Amuse Bouche (30 page)

Randy Wurz looked at me almost accusingly. "So what is this all about? Dave and Tom couldn't have been in here. There's nothing here!"

For the moment I was more interested in coming up with reasons why the room had been stripped rather than paying attention to the abandoned partner's whining. "Obviously someone didn't want us to see what was in here."

"What? How can you know that? How do you know there was ever anything in here?

Maybe you're making all this up?"

"You can check the sign-in logs yourself," I said, still deep in thought. "Tom and Dave
3
44

Anthony Bidulka,

Biddle did meet here."

His shoulders fell half an inch, defeated.

"But why?"

I shrugged. A response
I'
d learned from a big lug of a lawyer.

"You said they were in here the day before Tom disappeared? What were they doing?

What had Tom gotten himself into? You don't think Biddle...?"

Wurz didn't complete his thought, but I'd already been considering the same thing. Was Tom killed for whatever had once been in this room? And if so, how was Dave Biddle involved? "Is there any way you could find out what Tom had been working on?"

"I might have been able to if he'd left anything behind for me to analyze, but there's nothing here."

"What about his computer? The one in his office? Could there be something on it that could tell us what was going on in this room?"

Randy thought about that for a moment.

"Well, I could take a look at it, see if he left anything on the hard drive or the server. But I think he'd be too smart for that. If he really wanted to keep something a secret, he'd know how. But I'll try."

"Okay. And I'll pay Mr. Biddle a visit."

He stared at me. "I'll go with you. I'd like to 345

Amuse Bouche

be in on that meeting."

"I don't think so. You might be a little too...close to the situation right now. Let's see what I can find out first."

I could hear his breathing get heavier. This was not how he thought his morning would turn out. "You'll keep me informed?"

"I'll call you," I told him.

There was no use hanging around an empty room. We parted ways outside of TechWorld, Randy back to QW and I in search of Quasar.

I already knew Quasar was also located at Innovation Place. When I got back to the Mazda I looked up the address on the Innovation Place map and pointed my car in the right direction.

Quasar was located in one of the single-storey, brick buildings on the extreme west end of the development. The building was divided into four large bays each dedicated to a different business with a separate entrance. I opened the glass door with the impressive looking green, blue and white Quasar logo. The attractive woman sitting behind the reception desk had black hair so short it looked like a skin-tight skullcap. Her badge said Jacquie.

"Hi Jacquie," I said as I approached her desk.

She looked up with a professional, detached 346

Anthony Bidulka,

smile. "Hello, can I help you?" She had a unique accent. Maybe from Guyana.

"Yes. My name is Russell Quant. I was wondering if I could speak with Mr. Biddle."

"Do you have an appointment?" Her voice was friendly but I could tell that she knew, without even checking, that I had no appointment.

"Actually, I was hoping to see him as soon as possible. It's rather important and shouldn't take too much of his time. I can wait."

She smiled encouragingly. "Of course. Why don't you take a seat and I'll see what I can arrange."

There was a single loveseat in the small but nicely decorated reception area. Obviously Quasar wasn't used to too many visitors at once. Or, I hoped, Dave Biddle wasn't in the habit of keeping people waiting.

"Mr. Biddle," I heard Jacquie's smooth voice as she spoke into the near-invisible headset microphone suspended in front of her lips. "I have a Mr. Russell Quant here who would like a few minutes of your time." As she completed her request she looked over at me and, seeing me watching her, gave me a pleasant smile.

I watched in fascination as the corners of her mouth slowly turned down while she listened to her boss's reply. Whatever he was saying to her 347

Amuse Bouche

was obviously unexpected or unpleasant or both.

"I see," she finally said tersely, lowering her head and turning it away from my view. "I will do that."

I rose from my seat and approached the desk. "Is there a problem?" I asked.

She tried another smile but it was only a faded replica of what I knew she was capable of "No problem at all." The mantra of capable executive assistants. "However, Mr. Biddle cannot see you right now. He's expecting a very important conference call and can't be disturbed."

"I can wait." The mantra of capable private detectives.

