“Did you touch them?”
“Did I touch them? Yes, I touched them. And his desk. The door handle. Why wouldn’t I?”
This meant her fingerprints and maybe even her DNA would soon be found in the shed. Greene and DiPaulo had to get this information to the police fast, so it couldn’t be said she’d only admitted to being in the shed with Fox after she was presented with the evidence.
“What did you say to Fox’s offer?”
She hesitated. Looked at Ted. Took another sip of water.
It was bad when a witness hesitated this way. “Let me be clear about something that is very important,” Greene said. “When the police question you, they watch for things witnesses do to stall for time. Hesitation is a sign of guilt. Looking around the room. Taking a sip of water.”
She put her glass down. “Okay.”
Amberlight was smart, he thought. Maybe too smart?
“I’ve been meeting with Fox every Friday for the last month. The protest was his idea. He told me about this new blog, Kensington Confidential, and I began posting on it to get support.”
“Wait a minute. You’re saying Fox orchestrated the demonstration against himself?”
“I have to admit he was brilliant. He knew this would get him maximum press for his public about-face. Look, the government is set to spend millions in public housing and he wanted in on that money. There was no way he’d get a cent without a sea change to his image.”
“You heard he was getting married?”
“To a schoolteacher. New life. New image. New man. I actually thought Fox was being sincere. This afternoon we worked out the final details. He poured water for both of us and we toasted our deal. He could be very charming.”
Greene thought back to the water bottles and glasses he’d seen in the shed. Her DNA would be on the lip of the glass for sure.
DiPaulo, who had been silent until now, couldn’t restrain himself. “See. Cassandra left evidence all over the place that she’d been in the shed with Fox. She wasn’t hiding the fact that she’d been there,” he said. “Just the opposite.”
This was Ted being Ted. Always looking for the best legal argument. Finding ways to turn a negative into a positive.
“I had nothing to hide,” Amberlight said.
“The police will collect your DNA and prints from the crime scene,” Greene said, “but right now they won’t know who they belong to because you won’t be on file.”
Amberlight’s and DiPaulo’s eyes met.
“What?” Greene asked.
“This is not the first time Cassandra has been arrested,” DiPaulo said.
All the more reason why we have to get her to make a statement to the police, Greene thought.
“I didn’t think of that. You’ve been arrested at many of your protests. They’ll have your fingerprints, but they won’t have your DNA.”
Amberlight and DiPaulo were still looking at each other. Something else was going on here.
“Ted?” Greene asked.
He sighed. “Last year Cassandra was convicted of assault with a weapon. One of her young male employees was the victim. She’s on probation. As part of the deal, she gave a DNA sample. I’ve managed to keep this out of the papers.”
Not for much longer. Greene knew the press would figure this out in no time once they heard she was a suspect in Fox’s murder.
“What kind of weapon?”
DiPaulo rolled his eyes.
This keeps getting worse, Greene thought.
“A baseball bat. Cassandra’s a big Blue Jays fan. She had a bat signed by José Bautista in her old office and, well, you can probably fill in the rest.”
This was a disaster.
“Any other bad news I need to know about? Tell me now, not later.”
“That’s it,” she said. “All my dirty laundry.”
“It better be,” Greene said. He thought back to the shed. The gate. The alleyway.
“What happened after you and Fox toasted your agreement?”
“I said goodbye. And I left.”
“Which way did you go?”
She put her hands out as if to state the obvious. “Back out the gate.”
“Did you leave the gate open?” Greene kept his tone even. He was getting to the crucial question.
“Like I said, Fox had left it open for me when I got there. When I was leaving, he told me to be sure to close it behind me but not to lock it because he’d be leaving soon, and that’s what I did.”
Her tone wasn’t strident at all. She seemed totally unaware of the import of her answer, and that made her believable.
