“Some kind of month,” Gilmartin said. “First Tony —”
“You were friends with Tony Souza?”
“Went through Depot together.”
Leith nodded and shook his head, in the way of saying yes, the suicide was awful news.
“Then that girl dying before my eyes,” Gilmartin said. “And now this. I’ve never seen anybody dying before. It was horrible. And my phone was dead. It’s the cold that does it, you know, sucks the life right out of it. And then that guy, the one who waved me down, he didn’t even have a phone, would you believe? Come to think of it, neither did the girl. I’d totally forgotten about her. What are the chances of three people converging at the scene of an accident, where time is of the essence, and nobody having a working phone?”
Gilmartin went rattling on, the release from tension turning him into a chatterbox, and the words began to flow in Leith’s one ear and out the other. He nodded sympathetically as he half-listened, keeping an eye down the block as he tried to hide his impatience. Waiting for Ident, listening to Gilmartin, thinking about home.
Ident showed up eventually and parked their vehicles up and down the block, impeding traffic from Esplanade to the Quay. This near Christmas, even at this hour, the city was a flurry of activity. Detour signs went up. The section of wall in question was photographed in macro. A deformed slug was found in the gutter, and the blacktop was scrutinized from one end of the block to the other. Leith organized a team to canvass businesses in the area for witnesses. But it would go nowhere, he realized, standing to one side and watching the pros at work. Random shots never did.
* * *
Leith found his superior, Sergeant Mike Bosko, still in his office, and stepped in to let him know what had happened. He was invited to sit, and from his chair paraphrased his notes. “So the van approached from behind. Gilmartin didn’t get a good look at it, didn’t see the occupants, didn’t note the licence number or any identifying markings. It’s a two-way street. He was walking southbound on the west sidewalk, so the shot would have come from the van’s passenger side. Just one shot. There’s only a right-hand turn at the bottom of Rogers, but the vehicle took a left toward Lonsdale. Gilmartin says there were other vehicles in the area, and someone could have taken down the van’s plates because of the illegal turn, but he doubts it. Frankly, so do I. I’ve been to the scene myself, called in Forensics, notified Ballistics. I observed a fresh pockmark on the retaining wall measuring 1.72 metres off the ground, about five foot eight, sir. A slug was recovered from the gutter 9.5 metres northeast of the bullet hole itself …”
“Excuse me a moment,” Bosko said. “How’s he doing, Craig Gilmartin? Is he all right?”
Bosko was a good man, a fantastic leader. Smart, kind, patient, and caring. Leith didn’t like him much, and had his reasons. Not good reasons, but reasons all the same. “Sorry,” he said. “I should have mentioned, Craig seems fine. He has no idea why anyone would shoot at him. He wasn’t in uniform. No indication it’s targeted or anything to do with his job. He’s only been with us for a couple of months, hasn’t made any enemies, gets along with everyone, he says. No shell found, but the slug’s just a twenty-two, they’re saying. Hardly hit man material, so I’d say it’s another of those random things we’ve been getting lately. They shoot to scare, just for the thrill of making people jump.”
He paused to re-examine his own doubts. This shooter had seemed to be aiming at the level of a man’s head, which didn’t strike him as scare tactics. But that was for the next shift to worry about. “I’ve got the word out, and B watch is on full alert. I told Gilmartin to watch his back. I told him to get a uniformed member to drive him home, to be safe.”
“Sounds like you have things under control, Dave. Appreciate it.” Bosko stood and tucked his shirttails a bit snugger under his belt. He was young for his rank, younger and taller and heavier than Leith, and best described as bear-shaped. He was also smart and unflappable. “Going to meet the boys for a beer,” he said. “Would be great if you joined us.”
Jimmy Torr will be there, Leith thought, picturing the crew sitting around the long table at Rainey’s, where they often met up to talk shop not so reverently, like briefings from the dark side. JD Temple, Doug Paley, Sean Urbanski — the usual crowd making the usual noise. “Wish I could,” he said, “but I have a wife and baby waiting for me with birthday cake.”
Though frankly, his three-year-old, Isabelle, would be fast asleep by the time he got there. It would just be him and Alison sitting there with Scotch and what was left of the cake.
