Arrow's Rest by Joel Scott (best way to read books txt) 📕

meagre description. Cat hadn’t seen the name on the stern apart from a brief glimpse from the Zodiac when she was leaving and the yacht had swung back towards Vancouver. With the swirling rain she hadn’t been able to make it out. Two words, she thought. Short words, about equal in length, she thought. Dark paint, maybe blue, she thought. Not helpful, Jared thought, but knew better than to say so.

“Cat thinks the boat she was on might belong to one of the party faithful,” Jared said. “It’s possible that one of their donors lends or leases their boat to the party. It would be tax deductible and perfectly legal, but not required to be disclosed to the general public.”

She had managed to get a copy of the party donor list and come up with the names of six people with boats on the West Coast that were large enough to be possibilities.

Jared picked up the list, glanced at it briefly, and handed it across to Danny who read them out.

“Sea Maiden, Sea Dancer, Feelin Nauti, Sea View, Wave Symphony, and Blue Harp. I’m hoping it’s Feelin Nauti and we get to sink her. With a name like that, she’s earned it.”

“When was the Blue Harp registered?”

Danny glanced down at the sheet. “In 2006. It’s the newest one of the bunch.”

Jared said, “Isn’t that the year Harper became national party leader? Conservative blue.”

“That’s pretty corny.”

“Downright elegant compared to some of the other names,” Jared said. “Don’t forget we’re talking about a political party here. Named to appeal to the old guard blue blood party loyalists. A lot of old money Tories wouldn’t be caught dead on boats with some of those other names. Did Cat get the port of registry for it?”

Danny ran his finger down the printout. “Campbell River, B.C. Owned by Ronald Ivery.”

“The real estate guy?”

“That’s him. Lives in a penthouse suite in an office block he owns in the West End. The ‘Ivery Tower’ as the press likes to call it.”

Cat had sent some press clippings along with the list of boats. Ronald Ivery’s parents had been killed in a car accident when they were driving home after picking him up from his private school in Boston twenty-five years ago. An only child, he’d inherited everything. He’d been partially paralyzed in the crash.

“Cat says there are rumours that he’s hit rehab a few times because of the drugs he takes for his pain. Gets about in a wheelchair, on his good days he can do crutches for a short time. Something of a recluse, he never married and has no known girlfriends. Keeps a low profile, stays out of the news. Has one manservant who does everything for him. An ex-wrestler who’s been with him since the accident. Ivery has given millions to charities and is a big Tory donor, but stays out of the public eye and has never granted an interview.”

“I think I saw a picture of them just recently,” Danny said. “Huge guy pushing a man in a wheelchair. Had to be the wrestler.”

Jared said, “Every so often there’s a piece about the ‘lonely man in the Ivery Tower,’ but Cat says they’re mostly speculative according to her friends in the business. He’s intensely private. No one knows much about him other than that he’s a billionaire or within spitting distance and owns a lot of expensive downtown real estate.”

“Doesn’t sound like there would be that much to know,” Danny said. “We need a break.”

A loud roar of “Permission to come aboard” broke the silence and Arrow tilted slightly.

“Morning, lads, I’ve brought breakfast,” Clarke said as he deposited a greasy paper bag and a dozen Dos Equis on the chart table. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much,” Jared said. “We’re just running down one more dead end.” He selected a sausage roll and motioned to the pile of clippings on the table.

Clarke picked up the top one and skimmed through it as he cracked a beer.

“I’ve heard about this guy,” he said. “A bit crippled, isn’t he?”

“I believe the correct term is disabled person,” Danny said.

“Right. My heartfelt apologies, Red Man.”

Clarke read on and then shook his head and smiled. “I’ll go to hell,” he said. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Thomas Rodgers. The Slab. I haven’t seen that name for . . . Christ, it must be thirty years.Before your time.”

Danny and Jared waited.

“Pro wrestler. He’s got to be pushing sixty now. Guy was huge, probably had to bend his head and turn sideways to go through a door. They called him the Slab because he was so wide and had this thing he did where once he had his guy stretched out on the canvas, he climbed up onto the top rope and put his arms down along his sides and just fell forward on top of the poor bugger, stiff as a board.”

“That the end of the fight?” Jared asked.

“Usually, but here’s the best part. He had this beefy pair of ex-wrestlers, a husband-and-wife tag team, and they’d come jogging down the aisle dressed in hospital whites with their names on the back and a sort of stretcher with wheels on it, and they’d load the guy up and cart him away. The guy was called Otto and his wife was Topsy. Otto Topsy. Get it? Rodgers was British and did this formal schtick with an upper-class accent. It was all pretty funny. He was a damned good wrestler too. Very popular at the time. I haven’t heard his name for years.”

“Well, that’s all good to know,” Jared said politely.

“Ah, but here’s the thing,” Clarke said. “There’s this guy Froggy, who dabbled in drugs, and he told me about this huge guy who made a big buy from his dealer a few years back. And the car he was driving had a wheelchair lift on the back.”

They sat there in silence.

“Has to be him,” Jared said at last.

Chapter 34

Jared awoke to black silence, Arrow resting motionless in the night, not the