Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(53)
Very well. Dates, times, places, and detailed observations are precisely recorded in my notes, but you will prefer an overview. Which I am writing in the front room of an upper triplex that is barren but for a few furnishings, including this table and chair, left behind by previous tenants. They also abandoned this marvellous old Olivetti portable — how I have missed the clatter of keys.
The flat has a pleasant outlook, upon old, well-preserved Montreal — in particular this neighbourhood in Centre-Sud, below Sherbrooke, with its lovely spiralling staircases.
Some of these buildings date from the late nineteenth century. The seemingly ingenious concept of saving living space by means of outdoor staircases seems to have been a factor in many accidents, and in the 1940s a law was passed prohibiting their further erection.
This I learned from the owner of a dozen duplexes and triplexes hereabout, who self-mockingly described himself as a “slum landlord.” R.J. “Rocky” Rubinstein, a trial lawyer, owns the flat from which I can see across the street the triplex once occupied by our two desaparecidos, Mr. Sabatino and Ms. Glinka.
Mr. Rubinstein, who has remained lithe and wiry well into his late-middle years, seemed unable to sit during our long conversation in this flat, which he has generously offered to me for the time being — he is quite a fan of yours, Arthur. He talked effusively, jabbing or blocking an invisible opponent’s punches with every uttered phrase. This disconcerting habit apparently stems from a youthful career as an amateur boxer.
He was surprised to learn that Robert O’Brien, whom he hadn’t met — his six-month lease for the upper triplex had been signed and mailed — was Lou Sabatino, the reporter. Nor did he know Witness Protection was paying the rent, which arrived in his office at the end of each month as cash in an envelope.
The rent for July had been paid in this way, and Mr. Rubinstein learned only through me that his tenant’s family have deserted him and that he has gone missing. Nor was he aware that Ms. Glinka has packed up and gone. Her July rent remains unpaid.
Happily, Mr. Rubinstein has little regard for Emil Farquist, whom he believes is a closeted anti-Semite, and he seems gleeful at the prospect of bringing him down. He is, in a word, onside. He has assured me he will not extend cooperation to investigators for the plaintiff or assist the media — though, as you will presently learn, the press has already zeroed in on her “therapy clinic.”
Now to my observations. There have been reporters in the neighbourhood, including Christie Montieth — who we assume is BDsmother but who has been silent in print (if that phrase makes sense) since posting the Freak Out recording.
One would have thought that Ms. Montieth would be lying low, given the risk she runs of being added to a $50 million defamation suit. But this mop-haired pixie has come by twice.
On Wednesday, July 3, in the late afternoon, she arrived in a Mini Cooper, which she double-parked in front of Ms. Glinka’s apartment. She took a photo of its exterior with her phone before entering the yard and knocking on the door.
Her efforts to peer within were prevented by blinds and curtains. She looked about, as if for assistance from a neighbour, but none was about, and she drove off.
She returned yesterday, July 7, in a Sun Media van, with a photographer, who took several photos from different angles of her knocking at Ms. Glinka’s door.
The arrival of the van attracted many residents to their stairs and balconies, and Ms. Montieth interviewed several, including the two octogenarians who live next door and to whom Ms. Litvak spoke last month. With the window open, I could tell Ms. Montieth was struggling with their dialect-heavy French (as I do, when chatting with them on my daily health walks).
Ms. Montieth did not venture up to Mr. Sabatino’s flat, from which I surmise she remains unaware he was living there or has any connection with the case.
Not an hour passed after their departure when another van pulled up, and a man holding a writing pad and a woman with a camera got out. Toronto Star, said a card on top of the dashboard, as viewed through my binoculars.
The reporter knocked on a few neighbouring doors, earning audience from most. This gentleman did also hammer on Mr. Sabatino’s door but to no avail, of course.
There have been other visitors to the neighbourhood. I observed a black Lincoln Navigator SUV (presumably the same vehicle seen by Ms. Litvak) drive by slowly on July 2, late afternoon, and again two days later in the evening. Two men occupied the front seat, though I was able to view only the driver: heavy-set, moustache, black hair, dark glasses.
This vehicle returned at twilight yesterday, and this time pulled to the curb. Same driver, but the person who alighted from the passenger side was a woman, fit, perhaps in her thirties, tall, dark hair, dark glasses. This, I assume, is the couple whom Ms. Litvak spotted at Dorval Airport’s parking lot, aiding in Ms. Glinka’s getaway. The woman quickly mounted the stairs to the Sabatino suite and tried the door, but did not knock. The pile of uncollected newspapers may have persuaded her that her quest was futile, and they drove off.
I have photographs, of course, relating to all these appearances. The licence number of the Navigator reveals the registered owner to be one Lucas Laframbois, with an address in Laval that appears to be that of a second-hand store and is doubtless as fictitious as his name.
I have also observed several gentlemen attempting to visit Ms. Glinka, one of them at least three times. Since I am not at my post at all times — due to my daily jaunts — I rely on my DropCam to review other comings and goings by clients seeking her services.