“Oh, excellent! Whose birthday?”
“Isabelle’s.” Leith plastered on a smile. He wasn’t a great smiler. He didn’t like his stained and imperfect teeth, or the shape of his face when it stretched sideways into a grin. But he knew the value of cheeriness and never gave up trying. “She’s just turning three.”
“Three, what a milestone! Go home, then, and have fun. One day we’ll cut out early, what d’you say? Have a chat.”
“Definitely, we’ll do that,” Leith said, still smiling, though the word chat gave him the chills. He and Bosko had history of sorts, issues dormant but not dead: an off-the-record investigation of one of Leith’s colleagues, Cal Dion, that wasn’t going so well. He shrugged off the anxiety he inevitably felt in Bosko’s presence, and they walked together to the exit, gathering their coats and gloves on the way. They remarked on the lull in the North Shore crime scene these past few weeks. Leith hoped aloud that the potshot wasn’t the end of a pleasant trend, and Bosko added a heartfelt “amen” — all of which, like a jinx, probably should have been left unsaid.
Four
NIGHTFALL
RAINEY’S WAS THE LOCAL PUB where the gang all met. Tonight it had ramped up the old Christmas spirit, flickering an overload of LEDs and blasting rock and roll carols. JD was a regular, though she rarely stayed long. She sat in her usual place, the bench seat with its good view of the entrance. From here she could monitor the comings and goings of patrons, and also warn her off-duty workmates, should a senior officer show up, to tone down the colourful rhetoric, their views on law and order that didn’t always mesh with the force’s mission statement.
She spotted one now: Mike Bosko. He darkened the doorway and stood chatting with the hostess. He was removing his gloves, too, which meant he planned on staying awhile. JD spun her index finger once and jabbed it into her cheek, a discreet signal to the others to shut up and be nice.
They all looked around as one, but if Bosko got the hint that a warning had gone out, he didn’t let on. He smiled a greeting as he took a chair. Not as dumb as he looks, JD thought. She admired Bosko, in a way. He was friendly, quite a talker, yet she had the feeling he could play the executioner, if he had to. And then coolly get on with his day.
There was also something fishy about him, she believed. But maybe only because her favourite detective in the bunch, Dave Leith — who was absent again tonight — didn’t seem to care for him. Or maybe distrusted him. There was no overt sign that she could pin down in her mind, but her senses said something was definitely afoot, and usually her senses proved right.
Someday she would put it to Leith directly. For now she contented herself by keeping an eye and an ear out for clues. She watched Bosko now. As usual, it wasn’t long before he had taken charge of the conversation. He spoke of an investigation now underway into a random potshot down near the Quay. The target happened to be a new recruit, who fortunately had dodged the bullet.
The potshot discussion took the crew’s conversation all over the map, as JD listened and occasionally put in her two cents. They talked about new recruits in general, which got them talking about the suicide of Tony Souza, which got them talking about Christmas, in the way conversations reroute themselves along the path of least resistance.
Again, JD wondered why Leith didn’t like this Bosko guy. He was droll. He made her laugh. On the topic of Christmas, he was telling them a story about home decor and ladder
s. Not his own home, but that of Arlo, a good friend from his Vancouver white-collar crime days, who really liked to over-deck the halls.
“And not just for himself and Sylvia to enjoy, mind you,” Bosko said. “The whole neighbourhood gets to enjoy the glow when he’s got all the lights up. They’re probably visible from outer space. And of course every year I get roped into helping out. I don’t know how many hours I’ve spent untangling extension cords and replacing bulbs. I swear, he wasn’t like this before retirement.”
Droll, but he does go on, JD thought. She was glad when he finished his beer and said he had to be going. The rude shoptalk picked up where it had left off, but not for long. It was late, and the party soon disbanded.
Back at her apartment, JD was changing into her super-soft indoor clothes when her work phone rang. A bad sign. Moments later, she was shoving her feet into her boots once more and heading out into the night.
