The audience was stunned. No one seemed to know what to do. The helicopter started circling, criss-crossing the crowd with its spotlight. People scrambled to their feet and rushed to their cars.
Greene and Bassante waited in the trees until almost everyone had left and the helicopter had flown away. By the time they got to the parking lot, clouds had covered the moon and it was dark.
“Crazy,” Bassante said as he got in Greene’s car.
Greene was playing Kate Fox’s eulogy and the sister Gloria’s outburst over in his mind.
“What do you think?” Bassante asked.
“I think,” Greene answered, putting his car in gear, “that this family has some secrets.”
SUNDAY MORNING
41
Kennicott’s body jerked. His eyes sprang open. Something was ringing. His phone, on the floor.
He rolled over, checked call display, and answered it.
“What’s up?” he whispered.
“Sorry to bother you,” Darvesh said. “You were right. The subject is moving.”
“Okay, okay. Wait.”
Kennicott got up and tiptoed down the hallway to the kitchen. It was still dark outside. He closed the door behind him, being careful to not make any noise.
“What’s she doing?” he asked Darvesh.
“She’s in her car, blue Subaru, licence plate ‘PROTEST,’ heading down Spadina. I’m a block behind her.”
“Is the tracker working?”
“Perfectly.”
Kennicott looked at the clock on his microwave. It was 3:20 a.m. “Anyone else on the street?”
“Two or three cars. She’s gone east on Lakeshore. Wait, I’ve made the turn. She’s a few car lengths ahead now and taking the ramp up to the Gardiner.”
“Don’t get too close.” Kennicott opened the fridge, took out a carton of orange juice, and poured himself a glass. “If she’d turned west, I’d guess she was headed to Buffalo. East, the closest border crossing is the Thousand Islands Bridge. That’s a three-hour drive.”
“I’m on the DVP now. She’s sticking to the speed limit.”
“She’s afraid of being stopped by the police.” Kennicott’s mouth was dry. He took a drink of the juice. “Good thing we had a Plan B. I assume you can see it?”
“Perfectly.”
“I’ll put in a call to someone I know at the OPP, they patrol the highway. They’ll stop and ticket her.”
“Nice. What about when she gets to the border? She could go anywhere once she’s in the States.”
“Yes, if they let her in.”
“Very nice. So that’s how it’s done.”
Kennicott finished his juice. “Follow her at a safe distance.”
“When she gets turned back, do we arrest her?”
“No, we wait. Keep her under surveillance. She’s supposed to come in with her lawyer this afternoon so we can interview her. Call me in an hour.”
He hung up and phoned the Durham Regional Police, who patrolled the highways east of Toronto, and American Customs at the Thousand Islands Bridge.
The door behind him opened and Breaker walked in. She was wearing a pair of white shorts and a loose grey T-shirt.
“Police business?” she asked.
“I tried not to wake you.”
“The bed in your spare room is comfortable, but I barely slept. I can’t stop thinking about Livingston. You know, for all his showmanship, when you sat down with him one on one, he was a true friend. He was sincere. He wanted to change things.”
Kennicott lifted the orange juice carton. “Want a glass?”
“I don’t want to get in the way if you need to make some more phone calls.”
“I’m done for now. I’ve got a few minutes before I have to go in. I could make you a latte. The espresso machine is loud so I didn’t use it.”
“I’d love a coffee,” she said.
“So would I,” he said.
Their eyes met for a moment. She twirled one of her braids with her finger.
“Make yourself at home here today,” he said. “I’ll get a patrol car stationed outside. You’ll be safe; don’t leave the house.” And, he thought, it’s a good thing I let you stay over. There’s no question about your alibi for the night.
“I really appreciate it.”
“With luck we’ll make an arrest later this afternoon.”
“You’re kidding. That fast?”
“Keep your fingers crossed.”
“That would be amazing. You can’t imagine what a relief that would be.”
“I think I can.”
Neither of them had moved.
“I need to grind up some beans,” he said.
She grinned. “You do that and I’ll froth the milk.”
42
Unlike his daughter and his father, Greene had never bought into the romance of Kensington Market. As a cop, he’d seen the overcrowded rooming houses, the hookers who worked the streets after hours, the back-alley drug dealing, the gang activity, and the too-frequent gunplay.
Still, every time he was in the market, Greene tried to imagine what it must have been like for his parents when they first arrived here. They’d met after the war in a displaced persons camp in Austria, when they were both alone in the world. Their spouses, their children, their parents, and all their relatives and friends had been murdered.
Ari’s mother was convalescing in the camp’s hospital when she met Yitzhak in the cafeteria. She took one look at him and said, “You’re handsome. Why don’t you marry me?”
“Why not?” he replied.
They were married ten days later.
Then came an excruciating three-year wait to get into Canada. They arrived in the spring of 1948. Back then Toronto was a dull, closed, and almost all-white city. They taught themselves English, scraped out a living and sheltered in Kensington, the city’s gateway to newcomers for more than a century.
