by Scott Mackay
“So I guess we find him.”
“If it means your job,” said Gilbert.
“Which I think it does,” said Lombardo.
They followed the funeral procession down the slope toward Davisville, crossed Davisville, then climbed the short incline, where the asphalt in the road had been worn bare to reveal fifty-year-old paving bricks and long forgotten street-car tracks. Hundreds of gravestones, each heaped with a thick layer of snow, stood rank upon rank on either side of the road beyond the wrought iron fence. The Mount Pleasant Cemetery was the biggest, oldest, and most prestigious cemetery in the city. Not that the dead cared much about prestige.
Up ahead, the escort cop, with his Harley-and-sidecar, his white helmet and jodhpurs, his reflective sunglasses and motorcycle boots, sat casually at the gate, watching the cars file in. Gilbert followed the procession into the cemetery.
The cemetery roadway curved and twisted through hummocks and dales; trees of every variety sprang up from the desolate snowscape: dogwoods, cedars, aspens, poplars, ash, beech, spruce, pine, oak, and a half dozen species of maple. The cars up ahead slowed and Gilbert saw the grave site. He veered away from the procession, down a side road, and drove up a small incline. At the top, a mausoleum, made out of red granite, sat like a miniature castle among a grove of birch trees. Snow fell gently from the grey sky.
They got out and trudged through the snow until they stood in front of the mausoleum, In the dale below, people left their cars and gathered around the grave site. The minister held the order of service before him, waiting. Once everyone was gathered, the minister began with a prayer, but the words were too faint for Gilbert to hear. The twenty-five mourners kept their heads bowed.
Gilbert lifted his binoculars and looked at Webb; one of his people held a black umbrella above his head. Webb’s face was expressionless. Gilbert moved on to Latham. Latham looked grey. Then on to Sally. Nothing untoward or disrespectful in her face. Then on to some of the other mourners. There was Shirley Chan, the Chinese girl Sonia had spoken of; they would get to her soon. And there was Bev Campbell, Cheryl’s exercise instructor. There were three blind people in the crowd, people from the Canadian National Institute for the Blind, where Cheryl worked as a senior coordinator. And then a tall man…did he recognize this man?…standing at the back…something so familiar about this man…by the sycamore tree…could it be? Gilbert adjusted the focus of his binoculars. It had to be. The man was obviously here in an official capacity, was wired for communications with an earphone in his left ear…security for Thomas Webb? The man scanned the crowd cautiously, looking through dark sunglasses. He had close-cropped sandy hair…good God, it couldn’t be…Gilbert felt himself smiling…because now he knew it had to be…it could be no other.
Alvin Matchett, still as trim as ever after all these years, after all that trouble, as cool as ice, scanning the crowd, the surrounding tombstones, looking for trouble, always on top of it…
“Barry?” said Lombardo.
“Speak of the devil,” said Gilbert. He took the binoculars from his eyes. “See that tall man over there?” he asked. “The security guy?”
Lombardo lifted his own binoculars. “Yeah?” he said.
“That’s my old partner,” said Gilbert, his smile now feeling stitched in place. “From patrol. That’s Alvin Matchett.”
At the wake an hour later, held in the main reception room of the Hennessey-Newbigging Funeral Home, Barry Gilbert and Alvin Matchett got a chance to catch up with each other.
Gilbert learned that after the Dennison shooting, Matchett signed on with the Ontario Provincial Police, first as a constable up north at their Red Lake Detachment, then as a detective in their financial crimes section. He was then offered a job as Sergeant with Legislative Security at the Provincial Parliament Buildings.
“I was assigned to Webb,” said Matchett. “I started doing little extras for him. He finally offered me a job on his own staff at a lot more money. I couldn’t refuse. I guess I’m his Man Friday. He can’t do without me.”
Gilbert scanned the reception room. Latham stood over in the corner looking out of place, awkward, as the various guests came and went. A buffet table was set up with sandwiches, coffee, tea, punch, and a fruit and cheese platter. People formed knots, talked to each other, the blind people as still as statues, unsure of their surroundings, the sighted people occasionally leading them to the buffet table, or to the washroom, or to Charles Latham.