* * *
Leith got the call as he was brushing his teeth, feeling logy and primed for bed, and the curt message kicked him awake. The neighbourhood in question was so close he could hear the wailing of sirens as he climbed into his car. They seemed to be converging on the given address from all directions. He arrived moments before the paramedics, and took in the scene. The first cars to respond were parked out front, and one vehicle was lit from within. He crossed the street toward it and found JD behind the wheel. In the passenger seat next to her, a small, pale-faced young woman was staring straight ahead with a stunned expression.
JD rolled down the window to talk. “Witness,” she explained. “She called it in. Want me to wait?”
Leith took another look at the girl. “She’s okay, not hurt?”
“Not hurt. We’ll hang on till you’ve checked it out.”
Leith jogged up the steps to the porch on the heels of the paramedics. Behind him the street was becoming clogged with emergency vehicles, and more were on their way. Constable Alain Lavalle stepped out onto the porch as Leith topped the stairs. “Shot in the chest,” he said. “Poole and Sattar responded, and house is cleared. They’re inside to your left, sir.”
Leith passed Lavalle and entered the house. It was a squat Cape Cod style structure, the kind with small bedrooms and hardwood floors, high ceilings, mullioned windows. To his right was the kitchen, to his left the living room, and straight ahead a generous corridor that would lead to the back of the house. The victim lay at the hallway entrance, attended to by two uniformed constables. Or attended by one, at least. Kenny Poole was in his fifties, the senior of the two — in fact, he was the supervisor — yet he stood back, looking dazed, while his trainee, young Rajesh Sattar, knelt over the motionless man on the floor, hunched forward in the awkward space, the heels of his bloodied hands pressing wads of gauze against the victim’s upper-left torso, the heart zone. Only when the paramedics raised their voices, insisted they were here to take over, did Sattar get to his feet and stand back.
The victim was Constable Craig Gilmartin, the kid who had been shot at just hours earlier, the one Leith himself had sent home with a flippant warning to be careful. And no, it wasn’t a random thing after all, and he should never for a moment have supposed it was. The boy lay on his left side, propped against a cushion. His face was pale, hair damp with sweat. Blood around his nose had left dark clotted tracks. He’d been injured for a while, then, maybe hours. Coatless, but fully dressed, boots still on, as if he’d just arrived home. His T-shirt, once white, was now a gory carnation as the paramedics removed the mess of gauze left by Sattar.
Mike Bosko arrived, one of the few to be allowed over the threshold. Leith threw him a glance and said, “Dammit.”
Blood told at least a part of the story. It streaked across the floor leading to Gilmartin’s resting spot, as though he had been dragged several feet. Or crawled. Outside another siren sighed to silence, and yet another rounded a corner. Sattar was saying to the medics, “He’s got faint signs. Hardly breathing. What took you so bloody long?”
Bosko asked anyone, “Who reported this?”
“Girlfriend, sir,” Poole answered. Don’t know her name. She’s in the cruiser with JD.”
Bosko asked for details, whatever was known, and Sattar told him that he and Poole, responding to the call, had found Gilmartin like this, comatose and covered in blood, with a slow oozing wound. No sign of a weapon. Sattar had propped up the victim to slow the bleeding, and while he tried to staunch the flow Poole had given the house a cursory all-clear. Other members arriving moments later had supplied a first aid kit and completed the search. No sign of the attacker indoors or out.
Poole added to Sattar’s report. The blood was barely seeping when he arrived, and he had thought Gilmartin wasn’t breathing. He had told Sattar not to move him, as there could be spinal damage. Sattar had ignored him, he said, and shifted Gilmartin to his side and propped him up with a sofa cushion, which shouldn’t be done.
“It definitely should be,” Sattar said, but for Leith’s ears only.
Leith looked around. Aside from the body on the floor, nothing in the room immediately stood out. No damage, no signs of a struggle. The paramedics were moving fast, loading their patient onto the stretcher. In the hallway Bosko was talking to someone on the phone, doling out tasks, and Leith noted the change in the rhythm of his speech. Usually leisurely and — at least in Leith’s mind — somewhat circuitous, it was now sharp, fast, to the point. Sattar would attend ER with the victim, and Poole would be on crowd control, keeping traffic in and out to a minimum, till Forensics could get to their scene work.
