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  Catherine nodded. She knew.

  “We’ll all make a ton of money building this massive thing, and it will benefit lots of companies and organizations who settle into its first-class techno spaces, but why, besides the money, should we do this? Because I can put my money in far simpler, less stressful, ventures. Why would I put my name, or my foundation’s name, to be more precise, on this development alongside the Larivée family, whom I respect, by the way?”

  Saul coughed, and the pause gave Catherine time to digest the old maverick’s questions and consider a meaningful response. Catherine admired the fact that Saul Vineberg, one of the wealthiest and most respected men in Montreal, wanted more than just the glamour or commercial success of a sponsorship. This was about much more than that. This was about his legacy.

  Catherine straightened her back, just so, before answering. “Fun,” said Catherine, simply.

  Saul waited for more, but Catherine stood silently. He turned to Nora, surprise clear and present on his face, then slowly turning to amusement. “Fun?” he repeated.

  “Yep, you want to have fun. You’re not as young as you used to be, but legacy projects are easy to find, right? Everyone wants the Vineberg name on a new wing of their hospital, their museum, their concert hall. It’s prestigious for the institution. It means that the project is well funded. It means quality. But, Saul—we’ve never met before, but I get the sense you and Nora want to enjoy yourselves, stay young at heart. The greater part of this complex will house young entrepreneurs, technology start-ups, new types of schools, co-working spaces where large companies mix with companies one day old. The Larivée-Vineberg Technology Park will inspire generations of entrepreneurs to innovate the way you yourself did. It will rock!”

  “Oh, sweetheart, I’ve never innovated. I inherited a shmata business from my uncle. All I did was make it bigger.”

  “Much, much bigger,” added Nora. “And international. Very important.”

  “I did that by surrounding myself with smarter people than me,” said Saul. “Like Nora here. All of them had better ideas and more skills than I ever had, or that my uncle ever had, rest his soul.”

  “The genius was in the doing, love,” said Nora. “Your genius. Your doing.”

  Catherine was captivated by this wonderful couple. Their love was evident, emanating from them like brightness from the sun. She stood there, speechless, a deer in the headlights of an oncoming rare and beautiful thing.

  “We’ll invest thirty million,” said Nora, as much to her husband as to Catherine.

  Saul looked into Catherine’s face for her reaction, and said, “How’s that for staying young at heart!”

  George Mulroy was having a bad day. Whenever he had a bad day, everyone else around him knew it and likely had a bad day too. When Catherine sat down for the meeting, which she had asked for, she felt his mood weigh them all down. It quickly became difficult to breathe.

  “You’ve heard about the Vinebergs,” she suggested.

  “I have,” said Mulroy, searching for something from drawer to drawer and shelf to shelf. “Thirty million. Good going. Guess you knew?”

  “Knew what?” asked Catherine.

  “You knew the Vinebergs had told me their intentions to invest last week when they came to see preliminaries.”

  Catherine tried to decide whether she was more surprised than angry.

  “No, I didn’t,” she said. “No one told me they came by.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t here. This was at my house. Had the Vinebergs and the Larivée brothers over for dinner. Luca and Lisa St-Laurent were there too. It went very well. The St-Laurents are out. They didn’t see the long-term on this. Their loss, right?” said George Mulroy, in a tone that expressed no empathy for Catherine’s recent effort with the Vinebergs.

  “Why did you ask me to host them today then?” she asked. “I was under the impression that nothing had been agreed. I could have messed up. Said the wrong thing. And why didn’t you greet them with me?” asked Catherine.

  “You’re the best out of all of us for this sort of thing. I did my part the other night. Did you think I would ask Kevin?” Mulroy moved a pile of paper files. “Everything’s fine,” he added.

  “Is it?” asked Catherine. “Is everything fine?”

  “Oh yeah, I’m just looking for something to show you.”

  “No, I mean with Larivée Park?”

  Mulroy found what he was looking for, a bound document about an inch thick. He dropped it on his desk in front of him.

