Kennicott stared at the four names and their meager profiles. He kept trying to picture the elusive “Jose Doe.” Fidatov, the drunken beer-bottle smasher, didn’t fit the bill. He crossed the name out. Goga, the student who’d stolen the iPod, and Neacsu, the guy who took his clothes to get dry-cleaned, were close. He put the numbers two and three beside their names. Something about the cheekiness of someone who would steal pâté from Pusateri’s sounded like the same guy who’d hang out with the pretty server in back of the Tim Hortons.
He circled the name and opened up the warrant to find the officer who’d made the arrest. PC Arnold Lindsmore, metro Toronto police, badge number 1997, from 52 Division.
Let’s hope the cop remembered this guy named Ozera.
40
For the third straight night in a row this week Nancy Parish was still at her desk, and her law office seemed more like a cage or a prison than a place where she worked. Especially since she spent way more hours here than at her little semidetached house. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d had anything close to a normal evening at home.
It was freezing outside, and after a day of running from overheated buildings to her cold car, again and again, layer after layer of frozen sweat had accumulated all across her body. What a lovely thought.
The garbage can below her desk was filled with empty take-out sushi packaging and three cans of Diet Coke. She’d been putting each witness statement in a separate folder and hand-labeling them. Yellow files were for the civilian witnesses. Red for the cops. Blue for the forensics, people who’d analyzed fingerprints, DNA, blood samples. White files she reserved for the most difficult witnesses: Suzanne Howett, the server at Tim Hortons, who although she hadn’t said a lot had enough evidence to hurt their case badly; Jet, who’d told the cops to get lost and hadn’t said a thing; and most important of all, Dewey Booth, his skimpy one-page statement and signed agreement between Ralph Armitage and Booth’s lawyer, Phil Cutter. Plus his extensive criminal record.
The window of her Bay Street office looked north across Queen Street, and she could see the big square in front of the new city hall and her favorite winter place in Toronto—the open-air skating rink. On the other side of Bay Street, the old city hall clock tower began to ring out the hour, ten loud dongs for ten o’clock. She watched the city work crews turn off the overhead lights on the three concrete arches that lit the large white surface. A myriad collection of skaters—couples on first dates, gaggles of giggling girls and muscle-bound macho guys, and a few gray-haired figure skaters gliding with the veteran grace only gained by a lifetime of practice—headed off the ice.
Soon the hockey players would arrive, sticks slung over their shoulders like Robin’s soldiers in Sherwood Forest. Their skates, tied together by their laces and wrapped around the end of the sticks, danced behind them in the clear night air. But instead of slipping through a wooded glen, the Gretzky wannabes would make their way to the open square by winding through myriad surrounding downtown office towers.
She stood and stretched. Peeled off her wool suit, silk shirt, and the damn pantyhose. They were ripped anyhow. In her corner closet she’d stacked long underwear, sweatpants, a thick sweatshirt, plus nylon pants and a shell to wear over it all as an extra layer. And her skates, her stick, her hockey gloves, her helmet, and a bag with a few pucks in it.
By the time the old city hall clock struck ten fifteen, she was sitting on a bench near the rink, tightening her waxed skate laces, her fingers freezing in the cold. Beside Parish, her friend the Toronto Star reporter Awotwe Amankwah was doing the same thing. They’d arranged to meet here tonight—this was their secret meeting place and a perfect one at that—and play.
“I need to find out what Dewey Booth is up to.” Parish grunted in the cold as she tugged on her laces.
“Cutter is smart. From what I’ve been able to find out, he sent the kid home to live with his father on that island.”
“Pelee Island.”
“That’s it. We went there once when I was a kid. All I remember is there were lots of birds and the place is real flat. We stopped in Chatham on the way down and went to a little museum about the underground railroad. I was amazed that there were black people living in Ontario so long ago.”
“They sure never taught us that in school,” Parish said. “Booth’s going to have to be back in Toronto to go to court.”
