The Pretender - Chapter 3

 Sunday, June 27, 2083.  7:00 a.m.

Helen Pearce woke.  The room was alight with the morning sun making the stark walls seem almost cheery, but it didn’t help her feel any better.  She lay motionless on her cot, staring up at the ceiling.  She’d endured weeks of solitude and the loneliness was taking its toll.  She’d never liked being on her own.  She’d always considered it a blessing that she’d found Greg and they got along so well.  They’d spent most of their free time together.  She was never alone as long as he was near.

A small sliding hatch at the base of her cell door opened without warning and a breakfast tray slid into the room.  She looked at it without interest, but eventually her stomach won and she got up out of the cot.  She was weak.  Tired all the time.  She could barely get across the few feet to the door.  At least the food is good, when I feel like eating.  She carried the tray back to her cot and sat down.  There were bacon and eggs with porridge, coffee and cream, toast, and orange juice.  Whoever they were, they certainly wanted her to stay healthy.  She sighed and picked up the spoon.

As she dipped her spoon into her porridge, she noticed something odd:  A small slip of paper the size of a fortune from a fortune cookie buried in the porridge.  She carefully pulled it out.  It read, “You are not alone.”  The words hit Helen like a shock; she felt it through her whole system.  Someone was out there and was going to help her.  Probably Greg.  She knew he’d never abandon her.  She wasn’t going to spend her whole life in this cage.  She scooped up the slip of paper with a spoonful of porridge and she ate it up.  Then, she ate the rest of the food with gusto.

After breakfast, she didn’t lie down in her cot again as she usually did.  Instead, she got down on the cold tile floor and started doing sit-ups.  She worked out in the tiny space afforded her by her cell until the knock came for her time in the bathroom.  Another day was about to begin.  She wondered what today’s tests would be and then she realised she didn’t care.  She felt rejuvenated, ready to handle anything.

She followed the guard down the hall to the bathroom.  She never saw any other prisoners in the place, but the evidence of others was tantalizing.  The showers had been used.  The bath mats and floor were already wet.  The laundry hamper was half full with soiled clothes.  She showered and changed into a new set of blue coveralls, which was all the prisoners – they called her a ‘Subject’ – were allowed to wear.  She emerged from the bathroom and was escorted down the hall to Testing by two guards.  She enjoyed this part of walk because of the view of the gardens and the farmers’ fields beyond.  The day was glorious; the gardens well tended and full of beautiful flowers.  Cows were standing in the pastures in the distance.  Then, all too quickly, they walked past the windows.

They stopped in front of Laboratory #3 and Helen relaxed a little.  This was the psych testing room.  She was unlikely to see Ryan today.

Dr. Lawrence Ryan was the doctor in charge of the facility.  He wasn’t a kind man.  He never spoke directly to the Subjects and always wore a surgical mask when he was around them as if he was sure he could catch some dread disease from close contact.  He ordered some of the most heinous testing Helen had ever thought possible.  Just two weeks ago, she was left in a freezer until she passed out.  She suffered various ill effects from that episode, including frostbite.  Apparently, her system had slowed so much she almost died.

But, as Helen walked into Laboratory #3 this morning, her spirits sank.  There was Ryan, hiding behind his inevitable surgical mask and, beside him, Dr. Hans Randall, looking a little grim.  They were standing behind a small table that had been placed in the middle of the lab.  There were two chairs at the table and a deck of cards and a notepad and pen sitting on top.

“Strap the subject to her chair.”  Ryan’s voice was cold.

Helen toyed with fighting.  She’d always been compliant; it was her nature.  Extreme responses or violence confused her.  But right now, just this minute, and perhaps it was the note she’d found, she felt like socking Ryan in the face.  The two guards grabbed her, a little more roughly because Ryan was watching, forced her down into the chair, and strapped her in.  Helen made no attempt to stop them.

“Mrs. Pearce, I want you to run through the same testing we did last week, okay?”

“Okay.”

Ryan took up the pen and pad and stood back a few paces.  Randall sat down across from Helen and picked up one of the playing cards so that it faced away from her.  “All right, just like last time, please tell me if this card is red or black.”

“Red.”

After the fifteenth card, Ryan started scribbling furiously.

“Okay, we’re going to do a few more.”

They continued on with the test, going through the whole deck.  Then, Randall shuffled them and took her through the deck again.  When they were through, Randall and Ryan walked over to the other end of the lab and talked quietly.  Helen watched.  They were arguing; Helen could tell that for sure.  But, finally, Randall gave in.  Eventually, all the doctors gave in to Ryan, and none of them seemed to quit their jobs over what they had to do.  It was as if they actually thought they were doing the right thing, as if they were on some kind of mission that justified any and all means.  Sadly, a small number of them actually seemed to enjoy their work.

Ryan walked out of the laboratory, notepad tucked under his arm, without even glancing her way.  Helen didn’t understand him.  He did not seem to take any satisfaction in what he had to do, but he was the one in charge, the one who ordered these tests.  He often worked out the testing procedures himself and, rarely, carried them out himself.  Yet, he did not relish the work.  He just kept at it, like he was looking for something.

Randall went over to one of the counters to retrieve a small machine.  He walked the machine over and placed it on the table, trailing an extension cord, like some lazy snake, behind him.

“Mrs. Pearce.  Dr. Ryan has ordered me to determine whether electric shocks – as a form of stress – will affect your ability to guess what’s on the cards.”

“Do you mean I’m good at guessing what’s on the cards?”

“Oh yes, you’re very good at it.”

“Dr. Randall, is that why I’m here?”

Randall dropped his gaze to her hand where he was attaching a crude electrode with some bandage tape.  “I’m not allowed to discuss why you’re here, Mrs. Pearce.  I’m sorry.”  He sighed heavily and went and sat in his chair.

She believed him.  She also believed that, no matter how sorry he was, he would make her scream today.

Sunday, June 27, 2083. 11:00 a.m.

