Cold City Streets

by L.H. Thomson

  “Sure, I’ll buy that. I mean, there’s still the possibility that the shooter was hired by Edman, or Kennedy or even Mrs. Featherstone. But it’s possible it was just some dispute. What else?”

  “For another,” Cobi said, “we still have one question we haven’t even considered, one that maybe opens this thing up: who was Brian Featherstone sleeping with? And what did that person have to do with Thrifty Mike’s, a north-end dive bar?”

  After work, Cobi called Sarah for the third and fourth times before giving up; if she was around, she didn’t want him to see Michael or her. He hated the thought of her seeing someone else, even though he knew it was over. But even then, he’d hoped she’d be honest about it, to give him a chance to babysit for Michael and be able to spend more time with his son.

  Cobi pulled the BMW in behind his building. It was still early but he only had a few spare dollars. Eating out wasn’t an option, but he had to admit to himself he’d enjoyed having a beer with Jess. After years as an athlete, it felt okay to let himself go a little. He got out of his car and slammed the door, but instead of going inside, stopped and thought about it, and instead set out west on foot, towards the Empress Ale House on Whyte, a neighborhood pub.

  Parked on the street at the end of the alley, Det. Jon Mariner watched Jessica Harper’s investigator change his mind about going inside. Carver mentioned his name was Tate, and that he’d played football, but that didn’t mean much to Mariner.

  It was a tense business, following up a case without his partner – indeed, because of his ex-partner. But the lawyer’s approach at the prelim suggested the defense team was going hard after another suspect; the arrest had been too easy, and he could feel it in his bones. Just maybe they had something. But Carver wasn’t going to back him up; he knew that, too. He waited until Tate walked halfway up the block before getting out of his own car.

  A few blocks down the avenue, the man walked into a bar, and Mariner smiled. Alcohol had always been a cop’s biggest enemy in a town where ninety percent of the violent crime was committed while drunk or stoned. But it had a lip-loosening effect that couldn’t be denied.

  Tate was sitting at the bar when he caught up. Mariner took a seat two stools down. The place felt cozy in a dive bar sort of way, with booths along one wall. The bartender came over with a pint of draft and put it down in front of the younger man.

  “Sure could use one of those,” Mariner said as she approached.

  “Coming right up,” she said, heading back towards the taps.

  He watched Tate sip his beer, deliberately studying him until the former athlete became self-conscious.

  He gave Mariner a sideways stare. “Can I help you with something?”

  What the hell, the football thing is as good an in as any, Mariner thought. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

  Cobi shook his head gently. “Unlikely.”

  “Nahhh… I know you from somewhere. You ever play football?”

  Here we go, Cobi thought. His record as a quarterback hadn’t been good, and when someone recognized him, it usually came up. Better to get it over with. “Yeah, I played a little.”

  “For the Eskimos, right? I remember you,” Mariner lied. “You were the backup QB for a while, am I right? Eh?”

  He nodded again. “Yeah, something like that. Look, if you don’t mind…”

  Mariner held up both hands. “Hey, say no more…” The barkeep brought over his pint, and Mariner took a sip before adding, “I just figured you got sort of a raw deal, is all.”

  “Yeah? Well… thank you, man. Nice to meet a fan.”

  “Uh huh,” Mariner acknowledged. “You working in the patch now, or something?” The oil patch was always a safe bet, where six-figure money for what amounted to hard manual labor could attract men from any background.

  “Nah…” What does this dude want? Cobi wondered. Still, it wasn’t like he had to be ashamed of what he did any more. “Working as a legal investigator,” he told the stranger. It sounded good when it came out. He drained the last third of the glass of beer. His inexperience with it showed, and a warm buzz developed from the first glass.

  “Yeah? That’s a cool job,” Mariner remarked. He nodded towards Cobi’s empty. “You want another one?” Before he could answer, Mariner gestured to the bartender. “Another pint for my friend here.” Cobi went to raise a hand in protest, but Mariner waved him off. “Nah, it’s on me.”

