Scammed (20 page)

The sergeant cut him off with a shrug. “Stop being so uptight. We're agreed that you're a good guy, okay? But right now, teasing your ass is the only thing stopping me from kicking it. So shut up and listen. This Jay is a little hood, originally from the Duncan area, called Jules Riley. A few years ago he moved east and ended up pimping for the mob in Ontario. But he got on the outs with one of the heavies and someone tried to top him. Shot him in the head, but he survived. I don't know if that scrambled his brains, but afterwards it seems like he was a regular oddball. Got to be such a pain that half the hoods in TO were after him. But the guy's one cagey little jerk. Good at sneaking around and turning up where he's not expected. So, the next thing that happens, the guy who shot him, plus a buddy and a woman they were bunking with, are all found in a house up in Markham, very dead. There's evidence that Jay was responsible; he vanishes. Nothing's heard of him for months, then he turns up here . . .”

Tremblay broke off and waved to their elderly waitress. Without preamble, he ordered food—“any kind of sandwich”—which Greg, with little enthusiasm, seconded. Not till it arrived, quite swiftly, did the story resume.

“The reason I know so much about this creep,” the sergeant said through a mouthful of pale bread, “is because we've got a guy in Vice who used to be with the Toronto cops. He recognized that picture I showed you. It's from a surveillance we were conducting on some other hoods, one being the late Mr. Molinara. He was from Toronto originally, and we figure they met there. Anyway, Jay was ID'd and we kept coming across him while we were keeping tabs on Molinara. We'd have pulled him in, but we didn't want to jeopardize a big bust we've been helping the Mounties set up: that's the police business I couldn't tell you about before. But after Molinara was killed, Jay dropped out of sight again.”

“Seems like he was keeping busy following me,” Greg said.

“Exactly. With his buddy deep-sixed, Jay was probably wondering what to do next—till you gave him the perfect idea.”

Greg reddened again. Tremblay wasn't going to let him forget his folly any time soon. But it was also clear that this clandestine meeting had not been set up just for the purpose of embarrassing him. The sergeant wanted something, and Greg had the unpleasant feeling that he was soon going to find out what it was. Thinking that he might as well get it over with, he said, “What do you want me to do?”

Tremblay looked shocked: no, closer inspection showed that the expression was an intentional parody. “
I
don't want you to do anything. How could I? Didn't I say at the beginning that we are not here?”

Greg sighed. “Right. But we're not sitting at this table for a reason. Could you cut the explanations and tell me what it is?”

The sergeant allowed a faint smile. “All right, here's how it stands. We and the Mounties are involved in a big undercover operation—drugs, cross-border people-smuggling, the works—and we're just about to pull the plug. Molinara was one of the bunch we were hoping to nab. But maybe Jay is too. We're not sure. This thing he wants to get into with you could be an independent operation, or he may be hoping to use it to get an in with his new mob. Whatever, we don't dare move on him until our big bust has gone down.”

“When will that be?”

“Very soon. Any day now, so I've got to make sure that no one gets spooked. Here we come to the part where you, as a civilian, get to know what I, as a cop, can't officially tell you to do. If this purely hypothetical line of action should later occur to you as your own idea—and also some kind of payback for all the trouble you've caused—then I'm not going to be around to dissuade you.”

Greg smiled grimly. “I get the idea. Describe this hypothetical line of action.”

“It's simple enough. What you do is play along with Jay.”

“That's it?”

“Yeah. I don't know how long you'll have to stall the guy. With any luck, just a few days. But during that time you'll have to keep him happy. Convince him that you're scared and you'll do anything he wants. To keep it looking real, you may even have to start the cash flow. But I hope it'll be all over before he's cleaned you out completely.”

“Thanks a lot,” Greg said sourly.

Tremblay shrugged. “You're the accountant. You'll think of ways to hold things up. Anyway, the most important thing is to take things easy. You've shown you've got a good imagination. Use it to keep your friend Jay calm and yourself out of trouble—while, of course, keeping me informed.”

