Cold Comfort

by Scott Mackay

  Gilbert checked the medicine cabinet; he swept the entire contents into an evidence bag, even though there was nothing in there that looked like Kedamine.

  “Hey, look at this,” called Lombardo from the other room. “He’s got another gun.”

  Gilbert came out of the bathroom to the dining room. An old Smith and Wesson .38 caliber revolver sat on the table in an open briefcase next to some cleaning equipment and ammunition.

  “Should we take it?” said Lombardo.

  Gilbert shook his head. “No,” he said. “It’s not in the warrant. I’d hate to bugger things up on a technicality. But if you find the Heckler and Koch, it’s ours. I’ve got it listed.”

  They searched until nearly eleven. The Kedamine was nowhere to be found. Neither was the Heckler and Koch. They found some tools—a crowbar, a hammer, a screwdriver—implements that might have been used in the burglary, and which, when tested, might show a chemical match to the animal clinic’s exterior paint or other construction materials. But they both realized they were grasping now. Gilbert stood in the hall while Lombardo went through the kitchen one last time. He stared. Thinking. Wondering what else they could do. He stared, but stared without looking. But then he began to look. And he was looking at the partially open hall closet, something they had already checked through twice. Nothing but coats in there. Pockets already checked. Nothing incriminating. But then he realized that he recognized one of the coats. A parka with a deep hood.

  “Joe,” he said, “look at this.”

  Lombardo came out of the kitchen and looked at the coat. And his eyes narrowed. He glanced at Gilbert. “Isn’t that from…”

  “It’s from the Glenarden video.”

  He stared at the coat as his mind ran through the possibilities. Not only had they placed Matchett at the Glenarden on the night of the eighteenth, but chemical analysis of the pocket linings might reveal trace amounts of Kedamine.

  He looked more closely. Grease stains. From where? Maybe from the laundry room window.

  “We’ve got him,” he said.

  By noon they were back at College Street with the vouchered evidence. They radioed Telford to let him know. By twelve-thirty the evidence was in the lab. Because the technicians knew they were looking for Kedamine, Gilbert and Lombardo thought they might get an identification soon. Meanwhile Gilbert worked frantically on the arrest warrant, including the drug and burglary angle, risking the murder aspect on a separate sheet. Telford car-phoned him a little after one.

  “He’s leaving the Parliament Buildings,” he said.

  And later: “He’s getting into his car and driving east on Wellesley.”

  And still later. “He’s turned left on Winchester,” said Telford. “He’s going home.”

  Marsh stared at Gilbert suspiciously from across the room. “Stick with him,” said Gilbert. “Don’t let him out of your sight. The minute I have this thing signed I want you to go in and arrest him.”

  For the next half hour Marsh hovered nearby and Gilbert was forced to work on a new case, a murder-suicide out in Scarborough. But Marsh finally tired, and walked in the direction of the atrium. Gilbert continued working on his warrant.

  Shortly before two, Lombardo came back from the lab. “It’s going to be a while,” he said. “I thought I’d run down to Gord Danby’s office and play him the tape. Do you got it?”

  Gilbert opened the drawer of his desk and pulled out a mini-cassette. Lunch at the Raj-Shala, Alvin’s voice, something they hoped Gord Danby would recognize from the bogus travel agent call. Lombardo took the tape and slid it in his pocket.

  “The lab has your number,” said Lombardo. “They’re going to call you as soon they have anything. Everything’s under a new file name now, in case Marsh tries to call the lab.”

  Lombardo wrote down the file name and gave it to Gilbert.

  “He’s going to bolt,” said Gilbert. “Telford’s there right now. He’s going to bolt no matter how fast we get this down. He’s making plans right now. His parka’s gone, his tools are gone, everything in his medicine cabinet is gone. If it weren’t for Marsh, I’d have the place surrounded with radio cars right now. But we haven’t even got an outstanding warrant on Alvin. There’s nothing we can do to stop him.”

  “The minute Lembeck signs that,” said Lombardo, “we go. I think Telford should have backup. I’m going to take my gun. You should too. We know Matchett has at least the one weapon.”

  Gilbert finished the arrest warrant a half hour later. All he had to do was wait for the lab so he could fill in the details.

