by Scott Mackay
“They’re doing pre-boarding,” said Gilbert.
“Do you see him?”
Gilbert shook his head. “He’s going to wait until the last minute. He knows we can nail him easier here. This was just a long shot. He’s still out in the terminal. He knows he has to get rid of his gun before he passes the security checkpoint. He’s going to hang onto it as long as he can before he boards.”
“We can wait here for him,” said Lombardo. “Over there, behind those vending machines.”
Gilbert shook his head again. “Too risky,” he said. “He’ll be looking for us here.” Outside they heard the rise and fall of the 737’s jet engines as the turbines began to gear up for the flight. “I think we stand a better chance if we try and surprise him out in the terminal.”
Lombardo nodded. “Then’s let do it.”
They ran down the long corridor out past the barrier. Gilbert cleared things with the Canadian Airlines representative.
“Try and detain any last-minute passengers as long as you can,” he said.
They hurried out to the terminal.
Gilbert took one side of the terminal and Lombardo took the other, making a slow westward sweep of the modern glass and steel structure, maintaining eye contact with each other. They moved past all the airline kiosks and duty-free shops, the newsstands and drug stores, scanning the crowds, looking for a tall, slim toughly built man who had altered his hair in some way. A woman’s voice over the PA announced that Flight 237 was now boarding for Freeport, would passengers please proceed to Gate Five. And it dawned on Gilbert yet again just how much was at stake: if Matchett got away, it would mean Joe’s job, maybe his own, and most probably prison time for Jane Ireland. Worst of all, there would be no justice for Cheryl Latham and Donna Varley.
A baggage handler pushed a huge cart of luggage in front of him.
And when the cart moved out of the way…Gilbert stopped…and stared…
Stopped because he saw a tall man, completely bald, with a pair of sunglasses astride his nose. The tall man stood inside Lichtman’s Books, near the back, reading a gun magazine, his face nearly buried in the pages. Gilbert peered more closely at the man; he recognized the cleft chin, the tawny eyebrows, the prominent but narrow nose. Gilbert lifted his hand, signaling to Lombardo…and just as Gilbert lifted his hand for Lombardo, Matchett looked up. And saw Gilbert.
His old partner from patrol looked at him through his sunglasses. Gilbert saw regret, bitterness, exhaustion, sadness, but most of all, determination. Matchett dropped the magazine, and, abandoning his luggage on the floor of Lichtman’s, bolted from the bookstore and ran westward through the terminal. Gilbert and Lombardo ran after him. Matchett dodged in and around stunned travellers, knocking a couple of teenagers to the floor. He pulled his gun and fired a shot toward the ceiling. Everyone panicked, dove, ran, jumped for cover, creating a multitude of obstacles for Gilbert and Lombardo. Gilbert had to shove several people out of the way. He stumbled into an elderly man, knocking him down, but kept going, never losing sight of Matchett. He glanced to the other side of the terminal. Lombardo high-jumped over a prostrate young couple; at thirty-two, Lombardo had the better pair of lungs. Gilbert did his best, but in seconds Lombardo was way ahead of him. And he didn’t like that because he didn’t want Joe to face Matchett one-on-one, especially when Matchett practiced so vigorously at the range once a week. So he turned on as much juice as he could, pushing his forty-eight-year-old heart to the limit, glad he had at least kept up with his swimming.
Matchett took an aborted turn at the terminal’s center doors, but he must have seen their unmarked car, so kept running. Lombardo ran diagonally from his side of the terminal, taking two rows of chairs like an Olympic hurdler, veering back on course when he got to Gilbert’s side of the terminal. Gilbert had never seen Lombardo run like that before; his legs and arms were a blur; he was quickly gaining on Matchett. A mother pulled her small children to the floor as Lombardo ran by. Gilbert drew his gun. He dreaded the prospect, but he might actually have to shoot Matchett.
Matchett finally ducked out the far doors of Terminal 1. A moment later Lombardo did the same. Gilbert was breathing hard, wanted to stop, but kept a steady pace.
Fifteen seconds later, he himself exited out the far doors.
The sky was dark now. Down a hill past the terminal’s drive-through was an outdoor parking lot. Beyond this there loomed a multi-level indoor parking lot. In the glare of the overhead lights it was hard to see. He ran across the drive-through and stood at the top of the hill. He saw tracks in the snow. He thought he should get Telford but then decided there just wasn’t time. About a hundred-and-fifty cars were parked in the lot below.
