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  In his will, Sir William Mortimer Deighton, father of Marjorie, had set up trusts for each of his three grandchildren. Regular monthly income and generous access to capital had always cushioned the lives of Suzannah, Gerry, and Katharine. Fortunately, neither Harry nor Crawford was the sole arbiter of the trust: Toronto’s Gideon Trust Company had the final say most of the time. They also had the pleasure of dealing directly with Frank Sasso in his efforts to deplete Suzannah’s trust.

  Miss Giveny bellowed from the outer office, “Marjorie Deighton on line two!”

  Harry winced. Despite his frequent attempts to educate her on the new phone system, she studiously refused to master the intricacies of the hold and intercom buttons.

  He strove to hit the right note of graciousness and formality. “Miss Deighton, how are you today? It was good to see you at Richard’s funeral. Such a shock for us all,” he murmured.

  “It’s so terribly sad.” Harry heard sniffles. Once she had collected herself, her voice became soft, sibilant, and rapid, with an underlying note of distraction. “Now that Richard’s gone, you’re the only one I can turn to for advice. I do have a problem.” She paused ominously. “I want to make some changes to my will. Could you come to the house this afternoon?”

  “Would four o’clock be all right?”

  “Yes, and thank you, Harry, for coming on such short notice. I’m seeing someone at two and will need your advice afterwards about certain matters.” Miss Deighton paused as if debating whether to explain further. “Also, I’m terribly worried about two people who mean a great deal to me.”

  “Yes?” Harry picked up his pen.

  “My niece, Suzannah, with that man Sasso…” She paused. “And, of course, Donald, my great nephew. He’s a fine youngster, you know, but his parents seem determined to misunderstand him.” Marjorie sighed deeply. “There’s simply too much pressure on the child.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Donnie’s only fifteen—just at the very beginning of his life. I’m letting Rosie go early today. I’ll leave the door unlocked, so just let yourself in. I’ll be in the front parlor.”

  “Should I bring Miss Giveny with me?”

  “Yes, please. I’m afraid I may have rather lengthy instructions. But perhaps we’ll still have time for a sherry.”

  Harry leaned back in his chair and stretched. He hoped to get the business of the secret trust straightened out at last. She had mentioned Donnie only once or twice before. Gerry’s son, he recalled. He smiled to himself. Many times he had seen love and concern uniting the eldest and the youngest generations. As far as he knew, Suzannah and Katharine had no children.

  “Mr. Jenkins!” Miss Giveny called out. “Someone on the line. Won’t say what he wants. Calls himself…Chin.” Upon hearing a different accent, Miss Giveny’s drawbridge slammed shut and her suspicious tone reflected her narrow world.

  Harry reached for the phone. “Jenkins here.”

  “Mr. Jenkins, my name is Albert Chin. I require the services of a lawyer to transact certain land purchases. There may be some rezoning applications and offshore interests to consider as well. You have been highly recommended to me.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Chin.” Harry sat up straighter in his chair and glanced at his appointment book. He could not miss the urgency in his caller’s voice. Obviously, it was very lucrative work.

  “Would it be possible to come to your office at two o’clock today? These matters are most pressing.”

  “Yes. That would be fine,” Harry said slowly, wondering about the traffic on the way to Marjorie’s house.

  Albert Chin murmured his gratitude.

  “May I ask who recommended me?” asked Harry. But Mr. Chin had hung up.

  Although cautious, Harry was elated. Hong Kong money had been swamping Toronto for years and had funded a massive construction boom. Sadly, none of it had drifted his way. With his elderly client base dying off, it was only good business sense to crack new markets.

  Since Harry’s childhood, the city had changed beyond recognition. He had grown up on the southerly face of Hoggs Hollow, at the city limits. Near his house, the streetcar line ended. Looking north, he could see Yonge Street, just a strip of pavement, cutting a narrow swath through the waving treetops, underbrush, and river lands until it reached the far side of the valley. Today, he faced a brand-new city of gleaming office towers and condominiums on the far hill.