Helen Pearce was still all over the Sunday reports, on both the Globe and Mail and the New York Times sites, many other major dailies, and all the tabloids you could download.  There was a public outcry surrounding the case that was traditionally reserved for women accused of terrible crimes and the fact that Greg Pearce had also recently disappeared was only adding fuel to the flames.  The generally accepted theory was the couple had absconded with the funds and were living on some Caribbean island somewhere in the lap of luxury.  Marcie didn’t think so.

She shifted her enquiries to the name ‘Reef Callum’.  She did a keyword search and thought she’d hit gold when she found him listed as a champion on the USA Karate Federation homepage.  But then she saw Reef’s picture.  Not the same guy.  Her attacker had only borrowed the name.

Her phone beeped quietly in her ear.

“Marcie Noel.”

“Hi Marce.  It’s me, Jeff.”

“Hey.”

“Listen, I have a few things I want to show you.  Can I come in today?  I know you like the day off on Sunday, but…”

“Yeah, no.  Come on in.  Robbie’s here already.  He won’t let me go to the bathroom by myself.”

Jeff was laughing.  “See you in ten then.”

“Ho, Jeff.  Make that thirty; I have to shower.  Oh, and bring food.”

“Sure.”

Thirty minutes later, Jeff walked through the door bearing a great smelling take-away bag and a big smile.  What’s gotten into him?  They all three sat down in Marcie’s kitchen and chatted about nothing while they ate croissants and scrambled eggs, courtesy of the bakery two doors down.  Meal eaten, Marcie turned to Jeff.

“Okay, hotshot.  What do you want to show me?”

With some flourish, Jeff pulled an MC out from his jacket pocket.

“What’s so important that you have to carry it around with you?  We have email, you know.”

“I know.  Come and see this.”  He got up and walked down the stairs to his computer with Marcie and Robbie following.  He slid the MC into the drive.  “The file’s a little big to send in an email. Besides, I wanted to see the look on your face.  Do you remember I modified a genealogy program to track relationships in the Pearce case?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Well, take a look at this.”

The program opened and Jeff clicked through a few menus to display a graph that showed a bunch of dots mapped on the screen with lines joining many of the dots.

“All right.  See all those dots?”

“Sure.”

“Every dot is one of the people we’re investigating associated with the Pearce case and the lines between them represent their relationships to each other, if we could find one, different colour lines for different kinds of associations.  Green lines are family.”  Lines of every colour criss-crossed the page, but there was a predominance of red lines around one locus, with other random convergences elsewhere.

“What’s red?”

“Well, welcome to the discovery of the morning; I should say, very early morning.  All these red lines are doctor referral and all these people were referred to this one doctor because they couldn’t have kids.  Oh, by the way, I’ve done some long distance on my telephone at home and Kelly has too.”
“Okay, just submit the bills, that’s fine.  I thought you said you were having trouble tracking these folks down.”

“Yeah, but, like I said I was gonna, I initiated a search outside North America and ran a search on deleted files, well files marked for deletion anyway.  Did you know Kelly can speak French and German?”

“Yes.  So, when are you gonna tell me who Centre Dot Guy is?”

Jeff smiled.  “Waiting builds character.”

“Ha ha.”

“The Centre Dot Guy is one Dr. Lawrence Ryan.”

“Okay, I want to know his favourite colour and the name of the first girl he ever kissed.”

“Well, for starters, he’s in politics.”

“I hate him already,” Robbie interjected.

“You mean the Ryan, the one who’s running for leadership of the Liberal party?”

“Oh yeah.”

Marcie nodded in response.  She was thinking.  “Jeff, don’t the Liberals have a big fundraiser for Ryan coming up?  I want to go.”

“I thought you’d say that.  It’s tonight, in fact.  Very fancy, down at the convention centre hotel.  I have an idea how to get you in.  Let me make a few calls.”  Marcie looked at Robbie who nodded ever so slightly.

“All right, and get all over Ryan.  I want to know everything about him.”

“Thought you would.  Give me a few hours.”

“Sure.  I’d like something before we go to the fundraiser, if possible.”

“No problem.”

Robbie piped up.  “We have that interview with the Roper’s kids in a half hour.  We’d better move.”
They left the office and went upstairs to the PA.  Both grown children lived in Barrie, a sprawling bedroom community north of Toronto on what used to be beautiful woodland.  The flight would take only ten minutes if they got clearance to jump to the faster, medium height lanes designed for city-to-city flights.  They got the clearance.  The PA lifted off and then climbed sharply to get up to the city-to-city altitude.  Marcie hated the steep climbs.  It was the only thing that kept her from travelling more often.  Once up, they merged into traffic and levelled off and eight minutes later, they started their descent.  And, then, Marcie remembered just how much she hated going down.

They arrived at Angie Roper’s house a few minutes later and did a little fly by of the neat little neighbourhood while Marcie’s stomach settled.  Finally, they landed on the street in front of her house.  There were two PAs in the driveway.

“Looks like Neville Roper is here too.”

“Good.”

They walked up to the door and rang the bell.  A small, blonde woman answered.  She looked like her father.

“Good afternoon.  Are you Ms. Roper?”

“Yes.  Ms. Noel?”

Marcie nodded.  “And this is my associate Robbie McLean.”

“Hi.  I’ve been expecting you.  Come on in.”

She opened the door wider and gestured that they should enter the house.  It was a small suburban house, split level, with the kitchen, dining room, and living room on one level.  As they entered the door, a taller male version of Angie stood up to greet them.  Marcie smiled at him.  He nodded but didn’t smile back.  Okay, not too happy.

“Please, sit down,” said Angie.

Marcie chose a spot on the sofa and Robbie sat beside her.  Angie and Neville took wingback chairs.
“Mr. Roper, Ms. Roper.  We’re here to see if we can determine a little of your father’s state of mind in the weeks before his death.  I’m hoping you’ll answer a few questions.”

Angie looked up and nodded.  Neville said, “Yes, but please make it quick.”

“Fine.  Did either of you see your father in the weeks before his death?”

“Well, I did,” said Angie.  “Even if Nev didn’t.”

“You didn’t see your father much?”

“He wanted me to be a gynaecologist, like him,” said Neville, as if that explained everything.  “I want to be an actor.”  In Barrie?

“Okay, well if you didn’t see him, you can’t tell me much about his mental state, can you?”

