Stranglehold

by Rotenberg, Robert

  She nodded again. “We were real careful not to touch anything.”

  He peeked past her into the motel room. It was dark except for a candle flickering on the far bedside table. The bathroom door was open.

  “Detective Kennicott,” a loud voice with a heavy East European accent called out from behind him. “Is detective now, no?”

  Brygida Zeilinski, a squat Polish woman and veteran identification officer, waddled toward him at a determined pace, a black fanny-pack bouncing on her stomach. She looked like a pregnant penguin on the march, Kennicott thought as he reached out to shake her hand.

  “Is Scarborough prostitute killing, no?” she said, her face a big frown. Ari Greene liked to brag that he was the only one on the force who could make Zeilinski smile. “Easy case for your first homicide, yes?”

  “Let’s take a look,” he said.

  She pulled two pairs of latex gloves and plastic shoe coverings out of her fanny pack and handed him one. Kennicott put them on then pressed the door to room 8 with his forefinger. It creaked on rusty hinges.

  A queen-size bed dominated the room. He could see the back of the woman’s head on a pillow, facing away from the door, her body covered neatly by a comforter. That was unusual. Most killers would have left the poor woman in a crumpled, discarded state. Kennicott pictured some future defence lawyer arguing in court that this showed his client was filled with remorse – after, that is, the man had strangled his victim to death with his bare hands.

  Steps behind him, he could hear Zeilinski breathing calmly. For her, this was just another day at the office.

  There was little space to get around the bed. A dresser sat to his left. On top were four thick white candles, none of them burning, though he could see recently melted wax on each. Beside them was an iPod Nano in a small speaker dock but no music was playing.

  He locked eyes with Zeilinski. He knew they were both thinking the same thing: This woman must have fancied herself a high-class hooker. He tiptoed around the bed to where the woman’s head was facing the bathroom door. There were traces of a tread mark under the handle of the hollow-core door where it had been dented.

  Someone had kicked it in. The violence to the door was in stark contrast to this otherwise serene murder scene, he thought.

  The bathroom was empty, save for a half bottle of champagne in the sink, sitting in water with a few small chips of ice still intact. An empty ice bucket was underneath.

  “I check the temperature in the bathroom and the temperature of that water,” Zeilinski said.

  “Sure,” he said.

  In the main room, he spotted a red wig and a pair of oversize sunglasses on the floor beside the bed. This was even stranger. Why would a hooker go to this trouble to hide her identity?

  The candle on the bedside table had burned down farther than the extinguished ones on the dresser.

  “I photograph and videotape all the candles right away,” she said. “Then blow this one out.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “The iPod too. Make them all exhibits.”

  “Fine,” he said. Good identification officers tended to be fanatical about even the most irrelevant details. Often it made for a ton of extra work, but he knew it was the price of admission.

  The head of the woman on the bed was nestled neatly on a pillow. He bent his knees to look at her face at eye level.

  An electric current shot up his spine and his whole body jerked. His throat contracted. His fingers twitched. “Ah,” he heard himself say, unable to control his own voice.

  “What?” Zeilinski said. “You feel sick?”

  “I know her.” Kennicott croaked out the words.

  “You do? Well, it’s prostitute.”

  “She’s not a prostitute.”

  “No? I wondered when I saw candles and –”

  “She’s Jennifer Raglan. The head Crown attorney.”

  “Ms. Raglan? Here?”

  He stood and scanned the room. He felt light-headed. His mind was racing.

  Zeilinski crouched down beside him to take a look.

  What was Jennifer Raglan, of all people, doing here in this cheap motel room? On a Monday morning? Disguising herself with a wig and sunglasses? Celebrating with champagne and candles?

  “Is unbelievable,” Zeilinski said.

  Is, Kennicott thought, my first homicide.

  5

  AMANKWAH’S DULL MONDAY WAS DULL NO MORE. AFTER THE WAINWRIGHT TRIAL HAD gone nowhere; instead of checking out any of the murder trials, he’d taken a chance on the hockey-player sexual assault trial. And he’d hit pay dirt.

