“Grrrr,” she sang along with the chopping sound, her mind drifting to thoughts of Karl. Karl hugging and kissing her at the airport. Karl in a bathing suit. Afternoon siestas with Karl. “I love you, Nancy,” Karl had said their last night together. Karl, Karl, Karl. “Mmmm, mmmm, mmmm …”
She scooped the coffee grounds into the French press pot, poured in the boiled water, and burst out laughing. A whole week of sun, sand, and sex. Get out of Toronto in November, the darkest damn month.
The instruction booklet said you were supposed to let the coffee sit for five minutes, but fuck it. She palmed the plunger down, poured out a nice hot cup, and sat at her narrow kitchen table. She pulled the paper out of the bag and was about to take her first sip when the phone on the counter rang.
“No, no, no.” She wagged her finger at it, like an angry grandma in some fairy tale. “I’m out of here.”
Her cell rang, playing the Mexican hat dance.
“Shit.” She stared at the newspaper as she answered her partner’s call. “Ted?”
“Did you talk to him?” DiPaulo didn’t even say hello. Not his usual polite style.
The front page was dominated by a mug shot of a young man with a screaming headline on top: ARMED AND DANGEROUS—FULL POLICE MANHUNT FOR SUSPECT IN TIM HORTONS BOY KILLING. Staring back at her was the face of Larkin St. Clair, her client for the last ten years, since he was twelve years old, when he’d started his life of crime by stealing from Toronto Sun newspaper boxes.
“No, Ted, I …” Parish was reading frantically now. “Wait.”
She lunged across the kitchen for the home phone.
“Nancy Parish,” she said, breathless, her lawyer’s way of answering the phone clicking in automatically.
“Where the fuck you been?”
It was St. Clair. He never introduced himself. No need. She often joked that she’d known him longer than any other man in her life, including her ex-husband.
“I just saw the paper.” She was carrying on the unspoken code—never use a client’s name on the phone when he’s on the run.
“Fuck, man, I’ve been calling and calling—”
“I didn’t know it was you.” She started to pace.
“This time, I’ll turn myself in.” He sounded shaky.
“Good.”
“Meet me where we were going to have that beer,” he said. “Just you.”
That beer. For years, as he had careened from halfway houses to juvenile jails to provincial institutions to federal penitentiaries, they’d had an ongoing mythical conversation. How one summer night the two of them would go to a restaurant on the Danforth, around the corner from her house, sit on the outdoor patio, St. Clair no longer in jail, finally off parole so he didn’t have to piss into a cup twice a week.
Of course it never happened. But they had the restaurant all picked out. Information that no one else would know.
“I’m leaving on holiday in half an hour,” she said. Out the back window a swirl of fresh snow was coming down against the dull gray sky. “My partner Ted DiPaulo’s—”
“No way, Nancy. Where you going?”
“Mexico.”
“Mexico? You don’t get it, man. I’m front-page news.”
“I can’t do it.”
“Nancy. Listen. This isn’t what it sounds like. I need you.”
“The cab’s going to be here soon.” She eyed the packed bag in the front hall that she’d carried downstairs last night.
“Then I’m gone,” he said. “No way I’m going into the cops with anyone else.”
“I haven’t had a holiday in—”
“Fuck it.”
“But Ted’s …” She looked back at the newspaper. Beside the mug shot of St. Clair was a color photo of a young couple with a beautiful dark-haired boy.
“I’ll disappear, man.”
“He’s a former Crown Attorney and—”
“They won’t find me for a hundred fuckin’ years.”
Her eyes went to the father in the photo, a fat man with jowly cheeks. His eyes were soft and sparkling.
“Nancy, what’s going on?” she heard a distant voice say. Who was talking to her? Then she realized Ted DiPaulo was screaming at her through the cell phone in her other hand. She looked over at her cup of coffee, growing cold.
“How long do you need?” she asked St. Clair.
“Half an hour,” he said.