“Way I hear it, he’s coming in the night before. Cops are putting him up in a hotel, he testifies, then he’s gone. Cutter doesn’t want him here a minute longer than he needs to be until this whole thing is over. The press is on this story like you’ve never seen before in this city.”
She tied up her last lace and jammed her hands into her hockey gloves.
“Is Booth talking to the Crown?”
“No. Cutter’s got him clamped shut. Armitage is going to throw him up in the box at the prelim and get his evidence solid under oath.”
Parish had been thinking about the “prelim,” the preliminary inquiry, a lower-court hearing that tested whether there was enough evidence for an accused to stand trial. Often the defense would “knock down” a first-degree charge to second-degree. That cut the minimum jail sentence from twenty-five to ten. Technically, the prelim was optional for an accused, but anyone charged with first-degree always had one.
“I figured Cutter would do that,” Parish said.
Amankwah looked up at her. “Once Booth fingers your boy at the prelim, you’re going to be in trouble.”
She jogged in place on her blades to stay warm. “I know. I might waive it.”
“The prelim? You crazy?” He tied up his last lace and shot to his feet.
“It’s a radical move. But the Crown can’t force the defense to have one. We can go straight to trial.”
“But at the prelim you’ve got a good chance of getting this knocked down to second-degree. Could save your kid fifteen years behind bars.”
“Right now all the prosecution has is Dewey Booth’s sworn affidavit. There are all sorts of holes in his story.”
“Such as?”
She smacked her stick on the rubber mats, for no real reason she could think of. But it was something hockey players did. She shook her head. “That, my friend, is something you’ll have to wait to see in court.”
He nodded. They understood that their friendship had professional limits. She would never disclose to him something that was covered by solicitor-client privilege. He would never reveal a source. “Still. Don’t you want to see the evidence at the prelim? Hear from all those civilian witnesses?”
“And give the Crown a chance to clean up all their inconsistencies?”
“You have a point.”
“And as you just said, Cutter’s keeping his client under wraps. And once he’s given evidence at the prelim, I’m up the creek.”
“All true. But are you prepared to risk fifteen years of your young client’s life? Still sounds crazy to me.”
She exhaled a cloud of white steam and pointed her stick at a bank tower across the square where a big digital clock illuminated the temperature. “It’s minus twenty degrees,” she said. “You were born in Africa, and now you’re outside playing hockey. So who’s crazy?”
41
Ari Greene had taken a number of precautions to protect PC Darvesh while the young police officer spent time as the cell mate of Larkin St. Clair. Only three people at the Toronto East Detention Centre knew he was a cop, none of them guards. Greene had been concerned that if the regular guards knew, they might subconsciously treat him differently, just the kind of thing a smart prisoner such as St. Clair might pick up on. And Jennifer Raglan was the only person in the Crown’s office who knew the case against him was a bogus file.
He’d only met with Darvesh once since the young officer had been incarcerated. That had been during regular prison visiting hours. Every week, Darvesh placed a collect call, as all the inmates did, from one of the two phones in the prisoners’ range. His call
s went directly to the homicide bureau, where they were answered by a receptionist. He pretended to speak to his family and always worked in a complaint about how bland the food was. It was a simple code that meant nothing new had happened.
This morning, Darvesh was going to be in old city hall court for a remand of his case. Greene was on his way there to meet him, in a side cell out of view. This was tricky and had to be done fast to make sure none of the other prisoners became suspicious.
It was ridiculously cold, and just before he got inside the courthouse, Greene’s cell rang. “Your best friend just phoned from the cells in the bowels of the hall,” the receptionist at Homicide said.
“What did he say?” Greene asked. The wind was howling and he could hardly hear. His ears were freezing.
“Pretended he was talking to his brother and told me he’d managed to find some spice for his food.”
“Thanks,” Greene said. It meant Darvesh had some news.