  “Appreciated.”

  “Yeah…” Mariner took a swallow of his own beer nonchalantly. “A lot of people hate lawyers; way I figure it, without ‘em a whole lot of people would wind up in jail what didn’t belong. Am I right?”

  Cobi nodded politely. Chatty wasn’t exactly rare in Edmonton; he wondered if it had anything to do with the weather and the need to stay indoors for large chunks of the year. “Sure…”

  “But I guess there’s good ones and bad ones.” Mariner kept the patter going deliberately, taking the onus away from Cobi having to carry conversation with a stranger. Being friendly could be intrusive, but it lowered a source’s guard. “You lucky enough to get a good one?”

  That was funny, Cobi thought. “Yeah, I guess you’d have to say that. Definitely one of the good ones. She’s a legal aid lawyer. She only handles tough cases.”

  “Yeah? You got anything good right now? Must be stressful work.” Put the onus back on him, make him explain himself. Everyone wants to let off steam.

  The bartender slid a glass of beer a few inches across the bar and Cobi took a long pull. He’d never really enjoyed the taste of beer before, but lately… “Yeah… working this case. Pretty messed up, you know?”

  “Like, a criminal case? Like on TV?”

  “Sure, yeah. This dude got shot on the north side, cops grabbed the wrong guy.”

  “No shit.”

  “Yeah. You surprised?”

  Fuck you, buddy, Mariner thought. “Not really,” he said. “What’d they do this time?”

  “Ahhh, they grabbed this dealer because he picked a gun up off of the street. Turns out the dude wasn’t even shot there.”

  “No shit. So what happened? They let him go?”

  “Nah, not yet. Look, I probably shouldn’t be talking about this stuff…”

  Mariner held up both palms. “Hey, I get it. Privacy shit, right?”

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  The detective sipped his beer quietly and said nothing else. He knew human nature well enough to know the silence would feel awkward if he left it long enough; he’d bought the man a beer, after all; he’d feel obligated to at least be friendly.

  “What about you…?” Cobi asked, “…you work in the patch?”

  “Nah. I keep busy. Nothing interesting like your job though. So you got any idea who actually… you know, shot the dude?”

  They didn’t, but Cobi didn’t want to admit it. “Getting there. Slowly but surely.”

  That was a no, Mariner decided. But the theory about the body felt sound, like maybe Bernie LeVasseur’s original concerns had been correct. That meant keeping a close eye on Mr. Cobi Tate. He drained the bottom of his glass. “Well… that’s my break. Good meeting you…” he extended a hand.

  “It’s Cobi, Cobi Tate.”

  Mariner pointed at him quickly. “I knew that I knew you! I’m Jon.”

  “Good to meet you.”

  Mariner rose and headed towards the nearby door. “Oh, I figure we’ll run into each other again.”

  36

  Det. Ev Gushenko was nervous for a guy who hadn’t yet had his first morning coffee. It was early, just after eight, and this was the first time he’d ever been deposed by a lawyer.

  The young Ident Team member possessed a “tell,” Cobi noticed. Every time Jessie asked him a difficult question, he rubbed his left thigh slightly under the table. He wondered if she noticed.

  Probably. She doesn’t miss much. He watched them through the side window of Jessie’s office, where Gushenko gave his deposition – a st
atement she could use in court rather than necessarily having him testify. A dour-faced man in an expensive suit resided in the corner of the office, a legal representative of the police association.

  “Detective, you’ve just finished your apprenticeship as a CSI, is that correct? I seem to remember seeing that in the Crown’s file.” Jessie kept her voice level and matter-of-fact throughout, though the truth was she loved depositions. It amounted to ammunition if even the slightest error in process was confirmed.

  “That’s correct,” said the policeman.

  “And now you’re a full-time unit member, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But this was your first time at a homicide scene, is that correct?”

  “Well, technically… but I had a good teacher.”

