Stray Bullets

by Rotenberg, Robert

  “It’s tough when I’m on a homicide like this,” he said.

  “Tomorrow night, no excuses. It’s the holidays for goodness’ sakes. Dinner at eight.”

  “On one condition. No more female friends of Arthur ‘dropping by’ just before it’s time to eat.”

  “Then bring a date. Andrea tired of Paris yet?”

  Kennicott had been involved in an on-again off-again relationship with a Toronto-born fashion model named Andrea for a very long time. Too long. They were very bad for each other in most ways, except in bed, where they’d been very good. He’d been relieved two years before when she had gone on an assignment to Paris and ended up living with a photographer. Relieved most of the time. Every once in a while, she’d show up on his doorstep, and he wasn’t terribly good at kicking her out.

  “Luckily not.” Kennicott put up his fourth finger. “I thought maybe our pal Jose had been arrested before. I had the forensic guys take fingerprints from some pans in the kitchen and the butt of the cigarette he’d shared out back with Suzanne. We got some DNA from his hairnet that Greene found in the bushes. They ran everything through the police computer.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Nada. Nothing matches.”

  Kennicott fanned out his fingers. “Where does that leave us?”

  Pulver stuck out his thumb. “Five. Maybe he was arrested for some minor offense and he got released on a Form Ten.”

  This was a smart suggestion. A “Form Ten” was the piece of paper accused people signed when they were charged with minor offenses, such as mischief or shoplifting, and released by the arresting officer without having to be brought to court to get bail. They’d be required to sign another document, called a Promise to Appear. The promise was that they’d go the police station to get their photo and fingerprints taken, and then would go to court on the set date. “You’re thinking that he never showed up for prints or court. There’d be a warrant out for his arrest,” he said.

  Pulver laughed. “When I first started at the Crown’s office, I spent half a year processing fail-to-appear charges. Do you have any idea how many we get every month?”

  Kennicott shook his head. “A hundred?”

  Pulver spread out all the fingers in his massive hand. Wherever he went to school, gym teachers had tried to get him to join the basketball team. He never did. Said he was the least-coordinated person on the planet. “Five hundred on average. Way more in the summer. About six thousand a year. Assume your Jose could have been arrested any time in the last, say, five years—”

  “Make it six. That’s more than thirty-five thousand. Quite a haystack.”

  Pulver looked at his watch. “Happy hunting, amigo.”

  “Maybe now I have to work tomorrow night,” Kennicott said.

  “Nice try. The warrant office and everything else around here except a few emergency Crowns on duty is locked up until after the holidays,” he said. “Got to go.”

  They walked together down the narrow hallway passing the office of a law school colleague of theirs, Jo Summers. Her door was closed. Kennicott had recently worked on a case in which her half brother was killed. They both had brothers who were murdered. It gave them something in common. That and a one-night stand they’d had years before at law school. The attraction hadn’t gone away, but their timing was always off.

  Kennicott had never mentioned any of this to Pulver, but Pulver didn’t miss anything. “Jo took a bereavement leave,” he said.

  “Good idea.” Kennicott worked hard to sound bored.

  “Went back to South America, where she traveled a few years ago.”

  Actually, he knew she’d gone to Central America, but Kennicott wasn’t about to correct him. And he hadn’t heard from her in months. “Oh,” he said, thinking he sounded foolish. He was tempted to ask, “When’s she returning?” but he managed to hold himself back.

  Pulver stopped walking. “She got back about a month ago.”

  “Oh,” Kennicott said again. This time he really sounded stupid.

  “Tomorrow night at eight,” Pulver said. “With Arthur, anyone could drop in. And you know she’ll be beautiful.”

  Kennicott thought to object, but the words didn’t come.

