask you if everything was satisfactory here.” The other blonde, perhaps the oldest of the trio, replied, “You really do work for that Tour Company? You’re not just laying a line on us?” “I really do. I don’t have my business cards with me right now, but I am staying here to do an unofficial survey of the flight crews. Pilger, Scott and Wilson is the company’s name. We’re in Markham.” “You’re the Pilger of Pilger, Scott and whatever?” asked the brunette. “Well, no. That’s my father. He’s the one that put me onto this job since I was down here doing some real estate business. Personally, I find the old Helnan acceptable, if a little run down at the corners, but for the price . . .” “It’s okay, I guess,” blonde number two said. “I wish it had a restaurant - sometimes I don’t feel like going out to eat after a tough day, but yes, it’s okay.” “It’s quiet and clean, something you don’t always get in some of the hotel chains,” the brunette offered. “Okay,” I said, “Out of a ten, what score do you give it?” I got two sevens and a six, thanked the ladies and turned to go when I thought maybe I should ask them about dinner. “By the way, do you have any favourite restaurants around here? It’s my first day and I haven’t looked around for a good place to eat yet.” “We’re going over to BDC’s at seven,” blonde number two said. ABe in the lobby at six fortyfive and you can join us, if you like.” “Well, thanks very much. I’ll see you then.” She seemed like a very pleasant person. Wedding band on her finger, but I knew that stewardesses often wore a ring just to keep the wolves at bay. I glanced down at the single gold band on my ring finger. It was scratched and nicked from years of copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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wearing when I was working on equipment, digging in the garden and just life in general. It still had that warm, reassuring glow of gold, that comforting bond which still existed with Karen. Kelsey, the number two blonde was a very nice lady, as I somehow had guessed. She was married, had two little girls, who from their photographs, would grow up to be every bit as pretty as their mother. Candace, blonde number one, was the youngest of the three and was just finding her way in life. She was pleasant enough, but I would guess that on closer inspection, would turn out to be the stereotype of the dumb blonde jokes. Nancy, the brunette, was a single mother, separated, with a daughter and quite intelligent. She too, had a photograph of her daughter, Marisa, a pretty child of three or four years, by my guess. Nancy had no problem conversing on any topic that I could throw at her. She had a degree in business administration and made no bones about wanting to move up in the travel industry. She had a plan to work two years in the airline business, move over to tours and then open her own travel business. I gave her one of my business cards and told her to contact my father when she was ready to do her tours session. She would make an excellent employee if Philip needed anyone. We dined very well at BDC’s, as I knew from experience we would. The Italian food there is simply superb. I had my favourite veal parmigiana followed by a Boston lettuce salad, a small piece of decadent double chocolate cake and two cups of their Brazilian coffee. I sprung for the litre bottle of Zapa Valley California red that Kelsey, Candace and I had no problem polishing off. The only complaint I had at BDC’s was their wine selection. They carried the usual Chianti as their imported Italian wine, but the rest of the selection was strictly American, which although quite adequate for a nation that does not drink much wine, simply is not as good as a proper bottle of good French red wine to compliment Italian food. It was a most pleasant evening for me and I invited the women to give me a call when I was back in Canada. If they ever had any complaints about their stopover rooms, they should most certainly contact Philip and tell him that I would support their case. I had a good sleep that night, unusual for a first night in a strange room, but I felt relaxed and comfortable with myself after the enjoyable dinner and the long walk the four of us had through the downtown of Tampa. The stewardesses were long gone by the time I showered and went downstairs for the continental breakfast in the lounge area. There was a business card under my door that morning with Nancy’s Toronto address and phone number neatly printed - along with the short message - “call me.”

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Chapter 3 We loaded my golf clubs into the trunk of Billy Bob’s Cadillac and were soon motoring across the Courtney Campbell Parkway towards Clearwater. Boyd had a list of possible properties that we would survey that morning and had each marked on a large map of the area. He had done his homework. We chatted about sports, family and compared life in the States to life in Canada. It seems the Americans have as distorted a view of us as we have of them. We tend to think of the States as full of people, crowded, simply because of their population being thirty times ours. They, for the opposite reason, think we are an almost empty space of rural towns and villages. Aside from his southern drawl and colourful speech, Billy Bob seemed no different from any of my Canadian friends. Some of his views bordered on the ‘redneck’ side, but then, so do those of some Canadians. He no doubt found me a little too liberal, but judging from the way the Americans voted in the last election, a large number of them had shifted slightly left of centre, at least temporarily. I soon got the impression that Billy Bob liked to gamble a little. His stories were sprinkled with bets he had made and collected on, and although I automatically discounted the amounts of money he said he wagered as bragging, he might have been placing some substantial bets. He mentioned going to the dog races the next night, but I begged off. I do not mind a horse race now and then, but a dog chasing a tin rabbit just does not excite me. In fact, dogs in general are not among my favourite animals. It probably has something to do with being bitten by a neighbours’ spaniel when I was a toddler. “Frank, this here first place is off highway 19 on Drew Street. Almost every cross street on 19 already has a mall, so I figured if we looked one street over, that may be close enough to capture the traffic from 19.” “Okay, let’s look at that. I still like the idea of being on 19, but if it’s already over-serviced, there’s no point in competing there. I think my client is looking at something impressive enough that it will overpower the competition anyway, but we’ll look at this one first.” “I know you can’t tell me much, but is this really going to be that big?” “Have you ever heard of the West Edmonton Mall?” “Hell, no. The only thing I know about Edmonton is that the Oilers play out of there. I made me a bundle when they took the Stanley cup for the second year. I follow the hockey fairly close. The guys I bet with on the hockey games think they know the game, but hell, anyone that’s ever played the game had to know that a team with the likes of Gretzky, Messier, Tikaanen and Fuhr was going to go a long ways. Then you add a defence with Coffey, Lowe - hell, who was going to beat them!” “You played some hockey?” I asked. “Yeah. I went to school in Wisconsin - junior college. I was never a really good skater, but I liked the game. I had the size for a defenseman and I was fairly quick on my feet. But basketball was my sport.” “Yes, basketball is bigger in the States than back home. We played a little basketball in high school, but it was mostly hockey in the winter, some tennis or fastball in the spring and football in the fall. It seems we have a sport for every season, whereas you people stick to basketball or baseball year-round.” “Yeah, except for the football players and their season is getting longer all the time, too. You’re right, we do specialize in one sport. I guess a lot of folks look at the sport as a way to earn money or to get themselves a college scholarship.” copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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“The only sport in Canada that offers anything in way of a reward is hockey, and those salaries are very low compared to other sports,” I said. “Don’t your universities offer big sports scholarships?” “No, not really. That’s why so many of our good players come over here on hockey scholarships. About all that comes of collegiate sports in Canada is a chance to be scouted by some pro organization. Even hockey gets most of its recruits at the high school level.” “Man, I never would have got through the couple of years of college that I did get without the basketball money! How can you folks afford a college education?” “Well, I guess the total cost is lower and there are government grants and loans if you need the money. Mostly the smarter kids can get scholarships and that helps with the fees. The aim is to give everyone access to a university education if they want it.” “Yeah, I suppose that’s good, but down here you go to school to get enough education to get yourself a job. If you want to be a doctor, a lawyer, or some such thing - then you go on to university. Otherwise, most folks just finish their college and get out into the workforce. I’ve done rather well without a degree. My wife has all sorts of initials after her name and Melissa only works part time at a job that pays poorly.” “What does your wife do?” I asked. “She works at an art gallery. She is a tour guide, sort of a docent without a university! Have you ever been to that Dali Museum down to St. Petersburg? That’s where she works.” So there it was again. That damn Dali connection. “Anyway,” he continued, “What about that Edmonton Mall?” “Well, it’s one of the biggest in the world. It not only has hundreds of stores but has an amusement park right inside. There’s a wave pool, complete with three water slides, a fish pond that has a full-size replica of the Santa Maria in it, a Chrysler dealership, a casino, a hotel and a skating rink. People come from around the word just to see this mall.” “You’re kidding me!” “No. There are charter flights from Japan to Edmonton with the main attraction being the Mall. Of course, those folks visit the mountains too, but it is the mall that brings them.” “Not a full-sized hockey rink?” “Yes. The Oilers hold practises there once a week.” “And this is what your client is thinking of doing down here in Florida?” “Well, I haven’t seen the plans, but they do want a lot of land and they seem to think that they can bury any competition.” Billy Bob gave a low whistle and I could see the dollar signs ringing up in his mind. His finger did a little drum roll on the steering wheel - or was he counting up his commission on his fingers? I hoped that the size of the project would not inflate the selling price, but then that was a part of doing these mega- projects. Once someone got wind of the deal, everybody would want a piece of the action. Still, Boyd should do okay on his commission without trying to add a few points to the price and perhaps putting the whole sale in jeopardy. “What kind of a commission do you get on a sale like this, Billy Bob?” I asked. “Commercial rates are only three and a half percent, of which the agency gets 2%, so I don’t make as much on commercial as I do on residential. The dollars are bigger, so it all works out, you know? Sometimes there’s a finder’s fee if the seller is getting desperate and that fee I don’t have to share with the agency. Nothing special on this first property, though.” copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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“I thought from the name of your business that you owned it,” I said. “I used to - I set it up about fifteen years ago, but during the recession I had to take on a couple of partners to keep the business going. So now everything goes through the books and we pay ourselves commissions on the sales.” One and half percent does not sound like much, but on a five million dollar sale, Billy Bob would walk away with $75,000. He could make his year’s salary on one sale! Then he would share in any year-end profits that this sale helped to generate. I measured that against what our firm was going to make on the deal and I thought maybe our rates were too low. Then again, Billy Bob would only do this once, while we would have the accounting work for years. It was no wonder Dad wanted me to give this project our personal attention. The property on Drew was big enough for the mall but after having Billy Bob drive me around the area, I realized that there was no room left for residential development, something that Martin Cosso had requested. We marked the property as a possible site, and although I did not tell Boyd why, I had already stroked it from my list. We went south then, towards St. Petersburg, down 19 to Umberton, where there seemed to be more vacant land. Most of it was zoned residential but there was one area just west of 66th Street that was large enough. Yet again, driving around and inspecting the area turned me off this site. “Billy Bob, I may be wrong, but this area looks a little depressed - the homes are fairly modest, not to put too fine a point on it.” “Yeah, I see what you mean. Some of them are more like shacks, aren’t they? I guess that wouldn’t fit into the marketing package, would it?” “No, not really. The land may be cheaper but when people drive through a depressed area just before they are going to go shopping and spend a lot of money, it dampens the spirit a little to see these homes. No, I think the richer the area, the better atmosphere for spending.” “Yeah, I know what you mean. I go into a really good shop and I’ll spend more on a shirt than I would any other time. Get the same damn shirt at a discount store, but somehow I feel that it’s better just because of the store where I bought it. Hell, a fellow doesn’t casually mention that he’s wearing a golf shirt from Sears, but if it comes from Marcus Neiman, you can always work that into the conversation!” We both laughed. We stopped for a light lunch and then drove to Billy Bob’s home to pick up his wife for the afternoon of golf. Billy Bob had not warned me that his wife was very beautiful. He also forgot to mention that Melissa was a very good golfer. There was no way Billy Bob could play a hole without betting. So we finally agreed to play Bingo, Bango, Bongo for a dollar a hole. First on the green, first in the hole, lowest score on the hole. With a few carry-overs, a couple of the holes were playing for nine dollars on the score and Melissa was winning these. She was not the first on the green on the long holes but she could chip a ball as well as Billy Bob and she could putt as well as I could. Of course, I was a little rusty from not playing for several months and Billy Bob may have been playing me like a client, trying not to beat me too badly, but it was a very competitive game. Billy Bob also had one more advantage over me. He had lived with Melissa for years and he was accustomed to her good looks. I found it more than a little distracting watching her bend over a putt or stretching her golf shirt tightly over her breasts when she swung the club. Adrenalin does not hurt my game, but these forgotten hormones were raising hell with my concentration. Billy Bob wanted to play for quarters and I had no objection although Melissa was reluctant at copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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first, she did agree as long as we men gave her a one shot advantage on the par five holes. Billy Bob seemed to want to bet on every shot but after a few holes he gave up asking me when it became obvious I was not really into the betting. There was obviously a little under current of a family disagreement about Billy Bob’s betting and I wisely kept my mouth shut. There is something special about strolling down a fairway that is lined with palm trees that makes a Canadian appreciate a game of golf in the dead of winter. We can look forward with anticipation to spring when the snow slowly melts and the grass turns to green again, but walking down a perfectly groomed fairway in February surrounded by lush tropical plants is just a bit of paradise. The warm breeze blowing through a light golf shirt, a comfortable light burn developing on your forearms and it is hard to care about where the last ball you hit landed. We paid off our modest golfing debts and then headed back to the Boyd’s home to freshen up before dinner. Their home was a modern ranch-style, typical of Florida homes that offer little exposure to hurricane winds. The house had a number of solid bearing walls that were designed against wind storms, but also gave the home a sense of solid comfort. They were gracious hosts, at ease with having guests in their home, and I felt quite comfortable in a few minutes. I showered in the guest ensuite while Billy Bob and Melissa changed. I felt much cleaner in a fresh shirt and was looking forward to a pleasant dinner with the Boyds. Billy Bob had a small pitcher of martinis ready on the patio so while Melissa was putting the final touches to her makeup, we sipped our first drink. Their garden was what every shivering Canadian was dreaming of at this time of the year. They had two orange trees covered with small oranges that needed maybe another week of Florida sunshine to ripen them to perfection. A large hibiscus tree was in full bloom, its red blossoms making a tropical statement that this is just a piece of paradise. There were two other fruit trees at the back of the large lot, some ornamental shrubs and a vegetable garden that were well cared-for and ready for planting. The flower beds were immaculate, the late spring flowers still in bloom, but spaced for their summer cousins who could be planted any time now. “Billy Bob, do you have a gardener to look after all this?” I asked. “This is a really fantastic garden!” “Thank you, Frank. Actually, I look after it myself. It’s sort of a hobby for me, a place to relax, a chance to work with my hands in the earth. I come from country stock and I guess the love for the land never leaves a person. That’s one thing my good ol’ Dad taught me - a love for the earth. He took more pride out of his vegetable garden than the rest of the farm. Hell, he was just a small-time dirt farmer at heart, but he got himself into cattle ranching and made a few dollars chasing steers around his 500 acres. I think he always wanted my brother Charlie or me to take over the ranch, but we were both bound to get away to the big cities.” Philip never had any love for the soil. He hated mowing the lawn and detested getting down on his hands and knees to plant flowers for Mother. He never tended the flowers or shrubs, letting Mother do it, or hiring me to mow and trim when I was old enough. When I thought about it now, my father never tended anything much - except his work. Not even me. Although I do not mind working around the yard, it is not one of my favourite things. I tend to have little or no luck with growing things and if it were not for my housekeeper, my home would be bare of plants. As I looked around Billy Bob’s property, I could see the touch of the man on the earth. It said something very positive about the man and I added this to the plus side of the ledger of Billy Bob Boyd. “But this yard must take almost a day a week to look after,” I said. copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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“Yes, it does when the growing season is at the peak. In the late summer and fall it slows down. That’s when I do the maintenance on the beds - you know, the fertilizers, pruning, moving things around. I keep rotating the plants, using the tubers to recharge the soil where the leafy plants have used up all the nitrogen. It also keeps the damn bugs off balance if I keep the soil turned and put in something that they don’t particularly like. Come on, I’ll give you a tour.” He topped up our martinis and we strolled around the lot, admiring the fresh blooms and some of the early vegetables that were just beginning to show through the soil. Melissa joined us and her knowledge of the plants was equal to Billy Bob’s. They both seemed to enjoy this private world they had created. They were a very lovely couple and I felt a pang of loneliness and envy for what I was missing in my life. Melissa then gave me a tour of the house. They had some very impressive art work and she caught me paying attention to a couple of watercolours that I immediately liked. “Do you enjoy art, Frank?” “Yes, I do. Karen was quite involved in the art world - she ran a gallery in Toronto.” I had told them that I was a widower but had not talked much about Karen or our marriage. “I guess I picked up an appreciation for painting from her.” Melissa stopped, obviously struck by something I had said. “What is it?” I asked. “Karen Pilger! I knew there was something bothering me this afternoon when you said your wife’s name was Karen! Karen is the one Mr. Morse always talks about. She was your wife!” “You know Morse?” I asked. “Yes, I work at the Dali, and I know the family very well. Mr. Morse doesn’t work at the gallery much anymore, but I visit him at their home least once a month - or more often if there are any questions I have about Dali.” “I never met the man myself. It seems any time he was in town, I was away or tied up with something. Karen liked Morse, and the fact that he knew Dali personally was all she needed. Karen did a lot of research on Dali.” “Yes, I know. I also know about the ‘Dali Glasses’, although Mr. Morse asked me not to talk about them.” “Yes, The Dali Glasses,” I said. “I wonder if I could meet Mr. Morse while I’m here. I’d just like to say hello to him.” “I could check at the office tomorrow, if you like. He usually comes into the museum once or twice a week, just to see how things are going. Even though he is only a member of the board now, he still looks on the paintings as his own. Leave me your telephone number and I’ll give you a call,” Melissa said. We drained our glasses and headed for El Capitan’s, a seafood restaurant that Karen and I knew well. The evening passed too quickly and before I knew it, Billy Bob was dropping me off at the Helnan with the promise to pick me up at ten thirty the next morning. We would look at some property farther up the road, towards Tarpon Springs. After an easy workout in the gym the next morning, I ate a light breakfast in the Helnan, making do with a couple of croissants that were fresh, if small, and coffee that was fresh but rather too strong for my taste. I changed into my walking shoes, took my camera and set out for a photographic tour of the downtown. I wanted to get some shots of those tin horses in the reflecting pool before the sun was high in the sky. A young man wearing black rubber gumboots was rearranging the horses and I struck up a conversation with him. He turned out to be the artist who had made the horses and we copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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talked for half an hour. I asked if he has ever sold any of his work in Canada. He said that although he had received some inquiries, nothing had materialized for him yet. I took his business card and said I had some connections in the north that might be of help to him, thinking that these horses would look great inside a mall. Inside they would be safe from vandals or thieves, but outside I wondered how long they would last. I asked if these horses were ever vandalised and he said only once when someone had climbed up on one horse to ride it. His theory was that if art was attractive and pleasing to the young people they would appreciate it and leave it alone. We went next door to a coffee shop where he continued his exposition on placing art in public places and by the time we had our second cup, I was agreeing with him. He told me that he was exchanging the small roan pony for a big black mare on Tuesday morning next week and invited me back to help rearrange the herd. I promised to be there. The big pink Cadillac was about fifteen minutes late and Billy Bob’s first words were of apology. “Sorry I’m a little late, Frank. I had to make a stop on the way over and it took a little longer than I thought.” “No problem, Billy Bob, I was just reading the sports section. I see my Expos are making another trade. They’re the only team in baseball that trades away proven players for rookies!” “Well, I think that Alou knows what he’s doing. One writer at the Tampa Tribune thinks they may have a shot at the title this year.” “Well it would be good for Montreal. Their hockey team has not been able to get far into the play-offs for a few years, they have no football anymore and no prospect of getting a basketball franchise. The Expos are all that’s left.” “Yeah, I know what you mean. I always thought it important to have a major sports team in a city. It gives the kids something to talk about, something they can relate to, especially if they have a winning franchise.” “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. I never thought of it that way,” I said. “There are so many kids that come from one-parent or broken homes nowadays. Those kids need somebody to look up to. Hell, when I was a kid I had my heroes, too.” Billy Bob laughed and continued, “There just wasn’t anyone better than John Wayne for me!” “Yep, you’re right,” I said, using my Gary Cooper drawl. “My mother even named my brother Gary after Gary Cooper. You know, I’d find it hard to name a child after anyone famous now. No matter who it is, there’s always something in their life that the media exposes. Who could you name a child after today?” I asked. “You’re right, Frank, it would be tough. I guess we would have named a boy after my Dad, and if we’d had any girls, I don’t know.” “So you didn’t have any children?” I asked. I had not noticed any pictures in the house but I may have missed them. “No. Things just didn’t work out for us. How about you?” “No, none. We were waiting for the right moment and waited too long. I often wonder what it would have been like to have a child, as a part of Karen, but then I wonder what the child would be like now without a mother in the home.” We were both quiet for a few minutes as we once again crossed the causeway and turned up number 19 towards Tarpon Springs. I thought about the names we might have given our children. Some of the names were obvious - names from family members or names that were in the family tree, somewhat traditional names. I was named after my great-grandfather on Dad’s side of the copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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family. But recently it seemed that people found new and unusual names for their children. Not like Salvador Dali, I thought, who was named after his dead brother. Maybe that was part of the reason for his lifelong flamboyance - trying to make an identity of his own. Perhaps I would have been the same if my parents had named me Gary after the brother who died suddenly when he was less than two years old, just before I was born. Tarpon Springs is a Greek community that was originally a sponge fishing centre, populated with Greek immigrants who brought their Mediterranean sponge harvesting skills with them to America near the turn of the century. The Gulf coast produces excellent sponges and although sponges have been mostly replaced by synthetic products over the years, the community still flourishes. The tourists flock to Tarpon Springs by the tens of thousands to go on guided dives where they can watch the young men dive for sponges, or they can visit the endless shops that sell everything from sponges to the latest in New York fashions. The river front offers a thousand opportunities for the photographer as the colourful sponge boats, with their Greek names proudly painted across the bows come and go, making their way between the tour boats and the pleasure craft. The town has any number of excellent Greek restaurants, many with outdoor patios where shish-a-bobs are grilled before the hungry patrons’ eyes. The old part of the town is quaint, with clapboard homes reminiscent of New England and Cape Cod. The outskirts, or newer part of Tarpon Springs, have all the rich retiree homes typical of the new Florida. It would be a good location for a super mall. “Frank, I have to make me a quick call here - I’ll be about five minutes, no longer,” Billy Bob said as he pulled up at a restaurant. “You can grab yourself a coffee at the donut shop across the street if you want,” he suggested. I wondered what was wrong with the coffee in the restaurant but did not ask. “No, that’s fine. I see a used book store on the other side of the street - I’ll do a quick browse take your time,” I said. “I have to settle up a couple of bets and I want to place a couple of dollars on this afternoon’s races. Are you interested in putting a few dollars down on a sure thing?” he asked as he got out of the car. “No thanks - you go ahead,” I said, dodging a big black Buick and heading for the bookstore. I knew Mary was looking for a good quality hardcover copy of John Master’s Fandango Rock for her collection and this might be the store. We had looked in every book shop in Toronto and not found a copy in good condition. Mary was always reading and collecting books. She had a number of complete works of authors she liked and kept a list of the books that she wanted posted on her tack board behind her desk. Whenever any of the staff were going out of town, they always checked Mary’s list in case they had time to browse through a used book store. As I crossed the street I glanced again at the restaurant where Billy Bob was just going through the door. I remembered now that this was the afternoon that the greyhounds were running and if it were not for my business, Billy Bob would be at the track. I did not see any signs offering off-track betting, but perhaps they did not advertise betting here in Tarpon Springs. Maybe we would be finished early and he could drop me off in time to catch a few of the races if he was that keen. It was going to be a hot day and I could easily spend a few hours around the pool. I was looking through the paperbacks for something light to read while keeping an eye on the street for Billy Bob. There was a good selection of John D. Macdonald books and I was trying to remember if I had read A Tan and Sandy Silence when Billy Bob came out of the restaurant. copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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Macdonald always used a colour in the titles of his Travis McGee stories and this one did not sound familiar to me. Titles like The Deep Blue Good-by or The Lonely Silver Rain stayed with me, but A Tan and Sandy Silence - I could not recall. As I paid the clerk the two dollars for the used book, I glanced out the window again. Billy Bob was talking to a police officer in a blue and white Tarpon Springs patrol car. I was sure that I saw Billy Bob pass something to the officer, but at that distance I could not be certain what it was. I paused inside the store until the patrol car passed, trying to see the officer, then walked out into the street. Billy Bob seemed just a little uneasy for the first few moments but then relaxed into his sales agent style when I made no comment about the police car. We drove back out to highway 19 and then south to Tarpon Avenue. Billy Bob had a listing of commercial property just to the east of 19, property that extended all the way to Tarpon Lake. Some developer had started a project on the property years ago and then given it up. There were paved entrances into the brush where streets were to run in some dreamt-of future, a typical Florida strategy to lure prospective buyers, and even a fire hydrant at each corner. Billy Bob had a copy of the old plan of subdivision, and even though the lush growth had reclaimed most of the area, I could still see how the developer had planned his project. “Frank, there’s twenty-two acres in this plot and I know that’s more than you need, but I think we could make an offer for just the land you want. I think this is a damn good location, and your people might want to make a bid on it.” “Yes, it has some potential,” I replied. “Let’s go right down to the water front and then take a walk through the property.” “Uh, okay, Frank, but I think we should be better dressed before we go walking in there.” “Don’t worry about my shoes. A little dirt won’t hurt them,” I said “It wasn’t the dirt I was thinking of, Frank. That brush is just the place for snakes. And we got us some damn mean snakes down here! I think we better have some high boots and some heavy pants before we go wandering through those thickets,” Billy Bob said. I could see by the look on his face that he was serious and agreed to put the walk off for another time. The waterfront was something I hadn’t considered, but I could see the potential of having a theme mall right on Lake Tarpon. We talked about the need for environmental studies, zoning and building restrictions on the waterfront. Billy Bob said he would check it out for me. He had a friend down to the county registry office that could help him. It might take a couple of days to get everything so we decided to meet here again on Tuesday morning. Billy Bob gave me the maps and subdivision plans so I could work out an area of property that I could make an offer on. I did not say anything to Billy Bob then, but I was thinking about Cosso’s idea of buying up all the property around the mall for a residential subdivision. It was just after noon hour so I suggested that Billy Bob could drive me back to Tampa and then he would have time to catch his races that afternoon. He said definitely not, that he had a special Greek lunch planned for me. Besides, he said, he had made his bets on the first four races when he was at the restaurant that morning. We drove back to Tarpon Springs and headed down to the sponge docks, dodging the tourists as they wandered from one side of the street to the other. Billy Bob found a parking space and we walked the two blocks to the El Grotto restaurant. “Hey, Stavros!” Billy Bob shouted a greeting to the man who was acting as maitre d’ and head cashier. “Billy Bob! Ti kavete?” the older man greeted, coming out from behind his small counter and copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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shaking Billy Bob’s hand. “I’m fine, Stavros. This here is my friend Frank Pilger, from Canada. We came down for some of your great food! Frank, this is Stavros Penelopolous.” I used one of the few Greek words I knew and said, “Kaleesprayah, Mr. Penelopolous,” hoping I had not said good night instead of good afternoon. Unfortunately, my pronunciation must have been close, for Stavros begin speaking Greek as he led us to a table near the window. I caught the word Kanada and realized by the puzzled look on Billy Bob’s face that he was not getting any of this so I broke into Stavros’ chatter as best I knew, “Parakalo, Mr. Penelopolous. I’m sorry, but I don’t speak any Greek.” “Eh? Oh,” he laughed, “when you greeted me I thought you spoke some Greek. I was saying that I have a cousin in Canada. We are going up there to visit him in Montreal this summer. He too, has a restaurant. George Kentos is his name. Do you know him?” “Sorry, I don’t think so,” I said. I know Canada is a small country as far as the population goes, but why do foreigners always think we know someone as if they were next door neighbours? Hell, Montreal is further from Toronto than the width of Greece! Stavros said he would have the cook make us something special and left without taking an order. Billy Bob said he always did that for him. We would get a glass of red wine, a Greek salad, either some lamb or chicken, depending on what the kitchen had that day, a little fish or calamari, some bread and dessert, followed by a cup of coffee. Billy Bob assured me that the food was always good, and true to his word, it was excellent. Stavros dropped by and had a coffee with us. I asked about the sponge fishing, whether it was still commercially viable or whether it was just for the tourists now. “Ah, yes, there are still some commercial fishermen. My son is one of the best. He makes a good living with the sponges. You see, what they sell to the tourists are just the seconds. The prime sponges bring a good price. There is a quota, of course, because the sponge beds have been worked for many years now. Most of the old spongers have turned to fishing, and indeed even Vic has a deep-sea boat that he charters three days a week. Are you interested in some deep-sea fishing, Frank?” “No, I’m not much of a deep-sea fisherman, but I am interested in the sponges. Maybe I’ll go on one of those tours and see what it’s like,” I said. “What! Never! Those tours are just for show. I will tell Vic to take you out. He will be happy to take you out on the Pellas.” Mr. Penelopolous thought for a moment. “Let’s see, yes, he will be going out on Monday. Give me your telephone number so we can call you.” I tried to back out of this but there was no way I could turn down this generous hospitality offered so freely. Back at my room at the Helnan an hour later, there were two messages for me. Call Melissa Boyd at the Dali Museum, and be at the dock in Tarpon Springs at 7.00 a.m. Monday morning. I called Melissa and promised to be at the art gallery at two p.m. on Friday. This week was flying by. Billy Bob had given me the map of the proposed subdivision and I planned to be out there early Friday morning to walk the property myself, snakes or no snakes. Saturday morning, Billy Bob had offered to take me to another site that he had lined up if I had no further interest in the property on Tarpon Lake, but I planned to take the day off. Sunday I had to move, but I wanted to get in some more golf so I would look for a motel on Saturday, something in the Clearwater area. I had a swim in the pool and then walked over to the University of Tampa and did the tour of the old hotel. It brought back a lot of memories of how Karen had been enthralled with those minarets copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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and the whole story of how Plante constructed and furnished this unique building. I walked all around the campus, enjoying the early flowers and birds, something that I really missed during the cold Canadian winters. By the time I got back to the hotel I was famished, so I just went across the street to the Hyatt, had their baby back ribs, Texas style, and a large dish of pralines ice cream for dessert. I read the first three chapters of the adventures of Travis McGee and fell into a sound sleep, not waking until the buzzer sounded at six a.m. I showered and then headed for the exercise room. Carol was there and we chatted as I bicycled, rowed and finally pushed some iron up over my head. She seemed like a nice woman and I was thinking of asking her out for dinner that night but chickened out at the last moment. I was getting closer, but still not ready for a relationship with another woman. I finally found a golf course that had a tee time open and headed out for the Silver Dollar Trap and Golf Club. I was so focussed on the golf that I never even gave a thought about the name of the club until I drove into the complex. The place was a shooting range! There were literally hundreds of people lined up across an open field shooting shotguns at clay pigeons. The noise was a continual roar, but to my surprise, I soon got used to it. The loads for skeet must be lighter than regular shells because the 12 gauge guns did not have that sharpness that I remembered from my police days. I went around the course with two fellows from Ohio who were down for a week of golf and shooting. I could understand a week of golf, but mixing it with shooting seemed rather odd to me. The course was in perfect condition and I had quite a competitive game with Joe and Hank. They insisted that I try a few rounds of shooting after the golf game. I missed the first few discs, but finally I managed to make some good shots. Firing a gun again felt good, something I had missed since I quit the force. There is a feeling of controlling power in your hands, the sudden release that sends a small shock wave through the body, a feeling that I suppose is primordial. Sexual, even. Friday morning was bright and warm, a west wind blowing in from the gulf, promising another beautiful day. I had a quick breakfast at the Riverside Cafe, packed a change of clothes for my afternoon meeting with Mr. Morse at the Dali, and headed across the Courtney one more time. I wanted to walk that property by myself to get a better feel for the land, see how the drainage was, and look at the trees. I wanted to try to picture what a subdivision might look like in this setting. Of course, trees and shrubs grow much faster here in the semi-tropics than they do back in Canada. The contractor could flatten everything and plant trees after construction and in a few years everything would look as if it had always been there. Our Canadian contractors work the same way but it takes forever to grow a forty-foot tree in our climate. Still, I had spotted a number of mature palm trees as we drove by the day before and I would like to be able to suggest saving them. I was wearing a pair of jeans, a windbreaker that I had brought in case the weather turned cool, and my old running shoes. I planned to take my three iron to use as a walking stick and to chase off any snakes that might be around. I thought Billy Bob had exaggerated the snake threat. I had just turned down the dead-end street that fronted the property when I saw a commotion up ahead. Three youths had jumped from an old Chevy convertible and had grabbed another youth. They were trying to drag him to their car but the smaller kid was putting up a good struggle. A woman came running from the house to help the kid. I stepped on the gas but before I was close enough to help, one of the youths had struck the woman and knocked her to the ground. The little kid renewed his struggle with more kicks and wild punches but the three bigger boys were getting the best of him. I pressed on the horn, hit the brakes and was out of the Jeep running, yelling at them to stop. The mother was getting back to her feet and I guess that the odds now being more even, the youths decided to exit. The copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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driver of the old Chevy gunned the car around, narrowly missing the Jeep. The three made a run for the car but I tackled the slower one, bringing him to the ground. I had him pinned with a half nelson when I realized that the mother was shouting at me. I looked up in time to see the driver pointing an old shotgun at me. I rolled, letting the youth free, just as the gun fired. The shot was high and the recoil was more than the driver expected. The youth scrambled for the car, the shotgun fell to the ground, and the car took off. “You okay?” I yelled at the two black people who were dusting themselves off. I ran towards the Jeep. I did not like being shot at. “Call the cops,” I said “They’s coming,” the lady said. I could hear the wail of a siren as I closed the door. The Jeep had lots of power, and although the youths had a head start, I was soon gaining on them. Two blocks ahead, a blue and white squad car skidded to a sideways stop, blocking the escape route for the youths. They spun the old Chevy Malibu around, hubcaps flying off as the tires screamed. They came right at me but the Jeep looks very big when you are in a small Chevy Malibu and the boys swerved around me. I cranked the steering wheel, slapped the transmission into reverse, gunned it and then whacked the lever into drive. The tires screamed, but the Jeep was now turned around and headed right after the Chevy. The boys braked and then drove off the street into the vacant property. They splashed through a mud hole, missed a big palm tree and disappeared into the brush. The squad car had taken up the chase and I stopped to show him where the boys had gone into the brush. The officer wheeled his big Ford off the paved street, hit the mud puddle, slid sideways and bent the car around the tree. He tried to free it but the heavy car just dug itself into the mud. The cop got out, stepping into the mud, cursing his luck. “Goddamnit! I thought I had them this time!” I was still upset at being shot at. I had the Jeep. Street tires or not, this thing was four-wheel drive. “Get in,” I yelled at the cop. “You sure? - that’s a new vehicle,” he asked as he grabbed his shotgun from the console stand. “Hell, yes - it’s a rental!” I yelled back. He grinned and jumped in. It was easy to follow the fresh tracks of the Chevy and we splashed through mud holes and shallow pools without a problem. The trail went up a grade to drier land and we had to stop to see which way the car had gone. We could hear the engine off to the left so I wheeled the Jeep around and bounced down that trail. I told the cop the kids had been armed but had dropped the shotgun. “They probably still have guns. Bad bunch - peddling drugs to kids. What’s your name?” “Frank,” I said. “Used to be a cop.” He looked a little relieved. “I’m Harry. Got a gun?” “No. Here on vacation. Canadian,” I said. “Oh. Okay,” He seemed less relieved. I could see him thinking about the international aspect, all the paperwork. The back end of the rust-red car slid around the corner ahead. We were following a subdivision road now, moving fast. There was a tree down across the road and the driver of the Chevy tried to go over it. The car hit the tree and hung up on it. When we came upon them, the three youths were just pushing the car off the tree. They jumped back into the car and the driver hit the accelerator. The car fish-tailed, bounced off a tree, then spun away, smoke spewing from the engine. “He’s had it. That engine’s going to blow!” Harry yelled I slowed the Jeep, crawled over the tree and took up the chase. Within a hundred yards we found the car. The youths were running towards an old shack. Harry fired a warning shot from his pistol and yelled, “Police! Stop!” The boys all made it to the shack and slammed the old door shut behind copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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them. “Did you have any backup?” I asked. “No. The call was monitored so somebody will be at the car by now. If they can’t get around my car, it will take some time before they can get a chopper to us. We’ll just have to hold them here until we get some reinforcements.” “You figure they have guns in there?” I asked. “I don’t know. Probably some handguns,” “If they think they have us out-gunned, they may try to make a break for it. Maybe we should try to bluff them out,” I said. He thought about it for a minute. “Yeah, you’re probably right. You want the pistol or the shotgun?” I looked at his Glock pistol and told him I had never used anything but the .38. “There are five rounds in the shotgun. First one is Double Ought, the rest are buckshot. For Christ sakes, don’t fire unless you have to. You work around to the right, I’ll go left. Twenty seconds and I’ll yell at them to surrender.” “You in the shack. Police out here. Come out with your hands up.” “Fuck you!” “You’ve got thirty seconds. Come on out!” “Or what? Come and get us, fuckin’ cop.” “Ten seconds!” Harry yelled. Nothing happened. I crawled over to where Harry was crouched down behind a stump. “Harry, you said this thing had Double-Ought? Why don’t I fire a round through that tin roof? If it doesn’t knock the old shack over, it will make such a racket, it’ll scare the shit out of them.” Double ought will go through an engine block at close range. Those six steel balls have a lot of punch, and I thought that roof looked fairly flimsy. “Okay, let’s try it. The longer we let them think, the sooner they are going to realize that they should make a break for it. If you can get over to that tree over there, you should get a clear shot. I’ll cover you.” I gave it my best John Wayne run, dodging and rolling to the tree. I stood up, glanced at Harry and then fired. The roar of the 12-gauge was thunderous in the woods but the crash of the tin roof must have deafened the boys in the shack. Whole sheets of tin flew off the roof. There were screams of fright from inside the flimsy shelter. “Okay, boys, the next round goes through the sides of that shack. Those walls won’t stop much. Ten seconds. Come out with your hands over your heads! Fire on the count of one, Frank! Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven, Six . . .” “Wait! We give up! We’re coming out!” “Okay, one at a time. Come out and then get down on the ground when I tell you.” Harry moved out into the open, his gun held out in front of himself, standing sideways. I racked another load into the shotgun and moved around to cover from the side. The first three came out as instructed, but the fourth boy decided to be a hero. He came out running, firing a small pistol towards Harry. Harry dropped to one knee and the Glock spat out three shots faster than I’d ever heard a pistol fire before. The boy spun and fell to the ground, his left leg blown out from under him. He still held the little pearl-handled pistol and as I ran up to cover him he thought for one fleeting moment about firing. But the barrel of a 12-gauge shotgun a foot from your copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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face is pretty intimidating. I wanted to invite him to ‘Go ahead, make my day,’ but he dropped the gun and started to pay attention to his leg. We could hear the straining motors of vehicles making their way towards us and by the time the two muddy patrol cars arrived, we had the boys tied with the laces from my golf shoes. A tourniquet was applied to the badly bleeding leg of the shooter and another police officer called in a chopper to lift that boy out. I think it was more a consideration of keeping blood off the upholstery than concern for the criminal, but the chopper added to the excitement. Harry rode with me back out to the street. A TV crew was waiting for us when we splashed through the final pool of water and back onto dry pavement. I was fittingly modest, saying that I only did what anyone else would do, but somehow the TV interviewer managed to make me sound like some sort of unusual public hero. I knew I would have to come back for a court case and I only now was thinking of all the lost time this little episode might cost me. We finally broke away from the camera crew and Harry gave me directions on how to find the Tarpon Springs police headquarters. I would have to go down there to file the report. He was sure the Chief would like to meet me. It would be better for Harry to have the Chief feel good about his officer giving a police weapon to a civilian, and my being a former cop would help. This was not the time to tell Harry that I was only a Forensic accountant for the OPP and had hardly served on the street. I parked the Jeep in the visitor’s parking space that was reserved for people paying fines and went into the headquarters. Harry had radioed ahead and the officer at the desk was expecting me. He pointed at the Chief’s office and told me go ahead in. I rapped on the door and then entered, surprised to recognize the Chief. The Chief of Police was the officer I had seen taking something from Billy Bob Boyd. He did not recognize me and I certainly was not going to let on that I knew anything about him. Especially that he may have been taking money from a compulsive gambler.