  When he came home from school, the streetcar would let Harry off at the loop under a red-tiled shelter, reminiscent of rooftops in exotic lands. The afternoon sun slanted sharply, illuminating the row of houses. His home was there: neat, square, and ordinary.

  Most of all, he remembered Sunday afternoons when his father would take the family for drives around the city. Dad would go to any part of town, and there seemed to be a message in every trip. Often, they would start down Mount Pleasant Road, which wound its way through the ravines. Queasy with the smell of sun on the fabric-covered seats, Harry would try to hold his breath. His sister Anna, always with a book, sat beside him. He would keep the window rolled down until the green of the ravines gave way to the shops on Bloor Street. Sometimes he would grab her book and tussle in the back seat, until they started down Jarvis Street. Then they rolled up the windows and stared out.

  In front of the old sunlit housing and the vast shadowy churches and parks lay a world unknown to them. Men, the kind they never saw uptown, stumbled drunkenly along the sidewalks. Noisy scuffles broke out, and lonely cries echoed up and down the empty street.

  In Sunday school, the virtue of hard work—mingled with compassion for those less fortunate—had been drilled into them. Girls in prettily smocked dresses and boys in starched white shirts and gray flannels learned to count their blessings. “Be honest, truthful, and kind. Work hard, and you will be rewarded,” the teachers would always say, and then they’d warn, “Jesus is watching you.”

  Harry had learned his lessons well. He had kept his part of the bargain. But where was his reward? Flashy cars and grandiose houses were the supposed perks of his profession. His Ford was surrounded by Audis. Playing by the rules had not gotten him far. Of course, he wasn’t poor. Laura and he were comfortable. Yet, there was a yearning, a sense that the time for making real money was passing. But it wasn’t just the money. A dull emptiness nagged at his spirit.

  Reaching to the back of his desk drawer, he fumbled for a pack of cigarettes. He took one and opened the window to the fire escape. With any luck, the breeze would dissipate the evidence. Closing his eyes, he drew deeply on the cigarette.

  If you played by the rules and did not stray, your reward would come. It was ridiculous to be still burdened by Sunday school lessons at the age of forty-two! By now, he should have developed some personal moral code, suitable for most occasions. Spots of sunlight permeated the gloom of the alleyway. He watched as a few people walked between the buildings far below.

  Laura and he had argued a few weeks ago about money—a topic fraught with land mines. Her hardened face floated up in his mind.

  “Law practice is more than just making money,” Harry had insisted.

  “Of course!” she said in wearily impatient tones. “But it certainly doesn’t hurt to set the right value on your services.”

  “So I’m not making enough. Is that it?”

  “No. But if you didn’t get so personally involved with your clients, maybe you’d do better.”

  Harry was astonished. “So I care too much about them? I care about what I’m doing?”

  She glared at him. “Why do you practice law, Harry?”

  “What?”

  “Maybe you should have been a social worker.” She was goading him. She knew he hated that mentality. “Always holding the client’s hand.”

  “Clients trust me! I’ve earned that. I can’t turn around and fleece them.”

  She smiled up at him. “Harry, you’re a true knight in shining armor.”

  She was laughing at him. Locked in a futile
dance, neither of them had heard nor understood the other.

  Harry realized he had been gripping the window ledge. Maybe more money would help, but he yearned for something more. He flicked his cigarette out the window and watched it twirl into the abyss.

  CHAPTER 3

  Mr. Chin was the smallest man Harry had ever seen. The phrase “the elegant Mr. Chin” formed in his mind as he half-bowed to welcome his new client. The finely cut, light silk suit hung from Mr. Chin’s delicate frame in exactly the correct fashion. Harry ushered him to his office.

  At the door, Harry surveyed the scene. For years, he had regarded the décor as warm and inviting. Now he saw it through Chin’s eyes. It was tacky.

  “Please have a seat, sir,” Harry began heartily.

  Mr. Chin never stopped smiling as he neatly arranged himself in the chair across from Harry’s desk. Glancing briefly about, he betrayed no reaction to his surroundings.