“Oh, man,” Greg breathed. “That's a job for a professional.”

“Precisely,” the sergeant agreed blandly. “That's why I would never ask you to do it. But, if you decide to go ahead anyway—to take the law into your own hands, much as you did in the case of Mr. Molinara—then you may end up doing a whole lot of people, not the least yourself, a very big favour.”

Greg breathed deeply, stared at his half-eaten sandwich, then gazed into the pale eyes that had never left his face. “Wow,” he said at last. “For a cop, you're some piece of work.”

Tremblay sucked air softly through his teeth. “For an accountant, so are you. Well?”

Greg sighed. Finally, he said, “There is one thing I'm going to need, I guess.”

“Which is?”

“Another cellphone.”

“H
ow long would you need this time?” George Allrod asked. Uncomfortably, Greg regarded his boss, whose patience he felt must surely have been tested to the limit. “Hopefully only a few days. But it's sort of—open-ended.”

“Mmm . . .You've already had a lot of time off, and the client list is growing, due in no small part to your own efforts, I might add.”

“Thanks. I'll put in extra hours when I get back.”

“I just wish you could tell me what's the trouble. No more—er—family losses, I hope?”

“No, George, nothing like that. It's just—personal business.”

The senior partner's kindly face creased in worry. “Greg—forgive me for bringing this up again, but since your parents' passing, you've changed, come out of yourself, which, of course, is good. But you also seem quite distracted. I hope this doesn't mean you're dissatisfied with your place here.”

“Goodness, no,” Greg said hastily. “If my job was the only thing I had to worry about, I'd be the happiest guy in the world. Actually, what you noticed is sort of connected with why I need to get away. But when I come back, everything'll be back to normal. I promise.”

Allrod smiled. “Good to hear. There's also the partnership we talked about. I trust you're still thinking about that?”

Becoming a partner of the criminal, Jay, was the only thing he could think about right now. But he said, “Definitely. I just hope this won't put me out of the running.”

“Certainly not. You're one of our best people, as I've often said. Okay, Greg, do what you have to do and return as soon as you can. We'll manage somehow. Off with you—and good luck.”

Considering what he was facing, he was going to need all the luck he could get. Still, his boss's good-natured acquiescence did make him feel a little better. The office represented his real life, and just to know that it would carry on smoothly was a comfort.

He returned home and spent the rest of the day cleaning his apartment, making ready for what might be a prolonged absence. He also collected all the documents he would need to convince Jay that he was going along with his plan, mostly those that would seem to facilitate the withdrawal of large amounts of cash. He didn't mean to do this, of course; he intended to stall as long as possible. The proceeds from the art sale were what Jay had his eye on. As executor of his father's will, Greg had full access to that, but he didn't intend to lose
any
money, if it could be helped. He'd have to invent some legal problems to buy time. As Tremblay had said, use his imagination. Since he had no idea how soon Jay would demand cash, or, indeed, how long this charade would go on before the police were ready to intervene, all he could do was hope like hell he wasn't bankrupted before the axe fell.

One vital detail he had not taken care of, however, was Lucy. After his meeting with Sergeant Tremblay, he'd phoned, if only to let her know that he wasn't in jail. He wasn't sure how she'd react to what he was doing, or if he should even tell her. Mainly, he wanted to make sure that, for her own safety, she kept well away from the property. Calls to her house only got the answering machine. Shirl, Greg knew, was unable to come to the phone, and Lucy, what with looking after her mother, her painting and all the rest, was pretty busy. But since she neither answered the phone nor returned his calls during the day, he decided that as soon as he got out to the river, he'd better pay her a visit. He wouldn't have to tell her everything, just enough to make sure she stayed well out of harm's way.

A call he
did
receive, however, later that afternoon, was one that he'd been expecting. “Hey, old buddy, how's it hangin'?” Jay said, in the overly familiar tone Greg was beginning to loathe. “Just calling to make sure you're heading out to the house.”

“Yes. When will you be arriving? Tomorrow?”

“Nah! We need to talk tonight. Make plans.”