  “This is your answer. It’s the final due diligence report and business valuation for Atelier Arsenault. And what does it say? Everything is fine.”

  Catherine couldn’t hold it back. “Then why do I have the feeling that isn’t true, or perhaps is not completely true?’

  “Because my brilliant son, with a penchant for too much brandy, or whatever the hell he’s drinking these days, probably trying to impress you, blabbed about how he knows or thinks he knows that something isn’t kosher about this deal I made.” said Mulroy was annoyed both with his son and with this conversation with Catherine.

  “Impress me?” asked Catherine, in disgust. “No!” Then she thought a bit. “I would like to read that report.”

  “You don’t need to read it,” he said. All you need to know is what I tell you is in the report.” He picked up the document and tossed it onto a shelf behind him. “Let you read the report? Who do you think you are? You’re not even a partner of this firm.”

  “Which is long overdue!” argued Catherine.

  “Says who?” barked Mulroy. He caught his breath, knowing he was going too far.

  “Says me,” retorted Catherine. “The one who nursed this project from pitch and proposal to contract and into what it is now, the biggest and most important project Mulroy & Associates ever had! One of the biggest and most important urban developments this city has seen since the Olympics. The one who made sure your son wouldn’t fuck it up, as he surely would have done if I hadn’t stood over him early every morning and late every night when I’d have much rather been with my kids!”

  Mulroy interrupted her. “You think you’re the only one who punches out late around here?”

  “I’ve earned a partnership here,” she said. “You know I have.”

  “Oh, there it is. The motive comes out.”

  “Why should that surprise you?”

  “Then buy in. Put the money on the table to become a partner and shoulder the weight, not just of design and good engineering, but of the real hard stuff, the financial development of our projects! That’s how we make our real money here!”

  “How can I do that now, if the firm’s very reputation is at risk?”

  “Who told you that? Kevin?” Mulroy didn’t wait for her answer. “I’ll take care of my boy.” He took a deep breath, then brought out more bitterness. “Don’t forget that to earn a partnership, there are two criteria above all else. One is that you do right by the firm no matter what. And the second is that I have to like you, and I don’t like you, Catherine. You’re a self-righteous, pushy bitch.”

  “Well, you’re an asshole,” stated Catherine, steam rising in her, white hot.

  “I’ve been at this a lifetime. That’s ‘earning’ something! Wasn’t your husband in finance of some sort? This can’t be new to you?”

  “That isn’t fair,” said Catherine.

  “Of course not, this is business! You have some nerve calling a meeting with me. For what? To insinuate corruption? In all sincerity, fuck you. Get out of here!”

  But Catherine was sticking to her guns. “If there were irregularities—like payments to city officials—that turned up in the due diligence audit of Atelier Arsenault and we turned a blind eye and bought it anyway, warts and all, well … ”

  “Yeah, well what?” asked George. “What?”

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sp; “It will taint us and everything and everyone we touch.”

  “Is that the best you’ve got?”

  Mulroy’s Blackberry rang. He reached for it, shut it, then dropped it back onto his desk without care. “I have work to do.”

  “Yes,” said Catherine, “we all do.” She stood to leave, then spun to face Mulroy again. “I’ve admired you. How you’ve built this firm. All that you’ve built. I admired you. Nora and Saul Vineberg must admire you too.”

  George Mulroy watched as the straight-talking brain and key talent behind Mulroy Arsenault & Associates walked away.

  Tom drove from Beaufort Town Hall to Claude Millet’s house, where he learned that Beatrice, Millet’s wife, had not heard from him since he went out to Brian Henley’s for lunch. She had no clue where he would have gone next, but she was growing worried. She’d called her husband’s phone, but there was no response, and none of his friends had seen him.

  “Did he go off to shoot?” asked Tom.

  “Could be, Tom, he doesn’t always tell me. He was on his ATV, but he uses it like a regular car. He once went all the way to Bromont on that scary thing, can you believe it?”

  “A red one, right?” Tom watched her nod back, seeing she was growing more worried by the minute. “A red ATV shouldn’t be too hard to find.” He realized this was one of those moments when he should be comforting and not just officious. “Don’t worry, we’ll find him,” he said, hoping that was encouragement enough.

