by John Farrow
Sensing that he was already out of the room as far as his captain was concerned, Cinq-Mars took a speculative step backward. It went unnoticed. He took another. He said, ‘Thank you, sir,’ turned, and quietly departed the office. Safe, apparently, he rolled his eyes in Giroux’s direction.
‘Still carry a badge, your Glock?’ his partner inquired.
‘Seems so. I need to check if my testicles still function.’
‘No suspension? A week? A day?’
‘Go figure.’
‘Drive with me, Detective.’ Giroux pulled his sports jacket off the back of his chair. ‘Work your way into his good books.’
‘Will we produce work product?’ They were already on the move, heading for the door. ‘Delacroix said we’re supposed to do that.’
‘I don’t know what that is.’
‘Me, neither. What’s the case?’
They were hurrying out the door. ‘My oil painting. Dollarwise, the biggest heist out of this poste in years. Bust it, you can write your own ticket with the boss.’
‘Fat chance. Practically a cold case by now.’
Giroux shrugged in agreement. ‘It’s your only hope. Your nuts are in a vise, Émile. Our captain’s an elephant that never forgets. A way to ease the pressure. I don’t know if it’s “work product”, but you got to find something.’
Sleepless and bedraggled, he had intended to request the afternoon off. Out of the question now. Perhaps talking to an octogenarian burglary victim might be the next best thing to taking a nap.
Quinn and the boy with a new name broke out his merchandise and toked up.
‘I shouldn’t do this here. But what the hell.’
‘Why not?’ Quinn wondered.
He tweaked his nose. ‘A cop follows his sniffer. He not only nails a toker. With my quantity, I’m booked for dealing.’
‘Paranoid much? Cops don’t follow their noses. In the Student Ghetto, they’d be stoned if they did.’
The boy struck a match. ‘You were right about your friend. His honker is huge. He calls it prominent.’
‘He’s not a friend,’ she objected. Then asked, ‘Did you like him?’
‘What’s to like? He’s a cop.’
‘Harsh.’ Her comment felt harsh, as well, as the two of them were meant to be united in their disdain for authority. She attempted to moderate her reaction. ‘How do you like it when people size you up? Oh, he’s a petty drug dealer …’
‘If it gets me girls, I’m fine with it. Who’re you calling petty?’
‘You two are alike. Neither of you is getting any.’
He bent forward with laughter, and that seemed to resolve the tension between them. They smoked in peace.
Then he said, ‘Noel Graham. Who calls their kid Noel Graham?’
Quinn exhaled at length. ‘Your mother did.’
‘The Smith part I don’t believe.’
‘Some people are Smiths. The most common name for a reason.’
‘Probably hiding her identity,’ the young man speculated.
‘She’s like a spy now?’
‘She’s a single mom-to-be with a ton of baggage. She calls herself Smith to hide her identity from the nuns. Didn’t want her bastard son looking her up someday.’
‘Not buying it. If she was that way, she’d let you be baptized. “Feel free, girls. Sprinkle water on his head. Or drown the poor boy, whatever …” You’d have your real name from the get-go. Your mom had spirit. She was feisty. That’s how I see her.’
‘I dunno.’
‘I do. She never imagined the consequences, you not being baptized. That part was never advertised, you know.’
She had a point.
‘Her real name was Smith,’ Quinn continued between tokes. ‘To call you Noel Graham proves it. Names like that, they’re part of her kin. Do you know why she called you Noel Graham?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Because she loved you. Accept it.’
‘Get off the pot. So to speak.’
‘She wanted you to grow up with dignity. Noel Graham. Strong name. She was trying to tell you how much she loved you. Yeah. That’s what I think.’
‘You’re a snowflake.’
Her eyelids were reduced to thin slits. ‘You’re not the first to make that observation.’
The young man also was enjoying the dope’s effects. ‘I’ll still be Leonard on the street,’ he stated. ‘If Cinq-Mars comes to arrest me, or whoever, I’ll give my real name. Then stand before a judge and take my punishment like a man. Not like some throwaway alley cat.’
‘I like you as a throwaway alley cat.’