In those days it was known as the Jewish Market. People there still raised and killed chickens in their backyards and half of the conversations were in Yiddish. As the Jews moved north, waves of immigrants came from Portugal, the Caribbean, Chile, and East Asia to take their places. The Vietnam War brought in American draft dodgers. Then came Africans, Tamils, East Europeans and Russians, and more recently Mexicans and South and Central Americans.
On Sunday morning the streets were sparsely populated with late-night stragglers wandering home and shopkeepers opening their grates and sweeping the sidewalks in front of their stores. Amberlight’s apartment was above a cheese shop that had been there through three generations of owners. As Greene walked up the narrow staircase to the second floor, the smell of moulding cheese seemed to ooze from the dingy wallpaper.
Yesterday, he had suggested in the strongest terms that Amberlight stay at DiPaulo’s house for a second night.
“No way,” she’d said. “I want to go home.”
“If you give me your keys, I can pick up anything you need from your place,” Greene said.
“I’d like to sleep in my own bed. There’s no guarantee that this might not be my last chance for a long time.”
Greene had agreed to come get her this morning. That would give Amberlight time to sleep and get organized, then meet with DiPaulo before going into the police station.
Amberlight’s apartment was at the far end of the second floor, and even this early in the morning it was warm in the hallway. Greene got to her door and knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again. Nothing. He found the doorbell and pushed it. Nothing.
“Cassandra,” he said, raising his voice, “it’s Ari Greene.”
Still no response. He pulled out his phone and called DiPaulo.
“I’m at her door and she’s not answering.”
“Holy shit.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I’ll call her. Hang on, I’ll put you on hold.”
Greene turned back to the door and was about to knock again when he heard footsteps co
ming up the stairs. Slow, heavy steps. A cellphone rang and a woman’s voice answered it.
“Cassandra Amberlight.”
There was a pause, then Amberlight appeared with her phone in one hand and a carry-out tray with two coffee cups in the other.
“I’m fine, Ted,” she said. “Stop being such a worrywart. I just went out to get some coffees.”
She looked up and noticed Greene.
“Yes, yes, yes. I see him at the end of my hallway. You two are like a pair of old ladies.”
She hung up and walked toward Greene. “These godawful stairs are going to be the death of me. And this dreadful humidity.” She was breathing hard. “There was a long line up at Jimmy’s. I got you a latte. Be careful, it’s very hot.”
“That was kind of you,” he said, taking the tray and the remaining drink from her.
“I bet you’re one of those horrid people who are always on time.”
“Do you need to pick anything up from your place?”
“No, let’s go and get this over with.”
“You nervous?”
“Why should I be nervous? I’m facing the prospect of being convicted for a murder I didn’t commit and going to jail for the rest of my life. Piece of cake.”
At the top of the steep staircase, she hesitated. She clutched the thin metal railing with one hand while holding her coffee in the other.
“I find going down even harder than going up. And to think, at law school I was captain of the women’s hockey team.” She grunted with exertion at every step. “I hope to hell you’re right about me talking to the cops.”
“Remember what I told you,” he said. They were halfway down. “When you speak to the police, no secrets.”
She stopped to steady herself and took a sip of her coffee. Greene saw her take her hand off the railing.
“Be careful,” he said.
“You sound like Ted. I’ve climbed up and down these stairs hundreds of times.”
She started down again. The heel of her shoe caught on the edge of the next step and she fell back. A piece of paper flew out of her shirt pocket and she grabbed it. Her feet jetted out in front of her. Her cup went flying over her shoulder and Greene felt the hot liquid smack the side of his face. He shot out his arm to grab her elbow and the tray in his other hand fell. The cup burst open, and coffee splashed over her legs.
“Ouch,” Amberlight cried.
She fell against him, and her weight pushed him back. He didn’t think he could hold her. They were going to tumble head over heels the rest of the way down unless he could brace himself. He shot out his free arm, trying to reach the far wall, but didn’t feel anything. They were falling.
He stretched his arm out, and this time he felt the base of the wall. He used it to brace himself as he let her weight fall onto his chest as he lowered her as slowly as he could until they were safely sitting.
“Ugh,” she said.
“You okay?”
She exhaled. Inhaled heavily. Exhaled again. “I think so.” She breathed in and out again. “Thanks.”
He could feel the coffee burn on his cheek He rubbed it with his bare hand.
She slumped over, her head between her knees. “Why is all this happening?” She sighed. “Everything in my life. Everything is falling apart.”
43
Alison made a point of getting to the Toronto Reference Library half an hour before it opened. She was not the first one there by any means. Students with bulging backpacks, raggedly dressed loners, and older couples were already waiting patiently in the glassed-in lobby. She’d found that Canadians were, as advertised, quite polite, and one of the things she’d grown to like about Toronto was that people from all backgrounds seemed to mix here without conflict.
When the security guard opened the door, almost everyone headed to the computers on the ground floor. There were nine rows of them, and they filled up fast.
Alison got one of the last ones. Lucky. This was the only way she could think of to send an anonymous email. And right now, anonymity was the most important thing in her life.