She did a little better with the smile. "I thought you might say that. Mr. Biddle did indicate that if you needed to see him today we could arrange for an appointment later in the day?"

I drove downtown with the roof down. The air was clean and fresh and each breath was like an invigorating tonic helping to clear my thoughts.

I maneuvered into the parking lot behind PWC

and entered my office via the back stairs. But instead of sitting at my desk, I found myself heading downstairs. I heard Alberta Lougheed, my upstairs neighbour, call after me but I was 348

Anthony Bidulka

already halfway down. Lilly looked up at me as I passed her desk and showed me her shiny bright whites.

"Does Errall have a client with her?" I asked, already halfway towards her office door.

"No. She's in court."

Stopped in my tracks. I nodded dumbly and made my way to the back of the building where I hoped to score a doughnut or muffin in the kitchen. I needed comfort food.

"You look like you could use some coffee."

This from Beverly Chaney who was pouring one for herself.

Did I need more coffee? Or did I just look like I did? "Got anything jazzier, like a double chocolate milkshake or better yet, some Canadian Club?"

She chuckled her mothering chuckle. "You
are
in a state. I don't think I have any rye up my sleeve but I did bring in a loaf of homemade cinnamon bread this morning. Why don't I toast you a slice before you go back upstairs?"

My only response was to hug her. This kind exchange and generous offer was why I love this woman. To us at PWC she is a pretty, mid-forties, somewhat doughy, brown-haired mother of two kids and wife of a third, who is a nur-turing friend to all the tenants here. We sometimes forget she's a seasoned psychiatrist with 349

Amuse Bouche

special training in marriage and personal coun-selling. It's a gruelling line of work that undoubtedly wears her down from time to time but she rarely lets it show.

"Russell? Russell?" I heard the voice travelling towards the kitchen well before its owner.

Didn't anyone in this building work for a living? "Russell, you walked right by me. I know you heard me." Alberta. She looks like a younger version of Beverly except for tons more makeup, hairspray and peculiar fashion choices. Today it was bangles and boots.

I looked up from where I'd fallen into a chair, awaiting my toast. "I'm sorry, Al, I wanted to see if I could catch Errall,"

"I know. I could have told you she wasn't here."

I have never come to a conclusion about whether or not I believe in Alberta's psychic powers. I have no doubt she believes she has a special gift. She's no con artist. I'm just not certain she isn't just plain ol' crazy.

I grabbed the cinnamon toast as it hopped from the toaster and headed back upstairs.

"Thanks gals. Gotta go." I had to get out of there before Alberta pulled me into some fascinating but long discourse on astral projections.

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Now that I knew Tom could have been killed as early as the day of his wedding, I had to re-eval-uate each of my suspects and perhaps add or delete a few. So far, I had people who had seen him alive and well up to about 1:30 or 2:00 p.m.

,which is the time Kent Melicke told me he left Tom's apartment. Also Mrs. Coyle said Tom left his apartment at 2:30 and never came back.

Assuming none of these people were the killer or in collusion, I had to figure out what happened to Tom after 2:30 and who had alibis for that time of day and who didn't. It was going to be a long day.

I spent the next few hours reviewing my notes on every potential suspect that I'd investigated.

I made countless phone calls confirming and reconfirming information I had already gathered and wheedled out more. By 4:30 my brain was fried. And to top it off I wasn't certain I'd accomplished anything useful. I locked up the files in
my
desk, grabbed my coat and headed down to my car and back to Innovation Place.

This time when I walked into the Quasar reception area Jacquie's smile was not so welcoming. But it wasn't because of mc. The woman looked worried.

"Jacquie?" I said when I sidled up to her desk. "I'm here for my appointment with Mr.

Biddle."

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Her deep brown eyes held mine but I wasn't certain of the message they were conveying.

"Yes, Mr. Quant. I'm afraid we'll have to reschedule that meeting."

"Oh? Is there a problem?" The second time I had asked her that question.

For a moment she seemed speechless, as if this circumstance had never occurred before and she didn't quite know how to deal with it.