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Chapter 4 By the time Harry and I finished the paperwork on the arrests, it was noon hour, so I changed into my fresh grey slacks and light blue sports shirt at police headquarters. I had planned on a light lunch of salad and a bagel, but after the morning’s excitement, I was now looking forward to a more substantial meal. Lenny’s always served all you could eat in the years that Karen and I had visited Clearwater, and now as I drove south on 19, I was trying to decide between a Reuben and a Monte Cristo. Lenny’s is unique. It is one thing to build up a faithful clientele in a local neighbourhood, but Lenny’s is international. Tourists who only spend a week or two in Florida come to Lenny’s and fit in as if they have been there every day for the past year. The staff works like demons from six in the morning until three in the afternoon, seven days a week. There is always a table server you recognize from the last time you were there and you get the feeling that they remember you. Part of that feeling is the expectation that you know how to read their menu and most likely you know what you want before you sit. If you’re an obvious first-timer, they’ll fill your coffee cup and announce the special. If you haven’t made up your mind by the time you finish half a cup of coffee, the server will stand over you as if to say “com’on, honey, I haven’t got all day” and make a suggestion for you. Your order is then passed to the two cooks who yell good-natured abuses at each other, the servers, the manager, the owner of the Phillies or anyone who may be listening. The restaurant has high shelves all around the building filled with a collection of ball hats from every sports team, family reunions and mechanical shops you can imagine. Almost every National and American League baseball team has at least one hat on the shelf. Although I must admit, there are not many Toronto Blue Jay hats on the shelf even though the Jays won two World Series, back to back. Lenny’s is strictly a Phillies’ place. By the time you have a chance to figure out the mechanical spider lowering itself in the far corner, and sneak a glance at what is on your neighbour’s plate, your meal arrives. There is lots of good food, friendly atmosphere and very reasonable prices. I announced “one for the counter” to the cashier and seated myself along the counter that will accommodate a dozen people who like to avoid the line ups for a table. Karen and I always took the counter and even though we showed up there only a couple of weeks a year, the servers treated us as regulars. I ate my smoked meat on caraway rye sandwich that came with fries, kosher dills and coleslaw while talking to a young couple from Minnesota. It was their second day in Florida and I was glad to recommend some of the tourist attractions that I thought might appeal to them. They had placed me as a ‘northerner’ from my accent but were surprised when I said I was from Ontario. Thought I sounded like someone from Wisconsin, they said. I wished them a happy holiday and headed down highway 19 to the Dali Museum in St. Petes. Melissa Boyd met me in the foyer of the gallery and said that Mr. Morse could not come at the last moment but that his personal assistant, a Mr. Marshall, would talk to me. Melissa said that Marshall had been with the Morses for years and remembered Karen from her visits to Cleveland and here at St. Petersburg. She was certain that Marshall could answer any questions I might have. Mr. Marshall had just arrived and would meet me in the private room at the back of the museum. Melissa was dressed in a quiet, plain, dark blue and red summer dress that gave the impression of business attire, but was very attractive. She touched me on the arm to guide me around the ticket takers and I felt a chill run through my body. I am one of those people who do not like to be touched by strangers, but this touch felt comfortable as well as electrifying. As I followed her through the passageways, I realized how beautiful this woman really was. She walked with an athletic stride but still had that copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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sexy hip movement unique to women. I suddenly realized that Billy Bob would not be impressed with these lecherous thoughts I was having of his wife. Mr. Marshall was examining the placement of a sculpture as we entered the small private viewing room in the back of the building. He looked all of some seventy-plus years, yet had that sparkle about him that said he was still enjoying life. “Mr. Marshall, I’d like you to meet Frank Pilger, Karen’s husband,” Melissa said. “Frank, it is good to meet you at last. Mr. Morse sends his regrets but he was not feeling well after lunch and asked me to meet you. We were so sorry to hear about Karen’s accident. She was a very lovely person. Hell of an art critic, too! You must miss her.” “Thank you, sir. Yes, I do miss Karen a lot. It’s nice to be visiting your museum again - it brings back a lot of memories every time I see a Dali painting.” “So you’ve seen our little gallery before, have you?” “Yes, we never missed it when we came to Florida. Have you acquired any new works lately?” I asked. “No paintings, but this sculpture just arrived last week. Here, come have a look at it.” “Did Dali do much of this kind of work?” I asked as I tried to figure out just what it was that I was looking at. “Not a lot of sculptures,” Melissa said. “He much preferred his painting although he did wood carving and glass blowing as well as working with marble. I think he succeeded quite well with most everything he tried.” “Except his writing,” Mr. Marshall laughed. “He wrote much like he spoke and his material was not organized well enough to make good reading! Salvador refused to be restricted by any rules and rules of grammar were especially his targets when he wrote.” “That and the fact that he would switch from one language to another in mid sentence makes reading his works very trying for a mere mortal,” Melissa added. “You say ‘mere mortal’ implying that perhaps Dali was above the common milieu?” I asked her. “I never met the man, but Mr. Morse knew him personally. Did you know him, Mr. Marshall?” “Yes, I met Salvador a number of times and I must say he was different. And please, Melissa, it’s Albert, not Mister! Whether he was a genius or not, I couldn’t really say. Certainly he was a master artist, the greatest of our age, in my opinion. You’ll get arguments over that, but I think the Morses have made a very good defence of his abilities with their museum. Did you and your wife ever touch on this subject?” the old man asked me. “Yes, we certainly did talk about Dali. I think Karen agreed with you that he was a master but whether she thought him the best, I was never sure. Karen said that Dali was probably the most important artist of the present age because he went on from where the impressionists stopped, setting the stage for the modernists. She studied him more than any other artist when she did her thesis, that’s for certain.” “She knew her stuff. Saved the gallery a bundle of money when she spotted those fakes, I’ll tell you. Money and embarrassment.” “You said ‘fakes’. I thought there was only one,” I said. “No, there were several others out there. Four paintings, I believe. Two had been purchased by collectors before she found the fake we were going to buy. Another was under consideration by a large gallery in New York and the fourth was the one that we and a London Museum were looking at. After her sudden death, I notified the two galleries and they cancelled their purchase options. One copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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of the collectors got his money back, but the other still has the painting, claiming it is authentic, although I know he doesn’t have it on display anymore. Karen’s work saved the two galleries over a million and a half dollars. I heard the one collector got back over a quarter of a million from the dealer. The cost bankrupted that dealer. Served him right, I say.” I must have turned a little pale when I heard how much money was involved and perhaps Melissa noticed it. She changed the subject and drew our attention to some more of the collection that was not yet on public display. We had a cup of tea with Albert and left him shortly after three. Albert filled me in on some of his employer’s work and what he had done with the Dali museum. From what Albert said and what I already knew, Morse was certainly an interesting man and I could see why Karen had liked him. “I have to get back to work at four o’clock, Frank. I’d be happy to have you in my first tour if you don’t have to leave right away,” Melissa said as we walked back through the busy gallery. “Sure,” I said, “I’d like that. It’s been a few years since I did the tour, and I get the feeling that you know the art better than some of the docents I have seen in the past.” She laughed, “Don’t try to pressure me. You’ll get the same professional tour as the rest!” She paused and looked serious. “Frank, you seemed upset in there for a moment. Is something wrong?” I didn’t know if I wanted to tell Melissa about my private beliefs on Karen’s death or not. This was something you don’t just blurt out to a stranger, but then, somehow, Melissa did not seem like a stranger to me at that moment. And I needed to tell someone. “Melissa, I have never believed that Karen’s death was an accident. Sometime, when we have an hour or so, I’ll tell you why. Until now there was never a clear motive for murder. I think I just found one.” “Murdered! And you think it has something to do with Karen declaring those paintings as forgeries?” “Yes. I had thought that there was just the one painting that Morse didn’t purchase, and that seemed like not enough of a motive to risk murder. But now I can see why that art dealer may have wanted revenge. I think I must review all my evidence in this new light when I get back home.” “Well, I hope you don’t get in too deep. Maybe there’s more to the attempted sales than we know. If you want, I can get more details from Mr. Marshall on the paintings that were turned down by the galleries.” “Could you? I’d appreciate that, Melissa. I’m trying to get my life back onto an even keel and until I can rid myself of these questions of Karen’s death, I don’t think I’ll make much progress.” I walked along with the group that Melissa was leading, half listening, but enjoying again the collection of miniatures. Not enough attention was paid to the miniatures, according to Karen. Their quality is enhanced by a study of the larger works and indeed, the masterworks added still another dimension to these earlier paintings. Melissa was just getting into the Dalinian Continuity when some young fellow asked her about the ants. “Ah, yes, The Ants,” Melissa said. “You will notice that the Dali ants show up in quite a number of the paintings. This, too, is part of the Dalinian Continuity. Some critics have claimed that the ants are symbols of destruction and others have said that the ants are only another Dali convention of showing the survival of insects as opposed to the decay of man. For me, the ants are part of the paranoia that is Dali. When he was a boy, he found an injured bat and fell in love with this poor creature. He tried to nurse it back to health, but then one day when he went to check on his new friend, he found the bat was being eaten alive by ants. This had a traumatic effect on the boy and the copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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ants haunted him for the rest of his life. I think that eventually he came to see the ants as just another force in the universe, and he used them to show his thoughts as he painted.” “So, you are saying that the ants are always there for a reason?” “Well, yes. With Dali, it is particularity hard to get to the source of his thoughts. His so-called paranoia and his hallucinatory images often leave us confounded as to what he was thinking as he painted. And this brings us back to the Dalinian Continuity. One of the definitions modern critics use as a criterion, is that there must be some continuity of style for an artist to be called a master. These people deny that the ants are part of a continuity, saying that they are only a trademark of the painter. We then have to look at other ‘trademarks’ that Dali used. The grasshoppers that appear in a number of paintings fall more into the ‘trademark’ category than the ants, I think. Dali had a phobia of grasshoppers whereas the ants, although at one time they may have been repulsive to him, they did intrigue him. That, to me, makes a considerable difference when the ants are used in a painting.” Melissa went on the talk about the land formation of Port Lligat, Dali’s home, which appears in many of his paintings, how he and his father appear as miniature observers in many paintings and how Dali used references to his heroes in his work. I had heard these arguments before so I skipped ahead and found a place to sit in front of the Venus that turns into the Hallucinogenic Matador and once more lost myself in the magical images of this great painting. The guided tour arrived and no sooner had Melissa started to describe the Matador when the fellow who asked about the ants interrupted with another question. From the expressions on the faces of the others in the tour, this guy was becoming a pain in the neck. Melissa showed no sign of impatience but she knew how the rest of the group were tiring of this fellow who was obviously trying to impress his friends by confronting the docent with his great knowledge of Dali. “Ma’am,” the fellow asked with the confidence of knowing the answer before asking the question, “in the case of this painting, and its obvious reference to hallucinogenic effects, how does Dali show the use of the ‘paranoiac-critical’ method? I am of course, referring to Breton’s comment about the separation of the objective and subjective?” He had a slight smirk on his face that slowly disappeared when he listened to Melissa’s reply. “You must remember what Dali said about this if you have studied Breton’s treatise on Surrealism. I quote Dali for the benefit of some of our visitors who are experiencing Salvador for the first time. Dali said ‘Paranoiac-critical activity organizes and objectivizes in an exclusivist manner the limitless and unknown possibilities of the systematic association of subjective and objective phenomena.’ So you can see how this is consistent with Dali’s thoughts on Surrealism and the advances he made from that genre to the paranoiac-critical, can you not?” She paused for effect and then said, “I would like to discuss this in much more depth, however there is another tour starting in a few moments and we must finish with the Matador.” The young show-off was still trying to figure out how to organize limitless and unknowns in either a subjective or objective manner as Melissa switched back to the friendly jargon of the docent speaking to the everyday folk who were there just to see and enjoy the paintings. “Frank, I’m finished work in half an hour. Would you like to have dinner? Billy Bob goes to the races every Friday night so I’m on my own tonight - unless you have other plans,” Melissa asked after the last of her tour group left. “Well, sure. I’m not dressed for somewhere fancy. Do you have any special restaurant in mind?” I had some mixed feelings about dining alone with Billy Bob’s wife. “There’s a little family restaurant not far from our house, just off number 19 - Durango Steak copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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House - right next to the Best Western. Do you know it?” “Yes - I was thinking of getting a room at the Best Western for next week. Why don’t I go on ahead and I’ll see if I can reserve a room. I’ll wait for you outside the restaurant.” It was lucky that I got to the motel that day because I was able to book the last court-side room that was available for the next week. They had rooms on the outside but there was a lot more traffic noise in those rooms. The small courtyard that encloses the pool, shuffle board court, gazebo and many large palm trees, was by far the best room location. The pool parties are over by ten p.m. and no one is in the pool before nine the next morning, so I knew from experience that these rooms were just what I needed for a restful week. The seventy dollars per day was a lot more than I was paying at the Helnan but I had a feeling that I had already found the property for Cosso and our commission could stand the expense. Melissa and I had a very pleasant time over dinner that evening. We talked a little Dali but tried to avoid that as we both knew that it meant bringing Karen into the conversation. There was no way I wanted to get into the critical-paranoiac discussion tonight. Karen had tried to school me on that and I never did really understand what Dali was thinking of when he used the term. As close as I could get was accepting that Dali thought it his duty to think, paint, and sometimes act, like a madman as long as he was convinced that he was not mad. I did tell Melissa all about Karen’s death and I could see that she believed my theory. We also talked a little about Billy Bob, and as I suspected, there was a gambling problem. They had made an arrangement where Billy Bob could go out to sporting events three nights a week, but he had to account for his money. The mortgage and maintenance costs of the house were his responsibility and Melissa made certain that he put money aside for that. Billy Bob was moderately successful with his gambling and had made a couple of lucky scores over the years. But on the whole, Melissa thought he was slowly losing money. Billy Bob loved her and treated her well and they seemed happy together. We parted after dinner with me promising that I would golf with Billy Bob and Melissa the next Wednesday. Back at the Helnan, I read Travis McGee until my eyes blurred and finally put the book down around midnight. I slipped off to sleep thinking about Melissa, thoughts turning to dreams, to fantasy, to sexual arousal and sudden awareness to the cold damp reality of a dying erection. The green eye of the digital display on the TV clock said 12:45. I lay awake then thinking about life and its winding trail, of where I had been, where I was going. I was not the man to steal another’s wife, but somehow I hoped that Melissa and I had a future together. I switched on the television, hoping for distraction by some mindless images on the silver-blue screen. It was nine thirty on Saturday morning before I made my way down to the lobby for the continental breakfast. I had watched an old movie, Funeral in Berlin, and it was almost three a.m. before I finally dozed off. The sun was shining its usual Florida brightness but there was a threat of showers and thunderstorms for later in the day, according to CNN. I was thinking about a game of golf but I had not booked a tee time and Saturday was a busy day to wait for a walk-on at any of the local courses. I had just taken a bite out of my second Danish when the cabin crew from Transat came in for their breakfast. Nancy spotted me immediately and they asked if they might share my table. “When did you get in?” I asked after they had seated themselves around the little glass table. “Late last night - the flight was delayed - big snow storm in Winnipeg yesterday,” Nancy said. “I thought you would have moved by now. Didn’t you say you were spending your second week in Clearwater?” she asked me. copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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“This is my last day here. I’m off to the Best Western in Clearwater tomorrow.” I wondered why I volunteered the name of the hotel to her. Was I feeling that lonely that I was hoping Nancy and her friends would want to visit me at my new digs? “What are you doing today, Frank?” Nancy asked. “I have nothing planned. I’ve had quite a busy week and I was thinking of just relaxing around the pool, maybe take a walk or something. How about you people, when are you due out?” “We don’t fly out until Monday morning at nine, so we have the whole weekend to ourselves.” “You mean you have the whole weekend here? How come the airline doesn’t get you back to Toronto for the weekend?” I asked. It seemed odd that a company couldn’t get their flight crew back home on such a short haul. “We are on the Edmonton - Calgary - Winnipeg - Tampa run. It’s a weekly tour that runs only for two months so the company rotates the flight crews to cover the holdover. We get to spend two weekends in Florida as a sort of bonus. The single people think it’s great but most of the married crew don’t like the arrangement,” Nancy said. “Well, I have the Jeep, if you want to go anywhere. I’d be glad of your company.” “I promised to go shopping with Candace and Mike,” Kelsey the young blonde said by way of excusing herself from riding around in my Jeep. “I don’t have anything to do, Frank,” Nancy said, “So I would be happy to go touring with you. Have you been to Ybor City lately?” “You know, I’ve never been there. I’ve read about it in the brochures but never really took the time to visit. Is it worth the trip?” “Sure. In the last couple of years they have really changed the place. Remember how Yorkville used to be before it became yuppy-ville? Well, Ybor City is still like that. There are some trendy places, but you can still watch them hand-rolling cigars, there are plenty of artists around, and lots of sidewalk musicians on the weekends.” “That sounds quite interesting. Are you women sure you wouldn’t like to do your shopping up there? There’s lots of room in the Jeep for Mike too,” I said, hoping that they would say no, which they did. Nancy said she needed a few minutes to change into some walking shorts and some sturdier shoes so we arranged to meet in the lobby in half an hour. I went across the street to buy a roll of film for my camera and another bottle of suntan lotion before going to my room to change into my walking shorts. As I opened the door, the telephone rang. When I answered, it was Harry Besner, the cop from Tarpon Springs. “Hi Frank. I’m sorry to bother you. I didn’t get you out of bed, did I?” he asked. “No, I’ve been up for hours. I was just going out for the day.” “Listen, I won’t keep you. Could you drop into the office sometime Monday? There are a couple of things to clean up on the arrest report and the Chief wants to talk to you.” “Is there a problem?” I asked. “Uh, no.” There was just enough hesitation to tell me that there was something up. “The Chief wants to make sure we have everything covered-off so we don’t have to call you down for any court appearances. He’s worried about the travel costs, I think. There is a bail hearing on Tuesday - maybe he wants you there - I don’t know.” “Harry, is there something you’re not telling me?” I asked. “Well, listen, you just tell it like it was, except maybe you had better say that I commandeered copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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the Jeep, not that you volunteered it. And you do remember me deputizing you, don’t you?” “Right. Deputy Frank, that’s me,” I laughed. “The Chief is checking on whether we needed a search warrant to enter that shack, but I think we’re okay since it is not a real building. It shouldn’t be a problem. Do you have your passport with you?” “Sure.” “Better bring that too, just as another piece of identification. What time can you be there?” he asked. “Well, I’m going sponge fishing at seven, and we won’t be back until after lunch. How about three o’clock?” “Sure, that’s fine. I book off at three thirty and I’ll buy you a beer. Say, I thought those tour boats didn’t start until about ten in the morning,” he added. “Oh, this is not a tour. Billy Bob arranged for me to go out with Victor Penelopolous. You know him?” “Hell, yes. Vic and I go to Lions, do a little sport fishing once in a while. You’ll have a good day with him. Well, see you Monday about three.” Nancy was waiting for me when I came downstairs. She was wearing a pair of white shorts that really displayed her long, well-shaped legs. She wore a red and white blouse, that while not too tight, did give a more than subtle hint of her firm breasts. She had let her hair down and I had no idea that she had such long hair. She had the de rigueur sun glasses perched on her head, a pouch purse around her waist, a pair of colourful Nike walking shoes, a camera and a straw hat, obviously ready for a serious day of walking at Ybor City. I probably looked a little stodgy in my walking shorts, plain, white short-sleeved shirt and my leather Rockport walkers. I would have to wear my straw golf hat with its red and black band to liven up my appearance, I thought as we drove off. Ybor city was everything the brochures said it would be. There were a couple of artisans shops that carried some really excellent works and Nancy and I each found a small vase that we liked. Nancy had a good eye for the graceful form of the ceramics and blown glass and we almost always agreed on the colours. We examined the different pieces and talked as if we were accustomed to this selection of art on an everyday basis. One clerk asked if we were buyers from up north, saying that the store was looking for an outlet in the New England area. Nancy said that we were just down on a conference to study the ways of promoting works from cottage industries, not buying, however we would not mind having the name and address of a couple of the artists whose work we thought was very marketable. I fell into the swing of this and started stringing the clerk along, saying I was actually more into the fabric works than the painting and glass, and asked if she knew of any shops that might have a good display. The young lady was quick to give me the name of a shop just down the mall, where her woman friend worked. We had just calmed our conspiratory giggles after leaving the shop when we came to the workshop where an old man was hand-rolling cigars. We watched in amazement as the cigars took shape and I thought back to the days when I used to smoke the occasional cigar. It was something I had enjoyed on special evenings after a good meal, not that I ever smoked more than one or two a month, but there is something satisfying about smoking a good cigar. Cigars gave me a sense of wellbeing. Good, expensive cigars, that is. A cheap cigar is probably the worse thing you could smoke. Cheap cigars are like cheap scotch whiskey - worse than none at all. I wanted to ask the old man some questions about the hand-rolling, but he said, in very broken English, that he did not speak copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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Angleesh. He pointed to the clerk inside the glass office next door. This office was actually a refrigerated sales room, full of magical smells. The humidity was controlled to keep the many cedar boxes of cigars fresh and just moist enough so they would not dry and lose their flavour. There were jars and jars of pipe tobaccos, each with its own unique aroma. An old gentleman was sitting behind the counter, assembling cedar boxes, paying little attention to us. I went around sniffing each jar, the pleasure obviously showing on my face. “Frank, why don’t you buy some fresh tobacco? That old stuff you were smoking was just terrible! I think I could stand it if you smoked one of these tobaccos,” Nancy said. It took me a second to catch on. “Well, you told me to stop smoking so I threw out my pipes! There’s no sense buying tobacco if I don’t have my pipe,” I said, feigning a hurt look for the clerk. “I’ll let you smoke, if you just stay away from that horrible Irish plug stuff. It wasn’t the smoke that bothered me, it was the stale smell of that black tobacco that upset me.” “You mean I could really get myself another pipe or two,” I asked, beaming like a small kid who was just promised a puppy. “Well, only one or two. I don’t need six or seven smelly old pipes lying around the house.” Nancy had walked over to the counter and was examining the rather attractive pipes that they had on display. I had smoked a pipe when I was in college, trying to impress the young women by being more mature. It was just another ploy that never did help me in the never-ending quest for sex. “I like this one, Frank. What do you think?” she said holding up a hooked black pipe that did look quite nice as pipes go. “Well, I don’t know,” I stalled. I wouldn’t have known a good wooden pipe from a corn cob pipe. “This is an Irish briar, isn’t it,” she asked the clerk. He finished tapping in another small nail before he put down his tack hammer and answered. “Yes ma’am. We only have a few of those left. Every year the owner buys fifty of those special briar root pipes. The Gallagher Company selects them and offers them to their best customers. We can order special matched pipes from them but it takes about six months for delivery.” “Matched pipes,” I said. “That’s interesting.” I left it there not knowing what to add. Nancy came to the rescue. “Yes, I remember my Dad having a pair of Irish briar pipes. They were hand-carved from the same piece of root - you could see the same wood grain running through the two pipes. The wood was a light rose colour, if I remember correctly.” “Ah, the Rose Briar! Those are the best. He must have really enjoyed those pipes,” the clerk said. “I have one at home that is my favourite. If you keep good care of a pipe it will last for many, many years.” The old boy obviously knew and loved his pipes. “Frank used to smoke his pipe once in a while, but I think it was his tobacco that smelled so awful! I don’t remember my Dad’s pipes smelling that bad,” Nancy said. “Yes, a tobacco that burns too slowly will carbon-up a pipe in no time. The low-burning heat of a poorly cured tobacco will make more tar, too, and that’s what smells. Of course, it’s easier to keep a pipe clean-smelling now that they have filters. I never used a filter before, but lately, all the better pipes have them. I guess we are more conscious of our health and the smells we inflict on the nonsmoking public. Maybe your husband would like to try that briar. A good heavy pipe like that really adds to the enjoyment of a smoke.” “Sure, honey, why don’t you try one? I know how much you used to enjoy your pipe.” She handed me the pipe. copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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I was surprised at the weight of the pipe. Whether it was the warmth from Nancy’s hand or the richly carved wood itself, I don’t know, but that pipe really did feel good in my hand. “Yes, this is a nice pipe. But I don’t know . . .” “As I said, a pipe of that quality will be a friend for many years, sir. I’m certain you would enjoy it. Why don’t you pick out some tobacco to go with it? There is a leather pouch that comes with all these pipes - fill it up with your choice of tobacco with my compliments.” “Go ahead, honey. It’ll be your birthday present from me,” Nancy said, and before I could recover my wits, she had her Visa card out and had bought me a pipe! When we were safely away from the smells of the tobacco shop, I said, “Nancy, what in heaven’s name got into you? I haven’t smoked a pipe for fifteen years! You can’t just buy me a pipe - I - I, thought we were just playing another game with that clerk . . . “ I stammered, flabbergasted by the whole experience. “Frank, I saw the look in your eye when you had that pipe in your hand. You were wondering just what it would be like to have a good pipe like that, weren’t you?” “Yes, but. But I’ll probably never smoke it.” “Sure you will. Maybe not often, but when you do, you’ll remember this day - and me.” She gave a quick little peck on the cheek and was off into another shop, leaving me standing there on a street in Ybor City, holding a genuine briar pipe, some tobacco that smelled of heather and the highlands, and thoroughly confused by the warmth on my cheek where Nancy’s lips had touched me. We ate lunch at the Neptune, a restaurant that advertised Greek fare but was more of a Montrealstyle deli. Then we visited the famous Ybor bakery and finally ended our day of touristing by going through the tobacco row house museum. There were two other couples in our small entourage, both in their fifties or early sixties and it was interesting to hear them compare the lifestyle of the tobacco workers with their own childhood days in Buffalo and Pittsburgh. The days of the ice box and home delivery were not that far from my own younger days, but compared to today’s modern conveniences, they seemed from another age. In the day of shoe-fitted roller blades it is hard to realize that when I was a child we fastened roller skates to our shoes with a key that we carried on a string around our neck so we wouldn’t lose it. The old homemade scooter - a board with discarded roller skates fastened to it - was just the predecessor of the skate board. I vaguely remembered some of the things the others were talking about, but Nancy, being at least ten years younger, was amazed by it all. We headed back to the Helnan about three o’clock, had a long swim and relaxed in the sun until the clouds started building in the west and the sun was gone for the day. We decided to eat at Shells that night and waited for Candace and Kelsey until six, but when they did not show, we went alone. It was spitting rain by the time we returned at nine, stuffed with shrimp, lobster and red snapper. The lightning was flashing in the west so we sat on the balcony, sipping on some Southern Comfort that Nancy had brought up from her room. When the storm broke over us, we went inside. It had been almost three years since I slept with a woman and in a couple of hours, I made up for a lot of lost time. My hormones had been working overtime since ten that morning and they were not about to close down shop now. The flashing lightning over Tampa Bay and the drum-rolling thunder seemed to echo the passion we shared. I dozed off for a while then awoke when Nancy moved, snuggling up to me. We had sex again, this time at a more relaxed pace and I felt again the euphoria of satisfaction that I had been missing these last years. The storm outside had passed, and with it, a phase of my life. copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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Afterwards, as we sat on the balcony and I smoked my new pipe, we talked until the sun brightened the eastern sky behind us. I wanted to know more about Nancy, trying to understand what had brought us together in what I was afraid were too casual circumstances. I wanted to know if I was just a typical one-night stand, something a travelled person like Nancy would use and throw away. I had felt sure that afternoon when she bought me the pipe that there was more than that to our budding relationship. As we talked, I felt more and more at ease with her, bringing her into that little space we all build around ourselves for protection. Nancy said that she had known we were meant for each other the moment she saw me at the pool that day a week ago. I guess that she believed in fate or karma. Something had drawn us together and I was not about to question it now. She told me about her failed marriage, how her husband had started wandering after just a few months of what she thought was wedded bliss. He thought he could just keep on with the free life of a bachelor and wanted Melissa to feel free to do as she wanted as well. This was not her idea of a marriage and she still could not to this day understand how she did not see this in him before. When he spent the night of Marisa’s birth in bed with another woman, that was too much. He did not contest the divorce and did not even want visiting rights to see his daughter. Nancy had no idea where her former husband was or if he was even alive. Nancy had met one other man since the divorce but that had not worked out either. She said I was her third try and somehow she felt really good about me. We hung the do not disturb sign on the door and fell into a deep and restful sleep. I moved over to the Best Western that afternoon and Nancy came with me for a swim. We tested the bed, found it satisfactory and then had dinner at the Newport Inn, a block down the street. I drove Nancy back to Tampa and we said goodbye until I got back to Toronto the next week. I definitely wanted to see much more of this remarkable woman who had walked into my life at just the right moment. I lay on my back in the dark thinking about Nancy and Melissa and how, after three lonely years, two gorgeous women had come into my life the same week. Finally, I switched on the light and picked up my book. I set my alarm for five thirty so I would not be late for my sponge fishing trip and fell into a deep and restful sleep without finishing my Travis McGee story.