“Well, actually, I did see him.”

“Oh?  And what was the occasion?”

“I needed some money.”  I’ll bet.

“So, what would you say about his mental state?  Was he a man newly in love or was he just a guy living out the daily grind?”

“He wasn’t singing in the rain, let me say that.”

“And Angie, what would you say?”

“I’d agree with Nev.  Dad didn’t seem overly happy.  He wasn’t whistling, or making covert phone calls, or ordering roses.”

Marcie noted with interest that neither child was particularly surprised nor offended by her suggestion that Roper might have been having an affair.

“Okay, did you ever meet Helen Pearce?”

“Never,” said Angie.

“Me neither.”

Marcie studied them closely.  She saw nothing of the telltale tightness of the lip or flick of the eyes suggesting they were lying.  They seemed genuine or at least incapable of artifice.  Unless they’re both good actors.  Assuming they were telling the truth, Roper was not in a new relationship, and if Roper wasn’t infatuated, then the tabloids’ gold-digger theory evaporated like a sun shower in August.

“Can either of you tell me if your father had any enemies?”

“None that I know of,” said Neville hesitantly.

“No,” said Angie.  “Well, not if you exclude Mom.”  She smiled.  “Sorry.  Family joke.”

“Right.”  Ri-i-i-ght.  “What’s your Mom’s story?”

Angie looked at Neville and he shrugged.  She turned back to Marcie.  “Mom always wanted more money.  She wanted a bigger house and a better PA.  She wanted to send us to better schools.  She was always fighting with Dad about who controlled the money because he never let her have anything more than an allowance.”

“That must have bugged her.”

“Oh you bet it did,” said Neville.  “I think she would’ve done anything to get her hands on the money.”

“Like kill him?”

“Kill him?  Of course not.”  Angie blurted immediately and looked at her brother.

Neville looked angry.  Now they’re offended.   “No way,” said Neville curtly.  Of course not.  No way.

“Where did you go to school, Neville?” asked Marcie.

“I went to St. Andrew’s College until I graduated.  Since then, my father hasn’t given me any money for school.  He believes I should pursue a back up career.”

“And you, Angie?”

“Oh, St. Clements, of course.”  What the heck is a St. Clements?

“And for university?”

“I went to the University of Toronto for English Criticism.”

“They’re all good schools,” said Marcie.  “What was your mother’s problem with them?”

“Well, that’s just it.  He always gave her what she wanted, but it had to be his decision.”  Okay.  Let’s go see the mother.

“All right, then.  Thanks for taking the time to see us.  We might call again with a few more questions.”

“Sure,” said Angie.  “That’s okay.  Just let me know.”  Neville said nothing; he was still a bit peeved by Marcie’s suggestion that his mother might be a killer.

Marcie and Robbie showed themselves out, closing the door behind them.  They got into their PA, and were in the mid-level stream before either of them said anything.

“Well, they say the most likely killer is the person closest to the deceased,” said Robbie.

“Like a business partner or a wife.”

“Bingo.”

“And she dumps the body back at the office a month later to prove he’s dead.”

“For the insurance.”

Marcie looked at her watch.  “Wanna go and see if she’s at home?”

“Dying to.”

“Very funny, Robbie.”

Fifteen minutes later, they set down outside the Roper house.  Annette Clairmont, Janine Roper’s sister, answered the door.  Apparently, Mrs. Roper was overcome with grief over the loss of her husband and had retired to her bedroom.  They were shown into a parlour room to wait.

The house and its contents were expensive, but the furnishings were not particularly tasteful – that upper middle-class chic that made boutique storeowners and antique dealers rich.  If the Ropers were fighting about money, it wasn’t evident in the house and, even if Roper forced his wife to get approval every time she spent a penny, Marcie was sure Janine Roper was proud of her home and her lifestyle.

After about five minutes wait, Mrs. Roper walked abjectly into the room, dressed in black from head to toe and carrying a Kleenex in her hand.

“Ms. Noel, Mr. McLean?  Janine Roper.”

Mrs. Roper looked like she was recently crying.  Her eyes were red and puffy and her face was splotched.  Marcie and Robbie, in turn, shook her hand.

“Please sit down,” said Mrs. Roper as she took a chair across from them.  “I understand you have more questions.”

“Mrs. Roper, we know this is difficult for you.”

“Yes.  I’ve already answered so many.”

“We understand.  We just want to try and establish Dr. Roper’s frame of mind before he died, Mrs. Roper.”

“Okay.”

Marcie smiled.  “Okay.  Would you say he was happy, Mrs. Roper?”

“Oh yes.  Well, I would say content.  He wasn’t an effusive man.”

“Had he become depressed before he died?”

“He obviously didn’t kill himself if that’s what you mean!”

“Oh no, ma’am.  We don’t think that at all.  We are only trying to determine if there was any emotional change or change in his behaviour in the weeks before his death.”

“Not that I saw.”

“No change in routine?”

“Not really.”

“Was he reliable, Mrs. Roper?”

Roper sighed.  “Yes, I would say he was even predictable, Ms. Noel.  He’d usually tell me what he was up to.  He worked long hours, and sometimes late, but always had an assistant with him at work.  Except when he was just doing paperwork.  He was in a…delicate field, Ms. Noel.”  Marcie could not shake the feeling Mrs. Roper was not being completely honest.  Had Roper had affairs before?  Was the assistant there at the insistence of Mrs. Roper rather than a wise precaution of Dr. Roper’s?

“All right, you’d say his behaviour didn’t change before he died?  He was just the same old guy?”

“Just the same old….” Mrs. Roper started to sniffle.

That’s a little bit thick.  Marcie stood.  “Well, thank you, Mrs. Roper.  We are very sorry for your loss.”  Robbie stood and so did Mrs. Roper.

“Ms. Noel,” said Mrs. Roper, “we didn’t always get along, but we were together for over twenty years.  I miss him.”  Well, that seems more genuine.

“I understand, Mrs. Roper.  Thank-you for taking the time to see us today.  Good-bye ma’am.”  Robbie just nodded as they turned to head for the front door.

