Quid Pro Quo (10 page)

I turned to the day Andy went missing. She was supposed to meet B.C. at three o'clock that day. Maybe she did, or maybe he was the important colleague Atula said Andy had left hanging. Bob Chisling, President. It fits.

Then I thought, Construction. Just where was this Chisling guy constructing stuff? Anywhere near the Masons' Hall by any chance?

Time for an Internet search. I gulped down some chocolate milk and got ready to go to the library. The regular library. I didn't want Mr. Bradley thinking I couldn't live without him. Which reminded me… I tore off Andy's clothes and threw my own back on. Boy, was I glad to get out of that pantyhose. It kept bagging at the crotch.

My apartment key was somewhere under the junk on the kitchen table. I was in no mood to start looking for it. I just tore open the War Amps envelope and left with Andy's keys.

chapter
twenty-eight
Zoning by-laws

Rules made for the regulation,
administration or management of a certain district

B
ob Chisling wasn't shy, that's for sure. I punched his name into Google and got about three hundred references. He was on every charity organization that would have him. He particularly loved diseases. Cancer, MS, Irritable Bowel Syndrome … after a while I got so I wouldn't have been surprised to see him raising money for the Acne Break-out Prevention Society or the Chronic Jock Itch All-Star Scratch-a-thon.

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.