“The gun, darling,” Robert said. “Just give me the gun and I will get this situation under control.”
“Bad man,” Thor repeated, pointing the gun at Drever.
“Maya!” Robert said in a tone that brooked no opposition. “The gun!”
“Don’t, Maya, please,” I said.
Maya took a deep breath. Mascara was running in rivulets down her cheeks, rain or tears or both. “Drugs? Tell me this isn’t true, Robert.”
“Of course it isn’t true, darling,” he said, taking a step toward her. Maya took a step back, but he was gaining ground.
“Drugs?” she repeated. “Bev died of a drug overdose. I knew you and Drever were up to something. But drugs? It couldn’t be drugs, could it? Bev was my best friend! I thought you were the perfect couple!”
“You and I are the perfect couple,” Robert said. “Now, then, the gun.”
“No, Maya,” I said. “He will kill us all.”
Robert took another step toward her, Maya another step back. She was looking back and forth at each of us, waving the gun wildly at everyone. Now only a few feet separated Maya from her husband.
“She’s lying. You know that, and you know what to do, darling,” Robert said, lunging at her. Maya stumbled back, took aim, pulled the trigger and blew Robert away.
Chapter 12
Bjarni’s saga is about to come to an end, but perhaps not the way we would expect it. The truth is we don’t know, and probably never will, what happened that night, out by the grave of Thorfinn Skull-Splitter, out in the tomb of the orcs. What we do know is that Bjarni was found the next day in a field near the broch where he’d waited for Kali. He was dead, although there wasn’t a mark on him. Kali, of course, was a suspect, but he had what we’d now call an alibi, although one might view it with some suspicion: Frakokk and his kin swore Kali never left the house. There were those who believed Bjarni had been frightened to death, had run from the tomb mad with fear. Others believed he’d drunk from the magic cauldron, or had been carried off by the people from the forest, or struck down by the god to whom the cauldron belonged. Everyone looked for the cauldron, but none could find it. Some said if you could find it, you’d know what happened to Bjarni. Most agreed with Svein the poet that before he went mad, Bjarni the Wanderer hid the cauldron in the tomb of the orcs. Neither the tomb nor the cauldron has ever been found.
Blair Bazillionaire was sitting in one of his many vehicles when I got there. I didn’t even recognize the car. I’ve been told since by Clive and Rob that it was a Maybach sedan, worth something over three hundred and fifty thousand. For all I know that’s where all rich men go when they have nothing else to do—they sit in their ridiculously expensive cars. Still, compared to a Charles Rennie Mackintosh writing cabinet, it’s a steal, particularly if a very stupid antique dealer ships you a fake one. I tried to take some comfort from that, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t find closure on this one. Nothing could make me feel better. Everything was bothering me, even my home. Toronto hadn’t changed any when I got back, but in some fundamental way, I had. The city was sophisticated, noisy, gritty, hurried, cars everywhere, people too rushed to be even polite, and I didn’t know what to do with it. I was awash in a sort of creeping melancholy not knowing where to turn. I even suggested to Clive that we sell the business, quit while we were ahead. All he said was, “Define ahead.”
Standing there, it occurred to me that Blair liked sitting in his car because it was quiet. It was relatively pleasant in his secluded and leafy neighborhood. From his driveway, the cacophony of the city had been reduced to a hum, punctuated by the soft wail of a siren somewhere in the distance. Maybe, I thought, that’s what money really buys: silence. He rolled down the window as I approached.
“Hey, babe,” he said. “I’ve been planning to call you. What’s cookin?”
“I know you killed Trevor Wylie,” I said.
“Do you now?”
“Yes.”
“Can you prove it? Not that it matters. The judge threw the case out. I have an airtight alibi, one that will be believed because of the—shall we say embarrassing?— circumstances attached to it. I suppose I’ll have to marry her though. Anyway, they’re looking for some guy called Dog. They won’t be arresting me for this one again.”
“I guess not,” I said. I was feeling very tired at that moment, even though I’d done little else but sleep since I got home; I was also oddly disinterested, given the subject at hand.
“Don’t guess, babe. Know it.”
“Okay, I know it. But you did do it.” A slight breeze rustled the leaves of the trees, masking the siren that grew closer.
“Maybe I did.” He was smirking. “Maybe he irritated the hell out of me. Maybe he just picked the wrong guy to rip off.”
“Maybe,” I agreed. “That was quite the legal maneuver you pulled, hiring Dez Crane when you were having an affair with his wife.”
“Had to get her to come forward somehow, didn’t I, babe?”
“She didn’t come forward voluntarily?”
“Hell, no! I had to force the issue, didn’t I? She didn’t give me much choice. She was going to let me fry rather than tell her husband about our affair. I fired my legal counsel, hired Dez, and then had the distinct pleasure of telling him I had an alibi, which was to say that I was with his wife. It was worth it just to see the expression on his face.”
“You’ll probably be reprimanded for that ploy.”
“Would it surprise you to know I don’t care? I’m on top of the world right now, babe. Tell me why I shouldn’t be.”
“How about because you’re going to be charged with drug trafficking and money laundering? You know, sort of like Al Capone: They couldn’t get him for all the murders, so they got him for tax evasion. I suppose that will have to do.” Now Blair wasn’t looking quite so smug.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Actually I do know something about money laundering,” I said. “It comes with being close to a police officer. Money laundering is, as my partner is always telling me, really very simple, in theory anyway. It’s all about either overvaluing or undervaluing something in order to move money around, money obtained, of course, from illicit activities. Robert Alexander, drug dealer and generally scum, someone who had a sense of… shall we say irony?… so profound he could donate money to help those whose misery he had personally caused, was in possession of some of your furniture and a necklace of yours. He paid way too much for them. By furniture I am referring to a chair by Antoni Gaudi, a sideboard by Victor Horta, and a Liberty and Company garnet and pearl necklace. Their combined worth is a hundred and fifty thousand tops. Alexander paid you well over a million, minus a small commission to Trevor Wylie.”
“You don’t say.”
“I do say. I saw them, and Robert Alexander was stupid enough to try and make sure I didn’t have a good look, once he realized I did know all about them, by moving the chair and pretending to steal the necklace. I have to say that really irked me. Then there is my personal favorite, the Charles Rennie Mackintosh writing cabinet. This is the flip side, the undervaluing of an object. There was a real one, belonging to Robert Alexander. Alexander still owed you money, so he shipped it, again via Trevor to you. The reason there is no record of a transaction between you and Trevor is that you didn’t pay for the Mackintosh writing cabinet at all. It was actually a payment to you. Alexander owed you a few million for drugs, and all that cash crossing international boundaries and all, well, it is just so inconvenient. So he sent you something you wanted, a Charles Rennie Mackintosh writing cabinet valued at ten thousand on the books, but worth something in the millions, and presto you’re paid. No fuss, no muss, no bribing of bank officials, no setting up of bogus businesses.