“I thought you still might come to our baseball games,” said Gilbert.
Matchett shrugged. “I was up in Red Lake all that time. And when I came back…” He shook his head. “It just didn’t feel right.”
“But you were cleared,” said Gilbert.
“I was cleared, but I still didn’t want to…I just thought it best if I made a clean break. Going to games…I didn’t want to open old wounds. I know you guys went into a serious losing streak after I left, but I…” He grinned, trying to keep a light tone.
Gilbert shook his head. “No one understood about Laraby,” he said.
“I know.”
“You really changed your idea about stopping power after Laraby. After Laraby, no one should have blamed you about Dennison.”
“No one really did. Except maybe McIlwain. Maybe I should have fought harder. I just didn’t want to tarnish the force. I told him about Laraby, but he refused to see the connection. Laraby was some kind of zombie.”
“You could hold a gun point-blank to the guy’s head, and you still wouldn’t kill him.”
“Dennison on the other hand…” Matchett looked away; and Gilbert knew that Dennison would haunt Matchett for the rest of his life. “I guess I made sure with Dennison. I didn’t need another night of the living dead.”
“It was a race thing.”
Matchett stared across the room. He nodded toward Webb. “This job, it’s boring, but I never pull a gun anymore. And I’m glad about that. No pressure. Mind you, we’re a little concerned about this Cheryl Latham thing. I’m glad you’re working it, Barry. It’s a load off.”
“Are you conducting your own investigation?”
Matchett nodded. “We’re doing what we can. Mostly we’ve tightened security.”
They talked for the next half hour. And it was good talking to Matchett again. They talked about Matchett’s clean break.
“I’m sorry I never called you,” said Matchett. “I hope you didn’t take it the wrong way.”
Gilbert shook his head. “I knew you had to work things out. They didn’t have the counselling back then.”
“I just didn’t want the associations.”
“I’ve got no complaints.”
“You had Regina…and your daughters.” Matchett shook his head. “God, they must be grown up by now.”
“Jennifer’s in university next year.”
“And is Regina still teaching?”
“She’s at East York Collegiate now. We’re living there now. In Parkview Hills.”
Matchett was impressed. “That’s a nice area.”
“What about you?” said Gilbert. “Did you ever get married?”
He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I was living with a woman for a while up in Red Lake…but I…I knew I was going to come back down here eventually and she wanted to stay up there, so we more or less agreed…” He gave Gilbert a look. “You know how it is.” He glanced over at Joe. “Is that your new partner?”
Gilbert nodded. “That’s him,” he said. “Joe Lombardo.”
“Christ, they’re making them younger every year. Tell him he should try smiling once in a while.”
The funeral director walked by and gave them a rather flat nod. “Joe’s got something on his mind right now,” said Gilbert.
“Webb looks like he’s getting ready to go,” said Matchett. Matchett offered Gilbert his hand. “It’s been nice seeing you again, Barry. Keep me informed about Cheryl Latham.”
Gilbert nodded. “The same goes for you.”
The
y shook hands.
“And maybe when spring comes I’ll dig out my baseball glove,” he said. “I know you guys need the help.”
Gilbert’s smile widened. “You’re always welcome,” he said.
And then Matchett retreated to the door. So good to see him again. Brought back so many good memories from patrol. Friends from patrol were friends for life. Nothing drew two men together closer than riding around in a radio car all day.
