Quid Pro Quo Read online

  On August 20—believe it or not—when he could have been in dear old Halifax enjoying the gala birthday celebrations of Cyril F. MacIntyre, Chisling was in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. There was a picture of him coming first in a celebrity bike race in support of, get this, halitosis research. (Halitosis: in other words, bad breath. Like that needs research. Have these guys never heard of Tic-Tacs?)

  Chisling was also big into immigration stuff, but I already knew that. There was an article in the Street People Daily that talked about all the money he gave to the new Immigration Resource Center and all the immigrants he’d helped over the years. He had this big sob story about how his mother was a Cuban refugee who came here after the revolution, so he knew how hard starting life in a new country could be.

  At first glance, I had to admit Bob Chisling didn’t look like the kind of criminally inclined individual who’d go and burn a building down.

  His business seemed to be perfectly respectable too (like I would know). I got the feeling from the articles that he built mostly apartments and condos, that kind of stuff. Not in my neighborhood, though. He built them downtown or on the water. Places rich people like to live. He even bought the old Birchy Head Yacht Club way out on St. Margaret’s Bay and was trying to turn that into condos. There was this one story all about the big party he threw to celebrate the announcement of “Birchy Head Estates.” He sounded just thrilled to pieces.

  “St. Margaret’s Bay has never seen anything like Birchy Head Estates!” crowed well-known philanthropist and developer Robert (Bob) Chisling. “Premium construction, luxurious surroundings and, of course, its world-class ocean vistas will make this new gated community the most coveted address in Eastern Canada!”

  Bob didn’t seem so happy in the next article, though. A group of people who lived in Birchy Head had taken him to court. Legally, I guess he wasn’t allowed to put houses on a property zoned for recreation. He went to court to apply for a change of the zoning, but the locals wouldn’t go for it. The judge stopped the construction. There was a big picture of Chisling, looking like none of his friends had bothered to come to his birthday party.

  “The legal obstacle we’re facing is of course very frustrating for us,” said the 43-year-old former bartender who reportedly paid over $3 million for the dramatic seaside property. “But I’m most concerned about its devastating effects on the economy of St. Margaret’s Bay. Birchy Head Estates would have brought hundreds of new jobs to this economically disadvantaged area. I just don’t know where those people are going to find work if this project doesn’t go ahead.”

  The article that interested me the most, though was “Waterfront Purchases Haliburton Building.” It was just a little blurb saying:

  Robert Chisling, president of Waterfront Construction, announced the purchase of the former Haliburton Building for $2.6 million. Located on Prince Street in the downtown business core, the building will be converted to luxury residential units. Opening is expected in June of next year.

  Prince Street backs onto Barrington Street. The Masons’ Hall property was on Barrington.

  Are you with me?

  Do you see where I’m going with this?

  Maybe, I thought, it even butted right into the Haliburton property … This sounded like it was worth looking into.

  I was pretty sure I was onto something when I opened “City Hall Notes.”

  Waterfront Construction Project Shut Down. An application to amend zoning by-laws on the former Haliburton Building was voted down last night. The development does not offer sufficient parking space for a five-story residential project. In response to the closure of this multi-million-dollar development, Robert Chisling, President, Waterfront Construction, said, “The legal obstacle we’re facing is of course very frustrating for us …

  BLAH. BLAH. BLAH.

  The guy clearly needed some new material.

  I don’t know anything about money. To me, eighty-seven dollars was a fortune. Bob Chisling probably paid more than that for a pair of jockey shorts. But I couldn’t help thinking that having two construction projects shut down in under a year must have been pretty expensive, even for him. You buy a property, you’ve got to pay the mortgage (that’s about all I got out of real estate law class). How was he going to pay the mortgage if he couldn’t sell the condos? If he couldn’t even build them?

  I logged off and let the gamer, who’d been panting like a chained dog ever since I sat down, have his turn at the computer. I left the library and headed down Spring Garden Road to Barrington Street.

