April Fool (36 page)

He's not going to feel guilty about his Polynesian holiday: he earned it. He'll cut up the touches with Cat and Willy. In time. He'll be honest in telling them how much non-taxable income was sitting under the king-sized canopy bed–roughly thirty million in uncut diamonds and five million folding euros. He took enough cash for expenses, buried the rest three feet under the plastic flowers on the freshly dug grave of one Sebastien Plouffe. Then he bought a wardrobe for a cruise that Popov the Russian lined up for him. After this caper, Faloon has got to be seeded four or five, inching ahead of Popov, who himself had to admit that.

As his ship pulled out of Cadiz, there was a moment of panic that he forgot the name on the tombstone, but it came back. Sebastien Plouffe of Cimitière Saint Pierre, Marseilles. It was a midnight dig, but there was enough glow to make out the stone–Sebastien bought it early, fifty-seven. Feeling connected to him, hungry to know him, Faloon has created a fiction. Jowly, beefy, taken in the prime because he wouldn't cut down the calories. A councillor, a ward heeler, corrupt in small ways. Worried about the Arabs and Turks. His daughter gone astray, on drugs. Problem with smelly feet.

Hula-Hula is up, pulling his arm, the pool beckoning. The dining-room manager sidles by. “Will the lady be sharing your regular table tonight, Monsieur Lapierre?”

“But of course. We'll start with the Sauvignon Supérieure.”

Alfred Lapierre, that's who he is, down to his last passport, a French one, down to his last wig and moustache. He tells everyone he's living on an income, which is true. Maybe he should settle here, far away from those cold winter rains. Investing in the Nitinat Lodge was a loser's move, where was his head at?
A warm slap of sun on Arthur's face brings him upright in bed. It's mid-morning, Bungle Bay has long been up and about, no one's waiting for the laggard. He has paid for his stolen hours with a week of toil and sweat. It's the last mate-less Saturday, tomorrow she descends.

At the window he takes a lungful of country air, but it's flavoured with a hint of methane, like a gassy fart. A hallucinogenic fart, either that or he is truly seeing Stoney work up a sweat, cutting a length of pipe. Dog holds a shovel.

To add to this pastoral yet industrial scene: the Japanese Woofers are repairing the fence, Kim Lee is feeding the chickens, and Zoë is in the goat pen, surrounded by prancing kids. Reverend Al is snoring in the next bedroom.

A note by the coffee maker demands Arthur's presence at the Woofer manor. His mood sours, he wants to leave business behind this weekend. Steaming mug in hand, he attends to find her highness at her computer. A
Criminal Code.
A text on criminal evidence. The Faloon files. Lotis has raided his house for them.

A curl of smoke from a cigarette in an ashtray. Arthur doesn't deny himself a soupçon of guilty pleasure at this evidence of wobbly willpower.

“The Blunder Bay chapter of Willing Workers on Organic Farms is now on-line. Munni Sidhoo transmitted some autoradiographic images. The comparison sample worked fine, Angella's snot and sniffles.” She shows him a printout: “DNA ladders, they're called.” Thin vertical lines, in segments. “This one is Adeline, say hello. Dr. Sidhoo is rooting through the semen for her twin.”

If by some miracle this seeming time-waster works, Lotis will be unbearably smug. As it is, he has a sense of being patronized. He resents her unspoken disdain for his technological ineptness.

“Been on the horn to Claudette. She hasn't heard a squeak from Nick, she's worried sick. Holly's black eye came from a
barroom scrap with a drunken log-truck driver. I gave up looking for Daisy. Eve probably shit-canned the file.”

He praises her diligence. She shrugs, flicks her hair.
Nothing to it, Arthur.
He can't concentrate on these things. Tomorrow is Day Seventy-nine. He ventures out to inspect his woeful, weedy plot. The invaders must die.

 

The afternoon of this sparkling day has Arthur manoeuvring his runabout toward Gwendolyn Beach, as his crew of Lotis, Al, and Slappy wave and bark at anchored locals. There's Clearihue's yacht. He and Arthur have an appointment in the war zone.

Stump Town has moved here, settling amidst the great firs and cedars spilled helter-skelter like God's matchsticks. Wilbur Kroop's worst nightmare has come true: naked hippies on the beach or swimming in the chilly saltchuck.

A medieval tapestry decorates the shore. “Qualified Reiki Therapist,” a banner says. “Yoga Research Society,” says another. Beside it, inconsonant with this mellow 1960s revival, a khaki military tent houses Kurt Zoller's tour business, Garibaldi Adventures.