“Well, all right. But give me time to make the place ready.”

“For what?”

“Well, you know, for a guest. Where are you now?”

“Out and about. Some stuff I have to do before I move in with you. Hey, that'll be a kick, eh, pal?”

“What's that?”

“You and me—two buds—hangin' and bangin' and runnin' a real cool game. Duncan is really screamin' for a proper drugs source. Lot more fun than that shitty casino. We'll be rollin' in green before you know it.”

“Yes—sure.”

“But my suppliers don't work on credit. We're gonna need a pile of working capital. You've got that taken care of, eh?”

“I'm working on it.”

“Sweet. Well, just wanted to check in. See you later. Take care driving over that old Malahat. Ciao.”

The phone went dead. Greg put down the receiver distastefully. He was reminded of another communication that had come in on this same little-used landline, the message about the phony cheque that had alerted him to the theft of his ID. However, morbid meditations on that subject were curtailed by another reminder: his new cellphone, on which he'd keep in touch with Sergeant Tremblay and—very soon, he hoped—receive news that his ordeal was over, was still charging on the kitchen counter, the only thing not packed for his journey.

He added it, grabbed his bag and started out. At the door, he paused. His apartment, which had earlier taken on an unfriendly feeling, now looked so familiar and safe that he could have wept.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “
Now
you tell me.”

He closed the door quietly and headed down to the car.

• • •

Near the top of the pass, Greg pulled in at the Malahat Mountain Inn, a restaurant overlooking a fiord-like gouge of ocean called Finlayson Arm, on the east side of the island. He didn't stop there often. Though the food was excellent and the view spectacular, the place was expensive and usually too crowded for his taste. He hadn't intended to eat dinner but he was hungry, and the urge to delay his arrival at the house was strong. Since he didn't mind being seated inside, forgoing the attractions of the panoramic dining deck, there was no wait for a table. He repressed the urge for a large whisky and ordered a glass of wine, followed by a well-spiced pasta. He didn't much enjoy the meal, but he did end up feeling more relaxed. And when, in late evening light, he arrived on Riverbottom Road, his thoughts, if not rosy, were at least upbeat. Things had gone badly, but he now had a chance to redeem himself. In a very real way, his actions would help with the rounding up of a whole bunch of criminals. Playing a tricky game with Jay for a few days was surely well worth that.

When he arrived at his gate, he found it closed. Did that mean that Jay hadn't arrived? No, more likely he'd shut it behind him, not wishing to advertise his presence. But when Greg drove into the courtyard, he found no other vehicle. He felt relief, knowing this to be pointless. His “partner” would be there soon enough and then the act would begin. That was going to take all his cunning and ingenuity, and the sooner he got used to the idea the better.

Anyway, the fact that no vehicle was evident and the house was dark didn't necessarily mean that Jay hadn't arrived. He seemed to enjoy creeping around unseen. Maybe he was doing that now, waiting to give Greg a surprise on his own turf, thereby emphasizing his power and control. With that in mind, when Greg unlocked the front door and entered, he called out loudly and confidently, as if he knew perfectly well that Jay was present.

There was no answer to his greeting.

He kept moving through the house, checking first the kitchen, then the living room, finally down the hall to his sister's old bedroom, where he deposited his bag. By that time he was pretty sure that he was alone.

What to do now? Since all he could do was wait for the inevitable arrival, which must surely be soon, he decided he'd better try to rehearse in his mind the cowed, obedient fellow that he had to pretend to be.

He went into the kitchen, his eyes moving automatically to the drinks cupboard, saddened but relieved that the whisky stash was gone. A belt of Scotch would have felt good, no doubt. But remembering where it had got him last time, and knowing he was going to need every bit of focus he could muster in the days ahead, he was happy to settle on coffee. He had just started fixing a pot when the telephone rang.

Startled, Greg wiped his hands and hurried to the phone. “Hello?”

“Greg! Oh, thank God, at last!”

Such was his surprise that it took Greg a moment to register that it was Lucy. “Lucy—hey! I've been trying to get hold of . . .”