  33

  This was turning into a really bad day. It was a Thursday, and right now Ralph Armitage was supposed to be on his way to tasting the fine foods of three of the city’s best caterers with his beautiful wife, Penny. Instead, for the second time in the last two months, he’d had to cancel their weekly date. She was upset, but he’d assured her this was a one-time emergency and promised it wouldn’t happen again. Now he was sitting once again at the Plaza Flamingo, in the exact same table where he’d met with Phil Cutter six weeks before and made their deal.

  He’d decided this was a good place to meet the fellow who’d called him a few hours ago. The guy had insisted they meet privately and it had to be tonight. The restaurant was loud and crowded, and no one would notice them.

  He had brought a copy of the Toronto Star with him to read while he was waiting. There wasn’t any news. Not surprising three days after Christmas. Even the Maple Leafs weren’t playing, so the sports page was a bore. The weather map showed another snowstorm was on the way. And the city was still shoveling out from the big one yesterday. He checked the temperature in Barbados. Sunny and warm. He could just picture his whole family spending the day at the beach, playing volleyball at sunset.

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  He looked up. A small-boned man with short dark hair and a beard, but no mustache, was standing behind the chair at the other end of the table. Before coming here, Armitage had carefully inspected the composite drawing that had been done of Jose Sanchez, the baker who’d worked at the Tim Hortons. He could tell this guy had tried hard to change his appearance, but even in the bar’s dim light the birthmark by his left eye was easy to spot.

  “Have a seat.”

  “Thank you for meeting with me.” The man’s eyes flitted about the room before he sat across the table from Armitage. He had a slight accent, kind of Eastern European, but wasn’t hard to understand.

  “Most people call the cops, not the Crown,” Armitage said.

  “I don’t want to talk to the cops.” He put his hands on the sides of his head, as if he were trying to hide his face.

  “At the Tim Hortons you gave your name as Sanchez,” Armitage said. “Jose Sanchez. We’ve checked everyone in the city with that name. None of them is you. I’m assuming it’s not your real name.”

  Sanchez, or whoever he was, nodded.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Call me ‘Jose,’” he said.

  “Okay, Jose. What do you want to talk about?”

  The man put his hands in front of him and meshed his fingers together. Armitage noticed his fingertips were brown. Looked like nicotine stains. He still didn’t speak.

  “You called me. I suggested we meet here because no one can overhear us,” Armitage said. “I’m not taking any notes. Not taping this. Whatever you say will just be between you and me.”

  Jose stared straight ahead. “I was there,” he said at last.

  “We assumed that.”

  “No, no, I was right there. I heard them talking.”

  The restaurant was hot, but Armitage felt his skin go cold. Under the table, he balled his big hands into two fists. Don’t talk, just listen, he told himself

  “Sir,” Jose said, shaking his head. “You’ve made a very big mistake.”

  Armitage felt as if he’d been punched in the head. Stay calm, he thought. “The police have investigated this very thoroughly. The lighting wasn’t very good outside.”

  “I was right behind those two guys. They didn’t know I was there. But I saw it all.”

  “We have a number of witnesses,” Armitage said.

  Jose, or whoever the hell he was, put his hands up. “I read the article in the Star. You’re the one who made a deal with the short guy Dewey Booth’s lawyer, aren�
��t you?”

  “I did.” Armitage had a lump in his throat. “What are you saying?”

  “The tall one with the hair.”

  “You mean Larkin St. Clair?”

  Jose shook his head. “You picked the wrong guy.”

  A wave of heat spread across Armitage’s body. Thank God it’s dark in here, he thought. He unclenched his fists and wiped them on the top of his pants.

  Jose stood and moved to the chair beside Armitage. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, which he unfolded and ironed out with his hand on the desk. “I drew everything out here for you,” he said, and for the next five minutes traced out his story with his fingers as he spoke. It felt like five hours.