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Chapter 5 The buzzing alarm awoke me promptly at five-thirty but it took me a few minutes to get my bearings in the new room. I had just got used to the Helnan and its peculiar night time noises when I moved over here to the Best Western. I guess it is the old primordial instincts that keep me awake in a strange room for the first night or two, listening for threatening sounds. Philip says he snores for the same reason - to keep the sabre-toothed tigers away at night. And I believe him after having to share a room with him on a recent trip to the Caymans. I opened the drapes overlooking the courtyard and did my Tai Chi stretches in the semi darkness of my room. The sky was clear through the breaks in the usual Florida morning scud that forms over the water at night, and in the east, Aurora was just spilling some pink on the horizon in preparation for sunrise. Two mourning doves were making mating noises as they walked along the roof of the opposite side of the motel. Some people find their coo - cooing annoying so early in the day, but I look at it as an urban replacement for Chanticleer. I showered and dressed in my jeans and bluestripped sports shirt, pulling on my golf sweater to keep off the morning chill. I would need my nylon jacket too, but that was in my golf bag in the Jeep. I took along a change of clothes just in case the sponge fishing turned out to be a wet experience. Lenny’s was just opening when I arrived shortly after six. The place was already half-full but it took only a moment to get a coffee with the Danish basket to go. The dockyard was a hive of activity at this hour as crews prepared their boats for the day ahead. The early morning sea mist was lifting into wisps that vaporized into the pale blue sky. An hour of sunshine and the day would be perfectly clear. The tour boats were being scrubbed down, windows washed and brass polished. A fishing boat was docking after spending a night out in the gulf. The gulls and welfare pelicans were following this boat, looking for scraps when the catch was sorted and prepared for sale at the fish market that day. Everyone was in a cheerful mood, calling out to friends in a mixture of English and Greek. This was the heart of the Tarpon Springs community, and even a stranger like me could feel the warmth and comradeship of the docks. I found the Penelopolous’ dock without trouble and was greeted aboard the blue and white Pellas by Victor. He was a few years younger than I, a little shorter but stocky, in the typical Mediterranean build. He had the seafarer’s lines around his eyes from years of working in the bright sunshine and his hands were as tough as leather. Vic wore jeans and a denim jacket and only the captain’s hat made him any different from the two other men working around the decks. “Frank, it’s good to have you aboard. Have you ever worked on a boat before?” “Well, I’ve sailed a few times with friends, but I’ve never been on a power boat this big,” I replied. The Pellas looked to be about 25 metres and was a steel-hulled boat. She had a high bow to take the ocean waves and a low, wooden afterdeck that could handle cargo. She had one working boom with its own small motor for the cables. The big twin diesel engines were rumbling away down in the bowels of the ship and the bilge pumps were spitting out a small but steady stream of dirty water on the port side. She had radar, a global positioning system, a couple of radios and several big lights for night work. The Pellas looked very much a hardworking vessel. “Good, then you can earn your ride today. One of my men didn’t show this morning so you can help John up front. The man on the stern is Sandy.” With that, the captain handed me a pair of leather gloves and turned to the voice pipe that connected him to the engine room. “Jason, are we ready down there?” copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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“Aye, Vic. Let’s go.” “Cast off the bow. Cast off the stern,” Vic shouted. Two short toots on the horn to warn the dock-side neighbours that he was backing and the Pellas pulled away from the dock. It was exactly seven o’clock. John and I stowed the mooring ropes, checked the hatch covers and then he told me I could go the cabin and have a coffee. There would be nothing more for me to do until we reached the sponge grounds. He was going to check the air tanks and the scuba gear on the after deck. The cabin of the Pellas was about fifteen feet above the water line, giving a perfect commanding view for the captain. The river was quiet at this time of day and we saw only two other boats, both shrimpers, coming in from the night fish. Vic talked to both boats on the CB radio, asking how the fishing had been and if there was anything happening out in the gulf. Both boats had had a good night. One captain said the Coast Guard cutter was out running around all night but they did not see what was causing the commotion. “A lot of drug-running around here,” Vic told me. “They usually run at night without lights and the shrimpers don’t like them. The shrimp boats work with lots of lights on, but those damn cigarette boats make such a racket that the shrimp get nervous. Then, when the Coast Guard is out chasing the drug boats, the night traffic can get really busy. The drug runners use the shrimp boats as a radar screen and then make a break for it. They can outrun the coast guard boats but if the navy boys get a good radar fix on them, they can have someone waiting when they come ashore.” “I thought the coast guard used mostly helicopters for that kind of tracking work,” I said. “They do use them but it’s hard to spot those boats on a dark night. They are so low to the water that radar isn’t much help. The ‘copters can only stay up so long because of their fuel capacity. The drug runners have radar now too, so they can stay out of range until they have to make a run for their rendezvous spot.” He paused a moment, looking more closely at me. “Say, aren’t you the guy who helped Harry catch those kids the other day?” “Uh, yeah,” I admitted, “But I only drove the Jeep, Harry did all the work.” “That’s not what I heard. I saw Harry yesterday and he said you did some rather fancy shooting with that shotgun. Scared the crap out of those young bastards!” “Yeah,” I laughed, “It made an impression on them. I was talking to Harry Saturday. He said he knew you.” “Yes, we go back a few years. We both did a tour with the Marines in Central America. Harry’s a good cop. The TV said you were a cop too?” he asked. “Used to be. I was in the Provincial Police up in Ontario for over ten years. Now I’m working with my Dad in an accounting business.” “Jeez, that’s quite a change, isn’t it? Look over there,” he pointed off the starboard bow. “There’s Charlie. That dolphin meets us every day on the way out and then on the way back in. We usually spear a fish for him and feed him.” Vic gave Charlie a couple of toots on the horn. Jason, the engineer whom I hadn’t seen yet, came up from the engine room and waved to the dolphin, then hobbled back down the companionway to his two big Detroit diesels. The grey dolphin leapt and dove alongside for about half a mile before leaving us. “Old Jason, our engine man, got hurt a few years ago when my father had the boat. The engines will almost run themselves but it gives Jason a job. And he does keep the engine room shipshape.” “Was he injured sponge fishing?” I asked. “Sort of. So you’re not a cop now, you say?” copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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“Nope, retired. I admit I still find myself missing it a bit once in a while. It was a real hoot working with Harry the other day.” “Well, Harry is a good one. More than I can say for some of the others on the local force.” “You know, I was wondering about that. The Chief wants to see me this afternoon to clear up some things on the arrest. Harry sounded a little evasive on the phone when I asked why.” “Watch yourself with the Chief. We think he’s crooked, but we’ve never been able to pin anything on him.” “We?” I asked. “Well, I do a little work for the government once in a while. We use the Pellas some nights as a radar picket for the DEA. Harry and I think the drug people are getting protection from the Chief, but we haven’t got anything hard enough yet to make an arrest. And keep this to yourself - all the men on my boat are DEA people - except for old Jason. Jason took a bullet in the leg one night, that’s why he’s still working.” “Did you say the Drug Enforcement Agency? I thought this was a sponge boat!” “It is, believe me. We don’t make enough helping the DEA to cover costs! By the way, Harry had you checked out on their computer. Said you quit under somewhat unusual circumstances?” “Yeah, but that’s another story,” I said and turned to get some more coffee. This whole trip was slowly turning into more than a real estate deal. First, my real estate sales agent gave something, probably money, to a cop, who it turns out, is very likely involved in the drug trade. Then I get caught up in arresting some young hoods. Melissa finds me a motive for my wife’s murder. I meet another lady and have terrific sex for the first time in three years. All this happened in one week. I took my coffee out onto the deck and breathed in the sea air. There was no wind, but the boat rode the ever-present sea swell like a slow rocking chair. The sun was drawing pink stripes across our wake, an almost hallucinogenic impression, as tall pines on two small islands framed the early morning sun. The images of the past week flooded over me as I tried to tie this together - Melissa, Billy Bob, Harry, Nancy, Victor and the DEA, a crooked cop and a dolphin named Charlie. And Karen. And Dali. I felt, somewhere in my unconscious mind, that all this was tied together, related somehow to Karen’s death. I needed Dali here with his paranoiac-critical analysis to sort it all out, to paint me the whole picture. I went back inside just as Vic cut the power and began to position the boat. He used the GPS to find the spot he wanted, never once looking over the side into the clear water where I could see the bottom, some thirty feet below. We dropped both the bow and stern hooks and began removing hatch covers in preparation for the day’s work. Jason started the auxiliary motor on the deck and instructed me on the use of the deck crane. He and I would work the deck, lowering the net down into the water where the other two men would fill it with the sponges they harvested from the ocean floor. On the signal from Vic, I would bring the net up, swing the boom around to the front hatch and lower the haul to the deck. Jason and I would then unload the sponges and throw them into the hold. The sponges were full of water and it was heavy enough work, even though I thought I was in good shape. Old Jason never slowed his pace and after a couple of hours, I was having a hard time keeping up to him. The divers came up about every twenty minutes for fresh tanks and stopped for a break every second tank. Vic took his turn, spelling off the other two men. He seemed at home in the water, swimming freely, moving almost like a dolphin through the water. Without the Scuba tanks, he would have been positively fish-like. We could clearly see the men working quickly, thirty feet copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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below the boat, with no loss of motion as they gathered the sponges and loaded them into the net. When the net was full, the two divers would come up and Vic would move the Pellas a few yards to a new position. After four hours, we had all the sponges we could take from that area. The hold was not full, but Vic declared that we had had a good day. While Jason and I stowed the gear and tied down the boom, Vic slowly moved in increasing circles, looking for a new sponge bed. Each of the divers watched from one side of the bow, signalling to Vic if they could see anything on the bottom. Twice we stopped and Sandy would dive over the side to more closely inspect the sponge on the bottom. For these dives he did not use a tank, but simply dove off the railing. I was amazed at how long he could stay underwater, and mentioned this to Jason. “Yeah, not bad,” he said, then added, “When I was younger, I could stay down well over two minutes. In those days we didn’t use the tanks, just our lungs. Of course, the water was clearer in the Med so you could work faster.” “So you were a sponge fisherman in Greece before you came here?” I asked. “Yes. I came here twenty-six years ago. Stavros, Vic’s father, got me a visa. We’re from the same village.” “I met Mr. Penelopolous at his restaurant the other day. He seems like a really nice man.” “Yes, Stavros is a good fellow. He helps us keep the old ways and that is important. Did you see my name on the lottery list? I was the winner last year, so now my family name will be written there for everyone to see forever.” “The lottery list? I’m not sure I know what you are talking about, Jason.” “Well you see, every year we have a lottery in the Greek community. Everyone buys tickets. The draw is held at Easter and the name of the winner is written on the list. From forty years ago, the names are all there. You look right in the centre of the small plaza, just up the street from Stavros’ restaurant, you’ll see it. That is my name on the top.” I promised to look up the list when we got back that afternoon. Once Vic had recorded the position of the sponge bed that they were going to harvest next on his GPS system, we began the run back into Tarpon Springs. Sandy had a fishing line running off the back of the Pellas while John and I took turns running water over the sponges in the cargo hold. The sponges had to be kept wet until they were trimmed and ready for drying. The Pellas had cargo hold scuppers that allowed the flushing water to run out the sides but these would get plugged by the sponges once in a while so I was delegated to the job of keeping the drains clear. By the time we got to port I was wet and tired. We were tied up by 2.00 p.m., just in time for me to have a shower, change into my street clothes, have a quick beer with Vic and make my way to the police station. I did stop to inspect the lottery list. The names were all inscribed by hand in beautiful script, something one does not see very often now. As I was trying to make out some of the names, an old fellow with a cane made his way over to where I was standing. “Kaleespayrah,” he said. I knew better than to use my Greek reply so I said, “Good afternoon.” “Do you know any of these people?” “No, I was just looking at the list. That’s very fancy hand writing, whoever did the work.” “Yes, it is. Do you see how it changed in 1983? That is when old Nick died and young John took over the writing. John is okay but his hand is not as good as Nick’s. That is John sitting over there playing chess with Andros.” The old fellow indicated with his cane to the table under a tree where a copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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game was in progress. Young John looked about seventy to me. I asked how the lottery worked and how much money was involved. The old fellow was giving me a history of the Greek community of Tarpon Springs and before I knew it, it was almost three o’clock. I looked pointedly at my watch and said, “Thank you very much for the information, Josef, but I have to be at the police station at three o’clock.” “You’re not in trouble with the police, are you?” “No, no. Just some paperwork . . .” “Ah, now I know you. You’re the Canadian who caught those ruffians! Stavros said you went fishing this morning with young Victor.” This Greek community obviously had a very efficient communications network. There was no way out but to go over and shake hands with Young John now and it was another few more minutes before I was finally on my way to the police station. These old Greeks seemed to know all about me and I had only been there once before. Then I remembered that Vic had said that they had checked me out. He must have passed some of the information on to his father. I wondered exactly how much information the OPP had released. Harry was just completing his daily report when I arrived at the police station. He called the Chief on the interoffice phone and said we would be right in. Chief Daryl Parks was sitting in his very nicely appointed office, sorting through his paperwork, when we walked in. Parks was a big man, well over six feet tall, weighing at least 250 pounds. He was not fat, but solid, his muscles showing through his too-tight shirt. The man had a marine haircut and looked like every movie’s tough sergeant. He stood and offered his big meaty hand then waved me to a chair. He dismissed Harry and asked him to close the door. “Frank, I wanted to thank you personally for the work you did the other day. Harry tells me that if it weren’t for you, those young punks would have escaped again.” “Well, all I did was drive the Jeep, really,” I said. “Now, don’t be modest. Harry said it was you who flushed them out with the shotgun. That was good thinking.” “It seemed like the thing to do at the time.” “Harry also said you used to be a cop,” the chief said, leading me for details. I was not ready to offer any more than I had to. “Yes, I was with the Ontario Provincial Police for a few years. But I’m doing accounting work now, with my Father’s firm. I’m just down here looking for some real estate.” “Are you looking at that property where the boys were hiding?” he asked. “Yes, that’s one of the sites.” “You planning to build a motel or something?” he asked. “Something like that,” I said. “Have you got yourself a good real estate agent? I know a few of the boys in town. I could make sure you got a good deal - sort of a way of saying thanks for the help you gave our town.” “Well, thanks, Chief, but I have a fellow who seems to be doing a good job. Billy Bob Boyd. You know him?” “Old Billy Bob! Hell of a guy! Yes, he’ll look after you. Billy Bob is a good ol’ boy - hell, I’ve known him for years.” He seemed genuinely happy that I was working with Billy Bob. “Well, Frank, what I want to do is just go over your story of the arrest. I want to make sure that everything was done by the book so we can get these boys off the streets. If I can get you to sign a statement, then we copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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won’t have to call you all the way back down from Canada to testify at the trial. I thought if we had my secretary, who also works as a court recorder, type an interview and then have you sign it. That should keep Judge Whitney happy. That okay with you?” “Sure. Sounds fair to me,” I said. At least I would have a witness if Chief Daryl asked anything unusual. “I can have a copy of the report, I suppose?” I added. “No problem.” The Chief called in his secretary and we walked through some very basic questions. We covered the incident from beginning to end, the only thing I changed was the fact that I had commandeered Harry instead of him commandeering my Jeep. He asked twice about Mirandizing the boys but that was it. He asked me to leave my address with the secretary so they could deliver the copies the next morning for me to sign. “How’d it go?” Harry asked, as we walked out to the parking lot. “No problem. It was all just routine questions. The secretary wrote it all down - I’ll sign the typed statement tomorrow morning.” “Read it first.” I followed Harry’s ten-year-old Ford to a small bar where we took a table on their outdoor patio. We each ordered a Busch Light and soon lifted a glass of the cool brew to each other’s health. It was a pleasant spot, a lush flower garden covered the slopping lot. The birds were chirping in the trees and through the branches I could see the blue waters of the Gulf. But something was wrong in paradise. “Why did you say to read that statement before signing it?” “Listen, Frank, between you and me, and I mean that, Ol’ Daryl may not be the cleanest cop in the state. He runs a fairly tight town and there’s no major crime problem here, but I think he may be involved in something.” “You sound like your friend, Vic,” I said. “Oh, so Vic talked to you, did he?” “Yeah, and I’m not sure why. It must be my honest face. By the way, did you run a check on my background?” “Yeah, the Chief wanted it. But all we got from the OPP was confirmation that you had been with them. Maybe Vic got more.” “So you think because he’s with the DEA that the OPP would tell him more about me?” “More than they would tell some small-town cop, I’m sure. Just what did you do with the OPP? It must have been something special for Vic to take you into his confidence?” “Forensic work, mostly. I did quite a bit on money laundering, money that came mostly from drugs,” I said, omitting that fact that forensic accounting might not be in the same category as some of the other forensic work. “So you probably know the names of some of the big players.” “Well, I never met Pablo in person, but, yes, I would likely recognize him and several others if I ever met them,” I admitted. Harry glanced at his watch, ordered me to bottom-up, and said, “Com’on, or we’ll be late for dinner.” “Dinner?” I asked. “Yeah, I told Carrie to set another plate. Figured you would be in need of a home-cooked meal after Vic put you through the paces. Unless you have something else planned?” “No, not a thing, but I don’t want to put your wife to any extra work.” “Hell, one more won’t much difference around our table,” he laughed. copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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And he was right. Besides two teenage boys and daughter who looked about seventeen but was only thirteen, Carrie and Harry had his father as a house guest. An old Airedale hound and two kittens were banished from the dinning area but had the run of the rest of the house. Carrie seemed to have it all under control and I asked how she managed. “Well, I get a lot of help. Dad gets the vegetables ready every night, Cindy looks after all the laundry, the boys do all the yard work and take turns with the dishes. The cats catch any mice that come around, Old Red is household security and Harry shows up once in awhile to help. By the time I get home at four-thirty, all I have to do is cook the meat.” “You mean you work too?” “Only four days a week. I cashier down at the Wal-Mart Tuesday to Friday. It keeps a person busy, but with the cost of raising a family today, everybody has to do what they can,” she said. “Dad pays his own way and he’s a big help, really. It was good to have a built-in baby sitter for a couple of years. Now Dad runs a telephone answering service out of his place in the evenings, but the kids are big enough to look after themselves anyway.” We had a very pleasant meal. The food was not fancy but wholesome and tasty. The youngsters were well-spoken and could fit into the conversation at any time. They had lots of questions about Canada, and again, I had to dispel the myths of snow up to our gotchas and dog sleds running through the streets of Toronto. ‘Dad’ Besner, as he insisted I call him, left to do his telephone work out in the Nanny suite that was an extension of the attached garage. The boys and their father had the dishes cleaned up in time for a couple games of crokinole. I left with a sore finger from shooting the wooden buttons and promised to give them a call soon and to drop in again the next time I was in Florida. Tuesday morning I met Billy Bob at the property. I knew now that we could drive into the old subdivision so we took the Jeep and followed all the old roadways. The property was a little low in a couple of areas but they could be backfilled from the excavations at other sites. I thought the property was just what we needed. Billy Bob gave me the listed price for the four acres that cornered on the Bay and along the street. The six hundred thousand figure looked reasonable so I then asked what the list was on the rest of the land. “Well, the whole subdivision was listed at five point five, so I’d say that five million would buy the rest. You’re not interested in the whole thing, are you?” “Can you have all the maps and paperwork ready for Thursday if I wanted to bring my principal down for a look?” Billy Bob thought for a moment then replied in his slow, careful way, “Thursday. That would be pushing it a mite. With something this size, I surely do want to do this right. Would Friday be all right?” “Okay, let’s plan on Friday. I’ll confirm it with you this afternoon after I make a couple of calls. You could talk to your client and see if he’s willing to drop his price if we do a package deal. It would be two separate contracts but I would handle both at the same time. How much of a deposit would we need to hold this for a month?” “Well, let’s say about 5 percent. Normally we’d take less but that would only hold it until another offer came along. Yes, to guarantee a month, we’d need 5 percent.” “That money would be held in trust, naturally,” I said. “Well, naturally,” Billy Bob replied. “Okay. I’ll call you at your office this afternoon.” copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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“That’s great, Frank. I hope this goes through. You are on for golf tomorrow, aren’t you?” “I wouldn’t miss it. I may go out to a driving range this afternoon, just to loosen up so I can take some of your money! Are we meeting at your place?” “Sure. I made a tee time for eleven ten, so if you can be at the house by ten o’clock, we’ll have lots of time.” I called the office and talked to Mary for five minutes, bringing her up to date. I even told her that I had met a lady friend. Next, I called Martin Cosso’s office. He was out to lunch but was expected back in about twenty minutes. I left my number, saying I would be in my room at two. That gave me time for a lunch at Lenny’s and a swim in the pool. Cosso was excited about the property and said he would catch the first flight out on Friday morning. His secretary would confirm the arrival time and leave a message at the desk for me.

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Chapter 6 Wednesday morning brought another perfect Florida day. There were a few high cirrus clouds to the north and a slight breeze rattled the palm leaves outside my balcony. The weather forecast on CNN was for a high of 80 degrees in Tampa. I quickly converted this to Celsius and selected the lightest of my golf shirts. I had slept in until seven-thirty but still had plenty of time for my Tai Chi and a brisk walk around the block before my shower. I felt really good. My legs were moving freely, I felt loose all over, breathing in deep steady breaths, stretching my arms out as I strode along. I found myself singing some inane tune that I had heard on the radio the day before. I stopped at a traffic light, not running on the spot as some joggers do, but relaxing my hands by doing some wrist rotating. An elderly Oriental lady was waiting at the stop with me and she immediately picked up on the movements. “You do Karate?” she asked. “No, Tai Chi,” I replied, turning around so she could see the Tai Chi emblem on my sweat shirt. “Ah, Tai Chi. I know Tai Chi, too.” She gave me the bow, bending smoothly, despite her age. “I do every day. You do every day?” “Yes, every day. Do you have a Tai Chi club here?” I asked as the light turned green and we began walking across the street. “No, no club. My husband know Tai Chi from old country. He and few of his friends meet at park two times every week. They do special session on Thursday night at seven o’clock. You can come too. Park just down there,” she pointed at the recreation centre. “Thank you,” I said as I trotted off back to the motel. Maybe I would go. It would be interesting to see how these people did their Tai Chi compared to the methods of Master Moy. I had the cheese omelette with a rasher of bacon on the side at Lenny’s, enough calories to fuel the system for the rest of the day. I even had time to clean up my golf clubs before leaving for the Boyd’s. I carry a small can of WD-40 in my bag and find it works as good as any cleaner on the market. It also is handy for squeaking golf cart wheels. It aggravates me when I have to walk down the fairways with a partner who has a wheel that is squeaking, squeaking. A quick application of the WD-40 makes for instant quiet. The Cadillac was not in the driveway when I arrived at the Boyd’s house and I hoped they hadn’t left without me even though it was only a couple of minutes past ten. But when I got out of the Jeep, Melissa opened the door and greeted me. “Good morning, Frank. It looks like a great day for golf, doesn’t it?” “Yes, perfect. If the breeze stays, it should be just right - not too hot.” “Billy Bob had to go into the office for a few minutes and said he would meet us at the course. Would you mind getting my golf clubs out of the garage?” she asked. We chatted on the way over to Chi Chi’s course, talking of everyday things like two old friends. I felt so comfortable and close to this woman, a kind of kinship that usually comes from knowing someone for years and years. Yet I had only known Melissa for a week. There was no common bond, no reason to feel so comfortably intimate with this person. No reason other than her work at the museum. She was a woman and I did feel the hormonal thing, but this was more. It was more than I felt when I was with Nancy, and that was a very good feeling; it was more as I remembered how I felt with Karen, although that feeling was harder and harder to define as time passed. It had something to do with how we each viewed the world around us - some similar appreciation of life. copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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Yet what did I know of Melissa? I tried to sum it up: a day last week, golfing; a couple of dinners with her; and the way she understood Dali. Dali, again. Just because Melissa and Karen both shared an interest in a dead painter? No, it was more. It was something about how we all shared something about Salvador Dali. Did we see the world through the same eyes, that ability to draw the unconscious mind into our daily lives? Many people thought Dali a mental case with his critical paranoia, but really, all he did was express much more clearly what many of us think but are unable to say or demonstrate, either with or without a paint brush in our hand. Just as Dali can stir the unconscious memories of our buried and almost forgotten past with his use of form and colour, so was there something between Melissa and me. As Dali did with his trick imagery of scenes within scenes, so was there more in the relationship that was developing between us. Was Melissa my Gala - the wife of a friend - to be seduced as Dali had won Gala away from Paul Eluard? Another step along that road awaited us at the clubhouse. We were looking at the Chi Chi designed golf shirts when the young lady at the pro shop desk answered the telephone. She asked if Mrs. Boyd was in the shop. Melissa took the call and although she kept her cool, I could see that something was bothering her. Billy Bob had phoned to say that he was tied up for the rest of the day. Would she mind golfing with Frank? Not at all, she said. After we had teed off on the first hole, and I had hit my second shot out of the rough on the left side of the fairway, Melissa expressed her concern. “I don’t think he’s working at all. I think Billy Bob and his buddies are going to the races over at Orlando,” she said. “He does seem to like the races,” I commented, not knowing what else I could say. “Well, I don’t mind, as long as he doesn’t start betting heavily again. I thought he had it under control, but lately - I’m not sure.” “So Billy Bob has had a problem in the past?” I asked. “Yes, we had a couple of rough sessions a few years ago. He got in with some bad company and they took us for over twenty thousand dollars. I thought they were going to beat him up or something when he couldn’t pay. Somehow he kept them happy until he paid them. Billy Bob had to take on a partner in his business just to keep from losing it. Then he made a couple of good real estate sales and the commissions got us out of it. Until this past week, I thought everything was okay,” she said. “So is he still associating with the same people?” I asked. “No, thank heavens. Just some businessmen from Tarpon Springs, I think. The Chief of Police is one of them, so that shouldn’t be too bad.” I shanked my next shot into the uncut rough, thinking that maybe the Chief of Police of Tarpon Springs was exactly the company Billy Bob should not be keeping. But I could not tell Melissa that. I, like Victor and Harry, had no proof that the Chief was corrupt. I changed the subject back to our golf game. For the second time I dumped my tee shot into the water on the short par three No. 3 hole. This course was a lot tougher than I thought. Old Chi Chi had designed it so he could work on the toughest parts of the game. I teed up another Top Flite Plus and put it a few inches from the flag. We had a beer at the clubhouse after the game and then drove back to their house. There was still no Cadillac, so I suggested a swim at the motel then dinner at Durango’s again. Melissa accepted the invitation after calling the office to see if her husband had returned. Billy Bob had not called, the receptionist said. She packed her swimsuit and hair dryer in a sports bag and we headed for the Best Western for a swim. copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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I knew that Melissa had a great looking body, but in her swimsuit, she was even more beautiful. For a lady in her mid thirties she drew a lot of looks from the men around the pool. Their looks made me feel really proud. Even though Melissa was only my guest. Let them think what they would. She swam with her long blonde hair streaming in the water behind her, duck-diving down to the bottom of the deep end, and mermaid-like, flutter-kicking to the surface. We sat in the lounge chairs for ten minutes, letting the afternoon sun dry and warm us. Then it was time to go back to the room so Melissa could wash and dry her hair before dinner. I was dispatched to the Texaco station to get a six-pack of cold beer while she showered. The hair dryer was humming when I returned and I could hear Melissa singing as she dried her hair. For a motel room, this place was taking on a decidedly domestic atmosphere. I kicked off my Rockports and sat on the balcony reading the local paper. We finished off the six pack and the package of cheese snacks before decided we should walk down to El Capitan’s instead of Durango’s, thinking that the seafood special was what we wanted. We were strolling along the street behind the motel when we noticed the large tent set up on the grounds of the Greek Orthodox Church. Hundreds of cars were parked in the field and along the street. A police officer was directing traffic so I asked him what the occasion was. “It’s the annual Greek Spring Festival. Hell, I think every Greek in Florida is here!” he said as he waved through another car filled with kids and grandparents. “Do you think they would mind if we went in?” Melissa asked the officer. “Do you like Greek food and music? Sure, go ahead, everybody’s welcome. I’m joining the party as soon as my relief comes.” “Com’on, Frank, let’s go,” Melissa said, tugging on my arm. I am always reticent of barging in on other people, something Karen had criticized me for more than once. Yet so often when I was dragged into these kinds of events, I enjoyed myself immensely. “Well, all right, if you think we’re not intruding,” I said. “Oh, come on. The worse that can happen is that they will ask us to leave. Let’s go and listen to the music for a few minutes.” A group of young children, ages eight or nine years, was performing one of the traditional Greek dances. They all wore the clothing of their homeland; each perfectly dressed, almost doll-like. They knew the dance steps perfectly and one could easily spot proud parents in the front seats. I spotted a line up for drinks and headed for the table where they were selling the bar tickets. The crowd was buzzing with laughter and greetings, most in English from the younger people, but the older people spoke Greek, shouting greetings across the room to friends. A heavy hand on my shoulder almost spilled the beer. “Kaleesprayah, Frank!” It was Stavros. “Kaleesprayah, Mr. Penelopolous,” I said. “Mrs. Boyd and I saw the party and we dropped in. I hope that’s all right?” I asked. “Certainly, Frank, certainly. Everyone who is a friend of Greece is most welcome. How do you like our party?” “We just saw the children dancing. They were very good.” “Yes, my granddaughter was there. It is good to keep the traditions, is it not?” I agreed, thinking that my family did not have anything like this. The English side of the family had no traditional dances that I knew of, and only a few songs that one could consider as part of our heritage. My great grandfather on Mother’s side was a Scot, and I knew there were dances and music in that background. Until now I had not thought much about my heritage. “In a few moments, the men are going to dance. You’ll like that. Be sure to go to the food tent, copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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Frank - there’s lots to eat!” Stavros assured me as he left to join the line-up for drinks. The large crowd hushed as the men in their black pants and white shirts took their place on the stage. From the opening chords of Never on Sunday, I was spellbound. It was as if I was back in Athens, years ago, with Karen when we saw the Dora Stratos Dancers performing in the ancient theatre on the Acropolis. The men moved in perfect step, the white handkerchiefs held high, the polished shoes mirroring the flash of cameras as people tried to catch the magic of the moment on film. We ate well, sharing a table with a family of six. They were pleased that we were sharing their culture, proud that they had something to offer to the great American melting pot that makes that country so interesting. The father insisted that we share his bottle of Greek wine. I had the sense that this family did not have a lot of money, yet they were happy to share everything on the table with two strangers. I bought a bottle of red wine when we were ready to leave and left it for the man. The strong handshake said all the thanks that were necessary for both of us. We had to go back up to the room to get Melissa’s swimsuit. As soon as we were inside the door she turned to me and kissed me. I managed to flip off the lights before we ended on the bed. There was an urgency in both of us that needed answering and we soon lay exhausted on the bed. Then we took time to reflect on what we had just done. I was vaguely plagued by some almost-forgotten Christian ethic that said I should not have bedded another man’s wife, especially considering my involvement with Nancy, but as in all moments of passion, ethics are soon dismissed. Melissa spoke first. “Frank, I’m sorry. I should never have done this.” “Sorry? It was wonderful!” “Yes, but I’m a married woman. I’ve never done this before. I’ve always been true to Billy Bob.” “Yeah, I thought so,” I said. What excuse, if any, could I offer her so she did not feel this guilt? Saying that everyone did it was as hollow and lame as it sounded. I had to say what I felt. “Melissa, I think I love you.” She wrapped her arms around me, kissed me, then buried her head on my shoulder. I felt the hot tears burning, searing not into my flesh but into my very soul. She released me and found the Kleenex tissues. When she had composed herself she said, “Frank, I had better go now.” It was just ten o’clock when we got back to the house. Still no Cadillac. Melissa gathered up her things and got out of the car. I walked her to the door, wanting to hold her one more time. “You will come and see us the next time you down, won’t you?” she asked. “Of course I will. Maybe I’ll see you again before I go back on Saturday.” “No, Frank, I don’t think we should. Let’s just say goodbye now.” We were standing on the landing under the outside lamp, in full view of any nosey neighbours so I held out my hand. “Well, goodbye, then Melissa. Thank you for everything,” I said. “Good night, Frank,” she said and as she started to turn away, she squeezed my hand and whispered, “Thank you.” The door closed softly. I drove back to the motel with those two words buzzing around in my head like a gnat around a lamp. Not that ‘thank you’ was inappropriate for an enjoyable day together, but it was the way Melissa said it. It was more like she had found a release for something pent up inside her for a long time, and sex with me was the key that freed her. Maybe those few moments we had shared on the motel bed had made up for years of something missed in her life. Or maybe it was a trade-off for the copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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gambling. I began to feel slightly used. I rationalized myself back into a positive frame of mind by thinking that maybe she really did love me. Just a little. Before dropping off to sleep I made myself a mental note to visit a local pharmacy. The way my sex life was developing, I had better buy a supply of condoms. The next morning I was thinking of going golfing again, but those plans changed when I saw the Jeep. The front tires had been slashed and the windshield had a spray-painted note for me - “Go home, Canadian”, in bright orange, in case I might have missed the soft hue of graffiti lime green. So I called the police and the car rental people. It was noon before I had a new car and the police were on their way back to more important duties. They dismissed it as just some bad kids and the car rental people seemed to accept that. The Dollar people gave me a new Neon to drive, something a little less expensive in case I attracted some more attention before Saturday. I did not tell the Clearwater cops about my run-in with the gang from Tarpon Springs because I thought they would still be in jail. I opted for a walk along the Clearwater beach, thinking I would do a little tourist shopping, picking something up for Mary and Dad. Before the walk, I phoned the office to see if there had been any changes in plans with Cosso. Mary answered and beat me to the question, “How’s your love life, Frankie?” “Well, to tell the truth, too good. I’ve met another woman,” I confided. “My God, he’s running amok down there,” she announced to whoever was in the office with her. My Dad came on the line, “Frank, what’s this I hear?” “Nothing, Dad. Mary’s just pulling my leg.” “She says you’ve met a nice woman. Is that true?” “Well, yes. I have, but . . .” “Great! Good for you, Frank. See, I’ve been telling you that you should have been trying your luck. Is she a nice girl?” “She’s not a girl, Dad, she’s a woman.” I almost said ‘married woman’, but caught myself. I was not sure if I was talking about Nancy or Melissa. I thought I had better focus on Nancy. “She’s a really fine lady from Toronto, but let’s not make a federal case out it, okay?” “Sure, Frank, sure. Listen, how does it look for the Cosso file?” “I think I’ve found the right property for him. The next question will be the money. How much do you think he can raise?” “Well, the Upper Canada part will be no problem, if they go ahead. Make sure they have an exit clause. As far as Martin’s other friends, I suspect they have all the money they will need. But I think you should get separate deals signed, Frank. I’ve been checking around a little and I think Martin’s other friends may not be absolutely clean. Although their money is just the opposite, if you know what I mean.” “Laundering?” “Nothing I can prove just yet. It’s something you can look into when you get back, but you had better make sure that we stay at arm’s length on that part of the deal. Pretend you’re saving him a fee, or something.” I chatted with Mary again for a few moments then rang off. I had to devise some story for Cosso for tomorrow. A walk on the beach was as good a place as any to think these things over. It was another bright, hot day and the beach boys and bunnies were out in all their splendour. Nubile young bodies were everywhere, shining their bronzed muscles at me, an older guy, who was copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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obviously a pale-legged accountant out for his first spring walk on the beach. The endless surf was washing up on the perfect sandy Clearwater beach, turning over fresh sea shells for the beachcombers who thought the bright pieces of broken homes were special treasures. There were not many kids on the beach, just those few whose parents thought a week in the Florida sun was at least as important as the week of schooling that their kids were missing somewhere in the frozen north. They were likely right, too, I thought. I walked for miles, thinking of Melissa, of Nancy and what I was going to do when I got back to Canada. Melissa was out of my reach, married to Billy Bob, seemingly happy enough. Nancy was a hell of a good woman, from what little I knew of her. Maybe, in time, we could be a couple. Maybe in time I would forget about Melissa. And Karen. I ate alone at Durango’s that night, getting there with the first wave of seniors, not that I was looking for the two-for-one drink special, in fact I only had a Pepsi, no booze. I was reading a local weekly paper while I ate, just to keep myself company. I overheard a couple talking about going down to the recreation centre to watch a college ball game and that reminded me of the Tai Chi. That would be a good relaxer for me, something to get my mind off my other problems. I changed into my track suit pants and my Tai Chi tee shirt and hiked over to the park. The ball game was just in the warm up stages so I walked around, looking for the Chinese people who might be doing Tai Chi. It is a big park and there were several events going on, one was an exercise group, another group doing sprints. Finally I saw a small gathering with four older people standing in a line, doing some stretches. I walked over and saw my friend from the street corner. “Hello,” I said. “Do you mind if I join you?” The old lady said something in Chinese to the men and they all nodded and motioned me to join them. I introduced myself and they all gave me their names - Jack Wong, Henry Nakasura, who it turns out was Japanese, Li Feng and Lenny Chi-Feng, the husband of my friend. I stood at the bottom of the line and we began a set. It was soon obvious to me that Mr. Moy had a different method of practising the art than these people, but I could recognize the moves. After we had completed one set, the men asked me what I thought about the differences. I showed them a couple of the changes and tried to explain just what Mr. Moy had in mind when he gave us a new way of doing that part of the set. Mr. Moy contended that the force from the legs moved the spine. Jack Wong, who had to be close to eighty, disagreed with the emphasis that Master Moy had placed on the legs. He maintained that it was the spine that needed most attention since it was the foundation for all movement, not the legs. Nakasura sided with me, but his friends chided him as being Karate-orientated, something that was their inside joke. The fact that these men, all over seventy years, could do the set as smoothly as anyone I had seen, convinced me again that the exercise, no matter whose interpretation you followed, was a good one. While we were talking and demonstrating the moves, I had noticed a group of three black youths paying attention to us. It was getting near dusk but they looked vaguely familiar. When they sauntered over, I knew. They were kids that Harry and I had arrested! “Hey, mutherfucker, we want to talk to you,” the largest one, a fellow who stood at least six feet tall, said in a voice that carried a tone of bravado. I ignored them. “Hey, whitey, I’m talking to you!” The voice was now threatening. “You have a problem?” I asked, taking a couple steps towards them and away from the old people. “Yeah, mutherfucker. We have a score to settle.” copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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“I don’t think so. You must have the wrong person.” “No, man, it’s you,” another said. “We thought you get the message we left on your Jeep. But maybe you just not smart enough.” So it was not just local hoodlums that had slashed my tires. We were standing well off to one side of the park, too far to call for assistance. I could probably make a run for it, drawing them away, but I doubted I could outrun these teenagers for very far. I was about to try it when Henry Nakasura interfered. “You boys leave this gentleman alone,” Henry said. The sight of a 130 pound grey-haired Japanese telling them what to do seemed to amuse the boys. Then the other old men closed ranks, chattering at the boys in Chinese, but in words that obviously told then to bugger off. One of the boys produced a switchblade, the other two, short pieces of chain. There was a cry of alarm from the ladies but Henry just laughed. He gave a Karate yell and dropped into a stance that stopped the boys in their tracks. The other men immediately assumed the retreat-to-ride-tiger stance, paused, then made the only sound of Tai Chi, the slapping of the foot from turn-to-sweep-lotus. The kid with the knife hesitated and then decided to try for me. I guess he thought I would try a Karate move on him too, but I simply grabbed his wrist as he slashed, used his momentum to throw him and laid him flat on his back. I knocked the knife free and gave him the old-fashioned twisted arm lock that will easily separate a shoulder if you resist. One of the others swung a chain at me, but Henry was suddenly airborne, his bony foot catching the youth in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him, dropping him to the ground, holding his stomach. Li Feng was on the boy in a flash, pressing the nerve behind his ear, rendering the boy still. The third kid had decided to run for it but one of the wives stuck out a leg, sending him sprawling in the grass. The other two men were on him, pinning him to the ground. We tied the boys’ hands with the laces from their sneakers and waited for the police to arrive. AHenry, what kind of a move was that? I didn’t look like Tai Chi to me,” I said. Li Feng laughed. AAh, Henry, he know a little Karate too. Like to show off sometimes!” I explained to the officers who I was and what I thought the motive was for the attack. I said I would not press charges if they would just keep them off the street until I left on Saturday. I gave them Harry Besner’s name as a reference and that seemed to satisfy them. The cops hauled them off, pushing them along with their night sticks, none too kindly, but that was to our satisfaction. “I am sorry for this,” I said to my friends. “I had a problem with those boys last week, and I guess they wanted to get even with me. Is everyone all right?” “Yes, yes. Very good exercise,” Li Feng laughed. I was invited back to their home for tea but I declined, saying I had some calls to make. We all shook hands and I promised to say hello to Master Moy from them. Not that I ever talked to Mater Moy, but my saying so seemed to make these people happy. I called Harry Besner as soon as I got back to my room. I wanted to know why these kids had been released so soon. It turned out that they were out on a low bail bond because the Chief felt he did not have a good enough case to charge them with a drug offence. The kid who was wounded was charged with weapons offence, but Harry thought the punk would only get a month or two for that. I told Harry about the Jeep being vandalised and he said he would mention the connection to the Clearwater cops in case they could tie it to the boys. Harry did not sound too certain that anything would come of the whole string of events. Police work in Florida was not that different from police work in Ontario, I thought. copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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I met Martin Cosso at the Clearwater airport on Friday morning. I could not shake the uneasy feelings I had for this man, although he certainly was convivial that morning as he looked forward to seeing the property. He had a surprised expression on his face when we walked over to the blue Neon in the parking lot. “Glad to see you’re saving money by using an economy car, Frank,” he said. “Well, you know us accountants - we’re very conservative guys,” I replied, making a note to transfer some of the costs from Upper Canada to Martin’s account. I explained that I thought he might want to make two separate offers if his friends were really interested in developing a subdivision alongside the shopping mall. I said that our firm would charge him for my services but not any percentage on that part of the deal since we were really only retained by the Upper Canada group. The chance to save some money did not pass him by and he agreed that this would be the strategy. Martin asked me a few questions about Billy Bob and seemed satisfied that he could deal with him. Billy Bob apologized for missing the golf game but added an aside that he had made over a thousand dollars at the track that day. I did not mention that I had bedded his wife and it was obvious that Melissa had not mentioned it to him either. We toured the property, Billy Bob walking ahead of us with a large walking-stick that he carried to discourage any snakes. Martin liked what he saw, gave me approval to put a deposit on the four acres on the lake shore and left to make a phone call. By two o’clock that afternoon he had given Billy Bob a two hundred and fifty thousand dollar deposit on the rest of the subdivision. Billy Bob treated us to a fine dinner that night at a small restaurant at Dunedin. It had been a very successful two weeks for me but I was now anxious to return home. I needed to sort out my mixed emotions about Melissa and Nancy. I wanted to get home so I could continue my search for Karen’s murderer, for now I was firmly convinced that it had been murder. The amount of money involved with those Dali paintings was more than enough motive for that Montreal art dealer. All I needed now was proof.

