The snow was so thick that Kennicott could hardly see. He got on his police radio. “Move onto the street,” he whispered to the officer whose unmarked police car was at one of the pumps, pretending to gas up.
“Ten-four,” the cop in the car said.
“Drive out of his line of sight. But stay close.”
Jet turned and watched the unmarked drive away. He waited until he couldn’t see it anymore. He still hadn’t gone inside.
He knows something’s up, Kennicott thought.
Suddenly, Jet jammed the phone back in his pocket and started running to his vehicle.
Shit. Kennicott grabbed his radio again. “He’s going to the Caddy. Cut him off! Cut him off!”
Jet jumped in and threw his car in gear.
Kennicott ran across the snowy ground. But it was slippery. Treacherous.
The Cadillac lurched forward and was almost out of the lot when the unmarked reversed at it on the road and slammed into its side, sending the big car skittering. It spun sideways and smashed into a minivan. The two officers in the unmarked were both flung back in their seats by the impact. They looked stunned.
Kennicott was charging ahead as fast as he could get traction, just a few feet away.
Horns started blaring. Above the din, he heard the cracking sound of a car door opening. In a flash, Jet was out in the snow and racing through traffic, crossing the crowded street.
“Stop! Police!” Kennicott yelled.
Jet glanced over his shoulder, then kept going.
Kennicott danced his way through the cars on the road.
Jet got to the other side of the street and ran into a driveway beside a house, heading toward the backyard gate. He flung it open and dashed out of sight.
Kennicott plowed after him. Behind the house fresh footprints in the snow led to the fence at the end of the yard. He scaled it and came down in a forest of trees. The house backed onto the Don Valley, a large ravine that ran through the city’s East End.
He stopped to catch his breath. “Jet, you’re only making this worse for yourself. Talk to us and I don’t have to arrest you.”
Listening hard, he heard the crash of branches. A distant voice yelled back at him: “Fuck you, cop.”
That’s an original line, Kennicott thought as he took off after the tracks. The woods were unexpectedly thick, considering they were in the middle of the city, and the snow surprisingly deep. All those years of marathon running meant he had a great store of strength in his legs. And he was angry, which helped fuel his drive. He crashed through the branches, releasing the smell of fresh pine. Jet’s footsteps were getting shorter. Means he’s getting tired.
At the bottom of the hill, the land flattened out and there were only a few trees. The snow was coming down hard and the wind was fierce. He caught a glimpse of Jet, gaining speed on the easier terrain as he reached the river and crossed a little footbridge. A smaller hill rose on the other side, and on top were houses and streets. If Jet made it to there, he could go in any direction. There’d be car tracks he could follow without leaving a trail in the snow.
Kennicott grabbed his radio and called dispatch. “I’ve followed the suspect down into the valley,” he shouted. “He’s headed for the other side. The north part of Rosedale. Get some cars over there.”
“We’re trying,” the dispatcher said. “But with this storm, everyone’s tied up on the main streets. Traffic’s a horror show.”
He clicked off the radio and tore ahead. When he hit the bridge he felt himself getting a second wind. Jet was starting up the other side, his pace slackening.
Keep steady, he told himself. Knees high. Breathe.
Halfway up the hill the trees grew thicker again. He was only about twenty feet back.
“Jet, last chance to stop.”
“No … way …” Jet was huffing.
The hill was steeper as they neared the summit. Jet reached for a branch to hoist himself up, and it broke in his hand with a loud snap. His feet slipped. “Shit.”
Kennicott was steps away now. Sweating despite the cold.
Jet scrambled to his feet. He was climbing again with speed. Almost at the top, kicking snow into Kennicott’s face.
Kennicott planted a foot on an exposed root and jumped, reaching blindly for Jet’s leg. I missed it, he thought. But then he felt his hand brush against the side of a shoe.
It was just enough to break Jet’s stride. He landed on his back, puffing up a cloud of snow underneath him.
