Bay of Blood Page 12

  “We’re having a little memorial lunch at Sawyers, a last-minute thing. Carrie, some of the Gang. I invited J.J. MacKenzie, but he’s busy. Thom appreciated your friendship. I’d like you to join us.”

  Why not? she thought. The hell with Moore’s schedule. “Thank you.” She’d likely gather a few insights into Larmer, not to mention some of the Gang.

  Larmer remotely unlocked his car, a sparkling new Mini Cooper with racing stripes.

  She eyed it. “How long have you had this beauty?”

  “Bought her a month ago. She’s got legs. Speaking of legs, did you see the dress Carrie was wearing? Totally inappropriate.”

  Naslund said nothing. The dress was a little tight.

  “I wonder about her, I do. On the phone Monday, I asked her how she was doing. Know what she said?”

  Naslund smiled encouragement, not that she needed to. Larmer was in a talkative mood. He seemed to have a Jekyll-and-Hyde-type temperament, one day surly, the next day friendly.

  He mimicked MacLean’s voice. “‘A trouble shared with you is not a trouble halved. It’s a trouble multiplied. You think your nose belongs in everything.’” He shook his head. “If she shared things, people would help her. Friends do that--they share. But her?”

  Naslund tsked in sympathy.

  Larmer kept going. “She claimed she was being careful for Thom’s sake, and the sake of his artistic reputation. Careful, I thought. How about purposefully evasive.”

  Even for a breezy bugger, Larmer was talking a lot. Why?

  He let out a loud sigh. “Like I said, I wonder about her.” He held Naslund’s gaze. “I wonder if she had something to do with Thom’s murder. Let me tell you something, Sergeant.”

  She nodded. The worst thing she could do was speak. When a POI wanted to talk, you zipped your lips.

  “Any man can tell that she’s a cracker in bed, but she makes you pay for it.” He stopped. “Am I getting too personal?”

  She shook her head. Keep going, sink yourself.

  “After the biz...well, afterward...she talks your ear off. I know, you’d never guess. She hides it well. I don’t know how Thom stood it. The nattering must have got to him. He liked his solitude.” Larmer nodded emphatically. “The woman is an only child: self-centered, self-inflated. Thom probably lost his patience, told her to ‘eff off’ or worse. She wouldn’t have stood for that, not Carrie. She might even have, you know, retaliated. To the hilt. It may sound dubious, but she can do anything she sets her mind to. She’s super-efficient, deadly efficient.”

  “I see. Do you have something specific you’d like to tell me?”

  “Well, no. Not yet,” he added.

  Naslund turned to her car. It seemed Larmer was trying to lead her down a cellblock path, one with MacLean at the end. Was he trying to save his own skin, or did he have real evidence against Carrie MacLean?

  ***

  Inside Sawyers Inn, Naslund was directed to a U-shaped table with four chairs along each side and one at the top. Larmer sat at the top. She found herself seated next to three of the Gang: Raphael Barillo, Laura Newton, and Marnie Sass. Carrie MacLean was across the table, with two more of the Gang: Katherine Clarke and Brendan Liski. Only Emily Cardiff’s chair was empty. She couldn’t make it down from the Arctic.

  Naslund glanced at MacLean. She felt a confused wind blowing off her, both antagonistic and sad.

  The lunch did little to raise anyone’s spirits. Larmer explained that in honor of Thom, who’d loved simple Greek food, and knowing that one of the cooks at the inn came from Athens, he’d ordered platters of moussaka and souvlaki. The moussaka was runny and the souvlaki dry.

  After the dishes were cleared, short, burly Raphael stood. Originally from Florence, Firenze he still called it, Raphael had immigrated to Toronto ten years ago. He dressed like an Italian--tailored suits and hand-sewn shoes--and talked like one--with his hands.

  “Si, si,” he now said to the table, “let us remember the good. Tomaso was ottimo in every way, so very good. An excellent man and an excellent painter!”

  As usual, handsome Brendan, a soulful Canadian of Irish-Ukrainian extraction, said nothing. He looked Raphael in the eye and nodded. Brendan didn’t need to talk. With his Beethoven-like face and hair, everyone took him for a man of culture.

  Katherine, a fifth-generation United Empire Loyalist, shook her head sorrowfully, reminding Naslund of a young Audrey Hepburn.