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Chapter 7 It took me a couple of days to catch up with my office work in Toronto. One thing about taking a holiday is that your work does not take ten days off. It keeps piling up until there is this small mountain of mail and memos on your desk. Mary had sifted through the mail and had handled any of the emergency paper, but there was still a depressing amount of work. I filled Dad in on the survey of the Helnan and even mentioned that I had met a lady who might be a good prospect for his tour business. He marked down Nancy’s name, saying that he was indeed looking for someone to replace one of his staff members who was going on maternity leave early next month. I thought that might be a little early for Nancy’s career plan but said nothing to discourage Philip from asking her. It would be good to have Nancy based here instead of her jetting around the continent if our relationship was going anywhere. By Thursday I got time to call Stu Carlson. I wanted to bounce my new theory off him - that money had been the motive in Karen’s murder, and that the Montreal art dealer was the one with the motive. We met Friday evening at the Spaghetti Factory for a couple of beers and some pasta. “Stu, I found out that there were several sales, not just one that fell through because of Karen’s discovery of the fakes. There was a lot of money involved - well over a million dollars.” Stu’s eyebrows rose, “Well, that’s certainly enough money to establish a motive. But we still haven’t got anything on that art dealer. I had a friend in the RCMP do some checking on him. Nothing. In fact, the guy declared bankruptcy just about the time of Karen’s murder - his last known address was some cheap flat on St. Catherines street. The business is now run by a former employee who allowed the officer to look at all the books and bank records. As far as we can tell, the guy never had any connection with the criminal element and it seems hard to believe that he could hire someone to do the very professional job that we think was run on Karen. There is no indication of any large amounts of money being unaccounted for in his books,” Stu said. “The man did have some large dollar sales, but there was nothing unusual in that, according to my source. He’s sending me a report next week - I’ll get you a copy, if you want it.” “Damn! Everything just keeps coming up empty. Maybe we are wrong - maybe it was just an accident,” I said in frustration. “No, I don’t think so. It was too clean - too well done. No, Frank, we just need a break, some little thing that works for us.” I dug into the pile of spaghetti and meat balls that was overflowing my plate, trying to eat and think at the same time. “So, how was your vacation, Frank? Meet anybody interesting?” “No. Well, yes, in fact. I took a working trip on a sponge diver’s boat - a fellow I met through the real estate agent and a Greek restaurateur. I went with the restaurant owner’s son, who as it turned out, is a DEA agent. I learned a little about the drug trade while I was there.” “Sponge fishing, eh? I thought sponges were made from cellulose, or something.” “Well, there are artificial ones, but the real thing is quite unique. As long as they are kept damp, they will last for years. They are very soft and non abrasive, so they are used in special applications where a highly polished finish is important. The cosmetic industry is one of the bigger users, though. As a matter of fact, I brought some smaller pieces home with me. I’ll give you one for your wife to use with her cosmetics. Melissa says they are far better than the artificial sponges.” “Melissa?” copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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“Oh, yeah. She’s the wife of the real estate sales agent I worked with when I was down there. Billy Bob Boyd, if you can believe a name like that!” “And it’s ‘Melissa’, not Mrs. Boyd?” Stu said suspiciously. Sometimes he was too good a cop. “Ah, well, I was out with them a few times and Melissa took me to the Dali Museum. That’s where she works - she’s the one who told me about the value of those lost sales of the fake Dali paintings.” I added some more Romano cheese to the last of my spaghetti and was winding up the long strands of pasta onto my spoon when the thought hit me. Albert Marshall, Morse’s personal assistant, had said something about a collector who had at least one of the fake Dali and did not try to get his money back from the dealer. He no longer displayed the painting. So what did he do with it? It is one thing to have a piece of art by a famous artist and keep it only for your own enjoyment. But what enjoyment could you possibly get from looking at a painting that you knew was a fake? None, I thought. The stubbornness of not getting rid of the work could fester into a hatred of the person who ruined your pleasure. And there was no hope of unloading the fake as long as Karen was around with her Dali glasses and theories about unique colours. “Stu, maybe you are right. Maybe that art dealer had nothing to do with the murder. I think we have been looking in the wrong place.” I went on to explain my latest thoughts. “Okay, so all we have to do is find out who is holding the fake Dali painting. Or paintings. How do we do that?” “I think Marshall or Melissa may know who has them. Or who had the paintings at the time of the murder. I’ll call her tomorrow.” “Okay, let me know what you find out. So what else happened on your trip?” I had to tell him about the arrest and even about how there was some suspicion of the Chief of Police in Tarpon Springs being involved in the drug trade. “By the way, Stu, I think that Chief ran a request on my background. Would the department give him that information?” “I suppose, since it came from a legitimate source. But they would only give him bare bones information. Why?” “Well, he seemed to know a fair amount about me. Of course, the DEA knew even more.” “Yeah, there might be a little more cooperation with the DEA than a local police chief. Maybe they wanted to know if you were working on a case when you busted those kids.” “Hell, I’m not on the force anymore. I hope they told them that much!” He laughed. “Who knows, maybe you’re working undercover and never really did turn in your badge!” “Ha, fat chance of that! Although, it did feel good to be in action. It surely got the adrenalin flowing - something that doesn’t happen too often when you are adding up columns of figures.” I related the story of the capturing of the youths in some detail. Stu nodded several times. He understood. Saturday I called Melissa. Billy Bob answered the phone so we talked for a few minutes. He wanted to know if the land purchase was going through and I told him that as far as I knew, everything was still on track. The Management Board of Upper Canada Malls was to meet in about ten days and we would know for certain then if the new development was going ahead. Billy Bob told me he had been talking to Cosso and that Martin had asked him if he were interested in becoming the property manager for the new sub division. I said that would likely be a well-paid job and he confirmed that Martin was talking about $150,000 a year. I was obviously in the wrong copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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business. I told Billy Bob I wanted to talk to Melissa about some Dali things and he called her to the phone. “Frank, how are you?” she said. The sound of her voice sent tingles up my back. “Fine, Melissa. Thanks for sending that book on the Great Dali Art Fraud. It has some interesting facts on Dali that I never read before. I didn’t realize what a scam this whole reproduction of art could be. I guess that’s why Karen always said that unless you had an original, you only bought for pleasure.” “Yes, I suppose that is true. The whole story of lithographs and photo-reproductions is still very controversial. But leave it to Dali to sign someone else’s work as an approval of the painting, yet not sign some of his own works!” “Yes, that sounds like Dali, all right. Melissa, I wonder if you could do something for me? We have checked out that Montreal art dealer and it seems he is in the clear. I think we should check out the people who are still holding the fakes - maybe they are the ones we should be looking at. Could you get those names for me?” “Sure, Frank. I’ll ask Albert. I’m sure he’ll know who they are - or he’ll tell me who to ask. I’ll phone you as soon as I get some names.” We talked a bit about the weather and then said goodbye. There was still something between us. The sound of her voice was all I needed to start fantasizing again. I had been out twice with Nancy since I had returned home and we were to meet again this weekend when we would take her daughter for a day trip to the Metro Zoo. I liked Nancy very much, but somehow that magical spark just was not there in our relationship. When I had met her in Tampa, I thought maybe this was my chance, but that was before I met Melissa. Or maybe my feelings for Nancy were being overshadowed by Melissa? At my age and stage of life, who needed this falling in love again? Ten days later the mall deal fell through. The majority owners of the Upper Canada Mall had voted against putting any more of their money into the States. The pension money from the Ontario Municipal Employees Retirement Fund was invested in many places but recent fluctuations in the Canadian dollar suggested to the Board that they should keep their investments inside Canada. Martin Cosso was devastated when he dropped by the office the next morning. “Damn, that was a good solid investment! We could have made a bundle on that location. My friends who put the down payment on that subdivision may want to back out too. Unless I can find another investor. You don’t know of anyone, do you, Frank?” “No, Martin, not right off hand. You’re talking a lot of money for someone to get into that size of a mall.” “Yeah, I know. That’s why I thought OMERS would be a good source. They’ve got tons of money. They are doing so well with the Upper Canada Mall, I thought for sure they could see how the money can be made.” He was thoughtful for a moment, then continued, “Maybe I know a way to get some more money. I’ll have to work on it. Are you going to go down there to get the deposit back?” “Well, I had planned on just phoning for it and having it transferred,” I said, thinking that another trip to Florida might be all right. But not practical. “Oh. I was thinking you could pick up my deposit at the same time.” “Why don’t you just call Billy Bob? He can make a bank transfer for you too.” “Uh, well, it’s not quite that simple. My money came from a consortium and . . . yeah, I can work it out.” copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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I was not too sure what his problem was but I never gave it much thought at the time. I made my phone call to Billy Bob and broke the bad news to him. He said he would have the deposit transferred to our account in the next day or two. He too, sounded concerned about the deposit that Martin had given him, but again, it was not part of my deal, and I moved on to other things. It was about a week later that Melissa called. I was at home, and Felix and I were just finishing the after-dinner clean up, when she called. “Frank, I have two names for you,” she said after a few opening pleasantries. “One is from the Toronto area, a J. Silverstein, the other is in England. Albert thought Rhys-Jones lived in a village near Cambridge. Mr. Morse told Albert that he thought Rhys-Jones might have returned the painting he was thinking of buying, but he was not certain of that. Albert said there might be another collector somewhere in France, but he wasn’t sure that he hadn’t destroyed the fake painting. He doesn’t list it in his collection, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t holding the painting. We don’t know his most recent address.” “Thanks, Melissa. I can try to track the one here in Toronto, anyway. I think I have seen that Rhys-Jones name somewhere. I can follow that up, too. How’s the golf game?” I asked. “Oh, fine. We missed last week because Billy Bob was tied up with something.” “Oh. Could you tell him that the money arrived yesterday? And I’m sorry that the whole thing didn’t work out. It would have been a good piece of business for him.” “Frank,” she hesitated, then continued, “I think something is wrong with Billy Bob.” “What do you mean, is he sick?” “No, but he’s really worried about something. That fellow, Cosso, keeps calling him. Does Billy Bob owe him money or something? Billy talked to the police chief right after the last call. Do you know what’s going on?” I thought for a moment before answering. “Well, Martin Cosso gave Billy Bob a large deposit on that subdivision. Billy Bob should have put it into a trust account. He didn’t spend part of it, did he?” “I don’t know. I haven’t seen any sign of it around here - no new car or anything. He never talks about his work, but I’m going to ask him what’s going on. He certainly is worried.” “Well, I’m sure it’s nothing. Don’t you worry about it.” “I’ll try not to.” “Call me, if I can be of help,” I said. It came to me as I replaced the telephone. The Rhys-Jones name was the one in the report from Montreal. That collector had returned his painting and received a full refund from the dealer. J. Silverstein. That name was too familiar. Jay Silverstein, the lawyer. Could it be the same person? I looked through the phone directory - no J. Silverstein listed. Of course, he could have an unlisted home telephone number. I checked the yellow pages, still no Silverstein under Lawyers (see Solicitors). Nothing under Solicitors (see Barristers). Nothing under Barristers (see Lawyers). I called my mother. She still had connections with the arty groups in Toronto and she would know if there was a Silverstein who was an art collector. After chitchatting about the family and assuring her that she would be the first to know if I were getting serious about that airline flight attendant, I asked if she knew a Jay Silverstein. She did, and yes, he did buy art, but kept his collection private. She had been to his place, ten years ago, when he first started buying good art. Did I want her to see if he were still buying art or what was my interest? Mother never did believe in my theory that Karen was murdered, so I said no, do not do any checking on the man. And by the way, copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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she said, there was also a Silverstein who painted - a surrealist, not one of Mother’s favourite art forms - but he was quite good. I shared my news with Stu Carson. Like many other police officers in the metro area, Stu wanted a chance to take a closer look at lawyer Benjamin “Jay” Silverstein. If he could get the investigation reopened, it would give him an excuse to do some digging without worrying about a harassment charge from the lawyer. There had been a change in command in the Toronto Division of the OPP, soon after I left the force, and Stu said the new Superintendent had a reputation for thoroughness. Stu asked if he and I could meet the senior officer to discuss our old case. The appointment was for Monday morning at 7.30. It was an ungodly hour for a meeting, but the Superintendent seemed to have been in his office for a couple of hours before we arrived. He had drunk half a pot of coffee and there was only one file left in his “In” stacker. His tie was already loosened and we saw him fixing it as we approached his office. He had my file on his desk. After a brief introduction, he got right to the point. “What’s this all about, Carlson?” “Sir, just over three years ago, Frank’s wife was killed in what appeared to be a hit and run accident. There were a number of suspicious factors in the death, but we could never find enough evidence to call it homicide, and the file was closed as an accidental death. Frank was never convinced that it was an accident and he kept on digging. Eventually, your predecessor ordered Frank to leave the file alone, partly from pressure brought by our friend Silverstein. Frank couldn’t accept that and left the force. Frank and I are personal friends and he has kept me informed of his own investigation. Until the past week, Frank never really found anything more than what we already knew. The one thing we really lacked three years ago was motive. Frank may have found one.” “So what’s this motive, Mr. Pilger?” The Mr. Pilger was to let me know that I was no longer an officer and was not entitled to very much consideration when it came to giving evidence. “Well, sir,” I said, letting him know that I understood his rules, “I have thought all along that Karen’s death had something to do with the Dali paintings.” “That’s Dali, as in Salvador Dali?” “Yes sir. Karen had developed a technique that she claimed could authenticate Dali’s work. In short, she spotted a couple of fakes that a dealer was trying to sell to the Dali Museum. The deal fell through, costing the dealer several hundred thousand dollars. I had been trying to link that dealer to Karen’s death. I never did find anything substantial enough to bring back to the force.” “And now you have?” “Yes, sir, I think so. On a recent trip to Florida I met someone who works at the Dali Museum. Through her, I met Mr. Morse’s personal assistant. He told me that the exposure of the fakes had much wider repercussion than I had known. Several major galleries had returned paintings that they had either purchased or were considering the return. This would point back at the Montreal dealer. But there was another aspect to the story that I had not considered before. There were at least two and possibly three collectors who bought those fake Dali paintings - and kept them.” “So what has that to do with motive?” “Well, they couldn’t sell those paintings, so they are out of pocket for whatever they paid for them. They also have some paintings that they can not show their friends because of the controversy. I think that these people could be waiting a few years until everything quietens down, then they will put these Dali paintings back on the market.” “And I suppose you have the names of these collectors?” copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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“Yes, and one in particular caught my interest. Our lawyer friend, Jay Silverstein.” “Why do you suspect him more than the others?” “It was Silverstein’s credit card that was used to rent the truck that forced Karen’s car off the road.” “Stu, is that true?” “Yes sir. At the time, we could make no connection. I’m not sure if there is one yet, but I would like to take a closer look at Mr. Silverstein.” “And you want to reopen the file. I see.” The Superintendent thought for a moment. “All right, Stu. I’ll give you one week - no more. I can’t spare anyone to help you, so you’ll have to work alone. And by alone, that means Mr. Pilger stays out of it!” “Yes sir,” Stu said. “Pilger, I’d like a word with you,” the Superintendent said, by way of dismissing Stu. When Stu had closed the door, the Superintendent continued, “I’m only doing this because you were a member of the force. I read the file this morning and I admit there are a number of inconsistencies in the case. What else did you find out while you were in Florida?” “Well, I think I’ve told you everything that has any bearing on the case.” “You are sure?” “Yes sir.” “So tell me then, why did we get information requests from the Chief of Police in Tarpon Springs and from the DEA? Were you working on something down there that you haven’t told us?” “Oh, no, sir. That was something else altogether. I helped a local police officer in apprehending some kids who were doing some small-time drug peddling. I just happened to meet a sponge fisherman who works for the DEA. They must have checked me out because of the arrest of those kids.” “And that is it?” I nodded my head, not wanting to say anything more and maybe jeopardize the chances of Stu being able to work on my case. “You still like police work, Frank?” The question caught me off guard, and before I really thought about it, I said, “Yes sir, I guess I do. It felt good to help officer Besner.” “I see. Your file says that you did mostly forensic work when you were with the force, that you have little street experience.” “Yes sir. I spent only about eight months on patrol, then moved into the other work when they had a sudden opening. My accounting background kept me in forensic work until I left the force.” “You did a little undercover work, too, I recall. Posed as a shady bookkeeper, did some books for an illegal betting operation.” “Yes, that one worked out well in the end.” “Ever think of coming back on the force?” the Super asked. “No, sir, I can’t say as I have.” “Um. Well, you stay out of this investigation. We don’t want any evidence tainted by a prejudiced civilian. And if Silverstein is involved, you can be sure he’ll be watching you.” “Yes sir, I’ll keep clear.” “If Silverstein has one of those fake Dali’s, I would love to embarrass the bastard, even if he has no connection to the case!” He saw my eyebrows rise. “Joe Silverstein and I go back long ways. He and I went to university together. I never liked him there, either. We have always known that Joe has Family connections, but we could never tie anything to him. Now his lawyer son represents the copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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seamier side of our society.” He paused, then caught me off balance again. “How did your wife decide that those paintings were fakes?” “Well, she did a lot of studying and knows a lot about Dali and the way he painted. In fact, she even wrote a paper on Dali.” “Yes, I know. I read that with some interest.” “You read the Dali paper?” I blurted. “Pilger, we police officers aren’t as boring and stodgy as accountants, you know.” He laughed. “I’ve been a Dali fan for years. I am more interested in his writing than his painting, although I do have a small original oil.” That damned Dali connection, again. “You do? Which one?” “Oh, it’s just one of his small landscapes of Port Lligat, nothing of any importance. So, what was the real clue on those fakes?” “It was the Dali glasses, sir. Karen used some special lens - actually a prism - prisms that she said could cause her eyes to see the exact same colour as Dali saw when he painted. The fake was slightly different - and after looking at the one that the gallery in New York was considering, the same difference was obvious to her, so it was not coincidence.” “How did she ever get that idea?” “I think it started out as a comparative study between Dali’s Spanish works and his New York work. She used a spectrograph analysis to prove her point.” “Your wife had a spectrometer?” “Uh, we used the one downtown. When it wasn’t busy, of course.” He laughed. “I’m sure. Well, we’ll have to talk more about this - I’ve got an appointment down at Queen’s Park. You stay out of this investigation - don’t give Silverstein anything he can use as a defence if he is involved.”

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Chapter 8 Spring is a busy time in our accounting office as we prepare all the personal income tax returns that are due by the end of April. Fortunately for us, many of our largest accounts use December 31 as their fiscal year end and that smoothes out the work load. We also prepare the annual personal income tax returns for many of the officers of these corporations, and some of them are complex. It is our job as accountants to find ways to beat the Income Tax Act and yet stay within, or at least near, the confines of the law. Philip is a master at finding new interpretations of the Act that some people call ‘loop-holes’, but he says are ‘opportunities of lax legislation’. Besides keeping one step ahead of the ever-changing tax legislation and unearthing every possible device available for sheltering income, we faced the problems of moving money to other countries to avoid taxes here in Canada. Transferring money to tax havens is not as simple as it sounds, and some of those so-called tax havens do still apply a small tax. Most of our offshore work is done through the Cayman Islands and Dad handles those accounts personally. He was down to the islands this week and I was left with the responsibility of running the office. Not that I had to do very many office administration work because Mary did most of those chores. It was just as well that Mary could handle everything as it turned out. Monday afternoon, about three p.m., I received a call from OPP headquarters. A staff sergeant invited me to meet with Superintendent Gilles at five-thirty. A car would pick me up at four-thirty and return me to the office when the meeting ended. It was the kind of invitation you had to accept. Once you have served in any paramilitary organization, such as the OPP, you quickly learn when you are being ordered to do something - even if it sometimes sounds like a pleasant request. At four o’clock Mary transferred Melissa’s call to my desk. Billy Bob was in the hospital. He had been severely beaten. He was in intensive care, drifting in and out of consciousness. The few words he had been able to speak to Melissa included my name and something about a quarter of a million dollars. Could I come down? I told her I would be on the first flight into Clearwater in the morning. The only thing that I knew about two hundred and fifty thousand dollars was that it was the amount of money that Martin Cosso had placed on deposit with Billy Bob. I called Cosso and after asking how things were going, brought up the matter of the deposit. Had he got his money back? “No, not yet. I don’t know what is going on with that Boyd. I finally had to do something, so I got my lawyer to look after it. Boyd kept saying that there was some statute about moving that kind of money out of the country. Personally, I think he was stalling. That is why I got my lawyer on it.” “Who’s your lawyer, Martin? Maybe I can give him some help.” “J. Silverstein - Yeah, I’m sure he would appreciate anything you could give him about Boyd.” “I’ll be in touch with him,” I said. Precisely at four-thirty, a young man in a sports coat and tie walked into the office and introduced himself as Officer Janes. I told Mary I would be back later and asked her to leave me a note about my flight the next morning. Janes was driving a plain grey Chevrolet Caprice, not a police patrol car. He said we were going to the airport Hilton for the meeting but that is all he knew. He was to wait until I was ready to return to the office. The airport Hilton is a long way from Superintendent Gilles’ office so I was more than slightly curious about the meeting. But my thoughts were mostly with Melissa, wondering what had happened to Billy Bob. The traffic was plugged up along the 401 as usual for this time of day. Janes decided to take the back roads. He knew the area well, and by using laneways and driving through some strip malls, we copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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were soon within sight of the airport runways. As luck would have it though, the traffic on 409 was stopped because of an accident. Janes was patient for a few minutes but when it became obvious that we were going to be late if we did not break free of the traffic, he asked me to get the dashboard light out of the glove compartment. With the red strobe light flashing, we headed down the shoulder of the road, the Chevy bouncing around on its soft suspension. A Peel Regional officer was not inclined to let us through the last hundred yards of tangled vehicles but when Janes showed him his badge and said something about me having to catch a flight, the constable relented. He spoke into his radio to the officer right at the accident scene, saying that we had to get through. A woman constable stopped the tow truck from backing up to clear the wreckage and waved us by. The tired commuters could wait another few minutes. We sped away, the light still flashing until we were out of sight of the accident scene. “I shouldn’t really do that, but there’s no way I am going to deliver you late.” “The meeting is that important?” I asked. “I don’t know about that, but I do know that the Superintendent can be really mean when you are late for a meeting!” At five twenty-eight, Janes knocked on the door of room 403. A scruffy young man opened the door and invited me in. This guy had dirty blonde hair, about a three day’s growth of beard, wore an unmatched jacket and slacks, running shoes and smelled like he needed a good long soak in a hot tub. The remains of a room-service luncheon were scattered about the room. We walked through to the adjoining suite where I saw Gilles talking to another older man. This one had ‘police officer’ written all over him. He had short grey hair, wore a dark blue pinstripe suit and had highly polished black shoes. He stood to greet me and was well over six feet tall. This man had an iron grip and his eyes matched the grip. Hard and cold. “Pilger, this is RCMP Chief Inspector Wilson,” Gilles said. He had dropped the ‘mister’ as if I were one of his officers, not a civilian. “Pleased to meet you, sir,” I said, straightening to attention as if I were an officer, not a civilian. “And this is Fred Smith who is with the DEA.” “Mister Smith,” I said, offering my hand and wondering if this guy was as filthy as he looked or if he did bathe once in a while. “Frank, good to meet you,” he said. So they had been talking about me and I had achieved a first name basis with the American, if not my fellow Canadians. Gilles took the cue to be personable and said, “Frank, we have a situation that seems to have some connection to what you were telling me the other day. I will remind you that you are still sworn under the Official Secrets Act,” he paused until I nodded my affirmation. “You mentioned that you were working with a Billy Bob Boyd when you were in Florida?” “Yes, that’s correct.” Never volunteer information, rule No. 3 in the OPP. “How much money was involved?” “Well, my deposit was $25,000. That money has since been returned because the land deal did not go through.” “Well, hell,” Mr. Smith said. “That wouldn’t be enough money to get anybody’s interest.” “You’re right, Fred,” said Inspector Wilson. “That amount doesn’t nearly match what our informant told us.” “Does this Boyd appear to have a lot of money?” Gilles asked me. “No, not really. His wife works and they live in a nice place, but no, I’d say they didn’t have a copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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lot of money to spare. He drives an old Caddy and she has a small car. He does gamble quite a bit though,” I added, forgetting rule number 3. “I understand you had a hand in an arrest while you were down there,” Fred said. “Well, a small part.” “You got to meet the Chief of Police too, I hear.” “Yeah. Seemed a little shady from what I heard and saw,” I said. Rule No. 4 - offer a little information if you are fishing for more. I wanted to know what these people were up to, why they had called me into this meeting. “Look, Pilger,” Gilles said, “We got a tip that a fairly large sum of Canadian money has been laundered and has found its way into a drug buy. Your friend Boyd seems to be at the centre of it.” “About two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?” I asked. “Yes. How did you know?” Wilson asked. “That’s the amount of the deposit Cosso gave Boyd for the land purchase.” “That would be the Cosso who is the manager of Upper Canada Mall in Newmarket?” Wilson asked. I nodded. “And Boyd knows Chief Daryl,” Fred Smith commented. “From what you know of Boyd, do you think he could be fronting money for a drug purchase?” “Hell, I don’t know. I doubt it. He seemed like a straight enough guy to me. Unless he has gambling debts that Melissa doesn’t know about.” “Melissa?” asked Wilson. “Billy Bob’s wife. I met her when I was down there. We golfed a couple of times.” “Any chance you could find out more about Boyd from his wife,” Fred asked. “Well, I could try, I guess. I’m going down there tomorrow morning.” “Another business trip?” Gilles asked. “No. Actually, I’m going down to see how Billy Bob is doing. Melissa asked me to come.” “What do you mean - how he’s doing?” “He’s in the hospital - intensive care. Somebody beat the hell out him.” The three men looked at one another. “How bad is he?” Fred asked. “Melissa said he was only conscious for a short time after they brought him in. He mumbled something to her about the quarter of a million and my name. That’s why she called me.” “I wonder why he would mention your name if you had nothing to do with the money,” the Chief Inspector said. “I don’t know. Maybe he thought I had something to do with the Cosso deal, although I made it very clear to him at the time that I didn’t.” “Just what is your connection with Martin Cosso?” Gilles asked me. I had not mentioned Cosso’s first name at any time. So they knew something about Cosso that they were not letting on to me. “Our firm represents Upper Canada Mall Limited. Martin Cosso is the general manager of the mall. We were engaged to look for some property in Florida where Upper Canada could expand its operation into the States. Martin had some investors who were interested in developing a subdivision near the mall. Who his investors were, I never knew, nor asked, since the firm did not represent them.” “You have no other connection with Martin Cosso?” “Well, we do his personal income tax, but that’s it.” copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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“And does he have the income to be involved in a quarter of a million-dollar property deal?” Gilles asked. “You know that information is confidential.” “You might as well tell us - we can always get it from Ottawa,” the RCMP man prompted. “Sorry. Ethics. Get it from Revenue Canada, if you can.” I knew from past experiences that getting personal information from Revenue Canada was not that easy. The Inspector did not approve of my stance but Fred Smith cut in before he could say anything more. “Frank, it makes sense that a mall manager doesn’t have that kind of money. We think he laundered some mob money. We think that Billy Bob tried to do a quick turnover with that money in a proposed drug buy - probably involving a dirty cop in Florida.” “Chief Daryl,” I said. Nobody denied it. “I wonder if the Chief and Billy Bob knew that it was mob money?” “Maybe not. We think the drug purchase is due within the next three days, but we haven’t figured out how the drugs are coming in.” “And you wanted me to find out from Billy Bob what was going on?” “Yes. We need a link to him. We don’t have enough time to establish anyone with him before this delivery. It may be a one-time shot unless they put the profits back into the business. Chief Daryl is getting nervous and we think he’s about to skip the country. We’d like to nail him before that happens,” Fred said. “It might be hard to get anything from Billy Bob if he’s in as bad a shape as Melissa said - even if I agreed to help you.” “Of course you’ll help us!” Gilles said. “Superintendent, there is one thing I learned when I was on the force. Never become an informant. They are the first ones to get hurt. Sorry, I’m not interested in that.” “I see.” He paused for a minute then dropped the other shoe. “It’s okay for you, a civilian, to come to me and ask to reopen the investigation into your wife’s death, but when we want a favour, it’s different.” “Yes, it is different. Karen was murdered and you people wouldn’t dig deep enough at the time to get the evidence to prove it was homicide,” I said, losing my cool and speaking a little louder than I should have. Now I had irritated both of the Canadian policemen. “Anybody want a coffee?” Fred Smith, the DEA agent asked. “No, but I could use a drink,” the Chief Inspector said. Gilles got up from the armchair he had been lounging in and dialled room service. “Send up half a dozen cold beers. Room 403.” “Frank, would you mind stepping into the other room for a minute?” Gilles said when he put down the telephone. I left the suite and took the opportunity to use the washroom in the adjoining room. I did want to help. I was as much against drugs as anyone. If Cosso was laundering money for the mob, then that would be a bonus. I had never liked Martin Cosso from the first time I saw him. Even the local mafia boys would feel the loss of a quarter of a million dollars. But I did not want to become an informant. If I did it once, they would have me on the hook, and I knew how poorly informants were respected. I found myself wondering what it would be like to be in on this drug bust. More exciting that doing tax returns – there was no doubt about that. And I really had enjoyed working with Harry Besner the morning we busted those kids. There was a knock on the door and I answered it. It was room service with the cold beers. The copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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bill was for thirty dollars. There was some heated discussion going on in the other room so I fished out thirty-five dollars for the kid and took the beer. I twisted the cap off the Molson Export and took a long draught from the bottle. The beer was really cold and it felt good, cooling and tingling all the way down. I preferred Upper Canada Ale, but this was not bad. The voices dropped in the other room so I finished my beer and opened the door saying, “The beer is here.” “Okay, bring it in, Frank.” The Superintendent was back to calling me by my first name. The three men each took a bottle and I had my second one. “Cheers,” I said. “Hmm. Not bad,” The American said. “I always liked your Canadian beer. It has a little sharper taste than ours.” “More alcohol content, too” Wilson said. “I find I can drink about twice as many American beers as I can Canadian. Mind you, now I find that half a dozen is my limit.” “Yeah, I don’t have the capacity I used to have, either,” Gilles said. “I think it’s more the heat down south that makes the American beer go down so easily.” We chit chatted for a few minutes about the quality of beer and our favourite brands, then Superintendent Gilles made his offer. “Frank, would you consider working as an officer for us? I could sign you on as ‘temporary duty’ - say for 30 days. You would have all the rights of a regular officer for that time.” “You can do that?” I asked. “Sure. We do that all the time for police from other jurisdictions. It covers them with all the same insurance as a regular officer, and gives them all the powers as well. It’s normal practice for embassy security staff, people like that.” “So you would sign me up, as sort of a deputy officer, that right?” “Yes, something like that.” “But you want me to work in the States. Is Fred here going to sign me up too?” “I won’t have to. You won’t have any arresting powers in Florida, but since you will be an official police officer, you will be able to carry a gun and work with us,” Fred said. “Carry a gun? Hell, I thought you just wanted some information.” “Well, if what we think is true, you may feel more comfortable carrying a gun. There are some very bad players in the drug business. It’s up to you.” “So let me get this straight. You want me to find out if Billy Bob was using laundered money for a drug purchase. You want to catch the drug peddlers and maybe the Chief of Police of Tarpon Springs. Anything else?” “That should do it,” Gilles said. “Who is my contact down there? Fred?” “No, you had better work with Vic Penelopolous. My cover is in St. Pete’s.” “Okay. Do I report directly to you, Superintendent?” “Yes. But if you can’t get me in an emergency, you can talk to Detective Sergeant Carson - I’ll brief him in the morning.” So Stu had a hand in this recruitment, too. “Okay. I have to catch the first flight out in the morning. How are we going to get the paperwork done? I’m definitely not doing this without something in writing.” Gilles snapped open the briefcase that had been lying on the side table. “I just happen to have some forms with me, already made out,” he smiled. “Quite sure of me, weren’t you,” I said. “After the way you talked in the office the other morning, I thought I could persuade you. Here, copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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sign by the X’s on all the copies. I glanced at the forms and signed. I had to get moving. There was packing to do and I was sure that I would have to do a laundry in order to have enough clean shirts. “Do I get some kind of ID?” I asked. “I pulled your old card from the file. It will do until you get back.” This Gilles was thorough. I wondered what else he knew about me. He handed me my old badge and ID. Number 13067, Frank Pilger, Constable, Ontario Provincial Police.