DiPaulo looked concerned but he shouldn’t have been. He didn’t know that the gate was open when Greene got there. Kennicott would notice this detail. If Amberlight was telling the truth when she said that she’d closed that gate behind her, it was evidence that someone came in after she left. The killer or killers had left the gate open when they fled the scene.
Kennicott would make sure this fact was not released to the public. The only people who knew it were the culprits and the police and Greene. If Amberlight’s seemingly candid answer was believed, it might exonerate her. But he didn’t want to tip her off to how important this was. Her not knowing was the best way to ensure she’d answer Kennicott in the same sincere way when he asked her the same key question.
“Then what did you do?” he asked.
“I went home and lay down for a while. It was so hot, I suddenly felt very tired. This was a big life decision for me and I knew a lot of people were going to think I’d sold out and made a deal with the devils.”
“Did you see or talk to anyone on your way there?”
“No. I walked down the back alley to Oxford Street. I didn’t want anyone to see me leaving Fox’s building.”
“How long were you at home?”
“I don’t know. I fell asleep for a while.”
Greene looked at DiPaulo. They were both thinking the same thing. She had no one to back up her alibi for the crucial time when Fox was killed. This was not good at all.
“What did you do when you woke up?”
“I got my megaphone and rushed up to the protest. It was already in full swing. I got up to the front and was leading things when we heard that Fox was dead, and then everything went haywire. I knew I’d just been with him and it would look bad, so I called Ted, and here we are.”
“You’ve got a decision to make, Ted,” Greene said. “If she says nothing to the police, she’ll almost certainly be arrested.”
DiPaulo frowned.
Greene knew that lawyers hate letting their clients talk to the police.
“And if she gives a statement? Admits to being there but maintains her innocence?” DiPaulo asked.
Amberlight looked shell-shocked. Greene had to snap her back to reality. And to action.
“If the police believe you, that will hold them back for a while. Maybe they’ll keep investigating and find the real killer. But if you’re going to talk to them, you need to do it in the next day or two. You and Ted will be stuck with your statement forever more. That means every word better damn well be true. And nothing but nothing left out.”
20
Even though Grandpa Y hadn’t finished the basement renovations, Alison’s bedroom was in good-enough shape for her to move into it last week. Just in time, now that she desperately needed the privacy. And it was nice and cool down there.
She’d been surprised by the weather in Canada. Everyone had warned her about the winter, and they were right, but when it snowed the city took on a wonderful, almost fairy-tale quality. She hadn’t anticipated the intense blue of the clear winter sky. And she was amazed that sometimes at night she could sit out on the front porch and see the stars.
One weekend in February, Ari had taken her up north for the day to a town called Haliburton. The drive was exhilarating. All the open space, snow blanketing the land for as far as she could see. They stopped at a Mennonite food stand and purchased gr
ass-fed beef from two young women in traditional dress, then drove to a nearby field where men in black hats were taking turns being pulled along on wooden skis by a horse-drawn buggy.
Next they’d eaten at a roadside restaurant called the Hardscrabble Café. Ari knew the owner, though he wouldn’t say how, an older woman who was very glad to see him. He seemed to know people wherever they went. She served them delicious French toast made with homemade bread and topped with local maple syrup. The afternoon was the highlight, when they went dogsledding through a deep forest and across a frozen lake.
On the way home, Ari draped her under a thick Hudson Bay blanket he’d bought in town. As she drifted off to sleep, she smiled. Though it was unspoken, they both knew he’d planned the day as a way to get her excited about living here.
She hopped on the bed in her new room, stacked pillows against the headboard, tucked her feet under the duvet, and opened her laptop. Her blog was on fire. Thousands of hits. She checked Twitter. Fox’s murder was the number one trending story out of Toronto. This was spinning out of control.
She picked up the TV remote and clicked on TO-TV. The news had just started, and the reporter Sheena Persad was talking to the camera. “The city has been shocked by the gruesome murder of thirty-four-year-old Livingston Fox. Just who was the dynamic young developer? We’ve prepared this special report.”