  “Thom was so hospitable,” Katherine said. “So wonderfully hospitable. I remember the first time he invited me to Mallory Beach. Carrie--” She stopped and bowed toward her. “--cooked a beautiful dinner the evening I arrived: a delicious whitefish! The next morning Thom drove me to Lion’s Head. He helped carry all my equipment--my easel, painting box, and boards--out to a wonderful set of look-offs along the Bruce Trail and then he came back for me at sunset. For four days running. He did that every year, for nine years.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Damn it! I told myself I wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t want that.” She dried her eyes and hung her head. “What will I do now?”

  No one said anything.

  Laura and Marnie looked like they wanted to leave. Naslund found it difficult to tell them apart. She knew they were lovers, but they seemed more like twins. The two always wore the same black stovepipe jeans and wide-shouldered jackets. With their shaggy hair and pouty lips, they looked like Carly Simon.

  Larmer stood. “I’d like to share a memory.” He drained his wineglass. “Back in the day, a fool arrived in Toronto by bus, unannounced and with no money, which, as you know, was all the rage back then, especially amongst painters. The fool tramped from the bus station to a certain struggling artist’s studio off King West near Bathurst. You might know the place.” He smiled.

  Naslund knew that they all did. Thom had kept it until two years ago.

  “Well, the occupant of said studio wasn’t home, so the fool slept outside the door. No occupant the next day either. The fool had enough cash for the odd coffee and plate of beans. After another night under the Studio Door, he was beginning to smell. Might have been his socks. Or the beans. Remember,” Larmer said in mock disbelief, “none of us common folk had cellphones then. No one home meant no way in. Anyway, to cut a long smell short, I was about to head back to Montreal when Thom arrived. He took me in, fed me, got me on my feet and that was just for starters. He convinced me to paint again. I don’t like to admit it, but back then I’d given up. I was beaten. Thom saved me.”

  Naslund’s heart started thumping. Tears welled in her eyes. Larmer’s story seemed earnest and warm. Maybe he was a true friend. She felt conflicted. She couldn’t let her emotions come to the fore. She’d been trained to always be compassionate, yes, but, at the same time, dispassionate. It was the Holy Grail of policing. Not that she always managed to adhere to it. Cops weren’t supposed to be grief-stricken or emotional. They were supposed to be focused. No personal opinions, she reminded herself. Doubt a suspect at all times.

  Katherine nodded mournfully. “You know,” she said to Larmer, “I remember how much you and Thom used to eat.” Her face slowly became more cheerful. “Lord, you could shovel it in.”

  “We were a fine sight,” Larmer joked.

  Raphael smiled. “You remember that night Tomaso and I ate two pounds of spaghettini each, with olive oil only. Due libbre! Each!”

  Katherine chuckled. “Ah, we were a parade of struggling waifs.”

  No one spoke. It seemed everyone was remembering the struggle.

  A ringing phone broke the silence.

  Larmer reached into his pocket. “Excuse me.” Turning to one side, he answered the call.

  As Naslund chatted with Raphael, she kept an eye on Larmer’s face. The man didn’t look pleased with his caller.

  A minute or so later he hung up and exhaled noisily.

  “What is it?” Katherine asked.

  Larmer eyed Naslund. “Wiarton’s Finest want to talk to me.”

  Naslund wasn’t surprised.
Inspector Moore, no doubt.

  “Chi?” Raphael asked. “Who?”

  “The police,” Larmer explained. “At three o’clock. Looks like we’ll be leaving for Toronto a little later. They’ll probably torture me for an hour.”

  “Torture?” Raphael uttered in horror.

  “Just joking.”

  Katherine looked disgusted. Her Hepburn eyes regarded Larmer with empathy. “Why are they bothering you? Don’t they have anything better to do?”

  He shrugged. “They think I killed Thom.”

  “That’s ludicrous!” Katherine exclaimed. “Why in God’s name would you do that?” She scowled at Naslund. “Why would anyone here?” Her gaze circled the table, stopping momentarily on each painter.

  No one answered.

  Finally Raphael replied. “The envy,” he said. “Invidia professionale.”

  “Really?” Katherine said. “Some of us, hell, all of us, may have wanted Thom’s success, but did that turn us into monsters?” She turned to Raphael. “Did you really envy Thom?”