“Make it forty-five minutes,” she said. St. Clair had never been on time for anything in his life. “I’ll drive by our place real slow and pop open the back door behind me. You jump in and keep your goddamn head down.”
“I love you, Nancy,” St. Clair said before he hung up.
She looked at the home phone in her hand. Then again at the eyes of the little boy’s father.
“I love you, Nancy,” she said to herself, not quite sure whether or not she’d spoken out loud.
6
Ari Greene should have been tired. It was a quarter to seven and he’d been up all night interviewing witnesses in the big police mobile command unit truck stationed down the block from the Tim Hortons. Twenty-two patrons and passersby had been there when the shots rang out. He’d spoken to them one after another without a break because he wanted to get their recollections down on tape as fast as possible. While their memories were fresh.
But fatigue was the farthest thing from his mind. The case was a giant jigsaw puzzle and he was thinking overtime trying to stitch it together. Most of the witnesses had seen bits of what happened or heard snippets of conversation, and only a handful would be useful at trial. Not one of them had witnessed the actual shooting.
Still, they were consistent enough on key points that a story emerged. At about five o’clock two young men, one short with red hair, the other tall with very long hair, were at a table inside the door of the Tim Hortons. A large car—one witness, a South African businessman who’d been standing across the street, said it was an old Cadillac—pulled into the far corner of the lot. The two men went outside. A woman ran from the opposite corner of the coffee shop across the lot to meet the driver, who had gotten out of his car, and seconds later there were gunshots. Just how many shots wasn’t clear. Estimates ranged from as few as three to as many as nine. Greene wasn’t surprised by these inconsistencies, which were typical with civilian witnesses. One of the bullets hit a little boy who was walking into the shop with his father. No one saw where the short red-haired guy went, but many saw the tall one with the long hair sprint across the parking lot and run out onto Elm Street.
As Greene’s night wore on things had become even clearer. Just after ten, Detective Officer Ho walked into the command unit with the surveillance footage from the doughnut shop. The inside camera caught the two young men seated at a table near the door, drinking coffee. The camera angle was from on top, making it impossible to identify them. The one with the long hair all the way down to his waist was chatting to some girls at the next table. At 5:00:34, according to the counter in the corner of the video, the shorter one tapped his partner on the arm and pointed out the front window toward the parking lot. The two exited at 5:00:58. The first 911 call reporting gunshots came in at 5:03:01, and seconds later, at 5:03:49, the tall guy could be seen rushing into the parking lot. He looked over to the spot where the child had fallen, stuffed something into the front of his pants—it wasn’t clear enough to identify as a gun—and ran out onto Elm Street. Just before he took off, he turned and looked right into the camera, which captured his face perfectly.
“Stop it right there,” Greene said to Ho, who was playing the video on his laptop. “I recognize that face. Looks like a younger version of Austin St. Clair, who I’ve arrested six times. He’s still in jail on a jury-tampering charge.
“Excellent guess. It’s his son.” Ho chuckled for the first time all night. He pointed to the screen. “These two young geniuses left their coffee cups on the table. I rushed them up to the lab and the overnight operators lifted two sets of prints.�
��
“You get a match?”
Ho pulled some police reports from his bag. “We got a definitive for Larkin St. Clair, your old pal Austin’s only son. Take a look at his latest mug shot.”
It was the same guy. “And the short one?” Greene asked.
“Got a partial that’s probably Dewey Booth. Wouldn’t stand up in court but take a look at their file. These two jerks have a long history of committing crimes together. Last time they robbed a pharmacy late at night. Booth punched a female pharmacist in the face when she hesitated handing over the money. Broke her jaw. He got three years. St. Clair was standing six outside and he only got a year plus probation. Booth just got out of jail four days ago and the next day St. Clair’s probation officer reported him as AWOL. He missed his weekly appointment.”