He walked over to the table and had another sandwich. The Dennison shooting. He couldn’t help thinking about it now. Three weeks after the Laraby incident. Laraby, a brute of a man, high on something, PCP maybe, getting up again and again, taking a full seven rounds in the chest before Matchett finally stopped him. Laraby, shooting at Gilbert, Gilbert taking a round in the shoulder, another in the thigh, no wonder Matchett went berserk, with Gilbert lying there in a pool of blood. They were going to give Matchett an award for the Laraby thing. But then came Dylan Dennison, a delicate and light-skinned boy from Grenada, riding around in a stolen car, having some fun, never realizing that Patrol Officer Matchett, rolling up behind him with the roof lights flashing, was jittery from the Laraby thing. Dennison reached for something in the glove compartment while Matchett walked up to the driver’s side. Dennison maybe thought he could fool Matchett with whatever insurance papers happened to be in the car. And Matchett, so keyed up after killing Laraby, thought the boy had a gun in the glove compartment. Matchett pulled his own weapon, squeezed three times, made sure he did it right this time, killed an unarmed fifteen-year-old Afro-Caribbean immigrant who happened to be an honor student at Scarlett Heights Secondary. The black community had been in an uproar, and rightly so. They wanted Matchett’s head and they got it. They didn’t care about Laraby. They didn’t care about how Matchett had saved Officer Gilbert’s life. They knew nothing about the night of the living dead. They only knew about their poor dead boy. They wanted blood. And the force had to give it to them.
Enough to destroy any man’s life. But he knew Matchett. Matchett bounced back. Matchett never held a grudge. His old partner said a few words to Webb then left the reception room. Matchett was a man who knew how to get on with his life. Matchett had a sense of honor and purpose. Gilbert nodded to himself. And Matchett might actually help with the Latham case. He smiled at the prospect. He and Matchett working together again. Anything was possible.
Seven
An hour after the shift was over, Gilbert and Lombardo sat in the office watching, for the eighth time, the videotape of the funeral, scrutinizing each and every single guest, knowing any of them could be Cheryl’s killer. The minister finished with his graveside eulogy and the walnut casket was lowered into the ground.
“Who’s that?” asked Lombardo, pointing to a tall muscular-looking woman with brown hair.
“That’s Jane Ireland,” said Gilbert. “Webb’s personal secretary.”
“Why does she keep looking at Matchett like that?”
Gilbert peered more closely. “Roll the tape ahead,” he said. “There’s a better view coming up.”
Lombardo fast-forwarded the tape.
Jane Ireland wore one of those wraparound coats, more like a cape. And Lombardo was right. She kept looking in Matchett’s direction.
“Maybe for security reasons?” suggested Lombardo.
Gilbert stared at Ireland. “No,” he said, “I don’t think so.” He straightened his back to ease his sore lumbar and put his hands on his knees. “She’s got a thing for him. Look at the way she’s got her mouth, all down at the corners like that.” Gilbert grinned. “You of all people, Joe, should be able to see that.”
“Yeah… well.”
Gilbert contemplated Lombardo. The man was depressed, brooding about Marsh. He needed a change. He needed something to get his mind off work.
“Why don’t we stop this?” said Gilbert.
“I’m going to work all night if I have to.”
“Joe, you need a break. Why don’t you come over to my house for supper? Regina’s making her sausage casserole. We’ll open a bottle of wine and we’ll get a cheesecake somewhere.”
Lombardo’s eyes narrowed. He looked like he was going to refuse; but then he finally nodded and a smile came to his face.
“I guess I’ll get to meet that exchange student after all,” he said.
They sat in Gilbert’s dining room. Gilbert sat at the head of the table, with fifteen-year-old Nina to his left, and eighteen-year-old Jennifer to his right. Regina sat at the other end of the table. And sitting across from each other at Regina’s left and right were Lombardo and Valerie. They were talking. The two of them. On and on and on. Joe’s family was from Piedmont; Valerie came from Frankfurt. When Lombardo went to Piedmont, he often drove up to Frankfurt. Valerie was a lovely amber-haired girl, tall, slim, with freckles and green eyes; she looked more Irish than German. She wore a green turtleneck and a jade bracelet. They talked nonstop as if they were the only ones at the table. And Gilbert just sat there, wondering if this was such a good idea after all. The thirteen-year age difference didn’t seem to bother them in the least. Time to cool things down a bit.
“I thought we might head back downtown, Joe,” he said, “after dessert, and write up that warrant for Latham’s blood.”
“Dad, do you have to talk about work at the dinner table?” asked Jennifer. “Especially when we have guests?”
“I thought you said I needed a little rest,” said Lombardo. “I was going to take Valerie to a club I know, maybe do a little dancing.”