Beyond is the twenty-acre clear-cut. Already an otter habitat has been lost. The confrontations must end before more of nature is tramped upon, despoiled. But there's hope. Almost $7 million has been raised or promised. The Gwendolyn Society's last-gasp strategy, fiercely debated, is to borrow the rest.

After discharging his live cargo, Arthur anchors out and takes the dinghy in. Zoller helps drag it up so Arthur can skip to shore without getting wet, then announces he's off to fetch a fare. “More tourists.” Now Arthur must push Zoller's craft off the beach, and his shoes fill with water.

Flim and Flam, always silent, always observing, raise cameras as they spy Arthur on a slab of driftwood, emptying his shoes. Also grinning at him are two Mounties, a skeleton crew today, enjoying this weeklong break from thankless duties.

Lotis has been sent to search for him, finds him squeezing his socks. “Clear-cut won't talk to any of the local peasants. You de man.” Why does he want to meet here, amid the green ruins? Maybe he thinks the ugly backdrop will give him an edge.

He slips on his wet shoes, follows her through the maze of fallen trees, hears the honk and squeal of the Garibaldi Highland Pipers, practising for the ceremony tomorrow, when Margaret will descend by zip line. Three bagpipes, one drum, a rendition, however incongruous, of “Will Ye No Come Back Again.”

Clearihue applauds the pipers vigorously. Boots and denim, a tooled leather hat. He's growing a beard, though with undetermined success on his boyish face.

Their tête-à-tête takes place by a stump, its juices oozing, sap rising to phantom branches. The corpse of this tree lies atop several others, still sending out growth.

“We're riveted on your trial, Arthur, the whole island, it's all we talk about.” He claps Arthur on the shoulder. “Glad you're back, I didn't want to deal with the locals; frankly, I'd be taking advantage.” One week off-island, and Arthur has lost his local status. “Be nice to get this timber out of here. Sure opens things up though, doesn't it? Stage Two is that ridge over there, incredible view lots, top dollar for them.”

“Our figure was $12 million the last we talked?”

“Directors beat me up over that, Arthur, I have to jack it up. Fifteen, I can sell them on that.” Though no one's nearby, he comes close enough for Arthur to smell his aftershave. “We have some strong outside interest, Americans, Europeans. An e-mail from a Saudi sheik, he wants his own wilderness retreat, God forbid. It's all the publicity, Arthur, the human-interest stuff, it may be backfiring.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I'm saying this has become such a headache we may have to unload fast to the highest bidder. We have an Arizona developer coming by, I don't know what to tell him.”

“You might tell him he'd be insane to pay millions of dollars for endless years of problems.”

“He owns half of Tucson, he's a billionaire, he's got time. A gated community, that's what his team is talking about, three hundred lots. He's promised to protect the environment, I got that out of him.”

Twice the devastation Garlinc would have wreaked, the valley torn apart, the island's population tripling. Surely this is all bluff. No smart investor will touch land so deeply in dispute, occupied, besieged. Yet Arthur supposes the publicity has indeed sparked interest–an article in
Time
has made Gwendolyn a celebrity.

Arthur bites the bullet. “We can't go above your previous offer.” The society can go to the bank for the rest, and pray donations will continue to flow.

“The expenses are eating us alive, Arthur.”

“An astute negotiator such as yourself shouldn't be displeased with a fifty-per-cent profit over two years, particularly when the bulk of it can be written off as a charitable donation.”

Clearihue contemplates, then sighs. “We'll go twelve and a half, and eat our costs.”

“Twelve all in, Todd.”

Slappy has emerged from among the broken boughs. He sniffs Clearihue's boots, accepts a pat from Arthur, pisses against the stump.

“Ah, what the hell. Twelve all in, but the society will have to sign an interim by Monday with at least a dozen guarantors.”

“You're speaking for your board?”

“Of course. No problem.”

Arthur tells him to draw up the agreement. He holds out his hand. Clearihue hesitates, then engages with him, a firm double pump.

Lotis, as is her habit, has snuck up on Todd, is standing above him on the jagged end of the weeping fir. “You want to stop
taking those designer steroids, Todd, there's hair coming out of your face.”

Without turning, he barks, “Get a job, Rudnicki. I hear there are some openings for suicide bombers.”

“Yuppie scum.”

Arthur interrupts sharply. “We have no time for this. Lotis, please pass along word that we have a deal for twelve million. We'll meet tomorrow to ratify it, and go to the bank on Monday.”

He foresees few problems–the Bank of Montreal is a major client of Tragger Inglis, and Bully serves on its board. Now he must return home to make some calls. “How do we get out of here, Slappy?”

