by John Farrow
In the car, the senior cop recited an address in the Town of Mount Royal and sketched the scant details known to him.
‘Burglary. Overnight. Discovered this morning. You know what that means.’
‘Fill me in.’
‘A scam.’
‘People don’t get robbed?’
‘They do. Then the victims, the rich ones, take advantage. In an upscale neighborhood, count on it. Maybe there’s a robbery, maybe not. If not, jewels and cash went missing. Jewelry is easy to tuck away until insurance pays, then the bracelets and diamond rings magically reappear. It’s a fucking miracle. Not that anybody’s checking by then. Extra cash was on hand to pay a contractor under the table, that’s what they say, even though there’s no evidence that work got done. Of course, the television wasn’t taken, because the victim wants to watch his favorite shows.’
‘What if there was an actual robbery?’
‘Shit happens. That case, electronics probably left the house, plus the jewelry and cash. Again, the cash was at least four grand, in a drawer in the kitchen. They keep that much lying around in case a door-to-door salesman comes by selling encyclopedias. The jewelry, maybe it was worth three grand – suddenly it’s eighteen, nineteen, never a round number. Like that’s supposed to fool us. They feel they deserve something for their double trouble.’
Cinq-Mars bit. ‘What double trouble?’
‘The aggravation of being robbed, then cops taking up their precious time. I hate them. They make us their accomplices in crime.’
‘I see.’
‘You will see if you don’t.’
Cinq-Mars slowed down to take a corner. They wended through an upper middle-class neighborhood – ‘wealthy’ to some, although old money would sneer, call the people here nouveau riche. Big houses, modest properties. Fat mortgages.
‘What do we investigate in a case like that? The robbery or the fraud?’
‘A robbery’s a reported case. It’s on the books. The fraud is make-believe, it doesn’t exist in our crime stats at the end of the year. Are you here to break my balls, Cinq-Mars? Did you bring your own hammer or expect me to provide one?’
‘Why would I want to do that?’
‘Touton sent you. That’s a known fact.’
‘Touton’s retiring.’ He might as well reveal it. Pick up a little mileage from the news.
‘Get out.’
‘He’s packing it in. I’m not here on his behalf. He has no interest in you, me, or anybody else. He’s handing in his badge.’
Giroux reflected on the news. His eyes shifted rapidly from the road to Cinq-Mars and back again.
‘Then why the hell did he ship you to me? That leaves only one option.’
‘I’m not seeing it.’
‘He expects me to educate you.’
‘That I don’t see at all.’
‘You don’t have to. It’s not going to happen. Not in any way he might expect.’
Cinq-Mars pulled up against a curb and switched off the ignition. The house where the burglary took place was a two-story brick colonial with a small manicured front yard. Two-car garage. Buick out front.
Giroux stalled Cinq-Mars, tapping his wrist. ‘This is how an insurance scam works. Victim files for extra. That gets shared three ways. Adjustor, victim, cop. Foolproof. Tamper-proof. Cop-proof.’
‘I’m not taking a share.’
‘Did someone offer? Live on Poor Street, no skin off my dick. And I’m not circumcised. I ask one favor. If you wind up in the morgue someday soon, don’t think you’re the first cop to die under strange circumstances. Don’t be that naive.’
Cinq-Mars looked at him. His new partner was gazing down the street and over the fence into the neighboring community known as Park Extension. He had to ask, ‘Did you just threaten me, Detective?’
‘A killer will kill, that’s what I say about that. A serious killer never threatens. Threats are for fools.’
‘Then you know where I stand,’ Cinq-Mars tells him.
‘Where’s that?’
‘At no time did I threaten you.’
‘So we’re even. I’m pulling your leg. You know that, right?’
Cinq-Mars had no idea.
‘Admit it. You think I’m a dirty cop with his fingers in the pie. The apple, the cherry, the lemon meringue.’
Cinq-Mars offered back a faint shrug.
‘The strawberry rhubarb tempts me, that’s about it,’ Giroux said, leaving Cinq-Mars mystified, his prior suspicions put on hold.