Greene called headquarters. The front desk back at Homicide was going crazy fielding calls from the media, who wanted a news update for their morning editions. He dictated a press release with Larkin St. Clair’s most recent police photo on it, not the image from the video. He didn’t want to reveal that St. Clair was captured on tape. That would lead to questions about whether the police also had pictures of his partner. And right now, he wanted to keep Dewey Booth’s name under the radar.
Just after seven in the morning, minutes after he’d finished interviewing his last witness, a call came in on his cell.
“Detective Greene?”
“Yes.”
“This is PC Darvesh. I’m one of the officers guarding the Wilkinson family at the hospital.”
Greene closed his eyes. “Yes.”
“The child. Kyle. He died.”
Breathe, Greene told himself, breathe. He wasn’t quite sure how long it took him to say, “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
The icy walk up the snow-covered street only took a minute or two and when the elevator opened on the ninth floor of the hospital, the sun, which was climbing over the downtown skyline, hit him square in the eyes. He squinted involuntarily.
“Sir, I’m afraid only authorized personnel are allowed on the floor this morning,” a young female police officer said, stepping in front of him. She had dark hair, blunt-cut tight to her head. Her face was stern, her eyes tired.
Greene had his badge in his hand, and he flashed it at her.
“Oh,” she said. “Sorry, detective.”
“Don’t be sorry, that’s good work.” He extended his arm to shake hands. “Ari Greene.”
“PC Albright,” she said. Her fingers were tense.
“Where’s the father?” he asked.
“Room 908. He just told his wife.”
“I heard she’s pregnant,” he said.
“Due in about two weeks. Started bleeding a few days ago. Has had two miscarriages since their first son was born.” She spoke in a clipped staccato, like she was reading from a notebook.
“Who’s your partner?”
“PC Darvesh. He’s outside the room.”
“Good,” he said. “The press are all over the lobby downstairs. I’ve got officers covering every elevator and the stairwell. Still they’ll try to sneak up here. No matter what, don’t let them anywhere near them.”
“I won’t.”
He took a few steps down the hall, then turned back. “Remember, you’re not just protecting this family,” he told Albright. “Being here, they see people care.”
Her tight lips turned up into a wan smile. “Thanks, detective.”
The door to room 908 was open. Another young officer, this one a male Sikh wearing a blue turban with a Toronto police insignia squarely in the center, was standing guard, his back to the wall. He glanced at Greene’s badge and nodded. From inside the room Greene heard crying, great sobs of shock and sorrow.
The officer gave Greene a firm handshake. “PC Darvesh.” He kept his voice low.
“Ari Greene.” He stood beside Darvesh.
An old clock hung crookedly on the opposite wall. It was 7:18.
“How long you been here?” Greene was almost whispering.
“Since midnight.”
“Tough assignment,” Greene said.
“Yes.” Darvesh’s eyes were straight forward.
Greene folded his arms and concentrated on the sweep of the second hand. He was impressed with PC Darvesh. The man’s stillness. Patience. Learning how to wait things out was the toughest thing to teach young cops. He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a business card.
“Don’t go home when you get off shift,” he said. “Call me. I might have an assignment for you.”
Darvesh took the card and didn’t say a word. Greene liked his quiet confidence.
Footsteps approached from inside room 908.
“You must be Detective Greene,” a large, rotund man said. He reached out his hand.
Greene shook it. “Hello, Mr. Wilkinson.”
“Thanks for watching out for my wife.” Wilkinson’s eyes were puffy.
“What else can we do?”
Wilkinson shook his head. “What can I do?”
Greene looked down at his hands. “I need to take a statement from you as soon as you’re ready.”
Wilkinson wiped a tear off his big cheek. “Okay.”
“There’s a lounge down the hallway. It should be empty this early in the morning,” Greene said.
The two men walked shoulder to shoulder through the hospital corridor, neither saying a word.
Greene heard a ringing sound.
“Damn cell phone.” Wilkinson jammed his hand into his pocket. He turned it off without even pulling it out to look at it.