Back in the PA, Marcie sighed.  “That was quite a show, a little pumped up for my taste, but she doesn’t seem like a murderer to me.  I don’t think she loved him in the end, but I don’t think she killed him either.”

“No.  I don’t think she has it in her.”

A few minutes later, the little plane climbed into the lower lanes, fully piloted by Control.  The sky was still clear and the flow of the traffic fairly heavy for the time of day.  Marcie could see the stream stretch out ahead of her, moving toward the heart of the city.

“And I don’t think Roper was infatuated with Helen Pearce, either.  Infatuated men rarely behave well.  There would’ve been some clues.  So, if there was no relationship, Helen Pearce had no access to his money.  So, fine.  Helen Pearce didn’t kill Roper.”

“Right.  Then who did?”

“Exactly.”

Sunday, June 27, 2083. 6:00 p.m.

Later that evening, Marcie pushed her chair back and sighed. Marcie had never come upon a more enigmatic set of records.  She felt like she needed a dictionary to understand them, a dictionary of terms for some secret society that’s never named in even one of their own published documents.  She rubbed her head and pulled on her neck to loosen up the tension she was feeling.  Didn’t work.  There were various first names and considerable references to ‘the doctor’, probably Ryan, but who knows?  There were many mentions of Toronto and Washington.  There were many references to ‘the Institution’ and its ‘operations’, but only one clue to its geographical location:  “… to the institution in Canada”.  Canada is a big country.  And, in more recent documents, there were some references to the ‘Settlement’ with no clues as to where it might be.

But one important point that came through was the neo-neo-neo-Nazis were not on the side of the ‘doctor’ and not responsible for the incarcerations, just logging them and keeping track of people.  What were they all mixed up with?

She stood up and went over to her closet. She needed to dress for the Liberal Party fundraiser tonight, the one at which a certain Dr. Ryan was the guest of honour.  Now, what to wear?  Understated and classic.  She got out her small black dress and went over to her dresser where she pulled out the required string of pearls.  Then, she retrieved her black purse and shoes to finish the outfit off.  She laid these items out on her bed and went and had a shower.

A bit more than fifteen minutes later, she looked in her mirror.  With her long hair pulled up and a little more make-up than usual, she looked attractive, modest, and elegant.  She looked like a society girl – exactly what she wanted.  She bit her lip.  What the heck is Robbie gonna wear?  Robbie tended toward dark clothes that looked like they’d seen better days.  She didn’t know if he owned a suit.

“Let’s go, sugar!”  Right on time, Robbie called from the office floor.  She walked out of her bedroom with some apprehension and down the stairs to meet him.  He was looking up at her admiringly.  “You should wear a dress more often.”

“Thanks.”  She sighed with relief.  He was in a well-cut tux and bow tie looking every bit the corporate escort.  “You look all right yourself.”  He did too.

“Thanks.”  Robbie had a copy of Jeff’s report on Ryan in his hand.

“Did you get a chance to read that?”

“No, I just got here.  You have the précis version for me?”

“Sure.”  Marcie checked her purse and gathered up her keycards and lipstick as she talked.  “Ryan is a real bona fide doctor of both medicine and genetics.  Here’s no surprise:  his specialty is helping couples conceive.  Couples with a lot of money, by the way.  He’s an expert on the world arena, a notch or two above Roper in reputation.”

“So all those referrals aren’t that weird.”

Marcie perched on her desk.  “Nope, except his patients are disappearing.  He has no immediate family alive, is well connected to high society and, get this:  runs various research facilities in Canada.   Could one of them be the famous ‘Institute’?  But that would put the neo-neo-neo-Nazis and Ryan on opposite sides.  So, I’m not sure what to do with this information.  Other than that, not much to report.  He makes a squizillion dollars a year, spends most of it on investments and recently made an obscenely high contribution to the Liberal Party.  Oh, and his campaign is well funded.  He’s made another squizillion dollars for it already.  Basically, he’s rolling in it.”

“No wife, no partner, no mistress?  No secret boyfriend?”

“Doesn’t look like it but Jeff says the curtain around Ryan is pretty thick.  The Liberal Party is taking care of its own.  He’s going to stay and do some more digging tonight.”

“Well, a party leader-in-waiting.  A rich, hard working, dedicated man without even a pimple.  Not your average bad guy.”

“That’s not what Karl Marx would say.  Let’s go.”

Marcie looked around the office and wondered who would try to break in or try to hack the computer system while they were out.  Well, at least Jeff would be here for a few hours.  She called out her good byes to Jeff and received a grunt in return.  She smiled and followed Robbie out the door.

The event was so close they took a ground taxi.  Marcie didn’t like taking ground cars as a rule and this one stank, but they arrived at the convention centre in minutes and, since most of the well-to-do shared Marcie’s opinion of ground cars, the ground lobby was empty.  In fact, there was a sign informing guests that the ground lobby was going to close and be converted into an exhibition hall.  All ground deliveries would be received in the back of the hotel at the underground ground car parking entrance.  The main lobby had moved to the top floor after two levels of extra PA parking were added to the roof.

The affair was being held in the Leaf Ballroom.  Marcie and Robbie took the escalator up to a packed mezzanine.  All of Toronto’s, and much of Canada’s, elite would be coming. The mezzanine sparkled with couples and small groups chatting and sipping cocktails.  Recent trends in fashion had drifted toward satisfying the prude in all of us – an extreme modesty was dominating the styles.  Despite the warm weather, many women were in fussy dresses with high necklines, long sleeves, and skirts to the floor; the men were in severe black tuxedos.  Everyone looked well dressed, but more than a few looked uncomfortable.  Marcie did not follow fads much and was relieved to see that enough women were dressed like her that she didn’t look out of place.  I’ll have to start visiting the Vogue website.  When did all this all happen?

“How did Jeff get the invites to this thing?” asked Robbie as they manoeuvred their way through the crowd.

“He scammed some tickets from Ida Greer, one of our best clients.  She’s a bit of a recluse.  Very careful.  Likes to know a person’s favourite colour and his maiden aunt’s middle name before she hires him.”

“I’ve heard of her.”

