Heart of the City

by Robert Rotenberg

  Kennicot knew that tea was important. A guest was always served first but should not drink until his host had done so.

  He waited until Mr. and Ms. Nakamura sipped their tea before he did the same. The temperature was perfect. Anita didn’t touch hers.

  “We have read about you and the tragedy of your family,” Mr. Nakamura said. “Our sincere condolences, and we do hope that one day the man who killed your brother is found. We are honoured to have you as the investigating officer on this case. You may ask us any questions.”

  “I appreciate that,” Kennicott said. “How well did you two know Mr. Fox?”

  “We were getting to know him and were looking forward to having him as part of our family,” Ms. Nakamura said. “Two weeks ago, before we left on our trip, he brought us a beautiful bouquet of flowers and a lovely book about modern architecture. He asked my husband for permission to marry our daughter. My husband said yes.”

  “He was very respectful,” Mr. Nakamura said. “Our daughter is very, very sad.”

  “Perhaps it is a good idea if I speak to Anita alone,” Kennicott said.

  They nodded, stood, and left the room.

  “Ask me anything, Detective,” Anita said when they were alone.

  “Why don’t you tell me about how you met Livingston. How long you’d been seeing each other. And anything you can think of that might help.”

  “It’s funny,” she said, touching her cup now, cradling it in her hands. “We met in September. I was teaching a night class in life drawing at Central Tech. He was a student. He didn’t seem at all special. He always wore an old pair of jeans and a hoodie, and he hardly ever spoke. He worked hard at his drawing, and he was good.”

  Kennicott tried to picture it. Livingston Fox, incognito in an art class, enjoying being out of the limelight.

  “One night, we ended up walking out at the same time. It was the first week in December and there was an early snowstorm. I was the one who said, ‘Why don’t we get a coffee,’ not him. He asked me all about myself. Why was I a teacher? What did I like most about my students? How did I prepare my lesson plans? Before I knew it, it was past midnight.”

  She rolled the cup between her palms. “I asked him where he lived, and he said ‘Oh, I have a place downtown.’ My apartment is by the Sherbourne subway station. I asked him if he wanted to come over, and he said, ‘Okay, if it’s not too late.’ ”

  “So you don’t live here?” Kennicott asked her.

  “I’m staying with my parents for a few days.”

  Kennicott put his hands flat on the table, making himself stay perfectly still.

  “Livingston was shy,” she said. “Considerate. That night, we lay on my bed with our clothes on and listened to music. That’s all. We woke up about seven o’clock the next morning. He’d set the alarm on his phone. He said he had to get to work. I asked him what he did for a living and he said he had a desk job at a real-estate development company. You know, I had no idea who he was.”

  “When did you figure it out?”

  “About two months later. At that point, we were dating. I was getting my hair done, and I saw the article about him in Toronto Life. I was stunned.”

  “Were you angry?”

  “Not really. He told me he didn’t want me to like him because of his wealth. Listen, Detective. Just because I’m from a proper Japanese family doesn’t mean I was inexperienced. I’ve been with lots of men, but no one like Livingston. Ever.”

  She put her teacup down. “When your brother was murdered, did you feel this way?” she asked. “This emptiness in your whole body? Like a piece of you was gone?”

  Her eyes were searching his.

  “I still have conversations with my brother and my parents in my head. I wish I had some magic words to make you feel better, but I don’t. All I can do is catch the killer.”

  “I know.”

  “Did Livingston ever tell you he was afraid or worried or anything like that?”

  “No.”

  “Did he ever talk to you about his plans for the second condo project on College Street? The one he was calling K2?”

  “That’s the one part of his business that he talked to me about. He was obsessed with it. He had this radical idea of building quality, well-designed public housing. He’d come over to my apartment and spend hours working on the architectural drawings.”

  It was the same thing Breaker had told him.

  “Did you see the plans?”

  “Of course. But he swore me to secrecy. He didn’t want anyone to know about the project but me.”

  “Do you know where the plans are now?”

  “No. But I know he had only one set, and he was very careful with them.”

  “When was the last time you communicated with him?”

  “There was a thirteen-hour time difference when I was in Japan. I’d wake up early and he’d call me every morning.”

  “Did he call you on Friday?”

  She nodded, lowered her eyes.

  “Twice. The first time it was four in the morning here in Toronto. He never did that. I said, ‘Why are you up so early?’ He said he couldn’t sleep and that he had to hear my voice.”

  “And the second time?”

  “It would have been twenty after two in the afternoon here. He was getting ready for an important meeting.”

  “Did he say who he was meeting?”

  “No. He said he wanted to surprise me.”

  “What else?”

  “That he was working hard. He said it was hot and he was tired, probably because he hadn’t slept very well.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He said one strange thing. He wanted me to be careful. I asked him what he meant. He said he thought people were tracking his movements, trying to steal his drawings for K2. I asked him who, and he said he didn’t know but he was trying to find out. He said to make sure I never told anyone about his plans.

  “Anything else?”

  She shook her head, struggling to compose herself.