And now he heard gunfire. And saw a figure, crouched over, running, trying to hide between the parked cars. He heard answering gunfire, and a windshield shattered. Now he saw Joe, crouched low over the trunk of a BMW, arms extended, taking aim. Blam! A muzzle flash brightened the trunk of the BMW. He could hardly believe this. His old partner and his new partner were firing at each other.
“Alvin!” he called. “Please…we’ll work something out. We’ll see about a plea.”
But he got no answer. Lombardo ran crouched over to the next row of parked cars. Gilbert descended the slope to the parking lot, his shoes slipping on the snow. He had just reached the Pontiac at the foot of the slope when he saw Matchett dart out from behind a Ford Windstar and dash toward the multi-level parking garage. Lombardo stood, arms extended, clutching his weapon in both hands, but couldn’t get a clear shot because Matchett kept crouching, moving from car to car, keeping himself well covered. Matchett climbed a small incline, pushed through some ornamental cedars, and jumped over the railing onto the first level of the multi-level parking garage. Lombardo bolted through the cars after him. In five seconds, Gilbert’s young partner was up and over the barrier, chasing Matchett down the ramp that led to the underground sub-levels.
Puffing hard now, Gilbert ran across the parking lot and pulled himself over the railing. He hated multi-level parking garages; in a multi-level parking garage there were simply too many places to hide. Over the whine of an incoming jet he heard retreating footsteps from the switchback down-ramp. As he reached sub-level one, he again heard gunfire. He lifted his revolver and descended the ramp with caution, trying to get his breathing under control. He saw a series of Air Canada luggage vans parked all in a row. And at the end, lit by the pale glow of the fluorescent lights, he saw Lombardo crumpled on the concrete, as still as Cheryl, as still as Donna, as still as poor Paul Varley all those many years ago, arm extended at an unnatural angle, clutching his revolver, trench coat thrown open, a pool of blood that looked purple in the fluorescent light spreading in a huge delta from the top of his head.
Gilbert felt his legs suddenly weaken. He gripped the ramp railing for support, stopping for a moment, knowing that none of this was worth Joe’s life. But then he grew angry, and with anger, his training returned, and he lifted his gun, and moved slowly toward Lombardo.
“Stop where you are, Barry.”
Gilbert stopped. He couldn’t see Matchett but his voice had come from behind one of the Air Canada vans up to the left.
“Throw your weapon aside,” said Matchett. “I don’t want to do to you what I did to Joe.”
“Alvin, you’ll never get away,” said Gilbert. “You think I haven’t phoned the authorities in Freeport? Give it up. You’ve killed a police officer. There’s no way you can get away now.”
“I said throw the weapon aside, Barry. Under that Cadillac.” Matchett’s voice intensified. “Go on, do it! I’ve got fifteen minutes to make my flight.”
Gilbert realized he had no choice; there was something wild in Matchett’s voice.
He bent slowly at the knees, put his revolver on the concrete, and slid it the five meters to the Cadillac. He stood up.
Matchett emerged from the fifth van up on the left. And he had a smile on his face, a smile unlike any smile Gilbert had ever seen on M
atchett’s face. Joe remained motionless three cars back, another homicide, another red mark on the clearance board.
“Get on your knees, Barry,” he said. “I want you to beg me for your life. I want you to prove to me that you’re not like all those others, Ling and Marsh, and all the rest of them.”
Gilbert stared at his old partner. “Alvin, I…”
With his bald head and sunglasses, he didn’t look at all like Matchett anymore, or like a cop. He looked more like hired muscle, a hit man.
“You heard me, on your knees, detective!”
Gilbert hesitated, then finally got to his knees. Matchett walked toward him, keeping the Smith and Wesson trained on his forehead, his black cowboy boots making muffled clicks against the concrete.
“Alvin, you don’t want to do this.”
“What do they say these days? Payback time. That’s a popular phrase these days. Only I’ve been thinking about it ever since I got kicked off the force. It’s nothing new to me.”
“Alvin, please, we can work…we can work something out. We’ll talk to the Crown.”
