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

of this, it’s that the odds of Jared actually finding the boat are slim. Desolation Sound is a big place, and we don’t know that Jared even knows enough to look there.”

Danny said, “I thought he might be going after Ivery on the off chance.”

“I shouldn’t tell you two anything,” Clarke said. “I don’t know what the hell is the matter with me, you’d think I’d know better by now. I must be getting senile. Speaking of Ivery, I think it’s time I had a chat with him. That’s the second time his name has come up, and I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“Can I come along?” Danny asked. “I promise not to say a word. I used to watch the WWF with Joseph on Saturday nights back when I was a kid. The Slab was one of our favourites.”

Clarke assessed him carefully. “You’re lying.”

“I remember watching a tag team match on TV where he stood on the top rope and his partner pulled out a lumberjack’s toque and put it on, then yelled Timber!, and pretended to saw the Slab down. He landed on top of the bad guy.”

“Bullshit. I must have told you about that move.”

“Scout’s honour. I remembered after you left. I even went to the old downtown arena with Joseph a few times. We never saw the Slab in person though.”

Clarke gave in. “Come along with me then. Why not, it’s not like I have a career to jeopardize. It’s unofficial anyway, and I sure as hell won’t be reporting it. I’m still supposed to be on my leave of absence. We’ll take a taxi.”

The Tower was a mid-eighties building, one of many knocked up back in the boom days, differing little from its neighbours before the renovations it had undergone under Ronald Ivery. The article Clarke had found online about the building said the only exterior signs of the remodelled penthouse were the tinted two-story-high windows along the south and east face and a full-length west-facing balcony and garden. A helicopter pad had been incorporated into the new roof.

The commissionaire standing outside the entrance nodded to them as they went in through the revolving door and made their way to a long desk with a styled middle-aged woman standing behind it working a raised keyboard. An armed security guard was seated off to one end in front of a desk computer. He glanced up and Clarke saw the word cop forming in the man’s mind as he surveyed them. Ex-services guy for sure. Behind him the directory on the wall displayed eighteen stories of company names, with anywhere from three to six offices on a floor. At first glance, none of them were familiar to Clarke. Two elevators stood side by side in the far corner of the lobby.

“How can I help you?” the woman asked.

Her tone was courteous, professional, and disinterested. About what you’d expect, Clarke thought. It was perhaps a little unusual that you had to come right up beside the security guard to read the directory though. Usually they were posted by the entrance. But having it up here meant that any visitors who hadn’t received directions would have to approach the counter and come under the scrutiny of the guard. Cameras were placed in every corner of the lobby, and one was above and behind the woman, covering the desk and its environs. Clarke glanced over at the security guard and saw his image on the man’s screen in the split second before he reached out and turned it away.

“We’d like to speak with Mr. Ivery,” Clarke said, laying his department ID on the desk.

The woman studied it carefully before looking up at him. “Might I ask with regard to what, Detective?”

Clarke smiled. “Police business.”

A phone under the counter rang and she answered it.

“Certainly, sir,” she said.

Clarke glanced over at the security guard who gave an apologetic shrug.

“Take the farthest elevator to the top floor,” the woman said, and went back to her keyboard.

They entered the elevator and pressed the button. The elevator ascended swiftly and then stopped, but the door remained closed. They waited in silence. A phone rang and a light flashed on a small panel above the floor buttons. Clarke opened the flap and picked up the receiver.

“Who is that with you, Detective?” A pleasant voice with an English accent.

“Daniel MacLean. A civilian.”

“Just a moment, gentlemen.”

A slight humming noise and the elevator ascended briefly and then glided to a halt. The floor readout did not change. The door opened silently and they stepped out into a large room with a long table at the far end with several large TV screens mounted behind it. All of them were dark save for one rolling the numbers for the Nikkei. At the head of the table was a slight man with streaked grey-blond hair and glasses, seated in a wheelchair. Standing behind him with folded arms was a very large man with prominent cauliflower ears and mild blue eyes surrounded by old scar tissue. His head was close shaven and he was dressed in a navy-blue pinstripe suit and vest and regimental tie. The effect on that big body was somewhat incongruous, but Clarke would have bet money that nobody ever laughed. The man was as big as a small forklift.

And that would be your Slab, Danny thought.

“This is my associate Thomas Rodgers, and I’m Ronald Ivery. But you already know that of course. Please be seated. Can I get you gentlemen anything to drink? Tea, coffee, water? Perhaps something stronger?”

“We’re fine, thanks,” Clarke said.

“As you wish. How can I be of assistance?”

His voice was muted and they had to strain to hear. It was hard to determine his actual size seated in the chair, but he seemed frail and unhealthy. His face was pale and his gestures were hesitant. The eyes behind the glasses were lively, though, and, Clarke thought, perhaps slightly amused. He studied the two of them for a moment before replying. There was something unusual