“She’s in the news occasionally these days, but she was political in her youth.   Never ran for office though.  Just threw her money around.  Anyway, Jeff took a chance and called the woman’s assistant, a guy he went to school with.  Apparently, Greer had invites but didn’t want to come.  She was happy to have a of couple suckers willing to go in her place.  Ms. Greer called Jeff back herself.  The tickets were at the office before three in the afternoon.”

“Do you want to have a drink out here, or go straight inside?”

“Inside.”

“Okay, well, hand over the tickets, then.”

“Sure.”

Marcie pulled the invites out of her purse and passed them to Robbie.  He, in turn, offered them to a smartly dressed young hostess on the door of the Leaf, who smiled warmly as they approached.

“Welcome to the 2083 Fundraiser in support of Dr. Lawrence Ryan’s Liberal Leadership Campaign.  Your assistance is greatly appreciated, and we hope you enjoy the evening.  Please follow me.”  She stepped forward to lead them to their table and an equally pretty young woman took her place at the door.  She led them smoothly through the tables and spoke to them over her shoulder.  “Appetizers are already waiting for you, and dinner will be served in approximately twenty minutes.  Drinks are available from the bar in the mezzanine or the long bar on the east wall.”  She gestured to her left.  Marcie looked at the thirty-foot long bar, every inch of which was taken by a well-dressed guest.  These Liberals sure like their drink.  “If you prefer, there is wine on each table.  Here we are.”  She pulled a chair for Marcie and gestured to Robbie’s seat.  “If you have any questions, please feel free to ask any one of the hostesses.  Enjoy.”  She left them to resume her station at the door.

The whole of The Leaf Ballroom had been devoted to the affair, with over fifty tables of six guests apiece – not one square foot allotted to dance floor.  Each table was dressed with a white cloth and set with fine china, crystal, red candles, and silver dinnerware with an overflowing dish of fruit and flowers as a centrepiece.  The effect was colourful and opulent.  Most of the tables near the front were empty and many of the tables near the back were full.  At twenty grand a head, Marcie did the math, then she stifled the urge to whistle at what the Liberal Party would take in tonight – especially if she were to factor in the extra donations that almost certainly would be made by the faithful.  Well.  That’s the point, though, isn’t it.  Marcie personally thought politicians were the last people who needed all that money.

Ida Greer was no slouch in the city.  Their table wasn’t at the front, but it was certainly not at the back either.  Table number fifteen.  Of the better tables, they were the first guests to arrive; the rest of their table was empty.  There was no one at the head table, which Marcie assumed would fill with some pomp and circumstance.

“We’ll have to arrive fashionably late next time.”  Robbie just grunted.

A waiter came over immediately, poured some water for them, and offered to get them drinks from the bar.  They declined and the waiter left.  Marcie poured herself a glass of wine and took a long look at the caviar and other expensive nibbles displayed on silver trays, but Robbie just sipped his water.  He had a strange look on his face.

“What’s up Robbie?  You look glum.”

“I know.  I know.  We’re supposed to be pretending to have a good time.”

“No, I mean, yes, but I’m not saying you’re slacking.  Look around you.  Everyone’s competing for the ‘I’m the most bored’ title.  No, I’m wondering what you’re thinking.”

“You’ll call me naïve.”

“Perhaps, but who cares what I say?”

Robbie smiled.  “Okay, I was just thinking we’re trying to solve a murder and find a missing woman while, more and more, it looks likely that the bad guys will be here tonight, at a gathering of the pillars of society.  VIPs.  Living it up.”  He picked up the bottle from which Marcie had just poured her glass of wine and looked at the label.  “Drinking expensive red wine and eating caviar.”

“Seems hypocritical, yes?”

“Absolutely.”

“You know what?  I don’t think you’re naïve.  I think you’re right, and I think we’ve played this song so many times it’s viciously stupid of us to measure a man by his bank account.  But we still do.”

Another couple sat down.  They were both slim, in their fifties, and dressed impeccably, the man in a tuxedo and the woman in a high necked, gold coloured dress.  Marcie smiled a vacuous smile, and laid her head on Robbie’s shoulder.  Robbie nodded at them.

“Ida not coming tonight, then?” the man asked.  He didn’t seem surprised.  Marcie looked down at the table and saw name cards at each place.

“No, she gave us her seats.  Robbie McLean.”  Robbie half stood and shook hands with the man.

“John Teller.”

“How do you do?  And this is my friend Marcie Noel.”

“How do you do?” said Marcie, her voice pitched slightly higher than usual.  Marcie didn’t lay it on too thick.  She might meet some potential clients; she couldn’t come across as a complete ditz.

“The Marcie Noel?”  The woman’s voice was almost sarcastic.  “Nice to meet you.  I’m Chloe Teller.”

Marcie smiled and said, “Hi and, yes, those are my ads.”

“She’s such a curmudgeon, is our Ida,” said John Teller as he sat down.  He was talking to Robbie and ignoring the women.  “You’d think she’d at least be here to support such a good cause in person.  We haven’t had a dynamic leadership hopeful like Ryan in twenty years.”  Marcie did not point out that Ms. Greer had paid a lot of money for the tickets.

“Well, dear,” responded Chloe.  “She doesn’t like to dirty her hands, does she?”

“No, she thinks we’re all underhanded crooks, dear.  But how does she think her father got his money?” Chloe and John laughed at his joke, so Marcie joined in too.

“Well, she should know dear,” Chloe said in an almost patronizing tone.  “She knows everyone and everything, does our Ida.  And she seems to know about everyone’s business. I expect you assist her with that, Ms. Noel.”  The ice in her voice only came through at the end of the sentence, but Marcie was chilled through and through.  Thank God I decided to be ditzy tonight.

“Oh no.  I don’t get much involved in Ms. Greer’s affairs.  I did a last minute background check on her new gardener last week.  No lie.  I think she appreciated the turn around on the inquiry and she let us have these tickets because she wasn’t feeling well.”

They bought it, but Marcie decided to watch her step.  The room was filling up with sharks and barracudas.  Ida Greer seems like my kind of people.

Two other couples, just as endearing as the Tellers, joined them over the next ten minutes.  The rest of the evening was full of idle chitchat about tennis and cricket and the people in their social circle.  Marcie quickly learned to hate the word ‘dear’.