He was glad to get inside, and ten minutes later, in a small room out of sight from the hundreds of prisoners brought into the big “bullpen” jail cell, he was talking to the prisoner known as Alisander Singh. His ears stung as they defrosted from the cold.
“We only have a few minutes,” Darvesh said. His arms looked muscular, the whole top of his torso more filled out.
“What have you got?” Greene asked. He’d bought a coffee at the concession stand in the basement, run by two old men who seemed to have been there for centuries, and passed it over to Darvesh.
He took a deep sip. “Thanks for this. Prison coffee is mostly water. St. Clair has been teaching me how to pump weights. We get gym twice a week.”
“Good.”
“Yesterday while we were doing curls he started talking.”
“What’d he say?”
“That prison was no big deal, but it was shit being inside if you were totally innocent.”
“Totally innocent?”
“That’s what he said.”
He offered Greene a sip. Greene laughed. “I can get as much fresh coffee as I want.”
“Habit,” Darvesh said. “When you come from a big family, you share everything.”
“Do you think he knows you’re a cop? Maybe he’s playing you.”
“Don’t know. He’s dumb like a fox. He might be trying to send you a message through me.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because he said there was another witness.”
Greene felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. “What’d he say about that?”
“Some guy in a Tim Hortons uniform was out back when the shooting happened. ‘I wish the fucking cops would find him.’ Those are his exact words.”
“He say anything else?”
“No. Just that he was going to turn me from a being skinny little brown runt into a muscle machine.” Darvesh grinned at Greene. He was a good cop and smart enough to enjoy what he could from this assignment.
“Well then,” Greene said, “I guess there’s no hurry to get you out of there.”
42
CFL.
For most people in Canada the letters stood for “Canadian Football League.”
But for cops, they also meant “Constable for Life.” That was their term for officers such as PC Arnold Lindsmore, metro Toronto police, badge number 1997, from 52 Division, a cop whose career had flatlined.
Daniel Kennicott had learned to recognize the telltale sign of a CFL from an officer’s badge number and rank. Lindsmore’s number, 1997, was low, which meant he’d been on the force for a long time. And he was still a PC, police constable. The lowest rank. In other words, he’d never been promoted. That made him a classic CFL.
Something about Lindsmore’s name rang a distant bell for Kennicott, but he couldn’t place it. For the last three days, he’d left messages for the constable saying that he needed to speak to him right away about an urgent matter. Lindsmore, who was on holiday, hadn’t bothered to respond.
Now it was five to eight in the morning, and Kennicott had made a point of getting to 52 Division in time to catch Lindsmore coming in to work. The staff sergeant, a nice fellow named Finch, had cleared it so he could wait inside the cops’ private entrance in back.
“Morning, Officer Lindsmore,” he said at exactly eight o’clock, when Lindsmore ambled in. The man had to have weighed two hundred and fifty pounds. Probably more. “PC Daniel Kennicott.” He held out his arm to shake hands.
“Hi,” Lindsmore said, a little wary.
“I know you’re just getting on shift, but I’ve got something fairly urgent to talk to you about.”
“Oh.” Lindsmore was doing his best to be unimpressed. “Kennicott. You’re the guy who’s been leaving me those messages, aren’t you?” He gave a weak handshake back.
“Yes.”
“The lawyer who joined up after your brother was shot, right?”
Kennicott had left the law to become a cop almost four years before, but unfortunately all that unwanted publicity still lingered in the minds of some of his fellow officers. Stuck in their craw like some old wound that refused to heal.
“That’s me,” Kennicott answered in a flat voice.
“I’ve got to get in uniform, do parade. Meet me in half an hour.” Lindsmore cranked his head toward the window. “How about a large double-double from Timmy’s and a maple glazed.”
An hour later, Lindsmore meandered into the small back room where Kennicott was waiting for him. He carried a large blank envelope under his arm and put it on the table without comment. The large coffee, which Kennicott had double-cupped in an effort to keep it hot, was now lukewarm.
Lindsmore slurped a big sip and scowled.