‘Yeah? You like me? Cool. The thing is, I can get papers now.’
‘Like a driver’s license?’
‘A passport, even.’
‘Shit, man, don’t get carried away.’ She started to giggle.
‘Why can’t I have a passport?’
‘You off somewhere, big boy?’
‘It’s the principle of the thing.’
‘Fine. Get a passport. Enjoy paying your taxes, too.’
‘Why not? You think I won’t declare my illicit earnings? If they let me be a real citizen, I will. Hey, Quinn, do you know why I want the name the most?’
‘Girls. You want girls. Oh! You think that when you’re doing it, they’ll call out your real name. “Oh! Noel Graham! Don’t stop! Oh please, Noel!” At least, now you’ll know who they mean.’
She bent over double this time.
‘Stop laughing. Not funny. When they say my name now – Leonard – which is not that often, I wonder who they have in mind.’
She recovered slowly. ‘Tell me. What do you want the most?’
‘Two things. Now it’s two. One, a birth certificate to carry in my wallet.’
‘We’re in Quebec. You need a baptismal certificate, and you weren’t baptized.’
‘I believe that’s changed. We’ve gone modern. And two, someday, my name on a tombstone. I want that the most. I’ll have it chiseled in advance. To make sure it’s done right.’
‘You’re thinking about your tombstone? This far ahead?’ She gazed across the apartment’s muddle. He had shelves stuffed with books. He lived within a university milieu, albeit as a soft-drug dealer. ‘Know what? You can enroll as a mature student. Now that you have a real name.’
‘Get off the pot,’ he said, rather quietly she thought. ‘Literally.’
‘You could. You should.’
‘Get the hell out of here.’
‘You don’t mean that, Leonard.’
He lifted his head. It seemed heavy to him.
‘Noel,’ he corrected her. ‘In here, at home, my new name is Noel.’
‘Sure thing,’ she confirmed. ‘Noel, dude, enroll!’
Émile Cinq-Mars assumed he’d be no help regarding the art heist. Someone stole a painting. Unless it showed up at auction in Singapore or Abu Dhabi there’d be no new news.
After being in the apartment for three minutes, he changed his mind.
He enjoyed meeting the grand lady of the house. The pleasure of her company prevented him from dragging Yves Giroux into the street and scolding him for being an idiot. The case was solved. All he had to do was put a few pieces together.
He engaged Mrs Amelia Reynolds in conversation, discussing plants, cats, the Queen, her grandson, her travels to the Far East and, of course, her art collection, which was impressive. She patted her coiffed and tinted gray hair to keep the edges at attention and showed how the thief broke in by jimmying the front-door lock. She gave him a summary of her nieces, nephews and grandchild, as she had outlived both her husband and her only son. When Giroux, bored out of his tree, insisted that they make a break for it, Cinq-Mars thanked Mrs Reynolds for her hospitality and assured her that she’d have her painting back soon.
‘Cinq-Mars,’ Giroux lectured him outside on the street, ‘never say you’ll return stolen property. Don’t get their hopes up.’
‘I solved your case,�
�� the junior detective told him.
‘A needle in a huge haystack gives us a better chance. If the needle’s there, we’ll find it. This case—’
‘I was born on a farm.’
‘What?’
‘But not in a barn. My best friends were horses though.’
‘Did you say something?’
‘You didn’t hear me?’
‘Something about farming?’
‘You’re listening now? Good. I said, I solved your case.’
Giroux stood on the sidewalk as the brunt of his partner’s declaration dawned on him.
‘Sorry?’ he asked.
‘Solved,’ Cinq-Mars said, and turned to face him. ‘I know who committed the robbery.’
Now Giroux was looking at him as though he had a screw loose. ‘I don’t get it. Not an insurance scam, you said …’
‘You can’t pretend a well-known painting is stolen then stick it back on a wall. If you do, you can’t let anyone inside the door ever again. Yves, she’s a collector—’
‘I noticed. So?’