  Tom left her there on her porch, scanning the woods for her husband like the wife of a ship’s captain staring out to sea. What a prissy bunch of folks, he thought. A truly prissy, spoiled bunch of rich folks. Millet was probably somewhere in town, comfortably sipping hot tea. Tom really didn’t care if he found Millet or not, and he didn’t care what might have happened to him. He felt no connection to the miserable, often obnoxious guy, but since the Mayor wanted him to find him, Tom figured he’d better give it a half-hearted try, at least.

  He drove through town. Not much remained open at this time of the evening in Beaufort. The café. The general store. Gas station. He pulled over and checked inside the Auberge Beaufort and its restaurant. No sign of Millet and nobody there had seen him. Lars Korb came along in his orange Dodge Charger as Tom was leaving. A short man, the off-duty police officer looked out of place in the muscle car.

  “Hey, Lars,” said Tom. “Looking for a drag race tonight?”

  “Hey, Brooder! Yeah, come on, pull up your truck and let’s have it out!”

  “How would that look, half the Beaufort police force speeding through downtown?”

  “Pretty cool, I think!” Lars laughed. He laughed too hard, too often, even when nothing was funny. It drove Tom nuts.

  “Have you seen Claude Millet? He missed a council meeting, and his wife can’t reach him on his cell,” said Tom.

  “Nope!” said Lars. “I’ve been hanging around since supper.”

  “How about his red ATV? Have you seen it?”

  “Nope. Sorry Brooder. Let me ask you, have you seen Jeff?”

  “No such luck,” said Brooder sarcastically, but then he asked, “Why?”

  “We were supposed to meet up! He never showed,” explained Lars.

  Tom remembered that Lars and Jeffrey Lennox were occasional drinking buddies, though Lars was always reasonable with alcohol, unlike Lennox. “Does he have a cell phone?” asked Tom.

  “Tried it!” said Lars.

  “Guess we’ve got ourselves a mystery!” said Tom. “How do you think we can best track down two missing hunters?”

  Lars guffawed, of course, and the two police officers said goodnight to each other. A jokester, and a bit of an idiot, Lars gunned his Charger, and it lurched forward, scaring the wits out of a young couple about to cross the street. They pulled back instantly, and Tom gave Lars a look. Lars waved it off and went on down the main road at moderate speed. Tom watched the Charger disappear in the night, then walked slowly back to his truck, thinking where he might look for Millet next.

  As for Lennox, Tom would only be too pleased if he never saw him again.

  Morning light crept through the windows of Valhalla. Noah was the first to wake up. He leaned up on an elbow and pressed the palm of his other hand against his face, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He scratched at his bird’s nest hair, a long minute. His brother was still deeply asleep, under the blankets next to him, and Zeph was a few feet away.

  They’d set up their sleeping zone the night before, bringing mattresses, blankets and pillows downstairs from the bedrooms. The boys preferred camping together in the centre of the living room. Best way to keep an eye on their captives. The boys had done everything they could to assure that neither Millet nor Lennox could get free, effectively locking each of them to a series of chairs with ropes, bungee cords and a massive amount of silver duct tape. They’d left two gooseneck lamps shining brightly, aimed directly at them, so neither of them would sleep well—and to help break down their resistance to interrogation in the morning. This was Zeph’s idea, having seen the technique in a video game he’d played.

  Noah got up to check on Millet and Lennox. He could see right away that Millet was asleep, head against the high back of a second chair near him—but Lennox and his chair were gone.

  Noah shook the others awake.

  “Get up!” he screamed. “Lennox is gone! Get up!” Jack bolted upright, grabbing the rifle next to him. Zeph grabbed a thin steel sculpture of a nude woman he could use as a weapon, then spotted a fireplace poker and chose that instead. He advanced cautiously alongside Jack. Noah picked up a laptop and started keying into it. Valhalla lights went on, every light in every room. Inadvertently, in his panic, Noah turned on the television, as well, and a radio receiver connected to it. A heavy tune rocked out, sending its vibrations across the house. He yelled out an apology, but nobody could hear him. He tried to turn it off and couldn’t. Jack and Zeph jumped out of their skin as they were trying to concentrate, heading to where they had left Lennox the night before. Millet was now wide awake and shaking his head nervously. The guitars and drums blared.

