Forsyth laughed. "Knowing you, you'll probably plea bargain him down to not guilty by reason of insanity, and your client will spend his days at some cushy government-financed retreat, playing golf and doing laps in the swimming pool."
"Harris doesn't play golf." Millard grinned. It was obvious that his client would never do hard time. There was a hint of something different in his voice—what? jealousy, perhaps?—as he went on. "Tom tells me that guy you were talking to was a childhood friend of Adrienne's."
"A bit more than that, I think. C'mon. I'll introduce you."
"Wait till I recharge my drink." Scott signalled a server and ordered a double Scotch on the rocks. He was either celebrating the hung jury or winding down from the stress of the trial. Taking a deep swallow of whisky, he followed Chris over to where Carmichael was in conversation with some of the mourners. When he spotted Chris heading toward him, Ian nodded polite agreement to what someone was saying and shifted his attention to the approaching twosome. Chris performed the introductions, then excused himself.
Seemingly absorbed in selecting a sandwich from the lavish array of goodies spread out on a table, Gwen observed the encounter from a distance. It was over by the time she finished a remarkably delicious egg salad sandwich. Face flushed a dangerous red, Millard exchanged his empty glass for a full one and stalked off to rejoin Tom Forsyth. As she reported to Chris, the tension between the two men was immediate, and almost palpable. "That Millard guy was really wound up. He's a lot smaller than Carmichael and seemed determined to make up for it. From the way he was carrying on, you would think he and Vinney had been getting it on until the day she died."
"That's what he would have wanted. Let's go talk to him."
Glass in hand, an agitated Millard was saying something to Forsyth, spitting out the words. Forsyth flinched, but managed not to blink as he was sprayed with saliva. Both Chris and Gwen heard "... some religious pervert ..." before the criminal lawyer became aware of their presence and abruptly stopped talking.
"Who's a religious pervert, Scott?" inquired Chris mildly. "Were you thinking of Adrienne's murderer?"
"It was just talk. Everybody knows most serial killers have fantasies of playing God. Holding their victims' lives in their hands. That kind of crap." Turning away, Millard struck up a conversation with his counterpart in the McKinley firm who had come over to congratulate him on the hung jury.
Murmuring something about having to leave, Forsyth handed his empty wine glass to a passing server and drifted away.
"Religious pervert. Do you suppose he knows about the cross?" asked Gwen in a voice that was almost a whisper.
"It's entirely possible that he does. A highly successful criminal lawyer like him is bound to have informants."
"But the cross is a holdback. Are you saying he has an informant in the police?"
"It wouldn't surprise me. Not the least bit."
Gwen absorbed this in silence for a few minutes, then said, "He's sure soaking up the booze, too. That pretty little Asian server is beginning to look at him kinda strange as he keeps ordering double Scotches."
"Scott's not at his best today." Millard would bear watching this afternoon. For his own protection. Because of the memorial service there would be a heavy police presence in the area, and they would be only too pleased to charge the defence lawyer with impaired driving. Scott was about to commit another faux pas. Placing his empty glass on a nearby table, he took out his cellphone and was about to dial when a shocked maître d' rushed up. Cellphones were taboo on the club premises. Millard looked at her as if he were about to protest, then pocketed the phone with a snarl.
It was time to intervene. "Hey, Scott, how did you get here? Did you drive or come by taxi?"
"Drove." Millard was instantly alert.
"The police are out in force today. It might be better if I gave you a lift home. You okay with that? Gwen and I are about to leave."
"What vehicle are you driving?"
"Not to worry. It's one of our unmarked vans. You know what they look like. Nobody associates them with the police."
As they reached the top of the driveway, where he stopped to let a foursome play through, Chris said in mock reproof, "You shouldn't be breaking training like this. First thing you know your squash partner will be beating you."
"Tom? He won't be my partner for long. He's packing in the law, and he and Madge are moving to a tax shelter in the Caribbean. Barbados, the last I heard. Madge has been down there for a couple of weeks, scouting out a place for them to buy."
"Tom Forsyth packing it in? He's never mentioned it to me. Not that there's any reason why he should. I didn't realize he had that kind of money."
"He never talks about it." Millard sat up in the passenger seat. He seemed to have shaken off the effect of the whisky he had consumed and was obviously relishing the story he was about to tell. "I wouldn't have known about it except that the ranch foreman consulted one of my partners who does civil litigation. He wanted to sue for wrongful dismissal. Just drop me somewhere downtown where I can grab a cab," he said as they turned off Elbow Drive onto 8th Street.
"Wouldn't think of it," Chris, his curiosity fully aroused, told him. "Where do you live?"
"In the northwest. I have a condo near the university. It's completely out of your way."
"No problem." Chris exchanged glances with Gwen in the rear-view mirror. It would give them lots of time to hear what Millard had to say. "What's a ranch foreman who's lost his job got to do with Tom?"
"The ranch in question belonged to Tom's family. Been in it for generations, I gather. Like all these outfits, it had a name—Crooked Tree Ranch, something like that. I can't remember exactly." Crooked Tree? The Taylor ranch was called Bent Tree. It would seem trees didn't grow all that well out in the foothills. The whimsical thought didn't prevent Chris from hearing Millard say, "I gather the ranch wasn't all that successful, but it survived. When Tom's parents passed on, it was left to him and his sister. She and her husband lived on the ranch and managed it. Until"—Millard paused for effect—"it was annexed by the city in their last land grab. That meant it could be subdivided, and a developer paid top dollar for it."
"Jesus!" Chris breathed. "Do you know how big a spread it was?"
"A quarter section. Sixty-four hectares. I looked it up at the Land Titles office."
"No wonder Tom can afford to pack in the law. Do you know when it was sold?"
"Early last year. Sometime in March." He glanced uneasily over at Chris. "You're probably wondering how I know all this. I was curious, that's all. Knowing Tom as well as I do. I've never mentioned it to him. Not even when he told me about his plans."
"Perfectly natural. I would have done the same." Chris changed lanes as a bus in front of him slowed for some passengers waiting at a bus stop. "When you register a transfer at Land Titles you have to declare the value of the property. Right?" Chris turned it into a question, although he already knew the answer. "So they can assess the registration fee."
"It was an agreement of sale, not a transfer. The purchase price was to be paid in two annual instalments. The title would be transferred only when the second instalment was made."
"What was the purchase price?"
"It was 4.8 million. Thirty thousand an acre. Tom's share is 2.4 million, which should allow him to live comfortably, if he's careful."
And doesn't pay too much in the way of taxes, Chris added to himself.
"Turn off here," Scott directed as they drove north on University Drive. "I'm just at the end of the street." A cement truck was pouring concrete for a walk leading up to the entrance and workers were smoothing out top-soil for a lawn. "I just moved in last week," Scott said as he climbed out and Gwen took his seat. "Like nearly everything else in this town, it's still being unpacked. Appreciate this,