Persad continued to talk over high-school-yearbook photos of Fox, where he was tagged as “most likely to get rich,” then pictures of him on a rainy day in a hard hat at his first building site with his sister and Maxine, his assistant, all holding the same shovel.
“Fox’s empire grew,” Persad said over rolling photographs of Fox with well-known models and actresses, his Rolls-Royce convertible, and a beautiful chauffeur, “as did his reputation as a larger-than-life personality.
“But in the last year, he seemed to change,” Persad continued. “Much to the surprise of everyone, two weeks ago the anonymous new blog Kensington Confidential broke the story that Fox was engaged to a schoolteacher.”
A screenshot of Alison’s blog appeared with the headline that she’d written. “Fox Finds Fidelity? Builder Livingston Fox to Marry Local Teacher.”
Alison felt ill.
“The blog has carried a number of breaking stories about Fox,” Persad said when she was back on camera.
Alison tensed. Was Persad going to mention that she’d met the Kensington Blogger? It felt as if the reporter were looking right at her.
“I encourage anyone who has information about Fox to contact me directly.” As Persad spoke, her email address and work number scrolled across the screen. The camera moved in on her for a tight close-up. “Of course, if you have any information about this case, go straight to the police.”
Alison wanted to scream at the TV set: I don’t know anything about the murder!
But was that true? She was supposed to have met with Fox this afternoon and he hadn’t shown up. Did that matter?
“Not everyone was impressed with Livingston Fox’s meteoric career,” Persad said. “Earlier today, a large rally was held in historic Kensington Market, outside Fox’s newest condominium project. TO-TV News was there.”
Alison froze as she watched the screen.
Persad disappeared again, replaced by footage of chanting protesters holding up signs and of Cassandra Amberlight jumping up in front of the crowd, shouting through her megaphone, “Stop the Fox, Save the Market!”
“Then came the shocking news that Livingston Fox had been murdered,” Persad said. “A note of caution: the photograph you are about to see is not appropriate for young children.”
There it was, Alison’s photo of Fox lying on the floor of the shed. They had blurred out his face and the rebar stuck through his chest, but the image was still powerful.
“Police have asked anyone with any information about the identity of the Kensington Blogger to contact them immediately,” Persad said, then she signed off.
Her message was clear: Alison, get hold of me soon, or I’ll have no choice but to go to the cops and tell them I met you.
21
Kennicott was thankful he lived just four blocks from a Metro supermarket that was open twenty-four hours and glad that at 4:30 a.m. it was almost empty. An exhausted-looking security guard wearing thick-sole shoes stood by the sliding front door. The store’s lights were so bright they hurt Kennicott’s tired eyes. The sound system was playing Barry Manilow’s “Mandy” as he waited in line. Now Tony Orlando was playing and Kennicott wished he had a yellow ribbon to stuff down the singer’s throat.
He liked to cook, but after weeks at the murder trial, his food supplies had dwindled to almost nothing. He desperately needed to shower, shave, eat, and get an hour or two of rest before the long day ahead. But even more than sleep, he needed time to think through everything he’d learned in the last twelve hours.
He looked at the tomatoes and picked through them for the ripest one. He selected a white onion, some cremini mushrooms, and two skimpy packages of fresh basil. He had some good pasta at home, and all he had to do now was pick up some chicken—he’d need the protein—to make a decent meal.
At the checkout, there was one customer in front of him. Kennicott closed his eyes for a moment. At least Tony Orlando wasn’t singing anymore, but now it was Whitney Houston. She’d decided long ago never to walk in anyone’s shadow. That’s what he was trying to do—walk in Livingston Fox’s shadow.
This afternoon, after they left Foxhole, Kennicott and Darvesh had sped back to police headquarters. Darvesh researched Fox while Kennicott sifted through the field reports that had come in from the officers on the scene. They’d knocked on every door on Augusta Avenue, talked to store owners on Spadina and College and to a few protesters who were prepared to cooperate, and come up empty. Some people weren’t home, and those who were had been entirely focused on the protest. No one had been in the alleyway or seen anyone come in or out of the rear gate of the Kensington Gate construction site.