Gilbert thought of Valerie’s parents in Frankfurt, counting on him to keep their daughter safe while she was in Canada.
“That’s a lovely idea,” said Regina. Gilbert gave his wife a hard stare, but she ignored him. “You two go out an’ have some fun.”
“Dad, can I go?” asked Jennifer.
He turned to his eldest. “The kind of club Joe goes to—”
“And me too?” chimed Nina.
“You’re underage,” he said, unable to stop his exasperation. “You can’t go to clubs yet.”
He looked to Regina for help.
“Jennifer, you have school tomorrow,” said Regina.
Gilbert concentrated on Valerie. “Valerie, I thought you had something at the Goethe Institute tomorrow,” he said.
Valerie looked at him blankly. “No…” she said. “No, nothing at all.”
“Then it’s settled,” said Lombardo.
“Now just hang on,” said Gilbert. “Isn’t it getting late?”
Regina tilted her head to one side, her way of telling him to ease up. “It’s only eight-thirty, dear,” she said. She looked at her daughters. “Girls, could you start passing up the plates?”
The girls started handing up the plates. Joe and Valerie went back to talking. Gilbert absently gave his plate to Nina. He got up, lifted a few serving bowls and followed Regina into the kitchen, knowing he had been defeated, knowing he was stupidly treating Valerie the way he treated his own daughters. He shook his head as he pushed his way into the kitchen. Contradictions. He had seen too many female corpses. He knew Valerie would be perfectly safe with Joe. Still…
As he entered the kitchen, Regina looked up at him; he could hide nothing from Regina; after twenty-two years of marriage, she could read every nuance.
“You shouldn’t worry so much,” she said.
He contemplated her as she placed the dishes in the dishwasher. “Am I worrying?”
“If you can’t trust your own partner, who can you trust?”
He put the serving bowls on the counter. “This winter is getting to me.”
She slid the loaf of Italian bread back into its paper wrapper. “Maybe next year we’ll visit Howard.”
Gilbert nodded. “That would be nice.”
“And no helping him this time. I want you on the beach.”
“I wasn’t helping him. I was just offering advice.”
“You manage your caseload, he’ll manage his.”
“We’re brothers.”
“Then he should give you a break. Dade County has enough detectives already. They don’t need you.”
He nodded. He wasn’t going to get into it. She was right though; every time they went to Florida, he ended up helping Howard. “Valerie likes Joe,” he said.
“He’s drop-dead gorgeous, Barry,” she said.
She splashed a little more wine into her glass.
“You think so?” he asked.
She nodded sagely. “Oh, yes,” she said.
Gilbert frowned, but it was a playful frown. “Don’t you be getting any ideas.”
She smiled, walked across the kitchen with a slight sway in her hips, put her arms around him, and kissed him on the chin. “I like older guys,” she said.
He backed away. “Hey, I’m not that old.”
“You’re older than Joe.”
“I came in here thinking you’d make me feel better.”
“You do feel better,” she said.
He shrugged and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “I guess I do,” he said.
The house on Crawford Street, in the heart of the Portuguese District, was one of those bulky, three-storey duplexes built in the late 1920s, brick, with a second-floor bay window, and a third-floor dormer. Turquoise paint flaked from the red brick, a remnant from the wave of Mediterranean immigrants back in the sixties and seventies—warm Latino souls trying to fight the grey cold by painting their houses gaudy carnival colors. Many of the Portuguese and Italians had moved away in the eighties, up to Woodbridge, an opulent but remote suburb. Still lots of Portuguese, but now also Maritimers, Newfoundlanders, down-and-outers from the East Coast trying to make good in the big city, working factory lines, driving trucks, or hiring on with roofing and painting crews.
Christmas lights still dangled from the eaves. Gilbert, waiting in his car for Detective Bob Bannatyne, took a sip of his Mister Donut coffee. Gord and Diane Danby, the tenants who rented the first and second floors, were down in Florida right now; Bob Bannatyne had a key from the landlord. Yellow police tape, having come loose at one end of the balcony, now snapped fiercely in the cold wind.