The old spaniel leads the way, around a slash pile. Clearihue calls, “Hey, good luck with your trial. I mean it.”

Arthur casts off none too soon, avoiding Zoller's launch as it whips toward the beach and swerves hard to port, creating a surge that nearly swamps the departing pipe band. Riding the second swell, Zoller neatly brings his bow onto the sand.

Cutting a natty figure in his neon-orange life jacket, he's putting on a show, impressing his fares with his maritime skills. They have the look of generous tippers, several large men, one with a Stetson and a string tie. Maybe Clearihue wasn't joking about the Arizona developer. Arthur must move quickly to firm up the deal.

 

He's relieved to find Bully by his phone in his home office. He's in an agreeable mood–Tragger Inglis is having a good month–and proposes no obstacles to Arthur's plan. But there's a catch.

“A sizable retainer is available on the Wilson murder, Arthur. Set to go mid-October. He doesn't want Cleaver, he doesn't want anyone but you. Strong defence, he wasn't aiming at his wife.”

Arthur hedges, promises to consider it. He's as keen to take this case as ride a rocket to the moon.

Arthur must next contend with Brian Pomeroy's strident call-of-the-day. “You wouldn't believe all the New Age shit going on here. The guru, sorry,
relationship facilitator
, is so droll and cool and self-effacing I want to ralph. Caroline shares my cynicism. We're bonded in distaste for the banality of it all.”

Like most of Brian's harangues, this seems to serve little purpose other than letting off steam.

“We're into confessing our naughty habits and moral shortcomings. Not sure if I like the way the facilitator is pressing me to open up my past. If he's New Age, I'm Old Age, I prefer the medieval system where you confess to God and priest. But I forgot the reason I called. Oh, yeah, I just heard on the news–Faloon's on his way back.”

 

29

O
n the Owl's left, window seat, is a sour immigration official from Tahiti who never opens his mouth. On his right, aisle seat, is Corporal Johnson from Commercial Crime, Vancouver, who has handled Faloon for years, which is why they sent him.

They've been sharing memories, like the time Johnson strip-searched him, not even glancing at the Piaget on his wrist. “I was pretty green then,” Johnson snorts. He's in his fifties now, a paunch, balding like Faloon.

The French guy is scandalized by this jesting with a prisoner. He and his henchmen caused a scene in front of everybody at Faloon's hotel yesterday afternoon. Coming at him with guns, as if he were John Dillinger. Faloon took it as a personal insult. It should be like tag football, you just touch a guy.

“Remember that stakeout on Broadway?” Faloon says. “You're at the peephole, and I'm tapping you on the shoulder, going, ‘Looking for me, corporal?'”

Maybe Corporal Johnson doesn't like being the butt of these memories, because he stops laughing. But you've got to have a sense of humour about life's ups and downs. It doesn't pay to beat yourself up over what's not your fault. In this latest situation, Faloon got betrayed, is all. Despite all his backslapping, Popov the Russian resented being bumped from number five in the world. Popov had been in line for a piece of the buried treasure, but now he isn't going to get a dime.

Faloon isn't fond of the alternative theory that he made himself an object of suspicion by spending too large. It's the last thing a lucky thief should do, flipping a waiter a century here, half a yard there, like he did on Bora-Bora. His only excuse is he was exhausted from lying low, he had to come up for air.

“I'm real disappointed in you, Nick,” is Corporal Johnson's attitude, asking how he could ever pull such an amateur stunt, going through fifty K in two weeks. The bulls found three hundred more in the Owl's suitcase plus the forty in the lining of his suit, which he made the mistake of asking if he could wear so he wouldn't look like some cheap hood in court.

Faloon acted hurt they wouldn't believe he had an amazing streak at Monte Carlo. The gendarmes tried to smoke him out about the jobs in Cannes, but Faloon saw no profit in helping them. With Lansana not talking, they didn't want the hassle of grinding him through the French courts, easier to let Canada have him.

Facing a murder beef is bad enough, facing Claudette will take nerves of steel. He swore he'd never lie to her again, and now this. He hopes the official reports don't mention Hula-Hula or any of the other girls. He was going to get word to Claudie, honest. He was marooned on a tropical island.

Corporal Johnson gets on him again. “You got to be ashamed, Nick, you were doing good, burned your parole papers. Now you got a bad streak going, you're wanted all over the joint. Canada, France, Africa.”

“I'm a little guy, a shoplifter, why am I getting other peoples' heat? Corporal Johnson, be honest, you don't think I murdered that Winters lady.”