  “I esteem him. Okay, I envy, but just a little.” He held a thumb and index finger close together. “Solo un po. Always, it is this way.”

  She eyed Brendan. “You?”

  He shook his head.

  Laura and Marnie nodded without being asked. “A little,” Laurie said.

  Katherine pointed at Larmer. “You?”

  “Well, to be honest, I did. But I didn’t hate him. Christ, no.” His eyes misted over.

  Naslund wondered if he’d manufactured the tears, or if he was being genuine.

  “I loved him,” Larmer insisted. “Like a brother. He was my family in Ontario.” He choked up. The room fell silent. Eventually he composed himself. “I remember my first sailing trip with him, up to Tobermory in May.” His face brightened. “It was beautiful. The lake was midnight-blue, the maples had burst into leaf. The cliffs were entrancing. It was Thom’s world. I loved it.”

  “Me too!” Katherine exclaimed. She dabbed her eyes. “The police are imbeciles.” She glared at Naslund. “I’m leaving!”

  The table followed her.

  Naslund said nothing. Let them go. Soon the room was empty. In her mind’s eye, she saw only Larmer. Was he genuinely upset? Concentrating on his mouth, she replayed his story about Thom, and then his claim that he loved Thom. She saw no dishonesty. She made a mental note.

  As she left the inn, she saw Carrie MacLean standing near the parking lot, staring at the ground. The others were gone. MacLean seemed to be waiting for someone to pick her up.

  Naslund thought about offering her a lift, but decided to observe her secretly, mindful of the detective’s uncertainty principle: the closer you got to a suspect, the farther you got from the objective truth. She covertly searched MacLean’s face. She’d caught her off-guard. She wanted her to stay that way. Carefully, she leaned a little closer.

  MacLean looked like the same woman Naslund had met over four years ago, and yet she didn’t. She was still beautiful--perhaps more beautiful; her face was definitely fuller--but Naslund saw a veil over her eyes. She was hiding something.

  Naslund quickly turned away and walked to her car. Sitting inside, she called Moore. “Afternoon Inspector, Naslund here. I’m on my way.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Close by.”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll be at the station in five minutes.”

  “Come to my office. Immediately.” He hung up.

  Chapter 17

  Naslund knocked on her office door.

  “Come in,” Moore tersely said. “Sit down.”

  She sat.

  The inspector had a pickle up his butt. “When did the funeral finish, Sergeant?”

  “Around eleven-thirty.”

  He pointed at his watch. “It’s thirteen-ten.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes? Where were you?”

  “At a memorial lunch. Getting leads.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Good leads, sir.”

  “I don’t care how good they were. You said you’d be here after the funeral.”

  “Yes, sir. But then I was invited to the lunch, and I thought I should go. Six of Tyler’s artist contacts were there, and MacLean as well.”

  “You’re walking a thin line.”

  “Yes.” No use arguing.

  “I’ve been counting on you to help interview POIs. If you’re ever unavailable, I’ll use Lowrie. And keep using him. For other things too.” Moore paused to let his displeasure sink in. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Naslund nodded. She didn’t want to be shunted to the side. “It won’t happen again.”

  “It better not.”

  “It won’t, sir.”

  Moore uncorked a smile. “I like you, Sergeant. You have gumption.”

  Gumption? That was a word her mother used.

  “Remember, though, there are rules, and we are a team.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s get on the same page. Chu’s team didn’t find any blood residue on the Albin thirty-five. The ninjas didn’t find anything at Big Bay. It was too contaminated. So, we have no solid bio evidence on any perps. In such cases, you have to rely on...shall we say?...more traditional methods. You do what police forces have done through the ages. You observe. You dig into human nature. You use human psychology.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You might say you go old school.”

  “Exactly.”

  She sat back. That was an old-school scenario she agreed with. At least she and Moore were on the same page with something. At Central, dozens of detectives sat in fancy ergonomic chairs staring at screens. Gone were the days of the “gum shoes,” the rubber-soled detectives, when everyone worked the streets, gathering intel in person. Ask. Listen. Read someone’s complete body language. Hear ’em, see ’em, smell ’em. Which wasn’t possible via the internet--not yet.

