The Hard Fall
Authors: Brenda Chapman
The Hard Fall
Brenda Chapman
Copyright © 2013 Brenda Chapman
First published in 2013 by Grass Roots Press
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
Grass Roots Press gratefully acknowledges the financial support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Government of Alberta through the Alberta Foundation for the Arts.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication for the Print Edition
Chapman, Brenda, 1955-, author
The hard fall / Brenda Chapman.
(Anna Sweet mysteries)
ISBN 978-1-77153-005-7 (pbk.)
I. Title. II. Series: Chapman, Brenda, 1955- Anna Sweet mysteries.
PS8605.H36H37 2013 C813'.6 C2013-904395-0
For my daughters, Lisa and Julia
CHAPTER ONE
I
lowered the camera and checked the clock on my car’s dashboard. Six p.m. on the dot. I was about to wrap up my first case as a PI and feeling mighty pleased with myself. A cold beer and a plate of nachos would help me to celebrate. I reached for my cellphone.
Jada Price, my new partner in solving crime at Storm Investigations, picked up on the first ring. “So, what you got, Agent 007?” she asked.
“Just solved that insurance fraud case. I’m ready to kick up my heels.”
“I told you that you were a natural at getting the dirt on people.” Jada’s voice lost its lightness. “I need you to come to the office, though. A new case has come in. I’m working on that divorce stakeout so it’s up to you. But I’m not sure you’ll want to take this one.”
“Oh?” I asked. “I thought you said our bank account says we can’t be choosy.”
“This job will be thankless. Storm Investigations might look stupid just for taking it on. I’ll fill you in as soon as you get here.”
“On my way,” I said. I tossed my phone onto the passenger seat and started my Chevy Sonic. I’d leased it for a year as a business expense. Unless more work rolled in, I would soon be returning it to the dealer and getting back on the city bus. The new case had to be a real loser if Jada was thinking about turning it down.
I drove slowly up Richmond Road past restaurants, clothing stores, and coffee and tea shops. Night was settling in already. It was the first week of October and chilly in the evenings. I thought about stopping in at Whispers Pub for that plate of nachos and a beer. But I kept going—past a string of condos, across Parkdale Avenue, and into our neighbourhood, Hintonburg. Jada wouldn’t be too pleased if I kept her waiting.
For once, I found a parking spot in the same block as our office on Wellington Street. Most stores were closed for the night, and it was early for the dinner crowd. We’d rented two tiny rooms on the second floor of a commercial building. A thrift shop and a takeout pizza place were down below. Gino Roma waved at me as I walked by on my way to the stairs. He was tossing pizza dough in front of the wood-burning oven. He kept trying to set me up with his son Nick. So far, I’d resisted.
When I entered our office, Jada was sitting at the desk facing the door. A young woman in a navy blue suit sat across from her. Both faces turned to look at me. The woman stood and held out her hand.
“I’m Rosie Brown,” she said. “You must be Anna Sweet.”
I looked past her shoulder to Jada. I was trying to get a read on whether Rosie Brown was the case we didn’t want to take. Jada kept her face blank. “Pleased to meet you,” I said finally, shaking Rosie’s hand.
“Pull up a chair,” Jada said. “Ms. Brown is here because she needs someone to do some digging for her firm’s client.”
I grabbed a chair from the other office and sat between the two of them. Rosie was young. Maybe twenty-five. Her eyes were sparkly blue behind large black-framed glasses. She’d pulled her blond hair back into a bun, probably trying to look older.
She leaned toward me. “I’m with Jones, Jones, and Lockhart. I’m assisting Greg Jones Junior in defending a murder suspect. Sadly, the file is not going as planned.”
Jada cleared her throat. “You might have heard of the case, Anna,” she said in a deadpan voice. “The Crown versus Paul Taylor.”
My eyes opened wide, as if I’d been poked with a cattle prod. Jada was right. This was not a case we wanted to get involved in. I said, “Front page news every day since August. Six weeks since the murder and people still can’t get enough of the story. Odds-makers say he’s going to get life. Open and shut. No other suspects.”