  Deirdre Acton, the actress-turned-waitress, was being cross-examined by Canton Carmichael, a perfectly coiffed defence lawyer with a silky-smooth voice. It had just come to light that she used the professional name TAD for certain extracurricular activities.

  “What does TAD, capital T, capital A, capital D, stand for?” Carmichael asked, acting innocent as a lamb.

  “Uh, it means ‘The After Date,’ ” Acton muttered.

  “The what?” Carmichael asked, hand to his ear, giving the jurors nearest him a sly look.

  “The After Date,” Acton spat out. “That’s what it means.”

  “And what exactly is an after date?” Carmichael asked, acting naive for the jurors, who now couldn’t take their eyes off Acton.

  “Well,” she said, “I’m the date that players have, after they’ve had a date with, you know, another woman.”

  “Players, what kind of players?”

  “Well, like, hockey players.”

  Carmichael grinned. He’d set up a projector near the jurors, where everyone in court could see it. He picked up a remote, and a screen shot of a website page appeared. The site was titled the Penalty Box, and featured a photo of a woman in a bikini, leaning provocatively on a hockey stick. “Ms. Acton, do you recognize this?” he asked, all sweetness and light.

  “It’s my site,” she mumbled.

  “Your what?”

  “My website.” Her eyes were slits as she stared at Carmichael.

  “And the woman we see in the picture . . . ”

  “That’s me.”

  Amankwah watched the next image come up on the screen.

  Now Carmichael was showing her Facebook home page, headed by a photo of Acton from the waist up. She wore a pair of shoulder pads that barely covered her breasts, and nothing more. The small inset photo was a close-up of a tattoo extremely low on her backside. It featured a hockey stick about to hit a puck with the words “Slap Me” underneath.

  “And this is . . . ”

  “My Facebook page.”

  Carmichael switched back to her website.

  “Would you mind reading your biographical sketch for the jury, please?”

  She looked over at the Crown’s table, as if the prosecutor, a bright young lawyer named Albert Fernandez, could somehow help her. He didn’t make eye contact with her.

  She glared back at Carmichael. “Okay, it says, ‘I’m an after-hours player for players who want to play,’ ” she said without looking at the screen. “You happy?”

  Carmichael, totally unfazed, looked up at the presiding judge, Oliver Rothbart, who had been patiently watching the proceedings, a mildly amused look on his face. “I think, Your Honour, this might be an opportune moment to take the morning break. I don’t know about the jury, but I sure could use a cup of coffee.”

  The jurors were all grinning. A few of them laughed. Amankwah willed the judge to agree. He was dying for some java.

  “Good idea,” Rothbart said. “I have a few administrative duties to attend to this morning, so we’ll come back after lunch. That may give you both some time to consider any relevant legal issues that might arise when we recommence.”

  He let his gaze settle on Fernandez, then Carmichael.

  The judge’s message was clear: I can’t say this in front of the jury, but obviously this case is going nowhere fast. I’ve got better things to do with my time. Wh
y don’t you two try to settle it.

  Rothbart looked at the witness. “Now, Ms. Acton, I must warn you. You are in the middle of your cross-examination. That means you are absolutely forbidden to discuss your testimony with anyone. Understood?”

  “Yes, but can’t I talk to Mr. Fernandez?”

  “Not Mr. Fernandez, not the officer in charge of the case, Detective Kormos. No one.”

  Acton took a deep breath. “Okay.”

  “Good,” Rothbart said. “Back at two o’clock.”

  Perfect, Amankwah thought. Bradley Church was going to love this story. He could just see the headline: HOCKEY PLAYER SCORES IN “AFTER DATE” OVERTIME.

  6

  OFFICER ZEILINSKI HAD HER HAND PRESSED TO HER MOUTH. HER ALREADY PALE SKIN HAD turned white. She was breathing hard.

  Kennicott grabbed her free hand.

  “Such nice woman,” she said after a moment. “With children.”

  Kennicott was trying to think. You’re the homicide detective in charge of this investigation, he told himself. Stay professional. This is a crime scene. He had to get Zeilinski focused.

  “I worked on a few cases that she prosecuted.” He squeezed her fingers.

