CHAPTER ONE
Tom Faust pulled up at the mouth of the driveway and stopped, lowering his window as the Ontario Provincial Police constable walked around the front of his car. He handed over his private investigator’s licence and waited patiently as the man found his name and jotted down the particulars on his clipboard, then held it out for Tom to sign.
“Cage Intelligence Group. Pay any good?”
“Not bad.” Tom handed back the pen. “Coroner still here?”
The constable shook his head. He tucked the clipboard under his arm and moved the barrier aside, allowing Tom to enter.
The driveway was typical of country farms in Ontario, a long stretch of wheel tracks separated by a shallow moss-covered hump. Trees lined each side of the lane before suddenly giving way to a broad clearing. The house, a large Victorian brick home with bay windows, gables, and a neat verandah, loomed in front of him.
On the left were the gazebo and rows of chairs that had been set up for the wedding. On the right, a few vehicles remained in the field roped off as a parking area for the guests, most of whom had been released from the scene by now and allowed to go home.
Tom pulled up beside an OPP SUV and parked.
He found the sergeant at the side of the house where an interior perimeter had been marked off with fluttering yellow crime scene tape.
Tom knew him slightly, back when he’d been a provincial constable and Tom had been a detective inspector. Now here he was, with chevrons on his shirt and the responsibilities of an incident commander deepening the furrow at the bridge of his nose.
What was his name again? Klaussen? Klausner?
“So what brings you out to this neck of the woods, Faust?”
Krauss. Jerry Krauss.
“My boss’s wife, actually. Mrs. Brenda Cage. I believe she’s here with our clients, the Rushes.”
Krauss nodded. “She’s still around here somewhere. Clients for what?”
“I just got here,” Tom said, irritation slipping into his voice. “You probably know a lot more than I do right now.”
“Well, that’s what they pay me the big bucks for, ain’t it?”
“Who’s the case manager?”
“Detective Inspector Greene.”
“Kate?” He looked around for her.
“Inside.”
“Detectives?”
“Paisley and Leonard.”
“Don’t know them.”
Krauss looked at him, saying nothing. Tom got the message.
“Victim?”
“Name of Irwin Dessler. Fifty-six, home address in Markham, occupation literary agent. Killed by a crossbow bolt in the neck. He—”
“A what?”
“Go talk to Kate.”
Tom shrugged. “Guess I’d better.”
On the front verandah, Tom was stopped by a constable with a hard look in her eyes.
“I’m expected,” he said.
“So’s the pope.”
“Tom, come on in.”
It was Kate Greene, tapping the constable on the shoulder.
“Nice to see you again,” he said, following her into the front hallway.
“Same here. How’s retirement?”
“Busy.”
Kate had been a colleague before Tom had pulled the pin, a fellow OPP detective inspector and major case manager who would now be pushing 55 with more than fifteen years in with the Criminal Investigation Branch. She was of medium height, on the skinny side, and a touch bowlegged. Tom often wondered if she had an enemy in the world. She was immensely popular within the CIB, and coroners welcomed her with open arms when she appeared at their crime scenes.
“You’ll want to touch base with your boss,” she said.
“Boss’s wife.”
“Your boss, like I said. Follow me.”
The living room was furnished with antiques and collectibles, a nineteenth-century throwback that Tom found a little too cluttered and claustrophobic for his taste. A middle-aged couple sat together on the chesterfield. Tom figured they were the Rushes, parents of the bride and owners of the farm. Their main cash crop, if he understood it correctly, was gladiolas that they sold to florists in Peterborough, Campbellford, Stirling, and other towns in the area.
Another woman, about the same age as Mrs. Rush, got to her feet and held out her hand.
“We haven’t met. I’m Brenda Cage.”
He shook her hand. It was a firm, assertive grip.
“Sean has said some very good things about you, so that’s why I asked him to send you down.”
Unlike her husband, who’d never lost his Cockney accent, she spoke with the same cultured tones Tom had heard coming from the royal family whenever they appeared on television.
She took his elbow. “Let’s step outside for a moment.”
They crossed the room to a pair of French doors that opened out onto a side verandah. She closed the doors behind them.
“How much did Natalie tell you?” She took a pack of cigarettes out of her clutch purse and offered it to him. He shook his head. She lit one, inhaled deeply, and put the pack away.
“Almost nothing,” Tom said. “She had to take another call. Said there’d been a homicide and you were at the scene. Gave me the address and told me you’d explain. That was pretty much it.”
Natalie Stone was the vice president of Investigations at Cage Intelligence, and as such, Tom’s supervisor. A former OPP senior manager, she’d recruited him a couple of years ago, shortly after he’d retired. His assignments normally came from her, but apparently Mrs. Cage was calling the tune at the moment.
He frowned, watching her hand tremble slightly as she raised the cigarette to her lips. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be all right? They’re a mess, though.” Pointing with her chin in the direction of Mr. and Mrs. Rush. “Melissa and I are old friends. I was honoured to be invited. This isn’t the sort of thing they imagined happening when they left Toronto for a life of peace and quiet in the country.”
Tom didn’t know Mrs. Cage, and he didn’t have much of a read on her at this point, but he wasn’t going to pussyfoot around. It wasn’t his way.
“I don’t understand why we’re taking on the Rushes as clients,” he said. “Kate Greene’s an extremely capable case manager, and although I don’t know these detectives, I know—or knew, I guess—the Northumberland detachment. They’re competent people. I’m not sure why they’d need our help.”
“Good lord, man. You’ve got it completely screwed up.” She folded her arms. “The Rushes aren’t our client. Why would they be?”
Tom didn’t know how to answer that one, so he said nothing.
“Look, I haven’t meant to keep you in the dark. I don’t know how you investigator types do your briefings. I’m just married to the guy, if you know what I mean. As I told Sean, though, there’s something wrong here, and we need to look into it.”
“Okay.”
“Ken was supposed to show up along with poor Dessler, but at the last moment he decided not to come.” She waved her cigarette back and forth like a conductor’s baton. “In light of what’s happened, it was perfectly understandable. And given all the death threats that have been flying around, it’s not surprising someone’s lost their life.”
Tom’s irritation level was steadily rising. Maintaining an even tone of voice, he said, “May I ask a question, Mrs. Cage?”
“Brenda. Call me Brenda.” A drag on the cigarette, and a quick prompt to the strings section. “Ask away.”
“Who the hell is our client?”
“Kenneth Napier.”
Tom looked blankly at her.
“A friend of mine.” She looked at him expectantly. “The filmmaker? Academy Award winner? Any of this ring a bell?”
“Can’t say it does. Sorry.”
“You’ll catch up. You’ll have to, because as of right now, no one knows where Ken is.”
Tom’s frown deepened.
“And it’s going to be your job to find him.”
© 2025 Michael J. McCann