They trundled out of the car. Direct sunlight caused Cinq-Mars to squint. On the crossing street before them, where a fence and a hedge separated the street from traffic on Boulevard l’Acadie, a patrol car whipped by. Then evidently pulled up out of sight, judging by the windy roar of its tires followed by silence. Giroux shrugged, and nodded, granting permission for Cinq-Mars to walk down fifty feet to look around the home that blocked their view. A second patrol car was on the scene. Between them an unidentified vehicle sat parked. When Cinq-Mars hung on for a longer look, Giroux joined him.
‘Big fuss for a speeding ticket,’ Giroux noted. ‘What’s your take?’
‘They ran the plates, found a prior,’ Cinq-Mars said.
‘Or the car reeks,’ Giroux suggested. ‘They checked the trunk. Our officers will be divvying up a kilo. Go. Help yourself to a baggie, Cinq-Mars. I’ll wait.’
He had no way to determine what was bluster with this man and what, if anything, was felonious. ‘I’ll take a pass on that.’
‘Good. I’d arrest you otherwise. Come on. Let’s check out our scam artists.’
‘They might be victims.’
‘In whose world?’
They turned their backs on the scene and crossed over to visit the house where a woman had reported being burglarized.
The 80
(Squishing the lid)
Deets was dead. Murdered. He was her boyfriend. A cop would knock on her door.
She hoped Deets never told anyone that he was both her boyfriend and her getaway driver.
Her eyes stayed wet through half the night. She couldn’t believe what she’d seen. And why? Why would anyone stab a sweet, beautiful boy to death? Deets!
She taught him to help her steal. This was her fault.
I got to get stuff out. Cops will be here.
Crying, ranting to herself, changed nothing. Deets promised not to talk about what they were doing, not to anybody, but what if he let something slip? What if he mentioned falling into lust with a thief?
Maybe she should go to jail for his murder. His death was her fault.
Still. She had to think up a story. Get last night straight.
She couldn’t say she was home alone after Deets dropped her off unless her father was not home then, which was something she didn’t know. Only that he was in bed when she got back. She’d have to admit to being with Deets earlier, no way around that. They made out, OK? Front seat of his car. She’d be shy about the details, stress that nothing went on below the waist. He seemed distracted. She’d mention it. Real casual-like. He wanted to get going. He let her off somewhere. Oh God, she had to find out where her father had been last night – in or out? – before she could say where she was let off. If her dad was out late, she could say she was home. Watching TV. What was on? A baseball game! She could read about it. That made sense. No. No, it didn’t. The game would’ve been over by then. People saw her with Deets after ten, right up to midnight. Maybe, if she was super lucky, her dad went to the game. Or, he had his regular bowling night but sometimes practiced by himself. Maybe he bowled or went to the ball game, then maybe he had a few drinks afterwards. If he wasn’t home, she could say she was.
She couldn’t find out about her dad until he finished work. If it turned out her dad had been home, then she needed a different story. She should think one up. One that didn’t depend on either of them being in or out of the house.
In the meantime, she had to get out of the house, and she ha
d to get rid of the stolen loot in her closet and under her bed before any cop arrived.
Think.
She could read about the last inning of the ball game. Maybe her friends wouldn’t be sure that she stayed at Ball Park right up to midnight. Gatekeepers at the game didn’t care if you entered after the seventh inning. She could’ve hung out there, after Deets. The park was across the tracks on the east side of Park Ex. Nobody had to know that she was really across the fence on the west side.
She could read about the game riding the bus. Bring it to life in her head.
Quinn packed a suitcase that belonged to her mother. She had to sit on the lid to squish it closed. She hauled it down to the corner bus stop as if embarking on a grand voyage. She hopped on the Number 80. She remembered the boy who’d skidded behind this bus in winter and lost his legs. Her own legs felt queasy. Losable. She headed to Ezra’s pawnshop. She wanted to talk to him yet say nothing directly. Maybe indirectly, that way they could chat. They were both smart. He might have advice. She could tell him that she didn’t think she should be a thief anymore. Hear what he said to that. Maybe it would mean no more back-room visits. That would be all right as long as he got rid of her stuff. As long as he let her just cry and cry.