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Chapter 9 Billy Bob was in the intensive care unit at Tarpon Springs General Hospital. He had not regained consciousness since Melissa called me and it appeared now that he would not recover. His mother had flown in from Wisconsin and his brother was due in from L.A. that morning. Melissa was exhausted, but wanted to stay at the hospital until her brother-in-law arrived to be with the elderly Mrs. Boyd. The old lady looked frail and suffered from arthritis and I could see why Melissa did not want to leave her alone. I offered to stay so Melissa could get some rest, but this was a time for family and close friends, not strangers. About two o’clock a uniformed police officer arrived and stationed himself outside the room. He would not talk, of course, but I knew that something serious had come up to place security on a hospital ward. Someone was concerned that a further attempt might be made on Billy Bob. Or maybe the Chief of Police didn’t want anyone talking to Billy Bob Boyd. I managed to get a call through to Harry Besner to see if he knew anything. He had heard of the beating but could offer me no additional information. I decided to drop over to the Tarpon Springs police headquarters and see if Chief Parks was in. Maybe he would tell me more about the case. For it had to have some implication beyond a mugging if they had an officer posted at the hospital. Perhaps here was the lead that the DEA had been looking for in the drug investigation. The Chief was busy and I had to wait about ten minutes before I could see him. He recognized me but seemed puzzled to my presence until I said I was a friend of Billy Bob Boyd. “Oh, yes, that’s right, you do know Billy Bob, don’t you,” he said. “Yes, we were doing a real estate deal together. I came down to see him about returning a deposit. When I arrived, he was in the hospital.” “Yeah, it looks like somebody beat him with a baseball bat and then robbed him.” “Uh, Chief,” I said, “I understand you saying it looks like a robbery, but I’ve been around police work enough to know that you don’t post a guard on somebody’s room without a reason.” “Oh, yeah. I forgot that you used to be a cop. I never did ask you why you left the force,” he said. “Well, let’s just say we had a difference of opinion on some finer points of law. I quit before they asked me to leave,” I said, thinking that maybe I should hint at being just a little on the wrong side of the force. “I see. And you said you had to see Billy Bob about a deposit. Did he owe you money?” “The deal we were working on fell through, and he was supposed to send back the deposit. There seemed to be some delay in getting the money back, and since it’s a substantial amount, I came down to see what the matter was. It doesn’t look like he’s going to be talking for a while, if ever.” “Yeah, the doc said it looked very bad.” “So why the guard on the door?” “Well, we think we have one of the perpetrators in custody. Two men who were travelling together were stopped at the Clearwater airport for a routine inspection. Something panicked them and they made a run for it. The security staff caught one of them. We did his fingerprints and found that he’s wanted in Canada on an assault and attempted murder warrant. We dusted Billy Bob’s car and found matching prints. The guy won’t talk until he has a lawyer present so we are just letting him cool his heels. He insists that he call his lawyer in Canada but we’ve been delaying the call, hoping we can find his friend.” copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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“So Billy Bob wasn’t mugged, somebody was trying to murder him?” I asked. “Well, from the injuries, I think they were just trying to beat him up, but he took a knock on the head that caused more damage than they may have intended.” “Why do you say that?” “The doc says that the blows to his legs and arm were violent - broke both legs and fractured the arm. If the same force had been used on the skull, it would have killed him. No, the bruises on the upper body are more in line with a roughing-up than an attempt to kill him. Looks like Billy Bob had an old injury that weakened his skull and that might have contributed to the severity of the head wound. We’ve asked for his army records, just to check.” “Jesus, a freakin’ accident!” “Maybe. I wonder why anybody would come all the way down from Canada to lay a beating on a real estate agent?” The Chief looked at me as if I might be a suspect. Or was he just casting around for more information, trying to see if I knew more than I was telling. “Hey, it’s got nothing to do with me. True, he owed me some money, but I never thought there would be a problem getting that straightened out. Just some paperwork, from what he told me over the telephone,” I lied. “Well, I guess you won’t be able to do much about that until he recovers, will you?” That sounded like the Chief was fishing for something - maybe time - time to get the quarter of a million back into Billy Bob’s trust account. “No, I guess I’ll wait a couple of days to see if he recovers. Then I’ll have to get a court order or something to get my money.” He looked a little relieved. “I’m sure it will all work out,” he said, picking up some papers that indicated the interview was over. I thanked him for his time and left. Melissa, Mother Boyd and Charles Boyd, Billy Bob’s brother, and I dined together that night at the Olive Garden. The doctor had said that if Billy Bob was going to come out of it, it would be in the next two days. Seventy-two hours was not unusual for a coma, but longer than that and the doctor would have to consider additional surgery. We were a subdued party that night and I was relieved when I finally dropped Charles and his mother off at the motel. Melissa had said that I could use the guest room since the Boyds had preferred to stay at a motel, but for the sake of appearances I thought it better not to stay at the house. The Best Western was full but I did get a room at the Econo Lodge right next door. I called Harry Besner and told him where I was staying in case he heard anything about the case. He said the second suspect was still at large but they had a picture of him from the security camera at the airport. They were checking with the RCMP. I then called Stu, wanting to find out if there were any instructions from Gilles on the drug thing, but Stu was out - bowling night. I began to wonder how Billy Bob, William Robert, his mother called him, had turned the deposit cheque into cash for a drug purchase. Normally, he would just have the certified cheque deposited into the company’s trust account or hold it in the office safe if the transaction was going to take place in a few days. Billy Bob must have cashed Cosso’s cheque but put the money into his own account. And then used that money for the drug purchase. So someone had to be holding the money. Chief Parks looked like the candidate to me. Somewhere there was a paper trail of that money. Paper trails were my business, but here in the States I would have no access to Billy Bob’s books. Melissa would, but only if he died or was declared incompetent to manage his own affairs. If the money went through the real estate company, copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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it would leave an easy trail for any accountant to follow. If Billy Bob had used his own bank account to cash and then withdraw the money, that in itself would be a challenge. Of course, if he had the right connections, he wouldn’t even need a bank. There would be little problem in taking some American dollars that had been freshly laundered in Canada and exchanging them for some dirty U.S. dollars. The drug cartel would be most happy to have a fresh influx of clean money. The chances that the DEA had ever touched this money would be nil. Street money could be marked and traced and the DEA was filtering in more and more marked bills that could be evidence if found in the wrong hands at the right time. So if my premise was right, Billy Bob had turned the cheque for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars into cash by moving the deposit around in smaller units and withdrawing cash from several banks. I needed to find his bank. I needed Melissa’s help. But this was no time to tell her that I suspected that her dying husband was involved in drug trafficking. Fred Smith, or whatever his real name was, suspected that this drug deal was going down soon. Chief Parks seemed satisfied that he had a few days before that money had to be replaced. It would take him a day or two to put the drugs into the hands of the street dealers and get their money. That meant the drug deal had to go down in the next 24 hours. Then it dawned on me. I had not been present when Cosso and Billy Bob had made their deal. I had assumed that Cosso gave Boyd a cheque, but what if the transaction had been in real dollars? How would anyone track that kind of money? True, the banks in Canada were supposed to record any cash transactions of over $10,000, but what about the banks in Florida? If the Trust companies were not regulated here as they were in Canada, there might not be much of a trail to follow. Cosso had been on his own after I left him and Billy Bob to make their deal, and I had not seen him again that week. Perhaps the Family had an account here in Florida that they could draw on and Martin had used that as his source of funds. Maybe Cosso did not even need a bank, just a phone number or an address. Maybe that was why Martin Cosso did not want me to try to collect his money from Boyd. The next morning I was waiting at Lenny’s for the doors to open at six. By six-fifteen I was finished my plate of pancakes, had a coffee to go and was headed for Tarpon Springs to see if I could catch Vic Penelopolous before he sailed. The Pellas was just coming to life. Old Charlie was idling the engines and John, the deck hand was taking the canvas off the deck winches. Vic was in the cabin working on some papers when I rapped on the door. “Frank! Good to see you. How have you been?” “Hi, Vic,” I said, shaking his hand. “I’m fine. How’s everyone here? Is your father okay? He was partying pretty hard the other night!” “Sure, he’s over at the restaurant already. He’s preparing the lamb for today’s special. You should try it. Nobody does lamb like my Dad.” “Maybe I will. Listen, have you talked to Fred Smith lately?” “Who the hell is Fred Smith?” “He’s the DEA guy I met in Toronto. A short, wiry fellow - about thirty-five. Maybe five foot eight, reddish hair. Scar on his left cheek.” “Fred Smith!” Vic laughed. “What was he doing in Canada? And why were you talking to him?” I told Vic the whole story, including my recent conversation with Chief Daryl Parks. “So you think that they must be making their buy today or tonight?” “That’s my guess. Do you have any way of contacting Fred?” “His name is Howard. Yes, I can try, but he is working under cover, and he may not get the copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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message. What I do know is that we think the drugs are coming ashore just south of here, on Honeymoon Island.” Vic led me over to his chart. “There is an old cottage on the Gulf side, in around the Pelican Point. We think the stuff has come in both by aircraft and by water.” He went to the console and picked up the latest Met forecast. “The weather is deteriorating later today, so flying could be out.” He thought for a moment then asked me for a phone number where I could be reached. He would keep the Pellas out tonight and run a radar picket just off Pelican Point. He would notify the DEA and the Coast Guard that we suspected a drug run tonight. Honeymoon Island had only one bridge access, but unless they tried to move the drugs inland, it would be impossible to search for them once they were ashore. “Maybe I should try to put some pressure on Parks by letting him know that I am starting legal action to get that money. Maybe that would force his hand. What do you think, Vic?” “I think that maybe you might get yourself into trouble. We don’t want a Canadian civilian getting hurt.” I pulled out my old ID and showed it to him. “I’ve been reinstated as a police officer on a temporary basis. Don’t worry about me. There’s nothing I would like to do better than nail that crooked cop.” “Yeah. But don’t you move unless you have someone from DEA with you. The code name of this operation is ‘Tango Sierra’. One of the Sierra group will contact you if they want you to pressure Chief Parks.” I left the Pellas as Vic was telling his crew that they might be staying out all night. John was dispatched to the restaurant for some more sandwich fixings and another pound of coffee, and I walked with him. “It would be nice to catch these guys,” he said. “We’ve been close a couple of times but something worked against us each time. The last time the helicopter broke down! The Navy had tracked this plane all the way from Columbia. Then when we get them almost into the net, we lose them.” “You figure this is a large operation?” I asked. “Yeah, we think they are supplying everything from St. Pete’s right up the coast, maybe even as far as Tallahassee.” “But that would take more money than what we are tracking,” I said. “Perhaps, but we heard rumours that this gang is trying to get a foothold in Jacksonville. Maybe they are financing a new branch with this as seed money. How much is it?” “A quarter of a million,” I said. “That’s enough. At this level, that buys a lot of drugs. At the street level, we’re talking probably four million dollars. Yes, that’s enough to attract some big fish.” I picked Melissa up at nine and we went to the hospital. There was no change in Billy Bob’s condition so I left Melissa there and went to pick up Mrs. Boyd and Charles. Everyone seemed to be handling things better after a night’s sleep so I left them at the hospital, saying I would be back at noon and take them all to lunch. Melissa gave me her house key because I wanted to take a look around for any clue as to what Billy Bob might have done with the money. I told her that I was just looking for some clue or reason why her husband had been attacked and she seemed to accept that. I found nothing at all. But in my search I began to believe my theory that maybe Billy Bob had not done the bank transfers. What if he had simply given the money to Parks? Parks wouldn’t give a receipt for the money, of course, but Billy Bob still had to get that money from the office trust fund if it had ever been deposited in the fund - a possibility I had not thought of before now. The Trust copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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Fund would be the place to look, but I would need a court order to do that. And I would never get a court order because this was Martin Cosso’s problem, not mine. But Parks did not know that yet. I called my hotel to see if there were any messages, but no one had called. Back at the hospital, the family had met with the doctor and the prognosis was not any better. If Billy Bob did not show some sign of improvement by that evening, they thought they should operate early next morning to try to relieve some of the pressure that was slowly building around his brain. The doctor asked Melissa to be at the hospital about seven that evening. The four of us went for lunch at the El Grotto. Mr. Penelopolous was at his customary post, running the cash register and greeting guests. Obviously, he knew Melissa from previous visits to his restaurant. He greeted her with a hug and said how sorry he was to hear about Billy Bob. Melissa introduced Mrs. Boyd and Charles and was about to introduce me, but Mr. Penelopolous had already recognized me as the fellow with the Greek greetings vocabulary. “Kaleesprayah, Frank! Good to see you again!” “Kaleesprayah, Stavros,” I said, shaking his hand. “I was talking to Vic this morning and he said you were in preparing the lamb for today’s special.” “Oh, so you spoke to Victor. Good, good. Yes, we have an excellent special today. Come, I’ll get you a good table by the window,” he said, leading us away to the back of the restaurant. Without our asking, Stavros reappeared with a bottle of wine and five glasses. He poured four for us, then a small amount in his own glass. “Here’s to my friend, Billy Bob. May he soon get well!” We all lifted our glasses, although I noticed that Mrs. Boyd only sipped at her wine. “I’ll place your order. If you want anything else, just ask Myrna - she’ll be your waitress.” And away he hustled to meet another group of customers at the front. “Is the wine okay, Mrs. Boyd or would you prefer a coffee?” I asked. “Oh, the wine is all right. I normally don’t have anything this early in the day, that’s all.” “It will do you good, Mother. Just relax and enjoy your lunch,” Charles said, sipping his wine again. “This is not a bad wine. A little sharper than our California wine, but not bad. Are we getting menus or does the young woman just tell us what is on the menu today?” he asked. “We always just take whatever Stavros has as the daily special. It’s always good - and always a surprise,” Melissa explained. “Frank, how did you meet Stavros?” “Billy Bob and I were here for lunch one day. Remember me telling you that I was going sponge fishing? I went with Stavros’ son, Victor.” I got a big kick out of explaining all my newly acquired knowledge of sponge fishing to the Boyds, and so we passed a pleasant hour, talking and eating. After lunch, I dropped Melissa and Mrs. Boyd off at the hospital, then drove Charles to the Dollar car rental so he could have his own car. It looked like they might be here for a few more days no matter how things turned out for Billy Bob, and they did not want to bother me or Melissa for rides. The weather was slowly turning miserable and it looked as if it might begin to rain any moment. I went back to my motel, thinking that I might as well have a nap, since it could turn out to be a long evening if I stayed with Melissa. She might have to make some tough decisions concerning an operation on her husband, and I wanted to be there to comfort her. I sat on the balcony, smoking my new pipe, trying to figure out just what had really happened with this whole tangle of events surrounding me. Having no success, I knocked the dottle out of the pipe and opted for the nap. I had just closed my eyes when there was a rap at my door. It could not be the housekeeping staff, since it copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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looked as if everything in the room had been done. I was not expecting anyone else, so I checked through the fish-eye. It was Fred Smith. He slipped inside and immediately drew the curtains completely closed. “I got your message. I think you’re right about the stuff coming in tonight. I expect I’ll be asked to drive the truck tonight, but so far, Big Al hasn’t said anything to me. But that doesn’t mean much he never tells anybody anything in advance. “Big Al?” I asked. “Yeah, that’s the dealer I’m working on. If we can get him tonight, we’ll have enough on him to put him away for a few years.” “What about Parks?” “That’s why I want to talk to you. I think if we leave Parks alone this time, he may point us at somebody else - somebody up the ladder. Big Al is a good catch, but he’s not the head man in this ring. Parks may know who it is. If we can bait him one more time, we might be able to bring the whole thing down.” “Just where do I fit into this?” “I was thinking that if you could somehow get Parks to buy some more time from that Cosso fellow, he might raise some more money for the next buy. If we get this shipment, he’ll have to get another supply fast, or his junkies will run out and start looking somewhere else for the goods.” “I see. So if I could somehow drop a hint that maybe he should talk directly to Cosso about the delay in the money, he might bite. But how do I make the connection between Billy Bob and the Chief?” “I’m not sure, but don’t push it. He may come to you if he thinks he can buy you into this. Your record at the OPP now shows dishonourable discharge in case he tries to get a little more background on you. Apparently you got caught gambling.” “That’s convenient. Maybe I could get the Chief to place a bet or two for me. I know where Billy Bob used to bet.” “Okay, it’s not much, but try that.” “You know, I wonder if I told him that Billy Bob had mentioned his name and the money when he was conscious for a minute or two . . . that might shake him up, but if I suggested that I was prepared to listen . . .” “That might get you in a little deeper than you want. But it could still be our best bet.” He thought for a moment. “No, that is too risky. Maybe you could suggest that he talk directly to Cosso and that way keep you out of it. I gathered you fellows think that this Cosso may be involved in some shady stuff?” “I don’t know the man that well. The RCMP seemed to be on his case the other day. You’re right, I think I’d better try that approach. In fact, maybe I can get Cosso to buy into the deal with even more money.” “Okay, you can try that angle. If you have any information you want to get to me, tell Victor. I’ve got to get moving.”

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Chapter 10 Billy Bob never recovered from the surgery. He died about two hours after leaving the operating room. The surgeon assured Melissa that he would not have survived without the operation and even if he had, he would have extensive brain damage. I stayed on in Clearwater another three days for the funeral and to see that Melissa was going to be okay. Her sister was spending a week with her and I hoped that would get her through the worst period. I remembered that it took me a lot longer to come to grips with Karen’s death, but then, I had always thought that maybe I just didn’t cope as well with the death of a spouse as would most other people. I suppose that is another facet of my personality. I was not one to brag about what I considered my minor accomplishments and similarly, I judged myself harder on any shortcomings I had. Perhaps this was all a result of growing up without any praise for the little things that I did when I was a child. Mother was always too busy with other things and Philip was never there. I was beginning to see how Dali must have felt about his father and why he felt he needed reconciliation in his later years. Perhaps I was entering the same phase of my life now, a phase where I was trying to understand my parents. I wondered if Dali ever did have that reconciliation or did Gala draw him away from his past? But it was Gala who took him back to his religion. Maybe all life was just a cycle, everything coming around and around and around. Things that happened to one person would happen again to someone else. Was it my turn now with Philip? The funeral service was held in a large chapel at the All Faiths Funeral Home and was one of the more unusual funeral services I had ever attended. I had not known that Billy Bob and Melissa were atheists since we had never talked about religion in our few outings together. I do not like funerals. I especially do not like seeing a body laid out for public viewing. When Karen died, I insisted on a closed casket ceremony and only allowed a church service because of Karen’s family. Karen was more agnostic than atheist and had attended church whenever her mother came to visit us, so the Anglican minister at least knew Karen. I spoke with him before the service and made clear my Humanist feelings and I have to admit, the man did tone down the dogma quite a bit. Karen’s mother has not spoken to me since. There were close to two hundred people at Billy Bob’s service. The man was obviously well liked in his community and there was a great deal of sympathetic emotions expressed for Melissa. Certainly that solidarity of community feeling helps in the grieving process. Several men stood at the front of the hall and spoke of their friendship and memories of Billy Bob. Chief Daryl Parks was one of them, and I must admit I had a little more respect for the man after hearing him talk about his friend. He may have been a crooked cop, but he was a man who at this time of grieving, expressed his feelings very well for the loss of a friend. Thankfully, there was no casket, just an arrangement of flowers that, as Mrs. Boyd said, was one of the great pleasures of William Robert’s life. Mrs. Boyd expressed her sorrow at losing a son, but said she would remember him as the boy and a man who had always loved life and lived it the way he felt was best. Billy Bob’s brother, Charlie, talked a little about what life had meant to a Humanist like Billy and I think that helped some of the religious folk understand why they were not being treated to a sermon about the life everlasting and meeting together on the other side of Jordan. Charlie closed the service by inviting everyone over to Melissa’s for refreshments. He said that the music they would hear as they now left the hall would be one of Billy Bob’s favourites and a piece, he thought, that said it all for his brother. We left the Funeral Home chapel to the sounds of Mason William’s Classical Gas. The drug bust was a partial success. The DEA tracked the boat coming into Honeymoon Island copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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and they waited while the drug smugglers off-loaded their cargo so they could catch the buyers. The boat was apprehended on the way back into the Gulf by a Coast Guard cutter. The boat was a 36-foot day cruiser that had been pirated and it was seized, along with a substantial amount of cash. Onshore, the drugs had been off-loaded into two waiting trucks. One was stopped and seized but the other one mysteriously eluded the police. Parks was not arrested and it seemed that the one truck had enough drugs so Parks could recover the quarter of a million dollars he had sunk into the shipment. I had given him Cosso’s phone number, telling him that I was going back to Canada, but would be back in a couple of weeks to get a court order to find where Billy Bob had put the trust money. Back home, I reported to Superintendent Gilles and told him I would be going back to Florida in about ten days, as soon as my father returned from the Caymans. Stu Carson had not done any work on Karen’s case because there had been a murder/suicide that he had to handle. I dug into the paper work back at the office and really did not think too much about anything other than tax returns for a week. Melissa called and she sounded a little shaky, but understandably so, after the week she had just had. Melissa told me that the Real Estate office had given her all of Billy Bob’s personal effects and a form to claim his life insurance. Apparently Billy Bob had bet against the insurance company and had recently increased his coverage to a million dollars with a double indemnity clause. Melissa stood to get a two million-dollar settlement from the insurance. I now knew a wealthy widow, and I just happened to like her very much. I asked if Chief Parks had called but she said no. When she asked why I had mentioned him, I told her that I would explain it all when I came down. Monday morning Dad was back at work and I told him all about my recent experiences. He listened to it all without comment until I was finished and then said, “You’re not thinking of going back to the police force, are you?” “What makes you ask that? Of course not!” “Well, Frank, I haven’t seen you so interested and excited about anything in three years. Maybe this bookkeeping business isn’t your cup of tea.” “Hey, Dad, you know I like this work. It’s interesting - maybe not quite as exciting as police work - but it has its advantages. I still search for clues, track down missing or hidden information, and meet some interesting people. I get to keep my own hours, I have time to golf and fish. If I ever marry again, I would have a better family life. No, I’m happy here.” “If you ever marry again? Have you found someone?” “Well, not really. I think I’ve found a very good friend in Melissa, and that has opened my eyes.” “What about this woman Nancy?” “Well, we’re seeing each other quite often, but I don’t know just yet. I think I can finally handle my feelings about Karen now. She will always be a part of my life, but a part that I can now put behind me.” “Yes, that’s what you should do. You know, Frank, I have always envied you and your police work. In a way you were fulfilling a fantasy of mine - to be a cop.” “You’re kidding me,” I said in disbelief. “No, it’s true. I got into the accounting business and it was an easy living, but when I was young, I had dreamed of becoming a police officer. I have regretted not following my heart many times, but when you joined the force, it was as if I finally had a small part of my dream.” “So all the kidding I took about being ‘Mr. Detective’ was really a sign of approval?” “Yes, I suppose so. And now I can see how much your involvement these past few weeks has copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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meant to you. There is a sparkle in your eye that hasn’t been there for a few years. Or is it that young woman who has put it there?” “Jeez, Philip, I’ve just met her. We’re not getting married just yet!” He paused for a moment, then continued, “Frank, there’s something I have to tell you, speaking of marriage. You Mother and I are filing uncontested divorce papers later this week.” “Divorce? Why? What’s happened now? Why not just separate if you don’t want to live together?” “Well, I plan to remarry.” “You what?” Dad got up from his chair and walked around the desk to his window that looked out over the small park behind the office. “I should have done this years ago, but somehow I kept putting it off, making excuses. Your mother says she isn’t interested in marrying again, all she wants from me is an income that will keep her comfortable for the rest of her life. I have the money to do that - have had it for years - but I never stopped working long enough to see that time was flying by. Mary has never pressured me, but now it is time.” “Mary? Our Mary?” “Yes, of course. Who did you think I was talking about?” “Well, I never thought . . . you mean you and Mary . . . is this something sudden?” “Sudden!” he laughed. “Frank, Mary and I have been in love for thirty years!” “Well, that’s the best kept secret I ever heard of. I never even guessed that there was anything between you two. I mean, I know she looked after you here at the office, but . . .” “Well, Mr. Detective, you had no cause to look for anything, did you?” “No. Mary has always been like a mother to me. More than Mother, when I think of it. But, were you two, I mean, when did you?” “Frank, Frank,” he laughed. “Don’t be embarrassed. Sure we had sex. Wednesday nights, the Country Club nights? And I never did attend half of those Lions Club meetings.” “And Mother never knew?” “Oh, I think she knew all right. We never said anything about it, but women know. I still loved your mother, in a way, and that’s all she wanted. She was never particularly interested in sex after your brother died. As long as I was discreet, and there was nothing to mar her social life, she never cared.” “Well, discreet you were. I would never have guessed. Mary! I don’t believe this. Wait until the next time she ribs me about my sex life! All these years I thought she was an old maid!” Tuesday, about eleven, Mary transferred a call from Martin Cosso to my office. He asked if we could do lunch, but I told him I had a previous engagement. He suggested coffee at three in his office. When I asked if we could not discuss our business on the phone, he said he preferred not to. It was about the deposit he had paid Billy Bob. I said I would be there at three. I sat after we shook hands and Cosso got right to the point. “I got a phone call from the Chief of Police in Tarpon Springs. He asked if you were representing me.” Cosso seemed a little nervous, as though we were in danger of being overheard. “No, I never actually said that I represented you, but I may have given him that impression. I knew that you were concerned about getting your deposit back, so I told him that I was just down to check something else and was making inquiries. I thought it might help you out, that’s all. Is anything wrong?” copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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“He said you were coming back to get a court order to look at Billy Bob’s books.” “Well, I knew that was what you would have to do since the money was in a trust account. I am going down on some other business and I thought I could help speed things along for you. Why, did I say something I shouldn’t have?” “Well, no, I guess not. I never denied that you were working with me, so I guess we’re okay on that. I still haven’t got the money, but the Chief said not to worry, that he would see that I had the money, cash - in two weeks - with interest.” He again looked around the room. “That’s odd. I never heard of the police having anything to do with that end of things. Usually it’s the State Attorney’s Office - maybe things are different down there.” “You met this Parks. What is he like?’ “Well, I hardly know him. Seemed okay, I guess. He was a friend of Billy Bob. I think they both gambled quite a bit. No, I really can’t say anything about him, one way or the other.” “Well, the people who put up that money for the deposit are a little concerned. I just thought I would ask you if you had any feelings about this cop.” “Well, Martin, I don’t know what his connection is to that money, but I can ask him again when I go down this weekend. Do you want me to follow it up?” “No. No, I may go down myself before then. Maybe see if I have to get a lawyer or whatever. Thanks for your help, Frank.” “That’s okay, no problem,” I said, getting up to leave. “Oh, and Frank - this is just between us, eh?” “Sure,” I said. Between us, the OPP, the RCMP and the DEA, I thought. I had planned to work late that night, but I thought I should visit my mother. I wanted to see how she was taking the divorce. Not that we were that close anymore, or ever had been, but this might be one of the more traumatic events in her life, and I was her only surviving child. I knew Philip would not be home since he and Mary were dining out and I wanted to talk to Mother alone. Dad had said that he would provide for Mother but she was entitled to a large share of his money under the Family Law Act. I did not want to take sides, but I suspected that Dad would look after his interests quite capably; Mother’s, I was not so sure of. She had always taken a rather off-handed view of the family finances and she might not realize just how much the business was worth. We had a pleasant evening together. I was surprised to find out that Mother had obtained some informal legal advice from a lawyer friend, Bernard, and knew what she could do. However, she had agreed to the proposal that Father had made her. I looked it over and it was generous. There was enough money in an annuity that Mother could certainly live well for the rest of her life. There were no stipulations about her remarriage, as is common in these arrangements, and I soon found out why. Mother and the lawyer had been seeing each other for the last couple of years and it was Mother who had asked for the divorce. Yes, she knew about Mary. “Frank, there is something I almost forgot,” she said as I was putting on my overcoat. “I know you told me not to dig into Silverstein’s art collection, but I was curious to see some of his son’s work in his house. Did you know that his son, Jay, has a studio and regularly sells his work?” “No, I didn’t,” I said. “Well, Marnie, my maid, has a friend who is a friend of the lady who cleans Silverstein’s big house. She says he has a whole section of the house locked off. None of them ever get in there, but one day when the security company was there, she was able to see into the first room. It’s full of paintings. I guess it’s his private gallery.” copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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“Well, I suppose he would have a security system if he has any valuable paintings,” I offered, fishing for a little more information. “Mother, you said Silverstein had a son who paints? Jay’s not old enough to have a son who would be selling paintings!” “Jay? I’m talking about his father, Joseph. I thought that it was Joe I was supposed to check out.” Then it came to me. Mother had checked out the wrong Silverstein! “So his father has an art collection. Interesting. And you saw everything, other than what was in the locked room?” “Yes, I think so. Joseph has such a large home. He toured us around but I know we didn’t see all the bedrooms. There were good paintings throughout the house, even a couple of Bruegels in the kitchen, and I know that the ones hung in his living room are really expensive paintings. I’ve seen some like that in the Gallery and I know the prices!” “So you’ve actually been in his house?” I was astonished that my mother knew this mob lawyer. Of course, I had just found out that she was seeing Bernard, another lawyer. Mother always did travel in strange company. “Yes, my friend Bernard and I were at Silverstein’s just last week. Just a few close friends for dinner, you know. Frank, would you mind freshening up my drink?” she asked. “Oh, I see,” I said. Bernard was closer than I thought. I poured myself a double of her good scotch. “Mother, did you notice the Dali anywhere?” “No, come to think of it, we didn’t see it. I remember now, that you had said he owned one. You must be mistaken.” “Unless it was in that back room. Or maybe the son, Jay, has the Dali. I’m going to have to get it straight as to who has what. You’re sure there was no Dali?”“ “Oh, I think we would have seen it, because we were discussing modern art that evening. In fact, Joseph had one of his son’s paintings out for us to critique. The painting was an impressionist genre and not unlike some of Dali’s impressionist era paintings. Quite a good painting, I would say.” “Is that so? I wouldn’t mind seeing some of his work. But I’m sure he wouldn’t invite a former police officer into his home!” “No, Joseph is not a favourite of the police, is he? But, Frank, you know he was just doing his job, even if that meant defending some criminal types. Anyway, Frank, you can see some of Jay’s works.” “How is that?” “Benjamin Silverstein is having his first ever public showing in two weeks. The Alban Gallery is sponsoring it. It runs for ten days, starting on the fifteenth.” “Do you know if that painting that reminded you of the Dali is going to be in the showing?” “Yes, as a matter of fact, Joseph did say that Jay was borrowing it for the show.” Maybe this was the thin lead we needed. If we could just prove a connection between the fake Dali and Karen’s death, and then show Silverstein stood to gain from that, we could reopen the case officially. Or the police could. I was beginning to think that I was a police officer again. If only Karen were here to study those paintings. I needed someone with her expertise to solve her own murder. But I did know someone. Melissa.

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Chapter 11 Melissa had returned to work after recovering from the trauma of Billy Bob’s death, so I had the day to myself when I arrived back in Clearwater for my fourth visit in less than six weeks. The immigration officer noted the stamps on my passport and asked if I were here on business or pleasure, how long was I planning on staying and did I have anything to declare. I must have answered one of his questions in an off-handed manner and before I knew it, I was sitting in the interrogation office. So I now had to explain in detail what I was doing in their country for the fourth time in a few weeks. When I produced the OPP identification, they seemed to believe me. I gave them Harry Besner’s name for a reference and Melissa’s address for a residence, even though I planned to stay in a motel again this trip. I called the Dali Museum from a pay phone in the airport concourse and talked to Melissa for a few moments. I would be at her home by six that evening when she returned from work. Next I called Harry’s house on the off chance that he was not working and he was at home. The phone call took him away from a repair job he was doing on his pool, so I was brief. Could he find out who the one assailant they caught had called in Canada? I wanted the name of that lawyer, just in case there was a connection to Cosso. I gave Harry Melissa’s number and asked him to leave the message with her if I was not there. I rented another car from the Dollar agency. My reputation had redeemed itself a little from the rental of the Jeep episode so this time they gave me a Dodge Intrepid. The Jeep was back on the lot, but the paint job was obviously not a good match. The car jockey on the lot said they were going to send it back one more time and repaint the whole vehicle. Apparently they had their own repair shop where they repaired all the Dollar rentals from across the state. I guess I was not the only one who brought back damaged cars. I drove up 19 to Tarpon Springs and found a motel room at the Starlight. It was just before eleven o’clock when I dropped in at the restaurant where Billy Bob and the Chief made their bets. I had picked up a copy of the Tampa Tribune at the airport so I knew the names of a couple of horses that were running that night at the Tampa Bay Downs. I pretended to be working on the bets using the paper as a guide while nursing a coffee. The waiter behind the counter finally asked what horse I favoured in the first and I said I thought that Sundown Runner looked good. The paper’s handicapper had picked that horse to finish first or second, so I looked as if I knew something about the field. I asked if there was an off-track pari-mutuel in town and the waiter said no, that Tarpon Springs had no betting parlours. Chief Parks came in for his morning coffee right on cue. He recognized me and came over and sat next to me. The waiter told the Chief that I favoured Sundown but that he personally liked Lady In Red. Chief Daryl liked Lady as well and put a twenty on the counter for the waiter. The waiter hesitated, glancing at me. “Hell, Walter, it’s okay. Frank here, is - was a good friend of Billy Bob’s. Frank, do you want to place a bet? Walter can take it for you.” “Oh, sure. I didn’t think off-track betting was allowed . . .” “It’s okay. We run our own little pari-mutuel here in Tarpon Springs. I keep an eye on it so nobody gets out of line. Sort of our own State-run shop, if you know what I mean.” “Gotcha. Walter, put fifty on Sundown to win in the first and another fifty on Whirlaway to place in the sixth.” “Pretty sure of your horses, are you?” the Chief laughed. “Well, I wanted to get out to the track, but I promised Mrs. Boyd that I would take her out to copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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dinner tonight.” “That’s mighty good of you, Frank. I’m sure Mrs. Boyd could use some company. Well, if you want to go out Thursday night, me and the boys usually meet at the track clubhouse for dinner at six then go to the lounge for the races. I’ll leave your name at the desk, if you want to join us.” “I appreciate that, Chief, but I’m going back home on Thursday. Maybe I could join you the next time I’m down.” “Sure thing, Frank.” “Any luck on Billy Bob’s case?” “Naw. I think the other guy got clean out of the country. We’re holding the one we caught on a murder one, but I’m not sure we really have enough to make it stick. Probably have to drop it back to assault with intent. The State prosecutor says the defence is claiming that Billy Bob died on account of the surgery, not the beating. The whole thing can get screwed up if they bring that into the case. Arraignment is next week.” “Too bad. Billy Bob seemed like a good guy. I feel really sorry for his wife,” I said. “Yeah. I never got to know Mrs. Boyd that well. I don’t think she approved of Billy’s betting. But he always had a few bucks to work the races. Did pretty well, too. Had a good eye for horses and good luck with dogs.” The Chief paused for a moment and then asked, “You get that money thing straightened out?” “Well, sort of. The guy that put up the deposit said he would look after it, so I haven’t done anything about it. I guess he’ll call our firm if he needs any help.” “Cosso, wasn’t it?” “Yes, Martin Cosso.” “You know anything about him? Other than his business, I mean?” “Well, seems like a good manager. That Mall he manages is doing really well. He must make a good buck, because he has friends with money. Between you and me, I’m not sure if they are the kind of friends that you would like. Might even be Family, for all I know.” “Are you saying that he might be using some mob money to front that subdivision?” “Well, I couldn’t say for sure, but he raised the money fairly fast. I didn’t ask any questions. I figure what I don’t know won’t hurt me. Our company didn’t really handle that part of the deal - just the part for the mall property.” “Interesting,” the Chief mused. “How do you mean?” I asked. “Oh, I was thinking. That fellow we’re holding for Billy Bob’s assault - he seemed to know his way around the law - knew what to say, knew when to shut up.” “You think the mob sent those guys down here to get the money?” “I don’t know. I’m going to look into that, though, believe me. Well, I’d better get back to the desk. Nice seeing you again, Frank.” I now had Martin Cosso asking about the Chief and Chief Parks asking about Cosso. If we could tie these two together in a drug and money laundering scam, we would have an excellent present for the courts. I had lunch at a small roadside restaurant near Dunedin that specialized in seafood. The blackened shrimp were excellent. I drove over to the stadium and watched an exhibition game between the Blue Jays and Reds. The pitching appeared a little weak but the Jays still had those bats working. It looked like another promising year for the Toronto team. Melissa and I dined at her place that evening. I cooked up a couple of steaks on the barbecue copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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while she made the salad and garlic bread. A bottle of Californian Zinfandel topped off the meal and we sat and talked over a few cups of coffee. After swearing her to secrecy, I told her that we suspected that Billy Bob may have given the trust money to Daryl Parks, perhaps under pressure of a betting debt, and that Parks had used the money to buy drugs. When Billy Bob could not return the money, Cosso had sent some goons down to rough up Billy Bob. We were quite certain that the death was accidental in as much as beating someone with a baseball bat can be a controlled effort by a couple of experienced thugs. I left out the part where the Chief had said the one assailant they had in custody might get off with a reduced charge. I then told Melissa about Silverstein and his upcoming art show. Would she like to help try to catch him? My plan was to have her attend the show as a prospective buyer from a gallery and express an interest in a Dali-like painting. If she could get a look at the Dali we thought he had, we might work up enough of a case to get a warrant to search Silverstein’s house. I thought that if we could find the Dali he had tried to sell three years ago, we might have a motive for murder. Melissa thought about it and then agreed. It would be a real change for her, something that she needed. She would ask if she could get another week off work from the Dali Museum. I told her she could stay at my house and that I would see that all her expenses were paid. She reminded me that she was about to cash in a large insurance policy and that she would be happy to pay her own air fare. I promised her a fancy dinner in return. Tuesday and Wednesday were Melissa’s days off and we golfed both days at The Claw. We dined at BDC’s in Tampa one night and did Shell’s on Wednesday. Wednesday night I stayed with her, but slept in the spare room. The time seemed not yet right for us to get sexually involved, in fact, I wondered if our relationship had not taken a more platonic track. Thursday morning just as I was leaving Melissa’s house for the airport, the phone rang. I listened to the message machine, and hearing Harry’s voice, I picked up the phone. “Frank, I got that number for you yesterday. The call was collect since it was out of State and I have the whole thing for you. Person-to-person to one J. Silverstein at 416-334-6721.” “Wow!” I said. “Harry, that’s the guy we have been trying to connect with Karen’s murder Silverstein!” “No! How on earth could there be a connection between Billy Bob and Karen?” “I don’t know, but this may be the key we’ve been looking for! I’ll keep you posted on what we dig up.” “Yeah, thanks. This whole case down here is getting more and more confused. The Chief keeps meddling in it and I don’t want to get too close to him. Any news on that front?” “Yes, I think things are heating up. Parks thinks Cosso has mob connections and Cosso thinks that Parks can be bought. Should be real interesting in a week or two.” Harry had the decency not to ask what I was doing at Melissa’s house at that time of day. He had his pool repaired and I promised to drop by for a swim the next time I was down. I called Stu Carson from the Clearwater airport and gave him the telephone number. Stu said he would meet me at the airport in Toronto and we could work out a plan to get Melissa inside Silverstein’s house. I felt a sense of relief as I settled into the window seat. Three years of wondering why my wife had been killed had taken a toll, but now it looked as if we might tie the whole thing up in a few weeks. The Airbus used the number 27 runway, lifting off into the south-western wind that was coming off the Gulf. As we turned back to the north, I watched the shoreline slipping away beneath us. copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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Below was the St. Pete’s Yacht Club with it acres of furled sail on millions of dollars of floating real estate. Right alongside was the unmistakable Dali Museum. The Airbus bumped its wheels solidly and then settled to the ground at Toronto. It was not a bad landing considering that there was a small blizzard blowing at the time. Coming home in winter can be such a bother. It had been eight degrees when I left Monday morning so I wore only a light topcoat and no shoe rubbers. It was now minus 10 degrees, blowing and drifting snow – Mother Nature’s last storm of the year. We always get at least one major snow storm the last week of March. Stu was waiting for me when I cleared customs and we went to the cafeteria for a coffee. When we had a seat on the fringe of the no smoking area, Stu gave me the news. “Well, you are not going to believe this. That phone number you gave me - not our friend Jay Silverstein.” “What do you mean? Besner definitely said it was Jay Silverstein. It was person-to-person!” “J. Silverstein. J as in Joseph Silverstein.” “Not old Joe Silverstein?” “Yep, Jay’s father, that’s who.” “And he’s the lawyer this guy called? I thought old Silverstein was retired.” “Retired from court practice about ten years ago. The Law Society was about to look into some of his activities with the Mafia when he quit. Jay took over some of his practice.” I thought about what Superintendent Gilles had said about not liking Silverstein when he was at college. Of course it would have been Benjamin’s father, Joseph, with whom the superintendent went to school, not his son, who was my age. “Shit. Where does that leave us?” I asked. “Well, maybe nowhere at all, but just maybe, just maybe, even in a more interesting position. What if old Silverstein is still working with the Mafia? What if he is somehow behind everything? We’ve been looking at Jay, but it could be his father we should be looking at.” “I suppose that’s possible. Maybe it’s the two of them. Jay does represent a lot of the people who are connected. Not the bosses, but still . . .” I paused, trying to make a mental connection between the father and the son. How much had old Joe Silverstein’s work with the Mafia influenced his son’s practice? Was the old adage, ‘like father, like son’ a factor in this instance? “We’ve got to find that fake Dali, Stu. If Jay has it, he has to be our man.” “I guess. Is Mrs. Boyd going to work with us?” “Yes, if she can get the time off work, and I think they will give it to her when they find out what she is working on. If they can have a hand in exposing a fake Dali, it’s only good business for the museum. I’ll ask my mother to try to get an invitation for Melissa to the vernissage before the grand opening. Melissa will pose as a buyer from some gallery, not the Dali, of course, but some gallery in Florida. We know that Canadians living down there like to have Canadian art to show their American neighbours. It will be a good cover for her.” I went directly to work from the airport so it was not until after dinner that I got time to sort through the mail which had accumulated in the past four days. Most of it was junk mail and requests from charities but there was one letter that caught my eye. The brown envelop had the insignia of the Solicitor General of Ontario in the upper left corner and a confidential stamp in red just below my name - right where the post office said not to put anything to foul up their scanners that sent the mail efficiently on its way anywhere in the country. And sometimes out of it by mistake. I did the usual thing of wondering, without opening, what the Solicitor General was sending me, thinking that it copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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might just be a traffic ticket, but they were seldom confidential. It was a good thing that I was sitting when I read the script, because I surely would have fallen down laughing. It was a notice that I was to report to the Aylmer Police College for training on the sixth of May. Somebody had obviously punched a wrong number on their computer screen. Although the letter said I should confirm within ten days, I tossed the letter in the garbage along with the rest of the junk mail. In the following week I worked long hours cleaning up the tax files in the office. Father and Mary had set July 2 for their wedding day and would be taking the rest of the month of July as a holiday. They had a three-week cruise of the Mediterranean planned. Any thoughts I had about taking some time off in July for bass fishing were scrapped. I had planned to ask Nancy and Marisa to join me for a week of fishing at the cottage near Haliburton. I was still confused about my relationship with Nancy vis-à-vis Melissa. Deferring my vacation for a month gave me more time to procrastinate asking Nancy about the vacation. I told Nancy about Melissa coming to visit me and that I would be tied up that weekend. She gave me a searching look and then seemed satisfied that there was no threat from another female. She obviously had me pegged as a one-woman man, and she knew she was that woman, even if I had some doubts. I arranged with Mother to get an invitation for Melissa and Mother seemed to get right into the spirit of the whole adventure. I had never seen her so organized. She came over to my house and checked all the things that needed attention for me to have a house guest, bought some items I was out of and generally mother-henned me for a week. My mother rearranged all my shelves that my cleaning lady and I fought over every week. Whenever Mrs. Joyce did the cupboards, it took Felix and me at least a week to get things back into order. Now I would never be able to find anything. Mother took all my mostly empty jam jars and mixed the contents, by colour, into three jars. I like sampling the different kinds of jams and jellies so I buy the small sizes of only the best brands. Now I had my Robertson’s Orange marmalade mixed in with some lemon peelings that, while sweet enough, were not my favourite. Strawberry - raspberry was not bad, but my favourite loganberry mixed in with some plum preserves was a real waste. The basswood honey now tasted like clover honey and I suppose that was acceptable because I was never really certain how the bee people got the bees to keep their nectar separated. I mean to say, what bee on his way home from a basswood tree, spotting a plump purple clover could resist stopping and mixing the nectars? I began to wonder why my Mother had never shown these homemaking tendencies when I was young. Was it because she and Philip were not getting along, or was it, as Philip had told me, because Mother blamed herself for my brother’s death? Maybe she was intentionally isolating herself from me for all those years, thinking that she might lose me at any time. For certainly Father’s strong character would have intimidated her, as it did everyone else, and she would believe that he would get custody of me in any divorce proceedings. Nancy called that evening to say that she was leaving her job at Transat and taking the position with Philip’s travel agency. I felt a pang of excitement, knowing that Nancy would now be here in Toronto all the time instead of jetting around the continent. We would be seeing more of one another. She suggested dinner on the next weekend and I agreed that would be great. I liked Nancy very much, perhaps I loved her, but I thought that my heart belonged to Melissa. Well, Melissa seemed to be more of the friend I needed to replace Karen. Maybe that is all our relationship was though. Perhaps it was time to stop trying to replace Karen because there could be only one Karen. It was something I would have to sort out in the next few weeks. That line between friendship and love copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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was forever blurring on me. Perhaps there was no real dividing line but somehow I was slowly placing Nancy and Melissa on opposite sides of that line. I turned on the spot lights and stood looking absently at the Millet series of Dali prints that I had hung last week, replacing the Tell series. I thought about Millet’s Angelicas and how the meaning of the painting had changed with the discovery of the substitution from a child’s casket to a picnic basket. There was such a fine line between sorrow and thanksgiving - that same fine line between paranoia and sanity, between love and friendship, between Nancy and Melissa. A few brush strokes, different lighting, and everything changes. I flipped off the lights and picked up Felix. He was waiting patiently for his nightly brushing and talk. We discussed Millet and Dali for a while, and then instead of watching the tube, I felt like working on my project. It was another of those ‘fine-line’ things. Over the years I had been making computer models of accounts, models used in auditing the books of clients. There were always relationships to be seen in any business. And although these relationships between costs and profits changed with the type of business, the computer could quickly point to any area of operations that needed closer scrutiny by the auditor. That is essentially what all computer audit programs do. But I was developing another set of programs. Wherever I had found irregularities in a set of books, I recorded how the scam had been run. My years of forensic accounting with the OPP had given me quite a variety of case studies on how to beat the books. What I hoped to do was run not only the standard audit programs for a client, but to run my own set of “Crook’s Books” programs to spot potential areas where controls were lax. If my Crook’s Books could find a scenario for a thief, then I could make recommendations to management. I believed I had a marketable idea that was almost ready to use. Of course it was the kind of program that would be dangerous in the hands of criminals, so I had to have tight security on the system. I spent a few hours working with my programs, trying to find the most likely way that Billy Bob had transferred the money to Chief Parks. I made a few notes for my next trip to Florida.