  Armitage watched in horror. He thought of how he’d sat at this very same table when he’d signed off on the deal with Phil Cutter to let Dewey Booth walk free. How that asshole lawyer gloated afterward. Now he was thinking about the Wilkinsons and their dead child. About facing them. His staff. Everyone questioning what he’d done. And Larkin St. Clair and his smug, smiling face. Would he walk free again? This could give him a defense. And there was no guarantee this Jose character sitting across from him was telling the truth. He could just imagine Cutter slicing him to bits on the witness stand. Then Dewey would get off too. And forever more, Armitage would be known as the head Crown who blew the most important case in decades.

  Anger surged through him. “Your name isn’t Jose, is it?” he said.

  The man exhaled. “Of course not.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Why do you need to know?

  “Because you’ve got a big problem. You ran away from the scene of a murder with material evidence. My guess is you did it because either there’s a warrant out for your arrest for some other crime, or else you’re in the country illegally.”

  He stared at Armitage for a long time. “Both,” he whispered at last.

  Good, Armitage thought. “You made a smart move contacting me first. Immigration finds out about this, they’ll deport you the minute the trial’s over. And the press would eat you alive.”

  Jose ducked his head down. “I don’t want to be in the press. Dewey and Larkin both saw me.” He pointed to his hand-drawn map. “That shot just above my head. I thought I was going to be killed.”

  Armitage thought of the bullet hole in the wall of the Tim Hortons. “You afraid?”

  Jose nodded. “Wouldn’t you be?”

  “That’s the real reason you ran?”

  Jose shrugged. “I wish I’d stayed.”

  “I don’t think you understand,” Armitage said. “If you come forward with this now, so late, it will taint your testimony. The defense will discredit you in a minute. Say you made this up to play for sympathy, so you can stay in Canada.”

  Jose was back to being silent.

  “I’m prosecuting the murder of a young boy. I don’t need you to muddy the waters.”

  Jose was looking at his hands again. As if he’d retreated into himself.

  This was like when he was in court and got going in a witness cross-examination, Armitage thought. “I might be able to help you with this.”

  Jose looked back up. In the low light, it was hard to read his eyes. Was he nervous or just curious?

  “Tell me who you are, then I can look up your file. I’m the head Crown. How serious was it?”

  Jose snorted. “Shoplifting. But then I never went to court.”

  Perfect. There were all sorts of ways he could bury a file like this. “I can take care of your charges,” he said. “But you better keep quiet about it. Don’t talk to anyone else but me. Understood?”

  Jose nodded.

  I’ve got him, Armitage thought. Thank goodness. He put his arm out and offered his hand. “Deal?”

  Jose looked at the hand but didn’t move. “I need to think about it.” He stood up.

  Armitage grabbed him by the wrist and jumped to his feet. He towered over the little guy. “I can take care of this for you,” he said again. His voice was loud, and some patrons at the other tables looked over.

  Jose stared up at him. Christ, he was a cool cookie.

  “I don’t think you want me to raise my voice, do you?” Jose whispered.

  “I need an answer,” Armitage hissed, his grip still firm.

  “I’ll call you.”

  “No,” Armitage said. He knew he sounded desperate. “Don’t call the office again. Give me your number. Or an address.”

  “I have a better idea. Meet me here in two weeks. Thursday night, same time, same table. We’ll talk then.”

  Shit. Another Thursday night. Penny was going to kill him. “Okay,” he said. He didn’t have any other choice.

  “Now let go of my hand,” Jose said.

  He released him. “But we have a deal?”

  Jose reached back into his pants pocket and pulled out a folded-over piece of paper. “This is who I am. First, let’s see what you can do for me.”

  Before Armitage could protest, the guy scampered away.

  And with him, the fate of his whole career. Probably his marriage too. Worst day ever, he thought. Worst fucking day ever.

  34

  It was a key moment in the history of Toronto. Back in the 1970s, local politicians were about to drive an expressway right through the heart of the city, when a determined group of downtown residents brought construction to a screeching halt. The ill-fated project was about a third complete and huge tracts of land had been expropriated. The protesters returned to their protected neighborhoods, leaving behind a stump of a road and an open pit that carried on for miles, like tire marks left on a highway by a runaway truck suddenly forced to brake.