The area had been searched for video surveillance cameras. Unfortunately, most of the market was stuck in the 1960s, and few stores had them.
Detective Ho went with Kennicott to the autopsy, where Fox’s organs were examined, samples of his blood and urine were sent out for analysis that would take the usual four to six weeks, and the body cavity was sewn back up. The pathologist confirmed Ho’s initial hunch. There were no signs of trauma anywhere other than the hole in his chest. He had no defensive wounds on his hands. No scratches. No skin under his fingernails. It was as if Fox had voluntarily lain down and let someone spear him through the heart.
When Kennicott got back to headquarters, Darvesh was excited. They’d lifted a clean set of prints from the empty glasses on the worktable and he’d run them through the database.
“We got a match,” he said.
“Tell me.”
“Cassandra Amberlight.”
Kennicott let out a long, slow whistle.
“Yep. Looks like we’ve got ourselves a prime suspect.”
Darvesh had already gone through the TV footage of the protest. Amberlight hadn’t shown up until it was in full swing. According to the timer on the tape, she’d arrived at 3:49:01. As a precaution, he’d sent a squad car to watch her apartment in Kensington Market. The officers reported that it was dark and they could see no movement inside. They’d located her car, an old Subaru with the license plate “PROTEST”, parked on a side street. Darvesh had checked Facebook and Twitter and found that she was usually active online, but she hadn’t posted anything after 2:00 p.m.
He’d run her criminal record and found she had a recent conviction. He’d also retrieved some older ones that she’d got expunged. And he’d sent copies of her photograph to every police division in the city with an alert to be on the lookout for her.
Kennicott was now so exhausted that the small bag of groceries felt heavy. It was still dark outside. Fatigue was pulling him down. He had to get home before the sun ro
se. If he hurried, he’d have enough time to make himself a meal, eat, and sleep for a while.
The Federicos, his landlords, had left the light on over the side entrance to the house on Clinton Street where he lived. A piece of folded paper was wedged in the door handle. Kennicott put the groceries down and tugged it out. This could only be from one person.
“Daniel,” the handwritten note read. “Meet me at Caldense Bakery at 5:00 a.m. Ari.”
SATURDAY MORNING
22
At five in the morning, Dundas Street West was almost empty. A 505 streetcar, carrying early-morning workers, rumbled by, and the moon was tipping down to the horizon. It cast a grey shadow in front of Kennicott as he walked along the deserted sidewalk.
This was so like Ari Greene to get hold of Kennicott by leaving a note in his door, avoiding a traceable text, email, or phone call. His few words carried multiple meanings: Greene would know that Kennicott had been up all night working the case; he would know that Kennicott was too keyed up to sleep; and he would know that no matter how tired Kennicott was, he wouldn’t resist his invitation.
The Caldense was a Portuguese bakery that opened early to serve construction workers who stopped in for an espresso and croissant before heading off to their job sites. Kennicott had met Greene here many times, and this morning he found him sitting in the window seat where he always sat, laughing with the same squat bald man dressed in the same black vest and black shirt as on all their previous meetings here.
Greene stood up when Kennicott came in.
Kennicott thought about shaking his hand, but he didn’t.
“Daniel, you remember Miguel Caldas, proprietor extraordinaire?”
“Nice to see you again, sir,” Kennicott said, reaching out to shake the owner’s hand.
“My pleasure, Detective,” Caldas replied. “Ari told me to get you a double espresso and a croissant when you arrived. I’ll be right back.”
Greene sat back down, and Kennicott took the other chair.
“You’re not going to make me eat their croissants again,” Kennicott said, glancing at the half-eaten one on Greene’s plate. It was a long-standing joke between them. The croissants at the Caldense, unlike their light, buttery French counterparts, were dry and hard. Greene hated them.
Heart of the City Page 8