  “He said that I’d changed his life. That he’d never really been happy before he met me. That he loved my parents. That he couldn’t wait for me to get home.”

  They didn’t talk much longer. Kennicott got up to let himself out, but Nakamura insisted on walking him to the door.

  “You are very kind,” she said.

  “I’ll do everything I can and more.”

  She nodded, biting her bottom lip. Something about her body language told him not to leave quite yet. She gestured down the path and started to walk toward his car. He followed her. They stopped at the sidewalk.

  She took a deep breath.

  “When they read Livingston’s will, his parents are going to find that he cut them out. He left them each one dollar.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  “He left a third to his sister, a third to me, and a third in trust.”

  “In trust? For who?”

  “I can’t tell my parents this yet,” she whispered. Her hand went to her stomach. “I’m pregnant.”

  “Oh my. Did Livingston . . .”

  “He knew. We found out a month ago. The last thing he said to me was ‘I love you and our baby too.’ ”

  She started to cry. He waited while she wiped away her tears.

  “Please find out who did this to us.”

  She turned and walked back to the house. He watched until she was inside before he got into his car. He sat behind the wheel and stared out the windshield. At the house next door, a group of kids were playing basketball in the driveway. Two houses farther down, a man was mowing his lawn. Two women pushing jogging strollers ran past. He watched a water sprinkler on another lawn rotate back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

  He had no idea how long he’d been sitting there when his phone rang. He looked at the display. It was Darvesh.

  “What’s up?” he said.

  “We got the rush DNA results back on the baseball cap.�
�

  “And?”

  “I think you should contact Detective Greene right away.”

  “Ari? Why?”

  “I don’t want to say on the phone. But it’s big.”

  “Okay, I’m on my way.” Kennicott turned on the ignition. The basketball dribbled down the driveway and out into the road. He waited until one of the players retrieved it and ran back to his friends before he slapped his car into gear.

  45

  When Greene arrived at the Caldense Bakery, Kennicott was already sitting in the window seat, a cup of coffee and a half-eaten croissant in front of him. Greene always shook hands with everyone he met. Kennicott knew that, but he made no move to get up. Greene kept his hands by his side and sat down across from him. There was a file on the table with a large CFS stamp on the outside: the Centre of Forensic Sciences.

  Greene looked around the cafe. A soccer game was playing on the TV and a group of men and one woman were crowded around it, watching. Miguel Caldas, the proprietor, saw Greene and motioned to him.

  “How’s your father?” Kennicott asked, when he looked back at him.

  “My dad’s fine, thanks. What is so urgent?”

  “What’s he up to lately?”

  “The usual. He goes to synagogue every morning to see his buddies and complain about the rabbi.”

  “What about yesterday?”

  Why was Kennicott asking about his father?

  “Ari, do you know where he was?”

  This was absurd. “Daniel, what the hell is this about?”

  “You’re not answering my question.”

  “He’s renovating my basement. I think he was buying some drywall.”

  “You think but you don’t know for sure, do you?”

  “Daniel, are you cross-examining me?”

  Greene heard footsteps behind him. He turned in his chair.

  “Detective Greene,” Caldas said. “Lovely to see you again so soon. A croissant for you. What else? Cup of tea? Maybe some soup?”

  He put a plate in front of Greene with a croissant on it and a glass of water.

  “That’s fine for now, thanks, Miguel,” he said.

  “Enjoy,” Caldas said, and walked away.

  Greene looked again at the CFS file on the table. What was going on? “Daniel, why am I thinking I should tell you to fuck off?”

  “Did your father know Livingston Fox?”

  “My father repaired shoes for his whole life. You know that. How would he know Fox?”

  “Is that a no?”

  “Yes, that’s a no.”

  “Does he have a computer?”

  “You think because he’s older he’s not on the Internet?”

  “So that’s a yes?”

  “He has a computer. He has a cellphone. He used to have a Russian girlfriend who he met online. He’s on Facebook. He’s even got a Twitter account.”

  “We know that.”

  “You know what? You’re investigating my father? You know about his Twitter account?” It took a lot to get Greene angry, but Kennicott was so calm it made him furious.

  “Does your dad have a blog?”

  “My father? Enough.” He pointed at the folder. “What’s with the CFS file?”

  “You should know, Ari.”

  “Know what?”

  “Come on. You know that yesterday I got a yellow backpack from a lawyer named Anthony Carpenter. You know it had a note on it telling me that it had been retrieved from the house across from the Kensington Gate building site.”

  Greene kept staring at Kennicott. There was no way he was going to admit what they both knew. But what did this have to do with his father?

  “And you know there was a baseball cap and a pair of sunglasses inside. And you know the unknown person in the crowd who was caught on TV leaving the protest march and heading in the direction of the house was wearing the same clothes and hat.”

  Greene kept his face neutral. He’d seen the video. There was no way that person was his father.

  “We got a DNA sample from the inside band of the ball cap,” Kennicott said. “What I can’t figure out is if you knew this hat belonged to a member of your family who was tied up with all this, why did you send me the backpack?”