“The Crown can fuck itself. I’m through with the Crown.” The ugly smile came back to his face. “I’m going to retire. And no one’s going to stop me. Not you. Not Cheryl.” He flicked his head toward Lombardo. “Certainly not Joe. I’m going to make my plane. And I can’t have you running after me, trying any…I know you were always one for trying things. Always a smart guy. I’m sorry, Barry. I’m really sorry. But maybe it’ll leave them something to think about. Maybe they might change a few of the regulations, a few guidelines, so an officer isn’t crucified every time he discharges his weapon. Maybe, in the long run, by killing you I might save the lives of a hundred officers after you.”
“You can’t be serious, Alvin,” he said. “This is crazy.”
The smile dropped from Matchett’s face and the bitterness thickened in his eyes. He raised the gun, easily steady in his right hand, an old double-action model, needing a cock of the hammer before it would fire. Matchett was just pressing his thumb to the hammer when Gilbert sensed movement behind him. Lombardo raised his arm and pointed it at Matchett’s back. It seemed Matchett hadn’t learned his lesson from Laraby after all. The dead could still walk.
“Freeze, Matchett!” shouted Joe.
In Matchett’s brief moment of surprise, Gilbert snatched the gun in a lightning sideways swipe, and launched himself head first at Matchett’s solar plexus. His old partner doubled over, the wind knocked out of him. Gilbert maneuvered his thumb behind the trigger; the only way the revolver would fire now was if Matchett fanned the hammer. Lombardo got up, slipping a bit in his own blood, and staggered. He stood over Matchett, raised his .38 high in both hands, and brought the grip crashing down on top of Matchett’s head.
“That’s for ruining my new suit,” he said, his voice breathless with rage.
Matchett slumped to one side. Lombardo yanked him from Gilbert and kneed him in the back.
“That’s for wrecking my new haircut,” he said.
He forced the now stunned Matchett face down on the concrete, wrenched his arms behind his back, and cuffed him. The metallic click of the handcuffs had a finality about it.
“And that’s for what you did to Cheryl and Donna.”
Then all the energy seemed to go out of Lombardo. He sat down, like a child in a sandbox, legs out but knees partially bent, toes pointing skyward. His face was messy with blood. He looked at Gilbert, as if he just realized for the first time that Gilbert was next to him.
“You okay?” asked the young detective.
Gilbert got into a squatting position next to Joe and had a quick look at his head wound. “I’m fine,” he said. The wound was a graze, nothing serious, but enough to knock Lombardo unconscious for a few minutes. “What about you?”
Lombardo nodded, swallowed. “Fine,” he said. He looked at Matchett and gave the prostrate man a last final kick with the heel of his foot. “Never felt better.”
Nineteen
On Monday morning, after getting his coffee and muffin upstairs, Gilbert took the elevator back down to Homicide. The lights were off in Marsh’s office. Usually he was here before everybody else. Now all Gilbert saw were the dark silhouettes of Marsh’s office furniture and a dull grey sky beyond. He wove his way through the cluttered main office to his own large desk at the back. And he found Bob Bannatyne, newly returned from vacation, just taking off his coat.
Bannatyne looked tanned and well-rested.
“Did you hear?” asked Gilbert.
Bannatyne nodded. “I heard,” he said. “Congratulations. How’s Joe?”
“He took a nasty graze, lost a lot of blood, but he’ll be all right.”
Bannatyne lifted his briefcase and put it on his desk. “I got something for you,” he said.
Bannatyne opened his briefcase and pulled out a bottle of Glenfiddich single-malt scotch. “From the duty-free,” he said. “You deserve it.” Gilbert took the bottle and gazed at it in genuine admiration. “Oh, and there’s something else,” said Bannatyne. The bearish detective ruffled through some papers in his briefcase and pulled out some paper-clipped documents. “I had some luck with that bank down in Freeport. Made a friend there, Winston Samuels, has a young family, needed some extra cash. I showed him the photos. He recognized Matchett. And get this, he recognized Tom Webb as well.” Bannatyne shook his head, grinning widely. “These are transfer statements.” Gilbert glanced them over. “Monies payable from Latham’s numbered corporation to the Scuba-Tex account in Freeport. Any idea how Latham fits into all this?”