The head table came in together about half an hour later.  Dinner was served almost immediately upon their arrival.

Now, what kind of man are you, Dr. Lawrence Ryan?  Marcie watched carefully as he came in.  You can often tell a lot about a person just by looking at how he moved.  Here was a man who knew how to walk.  He was steady, almost graceful and, in fact, he was quite good looking.  He was tall and lithe, with auburn hair cut very short, and lightly tanned skin.  He was dressed impeccably in a black tuxedo that fit him perfectly.   Marcie could see no sign of affectation.  Though he seemed a little remote from the rest, a little cold, she could clearly see he had his own personal charm.  He brought neither a date nor an escort.  He sat in the centre of the head table and looked like he was making conversation easily.  He seemed to be enjoying himself, but not completely relaxed.  That was to be expected.  The guy was working.

Dinner was mediocre:  tomato bisque soup, roast beef and vegetables, light sorbet for dessert, an uninspired menu that was, unfortunately, equally uninspired in the preparation.  You’d think for this much money…  The hors d’oeuvres had been better.  Marcie ate very little even though she was hungry and Robbie, she noted, didn’t finish his either.

They did their best to keep up with the table discussion, but Marcie soon found that the conversation required inner knowledge of upper social circles.  Though keen for any mention of Ryan himself, Marcie really only cared about the backgrounds of gardeners and nannies, so she quickly bored.  Following dinner, the news crews set up and Marcie was impressed as she watched every member of her table adopt a much more serious and engaged attitude for the cameras.  Image is more important than substance, especially on television, so Marcie took the cue and did the same.  Finally, the speeches began.  Marcie couldn’t believe she was relieved.  Usually she hated speeches.

There was a short introduction from Dr. Stanley Proboski, the event organizer, in which Dr. Ryan was described as a true humanitarian, committed to the cause of enriching society. Apparently this had something to do with lowering taxes for the rich.  Hmmmm.  Ryan got up and shook Probowski’s hand and then stood up at the podium.

His opening remarks were pedestrian at best, but eventually he got worked up:  “…and we’re fighting a battle, ladies and gentlemen.  A battle understood by a precious few.  A battle that will determine the future of our society and, consequently, the future for our children’s children.”

Nice rhetoric.  But what does it mean?  Apparently nothing much, but he was a good speaker, making a connection with the crowd.  There were times when Marcie was sure he was staring right at her.  Even their tablemates got caught up in his enthusiasm.  Ryan went on to suggest that the best way to spur society to excellence was to entrench the position of those already privileged by reducing their taxes, so the rich could fund great projects and cultural achievements.  It’s an argument.  Marcie was surprised to hear the suggestion from a Liberal Party member, but she knew the people who funded politicians were the rich and the rich really only wanted to get richer.  If a politician did not cater to that wish, he attracted little of the support that truly mattered.

Marcie grew disinterested in his speech and was soon checking the room to see who had attended.  She saw a lot of faces she would expect to see:  princes of industry, wannabes, and wannabeseens.  Nothing but what you’d expect.  And then she noticed Daniel Harcourt sitting on a chair at the back wall.  Harcourt wasn’t at a table and he was barely appropriately dressed – not like him at all.  She hadn’t noticed him earlier, so it was likely he slipped in after the media set up.  He was probably there just to take in the speech and then leave before the party began.  What are you doing here, sweetheart?  Daniel Harcourt was the number one kingmaker in the country.  He ran the country’s top advertising and public relations agency, and he’d been central to the election of four out of five of Canada’s last prime ministers.  Regardless of your political stance, Daniel Harcourt would get you elected.  Conservative and Liberal alike sought out his assistance, and Harcourt seemed to have no political alliance.  He always went to the top bidder.  The NDP didn’t like him, but then again, they never got elected anyway because they never had enough money.  When was the next federal election? Two years from now, certainly.

So Ryan’s on his way to the P.M.’s office.  This revelation changed things.  But it answered no questions.  It merely upped the ante.

Sunday, June 27, 2083. 11:30 p.m.

Marcie and Robbie left as soon as it was reasonable to do so.  Marcie had never been so bored while trying to act so animated in her whole life.  She suddenly understood why these people needed a bar in the lobby, a long bar, and wine on the table.

They left the ballroom and, again, were approached by a lovely young hostess – could have been the same one who had led them in, could have been different – who offered to escort them to the roof lobby elevator.

“We took a ground cab, thanks,” said Marcie.

“A ground cab?”  The woman looked honestly dumbfounded.

Marcie and Robbie tried not to laugh as they stepped onto the escalator going down to the deserted ground lobby.  They walked through, heels clicking on marble, the sounds echoing in the large, empty room.  They nodded at the single professionally dressed woman manning a lobby desk that spanned the whole of the lower floor wall.  She looked bored but managed a smile for them.  No wonder this area was closing.

They pushed through the circular doors out to a pleasant evening.  The moon was full and stars twinkled.  Thick streams of air traffic moved in rivers of light and dark in the night sky, but there were few vehicles on the ground.  Robbie signalled to the one cab sitting at the cabstand.  Twenty years ago, twenty cabs would have been lined up waiting.

“Want to go out for real, sugar?  We could catch a late movie or have a real cocktail.”  There was a twinkle in Robbie’s eye.  He was right.  They’d been working hard; maybe it was time for some fun.

“We shouldn’t waste these clothes.  How about some dancing, Robbie?”

He smiled.  “What kind would the lady prefer?”

“Well, when we find her we’ll ask.  I would like to go ballroom dancing.  Haven’t done it since I took lessons down on the Danforth.”

“Perhaps we took the same lessons.  I know just the place to go – in Montreal.  Let’s get the PA.”

Marcie laughed at his cavalier approach to life, but he was right.  They were about forty minutes from Montreal, and Montreal stayed open late.  It would be fun.  They climbed in the cab and Robbie gave the Loft address.  Marcie relaxed a little.  This car was clean and she liked that.  She settled back and thought about Dr. Lawrence Ryan.