But Johnson won't talk about the April Fool's murder, not a word, he's got strict orders. Faloon grows small as he pictures Mr. Beauchamp glowering at him, pissed because everything went off the rails after he'd set two weeks aside for the trial. A horrible thought: the great man refuses to act for him, turns him over to his off-the-wall female assistant.

He has to cling to hope.
La situation est plus encourageante
. But if things don't turn out so rosy, it's the big one, life in the attitude-adjustment centre. Goodbye, Claudette, forget me, have a happy future. Goodbye the good life on his newfound wealth. (Buried somewhere in that sea of gravestones in Cimitière Saint Pierre, guarded by the late Sebastien Plouffe. Bet he weighed three hundred pounds. Died of gluttony, traffic jam in the arteries. Voted
Front Populaire
. Made Arab jokes.)

 

Arthur hears mutterings of discontent as he walks from St. Mary's to seek breeze and shade. This pocket-sized church holds only fifty souls and was sweltering within, and the faces of Reverend Al's grumpy flock are shiny with sweat.

“I was staring at my watch the whole way,” says Ernie Sproule. “He went on for forty-seven minutes, nineteen seconds.”

Reverend Al and Zoë are nearby, shaking hands with parishioners, chatty and gay. “Hope I didn't go on too long,” Al says. “I had the spirit in me today.”

Prompted by the settlement reached with Garlinc. No major celebrations yet–agreements must be drafted and signed, the funding campaign must push ahead. Arthur feels unburdened: he's able to concentrate on refurbishing a marriage and defending a thief newly arrived from Polynesia.

Faloon should be in the Richmond lockup by now, near the international airport. Arthur has arranged with the Crown to meet him there within the hour, via Syd-Air from Blunder Bay. The timetable is tight–he must shuttle back to Garibaldi for another reunion, Margaret's return to earth. Three p.m., no later.

There's a do at the hall later, a potluck, a relaxed occasion to honour Margaret. Then will come the delicate first moments of being alone with her. Then the night, and whatever God intends.

Driving home, he frets–she hasn't been emitting deafening signals that she misses him. The word
love
speckles her paper glider notes, but only in ways casual or dutiful. Such festering
doubts have combined with eleven weeks of sleeping alone to create a suffocating shyness.

“Be attentive but do not smother.” Down-under Deborah. “She'll need to talk, don't fall asleep on her. Make love to her like the sensitive New Age male you long to be.”

He couldn't bring himself to mention the Viagra, it's not something one talks about with a daughter. The two tablets from Hubbell's stash will do for now, but he supposes an uncomfortable, throat-clearing session with Doc Dooley is a prerequisite to obtaining more.

Back to Vancouver in the morning, the trial must go on. He must finish his cross of Holly Hoover, then the Crown's case is almost in. A few minor witnesses and Adeline Angella.

Here comes Kim Lee, pedalling hard, waving urgently, pulling him over.

“Lo-tis prease hoary home.” She throws her bike in the back.

“My God, what happened to her?” She fell off Barney. She stepped on a hive of yellow jackets.

“Happy, happy happen.”

“Happy…happy, good?”

“She solve case.”

 

Lotis rises from her computer, stubs her cigarette. “Ultra low tar. One weakness isn't bad.”

Arthur has learned to abide such intimations of near-perfection. He waits impatiently. She smiles, enjoying the moment, drawing out the suspense.

“Munni Sidhoo built a profile of Adeline Angella from Nick's semen. These are the autorad charts.” The printer clicks and buzzes. “Angella dosed the corpse with Nick's ten-yearold seed. She's our perp.”

Arthur stares dumbly at the DNA ladders. “No chance of a mistake?”

“Whoa, get with it. Dr. Sidhoo wrote the book on DNA.”

He sags weakly to the couch, elated with a sense of impending triumph–yet there's a sense of loss. All those other suspects, wasted. He finds irony. Almost convicted by science, Nick Faloon finds salvation from it. In the end, not law but science determines who is innocent, who guilty.

It was Ms. Know-it-all's idea, this sifting through the semen sample for Angella's DNA. He will forgive her smugness, her truancy, her capriciousness, even her revolutionary jargon.

He has one more task for her–to check out Angella's alibi.
I think I may have had a teeny, teeny bit too much at the Wanderlust.
Lotis is to use utter discretion when talking to the staff. No stranger must know the defence armament holds such a powerful weapon as the DNA of troubled, obsessive Adeline Angella, who hadn't been candid with the Crown–Buddy would toss her away like a worm-eaten apple if he knew she'd been Doctor Eve's venomously unhappy patient.