  “She is very good lawyer.” She took her hand back. “We need do perfect job.”

  “Of course,” he said.

  “My team on the way. I get them in. Photograph, videotape everything. Blow out candle. Then iPod too, and take all.”

  He pointed to the wig and sunglasses on the floor. “You saw those.”

  “Of course. We go through everything. She must have purse. Cell phone. Will find for you.”

  He looked around again. For the next few months he’d be staring at photos and videos of this crime scene. But it wouldn’t be the same as being here, right now. Seeing it. Smelling it. Feeling it. What story does this god-awful room tell me? Beside the obvious. She must have been having an affair with someone.

  The dent in the bathroom door looked fresh. Forensics would take the door back to the lab and examine it to see if they could get a better read on the tread marks. Someone had wanted to get in that door very badly.

  If it was the killer, what was he looking for?

  Kennicott checked the bathroom floor. Beige vinyl tiles, worn but clean. There was a dark scuff mark near the door.

  It was easy to imagine someone kicking in the door, taking a step in, and looking around. The bottle of champagne was floating in the sink. The empty ice bucket had water droplets in it. A standard-issue toilet looked untouched. And the cheap plastic-lined shower, with a stained curtain pulled to the side, was dry inside too.

  There was nothing personal here. No toiletries. And no signs of a struggle.

  Did the kicker bust the door in looking for Raglan? Didn’t look like it. Then who broke down the door? And why?

  A shudder went through him. It was as if he could feel the murderous, sweaty anger of the killer. But also something else. What it was he wasn’t sure.

  In a few steps he was outside, back in the fresh air and the land of the living. The sky was impossibly blue, the wind strong. His skin tingled in the sunshine. Alpine was waiting for him, his notebook in hand.

  Kennicott needed a moment to try to process that the murder victim in room 8 was the former head Crown attorney. He wanted to get some background before he told Alpine what was going on. “Do we know who called 911?” he asked.

  Alpine shook his head. “Anonymous caller.”

  “What did they say?”

  Alpine had his finger in his notebook. He flipped it open and gave Kennicott a bored look that said: You homicide guys always ask the same questions. He cleared his throat. “The anonymous caller said, ‘Dead body, Maple Leaf Motel, Kingston Road, room 8.’ That’s it. I talked to the dispatcher. She said he sounded male, was very abrupt, and hung up before she could ask any questions.”

  “Traceable?”

  He closed his notebook. “No. This isn’t TV. All we know is that it was a cell phone.”

  Across the courtyard, Kennicott saw two officers coming toward them. “Any luck with witnesses?” he asked.

  Alpine crossed his arms. “We knocked on every door. Thirty-six rooms, and three were rented out. Tough business. The owner says Mondays are always slow. That it fills up more as the week goes along. Who knew?”

  “The three rooms?”

  Alpine went back to his notebook. “There was a worn-out wino in room 12. They had to wake him up. Said he’d been asleep since last night and heard nothing. Name: Vincent Skinner. Forty-two years old. Status Indian. Born on a reserve up near James Bay. Room was clean. He didn’t have any scratch marks on him. Minor record, all mischiefs and thefts. All recent. Nothing before that. Said he was a schoolteacher for fifteen years. Wife, kids, the whole thing. Then he hit the booze.”

  What a sad and lonely place to end up, Kennicott thought, looking around the desolate yard.

  Alpine pointed to the room above the passageway. “We found a prostitute who works out of there.”

  “Good,” Kennicott said. “She would have seen people come in and out.”

  Alpine eyed him. “If she was looking out the window, yes. But claims she was working. A young officer, Askari, tried to interview her, but she wouldn’t let him in. Said essentially, ‘What do you want from me, cop? How am I supposed to see anything when I’m on my knees.’ ”

  “Great,” Kennicott said.

  “Name is Hilda Reynolds. Or at least that’s the name she gave. Askari asked her to come in and give a video statement, and she slammed the door in his face.” Alpine shook his head.

  “Nice to get so much cooperation from such an upstanding citizen,” Kennicott said.

  “Welcome to Scarborough.”

  “What about the third one?”