There was nothing strange about the man except he was seeking public office.  He was certainly well connected and he was certainly going places.  He had the looks and the personal charisma to get him there.  Marcie could see no flaws.  He didn’t even have one drink at the dinner.  So, why is he connected to over twenty disappearances that we know of and not the subject of an inquiry?  It smacked of some kind of conspiracy.

They were almost back to the Loft when the taxi suddenly came to a screeching halt.

Marcie was pitched forward into the driver’s seat and took a good hit to her head and left shoulder.  Robbie was wearing his seatbelt and only got jostled.  Marcie shook her head to try and clear it when she heard a loud ‘thunk’ from above.  A PA had landed on the roof of the car.  What the…? Marcie looked at window beside her and noticed that the glass was bulging out.  The roof wasn’t going to hold.

 “Get out!” she screamed as she grappled with the door handle beside her.  The handle was releasing the latch but, though she pushed hard, the door wouldn’t move.  It couldn’t.  It was taking too much weight from above.  She suddenly became aware of Robbie right beside her and turned to see him kicking his door out with both legs.  He kicked and kicked and kicked again.  The thing finally gave way, but then the right rear section of the cab started to collapse from the load from above.  Robbie jumped out and Marcie scrambled out behind him.  Robbie reached back in the car to help the cabbie out of the vehicle when both he and Marcie were jumped from behind.

Marcie threw her attacker before she really understood she was being attacked.  Thanks, Mum!  She grabbed his arms and dropped to a crouch as she used the force of his momentum to throw him over her head.  He hit the trunk of the car hard and lay there.   She took a defensive position and waited for him to get up again, but he did not.  She whirled to see that Robbie had just as quickly dispatched his assailant, but he was standing with his hands up.  Marcie put hers up too.

A man was standing nonchalantly, about twenty feet away, and pointing a very big gun at them both.  He was of medium height, with a stocky build, salt and pepper slicked-back hair, and a hard face.

Marcie wanted to see if she could get an edge:  “David Welsh, I presume.”

He only smirked:  “This can be easy or it can be hard.”

I was never that easy to get along with.  She could see a PA parked on the road just five feet away.  Marcie had the choice of going with this jerk or jumping for freedom.  Since he hadn’t identified himself, Marcie assumed he wasn’t from any official body, so it was likely Will couldn’t help her get out of this one.  Well, he said I shouldn’t get in any more trouble in the next few weeks.  He’s on vacation, right?  She leaped.  She sensed, rather than saw, Robbie move at the same time, but she didn’t see what he did.  Someone started firing a gun.  She came down on the pavement and rolled, letting the roll to take most of her kinetic energy.  She heard more gunfire, but ignored it.  There was nothing she could do now but try to escape.  She emerged from the roll in the cover of the parked PA and allowed the roll to bring her up to her feet.  She ran.  Fifteen feet beyond the PA, Marcie turned sharply to left and into a small alleyway.  It was only then that she realized Robbie was right behind her.  Phew.

Marcie was on home ground.  Just a hundred feet down the alley was the back of Percy’s, a sub place.  The rear door was always open because staff and customers were constantly coming in and out to have a smoke.  Marcie ran up to the door.  Damn shoes!  A young man was sitting on a garbage can and puffing on a Marlboro.

“Hey, Joey.”

“Hey, Marce.”

“You never saw us, hey?”

Marcie pulled on the back door and disappeared inside with Robbie on her heels.  They heard a ground car roaring down the alley, but they didn’t wait around to see what happened.  They ran up the narrow hallway past the washrooms and the kitchen and then dodged through the tables in the front.

Percy’s opened onto Portland, only a few blocks from the Loft and relative safety.  Marcie and Robbie ran up Portland one block, and then Robbie took the lead.  He crossed the road and Marcie followed.  But when they got to Niagara, they turned left when they should have continued straight up to Queen Street.  Where is he going?  Then she remembered, Robbie lived at Niagara and Bathurst, in a condo just a few doors down.  They heard the sound of tires squealing not too far behind them.  Robbie grabbed Marcie’s hand and poured on the speed.  Marcie did her best to keep up, but already her feet hurt from the bloody shoes and her head was starting to pound from the knock she took in the cab.  They managed to get to the building without incident, pausing only long enough to enter the security code.  They ran inside and got straight on an elevator that, luckily, was sitting open in the lobby.  Robbie didn’t bother stopping at his floor.

“Let’s go somewhere no one knows about, sugar.  There’s too much going on right now.  Let’s get some rest and figure out what to do in the morning.”

“Sensible.  I think I need an aspirin.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet.”

The elevator let them out on his roof in a nice big lobby.  Marcie was jealous.  He looked out and seemed relieved to find his PA there and in good shape, but then a cloud passed over his face.  Marcie knew what he was worried about.  PAs were great, but they were computer controlled and that left them open to tampering.  And now that they had become a target, a PA hijack was something else to worry about.

“Why don’t you wait here in the lobby, sugar?”

“Na.  I’ll go with you.  Whatever trouble happens, let’s get in it together.  Maximizes our chance of getting out.”  He smiled and led the way out of the lobby.

They climbed in the PA and started it up.  It fired normally, and no program seemed to take over the operation of the unit.  Robbie entered his destination and sat back.

“This is going to take a little while, sugar.”

“Where are we going?”

“Trust me?”

“Sure.”

“New York.”

“The city?”

“Where else?”

It was at that moment that Marcie realized she didn’t really know enough about Robbie despite their years of friendship.  The vehicle started a steep ascent into international lanes.  Heesh, my stomach.  Apparently, Marcie was going to travel more whether she liked it or not.  Thank God, we’re not hopping continents.  The continental lanes were the highest and fastest, and only open to PA operators of a certain class.

They finally made the climb and Marcie sat back.  She needed to call the office, but the cell phone was a risk.  I’ll make it quick.  She tapped on her neck to activate her phone and called the Loft.  Jeff answered.

“Noel and Company.”

“What the heck are you still doing there?”

“Um.  I like it here.”

“Okay then, do me a favour and stay there.  I’m going to be away for a few days.”

“Absolutely, no problem.”

“Make the place look lived in.  Watch yourself, though.  We were jumped again.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah.  I’ll call in the morning.”

“Sure.”