  “The Ident Team has a sterling reputation,” Jessie commented.

  “Absolutely. We like to think it’s earned.”

  “For sure… still, it’s not like you get a free pass for it, or something. Other cops don’t elevate you guys or anything.”

  Gushenko frowned, obviously wondering what she was up to. “Sure. I mean, some do and some don’t, I guess.

  “I’m not sure I see how that’s relevant to the Sidney case,” the man in the corner ventured.

  “So you didn’t feel any pressure at the scene?” Jessie ignored the by-stander. “No one suggested to you it was better not to mention the body perhaps being moved in your report?”

  “Absolutely not,” Gushenko said. He rubbed this left thigh absently.

  “Then why didn’t you?” Jessie asked.

  “Because we were unsure of it.” On this thigh, his hand kept a slow, gentle rubbing motion.

  “But you suspected it. Why not mention it?”

  “We had a suspect found carrying the murder weapon a hundred yards away, ma’am,” the young officer said. Hand off the thigh, confident.

  “Oh, I understand that,” Jessie agreed. “But… Det. Gushenko, you take a course in blood spatter analysis as part of your Ident Team training, am I right?”

  “Sure.”

  “And you didn’t see anything wrong with the blood spatter at this scene?”

  Gushenko went silent for a moment, his jaw tight, chin raised with a slight air of pride. “I did mention that the snow obscured things somewhat but that it was possible he’d been moved, both from the volume of blood and the lack of spatter pattern detectable in the immediate vicinity.”

  “But that was ignored?”

  “I… don’t recall whether I mentioned it to the investigating officers on scene or not, ma’am. I believe that by the time we had a chance to go over the scene findings they already had a suspect, a murder weapon and a pile of money that may have belonged to the victim.”

  “Can you tell me why none of you followed basic procedure and pulled fibers from the body and scene?”

  Gushenko began to look annoyed. “As I said, ma’am, they already had a suspect with the murder weapon literally on his person. And it was snowing.”

  “And it was snowing,” Jessie repeated, trying to foster just the right hint of sarcasm. Gushenko was young, easily shaken. She had to meet with the Crown after the deposition, and Jessie knew things wouldn’t go so easily.

  Ray Strong chewed on the arm of his eyeglasses, one leg crossed over the other as he sat behind his desk at the Brownlee Building and considered his options. He had something Jessie Harper thought she needed, in the form of the cell phone records. And she had something he wanted, which was to go to trial quickly.

  He scratched absent-mindedly at his wispy red-brown beard and tried to decide upon the right course of action. He could blackmail her with the cell file into a trial within a month or two; it wasn’t actual evidence in the case, just a fishing trip; he didn’t have to give it to her. He could force her to do an Access to Information search with the police, try to get it from them. Good luck with that one.

  Or he could consider what she proposed, that evidence mounted showing Brian Featherstone had been involved in something bad, and just give her the paper. Maybe she and the new investigator could shake something loose and resolve the whole matter before it even when to trial.

  Strong leaned back in his chair. “Now, Jessica…” he said as she sat anxiously across from him. “I find myself in something of a quandary with respect to…”

  Jessie cut him off. “Ray, cut the shit, okay? I know you don’t have to give me those records if you don’t want to.”

  “That is, in fact, the case.”

  “And you know there’s something wrong with this arrest. You’re a veteran, Ray, an old hand. You can smell it. I know you can, sure as I can smell that lousy musk or cologne, or whatever it is you’re wearing.”

  “You know, my job is to convict the people who—”

  “Your job is to administer justice fairly.”

  “Your client was caught with the gun…”

  “And we have evidence the body was moved; the tech on the scene said he was surprised by the low volume of blood and the lack of spatter.”

  “I’m sure there are other explanations.”

  “There are, Ray, but they all require turning off your brain to believe.”

  Strong didn’t like the tone. Compared to him, Jessica Harper was a relative newcomer on the local legal scene. Still… she had a certain confidence and style.