  “Mr. Jenkins, I am grateful you have been able to see me on such short notice. If my business is to be transacted, it must be done speedily.”

  Harry nodded. “You said you were referred to me?”

  “Indeed, Mr. Jenkins. Mr. Niels at Cheney, Arpin recommended you.”

  Surprised, Harry could not imagine why such a major Toronto law firm would direct any business his way. Yet, he had worked briefly with Peter Niels on a bar association matter. Perhaps there was a conflict of interest which could only be solved by completely independent representation.

  “What would you like me to do?” he asked.

  “There are several parcels of land that I wish to purchase near Highland Avenue, at the intersection of Mount Rose.”

  Harry stiffened. Marjorie Deighton’s house was right near that corner. The coincidence was worrisome.

  “Are you familiar with that area, Mr. Jenkins?”

  Harry nodded.

  Albert Chin placed a slim leather case on the desk and extracted a sheaf of papers. Carefully, he unfolded a survey. Harry stood to remove files from his desk. He had seen the survey many times before.

  “I am wishing to purchase the three lots fronting on Mount Rose.” Chin outlined them on the plan with his gold Cross pen. “And also the three immediately behind them.” Chin’s smile never faltered.

  Harry considered the situation. None of the lots belonged to Marjorie, but with Chin’s purchases, she would certainly be surrounded. So would St. Timothy’s Church. He had to tell his new client that he acted for an adjoining landowner, but he decided to wait for more information.

  “Are these offers to be conditional?”

  Mr. Chin smiled broadly. “No, that will not be necessary. We will pay for the properties from our cash resources. Also, Mr. Jenkins, we will seek an option to purchase from the owner of 42 Highland Avenue and the church at some future date.” Setting down his pen, he smiled at Harry. “I trust you will be able to act for our conglomerate.”

  Harry knew Marjorie would never sell to a developer. A conflict was looming. But his new client breathed money, body and soul. His work could be the start of new lifeblood for Harry’s teetering firm. He couldn’t afford to lose either client.

  “I gather this is some sort of land assembly. Are you planning to rezone?”

  Mr. Chin became all business. “That, sir, remains undecided. If we do, we trust you will act on our behalf in such applications.”

  Holy God! The value of Chin’s work was escalating by the minute.

  Harry said, “There are other interests I must consider, Mr. Chin.”

  Harry could act for Chin in the purchase of the lots, but any option to purchase on Marjorie’s house or rezoning of adjacent lands would pose a direct conflict. Of course, he could send both clients to other lawyers, but Marjorie would feel abandoned.

  His discomfort grew. “I have to tell you, Mr. Chin, that I act for the owner of 42 Highland.” He pointed to Marjorie’s lot on the survey. “Of course, you would require separate representation for any option to purchase on her land.”

  Nodding slightly, Chin slid two checks across the desk. “I have a retainer payable to your firm in the amount of two hundred thousand dollars, and another check, for one million dollars, to be used as a deposit of ten percent on each of the six lots.”

  Harry’s mouth went dry.

  “I trust the amount is sufficient. If not, more will be forthcoming,” murmured Chin.

  Harry held the checks, but did not speak. He feared that if he moved, the dream would be dispelled. He stared at the survey still spread on his desk. Large sums of money were at stake, but he could not dismiss the looming conflict. Marjorie had a major development on her doorstep, but if he warned her, he would be in immediate conflict with Chin. Something had to be worked out.

  Chin lowered his eyes. “I find, sir, that many problems disappear, provided there are sufficient funds. If you require more, please let me know, and you will have it immediately.” Chin handed him his card.

  As if suddenly awakening, Harry said, “Mr. Chin, would you care for some coffee?”

  Chin nodded, and Harry lifted the receiver to buzz Miss Giveny.

  “When do you need these offers?” he asked.

  “At your very earliest convenience. Say tomorrow at noon?”

  Tight, but not impossible, thought Harry. With any luck, Marjorie’s business would be fairly simple. “Certainly,” he assured his new client. “But I’ll need some more details from you, of course.”

  Oh God, thought Harry. Does Miss Giveny have the sense to get out the decent cups? She’d better not be using those ridiculous Styrofoam things.