  “That’s why you’re off the hook.” Moore smiled again. “You don’t spend all day in front of a computer. You get out there. You talk to people. Okay. Larmer’s due at fifteen-hundred. Please meet him in the foyer.”

  “Yes, sir.” Please, she noted. The inspector had dumped the pickle. Good, she thought, one Bickell-pickle per station was enough.

  “By the way, I canceled this morning’s team meeting. We have a meeting at fourteen-hundred.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  She walked to her hutch, removed her jacket, and began writing a report on what she’d learned from J.J. and Marty about the hijacking as well as what she learned at the memorial lunch, including Larmer’s apparent attempt to frame MacLean.

  As Naslund finished the report, the murder room began filling up. By 1355 the complete team was assembled, sixteen strong, including Bickell. No one was late. Even the MU squad was present, and they were shutting down that evening and returning to Central.

  Moore kicked off the meeting by calling on Lowrie. The DC had five main points. Point One concerned Larmer’s rap sheet. It was complete. It appeared he’d intuitively figured out the Slider. Point Two related that the salient details of Larmer’s first interview had been crosschecked and verified. He’d called LaToya Austin, his city girlfriend, three times. He and Tyler had sailed together three days in a row. Point Three established that an in-depth trace of Larmer’s phone calls to Carolyn MacLean hadn’t uncovered anything unusual. Until July tenth, he’d called her twice in ten months, nothing that would suggest a secret affair. In contrast, a trace of La Toya Austin’s number revealed 322 calls. Point Four noted that the third set of FPs on Tyler’s boat was Larmer’s. The FPs were approximately a week old. However, Larmer admitted to sailing with Tyler a week ago. Point Five related that Larmer belonged to two gyms in Toronto. He was a karate brown-belt. He also knew how to swim. The lady next to his Hope Bay cottage reported that he went for a lengthy swim every day.

  Chandler was next. The Senior PC projected a serious face. Naslund guessed he
’d received a shellacking from Moore. None of your shenanigans in my meetings. Chandler hadn’t learned of any stolen boats in the Bruce, nor could he link any recent boat rentals or purchases to Larmer. The suspect could have bought an inflatable craft with an outboard or a sailing rig. However, such equipment wouldn’t fit inside his Mini and the car didn’t have a roof-rack or a tow hitch.

  Naslund wondered if they were jumping the gun with Larmer. While his martial arts prowess was suspicious, it was also circumstantial. The team could be wrong about him.

  Moore gestured for Conrad to come forward. The DC still appeared to be cowed. He barely looked up as he spoke. His group had questioned fishermen and boaters about unusual activity on Colpoys Bay. They’d also questioned the five Griffith Island Club guests and all the White Cloud Island cottagers. They had no definite leads. Conrad looked up. He’d spoken to two cottagers from the east side of White Cloud who were there on Monday the eighth. About 0630 that day the cottagers heard a man yelling. They hadn’t gotten out of bed to explore. The yelling only lasted a minute or so.

  Conrad gathered steam. His group had questioned known local thieves, pot growers, and ex-pedophiles. Again, they had no leads. Mr. Tyler’s family members and local acquaintances had been interviewed. They all had alibis. The alibis appeared to be solid.

  Moore took over. He began by reminding the team they hadn’t found the assault weapons or the cotton cloth. The three exhibits were still a top priority. Then there were common DNA carriers like hair, saliva, and cigarette butts. There had to be some out there. He chided everyone to work harder to find bio evidence.

  Moore next reported that tip line activity had begun to ramp up. To date, they’d logged 267 calls and web leads, some claiming to have seen Tyler alive, as far afield as the Yukon. None of the tips had panned out. However, thanks to the Wiarton Echo, they were able to chase down one lead. A pair of Toronto kayakers who’d seen two boats in Colpoys Bay voluntarily released their contact info.

  Moore had arranged for a Metro detective to show the couple photos of Tyler and his distinctive high-boomed Mackinaw. They identified it but reported that the man aboard was too far away to be verified as Thom Tyler. The couple weren’t carrying binoculars. As for the other boat, they thought they saw two or three people aboard, but couldn’t confirm the number or gender of the crew. Given the APB out for the Albin hijackers, Moore stated that the team would focus on tracking down the large sailboat. Its crew could be the perps or the last people to see Tyler alive.