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Chapter 12 I had not been to the bank or even to an ATM for a couple of weeks because I had some extra cash from my last trip to Florida. Now I was down to forty dollars and sixty-five cents and the car was low on gas. I filled up at the local Esso station and used their cash machine to draw out two hundred dollars. I always keep the transaction slips and I always check the balance. I always know how much money I have in the chequing account. In fact, I can usually tell within a dollar of how much money I have on my person. It is just another one of those things that many people think makes accountants dull. Really, it is a very practical thing to do and today was a case in point. The Royal Bank said I had a balance of $7,233.50 - $2,560.80 more in my account than I thought I had. That morning I left the office at 10.00 a.m. to walk across the street to the small local branch of Canada’s largest bank to find out how they had bungled my account. A printout showed that my account had been credited with two deposits of $1,280.40, one on the fifteenth of this month, the other on the thirty-first of the previous month. The cryptic code showed the ‘Prov. Ont.’ as the depositor. Somebody had punched the wrong button on a computer somewhere. I took a number and waited to see the branch accountant. “No, Mr. Pilger, everything seems to be correct,” she said as she looked through some printouts. “These are payroll transfers that came through on the normal bimonthly provincial payrolls.” “But,” I explained, “I am not a provincial employee. You know I work right across the street, Helen.” “Oh, yes. Well, I thought maybe you had a contract or something with the government.” “No, I have never signed a contract with the government,” I said. A cold shiver ran up my back. I had signed that form for Superintendent Gilles. Maybe a clerk at the OPP office had my ‘diplomatic’ temporary duty release mixed up with a regular return to work form. I mentally cussed some clerk for screwing up the paperwork. I asked for a photocopy of the deposit printout and Helen said she would have to black out the other accounts so I said I would wait. As I sat there muttering to myself about incompetent government employees, I remembered the letter about the Police College. This was getting out of hand. I called Mary and told her I had to go downtown to straighten out some paperwork. This was the kind of thing you would never get fixed over the phone. I was just approaching Sheppard Street on the 404 expressway when my car phone buzzed. It was Mary. “Frank, a Mr. Gilles from the Ontario Provincial Police called a few minutes ago. He wants you to call his office as soon as possible.” “Gilles, you said?” I asked. A noisy transport had just passed me and I was not sure that was the name. Superintendents do not usually make their own phone calls. “Yes, Mr. Gilles. You aren’t in trouble, are you Frank?” “No, Mary. It must be one of my old files that they need some more information on. They call me every once in a while,” I lied. “I’ll drop over to his office. See you after lunch,” I said, checking for following traffic and moving over to the outside lane. I thought this would be a good time to mention this foul up with the money to Gilles. He would see that it was taken care of immediately. With all the budget cutbacks, Gilles would be looking after every penny. I dialled the OPP headquarters, remembering the number from a few years ago as if I dialled it everyday. Gilles was not in. I was to meet him at the same location as our last meeting his secretary said. copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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By this time I had passed the 401 exchange and had to circle back to pick up the twelve-lane highway that would take me out to Pearson International airport. Mid-day traffic was not normally heavy on the 401, but at rush hours it carried the highest volume of traffic in North America. Everyone was moving smoothly along at 120 kilometres per hour, including a police cruiser. The 20 kilometres per hour over the speed limit seemed to be the norm and it was a good speed for this highway until there was an accident. Then everyone finds out that it takes about five feet more of room than they have to stop their cars. Thirty and forty-car pile ups are not unusual, fortunately most are fender-benders and few people get seriously hurt. They were in the same room as before and they were just getting into lunch when I arrived. I picked up a roast beef sandwich after shaking hands with a Mr. John Smith and Chief Inspector Wilson. “John Smith” was cleanly shaven, neatly dressed and looked like an office-bound DEA agent. There was no beer today, only cans of pop in a bed of ice. Gilles did not have me there to pay for the order of beer this time. “Frank, you did a good job with Parks,” John Smith said. “You spooked him enough that he made contact with his supplier right away. We had his supplier’s phone tapped so we knew when to expect the next shipment.” “I see you managed to get part of your load past the blockade,” I said. “Do you think he’ll try to replace the drugs he lost right away?” “Yes, the guy Fred is covering told Parks that he needed the rest of his shipment or he’d have to get another supplier. Parks told him he could have more in a week. But we know that Parks needs some more up-front money.” “That’s just about now, isn’t it?” “Yes, we think the day after tomorrow or maybe Saturday.” “Are you going to try to nail him this time?” “Yes. The plan is to bust Fred’s man and several of his buddies. We think we have identified the whole drug ring. We are going to hit them just before Parks gets the drugs. We want Parks to try to put the drugs on the market himself. If he does know the boss of this ring, he’ll have to contact him.” “That sounds good,” I said, wondering what they wanted of me. “Frank,” Wilson said, “We want to clean up on this end at the same time. Do you think you can get Cosso to put up some money that he thinks is going to the drug trade?” “You mean, tell him that it is an illegal act?” “Yes. What we have in mind,” Superintendent Gilles said, “is for you to tell Cosso that you are making an investment with Chief Parks. We think that Parks trusts you and Cosso does know Parks. If you tell Cosso that you are taking a trip south with some money for Parks, he might want to buy into it.” “I see. I make the offer appealing, and big enough that he has to go to the Mafia to get the money. That right?” “Yes. We are watching him very closely so we can intercept him. He may want to go with you and that is okay as long as he carries his own money. US Customs will pick him up.” “How are you going to connect him with the drugs? He could be just investing some money,” I said. “Because we’ll have you wired.” “Oh, no, you won’t. If some of his friends are around, they are liable to search me for a wire.” “They’ll never find it Frank,” Gilles said, taking a case from his pocket. “I had some new glasses copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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made up for you. There is a radio transmitter in the left side of the frame. The range is good for at least a quarter of a mile. We’ll have someone tracking you and recording everything. All you have to do is press the nose pad to activate the radio.” I gave a little inward sigh. There was no sense in asking how he had found my prescription. The new glasses case was from my optometrist. “And I suppose I’ll be taping Parks too,” I asked John Smith. “Well, yes, it would be nice. Especially since we supplied the radio.” We covered the use of code words that I could use to signal for help or alert the listener that what I was transmitting might be of special importance to another officer. Inspector Wilson produced a briefcase containing two hundred thousand Canadian dollars that I was to transport to Chief Parks. They figured that making him convert the Canadian money to US dollars would add another piece of evidence that would help convict him. I had to sign for the money. It was my idea to call Parks and say I was coming down to make another investment and that I would like to go to the race track with him that Thursday night. I wanted to give him the idea that maybe I was not investing in real estate and that the real estate was just a cover for something else I was doing. He said he would meet me at the track at six. I called Martin Cosso and told him I was meeting with Parks. Did he want me to check out if his deposit refund was ready? When he asked why I was meeting Parks, I told him that I had a little investment with him. Cosso bit. Could we meet for coffee? Martin Cosso thought that he could pick up another two hundred thousand without any trouble. Parks had sent him the interest on the previous amount and his investors were quite willing to put more into the investment at that generous rate of return. Could I carry a bank draft for him? I asked, for the tape recorder, what bank he would use and he said they used the Royal Bank. In reply, I said I would call Parks to see what bank he wanted to use as the payee. Martin would bring the bank draft to the office Wednesday afternoon. I called Daryl Parks for the second time that week and told him that Cosso was sending him something with me and asked what name should go on the Bank Draft. Parks was a little surprised that I was being used as a courier but relieved that he was getting some more money. We did not discuss figures over the telephone. He said to make it payable to account number 33-487-1, First Florida Bank. I could see that a couple of banks were going to get their fingers rapped on this one for laundering money. I had not yet told Parks that I too, had some money for him. That I would bring up on Thursday night. Wednesday morning I called Superintendent Gilles to bring him up to date just in case the radio tapes had not been transcribed. Or that the Mounties, who were doing the monitoring here in Canada, had neglected to tell him everything. Sometimes the senior agency forgets to keep their junior partners completely in the picture. I had removed the glasses to reset the transmitter and hoped that I wasn’t being recorded. They had told me that removing the glasses for five seconds would deactivate the transmitter. I meant to ask Gilles about the payroll mix-up, but when he told me that he had some news for me on Karen’s case, I forgot all about the deposits for a moment. “Frank, when we were looking through your files for your optometrist the other day, we came across the invoices that your wife had for her glasses. The officer noted that there was an irregularity on the last invoice and that it had been credited as being billed to the wrong account.” I was more than a little miffed that they had gone into my home without asking, but I knew the invoice to which he referred. “Yes, I remember that invoice, but what is the significance?” copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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“Well, the lens glass was the same type as Karen’s Dali glasses. That is not a normal glass. So if they had billed the wrong customer, they had also supplied the wrong type of glass. Stu Carson took the file and is checking it today. We think there is something more to this than just a billing error.” So if someone had wanted Dali glasses, someone knew what Karen was doing. Maybe it was the same someone who was painting fake Dali paintings. “You don’t think that Silverstein . . .?” I had thought that the strong prescription was for Morse. Obviously it was not. “It could be. Anyway, Carson should have the answers by the time you get back. Good luck on your trip.” “Uh, Superintendent,” I said before he could hang up the receiver, “There seems to be some error at my bank. There have been two deposits from an Ontario government payroll run into my account.” “Are you not happy with the amount, Pilger?” “No, that’s not it. I wasn’t aware that I was on the payroll,” I said. “Well you don’t think we expect you to work for nothing, do you?” “I guess not. It’s just that the deposit seems like a regular pay amount, if I remember what I used to be paid.” “I guess they must have processed you at your last pay rate. I’ll look into it, Pilger.” I should have known that when he started calling me Pilger instead of Frank that our relationship had changed, but at the time, I never gave it much thought. I arrived back in Clearwater on Wednesday afternoon. I was becoming a regular at the Dollar car rental and clerk asked me if I wanted the Intrepid again. It was a good car to drive so I said surely and signed it out one more time. I took a room at the Best Western, thinking that maybe I had better keep Melissa at a distance since I was getting more involved with the drug money. I called her at her home but she was out. I called Parks but he was out of the office and would not be in the rest of the day. There was nothing left but to take a swim and relax until Melissa came home. There were two young children in the pool, a brother and sister, and I soon ended up serving as a diving platform for them. Their mother was with them but Daddy was away doing some business work. When I finally tired of tossing the kids into the air, I sat on the pool chair next to the mother and introduced myself. It happened that the family was from Markham, just down the road from where I lived. The husband was here on an insurance sales convention. The convention was in Tampa but they had registered late and could not get into the Marriott. They too, had been here at the Best Western before and had liked the facilities, so Father was commuting. It was the last day of the convention so he would not be home until late. They were eating at the Holiday Inn and Mrs. Clarke said I could join them if I did not mind eating with children. I did not mind the children, but Holiday Inn food was not high on my list. Melissa was still not home when I called at six so I rang up Mrs. Clarke and offered to take her, Tommy and Janice to Long John Silver’s for fish and chips. The kids agreed and we headed off to a domestic evening the likes that I had not experienced before. I was not used to eating with the little people and somehow expected that it might be a disaster, with squabbling and spilled food. It was anything but that. Tommy and Janice were well-behaved - probably exhausted from swimming all afternoon. They asked me questions about my work and when I mentioned that I used to be a policeman, they were really keen to know more details. I strung them some stories, only slightly exaggerated, about some of the police work I had done, and kept them entertained throughout the meal. Mrs. Clarke, Marianne, was glad of my company. It seems that eight and nine year olds have copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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an endless supply of energy. We were back at the motel by eight and the kids were going for one more swim so they scooted off to the pool. I said I had some phone calls to make and said goodbye, saying I would look them up back home. It was nice to be around those kids and I once again felt some regret that I had no offspring. Melissa was back from her shopping trip in Tampa and I said I would be over right away. As I drove along, I thought of how much I had missed in my life by not having any children. Billy Bob had expressed the same feeling. He had said that they couldn’t have kids and now I wondered if it was some medical problem with him or Melissa. If we ever did marry, were we too old to have children? I was approaching forty, and I guessed that Melissa was in her late thirties. Not the best time in life to have a first child for a woman. It was probably late for me too, although I would still be working when the child was finishing university. I shook my head to rid myself of these thoughts. Chances were I would never have a child of my own. I telephoned Chief Parks when I got back from a late breakfast at Lenny’s. I had slept in a couple hours after the late night at Melissa’s house. We had discussed the plan for her undercover work at the Gallery show. She was excited about this new adventure and I could see that it was just the thing she needed right now to get her life back on track. I suppose it was the same with me. I had languished for three years, wrapped up in Karen’s murder investigation. I was on the comeback trail now. I had made two new female friends and that had opened my feelings once more. But it was the action with Harry Besner, my new police friend, that had really catapulted me back to life. Now, the drug sting that I was working was even more excitement. A chance to finally find Karen’s murderer was bonus time. “Chief,” I said, “I have a letter for you from Martin. Should I bring it over to the office?” “Sure, Frank, that would be fine. Wait,” he said, “Do you know where the First Florida bank is, here in town?” “Let me see. Yes, isn’t it on the street that takes you to the marina?” “Yes, that’s it. How be I meet you there in half an hour?” I took the two hundred thousand Canadian dollars out of my suitcase and placed it in my briefcase along with the bank draft. If it looked like Parks was in desperate need of money, I would make my offer to invest this morning, rather than waiting until we were at the race track that night. I was a few minutes late because of construction on Tarpon Drive and the Chief was waiting for me. I handed him the envelope and he glanced at the figures before tucking it into his jacket pocket. “This comes in very handy,” he said. “Yes, Martin said you had a good investment opportunity for him.” “Did he tell you what kind of investment?” “No, not in so many words, but I think I can guess what it is if you can get him 20 per cent on his money in a month.” “Yeah, that’s not a bad return, is it?” “Yes, I wouldn’t mind a little of that myself,” I replied. “Hey, if you’ve got some extra cash, I could work you in on this deal.” “How soon would you need it?” “Well, if you have it today, I could take it now, otherwise, in a couple of weeks.” It suddenly dawned on me that I had not turned on my eye glasses. I rubbed the bridge of my nose now, as if in thought. “Well, Chief I have a couple of hundred thousand Canadian with me now. It was supposed to be a retainer on a property, but . . . how soon could I get this turned over?” copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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“How much did you say you had?” “Two hundred thousand. But it is in Canadian dollars.” “Canadian is okay. These people will handle any currency, but it is ‘invested’ at the US dollar rate.” “Sure, but what kind of exchange rate will they hit me with?” I asked. “Hey, these are big-time players. They’re not out to nickel and dime their customers. You get the Federal Reserve rate plus 20 points.” “Geez, that’s really good. Okay, I’ll give you the two hundred, but I’ll need it back in two weeks. That’s when I’m due back here to close the deal.” “No problem, Frank. I’ll look after it for you. In two weeks, you will get your two hundred plus forty thousand. Canadian, that is,” he laughed. Americans had taken to joking about our money, not only for its colour, but now for its international value. I could not argue the value of our currency right now, but at least our bills have some character and are easy to distinguish one denomination from another. I am forever trying to give away their ten and twenty dollar bills for ones when I am in the States. I went back to the motel to check in with my DEA contact to make sure that they had heard enough of the transmission to know what had happened with Parks. It was my latest Mr. Smith that took my call. He assured me that they had recorded everything with Chief Parks. He confirmed that they were certain the drugs would be coming in on Saturday night. The plan was to watch Parks very closely to see whom he called when they stopped his supply this time. The DEA was going to try to get all the drugs, then see whom Parks contacted to make a quick purchase. Parks would still have his money. If Parks did not make a move by Monday night, they planned to arrest him on Tuesday. They had enough evidence on him now for money laundering, if nothing more substantial developed on the actual drug selling. “By the way, Frank, that was a pleasant family dinner the other night. Those kids, Tommy and Janice were good, but you didn’t have to record the whole dinner for us,” he laughed. I wondered if I had left the radio on when I was at Melissa’s. “What else did you people hear that you shouldn’t have?” I asked. “Nothing, Frank, nothing. You turned the transmitter off when you washed your face back at the motel and we didn’t hear anything until you talked to Parks this morning.” “Oh. Okay, I’ll try to remember to turn them on tonight at the race track. Parks may drop something of interest there.” I had lunch with Melissa and she took me to a nearby shop that specialized in jewellery that was not too expensive. I wanted to buy an engagement present for Mary and with Melissa’s help, I did get a very lovely emerald brooch for just under eight hundred US dollars. After lunch I drove around looking at some properties. It was part of my cover and that was something you can never be too careful about. I had the feeling that I was being watched but told myself that it was likely the DEA staying within recording distance of me and my eye glasses. That evening at the race track was a lot of fun. Daryl Parks was a great host and under different circumstances, you could come to like the man. His friends were just businessmen from Tarpon Springs, much like Billy Bob had been. There was nothing said during the entire evening that would cast even a suspicion that we were in the company of a big drug dealer. At one point in the evening I was up about three hundred dollars but by the time we left the track, I had squandered most of it away. Lady’s Luck looked like a good bet in the tenth race, but she broke too soon and Hannibal’s copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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Delight caught her in the last hundred yards coming up to the wire. Friday I managed to work in a game of golf at Bardmoor. I had brought my golf shoes and glove with me just in case I had a chance to play. The Pro Shop put me out with a couple of other Canadians from Saskatchewan and we had a pleasant round of golf, despite the ball-eating pond on number 5. Those farmers knew how to read a green and they took me for about forty dollars just on their putting skills. I told myself that it was just their native skill in reading the lay of the land after all those years working on the prairies planting and harvesting grain. If I had had my own putter, I might have made a better showing, but they were gracious winners and bought the drinks at the clubhouse afterwards. That evening Melissa I dined at Durango’s and when I took her home she held me close for a few moments. I wondered how long it would be before we would feel comfortable enough to have sex again. Saturday I had a date to go fishing with Harry Besner and his dad. Mr. Besner, Jack, was an avid fisherman and Harry or one of his sons took the old man out every weekend. When Harry had asked if I wanted to go bass fishing that was all the encouragement I needed. I love bass fishing. Every summer I would spend hours out on the lake where we had our cottage near Haliburton. Where I fished, it was mostly Smallmouth bass. Now I had a chance to try for real Largemouth in Florida. Jack and I exchanged fish stories all the way to the lake. Harry had heard his Dad’s stories before but he was enjoying listening to the two of us as we stretched the truth farther and farther, just like two real fishermen. We drove north for about an hour to the lake where Harry rented a boat. When his dad went to use the old washroom near the dock before we headed out onto the lake, Harry said, “Frank, I got the feeling that we are being followed. I could never get good look at it, but I think there was a grey Ford staying well back of us.” “Yes, there probably was. I’m wearing a wire for the DEA and they track me. I should have told them not to bother today.” “A wire? Where is it? Hell, all you’re wearing is a tee shirt and shorts.” I handed him the glasses. “It’s here, in the arm. I just press the nose piece to start recording.” I replaced my glasses and pushed the nose piece. “This is Frank. I’m going fishing with Harry and his Dad. If I catch a big one, I’ll turn this thing on and I’ll want a transcript!” The Besners out-fished me, mostly because it took me a while to get the technique down on finessing those big bass out of the weeds. But I did manage to land three or four bass that were close to the ten-pound range. Well, certainly they were more than five pounds each. Mr. Besner even said one was as nice a fish as he had seen come out of that lake in a couple of years.

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Chapter 13 As I found out later, the drug bust was a bit of a fiasco. The fast, cigarette-style boat that the drug sellers were using to transfer the drugs from a fishing trawler to shore collided with the Coast Guard cutter in the poor visibility on Saturday night. The fibreglass cigarette boat sank quickly, taking all the drugs to the bottom along with one crew member. Disabled in the collision, the cutter lost her steering, so, although in no danger of sinking, she had to call for help. In the meantime, the Pellas chased down the trawler, and after some gunfire, took it into custody. The local police stopped a car full of armed DEA agents and it was some time before the patrol officer would believe this group of rough-looking characters when they said they were bona fide cops. The local distributor in the meantime sensed something was amiss and slipped away. Parks had left his home so the DEA had no choice but to wait until Parks checked in or called on the phone that was wiretapped. My Sunday morning flight was from Tampa, scheduled for seven-forty. I was waiting at the door when Lenny’s opened and picked up a large black coffee and an order of Danish. It was six forty-five when I returned the car at the Dollar desk, leaving me plenty of time for my check-in. As I made my way towards the Air Canada counter in the international area of the airport, I mused again about the relationship of our two countries. It always strikes me as odd that we have to go to the International area to travel to and from the States. We are, after all close neighbours, almost like the same country. Indeed, it was a shorter trip to Toronto than to many of the American destinations leaving Tampa that morning. The airport was not busy and I looked at the people checking into the various counters as I walked along. As I passed the Viasa desk I spotted what looked like a familiar figure. I could only see the man’s back but as I walked, I glanced back to see if it was someone I knew. It was. Chief Daryl Parks was third in line, standing there with two suitcases and a briefcase. He had to be making a break for it. At the race track on Thursday night, I had heard him talking with two of his friends at the table about golfing on Sunday. This was no planned vacation. I found a pay phone and dialled the number the DEA had given me. No answer. I pushed the transmit on my glasses and gave the number of the pay phone I was standing by, instructing my monitor to call me right now. I waited two minutes. No call came. Perhaps they had stopped monitoring me because they knew I was leaving the country. Parks had to be stopped before he boarded that air plane. I popped open my suitcase and took my OPP identification from its hiding place in the lining. It would have to do. I put my luggage in a locker so I wouldn’t be encumbered with a suitcase and a briefcase. I had no firearm and I thought Parks might well be armed. I looked around for a security guard. Why is there never a cop around when you need one? That is, other than Chief Parks and me. Parks had checked his luggage and was now walking towards the gate area. I glanced at the overhead monitor to see what time the next Viasa flight was due for departure. 08:00 hours. I had time. It would be best if I let Parks get into the boarding area rather than try to apprehend him out here in the general concourse. I went back to the pay telephone and dialled Harry Besner’s number. It took a few minutes to get through to Harry because his father answered from his place out back. I told Harry what was happening and how I needed the DEA here in a hurry. I would wait outside the Viasa boarding room until seven thirty. If no one arrived, I would tell security that I wanted Parks taken into custody and then do it myself. Harry said he would call Vic Penelopolous and try to get action from there. He doubted if anyone could get to the airport that quickly, although DEA might have someone in customs and immigration. I dialled 911 and was promptly put through to the Police Response team. copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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When I explained what I thought was an emergency, I was shuffled off to a desk at the Tampa Police department. It was shift change time. I waited a full minute for a voice at the other end and then hung up. I found a security guard and told him I had to see his supervisor. He had never seen an OPP badge before but it was good enough to get him moving. I told the supervisor my story, saying that I had been following Parks. My American backup had somehow lost me and I had to stop the suspect from boarding the plane. When the supervisor, Tim, asked if the suspect might give us trouble, I said yes. I told him that Parks was a policeman, possibly armed, although I said security should have taken any weapons from him. “Maybe, maybe not. If he said he was on official business and showed ID, they might have let him through. Are you sure he’s a cop?” “Yes, I’m sure. In fact, he’s the Chief of Police from Tarpon Springs.” “You mean you’re following ol’ Daryl Parks?” Tim the supervisor asked. “Yes. You know him?” “Hell, yes. I grew up in Tarpon Springs. What did you say you wanted him for?” “Drug dealing. I’m working with the DEA and the Mounties in Canada.” Maybe he had heard of the Mounties. It was worth a try. “Well I’ll be! Okay, Carl, you get two men and cover the loading ramp area. I’ll post Hank outside the boarding area and I’ll go inside with Frank here to arrest him. Frank, do you have a gun?” he asked. “No, I’ve been undercover as a businessman. There was no need to carry a gun.” “Do you want one now?” “Well, I hope I don’t have to use it, but it might be just as well to have one in case something goes wrong.” The supervisor unlocked a cabinet and gave me a Smith and Wesson .38 snub-nose revolver. I checked the rounds and dropped it into my jacket pocket. Some people like to wear a gun tucked into their pants but I have always thought that a dangerous practice, as well as a difficult place from which to retrieve a gun in a hurry. I have this fear of the gun discharging accidentally and removing a part of my anatomy. I could walk quite normally with one hand in my suit coat pocket, my hand around the gun and no one would know that I was armed and dangerous. I had no compunctions about shooting a hole through my suit coat if it was necessary. Seven-thirty and there was no sign of any DEA backup. Tim had called the Tampa Bay police again for support just in case. They had not yet arrived. There were more and more travellers going into the Viasa boarding room. “Tim,” I said, “I think we’d better move now before any more people get in that room.” “Okay, I agree. Is that him sitting near the window, reading the paper?” “Yes, that’s Parks. How be you go in across from him and I’ll walk right up to him. He might spook if he sees you coming towards him in that uniform. He may not recognize me right away because he won’t be expecting me. I’ll try to sit beside him so he can’t get to his feet.” “Okay. As soon as you put a hand on him, I’ll come in fast.” Tim said something to the staff at the entrance and they obviously knew that there was a situation in the room. They stopped everyone behind us and closed the doors. The only way out for Parks was through the boarding ramp. I walked over to where he was sitting. Parks was reading something and he never noticed me until I sat down beside him. I waited a second until Tim was only copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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about ten feet away and then placed my left hand on Parks’ elbow, squeezing hard. “Chief Parks, I’m placing you under arrest.” “Frank?” The elbow squeeze had temporarily stunned him but he reacted much faster that I thought he could. He broke free and rolled off the bench to the floor, coming up with his service gun. The gun was swinging towards me when Tim yelled and brought his gun to bear on Parks’ chest. The Chief glanced at me and could not see a gun. He swung the barrel at Tim. It all happened in an instant but it had the quality of slow motion. Tim had not cocked his old revolver and was probably having fatal second thoughts about pulling that trigger. Parks had no such thoughts. He was going to fire that automatic. Once he started shooting, he might not stop. “Don’t shoot, Chief!” I said, not yelling but with enough force to make him glance at me. There was panic in his eyes. I cocked the Smith and Wesson. He heard the click of the hammer but he was going to fire at Tim. Someone started to scream. I fired. The slug hit him in the thigh, knocking him back a couple of feet. His gun fired harmlessly up into the ceiling and then Tim was on him. People were screaming and diving for the floor. Two Tampa cops came charging into the room, yelling for everyone to stay still. The place slowly settled down and the frightened became the curious. We quickly cuffed Chief Parks and then applied a pressure bandage to his hip. The crowd was now pressing close, wanting to see all the gore. Maybe all the violence on TV has hardened people because there was not a sympathetic eye in the room for the moaning man who lay wounded on the floor. A little boy of four or five tugged on my sleeve. “Mister,” he said. I looked down at the boy, frowning my best mean scowl, “Sonny, where’s your parents? You’d better go back and sit down.” “But, Mister . . .” “Away you go. There’s nothing for you to see here,” I said. “But Mister, your coat’s on fire,” the kid said, pointing at my smouldering jacket pocket. “Oh,” I said. I was not exactly on fire but there was a substantial wisp of smoke rising from the area around the hole in the cloth. The kid handed me his can of pop and I doused my Harris tweed. “Thanks,” I said, handing back the rest of his Pepsi. Pepsi stains, but this jacket needed major work now anyway. The DEA agents got there just in time to travel to the hospital with Parks. He had lost what looked like a lot of blood, but then, a little blood can make quite a mess. I made the rounds of Airport Security, Tampa Police Headquarters and the DEA office and back to the Tampa Police office to sign more papers. It was five in the afternoon before a Tampa police officer put me on an American Airlines flight to Toronto. I had been on the phone with both Gilles and Superintendent Wilson. I said I would drop over to OPP headquarters the first thing Monday morning. By eleven that night when I finally crawled under the covers at home, I had no intention of getting up early. Gilles could wait. The adrenalin that had kept me going all day had worn off and I fell into a deep sleep. The telephone must have rung when I was showering because the answering machine was winking at me when I came into the kitchen to make my breakfast at ten thirty. I had slept well. All the excitement of yesterday was acting like a tonic. I made breakfast for Felix, and to reward him for being a good cat, I opened a new can of ground-up chicken parts and filler that proclaimed itself as a balanced source of protein and vitamins for active cats. The leg rub was approval as he meowed copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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impatiently while I dished the goop into his bowl. I put on the coffee maker, selected three thick pieces of back bacon from the package of frozen pea meal, or Canadian bacon as they call it south of the border. When the bacon was heated through, I added two eggs to the pan. I had it all timed just right. The toast popped, Mr. Coffee’s ready light flashed on and eggs were just ready to come out from under the steam lid I had placed on the iron fry pan. I flipped on the TV, tuning to CNN, and heard the story of how the Chief of Police from Tarpon Springs had been arrested in a shootout at the Tampa airport. They did not mention my name but did say that there was cooperation with police from Canada and Venezuela in the break up of a drug-smuggling ring. When I finished my toast with what looked like strawberry jam, or jelly as they call it south of the border, but tasted more like raspberry, thanks to Mother mixing my jams, I listened to the recording on my telephone. As instructed, I dialled the number given and asked for Sally Mitchell. “Good morning, Ontario Provincial Police. How may I help you?” “Uh, Sally Mitchell, please.” What now, I thought. The connection clicked and beeped twice. “Sally Mitchell. May I help you?” “Yes, this is Frank Pilger returning your call.” “Oh, yes. Corporal Pilger, we don’t seem to have your confirmation for the course at Aylmer next week. Are you still attending?” Corporal Pilger? “Look, Miss Mitchell, there seems to be a real mix-up down there. I told Superintendent Gilles about it, but . . .” “Yes, he told me about that. I’m sorry, but we must have used the wrong pay scale. We have adjusted your pay records and you will see the back pay on your next deposit.” “Oh.” A raise, and I’d only been there a month. “Yes, but . . . aw, hell, I’m going to have to talk to Gilles again.” “I’m sorry, I don’t understand the problem,” she said. “I’m only on temporary duty. I wasn’t supposed to be paid and I sure as hell wasn’t supposed to be on some course list. I’ll have to talk to the Superintendent and get this straightened out once and for all.” “But Corporal, I have your file right here. I have Form 232-B, Reinstatement to Active Duty, all completed and signed. I don’t understand what can be wrong.” “Look,” I said, and then changed my mind. “I’ll be down there in an hour. The Superintendent is expecting me anyway.” It was raining again, those early April showers that some English poet thought brought May flowers, so I was just putting on my old Aquascutum top coat when the telephone rang. It was my mother, wondering if Melissa was coming for certain. I told her yes, Melissa would be arriving Thursday evening, and no thanks, I would look after dinner. Mother never was much of a cook, so unless she had taken some cooking courses, and passed an exam, the last thing I wanted was for Melissa to eat one of her meals. I assured her that Mrs. Joyce would be in on Tuesday to clean the house as usual and everything would be neat and tidy when Melissa arrived. I was inches away from a clean escape when the phone rang again. This time it was some clerk from the RCMP reminding me that they needed my glasses. I said I would leave them with Gilles later that morning. I got out my old pair and put them on. I did need new lenses. I went to the work shop and, using my smallest screwdriver, exchanged the new lens from the radio glasses for the scratched ones. The Superintendent was busy when I arrived at the office. Miss Mitchell said he would be about half an hour and suggested I go to the cafeteria for a coffee. I took her advice and then wandered copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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around the building to see if any of my old friends were in. The staff had changed a lot in the three years that I had been away, but I met the old caretaker, John in the washroom. He remembered me and asked after my family. I knew he had a daughter who was just starting University when I left the force so I asked how she was doing. “Mary is graduating with Science degree in May,” he said, “and it looks like she might get a job here in the police lab.” “Say, that’s great, John,” I said. “So many young people graduate now and they can’t find a job that matches their qualifications.” “Yes, she’s lucky. She worked in the lab as a summer student the past two years and I guess they liked her.” “Well, pass along my congratulations, John,” I said, turning to leave. “Okay, Corporal. And by the way, welcome back. We are all glad to see you back with us.” When the maintenance staff knows more about what is going on than you do, it is time to pull up your socks and find out what is happening. Gilles was saying goodbye to some suit when I got back to his office. “Frank, come on in. That was a good job you did in Tampa. We’ve had a number of calls thanking us for your quick action. You’ve become a real credit to the force in these past few weeks.” “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Superintendent. Everybody seems to think I am an active member again.” “Well, there is no need to keep it under wraps now, Frank. That undercover operation is over.” “But that was only temporary anyway. Your secretary seems to think I’ve been reinstated.” “Well, you did sign those papers, Frank.” He paused, then asked, “Are you saying you didn’t know what you were signing that day?” “But you said they were only some kind of Diplomatic release form . . .” “Hell, Frank, you know there is no such thing. I just made that up for that DEA fellow. He wasn’t going to cooperate with the RCMP if he didn’t have something to cover his ass in case you ran into trouble down there.” “Oh,” I said. “I thought you knew that, Frank. In fact, I got the impression that you really wanted to get back on the force. I had to use all of my influence with the Attorney General’s office to get you back. There were a lot of people in line for a job ahead of you, you know.” Maybe I did really want to get back on the force. So much had happened in the past few months that I was not certain what my feelings were right now. Part of me still did love police work. There was the fellowship of police, and that is a very strong tie, so strong that I knew now that it had never been broken. Frayed a little, I suppose when I could not get anywhere with Karen’s murder investigation, but mended now in these past weeks. I needed some time to think about this. I thought about my relationships with Melissa and Nancy, how this looked like a chance to get my family life back together. And then there was Dad and Mother to consider. Philip was thinking of retiring and turning the business over to me. Mother might not need me if her new friend was going to stand by her, but somehow, I felt a responsibility for her now. “Superintendent, could I have a week to think about this? I really didn’t know what I was signing. You are right, I do miss the force, but there are some other considerations now.” “Okay, one week. You can continue to work with Carson on that investigation. You’ve got a sting going on Silverstein, haven’t you?” copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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“Yes.” I was not ready to confuse the Superintendent with the possible mix up in the names of the Silversteins. “We will try to work my friend Melissa into his confidence. She’ll pose as an art buyer from Tampa looking for a Dali painting. That should get us a look at the fake Dali if there is one in that house. We’ll then have motive and enough proof to get a search warrant. Maybe that will turn up some more evidence.” “Okay, one week. You’d better tell Sally to defer that training course.” I left the headquarters with mixed feelings, but deep down, it felt good to be a cop again.