  In the city’s best tradition of political compromises leading to disastrous planning decisions, rails were laid across the open ground even though there was scant population on either side of the tracks. Decades later, the Subway to Nowhere, as it was soon nicknamed, was still a two-legged scar on the land. To make use of some of the vacant land, the Toronto Transit Commission built a huge rail yard where, every night, maintenance workers toiled on the fleet.

  Ari Greene had grown up a few miles south of here, and as a teenager, on summer nights he and a few friends would ride their bikes to the yards and find ways to sneak in through the loose chain-link fence. He loved the size of the trains, the smell of the grease and the oil, and the adventure of it all.

  Tonight he’d driven by the yard for the first time in years and of course now the place was surrounded by a formidable, fortified fence. No sign of kids poking around. He parked on a side street by the employee entrance and waited. It was four in the morning and the shift change was coming up in fifteen minutes. Greene preferred to take a good look at someone he was going to interview before he confronted them.

  He had no trouble picking out Arlene Redmond as she strode out of the gate with her fellow employees. She was the only woman surrounded by a group of men. It reminded Greene of his days living in Paris, when groups of clochards—the romantic French name for what in North America would be called homeless people—would drift into the metro stations late at night. They were always in a group of six or seven, men and, without fail, only one woman.

  Greene watched the TTC workers pile into their cars. With the streets empty, he followed Redmond’s old Subaru at a good distance. She and three other cars pulled into a beat-up-looking little strip mall and sauntered into a Coffee Time doughnut shop. Back in university, Greene had a professor who once told the class that Canadians ate more doughnuts per capita than anyone in the world. This case seems to prove that, Greene thought as he walked in.

  Redmond was a big-boned woman who wore a TTC Workers Local 113 leather jacket that looked at least ten years old. She had a hearty laugh that ricocheted around the room like a silver ball in a pinball machine. The Somali fellow behind the counter obviously knew this crew and brought them out their “regular” coffees and food.

  Greene had brought a
newspaper and read through the sports page and when Redmond got up to leave he followed her into the parking lot.

  “Arlene, my name is Detective Ari Greene, Toronto homicide squad,” he said to her just as she was out the door. “I’d like to chat with you about your nephew, Larkin St. Clair.”

  She turned around. He’d expected her to be surprised. Instead she let out a belly laugh. “Damn,” she said, “I thought you were following me because you wanted to ask me out on a date.”

  He chuckled. “You seem to have enough men already.”

  She flicked her eyes back inside for a moment, looking serious all of a sudden. “I appreciate you being discreet. There’s another Coffee Time at Bathurst and Wilson, meet me there in ten.”

  He followed her car through four or five yellow lights. She found a table near the window and he bought two bottles of water and gave her one.

  She took a big swig. “I guess after I wouldn’t talk to your pretty-boy sidekick you’re the heavyweight.”

  Since Larkin St. Clair’s arrest, he’d sent Daniel Kennicott to try to interview Redmond twice. Each time she’d politely but firmly refused. “Don’t you think I’m pretty for a guy in his fifties?” Greene asked her.

  She gave him an exaggerated once-over. “Bit rugged, little street-worn, natty dresser. Okay, you’re a contender.”

  “A contender who’s curious about your nephew.”

  Her eyes were back on him. Angry. “Really? That why you charged him with first-degree murder and let that little psychopath Dewey Booth walk free?”

  “My question about Larkin,” he said, locking eyes with her, “is how he would have turned out if the court had let you raise him.”

  She took another long drink of water. “You ever think you’d see the day Canadians would pay for water. The whole damn country’s full of lakes.”

  “Seems pretty obvious to me,” he said. “The judge who let your nephew go back to his mother made a huge mistake.”