Leith asked Ken Poole for his Maglite. With the beam flared wide, he walked down the hall toward the back of the house, watching the floor in front of him. A darkened bedroom to one side, and another room that Gilmartin had used for an office, maybe, with desk, computer, bookshelves, and easel, too, with a canvas up and a painting in progress.
The back door he found locked and undamaged, and the sunporch leading off from it was cluttered with summertime junk. Below, the fenced lot was no doubt brighter than it had been before the neighbours were roused by all the police activity, lights blazing on all sides, spilling an orange glow across path and lawn.
He returned to find that Gilmartin had been removed. He passed on to Bosko what little he knew, then left the house to see about JD and her witness.
Bystanders were gathering on the sidewalk, and he scanned faces for one that might shine a beacon of guilty knowledge. It sometimes happened, but not this time. Headlights turned a corner at the end of the street. He blocked the blaze with his arm and leaned down to talk to JD. She gestured to her passenger and said, “Sophie Dewitt, Craig’s girlfriend. She called it in.”
Dewitt was in her late teens or early twenties. Harry Potter spectacles slid down her nose, in danger of toppling off. She looked waxy, almost catatonic.
Leith bent low to peer past JD at the girl, who could be the shooter, for all he knew. “Hang tight, Sophie,” he told her. “JD will take you to the hospital, and I’ll get there soon as I’m done here, and we’ll have a talk, okay?”
The girl nodded and whispered something he had to cup his ear to hear.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“No,” he said. “I’ve just seen him. They’re getting him ready to transport right now. He’s got vital signs. He’s young and fit, and there’s a very good chance he’ll get through this.” He turned to the owner of the blazing headlights as the lights doused and the doors banged shut. Jim Torr was striding toward him, Sean Urbanski close on his heels. He looked at Sophie again, and saw that his words of reassurance hadn’t moved her an iota. She had seen Gilmartin herself, he realized. Seen all the blood, knew how bad it really was.
“She doesn’t seem injured,” JD said, as Leith straightened. “I asked her a few questions, and she says she doesn’t know who did it. I’ll get her to the hospital now, get her checked over.”
He nodded. “See what you can get from her. Give me an hour. Make sure she d
oesn’t wash or change her clothes, and no food, no cigarettes, no sedatives. Just water for now. Right?”
JD knew all this, and the narrowing of her eyes told him so. She began to roll up the window, but he gave it a rap for one last question. “Who drove Gilmartin home today, d’you know?”
“Ken Poole, I think.”
JD drove off with their prime witness, tailing the ambulance. The winter night was chilly, but Leith’s sense of guilt was making him sweat. It was a guilt sure to set in heavily as he ran out of tasks to keep him busy. He turned to Torr and Urbanski and told them the news.
“It’s Craig Gilmartin, and it’s not good.”
“Gilmartin?” Torr said. “The guy I was grilling this morning? You’re kidding me!”
Leith told them about the drive-by he had shrugged off as a random event. Torr and Urbanski said they’d heard about it. Leith gestured at the house, the open door at the top of the stairs. “Ken Poole escorted Craig home late this afternoon, and for all we know, the kid’s been lying there bleeding ever since. As long as three hours.”
“Gilmartin,” Torr repeated. He blinked at the house, a beehive of activity now.
Exhaust billowed about their legs in the chilled air. Bosko came down the steps and joined them at the curb, telling Leith to get a team together from all shifts. A mobile unit was on its way, as was Ident. The drive-by slug was a .22, while this one was a larger calibre, by the looks of it, and the only connection so far was one target named Gilmartin.
Two attempts, two guns, Leith thought. What’s this kid been up to? “Talk to Kenny,” he told Urbanski. “Get down everything that happened today when he drove Craig home. Everything.”
* * *
Past midnight, and the hospital corridors were not deserted, but quiet. Together, Leith and JD spoke with Gilmartin’s parents. They were in their late sixties, so their son had been a latecomer. They both had thick Scottish accents and an apparent ability to keep their horror masked. But they were devastated, kneecapped, and the questioning went nowhere, really. They didn’t know and couldn’t guess who had shot their son.
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