‘Imagine being a thief. You break into a house. The sole purpose is to steal a painting. You steal the Tom Thomson. But if you’re a thief who knows enough about art to know the difference between a Tom Thomson, say, and some doodle that you could do yourself, and you aren’t rushed for time, why would you pass up the Lawren Harris or the Jean-Paul Riopelle?’
‘The who? The what?’
‘They’re painters, Yves. She’s a collector. The A.Y. Jackson is small, but it’s valuable. Those are only the Canadians. There’s a Spanish name I don’t know, but I liked his work. And, then, there’s another Spaniard who you and I both know.’
‘I don’t know any Spaniards.’
‘You’ve heard of Picasso.’
Giroux stood transfixed a moment. ‘Which one?’
‘In the dining room. On the right as you enter.’
‘A fucking Picasso? The lady is loaded. She doesn’t need insurance money.’
‘That’s not the point. The point is, no thief worth his salt would pass up the Picasso, or the others, and settle only for the Thomson. It’s just not possible.’
‘If you say so. Where does that leave us?’
‘The lock wasn’t jimmied. The door was opened with a key. On his way out, our crook scratched the wood to make it look otherwise.’
‘He took a gouge of wood out, Cinq-Mars.’
‘Exactly, and you fell for it. Relatively soon, her grandson will inherit everything. In the meantime, he wanted something on account. He took the Thomson. Probably, he had a sale lined up. He collects a bit of cash to see him through until grandma’s demise, and when she does go he gets a share of the insurance payout as well. No point stealing the works. He can wait to inherit. He took what he needed to tide him over. Lean on the bastard, Yves. Incarcerate his skinny ass and get the painting back. Now, here’s the deal.’
‘Deal? What deal? We don’t know that this case is solved.’
‘It’s annoying, but the case is solved. It’s not rocket science. It’s not even Art Theft 101. It’s been done before, just not to Mrs Reynolds. Clean it up, Yves. Enjoy the glory and leave me alone. That’s our deal. Cover for me when I’m AWOL. I’ve got stuff to look after.’
‘How come,’ Giroux asked, ‘you know about these artists anyhow?’
Cinq-Mars didn’t want to say. The poor guy needed an answer, though, if for no other reason than to make up for his own deficiencies. Cinq-Mars favored him with the truth. ‘I had a girlfriend,’ he admitted. ‘She broke up with me. Recently. Life with a Night Patrol cop was too scary, too disruptive. The excuse she gave anyway. She used to drag me around museums, show me her art books. She studied art history. I just happened to get lucky that way.’
‘That kind of lucky,’ Giroux said.
‘That kind, too. Do we have a deal?’
Giroux gazed at Cinq-Mars, looked back at the old lady’s apartment. He shrugged. ‘Sure,’ he said. On the spot, their agreement was ironclad, as if chiseled in stone.
The Money Jar
(Bug speed)
Quinn took the Number 80 bus over the mountain and through the ethnically diverse neighborhoods bordering Park Avenue. Weariness perspired on the visage of every passenger. She offered her seat to an older woman with a babushka who wore a sweater despite the warm temperature. They exchanged a smile.
In a way she couldn’t explain, the woman influenced her thinking. Quinn decided to spring cash from the food jar when she got home, head to the small grocer on Howard Avenue, then make something special for her dad. They’d been through a rough patch. Time to give him a break and a treat.
Cheer herself up, too. Dietmar’s burial remained with her. Spending time with Noel helped, but an uneasy sorrow held sway. More than anything, she wanted her dad to complete his shift and come home. She’d cook up one of his favorites. Like scallops.
Yeah. If the fish market had sea scallops, she’d prepare a creamy linguine. He’d like that. He’d like it so much he’d have a bird!
Perhaps it was her weed buzz, or subliminal intuition. As she turned the key in the lock on the front door of her home something did not feel right. As if the door was already unlocked. She’d definitely secured it when she left. She never forgot, and after the firebombing had taken extra care. Entering, Quinn relaxed. Everything seemed normal. She made a beeline for the kitchen and the food-money jar.
A swift electric jolt shot through her.