They continued on in silence. “Do you have any brothers or sisters or relatives who live in Toronto?” Greene asked as they neared the end of the hall.
Wilkinson shook his head. “Head office moved us up here three months ago and we’re still getting settled. Both of our families are back in California. Why?”
“We’ll worry about it later,” Greene said.
“I heard you identified the shooter.”
“We’ve got a suspect,” Greene said.
“Someone said there were two guys.”
“It’s early yet.”
Tempting as it was for the police, and frustrating as it was for the victims, telling the family too much at this early stage was a huge mistake. Wilkinson seemed to sense this and changed the topic. “Kyle lived for almost fourteen hours. The doctor said he was a real fighter.”
“I heard that.”
The lounge was empty. The big man stopped just inside the door and turned to Greene. “You need someone to identify the body. That’s why you asked if we had other family here.”
“It has to be done,” Greene said. “Is there anyone. A neighbor? A nanny? A friend?”
Wilkinson’s jaw clamped tight like a vise. “You don’t have capital punishment in Canada, do you?”
“No, sir.”
“What do these bastards get? A few months at a hobby farm?”
“Twenty-five years for first-degree murder.”
Wilkinson slumped down into the chair nearest the door. “My wife is crushed. If you don’t catch these guys …” He slammed his big fist into his open palm so hard that it sounded like a slap.
7
Driving her nine-year-old Honda along the north side of Danforth Avenue, Nancy Parish slowed to a crawl at the traffic light, which was turning red. The snow from last night still covered the sidewalks. Pappas Grill, the restaurant where she was supposed to pick up Larkin St. Clair, was on the next corner, but there was no sign of him.
She scanned the street.
At this early hour the wide avenue was stirring to life and the round red traffic signal glowed against the brightening sky. The sun cut low on the horizon, speeding through its limited late-autumn trajectory. To her right, a man dressed in a white uniform was shoveling off the space in front of his bakery. To her left, a merchant came out of his all-night fruit market and turned the spotlights off a table of outdoor produce. A
group of women joggers dressed in sleek running-wear crossed in front of her car, determined looks on their reddened faces.
I’m pathetic, Parish thought. She’d been so busy trying to get everything tied up at the office so she could get away that she hadn’t done any exercise for a week.
But where was St. Clair?
The light turned green, and she accelerated slowly. Fortunately hers was the only car on the road. She was almost at the restaurant and still nothing.
Then she saw a flash of color. St. Clair rushed out from a recessed doorway. She threw the car in park, reached behind her, and cracked open the back door. He ran around the rear of the car and in a second was inside, slamming the rusty door shut behind him.
“Keep your fat head down,” she hissed, hitting the gas.
“I’m down,” he said. “I’m down.”
She’d seen him toss a cigarette butt on the road before he jumped in the car, and he reeked of tobacco. His long hair, which he always wore far down his back, had been hacked off to shoulder length.
“Get under this.” She threw a blanket that she’d grabbed on her way out of her house at him.
“I’m covered.”
“What the fuck did you do to your hair?”
“I’m on the run, man,” he said.
She laughed. “Larkin, you’re really lousy at this. You wanted to change your appearance, why didn’t you shave it all off?”
“You crazy? Chicks love my hair.”
“Glad to see you’ve got your priorities straight.” She checked her rearview mirror. Still no traffic on the road. “We’re going to police headquarters.”
“Why not fifty-five?”
Fifty-five was the local police division that had been a second home for St. Clair since he’d been twelve.
“The division will just transport you downtown to the homicide bureau. Congratulations. You’ve made it to the big leagues.”
Up ahead, a truck had pulled up outside a Greek butcher, and a man wearing a white apron was hauling out a sheep carcass on his shoulder. She felt thankful that, despite the invasion of high-end coffee shops, designer cookware stores, and white-walled hair salons, Danforth Avenue still had its share of tacky bridal shops, dry cleaners who actually did repairs, and places like this butcher’s, with a row of carcasses across its broad front window.
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