Kennicott grabbed his ankle.
Above him he saw Jet was sitting up with a rock in his hand. “Here, cop, take this,” he said and flung it.
Kennicott tried to duck, but it hit him square in the forehead. Blood spurted out into his eyes. He wiped it away with his free hand just in time to see Jet hurl another rock down at him. He ducked again and took the impact on his shoulders, still holding on to Jet’s foot.
Jet started to kick at his fingers, smashing them against a tree trunk. Pound, pound, pound.
He couldn’t hold on much longer. If he let go, he’d tumble backward down the hill.
In desperation he braced his foot on a tree root, and when the next kick came, he grabbed Jet’s other ankle and yanked it down with all his might.
It worked. They both tumbled back down the hill. Jet landed on his face.
Kennicott was almost on top of him. He went to his belt, grabbed his handcuffs, and slapped them on Jet before he could move.
“I told you,” he said, gasping for air. The cuffs made a grinding sound as he tightened them. “I didn’t need to arrest you.”
“I’m not saying shit!” Jet screamed.
He must be reading from the same script as Dewey, Kennicott thought. “Just give me a statement and I won’t have to arrest you.” He lifted him to his feet. “Dewey and Larkin were shooting at you and Suzanne,” Kennicott said. “Why won’t you help us?”
Jet shook his head. “Help the cops?”
“Okay, help yourself.”
“Well where’s Dewey? I don’t see in the papers that he’s been arrested. Has he?”
“No, he hasn’t been,” Kennicott said.
“Where’s Suzanne?”
“In a safe place.”
“Yeah? For how long?”
“We’ll take care of her,” Kennicott said.
“Go ahead and put me in jail. Just make sure I’m in protective custody. With Dewey on the loose, I’m not saying squat. He’s a fucking psycho.”
In the fading light their eyes met. Kennicott could see this was not false bravado. Jet looked scared.
25
“We caught your pal Jet,” Ari Greene said to Suzanne Howett. “He took off from the gas station and we had to chase him down into the valley. Now he’s facing additional charges of escaping from police and assaulting police to resist arrest.”
“Great,” she said with an exaggerated frown. “I know Jet. He’ll never say a word to you guys.”
Greene was sitting alone with Howett at an old wood table he’d had put into the same bare room in the homicide bureau where he’d interviewed Larkin St. Clair two days before. In the corner, the ubiquitous video camera was turned on, and a few minutes ago, it had recorded her being cautioned that the statement she was about to make was being taped, that it would be transcribed and she’d be asked to sign it, and that it was a criminal offense to give the police false information. He’d spread out three file folders on the table. Each had a large typed label, big enough for Howett to read.
He picked up the one that said SUZANNE HOWETT—EARLY YEARS.
She clasped her hands in front of her mouth and scratched between her front teeth with a fingernail. Watching him intently.
“You and Jet were in kindergarten together,” he said, looking in the file, although he didn’t have to. “Same class until grade eight, then both of you went to the mainland for high school.”
She pulled her hands away from her mouth. “There’s one school on the island. Twenty-four students
in the whole place. Stupid.”
“Dewey showed up in grade four.”
“I remember. Both his dads brought him the first day.”
“All three of you were in high school together too.”
“Until Dewey quit,” she said. “After one of his dads died.”
He picked up another folder, entitled SUZANNE HOWETT—JAIL VISITS. “Dewey’s first year and a half in Kingston Pen, you went to see him twenty-four times. Then you stopped. How come?”
She shook her head. Her blond curls rippled across her face. “It sucked taking the bus out there all the time.”
“That the only reason?”
She stared straight at Greene for the first time. “Stupid trailer visits are, like, gross.”
He looked down at her left hand, with the baby finger curled inside.
“He got pissed when I told him I was breaking up with him.” She pulled out her finger and rubbed it. “He’s never going to forgive me.”
