“Restroom and cleaning supplies,” Trevor stated as the chef blocked his path.
“I thought we just had a delivery last week,” the chef replied with a puzzled look. Then he waved Trevor toward a set of swinging doors at the side of the kitchen.
“Restrooms are out the doors and to the left. The storage closet is right alongside,” he said. “The general manager should be working the reservations desk. You can get him to sign for it.”
Trevor nodded and proceeded out the kitchen and down a short hall, which ended at the men’s and ladies’ restrooms. He poked his head inside the windowless men’s room, then stepped back out and waited until a club member in a gold polo shirt exited. He wheeled the dolly in and stacked the boxes onto the toilet seat in the last stall, then closed the door. He returned to the van and quietly wheeled in four more loads, stacking the additional boxes against the back wall. He opened one of the boxes and removed a portable space heater, which he plugged in beneath a sink but left turned off. He then slid one of the boxes across the floor to the center of the room. Using it as a step stool, he reached up with a wad of paper towels and unscrewed half of the overhead lightbulbs, casting the bathroom in a dim glow. Locating the room’s single air-conditioning vent, he closed the levers, then sealed the vent with duct tape.
Satisfied with his initial work, he stepped into a stall and took off his hat and unzipped his workman’s jumpsuit. Underneath, he was dressed in a silk shirt and dark slacks. Reaching into the opened box, he pulled out a blue blazer and dress shoes, which he quickly slipped on. Checking himself in a mirror, he figured he would easily pass muster as a member or guest. He had shaved his thin beard and cut his hair short, greasing it back with a temporary dye that gave it a raven sheen. He slipped on a pair of stylish-looking eyeglasses, then proceeded to the clubhouse bar.
The bar and adjacent restaurant were lightly crowded with businessmen and overdressed golfers taking a noontime lunch. Catching sight of Goyette in his corner booth, Trevor took a seat at the bar that offered an unimpeded view of the tycoon.
“What can I get you?” asked the bartender, an attractive woman with short black hair.
“A Molson, please. And I wonder if you can send one over to Mr. Goyette as well,” he said, pointing to the corner.
“Certainly. Whom may I say it
is from?” she asked.
“Just tell him the Royal Bank of Canada appreciates his business.”
Trevor watched as the beer was delivered and was thankful when Goyette made no acknowledgment or even bothered looking toward the bar. Goyette was already on his second martini and downed the beer as his lunch was served. Trevor waited until Goyette and his girlfriend started their meal, then he returned to the restroom.
Trevor held the door open as an old man exited, grumbling about the poor lighting, then he placed a cardboard sign on the outside that read CLOSED FOR REPAIRS—PLEASE USE CLUBHOUSE RESTROOM. Returning inside, he placed a strip of yellow caution tape across the urinals, then slipped on a pair of gloves. With a utility knife in hand, he went from box to box, slicing open the seams and dumping the contents upside down. Out of each box tumbled four eleven-pound blocks of commercial-grade dry ice, frozen carbon dioxide, that was wrapped in plastic. Flattening the cardboard boxes and stashing them in the end stall, he stacked the dry ice around the back of the bathroom, then methodically shredded open their plastic wrappings. Gaseous vapor began to rise immediately, but Trevor covered the blocks with the flattened boxes to limit their melting. Under the dim lighting, he was relieved to see that the vapor was barely noticeable.
Checking his watch, he hurriedly placed a small toolbox and his hat and jumpsuit near the door. With a penlight and screwdriver, he unscrewed the interior door handle until it hung just barely attached. Throwing the tools in the box, he carefully opened the door and returned to the bar.
Goyette was nearly done with his meal, but Trevor sat and casually ordered another beer, keeping a sharp eye on his intended victim. Guffawing loudly, Goyette was everything that Trevor expected the tycoon to be. Vulgar, selfish, and savagely arrogant, he was a walking psychiatric ward of deep-seated insecurities. Trevor looked at the man and fought the temptation to walk over and stick a butter knife in his ear.
Goyette finally pushed his lunch plate away from his belly and rose from the table. Trevor instantly left some bills for the barmaid and hurried down the hall. Pulling the CLOSED sign from the door, he ducked inside and slipped back into his jumpsuit, just barely affixing his hat when Goyette walked in. Eyeing Trevor in his workman’s attire, the industrialist scowled.
“Why’s it so dark in here?” he huffed. “And where’s that steam coming from?” He pointed to a low cloud of vapor visible at the back of the restroom.
“Plumbing leak,” Trevor replied. “Condensation is creating the vapor. I think the leak may have shorted out some of the lights as well.”
“Well, get it fixed,” Goyette barked.
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
Trevor watched Goyette as he eyed the barricaded urinals then made his way to the first stall. As soon as the door clicked shut, Trevor stepped over and turned the portable heater on to HIGH. Then he stripped away the flattened cardboard boxes, exposing the stacked blocks of dry ice. He quickly spread a few of the blocks around the rapidly warming room, as the melting vapor began to quickly rise.
Moving to the doorway, Trevor opened his toolbox and retrieved his screwdriver and a triangular rubber doorstop with a string attached to the narrow end. Pulling the door open a few inches, he inserted the doorstop to hold it in place. He then finished unscrewing the interior door handle and tossed it into the toolbox.
Turning to face the interior, he could feel the temperature already rising from the space heater and, with it, the billowing clouds of carbon dioxide gas. He heard the sound of Goyette zipping his pants and called out.
“Mr. Goyette?”
“Yes?” came the reply in an annoyed voice. “What is it?”
“Steve Miller sends his regards.”
Trevor stepped to the door and turned off the lights, then smashed the plastic flip lever to bits with the base of his toolbox. Slipping out the door, he knelt down and reversed the doorstop, placing it inside the restroom and sliding the string under the door. Letting the door close, he yanked the string from the outside, pulling the rubber wedge tight against the interior door.
As he placed the CLOSED sign back on the door, he could hear Goyette cursing inside. With a grin of accomplishment, Trevor picked up his toolbox and exited through the kitchen. Within minutes, he was off the club’s grounds and headed toward a local rental-car company in neighboring Surrey.
With a sublimation temperature of minus one hundred and nine degrees Fahrenheit, dry ice converts directly to a gaseous state at room temperature. The six hundred pounds of dry ice in the restroom began vaporizing rapidly as the space heater warmed the confined space to over ninety degrees. Stumbling around blindly in the darkened room, Goyette could feel a cold dampness in his lungs with each breath he took. Feeling his way to the door with increasing dizziness, he fumbled for the light switch with his left hand while reaching for the door handle with his right. In a sudden moment of terrifying comprehension, he realized they were both absent. Trying without success to work the door open with his fingertips, he finally began pounding his fists against the thick wood while screaming for help. He began to cough as the air grew colder and heavier, and, with a fearful sense of panic, he realized something was dreadfully wrong.
It was several minutes before a busboy heard his cries and discovered that the door was jammed from the inside. It took another twenty minutes before a maintenance worker was summoned with some tools to take the door off its hinges. The assembled crowd was aghast when a white plume of vapor poured out of the restroom and Goyette’s lifeless body was found lying in the doorway.