“Okay, bye.”

“Bye.”

About an hour later, they were over New York City in a standard figure-eight waiting pattern.  Most folks called this the ‘infinity loop’, because you always seemed to wait so long.  After ten minutes in the loop, they suddenly dropped like a stone.

Marcie jumped and looked at Robbie, stifling a scream.

“Never come into New York, sugar?  No?  Well, entry is vertical to about seven hundred feet.  Tokyo is like that too.”  He went back to his magazine.  Oh my stomach.

A few harrowing seconds later, the PA pulled itself out of free fall and, a few minutes after that, came to rest at the top of the Trump International Hotel, a venerable old place, practically an institution in the city.  Once a commanding structure in the skyline, it was now dwarfed by some of the super towers that had been built in the last one hundred years.  Trust Robbie to like the tried and true.  The PA parking lot, built in the last twenty years, had been designed to blend in the with the old style glass walled towers so fashionable at the end of the twentieth century.

They landed on the pad and got out of the vehicle.  They were met by a valet who took the keys, so he could park the vehicle, and who directed them to the roof entrance.

A few minutes later, Robbie was ordering a two-bedroom Park View Suite and asking that robes and extra towels be sent down to the room immediately.  He also asked to see the Night Manager.  The hotel staff called him Mr. Grant and they buzzed around him like bees.  Marcie just stared.  She’d never done a background check on him because he was one of the first people she’d met when she left home.   He was like family.  She’d never looked past the calf length leather jackets and the street lingo.  I should’ve done a goddamn background check.  A waiter with a tray of fresh coffee showed her to a comfortable chair.  Robbie sat across the lobby with the manager for a long time.  The man took notes.

Two cups of coffee later, they came over to Marcie who stood to greet them.

“Marcie Noel, meet Mark Torrence, the night manager here.”

“How do you do?”  Marcie held out her hand.

“Ms. Noel.”  He smiled as he shook her hand.

They started walking toward the elevators.

“Marcie, do you want anything sent down?  I’ve ordered some food and pyjamas and robes for both of us.  How’s you’re head?  Need some aspirin?”

Marcie thought about it.  The headache had cleared.  “No, I’m fine, but I will want a change of clothes for the morning.”

Torrence responded:  “We can send them with breakfast, ma’am, if the timing works for you.  It would be a little challenging to get anything for you at this hour.”

Marcie laughed.  They all stepped onto an elevator and Torrence punched the button for the eighteenth floor.  He escorted them all the way to their rooms chatting with Robbie as if they’d known each other for years.  He let them in and handed two keycards to ‘Mr. Grant’.

“Hope you enjoy your stay, sir.”

“Thank you, Mark,” said Robbie, shaking his hand.

The suite was tastefully furnished and comfortable at the same time.  There was a kitchenette, a bar, a small office area and a sitting area, complete with a fake fireplace.  The view was stunning.  She could see Central Park, dark in the middle of the night, with the city twinkling around it.

“Which room do you want, sugar?”  Robbie was standing at the door of one of the bedrooms.

“The one with the big bathtub.”

“Both the same.  I’ll take this one.  I like blue.”

“Fine.”

There was a knock on the door.  Robbie went to answer it, so Marcie went into her room to look around:  queen-sized bed, holovision, and a bank of electronics including a personal computer.  The bathroom was stunning, done in smoky grey and tan with a bath practically the size of the bed.  She turned to leave just as a maid delivered toiletries and a bathrobe.

She walked out into the main room and stood by the window looking out at one of the world’s liveliest cities.  “No one would think to look for me here.”

“That’s what I figured, sugar.”  The maid finished her business and left.

“So what?”  She turned to face Robbie, fearing the worst.  “Are you some kind of crime lord?  Drug dealer?  What?”

“My family is in shipping.”

“Shipping.  I’ll bet.”  Shipping.  Grant.  Grant Shipping.  Grant Shipping International.  The largest transportation consortium in the world.  Robbie is rich.  Really rich.  He probably owns this hotel.  “You own this hotel, don’t you?”

Robbie smiled.  “Yeah.  Want some peanuts?  I’m starved.”

“Sure.”

Robbie threw her a small foil pack.  She caught it, ripped it open, and then sat on the couch so she could think while she stared at the city and nibbled.

“We should stay here for a few days, Robbie.”

“I agree.  It was getting pretty hairy at home.”

There was another knock on the door.  Robbie practically ran to the door and sighed in satisfaction when the server wheeled in meals for them.  The server placed the food on the table, laying out the cutlery and glasses.  He opened the red wine and set out the bottle for them.  Robbie tipped him and then sat down before the server even had the chance to close the door.

“Come on, sugar.  You don’t want to miss this.”

Marcie smiled, got up, and walked over to join him.  She was taken aback.  The meal in front of them was almost exactly the same one served at the event in Toronto.

“Didn’t you have enough of this already?”

“Oh, sugar.  That wasn’t roast beef they were serving.  Where was the Yorkshire pudding?  Where was that succulent flavour?”

Marcie was laughing.  She sat down, cut a little piece for herself, and put it in her mouth.  Goodness.  This was a lot better.

“I hate fundraisers,” said Robbie.  “They serve such lousy food.”

They ate every speck off their plates and polished off the whole bottle of red wine.  Near the end of the evening, Robbie got up and did a passable impersonation of Ryan that made Marcie laugh until she cried.

Marcie fell into bed around two in the morning, totally exhausted.  She slept deeply and with good dreams.  The sleep of the carefree, the innocent, or the young-at-heart.


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Thanks for reading Chapter 3.  If you liked this chapter and want to encourage Jacqui to post more chapters and write more books, please click on one of the sponsored links on this page.  Thanks!

Jacqui Burke is a Freelance Director/Writer/Theatrical Teacher.  At time of posting, projects include:  Shakespeare is Boffo! March Break Camp for 9-15 year olds; Wrong For Each Other for Encore Entertainment, opening late March; and The Mayan Prediction, this years Toronto Homeschoolers Kidsplay.  Up to date information on Jacqui's projects can be found at her website.


Thanks, as always, to John for his ongoing support and Brenda for her ongoing inspiration.