  “Could you excuse me a moment, while I check on something with my secretary?”

  “Of course, Mr. Jenkins, please take your time.” As soon as the door closed, Albert Chin rifled through a stack of files on the credenza behind Harry’s desk and found the file marked Deighton. M.will. In moments, he had scanned the most recent copy of Marjorie’s will.

  Harry found Miss Giveny in the kitchen unplugging the kettle. There they were: two Styrofoam cups on the counter, with those dreadful plastic stirrers sticking out of them.

  “Really, Miss Giveny. Get the proper cups out, please! Make some real coffee, if you don’t mind.”

  The cups and saucers rattled in her hands when she took them from the cupboard. Glaring at her employer, she sniffed and said, “As you wish, sir.”

  “And by the way,” Harry continued to grumble, “we have some excellent work, courtesy of Mr. Chin. And, I’ll need you at Miss Deighton’s at four today for will instructions. Mr. Chin’s offers are for noon tomorrow.” Abruptly, he turned from his secretary’s glare and headed back to his office.

  Opening the door, Harry saw his new client examining the prints on the far wall. Swiftly, Chin seated himself. “I was admiring the framed sketches. Are they the law courts?”

  “Yes, and they’re of some historical significance. Are you interested in art?”

  Chin nodded. “Indeed, Mr. Jenkins, I am fascinated with the history of this beautiful city. In developing lands, we must always be sensitive to the history and architecture.”

  A sharp rap came at the door. There stood Miss Giveny, tray in hand, laden with coffee cups, silver spoons, and even some biscuits.

  “Thank you, Miss Giveny. Now, would you please ask our conveyancer to check the ownership of these lots at the registry office?” Harry handed her the list of properties.

  He tried to glean information about his client’s background and the land assembly scheme as they sipped their coffee. While Chin answered all questions carefully and with the utmost politeness, Harry felt just as much in the dark as before.

  “Have you many real estate investments in Toronto, Mr. Chin?” he asked.

  His new client spoke softly. “A few.”

  “Why Toronto?”

  Mr. Chin flashed a broad smile. One incisor was neatly capped in gold. All the other teeth gleamed with impeccable whiteness. “As I said, it is beautiful and one of the saf
est and cleanest cities in the world.”

  “We have our share of crime too,” said Harry. Briefly, he wondered at his comment.

  Mr. Chin nodded. “Naturally, Mr. Jenkins. Every country does. It is part of human nature.” He rose to go.

  Harry sensed that his new client was not forthcoming. Something lay in the background. He remembered his own angry words when he had argued in endless circles with Laura: “You have to watch some clients. Their moral landscape is as surreal as the face of the moon. But there is a line, which most people can see. Some traipse back and forth across it, calculating all the risks of getting caught. Others don’t even know or care the line exists. Sure, they pay big money to lawyers, who get them out of scrapes, but I’m not one of them.”

  Glancing at the two checks on his desk, he decided to withdraw from the deals if Marjorie’s interests were compromised.

  Within half an hour, Miss Giveny entered his office, struggling with reams of curled-up fax paper containing the conveyancer’s search of title. Harry smiled. The fax machine was almost the last straw for the poor woman.

  After he had spread the search results on the library table, his smile faded. The chain of ownership for all six lots was an ugly tangle. Over the past few years, the lots had been transferred back and forth among at least six or seven companies at ever-escalating prices. No names were assigned to such companies, only numbers. It was a strange pattern for residential and small commercial lots. But at the bottom, in a footnote, was penciled one corporate name: Zaimir.

  Usually the search revealed the titles as they passed down the generations from one individual to another. Harry loved to trace a whole family tree through three or four generations. It would be tough to figure out the real owners in this swamp of faceless companies, identified only with numbers. Some help could be found at the corporations branch, but only the names of appointed directors were recorded, not the names of the shareholders, who were the real corporate owners. Ownership was often disguised in this fashion. Picking up his pen, he sought the root of the title—the starting point, required by law to be at least forty years back from the present.