  There was a big wooden fence up around where the Masons’ Hall used to be. It was really sad. That used to be a cool building, with all those curlicues and everything. They sure knew how to make ’em back then.

  I turned the corner onto Prince Street. There was a big sign on the building right behind the Masons’ Hall property. “Opening next October: Haliburton Place! Another Quality Development from Waterfront Construction Ltd.”

  What do you know? It looked like Bob Chisling had suddenly managed to find himself some parking space.

  chapter

  twenty-nine

  Trespass

  Unlawful interference with

  another’s person, property or rights

  I don’t know what I thought I was going to see, but I decided to sneak behind the big wooden fence and take a look around.

  The Haliburton Building was empty, and what used to be the Masons’ Hall was just a giant black hole. No one was around—I guess they’d all quit for the day—so I started kicking through the ashes, looking for, I don’t know, something suspicious, I guess. Hey, you know me! Cyril MacIntyre: Arson Investigator.

  What a joke. Arson is, like, the hardest crime there is to solve, even for the professionals. (Think about it. The evidence literally goes up in smoke.) Did I really believe I was going to break this case? It was like looking for a needle in a humungous barbecue pit.

  I was all ready to go anyway when this guy in a hard hat came out of the Haliburton Building and started screaming at me. “Hey, you! Kid! What are you doing here? Can’t you read? No trespassing! Now, git! Git out of here before I throw you out.”

  The way he was coming at me, I was pretty sure he meant it. I was just making plans to dive back through the crack in the fence when another voice started drowning the guy out.

  “Calm down, Danny! Calm down. He’s just a kid.” I turned around and saw Bob Chisling smiling at me. I recognized him immediately. He was even bigger than he looked in the photograph, but he was all decked out again in a business suit and tie. He was one of those guys who had to look hot, or at least rich, all the time. Even in a pile of rubble.

  “He’s right, though, Bud,” he said. “You shouldn’t be in here. Construction sites are dangerous.”

  “Oh, sorry,” I went. “I was just, ahhh, interested in seeing what was going on back here.”

  How true. How true.

  Chisling laughed and tossed me his hard hat. “I was just like you when I was a kid!…Here! Put this on and I’ll give you a little tour.”

  Danny, that first guy, rolled his eyes and shook his head so hard I thought his teeth were going to come out. Apparently he didn’t agree with encouraging youthful curiosity in the construction trade.

  Bob the Builder, though, was a regular award-winning web-site of information. He showed me the blueprints and how the Haliburton Building was being stripped down to its bare bones— excuse me, “lathes” they call them—and rebuilt. He even took me up to the fifth floor so I could look at the harbor from the “premiere luxury penthouse suite.”

  I said, “It’s a beautiful view …”

  He said, “Thanks.”

  I said, “Especially since the Masons’ Hall burned down, I guess.”

  His eyelid twitched, but otherwise he acted almost normal. He wiped some dirt off that fancy suit of his while he figured out what to say next. He finally came up with, “What a tragedy that was.” He shook his head sadly, like this was
really breaking him up, then he clapped his hands together and said, “Hey, I’m sure glad I got to meet you, but, sorry, Bud, I’ve got to get going now.”

  I made a big deal about how nice he’d been to show me around. When we got back to the front door, he said, “When you’re a little older, why don’t you look me up? I’ll see about getting you a job around here. You seem pretty interested in construction.”

  “Oh, thank you very much,” I said, “but I’m afraid I don’t know your name.” I sounded so sweet I almost gagged.

  “Geez, what was I thinking?!” he said. “Bob Chisling.”

  I was still shaking that big bear paw of his when I said, “Bob Chisling? … You’re Bob Chisling? I think you know a friend of mine!”

  “Oh, yeah? Who?”

  “Andy MacIntyre.”