Kennicott looked him straight in the eye. “It was steaming hot half an hour ago.”
Lindsmore bit a large chunk out of the doughnut and gulped it down. “Finch says this is about a shoplifting arrest I made five years ago. He figures no way I’d remember it.”
Kennicott took out his business card and handed it over. “I don’t expect you would. But if you can get some free time maybe later in your shift, I’m wondering if you can go back to the property bureau and find your old notebook. I already gave Finch the details.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Here they are again.”
Lindsmore took a lazy look at the paper. “I’ve got to tell you, Kennicott,” he said, reaching into his own breast pocket, “the one thing I can’t stand is an arrogant asshole.”
Kennicott blanched. He knew that some veteran cops resented him, not only for the high-profile way he’d joined the force, but also because he had already worked on a few well-publicized homicides. He sat back in his chair. “Well, I’m—”
“And this kid Ozera was one of the most arrogant jerks I ever arrested.” Lindsmore pulled out his narrow, police-issued notebook from the envelope on the table.
Kennicott could see he had an elastic band at a page halfway in.
Lindsmore slapped it open at that spot. “Let’s see.” He held the book at arm’s length so he could read his own writing better. “This was five years ago next week. January fifteenth. I’ve got Dragomir Ozera, age twenty-five, five foot seven, one hundred and forty pounds dripping wet, black hair, mustache and long sideburns, birthmark by his left eye. I did a drawing of his face, take a look.”
Lindsmore showed Kennicott a page in his book. His fingers were as fat at the rest of him, but, remarkably, the sketch was very good. Close to the composite drawing.
“You’re a talented artist,” Kennicott said.
“A fucking Michelangelo,” Lindsmore said. “My ex was always trying to get me to take art classes.”
“Here’s the composite.” Kennicott pulled it out and put it on the table.
“That’s him,” Lindsmore said. “Caught stealing pâté and fancy French cheese from the Pusateri’s on Bay Street, the one just north of Bloor.”
“You get an address, phone number?”
; Lindsmore gave him a slow look that seemed to say, “What, you think I’m an idiot?” and kept reading.
“Gave address as room twelve at Jilly’s hotel on Broadview and Queen.”
“The strip bar?”
“They rent rooms out by the week. No phone number. He had no driver’s license. No social security or health card.”
“How’d you identify him?”
“Library card. I wanted to hold him for bail, but the staff sergeant told me to Form Ten him. No time for all the paperwork, and besides, who gives a shit about some pâté? I knew the little fucker would never show up in court.”
“You thought he was illegal?”
Lindsmore shook his head. “No, I thought he was going to be the next prime minister of Canada.”
Kennicott started to laugh at himself. “Sorry I’m being such an idiot. Can I get a copy of your notes?”
Lindsmore reached into the envelope on the table and pulled out a sheaf of neatly stapled-together papers. “Made a copy for you.” He handed it over. “The kid was a charmer. Had half the women who worked at Pusateri’s eating out of the palm of his hand by the time I arrived. Telling them recipes. Suggesting novels for them to read. Spoke a few languages, I remember.”
“This all helps a great deal,” Kennicott said.
“This might help more.” Lindsmore reached back into his envelope and extracted a plastic evidence bag with a cigarette butt inside. “Like I told you,” he said in the same monotone drawl, “I knew he’d never show up for court. So I gave him a smoke. Never know when we might need a DNA sample.”
“That’s great.” Kennicott held the plastic bag with care, as if it were a crown jewel. “You got anything else for me?”
“About this case?”
The way Lindsmore said “this” made Kennicott stop. “What other case could there be?” he asked.
But the moment the words were out, he knew the answer. Lindsmore. The constable for life. He’d been one of the first cops on the scene the night Kennicott’s brother was shot. He remembered now that Lindsmore had led the street canvass and gone straight through for twelve hours without a break. It had impressed him the first time he’d read the file. “I owe you a thanks for the work you did after my brother was shot.”
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