  The cynical smirk lifted from Alpine’s face, replaced by an unexpected seriousness. “Room 41, the other side, second floor. A pair of young Taiwanese prostitutes who look about twelve years old. They spoke only enough English to say, ‘See nothing, see nothing. Want go home. Go home.’ I’ve already had a car take them back to the division. We’ll get them a translator and take a statement, but don’t expect much. I’ve contacted child services. I think I know who their pimp is.”

  Alpine’s meaning was clear. These two young girls probably wouldn’t help with the murder, but this was something he cared about.

  “What about the owner?” Kennicott asked.

  “He showed up. Greasy guy named Alistair Dodge. Said a woman came in on Sunday afternoon, red wig and sunglasses. Paid cash for the room. Insisted on having room 8.”

  “He see if she was driving a car or anything?” Kennicott asked.

  “Said he was watching the Jays get beat by the Orioles. Didn’t remember anything else. All he really cared about was how quickly he could get the room back.”

  The officers crossing the courtyard had arrived. Kennicott caught Alpine’s eye and tilted his head, in a we-need-to-talk-alone gesture.

  Alpine hesitated but Kennicott stared him down.

  “What’s so important you couldn’t tell me in front of my men?” Alpine asked when they were a few steps away.

  “The dead woman wasn’t a prostitute,” Kennicott said.

  Alpine crossed his arms again. “Oh, you think because of the candles and the wine? So what was she, then, some yummy mummy looking for a little fun?”

  Kennicott waited until Alpine met his eyes again. “She was a Crown attorney.”

  “What?”

  “Jennifer Raglan.”

  Alpine shook his head. He pointed to room 8. “That’s Jennie Raglan? We did a big robbery case together two years ago.”

  “Keep your voice down,” Kennicott ordered. “As soon as the press finds out about this, it will go nuts. Zeilinski says she has kids. Do you know if she’s married?”

  “Shit,” Alpine said, still stunned. “She was, at least two years ago when I did my last trial with her. Husband’s an accountant or something. Two
or three kids, I think.”

  “It looks like she had a boyfriend too.”

  “Rough trade,” Alpine said. “That’s what the hookers call this kind of asshole.”

  “The Crown’s office will have a personnel file on her, with emergency contact information. We need it fast. I want your men sworn to secrecy. Three kids. Get three squad cars. Find out where those children are and get to their schools right away. Make sure they’re safe. And find out everything you can about her husband.”

  Alpine was nodding now. “Right,” he said.

  “And get me everybody you can over here right away. That crummy little strip mall next door, the shopping centre across Kingston Road, the residential streets behind here. I want every damn door for half a mile knocked on in the next hour. And see if there are any video cameras, anywhere.”

  The latex gloves Zeilinski had given him felt hot and itchy. Kennicott yanked them off, with an authoritative snap.

  7

  OKAY, CHECK JUST ONE MORE BLOCK, GREENE TOLD HIMSELF. FOR THE LAST TEN OR FIFTEEN minutes at least, he’d been charging up and down the boxy side streets of the suburban subdivision on his scooter, looking in vain for Jennifer’s husband, Howard.

  There was no sign of anyone.

  At the next stop sign he turned left. Another empty street lay before him. How do people live out here? he wondered. It seemed so barren. Small houses. Flat lawns. Short trees, few and far between.

  He knew he had to end this fruitless search. He hadn’t even called for backup. With good reason, he told himself. The first minutes when someone flees the scene of a crime are the most crucial. Every second counts. Waiting for backup would have wasted valuable time.

  Was that the real reason he was charging around looking for Jennifer’s husband?

  He was rationalizing. Because in his gut he wanted to find Howard. The man who’d killed Jennifer. The man Greene had betrayed.

  And what? Arrest him. Yes.

  What else? Apologize?

  He decided to try a few more blocks. He kept driving and turning, seeing nothing. At last he came to a dead end at a ravine and got off his scooter.

  He felt faint, as if he were going to collapse. The adrenaline, the anger, the shock, the sorrow all hit him at once. He yanked off his helmet and sat on the curb. How could Jennifer be dead? Think, Ari. Think, he told himself.