The Royals’ Ball
(A felony is merited)
Sergeant-Detective Yves Giroux caught on immediately. Hungover, his new partner dialed in soon enough. No doubt about it, the robbery victim was flirting with him.
Detective Cinq-Mars had yet to make it through the door.
The woman’s hair was black, straight, long in the sixties style with bangs that touched her eyebrows. Dark eyeliner and heavy mascara. A housedress fell to the tops of her knees which she repeatedly adjusted, wrapping and unwrapping it, cinching the belt, each time exposing a skimpy halter top and modest Bermuda shorts. Perspiration on her brow indicated that she’d been working out. Ignoring Giroux, she had eyes only for the man of her generation who also shared her height equivalency. She was about six-one and looked right over Giroux who pulled in at five-nine and was a few inches lower on the stoop. She took in the rangy Cinq-Mars. Jutted her hip against the front-door jamb and used her right hand to pull down her hair, from ear to breast. She lowered her gaze to the feet of the tall young cop, then slowly brought her eyes up. Thighs, hips, chest, neck, face. And nose. She gave his nose a more prolonged stare than most people were willing to risk. All the while repeating the stroking motion through her hair.
Giroux smirked. ‘Mind if we come inside, ma’am?’
‘Be quiet, though. My husband’s sleeping.’
‘For sure,’ Giroux remarked. ‘We don’t want to wake him right now.’
He worked the graveyard shift at the Royal Victoria Hospital. She explained that he had not been home when the thief broke in. ‘I feel violated.’ She glanced at Cinq-Mars again.
In the living room, the men settled into plush purple chairs. Cinq-Mars could easily fall asleep in his.
‘What’s missing?’ Giroux asked.
‘So far? Cash. Three of my husband’s watches. They were keepsakes. A pen. And rings. The man of the house likes rings.’
‘How many rings?’
‘Four.’
‘Diamond rings?’
‘Diamond sand on one. Topaz on a couple. One’s a ruby. One’s steel.’
‘Your TV?’ Giroux inquired.
‘We have several. The thief left them. Too much to carry, I guess.’
‘Several, huh? How many exactly?’
‘Four. Why? They’re still here.’
‘So many TVs.’
‘He came for cash and jewelry, Detective. Thank God he didn’t go upstairs. I keep my valuables there. But he went through my husband’s office.’
Giroux conveyed a writing motion, prompting Émile Cinq-Mars to take out a notepad. The woman was fitting the older cop’s expectations to a tee. ‘Your name, please?’
‘Savina.’ She looked over at Cinq-Mars. ‘Savina Vaccaro.’
‘Mrs Savina Vaccaro,’ Giroux repeated, to remind her of a critical detail. He waited for Cinq-Mars to finish writing. ‘Your husband? His name?’
‘Dr Howard Shapiro.’
‘Jewish,’ Giroux tacked on. ‘You’re what? Italian? That’s different.’
‘Variety is the spice of life, Detective.’
‘I wouldn’t know.’ Giroux uttered a self-conscious cough. ‘How much cash do you estimate?’ His eyes slid across to Cinq-Mars, anticipating a healthy tally.
‘Small bills. Seventy dollars? Maybe eighty.’
Head down, Cinq-Mars transcribed the amount. Unable to help himself, he asked, ‘You didn’t have cash in the house to pay a contractor?’
The query confused her. ‘Contractor?’
‘What value on the watches?’ Giroux butted in again.
‘The value doesn’t concern me. It’s the idea of an intruder in my house! I’m alone at night.’
‘Of course, ma’am,’ Giroux reassured her. ‘It’s a traumatic experience to be robbed. Truth is, a thief rarely returns. He got what he came for. Also, he’ll expect you to take precautions.’
She was looking at Cinq-Mars, waiting for him to show concern, too. The length of her gaze forced a reply. ‘You’ve seen the last of him, Mrs Shapiro.’
‘I go by my maiden name. More modern, don’t you think?’
Cinq-Mars had no opinion on the subject.
‘I take it you never saw the burglar,’ Giroux poked in.
‘Thank God, no. I thought I heard something. I went downstairs. Maybe he was hiding at the time. He might’ve jumped out at me.’