A man standing there – cleaning his nails? – shocked her. She managed only a gasp before a hand covered her mouth. More hands on her. Her head forced back. She gasped again and half-hollered when the paw came off her mouth, instantly replaced by a gag. Someone – a man – knotted it tightly at the back of her neck. Her wrists were bound behind her. Her ankles. She was flung to the kitchen floor. Quinn flounced there, a fish out of water.
She squiggled around. Tried to look up. To see. To free herself. The man standing there had barely twitched a muscle.
He was cleaning his nails with the nails of his opposite fingers.
She squirmed around on the floor.
The man squatted down beside her.
He said, ‘Shh. Shh. Relax.’
At first, she was seeing his hands. Deeply veined, alabaster skin. As though they rarely saw the sun. She twisted her neck to see his face better. A foliage of chest hair at his neckline. He was half-shaven. An eyebrow split by scar tissue. Buzz cut, salt and peppery.
He had a hard look.
‘Shh. Shh.’
She tried to kick and flail.
He removed a penknife from his hip pocket. Nothing too large.
Opened the modest blade slowly.
‘Settle down yourself. Or bleed out. A choice for you.’ His voice almost gentle.
She looked up at him sideways. He had this grin on his face. As though she should never believe he was not serious. Her rampant fear seized her in place.
‘They call me the Rabbit,’ he said. ‘Never just “Rabbit”. Don’t call me that. Always “the”. You’re Quinn? That’s you?’
Too afraid to deny it. She’d been warned about this man.
‘Come with me. Better for you, go willing. Get me?’
She could not oppose the edict. Raised in Park Ex, she had no difficulty understanding his heavily accented English.
Other men in the room prepped her for transport. One went through her purse and found Leonard’s parting gift. Passed the weed to the Rabbit. He tossed it into a corner on the kitchen floor.
The other man flung her purse across the floor. Items scattered loose.
The Rabbit grunted.
‘Some fucking reason, a person don’t want you dead, not yet. Later, maybe. Means I got to treat you nice somehow. Come peaceful, sweetie Quinn. Make no trouble. Get me?’
She nodded as though she did.
Jim Tanner took his usual lift home. He called out as he came through the door. No answer. For Quinn not to be hom
e was common, but why was the door unlocked? He turned the corner into the kitchen, which included a small dining table. On it were three half-eaten meals. Fried chicken and French fries. Not his daughter’s favorite, and why so much of it and only half-eaten? She may have had friends over, but usually they had voracious appetites. And Quinn never left a mess behind.
Her purse lay on the floor.
Panic overwhelmed him then. His brain fired up. His body jumped.
He noticed a marijuana baggie. He wasn’t naive. Kids did stuff. Quinn was never careless about that sort of thing, and never left anything lying around. He turned. The screen in the back window was missing. The window open. He poked his head out. The screen lay flat on the ground.
His heart was roaring now. A terror lanced straight through him.
Jim Tanner went to the phone book. He wanted to reach the guy who’d been around lately. He got lucky. Quinn had left the card for the man’s partner right on top. He dialed. A switchboard operator patched him through to Sergeant-Detective Giroux’s phone, but no one answered. When the operator came back on, he requested Detective Cinq-Mars. She said he wasn’t in. He clicked off, picked up the phone book again, found a number and called police headquarters. He asked for the head of the Night Patrol. A big department. And a fierce one. He was passed along and put on hold and then an intermediary answered.
‘I need to speak to Captain Armand Touton.’
‘Who is calling, please, and what is the nature of your call?’ A pleasant, youthful, female voice. The sound of it redoubled his fear.
‘My daughter’s been taken.’
‘“Taken”, sir? How do you mean?’
‘Abducted.’
She patched him through.
He was surprised when Touton answered. Growled at him, ‘Touton. Yeah?’
‘My name is Jim Tanner. My daughter’s name is Quinn. She’s been abducted. She’s been in trouble lately. One of your guys – one of your former guys is what I heard – was looking into her situation.’
‘You mean Cinq-Mars.’
‘Him, yeah. I need him here at my place. Now.’
‘Give me your address. If I can’t find him, I’ll be there myself.’