  “Turn that off!” shouted Jack.

  “Control, alt, delete, Noah!”

  “That’s what I’m doing! It’s not working!”

  Jack and Zeph, wielding their weapons like baseball bats, took step after cautious step. As they came to the entrance to the main hall, heading toward the back entrance, they saw a wooden chair leg, smashed on the floor.

  “That’s a bad sign!” said Zeph, frightened for the first time in all of this.

  Jack remained steady, ready to pounce or swing the rifle.

  The next object on the floor was a set of car keys with a rabbit’s foot linked to it.

  “His keys,” whispered Jack.

  They kept going, into the hall, and there was Lennox, on the floor, still tied up, but lying on his back on a broken chair. He was stuck. The boys took breaths of relief and continued their cautious approach. Lennox was awake. He must have struggled as much as he could, but found it impossible to free himself.

  “Yes, sir!” said Zeph, high-fiving his partner.

  “The Zephmeister!” shouted Jack, smacking Zeph’s hand right back.

  The loud music went off, finally. Zeph went back to pick up the keys.

  “Crap, we left his truck outside!”

  “Give me the keys!” Zeph threw them to Jack, who tossed him the rifle. Jack caught them with a smooth motion, the way a mercenary would have, taking a fighting stance. Jack ran past Lennox to the rear doors and slipped boots on his feet.

  Outside, he ran to the garage, keyed in the code to activate one of the wide doors. As the door went up, he ran to the road, where Lennox had left his two-tone pick-up truck. Jack jumped into the driver’s seat. The inside of the cab was a disgusting mess of empty bottles, fast-food wrappers, hunting accesso
ries, crumbs and dust. It smelled of booze and French fries. He stuck the key in the ignition and the engine roared to life, as he grabbed the grimy steering wheel. Morning dew covered the windshield. He fumbled with the various levers and buttons, accidentally triggering the windshield wipers and spray. Shit! A car was coming toward him. Who the hell could that be, so early in the morning? What if they recognize Lennox’s truck and see me driving it?

  Jack ducked, let the car pass. He couldn’t tell who it might be. He’d best ignore it and just do what he had to do. So, he drove the truck to the garage, guiding it in carefully. It was the first time anyone had tried fitting such a big, long vehicle into the garage. It fit okay. Lots of room. Then he switched off the ignition and went quickly to the garage keypad to close the door. As he left, he pressed the lock button on the keypad, which would prevent anyone, even if they knew the code, from opening the door from the outside.

  The morning was fresh and damp. Catherine parked her car outside 73 Lockmore Crescent, in Hampstead, which was a big house framed by tall maples. Considering the occupants’ wealth, though, it was surprisingly unassuming. In summer the garden must be quite a showcase, but the vegetation was subdued at this time of year. And no car in the driveway, Catherine noted as she walked up to the white-columned porch and rang the bell. A petite maid’s shy, round face appeared in the crack of the partially open door.

  “Good morning,” Catherine said. “You must be Sue. Catherine Martelle.”

  “Oh, yes, Catherine.” The maid pulled the door open. “Please come in.”

  The house was elegant and densely furnished, with a large and eclectic collection of paintings and sculptures. Sue offered Catherine a luxuriously cushioned antique chair to sit on, and then went to make her a mint tea, though Catherine was really not in need of a mint tea. She could have used a stiff drink or two, considering what she was about to do—and that reminded her of Kevin and his liking for hard liquor. She would have to talk to him too. For the moment, Catherine had to focus on this visit. She took a deep breath.

  It was a few moments before Nora Vineberg walked into the room, tall and lanky, with an easy smile on her tanned, lined face, and a flowing red scarf around her shoulders.