by John Farrow
A policeman on duty suggesting that he had ‘met’ someone did not typically suggest that they had bumped into each other or frequented the same deli. A meeting on the job implied a negative connotation. Oddly, Giroux appeared to be looking around Jim Tanner at that moment, out the front window.
‘A visitor.’ Giroux announced. Suddenly, his whole face seemed to expand. ‘Down! Everybody get down!’
Giroux jumped toward the front window. His command came too suddenly for the others to react. No one got down. Cinq-Mars instinctively moved the girl to his back while Jim Tanner spun around to follow the detective who’d yelled. Giroux pulled the heavy front curtain partially closed when the sound of shattering glass assailed their senses. Flames from a Molotov cocktail leaped up the fabric.
‘Quinn! Water!’ Tanner shouted and seized a large cushion from the sofa to beat the flames. Giroux was trying to yank the curtain right off its moorings to smother the flames that way. He was a strong man, but the mechanism resisted. Cinq-Mars was out the front door in pursuit of the attacker.
The incendiary-thrower dove into a black American sedan, which burned rubber and raced off. Then it braked hard. A city bus had passed by and then, perhaps because the driver had spotted the sudden burst of flames, stopped. The sedan’s driver spun out and ripped down a side lane on the left. Cinq-Mars ran hard. Lanes were sometimes obstructed, often by children on bikes or in the middle of a game.
He found the lane clear. The fleeing car careened onto the next street, bound north. Cinq-Mars had no radio. He wasn’t even carrying a revolver. The only official item brought with him was his badge as, off-work, he’d left his house in a mental daze, unprepared for anything like this.
The chase was over before it began.
Giroux jogged up. ‘Anything?’
‘Plymouth. Gran Fury. Black.’
‘Plate?’
‘Sorry. First letter G, nothing more.’
‘I’ll call it in. Guesses on the year?’
‘Like I said. A Gran Fury. This is their first year. So a ’75.’
Giroux called the details in from his car, then returned to the house where Jim Tanner and his daughter were waiting on the front stoop. Cinq-Mars was trying to shoo onlookers away, but failing. The policemen went inside with Quinn and her father and surveyed the damage. The curtain, soaked and charred. A scar of burn marks on the floor. A pair of cushions, blackened. An empty bucket lay tipped on its side, devoid of water. Bits of glass across the hardwood and carpet.
An unpleasant smell. Something plastic may have melted.
‘Here’s an interesting question,’ Giroux started in. ‘There’s four of us here. As it happens, no one knows much about anyone else, except for you two, father and daughter, although I’m not so sure about that, either.’
‘What’s the question?’ Jim Tanner inquired. He had a right to sound irritated.
‘Who was it for, the firebomb? You? Your daughter? Me? Or him?’ With his thumb, he gestured toward the junior detective. ‘I’m guessing one of you two, since it’s your house, but you never know. Pissed anybody off lately?’
Although they had not coordinated a response, the men in the room looked at Quinn.
She resented the implied rebuke. ‘Nobody,’ she said. Then, when no one appeared to believe her, she repeated it more emphatically. ‘Nobody!’
‘We’ll talk,’ Sergeant-Detective Giroux told her, and advised her father, ‘down at our poste.’
The Synchronicity of Events
(What sunshine looks like)
Cinq-Mars did not get much sleep. Awakened by the telephone, his alarm clock read 3:54 a.m. The crotchety voice of Armand Touton bore through him when he lifted the receiver.
‘Middle of the night, Armand. I sleep now.’
‘Your name came up, kid. Also, I been hearing things. Drunken orgies in the morgue.’
‘In the lab.’
‘Such a big difference.’
‘Don’t believe everything that comes across your radar screen.’
‘You mean you weren’t screwing the dead?’
‘Or the living.’
‘Don’t tell me your problems. Two days on your new job, Émile, and people want me to take you back before they fire you. I’m not taking you back.’
‘My name came up, you said. About what?’ He’d rather sleep than carry on the repartee.
‘Burglary. Town of Mount Royal. Your name is on the sheet.’
‘How does that affect you?’
‘Go to the same house. Now. Lickety-split, Émile.’