"No problem at all, but unfortunately Mr.

Biddle has had to leave the office on some unexpected business and will have to reschedule his meeting with you."

I didn't know this woman at all but I could tell something wasn't as it should be. I furrowed my brow and said slowly, "Jacquie, is there something wrong?"

Although I'd never seen or heard another person in the two times I'd been at Quasar, the woman looked around nervously as though concerned about being overheard. She then leaned in closer to me and said, "This is very unlike Mr. Biddle."

"To miss an appointment?"

"Not just that. Mr. Biddle did have meetings scheduled all day—which he attended as planned. But, right after, he came back here for about a minute and then left again. He said he'd be back within the hour, in time for his meeting 352

Anthony Bidulka

with you. He's always very meticulous about keeping me informed of his whereabouts. But he hasn't come back, Mr. Quant. And he hasn't called. I'm beginning to get very worried about him. I just called Rhonda—his wife—and she hasn't heard from him either. I suppose he could have had car trouble or something...but you'd think he'd have called."

Was this tied to Dave Biddle's earlier refusal to see me? Did it have anything at all to do with Tom Osborn's death or was it just an unfortunate coincidence? Was he hiding something?

Was he.. .running away? I didn't think his secretary would be any help. 1 reassured her as best as 1 could and left. I returned to my car with a sense of urgency, but as soon as I started the engine I realized I had nowhere to go. I had no idea where Dave Biddle could have gone. I tried reaching Randy Wurz at QW to see if he'd come up with anything but there was no answer there. I checked my watch. It was almost 5:30.1

was stymied and frustrated. 1 was about to point the Mazda in the direction of my couch, big screen TV and fattening food, but at the last moment 1 gave myself a mental spanking and drove the few blocks to the YWCA. It was time to get rid of some of my frustration the old-fashioned way.

Amuse Bouche

Most people think the YWCA is a women-only facility, but actually the gym and swimming pool are coed. I like working out at the YW

rather than one of the ubiquitous, trendier spots. Sure they have newer machines, juice bars and enough mirrors to check yourself and everyone else out from every conceivable angle, but I find the clientele at the YW more laid-back and comfortable to be around. Everyone from eighty-year-old grandmas with arthritis to handicapped teenagers to flabby yuppies works out at the YW . No one is particularly interested in flexing muscles or letting off pheromones.

Most everyone is there to exercise and that's all.

What I secretly like most about the place is that, on occasion, not often but sometimes, I am the hunkiest guy there. And there is no way that is ever gonna happen at one of the other places.

Twenty minutes of cardio on a stationary bike, stretching, then four sets of twelve reps of various muscle grinding feats, another fifteen minutes cardio, stretch and hit the showers.

That is my routine. Ninety minutes later I was drenched but high on the rejuvenated feeling only this kind of self-mutilation provides. As usual the gym was less than half full and the men's locker room was empty. I took a leisurely, hot shower. I had thrown a towel around my waist and was applying various overpriced 354

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products to my skin and hair when I heard the door to the pool area open and close. As I continued my ministrations at the mirror, I looked beyond my reflection for the newcomer and was rewarded as an Adonis came into view.

Depending on the angle at which I stood at the mirror I could see the first shower stall and part of the drying area outside the shower room where the man was now heading. At first I quickly glanced away, embarrassed to be invad-ing the man's privacy. Being as this was the YWCA and not the YMCA, the men's locker room is not big. There are four showers, two bathrooms, two sinks and about eight lockers.

Aside from bright blue curtains on the individ-ual showers, privacy and personal space are not easy to come by. So while smoothing some cool, gel-like substance under my eyes I peeked again. He was still standing in the dry off area between the showers and lockers. His back was to me. But what a back it was. Broad at the top and narrowing in perfect V-formation to an emerald green Speedo. With even the slightest movement, muscles rippled beneath lightly tanned skin. Long, long legs, slightly hairy, nicely-shaped. This guy had spent some serious time in the squat cage. He was slowly, deliberately drying himself off with a white-and-blue striped towel. I could hear his breath as he 355