Here comes Syd-Air. In half an hour, Arthur will be shaking his client's hand, telling him he has chosen a propitious time to come back. As of tomorrow, when Angella takes the stand, the defence becomes a prosecution, the greatest, most honourable of defences, turning the tables on the true murderer.

 

It's around noon, Faloon figures, as the wagon pulls up behind a typically square suburban RCMP detachment, in a town called Clearbrook. He feels fagged, slow, stupid. He wasn't able to collar a nod the whole time from Tahiti, he never could sleep well on a plane, especially between two honking big cops.

“First thing, I want to call my lawyer.”

“Staff Flynn's in charge of that,” says Corporal Johnson.

They go through the security door, and there he is, Jasper Flynn, in the booking room, a big salesman's smile under his bulky 'stache, as if he's meeting a wealthy customer. “Have a good flight, Nick?”

“Yes, thank you, and I want to talk to Mr. Beauchamp.”

“He been warned?”

“Couple of times,” Johnson says.

Jasper breezes through it anyway, after which Faloon says, “I want to commend you on your reading, Sergeant Flynn, especially the last part, where I have a right to a lawyer.”

“Let's get the bureaucratic shit out of the way. We got to book you, do the prints and art.” To Johnson: “You tell him how it's going?”

“No.”

Jasper Flynn shakes his head, demonstrating sadness maybe. Tell him what? Faloon isn't going to ask. He's got one thing to say to this copper. “When I am I gonna call Mr. Beauchamp?”

“Hey, Nick, it's Sunday, let the man relax.”

He's whisked through the system, Sergeant Flynn granting his right to a leak but not a phone call. Otherwise everything's a blur, and what Faloon wants right now, more than even a lawyer, is a few minutes kip. But Jasper won't even lock him up. “Let's go for a ride.” Friendly, not like some gangster movie.

Out they go into the sweltering day, no bracelets, nothing, Faloon with his suitcase on rollers, trundling to Flynn's Explorer, which has windows you can't see into. Then Flynn opens the door, shows him this German shepherd in the back with cold eyes and a low growl. “Old Shep's harmless,” Flynn says.

Faloon says, “Nice doggie,” and sits up front. “Where you taking me, Officer Flynn?”

“Moving you away from the city. There's a lot of public feeling over this case, Nick, we want to avoid a media circus.” He pulls away. “Buckle up.”

So here's Nick, no constraints except a seat belt, perched in the cockpit of this bus, with its kids' sports equipment in the back and a dog that could possibly go for the throat, a very unofficial vehicle, which means the inside door handles should work. Maybe Flynn wants him to run when they get to a stop sign. Then he's going to shoot him. Roadkill.

The paranoia keeps him awake as they swing onto the freeway, the 99, heading east up the Fraser Valley. A media circus…Do they even know he's here? Does Mr. Beauchamp?

“I don't get it, Nick, you make a clean getaway, a big score on the Riviera, and you blow it all by wild living at a thousand-buck-a-day resort.”

That's why he's a copper. Guys like Johnson and him don't understand. Thieves have a different nature. Different aspirations.

“How's that going to sound to the jury tomorrow?”

Faloon starts. “Would you repeat the question, sergeant?”

“It's going bad for you, Nick.”

“What is?”

“Your trial. Jury's waiting for the lawyers to finish blowing wind so they can convict you and get back to their families.”

“My trial…”

“I forgot, you been out of touch. You're an absconding accused, Nick, that means a jury can convict you in your absence. Last few witnesses are going in tomorrow. Your ex-girlfriend, Adeline Angella, will talk about how you put a knife to her throat. You're in the toilet, Nick.”

Faloon sits back, relieved that the horseman turns out to have a sense of humour. “I'm calling you on that one, Sergeant Flynn.”

At a cloverleaf, they pull over at a gas station. “Stay,” says Flynn, getting out at a self-serve pump. The Owl's not clear if that's meant for him or the dog or both, but he stays. It's hot in here with the air conditioning off, even though Flynn left the driver's door open. That gives a view of newspaper boxes. A tabloid headline: “
Golly, Holly!
” A shot of Hoover walking from the courts, a sexy smirk, like it's all a big joke.

Though he barely touches the door handle, he hears a throaty rumble from harmless old Shep. Flynn has trained this dog to kill absconding suspects. Meanwhile he's out there pumping gas with his door wide open, like an invitation. The Owl wonders
if the trial's really going that bad. Maybe it's the Crown's case that's in the toilet.

“Want anything?” Flynn, pulling out his wallet. “I'm getting an ice-cream bar.”