She typed in the email address Persad had given her and then wrote: “This is urgent. Can you meet me at the subway station at 2:30?” and pressed send. She stared at the screen, her mind racing. It was Sunday. Persad said to call her if she didn’t respond to email. Okay, Alison thought, but she couldn’t use her own phone.
She looked around. A balding librarian was sitting behind a desk, talking on a phone. She looked back at the computer screen. No reply yet from Persad. She took out the reporter’s business card and memorized the phone number, then took her wallet and phone out of her jacket, draped the jacket on her chair and walked over to the librarian’s desk. He was finishing his call. He hung up and smiled at her.
“Yes, can I help you?”
“Excuse me,” she said, exaggerating her English accent. “Could I possibly trouble you to use your telephone for a brief local call?”
“I’m afraid the library phones are not available to the public.”
“I’m here for one week with my mum and I have no cell service in Canada.”
He looked around. “Okay, but keep it short,” he said, turning the phone for her to use.
She dialled Persad’s number. It rang three times.
“Sheena Persad,” the reporter said, answering on the fourth ring, sounding breathless. Alison could hear a child playing in the background.
“Yes, could I have room 314 please.”
“Sorry, I think you have the wrong—”
“No, no. And thank you for directing me to the Rosedale subway stop this morning.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. Alison heard a little girl saying, “Mommy, Mommy, look.”
“Hello, Mum,” Alison said into the phone. “I was going to leave a voice mail. I didn’t think you’d still be in the hotel room.”
“Are you at a public phone?” Persad asked.
“Yes. The Reference Library. It’s a lovely spot. You must come see it.” She looked over at the librarian. He was tapping his pen on the edge of his desk, eyeing her.
“Is someone listening to you?”
“Exactly.”
“I did a drawing,” the child said.
“And you don’t want to use your own phone,” Persad said.
“A kind man here is letting me use the library phone. But I have to be fast.”
“Very smart of you,” Persad said. “But listen, I need to know who you are and you need to go to the police.”
“But I—”
“No buts. This is getting out of hand. I’ll meet you. But only if you tell me everything and are prepared to go to the police. Today.”
Alison glanced at the librarian. He was giving her an anxious look. She turned her back to him.
“I know,” she said, lowering her voice. “You’re right.”
“Good. I’ll have to call the sitter. I’ll see you in half an hour at the Rosedale subway station.”
“Perfect,” Alison said. “Ta, Mum. Love you.”
She heard Persad hang up. She turned back to the librarian, who already had his hand out for the receiver.
“Many thanks,” she said.
“I’m glad you like our library,” he said.
“Love it.”
She made her way back to the computer and sat down. She felt off balance. There had been a moment there when she’d forgotten she was only pretending to talk to her mother. Ta, Mum. Love you. How many thousands of times had she said that to her mother, and what wouldn’t she give to be able to do it for real just one more time?
44
Even before he walked into the house, Kennicott knew it would be immaculate. The outside was picture-perfect. The front lawn was so precisely manicured it looked as if each blade had been measured and cut by hand. The perennials in the pristine front flowerbed were arranged beautifully. The stones in the Japanese rock garden to the side of the front porch were smooth and clean.
> He rang the front bell and gentle chimes sounded inside. The door opened. Anita Nakamura, Fox’s fiancée, stood in the hallway, wearing a simple pair of grey cotton pants and a pale blue shirt. Her black hair was tied back. The air conditioning was on in the house and a blast of cool air hit Kennicott’s skin.
“Good morning, Detective. Please come in. My parents are here as well. They have made tea.”
She ushered him through the hallway to a formal dining room. A black cast-iron teapot was in the middle of the table. Small matching teacups, each centred on a white place mat, were set in front of four chairs. Nakamura’s parents stood at the entrance to the room and stepped forward to greet him. Kennicott had learned a lot about Japanese manners during the year he spent after university teaching English in a small Japanese port town. He stopped and gave them a slight bow. They smiled and bowed back in return.
They all sat down. The Nakamuras looked at him expectantly.
“I know this is a terrible time for all of you,” Kennicott said. “I’m sure with the shock and the jet lag and then the ceremony last night, you must be exhausted.”
They kept looking at him but said nothing.
“Murder investigations are complicated. I am limited in what I can tell you at this time. But I can assure you, we are working on this night and day. We will do everything we can to bring the perpetrator of this crime to justice.”
They continued to stare at him.
He was reciting clichés to a family in grief. All of his police training had taught him to remain objective. Never get too close. Don’t personalize things. It was a rule he’d watched Greene break over and over.
“The reason I became a police officer was to help people. Believe me when I say that I know it’s hard to wait for answers.”
Mr. Nakamura broke off eye contact. For a moment, Kennicott thought he was going to walk out of the room. Instead, he reached for the teapot.
“Detective, would you like some tea?”
“Yes, thank you.”
He poured the tea carefully into Kennicott’s cup, then the other three.
Heart of the City Page 16