Gilbert glanced over the amounts on the transfer statements, each in the thousands. “Not yet,” he said. “But Alvin’s going to deal with us. The Crown’s arranging things as we speak. They’re going to let me have first go at him. They think that might yield the best result.”
“With his lawyer?”
“I haven’t got all the details, but as far as I know his lawyer will be behind the glass. He can stop the interview whenever he feels Alvin starts to incriminate himself in anything not covered by the deal.”
“What’s the Crown willing to offer?”
“I’ve just got the draft proposal. For Cheryl, it’s manslaughter. Any defense lawyer would be able to argue manslaughter, considering the manner of death. The chest wound is indignity to a corpse. That’s going to be dropped. The kidnapping and forcible confinement, he took a plea to six years, contingent on the quality of his testimony. Embezzlement charges will be dropped. Attempted murder of a police officer, he took another plea, this one for twelve.”
“Is Joe happy with that?”
“Joe would like to see Webb get nailed, so I guess he’s all right.” Gilbert tapped the transfer statements. “This is going to help a lot. Solomon Sing might want you to take the stand so you can tell everybody about Winston Samuels.”
“Who the hell is Solomon Sing?”
“He’s with the financial crimes section of the O.P.P.” Gilbert shrugged wistfully. “Alvin’s old unit.”
Bannatyne lapsed into silence. Outside on College Street, traffic moved sluggishly through the grey day.
“Barry, I’m sorry,” said Bannatyne. “I’m sorry it had to be Alvin.”
“Don’t be,” said Gilbert. “He’s not the same man anymore.”
“Has he said anything about Donna Varley?”
“We’ve got strong circumstantial evidence, Bob, but nothing that directly incriminates him. He’s not saying a word.”
“Shit.”
“Don’t worry. If you add the manslaughter to the other two, you’re still looking at twenty-five years.”
“Which means twelve, if he’s a good boy. That’s cold comfort.”
Gilbert shrugged. “I know you’ll keep digging,” he said. “I know you’ll stick him with Donna Varley sooner or later.”
Bannatyne gave him a gruff determined look. “You’re damn right I will.”
Carol Reid came down the aisle
with the morning edition of the Toronto Star.
“Did you see this?” she said.
She handed the paper to Gilbert.
Gilbert read the headlines. “Shit,” he said. “I don’t believe it.”
Another story by Ronald Roffey.
“What’s it say?” asked Bannatyne.
“‘Veteran Detective asked to resign in wake of Latham arrest fiasco.’” He looked up from the paper, trying to get used to the news. “I guess we might as well say good-bye to Marsh,” he said, taking absolutely no pleasure in this small but personal vindication.
The interview took place the following Friday, Friday the 13th, as it turned out, in the interrogation room of the Homicide Office. Matchett sat across from Gilbert in a loose blue detention center uniform, a cigarette smoldering in the ashtray to his left, a cup of coffee steaming at his right hand. Just like old times. The Carlton Grill, on patrol, sitting across from each other, shooting the shit. Only there was a one-way mirror, and Gilbert knew that behind the window sat the Crown prosecutor, Matchett’s defense lawyer, Detective Solomon Sing, and Joe Lombardo.
“The money thing started long before Tom hired Cheryl,” he said. “When the Tories were last in power. When was it, seven years ago? And Tom was minister of transportation. He regularly took kickbacks whenever there was any tender, even though the tenders were open to public scrutiny. Go up to Downsview, the MTO building there, you can see how it works. If you’re going to pull off a kickback in that kind of risky environment, you have to establish a chain of corruption. I helped Tom establish that chain. They were more or less just straight bribes. Cheryl wasn’t in on it then, but she figured out what we were doing. Sure her stepdad was a cabinet minister, but he didn’t earn enough to keep a catamaran and a million-dollar home on Grand Bahama Island. You get the Freeport connection now, don’t you?”
Matchett talked in a monotone; there was none of the liveliness Gilbert remembered from their patrol days. It was as if Matchett spoke to a stranger, not to the man he had shared a radio car with for seven years during the most pivotal years of their lives. His scalp was now covered with brown stubble; he looked like a Marine recruit. This was the man who had asked him to get down on his knees and beg for his life last week. Yet there was nothing of that now. This wasn’t Matchett seeking payback. This was Matchett the manipulator, trying to get the best deal he could from the Crown. Gilbert felt a deep hollowness inside.