  “What are you talking about? I know my father better than anyone. That unknown person in the crowd who they showed on TV wasn’t him.” Something didn’t fit. Kennicott would not be meeting him like this unless he had something. What?

  Kennicott broke off eye contact, pulled out the file, and passed the report over to Greene. “Ari, the DNA is a fifty percent match for you.”

  “Fifty percent,” Greene repeated. He felt numb.

  “It’s a female.”

  The crowd around the television erupted in cheers.

  “Female,” Greene said, hearing the hollow echo of his own voice despite the noise.

  “Ari, I know your mother is dead and you don’t have kids. But I never knew you had a sister. Or a half-sister perhaps. We started following your dad online because we thought maybe he could lead us to her. We have a preliminary description of her from a witness of the person with the backpack and baseball cap.”

  Oh no, Greene thought. Oh no. How could he have been so naive?

  Kennicott started reading from the report. “Female. Caucasian, brown hair . . .”

  “Grey-green eyes,” Greene said.

  Kennicott stopped reading and looked at him. “That’s not in the report. She was wearing sunglasses.”

  “Eyes like mine,” Greene said. He thought back to Alison’s text to him on Friday afternoon. Just heard the news. Making it sound as if she were at school. He thought back to her time in university in London, how she couldn’t sit still for classes. The same thing had happened again. It was less than a year since her mother died. He should have seen this coming.

  “Did your witness say the woman had a British accent?” he asked.

  “Don’t know. Witness says she didn’t say anything. Ari, what’s going on? You know I’m breaking police protocol big time by coming to you with this first. Your sister is probably the one who took the pictures and posted them. She’s almost certainly the Kensington Blogger we’ve been looking for.”

  Then, Greene remembered, she had texted: Someone murdered at K. Gate?? So relieved u r okay!! As if she knew nothing about what had happened.

  “Ari?” Kennicott said.

  Greene thought back to when Ted DiPaulo and Cassandra Amberlight came to his house. How Alison had dropped the lilac when she’d seen them, then picked it up and kept it in front of her face when they got to the porch, and how quickly she’d gone inside. She was the Kensington Blogger. She’d probably spent weeks and weeks hanging out in the market and must have been afraid Amberlight would recognize her. He remembered their brief conversation.

  “They should charge the person. Young lady, this is your generation. All these cellphones and selfie shots. What do you think?”

  “I guess sometimes people just get carried away.”

  “Ari?” Kennicott was talking to him. “Are you okay?”

  Greene focused back on Kennicott. “My father had nothing to do with this. I don’t have a sister or a half-sister. It was my daughter.”

  “Daughter?”

  “Yes, Daniel, I have a daughter.”

  “Since when? How old is she?”

  “Twenty. She came back with me to Canada from England, where she grew up. That was in December. I told you I wasn’t ready to talk to you yet. That was why. She wants to be a journalist. I thought she was in school, but instead it looks as if you are right. We’ve found the Kensington Blogger.”

  46

  Alison looked at the text she’d sent her father twenty-five minutes ago. “Dad, I really, really need to talk 2 u. When will u b home??? Allie.”

  “Walking home, I’ll be there in about half an hour,” he’d texted back. “What’s up?”

  “Hurry,” was all she’d written.

  For the last
ten minutes she’d been standing at the end of the street, waiting for him to arrive. Despite the hot sun and the humidity, Alison was shivering. What would Ari say when he found out what she’d done? That his daughter was a liar? That she was the Kensington Blogger who’d posted the photo of Livingston Fox’s body online? He was going to be extremely disappointed in her.

  The hot weather had brought people outdoors. Along Dundas Street, a rainbow of colourful awnings and umbrellas had sprouted on the patios of the restaurants and bars like a field of tulips in spring. Everyone looked happy.

  “Hi there.”

  Alison turned. Ari was standing right in front of her. He wasn’t smiling at her the way he always did. “What’s up?” he said.

  “I need to tell you something, and it’s really bad.”

  He nodded, not saying anything. He was maddeningly quiet sometimes.

  “I . . . I haven’t been honest with you. I quit school in April. I couldn’t handle it. I’ve been pretending to go for months.”

  He gave her one of his slow nods. She wished he’d say something. Anything.

  “And, well, I started hanging out in Kensington Market. It’s the only place in this city where I feel at home. It kind of reminds me of Portobello Market in London, where I went on Saturdays with Mum, and Grandpa Y loves it there. It’s not as clean and neat and modern like everything else in this city of yours.”

  He still wasn’t talking. But she had to tell him. She had to.

  “You see. I still want to be a journalist. And, well, like . . .”

  “You started the Kensington Confidential blog,” he said. His tone was flat, lifeless.

  Wait. Had he known this all along?

  “You knew?” she demanded.

  “I just found out.”

  “How?”

  “Yesterday I went into the house on Augusta beside the building site. I found your backpack and got it to the police. Your DNA was on the band of the Blue Jays cap and I’m a fifty percent match. Detective Kennicott told me half an hour ago.”

  What did this mean? The police had identified her. Was she going to be arrested?

  “Am I in trouble?”

  “The police want to talk to you.”

  “I want to talk to them. Are they going to arrest me?”