‘Another break-in?’
‘Would I rush you out for a bent doorknob? Homicide, kid. Not your line, but you know what they say about the early bird. Want to catch that worm or not?’
‘Who’s dead?’
‘Show up and find out. Or sleep it off. Up to you.’
‘Wait, are you there yourself?’
‘Good. You’re alert. It’ll be nice to see you again. It’s been so long.’
They signed off, and Émile Cinq-Mars got on his horse.
He clawed his way out of his Volkswagen Bug. In the dark, the crime scene was festive with lights. Ambulances, squad cars, forensic trucks. Revolving cherries, blue and red; headlights blinking. The morgue van stood out as demure. The cops on duty knew him, the old gang together again, and he entered the house. Facedown on the floor of the foyer – either arriving or leaving – lay Dr Howard Shapiro. Blood seeped from under his torso. Émile Cinq-Mars stepped gingerly around the corpse.
Inside, Savina Vaccaro Shapiro sat in a purple armchair. Although her posture seemed self-comforting, she appeared less distraught than might have been expected. Touton stood beside her. He slipped away, indicating to Cinq-Mars to follow.
They met up in the dining room.
‘Hoo, boy. What’s the tall tale here?’ Cinq-Mars asked.
Touton spoke in a hushed tone. ‘The lady of the house pleads blessed ignorance. If you haven’t heard, it’s a form of innocence. Her husband was at work. You know he’s a hacksaw surgeon, right? Home by sunup, if he’s lucky. Less lucky tonight. The killer was waiting inside. Two rounds: one to the heart, or close, one to the abdomen. The shooter took off before she got downstairs. No one, or gun, in sight. The wife can’t recall hearing a car. Maybe she was in shock. I can give her that. Maybe he left on foot, the killer. Maybe she did it and planted the pistol in her flowerbeds. It’s not shown up. I’ve checked her hands. No GSR. Forensics checked her out. She’s clean unless she had time for a bath and a change of clothes, which she didn’t. Neighbors woke up to the shots, but you know how it goes. By the time they talked it over and got to their windows there was nothing to see. Does your robbery here give us anything, Émile?’
In the past, Cinq-Mars would have arrived ahead of Touton and reported to him on what had occurred. This felt backwards.
‘The murder around the corner might help more than the robbery. They’re lining up. The victim was the getaway driver. That doesn’t tell me what this is about.’
‘I’m not buying coincidence.’
‘Here’s one that’s not for sale. Both nights, the husband came home early.’
‘That so? Curious. Why?’
‘Ask her. You can’t ask him.’
‘You ask her. She was looking forward to seeing you again.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Be careful. You know who she is, right?’
He shrugged without comprehension. ‘The doctor’s wife.’
‘She’s Savina Vaccaro. She uses her mother’s maiden name. Her father is Giuseppe Ciampini.’
‘Joe Ciampini, the Mafia honcho?’
‘Kind of changes the perspective, doesn’t it?’
‘An understatement.’
‘Heads-up, Émile. Get on the ball with your case. Anything we should know from the robbery, now that you know how this can play?’
Being pushed back to square one happened from time to time. This was more like being on a trip where
the itinerary and the destination were suddenly altered. A suburban burglary by a couple of kids that yielded a tragic homicide now had a whole other dimension tacked on.
‘A couple of things. The thief didn’t do this.’
‘You think that way, why?’
‘I know who committed the robbery.’
‘You solved your case?’
‘A kid. She wouldn’t know the Mafia connection.’
‘A she? A girl robber?’
‘The dead boy was both her getaway driver and her boyfriend. This is not her playing field, Armand. Anyhow, what are you doing here? Didn’t you retire? We drank to the good old days, remember?’
‘Turns out I have twenty-eight more of them left to twiddle my thumbs. Maybe enough time for a major bust. Can I take down the Mafia in four weeks?’
‘How long have you been at it so far?’
‘Thirty years, about.’
‘Then good luck. Do you mind if I talk to the grieving widow?’
‘Knock yourself out. Here’s your mystery question: Is she happy or sad, our lady, deep down in her heart of hearts, now that her man’s been whacked?’