  You know when you get your school picture taken, and they catch you with your eyes half-open and your lips all crooked? That’s what happened to Bob. His whole face just sort of froze with this weird look on it. It was like he’d been zapped with a stun gun. He finally shook himself out of it. He swallowed and smoothed his perfect hair and looked up at the sky like he was thinking this over really hard. “Andy MacIntyre? An-dy … MacIntyre?” he said. “No. Nope. Sorry. But I don’t think I know her.”

  chapter

  thirty

  “Mens rea” (Latin)

  An evil intention, a guilty mind

  T hings never turn out as bad as you think they’re going to.

  I used to believe that, and for most of my life it was true. There weren’t crocodiles under my bed after all. My grade two teacher didn’t tie kids up and stuff them in her desk. Nobody laughed when I got up to dance. And Andy and I never ended up on the street.

  Something good always happened.

  A check arrived. Andy got a job. Someone gave us their second-slice-is-free pizza coupons. No matter what, life never stank as much as I thought it was going to. In fact, it always kept on getting a little tiny bit better than it was before. I remembered when all we had was a mattress on the floor, a table, and a chair that smelled like Parmesan cheese. Now we had two mattresses on the floor, two bureaus, a couch, lamps, kitchen chairs, and a TV that pretty much always worked. In my heart, I truly believed that if things kept going the way they were, someday we’d probably even have cable too.

  Then this happened. Through everything—Byron showing up, Andy disappearing, Atula firing her—a little voice in the back of my head kept saying, “It’ll be okay. Something will come through.” But it didn’t. It just went from bad to worse to really, really horrible.

  That’s what this was. Really, really horrible.

  I was walking home from the Haliburton Building after running into Chisling. It was seven at night, just getting dark, and I was shaking like a rocket right before it lifts off. Or a bomb before it blows. That’s how scared I was.

  I’d found a motive for burning down the building: parking space. I’d found the guy who had the motivation: Bob Chisling. And I knew he knew Andy. I had that picture of them together. I could have believed, maybe, that he didn’t remember Andy. A mover and shaker like Big Bob probably meets lots of people. But if that was the case, then why didn’t he say, “I don’t think I know him”?

  Chisling said, “I don’t think I know her.” If someone mentioned some unknown Andy to you, wouldn’t you naturally think they were talking about a guy? I would, and my mother’s name is Andy.

  Bob Chisling knew her, and he knew where she was.

  If I was right and Chisling was the kind of guy who’d burn down a building just to park a few cars, what would he be willing to do to Andy?

  What had he done to her already?

  I pictured Bob taking … No, I’m not even going to tell you what I pictured. I don’t even like to think about it. It totally freaked me out. My teeth were chattering so hard my eyes were blinking out Morse code messages. I was sure I was going to trip. I didn’t want anyone to think there was something the matter with me. Just my luck they’d call a doctor — or the police.

  I had to sit down. Look normal. (For someone like me, that’s a lot harder than it sounds.) There was a big windowsill on the coffee shop. I edged along the wall and parked myself there. I tried to act like I was just waiting for the bus.

  I breathed in and out.

  In and out.

  In … And out.

  I closed my eyes. I just kept taking these long slow breaths until I stopped shaking. I got kind of woozy from all the oxygen, then kind of dreamy, then I had this really nice thought. It instantly made me feel all better. I smiled. I couldn’t help it. I opened my eyes. I got up and practically skipped the rest of the way home.

  This is what I thought: I’m not that smart.

  chapter

  thirty-one

  Sue

  To bring a civil proceeding against a person.

  To take someone to court

  Like, who was I kidding? I was thirteen years old. Did I really think that I was smarter than the police? That I was the only person who knew what an estoppel was? That the cops wouldn’t be onto Chisling too, if he’d actually done anything?

  Clearly, I’d made a mistake. Clearly, Chisling wasn’t guilty. He didn’t burn down the building so he wouldn’t have kidnapped Andy either. He wouldn’t have any reason to. She was probably just late for dinner like she said she was going to be. Really, really late for dinner.

  Boy, it felt good being stupid. For about ten minutes, that is.