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Chapter 14 Melissa arrived in Toronto on the American Airlines flight right on time. When she had cleared customs and immigration, we drove directly to my home and I soon had her installed in the spare bedroom. Felix only moderately approved of Melissa, letting her hold him only for a few moments before squirming free. I blamed his reluctance on the perfume Melissa was wearing since it reminded me of one that Karen used, many years ago. Maybe Felix remembered too. I took Friday off work and toured Melissa around to meet my mother, to see some of the galleries in the city and generally acquaint her with Toronto. The weather had turned fair and warm and Toronto now seemed like a very pleasant place to live. The grass was just starting to sprout fresh green life and tulips and hyacinths near buildings that faced south were showing a little colour in the hope of warmer days ahead. Another week would put to rest any memories of the cold winter we had survived. I was trying to assess my true feelings towards Melissa while at the same time trying to guess her feelings towards me. If we were to make a couple, one of us would have to move and find a new job. Here I was, wrestling with the two jobs I apparently had now, and I was thinking of asking Melissa to give up her position at the Dali - work she enjoyed and did very well. Of course, with the insurance money from Billy Bob, she would never have to work another day in her life, but I knew Dali was in her blood. Then there was the whole immigration problem. It would be much easier for Melissa to come to Canada as my wife than for me to get my Green Card to live and work in the States. I had shown myself to be a good citizen this year in Florida and that might help if we could find the right strings to pull. My accounting designation might not count for as much down there and I would have to learn all the new tax laws, but there always seems to be a demand for people who will look after your finances for you. The chances of getting on a police force at my age were very slim to nil. And then there was Nancy to consider. Friday evening Mother picked up Melissa to attend the formal opening of the Silverstein show. Melissa was nervous, but anxious to try to help me. Somehow she had to get close enough to Silverstein to get an invite back to his place. Mother thought there would be no problem, but then my mother seemed to go through life simply ignoring problems. I planned to do some paperwork at home and wait for the results. It was nearly one a.m. when the car pulled into the drive. I felt like an overprotective parent, waiting at the door and then asking questions as fast as I could, forgetting to ask Melissa if she had an enjoyable evening. “Did you get to see the Dali’s?” “Not yet. But I think your Mr. Silverstein has taken a fancy to me!” “What?” I asked, as if no one else might find Melissa as attractive as I did. “He asked me to join him for dinner Saturday night at his place - along with your mother and her friend,” she replied. “Oh,” I said, feeling a little jealousy. “I guess that might turn out all right. If you can somehow get to see his studio, you might see the Dali paintings.” “Well, from what I gathered tonight, his friends are all artists of one sort or another, so it may not be as difficult as we thought. When he heard I worked at the Dali Museum - part time, we said as well as being a buyer for the Tampa Art group, he seemed interested, but we didn’t have time to talk much.” We chatted about our plans for Saturday and then left for our separate beds with only a copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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goodnight peck that was hardly a kiss. I suppose it was difficult for Melissa to feel the same passion that I did. She was here in the house that Karen and I had shared for many years, working with me to solve the murder of my wife. Billy Bob had been in the ground for only a short time, and they had been married for quite a few years. All that did not help me sleep any better. As it turned out, Melissa did get to see all of Jay Silverstein’s home. There were no Dali fakes anywhere. He had said that at one time he had tried to copy Dali’s style but had then moved on to his own style, a sort of realist painting that showed traces of the Group of Seven. It was as if he turned the Group’s work into a camera impression, but kept the feelings evoked by the strong colours of Jackson and Tom Thomson. At least that was how my mother described the works to Melissa, and I certainly would defer to Mother on her descriptions of art. Melissa had not heard of our Group of Seven painters so Sunday morning we headed over to Kleinberg to see the McMicheal Collection, the finest showcase of the Group in the country. Melissa quickly came to love these impressionist works and elicited a promise from me to bring her to the gallery again when we had more time. I put Melissa on the 3:45 American Airlines flight to St. Pete’s and then drove over to Mary’s place to have dinner with Mary and my father. I wanted to discuss my employment options with them since it would have a major effect on their lives. If I left the firm, it would mean Philip would have to stay on until he found a new partner, or sell the business if he were really sincere about retiring. The police work was calling me, but I knew that if I were ever to have a family life, that was not the best of careers. I was trying to keep Melissa out of the equation right now. Whatever I decided, I would then have to live with that decision and any impact that might have on our relationship. The Superintendent did not give me the luxury of letting time sort this out for me. So, here I was, approaching forty, asking my father what I should do with the rest of my life. The three of us polished off a bottle and a half of the Paarl Pinotage that Philip preferred with his steak and then, over coffee and Benedictine, we decided that what I really wanted to do was return to being a cop. The wine may have had some influence, but I admit that I retold the story of the shooting of Chief parks with some relish. Philip hung on every word. We decided Dad would keep the business but farm out his workload to a new junior partner, while I would keep my share of the business and do as much work at the office as I could. The plan was that in twelve years when Philip was seventy-five, I would have the option to buy the business. I would be fifty by then and most likely ready to give up the police work again. The only other item of importance that we discussed, again, was that I should be getting married. There was still time for me to be a father. I had to keep the family line going, and all that. At least my prospects had improved and I was now seeing not one, but two women. Either one would make a good wife. Whether I could or would add to the family lineage, I did not know. Melissa was probably beyond child bearing years unless she was really keen on taking the extra risks involved with a woman her age. I never did find out if the Boyds’ inability to have children was something to do with Melissa or Billy Bob. Nancy, on the other hand, already had a daughter and was young enough to have more children if she wished to. I caught myself, realizing I had been analyzing the two women as if they were brood mares and I was the perfect stud! Perhaps I was unable to father a child. It was something I had never considered. Monday morning I reported for duty. Superintendent Gilles called me into his office and said there was a new complication in my resigning. He would not say what the complication was; only that he would have it cleared up by the end of the week. Gilles advised me not to burn any bridges with my father. I was assigned to work with Sergeant Carson for the rest of the week. Stu Carson and copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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I reviewed the file on Jay Silverstein and agreed that we did not have enough to continue the investigation. Stu would write the report and we would put the case to rest for the final time as soon as he talked to the Optician’s office and found out who had bought that one unaccounted-for set of Dali glasses. Now, after three years, I was willing to call it quits on trying to connect Karen’s murder to the Dali paintings. In the meantime, I had to write some reports and prepare testimony against Martin Cosso. Cosso was singing to the Mounties and it appeared that the Crown Attorney would cut him some kind of deal in return for some names. Martin would do a couple of years in a minimum security penitentiary under an assumed name and then be released. The Royal Bank had been acting with the RCMP but that little Florida Bank that Chief Parks was using was in serious trouble with the American regulators. The whole operation was rated a success and I even received a note of thanks from the DEA for my help. I received another letter through the office mail concerning the case. It was from a hospital in Tampa and it was from Chief Daryl Parks. In the letter he told me some of the background of how he had slipped off the straight and narrow and began the life of a dirty cop. They had had a handicapped child at home and the costs of care were more than he and his wife could manage. So he had taken a few dollars here and there to make ends meet. It became too easy and when his child died, he continued down the road that led eventually to that day in the Tampa airport. He made no apologies for what he had done, but he thanked me for shooting him. He realized that he had been going to shoot that security man, Tim, and never in his wildest dreams had he thought he would fall so low. I suppose the immediacy of shooting a man with a gun is more impressive than supplying drugs to someone you hope to never see, but Parks must have rationalized that one away many years ago. Tuesday morning the manager of the Optical Store called to say that he had found the invoices for the Dali prisms. Stu and I drove downtown to talk to him. It took some serious questioning of the old fellow who ground the glass, but he finally admitted that he had done the work on the side. The billing clerk had found the stock requisition for the special glass and had assumed that they were for Karen. The extra set of Dali >glasses’ had been ground for one Joseph Silverstein. Mr. J. Silverstein, the same Silverstein who had taken a telephone call from the man held for the assault of Billy Bob Boyd! Stu and I discussed our new information with Gilles and he wanted us to spend some more time on the investigation. Gilles definitely did not like the senior Silverstein. We began asking some of the older members of the force just what the real point of antagonism was with the Superintendent and the former Mafia lawyer. The best theory was that a case had been won by Silverstein in which a felon was released and went on to kill an innocent bystander in a shootout with police only a month after the trial. Silverstein, only just out of law school, had tricked the rookie cop, Gilles, on the stand and had bragged about it at the time. It all went back to their college days and a heated debate in art class - a debate about the merits of a contemporary artist by the name of Salvador Dali. As I found out later from Gilles, he and Silverstein had squared off on whether Dali should be considered one of the modern age’s important artists, or whether Dali even fell into the class of a ‘Master’. Silverstein had held that Dali was perhaps the most important modern influence on art in our century, while Gilles had dismissed the painter as only another flash in the pan. Gilles admitted now that he did consider Dali a master, but that was after years of reflection in his post-university years. And it was after Dali had painted a few more famous works in the fifties and sixties. The art professor had enjoyed the spirited exchange in class and they all moved to a bar afterwards to copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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continue the debate over a few beers. Gilles used some of Dali’s writings, which even today are not understood, if even read, to make his point that Dali was mentally unbalanced. Silverstein took physical exception to this reference and swung a fist at Gilles. Gilles decked his opponent and the lifelong animosity continued. The lawyer and the cop met many times, and all too often it was the lawyer that won in the courtroom. Silverstein had been forced into semi-retirement by the Law Society and now Gilles was ready to retire from the force because of age. That was why Gilles had given Stu and me so much free rein to follow the Dali connection with Karen’s murder. Thursday evening I had two telephone calls that once again changed the path my life was taking these past months. Just when I thought I had things going one way, something would happen to change the direction. I was getting more and more empathy for the way Dali saw life and objects. There was always more than the eye could see or the mind could assimilate. Melissa called to say that she had just talked to Jay Silverstein. Jay had asked if he might see her if he came down for a visit. He wanted to go to the Dali Museum. He claimed that his brief talk with Melissa had rekindled his interest in the artist. He wanted Melissa to give him the royal tour of the gallery. “Frank, he also said that he did do some Dali copies, years ago,” Melissa said. “But he didn’t have them in his house, did he?” “No. He gave them away as a gift.” “Gave them away? Well, that lets him off the hook for sure,” I said, disappointed once more. “Yes, it does, but Frank, guess who got them?” The wheels turned in my mind. “Not his father!” “Yes! Joseph Silverstein. And as far as Jay knows, he still has them!” So now all we had to prove was that it was old Joe who had tried to sell them as originals. “That’s great, Melissa. We’ll check out old man Silverstein first thing in the morning.” This was the new lead we needed. “So are you taking Jay on the tour?” “Well, yes, if he comes down.” Melissa paused, then added, “I kind of like Jay, Frank.” “I see. Well, other than being a lawyer, I guess he’s okay. Let me know if you find out anything else about his father. I think maybe it was the old man who sent those thugs down there to rough up Billy Bob. Cosso is telling all to the Mounties, and it’s beginning to look as though old Joe was still quite active with the mafia boys.” I felt let down after I replaced the receiver. If Melissa found Jay interesting, that meant that she had never seen me as any more than a friend. Perhaps that one night at Clearwater had been something more like therapy than love. It did make things a little simpler on my career plans but did not do much for my love life. I poured myself about two inches of Glen Morangi scotch and sat down to watch a Seinfeld rerun. The crazy antics of Jerry, George and Kramer would seem normal tonight. Just as George was getting himself thrown out of another relationship, the telephone rang. I picked up the receiver and still trying to follow the TV show, said a disinterested, “Hello.” “Is this Frankie the Fifth?” a man asked. Frankie the Fifth? I hadn’t been called that for years. Not since I was studying for my accounting. I had picked up that handle when I fudged class questions by invoking the American Fifth Amendment. “Who’s this?” I asked. “Frank, it’s Buddy Olsen.” “Buddy! I’ll be damned. How are you? Where are you?” “Hey, I’m fine. I’m in Ottawa. How have you been, Frank?” copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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“Well, pretty good, really,” I said. “Hey, I heard about Karen. That was a real shame.” “Yeah. It’s been about three years now. Did you ever get married, you old stud?” “Yes, married, have three great kids, a station wagon, house in the suburbs - the whole thing.” “Great. Are you still with the Mounties?” “No, I moved over to CSIS when they changed everything around a couple of years ago.” “I suppose you’re running the place by now,” I joked. “Well, not quite, but I’m getting there. That’s what I called you about. I’m looking for someone with your background. Are you interested in talking about a job?” “Jesus, Buddy, I just got back on the force here. Let me correct that - I’m almost back on the force here. There was some kind of a glitch or I’d be signed up now.” “I’m the glitch, Frank.” “You? What have you got to do with this?” “Well, we still have a fairly close relationship with the RCMP and an Inspector over there is a good friend of mine. He gave me your name - said you just did an excellent piece of work for them.” “Oh. So I suppose it was you who asked Gilles for a recommendation?” “That’s sort of how it worked. I wondered if you could come up to Ottawa on Saturday and I can tell you what I have in mind. I think you might like it, because I think we can work out a way for you to keep your Dad’s business and work for us at the same time.” “No need to ask if you have talked to Philip, I suppose.” “Well, I did do a little background work on you.” I agreed to see Buddy on the weekend. I was beginning to feel like George on the Seinfeld Show, only I was bouncing from job to job, not from woman to woman. Although, come to think of it, I was not doing too bad of a job on that either.

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Chapter 15 That weekend I found out what the Canadian Security Intelligence Service had in mind for me. Buddy Olsen was heading up a team that was going to investigate international money movements. They wanted to see how money was being moved around to influence the money market. It was well known that buying a country’s currency on the future’s market could have a dramatic effect on that country’s ability to pay its international trade debts. By forcing the currency value down, a country would have to put more of its resources into paying the debt. If a major power wanted to influence the way a country the size of Canada voted at an important meeting, say GATT, then the threat of manipulating the value of our dollar was a lever they could use. The scandal of the Barings Bank and the use of derivatives were still fresh on everyone’s mind and this fuelled the CSIS program on monitoring international money movement by the major players. And the term ‘major players’ was no longer restricted to political nations - the large drug cartels now had as much money as some countries. CSIS wanted to find out if this manipulation of funds for influence had been done or was being done. The obvious country in question was the United States. For all its wealth, the giant beside us still only had one vote in most organizations. There was no doubt that many smaller countries followed the US lead in international affairs. Seeing the US as an ally, instead of an enemy, was much more comfortable position. Indeed, in most instances, Cuba being the exception, Canadian foreign policy was very similar to that of the United States. I never could understand the phobia that American politicians have over the tiny country of Cuba. True, the missile crisis back in the late sixties had excited the Americans, but that turned out to be more of a bluff than fact. I think the Americans were envious of how Fidel Castro had succeeded where American policy in the Americas and most of the third world only turned people against the States. I suppose Fidel proved that some kind of communism could help really poor people, whereas despots like Batista, supported by the rich Americans who liked the island playground, only used the poor as servants. Now, some forty years after the revolution, Americans were still trying to punish Fidel and they did not like Canada’s policy of trading with the tiny communist state. Americans were rushing to trade with China, the world’s largest communist country, but their small next door neighbour was another story. I asked Buddy what they could possibly gain by this knowledge of funds manipulation and he replied that the exposure of such a manoeuvre by the Washington power brokers just before an election could be a handy threat to keep the Americans in line. Buddy and his group of spies also had their eyes turned to the Far East. Japan now seemed to be using the same techniques to sway some of its smaller trading partners. Canada, a major Japanese trading partner, was vulnerable and the government, or at least CSIS, wanted to have a card or two to play with the Japanese as well, if it ever became necessary. The secondary part of operation ‘Loonie’, named after the infamous Canadian dollar coin that weighs so much people spend them just to lighten their pockets, was to monitor the flow of money leaving the country to offshore banks. While this was primarily a responsibility of Revenue Canada Taxation, CSIS was concerned that too much money going out of the country could weaken our currency. Again, our political masters wanted the control over that money monitored. If the Grand Caymans threatened the holders of Canadian funds in their banks, that could influence the depositors. Those depositors were some of the most powerful business people in the country. Our firm did a lot copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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of work in the Caymans, hence my connection. Buddy’s offer was one of employment for a five-year contract with annual renewals. I would continue to work as a partner in our accounting business, but I would dedicate a portion of my efforts to CSIS projects. My remuneration would be based on hours billed but was limited to a maximum of one thousand hours a year - or roughly six months. For which they agreed to pay only ninety dollars per hour plus expenses. Buddy also promised me that I would pick up some new clients in the second year when the emphasis of project Loonie shifted from the Caymans to the Far East. All I had to do was get close to the power brokers in these foreign countries and report on any influence pedalling without compromising my client’s confidentiality. It sounded like interesting work. It was nothing like the physical action that I had thrived on in Florida, but definitely more excitement than straight bookkeeping. I told Buddy I would let him know. Coincidence plays a large part in our lives. Some call it fate or karma, but mostly it is being at the right place at the right time. Who or what controls the timing, I am not sure. Monday morning Stu and I picked up a coffee and a crueller at Tim Horton’s and were on our way to Joseph Silverstein’s home. We wanted to take a look at the house and see if there was any way we could get inside without being noticed. The property was fenced with a six-foot mesh fence that had guard dog warnings every few feet, although we saw no sign of any dogs. The property was further protected with surveillance cameras covering the grounds. The gate was electronically controlled and yet another prominent sign warned of guard dogs. The place was also crawling with Metro cops. “What’s happening?” Stu asked, showing his badge to the uniformed officer who blocked the way into the house. “Robbery here last night. Old man Silverstein was hit on the head. His housekeeper found him this morning. They just took him away in the ambulance. He looked pretty bad to me.” “We’re working on a case involving Silverstein. We were coming to talk to him this morning,” I said. “Is there any chance we could take a look around? We might have something to help the investigating officer.” “Just a moment, I’ll ask,” he said. He switched on his radio, “Sergeant, there’s a couple of OPP officers out here. Say they are working on something. Let them in?” “Sure, send them in. What the hell are a few more people with the crowd we have here now?” The patrol sergeant sounded a little peeved. When we got inside, I could see why he was upset. Besides the forensic team and several uniformed officers, there was the housekeeper, a fellow who looked like a gardener, a guy in a chauffeur’s cap, a couple of suits and Jay Silverstein. Carson talked to the sergeant and we were given the nod to look through the house. Jay, who was leaving to go to the hospital, never noticed us as being different from the other cops. The two fellows who were obviously business associates of old man Silverstein gave us the once over so we tried to look like we were taking notes as we snooped around. The place had been thoroughly tossed by the robbers. It seemed were looking for something in particular. There were many valuable items out in the open and they had been left, things any burglar would know were valuable and easy to fence. The housekeeper had to open the locked room for us, a room that the robbers had not disturbed much since there were no obvious hiding places. Many of the paintings had been moved, as they now hung crookedly after the burglars had looked behind them for a wall safe. Old Joe had some great paintings displayed in this room. And there, on the east wall, were the Dali paintings. They were good, no question about it. I have seen quite a number of Dali’s works and if the copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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Silverstein collection had been displayed with the real works, I would not have picked them out as being different. Three of the paintings were from Dali’s later years - one even had Gala as an older Mary. Religion had reared its head more and more in Dali’s work as he aged. Some said it was a true return to his religion, but others claimed he only used this subject matter to please Gala. The problem still remains today with Salvador’s works - one never knows for sure what he thought of as he painted. Certainly his change of styles has confused the critics, some saying the man was merely an iconoclast who was also an adequate painter. The fourth painting, smaller than the others, was an earlier work on the William Tell theme. The Tell in this painting did not have the face of Lenin, that final insult that was Dali’s parting shot at the politics of Dadaism. Dali had frequently worked the theme of William Tell, the Swiss father who placed his son’s life in jeopardy of an errant arrow just to satisfy a selfish need for recognition. It was more than a political message to his political friends, it was Dali’s statement to the world about his own relationship with his father. Did old Joe Silverstein hang this original beside his son’s paintings as a similar message? Was he reaching out for a lost son? Stu rounded up the photographer and had him take a number of shots of each painting. We wanted a good record of where the paintings were hung as well as enough detail of each so they could be clearly identified in a court of law. We now had to talk to Joseph Silverstein to establish if he had ever offered these paintings for sale. We might have to lay a charge in order to get the old lawyer to talk so I suggested that we start with a conspiracy to defraud and then add the murder charge later. The dust was just now settling in the international art sale business after years of selling fakes by unscrupulous dealers. These dealers had sold improperly numbered prints and unauthorized works of great artists and even works of celebrities who could barely paint. Dali’s works were among the more saleable as would-be collectors had tried to acquire his works just before Dali died. We would have to be careful how we worded any charge for it is not a crime to sell fake paintings. It may be in bad taste as far as the art world is concerned, but legally, it was not a crime. It becomes a crime only if you hold out that the paintings are authentic works, or prints authorized by the artist, in this case, Dali. When we arrived at the Toronto General Hospital, we found that we could not get to see or talk to old Joseph Silverstein without going through several people. One was his son, Jay. The attending physician was keeping every one out of the intensive care unit, including Jay. The two suits we had seen back at the house turned out to be lawyers who were insisting that no one, including Jay, could talk to Silverstein without them being present. We talked to the Metro detective who was in charge and he thought that whoever had beat old Joe had gained access to the house by being an associate or friend. The two lawyers represented some of the Mafiosi, so the detective thought that someone had been sent to collect something from old Joe. There had been a struggle and the old man was injured. The house was tossed but the detective thought the assailant had left without his prize - that is why the two lawyers were present. “So what were they after?” I asked. “I think the old man had some books on the organization and they wanted them back. Old Joe goes back a long time with those people and he must have kept a record or two.” “So why now? Is the old man falling from favour or something?” Stu asked. “Well, a source says old Joe screwed up something lately and they want him to retire. Maybe the old man wanted a retirement bonus, I don’t know. I would love to get my hands on whatever it is they are after. I guess we’ll have to get a warrant to search the place. Might be tough to get though, copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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since all we have so far is an assault - if anybody lays a charge.” “How about Jay, the son?” I asked. “Jeez, I don’t know. He and his father haven’t spoken much to each other for a few years. Something went wrong between them - nobody seems to know what - so my guess is that the son won’t do anything unless his Dad says to.” “Is Jay connected to the Family?” “No, we don’t think so. He does criminal law, but not for the big bosses. Those two sleaze-bags handle that now.” “Well, Detective, we might be able to help you get that search warrant,” Stu said. He briefly explained our case and the two detective sergeants headed off to find a judge who would sign a warrant. I was left to try to get to the old man if the doctor permitted it, but I could see that I would be a long way down on the pecking list. I decided I would talk to Jay. He was sitting by himself, nursing a black coffee and looking through one of the old magazines that are discarded in waiting rooms. “Hello,” I said, sitting beside him. “My name’s Frank Pilger OPP. Sorry about your father.” “Yeah. What’s your angle?” “Pardon?” “Everybody here is after something. What are you investigating? I thought the Metro boys were covering the burglary?” “Well, yes they are. We’re working on something else.” “Wait a minute - aren’t you Clara Pilger’s son?” “Yes, that’s right.” “I remember you now - your wife was killed a few years ago - you were all over me for some reason.” “Yeah, well, that’s what we are working on again. The department still holds to the theory that it was not an accident. We were on our way to your father’s place this morning to talk to him.” “Surely you don’t think he had anything to do with your wife’s accident?” he asked. “Well, there are few things that need some answers. We think there is a connection between the attempted sale of some fake Dali paintings back then and Karen’s death.” “Fake Dali paintings? I never heard about that.” He looked as if it was news to him. But lawyers are good at keeping their emotions and thoughts to themselves. “Really? I thought you were a Dali admirer. I thought you would know about everything concerning Dali.” “Not really. I’ve studied his style but I do my own thing now. I only knew about Dali’s death after reading about it in the Times, a week later.” “Ever painted any Dali likenesses?” “You think I painted those Dali fakes?” “I never said that. I just wondered if you ever did anything that might look like a Dali.” He thought for a moment. “This is the time I would advise one of my clients to get a lawyer. But, yes, I did three or four works that might be typical of Dali, but I assure you, I never held them out to be Dali paintings. In fact, I gave them away.” “I thought so. Perhaps the party you gave them to tried to pass them off as Dali works,” I mused aloud. “Mr. Pilger, I think this conversation is over.” copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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“Fine, Jay, but you should know that we are getting a warrant to search your father’s place. I think your father tried to sell those paintings of yours. I think those are the same paintings that my wife exposed as fakes, and I think you knew about this all along. You and I are going to talk again, Mr. Silverstein,” I said, getting up. AIf I can connect you in any way to Karen’s death, we’ll have this same conversation before a judge. Maybe you should get yourself a good lawyer.” I walked away without looking back. I had tried to make myself threatening to him, but somehow I was not convinced myself. Jay Silverstein had been cleared in the initial investigation. Maybe it was just a coincidence that his credit card had been used to rent the truck that forced Karen’s car off the road. Maybe he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time when he was mugged that day. Maybe. I was back at Mary’s house that evening, dining with Mary and Philip, telling them about the CSIS offer. Dad was really intrigued by the idea of monetary manipulation for political power. He began talking about some of our accounts and how they might be susceptible. Dad did know a number of the big movers and shakers on Bay Street and he was soon conjecturing how they might get involved in just the situation that Buddy Olsen had talked about. “Jeez, Dad, maybe you should be the one who goes to work for CSIS,” I said, laughing. We all laughed, but Mary looked serious. “Frank may have something there, Philip. Maybe you should be doing that work, not Frank. I get the feeling Frank is only lukewarm to CSIS. I think he would rather be with the OPP. Am I right, Frank?” I sipped on my coffee. She was right. I wanted something more active, more physical. The undercover stuff was interesting, but being out front had more attraction for me right now. In a few years, I might change my mind, but right now, Mary was right. “Yes, Mary, I have to admit it, the OPP does appeal to me more. Maybe it would work out well for you, too, Dad. If Buddy will take you on, it would give you a chance to do something a little different. You could still keep the business here, but spend more time travelling. You and Mary could have any number of honeymoon trips to the Caymans, and even Japan.” “Hmm. We’d have to get someone in the office to replace Mary. She wants to quit working and dedicate more time to her writing.” “Writing?” I asked. “Yes. We never mention it around the office, but Mary has had two books published, and a third will be out next month.” “You’re kidding! Mary, why didn’t you tell me?” “Oh, I have always cherished my privacy more than any notoriety of being an author, so I wrote under a pen name. The books are nothing special - just some travel mysteries. I suppose they are written more for women than for men. “ “Some feminist stuff, you mean?” I asked. “No, not really. Just that my hero is a woman,” she laughed. “Well, give me the titles! I’ve never even looked for anything under your name - I mean, what a secret!” “They’re written under the name of Helen Greene - you’ll find them in the Romance section at most book stores.” So that was how Mary spent her time when Dad was not with her. All these years we had been bringing back books for Mary and she was using them for research. How little we really know about our friends. copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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“Frank, what do you think about moving Nancy into the main office? She’s had no trouble at all at the travel agency and I think she might be just the person to manage our office,” Dad said. “Well, she certainly has the qualifications. I’m not sure that being an office manager for our firm is what she has in mind for a career. I think she plans to own her own travel agency some day. She’s really quite ambitious.” “Well maybe if someone would propose to her, she might find the job here a whole lot more attractive,” Mary said. Nancy and I had seen each other a number of times since she had taken the job at the travel agency, but neither of us had tried to make anything of our relationship other than friendship. Certainly, I liked Nancy very much, probably loved her, but I had been focussing more on Melissa. It appeared now that the relationship existed more in my mind than in reality. It was especially so after finding out that Jay Silverstein had been down to Florida to visit her. I promised Mary and Dad I would talk to Buddy about the Loonie project and Dad said he would talk to Nancy the next morning. I would have to meet with Superintendent Gilles and resolve my status with the OPP, once we had Buddy satisfied.