‘Well, ma’am,’ Giroux reminded her, ‘we don’t need to be concerned about what didn’t happen. Now. About the watches. How many and what’s the total value?’
‘Oh. Three. Howard said they’d run about twelve hundred dollars.’ Giroux’s gaze remained fixed on her to avoid his partner’s amusement. ‘I don’t know if that’s the value when new or now.’
Again, Cinq-Mars could not resist. ‘Twelve hundred dollars. Not twelve thousand?’
‘Hundred. It’s not the value. What’s your name again? Cinq-Mars. That’s a new one on me. What ever happened on the fifth of March?’
She was translating his name. He wasn’t willing to get into it. He did not have a definitive answer, regardless.
‘The rings,’ Giroux stipulated. ‘Their value?’
‘Three hundred, approx. In a garage sale, I doubt I’d get fifty.’
‘Fifty dollars,’ Cinq-Mars announced, triumphant.
‘It’s the principle! Robbed! While I’m sleeping!’
‘Are you insured, ma’am?’ Giroux inquired.
‘I checked. A thousand-dollar deductible. Not worth the trouble.’
‘You could increase the cash amount of what’s missing. The value of the jewels,’ Giroux suggested. He spoke as a waiter offering ice cream with the pie.
She stared at him, a prolonged silence that caused both officers to check on her.
‘I wouldn’t do that,’ she stated, her tone flat, brittle.
‘A little trick to see how the victim responds,’ Giroux explained. ‘Now I know. You’re on the up and up.’
‘I’m on the up and up? Good to hear. I am not a thief. A thief, however, came into my house. That’s why I called you, Detective, in case you’re interested.’
‘Ma’am, I didn’t mean to offend you.’
‘Does this mean you won’t investigate? Too little value to waste your time? We want the watches returned. The rings, who cares? The watches we’d like to have back. They are my husband’s keepsakes.’
The husband, having heard voices, appeared at that moment in the wide doorway. Jeans and sweatshirt. He had greying temples. He looked to be a dozen years older than his wife, and about three inches shorter. In presenting himself, he displayed an athlete’s easy physical confidence. He extrapolated on her point of view. ‘They mean a lot to me. Luckily, the most valuable one was on my wrist
.’
‘What value do you place on the others?’ Giroux put to him. Time to test his theories on the husband. He subtly raised an eyebrow to warn Cinq-Mars that the worm may yet turn.
‘Three-fifty for one. One seventy-five for another. The best one, my dad paid about six hundred. A present for graduating med school. What’s that? Eleven hundred?’
‘Sorry. I said twelve,’ Savina Vaccaro apologized. ‘Will you arrest me?’
‘Savina,’ her husband said curtly, silencing her. He added, ‘Those are prices when new. They’re worth less now. It’s not the money. It’s the idea that some bastard breaks into my house while my wife is home alone. That can’t be tolerated.’
‘Could you show us how the thief broke in?’ Cinq-Mars requested. He’d won the round and was trying not to gloat.
The husband had returned earlier than usual and gone straight to bed. Hours later, his wife took her morning coffee onto the back porch. She was strolling around the property, enjoying the gardens, when she discovered a curious rash of footprints. Then found a bug screen on the ground. She rushed back inside and noticed dirt on the floor under the window by the stairway landing. Woke her husband. They canvassed the house together to find what might be missing.
‘The seventy or eighty bucks,’ Giroux said.
‘I thought it was more,’ the husband replied. ‘Whatever.’
Outside, Giroux and Cinq-Mars studied the footprints, each arriving at the same conclusion. Two sets. One foot slightly larger than the other. One man perhaps had elevated a smaller one high enough to make it through the open window. They agreed that the heels of a ladder would have left marks in the soft earth. There were none.
‘Kids,’ Giroux surmised. On their own, they switched back to speaking French.
Cinq-Mars didn’t like to automatically blame youth. ‘Why kids?’
‘Bigger kid. Smaller kid.’
They were distracted by sirens. ‘That’s some speeder,’ Giroux remarked.
The two detectives returned to visualizing how the entry was accomplished. Fingerprints could very well go up the outside wall. ‘Call for a dusting,’ Giroux directed.