Page 57 of The Burnt
“Good. It’s always good to tie up the loose ends while you can.”
“Is that why you’re here, Simon? Looking for a bit of a nod of approval from the old man?”
“Actually, I just hate to think of people alone in hospitals.”
Harlen scowled. “Yeah. Right. The old man is down and the buzzards are circling, hoping to pick at the carcass.”
“Now, Harlen. No need to be so negative. You need a healthy state of mind if you’re ever going to beat this.”
“I’m not going to beat this,” Harlen said, “and we both know it.” He broke out into another coughing fit, then he continued. “So I suspect you think you’re taking over Monarch Holdings?”
Simon nodded. “I’ve earned it. I just wanted to hear you say it before you die.”
Harlen coughed again. “You were my first choice, but recently I’ve had some disturbing information that suggests that you may have had something to do with my son Roger’s death. So, needless to say, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t think I can trust you anymore, Simon. In fact, my lawyer is on his way over right now with the paperwork to name my new successor. You can sign as a witness.”
Simon took off his glasses and smiled. “Well, it looks like I got here just in time, then.”
* * * *
Simon walked down the hall, heading toward the hospital exit. He walked with a bounce in his step, feeling like life had just gotten better.
Several nurses ran past him. One yelled out to the other, “Crash cart’s on its way.”
He knew they’d be heading to Harlen Feist’s room. He also knew that there wasn’t a crash cart built that could revive him now.
Chapter Twenty-Five
When Charlie and Jasmine arrived at the Banff Community High School, the students were just getting out.
“What do you remember about the boy that delivered the note?” Charlie asked.
“He was shorter than you,” she said, “and he was wearing a toque. Strange, though, he was wearing a Montreal Canadiens jacket. Everyone from around here supports either the Calgary Flames or the Edmonton Oilers. A boy supporting the Montreal hockey team would not last long here.”
“So, you think he could be from out east?”
“Not necessarily. His coat was old and patched. It might have been all he could get from the thrift shop.”
It didn’t take long for the schoolyard to clear. The kids that remained took turns hurling snowballs and insults at a crudely constructed snowman that they called Mr Wright. Charlie wondered what course he taught.
Just as Charlie was ready to admit that this had been futile, Jasmine tapped his shoulder.
“That’s it. That’s the coat,” she said, indicating the lone boy who was leaving the school. “He must have had a detention.”
“Okay, you stay in the car. I’ll be back.”
Charlie jumped out and started to follow the boy.
After a few blocks, when they were out of view of anyone at the school and on a small side street that led to Banff Avenue, Charlie called out, “Hey kid.”
The boy looked over his shoulder. “Get the fuck away from me, perv,” he called back and kept walking.
“I’m not a perv. I’m a private investigator,” Charlie shouted out.
The boy stopped, turned and faced him. “Private investigators can’t be pervs?”
“You’ve got me there, kid. I just want some information,” Charlie said.
The boy turned and walked away.