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Chapter 16 I was working late at home, trying to complete one of the incorporation files from the office, when I had a most unexpected visitor. The doorbell rang and I almost missed it except that Felix gave a loud meow to alert me that something was about to happen. Usually he hears that almost inaudible ring on the telephone - the little ding that makes the connection before the phone actually rings - and he gives me a meow so I will stop that annoying ringing as quickly as possible. He also does the doorbell thing for me, so although I was in my study and could not hear the doorbell, when the phone did not ring, I went to the front door. I checked to see who it was through the little fish-eye I had installed after reading about them in the Crime Stoppers tip of the month. It was Jay Silverstein. “Jay?” I said, opening the door. “Hello, Frank. May I come in for a moment?” I opened the door fully and motioned for him to come into the foyer. “What on earth are you doing here at this hour?” I asked and then quickly added, “Is your father all right?” “Yes, he’s coming around. A severe concussion and loss of blood, but he’s conscious now.” “Well, I’m glad to hear that.” “There’s something I want to talk to you about, Frank, but it must be completely off the record.” “Well, that depends, Jay. You know that we are investigating your father. If it has something to do with that, you know I can’t promise anything.” “I understand that, but I am willing to give you some information. Although I don’t represent my father, there still exists some client-lawyer confidentiality. Dad asked me to represent him but I told him I thought he would be better served by having someone outside the family.” “Okay, but that confidentiality stuff has no bearing on you and me. If I’m asked a question in a court of law, I’ll have to reply, because I can’t hide behind that device of law.” “Fine. The information I have for you is about me, not my father. I’ve thought this over and there is a limit to what I will tell you. I would deny telling you anything more, if it came to testimony. You aren’t recording this conversation, are you?” I wished I had my DEA glasses, but said, “No. Does it look like I have a wire under this tee shirt?” “Well, no, but I had to ask.” “All right. Come on in and sit down. Would you like a drink?” “Well, it’s been a long day. Yes, I wouldn’t mind a short scotch. I’ll have just a little water, please.” I poured us each a wee drap of Glen Livet and sat opposite Jay. Felix had taken an immediate liking to Jay and was getting his ears rubbed. Felix is a good judge of character and my attitude towards Jay softened a little. After all, Melissa seemed to like the man too - even if he were a lawyer. “It’s about those ‘Dali’ paintings I did a few years ago,” Jay began. “So you did paint them,” I said. “Yes, I did four paintings in the Dali style. It started out as an exercise - I wanted to see if I could copy the style well enough to fool Dad.” Jay sipped his scotch and nodded his approval of one of my favourite drinks. “You know that Dad is a Dali admirer - he even has one original.” “Oh?” I said, “Which painting is that?” copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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“It’s the William Tell one. Apparently Dali painted several of the Tell series before he completed the two that became famous. Father bought his when he went to Europe right after he graduated. I haven’t seen it in years but it must be hung somewhere in his house.” I remembered the paintings I had seen the day we were in Silverstein’s home and one of them definitely bore similarities to the Enigma of William Tell. “So you decided to paint some copies?” I asked. “Yes. It was just after that scam when the US Customs intercepted those signed blank sheets that someone was going to use for reproductions. Dali was losing it and I’m not sure whether he knew he had signed some of those blanks or not. Apparently whenever he was short of cash, he would sit down and sign several hundred blank sheets and sell them to a print maker, often with no idea exactly which painting would be reproduced on the paper. It was always hard to tell with him whether he would do something just for publicity or just to prove a point - that his works were so important and the critics were so dumb.” “I know what you mean. Karen never knew whether to laugh at the man or not. But so often his genius would emerge from a painting long after you thought it had been studied and criticized to death. The man operated on another level of consciousness, I’m sure.” “Yeah, ‘Critical paranoia’,” Jay mused. “So you painted four pictures,” I prompted him. “Yes, I did four landscapes, with a few of the Dali signature items in them. I even had the damn ants in one!” “As I recall from Karen’s notes, you never signed them?” I asked. “That’s right. It is not a crime to copy a painting, even to add the artist’s name - so long as you don’t hold it out to be the artist’s work.” I knew that point of law, but nodded so he would continue. “The paintings were good enough that my father, who is quite knowledgeable on Dali, couldn’t tell the difference. He raved about the paintings so much that I gave them to him.” “And you had no idea of what he intended to do with them?” “No. As far as I knew, he hung them in his little private room and they are there to this day.” “Are you sure they are still there?” I asked. “Well, no. You see, Dad and I had a difference of opinion about five years ago. You are aware of the people he represented in court, but that wasn’t the only thing we disagreed on. He divorced Mother and treated her very badly throughout the whole procedure. I have hardly spoken to him since then until this morning when he regained consciousness.” “Oh,” I said, not knowing what else I could say. I knew from Melissa that Jay had asked his dad for one of the Dali paintings for his exhibition. “I understand from our conversation the other day that you think Dad tried to sell those Dali imitations,” Jay continued. “Yes, that’s my theory. The sale was stopped because my wife claimed them to be copies, not originals. I think it cost Karen her life.” “And you thought I was involved because I had painted the pictures?” “That seemed a logical explanation. Remember, your identification was used to rent the truck that ran my wife’s car off the road. Your alibi of the mugging seemed rather thin to me. I’m still not sure that you weren’t involved.” “I assure you, I wasn’t.” copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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“Do you know if your father ever tried to sell the Dali copies?” “That I don’t know. I never knew anything about the whole affair until you started harassing me and I got the court order to stop you. You see, I really didn’t know why you were bothering me. So often people get my father’s work and clientele mixed up with my practice, I thought this was just another example of the wrong name - so I applied for the court order.” “So when you talked to your father this morning, you decided to tell me your side of the story?” I asked. “Partly, it was that. But mostly it was because of talking to Melissa Boyd. It is obvious now that you planted her to get some information,” he said. “Yes, I asked Melissa to see if you had the Dali copies in your studio. We couldn’t get a search warrant so we thought that the best route. My mother had never seen your studio, but I was sure the paintings were there. It turned out that we were wrong, but that at least was something. Melissa offered to help because we thought your father might have had something to do with Billy Bob’s death. I think that may still be true, but we have nothing for proof yet.” “That I know nothing about. I did learn of the Dali Glasses and all about the paintings from Melissa. I came here tonight to tell you my side of the story. Whether my father had anything to do with your wife’s death, I have no idea. It was never my intention to have my art work used in any way that was disreputable.” “Well, thank you for what you have told me. At least it confirms some of what we suspect. We’ll have to question Joseph as soon as he’s better.” I walked Jay to the door and just as he was leaving I asked, “By the way Jay, I thought you might like to know that there are only three of your paintings in your father’s house.” “So?” “Well, I think he did sell the fourth. I think a collector in France bought it, but he doesn’t display it.” “I’ll be damned. So I guess they were pretty good, eh?” “Almost good enough,” I said, closing the door. Stu Carson and I were at the hospital the next morning by ten a.m. We were waiting for Silverstein’s doctor to give us permission to talk to the old man when Jay came out of the private room. He spotted me and came over. After I introduced Carson, I asked how Jay’s father was feeling. “Not well, I’m afraid. He slipped a lot over the night. The doctor thinks he may have a blood clot in his head. They are giving him blood thinners now but if the pressure doesn’t go down, they will have to operate again.” “That’s too bad, Jay. I guess we won’t be talking to him today.” “No, I don’t think so.” He turned to leave then stopped. “You know, Frank, I was thinking about our talk last night, about Dad trying to sell those paintings. He had a distant cousin of some sort in Montreal who is an art dealer. I wonder if he had anything to do with this?” “His name wouldn’t be Alexi Burger, would it?” Stu asked. “Yes, that sounds like the name.” “We checked him out. He went out of business, left town and we don’t know where he is. His former staff was very cooperative but there was nothing to point him to the murder. He was the agent for the sale, but we think he may have believed the paintings were real.” “Maybe you should talk to him again?” Jay said. “Yeah, if we knew where he was. His former secretary said he was in poor health and my guess copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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is that he may have died. We’ll take another look though,” Stu answered. “Jay, do you have any relatives who might know where Burger is or if he is still alive?” “Well, Dad’s older sister might know. She’s here in Toronto. I’ll give you her phone number.” He wrote out the number for us and we left the hospital to conduct the search of Joseph Silverstein’s house. The warrant had come through even though we did not have much of a case against Silverstein. There were a number of judges in the city who did not like the criminal lawyer and Gilles must have known one of them who would sign the warrant. I was driving and about to pull into the long driveway when Stu said, “Wait! Keep going.” “What is it?” I asked as I accelerated and prepared to turn right to circle the block. “I thought I saw something - the curtain in the left window moved. That building is a crime scene and no one is supposed to be in there. Let’s go around again.” As we came up to the address, I noticed a man slouch down in a parked car across the street. “Stu, I think there’s a lookout in the black Crown Victoria.” “Yes, I saw him. He’s probably got a cellular telephone. Drop me off around the corner. I’ll see if I can walk up to the car and then surprise him before he can make a call. You go around the back. Give me five minutes and then bang on the back door. I’ll be out front. Don’t use your radio unless you have to. They probably have it monitored.” “Should I call for back up?” “Yeah, but don’t give our location - just say we’re out of the car at the warrant site.” I did not think the bad guys were so sophisticated as to be monitoring our calls, but then I had been off the streets for a few years, so I did as Stu said. I called in and requested a backup, then made my way through the neighbour’s backyard to the Silverstein property. It was a double-sized lot with a beautiful flower garden and terraced ponds, Japanese in design, but just now it was full of tulips and daffodils. The bumblebees were out, flying slowly through the still cool air, sampling the flowers, red first then the yellow. The neighbour’s cat was following me, meowing for an ear rub. I was too busy getting the 9 mm gun out of the holster under my arm to give the cat any attention. I checked my watch - two more minutes before Stu would be ready at the front door. There was no sign of entry at the back door, nor at the window in what I guessed was the kitchen. The cat was now rubbing some fur onto my trouser leg so I reached down and gave it a pat. I checked my watch once more and then banged on the back door with my knuckles. I opened the screen door, setting the lock mechanism on the door closer so the door would stay open, then tried the knob on the heavy oak door. It turned freely in my hand. I pushed the door open, staying back out of view. The cat slipped inside. Obviously, it had been here before, because it scampered down the hallway. All was quiet for a minute or two and then I heard what sounded like a curse upstairs. I called out, “Police! Who’s in there?” The noise stopped and then I heard footsteps running on the second floor. I called again, “Police!” There was a gunshot from down the hallway. I dropped to the floor, my gun out in front, ready to fire. The cat came around the corner, claws scratching for traction, straightened out and came down the long hall like a streak of grey. The cat leapt right over me and out the back door. I grabbed the radio from my belt and pushed the panic button. I did not care who was monitoring the radios, we needed help right now. “Code 99. 119 Bromely Ave.” I said as calmly as I could, giving the code for ‘Officers need assistance. Shots fired’. The smart thing to do was to get back outside and wait for help. I assumed copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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that Stu was still outside the front of the house so we had whoever was inside boxed. I began squirming backwards, keeping my eyes on the hallway. A man in dark clothing ran around the corner. “Stop!” I yelled. I do not think he expected to see me on the floor and his first shot bounced off the wall, four feet above me. I fired the 9 mm once, missed and then fired three quick shots, low. His leg went out from under him and he screamed in pain. The sound of the gunshots in the confined area was deafening and I hardly heard the second man yell and run back up the stairs. I got up and crouching low, went up to the downed man and picked up his gun. My radio squawked, “Frank! Are you okay?” “Yeah. I got one down here. I don’t know how many more there are. I’m in the back hall.” “I heard one run back up stairs. I’m coming in.” The glass panel on the front door shattered. I stood now and moved forward, keeping tight to the wall. I could see Stu through the next room. I motioned towards the stairs and he nodded. It was quiet in the house, but in the distance I could hear the howl of a siren. In a minute or two, we would have backup police all around the house. I suppose the guy upstairs must have thought the same thing, because he decided to make a break for it. I saw him start down the stairs and briefly showed myself, yelling at him to stop. His answer was a shower of bullets. The son of a bitch had a machine pistol, probably an Uzzi. Pieces of plaster flew off the wall above me and I dove once again to the safety of the floor, scrambling backwards like a crawfish escaping a hungry bass. I heard one shot from Stu’s gun and then another burst from the automatic. I rolled tight against the wall and pointed my pistol down the hallway. I could hear the footsteps running down the stairs. The Uzzi sprayed the room sending pieces of furniture and glass flying in all directions. Stu fired a couple of rounds that drew more shots from the Uzzi. I hoped Stu was behind something solid. Stu had the front exit blocked so now the man had to come out my way. The police car sirens were close; he did not have much time. The snout of the Uzzi pointed around the corner of the hall entrance and spat out another ten or fifteen rounds, all over my head, but again covering me in chips of plaster. I held my fire, trying against reflex to keep my eyes open and watch directly down the hallway. Again the Uzzi raked the hallway, again the shots were high. I had no idea of how many rounds an Uzzi held, or for that matter, how many bullets had been sprayed around the house. I had no way of knowing if the shooter had spare clips. I only knew that if I got a target, the 9 mm would speak fast and furious. A head poked around the corner and then pulled back. In the dusty hall, lying still on the floor, I guess I did not look like a threat. There was another burst of fire from the Uzzi, this time back towards the front of the house. Probably just to keep Stu honest. Then a figure came charging down the hall. I pointed the 9 mm up and held the trigger back. The gun roared in my hand six or seven times before I relaxed my grip. The shooter was driven back by each hit, spinning, bouncing off the wall and finally crumpling, face-first to the floor. The silence was loud in my head as I watched a human body twitch a couple of times and then lay still. “Stu!” I yelled. “Frank - you okay?” “Yeah. You?” “Okay. You got him?” “Yeah, they’re both down.” I got up and checked my first victim. He was in shock. “Call for an ambulance. This guy is going into shock.” I walked up to my second victim and had no doubt that copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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this one was dead. The 9 mm had torn holes right through the body. Four big holes through the chest cavity told everything. I heard Stu yell to the uniformed officers to get an ambulance, then he walked down the hall, limping. “Stu, did you get hit?” I asked. “Yeah, in the foot. Just nicked me, I think. It doesn’t hurt much.” There was a little blood coming out of the hole on the side of his shoe right where his little toe should be. Stu reached down and rolled over the still body that moments before had been spraying bullets at us. “I’ll be damned,” he said. It was a young woman, maybe twenty years old, probably younger. “Oh, shit,” I said. I began to shake then. I could feel a cold sweat breaking out all over my body. I knew I was going to throw up. I made it to the back door and outside but then everything that I had eaten for the past month felt like it wanted out. After a few dry retches and some coughing, I felt a little better. Stu hobbled out with a glass of water. I took it thankfully and rinsed my mouth of the foul taste of death. “Sit down, Frank.” I sat on the edge of a raised flower bed. “You want some more water?” “No. I’m okay now.” My hands were shaking like leaves in a breeze. I stared at the gun in my hand, then handed it to Stu and stuck my hands into my jacket pockets to keep them still. “Jesus Christ, Stu, it was just a girl!” “No, it was someone who was trying to kill you. And me. Remember that. She would have killed you and never given it a second thought.” I nodded my head. I drew a few deep breaths and felt a little better. The sirens were still arriving out at the front of the house and more police officers were looking around. After about five minutes an ambulance attendant stuck her head out the back door. “Where’s the police officer who is shot?” she asked. “Oh, that’s me,” Stu said, pointing at his right shoe, “Here, in the foot.” There was a small pool of blood where he had been standing while he talked to me. “Well, for Chrissakes, sit down and get that foot up,” she ordered. She was a solidly built red head and Stu immediately sat down beside me. The paramedic undid the shoe and cut off the bloodsoaked sock, yelled for a stretcher and had a pressure bandage on the foot in a matter of seconds. “Would you put that gun away?” she asked Stu. “Those things can hurt people.” Stu gave the gun back to me and I put in into the shoulder holster. “Don’t reload the gun, Frank. Internal Affairs will want it.” “Yeah, I know.” I felt another wave of nausea coming. “What’s the matter with you?” the medic asked me. “Are you shot, too?” “No, he’s okay,” Stu told her. “He’s just a little shook up. He’s the one who shot those two inside. He’ll be okay.” “Officer Pilger?” a uniformed officer asked from the doorway. “Yeah, that’s me,” I replied. “Your commanding officer is one the way. He said you should wait.” “Sure.” The medics took Stu away and the place gradually quietened down. I walked around the backyard, trying to clear my head. A young voice called to me through the hedge, almost making me jump. I found my hand reaching for that damned gun. “Mister, what happened at Mr. Silverstein’s house?” a young lad of four or five asked. He was holding the cat that had probably saved my life. copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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“That your cat?” I asked him. “Yes sir. This is Streak. You’re a cop, aren’t you?” “Streak, eh? Well, he’s one fine cat. I have a cat at home. His name is Felix.” I reached out and scratched Streak’s ears. The lad gave me his cat to hold. “Did somebody get shot over there?” “Yes, a couple of burglars. I think Streak here spooked them just as my partner and I entered the house.” “Yeah, Streak will do that. He likes to hide and then tackle your foot and run away. He and Mr. Silverstein play that game all the time.” Streak must have grabbed the gunman’s foot thinking it was old man Silverstein he was attacking. “Terrence,” a mother’s voice called. “Terrence, you get back in your own yard!” Terrence’s mother had a towel around her head. I guess the excitement next door had caught her in the shower. “Terrence, I told you not to talk to strangers!” She gave me a look that said I should not be talking to little boys. “It’s all right, ma’am. I’m a police officer,” I said. “Well, Terrence still shouldn’t be talking to you. You could be anyone, dressed like that!” I thought my grey slacks and mulberry jacket matched quite well and my tie and socks complemented the outfit. “It’s okay, Mom. I knew he was a policeman. I saw him go into the house and after all the shooting, he came out and barfed all over Mr. Silverstein’s pansies.” “Terrence!” “Well, he did, Mom.” She looked at me. “Shooting?” “I guess you didn’t hear it - the shower,” I said, indicating her towelled head. “I heard the sirens, but . . . was anyone hurt?” She saw the look on my face and simply said, “Oh. Terrence, please take Streak and go to the house.” The lad gave a resigned look and took the cat from my arms. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I was just walking around the yard when the boy came through the hedge.” “How bad was it?” she asked. “Pretty bad. One dead, one wounded. My partner took a round in his foot, but he’ll be okay.” “Burglars, you think?” “Probably.” “And you detectives were just passing by?” “Yes, something like that,” I said. “Well, I knew something would happen over there sooner or later.” “What do you mean?” “Well, the people that came to that house. We’ve seen some of them on the TV. Old Joe was a good enough neighbour, but you could tell - some of the crazy things he did!” “For instance?” I prompted her. “Well, that wishing well he put in over there. I’ve seen him at night out there, several times, working around that well in the dark. He said the pump was broken on it when I asked him about it once, but it always looked to be working fine to me.” The watch commander, Inspector Watts, came out of the back door of Silverstein’s and called to me. I thanked the lady with the towel for her help, waved goodbye to Terrence and Streak who were copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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watching and listening from the hedge and went back into the house. They had a blanket over the body but I still felt a little queasy as I walked by the still form on the floor. I went over the shooting incident for Watts and the two Metro officers who had been assigned to the shooting investigation. It seemed pretty straight forward. There were enough Uzzi holes in the house to justify any shooting Stu and I had done. One of the Metro boys knew the shooter - one Ellen Mae Southcott - who was wanted for questioning in two murder investigations and on an immigration warrant. She was an American, known on the streets as Ellie-Mae or E. M. Clampett, a fan of the Beverly Hillbillies, no doubt. When the Metro cops said they were through with me, Watts asked if we had found anything with our search warrant. “We never had time to look. You know, I think those two were searching the house for something, and it wasn’t a Dali painting.” “What do you mean?” “Somebody beat up the old man last week. There was no sign of forced entry so it had to be someone he knew. I think maybe the old guy had something the mob wanted, and wanted badly. Badly enough to come here in broad daylight.” “Are you thinking maybe the old lawyer had some books on his clients?” “Yes. Maybe he was trying to blackmail them. Or maybe they just didn’t trust him anymore and he needed some insurance. I can’t prove it, but I think he got the Family into some trouble down in Florida and I think they wanted him out, once and for all.” “And the Family thinks the stuff is here in the house, so they sent some people to find it.” “That’s right. But it’s not in the house.” “You know where it is?” “You believe in wishes, Watts?” He looked sceptical but when I told him about the neighbour’s comments and the wishing well in the back yard, he led the way out the back door. The coroner’s crew had taken away Ellie-Mae but the blood stain was still on the floor. I carefully stepped around the chalk outline. “Your first shooting?” Watts asked. “Yeah. Until a month ago I had never even fired a gun at anyone. Now I’ve shot three people killed one of them.” “I guess it’s tough. They say you get over it. You should talk to the people downtown. They have a trauma team there to help officers who have shot someone or been shot.” I thought I would give myself a couple of days, and then if I felt I needed to talk, I would take advantage of the service. We found the waterproof package under the water pump. It was the traditional black note book, double sealed in zip-lock plastic bags - the ones with the green stripe. The book had a lot of names and dates neatly written on the pages. There were markings beside each entry that meant nothing to me but Watts said it looked like shorthand to him. He stuck the book inside his coat so if anyone saw us come out of the house we would not be carrying anything. Watts thought the department might like to sit on the information for a while and use it against the mafia boys on a selective basis. They might think they had a leak within their organization and any trouble we could cause them that way would be worth a lot to the department. Watts gave my search warrant to a young uniformed officer and told him to seize the Dali paintings. The young man returned in a few moments to ask what were Dali paintings, so I had to show him the collection that hung in the gallery room. We left him with instructions to package them copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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carefully and he went off to find some bath towels for wrapping on Watts’ suggestion. I was wanted downtown to answer a few questions by Internal Affairs. I had already knew some of my answers from when I had shot Chief Parks. The Tampa cops had coached me very well on what to say during a shooting investigation. They were happy just to get me out of their jurisdiction.

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Chapter 17 I spent the rest of the day doing paperwork on the shooting. I had to complete forms that started with why I had pulled the gun from its holster, to the number of shots fired, and the damage inflicted by each and every bullet. Now I understood why Canadian police officers tend to do less shooting than their American counterparts. Of course, I had fired only one shot per incident in Florida, not a whole clip at one time. Now if we could only force the criminals to do as much paperwork! Gilles dropped by once to see how I was handling the after-shock of the shooting. He chatted in a concerned way for a moment yet he seemed to have something else on his mind. I phoned the hospital to see how Stu was feeling but the information desk said they had already released him. I called his house and Marge, his wife, said that he was sleeping. He had lost the tip of his little toe and would likely be off work for a couple of weeks. Marge seemed to be handling the trauma of the shooting all right, but then, she was the type that would not let anyone except Stu know how she really felt. I talked to Dad and told him about the shooting so he would not be surprised if I showed up on the six o’clock evening news. He asked if he and Mary could do anything for me, but I declined the dinner invitation, feeling too drained for company. All I wanted to do was sit down to a good glass of scotch and talk this whole day over with Felix. Cats can be good listeners. If you begin to ramble on about something they either fall asleep or wander off to the kitchen for a drink of water. That is what keeps my talks with Felix right on subject and to the point. I had to think this whole day over, but I also had to keep it in perspective. Talking to Felix did that. Life went on. There was a time to talk but there was also a need to carry on with the daily routines like sleeping or getting a good cool drink of water. Nancy’s car was in my driveway when I finally got home at six thirty. I had mixed emotions when I saw the little red Honda. On one hand I wanted to be alone, but on the other hand, perhaps Nancy would be a better companion than Felix tonight. We were getting to know one another quite well, but I knew from talking to other police officers that an understanding spouse was hard to find at times like this. Spouses were either overcome that you were unharmed or upset that you had put your life on the line, even though that happened every day. A shooting by anyone on the force had ripple effects and now I was at the centre of this one. “Frank, I thought you could use a good hot meal tonight,” Nancy greeted me as I came into the kitchen. She gave me a kiss and a big hug and went back to the stove where something was giving off delicious smells. “If you want to be alone, I understand, and I’ll leave right after you eat your dinner . . .” That hug was what I needed. “No. I can use the company. Thanks for coming, Nancy,” I said. “Your scotch is on the sideboard. I couldn’t find any soda water so you’ll have do with Evian water, I’m afraid.” “Water is fine. Do you want something?” “I opened a bottle of your red wine. I have a glass here somewhere.” I poured myself a handsome shot of Glen Morangi and after a mouthful had set my innards afire, I said, “I’m going up to change. I feel like I need a shower.” Felix followed me upstairs, telling me about the exciting day he had had watching robins on the lawn. I got out the wire brush and gave him a thorough grooming. When he was satisfied and thought it was time to check on dinner, he left and headed back down stairs. I took off my sports coat and copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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was putting it on the hanger when I noticed a tear in the sleeve. I could not remember catching my coat on anything so I looked more closely at the material. It was not a tear, it was a hole. A bullet hole. I had come within a centimetre of being hit. I began to shake again and had to sit. “Frank. Frank, are you all right?” It took a moment to realize where I was. I was sitting on my bed, my jacket in my hands. I shook my head. I must have been sitting there in some kind of a trance. Even now I felt strange, as if I were detached from everything. I could see Nancy coming over to me, sitting beside me and putting her arms around me. The tears came then and I must have wept for several minutes until the relief finally came and I settled down. I blew my nose and then began talking. I am not sure now what I said, or how long I talked, but I guess it all came out. Whether Nancy really understood my innermost feelings or not, she helped me in my decision. I knew now for certain what course my life was going to take. I would talk to Gilles in the morning. We dined royally on the Mulligan stew Nancy had prepared for us that evening. A few glasses of Cabernet Sauvignon added to the meal and I began to feel quite domesticated. It turned out that Philip had phoned Nancy and told her about the shooting. That was all the prompting she needed to send her to my place. As the evening slipped by, I realized that I did love this woman. She had every quality that anyone could ask for, at least everything I could possibly want in a companion. I certainly liked her daughter, Marisa, and I knew that we three could make a good life together. Four counting Felix. I was not certain if Nancy would want to be married or if we would just live together. Perhaps Marisa’s wishes would be the decisive factor. Nancy had been reading about Salvador Dali, I suppose because she knew I was still interested in the artist, not because of Karen’s work, but purely for my own enjoyment. So we looked at some of the books I had in my library, and I expounded on what little I knew, entertaining Nancy with my ideas on the paintings. Dali uses some fairly explicit sex symbolism and it was not long before we dropped the books and went from theory to practice. The sex we shared that night will be long remembered by me. There was an intensity I had never experienced before, and now, in retrospect, it was likely a reaction to the shooting that day. I had taken a life and was now making a determined effort to replace that lost life force with a new one. There is something about us that says we must procreate in the face of our own mortality. Death and life. Life and death. They were the two sides to one coin, two parts that can only exist together. Critical paranoia - madness and sanity - one could not exist without the other. The trick was to stay somewhere between the extremes. Born but not yet dead. Neither sane nor mad. That night Nancy and I wavered often in that perfect world between the excitement of foreplay and the ecstasy of climax. The three of us were having breakfast, Nancy and me with our cream of wheat and Felix with his Whiskas seafood buffet, when the telephone rang. It was Jay Silverstein. “Hope I didn’t get you out of bed, Frank,” he said. “No, Jay, we’re just having our breakfast.” “I wanted to catch you before you left for work. Dad took a turn for the worse last night after hearing about the fire at his house.” “Fire?” I asked. “Yes, somebody set fire to the house. There’s not much left except the foundation.” “Somebody was very determined, weren’t they?” copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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“Yes, and I think you and I know who it was. Whatever it was that they were after is now ash,” He paused a moment and when I did not say anything, continued, “We managed to talk over a few things in private yesterday before the doctor insisted that I leave. I just got a call from the hospital asking all the family to come, so I guess Dad is near the end.” “I’m sorry to hear that, Jay,” I said. Not that his father was dying, because I had no feelings towards the Silversteins, but because I really wanted to talk to the father about Karen’s death. “Well, as you know, we were not that close lately. But what I wanted to tell you was that Dad did relate to me something that you need to know. It’s about the Dali paintings.” “Really?” “Yes, but there is no way I can tell you now. If Dad doesn’t recover, I’ll talk to you as soon as I can. I’ll give you a call.” “Okay,” was all I could say. “And Frank? He kept saying something about a black book, but I couldn’t make it out what he wanted. Did you find anything in the house yesterday? He had it in his mind that you personally had found it.” “We didn’t find anything in the house,” I said, using the doublespeak that lawyers use all the time. Maybe I would tell him about the wishing well later. I replaced the receiver, wondering what it was that old Joseph Silverstein had told his son. Was it a deathbed confession? “It sounds like old man Silverstein is not going to make through the day,” I said to Nancy. “I thought he was recovering,” Nancy replied as she refreshed our coffee cups. “He took a turn for the worse last night. But he told Jay something about the Dali paintings.” “About the fakes?” “Yes, I guess so. Jay said he could tell me if his father dies. It must be one of those lawyer confidentiality things.” “So how will this affect what you were going to tell Gilles?” “Damn, I don’t know. I guess it really won’t make any difference. If it is something material, Stu can handle it.” Nancy had to go to her place to change clothes and see that her daughter was ready for school. Her mother had said not to worry when Nancy had called the night before to say that she would be staying over at my place, but Nancy wanted to check in on the way to work. I wanted to get in early to talk to Gilles before he began his daily routine. We both left at the same time and I thought how we looked like so many other families in the neighbourhood - both parents driving off to work, leaving the kids to get themselves organized and off to school. Of course, Felix had nothing to do but read the morning Globe and Mail while he waited for the birds and squirrels to come along for his daily entertainment. Gilles’ secretary was not in the office at this hour so I rapped on the Superintendent’s door and announced myself. I heard a grunt that sounded like come in so I did. “Good morning, sir,” I said. “Could I have a couple of minutes of your time?” “Oh, good morning, Pilger. Sit down, I wanted to talk to you this morning anyway. Do you want a coffee?” I nodded and he poured me a cup from his coffee machine on the credenza. He did not offer the cream and sugar so I drank it straight like he did, although I usually take just a little cream. I could be as tough as he could. “How are you feeling, after yesterday?” he asked. copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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“Well, pretty good. I was a little shaky last night for a while but I’m okay now.” “It’s not an easy thing to take a human life. I had one shooting, hell, it’s almost thirty years ago, and it still bothers me at times like this. And it should, I suppose. I think the investigation team will want to see you this morning, but from reading your report, I’m sure it will be a short meeting.” “Should I have anyone with me? The watch commander? Or Stu?” “No, that won’t be necessary, Frank.” He paused and shuffled through some papers he had been working on. “Frank, I’m afraid we have a little problem with your coming back on strength.” “Oh? Well, sir, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Gilles carried on as if he had not heard me. “My political bosses think that bringing you back might set a precedent. Personally, I think they are more worried about having to catch up your pension benefits, but they also cited some criticism of not getting younger men and women on the force. And then there is this whole employment equity thing. We’re short a few points on the ethnic hiring and since you’re a male, white, Anglo, that doesn’t help my numbers.” “Yes sir,” I said. “Are you telling me that you would prefer me to withdraw or resign, or whatever I do with my current status?” “Yes, I guess, so Frank. It seems a shame after all you’ve done for us in the past couple of months. I’m sorry.” “Well, sir, I was going to tell you this morning that I would like out anyway.” “You were?” “Yes sir. I realize that I could never put a gun on anyone again. Sure, maybe after some counselling, I might think I could, but I feel that I don’t want to. I love police work, but somehow I never saw this side to it before. Maybe it’s my age - I suddenly realized yesterday how fragile our grip on life is - and I want to hang on very tight right now. I wonder if that young woman, Ellie-Mae, ever thought about dying.” “I know what you mean, Frank. It is that very thing that makes a good police officer. A few of our officers go through their whole career and never reflect on that. They are the hot dogs who push to the limit without realizing the true consequences - not only to themselves, but to others.” “Well, I think I want to return to what I was doing. I plan to go back to the accounting business, but I’m going to open a new branch in the business - Forensic Accounting.” “That’s not a bad idea. There is a need out there and a number of businesses I can think of would probably hire you once they get to know what Forensic Accounting can do for them. Hell, most of the white-collar crimes are never reported. In fact, most are never noticed until it is too late. Yes, you might do all right with that, Frank.” “Well, I’m going to give it a try. Did you see the book we found at Silverstein’s?” “Yes. I think we have something very interesting there. Maybe I’ll get old Joe yet!” “I doubt it, sir. I talked to Jay this morning and it sounds as if the old man won’t make it through the day.” “Well, damn!” I could see the disappointment in his face. “What does that do with your investigation into your wife’s death?” “Jay said he had something to tell me, if his Dad dies - something about the Dali fakes. I’ll pass it on to Stu. That is another decision I made last night. I’ve done all I can. I still believe it was murder, but I’m leaving all that behind me. All I can ask is that you leave the case open until Jay talks to me. Then it’s up to you what you do with the case file.” “That’s fair enough. I’ll have my secretary process your release papers as soon as you finish with copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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the shooting team. If they see no problems, I’ll sign them. If there is anything, it would be better for you to stay on strength until it’s cleared up.” “Thanks, sir.” I wanted to tell him that I had loved the experience, but I knew that he understood, so I took my half a cup of cold black coffee and left. I met with Philip the next day to discuss my idea of setting up the forensic branch. Dad seemed to like it and wanted to be involved in some of the research if and when we took on a client. He had talked with Buddy Olsen a number of times in the past week and they had struck some deal. Dad was planning to take a course on international finance and stock trading at the University during intercession and suggested that I might like to join him. Nancy was to continue as acting manager for the accounting firm and would take over full responsibility as soon as Dad and Mary “retired” in July. We planned to call a general meeting of all the partners in the firm as soon as possible so we could chart a new course for the business. No one was going to lose work and it might even be that we could be expanding. I was already thinking that we needed some bright young computer genius in the business since most of the forensic work would be done with computers. There were a couple of fellows with the Solicitor General’s Office that might be nearing retirement age who would add some needed experience to my new division. As soon as my release papers came through, I was going to talk to them. Joseph Silverstein died without regaining consciousness two days after Jay had called me. True to his word, Jay phoned and asked if we could meet for lunch one day. I advised him that I was no longer a police officer and requested that I bring Stu Carson with me. Jay had no objections. Over lunch Jay told us that his father had admitted to arranging for two men to kill Karen. He had tried threatening her without success, something Karen had never told me, and then went the final mile. According to Jay, old Joseph had regretted the act and from then on it had played on his mind. He had done more and more dangerous things, trying to overshadow the guilt of killing Karen. Jay said his father had recorded all this in the book that his criminal friends were trying so desperately to find. Neither Stu nor I let on that we knew where that book was. All of this information was, of course, circumstantial because old Joe was now in the ground and we only had Jay’s word for the conversation of a dying man. If we could tie the names in the book to Karen’s murderers, that would help. Stu was certain that Gilles would try to do this. The book might also tie Martin Cosso to Billy Bob’s murder but I did not mention that in Jay’s presence. I did manage to bring Melissa into the conversation and Jay said that he was going to see her the next week. Apparently their relationship was flowering. Jay also reminded me that his father thought that I knew about that book. Jay was concerned that his father’s friends might also have that same idea. It was two months later that the final piece of the Dali puzzle fell into place. But like all things Dalian, there was more to this than at first met the eye. Despite what we thought were proper precautions, Nancy announced one evening that she would not be drinking any more wine with dinner, and that I was going to become a father. A real biological father. I had become a father to Marisa in the past months, a role that I was enjoying and one that Marisa seemed to feel very comfortable with. Nancy and I decided that we did want to marry, even though it was not uncommon that people who live together and have children do not always take the public vows. Father and Mary insisted on a formal wedding and we ended up having close to a hundred people attend the affair at the Unionville Golf and Country Club. The club is a wonderful setting for open-air weddings and the weather cooperated for a perfect day. We had our wedding photographs taken under the big willow trees that follow the little creek and then more informal photos on the copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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terrace of the clubhouse. Stu was my best man, while Marisa gave her mother away, a somewhat novel idea that had some of the older ladies tittering. We asked that no wedding gifts be given but one did arrive the day of the wedding. There was a card saying ‘Best Wishes for a Wonderful Couple’ signed simply Jay and Melissa. A sealed envelope with my name on it contained a personal note. They both hoped I would accept the Dali painting, not for its value, but for all the memories, bitter or sweet, that came with being an admirer of the great artist. It was the original Dali that Joseph Silverstein had purchased when he was a student, many, many years ago. I knew that it was part of the obsession that had driven not only Joseph Silverstein, but my former wife, Karen. Every time I looked at the Dali I would be reminded of things past, but without that past, Nancy and I would not have had our future. An irony of fate, which I was certain Dali would have appreciated. There were two messages on the answering machine when we returned from the cottage in the Haliburtons the first weekend in August. The first was from Harry Besner in Florida, asking me to call him. I hoped it was his reply to my offer for them to join us for a week’s vacation at the cottage, as he had said earlier that the family was thinking of coming north this year. The second message was from Stu, simply saying to call him. I had not talked to Stu since our wedding, almost a month ago. The first month of married life was a blur of activity as we moved Nancy and Marisa into our home. We took almost a full day just child-proofing my place - moving breakables to higher ground, putting dangerous liquids and cleaning supplies safely out of reach, and installing locks on the medicine cabinets. Felix and Marisa took to each other immediately, in part because Felix could now roam the newly fenced backyard with a companion who was just as interested in bugs and crawly things as was he. For a cat that was housebound except for our walks on a leash, the newfound freedom was a tonic. For the robins and squirrels, it was lost territory. Nancy and I complemented each other very well, although it was taking me a little time to get used to such an active household. Already we were planning to change the third bedroom into a nursery for our expected child who would arrive early in the New Year. The baby hardly showed at this stage and being pregnant had no effect on our lovemaking. In truth, I felt even better about sex than I ever had before, perhaps because now I had proved my manhood in the most positive way. I called Harry first, thinking that Stu was likely trying to find a spare for his bowling team since vacation time was hard on team attendance. Most bowling leagues take the summer off, but the police teams kept at it throughout the hot summer, using the air-conditioned police recreation centre as a place to cool off as well as maintaining their form to be ready for the fall competition with the civilians. “Harry, how are you?” I asked when his Dad had switched me through. “Just fine, Frank. How’s Nancy?” We traded family talk for a moment or two then I asked if they were coming up for a visit. “Sorry, Frank, I’ve had to cancel my vacation. I’ve been promoted to Deputy Chief and there is a lot of work to catch up on. Maybe we can get up next year.” “Well, congratulations, Harry, that’s great news. Whatever happened to Daryl Parks?” “His trial is scheduled for next month. I think he’s going to talk and they are going to put him in witness protection. He knew quite a few names and the DEA seems willing to bend on this one. Daryl had a lot of political friends too, and they have pulled a few strings to get him into the program.” “Yeah, I suppose he must have had a few friends in high places. It would have been tough for copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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him in prison once his fellow inmates found out he had been a cop.” “Well, I don’t have much sympathy for him. What I called for was to tell you that the Canadian we were holding on the Boyd case has been released.” “Not enough evidence?” “Right. But we did find out something from Two-Time Charlie, a petty thief, who was in jail with him. Apparently that lawyer who sent him down here has talked or something, because the guy was worried about a job he and a friend had done a few years ago. He said that they had murdered a woman for the lawyer and the guy was worried that it might be pinned on him.” So it was not over yet. “Shit, Harry, that was old man Silverstein. He’s dead.” The murderers would not have anything to worry about unless the OPP had started using that black book and the bad guys had been alerted. “Are you suggesting that these guys could have been the ones who killed Karen?” “I don’t know, but Two-Time Charlie said they used a truck to make it look like a highway accident.” “Dammit! Could this fellow be a witness if we ever needed him?” “Yeah, he’s just a small-time thief who is in and out of here about once a year. I doubt if he’s going anywhere. I’ll keep track of him.” Harry paused for a moment and then asked if I wanted him to send this information on to the OPP. I told him to send it to Stu although I suspected the case was closed once more. He had already talked to Stu. I had spent the last month without once thinking about Karen’s murder and now it was all back again. I called Stu to give him the news. “Frank, thanks for calling. Bad news, I’m afraid.” “Yeah, I know, I just talked to Harry Besner, he told me about the guy being released on the Boyd case.” “Well there’s more. Gilles has been pushing the investigation into Karen’s murder. The fellows in the lab finally cracked the code that old Silverstein was using. Old Joe named ‘Carl’ and ‘Sammy’ as the two who killed Karen. We think Sammy was one just released in Florida. Unfortunately, he was back into Canada before we had a chance to pick him up at immigration. The word on the street is that these two guys think it is you and me who are behind the re-opened investigation.” “How in hell could they think that?” “We were the ones who took out the two at Joe’s house. Somehow they found out that the case was officially closed yet we were working on it.” “You mean someone leaked it from headquarters?” “Looks like it. Gilles is on a rampage down there and if he finds out who it was, there will be hell to pay. Gilles says for you to come down and pick up a gun. There is a team watching your place, but he thinks you should be armed, just in case.” “You’re serious?” “Yeah, I’m afraid so. Gilles thinks these people may try to get us. I know it’s stupid, but you never know, he may be right.” “Shit, Stu, you know how I feel about carrying a gun.” “Yeah, I know.” Thursday night Nancy and I worked until after seven at the office then went to a restaurant for dinner. It was just coming onto dusk when we left the restaurant and I noticed the van following us. I had seen the blue Dodge mini van before we went inside to eat but paid no particular attention to it. copyright 2000 W. W. Walton

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It was now driving with its parking lights on. It was following us. No OPP police team would break the Highway Traffic Act by driving with parking lights on. I thought about dialling 911 on the cellular phone but I was not really certain I was being followed until we turned off onto the Stanton side road. The blue van followed. “Nancy, get my briefcase from the back seat,” I said. “What do you want?” she asked, unbuckling and reaching over the seat for the old brown leather case. “There is a gun in the zippered pocket. Give it to me. And then buckle up,” I said. “A gun?” She saw me looking in the mirror and glanced back. She handed me the 9 mm. I charged the chamber with a round. I hoped those hours spent on the practise range would pay off now. “Dial 911 and get the police,” I said. “I think we’re being followed by the wrong people.” I powered down my window and shifted the gun to my left hand. The Stanton side road is a dead end, so there was no chance to outrun the van. My only hope was to use the circular driveway that one of my more wealthy neighbours had. If I could get the van to follow me into that driveway, I could then head back out the side road and hopefully out-drive the van. But that was not to be. Right where the road follows the hog-back, right where Karen had been killed, the van suddenly accelerated, pulling up beside me. I yelled at Nancy to get down. I saw the shotgun come out of the window, saw the flame spout from the barrel just as I hit the brakes. I saw the hood of my new Eagle Vision torn to shreds. I saw the 9 mm jumping in my hand, the back window of the driver’s side shatter and the van careen off the road, ploughing down through the maples. “Are you okay?” I yelled as the car spun crosswise on the road and stopped. “Yes, I think so.” She was pale but not as terrified as I thought she would be. “Call the police.” I checked the gun. Still three rounds left. There was no sign of movement from the van. I carefully picked my way down to the wreck, keeping the gun ready. There was no sign of life in the cab. The driver had taken a round in the back of his head. I went around to the other side to check on the shooter. He was semi-conscious, bruised on the head, and bleeding from one ear. I pulled his wallet from his pocket. Samuel Leonardo de Vinci Palma. I glanced back up the hill. There was nobody in sight. I placed my forearm behind his neck, gave the quick lift and turn and heard the satisfying crunch. It was something an instructor at Aylmer had shown us many years ago, telling us never to use this commando-style attack hold. Sammy stopped breathing. “That was for Karen, you bastard.” I pushed the wallet back into his pocket. “You should’ve been a painter, like your mommy wanted, Sammy. And you should always wear a seat belt.” I scrambled back up the hill and took my pregnant and trembling wife in my arms. I could hear the eerie wail of a siren in the distance. “It’s over,” I said.

copyright 2000 W. W. Walton