  I was a block or two from home when I remembered the look on Chisling’s face. I stopped feeling good. Innocent people’s eyes don’t go that psycho.

  Chisling was behind the fire, and he was behind Andy’s disappearance. I was sure of it. I couldn’t pretend that he wasn’t just to make myself feel better. The estoppel. The parking. The rabid-dog eyes. It all made sense.

  So why weren’t the police after him? I started kicking a pop can up the street and considered the possibilities.

  Maybe they didn’t know about the estoppel. It was a hundred years old. Maybe nobody thought to do a title search.

  Could be, I guess, but you’d think the Heritage Preservation people would know about it. They bought the Masons’ Hall. They would have done a title search. Somebody would probably mention it to the police. It would be an obvious motive for burning the building down.

  Or maybe the cops had so much evidence against Byron that it wasn’t worth following any other leads. People knew Byron was going to the Masons’ Hall that night. The cops found his fingerprints there. He disappeared right after the fire. He was an ex-con. Hey, if I didn’t know the guy, I’d think he torched the place too.

  But there was another possibility. The one that made most sense to me.

  Maybe the cops put two and two together and got the same answer I did. Chisling set the fire.

  All right then, why weren’t the police charging him? I winged the pop can into the side of MacLeod’s Drugstore a few times and thought about it. What did I know about the fire?

  It was a protected heritage property.

  The pop can made this really satisfying pwong sound when it hit the aluminum siding.

  Homeless people went there.

  Pwong.

  A guy died.

  Pwong.

  On August 20.

  Pwong.

  Pwong.

  Pwong.

  Hmm, I thought. That was a big day. The Masons’ Hall burnt down, I became a teenager … But something else had happened too. What was it?

  I had this little brain tickle thing going on. Like I had an itch I couldn’t scratch. I was forgetting something important. Something about that day… I winged the pop can some more and tried to think.

  What happened on my birthday?

  Nothing. The usual. Work. A Big Mac combo. A game of Scrabble.

  I still had the brain tickle. There was something else.

  I wound up and booted the pop can as hard as I could. It banged into t
he drugstore window and bounced onto the street.

  I don’t know if it was the way the pharmacist’s breath steamed up the window when he yelled at me, or the big ad for Listerine on the wall, but suddenly I got it.

  Halitosis.

  Bike race.

  Chisling won the Halitosis Bike Race on my birthday!

  In Saskatchewan.

  That was it!

  Chisling was a zillion miles away on the day of the fire. He didn’t do it. He couldn’t have.

  You’d think I’d feel good about that, but I didn’t. It just meant I was back on the roller coaster again.

  He didn’t do it. I saw the picture in the paper.

  He did do it. I saw the look on his face.

  Did not do it.

  Did so.

  Did not.

  Did so.

  I went back and forth and back and forth. Chisling did it—he had the motive. Chisling didn’t do it—he had an airtight alibi.

  At least now I knew why the cops weren’t charging him. Even if they thought he had something to do with the fire, they needed proof. Real proof. Evidence. Eyewitnesses. “Reasonable and probable cause.” Without it, they couldn’t do a thing. Charge Chisling on a hunch, and he’d sue the pants off them.

  I guess that meant I had an advantage over the police. I didn’t need proof. I just needed to find Andy.

  chapter

  thirty-two

  Harboring a fugitive

  Hiding a criminal from justice

  I let myself back into the apartment with Andy’s keys. I wanted to just turn on the TV loud enough that I didn’t have to listen to my brain fight with my gut anymore. But I didn’t. I sat down, stared at the wall and tried to figure out a theory that made sense. What was everybody up to, and why? It took me a long time to put all the pieces together, but this is what I came up with.

  Byron was in the Masons’ Hall the night it burnt down. He saw something. Maybe he saw somebody start the fire. But he was an ex-con, trespassing on private property. Who was going to believe him? Maybe he even guessed the cops would blame it on him.