Savina Vaccaro Shapiro gazed up at the tall detective from her armchair. She was wearing mascara, which had run.
‘You were wrong,’ she told him.
‘How’s that?’
‘My intruder would not come back. You promised. Looks like he did.’
‘Could be. Of course, if I knew then what I know now …’
Cinq-Mars sat in the matching chair.
‘What do you know now?’
‘Who your father is.’
‘Oh, don’t tell me. You think because he’s Italian, he must be a mob boss.’
‘No, I think he’s a mob boss because that’s what he is. Or do you think he went to prison for parking tickets?’
She straightened herself in the chair, and seemingly rearranged how she intended to comport herself. ‘Something you wanted, Detective? If not, run along.’
Her animus was well practiced.
‘You don’t seem terribly upset,’ Cinq-Mars remarked.
She raised an eyebrow to acknowledge as much. ‘I’m not into drama-queen theatrics, Detective. If I choose to keep my grief to myself, that’s my prerogative. It’s not cause for my arrest.’
‘Why would I arrest you?’
‘I’m home. My husband is dead. Do the math. One person on the scene, one person dead. Either you arrest the corpse or the person who’s still breathing, who happens to be the local godfather’s daughter. Murder runs in her veins.’
‘You seemed more upset about the robbery than you are over the death of your husband.’
She evaluated his take on things, how her demeanor might look from an investigator’s vantage point. Agitated by a break-in, yet cucumber-cool in the face of real calamity, her reactions sent out conflicting signals. She hadn’t done herself any favors.
‘I’m in shock,’ she said.
‘Perhaps you are.’
‘I hope you will investigate the robbery still. I’d like that baseball back.’
‘I thought it was your husband who wanted it back.’
‘My husband,’ she reminded him, ‘is lying face down on tile especially imported from Italy. He no longer cares about the baseball. I do.’
Cinq-Mars was confused. ‘I’ll keep on it,’ he vowed. ‘With respect to tonight, it’s not my investigation, but may I ask a question?’ He gave her no more than a moment before proceeding. ‘In recent days or weeks, has your husband expressed concerns about your marriage? Has he been agitated?’
He realized, as he spoke, that he was declaring himself to be an adversary. She welcomed the news.
‘What’re you accusing me of, Detective? Am I a fallen woman in your eyes? Or is it because I married a Jew? Are you one of those? Maybe it’s my Mafioso papa, huh? You do know I can have you shot if I feel like it? I came out of the womb with my finger on the trigger. Life and death mean nothing to a girl like me. Why, I probably had my husband shot in my own home on a whim. Except, I can pretty much guarantee that I’m innocent of the charge. Know why? His blood, Detective, is all over my Italian marble. The mess can be cleaned up, but I’ll never look at the tiles with the same pleasure again. If I wanted to shoot my husband, Detective No-Brain, I’d do it in the basement. Or the garage.’ Finally, she lost her cool, her calm, her exasperating control. ‘He would not bleed out on my Italian tile!’
Armand Touton came over then.
She lashed out once more, demanding they get him the expletive out of her face.
Cinq-Mars did so on his own.
‘That went well,’ Cinq-Mars noted.
‘Your bedside manner, Émile, where’d it go?’
‘I’m curious, why has her husband been coming home early?’
‘Why do you think?’
‘The thief told me a man was in the house the night she broke in. Sounds gave him away. Yeah, she had a lover. One who carried a pistol.’
‘Émile, aren’t you the helpful detective?’
‘Ask her who the lover was. She doesn’t need to conceal him from her husband anymore. He may have found out, of course. Maybe that helped engineer tonight.’
They smiled. The synchronicity of events was coming together quite neatly.
‘I should get a medal for calling you in. Or a beer.’
‘Don’t make it a habit. I sleep nights. Which reminds me: I’m going back to bed. One more thing. Rings and watches were stolen, then deliberately dropped in the getaway car by the thief when the driver was found dead. Our now-dead surgeon reported a baseball missing, signed by Jackie Robinson. It’s still missing.’
Touton whistled in admiration. Then he stopped, as though a thought abruptly occurred.