  “Make us look good and the records are yours,” he offered. “If you find anything that’s going to exonerate your boy, you let us know before you publicize it, so we can withdraw charges without looking like total assholes.”

  Jessie held her tongue. Sort of. “So, what you’re saying is, you don’t want any of the heat for having stuck my client in Remand for months. In fact, if we go your route, you look sort of good.”

  Strong smiled. Now she was beginning to get it. “It’s nothing personal, Jess; I’m not trying to steal your thunder. But I have people to answer to, and if I can do that in a way that makes everyone happy in the end, I’m going to grab it. And I have one other little request.”

  “Okay.”

  “No lawsuits. You can think what you want about the guys who worked on this one, but I know these guys. And whether they took the easy route on this or not, they were doing what they thought was right.”

  “I can’t promise that. I can promise that I won’t represent anyone in a civil suit that names you. I wouldn’t anyway, as it’s not part of the clinic’s mandate. But that’s about the best I can do.”

  Strong held the folder in his right hand, hovering slightly above the desk top with it as if undecided.

  “Ray…”

  “I know, I know, for Chrissake. Here, take the damn thing.” He thrust it across the desk to her. “I’m trusting you on this, Ms. Harper.”

  “Thank you, Ray. You’re a good man,” said Jess.

  “You better believe it,” he agreed.

  “More paper?”

  Cobi was only half-joking, as Jessie hung her coat up on the old-fashioned rack in her office. The prospect of another five hundred pages to find one morsel wasn’t exactly exciting.

  “Cell phone records,” Jessie said. “About thirty pages or so, nothing huge.” Her eyes scanned the lines. “In the days leading up to his death, Featherstone got a half-dozen calls from this number…” She pointed out the line to Cobi. “I tried it already; it’s a cell phone, out of service.”

  “Damn,” he snarled. “All that for a dead end.”

  “Not so fast. He also got three calls from a pay phone. Want to guess where it is?”

  “Thrifty Mike’s?”

  “Exactly.”

  Cobi leaned over the printout to get a closer look. “This say how long they talked?”

  “Yeah… why?”

  “Short call is a deal of some sort, or a confirmation, or touching base. Long call is personal, someone he’s friends with…”

  “Or involved with.”

  “And when was the last time you heard of
someone spending…” Cobi’s finger traced a line across the page, “…eight minutes on a payphone call?”

  “The mystery woman?”

  “I guess so.”

  “So we need someone down there who can identify her,” Jessie said. “Someone who sees everything coming and going on the avenue.”

  “Yeah. You got any friends in that neck of the woods?”

  “Not really,” Jessie sighed. “But I know someone who does.”

  She pulled out her phone and called her father. It rang three times before he answered.

  “You’ve got Cliff,” he answered.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “Jessica! Little Rabbit!”

  “Uh huh.”

  “What’s it been, like, two, three weeks?”

  “Four months, Dad. I thought you were going to come up…”

  “Yeah… well, you know how things get. It’s busy trying to make a buck on the road.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “You know I love you, Little Rabbit. I just get busy, is all.”

  “It’s for Nan Nan…”

  “Oh, don’t you get started on me too for that!” he sounded annoyed. “For Pete’s sake, you’d think cleaning the old bat’s tombstone would bring her back from the dead or something, the way you all behave.”

  “Dad…”

  “It’s not like we ever liked each other anyway. She never liked me, I never liked her.”

  “Please, Dad…”

  “I told you what she said when we were nominated for the Aboriginal Music Award for best blues recording? ‘If you cared about my daughter, you’d get a real job’. Even when she was dying, she acted like being a musician was some sort of insult.”

  “She was fiercely protective of Mom.”

  “She was a bigot,” Cliff said. “She liked me until she found out I’m Ojibwe. Then it was one long bitchfest about how her daughter should never marry the like of me.”

  “She was older, Dad. She was just set in her ways, that’s all.”