Rosie Brown frowned. “Yeah, I know what the press is saying. Our client is innocent, however. We hired another PI but he didn’t come up with anything helpful.”
“Maybe because there was nothing to find,” Jada said mildly. Her black eyes met mine.
“We don’t think the investigator tried hard enough,” Rosie said. Her eyes flashed. “My client has agreed to pay a higher fee. His money won’t be worth anything to him if he gets life.”
“Not many places to spend a fortune in Sing Sing,” I agreed. “So what kind of money are we talking?” I could have pussy footed around and waited for her to state an amount. But it was late and I was tired.
“Seven hundred a day and a bonus fifty thousand if you find something to get him off.”
Jada whistled. “We’ll take it . . . I mean, Anna will take on the case. We can’t promise results, though.”
I shot Jada a “thanks a lot” stare, but I didn’t say anything. We had to make money or we’d lose our office. And we had to have an office to run a PI business. The law was clear on that.
Rosie’s face relaxed into a smile. “Great. I have a contract ready. I also copied a list of facts and witnesses for you.” She whipped a stack of paper out of her briefcase before we could change our minds. She set it on the desk and handed me a pen. “Paul is being held in the detention centre without bail. He’s expecting you early tomorrow morning. We have a week before the trial begins. We’ll need something before then to prove his innocence.”
“No problem,” I said. “I’m sure . . .”
Jada met my eyes. The shake of her head made me close my mouth before I said the rest. It didn’t stop me from thinking it, though.
. . .
there are some flying pigs out there somewhere.
I
drove through side streets until I reached the Parkway, which ran next to the canal. If it had still been light, I would have been treated to fall colours in all their glory: red, yellow, and orange leaves against a deep blue sky. Now, I saw only dark tree trunks and street lights shining off the river of black water. I found this route to Dad’s house in Alta Vista soothing after a tiring day. The long, winding drive gave me time to think.
Like the rest of Ottawa, I had followed the Paul Taylor murder case on the nightly news. Katie and Paul were the closest thing Ottawa had to the rich and famous. Paul was a well-off business man and city councillor. He was married to Katie Taylor, a once-famous model from New York City. They lived in a big house in Rockcliffe and travelled in all the best circles. A charmed life, that is until six months ago when their maid found neighbour Laura Flint dead in their king-sized bed.
Turns out Laura and Paul Taylor had been having an affair. The papers suggested that he tried to end it that fateful August morning, and Laura threatened to tell Katie. From all accounts, Paul went into a rage and killed poor Laura Flint by smothering her with a pillow. He’d then put on clean clothes and joined his friends for a round of golf.
The papers reported that Katie was visiting her mother in Toronto at the time of the murder. Paul was arrested and put in jail awaiting trial. The police could find no other suspects. His high-powered friends slipped away. The mayor put him on temporary leave until his name was cleared. Nobody expected him to be back. The Taylor name was quietly removed from his business. The only one to stand by him was his wife Katie. The reporters urged her to drop her cold-blooded, killer husband. She refused. Everyone figured that Katie would dump him when she came to her senses. The public agreed that until then, she deserved our pity.
And now, I was going to try to find evidence to set free the most hated man in the city.
* * *
I pulled into Dad’s driveway twenty minutes later. I sat for a moment in the dark. I could see Dad’s bowed head in the lamplight through the front window. He had on his reading glasses and was sitting in his favourite leather chair. I imagined he was reading a history book about one war or another. He’d spent thirty-five years in the armed forces and loved reading about past conflicts. I was just happy to see him out of bed.
I jumped out of my car and hurried into the house.
“There you are,” he said when I entered the living room. He lowered the book onto his lap. “I was beginning to think you were out on a hot date.”
“No such luck. Did Cheri come by?” My sister and I had been taking turns keeping Dad company after each round of chemo. He said he didn’t want us to bother. We ignored his commands to leave him alone. I think he was secretly pleased that we fussed.
“She was here but I sent her home after lunch. I should be good now for another week until the next round.”
“A week to fatten you up. I’ll scramble some eggs and serve them up on toast if you’re hungry.”
“Only if you join me.”
“Of course. I can’t let you get fat alone.”