  Just before three the lab called him. Trace amounts of Kedamine had been found in the pocket linings of Matchett’s parka. Microscopic paint samples from the crowbar matched the samples taken from the receiving door at the Cabbagetown Animal Clinic. As far as Gilbert was concerned that was enough for the duty judge at College Park.

  He was just putting on his coat and hat when Lombardo called.

  “Gord Danby positively identified Matchett’s voice,” said Joe.

  Gilbert filled in the last detail on the arrest warrant and hurried across the street. But not without first grabbing his gun.

  When Gilbert explained the pressing nature of the situation to Judge Lembeck, the judge scribbled his signature along the bottom of the document without hesitation.

  “Thanks, Dave,” said Gilbert.

  “I’ll risk a burglary and narcotics for you, Barry,” said the judge. “I’m holding off on this murder thing for now. You still have enough to hold him. But for Christ’s sake, Barry, be careful. This guy sounds dangerous.”

  Eighteen

  Lombardo picked up Gilbert in front of College Park just as the afternoon rush hour began to thicken.

  “I was just talking to Telford,” said Gilbert. “Alvin’s still there. He didn’t return to work after lunch. I don’t like this.”

  Lombardo pulled out into traffic and eased across Yonge Street. Maple Leaf Gardens loomed to the left.

  “I thought you said the only way in and out of his place was through the front door,” said Lombardo.

  “Forget what I said,” replied Gilbert. “We’re dealing with Alvin. And Alvin is good.”

  They turned north on Parliament and drove to Winchester. They found Telford waiting in his unmarked car a half block down. All three detectives got out of their respective cars and conferred by the curb.

  “It’s been quiet,” said Telford, a red-faced man of about forty. “No one’s come in or out. I’ve seen no movement in the windows. He pulled that blind down on the third floor shortly after he got home.”

  Gilbert stared up at the old Edwardian house, a squat red brick dwelling with a steep slate roof and ornate trim around each dormer, a typical middle-class dwelling of ninety years ago now divided into three modern renovated apartments. Matchett’s white Ford Tempo was parked out front. Gilbert took a deep breath as a garbage truck rumbled by. The wind was building and he could feel his nose turning red.

  “All right,” he said at last. “Do you have your gun, Gord?” he asked Telford.

  “I’ve got a shotgun in the trunk.”

  “You might as well get it,” said Gilbert. “Try not to shoot unless you absolutely have to. We know he has a revolver. That doesn’t mean he won’t have something else.”

  Telford went around to the trunk and pulled out a Remington Model 870 shotgun, and checked the seven-round magazine to make sure it was full. The three detectives walked across the street. Telford concealed, as best he could, the shotgun under his coat. Gilbert took out the key Jane Ireland had given him. They climbed the steps and pushed their way into the vestibule. And Gilbert immediately knew Matchett was gone. The door to the first-floor apartment had been broken open. But he pulled out his gun just in case. The other detectives did the same.

  He gazed down the hall of the first-floor apartment. He saw a kitchen at the back, and sliding glass doors leading out to a deck. A Persian cat peeked around the living room door, stared
at them, then licked its pug nose a few times.

  “Shit,” he said. “Joe, you go in there and check it out. Gord and I will go upstairs.”

  Lombardo, keeping his gun aimed at the ceiling, his elbow sharply bent, proceeded into the first-floor apartment. Gilbert and Telford climbed the stairs. He hated enclosed stairwells like this; there was nowhere to hide. They climbed slowly, weapons ready, placing each footstep carefully to minimize noise. Up to the second-floor landing, past the umbrella stand the second-floor tenant had outside the door, pausing at the foot of the third-floor stairs and listening. Nothing from upstairs. He looked back at Telford and nodded. The two detectives climbed the third-floor stairs and stopped outside Matchett’s door. Silence. Gilbert put his ear to the door, then slid the key into the lock, turned it, and pushed the door open in one quick motion.