He picked up a third file, labeled SUZANNE HOWETT/JAMES ERIC TRAPPER WIRETAPS & SURVEILLANCE. He made sure she saw it. “It didn’t take us long to make the connection between you and Dewey and we started listening within a few hours of the shooting,” he said.
She hid her finger again. “So you know everything.”
“I know you are scared of him.”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“Probably.” He’d left the composite drawing of Jose Sanchez facedown on the table. He turned it over. “What do you know about him?”
She shrugged her shoulders very high. “Like I said, he’s just a guy I know at work. What’s he got to do with this?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. He left after the shooting and didn’t come to work the next day. Not answering his cell. We’re searching for him.”
She gave Greene a sullen look.
“When’s the last time you saw him?” he asked.
“We always had a smoke out back at the end of my shift. We were there just before everything happened. I think he liked me. He’s from Portugal. Real smart, speaks a whole bunch of languages.”
“Where does he live?”
“I don’t know.”
“What else do you know about him?”
“Nothing. I swear. I’ve never seen him anywhere but work.”
Greene thought about how Jet drove her to and from both her jobs all the time. The guy probably never let her out of his sight. “Okay. Can you describe him to me?”
“Jose’s funny. Changes his look all the time. Said he could grow a beard in a week. Sometimes he had long sideburns, or a mustache, or a goatee, or nothing. When he was clean-shaven he had a baby face.”
This guy is smart, Greene thought. “Give me the basics. How tall was he?”
“A little taller than me, about five-six, five-seven. Skinny.”
“Skin color?”
She flicked her hair out of her face. “Dark. Like Portuguese guys. Brown eyes. That’s about it. He hated wearing the Tim Hortons uniform.”
“How old would you guess?”
She bit her lower lip. “I don’t know. Like he could look real young, but I think he had to be older. Late twenties maybe.”
“Glasses, tattoos?”
She giggled. “I never saw his tattoos.” She pointed to the drawing. “See? He has this little birthmark thingee by his eye.”
“That night, what did you talk about?”
“I told him about Dewey. How I’d heard he was out of jail and that he’d found out where I worked. That he hung out with that jerk Larkin.”
“Did you tell him you were afraid of Dewey?”
“It was pretty obvious.”
“Then what happened?”
“We finished our smoke and Jose went back to work. I went around the side of the building away from the parking lot to wait for Jet. It’s dark there. A few seconds later I heard Jose yelling to me from the back door. He warned me that Dewey and Larkin were inside. Then Jet’s Cadillac drove in. I ran across the lot and told him we had to get out of there fast. I didn’t even notice the father and his kid. Never saw them.”
“What happened next?”
“Someone said, ‘Here, take this,’ then I heard the shots. We jumped in the car and took off.”
“How many shots?”
“I don’t know. A lot.”
“Did Jet have a gun?”
“No. He didn’t have a gun.”
“You sure? You’re under oath now and I’m going to get this statement typed out and have you sign it.”
“I’m sure. Jet didn’t have a gun.”
“Where did the shots come from?”
“Behind me somewhere. Near the Timmy’s, but …” She put her head in her hands. “I didn’t know anyone was hit. I didn’t see anything. We heard about it on the radio driving home. I couldn’t believe it. I totally freaked. If it wasn’t for me that little boy wouldn’t have been …” She started to cry.
He thought of how dark the spot was where Booth and St. Clair had been standing. How Suzanne had told Jet on the intercepted phone call that she hadn’t seen anything. And her story was consistent with the witnesses who saw her running across the lot. He passed her some tissues and waited. “You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?”
She sniffed and nodded. “I’m telling you the truth. This is what happened.”
“That night, did you see Dewey?”
She blew her nose hard. “No.”
“Larkin?”
“No.”
“Did you see Jose outside again?”
“Not after our smoke.”
“Where do you think Jose went?”
She balled the tissues in her hand. “I have no idea.”
“We need to find him.”