Cinq-Mars breezed along. ‘The wife didn’t give a damn about the baseball or the insurance money. Suddenly, her husband is dead and what does she go on about?’
‘The baseball.’
‘Right now, given a choice, she’d take the ball over the husband. Keep it at the back of your mind, Armand.’
‘I might keep it up front. Any other thought?’ Touton asked.
‘It’s off the wall.’
‘I have ears.’
‘In the beginning, before anything broke, I thought the baseball could give us the killer, and/or the thief.’
‘Now?’
‘Same thing. Except that now our grieving widow might know it, too. The baseball might give us the killer. The difference now is, I don’t know why.’
‘You think that way, anyhow.’
‘I have the feeling that’s how she thinks.’
Touton gazed over at the woman. She mystified him in various ways. Cinq-Mars had given him an understanding that, for now, he was keeping to himself. ‘All right. Back to bed. I got this.’ They gave each other a pat on the shoulder, and when Cinq-Mars was halfway to the door, Touton called out for others to hear. ‘Cinq-Mars!’
The younger detective stopped and turned.
‘What does sunshine look like? How does it feel?’
Every cop and technician in the room awaited his reply.
‘Brighter than the moon,’ he advised them. ‘Outside, you actually see where you’re going. You get used to it.’
Home, he tumbled into bed. He wasn’t asleep for long before his phone rang once more. This time it was Dr Eudo Lachapelle at the crime lab. He’d come up with an ID from the blood smears in the dead boy’s car. Cinq-Mars was delighted. At this rate, it looked good to have two murders and a robbery solved before the sun set on his first week of daytime policework. The possibility arose that the man who smeared his fingerprints on the car’s door panel had not only killed the boy but had gone back to shoot a jealous husband in cold blood. He’d hedge his bets, but that was how the young detective placed them on the table.
PART TWO
THE BALL
Red Ants and a Silver Bullet
(The deal)
Sergeant-Det
ective Yves Giroux fiddled with a shirt button that, undone, exposed a disagreeable montage of protuberant belly. Cinq-Mars bumped his way past him and selected a booth in the restaurant’s far corner. Giroux slid in next to him, leaving the opposite banquette free, only to have the button disassemble again.
‘They won’t show,’ Cinq-Mars stated flatly. He felt pinned in place. ‘Sit across.’
‘Smart money took the bet, kid. I dropped a silver bullet in Frigault’s tray.’
‘I’m not that gullible.’
‘Did I mention my note? Show up or red ants will hike across your arse.’
‘Right. That’ll make them jump to it.’
‘Suit yourself, if you don’t believe. Your funeral.’
Sergeant-Detective Paul Frigault and Detective Marcel Caron did arrive. Not far off schedule, either.
‘Heard you’re buying,’ Caron remarked in his gravelly voice. Perhaps the morning hour exaggerated its tone.
‘Worth it to see your faces,’ Giroux implied.
Cinq-Mars got over his initial surprise that they showed up. He was no longer impressed. To ensure that their fellow detectives arrived for a meeting, his partner had bribed them with a free breakfast.
‘What about our faces?’ Frigault demanded. Itching for a scrap. The waitress came by and took their orders. She remarked that she was glad the new guy ate solid food.
Coffee was a foregone conclusion. She put mugs down and a second server poured.
‘Like I said,’ Giroux advised them, ‘my new partner will open your eyes.’
Cinq-Mars knew the comments impeded his proposal.
‘Anytime you’re ready, kid,’ Frigault invited.
If he asked these men to never call him ‘kid’, they’d never call him anything else. Cinq-Mars was at the table to make a deal, which meant devising a trade. On the spot, he adjusted his list of what he required in return for his offer.
First, he posed a question. ‘You heard about the homicide last night?’
‘Confessing?’ Frigault put to him. ‘Why’d you do it? Was it the wife?’
Caron picked up the thread, his voice as gnarly as tree bark. ‘I get it. She said no. You were down on your knees. Full beg. Weeping, gnashing your teeth. The husband comes home and curses you out for not being a man. At that point, I don’t blame you, you shoot him in cold blood. Tell me I’m wrong.’