  He swung toward the kitchen and the bedroom, gun clasped in both hands, arms outstretched, while Telford turned left, covering the living room. Gilbert quickly proceeded into the kitchen, where evidence of a quick lunch—a half-finished bagel and an apple with a bite out of it—sat on the table. He moved down the hall past the bathroom and finally into the bedroom. Dresser drawers were open. A half full suitcase sat on the unmade bed. The closet was open and some shirts were on the floor.

  “Clear!” called Telford.

  Gilbert checked the bedside table drawer. The Smith and Wesson was gone, and in and among some gun magazines he saw some loose ammunition.

  “Clear,” he called.

  Telford appeared at the bedroom door, walked around the bed, and over to the window.

  “Look at this,” he said.

  Gilbert glanced out the window. He saw a backyard. There was a gate leading to an alley. The alley led all the way up to Wellesley Street. Gilbert shook his head to himself.

  “Marsh pisses me off,” he said.

  Telford shrugged. “There’s a bunch of hair on the floor in the bathroom.”

  The two men left the bedroom and checked the bathroom. Not only was there hair on the floor, but there was a bit in the toilet and some in the sink. Alvin was good. He was going to use all the fugitive tricks.

  “Everything clear?” Lombardo called from down the stairs.

  “Yeah, we’re clear,” called Gilbert.

  A moment later, Lombardo appeared at the bathroom door. He slid his .38 into his shoulder holster.

  “He gave himself a make-over?” he asked.

  Gilbert nodded. “He figured things out,” he said. “He knows how we’re moving.”

  “Where would he go?” asked Telford.

  “He’s got a quarter million dollars stashed in the Bahamas,” said Lombardo.

  “He’s probably halfway to the airport by now,” said Gilbert. “If this were SOP I’d be calling all cars. But we’ve got Marsh standing in our way.” Gilbert left the bathroom and marched to the kitchen phone, his trench coat flapping with sudden speed. The other detectives followed. “So we have to do this one ourselves.” He lifted the receiver. “I wonder if Alvin knows this one? You see this handset? It’s got a redial button. It automatically redials the last number called. I wonder if he was smart enough to decoy an anonymous number into the phone before he left.” Gilbert pressed the redial button and put the receiver to his ear. “Maybe he left us a whopping big clue.”

  Matchett, as it turned out, hadn’t left a decoy number on the handset. “Canadian Airlines,” a pleasant female voice said.

  “Yes, when is your next flight to Freeport, the Bahamas?” asked Gilbert.

  “We have two seats left on our six o’clock flight,” said the woman, “and five on our eleven-thirty flight.”

  “Do you have the name Matchett on the flight manifest for the six o’clock flight?” asked Gilbert.

  “One moment, sir,” said the woman. Gilbert heard the faint clicking of computer keys. “Yes, sir. A Mr. Matchett is on that flight. Is there a message for him, sir?”

  Gilbert looked at his watch. Just past four. An hour out to the airport, an hour-and-a-half in rush hour. They might be able to shave time if they put the light on the roof.

  “No,” said Gilbert. “No message.”

  The three detectives got in Gilbert’s unmarked car.

  They sped north on Parliament Street and veered right at Bloor Street past the St. James Cemetery, over the Prince Edward Viaduct. They continued east over the Bloor-Danforth Viaduct and spiraled down the steep on-ramp to the Don Valley Parkway. They headed north through the Valley, unable to move much faster than the marked speed limit of 90 kph through the thickening rush-hour traffic. At the single lane westbound feeder to the 401, traffic bottle-necked and they had to slow right down. But once they got onto the 401, with its six lanes of westbound traffic, Gilbert slalomed through the slower moving cars and deftly maneuvered into the express lanes. It was just past five when they passed the Allen Expressway.

  “They’ll probably board a half hour in advance,” said Gilbert. “If we have to, we’ll take him in the plane.”

  They roared under the Allen Expressway cloverleaf, where the 401 snaked around overpass pillars, the tires squealing as they took the banked curves in excess of 140 kph. Then traffic thickened again, and Gilbert was forced to ease up on the accelerator as the collector lanes ended and the highway narrowed from twelve to six lanes. After such high speeds, Gilbert felt as if they were crawling. They moved through a wasteland of suburban hotels and light industrial parkland. The sun was going down and hung like a big orange ball, shining through the chemical haze on the horizon. Square green airport signs dotted the highway every kilometer or so. They were getting close, but they still had to find the right gate, and then the right boarding lounge. And then they had to identify Matchett. Who knows what he had done to his appearance?