“He was just a guy I worked with. There’s nothing else to tell you.”
“You said you thought Jose liked you.”
She laughed. “I’m blond. He’s Latin. Happens all the time, believe me.”
Greene laughed too. “Think. What did he tell you about himself? His family, friends, school?”
“I guess he’s illegal or something, because he was paranoid about the cops. He loved reading. Always had a book in his back pocket. Once he said he had wanted to be a professor before he came to Canada.”
“Of what topic?”
She shrugged.
This conversation wasn’t going anywhere, Greene thought. He started to put the folders together in a neat pile. “What else? You talked to him every day for months.”
“He knew tons of languages. The Yuens—they’re the owners—really liked him because he could speak to all sorts of customers.”
“I’m sure that was useful working downtown.” He was just making conversation now. Time to wrap up this interview.
“I remember one day these people came in looking for the Eaton Centre. They were so lost. Jose started yakking away with them. I had no idea what language he was speaking.”
“Did you ask him?” There were probably about a hundred thousand illegals in the city, Greene thought. A million ways for this guy to hide. He squared the bottom of the folders on the table.
“When we went for our smoke. He said it was Romanian. I said, ‘How do you learn Romanian in Portugal?’”
Greene dropped the folders. They landed with a smack.
“He gave me that cute little smile of his,” she said. “Put on a fake accent: ‘Comrade. Please. No further questions.’ We both laughed. He sounded just like one of those bad guys you see in the movies. Know what I mean?”
Romanian, Greene thought. Of course. It’s a Romance language. Jose had put on his job application that he spoke French, Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, and English, which made sense. But he hadn’t mentioned that he spoke Romanian. Which also made sense if this guy really wanted to hide.
PART TWO
DECEMBER
26
Dragomir Ozera recognized the guy on the front page of the newspaper right away
. He was Ralph Armitage, the prosecutor in the Wilkinson case, whose picture had been featured in every Toronto paper for weeks after the little boy had been shot at the Tim Hortons. The guy was a publicity hound, and here he was again, a huge grin on his face under a big banner headline: FEATURE STORY: CROWN ATTORNEY RALPH ARMITAGE AND THE DEAL BEHIND THE TIMMY’S SHOOTING CASE, BY STAR COURT REPORTER AWOTWE AMANKWAH.
Ozera had been working for a month as a dishwasher at the Le Petit Déjeuner, a hip restaurant down on the old part of King Street. His new fake name was Arkadi Denisovich, and he’d told his employer he was Russian. He was having fun making up all these new names and stories about himself. Now he sported a full beard, with no mustache, Alexander Solzhenitsyn style.
It was two days after Christmas and yet another big snowstorm was hitting the city. Already it had been a hell of a winter. Meant there were hardly any customers. That made it easy for him to grab the paper, slide downstairs to the bathroom, lock the door, sit on the toilet, and read.
He kept thinking about that horrible night. Everything he’d seen. And that little boy shot dead, his father calling for help. All the sirens. How he’d panicked and run. What else could he do? There were more than enough people there to help. He figured there’d be a lot of other witnesses. If he’d waited for the cops they’d have arrested him, probably deported him. But even worse, his name and picture would be in the papers and Suzanne’s ex-boyfriend Dewey would know who he was.
The original newspaper reports didn’t give much detail about the police investigation, other than the arrest of Larkin St. Clair and some comments by witnesses that they’d seen him with a shorter guy. Ozera had been watching the newspapers closely. No one had identified Dewey by name, but he assumed the cops were looking for him. Ozera kept hoping they’d catch the guy and put him behind bars. Then he wouldn’t have to lie awake at night, sweating and afraid.
Today’s article started out by profiling Armitage. Talked about his wealthy family, his father, grandfather, and even his great-grandfather, the original Ralph Armitage, who created the family fortune in Toronto exporting lumber back to England. Now the Armitage family was famous for their civic pride and philanthropy.
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