  Jets swept low over the highway now, their nighttime landing lights piercing the encroaching gloom like laser shafts.

  “We’re not going to make it if we go south on 427,” said Gilbert. “I think it might be better if we take the 409.”

  “But that takes you to Terminal 3,” said Lombardo. “We want Terminal 1.”

  Tightly packed red taillights moved bumper to bumper about a mile ahead.

  “Look at that,” said Gilbert. “That’s stop and go. And the 409’s just up here. And there’s never anybody on the 409.”

  But even the exit ramp to the 409 was still a considerable distance, and it was quarter past five now.

  Gilbert gave Lombardo a gruff nod. “Put the light on the roof,” he said. “I’m going on the shoulder.”

  Lombardo took the red light from under the dash, opened the window, and stuck it on the roof. A fitful scarlet flicker lit the surrounding cars and trucks. A DC 7 screeched low overhead. Gilbert swerved to the shoulder and stepped on the gas. The guardrail felt uncomfortably close, but that couldn’t be helped. They reached the exit ramp to the 409 in less than a minute.

  Gilbert now had two lanes of traffic to himself. The unmarked Lumina, light still flashing, climbed to 160 kph; even over the most minute hump in the road the car felt as if it took flight. Up ahead he now saw the control tower. Jets were taking off and landing in every direction. He saw the Airport Hilton, the Sheridan, the Days Inn, the Holiday Inn, and the Four Seasons glittering on the horizon, modern buildings that caught and reflected the blood-red sky to the west. He eased on the brake as the Airport Road exit loomed ahead of them. He swerved to the right, taking the 50-kph ramp at 90 kph, ran the red light at the turnoff, and bolted left toward Terminal 1. They passed a barrage of signs—Departures, Arrivals, Parking, Customs—and finally swung into the giant covered portico of Terminal 1.

  Gilbert looked in the rearview mirror at Telford. “You’re not going to look too great carrying that shotgun around inside.” Lombardo killed the light and clipped it under the dash. “You stay here in case he makes a try for it out this way.” He looked at Lombardo. “You ready?”

  Lombardo’s face was hard. “Let’s do it.”

&nb
sp; The partners got out of the car and marched in through the revolving doors.

  Terminal 1 was a long corridor-like structure punctuated by plastic-chaired waiting areas, duty-free shops, and a multitude of various airline kiosks.

  “Gate Five, wasn’t it?” said Gilbert.

  “That’s way at the other end,” said Lombardo.

  “Shit,” said Gilbert. “He’ll be in pre-boarding by now, if not already on the jet.”

  The detectives began running, attracting the stares of the heavier-than-usual Friday night throng of international travellers.

  At Gate Five, three dozen sun-seekers bound for the Bahamas crowded the entrance to the boarding lounge as a travel agent wearing a bright yellow blazer handed out complimentary travel bags. The detectives pushed their way through the crowd. Some of the sun-seekers grumbled. Gilbert flashed them his shield.

  At the front of the line, behind the barrier at a high counter, a prim young Canadian Airlines representative said, “Sir, I’m sorry, but it’s passengers only beyond this point.”

  He showed the young woman his badge. “Metro Homicide,” he said. “We have reason to believe a fugitive may be trying to board this plane. Please keep these passengers clear of the boarding area until we make sure everything’s safe.”

  The woman gave him a stunned little nod. A murmuring swept thought the crowd of sun-seekers. Gilbert and Lombardo pushed through.

  They followed a long corridor that angled periodically in segments out toward the runway area. At the end of the corridor they came to the pre-boarding lounge for Flight 237 to Freeport. Out the large windows they saw the nose of a Canadian Airlines 737 pressing close to the glass. An enclosed rampway right-angled toward the forward cabin door. Passengers were lined up at the beginning of the rampway, about thirty in all, some already in shorts, T-shirts, and sun hats. Gilbert scanned the crowd but he couldn’t see Matchett anywhere. A flight attendant came out and helped a man in a wheelchair through the barrier.